"Yep, I get ye," he returned submissively, "an' I ain't a goin' to lie to ye nuther.... What do ye want?"
Burnett's fierce eyes bent a compelling glance on the man in the road.
"How many squatters 're living down by the lake?" he demanded harshly.
Brewer thought a minute.
"I calc'late mebbe there air fifty, mebbe a hundred," he answered. "I ain't never counted 'em, mister."
Jake moved on a little, but the warden stopped him peremptorily.
"Any jail birds down there?" he thrust at him.
Brewer made a negative gesture.
"Not's I know of," he stammered.
"Ain't nobody down there been in jail? Anybody ever been to Auburn?"
Jake's crooked fingers mounted from his hair line to the back of his skull, lifting the soft cap partly from his head. Then he scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"Well, there ain't no guilty man down there," he said, at last. "There air Orn Skinner--"
Burnett gave an exultant cry.
"My God, I'd forgotten he came from this part of the country! So Skinner's here among this set of squatters, eh? What luck! I'll bet--"
"Ye won't find no dwarf in Skinner's shanty," expostulated Brewer with conviction.
"That's up to me to find out!" growled the warden. "Where does Skinner live? Near here?"
Brewer's fingers directed south.
"First turn to the left, 'bout a mile ahead," he pointed out. "Skinner's shack air close to the lake. A hedge and lots of flowers air growin'
'round it."
Burnett tightened his lines, chirruped to the horse, and drove on, the squatter staring open-mouthed after him.
The summer sun bathed the hillside and warmed the Skinner shanty.
Tessibel's hedge lifted its green head upward as if to catch the golden rays. The flower beds rimmed the hut like a bewildering, gorgeous rainbow. Everything belonging to Tess seemed at absolute peace with itself and the world.
Orn Skinner, his head sunken between the two humps on his shoulders, was lazily whittling a stick when the sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane near Young's barn arrested his attention. It was the one sound the squatter expected that day, yet dreaded. Furtively, he leaned back near the partly open door.
"Some 'un's coming, Tess," he warned.
Evidently, the fisherman did not expect an answer, for he straightened up once more and proceeded to whittle. The pitter-patter of the trotting horse, and the clatter of the wheels upon the flinty road, broke rudely upon the familiar little noises of the quiet summer morning. One sidewise glance satisfied Orn that the men in the vehicle were from Auburn prison. He stopped whittling but a moment when Burnett drew up.
"Hello, Orn," called the officer, stentorian-voiced.
"Hello," and the squatter made a polite salute with his stick.
Burnett tossed the reins to the man at his side and climbed to the ground, advancing toward the fisherman.
"This your hut, Skinner?" he interrogated.
Orn Skinner's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He endeavored to speak, but apprehension and dread had apparently paralyzed his vocal organs. He hadn't fully realized until that moment how desperate the venture to which he had committed himself and Tess. Between Andy Bishop and this formidable giant from Auburn was but the brave little daughter inside the hut. Would she be able to carry through the hazardous task she'd undertaken?
"You remember me, don't you, Skinner?"
It took several seconds before the fisherman could clear his throat enough to speak.
"Yep," he succeeded at length in muttering. "I remember ye all right....
Ye air Burnett from Auburn, ain't ye?... What do ye want around here?"
Suddenly there came to the powerful officer a wild desire to throttle the heavy-headed squatter. He had a feeling that this man knew more than he could be forced to tell, perhaps.
"Better hold a civil tongue in your head, old fellow," he threatened, "if you know what's best for you."
Orn lifted one great shoulder.
"Ye ain't got nothin' on me, Burnett," he snarled defiantly, "but I know ye wouldn't be comin' 'round here if ye didn't have somethin' to come fer."
The warden shoved his grim face so close to the speaker's that he drew back, intimidated.
"Sure, I come for something," snorted Burnett, viciously.
"Then peel it off," answered Skinner, deep in his throat. "I air listenin'."
He was bending so far back now that his shaggy head rested against the shanty boards. Burnett was piercing him with a strange, mesmeric gaze.
"Where's Andy Bishop?" boomed like thunder from the warden.
That name, though he knew his questioner's errand, so suddenly falling on Orn's ears, congealed his blood and knotted his muscles with fear.
"Andy Bishop?" he echoed irresolutely. "Andy Bishop? Who air Andy Bishop?"
Burnett lifted a huge fist, but dropped it again. The time hadn't arrived to punch from Skinner the knowledge he wanted. Later, perhaps--
"Now none of that, Skinner," he barked savagely. "None of that, you hump-backed brute. You know perfectly well who I mean, and you know where the dwarf is, and we want him and we want him quick.... He made his getaway from Auburn.... Now give him up, see?"
Second by second, and minute by minute, Orn Skinner was gathering his courage and strength. All through his life he had been used to brutal officials like Burnett; so swallowing hard, he raised his great gray head and looked straight into the other's dark face.
"If ye mean that little dwarf who were up to Auburn when I were there, I don't know nothin' about him," he said. "I ain't never heard he come from this end of the lake."
The warden's fist knotted once more.
"You're a liar, Skinner," he scraped from his throat. "Now look here! I know confounded well you know where he is. If you don't want me to hand you trouble by the bushel, you'd better cough up that little dwarf. Get me? Eh?"