sed.... So it fell out.

Uncle Dick rode briskly toward the little stream that tumbles down the
mountain west of Air Bellows Gap, where long ago men washed for gold
in feverish desire of wealth. Now, none sought a fortune in the branch
grit, where a day's labor at best could yield no more than a dollar or
two in gold. Only devoted swains, like himself, hied them there to win
wherewithal for a bauble with which to speed their wooing. Uncle Dick
chose a favorable spot, and washed steadily until the blackened old
copper skillet itself shone like the flecks of gold he sought. When he
ceased he had a generous pinch of the precious dust carefully disposed
in a vial. He hid the skillet to serve another day, and set out on his
return. Before he crossed Garden Greek, a neighbor, whom he met on the
trail, told him of the raid. Eager for all particulars, Uncle Dick
turned his mount into the high road, and hurried to Joines' store.
The single-footing mare carried him quickly to this place of assembly
for neighborhood gossip, where he found more than the usual number
gathered, drawn by excitement over the raid. The company was in a
mixed mood, in which traditional enmity against the "revenuers" warred
against personal rejoicing over the fate fallen on Dan Hodges, whom
they hated and feared. From the garrulous circle of his acquaintance,
Uncle Dick speedily learned the history of the night. The account was
interrupted by the coming of a clerk to the store door. He waved his
hand toward the group on the steps to command attention.

"You, Uncle Dick!" he called. "No'th Wilkesboro' wants ye on the
telephone."

Wondering mightily at the unexpected summons, the old man hurried to
the instrument.

"Hello! Hello!" he roared, in a voice to be heard across the miles.

"Be that you-all, Uncle Dick?" the question came thinly.

"Yep. Who be you?"

"Hit's Dan Hodges. I reckon you-all done hearn 'bout last night."

"Yep. I shore have hearn a heap," Uncle Dick acquiesced, sourly. "I
tole ye to quit, the officers air gittin' so a'mightly peart. They
hain't no more chance fer a good set o' men to make a run--to say
nothin' of a wuthless gang like your'n.... What ye want o' me?"

The reply was explicit enough.

"The hearin' 's to-morrer 'fore the United States Commissioner.
Marshal Stone says the bail'll be two thousand dollars, cash or land.
They hain't nobody kin put hit up, 'cept you-all, Uncle Dick. An', if
ye don't, Ben an' me'll have