“I dunno,” sullenly responded the mountaineer. He had acquainted the two officers, who were of a posse of revenue-raiders hovering in the vicinity, with the mysterious circumstance that a freighted wagon now and then made a midnight transit across these lonely ranges. He himself had heard only occasionally in a wakeful hour the roll of heavy wheels, but he interpreted this as the secret transportation of brush whisky from the still to its market. He had thought to fix the transgression on an old enemy of his own, long suspected of moonshining; but he was acquainted with none of the youngsters on the wagon, at whom he had peered cautiously from behind the rocks. His actuating motive in giving information to the emissaries of the government had been the rancor of an old feud, and his detection meant certain death. He had not expected the revenue-raiders to be outnumbered by the supposed moonshiners, and he would not fight in the open. He had no sentiment of fealty to the law, and the officers glanced at each other in uncertainty. “This evidently is not the wagon in question,” said Browdie, disappointed. “I'll follow them a bit,” volunteered Bonan, the younger and the more active of the two officers. “Seems to me they'll bear watching.” Indeed, as the melancholy cortège fared down and down the steep road, dwindling in the sheeny distance, the covert and half-suppressed laughter of the sepulchral escort was of so keen a relish that it was well that the scraping of the locked wheel aided the distance to mask the incongruous sound. “What ailed you-uns ter name _me_ as the corpus, 'Gene Barker?” demanded Walter Wyatt, when he had regained the capacity of coherent speech. “Oh, I hed ter do suddint murder on somebody,” declared the driver, all bluff and reassured and red-faced again, “an' I couldn't think quick of nobody else. Besides, I helt a grudge agin' you fer not stuffin' mo' straw 'twixt them jimmyjohns in the coffin-box.” “That's a fac'. Ye air too triflin' ter be let ter live, Watt,” cried one of their comrades. “I hearn them jugs clash tergether in the coffin-box when 'Gene checked the team up suddint, I tell you. An' them men sure 'peared ter me powerful suspectin'.” “_I_ hearn the clash of them jimmyjohns,” chimed in the driver. “I really thunk my hour war come. Some informer must hev set them men ter spyin' round fer moonshine.” “Oh, surely nobody wouldn't dare,” urged one of the group, uneasily; for the identity of an informer was masked in secrecy, and his fate, when discovered, was often gruesome. “They couldn't hev noticed the clash of them jimmyjohns, nohow,” declared the negligent Watt, nonchalantly. “But namin' _me_ fur the dead one! Supposin' they air revenuers fur true, an' hed somebody along, hid out in the bresh, ez war acquainted with me by sight----”