He tek me in. When Ah
aisk 'im ain' he fraid keep ole thief he say, jesso: 'Dass all my fault,
Xenophon; ought look you up long 'go; ought know long 'go you be cole dese
baid nights. Reckon Ahm de thievenest one us two, Xenophon, keepin' all
dis wood stock' up when you got none,' he say, jesso. Tek me in; say he
_lahk_ a thief. Pay me sala'y. Feed me. Dass de main whut de Caips gone
shot lais' night." He raised his head sharply, and the mystery in his
gloomy eyes intensified as they opened wide and stared at the sky,
unseeingly.
"Ise bawn wid a cawl!" he exclaimed, loudly. His twisted frame was braced
to an extreme tension. "Ise bawn wid a cawl! De blood anssuh!"
"It wasn't the Cross-Roads, Uncle Xenophon," said Warren Smith, laying his
hand on the old man's shoulder.
Xenophon rose to his feet. He stretched a long, bony arm straight to the
west, where the Cross-Roads lay; stood rigid and silent, like a seer; then
spoke:
"De men whut shot Marse Hawkliss lies yondeh, hidin' f'um de light o' day.
An' _him_"--he swerved his whole rigid body till the arm pointed
northwest--"he lies yondeh. You won't find him heah. Dey fought 'im een de
fiel's an' dey druggen 'im heah. Dis whim dey lay 'im down. Ise bawn wid
a cawl!"
There were exclamations from the listeners, for Xenophon spoke as one
having authority.
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