The Call of the Cumberlands

"Go on," he growled. "Let's see what them damned curs hes ter say now."

Mounting, they kicked their mules into a jog. From the men inside the

fence came no note of derision; no hint of triumph. They stood looking

out with expressionless, mask-like faces until their enemies had passed

out of sight around the shoulder of the mountain. The Souths had met

and fronted an accusation made after the enemy's own choice and method.

A jury of two hounds had acquitted them. It was not only because the

dogs had refused to recognize in Samson a suspicious character that the

enemy rode on grudgingly convinced, but, also, because the family,

which had invariably met hostility with hostility, had so willingly

courted the acid test of guilt or innocence.

Samson, passing around the corner of the house, caught a flash of red

up among the green clumps of the mountainside, and, pausing to gaze at

it, saw it disappear into the thicket of brush. He knew then that Sally

had followed him, and why she had done it, and, framing a stern rebuke

for the foolhardiness of the venture, he plunged up the acclivity in

pursuit. But, as he made his way cautiously, he heard around the

shoulder of a mass of piled-up sandstone a shaken sobbing, and,

slipping toward it, found the girl bent over with her face in her

hands, her slander body convulsively heaving with the weeping of

reaction, and murmuring half-incoherent prayers of thanksgiving for his

deliverance.

"Sally!" he exclaimed, hurrying over and dropping to his knees beside

her. "Sally, thar hain't nothin' ter fret about, little gal. Hit's all

right."

She started up at the sound of his voice, and then, pillowing her head

on his shoulder, wept tears of happiness. He sought for words, but no

words came, and his lips and eyes, unused to soft expressions, drew

themselves once more into the hard mask with which he screened his

heart's moods.

Days passed uneventfully after that. The kinsmen dispersed to their

scattered coves and cabins. Now and again came a rumor that Jesse Purvy

was dying, but always hard on its heels came another to the effect that

the obdurate fighter had rallied, though the doctors held out small

encouragement of recovery.

One day Lescott, whose bandaged arm gave him much pain, but who was

able to get about, was strolling not far from the house with Samson.

They were following a narrow trail along the mountainside, and, at a

sound no louder than the falling of a walnut, the boy halted and laid a

silencing hand on the painter's shoulder. Then followed an unspoken

command in his companion's eyes. Lescott sank down behind a rock,

cloaked with glistening rhododendron leafage, where Samson had already

crouched, and become immovable and noiseless. They had been there only

a short time when they saw another figure slipping quietly from tree to

tree below them.