And he's roasting in hell for it this
minute," cried Mother Borton savagely.
"Hush!" I said. "You mustn't excite yourself. Can't I get you a
minister or a priest?"
Mother Borton spat out another string of oaths.
"Priest or minister! Not for me! Not one has passed my door in all the
time I've lived, and he'll not do it to-night. What could he tell me
that I don't know already? I've been on the road to hell for fifty
years, and do you think the devil will let go his grip for a man that
don't know me? No, dearie; your face is better for me than priest or
minister, and I want you to close my eyes and see that I'm buried
decent. Maybe you'll remember Mother Borton for something more than a
vile old woman when she's gone."
"That I shall," I exclaimed, touched by her tone, and taking the hand
that she reached out to mine. "I'll do anything you want, but don't
talk of dying. There's many a year left in you yet."
"There's maybe an hour left in me. But we must hurry. Tell me about
your trouble--at Livermore, was it?"
I gave her a brief account of the expedition and its outcome. Mother
Borton listened eagerly, giving an occasional grunt of approval.
"Well, honey; I was some good to ye, after all," was her comment.
"Indeed, yes."
"And you had a closer shave for your life than you think," she
continued. "Tom Terrill swore he'd kill ye, and it's one of the
miracles, sure, that he didn't."
"Well, Mother Borton, Tom Terrill's laid up in Livermore with a broken
head, and I'm safe here with you, ready to serve you in any way that a
man may.
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