The Bixby Bulletin (Bixby, Okla.), Vol. 10, No. 48, Ed. 1 Friday, January 29, 1915 Page: 2 of 8
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THE BIXBY BULLETIN
The Gall of the
Cumberlands
By Charles Neville Buck
With Dluatratloria
from Photographs of Scenes
in the Play
(Conrri«ht, itii. hr W. J. wm a C«J
SYNOPSIS.
On Misery creek, at the foot of a rock
from which he has fallen, Sally Miller
finds Oaorge Leacott, a landscape paint-
er, unconscious, and after reviving him.
goes for assistance. Samson South and
Bally, taking I^escott to Samson’s home,
are met by Spicer South, head of the
family, who tells them that Jesso Purvy
ban been shot and that Samson Is sus-
pected of the crime. Samson denies It.
(The shooting of Jesso Purvy breaks the
truce In the Hollman-South feud. Sam-
son reproves Tamarack Spicer for telling
Bally that Jim Hollman Is on the troll
With bloodhounds hunting the man who
shot Purvy. The bloodhounds lose the
trail at Spicer South's door. Lescott dis-
covers artistic ability In Samson.
CHAPTER V—Continued.
The two men had lout an hour
huddled under a canopy beneath the
cannonading of a sudden storm. They
had silently watched titanic battalions
of thunder clouds riding the skies In
gusty puffs of gale and raking the
earth with lightning and hall and
water.
"My God!” exclaimed the mountain
boy abruptly. "I'd give anything ef
K could paint that."
Lescott rose smilingly from hlB seat
before the easel and surrendered his
palette and sheaf of brushes.
"Try It,” he Invited.
For a moment Samson stood hesi-
tant and overcome with diffidence;
then, with set lips, he took Ills place
end experimentally fitted his fingers
About the brush, as he had seen Les-
cott do. He asked no advice. He
merely gazed for a while, and then,
dipping u brush and experimenting for
his color, went to sweeping in hlB pri-
tnnry tones. Samson, even though he
liras hopelessly daubing, and knew It,
Was sincere, and the painter at his
•lbow caught his breath and looked on
■with the absorption of a prophet, who,
listening to childish prattle, yet recog-
nizes the gift of prophecy.
"Thet’s the .way hit looks ter me,"
the boy 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, “haln't a-goin’
ter fool with them thnr treeB an’
things. I don’t know nothing erbout
thet. I can't paint leaves an’ twigs
an’ blrdsnests. What I like Is moun-
tings an’ skies an’ seoh-like things.”
Lescott looked at the daub before
him. A less trained eyo would have
seen only the daub, Just as a poor
Judge of horseflesh might see only
awkward Joints and long legs In a
■weanling colt, though it he bred in the
purple.
"Samson,” he said, earnestly, “that’s
all there is to art. It’s the power to
feel the poetry of color. The rest can
be taught. The genius must work, of
> course work, v:ork, O'Wk, r.’.ul t/.!H
work, but the gift Is the power of
seeing true—and, by God, boy, you
have it. You’ve got what many men
have struggled a lifetime for, and
failed. I’d like to huve you study with
me. I’d like to be your discoverer.
Look here.”
The palmter sat down, and speedily
went to work. He painted out noth-
ing. He Bimply toned, nnd, with pre-
cisely the right touch here and theie,
softened the crudeness, laid stress on
the contrast, melted the harshness,
and, when he rose, he had built, upon
the rough cornerstone of Samson's
laying, n picture.
“That proves It,” ho said. *'I had
only to finish. I didn’t have much to
undo. 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
ls, there can be no such thing as true
art. There is genius and you have
lt. ” Enthusiasm was again sweeping
him Into an unlnteuded outburst.
The boy stood silent. Across his
countenance Bwept a conflict of emo-
tions. He looked away, as If taking
counsel with the hills.
"It’B what I'm a-honln' fer," he ad-
mitted at last. “Hit's what I’d give
half my life fer. ... I mout sell
my land, an’ raise the money. . . .
1 reckon hit would take passels of
money, wouldn’t hit?” He paused, and
his eyes fell on the rifle leaning against
the tree. His lips tightened In Budden
remembrance. He went over and
picked up the gun, and, as he did so,
he shook his head.
"No,” he stolidly declared; “every
man to his own tools. This here’s
mine.”
Yet, when they were again out
| sketching, the temptation to play with
brushes 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, contemptuous
grin, and Bhortly It withdrew.
