Mother Borton had raised herself upon one elbow; her face, flushed and framed in her gray and tangled hair, was working with anger; and her eyes were almost lurid as she sent fierce glances at one after another of the men about her. She pointed a skinny finger at the door, and each man as she cast her look upon him went out without a word. “Shut the door, honey,” she said quietly, lying down once more with a satisfied smile. “That's it. Now me and you can talk cozy-like.” “You'd better not talk. Perhaps you will feel more like it to-morrow.” “There won't be any to-morrow for me,” growled Mother Borton. “I've seen enough of 'em carved to know when I've got the dose myself. Curse that knife!” and she groaned at a twinge of pain. “Who did it?” “Black Dick--curse his soul. 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.” “Safe--safe?” mused Mother Borton, an absent look coming over her skinny features, as though her mind wandered. Then she turned to me impressively. “You'll never be safe till you change your work and your name. You've shut your ears to my words while I'm alive, but maybe you'll think of 'em when I'm in my coffin. I tell you now, my boy, there's murder and death before you. Do you hear? Murder and death.” She sank back on her pillow and gazed at me with a wearied light in her eyes and a sibyl look on her face. “I think I understand,” I said gently. “I have faced them and I ought to know them.”