As he went on, she slid from her perch
and with cat-footed quiet followed him. When he reached the river
she saw him pull in his horse and eagerly bend forward, looking
into a pool just below the crossing. There was a bass down there
in the clear water--a big one--and the man whistled cheerily and
dismounted, tying his horse to a sassafras bush and unbuckling a
tin bucket and a curious looking net from his saddle. With the net
in one hand and the bucket in the other, he turned back up the
creek and passed so close to where she had slipped aside into the
bushes that she came near shrieking, but his eyes were fixed on a
pool of the creek above and, to her wonder, he strolled straight
into the water, with his boots on, pushing the net in front of
him.
He was a "raider" sure, she thought now, and he was looking for a
"moonshine" still, and the wild little thing in the bushes smiled
cunningly--there was no still up that creek--and as he had left
his horse below and his gun, she waited for him to come back,
which he did, by and by, dripping and soaked to his knees. Then
she saw him untie the queer "gun" on his saddle, pull it out of a
case and--her eyes got big with wonder--take it to pieces and make
it into a long limber rod.
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