It was with huge satisfaction that the marshal recognized Hodges himself, plainly revealed by the firelight. The “kettle” was running at full blast. The seasoned hickory logs, in the rough stone furnace beneath the kettle, were burning fiercely, and the blue and gold of their flames lighted all the scene into vivid relief against the background of shadows. Stone, even at his distance, could see distinctly the tiny stream of colorless mountain-corn whiskey, as it flowed out from the worm into the keg placed to receive it. The leader of the gang was seated at ease on a stool just outside the brush enclosure that masked the buildings. The villain was evidently in a mood of contentment, untainted by remorse over the havoc his traps might wreak on any passing through the gorge below. Rather, doubtless, the memory of those sinister sentinels gave him a sense of safety, on which his serenity was founded. In his lap was a banjo which he thrummed vigorously, with rhythmic precision, if no greater musical art, and head and body and feet, all gave emphasis to the movement. At intervals, his raucous voice rumbled a snatch of song. It was evident that the moonshiner was mellow from draughts of his own potent product.
Others of the gang were busied here and there, 90 bulking grotesquely as they moved about the fire, seeming disheveled demons of the pit. Like some master imp torturing a pigmy over the flames, old Ben York was kneeling close beside the blaze, holding to the coals a hickory stick, which served as spit for the roasting of a squirrel. The brilliance shone full on the frowsy gray whiskers, and, above them, the blinking, rheumy eyes, so intent on the proper browning of the game. None of the outlaws had a weapon in his grasp—a fact noted with satisfaction by the chief of the raiders, who knew that these men would not scruple against bloodshed to escape arrest. There were arms at hand, of course; Hodges’ rifle was visible, leaning against a ground pine within his reach. But Stone hoped that the surprise would be such that the gang could not avail themselves of their weapons.
Hodges had just completed a strident rendering of “Cripple Crick,” and had thumped out the opening bars of “Short’nin’ Bread,” when the marshal gave the signal for attack—a single flash of his electric torch. In the same second, the raiders’ rifles crashed out. The big bullets struck true to aim in the ground of the open place before the fire. A shower of dirt and pebbles spat back viciously. Some of the flying fragments struck the men, terrifying them with the thought of bullet wounds. Hodges, as the reports sounded, felt the bruise of 91 stones on his bare legs, and shrieked in panic fear. His instinctive recoil carried him over backward, from the stool to the ground. The banjo jangled discordant triumph over his fall. When, dazed by the suddenness of it all, he would have struggled up, he found himself fast in the clutches of two raiders, who locked manacles on his wrists. Stone grunted joyously as he surveyed the captive. The others of the gang, except Ben York, had contrived to slip away into the laurel, whither it would avail nothing to follow them, save useless risk of being killed from ambush. But the marshal cared little for the escape of the lesser malefactors. He had succeeded in taking prisoner the most notorious criminal of the mountains.
Ben York had failed to effect his usual flight, because of being at a disadvantage on his knees. Before he could scramble up for a plunge into the thickets the enemy was upon him. Yet, even in this moment of shock, the old scoundrel’s cunning sought and found a ruse. He stood swaying for seconds, and then tumbled limply headlong to the ground, in a drunkard’s fall, familiar to his muscles by experience through three-score years. So he lay inert, seemingly sodden from the kettle’s brew. His captors, if resolved to hold him prisoner, would be forced to the arduous task of carrying him through the dark, down the rough slopes. It would be 92 strange, he mused complacently, if in the course of the journey, their vigilance did not relax a little. And a very little would suffice him! Then, though to all appearance in a drunken stupor, he sighed. He was unhappily aware that the revenue men would not be gentle in their efforts to arouse him to consciousness. Whether they believed him shamming or not, they would use no doubtful measures. But, whatever might come, he must endure it for the sake of escape.
Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick.
AFTER THE RAID.
The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side, without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his foot, close to one of the great “stands” of the mixture, and bade an appreciative assistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the fellow’s state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose, glistening from the pool of the “beer.” The thin wisps of gray hair hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the first time in the memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of “beer.” Even now, however, Ben clung to his rôle. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his 94 scrawny hands in the “beer,” and cackled. It was admirable art, but wasted.
The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both “singlin’s” and “doublin’s,” were poured out on the ground, which drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning “boomer.” Then, the raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap, drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost, not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to joyousness.