A Tar-Heel Baron

by Mabell S. C. Smith

Soon, indeed, amid a shower of bark and burning punk, a black and white ball scrambled into the air and dropped from the ragged splinters that offered no sufficient hold for its claws.

As swift as sight, 'Gene Frady dashed close to the bole and caught the falling creature in his hands. High above the leaping dogs he held it, while they snarled, defrauded of their prey.

"Quick, that crocus sack," he called. "Ah promised the kids to bring one home. Give him a switch, Mitchell."

The 'possum, rousing from the semi-stupor into which the smoke and the shock of his fall had thrown him, was beginning to struggle violently. Robertson broke a finger-thick stick and thrust it between the snapping jaws, that clamped upon it fiercely. The rat-like tail wound about the other end of the rod, and the bag was drawn over him while he clung to his fancied means of safety. Frady flung his burden high on his back to secure it from the dogs, and the others put out the fire in the tree, and again fell into open order to beat the woods.

The next 'possum which they discovered, more fortunate than his brother, who had been sighted on the ground where locomotion is slow and awkward for his kind, was aloft in the branches when the dogs spied him. He clambered dexterously about with his hand-like extremities, aiding his progress with his prehensile tail; but he had not calculated upon the added heaviness which his autumn diet had given him. He ventured upon a sapling that bent beneath him. Wendell added his weight to bear it to the ground, and the dogs leaped at their victim and tore him into bits.

Both men and dogs were tired now, and pushed on with less enthusiasm. The dogs, indeed, who had covered many more miles in their wild dashings than had their masters, were not above sitting down occasionally and lapping a memento of the last 'possum's sharp teeth, or passing a rueful paw over a slit and bleeding ear.

As they were approaching the southern end of the mountain, and realized that the edge of the excitement was blunted, the men walked nearer to each other, and talked on indifferent themes as they pushed through the brush just below the top of the ridge. One after another fell silent, perhaps through fatigue; possibly impressed with the beauty of the night.

Through the openings in the tree-tops the stars shone with steady clearness, doing their best to replace the light of the little moon which had gone to rest early, like most young things. Under the forest cover the starlight did not penetrate, and the darkness was illumined by the yellow flare of the torches. The fall of feet on crackling twigs, and the slapping of smitten shrub-leaves broke the thick silence that falls on the earth with night.

To Pink Pressley, crouching at the entrance of his cave, the sound of approaching steps was a threat. He had put out his fire as soon as he heard the dogs on the other end of the ridge, and for two hours he had followed the course of the hunt by their barking and the cries of the men. He guessed it to be what it was,—a 'possum-hunt,—yet suspicion born of guilt hinted always at such a hunt as an excuse for a raid upon his still.

On the other hand, the party was coming from the north, and might be made up of men from Asheville. In that case, since, perhaps, they did not know the mountain, it was quite possible that they would turn back before they reached his hiding-place. At any rate, he determined to stay where he was, and run the risk of detection. If it should prove to be a raid, he was not averse to exchanging shots with the revenue men. The thought of it filled him with a fierce joy. Three times they had destroyed his whole plant, and this time he meant to fight for it.