Yet, when Samson that evening gave his whippoorwill call at the Widow
Miller's cabin, he found a dejected and miserable girl sitting on the
stile, with her chin propped in her two hands and her eyes full of
somberness and foreboding.
"What's the matter, Sally?" questioned he, anxiously. "Hes that low-down
Tamarack Spicer been round here tellin' ye some more stories ter pester
ye?"
She shook her head in silence. Usually, she bore the brunt of their
conversations, Samson merely agreeing with, or overruling, her in
lordly brevities. The boy climbed up and sat beside her.
"Thar's a-goin' ter be a dancin' party over ter Wile McCager's mill
come Saturday," he insinuatingly suggested. "I reckon ye'll go over
thar with me, won't ye, Sally?"
He waited for her usual delighted assent, but Sally only told him
absently and without enthusiasm that she would "study about it." At
last, however, her restraint broke, and, looking up, she abruptly
demanded:
"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 a
rising moon. The katydids were prophesying with strident music the six
weeks' 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 'lowed
as how ye had a right ter go down thar, an' git an eddication." She
made a weary gesture toward the great beyond.
"He hadn't ought to of told ye, Sally. If I'd been plumb sartin in my
mind, 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 his
masculine 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's
top tightened and gripped hard. The moonlit landscape seemed to whirl
in a dizzy circle. Her face did not betray her, nor her voice, though
she had to gulp down a rising lump in her throat before she could
answer calmly.
"I thinks ye had ought ter go, Samson."
The boy was astonished. He had avoided the subject for fear of her
opposition--and tears.
Then, slowly, she went on as though repeating a lesson painstakingly
conned:
"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'll
see lots of gals thet kin read an' write, gals dressed up in all kinds
of fancy fixin's." Her glib words ran out and ended in a sort of inward
gasp.
Compliment came hardly and awkwardly to Samson's lips. He reached for
the girl's hand, and whispered:
"I reckon I won't see no gals thet's as purty as you be, Sally. I
reckon 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-aching
possibilities of a woman's intuitions.
"Samson," she said, "I hain't askin' ye ter make me no promises. When
ye sees them other gals--gals thet kin read an' write--I reckon mebby
ye'll think diff'rent. I can't hardly spell out printin' in the fust
reader."
Her lover's voice was scornful of the imagined dangers, as a recruit
may be of the battle terrors--before he has been under fire. He slipped
his 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. "When
ye 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--"but
God knows I'm a-goin' ter be hopin'!"
"Sally!" The boy rose, and paced up and down in the road. "Air ye
goin' ter be ag'inst me, too? Don't ye see that I wants ter have a
chanst? 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 do
hit."
He stood there in the road looking down at her and the twisted smile
that lifted only one corner of her lips, while the other drooped. The
moonlight caught her eyes; eyes that were trying, like the lips, to
smile, but that were really looking away into the future, which she saw
stripped of companionship and love, and gray with the ashiness of
wretched desolation. And, while he was seeing the light of the
simulated cheeriness die out in her face, she was seeing the strange,
exalted glow, of which she was more than half-afraid, kindle in his
pupils. It was as though she were giving up the living fire out of her
own heart to set ablaze the ambition and anticipation in his own.
That glow in Samson's eyes she feared and shrank from, as she might
have flinched before the blaze of insanity. It was a thing which her
mountain superstition could not understand, a thing not wholly normal;
a manifestation that came to the stoic face and transformed it, when
the eyes of the brain and heart were seeing things which she herself
could not see. It was the proclamation of the part of Samson which she
could not comprehend, as though he were looking into a spirit world of
weird and abnormal things. It was the light of an enthusiasm such as
his love for her could not bring to his eyes--and it told her that the
strongest and deepest part of Samson did not belong to her. Now, as the
young man stood there before her, and her little world of hope and
happiness seemed crumbling into ruins, and she was steeling her soul to
sacrifice herself and let him go, he was thinking, not of what it was
costing her in heart-break, but seeing visions of all the great world
held for him beyond the barriers of the mountains. The light in his
eyes seemed to flaunt the victory of the enthusiasms that had nothing
to do with her.
Samson came forward, and held out his arms. But Sally drew away with a
little shudder, and crouched at the end of the stile.
"What's ther matter, Sally?" he demanded in surprise, and, as he bent
toward her, his eyes lost the strange light she feared, and she laughed
a 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 boy
was obstinate in his determination to remain; at other times, he gave
way to the yearnings for change and opportunity. But the lure of the
palette and brush possessed him beyond resistance and his taciturnity
melted, when in the painter's company, to a roughly poetic form of
expression.
