Joe scratched his head, speaking cautiously. "I works fer wages myself. Dog hires me—albeit I'd ruther do any other fashion of labor. Howsoever, I don't aim ter make common cause with no revenuers. I hain't no Judas priest."
"Revenuers—hell!" exploded Bear Cat Stacy. "I don't make no common cause with 'em nuther. I'm willin' ter let ther government skin hits own skunks."
For so portentous a decision, Joe Sanders gave a disproportionately laconic reply. "All right then. Ye kin count me in es fur es ye goes."
It was a night of fitful moonlight, breaking through a scud of windy clouds, only to be swallowed again, when by the flare of a lantern the three men stood over the ruins of what had been a crude distillery—its erstwhile proprietor grinning sardonically as he surveyed the completeness of his vandalism.
"I reckon thet finishes ye up, old whiskey-snake," he commented in grim obituary. "I boughten thet piece of copper offen a feller thet murdered a revenuer ter save hit—so hit's due fer punishment."
"Thet's all right so far es hit goes," Bear Cat reminded him crisply, "but hit don't go far enough. We've got more work ter do yit. When men wakes up ter-morrer, they've got ter hev proof thet I've started out in earnest." Around the fire the three squatted on their heels, and talked in low voices.
"I knows of three more stills sca'cely more'n a whoop an' a holler distant from hyar es ye mout say," volunteered Joe Sanders. "I hain't settin' hit out fer gospel fact, but I've heered hit norated round about, thet Mark Tapper don't even try ter molest these stills on account of a deal he's made with Kinnard."
"Wa'al, Kinnard hain't got no bit in my mouth," growled Dog. "Whar air these places at, Joe?"
Sanders was now innoculated with the spirit of crusade—not so much as a reform as a new and impudent adventure—and his lips parted in a contented grin that showed his uneven teeth.
"A couple on 'em air closed down fer ther time-bein'," he enlightened, "but ther worms air thar. By ter-morrer Kinnard'll jest about hev passed on a warnin' an' they'll be watched, but ter-night hit's cl'ar sleddin'. A man kin bust 'em up single handed an' nuver be suspicioned. Hit'll tek all three of us tergether ter manage ther third one though, because thet still b'longs ter little Jake Kinnard an' Jake or his law-kin Mat Branham'll be on watch—mebby both of 'em."