But, an hour later, while the boy
was still working Industriously and
the artist was lying on his back, with
a pipe between his teeth, and bis half-
closed eyes gazing up contentedly
through the green of overhead
branches, their peace was broken by
a guffaw of derisive laughter. They
looked up, to And at their backs a semi-
circle of scoffing humanity. I^escott’s
impulse was to laugh, for only the
comedy of the situation at the mo-
ment struck him. A stage director,
setting a comedy scene with that inoBt
ancient of jests, the gawking of boobs
at some new sight, could hardly have
Improved on this tableau. At the front
stood Tamarack Spicer, the returned
wanderer. His lean wrist was stretched
out of a ragged sleeve all too Bhort, and
his tattered “Jimmy" was shoved back
over a face all a-grin. His eyes were
bloodshot with recent drinking, but
his manner was in exaggerated and
cumbersome imitation of a rural mas-
ter of ceremonies. At his back were
the raw-boned men and women and
children of the hills, to the number of
a dozen.
"Ladles and gentle men," announced
Tamarack Spicer, In a hiccoughing
voice, "swing yo’ partners an’ sashay
forward. See the only son of the late
Henry South engaged In his mar-ve-
lous an' heretofore undiscovered occu-
pation of doin’ fancy work. Ladies and
gentle-men, after this hero show is
concluded, keep your seats for the con-
cert In the main tent. This here fa-
mous performer will favor ye with a
little exhibition of plain an’ fancy
sock-darnin’.”
After the first surprise, Samson had
turned his back on the group. He was
mixing paint at the time and he pro-
ceeded to experiment with a fleeting
cloud effect, which would not outlast
the moment. He finished that, and,
reaching for the palette-knife, scraped
his fingers and wiped them on his
trousers’ legs. Then, he deliberately
rose.
Without a word he turned. Tama-
rack had begun his harangue afresh.
The hoy tossed back the long lock
from his forehead, and then, with
an unexpectedly swift movement,
crouched and leaped. His right fist
shot forward to Tamarack Spicer’s
chattering lips, and they abruptly
ceased to chatter aR the teeth were
driven into their flesh. Spicer’s head
snapped back, and he staggered against
the onlookers, where he Btood rocking
on his unsteady lege. His hand swept
Instinctively to the shirt-concealed
holster, but, before it had connected,
both of Samson’s flstB were playing a
terrific tattoo on his face. The In-
glorious master of the show dropped,
and lay groggily trying to rise.
The laughter died as suddenly as
Tamarack's speech. Sameon stepped
back again, nnd searched the faces of
the group for any lingering sign of
mirth or criticism. There was none.
Every countenance was sober and ex-
pressionless, but the boy felt a weight
of unuttered disapproval, und he glared
defiance. One of the older onlookers
spoke up reproachfully.
“Samson, ye hadn’t hardly ought ter
a-doue that. He was Jost a funnln’
with ye.”
“GK-t lilm up on ilia f3et. ~ I've gut
somethin’ ter say ter him.” The boy’s
voice was dangerously quiet. It was
his first word. They lifted the fallen
cousin, whose entertainment had gone
astray, and led him forward grumbling,
threatening and sputtering, but evinc-
ing no Immediate desire to renew hos-
tilities.
"Whar hev ye been?” demanded
Samson.
''Thet’s my business,” came the fa-
mtllar mountain phrase.
"Why wasn’t yer hyar when them
dawgs come by? Why was ye the
only South thet runned away, when
they was smellln’ round fer Jesse
Purvy’s assassin?"
“I didn’t run away.” Tamarack’s
blood-shot eyeB flared wickedly. “I
knowed thet ef I stayed ’round hyar
with them damned Hollmans stlckin’
their noses Inter our business. I’d hurt
somebody. So, I went over Inter the
next county fer a spell. You fellers
mout be able to take things offen the
Hollmans, but I hain’t.”
