“Look,” said Wilson. “We’re five to you three, you and your men. I mean to have the water.”
“Never!” cried Grear, and getting off his horse he walked up the dam to where Wilson stood.
“Get over the fence,” he said.
And Wilson leant against the fence and the sheep behind him. He dabbled with his hand in their wool. Their hot breath fanned him.
“Don’t, Grear, don’t,” he pleaded. “What would you think if I did the same to you?”
“You can’t,” said Grear, and he laughed. “I’ve the river at my back.”
And Hill with a spade in his hand pressed through the sheep, until he came to Wilson. He touched the boss’s shoulder, and Wilson calmed as he took the spade.
“You don’t mean that they’re to die, Grear, do you?” he asked, with a catch in his voice.
“What’s that to me?”
“It’s much to me,” said Wilson. “Oh, Grear, I’d rather be hanged than let it be.”