rst time in the
memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the
grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of
ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of "beer." Even now, however, Ben
clung to his role. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit
placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For
better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a
bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his
scrawny hands in the "beer," and cackled. It was admirable art, but
wasted.

The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both
"singlin's" and "doublin's," were poured out on the ground, which
drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning "boomer." Then, the
raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and
his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap,
drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In
the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten
his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost,
not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap
where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his
knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to
joyousness.

"By the Lord, boys," he shouted, "it's the Bobbie Burns' still!"

Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered
his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them
on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from
toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminishing puddle. The
marshal's voice rasped.

"You're going with us, Ben. It's for you to say how. If we have to,
we'll carry you all the way. We'll snake you down the mountains
without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours,
and then we'll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we've
got--face down across the saddle and roped snug. That's the way you'll
do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod.
Make up your mind--now! It'll be too late to change it, in a minute.
You're plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!"

And Ben York, shivering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the
inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.

"Hit was thet-thar damned gal!" he mumbled venomously. But none
heard.

CHAPTER IX