The Call of the Cumberlands

"Joe Hollman, ma'am," he answered; and the girl gave an involuntary

start. The two men who caught the name closed up the gap between the

horses, with suddenly piqued interest.

"Hollman!" exclaimed the girl. "Then, you--" She stopped and flushed.

"I beg your pardon," she said, quickly.

"That's all right," reassured the man. "I know what ye're a-thinkin',

but I hain't takin' no offense. The High Sheriff sent me over. I'm one

of his deputies."

"Were you"--she paused, and added rather timidly--"were you in the

court-house?"

He nodded, and with a brown forefinger traced the scar on his cheek.

"Samson South done that thar with his rifle-gun," he enlightened.

"He's a funny sort of feller, is Samson South."

"How?" she asked.

"Wall, he licked us, an' he licked us so plumb damn hard we was

skeered ter fight ag'in, an' then, 'stid of tramplin' on us, he turned

right 'round, an' made me a deputy. My brother's a corporal in this

hyar newfangled milishy. I reckon this time the peace is goin' ter

last. Hit's a mighty funny way ter act, but 'pears like it works all

right."

Then, at the ridge, the girl's heart gave a sudden bound, for there at

the highest point, where the road went up and dipped again, waited the

mounted figure of Samson South, and, as they came into sight, he waved

his felt hat, and rode down to meet them.

"Greetings!" he shouted. Then, as he leaned over and took Adrienne's

hand, he added: "The Goops send you their welcome." His smile was

unchanged, but the girl noted that his hair had again grown long.

Finally, as the sun was setting, they reached a roadside cabin, and

the mountaineer said briefly to the other men: "You fellows ride on. I want Drennie to stop with me a moment. We'll

join you later."

Lescott nodded. He remembered the cabin of the Widow Miller, and

Horton rode with him, albeit grudgingly.

Adrienne sprang lightly to the ground, laughingly rejecting Samson's

assistance, and came with him to the top of a stile, from which he

pointed to the log cabin, set back in its small yard, wherein geese and

chickens picked industriously about in the sandy earth.

A huge poplar and a great oak nodded to each other at either side of

the door, and over the walls a clambering profusion of honeysuckle vine

contended with a mass of wild grape, in joint effort to hide the white

chinking between the dark logs. From the crude milk-benches to the

sweep of the well, every note was one of neatness and rustic charm.

Slowly, he said, looking straight into her eyes: "This is Sally's cabin, Drennie."