"Thet’s a damned lie,” said Samson,
quietly. "Ye runned away, an’ ye
runned In the water so them dawgs
couldu’t trail ye—ye done hit because
ye shot them shoots at Jesse Purvy
from the laurel—because ye're a truce-
bustin’, murderin’ bully thet shoots off
his face, an’ Is skeered to fight.” Sam-
son paused for breath, and went on
with regained calmness. "I’ve knowed
all along ye was the man, an’ I've kept
quiet because ye’re my kin. If ye’re
got anything else ter say, say hit. But,
ef I ever ketches yer talkin’ about me,
or talkin’ ter Sally, I’m a-goln’ ter take
ye by the Bcroff of the neck, an’ drag
ye plumb Into Hlxon, an’ stick ye In
the Jallhouse. An’ I’m a-goin’ ter tell
the high sheriff that the Souths spits
ye outen their mouths. Take him
away.” The crowd turned and left
the place. When they were gone, Sam-
son seated himself at his easel again,
and picked up his palette.
CHAPTER VI.
Lescott had come to the mountains
anticipating a visit of two weeks. His
accident had resolved him to shorten
It to the nearest day upon which he
felt capable of making the trip out to
the railroad. Yet June had ended;
July had burned the slopes from em-
erald to russet-green; August had
brought purple tops to the lronweed,
and still he found himself lingering.
And this was true although he recog-
nized a growing sentiment of disap-
proval for himself. In Samson he
thought he recognized twin gifts; a
spark of a genius too rare to be al-
lowed to flicker out, and a potentiality
for constructive work among his own
people, which needed for Its perfecting
only education and experience.
“Samson," he suggested one day
when they were alone, “I want you to
come East. You eay that gun Is your
tool, and that each man must stick to
his own. You are In part right, In
part wrong. A man uses any tool bet-
ter for understanding other tools. You
have the right to use your brains and
talents to the full.”
The boy’s face was somber In the
intensity of his mental struggle, and
his 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
glttln’ old. He’s done been good ter
me. He needs me here.”
”1 appreciate that. He will be older
later. You can go now, and come back
to him when he needs you more. If
what I urged meant disloyalty to your
people, I could cut out my tongue be-
fore I argued for It. You must be-
lieve me in that. I want you to be in
the fullest sense your people’s leader.
I want you to be not only their Sam-
son—hut their Moees.”
The boy looked up and nodded.
“I reckon ye alms ter be friendly,
all right," was his conservative re-
sponse.
The painter went on earnestly:
"I realize that I am urging things of
which your pdople disapprove, but it Is
only because they misunderstand that
they do disapprove. They are too close,
Samsgn, to see the purple that moun-
tains have when they are far away. 1
want you to go where you can see
the purple. If you are the sort of man
I think, you won’t bo beguiled. You
won’t lose your loyalty. You won’t be
ashamed of your people.”
“I reckon I wouldn’t be ashamed,”
said the youth. “I reckon there hain’t
no better folks nowhar.”
"I’m sure of It. There are going to
be sweeping changes In these moun-
tains. Conditions here have stood as
immutably changeless as the hills
themselves for a hundred years. That
day is at Its twilight. I tell you, I
know what I’m talking about. The
state of Kentucky Is looking this way.
The state must develop, and it is here
alone that It can develop. Here are
virgin forests and almost inexhaust-
ible coal veins. Capital Is turning
from an orange squeezed dry, and cast-
ing about for fresher food. Capital has
seen your hills. Capital is inevitable,
relentless, omnipotent. Where It comes,
it makes its laws. Conditions that
have existed undisturbed will vanish.
The law of the feud, which militia and
cus.ts^iave^iiet been able to a^ato
will vanish before capital’s breath like
the mists when the sun strikes them.
Unless you learn to ride the waves
which will presently 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 his expres-
sion was something of the soldier who
scents battle, not without welcome.
"1 reckon If these here fellers air
a-comln’ up here ter run things, an’
drowned out my folks, hit’s a right
good reason fer mo ter stay here—an’
holp my folks.”
“By staying here, you can’t help
them. It won’t be work for guns, but
for brains. By going away and com-
ing back armed with knowledge, you
can save them. You will know how to
play the game.”
”1 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 will come In handy.
Things has stood here like they is now,
fer a hundred years. I reckon we kin
keep ’em that-away fer a spell longer.”
But It was evident that Samson was
arguing against his own belief; that he
was trying to bolster up his resolu-
tion and Impeached loyalty, and that
at heart he was sick to be up and go-
ing to a world which did not despise
"eddlcation.” After a little, he waved
his hand vaguely toward “down be-
low."
“Ef I went down thar," he questioned
suddenly and Irrelevantly, “would I
hev’ ter cut my ha’r?”
