Ten minutes after Andy left, Frosty went into the swamp. He had his full
growth now, and his twelve pounds were distributed perfectly over a
near-perfect frame. Lithe muscles were under exact control of a brain
that, naturally fast, had been further sharpened by the dangers to which
he had been exposed. Because he was very sure of himself and what he
could do, Frosty disdained to hide from even the great horned owls,
unless he felt like it. He would fight anything anywhere, if fighting
seemed the wisest course. But he would hide, if hiding best served the
ends he wanted to achieve. He was never guided by anything save his own
intelligence, and he met each situation according to circumstances.
Not especially hungry, tonight he was in the mood to accept a tempting
tidbit should one come his way. Most of all, he wanted to wander and
explore, for his feline curiosity never had been and never would be
satisfied. No matter how many times he went into the swamp, he always
found something new or some new aspect to something old. And he had
prowled the swamp so much that, though the rabbit or muskrat that lived
its whole life in one comparatively small area might know that area
better than he, Frosty grasped the over-all picture more completely than
anything else.
He knew the favorite grazing grounds, sleeping places and playgrounds of
the deer. Every muskrat colony--and Frosty knew of two which even Andy
had not yet found--he had visited time after time and he was aware of
the exact number of muskrats in each. He was acquainted with every mink,
fox, bobcat, raccoon and coyote in the swamp, and he could go directly
to their home dens or the place where each individual preferred to hunt.
He knew the trees or copses of trees which the great horned owls
preferred, and where the grouse were inclined to roost. Frosty was
familiar with those places where rabbits and mice were most abundant. He
had trod every safe trail and visited most of the hiding places.
Knowing all this, the swamp still fascinated him because it was never
static. There was always change, and, next to his partnership with Andy,
keeping aware and abreast of those changes was the most important
business in Frosty's life.
The first night Luke Trull entered the swamp, Frosty had known of his
presence a half-hour later. Luke's trespassing angered him greatly, and
he still would harm the man if he could find a way to do so. He had not
discovered the way, and it was far from prudent to attack even a hated
man unless there was every chance of winning the fight. Because he did
want to discover what Luke was about, Frosty followed him until he knew
his exact schedule.
He habitually came just a few minutes after gray twilight shaded into
deep night. Invariably he entered the swamp by wading a shallow,
hard-bottomed slough four hundred yards from Andy's house. His equipment
was always the same, five number one traps that he carried in his left
hand and a club clutched in his right. An empty packsack hung loosely
over his shoulders and there was a knife at his belt.
He knew the safe trails so well that he needed no light to guide
himself, but he carried a small flashlight to carry on his affairs, once
he was within the swamp--and his affairs concerned the muskrat colonies.
Though he did not understand it, Frosty had watched what he did there.
When Luke approached a colony, the muskrats were sure to be digging for
bulbs in the bank. They always fled when he came, but they seldom went
farther than the center of the pond or slough in which they lived. Luke
used his flashlight to see where they had been digging. Then, depending
on what he saw, he set one or more traps. The traps were strung on
flexible wires, slipped through the ring in the chain. Wooden pegs
prevented their sliding off. Luke cast one end of his wire into the
slough or pond, tied the other to any convenient root, tree or shrub,
set his traps and went to another colony.
Sometimes the muskrats came back as soon as Luke left. Sometimes they
were cautious for an hour or more. But they always came and they were
always trapped. When they were, they dived frantically into the water
which, hitherto, had provided a safe refuge. The trap chain, sliding
along the wire, was invariably stopped by the wooden peg. Since no
muskrat in trouble would ever think of turning toward land, they
continued their efforts to get into the water until they drowned.
Coming back, Luke picked up the drowned muskrats, placed them in the
packsack, took his traps and was out of the swamp well before daylight.
He had never taken more than five muskrats on any one night. But neither
had he taken any less, and he had visited the swamp for seven
consecutive nights.
