All of them who stood waiting were men of middle age, or beyond. A
number were gray-haired, but they were all of cadet branches. Many of
them, like Wile McCager himself, did not bear the name of South, and
Samson was the eldest son of the eldest son. They sat on meal-whitened
bins and dusty timbers and piled-up sacks. Several crouched on the
ground, 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 Caleb
Wiley of a neighbor, in his octogenarian quaver. "The boy hes done got
es quiet an' pious es a missionary."
The other nodded under his battered black felt hat, and beat a tattoo
with 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 outen
the 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. "We
don't 'low to let hit run on no further."
"Samson," began old Wile McCager, clearing his throat and taking up
his duty as spokesman, "we're all your kinfolks here, an' we aimed ter
ask 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 we
wants 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 I
hain't hyar in the meantime, hit hain't nobody's business. I hain't
accountable ter no man but my pap, an' I reckon, whar he is, he knows
whether 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 hyar
in these mountings?"
Samson laughed derisively.
"Who'll I git hit from?" he caustically inquired. "Ef the mountain
won't come ter Mohamet, Mohamet's got ter go ter the mountain, I
reckon." The figure was one they did not understand. It was one Samson
himself had only acquired of late. He was quoting George Lescott. But
one thing there was which did not escape his hearers: the tone of
contempt. Eyes of smoldering hate turned on the visitor at whose door
they laid the blame.