"You made liquor?" I exclaimed.
"Can't remember when I didn't," he replied; "I holp paw from the time I could walk. I would go with him up the hollow, and gather wood for the fire, and then set and watch the singlings whilst he kep' a lookout for officers. And sometimes he would let me mix the doublings, too. And when the liquor was made, and folks would come to buy it, I would circle round up in the field where it was hid, to show 'em the place, and they would come up with their jugs and leave the money under a stump. Gee, I knowed so much about the business I could run it myself!"
"I hope and pray you never will," I said, earnestly.
"What you got again' it,—you haint no officer," he said.
"No," I said, "but I think it is wrong." And I gave my reasons, which, however, failed to carry much conviction.
"The marshal that kilt your paw," inquired Nucky, at last, "how long you aim to let him live?"
"Till I'm good and ready for him," replied Killis; "I got a dead tree up the hollow I practice on all the time,—there's a band breast-high around it black with bullet-holes. Sometimes I shoot walking, and sometimes running, and sometimes I fetch a nag up and gallop around and shoot. When I get so I never miss, I'll ride over where he lives at and tell him 'I'm Steve Blair's boy,' and shoot him down like a dog, and revenge my paw, and do my duty."
A murmur of quiet approval began with Nucky and passed around the circle.