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Swamp Cat

<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/chap_5.jpg" width-obs="91" height-obs="101" alt="" title="" /></div> <h2>PARTNERS</h2> Twisting himself almost double, Frosty sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Andy's hand and raked with all four paws. Blood welled from the scratches and cuts and dripped onto the dead owl. But instead of flinging the kitten from him, Andy encircled Frosty's neck with his right thumb and forefinger, rendered his front paws ineffective by slipping his other three fingers behind them, grabbed his rear paws with his left hand and stretched him out. He murmured, "If you aren't the little spitfire!" Unable to do anything else, Frosty could only glare. The smile that always lingered in Andy's eyes almost flashed to his lips. His face softened. He spoke soothingly, "You might as well stop it. You'd have a real rough time clawing me all to bits." Frosty snarled and Andy grinned. He'd never had a cat or thought of getting one, but besides his fighting heart, there was something about Frosty to which he warmed. Without thinking that he too had defied conventional living, Andy recognized something akin to himself. He said firmly, "You're going to get some help whether you want it or not." Holding Frosty so that he could neither scratch nor bite, Andy carried him back to the house, pushed the door open with his knee and wondered. The kitten must be hurt because nothing withstood the strike of a great horned owl without getting hurt. In spite of the fact that he did not appear to be seriously injured, he probably would bear watching for a few days. Andy thought speculatively of one of the cages in which the muskrats had been shipped. He'd be able to watch the spunky little fellow closely if he put him in one. For no apparent reason, he suddenly remembered when he had lived in town, working on the railroad nights and going to school days. There had always been a feeling of too little room and too much confinement. He looked again at Frosty . . . and put him down on the floor. "Guess we won't lock you up." Frosty scooted beneath the stove and again Andy's smile threatened to blossom. Running, the kitten looked oddly like a strip of black velvet upon which frost crystals sparkle. It was then that Andy gave him his name. "Okeh, Frosty. If that's what you like, that's what you can have." He stooped to peer beneath the stove and was warned away with a rumbling growl, so he straightened. After he had satisfied himself that the kitten was all right, Frosty would be free to go his own way. There never had been and never would be any prisoners in the swamp. Going outside, careful to latch the door behind him lest it blow open and let Frosty escape, Andy caught up a discarded tin can and took a spade from his shed. He turned the rich muck at the swamp's edge, dropped the fat worms he uncovered into the can, then went back to the house for a willow pole with a line, hook and cork bobber attached. Carrying the pole and can of worms, he made his way to the watery slough in front of his house. While their dozen children sported in the slough, Four-Leaf and Clover dug succulent bulbs in the mud on the opposite bank. None paid any attention to Andy. This colony, protected by the nearness of the house and seeming to know it, was not nearly as wary as those that lived in more remote sections of the swamp. Even the great horned owls had not attacked them. Andy strung a wriggling worm on his hook and was about to cast it when, "Howdy." Andy turned to face Luke Trull, who had stolen upon him unseen and unheard. Still wearing his sun-faded trousers and torn shirt, still needing a haircut and shave, his eyes were fixed on the muskrats in the slough. Andy's heart sank. He'd feared the native swamp predators. But not even the great horned owls could work the same fearful damage as Luke Trull, should he decide to come raiding. Andy said coldly, "Hi, Luke." "I heerd tell," the other smirked, "'bout somethin' new in the swamp." "Who told you?" "News gits 'round." "There is something new. But it belongs to me and so does the swamp. Both are to be left alone." "Oh sure. Sure 'nough. I aim to leave 'em alone. They's mushrats, ain't they?" "That's right. They're muskrats." "Wu'th a heap of money, ain't they?" "Not a 'heap.' Maybe a couple of dollars or so for a good prime pelt." "Could be a heap given a man ketches enough of 'em. How many you got all told?" "Not enough to start trapping." "The hills is full of talk 'bout how you've turned your no-count swamp into a mushrat farm. They's talk 'bout how you aim to get rich off mushrat pelts." "Nobody's going to get rich. And anybody who traps any muskrats before I give the word, or without my permission, will be in trouble." "Oh, sure. Sure 'nough. But I've already said I don't aim to bother 'em none." Andy said shortly, "That's a good idea. I'll be seeing you, Luke." "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!" Andy said dryly, "I know what you mean." "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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