On Secret Service

  VII

  THE SECRET STILL

  "July 1, 1919," said Bill Quinn, as he appropriately reached for abottle containing a very soft drink, "by no means marked the beginningof the government's troubles in connection with the illicit manufactureof liquor.

  "Of course, there's been a whole lot in the papers since the Thirst ofJuly about people having private stills in their cellars, making drinkswith a kick out of grape juice and a piece of yeast, and all that sortof thing. One concern in Pittsburgh, I understand, has also noted atremendous and absolutely abnormal increase in the demand for itshot-water heating plants--the copper coils of which make an idealsubstitute for a still--but I doubt very much if there's going to be areal movement in the direction of the private manufacture of alcoholicbeverages. The Internal Revenue Department is too infernally watchfuland its agents too efficient for much of that to get by.

  "When you get right down to it, there's no section in the country wherethe art of making 'licker' flourishes to such an extent as it does ineastern Tennessee and western North Carolina. Moonshine there is notonly a recognized article of trade, but its manufacture is looked uponas an inalienable right. It's tough sledding for any revenue officer whoisn't mighty quick on the trigger, and even then--as Jimmy Reynoldsdiscovered a few years back--they're likely to get him unless he mixesbrains with his shooting ability."

  * * * * *

  Reynolds [continued Quinn, easing his injured leg into a morecomfortable position] was as valuable a man as any whose name everappeared in the Government Blue Book. He's left the bureau now andsettled down to a life of comparative ease as assistant districtattorney of some middle Western city. I've forgotten which one, butthere was a good reason for his not caring to remain in the East. Theclimate west of the Mississippi is far more healthy for Jimmy thesedays.

  At the time of the Stiles case Jim was about twenty-nine, straight as anarrow, and with a bulldog tenacity that just wouldn't permit of hisletting go of a problem until the solution was filed in the officialpigeonholes which answer to the names of archives. It was this traitwhich led Chambers, then Commissioner of Internal Revenue, to send forhim, after receipt of a message that two of his best men--Douglas andWood, I think their names were--had been brought back to Maymead,Tennessee, with bullet holes neatly drilled through their hearts.

  "Jim," said the Commissioner, "this case has gone just far enough. It'sone thing for the mountaineers of Tennessee to make moonshine whisky anddefy the laws of the United States. But when they deliberately murdertwo of my best men and pin a rudely scribbled note to 'Bewair of thiscountry' on the front of their shirts, that's going entirely too far.I'm going to clean out that nest of illicit stills if it takes the restof my natural life and every man in the bureau!

  "More than that, I'll demand help from the War Department, if necessary!By Gad! I'll teach 'em!" and the inkwell on the Commissioner's deskleaped into the air as Chambers's fist registered determination.

  Reynolds reached for a fresh cigar from the supply that always reposedin the upper drawer of the Commissioner's desk and waited until it waswell lighted before he replied.

  "All well and good, Chief," he commented, "but how would the army helpyou any? You could turn fifty thousand men in uniform loose in thosemountains, and the odds are they wouldn't locate the bunch you're after.Fire isn't the weapon to fight those mountaineers with. They're toowise. What you need is brains."

  "Possibly you can supply that deficiency," retorted the Commissioner, alittle nettled.

  "Oh, I didn't mean that you, personally, needed the brains," laughedReynolds. "The pronoun was used figuratively and collectively. At that,I would like to have a whirl at the case if you've nothing better for meto do--"

  "There isn't anything better for anyone to do at the present time,"Chambers interrupted. "That's why I sent for you. We know that whisky isbeing privately distilled in large quantities somewhere in the mountainsnot far from Maymead. Right there our information ends. Our men havetried all sorts of dodges to land the crowd behind the stills, but theonly thing they've been able to learn is that a man named Stiles is oneof the ruling spirits. His cabin is well up in the mountains and it waswhile they were prospecting round that part of the country that Douglasand Wood were shot. Now what's your idea of handling the case?"

  "The first thing that I want, Chief, is to be allowed to work on thisabsolutely alone, and that not a soul, in bureau or out of it is to knowwhat I'm doing."

  "Easy enough to arrange that," assented the Commissioner, "but--"

  "There isn't any 'but,'" Reynolds cut in. "You've tried putting a numberof men to work on this and they've failed. Now try letting one handleit. For the past two years I've had a plan in the back of my head thatI've been waiting the right opportunity to use. So far as I can see it'sfoolproof and I'm willing to take all the responsibility in connectionwith it."

