"It's that kid over to Shad Gould's," declared Con. "Make her give you a
shot, Pop."

Mr. Abner Bacheldor took command of the situation.

"Here, you!" he ordered. "Fetch that critter here. I want him."

Still Mary-'Gusta did not answer. She was pale and her small knees
shook, but she neither spoke nor moved from where she stood. And her
grip upon the cat tightened.

"Fetch that cat here," repeated Abner. "We're goin' to shoot him; he's
been stealin' our chickens."

At this accusation and the awful threat accompanying it, Mary-'Gusta
forgot her terror of the Bacheldors, of the gun, forgot everything
except her pet and its danger.

"I shan't!" she cried frantically. "I shan't! He ain't! He's my cat and
he don't steal chickens."

"Yes, he does, too," roared Con. "Pop and I see him doin' it."

"You didn't! I don't believe it! When did you see him?"

"Yesterday afternoon. We see him, didn't we, Pop?"

"You bet your life we did," growled Abner. "And he was on my land again
just now; comin' to steal more, I cal'late. Fetch him here."