“I'm glad you came to that,” the Squire blandly submitted. “For one thing, and the main thing, because he was a coward. He had plently of audacity but mighty little courage, and his courage gave out just when he needed it the most. And perhaps he hadn't perfect faith in himself; he was a fool, but he wasn't a crazy fool. Then again, my idea is that the scale was too small, or the scene, or the field, or whatever you call it. The backwoods, as Leatherwood was then, was not the right starting point for a world-wide imposture. Then again, as I said, Dylks was timid. He was not ready to shed blood for his lie, neither other people's nor his own; and when it came to fighting for his doctrine, he was afraid; he wanted to run. And, in fact, he did run, first and last. No liar ever had such a hold on them that believed his lie; they'd have followed him any lengths; but he hadn't the heart to lead them. When Redfield and I got hold of him, after he had tasted the fear of death, there that week in the tall timber, he was willing to promise anything we said. And he kept his promise; he wouldn't if he could have helped it, but he knew Jim Redfield would hold him to it, if he squeezed his life out doing it.”
The stranger was silent, but not apparently convinced, and meanwhile he took up another point of interest in the story which he heard from the Squire. “And whatever became of his wife, and her 'true' husband?”
“Oh, they lived on together. Not very long, though. They died within a week of each other, about. Didn't they, mother?”
“Just a week,” Mrs. Braile said, animated by the human touch in the discussion. “They lived mighty happy together, and it was as good a death as a body could want to die. It was that summer when the fever mowed the people down so. They took their little girl with them,” she sighed from a source of hidden sorrow. “They all went together.”
Braile took his pipe out and gulped before he could answer the stranger's next question. “And the boy? Dylks's son, is he living?”
“Oh, yes.” At the pleasant thought of the boy, the Squire began to smile. “He and Hingston's son took over the mill from Hingston, after he got too old for it, and carried it on together. Hingston wasn't one that hung on to the faith in Dylks, but he never made any fuss about giving it up. Just staid away from the Temple that the Little Flock built for themselves.”
“And is young Dylks still carrying on the milling business?”
“Who? Joey? Oh, yes. He married Benny Hingston's sister. Benny's wife died, and he lives with them.”
“And there ain't a better man in the whole of Leatherwood than Joey Billin's, as we always call him,” Mrs. Braile put in. “He was the best boy anywhere, and he's the best man.”
“Well, it's likely to come out that way, sometimes,” the Squire said with tender irony.