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The Path-Master
by
“No,” said Byram, with a scowl; “but I ain’t with you, neither!”
“Don’t git riled,” said the warden. “I’m that friendly with folks I don’t wanter rile nobody. Look here, friend, you an’ me is ‘ficials, ain’t we?”
“I’m road-master of Foxville,” said Byram, aggressively.
“Well, then, let’s set down onto this bunch o’ shingles an’ talk it over ‘ficially,” suggested the warden, suavely.
“All right,” said Byram, pocketing his hammer; “if you’re out to ketch Dan McCloud I don’t care. He’s a low-down, shifty cuss, who won’t pay his road-tax, an’ I say it if he is my cousin, an’ no shame to me, neither.”
The warden nodded and winked.
“If you he’p me ketch Dan McCloud with them birds in his ice-box, I’ll he’p you git your road-tax outen him,” he proposed. “An’ you git half the reward, too.”
“I ain’t no spy,” retorted Byram, “an’ I don’t want no reward outen nobody.”
“But you’re a ‘ficial, same as me,” persisted the warden. “Set down onto them shingles, friend, an’ talk it over.”
Byram sat down, fingering the head of his hammer; the warden, a fat, shiny man, with tiny, greenish eyes and an unshaven jaw, took a seat beside him and began twisting a greasy black mustache.
“You an’ me’s ‘ficials,” he said, with dignity, “an’ we has burdens that folks don’t know. My burden is these here folks that shoots pa’tridges in July; your burdens is them people who don’t pay no road-tax.”
“One o’ them people is Dan McCloud, an’ I’m goin’ after that road-tax to-night,” said Byram.
“Can’t you wait till I ketch McCloud with them birds?” asked the warden, anxiously.
“No, I can’t,” snapped Byram; “I can’t wait for no such thing!” But he spoke without enthusiasm.
“Can’t we make it a kind o’ ‘ficial surprise for him, then?” suggested the warden. “Me an’ you is ‘ficials; your path-masters is ‘ficials. We’ll all go an’ see Dan McCloud, that’s what we’ll do. How many path-masters hev you got to back you up?”
Byram’s face grew red as fire.
“One,” he said; “we ain’t a metropolipus.”
“Well, git your path-master an’ come on, anyhow,” persisted the game-warden, rising and buttoning his faded coat.
“I–I can’t,” muttered Byram.
“Ain’t you road-master?” asked Dingman, astonished.
“Yes.”
“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 chores 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 institoots 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 hell 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.”