We could have died that day, but we didn't, and for a reason no one would ever have suspected... least of all, Franky an' me. There are some people in this world who choose to withdraw themselves from the presence of their fellow men. Some live in remote hideaways without conveniences or companionship. I don't know why. I'm sure they have reasons which, to them, are quite adequate to justify the self-imposed loneliness, and these reasons should be respected by others. But all too often they are not.

    People are always willing to believe the worst about their neighbors, and a hermit draws suspicion like apples draw yellow-jackets. Rumors quickly spread that he is hiding some horrible secret; he is a desperate fugitive, he has some unspeakable malady, he is "touched in th' head", "slippin' his clutch", or "not playin' with a full deck". He simply must be a killer or a rapist or a lunatic. In any case, he is a person to be shunned. He is always anything but a quiet human being who just wants to be left alone.

    The gossip spreads, and innocent bystanders fall prey to its poison. Eventually, the subject of their fantasies becomes a dreaded figure in the community, an outcast, to be approached only at risk of life and property. Such a figure was ol' Rat, and his appearance did nothing to discourage such tales. He was a slump-shouldered, tiny-eyed little man whose prickly brown hair was never combed. He had the stature of a scarecrow, and he was somewhat more that bow-legged. His puffy jaw was always stuffed with a plug of "chawin' terbacky", and he was seldom, if ever, known to spit. The common conclusion was that he swallowed the juice from the tangy cud—a fact which contributed greatly to his dubious reputation. He always wore a tattered old suit which appeared to have been salvaged from a riverbank trash pile and was never cleaner than filthy. His trudging, goose-like gait was a fearsome sight to the children, who would always take an instant detour to avoid meeting him along the road. All things considered, Rat presented a more frightening appearance than a haunted house at midnight on Halloween.

    Across the river from Bartley Bottom there was a forked hollow called Meadow Branch. To get to it one had to wade the river, climb a fifty-foot embankment, then cross the railroad and fight his way through three or four-hundred yards of sage grass. I am certain this is why ol' Rat had chosen to make the place his home.

    He had moved into a slab-shanty some old mountaineer had once used as a rest stop along his trap line. Out in the meadow, Rat had planted a small garden which thrived in the rich, black earth. This, along with his own little trap line, supplied everything he needed to survive... everything, that is, but a supply of "chawin' terbacky", for which he must make an occasional excursion into the village. That, of course, required a knee-deep wade through the choppy waters of the Guyandotte.

    So Rat added to his frightful reputation by sloshing into the general store from time to time with half of his favorite suit dripping muddy river water, and the other half covered with Meadow Branch dirt. He would squish up to the counter, wait for the reluctant storekeeper to look his way, then nod his head toward the tobacco display and grunt. Unwilling to encourage conversation, the proprietor would pitch a plug on the counter and busily concentrate on anything at hand. Rat would clink the exact amount of payment down, then slosh back out the door. At this point the relieved storekeeper would emit a thankful wheeze and proceed to mop away all evidence of the unwanted visit. I imagine that sooner or later the townsfolk would have chased Rat from the county as an undesirable had it not been for one intervening factor; Bartley Bottom had a worse reputation than he did.

    The town was afflicted with three rough-house taverns which attracted every misfit from fifty miles in all directions. Two of these devilish dens stood close beside each other at the east end of town. The other was only a hundred yards away down a saw-grass slope and just on the other side of a trickling little stream called Cook's Creek.

    The popularity of these eyesores among mountain miscreants sprang from three reasons: First, each was stocked with an ample supply of fruit-jar whiskey (a fact which bred much ill-will among local moonshiners, who were always doing battle to gain the bulk of the business). Second, they were the only places in the county with entertainment of any sort. And third, the nearest law was ten miles away through the mountains. Numbers one and three were the primary causes for the problems of Bartley Bottom.

    Hillbillies and moonshine constitute an extremely volatile mixture, especially when both are just about ready to blow their tops. The prevalence of this condition in the Bartley beer-joints caused countless explosions of violence nearly every weekend which brought about black eyes, broken bones, etc. Since there were no telephones in the area at that time, the local law never got wind of these conflicts until all the involved parties had vanished back into the mountains from which they'd come.

    At first, these "explosions" of temper resulted only in private fights. But as time passed and the situation remained unchecked, the clientele grew until it became apparent that the "long arm of the law" was in a sling in Bartley Bottom. Robberies and strange disappearances of passers-through became more and more common. Travelers would go thirty miles out of their way just to keep from passing through the town. Local inhabitants were afraid to leave their homes, and all the children were instructed to do their playing in the confines of the back yard.

    The trouble, in this particular instance, was that Franky and myself were not well known for strict adherence to instructions. From time to time we would sneak off on little exploratory adventures. Had we realized the true extent of the danger, we would have been infinitely more obedient.

    On this day, we had remained in my back yard all morning long. But after fourteen games of pocket-knife baseball in the hot July sun, the two of us decided there must be something better to do on a Friday afternoon.

    "I know whut," Franky suggested, "le's go git Beanpole an' Will an' go down t' Steamboat fer uh swim."
    "I don't think Beanpole's home, Frank. He tol' me him'n Will wuz goin' gin-sengin' uppit th' head o' Millcreek t'day. 'Sides, maw ain't gonna let me go nowhurs now... not after 'ey fount 'at guy floatin' in th' river down't th' lower end."
    "Aw, 'at's uh buncha chicken plops. 'Ey never fount nobody in th' river, 'at's sump'n 'ey made up t' skeer us inta stayin' home all th' time."
    "No-o-o hit ain't neither. It'uz th' gospel truth," I assured him. I knew my parents didn't resort to making up stories to gain my obedience. They depended on the "hick'ry withe" to accomplish that, so I was certain the story was true.

    When I reminded Franky of that fact, he mulled it over for a moment, then responded with typical teenage logic.
    "Well, what th' heck. Even if it is true, that'uz down at th' lower end. Nobody ain't never fount nuthin' at Steamboat, so we kin still go fer uh swim."
    "Yeah, but if I sneak off, Maw'll burn me up."
    "She won't even know yer gawn. we kin slip down b'hind th' chicken house an' go uhlong th' river path. We'll be back 'fore they ever miss us."

    I wiped the sweat from my forehead, balanced the possibility of a hickory switching against a cool swim, then decided it would be worth the risk. In fifteen minutes we were leaping past driftwood-laden rhododendron bushes on our way to Steamboat rock.

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