“My dear boy,” laughed Lescott, I
can Introduce you In New York studios
to many distinguished gentlemen who
would feel that their heads had been
shorn If they let their locks get as
short as ycurs. In New York, you
might stroll along Broadway garbed in
turban and a burnouse without great-
ly exciting anybody. I think my own
hair is as long as yours.”
“Because," doggedly declared the
mountaineer, "I wouldn’t allow nobody
ter make me cut my ha’r.’’
"Why?” questioned Lescott, amused
at the stubborn Inflection.
”1 don’t hardly know why—” He
paused, then admitted with a glare as
though defying criticism; ‘‘Sally likes
hit that-away—an’ I won’t let nobody
dictate ter me, that’s all.”
The leaven was working, and one
night Samson announced to bis uncle
from the doorstep that he was “study-
ln’ erbout goln' away fer a spell, an’
seeln’ the world.”
The old man laid down his pipe. He
cast a reproachful glance at the
painter, which said clearly, though
without words:
“I have opened my home to you and
offered you what I had, yet in my old
age you take away my mainstay.”
"I ’lowed you was a-studyin’ erbout
thet, Samson," he said, at last. ‘Tvo
done ther beet fer ye I knowed. I
kinder ’lowed thet from now on ye'd do
the same fer me. I’m glttin’ along in
years right smart. . . .”
“Uncle Spicer,” interrupted the boy,
“I reckon ye knows thet any time ye
needed me I’d come back.”
The old man’s face hardened.
“Ef ye goes,” he said, almost sharp-
ly, “I won’t never send fer ye. Any
time ye ever wants ter come back, ye
knows ther way. Thar’ll be room an’
victuals fer ye hyar.”
“I reckon I mout be a heap more
useful ef I knowed more.”
’’I’ve heerd fellers say that afore.
Hit hain’t never turned out thet way
with them what has left the mount-
ings. 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 no-
tions—an' ashamed of their kinfolks.
Thet’s the way, I’ve noticed, hit gen’-
ally turns out.”
Samson scorned to deny that such
might be the cas6 with him, and was
silent. After a time, the old man went
on again In a weary voice, as tie bent
down to loosen his brogans and kick
them noisily off on to the floor:
"The Souths hev done looked to ye
a good deal, Samson. They ’lowed they
could depend ou ye. Ye hain’t quite
twenty-one yet; w*’ I reckon I could
refuse ter let ye sell yer prop’ty. But
thar hain't no use tryln’ ter hold a
feller when he wants ter quit. Ye
don't ’low ter go right away, do ye?’.’
“I hain’t plumb made up my mind
ter go at all,” said the boy, shame-
facedly. "But, ef I does go, I hain’t
a-goln’ yit. I hain’t spoke ter nobody
but you about hit yit.”
Lescott felt reluctant to meet. his
host’s eyes at breakfast the next morn-
ing, dreading their reproach, but, if
Spffcer South harbored reeentment, he
meant to conceal it, after the "Stoic's
code. There was no hint of constraint
In his cordiality. Lescott felt, however,
that In Samson’s mind was working
the leaven of that unspoken accusa-
tion of disloyalty. He resolved to
make a final play, and seek to enlist
Sally In his cause. If Sally’s hero-wor-
ship could be made to take the form of
ambition for Samson, ehe might be
brought to relinquish him for a time,
and urge his going that he might re-
turn strengthened. He went down to
the creek at the hour when he knew
Sally would be making her way thither
ivith bar and intercepted her
coming.
As she approached, she was singing,
and the man watched her from the dis-
tance. He was a landscape painter and
not a master of genre or portrait. Yet,
he wished that he might, before going,
paint Sally.
“Miss Sally,” he began, “I’ve discov-
ered something about Sameon.”
Her blue eyes flashed ominously.
"Ye can’t tell me nothin’ ’bout Sam-
son," she declared, "withouten hit’s
somethin’ nice.”
"It’s something very nice,” the man
reassured her.
“Then, ye needn’t tell me, because I
already knows hit,” came her prompt
and confident announcement.
Lescott shook his head, dubiously.
“Sameon 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 Sannon’U 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 Berenity of her eyes.
‘‘What does ye mean?” she de-
manded.
