O. Henry

             Blackjack Bargainer


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The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law
office was Goree himself, sprawled in his creakv old arm-
chair.  The rickety little office, built of red brick, was
set flush with the street -- the main street of the town of
Bethel.

Bethel rested upon the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge.
Above it the mountains were piled to the sky.  Far
below it the turbid Catawba gleamed yellow along its
disconsolate valley.

The June day was at its sultriest hour.  Bethel dozed
in the tepid shade.  Trade was not.  It was so still that
Goree, reclining in his chair, distinctly heard the clicking
of the chips in the grand-jury room, where the "court-
house gang" was playing poker.  From the open back
door of the office a well-worn path meandered across the
grassy lot to the court-house.  The treading out of that
path had cost Goree all he ever had -- first inheritance
of a few thousand dollars, next the old family home, and,
latterly the last shreds of his self-respect and manhood.
The "gang" had cleaned him out.  The broken gambler
had turned drunkard and parasite; he had lived to see
this day come when the men who had stripped him
denied him a seat at the game.  His word was no longer
to be taken.  The daily bouts at cards had arranged itself
accordingly, and to him was assigned the ignoble part of
the onlooker.  The sheriff, the county clerk, a sportive
deputy, a gay attorney, and a chalk-faced man hailing
"from the valley," sat at table, and the sheared one
was thus tacitly advised to go and grow more wool.

Soon wearying of his ostracism, Goree had departed
for his office, muttering to himself as he unsteadily tra-
versed the unlucky pathway.  After a drink of corn
whiskey from a demijohn under the table, he had flung
himself into the chair, staring, in a sort of maudlin apathy,
out at the mountains immersed in the summer haze.
The little white patch he saw away up on the side of
Blackjack was Laurel, the village near which he had been
born and bred.  There, also, was the birthplace of the
feud between the Gorees and the Coltranes.  Now no
direct heir of the Gorees survived except this plucked
and singed bird of misfortune.  To the Coltranes, also,
but one male supporter was left -- Colonel Abner Col-
trane, a man of substance and standing, a member of the
State Legislature, and a contemporary with Goree's
father.  The feud had been a typical one of the region;
it had left a red record of hate, wrong and slaughter.
But Yancey Goree was not thinking of feuds.  His
befuddled brain was hopelessly attacking the problem
of the future maintenance of himself and his favourite
follies.  Of late, old friends of the family had seen to it
that he had whereof to eat and a place to sleep -- but whiskey
they would not buy for him, and he must have whiskey.
His law business was extinct; no case had been intrusted
to him in two years.  He had been a borrower and a
sponge, and it seemed that if he fell no lower it would be
from lack of opportunity.  One more chance -- he was
saying to himself -- if he had one more stake at the game,
he thought he could win; but he had nothing left to sell,
and his credit was more than exhausted.

He could not help smiling, even in his misery, as he
thought of the man to whom, six months before, he had
sold the old Goree homestead.  There had come from
"back yan'" in the mountains two of the strangest
creatures, a man named Pike Garvey and his wife.  "Back
yan'," with a wave of the hand toward the hills, was
understood among the mountaineers to designate the
remotest fastnesses, the unplumbed gorges, the haunts of
lawbreakers, the wolf's den, and the boudoir of the bear.
In the cabin far up on Blackjack's shoulder, in the wildest
part of these retreats, this odd couple had lived for twenty
years.  They had neither dog nor children to mitigate
the heavy silence of the hills.  Pike Garvey was little
known in the settlements, but all who had dealt with him
pronounced him "crazy as a loon."  He acknowledged
no occupation save that of a squirrel hunter, but he
"moonshined" occasionally by way of diversion.  Once
the "revenues" had dragged him from his lair, fighting
silently and desperately like a terrier, and he had been
sent to state's prison for two years.  Released, he popped
back into his hole like an angry weasel.

Fortune, passing over many anxious wooers, made a
freakish flight into Blackjack's bosky pockets to smile
upon Pike and his faithful partner.

