Except for those two reports there was no sound. Samson stood still,
anticipating an uproar of alarm. Now, he should doubtless have to pay
with his life for both the deaths which would inevitably and logically
be attributed to his agency. But, strangely enough, no clamor arose.
The shot inside had been muffled, and those outside, broken by the
intervening store, did not arouse the house. Purvy's bodyguard had been
sent away by Hollis on a false alarm. Only the "womenfolks" and
children remained indoors, and they were drowning with a piano any
sounds that might have come from without. That piano was the chief
emblem of Purvy's wealth. It represented the acme of "having things
hung up"; that ancient and expressive phrase, which had come down from
days when the pioneers' worldly condition was gauged by the hams
hanging in the smokehouse and the peppers, tobacco and herbs strung
high against the rafters.
Now, Samson South stood looking down, uninterrupted, on what had been
Aaron Hollis as it lay motionless at his feet. There was a powder-
burned hole in the butternut shirt, and only a slender thread of blood
trickled into the dirt-grimed cracks between the planks. The body was
twisted sidewise, in one of those grotesque attitudes with which a
sudden summons so frequently robs the greatest phenomenon of all its
rightful dignity. The sun was gilding the roadside clods, and
burnishing the greens of the treetops. The breeze was harping sleepily
among the branches, and several geese stalked pompously along the
creek's edge. On the top of the stockade a gray squirrel, sole witness
to the tragedy, rose on his haunches, flirted his brush, and then, in a
sudden leap of alarm, disappeared.
Samson turned to the darkened doorway. Inside was emptiness, except
for the other body, which had crumpled forward and face down across the
counter. A glance showed that Jesse Purvy would no more fight back the
coming of death. He was quite unarmed. Behind his spent body ranged
shelves of general merchandise. Boxes of sardines, and cans of peaches
were lined in homely array above him. His lifeless hand rested as
though flung out in an oratorical gesture on a bolt of blue calico.
Samson paused only for a momentary survey. His score was clean. He
would not again have to agonize over the dilemma of old ethics and new.
To-morrow, the word would spread like wildfire along Misery and
Crippleshin, that Samson South was back, and that his coming had been
signalized by these two deaths. The fact that he was responsible for
only one--and that in self-defense--would not matter. They would prefer
to believe that he had invaded the store and killed Purvy, and that
Hollis had fallen in his master's defense at the threshold. Samson went
out, still meeting no one, and continued his journey.