"'Proselyter, I reckon you'd better call quick on thet God who
reveals Hisself to you on earth, because He won't be visitin' the
place you're goin' to!"
"An' then I seen Dyer look at his big, hangin' hands thet wasn't
big enough fer the last work he set them to. An' he looked up at
Lassiter. An' then he stared horrible at somethin' thet wasn't
Lassiter, nor anyone there, nor the room, nor the branches of
purple sage peepin' into the winder. Whatever he seen, it was
with the look of a man who discovers somethin' too late. Thet's a
terrible look!...An' with a horrible understandin' cry he slid
forrard on his face."
Judkins paused in his narrative, breathing heavily while he wiped
his perspiring brow.
"Thet's about all," he concluded. "Lassiter left the
meetin'-house an' I hurried to catch up with him. He was bleedin'
from three gunshots, none of them much to bother him. An' we come
right up here. I found you layin' in the hall, an' I hed to work
some over you."
Jane Withersteen offered up no prayer for Dyer's soul.
Lassiter's step sounded in the hall--the familiar soft,
silver-clinking step--and she heard it with thrilling new
emotions in which was a vague joy in her very fear of him. The
door opened, and she saw him, the old Lassiter, slow, easy,
gentle, cool, yet not exactly the same Lassiter. She rose, and
for a moment her eyes blurred and swam in tears.
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