The Call of the Cumberlands

All journeys end, and as Samson passed through the tawdry cars of the

local train near Hixon he saw several faces which he recognized, but

they either eyed him in inexpressive silence, or gave him the greeting

of the "furriner."

Then the whistle shrieked for the trestle over the Middle Fork, and at

only a short distance rose the cupola of the brick court-house and the

scattered roofs of the town. Scattered over the green slopes by the

river bank lay the white spread of a tented company street, and, as he

looked out, he saw uniformed figures moving to and fro, and caught the

ring of a bugle call. So the militia was on deck; things must be bad,

he reflected. He stood on the platform and looked down as the engine

roared along the trestle. There were two gatling guns. One pointed its

muzzle toward the town, and the other scowled up at the face of the

mountain. Sentries paced their beats. Men in undershirts lay dozing

outside tent flaps. It was all a picture of disciplined readiness, and

yet Samson knew that soldiers made of painted tin would be equally

effective. These military forces must remain subservient to local civil

authorities, and the local civil authorities obeyed the nod of Judge

Hollman and Jesse Purvy.

As Samson crossed the toll-bridge to the town proper he passed two

brown-shirted militiamen, lounging on the rail of the middle span. They

grinned at him, and, recognizing the outsider from his clothes, one of

them commented: "Ain't this the hell of a town?"

"It's going to be," replied Samson, enigmatically, as he went on.

Still unrecognized, he hired a horse at the livery stable, and for two

hours rode in silence, save for the easy creaking of his stirrup

leathers and the soft thud of hoofs.

The silence soothed him. The brooding hills lulled his spirit as a

crooning song lulls a fretful child. Mile after mile unrolled forgotten

vistas. Something deep in himself murmured: "Home!"

It was late afternoon when he saw ahead of him the orchard of Purvy's

place, and read on the store wall, a little more weather-stained, but

otherwise unchanged: "Jesse Purvy, General Merchandise."

The porch of the store was empty, and as Samson flung himself from his

saddle there was no one to greet him. This was surprising, since,

ordinarily, two or three of Purvy's personal guardsmen loafed at the

front to watch the road. Just now the guard should logically be

doubled. Samson still wore his Eastern clothes--for he wanted to go

through that door unknown. As Samson South he could not cross its

threshold either way. But when he stepped up on to the rough porch

flooring no one challenged his advance. The yard and orchard were quiet

from their front fence to the grisly stockade at the rear, and,

wondering at these things, the young man stood for a moment looking

about at the afternoon peace before he announced himself.