“We better get to this burying,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” said Follett.
They saw him go to Prudence, raise her from the ground, put a saddle-blanket over his arm, and lead her slowly up the road around a turn that took them beyond a clump of the oak-brush.
“It won’t do!” said Wright, with a meaning glance at the Entablature of Truth, quite as if he had divined his thought.
“I’d like to know why not?” retorted this good man, aggressively.
“Because times has changed; this ain’t ’57.”
“It’ll almost do itself,” insisted Snow. “What say, Glines?” and he turned to one of the others.
“Looks all right,” answered the man addressed. “By heck! but that’s a purty saddle he carries!”
“What say, Taggart?”
“For God’s sake, no, Bishop! No—I got enough dead faces looking at me now from this place. I’m ha’nted into hell a’ready, like he said he was yisterday. By God! I sometimes a’most think I’ll have my ears busted and my eyes put out to git away from the bloody things!”