Samson turned to the darkened doorway. Inside was emptiness, except
for the other body, which had crumpled forward and face down across the
counter. A glance showed that Jesse Purvy would no more fight back the
coming of death. He was quite unarmed. Behind his spent body ranged
shelves of general merchandise. Boxes of sardines, and cans of peaches
were lined in homely array above him. His lifeless hand rested as
though flung out in an oratorical gesture on a bolt of blue calico.

Samson paused only for a momentary survey. His score was clean. He
would not again have to agonize over the dilemma of old ethics and new.
To-morrow, the word would spread like wildfire along Misery and
Crippleshin, that Samson South was back, and that his coming had been
signalized by these two deaths. The fact that he was responsible for
only one--and that in self-defense--would not matter. They would prefer
to believe that he had invaded the store and killed Purvy, and that
Hollis had fallen in his master's defense at the threshold. Samson went
out, still meeting no one, and continued his journey.

Dusk was falling, when he hitched his horse in a clump of timber, and,
lifting his saddlebags, began climbing to a cabin that sat far back in
a thicketed cove. He was now well within South territory, and the need
of masquerade had ended.

The cabin had not, for years, been occupied. Its rooftree was leaning
askew under rotting shingles. The doorstep was ivy-covered, and the
stones of the hearth were broken. But it lay well hidden, and would
serve his purposes.