The Call of the Cumberlands

"Oh, God," pleaded the girl, brokenly, "I reckon ye knows thet them

Hollmans is atter Samson, an' I reckons ye knows he hain't committed no

sin. I reckon ye knows, since ye knows all things, thet hit'll kill me

ef I loses him, an' though I hain't nobody but jest Sally Miller, an'

ye air Almighty God, I wants ye ter hear my prayin', an' pertect him."

Fifteen minutes later, Lescott, standing at the fence, saw a strange

cavalcade round the bend of the road. Several travel-stained men were

leading mules, and holding two tawny and impatient dogs in leash. In

their number, the artist recognized his host of two nights ago.

They halted at a distance, and in their faces the artist read dismay,

for, while the dogs were yelping confidently and tugging at their

cords, young Samson South--who should, by their prejudiced convictions,

be hiding out in some secret stronghold--sat at the top step of the

stile, smoking his pipe, and regarded them with a lack-luster absence

of interest. Such a calm reception was uncanny. The trailers felt sure

that in a moment more the dogs would fall into accusing excitement.

Logically, these men should be waiting to receive them behind

barricaded doors. There must be some hidden significance. Possibly, it

was an invitation to walk into ambuscade. No doubt, unseen rifles

covered their approach, and the shooting of Purvy was only the

inaugural step to a bloody and open outbreak of the war. After a

whispered conference, the Lexington man came forward alone. Old Spicer

South had been looking on from the door, and was now strolling out to

meet the envoy, unarmed.

And the envoy, as he came, held his hands unnecessarily far away from

his sides, and walked with an ostentatious show of peace.

"Evenin', stranger," hailed the old man. "Come right in."

"Mr. South," began the dog-owner, with some embarrassment, "I have

been employed to furnish a pair of bloodhounds to the family of Jesse

Purvy, who has been shot."

"I heerd tell thet Purvy was shot," said the head of the Souths in an

affable tone, which betrayed no deeper note of interest than

neighborhood gossip might have elicited.

"I have no personal interest in the matter," went on the stranger,

hastily, as one bent on making his attitude clear, "except to supply

the dogs and manage them. I do not in any way direct their course; I

merely follow."

"Ye can't hardly fo'ce a dawg." Old Spicer sagely nodded his head as

he made the remark. "A dawg jest natcher'ly follers his own nose."