THE HUNT
39
in this part of the country. The boss took him down to Firkin's
postoffice and general store every Saturday night.
One Saturday night the store was packed to the doors. In
the middle were rich farmer Jimpson, Plover who was director
of the bank which had its hooks in the hill farms, his nephew
big Ed Pusley, game warden, and a number of the dairymen.
Hendrickson chimed in. Gordon bought a bottle beer and listen–
ed.
Plover pinched his foxed beard. "Sure, what Jimpson says
about them one-horse fanners all over the country is true. It's
true here. We got to face the facts. There's too many people
in the country doing things they oughtn'd had. Give the little
fellow a chance to sprout up the old way and he'll be spoiling
things for himself and everybody."
Gordon put his finger on his collaring bottle beer. "What.in
hell would you have the little fellow do?" he said.
"Do?" shouted Jimpson. "These fellows ain't bona fidey
farmers. When a fellow's got three or four foot ground just
enough to stand on to chop down a tree or crack a squirrel, he
ain't no farmer. He's a lumberjack or hunter."
Wagons kept clattering across the railroad tracks back of
Firkin's store. Then the shadows and shaggy horses of the
stone farmers from the hills.
Gordon popped out, "Overcrowded milk market or not,
you'll have them all Red talking that way."
"Red
I''
snorted big Ed Pusley. "All red them hilljacks sees
is in their woman's rag or the old hunting cap."
Gordon belched, "Bastards," and moved to the door. A
hill girl was getting on a wagon. Her dress caught between her
legs. His throat ached suddenly. He hadn't touched a woman
since New York.
The men tramped into the store, lean, hard as bull punches.
One of them towered above the rest, bronzed like a turkey cock,
his worn breeches fanned out at the seat.
Hendrickson was the only one to say in his friendly way,
"Sit down, Hub Hone. Give us an earful."
Hub Hone growled, "Don't waste my shot."
"What you saving it for?" asked Plover thru his beard.
"We'll show you one of these days."
After Hub had stalked out, Pusley bit out, "Snotty hound.
Acts like they ought to be dynamited out of the woods like
thievin' crows."
