Part 5

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.

6

FROSTY PROWLS

Having his freedom, Frosty accepted it. Partly because the boy had set him free, he also accepted Andy. But there was another and very compelling reason why he had chosen to come back into the house, rather than escape into the swamp or the surrounding wilderness.

Perfectly capable of making his own way, entirely self-sufficient, he recognized no superior and would bow to no inferior. But he liked Andy and, in spite of the fact that he could do very well all by himself, he would not choose a lonely life, providing he could ally himself with an equal. If this fellow had kept him prisoner for a little while, he had also set him free and he had offered no real hurt. Frosty had recognized in Andy the same needs and urgencies that were so powerful within himself. They were traveling similar paths and it was well that they go together.

But it must be on a basis of strict equality, and because he was currently busy washing his face, Frosty continued to do so after Andy spoke to him. The young man's smile remained.

"Independent little devil, aren't you?"

His cleanup finished, Frosty sat down with his tail curled behind him and stared at the youth with unreadable feline eyes. Not until Andy swung out of bed and started across the floor did the kitten move. Then he went to meet his new partner, and arched his back and purred when Andy stooped to pet him. Thus, with a caress and a purr, their bargain was signed and sealed and both understood its terms.

While Andy prepared his breakfast, Frosty walked back out the open door and composed himself in the warming sun. He was not hungry, the fish heads and offal had been more than an adequate meal. While seeming to sleep, he inspected this new domain over which he had just become co-ruler.

Sporting in the slough, Four-Leaf and Clover and their family attracted his slight interest. They did not seem to be dangerous. They were creatures of the water, and, aside from its convenience when he was thirsty, Frosty had a violent aversion to water in all its forms. If he were hungry and happened to find a young muskrat on land, he might very well catch and kill one. Under no circumstances would he molest creatures in their sloughs and ponds.

While his eyes remained on the muskrat family, his ears were attuned to every sound. The various birdcalls he knew and because he did, he dismissed them as of little consequence. But when he heard the doe, that had gone to rest in some tall swamp grass, reach back to scratch an itching flank with a moist muzzle, he became instantly alert. He did not know the sound and he must know it.

Rising, Frosty slipped from the porch into the yard. He had marked the doe, but though she remained the primary center of interest, he did not concentrate on her to the exclusion of all else. His first days in the hills had taught him that he could afford to neglect nothing on the ground and his recent grim experience with the owl was proof enough that he must also and at all times be aware of everything in the air. Because he was alert, Frosty saw the rattlesnake Andy had encountered last night before it saw him.

Still sluggish, digestion not yet complete, the snake had crawled to the lee of a boulder for the greater protection it offered against the night's chill. It coiled there, fearing little and scarcely interested in anything that happened.

Frosty soft-pawed a bit nearer. The snake was interesting and he had never before seen its like. Now was a good time to gauge its potentialities and discover for himself what manner of creature it might be. Guided by innate caution, the kitten halted three feet away and stared fixedly. Becoming alert, the snake rattled a warning.

Frosty listened, and having heard the sound, it was his. Watching the kitten with beady eyes, the snake ceased rattling. Frosty arched his back. He still did not know what manner of creature this might be, but whatever it was, he did not like it. Intending to discover for himself exactly what the snake could do, he remained cautious.

His feint, when he made it, was swift as only a cat's can be. His leap carried him to within fifteen inches of the forty-five inch snake and he nearly met disaster. The striking fangs came within a breath of brushing his fur! Having found out everything he wanted to know, Frosty withdrew.

The snake would strike and its swiftness equaled his own, but the kitten's anger increased. He had been challenged in his own territory. He would accept that challenge, but not blindly. A born warrior, he was also a born strategist.

The snake, rattling continuously now, undulated its thick body into coils. But though its strike was lightning fast, otherwise it was a comparatively sluggish thing. Frosty feinted again.

He knew to the exact hundredth of an inch the length of his last feint and this one he deliberately shortened. The snake struck, its venom-filled fangs falling just short, and Frosty became master of the situation. Knowing precisely how far the snake could strike, he feinted in rapid succession and each time teased the snake into hitting at him.

Finally, recognizing an _impasse_ and rattling a warning as it did so, the snake started crawling away. Frosty leaped. He landed exactly where he had intended to land, just behind the head, where the snake's thick body tapered to a thin neck, and he bit even as he landed. His teeth met and almost in the same motion he leaped away.

For an interested moment he watched the quivering snake, now stretched full length. There were no death throes and no writhing coils, for Frosty had done exactly as he had planned to do and severed the spine. The reptile had died instantly. Forgetting the snake, Frosty padded on toward the doe.

Nearing her, he went into a stalk so stealthy and so silent that he crouched in the grass less than three feet away before she was aware of his presence. Her ears flicked forward and she opened alarmed eyes. Recognizing no threat, she relaxed and again scratched her flank with her muzzle. Satisfied because he had traced the source of this sound, the kitten retraced, almost step for step, the path he had taken coming into the grass and he was at the edge of the clearing when Andy emerged from the house.

