"I don't hardly see how," he retorted. "Now I've done been robbed of my gun. What's become of my pappy's gun?"
His mother hesitated, then confessed:
"I done give it ter Clem."
The son nodded his head.
"Thet's what I 'lowed. Now thet gun b'longs ter me. I've done lawfully heired hit from my pap." He turned suddenly to Clem Rawlins, and his voice rang out in sharp and peremptory outburst.
"Go git hit!"
Rawlins rose in quick obedience, and went to his own corner whence he fetched the repeating rifle that had been the elder Spooner's.
Newt stood before the fireplace, testing and loading the magazine, while his mother looked on in anxious scrutiny.
Then the centenarian across the hearth roused up, lifting his ancient and withered face, in which the jaw muscles worked loosely and flabbily.
"Who air thet feller?" he demanded in a quavering, accusing voice, gazing up without recognition at the tall, spare figure which towered over him.