Again old Seth shook his head. He waved his hand with a gesture of finality, then brought his fist to his knee with a dull thud.
“Yer a mighty purty talker, lawyer, and I ’low ye means what ye says—but, I tells ye, I ain’t got no consarn in this here war. Keeser and his Germins ain’t done nothin’ to me and my folks. Them men o’ Breathitt who wants to fight, can fight. I won’t stop ’em. But, lawyer, I ain’t a-goin’ to call ’em to war till that feller Keeser makes the fust move agin one o’ us. That’s what I says to Jim and that’s what I’m a-sayin’ to ye,” he added defiantly.
Lawyer Todd said nothing. He knew the mettle of his people. He believed in them. He also knew that old Seth was a victim of isolation and the teachings of a primitive creed; that his opposition sprang from ignorance, not disloyalty. It was the inborn nature of a mountaineer to prefer battle among his own hills, whose every rock and peak and cove he had studied with an eye to offense and defense, rather than wage war in the enemy’s country where he was a stranger. Besides, as Seth himself had said, the Brannons and their kin had not yet smelled blood. “Keeser and his Germins” must first offer direct injury to one of them before they could feel the personal touch of war and answer the challenge from oversea.
With this realization Todd broke the silence in a firm voice, pointing to the yellow envelope in the old man’s hand.
“Seth, that telegram holds bad news for you folks.”
Seth’s attitude of defiance relaxed. Taut cords stood out beneath the dry skin of his throat as the inner man gripped himself.
“Is Jim hurt?” There was a tremor of paternalism in the question. The yellow envelope fluttered to the ground near the mare’s feet.
Todd looked Seth steadily in the eyes. “Worse than hurt, old friend, yet better than hurt,” he replied. “Jim is dead.”
Not a cry, not a tear, not a groan, not even a quiver of the world-worn mouth and brow. Only an expression of incredulity that hardened into sternness.
“Dead?—dead! My Jim dead.” Then, after a while, “Hit’ll go plumb hard with his ma, her Jimmy dead.” The keen eyes widened and the wrinkled face was lifted to the hills.
Directly, in a calm, low voice: “Tell me, lawyer, who kilt him? How was he kilt, my Jim?”