One day a party of spectacled, knickerbockered, and
altogether absurd prospectors invaded the vicinity of
the Garvey's cabin.  Pike lifted his squirrel rifle off the
hooks and took a shot at them at long range on the chance
of their being revenues.  Happily he missed, and the
unconscious agents of good luck drew nearer, disclosing
their innocence of anything resembling law or justice.
Later on, they offered the Garveys an enormous quantity
of ready, green, crisp money for their thirty-acre patch
of cleared land, mentioning, as an excuse for such a mad
action, some irrelevant and inadequate nonsense about
a bed of mica underlying the said property.

When the Garveys became possessed of so many dol-
lars that they faltered in computing them, the deficiencies
of life on Blackjack began to grow prominent.  Pike
began to talk of new shoes, a hogshead of tobacco to
set in the corner, a new lock to his rifle; and, leading
Martella to a certain spot on the mountain-side, he
pointed out to her how a small cannon -- doubtless a
thing not beyond the scope of their fortune in price --
might be planted so as to command and defend the sole
accessible trail to the cabin, to the confusion of revenues
and meddling strangers forever.

But Adam reckoned without his Eve.  These things
represented to him the applied power of wealth, but
there slumbered in his dingy cabin an ambition that
soared far above his primitive wants.  Somewhere in
Mrs. Garvey's bosom still survived a spot of femininity
unstarved by twenty years of Blackjack.  For so long
a time the sounds in her ears had been the scaly-barks
dropping in the woods at noon, and the wolves singing
among the rocks at night, and it was enough to have
purged her of vanities.  She had grown fat and sad and
yellow and dull.  But when the means came, she felt a
rekindled desire to assume the perquisites of her sex --
to sit at tea tables; to buy futile things; to whitewash
the hideous veracity of life with a little form and ceremony.
So she coldly vetoed Pike's proposed system of fortifica-
tions, and announced that thev would descend upon the
world, and gyrate socially.

And thus, at length, it was decided, and the thing
done.  The village of Laurel was their compromise
between Mrs. Garvey's preference for one of the large
valley towns and Pike's hankering for primeval solitudes.
Laurel yielded a halting round of feeble social distractions
omportable with Martella's ambitions, and was not
entirely without recommendation to Pike, its contiguity
to the mountains presenting advantages for sudden retreat
in case fashionable society should make it advisable.

Their descent upon Laurel had been coincident with
Yancey Goree's feverish desire to convert property into
cash, and they bought the old Goree homestead, paying
four thousand dollars ready money into the spendthrift's
shaking hands.

Thus it happened that while the disreputable last of
the Gorees sprawled in his disreputable office, at the end
of his row, spurned by the cronies whom he had gorged,
strangers dwelt in the halls of his fathers.

A cloud of dust was rolling, slowly up the parched
street, with something travelling in the midst of it.  A
little breeze wafted the cloud to one side, and a new,
brightly painted carryall, drawn by a slothful gray horse,
became visible.  The vehicle deflected from the middle
of the street as it neared Goree's office, and stopped in the
gutter directly in front of his door.

On the front seat sat a gaunt, tall man, dressed in
black broadcloth, his rigid hands incarcerated in yellow
kid gloves.  On the back seat was a lady who triumphed
over the June heat.  Her stout form was armoured in a
skintight silk dress of the description known as "change-
able," being a gorgeous combination of shifting hues.
She sat erect, waving a much-omamented fan, with her
eyes fixed stonily far down the street.  However Martella
Garvey's heart might be rejoicing at the pleasures of her
new life, Blackjack had done his work with her exterior.
He had carved her countenance to the image of emptiness
and inanity; had imbued her with the stolidity of his
crags, and the reserve of his hushed interiors.  She always
seemed to hear, whatever her surroundings were, the
scaly-barks falling and pattering down the mountain-
side.  She could always hear the awful silence of Black-
jack sounding through the stillest of nights.

Goree watched this solemn equipage, as it drove to
his door, with only faint interest; but when the lank
driver wrapped the reins about his whip, awkwardly
descended, and stepped into the office, he rose unsteadily
to receive him, recognizing Pike Garvey, the new, the
transformed, the recently civilized.

The mountaineer took the chair Goree offered him.
They who cast doubts upon Garvey's soundness of mind
had a strong witness in the man's countenance.  His face
was too long, a dull saffron in hue, and immobile as a
statue's.  Pale-blue, unwinking round eyes without
lashes added to the singularity of his gruesome visage.
Goree was at a loss to account for the visit.

