Newspaper Page Text
T>n Call of the
f P
By Charles Neville Buck
With Illustrations
from Photographs of Scenes
in the Play
(Copyright, igij. by W. j. Watt A Co.)
12
CHAPTER XIII—Continued.
“Dear Samson: The war is on again.
Tamarack Spicer killed Jim Asberry,
and the Hollmans have killed Tama¬
rack. Uncle Spicer is shot, but he
may get well. There is nobody to lead
the Souths. I am trying to hold them
down until I hear from you. Don’t
come if you don’t want to—but the
gun is ready. With love.
“SALLY.”
Slowly Samson South came to his
feet. His voice was in the dead-level
pitch which Wilfred had once before
heard. His eyes were as clear and
hard as transparent flint,
“I’m sorry to be of trouble, George.”
he said, quietly. “But you must get
me to New York at once—by motor.
I must take a train south tonight.”
"No bad news, I hope,” suggested
Lescott.
For an instant Samson forgot his
four years of veneer. The century of
prenatal barbarism broke out fiercely.
He was seeing things far away—and
forgetting things near by. His eyes
blazed and bis 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, wheel¬
ing, rushed toward the house as
though just across its threshold lay
the fight into which he was aching
to hurl himself.
CHAPTER XIV.
Samson stopped at liis studio and
threw open an old closet where, from
a littered pile of discarded background
draperies, canvases and stretchers, he
fished out a buried and dust-covered
pair of saddlebags. They had long
Iain there forgotten, but they held the
rusty clothes in which he had left
Misery.
Samson had caught the fastest west¬
bound express on the schedule. In
thirty-six hours he would be at Hixon.
There were many things which his
brain must attack and digest in these
hours. He must arrange his plan of
action to its minutest detail, because
he would have as little time for reflec¬
tion, once he had reached his own
country, as a wildcat flung into a pack
of hounds.
From the railroad station to his
home he must make his way—most
probably fight his way—through thirty
miles of hostile territory, where all
the trails were watched. And yet, for
the time, all that seemed too remotely
unreal to hold his thoughts.
He took out Sally’s letter, and read
it once more. He read it mechanically
and as a piece of news that had
brought evil tidings. Then, suddenly,
another aspect of it struck him—an as¬
pect to which the shock of its recep¬
tion had until this tardy moment
blinded him. The letter was perfectly
grammatical and penned in a hand of
copybook roundness and evenness.
The address, the body of the missive
and the signature were all in one chi-
rography. She would not have intrust¬
ed the writing of this letter to anyone
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 her
mission and her love
“Good God!” groaned the man, in ab¬
jectly bitter self-contempt. His band
went involuntarily to his cropped head,
and dropped with a gesture of self-
doubting. He looked down at his tan
shoes and silk socks. He roiled back
his shirtsleeve and contemplated the
forearm that had once been as brown
and tough as leather. It was now the
arm of a city man, except for the burn¬
ing of one outdoor week. He was
returning at the eleventh hour-
stripped of the faith of his kinsmen,
half-stripped of his faith in himself.
If he were to realize the constructive
dreams of which he had last night so
confidently prattled to Adrienne, he
must lead his people from under the
blighting shadow of the feud.
He must re appear before his kins-
men as much as possible the boy who
had left them—not the fop with new¬
fangled affectations. His eyes fell
upon the saddlebags upon the floor of
the Pullman and he smiled satirically
He would like to step from the train
at Hixon and walk brazenly through
the town in those old clothes, chal¬
lenging every hostile glance. If they
shot him down on the streets, as they
certainly would do, it would end his
questioning and his anguish of dilem¬
ma. He would welcome that, but it
would, after all, be shirking the issue.
He must get out of Hixon and into
his own country unrecognized, The
lean boy of four years ago was the
somewhat filled-out man now. The one
concession that he had made to Paris
life was the wearing of a closely
cropped mustache. That he still wore
—had worn it chiefly because he liked
to hear Adrienne’s humorous denuncia¬
tion of it. He knew that, in his pres¬
ent guise and dress, he had an excel¬
lent chance of walking through the
streets of Hixon as a stranger. And.
after leaving Hixon, there was a mis¬
sion to be performed at Jesse Purvy’s
store. As he thought of that mission
a grim glint came to his pupils. <
Ail journeys end, and as Samson
passed through the tawdry cars of the
local train near Hixon he saw several
faces which he recognized, but they
either eyed him in inexpressive silence
or gave him the greeting of the “fur-
riner."
