The message had come at last, and the man who brought it had heard it fall from Black Tom’s own lips.  The “wild Jay-Hawkers of Kaintuck” were coming over into Virginia to get Flitter Bill’s store, for they were mountain Unionists and Bill was a valley rebel and lawful prey.  It was past belief.  So long had he prospered, and so well, that Bill had come to feel that he sat safe in the hollow of God’s hand.  But he now must have protection—­and at once—­from the hand of man.

Roaring Fork sang lustily through the rhododendrons.  To the north yawned “the Gap” through the Cumberland Mountains.  “Callahan’s Nose,” a huge gray rock, showed plain in the clear air, high above the young foliage, and under it, and on up the rocky chasm, flashed Flitter Bill’s keen mind, reaching out for help.

Now, from Virginia to Alabama the Southern mountaineer was a Yankee, because the national spirit of 1776, getting fresh impetus in 1812 and new life from the Mexican War, had never died out in the hills.  Most likely it would never have died out, anyway; for, the world over, any seed of character, individual or national, that is once dropped between lofty summits brings forth its kind, with deathless tenacity, year after year.  Only, in the Kentucky mountains, there were more slaveholders than elsewhere in the mountains in the South.  These, naturally, fought for their slaves, and the division thus made the war personal and terrible between the slaveholders who dared to stay at home, and the Union, “Home Guards” who organized to drive them away.  In Bill’s little Virginia valley, of course, most of the sturdy farmers had shouldered Confederate muskets and gone to the war.  Those who had stayed at home were, like Bill, Confederate in sympathy, but they lived in safety down the valley, while Bill traded and fattened just opposite the Gap, through which a wild road ran over into the wild Kentucky hills.  Therein Bill’s danger lay; for, just at this time, the Harlan Home Guard under Black Tom, having cleared those hills, were making ready, like the Pict and Scot of olden days, to descend on the Virginia valley and smite the lowland rebels at the mouth of the Gap.  Of the “stay-at-homes,” and the deserters roundabout, there were many, very many, who would “stand in” with any man who would keep their bellies full, but they were well-nigh worthless even with a leader, and, without a leader, of no good at all.  Flitter Bill must find a leader for them, and anywhere than in his own fat self, for a leader of men Bill was not born to be, nor could he see a leader among the men before him.  And so, standing there one early morning in the spring of 1865, with uplifted gaze, it was no surprise to him—­the coincidence, indeed, became at once one of the articles of perfect faith in his own star—­that he should see afar off, a black slouch hat and a jogging gray horse rise above a little knoll that was in line with the mouth of the Gap.  At once he crossed his hands over his chubby stomach with a pious sigh, and at once a plan of action began to whirl in his little round head.  Before man and beast were in full view the work was done, the hands were unclasped, and Flitter Bill, with a chuckle, had slowly risen, and was waddling back to his desk in the store.