I tucked the children in a little more snugly, then went over to the coaster.
“Won’t you come to bed and rest?” I asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.
“No, I’ll not. Are me children covered and warm?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“What are them fellys pow-wowing about down in the sage?”
“Olaf is dead,” I said.
“Who says God is not merciful? Now all the poor felly’s troubles are done with. ’Twas him that caused the stampede, mayhap. God send him peace. I am glad. He will never be hungry nor cold any more.”
“Yes,” said the girl; speaking slowly. “I am glad, too. He almost lived in this draw. We saw him every trip and he did suffer. Dad left a little for him to eat and whatever he could to wear every trip. The sheep-herders helped him, too. But he suffered. All the home he had was an old, thrown-away sheep wagon down beyond the last ridge toward the valley. I’ve seen him every two weeks for ten years. It’s a wonder he has not been killed before.”
“I wonder,” said Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, “if he has any family. Where will they bury him?”