“Sure,” said the preacher. He walked to the Wilson tent, tiny and gray, and he slipped the flaps aside and entered. It was dusky and hot inside. The mattress lay on the ground, and the equipment was scattered about, as it had been unloaded in the morning. Sairy lay on the mattress, her eyes wide and bright. He stood and looked down at her, his large head bent and the stringy muscles of his neck tight along the sides. And he took off his hat and held it in his hand.
She said, “Did my man tell ya we couldn’ go on?”
“That’s what he said.”
Her low, beautiful voice went on, “I wanted us to go. I knowed I wouldn’ live to the other side, but he’d be acrost anyways. But he won’t go. He don’ know. He thinks it’s gonna be all right. He don’ know.”
“He says he won’t go.”
“I know,” she said, “An’ he’s stubborn. I ast you to come to say a prayer.”
“I ain’t a preacher,” he said softly. “My prayers ain’t no good.”
She moistened her lips. “I was there when the ol’ man died. You said one then.”
“It wasn’t no prayer.”
“It was a prayer,” she said.