It seemed like a direct intervention of Providence when Bowers hung out of the door of the wagon and called excitedly:
“I believe he’s goin’!”
The exigencies of the moment, and curiosity, combined to make Mrs. Taylor overlook temporarily that she had been insulted, and she hastened with Teeters to the dying man’s side.
Emaciated, yellow, Mullendore was lying with closed eyes when they entered.
“Say, feller—” said Teeters, hoping to rouse him.
Only Mullendore’s faint breathing told them that he was living.
Mrs. Taylor laid her hand upon his damp forehead and withdrew it quickly.
“The po-oo-or soul! I’ll sing something.”
“It might help to git ong rapport with the sperrits,” agreed Teeters.
As Mrs. Taylor droned a familiar camp-meeting hymn, Mullendore opened his eyes and looked at her dully: