"Yep. I'll be 'round."
The lean hillman drifted away as silently as he had come and Andy cast
his baited hook. But his thoughts were troubled ones.
He had hoped to keep his muskrat ranch a secret, but he should have
known the impossibility of that. Only he knew all the safe paths through
the swamp, but Luke Trull, the Haroldsons and the Casmans knew some of
them. Frequently they came to fish in some favored slough or other.
Somebody must have seen a colony of muskrats--perhaps they'd stumbled
across Four-Leaf and Clover and their family--and it hadn't been hard to
piece the rest of the story together. Probably Johnny Linger, the
express agent, hadn't talked to any hillman. But Johnny had friends in
town to whom he might have talked, his friends had friends, and by the
time enough people knew the story, it could easily get back to the hill
dwellers.
Andy was so absorbed with this new problem that he was entirely unaware
of the fact that his cork bobber had disappeared. He yanked the pole,
missed his strike and strung another worm on the stripped hook. He might
post his swamp against trespassers. Not that trespass signs had ever
kept a single Casman, Haroldson--or especially a Trull--from going where
he wished to go but at the very least they'd be evidence that he had
acted in his own behalf. But trespass signs or not, there was going to
be trouble in plenty if human predators started raiding his muskrats and
trouble was always better avoided.
He missed another nibble and began to concentrate on his fishing. Very
possibly he was killing his ogres before he met them. But when Luke
Trull saw a possibility of earning money without working for it--?
The bobber disappeared again. Andy struck in time, lifted a flapping
jumbo perch out of the slough, put it on a stringer, rebaited and cast
his line. There was little sport in catching the perch with such heavy
tackle, but they were delicious eating and the slough swarmed with them.
Andy fished until he had six.
He sat down, scaled his catch, ran his knife along each side of their
backbones, and removed the tasty fillets. The offal, which ordinarily he
would have thrown away, he laid on a saucer-sized lily pad and took to
the house with him. Still beneath the stove, Frosty greeted him with a
bubbling growl. Andy wrapped four of the fish heads in a piece of
discarded newspaper and put them in his icebox. The remainder, along
with the offal, he placed on a saucer and thrust beneath the stove. He
remembered to put a dish of water beside the saucer.
Andy prepared a batch of biscuits, fried his own fish, ate lunch and
washed the dishes. The untouched fish heads remained where he had placed
them, and when he stooped to peer beneath the stove, Frosty glared back
balefully. A little worried that the kitten might be hurt worse than he
appeared to be, Andy closed and latched the door and took the trail to
town. Uneasy feelings stirred within him.
The town, he had long ago decided to his own satisfaction, had little
real touch with the hills. To the townspeople, the hillmen were a
strange breed, like lions in a zoo, and as such they could always
furnish entertainment. Regardless of the work, hopes and dreams it had
taken to put them there, few townsmen could be expected to take
seriously a swamp with muskrats in it. Stealing goods from a town store
would be a criminal offense and provoke righteous indignation. Stealing
muskrats from his swamp would be just another example of what the
hillmen were always doing to each other and provoke, at the very most, a
sympathetic chuckle.
Even as he walked resolutely ahead, Andy thought that he would have to
stand alone. Nevertheless, he still felt he must try to enlist aid. An
ounce of prevention was definitely worth at least a pound of cure, and
though nothing had happened as yet, now was the time to take steps in
his own defense. But what could he do and who would listen?
Reaching town, Andy turned aside to the State Police substation. The
harassed-appearing trooper in charge put aside the report upon which he
was working and looked up questioningly.
"My name's Gates," Andy introduced himself. "Andy Gates. I want to post
my land against trespassers."
"Well--has someone tried to stop you?"
"No," Andy admitted, "but suppose I post it and someone trespasses?
What's the penalty?"
The trooper traced a meaningless doodle with his pen. "That depends a
lot on circumstances. Few judges or justices are inclined to be harsh
with a person who merely walks on another's property, even if it is
posted."
"Suppose they steal?"
"That's entirely different. What have they stolen?"
"Nothing yet."
"Well," the trooper's voice was edged with sarcasm, "what do you think
they might steal?"
"Muskrats."
"Muskrats?" Puzzled wrinkles furrowed the trooper's brow. "Do you have
some?"
"Yes."
"Are they penned?"
"No, they're running loose in my swamp."
"Then how can you claim they're yours?"
"I bought and paid for them and the swamp's private property."
"Well," the trooper shrugged, "when somebody starts stealing them, you
come see us."
Andy turned dejectedly away. If it were a hoard of gold or jewels in his
swamp, the trooper would have understood instantly and taken the proper
steps to protect it. The boy grinned wryly. Doubtless the trooper
thought he was a harmless crackpot and was even now congratulating
himself on being rid of him so easily.
Andy went to see the official whom he had planned to consult from the
first. Joe Wilson, the district game warden, was old and would give way
to a younger man soon, but he was wise in the ways of the hills and he
knew the hillmen as few townspeople did. Andy came to his house, knocked
and was admitted by Lois, the pleasant-faced daughter who kept house for
Joe.
"Why hello, Andy. Goodness! It's been a while since we've seen you. Do
come in."
"Is your dad home, Lois?"
"In his study. Go right in."
There was a pang in her voice, for there had been a time when no
daylight hours, and frequently few night hours, would have found Joe
Wilson behind his desk. Now, when he went into the hills at all, it was
only to those places which could be reached by car. Lean as a weasel,
the way he had spent his life was written in his seamed face and wise
eyes. Storms and sun and wind had marked his face, age and experience
had implanted the wisdom in his eyes. He swung on his worn swivel chair
to face Andy.
"Hi, young feller."
"Hi, Joe." Andy shook the warden's extended hand. "You're looking
great."
"I may be good for a few days yet. What's on your mind?"
"I need your advice."
"So?"
"I've stocked my swamp with muskrats and--"
Andy told of the six pairs of muskrats he had planted in his swamp. He
spoke of their misadventures with the fox and bobcat and of raiding
great horned owls. But in spite of losses, the survivors had produced
thirty-eight young. They had not only adjusted themselves to the swamp
but had learned how to protect their babies. Naturally, there would be
some losses among the young, but, as far as Andy knew, there hadn't yet
been any. He had ordered twenty more mated pairs, which were due next
week. He knew he'd lose some, perhaps half or even more, but some would
survive and multiply. Next spring, when muskrat pelts were at their
best, he'd harvest a few, if conditions so warranted. If not enough
muskrats survived the winter, he'd let them go another season or more.
He hoped that, over the years, he might build up enough of a muskrat
population so that harvesting the surplus every year would be
profitable. However, he had no illusions of great wealth.
When he was finished, Joe Wilson tamped a blackened pipe full of
tobacco, lighted it and puffed soberly for a moment. Then he turned to
Andy.
"Seems to me you're doing all right by yourself. Why do you need my
advice?"
"Luke Trull has found out about it."
"Oh, gosh!"