“No. My son is in the state’s prison for life.... He surely killed
Florist Kenton.” But she added, as if it nullified all guilt, “they
were both drunk.”
She was busy cooking at the open fireplace. She turned to the boy,
about ten years old. “Call your Ma and your Aunt to dinner.” He climbed
the steep and shouted. Presently two figures came over the ridge. The
larger woman took the boy’s hand.
“_That’s my daughter-in-law, the boy’s mother_,” said Mrs.
Simplicissimus.
I judged the second figure to be a woman of about twenty-eight. She
carried a fence-rail on her shoulder. She was straight as an Indian.
The old woman said: “_That’s my daughter. She was going to marry John
Kenton._” The only influences that could have induced a mountain-woman
to unburden so much, were the roses, just outside the door, leaping in
the wind.
The procession soon reached us. The wood-carrier threw the log into
the yard. “There’s firewood,” she sang. She vaulted over the fence,
displaying iron-heeled brogans, thick red stockings, and a red-lined
skirt. There was a smear of earth on cheek and chin. Her face was
a sunburned, dust-mired roseleaf. She swept off her hat. She bowed
ironically. She said: “Howdy. What might be your name?”