“Mr. Smartie!” snarled Pete Dickerson. “Now, you see, there's somebody just as smart as you be. These horses have drunk there, and they're going to drink again.”
“Is that your father yonder?” demanded Hiram, shortly.
“Yes, it is.”
“Call him over here.”
“Why, if he comes over here, he'll eat you alive!” cried Pete, laughing. “You don't know my dad.”
“I don't; but I want to,” Hiram said, calmly. “That's why you'd better call him over. I have got pretty well acquainted with you, and the rest of your family can't be any worse, as I look at it. Call him over,” and the young farmer stepped nearer to the lout.
“You call him yourself!” cried Pete, beginning to back away, for he remembered how he had been treated at his previous encounter with Hiram.
Hiram seized the bridles of the work horses, and shook them out of Pete's clutch.
“Tell your father to come here,” commanded the young farmer, fire in his eyes. “We'll settle this thing here and now.
“These horses are on Mrs. Atterson's land. I know the county stock law as well as you do. You cut this fence, and your cattle are on her ground.