d.

"No end of 'em," said he, "but there ain't no very easy way gettin' down
with a horse.... Still, mebbe ye could.... Might tie yer wagon an' walk
down."

"Who're you?" shouted the warden, gruffly.

Jake cringed as if the questioner had struck him.

"Jake Brewer," was the unsteady response.

"What's your business?"

"I ain't got no real business," replied the other apologetically. "I
fishes an' hunts an' things like that."

"A squatter--eh?"

"Yep, I air a squatter all right," Jake admitted, "but I air a decent
man, an' allers been decent. I don't do nothin' I hadn't ought to."

"Who's sayin' you do?" snapped Burnett. "Now, I want to ask you a few
questions. I'm from Auburn Prison, and if you lie to me, I'll put you
where the dogs won't bite you.... Do you get me?"

Jake's jaw dropped, but he stood still, and looked at the officer
anxiously.

"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.

* * * *