The one in advance from whose lips that angry question had been flung, was Berlin Barker. Phil Springer was following. Barker’s face was almost snow-white, made thus by the rage that was consuming him. Springer looked greatly disturbed, and he muttered to himself:

“Now there’s sure to be tut-trouble.”

“What do you mean by it?” again demanded Berlin, as he faced Rod a short distance away, his gun gripped tightly in his glove-protected hands.

“I didn’t know it was your dog.” Slowly and awkwardly he shifted his position, in order to face Berlin.

“You lie!” retorted Barker; and every nerve in Grant’s body went taut as a bowstring.

With excited yelps, old Rouser came bursting forth from the woods.

“There’s the dog I reckoned was running this rabbit,” explained the young Texan, his voice a trifle husky, yet remarkably steady.

“That old has-been!” sneered Barker. “Why, he isn’t worth a charge of shot to put him out of the way; and he’s been bothering Silver Tongue. Of course you heard both dogs running.”

“Yes, but——”

“If you know anything at all, you certainly knew old Sawyer’s cripple wasn’t leading.”

“I saw Rouser take up a track. It’s your dog that mixed in and interfered—if that is your dog.”

“You bet he’s mine! Just bought him for a fancy price, too, and I don’t propose to have him spoiled by Sawyer’s worthless brute. I’ll settle it. Come here, Silver Tongue—come away and give me a chance.”

His gun half lifted and ready for use, Barker attempted to call his own dog away from the other. Divining the fellow’s purpose, Rod Grant took three hasty strides, placing himself between Rouser and Barker.

“Get out of the way!” snarled Barker. “If you don’t you’ll have a chance to pick some shot out of your legs.”

The brown eyes of the boy from Texas glowed strangely, and he also held his shotgun ready for use.

“If I were in your place, my friend,” he said, “I wouldn’t try to shoot old Rouser; for just as sure as you do you’ll have a chance to bury your own dog.”

He meant it, too; there could be no doubt about that. Nor was he in the slightest degree intimidated by the menacing weapon in Barker’s hands. Shivering, Springer held his breath and watched those two lads gazing steadily into each other’s eyes. At length Phil managed to speak.

“Quit it, bub-both of you!” he spluttered. “Be careful with those guns!”

“Which is right good advice for your friend,” said Rod, without permitting his glance to waver for an instant from Barker. “If he should shoot up old Rouser, it sure would be a shame to retaliate on his innocent dog. I admit I’d feel much more like letting him have it himself.”

“You hear that, do you, Phil?” cried Berlin.

“Yes,” answered Springer, “and bub-by jingoes, he looks like he might dud-do it, too!”

In spite of himself and his intense rage, Barker wavered. For once, at least, he had found no symptom of faltering or timidity in the fellow he bitterly detested.

“Hey, what’s the matter over there?” cried a hoarse voice, and Hunk Rollins, breaking forth from a thicket, came shuffling toward them on snowshoes, carrying a gun. They were now three to one against Grant, but still Rod stood his ground unmoved.

“He shot a rabbit in front of Berlin’s dud-dog,” hastily explained Springer, “and Berlin’s blazing mad about it, too.”

“What’s he doing here, anyhow?” questioned Rollins contemptuously.

“I allow,” said Rodney, something like a faint smile flitting across his face, “that I have as much right to hunt rabbits hereabouts as you fellows.”

“Take his gun away from him!” roared Hunk. “Knock the packing out of him!”

But he stopped short with his first step toward the boy from Texas, for the muzzle of Grant’s gun swung toward him, and Springer shouted a warning.

“Look out! He’ll shoot!”

“Gee!” gasped Rollins. “He don’t dast!”

“Don’t make any mistake about that,” advised Rodney. “It would be a clean case of self-defense, and only a fool would let you take his gun away from him and beat him up.”

“Ginger!” gurgled Hunk. “I believe he means it!”

At this juncture Lander and Davis put in an appearance and came forward, wondering at the tableau they beheld. Grant laughed aloud as he saw them.

“Now we’re even as far as numbers are concerned,” he observed, suddenly at his ease.

“What’s the row?” questioned Bunk, glaring at Barker. “We heard you fellers chewin’ the rag half a mile away, I guess.”

“Oh, there isn’t any row to speak of,” said Rodney. “Both of these dogs were running the rabbit yonder, which I happened to shoot. It chanced that Barker’s dog was ahead of Rouser, and so Mr. Barker foolishly got a trifle warm under the collar. He made some silly talk about shooting old Rouser, but I don’t reckon he really meant it.”

“Oh, he did, hey?” shouted Lander, getting purple in the face. “Threatened to shoot Rouser, did he? Well, say! I’d like to see him try it!”

“He won’t try it,” assured the boy from Texas. “He got all over that inclination some time before you arrived, Bunk; but I had to tell him what would happen to his own dog if he didn’t hold up.”

“What a set of cheap skates!” sneered Berlin.

“Cheap skates, hey?” rasped Lander. “Well, if there’s anybody around these parts cheaper than you are, he can be bought for less than a cent. I know you pretty well of old, Barker. It was you who helped turn the fellers against me, and you was mighty rejoiced when I got into that little scrape two years ago. I don’t forget them things. Now you and your friends better chase yourselves and take your dog along with you, if you care anything about him. We’re hunting here in this swamp, and we don’t propose to be bothered by you. Git!”

“We don’t cuc-care about hunting around here,” said Springer hastily. “Come on, Berlin.”

Although reluctant to be driven away, Barker, having cooled down somewhat, began to entertain apprehensions for the safety of Silver Tongue should he remain in that vicinity.

“Mr. Grant is very courageous—when he has a gun in his hands,” he sneered. “At any other time he’s a——”

“You’ve said that before,” interrupted Rod in a tone that made Berlin start a bit in spite of himself. “Be careful that you don’t say it once too often.”

Barker shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I don’t have to say it; every fellow in Oakdale knows what you are. Come, Silver Tongue—come, sir. Come on, fellows; there are plenty of other places to run rabbits.”

“And, counting yourself and your friends, you make a fine bunch of dogs for the purpose,” Lander flung after them.

In a few moments Barker and his companions disappeared into the woods, and soon the muttering of their voices died out in the distance.

“How’d you get here, anyhow, Roddy?” questioned Bunk, with a grin. “We left you ’way back yonder.”

“Yes,” nodded Grant; “but I reckoned there wouldn’t be much shooting over there, so I pulled my picket pin and moved. Here’s another rabbit for that stew.”

“By jinks! Bunk,” said Spotty, “we ain’t shot one yet. We took him out to show him how ’twas done, and he’s showed us.”

“He showed Barker, too, I guess,” chuckled Lander. “Say, it done me good making that bunch turn tail and dig out. ’Tain’t more’n a mile to my camp, if it’s that fur; let’s strike over that way, for I’ll have an appetite by the time we can dress the rabbits and the partridge and get the stew cooked.”

“I’ve an appetite now,” declared Rod. “I’ve enjoyed the sport this morning very much indeed.”