THE CALL OF THE CUMBERLANDS

BY

CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK

CHAPTER I

Close to the serried backbone of the Cumberland ridge through a sky ofmountain clarity, the sun seemed hesitating before its descent to thehorizon. The sugar-loaf cone that towered above a creek called Miserywas pointed and edged with emerald tracery where the loftiest timberthrust up its crest plumes into the sun. On the hillsides it would belight for more than an hour yet, but below, where the waters tossedthemselves along in a chorus of tiny cascades, the light was alreadythickening into a cathedral gloom. Down there the "furriner" would haveseen only the rough course of the creek between moss-velveted andshaded bowlders of titanic proportions. The native would haverecognized the country road in these tortuous twistings. Now there wereno travelers, foreign or native, and no sounds from living throatsexcept at intervals the clear "Bob White" of a nesting partridge, andthe silver confidence of the red cardinal flitting among the pines. Occasionally, too, a stray whisper of breeze stole along the creek-bedand rustled the beeches, or stirred in the broad, fanlike leaves of the"cucumber trees. " A great block of sandstone, to whose summit a manstanding in his saddle could scarcely reach his fingertips, toweredabove the stream, with a gnarled scrub oak clinging tenaciously to itsapex. Loftily on both sides climbed the mountains cloaked in laurel andtimber. 

Suddenly the leafage was thrust aside from above by a cautious hand, and a shy, half-wild girl appeared in the opening. For an instant shehalted, with her brown fingers holding back the brushwood, and raisedher face as though listening. Across the slope drifted the call of thepartridge, and with perfect imitation she whistled back an answer. Itwould have seemed appropriate to anyone who had seen her that sheshould talk bird language to the birds. She was herself as much a woodcreature as they, and very young. That she was beautiful was notstrange. The women of the mountains have a morning-glory bloom--untilhardship and drudgery have taken toll of their youth--and she could nothave been more than sixteen. 

It was June, and the hills, which would be bleakly forbidding barriersin winter, were now as blithely young as though they had never knownthe scourging of sleet or the blight of wind. The world was abloom, andthe girl, too, was in her early June, and sentiently alive with thestrength of its full pulse-tide. She was slim and lithely resilient ofstep. Her listening attitude was as eloquent of pausing elasticity asthat of the gray squirrel. Her breathing was soft, though she had comedown a steep mountainside, and as fragrant as the breath of the elderbushes that dashed the banks with white sprays of blossom. She broughtwith her to the greens and grays and browns of the woodland's heart anew note of color, for her calico dress was like the red cornucopias ofthe trumpet-flower, and her eyes were blue like little scraps of sky. Her heavy, brown-red hair fell down over her shoulders in looseprofusion. The coarse dress was freshly briar-torn, and in many placespatched; and it hung to the lithe curves of her body in a fashion whichtold that she wore little else. She had no hat, but the same spirit ofchildlike whimsey that caused her eyes to dance as she answered thepartridge's call had led her to fashion for her own crowning a headgearof laurel leaves and wild roses. As she stood with the toes of one barefoot twisting in the gratefully cool moss, she laughed with the sheerexhilaration of life and youth, and started out on the table top of thehuge rock. But there she halted suddenly with a startled exclamation, and drew instinctively back. What she saw might well have astonishedher, for it was a thing she had never seen before and of which she hadnever heard. Now she paused in indecision between going forward towardexploration and retreating from new and unexplained phenomena. In herquick instinctive movements was something like the irresolution of thefawn whose nostrils have dilated to a sense of possible danger. Finally, reassured by the silence, she slipped across the broad face ofthe flat rock for a distance of twenty-five feet, and paused again tolisten. 

At the far edge lay a pair of saddlebags, such as form the onlypractical equipment for mountain travelers. They were ordinarysaddlebags, made from the undressed hide of a brindle cow, and theywere fat with tight packing. A pair of saddlebags lying unclaimed atthe roadside would in themselves challenge curiosity. But in thisinstance they gave only the prefatory note to a stranger story. Nearthem lay a tin box, littered with small and unfamiliar-looking tubes ofsoft metal, all grotesquely twisted and stained, and beside the box wasa strangely shaped plaque of wood, smeared with a dozen hues. That thisplaque was a painter's sketching palette was a thing which she couldnot know, since the ways of artists had to do with a world as remotefrom her own as the life of the moon or stars. It was one of thosevague mysteries that made up the wonderful life of "down below. " Eventhe names of such towns as Louisville and Lexington meant nothingdefinite to this girl who could barely spell out, "The cat caught therat, " in the primer. Yet here beside the box and palette stood astrange jointed tripod, and upon it was some sort of sheet. What it allmeant, and what was on the other side of the sheet became a matter ofkeenly alluring interest. Why had these things been left here in suchconfusion? If there was a man about who owned them he would doubtlessreturn to claim them. Possibly he was wandering about the broken bed ofthe creek, searching for a spring, and that would not take long. No onedrank creek water. At any moment he might return and discover her. Sucha contingency held untold terrors for her shyness, and yet to turn herback on so interesting a mystery would be insupportable. Accordingly, she crept over, eyes and ears alert, and slipped around to the front ofthe queer tripod, with all her muscles poised in readiness for flight. 

A half-rapturous and utterly astonished cry broke from her lips. Shestared a moment, then dropped to the moss-covered rock, leaning back onher brown hands and gazing intently. She sat there forgetful ofeverything except the sketch which stood on the collapsible easel. 

"Hit's purty!" she approved, in a low, musical murmur. "Hit's plumbdead _beautiful_!" Her eyes were glowing with delighted approval. 

She had never before seen a picture more worthy than the chromos ofadvertising calendars and the few crude prints that find their way intothe roughest places, and she was a passionate, though totallyunconscious, devotée of beauty. Now she was sitting before a sketch, its paint still moist, which more severe critics would have pronouncedworthy of accolade. Of course, it was not a finished picture--merely astudy of what lay before her--but the hand that had placed thesebrushstrokes on the academy board was the sure, deft hand of a masterof landscape, who had caught the splendid spirit of the thing, andfixed it immutably in true and glowing appreciation. Who he was; wherehe had gone; why his work stood there unfinished and abandoned, weredetails which for the moment this half-savage child-woman forgot toquestion. She was conscious only of a sense of revelation and awe. Thenshe saw other boards, like the one upon the easel, piled near the paint-box. These were dry, and represented the work of other days; but theywere all pictures of her own mountains, and in each of them, as in thisone, was something that made her heart leap. 

To her own people, these steep hillsides and "coves" and valleys werea matter of course. In their stony soil, they labored by day: and intheir shadows slept when work was done. Yet, someone had discoveredthat they held a picturesque and rugged beauty; that they were notmerely steep fields where the plough was useless and the hoe must beused. She must tell Samson: Samson, whom she held in an artlessexaltation of hero-worship; Samson, who was so "smart" that he thoughtabout things beyond her understanding; Samson, who could not only readand write, but speculate on problematical matters. 

Suddenly she came to her feet with a swift-darting impulse of alarm. Her ear had caught a sound. She cast searching glances about her, butthe tangle was empty of humanity. The water still murmured over therocks undisturbed. There was no sign of human presence, other thanherself, that her eyes could discover--and yet to her ears came thesound again, and this time more distinctly. It was the sound of a man'svoice, and it was moaning as if in pain. She rose and searched vainlythrough the bushes of the hillside where the rock ran out from thewoods. She lifted her skirts and splashed her bare feet in the shallowcreek water, wading persistently up and down. Her shyness wasforgotten. The groan was a groan of a human creature in distress, andshe must find and succor the person from whom it came. 

Certain sounds are baffling as to direction. A voice from overhead orbroken by echoing obstacles does not readily betray its source. Finallyshe stood up and listened once more intently--her attitude full oftense earnestness. 

"I'm shore a fool, " she announced, half-aloud. "I'm shore a plumbfool. " Then she turned and disappeared in the deep cleft between thegigantic bowlder upon which she had been sitting and another--smallonly by comparison. There, ten feet down, in a narrow alley litteredwith ragged stones, lay the crumpled body of a man. It lay with theleft arm doubled under it, and from a gash in the forehead trickled athin stream of blood. Also, it was the body of such a man as she hadnot seen before. 

CHAPTER II

Although from the man in the gulch came a low groan mingled with hisbreathing, it was not such a sound as comes from fully conscious lips, but rather that of a brain dulled into coma. His lids drooped over hiseyes, hiding the pupils; and his cheeks were pallid, with outstandingveins above the temples. 

Freed from her fettering excess of shyness by his condition, the girlstepped surely from foothold to foothold until she reached his side. She stood for a moment with one hand on the dripping walls of rock, looking down while her hair fell about her face. Then, dropping to herknees, she shifted the doubled body into a leaning posture, straightened the limbs, and began exploring with efficient fingers forbroken bones. 

She was a slight girl, and not tall; but the curves of her youngfigure were slimly rounded, and her firm muscles were capably strong. This man was, in comparison with those rugged types she knew, effeminately delicate. His slim, long-fingered hands reminded her of abird's claws. The up-rolled sleeves of a blue flannel shirt disclosedforearms well-enough sinewed, but instead of being browned to the hueof a saddle-skirt, they were white underneath and pinkly red above. Moreover, they were scaling in the fashion of a skin not inured toweather beating. Though the man had thought on setting out fromcivilization that he was suiting his appearance to the environment, theimpression he made on this native girl was distinctly foreign. Theflannel shirt might have passed, though hardly without question, asnative wear, but the khaki riding-breeches and tan puttees were utterlyout of the picture, and at the neck of his shirt was a soft-blue tie!--had he not been hurt, the girl must have laughed at that. 

A felt hat lay in a puddle of water, and, except for a blond mustache, the face was clean shaven and smooth of skin. Long locks of brown hairfell away from the forehead. The helplessness and pallor gave anexaggerated seeming of frailty. 

Despite an ingrained contempt for weaklings, the girl felt, as sheraised the head and propped the shoulders, an intuitive friendlinessfor the mysterious stranger. 

She had found the left arm limp above the wrist, and her fingers haddiagnosed a broken bone. But unconsciousness must have come from theblow on the head, where a bruise was already blackening, and a gashstill trickled blood. 

She lifted her skirt, and tore a long strip of cotton from her singlepetticoat. Then she picked her barefooted way swiftly to the creek-bed, where she drenched the cloth for bathing and bandaging the wound. Itrequired several trips through the littered cleft, for the puddlesbetween the rocks were stale and brackish; but these journeys she madewith easy and untrammeled swiftness. When she had done what she couldby way of first aid, she stood looking down at the man, and shook herhead dubiously. 

"Now ef I jest had a little licker, " she mused. "Thet air what heneeds--a little licker!"

A sudden inspiration turned her eyes to the crest of the rock. She didnot go round by the path, but pulled herself up the sheer face byhanging roots and slippery projections, as easily as a young squirrel. On the flat surface, she began unstrapping the saddlebags, and, after afew moments of rummaging among their contents, she smiled withsatisfaction. Her hand brought out a leather-covered flask with asilver bottom. She held the thing up curiously, and looked at it. For alittle time, the screw top puzzled her. So, she sat down cross-legged, and experimented until she had solved its method of opening. 

Then, she slid over the side again, and at the bottom held the flaskup to the light. Through the side slits in the alligator-skin covering, she saw the deep color of the contents; and, as she lifted the nozzle, she sniffed contemptuously. Then, she took a sample draught herself--tomake certain that it was whiskey. 

She brushed her lips scornfully with the back of her hand. 

"Huh!" she exclaimed. "Hit hain't nothin' but red licker, but maybehit mout be better'n nuthin'. " She was accustomed to seeing whiskeyfreely drunk, but the whiskey she knew was colorless as water, andsweetish to the palate. 

She knew the "mountain dew" which paid no revenue tax, and which, asher people were fond of saying, "mout make a man drunk, but couldn'tgit him wrong. " After tasting the "fotched-on" substitute, she gravely, in accordance with the fixed etiquette of the hills, wiped the mouth ofthe bottle on the palm of her hand, then, kneeling once more on thestones, she lifted the stranger's head in her supporting arm, andpressed the flask to his lips. After that, she chafed the wrist whichwas not hurt, and once more administered the tonic. Finally, the man'slids fluttered, and his lips moved. Then, he opened his eyes. He openedthem waveringly, and seemed on the point of closing them again, when hebecame conscious of a curved cheek, suddenly coloring to a deep flush, a few inches from his own. He saw in the same glance a pair of wideblue eyes, a cloud of brown-red hair that fell down and brushed hisface, and he felt a slender young arm about his neck and shoulders. 

"Hello!" said the stranger, vaguely. "I seem to have----" He brokeoff, and his lips smiled. It was a friendly, understanding smile, andthe girl, fighting hard the shy impulse to drop his shoulders, and fleeinto the kind masking of the bushes, was in a measure reassured. 

"You must hev fell offen the rock, " she enlightened. 

"I think I might have fallen into worse circumstances, " replied theunknown. 

"I reckon you kin set up after a little. "

"Yes, of course. " The man suddenly realized that although he was quitecomfortable as he was, he could scarcely expect to remain permanentlyin the support of her bent arm. He attempted to prop himself on hishurt hand, and relaxed with a twinge of extreme pain. The color, whichhad begun to creep back into his cheeks, left them again, and his lipscompressed themselves tightly to bite off an exclamation of suffering. 

"Thet thar left arm air busted, " announced the young woman, quietly. "Ye've got ter be heedful. "

Had one of her own men hurt himself, and behaved stoically, it wouldhave been mere matter of course; but her eyes mirrored a pleasedsurprise at the stranger's good-natured nod and his quiet refusal togive expression to pain. It relieved her of the necessity for contempt. 

"I'm afraid, " apologized the painter, "that I've been a great deal oftrouble to you. "

Her lips and eyes were sober as she replied. 

"I reckon thet's all right. "

"And what's worse, I've got to be more trouble. Did you see anythingof a brown mule?"

She shook her head. 

"He must have wandered off. May I ask to whom I'm indebted for thisfirst aid to the injured?"

"I don't know what ye means. "

She had propped him against the rocks, and sat near-by, looking intohis face with almost disconcerting steadiness; her solemn-pupiled eyeswere unblinking, unsmiling. Unaccustomed to the gravity of themountaineer in the presence of strangers, he feared that he hadoffended her. Perhaps his form of speech struck her as affected. 

"Why, I mean who are you?" he laughed. 

"I hain't nobody much. I jest lives over yon. "

"But, " insisted the man, "surely you have a name. "

She nodded. 

"Hit's Sally. "

"Then, Miss Sally, I want to thank you. "

Once more she nodded, and, for the first time, let her eyes drop, while she sat nursing her knees. Finally, she glanced up, and askedwith plucked-up courage:

"Stranger, what mout yore name be?"

"Lescott--George Lescott. "

"How'd ye git hurt?"

He shook his head. 

"I was painting--up there, " he said; "and I guess I got too absorbedin the work. I stepped backward to look at the canvas, and forgot wherethe edge was. I stepped too far. "

"Hit don't hardly pay a man ter walk backward in these hyarmountings, " she told him. The painter looked covertly up to see if atlast he had discovered a flash of humor. He had the idea that her lipswould shape themselves rather fascinatingly in a smile, but her pupilsmirrored no mirth. She had spoken in perfect seriousness. 

The man rose to his feet, but he tottered and reeled against the wallof ragged stone. The blow on his head had left him faint and dizzy. Hesat down again. 

"I'm afraid, " he ruefully admitted, "that I'm not quite ready fordischarge from your hospital. "

"You jest set where yer at. " The girl rose, and pointed up themountainside. "I'll light out across the hill, and fotch Samson an' hismule. "

"Who and where is Samson?" he inquired. He realized that the bottom ofthe valley would shortly thicken into darkness, and that the way out, unguided, would become impossible. "It sounds like the name of a strongman. "

"I means Samson South, " she enlightened, as though further descriptionof one so celebrated would be redundant. "He's over thar 'bout threequarters. "

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

Lescott had been riding the tortuous labyrinths that twisted throughcreek bottoms and over ridges for several days. In places two miles anhour had been his rate of speed, though mounted and following so-calledroads. 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, andwith a nod was gone. The man rose, and made his way carefully over to amossy bank, where he sat down with his back against a century-old treeto wait. 

The beauty of this forest interior had first lured him to pause, andthen to begin painting. The place had not treated him kindly, as thepain in his wrist reminded. 

No, but the beauty was undeniable. A clump of rhododendron, a littlehigher up, dashed its pale clusters against a background of evergreenthicket, and a catalpa tree loaned the perfume of its white blossomswith their wild little splashes of crimson and purple and orange to theincense which the elder bushes were contributing. 

Climbing fleetly up through steep and tangled slopes, and running asfleetly down; crossing a brawling little stream on a slender trunk offallen poplar; the girl hastened on her mission. Her lungs drank theclear air in regular tireless draughts. Once only, she stopped and drewback. There was a sinister rustle in the grass, and something glidedinto her path and lay coiled there, challenging her with an ominousrattle, and with wicked, beady eyes glittering out of a swaying, arrow-shaped head. Her own eyes instinctively hardened, and she glancedquickly about for a heavy piece of loose timber. But that was only foran instant, then she took a circuitous course, and left her enemy inundisputed possession of the path. 

"I hain't got no time ter fool with ye now, old rattlesnake, " shecalled back, as she went. "Ef I wasn't in sech a hurry, I'd shore bustyer neck. "

At last, she came to a point where a clearing rose on the mountainsideabove her. The forest blanket was stripped off to make way for a fenced-in and crazily tilting field of young corn. High up and beyond, closeto the bald shoulders of sandstone which threw themselves against thesky, was the figure of a man. As the girl halted at the foot of thefield, at last panting from her exertions, he was sitting on the railfence, looking absently down on the outstretched panorama below him. Itis doubtful whether his dreaming eyes were as conscious of what he sawas of other things which his imagination saw beyond the haze of thelast far rim. Against the fence rested his abandoned hoe, and about hima number of lean hounds scratched and dozed in the sun. Samson Southhad little need of hounds; but, in another century, his people, turningtheir backs on Virginia affluence to invite the hardships of pioneerlife, had brought with them certain of the cavaliers' instincts. Ahundred years in the stagnant back-waters of the world had brought totheir descendants a lapse into illiteracy and semi-squalor, but throughit all had fought that thin, insistent flame of instinct. Such asurvival was the boy's clinging to his hounds. Once, they hadsymbolized the spirit of the nobility; the gentleman's fondness for hissport with horse and dog and gun. Samson South did not know the originof his fondness for this remnant of a pack. He did not know that in thelong ago his forefathers had fought on red fields with Bruce and theStuarts. He only knew that through his crudities something indefinable, yet compelling, was at war with his life, filling him with great andshapeless longings. He at once loved and resented these ramparts ofstone that hemmed in his hermit race and world. 

He was not, strictly speaking, a man. His age was perhaps twenty. Hesat loose-jointed and indolent on the top rail of the fence, his handshanging over his knees: his hoe forgotten. His feet were bare, and hisjeans breeches were supported by a single suspender strap. Pushed wellto the back of his head was a battered straw hat, of the sort rurallyknown as the "ten-cent jimmy. " Under its broken brim, a long lock ofblack hair fell across his forehead. So much of his appearance wastypical of the Kentucky mountaineer. His face was strongly individual, and belonged to no type. Black brows and lashes gave a distinctivenessto gray eyes so clear as to be luminous. A high and splendidly moldedforehead and a squarely blocked chin were free of that degeneracy whichmarks the wasting of an in-bred people. The nose was straight, and themouth firm yet mobile. It was the face of the instinctive philosopher, tanned to a hickory brown. In a stature of medium size, there was stilla hint of power and catamount alertness. If his attitude was at themoment indolent, it was such indolence as drowses between bursts ofwhite-hot activity; a fighting man's aversion to manual labor which, like the hounds, harked back to other generations. Near-by, proppedagainst the rails, rested a repeating rifle, though the people wouldhave told you that the truce in the "South-Hollman war" had beenunbroken for two years, and that no clansman need in these halcyon daysgo armed afield. 

CHAPTER III

Sally clambered lightly over the fence, and started on the last stageof her journey, the climb across the young corn rows. It was a fieldstood on end, and the hoed ground was uneven; but with no seeming ofweariness her red dress flashed steadfastly across the green spears, and her voice was raised to shout: "Hello, Samson!"

The young man looked up and waved a languid greeting. He did notremove his hat or descend from his place of rest, and Sally, whoexpected no such attention, came smilingly on. Samson was her hero. Itseemed quite appropriate that one should have to climb steepacclivities to reach him. Her enamored eyes saw in the top rail of thefence a throne, which she was content to address from the ground level. That he was fond of her and meant some day to marry her she knew, andcounted herself the most favored of women. The young men of theneighboring coves, too, knew it, and respected his proprietary rights. If he treated her with indulgent tolerance instead of chivalry, he wasmerely adopting the accepted attitude of the mountain man for themountain woman, not unlike that of the red warrior for his squaw. Besides, Sally was still almost a child, and Samson, with his twentyyears, looked down from a rank of seniority. He was the legitimate headof the Souths, and some day, when the present truce ended, would betheir war-leader with certain blood debts to pay. Since his father hadbeen killed by a rifle shot from ambush, he had never been permitted toforget that, and, had he been left alone, he would still have needed noother mentor than the rankle in his heart. 

But, if Samson sternly smothered the glint of tenderness which, atsight of her, rose to his eyes, and recognized her greeting only incasual fashion, it was because such was the requirement of his stoiccode. And to the girl who had been so slow of utterance and diffidentwith the stranger, words now came fast and fluently as she told herstory of the man who lay hurt at the foot of the rock. 

"Hit hain't long now tell sundown, " she urged. "Hurry, Samson, an' gityore mule. I've done give him my promise ter fotch ye right straightback. "

Samson took off his hat, and tossed the heavy lock upward from hisforehead. His brow wrinkled with doubts. 

"What sort of lookin' feller air he?"

While Sally sketched a description, the young man's doubt grew graver. 

"This hain't no fit time ter be takin' in folks what we hain'tacquainted with, " he objected. In the mountains, any time is the timeto take in strangers unless there are secrets to be guarded fromoutside eyes. 

"Why hain't it?" demanded the girl. "He's hurt. We kain't leave himlayin' thar, kin we?"

Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of the rifle leaning near-by, andstraightway they filled with apprehension. Her militant love would haveturned to hate for Samson, should he have proved recreant to themission of reprisal in which he was biding his time, yet the coming ofthe day when the truce must end haunted her thoughts. Heretofore, thatday had always been to her remotely vague--a thing belonging to thefuture. Now, with a sudden and appalling menace, it seemed to loomacross the present. She came close, and her voice sank with her sinkingheart. 

"What air hit?" she tensely demanded. "What air hit, Samson? What ferhev ye fetched yer gun ter the field?"

The boy laughed. "Oh, hit ain't nothin' pertic'ler, " he reassured. "Hit hain't nothin' fer a gal ter fret herself erbout, only I kindersuspicions strangers jest now. "

"Air the truce busted?" She put the question in a tense, deep-breathedwhisper, and the boy replied casually, almost indifferently. 

"No, Sally, hit hain't jest ter say busted, but 'pears like hit'sright smart cracked. I reckon, though, " he added in half-disgust, "nothin' won't come of hit. "

Somewhat reassured, she bethought herself again of her mission. 

"This here furriner hain't got no harm in him, Samson, " she pleaded. "He 'pears ter be more like a gal than a man. He's real puny. He's gotwhite skin and a bow of ribbon on his neck--an' he paints pictchers. "

The boy's face had been hardening with contempt as the descriptionadvanced, but at the last words a glow came to his eyes, and hedemanded almost breathlessly:

"Paints pictchers? How do ye know that?"

"I seen 'em. He was paintin' one when he fell offen the rock andbusted his arm. It's shore es beautiful es--" she broke off, then addedwith a sudden peal of laughter--"es er pictcher. "

The young man slipped down from the fence, and reached for the rifle. The hoe he left where it stood. 

"I'll git the nag, " he announced briefly, and swung off withoutfurther parley toward the curling spiral of smoke that marked a cabin aquarter of a mile below. Ten minutes later, his bare feet swung againstthe ribs of a gray mule, and his rifle lay balanced across theunsaddled withers. Sally sat mountain fashion behind him, facingstraight to the side. 

So they came along the creek bed and into the sight of the man whostill sat propped against the mossy rock. As Lescott looked up, heclosed the case of his watch, and put it back into his pocket with asmile. 

"Snappy work, that!" he called out. "Just thirty-three minutes. Ididn't believe it could be done. "

Samson's face was mask-like, but, as he surveyed the foreigner, onlythe ingrained dictates of the country's hospitable code kept out of hiseyes a gleam of scorn for this frail member of a sex which should bestalwart. 

"Howdy?" he said. Then he added suspiciously: "What mout yer businessbe in these parts, stranger?"

Lescott gave the odyssey of his wanderings, since he had rented a muleat Hixon and ridden through the country, sketching where the moodprompted and sleeping wherever he found a hospitable roof at the comingof the evening. 

"Ye come from over on Crippleshin?" The boy flashed the question witha sudden hardening of the voice, and, when he was affirmativelyanswered, his eyes contracted and bored searchingly into the stranger'sface. 

"Where'd ye put up last night?"

"Red Bill Hollman's house, at the mouth of Meeting House Fork; do youknow the place?"

Samson's reply was curt. 

"I knows hit all right. "

There was a moment's pause--rather an awkward pause. Lescott's mindbegan piecing together fragments of conversation he had heard, until hehad assembled a sort of mental jig-saw puzzle. 

The South-Hollman feud had been mentioned by the more talkative of hisinformers, and carefully tabooed by others--notable among them his hostof last night. It now dawned on him that he was crossing the boundaryand coming as the late guest of a Hollman to ask the hospitality of aSouth. 

"I didn't know whose house it was, " he hastened to explain, "until Iwas benighted, and asked for lodging. They were very kind to me. I'dnever seen them before. I'm a stranger hereabouts. "

Samson only nodded. If the explanation failed to satisfy him, it atleast seemed to do so. 

"I reckon ye'd better let me holp ye up on thet old mule, " he said;"hit's a-comin' on ter be night. "

With the mountaineer's aid, Lescott clambered astride the mount, thenhe turned dubiously. 

"I'm sorry to trouble you, " he ventured, "but I have a paint box andsome materials up there. If you'll bring them down here, I'll show youhow to pack the easel, and, by the way, " he anxiously added, "pleasehandle that fresh canvas carefully--by the edge--it's not dry yet. "

He had anticipated impatient contempt for his artist's impedimenta, but to his surprise the mountain boy climbed the rock, and haltedbefore the sketch with a face that slowly softened to an expression ofamazed admiration. Finally, he took up the square of academy board witha tender care of which his rough hands would have seemed incapable, andstood stock still, presenting an anomalous figure in his rough clothesas his eyes grew almost idolatrous. Then, he brought the landscape overto its creator, and, though no word was spoken, there flashed betweenthe eyes of the artist, whose signature gave to a canvas the value of aprecious stone and the jeans-clad boy whose destiny was that of thevendetta, a subtle, wordless message. It was the countersign ofbrothers-in-blood who recognize in each other the bond of a mutualpassion. 

The boy and the girl, under Lescott's direction, packed the outfit, and stored the canvas in the protecting top of the box. Then, whileSally turned and strode down creek in search of Lescott's lost mount, the two men rode up stream in silence. Finally. Samson spoke slowly anddiffidently. 

"Stranger, " he ventured, "ef hit hain't askin' too much, will ye letme see ye paint one of them things?"

"Gladly, " was the prompt reply. 

Then, the boy added covertly:

"Don't say nothin' erbout hit ter none of these folks. They'd devil me. "

The dusk was falling now, and the hollows choking with murk. Over theridge, the evening star showed in a lonely point of pallor. The peaks, which in a broader light had held their majestic distances, seemed withthe falling of night to draw in and huddle close in crowding herds ofblack masses. The distant tinkling of a cow-bell came drifting down thebreeze with a weird and fanciful softness. 

"We're nigh home now, " said Samson at the end of some minutes' silentplodding. "Hit's right beyond thet thar bend. "

Then, they rounded a point of timber, and came upon a small party ofmen whose attitudes even in the dimming light conveyed a subtlesuggestion of portent. Some sat their horses, with one leg thrownacross the pommel. Others stood in the road, and a bottle of whiteliquor was passing in and out among them. At the distance theyrecognized the gray mule, though even the fact that it carried a doubleburden was not yet manifest. 

"Thet you, Samson?" called an old man's voice, which was still verydeep and powerful. 

"Hello, Unc' Spicer!" replied the boy. 

Then, followed a silence unbroken until the mule reached the group, revealing that besides the boy another man--and a strange man--hadjoined their number. 

"Evenin', stranger, " they greeted him, gravely; then again they fellsilent, and in their silence was evident constraint. 

"This hyar man's a furriner, " announced Samson, briefly. "He felloffen a rock, an' got hurt. I 'lowed I'd fotch him home ter stay allnight. "

The elderly man who had hailed the boy nodded, but with an evidentannoyance. It seemed that to him the others deferred as to a commandingofficer. The cortege remounted and rode slowly toward the house. Atlast, the elderly man came alongside the mule, and inquired:

"Samson, where was ye last night?"

"Thet's my business. "

"Mebbe hit hain't. " The old mountaineer spoke with no resentment, butdeep gravity. "We've been powerful oneasy erbout ye. Hev ye heered thenews?"

"What news?" The boy put the question non-committally. 

"Jesse Purvy was shot soon this morning. "

The boy vouchsafed no reply. 

"The mail-rider done told hit.... Somebody shot five shoots from thelaurel.... Purvy hain't died yit.... Some says as how his folks hassent ter Lexington fer bloodhounds. "

The boy's eyes began to smolder hatefully. 

"I reckon, " he spoke slowly, "he didn't git shot none too soon. "

"Samson!" The old man's voice had the ring of determined authority. "When I dies, ye'll be the head of the Souths, but so long es I'ma-runnin' this hyar fam'ly, I keeps my word ter friend an' foe alike. I reckon Jesse Purvy knows who got yore pap, but up till now no Southhain't never busted no truce. "

The boy's voice dropped its softness, and took on a shrill crescendoof excitement as he flashed out his retort. 

"Who said a South has done busted the truce this time?"

Old Spencer South gazed searchingly at his nephew. 

"I hain't a-wantin' ter suspicion ye, Samson, but I know how ye feelsabout yore pap. I heered thet Bud Spicer come by hyar yistiddy plumbfull of liquor, an' 'lowed he'd seed Jesse an' Jim Asberry a-talkin'tergether jest afore yore pap was kilt. " He broke off abruptly, thenadded: "Ye went away from hyar last night, an' didn't git in twellatter sun-up--I just heered the news, an' come ter look fer ye. "

"Air you-all 'lowin' thet I shot them shoots from the laurel?"inquired Samson, quietly. 

"Ef we-all hain't 'lowin' hit, Samson, we're plumb shore thet JessePurvy's folks will 'low hit. They're jest a-holdin' yore life like ahostage fer Purvy's, anyhow. Ef he dies, they'll try ter git ye. "

The boy flashed a challenge about the group, which was now drawingrein at Spicer South's yard fence. His eyes were sullen, but he made noanswer. 

One of the men who had listened in silence now spoke:

"In the fust place, Samson, we hain't a-sayin' ye done hit. In thenex' place, ef ye did do hit, we hain't a-blamin' ye--much. But Ireckon them dawgs don't lie, an', ef they trails in hyar, ye'll needus. Thet's why we've done come. "

The boy slipped down from his mule, and helped Lescott to dismount. Hedeliberately unloaded the saddlebags and kit, and laid them on the topstep of the stile, and, while he held his peace, neither denying noraffirming, his kinsmen sat their horses and waited. 

Even to Lescott, it was palpable that some of them believed the youngheir to clan leadership responsible for the shooting of Jesse Purvy, and that others believed him innocent, yet none the less in danger ofthe enemy's vengeance. But, regardless of divided opinion, all werealike ready to stand at his back, and all alike awaited his finalutterance. 

Then, in the thickening gloom, Samson turned at the foot of the stile, and faced the gathering. He stood rigid, and his eyes flashed with deeppassion. His hands, hanging at the seams of his jeans breeches, clenched, and his voice came in a slow utterance through which throbbedthe tensity of a soul-absorbing bitterness. 

"I knowed all 'bout Jesse Purvy's bein' shot.... When my pap lay a-dyin'over thar at his house, I was a little shaver ten years old ... JessePurvy hired somebody ter kill him ... An' I promised my pap that I'dfind out who thet man was, an' thet I'd git 'em both--some day. So helpme, God Almighty, I'm a-goin' ter git 'em both--some day!" The boypaused and lifted one hand as though taking an oath. 

"I'm a-tellin' you-all the truth.... But I didn't shoot them shootsthis mornin'. I hain't no truce-buster. I gives ye my hand on hit.... Ef them dawgs comes hyar, they'll find me hyar, an' ef they hain'tliars, they'll go right on by hyar. I don't 'low ter run away, an' Idon't 'low ter hide out. I'm agoin' ter stay right hyar. Thet's allI've got ter say ter ye. "

For a moment, there was no reply. Then, the older man nodded with agesture of relieved anxiety. 

"Thet's all we wants ter know, Samson, " he said, slowly. "Light, men, an' come in. "

CHAPTER IV

In days when the Indian held the Dark and Bloody Grounds a pioneer, felling oak and poplar logs for the home he meant to establish on thebanks of a purling water-course, let his axe slip, and the cutting edgegashed his ankle. Since to the discoverer belongs the christening, thatwater-course became Cripple-shin, and so it is to-day set down on atlaspages. A few miles away, as the crow flies, but many weary leagues as aman must travel, a brother settler, racked with rheumatism, gave to hiscreek the name of Misery. The two pioneers had come together fromVirginia, as their ancestors had come before them from Scotland. Together, they had found one of the two gaps through the mountain wall, which for more than a hundred miles has no other passable rift. Together, and as comrades, they had made their homes, and founded theirrace. What original grievance had sprung up between their descendantsnone of the present generation knew--perhaps it was a farm line ordisputed title to a pig. The primary incident was lost in the limbo ofthe past; but for fifty years, with occasional intervals of truce, lives had been snuffed out in the fiercely burning hate of these menwhose ancestors had been comrades. 

Old Spicer South and his nephew Samson were the direct linealdescendants of the namer of Misery. Their kinsmen dwelt about them: theSouths, the Jaspers, the Spicers, the Wileys, the Millers and McCagers. Other families, related only by marriage and close association, were, in feud alignment, none the less "Souths. " And over beyond the ridge, where the springs and brooks flowed the other way to feed Crippleshin, dwelt the Hollmans, the Purvies, the Asberries, the Hollises and theDaltons--men equally strong in their vindictive fealty to the code ofthe vendetta. 

By mountain standards, old Spicer South was rich. His lands had beenclaimed when tracts could be had for the taking, and, though he had tomake his cross mark when there was a contract to be signed, hisinstinctive mind was shrewd and far seeing. The tinkle of his cow-bellswas heard for a long distance along the creek bottoms. His hillsidefields were the richest and his coves the most fertile in that country. His house had several rooms, and, except for those who hated him andwhom he hated, he commanded the respect of his fellows. Some day, whena railroad should burrow through his section, bringing the developmentof coal and timber at the head of the rails, a sleeping fortune wouldyawn and awake to enrich him. There were black outcrop-pings along thecliffs, which he knew ran deep in veins of bituminous wealth. But tothat time he looked with foreboding, for he had been raised to thestandards of his forefathers, and saw in the coming of a new régime acurtailment of personal liberty. For new-fangled ideas he held only theaversion of deep-rooted prejudice. He hoped that he might live out hisdays, and pass before the foreigner held his land, and the Law became apower stronger than the individual or the clan. The Law was his enemy, because it said to him, "Thou shalt not, " when he sought to take theyellow corn which bruising labor had coaxed from scattered rock-strewnfields to his own mash-vat and still. It meant, also, a tyrannous powerusually seized and administered by enemies, which undertook to forbidthe personal settlement of personal quarrels. But his eyes, which couldnot read print, could read the signs of the times He foresaw theinevitable coming of that day. Already, he had given up the worm andmash-vat, and no longer sought to make or sell illicit liquor. That wasa concession to the Federal power, which could no longer besuccessfully fought. State power was still largely a weapon infactional hands, and in his country the Hollmans were theofficeholders. To the Hollmans, he could make no concessions. InSamson, born to be the fighting man, reared to be the fighting man, equipped by nature with deep hatreds and tigerish courage, there hadcropped out from time to time the restless spirit of the philosopherand a hunger for knowledge. That was a matter in which the old manfound his bitterest and most secret apprehension. 

It was at this house that George Lescott, distinguished landscapepainter of New York and the world-at-large, arrived in the twilight. His first impression was received in shadowy evening mists that gave atouch of the weird. The sweep of the stone-guarded well rose in a yardtramped bare of grass. The house itself, a rambling structure of logs, with additions of undressed lumber, was without lights. The cabin, which had been the pioneer nucleus, still stood windowless and with mud-daubed chimney at the center. About it rose a number of tall polessurmounted by bird-boxes, and at its back loomed the great hump of themountain. 

Whatever enemy might have to be met to-morrow, old Spicer Southrecognized as a more immediate call upon his attention the woundedguest of to-day. One of the kinsmen proved to have a rude workingknowledge of bone-setting, and before the half-hour had passed, Lescott's wrist was in a splint, and his injuries as well tended aspossible, which proved to be quite well enough. 

By that time, Sally's voice was heard shouting from the stile, andSally herself appeared with the announcement that she had found andbrought in the lost mule. 

As Lescott looked at her, standing slight and willowy in thethickening darkness, among the big-boned and slouching figures of theclansmen, she seemed to shrink from the stature of a woman into that ofa child, and, as she felt his eyes on her, she timidly slipped fartherback into the shadowy door of the cabin, and dropped down on the sill, where, with her hands clasped about her knees, she gazed curiously athimself. She did not speak, but sat immovable with her thick hairfalling over her shoulders. The painter recognized that even theinterest in him as a new type could not for long keep her eyes frombeing drawn to the face of Samson, where they lingered, and in thatmagnetism he read, not the child, but the woman. 

Samson was plainly restive from the moment of her arrival, and, when amonosyllabic comment from the taciturn group threatened to reveal tothe girl the threatened outbreak of the feud, he went over to her, andinquired:

"Sally, air ye skeered ter go home by yeself?"

As she met the boy's eyes, it was clear that her own held neithernervousness nor fear, and yet there was something else in them--theglint of invitation. She rose from her seat. 

"I hain't ter say skeered, " she told him, "but, ef ye wants ter walkas fur as the stile, I hain't a-keerin'. "

The youth rose, and, taking his hat and rifle, followed her. 

Lescott was happily gifted with the power of facile adaptation, and heunobtrusively bent his efforts toward convincing his new acquaintancesthat, although he was alien to their ways, he was sympathetic and to betrusted. Once that assurance was given, the family talk went on much asthough he had been absent, and, as he sat with open ears, he learnedthe rudiments of the conditions that had brought the kinsmen togetherin Samson's defense. 

At last, Spicer South's sister, a woman who looked older than himself, though she was really younger, appeared, smoking a clay pipe, which shewaved toward the kitchen. 

"You men kin come in an' eat, " she announced; and the mountaineers, knocking the ashes from their pipes, trailed into the kitchen. 

The place was lit by the fire in a cavernous hearth where the cookingwas still going forward with skillet and crane. The food, coarse andgreasy, but not unwholesome, was set on a long table covered withoilcloth. The roughly clad men sat down with a scraping of chair legs, and attacked their provender in businesslike silence. 

The corners of the room fell into obscurity. Shadows wavered againstthe sooty rafters, and, before the meal ended, Samson returned anddropped without comment into his chair. Afterward, the men troopedtaciturnly out again, and resumed their pipes. 

A whippoorwill sent his mournful cry across the tree-tops, and wasanswered. Frogs added the booming of their tireless throats. A youngmoon slipped across an eastern mountain, and livened the creek into asoft shimmer wherein long shadows quavered. The more distant line ofmountains showed in a mist of silver, and the nearer heights in blue-gray silhouette. A wizardry of night and softness settled like abenediction, and from the dark door of the house stole the quaintfolklore cadence of a rudely thrummed banjo. Lescott strolled over tothe stile with every artist instinct stirred. This nocturne of silverand gray and blue at once soothed and intoxicated his imagination. Hisfingers were itching for a brush. 

Then, he heard a movement at his shoulder, and, turning, saw the boySamson with the moonlight in his eyes, and, besides the moonlight, thatsparkle which is the essence of the dreamer's vision. Once more, theirglances met and flashed a countersign. 

"Hit hain't got many colors in hit, " said the boy, slowly, indicatingwith a sweep of his hand the symphony about them, "but somehow whatthere is is jest about the right ones. Hit whispers ter a feller, thesame as a mammy whispers ter her baby. " He paused, then eagerly asked:"Stranger, kin you look at the sky an' the mountings an' hear 'emsingin'--with yore eyes?"

The painter felt a thrill of astonishment. It seemed incredible thatthe boy, whose rude descriptives reflected such poetry of feeling, could be one with the savage young animal who had, two hours before, raised his hand heavenward, and reiterated his oath to do murder inpayment of murder. 

"Yes, " was his slow reply, "every painter must do that. Music andcolor are two expressions of the same thing--and the thing is Beauty. "

The mountain boy made no reply, but his eyes dwelt on the quiveringshadows in the water; and Lescott asked cautiously, fearing to wake himfrom the dreamer to the savage:

"So you are interested in skies and hills and their beauties, too, areyou?"

Samson's laugh was half-ashamed, half-defiant. 

"Sometimes, stranger, " he said, "I 'lows that I hain't much interestedin nothin' else. "

That there dwelt in the lad something which leaped in response to theclarion call of beauty, Lescott had read in that momentary give andtake of their eyes down there in the hollow earlier in the afternoon. But, since then, the painter had seen the other and sterner side, andonce more he was puzzled and astonished. Now, he stood anxiously hopingthat the boy would permit himself further expression, yet afraid toprompt, lest direct questions bring a withdrawal again into the shellof taciturnity. After a few moments of silence, he slowly turned hishead, and glanced at his companion, to find him standing rigidly withhis elbows resting on the top palings of the fence. He had thrown hisrough hat to the ground, and his face in the pale moonlight was raised. His eyes under the black mane of hair were glowing deeply with a fireof something like exaltation, as he gazed away. It was the expressionof one who sees things hidden to the generality; such a light as burnsin the eyes of artists and prophets and fanatics, which, to theuncomprehending, seems almost a fire of madness. Samson must have feltLescott's scrutiny, for he turned with a half-passionate gesture andclenched fists. His face, as he met the glance of the foreigner wassullen, and then, as though in recognition of a brother-spirit, hisexpression softened, and slowly he began to speak. 

"These folks 'round hyar sometimes 'lows I hain't much better'n anidjit because--because I feels that-away. Even Sally"--he caughthimself, then went on doggedly--"even Sally kain't see how a man kinkeer about things like skies and the color of the hills, ner the wayther sunset splashes the sky clean acrost its aidge, ner how thesunrise comes outen the dark like a gal a-blushin'. They 'lows thet aman had ought ter be studyin' 'bout other things. "

He paused, and folded his arms, and his strong fingers grasped histensed biceps until the knuckles stood out, as he went on:

"I reckon they hain't none of them thet kin hate harder'n me. I reckonthey hain't none of 'em thet is more plumb willin' ter fight themthet's rightful enemies, an' yit hit 'pears ter me as thet hain't noreason why a man kain't feel somethin' singin' inside him when AlmightyGod builds hills like them"--he swept both hands out in a wide circle--"an' makes 'em green in summer, an' lets 'em blaze in red an' yaller inther fall, an' hangs blue skies over 'em an' makes ther sun shine, an'at night sprinkles 'em with stars an' a moon like thet!" Again, hepaused, and his eyes seemed to ask the corroboration which they read inthe expression and nod of the stranger from the mysterious outsideworld. Then, Samson South spread his hands in a swift gesture ofprotest, and his voice hardened in timbre as he went on:

"But these folks hyarabouts kain't understand thet. All they sees inthe laurel on the hillside, an' the big gray rocks an' the green trees, is breshwood an' timber thet may be hidin' their enemies, or places terhide out an' lay-way some other feller. I hain't never seen no othercountry. I don't know whether all places is like these hyar mountingser not, but I knows thet the Lord didn't 'low fer men ter live blind, not seein' no beauty in nothin'; ner not feelin' nothin' but hate an'meanness--ner studyin' 'bout nothin' but deviltry. There hain't nobetter folks nowhar then my folks, an' thar hain't no meaner folksnowhar then them damned Hollmans, but thar's times when hit 'pears terme thet the Lord Almighty hain't plumb tickled ter death with ther waythings goes hyar along these creeks and coves. "

Samson paused, and suddenly the glow died out of his eyes. Hisfeatures instantly reshaped themselves into their customary mold ofstoical hardness. It occurred to him that his outburst had been a longone and strangely out of keeping with his usual taciturnity, and hewondered what this stranger would think of him. 

The stranger was marveling. He was seeing in the crude lad at his sidewarring elements that might build into a unique and strangelyinteresting edifice of character, and his own speech as he talked thereby the palings of the fence in the moonlight was swiftly establishingthe foundations of a comradeship between the two. 

"Thar's something mighty quare about ye, stranger, " said the boy atlast, half-shyly. "I been wonderin' why I've talked ter ye like this. Ihain't never talked that-away with no other man. Ye jest seemed terkind of compel me ter do hit. When I says things like thet ter Sally, she gits skeered of me like ef I was plumb crazy, an', ef I talked that-away to the menfolks 'round hyar they'd be sartain I was an idjit. "

"That, " said Lescott, gravely, "is because they don't understand. I do. "

"I kin lay awake nights, " said Samson, "an' see them hills and mistsan' colors the same es ef they was thar in front of my eyes--an' I kinseem ter hear 'em as well as see 'em. "

The painter nodded, and his voice fell into low quotation:

 "'The scarlet of the maple can shake me like the cry "Of bugles going by. '"

The boy's eyes deepened. To Lescott, the thought of bugles conjured upa dozen pictures of marching soldiery under a dozen flags. To SamsonSouth, it suggested only one: militia guarding a battered courthouse, but to both the simile brought a stirring of pulses. 

Even in June, the night mists bring a touch of chill to the mountains, and the clansmen shortly carried their chairs indoors. The old womanfetched a pan of red coals from the kitchen, and kindled the logs onthe deep hearth. There was no other light, and, until the flamesclimbed to roaring volume, spreading their zone of yellow brightness, only the circle about the fireplace emerged from the sooty shadows. Inthe four dark corners of the room were four large beds, vaguely seen, and from one of them still came the haunting monotony of the banjo. 

Suddenly, out of the silence, rose Samson's voice, keyed to a stubbornnote, as though anticipating and challenging contradiction. 

"Times is changin' mighty fast. A feller thet grows up plumb ign'rantain't a-goin' ter have much show. "

Old Spicer South drew a contemplative puff at his pipe. 

"Ye went ter school twell ye was ten year old, Samson. Thet's a heapmore schoolin' then I ever had, an' I've done got along all right. "

"Ef my pap had lived"--the boy's voice was almost accusing--"I'd hevlamed more then jest ter read an' write en figger a little. "

"I hain't got no use fer these newfangled notions. " Spicer spoke withcareful curbing of his impatience. "Yore pap stood out fer eddycation. He had ideas about law an' all that, an' he talked 'em. He got shot terdeath. Yore Uncle John South went down below, an' got ter be a lawyer. He come home hyar, an' ondertook ter penitentiary Jesse Purvy, whenJesse was High Sheriff. I reckon ye knows what happened ter him. "

Samson said nothing and the older man went on:

"They aimed ter run him outen the mountings. "

"They didn't run him none, " blazed the boy. "He didn't never leave themountings. "

"No. " The family head spoke with the force of a logical climax. "He'ddone rented a house down below though, an' was a-fixin' ter move. Hestaid one day too late. Jesse Purvy hired him shot. "

"What of hit?" demanded Samson. 

"Yore cousin, Bud Spicer, was eddicated. He 'lowed in public thetMicah Hollman an' Jesse Purvy was runnin' a murder partnership. Somebody called him ter the door of his house in the night-time terborry a lantern--an' shot him ter death. "

"What of hit?"

"Thar's jist this much of hit. Hit don't seem ter pay the South familyter go a-runnin' attar newfangled idees. They gets too much notion ofgoin' ter law--an' thet's plumb fatal. Ye'd better stay where yeb'longs, Samson, an' let good enough be. "

"Why hain't ye done told about all the rest of the Souths thet didn'thev no eddication, " suggested the youngest South, "thet got killed offjest as quick as them as had hit?"

CHAPTER V

While Spicer South and his cousins had been sustaining themselves orbuilding up competences by tilling their soil, the leaders of the otherfaction were basing larger fortunes on the profits of merchandise andtrade. So, although Spicer South could neither read nor write, hischief enemy, Micah Hollman, was to outward seeming an urbane and fairlyequipped man of affairs. Judged by their heads, the clansmen wererougher and more illiterate on Misery, and in closer touch withcivilization on Crippleshin. A deeper scrutiny showed this seeming tobe one of the strange anomalies of the mountains. 

Micah Hollman had established himself at Hixon, that shack town whichhad passed of late years from feudal county seat to the section's onepoint of contact with the outside world; a town where the ancient andmodern orders brushed shoulders; where the new was tolerated, but darednot become aggressive. Directly across the street from the court-housestood an ample frame building, on whose side wall was emblazoned thelegend: "Hollman's Mammoth Department Store. " That was the secretstronghold of Hollman power. He had always spoken deploringly of thatspirit of lawlessness which had given the mountains a bad name. Hehimself, he declared, believed that the best assets of any communitywere tenets of peace and brotherhood. Any mountain man or foreigner whocame to town was sure of a welcome from Judge Micah Hollman, who addedto his title of storekeeper that of magistrate. 

As the years went on, the proprietor of the "Mammoth Department Store"found that he had money to lend and, as a natural sequence, mortgagesstored away in his strong box. To the cry of distress, he turned asympathetic ear. His infectious smile and suave manner won him fame as"the best-hearted man in the mountains. " Steadily and unostentatiously, his fortune fattened. 

When the railroad came to Hixon, it found in Judge Hollman a "public-spirited citizen. " Incidentally, the timber that it hauled and the coalthat its flat cars carried down to the Bluegrass went largely to hisconsignees. He had so astutely anticipated coming events that, when thefirst scouts of capital sought options, they found themselvesconstantly referred to Judge Hollman. No wheel, it seemed, could turnwithout his nod. It was natural that the genial storekeeper shouldbecome the big man of the community and inevitable that the one big manshould become the dictator. His inherited place as leader of theHollmans in the feud he had seemingly passed on as an obsoleteprerogative. 

Yet, in business matters, he was found to drive a hard bargain, andmen came to regard it the part of good policy to meet rather thancombat his requirements. It was essential to his purposes that theofficers of the law in his county should be in sympathy with him. Sympathy soon became abject subservience. When a South had opposedJesse Purvy in the primary as candidate for High Sheriff, he was foundone day lying on his face with a bullet-riddled body. It may have beena coincidence which pointed to Jim Asberry, the judge's nephew, as theassassin. At all events, the judge's nephew was a poor boy, and acharitable Grand Jury declined to indict him. 

In the course of five years, several South adherents, who had crossedHollman's path, became victims of the laurel ambuscade. The theory ofcoincidence was strained. Slowly, the rumor grew and persistentlyspread, though no man would admit having fathered it, that before eachof these executions star-chamber conferences had been held in the roomsabove Micah Hollman's "Mammoth Department Store. " It was said thatthese exclusive sessions were attended by Judge Hollman, Sheriff Purvyand certain other gentlemen selected by reason of their marksmanship. When one of these victims fell, John South had just returned from a lawschool "down below, " wearing "fotched-on" clothing and thinking"fotched-on" thoughts. He had amazed the community by demanding theright to assist in probing and prosecuting the affair. He had thenshocked the community into complete paralysis by requesting the GrandJury to indict not alone the alleged assassin, but also his employers, whom he named as Judge Hollman and Sheriff Purvy. Then, he, too, fellunder a bolt from the laurel. 

That was the first public accusation against the bland capitalist, andit carried its own prompt warning against repetition. The Judge's HighSheriff and chief ally retired from office, and went abroad only with abodyguard. Jesse Purvy had built his store at a cross roads twenty-fivemiles from the railroad. Like Hollman, he had won a reputation for open-handed charity, and was liked--and hated. His friends were legion. Hisenemies were so numerous that he apprehended violence not only from theSouths, but also from others who nursed grudges in no way related tothe line of feud cleavage. The Hollman-Purvy combination had retainedenough of its old power to escape the law's retribution and to hold itsdictatorship, but the efforts of John South had not been altogetherbootless. He had ripped away two masks, and their erstwhile wearerscould no longer hold their old semblance of law-abidingphilanthropists. Jesse Purvy's home was the show place of the countryside. To the traveler's eye, which had grown accustomed to hovel lifeand squalor, it offered a reminder of the richer Bluegrass. Its wallswere weather-boarded and painted, and its roof two stories high. Commodious verandahs looked out over pleasant orchards, and in the sameenclosure stood the two frame buildings of his store--for he, too, combined merchandise with baronial powers. But back of the place rosethe mountainside, on which Purvy never looked without dread. Twice, itsimpenetrable thickets had spat at him. Twice, he had recovered fromwounds that would have taken a less-charmed life. And in grislyreminder of the terror which clouded the peace of his days stood theeight-foot log stockade at the rear of the place which the proprietorhad built to shield his daily journeys between house and store. ButJesse Purvy was not deluded by his escapes. He knew that he was "markeddown. " For years, he had seen men die by his own plotting, and hehimself must in the end follow by a similar road. Rumor had it that hewore a shirt of mail, certain it is that he walked in the expectancy ofdeath. 

