FOREST AND STREAM 
409 
Sept. 15, 1906.] 
furnace, or stir the mash—jest so ’s ’t they could 
prove that you took a hand in it your own self.” 
“What good would that do?” 
“Hit would make you one o’ them in the eyes 
of the law.” 
“I see. But, really, doesn’t that seem rather 
childish? I could easily convince any court that 
I did it under compulsion; for that’s what it 
would amount to.” 
“I reckon you-uns would find a United States 
court purty hard to convince. The judge ’d 
right up and want to know why you let grass 
go to seed afore you came and informed on 
them.” 
He paused, Watched my expression, and then 
continued quizzically: “1 reckon you wouldn't 
be in no great hurry to do that.” 
“Then, if I stirred the mash and sampled 
their liquor, nobody would mistreat me?” 
“Shucks! Why, man, whut could they gain 
by hurtin’ you? At' the wust, s’posin' they was 
convicted by your own evidence, they’d only git 
a month or two in the pen. So why should they 
murder you and get hung for it? Hit’s all 
’tarnal foolishness, the notions some folks has!” 
“I thought so. Now, here! the public has 
been fed all sorts of nonsense about this moon- 
shining business. I'd like to learn the plain 
truth about it. without bias one way or the 
other. I have no curiosity about personal 
affairs, and don’t want to learn incriminating 
details; but I would like to learn how the busi¬ 
ness is conducted, and especially how it is re¬ 
garded from the mountain people’s own point 
of view. I have already learned that there are 
no feuds here in the Carolina mountains, such 
as they have in Kentucky, and that a stranger’s 
life and property are safer here than they would 
be on the streets of Chicago or of St. Louis. 
It will do your country good to have that known. 
But I can’t say that there is no moonshining 
going on here; for a man with a wooden nose 
could smell it. Now what is your excuse for de¬ 
fying the law? You don’t seem ashamed of it.” 
The man’s face turned an angry red. 
“Mister, we-uns hain’t no call to be ashamed 
of ourselves, nor of ary thing we do. We’re 
poor; but we don’t ax no favors. We stay ’way 
up hyar in these coves, and mind our own busi¬ 
ness. When a stranger comes along, he’s wel¬ 
come to the best we’ve got, such as ’tis; but if 
he imposes on us, he gits his medicine purty 
d- quick!” 
“And you think the Government tax on 
whiskey is an imposition.” 
“Hit is, under some sarcumstances.” 
My guest stretched his legs, and “jedgmatic- 
ally” proceeded to enlighten me. 
“Thar’s plenty o’ men and women grown, in 
these mountains, who don’t know that the Gov¬ 
ernment is ary thing but a president in a biled 
shirt who commands two-three judges and a 
gang o’ revenoo officers. They know thar’s a 
president, because the men folkes ’s voted for 
him, and the women folks ’s seen .his pictur. 
They’ve heered tell about the judges; and they’ve 
seen the revenoo in flesh and blood. They be¬ 
lieve in supportin’ the Government, because hit’s 
the law. Nobody refuses to pay his taxes, for 
taxes is fair and square. Taxes cost mebbe 
three cents on the dollar; and that’s all right. 
But revenoo costs a dollar and ten cents on 
twenty cents’ worth o’ liquor; and that’s robbin’ 
the people with a gun to their faces. 
“Of course, I ain’t so ignorant as all that— 
I've traveled about the country, been to Asheville 
oncet, and to Waynesville a heap o’ times—and 
I know the theory. Theory says ’t revenoo is 
a tax on luxury. Wall, that’s all right—any¬ 
thing in reason. The big fellers that makes 
lots of money out o’-stillin’, and lives in luxury, 
ought to pay handsome for it. But who ever 
seen luxury cavortin’ around in these Smoky 
Mountains?” 
He paused for a reply. Even then, with my 
limited experience in the mountains, I could not 
help laughing at the idea. Often, in later times, 
this man’s question came back to me with 
peculiar force. Luxury! in a land where the 
little stores were often out of coffee, sugar, 
kerosene, and even salt; where, in dead of 
winter, there was no meal, much less flour, to 
be had for love or money. Luxury! where I 
had to live on bear-meat (tough old sow bear) 
for six weeks, because the only side of pork that 
I could find for sale was full of maggots. 
My friend continued: “Whiskey means more 
to us mountain folks than hit does to folks in 
’town, whar thar’s drug-stores and doctors. Let 
ary thing go wrong in the fam’ly—fever, or 
snake bite, or somethin’—and we can’ t git a 
doctor up hyar less’n three days; and it costs 
scand’lous. The only medicines we-uns has is 
yarbs, which customarily ain’t no good ’thout 
a leetle grain o’ whiskey. Now, th’r ain’t no 
saloons allowed in all these western counties. 
