McDermott wrinkled his red brow and scratched his sandy beard. Then he pointed. “Casey, wot’s the use? See, the blowin’ sand’s kivered all the graves.”
“Mac, yez wor always hell at shirkin’ worrk. Come on, now, Drill, ye terrier, drill!”
They quickly dug another long, narrow hole. Then, taking a rude stretcher, they plodded away in the direction of a dilapidated tent that appeared to be the only structure left of Benton. Casey entered ahead of his comrade.
“Thot’s sthrange!”
“Wot?” queried McDermott.
“Didn’t yez kiver her face whin we laid her down here?”
“Shure an’ I did, Casey.”
“An’ that face has a different look now!... Mac, see here!”
Casey stooped to pick up a little book from the woman’s breast. His huge fingers opened it with difficulty.
“Mac, there’s wroitin’ in ut!” he exclaimed.