THE MOUNTAIN-STILL
I
THE MOONSHINER
HE leans far out and watches: Down below The road seems but a ribbon through the trees: The bluff, from which he gazes, whence he sees Some ox-team or some horseman come and go, Is briered with brush. A man comes riding slow Around a bend of road. Against his knees The branches whip. He sits at careless ease. It is the sheriff, armed for any foe. A detonation tears the echoes fromEach pine-hung crag; upon the rider's brow A smear of red springs out: he shades it now, His grey eyes on the bluff. The crags are dumb. Smoke wreathes one spot. The sheriff, with a cough, Marks well that place, and then rides slowly off. THE MOONSHINER