"I'll take keer of her, pap," he had fervently sworn.
Then, Henry South had lifted a tremulous finger, and pointed to the
wall above the hearth. There, upon a set of buck-antlers, hung the
Winchester rifle. And, again, Samson had nodded, but this time he did
not speak. That moment was to his mind the most sacred of his life; it
had been a dedication to a purpose. The arms of the father had then and
there been bequeathed to the son, and with the arms a mission for their
use. After a brief pause, Samson told of the funeral. He had a
remarkable way of visualizing in rough speech the desolate picture; the
wailing mourners on the bleak hillside, with the November clouds
hanging low and trailing their wet streamers. A "jolt-wagon" had
carried the coffin in lieu of a hearse. Saddled mules stood tethered
against the picket fence. The dogs that had followed their masters
started a rabbit close by the open grave, and split the silence with
their yelps as the first clod fell. He recalled, too, the bitter voice
with which his mother had spoken to a kinsman as she turned from the
ragged burying ground, where only the forlorn cedars were green. She
was leaning on the boy's thin shoulders at the moment. He had felt her
arm stiffen with her words, and, as her arm stiffened, his own positive
nature stiffened with it.
"Henry believed in law and order. I did, too. But they wouldn't let us
have it that way. From this day on, I'm a-goin' to raise my boy to kill
Hollmans."