“Talk about your bounty on wildcats and porky-pines,” raged the cook, slamming on a stove-cover to emphasize his remarks, “the State treasurer ought to offer twenty-five dollars for the scalp and thumbs of every Skeet and Bushee brought in.”
The fire warden ran his last bit of brown bread around his plate, stuffed it dripping into his mouth, and stood up after sixty seconds devoted to his breakfast.
“Where’s Withee?” he asked the boss chopper, who had lounged to the camp door and was stuffing tobacco into his pipe.
“Off on Square-hole,” replied the boss, with a sideways cant of his head to show direction.
“Fire on Misery eating north towards the Notch,” reported Lane, with laconic sourness. “Withee ought to send twenty-five men.” He was already starting away.
“He’ll probably be back by night,” said the boss chopper, “if ‘Stumpage John’ Barrett gets through swearin’ at him about that last season’s operation.”
Lane stopped and whirled suddenly, the lineman’s climbers at his belt clanking dully.
“John Barrett in this region!” he blurted.
“For the first time in a lot o’ years,” returned the boss, with a grin. “Suspected that Barn devilled Square-hole and wasted in the cuttin’s as much as he landed in the yards. I reckon it ain’t suspicion any more! He’s been down there on the grounds two days. But he don’t get any of my sympathy. A man who stole these lands at twenty cents an acre, buying tax titles, and has squat on his haunches and made himself rich sellin’ stumpage,[1] has got more’n he deserved, even if half the timber is rottin’ in the tops on the ground.”
The gaunt jaws of “Ladder” Lane set themselves out like elbows akimbo. He whirled and started away again as though he had fresh cause for haste.