All 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 "furriner."
Then the whistle shrieked for the trestle over the Middle Fork, and at
only a short distance rose the cupola of the brick court-house and the
scattered roofs of the town. Scattered over the green slopes by the
river bank lay the white spread of a tented company street, and, as he
looked out, he saw uniformed figures moving to and fro, and caught the
ring of a bugle call. So the militia was on deck; things must be bad,
he reflected. He stood on the platform and looked down as the engine
roared along the trestle. There were two gatling guns. One pointed its
muzzle toward the town, and the other scowled up at the face of the
mountain. Sentries paced their beats. Men in undershirts lay dozing
outside tent flaps. It was all a picture of disciplined readiness, and
yet Samson knew that soldiers made of painted tin would be equally
effective. These military forces must remain subservient to local civil
authorities, and the local civil authorities obeyed the nod of Judge
Hollman and Jesse Purvy.
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 brooding hills lulled his spirit as a
crooning song lulls a fretful child. Mile after mile unrolled forgotten
vistas. Something 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
otherwise unchanged: "Jesse Purvy, General Merchandise."
The porch of the store was 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 wanted 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
flooring no one challenged his advance. The yard and orchard were quiet
from their front fence to the grisly stockade at the rear, and,
wondering at these things, the young man stood for a moment looking
about at the afternoon peace before he announced himself.