The Call of the Cumberlands

The letter was written in the cramped hand of Brother Spencer. Through

its faulty diction ran a plainly discernible undernote of disapproval

for Samson, though there was no word of reproof or criticism. It was

plain that it was sent as a matter of courtesy to one who, having

proven an apostate, scarcely merited such consideration. It informed

him that old Spicer South had been "mighty porely," but was now better,

barring the breaking of age. Every one was "tolerable." Then came the

announcement which the letter had been written to convey.

The term of the South-Hollman truce had ended, and it had been renewed

for an indefinite period.

"Some of your folks thought they ought to let you know because they

promised to give you a say," wrote the informant. "But they decided

that it couldn't hardly make no difference to you, since you have left

the mountains, and if you cared anything about it, you knew the time,

and could of been here. Hoping this finds you well."

Samson's face clouded. He threw the soiled and scribbled missive down

on the table and sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the studio wall. So,

they had cast him out of their councils! They already thought of him as

one who had been.

In that passionate rush of feeling, everything that had happened since

he had left Misery seemed artificial and dream-like. He longed for the

realities that were forfeited. He wanted to press himself close to the

great, gray shoulders of rock that broke through the greenery like

giants tearing off soft raiment. Those were his people back there. He

should be running with the wolf-pack, not coursing with beagles.

He had been telling himself that he was loyal, and now he realized

that he was drifting like the lotus-eaters. Things that had gripped his

soul were becoming myths. Nothing in his life was honest--he had become

as they had prophesied, a derelict. In that thorn-choked graveyard lay

the crude man whose knotted hand had rested on his head just before

death stiffened it bestowing a mission.

"I hain't fergot ye, Pap." The words rang in his ears with the agony

of a repudiated vow.

He rose and paced the floor, with teeth and hands clenched, and the

sweat standing out on his forehead. His advisers had of late been

urging him to go to Paris He had refused, and his unconfessed reason

had been that in Paris he could not answer a sudden call. He would go

back to them now, and compel them to admit his leadership.