"Then, can"t you git your own path-master to do his dooty an" execoote the statoots?"
"You see," stammered Byram, "I app"inted a--a lady."
"A what!" cried the game-warden.
"A lady," repeated Byram, firmly. "Tell the truth, we "ain"t got no path-master; we"ve got a path-mistress--Elton"s kid, you know--"
"Elton?"
"Yes."
"What hung hisself in his orchard?"
"Yes."
"His kid? The girl that folks say is sweet on Dan McCloud?"
A scowl crisped Byram"s face.
"It"s a lie," he said, thickly.
After a silence Byram spoke more calmly. "Old man Elton he didn"t leave her nothin". She done ch.o.r.es around an" taught school some, down to Frog Holler. She"s that poor--nothin" but pertaters an" greens for to eat, an" her a-savin" her money for to go to one o" them female inst.i.toots where women learn to nurse sick folks."
"So you "pinted her path-master to kinder he"p her along?"
"I--I kinder did."
"She"s only a kid."
"Only a kid. "Bout sixteen."
"An" it"s against the law?"
"Kinder "gainst it."
The game-warden pretended to stifle a yawn.
"Well," he said, petulantly. "I never knowed nothin" about it--if they ask me over to Spencers."
"That"s right! An" I"ll he"p you do your dooty regardin" them pa"tridges," said Byram, quickly. "Dan McCloud"s a loafer an" no good.
When he"s drunk he raises h.e.l.l down to the store. Foxville is jest plumb sick o" him."
"Is it?" inquired the game-warden, with interest.
"The folks is that sick o" him that they was talkin" some o" runnin" him acrost the mountains," replied Byram; "but I jest made the boys hold their horses till I got that there road-tax outen him first."
"Can"t you git it?"
"Naw," drawled Byram. "I sent Billy Delany to McCloud"s shanty to collect it, but McCloud near killed Bill with a axe. That was Tuesday.
Some o" the boys was fixin" to run McCloud outer town, but I guess most of us ain"t hankerin" to lead the demonstration."
""Fraid?"
"Ya-as," drawled Byram.
The game-warden laboriously produced a six-shooter from his side pocket.
A red bandanna handkerchief protected the shiny barrel; he unwrapped this, regarded the weapon doubtfully, and rubbed his fat thumb over the b.u.t.t.
"Huh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Byram, contemptuously, "he"s got a repeatin"-rifle; he can cut a pa"tridge"s head off from here to that b.u.t.ternut "cross the creek!"
"I"m goin" to git into his ice-house all the same," said the warden, without much enthusiasm.
"An" I"m bound to git my road-tax," said Byram, "but jest how I"m to operate I dunno."
"Me neither," added the warden, musingly. "G.o.d knows I hate to shoot people."
What he really meant was that he hated to be shot at.
A young girl in a faded pink sunbonnet pa.s.sed along the road, followed by a dog. She returned the road-master"s awkward salutation with shy composure. A few moments later the game-warden saw her crossing the creek on the stepping-stones; her golden-haired collie dog splashed after her.
"That"s a slick girl," he said, twisting his heavy black mustache into two greasy points.
Byram glanced at him with a scowl.
"That"s the kid," he said.
"Eh? Elton"s?"
"Yes."
"Your path-master?"
"Well, what of it?"
"Nuthin"--she"s good-lookin"--for a path-master," said the warden, with a vicious leer intended for a compliment.
"What of it?" demanded Byram, harshly.
"Be you fixin" to splice with that there girl some day?" asked the game-warden, jocosely.
"What of it?" repeated Byram, with an ugly stare.
"Oh," said the warden, hastily, "I didn"t know nothin" was goin" on; I wasn"t meanin" to rile n.o.body."
"Oh, you wasn"t, wasn"t you?" said Byram, in a rage. "Now you can jest git your pa"tridges by yourself an" leave me to git my road-tax. I"m done with you."
"How you do rile up!" protested the warden. "How was I to know that you was sweet on your path-master when folks over to Spencers say she"s sweet on Dan McCloud--"