The Call of the Cumberlands

Saturday morning came after a night of torrential rain, which had left

the mountains steaming under a reek of fog and pitching clouds.

Hillside streams ran freshets, and creek-bed roads were foaming and

boiling into waterfalls. Sheep and cattle huddled forlornly under their

shelters of shelving rock, and only the geese seemed happy.

Far down the dripping shoulders of the mountains trailed ragged

streamers of vapor. Here and there along the lower slopes hung puffs of

smoky mist as though silent shells were bursting from unseen artillery

over a vast theater of combat.

But, as the morning wore on, the sun fought its way to view in a scrap

of overhead blue. A freshening breeze plunged into the reek, and sent

it scurrying in broken cloud ranks and shredded tatters. The steamy

heat gave way under a dissipating sweep of coolness, until the skies

smiled down on the hills and the hills smiled back. From log cabins and

plank houses up and down Misery and its tributaries, men and women

began their hegira toward the mill. Some came on foot, carrying their

shoes in their hands, but those were only near-by dwellers. Others made

saddle journeys of ten or fifteen, or even twenty, miles, and the

beasts that carried a single burden were few. Lescott rode in the wake

of Samson, who had Sally on a pillow at his back, and along the seven

miles of journey he studied the strange procession. It was, for the

most part, a solemn cavalcade, for these are folk who "take their

pleasures sadly." Possibly, some of the sun-bonneted, strangely-garbed

women were reflecting on the possibilities which mountain-dances often

develop into tragic actualities. Possibly, others were having their

enjoyment discounted by the necessity of "dressing up" and wearing shoes.

Sometimes, a slowly ambling mule bore an entire family; the father

managing the reins with one hand and holding a baby with the other,

while his rifle lay balanced across his pommel and his wife sat

solemnly behind him on a sheepskin or pillion. Many of the men rode

side-saddles, and sacks bulky at each end hinted of such baggage as is

carried in jugs. Lescott realized from the frank curiosity with which

he was regarded that he had been a topic of discussion, and that he was

now being "sized up." He was the false prophet who was weaving a spell

over Samson! Once, he heard a sneering voice from the wayside comment

as he rode by.

"He looks like a damned parson."

Glancing back, he saw a tow-headed youth glowering at him out of

pinkish albino eyes. The way lay in part along the creek-bed, where

wagons had ground the disintegrating rock into deep ruts as smooth as

walls of concrete. Then, it traversed a country of palisading cliffs

and immensity of forest, park-like and splendid. Strangely picturesque

suspension bridges with rough stairways at their ends spanned waters

too deep for fording. Frame houses showed along the banks of the creek

--grown here to a river--unplaned and unpainted of wall, but brightly

touched with window-and door-frames of bright yellow or green or blue.

This was the territory where the Souths held dominance, and it was

pouring out its people.