I found the county was as big as Rhode Island and without a railroad; the county seat a village, and the sheriff a picturesque character. He said he could give minute directions to locate this "still," but so far as he was concerned "p.u.s.s.enly" he had just been re-elected and wanted to serve out his term, "sheriffing" being the best paid job in the county, and that his family needed the money. He was strongly of the belief an attempt on his part to capture the gang would be a direct bid for the undertaker and a successor.

"But, now suh, don't misunderstand," he continued. "Those three or four fellows up there in the 'cut-over' ain't no _friends_ of mine."

The "still" was up the river about thirty miles, and then off three miles, in a creek that was almost dry, except at high tide.

He helped me procure a flat-bottomed rowboat, to which I attached an electric propeller which I thought would send it along quietly--oars are much too noisy--and I started out at night, expecting to get at the mouth of the creek at high tide, which would be about midnight.

After going up the river some twenty miles, I saw a light ahead on the left bank that soon grew into a row of lights,--and electric lights, too. I thought it must be a packet coming down, but packets on that river were small, primitive affairs and again, as I drew closer I saw that the lights were not moving, but located on the bank that raised a little at that point. I thought it strange the sheriff did not mention this landmark. As I came abreast of it, I could see it was some kind of a factory, but decided to look it over, "if I come back," which the sheriff had cast doubt upon.

For a few miles above something about the contour of the bank puzzled me for a time. I was conscious of the fact that memory and geography are often linked together. Unerringly I could think of a hotel by name when I reached a town, not having thought of it before in years. Even a telephone number I could recall when the geography was right. Having discussed this mental phenomena with others I found I was not alone in possession of this freak of the brain.

After pa.s.sing that factory I reclined in the bow of the boat, lulled by the rhythmic, noiseless motion of the little screw propeller; the left bank suddenly became familiar. Then, as though a door in my memory had suddenly opened I knew it was here, on this same Altamara River, that I broke camp five years before, and the memory of forgotten Howard Byng stood before me, with the vividness of yesterday. I had expected to hear good things of him some time. I could recall his broken voice asking me to take him with me, feel his wringing hand-shake, bidding me good-bye; perhaps I magnified the abandon in his last wave of the hand as he stood on the end of the wharf watching me leave, disheartened and disconsolate as a lost soul. Then like a wave of nausea came the thought that he might be with this very gang I was going after. I believed he would be a force wherever he was. The time and place synchronized.

But here was my landmark to enter the creek, calling for extreme caution. I had ample notice that this gang was bold and would shoot to kill, if necessary. I didn't mind the danger much, but I did fear failure. The creek was as crooked as a ram's horn and the "still" was at the very end of it, in a dug-out on a little knoll in the low land.

I felt I was near the end of it when the fog came, making the dark night almost black. I had to feel my way in the slough creek that had narrowed now to six or eight feet through high gra.s.s.

I knew when I had reached the end, for I drew alongside the scow-like boat described to me, and often seen on the river, but there was neither sound, light, nor sign of life. I took my time and was careful. I sat very quietly in the boat for a few minutes, listening and going over again my plan of action, then I felt about their boat cautiously. It was motor-driven and might carry a ton.

Stepping out on the oozy bank, I began to crawl through the wet and clammy fog in the direction given by the sheriff, but could see nothing and was forced to feel my way along. My rifle and bag, slung over my shoulder, made progress slow and I noticed the ground was rising a little, further identifying the locality.

When I came up to a big stump the oppressive graveyard stillness was broken for the first time by a sound like a man breathing. I crawled a little more and listened. Surely it came from human lungs. There could be no mistake. It was the stuporous breathing of a drunk.

I hitched forward again and vision became clearer. The noise came from inside the stump evidently hollow. Straining my vision I learned that it was about four feet high and one side of it missing. Then I made out the dim outlines of a man sitting inside. I cautiously felt for his form with my hand, then quickly jerked back and away.

I had touched a naked foot, a human foot--but the heavy breathing continued. It was their lookout, their sentinel--of whom I had been warned--and he was evidently stupified by the product from the "still," a moonshiner's great weakness.

I could trace the long-barreled squirrel rifle standing close beside him and I waited cautiously for other signs of life. None came. I touched his foot again. No move. Ready to throttle him on the instant, I pressed the foot again slightly, and then the other one. The "swamp juice" was squarely on the throne. The fellow was inanimate.

I was able to manacle his feet without awakening him, then took away his rifle and began to manacle his hands and his feet. Soon they were ironed--and he still slept.