As Samson crossed the toll bridge
to the town proper he passed two
brown shirted militiamen, lounging on
the rail of the middle span. They
grinned at him, and. recognizing the
outsider from his clothes, one of them
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 two hours
rode in silence, save for the easy
creaking of his stirrup leathers and
the soft thud of hoofs.
The silence soothed him. The brood¬
ing hills lulled his spirit as a crooning
song lulls a fretful child. Mile after
mile unrolled forgotten vistas. Some¬
thing deep in himself murmured:
“Home!"
It was late afternoon when he saw
ahead of him the orchard of Purvy’s
place, and read on the store wall, a
little more weather stained, but other¬
wise unchanged:
“Jesse Purvy, General Merchandise.”
The porch of the store w^is empty,
and as Samson flung himself from his
saddle there was no one to greet him.
This was surprising, since, ordinarily,
two or three of Purvy’s personal
guardsmen loafed at the front to watch
the road. Just now the guard should
logically be doubled. Samson still
wore his eastern clothes—for he want¬
ed to go through that door unknown.
As Samson South he could not cross
its threshold either way. But when
he stepped up on to the rough porch
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“The War’s On and My Hands Are
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flooring no one challenged his advance.
The yard and orchard were quiet from
their front fence to the grisly stock¬
ade at the rear, and, wondering at
these things, the young man stood for
a moment looking about at the after¬
noon peace before he announced him¬
self.
Yet Samson had not come to the
stronghold of his enemy for the pur¬
pose of assassination. There had been
another object in his mind—an utterly
mad idea, it is true, yet so bold of
conception that it held a ghost of
promise. He had meant to go into
Jesse Purvy’s store and chat artlessly,
like some inquisitive “furriner.” He
would ask questions which by their
very impertinence might be forgiven
on the score of a stranger’s folly. But,
most of all, he wanted to drop the cas¬
ual information, which he should as¬
sume to have heard on the train, that
Samson South was returning, and to
mark, on the assassin leader, the effect
of the news. In his new code it was
necessary to give at least the rattler’s
warning before he struck, and he
meant to strike. If he were recog¬
nized, well—he shrugged his shoulders.
But as he stood on the outside, wip¬
ing the perspiration from his forehead,
for the ride had been warm, he heard
voices within. They were loud and
angry voices. It occurred to him that
by remaining where he was he might
gain more information than by hur¬
rying in.
“I’ve done been your executioner for
twenty years," complained a voice,
which Samson at once recognized as
that of Aaron Hollis, the most trusted
of Purvy’s personal guards. "I hain’t
never laid down on ye yet. Me an’ Jim
Asberry killed old Henry South. We
laid fer his boy, an’ would ’a’ got him
ef you’d only said ther word. I went
inter Hixon an’ killed Tam’rack Spicer,
with soldiers all round me. There
hain’t no other damn fool in these
mountings would ’a’ took such a long
chance es thet. I’m tired of It.
They’re a-goin’ ter git me, an’ I wants
ter leave, an’ you won’t come clean
with the price of a railroad ticket to
Oklahoma. Now, damn yore stingy
soul, I gits that ticket or I gits you!"
“Aaron, you can’t scare me into doin’
nothin' I ain’t aimin’ to do.” The old
baron of the vendetta spoke in a cold,
THE CARNESVILLE ADVANCE, CARNESVILLE, GEORGIA.
stoical voice. “I tell ye I ain’t quite
through with ye yet. In due an’ proper
time I’ll see that ye get yer ticket."
Then he added, with conciliating soft¬
ness: “We’ve been friends a long
while. Let’s talk this thing over be¬
fore we fall out.”
"Thar liain’t nothin' to talk over,”
stormed Aaron. "Ye’re jest trytn’ ter
kill time till the boys gits hyar, and
then } reckon ye ’lows ter have me kilt
like yer’ve had me kill them others.
Hit ain't no use. I’ve done sent 'em
away. When they gits back hyar.
either you’ll be in hell, or I’ll be on my
way outen the mountings."
Samson stood rigid. Here was the
confession of one murderer, with no
denial from the other. The truce was
off. Why should he wait? Cataracts
seemed to thunder in his brain, and
yet he stood there, his hand in his coat
pocket, clutching the grip of a maga¬
zine pistol. Samson South the old, and
Samson South the new were writhing
in the life-aud-death grapple of two
codes. Then, before decision came,
he heard a sharp report iuside, and
the heavy fall of a body to the floor.
A wildly excited figure came plung¬
ing through the door, and Samson's
left hand swept out and seized Its
shoulder in a sudden vise grip.
