“He is the husband of my half-sister,” answered Erskine gravely.
Clark looked dazed and uncomprehending:
“And that woman?”
“My mother,” said Erskine gently.
“Good God!” breathed Clark. He turned quickly and waved the open-mouthed woodsmen away, and Erskine and his mother were left alone. A feeble voice called from a tent near by.
“Old Kahtoo!” said Erskine’s mother. “He is dying and he talks of nothing but you—go to him!” And Erskine went. The old man lay trembling with palsy on a buffalo-robe, but the incredible spirit in his wasted body was still burning in his eyes.
“My son,” said he, “I knew your voice. I said I should not die until I had seen you again. It is well ... it is well,” he repeated, and wearily his eyes closed. And thus Erskine knew it would be.
XXVIII
That winter Erskine made his clearing on the land that Dave Yandell had picked out for him, and in the centre of it threw up a rude log hut in which to house his mother, for his remembrance of her made him believe that she would prefer to live alone. He told his plans to none.
In the early spring, when he brought his mother home, she said that Black Wolf had escaped and gone farther into the wilderness—that Early Morn had gone with him. His mother seemed ill and unhappy. Erskine, not knowing that Barbara was on her way to find him, started on a hunting-trip. In a few days Barbara arrived and found his mother unable to leave her bed, and Lydia Noe sitting beside her. Harry had just been there to say good-by before going to Virginia.