knees, and his face buried in his red bandanna handkerchief. But it was
argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief
at that distance; and this point remained undecided.


In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day,
Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had
cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a
suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on
him, and proffering various uncouth, but well-meant kindnesses. But from
that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline;
and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were
beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took
to his bed. One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in
the storm, and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the
roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's
Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, "It is time to go for
Tennessee; I must put 'Jinny' in the cart"; and would have risen from
his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still
pursued his singular fancy: "There, now, steady, 'Jinny'--steady, old
girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts--and look out for him, too,
old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind-drunk, he drops down right
in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill.
Thar--I told you so!--thar he is--coming this way, too--all by himself,
sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!"

And so they met.