"Then, can't you git your own path-master to do his dooty an' execoote the statoots?"

"You see," stammered Byram, "I app'inted a--a lady."

"A what!" cried the game-warden.

"A lady," repeated Byram, firmly. "Tell the truth, we 'ain't got no path-master; we've got a path-mistress--Elton's kid, you know--"

"Elton?"

"Yes."

"What hung hisself in his orchard?"

"Yes."

"His kid? The girl that folks say is sweet on Dan McCloud?"

A scowl crisped Byram's face.

"It's a lie," he said, thickly.

After a silence Byram spoke more calmly. "Old man Elton he didn't leave her nothin'. She done ch.o.r.es around an' taught school some, down to Frog Holler. She's that poor--nothin' but pertaters an' greens for to eat, an' her a-savin' her money for to go to one o' them female inst.i.toots where women learn to nurse sick folks."

"So you 'pinted her path-master to kinder he'p her along?"

"I--I kinder did."

"She's only a kid."

"Only a kid. 'Bout sixteen."

"An' it's against the law?"

"Kinder 'gainst it."

The game-warden pretended to stifle a yawn.

"Well," he said, petulantly. "I never knowed nothin' about it--if they ask me over to Spencers."

"That's right! An' I'll he'p you do your dooty regardin' them pa'tridges," said Byram, quickly. "Dan McCloud's a loafer an' no good.

When he's drunk he raises h.e.l.l down to the store. Foxville is jest plumb sick o' him."

"Is it?" inquired the game-warden, with interest.

"The folks is that sick o' him that they was talkin' some o' runnin' him acrost the mountains," replied Byram; "but I jest made the boys hold their horses till I got that there road-tax outen him first."

"Can't you git it?"

"Naw," drawled Byram. "I sent Billy Delany to McCloud's shanty to collect it, but McCloud near killed Bill with a axe. That was Tuesday.

Some o' the boys was fixin' to run McCloud outer town, but I guess most of us ain't hankerin' to lead the demonstration."

"'Fraid?"

"Ya-as," drawled Byram.

The game-warden laboriously produced a six-shooter from his side pocket.

A red bandanna handkerchief protected the shiny barrel; he unwrapped this, regarded the weapon doubtfully, and rubbed his fat thumb over the b.u.t.t.

"Huh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Byram, contemptuously, "he's got a repeatin'-rifle; he can cut a pa'tridge's head off from here to that b.u.t.ternut 'cross the creek!"

"I'm goin' to git into his ice-house all the same," said the warden, without much enthusiasm.

"An' I'm bound to git my road-tax," said Byram, "but jest how I'm to operate I dunno."

"Me neither," added the warden, musingly. "G.o.d knows I hate to shoot people."

What he really meant was that he hated to be shot at.

A young girl in a faded pink sunbonnet pa.s.sed along the road, followed by a dog. She returned the road-master's awkward salutation with shy composure. A few moments later the game-warden saw her crossing the creek on the stepping-stones; her golden-haired collie dog splashed after her.

"That's a slick girl," he said, twisting his heavy black mustache into two greasy points.

Byram glanced at him with a scowl.

"That's the kid," he said.

"Eh? Elton's?"

"Yes."

"Your path-master?"

"Well, what of it?"

"Nuthin'--she's good-lookin'--for a path-master," said the warden, with a vicious leer intended for a compliment.

"What of it?" demanded Byram, harshly.

"Be you fixin' to splice with that there girl some day?" asked the game-warden, jocosely.

"What of it?" repeated Byram, with an ugly stare.

"Oh," said the warden, hastily, "I didn't know nothin' was goin' on; I wasn't meanin' to rile n.o.body."

"Oh, you wasn't, wasn't you?" said Byram, in a rage. "Now you can jest git your pa'tridges by yourself an' leave me to git my road-tax. I'm done with you."

"How you do rile up!" protested the warden. "How was I to know that you was sweet on your path-master when folks over to Spencers say she's sweet on Dan McCloud--"