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 butt.
"Huh!" ejaculated Byram, contemptuously, "he's got a repeatin'-rifle; he can cut a pa'tridge's head off from here to that butternut '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. "God 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 passed 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.
"Nuthin'--she's good-lookin'--for a path-master," said the warden, with a vicious leer intended for a compliment.
"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 nobody."
"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--"
"Is it?" asked the warden, with interest. "He's a good-lookin' chap, an' folks say--"
"It's a damn _lie_!" yelled Byram, "an' you can tell them folks that I say so. She don't know Dan McCloud to speak to him, an' he's that besotted with rum half the time that if he spoke to her she'd die o' fright, for all his good looks."
"Well, well," said the game-warden, soothingly; "I guess he ain't no account nohow, an' it's jest as well that we ketch him with them birds an' run him off to jail or acrost them mountains yonder."