er occupation for the Hatfield son.

Within a few yards of the spot where the home of Devil Anse burned to
the ground stands today a rustic lodge garishly designed. Over the
doorway painted in bright red letters are these words--

SILVER MOON TAVERN

Neighbors call it a beer j'int. Entering, you are greeted by the
proprietor, a mild, pleasant fellow who asks in a slow mountain drawl,
"What kin I do for you?" If you happen to be an old acquaintance as I
am, Tennis Hatfield--for he it is who runs the place--will add, "Glad to
see you. I've not laid eyes on you for a coon's age. Set." He waved me
to a chromium stool beside the counter. "I've quit the law." Tennis had
been sheriff of Logan County for a term or two. "This is easier." He
flung wide his hands with a gesture that encompassed the interior of the
Silver Moon Tavern. "Well, there's no harm in selling beer." He fixed me
with a piercing look such as I had seen in the eye of Devil Anse.
"What's more there's no harm in drinking it either, in reason. Young
folks gather in here of a night and listen to the music and dance and it
don't cost 'em much money. A nickel in the slot. We ain't troubled with
slugs," he said casually. "The folks choose their own tune." He pointed
to a gaudily striped electric music box that filled a corner of the
tavern. With great care he showed me the workings of the moan box, he
called it. "These are the tunes they like best." He called them off as
his finger moved carefully along the titles: "Big Beaver, The Wise Owl,
Double Crossing Mamma, In the Mood, and Mountain Dew. They just
naturally wear that record out. Young folks here on Main Island Creek
like Lulu Belle and Scotty. See, they made that record Mountain Dew." A
slow smile lighted his face. "'Pon my soul all that young folks do these
days is eat and dance. That's how come me to put the sign on the side of
my beer j'int--Dine and Dance. We're right up to snuff here on Main
Island Creek," he added with a smug smile. "But now Joe Hatfield over to
Red Jacket in Mingo County, he follows preaching and he says a beer
j'int is just sending people plum to hell. I don't know about that.
There's never been no trouble here in my place. I won't sell a man
that's had a dram too many. And if he starts to get noisy"--he lifted a
toe--"out he goes! I aim to keep my place straight." He shoved his
thumbs deep into the belt of his breeches. "Not much doin' at this time
of day.