Marshal John Stone was a mountaineer of the better sort, who had the
respect and admiration of the law-abiding citizens in his district,
and the hate of the evil-doers. He stood full six feet in his socks,
and he was broad and muscled in proportion. His gray eyes were of the
sort to harden to steel against an enemy, to soften wonderfully for a
friend. The mouth, half-hidden by the thick mustache, was very firm,
yet prone to smiles. To an excellent intelligence had been added a
fair amount of education. Since he respected both himself and his
work, and had developed a veritable passion for the capture of
malefactors, he was more than usually successful. His zeal, tempered
with discretion, had won the appreciative attention of official
superiors. There could be no doubt that promotion would shortly remove
him to a higher plane of service. The fact would have been most
agreeable to Stone, but for two things. He desired beyond all else,
before going from the mountains, to capture Dan Hodges, who had so
persistently flouted the law, and himself, its representative; the
second unsatisfied ambition was to come on the long-lost Burns'
still.
The Scottish poet's poverty was almost equal to his genius. On that
account, Robert Burns was glad to secure the stipend of fifty pounds a
year to which he became entitled on his appointment as exciseman in
1788. It may be that his convivial habits made his official position
particularly acceptable, since doubtless his perquisites included the
keeping of his own jug filled. And there were moonshiners among the
Scottish hills in those days, as perhaps there are to-day. On
occasion, the poet made a gift of a captured still to some discreet
friend. One recipient emigrated to America, and bore into the
wilderness that has become North Carolina the kettle and cap of copper
on which Burns had graven his name, and the date, 1790. Afterward, as
the years passed, the still knew many owners, mostly unlawful. It won
fame, and this saved it from the junk-heap of its fellows, when seized
by the Federal officers. Three times, it was even placed on public
exhibition. As many, it was stolen by moonshiners. For years now, it
had remained in secret. Marshal Stone yearned to recapture the Burns
still. There was no reason whatsoever for believing it to be in the
possession of Hodges, yet it might as easily be with that desperado as
with another. There was at least the possibility. The marshal, as he
rode north before the dawn next morning, felt a new kindling of hope.
It seemed to him almost certain that the opportunity was at hand to
satisfy one ambition at least by putting Hodges behind the bars. For
the other, it was on the lap of the gods.
The officer was at pains to use every precaution to avoid being
observed while in company with the girl, whom he duly met at the
appointed place while the sun was yet low on the eastern horizon. The
two made their way with what quiet they could through devious paths to
Luffman's Branch. The dew lay heavy on the laurel leaves of the
thickets, and the breeze was perfumed with the penetrant fragrance of
many blossoms. The day was thrilling with the matins of the birds. The
balsamic air was a wine of life. The rugged mountain peaks seemed to
stand as an impregnable barrier against the confusions and evils of
the larger world. But the man and the girl recked nought of these
things as they went forward, with cautious steps and watchful eyes.
They knew that the tranquil scene masked wickedness close by them,
which would not hesitate to destroy. The discovery of the marshal in
that vicinity would mean for him the bullet of an assassin from out
the screen of leaves, and the same fate--or worse--for his companion.
The corpses would be lost in the Devil's Cauldron. Men would whisper
grim surmises, and whisper low lest the like come upon them. And that
would be all.
They reached the cliff top overlooking the little cañon, and Plutina
pointed out the location of the traps on the strip of dry ground
below, and the huddles of brush that disguised the buildings of the
still. Then, the girl went her way. She had done her part. The man
remained to study the scene above for hours through his glasses, and
to map out the night's campaign into the enemy's country.
A delicate moonlight fell over the mountains, when, in the evening,
Stone led his men from the rendezvous at Trap Hill. The six were
heavily armed and well mounted. Their course at the outset led them
along the Elkin road to Joines' store, where they swung into the trail
over which Zeke and Plutina had walked the day of their parting. The
cavalcade rode swiftly. There was no conversation; only the pounding
of hoofs and the jangling of accoutrements. When, at last, they
reached the edge of the Widow Higgins' clearing, they turned sharply
to the eastward, following the path toward the Cherry Lane
post-office. Presently, at a low word of command from the leader, they
halted and dismounted. The horses were left to the care of one man in
a near-by thicket, and the remainder of the party continued the
advance on foot.
The marshal, during his watch on the still that day, had planned his
attack in every detail. He hoped to make his capture of the gang
without unnecessary casualties, for in this particular he had achieved
an enviable record, on which he prided himself. At first, he had
thought of ascending along the course of Luffman's Branch, after
springing the traps, but had given over the plan as one offering more
chance of the raiders being discovered prematurely. Instead, he had
decided on taking his men up the mountainside by a round-about route,
likely to be free from watchers. His men were already instructed in
every point, so now they followed him rapidly and almost noiselessly,
as he forced his way through the thick growths of the wooded slopes.
The darkness added to the difficulties of the progress, but the posse
were inured to hardships, and went onward and upward resolutely.
Despite the necessities of the detour, they came surprisingly soon to
a height from which they looked across a small ravine to the level
space where the still perched by the stream. A few whispered words
from the leader, and the company crept with increased care across the
ravine. From the ridge beyond, three of the men passed forward to make
ambush--one above, and one below, and one on the far side of the
still. Stone and a single companion remained, hiding behind the
clumps of rhododendrons.
