“No, I didn't cure him,” said the doctor, getting down from his horse; “they were dyin' in Hickory Mountain before I come into it, an' they'll keep on a-dyin' after I've gone out.” He lifted his leather saddlebags down from the horse and carried it across to the mill porch. The woman remained standing in the road, her closed hand full of corn, the yellow grains showing between her fingers. “You arn't tellin' me ole Nicholas is dead!” “Yes, he's dead,” said the doctor. “New get me a gallon of corn; that horse ain't had a bite to eat since yesterday evening.” He went across the road, picked up a box, knocked the dust out of it and brought it over by the mill porch. Then he took the bit out of the horse's mouth, and put the bridle rein over the saddle, under the stirrup leather. “Ole Nicholas dead!” the woman repeated. “Well! Upon my word!” “Why shouldn't he be dead?” said the doctor. “Every damn thing's got to die.” “What killed him?” inquired the woman. “I don't know what killed him,” replied the doctor. “He was stretched out on the floor when I got there.” “Did he die just like anybody else?” said the woman. “No,” answered the doctor, “he didn't die like anybody that I ever saw. Will you get me that corn?” The woman went into the mill and presently came out with the toll measure full of corn. She poured it into the box. Then she sat down on the porch beside the doctor, and began to roll the end of her apron between her fat fingers. “When did ole Nicholas take down?” she began. “I don't know that,” said the doctor. “Jonas Black was crossing the mountain about noon, an' old Nicholas called to him and told him to tell me to come and see him. I went up last night.” “It's a wonder you went,” said the miller. “Ole Nicholas wouldn't pay you, would he?” “If he didn't pay me, I wouldn't go,” replied the doctor, “you can depend on that. I've quit bringin' 'em in or seein' 'em out unless I get the cash in my hand.” “I didn't think he had any money. He was always buyin' wild lands of the State.” “I don't know how much money he had,” replied the doctor, “but I do know that it was always there on the table for me when I went. If it hadn't a-been, I wouldn't have darkened his door.” “Did he die hard?” said the woman. “Everybody dies hard,” replied the doctor. “Did he want to go?” “None of us want to go.” “How long did he live after you got there?” “He lived until daylight.” “You must have had a bad night of it.” “It was awful!” “It must a-been terrible if you thought so. You are used to seein' people die.” “I'm not used to seein' them die like old Nicholas died,” replied the doctor. “He must a-been in powerful pain.” “It wasn't so much pain. I could stop the pain.” “Was he out of his head then?” “I don't know.” “Couldn't you tell by the way he talked?” “He didn't talk.” “Did he see things?” “I don't know what he saw.” “What was it that made his dyin' so awful?” “It was _fear_,” replied the doctor, “That he'd be lost?”