“No part of this water-hole belongs on your side of the fence, Dickerson, and as long as I represent Mrs. Atterson it's not going to be grabbed.” “Say! the old man gave my father the right to a part of this hole long ago.” “Show your legal paper to that effect,” promptly suggested Hiram. “Then we will let it stand until the lawyers decide the matter.” Pete was silent for a minute; meanwhile Hiram continued to dig his hole, and finally set the first post into place. “I tell you to take that post out o' there, Mister,” exclaimed Pete, suddenly approaching the other. “I don't like you, anyway. You helped git me turned off up there to Bronson's yesterday. If you wouldn't have put your fresh mouth in about the horse that gal wouldn't have knowed so much to tell her father. Now you stop foolin' with this fence or I'll lick you.” Hiram Strong's disposition was far from being quarrelsome. He only laughed at first and said: “Why, that won't do you any good in the end, Peter. Thrashing me won't give you and your father the right to usurp rights at this water-hole. “There was very good reason, as I can see, for old Mr. Atterson refusing to let you water your stock here. In time of drouth the branch probably furnished no more water than his own cattle needed. And it will be the same with my employer.” “You'd better have less talk about it, and set back them posts,” declared Pete, decidedly, laying off his coat and pulling up his shirt sleeves. “I hope you won't try anything foolish, Peter,” said Hiram, resting on his shovel handle. “Huh!” grunted Pete, eyeing him sideways as might an evil-disposed dog. “We're not well matched,” observed Hiram, quietly, “and whether you thrashed me, or I thrashed you, nothing would be proved by it in regard to the line fence.” “I'll show you what I can prove!” cried Pete, and rushed for him. In a catch-as-catch-can wrestle Pete Dickerson might have been able to overturn Hiram Strong. But the latter did not propose to give the long-armed youth that advantage. He dropped the spade, stepped nimbly aside, and as Pete lunged past him the young farmer doubled his fist and struck his antagonist solidly under the ear. That was the only blow struck--that and the one when Pete struck the ground. The bigger fellow rolled over, grunted, and gazed up at Hiram with amazement struggling with the rage expressed in his features. “I told you we were not well matched, Peter,” spoke Hiram, calmly. “Why fight about it? You have no right on your side, and I do not propose to see Mrs. Atterson robbed of this water privilege.” Pete climbed to his feet slowly, and picked up his coat. He felt of his neck carefully and then looked at his hand, with the idea evidently that such a heavy blow must have brought blood. But of course there was none.