The Call of the Cumberlands

"I'll take keer of her, pap," he had fervently sworn.

Then, Henry South had lifted a tremulous finger, and pointed to the

wall above the hearth. There, upon a set of buck-antlers, hung the

Winchester rifle. And, again, Samson had nodded, but this time he did

not speak. That moment was to his mind the most sacred of his life; it

had been a dedication to a purpose. The arms of the father had then and

there been bequeathed to the son, and with the arms a mission for their

use. After a brief pause, Samson told of the funeral. He had a

remarkable way of visualizing in rough speech the desolate picture; the

wailing mourners on the bleak hillside, with the November clouds

hanging low and trailing their wet streamers. A "jolt-wagon" had

carried the coffin in lieu of a hearse. Saddled mules stood tethered

against the picket fence. The dogs that had followed their masters

started a rabbit close by the open grave, and split the silence with

their yelps as the first clod fell. He recalled, too, the bitter voice

with which his mother had spoken to a kinsman as she turned from the

ragged burying ground, where only the forlorn cedars were green. She

was leaning on the boy's thin shoulders at the moment. He had felt her

arm stiffen with her words, and, as her arm stiffened, his own positive

nature stiffened with it.

"Henry believed in law and order. I did, too. But they wouldn't let us

have it that way. From this day on, I'm a-goin' to raise my boy to kill

Hollmans."