"Do you know me?” he inquired, as
the mountaineer pulled away and
crouched back with startled surprise
and vicious frenzy.
“No, damn ye! Git outen my road!”
Aaron thrust his cocked rifle close
against tho stranger’s face, From
its muzzle came the acrid stench of
freshly burned powder. “Git outen my
road afore I kills ye!”
“My name is Samson South."
Before the astounded finger on the
trigger could be crooked, Samson’s
pistol spoke from the pocket, and, as
though in echo, the rifle blazed, a little
too late and a shade too high, over his
head, as the dead man's arms went up.
Except for those two reports there
was no sound. Samson stood still, an-
ticipating an uproar of alarm, Nowr
he should doubtless have to pay with
his life for both the deaths, which
would inevitably and logically be at¬
tributed to bis agency. But, strangely
enough, no clamor arose. The shot in¬
side had been muffled, and those out¬
side, broken by the intervening store,
did not arouse the house. Purvy’s
bodyguard had been sent away by Hol¬
lis on a false alarm. Only the “women¬
folks” and children remained indoors,
and they were drowning with a piano
any sounds that might have come from
without.
Now Samson South stood looking
down, uninterrupted, on what had been
Aaron Hollis as it lay motionless at
his feet. There was a powder-burned
hole in the butternut shirt, and only
a slender thread of blood trickled into
the dirt-grimed cracks between the
planks.
Samson turned to the darkened door¬
way. Inside was emptiness, except for
the other body, which had crumpled
forward and face down across the
counter. A glance showed that Jesse
Purvy would no more fight back the
coming of death. He w’as quite un¬
armed*
Samson paused only for a momen¬
tary survey. His score was clean. He
would not again have to agonize over
the dilemma of old ethics and new.
Tomorrow the word would spread like
wildfire along Misery and Crippleshin
that Samson South was back and that
his coming had been signalized by
these two deaths. The fact that he
was responsible for only one—and that
in self-defense—would not matter.
They would prefer to believe that he
had invaded the store and killed Purvy
and that Hollis had fallen in his mas¬
ter’s defense at the threshold. Sam¬
son went out, 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 back in a thicketed
cove. He was now well within South
territory and the need of masquerade
had ended.
The cabin had not for years been oc¬
cupied. Its rooftree was leaning
askew under rotting shingles The
doorstep was ivy-covered, and the
stones of the hearth were broken. But
it lay well hidden and would serve 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 in im¬
peccable clothes emerged fifteen min¬
utes later—transformed. There ap¬
peared under the rising June crescent
a smooth-faced native, clad in stained
store clothes, with rough woolen socks
showing at his brogan tops, and a
battered felt hat drawn over his face.
No one who had knowm the Samson
South of four years ago would fail to
recognize hirn now. And the strang¬
est part, he told himself, was that he
felt the old Samson.
At a point where a hand bridge
crossed the skirting creek, the boy
dismounted. Ahead of him lay the
stile where he had said good-by to
Sally.
He was going to her, and nothing
else mattered.
He lifted hie head and sent out a
long, clear whippoorwill call, which
quavered on the night much like the
other calls in the black hills around
him. After a moment he went nearer,
in the shadow of a poplar, and re¬
peated the call.
Then the cabin door opened. Its
jamb framed a patch of yellow candle
light, and, at the center, a slender
silhouetted figure, in a flattering, eager
attitude of uncertainty. The figure
turned slightly to one side, and, as it
did so, the man saw clasped in her
right hand the rifle, which had been
his mission, bequeathed to her in trust
She hesitated, and the man, invisible
in the shadow, one® more Imitated the
bird note, but this time it was so low
and soft that it seemed the voice of a
whispering whippoorwill.
Then, with a sudden glad little cry,
she came running with her old fleet
graco down to the road.
Samson had vaulted the stile and
stood iu the full moonlight. As ho
saw her coming he stretched out his
arms and his voice broke from his
throat in a half-hoarse, pussionate cry:
“Sally!’’
It was the only word he could havo
spoken just then, but it was all that
was necessary, it told her everything.
For a time there was no speech, but
to each of them it seemed that tholr
tumultuous heartbeating must sonnd
above the night music, and the teleg¬
raphy of heartbeats tells enough.
