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Tycho, v. 1, issue 1, June 1942
Page 7
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TYCHO Page 7 hides they had brought and that of the staples in the grocery section of the post. Outside, the dof - teams, picketed at safe distances under the slow-burdened trees that the edge of the clearing, told each other what they would do if they could only break the bonds that held them, or threw back their wolf-heads and howled at the star-studded sky. Unexpectedly, the heavy door swung inward and a blast of cold wintry air was framed in the doorway as the dark, stocky figure of a man in the jacket and breeches of a post-inspector appeared in the opening. Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him and walked briskly over to the long counter behind which the local trader stood. "Post Inspector Morton," the newcomer announced himself, laying an oil-skin wrapped packet in front of the trader, "My papers." A star-like silence had fallen over the men in the room when the inspector had entered. He had some upon them suddenly and without warning, although as a post-inspector, he must know that the first law of the woods is to make your arrival heard from a distance so that you will not be taken for an enemy who comes silently to attack. Besides, the dogs were conspicuously silent enhancing the mood of danger. Still and all, this Morton might be new to the job. The man suddenly awoke to the fact that they were not being very hospitable, and swarmed to the counter to meet this new guest. Introducing him to one another, he was invited to join their impromptu party. "C'mon over Morton. You and Bill (the trader) can let the inspection go until tomorrow." Morton acquiesced with a short nod of his head, and stepped forward into the circle of lamplight in which the chairs were groups. The light fell upon him giving those around a clear view of his face. It was one which struck the imagination. His chin was small, and without being actually recessive, gave the impression of not being there; his lips were thin and his nose long and narrow. Above these features his deepest eyes glittered blackly in his head, and gave emphasis to the sloping forehead and the sleek, black hair that surmounted it. The clink of glass came from the other side of the circle of men. "Drink, Morton?" The inspector nodded again, and still standing, took the glass that was offered him and emptied it in one immense gulp. This, at least, was according to post-etiquette, and Morton's glass was soon refilled as he pulled up a chair and sat down. "We was talking about Pine Island when you came in," said a little squirrel-like man opposite Morton, "You didn't happen to pass it on your way?" The inspector licked thin lips nervously. "No," he answered, "I -- don't know this territory very well." "Ain't you even heard fof it?" asked the little man incredulously. "No," replied Morton again, clipping off the word as of he feared every sound he made. "It's a little bunch of pines on top of a long hill to the north of here. And it's haunted that's what it is! Haunted by an old Indian devil." Morton's lips curled derisively. "What kind of a devil?" "A beast-devil." the old man was solemn, "And it don't pay to laugh at it, either. On account
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TYCHO Page 7 hides they had brought and that of the staples in the grocery section of the post. Outside, the dof - teams, picketed at safe distances under the slow-burdened trees that the edge of the clearing, told each other what they would do if they could only break the bonds that held them, or threw back their wolf-heads and howled at the star-studded sky. Unexpectedly, the heavy door swung inward and a blast of cold wintry air was framed in the doorway as the dark, stocky figure of a man in the jacket and breeches of a post-inspector appeared in the opening. Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him and walked briskly over to the long counter behind which the local trader stood. "Post Inspector Morton," the newcomer announced himself, laying an oil-skin wrapped packet in front of the trader, "My papers." A star-like silence had fallen over the men in the room when the inspector had entered. He had some upon them suddenly and without warning, although as a post-inspector, he must know that the first law of the woods is to make your arrival heard from a distance so that you will not be taken for an enemy who comes silently to attack. Besides, the dogs were conspicuously silent enhancing the mood of danger. Still and all, this Morton might be new to the job. The man suddenly awoke to the fact that they were not being very hospitable, and swarmed to the counter to meet this new guest. Introducing him to one another, he was invited to join their impromptu party. "C'mon over Morton. You and Bill (the trader) can let the inspection go until tomorrow." Morton acquiesced with a short nod of his head, and stepped forward into the circle of lamplight in which the chairs were groups. The light fell upon him giving those around a clear view of his face. It was one which struck the imagination. His chin was small, and without being actually recessive, gave the impression of not being there; his lips were thin and his nose long and narrow. Above these features his deepest eyes glittered blackly in his head, and gave emphasis to the sloping forehead and the sleek, black hair that surmounted it. The clink of glass came from the other side of the circle of men. "Drink, Morton?" The inspector nodded again, and still standing, took the glass that was offered him and emptied it in one immense gulp. This, at least, was according to post-etiquette, and Morton's glass was soon refilled as he pulled up a chair and sat down. "We was talking about Pine Island when you came in," said a little squirrel-like man opposite Morton, "You didn't happen to pass it on your way?" The inspector licked thin lips nervously. "No," he answered, "I -- don't know this territory very well." "Ain't you even heard fof it?" asked the little man incredulously. "No," replied Morton again, clipping off the word as of he feared every sound he made. "It's a little bunch of pines on top of a long hill to the north of here. And it's haunted that's what it is! Haunted by an old Indian devil." Morton's lips curled derisively. "What kind of a devil?" "A beast-devil." the old man was solemn, "And it don't pay to laugh at it, either. On account
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