When the pointed shadow of Picketts Dome was reaching for the crest of the Big Blackfern, Wolfe stole away with his wife to pay his respects, as it were, to the one soul that had not been there to greet him. Tot led the zigzag way up the bald peak, upon which the ironwood cross still stood. They gathered sheafs of waxen-white laurel bloom, and later they put these in reverence on a mound between the great cross and a great boulder, the last earthly resting place of Grandpap Singleton, who had been called the Prophet.
"There, look," Tot said in the hushed voice of one who speaks in an atmosphere of holiness. She pointed. "The colonel had that done."
High on the even face of the huge stone had been cut in bold letters;
GRANDPAP WILLIAM SINGLETON
He, too, had drained life's iron chalice bravely. Wolfe's eyes dimmed.
And below the name, in the old hill dialect, had been chiseled in smaller letters this gem from the Prophet's crude philosophy, which well might ring down the centuries to come:
To Them As Thinks The' Ain't No God The' Ain't None, So Far As They're Concerned
THE NORTH WIND'S MESSAGE
By DANFORD G. BRITTON