Perhaps it was even less a sense of duty to the Rev. Dr. Solomon Dryer than of unexpressed remorse.
If those three vagabonds looked for an easy victory, however, they were sorely mistaken.
The dun heifer had been “hard to drive” all along, and she headed her mates in a vigorous break backward at the first rush of Zeb and his faithful ally.
It was all in vain that the smaller of the three “impounders” rushed so wildly after them, and that lessened the odds against Zeb.
They were hard fighters, though, those two vagabonds of Rodney, and Deacon Fuller’s hopeful heir had all his work cut out for him.
He was no scientific boxer, nor was either of his opponents, but Bob was more of an expert, and by the time Zeb began to really find himself in difficulty so did that unlucky yellow dog.
The worst of it was, however, that Bob deemed it his duty to make a clean finish of his particular job instead of coming to the help of his master.
Alas, for Zeb!
His cudgel was wrenched from his panting grasp, at last, though not till he had used it to excellent effect, and while he grappled with one of his foes the other was free to belabor him to his heart’s content. The result might have been bad for Dr. Dryer’s cows, but, just then, there came a sound of heavy wheels on the road above, and over the nearest “rise” of ground the daily stage-coach that plied up and down the valley came lumbering down to the field of battle.
