“Welcome, friend,” the man said. His voice had energy, was cheerful.

He nodded, said, “Good morning.”

“You wouldn’t be lost, would you?” the man asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Never been here before, so I guess I am,” he answered. “A little bit, at least.”

The man laughed. He turned to the others. “Looks like we got us a wandering sheep here,” he said in a loud voice. Then he turned back. “You in the good state of North Carolina, friend, no more’n a long throw of a flat rock from the Georgia line. County name of Clay, county seat called Hayesville, six miles to the north of where you standing. Old courthouse, some stores on the four sides around it, some filling stations, schools, and a few churches. Where you standing right now is the Bowerstown community. Some call the Valley of Light, the way it’s all spread out and taking to the sun like it does. The river that runs through it goes by the name of the Hiawassee, coming out of Chatuge Lake. Runs north, and that’ll puzzle your senses to you get used to it. Used to be Cherokee Indian land, before Andrew Jackson had them moved off. But old Andy’s boys didn’t get them all. A bunch just hid out in the hills and they still around, like Marshall Hawk, over there.” He motioned to a stocky man with bronze skin and high cheekbones and chocolate-colored eyes. All Indian features. The man smiled, said, “How,” and the other men laughed.

“There’s them that swears there’s gold by the sackful buried in the hillsides, but I been looking for it for about a thousand years and I ain’t found it yet,” the man continued. “Some specks in a pan, but that’s about all.”

The man paused, let his smile work over his face. He pulled himself from his chair. “Name’s Whitlow Mayfield,” he added, extending his hand. The smile in his eroded face deepened. “When I’m not out looking for gold or walking behind a plow, I run for sheriff of this county. Been running so long I don’t even have to put my name in the hat, but this sorry bunch of boys keep voting for the other fellow.” His smile became a short laugh. “They all scared of what I know about them.”

The men laughed easily. Chuckle laughs. Marshall Hawk said, “Other way around, if you want the truth of it.”

Whitlow Mayfield’s grip was surprisingly strong. A shine flashed in his small, blue eyes. “They just jealous. I got my own bloodhounds and them dogs know the hiding place of every still in twenty miles. These boys know that once they put a badge on my shirt, I’m coming after every one of them with my dogs, and they’ll have to go to growing corn for nothing but cornmeal and mule feed.” He paused, let his smile bloom. Then: “And what name do you go by, young fellow?”

“Noah,” he answered, releasing the grip. “Noah Locke.”