Frank Merriwell Down South Part 65

"Wal, they may be officers, but they're a difrrunt kind than Jock Hawkins."

"Who is Jock Hawkins?"

"He's ther sheriff down to ther cove. Jock Hawkins knows better'n to come snoopin' 'round, an' he's down on revenues ther same as ther rest o' us is."

"Then you do not like the revenue officers?"

"Like 'em!" cried the girl, starting up, her eyes seeming to blaze in the dusky twilight. "I hate 'em wuss'n pizen! An' I've got good cause fer hatin' 'em."

The boy saw he had touched a tender spot, and he would have turned the conversation in another channel, but she was started, and she went on swiftly:

"What right has ther gover'ment to take away anybody's honest means o'

earnin' a livin'? What right has ther gover'ment to send spies up har ter peek an' pry an' report on a man as is makin' a little moons.h.i.+ne ter sell that he may be able ter git bread an' drink fer his fam'ly? What right has ther gover'ment ter make outlaws an' crim'nals o' men as wouldn't steal a cent that didn't b'long ter them if they was starvin'?"

Frank knew well enough the feeling of most mountain folks toward the revenue officers, and he knew it was a useless task to attempt to show them where they were in the wrong.

Kate went on, pa.s.sionately.

"Yes, I has good right to hate ther revenues, an' I do! Didn't they pester my pore old daddy fer makin' moons.h.i.+ne! Didn't they hunt him through ther maountings fer weeks, an' keep him hidin' like a dog! An'

didn't they git him cornered at last in Bent Coin's old cabin, an' when he refused ter come out an' surrender, an' kep' 'em off with his gun, didn't they shoot him so he died three days arter in my arms! Hate 'em!

Wal, I've got good reason ter hate 'em!"

Kate was wildly excited, although she held her voice down, as if she did not wish her mother to hear what she was saying. Frank was sitting so near that he felt her arm quivering against his.

"Hate 'em!" continued the girl. "I has more than that to hate 'em fer!

Whar is my brother Rufe, ther best boy that ever drored a breath? Ther revenues come fer him, an' they got him. Thar war a trial, an' they proved ez he'd been consarned in makin' moons.h.i.+ne. He war convicted, an'

he's servin' his time. Hate 'em! Wal, thar's nuthin' I hate wuss on this earth!"

"You have had hard luck," said Frank, by way of saying something. "It's lucky for us that we're not revenues."

"Yer right thar," she nodded. "I didn't know but ye war at first, but I changed my mind later."

"Why?"

"Wal, ye're young, an' you-uns both has honest faces. Revenues is sneaks. They show it in their faces."

"I don't suppose they have been able to check the making of moons.h.i.+ne--that is, not to any extent?"

She laughed harshly.

"Wal, I judge not! Did ye ever hear o' Muriel?"

"Who is he?"

"A moons.h.i.+ner."

"What of him?"

"He makes more whiskey in a week than all ther others in this region afore him made in a month."

"He must be smarter than the others before him."

"Wal, he's not afeared o' ther revenues, an' he's a mystery to ther men ez works fer him right along."

"A mystery?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"None o' them has seen his face, an' they don't know Who he is. They ain't been able to find out."

"And they have tried?"

"Wal, Con Bean war shot through ther shoulder fer follerin' Muriel, an'

Bink Mower got it in ther leg fer ther same trick."

"I rather admire this Muriel," laughed Frank. "He may be in unlawful business, but he seems to be a dandy."

"He keeps five stills runnin' all ther time, an' he has a way o' gittin'

ther stuff out o' ther maountings an' disposin' of it. But I'm talkin'

too much, as Wade would say."

"Who is Wade?"

"He's Wade Miller, a partic'lar friend o' our'n sence Rufe war tooken by ther revenues. Wade has been good to mammy an' me."

"I don't blame him. If I lived near, I might try to bother Wade somewhat."

She glanced at him swiftly. It was now duskish, but he was so near that he could see her eyes through the twilight.

"I dunno what you-uns means," she said, slowly, her voice falling. "Wade would be powerful bad to bother. He's ugly sometimes, an' he's jellus o'

me."

"Then Wade is paying attention to you?"

"Wal, he's tryin' ter, but I don't jes' snuggle ter him ther way I might ef I liked him right. Thar's something about him, ez I don't edzac'ly like."

"That makes it rather one-sided, and makes me think all the more that I should try to bother him if I lived near. Do you know, Miss Kenyon, that you are an exceptionally pretty girl?"

"Go 'long! You can't stuff me! Why, I've got red hair!"

"Hair that would make you the envy of a society belle. It is the handsomest hair I ever saw."

"Now you're makin' fun o' me, an' I don't like that."

She drew away as if offended, and he leaned toward her, eager to convince her of his sincerity.

"Indeed, I am doing nothing of the sort," he protested. "The moment I saw you to-day I was struck by the beauty of your hair. But that is not the only beautiful feature about you, Miss Kenyon. Your mouth is a perfect Cupid's bow, and your teeth are like pearls, while you have a figure that is graceful and exquisite."