As she entered the great half-lighted room, where the mill stones creaked on their cumbersome shafts, the hum of discussion sank to silence. The place was brown with age and dirt, and powdered with a coarse dusting of meal. The girl nodded to the mountaineers gathered in conclave, then, turning to the miller she announced: "I'm going to send for Samson." The statement was at first met with dead silence, then came a rumble of indignant dissent, but for that the girl was prepared, as she was prepared for the contemptuous laughter which followed. "I reckon if Samson was here," she said, dryly, "you all wouldn't think it was quite so funny." Old Caleb Wiley spat through his bristling beard, and his voice was a quavering rumble. "What we wants is a man. We hain't got no use fer no traitors thet's too almighty damn busy doin' fancy work ter stand by their kith an' kin." "That's a lie!" said the girl, scornfully. "There's just one man living that's smart enough to match Jesse Purvy--an' that one man is Samson. Samson's got the right to lead the Souths, and he's going to do it--ef he wants to." "Sally," Wile McCager spoke, soothingly, "don't go gittin' mad. Caleb talks hasty. We knows ye used ter be Samson's gal, an' we hain't aimin' ter hurt yore feelin's. But Samson's done left the mountings. I reckon ef he wanted ter come back, he'd a-come afore now. Let him stay whar he's at." "Whar is he at?" demanded old Caleb Wiley, in a truculent voice. "That's his business," Sally flashed back, "but I know. All I want to tell you is this. Don't you make a move till I have time to get word to him. I tell you, he's got to have his say." "I reckon we hain't a-goin' ter wait," sneered Caleb, "fer a feller thet won't let hit be known whar he's a-sojournin' at. Ef ye air so shore of him, why won't ye tell us whar he is now?" "That's my business, too." Sally's voice was resolute. "I've got a letter here--it'll take two days to get to Samson. It'll take him two or three days more to get here. You've got to wait a week." "Sally," the temporary chieftain spoke still in a patient, humoring sort of voice, as to a tempestuous child, "thar hain't no place ter mail a letter nigher then Hixon. 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." "Who's goin' ter take hit ter town fer ye?" "I'm goin' to take it for myself." Her reply was given as a matter of course. "That wouldn't hardly be safe, Sally," the miller demurred; "this hain't no time fer a gal ter be galavantin' around by herself in the night time. Hit's a-comin' up ter storm, an' ye've got thirty miles ter ride, an' thirty-five back ter yore house."