The Mountain-Still

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 from Each 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. II. The Sheriff Night and the mountain road: a crag where burns What seems a star, low down: three men that glide From tree and rock towards it: one a guide For him who never from his purpose turns, Who stands for law among these mountain kerns. At last the torchlit cave, along whose side The still is seen, and men who have defied The law so long law, who the threshold spurns With levelled weapons now.... Wolves in a den Fight not more fiercely than these fought; wild fear In every face, and rage and pale surprise. The smoke thins off, and in the cave four men Lie dead or dying: one that mountaineer, And one the sheriff with the fearless eyes.