hrough the garden fence, and raise Ned
instanter--all because he hated _me_, for that peppery fraud, and knew
that Bob and I were cronies.

I dubbed this pig Belial; a name that Bob promptly adapted to his own
notion by calling it Be-liar. "That Be-liar," swore he, "would cross
hell on a rotten rail to git into my 'tater patch!"

Finally I could stand it no longer, and took down my rifle. It was a
nail-driver, and I, through constant practice in beheading squirrels,
was in good form. However, in the mountains it is more heinous to kill
another man's pig than to shoot the owner. So I took craft for my guide,
and guile for my heart's counsel. I stalked Belial as stealthily as ever
hunter crept on an antelope against the wind. At last I had him dead
right: broadside to me and motionless as if in a daydream. I knew that
if I drilled his ear, or shot his tail clean off, it would only make him
meaner than ever. He sported an uncommonly fine tail, and was proud to
flaunt it. I drew down on that member, purposely a trifle scant, fired,
and--away scuttled that boar, with a _broken_ tail that would dangle and
cling to him disgracefully through life.

[Illustration: "Bob"]

Exit Belial! It was equivalent to a broken heart. He emigrated, or
committed suicide, I know not which, but the Smoky Mountains knew him no
more.

CHAPTER III

THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS

For a long time my chief interest was not in human neighbors, but in the
mountains themselves--in that mysterious beckoning hinterland which rose
right back of my chimney and spread upward, outward, almost to three
cardinal points of the compass, mile after mile, hour after hour of
lusty climbing--an Eden still unpeopled and unspoiled.

I loved of a morning to slip on my haversack, pick up my rifle, or maybe
a mere staff, and stride forth alone over haphazard routes, to enjoy in
my own untutored way the infinite variety of form and color and shade,
of plant and tree and animal life, in that superb wilderness that
towered there far above all homes of men. (And I love it still, albeit
the charm of new discovery is gone from those heights and gulfs that are
now so intimate and full of memories).

The Carolina mountains have a character all their own. Rising abruptly
from a low base, and then rounding more gradually upward for 2,000 to
5,000 feet above their valleys, their apparent height is more impressive
than that of many a loftier summit in the West which