"Everything all right at Laurel, Mr. Garvey?"  he
inquired.

"Everything all right, sir, and mighty pleased is Missis
Garvey and me with the property.  Missis Garvey likes
yo' old place, and she likes the neighbourhood.  Society
is what she 'lows she wants, and she is gettin' of it.  The
Rogerses, the Hapgoods, the Pratts and the Troys hev
been to see Missis Garvey, and she hev et meals to most
of thar houses.  The best folks hev axed her to differ'nt
kinds of doin's.  I cyan't say, Mr. Goree, that sech
things suits me -- fur me, give me them thar."  Garvey's
huge, yellow-gloved hand flourished in the direction of
the mountains.  "That's whar I b'long, 'mongst the
wild honey bees and the b'ars.  But that ain't what I
come fur to say, Mr. Goree.  Thar's somethin' you got
what me and Missis Garvey wants to buy."

"Buy!"  echoed Goree.  "From me?"  Then he
laughed harshly.  "I reckon you are mistaken about
that.  I reckon you are mistaken about that.  I sold out
to you, as you yourself expressed it, 'lock, stock and
barrel.' There isn't even a ramrod left to sell."

"You've got it; and we 'uns want it.  'Take the
money,' says Missis Garvey, 'and buy it fa'r and
squared'.'"

Goree shook his head.  "The cupboard's bare," he
said.

"We've riz," pursued the mountaineer, undetected
from his object, "a heap.  We was pore as possums,
and now we could hev folks to dinner every day.  We
been recognized, Missis Garvey says, by the best society.
But there's somethin' we need we ain't got.  She says
it ought to been put in the 'ventory ov the sale, but it
tain't thar.  'Take the money, then,' says she, 'and buy
it fa'r and squar'."'

"Out with it," said Goree, his racked nerves growing
impatient.

Garvey threw his slouch bat upon the table, and leaned
forward, fixing his unblinking eves upon Goree's.

"There's a old feud," he said distinctly and slowly,
"'tween you 'uns and the Coltranes."

Goree frowned ominously.  To speak of his feud to
a feudist is a serious breach of the mountain etiquette.
The man from "back yan'" knew it as well as the lawyer
did.

"Na offense," he went on "but purely in the way of
business.  Missis Garvey hev studied all about feuds.
Most of the quality folks in the mountains hev 'em.  The
Settles and the Goforths, the Rankins and the Boyds, the
Silers and the Galloways, hev all been cyarin' on feuds
f'om twenty to a hundred year.  The last man to drap
was when yo' uncle, Jedge Paisley Goree, 'journed co't
and shot Len Coltrane f'om the bench.  Missis Garvey
and me, we come f'om the po' white trash.  Nobody
wouldn't pick a feud with we 'uns, no mo'n with a fam'ly
of tree-toads.  Quality people everywhar, says Missis
Garvey, has feuds.  We 'uns ain't quality, but we're
uyin' into it as fur as we can.  'Take the money, then,'
says Missis Garvey, 'and buy Mr. Goree's feud, fa'r
and squar'.'"

The squirrel hunter straightened a leg half across the
room, drew a roll of bills from his pocket, and threw them
on the table.

"Thar's two hundred dollars, Mr. Goree; what you
would call a fa'r price for a feud that's been 'lowed to
run down like yourn hev.  Thar's only you left to cyar'
on yo' side of it, and you'd make mighty po' killin'.  I'll
take it off yo' hands, and it'll set me and Missis Garvey
up among the quality.  Thar's the money."

The little roll of currency on the table slowly untwisted
itself, writhing and jumping as its folds relaxed.  In the
silence that followed Garvey's last speech the rattling of
the poker chips in the court-house could be plainly heard.
Goree knew that the sheriff had just won a pot, for the
subdued whoop with which he always greeted a victory
floated across the sqquare upon the crinkly heat waves.
Beads of moisture stood on Goree's brow.  Stooping, he
drew the wicker-covered demijohn from under the table,
and filled a tumbler from it.

"A little corn liquor, Mr. Garvey?  Of course you
are joking about what you spoke of?  Opens quite a
new market, doesn't it?  Feuds.  Prime, two-fifty to
three.  Feuds, slightly damaged -- two hundred, I
believe you said, Mr. Garvey?"

