“Ye hain’t tole ’bout the pit an’ the grant yit, bubby,” he reminded the small boy.


Byers’s display of impatience was not lost upon Rufe, and it added to the general acrimony of their relations.


“Waal,” the small boy began alertly, “we-uns hed the deedie behind the smoke-house thar, an’ I seen
him
” - Rufe pointed at Byers with disfavor - ”a-comin’ powerful slow inter the tanyard, an’ I whispered ter Pig-wigs Griggs ter be quiet, an’ not let
him
know ez we-uns war thar, ’kase he war always a-jawin’ at me, ’thout the tanner war by ter keep him off’n me.  So we-uns bided thar till
he
went inter the smoke-house.  An’ then ez we-uns kem by the shed, Pig-wigs seen his uncle Nate’s coat hangin’ on a peg thar, ’kase that thar triflin’ Tim hed furgot, an’ lef’ it thar when he went ter see the deedies.  An’ Pig-wigs Griggs, he ’lowed he knowed the coat war his uncle Nate’s by the favior of it, an’ he reckoned the paper stickin’ out’n the pocket war the grant he hed hearn Nate talkin’ ’bout.  An’ I whispered ter him ez he hed better ondertake ter tote it home ter Nate.  An’ Pig-wigs said he couldn’t tote the coat, bein’ so lumbered up with the deedie.  But he would tote the grant in one hand an’ the deedie in t’other.  He couldn’t put the deedie in one o’ his pockets, ’kase his mother sews ’em all up, bein’ ez he
would
kerry sech a passel o’ heavy truck in ’em, - rocks an’ sech, reg’lar bowlders,” added Rufe, with a casual remembrance of the museum in his own pockets.  “So Pig-wigs’s mother sewed ’em all up, ’kase she said they war tore out all the time, an’ she seen no sense in a boy hevin’ a lot o’ slits in his clothes ter let in the air slanchwise on him.  An’ Pig-wigs ’lowed he’d tote the grant ef I would git it fur him.  An’ I did.”


“How did you-uns reach up ter that thar peg?” demanded Byers, pointing to the peg on which the coat had hung, far beyond Rufe’s reach.


“Clumb up on the wooden horse,” said Rufe promptly.  “I peeked through the chinkin’ an’ seen ye thar a-smokin’ yer pipe over the fire.”


Rufe winked audaciously, suddenly convincing Byers as to the possessor of the big black eyes, which he had recognized as characteristic of the Dicey family, when they had peered through the chinking.


“Waal, how did the grant git inter the pit, Rufe, an’ what hev become of it?” asked Byers, overlooking these personalities, for he felt a certain anxiety in the matter, being the last person known to have seen the grant, which, by reason of his delay and indecision, had again been spirited away.


“Pig-wigs put it thar, I tell ye,” reiterated Rufe.  “Ye see, I hed got outside o’ the gate, an’ Pig-wigs war a good ways behind, walkin’ toler’ble slow, bein’ ez he hed ter kerry the grant in one hand an’ the deedie in t’other.  An’ thar I see a-cropin’ along on the ground a young rabbit - reg’lar baby rabbit.  An’ I motioned ter Pig-wigs ter come quick - I hed fund suthin’.  An’ ez Pig-wigs couldn’t put the deedie down, he laid the grant on top o’ the boards ez kivered the pit.  But the wind war brief, an’ kem mighty nigh blowin’ that grant away.  So Pig-wigs jes’ stuck it down ’twixt two planks, an’ kem ter holp me ketch the rabbit.  But Pig-wigs warn’t no ’count ter holp.  An’ the rabbit got away.  An’ whilst Pig-wigs war foolin’ round, he drapped his deedie, an’ stepped on it - tromped the life out’n it.”  Rufe’s expression was of funereal gravity.  “An’ then he follered me every foot o’ the way home, beggin’ an’ beggin’ me ter gin him another.  But I wouldn’t.  I won’t gin no more o’ my deedies ter be tromped on, all round the mounting.”


Rufe evidently felt that the line must be drawn somewhere.


“An’ what hev gone with that thar grant?  ’T war hyar yestiddy.”


“I dunno,” responded Rufe, carelessly.  “Mebbe Pig-wigs reminded hisself ’bout’n it arter awhile, an’ kem an’ got it.”