But they iiad much to say to each
other, and, finally, Samson broke the
silence:
"Did ye think I wasn’t a-coming
back, Sally?" be questioned, softly. At
that moment he had no realization
that his tongue had ever fashioned
smoother phrases. And she, too, who
had been making war on crude Idioms,
forgot, as she answered:
“Ye done saitpye was cornin’.” Then
she added a happy lie: “I knowed
plumb 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’d
need 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 whisper as
she added:
“It’s been a lot of comfort to me
sometimes, because it was your’n. I
knew' if ye stopped keerin’ fer me yo
wouldn’t let me keep it—an’ as long
as I had it I—" She broke off, and
the fingers of one hand touched the
w r eapon caressingly.
After a long w'hile they found time
for the less wonderful things.
“I got your letter,” he said, seriously,
“and I came at once.” As he began
to speak of concrete facts he dropped
again into ordinary English and did
not know that he had changed his
manner of speech.
For an instant Sally looked up into
his face, then with a sudden laugh,
she informed him:
“I can say ‘isn’t’ instead of ‘liain’t,’
too. How did you like my writing?”
He held her off at arm’s length, and
looked at her pridefully, but under his
gaze her eyes fell and her face flushed
with a sudden diffidence 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 longer the totally unself-conscious
wood nymph, though as natural and in¬
stinctive as in other days. Suddenly
she drew away from him a little, and
her hands went slowly to her breast
and rested there. She was fronting
a great crisis, but, in the first flush of
joy she had forgotten it. She had
spent lonely nights struggling for rudi¬
ments; she had sought and fought to
refashion herself, so that, if he came,
he need not be ashamed of her. And
now he had come and, with a terrible
clarity and distinctness, she realized
how pitifully little she had been able
to accomplish. Would elie pass mus¬
ter? She stood there before him,
frightened, self-conscious and palpi¬
tating. then her voice came in a wtns-
per:
“Samson, dear, I’m not holdin' you
to any promise. Those things we said
were a long time back. Maybe we'd
better forget ’em now and begin all
over again."
But again he crushed her in his
arms and his voice rose triumphantly:
“Sally, 1 have no promises to take
back, and you have made none that
I’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 take them back,”
she said. Then, suddenly, she added,
importantly: “I wear shoes and stock¬
ings now, and I’ve been tp school a lit¬
tle. I’m awfully—awfully ignorant,
Samson, but I’ve started, and I reckon
you can teach me.”
His voice choked. Then, her hands
strayed up, and clasped themselves
about his head.
“Oh, Samson," she cried, as though
someone had struck her, "you’ve cut
yore ba’r.”
“It will grow again,” he laughed.
But he wished that he had not had to
make that excuse. Then, being hon¬
est, he told her ail about Adrienne Les¬
cott—even about how, after he be¬
lieved that he had been outcast by his
uncle and herself, he had had his mo¬
ments of doubt. Now that it was all so
clear, now that there could never be
doubt, he wanted the woman who had
been so true a friend to know the girl
whom he loved. He loved them both,
but was in love with only one.. He
wanted to present to Sally the friend
who had made him, and to the friend
who had made him the Sally of whom
he was proud. He wanted to tell
Adrienne that now he could answer
her question—that each of them meant
to the other exactly the same thing;
they were friends of the rarer sort,
who had for a little time been in dan¬
ger of mistaking their comradeship for
passion.
As they talked, sitting on the stile,
Sally held the rifle across her knees.
Except for their own voices and the
soft chorus of night sounds, the hills
were wrapped in silence—a silence as
soft as velvet.
“I learned some things down there
at school, Samson,” said the girl, slow¬
ly, “and I wish—I wish you didn’t have
to use this.”
"Jim Asberry is dead,’’ said the man
gravely. Asberry’s
“Yes,” she echoed, “Jim
dead." She stopped there. Jet, her
sign completed the sentence as though
site had added, “but he was only one of
several. Your vow went farther."
After a moment’s pause, Samson
added:
“Jesse Purvy’s dead."
The girl drew back, with a fright¬
ened 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’s occur¬
rences, and they sat together on the
stile, until the moon hud sunk to the
ridge top.
Capt. Sidney Callomb. who had been
dispatched in command of a militia
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“I Have No Promises to Take Back."
company to quell the trouble in the
mountains, should have been a soldier
by profession. All his enthusiasms
were martial.
The deepest- sorrow and mortifica¬
tion he had ever known was that which
came to him when Tamarack Spicer,
his prisoner of war and a man who had
been surrendered on the strength of
his personal guaranty, had been as¬
sassinated before his eyes. In some
fashion, he must make amends. He
realized, too, and it rankled deeply,
that his men were not being genuinely
used to serve the state, but as instru¬
ments of the Hollmans, and he had
seen enough to distrust the Hollmans.
