Tony joined in the laugh.
Moonshine
by H. M. Sutherland
When a murder suspect joins in the hunt for clews a sheriff must uncover his evidence carefully...
I
Sheriff Rutherford sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk, mopping his beaded brow every few minutes with a large bandanna. The first sultry day of early summer was sending shimmering heat waves upward from the row of tin roofs across the street just beyond which the purpling Cumberlands towered majestically. Staring at them speculatively, Rutherford shivered. Somewhere in the depths of those wooded shadows lurked the deadly, stalking figure of Hook-Dave Hall, that ghostly, enigmatical killer of the Devil’s Apron country whom all men feared.
Bart Cantrell, youngest deputy of the sheriff’s staff, was leaning across the table, tense and eager, watching Rutherford’s face expectantly. A lithe, tawny youth, his steel-gray eyes narrowed, his muscles corded with the excitement under which he labored, courage and determination were delineated in his every feature, confidence seemed to ooze from every pore.
“Reckon I’m goin’ to have to refuse ye, Barr,” declared Rutherford after a long silence, during which he had been tugging fiercely at his drooping melancholy mustaches. “Sendin’ ye out alone after Hook-Dave’d be nothin’ short o’ murder. I wouldn’t tackle him ’less’n I had a dependable posse with me.”
Young Bart relaxed, disappointment creeping into his eyes.
“Then let me spot his still an’ get the lay of the land so’s we can take a posse in there an’ get him,” pleaded the deputy. “He’s runnin’ a thumper-keg outfit up there on Bear Pen Creek — I got that straight. I’ll just locate him an’ won’t try to arrest him.”
For a long minute the sheriff pondered that request, his fingers drumming softly upon the desk. Then he let his feet fall heavily to the floor as he reached into a box for a long stogie.
“All right!” he agreed with a shrug. “Onderstand, I’m not orderin’ ye to go, an’ ’tis ag’inst my advice. Still if ye’re bound to go, I Agger ’twould be best to do yore spottin’ from the top of a high mountain som’ers through a pair of field glasses.”
Bart chuckled and came to his feet.
“I promise to try to steer clear of Hook-Dave,” he declared with a grin, “but in case I do happen upon him sorta accidental-like, it might be best if l had some papers to serve on him.”
“Got none,” cut in Rutherford shortly. “We both know he killed that State prohibition enforcement officer, but we ain’t got no proof that’ll hold five seconds in court. If we can catch him moonshinin’, he’ll get a stiff term in the Federal penitentiary.”
“Thought he was wanted over in Kentucky,” suggested Bart.
“Yeah,” drawled the sheriff. “He killed three-four men over thar, but Kaintucky is like us — they ain’t got enough evidence to convict him or even to arrest him. Hook-Dave don’t leave evidence scattered about.”
Bart hitched his belt into a more comfortable position and reached for his hat.
“Afore ye go,” said Rutherford, “mind tellin’ me what plans ye’ve made about goin’ in that Bear Pen country?”
“Sorta figgered on slippin’ in there durin’ the night an’ locatin’ a likely spot from which I can watch the headwaters of the creek. I reckon I ought to locate the smoke of his still without much trouble.”
“Ye know that section?”
“Squirrel hunted over ever’ foot of it.”
“Even so, ye’ve got to be durned careful,” cautioned Rutherford so-licitiously. “Sometimes I think that Hook-Dave ain’t human. He’s a born killer, but he’s slick enough to cover his tracks. He can get through the woods faster an’ without makin’ any noise than any man in the hills, an’ I reckon he’s the best shot in the county. So ye can’t be too careful.”
“I’ll keep my eyes skinned,” declared Bart, and took his departure.
II
For a full minute Rutherford sat motionless at his desk, and then, aroused by the clatter of hoof-beats upon the street outside, he moved lumberingly but silently to the window where he stood watching the retreating form of the deputy until he vanished in the direction of the looming Cumberlands.
A premonition of lurking danger for Bart stirred Rutherford and for an instant he debated saddling his horse and setting out after the youth. Then with a shrug he dismissed that thought. Bart was well able to take care of himself.
Shortly after noon on the following day Ranse Moore, a shambling, apologetic figure, appeared in the door of the sheriff’s office and stood fumbling his battered old hat. Rutherford recognized him and realized with a start that he was from the Bear Pen Creek country.
“Well?” demanded the sheriff sharply.
“I jes’ drapped in to tell ye,” replied the hilhnan uncertainly, “that yore deppity, Bart Cantrell, was killed.”
“Killed?” Rutherford came quickly to his feet. “How?”
“Looks as though he fell off’n a cliff.”
“Fell off?”
“Looks as though.”
“Who found his body?”
“Hook-Dave Hall, ’Lige Honeycutt an’ me.”
Rutherford’s drooping mustaches fairly bristled at the mention of Hook-Dave.
“When?”
“ ’Bout ten o’clock or a leetle atter,” guessed the visitor with an apologetic shrug.
“Any bullet holes?”
“Not that I seen. I didn’t look dost — jes’ come straight on in to tell ye about it.”
“Think he fell off’n that cliff durin’ the night?”
“Done told ye all I know, sheriff,” said the hillman, twisting his old hat out of shape.
“Where’d this happen?” demanded Rutherford, buckling his belt and guns about his waist.
“Up thar on the head of Bear Pen, ’bout three mile from hyeh.”
“All right, Ranse! Much obliged for comin’. Wait till I saddle my boss an’ get one of the boys an’ we’ll ride back with ye.”
Ten minutes later Rutherford with Crit Randall, a lanky deputy of indeterminate age and a startlingly long neck, rode out of town. A few paces in the rear jogged the hillman who had brought the news. Little was said during that forty-five minutes ride until they reached the mouth of Bear Pen Creek, where Rutherford and his deputy reined to a halt and permitted their guide to pass them.
The trail up the creek was nothing more than a sheep path, and the three horsemen were continually swaying and bending, stooping and dodging the thick undergrowth that at times made progress difficult. Here and there the sheriff caught sight of the tracks of a horse in the soft mold, but they had palpably been made by Ranse’s horse as he had ridden out with his news, and not a trace could he find of young Bart Cantrell’s horse. Undoubtedly the latter had left his mount near the mouth of the creek and followed that trail afoot.
Coming out of a dense bed of rhododendron they found themselves in a little clearing in the center of which sat a log cabin.
“Who lives here?” demanded Rutherford of their guide.
“I do.” He dismounted and laid down a panel of the rail fence. “Reckon we’d best leave our hosses hyeh. Can’t go further on hossback.”
Despite his huge proportions Rutherford set a pace into the headwaters of the creek which taxed the strength and energy of his two companions, and brought a twinkle of admiration into the eyes of the deputy. It was quite apparent that the sheriff was a woodsman of no mean order. Nor did he pause for rest until a rim of precipices towered high above them.