"Now, Andy, mought's well be neighborly. You give leave to Ira'n Jud Casman an' all the Haroldsons to help ya trap mushrats. All I come out for was to see why ya fo'got to ask me?"
It was a flimsy excuse. Luke knew well enough where Andy lived, and if he had wanted to ask him anything at all, he might easily have come to his house. Any farfetched chance that he might actually have followed Andy into the swamp to ask about anything at all was refuted by the fact that he had been hiding in the grass. Andy's voice was dangerously low-pitched,
"Get up, Luke!"
"Not afore ya cool a mite."
Andy reached down, grasped the other's coat collar, jerked him erect and spun him around. When he swung, the blow started at the tips of his toes and traveled through his clenched fist. He connected squarely, and Luke Trull sat down suddenly in the grass.
Supporting himself with both arms, he looked intently at Andy. His eyes remained cold and the smile was gone. Andy spoke quietly,
"Get out! Don't come back!"
Without a word, Luke Trull rose and shuffled away. Andy had a sudden cold feeling. Luke Trull was no more ethical than a rattlesnake, and he was far more dangerous. Andy knew that the man would come again, but he would not be caught again. Nor would he ever forget this. One way or another, he would have his revenge, and if he confined his vengeance to wiping out the muskrat colonies, Andy would be lucky.
The boy's courage returned. He had known when he planned his muskrat ranch that it would be no easy task and that he would have to fight for it, so fight he would.
Andy picked up his pack board and in what remained of the day went back to the place where Frosty had disappeared. He searched carefully but he could not find the kitten, and when he returned to the house, Frosty was not there. The boy dawdled over a skimpy supper and went dispiritedly to bed.