"Why don't you leave the mountains?" strangers had asked; and to eachof them Purvy had replied with a shrug of his shoulders and a shortlaugh: "This is where I belong. "

But the years of strain were telling on Jesse Purvy. The robust, full-blooded face was showing deep lines; his flesh was growing flaccid; hisglance tinged with quick apprehension. He told his intimates that herealized "they'd get him, " yet he sought to prolong his term of escape. 

The creek purled peacefully by the stile; the apple and peach treesblossomed and bore fruit at their appointed time, but the householder, when he walked between his back door and the back door of the store, hugged his stockade, and hurried his steps. 

Yesterday morning, Jesse Purvy had risen early as usual, and, after asatisfying breakfast, had gone to his store to arrange for the day'sbusiness. One or two of his henchmen, seeming loafers, but in reality abodyguard, were lounging within call. A married daughter was chattingwith her father while her young baby played among the barrels andcracker boxes. 

The daughter went to a rear window, and gazed up at the mountain. Thecloudless skies were still in hiding behind a curtain of mist. Thewoman was idly watching the vanishing fog wraiths, and her father cameover to her side. Then, the baby cried, and she stepped back. Purvyhimself remained at the window. It was a thing he did not often do. Itleft him exposed, but the most cautiously guarded life has its momentsof relaxed vigilance. He stood there possibly thirty seconds, then asharp fusillade of clear reports barked out and was shattered by thehills into a long reverberation. With a hand clasped to his chest, Purvy turned, walked to the middle of the floor, and fell. 

The henchmen rushed to the open sash. They leaped out, and plunged upthe mountain, tempting the assassin's fire, but the assassin wassatisfied. The mountain was again as quiet as it had been at dawn. Itsimpenetrable mask of green was blank and unresponsive. Somewhere in thecool of the dewy treetops a squirrel barked. Here and there, the birdssaluted the sparkle and freshness of June. Inside, at the middle of thestore, Jesse Purvy shifted his head against his daughter's knee, andsaid, as one stating an expected event:

"Well, they've got me. "

An ordinary mountaineer would have been carried home to die in thedarkness of a dirty and windowless shack. The long-suffering star ofJesse Purvy ordained otherwise. He might go under or he might once morebeat his way back and out of the quicksands of death. At all events, hewould fight for life to the last gasp. 

Twenty miles away in the core of the wilderness, removed from arailroad by a score of semi-perpendicular miles, a fanatic had oncedecided to found a school. The fact that the establishment in thisplace of such a school as his mind pictured was sheer madness andimpossibility did not in the least deter him. It was a thing that couldnot be done, and it was a thing that he had done none the less. 

Now a faculty of ten men, like himself holding degrees of Masters ofDreams, taught such as cared to come such things as they cared tolearn. Substantial two-and three-storied buildings of square-hewn logslay grouped in a sort of Arts and Crafts village around a clean-clippedcampus. The Stagbone College property stretched twenty acres square atthe foot of a hill. The drone of its own saw-mill came across thevalley. In a book-lined library, wainscoted in natural woods of threecolors, the original fanatic often sat reflecting pleasurably on hisfolly. Higher up the hillside stood a small, but model, hospital, witha modern operating table and a case of surgical instruments, which, itwas said, the State could not surpass. These things had been the giftsof friends who liked such a type of God-inspired madness. A "fotched-on"trained nurse was in attendance. From time to time, eminent Bluegrasssurgeons came to Hixon by rail, rode twenty miles on mules, and heldclinics on the mountainside. 

To this haven, Jesse Purvy, the murder lord, was borne in a littercarried on the shoulders of his dependents. Here, as his steadfastguardian star decreed, he found two prominent medical visitors, whohurried him to the operating table. Later, he was removed to a whitebed, with the June sparkle in his eyes, pleasantly modulated throughdrawn blinds, and the June rustle and bird chorus in his ears--and hisown thoughts in his brain. 

Conscious, but in great pain, Purvy beckoned Jim Asberry and AaronHollis, his chiefs of bodyguard, to his bedside, and waved the nurseback out of hearing. 

"If I don't get well, " he said, feebly, "there's a job for you twoboys. I reckon you know what it is?"

They nodded, and Asberry whispered a name:

"Samson South?"

"Yes, " Purvy spoke in a weak whisper; but the old vindictiveness wasnot smothered. "You got the old man, I reckon you can manage the cub. If you don't, he'll get you both one day. "

The two henchmen scowled. 

"I'll git him to-morrer, " growled Asberry. "Thar hain't no sort of usein a-waitin'. "

"No!" For an instant Purvy's voice rose out of its weakness to its oldstaccato tone of command, a tone which brought obedience. "If I getwell, I have other plans. Never mind what they are. That's my business. If I don't die, leave him alone, until I give other orders. " He layback and fought for breath. The nurse came over with gentle insistence, ordering quiet, but the man, whose violent life might be closing, hadbusiness yet to discuss with his confidential vassals. Again, he wavedher back. 

"If I get well, " he went on, "and Samson South is killed meanwhile, Iwon't live long either. It would be my life for his. Keep close to him. The minute you hear of my death--get him. " He paused again, thensupplemented, "You two will find something mighty interestin' in mywill. "

It was afternoon when Purvy reached the hospital, and, at nightfall ofthe same day, there arrived at his store's entrance, on stumbling, hard-ridden mules, several men, followed by two tawny hounds whose long earsflapped over their lean jaws, and whose eyes were listless and tired, but whose black muzzles wrinkled and sniffed with that sensitiveinstinct which follows the man-scent. The ex-sheriff's family wereinstituting proceedings independent of the Chief's orders. The nextmorning, this party plunged into the mountain tangle, and beat thecover with the bloodhounds in leash. 

The two gentle-faced dogs picked their way between the floweringrhododendrons, the glistening laurels, the feathery pine sprouts andthe moss-covered rocks. They went gingerly and alertly on ungainly, cushioned feet. Just as their masters were despairing, they came to aplace directly over the store, where a branch had been bent back andhitched to clear the outlook, and where a boot heel had crushed themoss. There one of them raised his nose high into the air, opened hismouth, and let out a long, deep-chested bay of discovery. 

CHAPTER VI

George Lescott had known hospitality of many brands and degrees. Hehad been the lionized celebrity in places of fashion. He had been theguest of equally famous brother artists in the cities of twohemispheres, and, since sincere painting had been his pole-star, he hadgone where his art's wanderlust beckoned. His most famous canvas, perhaps, was his "Prayer Toward Mecca, " which hangs in theMetropolitan. It shows, with a power that holds the observer in acompelling grip, the wonderful colors of a sunset across the desert. One seems to feel the renewed life that comes to the caravan with thewelcome of the oasis. One seems to hear the grunting of the kneelingcamels and the stirring of the date palms. The Bedouins have spreadtheir prayer-rugs, and behind them burns the west. Lescott caught inthat, as he had caught in his mountain sketches, the broad spirit ofthe thing. To paint that canvas, he had endured days of racking camel-travel and burning heat and thirst. He had followed the lure oftransitory beauty to remote sections of the world. The present trip wasonly one of many like it, which had brought him into touch with varyingpeoples and distinctive types of life. He told himself that never hadhe found men at once so crude and so courteous as these hosts, who, facing personal perils, had still time and willingness to regard hiscomfort. 

They could not speak grammatically; they could hardly offer him thenecessities of life, yet they gave all they had, with a touch ofcourtliness. 

In a fabric soiled and threadbare, one may sometimes trace thetarnished design that erstwhile ran in gold through a rich pattern. Lescott could not but think of some fine old growth gone to seed anddecay, but still bearing at its crest a single beautiful blossom whileit held in its veins a poison. 

Such a blossom was Sally. Her scarlet lips and sweet, grave eyes mighthave been the inheritance gift of some remote ancestress whose feet, instead of being bare and brown, had trod in high-heeled, satinslippers. When Lord Fairfax governed the Province of Virginia, thatfirst Sally, in the stateliness of panniered brocades and powderedhair, may have tripped a measure to the harpsichord or spinet. Certainit is she trod with no more untrammeled grace than her wild descendant. For the nation's most untamed and untaught fragment is, after all, anunamalgamated stock of British and Scottish bronze, which now and thenstrikes back to its beginning and sends forth a pure peal from itscorroded bell-metal. In all America is no other element whose blood isso purely what the Nation's was at birth. 

The coming of the kinsmen, who would stay until the present dangerpassed, had filled the house. The four beds in the cabin proper werefull, and some slept on floor mattresses. Lescott, because a guest andwounded, was given a small room aside. Samson, however, shared hisquarters in order to perform any service that an injured man mightrequire. It had been a full and unusual day for the painter, and itsincidents crowded in on him in retrospect and drove off the possibilityof sleep. Samson, too, seemed wakeful, and in the isolation of the darkroom the two men fell into conversation, which almost lasted out thenight. Samson went into the confessional. This was the first humanbeing he had ever met to whom he could unburden his soul. 

The thirst to taste what knowledge lay beyond the hills; the unnamedwanderlust that had at times brought him a restiveness so poignant asto be agonizing; the undefined attuning of his heart to the beauty ofsky and hill; these matters he had hitherto kept locked in guiltysilence. To the men of his clan these were eccentricities bordering onthe abnormal; frailties to be passed over with charity, as one wouldpass over the infirmities of an afflicted child. To Samson they lookedas to a sort of feud Messiah. His destiny was stern, and held no placefor dreams. For him, they could see only danger in an insatiable hungerfor learning. In a weak man, a school-teacher or parson sort of a man, that might be natural, but this young cock of their walk was beingreared for the pit--for conflict. What was important in him wasstamina, and sharp strength of spur. These qualities he had proven frominfancy. Weakening proclivities must be eliminated. 

So, the boy had been forced to keep throttled impulses that, for beingthrottled, had smoldered and set on fire the inner depths of his soul. During long nights, he had secretly digested every available book. Yet, in order to vindicate himself from the unspoken accusation of growingweak, of forgetting his destiny, he had courted trouble, and soughtcombat. He was too close to his people's point of view for perspective. He shared their idea that the thinking man weakens himself as afighting man. He had never heard of a Cyrano de Bergerac, or an Aramis. Now had come some one with whom he could talk: a man who had traveledand followed, without shame, the beckoning of Learning and Beauty. Atonce, the silent boy found himself talking intimately, and the artistfound himself studying one of the strangest human paradoxes he had yetseen. 

In a cove, or lowland pocket, stretching into the mountainside, laythe small and meager farm of the Widow Miller. The Widow Miller was a"South"; that is to say she fell, by tie of marriage, under theprotection of the clan-head. She lived alone with her fourteen-year-oldson and her sixteen-year-old daughter. The daughter was Sally. Atsixteen, the woman's figure had been as pliantly slim, her step aslight as was her daughter's now. At forty, she was withered. Her facewas hard, and her lips had forgotten how to smile. Her shoulderssagged, and she was an old woman, who smoked her pipe, and taught herchildren that rudimentary code of virtue to which the mountainssubscribe. She believed in a brimstone hell and a personal devil. Shebelieved that the whale had swallowed Jonah, but she thought that "Thoushalt not kill" was an edict enunciated by the Almighty with mentalreservations. 

The sun rose on the morning after Lescott arrived, the mists lifted, and the cabin of the Widow Miller stood revealed. Against its cornersseveral hogs scraped their bristled backs with satisfied grunts. Anoisy rooster cocked his head inquiringly sidewise before the opendoor, and, hopping up to the sill, invaded the main room. A towsled-headed boy made his way to the barn to feed the cattle, and a red patchof color, as bright and tuneful as a Kentucky cardinal, appeared at thedoor between the morning-glory vines. The red patch of color was Sally. 

She made her way, carrying a bucket, to the spring, where she kneltdown and gazed at her own image in the water. Her grave lips broke intoa smile, as the reflected face, framed in its mass of reflected redhair, gazed back at her. Then, the smile broke into a laugh. 

"Hello, Sally Miller!" she gaily accosted her picture-self. "How airye this mornin', Sally Miller?"

She plunged her face deep in the cool spring, and raised it to shakeback her hair, until the water flew from its masses. She laughed again, because it was another day, and because she was alive. She waded aboutfor a while where the spring joined the creek, and delightedly watchedthe schools of tiny, almost transparent, minnows that darted away ather coming. Then, standing on a rock, she paused with her head bent, and listened until her ears caught the faint tinkle of a cowbell, whichshe recognized. Nodding her head joyously, she went off into the woods, to emerge at the end of a half-hour later, carrying a pail of milk, andsmiling joyously again--because it was almost breakfast time. 

But, before going home, she set down her bucket by the stream, and, with a quick glance toward the house to make sure that she was notobserved, climbed through the brush, and was lost to view. She followeda path that her own feet had made, and after a steep course upward, came upon a bald face of rock, which stood out storm-battered where arift went through the backbone of the ridge. This point of vantagecommanded the other valley. From its edge, a white oak, dwarfed, butpatriarchal, leaned out over an abrupt drop. No more sweeping orsplendid view could be had within miles, but it was not for any reasonso general that Sally had made her pilgrimage. Down below, across thetreetops, were a roof and a chimney from which a thread of smoke rosein an attenuated shaft. That was Spicer South's house, and Samson'shome. The girl leaned against the gnarled bowl of the white oak, andwaved toward the roof and chimney. She cupped her hands, and raisedthem to her lips like one who means to shout across a great distance, then she whispered so low that only she herself could hear:

"Hello, Samson South!"

She stood for a space looking down, and forgot to laugh, while hereyes grew religiously and softly deep, then, turning, she ran down theslope. She had performed her morning devotions. 

That day at the house of Spicer South was an off day. The kinsmen whohad stopped for the night stayed on through the morning. Nothing wassaid of the possibility of trouble. The men talked crops, and tossedhorseshoes in the yard; but no one went to work in the fields, and allremained within easy call. Only young Tamarack Spicer, a raw-bonednephew, wore a sullen face, and made a great show of cleaning his rifleand pistol. He even went out in the morning, and practised at target-shooting, and Lescott, who was still very pale and weak, but able towander about at will, gained the impression that in young Tamarack hewas seeing the true type of the mountain "bad-man. " Tamarack seemedwilling to feed that idea, and admitted apart to Lescott that, while heobeyed the dictates of the truce, he found them galling, and wasstraining at his leash. 

"I don't take nothin' offen nobody, " he sullenly confided. "TheHollmans gives me my half the road. "

Shortly after dinner, he disappeared, and, when the afternoon was welladvanced, Samson, too, with his rifle on his arm, strolled toward thestile. Old Spicer South glanced up, and removed his pipe from his mouthto inquire:

"Whar be ye a-goin'?"

"I hain't a-goin' fur, " was the non-committal response. 

"Meybe hit mout be a good idea ter stay round clost fer a spell. " Theold man made the suggestion casually, and the boy replied in the samefashion. 

"I hain't a-goin' ter be outen sight. "

He sauntered down the road, but, when he had passed out of vision, heturned sharply into the woods, and began climbing. His steps carriedhim to the rift in the ridge where the white oak stood sentinel overthe watch-tower of rock. As he came over the edge from one side, hisbare feet making no sound, he saw Sally sitting there, with her handsresting on the moss and her eyes deeply troubled. She was gazingfixedly ahead, and her lips were trembling. At once Samson's face grewblack. Some one had been making Sally unhappy. Then, he saw beyond hera standing figure, which the tree trunk had hitherto concealed. It wasthe loose-knitted figure of young Tamarack Spicer. 

"In course, " Spicer was saying, "we don't 'low Samson shot JessePurvy, but them Hollmans'll 'spicion him, an' I heered just now, thetthem dawgs was trackin' straight up hyar from the mouth of Misery. They'll git hyar against sundown. "

Samson leaped violently forward. With one hand, he roughly seized hiscousin's shoulder, and wheeled him about. 

"Shet up!" he commanded. "What damn fool stuff hev ye been tellin'Sally?"

For an instant, the two clansmen stood fronting each other. Samson'sface was set and wrathful. Tamarack's was surly and snarling. "Hain't Igot a license ter tell Sally the news?" he demanded. 

"Nobody hain't got no license, " retorted the younger man in the quietof cold anger, "ter tell Sally nothin' thet'll fret her. "

"She air bound ter know, hit all pretty soon. Them dawgs----"

"Didn't I tell ye ter shet up?" Samson clenched his fists, and took astep forward. "Ef ye opens yore mouth again, I'm a-goin' ter smash hit. Now, git!"

Tamarack Spicer's face blackened, and his teeth showed. His right handswept to his left arm-pit. Outwardly he seemed weaponless, but Samsonknew that concealed beneath the hickory shirt was a holster, wornmountain fashion. 

"What air ye a-reachin' atter, Tam'rack?" he inquired, his lipstwisting in amusement. 

"Thet's my business. "

"Well, get hit out--or git out yeself, afore I throws ye offen theclift. "

Sally showed no symptoms of alarm. Her confidence in her hero wasabsolute. The boy lifted his hand, and pointed off down the path. Slowly and with incoherent muttering, Spicer took himself away. Thenonly did Sally rise. She came over, and laid a hand on Samson'sshoulder. In her blue eyes, the tears were welling. 

"Samson, " she whispered, "ef they're atter ye, come ter my house. Ikin hide ye out. Why didn't ye tell me Jesse Purvy'd done been shot?"

"Hit tain't nothin' ter fret about, Sally, " he assured her. He spokeawkwardly, for he had been trained to regard emotion as unmanly. "Tharhain't no danger. "

She gazed searchingly into his eyes, and then, with a short sob, threwher arms around him, and buried her face on his shoulder. 

"Ef anything happens ter ye, Samson, " she said, brokenly, "hit'll jestkill me. I couldn't live withouten ye, Samson. I jest couldn't do hit!"

The boy took her in his arms, and pressed her close. His eyes weregazing off over her bent head, and his lips twitched. He drew hisfeatures into a scowl, because that was the only expression with whichhe could safeguard his feelings. His voice was husky. 

"I reckon, Sally, " he said, "I couldn't live withouten you, neither. "

The party of men who had started at morning from Jesse Purvy's storehad spent a hard day. The roads followed creek-beds, crossing andrecrossing waterways in a fashion that gave the bloodhounds a hundredbaffling difficulties. Often, their noses lost the trail, which had atfirst been so surely taken. Often, they circled and whined, and haltedin perplexity, but each time they came to a point where, at the end, one of them again raised his muzzle skyward, and gave voice. 

Toward evening, they were working up Misery along a course lessbroken. The party halted for a moment's rest, and, as the bottle waspassed, the man from Lexington, who had brought the dogs and stayed toconduct the chase, put a question:

"What do you call this creek?"

"Hit's Misery. "

"Does anybody live on Misery that--er--that you might suspect?"

The Hollmans laughed. 

"This creek is settled with Souths thicker'n hops. "

The Lexington man looked up. He knew what the name of South meant to aHollman. 

"Is there any special South, who might have a particular grudge?"

"The Souths don't need no partic'lar grudge, but thar's young SamsonSouth. He's a wildcat. "

"He lives this way?"

"These dogs air a-makin' a bee-line fer his house. " Jim Hollman wasspeaking. Then he added: "I've done been told that Samson denies doin'the shootin', an' claims he kin prove an alibi. "

The Lexington man lighted his pipe, and poured a drink of red whiskeyinto a flask cup. 

"He'd be apt to say that, " he commented, coolly. "These dogs haven'tany prejudice in the matter. I'll stake my life on their telling thetruth. "

An hour later, the group halted again. The master of hounds mopped hisforehead. 

"Are we still going toward Samson South's house?" he inquired. 

"We're about a quarter from hit now, an' we hain't never varied fromthe straight road. "

"Will they be apt to give us trouble?"

Jim Hollman smiled. 

"I hain't never heered of no South submittin' ter arrest by a Hollman. "

The trailers examined their firearms, and loosened their holster-flaps. The dogs went forward at a trot. 

CHAPTER VII

From time to time that day, neighbors had ridden up to Spicer South'sstile, and drawn rein for gossip. These men brought bulletins as to theprogress of the hounds, and near sundown, as a postscript to theirinformation, a volley of gunshot signals sounded from a mountain top. No word was spoken, but in common accord the kinsmen rose from theirchairs, and drifted toward their leaning rifles. 

"They're a-comin' hyar, " said the head of the house, curtly. "Samsonought ter be home. Whar's Tam'-rack?"

No one had noticed his absence until that moment, nor was he to befound. A few minutes later, Samson's figure swung into sight, and hisuncle met him at the fence. 

"Samson, I've done asked ye all the questions I'm a-goin' ter ask ye, "he said, "but them dawgs is makin' fer this house. They've jest beensighted a mile below. "

Samson nodded. 

"Now"--Spicer South's face hardened--"I owns down thar ter the road. No man kin cross that fence withouten I choose ter give him leave. Efye wants ter go indoors an' stay thar, ye kin do hit--an' no dawg nerno man hain't a-goin' ter ask ye no questions. But, ef ye sees fit terface hit out, I'd love ter prove ter these hyar men thet us Southsdon't break our word. We done agreed ter this truce. I'd like terinvite 'em in, an' let them damn dawgs sniff round the feet of everyman in my house--an' then, when they're plumb teetotally damnsatisfied, I'd like ter tell 'em all ter go ter hell. Thet's the way Ifeels, but I'm a-goin' ter do jest what ye says. "

Lescott did not overhear the conversation in full, but he saw the oldman's face work with suppressed passion, and he caught Samson's louderreply. 

"When them folks gets hyar, Uncle Spicer, I'm a-goin' ter be a-settin'right out thar in front. I'm plumb willin' ter invite 'em in. " Then, the two men turned toward the house. 

Already the other clansmen had disappeared noiselessly through thedoor or around the angles of the walls. The painter found himself alonein a scene of utter quiet, unmarred by any note that was not peaceful. He had seen many situations charged with suspense and danger, and henow realized how thoroughly freighted was the atmosphere about SpicerSouth's cabin with the possibilities of bloodshed. The moments seemedto drag interminably. In the expressionless faces that so quietlyvanished; in the absolutely calm and businesslike fashion in which, with no spoken order, every man fell immediately into his place ofreadiness and concealment, he read an ominous portent that sent acurrent of apprehension through his arteries. Into his mind flashed allthe historical stories he had heard of the vendetta life of thesewooded slopes, and he wondered if he was to see another chapter enactedin the next few minutes, while the June sun and soft shadows drowsed soquietly across the valley. 

While he waited, Spicer South's sister, the prematurely aged crone, appeared in the kitchen door with the clay pipe between her teeth, andraised a shading hand to gaze off up the road. She, too, understood thetenseness of the situation as her grim, but unflinching, featuresshowed; yet even in her feminine eyes was no shrinking and on her face, inured to fear, was no tell-tale signal beyond a heightened pallor. 

Spicer South looked up at her, and jerked his head toward the house. 

"Git inside, M'lindy, " he ordered, curtly, and without a word she, too, turned and disappeared. 

But there was another figure, unseen, its very presence unsuspected, watching from near by with a pounding heart and small fingers clutchingin wild terror at a palpitant breast. In this country, where humancreatures seemed to share with the "varmints" the faculty of movingunseen and unheard, the figure had come stealthily to watch--and pray. 

When Samson had heard that signal of the gunshots from a distant peak, he had risen from the rock where he sat with Sally. He had said nothingof the issue he must go to meet; nothing of the enemies who had broughtdogs, confident that they would make their run straight to his lair. That subject had not been mentioned between them since he had drivenTamarack away that afternoon, and reassured her. He had only risencasually, as though his action had no connection with the signal of therifles, and said:

"Reckon I'll be a-goin'. "

And Sally had said nothing either, except good-by, and had turned herface toward her own side of the ridge, but, as soon as he had passedout of sight, she had wheeled and followed noiselessly, slipping fromrhododendron clump to laurel thicket as stealthily as though she wereherself the object of an enemy's attack. She knew that Samson wouldhave sent her back, and she knew that a crisis was at hand, and thatshe could not support the suspense of awaiting the news. She must seefor herself. 

And now, while the stage was setting itself, the girl crouchedtrembling a little way up the hillside, at the foot of a titanicpoplar. About her rose gray, moss-covered rocks and the fronds ofclinging ferns. At her feet bloomed wild flowers for which she knew nonames except those with which she had herself christened them, "sunsetty flowers" whose yellow petals suggested to her imagination thewestern skies, and "fairy cups and saucers. "

She was not trembling for herself, though, if a fusillade broke outbelow, the masking screen of leafage would not protect her from thepelting of stray bullets. Her small face was pallid, and her blue eyeswide-stretched and terrified. With a catch in her throat, she shiftedfrom her crouching attitude to a kneeling posture, and clasped herhands desperately, and raised her face, while her lips moved in prayer. She did not pray aloud, for even in her torment of fear for the boy sheloved, her mountain caution made her noiseless--and the God to whom sheprayed could hear her equally well in silence. 

"Oh, God, " pleaded the girl, brokenly, "I reckon ye knows thet themHollmans is atter Samson, an' I reckons ye knows he hain't committed nosin. I reckon ye knows, since ye knows all things, thet hit'll kill meef I loses him, an' though I hain't nobody but jest Sally Miller, an'ye air Almighty God, I wants ye ter hear my prayin', an' pertect him. "

Fifteen minutes later, Lescott, standing at the fence, saw a strangecavalcade round the bend of the road. Several travel-stained men wereleading mules, and holding two tawny and impatient dogs in leash. Intheir number, the artist recognized his host of two nights ago. 

They halted at a distance, and in their faces the artist read dismay, for, while the dogs were yelping confidently and tugging at theircords, young Samson South--who should, by their prejudiced convictions, be hiding out in some secret stronghold--sat at the top step of thestile, smoking his pipe, and regarded them with a lack-luster absenceof interest. Such a calm reception was uncanny. The trailers felt surethat in a moment more the dogs would fall into accusing excitement. Logically, these men should be waiting to receive them behindbarricaded doors. There must be some hidden significance. Possibly, itwas an invitation to walk into ambuscade. No doubt, unseen riflescovered their approach, and the shooting of Purvy was only theinaugural step to a bloody and open outbreak of the war. After awhispered conference, the Lexington man came forward alone. Old SpicerSouth had been looking on from the door, and was now strolling out tomeet the envoy, unarmed. 

And the envoy, as he came, held his hands unnecessarily far away fromhis sides, and walked with an ostentatious show of peace. 

"Evenin', stranger, " hailed the old man. "Come right in. "

"Mr. South, " began the dog-owner, with some embarrassment, "I havebeen employed to furnish a pair of bloodhounds to the family of JessePurvy, who has been shot. "

"I heerd tell thet Purvy was shot, " said the head of the Souths in anaffable tone, which betrayed no deeper note of interest thanneighborhood gossip might have elicited. 

"I have no personal interest in the matter, " went on the stranger, hastily, as one bent on making his attitude clear, "except to supplythe dogs and manage them. I do not in any way direct their course; Imerely follow. "

"Ye can't hardly fo'ce a dawg. " Old Spicer sagely nodded his head ashe made the remark. "A dawg jest natcher'ly follers his own nose. "

"Exactly--and they have followed their noses here. " The Lexington manfound the embarrassment of his position growing as the colloquyproceeded. "I want to ask you whether, if these dogs want to cross yourfence, I have your permission to let them?"

The cabin in the yard was utterly quiet. There was no hint of theseven or eight men who rested on their arms behind its half-open door. The master of the house crossed the stile, the low sun shining on hisshock of gray hair, and stood before the man-hunter. He spoke so thathis voice carried to the waiting group in the road. 

"Ye're plumb welcome ter turn them dawgs loose, an' let 'em ramble, stranger. Nobody hain't a-goin' ter hurt 'em. I sees some fellers outthar with ye thet mustn't cross my fence. Ef they does"--the voice rangmenacingly--"hit'll mean that they're a-bustin' the truce--an' theywon't never go out ag'in. But you air safe in hyar. I gives yer my handon thet. Ye're welcome, an' yore dawgs is welcome. I hain't got nothin''gainst dawgs thet comes on four legs, but I shore bars the two-leggedkind. "

There was a murmur of astonishment from the road. Disregarding it, Spicer South turned his face toward the house. 

"You boys kin come out, " he shouted, "an' leave yore guns inside. "

The leashes were slipped from the dogs. They leaped forward, and madedirectly for Samson, who sat as unmoving as a lifeless image on the topstep of the stile. Up on the hillside the fingernails of Sally Miller'sclenched hands cut into the flesh, and the breath stopped between herparted and bloodless lips. There was a half-moment of terrificsuspense, then the beasts clambered by the seated figure, passing oneach side and circled aimlessly about the yard--their quest unended. They sniffed indifferently about the trouser legs of the men whosauntered indolently out of the door. They trotted into the house andout again, and mingled with the mongrel home pack that snarled andgrowled hostility for this invasion. Then, they came once more to thestile. As they climbed out, Samson South reached up and stroked a tawnyhead, and the bloodhound paused a moment to wag its tail in friendship, before it jumped down to the road, and trotted gingerly onward. 

"I'm obliged to you, sir, " said the man from the Bluegrass, with avoice of immense relief. 

The moment of suspense seemed past, and, in the relief of the avertedclash, the master of hounds forgot that his dogs stood branded as falsetrailers. But, when he rejoined the group in the road, he found himselflooking into surly visages, and the features of Jim Hollman inparticular were black in their scowl of smoldering wrath. 

"Why didn't ye axe him, " growled the kinsman of the man who had beenshot, "whar the other feller's at?"

"What other fellow?" echoed the Lexington man. 

Jim Hollman's voice rose truculently, and his words drifted, as hemeant them to, across to the ears of the clansmen who stood in the yardof Spicer South. 

"Them dawgs of your'n come up Misery a-hellin'. They hain't neverturned aside, an', onless they're plumb ornery no-'count curs thetdon't know their business, they come for some reason. They seemedmighty interested in gittin' hyar. Axe them fellers in thar who's beenhyar thet hain't hyar now? Who is ther feller thet got out afore wecome hyar. "

At this veiled charge of deceit, the faces of the Souths againblackened, and the men near the door of the house drifted in to driftpresently out again, swinging discarded Winchesters at their sides. Itseemed that, after all, the incident was not closed. The man fromLexington, finding himself face to face with a new difficulty, turnedand argued in a low voice with the Hollman leader. But Jim Hollman, whose eyes were fixed on Samson, refused to talk in a modulated tone, and he shouted his reply:

"I hain't got nothin' ter whisper about, " he proclaimed. "Go axe 'emwho hit war thet got away from hyar. "

Old Spicer South stood leaning on his fence, and his ruggedcountenance stiffened. He started to speak, but Samson rose from thestile, and said, in a composed voice:

"Let me talk ter this feller, Unc' Spicer. " The old man nodded, andSamson beckoned to the owner of the dogs. 

"We hain't got nothin' ter say ter them fellers with ye, " heannounced, briefly. "We hain't axin' 'em no questions, an' we hain'tanswerin' none. Ye done come hyar with dawgs, an' we hain't stopped ye. We've done answered all the questions them dawgs hes axed. We donetreated you an' yore houn's plumb friendly. Es fer them other men, wehain't got nothin' ter say ter 'em. They done come hyar because theyhoped they could git me in trouble. They done failed. Thet road belongster the county. They got a license ter travel hit, but this strip righthyar hain't ther healthiest section they kin find. I reckon ye'd betteradvise 'em ter move on. "

The Lexington man went back. For a minute or two, Jim Hollman satscowling down in indecision from his saddle. Then, he admitted tohimself that he had done all he could do without becoming theaggressor. For the moment, he was beaten. He looked up, and from theroad one of the hounds raised its voice and gave cry. That bayingafforded an excuse for leaving, and Jim Hollman seized upon it. 

"Go on, " he growled. "Let's see what them damned curs hes ter say now. "

Mounting, they kicked their mules into a jog. From the men inside thefence came no note of derision; no hint of triumph. They stood lookingout with expressionless, mask-like faces until their enemies had passedout of sight around the shoulder of the mountain. The Souths had metand fronted an accusation made after the enemy's own choice and method. A jury of two hounds had acquitted them. It was not only because thedogs had refused to recognize in Samson a suspicious character that theenemy rode on grudgingly convinced, but, also, because the family, which had invariably met hostility with hostility, had so willinglycourted the acid test of guilt or innocence. 

Samson, passing around the corner of the house, caught a flash of redup among the green clumps of the mountainside, and, pausing to gaze atit, saw it disappear into the thicket of brush. He knew then that Sallyhad followed him, and why she had done it, and, framing a stern rebukefor the foolhardiness of the venture, he plunged up the acclivity inpursuit. But, as he made his way cautiously, he heard around theshoulder of a mass of piled-up sandstone a shaken sobbing, and, slipping toward it, found the girl bent over with her face in herhands, her slander body convulsively heaving with the weeping ofreaction, and murmuring half-incoherent prayers of thanksgiving for hisdeliverance. 

"Sally!" he exclaimed, hurrying over and dropping to his knees besideher. "Sally, thar hain't nothin' ter fret about, little gal. Hit's allright. "

She started up at the sound of his voice, and then, pillowing her headon his shoulder, wept tears of happiness. He sought for words, but nowords came, and his lips and eyes, unused to soft expressions, drewthemselves once more into the hard mask with which he screened hisheart's moods. 

Days passed uneventfully after that. The kinsmen dispersed to theirscattered coves and cabins. Now and again came a rumor that Jesse Purvywas dying, but always hard on its heels came another to the effect thatthe obdurate fighter had rallied, though the doctors held out smallencouragement of recovery. 

One day Lescott, whose bandaged arm gave him much pain, but who wasable to get about, was strolling not far from the house with Samson. They were following a narrow trail along the mountainside, and, at asound no louder than the falling of a walnut, the boy halted and laid asilencing hand on the painter's shoulder. Then followed an unspokencommand in his companion's eyes. Lescott sank down behind a rock, cloaked with glistening rhododendron leafage, where Samson had alreadycrouched, and become immovable and noiseless. They had been there onlya short time when they saw another figure slipping quietly from tree totree below them. 

For a time, the mountain boy watched the figure, and the painter sawhis lips draw into a straight line, and his eyes narrow with a glint oftense hate. Yet, a moment later, with a nod to follow, the boyunexpectedly rose into view, and his features were absolutelyexpressionless. 

"Mornin', Jim, " he called. 

The slinking stranger whirled with a start, and an instinctive motionas though to bring his rifle to his shoulder. But, seeing Samson'speaceable manner, he smiled, and his own demeanor became friendly. 

"Mornin', Samson. "

"Kinder stranger in this country, hain't ye, Jim?" drawled the boy wholived there, and the question brought a sullen flush to the other'scheekbones. 

"Jest a-passin' through, " he vouchsafed. 

"I reckon ye'd find the wagon road more handy, " suggested Samson. "Some folks might 'spicion ye fer stealin' long through the timber. "

The skulking traveler decided to lie plausibly. He laughedmendaciously. "That's the reason, Samson. I was kinder skeered ter gothrough this country in the open. "

Samson met his eye steadily, and said slowly:

"I reckon, Jim, hit moughtn't be half es risky fer ye ter walkupstandin' along Misery, es ter go a-crouchin'. Ye thinks ye've been ashadderin' me. I knows jest whar ye've been all the time. Ye lies whenye talks 'bout passin' through. Ye've done been spyin' hyar, ever sinceJesse Purvy got shot, an' all thet time ye've done been watched yeself. I reckon hit'll be healthier fer ye ter do yore spyin' from t'otherside of the ridge. I reckon yer allowin' ter git me ef Purvy dies, butwe're watchin' ye. "

Jim Asberry's face darkened, but he said nothing. There was nothing tosay. He was discovered in the enemy's country, and must accept theenemy's terms. 

"This hyar time, I lets ye go back, " said Samson, "fer the reason thetI'm tryin' like all hell ter keep this truce. But ye must stay on yoreside, or else ride the roads open. How is Purvy terday?"

"He's mighty porely, " replied the other, in a sullen voice. 

"All right. Thet's another reason why hit hain't healthy fer ye overhyar. "

The spy turned, and made his way over the mountain. 

"Damn him!" muttered Samson, his face twitching, as the other was lostin the undergrowth. "Some day I'm a-goin' ter git him. "

Tamarack Spicer did not at once reappear, and, when one of the Southsmet another in the road, the customary dialogue would be: "Heeredanything of Tamarack?" ... "No, hev you?" ... "No, nary a word. "

As Lescott wandered through the hills, his unhurt right hand begancrying out for action and a brush to nurse. As he watched, day afterday, the unveiling of the monumental hills, and the transitions fromhazy wraith-like whispers of hues, to strong, flaring riot of color, this fret of restlessness became actual pain. He was wasting wonderfulopportunity and the creative instinct in him was clamoring. 

One morning, when he came out just after sunrise to the tin wash basinat the well, the desire to paint was on him with compelling force. Thehills ended near their bases like things bitten off. Beyond laylimitless streamers of mist, but, while he stood at gaze, the filmyveil began to lift and float higher. Trees and mountains grew taller. The sun, which showed first as a ghost-like disc of polished aluminum, struggled through orange and vermilion into a sphere of living flame. It was as though the Creator were breathing on a formless void tokindle it into a vital and splendid cosmos, and between the dawn's fogand the radiance of full day lay a dozen miracles. Through rifts in thestreamers, patches of hillside and sky showed for an ethereal moment ortwo in tender and transparent coloration, like spirit-reflections ofemerald and sapphire.... Lescott heard a voice at his side. 

"When does ye 'low ter commence paintin'?"

It was Samson. For answer, the artist, with his unhurt hand, impatiently tapped his bandaged wrist. 

"Ye still got yore right hand, hain't ye?" demanded the boy. The otherlaughed. It was a typical question. So long as one had the triggerfinger left, one should not admit disqualification. 

"You see, Samson, " he explained, "this isn't precisely like handling agun. One must hold the palette; mix the colors; wipe the brushes and dohalf a dozen equally necessary things. It requires at least twoperfectly good hands. Many people don't find two enough. "

"But hit only takes one ter do the paintin', don't hit?"

"Yes. "

"Well"--the boy spoke diffidently but with enthusiasm--"between thetwo of us, we've got three hands. I reckon ye kin larn me how ter dothem other things fer ye. "

Lescott's surprise showed in his face, and the lad swept eagerly on. 

"Mebby hit hain't none of my business, but, all day yestiddy an' theday befo', I was a-studyin' 'bout this here thing, an' I hustled up an'got thet corn weeded, an' now I'm through. Ef I kin help ye out, Ithought mebby--" He paused, and looked appealingly at the artist. 

Lescott whistled, and then his face lighted into contentment. 

"To-day, Samson, " he announced, "Lescott, South and Company get busy. "

It was the first time he had seen Samson smile, and, although theexpression was one of sheer delight, inherent somberness loaned it atouch of the wistful. 

When, an hour later, the two set out, the mountain boy carried theparaphernalia, and the old man standing at the door watched them offwith a half-quizzical, half-disapproving glance. To interfere with anyact of courtesy to a guest was not to be thought of, but already theinfluence on Samson of this man from the other world was disquietinghis uncle's thoughts. With his mother's milk, the boy had fed on hatredof his enemies. With his training, he had been reared to feudalanimosities. Disaffection might ruin his usefulness. Besides thesketching outfit, Samson carried his rifle. He led the painter by slowstages, since the climb proved hard for a man still somewhat enfeebled, to the high rock which Sally visited each morning. 

As the boy, with remarkable aptitude, learned how to adjust the easeland arrange the paraphernalia, Lescott sat drinking in through thirstyeyes the stretch of landscape he had determined to paint. 

It was his custom to look long and studiously through closed lashesbefore he took up his brush. After that he began laying in his keytones and his fundamental sketching with an incredible swiftness, having already solved his problems of composition and analysis. 

Then, while he painted, the boy held the palette, his eyes riveted onthe canvas, which was growing from a blank to a mirror of vistas--andthe boy's pupils became deeply hungry. He was not only looking. He wasseeing. His gaze took in the way the fingers held the brushes; themanner of mixing the pigments, the detail of method. Sometimes, when hesaw a brush dab into a color whose use he did not at once understand, he would catch his breath anxiously, then nod silently to himself asthe blending vindicated the choice. He did not know it, but his eye forcolor was as instinctively true as that of the master. 

As the day wore on, they fell to talking, and the boy again foundhimself speaking of his fettered restiveness in the confinement of hislife; of the wanderlust which stirred him, and of which he had beentaught to feel ashamed. 

During one of their periods of rest, there was a rustle in thebranches of a hickory, and a gray shape flirted a bushy tail. Samson'shand slipped silently out, and the rifle came to his shoulder. In amoment it snapped, and a squirrel dropped through the leaves. 

"Jove!" exclaimed Lescott, admiringly. "That was neat work. He waspartly behind the limb--at a hundred yards. "

"Hit warn't nothin', " said Samson, modestly. "Hit's a good gun. " Hebrought back his quarry, and affectionately picked up the rifle. It wasa repeating Winchester, carrying a long steel-jacketed bullet ofspecial caliber, but it was of a pattern fifteen years old, and fittedwith target sights. 

"That gun, " Samson explained, in a lowered and reverent voice, "was mypap's. I reckon there hain't enough money in the world ter buy hit offen me. "

Slowly, in a matter-of-fact tone, he began a story without decorationof verbiage--straightforward and tense in its simplicity. As thepainter listened, he began to understand; the gall that had crept intothis lad's blood before his weaning became comprehensible.... KillingHollmans was not murder.... It was duty. He seemed to see the smoke-blackened cabin and the mother of the boy sitting, with drawn face, indread of the hours. He felt the racking nerve-tension of a life inwhich the father went forth each day leaving his family in fear that hewould not return. Then, under the spell of the unvarnished recital, heseemed to witness the crisis when the man, who had dared repudiate thelawless law of individual reprisal, paid the price of his insurgency. 

A solitary friend had come in advance to break the news. His face, when he awkwardly commenced to speak, made it unnecessary to put thestory into words. Samson told how his mother had turned pallid, andstretched out her arm gropingly for support against the door-jamb. Thenthe man had found his voice with clumsy directness. 

"They've got him. "

The small boy had reached her in time to break her fall as shefainted, but, later, when they brought in the limp, unconscious man, she was awaiting them with regained composure. An expression came toher face at that moment, said the lad, which had never left it duringthe remaining two years of her life. For some hours, "old" Henry South, who in a less-wasting life would hardly have been middle-aged, hadlingered. They were hours of conscious suffering, with no power tospeak, but before he died he had beckoned his ten-year-old son to hisbedside, and laid a hand on the dark, rumpled hair. The boy bentforward, his eyes tortured and tearless, and his little lips tightpressed. The old man patted the head, and made a feeble gesture towardthe mother who was to be widowed. Samson had nodded. 

"I'll take keer of her, pap, " he had fervently sworn. 

Then, Henry South had lifted a tremulous finger, and pointed to thewall above the hearth. There, upon a set of buck-antlers, hung theWinchester rifle. And, again, Samson had nodded, but this time he didnot speak. That moment was to his mind the most sacred of his life; ithad been a dedication to a purpose. The arms of the father had then andthere been bequeathed to the son, and with the arms a mission for theiruse. After a brief pause, Samson told of the funeral. He had aremarkable way of visualizing in rough speech the desolate picture; thewailing mourners on the bleak hillside, with the November cloudshanging low and trailing their wet streamers. A "jolt-wagon" hadcarried the coffin in lieu of a hearse. Saddled mules stood tetheredagainst the picket fence. The dogs that had followed their mastersstarted a rabbit close by the open grave, and split the silence withtheir yelps as the first clod fell. He recalled, too, the bitter voicewith which his mother had spoken to a kinsman as she turned from theragged burying ground, where only the forlorn cedars were green. Shewas leaning on the boy's thin shoulders at the moment. He had felt herarm stiffen with her words, and, as her arm stiffened, his own positivenature stiffened with it. 

"Henry believed in law and order. I did, too. But they wouldn't let ushave it that way. From this day on, I'm a-goin' to raise my boy to killHollmans. "

CHAPTER VIII

With his father's death Samson's schooling had ended. Hisresponsibility now was farm work and the roughly tender solicitude of ayoung stoic for his mother. His evenings before the broad fireplace hegave up to a devouring sort of study, but his books were few. 

When, two years later, he laid the body of the Widow South beside thatof his father in the ragged hillside burying-ground, he turned hisnag's head away from the cabin where he had been born, and rode over tomake his home at his Uncle Spicer's place. He had, in mountainparlance, "heired" a farm of four hundred acres, but a boy of twelvecan hardly operate a farm, even if he be so stalwart a boy as Samson. His Uncle Spicer wanted him, and he went, and the head of the familytook charge of his property as guardian; placed a kinsman there to tillit, on shares, and faithfully set aside for the boy what revenue camefrom the stony acres. He knew that they would be rich acres when menbegan to dig deeper than the hoe could scratch, and opened the veinswhere the coal slept its unstirring sleep. The old man had not set suchstore by learning as had Samson's father, and the little shaver'seducation ended, except for what he could wrest from stinted sourcesand without aid. His mission of "killing Hollmans" was not forgotten. There had years ago been one general battle at a primary, when the twofactions fought for the control that would insure the victors safetyagainst "law trouble, " and put into their hands the weapons of thecourts. 

Samson was far too young to vote, but he was old enough to fight, andthe account he had given of himself, with the inherited rifle smoking, gave augury of fighting effectiveness. So sanguinary had been thisfight, and so dangerously had it focused upon the warring clans theattention of the outside world, that after its indecisive termination, they made the compact of the present truce. By its terms, the Hollmansheld their civil authority, and the Souths were to be undisturbeddictators beyond Misery. For some years now, the peace had beenunbroken save by sporadic assassinations, none of which could bespecifically enough charged to the feud account to warrant either sidein regarding the contract as broken. Samson, being a child, had beenforced to accept the terms of this peace bondage. The day would comewhen the Souths could agree to no truce without his consent. Such was, in brief, the story that the artist heard while he painted and restedthat day on the rock. Had he heard it in New York, he would havediscounted it as improbable and melodramatic. Now, he knew that it wasonly one of many such chapters in the history of the Cumberlands. Thenative point of view even became in a degree acceptable. In a system oftrial by juries from the vicinage, fair and bold prosecutions for crimewere impossible, and such as pretended to be so were bitterly tragicfarces. He understood why the families of murdered fathers and brotherspreferred to leave the punishment to their kinsmen in the laurel, rather than to their enemies in the jury-box. 

The day of painting was followed by others like it. The disabling ofLescott's left hand made the constant companionship of the boy a matterthat needed no explanation or apology, though not a matter of approvalto his uncle. 

Another week had passed without the reappearance of Tamarack Spicer. 

One afternoon, Lescott and Samson were alone on a cliff-protectedshelf, and the painter had just blocked in with umber and neutral tintthe crude sketch of his next picture. In the foreground was a steepwall, rising palisade-like from the water below. A kingly spruce-pinegave the near note for a perspective which went away across a valley ofcornfields to heaping and distant mountains. Beyond that range, in aslender ribbon of pale purple, one saw the ridge of a more remote andmightier chain. 

The two men had lost an hour huddled under a canopy beneath thecannonading of a sudden storm. They had silently watched titanicbattallions of thunder-clouds riding the skies in gusty puffs of gale, and raking the earth with lightning and hail and water. The crags hadroared back echoing defiance, and the great trees had lashed and bentand tossed like weeds in the buffeting. Every gully had become astream, and every gulch-rock a waterfall. Here and there had been acrashing of spent timber, and now the sun had burst through a rift inthe west, and flooded a segment of the horizon with a strange, luminousfield of lesson. About this zone of clarity were heaped masses of gold-rimmed and rose-edged clouds, still inky at their centers. 

"My God!" exclaimed the mountain boy abruptly. "I'd give 'mostanything ef I could paint that. "

Lescott rose smilingly from his seat before the easel, and surrenderedhis palette and sheaf of brushes. 

"Try it, " he invited. 

For a moment, Samson stood hesitant and overcome with diffidence;then, with set lips, he took his place, and experimentally fitted hisfingers about a brush, as he had seen Lescott do. He asked no advice. He merely gazed for awhile, and then, dipping a brush and experimentingfor his color, went to sweeping in his primary tones. 

The painter stood at his back, still smiling. Of course, the brush-stroke was that of the novice. Of course, the work was clumsy andheavy. But what Lescott noticed was not so much the things that went oncanvas as the mixing of colors on the palette, for he knew that thepalette is the painter's heart, and its colors are the elements of hissoul. What a man paints on canvas is the sum of his acquirement; butthe colors he mixes are the declarations of what his soul can see, andno man can paint whose eyes are not touched with the sublime. At thatmoment, Lescott knew that Samson had such eyes. 

The splashes of lemon yellow that the boy daubed above the hills mighthave been painted with a brush dipped in the sunset. The heavy cloudswith their gossamer edgings had truth of tone and color. Then theexperimenter came to the purple rim of mountain tops. 

There was no color for that on the palette, and he turned to the paint-box. 

"Here, " suggested Lescott, handing him a tube of Payne's Gray: "isthat what you're looking for?"

Samson read the label, and decisively shook his head. 

"I'm a-goin' atter them hills, " he declared. "There hain't no gray inthem thar mountings. "

"Squeeze some out, anyway. " The artist suited the action to the word, and soon Samson was experimenting with a mixture. 

"Why, that hain't no gray, " he announced, with enthusiasm; "thatthar's sort of ashy purple. " Still, he was not satisfied. His firstbrush-stroke showed a trifle dead and heavy. It lacked the soft lucidquality that the hills held, though it was close enough to truth tohave satisfied any eye save one of uncompromising sincerity. Samson, even though he was hopelessly daubing, and knew it, was sincere, andthe painter at his elbow caught his breath, and looked on with theabsorption of a prophet, who, listening to childish prattle, yetrecognizes the gift of prophecy. The boy dabbled for a perplexed momentamong the pigments, then lightened up his color with a trace ofultramarine. Unconsciously, the master heaved a sigh of satisfaction. The boy "laid in" his far hills, and turned. 

"Thet's the way hit looks ter me, " he said, simply. 

"That's the way it is, " commended his critic. 

For a while more, Samson worked at the nearer hills, then he rose. 

"I'm done, " he said. "I hain't a-goin' ter fool with them thar treesan' things. I don't know nothing erbout thet. I can't paint leaves an'twigs an' birdsnests. What I likes is mountings, an' skies, an' sech-like things. "

Lescott looked at the daub before him. A less-trained eye would haveseen only the daub, just as a poor judge of horse-flesh might see onlyawkward joints and long legs in a weanling colt, though it be bred inthe purple. 

"Samson, " he said, earnestly, "that's all there is to art. It's thepower to feel the poetry of color. The rest can be taught. The geniusmust work, of course--work, work, work, and still work, but the Gift isthe power of seeing true--and, by God, boy, you have it. "

His words rang exultantly. 

"Anybody with eyes kin see, " deprecated Samson, wiping his fingers onhis jeans trousers. 

"You think so? To the seer who reads the passing shapes in a globe ofcrystal, it's plain enough. To any other eye, there is nothing therebut transparency. " Lescott halted, conscious that he was falling intometaphor which his companion could not understand, then more quietly hewent on: "I don't know how you would progress, Samson, in detail andtechnique, but I know you've got what many men have struggled alifetime for, and failed. I'd like to have you study with me. I'd liketo be your discoverer. Look here. "

The painter sat down, and speedily went to work. He painted outnothing. He simply toned, and, with precisely the right touch here andthere, softened the crudeness, laid stress on the contrast, melted theharshness, and, when he rose, he had built, upon the rough cornerstoneof Samson's laying, a picture. 

"That proves it, " he said. "I had only to finish. I didn't have toundo. Boy, you're wasting yourself. Come with me, and let me make you. We all pretend there is no such thing, in these days, as sheer genius;but, deep down, we know that, unless there is, there can be no suchthing as true art. There is genius and you have it. " Enthusiasm wasagain sweeping him into an unintended outburst. 

The boy stood silent. Across his countenance swept a conflict ofemotions. He looked away, as if taking counsel with the hills. 

"It's what I'm a-honin' fer, " he admitted at last. "Hit's what I'dgive half my life fer.... I mout sell my land, an' raise the money.... I reckon hit would take passels of money, wouldn't hit?" He paused, andhis eyes fell on the rifle leaning against the tree. His lips tightenedin sudden remembrance. He went over and picked up the gun, and, as hedid so, he shook his head. 

"No, " he stolidly declared; "every man to his own tools. This here'smine. "

Yet, when they were again out sketching, the temptation to play withbrushes once more seized him, and he took his place before the easel. Neither he nor Lescott noticed a man who crept down through the timber, and for a time watched them. The man's face wore a surly, contemptuousgrin, and shortly it withdrew. 

But, an hour later, while the boy was still working industriously andthe artist was lying on his back, with a pipe between his teeth, and hishalf-closed eyes gazing up contentedly through the green of overheadbranches, their peace was broken by a guffaw of derisive laughter. Theylooked up, to find at their backs a semi-circle of scoffing humanity. Lescott's impulse was to laugh, for only the comedy of the situation atthe moment struck him. A stage director, setting a comedy scene withthat most ancient of jests, the gawking of boobs at some new sight, could hardly have improved on this tableau. At the front stood TamarackSpicer, the returned wanderer. His lean wrist was stretched out of aragged sleeve all too short, and his tattered "jimmy" was shoved backover a face all a-grin. His eyes were blood-shot with recent drinking, but his manner was in exaggerated and cumbersome imitation of a ruralmaster of ceremonies. At his back were the raw-boned men and women andchildren of the hills, to the number of a dozen. To the front shuffledan old, half-witted hag, with thin gray hair and pendulous lower lip. Her dress was patched and colorless. Her back was bent with age andrheumatism. Her feet were incased in a pair of man's brogans. She staredand snickered, and several children, taking the cue, giggled, but themen, save Tamarack himself, wore troubled faces, as though recognizingthat their future chieftain had been discovered in some secret shame. They were looking on their idol's feet of clay. 

