The Call of the Cumberlands

The next day came word that, if Tamarack Spicer would surrender and

stand trial, in a court dominated by the Hollmans, the truce would

continue. Otherwise, the "war was on."

The Souths flung back this message: "Come and git him."

But Hollman and Purvy, hypocritically clamoring for the sanctity of

the law, made no effort to come and "git him." They knew that Spicer

South's house was now a fortress, prepared for siege. They knew that

every trail thither was picketed. Also, they knew a better way. This

time, they had the color of the law on their side. The Circuit Judge,

through the Sheriff, asked for troops, and troops came. Their tents

dotted the river bank below the Hixon Bridge. A detail under a white

flag went out after Tamarack Spicer. The militia Captain in command,

who feared neither feudist nor death, was courteously received. He had

brains, and he assured them that he acted under orders which could not

be disobeyed. Unless they surrendered the prisoner, gatling guns would

follow. If necessary they would be dragged behind ox-teams. Many

militiamen might be killed, but for each of them the State had another.

If Spicer would surrender, the officer would guarantee him personal

protection, and, if it seemed necessary, a change of venue would secure

him trial in another circuit. For hours, the clan deliberated. For the

soldiers they felt no enmity. For the young Captain they felt an

instinctive liking. He was a man.

Old Spicer South, restored to an echo of his former robustness by the

call of action, gave the clan's verdict.

"Hit hain't the co'te we're skeered of. Ef this boy goes ter town, he

won't never git inter no co'te. He'll be murdered."

The officer held out his hand.

"As man to man," he said, "I pledge you my word that no one shall take

him except by process of law. I'm not working for the Hollmans, or the

Purvys. I know their breed," For a space, old South looked into the soldier's eyes, and the soldier

looked back.

"I'll take yore handshake on thet bargain," said the mountaineer,

gravely. "Tam'rack," he added, in a voice of finality, "ye've got ter

go."

The officer had meant what he said. He marched his prisoner into Hixon

at the center of a hollow square, with muskets at the ready. And yet,

as the boy passed into the court-house yard, with a soldier rubbing

elbows on each side, a cleanly aimed shot sounded from somewhere. The

smokeless powder told no tale and with blue shirts and army hats

circling him, Tamarack fell and died.