“Call these people together and tell them to get their axes and begin to fell trees around the village. I will tell them which ones to cut. Then I want them to help us backfire the grass around the village; get out every pail and pan in the place. If there are any barrels here, fill them with water. Cut boughs to whip out the fire and keep it from getting away from us while we are backfiring. My party will help. Have you seen any rangers here within a day or so?”
“No. Bud Carver was passing through about a week ago, and he said—”
“Never mind what he said. Get out and tell those people what they are to do—”
White was interrupted by a growl from the storekeeper, who had grabbed Stacy by the collar and separated him from the cracker barrel.
“Here, ye young thief—”
“Don’t you call me a thief!” protested Stacy. “I am paying for what I get. I’d have paid in advance, but you were busy and I didn’t want to interrupt you,” explained the fat boy lamely. “Here’s five cents, and that is more than the whole barrel is worth. I’ll bet you have had them here ever since Washington stopped being a territory—in name.”
Uttering a growl, the storekeeper stalked out to the porch and waved the people to him. Hippy Wingate grasped Stacy by an arm and propelled him from the store.
“It is fortunate for you, young man, that there was nothing to eat in the postoffice part of the place, or you would have helped yourself and got in trouble with the United States Government,” declared Hippy.
The others of the party had led their ponies up to the porch and were standing beside them, waiting for orders from the guide, each one listening attentively while the storekeeper told the villagers what Hamilton White had directed him to say.
A loud laugh followed the remarks.