"I mean”—the painter paused a mo-
ment, and then said bluntly—“I mean
that I want to take him back with me
to New York,"
The girl sprang to her feet with her
chin defiantly high and her brown
hands 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-goln’
ter do no slch—no aich of a damn
thing 1” She stamped her foot, and
her whole girlish body, drawn Into
rigid uprightness, was a-quiver with
the incarnate spirit of the woman de-
fending her home and Institutions. For
a moment after that, she could not
speak, but her determined eyes blazed
a declaration of war. It was as though
he had posed her as the Spirit of tho
Cumberlands.
He waited until she should be
calmer.
"You don’t understand me. Miss
Sally. I’m not trying to take Samson
away from you. If a man should lose
a girl like you, be couldn’t gain enough
In the world to make up for It. All 1
want Is that he shall have the chance
to make the beet of his life.”
“I reckon SamBon don’t need no
fotched-on help ter make folks ac-
knowledge him.”
"Every man needs his chance. He
can be a great painter—but that’s the
least part of It, He can come back
equipped for anything that life offers.
Here, he is wasted.”
‘‘Ye mean”—she put the question
with a hurt quaver In her voice—"ye
mean we all hain’t good enough for
Samson?’
“No. I only mean that Samson wants
to grow—and he needs space and new
scenes in which to grow, I want to
take him where he can see more of the
world—not only a little section of the
world. Surely, you are not distrustful
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 pathetically tan-
gled 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 leave us Sam-
son. We needs him hyar. We’ve Jest
got ter have Sameon hyar.”
She faced him still with quivering
lips, but In another moment, with a
sudden sob, she dropped to the rock,
and burled her face in her crossed
arms. 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, stormy with
blazing eyes and wet cheeks and
trembling lips.
“Don’t touch me,” ehe cried; “don’t
ye dare ter touch me! I hain’t nothin’
but a gal—but I reckon I could ’most
tear ye ter pieces. Ye’re Jest a plzen
snake, anyhow!" Then, she pointed a
tremulous finger off up the road. “Git
away from hyar,” she commanded. “I
don’t never want ter see ye again.
Ye’re tryin’ ter steal everything I
loves. Git away, I tells ye!—git away
—begone!”
"Think it over,” urged Lescott, quiet*
ly. "See if your heart doesn’t say I am
Samson’s friend—and yours." He
turned, and began making his way
over the rocks; but, before he had
gone far, he sat down to reflect upon
the situation. Certainly, he was not
augmenting his popularity. A half-
hour later, he heard a rustle, and,
turning, saw Sally standing not far off.
She was hesitating at the edge of the
underbrush, and Lescott Tead in her
eyes the effort it was costing her to
come forward and apologize.
“I reckon—I reckon I’ve got ter ask
yore pardon,” she said, slowly and with
labored utterance. He looked up to
see her standing with her head droop-
ing and her fingers nervously pulling a
flower to pieces.
“1 reckon I hain’t a plumb fool. 1
knows thet Samson’s got a right ter
eddlcation. Anyhow, I knows he wants
hit."
~ ECiueatiOu,”" said the inau, ' that go-
ing to change Samson, except to make
him finer than he Is—and more
capable."
She shook her head. “I hain’t got
no eddicatlon," she answered. “Hit’s
a-goin’ ter make him too good fer mo.
I reckon hit’s a-goin’ ter Jest about
kill me. . . .’’ Her lips twisted
themselves into a pathetic smile again,
and her chin came stiffly up. “But,”
she added, determinedly, "thet don’t
make no dlff’rence, nohow.”
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 fore-
boding.
"What’s the mAtter, Sally?” ques-
tioned he, anxiously. "Hes that low*
down Tamarack Spicer been round
here tellln’ ye some more stories ter
pester ye?"
She shook her head in silence.
Usually, Bhe bpre the brunt of their
conversations, Samson merely agree-
ing with, or overruling, her In lordly
brevities. The boy climbed up and sat
beside her.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Ancient Servants.
Francis Grlenson, the English mu-
sician and author, writes of the French
composer Auber In the Century for 0»
tober that "If I were asked to
the most typical Frenchman 1 ever
met I should not hesitate to name
Auber." The composer at the time
spoken of was eighty-five, and among
his idiosyncrasies was his preference
for servants of equally advanced years.
He had five domestics, “the youngest,
whom he called the baby, being the
coachman, who was seventy-five.*
i
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Brill, H. E. The Bixby Bulletin (Bixby, Okla.), Vol. 10, No. 48, Ed. 1 Friday, January 29, 1915, newspaper, January 29, 1915; Bixby, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc496535/m1/2/: accessed April 24, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.