“I’ve made beggars of these children.”
Hilda hadn’t been sure, till he said “these children” that he knew she was beside him.
“No, no, boy.” Uncle Hank’s eyes entreated, reassured. “You was new to the ranching business. We all make our mistakes.”
“Ah!” breathed the dying man, “I’ve made nothing else.”
He closed his eyes and was silent for a minute. Then he opened them once more with that tearing groan.
“Katie’s children—what’s to become of them?”
Hilda took heart to reach out a shaking little hand and touch his fingers. They were chill, but they closed upon hers strongly. She wanted to say that he was not to be troubled, but such things were for grown-ups. She looked about on the cowpunchers, Shorty holding hard to the edge of his chair, old Snake Thompson over by the window shaken by rigors of feeling. The sun was sending long arrows in through the slit of the silken curtain beyond the couch.
“Don’t worry. You’re a-going to be all right,” came Hank’s full, grave voice. “The doctor’ll be here inside of twenty-four hours. You’ll be all right.”
“No,” Van Brunt stopped him with a husky whisper. “I’m not going to live an hour. My children are orphans.”
Plainly this tortured him more than bodily pain.