Sleep rolled over him like a river. Artillery would not have awakened him, nor thunder, nor the curious hands of friends or the hostile claws of creatures of prey.
And within a few minutes of his going to sleep other boats came down the river and passed him.
They picked up the capsized boat.
"Quin's dead then," they told each other.
It was quite possible Quin's body believed that, too. But his warm mind knew better, of course. He had got earth under him, and he warmed it.
XXV
"Oh, oho, the toketie papoosh: I love the papoosh, Jenny's papoosh," said Annawillee, as she held the baby. The shack was lighted by the burning Mill rather than by the stinking slush lamp on the foul table. Jenny cried for her baby, but Annawillee was after all a woman and loved children in her own way. For years she hadn't handled one. Her only child had died. Its father was not Chihuahua.
"Oh, give him me, Annawillee," said Jenny. He was George's child, and now she knew that "Tchorch" was out on the great lonely river, hunting unhappy Pete. Men said they would never come back. Her soul was burning even as the Mill burnt. "Tchorch" loved her and yet had forgotten her.
"Give him to me."