“Fellers come into here—actin’ like they was the King o’ Rooshia an’ I was a dawg,” he panted. “Ain’t got no search warrant—think they can sass me right into my own house—tromp onto my hay an’ spile it for the hosses—they got to git out!”
“That’s right, too,” Douglas nodded. “I know how you feel. But the best way is to let the smart-Alecks show themselves that they’re wrong—and then, if they don’t apologize, report them to the right authorities. I can tell you where to send the report.”
At that Bill glowered anew. He glowered still more when Douglas turned to him with sarcastic permission to continue.
“You, up there, go on amusing yourself if you like. Mr. Wilham here will take his amusement later—when you’re trying to explain to your superiors why you took it on yourselves to molest a peaceable citizen. Maybe he’ll get more fun out of it in the long run than you will. So go ahead playing hay-maker—it’s a nice game for little boys. When you get through, bring down a forkful for the horse. It’ll save me the trouble.”
Bill’s mouth became a thin line. He looked as if about to heave the fork at his tormentor. But after one long glare he doggedly returned to his search, speaking not a word. Had any fugitive been under that hay now, however, he would undoubtedly have died under the vindictive lunges of the fork.
Foot by foot he bayoneted the mow, from end to end and from side to side. Douglas watched with a tantalizing grin, Uncle Eb in silent perturbation—wondering where Steve was but not daring to ask by word or look. From above came no sound. Steve was lying quiet as the dead.
In Hampton’s mind grew a big suspicion. These men were conducting themselves as if acting on previous information: as if told by some one that here they would find what they sought. It was preposterous to suppose that they would go thus through the entire Traps, jabbing every hay-loft, riding rough-shod over every man’s right to call his home his castle. They had come in only that morning, gone up toward the bowlders—and then come to the one place where the refugee was. It might be blind chance, but—yes, Douglas was suspicious.
Finally the man Bill, with an oath, threw down the fork. His face was redder than ever, streaked with sweat, itching from hay-dust. He mopped a hand over his prickly cheeks, scratched his head violently, bent a baleful glare on the two below. Then he came wallowing out of the ragged mass he had stirred up.
“Say, bring along that horse-feed, will you? We’ve been waiting long enough,” complained Douglas. As if in emphasis, an impatient whinny sounded below.
Another oath exploded from the badgered Bill. He slid clumsily down and stood looking as if aching to punch the grinning mouth. But he did not punch. Swallowing something, he pointed downward.