The Call of the Cumberlands

"I hain't a-goin' fur," was the non-committal response.

"Meybe hit mout be a good idea ter stay round clost fer a spell." The

old man made the suggestion casually, and the boy replied in the same

fashion.

"I hain't a-goin' ter be outen sight."

He sauntered down the road, but, when he had passed out of vision, he

turned sharply into the woods, and began climbing. His steps carried

him to the rift in the ridge where the white oak stood sentinel over

the watch-tower of rock. As he came over the edge from one side, his

bare feet making no sound, he saw Sally sitting there, with her hands

resting on the moss and her eyes deeply troubled. She was gazing

fixedly ahead, and her lips were trembling. At once Samson's face grew

black. Some one had been making Sally unhappy. Then, he saw beyond her

a standing figure, which the tree trunk had hitherto concealed. It was

the loose-knitted figure of young Tamarack Spicer.

"In course," Spicer was saying, "we don't 'low Samson shot Jesse

Purvy, but them Hollmans'll 'spicion him, an' I heered just now, thet

them dawgs was trackin' straight up hyar from the mouth of Misery.

They'll git hyar against sundown."

Samson leaped violently forward. With one hand, he roughly seized his

cousin's shoulder, and wheeled him about.

"Shet up!" he commanded. "What damn fool stuff hev ye been tellin'

Sally?"

For an instant, the two clansmen stood fronting each other. Samson's

face was set and wrathful. Tamarack's was surly and snarling. "Hain't I

got a license ter tell Sally the news?" he demanded.

"Nobody hain't got no license," retorted the younger man in the quiet

of cold anger, "ter tell Sally nothin' thet'll fret her."

"She air bound ter know, hit all pretty soon. Them dawgs----"

"Didn't I tell ye ter shet up?" Samson clenched his fists, and took a

step forward. "Ef ye opens yore mouth again, I'm a-goin' ter smash hit.

Now, git!"

Tamarack Spicer's face blackened, and his teeth showed. His right hand

swept to his left arm-pit. Outwardly he seemed weaponless, but Samson

knew that concealed beneath the hickory shirt was a holster, worn

mountain fashion.

"What air ye a-reachin' atter, Tam'rack?" he inquired, his lips

twisting in amusement.

"Thet's my business."

"Well, get hit out--or git out yeself, afore I throws ye offen the

clift."

Sally showed no symptoms of alarm. Her confidence in her hero was

absolute. The boy lifted his hand, and pointed off down the path.

Slowly and with incoherent muttering, Spicer took himself away. Then

only did Sally rise. She came over, and laid a hand on Samson's

shoulder. In her blue eyes, the tears were welling.