My success emboldened me. One man was harmless even if he made an outcry but I still walked cautiously, trying to locate the "still"

house in the cave. I was confronted with a collection of uprooted stumps, a circular barricade, but in a moment I caught the slightest flicker of light. I was sure then, and moved silently along toward the layout. I knew there must be an entrance, and I now plainly detected the fumes of charcoal and the mash tub. The next thing in order was to get inside.

Following the circle of stumps I came to the entrance, a ditch that led down to the floor level of the place. Time was speeding and I was afraid the stupified sentinel might awaken and give an alarm. Silently I worked up to a narrow door crudely made of upright board planks. Big cracks enabled me to see the interior. There were two men. The older was sitting asleep against the wall, the younger man moving about. I could see his outline plainly by the light of a candle. His figure seemed familiar. He opened the furnace door to put more charcoal under the still--I could see his face. Howard Byng! His hair was long again, his face, smooth when I last saw it, was now covered with a bushy black beard. G.o.d only knows how I regretted the work ahead of me. If I had only declined this job! The thought brought a cold sweat.

CHAPTER III

My shock at seeing Howard Byng in such a place was distinctly depressing. My soul cried out for the boy for whom I had formed a strong attachment and I leaned against the narrow ditch entrance for a moment, overcome. There are pigeon holes in our memories for every sort of information, the pleasant things and the unpleasant. I had placed Howard Byng in a warm, honest, hopeful compartment, and to suddenly learn that I had warmed a viper produced a conflict of emotions. They seemed a jangle of sharp, ear-splitting sounds, as hammers played upon steel to produce discord. I was overcome for the moment. I felt Howard Byng had done me a personal wrong as I vividly recalled again his honest, fearless, cordial gaze, when he bade me good-bye. I had looked into his eyes and felt sure he was clean; I knew he had a big, tender heart. Now he had gone back, and worse--he had become a notorious outlaw and I--I was to take him, dead or alive.

This went through my mind in seconds. How far was I to blame for not wanting to take that boy with me there and then? I could let him escape, but the law--it must be fulfilled. I could not neglect my duty to the state. I don't mind confessing personal ambition, pride and love of adventure; and for audacity and boldness, this Federal violation had no equal. I wanted this to be my last and best work for the Excise Department before I was transferred to the Counterfeit Division.

It doesn't affect Howard Byng's history much how I let off a stick of dynamite on one side of the establishment, and by a flare of light took both men chained to their drunken sentinel in their own boat with the copper "still" and a dozen or more jugs of moonshine for evidence.

Another heavy charge of explosive left a deep hole where the "still"

house stood.

My prisoners were sullen and uttered no sound. They knew their prison days were at hand. I put them in their own boat, towing mine, and hurried quickly down the creek to the river. Though manacled hand and foot and chained to a cleet, I felt none too safe.

I knew Howard Byng was powerful, likely cunning and treacherous now, and the strain was considerable. Three o'clock in the morning I pa.s.sed the old camp ground. The night packet, due at the county seat early in the morning, was landing at the big plant when I got there. Why not get my prisoners aboard it and be sure?

I ran to the landing and in a few minutes I had them on deck. The captain fixed it with the foreman to look out for my boats. I would came back for them on the packet's return trip that night.

Well, when I got my men in a good light on the packet, the man I thought was Howard Byng resembled him only in physique and hair. I was more delighted at that discovery than I was at the complete success of my night's work. Byng had a bold, fighting aquiline nose and a big man's ear, brain and features to back it. This man's nose traveled down like a roller coaster, blank, horsey features, a dish-faced, vicious animal, his ears like the flap of a tent, his eyes burning like a cornered wolf.

Whether it was thinking so much of Howard Byng or the geography, I had an impression of his nearness and it bothered me. I asked the somnolent sheriff about him after delivering to him the "swamp angels"

next morning. He said he wasn't much of a traveler, never heard of any such man and didn't even know about the big plant where I left the boats, though only thirty miles up the river.

The packet carried me back there about ten at night, and, having no freight, only touched to let me off. My boats were on one end of the well-built landing wharf paralleling the river, and now at the other end was a little schooner of perhaps two hundred tons burden. It was all lit up and everyone was busy, paying no attention to me. Doors wide open, I went about to satisfy my curiosity. The long, electric-lighted building was a paper mill. The sheet it made was not very wide, perhaps four and half feet, but it came white as snow onto big rolls as fast as a horse could gallop. I saw some finished and marked for a big New York newspaper. That explained the schooner outside. "Where in the name of Heaven do they get the material to make such paper?" I asked myself.

