"You leatherhead! Why didn't you take them in at night and plant them
back in the swamp? You know places there that nobody else can reach."
"I did take them in at night, but I wanted to keep one pair under close
observation, so I released them in the slough in front of my house.
Somebody saw them, or somebody, fishing back in the swamp, stumbled
across another colony. Then too, I think Johnny Linger talked. They
came, of course, through his station."
"Johnny wouldn't talk."
"Not to Luke Trull," Andy conceded. "But he has friends in town. They
have friends, and the news got around. What can I do?"
"Have you been to the State Police?"
"Yes. They told me to wait until somebody starts poaching, then come to
them and they'd see what they could do about it."
"They can't do anything," Joe Wilson said quietly. "They'd have to catch
Luke in the act, and knowing him as I do, they can't. I know that he's
been violating game laws ever since he was old enough to shoot a gun or
cast a line, but I myself have been able to catch him only once in
fifteen years. You're in for trouble, Andy."
"I know it. Will posting the swamp help?"
"Will a trespass sign keep Luke Trull out of any place he wants to go
into?"
"No."
"Nor will anything else. He's mean as a mink and crafty as a shot-stung
mallard. He'll find a way to get into your back sloughs and eddys; a
shallow-draft boat light enough to carry will take him there. He won't
be stopped as long as he scents money in the offing."
Andy said grimly, "I could meet him, explain that he was to stay out of
the swamp and back it up with fists."
"Do that and you're in trouble," Joe Wilson pointed out. "Luke wouldn't
fight back. But he would gallop that horse of his all the way into town
and swear out an assault warrant. It'd be you, not Luke, whom the State
Police would bring in."
"If he was caught with muskrat pelts, wouldn't it be proof that he stole
them from me?"
Joe Wilson shrugged. "There's two hundred miles of streams and fifty
different ponds back in those hills, and the trapping season is open to
anyone with a license. Luke could, and would, say he took his pelts
elsewhere."
"There are no muskrats anywhere except in my swamp."
"Do you know every pond and every foot of stream?"
"Of course not."
"Then how would you expect to convince a judge or justice? One muskrat
pelt looks exactly like another; there's nothing special to mark yours."
"Isn't there anything I can do?"
"Yes there is, Andy. Has it occurred to you that your muskrat ranch will
either have to be something pretty decent or else not worth bothering
with?"
"What do you mean?"
The warden shrugged. "Just this. Considering the price of muskrats,
you'll have to have plenty of 'em to make the thing pay off. Their pelts
are at the best in late winter and early spring. To make it worthwhile,
you'll have to have a great many and you won't be able to handle 'em all
anyhow. Now Ira and Jud Casman are decent enough people. So are Old Man
Haroldson and his sons. Take them into your confidence. Ask them to lay
off until you have a trapping stock, and promise that, when and if you
get one, they can help you reap your harvest. You won't be able to do it
all, anyhow. They'll understand and I'm sure they'll cooperate."
"They won't be able to keep Luke off my neck."
"Nobody," said Joe Wilson, "ever kept Luke off anybody's neck, once he
has decided to land on it. Do you know what I'd do?"
"What?"
"Hope he falls in a quicksand slough, if he comes for your muskrats!"
the warden said grimly. "Failing that, you'll just have to meet any
situation as it arises. I wish you luck."
"Thanks," Andy murmured. "It looks as though I'll need it. Well, I'll be
getting back."
"Stay and have a bite with us."
"I'd like to but I left a kitten that thinks he's a tiger under my
kitchen stove. I'd better get back and make sure he hasn't clawed the
house to bits. He looked as though he'd like to do just that."
The sun was sinking when Andy arrived home. A rattlesnake, sluggishly
digesting a chipmunk it had caught, rattled a desultory warning without
moving out of his way. The hopeful doe, again sniffing at the garden
pickets, looked resentfully at Andy and bounced off. Four-Leaf, Clover
and their brood of young were sporting in the watery slough. The setting
sun cast long shadows of the dead trees across the swamp and the
chickens were clucking sleepily. A balmy breeze ruffled the swamp grass.
It was another summer night, exactly like summer nights had been for
ages past and would be for ages to come.
Andy sighed and went into his house. He was discouraged and tired. For
once, the swamp struck no responsive chord and the fact that he had come
home failed to move him. He knelt to peer beneath the stove.
The fish had been eaten, but Frosty was still far under there and his
warning growl rumbled. Andy got wearily to his feet. Obviously the
kitten was not seriously injured and just as obviously any sort of
enclosure, even a whole house, was far too much of a prison for his
feline spirit. Too listless to have much appetite, Andy fixed himself a
sandwich, washed it down with a glass of water, took the other fish
heads from his icebox and put them on the porch.
Before he went to bed, he opened the door and propped it with a chunk of
fire wood. He was attracted to Frosty and would like to keep him. But
there would be no prisoners here; the kitten could have his freedom, if
that was what he wanted.
Andy lay awake while the night wasted. Then sheer exhaustion made itself
felt. He fell into deep slumber and did not rouse again until the sun
was an hour high.
He sat up in bed to see Frosty settled in the still open doorway,
washing his face with his front paws. Andy's dejection of yesterday
melted away. He smiled.
"Well! So you decided to stay, after all!"
Frosty glanced at him and continued to wash his face.
6