But Byram came on, gun levelled, and McCloud retreated to his front door.
“Give it to him!” shouted the game-warden; “shoot his windows out!” There was a flash from the road and a load of buckshot crashed through the window overhead.
Before the echoes of the report died away, McCloud’s voice was heard again, calmly warning them back.
Something in his voice arrested the general advance.
“I don’t know why I don’t kill you in your tracks, Byram,” said McCloud; “I’ve wanted the excuse often enough. But now I’ve got it and I don’t want it, somehow. Let me alone, I tell you.”
“He’s no good!” said the warden, distinctly. Byram crept through the picket fence and lay close, hugging his shot-gun.
“I tell you I intend to pay my taxes,” cried McCloud, desperately. “Don’t force me to shoot!”
The sullen rage was rising; he strove to crush it back, to think of the little path-master.
“For God’s sake, go back!” he pleaded, hoarsely.
Suddenly Byram started running towards the house, and McCloud clapped his rifle to his cheek and fired. Four flashes from the road answered his shot, but Byram was down in the grass screaming, and McCloud had vanished into his house.