"My God, I'd forgotten he came from this part of the country! So Skinner's here among this set of squatters, eh? What luck! I'll bet—"
"Ye won't find no dwarf in Skinner's shanty," expostulated Brewer with conviction.
"That's up to me to find out!" growled the warden. "Where does Skinner live? Near here?"
Brewer's fingers directed south.
"First turn to the left, 'bout a mile ahead," he pointed out. "Skinner's shack air close to the lake. A hedge and lots of flowers air growin' 'round it."
Burnett tightened his lines, chirruped to the horse, and drove on, the squatter staring open-mouthed after him.
The summer sun bathed the hillside and warmed the Skinner shanty. Tessibel's hedge lifted its green head upward as if to catch the golden rays. The flower beds rimmed the hut like a bewildering, gorgeous rainbow. Everything belonging to Tess seemed at absolute peace with itself and the world.
Orn Skinner, his head sunken between the two humps on his shoulders, was lazily whittling a stick when the sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane near Young's barn arrested his attention. It was the one sound the squatter expected that day, yet dreaded. Furtively, he leaned back near the partly open door.
"Some 'un's coming, Tess," he warned.