"Thet sunrise," he announced one morning, setting down his milk-pail
to gaze at the east, "is jest like the sparkle in a gal's eyes when
she's tickled at somethin' ye've said about her. An,' when the sun
sets, hit's like the whole world was a woman blushin'."
The dance on Saturday was to be something more portentous than a mere
frolic. It would be a clan gathering to which the South adherents would
come riding up and down Misery and its tributaries from "nigh abouts"
and "over yon." From forenoon until after midnight, shuffle, jig and
fiddling would hold high, if rough, carnival. But, while the younger
folk abandoned themselves to these diversions, the grayer heads would
gather in more serious conclave. Jesse Purvy had once more beaten back
death, and his mind had probably been devising, during those bed-ridden
days and nights, plans of reprisal. According to current report, Purvy
had announced that his would-be assassin dwelt on Misery, and was
"marked down." So, there were obvious exigencies which the Souths must
prepare to meet. In particular, the clan must thrash out to definite
understanding the demoralizing report that Samson South, their logical
leader, meant to abandon them, at a crisis when war-clouds were
thickening.
The painter had finally resolved to cut the Gordian knot, and leave
the mountains. He had trained on Samson to the last piece all his
artillery of argument. The case was now submitted with the suggestion
that the boy take three months to consider, and that, if he decided
affirmatively, he should notify Lescott in advance of his coming. He
proposed 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 the
dance, since he was curious to observe what pressure was brought to
bear on the boy, and to have himself a final word of argument after the
kinsmen had spoken.
Saturday morning came after a night of torrential rain, which had left
the mountains steaming under a reek of fog and pitching clouds.
Hillside streams ran freshets, and creek-bed roads were foaming and
boiling into waterfalls. Sheep and cattle huddled forlornly under their
shelters of shelving rock, and only the geese seemed happy.
Far down the dripping shoulders of the mountains trailed ragged
streamers of vapor. Here and there along the lower slopes hung puffs of
smoky mist as though silent shells were bursting from unseen artillery
over a vast theater of combat.
But, as the morning wore on, the sun fought its way to view in a scrap
of overhead blue. A freshening breeze plunged into the reek, and sent
it scurrying in broken cloud ranks and shredded tatters. The steamy
heat gave way under a dissipating sweep of coolness, until the skies
smiled down on the hills and the hills smiled back. From log cabins and
plank houses up and down Misery and its tributaries, men and women
began their hegira toward the mill. Some came on foot, carrying their
shoes in their hands, but those were only near-by dwellers. Others made
saddle journeys of ten or fifteen, or even twenty, miles, and the
beasts that carried a single burden were few. Lescott rode in the wake
of Samson, who had Sally on a pillow at his back, and along the seven
miles of journey he studied the strange procession. It was, for the
most part, a solemn cavalcade, for these are folk who "take their
pleasures sadly." Possibly, some of the sun-bonneted, strangely-garbed
women were reflecting on the possibilities which mountain-dances often
develop into tragic actualities. Possibly, others were having their
enjoyment discounted by the necessity of "dressing up" and wearing shoes.
Sometimes, a slowly ambling mule bore an entire family; the father
managing the reins with one hand and holding a baby with the other,
while his rifle lay balanced across his pommel and his wife sat
solemnly behind him on a sheepskin or pillion. Many of the men rode
side-saddles, and sacks bulky at each end hinted of such baggage as is
carried in jugs. Lescott realized from the frank curiosity with which
he was regarded that he had been a topic of discussion, and that he was
now being "sized up." He was the false prophet who was weaving a spell
over Samson! Once, he heard a sneering voice from the wayside comment
as he rode by.
"He looks like a damned parson."
Glancing back, he saw a tow-headed youth glowering at him out of
pinkish albino eyes. The way lay in part along the creek-bed, where
wagons had ground the disintegrating rock into deep ruts as smooth as
walls of concrete. Then, it traversed a country of palisading cliffs
and immensity of forest, park-like and splendid. Strangely picturesque
suspension bridges with rough stairways at their ends spanned waters
too deep for fording. Frame houses showed along the banks of the creek
--grown here to a river--unplaned and unpainted of wall, but brightly
touched with window-and door-frames of bright yellow or green or blue.
This was the territory where the Souths held dominance, and it was
pouring out its people.