Frosty expected him again tonight, but he was not particularly worried
about the man's possible appearance because he could take care of
himself. In the dark, he could always get out of any human's way. They
never even seemed to know that he was around.
The big cat faced into the brisk north wind. Spring, showing her face
briefly, had only wanted to tantalize the winter-weary. The wind was as
cold as it had been most winter nights and there were a few snowflakes,
but not enough to whiten the ground and retain tracks. Undaunted by the
cold wind, that could ruffle but not penetrate his thick fur, Frosty
gave his attention to a sound that was borne to his ears.
The noise was made by a roosting bird that fluttered its wings as it
changed position. It was not a bird that had been in the swamp last
night. A venturesome robin, impatient to be away from the south and back
at the all-important business of building a nest and rearing a family,
had taken a chance on the weather. Now, huddling miserably on a naked
aspen, it was probably wishing it hadn't. Searching in vain for warmth,
the robin shifted again.
Grown a bit hungry, Frosty stalked the tree. He advanced so artfully
that few things would have taken fright, so it was not Frosty's presence
that launched the robin from its perch. It was the cold wind. The robin
fluttered off into the darkness, to see if there might not be a warmer
roost.
Always angry when a victim eluded him, Frosty stood with one forepaw
uplifted and lashed his tail. Even though experience had taught him that
there would be nights when all luck leaned on the side of whatever he
hunted, stalking and missing always stung. He hunted to kill, he was
satisfied with nothing else, and missing the robin seemed to intensify
his hunger.
Frosty abandoned exploring in favor of determined hunting. He headed for
a thicket in which several rabbits had wintered and crouched quietly
beside a runway. He was hungry and growing hungrier, but he was also
patient. He'd stay here for hours, if necessary, and sooner or later a
rabbit would come along the runway. But he'd waited only minutes when
one hopped toward him. Tense and ready to spring, the black cat did not
move.
The rabbit was almost within springing distance when a great horned owl
swooped to catch it. Frosty spat his anger and leaped to attack, but the
owl was airborne and he fell short by inches. There came the sounds of
thumping feet as the other rabbits, finally aware of an enemy in their
midst, told each other about it and sought the safety of burrows.
Frosty lashed his tail and glared. Sooner or later, the rabbits would
come out again. He would get one if he waited, but he was too hungry to
wait. He set his course toward the high knob upon which the hollow
sycamore grew. There were a few rabbits in the scrub there. Frosty laid
his ambush, waited, made a kill and started to eat.
Almost as soon as he began his meal, he stopped eating. His ears
informed him that Luke Trull was coming. Unwilling to abandon his
hard-won dinner, Frosty held perfectly still. Luke set his traps, went
on, and Frosty finished eating. He washed himself thoroughly and felt a
little sleepy.
He'd have a nap before prowling any more, and since he was going to
rest, he might as well do it out of the wind. The hollow sycamore, in
which he'd slept several times, offered shelter. Frosty padded to the
hollow and entered.
He halted abruptly when one of Luke's muskrat traps snapped on his paw,
but he did not panic. Frosty touched the trap with his nose and he tried
to take a bite from it. The steel was hard and unyielding; if he
continued to bite it, he'd do nothing except shatter his jaws. Therefore
he would not bite. This was a time for planning.
The pain, severe enough for anything at all, was ten times as
excruciating to a cat's complex nervous system. Frosty still refused to
panic. He could not fight this thing, so he must outwit it. He looked at
the water and shuddered, then he heard Luke coming back.
Dragging the trap with him, Frosty crawled into the sycamore. He
crouched, and mounting fury served to counteract pain. Luke reached the
knob. His light flashed once and went out. Frosty stayed quiet, hoping
to escape detection by so doing.
But if Luke came near him, he would fight as hard and as viciously as he
could.
* * * * *
Andy walked slowly back to his house because there was no need to hurry.
Whatever he did from this point on--and he intended to do much--would be
carried out in black night, and it still lacked a couple of hours until
darkness. As he walked, Andy saw almost everything in a clear light.
