"Excuse my French," Oil calls up to his bunkmate on a frigid February night when the thin waxed-canvas tent assured that neither could sleep, "but what're you in for?.
"Caught me boating hooch out of Covington," Waters replies with a rueful smile that only he can see in the dark stillness of the frozen camp. "And me just the skipper."
"Shit flows downhill," the fifty-seven-year-old observes while tucking frozen hands into armpits. "Didn't they offer you a deal?"
"I'm no rat," groans the younger man curling up into a ball and slipping the wool blanket over his head.
Moonshining was still big business in the dry counties of eastern Kentucky even after the repeal of prohibition in 1933. There was cash to be had at each level of trade from distillers in remote hollows to bootleggers with fast cars rigged for barrel transport to shippers ferrying the duty-free whiskey to more distant cities. Being a federal crime at all stages of the illegal business, it's merchants were hunted down by enforcement officers of the Bureau of Internal Revenue. By the 1930s, after thirty years of field experience, these revenuers preferred to hook a big fish by snagging the small fry and offering release in exchange for testimony.
"Say Waters, why'd you risk your life sneaking over here?" Oil resumes after a few minutes of tossing and turning in the cold.
"I told ya..." begins Waters before being cut off.
"Really son, I been around long enough to know a white lie when I hear one."
"Well it wasn't just some guys. All of us climbed out through that gash in the women's wall."
"What else?"
"Some stayed awhile, but not me. I just wish I'd a stayed off the river."
"A word to wise, Waters: Your only mistake out there was getting caught."
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