Part 23 (1/2)

”I mean Isom,” said Sol.

”Isom?” said she, relieved. ”Why didn't Joe come after me?” Before Sol could adjust his program to meet this unexpected exigency, she demanded: ”Well, what's the matter with Isom?”

”Dead,” said Sol, dropping his voice impressively.

”You don't mean--well, shades of mercy, Isom dead! What was it--cholera-morbus?”

”Killed,” said Sol; ”shot down with his own gun and killed as dead as a dornix.”

”His own gun! Well, sakes--who done it?”

”Only one man knows,” said Sol, shaking his head solemnly. ”I'll tell you how it was.”

Sol started away back at the summons to jury service, worked up to the case in which he and Isom had sat together, followed Isom then along the road home, and galloped to overtake him. He arrived at his gate--all in his long and complete narrative--again, as he had done in reality the night past; he heard the shot in Isom's house; he leaped to the ground; he ran. He saw a light in the kitchen of Isom's house, but the door was closed; he knocked, and somebody called to him to enter. He opened the door and saw Isom lying there, still and b.l.o.o.d.y, money--gold money--all over him, and a man standing there beside him. There was n.o.body else in the room.

”Shades of mercy!” she gasped. ”Who was that man?”

Sol looked at her pityingly. He put his hand to his forehead as if it gave him pain to speak.

”It was your Joe,” said he.

She sighed, greatly lightened and relieved.

”Oh, then Joe he told you how it happened?” said she.

”Ma'am,” said Sol impressively, ”he said they was alone in the kitchen when it happened; he said him and Isom had some words, and Isom he reached up to pull down the gun, and the hammer caught, and it went off and shot him. That's what Joe told me, ma'am.”

”Well, Sol Greening, you talk like you didn't believe him!” she scorned.

”If Joe said that, it's so.”

”I hope to G.o.d it is!” said Sol, drawing a great breath.

If Sol had looked for tears, his eyes were cheated; if he had listened for screams, wailings, and moanings, his ears were disappointed. Sarah Newbolt stood straight and haughtily scornful in her kitchen door, her dark eyes bright between their snapping lids.

”Where's Joe?” she asked sternly.

”He's over there,” said Sol, feeling that he had made a noise like a peanut-bag which one inflates and smashes in the palm in the expectation of startling the world.

”Have they took him up?”

”Well, you see, Bill Frost's kind of keepin' his eye on him till the inquest,” explained Sol.

”Yes, and I could name the man that put him up to it,” said she.

”Well, circ.u.mstantial evidence--” began Sol.

”Oh, circ.u.mstance your granny!” she stopped him pettishly.

Mrs. Newbolt emptied her pan among the scrambling fowls by turning it suddenly upside down. That done, she reached behind her and put it on the table. Her face had grown hard and severe, and her eyes were fierce.