“Road-tax?” repeated McCloud, with a sneer. “I guess not. If the roads are good enough for cattle like you, pay for them yourselves! I use the woods and I pay no road-tax.”
“If you didn’t have that there rifle—” began Byram, sullenly.
“It’s quite empty; look for yourself!” said McCloud, jerking back the lever.
The mortified game-warden picked himself out of the nettle-choked ditch where he had been painfully squatting and started towards Foxville.
“I’ll ketch you at it yet!” he called back; “I’ll fix you an’ your ice-box!”
McCloud laughed.
“Gimme that two dollars,” demanded Byram, sullenly, “or do your day’s stint on them there public roads.”
McCloud dropped his hands into the pockets of his ragged shooting-jacket.
“You’d better leave or I’ll settle you as I settled Billy Delany.”
“You hit him with a axe; that’s hommycide assault; he’ll fix you, see if he don’t!” said Byram.