"Ladies and gentle-_men_, " announced Tamarack Spicer, in ahiccoughy voice, "swing yo' partners an' sashay forward. See the onlyson of the late Henry South engaged in his mar-ve-lous an' heretoforeundiscovered occupation of doin' fancy work. Ladies and gentle-_men_, after this here show is conclooded, keep your seats for the concertin the main tent. This here famous performer will favor ye with a littleexhibition of plain an' fancy sock-darnin'. "

The children snickered again. The old woman shuffled forward. 

"Samson, " she quavered, "I didn't never low ter see ye doin' no sichwoman's work as thet. "

After the first surprise, Samson had turned his back on the group. Hewas mixing paint at the time and he proceeded to experiment with afleeting cloud effect, which would not outlast the moment. He finishedthat, and, reaching for the palette-knife, scraped his fingers andwiped them on his trousers' legs. Then, he deliberately rose. 

Without a word he turned. Tamarack had begun his harangue afresh. Theboy tossed back the long lock from his forehead, and then, with anunexpectedly swift movement, crouched and leaped. His right fist shotforward to Tamarack Spicer's chattering lips, and they abruptly ceasedto chatter as the teeth were driven into their flesh. Spicer's headsnapped back, and he staggered against the onlookers, where he stoodrocking on his unsteady legs. His hand swept instinctively to the shirt-concealed holster, but, before it had connected, both of Samson's fistswere playing a terrific tattoo on his face. The inglorious master ofthe show dropped, and lay groggily trying to rise. 

The laughter died as suddenly as Tamarack's speech. Samson steppedback again, and searched the faces of the group for any lingering signof mirth or criticism. There was none. Every countenance was sober andexpressionless, but the boy felt a weight of unuttered disapproval, andhe glared defiance. One of the older onlookers spoke up reproachfully. 

"Samson, ye hadn't hardly ought ter a-done that. He was jest a funnin'with ye. "

"Git him up on his feet. I've got somethin' ter say ter him. " Theboy's voice was dangerously quiet. It was his first word. They liftedthe fallen cousin, whose entertainment had gone astray, and led himforward grumbling, threatening and sputtering, but evincing noimmediate desire to renew hostilities. 

"Whar hev ye been?" demanded Samson. 

"Thet's my business, " came the familiar mountain phrase. 

"Why wasn't yer hyar when them dawgs come by? Why was ye the onlySouth thet runned away, when they was smellin' round fer Jesse Purvy'sassassin?"

"I didn't run away. " Tamarack's blood-shot eyes flared wickedly. "Iknowed thet ef I stayed 'round hyar with them damned Hollmans stickin'their noses inter our business, I'd hurt somebody. So, I went overinter the next county fer a spell. You fellers mout be able to takethings offen the Hollmans, but I hain't. "

"Thet's a damned lie, " said Samson, quietly. "Ye runned away, an' yerunned in the water so them dawgs couldn't trail ye--ye done hitbecause ye shot them shoots at Jesse Purvy from the laurel--becauseye're a truce-bustin', murderin' bully thet shoots off his face, an' isskeered to fight. " Samson paused for breath, and went on with regainedcalmness. "I've knowed all along ye was the man, an' I've kept quietbecause ye're 'my kin. If ye've got anything else ter say, say hit. But, ef I ever ketches yer talkin' about me, or talkin' ter Sally, I'ma-goin' ter take ye by the scruff of the neck, an' drag ye plumb interHixon, an' stick ye in the jail-house. An' I'm a-goin' ter tell theHigh Sheriff that the Souths spits ye outen their mouths. Take himaway. " The crowd turned and left the place. When they were gone, Samsonseated himself at his easel again, and picked up his palette. 

CHAPTER IX

Lescott had come to the mountains anticipating a visit of two weeks. His accident had resolved him to shorten it to the nearest day uponwhich he felt capable of making the trip out to the railroad. Yet, Junehad ended; July had burned the slopes from emerald to russet-green;August had brought purple tops to the ironweed, and still he foundhimself lingering. And this was true although he recognized a growingsentiment of disapproval for himself. He knew indubitably that he stoodcharged with the offense for which Socrates was invited to drink thehemlock: "corrupting the morals of the youth, and teaching strangegods. " Feeling the virtue of his teaching, he was unwilling as Socratesto abandon the field. In Samson he thought he recognized twin gifts: aspark of a genius too rare to be allowed to flicker out, and apotentiality for constructive work among his own people, which neededfor its perfecting only education and experience. Having aroused asoul's restiveness in the boy, he felt a direct responsibility for itand him, to which he added a deep personal regard. Though the kinsmenlooked upon him as an undesirable citizen, bringing teachings whichthey despised, the hospitality of old Spicer South continued unbrokenand a guarantee of security on Misery. 

"Samson, " he suggested one day when they were alone, "I want you tocome East. You say that gun is your tool, and that each man must stickto his own. You are in part right, in part wrong. A mail uses any toolbetter for understanding other tools. You have the right to use yourbrains and talents to the full. "

The boy's face was somber in the intensity of his mental struggle, andhis answer had that sullen ring which was not really sullenness at all, but self-repression. 

"I reckon a feller's biggest right is to stand by his kinfolks. Unc'Spicer's gittin' old. He's done been good ter me. He needs me here. "

"I appreciate that. He will be older later. You can go now, and comeback to him when he needs you more. If what I urged meant disloyalty toyour people, I would cut out my tongue before I argued for it. You mustbelieve me in that. I want you to be in the fullest sense your people'sleader. I want you to be not only their Samson--but their Moses. "

The boy looked up and nodded. The mountaineer is not given todemonstration. He rarely shakes hands, and he does not indulge insuperlatives of affection. He loved and admired this man from theoutside world, who seemed to him to epitomize wisdom, but his code didnot permit him to say so. 

"I reckon ye aims ter be friendly, all right, " was his conservativeresponse. 

The painter went on earnestly:

"I realize that I am urging things of which your people disapprove, but it is only because they misunderstand that they do disapprove. Theyare too close, Samson, to see the purple that mountains have when theyare far away. I want you to go where you can see the purple. If you arethe sort of man I think, you won't be beguiled. You won't lose yourloyalty. You won't be ashamed of your people. "

"I reckon I wouldn't be ashamed, " said the youth. "I reckon therehain't no better folks nowhar. "

"I'm sure of it. There are going to be sweeping changes in thesemountains. Conditions here have stood as immutably changeless as thehills themselves for a hundred years. That day is at its twilight. Itell you, I know what I'm talking about. The State of Kentucky islooking this way. The State must develop, and it is here alone that itcan develop. In the Bluegrass, the possibilities for change areexhausted. Their fields lie fallow, their woodlands are being stripped. Tobacco has tainted the land. It has shouldered out the timber, and isturning forest to prairie. A land of fertile loam is vying with cheapsoil that can send almost equal crops to market. There is no moretimber to be cut, and when the timber goes the climate changes. Inthese hills lie the sleeping sources of wealth. Here are virgin forestsand almost inexhaustible coal veins. Capital is turning from an orangesqueezed dry, and casting about for fresher food. Capital has seen yourhills. Capital is inevitable, relentless, omnipotent. Where it comes, it makes its laws. Conditions that have existed undisturbed willvanish. The law of the feud, which militia and courts have not beenable to abate, will vanish before Capital's breath like the mists whenthe sun strikes them. Unless you learn to ride the waves which willpresently sweep over your country, you and your people will go under. You may not realize it, but that is true. It is written. "

The boy had listened intently, but at the end he smiled, and in hisexpression was something of the soldier who scents battle, not withoutwelcome. 

"I reckon if these here fellers air a-comin' up here ter run things, an' drownd out my folks, hit's a right good reason fer me ter stay here--an' holp my folks. "

"By staying here, you can't help them. It won't be work for guns, butfor brains. By going away and coming back armed with knowledge, you cansave them. You will know how to play the game. "

"I reckon they won't git our land, ner our timber, ner our coal, without we wants ter sell hit. I reckon ef they tries thet, guns willcome in handy. Things has stood here like they is now, fer a hundredyears. I reckon we kin keep 'em that-away fer a spell longer. " But itwas evident that Samson was arguing against his own belief; that he wastrying to bolster up his resolution and impeached loyalty, and that atheart he was sick to be up and going to a world which did not despise"eddication. " After a little, he waved his hand vaguely toward "downbelow. "

"Ef I went down thar, " he questioned suddenly and irrelevantly, "wouldI hev' ter cut my ha'r?"

"My dear boy, " laughed Lescott, "I can introduce you in New Yorkstudios to many distinguished gentlemen who would feel that their headshad been shorn if they let their locks get as short as yours. In NewYork, you might stroll along Broadway garbed in turban and a_burnouse_ without greatly exciting anybody. I think my own hairis as long as yours. "

"Because, " doggedly declared the mountaineer, "I wouldn't allow nobodyter make me cut my ha'r. "

"Why?" questioned Lescott, amused at the stubborn inflection. 

"I don't hardly know why--" He paused, then admitted with a glare asthough defying criticism: "Sally likes hit that-away--an' I won't letnobody dictate ter me, that's all. "

The leaven was working, and one night Samson announced to his Unclefrom the doorstep that he was "studyin' erbout goin' away fer a spell, an' seein' the world. "

The old man laid down his pipe. He cast a reproachful glance at thepainter, which said clearly, though without words:

"I have opened my home to you and offered you what I had, yet in myold age you take away my mainstay. " For a time, he sat silent, but hisshoulders hunched forward with a sag which they had not held a momentbefore. His seamed face appeared to age visibly and in the moment. Heran one bony hand through his gray mane of hair. 

"I 'lowed you was a-studyin' erbout thet, Samson, " he said, at last. "I've done ther best fer ye I knowed. I kinder 'lowed thet from now onye'd do the same fer me. I'm gittin' along in years right smart.... "

"Uncle Spicer, " interrupted the boy, "I reckon ye knows thet any timeye needed me I'd come back. "

The old man's face hardened. 

"Ef ye goes, " he said, almost sharply, "I won't never send fer ye. Anytime ye ever wants ter come back, ye knows ther way. Thar'll be rooman' victuals fer ye hyar. "

"I reckon I mout be a heap more useful ef I knowed more. "

"I've heered fellers say that afore. Hit hain't never turned out thetway with them what has left the mountings. Mebby they gets more useful, but they don't git useful ter us. Either they don't come back at all, or mebby they comes back full of newfangled notions--an' ashamed oftheir kinfoiks. Thet's the way, I've noticed, hit gen'ally turns out. "

Samson scorned to deny that such might be the case with him, and wassilent. After a time, the old man went on again in a weary voice, as hebent down to loosen his brogans and kick them noisily off on to thefloor:

"The Souths hev done looked to ye a good deal, Samson. They 'lowedthey could depend on ye. Ye hain't quite twenty-one yet, an' I reckon Icould refuse ter let ye sell yer prop'ty. But thar hain't no use tryin'ter hold a feller when he wants ter quit. Ye don't 'low ter go rightaway, do ye?"

"I hain't plumb made up my mind ter go at all, " said the boy, shamefacedly. "But, ef I does go, I hain't a-goin' yit. I hain't spoketer nobody but you about hit yit. "

Lescott felt reluctant to meet his host's eyes at breakfast the nextmorning, dreading their reproach, but, if Spicer South harboredresentment, he meant to conceal it, after the stoic's code. There wasno hinted constraint of cordiality. Lescott felt, however, that inSamson's mind was working the leaven of that unspoken accusation ofdisloyalty. He resolved to make a final play, and seek to enlist Sallyin his cause. If Sally's hero-worship could be made to take the form ofambition for Samson, she might be brought to relinquish him for a time, and urge his going that he might return strengthened. Yet, Sally'sdevotion was so instinctive and so artless that it would takecompelling argument to convince her of any need of change. It wasSamson as he was whom she adored. Any alteration was to be distrusted. Still, Lescott set out one afternoon on his doubtful mission. He wasmore versed in mountain ways than he had been. His own ears could nowdistinguish between the bell that hung at the neck of Sally's brindleheifer and those of old Spicer's cows. He went down to the creek at thehour when he knew Sally, also, would be making her way thither with hermilk-pail, and intercepted her coming. As she approached, she wassinging, and the man watched her from the distance. He was a landscapepainter and not a master of _genre_ or portrait. Yet, he wishedthat he might, before going, paint Sally. She was really, after all, apart of the landscape, as much a thing of nature and the hills as thehollyhocks that had come along the picket-fences. She swayed asgracefully and thoughtlessly to her movements as do strong and pliantstems under the breeze's kiss. Artfulness she had not; nor has theflower: only the joy and fragrance of a brief bloom. It was thatthought which just now struck the painter most forcibly. It wasshameful that this girl and boy should go on to the hard and unlightedlife that inevitably awaited them, if neither had the opportunity ofdevelopment. She would be at forty a later edition of the Widow Miller. He had seen the widow. Sally's charm must be as ephemeral under thelife of illiterate drudgery and perennial child-bearing as her mother'shad been. Her shoulders, now so gloriously straight and strong, wouldsag, and her bosom shrink, and her face harden and take on that drawnmisery of constant anxiety. But, if Samson went and came back with someconception of cherishing his wife--yes, the effort was worth making. Yet, as the girl came down the slope, gaily singing a very melancholysong, the painter broke off in his reflections, and his thoughtsveered. If Samson left, would he ever return? Might not the old manafter all be right? When he had seen other women and tasted otherallurements would he, like Ulysses, still hold his barren Ithaca abovethe gilded invitation of Calypso? History has only one Ulysses. Sally'svoice was lilting like a bird's as she walked happily. The song was oneof those old ballads that have been held intact since the stock learnedto sing them in the heather of the Scotch highlands before there was anAmerica. 

 "'She's pizened me, mother, make my bed soon, Fer I'm sick at my heart and I fain would lay doon. '"

The man rose and went to meet her. 

"Miss Sally, " he began, uncertainly, "I want to talk to you. "

She was always very grave and diffident with Lescott. He was a strangenew type to her, and, though she had begun with a predilection in hisfavor, she had since then come to hold him in adverse prejudice. Beforehis arrival, Samson had been all hers. She had not missed in her loverthe gallantries that she and her women had never known. At evening, when the supper dishes were washed and she sat in the honeysucklefragrance of the young night with the whippoorwills calling, she hadbeen accustomed to hear a particular whippoorwill-note call, much likethe real ones, yet distinct to her waiting ears. She was wont to riseand go to the stile to meet him. She had known that every day shewould, seemingly by chance, meet Samson somewhere along the creek, oron the big bowlder at the rift, or hoeing on the sloping cornfield. These things had been enough. But, of late, his interests had beendivided. This painter had claimed many of his hours and many of histhoughts. There was in her heart an unconfessed jealousy of theforeigner. Now, she scrutinized him solemnly, and nodded. 

"Won't you sit down?" he invited, and the girl dropped cross-legged ona mossy rock, and waited. To-day, she wore a blue print dress, insteadof the red one. It was always a matter of amazement to the man that insuch an environment she was not only wildly beautiful, but invariablythe pink of neatness. She could climb a tree or a mountain, or emergefrom a sweltering blackberry patch, seemingly as fresh and unruffled asshe had been at the start. The man stood uncomfortably looking at her, and was momentarily at a loss for words with which to commence. 

"What was ye a-goin' ter tell me?" she asked. 

"Miss Sally, " he began, "I've discovered something about Samson. "

Her blue eyes flashed ominously. 

"Ye can't tell me nothin' 'bout Samson, " she declared, "withoutenhit's somethin' nice. "

"It's something very nice, " the man reassured her. 

"Then, ye needn't tell me, because I already knows hit, " came herprompt and confident announcement. 

Lescott shook his head, dubiously. 

"Samson is a genius, " he said. 

"What's thet?"

"He has great gifts--great abilities to become a figure in the world. "

She nodded her head, in prompt and full corroboration. 

"I reckon Samson'll be the biggest man in the mountings some day. "

"He ought to be more than that. "

Suspicion at once cast a cloud across the violet serenity of her eyes. 

"What does ye mean?" she demanded. 

"I mean"--the painter paused a moment, and then said bluntly--"I meanthat I want to take him back with me to New York. "

The girl sprang to her feet with her chin defiantly high and her brownhands clenched into tight little fists. Her bosom heaved convulsively, and her eyes blazed through tears of anger. Her face was pale. 

"Ye hain't!" she cried, in a paroxysm of fear and wrath. "Ye hain't a-goin' ter do no sich--no sich of a damn thing!" She stamped her foot, and her whole girlish body, drawn into rigid uprightness, was a-quiverwith the incarnate spirit of the woman defending her home andinstitutions. For a moment after that, she could not speak, but herdetermined eyes blazed a declaration of war. It was as though he hadposed her as the Spirit of the Cumberlands. 

He waited until she should be calmer. It was useless to attemptstemming her momentary torrent of rage. It was like one of the suddenand magnificent tempests that often swept these hills, a brief visit ofthe furies. One must seek shelter and wait. It would end as suddenly asit had come. At last, he spoke, very softly. 

"You don't understand me, Miss Sally. I'm not trying to take Samsonaway from you. If a man should lose a girl like you, he couldn't gainenough in the world to make up for it. All I want is that he shall havethe chance to make the best of his life. "

"I reckon Samson don't need no fotched-on help ter make folksacknowledge him. "

"Every man needs his chance. He can be a great painter--but that's theleast part of it. He can come back equipped for anything that lifeoffers. Here, he is wasted. "

"Ye mean"--she put the question with a hurt quaver in her voice--"yemean we all hain't good enough fer Samson?"

"No. I only mean that Samson wants to grow--and he needs space and newscenes in which to grow. I want to take him where he can see more ofthe world--not only a little section of the world. Surely, you are notdistrustful of Samson's loyalty? I want him to go with me for a while, and see life. "

"Don't ye say hit!" The defiance in her voice was being patheticallytangled up with the tears. She was speaking in a transport of grief. "Don't ye say hit. Take anybody else--take 'em all down thar, but leaveus Samson. We needs him hyar. We've jest got ter have Samson hyar. "

She faced him still with quivering lips, but in another moment, with asudden sob, she dropped to the rock, and buried her face in her crossedarms. Her slender body shook under a harrowing convulsion ofunhappiness. Lescott felt as though he had struck her; as though he hadruthlessly blighted the irresponsible joyousness which had a fewminutes before sung from her lips with the blitheness of a mocking-bird. He went over and softly laid a hand on her shoulder. 

"Miss Sally--" he began. 

She suddenly turned on him a tear-stained, infuriated face, stormywith blazing eyes and wet cheeks and trembling lips. 

"Don't touch me, " she cried; "don't ye dare ter touch me! I hain'tnothin' but a gal--but I reckon I could 'most tear ye ter pieces. Ye'rejest a pizen snake, anyhow!" Then, she pointed a tremulous finger offup the road. "Git away from hyar, " she commanded. "I don't never wantter see ye again. Ye're tryin' ter steal everything I loves. Git away, I tells ye!--git away--begone!"

"Think it over, " urged Lescott, quietly. "See if your heart doesn'tsay I am Samson's friend--and yours. " He turned, and began making hisway over the rocks; but, before he had gone far, he sat down to reflectupon the situation. Certainly, he was not augmenting his popularity. Ahalf-hour later, he heard a rustle, and, turning, saw Sally standingnot far off. She was hesitating at the edge of the underbrush, andLescott read in her eyes the effort it was costing her to come forwardand apologize. Her cheeks were still pale and her eyes wet, but thetempest of her anger had spent itself, and in the girl who stoodpenitently, one hand nervously clutching a branch of rhododendron, onefoot twisting in the moss, Lescott was seeing an altogether new Sally. There was a renunciation in her eyes that in contrast with the child-like curve of her lips, and slim girlishness of her figure, seemedentirely pathetic. 

As she stood there, trying to come forward with a pitiful effort atcomposure and a twisted smile, Lescott wanted to go and meet her. Buthe knew her shyness, and realized that the kindest thing would be topretend that he had not seen her at all. So, he covertly watched her, while he assumed to sit in moody unconsciousness of her nearness. 

Little by little, and step by step, she edged over to him, haltingoften and looking about with the impulse to slip out of sight, butalways bracing herself and drawing a little nearer. Finally, he knewthat she was standing almost directly over him, and yet it was a momentor two more before her voice, sweetly penitent, announced her arrival. 

"I reckon--I reckon I've got ter ask yore pardon, " she said, slowlyand with labored utterance. He looked up to see her standing with herhead drooping and her fingers nervously pulling a flower to pieces. 

"I reckon I hain't a plumb fool. I knows thet Samson's got a right tereddication. Anyhow, I knows he wants hit. "

"Education, " said the man, "isn't going to change Samson, except tomake him finer than he is--and more capable. "

She shook her head. "I hain't got no eddication, " she answered. "Hit'sa-goin' ter make him too good fer me. I reckon hit's a-goin' ter jestabout kill me.... Ye hain't never seed these here mountings in thewinter time, when thar hain't nothin' green, an' thar hain't no birdsa-singin', an' thar hain't nothin' but rain an' snow an' fog an' misery. They're a-goin' ter be like thet all the time fer me, atter Samson'sgone away. " She choked back something like a sob before she went on. "Yes, stranger, hit's a-goin' ter pretty nigh kill me, but--" Her lipstwisted themselves into the pathetic smile again, and her chin camestiffly up. "But, " she added, determinedly, "thet don't make nodifference, nohow. "

CHAPTER X

Yet, when Samson that evening gave his whippoorwill call at the WidowMiller's cabin, he found a dejected and miserable girl sitting on thestile, with her chin propped in her two hands and her eyes full ofsomberness and foreboding. 

"What's the matter, Sally?" questioned he, anxiously. "Hes that low-downTamarack Spicer been round here tellin' ye some more stories ter pesterye?"

She shook her head in silence. Usually, she bore the brunt of theirconversations, Samson merely agreeing with, or overruling, her inlordly brevities. The boy climbed up and sat beside her. 

"Thar's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party over ter Wile McCager's millcome Saturday, " he insinuatingly suggested. "I reckon ye'll go overthar with me, won't ye, Sally?"

He waited for her usual delighted assent, but Sally only told himabsently and without enthusiasm that she would "study about it. " Atlast, however, her restraint broke, and, looking up, she abruptlydemanded:

"Air ye a-goin' away, Samson?"

"Who's been a-talkin' ter ye?" demanded the boy, angrily. 

For a moment, the girl sat silent. Silver mists were softening under arising moon. The katydids were prophesying with strident music the sixweeks' warning of frost. Myriads of stars were soft and low-hanging. Finally, she spoke in a grave voice:

"Hit hain't nothin' ter git mad about, Samson. The artist man 'lowedas how ye had a right ter go down thar, an' git an eddication. " Shemade a weary gesture toward the great beyond. 

"He hadn't ought to of told ye, Sally. If I'd been plumb sartin in mymind, I'd a-told ye myself--not but what I knows, " he hastily amended, "thet he meant hit friendly. "

"Air ye a-goin'?"

"I'm studyin' about hit. "

He awaited objection, but none came. Then, with a piquing of hismasculine vanity, he demanded:

"Hain't ye a-keerin', Sally, whether I goes, or not?"

The girl grew rigid. Her fingers on the crumbling plank of the stile'stop tightened and gripped hard. The moonlit landscape seemed to whirlin a dizzy circle. Her face did not betray her, nor her voice, thoughshe had to gulp down a rising lump in her throat before she couldanswer calmly. 

"I thinks ye had ought ter go, Samson. "

The boy was astonished. He had avoided the subject for fear of heropposition--and tears. 

Then, slowly, she went on as though repeating a lesson painstakinglyconned:

"There hain't nothin' in these here hills fer ye, Samson. Down thar, ye'll see lots of things thet's new--an' civilized an' beautiful! Ye'llsee lots of gals thet kin read an' write, gals dressed up in all kindsof fancy fixin's. " Her glib words ran out and ended in a sort of inwardgasp. 

Compliment came hardly and awkwardly to Samson's lips. He reached forthe girl's hand, and whispered:

"I reckon I won't see no gals thet's as purty as you be, Sally. Ireckon ye knows, whether I goes or stays, we're a-goin' ter git married. "

She drew her hand away, and laughed, a little bitterly. In the last day, she had ceased to be a child, and become a woman with all the soul-achingpossibilities of a woman's intuitions. 

"Samson, " she said, "I hain't askin' ye ter make me no promises. Whenye sees them other gals--gals thet kin read an' write--I reckon mebbyye'll think diff'rent. I can't hardly spell out printin' in the fustreader. "

Her lover's voice was scornful of the imagined dangers, as a recruitmay be of the battle terrors--before he has been under fire. He slippedhis arm about her and drew her over to him. 

"Honey, " he said, "ye needn't fret about thet. Readin' an' writin'can't make no difference fer a woman. Hit's mighty important fer a man, but you're a gal. "

"You're a-goin' ter think diff'rent atter awhile, " she insisted. "Whenye goes, I hain't a-goin' ter be expectin' ye ter come back ... But"--the resolution in her voice for a moment quavered as she added--"butGod knows I'm a-goin' ter be hopin'!"

"Sally!" The boy rose, and paced up and down in the road. "Air yegoin' ter be ag'inst me, too? Don't ye see that I wants ter have achanst? Can't ye trust me? I'm jest a-tryin' to amount to something. I'm plumb tired of bein' ornery an' no 'count. "

She nodded. 

"I've done told ye, " she said, wearily, "thet I thinks ye ought ter dohit. "

He stood there in the road looking down at her and the twisted smilethat lifted only one corner of her lips, while the other drooped. Themoonlight caught her eyes; eyes that were trying, like the lips, tosmile, but that were really looking away into the future, which she sawstripped of companionship and love, and gray with the ashiness ofwretched desolation. And, while he was seeing the light of thesimulated cheeriness die out in her face, she was seeing the strange, exalted glow, of which she was more than half-afraid, kindle in hispupils. It was as though she were giving up the living fire out of herown heart to set ablaze the ambition and anticipation in his own. 

That glow in Samson's eyes she feared and shrank from, as she mighthave flinched before the blaze of insanity. It was a thing which hermountain superstition could not understand, a thing not wholly normal;a manifestation that came to the stoic face and transformed it, whenthe eyes of the brain and heart were seeing things which she herselfcould not see. It was the proclamation of the part of Samson which shecould not comprehend, as though he were looking into a spirit world ofweird and abnormal things. It was the light of an enthusiasm such ashis love for her could not bring to his eyes--and it told her that thestrongest and deepest part of Samson did not belong to her. Now, as theyoung man stood there before her, and her little world of hope andhappiness seemed crumbling into ruins, and she was steeling her soul tosacrifice herself and let him go, he was thinking, not of what it wascosting her in heart-break, but seeing visions of all the great worldheld for him beyond the barriers of the mountains. The light in hiseyes seemed to flaunt the victory of the enthusiasms that had nothingto do with her. 

Samson came forward, and held out his arms. But Sally drew away with alittle shudder, and crouched at the end of the stile. 

"What's ther matter, Sally?" he demanded in surprise, and, as he benttoward her, his eyes lost the strange light she feared, and she laugheda little nervous laugh, and rose from her seat. 

"Nothin' hain't ther matter--now, " she said, stanchly. 

Lescott and Samson discussed the matter frequently. At times, the boywas obstinate in his determination to remain; at other times, he gaveway to the yearnings for change and opportunity. But the lure of thepalette and brush possessed him beyond resistance and his taciturnitymelted, when in the painter's company, to a roughly poetic form ofexpression. 

"Thet sunrise, " he announced one morning, setting down his milk-pailto gaze at the east, "is jest like the sparkle in a gal's eyes whenshe's tickled at somethin' ye've said about her. An, ' when the sunsets, hit's like the whole world was a woman blushin'. "

The dance on Saturday was to be something more portentous than a merefrolic. It would be a clan gathering to which the South adherents wouldcome riding up and down Misery and its tributaries from "nigh abouts"and "over yon. " From forenoon until after midnight, shuffle, jig andfiddling would hold high, if rough, carnival. But, while the youngerfolk abandoned themselves to these diversions, the grayer heads wouldgather in more serious conclave. Jesse Purvy had once more beaten backdeath, and his mind had probably been devising, during those bed-riddendays and nights, plans of reprisal. According to current report, Purvyhad announced that his would-be assassin dwelt on Misery, and was"marked down. " So, there were obvious exigencies which the Souths mustprepare to meet. In particular, the clan must thrash out to definiteunderstanding the demoralizing report that Samson South, their logicalleader, meant to abandon them, at a crisis when war-clouds werethickening. 

The painter had finally resolved to cut the Gordian knot, and leavethe mountains. He had trained on Samson to the last piece all hisartillery of argument. The case was now submitted with the suggestionthat the boy take three months to consider, and that, if he decidedaffirmatively, he should notify Lescott in advance of his coming. Heproposed sending Samson a small library of carefully picked books, which the mountaineer eagerly agreed to devour in the interval. 

Lescott consented, however, to remain over Saturday, and go to thedance, since he was curious to observe what pressure was brought tobear on the boy, and to have himself a final word of argument after thekinsmen had spoken. 

Saturday morning came after a night of torrential rain, which had leftthe mountains steaming under a reek of fog and pitching clouds. Hillside streams ran freshets, and creek-bed roads were foaming andboiling into waterfalls. Sheep and cattle huddled forlornly under theirshelters of shelving rock, and only the geese seemed happy. 

Far down the dripping shoulders of the mountains trailed raggedstreamers of vapor. Here and there along the lower slopes hung puffs ofsmoky mist as though silent shells were bursting from unseen artilleryover a vast theater of combat. 

But, as the morning wore on, the sun fought its way to view in a scrapof overhead blue. A freshening breeze plunged into the reek, and sentit scurrying in broken cloud ranks and shredded tatters. The steamyheat gave way under a dissipating sweep of coolness, until the skiessmiled down on the hills and the hills smiled back. From log cabins andplank houses up and down Misery and its tributaries, men and womenbegan their hegira toward the mill. Some came on foot, carrying theirshoes in their hands, but those were only near-by dwellers. Others madesaddle journeys of ten or fifteen, or even twenty, miles, and thebeasts that carried a single burden were few. Lescott rode in the wakeof Samson, who had Sally on a pillow at his back, and along the sevenmiles of journey he studied the strange procession. It was, for themost part, a solemn cavalcade, for these are folk who "take theirpleasures sadly. " Possibly, some of the sun-bonneted, strangely-garbedwomen were reflecting on the possibilities which mountain-dances oftendevelop into tragic actualities. Possibly, others were having theirenjoyment discounted by the necessity of "dressing up" and wearing shoes. 

Sometimes, a slowly ambling mule bore an entire family; the fathermanaging the reins with one hand and holding a baby with the other, while his rifle lay balanced across his pommel and his wife satsolemnly behind him on a sheepskin or pillion. Many of the men rodeside-saddles, and sacks bulky at each end hinted of such baggage as iscarried in jugs. Lescott realized from the frank curiosity with whichhe was regarded that he had been a topic of discussion, and that he wasnow being "sized up. " He was the false prophet who was weaving a spellover Samson! Once, he heard a sneering voice from the wayside commentas he rode by. 

"He looks like a damned parson. "

Glancing back, he saw a tow-headed youth glowering at him out ofpinkish albino eyes. The way lay in part along the creek-bed, wherewagons had ground the disintegrating rock into deep ruts as smooth aswalls of concrete. Then, it traversed a country of palisading cliffsand immensity of forest, park-like and splendid. Strangely picturesquesuspension bridges with rough stairways at their ends spanned waterstoo deep for fording. Frame houses showed along the banks of the creek--grown here to a river--unplaned and unpainted of wall, but brightlytouched with window-and door-frames of bright yellow or green or blue. This was the territory where the Souths held dominance, and it waspouring out its people. 

They came before noon to the mouth of Dryhole Creek, and the house ofWile McCager. Already, the picket fence was lined with tethered horsesand mules, and a canvas-covered wagon came creeping in behind its yokeof oxen. Men stood clustered in the road, and at the entrance a woman, nursing her baby at her breast, welcomed and gossiped with the arrivals. 

The house of Wile McCager loaned itself to entertainment. It was notof logs, but of undressed lumber, and boasted a front porch and twofront rooms entered by twin doors facing on a triangular alcove. In therecess between these portals stood a washstand, surmounted by a chinabasin and pitcher--a declaration of affluence. From the interior of thehouse came the sounds of fiddling, though these strains of "Turkey inthe Straw" were only by way of prelude. Lescott felt, though he couldnot say just what concrete thing told him, that under the shallow noteof merry-making brooded the major theme of a troublesome problem. Theseriousness was below the surface, but insistently depressing. He saw, too, that he himself was mixed up with it in a fashion, which mightbecome dangerous, when a few jugs of white liquor had been emptied. 

It would be some time yet before the crowd warmed up. Now, they onlystood about and talked, and to Lescott they gave a gravely politegreeting, beneath which was discernible an undercurrent of hostility. 

As the day advanced, the painter began picking out the moreinfluential clansmen, by the fashion in which they fell together intogroups, and took themselves off to the mill by the racing creek fordiscussion. While the young persons danced and "sparked" within, andthe more truculent lads escaped to the road to pass the jug, andforecast with youthful war-fever "cleanin' out the Hollmans, " theelders were deep in ways and means. If the truce could be preserved forits unexpired period of three years, it was, of course, best. In thatevent, crops could be cultivated, and lives saved. But, if Jesse Purvychose to regard his shooting as a breach of terms, and struck, he wouldstrike hard, and, in that event, best defense lay in striking first. Samson would soon be twenty-one. That he would take his place as headof the clan had until now never been questioned--and he was talking ofdesertion. For that, a pink-skinned foreigner, who wore a woman's bowof ribbon at his collar, was to blame. The question of loyalty must besquarely put up to Samson, and it must be done to-day. His answer mustbe definite and unequivocal. As a guest of Spicer South, Lescott wasentitled to that consideration which is accorded ambassadors. 

None the less, the vital affairs of the clan could not be balked byconsideration for a stranger, who, in the opinion of the majority, should be driven from the country as an insidious mischief-maker. Ostensibly, the truce still held, but at no time since its signing hadmatters been so freighted with the menace of a gathering storm. Theattitude of each faction was that of several men standing quiet withguns trained on one another's breasts. Each hesitated to fire, knowingthat to pull the trigger meant to die himself, yet fearing that anothertrigger might at any moment be drawn. Purvy dared not have Samson shotout of hand, because he feared that the Souths would claim his life inreturn, yet he feared to let Samson live. On the other hand, if Purvyfell, no South could balance his death, except Spicer or Samson. Anysituation that might put conditions to a moment of issue would eitherprove that the truce was being observed, or open the war--and yet eachfaction was guarding against such an event as too fraught with danger. One thing was certain. By persuasion or force, Lescott must leave, andSamson must show himself to be the youth he had been thought, or theconfessed and repudiated renegade. Those questions, to-day must answer. It was a difficult situation, and promised an eventful entertainment. Whatever conclusion was reached as to the artist's future, he was, until the verdict came in, a visitor, and, unless liquor inflamed somereckless trouble-hunter, that fact would not be forgotten. Possibly, itwas as well that Tamarack Spicer had not arrived. 

Lescott himself realized the situation in part, as he stood at thedoor of the house watching the scene inside. 

There was, of course, no round dancing--only the shuffle and jig--withchampions contending for the honor of their sections. A young womanfrom Deer Lick and a girl from the head of Dryhill had been matched forthe "hoe-down, " and had the floor to themselves. The walls were crowdedwith partisan onlookers, who applauded and cheered their favorite. 

The bows scraped faster and louder; the clapping hands beat moretumultuously, until their mad _tempo_ was like the clatter ofmusketry; the dancers threw themselves deliriously into the madlyquickening step. It was a riotous saturnalia of flying feet andtwinkling ankles. Onlookers shouted and screamed encouragement. Itseemed that the girls must fall in exhaustion, yet each kept on, resolved to be still on the floor when the other had abandoned it indefeat--that being the test of victory. At last, the girl from Dryhillreeled, and was caught by half-a-dozen arms. Her adversary, holding thefloor undisputed, slowed down, and someone stopped the fiddler. Sallyturned from the crowded wall, and began looking about for Samson. Hewas not there. Lescott had seen him leave the house a few momentsbefore, and started over to intercept the girl, as she came out to theporch. 

In the group about the door, he passed a youth with tow-white hair andvery pink cheeks. The boy was the earliest to succumb to the temptationof the moonshine jug, a temptation which would later claim others. Hewas reeling crazily, and his albino eyes were now red and inflamed. Lescott remembered him. 

"Thet's ther damned furriner thet's done turned Samson inter a gal, "proclaimed the youth, in a thick voice. 

The painter paused, and looked back. The boy was reaching under hiscoat with hands that had become clumsy and unresponsive. 

"Let me git at him, " he shouted, with a wild whoop and a dash towardthe painter. 

Lescott said nothing, but Sally had heard, and stepped swiftly between. 

"You've got ter git past me fust, Buddy, " she said, quietly. "I reckonye'd better run on home, an' git yore mammy ter put ye ter bed. "

CHAPTER XI

Several soberer men closed around the boy, and, after disarming him, led him away grumbling and muttering, while Wile McCager made apologiesto the guest. 

"Jimmy's jest a peevish child, " he explained. "A drop or two of lickermakes him skittish. I hopes ye'll look over hit. "

Jimmy's outbreak was interesting to Lescott chiefly as an indicationof what might follow. He noted how the voices were growing louder andshriller, and how the jug was circulating faster. A boisterous note wasmaking itself heard through the good humor and laughter, and the"furriner" remembered that these minds, when inflamed, are more proneto take the tangent of violence than that of mirth. Unwilling tointroduce discord by his presence, and involve Samson in quarrels onhis account, he suggested riding back to Misery, but the boy's faceclouded at the suggestion. 

"Ef they kain't be civil ter my friends, " he said, shortly, "they'vegot ter account ter me. You stay right hyar, and I'll stay clost toyou. I done come hyar to-day ter tell 'em that they mustn't meddle inmy business. "

A short while later, Wile McCager invited Samson to come out to themill, and the boy nodded to Lescott an invitation to accompany him. Thehost shook his head. 

"We kinder 'lowed ter talk over some fam'ly matters with ye, Samson, "he demurred. "I reckon Mr. Lescott'll excuse ye fer a spell. "

"Anything ye've got ter talk ter me about, George Lescott kin hear, "said the youth, defiantly. "I hain't got no secrets. " He was heir tohis father's leadership, and his father had been unquestioned. He meantto stand uncompromisingly on his prerogatives. 

For an instant, the old miller's keen eyes hardened obstinately. AfterSpicer and Samson South, he was the most influential and trusted of theSouth leaders--and Samson was still a boy. His ruggedly chiseledfeatures were kindly, but robustly resolute, and, when he was angered, few men cared to face him. For an instant, a stinging rebuke seemed tohover on his lips, then he turned with a curt jerk of his large head. 

"All right. Suit yourselves. I've done warned ye both. We 'lows tertalk plain. "

The mill, dating back to pioneer days, sat by its race with its shaftnow idle. About it, the white-boled sycamores crowded among the hugerocks, and the water poured tumultuously over the dam. The walls ofmortised logs were chinked with rock and clay. At its porch, twodiscarded millstones served in lieu of steps. Over the door werefastened a spreading pair of stag-antlers. It looked to Lescott, as heapproached, like a scrap of landscape torn from some medieval picture, and the men about its door seemed medieval, too; bearded and gaunt, hard-thewed and sullen. 

All of them who stood waiting were men of middle age, or beyond. Anumber were gray-haired, but they were all of cadet branches. Many ofthem, like Wile McCager himself, did not bear the name of South, andSamson was the eldest son of the eldest son. They sat on meal-whitenedbins and dusty timbers and piled-up sacks. Several crouched on theground, 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 CalebWiley of a neighbor, in his octogenarian quaver. "The boy hes done gotes quiet an' pious es a missionary. "

The other nodded under his battered black felt hat, and beat a tattoowith 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 outenthe 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. "Wedon't 'low to let hit run on no further. "

"Samson, " began old Wile McCager, clearing his throat and taking uphis duty as spokesman, "we're all your kinfolks here, an' we aimed terask 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 wewants 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 Ihain't hyar in the meantime, hit hain't nobody's business. I hain'taccountable ter no man but my pap, an' I reckon, whar he is, he knowswhether 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 hyarin these mountings?"

Samson laughed derisively. 

"Who'll I git hit from?" he caustically inquired. "Ef the mountainwon't come ter Mohamet, Mohamet's got ter go ter the mountain, Ireckon. " The figure was one they did not understand. It was one Samsonhimself had only acquired of late. He was quoting George Lescott. Butone thing there was which did not escape his hearers: the tone ofcontempt. Eyes of smoldering hate turned on the visitor at whose doorthey laid the blame. 

Caleb Wiley rose unsteadily to his feet, his shaggy beard tremblingwith wrath and his voice quavering with senile indignation. 

"Hev ye done got too damned good fer yore kin-folks, Samson South?" heshrilly demanded. "Hev ye done been follerin' atter this here punywitch-doctor twell ye can't keep a civil tongue in yer head fer yoreelders? I'm in favor of runnin' this here furriner outen the countrywith tar an' feathers on him. Furthermore, I'm in favor of cleanin' outthe Hollmans. I was jest a-sayin' ter Bill----"

"Never mind what ye war jest a-sayin', " interrupted the boy, flushingredly to his cheekbones, but controlling his voice. "Ye've done saidenough a'ready. Ye're a right old man, Caleb, an' I reckon thet givesye 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 tergo out thar an' make 'em eat hit. I hain't a-goin' ter answer no morequestions. "

There was a commotion of argument, until "Black Dave" Jasper, asaturnine 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 whokin stay in this hyar country. Ef ye 'lows ter quit us, I reckon we kinquit you--and, if we quits ye, ye hain't nothin' more ter us then noother boy thet's gettin' too big fer his breeches. This furriner is avisitor here to-day, an' we don't 'low ter hurt him--but he's got tergo. 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. Atterthis, ye stays on Misery at yore own risk--an' hit's a-goin' ter beplumb 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 goback. He was 'lowin' that he'd leave hyar ter-morrer mornin', but atterthis I'm a-tellin' ye he hain't a-goin' ter do hit. He's a-goin' terstay 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 hiseyes. "An' what's more, " he added, "I'll tell ye another thing. Ihadn't plumb made up my mind ter leave the mountings, but ye've donesettled hit fer me. I'm a-goin'. "

There was a low murmur of anger, and a voice cried out from the rear:

"Let him go. We hain't got no use fer damn cowards. "

"Whoever said thet's a liar!" shouted the boy. Lescott, standing athis side, felt that the situation was more than parlous. But, beforethe storm could break, some one rushed in, and whispered to WileMcCager a message that caused him to raise both hands above his head, and thunder for attention. 

"Men, " he roared, "listen ter me! This here hain't no time fer squabblin'amongst ourselves. We're all Souths. Tamarack Spicer has done gone terHixon, an' got inter trouble. He's locked up in the jail-house. "

"We're all hyar, " screamed old Caleb's high, broken voice. "Let's goan' take him out. "

Samson's anger had died. He turned, and held a whispered conversationwith McCager, and, at its end, the host of the day announced briefly:

"Samson's got somethin' ter say ter ye. So long as he's willin' terstand by us, I reckon we're willin' ter listen ter Henry South's boy. "

"I hain't got no use for Tam'rack Spicer, " said the boy, succinctly, "but I don't 'low ter let him lay in no jail-house, unlessen he's got aright ter be thar. What's he charged with?"

But no one knew that. A man supposedly close to the Hollmans, but inreality an informer for the Souths, had seen him led into the jail-yardby a posse of a half-dozen men, and had seen the iron-barred doorsclose on him. That was all, except that the Hollman forces weregathering in Hixon, and, if the Souths went there _en masse_, apitched battle must be the inevitable result. The first step was togain accurate information and an answer to one vital question. WasTamarack held as a feud victim, or was his arrest legitimate? How tolearn that was the problem. To send a body of men was to invitebloodshed. To send a single inquirer was to deliver him over to theenemy. 

"Air you men willin' ter take my word about Tamarack?" inquiredSamson. But for the scene of a few minutes ago, it would have been anunnecessary question. There was a clamorous assent, and the boy turnedto Lescott. 

"I wants ye ter take Sally home with ye. Ye'd better start right away, afore she heers any of this talk. Hit would fret her. Tell her I've hadter go 'cross ther country a piece, ter see a sick man. Don't tell herwhar I'm a-goin'. " He turned to the others. "I reckon I've got yorepromise thet Mr. Lescott hain't a-goin' ter be bothered afore I gitsback?"

Wile McCager promptly gave the assurance. 

"I gives ye my hand on hit. "

"I seed Jim Asberry loafin' round jest beyond ther ridge, es I ridover hyar, " volunteered the man who had brought the message. 

"Go slow now, Samson. Don't be no blame fool, " dissuaded Wile McCager. "Hixon's plumb full of them Hollmans, an' they're likely ter be full oflicker--hit's Saturday. Hit's apt ter be shore death fer ye ter try terride through Main Street--ef ye gits thet fur. Ye dassent do hit. "

"I dast do anything!" asserted the boy, with a flash of sudden anger. "Some liar 'lowed awhile ago thet I was a coward. All right, mebby Ibe. Unc' Wile, keep the boys hyar tell ye hears from me--an' keep 'emsober. " He turned and made his way to the fence where his mule stoodhitched. 

When Samson crossed the ridge, and entered the Hollman country, JimAsberry, watching from a hilltop point of vantage, rose and mounted thehorse that stood hitched behind a near-by screen of rhododendron bushesand young cedars. Sometimes, he rode just one bend of the road inSamson's rear. Sometimes, he took short cuts, and watched his enemypass. But always he held him under a vigilant eye. Finally, he reacheda wayside store where a local telephone gave communication withHollman's Mammoth Department Store. 

"Jedge, " he informed, "Samson South's done left the party et thermill, an' he's a-ridin' towards town. Shall I git him?"

"Is he comin' by hisself?" inquired the storekeeper. 

"Yes. "

"Well, jest let him come on. We can tend ter him hyar, ef necessary. "So, Jim withheld his hand, and merely shadowed, sending bulletins, fromtime to time. 

It was three o'clock when Samson started. It was near six when hereached the ribbon of road that loops down into town over the mountain. His mule was in a lather of sweat. He knew that he was being spiedupon, and that word of his coming was traveling ahead of him. What hedid not know was whether or not it suited Jesse Purvy's purpose that heshould slide from his mule, dead, before he turned homeward. IfTamarack had been seized as a declaration of war, the chief South wouldcertainly not be allowed to return. If the arrest had not been for feudreasons, he might escape. That was the question which would be answeredwith his life or death. 

The boy kept his eyes straight to the front, fixed on thephilosophical wagging of his mule's brown ears. Finally, he crossed thebridge that gave entrance to the town, as yet unharmed, and clatteredat a trot between the shacks of the environs. He was entering thefortified stronghold of the enemy, and he was expected. As he rodealong, doors closed to slits, and once or twice he caught the flash ofsunlight on a steel barrel, but his eyes held to the front. Severaltraveling men, sitting on the porch of the hotel opposite the court-house, rose when they saw his mule, and went inside, closing the doorbehind them. 

The "jail-house" was a small building of home-made brick, squatting atthe rear of the court-house yard. Its barred windows were narrow withsills breast-high. 

The court-house itself was shaded by large oaks and sycamores, and, asSamson drew near, he saw that some ten or twelve men, armed withrifles, separated from groups and disposed themselves behind the treetrunks and the stone coping of the well. None of them spoke, and Samsonpretended that he had not seen them. He rode his mule at a walk, knowing that he was rifle-covered from a half-dozen windows. At thehitching rack directly beneath the county building, he flung his reinsover a post, and, swinging his rifle at his side, passed casually alongthe brick walk to the jail. The men behind the trees edged around theircovers as he went, keeping themselves protected, as squirrels creeparound a trunk when a hunter is lurking below. Samson halted at thejail wall, and called the prisoner's name. A towsled head and surlyface appeared at the barred window, and the boy went over and heldconverse from the outside. 

"How in hell did ye git into town?" demanded the prisoner. 

"I rid in, " was the short reply. "How'd ye git in the jail-house?"

The captive was shamefaced. 

"I got a leetle too much licker, an' I was shootin' out the lightslast night, " he confessed. 

"What business did ye have hyar in Hixon?"

"I jest slipped in ter see a gal. "

Samson leaned closer, and lowered his voice. 

"Does they know thet ye shot them shoots at Jesse Purvy?"

Tamarack turned pale. 

"No, " he stammered, "they believe you done hit. "

Samson laughed. He was thinking of the rifles trained on him from adozen invisible rests. 

"How long air they a-goin' ter keep ye hyar?" he demanded. 

"I kin git out to-morrer ef I pays the fine. Hit's ten dollars. "

"An' ef ye don't pay the fine?"

"Hit's a dollar a day. "

"I reckon ye don't 'low ter pay hit, do ye?"

"I 'lowed mebby ye mout pay hit fer me, Samson. "

"Ye done 'lowed plumb wrong. I come hyar ter see ef ye needed help, but hit 'pears ter me they're lettin' ye off easy. "

He turned on his heel, and went back to his mule. The men behind thetrees began circling again. Samson mounted, and, with his chin well up, trotted back along the main street. It was over. The question wasanswered. The Hollmans regarded the truce as still effective. The factthat they were permitting him to ride out alive was a wordlessassurance of that. Incidentally, he stood vindicated in the eyes of hisown people. 

When Samson reached the mill it was ten o'clock. The men were sobererthan they had been in the afternoon. McCager had seen to that. The boyreplaced his exhausted mule with a borrowed mount. At midnight, as hedrew near the cabin of the Widow Miller, he gave a long, lowwhippoorwill call, and promptly, from the shadow of the stile, a smalltired figure rose up to greet him. For hours that little figure hadbeen sitting there, silent, wide-eyed and terrified, nursing her kneesin locked fingers that pressed tightly into the flesh. She had notspoken. She had hardly moved. She had only gazed out, keeping the vigilwith a white face that was beginning to wear the drawn, heart-eatinganxiety of the mountain woman; the woman whose code demands that shestand loyally to her clan's hatreds; the woman who has none of theman's excitement in stalking human game, which is also stalking him;the woman who must only stay at home and imagine a thousand terrors--and wait. 

A rooster was crowing, and the moon had set. Only the stars were left. 

"Sally, " the boy reproved, "hit's most mornin', an' ye must be plumbfagged out. Why hain't you in bed?"

"I 'lowed ye'd come by hyar, " she told him simply, "and I waited ferye. I knowed whar ye had went, " she added, "an' I was skeered. "

"How did ye know?"

"I heered thet Tam'rack was in the jail-house, an' somebody hed ter goter Hixon. So, of course, I knowed hit would be you. "

CHAPTER XII

Lescott stayed on a week after that simply in deference to Samson'sinsistence. To leave at once might savor of flight under fire, but whenthe week was out the painter turned his horse's head toward town, andhis train swept him back to the Bluegrass and the East. As he gazed outof his car windows at great shoulders of rock and giant trees, thingshe was leaving behind, he felt a sudden twinge of something akin tohomesickness. He knew that he should miss these great humps ofmountains and the ragged grandeur of the scenery. With the richsmoothness of the Bluegrass, a sense of flatness and heaviness came tohis lungs. Level metal roads and loamy fields invited his eye. Thetobacco stalks rose in profuse heaviness of sticky green; the hempwaved its feathery tops; and woodlands were clear of underbrush--thepauper counties were behind him. 

A quiet of unbroken and deadly routine settled down on Misery. Theconduct of the Souths in keeping hands off, and acknowledging thejustice of Tamarack Spicer's jail sentence, had been their answer tothe declaration of the Hollmans in letting Samson ride into and out ofHixon. The truce was established. When, a short time later, Tamarackleft the country to become a railroad brakeman, Jesse Purvy passed theword that his men must, until further orders, desist from violence. Theword had crept about that Samson, too, was going away, and, if thiswere true, Jesse felt that his future would be more secure than hispast. Purvy believed Samson guilty, despite the exoneration of thehounds. Their use had been the idea of over-fervent relatives. Hehimself scoffed at their reliability. 

"I wouldn't believe no dog on oath, " he declared. Besides, hepreferred to blame Samson, since he was the head of the tribe andbecause he himself knew what cause Samson had to hate him. Perhaps, even now, Samson meant to have vengeance before leaving. Possibly, even, this ostentatious care to regard the truce was simply a shrewdlyplanned sham meant to disarm his suspicion. 

Until Samson went, if he did go, Jesse Purvy would redouble hiscaution. It would be a simple matter to have the boy shot to death, andend all question. Samson took no precautions to safeguard his life, buthe had a safeguard none the less. Purvy felt sure that within a weekafter Samson fell, despite every care he might take, he, too, wouldfall. He was tired of being shot down. Purvy was growing old, and thefires of war were burning to embers in his veins. He was becoming moreand more interested in other things. It dawned upon him that to beknown as a friend of the poor held more allurement for gray-haired agethan to be known as a master of assassins. It would be pleasant to situndisturbed, and see his grandchildren grow up, and he recognized, witha sudden ferocity of repugnance, that he did not wish them to grow upas feud fighters. Purvy had not reformed, but, other things beingequal, he would prefer to live and let live. He had reached that stageto which all successful villains come at some time, when he envied theplacid contentment of respected virtues. Ordering Samson shot down wasa last resort--one to be held in reserve until the end. 

So, along Misery and Crippleshin, the men of the factions held theirfire while the summer spent itself, and over the mountain slopes theleaves began to turn, and the mast to ripen. 