This proved to be the case.  For Andy Byers concerned himself enough in the matter to ride the old mule over to Nate’s home, to push the inquiries.  Nate was just emerging from the door.  The claybank mare, saddled and bridled, stood in front of the cabin.  He was evidently about to mount.


“Look-a-hyar, ye scamp!” Byers saluted him gruffly, “whyn’t ye let we-uns know ez ye hed got back that thar grant o’ yourn, ez hev sot the whole mounting catawampus?  Pig-wigs hearn ye talkin’ ’bout it at las’, and tole ye ez he hed it, I s’pose?”


Nate affected to examine the saddle-girth.  He looked furtively over the mare’s shoulder at Andy Byers.  He could not guess how much of the facts had been developed.  In sheer perversity he was tempted to deny that he had the grant.  But Byers was a heavy man of scant patience, and he wore a surly air that boded ill to a trifler.


Nate nodded admission.


“Pig-wigs fotched it home, eh?” demanded Byers, leaning downward.


Once more Nate lifted his long, thin questioning face.  His craft had no encouragement.


“Ef ye be minded to call him ‘Pig-wigs’ - his right name air Benjymen - ’t war him ez fotched it home.”


“Now ye air a mighty cantankerous, quar’lsome, aggervatin’ critter!” Byers broke out irritably.  “Ain’t ye ’shamed o’ this hyar hurrah ye hev kicked up fur nuthin’? accusin’ o’ Birt wrongful, an’ sech?”


“Naw; I ain’t ’shamed o’ nuthin’!” said Nate hardily, springing into the saddle.  “I’m a-ridin’ ter the Settle
mint
ter git word from the assayer ’bout’n the gold ez I hev fund.  An’ when I rides back I’ll be wuth more’n enny man in the mountings or Sparty either!”


And he gave the mare the whip, and left Andy Byers, with his mouth full of rebukes, sitting motionless on the dozing old mule.


The mare came back from the Settlement late that night under lash and spur, at a speed she had never before made.  Day was hardly astir when Nate Griggs, wild-eyed and haggard, appeared at the tanyard in search of Birt.  He was loud with reproaches, for the assayer had pronounced the “gold” only worthless iron pyrites.  He had received, too, a jeering letter from his proposed partner in Sparta, who had found sport in playing on his consequential ignorance and fancied sharpness.  And now Nate declared that Birt, also, had known that the mineral was valueless, and had from the first befooled him.  In some way he would compel Birt to refund all the money that had been expended.  How piteous was Nate as he stood and checked off, on his trembling fingers, the surveyor’s fee, the entry-taker’s fee, the register’s fee, the secretary of State’s fee, the assayer’s fee - Oh, ruin, ruin!  And what had he to show for it! a tract of crags and chasms and precipitous gravelly slopes and gullies worth not a mill an acre!  And this was all - for the office of laughing-stock has no emoluments.  Where was Birt?  He would hold Birt to account.


Andy Byers, listening, thought how well it was for Birt that Nate no longer had the loss of the grant as a grievance.


Perkins mysteriously beckoned Nate aside.  “Nate,” he said in a low voice, “Birt air powerful mad ’bout that thar accusin’ him o’ stealin’ the grant, when ’t war some o’ yer own folks, ‘Pig-wigs,’ ez hed it all the time.  I seen him goin’ ’long towards yer house a leetle while ago.  I reckon he air lookin’ fur you.  He hed that big cowhide, ez I gin him t’other day, in one hand.  Ye jes’ take the road home, an’ ye’ll ketch up with him sure.”


Nate’s wits were in disastrous eclipse.  Could he deduce nothing from the tanner’s grin?  He spent the day at the Settlement without ostensible reason, and only at nightfall did he return home, and by a devious route, very different from that indicated by Jubal Perkins.


Inquiry developed the fact that the boundaries of Nate’s land did not include the salt lick, and his talents as an obstructer were not called into play.  The professor was free to dig as he chose for the antique bones he sought, and many a long day did he and Birt spend in this sequestered spot, with the great crags towering above and the darkling vistas of the ravine on either hand.  There was a long stretch of sunny weather, and somehow that shifting purple haze accented all its languorous lustres.  It seemed a vague sort of poetry a-loose in the air, and color had license.  The law which decreed that a leaf should be green was a dead letter.  How gallantly red and yellow they flared; and others, how tenderly pink, and gray, and purplish of hue!  What poly-tinted fancies underfoot in the moss!  Strange visitants came from the north.  Flocks of birds, southward bound, skimmed these alien skies.  Sometimes they alighted on the tree-tops or along the banks of the torrent, chattering in great excitement, commenting mightily on the country.


