“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. 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. [Illustration: ZEB’S FIGHT WITH THE RODNEY BOYS] So intent were the combatants, however, that the driver was compelled to pull in his horses to keep from going over them in spite of his angrily shouted warnings.