Evening Capital News

HUNTING A STILL
By KATHLEEN J. McCURDY

It was in the days of illicit distilling
in Kentucky. A man riding along a
road in the eastern part of that state,
reaching a snug farmhouse, drew rein.
"I'm looking for a farm to buy," he
said. "Do you happen to know of any
good bit of land about here with some
buildings on it?"
"No; I don't," said the woman, who
was both young and comely.
"There ought to be good farming
about here."
"Stranger," said the woman, "you
hain't looking for farms. You're a rev-
enue man after stills."
The man was astonished. He had
supposed he was playing a very suc-
cessful game.
"If you'd root out the stills the peo-
ple about here would go to farming
instead of making whisky."
"I can't root out the stills," replied
the man, "unless you people help me."
"What kind o' help do you want?"
"Information."
"Well, come in and have a snack.
Perhaps my husband'll be coming
along soon, and he may do something
for you."
The revenue man dismounted, led his
horse to the stable in the rear and en-
tered the house. He chatted with the
woman freely about the illicit distill-
ing, said that it helped the few and
wronged the many. A district where
it was notorious never prospered. It
was under a ban; no credit; no pro-
duction of crops; no comfort for any-
one. She appeared to agree with him
and when he had finished said:
"Did you ever hear of Joe Com-
stock's still?"
"No. I'm a new man; just put on to
this district."
"That's the only one we could get
you on to here. If my husband don't
come home purty soon I'll tell you all
about it."
Her husband didn't come home. She
said she supposed he had been de-
layed. So after supper she said she
would tell him where the Comstock
still was, and if he liked he could go
and clean it out. It was the only one
left in that immediate vicinity and
most of the people thereabout would
be glad to see it shut up. The woman,
after she had cleaned away the
supper dishes sat down beside the
stranger and on a piece of paper drew
a diagram of the route to Comstock's.
It was rather a zigzag course, extend-
ing over several miles. The stranger
asked if there was no more direct
route, and she told him that there was
none that could be made plain to one
who was not familiar with the coun-
try. When it was dark he got out
his horse, mounted and, thanking the
woman for her hospitality, was about
to ride away when she asked:
"You going to take Joe Comstock
alone?"
"That's just what I'm going to do."
"You're a plucky one."
The man rode away, following the
route exactly as it had been laid down
by the woman. He was most of the
time climbing a mountain side, and,
though the distance was but a few
miles, he was two hours getting to a
point just beyond which he had been
told he would find the Comstock still.
He was to recognize it by the crossing
of two mountain roads, a peculiarly
shaped oak tree on the point of one of
the angles. From the crossroads he
was to pass through an opening be-
tween the trees, go over a stone wall,
follow a tunnel a short distance down
the mountain and he would come upon
the still. Leaving the crossroads, he
moved on as directed.
He was moving very quietly down
the stream when he dislodged a stone
that betrayed his approach. He paused
but, hearing nothing, moved forward
again. Suddenly he heard the words
come out of the darkness, "Hands up!"
He knew that he was on an elevation
that showed the sky line beyond him
and that doubtless his enemy could see
him, while he could not see his enemy.
He held his revolver in his hand cock-
ed and, hoping to at least disconcert
his opponent, fired into the darkness.
The only response was a bitter laugh.
It sounded like that of a woman craz-
ed. Then came a voice which sounded
distinctly feminine:
"Drop your weapon. I can kill you
if I like!"
The revenue man hesitated a mo-
ment, then thought it best to do as he
had been bidden. Suddenly a bullseye
lantern was dashed in his face.
"You're not the coward the other one
was to come here and surround the
place and kill my Joe. You're a brave
one if you are a revenue. I'm Miss Joe
Comstock, the woman who sent you
here. I knew you were a revenue
right off, and since I've been wishing
for a chance to get even with you gov-
crninent men I gave you a roundabout
way, coming myself straight up the
mountains. I intended to kill you, but
I couldn't. You're too plucky.
"Well, then, since there is to be no
killing, suppose we shake hands and
say no more about it."
"You go your way and I go mine.
Good night."
The next afternoon the stranger
again rode up to the Widow Comstock's
house and after a long interview per-
ciaded her to give up a still that she
had been running ever since her bus-
band had been killed. There was some-
thing persuasive in his makeup, some-
thing that took hold of the widow's
better side, and instead of hunting
stills he hunted for her heart, de cap-
tured it in time, and they are now
well to do farmers.