The Call of the Cumberlands

"This hain't no fit time ter be takin' in folks what we hain't

acquainted with," he objected. In the mountains, any time is the time

to take in strangers unless there are secrets to be guarded from

outside eyes.

"Why hain't it?" demanded the girl. "He's hurt. We kain't leave him

layin' thar, kin we?"

Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of the rifle leaning near-by, and

straightway they filled with apprehension. Her militant love would have

turned to hate for Samson, should he have proved recreant to the

mission of reprisal in which he was biding his time, yet the coming of

the day when the truce must end haunted her thoughts. Heretofore, that

day had always been to her remotely vague--a thing belonging to the

future. Now, with a sudden and appalling menace, it seemed to loom

across the present. She came close, and her voice sank with her sinking

heart.

"What air hit?" she tensely demanded. "What air hit, Samson? What fer

hev ye fetched yer gun ter the field?"

The boy laughed. "Oh, hit ain't nothin' pertic'ler," he reassured.

"Hit hain't nothin' fer a gal ter fret herself erbout, only I kinder

suspicions strangers jest now."

"Air the truce busted?" She put the question in a tense, deep-breathed

whisper, and the boy replied casually, almost indifferently.

"No, Sally, hit hain't jest ter say busted, but 'pears like hit's

right smart cracked. I reckon, though," he added in half-disgust,

"nothin' won't come of hit."

Somewhat reassured, she bethought herself again of her mission.

"This here furriner hain't got no harm in him, Samson," she pleaded.

"He 'pears ter be more like a gal than a man. He's real puny. He's got

white skin and a bow of ribbon on his neck--an' he paints pictchers."

The boy's face had been hardening with contempt as the description

advanced, but at the last words a glow came to his eyes, and he

demanded almost breathlessly: "Paints pictchers? How do ye know that?"

"I seen 'em. He was paintin' one when he fell offen the rock and

busted his arm. It's shore es beautiful es--" she broke off, then added

with a sudden peal of laughter--"es er pictcher."

The young man slipped down from the fence, and reached for the rifle.

The hoe he left where it stood.

"I'll git the nag," he announced briefly, and swung off without

further parley toward the curling spiral of smoke that marked a cabin a

quarter of a mile below. Ten minutes later, his bare feet swung against

the ribs of a gray mule, and his rifle lay balanced across the

unsaddled withers. Sally sat mountain fashion behind him, facing

straight to the side.