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Updated: May 8, 2025
Let there be light in the house of Isom Chase, and in the sharp espionage of curious eyes, for dark days hang over it, and the young widow who draws the pity of all because she cannot weep. No matter how hard a woman's life with a man has been, when he dies she is expected to mourn.
The meanest men sometimes turn out to be the nimblest cock-pheasants during that interesting period, and, like those vain birds of the jungles, they strut and dance and cut dazzling capers before the eyes of the ladies when they want to strike up a matrimonial bargain. Isom Chase had done that.
Isom stood beside the handles of his own cultivator, there being the space of ten rows between him and Joe, and took the lines from around his shoulders, with the deliberate, stern movement of a man who is preparing for a fight. "What do you mean by this kind of capers?" he demanded. "I mean that you can't go on starving me like you've been doing, and that's all there is to it!" said Joe.
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.
This refusal of Joe's to talk out and explain everything was a display of the threadbare Newbolt dignity, people said, an exhibition of which they had not seen since old Peter's death. But it looked more like bull-headedness to them. "Don't the darned fool know he's pokin' his head under the gallus?" they asked. What was the trouble between him and Isom about?
As Ollie had been thoughtless of Isom, so she might be thoughtless of him, and see in him only a foolish, weak instrument to use to her own advantage. Why should he seal his lips for Ollie, go to the gallows for her, perhaps, and leave the blight of that shameful end upon his name forever? He looked up. His mind had made that swift summing up while the prosecutor's words were echoing in the room.
Both sat, thought-wandering, looking into the fire.... Although Isom Chase had been in his grave a week, and Judge Little had been cracking his coat-tails over the road between his home and the county-seat daily, the matter of the will and the administration of the estate remained as in the beginning.
So, with all this sour summing up of his wasted ventures in his mind, and the cold rain spitting through his years-worn coat, Isom was in no humor to debate the way with another man when it came to entering into his own property through his own wide gate.
"I went to school with Isom, I was one of the little fellers when he was a big one, and I was at his weddin'. My wife she laid out his first wife, and I dug her grave. She never had no children, judge; you know that as well as anybody." Judge Little coughed dryly, thoughtfully, his customary aspect of deep meditation more impressive than ever.
Chase, tell your story in your own way, and take your own time for it," said Hammer, kindly patronizing. "I don't want Joe to suffer for me," she said, letting her sad eyes rest on him for a moment. "What he kept back wasn't for his own sake. It was for mine." "Yes; go on, Mrs. Chase," said Hammer as she hesitated there. "Joe didn't shoot Isom. That happened just the way he's said.
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