“You mend the fence, and I will,” declared Hiram, unshaken.
The angry man sprang down to his level, flourishing the gun in a way that would have been dangerous indeed had Hiram believed it to be loaded. And as it was, the young farmer was very angry.
The right was on his side; if he allowed these Dickersons, father and son, to browbeat him this once, it would only lead to future trouble.
This thing had to be settled right here and now. It would never do for Hiram to show fear. And if both of the long-legged Dickersons pitched upon him, of course, he would be no match for them.
But Sam Dickerson stumbled and almost fell as he reached the edge of the water-hole, and before he could recover himself, Hiram leaped upon him, seized the shotgun, and wrenched it from his hands.
He reversed the weapon in a flash, clubbed it, and raised it over his head with a threatening swing that made Pete yell from the top of the bank:
“Look out, Dad! He's a-goin' ter swat yer!”
Sam tried to scramble out of the way. But down came the gun butt with all the force of Hiram's good muscle, and—the stock was splintered and the lock shattered upon the big stone that here cropped out of the bank.
“There's your gun—what's left of it,” panted the young farmer, tossing the broken weapon from him. “Now, don't you ever threaten me with a gun again, for if you do I'll have you arrested.
“We've got to be neighbors, and we've got to get along in a neighborly manner. But I'm not going to allow you to take advantage of Mrs. Atterson, because she is a woman.