“Duke,” the old man jerked his head toward the graveyard, “I reckon they’re plantin’ somebody. Let’s me and you go over.”
They left their burro on the trail and crossed over, attracting little attention. The crowd seemed to be waiting for someone. Two men were standing near the grave, talking earnestly. Suddenly one of them looked up and saw the newcomers. He walked abruptly away from his companion and halted a few feet from the white-bearded man.
“Podner, by yore whiskers yo’re a preacher; are yuh?”
The bearded one’s right hand came up and slowly stroked the white mass of hair, which hung nearly to his waist-line.
“By my beard,” nodded the old man slowly, which neither affirmed nor denied in fact, but seemed to bring joy to the heart of his questioner, who turned on his heel, facing the crowd.
“Folks, we’re playin’ in luck. The funeral will proceed jist like nothin’ happened extraordinary.”
“Just a moment, pardner,” said the bearded one, “What happens to be the matter?”
“Not a damn thing,” laughed the man. “We needed a preacher awful bad—you showed up. There yuh are!”
“Have you no preacher?”