“I guess Mr. Larue was trying to get revenge for his sore leg,” said Carl, grimly. “This must have been laid some days ago, for there’s rainwater in it. Luckily the bees won’t touch any other sweet when they’re getting honey.”
In his first wrath, Bob declared that he would take his gun, go down to the squatter’s cabin, and accuse him of the trick; but their calmer judgment decided that it was best to let the matter pass unnoticed. So it would probably have passed, but for a chance encounter of Carl’s a few days later.
He was going through the woods with his shotgun, and came upon a trout brook about a mile from the cabin—a stream well known to him, though he seldom fished there. He was quietly following up the bank when he perceived Larue a few yards in front of him. The squatter was smoking a clay pipe and angling industriously with a short rod. A double-barrelled shotgun stood against a tree behind him.
They sighted each other almost simultaneously, and for a moment stared at one another in surprise and distrust.
“W’at you want?” said the half-breed. “You try to creep up on me, eh?”
“I didn’t know you were here,” said Carl. “But, look here, you’d better not try to kill any more of our bees.”
“Keel your bees? Don’t know w’at you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I found the poison you put out. You could be arrested for that—”
“You have me arrest! Why, I keel you first!” cried Larue.
“Don’t try it. And you keep away from our camp in future. When we hear anything after dark we’re as likely as not to shoot.”