The Call of the Cumberlands

He was not quite certain yet that Jim Asberry had murdered his father,

but he knew that Asberry was one of the coterie of "killers" who took

their blood hire from Purvy, and he knew that Asberry had sworn to

"git" him. To sit in the same car with these men and to force himself

to withhold his hand, was a hard bullet for Samson South to chew, but

he had bided his time thus far, and he would bide it to the end. When

that end came, it would also be the end for Purvy and Asberry. He

disliked Hollis, too, but with a less definite and intense hatred.

Samson wished that one of the henchmen would make a move toward attack.

He made no concealment of his own readiness. He removed both overcoat

and coat, leaving exposed to view the heavy revolver which was strapped

under his left arm. He even unbuttoned the leather flap of the holster,

and then being cleared for action, sat glowering across the aisle, with

his eyes not on the faces but upon the hands of the two Purvy spies.

The wrench of partings, the long raw ride and dis-spiriting gloom of

the darkness before dawn had taken out of the boy's mind all the

sparkle of anticipation and left only melancholy and hate. He felt for

the moment that, had these men attacked him and thrown him back into

the life he was leaving, back into the war without fault on his part,

he would be glad. The fierce activity of fighting would be welcome to

his mood. He longed for the appeasement of a thoroughly satisfied

vengeance. But the two watchers across the car were not ordered to

fight and so they made no move. They did not seem to see Samson. They

did not appear to have noticed his inviting readiness for combat. They

did not remove their coats. At Lexington, where he had several hours to

wait, Samson bought a "snack" at a restaurant near the station and then

strolled about the adjacent streets, still carrying his saddlebags, for

he knew nothing of the workings of check-rooms. When he returned to the

depot with his open wallet in his hand, and asked for a ticket to New

York, the agent looked up and his lips unguardedly broke into a smile

of amusement. It was a good-humored smile, but Samson saw that it was

inspired by some sort of joke, and he divined that the joke was--himself!

"What's the matter?" he inquired very quietly, though his chin

stiffened. "Don't ye sell tickets ter New York?"