Lescott had sent a box of books, and Samson had taken a team over toHixon, and brought them back. It was a hard journey, attended with muchplunging against the yokes and much straining of trace chains. Sallyhad gone with him. Samson was spending as much time as possible in hersociety now. The girl was saying little about his departure, but hereyes were reading, and without asking she knew that his going wasinevitable. Many nights she cried herself to sleep, but, when he sawher, she was always the same blithe, bird-like creature that she hadbeen before. She was philosophically sipping her honey while the sunshone. 

Samson read some of the books aloud to Sally, who had a child'spassion for stories, and who could not have spelled them out forherself. He read badly, but to her it was the flower of scholasticaccomplishment, and her untrained brain, sponge-like in itsacquisitiveness, soaked up many new words and phrases which fell againquaintly from her lips in talk. Lescott had spent a week picking outthose books. He had wanted them to argue for him; to feed the boy'shunger for education, and give him some forecast of the life thatawaited him. His choice had been an effort to achieve _multum inparvo_, but Samson devoured them all from title page to _finis_line, and many of them he went back to, and digested again. 

He wrestled long and gently with his uncle, struggling to win the oldman's consent to his departure. But Spicer South's brain was no longerplastic. What had been good enough for the past was good enough for thefuture. He sought to take the most tolerant view, and to believe thatSamson was acting on conviction and not on an ingrate's impulse, butthat was the best he could do, and he added to himself that Samson'swas an abnormal and perverted conviction. Nevertheless, he arrangedaffairs so that his nephew should be able to meet financial needs, andto go where he chose in a fashion befitting a South. The old man wasintensely proud, and, if the boy were bent on wasting himself, heshould waste like a family head, and not appear a pauper among strangers. 

The autumn came, and the hills blazed out in their fanfare of splendidcolor. The broken skyline took on a wistful sweetness under the haze of"the Great Spirit's peace-pipe. "

The sugar trees flamed their fullest crimson that fall. The poplarswere clear amber and the hickories russet and the oaks a deep burgundy. Lean hogs began to fill and fatten with their banqueting on beechnutsand acorns. Scattered quail came together in the conclave of the covey, and changed their summer call for the "hover" whistle. Shortly, therains would strip the trees, and leave them naked. Then, Misery wouldvindicate its christener. But, now, as if to compensate in a fewcarnival days of champagne sparkle and color, the mountain world wasburning out its summer life on a pyre of transient splendor. 

November came in bleakly, with a raw and devastating breath offatality. The smile died from horizon to horizon, and for days coldrains beat and lashed the forests. And, toward the end of that month, came the day which Samson had set for his departure. He had harvestedthe corn, and put the farm in order. He had packed into his batteredsaddlebags what things were to go with him into his new life. The sunhad set in a sickly bank of murky, red-lined clouds. His mule, whichknew the road, and could make a night trip, stood saddled by the stile. A kinsman was to lead it back from Hixon when Samson had gone. The boyslowly put on his patched and mud-stained overcoat. His face was sullenand glowering. There was a lump in his throat, like the lump that hadbeen there when he stood with his mother's arm about his shoulders, andwatched the dogs chase a rabbit by his father's grave. Supper had beeneaten in silence. Now that the hour of departure had come, he felt theguilt of the deserter. He realized how aged his uncle seemed, and howthe old man hunched forward over the plate as they ate the last mealthey should, for a long while, have together. It was only by sullentaciturnity that he could retain his composure. 

At the threshold, with the saddlebags over his left forearm and therifle in his hand, he paused. His uncle stood at his elbow and the boyput out his hand. 

"Good-by, Unc' Spicer, " was all he said. The old man, who had been hissecond father, shook hands. His face, too, was expressionless, but hefelt that he was saying farewell to a soldier of genius who wasabandoning the field. And he loved the boy with all the centered powerof an isolated heart. 

"Hadn't ye better take a lantern?" he questioned. 

"No, I reckon I won't need none. " And Samson went out, and mounted hismule. 

A half-mile along the road, he halted and dismounted. There, in asmall cove, surrounded by a tangle of briars and blackberry bushes, stood a small and dilapidated "meeting house" and churchyard, which hemust visit. He made his way through the rough undergrowth to theunkempt half-acre, and halted before the leaning headstones whichmarked two graves. With a sudden emotion, he swept the back of his handacross his eyes. He did not remove his hat, but he stood in the drizzleof cold rain for a moment of silence, and then he said:

"Pap, I hain't fergot. I don't want ye ter think thet I've fergot. "

Before he arrived at the Widow Miller's, the rain had stopped and theclouds had broken. Back of them was a discouraged moon, which sometimesshowed its face for a fitful moment, only to disappear. The wind wasnoisily floundering through the treetops. Near the stile, Samson gavehis whippoorwill call. It was, perhaps, not quite so clear or true asusual, but that did not matter. There were no other whippoorwillscalling at this season to confuse signals. He crossed the stile, andwith a word quieted Sally's dog as it rose to challenge him, and thenwent with him, licking his hand. 

Sally opened the door, and smiled. She had spent the day nervingherself for this farewell, and at least until the moment of leave-taking she would be safe from tears. The Widow Miller and her son soonleft them alone, and the boy and girl sat before the blazing logs. 

For a time, an awkward silence fell between them. Sally had donned herbest dress, and braided her red-brown hair. She sat with her chin inher palms, and the fire kissed her cheeks and temples into color. Thatpicture and the look in her eyes remained with Samson for a long while, and there were times of doubt and perplexity when he closed his eyesand steadied himself by visualizing it all again in his heart. At last, the boy rose, and went over to the corner where he had placed his gun. He took it up, and laid it on the hearth between them. 

"Sally, " he said, "I wants ter tell ye some things thet I hain't neversaid ter nobody else. In the fust place, I wants ye ter keep this hyargun fer me. "

The girl's eyes widened with surprise. 

"Hain't ye a-goin' ter take hit with ye, Samson?"

He shook his head. 

"I hain't a-goin' ter need hit down below. Nobody don't use 'em downthar. I've got my pistol, an' I reckon thet will be enough. "

"I'll take good keer of hit, " she promised. 

The boy took out of his pockets a box of cartridges and a smallpackage tied in a greasy rag. 

"Hit's loaded, Sally, an' hit's cleaned an' hit's greased. Hit's readyfer use. "

Again, she nodded in silent assent, and the boy began speaking in aslow, careful voice, which gradually mounted into tense emotion. 

"Sally, thet thar gun was my pap's. When he lay a-dyin', he gave hitter me, an' he gave me a job ter do with hit. When I was a littlefeller, I used ter set up 'most all day, polishin' thet gun an' gittin'hit ready. I used ter go out in the woods, an' practise shootin' hit atthings, tell I larned how ter handle hit. I reckon thar hain't manyfellers round here thet kin beat me now. " He paused, and the girlhastened to corroborate. 

"Thar hain't none, Samson. "

"There hain't nothin' in the world, Sally, thet I prizes like I doesthet gun. Hit's got a job ter do ... Thar hain't but one person in theworld I'd trust hit with. Thet's you.... I wants ye ter keep hit ferme, an' ter keep hit ready.... They thinks round hyar I'm quittin', butI hain't. I'm a-comin' back, an', when I comes, I'll need this hyarthing--an' I'll need hit bad. " He took up the rifle, and ran his handcaressingly along its lock and barrel. 

"I don't know when I'm a-comin', " he said, slowly, "but, when I callsfer this, I'm shore a-goin' ter need hit quick. I wants hit ter beready fer me, day er night. Maybe, nobody won't know I'm hyar.... Maybe, I won't want nobody ter know.... But, when I whistles out tharlike a whippoorwill, I wants ye ter slip out--an' fotch me thet gun!"

He stopped, and bent forward. His face was tense, and his eyes wereglinting with purpose. His lips were tight set and fanatical. 

"Samson, " said the girl, reaching out and taking the weapon from hishands, "ef I'm alive when ye comes, I'll do hit. I promises ye. An', "she added, "ef I hain't alive, hit'll be standin' thar in thet corner. I'll grease hit, an' keep hit loaded, an' when ye calls, I'll fotch hitout thar to ye. "

The youth nodded. "I mout come anytime, but likely as not I'll hev tercome a-fightin' when I comes. "

Next, he produced an envelope. 

"This here is a letter I've done writ ter myself, " he explained. Hedrew out the sheet, and read:

"Samson, come back. " Then he handed the missive to the girl. "Thetthere is addressed ter me, in care of Mr. Lescott.... Ef anythinghappens--ef Unc' Spicer needs me--I wants yer ter mail thet ter mequick. He says as how he won't never call me back, but, Sally, I wantsthet you shall send fer me, ef they needs me. I hain't a-goin' terwrite no letters home. Unc' Spicer can't read, an' you can't read mucheither. 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. Sheheld him tight, and rose, facing him. Her upturned face grew verypallid, and her eyes widened. They were dry, and her lips were tightlyclosed, but, through the tearless pupils, in the firelight, the boycould 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 yeter take keer of yeself. Ye hain't like these other gals round here. Yehain'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 saketake keer of yeself!" He broke off, and picked up his hat. 

"An' that gun, Sally, " he repeated at the door, "that there's the mostprecious thing I've got. I loves hit better then anything--take keer ofhit. "

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, "butI'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, asthough 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 along while they stood there under the clouds and stars, as he held herclose. There was no eloquence of leave-taking, no professions ofundying love, for these two hearts were inarticulate and dizzilyclinging to a wilderness code of self-repression--and they had reacheda point where speech would have swept them both away to a break-down. 

But as they stood, their arms gripping each other, each heart poundingon the other's breast, it was with a pulsing that spoke in the torrenttheir lips dammed, and between the two even in this farewell embracewas the rifle which stood emblematical of the man's life and missionand heredity. Its cold metal lay in a line between their warm breasts, separating, yet uniting them, and they clung to each other across itsrigid barrel, as a man and woman may cling with the child between themwhich belongs to both, and makes them one. As yet, she had shed notears. Then, he mounted and was swallowed in the dark. It was not untilthe thud of his mule's hoofs were lost in the distance that the girlclimbed back to the top of the stile, and dropped down. Then, shelifted the gun and pressed it close to her bosom, and sat silentlysobbing for a long while. 

"He's done gone away, " she moaned, "an' he won't never come back nomore--but ef he does come"--she raised her eyes to the stars as thoughcalling them to witness--"ef he does come, I'll shore be a-waitin'. Lord God, make him come back!"

CHAPTER XIII

The boy from Misery rode slowly toward Hixon. At times, the moonstruggled out and made the shadows black along the way. At other times, it was like riding in a huge caldron of pitch. When he passed into thatstretch of country at whose heart Jesse Purvy dwelt, he raised hisvoice in song. His singing was very bad, and the ballad lacked tune, but it served its purpose of saving him from the suspicion offurtiveness. Though the front of the house was blank, behind its heavyshutters he knew that his coming might be noted, and night-riding atthis particular spot might be misconstrued in the absence of frankwarning. 

The correctness of his inference brought a brief smile to his lipswhen he crossed the creek that skirted the orchard, and heard a stabledoor creak softly behind him. He was to be followed again--and watched, but he did not look back or pause to listen for the hoofbeats of hisunsolicited escort. On the soft mud of the road, he would hardly haveheard them, had he bent his ear and drawn rein. He rode at a walk, forhis train would not leave until five o'clock in the morning. There wastime in plenty. 

It was cold and depressing as he trudged the empty streets from thelivery stable to the railroad station, carrying his saddlebags over hisarm. His last farewell had been taken when he left the old mule behindin the rickety livery stable. It had been unemotional, too, but theragged creature had raised its stubborn head, and rubbed its soft noseagainst his shoulder as though in realization of the parting--andunwilling realization. He had roughly laid his hand for a moment on themuzzle, and turned on his heel. 

He was all unconscious that he presented a figure which would seemludicrous in the great world to which he had looked with sucheagerness. The lamps burned murkily about the railroad station, and aheavy fog cloaked the hills. At last he heard the whistle and saw theblazing headlight, and a minute later he had pushed his way into thesmoking-car and dropped his saddlebags on the seat beside him. Then, for the first time, he saw and recognized his watchers. Purvy meant tohave Samson shadowed as far as Lexington, and his movements from thatpoint definitely reported. Jim Asberry and Aaron Hollis were the chosenspies. He did not speak to the two enemies who took seats across thecar, but his face hardened, and his brows came together in a black scowl. 

"When I gits back, " he promised himself, "you'll be one of the fustfolks I'll look fer, Jim Asberry, damn ye! All I hopes is thet nobodyelse don't git ye fust. Ye b'longs ter me. "

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 tooktheir 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 himselfto withhold his hand, was a hard bullet for Samson South to chew, buthe had bided his time thus far, and he would bide it to the end. Whenthat end came, it would also be the end for Purvy and Asberry. Hedisliked 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 overcoatand coat, leaving exposed to view the heavy revolver which was strappedunder his left arm. He even unbuttoned the leather flap of the holster, and then being cleared for action, sat glowering across the aisle, withhis 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 ofthe darkness before dawn had taken out of the boy's mind all thesparkle of anticipation and left only melancholy and hate. He felt forthe moment that, had these men attacked him and thrown him back intothe 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 tohis mood. He longed for the appeasement of a thoroughly satisfiedvengeance. But the two watchers across the car were not ordered tofight and so they made no move. They did not seem to see Samson. Theydid not appear to have noticed his inviting readiness for combat. Theydid not remove their coats. At Lexington, where he had several hours towait, Samson bought a "snack" at a restaurant near the station and thenstrolled about the adjacent streets, still carrying his saddlebags, forhe knew nothing of the workings of check-rooms. When he returned to thedepot with his open wallet in his hand, and asked for a ticket to NewYork, the agent looked up and his lips unguardedly broke into a smileof amusement. It was a good-humored smile, but Samson saw that it wasinspired by some sort of joke, and he divined that the joke was--himself!

"What's the matter?" he inquired very quietly, though his chinstiffened. "Don't ye sell tickets ter New York?"

The man behind the grilled wicket read a spirit as swift to resentridicule as that of d'Artagnan had been when he rode his orange-colorednag into the streets of Paris. His face sobered, and his manner becameattentive. He was wondering what complications lay ahead of this rawcreature whose crudity of appearance was so at odds with the compellingquality of his eyes. 

"Do you want a Pullman reservation?" he asked. 

"What's thet?" The boy put the question with a steadiness of gaze thatseemed to defy the agent to entertain even a subconsciously criticalthought as to his ignorance. 

The ticket man explained sleeping- and dining-cars. He had ratherexpected the boy to choose the day coach, but Samson merely said:

"I wants the best thar is. " He counted out the additional money, andturned gravely from the window. The sleeping-car to which he wasassigned was almost empty, but he felt upon him the interested gaze ofthose few eyes that were turned toward his entrance. He engaged everypair with a pair very clear and steady and undropping, until somehoweach lip that had started to twist in amusement straightened, and thetwinkle that rose at first glance sobered at second. He did not knowwhy an old gentleman in a plaid traveling cap, who looked up from amagazine, turned his gaze out of the window with an expression of gravethoughtfulness. To himself, the old gentleman was irrelevantly quotinga line or two of verse:

 "' ... Unmade, unhandled, unmeet-- Ye pushed them raw to the battle, as ye picked them raw from the street--'"

"Only, " added the old gentleman under his breath, "this one hasn'teven the training of the streets--but with those eyes he'll getsomewhere. "

The porter paused and asked to see Samson's ticket. Mentally, heobserved:

"Po' white trash!" Then, he looked again, for the boy's eyes werediscomfortingly on his fat, black face, and the porter straightwaydecided to be polite. Yet, for all his specious seeming of unconcern, Samson was waking to the fact that he was a scarecrow, and hissensitive pride made him cut his meals short in the dining-car, wherehe was kept busy beating down inquisitive eyes with his defiant gaze. He resolved after some thought upon a definite policy. It was a veryold policy, but to him new--and a discovery. He would change nothing inhimself that involved a surrender of code or conviction. But, whereverit could be done with honor, he would concede to custom. He had come tolearn, not to give an exhibition of stubbornness. Whatever the outsideworld could offer with a recommendation to his good sense, that thinghe would adopt and make his own. 

It was late in the second afternoon when he stepped from the train atJersey City, to be engulfed in an unimagined roar and congestion. Here, it was impossible to hold his own against the unconcealed laughter ofthe many, and he stood for an instant glaring about like a caged tiger, while three currents of humanity separated and flowed toward the threeferry exits. It was a moment of longing for the quiet of his ancienthills, where nothing more formidable than blood enemies existed todisquiet and perplex a man's philosophy. Those were things heunderstood--and even enemies at home did not laugh at a man'speculiarities. For the first time in his life, Samson felt a tremor ofsomething like terror, terror of a great, vague thing, too vast andintangible to combat, and possessed of the measureless power of manyhurricanes. Then, he saw the smiling face of Lescott, and Lescott'sextended hand. Even Lescott, immaculately garbed and fur-coated, seemedalmost a stranger, and the boy's feeling of intimacy froze to inwardconstraint and diffidence. But Lescott knew nothing of that. The stoicin Samson held true, masking his emotions. 

"So you came, " said the New Yorker, heartily, grasping the boy's hand. "Where's your luggage? We'll just pick that up, and make a dash for theferry. "

"Hyar hit is, " replied Samson, who still carried his saddlebags. Thepainter's eyes twinkled, but the mirth was so frank and friendly thatthe boy, instead of glaring in defiance, grinned responsively. 

"Right, oh!" laughed Lescott. "I thought maybe you'd brought a trunk, but it's the wise man who travels light. "

"I reckon I'm pretty green, " acknowledged the youth somewhat ruefully. "But I hain't been studyin' on what I looked like. I reckon thet don'tmake much difference. "

"Not much, " affirmed the other, with conviction. "Let the men withlittle souls spend their thought on that. "

The artist watched his protégé narrowly as they took their placesagainst the forward rail of the ferry-deck, and the boat stood out intothe crashing water traffic of North River. What Samson saw must beabsolutely bewildering. Ears attuned to hear a breaking twig must acheto this hoarse shrieking of whistles. To the west, in the evening'sfading color, the sky-line of lower Manhattan bit the sky with itsserried line of fangs. 

Yet, Samson leaned on the rail without comment, and his face toldnothing. Lescott waited for some expression, and, when none came, hecasually suggested:

"Samson, that is considered rather an impressive panorama over there. What do you think of it?"

"Ef somebody was ter ask ye ter describe the shape of a rainstorm, what would ye say?" countered the boy. 

Lescott laughed. 

"I guess I wouldn't try to say. "

"I reckon, " replied the mountaineer, "I won't try, neither. "

"Do you find it anything like the thing expected?" No New Yorker canallow a stranger to be unimpressed with that sky-line. 

"I didn't have no notion what to expect. " Samson's voice was matter-of-fact. "I 'lowed I'd jest wait and see. "

He followed Lescott out to the foot of Twenty-third Street, andstepped with him into the tonneau of the painter's waiting car. Lescottlived with his family up-town, for it happened that, had his canvasespossessed no value whatever, he would still have been in a position todrive his motor, and follow his impulses about the world. Lescotthimself had found it necessary to overcome family opposition when hehad determined to follow the career of painting. His people had been infinance, and they had expected him to take the position to which helogically fell heir in activities that center about Wall Street. He, too, had at first been regarded as recreant to traditions. For thatreason, he felt a full sympathy with Samson. The painter's place in thesocial world--although he preferred his other world of Art--was sosecure that he was free from any petty embarrassment in standingsponsor for a wild man from the hills. If he did not take the boy tohis home, it was because he understood that a life which must be notonly full of early embarrassment, but positively revolutionary, shouldbe approached by easy stages. Consequently, the car turned down FifthAvenue, passed under the arch, and drew up before a door just offWashington Square, where the landscape painter had a studio suite. There were sleeping-rooms and such accessories as seemed to the boyunheard-of luxury, though Lescott regarded the place as a makeshiftannex to his home establishment. 

"You'd better take your time in selecting permanent quarters, " was hiscareless fashion of explaining to Samson. "It's just as well not tohurry. You are to stay here with me, as long as you will. "

"I'm obleeged ter ye, " replied the boy, to whose training in open-doored hospitality the invitation seemed only natural. The evening mealwas brought in from a neighboring hotel, and the two men dined beforean open fire, Samson eating in mountain silence, while his host chattedand asked questions. The place was quiet for New York, but to Samson itseemed an insufferable pandemonium. He found himself longing for thevelvet-soft quiet of the nightfalls he had known. 

"Samson, " suggested the painter, when the dinner things had beencarried out and they were alone, "you are here for two purposes: firstto study painting; second, to educate and equip yourself for comingconditions. It's going to take work, more work, and then some more work. "

"I hain't skeered of work. "

"I believe that. Also, you must keep out of trouble. You've got toride your fighting instinct with a strong curb. "

"I don't 'low to let nobody run over me. " The statement was notargumentative; only an announcement of a principle which was notsubject to modification. 

"All right, but until you learn the ropes, let me advise you. "

The boy gazed into the fire for a few moments of silence. 

"I gives ye my hand on thet, " he promised. 

At eleven o'clock the painter, having shown his guest over thepremises, said good-night, and went up-town to his own house. Samsonlay a long while awake, with many disquieting reflections. Before hisclosed eyes rose insistently the picture of a smoky cabin with apuncheon floor and of a girl upon whose cheeks and temples flickeredorange and vermilion lights. To his ears came the roar of elevatedtrains, and, since a fog had risen over the Hudson, the endless night-splitting screams of brazen-throated ferry whistles. He tossed on amattress which seemed hard and comfortless, and longed for a feather-bed. 

"Good-night, Sally, " he almost groaned. "I wisht I was back thar wharI belongs. " ... And Sally, more than a thousand miles away, wasshivering on the top of a stile with a white, grief-torn little face, wishing that, too. 

Meanwhile Lescott, letting himself into a house overlooking the Park, was hailed by a chorus of voices from the dining-room. He turned andwent in to join a gay group just back from the opera. As hethoughtfully mixed himself a highball, they bombarded him with questions. 

"Why didn't you bring your barbarian with you?" demanded a dark-eyedgirl, who looked very much as Lescott himself might have looked had hebeen a girl--and very young and lovely. The painter always thought ofhis sister as the family's _edition de luxe_. Now, she flashed onhim an affectionate smile, and added: "We have been waiting to see him. Must we go to bed disappointed?"

George stood looking down on them, and tinkled the ice in his glass. 

"He wasn't brought on for purposes of exhibition, Drennie, " he smiled. "I was afraid, if he came in here in the fashion of his arrival--carryinghis saddlebags--you ultra-civilized folk might have laughed. "

A roar of laughter at the picture vindicated Lescott's assumption. 

"No! Now, actually with saddlebags?" echoed a young fellow with alikeable face which was for the moment incredulously amused. "That goesDick Whittington one better. You do make some rare discoveries, George. We celebrate you. "

"Thanks, Horton, " commented the painter, dryly. "When you New Yorkershave learned what these barbarians already know, the control of yourover-sensitized risibles and a courtesy deeper than your shirt-fronts--maybe I'll let you have a look. Meantime, I'm much too fond of all ofyou to risk letting you laugh at my barbarian. "

CHAPTER XIV

The first peep of daylight through the studio skylight found themountain boy awake. Before the daylight came he had seen the starsthrough its panes. Lescott's servant, temporarily assigned to thestudio, was still sleeping when Samson dressed and went out. As he puton his clothes, he followed his custom of strapping the pistol-holsterunder his left armpit outside his shirt. He did it with no particularthought and from force of habit. His steps carried him first intoWashington Square, at this cheerless hour empty except for a shiveringand huddled figure on a bench and a rattling milk-cart. The boywandered aimlessly until, an hour later, he found himself on BleeckerStreet, as that thoroughfare began to awaken and take up its day'sactivity. The smaller shops that lie in the shadow of the elevatedtrestle were opening their doors. Samson had been reflecting on theamused glances he had inspired yesterday and, when he came to a storewith a tawdry window display of haberdashery and ready-made clothing, he decided to go in and investigate. 

Evidently, the garments he now wore gave him an appearance of povertyand meanness, which did not comport with the dignity of a South. Hadany one else criticized his appearance his resentment would haveblazed, but he could make voluntary admissions. The shopkeeper'scuriosity was somewhat piqued by a manner of speech and appearancewhich, were, to him, new, and which he could not classify. His firstimpression of the boy in the stained suit, slouch hat, and patchedovercoat, was much the same as that which the Pullman porter hadmentally summed up as, "Po' white trash"; but the Yiddish shopman couldnot place his prospective customer under any head or type with which hewas familiar. He was neither "kike, " "wop, " "rough-neck, " nor beggar, and, as the proprietor laid out his wares with unctuous solicitude, hewas, also, studying his unresponsive and early visitor. When Samson, for the purpose of trying on a coat and vest, took off his own outergarments, and displayed, without apology or explanation, a huge andmurderous-looking revolver, the merchant became nervously excited. HadSamson made gratifying purchases, he might have seen nothing, but itoccurred to the mountaineer, just as he was counting money from astuffed purse, that it would perhaps be wiser to wait and consultLescott in matters of sartorial selection. So, with incisive bluntness, he countermanded his order--and made an enemy. The shopkeeper, standingat the door of his basement establishment, combed his beard with hisfingers, and thought regretfully of the fat wallet; and, a minuteafter, when two policemen came by, walking together, he awoke suddenlyto his responsibilities as a citizen. He pointed to the figure now halfa block away. 

"Dat feller, " he said, "chust vent out off my blace. He's got a youngcannon strapped to his vish-bone. I don't know if he's chust a rube, orif maybe he's bad. Anyway, he's a gun-toter. "

The two patrolmen only nodded, and sauntered on. They did not hurry, but neither did Samson. Pausing to gaze into a window filled withItalian sweetmeats, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to findhimself looking into two pairs of accusing eyes. 

"What's your game?" shortly demanded one of the officers. 

"What's ther matter?" countered Samson, as tartly as he had beenquestioned. 

"Don't you know better than to tote a gun around this town?"

"I reckon thet's my business, hain't hit?"

The boy stepped back, and shook the offending hand from his shoulder. His gorge was rising, but he controlled it, and turned on his heel, with the manner of one saying the final word. 

"I reckon ye're a-barkin' up ther wrong tree. "

"Not by a damned sight, we ain't!" One of the patrolmen seized andpinioned his arms, while the second threateningly lifted his club. 

"Don't try to start anything, young feller, " he warned. The street wasawake now and the ever-curious crowd began to gather. The big officerat Samson's back held his arms locked and gave curt directions to hispartner. "Go through him, Quinn. "

Samson recognized that he was in the hands of the law, and a differentsort of law from that which he had known on Misery. He made no effortto struggle, but looked very straight and unblinkingly into the eyes ofthe club-wielder. 

"Don't ye hit me with thet thing, " he said, quietly. "I warns ye. "

The officer laughed as he ran his left hand over Samson's hips andchest, and brought out the offending weapon. 

"I guess that's about all. We'll let you explain the rest of it to thejudge. It's a trick on the Island for yours. "

The Island meant nothing to Samson South, but the derisive laughter ofthe crowd, and the roughness with which the two bluecoats swung himaround, and ordered him to march, set on edge every defiant nerve. Still, he gazed directly into the faces of his captors, and inquiredwith a cruelly forced calm:

"Does ye 'low ter take me ter the jail-house?"

"Can that rube stuff. Get along, get along!" And the officers startedhim on his journey with a shove that sent him lurching and stumblingforward. Then, the curb of control slipped. The prisoner wheeled, hisface distorted with passion, and lashed out with his fist to the faceof the biggest patrolman. It was a foolish and hopeless attack, as theboy realized, but in his code it was necessary. One must resentgratuitous insult whatever the odds, and he fought with suchconcentrated fury and swiftness, after his rude hill method of "fistand skull, " driving in terrific blows with hands and head, that thecrowd breathed deep with the delicious excitement of the combat--andregretted its brevity. 

The amazed officers, for an instant handicapped by their surprise, since they were expecting to monopolize the brutality of the occasion, came to their senses, and had instant recourse to the comfortingreinforcement of their locust clubs. The boy went down under a rat-tatof night sticks, which left him as groggy and easy to handle as afainting woman. 

"You got ter hand it ter dat guy, " commented a sweater-clad onlooker, as they dragged Samson into a doorway to await the wagon. "He was goin'some while he lasted. "

The boy was conscious again, though still faint, when the desksergeant wrote on the station-house blotter:

"Carrying a deadly weapon, and resisting an officer. "

The lieutenant had strolled in, and was contemplatively turning overin his hand the heavy forty-five-calibre Colt. 

"Some rod that!" he announced. "We don't get many like it here. Wheredid you breeze in from, young fellow?"

"Thet's my business, " growled Samson. Then, he added: "I'll beobleeged if ye'll send word ter Mr. George Lescott ter come an' bail meout. "

"You seem to know the procedure, " remarked the desk sergeant, with asmile. "Who is Mr. George Lescott, and where's his hang-out?"

One of the arresting officers looked up from wiping with hishandkerchief the sweat-band of his helmet. 

"George Lescott?" he repeated. "I know him. He's got one of themstudios just off Washington Square. He drives down-town in a car thesize of the Olympic. I don't know how he'd get acquainted with a booblike this. "

"Oh, well!" the desk sergeant yawned. "Stick him in the cage. We'llcall up this Lescott party later on. I guess he's still in the hay, andit might make him peevish to wake him up. "

Left alone in the police-station cell, the boy began to think. Firstof all, he was puzzled. He had fared forth peaceably, and spoken to noone except the storekeeper. To force a man into peace by denying himhis gun, seemed as unreasonable as to prevent fisticuffs by cutting offhands. But, also, a deep sense of shame swept over him, and scaldedhim. Getting into trouble here was, somehow, different from gettinginto trouble at home--and, in some strange way, bitterly humiliating. 

Lescott had risen early, meaning to go down to the studio, and havebreakfast with Samson. His mother and sister were leaving for Bermudaby a nine o'clock sailing. Consequently, eight o'clock found thehousehold gathered in the breakfast-room, supplemented by Mr. WilfredHorton, whose orchids Adrienne Lescott was wearing, and whose luggagewas already at the wharf. 

"Since Wilfred is in the party to take care of things, and look afteryou, " suggested Lescott, as he came into the room a trifle late, "Ithink I'll say good-by here, and run along to the studio. Samson isprobably feeling like a new boy in school this morning. You'll find theusual litter of flowers and fiction in your staterooms to attest myfilial and brotherly devotion. "

"Was the brotherly sentiment addressed to me?" inquired Wilfred, withan unsmiling and brazen gravity that brought to the girl's eyes andlips a half-mocking and wholly decorative twinkle of amusement. 

"Just because I try to be a sister to you, Wilfred, " she calmlyreproved, "I can't undertake to make my brother do it, too. Besides, hecouldn't be a sister to you. "

"But by dropping that attitude--which is entirely gratuitous--you willcompel him to assume it. My sentiment as regards brotherly love isbrief and terse, 'Let George do it!'" Mr. Horton was complacentlyconsuming his breakfast with an excellent appetite, to which theprospect of six weeks among Bermuda lilies with Adrienne lent a fillip. 

"So, brother-to-be, " he continued, "you have my permission to runalong down-town, and feed your savage. "

"Beg pardon, sir!" The Lescott butler leaned close to the painter'sear, and spoke with a note of apology as though deploring the necessityof broaching such a subject. "But will you kindly speak with theMacdougal Street Police Station?"

"With the what?" Lescott turned in surprise, while Horton surrenderedhimself to unrestrained and boisterous laughter. 

"The barbarian!" he exclaimed. "I call that snappy work. Twelve hoursin New York, and a run-in with the police! I've noticed, " he added, asthe painter hurriedly quitted the room, "that, when you take the badman out of his own cock-pit, he rarely lasts as far as the second round. "

"It occurs to me, Wilfred, " suggested Adrienne, with the hint ofwarning in her voice, "that you may be just a trifle overdoing yourattitude of amusement as to this barbarian. George is fond of him, andbelieves in him, and George is quite often right in his judgment. "

"George, " added Mrs. Lescott, "had a broken arm down there in themountains, and these people were kind to him in many ways. I wish Icould see Mr. South, and thank him. "

Lescott's manner over the telephone was indicating to a surprised desksergeant a decidedly greater interest than had been anticipated, and, after a brief and pointed conversation in that quarter, he calledanother number. It was a private number, not included in the telephonebook and communicated with the residence of an attorney who would nothave permitted the generality of clients to disturb him in advance ofoffice hours. 

A realization that the "gun-lugger" had friends "higher up" percolatedat the station-house in another hour, when a limousine halted at thedoor, and a legal celebrity, whose ways were not the ways of policestations or magistrates' courts, stepped to the curb. 

"I am waiting to meet Mr. Lescott, " announced the Honorable Mr. Wickliffe, curtly. 

When a continuance of the case had been secured, and bond given, thefamous lawyer and Samson lunched together at the studio as Lescott'sguests, and, after the legal luminary had thawed the boy's nativereserve and wrung from him his story, he was interested enough to useall his eloquence and logic in his efforts to show the mountaineer whatinherent necessities of justice lay back of seemingly restrictive laws. 

"You simply 'got in bad' through your failure to understand conditionshere, " laughed the lawyer. "I guess we can pull you through, but infuture you'll have to submit to some guidance, my boy. "

And Samson, rather to Lescott's surprise, nodded his head with only aghost of resentment. From friends, he was willing to learn. 

Lescott had been afraid that this initial experience would have anextinguishing effect on Samson's ambitions. He half-expected to hearthe dogged announcement, "I reckon I'll go back home. I don't b'longhyar nohow. " But no such remark came. 

One night, they sat in the cafe of an old French hostelry where, inthe polyglot chatter of three languages, one hears much shop talk ofart and literature. Between the mirrored walls, Samson was for thefirst time glimpsing the shallow sparkle of Bohemia. The orchestra wasplaying an appealing waltz. Among the diners were women gowned as hehad never seen women gowned before. They sat with men, and met thechallenge of ardent glances with dreamy eyes. They hummed anaccompaniment to the air, and sometimes loudly and publicly quarreled. But Samson looked on as taciturn and unmoved as though he had neverdined elsewhere. And yet, his eyes were busy, for suddenly he laid downhis knife, and picked up his fork. 

"Hit 'pears like I've got a passel of things ter l'arn, " he said, earnestly. "I reckon I mout as well begin by l'arnin' how ter eat. " Hehad heretofore regarded a fork only as a skewer with which to hold meatin the cutting. 

Lescott laughed. 

"Most rules of social usage, " he explained, "go back to the test ofefficiency. It is considered good form to eat with the fork, principally because it is more efficient, "

The boy nodded. 

"All right, " he acquiesced. "You l'arn me all them things, an' I'll beobleeged ter ye. Things is diff'rent in diff'rent places. I reckon theSouths hes a right ter behave es good es anybody. "

When a man, whose youth and courage are at their zenith, and whosebrain is tuned to concert pitch, is thrown neck and crop out of squalidisolation into the melting pot of Manhattan, puzzling problems ofreadjustment must follow. Samson's half-starved mind was reaching outsquid-like tentacles in every direction. He was saying little, seeingmuch, not yet coordinating or tabulating, but grimly bolting everymorsel of enlightenment. Later, he would digest; now, he only gorged. Before he could hope to benefit by the advanced instruction of the life-classes, he must toil and sweat over the primer stages of drawing. Several months were spent laboring with charcoal and paper over plastercasts in Lescott's studio, and Lescott himself played instructor. Whenthe skylight darkened with the coming of evening, the boy whosemountain nature cried out for exercise went for long tramps thatcarried him over many miles of city pavements, and after that, when thegas was lit, he turned, still insatiably hungry, to volumes of history, and algebra, and facts. So gluttonous was his protégé's applicationthat the painter felt called on to remonstrate against the danger ofoverwork. But Samson only laughed; that was one of the things he hadlearned to do since he left the mountains. 

"I reckon, " he drawled, "that as long as I'm at work, I kin keep outof trouble. Seems like that's the only way I kin do it. "

 * * * * *

A sloop-rigged boat with a crew of two was dancing before a briskbreeze through blue Bermuda waters. Off to the right, Hamilton rosesheer and colorful from the bay. At the tiller sat the white-cladfigure of Adrienne Lescott. Puffs of wind that whipped the tautlybellying sheets lashed her dark hair about her face. Her lips, vividlyred like poppy-petals, were just now curved into an amused smile, whichmade them even more than ordinarily kissable and tantalizing. Hercompanion was neglecting his nominal duty of tending the sheet to watchher. 

"Wilfred, " she teased, "your contrast is quite startling--and, in away, effective. From head to foot, you are spotless white--but yourscowl is absolutely 'the blackest black that our eyes endure. ' And, "she added, in an injured voice, "I'm sure I've been very nice to you. "

"I have not yet begun to scowl, " he assured her, and proceeded to showwhat superlatives of saturnine expression he held in reserve. "Seehere, Drennie, I know perfectly well that I'm a sheer imbecile toreveal the fact that you've made me mad. It pleases you too perfectly. It makes you happier than is good for you, but----"

"It's a terrible thing to make me happy, isn't it?" she inquired, sweetly. 

"Unspeakably so, when you derive happiness from the torture of yourfellow-man. "

"My brother-man, " she amiably corrected him. 

"Good Lord!" he groaned in desperation. "I ought to turn cave man, andseize you by the hair--and drag you to the nearest minister--orprophet, or whoever could marry us. Then, after the ceremony, I oughtto drag you to my own grotto, and beat you. "

"Would I have to wear my wedding ring in my nose?" She put thequestion with the manner of one much interested in acquiring usefulinformation. 

"Drennie, for the nine-hundred-thousandth time; simply, in theinterests of harmony and to break the deadlock, will you marry me?"

"Not this afternoon, " she smiled. "Watch for the boom! I'm going tobring her round. "

The young man promptly ducked his head, and played out the line, asthe boat dipped her masthead waterward, and came about on the othertack. When the sails were again drumming under the fingers of the wind, she added:

"Besides, I'm not sure that harmony is what I want. "

"You know you'll have to marry me in the end. Why not now?" hepersisted, doggedly. "We are simply wasting our youth, dear. "

His tone had become so calamitous that the girl could not restrain apeal of very musical laughter. 

"Am I so very funny?" he inquired, with dignity. 

"You are, when you are so very tragic, " she assured him. 

He realized that his temper was merely a challenge to her teasing, andhe wisely fell back into his customary attitude of unruffled insouciance. 

"Drennie, you have held me off since we were children. I believe Ifirst announced my intention of marrying you when you were twelve. Thatintention remains unaltered. More: it is unalterable and inevitable. Myreasons for wanting to needn't be rehearsed. It would take too long. Iregard you as possessed of an alert and remarkable mind--one worthy ofcompanionship with my own. " Despite the frivolous badinage of his wordsand the humorous smile of his lips, his eyes hinted at an underlyingintensity. "With no desire to flatter or spoil you, I find yourpersonal aspect pleasing enough to satisfy me. And then, while a manshould avoid emotionalism, I am in love with you. " He moved over to aplace in the sternsheets, and his face became intensely earnest. Hedropped his hand over hers as it lay on the tiller shaft. "God knows, dear, " he exclaimed, "how much I love you!"

Her eyes, after holding his for a moment, fell to the hand which stillimprisoned her own. She shook her head, not in anger, but with a mannerof gentle denial, until he released her fingers and stepped back. 

"You are a dear, Wilfred, " she comforted, "and I couldn't manage toget on without you, but you aren't marriageable--at least, not yet. "

"Why not?" he argued. "I've stood back and twirled my thumbs allthrough your _début_ winter. I've been Patience without thecomfort of a pedestal. Now, will you give me three minutes to show youthat you are not acting fairly, or nicely at all?"

"Duck!" warned the girl, and once more they fell silent in the sheerphysical delight of two healthy young animals, clean-blooded and sport-loving, as the tall jib swept down; the "high side" swept up, and theboat hung for an exhilarating moment on the verge of capsizing. As itrighted itself again, like the craft of a daring airman banking thepylons, the girl gave him a bright nod. "Now, go ahead, " she acceded, "you have three minutes to put yourself in nomination as the exemplarof your age and times. "

CHAPTER XV

The young man settled back, and stuffed tobacco into a battered pipe. Then, with a lightness of tone which was assumed as a defense againsther mischievous teasing, he began:

"Very well, Drennie. When you were twelve, which is at best anunimpressive age for the female of the species, I was eighteen, and allthe world knows that at eighteen a man is very mature and important. You wore pigtails then, and it took a prophet's eye to foresee howwonderfully you were going to emerge from your chrysalis. "

The idolatry of his eyes told how wonderful she seemed to him now. 

"Yet, I fell in love with you, and I said to myself, 'I'll wait forher. ' However, I didn't want to wait eternally. For eight years, I havedanced willing attendance--following you through nursery, younger-setand _débutante_ stages. In short, with no wish to trumpet tooloudly my own virtues, I've been your _Fidus Achates_. " His voicedropped from its pitch of antic whimsey, and became for a moment grave, as he added: "And, because of my love for you, I've lived a life almostas clean as your own. "

"One's _Fidus Achates_, if I remember anything of my Latin, whichI don't"--the girl spoke in that voice which the man loved best, because it had left off bantering, and become grave with such softnessand depth of timbre as might have trembled in the reed pipes of aSylvan Pan--"is one's really-truly friend. Everything that you claimfor yourself is admitted--and many other things that you haven'tclaimed. Now, suppose you give me three minutes to make an accusationon other charges. They're not very grave faults, perhaps, by thestandards of your world and mine, but to me, personally, they seemimportant. "

Wilfred nodded, and said, gravely:

"I am waiting. "

"In the first place, you are one of those men whose fortunes arelisted in the top schedule--the swollen fortunes. Socialists would putyou in the predatory class. "

"Drennie, " he groaned, "do you keep your heaven locked behind a gateof the Needle's Eye? It's not my fault that I'm rich. It was wished onme. If you are serious, I'm willing to become poor as Job's turkey. Show me the way to strip myself, and I'll stand shortly before youbegging alms. "

"To what end?" she questioned. "Poverty would be quite inconvenient. Ishouldn't care for it. But hasn't it ever occurred to you that the manwho wears the strongest and brightest mail, and who by his ownconfession is possessed of an alert brain, ought occasionally to beseen in the lists?"

"In short, your charge is that I am a shirker--and, since it's thesame thing, a coward?"

Adrienne did not at once answer him, but she straightened out for anuninterrupted run before the wind, and by the tiny moss-green flecks, which moments of great seriousness brought to the depths of her eyes, he knew that she meant to speak the unveiled truth. 

"Besides your own holdings in a lot of railways and things, you handleyour mother's and sisters' property, don't you?"

He nodded. 

"In a fashion, I do. I sign the necessary papers when the lawyers callme up, and ask me to come down-town. "

"You are a director in the Metropole Trust Company?"

"Guilty. "

"In the Consolidated Seacoast?"

"I believe so. "

"In a half-dozen other things equally important?"

"Good Lord, Drennie, how can I answer all those questions off-hand? Idon't carry a note-book in my yachting flannels. "

Her voice was so serious that he wondered if it were not, also, alittle contemptuous. 

"Do you have to consult a note-book to answer those questions?"

"Those directorate jobs are purely honorary, " he defended. "If Ibutted in with fool suggestions, they'd quite properly kick me out. "

"With your friends, who are also share-holders, you could assumecontrol of the _Morning Intelligence_, couldn't you?"

"I guess I could assume control, but what would I do with it?"

"Do you know the reputation of that newspaper?"

"I guess it's all right. It's conservative and newsy. I read it everymorning when I'm in town. It fits in very nicely between the grapefruitand the bacon-and-eggs. "

"It is, also, powerful, " she added, "and is said to be absolutelyservile to corporate interests. "

"Drennie, you talk like an anarchist. You are rich yourself, you know. "

"And, against each of those other concerns, various charges have beenmade. "

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"It's not what I want you to do, " she informed him; "it's what I'dlike to see you want to do. "

"Name it! I'll want to do it forthwith. "

"I think, when you are one of a handful of the richest men in NewYork; when, for instance, you could dictate the policy of a greatnewspaper, yet know it only as the course that follows your grapefruit, you are a shirker and a drone, and are not playing the game. " Her handtightened on the tiller. "I think, if I were a man riding on to thepolo field, I'd either try like the devil to drive the ball downbetween the posts, or I'd come inside, and take off my boots andcolors. I wouldn't hover in lady-like futility around the edge of thescrimmage. "

She knew that to Horton, who played polo like a fiend incarnate, thefigure would be effective, and she whipped out her words with somethingvery close to scorn. 

"Duck your head!" she commanded shortly. "I'm coming about. "

Possibly, she had thrown more of herself into her philippic than shehad realized. Possibly, some of her emphasis imparted itself to hertouch on the tiller, and jerked the sloop too violently into a suddenpuff as it careened. At all events, the boat swung sidewise, trembledfor an instant like a wounded gull, and then slapped its spread ofcanvas prone upon the water with a vicious report. 

"Jump!" yelled the man, and, as he shouted, the girl disappeared over-side, perilously near the sheet. He knew the danger of coming up undera wet sail, and, diving from the high side, he swam with racing strokestoward the point where she had gone down. When Adrienne's head did notreappear, his alarm grew, and he plunged under water where the shadowof the overturned boat made everything cloudy and obscure to his wide-open eyes. He stroked his way back and forth through the purple fogthat he found down there, until his lungs seemed on the point ofbursting. Then, he paused at the surface, shaking the water from hisface, and gazing anxiously about. The dark head was not visible, andonce more, with a fury of growing terror, he plunged downward, andbegan searching the shadows. This time, he remained until his chest wasaching with an absolute torture. If she had swallowed water under thatcanvas barrier this attempt would be the last that could avail. Then, just as it seemed that he was spending the last fraction of the lastounce of endurance, his aching eyes made out a vague shape, alsoswimming, and his hand touched another hand. She was safe, and togetherthey came out of the opaqueness into water as translucent as sapphires, and rose to the surface. 

"Where were you?" she inquired. 

"I was looking for you--under the sail, " he panted. 

Adrienne laughed. 

"I'm quite all right, " she assured him. "I came up under the boat atfirst, but I got out easily enough, and went back to look for you. "

They swam together to the capsized hull, and the girl thrust up onestrong, slender hand to the stem, while with the other she wiped thewater from her smiling eyes. The man also laid hold on the support, andhung there, filling his cramped lungs. Then, for just an instant, hishand closed over hers. 

"There's my hand on it, Drennie, " he said. "We start back to New Yorkto-morrow, don't we? Well, when I get there, I put on overalls, and goto work. When I propose next, I'll have something to show. "

A motor-boat had seen their plight, and was racing madly to theirrescue, with a yard-high swirl of water thrown up from its nose and afusillade of explosions trailing in its wake. 

 * * * * *

Christmas came to Misery wrapped in a drab mantle of desolation. Themountains were like gigantic cones of raw and sticky chocolate, exceptwhere the snow lay patched upon their cheerless slopes. The skies werelow and leaden, and across their gray stretches a spirit of squalidmelancholy rode with the tarnished sun. Windowless cabins, with tight-closed doors, became cavernous dens untouched by the cleansing power ofdaylight. In their vitiated atmosphere, their humanity grew stolidlysullen. Nowhere was a hint of the season's cheer. The mountains knewonly of such celebration as snuggling close to the jug of moonshine, and drinking out the day. Mountain children, who had never heard ofKris Kingle, knew of an ancient tradition that at Christmas midnightthe cattle in the barns and fields knelt down, as they had knelt aroundthe manger, and that along the ragged slopes of the hills the elderbushes ceased to rattle dead stalks, and burst into white sprays ofmomentary bloom. 

Christmas itself was a week distant, and, at the cabin of the WidowMiller, Sally was sitting alone before the logs. She laid down theslate and spelling-book, over which her forehead had been strenuouslypuckered, and gazed somewhat mournfully into the blaze. Sally had asecret. It was a secret which she based on a faint hope. If Samsonshould come back to Misery, he would come back full of new notions. Noman had ever yet returned from that outside world unaltered. No manever would. A terrible premonition said he would not come at all, but, if he did--if he did--she must know how to read and write. Maybe, whenshe had learned a little more, she might even go to school for a termor two. She had not confided her secret. The widow would not haveunderstood. The book and slate came out of their dusty cranny in thelogs beside the fireplace only when the widow had withdrawn to her bed, and the freckled boy was dreaming of being old enough to kill Hollmans. 

The cramped and distorted chirography on the slate was discouraging. It was all proving very hard work. The girl gazed for a time atsomething she saw in the embers, and then a faint smile came to herlips. By next Christmas, she would surprise Samson with a letter. Itshould be well written, and every "hain't" should be an "isn't. " Ofcourse, until then Samson would not write to her, because he would notknow that she could read the letter--indeed, as yet the deciphering of"hand-write" was beyond her abilities. 

She rose and replaced the slate and primer. Then, she took tenderlyfrom its corner the rifle, which the boy had confided to her keeping, and unwrapped its greasy covering. She drew the cartridges from chamberand magazine, oiled the rifling, polished the lock, and reloaded thepiece. 

"Thar now, " she said, softly, "I reckon ther old rifle-gun's ready. "

As she sat there alone in the shuck-bottomed chair, the corners of theroom wavered in huge shadows, and the smoke-blackened cavern of thefireplace, glaring like a volcano pit, threw her face into relief. Shemade a very lovely and pathetic picture. Her slender knees were drawnclose together, and from her slim waist she bent forward, nursing theinanimate thing which she valued and tended, because Samson valued it. Her violet eyes held the heart-touching wistfulness of utterloneliness, and her lips drooped. This small girl, dreaming her dreamsof hope against hope, with the vast isolation of the hills about her, was a little monument of unflinching loyalty and simple courage, and, as she sat, she patted the rifle with as soft a touch as though she hadbeen dandling Samson's child--and her own--on her knee. There was nospeck of rust in the unused muzzle, no hitch in the easily slidingmechanism of the breechblock. The hero's weapon was in readiness to hishand, as the bow of Ulysses awaited the coming of the wanderer. 

Then, with sudden interruption to her reflections, came a rattling onthe cabin door. She sat up and listened. Night visitors were rare atthe Widow Miller's. Sally waited, holding her breath, until the soundwas repeated. 

"Who is hit?" she demanded in a low voice. 

"Hit's me--Tam'rack!" came the reply, very low and cautious, andsomewhat shamefaced. 

"What does ye want?"

"Let me in, Sally, " whined the kinsman, desperately. "They're atterme. They won't think to come hyar. "

Sally had not seen her cousin since Samson had forbidden his coming tothe house. Since Samson's departure, the troublesome kinsman, too, hadbeen somewhere "down below, " holding his railroad job. But the call forprotection was imperative. She set the gun out of sight against themantle-shelf, and, walking over unwillingly, opened the door. 

The mud-spattered man came in, glancing about him half-furtively, andwent to the fireplace. There, he held his hands to the blaze. 

"Hit's cold outdoors, " he said. 

"What manner of deviltry hev ye been into now, Tam'rack?" inquired thegirl. "Kain't ye never keep outen trouble?"

The self-confessed refugee did not at once reply. When he did, it wasto ask:

"Is the widder asleep?"

Sally saw from his blood-shot eyes that he had been drinking heavily. She did not resume her seat, but stood holding him with her eyes. Inthem, the man read contempt, and an angry flush mounted to his sallowcheek-bones. 

"I reckon ye knows, " went on the girl in the same steady voice, "thetSamson meant what he said when he warned ye ter stay away from hyar. Ireckon ye knows I wouldn't never hev opened thet door, ef hit wasn'tfer ye bein' in trouble. "

The mountaineer straightened up, his eyes burning with the craftinessof drink, and the smoldering of resentment. 

"I reckon I knows thet. Thet's why I said they was atter me. I hain'tin no trouble, Sally. I jest come hyar ter see ye, thet's all. "

Now, it was the girl's eyes that flashed anger. With quick steps, shereached the door, and threw it open. Her hand trembled as she pointedout into the night, and the gusty winter's breath caught and whippedher calico skirts about her ankles. 

"You kin go!" she ordered, passionately. "Don't ye never cross thisdoorstep ag'in. Begone quick!"

But Tamarack only laughed with easy insolence. 

"Sally, " he drawled. "Thar's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party Christmasnight over ter the Forks. I 'lowed I'd like ter hev ye go over tharwith me. "

Her voice was trembling with white-hot indignation. 

"Didn't ye hear Samson say ye wasn't never ter speak ter me?"

"Ter hell with Samson!" he ripped out, furiously. "Nobody hain'tpesterin' 'bout him. I don't allow Samson, ner no other man, terdictate ter me who I keeps company with. I likes ye, Sally. Ye're thepurtiest gal in the mountings, an'----"

"Will ye git out, or hev I got ter drive ye?" interrupted the girl. Her face paled, and her lips drew themselves into a taut line. 

"Will ye go ter the party with me, Sally?" He came insolently over, and stood waiting, ignoring her dismissal with the ease of braggarteffrontery. She, in turn, stood rigid, wordless, pointing his wayacross the doorstep. Slowly, the drunken face lost its leering grin. The eyes blackened into a truculent and venomous scowl. He steppedover, and stood towering above the slight figure, which did not giveback a step before his advance. With an oath, he caught her savagely inhis arms, and crushed her to him, while his unshaven, whiskey-soakedlips were pressed clingingly against her own indignant ones. Tooastonished for struggle, the girl felt herself grow faint in hisloathsome embrace, while to her ears came his panted words:

"I'll show ye. I wants ye, an' I'll git ye. "

Adroitly, with a regained power of resistance and a lithe twist, sheslipped out of his grasp, hammering at his face futilely with herclenched fists. 

"I--I've got a notion ter kill ye!" she cried, brokenly. "Ef Samsonwas hyar, ye wouldn't dare--" What else she might have said was shutoff in stormy, breathless gasps of humiliation and anger. 

