In the Ozark Hills from which I hail, people seem to have a great sense of protection for each other. This fact became evident in the late 1930's, when one of the young men of the town purchased a motorcycle. Motorcycles were a rare thing in that neck of the woods in those days. Most people had never seen one.

As young men will, the fellow with the cycle liked to brag a bit. He talked about how much faster he could go than with a horse. Someone said that he could not go everywhere a horse could. He, not wanting the others to think he had made a bad investment, said that he sure could, too. As they talked, one brag after another, they worked up a bet. They said that he could not go up Smoot Hill, because it was too steep, and everyone knew that a horse could make it.

The time for the trial was set. Many young people gathered at the bottom of the hill to see the young man attempt to prove his machine.

Half way up the hill was the shack of Old Man Smoot. He usually sat on his front porch with a chew of tobacco in his jaw. This day was no exception.

The young man started his cycle and accelerated as fast as he could in order to make it up the hill. When he approached Old Man Smoot's cabin, Smoot grabbed his shotgun and fired both barrels. The young man fell off and the cycle kept going into the brush.

The crowd ran up the hill to Old Man Smoot's house and asked, "Why in the world did you shoot him?"

"I don't know what that thing was," he said, "But I made it let that boy go!"