“Give us the road; we’re taking a body into Turner’s to catch the morning train,” called Cooke.
“Who’s dead?”
“One of Ardmore’s Dutchmen. Shipping the corpse back to Germany.”
The party ahead of them paused as though debating the case.
The north-bound party was a blur in the road. Their horses sniffed and moved restlessly about as their riders conferred.
“Give us the road!” shouted Cooke. “We haven’t much time to catch our train.”
“Who did you say was dead?”
“Karl Schmidt,” returned Paul promptly.
Ardmore’s heart sank, fearful lest an inspection of the corpse should be proposed. But at this moment a wail, eerie and heart-breaking, rose and fell dismally upon the night. It was Jerry mourning her dead husband, her slight figure swaying back and forth over his body in an abandon of grief.
“De poor vidow—she be mit us,” called out big Paul, forsaking his usual excellent English for guttural dialect.