"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. A dozen of the older Souths, who had not become soldiers, met them there, and, with no word, separated to close about them in a circle of protection. As Callomb's eyes swept the almost deserted streets, so silent that the strident switching of a freight train could be heard down at the edge of town, he shook his head. As he met the sullen glances of the gathering in the court-house yard, he turned to Samson.
"They'll fight," he said, briefly.
Samson nodded.
"I don't understand the method," demurred the officer, with perplexity. "Why don't they shoot you at once. What are they waiting for?"
"They want to see," Samson assured him, "what tack I mean to take. They want to let the thing play itself out, They're inquisitive—and they're cautious, because now they are bucking the State and the world."
Samson with his escort rode up to the court-house door, and dismounted. He was for the moment unarmed, and his men walked on each side of him, while the onlooking Hollmans stood back in surly silence to let him pass. In the office of the County Judge, Samson said briefly:
"I want to get my deputies sworn in."
"We've got plenty deputy sheriffs," was the quietly insolent rejoinder.
"Not now—we haven't any." Samson's voice was sharply incisive. "I'll name my own assistants."