“Davy,” the doctor said, clasping his hand, “she is dead,” and David knew; he meant Mrs. Hinch.
“And Hinch?”
“He's taking it hard, Davy. He is in town. He is in that mood of sullen hate again. He will need you—you are the only man that can soften him, Davy. It is hard—we left the girl alone with her dead mother. Some woman is needed there.” 'Thusia had come to the parlor door.
“Will I do! Can I go!” she asked.
“Yes, and bless you for it!” the doctor exclaimed. “Get in my buggy. You'll come, David!”
“Of course! But Hinch—he came to town! Why?”
“He had to get the coffin, Davy.”
David hurried into his coat.
“We must find him at once and get him out of town,” he said. “They're threatening to tar and feather him if he shows his face in town again. We may stop them if we are in time; please God we may stop them!”
They found old Hinch's wagon tied opposite the post office. They knew it by the coarse pine coffin that lay in the wagon bed. A crowd—a dozen or more men—stood before the bulletin board watching the postmaster post a new bulletin and, as David leaped from the buggy, the men cheered, for the tide had turned and the news was news of victory. As they cheered, old Hinch came out of the post office. He had in his right hand the hickory club he always carried and in the left a letter, doubled over and crushed in his gnarled fingers. He leaned his weight on the club. All the strength seemed gone out of his bent body. Someone saw him and shouted “Here's the Copperhead!” and before David could reach his side the crowd had gathered around old Hinch.