Swamp Cat
Copyright© 2024 by Jim Kjelgaard
PARTNERS
Twisting himself almost double, Frosty sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Andy’s hand and raked with all four paws. Blood welled from the scratches and cuts and dripped onto the dead owl. But instead of flinging the kitten from him, Andy encircled Frosty’s neck with his right thumb and forefinger, rendered his front paws ineffective by slipping his other three fingers behind them, grabbed his rear paws with his left hand and stretched him out. He murmured,
“If you aren’t the little spitfire!”
Unable to do anything else, Frosty could only glare. The smile that always lingered in Andy’s eyes almost flashed to his lips. His face softened. He spoke soothingly,
“You might as well stop it. You’d have a real rough time clawing me all to bits.”
Frosty snarled and Andy grinned. He’d never had a cat or thought of getting one, but besides his fighting heart, there was something about Frosty to which he warmed. Without thinking that he too had defied conventional living, Andy recognized something akin to himself. He said firmly,
“You’re going to get some help whether you want it or not.”
Holding Frosty so that he could neither scratch nor bite, Andy carried him back to the house, pushed the door open with his knee and wondered. The kitten must be hurt because nothing withstood the strike of a great horned owl without getting hurt. In spite of the fact that he did not appear to be seriously injured, he probably would bear watching for a few days. Andy thought speculatively of one of the cages in which the muskrats had been shipped. He’d be able to watch the spunky little fellow closely if he put him in one.
For no apparent reason, he suddenly remembered when he had lived in town, working on the railroad nights and going to school days. There had always been a feeling of too little room and too much confinement. He looked again at Frosty ... and put him down on the floor.
“Guess we won’t lock you up.”
Frosty scooted beneath the stove and again Andy’s smile threatened to blossom. Running, the kitten looked oddly like a strip of black velvet upon which frost crystals sparkle. It was then that Andy gave him his name.
“Okeh, Frosty. If that’s what you like, that’s what you can have.”
He stooped to peer beneath the stove and was warned away with a rumbling growl, so he straightened. After he had satisfied himself that the kitten was all right, Frosty would be free to go his own way. There never had been and never would be any prisoners in the swamp.
Going outside, careful to latch the door behind him lest it blow open and let Frosty escape, Andy caught up a discarded tin can and took a spade from his shed. He turned the rich muck at the swamp’s edge, dropped the fat worms he uncovered into the can, then went back to the house for a willow pole with a line, hook and cork bobber attached. Carrying the pole and can of worms, he made his way to the watery slough in front of his house.
While their dozen children sported in the slough, Four-Leaf and Clover dug succulent bulbs in the mud on the opposite bank. None paid any attention to Andy. This colony, protected by the nearness of the house and seeming to know it, was not nearly as wary as those that lived in more remote sections of the swamp. Even the great horned owls had not attacked them. Andy strung a wriggling worm on his hook and was about to cast it when,
“Howdy.”
Andy turned to face Luke Trull, who had stolen upon him unseen and unheard. Still wearing his sun-faded trousers and torn shirt, still needing a haircut and shave, his eyes were fixed on the muskrats in the slough. Andy’s heart sank. He’d feared the native swamp predators. But not even the great horned owls could work the same fearful damage as Luke Trull, should he decide to come raiding. Andy said coldly,
“Hi, Luke.”
“I heerd tell,” the other smirked, “‘bout somethin’ new in the swamp.”
“Who told you?”
“News gits ‘round.”
“There is something new. But it belongs to me and so does the swamp. Both are to be left alone.”
“Oh sure. Sure ‘nough. I aim to leave ‘em alone. They’s mushrats, ain’t they?”
“That’s right. They’re muskrats.”
“Wu’th a heap of money, ain’t they?”
“Not a ‘heap.’ Maybe a couple of dollars or so for a good prime pelt.”
“Could be a heap given a man ketches enough of ‘em. How many you got all told?”
“Not enough to start trapping.”
“The hills is full of talk ‘bout how you’ve turned your no-count swamp into a mushrat farm. They’s talk ‘bout how you aim to get rich off mushrat pelts.”
