Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave,
turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few moments' hesitation
gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy
Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's
Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his
knees, and his face buried in his red bandana 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.