"Well, " replied Tamarack, with drawling confidence, "ef Samson washyar, I'd show him, too--damn him! But Samson hain't hyar. He won'tnever be hyar no more. " His voice became deeply scornful, as he added:"He's done cut an' run. He's down thar below, consortin' withfurriners, an' he hain't thinkin' nothin' 'bout you. You hain't goodenough fer Samson, Sally. I tells ye he's done left ye fer all time. "

Sally had backed away from the man, until she stood trembling near thehearth. As he spoke, Tamarack was slowly and step by step following herup. In his eyes glittered the same light that one sees in those of acat which is watching a mouse already caught and crippled. 

She half-reeled, and stood leaning against the rough stones of thefireplace. Her head was bowed, and her bosom heaving with emotion. Shefelt her knees weakening under her, and feared they would no longersupport her. But, as her cousin ended, with a laugh, she turned herback to the wall, and stood with her downstretched hands gropingagainst the logs. Then, she saw the evil glint in Tamarack's blood-shoteyes. He took one slow step forward, and held out his arms. 

"Will ye come ter me?" he commanded, "or shall I come an' git ye?" Thegirl's fingers at that instant fell against something cooling andmetallic. It was Samson's rifle. 

With a sudden cry of restored confidence and a dangerous up-leaping oflight in her eyes, she seized and cocked it. 

CHAPTER XVI

The girl stepped forward, and held the weapon finger on trigger, closeto her cousin's chest. 

"Ye lies, Tam'rack, " she said, in a very low and steady voice--a voicethat could not be mistaken, a voice relentlessly resolute and purposeful. 

"Ye lies like ye always lies. Yore heart's black an' dirty. Ye're amurderer an' a coward. Samson's a-comin' back ter me.... I'm a-goin'ter be Samson's wife. " The tensity of her earnestness might have told asubtler psychologist than Tamarack that she was endeavoring to convinceherself. "He hain't never run away. He's hyar in this room right now. "The mountaineer started, and cast an apprehensive glance about him. Thegirl laughed, with a deeply bitter note, then she went on:

"Oh, you can't see him, Tam'rack. Ye mout hunt all night, but whareverI be, Samson's thar, too. I hain't nothin' but a part of Samson--an'I'm mighty nigh ter killin' ye this minute--he'd do hit, I reckon. "

"Come on now, Sally, " urged the man, ingratiatingly. He was thoroughlycowed, seeking compromise. A fool woman with a gun: every one knew itwas a dangerous combination, and, except for himself, no South had everbeen a coward. He knew a certain glitter in their eyes. He knew it wasapt to presage death, and this girl, trembling in her knees but holdingthat muzzle against his chest so unwaveringly, as steady as granite, had it in her pupils. Her voice held an inexorable monotony suggestiveof tolling bells. She was not the Sally he had known before, but a newSally, acting under a quiet sort of exaltation, capable of anything. Heknew that, should she shoot him dead there in her house, no man whoknew them both would blame her. His life depended on strategy. "Comeon, Sally, " he whined, as his face grew ashen. "I didn't aim ter makeye mad. I jest lost my head, an' made love ter ye. Hit hain't no sinter kiss a feller's own cousin. " He was edging toward the door. 

"Stand where ye're at, " ordered Sally, in a voice of utter loathing, and he halted. "Hit wasn't jest kissin' me--" She broke off, andshuddered again. "I said thet Samson was in this here room. Ef ye movestwell I tells ye ye kin, ye'll hear him speak ter ye, an' ef he speaksye won't never hear nothin' more. This here is Samson's gun. I reckonhe'll tell me ter pull the trigger terectly!"

"Fer God's sake, Sally!" implored the braggart. "Fer God's sake, lookover what I done. I knows ye're Samson's gal. I----"

"Shet up!" she said, quietly; and his voice died instantly. 

"Yes, I'm Samson's gal, an' I hain't a-goin' ter kill ye this time, Tam'rack, unlessen ye makes me do hit. But, ef ever ye crosses thatstile out thar ag'in, so help me God, this gun air goin' ter shoot. "

Tamarack licked his lips. They had grown dry. He had groveled before agirl--but he was to be spared. That was the essential thing. 

"I promises, " he said, and turned, much sobered, to the door. 

Sally stood for a while, listening until she heard the slopping hoof-beats of his retreat, then she dropped limply into the shaky shuck-bottomed chair, and sat staring straight ahead, with a dazed and almostmortal hurt in her eyes. It was a trance-like attitude, and the gesturewith which she several times wiped her calico sleeve across the lipshis kisses had defiled, seemed subconscious. At last, she spoke aloud, but in a far-away voice, shaking her head miserably. 

"I reckon Tam'rack's right, " she said. "Samson won't hardly come back. Why would he come back?"

 * * * * *

The normal human mind is a reservoir, which fills at a rate of speedregulated by the number and calibre of its feed pipes. Samson's mindhad long been almost empty, and now from so many sources the waters ofnew things were rushing in upon it that under their pressure it mustfill fast, or give away. 

He was saved from hopeless complications of thought by a sanity whichwas willing to assimilate without too much effort to analyze. Thatbelonged to the future. Just now, all was marvelous. What miraclesaround him were wrought out of golden virtue, and what out of brazenvice, did not as yet concern him. New worlds are not long new worlds. The boy from Misery was presently less bizarre to the eye than many ofthe unkempt bohemians he met in the life of the studios: men whoquarreled garrulously over the end and aim of Art, which they spelledwith a capital A--and, for the most part, knew nothing of. He retained, except within a small circle of intimates, a silence that passed fortaciturnity, and a solemnity of visage that was often construed intosurly egotism. 

He still wore his hair long, and, though his conversation graduallysloughed off much of its idiom and vulgarism, enough of the mountaineerstood out to lend to his personality a savor of the crudely picturesque. 

Meanwhile, he drew and read and studied and walked and every day'sadvancement was a forced march. The things that he drew began bydegrees to resolve themselves into some faint similitude to the thingsfrom which he drew them. The stick of charcoal no longer insisted onleaving in the wake of its stroke smears like soot. It began to begovernable. But it was the fact that Samson saw things as they were andinsisted on trying to draw them just as he saw them, which best pleasedhis sponsor. During those initial months, except for his long tramps, occupied with thoughts of the hills and the Widow Miller's cabin, hislife lay between Lescott's studio and the cheap lodgings which he hadtaken near by. Sometimes while he was bending toward his easel therewould rise before his imagination the dark unshaven countenance of JimAsberry. At such moments, he would lay down the charcoal, and his eyeswould cloud into implacable hatred. "I hain't fergot ye, Pap, " he wouldmutter, with the fervor of a renewed vow. With the speed of a clock'sminute hand, too gradual to be seen by the eye, yet so fast that itsoon circles the dial, changes were being wrought in the raw materialcalled Samson South. One thing did not change. In every crowd, he foundhimself searching hungrily for the face of Sally, which he knew hecould not find. Always, there was the unadmitted, yet haunting, senseof his own rawness. For life was taking off his rough edges--and therewere many--and life went about the process in workmanlike fashion, withsandpaper. The process was not enjoyable, and, though the man's soulwas made fitter, it was also rubbed raw. Lescott, tremendouslyinterested in his experiment, began to fear that the boy's too greatsomberness of disposition would defeat the very earnestness from whichit sprang. So, one morning, the landscape-maker went to the telephone, and called for the number of a friend whom he rightly believed to bethe wisest man, and the greatest humorist, in New York. The callbrought no response, and the painter dried his brushes, and turned upFifth Avenue to an apartment hotel in a cross street, where on acertain door he rapped with all the elaborate formula of a secret code. Very cautiously, the door opened, and revealed a stout man with ahumorous, clean-shaven face. On a table lay a scattered sheaf of roughand yellow paper, penciled over in a cramped and interlined hand. Thestout man's thinning hair was rumpled over a perspiring forehead. Across the carpet was a worn stretch that bespoke much midnight pacing. The signs were those of authorship. 

"Why didn't you answer your 'phone?" smiled Lescott, though he knew. 

The stout man shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the wall, wherethe disconnected receiver was hanging down. "Necessary precautionagainst creditors, " he explained. "I am out--except to you. "

"Busy?" interrogated Lescott. "You seem to have a manuscript in themaking. "

"No. " The stout man's face clouded with black foreboding. "I shallnever write another story. I'm played out. " He turned, and restivelypaced the worn carpet, pausing at the window for a despondent glanceacross the roofs and chimney pots of the city. Lescott, with theprivilege of intimacy, filled his pipe from the writer's tobacco jar. 

"I want your help. I want you to meet a friend of mine, and take himunder your wing in a fashion. He needs you. "

The stout man's face again clouded. A few years ago, he had beenpeddling his manuscripts with the heart-sickness of unsuccessful middleage. To-day, men coupled his name with those of Kipling and DeMaupassant. One of his antipathies was meeting people who sought tolionize him. Lescott read the expression, and, before his host had timeto object, swept into his recital. 

At the end he summarized:

"The artist is much like the setter-pup. If it's in him, it's asinstinctive as a dog's nose. But to become efficient he must go a-fieldwith a steady veteran of his own breed. "

"I know!" The great man, who was also the simple man, smiledreminiscently. "They tried to teach me to herd sheep when my nose wasitching for bird country. Bring on your man; I want to know him. "

Samson was told nothing of the benevolent conspiracy, but one eveningshortly later he found himself sitting at a café table with his sponsorand a stout man, almost as silent as himself. The stout man respondedwith something like churlish taciturnity to the half-dozen men andwomen who came over with flatteries. But later, when the trio was leftalone, his face brightened, and he turned to the boy from Misery. 

"Does Billy Conrad still keep store at Stagbone?"

Samson started, and his gaze fell in amazement. At the mention of thename, he saw a cross-roads store, with rough mules hitched to fencepalings. It was a picture of home, and here was a man who had beenthere! With glowing eyes, the boy dropped unconsciously back into thevernacular of the hills. 

"Hev ye been thar, stranger?"

The writer nodded, and sipped his whiskey. 

"Not for some years, though, " he confessed, as he drifted intoreminiscence, which to Samson was like water to a parched throat. 

When they left the café, the boy felt as though he were taking leave ofan old and tried friend. By homely methods, this unerring diagnosticianof the human soul had been reading him, liking him, and making him feela heart-warming sympathy. The man who shrunk from lion-hunters, and whocould return the churl's answer to the advances of sycophant andflatterer, enthusiastically poured out for the ungainly mountain boy allthe rare quality and bouquet of his seasoned personal charm. It was avintage distilled from experience and humanity. It had met the ancientrequirement for the mellowing and perfecting of good Madeira, that itshall "voyage twice around the world's circumference, " and it was athing reserved for his friends. 

"It's funny, " commented the boy, when he and Lescott were alone, "thathe's been to Stagbone. "

"My dear Samson, " Lescott assured him, "if you had spoken of Tucson, Arizona, or Caracas or Saskatchewan, it would have been the same. Heknows them all. "

It was not until much later that Samson realized how these two reallygreat men had adopted him as their "little brother, " that he might havetheir shoulder-touch to march by. And it was without his realization, too, that they laid upon him the imprint of their own characters andphilosophy. One night at Tonelli's table-d'hôte place, the latestdiners were beginning to drift out into Tenth Street. The fadedsoprano, who had in better days sung before a King, was wearying as shereeled out ragtime with a strong Neapolitan accent. Samson had beentalking to the short-story writer about his ambitions and his hatreds. He feared he was drifting away from his destiny--and that he would inthe end become too softened. The writer leaned across the table, andsmiled. 

"Fighting is all right, " he said; "but a man should not be just thefighter. " He mused a moment in silence, then quoted a scrap of verse:

 "'Test of the man, if his worth be, "'In accord with the ultimate plan, "'That he be not, to his marring, "'Always and utterly man; "'That he bring out of the battle "'Fitter and undefiled, "'To woman the heart of a woman, "'To children the heart of a child. '"

Samson South offered no criticism. He had known life from the stoic'sview-point. He had heard the seductive call of artistic yearnings. Now, it dawned on him in an intensely personal fashion, as it had begunalready to dawn in theory, that the warrior and the artist may meet oncommon and compatible ground, where the fighting spirit is touched andknighted with the gentleness of chivalry. He seemed to be looking froma new and higher plane, from which he could see a mellow softness onangles that had hitherto been only stern and unrelieved. 

CHAPTER XVII

"I have come, not to quarrel with you, but to try to dissuade you. "The Honorable Mr. Wickliffe bit savagely at his cigar, and gave adespairing spread to his well-manicured hands. "You stand in danger ofbecoming the most cordially hated man in New York--hated by the mostpowerful combinations in New York. "

Wilfred Horton leaned back in a swivel chair, and put his feet up onhis desk. For a while, he seemed interested in his own silk socks. 

"It's very kind of you to warn me, " he said, quietly. 

The Honorable Mr. Wickliffe rose in exasperation, and paced the floor. The smoke from his black cigar went before him in vicious puffs. Finally, he stopped, and leaned glaring on the table. 

"Your family has always been conservative. When you succeeded to thefortune, you showed no symptoms of this mania. In God's name, what haschanged you?"

"I hope I have grown up, " explained the young man, with an unruffledsmile. "One can't wear swaddling clothes forever, you know. "

The attorney for an instant softened his manner as he looked into thestraight-gazing, unafraid eyes of his client. 

"I've known you from your babyhood. I advised your father before youwere born. You have, by the chance of birth, come into the control ofgreat wealth. The world of finance is of delicate balance. Squabbles incertain directorates may throw the Street into panic. Suddenly, youemerge from decent quiet, and run amuck in the china-shop, bellowingand tossing your horns. You make war on those whose interests are yourown. You seem bent on hari-kari. You have toys enough to amuse you. Whycouldn't you stay put?"

"They weren't the right things. They were, as you say, toys. " Thesmile faded and Horton's chin set itself for a moment, as he added:

"If you don't think I'm going to stay put--watch me. "

"Why do you have to make war--to be chronically insurgent?"

"Because"--the young man, who had waked up, spoke slowly--"I amreading a certain writing on the wall. The time is not far off when, unless we regulate a number of matters from within, we shall beregulated from without. Then, instead of giving the financial body alittle griping in its gold-lined tummy, which is only the salutaryeffect of purging, a surgical operation will be required. It will besomething like one they performed on the body politic of France not solong ago. Old Dr. Guillotine officiated. It was quite a successfuloperation, though the patient failed to rally. "

"Take for instance this newspaper war you've inaugurated on thepolice, " grumbled the corporation lawyer. "It's less dangerous to thepublic than these financial crusades, but decidedly more so foryourself. You are regarded as a dangerous agitator, a marplot! I tellyou, Wilfred, aside from all other considerations the thing is perilousto yourself. You are riding for a fall. These men whom you are whippingout of public life will turn on you. "

"So I hear. Here's a letter I got this morning--unsigned. That is, Ithought it was here. Well, no matter. It warns me that I have less thanthree months to live unless I call off my dogs. "

The Honorable Mr. Wickliffe's face mirrored alarm. 

"Let me have it, " he demanded. "You shouldn't treat such matterslightly. Men are assassinated in New York. I'll refer it to the police. "

Horton laughed. 

"That would be in the nature of referring back, wouldn't it? I fancyit came from some one not so remote from police sympathy. "

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to stay put. If I can convict certain corrupt members ofthe department, I'm going to nail brass-buttoned hides all over thefront of the city hall. "

"Have you had any other threats?"

"No, not exactly, but I've had more touching recognition than that. I've been asked to resign from several very good clubs. "

The attorney groaned. 

"You will be a Pariah. So will your allies. "

It is said that the new convert is ever the most extreme fanatic. Wilfred Horton had promised to put on his working clothes, and he haddone it with reckless disregard for consequences. At first, he wassimply obeying Adrienne's orders; but soon he found himself playing thegame for the game's sake. Men at the clubs and women whom he took intodinner chaffed him over his sudden disposition to try his wings. He wasa man riding a hobby, they said. In time, it began to dawn that he, with others, whom he had drawn to his standards, meant serious war oncertain complacent evils in the world of finance and politics. Sleepingdogs of custom began to stir and growl. Political overlords, assailedas unfaithful servants, showed their teeth. From some hidden, butunfailing, source terribly sure and direct evidence of guilt was beinggathered. For Wilfred Horton, who was demanding a day of reckoning andspending great sums of money to get it, there was a prospect of thingsdoing. 

Adrienne Lescott was in Europe. Soon, she would return, and Hortonmeant to show that he had not buried his talent. 

 * * * * *

For eight months Samson's life had run in the steady ascent of gradualclimbing, but, in the four months from the first of August to the firstof December, the pace of his existence suddenly quickened. He left offdrawing from plaster casts, and went into a life class. His shynesssecretly haunted him. The nudity of the woman posing on the modelthrone, the sense of his own almost as naked ignorance, and the dreadof the criticism to come, were all keen embarrassments upon him. 

In this period, Samson had his first acquaintanceship with women, except those he had known from childhood--and his firstacquaintanceship with the men who were not of his own art world. Of thewomen, he saw several sorts. There were the aproned and frowsystudents, of uncertain age, who seemed to have no life except thatwhich existed under studio skylights. There were, also, a few youngergirls, who took their art life with less painful solemnity; and, ofcourse, the models in the "partially draped" and the "altogether. "

Tony Collasso was an Italian illustrator, who lodged and painted instudio-apartments in Washington Square, South. He had studied in theJulian School and the Beaux Arts, and wore a shock of dark curls, aSatanic black mustache, and an expression of Byronic melancholy. Themelancholy, he explained to Samson, sprang from the necessity ofcommercializing his divine gift. His companions were various, numberingamong them a group of those pygmy celebrities of whom one has neverheard until by chance he meets them, and of whom their intimates speakas of immortals. 

To Collasso's studio, Samson was called one night by telephone. He hadsometimes gone there before to sit for an hour, chiefly as a listener, while the man from Sorrento bewailed fate with his coterie, anddenounced all forms of government, over insipid Chianti. Sometimes, anequally melancholy friend in soiled linen and frayed clothes took uphis violin, and, as he improvised, the noisy group would fall silent. At such moments, Samson would ride out on the waves of melody, and seeagain the velvet softness of the mountain night, with stars hangingintimately close, and hear the ripple of Misery and a voice for whichhe longed. 

But, to-night, he entered the door to find himself in the midst of agay and boisterous party. The room was already thickly fogged withsmoke, and a dozen men and women, singing snatches of current airs, were interesting themselves over a chafing dish. The studio of TonyCollasso was of fair size, and adorned with many unframed paintings, chiefly his own, and a few good tapestries and bits of bric-à-bracvariously jettisoned from the sea of life in which he had drifted. Thecrowd itself was typical. A few very minor writers and artists, a modelor two, and several women who had thinking parts in current Broadwayproductions. 

At eleven o'clock the guests of honor arrived in a taxicab. They wereMr. William Farbish and Miss Winifred Starr. Having come, as theyexplained, direct from the theater where Miss Starr danced in the firstrow, they were in evening dress. Samson mentally acknowledged, though, with instinctive disfavor for the pair, that both were, in a way, handsome. Collasso drew him aside to whisper importantly:

"Make yourself agreeable to Farbish. He is received in the mostexclusive society, and is a connoisseur of art. He is a connoisseur inall things, " added the Italian, with a meaning glance at the girl. "Farbish has lived everywhere, " he ran on, "and, if he takes a fancy toyou, he will put you up at the best clubs. I think I shall sell him alandscape. "

The girl was talking rapidly and loudly. She had at once taken thecenter of the room, and her laughter rang in free and egotistical pealsabove the other voices. 

"Come, " said the host, "I shall present you. "

The boy shook hands, gazing with his usual directness into the show-girl's large and deeply-penciled eyes. Farbish, standing at one sidewith his hands in his pockets, looked on with an air of slightly boreddetachment. 

His dress, his mannerisms, his bearing, were all those of the man whohas overstudied his part. They were too perfect, too obviouslyrehearsed through years of social climbing, but that was a defectSamson was not yet prepared to recognize. 

Some one had naïvely complimented Miss Starr on the leopard-skin cloakshe had just thrown from her shapely shoulders, and she turned promptlyand vivaciously to the flatterer. 

"It is nice, isn't it?" she prattled. "It may look a little up-stagefor a girl who hasn't got a line to read in the piece, but these daysone must get the spot-light, or be a dead one. It reminds me of alittle run-in I had with Graddy--he's our stage-director, you know. "She paused, awaiting the invitation to proceed, and, having receivedit, went gaily forward. "I was ten minutes late, one day, forrehearsal, and Graddy came up with that sarcastic manner of his, andsaid: 'Miss Starr, I don't doubt you are a perfectly nice girl, and allthat, but it rather gets my goat to figure out how, on a salary offifteen dollars a week, you come to rehearsals in a million dollars'worth of clothes, riding in a limousine--_and_ ten minutes late!'"She broke off with the eager little expression of awaiting applause, and, having been satisfied, she added: "I was afraid that wasn't goingto get a laugh, after all. "

She glanced inquiringly at Samson, who had not smiled, and who stoodlooking puzzled. 

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. South, from down South, " she challenged. 

"I guess I'm sort of like Mr. Graddy, " said the boy, slowly. "I wasjust wondering how you do do it. "

He spoke with perfect seriousness, and, after a moment, the girl brokeinto a prolonged peal of laughter. 

"Oh, you are delicious!" she exclaimed. "If I could do the_ingénue_ like that, believe me, I'd make some hit. " She cameover, and, laying a hand on each of the boy's shoulders, kissed himlightly on the cheek. "That's for a droll boy!" she said. "That's thebest line I've heard pulled lately. "

Farbish was smiling in quiet amusement. He tapped the mountaineer onthe shoulder. 

"I've heard George Lescott speak of you, " he said, genially. "I'verather a fancy for being among the discoverers of men of talent. Wemust see more of each other. "

Samson left the party early, and with a sense of disgust. It was, atthe time of his departure, waxing more furious in its merriment. Itseemed to him that nowhere among these people was a note of sincerity, and his thoughts went back to the parting at the stile, and the girlwhose artlessness and courage were honest. 

Several days later, Samson was alone in Lescott's studio. It wasnearing twilight, and he had laid aside a volume of De Maupassant, whose simple power had beguiled him. The door opened, and he saw thefigure of a woman on the threshold. The boy rose somewhat shyly fromhis seat, and stood looking at her. She was as richly dressed as MissStarr had been, but there was the same difference as between the colorsof the sunset sky and the exaggerated daubs of Collasso's landscape. She stood lithely straight, and her furs fell back from a throat assmooth and slenderly rounded as Sally's. Her cheeks were bright withthe soft glow of perfect health, and her lips parted over teeth thatwere as sound and strong as they were decorative. This girl did nothave to speak to give the boy the conviction that she was some one whomhe must like. She stood at the door a moment, and then came forwardwith her hand outstretched. 

"This is Mr. South, isn't it?" she asked, with a frank friendliness inher voice. 

"Yes, ma'am, that's my name. "

"I'm Adrienne Lescott, " said the girl. "I thought I'd find my brotherhere. I stopped by to drive him up-town. "

Samson had hesitatingly taken the gloved hand, and its grasp was firmand strong despite its ridiculous smallness. 

"I reckon he'll be back presently. " The boy was in doubt as to theproper procedure. This was Lescott's studio, and he was not certainwhether or not it lay in his province to invite Lescott's sister totake possession of it. Possibly, he ought to withdraw. His ideas ofsocial usages were very vague. 

"Then, I think I'll wait, " announced the girl. She threw off her furcoat, and took a seat before the open grate. The chair was large, andswallowed her up. 

Samson wanted to look at her, and was afraid that this would beimpolite. He realized that he had seen no real ladies, except on thestreet, and now he had the opportunity. She was beautiful, and therewas something about her willowy grace of attitude that made the softand clinging lines of her gown fall about her in charming draperyeffects. Her small pumps and silk-stockinged ankles as she held themout toward the fire made him say to himself:

"I reckon she never went barefoot in her life. "

"I'm glad of this chance to meet you, Mr. South, " said the girl with asmile that found its way to the boy's heart. After all, there wassincerity in "foreign" women. "George talks of you so much that I feelas if I'd known you all the while. Don't you think I might claimfriendship with George's friends?"

Samson had no answer. He wished to say something equally cordial, butthe old instinct against effusiveness tied his tongue. 

"I owe right smart to George Lescott, " he told her, gravely. 

"That's not answering my question, " she laughed. "Do you consent tobeing friends with me?"

"Miss--" began the boy. Then, realizing that in New York this form ofaddress is hardly complete, he hastened to add: "Miss Lescott, I'vebeen here over nine months now, and I'm just beginning to realize whata rube I am. I haven't no--" Again, he broke off, and laughed athimself. "I mean, I haven't any idea of proper manners, and so I'm, aswe would say down home, 'plumb skeered' of ladies. "

As he accused himself, Samson was looking at her with unblinkingdirectness; and she met his glance with eyes that twinkled. 

"Mr. South, " she said, "I know all about manners, and you know allabout a hundred real things that I want to know. Suppose we beginteaching each other?"

Samson's face lighted with the revolutionizing effect that a smile canbring only to features customarily solemn. 

"Miss Lescott, " he said, "let's call that a trade--but you're gettin'all the worst of it. To start with, you might give me a lesson rightnow in how a feller ought to act, when he's talkin' to a lady--how Iought to act with you!"

Her laugh made the situation as easy as an old shoe. 

Ten minutes later, Lescott entered. 

"Well, " he said, with a smile, "shall I Introduce you people, or haveyou already done it for yourselves?"

"Oh, " Adrienne assured him, "Mr. South and I are old friends. " As sheleft the room, she turned and added: "The second lesson had better be atmy house. If I telephone you some day when we can have the school-roomto ourselves, will you come up?"

Samson grinned, and forgot to be bashful as he replied:

"I'll come a-kitin'!"

CHAPTER XVIII

Early that year, the touch of autumn came to the air. Often, returningat sundown from the afternoon life class, Samson felt the lure of itsmelancholy sweetness, and paused on one of the Washington Squarebenches, with many vague things stirring in his mind. Some of thesethings were as subtly intangible as the lazy sweetness that melted thefaçades of the walls into the soft colors of a dream city. He foundhimself loving the Palisades of Jersey, seen through a powdery glow atevening, and the red-gold glare of the setting sun on high-swung giltsigns. He felt with a throb of his pulses that he was in the Bagdad ofthe new world, and that every skyscraper was a minaret from which themuezzin rang toward the Mecca of his Art. He felt with a stronger throbthe surety of young, but quickening, abilities within himself. Partly, it was the charm of Indian summer, partly a sense of growing with thedays, but, also, though he had not as yet realized that, it was the newfriendship into which Adrienne had admitted him, and the new experienceof frank _camaraderie_ with a woman not as a member of an inferiorsex, but as an equal companion of brain and soul. He had seen heroften, and usually alone, because he shunned meetings with strangers. Until his education had advanced further, he wished to avoid socialembarrassments. He knew that she liked him, and realized that it wasbecause he was a new and virile type, and for that reason a diversion--a sort of human novelty. She liked him, too, because it was rare for aman to offer her friendship without making love, and she was certain hewould not make love. He liked her for the same many reasons that everyone else did--because she was herself. Of late, too, he had met anumber of men at Lescott's clubs. He was modestly surprised to findthat, though his attitude on these occasions was always that of onesitting in the background, the men seemed to like him, and, when theysaid, "See you again, " at parting, it was with the convincing manner ofreal friendliness. Sometimes, even now, his language was ungrammatical, but so, for the matter of that, was theirs.... The great writer smiledwith his slow, humorous lighting of the eyes as he observed to Lescott:

"We are licking our cub into shape, George, and the best of it isthat, when he learns to dance ragtime to the organ, he isn't going tostop being a bear. He's a grizzly!"

One wonderful afternoon in October, when the distances were mist-hung, and the skies very clear, Samson sat across the table from AdrienneLescott at a road-house on the Sound. The sun had set through greatcloud battalions massed against the west, and the horizon was fadinginto darkness through a haze like ash of roses. She had picked him upon the Avenue, and taken him into her car for a short spin, but theafternoon had beguiled them, luring them on a little further, and stilla little further. When they were a score of miles from Manhattan, thecar had suddenly broken down. It would, the chauffeur told them, be thematter of an hour to effect repairs, so the girl, explaining to the boythat this event gave the affair the aspect of adventure, turned and ledthe way, on foot, to the nearest road-house. 

"We will telephone that we shall be late, and then have dinner, " shelaughed. "And for me to have dinner with you alone, unchaperoned at acountry inn, is by New York standards delightfully unconventional. Itborders on wickedness. " Then, since their attitude toward each otherwas so friendly and innocent, they both laughed. They had dined underthe trees of an old manor house, built a century ago, and now convertedinto an inn, and they had enjoyed themselves because it seemed to thempleasingly paradoxical that they should find in a place seemingly soshabby-genteel a _cuisine_ and service of such excellence. Neitherof them had ever been there before, and neither of them knew that thereputation of this establishment was in its own way wide--and unsavory. They had no way of knowing that, because of several thoroughly bruitedscandals which had had origin here, it was a tabooed spot, except forpersons who preferred a semi-shady retreat; and they passed overwithout suspicion the palpable surprise of the head waiter when theyelected to occupy a table on the terrace instead of a _cabinetparticulier_. 

But the repairs did not go as smoothly as the chauffeur had expected, and, when he had finished, he was hungry. So, eleven o'clock found themstill chatting at their table on the lighted lawn. After awhile, theyfell silent, and Adrienne noticed that her companion's face had becomedeeply, almost painfully set, and that his gaze was tensely focused onherself. 

"What is it, Mr. South?" she demanded. 

The young man began to speak, in a steady, self-accusing voice. 

"I was sitting here, looking at you, " he said, bluntly. "I wasthinking how fine you are in every way; how there is as much differencein the texture of men and women as there is in the texture of theirclothes. From that automobile cap you wear to your slippers andstockings, you are clad in silk. From your brain to the tone of yourvoice, you are woven of human silk. I've learned lately that silk isn'tweak, but strong. They make the best balloons of it. " He paused andlaughed, but his face again became sober. "I was thinking, too, of yourmother. She must be sixty, but she's a young woman. Her face is smoothand unwrinkled, and her heart is still in bloom. At that same age, George won't be much older than he is now. "

The compliment was so obviously not intended as compliment at all thatthe girl flushed with pleasure. 

"Then, " went on Samson, his face slowly drawing with pain, "I wasthinking of my own people. My mother was about forty when she died. Shewas an old woman. My father was forty-three. He was an old man. I wasthinking how they withered under their drudgery--and of the monstrousinjustice of it all. "

Adrienne Lescott nodded. Her eyes were sweetly sympathetic. 

"It's the hardship of the conditions, " she said, softly. "Thoseconditions will change. "

"But that's not all I was thinking, " went on the boy. 

"I was watching you lift your coffee-cup awhile ago. You did itunconsciously, but your movement was dainty and graceful, as though anartist had posed you. That takes generations, and, in my imagination, Isaw my people sitting around an oil-cloth on a kitchen table, pouringcoffee into their saucers. "

 "'There are five and twenty ways "'Of writing tribal lays, '"

quoted the girl, smilingly, "'And every single one of them is right. '"

"And a horrible thought came to me, " continued Samson. He took out hishandkerchief, and mopped his forehead, then tossed back the long lockthat fell over it. "I wondered"--he paused, and then went on with a setface--"I wondered if I were growing ashamed of my people. "

"If I thought that, " said Miss Lescott, quietly, "I wouldn't have muchuse for you. But I know there's no danger. "

"If I thought there was, " Samson assured her, "I would go back thereto Misery, and shoot myself to death.... And, yet, the thought came tome. "

"I'm not afraid of your being a cad, " she repeated. 

"And yet, " he smiled, "I was trying to imagine you among my people. What was that rhyme you used to quote to me when you began to teach memanners?"

She laughed, and fell into nonsense quotation, as she thrummed lightlyon the table-cloth with her slim fingers. 

 "'The goops they lick their fingers, "'The goops eat with their knives, "'They spill their broth on the table-cloth, "'And lead disgusting lives. '"

"My people do all those things, " announced Samson, though he said itrather in a manner of challenge than apology, "except spilling theirbroth on the table-cloth.... There are no table-cloths. What would youdo in such company?"

"I, " announced Miss Lescott, promptly, "should also lick my fingers. "

Samson laughed, and looked up. A man had come out onto the verandahfrom the inside, and was approaching the table. He was immaculatelygroomed, and came forward with the deference of approaching a throne, yet as one accustomed to approaching thrones. His smile was that ofpleased surprise. 

The mountaineer recognized Farbish, and, with a quick hardening of theface, he recalled their last meeting. If Farbish should presume to renewthe acquaintanceship under these circumstances, Samson meant to risefrom his chair, and strike him in the face. George Lescott's sistercould not be subjected to such meetings. Yet, it was a tribute to hisadvancement in good manners that he dreaded making a scene in herpresence, and, as a warning, he met Farbish's pleasant smile with a lookof blank and studied lack of recognition. The circumstances out of whichFarbish might weave unpleasant gossip did not occur to Samson. That theywere together late in the evening, unchaperoned, at a road-house whosereputation was socially dubious, was a thing he did not realize. ButFarbish was keenly alive to the possibilities of the situation. He choseto construe the Kentuckian's blank expression as annoyance at beingdiscovered, a sentiment he could readily understand. Adrienne Lescott, following her companion's eyes, looked up, and to the boy's astonishmentnodded to the new-comer, and called him by name. 

"Mr. Farbish, " she laughed, with mock confusion and total innocence ofthe fact that her words might have meaning, "don't tell on us. "

"I never tell things, my dear lady, " said the newcomer. "I have dwelttoo long in conservatories to toss pebbles. I'm afraid, Mr. South, youhave forgotten me. I'm Farbish, and I had the pleasure of meeting you"--he paused a moment, then with a pointed glance added--"at the ManhattanClub, was it not?"

"It was not, " said Samson, promptly. Farbish looked his surprise, butwas resolved to see no offense, and, after a few moments of affableand, it must be acknowledged, witty conversation, withdrew to his owntable. 

"Where did you meet that man?" demanded Samson, fiercely, when he andthe girl were alone again. 

"Oh, at any number of dinners and dances. His sort is tolerated forsome reason. " She paused, then, looking very directly at theKentuckian, inquired, "And where did you meet him?"

"Didn't you hear him say the Manhattan Club?"

"Yes, and I knew that he was lying. "

"Yes, he was!" Samson spoke, contemptuously. "Never mind where it was. It was a place I got out of when I found out who were there. "

The chauffeur came to announce that the car was ready, and they wentout. Farbish watched them with a smile that had in it a trace of thesardonic. 

The career of Farbish had been an interesting one in its own peculiarand unadmirable fashion. With no advantages of upbringing, he hadnevertheless so cultivated the niceties of social usage that his oneflaw was a too great perfection. He was letter-perfect where one to themanor born might have slurred some detail. 

He was witty, handsome in his saturnine way, and had powerful friendsin the world of fashion and finance. That he rendered services to hisplutocratic patrons, other than the repartee of his dinner talk, was athing vaguely hinted in club gossip, and that these services were notto his credit had more than once been conjectured. 

When Horton had begun his crusade against various abuses, he had casta suspicious eye on all matters through which he could trace the trailof William Farbish, and now, when Farbish saw Horton, he eyed him withan enigmatical expression, half-quizzical and half-malevolent. 

After Adrienne and Samson had disappeared, he rejoined his companion, a stout, middle-aged gentleman of florid complexion, whose cheviotcutaway and reposeful waistcoat covered a liberal embonpoint. Farbishtook his cigar from his lips, and studied its ascending smoke throughlids half-closed and thoughtful. 

"Singular, " he mused; "very singular!"

"What's singular?" impatiently demanded his companion. "Finish, ordon't start. "

"That mountaineer came up here as George Lescott's protégé, " went onFarbish, reflectively. "He came fresh from the feud belt, and landedpromptly in the police court. Now, in less than a year, he's pairingoff with Adrienne Lescott--who, every one supposed, meant to marryWilfred Horton. This little party to-night is, to put it quite mildly, a bit unconventional. "

The stout gentleman said nothing, and the other questioned, musingly:

"By the way, Bradburn, has the Kenmore Shooting Club requested WilfredHorton's resignation yet?"

"Not yet. We are going to. He's not congenial, since his hand israised against every man who owns more than two dollars. " The speakerowned several million times that sum. This meeting at an out-of-the-wayplace had been arranged for the purpose of discussing ways and means ofcurbing Wilfred's crusades. 

"Well, don't do it. "

"Why the devil shouldn't we? We don't want anarchists in the Kenmore. "

After awhile, they sat silent, Farbish smiling over the plot he hadjust devised, and the other man puffing with a puzzled expression athis cigar. 

"That's all there is to it, " summarized Mr. Farbish, succinctly. "Ifwe can get these two men, South and Horton, together down there at theshooting lodge, under the proper conditions, they'll do the restthemselves, I think. I'll take care of South. Now, it's up to you tohave Horton there at the same time. "

"How do you know these two men have not already met--and amicably?"demanded Mr. Bradburn. 

"I happen to know it, quite by chance. It is my business to knowthings--quite by chance!"

CHAPTER XIX

Indian summer came again to Misery, flaunting woodland banners ofcrimson and scarlet and orange, but to Sally the season brought onlyheart-achy remembrances of last autumn, when Samson had softened hisstoicism as the haze had softened the horizon. He had sent her a fewbrief letters--not written, but plainly printed. He selected shortwords--as much like the primer as possible, for no other messages couldshe read. There were times in plenty when he wished to pour out to hertorrents of feeling, and it was such feeling as would have carriedcomfort to her lonely little heart. He wished to tell frankly of what agood friend he had made, and how this friendship made him more able torealize that other feeling--his love for Sally. There was in his mindno suspicion--as yet--that these two girls might ever stand in conflictas to right-of-way. But the letters he wished to write were not thesort he cared to have read to the girl by the evangelist-doctor or thedistrict-school teacher, and alone she could have made nothing of them. However, "I love you" are easy words--and those he always included. 

The Widow Miller had been ailing for months, and, though the localphysician diagnosed the condition as being "right porely, " he knew thatthe specter of tuberculosis which stalks through these badly lightedand ventilated houses was stretching out its fingers to touch hershrunken chest. This had meant that Sally had to forego the eveninghours of study, because of the weariness that followed the day ofnursing and household drudgery. Autumn seemed to bring to her mother aslight improvement, and Sally could again sometimes steal away with herslate and book, to sit alone on the big bowlder, and study. But, oftentimes, the print on the page, or the scrawl on the slate, becameblurred. Nowadays, the tears came weakly to her eyes, and, instead ofhating herself for them and dashing them fiercely away, as she wouldhave done a year ago, she sat listlessly, and gazed across the flaringhills. 

Even the tuneful glory of the burgundy and scarlet mountains hurt herinto wincing--for was it not the clarion of Beauty that Samson hadheard--and in answer to which he had left her? So, she would sit, andlet her eyes wander, and try to imagine the sort of picture those samevery hungry eyes would see, could she rip away the curtain of purpledistance, and look in on him--wherever he was. And, in imagining such apicture, she was hampered by no actual knowledge of the world in whichhe lived--it was all a fairy-tale world, one which her imaginationshaped and colored fantastically. Then, she would take out one of hisoccasional letters, and her face would grow somewhat rapt, as shespelled out the familiar, "I love you, " which was to her the soul ofthe message. The rest was unimportant. She would not be able to writethat Christmas. Letter. There had been too many interruptions in theself-imparted education, but some day she would write. There wouldprobably be time enough. It would take even Samson a long while tobecome an artist. He had said so, and the morbid mountain pride forbadethat she should write at all until she could do it well enough to givehim a complete surprise. It must be a finished article, that letter--ornothing at all!

One day, as she was walking homeward from her lonely trysting place, she met the battered-looking man who carried medicines in hissaddlebags and the Scriptures in his pocket, and who practised bothforms of healing through the hills. The old man drew down his nag, andthrew one leg over the pommel. 

"Evenin', Sally, " he greeted. 

"Evenin', Brother Spencer. How air ye?"

"Tol'able, thank ye, Sally. " The body-and-soul mender studied the girlawhile in silence, and then said bluntly:

"Ye've done broke right smart, in the last year. Anything the matterwith ye?"

She shook her head, and laughed. It was an effort to laugh merrily, but only the ghost of the old instinctive blitheness rippled into it. 

"I've jest come from old Spicer South's, " volunteered the doctor. "He's ailin' pretty consid'able, these days. "

"What's the matter with Unc' Spicer?" demanded the girl, in genuineanxiety. Every one along Misery called the old man Unc' Spicer. 

"I can't jest make out. " Her informer spoke slowly, and his browcorrugated into something like sullenness. "He hain't jest to say sick. Thet is, his organs seems all right, but he don't 'pear to have noheart fer nothin', and his victuals don't tempt him none. He's jestpuny, thet's all. "

"I'll go over thar, an' see him, " announced the girl. "I'll cook achicken thet'll tempt him. "

The physician's mind was working along some line which did not seem topartake of cheerfulness. Again, he studied the girl, still upright andhigh-chinned, but, somehow, no longer effervescent with wild, resilientstrength. 

"Hit sometimes 'pears to me, " he said, gruffly, "thet this here thingof eddication costs a sight more than hit comes to. "

"What d'ye mean, Brother Spencer?"

"I reckon if Samson South hadn't a-took this hyar hankerin' atterlarnin', an' had stayed home 'stid of rainbow chasin', the old man wouldstill be able-bodied, 'stid of dyin' of a broken heart--an' you----"

The girl's cheeks flushed. Her violet eyes became deep with a loyaland defensive glow. 

"Ye mustn't say things like them, Brother Spencer. " Her voice was veryfirm and soft. "Unc' Spicer's jest gettin' old, an' es fer me, I wasn'tnever better ner happier in my life. " It was a lie, but a splendid lie, and she told herself as well as Brother Spencer that she believed it. "Samson would come back in a minit ef we sent fer him. He's smart, an'he's got a right ter l'arnin'! He hain't like us folks; he's a--" Shepaused, and groped for the word that Lescott had added to hervocabulary, which she had half-forgotten. "He's a genius!"

There rose to the lips of the itinerant preacher a sentiment as to howmuch more loyalty availeth a man than genius, but, as he looked at theslender and valiant figure standing in the deep dust of the road, heleft it unuttered. 

The girl spent much time after that at the house of old Spicer South, and her coming seemed to waken him into a fitful return of spirits. Hisstrength, which had been like the strength of an ox, had gone from him, and he spent his hours sitting listlessly in a split-bottomed rocker, which was moved from place to place, following the sunshine. 

"I reckon, Unc' Spicer, " suggested the girl, on one of her firstvisits, "I'd better send fer Samson. Mebby hit mout do ye good ter seehim. "

The old man was weakly leaning back in his chair, and his eyes werevacantly listless; but, at the suggestion, he straightened, and theancient fire came again to his face. 

"Don't ye do hit, " he exclaimed, almost fiercely. "I knows ye meanshit kindly, Sally, but don't ye meddle in my business. "

"I--I didn't 'low ter meddle, " faltered the girl. 

"No, little gal. " His voice softened at once into gentleness. "I knowsye didn't. I didn't mean ter be short-answered with ye neither, butthar's jest one thing I won't 'low nobody ter do--an' thet's ter sendfer Samson. He knows the road home, an', when he wants ter come, he'llfind the door open, but we hain't a-goin' ter send atter him. "

The girl said nothing, and, after awhile, the old man wait on:

"I wants ye ter understand me, Sally. Hit hain't that I'm mad withSamson. God knows, I loves the boy.... I hain't a-blamin' him, neither.... "

He was silent for awhile, and his words came with the weariness of deadhopes when he began again. "Mebby, I oughtn't ter talk about sech thingswith a young gal, but I'm an old man, an' thar hain't no harm in hit.... From the time when I used ter watch you two children go a-trapsin' offin the woods together atter hickory nuts, thar's been jest one thingthet I've looked forward to and dreamed about: I wanted ter see yemarried. I 'lowed--" A mistiness quenched the sternness of his grayeyes. "I 'lowed thet, ef I could see yore children playin' round thishere yard, everything thet's ever gone wrong would be paid fer. "

Sally stood silently at his side, and her cheeks flushed as the tearscrept into her eyes; but her hand stole through the thick mane of hair, fast turning from iron-gray to snow-white. 

Spicer South watched the fattening hog that rubbed its bristling sideagainst the rails stacked outside the fence, and then said, with animperious tone that did not admit of misconstruction:

"But, Sally, the boy's done started out on his own row. He's got terhoe hit. Mebby he'll come back--mebby not! Thet's as the Lord wills. Hit wouldn't do us no good fer him to come withouten he come willin'ly. The meanest thing ye could do ter me--an' him--would be ter send ferhim. Ye mustn't do hit. Ye mustn't!"

"All right, Unc' Spicer. I hain't a-goin' ter do hit--leastways, notyit. But I'm a-goin' ter come over hyar every day ter see ye. "

"Ye can't come too often, Sally, gal, " declared the old clansman, heartily. 

 * * * * *

Wilfred Horton found himself that fall in the position of a man whosecourse lies through rapids, and for the first time in his life hispleasures were giving precedence to business. He knew that hisefficiency would depend on maintaining the physical balance of perfecthealth and fitness, and early each morning he went for his gallop inthe park. At so early an hour, he had the bridle path for the most partto himself. This had its compensations, for, though Wilfred Hortoncontinued to smile with his old-time good humor, he acknowledged tohimself that it was not pleasant to have men who had previously soughthim out with flatteries avert their faces, and pretend that they hadnot seen him. 

Horton was the most-hated and most-admired man in New York, but themen who hated and snubbed him were his own sort, and the men whoadmired him were those whom he would never meet, and who knew him onlythrough the columns of penny papers. Their sympathy was too remote tobring him explicit pleasure. He was merely attempting, from within, reforms which the public and the courts had attempted from without. But, since he operated from within the walls, he was denounced as aJudas. Powerful enemies had ceased to laugh, and begun to conspire. Hemust be silenced! How, was a mooted question. But, in some fashion, hemust be silenced. Society had not cast him out, but Society had shownhim in many subtle ways that he was no longer her favorite. He hadtaken a plebeian stand with the masses. Meanwhile, from varioussources, Horton had received warnings of actual personal danger. But atthese he had laughed, and no hint of them had reached Adrienne's ears. 

One evening, when business had forced the postponement of a dinnerengagement with Miss Lescott, he begged her over the telephone to ridewith him the following morning. 

"I know you are usually asleep when I'm out and galloping, " helaughed, "but you pitched me neck and crop into this hurly-burly, and Ishouldn't have to lose everything. Don't have your horse brought. Iwant you to try out a new one of mine. "

"I think, " she answered, "that early morning is the best time to ride. I'll meet you at seven at the Plaza entrance. "

They had turned the upper end of the reservoir before Horton drew hismount to a walk, and allowed the reins to hang. They had been gallopinghard, and conversation had been impracticable. 

"I suppose experience should have taught me, " began Horton, slowly, "that the most asinine thing in the world is to try to lecture you, Drennie. But there are times when one must even risk your delight atone's discomfiture. "

"I'm not going to tease you this morning, " she answered, docilely. "Ilike the horse too well--and, to be frank, I like you too well!"

"Thank you, " smiled Horton. "As usual, you disarm me on the verge ofcombat. I had nerved myself for ridicule. "

"What have I done now?" inquired the girl, with an innocence whichfurther disarmed him. 

"The Queen can do no wrong. But even the Queen, perhaps moreparticularly the Queen, must give thought to what people are saying. "

"What are people saying?"

"The usual unjust things that are said about women in society. You arebeing constantly seen with an uncouth freak who is scarcely agentleman, however much he may be a man. And malicious tongues arewagging. "

The girl stiffened. 

"I won't spar with you. I know that you are alluding to Samson South, though the description is a slander. I never thought it would benecessary to say such a thing to you, Wilfred, but you are talking likea cad. "

The young man flushed. 

"I laid myself open to that, " he said, slowly, "and I suppose I shouldhave expected it. "

He knew her well enough to dread the calmness of her more seriousanger, and just now the tilt of her chin, the ominous light of her deepeyes and the quality of her voice told him that he had incurred it. 

"May I ask, " Adrienne inquired, "what you fancy constitutes your rightto assume this censorship of my conduct?"

"I have no censorship, of course. I have only the interest of lovingyou, and meaning to marry you. "

"And I may remark in passing, that you are making no progress to thatend by slandering my friends. "

"Adrienne, I'm not slandering. God knows I hate cads and snobs. Mr. South is simply, as yet, uncivilized. Otherwise, he would hardly takeyou, unchaperoned, to--well, let us say to ultra-bohemian resorts, where you are seen by such gossip-mongers as William Farbish. "

"So, that's the specific charge, is it?"

"Yes, that's the specific charge. Mr. South may be a man of unusualtalent and strength. But--he has done what no other man has done--withyou. He has caused club gossip, which may easily be twisted andmisconstrued. "

"Do you fancy that Samson South could have taken me to the Wigwam Road-house if I had not cared to go with him?"

The man shook his head. 

"Certainly not! But the fact that you did care to go with himindicates an influence over you which is new. You have not sought thebohemian and unconventional phases of life with your other friends. "

Adrienne glanced at the athletic figure riding at her side, just nowrather rigid with restraint and indignation, as though his vertebraewere threaded on a ramrod, and her eyes darkened a little. 

"Now, let it be thoroughly understood between us, Wilfred, " she saidvery quietly, "that if you see any danger in my unconventionalities, Idon't care to discuss this, or any other matter, with you now or at anytime. " She paused, then added in a more friendly voice: "It would berather a pity for us to quarrel about a thing like this. "

The young man was still looking into her eyes, and he read there anultimatum. 

"God knows I was not questioning you, " he replied, slowly. "There isno price under heaven I would not pay for your regard. None the less, Irepeat that, at the present moment, I can see only two definitions forthis mountaineer. Either he is a bounder, or else he is so denselyignorant and churlish that he is unfit to associate with you. "

"I make no apologies for Mr. South, " she said, "because none areneeded. He is a stranger in New York, who knows nothing, and caresnothing about the conventionalities. If I chose to waive them, I thinkit was my right and my responsibility. "

Horton said nothing, and, in a moment, Adrienne Lescott's mannerchanged. She spoke more gently:

"Wilfred, I'm sorry you choose to take this prejudice against the boy. You could have done a great deal to help him. I wanted you to befriends. "

"Thank you!" His manner was stiff. "I hardly think we'd hit it offtogether. "

"I don't think you quite understand, " she argued. "Samson South isrunning a clean, creditable race, weighted down with a burdensomehandicap. As a straight-thinking sportsman, if for no better reason, Ishould fancy you'd be glad to help him. He has the stamina andendurance. "

"Those, " said Horton, who at heart was the fairest and most generousof men, "are very admirable qualities. Perhaps, I should be moreenthusiastic, Drennie, if you were a little less so. "

For the first time since the talk had so narrowly skirted a quarrel, her eyes twinkled. 

"I believe you are jealous!" she announced. 

"Of course, I'm jealous, " he replied, without evasion. "Possibly, Imight have saved time in the first place by avowing my jealousy. Ihasten now to make amends. I'm green-eyed. "

She laid her gloved fingers lightly on his bridle hand. 

"Don't be, " she advised; "I'm not in love with him. If I were, itwouldn't matter. He has, "'A neater, sweeter maiden, "'In a greener, cleaner land. '

"He's told me all about her. "

Horton shook his head, dubiously. 

"I wish to the good Lord, he'd go back to her, " he said. "ThisPlatonic proposition is the doormat over-which two persons walk toother things. They end by wiping their feet on the Platonic doormat. "

"We'll cross that--that imaginary doormat, when we get to it, " laughedthe girl. "Meantime, you ought to help me with Samson. "

"Thank you, no! I won't help educate my successor. And I won'tabdicate"--his manner of speech grew suddenly tense--"while I can fightfor my foothold. "

"I haven't asked you to abdicate. This boy has been here less than ayear. He came absolutely raw--"

"And lit all spraddled out in the police court!" Wilfred prompted. 

"And, in less than a year, he has made wonderful advancement; suchadvancement as he could not have made but for one thing. "

"Which was--that you took him in hand. "

"No--which is, that he springs from stock that, despite its hundredyears of lapse into illiteracy, is good stock. Samson South was agentleman, Wilfred, two hundred years before he was born. "

"That, " observed her companion, curtly, "was some time ago. "

She tossed her head, impatiently. 

"Come, " she said, "let's gallop. "

"No, " protested Wilfred, his face becoming penitent. "Just a moment! Iretract. It is I who am the cad. Please, tell Mr. South just what wehave both said, and make my apologies if he'll accept them. Of course, if you insist, I'll meet him. I suppose I'll have to meet him some day, anyhow. But, frankly, Drennie, I hate the man. It will take a Herculeaneffort to be decent to him. Still, if you say so--"

"No, Wilfred, " she declined, "if you can't do it willingly, I don'twant you to do it at all. It doesn't matter in the least. Let's dropthe subject. "

CHAPTER XX

One afternoon, swinging along Fifth Avenue in his down-town walk, Samson met Mr. Farbish, who fell into step with him, and began to makeconversation. 

"By the way, South, " he suggested after the commonplaces had beendisposed of, "you'll pardon my little prevarication the other eveningabout having met you at the Manhattan Club?"

"Why was it necessary?" inquired Samson, with a glance of disquietingdirectness. 

"Possibly, it was not necessary, merely politic. Of course, " helaughed, "every man knows two kinds of women. It's just as well not todiscuss the nectarines with the orchids, or the orchids with thenectarines. "

Samson made no response. But Farbish, meeting his eyes, felt as thoughhe had been contemptuously rebuked. His own eyes clouded with animpulse of resentment. But it passed, as he remembered that his plansinvolved the necessity of winning this boy's confidence. An assumptionof superior virtue, he thought, came rather illogically from Samson, who had brought to the inn a young woman whom he should not haveexposed to comment. He, himself, could afford to be diplomatic. Accordingly, he laughed. 

