The Call of the Cumberlands

All of them who stood waiting were men of middle age, or beyond. A

number were gray-haired, but they were all of cadet branches. Many of

them, like Wile McCager himself, did not bear the name of South, and

Samson was the eldest son of the eldest son. They sat on meal-whitened

bins and dusty timbers and piled-up sacks. Several crouched on the

ground, squatting on their heels, and, as the conference proceeded,

they drank moonshine whiskey, and spat solemnly at the floor cracks.

"Hevn't ye noticed a right-smart change in Samson?" inquired old Caleb

Wiley of a neighbor, in his octogenarian quaver. "The boy hes done got

es quiet an' pious es a missionary."

The other nodded under his battered black felt hat, and beat a tattoo

with the end of his long hickory staff.

"He hain't drunk a half-pint of licker to-day," he querulously replied.

"Why in heck don't we run this here pink-faced conjure-doctor outen

the mountings?" demanded Caleb, who had drunk more than a half-pint.

"He's a-castin' spells over the boy. He's a-practisin' of deviltries."

"We're a-goin' ter see about thet right now," was the response. "We

don't 'low to let hit run on no further."

"Samson," began old Wile McCager, clearing his throat and taking up

his duty as spokesman, "we're all your kinfolks here, an' we aimed ter

ask ye about this here report thet yer 'lowin' ter leave the mountings?"

"What of hit?" countered the boy.

"Hit looks mighty like the war's a-goin' ter be on ag'in pretty soon.

Air ye a-goin' ter quit, or air ye a-goin' ter stick? Thet's what we

wants ter know."

"I didn't make this here truce, an' I hain't a-goin' ter bust hit,"

said the boy, quietly. "When the war commences, I'll be hyar. Ef I

hain't hyar in the meantime, hit hain't nobody's business. I hain't

accountable ter no man but my pap, an' I reckon, whar he is, he knows

whether I'm a-goin' ter keep my word."

There was a moment's silence, then Wile McCager put another question: "Ef ye're plumb sot on gittin' larnin' why don't ye git hit right hyar

in these mountings?"

Samson laughed derisively.

"Who'll I git hit from?" he caustically inquired. "Ef the mountain

won't come ter Mohamet, Mohamet's got ter go ter the mountain, I

reckon." The figure was one they did not understand. It was one Samson

himself had only acquired of late. He was quoting George Lescott. But

one thing there was which did not escape his hearers: the tone of

contempt. Eyes of smoldering hate turned on the visitor at whose door

they laid the blame.