“Hello!” said the revenue officer who had addressed him on the mountain; “you see we made quick time; we found ’em right whar you left ’em.”

“I see.”

Washburn, who was under the skirt of a saddle unbuckling a girth, glanced at Westerfelt in surprise as he lifted the saddle from the horse and carried it into the stable.  The two moonshiners exchanged quick glances and sullenly muttered something to each other.  Westerfelt, intent on getting the business over that he might go to bed, failed to observe these proceedings.  When the officers had taken their prisoners on towards the jail, Washburn, who, with a lantern, was putting the horses into stalls, turned to Westerfelt.

“My Lord!  Mr. Westerfelt,” he said, “I hope you didn’t give them fellers away.”

“Never dreamt of such a thing.  What do you mean?”

“I ’lowed you had by what that feller said just now.”

“What did he say?”

“Why, he said they’d ketched the men right whar you left ’em, an’—­”

“Well, what of that?” Westerfelt spoke impatiently.  “I did pass the whiskey wagon.  The revenue men asked me if I’d seen them, and I simply refused to answer.  They didn’t get anything out of me.”

“That’s just what I’d ‘a’ done, but I wish you’d ‘a’ set yorese’f right jest now, fer them fellers certainly think you give ’em away, an’ they’ll tell the gang about it.”

“Well, I didn’t, so what does it matter?”

Washburn took out the bowl of his lantern and extinguished the light as they entered the office.

“It makes a man mighty unpopular in the Cohutta Valley to interfere with the moonshiners,” he answered.  “Whiskey-makin’ is agin the law, but many a family gits its livin’ out o’ the stuff, an’ a few good citizens keep the’r eyes shet to it.  You see, Mr. Westerfelt, the gang may be a little down on you anyway sence your difficulty with Wambush.  Did you know that he wus a sort of a ring-leader amongst ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you mark my word, that feller’d swear his chances of heaven away to turn them mount’in men agin you.”

“Most of them are good-hearted fellows” replied Westerfelt.  “They won’t harm me.”

Washburn sat down on his bed, pulled off his shoes, and dropped them on the puncheon floor.

“But he’s got the’r ear, an’ you hain’t, Mr. Westerfelt.  He’d grab at a chance like this an’ you’d never be able to disprove anything.  Toot’s got some unprincipled friends that ’ud go any length to help him in rascality.”

The next morning before the revenue men had left with their prisoners and the confiscated whiskey for the town where the trial before an inspector was to take place, a number of mountaineers had gathered in the village.  They stood about the streets in mysterious groups and spoke in undertones, and now and then a man would go to the jail window and confer with the prisoners through the bars.  Several men had been summoned to attend the trial as witnesses, and others went out of curiosity or friendship for the accused.