“Great God!” said he again, in the same shocked, panting voice.
“Isom,” began Joe, advancing toward him.
Isom retreated quickly. He ran to the other end of the table where he stood, bending forward, hugging his secret to his breast as if he meant to defend it with the blood of his heart. He stretched out his free hand to keep Joe away. 113
“Stand off! Stand off!” he warned.
Again Isom swept his wild glance around the room. Near the door, on two prongs of wood nailed to the wall, hung the gun of which Joe had spoken to Morgan in his warning. It was a Kentucky rifle, long barreled, heavy, of two generations past. Isom used it for hawks, and it hung there loaded and capped from year’s beginning to year’s end. Isom seemed to realize when he saw it, for the first time in that season of insane rage, that it offered to his hand a weapon. He leaped toward it, reaching up his hand.
“I’ll kill you now!” said he.
In one long spring Isom crossed from where he stood and seized the rifle by the muzzle.
“Stop him, stop him!” screamed Ollie, pressing her hands to her ears.
“Isom, Isom!” warned Joe, leaping after him.
Isom was wrenching at the gun to free the breech from the fork when Joe caught him by the shoulder and tried to drag him back.