The Call of the Cumberlands

Caleb Wiley rose unsteadily to his feet, his shaggy beard trembling

with wrath and his voice quavering with senile indignation.

"Hev ye done got too damned good fer yore kin-folks, Samson South?" he

shrilly demanded. "Hev ye done been follerin' atter this here puny

witch-doctor twell ye can't keep a civil tongue in yer head fer yore

elders? I'm in favor of runnin' this here furriner outen the country

with tar an' feathers on him. Furthermore, I'm in favor of cleanin' out

the Hollmans. I was jest a-sayin' ter Bill----"

"Never mind what ye war jest a-sayin'," interrupted the boy, flushing

redly to his cheekbones, but controlling his voice. "Ye've done said

enough a'ready. Ye're a right old man, Caleb, an' I reckon thet gives

ye some license ter shoot off yore face, but ef any of them no-'count,

shif'less boys of yores wants ter back up what ye says, I'm ready ter

go out thar an' make 'em eat hit. I hain't a-goin' ter answer no more

questions."

There was a commotion of argument, until "Black Dave" Jasper, a

saturnine giant, whose hair was no blacker than his expression, rose,

and a semblance of quiet greeted him as he spoke.

"Mebby, Samson, ye've got a right ter take the studs this a-way, an'

ter refuse ter answer our questions, but we've got a right ter say who

kin stay in this hyar country. Ef ye 'lows ter quit us, I reckon we kin

quit you--and, if we quits ye, ye hain't nothin' more ter us then no

other boy thet's gettin' too big fer his breeches. This furriner is a

visitor here to-day, an' we don't 'low ter hurt him--but he's got ter

go. We don't want him round hyar no longer." He turned to Lescott.

"We're a-givin' ye fair warnin', stranger. Ye hain't our breed. Atter

this, ye stays on Misery at yore own risk--an' hit's a-goin' ter be

plumb risky. That thar's final."

"This man," blazed the boy, before Lescott could speak, "is a-visitin'

me an' Unc' Spicer. When ye wants him ye kin come up thar an' git him.

Every damned man of ye kin come. I hain't a-sayin' how many of ye'll go

back. He was 'lowin' that he'd leave hyar ter-morrer mornin', but atter

this I'm a-tellin' ye he hain't a-goin' ter do hit. He's a-goin' ter

stay es long es he likes, an' nobody hain't a-goin' ter run him off."

Samson took his stand before the painter, and swept the group with his

eyes. "An' what's more," he added, "I'll tell ye another thing. I

hadn't plumb made up my mind ter leave the mountings, but ye've done

settled hit fer me. I'm a-goin'."