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. In a moment he had cast a minnow into the pool and waded out into the water up to his hips. She had never seen so queer a fishing-pole--so queer a fisherman. How could he get a fish out with that little switch, she thought contemptuously? By and by something hummed queerly, the man gave a slight jerk and a shining fish flopped two feet into the air. It was surely very queer, for the man didn't put his rod over his shoulder and walk ashore, as did the mountaineers, but stood still, winding something with one hand, and again the fish would flash into the air and then that humming would start again while the fisherman would stand quiet and waiting for a while--and then he would begin to wind again. In her wonder, she rose unconsciously to her feet and a stone rolled down to the ledge below her. The fisherman turned his head and she started to run, but without a word he turned again to the fish he was playing. Moreover, he was too far out in the water to catch her, so she advanced slowly--even to the edge of the stream, watching the fish cut half circles about the man. If he saw her, he gave no notice, and it was well that he did not. He was pulling the bass to and fro now through the water, tiring him out--drowning him--stepping backward at the same time, and, a moment later, the fish slid easily out of the edge of the water, gasping along the edge of a low sand-bank, and the fisherman reaching down with one hand caught him in the gills. Then he looked up and smiled--and she had seen no smile like that before. “Howdye, Little Girl?” One bare toe went burrowing suddenly into the sand, one finger went to her red mouth--and that was all. She merely stared him straight in the eye and he smiled again. “Cat got your tongue?” Her eyes fell at the ancient banter, but she lifted them straightway and stared again. “You live around here?” She stared on. “Where?” No answer. “What's your name, little girl?” And still she stared. “Oh, well, of course, you can't talk, if the cat's got your tongue.” The steady eyes leaped angrily, but there was still no answer, and he bent to take the fish off his hook, put on a fresh minnow, turned his back and tossed it into the pool. “Hit hain't!” He looked up again. She surely was a pretty little thing--and more, now that she was angry. “I should say not,” he said teasingly. “What did you say your name was?” “What's YO' name?”