Breakfast at dawn. The mountain girls
were ready to go to work. All looked
sorry to have us leave. They asked us to
come back again, and they meant it. We
said we would like to come back--and we
meant it--to see them--the kind old
mother, the pioneer-like old man, sturdy
little Buck, shy little Cindy, the elusive,
hard-working, unconsciously shivery Mart,
and the two big sisters. As we started
back up the river the sisters started for the
fields, and I thought of their stricken
brother in the settlements, who must have
been much like Mart.

Back up the Big Black Mountain we
toiled, and late in the afternoon we were
on the State line that runs the crest of the
Big Black. Right on top and bisected by
that State line sat a dingy little shack, and
there, with one leg thrown over the pommel
of his saddle, sat Marston, drinking
water from a gourd.

``I was coming over to meet you,'' he
said, smiling at the Blight, who, greatly
pleased, smiled back at him. The shack
was a ``blind Tiger'' where whiskey could
be sold to Kentuckians on the Virginia side