“He’s only cutting alders for bean-poles,” observed the path-master, resting her slender fingers on her hips.
“Well, he can cut his bean-poles on his own land hereafter,” said McCloud.
“Gosh!” observed Tansey, in pretended admiration. “Ain’t he neighborly? Cut ’em on my own land, hey? Don’t git passionate,” he added, moving off through the dust; “passionate folks is liable to pyralyze their in’ards, young man!”
“Don’t answer!” said the path-master, watching the sullen rage in McCloud’s eyes.
“Pay yewr debts!” called out Tansey at the turn of the road. “Pay yewr debts, an’ the Lord will pay yewr taxes!”
“The Lord can pay mine, then,” said McCloud to the path-master, “for I’ll never pay a cent of taxes in Foxville. Now what do you say to that?”
The path-master had nothing to say. She went away through the golden dust, one slim hand on the head of her collie dog, who trotted beside her waving his plumy tail.
That evening at the store where McCloud had gone to buy cartridges, Tansey taunted him, and he replied contemptuously. Then young Byram flung a half-veiled threat at him, and McCloud replied with a threat that angered the loungers around the stove.
“What you want is a rawhide,” said McCloud, eying young Byram.
“I guess I do,” said Byram, “an’ I’m a-goin’ to buy one, too—unless you pay that there road-tax.”