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Updated: June 3, 2025
No South can't ride inter Hixon, an' ride out again. The mail-carrier won't be down this way fer two days yit." "I'm not askin' any South to ride into Hixon. I recollect another time when Samson was the only one that would do that," she answered, still scornfully. "I didn't come here to ask favors. I came to give orders for him. A train leaves soon in the morning. My letter's goin' on that train."
Peter was thankful that the captain appeared to be slowly recovering his strength, though still unable to move. By husbanding their provisions, the little party on the shore hoped to support existence for some weeks to come. When Hixon arrived one day with their usual supply of water, he brought word that the rest of the crew had deserted the spring and were nowhere to be seen.
It was the day when the factions met at Hixon, and he had carried the gun of his father for the first time into action. The only way his eyes could be cleared of that fiery haze was that they should first see men falling. As they assaulted him, en masse, he seized a chair, and swung it flail-like about his head.
"How in hell did ye git into town?" demanded the prisoner. "I rid in," was the short reply. "How'd ye git in the jail-house?" The captive was shamefaced. "I got a leetle too much licker, an' I was shootin' out the lights last night," he confessed. "What business did ye have hyar in Hixon?" "I jest slipped in ter see a gal." Samson leaned closer, and lowered his voice.
Each day they came for their allowance, but still did not offer to assist in removing the captain. Hixon and the rest were very indignant. The captain, however, quieted them, and insisted upon the provisions being equally shared amongst all the survivors from the shipwrecked crew. At length, although their allowance had been still further reduced, no biscuits nor meat remained.
The wind was fair, the weather continued fine. Peter had determined to try again to get Hixon to let him read to him. It seemed so sad that an old man should continue to refuse listening to God's message of love. One Sunday he found him sitting by himself, as he usually did, stitching away on the sleeve of a jacket. Peter sat down near him and began to read to himself.
"Not that, Samson," she pleaded; "not these mountains where we've been together." "You promised. I want you to go to the Lescotts in New York. In a year, you can come back if you want to; but you must promise that." "I promise," she reluctantly yielded. It was half-past nine o'clock when Samson South and Sidney Callomb rode side by side into Hixon from the east.
When on another night two or three began the same sort of work, the rest cried out and told them to let the little psalm-singer alone; even old Hixon held his tongue, and from that time forward Peter was allowed to say his prayers in peace.
"I never get tired of it, but I read it whenever I can; for it's only by reading it that we can know how to obey Christ, and be prepared to live with Him in heaven." "Oh, but I have to live down here and knock about at sea," answered Owen Bell, with a careless laugh. "It will be time enough when I become an old chap, like Simon Hixon, to think about matters of that sort."
These things had been the gifts of friends who liked such a type of God-inspired madness. A "fotched-on" trained nurse was in attendance. From time to time, eminent Bluegrass surgeons came to Hixon by rail, rode twenty miles on mules, and held clinics on the mountainside. To this haven, Jesse Purvy, the murder lord, was borne in a litter carried on the shoulders of his dependents.
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