Dewey Dell gets down from the wagon, carrying the package.
"You had more trouble than you expected, selling those cakes in Mottson," I say.
How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-strings: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.
Cash broke his leg and now the sawdust is running out.
He is bleeding to death is Cash.
"I wouldn't be beholden," pa says.
"God knows."
"Then make some water yourself," I say.
"We can use Cash's hat."
When Dewey Dell comes back the man comes with her.
Then he stops and she comes on and he stands there and after a while he goes back to the house and stands on the porch, watching us.
"We better not try to lift him down," pa says.
"We can fix it here."
"Do you want to be lifted down, Cash?" I say.
"Wont we get to Jefferson tomorrow?" he says.
He is watching us, his eyes interrogatory, intent, and sad.
"I can last it out."
"It'll be easier on you," pa says.
"It'll keep it from rubbing together."
"I can last it," Cash says.
"We’ll lose time stopping."
"We done bought the cement, now," pa says.
"I could last it," Cash says.
"It aint but one more day.
It dont bother to speak of."
He looks at us, his eyes wide in his thin gray face, questioning.
"It sets up so," he says.
"We done bought it now," pa says.
I mix the cement in the can, stirring the slow water into the pale green thick coils.
I bring the can to the wagon where Cash can see.
He lies on his back, his thin profile in silhouette, ascetic and profound against the sky.
"Does that look about right?" I say.
"You dont want too much water, or it wont work right," he says.
"Is this too much?"
"Maybe if you could get a little sand," he says.
"It aint but one more day," he says.
"It dont bother me none."
Vardaman goes back down the road to where we crossed the branch and returns with sand.
He pours it slowly into the thick coiling in the can.
I go to the wagon again.
"Does that look all right?"
"Yes," Cash says.
"I could have lasted.
It dont bother me none."
We loosen the splints and pour the cement over his leg, slow.
"Watch out for it," Cash says.
"Dont get none on it if you can help."
"Yes," I say.
Dewey Dell tears a piece of paper from the package and wipes the cement from the top of it as it drips from Cash's leg.
"How does that feel?"