  "Care to outline it?" inquired Chambers.

  "Not right at the moment," was Reynolds's reply, "because it would seemtoo wild and scatterbrained. I don't mind telling you, though, that forthe next six weeks my address will be in care of the warden of thepenitentiary of Morgantown, West Virginia, if you wish to reach me."

  "Morgantown?" echoed the Commissioner. "What in Heaven's name are yougoing to do there?"

  "Lay the stage setting for the first act," smiled Jimmy. "Likewisecollect what authors refer to as local color--material that's essentialto what I trust will be the happy ending of this drama--happy, at least,from the government's point of view. But, while you know that I'm atMorgantown, I don't want anyone else to know it and I'd much prefer thatyou didn't communicate with me there unless it's absolutely necessary."

  "All right, I won't. You're handling the case from now on."

  "Alone?"

  "Entirely--if you wish it."

  "Yes, Chief, I do wish it. I can promise you one of two things withinthe next three months: either you'll have all the evidence you wantabout the secret still and the men behind it or--well, you know where toship my remains!"

  With that and a quick handshake he was gone.

  During the weeks that followed, people repeatedly asked theCommissioner:

  "What's become of Jimmy Reynolds? Haven't seen him round here for amonth of Sundays."

  But the Commissioner would assume an air of blank ignorance, muttersomething about, "He's out of town somewhere," and rapidly change thesubject.

  About six weeks or so later a buzzard which was flapping its lazy wayacross the mountains which divide Tennessee from North Carolina saw, farbelow, a strange sight. A man, haggard and forlorn, his face coveredwith a half-inch of stubble, his cheeks sunken, his clothing torn bybrambles and bleached by the sun and rain until it was almost impossibleto tell its original texture, stumbled along with his eyes fixed alwayson the crest of a hill some distance off. It was as if he were making alast desperate effort to reach his goal before the sun went down.

  Had the buzzard been so minded, his keen eyes might have noted the factthat the man's clothes were marked by horizontal stripes, while his headwas covered with hair the same length all over, as if he had been shavedrecently and the unkempt thatch had sprouted during the last ten days.

  Painfully but persistently the man in convict's clothes pressed forward.When the sun was a little more than halfway across the heavens heglimpsed a cabin tucked away on the side of a mountain spur not faraway. At the sight he pressed forward with renewed vigor, but distancesare deceptive in that part of the country and it was not until nearlydark that he managed to reach his destination.

  In fact, the Stiles family was just sitting down to what passes forsupper in that part of the world--fat bacon and corn bread,mostly--when there was the sound of a man's footstep some fifty feetaway.

  Instantly the houn' dog rose from his accustomed place under the tableand crouched, ready to repel invaders. Old Man Stiles--his wife calledhim Joe, but to the entire countryside he was just "Old ManStiles"--reached for his rifle with a mu
ttered imprecation about"Rev'nue officers who never let a body be."

  But the mountaineer had hardly risen from his seat when there was asound as of a heavy body falling against the door--and then silence.

  Stiles looked inquiringly at his wife and then at Ruth, their adopteddaughter. None of them spoke for an appreciable time, but the houndcontinued to whine and finally backed off into a corner.

  "Guess I'll have to see what et is," drawled the master of the cabin,holding his rifle ready for action.

  Slowly he moved toward the door and cautiously, very cautiously, helifted the bolt that secured it. Even if it were a revenue officer, heargued to himself, his conscience was clear and his premises could standthe formality of a search because, save for a certain spot known tohimself alone, there was nothing that could be considered incriminating.

  As the door swung back the body of a man fell into the room--a man whoseclothing was tattered and whose features were concealed under a week'sgrowth of stubbly beard. Right into the cabin he fell, for the door hadsupported his body, and, once that support was removed, he lay as onedead.

  In fact, it wasn't until at least five minutes had elapsed that Stilescame to the conclusion that the intruder was really alive, after all.During that time he had worked over him in the rough mountain fashion,punching and pulling and manhandling him in an effort to secure somesign of life. Finally the newcomer's eyes opened and he made an effortto sit up.

