Swamp Cat Part 7

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 trespa.s.sers. Not that trespa.s.s 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 trespa.s.s 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 fis.h.i.+ng. 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 hara.s.sed-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 trespa.s.sers."

"Well--has someone tried to stop you?"

"No," Andy admitted, "but suppose I post it and someone trespa.s.ses?

What's the penalty?"

The trooper traced a meaningless doodle with his pen. "That depends a lot on circ.u.mstances. 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 h.o.a.rd 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 h.e.l.lo, 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, gos.h.!.+"

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 n.o.body 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, fis.h.i.+ng 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."