“Is ole Nicholas sick?” said the woman. “He ain't sick now,” replied the doctor. “You cured h'm, did you?”
“No, I didn't cure him,” said the doctor, getting down from his horse; “they were dyin' in Hickory Mountain before I come into it, an' they'll keep on a-dyin' after I've gone out.”
He lifted his leather saddlebags down from the horse and carried it across to the mill porch.
The woman remained standing in the road, her closed hand full of corn, the yellow grains showing between her fingers.
“You arn't tellin' me ole Nicholas is dead!”
“Yes, he's dead,” said the doctor. “New get me a gallon of corn; that horse ain't had a bite to eat since yesterday evening.”
He went across the road, picked up a box, knocked the dust out of it and brought it over by the mill porch. Then he took the bit out of the horse's mouth, and put the bridle rein over the saddle, under the stirrup leather.
“Ole Nicholas dead!” the woman repeated. “Well! Upon my word!”
“Why shouldn't he be dead?” said the doctor. “Every damn thing's got to die.”
“What killed him?” inquired the woman.