The old hunter had just carried in his sixth armful of wood, when a shadow crossed the open doorway, and looking up he found himself confronted by Hiram Skeetles.
The real estate dealer was a tall, thin man, with a leathery face and broken snags of yellowish teeth. He chewed tobacco constantly, and the corners of his mouth were much discolored in consequence.
“So ye hain’t taken my warnin’, I see,” snarled Skeetles.
“Hello, Skeetles; what brings you?” demanded Joel Runnell, as cheerily as he could.
“Ye know well enough what brung me, Joel Runnell. Didn’t I warn ye not to trespass on my property?”
“I’ve told you that I don’t know as it is your property. So far I think it belongs to the old Crawley estate, and it’s in the sheriff’s care.”
“It ain’t so; it’s mine, every foot of it.” Hiram Skeetles’ eyes blazed. “I want for you to git out, an’ be quick about it.”
“And I ain’t a-going,” answered Joel Runnell, doggedly.
“You ain’t?”
“No.” The old hunter sat down by the fire, with his gun across his knees. “Now, what are you going to do about it?”