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Updated: June 23, 2025
It was approached from above rather than from below, by a winding way, beside the cliff between great boulders, which was so steep and brambly and impracticable that it was hardly likely to be espied by "revenuers." The rock house opened on space. Beyond the narrow path at its entrance the descent was sheer to the bottom of the gorge below.
The "revenuers" by that time would be far away, and the pervasive security, always the sequence of a raid, successful or otherwise, would once more promote the manufacture of the brush whisky. The managers of the moon-shining interest had taken measures to guard Wyatt's aged father from this fantasy of woe, but they had not dreamed that the mountain coquette might care.
"Who would I mean but that damn' furriner, Frank Layson? He warn't satisfied with comin' here an' stealin' you away from me! He had to put th' revenuers on th' track o' th' old still that was my dad's afore me, an' has been th' one thing, siden you, I've ever keered fer in my life." "You're wrong, Joe," she insisted. "You're shore wrong. Frank Layson'd never do a coward's trick like that!"
"I know what th' mountings think o' revenuers, an' I reckon, from yer handlin' o' that rifle, that you're no friend o' Layson's." Joe, full of the fierce bitterness of his resentment, was ready to confide in anyone his hatred of the "furriner" who had come up and won the girl he loved. He let the barrel of his rifle slip between his fingers till its stock was resting on the ground.
A grim smile stirred the leathern folds of his old cheeks. "Thar yet," he thought, "an' doin' business yet." Again, after he had worked about to get a better view. "Best-hidden still in these here mountings. Revenuers never will get run of it." The place had a mighty fascination for him, as if it might have played a tremendous part in long-gone passages of his own life.
"Thar's plenty o' men and women grown, in these mountains, who don't know that the Government is ary thing but a president in a biled shirt who commands two-three judges and a gang o' revenue officers. They know thar's a president, because the men folks's voted for him, and the women folks's seed his pictur. They've heered tell about the judges; and they've seed the revenuers in flesh and blood.
Somebody as stumbled on yore still while he was huntin'." Lorey looked at him, wide-eyed, infuriated. Instantly he quite believed what Holton said. It dove-tailed with his own grim hate of Layson that Layson should hate him and try to work his ruin by giving information to the revenuers. "Somebody huntin'!" he exclaimed. "Frank Layson! Say it, say it!"
"Con Hite dunno what he wants; he ain't got a ounce o' jedgmint." "Waal, one thing he don't want is a road. He be 'feared it'll go too close ter the still, an' the raiders will nose him out somehows. Now he be all snug in the bresh, an' the revenuers none the wiser." "An' Con none the wiser, nuther," she flouted. "The raiders hev smoked out 'sperienced old mountain foxes a heap slyer'n Con be.
Ez God is my helper and my hope, I warn't even thar." She stood astounded. "Then why n't ye leave it ter men?" "I can't prove it ag'in' the murderers' oaths. I had been consarned in the moonshinin' that ended in murder, but I hed not been nigh the still fer a month, I war out a-huntin' when the revenuers made the raid.
No trace that human beings had ever invaded these solitudes could he discover. No vague, faint suggestion of the well-hidden lair of the moonshiners did the wild covert show forth. "The revenuers war smarter'n me; I'll say that fur 'em," he muttered at last as he came to a stand-still, his chin in his hand, his perplexed eyes on the ground.
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