Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack! . . . What's this? Is
he dead?" Bostil sustained a strange, incomprehensible shock. Sight of a dead
man had never before shocked him.
"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this community,"
replied Brackton. "He's only fallen in a fit. Fust off I reckoned he was
drunk. But it ain't thet."
"Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" demanded Bostil, gruffly.
"I reckoned you oughter see him."
"An' why, Brackton?"
Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a
minnit, son," and then he closed the door. "Joel's been on my hands since the
flood cut him off from home," said Brackton. "An' he's been some trial. But
nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I had to. I reckon I felt
sorry for him. He cried like a baby thet had lost its mother. Then he gets
wild-lookin' an' raved around. When I wasn't busy I kept an eye on him. But
some of the time I couldn't, an' he stole drinks, which made him wuss. An'
when I seen he was tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious.
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