"Randy," Burns directed one of his older nephews, "get out there and supervise things in the yard. Andrews, come on in and let Hannah take a look at that cut."
Andrews came in and Merritt, who was holding the door, looked back toward Porter, expecting him to go out to see to his dead kinsman; but Porter showed no disposition to do so. Porter's eyes met his in that instant.
"I warned you what would happen," Porter said; and it was justified, and no moment to argue with the man, not with a kinsman dead. Merritt ventured no reply, not even to offer ill-timed sympathy.
And Tom Porter turned and walked off toward the rear of the hall.
Merritt was taken off-balance by that retreat, until he thought where else that led; and that second thought sent him after Porter, who hit the stairs at a run, gun in hand.
"Porter!” Merritt shouted at him, drawing every eye in the room and freezing everyone into a tableau of shock— everyone but Porter. Merritt charged after him up the stairs, two steps at a time; and Jim Selby came to his senses and ran after him too. Then the others moved.
Porter was at the top, headed down the hall, steps thunderous on the board flooring; he reached Sazhje's room and flung the door wide, gun lifting. Sazhje gave one piercing shriek out of the dark, and Merritt hit Porter in a waist-high rush, skidded with him several lengths farther on the floor, into the doors at the end of the hall.
The gun discharged into a wall, deafening; wood flew. One of the women screamed and so did Sazhje, everything in slow motion as Merritt grappled for the gun, trying to get it from Porter's hand. It discharged again, where, Merritt could not see. Sazhje's staccato shrieks drowned other sounds.
At last he had a purchase on Porter's arm and one hand clear. He hit the man, repeatedly, and still he clung to the gun.
Others had come upstairs, Jim Selby was into it, trying to help restrain the big man without hurting him, and together they were able to pry the gun from his fingers.
Merritt let Porter up then, stood back at safe distance from him. Porter's red face was congested with temper and madness; and for a moment Merritt braced himself for another attack.
"It's your doing," Porter shouted at him. "I warned you, Merritt, I warned you."
"She's not guilty," said Jim Selby, ignoring his father's attempt to draw him out of it, to bring him back to the others that crowded the stairs. "She had nothing to do with it."
"So long as that creature is in the house none of us are going to sleep safe. My cousin's dead. Ben's dead. I'm warning you—destroy it."
"That creature," said Jim, "is a woman, not an animal, and you keep yourself away from her, Mr. Porter. If you hurt her, so help me—"
"If you call that a woman, that's your taste, boy, not mine. Is that it? Well, you could do what you like with your pet til now, but I'm losing no more of my kin for her sake."
"Back down, Porter," said Merritt. "Get out there with your other cousin that needs you. You'll do some good there, but none here."
"No," said Jim, his young face white with anger. "If he wants trouble with me, he's got it."
Porter's eyes went from head to foot of Jim's slim unHestian figure, and back to his face again. "You save yourself til you're older, boy. —Amos, do something with this bastard kid before I have to."
With a cry of rage Jim threw himself at Porter, and landed one good blow: Porter's answering one rocked him back half over the balcony railing, wringing an outcry from others. Porter started forward again, but Merritt jerked him about and held his arm.
Porter did not resist him, although he was ready for it. There, was a dark anger in the big man's eyes, but there was calculation too; in height, at least, and youth to age, they were evenly matched.
"Go downstairs," Merritt said quietly, as if it were a request.
Porter went, men moving out of his way and following him down the stairs. Meg was among them; she delayed for a cold look at Merritt, a hurt and ashamed look, and went after Porter. Only Burns and Amos and Jim were left with him on the balcony.
"However you settle it now," said Burns, "there's someone hurt."
"Are you telling me to get rid of her?" Merritt asked.
"No, because I know you'll do what you want to do. But when we have a man dead out in the yard, I think you'd better consider again. You'd better think whether what you're doing is worth what it just cost us."
And Burns left them, head bowed, walked down the stairs. Amos took Jim by the arm and gave him a push down the hall toward their room; and when Jim delayed, gave him a second shove. Jim cast back an angry look, but he went to the room, slammed the door.
"Sam," said Amos, "I got something to say and I know just one way to say it. Is what Porter says true? You think my boy's overly fond of that female? Is that true?"
"No," Merritt said.
"Well, I don't like it. I don't want my Jim having any part of this, and I'm holding you to answer for it, Sam. I mean that. You keep him away from her."
"Jim's grown; he knows his own mind. Don't ask me to do what you can't. It's impossible to tell him—"
"Listen," Amos hissed at him. "Listen and I'll tell you something. Jim ain't my son, and I think you must have guessed that, if someone ain't told you. And maybe it's his real father's blood that makes him wild like that, that's got his head in the clouds and his imagination always messing with things he oughtn't to touch—but he's my wife's boy, rest her soul, that she got of some outsider before I married her, and I love him anyway—maybe better than I should. But I got sense enough to know him; and I know it's the wild streak in him that could take after that thing in there. It's what would appeal to him. So you do what you want to do about her, friend… I can look away from that: you're an outsider and I'm too late to tell you what's right and wrong. But I'm not having you infect my boy with your outsider ways and your outsider morals. Jim's got to live on this world after you've up and gone your way again; and don't you be putting things in his head he don't know how to live with. Don't you teach him that thing's human, or teach him your right and wrong if you got any where you come from."
Merritt only stared at him, dismayed to hear that from Amos; and even Amos looked uncomfortable.
"You're a good man," Amos said. "But there's right and wrong on this world, and I expect my boy to know it and to live by it. And if you got sense, you will too."
"Meaning?"
"Don't look guilty, even if you ain't. There's an ugly thing they're saying about you; and I don't want it to touch my boy too."
"What are people saying, Amos?"
Amos looked down, jerked his head aside. "That it's odd, your being seen less and less with Meg Burns since the time you brought this creature in—I know it ain't true, Sam, but Hestia's got a proverb about outsider morals, and that's how it is. It's hurting Meg and it's hurting you and my boy; and the sooner you get rid of that creature the better."
Merritt said nothing for a moment, did not trust himself to say anything until he had stopped shaking. Amos stood his ground, his expression pained but unyielding.
"So," Merritt said, "but of course you don't believe it."
"Let's put it this way," said Amos. "If it was true, I wouldn't care. I've held you a friend in spite of what you are, not because of. We're plain people, and that's as plain as it can be said. If it means your going against me now, all right, but you've got precious few friends left, Sam. You'd better take the advice of the few you've got. If another few things go wrong like this, they'll make it right unpleasant for you. You tell me whether keeping that creature's worth it."
"I don't intend to give in."
"And that hard-headed pride of yours is going to be the end of you someday. I never knew a man so stubborn over so little."