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That he still wore had worn it chiefly because he liked to hear Adrienne's humorous denunciation of it. He knew that, in his present guise and dress, he had an excellent chance of walking through the streets of Hixon as a stranger. And, after leaving Hixon, there was a mission to be performed at Jesse Purvy's store. As he thought of that mission a grim glint came to his pupils.
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.
It occurred to him that by remaining where he was he might gain more information than by hurrying in. "I've done been your executioner fer twenty years," complained a voice, which Samson at once recognized as that of Aaron Hollis, the most trusted of Purvy's personal guards. "I hain't never laid down on ye yet. Me an' Jim Asberry killed old Henry South.
He broke off abruptly, then added: "Ye went away from hyar last night, an' didn't git in twell atter sun-up I just heered the news, an' come ter look fer ye." "Air you-all 'lowin' thet I shot them shoots from the laurel?" inquired Samson, quietly. "Ef we-all hain't 'lowin' hit, Samson, we're plumb shore thet Jesse Purvy's folks will 'low hit.
They're jest a-holdin' yore life like a hostage fer Purvy's, anyhow. Ef he dies, they'll try ter git ye." The boy flashed a challenge about the group, which was now drawing rein at Spicer South's yard fence. His eyes were sullen, but he made no answer. One of the men who had listened in silence now spoke: "In the fust place, Samson, we hain't a-sayin' ye done hit.
Each knew the other was bent on his murder. At Purvy's gate, Asberry waved farewell, and turned in. Tamarack rode on, but shortly he hitched his horse in the concealment of a hollow, walled with huge rocks, and disappeared into the laurel. He began climbing, in a crouched position, bringing each foot down noiselessly, and pausing often to listen.
Samson outlined his ambitions for his people. He told, too, of the scene that had been enacted at Purvy's store. Callomb listened with absorption, feeling that the narrative bore axiomatic truth on its face. At last he inquired: "Did you succeed up there as a painter?" "That's a long road," Samson told him, "but I think I had a fair start. I was getting commissions when I left."
The brooding hills lulled his spirit as a crooning song lulls a fretful child. Mile after mile unrolled forgotten vistas. Something deep in himself murmured: "Home!" It was late afternoon when he saw ahead of him the orchard of Purvy's place, and read on the store wall, a little more weather-stained, but otherwise unchanged: "Jesse Purvy, General Merchandise."
One morning, Smithers confided to him that in a day or two more the Grand Jury would bring in a true bill against Samson South, charging him with murder. The officer did not show surprise. He merely nodded. "I suppose I'll be called on to go and get him?" "I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to do that." "What caused the change of heart? I thought Purvy's people didn't want it done."
"I knowed all 'bout Jesse Purvy's bein' shot.... When my pap lay a-dyin' over thar at his house, I was a little shaver ten years old ... Jesse Purvy hired somebody ter kill him ... an' I promised my pap that I'd find out who thet man was, an' thet I'd git 'em both some day. So help me, God Almighty, I'm a-goin' ter git 'em both some day!"
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