The Call of the Cumberlands

Sally clambered lightly over the fence, and started on the last stage

of her journey, the climb across the young corn rows. It was a field

stood on end, and the hoed ground was uneven; but with no seeming of

weariness her red dress flashed steadfastly across the green spears,

and her voice was raised to shout: "Hello, Samson!"

The young man looked up and waved a languid greeting. He did not

remove his hat or descend from his place of rest, and Sally, who

expected no such attention, came smilingly on. Samson was her hero. It

seemed quite appropriate that one should have to climb steep

acclivities to reach him. Her enamored eyes saw in the top rail of the

fence a throne, which she was content to address from the ground level.

That he was fond of her and meant some day to marry her she knew, and

counted herself the most favored of women. The young men of the

neighboring coves, too, knew it, and respected his proprietary rights.

If he treated her with indulgent tolerance instead of chivalry, he was

merely adopting the accepted attitude of the mountain man for the

mountain woman, not unlike that of the red warrior for his squaw.

Besides, Sally was still almost a child, and Samson, with his twenty

years, looked down from a rank of seniority. He was the legitimate head

of the Souths, and some day, when the present truce ended, would be

their war-leader with certain blood debts to pay. Since his father had

been killed by a rifle shot from ambush, he had never been permitted to

forget that, and, had he been left alone, he would still have needed no

other mentor than the rankle in his heart.

But, if Samson sternly smothered the glint of tenderness which, at

sight of her, rose to his eyes, and recognized her greeting only in

casual fashion, it was because such was the requirement of his stoic

code. And to the girl who had been so slow of utterance and diffident

with the stranger, words now came fast and fluently as she told her

story of the man who lay hurt at the foot of the rock.

"Hit hain't long now tell sundown," she urged. "Hurry, Samson, an' git

yore mule. I've done give him my promise ter fotch ye right straight

back."

Samson took off his hat, and tossed the heavy lock upward from his

forehead. His brow wrinkled with doubts.

"What sort of lookin' feller air he?"

While Sally sketched a description, the young man's doubt grew graver.