"You mustn't take me too literally, South, " he explained. "The lifehere has a tendency to make us cynical in our speech, even though wemay be quite the reverse in our practices. In point of fact, I fancy wewere both rather out of our element at Collasso's studio. "

At the steps of a Fifth Avenue club, Farbish halted. 

"Won't you turn in here, " he suggested, "and assuage your thirst?"

Samson declined, and walked on. But when, a day or two later, hedropped into the same club with George Lescott, Farbish joined them inthe grill--without invitation. 

"By the way, Lescott, " said the interloper, with an easy assuranceupon which the coolness of his reception had no seeming effect, "itwon't be long now until ducks are flying south. Will you get off foryour customary shooting?"

"I'm afraid not. " Lescott's voice became more cordial, as a man's willwhose hobby has been touched. "There are several canvases to befinished for approaching exhibitions. I wish I could go. When the firstcold winds begin to sweep down, I get the fever. The prospects aregood, too, I understand. "

"The best in years! Protection in the Canadian breeding fields isbearing fruit. Do you shoot ducks, Mr. South?" The speaker includedSamson as though merely out of deference to his physical presence. 

Samson shook his head. But he was listening eagerly. He, too, knewthat note of the migratory "honk" from high overhead. 

"Samson, " said Lescott slowly, as he caught the gleam in his friend'seyes, "you've been working too hard. You'll have to take a week off, and try your hand. After you've changed your method from rifle toshotgun, you'll bag your share, and you'll come back fitter for work. Imust arrange it. "

"As to that, " suggested Farbish, in the manner of one regarding thecivilities, "Mr. South can run down to the Kenmore. I'll have a cardmade out for him. "

"Don't trouble, " demurred Lescott, coolly, "I can fix that up. "

"It would be a pleasure, " smiled the other. "I sincerely wish I couldbe there at the same time, but I'm afraid that, like you, Lescott, Ishall have to give business the right of way. However, when I hear thatthe flights are beginning, I'll call Mr. South up, and pass the news tohim. "

Samson had thought it rather singular that he had never met Horton atthe Lescott house, though Adrienne spoke of him almost as of a memberof the family. However, Samson's visits were usually in his intervalsbetween relays of work and Horton was probably at such times in WallStreet. It did not occur to the mountaineer that the other wasintentionally avoiding him. He knew of Wilfred only through Adrienne'seulogistic descriptions, and, from hearsay, liked him. 

The months of close application to easel and books had begun to tellon the outdoor man in a softening of muscles and a slight, thoughnoticeable, pallor. The enthusiasm with which he attacked his dailyschedule carried him far, and made his progress phenomenal, but he wasspending capital of nerve and health, and George Lescott began to feara break-down for his protégé. Lescott did not want to advise a visit tothe mountains, because he had secured from the boy a promise that, unless he was called home, he would give the experiment an unbrokentrial of eighteen months. 

If Samson went back, he feared his return would reawaken the sleepingvolcano of the feud--and he could not easily come away again. Hediscussed the matter with Adrienne, and the girl began to promote inthe boy an interest in the duck-shooting trip--an interest which hadalready awakened, despite the rifleman's inherent contempt for shotguns. 

"You will be in your blind, " she enthusiastically told him, "beforedaybreak, and after a while the wedges will come flying into view, cutting the fog in hundreds and dropping into the decoys. You'll loveit! I wish I were going myself. "

"Do you shoot?" he asked, in some surprise. 

She nodded, and added modestly;

"But I don't kill many ducks. "

"Is there anything you can't do?" he questioned in admiration, thendemanded, with the touch of homesickness in his voice, "Are there anymountains down there?"

"I'm afraid we can't provide any mountains, " laughed Adrienne. "Justsalt marshes--and beyond them, the sea. But there's moonshine--of thenatural variety--and a tonic in the wind that buffets you. "

"I reckon I'd like it, all right, " he said, "and I'll bring you backsome ducks, if I'm lucky. "

So, Lescott arranged the outfit, and Samson awaited the news of thecoming flights. 

That same evening, Farbish dropped into the studio, explaining that hehad been buying a picture at Collasso's, and had taken the opportunityto stop by and hand Samson a visitor's card to the Kenmore Club. 

He found the ground of interest fallow, and artfully sowed it withwell-chosen anecdotes calculated to stimulate enthusiasm. 

On leaving the studio, he paused to say:

"I'll let you know when conditions are just right. " Then, he added, asthough in afterthought: "And I'll arrange so that you won't run up onWilfred Horton. "

"What's the matter with Wilfred Horton?" demanded Samson, a shadecurtly. 

"Nothing at all, " replied Farbish, with entire gravity. "Personally, Ilike Horton immensely. I simply thought you might find things morecongenial when he wasn't among those present. "

Samson was puzzled, but he did not fancy hearing from this man's lipscriticisms upon friends of his friends. 

"Well, I reckon, " he said, coolly, "I'd like him, too. "

"I beg your pardon, " said the other. "I supposed you knew, or Ishouldn't have broached the topic. "

"Knew what?"

"You must excuse me, " demurred the visitor with dignity. "I shouldn'thave mentioned the subject. I seem to have said too much. "

"See here, Mr. Farbish, " Samson spoke quietly, but imperatively; "ifyou know any reason why I shouldn't meet Mr. Wilfred Horton, I want youto tell me what it is. He is a friend of my friends. You say you'vesaid too much. I reckon you've either said too much, or too little. "

Then, very insidiously and artistically, seeming all the whilereluctant and apologetic, the visitor proceeded to plant in Samson'smind an exaggerated and untrue picture of Horton's contempt for him andof Horton's resentment at the favor shown him by the Lescotts. 

Samson heard him out with a face enigmatically set, and his voice wassoft, as he said simply at the end:

"I'm obliged to you. "

Farbish had hoped for more stress of feeling, but, as he walked home, he told himself that the sphinx-like features had been a mask, andthat, when these two met, their coming together held potentially for aclash. He was judge enough of character to know that Samson's morbidpride would seal his lips as to the interview--until he met Horton. 

In point of fact, Samson was at first only deeply wounded. Thatthrough her kindness to him Adrienne was having to fight his battleswith a close friend he had never suspected. Then, slowly, a bitternessbegan to rankle, quite distinct from the hurt to his sensitiveness. Hisbirthright of suspicion and tendency to foster hatreds had graduallybeen falling asleep under the disarming kindness of these persons. Now, they began to stir in him again vaguely, but forcibly, and to troublehim. 

Samson did not appear at the Lescott house for two weeks after that. He had begun to think that, if his going there gave embarrassment tothe girl who had been kind to him, it were better to remain away. 

"I don't belong here, " he told himself, bitterly. "I reckon everybodythat knows me in New York, except the Lescotts, is laughing at mebehind my back. "

He worked fiercely, and threw into his work such fire and energy thatit came out again converted into a boldness of stroke and an almostsavage vigor of drawing. The instructor nodded his head over the easel, and passed on to the next student without having left the defacing markof his relentless crayon. To the next pupil, he said:

"Watch the way that man South draws. He's not clever. He's elementallysincere, and, if he goes on, the first thing you know he will be aportrait painter. He won't merely draw eyes and lips and noses, butcharacter and virtues and vices showing out through them. "

And Samson met every gaze with smoldering savagery, searching for someone who might be laughing at him openly, or even covertly; instead ofbehind his back. The long-suffering fighting lust in him cravedopportunity to break out and relieve the pressure on his soul. But noone laughed. 

One afternoon late in November, a hint of blizzards swept snarlingdown the Atlantic seaboard from the polar floes, with wet flurries ofsnow and rain. Off on the marshes where the Kenmore Club had its lodge, the live decoys stretched their clipped wings, and raised their greennecks restively into the salt wind, and listened. With dawn, they hadheard, faint and far away, the first notes of that wild chorus withwhich the skies would ring until the southerly migrations ended--thehorizon-distant honking of high-flying water fowl. 

Then it was that Farbish dropped in with marching orders, and Samson, yearning to be away where there were open skies, packed GeorgeLescott's borrowed paraphernalia, and prepared to leave that same night. 

While he was packing, the telephone rang, and Samson heard Adrienne'svoice at the other end of the wire. 

"Where have you been hiding?" she demanded. "I'll have to send atruant officer after you. "

"I've been very busy, " said the man, "and I reckon, after all, youcan't civilize a wolf. I'm afraid I've been wasting your time. "

Possibly, the miserable tone of the voice told the girl more than thewords. 

"You are having a season with the blue devils, " she announced. "You'vebeen cooped up too much. This wind ought to bring the ducks, and----"

"I'm leaving to-night, " Samson told her. 

"It would have been very nice of you to have run up to say good-bye, "she reproved. "But I'll forgive you, if you call me up by longdistance. You will get there early in the morning. To-morrow, I'm goingto Philadelphia over night. The next night, I shall be at the theater. Call me up after the theater, and tell me how you like it. "

It was the same old frankness and friendliness of voice, and the sameold note like the music of a reed instrument. Samson felt so comfortedand reassured that he laughed through the telephone. 

"I've been keeping away from you, " he volunteered, "because I've had arelapse into savagery, and haven't been fit to talk to you. When I getback, I'm coming up to explain. And, in the meantime, I'll telephone. "

On the train Samson was surprised to discover that, after all, he hadMr. William Farbish for a traveling companion. That gentleman explainedthat he had found an opportunity to play truant from business for a dayor two, and wished to see Samson comfortably ensconced and introduced. 

The first day Farbish and Samson had the place to themselves, but thenext morning would bring others. Samson's ideas of a millionaires'shooting-box had been vague, but he had looked forward to getting intothe wilds. The marshes were certainly desolate enough, and the pinewoods through which the buckboard brought them. But, inside the clubitself, the Kentuckian found himself in such luxurious comfort as hecould not, in his own mind, reconcile with the idea of "going hunting. "He would be glad when the cushioned chairs of the raftered lounging-room and the tinkle of high-ball ice and gossip were exchanged for thesalt air and the blinds. 

CHAPTER XXI

But, when he went out for his initiation, in the raw blackness beforedaybreak, and lay in the blind, with only his guide for a companion, hefelt far away from artificial luxuries. The first pale streamers ofdawn soon streaked the east, and the wind charged cuttingly like drawnsabers of galloping cavalry. The wooden decoys had been anchored withthe live ducks swimming among them, and the world began to awake. Hedrew a long breath of contentment, and waited. Then came the trailingof gray and blue and green mists, and, following the finger of thesilent boatman, he made out in the northern sky a slender wedge ofblack dots, against the spreading rosiness of the horizon. Soon after, he heard the clear clangor of throats high in the sky, answered by thenearer honking of the live decoys, and he felt a throbbing of hispulses as he huddled low against the damp bottom of the blind and waited. 

The lines and wedges grew until the sky was stippled with them, andtheir strong-throated cries were a strident music. For a time, theypassed in seeming thousands, growing from scarcely visible dots intospeeding shapes with slender outstretched necks and bills, pointed likereversed compass needles to the south. As yet, they were all flyinghigh, ignoring with lordly indifference the clamor of their renegadebrothers, who shrieked to them through the morning mists to drop down, and feed on death. 

But, as the day grew older, Samson heard the popping of guns off tothe side, where other gunners lay in other blinds, and presently adrake veered from his line of flight, far off to the right, harkened tothe voice of temptation, and led his flock circling toward the blind. Then, with a whir and drumming of dark-tipped wings, they came down, and struck the water, and the boy from Misery rose up, shooting as hecame. He heard the popping of his guide's gun at his side, and saw thedead and crippled birds falling about him, amid the noisy clamor oftheir started flight. 

That day, while the mountaineer was out on the flats, the party of menat the club had been swelled to a total of six, for in pursuance of thecarefully arranged plans of Mr. Farbish, Mr. Bradburn had succeeded ininducing Wilfred Horton to run down for a day or two of the sport heloved. To outward seeming, the trip which the two men had made togetherhad been quite casual, and the outgrowth of coincidence; yet, in pointof fact, not only the drive from Baltimore in Horton's car, but theconversation by the way had been in pursuance of a plan, and the resultwas that, when Horton arrived that afternoon, he found his usually eventemper ruffled by bits of maliciously broached gossip, until hisresentment against Samson South had been fanned into danger heat. Hedid not know that South also was at the club, and he did not thatafternoon go out to the blinds, but so far departed from his usualcustom as to permit himself to sit for hours in the club grill. 

And yet, as is often the case in carefully designed affairs, the oneelement that made most powerfully for the success of Farbish's schemewas pure accident. The carefully arranged meeting between the two men, the adroitly incited passions of each, would still have brought noclash, had not Wilfred Horton been affected by the flushing effect ofalcohol. Since his college days, he had been invariably abstemious. To-night marked an exception. 

He was rather surprised at the cordiality of the welcome accorded him, for, as chance would have it, except for Samson South, whom he had notyet seen, all the other sportsmen were men closely allied to thepolitical and financial elements upon which he had been making war. Still, since they seemed willing to forget for the time that there hadbeen a breach, he was equally so. Just now, he was feeling suchbitterness for the Kentuckian that the foes of a less-personal sortseemed unimportant. 

In point of fact, Wilfred Horton had spent a very bad day. The finalstraw had broken the back of his usually unruffled temper, when he hadfound in his room on reaching the Kenmore a copy of a certain New Yorkweekly paper, and had read a page, which chanced to be lying face up (achance carefully prearranged). It was an item of which Farbish hadknown, in advance of publication, but Wilfred would never have seenthat sheet, had it not been so carefully brought to his attention. There were hints of the strange infatuation which a certain young womanseemed to entertain for a partially civilized stranger who had made hisentrée to New York _via_ the Police Court, and who wore his hairlong in imitation of a Biblical character of the same name. The supperat the Wigwam Inn was mentioned, and the character of the placeintimated. Horton felt this objectionable innuendo was directlytraceable to Adrienne's ill-judged friendship for the mountaineer, andhe bitterly blamed the mountaineer. And, while he had been brooding onthese matters, a man acting as Farbish's ambassador had dropped intohis room, since Farbish himself knew that Horton would not listen tohis confidences. The delegated spokesman warned Wilfred that SamsonSouth had spoken pointedly of him, and advised cautious conduct, in afashion calculated to inflame. 

Samson, it was falsely alleged, had accused him of saying derogatorythings in his absence, which he would hardly venture to repeat in hispresence. In short, it was put up to Horton to announce his opinionopenly, or eat the crow of cowardice. 

That evening, when Samson went to his room, Farbish joined him. 

"I've been greatly annoyed to find, " he said, seating himself onSamson's bed, "that Horton arrived to-day. "

"I reckon that's all right, " said Samson. "He's a member, isn't he?"

Farbish appeared dubious. 

"I don't want to appear in the guise of a prophet of trouble, " hesaid, "but you are my guest here, and I must warn you. Horton thinks ofyou as a 'gun-fighter' and a dangerous man. He won't take chances withyou. If there is a clash, it will be serious. He doesn't often drink, but to-day he's doing it, and may be ugly. Avoid an altercation if youcan, but if it comes--" He broke off and added seriously: "You willhave to get him, or he will get you. Are you armed?"

The Kentuckian laughed. 

"I reckon I don't need to be armed amongst gentlemen. "

Farbish drew from his pocket a magazine pistol. 

"It won't hurt you to slip that into your clothes, " he insisted. 

For an instant, the mountaineer stood looking at his host and witheyes that bored deep, but whatever was in his mind as he made thatscrutiny he kept to himself. At last, he took the magazine pistol, turned it over in his hand, and put it into his pocket. 

"Mr. Farbish, " he said, "I've been in places before now where men weredrinking who had made threats against me. I think you are excited aboutthis thing. If anything starts, he will start it. "

At the dinner table, Samson South and Wilfred Horton were introduced, and acknowledged their introductions with the briefest and most formalof nods. During the course of the meal, though seated side by side, each ignored the presence of the other. Samson was, perhaps, no moresilent than usual. Always, he was the listener except when a questionwas put to him direct, but the silence which sat upon Wilfred Hortonwas a departure from his ordinary custom. 

He had discovered in his college days that liquor, instead ofexhilarating him, was an influence under which he grew morose andsullen, and that discovery had made him almost a total abstainer. To-night, his glass was constantly filled and emptied, and, as he ate, he gazed ahead, and thought resentfully of the man at his side. 

When the coffee had been brought, and the cigars lighted, and theservants had withdrawn, Horton, with the manner of one who had beenawaiting an opportunity, turned slightly in his chair, and gazedinsolently at the Kentuckian. 

Samson South still seemed entirely unconscious of the other'sexistence, though in reality no detail of the brewing storm had escapedhim. He was studying the other faces around the table, and what he sawin them appeared to occupy him. Wilfred Horton's cheeks were burningwith a dull flush, and his eyes were narrowing with an unveileddislike. Suddenly, a silence fell on the party, and, as the men satpuffing their cigars, Horton turned toward the Kentuckian. For amoment, he glared in silence, then with an impetuous exclamation ofdisgust he announced:

"See here, South, I want you to know that if I'd understood you wereto be here, I wouldn't have come. It has pleased me to express myopinion of you to a number of people, and now I mean to express it toyou in person. "

Samson looked around, and his features indicated neither surprise norinterest. He caught Farbish's eye at the same instant, and, though theplotter said nothing, the glance was subtle and expressive. It seemedto prompt and goad him on, as though the man had said:

"You mustn't stand that. Go after him. "

"I reckon"--Samson's voice was a pleasant drawl--"it doesn't make anyparticular difference, Mr. Horton. "

"Even if what I said didn't happen to be particularly commendatory?"inquired Horton, his eyes narrowing. 

"So long, " replied the Kentuckian, "as what you said was your ownopinion, I don't reckon it would interest me much. "

"In point of fact"---Horton was gazing with steady hostility intoSamson's eyes--"I prefer to tell you. I have rather generally expressedthe belief that you are a damned savage, unfit for decent society. "

Samson's face grew rigid and a trifle pale. His mouth set itself in astraight line, but, as Wilfred Horton came to his feet with the lastwords, the mountaineer remained seated. 

"And, " went on the New Yorker, flushing with suddenly augmentingpassion, "what I said I still believe to be true, and repeat in yourpresence. At another time and place, I shall be even more explicit. Ishall ask you to explain--certain things. "

"Mr. Horton, " suggested Samson in an ominously quiet voice, "I reckonyou're a little drunk. If I were you, I'd sit down. "

Wilfred's face went from red to white, and his shoulders stiffened. Heleaned forward, and for the instant no one moved. The tick of a hallclock was plainly audible. 

"South, " he said, his breath coming in labored excitement, "defendyourself!"

Samson still sat motionless. 

"Against what?" he inquired. 

"Against that!" Horton struck the mountain man across the face withhis open hand. Instantly, there was a commotion of scraping chairs andshuffling feet, mingled with a chorus of inarticulate protest. Samsonhad risen, and, for a second, his face had become a thing ofunspeakable passion. His hand instinctively swept toward his pocket--and stopped half-way. He stood by his overturned chair, gazing into theeyes of his assailant, with an effort at self-mastery which gave hischest and arms the appearance of a man writhing and stiffening underelectrocution. Then, he forced both hands to his back and gripped themthere. For a moment, the tableau was held, then the man from themountains began speaking, slowly and in a tone of dead-level monotony. Each syllable was portentously distinct and clear clipped. 

"Maybe you know why I don't kill you.... Maybe you don't.... I don'tgive a damn whether you do or not.... That's the first blow I've everpassed.... I ain't going to hit back.... You need a friend pretty badjust now.... For certain reasons, I'm going to be that friend.... Don'tyou see that this thing is a damned frame-up? ... Don't you see that Iwas brought here to murder you?" He turned suddenly to Farbish. 

"Why did you insist on my putting that in my pocket"--Samson took outthe pistol, and threw it down on the table-cloth in front of Wilfred, where it struck and shivered a half-filled wine-glass--"and why did youwarn me that this man meant to kill me, unless I killed him first? Iwas meant to be your catspaw to put Wilfred Horton out of your way. Imay be a barbarian and a savage, but I can smell a rat--if it's deadenough!"

For an instant, there was absolute and hushed calm. Wilfred Hortonpicked up the discarded weapon and looked at it in bewilderedstupefaction, then slowly his face flamed with distressing mortification. 

"Any time you want to fight me"--Samson had turned again to face him, and was still talking in his deadly quiet voice--"except to-night, youcan find me. I've never been hit before without hitting back. That blowhas got to be paid for--but the man that's really responsible has gotto pay first. When I fight you, I'll fight for myself, not for a bunchof damned murderers.... Just now, I've got other business. That manframed this up!" He pointed a lean finger across the table into thestartled countenance of Mr. Farbish. "He knew! He has been working onthis job for a month. I'm going to attend to his case now. "

As Samson started toward Farbish, the conspirator rose, and, with anexcellent counterfeit of insulted virtue, pushed back his chair. 

"By God, " he indignantly exclaimed, "you mustn't try to embroil me inyour quarrels. You must apologize. You are talking wildly, South. "

"Am I?" questioned the Kentuckian, quietly; "I'm going to act wildlyin a minute. "

He halted a short distance from Farbish, and drew from his pocket acrumpled scrap of the offending magazine page: the item that hadoffended Horton. 

"I may not have good manners, Mister Farbish, but where I come from weknow how to handle varmints. " He dropped his voice and added for theplotter's ear only: "Here's a little matter on the side that concernsonly us. It wouldn't interest these other gentlemen. " He opened hishand, and added: "Here, _eat_ that!"

Farbish, with a frightened glance at the set face of the man who wasadvancing upon him, leaped back, and drew from his pocket a pistol--itwas an exact counterpart of the one with which he had supplied Samson. 

With a panther-like swiftness, the Kentuckian leaped forward, andstruck up the weapon, which spat one ineffective bullet into therafters. There was a momentary scuffle of swaying bodies and a crashunder which the table groaned amid the shattering of glass and china. Then, slowly, the conspirator's body bent back at the waist, until itsshoulders were stretched on the disarranged cloth, and the white face, with purple veins swelling on the forehead, stared up between two brownhands that gripped its throat. 

"Swallow that!" ordered the mountaineer. 

For just an instant, the company stood dumfounded, then a strained, unnatural voice broke the silence. 

"Stop him, he's going to kill the man!"

The odds were four to two, and with a sudden rally to the support oftheir chief plotter, the other conspirators rushed the figure thatstood throttling his victim. But Samson South was in his element. Thedammed-up wrath that had been smoldering during these last days washaving a tempestuous outlet. He had found men who, in a gentlemen'sclub to which he had come as a guest, sought to use him as a catspawand murderer. 

They had planned to utilize the characteristics upon which they reliedin himself. They had thought that, if once angered, he would relapseinto the feudist, and forget that his surroundings were those ofgentility and civilization. Very well, he would oblige them, but not asa blind dupe. He would be as elementally primitive as they had picturedhim, but the victims of his savagery should be of his own choosing. Before his eyes swam a red mist of wrath. Once before, as a boy, he hadseen things as through a fog of blood. It was the day when the factionsmet at Hixon, and he had carried the gun of his father for the firsttime into action. The only way his eyes could be cleared of that fieryhaze was that they should first see men falling. 

As they assaulted him, _en masse_, he seized a chair, and swungit flail-like about his head. For a few moments, there was a crashingof glass and china, and a clatter of furniture and a chaos of struggle. At its center, he stood wielding his impromptu weapon, and, when two ofhis assailants had fallen under its sweeping blows, and Farbish stoodweakly supporting himself against the table and gasping for the breathwhich had been choked out of him, the mountaineer hurled aside hischair, and plunged for the sole remaining man. They closed in a clinch. The last antagonist was a boxer, and when he saw the Kentuckian advancetoward him empty-handed, he smiled and accepted the gauge of battle. Inweight and reach and practice, he knew that he had the advantage, and, now that it was man to man, he realized that there was no danger ofinterference from Horton. But Samson knew nothing of boxing. He hadlearned his fighting tactics in the rough-and-tumble school of themountains; the school of "fist and skull, " of fighting with hands andhead and teeth, and as the Easterner squared off he found himselfcaught in a flying tackle and went to the floor locked in an embracethat carried down with it chairs and furniture. As he struggled androlled, pitting his gymnasium training against the unaccustomed assaultof cyclonic fury, he felt the strong fingers of two hands close abouthis throat and lost consciousness. 

Samson South rose, and stood for a moment panting in a scene ofwreckage and disorder. The table was littered with shivered glasses anddecanters and chinaware. The furniture was scattered and overturned. Farbish was weakly leaning to one side in the seat to which he had madehis way. The men who had gone down under the heavy blows of the chairlay quietly where they had fallen. 

Wilfred Horton stood waiting. The whole affair had transpired withsuch celerity and speed that he had hardly understood it, and had takenno part. But, as he met the gaze of the disordered figure across thewreckage of a dinner-table, he realized that now, with thepreliminaries settled, he who had struck Samson in the face must givesatisfaction for the blow. Horton was sober, as cold sober as though hehad jumped into ice-water, and though he was not in the least afraid, he was mortified, and, had apology at such a time been possible, wouldhave made it. He knew that he had misjudged his man; he saw theoutlines of the plot as plainly as Samson had seen them, though moretardily. 

Samson's toe touched the pistol which had dropped from Farbish's handand he contemptuously kicked it to one side. He came back to his place. 

"Now, Mr. Horton, " he said to the man who stood looking about with adazed expression, "if you're still of the same mind, I can accommodateyou. You lied when you said I was a savage--though just now it sort oflooks like I was, and"--he paused, then added--"and I'm ready either tofight or shake hands. Either way suits me. "

For the moment, Horton did not speak, and Samson slowly went on:

"But, whether we fight or not, you've got to shake hands with me whenwe're finished. You and me ain't going to start a feud. This is thefirst time I've ever refused to let a man be my enemy if he wanted to. I've got my own reasons. I'm going to make you shake hands with mewhether you like it or not, but if you want to fight first it'ssatisfactory. You said awhile ago you would be glad to be more explicitwith me when we were alone--" He paused and looked about the room. "Shall I throw these damned murderers out of here, or will you go intoanother room and talk?"

"Leave them where they are, " said Horton, quietly. "We'll go into thereading-room. Have you killed any of them?"

"I don't know, " said the other, curtly, "and I don't care. "

When they were alone, Samson went on:

"I know what you want to ask me about, and I don't mean to answer you. You want to question me about Miss Lescott. Whatever she and I havedone doesn't concern you, I will say this much: if I've been ignorantof New York ways, and my ignorance has embarrassed her, I'm sorry. 

"I suppose you know that she's too damned good for you--just like she'stoo good for me. But she thinks more of you than she does of me--andshe's yours. As for me, I have nothing to apologize to you for. Maybe, Ihave something to ask her pardon about, but she hasn't asked it. 

"George Lescott brought me up here, and befriended me. Until a yearago, I had never known any life except that of the CumberlandMountains. Until I met Miss Lescott, I had never known a woman of yourworld. She was good to me. She saw that in spite of my roughness andignorance I wanted to learn, and she taught me. You chose tomisunderstand, and dislike me. These men saw that, and believed that, if they could make you insult me, they could make me kill you. As toyour part, they succeeded. I didn't see fit to oblige them, but, nowthat I've settled with them, I'm willing to give you satisfaction. Dowe fight now, and shake hands afterward, or do we shake hands withoutfighting?"

Horton stood silently studying the mountaineer. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed at last. "And you are the man I undertook tocriticize!"

"You ain't answered my question, " suggested Samson South. 

"South, if you are willing to shake hands with me, I shall begrateful. I may as well admit that, if you had thrashed me before thatcrowd, you could hardly have succeeded in making me feel smaller. Ihave played into their hands. I have been a damned fool. I have riddledmy own self-respect--and, if you can afford to accept my apologies andmy hand, I am offering you both. "

"I'm right glad to hear that, " said the mountain boy, gravely. "I toldyou I'd just as lief shake hand as fight.... But just now I've got togo to the telephone. "

The booth was in the same room, and, as Horton waited, he recognizedthe number for which Samson was calling. Wilfred's face once moreflushed with the old prejudice. Could it be that Samson meant to tellAdrienne Lescott what had transpired? Was he, after all, the braggartwho boasted of his fights? And, if not, was it Samson's custom to callher up every evening for a good-night message? He turned and went intothe hall, but, after a few minutes, returned. 

"I'm glad you liked the show.... " the mountaineer was saying. "No, nothing special is happening here--except that the ducks areplentiful.... Yes, I like it fine.... Mr. Horton's here. Wait a minute--I guess maybe he'd like to talk to you. "

The Kentuckian beckoned to Horton, and, as he surrendered thereceiver, left the room. He was thinking with a smile of theunconscious humor with which the girl's voice had just come across thewire:

"I knew that, if you two met each other, you would become friends. "

"I reckon, " said Samson, ruefully, when Horton joined him, "we'dbetter look around, and see how bad those fellows are hurt in there. They may need a doctor. " And the two went back to find several startledservants assisting to their beds the disabled combatants, and the nextmorning their inquiries elicited the information that the gentlemenwere all "able to be about, but were breakfasting in their rooms. "

Such as looked from their windows that morning saw an unexpectedclimax, when the car of Mr. Wilfred Horton drove away from the clubcarrying the man whom they had hoped to see killed, and the man theyhad hoped to see kill him. The two appeared to be in excellent spiritsand thoroughly congenial, as the car rolled out of sight, and thegentlemen who were left behind decided that, in view of thecircumstances, the "extraordinary spree" of last night had best gounadvertised into ancient history. 

CHAPTER XXII

The second year of a new order brings fewer radical changes than thefirst. Samson's work began to forge out of the ranks of the ordinary, and to show symptoms of a quality which would some day give itdistinction. Heretofore, his instructors had held him rigidly to thelimitations of black and white, but now they took off the bonds, andpermitted him the colorful delight of attempting to express himselffrom the palette. It was like permitting a natural poet to leave prose, and play with prosody. 

Sometimes, when his thoughts went back to the life he had left, itseemed immensely far away, as though it were really the life of anotherincarnation, and old ideas that had seemed axiomatic to his boyhoodstood before him in the guise of strangers: strangers tattered andvagabond. He wondered if, after all, the new gods were sapping hisloyalty. At such times, he would for days keep morosely to himself, picturing the death-bed of his father, and seeming to hear a smallboy's voice making a promise. Sometimes, that promise seemed monstrous, in the light of his later experience. But it was a promise--and no mancan rise in his own esteem by treading on his vows. In these sombermoods, there would appear at the edges of his drawing-paper terrible, vividly graphic little heads, not drawn from any present model. Theywere sketched in a few ferociously powerful strokes, and always showedthe same malevolent visage--a face black with murder and hate-endowed, the countenance of Jim Asberry. Sometimes would come a wild, heart-tearing longing for the old places. He wanted to hear the frogs boom, and to see the moon spill a shower of silver over the ragged shoulderof the mountain. He wanted to cross a certain stile, and set out for acertain cabin where a certain girl would be. He told himself that hewas still loyal, that above all else he loved his people. When he sawthese women, whose youth and beauty lasted long into life, whosemanners and clothes spoke of ease and wealth and refinement, he sawSally again as he had left her, hugging his "rifle-gun" to her breast, and he felt that the only thing he wanted utterly was to take her inhis arms. Yes, he would return to Sally, and to his people--some day. The some day he did not fix. He told himself that the hills were onlythirty hours away, and therefore he could go any time--which is theother name for no time. He had promised Lescott to remain here foreighteen months, and, when that interval ended, he seemed just on theverge of grasping his work properly. He assured himself often andsolemnly that his creed was unchanged; his loyalty untainted; and thefact that it was necessary to tell himself proved that he was beingweaned from his traditions. And so, though he often longed for home, hedid not return. And then reason would rise up and confound him. Couldhe paint pictures in the mountains? If he did, what would he do withthem? If he went back to that hermit life, would he not vindicate hisuncle's prophecy that he had merely unplaced himself? And, if he wentback and discharged his promise, and then returned again to the newfascination, could he bring Sally with him into this life--Sally, whomhe had scornfully told that a "gal didn't need no l'arnin'?" And theanswer to all these questions was only that there was no answer. 

One day, Adrienne looked up from a sheaf of his very creditablelandscape studies to inquire suddenly:

"Samson, are you a rich man, or a poor one?"

He laughed. "So rich, " he told her, "that unless I can turn some ofthis stuff into money within a year or two, I shall have to go back tohoeing corn. "

She nodded gravely. 

"Hasn't it occurred to you, " she demanded, "that in a way you arewasting your gifts? They were talking about you the other evening--several painters. They all said that you should be doing portraits. "

The Kentuckian smiled. His masters had been telling him the samething. He had fallen in love with art through the appeal of the skiesand hills. He had followed its call at the proselyting of GeorgeLescott, who painted only landscape. Portraiture seemed a less-artisticform of expression. He said so. 

"That may all be very true, " she conceded, "but you can go on withyour landscapes, and let your portraits pay the way. With your entrée, you could soon have a very enviable _clientèle_. "

 "'So she showed me the way, to promotion and pay, And I learned about women from her, '"

quoted Samson with a laugh. 

"And, " she added, "since I am very vain and moderately rich, I herebycommission you to paint me, just as soon as you learn how. "

Farbish had simply dropped out. Bit by bit, the truth of theconspiracy had leaked, and he knew that his usefulness was ended, andthat well-lined pocketbooks would no longer open to his profligatedemands. The bravo and plotter whose measure has been taken is a brokenreed. Farbish made no farewells. He had come from nowhere and his goingwas like his coming. 

 * * * * *

Sally had started to school. She had not announced that she meant todo so, but each day the people of Misery saw her old sorrel mare makingits way to and from the general direction of Stagbone College, and theysmiled. No one knew how Sally's cheeks flamed as she sat alone onSaturdays and Sundays on the rock at the backbone's rift. She wastaking her place, morbidly sensitive and a woman of eighteen, amonglittle spindle-shanked girls in short skirts, and the little girls weremore advanced than she. But she, too, meant to have "l'arnin'"--as muchof it as was necessary to satisfy the lover who might never come. Itmust be admitted that learning for its own sake did not make a clarion-tongued appeal to the girl's soul. Had Samson been satisfied with heruntutored, she would have been content to remain untutored. He had saidthat these things were of no importance in her, but that was before hehad gone forth into the world. If, she naïvely told herself, he shouldcome back of that same opinion, she would never "let on" that she hadlearned things. She would toss overboard her acquirements as ruthlesslyas useless ballast from an over-encumbered boat. But, if Samson camedemanding these attainments, he must find her possessed of them. Sofar, her idea of "l'arnin'" embraced the three R's only. And, yet, the"fotched-on" teachers at the "college" thought her the most voraciouslyambitious pupil they had ever had, so unflaggingly did she toil, andthe most remarkably acquisitive, so fast did she learn. But her studieshad again been interrupted, and Miss Grover, her teacher, riding overone day to find out why her prize scholar had deserted, met in the roadan empty "jolt-wagon, " followed by a ragged cortège of mounted men andwomen, whose faces were still lugubrious with the effort of recentmourning. Her questions elicited the information that they werereturning from the "buryin'" of the Widow Miller. 

Sally was not in the procession, and the teacher, riding on, found herlying face down among the briars of the desolate meeting-house yard, her small body convulsively heaving with her weeping, and her slimfingers grasping the thorny briar shoots as though she would still holdto the earth that lay in freshly broken clods over her mother's grave. 

Miss Grover lifted her gently, and at first the girl only stared ather out of wide, unseeing eyes. 

"You've nothing to keep you here now, " said the older woman, gently. "You can come to us, and live at the college. " She had learned fromSally's lips that she lived alone with her mother and younger brother. "You can't go on living there now. "

But the girl drew away, and shook her head with a wild torrent ofchildish dissent. 

"No, I kain't, neither!" she declared, violently. "I kain't!"

"Why, dear?" The teacher took the palpitating little figure in herarms and kissed the wet face. She had learned something of this sweetwood-thrush girl, and had seen both sides of life's coin enough to beable to close her eyes and ears, and visualize the woman that thismight be. 

"'Cause I kain't!" was the obstinate reply. 

Being wise, Miss Grover desisted from urging, and went with Sally tothe desolated cabin, which she straightway began to overhaul and put torights. The widow had been dying for a week. It was when she liftedSamson's gun with the purpose of sweeping the corner that the girlswooped down on her, and rescued the weapon from her grasp. 

"Nobody but me mustn't tech thet rifle-gun, " she exclaimed, and then, little by little, it came out that the reason Sally could not leavethis cabin, was because some time there might be a whippoorwill callout by the stile, and, when it came, she must be there to answer. And, when at the next vacation Miss Grover rode over, and announced that shemeant to visit Sally for a month or two, and when under her deft handsthe cabin began to transform itself, and the girl to transform herself, she discovered that Sally found in the graveyard another magnet. There, she seemed to share something with Samson where their dead lay buried. While the "fotched-on" lady taught the girl, the girl taught the"fotched-on" lady, for the birds were her brothers, and the flowers hercousins, and in the poetry that existed before forms of meter came intobeing she was deeply versed. 

Toward the end of that year, Samson undertook his portrait of AdrienneLescott. The work was nearing completion, but it had been agreed thatthe girl herself was not to have a peep at the canvas until the painterwas ready to unveil it in a finished condition. Often as she posed, Wilfred Horton idled in the studio with them, and often George Lescottcame to criticize, and left without criticizing. The girl was impatientfor the day when she, too, was to see the picture, concerning which thethree men maintained so profound a secrecy. She knew that Samson was apainter who analyzed with his brush, and that his picture would showher not only features and expression, but the man's estimate of herself. 

"Do you know, " he said one day, coming out from behind his easel andstudying her, through half-closed eyes, "I never really began to knowyou until now? Analyzing you--studying you in this fashion, not by yourwords, but by your expression, your pose, the very unconscious essenceof your personality--these things are illuminating. "

"Can I smile, " she queried obediently, "or do I have to keep my facestraight?"

"You may smile for two minutes, " he generously conceded, "and I'mgoing to come over and sit on the floor at your feet, and watch you doit. "

"And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis, " she laughed, "do you like me?"

"Wait and see, " was his non-committal rejoinder. 

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. He sat there gazing up, andshe gazing down. Though neither of them said it, both were thinking ofthe changes that had taken place since, in this same room, they hadfirst met. The man knew that many of the changes in himself were due toher, and she began to wonder vaguely if he had not also beenresponsible for certain differences in her. 

He felt for her, besides a deep friendship--such a deep friendshipthat it might perhaps be even more--a measureless gratitude. She hadbeen loyal, and had turned and shaped with her deft hand and brain therough clay of his crude personality into something that was beginningto show finish and design. Perhaps, she liked him the better because ofcertain obstinate qualities which, even to her persuasive influence, remained unaltered. But, if she liked him the better for these things, she yet felt that her dominion over him was not complete. 

Now, as they sat there alone in the studio, a shaft of sunlight fromthe skylight fell on his squarely blocked chin, and he tossed his head, throwing back the long lock from his forehead. It was as though he wasemphasizing with that characteristic gesture one of the things in whichhe had not yielded to her modeling. The long hair still fell low aroundhis head. Just now, he was roughly dressed and paint-stained, butusually he presented the inconspicuous appearance of the well-groomedman--except for that long hair. It was not so much as a matter ofpersonal appearance but as a reminder of the old roughness that sheresented this. She had often suggested a visit to the barber, but to noavail. 

"Although I am not painting you, " she said with a smile, "I have beenstudying you, too. As you stand there before your canvas, your ownpersonality is revealed--and I have not been entirely unobservantmyself. "

"'And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis, '" he quotedwith a laugh, "do you like me?"

"Wait and see, " she retorted. 

"At all events"--he spoke gravely--"you must try to like me a little, because I am not what I was. The person that I am is largely thecreature of your own fashioning. Of course, you had very raw materialto work with, and you can't make a silk purse of"--he broke off andsmiled--"well, of me, but in time you may at least get me mercerized alittle. "

For no visible reason, she flushed, and her next question came atrifle eagerly:

"Do you mean that I have influenced you?"

"Influenced me, Drennie?" he repeated. "You have done more than that. You have painted me out, and painted me over. "

She shook her head, and in her eyes danced a light of subtle coquetry. 

"There are things I have tried to do, and failed, " she told him. 

His eyes showed surprise. 

"Perhaps, " he apologized, "I am dense, and you may have to tell mebluntly what I am to do. But you know that you have only to tell me. "

For a moment, she said nothing, then she shook her head again. 

"Issue your orders, " he insisted. "I am waiting to obey. "

She hesitated again, then said, slowly:

"Have your hair cut. It's the one uncivilized thing about you. "

For an instant, Samson's face hardened. 

"No, " he said; "I don't care to do that. "

"Oh, very well!" she laughed, lightly. "In that event, of course, youshouldn't do it. " But her smile faded, and after a moment he explained:

"You see, it wouldn't do. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I've got to keep something as it was to remind me of aprior claim on my life. "

For an instant the girl's face clouded, and grew deeply troubled. 

"You don't mean, " she asked, with an outburst of interest more vehementthan she had meant to show, or realized that she was showing--"you don'tmean that you still adhere to ideas of the vendetta?" Then she broke offwith a laugh, a rather nervous laugh. "Of course not, " she answeredherself. "That would be too absurd!"

"Would it?" asked Samson, simply. He glanced at his watch. "Twominutes up, " he announced. "The model will please resume the pose. Bythe way, may I drive with you to-morrow afternoon?"

 * * * * *

The next afternoon, Samson ran up the street steps of the Lescotthouse, and rang the bell, and a few moments later Adrienne appeared. The car was waiting outside, and, as the girl came down the stairs inmotor coat and veil, she paused and her fingers on the bannisterstightened in surprise as she looked at the man who stood below holdinghis hat in his hand, with his face upturned. The well-shaped head wasno longer marred by the mane which it had formerly worn, but was closecropped, and under the transforming influence of the change theforehead seemed bolder and higher, and to her thinking the strength ofthe purposeful features was enhanced, and yet, had she known it, theman felt that he had for the first time surrendered a point which meantan abandonment of something akin to principle. 

She said nothing, but as she took his hand in greeting, her fingerspressed his own in handclasp more lingering than usual. 

Late that evening, when Samson returned to the studio, he found amissive in his letter-box, and, as he took it out, his eyes fell on thepostmark. It was dated from Hixon, Kentucky, and, as the man slowlyclimbed the stairs, he turned the envelope over in his hand with astrange sense of misgiving and premonition. 

CHAPTER XXIII

The letter was written in the cramped hand of Brother Spencer. Throughits faulty diction ran a plainly discernible undernote of disapprovalfor Samson, though there was no word of reproof or criticism. It wasplain that it was sent as a matter of courtesy to one who, havingproven an apostate, scarcely merited such consideration. It informedhim that old Spicer South had been "mighty porely, " but was now better, barring the breaking of age. Every one was "tolerable. " Then came theannouncement which the letter had been written to convey. 

The term of the South-Hollman truce had ended, and it had been renewedfor an indefinite period. 

"Some of your folks thought they ought to let you know because theypromised to give you a say, " wrote the informant. "But they decidedthat it couldn't hardly make no difference to you, since you have leftthe mountains, and if you cared anything about it, you knew the time, and could of been here. Hoping this finds you well. "

Samson's face clouded. He threw the soiled and scribbled missive downon the table and sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the studio wall. So, they had cast him out of their councils! They already thought of him asone who had been. 

In that passionate rush of feeling, everything that had happened sincehe had left Misery seemed artificial and dream-like. He longed for therealities that were forfeited. He wanted to press himself close to thegreat, gray shoulders of rock that broke through the greenery likegiants tearing off soft raiment. Those were his people back there. Heshould be running with the wolf-pack, not coursing with beagles. 

He had been telling himself that he was loyal, and now he realizedthat he was drifting like the lotus-eaters. Things that had gripped hissoul were becoming myths. Nothing in his life was honest--he had becomeas they had prophesied, a derelict. In that thorn-choked graveyard laythe crude man whose knotted hand had rested on his head just beforedeath stiffened it bestowing a mission. 

"I hain't fergot ye, Pap. " The words rang in his ears with the agonyof a repudiated vow. 

He rose and paced the floor, with teeth and hands clenched, and thesweat standing out on his forehead. His advisers had of late beenurging him to go to Paris He had refused, and his unconfessed reasonhad been that in Paris he could not answer a sudden call. He would goback to them now, and compel them to admit his leadership. 

Then, his eyes fell on the unfinished portrait of Adrienne. The facegazed at him with its grave sweetness; its fragrant subtlety and itsfine-grained delicacy. Her pictured lips were silently arguing for thelife he had found among strangers, and her victory would have been aneasy one, but for the fact that just now his conscience seemed to be onthe other side. Samson's civilization was two years old--a thin veneerover a century of feudalism--and now the century was thundering itscall of blood bondage. But, as the man struggled over the dilemma, thependulum swung back. The hundred years had left, also, a heritage ofquickness and bitterness to resent injury and injustice. His own peoplehad cast him out. They had branded him as the deserter; they felt noneed of him or his counsel. Very well, let them have it so. His problemhad been settled for him. His Gordian knot was cut. 

Sally and his uncle alone had his address. This letter, casting himout, must have been authorized by them, Brother Spencer acting merelyas amanuensis. They, too, had repudiated him--and, if that were true, except for the graves of his parents the hills had no tie to hold him. 

"Sally, Sally!" he groaned, dropping his face on his crossed arms, while his shoulders heaved in an agony of heart-break, and his wordscame in the old crude syllables: "I 'lowed you'd believe in me ef hellfroze!" He rose after that, and made a fierce gesture with his clenchedfists. "All right, " he said, bitterly, "I'm shet of the lot of ye. I'mdone!"

But it was easier to say the words of repudiation than to cut the tiesthat were knotted about his heart. Again, he saw Sally standing by theold stile in the starlight with sweet, loyal eyes lifted to his own, and again he heard her vow that, if he came back, she would be waiting. Now, that picture lay beyond a sea which he could not recross. Sallyand his uncle had authorized his excommunication. There was, after all, in the entire world no faith which could stand unalterable, and in allthe world no reward that could be a better thing than Dead-Sea fruit, without the love of that barefooted girl back there in the log cabin, whose sweet tongue could not fashion phrases except in illiteracy. Hewould have gambled his soul on her steadfastness without fear--and hebitterly told himself he would have lost. And yet--some voice soundedto him as he stood there alone in the studio with the arteries knottedon his temples and the blood running cold and bitter in his veins--andyet what right had he, the deserter, to demand faith? One hand went upand clasped his forehead--and the hand fell on the head that had beenshorn because a foreign woman had asked it. What tradition had he keptinviolate? And, in his mood, that small matter of shortened hair meantas great and bitter surrender as it had meant to the Samson before him, whose mighty strength had gone out under the snipping of shears. Whatcourse was open to him now, except that of following the precedent ofthe other Samson, of pulling down the whole temple of his past? He wasdisowned, and could not return. He would go ahead with the other life, though at the moment he hated it. 

With a rankling soul, the mountaineer left New York. He wrote Sally abrief note, telling her that he was going to cross the ocean, but hishurt pride forbade his pleading for her confidence, or adding, "I loveyou. " He plunged into the art life of the "other side of the Seine, "and worked voraciously. He was trying to learn much--and to forget much. 

One sunny afternoon, when Samson had been in the _Quartier Latin_for eight or nine months, the _concièrge_ of his lodgings handedhim, as he passed through the cour, an envelope addressed in the handof Adrienne Lescott. He thrust it into his pocket for a later readingand hurried on to the _atelier_ where he was to have a criticismthat day. When the day's work was over, he was leaning on theembankment wall at the _Quai de Grand St. Augustin_, gazing idlyat the fruit and flower stands that patched the pavement with color andat the gray walls of the Louvre across the Seine, His hand went intohis pocket, and came out with the note. As he read it, he felt a glowof pleasurable surprise, and, wheeling, he retraced his steps brisklyto his lodgings, where he began to pack. Adrienne had written that sheand her mother and Wilfred Horton were sailing for Naples, andcommanded him, unless he were too busy, to meet their steamer. Withintwo hours, he was bound for Lucerne to cross the Italian frontier bythe slate-blue waters of Lake Maggiore. 

A few weeks later Samson and Adrienne were standing together bymoonlight in the ruins of the Coliseum. The junketing about Italy hadbeen charming, and now, in that circle of sepia softness and brokencolumns, he looked at her, and suddenly asked himself:

"Just what does she mean to you?"

If he had never asked himself that question before, he knew now thatit must some day be answered. Friendship had been a good and seeminglya sufficient definition. Now, he was not so sure that it could remain so. 

Then, his thoughts went back to a cabin in the hills and a girl incalico. He heard a voice like the voice of a song-bird saying throughtears:

"I couldn't live without ye, Samson.... I jest couldn't do hit!"

For a moment, he was sick of his life. It seemed that there stoodbefore him, in that place of historic wraiths and memories, a girl, hereyes sad, but loyal and without reproof. For an instant, he could see ascene of centuries ago. A barbarian and captive girl stood in thearena, looking up with ignorant, but unflinching, eyes; and a man satin the marble tiers looking down. The benches were draped withembroidered rugs and gold and scarlet hangings; the air was heavy withincense--and blood. About him sat men and women of Rome's culture, freshly perfumed from the baths. The slender figure in the dust of thecircus alone was a creature without artifice. And, as she looked up, she recognized the man in the box, the man who had once been abarbarian, too, and she turned her eyes to the iron gates of the cageswhence came the roar of the beasts, and waited the ordeal. And the facewas the face of Sally. 

"You look, " said Adrienne, studying his countenance in the pallor ofthe moonlight, "as though you were seeing ghosts. "

"I am, " said Samson. "Let's go. "

Adrienne had not yet seen her portrait. Samson had needed a few hoursof finishing when he left New York, though it was work which could bedone away from the model. So, it was natural that, when the partyreached Paris, Adrienne should soon insist on crossing the _Pont d'Alexandre III_. To his studio near the "_Boule Mich'_" for aninspection of her commissioned canvas. For a while, she wandered aboutthe business-like place, littered with the gear of the painter's craft. It was, in a way, a form of mind-reading, for Samson's brush was thetongue of his soul. 

The girl's eyes grew thoughtful, as she saw that he still drew theleering, saturnine face of Jim Asberry. He had not outgrown hate, then?But she said nothing, until he brought out and set on an easel her ownportrait. For a moment, she gasped with sheer delight for the colorfulmastery of the technique, and she would have been hard to please had shenot been delighted with the conception of herself mirrored in thecanvas. It was a face through which the soul showed, and the soul wasstrong and flawless. The girl's personality radiated from the canvas--and yet--A disappointed little look crossed and clouded her eyes. Shewas conscious of an indefinable catch of pain at her heart. 

Samson stepped forward, and his waiting eyes, too, were disappointed. 

"You don't like it, Drennie?" he anxiously questioned. But she smiledin answer, and declared:

"I love it. "

He went out a few minutes later to telephone for her to Mrs. Lescott, and gave Adrienne _carte blanche_ to browse among his portfoliosand stacked canvases until his return. In a few minutes, she discoveredone of those efforts which she called his "rebellious pictures. "

These were such things as he painted, using no model except memoryperhaps, not for the making of finished pictures, but merely to giveoutlet to his feelings; an outlet which some men might have found intalk. 

This particular canvas was roughly blocked in, and it was elementallysimple, but each brush stroke had been thrown against the surface withthe concentrated fire and energy of a blow, except the strokes that hadpainted the face, and there the brush had seemed to kiss the canvas. The picture showed a barefooted girl, standing, in barbaric simplicityof dress, in the glare of the arena, while a gaunt lion crouched eyingher. Her head was lifted as though she were listening to faraway music. In the eyes was indomitable courage. That canvas was at once adeclaration of love, and a _miserere_. Adrienne set it up besideher own portrait, and, as she studied the two with her chin resting onher gloved hand, her eyes cleared of questioning. Now, she knew whatshe missed in her own more beautiful likeness. It had been painted withall the admiration of the mind. This other had been dashed off straightfrom the heart--and this other was Sally! She replaced the sketch whereshe had found it, and Samson, returning, found her busy with littlesketches of the Seine. 

 * * * * *

"Drennie, " pleaded Wilfred Horton, as the two leaned on the deck railof the _Mauretania_, returning from Europe, "are you going to holdme off indefinitely? I've served my seven years for Rachel, and thrownin some extra time. Am I no nearer the goal?"

The girl looked at the oily heave of the leaden and cheerlessAtlantic, and its somber tones found reflection in her eyes. She shookher head. 

"I wish I knew, " she said, wearily. Then, she added, vehemently: "I'mnot worth it, Wilfred. Let me go. Chuck me out of your life as a littlepig who can't read her own heart; who is too utterly selfish to decideupon her own life. "

"Is it"--he put the question with foreboding--"that, after all, I wasa prophet? Have you--and South--wiped your feet on the doormat marked'Platonic friendship'? Have you done that, Drennie?"

She looked up into his eyes. Her own were wide and honest and veryfull of pain. 

"No, " she said; "we haven't done that, yet. I guess we won't.... Ithink he'd rather stay outside, Wilfred. If I was sure I loved him, andthat he loved me, I'd feel like a cheat--there is the other girl tothink of.... And, besides, I'm not sure what I want myself.... But I'mhorribly afraid I'm going to end by losing you both. "

Horton stood silent. It was tea-time, and from below came the strainsof the ship's orchestra. A few ulster-muffled passengers gloomily pacedthe deck. 

"You won't lose us both, Drennie, " he said, steadily. "You may loseyour choice--but, if you find yourself able to fall back onsubstitutes, I'll still be there, waiting. "

For once, he did not meet her scrutiny, or know of it. His own eyeswere fixed on the slow swing of heavy, gray-green waters. He wassmiling, but it is as a man smiles when he confronts despair, andpretends that everything is quite all right. The girl looked at himwith a choke in her throat. 

