The Rose brothers, are known as men good-natured, but of desperate character when aroused. They have been blockaders. Living outside of school districts, and seemingly of all State protection, they refuse to pay any taxes; having only a trailway to their door, they pay no attention to notices for working the county roads. Thus recognizing no authority, they live in a pure state of natural liberty, depending for its continuance upon their own strength and daring, the fears of county officers, the seclusion of their home, and their proximity to the Tennessee line. Only one and a half mile of mountain ascent is required to place them beyond the pursuit of State authorities. One of them once killed his man, in Swain county, and to this day he has escaped trial. They are men of fine features and physique. Both wear full, dark beards; long, black hair; slouch hats; blue hunting shirts, uncovered by coats or vests, and belted with a strap holding their pantaloons in place. High boots, with exposed tops, cover their feet and lower limbs. They are tall and broad-shouldered. Thus featured, figured, and accoutered, they appeared to our party. All the children had been covered with feather beds, when we six men and two women formed a wide circle before the fire that evening. Naturally, our conversation was on hunting, and Kenswick opened the ball by inquiring about the state of deer hunting. “We allers spring a deer when we drive,” responded Jake. “Do you never fail?” “Never; but sometimes we miss killin’ ’im.” “They must be thick around here,” remarked Sanford. “Not so powerful. Why, just a few ye’r ago, Brit Mayner killed nine in one day. He couldn’t do hit now.” “Why?” “Gittin’ scurce; every man on the Smokies owns dogs, an’ they’re bein’ hounded to death.” “How about bears?” asked Kenswick. “Gittin’ scurce, too. We generally kill eight or ten now in the season agin twenty a short time back.” “When is the best season for bear,” began Kenswick, but Sanford, who had stepped to the door, interrupted him. “Oh,” said he, “let information about bears rest until we hunt for them, and let me ask if that is a wolf I hear howling. Listen!” “By George!” exclaimed Kenswick, “it does sound rather wolfish.” “Hit’s one, shore enough,” returned Quil. “We hear ’em every winter night from the door.” “They must do damage to your sheep.” “Reckon they do; but not much worser ’en dogs.” “How do you destroy them?” “Trap ’em, an’ shoot ’em.” “Will they fight a pack of hounds well?” “Prime fighters, you bet! But, dog my skin, I got the holt on one the other day that he didn’t shake off!” “Hold of one! How was that?” two of us asked together.