“I tell you to take that post out o' there, Mister,” exclaimed Pete, suddenly approaching the other. “I don't like you, anyway. You helped git me turned off up there to Bronson's yesterday. If you wouldn't have put your fresh mouth in about the horse that gal wouldn't have knowed so much to tell her father. Now you stop foolin' with this fence or I'll lick you.”
Hiram Strong's disposition was far from being quarrelsome. He only laughed at first and said:
“Why, that won't do you any good in the end, Peter. Thrashing me won't give you and your father the right to usurp rights at this water-hole.
“There was very good reason, as I can see, for old Mr. Atterson refusing to let you water your stock here. In time of drouth the branch probably furnished no more water than his own cattle needed. And it will be the same with my employer.”
“You'd better have less talk about it, and set back them posts,” declared Pete, decidedly, laying off his coat and pulling up his shirt sleeves.
“I hope you won't try anything foolish, Peter,” said Hiram, resting on his shovel handle.
“Huh!” grunted Pete, eyeing him sideways as might an evil-disposed dog.
“We're not well matched,” observed Hiram, quietly, “and whether you thrashed me, or I thrashed you, nothing would be proved by it in regard to the line fence.”
“I'll show you what I can prove!” cried Pete, and rushed for him.
In a catch-as-catch-can wrestle Pete Dickerson might have been able to overturn Hiram Strong. But the latter did not propose to give the long-armed youth that advantage.