“Krutzer has been in such misery since this storm came up, that I’ve just given him morphine. He ain’t exactly asleep, but he’s stupid and flighty; get into the wagon, Mr. Parks, and see how he is for yourself. Poor man; this is the fifth day of his rheumatism, and he has not stood on his feet once in that time.”
The visitor hesitates for a moment, then drawing nearer and lowering his tone somewhat, he says:
“If Krutzer is in a bad state now, he had better not know what I have come to tell. Can he hear me as I speak?”
“No; not if you don’t raise your voice.”
“Pearson is dead, Mrs. Krutzer.”
She starts, gasps, and then, with her head protruding from the canvas, asks, huskily:
“How? when? who?—”
“We found him up by the rocks, lying on his blanket—”
“Killed?”
“Killed; yes.”