When they ceased and the quiet had resettled, the Mormon woman rose and
put away her sewing.
"I don't seem to have no more ambition to work," she said and walked
away.
"She's another of his wives," said Courant.
"She and the woman whose son is dead, wives of the same man?"
He nodded.
"And there's a younger one, about sixteen. She was up there helping
with water and rags--a strong, nervy girl. She had whisky all ready in
a tin cup to give to the mother. When she saw it was all up with him
she went round collecting stones to cover the grave with and keep the
wolves off."
"Before he was dead?"
"Yes. They've got to move on at once. They can't lose any more time.
When we were arguing with that half-crazy woman, I could see the girl
picking up the stones and wiping off her tears with her apron."
"What dreadful people," she breathed.
"Dreadful? What's dreadful in having some sense? Too bad about the
boy. He set his teeth and didn't make a sound when that fool of an
Irishman was sawing at him as if he was a log. I never saw such grit.
If they've got many like him they'll be a great people some day.
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