Goree laughed self-consciously.

The mountaineer took the glass Goree handed him,
and drank the whisky without a tremor of the lids of
his staring eyes.  The lawyer applauded the feat by a
look of envious admiration.  He poured his own drink,
and took it like a drunkard, by gulps, and with shudders
at the smell and taste.

"Two hundred," repeated Garvey.  "Thar's the money."

A sudden passion flared up in Goree's brain.  He
struck the table with his fist.  One of the bills flipped
over and touched his hand.  He flinched as if something
had stung him.

"Do you come to me," he shouted, "seriously with such
a ridiculous, insulting, darned-fool proposition?"

"It's fa'r and squar'," said the squirrel hunter, but he
reached out his hand as if to take back the money; and
then Goree knew that his own flurry of rage had not been
from pride or resentment, but from anger at himself,
knowing that he would set foot in the deeper depths that
were being opened to him.  He turned in an instant from
an outraged gentleman to an anxious chafferer recom-
mending his goods.

"Don't be in a hurry, Garvey," he said, his face crimson
and his speech thick.  "I accept your p-p-proposition,
though it's dirt cheap at two hundred.  A t-trade's all
right when both p-purchaser and b-buyer are s-satisfied.
Shall I w-wrap it up for you, Mr. Garvey?"

Garvey rose, and shook out his broadcloth.  "Missis
Garvev will be pleased.  You air out of it, and it stands
Coltrane and Garvey.  Just a scrap ov writin', Mr.
Goree, you bein' a lawyer, to show we traded."

Goree seized a sheet of paper and a pen.  The money
was clutched in his moist hand.  Everything else sud-
denly seemed to grow trivial and light.

"Bill of sale, by all means.  'Right, title, and interest
in and to' . . . 'forever warrant and -- ' No,
Garvey, we'll have to leave out that 'defend,'" said
Goree with a loud laugh.  "You'll have to defend this
title yourself."

The mountaineer received the amazing screed that the
lawyer handed him, folded it with immense labour, and
laced it carefully in his pocket.

Goree was standing near the window.  "Step here,
said, raising his finger, "and I'll show you your recently
purchased enemy.  There he goes, down the other side
of the street."

The mountaineer crooked his long frame to look
through the window in the direction indicated by the other.
Colonel Abner Coltrane, an erect, portly gentleman of
about fifty, wearing the inevitable long, double-breasted
frock coat of the Southern lawmaker, and an old high
silk hat, was passing on the opposite sidewalk.  As
Garvey looked, Goree glanced at his face.  If there be
such a thing as a yellow wolf, here was its counterpart.
Garvey snarled as his unhuman eyes followed the moving
figure, disclosing long, amber-coloured fangs.

"Is that him?  Why, that's the man who sent me to
the penitentiary once!"

"He used to be district attorney," said Goree care-
lessly.  "And, by the way, he's a first-class shot."

"I kin hit a squirrel's eye at a hundred yard," said
Garvey.  "So that thar's Coltrane!  I made a better
trade than I was thinkin'.  I'll take keer ov this feud,
Mr. Goree, better'n you ever did!"

He moved toward the door, but lingered there, betray-
ing a slight perplexity.

"Anything else to-day?"  inquired Goree with frothy
sarcasm.  "Any family traditions, ancestral ghosts, or
skeletons in the closet?  Prices as low as the lowest."

"Thar was another thing," replied the unmoved squirrel
hunter, "that Missis Garvey was thinkin' of.  'Tain't
so much in my line as t'other, but she wanted partic'lar
that I should inquire, and ef you was willin', 'pay fur it,'
she says, 'fa'r and squar'.' Thar's a buryin' groun',
as you know, Mr. Goree, in the yard of yo' old place,
under the cedars.  Them that lies thar is yo' folks what
was killed by the Coltranes.  The monyments has the
names on 'em.  Missis Garvev says a fam'ly buryin'
groun'- is a sho' sign of quality.  She says ef we git the
feud thar's somethin' else ought to go with it.  The
names on them moiivments is 'Goree,' but they can be
changed to ourn by -- "

"Go.  Go!"  screamed Goree, his face turning purple.
He stretched out both hands toward the mountaineer,
his fingers hooked and shaking.  "Go, you ghoul!  Even a
Ch-Chinaman protects the g-graves of his ancestors -- go!"

