Steamboat rock was a hundred-ton chunk of sandstone which had been blasted off the mountain when the railroad was built. It had come to rest thirty yards downstream from where the icy mountain waters of Fall-Rock hollow shot into the murky Guyandotte. It looked just like a large riverboat caught between the rapids, hence the name. At the up-river end of the gigantic boulder, seasonal flood waters had churned out a deep hole in the river bottom that was perfect for swimming, and we made good use of it. The rapids above and below the spot helped keep it private, so we normally didn't have to worry about crowds.
    By the time we reached the water's edge, we were both fully dressed for skinny-dipping, and we wasted no time plunging into those wonderful, cool waters.

    "Le's jump offa Steamboat," I yelled, churning out of the current into the peaceful swirl of the shaded pool.

    "Okay... last one up jumps first."

    We hefted ourselves onto the rocky mountainside, scurried past the poison-ivy vines, clambered atop Steamboat and cannon-balled into the river. In fact, we hefted, scurried, clambered and cannon-balled until we were too tired to do anymore. So we decided to swim to the beach and roast for a while.

    We dripped onto the sand, tossed a few stones into the water, chattered about nothing in particular for a while, then spread ourselves out beneath the sultry afternoon sun.

    Sitting up suddenly, Franky blurted out, "I gotta go!"
    "Whaddaya mean?" I protested, as he grabbed for his pants. "We ain't been here 'at long."
    "I don't mean I gotta go, I mean I gotta go ."
    "Oh... Okay, I'll stay here an' keep watch fer yuh."

    He yanked on his clothing and raced past the rhododendrons to the brushy embankment at the edge of the flat. Then he disappeared into the foliage.I dressed lazily and settled in against the trunk of a leaning water-birch, my body still tingling from the cool swim and hot sunbath. Then I heard a hollow "thump" from where Franky had vanished into the bushes.

    "Whut'd ya do, Franky, fall in?" I giggled.
    There was no reply.

    "Hey Frank, are you still there?"
    Then, as though from a great distance, I heard a muffled voice echo softly.

    "Hey Rob, c'mere an' lookit this!"

    I grunted to my feet and trotted past the rhododendrons, but there was no sign of Franky. Atop the embankment to my left, the Bartley schoolhouse lent its shadow to the already shaded bower as the afternoon sun slid further down the valley. I peered into the elder bushes along the bank.

    "Frank, whur you at, boy?"
    "Down here! Man... wouldja look at this!"

    Just beyond the steep edge of the embankment was a square hole in the sandy earth, a hole which I knew had not been there a week ago. There was no fresh dirt around it, just leaves, which meant that someone had been very careful to keep its existence secret. I struggled up to the edge of the hole and dropped to my knees, straining to see into the darkness below. Gradually, the pit's interior took shape as my eyes grew accustomed to the diminished light. Franky was kneeling in fresh, damp earth clutching a tightly sealed Mason jar which appeared to be filled with spring water.

    "I fell in 'iss stoopid hole, an' lookit whut I fount!"
    "Looks like water t' me."
    "Water my foot!... 'Iss here stuff is moonshine!"
    "Moonshine?"
    "Yeah, come awn down here, boy!"

    Placing a hand on either side of the opening, I lowered myself into the pit. It was a lot larger than the entryway suggested, and had been carefully shaped--as though someone knew exactly how much room would be needed inside. It was about six feet high and eight feet from side to side. The top had been reinforced by green slabs supported on either end by fresh-cut poles. The sides were just bare earth from which countless roots protruded. Along the back wall were fifty or sixty more of the Mason jars, all filled with the same clear liquid, and all stacked neatly together. It was a hooch-hog's heaven.

    "Boy oh boy," Franky muttered, "whur you reckon all 'iss stuff come frum?"

    I was about to say I had no idea, when an imaginary army of tingle-spiders began marching down my back.

    "Frank," I half gulped, half muttered, "I thank I know whur... Ya 'member 'at guy they fished outta th' river?... Well he wuz uh moonrunner."
    "So whut? He couldn'ta put it in here, he's ded."
    "Yeah, but whoever kilt 'im prob'ly took it frum 'im."

    Clunk... The Mason Jar fell into the dirt. Franky's ashen face radiated terror as he began brushing his hands on his shirt, as though trying to wipe away the touch of death.

"I thank we ortta git outta here!"

    Before that last word cleared his lips I was clearing the exit to the great outdoors. By the time I was halfway out Franky had one hand on my pants leg, one hand on a sassafras root, and was clawing holes in that dirt wall with the toes of his tennis shoes. In about five seconds both of us had cleared the pit and reached the bottom of the embankment. We charged through the river brush till we were too breathless to run anymore, then we hid beneath a willow bush to recover.

    "Boy--I'm sure--glad t' be--outta that creepy place," Franky gasped.
    "Yeah--whew--I'uz skeered t' death." Then I added, "I betcha I know--who dunnit--too."
    "Done whut?"
    "Who kilt 'at feller--an' throwed 'im in th' river--an' hid all 'is moonshine in 'at hole."
"Who?"
    "Ol' Rat, 'at's who."
    "Y-e-a-h," Franky drawled the word out thoughtfully, "ever'body knows he' crazy uhnuff t' do anythang. An' I ain't never seen nobody any meaner'n him."
    He considered the idea for a moment, then added, "I shore do hope he don't find out we'uz in his hidin' place. I'm too young t' git kilt."

    We struggled to our feet and made our way through the bushes to the river path which led homeward. Crouching to avoid low-hanging birch limbs, we scrambled over mud and rocks, Franky in front, and me clipping his heels. When he stopped abruptly I crashed into him so hard we nearly went for another swim.

    "Whut'd ya stop fer? Y' see uh snake?"
    But Franky was nervously fumbling through his pockets. Finally, with a look of horror on his face, "It's m' pocket knife... I can't find m' pocket knife!"
    "Th' heck with it," I snapped, "I ain't goin' back there t' look fer no dum' pocket knife."
    "Yeah, but its got m' name awn it! If it's in 'at hole Rat'll know we been there!"
    "Whaddaya mean we? It's yore name, not mine. If you wanna go back, you go y'self. Only place I'm goin' is home."
    "Oh yeah? Well if Rat kills me I'll tell awn you too."
    "Boy, 'at's rotten. 'At's really rotten!"
    "Well you take yer pick. Either help me find m' knife, er you git kilt too."

    I was trapped. Frightened beyond argument at the thought of having ol' Rat after me, I grudgingly consented to accompany my fretful buddy back to the mysterious moonshine pit.

    It took a little longer returning than it had taken to leave, but eventually we found ourselves at the foot of the embankment once more.

    "I'll wait fer ya right here," I announced emphatically. "Hurry it up."

    Franky hauled himself up the bank and through the brush to the entrance while I nervously scanned the area from below. A few seconds later, a loud scuffle erupted above me, then a wild-eyed figure in blue jeans came crashing through the brush like a frightened deer. He streaked past me in the direction of Steamboat rock screaming, "Hit's Rat! Hit's Rat!"

    Panic seized my body for an instant, then the sight of two beady eyes peering at me from above brought a sudden drop in my body temperature. An instant surge of super power hit my feet, and I shot off through the underbrush in the same direction as my terrified friend.

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