THE FROLIC AT SEMMES’ COVE
IT WAS late afternoon when David Joslin and Calvin Trasker, his kinsman, started into the hills. They rode in silence as they followed the winding little path which led up into the wilderness of the upper ridges. Each was armed with a heavy revolver which swung under his coat, and each carried in his side pockets abundance of additional ammunition for his weapon. Neither spoke. Neither showed any agitation.
They pulled up at the imprint of horses’ hoofs on the trail coming up from one of the little side ravines.
Trasker spoke. “Absalom, he don’t live so far off from here.”
“I wish’t he’d stay at home,” said David Joslin moodily.
“Look-a-here, Dave,” began the other testily. “What’s the matter with ye? Is thar arything in this here talk I heerd about ye feelin’ maybe ye was called to be a preacher, same as yore daddy?”
Joslin replied calmly. “I don’t know. I’m askin’ fer a leadin’. I kain’t see that this here business is quite right no more.”
“Ye don’t belong in here then,” said Trasker, and half drew rein.
“I do belong in here, an’ nowhars else!” said David Joslin. “If I ever was called—if I ever come to preach in these here hills, you-all’ll feel I wasn’t no coward. I’m a-goin’ to prove it to you-all that I hain’t.”
“Go ahead,” said Trasker succinctly, and again Joslin led the way up the mountain slope.