It was with huge satisfaction that the marshal recognized Hodges
himself, plainly revealed by the firelight. The "kettle" was running
at full blast. The seasoned hickory logs, in the rough stone furnace
beneath the kettle, were burning fiercely, and the blue and gold of
their flames lighted all the scene into vivid relief against the
background of shadows. Stone, even at his distance, could see
distinctly the tiny stream of colorless mountain-corn whiskey, as it
flowed out from the worm into the keg placed to receive it. The leader
of the gang was seated at ease on a stool just outside the brush
enclosure that masked the buildings. The villain was evidently in a
mood of contentment, untainted by remorse over the havoc his traps
might wreak on any passing through the gorge below. Rather, doubtless,
the memory of those sinister sentinels gave him a sense of safety, on
which his serenity was founded. In his lap was a banjo which he
thrummed vigorously, with rhythmic precision, if no greater musical
art, and head and body and feet, all gave emphasis to the movement. At
intervals, his raucous voice rumbled a snatch of song. It was evident
that the moonshiner was mellow from draughts of his own potent
product.
Others of the gang were busied here and there, bulking grotesquely as
they moved about the fire, seeming disheveled demons of the pit. Like
some master imp torturing a pigmy over the flames, old Ben York was
kneeling close beside the blaze, holding to the coals a hickory stick,
which served as spit for the roasting of a squirrel. The brilliance
shone full on the frowsy gray whiskers, and, above them, the blinking,
rheumy eyes, so intent on the proper browning of the game. None of the
outlaws had a weapon in his grasp--a fact noted with satisfaction by
the chief of the raiders, who knew that these men would not scruple
against bloodshed to escape arrest. There were arms at hand, of
course; Hodges' rifle was visible, leaning against a ground pine
within his reach. But Stone hoped that the surprise would be such that
the gang could not avail themselves of their weapons.
Hodges had just completed a strident rendering of "Cripple Crick," and
had thumped out the opening bars of "Short'nin' Bread," when the
marshal gave the signal for attack--a single flash of his electric
torch. In the same second, the raiders' rifles crashed out. The big
bullets struck true to aim in the ground of the open place before the
fire. A shower of dirt and pebbles spat back viciously. Some of the
flying fragments struck the men, terrifying them with the thought of
bullet wounds. Hodges, as the reports sounded, felt the bruise of
stones on his bare legs, and shrieked in panic fear. His instinctive
recoil carried him over backward, from the stool to the ground. The
banjo jangled discordant triumph over his fall. When, dazed by the
suddenness of it all, he would have struggled up, he found himself
fast in the clutches of two raiders, who locked manacles on his
wrists. Stone grunted joyously as he surveyed the captive. The others
of the gang, except Ben York, had contrived to slip away into the
laurel, whither it would avail nothing to follow them, save useless
risk of being killed from ambush. But the marshal cared little for the
escape of the lesser malefactors. He had succeeded in taking prisoner
the most notorious criminal of the mountains.
Ben York had failed to effect his usual flight, because of being at a
disadvantage on his knees. Before he could scramble up for a plunge
into the thickets the enemy was upon him. Yet, even in this moment of
shock, the old scoundrel's cunning sought and found a ruse. He stood
swaying for seconds, and then tumbled limply headlong to the ground,
in a drunkard's fall, familiar to his muscles by experience through
three-score years. So he lay inert, seemingly sodden from the kettle's
brew. His captors, if resolved to hold him prisoner, would be forced
to the arduous task of carrying him through the dark, down the rough
slopes. It would be strange, he mused complacently, if in the course
of the journey, their vigilance did not relax a little. And a very
little would suffice him! Then, though to all appearance in a drunken
stupor, he sighed. He was unhappily aware that the revenue men would
not be gentle in their efforts to arouse him to consciousness. Whether
they believed him shamming or not, they would use no doubtful
measures. But, whatever might come, he must endure it for the sake of
escape.
[Illustration:
_Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick._
AFTER THE RAID.]
The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with
their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open
road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay
the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two
prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty
required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt
and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since
York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side,
without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man
to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient
drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test
at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove
in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his
foot, close to one of the great "stands" of the mixture, and bade an
appreciative assistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that
bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid
gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never
stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He
made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a
half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the
fellow's state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose,
glistening from the pool of the "beer." The thin wisps of gray hair
hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there
was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal
guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which
had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the first time in the
memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the
grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of
ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of "beer." Even now, however, Ben
clung to his rôle. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit
placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For
better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a
bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his
scrawny hands in the "beer," and cackled. It was admirable art, but
wasted.
The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both
"singlin's" and "doublin's," were poured out on the ground, which
drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning "boomer." Then, the
raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and
his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap,
drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In
the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten
his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost,
not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap
where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his
knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to
joyousness.
"By the Lord, boys," he shouted, "it's the Bobbie Burns' still!"
Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered
his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them
on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from
toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminishing puddle. The
marshal's voice rasped.
"You're going with us, Ben. It's for you to say how. If we have to,
we'll carry you all the way. We'll snake you down the mountains
without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours,
and then we'll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we've
got--face down across the saddle and roped snug. That's the way you'll
do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod.
Make up your mind--now! It'll be too late to change it, in a minute.
You're plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!"
And Ben York, shivering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the
inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.
"Hit was thet-thar damned gal!" he mumbled venomously. But none
heard.