The Call of the Cumberlands

"Samson," she whispered, "ef they're atter ye, come ter my house. I

kin hide ye out. Why didn't ye tell me Jesse Purvy'd done been shot?"

"Hit tain't nothin' ter fret about, Sally," he assured her. He spoke

awkwardly, for he had been trained to regard emotion as unmanly. "Thar

hain't no danger."

She gazed searchingly into his eyes, and then, with a short sob, threw

her arms around him, and buried her face on his shoulder.

"Ef anything happens ter ye, Samson," she said, brokenly, "hit'll jest

kill me. I couldn't live withouten ye, Samson. I jest couldn't do hit!"

The boy took her in his arms, and pressed her close. His eyes were

gazing off over her bent head, and his lips twitched. He drew his

features into a scowl, because that was the only expression with which

he could safeguard his feelings. His voice was husky.

"I reckon, Sally," he said, "I couldn't live withouten you, neither."

The party of men who had started at morning from Jesse Purvy's store

had spent a hard day. The roads followed creek-beds, crossing and

recrossing waterways in a fashion that gave the bloodhounds a hundred

baffling difficulties. Often, their noses lost the trail, which had at

first been so surely taken. Often, they circled and whined, and halted

in perplexity, but each time they came to a point where, at the end,

one of them again raised his muzzle skyward, and gave voice.

Toward evening, they were working up Misery along a course less

broken. The party halted for a moment's rest, and, as the bottle was

passed, the man from Lexington, who had brought the dogs and stayed to

conduct the chase, put a question: "What do you call this creek?"

"Hit's Misery."

"Does anybody live on Misery that--er--that you might suspect?"

The Hollmans laughed.

"This creek is settled with Souths thicker'n hops."

The Lexington man looked up. He knew what the name of South meant to a

Hollman.

"Is there any special South, who might have a particular grudge?"

"The Souths don't need no partic'lar grudge, but thar's young Samson

South. He's a wildcat."

"He lives this way?"

"These dogs air a-makin' a bee-line fer his house." Jim Hollman was

speaking. Then he added: "I've done been told that Samson denies doin'

the shootin', an' claims he kin prove an alibi."

The Lexington man lighted his pipe, and poured a drink of red whiskey

into a flask cup.