Why We Fed the Bomber By ALLAN GURGANUS HILLSBOROUGH, N.C. Straight down the back of ornery American life, there runs this mythic skunk stripe: the cantankerous outlaw protester. "Are you talking to me? . . . " And Eric Rudolph, 36, my fellow North Carolinian, belongs right there, curled along our nation's bristling Mohawk cusp. Though, God knows, I never met the fellow socially, I can call forth both his blessed landscape and harsh bloodline. His tale seems a green boomerang hurled forward from the 19th century. James Fenimore Cooper might help place him in the forest, Twain could take...