Swamp Cat Part 6

He also did more of his hunting in the forest. The place teemed with young rabbits and grouse, many of which were adventurous, incautious, downright silly, or a combination of all three. His kills consisted almost exclusively of these easy-to-catch creatures but, in catching the young and foolish, he was laying the groundwork that would later enable him to bring down the wise and experienced.

Frosty's move into the forest brought increased skill in hunting, but it also brought disaster.

He was prowling one morning when he heard, smelled and then saw a coyote coming. Deliberately, Frosty showed himself. This was a game he had learned to play, gauging exactly every move the coyote made. When his antagonist rushed, Frosty waited until the last possible second before scrambling up the slender trunk of a black birch. He halted just beyond reach of his enemy's strongest leap and looked down contemptuously.

Suddenly he was wrenched from the tree and suspended in mid air. He did not know what had happened, for he had seen and heard nothing, but he did know that he must not submit meekly to anything at all. He tried to twist himself and rise to attack whatever held him. Now he saw that it was a great bird.

Frosty had been plucked from his perch by a great horned owl, but he was lucky. Three days ago, in a foray against Ira Casman's chickens, the owl had been repelled by a shotgun in the hands of Ira's brother. Too fine to kill, the number ten shot had only wounded and weakened him. He had since missed every strike at everything and now, famished, he had caught the first creature he could that might be edible. However, instead of being deeply imbedded, his claws were hooked only through the loose skin on Frosty's back.

The owl winged toward a pine stub, alighted on a branch and turned to kill his captive so he could eat it. But the second he found a purchase for his feet, Frosty attacked furiously. He sank his teeth through feathers into flesh, even while he raked with his claws. Always before, such of the owl's victims as had lived until they were landed in a tree were terrified and s.h.i.+vering, easy prey. He had bargained for no such fury as this.

He took wing again, and this time his course led across the swamp. On the other side was a ledge of rock. Even a cat, dropped from any considerable height onto it, would not be likely to move again.

Frosty knew only that he was helpless, and the knowledge redoubled his anger. He twisted and turned, doing his best to fling himself into any position from which he could claw or bite his captor. Without knowing what it was or what it meant, he heard Andy Gates's shot.

He did know that the owl went suddenly limp and that they plummeted toward the swamp. Strikingly, Frosty was momentarily stunned. He tried dazedly to get up and run away when something else seized him.

He turned to attack this new enemy.

5

PARTNERS

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 s.h.i.+pped. He'd be able to watch the s.p.u.n.ky 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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."

"n.o.body'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.