Uncle John broke in, “We never did have no paupers.” Tom said, “Maybe we got to learn. We never got booted off no land before, neither.”
“We done it clean,” said Pa. “There can’t no blame be laid on us. We never took nothin’ we couldn’ pay; we never suffered no man’s charity. When Tom here got in trouble we could hold up our heads. He only done what any man would a done.”
“Then what’ll we do?” Uncle John asked.
“We go in like the law says an’ they’ll come out for him. We on’y got a hundred an’ fifty dollars. They take forty to bury Grampa an’ we won’t get to California—or else they’ll bury him a pauper.” The men stirred restively, and they studied the darkening ground in front of their knees.
Pa said softly, “Grampa buried his pa with his own hand, done it in dignity, an’ shaped the grave nice with his own shovel. That was a time when a man had the right to be buried by his own son an’ a son had the right to bury his own father.”
“The law says different now,” said Uncle John.
“Sometimes the law can’t be foller’d no way,” said Pa. “Not in decency, anyways. They’s lots a times you can’t. When Floyd was loose an’ goin’ wild, law said we got to give him up—an’ nobody give him up. Sometimes a fella got to sift the law. I’m sayin’ now I got the right to bury my own pa. Anybody got somepin to say?”
The preacher rose high on his elbow. “Law changes,” he said, “but ’got to’s’ go on. You got the right to do what you got to do.” Pa turned to Uncle John. “It’s your right too, John. You got any word against?”
“No word against,” said Uncle John. “On’y it’s like hidin’ him in the night. Grampa’s way was t’come out a-shootin’.”
Pa said ashamedly, “We can’t do like Grampa done. We got to get to