He should have known, and he blamed himself for not knowing, that the
mysterious predator could be none other than Luke Trull. He had been
lulled into a false sense of security by Luke's failure to come raiding
all autumn and all winter. But he should also have known that, when he
came, Luke would strike at that time when muskrats were most valuable.
He was nobody's fool, and naturally he would do his poaching at night.
All this was so unbelievably simple that anyone should have figured it
out. Andy had not, but since he finally knew, the problem was far more
complex than it appeared on the surface.
He might, he supposed, go to the State Police and say that he had seen
Luke Trull wearing a muskrat-skin hat. The police would look at him, and
each other, then they would consult their copy of the State Game Laws
and point out that muskrat season was open to anyone who had a trapping
license and it would be open for two weeks more. No doubt they would
remember that he had had previous trouble with Luke, and even on the
far-fetched possibility that they took him seriously, no State Trooper
would stumble around anyone's swamp at night simply because the swamp's
owner had seen someone wearing a muskrat-skin hat.
There was only one way. Turn time backwards for thirty years, and once
again a Gates and a Trull would settle their differences in their own
way. But Andy knew that he must stop short of killing. Murder, any way
one considered it, was murder, and the law had no bearing on the fact
that Andy did not want another's blood on his hands. But he looked
forward with savage joy to fighting. He would find Luke, beat a
confession out of him, and take him to the Police himself. There were a
number of reliable witnesses who knew that Andy had bought the muskrats
with which the swamp was stocked. If he found Luke poaching, nothing
else should be necessary.
At the same time, Andy felt the need for caution.
Luke was a clever person, a cunning schemer who weighed every action
and made it count. Why, when he saw Andy coming, had he not taken off
his hat and hidden it? Was it his way of jeering? Letting the hat speak
for him, had he announced to Andy that he, Luke Trull, was stealing
muskrats and there was nothing Andy could do about it? Or did he want a
meeting in the swamp? If so, why? Luke, always willing to do anything at
any time as long as it would turn a dollar for himself, seldom got into
trouble. He knew the penalty for murder. It was inconceivable that he
would come anywhere near risking that penalty. Neither would he fight.
But why had he not hidden the hat?
Andy walked on. Luke's reasons for doing or not doing anything no longer
made a difference. Andy had to stop him or surrender to him, and he
would not surrender. He thought again of his own lack, not exactly of
foresight, but failure to act on foresight. Luke had done exactly as
Andy had thought he'd do, and explored the swamp thoroughly while Andy
languished in jail. Anybody who knew the trails could go into the swamp
as easily by night as by day, and the muskrats had never been hurt by
any human being. Therefore, they did not fear humans. They'd be easy to
trap.
Reaching his house, Andy calmly and methodically unlaced his shoes, took
them off, and pulled on rubber boots. He donned a wool jacket, a wool
cap that came over his ears, and looked thoughtfully at the gun rack.
Andy turned away from it. There must be no killing, and in any fight,
passion was apt to overcome good sense. What he had to do, he'd do with
his fists.
When darkness was complete, Andy went into the swamp.
His plan was simple. Knowing every colony that still contained muskrats,
he would visit each. If Luke were in the swamp tonight, they'd meet.
With only a brief glance at Four-Leaf and Clover, since they were so
near the house Luke would know better than to bother them, Andy went on
to Dead Man's Slough. He swerved to investigate some colonies in another
part of the swamp and swung back. Three hours later, a half-hour before
midnight, he thought he saw a light.
Andy stopped in his tracks and fixed intent eyes on the place at which
he thought the light had originated. For a second he turned his eyes
away, then glanced back. There was no light now and perhaps there never
had been any. His imagination could be playing tricks, but Andy turned
away from the course he'd set himself and went directly towards the high
knob upon which the hollow sycamore grew. He thought he'd seen the light
there, and there were still muskrats in that slough.
Nearing the high knob, he stopped to look and listen. But the north
wind, still carrying a few snowflakes on its screaming wings, drowned
all other noises and there was little light. Very cautiously, Andy
continued to advance. He climbed the knob and leaned against a small
aspen.
