“Toting a rifle in close season. Show me yer warrant for Richard Sherwood’s arrest.”
“Show nothin’,” snarled old Tim Hood.
Jim moved backward until he reached the discarded rifle. He laid the second rifle beside it. Red Lily had joined him and Red Chief at the moment of their arrival on the scene.
“Guard ’em, pups,” he said.
The big red dogs stood across the rifles. McAllister walked close up to the intruders, unarmed, his hands hanging by his sides.
“Hood, ye’re an old man and a spiteful one, and because of yer age I’m only telling you to get off O’Dell land as quick as you know how,” he said. “I’ll keep yer rifle till you pay yer fine for carrying it in close season. Beat it! But ye’re not too old to kick, Mel Lunt. Ye’re my own age and heft and it ain’t my fault ye’re not as good a man. You had ought to thought of that before you called me a liar.”
He swung his right hand, wide open, and delivered a resounding smack on the constable’s left ear. Lunt staggered, cursing. Jim stepped in and placed a smart left on the nose and upper lip. Lunt made a furious but blind onslaught and was met by a thump on the chest that shook his hat from his head and his socks down about his ankles. Jim was unskilled as a boxer; but he was powerful and in good condition; the Highland blood of the McAllisters and the pride of the O’Dells were raging in him and he had picked up a few notions from young Ben. He biffed Mel again, but not in a vital spot.
Old Tim Hood, that bitter soul, was not idle. He dashed toward the rifles on the ground, his square-cut white whiskers fairly bristling with rage. Murder was in his heart—but there was no courage back of it. He beheld the masks of the red dogs—wrinkled noses, curled lips, white fangs and blazing eyes. His dash stopped suddenly within a yard of the rifles. He heard throaty gurgles. The bristles went out of his whiskers. He turned and jumped away in a cold panic. But rage still shook in his heart. He stooped and fumbled in the moss and ferns for a stone with which to smash Jim McAllister on the back of the head. It was a style of attack with which he had been familiar in his younger days. He found the thing he wanted, conveniently shaped for the hand and about seven pounds in weight.
Hood straightened himself, stone in hand, just in time to glimpse a red flash. Then something struck him all over and down he went, flat on his back, and the stone went rolling. For half a second he kept his eyes open. Half a second was long enough. He saw white fangs within an inch of his face, crimson gums, a black throat, eyes of green fire. His heart felt as if it would explode with terror. He screamed as he waited for the glistening fangs to crunch into his face. He waited and waited.
Mel Lunt was glad to run as soon as he realized that McAllister was too good for him. He saw that the thing to do was to run while he could and get to Woodstock as soon as possible and interview the high sheriff of the county. There might be something in the story about the man from Quebec, though he doubted it. He needed a warrant for Sherwood’s arrest, anyway; and after that he would settle with McAllister and old Noel Sabattis. So he staggered southward; and Jim sped him with a kick.