"Wilfred, " she said, laying her hand on his arm, "I'm not worthworrying over. Really, I'm not. If Samson South proposed to me to-day, I know that I should refuse him. I am not at all sure that I am theleast little bit in love with him. Only, don't you see I can't be quitesure I'm not? It would be horrible if we all made a mistake. May I havetill Christmas to make up my mind for all time? I'll tell you then, dear, if you care to wait. "

 * * * * *

Tamarack Spicer sat on the top of a box car, swinging his legs overthe side. He was clad in overalls, and in the pockets of his breechesreposed a bulging flask of red liquor, and an unbulging pay envelope. Tamarack had been "railroading" for several months this time. He hadmade a new record for sustained effort and industry, but now June wasbeckoning him to the mountains with vagabond yearnings for freedom andleisure. Many things invited his soul. Almost four years had passedsince Samson had left the mountains, and in four years a woman canchange her mind. Sally might, when they met on the road, greet him oncemore as a kinsman, and agree to forget his faulty method of courtship. This time, he would be more diplomatic. Yesterday, he had gone to theboss, and "called for his time. " To-day, he was paid off, and a freelance. 

As he reflected on these matters, a fellow trainman came along the topof the car, and sat down at Tamarack's side. This brakeman had alsobeen recruited from the mountains, though from another section--overtoward the Virginia line. 

"So yer quittin'?" observed the new-comer. 

Spicer nodded. 

"Goin' back thar on Misery?"

Again, Tamarack answered with a jerk of his head. 

"I've been layin' off ter tell ye somethin', Tam'rack. "

"Cut her loose. "

"I laid over in Hixon last week, an' some fellers that used ter knowmy mother's folks took me down in the cellar of Hollman's store, an'give me some licker. "

"What of hit?"

"They was talkin' 'bout you. "

"What did they say?"

"I seen that they was enemies of yours, an' they wasn't in no goodhumor, so, when they axed me ef I knowed ye, I 'lowed I didn't knownothin' good about ye. I had ter cuss ye out, or git in trouble myself. "

Tamarack cursed the whole Hollman tribe, and his companion went on:

"Jim Asberry was thar. He 'lowed they'd found out thet you'd done shotPurvy thet time, an' he said"--the brakeman paused to add emphasis tohis conclusion--"thet the next time ye come home, he 'lowed ter git yeplumb shore. "

Tamarack scowled. 

"Much obleeged, " he replied. 

At Hixon, Tamarack Spicer strolled along the street toward the court-house. He wished to be seen. So long as it was broad daylight, and hedisplayed no hostility, he knew he was safe--and he had plans. 

Standing before the Hollman store were Jim Asberry and severalcompanions. They greeted Tamarack affably, and he paused to talk. 

"Ridin' over ter Misery?" inquired Asberry. 

"'Lowed I mout as well. "

"Mind ef I rides with ye es fur es Jesse's place?"

"Plumb glad ter have company, " drawled Tamarack, They chatted of many things, and traveled slowly, but, when they cameto those narrows where they could not ride stirrup to stirrup, eachjockeyed for the rear position, and the man who found himself forcedinto the lead turned in his saddle and talked back over his shoulder, with wary, though seemingly careless, eyes. Each knew the other wasbent on his murder. 

At Purvy's gate, Asberry waved farewell, and turned in. Tamarack rodeon, but shortly he hitched his horse in the concealment of a hollow, walled with huge rocks, and disappeared into the laurel. 

He began climbing, in a crouched position, bringing each foot downnoiselessly, and pausing often to listen. Jim Asberry had not beenoutwardly armed when he left Spicer. But, soon, the brakeman'sdelicately attuned ears caught a sound that made him lie flat in thelee of a great log, where he was masked in clumps of floweringrhododendron. Presently, Asberry passed him, also walking cautiously, but hurriedly, and cradling a Winchester rifle in the hollow of hisarm. Then, Tamarack knew that Asberry was taking this cut to head himoff, and waylay him in the gorge a mile away by road but a shortdistance only over the hill. Spicer held his heavy revolver cocked inhis hand, but it was too near the Purvy house to risk a shot. He waiteda moment, and then, rising, went on noiselessly with a snarling grin, stalking the man who was stalking him. 

Asberry found a place at the foot of a huge pine where the undergrowthwould cloak him. Twenty yards below ran the creek-bed road, returningfrom its long horseshoe deviation. When he had taken his position, hisfaded butternut clothing matched the earth as inconspicuously as aquail matches dead leaves, and he settled himself to wait. Slowly andwith infinite caution, his intended victim stole down, guarding eachstep, until he was in short and certain range, but, instead of being atthe front, he came from the back. He, also, lay flat on his stomach, and raised the already cocked pistol. He steadied it in a two-handedgrip against a tree trunk, and trained it with deliberate care on apoint to the left of the other man's spine just below the shoulderblades. 

Then, he pulled the trigger! He did not go down to inspect his work. It was not necessary. The instantaneous fashion with which the head ofthe ambuscader settled forward on its face told him all he wanted toknow. He slipped back to his horse, mounted and rode fast to the houseof Spicer South, demanding asylum. 

The next day came word that, if Tamarack Spicer would surrender andstand trial, in a court dominated by the Hollmans, the truce wouldcontinue. Otherwise, the "war was on. "

The Souths flung back this message:

"Come and git him. "

But Hollman and Purvy, hypocritically clamoring for the sanctity ofthe law, made no effort to come and "git him. " They knew that SpicerSouth's house was now a fortress, prepared for siege. They knew thatevery trail thither was picketed. Also, they knew a better way. Thistime, they had the color of the law on their side. The Circuit Judge, through the Sheriff, asked for troops, and troops came. Their tentsdotted the river bank below the Hixon Bridge. A detail under a whiteflag went out after Tamarack Spicer. The militia Captain in command, who feared neither feudist nor death, was courteously received. He hadbrains, and he assured them that he acted under orders which could notbe disobeyed. Unless they surrendered the prisoner, gatling guns wouldfollow. If necessary they would be dragged behind ox-teams. Manymilitiamen might be killed, but for each of them the State had another. If Spicer would surrender, the officer would guarantee him personalprotection, and, if it seemed necessary, a change of venue would securehim trial in another circuit. For hours, the clan deliberated. For thesoldiers they felt no enmity. For the young Captain they felt aninstinctive liking. He was a man. 

Old Spicer South, restored to an echo of his former robustness by thecall of action, gave the clan's verdict. 

"Hit hain't the co'te we're skeered of. Ef this boy goes ter town, hewon't never git inter no co'te. He'll be murdered. "

The officer held out his hand. 

"As man to man, " he said, "I pledge you my word that no one shall takehim except by process of law. I'm not working for the Hollmans, or thePurvys. I know their breed, "

For a space, old South looked into the soldier's eyes, and the soldierlooked back. 

"I'll take yore handshake on thet bargain, " said the mountaineer, gravely. "Tam'rack, " he added, in a voice of finality, "ye've got tergo. "

The officer had meant what he said. He marched his prisoner into Hixonat the center of a hollow square, with muskets at the ready. And yet, as the boy passed into the court-house yard, with a soldier rubbingelbows on each side, a cleanly aimed shot sounded from somewhere. Thesmokeless powder told no tale and with blue shirts and army hatscircling him, Tamarack fell and died. 

That afternoon, one of Hollman's henchmen was found lying in the roadwith his lifeless face in the water of the creek. The next day, as oldSpicer South stood at the door of his cabin, a rifle barked from thehillside, and he fell, shot through the left shoulder by a bulletintended for his heart. All this while, the troops were helplesslycamped at Hixon. They had power and inclination to go out and get men, but there was no man to get. 

The Hollmans had used the soldiers as far as they wished; they hadmade them pull the chestnuts out of the fire and Tamarack Spicer out ofhis stronghold. They now refused to swear out additional warrants. 

A detail had rushed into Hollman's store an instant after the shotwhich killed Tamarack was fired. Except for a woman buying a card ofbuttons, and a fair-haired clerk waiting on her, they found thebuilding empty. 

Back beyond, the hills were impenetrable, and answered no questions. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Old Spicer South would ten years ago have put a bandage on his woundand gone about his business, but now he tossed under his patchworkquilt, and Brother Spencer expressed grave doubts for his recovery. With his counsel unavailable Wile McCager, by common consent, assumedsomething like the powers of a regent and took upon himself the dutiesto which Samson should have succeeded. 

That a Hollman should have been able to elude the pickets andpenetrate the heart of South territory to Spicer South's cabin, wasboth astounding and alarming. The war was on without question now, andthere must be council. Wile McCager had sent out a summons for thefamily heads to meet that afternoon at his mill. It was Saturday--"millday"--and in accordance with ancient custom the lanes would be moretraveled than usual. 

Those men who came by the wagon road afforded no unusual spectacle, for behind each saddle sagged a sack of grain. Their faces bore nostamp of unwonted excitement, but every man balanced a rifle across hispommel. None the less, their purpose was grim, and their talk when theyhad gathered was to the point. 

Old McCager, himself sorely perplexed, voiced the sentiment that theothers had been too courteous to express. With Spicer South bed-riddenand Samson a renegade, they had no adequate leader. McCager was a solidman of intrepid courage and honesty, but grinding grist was hisavocation, not strategy and tactics. The enemy had such masters ofintrigue as Purvy and Judge Hollman. 

Then, a lean sorrel mare came jogging into view, switching her fly-bitten tail, and on the mare's back, urging him with a long, leafyswitch, sat a woman. Behind her sagged the two loaded ends of a corn-sack. She rode like the mountain women, facing much to the side, yetunlike them. Her arms did not flap. She did not bump gawkily up anddown in her saddle. Her blue calico dress caught the sun at a distance, but her blue sunbonnet shaded and masked her face. She was lithe andslim, and her violet eyes were profoundly serious, and her lips were asresolutely set as Joan of Arc's might have been, for Sally Miller hadcome only ostensibly to have her corn ground to meal. She had reallycome to speak for the absent chief, and she knew that she would be metwith derision. The years had sobered the girl, but her beauty hadincreased, though it was now of a chastened type, which gave her astrange and rather exalted refinement of expression. 

Wile McCager came to the mill door, as she rode up, and lifted thesack from her horse. 

"Howdy, Sally?" he greeted. 

"Tol'able, thank ye, " said Sally. "I'm goin' ter get off. "

As she entered the great half-lighted room, where the mill stonescreaked on their cumbersome shafts, the hum of discussion sank tosilence. The place was brown with age and dirt, and powdered with acoarse dusting of meal. The girl nodded to the mountaineers gathered inconclave, then, turning to the miller she announced:

"I'm going to send for Samson. "

The statement was at first met with dead silence, then came a rumbleof indignant dissent, but for that the girl was prepared, as she wasprepared for the contemptuous laughter which followed. 

"I reckon if Samson was here, " she said, dryly, "you all wouldn'tthink it was quite so funny. "

Old Caleb Wiley spat through his bristling beard, and his voice was aquavering rumble. 

"What we wants is a man. We hain't got no use fer no traitors thet'stoo almighty damn busy doin' fancy work ter stand by their kith an' kin. "

"That's a lie!" said the girl, scornfully. "There's just one manliving that's smart enough to match Jesse Purvy--an' that one man isSamson. Samson's got the right to lead the Souths, and he's going to doit--ef he wants to. "

"Sally, " Wile McCager spoke, soothingly, "don't go gittin' mad. Calebtalks hasty. We knows ye used ter be Samson's gal, an' we hain't aimin'ter hurt yore feelin's. But Samson's done left the mountings. I reckonef he wanted ter come back, he'd a-come afore now. Let him stay wharhe's at. "

"Whar is he at?" demanded old Caleb Wiley, in a truculent voice. 

"That's his business, " Sally flashed back, "but I know. All I want totell you is this. Don't you make a move till I have time to get word tohim. I tell you, he's got to have his say. "

"I reckon we hain't a-goin' ter wait, " sneered Caleb, "fer a fellerthet won't let hit be known whar he's a-sojournin' at. Ef ye air soshore of him, why won't ye tell us whar he is now?"

"That's my business, too. " Sally's voice was resolute. "I've got aletter here--it'll take two days to get to Samson. It'll take him twoor three days more to get here. You've got to wait a week. "

"Sally, " the temporary chieftain spoke still in a patient, humoringsort of voice, as to a tempestuous child, "thar hain't no place termail a letter nigher then Hixon. No South can't ride inter Hixon, an'ride out again. The mail-carrier won't be down this way fer two daysyit. "

"I'm not askin' any South to ride into Hixon. I recollect another timewhen Samson was the only one that would do that, " she answered, stillscornfully. "I didn't come here to ask favors. I came to give orders--for him. A train leaves soon in the morning. My letter's goin' on thattrain. "

"Who's goin' ter take hit ter town fer ye?"

"I'm goin' to take it for myself. " Her reply was given as a matter ofcourse. 

"That wouldn't hardly be safe, Sally, " the miller demurred; "thishain't no time fer a gal ter be galavantin' around by herself in thenight time. Hit's a-comin' up ter storm, an' ye've got thirty miles terride, an' thirty-five back ter yore house. "

"I'm not scared, " she replied. "I'm goin' an' I'm warnin' you now, ifyou do anything that Samson don't like, you'll have to answer to him, when he comes. " She turned, walking very erect and dauntless to hersorrel mare, and disappeared at a gallop. 

"I reckon, " said Wile McCager, breaking the silence at last, "hitdon't make no great dif'rence. He won't hardly come, nohow. " Then, headded: "But thet boy is smart. "

 * * * * *

Samson's return from Europe, after a year's study, was in the natureof a moderate triumph. With the art sponsorship of George Lescott, andthe social sponsorship of Adrienne, he found that orders for portraits, from those who could pay munificently, seemed to seek him. He wastasting the novelty of being lionized. 

That summer, Mrs. Lescott opened her house on Long Island early, andthe life there was full of the sort of gaiety that comes to pleasantplaces when young men in flannels and girls in soft summery gowns andtanned cheeks are playing wholesomely, and singing tunefully, andmaking love--not too seriously. 

Samson, tremendously busy these days in a new studio of his own, hadrun over for a week. Horton was, of course, of the party, and GeorgeLescott was doing the honors as host. Besides these, all of whomregarded themselves as members of the family, there was a group of evenyounger folk, and the broad halls and terraces and tennis courts rangall day long with their laughter, and the floors trembled at nightunder the rhythmical tread of their dancing. 

Off across the lawns and woodlands stretched the blue, sail-fleckedwaters of the Sound, and on the next hill rose the tile roofs and cream-white walls of the country club. 

One evening, Adrienne left the dancers for the pergola, where she tookrefuge under a mass of honeysuckle. 

Samson South followed her. She saw him coming, and smiled. She wascontrasting this Samson, loosely clad in flannels, with the Samson shehad first seen rising awkwardly to greet her in the studio. 

"You should have stayed inside and made yourself agreeable to thegirls, " Adrienne reproved him, as he came up. "What's the use of makinga lion of you, if you won't roar for the visitors?"

"I've been roaring, " laughed the man. "I've just been explaining toMiss Willoughby that we only eat the people we kill in Kentucky oncertain days of solemn observance and sacrifice. I wanted to beagreeable to you, Drennie, for a while. "

The girl shook her head sternly, but she smiled and made a place forhim at her side. She wondered what form his being agreeable to herwould take. 

"I wonder if the man or woman lives, " mused Samson, "to whom thefragrance of honeysuckle doesn't bring back some old memory that is asstrong--and sweet--as itself. "

The girl did not at once answer him. The breeze was stirring the hairon her temples and neck. The moon was weaving a lace pattern on theground, and filtering its silver light through the vines. At last, sheasked:

"Do you ever find yourself homesick, Samson, these days?"

The man answered with a short laugh. Then, his words came softly, andnot his own words, but those of one more eloquent:

 "'Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather "'Than the forecourts of kings, and her uttermost pits than the streets where men gather.... "'His Sea that his being fulfills? "'So and no otherwise--"so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills. '"

"And yet, " she said, and a trace of the argumentative stole into hervoice, "you haven't gone back. "

"No. " There was a note of self-reproach in his voice. "But soon Ishall go. At least, for a time. I've been thinking a great deal latelyabout 'my fluttered folk and wild. ' I'm just beginning to understand myrelation to them, and my duty. "

"Your duty is no more to go back there and throw away your life, " shefound herself instantly contending, "than it is the duty of the youngeagle, who has learned to fly, to go back to the nest where he washatched. "

"But, Drennie, " he said, gently, "suppose the young eagle is the onlyone that knows how to fly--and suppose he could teach the others? Don'tyou see? I've only seen it myself for a little while. "

"What is it that--that you see now?"

"I must go back, not to relapse, but to come to be a constructiveforce. I must carry some of the outside world to Misery. I must take tothem, because I am one of them, gifts that they would reject from otherhands. "

"Will they accept them even from you?"

"Drennie, you once said that, if I grew ashamed of my people, ashamedeven of their boorish manners, their ignorance, their crudity, youwould have no use for me. "

"I still say that, " she answered. 

"Well, I'm not ashamed of them. I went through that, but it's over. "

She sat silent for a while, then cried suddenly:

"I don't want you to go!" The moment she had said it, she caughtherself with a nervous little laugh, and added a postscript ofwhimsical nonsense to disarm her utterance of its telltale feeling. "Why, I'm just getting you civilized, yourself. It took years to getyour hair cut. "

He ran his palm over his smoothly trimmed head, and laughed. 

"Delilah, Oh, Delilah!" he said. "I was resolute, but you have shornme. "

"Don't!" she exclaimed. "Don't call me that!"

"Then, Drennie, dear, " he answered, lightly, "don't dissuade me fromthe most decent resolve I have lately made. "

From the house came the strains of an alluring waltz. For a littletime, they listened without speech, then the girl said very gravely:

"You won't--you won't still feel bound to kill your enemies, will you, Samson?"

The man's face hardened. 

"I believe I'd rather not talk about that. I shall have to win backthe confidence I have lost. I shall have to take a place at the head ofmy clan by proving myself a man--and a man by their own standards. Itis only at their head that I can lead them. If the lives of a fewassassins have to be forfeited, I sha'n't hesitate at that. I shallstake my own against them fairly. The end is worth it. "

The girl breathed deeply, then she heard Samson's voice again:

"Drennie, I want you to understand, that if I succeed it is yoursuccess. You took me raw and unfashioned, and you have made me. Thereis no way of thanking you. "

"There is a way, " she contradicted. "You can thank me by feeling justthat way about it. "

"Then, I do thank you. "

She sat looking up at him, her eyes wide and questioning. 

"Exactly what do you feel, Samson, " she asked. "I mean about me?"

He leaned a little toward her, and the fragrance and subtle beauty ofher stole into his veins and brain, in a sudden intoxication. His handwent out to seize hers. This beauty which would last and not witherinto a hag's ugliness with the first breath of age--as mountain beautydoes--was hypnotizing him. Then, he straightened and stood looking down. 

"Don't ask me that, please, " he said, in a carefully controlled voice. "I don't even want to ask myself. My God, Drennie, don't you see thatI'm afraid to answer that?"

She rose from her seat, and stood for just an instant ratherunsteadily before him, then she laughed. 

"Samson, Samson!" she challenged. "The moon is making us as foolish aschildren. Old friend, we are growing silly. Let's go in, and beperfectly good hostesses and social lions. "

Slowly, Samson South came to his feet. His voice was in the dead-levelpitch which Wilfred had once before heard. His eyes were as clear andhard as transparent flint. 

"I'm sorry to be of trouble, George, " he said, quietly. "But you mustget me to New York at once--by motor. I must take a train South to-night. "

"No bad news, I hope, " suggested Lescott. 

For an instant, Samson forgot his four years of veneer. The century ofprenatal barbarism broke out fiercely. He was seeing things far away--and forgetting things near by. His eyes blazed and his fingers twitched. 

"Hell, no!" he exclaimed. "The war's on, and my hands are freed!"

For an instant, as no one spoke, he stood breathing heavily, then, wheeling, rushed toward the house as though just across its thresholdlay the fight into which lie was aching to hurl himself. 

The next afternoon, Adrienne and Samson were sitting with a gailychattering group at the side lines of the tennis courts. 

"When you go back to the mountains, Samson, " Wilfred was suggesting, "we might form a partnership. 'South, Horton and Co. , development ofcoal and timber. ' There are millions in it. "

"Five years ago, I should have met you with a Winchester rifle, "laughed the Kentuckian. "Now I shall not. "

"I'll go with you, Horton, and make a sketch or two, " volunteeredGeorge Lescott, who just then arrived from town. "And, by the way, Samson, here's a letter that came for you just as I left the studio. "

The mountaineer took the envelope with a Hixon postmark, and for aninstant gazed at it with a puzzled expression. It was addressed in afeminine hand, which he did not recognize. It was careful, but perfect, writing, such as one sees in a school copybook. With an apology he torethe covering, and read the letter. Adrienne, glancing at his face, sawit suddenly pale and grow as set and hard as marble. 

Samson's eyes were dwelling with only partial comprehension on thescript. This is what he read:

"DEAR SAMSON: The war is on again. Tamarack Spicer has killed Jim Asberry, and the Hollmans have killed Tamarack. Uncle Spicer is shot, but he mayget well. There is nobody to lead the Souths. I am trying to hold themdown until I hear from you. Don't come if you don't want to--but the gunis ready. With love, SALLY. "

CHAPTER XXV

Samson, throwing things hurriedly into his bag, heard a knock on hisdoor. He opened it, and outside in the hall stood Adrienne. Her facewas pale, and she leaned a little on the hand which rested against thewhite jamb. 

"What does it mean?" she asked. 

He came over. 

"It means, Drennie, " he said, "that you may make a pet of a leopard cub, but there will come a day when something of the jungle comes out in him--and he must go. My uncle has been shot, and the feud is on--I've beensent for. "

He paused, and she half-whispered in an appealing voice:

"Don't go. "

"You don't mean that, " he said, quietly. "If it were you, you wouldgo. Whether I get back here or not"--he hesitated--"my gratitude willbe with you--always. " He broke off, and said suddenly: "Drennie, Idon't want to say good-by to you. I can't. "

"It's not necessary yet, " she answered. "I'm going to drive you to NewYork. "

"No!" he exclaimed. "It's too far, and I've got to go fast----"

"That's why I'm going, " she promptly assured him. "I'm the only foolon these premises that can get all the speed out of a car that's in herengine--and the constables are good to me. I just came up here to--" shehesitated, then added--"to see you alone for a moment, and to say thatteacher has never had such a bright little pupil, in her life--and--"the flippancy with which she was masking her feeling broke and sheadded, in a shaken voice as she thrust out her hand, man-fashion--"andto say, God keep you, boy. "

He seized the hand in both his own, and gripped it hard. He tried tospeak, but only shook his head with a rueful smile. 

"I'll be waiting at the door with the car, " she told him, as she left. 

Horton, too, came in to volunteer assistance. 

"Wilfred, " said Samson, feelingly, 'there isn't any man I'd ratherhave at my back, in a stand-up fight. But this isn't exactly that sort. Where I'm going, a fellow has got to be invisible. No, you can't help, now. Come down later. We'll organize Horton, South and Co. "

"South, Horton and Co. , " corrected Wilfred; "native sons first. "

At that moment, Adrienne believed she had decided the long-mootedquestion. Of course, she had not. It was merely the stress of themoment; exaggerating the importance of one she was losing at theexpense of the one who was left. Still, as she sat in the car waiting, her world seemed slipping into chaos under her feet, and, when Samsonhad taken his place at her side, the machine leaped forward into areckless plunge of speed. 

Samson stopped at his studio, and threw open an old closet where, froma littered pile of discarded background draperies, canvases andstretchers, he fished out a buried and dust-covered pair of saddlebags. They had long lain there forgotten, but they held the rusty clothes inwhich he had left Misery. He threw them over his arm and dropped themat Adrienne's feet, as he handed her the studio keys. 

"Will you please have George look after things, and make the necessaryexcuses to my sitters? He'll find a list of posing appointments in thedesk. "

The girl nodded. 

"What are those?" she asked, gazing at the great leather pockets as atsome relic unearthed from Pompeian excavations. 

"Saddlebags, Drennie, " he said, "and in them are homespun and jeans. One can't lead his 'fluttered folk and wild' in a cutaway coat. "

Shortly they were at the station, and the man, standing at the side ofthe machine, took her hand. 

"It's not good-by, you know, " he said, smiling. "Just _aufWiedersehen_. "

She nodded and smiled, too, but, as she smiled, she shivered, andturned the car slowly. There was no need to hurry, now. 

Samson had caught the fastest west-bound express on the schedule. Inthirty-six hours, he would be at Hixon. There were many things whichhis brain must attack and digest in these hours. He must arrange hisplan of action to its minutest detail, because he would have as littletime for reflection, once he had reached his own country, as a wildcatflung into a pack of hounds. 

From the railroad station to his home, he must make his way--mostprobably fight his way--through thirty miles of hostile territory whereall the trails were watched. And yet, for the time, all that seemed tooremotely unreal to hold his thoughts. He was seeing the coolly wavingcurtains of flowered chintz that stirred in the windows of his room atthe Lescott house and the crimson ramblers that nodded against the sky. He was hearing a knock on the door, and seeing, as it opened, thefigure of Adrienne Lescott and the look that had been in her eyes. 

He took out Sally's letter, and read it once more. He read itmechanically and as a piece of news that had brought evil tidings. Then, suddenly, another aspect of it struck him--an aspect to which theshock of its reception had until this tardy moment blinded him. Theletter was perfectly grammatical and penned in a hand of copy-bookroundness and evenness. The address, the body of the missive, and thesignature, were all in one chirography. She would not have intrustedthe writing of this letter to any one else. 

Sally had learned to write!

Moreover, at the end were the words "with love. " It was all plain now. Sally had never repudiated him. She was declaring herself true to hermission and her love. All that heartbreak through which he had gone hadbeen due to his own misconception, and in that misconception he haddrawn into himself and had stopped writing to her. Even his occasionalletters had for two years ceased to brighten her heart-stranglingisolation--and she was still waiting.... She had sent no word of appealuntil the moment had come of which she had promised to inform him. Sally, abandoned and alone, had been fighting her way up--that shemight stand on his level. 

"Good God!" groaned the man, in abjectly bitter self-contempt. Hishand went involuntarily to his cropped head, and dropped with a gestureof self-doubting. He looked down at his tan shoes and silk socks. Herolled back his shirtsleeve and contemplated the forearm that had oncebeen as brown and tough as leather. It was now the arm of a city man, except for the burning of one outdoor week. He was returning at theeleventh hour--stripped of the faith of his kinsmen, half-stripped ofhis faith in himself. If he were to realize the constructive dreams ofwhich he had last night so confidently prattled to Adrienne, he mustlead his people from under the blighting shadow of the feud. 

Yet, if he was to lead them at all, he must first regain their shakenconfidence, and to do that he must go, at their head, through this mireof war to vindication. Only a fighting South could hope to be heard inbehalf of peace. His eventual regeneration belonged to some to-morrow. To-day held the need of such work as that of the first Samson--to slay. 

He must reappear before his kinsmen as much as possible the boy whohad left them--not the fop with newfangled affectations. His eyes fellupon the saddlebags on the floor of the Pullman, and he smiledsatirically. He would like to step from the train at Hixon and walkbrazenly through the town in those old clothes, challenging everyhostile glance. If they shot him down on the streets, as they certainlywould do, it would end his questioning and his anguish of dilemma. Hewould welcome that, but it would, after all, be shirking the issue. 

He must get out of Hixon and into his own country unrecognized. Thelean boy of four years ago was the somewhat filled out man now. The oneconcession that he had made to Paris life was the wearing of a closelycropped mustache. That he still wore--had worn it chiefly because heliked to hear Adrienne's humorous denunciation of it. He knew that, inhis present guise and dress, he had an excellent chance of walkingthrough the streets of Hixon as a stranger. And, after leaving Hixon, there was a mission to be performed at Jesse Purvy's store. As hethought of that mission a grim glint came to his pupils. 

All journeys end, and as Samson passed through the tawdry cars of thelocal train near Hixon he saw several faces which he recognized, butthey either eyed him in inexpressive silence, or gave him the greetingof the "furriner. "

Then the whistle shrieked for the trestle over the Middle Fork, and atonly a short distance rose the cupola of the brick court-house and thescattered roofs of the town. Scattered over the green slopes by theriver bank lay the white spread of a tented company street, and, as helooked out, he saw uniformed figures moving to and fro, and caught thering of a bugle call. So the militia was on deck; things must be bad, he reflected. He stood on the platform and looked down as the engineroared along the trestle. There were two gatling guns. One pointed itsmuzzle toward the town, and the other scowled up at the face of themountain. Sentries paced their beats. Men in undershirts lay dozingoutside tent flaps. It was all a picture of disciplined readiness, andyet Samson knew that soldiers made of painted tin would be equallyeffective. These military forces must remain subservient to local civilauthorities, and the local civil authorities obeyed the nod of JudgeHollman and Jesse Purvy. 

As Samson crossed the toll-bridge to the town proper he passed twobrown-shirted militiamen, lounging on the rail of the middle span. Theygrinned at him, and, recognizing the outsider from his clothes, one ofthem commented:

"Ain't this the hell of a town?"

"It's going to be, " replied Samson, enigmatically, as he went on. 

Still unrecognized, he hired a horse at the livery stable, and for twohours rode in silence, save for the easy creaking of his stirrupleathers and the soft thud of hoofs. 

The silence soothed him. The brooding hills lulled his spirit as acrooning song lulls a fretful child. Mile after mile unrolled forgottenvistas. Something deep in himself murmured:

"Home!"

It was late afternoon when he saw ahead of him the orchard of Purvy'splace, and read on the store wall, a little more weather-stained, butotherwise unchanged:

"Jesse Purvy, General Merchandise. "

The porch of the store was empty, and as Samson flung himself from hissaddle there was no one to greet him. This was surprising, since, ordinarily, two or three of Purvy's personal guardsmen loafed at thefront to watch the road. Just now the guard should logically bedoubled. Samson still wore his Eastern clothes--for he wanted to gothrough that door unknown. As Samson South he could not cross itsthreshold either way. But when he stepped up on to the rough porchflooring no one challenged his advance. The yard and orchard were quietfrom their front fence to the grisly stockade at the rear, and, wondering at these things, the young man stood for a moment lookingabout at the afternoon peace before he announced himself. 

Yet Samson had not come to the stronghold of his enemy for the purposeof assassination. There had been another object in his mind--an utterlymad idea, it is true, yet so bold of conception that it held a ghost ofpromise. He had meant to go into Jesse Purvy's store and chatartlessly, like some inquisitive "furriner. " He would ask questionswhich by their very impertinence might be forgiven on the score of astranger's folly. But, most of all, he wanted to drop the casualinformation, which he should assume to have heard on the train, thatSamson South was returning, and to mark, on the assassin leader, theeffect of the news. In his new code it was necessary to give at leastthe rattler's warning before he struck, and he meant to strike. If hewere recognized, well--he shrugged his shoulders. 

But as he stood on the outside, wiping the perspiration from hisforehead, for the ride had been warm, he heard voices within. They wereloud and angry voices. It occurred to him that by remaining where hewas he might gain more information than by hurrying in. 

"I've done been your executioner fer twenty years, " complained avoice, which Samson at once recognized as that of Aaron Hollis, themost trusted of Purvy's personal guards. "I hain't never laid down onye yet. Me an' Jim Asberry killed old Henry South. We laid fer his boy, an' would 'a' got him ef ye'd only said ther word. I went inter Hixon, an' killed Tam'rack Spicer, with soldiers all round me. There hain't noother damn fool in these mountings would 'a' took such a long chance esthet. I'm tired of hit. They're a-goin' ter git me, an' I wants terleave, an' you won't come clean with the price of a railroad ticket toOklahoma. Now, damn yore stingy soul, I gits that ticket or I gits you!"

"Aaron, ye can't scare me into doin' nothin' I ain't aimin' to do. "The old baron of the vendetta spoke in a cold, stoical voice. "I tellye I ain't quite through with ye yet. In due an' proper time I'll seethat ye get yer ticket. " Then he added, with conciliating softness:"We've been friends a long while. Let's talk this thing over before wefall out. "

"Thar hain't nothin' ter talk over, " stormed Aaron. "Ye're jest tryin'ter kill time till the boys gits hyar, and then I reckon ye 'lows terhave me kilt like yer've had me kill them others. Hit hain't no use. I've done sent 'em away. When they gits back hyar, either you'll be inhell, or I'll be on my way outen the mountings. "

Samson stood rigid. Here was the confession of one murderer, with nodenial from the other. The truce was of. Why should he wait? Cataractsseemed to thunder in his brain, and yet he stood there, his hand in hiscoat-pocket, clutching the grip of a magazine pistol. Samson South theold, and Samson South the new, were writhing in the life-and-deathgrapple of two codes. Then, before decision came, he heard a sharpreport inside, and the heavy fall of a body to the floor. 

A wildly excited figure came plunging through the door, and Samson'sleft hand swept out, and seized its shoulder in a sudden vise grip. 

"Do you know me?" he inquired, as the mountaineer pulled away andcrouched back with startled surprise and vicious frenzy. 

"No, damn ye! Git outen my road!" Aaron thrust his cocked rifle closeagainst the stranger's face. From its muzzle came the acrid stench offreshly burned powder. "Git outen my road afore I kills ye!"

"My name is Samson South. "

Before the astounded finger on the rifle trigger could be crooked, Samson's pistol spoke from the pocket, and, as though in echo, therifle blazed, a little too late and a shade too high, over his head, asthe dead man's arms went up. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Except for those two reports there was no sound. Samson stood still, anticipating an uproar of alarm. Now, he should doubtless have to paywith his life for both the deaths which would inevitably and logicallybe attributed to his agency. But, strangely enough, no clamor arose. The shot inside had been muffled, and those outside, broken by theintervening store, did not arouse the house. Purvy's bodyguard had beensent away by Hollis on a false alarm. Only the "womenfolks" andchildren remained indoors, and they were drowning with a piano anysounds that might have come from without. That piano was the chiefemblem of Purvy's wealth. It represented the acme of "having thingshung up"; that ancient and expressive phrase, which had come down fromdays when the pioneers' worldly condition was gauged by the hamshanging in the smokehouse and the peppers, tobacco and herbs strunghigh against the rafters. 

Now, Samson South stood looking down, uninterrupted, on what had beenAaron Hollis as it lay motionless at his feet. There was a powder-burned hole in the butternut shirt, and only a slender thread of bloodtrickled into the dirt-grimed cracks between the planks. The body wastwisted sidewise, in one of those grotesque attitudes with which asudden summons so frequently robs the greatest phenomenon of all itsrightful dignity. The sun was gilding the roadside clods, andburnishing the greens of the treetops. The breeze was harping sleepilyamong the branches, and several geese stalked pompously along thecreek's edge. On the top of the stockade a gray squirrel, sole witnessto the tragedy, rose on his haunches, flirted his brush, and then, in asudden leap of alarm, disappeared. 

Samson turned to the darkened doorway. Inside was emptiness, exceptfor the other body, which had crumpled forward and face down across thecounter. A glance showed that Jesse Purvy would no more fight back thecoming of death. He was quite unarmed. Behind his spent body rangedshelves of general merchandise. Boxes of sardines, and cans of peacheswere lined in homely array above him. His lifeless hand rested asthough flung out in an oratorical gesture on a bolt of blue calico. 

Samson paused only for a momentary survey. His score was clean. Hewould not again have to agonize over the dilemma of old ethics and new. To-morrow, the word would spread like wildfire along Misery andCrippleshin, that Samson South was back, and that his coming had beensignalized by these two deaths. The fact that he was responsible foronly one--and that in self-defense--would not matter. They would preferto believe that he had invaded the store and killed Purvy, and thatHollis had fallen in his master's defense at the threshold. Samson wentout, still meeting no one, and continued his journey. 

Dusk was falling, when he hitched his horse in a clump of timber, and, lifting his saddlebags, began climbing to a cabin that sat far back ina thicketed cove. He was now well within South territory, and the needof masquerade had ended. 

The cabin had not, for years, been occupied. Its rooftree was leaningaskew under rotting shingles. The doorstep was ivy-covered, and thestones of the hearth were broken. But it lay well hidden, and wouldserve his purposes. 

Shortly, a candle flickered inside, before a small hand mirror. Scissors and safety razor were for a while busy. The man who entered inimpeccable clothes emerged fifteen minutes later--transformed. Thereappeared under the rising June crescent, a smooth-faced native, clad instained store-clothes, with rough woolen socks showing at his brogantops, and a battered felt hat drawn over his face. No one who had knownthe Samson South of four years ago would fail to recognize him now. Andthe strangest part, he told himself, was that he felt the old Samson. He no longer doubted his courage. He had come home, and his consciencewas once more clear. 

The mountain roads and the mountain sides themselves were sweetlysilent. Moon mist engulfed the flats in a lake of dreams, and, as thelivery-stable horse halted to pant at the top of the final ridge, hecould see below him his destination. 

The smaller knobs rose like little islands out of the vapor, andyonder, catching the moonlight like scraps of gray paper, were tworoofs: that of his uncle's house--and that of the Widow Miller. 

At a point where a hand-bridge crossed the skirting creek, the boydismounted. Ahead of him lay the stile where he had said good-by toSally. The place was dark, and the chimney smokeless, but, as he camenearer, holding the shadows of the trees, he saw one sliver of light atthe bottom of a solid shutter; the shutter of Sally's room. Yet, for awhile, Samson stopped there, looking and making no sound. He stood athis Rubicon--and behind him lay all the glitter and culture of thatother world, a world that had been good to him. 

That was to Samson South one of those pregnant and portentous momentswith which life sometimes punctuates its turning points. At such times, all the set and solidified strata that go into the building of a man'snature may be uptossed and rearranged. So, the layers of a mountainchain and a continent that have for centuries remained steadfast maybreak and alter under the stirring of earthquake or volcano, droppingheights under water and throwing new ranges above the sea. 

There was passing before his eyes as he stood there, pausing, apanorama much vaster than any he had been able to conceive when last hestood there. He was seeing in review the old life and the new, luridwith contrasts, and, as the pictures of things thousands of miles awayrose before his eyes as clearly as the serried backbone of the ridges, he was comparing and settling for all time the actual values andproportions of the things in his life. 

He saw the streets of Paris and New York, brilliant under theirstrings of opalescent lights; the _Champs Elysées_ ran in itssmooth, tree-trimmed parquetry from the _Place de Concorde_ to the_Arc de Triomphe_, and the chatter and music of its cafés rang inhis ears. The ivory spaces of Rome, from the Pincian Hill where hisfancy saw almond trees in bloom to the _Piazza Venezia_, spreadtheir eternal story before his imagination. He saw 'buses and hansomsslirring through the mud and fog of London and the endless _pot-pourri_ of Manhattan. All the things that the outside world had tooffer; all that had ever stirred his pulses to a worship of thebeautiful, the harmonious, the excellent, rose in exact value. Then, hesaw again the sunrise as it would be to-morrow morning over theseragged hills. He saw the mists rise and grow wisp-like, and the disc ofthe sun gain color, and all the miracles of cannoning tempest andcaressing calm--and, though he had come back to fight, a wonderfulpeace settled over him, for he knew that, if he must choose these, hisnative hills, or all the rest, he would forego all the rest. 

And Sally--would she be changed? His heart was hammering wildly now. Sally had remained loyal. It was a miracle, but it was the one thingthat counted. He was going to her, and nothing else mattered. All thequestions of dilemma were answered. He was Samson South come back tohis own--to Sally, and the rifle. Nothing had changed! The same treesraised the same crests against the same sky. For every one of them, hefelt a throb of deep emotion. Best of all, he himself had not changedin any cardinal respect, though he had come through changes andperplexities. 

He lifted his head, and sent out a long, clear whippoorwill call, which quavered on the night much like the other calls in the blackhills around him. After a moment, he went nearer, in the shadow of apoplar, and repeated the call. 

Then, the cabin-door opened. Its jamb framed a patch of yellowcandlelight, and, at the center, a slender silhouetted figure, in afluttering, eager attitude of uncertainty. The figure turned slightlyto one side, and, as it did so, the man saw clasped in her right handthe rifle, which had been his mission, bequeathed to her in trust. Hesaw, too, the delicate outline of her profile, with anxiously partedlips and a red halo about her soft hair. He watched the eager heave ofher breast, and the spasmodic clutching of the gun to her heart. Forfour years, he had not given that familiar signal. Possibly, it hadlost some of its characteristic quality, for she still seemed in doubt. She hesitated, and the man, invisible in the shadow, once more imitatedthe bird-note, but this time it was so low and soft that it seemed thevoice of a whispering whippoorwill. 

Then, with a sudden glad little cry, she came running with her oldfleet grace down to the road. 

Samson had vaulted the stile, and stood in the full moonlight. As hesaw her coming he stretched out his arms and his voice broke from histhroat in a half-hoarse, passionate cry:

"Sally!"

It was the only word he could have spoken just then, but it was allthat was necessary. It told her everything. It was an outburst from aheart too full of emotion to grope after speech, the cry of a man forthe One Woman who alone can call forth an inflection more eloquent thanphrases and poetry. And, as she came into his outstretched arms asstraight and direct as a homing pigeon, they closed about her in aconvulsive grip that held her straining to him, almost crushing her inthe tempest of his emotion. 

For a time, there was no speech, but to each of them it seemed thattheir tumultuous heart-beating must sound above the night music, andthe telegraphy of heart-beats tells enough. Later, they would talk, butnow, with a gloriously wild sense of being together, with a mutualintoxication of joy because all that they had dreamed was true, and allthat they had feared was untrue, they stood there under the skiesclasping each other--with the rifle between their breasts. Then as heheld her close, he wondered that a shadow of doubt could ever haveexisted. He wondered if, except in some nightmare of hallucination, ithad ever existed. 

The flutter of her heart was like that of a rapturous bird, and theplay of her breath on his face like the fragrance of the elder blossoms. 

These were their stars twinkling overhead. These were their hills, andtheir moon was smiling on their tryst. 

He had gone and seen the world that lured him: he had met itsdifficulties, and faced its puzzles. He had even felt his feetwandering at the last from the path that led back to her, and now, withher lithe figure close held in his embrace, and her red-brown hairbrushing his temples, he marveled how such an instant of doubt couldhave existed. He knew only that the silver of the moon and the kiss ofthe breeze and the clasp of her soft arms about his neck were all partsof one great miracle. And she, who had waited and almost despaired, nottaking count of what she had suffered, felt her knees grow weak, andher head grow dizzy with sheer happiness, and wondered if it were nottoo marvelous to be true. And, looking very steadfastly into his eyes, she saw there the gleam that once had frightened her; the gleam thatspoke of something stronger and more compelling than his love. It nolonger frightened her, but made her soul sing, though it was moreintense than it had ever been before, for now she knew that it was Sheherself who brought it to his pupils--and that nothing would ever bestronger. 

But they had much to say to each other, and, finally, Samson broke thesilence:

"Did ye think I wasn't a-comin' back, Sally?" he questioned, softly. At that moment, he had no realization that his tongue had everfashioned smoother phrases. And she, too, who had been making war oncrude idioms, forgot, as she answered:

"Ye done said ye was comin'. " Then, she added a happy lie: "I knowedplumb shore ye'd do hit. "

After a while, she drew away, and said, slowly:

"Samson, I've done kept the old rifle-gun ready fer ye. Ye said ye'dneed it bad when ye come back, an' I've took care of it. "

She stood there holding it, and her voice dropped almost to a whisperas she added:

"It's been a lot of comfort to me sometimes, because it was your'n. Iknew if ye stopped keerin' fer me, ye wouldn't let me keep it--an' aslong as I had it, I--" She broke off, and the fingers of one handtouched the weapon caressingly. 

The man knew many things now that he had not known when he said good-by. He recognized in the very gesture with which she stroked the oldwalnut stock the pathetic heart-hunger of a nature which had beendenied the fulfillment of its strength, and which had been bestowing onan inanimate object something that might almost have been the stirringof the mother instinct for a child. Now, thank God, her life shouldnever lack anything that a flood-tide of love could bring to it. Hebent his head in a mute sort of reverence. 

After a long while, they found time for the less-wonderful things. 

"I got your letter, " he said, seriously, "and I came at once. " As hebegan to speak of concrete facts, he dropped again into ordinaryEnglish, and did not know that he had changed his manner of speech. 

For an instant, Sally looked up into his face, then with a suddenlaugh, she informed him:

"I can say, 'isn't, ' instead of, 'hain't, ' too. How did you like mywriting?"

He held her off at arms' length, and looked at her pridefully, butunder his gaze her eyes fell, and her face flushed with a suddendiffidence and a new shyness of realization. She wore a calico dress, but at her throat was a soft little bow of ribbon. She was no longerthe totally unself-conscious wood-nymph, though as natural andinstinctive as in the other days. Suddenly, she drew away from him alittle, and her hands went slowly to her breast, and rested there. Shewas fronting a great crisis, but, in the first flush of joy, she hadforgotten it. She had spent lonely nights struggling for rudiments; shehad sought and fought to refashion herself, so that, if he came, heneed not be ashamed of her. And now he had come, and, with a terribleclarity and distinctness, she realized how pitifully little she hadbeen able to accomplish. Would she pass muster? She stood there beforehim, frightened, self-conscious and palpitating, then her voice came ina whisper:

"Samson, dear, I'm not holdin' you to any promise. Those things wesaid were a long time back. Maybe we'd better forget 'em now, and beginall over again. "

But, again, he crushed her in his arms, and his voice rose triumphantly:

"Sally, I have no promises to take back, and you have made none thatI'm ever going to let you take back--not while life lasts!"

Her laugh was the delicious music of happiness. "I don't want to takethem back, " she said. Then, suddenly, she added, importantly: "I wearshoes and stockings now, and I've been to school a little. I'm awfully--awfully ignorant, Samson, but I've started, and I reckon you can teachme. "

His voice choked. Then, her hands strayed up, and clasped themselvesabout his head. 

"Oh, Samson, " she cried, as though someone had struck her, "you've cutyore ha'r. "

"It will grow again, " he laughed. But he wished that he had not had tomake that excuse. Then, being honest, he told her all about AdrienneLescott--even about how, after he believed that he had been outcast byhis uncle and herself, he had had his moments of doubt. Now that it wasall so clear, now that there could never be doubt, he wanted the womanwho had been so true a friend to know the girl whom he loved. He lovedthem both, but was in love with only one. He wanted to present to Sallythe friend who had made him, and to the friend who had made him theSally of whom he was proud. He wanted to tell Adrienne that now hecould answer her question--that each of them meant to the other exactlythe same thing: they were friends of the rarer sort, who had for alittle time been in danger of mistaking their comradeship for passion. 

As they talked, sitting on the stile, Sally held the rifle across herknees. Except for their own voices and the soft chorus of night sounds, the hills were wrapped in silence--a silence as soft as velvet. Suddenly, in a pause, there came to the girl's ears the cracking of atwig in the woods. With the old instinctive training of the mountains, she leaped noiselessly down, and for an instant stood listening withintent ears. Then, in a low, tense whisper, as she thrust the gun intothe man's hands, she cautioned:

"Git out of sight. Maybe they've done found out ye've come back--maybethey're trailin' ye!"

With an instant shock, she remembered what mission had brought himback, and what was his peril; and he, too, for whom the happiness ofthe moment had swallowed up other things, came back to a recognition offacts. Dropping into the old woodcraft, he melted out of sight into theshadow, thrusting the girl behind him, and crouched against the fence, throwing the rifle forward, and peering into the shadows. As he stoodthere, balancing the gun once more in his hands, old instincts began tostir, old battle hunger to rise, and old realizations of primitivethings to assault him. Then, when they had waited with bated breathuntil they were both reassured, he rose and swung the stock to hisshoulder several times. With something like a sigh of contentment, hesaid, half to himself:

"Hit feels mighty natural ter throw this old rifle-gun up. I reckonmaybe I kin still shoot hit. "

"I learned some things down there at school, Samson, " said the girl, slowly, "and I wish--I wish you didn't have to use it. "

"Jim Asberry is dead, " said the man, gravely. 

"Yes, " she echoed, "Jim Asberry's dead. " She stopped there. Yet, hersigh completed the sentence as though she had added, "but he was onlyone of several. Your vow went farther. "

After a moment's pause, Samson added:

"Jesse Purvy's dead. "

The girl drew back, with a frightened gasp. She knew what this meant, or thought she did. 

"Jesse Purvy!" she repeated. "Oh, Samson, did ye--?" She broke off, and covered her face with her hands. 

"No, Sally, " he told her. "I didn't have to. " He recited the day'soccurrences, and they sat together on the stile, until the moon hadsunk to the ridge top. 

 * * * * *

Captain Sidney Callomb, who had been despatched in command of amilitia company to quell the trouble in the mountains, should have beena soldier by profession. All his enthusiasms were martial. Hisprecision was military. His cool eye held a note of command which madeitself obeyed. He had a rare gift of handling men, which made themready to execute the impossible. But the elder Callomb had trained hisson to succeed him at the head of a railroad system, and the young manhad philosophically undertaken to satisfy his military ambitions withState Guard shoulder-straps. 

The deepest sorrow and mortification he had ever known was that whichcame to him when Tamarack Spicer, his prisoner of war and a man who hadbeen surrendered on the strength of his personal guarantee, had beenassassinated before his eyes. That the manner of this killing had beenso outrageously treacherous that it could hardly have been guardedagainst, failed to bring him solace. It had shown the inefficiency ofhis efforts, and had brought on a carnival of blood-letting, when hehad come here to safeguard against that danger. In some fashion, hemust make amends. He realized, too, and it rankled deeply, that his menwere not being genuinely used to serve the State, but as instruments ofthe Hollmans, and he had seen enough to distrust the Hollmans. Here, inHixon, he was seeing things from only one angle. He meant to learnsomething more impartial. 

Besides being on duty as an officer of militia, Callomb was aKentuckian, interested in the problems of his Commonwealth, and, whenhe went back, he knew that his cousin, who occupied the executivemansion at Frankfort, would be interested in his suggestions. TheGovernor had asked him to report his impressions, and he meant to formthem after analysis. 

So, smarting under his impotency, Captain Callomb came out of his tentone morning, and strolled across the curved bridge to the town proper. He knew that the Grand Jury was convening, and he meant to sit as aspectator in the court-house and study proceedings when they wereinstructed. 

But before he reached the court-house, where for a half-hour yet thecupola bell would not clang out its summons to veniremen and witnesses, he found fresh fuel for his wrath. 

He was not a popular man with these clansmen, though involuntarily hehad been useful in leading their victims to the slaughter. There was ascowl in his eyes that they did not like, and an arrogant hint of ironlaws in the livery he wore, which their instincts distrusted. 

Callomb saw without being told that over the town lay a sense ofportentous tidings. Faces were more sullen than usual. Men fell intoscowling knots and groups. A clerk at a store where he stopped fortobacco inquired as he made change:

"Heered the news, stranger?"

"What news?"

"This here 'Wildcat' Samson South come back yis-tiddy, an' lastevenin' towards sundown, Jesse Purvy an' Aaron Hollis was shot dead. "

For an instant, the soldier stood looking at the young clerk, his eyeskindling into a wrathful blaze. Then, he cursed under his breath. Atthe door, he turned on his heel:

"Where can Judge Smithers be found at this time of day?" he demanded. 

CHAPTER XXVII

The Honorable Asa Smithers was not the regular Judge of the Circuitwhich numbered Hixon among its county-seats. The elected incumbent wasill, and Smithers had been named as his pro-tem. Successor. Callombclimbed to the second story of the frame bank building, and poundedloudly on a door, which bore the boldly typed shingle:

"ASA SMITHERS, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. "

The temporary Judge admitted a visitor in uniform, whose countenancewas stormy with indignant protest. The Judge himself was placid andsmiling. The lawyer, who was for the time being exalted to the bench, hoped to ascend it more permanently by the votes of the Hollmanfaction, since only Hollman votes were counted. He was a young man ofpowerful physique with a face ruggedly strong and honest. 

It was such an honest and fearless face that it was extremely valuableto its owner in concealing a crookedness as resourceful as that of afox, and a moral cowardice which made him a spineless tool in evilhands. A shock of tumbled red hair over a fighting face added to theappearance of combative strength. The Honorable Asa was conventionallydressed, and his linen was white, but his collar was innocent of anecktie. Callomb stood for a moment inside the door, and, when hespoke, it was to demand crisply:

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"About what, Captain?" inquired the other, mildly. 

"Is it possible you haven't heard? Since yesterday noon, two moremurders have been added to the holocaust. You represent the courts oflaw. I represent the military arm of the State. Are we going to standby and see this go on?"

The Judge shook his head, and his visage was sternly thoughtful andhypocritical. He did not mention that he had just come from conferencewith the Hollman leaders. He did not explain that the venire he haddrawn from the jury drum had borne a singularly solid Hollman compaction. 

"Until the Grand Jury acts, I don't see that we can take any steps. "

"And, " stormed Captain Callomb, "the Grand Jury will, like formerGrand Juries, lie down in terror and inactivity. Either there are nocourageous men in your county, or these panels are selected to avoidincluding them. "

Judge Smithers' face darkened. If he was a moral coward, he was atleast a coward crouching behind a seeming of fearlessness. 

"Captain, " he said, coolly, but with a dangerous hint of warning, "Idon't see that your duties include contempt of court. "

"No!" Callomb was now thoroughly angered, and his voice rose. "I amsent down here subject to your orders, and it seems you are alsosubject to orders. Here are two murders in a day, capping a climax oftwenty years of bloodshed. You have information as to the arrival of aman known as a desperado with a grudge against the two dead men, yetyou know of no steps to take. Give me the word, and I'll go out andbring that man, and any others you name, to your bar of justice--if itis a bar of justice! For God's sake, give me something else to do thanto bring in prisoners to be shot down in cold blood. "

The Judge sat balancing a pencil on his extended forefinger as thoughit were a scale of justice. 

