The Call of the Cumberlands

Samson South still seemed entirely unconscious of the other's

existence, though in reality no detail of the brewing storm had escaped

him. He was studying the other faces around the table, and what he saw

in them appeared to occupy him. Wilfred Horton's cheeks were burning

with a dull flush, and his eyes were narrowing with an unveiled

dislike. Suddenly, a silence fell on the party, and, as the men sat

puffing their cigars, Horton turned toward the Kentuckian. For a

moment, he glared in silence, then with an impetuous exclamation of

disgust he announced: "See here, South, I want you to know that if I'd understood you were

to be here, I wouldn't have come. It has pleased me to express my

opinion of you to a number of people, and now I mean to express it to

you in person."

Samson looked around, and his features indicated neither surprise nor

interest. He caught Farbish's eye at the same instant, and, though the

plotter said nothing, the glance was subtle and expressive. It seemed

to prompt and goad him on, as though the man had said: "You mustn't stand that. Go after him."

"I reckon"--Samson's voice was a pleasant drawl--"it doesn't make any

particular difference, Mr. Horton."

"Even if what I said didn't happen to be particularly commendatory?"

inquired Horton, his eyes narrowing.

"So long," replied the Kentuckian, "as what you said was your own

opinion, I don't reckon it would interest me much."

"In point of fact"---Horton was gazing with steady hostility into

Samson's eyes--"I prefer to tell you. I have rather generally expressed

the belief that you are a damned savage, unfit for decent society."

Samson's face grew rigid and a trifle pale. His mouth set itself in a

straight line, but, as Wilfred Horton came to his feet with the last

words, the mountaineer remained seated.

"And," went on the New Yorker, flushing with suddenly augmenting

passion, "what I said I still believe to be true, and repeat in your

presence. At another time and place, I shall be even more explicit. I

shall ask you to explain--certain things."

"Mr. Horton," suggested Samson in an ominously quiet voice, "I reckon

you're a little drunk. If I were you, I'd sit down."

Wilfred's face went from red to white, and his shoulders stiffened. He

leaned forward, and for the instant no one moved. The tick of a hall

clock was plainly audible.

"South," he said, his breath coming in labored excitement, "defend

yourself!"