He pulled up a stool and sat very close to the bed, holding his mother's frail wrist in a sunburnt hand so big that it might have been that of a lad half-way through his teens.
He had learned in the woods to be neat and precise in his ways, and his movements, for all his gawky look, were as soft as a panther's.
"Like me to tell you a story ?" he asked.

"What about Uncle Mord's tale of Dan'l Boone at the Blue Licks Battle ?" There was no response, so he tried again.
"Or read a piece?
It was the Bible last time, but the words is mighty difficult.

Besides you don't need it that much now.

You're gettin' better.

...