Birt had never been so light-hearted as during these days.  The cessation of anxiety was itself a sort of happiness.  The long, hard ordeal to which the truth had subjected him had ended triumphantly.


“Mighty onexpected things happen in this worl’,” he said, reflectively.  “It ’pears powerful cur’ous to me, arter all ez hev come an’ gone, ez
I
ain’t no loser by that thar gold mine down the ravine.”


He himself was surprised that he did not rejoice in Nate’s mortification and defeat.  But somehow he had struck a moral equilibrium; in mastering his anger and thirst for revenge, he had gained a stronger control of all the more unworthy impulses of his nature.


Meantime there was woe at the tanyard.  Jube Perkins had been anxious to have Birt resume his old place on the old terms.  The professor, however, would not release the boy from his engagement.  It seemed that this man of science could deduce subtle distinctions of character in the mere wielding of a spade.  He had never seen, he said, any one dig so conscientiously and so intelligently as Birt.  The tanner suddenly found that conscience might prove a factor even in so simple a matter as driving the old mule around the bark-mill.  The boy who had taken Birt’s place was a sullen, intractable fellow, and brutal.  When he yelled and swore and plied the lash, the old mule would occasionally back his ears.  The climax came one day when the rash boy kicked the animal.  Now this reminded the mild-mannered old mule of his own youthful prowess as a kicker.  He revived his reputation.  He seemed to stand on his fore-legs and his muzzle, while his hind-legs played havoc behind him.  The terrified boy dared not come near him.  The bark-mill itself was endangered.  Jube Perkins had not done so much work for a twelvemonth as in his efforts to keep the boy, the mule, and the bark-mill going together.


There were no “finds” down by the lick to rejoice the professor, and he went away at last boneless, except in so far as nature had provided him.  He left Birt amply rewarded for his labor.  So independent did Mrs. Dicey feel with this sum of money in reserve, that she would not agree that Birt should work on the old terms with the tanner.  Birt was dismayed by this temerity.  Once more, however, he recognized her acumen, for Jubal Perkins, although he left the house in a huff, came back again and promised good wages.  Ignorant and simple as she was, her keen instinct for her son’s best interest, his true welfare, endowed her words with wisdom.  Thenceforth he esteemed no friend, no ally, equal to his mother.


It delighted him to witness her triumph in the proof of his innocence, and indeed she did not in this matter bear herself with meekness.  It made him feel so prosperous to note her relapse into her old caustic habit of speech.  Ah, if he were hurt or sore beset, every word would be tenderness.


Birt shortly compassed a much desired object.  The mule’s revival of his ancient glories as a “turrible kicker” had injured his market value, and Birt’s earnings enabled him to purchase the animal at a low price.  The mule lived to a great age, always with his master as “mild-mannered” as a lamb.


For some time Birt saw nothing of Nate, but one day the quondam friends met face to face on a narrow, precipitous path on the mountain side.  Abject fear was expressed in Nate’s sharp features, for escape was impossible.


There was no need of either fear or flight.


“How air ye, I’on Pyrite!” cried Birt cheerfully.


The martyr’s countenance changed.


“Ye never done me right ’bout that thar mine, Birt Dicey,” Nate said reproachfully.  “Ye mus’ hev knowed from the fust ez them thar rocks war good fur nuthin’.”


“Ye air the deceivinest sandy-headed Pyrite that ever war on the top o’ this mounting, an’ ye knows it,” Birt retorted in high good humor; “an’ ef it war wuth my while I’d gin ye a old-fashion larrupin’ jes’ ter pay ye fur the trick ez ye played on me.  But I ain’t keerin’ fur that, now.  Stan’ back thar, Tennessee!”


Since then, Tennessee, always preserving the influence she wielded that memorable night, has grown to be a woman - never pretty, but, as her brother still stoutly avers, “powerful peart.”