"You have been heated in your language, sir, " he said, sternly, "butit is a heat arising from an indignation which I share. Consequently, Ipass it over. I cannot instruct you to arrest Samson South before theGrand Jury has accused him. The law does not contemplate hasty orunadvised action. All men are innocent until proven guilty. If theGrand Jury wants South, I'll instruct you to go and get him. Untilthen, you may leave my part of the work to me. "

His Honor rose from his chair. 

"You can at least give this Grand Jury such instructions on murder aswill point out their duty. You can assure them that the militia willprotect them. Through your prosecutor, you can bring evidence to theirattention, you----"

"If you will excuse me, " interrupted His Honor, drily, "I'll judge ofhow I am to charge my Grand Jury. I have been in communication with thefamily of Mr. Purvy, and it is not their wish at the present time tobring this case before the panel. "

Callomb laughed ironically. 

"No, I could have told you that before you conferred with them. Icould have told you that they prefer to be their own courts andexecutioners, except where they need you. They also preferred to haveme get a man they couldn't take themselves, and then to assassinate himin my hands. Who in the hell do you work for, Judge-for-the-momentSmithers? Are you holding a job under the State of Kentucky, or underthe Hollman faction of this feud? I am instructed to take my ordersfrom you. Will you kindly tell me my master's real name?"

Smithers turned pale with anger, his fighting face grew as truculentas a bulldog's, while Callomb stood glaring back at him like a secondbulldog, but the Judge knew that he was being honestly and fearlesslyaccused. He merely pointed to the door. The Captain turned on his heel, and stalked out of the place, and the Judge came down the steps, andcrossed the street to the court-house. Five minutes later, he turned tothe shirt-sleeved man who was leaning on the bench, and said in hismost judicial voice:

"Mr. Sheriff, open court. "

The next day the mail-carrier brought in a note for the temporaryJudge. His Honor read it at recess, and hastened across to Hollman'sMammoth Department Store. There, in council with his masters, he askedinstructions. This was the note:

"THE HON. ASA SMITHERS. 

"SIR: I arrived in this county yesterday, and am prepared, if calledas a witness, to give to the Grand Jury full and true particulars ofthe murder of Jesse Purvy and the killing of Aaron Hollis. I am willingto come under escort of my own kinsmen, or of the militiamen, as theCourt may advise. 

"The requirement of any bodyguard, I deplore, but in meeting my legalobligations, I do not regard it as necessary or proper to walk into atrap. 

"Respectfully, SAMSON SOUTH. "

Smithers looked perplexedly at Judge Hollman. 

"Shall I have him come?" he inquired. 

Hollman threw the letter down on his desk with a burst of blasphemy:

"Have him come?" he echoed. "Hell and damnation, no! What do we wanthim to come here and spill the milk for? When we get ready, we'llindict him. Then, let your damned soldiers go after him--as a criminal, not a witness. After that, we'll continue this case until theseoutsiders go away, and we can operate to suit ourselves. We don't fallfor Samson South's tricks. No, sir; you never got that letter! Itmiscarried. Do you hear? You never got it. "

Smithers nodded grudging acquiescence. Most men would rather beindependent officials than collar-wearers. 

Out on Misery Samson South had gladdened the soul of his uncle withhis return. The old man was mending, and, for a long time, the two hadtalked. The failing head of the clan looked vainly for signs ofdegeneration in his nephew, and, failing to find them, was happy. 

"Hev ye decided, Samson, " he inquired, "thet ye was right in yernotion 'bout goin' away?"

Samson sat reflectively for a while, then replied:

"We were both right, Uncle Spicer--and both wrong. This is my place, but if I'm to take up the leadership it must be in a different fashion. Changes are coming. We can't any longer stand still. "

Spicer South lighted his pipe. He, too, in these last years, had seenin the distance the crest of the oncoming wave. He, too, recognizedthat, from within or without, there must be a regeneration. He did notwelcome it, but, if it must come, he preferred that it come not at thehands of conquerors, but under the leadership of his own blood. 

"I reckon there's right smart truth to that, " he acknowledged. "I'vebeen studyin' 'bout hit consid'able myself of late. Thar's been sev'ralfellers through the country talkin' coal an' timber an' railroads--an'sich like. "

Sally went to mill that Saturday, and with her rode Samson. There, besides Wile McCager, he met Caleb Wiley and several others. At first, they received him sceptically, but they knew of the visit to Purvy'sstore, and they were willing to admit that in part at least he haderased the blot from his escutcheon. Then, too, except for cropped hairand a white skin, he had come back as he had gone, in homespun andhickory. There was nothing highfalutin in his manners. In short, theimpression was good. 

"I reckon now that ye're back, Samson, " suggested McCager, "an' seein'how yore Uncle Spicer is gettin' along all right, I'll jest let the twoof ye run things. I've done had enough. " It was a simple fashion ofresigning a regency, but effectual. 

Old Caleb, however, still insurgent and unconvinced, brought in aminority report. 

"We wants fightin' men, " he grumbled, with the senile reiteration ofhis age, as he spat tobacco and beat a rat-tat on the mill floor withhis long hickory staff. "We don't want no deserters. "

"Samson ain't a deserter, " defended Sally. "There isn't one of you fitto tie his shoes. " Sally and old Spicer South alone knew of her lover'sletter to the Circuit Judge, and they were pledged to secrecy. 

"Never mind, Sally!" It was Samson himself who answered her. "I didn'tcome back because I care what men like old Caleb think. I came backbecause they needed me. The proof of a fighting man is his fighting, Ireckon. I'm willing to let 'em judge me by what I'm going to do. "

So, Samson slipped back, tentatively, at least, into his place as clanhead, though for a time he found it a post without action. After thefierce outburst of bloodshed, quiet had settled, and it was tacitlyunderstood that, unless the Hollman forces had some coup in mind whichthey were secreting, this peace would last until the soldiers werewithdrawn. 

"When the world's a-lookin', " commented Judge Hollman, "hit's a rightgood idea to crawl under a log--an' lay still. "

Purvy had been too famous a feudist to pass unsung. Reporters came asfar as Hixon, gathered there such news as the Hollmans chose to givethem, and went back to write lurid stories and description, fromhearsay, of the stockaded seat of tragedy. Nor did they overlook thedramatic coincidence of the return of "Wildcat" Samson South fromcivilization to savagery. They made no accusation, but they pointed aninference and a moral--as they thought. It was a sermon on the triumphof heredity over the advantages of environment. Adrienne read some ofthese saffron misrepresentations, and they distressed her. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, it came insistently to the ears of Captain Callomb thatsome plan was on foot, the intricacies of which he could not fathom, tomanufacture a case against a number of the Souths, quite apart fromtheir actual guilt, or likelihood of guilt. Once more, he would becalled upon to go out and drag in men too well fortified to be taken bythe posses and deputies of the Hollman civil machinery. At this news, he chafed bitterly, and, still rankling with a sense of shame at theloss of his first prisoner, he formed a plan of his own, which herevealed over his pipe to his First Lieutenant. 

"There's a nigger in the woodpile, Merriwether, " he said. "We aresimply being used to do the dirty work up here, and I'm going to do alittle probing of my own. I guess I'll turn the company over to you fora day or two. "

"What idiocy are you contemplating now?" inquired the second in command. 

"I'm going to ride over on Misery, and hear what the other side has tosay. I've usually noticed that one side of any story is pretty gooduntil the other's told. "

"You mean you are going to go over there where the Souths areintrenched, where every road is guarded?" The Lieutenant spokewrathfully and with violence. "Don't be an ass, Callomb. You went overthere once before, and took a man away--and he's dead. You owe them alife, and they collect their dues. You will be supported by no warrantof arrest, and can't take a sufficient detail to protect you. "

"No, " said Callomb, quietly; "I go on my own responsibility and I goby myself. "

"And, " stormed Merriwether, "you'll never come back. "

"I think, " smiled Callomb, "I'll get back. I owe an old man over therean apology, and I want to see this desperado at first hand. "

"It's sheer madness. I ought to take you down to this infernal crookof a Judge, and have you committed to a strait-jacket. "

"If, " said Callomb, "you are content to play the cats-paw to a bunchof assassins, I'm not. The mail-rider went out this morning, and hecarried a letter to old Spicer South. I told him that I was comingunescorted and unarmed, and that my object was to talk with him. Iasked him to give me a safe-conduct, at least until I reached hishouse, and stated my case. I treated him like an officer and agentleman, and, unless I'm a poor judge of men, he's going to treat methat way. "

The Lieutenant sought vainly to dissuade Callomb, but the next day theCaptain rode forth, unaccompanied. Curious stares followed him, andJudge Smithers turned narrowing and unpleasant eyes after him, but atthe point where the ridge separated the territory of the Hollmans fromthat of the Souths, he saw waiting in the road a mounted figure, sitting his horse straight, and clad in the rough habiliments of themountaineer. 

As Callomb rode up he saluted, and the mounted figure with perfectgravity and correctness returned that salute as one officer to another. The Captain was surprised. Where had this mountaineer with the steadyeyes and the clean-cut jaw learned the niceties of military etiquette?

"I am Captain Callomb of F Company, " said the officer. "I'm ridingover to Spicer South's house. Did you come to meet me?"

"To meet and guide you, " replied a pleasant voice. "My name is SamsonSouth. "

The militiaman stared. This man whose countenance was calmlythoughtful scarcely comported with the descriptions he had heard of the"Wildcat of the Mountains"; the man who had come home straight as astorm-petrel at the first note of tempest, and marked his coming withdouble murder. Callomb had been too busy to read newspapers of late. Hehad heard only that Samson had "been away. "

While he wondered, Samson went on:

"I'm glad you came. If it had been possible I would have come to you. "As he told of the letter he had written the Judge, volunteering topresent himself as a witness, the officer's wonder grew. 

"They said that you had been away, " suggested Callomb. "If it's not animpertinent question, what part of the mountains have you been visiting?"

Samson laughed. 

"Not any part of the mountains, " he said. "I've been living chiefly inNew York--and for a time in Paris. "

Callomb drew his horse to a dead halt. 

"In the name of God, " he incredulously asked, "what manner of man areyou?"

"I hope, " came the instant reply, "it may be summed up by saying thatI'm exactly the opposite of the man you've had described for you backthere at Hixon. "

"I knew it, " exclaimed the soldier, "I knew that I was being fed onlies! That's why I came. I wanted to get the straight of it, and I feltthat the solution lay over here. "

They rode the rest of the way in deep conversation. Samson outlinedhis ambitions for his people. He told, too, of the scene that had beenenacted at Purvy's store. Callomb listened with absorption, feelingthat the narrative bore axiomatic truth on its face. 

At last he inquired:

"Did you succeed up there--as a painter?"

"That's a long road, " Samson told him, "but I think I had a fairstart. I was getting commissions when I left. "

"Then, I am to understand"--the officer met the steady gray eyes andput the question like a cross-examiner bullying a witness--"I am tounderstand that you deliberately put behind you a career to come downhere and herd these fence-jumping sheep?"

"Hardly that, " deprecated the head of the Souths. "They sent for me--that's all. Of course, I had to come. "

"Why?"

"Because they had sent. They are my people. "

The officer leaned in his saddle. 

"South, " he said, "would you mind shaking hands with me? Some day, Iwant to brag about it to my grandchildren. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

Callomb spent the night at the house of Spicer South. He met andtalked with a number of the kinsmen, and, if he read in the eyes ofsome of them a smoldering and unforgiving remembrance of his unkeptpledge, at least they repressed all expression of censure. 

With Spicer South and Samson, the Captain talked long into the night. He made many jottings in a notebook. He, with Samson abetting him, pointed out to the older and more stubborn man the necessity of a newregime in the mountains, under which the individual could walk ingreater personal safety. As for the younger South, the officer felt, when he rode away the next morning, that he had discovered the one manwho combined with the courage and honesty that many of his clansmenshared the mental equipment and local influence to prove a constructiveleader. 

When he returned to the Bluegrass, he meant to have a long andunofficial talk with his relative, the Governor. 

He rode back to the ridge with a strong bodyguard. Upon this Samsonhad insisted. He had learned of Callomb's hasty and unwise denunciationof Smithers, and he knew that Smithers had lost no time in relating itto his masters. Callomb would be safe enough in Hollman country, because the faction which had called for troops could not afford to lethim be killed within their own precincts. But, if Callomb could be shotdown in his uniform, under circumstances which seemed to bear theearmarks of South authorship, it would arouse in the State at large atidal wave of resentment against the Souths, which they could neverhope to stem. And so, lest one of Hollman's hired assassins shouldsucceed in slipping across the ridge and waylaying him, Samsonconducted him to the frontier of the ridge. 

On reaching Hixon, Callomb apologized to Judge Smithers for his recentoutburst of temper. Now that he understood the hand that gentleman wasplaying, he wished to be strategic and in a position of seeming accord. He must match craft against craft. He did not intimate that he knew ofSamson's letter, and rather encouraged the idea that he had beenreceived on Misery with surly and grudging hospitality. 

Smithers, presuming that the Souths still burned with anger over theshooting of Tamarack, swallowed that bait, and was beguiled. 

The Grand Jury trooped each day to the court-house and transacted itsbusiness. The petty juries went and came, occupied with several minorhomicide cases. The Captain, from a chair, which Judge Smithers hadordered placed beside him on the bench, was looking on and intentlystudying. One morning, Smithers confided to him that in a day or twomore the Grand Jury would bring in a true bill against Samson South, charging him with murder. The officer did not show surprise. He merelynodded. 

"I suppose I'll be called on to go and get him?" "I'm afraid we'llhave to ask you to do that. " "What caused the change of heart? Ithought Purvy's people didn't want it done. " It was Callomb's firstallusion, except for his apology, to their former altercation. 

For an instant only, Smithers was a little confused. 

"To be quite frank with you, Callomb, " he said, "I got to thinkingover the matter in the light of your own viewpoint, and, after duedeliberation, I came to see that to the State at large it might bearthe same appearance. So, I had the Grand Jury take the matter up. Wemust stamp out such lawlessness as Samson South stands for. He is themore dangerous because he has brains. "

Callomb nodded, but, at noon, he slipped out on a pretense of sight-seeing, and rode by a somewhat circuitous route to the ridge. Atnightfall, he came to the house of the clan head. 

"South, " he said to Samson, when he had led him aside, "they didn'twant to hear what you had to tell the Grand Jury, but they are goingahead to indict you on manufactured evidence. "

Samson was for a moment thoughtful, then he nodded. 

"That's about what I was expecting. "

"Now, " went on Callomb, "we understand each other. We are working forthe same end, and, by God! I've had one experience in making arrests atthe order of that Court. I don't want it to happen again. "

"I suppose, " said Samson, "you know that while I am entirely willingto face any fair court of justice, I don't propose to walk into apacked jury, whose only object is to get me where I can be made waywith. Callomb, I hope we won't have to fight each other. What do yousuggest?"

"If the Court orders the militia to make an arrest, the militia has nooption. In the long run, resistance would only alienate the sympathy ofthe world at large. There is just one thing to be done, South. It's athing I don't like to suggest, and a thing which, if we were notfighting the devil with fire, it would be traitorous for me tosuggest. " He paused, then added emphatically: "When my detail arriveshere, which will probably be in three or four days, you must not behere. You must not be in any place where we can find you. "

For a little while, Samson looked at the other man with a slow smileof amusement, but soon it died, and his face grew hard and determined. 

"I'm obliged to you, Callomb, " he said, seriously. "It was more than Ihad the right to expect--this warning. I understand the cost of givingit. But it's no use. I can't cut and run. No, by God, you wouldn't doit! You can't ask me to do it. "

"By God, you can and will!" Callomb spoke with determination. "Thisisn't a time for quibbling. You've got work to do. We both have work todo. We can't stand on a matter of vainglorious pride, and let bigissues of humanity go to pot. We haven't the right to spend men's livesin fighting each other, when we are the only two men in thisentanglement who are in perfect accord--and honest. "

The mountaineer spent some minutes in silent self-debate. The workingof his face under the play of alternating doubt, resolution, hatred andinsurgency, told the militiaman what a struggle was progressing. Atlast, Samson's eyes cleared with an expression of discovered solution. 

"All right, Callomb, " he said, briefly, "you won't find me!" Hesmiled, as he added: "Make as thorough a search as your duty demands. It needn't be perfunctory or superficial. Every South cabin will standopen to you. I shall be extremely busy, to ends which you will approve. I can't tell you what I shall be doing, because to do that, I shouldhave to tell where I mean to be. "

In two days, the Grand Jury, with much secrecy, returned a true bill, and a day later a considerable detachment of infantry started on adusty hike up Misery. Furtive and inscrutable Hollman eyes along theway watched them from cabin-doors, and counted them. They meant also tocount them coming back, and they did not expect the totals to tally. 

 * * * * *

Back of an iron spiked fence, and a dusty sunburned lawn, the barrack-like facades of the old Administration Building and Kentucky StateCapitol frowned on the street and railroad track. About it, on twosides of the Kentucky River, sprawled the town of Frankfort; sleepy, more or less disheveled at the center, and stretching to shadedenvirons of Colonial houses set in lawns of rich bluegrass, amid theshade of forest trees. Circling the town in an embrace of quiet beautyrose the Kentucky River hills. 

Turning in to the gate of the State House enclosure, a man, who seemedto be an Easterner by the cut of his clothes, walked slowly up thebrick walk, and passed around the fountain at the front of the Capitol. He smiled to himself as his wandering eyes caught the distant walls androofs of the State Prison on the hillside. His steps carried him directto the main entrance of the Administration Building, and, having pauseda moment in the rotunda, he entered the Secretary's office of theExecutive suite, and asked for an interview with the Governor. TheSecretary, whose duties were in part playing Cerberus at thatthreshold, made his customary swift, though unobtrusive, survey of theapplicant for audience, and saw nothing to excite suspicion. 

"Have you an appointment?" he asked. 

The visitor shook his head. Scribbling a brief note on a slip ofpaper, he enclosed it in an envelope and handed it to his questioner. 

"You must pardon my seeming mysteriousness, " he said, "but, if youwill let me send in that note, I think the Governor will see me. "

Once more the Secretary studied his man with a slightly puzzled air, then nodded and went through the door that gave admission to theExecutive's office. 

His Excellency opened the envelope, and his face showed an expressionof surprise. He raised his brows questioningly. 

"Rough-looking sort?" he inquired. "Mountaineer?"

"No, sir. New Yorker would be my guess. Is there anything suspicious?"

"I guess not. " The Governor laughed. "Rather extraordinary note, butsend him in. "

Through his eastern window, the Governor gazed off across the hills ofSouth Frankfort, to the ribbon of river that came down from thetroublesome hills. Then, hearing a movement at his back, he turned, andhis eyes took in a well-dressed figure with confidence-inspiringfeatures. 

He picked up the slip from his desk, and, for a moment, stoodcomparing the name and the message with the man who had sent them in. There seemed to be in his mind some irreconcilable contradictionbetween the two. With a slightly frowning seriousness, the Executivesuggested:

"This note says that you are Samson South, and that you want to see mewith reference to a pardon. Whose pardon is it, Mr. South?"

"My own, sir. "

The Governor raised his brows, slightly. 

"Your pardon for what? The newspapers do not even report that you haveyet been indicted. " He shaded the word "yet" with a slight emphasis. 

"I think I have been indicted within the past day or two. I'm not suremyself. "

The Governor continued to stare. The impression he had formed of the"Wildcat" from press dispatches was warring with the pleasing personalpresence of this visitor. Then, his forehead wrinkled under his blackhair, and his lips drew themselves sternly. 

"You have come to me too soon, sir, " he said curtly. "The pardoningpower is a thing to be most cautiously used at all times, and certainlynever until the courts have acted. A case not yet adjudicated cannotaddress itself to executive clemency. "

Samson nodded. 

"Quite true, " he admitted. "If I announced that I had come on thematter of a pardon, it was largely that I had to state some businessand that seemed the briefest way of putting it. "

"Then, there is something else?"

"Yes. If it were only a plea for clemency, I should expect the matterto be chiefly important to myself. In point of fact, I hope to make itequally interesting to you. Whether you give me a pardon in a fashionwhich violates all precedent, or whether I surrender myself, and goback to a trial which will be merely a form of assassination, restsentirely with you, sir. You will not find me insistent. "

"If, " said the Governor, with a trace of warning in his voice, "yourpreamble is simply a device to pique my interest with its unheard-ofnovelty, I may as well confess that so far it has succeeded. "

"In that case, sir, " responded Samson, gravely, "I have scored apoint. If, when I am through, you find that I have been employing asubterfuge, I, fancy a touch of that bell under your finger will giveyou the means of summoning an officer. I am ready to turn myself over. "

Then, Samson launched into the story of his desires and the details ofconditions which outside influences had been powerless to remedy--because they were outside influences. Some man of sufficient vigor andcomprehension, acting from the center of disturbance, must be armedwith the power to undertake the housecleaning, and for a while must dowork that would not be pretty. As far as he was personally concerned, apardon after trial would be a matter of purely academic interest. Hecould not expect to survive a trial. He was at present able to hold theSouths in leash. If the Governor was not of that mind, he was now readyto surrender himself, and permit matters to take their course. 

"And now, Mr. South?" suggested the Governor, after a half-hour ofabsorbed listening. "There is one point you have overlooked. Since inthe end the whole thing comes back to the exercise of the pardoningpower, it is after all the crux of the situation. You may be able torender such services as those for which you volunteer. Let us for themoment assume that to be true. You have not yet told me a veryimportant thing. Did you or did you not kill Purvy and Hollis?"

"I killed Hollis, " said Samson, as though he were answering a questionas to the time of day, "and I did not kill Purvy. "

"Kindly, " suggested the Governor, "give me the full particulars ofthat affair. "

The two were still closeted, when a second visitor called, and wastold that his Excellency could not be disturbed. The second visitor, however, was so insistent that the secretary finally consented to takein the card. After a glance at it, his chief ordered admission. 

The door opened, and Captain Callomb entered. 

He was now in civilian clothes, with portentous news written on hisface. He paused in annoyance at the sight of a second figure standingwith back turned at the window. Then Samson wheeled, and the two menrecognized each other. They had met before only when one was in olivedrab; the other in jeans and butternut. At recognition, Callomb's facefell, and grew troubled. 

"You here, South!" he exclaimed. "I thought you promised me that Ishouldn't find you. God knows I didn't want to meet you. "

"Nor I you, " Samson spoke slowly. "I supposed you'd be raking thehills. "

Neither of them was for the moment paying the least attention to theGovernor, who stood quietly looking on. 

"I sent Merriwether out there, " explained Callomb, impatiently. "Iwanted to come here before it was too late. God knows, South, Iwouldn't have had this meeting occur for anything under heaven. Itleaves me no choice. You are indicted on two counts, each charging youwith murder. " The officer took a step toward the center of the room. His face was weary, and his eyes wore the deep disgust and fatigue thatcome from the necessity of performing a hard duty. 

"You are under arrest, " he added quietly, but his composure broke ashe stormed. "Now, by God, I've got to take you back and let them murderyou, and you're the one man who might have been useful to the State. "

CHAPTER XXIX

The Governor had been more influenced by watching the two as theytalked than by what he had heard. 

"It seems to me, gentlemen, " he suggested quietly, "that you are bothoverlooking my presence. " He turned to Callomb. 

"Your coming, Sid, unless it was prearranged between the two of you(which, since I know you, I know was not the case) has shed more lighton this matter than the testimony of a dozen witnesses. After all, I'mstill the Governor. "

The militiaman seemed to have forgotten the existence of hisdistinguished kinsman, and, at the voice, his eyes came away from theface of the man he had not wanted to capture, and he shook his head. 

"You are merely the head of the executive branch, " he said. "You areas helpless here as I am. Neither of us can interfere with the judicialgentry, though we may know that they stink to high heaven with thestench of blood. After a conviction, you can pardon, but a pardon won'thelp the dead. I don't see that you can do much of anything, Crit. "

"I don't know yet what I can do, but I can tell you I'm going to dosomething, " said the Governor. "You can just begin watching me. In themeantime, I believe I am Commander-in-Chief of the State troops. "

"And I am Captain of F Company, but all I can do is to obey the ordersof a bunch of Borgias. "

"As your superior officer, " smiled the Governor, "I can give youorders. I'm going to give you one now. Mr. South has applied to me fora pardon in advance of trial. Technically, I have the power to grantthat request. Morally, I doubt my right. Certainly, I shall not do itwithout a very thorough sifting of evidence and grave consideration ofthe necessities of the case--as well as the danger of the precedent. However, I am considering it, and for the present you will parole yourprisoner in my custody. Mr. South, you will not leave Frankfort withoutmy permission. You will take every precaution to conceal your actualidentity. You will treat as utterly confidential all that hastranspired here--and, above all, you will not let newspaper mendiscover you. Those are my orders. Report here tomorrow afternoon, andremember that you are my prisoner. "

Samson bowed, and left the two cousins together, where shortly theywere joined by the Attorney General. That evening, the three dined atthe executive mansion, and sat until midnight in the Governor's privateoffice, still deep in discussion. During the long session, Callombopened the bulky volume of the Kentucky Statutes, and laid his fingeron Section 2673. 

"There's the rub, " he protested, reading aloud: "'The military shallbe at all times, and in all cases, in strict subordination to the civilpower. '"

The Governor glanced down to the next paragraph, and read in part:"'The Governor may direct the commanding officer of the military forceto report to any one of the following-named officers of the district inwhich the said force is employed: Mayor of a city, sheriff, jailer ormarshal. '"

"Which list, " stormed Callomb, "is the honor roll of the assassins. "

"At all events"--the Governor had derived from Callomb muchinformation as to Samson South which the mountaineer himself hadmodestly withheld--"South gets his pardon. That is only a step. I wishI could make him satrap over his province, and provide him with troopsto rule it. Unfortunately, our form of government has its drawbacks. "

"It might be possible, " ventured the Attorney General, "to impeach theSheriff, and appoint this or some other suitable man to fill thevacancy until the next election. "

"The Legislature doesn't meet until next winter, " objected Callomb. "There is one chance. The Sheriff down there is a sick man. Let us hopehe may die. "

One day, the Hixon conclave met in the room over Hollman's MammothDepartment Store, and with much profanity read a communication fromFrankfort, announcing the pardon of Samson South. In that episode, theyforesaw the beginning of the end for their dynasty. The outside worldwas looking on, and their regime could not survive the spotlight of law-loving scrutiny. 

"The fust thing, " declared Judge Hollman, curtly, "is to get rid ofthese damned soldiers. We'll attend to our own business later, and wedon't want them watchin' us. Just now, we want to lie mighty quiet fora spell--teetotally quiet until I pass the word. "

Samson had won back the confidence of his tribe, and enlisted thefaith of the State administration. He had been authorized to organize alocal militia company, and to drill them, provided he could standanswerable for their conduct. The younger Souths took gleefully to thatidea. The mountain boy makes a good soldier, once he has grasped theidea of discipline. For ten weeks, they drilled daily in squads andweekly in platoons. Then, the fortuitous came to pass. Sheriff Forbindied, leaving behind him an unexpired term of two years, and Samson wassummoned hastily to Frankfort. He returned, bearing his commission asHigh Sheriff, though, when that news reached Hixon, there were few menwho envied him his post, and none who cared to bet that he would liveto take his oath of office. 

That August court day was a memorable one in Hixon. Samson South wascoming to town to take up his duties. Every one recognized it as theday of final issue, and one that could hardly pass without bloodshed. The Hollmans, standing in their last trench, saw only the bluntquestion of Hollman-South supremacy. For years, the feud had flared andslept and broken again into eruption, but never before had a Southsought to throw his outposts of power across the waters of Crippleshin, and into the county seat. That the present South came bearingcommission as an officer of the law only made his effrontery the moreunendurable. 

Samson had not called for outside troops. The drilling anddisciplining of his own company had progressed in silence along thewaters of Misery. They were a slouching, unmilitary band of uniformedvagabonds, but they were longing to fight, and Callomb had been withthem, tirelessly whipping them into rudimentary shape. After all, theywere as much partisans as they had been before they were issued Staterifles. The battle, if it came, would be as factional as the fight oftwenty-five years ago, when the Hollmans held the store and the Southsthe court-house. But back of all that lay one essential difference, andit was this difference that had urged the Governor to stretch the formsof law and put such dangerous power into the hands of one man. Thatdifference was the man himself. He was to take drastic steps, but hewas to take them under the forms of law, and the State Executivebelieved that, having gone through worse to better, he would maintainthe improved condition. 

Early that morning, men began to assemble along the streets of Hixon;and to congregate into sullen clumps with set faces that denoted agrim, unsmiling determination. Not only the Hollmans from the town andimmediate neighborhood were there, but their shaggier, fiercer brethrenfrom remote creeks and coves, who came only at urgent call, and did notcome without intent of vindicating their presence. Old Jake Hollman, from "over yon" on the headwaters of Dryhole Creek, brought his son andfourteen-year-old grandson, and all of them carried Winchesters. Longbefore the hour for the court-house bell to sound the call which wouldbring matters to a crisis, women disappeared from the streets, andfront shutters and doors closed themselves. At last, the Souths beganto ride in by half-dozens, and to hitch their horses at the racks. They, also, fell into groups well apart. The two factions eyed eachother somberly, sometimes nodding or exchanging greetings, for the timehad not yet come to fight. Slowly, however, the Hollmans begancentering about the court-house. They swarmed in the yard, and enteredthe empty jail, and overran the halls and offices of the buildingitself. They took their places massed at the windows. The Souths, nowcoming in a solid stream, flowed with equal unanimity to McEwer'sHotel, near the square, and disappeared inside. Besides their rifles, they carried saddlebags, but not one of the uniforms which some ofthese bags contained, nor one of the cartridge belts, had yet beenexposed to view. 

Stores opened, but only for a desultory pretense of business. Horsemenled their mounts away from the more public racks, and tethered them toback fences and willow branches in the shelter of the river banks, where stray bullets would not find them. 

The dawn that morning had still been gray when Samson South andCaptain Callomb had passed the Miller cabin. Callomb had ridden slowlyon around the turn of the road, and waited a quarter of a mile away. Hewas to command the militia that day, if the High Sheriff should callupon him. Samson went in and knocked, and instantly to the cabin doorcame Sally's slender, fluttering figure. She put both arms about him, and her eyes, as she looked into his face, were terrified, but tearless. 

"I'm frightened, Samson, " she whispered. "God knows I'm going to bepraying all this day. "

"Sally, " he said, softly, "I'm coming back to you--but, if I don't"--he held her very close--"Uncle Spicer has my will. The farm is full ofcoal, and days are coming when roads will take it out, and every ridgewill glow with coke furnaces. That farm will make you rich, if we winto-day's fight. "

"Don't!" she cried, with a sudden gasp. "Don't talk like that. "

"I must, " he said, gently. "I want you to make me a promise, Sally. "

"It's made, " she declared. 

"If, by any chance I should not come back, I want you to hold UncleSpicer and old Wile McCager to their pledge. They must not privatelyavenge me. They must still stand for the law. I want you, and this ismost important of all, to leave these mountains----"

Her hands tightened on his shoulders. 

"Not that, Samson, " she pleaded; "not these mountains where we've beentogether. "

"You promised. I want you to go to the Lescotts in New York. In ayear, you can come back--if you want to; but you must promise that. "

"I promise, " she reluctantly yielded. 

It was half-past nine o'clock when Samson South and Sidney Callombrode side by side into Hixon from the east. A dozen of the olderSouths, who had not become soldiers, met them there, and, with no word, separated to close about them in a circle of protection. As Callomb'seyes swept the almost deserted streets, so silent that the stridentswitching of a freight train could be heard down at the edge of town, he shook his head. As he met the sullen glances of the gathering in thecourt-house yard, he turned to Samson. 

"They'll fight, " he said, briefly. 

Samson nodded. 

"I don't understand the method, " demurred the officer, withperplexity. "Why don't they shoot you at once. What are they waitingfor?"

"They want to see, " Samson assured him, "what tack I mean to take. They want to let the thing play itself out, They're inquisitive--andthey're cautious, because now they are bucking the State and the world. "

Samson with his escort rode up to the court-house door, anddismounted. He was for the moment unarmed, and his men walked on eachside of him, while the onlooking Hollmans stood back in surly silenceto let him pass. In the office of the County Judge, Samson said briefly:

"I want to get my deputies sworn in. "

"We've got plenty deputy sheriffs, " was the quietly insolent rejoinder. 

"Not now--we haven't any. " Samson's voice was sharply incisive. "I'llname my own assistants. "

"What's the matter with these boys?" The County Judge waved his handtoward two hold-over deputies. 

"They're fired. "

The County Judge laughed. 

"Well, I reckon I can't attend to that right now. "

"Then, you refuse?"

"Mebby you might call it that. "

Samson leaned on the Judge's table, and rapped sharply with hisknuckles. His handful of men stood close, and Callomb caught hisbreath, in the heavy air of storm-freighted suspense. The Hollmanpartisans filled the room, and others were crowding to the doors. 

"I'm High Sheriff of this County now, " said Samson, sharply. "You areCounty Judge. Do we coöperate--or fight?"

"I reckon, " drawled the other, "that's a matter we'll work out as wegoes along. Depends on how obedient ye air. "

"I'm responsible for the peace and quiet of this County, " continuedSamson. "We're going to have peace and quiet. "

The Judge looked about him. The indications did not appear to himindicative of peace and quiet. 

"Air we?" he inquired. 

"I'm coming back here in a half-hour, " said the new Sheriff. "This isan unlawful and armed assembly. When I get back, I want to find thecourt-house occupied only by unarmed citizens who have business here. "

"When ye comes back, " suggested the County Judge, "I'd advise that yeresigns yore job. A half-hour is about es long as ye ought ter try terhold hit. "

Samson turned and walked through the scowling crowd to the court-housesteps. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, in a clear, far-carrying voice, "there is noneed of an armed congregation at this court-house. I call on you in thename of the law to lay aside your arms or scatter. "

There was murmur which for an instant threatened to become a roar, buttrailed into a chorus of derisive laughter. 

Samson went to the hotel, accompanied by Callomb. A half-hour later, the two were back at the court-house, with a half-dozen companions. Theyard was empty. Samson carried his father's rifle. In that half-hour atelegram, prepared in advance, had flashed to Frankfort. 

"Mob holds court-house--need troops. "

And a reply had flashed back:

"Use local company--Callomb commanding. " So that form of law was met. 

The court-house doors were closed, and its windows barricaded. Theplace was no longer a judicial building. It was a fortress. As Samson'sparty paused at the gate, a warning voice called:

"Don't come no nigher!"

The body-guard began dropping back to shelter. 

"I demand admission to the court-house to make arrests, " shouted thenew Sheriff. In answer, a spattering of rifle reports came from thejail windows. Two of the Souths fell. At a nod from Samson, Callombleft on a run for the hotel. The Sheriff himself took his position in asmall store across the street, which he reached unhurt under adesultory fire. 

Then, again, silence settled on the town, to remain for five minutesunbroken. The sun glared mercilessly on clay streets, now as empty as acemetery. A single horse incautiously hitched at the side of thecourthouse switched its tail against the assaults of the flies. Otherwise, there was no outward sign of life. Then, Callomb's newlyorganized force of ragamuffin soldiers clattered down the street atdouble time. For a moment or two after they came into sight, only themassed uniforms caught the eyes of the intrenched Hollmans, and analarmed murmur broke from the court-house. They had seen no troopsdetrain, or pitch camp. These men had sprung from the earth asstartlingly as Jason's crop of dragon's teeth. But, when the commandrounded the shoulder of a protecting wall to await further orders, theragged stride of their marching, and the all-too-obvious bearing of themountaineer proclaimed them native amateurs. The murmur turned to ahowl of derision and challenge. They were nothing more nor less thanSouth, masquerading in the uniforms of soldiers. 

"What orders?" inquired Callomb briefly, joining Samson in the store. 

"Demand surrender once more--then take the courthouse and jail, " wasthe short reply. 

There was little conversation in the ranks of the new company, buttheir faces grew black as they listened to the jeers and insults acrossthe way, and they greedily fingered their freshly issued rifles. Theywould be ready when the command of execution came. Callomb himself wentforward with the flag of truce. He shouted his message, and a beardedman came to the court-house door. 

"Tell 'em, " he said without redundancy, "thet we're all here. Come an'git us. "

The officer went back, and distributed his forces under such cover asoffered itself, about the four walls. Then, a volley was fired over theroof, and instantly the two buildings in the public square awoke to avolcanic response of rifle fire. 

All day, the duel between the streets and county buildings went onwith desultory intervals of quiet and wild outbursts of musketry. Thetroops were firing as sharpshooters, and the court-house, too, had itssharpshooters. When a head showed itself at a barricaded window, areport from the outside greeted it. Samson was everywhere, his riflesmoking and hot-barreled. His life seemed protected by a talisman. Yet, most of the firing, after the first hour, was from within. The troopswere, except for occasional pot shots, holding their fire. There wasneither food nor water inside the building, and at last night closedand the cordon drew tighter to prevent escape. The Hollmans, like ratsin a trap, grimly held on, realizing that it was to be a siege. On thefollowing morning, a detachment of F Company arrived, dragging twogatling guns. The Hollmans saw them detraining, from their lookout inthe courthouse cupola, and, realizing that the end had come, resolvedupon a desperate sortie. Simultaneously, every door and lower window ofthe court-house burst open to discharge a frenzied rush of men, firingas they came. They meant to eat their way out and leave as many hostiledead as possible in their wake. Their one chance now was to scatterbefore the machine-guns came into action. They came like a flood ofhuman lava, and their guns were never silent, as they bore down on thebarricades, where the single outnumbered company seemed insufficient tohold them. But the new militiamen, looking for reassurance not so muchto Callomb as to the granite-like face of Samson South, rallied, androse with a yell to meet them on bayonet and smoking muzzle. The rushwavered, fell back, desperately rallied, then broke in scatteredremnants for the shelter of the building. 

Old Jake Hollman fell near the door, and his grandson, rushing out, picked up his fallen rifle, and sent farewell defiance from it, as he, too, threw up both arms and dropped. 

Then, a white flag wavered at a window, and, as the newly arrivedtroops halted in the street, the noise died suddenly to quiet. Samsonwent out to meet a man who opened the door, and said shortly:

"We lays down. "

Judge Hollman, who had not participated, turned from the slit in hisshuttered window, through which he had since the beginning beenwatching the conflict. 

"That ends it!" he said, with a despairing shrug of his shoulders. Hepicked up a magazine pistol which lay on his table, and, carefullycounting down his chest to the fifth rib, placed the muzzle against hisbreast. 

CHAPTER XXX

Before the mountain roads were mired with the coming of the rains, andwhile the air held its sparkle of autumnal zestfulness, Samson Southwrote to Wilfred Horton that, if he still meant to come to the hillsfor his inspection of coal and timber, the time was ripe. Soon, menwould appear bearing transit and chain, drawing a line which a railroadwas to follow to Misery and across it to the heart of untouched forestsand coal-fields. With that wave of innovation would come thespeculators. Besides, Samson's fingers were itching to be out in thehills with a palette and a sheaf of brushes in the society of GeorgeLescott. 

For a while after the battle at Hixon, the county had lain in a torpidparalysis of dread. Many illiterate feudists on each side rememberedthe directing and exposed figure of Samson South seen through eddies ofgun smoke, and believed him immune from death. With Purvy dead andHollman the victim of his own hand, the backbone of the murdersyndicate was broken. Its heart had ceased to beat. Those Hollmansurvivors who bore the potentialities for leadership had not onlysigned pledges of peace, but were afraid to break them; and thetriumphant Souths, instead of vaunting their victory, had subscribed tothe doctrine of order, and declared the war over. Souths who broke thelaw were as speedily arrested as Hollmans. Their boys were drilling asmilitiamen, and--wonder of wonders!--inviting the sons of the enemy tojoin them. Of course, these things changed gradually, but thebeginnings of them were most noticeable in the first few months, justas a newly painted and renovated house is more conspicuous than onethat has been long respectable. 

Hollman's Mammoth Department Store passed into new hands, andtrafficked only in merchandise, and the town was open to the men andwomen of Misery as well as those of Crippleshin. 

These things Samson had explained in his letters to the Lescotts andHorton. Men from down below could still find trouble in the wink of aneye, by seeking it, for under all transformation the nature of theindividual remained much the same; but, without seeking to giveoffense, they could ride as securely through the hills as through thestreets of a policed city--and meet a readier hospitality. 

And, when these things were discussed and the two men prepared tocross the Mason-and-Dixon line and visit the Cumberlands, Adriennepromptly and definitely announced that she would accompany her brother. No argument was effective to dissuade her, and after all Lescott, whohad been there, saw no good reason why she should not go with him. Hehad brought Samson North. He had made a hazardous experiment whichsubsequent events had more than vindicated, and yet, in one respect, hefeared that there had been failure. He had promised Sally that herlover would return to her with undeflected loyalty. Had he done so?Lescott had been glad that his sister should have undertaken the partof Samson's molding, which only a woman's hand could accomplish, and hehad been glad of the strong friendship that had grown between them. But, if that friendship had come to mean something more sentimental, his experiment had been successful at the cost of unsuccess. He hadsaid little, but watched much, and he had known that, after receiving acertain letter from Samson South, his sister had seemed strangely quietand distressed. These four young persons had snarled their lives inperplexity. They could definitely find themselves and permanentlyadjust themselves, only by meeting on common ground. Perhaps, Samsonhad shone in an exaggerated high-light of fascination by the strongcontrast into which New York had thrown him. Wilfred Horton had theright to be seen also in contrast with mountain life, and then onlycould the girl decide for all time and irrevocably. The painter learnssomething of confused values. 

Horton himself had seen small reason for a growth of hope in thesemonths, but he, like Lescott, felt that the matter must come to issue, and he was not of that type which shrinks from putting to the touch aquestion of vital consequence. He knew that her happiness as well ashis own was in the balance. He was not embittered or deluded, as anarrower man might have been, into the fallacy that her treatment ofhim denoted fickleness. Adrienne was merely running the boundary linethat separates deep friendship from love, a boundary which is oftenconfusing. When she had finally staked out the disputed frontier, itwould never again be questioned. But on which side he would findhimself, he did not know. 

At Hixon, they found that deceptive air of serenity which made thehistory of less than three months ago seem paradoxical andfantastically unreal. Only about the court-house square where numeroussmall holes in frame walls told of fusillades, and in the interior ofthe building itself where the woodwork was scarred and torn, and theplaster freshly patched, did they find grimly reminiscent evidence. 

Samson had not met them at the town, because he wished their firstimpressions of his people to reach them uninfluenced by his escort. Itwas a form of the mountain pride--an honest resolve to soften nothing, and make no apologies. But they found arrangements made for horses andsaddlebags, and the girl discovered that for her had been provided amount as evenly gaited as any in her own stables. 

When she and her two companions came out to the hotel porch to start, they found a guide waiting, who said he was instructed to take them asfar as the ridge, where the Sheriff himself would be waiting, and thecavalcade struck into the hills. Men at whose houses they paused to aska dipper of water, or to make an inquiry, gravely advised that they"had better light, and stay all night. " In the coloring forests, squirrels scampered and scurried out of sight, and here and there onthe tall slopes they saw shy-looking children regarding them withinquisitive eyes. 

The guide led them silently, gazing in frank amazement, thoughdeferential politeness, at this girl in corduroys, who rode cross-saddle, and rode so well. Yet, it was evident that he would havepreferred talking had not diffidence restrained him. He was a young manand rather handsome in a shaggy, unkempt way. Across one cheek ran along scar still red, and the girl, looking into his clear, intelligenteyes, wondered what that scar stood for. Adrienne had the power ofmelting masculine diffidence, and her smile as she rode at his side, and asked, "What is your name?" brought an answering smile to his grimlips. 

"Joe Hollman, ma'am, " he answered; and the girl gave an involuntarystart. The two men who caught the name closed up the gap between thehorses, with suddenly piqued interest. 

"Hollman!" exclaimed the girl. "Then, you--" She stopped and flushed. "I beg your pardon, " she said, quickly. 

"That's all right, " reassured the man. "I know what ye're a-thinkin', but I hain't takin' no offense. The High Sheriff sent me over. I'm oneof his deputies. "

"Were you"--she paused, and added rather timidly--"were you in thecourt-house?"

He nodded, and with a brown forefinger traced the scar on his cheek. 

"Samson South done that thar with his rifle-gun, " he enlightened. "He's a funny sort of feller, is Samson South. "

"How?" she asked. 

"Wall, he licked us, an' he licked us so plumb damn hard we wasskeered ter fight ag'in, an' then, 'stid of tramplin' on us, he turnedright 'round, an' made me a deputy. My brother's a corporal in thishyar newfangled milishy. I reckon this time the peace is goin' terlast. Hit's a mighty funny way ter act, but 'pears like it works allright. "

Then, at the ridge, the girl's heart gave a sudden bound, for there atthe highest point, where the road went up and dipped again, waited themounted figure of Samson South, and, as they came into sight, he wavedhis felt hat, and rode down to meet them. 

"Greetings!" he shouted. Then, as he leaned over and took Adrienne'shand, he added: "The Goops send you their welcome. " His smile wasunchanged, but the girl noted that his hair had again grown long. 

Finally, as the sun was setting, they reached a roadside cabin, andthe mountaineer said briefly to the other men:

"You fellows ride on. I want Drennie to stop with me a moment. We'lljoin you later. "

Lescott nodded. He remembered the cabin of the Widow Miller, andHorton rode with him, albeit grudgingly. 

Adrienne sprang lightly to the ground, laughingly rejecting Samson'sassistance, and came with him to the top of a stile, from which hepointed to the log cabin, set back in its small yard, wherein geese andchickens picked industriously about in the sandy earth. 

A huge poplar and a great oak nodded to each other at either side ofthe door, and over the walls a clambering profusion of honeysuckle vinecontended with a mass of wild grape, in joint effort to hide the whitechinking between the dark logs. From the crude milk-benches to thesweep of the well, every note was one of neatness and rustic charm. Slowly, he said, looking straight into her eyes:

"This is Sally's cabin, Drennie. "

He watched her expression, and her lips curved up in the samesweetness of smile that had first captivated and helped to mold him. 

"It's lovely!" she cried, with frank delight. "It's a picture. "

"Wait!" he commanded. Then, turning toward the house, he sent out thelong, peculiarly mournful call of the whippoorwill, and, at the signal, the door opened, and on the threshold Adrienne saw a slender figure. She had called the cabin with its shaded dooryard a picture, but nowshe knew she had been wrong. It was only a background. It was the girlherself who made and completed the picture. She stood there in the wildsimplicity that artists seek vainly to reproduce in posed figures. Herred calico dress was patched, but fell in graceful lines to her slimbare ankles, though the first faint frosts had already fallen. 

Her red-brown hair hung loose and in masses about the oval of a facein which the half-parted lips were dashes of scarlet, and the eyeslarge violet pools. She stood with her little chin tilted in a half-wild attitude of reconnoiter, as a fawn might have stood. One brown armand hand rested on the door frame, and, as she saw the other woman, shecolored adorably. 

Adrienne thought she had never seen so instinctively and unaffectedlylovely a face or figure. Then the girl came down the steps and rantoward them. 

"Drennie, " said the man, "this is Sally. I want you two to love eachother. " For an instant, Adrienne Lescott stood looking at the mountaingirl, and then she opened both her arms. 

"Sally, " she cried, "you adorable child, I do love you!"

The girl in the calico dress raised her face, and her eyes wereglistening. 

"I'm obleeged ter ye, " she faltered. Then, with open and wonderingadmiration she stood gazing at the first "fine lady" upon whom herglance had ever fallen. 

Samson went over and took Sally's hand. 

"Drennie, " he said, softly, "is there anything the matter with her?"

Adrienne Lescott shook her head. 

"I understand, " she said. 

"I sent the others on, " he went on quietly, "because I wanted thatfirst we three should meet alone. George and Wilfred are going to stopat my uncle's house, but, unless you'd rather have it otherwise, Sallywants you here. "

"Do I stop now?" the girl asked. 

But the man shook his head. 

"I want you to meet my other people first. "

As they rode at a walk along the little shred of road left to them, the man turned gravely. 

"Drennie, " he began, "she waited for me, all those years. What I washelped to do by such splendid friends as you and your brother andWilfred, she was back here trying to do for herself. I told you backthere the night before I left that I was afraid to let myself questionmy feelings toward you. Do you remember?"

She met his eyes, and her own eyes were frankly smiling. 

"You were very complimentary, Samson, " she told him. "I warned youthen that it was the moon talking. "

"No, " he said firmly, "it was not the moon. I have since then met thatfear, and analyzed it. My feeling for you is the best that a man canhave, the honest worship of friendship. And, " he added, "I haveanalyzed your feeling for me, too, and, thank God! I have that samefriendship from you. Haven't I?"

For a moment, she only nodded; but her eyes were bent on the roadahead of her. The man waited in tense silence. Then, she raised herface, and it was a face that smiled with the serenity of one who haswakened out of a troubled dream. 

"You will always have that, Samson, dear, " she assured him. 

"Have I enough of it, to ask you to do for her what you did for me? Totake her and teach her the things she has the right to know?"

"I'd love it, " she cried. And then she smiled, as she added: "She willbe much easier to teach. She won't be so stupid, and one of the thingsI shall teach her"--she paused, and added whimsically--"will be to makeyou cut your hair again. "

But, just before they drew up at the house of old Spicer South, shesaid:

"I might as well make a clean breast of it, Samson, and give my vanitythe punishment it deserves. You had me in deep doubt. "

"About what?"

"About--well, about us. I wasn't quite sure that I wanted Sally tohave you--that I didn't need you myself. I've been a shameful littlecat to Wilfred. "

"But now--?" The Kentuckian broke off. 

"Now, I know that my friendship for you and my love for him have bothhad their acid test--and I am happier than I've ever been before. I'mglad we've been through it. There are no doubts ahead. I've got youboth. "

"About him, " said Samson, thoughtfully. "May I tell you somethingwhich, although it's a thing in your own heart, you have never quiteknown?"

She nodded, and he went on. 

"The thing which you call fascination in me was really just a proxy, Drennie. You were liking qualities in me that were really hisqualities. Just because you had known him only in gentle guise, hisfinish blinded you to his courage. Because he could turn 'to woman theheart of a woman, ' you failed to see that under it was the 'iron andfire. ' You thought you saw those qualities in me, because I wore mybark as shaggy as that scaling hickory over there. When he was gettinganonymous threats of death every morning, he didn't mention them toyou. He talked of teas and dances. I know his danger was real, becausethey tried to have me kill him--and if I'd been the man they took mefor, I reckon I'd have done it. I was mad to my marrow that night--fora minute. I don't hold a brief for Wilfred, but I know that you likedme first for qualities which he has as strongly as I--and morestrongly. He's a braver man than I, because, though raised to gentlethings, when you ordered him into the fight, he was there. He neverturned back, or flickered. I was raised on raw meat and gunpowder, buthe went in without training. "

The girl's eyes grew grave and thoughtful, and for the rest of the wayshe rode in silence. 

There were transformations, too, in the house of Spicer South. Windowshad been cut, and lamps adopted. It was no longer so crudely a pioneerabode. While they waited for dinner, a girl lightly crossed the stile, and came up to the house. Adrienne met her at the door, while Samsonand Horton stood back, waiting. Suddenly, Miss Lescott halted andregarded the newcomer in surprise. It was the same girl she had seen, yet a different girl. Her hair no longer fell in tangled masses. Herfeet were no longer bare. Her dress, though simple, was charming, and, when she spoke, her English had dropped its half-illiteratepeculiarities, though the voice still held its bird-like melody. 

"Oh, Samson, " cried Adrienne, "you two have been deceiving me! Sally, you were making up, dressing the part back there, and letting mepatronize you. "

Sally's laughter broke from her throat in a musical peal, but it stillheld the note of shyness, and it was Samson who spoke. 

"I made the others ride on, and I got Sally to meet you just as shewas when I left her to go East. " He spoke with a touch of themountaineer's over-sensitive pride. "I wanted you first to see mypeople, not as they are going to be, but as they were. I wanted you toknow how proud I am of them--just that way. "

That evening, the four of them walked together over to the cabin ofthe Widow Miller. At the stile, Adrienne Lescott turned to the girl, and said:

"I suppose this place is preempted. I'm going to take Wilfred downthere by the creek, and leave you two alone. "

Sally protested with mountain hospitality, but even under the moon sheonce more colored adorably. 

Adrienne turned up the collar of her sweater around her throat, and, when she and the man who had waited, stood leaning on the rail of thefootbridge, she laid a hand on his arm. 

"Has the water flowed by my mill, Wilfred?" she asked. 

"What do you mean?" His voice trembled. 

"Will you have anything to ask me when Christmas comes?"

"If I can wait that long, Drennie, " he told her. 

"Don't wait, dear, " she suddenly exclaimed, turning toward him, andraising eyes that held his answer. "Ask me now!"

But the question which he asked was one that his lips smothered as hepressed them against her own. 

Back where the poplar threw its sooty shadow on the road, two figuressat close together on the top of a stile, talking happily in whispers. A girl raised her face, and the moon shone on the deepness of her eyes, as her lips curved in a trembling smile. 

"You've come back, Samson, " she said in a low voice, "but, if I'dknown how lovely she was, I'd have given up hoping. I don't see whatmade you come. "

Her voice dropped again into the tender cadence of dialect. 

"I couldn't live withouten ye, Samson. I jest couldn't do hit. " Wouldhe remember when she had said that before?

"I reckon, Sally, " he promptly told her, "I couldn't live withouten_you, _ neither. " Then, he added, fervently, "I'm plumb dead shoreI couldn't. "

THE END