Splashes of crimson and gold dappled the east, and a great sun shot its lances of molten glory beyond the mountain-tops.
Before the sun showed half its russet disk the deputy sheriff sat his horse at the witch-elm block in front of the Lutts cabin, preparatory to departure.
The Lutts household, including Slab, was on hand with hospitable farewells—though little Bud hung back suspiciously.
At no time during the sheriff's stop had Cap Lutts uttered a word of reference to the business that had brought the officer to his door. Nor had the sheriff broached the subject again. With keen understanding and quick insight he waited patiently for the answer to his mission.
But now, as he sat his horse on the verge of departure, he looked at old Lutts expectantly and with direct inquiry in his eyes. Lutts caught the import, and answered with small concern.
"Oh, yes! Yo' jest tell th' sheriff an' them revenuers down below thet ef they want th' ole man bad 'nough, t' cum up an' root em out."
The deputy knew this was final, and as the old moonshiner's great hand closed over his in parting the officer secretly hoped that the arm of the law would fall short of the Lutts domicile.
"Well, captain, I'm afraid they'll start something below—especially that man over from Frankfort—that Burton. He's awful determined, and he blames us some. Good-by!"
A short distance away the officer pulled up short and, turning in his saddle, beckoned to the old man.
The deputy leaned over and spoke in undertones, as though the rocks and trees had ears.