The nighest State dispensary, even, is sixty miles 
away. The law wunt let us have liquor shipped 
to us from anywhars in the State. If we git it 
sent to us from outside the State it has to come 
by express—and reg’lar old pop-skull it is, too. 
So, to be good, law-abiding citizens, we-uns must 
travel back and forth at a heap of expense, or pay 
express rates on pizened liquor—and we are 
too durned poor to do ary one or t’other. 
“Now, yan’s my field o’ corn. I gather the 
corn, and shuck hit and grind hit my own self, 
and the woman she bakes us a pone o’ bread to 
eat—and I don’t pay no tax, do I? Then why 
can’t I make some o’ my corn into.pure whiskey 
to drink, without payin’ tax? I tell you, ’tain’t 
fair, this way the Government does! 
“But, when all’s said and done, the main 
reason for this ‘moonshining,’ as you-uns calls 
it, is bad roads.” 
“Bad roads!” I exclaimed. “What the- 
“Jest thisaway: From hyar to the railroad is 
seventeen miles, with two mountains to cross; 
and you’ve seen that road! I recollect you-uns 
said every one o’ them miles was a thousand 
rods long. Wall, nobody’s ever measured them, 
except by mountain man’s foot-rule—big feet, 
and a long stride between ’em. Seven hundred 
pounds is all the load a good team can haul 
over that road, when the weather’s good. Hit 
takes three days to make the round trip, less’n 
you break an axle, and then hit takes four. 
When you do git to the railroad, th’r ain’t no 
town of a thousand people within fifty mile. 
Now us folks ain’t even got wagons. Thar s 
only one sarviceable wagon in this whole settle- 
ment, and you can t hire it without team and 
driver which is two dollars and a half a day. 
Whar one o’ our leetle sleds can’t go, we haffter 
pack on mule-back or tussle it on our own 
wethers. Look, then! dhe only farm produce 
we-uns can sell is corn. You see for yourself 
that corn can’t be shipped outen hyar. We-uns 
can trade hit for store credit—that’s all. Corn 
juice is about all we can tote around Over the 
country and git cash money for. Why, man, 
that’s the only way some folks has o payin 
their taxes!” 
A smile escaped my lips, though my guest was 
severely earnest, and I felt the pathos lurking 
in his story. „ 
“But. aside from the work and the worry, 
I remarked, “there is the danger of being shot, 
in this business.” . 
“Oh, we-uns don’t lay that up again the Gov¬ 
ernment! Hit’s as fair for one as ’tis for tother. 
When a revenoo comes sneakin’ around, why, 
whut he gits, or whut we-uns gits, that’s a 
‘fortune of war.’ as the old sayin is. 
* * * * * 
There is no telegraph, wired or wireless, in 
the mountains, but there is an efficient substi¬ 
tute. It seemed as though, in one night the 
news traveled from valley to cove, and from 
cove to nook, that I was investigating the moon¬ 
shining business, and that I was apparently 
“safe.” Each individual interpreted that word 
to suit himself. Some regarded me askance, 
others were so confiding that' their very frank¬ 
ness threatened at times to become embar¬ 
rassing. „ , , 
Thereafter I had many talks and adventures 
with men who, at one time or other, had been 
engaged in the moonshining industry. Some of 
these men had known the inside of the peni- 
tentiary; some were not without blood-guilt. I 
doubt not that more than one of them could, 
even now, find his way through night and tog 
and laurel thicket to some “beautiful piece of 
copper” that has not yet been punched full of 
holes. They knew that I was on friendly terms 
with revenue agents. What was worse, they 
knew that I was a scribbler. More than once I 
took notes in their presence while interviewing 
them, and we had the frankest understanding as 
to what would become of those notes. 
My imunity was not due to any promise made 
or hostages given. I did not even pose as these 
men’s apologist. I merely volunteered to give 
a'fair report of what I heard and saw. 1 hey 
took me at my word. Had I used such repre¬ 
sentations as a mask, and secretly played the 
spy upon them, no doubt I would have been 
shot—and would have richly deserved it. As it 
was, I never met with any but the most respect¬ 
ful treatment from these gentry, nor, to the best 
of my belief, did they ever tell me a lie. 
I have said that the very frankness of some 
of these men was at times embarrassing. One 
day there came, by a roundabout but reliable 
channel, an intimation that I had an opportunity 
to photograph a moonshine still in full swing. 
Any newspaper man will appreciate the temp¬ 
tation. I declined; not from fear of possible 
consequences—that cut no figure—but simply 
because I did not wish to carry around with me 