Back of the paper mill was a great surprise, an acre of blazing furnaces lighted up the night and leviathan steel retorts, throbbing with life and pressure, emitted the pleasant odor of turpentine, served by standard-gauge tracks, and, behind them, mountain high, was a pile of blackened pine-tree stumps with long roots, apparently plucked from the earth. They were piled by an up-to-date derrick, with steel arms a hundred and fifty feet in length. On a platform opposite, paralleling the tracks, were tiered cotton bales, shining white in the furnace lights.

I returned to the paper-machine room, thoughtful indeed. The immense cut-over stump lands of Georgia, stretching to the horizon over the tide-washed river, took on a distinctly different aspect.

That sheet of paper, coming down over the long row of steam-heated dryers, through the calenders wound into perfect rolls at express speed, dropped to the floor automatically, as sheaves of wheat from a harvester. A giant Corliss engine, seen through the door, ponderously and merrily answered to the life-giving ether from the roaring boilers. Happily married to its task an electric generator beside it suggested a sparrow, saucily singing a tune to an eagle. I leaned against a pillar, transported to another world, the world of use, and felt some of its joy. Then I became conscious of being observed, but did not turn.

The paper machine, all new and perfectly geared, was so long that its even width appeared to narrow at the far end where the sheet originated as wet pulp. The concrete floor was like a newly planed board. The machinery was not noisy, it sung. Every belt, gear and bearing was timed. The place actually hypnotized. It was divine.

Divinity and usefulness are the same. The machines seemed to be singing a hymn to some master-mind.

Behind me an order was given. There was something familiar in the voice, the sureness of a natural commander, which I a.s.sociated at once with the wonderful operation going on before me. A stalwart back was toward me. The lower brain, neck, shoulders and torso belonged to a man, perhaps not quite as wide or tall as our big Highlanders. My interest intensified until suddenly he appeared to turn at my will for a face view. This time there could be no mistaking the delicately chiseled, fighting, aquiline nose, marvelous jaw and chin of Howard Byng.

CHAPTER IV

Byng stared hard for a moment, then his snapping eyes kindled and his face evidenced genuine delight as he recognized me. That his affection had endured there could be no doubt as he advanced with long, graceful strides to meet me. He grasped my hand with a tremendous squeeze of heartiness and I am bound to confess that as he stood before me I could see in the makings the refined Howard Byng--man of affairs.

"Mr. Wood!" he began, fervently pressing my hand, "there is no living person I would rather see than you. How did you get here? How did you find this jumping-off place? I can hardly believe it is you."

"Howard"--I hesitated, feasting my eyes upon him--"it was indeed something of an accident that brought me here."

"Well, suh, you are here and that's enough. I don't care how you got here, but I swear by the great horn spoon that you are not going to get away from me. I have waited too long for this meeting. Your bed, board, and comfort are provided for indefinitely." His eyes glittered, as he looked me full in the face and restrained the pent-up enthusiasm of his natural Southern hospitality. Then, affectionately he took my arm and led me into his office, a big, cheerful room, something of a library, suggesting comfort and refinement.

"For Heaven's sake, man, sit down and tell me all about it," said I, sinking into an inviting leather chair.

"These cigars are made especially for me," he exclaimed like an overjoyed boy as he pa.s.sed the humidor, "but I can't say you'll like 'em."

"They are bound to be an improvement on the dog-leg twist you once offered me while we sat on the sled against the sap barrel," I suggested with a laugh.

"You remember that, too," said he, slapping his knee. "Well, suh, I have thought of it myself more'n a hundred times. Yes, suh, that all seems like many, many years ago, but I'll never forget it. You know it's mighty strange, and if I hadn't been a dunce I would have guessed you were around when I came out this mornin' and saw that strange boat, the copper 'still,' and the demijohns full of moonshine. My foreman told me where they c.u.m from, but, of course, I nevah thought of you havin' anything to do with it. Strange, too, for I have sorter been thinking about you the last three or four days."

"It's the old story--think hard and----"

"Yes, suh, and, doggone it all, I knew you tole me you were going into the revenue when you left me in Savannah. I've been in Washington two or three times and tried to find you. I nevah once thought of you in connection with this local matter. What a fool!" he exclaimed, his eyes gloating upon me from his comfortable chair across the big flat desk between us.