finally I yielded, and went home with him one evening. When we arrived I saw she was mad, and the devil was in her as big as an alligator. So I determined on my course. After supper her husband said very kindly: 'Come, wife, stop your little affairs, and let us have prayers.' To this she replied: 'I will have none of your praying about me.' Speaking mildly, I expostulated with her, but to no use; for the longer I spoke the more wrathful she became, and she cursed me most bitterly. Then I spoke sternly and said: 'Madam, if you were a wife of mine, I would break you of your bad ways, or I would break your neck.'

"'The devil you would!' she said. With this she poured upon me such a torrent of curses as was almost beyond endurance.

"'Be still,' said I, 'we must and will have prayer.' Again she declared we should not.

"'Now,' I remarked to her, 'if you do not be still, and behave yourself, I'll put you out of doors.' At this she clenched her fist, swore at me, and told me I could not put her out. I caught her by the arm, and swinging her round in a circle brought her up to the cabin door, and shoved her out. She jumped up, tore her hair, foamed, all the time swearing in a terrible way. The door was made very strong to keep out hostile Indians. I shut it tightly, barred it, and went to prayer. Under such conditions praying was difficult, I assure you, but I was determined to conquer or die.

"While she was raging, foaming and roaring on the outside I was singing with a loud voice spiritual hymns on the inside to drown her words as much as possible. At last she became perfectly exhausted and panted for breath. Then she became calm and still, and knocking at the door said: 'Mr. Very, please let me in.'

"'Will you behave yourself, if I let you in?' said I.

"'O yes,' replied she, 'I will.' With this I opened the door, took her by the hand, led her in, and seated her by the fire-place. She was in a high perspiration, and looked pale as death. After she was seated she said: 'What a fool I am.' 'Yes,' said I, 'about one of the biggest fools I ever saw in my life. Now, you have to repent of all this or your soul will be lost.' She sat silent, and I said 'Brother C., let us pray again.' We kneeled down and both prayed. His wife was as quiet as a lamb. And what is better, in less than six months this woman was soundly converted, and became as bold in the cause of God as she had been in the cause of the wicked one.'"

CHAPTER IV.

The Trail of the Serpent.

While these ministers of grace were engaged in pleasant conversation a different kind of a crowd had met not far away. They were moonshiners. Their rendezvous was a cave near the top of a hill about one mile back from the Cumberland River. A motley company of about a dozen men they were, dressed in cheap trousers supported by "galluses," coarse shirts, and wide-brim straw hats.

Sam Wiles was leader of this band. As these pages are often to be burdened with his name, we shall now take his measure. He belonged to that part of the population called "poor whites." His parents had come to the settlement when Sam was a little boy. They were poor, shiftless, improvident, ignorant, and, worse than all, apparently contented with their lot. They dwelt in a log cabin in the hills, and in a haphazard way cultivated a few acres of half-barren land, raising a little corn, tobacco, hay, fruit, and a few vegetables. There were six children in the family, of whom Sam was the oldest. Five dogs guarded the house and helped to make the inmates poor. "Tige," the coon dog, was the favorite of this quintette.

Sam Wiles was the brightest of the children, his mind being naturally active; but he had little disposition for study and very meager opportunities, for "school kept" only a few weeks in a year. At the time of this story he had just passed his majority, was somewhat above medium height, solidly built, with broad, square shoulders. His brown hair hung several inches below a coonskin cap he wore, and was supplemented by a large mustache of which he was very proud.

Behold this leader of the moonshiners as he stirs the fire of logs under the still and speaks to his pals:

"That war a mighty fine trick I played on Dick Granger, the revenue deputy t'other night. He was after me with his dorgs, and saw me as I was crossin' the road near Franklin Schoolhouse. 'Halt, there!' he hollored; but I was not in the haltin' bizness, and I made tracks fur Pigeon Crick close by. As I run he fired off his gun; but the light was dim and I was mighty peart, and dodged in time. He called to his bloodhounds and said, 'Sic 'im, Rex; ketch 'im Bull,' but by that time I was wadin' in the crick. I run 'long till I cum to that big white oak which grows by the crick where it makes a turn north, and I jumped and caught a big branch an' pulled myself up into the tree. Then I walked on the thick branches till I got to the furder side, and there war standin' by the oak a mighty fine sugar maple with branches which touched the oak. I walked out on an oak branch as fur as I could go, and then swung from my hands back and for'ard with all my might. At last my feet touched a branch and letting go my hands, I swung down like a ham of meat in a smokehouse. Soon I pulled myself up and made fifty feet crossing that tree, and then I dun the same turn to a big walnut tree; and so on till I knew the dorgs could not track me, when I clim down to the ground and got safe back to the cave."

"That war a monkey trick, shore nuff," said Tom Walker, a gaunt fellow over six feet tall, who was stretched on the ground by the fire, and who, because of his height, was usually called "Long Tom." In his cavernous mouth he held an immense chew of tobacco, and ever and anon he squirted tobacco juice into the fire with a precision and force which showed long practice.

"I wish the devil would kill the whole crew of revenue officers," said Wiles. "Why should we be hunted like wild beasts for makin' a few gallons of whisky? Do we not raise the corn, and have we not a right to turn it into drink? You fellers know how hard it is to make a living on these hills; and if we make more money by changing corn into whisky, why should we be hindered and our lives put into danger? We have a right to make whisky and to drink it and to sell it, and I'm goin' to do it in spite of all the officers in Kentucky," and he brought his big fist down with a thwack on his knee to give emphasis to his words.[1]

"Now yer speaking the truth, pardner," drawled Long Tom as he ejected from his mouth a generous quantity of tobacco juice. "My father fit in the Revolutionary War for liberty 'way down in ole Virginy, and I'll never submit to have my right to make home-distilled whisky taken away."

"Always stick to that and you'uns will be a man, even if you'uns die with yer boots on."

The speaker was Zibe Turner, a creature who would pass for a Calaban. A monster he was except his legs, which were short and slim, giving him a dwarfish appearance. So he was a monster dwarf, if such a term is allowable. His head was immense in size, covered with long unkempt hair. His shoulders, arms and trunk would become a giant. A look at his face showed a low forehead, black, restless eyes, wide apart, flat nose, and large mouth.

Like Calaban he could be called "hag-seed," or the son of a witch and a devil.

His moral nature was as misshapen as his body. His mind was degraded, yet keen in plotting mischief and violence. His affections were debased. Prospero's description of Calaban applied to him:

The words of Saint Paul to the sorcerer fitted him: "O full of all subtlety and all mischief, thou child of the