Call of the Cumberlands | Page 8

conversation he had heard, until he
had assembled a sort of mental jig-saw puzzle.
The South-Hollman feud had been mentioned by the more talkative of
his informers, and carefully tabooed by others--notable among them his
host of last night. It now dawned on him that he was crossing the
boundary and coming as the late guest of a Hollman to ask the
hospitality of a South.
"I didn't know whose house it was," he hastened to explain, "until I was
benighted, and asked for lodging. They were very kind to me. I'd never
seen them before. I'm a stranger hereabouts."
Samson only nodded. If the explanation failed to satisfy him, it at least
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, then
he turned dubiously.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," he ventured, "but I have a paint box and
some materials up there. If you'll bring them down here, I'll show you
how to pack the easel, and, by the way," he anxiously added, "please
handle 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 halted before the
sketch with a face that slowly softened to an expression of amazed
admiration. Finally, he took up the square of academy board with a

tender care of which his rough hands would have seemed incapable,
and stood stock still, presenting an anomalous figure in his rough
clothes as his eyes grew almost idolatrous. Then, he brought the
landscape over to its creator, and, though no word was spoken, there
flashed between the eyes of the artist, whose signature gave to a canvas
the value of a precious stone and the jeans-clad boy whose destiny was
that of the vendetta, a subtle, wordless message. It was the countersign
of brothers-in-blood who recognize in each other the bond of a mutual
passion.
The boy and the girl, under Lescott's direction, packed the outfit, and
stored the canvas in the protecting top of the box. Then, while Sally
turned and strode down creek in search of Lescott's lost mount, the two
men rode up stream in silence. Finally. Samson spoke slowly and
diffidently.
"Stranger," he ventured, "ef hit hain't askin' too much, will ye let me
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
the ridge, the evening star showed in a lonely point of pallor. The peaks,
which in a broader light had held their majestic distances, seemed with
the falling of night to draw in and huddle close in crowding herds of
black masses. The distant tinkling of a cow-bell came drifting down the
breeze with a weird and fanciful softness.
"We're nigh home now," said Samson at the end of some minutes' silent
plodding. "Hit's right beyond thet thar bend."
Then, they rounded a point of timber, and came upon a small party of
men whose attitudes even in the dimming light conveyed a subtle
suggestion of portent. Some sat their horses, with one leg thrown across

the pommel. Others stood in the road, and a bottle of white liquor was
passing in and out among them. At the distance they recognized the
gray mule, though even the fact that it carried a double burden was not
yet manifest.
"Thet you, Samson?" called an old man's voice, which was still very
deep 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--had
joined their number.
"Evenin', stranger," they greeted him, gravely; then again they fell
silent, and in their silence was evident constraint.
"This hyar man's a furriner," announced Samson, briefly. "He fell offen
a rock, an' got hurt. I 'lowed I'd fotch him home ter stay all night."
The elderly man who had hailed the boy nodded, but with an evident
annoyance. It seemed that to him the others deferred as to a
commanding officer. The cortege remounted and rode slowly toward
the house. At last, 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, but
deep gravity. "We've been powerful oneasy erbout ye. Hev ye heered
the news?"
"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