“Nobody’s going to get rich. And anybody who traps any muskrats before I give the word, or without my permission, will be in trouble.”
“Oh, sure. Sure ‘nough. But I’ve already said I don’t aim to bother ‘em none.”
Andy said shortly, “That’s a good idea. I’ll be seeing you, Luke.”
“Yep. I’ll be ‘round.”
The lean hillman drifted away as silently as he had come and Andy cast his baited hook. But his thoughts were troubled ones.
He had hoped to keep his muskrat ranch a secret, but he should have known the impossibility of that. Only he knew all the safe paths through the swamp, but Luke Trull, the Haroldsons and the Casmans knew some of them. Frequently they came to fish in some favored slough or other. Somebody must have seen a colony of muskrats—perhaps they’d stumbled across Four-Leaf and Clover and their family—and it hadn’t been hard to piece the rest of the story together. Probably Johnny Linger, the express agent, hadn’t talked to any hillman. But Johnny had friends in town to whom he might have talked, his friends had friends, and by the time enough people knew the story, it could easily get back to the hill dwellers.
Andy was so absorbed with this new problem that he was entirely unaware of the fact that his cork bobber had disappeared. He yanked the pole, missed his strike and strung another worm on the stripped hook. He might post his swamp against trespassers. Not that trespass signs had ever kept a single Casman, Haroldson—or especially a Trull—from going where he wished to go but at the very least they’d be evidence that he had acted in his own behalf. But trespass signs or not, there was going to be trouble in plenty if human predators started raiding his muskrats and trouble was always better avoided.
He missed another nibble and began to concentrate on his fishing. Very possibly he was killing his ogres before he met them. But when Luke Trull saw a possibility of earning money without working for it—?
The bobber disappeared again. Andy struck in time, lifted a flapping jumbo perch out of the slough, put it on a stringer, rebaited and cast his line. There was little sport in catching the perch with such heavy tackle, but they were delicious eating and the slough swarmed with them. Andy fished until he had six.
He sat down, scaled his catch, ran his knife along each side of their backbones, and removed the tasty fillets. The offal, which ordinarily he would have thrown away, he laid on a saucer-sized lily pad and took to the house with him. Still beneath the stove, Frosty greeted him with a bubbling growl. Andy wrapped four of the fish heads in a piece of discarded newspaper and put them in his icebox. The remainder, along with the offal, he placed on a saucer and thrust beneath the stove. He remembered to put a dish of water beside the saucer.
Andy prepared a batch of biscuits, fried his own fish, ate lunch and washed the dishes. The untouched fish heads remained where he had placed them, and when he stooped to peer beneath the stove, Frosty glared back balefully. A little worried that the kitten might be hurt worse than he appeared to be, Andy closed and latched the door and took the trail to town. Uneasy feelings stirred within him.
The town, he had long ago decided to his own satisfaction, had little real touch with the hills. To the townspeople, the hillmen were a strange breed, like lions in a zoo, and as such they could always furnish entertainment. Regardless of the work, hopes and dreams it had taken to put them there, few townsmen could be expected to take seriously a swamp with muskrats in it. Stealing goods from a town store would be a criminal offense and provoke righteous indignation. Stealing muskrats from his swamp would be just another example of what the hillmen were always doing to each other and provoke, at the very most, a sympathetic chuckle.
Even as he walked resolutely ahead, Andy thought that he would have to stand alone. Nevertheless, he still felt he must try to enlist aid. An ounce of prevention was definitely worth at least a pound of cure, and though nothing had happened as yet, now was the time to take steps in his own defense. But what could he do and who would listen?
Reaching town, Andy turned aside to the State Police substation. The harassed-appearing trooper in charge put aside the report upon which he was working and looked up questioningly.
“My name’s Gates,” Andy introduced himself. “Andy Gates. I want to post my land against trespassers.”
“Well—has someone tried to stop you?”
“No,” Andy admitted, “but suppose I post it and someone trespasses? What’s the penalty?”
The trooper traced a meaningless doodle with his pen. “That depends a lot on circumstances. Few judges or justices are inclined to be harsh with a person who merely walks on another’s property, even if it is posted.”
“Suppose they steal?”
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