II

ON THE WILD DOG'S TRAIL

So up we went past Bee Rock, Preacher's
Creek and Little Looney, past
the mines where high on a ``tipple'' stood
the young engineer looking down at us,
and looking after the Blight as we passed
on into a dim rocky avenue walled on each
side with rhododendrons. I waved at him
and shook my head--we would see him
coming back. Beyond a deserted log-
cabin we turned up a spur of the mountain.
Around a clump of bushes we came on
a gray-bearded mountaineer holding his
horse by the bridle and from a covert high
above two more men appeared with
Winchesters. The Blight breathed forth an
awed whisper:

``Are they moonshiners?''

I nodded sagely, ``Most likely,'' and
the Blight was thrilled. They might have
been squirrel-hunters most innocent, but
the Blight had heard much talk of moonshine
stills and mountain feuds and the