The squirrel hunter slouched out of the door to his
carryall.  While he was climbing over the wheel Goree
was collecting, with feverish celerity, the money that had
fallen from his hand to the floor.  As the vehicle slowly
turned about, the sheep, with a coat of newly grown
wool, was hurrying, in indecent haste, along the path to
the court-house.

At three o'clock in the morning they brought him back
to his office, shorn and unconscious.  The sheriff, the
sportive deputy, the county clerk, and the gay attorney
carried him, the chalk-faced man "from the valley"
acting as escort.

"On the table," said one of them, and they deposited
him there among the litter of his unprofitable books and
papers.

"Yance thinks a lot of a pair of deuces when he's
liquored up," sighed the sheriff reflectively.

"Too much," said the gay attorney.  "A man has no
business to play poker who drinks as much as he does.  I
wonder how much he dropped to-night."

"Close to two hundred.  What I wonder is whar he
got it.  Yance ain't had a cent fur over a month, I
know."

"Struck a client, maybe.  Well, let's get home before
daylight.  He'll be all right when he wakes up, except
for a sort of beehive about the cranium."

The gang slipped away through the early morning
twilight.  The next eye to gaze upon the miserable Goree
was the orb of day.  He peered through the uncurtained
window, first deluging the sleeper in a flood of faint gold,
but soon pouring upon the mottled red of his flesh a
searching, white, summer heat.  Goree stirred, half
unconsciously, among the table's dйbris, and turned his
face from the window.  His movement dislodged a heavy
law book, which crashed upon the floor.  Opening his
eyes, he saw, bending over him, a man in a black frock
coat.  Looking higher, he discovered a well-worn silk
hat, and beneath it the kindly, smooth face of Colonel
Abner Coltrane.

A little uncertain of the outcome, the colonel waited for
the other to make some sign of recognition.  Not in
twenty years had male members of these two families
faced each other in peace.  Goree's eyelids puckered as
he strained his blurred sight toward this visitor, and then
he smiled serenely.

"Have you brought Stella and Lucy over to play?"
he said calmly.

"Do you know me, Yancey?"  asked Coltrane.

"Of course I do.  You brought me a whip with a
whistle in the end."

So he had -- twenty-four years ago; when Yancey's
father was his best friend.

Goree's eyes wandered about the room.  The colonel
understood.  "Lie still, and I'll bring you some," said he.
There was a pump in the yard at the rear, and Goree
closed his eyes, listening with rapture to the click of its
handle, and the bubbling of the falling stream.  Col-
trane brought a pitcher of the cool water, and held it for
him to drink.  Presently Goree sat up -- a most forlorn
object, his summer suit of flax soiled and crumpled, his
discreditable head tousled and unsteady.  He tried to
wave one of his hands toward the colonel.

"Ex-excuse-everything, will you?"  he said.  "I
must have drunk too much whiskey last night, and gone
to bed on the table."  His brows knitted into a puzzled
frown.

"Out with the boys awhile?"  asked Coltrane kindly.

"No, I went nowhere.  I haven't had a dollar to spend
in the last two months.  Struck the demijohn too often.
I reckon, as usual."

Colonel Coltrane touched him on the shoulder.

"A little while ago, Yancey," he began, "you asked
me if I had brought Stella and Lucy over to play.  You
weren't quite awake then, and must have been dreaming
you were a boy again.  You are awake now, and I want
you to listen to me.  I have come from Stella and Lucy
to their old playmate, and to my old friend's son.  They
know that I am going to bring you home with me, and you
will find them as ready with a welcome as they were in
the old days.  I want you to come to my house and stay
until you are yourself aain, and as much longer as you
will.  We heard of your being down in the world, and in
the midst of temptation, and we agreed that you should
come over and play at our house once more.  Will you
come, my boy?  Will you drop our old family trouble
and come with me?"

