The old man straightened himself in his chair.
“Right o’ way!” he exclaimed scornfully; “right o’ way! They don’t pay for it; they steal it. They pick out the best land you’ve got, set their stakes on it, an’ call it theirs. They’re thieves an’ robbers, an’ cowards as well. Yes, cowards! Else why did they wait all summer to pick out a day when I was away from home an’ nobody on the premises but a thirteen year old boy an’ a blamed fool of a hired man. Oh! if I’d ’a’ been here, I’d ’a’ told ’em where to set their stakes!”
He rose to his full six feet two inches, straight as a pine tree, his neck and face crimson with anger, his blue eyes flashing fire. Neighbor Brown arose and moved awkwardly down the steps.
“Guess I’ll have to be going, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “Thought I’d just run over an’ see—an’ see if there was any news from the river.”
But Abner Pickett had a parting shot to fire.
“Mind what I tell you, David Brown. If they’re a-pointing toward your place, the only way to protect your rights is to set on your line fence with a shot-gun in your hands. The law won’t help you, an’ compensation for the right o’ way is nothin’ more nor less than an insult. There’s my advice to you. Take it, or let it alone, as you like.”
After David Brown had gone, the old man grew somewhat calmer. He took two or three turns up and down the porch, and then resumed his seat.
“Strike into the potato field, did they?” he asked of Dannie.
“Yes,” was the reply; “went up through the west end of it, far as the big rock.”