And now the’r pap has got his death—
An’ they’ll—never git—an-oth-er!”
The faint voice ended in a whispering quaver. Joe sprang erect, his limbs trembling, his face as white as chalk.
“Poor critter!” he murmured, pityingly. “He’s dyin’; but he’s still thinkin’ of his wife an’ children. Poor little woman—an’ poor little boys an’ gals—down in ol’ Kaintuck! You’ll never git another husband an’ father, that’s a fact; not one that’ll think as much of you, anyhow. His words has come true. He must ’ave had a prem’nition o’ what was in store fer him. Ding-it-all-to-dangnation! I’m sorry fer him—poor feller! An’ I wish I hadn’t growled so much ’bout his caterwaulin’—I do, by Katherine! But I thought he was jest foolin’—I didn’t know he was pourin’ out his soul in singin’.”
Joe broke off suddenly and dashed the tears from his eyes. The dying Kentuckian gave one expiring groan—and passed over the dark river. The woodman stood silently looking down at the lump of senseless clay for several minutes. Then he turned and strode away, muttering:
“I don’t like this buryin’ business, nohow. It makes me down in the mouth. It’s worse ’n drivin’ oxen, by a long shot. Poor little boys an’ gals down in ol’ Kaintuck! They ain’t got no pap now—they’ll never be rocked to sleep in his arms no more.”
He stopped and shook his head sadly, reflectively.
“Where Fleet Foot and Duke?”
Farley glanced up and beheld Bright Wing at his side.
“Ross an’ the bloodhoun’?” he inquired.