  "Wait a minute, stranger," directed Stiles, motioning his wife toward acloset in the corner of the room. Mrs. Stiles--or 'Ma,' as she was knownin that part of the country--understood the movement. Without a word sheopened the cupboard and took down a flask filled with a cleargolden-yellow liquid. Some of this she poured into a cracked cup on thetable and handed it to her husband.

  "Here," directed the mountaineer, "throw yo' haid back an' drink this.Et's good fur what ails yer."

  The moment after he had followed instructions the stranger gulped,gurgled, and gasped as the moonshine whisky burnt its way down histhroat. The man-sized drink, taken on a totally empty stomach, almostnauseated him. Then it put new life in his veins and he tried tostruggle to his feet.

  Ruth Stiles was beside him in an instant and, with her father's help,assisted him to a chair at the table.

  "Stranger," said Stiles, stepping aside and eying the intrudercritically, "I don't know who or what you are, but I do know that yo'look plumb tuckered out. Nobody's goin' hungry in my house, so fall toan' we'll discuss other matters later."

  Whereupon he laid his rifle in its accustomed place, motioned to hiswife and daughter to resume their places at the table, and dragged upanother chair for himself.

  Beyond a word or two of encouragement to eat all he wanted of the veryplain fare, none of the trio addressed the newcomer during the remainderof the meal. All three of them had noted the almost-obliterated stripesthat encircled his clothing and their significance was unmistakable.But Stiles himself was far from being convinced. He had heard too muchof the tricks of government agents to be misled by what might prove,after all, only a clever disguise.

  Therefore, when the womenfolk had cleared away the supper things and thetwo men had the room to themselves, the mountaineer offered his guest apipeful of tobacco and saw to it that he took a seat before the firewhere the light would play directly upon his features. Then he openedfire.

  "Stranger," he inquired, "what might yo' name be?"

  "Patterson," said the other. "Jim Patterson."

  "Whar you come from?"

  "Charlestown first an' Morgantown second. Up for twelve years formanslaughter--railroaded at that," was Patterson's laconic reply.

  "How'd you get away?"

  At that the convict laughed, but there was more of a snarl than humor inhis tone as he answered: "Climbed th' wall when th' guards weren'tlookin'. They took a coupla pot shots at me, but none of them camewithin a mile. Then I beat it south, travelin' by night an' hidin' byday. Stole what I could to eat, but this country ain't overly wellfilled with farms. Hadn't had a bite for two days, 'cept some berries,when I saw your cabin an' came up here."

  Stiles puffed away in silence for a moment. Then he rose, as if to fetchsomething from the other side of the room. Once behind Patterson,however, he reached forward and, seizing the stubble that covered hisface, yanked it as hard as he could.

  "What th'----?" yelled the convict, springing to his feet andinvoluntarily raising his clenched hand.

  "Ca'm yo'self, stranger, ca'm yo'self," directed the mountaineer, witha half smile. "Jes' wanted to see for myself ef that beard was real,that's all. Thought you might be a rev'nue agent in disguise."

  "A rev'nue agent?" queried Patterson, and then as if the thought hadjust struck him that he was in the heart of the moonshining district, headded: "That's rich! Me, just out of th' pen an' you think I'm a bull.That's great. Here"--reaching into the recesses of his frayedshirt--"here's something that may convince you."

  And he handed over a tattered newspaper, more than a week old, andpointed to an article on the first page.

  "There, read that!"

  "Ruth does all th' reading for this fam'ly," was Stiles's mutteredrejoinder. "Ruth! Oh, Ruth! Come here a minute an' read somethin' to yo'pappy!"

  Patterson had not failed to note, during supper, that Ruth Stiles cameclose to being a perfect specimen of a mountain flower, rough andundeveloped, but with more than a trace of real beauty, both in her faceand figure. Standing in front of the fire, with its flickering lightcasting a sort of halo around her, she was almost beautiful--despite herhomespun dress and shapeless shoes.

  Without a word the convict handed her the paper and indicated thearticle he had pointed out a moment before.

  "Reward offered for convict's arrest," she read. "James Patterson, doingtime for murder, breaks out of Morgantown. Five hundred dollars forcapture. Prisoner scaled wall and escaped in face of guards' fire." Thenfollowed an account of the escape, the first of its kind in severalyears.

  "Even if you can't read," said Patterson, "there's my picture under theheadline--the picture they took for the rogues' gallery," and he pointedto a fairly distinct photograph which adorned the page.

  Stiles took the paper closer to the fire to secure a better look,glanced keenly at the convict, and extended his hand.

