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Updated: May 18, 2025
They glozed his faults and made virtues out of his close-grained traits; they praised and lamented, with sighs and mournful words, but Isom's widow could not weep. Ollie wished they would go away and let her sleep. She longed for them to put out the lamps and let the moonlight come in through the window and whiten on the floor, and bring her soft thoughts of Morgan.
But that had turned out a lean and unprofitable dream. Since Isom's death Ollie had returned to live with her parents, and Sim's prospects had brightened. He had put a big sign in front of his house, upon which he had listed the many services which he stood ready to perform for mankind, in consideration of payment therefor.
Of course, Sol had no knowledge of what was going forward at the county farm that very afternoon, even the very hour when Joe Newbolt was sweating blood on the witness stand, If he had known, it is not likely that he would have waited until morning to spread the tale abroad. This is what it was. Ollie's lawyer was there in consultation with Uncle John Owens regarding Isom's will.
Ollie's room, which was Isom's also when he was there, was in the front of the house, upstairs. Joe heard her feet along the hall, and her door close after her. Morgan was still tramping about in the room next to Joe's, where he slept. It was the best room in the house, better than the one shared by Isom and his wife, and in the end of the house opposite to it.
She seemed reluctant to discuss Isom's faults, anxious, rather, to ease them over after the manner of one whose judgment has grown less severe with the lapse of time. Had he ever laid hands on her in temper? Hammer wanted to know. "Yes." Her reply was a little more than a whisper, with head bent, with tears in her sad eyes.
Meeting Isom's angry glance, he shifted his own uneasily. "Seed the new preacher comm' 'long today?" he asked. Drawing one dirty finger across his forehead, "Got a long scar 'cross hyeh." The miller shook his head. "Well, he's a-comm'. I've been waitin' fer him up the road, but I reckon I got to git 'cross the river purty soon now." Crump had been living over in Breathitt since the old feud.
Three nights later, in Hazlan, Sherd Raines told the people of Isom's flight down the mountain, across the river, and up the steep to save his life by losing it. Before he was done, one gray-headed figure pressed from the darkness on one side and stood trembling under the dips.
"Come in," called Joe. Sol Greening, their neighbor, whose gate was almost opposite Isom's, whose barn was not eighty rods from the kitchen door, stood panting in the lamplight, his heavy beard lifting and falling on his chest. "What what's happened who was that shootin' Isom! God A'mighty, is he hurt?" "Dead," said Joe dully, standing hat in hand.
IT was Crump, and fifty yards behind him was Isom, slipping through the brush after him Isom's evil spirit old Gabe, Raines, "conviction," blood-penalty, forgotten, all lost in the passion of a chase which has no parallel when the game is man. Straight up the ravine Crump went along a path which led to Steve Marcum's cabin.
Ollie shrank away, half stooping, from the expected blow, her hands raised in appealing defense. Joe put up his open hand as if to check Isom in his assault. "Hold on, Isom; don't you hit me," he said. Whatever Isom's intention had been, he contained himself. He stopped, facing Joe, who did not yield an inch. "Hit you, you whelp!" said Isom, his lips flattened back from his teeth.
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