Twisting himself almost double, Frosty sank his teeth into the fleshy
part of Andy's hand and raked with all four paws. Blood welled from the
scratches and cuts and dripped onto the dead owl. But instead of
flinging the kitten from him, Andy encircled Frosty's neck with his
right thumb and forefinger, rendered his front paws ineffective by
slipping his other three fingers behind them, grabbed his rear paws with
his left hand and stretched him out. He murmured,
"If you aren't the little spitfire!"
Unable to do anything else, Frosty could only glare. The smile that
always lingered in Andy's eyes almost flashed to his lips. His face
softened. He spoke soothingly,
"You might as well stop it. You'd have a real rough time clawing me all
to bits."
Frosty snarled and Andy grinned. He'd never had a cat or thought of
getting one, but besides his fighting heart, there was something about
Frosty to which he warmed. Without thinking that he too had defied
conventional living, Andy recognized something akin to himself. He said
firmly,
"You're going to get some help whether you want it or not."
Holding Frosty so that he could neither scratch nor bite, Andy carried
him back to the house, pushed the door open with his knee and wondered.
The kitten must be hurt because nothing withstood the strike of a great
horned owl without getting hurt. In spite of the fact that he did not
appear to be seriously injured, he probably would bear watching for a
few days. Andy thought speculatively of one of the cages in which the
muskrats had been shipped. He'd be able to watch the spunky little
fellow closely if he put him in one.
For no apparent reason, he suddenly remembered when he had lived in
town, working on the railroad nights and going to school days. There had
always been a feeling of too little room and too much confinement. He
looked again at Frosty . . . and put him down on the floor.
"Guess we won't lock you up."
Frosty scooted beneath the stove and again Andy's smile threatened to
blossom. Running, the kitten looked oddly like a strip of black velvet
upon which frost crystals sparkle. It was then that Andy gave him his
name.
"Okeh, Frosty. If that's what you like, that's what you can have."
He stooped to peer beneath the stove and was warned away with a rumbling
growl, so he straightened. After he had satisfied himself that the
kitten was all right, Frosty would be free to go his own way. There
never had been and never would be any prisoners in the swamp.
Going outside, careful to latch the door behind him lest it blow open
and let Frosty escape, Andy caught up a discarded tin can and took a
spade from his shed. He turned the rich muck at the swamp's edge,
dropped the fat worms he uncovered into the can, then went back to the
house for a willow pole with a line, hook and cork bobber attached.
Carrying the pole and can of worms, he made his way to the watery slough
in front of his house.
While their dozen children sported in the slough, Four-Leaf and Clover
dug succulent bulbs in the mud on the opposite bank. None paid any
attention to Andy. This colony, protected by the nearness of the house
and seeming to know it, was not nearly as wary as those that lived in
more remote sections of the swamp. Even the great horned owls had not
attacked them. Andy strung a wriggling worm on his hook and was about to
cast it when,
"Howdy."
Andy turned to face Luke Trull, who had stolen upon him unseen and
unheard. Still wearing his sun-faded trousers and torn shirt, still
needing a haircut and shave, his eyes were fixed on the muskrats in the
slough. Andy's heart sank. He'd feared the native swamp predators. But
not even the great horned owls could work the same fearful damage as
Luke Trull, should he decide to come raiding. Andy said coldly,
"Hi, Luke."
"I heerd tell," the other smirked, "'bout somethin' new in the swamp."
"Who told you?"
"News gits 'round."
"There is something new. But it belongs to me and so does the swamp.
Both are to be left alone."
"Oh sure. Sure 'nough. I aim to leave 'em alone. They's mushrats, ain't
they?"
"That's right. They're muskrats."
"Wu'th a heap of money, ain't they?"
"Not a 'heap.' Maybe a couple of dollars or so for a good prime pelt."
"Could be a heap given a man ketches enough of 'em. How many you got all
told?"
"Not enough to start trapping."
"The hills is full of talk 'bout how you've turned your no-count swamp
into a mushrat farm. They's talk 'bout how you aim to get rich off
mushrat pelts."
"Nobody's going to get rich. And anybody who traps any muskrats before I
give the word, or without my permission, will be in trouble."
"Oh, sure. Sure 'nough. But I've already said I don't aim to bother 'em
none."