“Mrs. Wylie, where’s your son Tom?” they asked.
She sat still. She didn’t even cry, “Oh, my God!”
“Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Wylie,” said one of the troopers, gently. “It ain’t for much anyway, and maybe Tom’ll be able to clear himself.”
Mary sank on her knees by her mother’s side, crying “Speak to me, mother. Oh, my God, she’s dying! Speak for my sake, mother. Don’t die, mother; it’s all a mistake. Don’t die and leave me here alone.”
But the poor old woman was dead.
••••
Wylie came out towards the end of the year, and a few weeks later he brought home a—another woman.
IV.
Bob Bentley, general hawker, was camping under some rocks by the main road, near the foot of Long Gully. His mate was fast asleep under the tilted trap. Bob stood with his back to the fire, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands clasped behind him. The fire lit up the undersides of the branches above; a native bear sat in a fork blinking down at it, while the moon above him showed every hair on his ears. From among the trees came the pleasant jingle of hobble-chains, the slow tread of hoofs, and the “crunch, crunch” at the grass, as the horses moved about and grazed, now in moonlight, now in the soft shadows. “Old Thunder”, a big black dog of no particular breed, gave a meaning look at his master,
