Pete raised a yell which startled the long-legged man striding over the hill toward the Dickerson farmhouse. Hiram saw the older Dickerson turn, stare, and then start toward them. Pete continued to beckon, and began to yell: “Dad! Dad! He won't let me have the hosses!” Sam Dickerson came striding down to the waterhole--a lean, long, sour-looking man he was, with a brown face knotted into a continual scowl, and hard, bony hands. Yet Hiram was not afraid of him. “What's the trouble here?” growled the farmer. “He's got the hosses. I told you the fence was down and I was goin' to water 'em----” “Shut up!” commanded his father, eyeing Hiram. “I'm talking to this fellow: What's the trouble here?” “Your horses are on Mrs. Atterson's land,” Hiram said, quietly. “You know that stock which strays can be held for a dollar a head--damage or no damage to crops. I warn you, keep your horses on your own land.” “That's your fence; if you don't keep it up, who's fault is it if my horses get on your land?” growled Dickerson, evidently making the matter a personal one with Hiram. “Your boy here cut the wires.” “No I didn't, Dad!” interposed Pete. Quick as a flash Hiram dropped the bridle reins, sprang for Pete, seized him in a wrestler's grip, twisted him around, and tore from his pocket a pair of heavy wire-cutters. “What were you doing with these in your pocket, then?” demanded Hiram, disdainfully, tossing the plyers upon the ground at Pete's feet, and stepping back to keep the restless horses from leaving the edge of the water-hole. Sam Dickerson seemed to take a grim pleasure in his son's overthrow. He growled: “He's got you there, Pete. You'd better stop monkeyin' around here. Pick up them bridles and come on.” He turned to depart without another word to Hiram; but the latter did not propose to be put off that way. “Hold on!” he called. “Who's going to mend this fence, Mr. Dickerson?” Dickerson turned and eyed him coldly again. “What's that to me? Mend your own fence,” he said. “Then I shall take these horses up to our barn. You can come and settle the matter with Mrs. Atterson--unless you wish to pay me two dollars here and now,” said the young farmer, his voice carrying clearly to where the man stood upon the rising ground above him. “Why, you young whelp!” roared Dickerson, suddenly starting down the slope. But Hiram Strong neither moved nor showed fear. Somehow, this sturdy young fellow, in the high laced boots, with his flannel shirt open at the throat, raw as was the day, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows, was a figure to make even a more muscular man than Sam Dickerson hesitate. “Pete!” exclaimed the farmer, harshly, still eyeing Hiram. “Run up to the house and bring my shotgun. Be quick about it.” Hiram said never a word, and the horses, yoked together, began to crop the short grass springing upon the bank of the water-hole. “You'll find out you're fooling with the wrong man, you whippersnapper!” promised Dickerson.