In his gnarled hands he still held the beautiful bird, whose handsome red neck feathers shaded off into a long silver white tail.
“What’s the big idea?” Dobbs demanded harshly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from here? D’you want me to call the sheriff?”
“One moment, Mr. Dobbs,” said Sam Hatfield. “We have permission to visit the farm.”
“Mr. Silverton said you could come here?”
“Right.”
The information plainly annoyed the foreman, for he scowled. “How do I know you ain’t just saying that?” he demanded.
Dan produced the memorandum written in Mr. Silverton’s hand. Dobbs read it in stony silence.
“Okay, it’s nothing to me one way or the other,” he shrugged. “You can look around if you like. But mind, don’t get the birds stirred up.”
“Isn’t that a silver pheasant you have in your hand?” Mr. Hatfield inquired pleasantly.
“Yeah,” Dobbs agreed, leading the group to another pen. “This here one’s a rare breed from the Himalayas,” he explained, pointing to a pheasant with a short golden-orange tail.