Jorth could be heard breathing in difficulty, and he coughed and spat again, and seemed to hiss.
“Ellen, he lied to y’u. They’ll never meet us—heah!”
“Why not?” whispered Ellen.
“Because—Ellen—” he replied, in husky pants, “your dad an’—uncle Jackson—are daid—an’ buried!”
If Ellen suffered a terrible shock it was a blankness, a deadness, and a slow, creeping failure of sense in her knees. They gave way under her and she sank on the grass against the cabin wall. She did not faint nor grow dizzy nor lose her sight, but for a while there was no process of thought in her mind. Suddenly then it was there—the quick, spiritual rending of her heart—followed by a profound emotion of intimate and irretrievable loss—and after that grief and bitter realization.
An hour later Ellen found strength to go to the fire and partake of the food and drink her body sorely needed.
Colter and the men waited on her solicitously, and in silence, now and then stealing furtive glances at her from under the shadow of their black sombreros. The dark night settled down like a blanket. There were no stars. The wind moaned fitfully among the pines, and all about that lonely, hidden recess was in harmony with Ellen’s thoughts.
“Girl, y’u’re shore game,” said Colter, admiringly. “An’ I reckon y’u never got it from the Jorths.”
“Tad in there—he’s game,” said Queen, in mild protest.
“Not to my notion,” replied Colter. “Any man can be game when he’s croakin’, with somebody around.... But Lee Jorth an’ Jackson—they always was yellow clear to their gizzards. They was born in Louisiana—not Texas.... Shore they’re no more Texans than I am. Ellen heah, she must have got another strain in her blood.”