The Call of the Cumberlands

"Ladies and gentle-men," announced Tamarack Spicer, in a

hiccoughy voice, "swing yo' partners an' sashay forward. See the only

son of the late Henry South engaged in his mar-ve-lous an' heretofore

undiscovered occupation of doin' fancy work. Ladies and gentle-men,

after this here show is conclooded, keep your seats for the concert

in the main tent. This here famous performer will favor ye with a little

exhibition of plain an' fancy sock-darnin'."

The children snickered again. The old woman shuffled forward.

"Samson," she quavered, "I didn't never low ter see ye doin' no sich

woman's work as thet."

After the first surprise, Samson had turned his back on the group. He

was mixing paint at the time and he proceeded to experiment with a

fleeting cloud effect, which would not outlast the moment. He finished

that, and, reaching for the palette-knife, scraped his fingers and

wiped them on his trousers' legs. Then, he deliberately rose.

Without a word he turned. Tamarack had begun his harangue afresh. The

boy tossed back the long lock from his forehead, and then, with an

unexpectedly swift movement, crouched and leaped. His right fist shot

forward to Tamarack Spicer's chattering lips, and they abruptly ceased

to chatter as the teeth were driven into their flesh. Spicer's head

snapped back, and he staggered against the onlookers, where he stood

rocking on his unsteady legs. His hand swept instinctively to the shirt

-concealed holster, but, before it had connected, both of Samson's fists

were playing a terrific tattoo on his face. The inglorious master of

the show dropped, and lay groggily trying to rise.

The laughter died as suddenly as Tamarack's speech. Samson stepped

back again, and searched the faces of the group for any lingering sign

of mirth or criticism. There was none. Every countenance was sober and

expressionless, but the boy felt a weight of unuttered disapproval, and

he glared defiance. One of the older onlookers spoke up reproachfully.

"Samson, ye hadn't hardly ought ter a-done that. He was jest a funnin'

with ye."

"Git him up on his feet. I've got somethin' ter say ter him." The

boy's voice was dangerously quiet. It was his first word. They lifted

the fallen cousin, whose entertainment had gone astray, and led him

forward grumbling, threatening and sputtering, but evincing no

immediate desire to renew hostilities.

"Whar hev ye been?" demanded Samson.

"Thet's my business," came the familiar mountain phrase.

"Why wasn't yer hyar when them dawgs come by? Why was ye the only

South thet runned away, when they was smellin' round fer Jesse Purvy's

assassin?"