“You'd better not talk. Perhaps you will feel more like it to-morrow.”
“There won't be any to-morrow for me,” growled Mother Borton. “I've seen enough of 'em carved to know when I've got the dose myself. Curse that knife!” and she groaned at a twinge of pain.
“Who did it?”
“Black Dick—curse his soul. And he's roasting in hell for it this minute,” cried Mother Borton savagely.
“Hush!” I said. “You mustn't excite yourself. Can't I get you a minister or a priest?”
Mother Borton spat out another string of oaths.
“Priest or minister! Not for me! Not one has passed my door in all the time I've lived, and he'll not do it to-night. What could he tell me that I don't know already? I've been on the road to hell for fifty years, and do you think the devil will let go his grip for a man that don't know me? No, dearie; your face is better for me than priest or minister, and I want you to close my eyes and see that I'm buried decent. Maybe you'll remember Mother Borton for something more than a vile old woman when she's gone.”
“That I shall,” I exclaimed, touched by her tone, and taking the hand that she reached out to mine. “I'll do anything you want, but don't talk of dying. There's many a year left in you yet.”
“There's maybe an hour left in me. But we must hurry. Tell me about your trouble—at Livermore, was it?”
I gave her a brief account of the expedition and its outcome. Mother Borton listened eagerly, giving an occasional grunt of approval.