"Trouble!"  said Goree, opening his eyes wide.  "There
was never any trouble between us that I know of.  I'm
sure we've always been the best friends.  But, good Lord,
Colonel, how could I go to your home as I am -- a
drunken wretch, a miserable, degraded spendthrift and
gambler -- "

He lurched from the table into his armchair, and
began to weep maudlin tears, mingled with genuine drops
of remorse and shame.  Coltrane talked to him persist-
ently and reasonably, reminding him of the simple moun-
tain pleasures of which he had once been so fond, and
insisting upon the genuineness of the invitation.

Finally he landed Goree by telling him he was counting
upon his help in the engineering and transportation of a
large amount of felled timber from a high mountain-side
to a waterway.  He knew that Goree had once invented
a device for this purpose -- a series of slides and chutes-
upon which he had justly prided himself.  In an instant
the poor fellow, delighted at the idea of his being of use
to any one, had paper spread upon the table, and was
drawing rapid but pitifully shaky lines in demonstration
of what he could and would do.

The man was sickened of the husks; his prodigal heart
was turning again toward the mountains.  His mind was
yet strangely clogged, and his thoughts and memories
were returning to his brain one by one, like carrier pigeons
over a stormy sea.  But Coltrane was satisfied with the
progress he had made.

Bethel received the surprise of its existence that after-
noon when a Coltrane and a Goree rode amicably together
through the town.  Side by side they rode, out from the
dusty streets and gaping townspeople, down across the
creek bridge, and up toward the mountain.  The prodigal
had brushed and washed and combed himself to a more
decent figure, but he was unsteady in the saddle, and he
seemed to be deep in the contemplation of some vexing
problem.  Coltrane left him in his mood, relying upon the
influence of changed surroundings to restore his
equilibrium.

Once Goree was seized with a shaking fit, and almost
came to a collapse.  He had to dismount and rest at the
side of the road.  The colonel, foreseeing such a con-
dition, had provided a small flask of whisky for the journey
but when it was offered to him Goree refused it almost
with violence, declaring he would never touch it again.
By and by he was recovered, and went quietly enough
for a mile or two.  Then he pulled up his horse suddenly,
and said:

"I lost two hundred dollars last night, playing poker.
Now, where did I get that money?"

"Take it easy, Yancev.  The mountain air will soon
clear it up.  We'll go fishing, first thing, at the Pinnacle
Falls.  The trout are jumping there like bullfrogs.  We'll
take Stella and Lucy along, and have a picnic on Eagle
Rock.  Have you forgotten how a hickory-cured-ham
sandwich tastes, Yancey, to a hungry fisherman?"

Evidently the colonel did not believe the story of his
lost wealth; so Goree retired again into brooding silence.

By late Afternoon they had travelled ten of the twelve
miles between Bethel and Laurel.  Half a mile this side
of Laurel lay the old Goree place; a mile or two beyond
the village lived the Coltranes.  The road was now steep
and laborious, but the compensations were many.  The
tilted aisles of the forest were opulent with leaf and bird
and bloom.  The tonic air put to shame the pharma-
copжia.  The glades were dark with mossy shade, and
bright with shy rivulets winking from the ferns and
laurels.  On the lower side they viewed, framed in the
near foilage, exquisite sketches of the far valley swooning
in its opal haze.

Coltrane was pleased to see that his companion was
yielding to the spell of the hills and woods.  For now
they had but to skirt the base of Painter's Cliff; to cross
Elder Branch and mount the hill beyond, and Goree
would have to face the squandered home of his fathers.
Every rock he passed, every tree, every foot of the rocky
way, was familiar to him.  Though he hid forgotten the
woods, they thrilled him like the music of "Home, Sweet
Home."

They rounded the cliff, decended into Elder Branch,
and paused there to let the horses drink and splash in
the swift water.  On the right was a rail fence that
cornered there, and followed the road and stream.
Inclosed by it was the old apple orchard of the home
place; the house was yet concealed by the brow of the
steep hill.  Inside and along the fence, pokeberries,
elders, sassafras, and sumac grew high and dense.  At
a rustle of their branches, both Goree and Coltrane glanced
up, and saw a long, yellow, wolfish face above the fence,
staring at them with pale, unwinking eyes.  The head
quicky disappeared; there was a violent swaying of the
bushes, and an ungainly figure ran up through the apple
orchard in the direction of the house, zigzagging among
the trees.

"That's Garvey," said Coltrane; "the man you sold
out to.  There's no doubt but he's considerably cracked.
I had to send him up for moonshining, once, several years
ago, in spite of the fact that I believed him irresponsible.
Why, what's the matter, Yancey?"

Goree was wiping his forehead, and his face had lost
its colour.  "Do I look queer, too?"  he asked, trying
to smile.  "I'm just remembering a few more things."
Some of the alcohol had evaporated from his brain.  "I
recollect now where I got that two hundred dollars."

"Don't think of it," said Coltrane cheerfully.  "Later
on we'll figure it all out together."

They rode out of the branch, and when they reached
the foot of the hill Goree stopped again.

"Did you ever suspect I was a very vain kind of fellow,
Colonel" he asked.  "Sort of foolish proud about
appearances?"

The colonel's eyes refused to wander to the soiled, sag-
ging suit of flax and the faded slouch hat.

"It seems to me," he replied, mystified, but humouring
him, "I remember a young buck about twenty, with the
tightest coat, the sleekest hair, and the prancingest saddle
horse in the Blue Ridge."

"Right you are," said Goree eagerly.  "And it's in
me yet, though it don't show.  Oh, I'm as vain as a
turkey gobbler, and as proud as Lucifer.  I'm going to
ask you to indulge this weakness of mine in a little
matter."

"Speak out, Yancey.  We'll create you Duke of
Laurel and Baron of Blue Ridge, if you choose; and you
shall have a feather out of Stella's peacock's tail to wear
in your hat."

"I'm in earnest.  In a few minutes we'll pass the house
up there on the hill where I was born, and where my
people have lived for nearly a century.  Strangers live
there now -- and look at me!  I am about to show myself
to them ragged and poverty-stricken, a wastrel and a
beggar.  Colonel Coltrane, I'm ashamed to do it.  I
want you to let me wear your coat and hat until we are
out of sight beyond.  I know you think it a foolish pride,
but I want to make as good a showing as I can when
I pass the old place."

"Now, what does this mean?"  said Coltrane to him-
self, as he compared his companion's sane looks and
quiet demeanour with his strange request.  But he
was already unbuttoning the coat, assenting readily,
as if the fancy were in no wise to be considered
strange.

The coat and hat fitted Goree well.  He buttoned
the former about him with a look of satisfaction and
dignity.  He and Coltrane were nearly the same size --
rather tall, portly, and erect.  Twenty-five years were
between them, but in appearance they might have
been brothers.  Goree looked older than his age;
his face was puffy and lined; the colonel had the
smooth, fresh complexion of a temperate liver.  He
put on Goree's disreputable old flax coat and faded
slouch hat.

"Now," said Goree, taking up the reins, "I'm all
right.  I want you to ride about ten feet in the rear as we
go by, Colonel, so that they can get a good look at me.
They'll see I'm no back number yet, by any means.  I
guess I'll show up pretty well to them once more, any-
how.  Let's ride on."

He set out up the hill at a smart trot, the colonel fol-
lowing, as he had been requested.

Goree sat straight in the saddle, with head erect, but
his eyes were turned to the right, sharply scanning every
shrub and fence and hiding-place in the old homestead
yard.  Once he muttered to himself, "Will the crazy
fool try it, or did I dream half of it?"

It was when he came opposite the little family burying
ground that he saw what he had been looking for -- a
puff of white smoke, coming from the thick cedars in one
comer.  He toppled so slowly to the left that Coltrane
had time to urge his horse to that side, and catch him
with one arm.

The squirrel hunter had not overpraised his aim.  He
had sent the bullet where he intended, and where Goree
had expected that it would pass - through the breast
of Colonel Abner Coltrane's black frock coat.

Goree leaned heavily against Coltrane, but he did not
fall.  The horses kept pace, side by side, and the Colonel's
arm kept him steady.  The little white houses of Laurel
shone through the trees, half a mile away.  Goree reached
out one hand and groped until it rested upon Coltrane's
fingers, which held his bridle.

"Good friend," he said, and that was all.

Thus did Yancey Goree, as be rode past his old home,
make, considering all things, the best showing that was
in his power.