It was early afternoon on Lake Stillhouse Hollow -- brilliant sun still high in the bright blue October sky -- and the aquarium-clear water under the ramp between the shore and the marina, invited your eyes to explore. A pair of hand-sized bluegills poked around the water weeds, perhaps searching out mayfly nymphs. Here and there, finning lazily in small pockets in the vegetation, you could see more sunnies -- at least a dozen or so of the brightly-colored panfish. It seemed an underwater Eden. Calm. Tranquil. Serene. A peaceful sight -- I watched for a minute or two, and started to turn away. Then a movement caught my eye.

Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Nothing dramatic. Not until you looked closer. But something was up. The bluegills froze, then sank deeper into their individual niches in the weeds. In retreat, they looked cautious, even afraid. Then there was more movement and suddenly two silhouettes materialized. Now you could see what this fear was all about -- a pair of dark, submarine-shaped fish, each over a foot and a half long. To the sunnies, these two spelled danger. Predators. Top of the food chain. Aquatic wolves. Here, at my feet, in the clear shallow water near the shoreline, swam two prime samples of Texans' favorite gamefish -- largemouth black bass. They weren't trophy-sized, but they were big enough. They were the reason I had come here.

Nowadays, what brings most folks to Bell County is recreation, retirement, or employment (and big bass if you're an angler). Not so 150 years ago. Back then, if you were nosing around the lonesome hollows and rough breaks along the Lampasas River, you probably had something else on your mind: homemade likker. Call it 'Shine. Hooch. Mountain Dew. White Lightnin'. To the east, where the flat blacklands offered easier passage, Texas cattlemen drove huge herds of Longhorns north to Kansas and thousands of hooves clouded the pristine prairie air with trail dust. Here, in the limestone hills, it was something el ...

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