Old Spicer South drew a contemplative puff at his pipe.
"Ye went ter school twell ye was ten year old, Samson. Thet's a heap more schoolin' then I ever had, an' I've done got along all right."
"Ef my pap had lived"—the boy's voice was almost accusing—"I'd hev lamed more then jest ter read an' write en figger a little."
"I hain't got no use fer these newfangled notions." Spicer spoke with careful curbing of his impatience. "Yore pap stood out fer eddycation. He had ideas about law an' all that, an' he talked 'em. He got shot ter death. Yore Uncle John South went down below, an' got ter be a lawyer. He come home hyar, an' ondertook ter penitentiary Jesse Purvy, when Jesse was High Sheriff. I reckon ye knows what happened ter him."
Samson said nothing and the older man went on:
"They aimed ter run him outen the mountings."
"They didn't run him none," blazed the boy. "He didn't never leave the mountings."
"No." The family head spoke with the force of a logical climax. "He'd done rented a house down below though, an' was a-fixin' ter move. He staid one day too late. Jesse Purvy hired him shot."
"What of hit?" demanded Samson.
"Yore cousin, Bud Spicer, was eddicated. He 'lowed in public thet
Micah Hollman an' Jesse Purvy was runnin' a murder partnership.
Somebody called him ter the door of his house in the night-time ter
borry a lantern—an' shot him ter death."