“I’d think you’d git tired o’ this; I would, by hooky!” declared Bob. “Whar do you git yore grub?”
“Fust one place an’ then another; I don’t bother much about my eatin’. I have to light out o’ bed to wait on the fust one that rattles the doorknob in the mornin’, an’ am so busy from then on that I cayn’t find a minute to git a bite o’ breakfast. See my kettle thar? I can make as good a cup o’ coffee as the next one. Half a cup o’ ground Javy in my coffeepot, with bilin’ water poured on, an’ then put on the stove to bile ag’in, does the business. Thar’s my skillet; a cowboy give it to me. Sometimes I fry a slice o’ streak-o’-lean-streak-o’-fat, ur a few cracked eggs, but it hain’t half livin’.”
They walked back and sat down in the store again. Bob had a strange, perplexed look on his face. Webb was about to make some reference to his offer, when Bob forestalled him in a rather excited tone.
“Jim, did yore mother live nigh Ellijay?”
“‘Bout three miles from town. What in the thunder is the matter? What are you starin’ at me that way fer?”
Bob looked down and moved uneasily on the barrel. “I was jest a-wonderin’—my Lord, Jim! thar was a feller shot the day I passed through Ellijay. I cayn’t be shore, but it seems to me his name was Joe Bradley. He was a troublesome, rowdyish sort of a feller, an’ a man had to shoot ’im in self-defense.”
Jim stared at the speaker helplessly, and then glanced around at Webb and Thornton. His great brown eyes began to dilate, and a sickly pallor came into his face. His breathing fell distinct and harsh on the profound stillness of the room. His mouth dropped open, but he was unable to utter a word.
“He may not ‘a’ been yore brother,” added Bob, quickly, and with sympathy. “I’m not plumb shore o’ the name, nuther. I was helpin a man drive a drove of Kentucky hosses through to Gainesville, an’ we got thar jest atter the shootin’. I heerd the shots myse’f. The coroner held a inquest, an’ the dead man’s mother was thar. She looked pitiful; she was mighty gray an’ old an’ bent over. I was standin’ in the edge o’ the crowd when some neighbor fotch’ ’er up in his wagon, an’ we all made room for ‘er. She had the pity of every blessed man thar. She jest stood ’mongst the rest, lookin’ down at the corpse fer some time ‘thout sayin’ a word to anybody, nur sheddin’ a tear. Then she seemed to come to ‘erse’f, an’ said, jest as ef nothin’ oncommon had occurred: ‘Well, gentlemen, why don’t you move ‘im under a shelter?’ an’ with that she squatted down at his head, an’ breshed the hair off ’n his forehead mighty gentle-like. ‘We are a-holdin’ uv a inquest, accordin’ to law,’ a big feller said who was the coroner of the town. ‘Law ur no law,’ she said, lookin’ up at ‘im, her eyes flashin’ like a tiger-cat’s, ‘he sha ‘n’t lie here in the br’ilin’ sun with no roof over ‘im. Thar wasn’t no law to keep ’im from bein’ murdered right in yore midst.’ An’ she had her way, you kin bet on that. The men jest lifted ‘im up an’ toted ’im into the nighest store an’ put ’im on a cot. The coroner objected, but them men jest cussed ’im to his face an’ pushed him away as ef he was so much trash.”
“Did you take notice o’ the body?” gasped Bradley, finding voice finally. “What kind of a lookin’ man was he?”
“Ef I remember right, he had sorter reddish hair an’ blue eyes, an’ was ’bout yore build. He was a good-lookin’ man.”