Here, in Hixon, he was seeing things
from only one angle. He meant to
learn something more impartial.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
WAR TERMS NOT UNDERSTOOD
“Forlorn Hope,” for Instance. Ha:. Not
the Meaning With Which It
Is Credited.
In the course of every war one
hoars a great deal about “forlorn
hopes.” The term is one of the most
misused in the vocabulary of w'ar. It
is commonly misunderstood to mean
“lost troop"—that is “detached
troop.” The word “hope” in the
phrase is not an English but a Dutch
word, “hoop,” meaning literally
“heap,” and secondarily body of
troops. The word “forlorn" represents
the Dutch “verioren”—lost. A “ver-
Ioren hoop" was a detached body of
troops thrown out in front of the main
line of battle to find the enemy
and engage them first. This was the
regular sixteenth and seventeenth
century practice, and though it was
one of the more dangerous kinds of
service it was not desperate or, in
the English sense, forlorn. Nowadays
much the same work is done by the
detached bodies of cavalry which are
thrown out before the main line to find
the enemy.
“Capitulation” is another term of
war, which is very loosely used. It
does not mean surrender, but sur¬
render on terms; in fact, it means the
terms, not the surrender. It is from
the Latin “capitulum" or “heading"
(from which is derived our word
“chapter”), and a capitulation is a
formal treaty of surrender drawn up
under a series of headings or chap¬
ters, embodying the terms on each
point.
Woman’s Logic.
You sometimes wonder about the
logic of the feminist mind.
A man was to meet his wife at her
office at one o'clock to take luncheon
with her. He was 20 minutes late. She
had gone out.
He sat down and waited, At 1:30
she arrived.
“What are you doing here?" she
asked.
“I’m waiting for you.”
“Didn’t you know I wouldn’t come
back after I’d given you up and gone
out?"
“But you did come back, didn’t you?
You are back now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but you might have known
that when 1 did come back I would
have had my lunch, and there would
be no use in waiting to have it with
me.”
“Well, have you had it?”
“No.”—Denver News.
Japanese a Patient People.
Impatience among the Japanese is a
thing you will rarely observe as you
travel through their strange and beau¬
tiful country. If, on the other hand,
you yoursetf, in touring Japan, might
upon occasion grow somewhat im¬
patient, you will only become the
quiet laughing stock—behind you;
back—of the little Japs themselves.
An hour, or even a day, more or less
in this oriental country is of little ae
count, and matters cannot be made ic
move any the quicker because of arj
irritability.
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For daily use in millions of kitchens has
proved but that Caiumct leavening is highest not only in
quality in power as well—un¬
failing in results—pure to the extreme—and
wonderfully And economical in use. Ask your
grocer. try Calumet next bake day.
Received Highest Awards
World's Poro
Food Exposition,
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Paris Ezpoii-
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Too doa't I*ft money when too hay cheo* er hi|-CM
baiting powder. Don’t bn totaled. Boy Cal Bloat. It's
■ere economical—more wboleaome—riiea beat ionite.
Calomel it tar loperior to boot milk aid aoda.
Where the Life Is.
Bacon—which is the liveliest pro¬
vince in Canada?”
Egbert—Why, Ontario.
“Why so?”
“Because I read in the paper that
there are J,002 cheese factories there."
Undismayed.
“i understand that bread is going
to cost six cents a loaf."
“Well,” said the riian who refuses
to be alarmed, “that's something to be
thankful for. They could just as
easily have made it seven.”
Really Reliable.
“Is your maid trustworthy?”
“Trustworthy? Why, I even give
her the key to the bread box!”
Cruel, Too.
“I’m saddest when I sing."
“You’re a dura fool to sing, then."—
Boston Evening Transcript.
A man’s inclination to give advice
is strong in inverse ratio to his fit¬
ness to give it.—Albany Journal.
It isn’t always the promising young
man that fulfills the promise.—Dese¬
ret News.
A pessimist is a person who is dis¬
appointed if the worst doesn’t hap¬
pen.—Albany Journal.
; A good listener is one who can pre¬
tend to be deeply interested when he
isn’t.
Honest, now, did you ever see any¬
body take the advice you offered?—
Memphis Commercial Appeal.
The small hours are responsible for
many a large head.—Columbia State.
A model wife is one who isn’t pat¬
terned after a model.
Why don’t you take a day off and
get acquainted with yourself?
The pawnbroker acts as timekeeper
for men who fight hard luck.
Your Uncle Samuel spent $800,000,-
000 for jewelry last year.
Eve invented temptation, but forgot
to patent it.