Grandma Bisnette brought a lamp and held itso the light frll on his face. He looked from one to another. He drew one of his hands away and stared at it.
'Somebody froze?' he asked.
'Yes,' said I.
'Hm! Too bad. How'd it happen?' he asked. 'I don't know.'
'How's the pulse?' he enquired, feeling for my.wrist.
I let him hold it in his hand.
'Will you bring me some water in a glass?' he enquired, turning to Mrs Brower, just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald's illness. Before she came with the water his head fell forward upon his breast, while he muttered feebly. I thought then he was dead, but presently he roused himself with a mighty effort.
'David Brower!' he called loudly, and trying hard to rise, 'bring the horse! bring the horse! Mus' be goin', I tell ye. Man's dyin' over - on the Plains.'
He went limp as a rag then. I could feel his heart leap and struggle feebly.
'There's a man dyin' here,' said David Brower, in a low tone. 'Ye needn't rub no more.
'He's dead,' Elizabeth whispered, holding his hand tenderly, and looking into his half-closed eyes. Then for a moment she covered her own with her handkerchief, while David, in a low, calm tone, that showed the depth of his feeling, told us what to do.
Uncle Eb and I watched that night, while Tip Taylor drove away to town. The body lay in the parlour and we sat by the stove in the room adjoining. In a half-whisper we talked of the sad event of the day.
'Never oughter gone out a day like this,' said Uncle Eb. 'Don' take much t' freeze an ol' man.'
'Got to thinking of what happened yesterday and forgot the cold,' I said.
'Bad day t' be absent-minded,' whispered Uncle Eb, as he rose and tiptoed to the window and peered through the frosty panes. 'May o' got faint er sumthin'. Ol' hoss brought 'im right here - been here s' often with 'in'.'
He took the lantern and went out a moment. The door creaked upon its frosty hinges when he opened it.
'Thirty below zero,' he whispered as he came in. 'Win's gone down a leetle bit, mebbe.'
Uncanny noises broke in upon the stliness of the old house. Its timbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled.
Sometimes there came a sbarp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones.
'If any man oughter go t' Heaven, he had,' said Uncle Eb, as he drew on his boots.
'Think he's in Heaven?' I asked.
'Hain't a doubt uv it,' said he, as he chewed a moment, preparing for expectoration.
'What kind of a place do you think it is?' I asked.
'Fer one thing,' he said, deliberately, 'nobody'll die there, 'less he'd ought to; don't believe there's goin' t' be any need o' swearin' er quarrellin'. To my way o' thinkin' it'll be a good deal like Dave Brower's flirm - nice, smooth land and no stun on it, an, hills an' valleys an' white clover aplenty, an' wheat an' corn higher'n a man's head. No bull thistles, no hard winters, no narrer contracted fools; no long faces, an' plenty o' work. Folks sayin' "How d'y do" 'stid o' "goodbye", all the while - comin' 'stid o' gain'. There's goin' t' be some kind o' ftln there. I ain' no idee what 'tis. Folks like it an' I kind o' believe 'at when God's gin a thing t', everybody he thinks purty middlin' well uv it.'
'Anyhow, it seems a hard thing to die,' I remarked.
'Seems so,' he said thoughtfully. 'Jes' like ever'thing else - them 'at knows much about it don' have a great deal t' say. Looks t' me like this: I cal'ate a man hes on the everidge ten things his heart is sot on - what is the word I want -?'
'Treasures?' I suggested.
'Thet's it,' said he. 'Ev'ry one hes about ten treasures. Some hev more - some less. Say one's his strength, one's his plan, the rest is them he loves, an' the more he loves the better 'tis fer him. Wall, they begin t' go one by one. Some die, some turn agin' him. Fin's it hard t' keep his allowance. When he's only nine he's lost eggzac'ly one-tenth uv his dread o' dyin'. Bime bye he counts up - one-two-three-four-five-an' thet's all ther is left. He figgers it up carefial. His strength is gone, his plan's a fillure, mebbe, an' this one's dead an' thet one's dead, an' t'other one better be. Then 's 'bout half-ways with him. If he lives till the ten treasures is all gone, God gives him one more - thet's death. An' he can swop thet off an' git back all he's lost. Then he begins t' think it's a purty dum good thing, after all. Purty good thing, after all,' he repeated, gaping as he spoke.
He began nodding shortly, and soon he went asleep in his chair.
