On the contrary, they were being driven steadily along northward, in the charge of three ragged, disreputable-looking, vagabond boys, two of them of about Zeb’s size and one younger, and a big, mangy-looking yellow dog.
“Hullo!” shouted Zeb, as he galloped up and passed them, reining in the bay colt across the road. “What are you doing with them cows?”
“Drivin’ ’em to the paound,” exclaimed one of the larger boys, with a malicious grin. “That’s wot we dew with stray critters over here in Rodney.”
“Over here in Rodney!” exclaimed Zeb. “Why, those cows belong to Ogleport. Stolen last night out of the Rev. Dr. Solomon Dryer’s own yard. I’ll have you all arrested and sent to jail. Pound! I’ll pound ye. Give ’em up, right off.”
There was a little spasm of uncertainty on the faces of the vagabonds, but the “pound reward” for stray cattle in Rodney was a dollar a head, and they could not bear the thought of surrendering wealth like that to a boy of Zeb’s size from a rival township.
They said as much in a moment more, and that in such a dogged and threatening manner, and with such a profusion of unsavory epithets, that Zeb Fuller’s valor got the better of his discretion.
He was no cavalryman.
All his fighting had hitherto been done on foot.
So he wisely cantered a few rods up the road, sprang from the saddle, hitched the bay, shouted to Bob, and started back for the duty that so plainly lay before him, cudgel in hand.
It was one against three, to be sure, for Bob recognized at once his mission to that yellow dog, but Zeb had special reasons of his own for not flinching.