The Call of the Cumberlands

The youth nodded. "I mout come anytime, but likely as not I'll hev ter

come a-fightin' when I comes."

Next, he produced an envelope.

"This here is a letter I've done writ ter myself," he explained. He

drew out the sheet, and read: "Samson, come back." Then he handed the missive to the girl. "Thet

there is addressed ter me, in care of Mr. Lescott.... Ef anything

happens--ef Unc' Spicer needs me--I wants yer ter mail thet ter me

quick. He says as how he won't never call me back, but, Sally, I wants

thet you shall send fer me, ef they needs me. I hain't a-goin' ter

write no letters home. Unc' Spicer can't read, an' you can't read much

either. But I'll plumb shore be thinkin' about ye day an' night."

She gulped and nodded.

"Yes, Samson," was all she said.

The boy rose.

"I reckon I'd better be gettin' along," he announced.

The girl suddenly reached out both hands, and seized his coat. She

held him tight, and rose, facing him. Her upturned face grew very

pallid, and her eyes widened. They were dry, and her lips were tightly

closed, but, through the tearless pupils, in the firelight, the boy

could read her soul, and her soul was sobbing.

He drew her toward him, and held her very tight.

"Sally," he said, in a voice which threatened to choke, "I wants ye

ter take keer of yeself. Ye hain't like these other gals round here. Ye

hain't got big hands an' feet. Ye kain't stand es much es they kin.

Don't stay out in the night air too much--an', Sally--fer God's sake

take keer of yeself!" He broke off, and picked up his hat.

"An' that gun, Sally," he repeated at the door, "that there's the most

precious thing I've got. I loves hit better then anything--take keer of

hit."

Again, she caught at his shoulders.

"Does ye love hit better'n ye do me, Samson?" she demanded.

He hesitated.

"I reckon ye knows how much I loves ye, Sally," he said, slowly, "but

I've done made a promise, an' thet gun's a-goin' ter keep hit fer me."

They went together out to the stile, he still carrying his rifle, as

though loath to let it go, and she crossed with him to the road.

As he untied his reins, she threw her arms about his neck, and for a

long while they stood there under the clouds and stars, as he held her

close. There was no eloquence of leave-taking, no professions of

undying love, for these two hearts were inarticulate and dizzily

clinging to a wilderness code of self-repression--and they had reached

a point where speech would have swept them both away to a break-down.