"I stumbled once. I guess he got me then."
Morgan laid a hand on the old man's arm. There was nothing to say.
"Mistuh Morgan--would you do me a favo'?"
Morgan knew what he wanted. "I can't shoot you, Han. I'll leave you
the gun, though."
"No, suh, that ain't it. I was wondering--could you help me catch a
painter tonight--before I go?"
"A panther?" Morgan squeezed his arm and blinked hard. He grinned.
"Sure, Han."
"Guess it'll be two, three days afore it starts happening to me."
"Yeah. Will you want the gun?"
"No, suh, don't think much of suicide. I'll just go out and wrestle me
a 'gator in the swamp."
They went back to the house. Shera was sitting on the step.
"I've made up my mind," she said dully.
"About what?"
"I'll do it."
She got up and walked away. When Morgan tried to follow, she turned
and flicked out the barb at him, then laughed coldly. Shivering, he
turned away.
That night the dogs treed a panther, and Hanson died. It happened
while he was climbing with pole and rope, angling to get a noose on
the lithe beast while Morgan waited with another rope below. The
lantern was hung from a branch while Hanson inched out on the limb.
When he thrust the noose forward, the panther brushed it aside with a
quick slap. It leaped. Hanson lost his balance and crashed to the
ground with a howl. The panther slapped a dog spinning and darted away
in the night with three dogs following.
Morgan knelt quickly beside the old man. His back was broken.
"Please, suh--don't move me. The Lo'd's a-comin' fo' old Han."
"Hush, fellow," Morgan murmured.
"Suh, that painter's a she. And they's cubs somewheres."
"Cubs?"
"Yes, suh. She's spooky-like. Cubs. You stay with my dawgs. Take care
of 'em, suh."
"Sure, Han."
"You lemme be now, suh. Lemme be alone." His voice was a faint
whisper. "I gotta die by myself. Man oughtn't to have company then."
Morgan hesitated. He sighed and climbed slowly to his feet. He
stumbled away, leaving the lantern hanging overhead. He sat a hundred
yards away in the shadow of a gaunt cypress, listening to the baying
of the hounds, the moaning of the old man, and the croaking of the
swamp. When he returned, the oldster was dead.
Morgan returned to the shanty at dawn, carrying a pair of whimpering
panther cubs and the skin of the mother. He exchanged a dark glance
with Shera at the door. She took them silently and fondled them for a
moment.
"Hanson's dead."