"Samson," she whispered, "ef they're atter ye, come ter my house. I kin hide ye out. Why didn't ye tell me Jesse Purvy'd done been shot?" "Hit tain't nothin' ter fret about, Sally," he assured her. He spoke awkwardly, for he had been trained to regard emotion as unmanly. "Thar hain't no danger." She gazed searchingly into his eyes, and then, with a short sob, threw her arms around him, and buried her face on his shoulder. "Ef anything happens ter ye, Samson," she said, brokenly, "hit'll jest kill me. I couldn't live withouten ye, Samson. I jest couldn't do hit!" The boy took her in his arms, and pressed her close. His eyes were gazing off over her bent head, and his lips twitched. He drew his features into a scowl, because that was the only expression with which he could safeguard his feelings. His voice was husky. "I reckon, Sally," he said, "I couldn't live withouten you, neither." The party of men who had started at morning from Jesse Purvy's store had spent a hard day. The roads followed creek-beds, crossing and recrossing waterways in a fashion that gave the bloodhounds a hundred baffling difficulties. Often, their noses lost the trail, which had at first been so surely taken. Often, they circled and whined, and halted in perplexity, but each time they came to a point where, at the end, one of them again raised his muzzle skyward, and gave voice. Toward evening, they were working up Misery along a course less broken. The party halted for a moment's rest, and, as the bottle was passed, the man from Lexington, who had brought the dogs and stayed to conduct the chase, put a question: "What do you call this creek?" "Hit's Misery." "Does anybody live on Misery that--er--that you might suspect?" The Hollmans laughed. "This creek is settled with Souths thicker'n hops." The Lexington man looked up. He knew what the name of South meant to a Hollman. "Is there any special South, who might have a particular grudge?" "The Souths don't need no partic'lar grudge, but thar's young Samson South. He's a wildcat." "He lives this way?" "These dogs air a-makin' a bee-line fer his house." Jim Hollman was speaking. Then he added: "I've done been told that Samson denies doin' the shootin', an' claims he kin prove an alibi." The Lexington man lighted his pipe, and poured a drink of red whiskey into a flask cup. "He'd be apt to say that," he commented, coolly. "These dogs haven't any prejudice in the matter. I'll stake my life on their telling the truth." An hour later, the group halted again. The master of hounds mopped his forehead. "Are we still going toward Samson South's house?" he inquired. "We're about a quarter from hit now, an' we hain't never varied from the straight road." "Will they be apt to give us trouble?" Jim Hollman smiled. "I hain't never heered of no South submittin' ter arrest by a Hollman." The trailers examined their firearms, and loosened their holster- flaps. The dogs went forward at a trot. CHAPTER VII