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Updated: June 6, 2025
I've usually noticed that one side of any story is pretty good until the other's told." "You mean you are going to go over there where the Souths are intrenched, where every road is guarded?" The Lieutenant spoke wrathfully and with violence. "Don't be an ass, Callomb. You went over there once before, and took a man away and he's dead. You owe them a life, and they collect their dues.
Meanwhile, it came insistently to the ears of Captain Callomb that some plan was on foot, the intricacies of which he could not fathom, to manufacture a case against a number of the Souths, quite apart from their actual guilt, or likelihood of guilt.
Samson outlined his ambitions for his people. He told, too, of the scene that had been enacted at Purvy's store. Callomb listened with absorption, feeling that the narrative bore axiomatic truth on its face. At last he inquired: "Did you succeed up there as a painter?" "That's a long road," Samson told him, "but I think I had a fair start. I was getting commissions when I left."
So, I had the Grand Jury take the matter up. We must stamp out such lawlessness as Samson South stands for. He is the more dangerous because he has brains." Callomb nodded, but, at noon, he slipped out on a pretense of sight- seeing, and rode by a somewhat circuitous route to the ridge. At nightfall, he came to the house of the clan head.
The Governor glanced down to the next paragraph, and read in part: "'The Governor may direct the commanding officer of the military force to report to any one of the following-named officers of the district in which the said force is employed: Mayor of a city, sheriff, jailer or marshal." "Which list," stormed Callomb, "is the honor roll of the assassins."
But the new militiamen, looking for reassurance not so much to Callomb as to the granite-like face of Samson South, rallied, and rose with a yell to meet them on bayonet and smoking muzzle. The rush wavered, fell back, desperately rallied, then broke in scattered remnants for the shelter of the building.
"Mob holds court-house need troops." And a reply had flashed back: "Use local company Callomb commanding." So that form of law was met. The court-house doors were closed, and its windows barricaded. The place was no longer a judicial building. It was a fortress. As Samson's party paused at the gate, a warning voice called: "Don't come no nigher!" The body-guard began dropping back to shelter.
There was murmur which for an instant threatened to become a roar, but trailed into a chorus of derisive laughter. Samson went to the hotel, accompanied by Callomb. A half-hour later, the two were back at the court-house, with a half-dozen companions. The yard was empty. Samson carried his father's rifle. In that half-hour a telegram, prepared in advance, had flashed to Frankfort.
They are my people." The officer leaned in his saddle. "South," he said, "would you mind shaking hands with me? Some day, I want to brag about it to my grandchildren." Callomb spent the night at the house of Spicer South.
It was Callomb's first allusion, except for his apology, to their former altercation. For an instant only, Smithers was a little confused. "To be quite frank with you, Callomb," he said, "I got to thinking over the matter in the light of your own viewpoint, and, after due deliberation, I came to see that to the State at large it might bear the same appearance.
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