The news from Poteet's was not so easily lost. It dropped over the sheer walls of the chasm, three hundred feet down, and refused to be drowned out by the rush and roar of the waters, as they leaped over the boulders, until it had accomplished its mission. For here in Prather's Mill Road burned the slow fires that kept the Government officials in Atlanta at a white heat. They were burning now. If one of the officials could have crawled to the edge of the gorge, where everything seemed dwarfed by the towering walls of rook and the black abyss from which they sprang, he would have seen small fitful sparks of flame glowing at intervals upon the bosom of the deeper and blacker night below. These were the fires that all the power and ingenuity of the Government failed to smother, but they were now blown out one after another by the blasts from Sis Poteet's horn.
The news that was wafted down into the depths of Prather's Mill Road upon the wings of the wind was not at all alarming. On the contrary, it was received by the grimy watchers at the stills with considerable hilarity. To the most of them it merely furnished an excuse for a week's holiday, including trips to both Gullettsville and Villa Ray. Freely interpreted, it ran thus: "Friends and fellow- citizens: this is to inform you that Hog Mountain is to be raided by the revenue men by way of Teague Poteet's. Let us hear from you at once." There was neither alarm nor hurry, but the fires were put out quickly, because that was the first thing to be done.
Teague Poteet owned and managed two stills. He was looking after some "doublings" when the notes of the horn dropped down into the gorge. He paused, and listened, and smiled. Uncle Jake Norris, who had come to have his jug filled, was in the act of taking a dram, but he waited, balancing the tin cup in the palm of his hand. Tip Watson was telling one of his stories to the two little boys who accompanied Uncle Jake, but he never ended it.
"Sis talks right out in meetin'," said Teague, after waiting to be sure there was no postscript to the message.
"What's the row, Teague?" asked Uncle Jake, swallowing his dram.
"'Nother raid comin' right in front er my door," Teague explained, "an' I reckon in reason I oughter be home when they go past. They use to be a kinder coolness betweenst me an' them revenue fellers, but we went to work an' patched it up."
Tip Watson appeared to be so overjoyed that he went through all the forms of a cotillon dance, imitating a fiddle, calling the figures, and giving his hand to imaginary partners. The boys fairly screamed with laughter at this exhibition, and Uncle Jake was so overcome that he felt called upon to take another dram—a contingency that was renewed when Tip swung from the measure of a cotillon to that of a breakdown, singing—
"I hain't bin a-wantin' no mo' wines—mo' wines—
Sence daddy got drunk on low wines—low wines."
"Come, Tip," said Teague, "yess shet up shop. Ef Sis ain't a caution," he said, after a while, as he moved around putting things to rights. "Ef Sis ain't a caution, you kin shoot me. They hain't no mo' tellin' wher' Sis picked up 'bout thish 'ere raid than nothin' in the worl'. Dang me ef I don't b'lieve the gal's glad when a raid's a-comin'. Wi' Sis, hit's movement, movement, day in an' day out. They hain't nobody knows that gal less'n it's me. She knows how to keep things a-gwine. Sometimes she runs an' meets me, an' says, se' she: 'Pap, mammy's in the dumps; yess you an' me make out we er quollin'. Hit'll sorter stir 'er up;' an' then Sis, she'll light in, an' by the time we git in the house, she's a-scoldin' an' a-sassin' an' I'm a-cussin', en' airter a while hit gits so hot an' natchul-like that I thes has ter drag Sis out behin' the chimbly and buss 'er for to make certain an' shore that she ain't accidentally flew off the han'le. Bliss your soul an' body! she's a caution!"
"An' what's 'er maw a-doin' all that time?" inquired Uncle Jake, as he took another dram with an indifferent air.