before when he had known it well, a place of frequent call for footsteps
skilled in mountain cunning. No path was worn to its rough entrance,
but, here and there, a broken grass-blade, in another place a pebble
recently dislodged from its accustomed hollow, elsewhere a ragged bit of
paper, torn from a tobacco-package, proved to him that, although hidden
in the wilderness of old Mount Nebo's scarred and inaccessible sides,
this spot was yet one often visited by many men.

A grim smile stirred the leathern folds of his old cheeks.

"Thar yet," he thought, "an' doin' business yet."

Again, after he had worked about to get a better view.

"Best-hidden still in these here mountings. Revenuers never _will_ get
run of it."

The place had a mighty fascination for him, as if it might have played a
tremendous part in long-gone passages of his own life. As he stood
gazing at it cautiously, the mountaineer seemed definitely to emerge
from his low-country dress and superficial "bluegrass" manner, fastened
on him by long years of usage. Old expressions of not only face but
muscles came clearly to the front. Now, no person watching him, could
ever for a moment doubt that he was mountain-born and mountain-bred, if
they but knew the ear-marks of that people--almost a race apart. The
sight of the old cave-mouth plainly stirred in him a horde of memories
not wholly pleasant. Leathern as his face was, it none the less showed
his emotions with remarkable lucidity now that he was off his guard. Now
sly cunning dominated it, with, possibly, a touch left of the early fear
to flavor it.