The Call of the Cumberlands

"You must hev fell offen the rock," she enlightened.

"I think I might have fallen into worse circumstances," replied the

unknown.

"I reckon you kin set up after a little."

"Yes, of course." The man suddenly realized that although he was quite

comfortable as he was, he could scarcely expect to remain permanently

in the support of her bent arm. He attempted to prop himself on his

hurt hand, and relaxed with a twinge of extreme pain. The color, which

had begun to creep back into his cheeks, left them again, and his lips

compressed themselves tightly to bite off an exclamation of suffering.

"Thet thar left arm air busted," announced the young woman, quietly.

"Ye've got ter be heedful."

Had one of her own men hurt himself, and behaved stoically, it would

have been mere matter of course; but her eyes mirrored a pleased

surprise at the stranger's good-natured nod and his quiet refusal to

give expression to pain. It relieved her of the necessity for contempt.

"I'm afraid," apologized the painter, "that I've been a great deal of

trouble to you."

Her lips and eyes were sober as she replied.

"I reckon thet's all right."

"And what's worse, I've got to be more trouble. Did you see anything

of a brown mule?"

She shook her head.

"He must have wandered off. May I ask to whom I'm indebted for this

first aid to the injured?"

"I don't know what ye means."

She had propped him against the rocks, and sat near-by, looking into

his face with almost disconcerting steadiness; her solemn-pupiled eyes

were unblinking, unsmiling. Unaccustomed to the gravity of the

mountaineer in the presence of strangers, he feared that he had

offended her. Perhaps his form of speech struck her as affected.

"Why, I mean who are you?" he laughed.

"I hain't nobody much. I jest lives over yon."

"But," insisted the man, "surely you have a name."

She nodded.

"Hit's Sally."

"Then, Miss Sally, I want to thank you."

Once more she nodded, and, for the first time, let her eyes drop,

while she sat nursing her knees. Finally, she glanced up, and asked

with plucked-up courage: "Stranger, what mout yore name be?"

"Lescott--George Lescott."

"How'd ye git hurt?"

He shook his head.

"I was painting--up there," he said; "and I guess I got too absorbed

in the work. I stepped backward to look at the canvas, and forgot where

the edge was. I stepped too far."