“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. 117
“What–what’s happened–who was that shootin’–Isom! God A’mighty, is he hurt?”
“Dead,” said Joe dully, standing hat in hand. He looked dazedly at the excited man in the door, whose mouth was open as he stared fearfully at the corpse.
“How? Who done it?” asked Greening, coming in on tiptoe, his voice lowered to a whisper, in the cautious fashion of people who move in the vicinity of the sound-sleeping dead. The tread of living man never more would disturb old Isom Chase, but Sol Greening moved as silently as a blowing leaf.
“Who done it?” he repeated.
“He did,” answered Joe.
“He done it!” repeated Greening, looking from the rifle, still clutched in Isom’s hand, to the gold in the crook of his arm, and from that to Joe’s blanched face. “He done it!”
“Jerking down the gun,” explained Joe, pointing to the broken rack.
“Jerkin’ down the gun! What’d he want–look–look at all that money! The sack’s busted–it’s spillin’ all over him!”