lle is jest plumb
sick o' him."

"Is it?" inquired the game-warden, with interest.

"The folks is that sick o' him that they was talkin' some o' runnin' him
acrost the mountains," replied Byram; "but I jest made the boys hold
their horses till I got that there road-tax outen him first."

"Can't you git it?"

"Naw," drawled Byram. "I sent Billy Delany to McCloud's shanty to
collect it, but McCloud near killed Bill with a axe. That was Tuesday.
Some o' the boys was fixin' to run McCloud outer town, but I guess most
of us ain't hankerin' to lead the demonstration."

"'Fraid?"

"Ya-as," drawled Byram.

The game-warden laboriously produced a six-shooter from his side pocket.
A red bandanna handkerchief protected the shiny barrel; he unwrapped
this, regarded the weapon doubtfully, and rubbed his fat thumb over the
butt.

"Huh!" ejaculated Byram, contemptuously, "he's got a repeatin'-rifle; he
can cut a pa'tridge's head off from here to that butternut 'cross the
creek!"

"I'm goin' to git into his ice-house all the same," said the warden,
without much enthusiasm.

"An' I'm bound to git my road-tax," said Byram, "but jest how I'm to
operate I dunno."

"Me neither," added the warden, musingly. "God knows I hate to shoot
people."

What he really meant was that he hated to be shot at.

A young girl in a faded pink sunbonnet passed along the road, followed
by a dog. She returned the road-master's awkward salutation with shy
composure. A few moments later the game-warden saw her crossing the
creek on the stepping-stones; her golden-haired collie dog splashed
after her.

"That's a slick girl," he said, twisting his heavy black mustache into
two greasy points.

Byram glanced at him with a scowl.

"That's the kid," he said.

"Eh? Elton's?"

"Yes."

"Your path-master?"

"Well, what of it?"

"Nuthin'--she's good-lookin'--for a path-master," said the warden, with
a vicious leer intended for a compliment.

"What of it?" demanded Byram, harshly.

"Be you fixin' to splice with that there girl some day?" asked the
game-warden, jocosely.

"What of it?" repeated Byram, with an ugly stare.

"Oh," said the warden, hastily, "I didn't know nothin' was goin' on; I
wasn't meanin' to rile nobody."

"Oh, you wasn't, wasn't you?" said Byram, in a rage. "Now you can jest
git your pa'tridges by yourself an' leave me to git my road-tax. I'm
done with you."

"How you do rile up!" protested the warden. "How was I to k