Huddlestone stood stock-still. “I saw her this morning for a moment. She was with Uncle Otto and her Ma, down at Pock’s. She—Mealy’s a nice girl … I’d like to talk to her some more before I go. If I had any money to spare, I’d hire a turn-out and take her for a drive in the morning. But I had to square a grocery account with the money I got from Doc.”

Dan fumbled in his pocket. “No,” Elijah snarled. “Do you think that was why I was telling you?”

Bale stood up clumsily. He had a wad of paper money in his hand. He went over to Elijah. Huddlestone backed away, his face rigid and his eyes bright. Dan caught his right arm and held it; Hud struck, blindly and quickly, at Dan’s face … Bale caught both the man’s wrists in the trap of his big hand and held him, in spite of his writhings. He pushed the fold of money into his pocket. He said, “Are we friends, or are we not?” He dropped Elijah’s wrists.

Hud breathed rapidly and stared at the floor.

“Oh, now—” said Dan.

“How much was that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t the faintest idea. You know what Doc always says: money, it’s the curse of us all. It’s caused wars and sadness and devilment, or something like that.”

“I can’t take your money, Dan.”

Bale said a short word. He sat down on the bed.

“I cannot. You should be able to understand.”

Dan sneered, “Because I’m a Copperhead? Because I’m a coward who won’t go out and kill for the sake of the Star-Spangled Banner and Father Abraham and General D. N. Couch and the Army of the Susquehanna?”

“That’s not it. But—you’re drunk and—”

“Not that drunk. I know what I’m about … Go away, and quit driving me to distraction.” He lay back on the bed, closing his eyes and putting his hand over them to keep out the tawny glare of the lamp.

Elijah shuffled around on the matting at the door. “All right,” he said, finally. “A loan, then. Until I come back. Will I see you tomorrow, Dan?”

“Doubtless,” Dan said. He heard reluctant feet going away down the stairs. He lay there on the bed and wondered whether he should take more whiskey … ho, the wars! “Doubtless,” he said aloud to the echoing room. Then he blew out the lamp and lay down once more. Wondering, murmuring darkness. Before morning he dreamed of Doctor Duffey and Elijah going to war in the carryall. Their old white horse was shot; he stood still in the shafts, trembling and dying by inches. “Isn’t there something you can do for him?” Elijah kept appealing. “Poor old Salt! Poor old Reverend Solt…”