The spring sun, which rose at half-past five, was just climbing into the
sky when Andy Gates got out of bed. He entered the compact kitchen of
his little house, started a wood fire in the range, put a pot of coffee
over an open lid hole and, while waiting for this to start percolating,
walked to the front of his place and looked over his domain.
The house was built on a rocky knoll, one of the few places in Dog Tooth
Valley that was not given over to swamp land. Enough topsoil clung to
the elevation to support a small garden. Surrounding the garden was a
tightly woven picket fence, and, even as Andy watched, a trim doe from
out of the swamp nosed hopefully at the pickets. Andy smiled with his
eyes; the doe could not get into his garden. Beyond, were three small
sheds. In one Andy kept the dozen chickens that supplied him with eggs
and an occasional table fowl; the other two were a fur shed and a place
for storing provisions. All the rest was swamp land.
The scene had been familiar since Andy's babyhood, but, even though it
was old, somehow it was always new.
Directly in front of the house was a watery slough, around and in which
cattails, lily pads and other swamp vegetation grew in lush profusion.
Just beyond the slough was a cluster of dead trees that thrust skeleton
branches and twigs forlornly and forever skyward. The dead trees were
one of the swamp's many mysteries. Why they'd grown in the first place,
Andy did not know. Nor could he understand why they did not fall down,
as other dead trees did, sooner or later. He thought that they took out
of the swamp some mineral content that toughened and hardened them.
They'd been there since he could remember. Beyond the trees, marked here
and there by other dead trees and an occasional knoll upon which grew a
little patch of live ones, the swamp stretched clear to the foot of some
low hills that rose in the distance. Andy picked out the paths across
it; the sloughs and ponds wherein lurked pickerel, perch and bass; the
game trails; and the places where, in bygone days, men of the Gates clan
had hidden from their enemies.
He turned soberly back to the stove, put a slab of butter in a skillet,
melted it and broke four eggs into it. He toasted bread on top of the
stove and sat down to eat his breakfast.
The Gates family had long since scattered far and wide. When the
railroad brought the law with it, they could no longer raid the Trulls
and Casmans and retreat to the safety of their swamp. Safety was about
all the swamp did offer; no hungry family had yet found a way to take a
livelihood from it. Andy poured himself a second cup of coffee.
One by one, the Gates men had taken their belongings and their families
from the hills. But there'd been the inevitable one who couldn't leave.
Foolish, the rest had called Jared, Andy's father, but Jared hadn't
cared. Only his son could understand that some roots went too deep to be
torn out. Jared might have left the swamp, but he wouldn't have been
happy elsewhere. This was perfectly plain to Andy because he wouldn't
either. He'd striven to finish four years of high school in three
largely because he was lonesome for the swamp and he'd gone to school
for a specific purpose.
Jared, resting these past four years in the family plot on Fiddler's
Knob, had been contented just to accept the swamp. He'd hunted a little,
fished a little, trapped a little and worked by the day for whomever saw
fit to give him a job. Andy wanted to make the swamp produce something
worthwhile and he'd spent hours in the school library, seeking a way.
Farming, in the accepted sense, was not even to be considered. The swamp
would grow no commercial crop. There was little likelihood that it
contained valuable minerals, either, but, by sheer chance, Andy had run
across an account of the great swamps of Louisiana and the muskrats that
abounded there. In this, he hoped, he had his answer.
There were fur bearers in the swamp; mink, otter, raccoon and an
occasional fox or coyote. Strangely enough, there were no muskrats, but
Andy thought this was explained by the fact that all the swamp's outlets
were subterranean. There was no surface connection with any stream or
river, and any muskrat that tried to get into the swamp would have a
long and perilous journey overland. However, he knew that there was a
vast abundance of the aquatic plants on which muskrats fed, and muskrats
did very well in northern climates, too. They were found well into
Canada.
If Andy could establish muskrats in his swamp, let them multiply and
harvest the surplus, he might very well earn more than just a
livelihood. At any rate, the experiment was worth trying and, after
corresponding with various animal dealers and breeders, he had succeeded
in buying six pairs of muskrats. If everything went according to
schedule, they'd arrive on the one o'clock train.
Andy washed his breakfast dishes, tidied up the house and went outside.
Hoisting a white tail over her back, the hopeful doe fled into the
swamp. Andy walked toward his garden and was halted by a whirring
rattle. A thick-bodied rattlesnake wriggled hastily out of his way and
he let it go. Rattlesnakes were one commodity that the swamp did produce
in abundance, and they'd killed all three of the dogs Andy had tried to
keep. After that, he had stopped keeping them. There was little point in
getting another dog when it was certain to run afoul of a snake and he
didn't really miss the companionship. Though he lived alone, he was
never lonely. Nobody could be if he loved and understood the swamp.
Opening the gate, Andy looked at his garden, saw that it had not been
molested and sighed relievedly. Deer could not get through the fence,
but raccoons had a fancy for tender young vegetables, too, and they
could get over it. Perhaps the rattlesnake, dangerous only to the unwary
and the small creatures upon which it lived, was acting as a sort of
guardian. It would be a good idea to let it stay where it was. Catching
up a hoe, Andy cultivated his young plants.
Two hours later, he laid the tool aside, returned to the house, took up
a casting rod with a silver spoon on the leader and stepped down to the
slough. He cast expertly, laying his spoon just off the fringe of lily
pads that grew on the far side of the slough. He let the spoon sink a
little ways, began the retrieve, and there was a succession of little
ripples as a good bass followed it clear across the slough. Andy cast
again and again. On his fourth cast, the bass struck. He fought it
across the slough and lifted it out of the water. Thus he had his
dinner. After he'd cooked and eaten it, he started down the trail
leading into town.
Passing Luke Trull, he was happy to salute him briefly and hurry on. The
feud was long since just a memory, but even if it had never been, Andy
would not have liked Luke Trull. He was a coarse and often cruel man,
and better left alone. Given to violent rages, he was, nevertheless,
usually able to avoid trouble.
Andy strode into the town, returned the greetings of friends he met
there, made his way to the express office and waited for Johnny Linger,
the agent, to look up. An old friend from Andy's railroading days,
Johnny's greeting was explosive,
"Hi, Andy!"
"Hello, Johnny. Is there anything for me?"
"Six somethings." Johnny indicated six small wooden crates at one side
of the room. "I was hoping you'd drop by. What are they, Andy?"
"Muskrats." Andy peered between the slats of one crate at two
brown-furred animals about as big as cottontail rabbits. "Six mated
pairs."