Frosty did not show himself. Despite his liking for his human companion, he would not rush to meet him, as a dog might have, unless he felt like it, and right now he did not feel that way. Setting out to explore this new land, he wanted to do it in his own time and way and, for the present, he cared for no company.

Waiting until Andy was out of sight, he skirted the swamp and stopped to look closely at the muskrats, which were still swimming about in the slough. The parent animals moved farther out and eleven of their young followed. The twelfth, whose bump of curiosity was bigger than his portion of good sense, raised in the water for a better look at this fascinating creature, then swam eagerly toward him. Head extended, nostrils quivering, eyes bright, he climbed out on the bank.

The kitten stared back haughtily. Bigger than the baby muskrat, he still was not hungry enough to hunt. Besides, obviously the muskrats were lesser creatures. Frosty considered them as belonging in almost the same category as the rabbits that almost always ran. He went around the slough and into the swamp.

The tall grass waved over his head, so that he could see only that which lay directly about him. Nor could he smell very much because the over-all dank odor of the swamp drowned slighter scents. A mink or fox would have detected them and sought out their sources, if they were interested enough to do so. A cat could not, but Frosty's matchless ears took the place of both eyes and nose. He heard the flutter of a bird's wing, marked it down and deliberated. Having fed, he'd still accept a choice tidbit should one come his way. He stalked the bird and found it in a patch of grass.

It was a sora. Coming here to feed on seeds, it had entangled one foot in a slim strip of wire-tough swamp grass and, in struggling to free itself, had succeeded only in tangling the other foot. Almost exhausted, it was able to do little save flutter its wings.

Frosty pounced upon the bird, killed it and ate as much as he wanted. His belly filled, he sought a warm place and curled up to rest. But he was careful to choose a napping place roofed with interlaced tops of swamp grass. There were enemies in the air, but it stood to reason that they could not catch him if they were unable to see him.

In spite of the fact that he was hidden, at no time did he sleep so soundly that he was oblivious to what went on and again his ears served him. Something that splashed in a nearby slough had to be a leaping fish; swimming muskrats seldom splashed or did anything else to attract attention to themselves. From far off came a loud noise; one of the dead swamp trees had finally toppled.

Frosty alerted himself only when he heard a sound he did not know. It was not loud but neither was it especially muted, as though some small creature that did not care whether or not it was seen moved through the swamp. At length it arose near the remains of the sora. Silent as a shadow, Frosty stalked forward. Even before he reached what was left of the bird, he heard something eating.

He looked through an aperture in the grass to see a creature approximately the size of a large cat, contentedly feasting on the remains of the sora. It was lustrous-black, except for a V-shaped patch of white on its head that became two white stripes which ran to the base of its tail. This silky tail was heavily furred, the feet were short and stubby. Frosty stared with vast curiosity.

Suddenly, and almost without visible motion, he flattened himself where he was and held perfectly still. A day-cruising great horned owl, which Frosty had seen at all only because he was wholly alert, floated in to seize the feeding animal. The owl winged low over the swamp with his prey.

Frosty sneezed and raced violently away, for suddenly the air was nauseous with stink so thick that a knife might almost have cut it. Obviously the owl didn't mind at all, but to Frosty it was a repulsive odor. However, he had learned something else; no matter where they were encountered or what they were doing, skunks were better left alone. After running a hundred yards, Frosty continued at a fast walk. The air still reeked and he wanted to get away from the stench. As soon as he had gone far enough so that there was only faint evidence of the unfortunate skunk's fate, he resumed prowling.

The swamp interested him greatly and he wanted to learn as much as possible about it. Because exploration was currently more fascinating than fighting, he detoured around another rattlesnake and continued on his way. He mounted a little rise that was literally honeycombed with the burrows of striped gophers and stopped to watch.

Flitting from their burrows, the gophers were feasting upon a veritable inundation of grasshoppers that had come among them. Moving like an animated streak, one of them would pounce upon a grasshopper and at once dodge back to its burrow or into the shelter of some huckleberry brush that grew upon the knoll. The wise little animals never exposed themselves for more than a few seconds at a time, for they knew too well the many perils that threatened.

As Frosty watched the gophers, disaster struck them.

Another rattlesnake, lying like a strip of carelessly discarded velvet upon the little rise, struck a gopher when it paused nearby to snatch up a grasshopper. Forgetting his grasshopper, the stricken animal bounced toward his burrow. But he no longer moved like a streak. The injected venom made itself felt almost at once, and instead of ducking into his refuge, the gopher crawled down it.

After a moment, in no hurry at all and following his quarry by the scent it left on the ground, the snake moved sluggishly on the gopher's trail, finally disappearing down the burrow which the stricken creature had entered.