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Updated: May 16, 2025
Pap Overholt sprang to the hearth where even in the midsummer months a log smoulders throughout the day, to be brightened into a cheery blaze mornings and evenings, seized a brand, one or two of the others following his example, and ran through the doorway, across the little chip-yard, making for the low-browed log barn and the grain-room beside it. None who witnessed that scene ever forgot it.
For the old man had laboriously fetched out a rusty wolf-trap, and was now earnestly inspecting and overhauling it. "Whut am I a-gwine to do 'long o' this hyer, Cornely? W'y, I am jes p'intedly a-gwine to set it in my grain-room. Buck Fuson air a bad man, honey. There's two men's blood to his count.
Down went the tall, broad figure, down into the dust of the grain-room floor. And there Pap Overholt grovelled on his knees, his white head almost at the thief's feet, crying, crying that old cry of David's: "Oh, Sammy, my son! My son, Sammy! An' I wouldn't 'a' touched a hair o' his head.
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