“Hungry?” he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Maybe I am,” snapped Jim, “but I’m too mad to notice it.”
“Spring back here. I put a snack in my pocket.”
“What’s that man’s name, Steve?” Jim demanded.
“Kowterski—one of Moran’s Polacks,” said Steve, with bitterness in his voice. “Them cattle is drivin’ good woodsmen out of the State. Moran’s fetchin’ ’em in ’cause he kin drive ’em and abuse ’em and rob ’em. There was a day when a lumberjack come out of the woods after the drive with his pockets burnin’ with money. These fellers is lucky if they come out even. I knowed one that come out last spring with fifteen dollars to show for his winter’s work. Sometimes Moran gives ’em half a dollar on Sundays—for church!” He stopped suddenly.
“Kowterski’s brother’s night-watchin’ for you,” he said, shortly.
“Thank you,” said Jim. “Now let’s go back.”
“Better eat a bite,” Steve said, and, taking Jim’s assent for granted, led the way to the spring.
It was an hour before he consented to begin the backward tramp. It was completed as silently as had been the coming. Steve led Jim past his shanty, but not in sight of it, and to the road where the buggy stood.
“Wait,” he said, and shortly reappeared, leading the horse, which he helped Jim to hitch.