  "Guess that's right, stranger," he admitted. "You're no rev'nue agent."

  Later in the evening, as she lay awake, thinking about the man who hadshattered the monotony of their mountain life, Ruth Stiles wondered ifPatterson had not given vent to what sounded suspiciously like a sigh ofrelief at that moment. But she was too sleepy to give much thought toit, and, besides, what if he had?...

  In the other half of the cabin, divided from the women's room only by acurtain of discolored calico, slept Patterson and Stiles--the formerutterly exhausted by his travels, the latter resting with keen hairtrigger consciousness of danger always only a short distance away.Nothing happened, however, to disturb the peace of the Stiles domicile.Even the hound slept quietly until the rosy tint of the eastern skyannounced another day.

  After breakfast, at which the fat-back and corn bread were augmented bya brownish liquid which passed for coffee, Stiles informed his guestthat he "reckoned he'd better stick close to th' house fer a few days,"as there was no telling whether somebody might not be on his trail.

  Patterson agreed that this was the proper course and put in his timehelping with the various chores, incidentally becoming a little betteracquainted with Ruth Stiles. That night he lay awake for several hours,but nothing broke the stillness save a few indications of animal lifeoutside the cabin and the labored breathing of the mountaineer in thebunk below him.

  For three nights nothing occurred. But on the fourth night, Saturday,supper was served a little earlier than usual and Patterson noted just asuspicion of something almost electrical in the air. He gave noindication of what he had observed, however, and retired to his bunk inthe usual manner. After an hour or more had elapsed he heard Sti
les slipquietly off his mattress and a moment later there was the guardedscratch of a match as a lantern was lighted.

  Suspecting what would follow, Patterson closed his eyes and continuedhis deep, regular breathing. But he could sense the fact that thelantern had been swung up to a level with his bunk and he could almostfeel the mountaineer's eyes as Stiles made certain that he was asleep.Stifling an impulse to snore or do something to convince his host thathe wasn't awake, Patterson lay perfectly still until he heard the doorclose. Then he raised himself guardedly on one elbow and attempted tolook through the window beside the bunk. But a freshly applied coat ofwhitewash prevented that, so he had to content himself with listening.

  Late in the night--so late that it was almost morning--he heard thesounds of men conversing in whispers outside the cabin, but he couldcatch nothing beyond his own name. Soon Stiles re-entered the room,slipped into bed, and was asleep instantly.

  So things went for nearly three weeks. The man who had escaped fromprison made himself very useful around the cabin, and, almost againsthis will, found that he was falling a victim to the beauty and charm ofthe mountain girl.

  "I mustn't do it," he told himself over and over again. "I can't letmyself! It's bad enough to come here and accept the old man'shospitality, but the girl's a different proposition."

  It was Ruth herself who solved the riddle some three weeks afterPatterson's arrival. They were wandering through the woods together,looking for sassafras roots, when she happened to mention that Stileswas not her own father.

  "He's only my pappy," she said, "my adopted father. My real father waskilled when I was a little girl. Shot through the head because he hadthreatened to tell where a still was hidden. He never did believe inmoonshining. Said it was as bad as stealin' from the government. Sosomebody shot him and Ma Stiles took me in, 'cause she said she wassorry for me even if my pa was crazy."

  "Do you believe that moonshining is right?" asked her companion.

  "Anything my pa believed was the truth," replied the girl, her eyesflashing. "Everybody round these parts knows that Pappy Stiles helps runthe big still the rev'nue officers been lookin' for the past threeyears. Two of 'em were shot not long ago, too--but that don't make itright. 'Specially when my pa said it was wrong. What you smilin' at?"

  Patterson resisted an inclination to tell her that the smile was one ofrelief and replied that he was just watching the antics of a chipmunk alittle way off. But that night he felt a thrill of joy as he lay,listening as always, in his bunk.

  Things had been breaking rather fast of late. The midnight gatheringshad become more frequent and, convinced that he had nothing to fear fromhis guest, Stiles was not as cautious as formerly. He seldom took thetrouble to see that the escaped prisoner was asleep and he had even beenknown to leave the door unlatched as he went out into the night.

  That night, for example, was one of the nights that he wascareless--and, as usually happens, he paid dearly for it.

