“You been aroun’ sick people,” she said. “Grampa’s sick.
Won’t you go take a look at him?”
Casy walked quickly to the tent and went inside.
A double mattress was on the ground, the blankets spread neatly; and a little tin stove stood on iron legs, and the fire in it burned unevenly.
A bucket of water, a wooden box of supplies, and a box for a table, that was all.
The light of the setting sun came pinkly through the tent walls.
Sairy Wilson knelt on the ground, beside the mattress, and Grampa lay on his back.
His eyes were open, staring upward, and his cheeks were flushed.
He breathed heavily.
Casy took the skinny old wrist in his fingers.
“Feeling kinda tired, Grampa?” he asked.
The staring eyes moved toward his voice but did not find him.
The lips practiced a speech but did not speak it.
Casy felt the pulse and he dropped the wrist and put his hand on Grampa’s forehead.
A struggle began in the old man’s body, his legs moved restlessly and his hands stirred.
He said a whole string of blurred sounds that were not words, and his face was red under the spiky white whiskers.
Sairy Wilson spoke softly to Casy.
“Know what’s wrong?”
He looked up at the wrinkled face and the burning eyes.
“Do you?”
“I—think so.”
“What?” Casy asked.
“Might be wrong.
I wouldn’ like to say.”
Casy looked back at the twitching red face.
“Would you say—maybe—he’s workin’ up a stroke?”
“I’d say that,” said Sairy. “I seen it three times before.”
From outside came the sounds of camp-making, wood chopping, and the rattle of pans.
Ma looked through the flaps.
“Granma wants to come in.
Would she better?”
The preacher said,
“She’ll jus’ fret if she don’t.”
“Think he’s awright?” Ma asked.
Casy shook his head slowly.
Ma looked quickly down at the struggling old face with blood pounding through it.
She drew outside and her voice came through.
“He’s awright, Granma.
He’s jus’ takin’ a little res’.”
And Granma answered sulkily,
“Well, I want ta see him.
He’s a tricky devil.
He wouldn’t never let ya know.” And she came scurrying through the flaps.
She stood over the mattresses and looked down. “What’s the matter’th you?” she demanded of Grampa. And again his eyes reached toward her voice and his lips writhed. “He’s sulkin’,” said Granma. “I tol’ you he was tricky.
He was gonna sneak away this mornin’ so he wouldn’t have to come.
An’ then his hip got a-hurtin’,” she said disgustedly. “He’s jus’ sulkin’.
I seen him when he wouldn’ talk to nobody before.”
Casy said gently,
“He ain’t sulkin’, Granma.
He’s sick.”