“It will cost you a dollar a head to get them off again—if Mrs. Atterson wishes to demand it. Now, call your father.”
Pete raised a yell which startled the long-legged man striding over the hill toward the Dickerson farmhouse. Hiram saw the older Dickerson turn, stare, and then start toward them.
Pete continued to beckon, and began to yell:
“Dad! Dad! He won't let me have the hosses!”
Sam Dickerson came striding down to the waterhole—a lean, long, sour-looking man he was, with a brown face knotted into a continual scowl, and hard, bony hands. Yet Hiram was not afraid of him.
“What's the trouble here?” growled the farmer.
“He's got the hosses. I told you the fence was down and I was goin' to water 'em——”
“Shut up!” commanded his father, eyeing Hiram. “I'm talking to this fellow: What's the trouble here?”
“Your horses are on Mrs. Atterson's land,” Hiram said, quietly. “You know that stock which strays can be held for a dollar a head—damage or no damage to crops. I warn you, keep your horses on your own land.”
“That's your fence; if you don't keep it up, who's fault is it if my horses get on your land?” growled Dickerson, evidently making the matter a personal one with Hiram.