Part 6 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: _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 a.s.sistant 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-rus.h.i.+ng 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 role. 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 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.

”By the Lord, boys,” he shouted, ”it's the Bobbie Burns' still!”

Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminis.h.i.+ng puddle. The marshal's voice rasped.

”You're going with us, Ben. It's for you to say how. If we have to, we'll carry you all the way. We'll snake you down the mountains without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours, and then we'll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we've got--face down across the saddle and roped snug. That's the way you'll do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod.

Make up your mind--now! It'll be too late to change it, in a minute.

You're plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!”

And Ben York, s.h.i.+vering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.

”Hit was thet-thar d.a.m.ned gal!” he mumbled venomously. But none heard.

CHAPTER IX

It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht.

Yet, in actual s.p.a.ce, the distance between these two extremes was not great. _The Josephine_, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of polished bra.s.s-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the same day that _The Bonita_ chugged fussily over the same course. The yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in the Harbor of Refuge.

The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand, dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coa.r.s.e marsh gra.s.s grows, with dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these creatures that just now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.

Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.

”Dad told me I could have the runabout ash.o.r.e,” Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. ”We'll go along the beach, as long as the going's good, or till we scare up the ponies.”

”I do hope we'll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water,” Florence exclaimed.

But Josephine was quick to dissent:

”They don't dig for water,” she explained, with a superior air. ”They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them.”

Florence stared disbelievingly.

”Oh, what a whopper!” she cried.

”Captain Hawks told me himself,” Josephine a.s.serted, with confidence.

”He knows all about them--he's seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland.”

”Same ones, probably!” was the tart retort. ”I thought the doctor lied ably, but he's truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours.”

Josephine tossed her head.

”We'll run 'em down and observe their habits, scientifically, and convince you.”

A glance sh.o.r.eward showed the car awaiting them. As they descended the ladder to the launch, a yelp sounded from the deck, and a bull-terrier came charging after. Florence regarded the dog without any evidence of pleasure.

”Does the pest go, too?” she asked, resignedly.