There was a sudden, jarring pain in his head and a galaxy of bright
lights danced before his eyes. He staggered, tried to hold himself up by
gripping the aspen, and for a second he succeeded. Presently he was
aware of pain.
Andy opened bewildered eyes. The last he remembered, he had been holding
onto an aspen and looking about. Now he lay prone, hands and feet bound
with wire, and a flashlight was shining in his face. Somebody said
something he could not hear and he closed his eyes. Then he heard,
"I thought ye'd come, Gates."
Andy reopened his eyes to see Luke Trull, still wearing his
disreputable clothing and the muskrat-skin hat, looking down at him.
Andy shivered. There was about Luke the same lethal coldness that there
is about a rattlesnake just before it strikes. Luke spoke again,
"Ye hit me, Gates."
"Let me loose, you fool!"
Luke grinned mirthlessly, and in the faint light his eyes seemed to
glow. He said,
"I wanted ye to know what was goin' to happen. Tha's why I din' do it
afore."
"Didn't do what?"
"Put ye in the slough."
"They'll get you for it, Luke."
Luke's grin widened. "Ye know better'n that. Ye know well's I do that
more'n one man lies in these deep sand sloughs, my own pappy 'mongst
'em, an' a Gates put him thar. Ye allus mess 'round this swamp, an'
what'll folks think when ye jest don't come out?"
"You're putting your head in a noose!"
"No I hain't, Gates. No I hain't. An' ye did hit me. Nobody hits Luke
Trull an'," he chuckled, "I thought ye'd be in the swamp after ye saw my
hat. How do you like it, Gates? Made it myself with two pelts f'om your
swamp."
"You're talking like an idiot!"
"Idiot? I got thirty fi' o' your mushrats so far an' fo' here," he
indicated the packsack. "Now I see that I got me 'nother in the hollow
tree. I'll let ye see me pull it out an' kill it, Gates, afore I roll ye
in the slough an' let ye sink in the deep sand."
He walked toward and bent near the hollow sycamore while Andy made a
mighty effort to loose his bonds. He strained, felt the flexible wire
give, and knew that he could free himself. If he could only do it in
time . . .
He saw Luke pull at the taut wire and heard a spitting snarl. Fury
incarnate, Frosty came out of the hollow and sprang straight to Luke's
head. He clawed and scratched while he continued to spit.
Luke stood up, waved his hands like windmill blades, lost his footing,
and tumbled backwards into the slough. Andy gasped, continuing to strain
at the wire that bound him, even while he remained unable to take his
eyes from the drama being enacted before his eyes. The slough was
quicksand, and as far as Andy knew, it was bottomless. But a good
swimmer, even a fully clothed one, who knew what he was doing could
cross it safely. Andy sighed in relief.
Luke was a good swimmer, and obviously he both realized his danger and
knew what he was doing. Only the muskrat-skin hat, leaving a trailing
V-curl behind it, broke water as he dog-paddled very slowly and very
cautiously. He would make it all right.
The thing that came did so with uncanny silence. A great horned owl that
had not been there a second before was there now, hovering over what
could be nothing except a swimming muskrat. It struck, and rose with
Luke's hat in its talons. Then it was gone.
Andy struggled frantically to free himself, but each second was an hour
long and each minute a day. Finally working bleeding hands from the
wire, he loosed his legs and rose. The slough was empty, with not even a
ripple to show that anything had ever been on it. After two minutes,
Andy turned toward Frosty, who growled warningly but let his partner
depress the trap spring and free his paw.
Frosty fell to cleaning himself. With a prayer in his heart, again Andy
searched the slough. But all he saw was a pair of swimming muskrats. At
least two had survived, just as two must have survived in other sloughs.
The muskrats paid no attention to death, for their function was life.
They would build houses, dig dens, and eventually they would overspread
the swamp.
The muskrats dived and only bubbles rose.