That's certain. I mean Harrod's nephew's deer. Harrod's dead. Darragh's the young nephew's name. He's never been here—he was in the army—in Russia—I don't know what became of him—but he keeps up the Harrod preserve—game-wardens, patrols, watchers, trespass signs and all."
Lannis finished his second cigarette, got back into his stirrups and, gathering bridle, began leisurely to divide curb and snaffle.
"That's the layout, Jack," he said. "Yonder lies the Red Light district of the North Woods. Mike Clinch is the brains of all the dirty work that goes on. A floating population of crooks and bums—game violators, boot-leggers, market hunters, pelt `collectors,' rum-runners, hootch makers, do his dirty work—and I guess there are some who'll stick you up by starlight for a quarter and others who'll knock your block off for a dollar. … And there's the girl, Eve Strayer. I don't get her at all, except that she's loyal to Clinch. … And now you know what you ought to know about this movie called `Hell in the woods.' And it's up to us to keep a calm, impartial eye on the picture and try to follow the plot they're acting out—if there is any."
Stormont said: "Thanks, Bill; I'm posted. … And I'm getting hungry, too."
"I believe, said Lannis, "that you want to see that girl."
"I do," returned the other, laughing.
"Well, you'll see her. She's good to look at. But I don't get her at all."
"Why?"
"Because she looks right. And yet she lives at Clinch's with him and his bunch of bums. Would you think a straight girl could stand it?"
"No man can tell what a straight girl can stand."
"Straight or crooked she stands for Mike Clinch," said Lannis, "and he's a ratty customer."
"Maybe the girl is fond of him. It's natural."
"I guess it's that. But I don't see how any young girl can stomach the life at Clinch's."
"It's a wonder what a decent woman will stand," observed Stormont.
"Ninety-nine per cent, of all wives ought to receive the D.S.O."
"Do you think we're so rotten?" inquired Lannis, smiling.
"Not so rotten. No. But any man knows what men are. And it's a wonder women stick to us when they learn."
They laughed. Lannis glanced at his watch again.
"Well," he said, "I don't believe anybody has tipped off our man. It's noon. Come on to dinner, Jack."
They cantered forward into the sunlit clearing. Star Pond lay ahead.
On its edge stood Clinch's.
* * * * *
III
Clinch, in his shirt sleeves, came out on the veranda. He had little light grey eyes, close-clipped grey hair, and was clean shaven.
"How are you, Clinch," inquired Lannis affably.
"All right," replied Clinch; "you're the same, I hope."
"Trooper Stormont, Mr. Clinch," said Lannis in his genial way.
"Pleased to know you," said Clinch, level-eyed, unstirring.
The troopers dismounted. Both shook hands with Clinch. Then Lannis led the way to the barn.
"We'll eat well," he remarked to his comrade. "Clinch cooks."
From the care of their horses they went to a pump to wash. One or two rough looking men slouched out of the house and glanced at them.
"Hallo, Jake," said Lannis cheerily.
Jake Kloon grunted acknowledgment.
Lannis said in Stormont's ear: "Here she comes with towels. She's pretty, isn't she?"
A young girl in pink gingham advanced toward them across the patch of grass.
Lannis was very polite and presented Stormont. The girl handed them two rough towels, glanced at Stormont again after the introductions, smiled slightly.
"Dinner is ready," she said.
They dried their faces and followed her back to the house.
It was an unpainted building, partly of log. In the dining room half a dozen men waited silently for food. Lannis saluted all, named his comrade, and seated himself.
A delicious odour of johnny-cake pervaded the room. Presently Eve
Strayer appeared with the dinner.
There was dew on her pale forehead—the heat of the kitchen, no doubt. The girl's thick, lustrous hair was brownish gold, and so twisted up that it revealed her ears and a very white neck.
When she brought Stormont his dinner he caught her eyes a moment—experienced a slight shock of pleasure at their intense blue—the gentian-blue of the summer zenith at midday.
Lannis remained affable, even became jocose at moments: "No hootch for dinner, Mike? How's that, now?"
"The Boot-leg Express is a day late," replied Clinch, with cold humour.
Around the table ran an odd sound—a company of catamounts feeding might have made such a noise—if catamounts ever laugh.
"How's the fur market, Jake?" inquired Lannis, pouring gravy over his mashed potato.
Kloon quoted prices with an oath.
A mean-visaged young man named Leverett complained of the price of traps.
"What do you care?" inquired Lannis genially. "The other man pays. What are you kicking about, anyway? It wasn't so long ago that muskrats were ten cents."
The trooper's good-humoured intimation that Earl Leverett took fur in other men's traps was not lost on the company. Leverett's fox visage reddened; Jake Kloon, who had only one eye, glared at the State Trooper but said nothing.
Clinch's pale gaze met the trooper's smiling one: "The jays and squirrels talk too," he said slowly. "It don't mean anything. Only the show-down counts."
"You're quite right, Clinch. The show-down is what we pay to see. But talk is the tune the orchestra plays before the curtain rises."
Stormont had finished dinner. He heard a low, charming voice from behind his chair:
"Apple pie, lemon pie, maple cake, berry roll."
He looked up into two gentian-blue eyes.
"Lemon pie, please," he said, blushing.
* * * * *
When dinner was over and the bare little dining room empty except for Clinch and the two State Troopers, the former folded his heavy, powerful
