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.