"Who says _you_ got a ice-box?" replied the warden, calmly. "There is other folks in Foxville, ain't there?" Byram grew angrier. "If you want to stop this shootin' out o' season," he said, "you go to them rich hotel men in Saratogy. Are you afraid jest because they've got a pull with them politicians that makes the game-laws and then pays the hotel men to serve 'em game out o' season an' reason? Them's the men to ketch; them's the men that set the poor men to vi'latin' the law. Folks here 'ain't got no money to buy powder 'n' shot for to shoot nothin'. But when them Saratogy men offers two dollars a bird for pa'tridge out o' season, what d'ye think is bound to happen?" "Shootin'," said the warden, sententiously. "An' it's been did, too. An' I'm here for to find out who done that shootin' in them alders." "Well, why don't you find out, then?" sneered young Byram from his perch on the ridge-pole. "That's it," said the warden, bitterly; "all you folks hang together like bees in a swarm-bunch. You're nuthin' but a passel o' critters that digs ginseng for them Chinese an' goes gunnin' for pa'tridges out o' season--" "I'll go gunnin' for _you_!" shouted Byram, climbing down the ladder in a rage. "I am going to knock your head off, you darned thing!" Prudence halted him; the game-warden, who had at first meditated flight, now eyed him with patronizing assurance. "Don't git riled with me, young man," he said. "I'm a 'fical of this State. Anyway, it ain't you I'm lookin' for--" "Well, why don't you say so, then?" broke in Byram, with an oath. "But it's one o' your family," added the warden. "My family!" stammered Byram, in genuine surprise. Then an ugly light glimmered in his eyes. "You mean Dan McCloud?" "I do," said the warden, "an' I'm fixed to git him, too." "Well, what do you come to me for, then?" demanded Byram. "For because Dan McCloud is your cousin, ain't he? An' I jest dropped in on you to see how the land lay. If it's a fight it's a fight, but I jest want to know how many I'm to buck against. Air you with him? I've proofs. I know he's got his ice-box stuffed full o' pa'tridges an' woodcock. Air you with him?" "No," said Byram, with a scowl; "but I ain't with you, neither!" "Don't git riled," said the warden. "I'm that friendly with folks I don't wanter rile nobody. Look here, friend, you an' me is 'ficials, ain't we?" "I'm road-master of Foxville," said Byram, aggressively. "Well, then, let's set down onto this bunch o' shingles an' talk it over 'ficially," suggested the warden, suavely. "All right," said Byram, pocketing his hammer; "if you're out to ketch Dan McCloud I don't care. He's a low-down, shifty cuss, who won't pay his road-tax, an' I say it if he is my cousin, an' no shame to me, neither." The warden nodded and winked. "If you he'p me ketch Dan McCloud with them birds in his ice-box, I'll he'p you git your road-tax outen him," he proposed. "An' you git half the reward, too."