The Call of the Cumberlands

"Hit don't hardly pay a man ter walk backward in these hyar

mountings," she told him. The painter looked covertly up to see if at

last he had discovered a flash of humor. He had the idea that her lips

would shape themselves rather fascinatingly in a smile, but her pupils

mirrored no mirth. She had spoken in perfect seriousness.

The man rose to his feet, but he tottered and reeled against the wall

of ragged stone. The blow on his head had left him faint and dizzy. He

sat down again.

"I'm afraid," he ruefully admitted, "that I'm not quite ready for

discharge from your hospital."

"You jest set where yer at." The girl rose, and pointed up the

mountainside. "I'll light out across the hill, and fotch Samson an' his

mule."

"Who and where is Samson?" he inquired. He realized that the bottom of

the valley would shortly thicken into darkness, and that the way out,

unguided, would become impossible. "It sounds like the name of a strong

man."

"I means Samson South," she enlightened, as though further description

of one so celebrated would be redundant. "He's over thar 'bout three

quarters."

"Three quarters of a mile?"

She nodded. What else could three quarters mean?

"How long will it take you?" he asked.

She deliberated. "Samson's hoein' corn in the fur-hill field. He'll

hev ter cotch his mule. Hit mout tek a half-hour."

Lescott had been riding the tortuous labyrinths that twisted through

creek bottoms and over ridges for several days. In places two miles an

hour had been his rate of speed, though mounted and following so-called

roads. She must climb a mountain through the woods. He thought it

"mout" take longer, and his scepticism found utterance.

"You can't do it in a half-hour, can you?"

"I'll jest take my foot in my hand, an' light out." She turned, and

with a nod was gone. The man rose, and made his way carefully over to a

mossy bank, where he sat down with his back against a century-old tree

to wait.

The beauty of this forest interior had first lured him to pause, and

then to begin painting. The place had not treated him kindly, as the

pain in his wrist reminded.

No, but the beauty was undeniable. A clump of rhododendron, a little

higher up, dashed its pale clusters against a background of evergreen

thicket, and a catalpa tree loaned the perfume of its white blossoms

with their wild little splashes of crimson and purple and orange to the

incense which the elder bushes were contributing.