They came before noon to the mouth of Dryhole Creek, and the house of
Wile McCager. Already, the picket fence was lined with tethered horses
and mules, and a canvas-covered wagon came creeping in behind its yoke
of 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 not
of logs, but of undressed lumber, and boasted a front porch and two
front rooms entered by twin doors facing on a triangular alcove. In the
recess between these portals stood a washstand, surmounted by a china
basin and pitcher--a declaration of affluence. From the interior of the
house came the sounds of fiddling, though these strains of "Turkey in
the Straw" were only by way of prelude. Lescott felt, though he could
not say just what concrete thing told him, that under the shallow note
of merry-making brooded the major theme of a troublesome problem. The
seriousness was below the surface, but insistently depressing. He saw,
too, that he himself was mixed up with it in a fashion, which might
become dangerous, when a few jugs of white liquor had been emptied.
It would be some time yet before the crowd warmed up. Now, they only
stood about and talked, and to Lescott they gave a gravely polite
greeting, beneath which was discernible an undercurrent of hostility.
As the day advanced, the painter began picking out the more
influential clansmen, by the fashion in which they fell together into
groups, and took themselves off to the mill by the racing creek for
discussion. While the young persons danced and "sparked" within, and
the more truculent lads escaped to the road to pass the jug, and
forecast with youthful war-fever "cleanin' out the Hollmans," the
elders were deep in ways and means. If the truce could be preserved for
its unexpired period of three years, it was, of course, best. In that
event, crops could be cultivated, and lives saved. But, if Jesse Purvy
chose to regard his shooting as a breach of terms, and struck, he would
strike hard, and, in that event, best defense lay in striking first.
Samson would soon be twenty-one. That he would take his place as head
of the clan had until now never been questioned--and he was talking of
desertion. For that, a pink-skinned foreigner, who wore a woman's bow
of ribbon at his collar, was to blame. The question of loyalty must be
squarely put up to Samson, and it must be done to-day. His answer must
be definite and unequivocal. As a guest of Spicer South, Lescott was
entitled to that consideration which is accorded ambassadors.
None the less, the vital affairs of the clan could not be balked by
consideration 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 had
matters been so freighted with the menace of a gathering storm. The
attitude of each faction was that of several men standing quiet with
guns trained on one another's breasts. Each hesitated to fire, knowing
that to pull the trigger meant to die himself, yet fearing that another
trigger might at any moment be drawn. Purvy dared not have Samson shot
out of hand, because he feared that the Souths would claim his life in
return, yet he feared to let Samson live. On the other hand, if Purvy
fell, no South could balance his death, except Spicer or Samson. Any
situation that might put conditions to a moment of issue would either
prove that the truce was being observed, or open the war--and yet each
faction was guarding against such an event as too fraught with danger.
One thing was certain. By persuasion or force, Lescott must leave, and
Samson must show himself to be the youth he had been thought, or the
confessed 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 some
reckless trouble-hunter, that fact would not be forgotten. Possibly, it
was as well that Tamarack Spicer had not arrived.
Lescott himself realized the situation in part, as he stood at the
door of the house watching the scene inside.
There was, of course, no round dancing--only the shuffle and jig--with
champions contending for the honor of their sections. A young woman
from Deer Lick and a girl from the head of Dryhill had been matched for
the "hoe-down," and had the floor to themselves. The walls were crowded
with partisan onlookers, who applauded and cheered their favorite.
The bows scraped faster and louder; the clapping hands beat more
tumultuously, until their mad _tempo_ was like the clatter of
musketry; the dancers threw themselves deliriously into the madly
quickening step. It was a riotous saturnalia of flying feet and
twinkling ankles. Onlookers shouted and screamed encouragement. It
seemed that the girls must fall in exhaustion, yet each kept on,
resolved to be still on the floor when the other had abandoned it in
defeat--that being the test of victory. At last, the girl from Dryhill
reeled, and was caught by half-a-dozen arms. Her adversary, holding the
floor undisputed, slowed down, and someone stopped the fiddler. Sally
turned from the crowded wall, and began looking about for Samson. He
was not there. Lescott had seen him leave the house a few moments
before, and started over to intercept the girl, as she came out to the
porch.
In the group about the door, he passed a youth with tow-white hair and
very pink cheeks. The boy was the earliest to succumb to the temptation
of the moonshine jug, a temptation which would later claim others. He
was 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 his
coat with hands that had become clumsy and unresponsive.
"Let me git at him," he shouted, with a wild whoop and a dash toward
the 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 reckon
ye'd better run on home, an' git yore mammy ter put ye ter bed."