“I’m a-goin’,” she breathed. “Snake done it. Did ye—git him?”
“Steve got him,” he answered. “Got him with Nat’s gun. Both barrels. He owned up first, though, that Steve didn’t burn out the Bumps. Steve goes free. Everything’s all right. Don’t talk.”
A wild light filled the fixed eyes. A haggard smile crooked the thin lips.
“Steve done it! Nat’s gun! That’s good! Awful good!”
A sudden cough and a fresh red flow stopped her. Then, instead of drooping back, she seemed to straighten and strengthen. Her breath came short, but more easily.
“I got to talk. Don’t hender me. I ain’t got much time. I got to tell ye—’fore I go. Marry—ain’t ourn.”
Douglas started.
“Not yours? Not your daughter?”
“No. I never had no—young ’uns of my own. We got Marryin—three year old. Her pop was—a painter feller. From Noo York. Name was Dyke.
“He come into here—fourteen year ago—paint pictures. Wife had got drownded—sailboat sunk into ocean—nigh Noo York, he—told us. He was awful grievious ’bout it. Come up here to paint an’—git over it. Brought his little gal—Marryin—all he had left—little rosy gal—purty as a angel.