That night the dogs treed a panther, and Hanson died. It happened while he was climbing with pole and rope, angling to get a noose on the lithe beast while Morgan waited with another rope below. The lantern was hung from a branch while Hanson inched out on the limb. When he thrust the noose forward, the panther brushed it aside with a quick slap. It leaped. Hanson lost his balance and crashed to the ground with a howl. The panther slapped a dog spinning and darted away in the night with three dogs following.
Morgan knelt quickly beside the old man. His back was broken.
"Please, suh—don't move me. The Lo'd's a-comin' fo' old Han."
"Hush, fellow," Morgan murmured.
"Suh, that painter's a she. And they's cubs somewheres."
"Cubs?"
"Yes, suh. She's spooky-like. Cubs. You stay with my dawgs. Take care of 'em, suh."
"Sure, Han."
"You lemme be now, suh. Lemme be alone." His voice was a faint whisper. "I gotta die by myself. Man oughtn't to have company then."
Morgan hesitated. He sighed and climbed slowly to his feet. He stumbled away, leaving the lantern hanging overhead. He sat a hundred yards away in the shadow of a gaunt cypress, listening to the baying of the hounds, the moaning of the old man, and the croaking of the swamp. When he returned, the oldster was dead.