  Waiting until Stiles was well out of the house, Patterson slippedsilently out of his bunk in his stocking feet and, inch by inch,reopened the door. Outside, the moon was shining rather brightly, but,save for the retreating figure of the mountaineer--outlined by thelantern he carried--there was nothing else to be seen.

  Very carefully Patterson followed, treading softly so as to avoid eventhe chance cracking of a twig. Up the mountainside went Stiles and, somefifty feet behind him, crouched the convict, his faded garments blendingperfectly with the underbrush. After half a mile or so of following arude path, Stiles suddenly disappeared from view--not as if he hadturned a corner, but suddenly, as if the earth had swallowed him.

  After a moment Patterson determined to investigate. When he reached thespot where he had last seen Stiles he looked around and almost stumbledagainst the key to the entire mystery. There in the side of the mountainwas an opening, the entrance to a natural cave, and propped against itwas a large wooden door, completely covered with vines.

  "Not a chance of finding it in the daytime unless you knew where itwas," thought the convict as he slipped silently into the cave. Lessthan thirty feet farther was an abrupt turn, and, glancing round this,Patterson saw what he had been hoping for--a crowd of at least a dozenmountaineers gathered about a collection of small but extremelyefficient stills. Ranged in rows along the sides of the cave were scoresof kegs, the contents of which were obvious from the surroundings.

  Pausing only long enough to make certain of his bearings, the convictreturned to the cabin and, long before Stiles came back, was soundasleep.

  It was precisely four weeks from the day when the buzzard noted the manon the side of the mountain, when a sheriff's posse from another county,accompanied by half a dozen revenue officers, rode clattering throughMaymead and on in the direction of the Stiles cabin. Before themountaineers had time to gather, the posse had surrounded the hill,rifles ready for action.

  Stiles himself met them in front of his rude home and, in response tohis challenge as to what they wanted, the sheriff replied that he hadcome for a prisoner who had escaped from Morgantown a month or sobefore. Stiles was on the verge of declaring that he had never heard ofthe man when, to his amazement, Patterson appeared from the woods andsurrendered.

  The instant the convict had gained the shelter of the government guns,however, a startling change took place. He held a moment's whisperedconversation with one of the revenue officials and the latter slippedhim a spare revolver from his holster. Then--"Hands up!" ordered thesheriff, and Stiles's hands shot above his head.

  Leaving three men to guard the cabin and keep watch over Old Man Stiles,whose language was searing the shrubbery, the remainder of the possepushed up the mountain, directed by the pseudoconvict. It took them sometime to locate the door to the cave, but, once inside, they found allthe evidence they wanted--evidence not only directly indicative ofmoonshining, but the two badges which had belonged to Douglas and Woodand which the mountaineers had kept as souvenirs of the shooting, thusunwittingly providing a firm foundation for the government's case incourt.

  The next morning, when Commissioner Chambers reached his office, hefound upon his desk a wire which read:

  Stiles gang rounded up without the firing of a single shot. Direct evidence of complicity in Woods-Douglas murders. Secret still is a secret no longer.

  The signature to the telegram was "James Reynolds, alias Jim Patterson."

  "Jim Patterson," mused the commissioner. "Where have I heard thatname.... Of course. He's the prisoner that broke out of Morgantown acouple of months ago! Jimmy sure did lay the local color on thick!"

  * * * * *

  "But," I inquired, as Quinn paused, "don't you consider that rather adirty trick on Reynolds's part--worming himself into the confidence ofthe mountaineers and then betraying them? Besides, what about the girl?"

  "Dirty trick!" snorted the former Secret Service agent. "Would you thinkabout ethics if some one had murdered two of the men you work next to inthe office? It was the same thing in this case. Jimmy knew that if hedidn't turn up that gang they'd probably account for a dozen of hispals--to say nothing of violating the law every day they lived! Whatelse was there for him to do?

  "The girl? Oh, Reynolds married her. They sometimes do that, even inreal life, you know. As I said, they're living out in the Middle West,for Ruth declared she never wanted to see a mountain again, and both ofthem admitted that it wouldn't be healthy to stick around within walkingdistance of Tennessee. That mountain crowd is a bad bunch to get r'iled,and it must be 'most time for Stiles and his friends to get out of jail.

  "It's a funny thing the way these government cases work out. Here wasone that took nearly three months to solve, and the answer was thedirect result of hard work and careful planning--while the Trentontaxicab tangle, for example, was just the opposite!"