Lannis was instructing Stormont, who had been transferred from the Long
Island Troop, and who was unacquainted with local matters.
Lannis said: "Clinch's dump stands on the other edge of the clearing.
Clinch owns five hundred acres in here. He's a rat."
"Bad?"
"Well, he's mean. I don't know how bad he is. But he runs a rotten dump. The forest has its slums as well as the city. This is the Hell's Kitchen of the North Woods."
Stormont nodded.
"All the scum of the wilderness gathers here," went on Lannis. "Here's where half the trouble in the North Woods hatches. We'll eat dinner at Clinch's. His stepdaughter is a peach."
The sturdy, sun-browned trooper glanced at his wrist watch, stretched his legs in his stirrups.
"Jack," he said, "I want you to get Clinch right, and I'm going to tell you about his outfit while we watch this road. It's like a movie. Clinch plays the lead. I'll dope out the scenario for you——"
He turned sideways in his saddle, freeing both spurred heels and lolled so, constructing a cigarette while he talked:
"Way back around 1900 Mike Clinch was a guide — a decent young fellow they say. He guided fishing parties in summer, hunters in fall and winter. He made money and built the house. The people he guided were wealthy. He made a lot of money and bought land. I understand he was square and that everybody liked him.