“Do?” cried Barker. “I’m going to make him settle—handsomely. I’ll teach him he can’t shoot my dog without paying for it.”
“This will come pretty near fuf-fixing Mr. Grant for good around Oakdale. He’d better pull up stakes and get out.”
“He was practically fixed before this,” said Barker; “but this will certainly satisfy every doubter as to his character. Even Stone can’t have anything to say in his defense after this.”
By the time the swamp was left behind the snow was coming down in such an impenetrable mass that they could barely see a few feet in advance, and the wind was rising, forcing them to hold their heads down and bend forward as they breasted the storm.
“It’s going to be a ripper,” said Springer. “Winter came in early this year, and it’s sus-soaking it to us good.”
Down the Barville road they went, Barker silently planning his course of action toward Grant.
Until late in the afternoon the storm continued, the wind piling the snow in drifts; between three and four o’clock, however, it abated far more suddenly than it had begun. The wind died down, and the sun, setting beyond Turkey Hill, shot red gleams through a rift in the clouds, gilding the arrow-vane on the steeple of the Methodist church. Men and boys appeared everywhere with shovels, opening paths to houses and clearing the sidewalks. The loafers, who had spent the greater part of the day around the roaring stove in Stickney’s store, discussing national politics, high finance, and arguing vociferously over original methods for busting the trusts, gradually melted away until only two rheumaticky old codgers who could not wield shovels were left.
Even before the snow had ceased to fall, Rodney Grant was out and at work on the path leading to his aunt’s house, and, having begun thus early, he was able to complete the task before darkness came on. He had just disposed of the last shovelful when, straightening up, he perceived two persons plowing toward him, almost waist deep, along High Street. One was a tall, husky-looking man, and the other Rod recognized with some surprise as Berlin Barker. He flung the shovel to his shoulder and turned, but the voice of the man hailed him.
“Hold on, young feller! We want to see you a minute.”
His surprise redoubled, Grant dropped the blade of his shovel to the snow, leaned lightly on the handle and waited. The man he had often seen around Oakdale, but did not know his name. He fancied that Barker’s cold, grim face wore an expression of malignant, but repressed, triumph.