A broad streak¹ of crimson² along the eastern horizon, over the treetops, announced the coming of the sun when Hiram Strong reached the automobile³ road to which he, on the previous night, had traced the thief that had stolen Sister's poults.  
Now he looked at the track again. It surely had come from the direction of Scoville, and it turned back that way.
 
Yet he looked at the white horse-hair scraped off upon the stump⁴, and he turned his back upon these signs and strode along the road toward his own home.
 
Smoke was just curling from the Atterson chimney; Sister, or Mrs. Atterson, was just building the fire. But they did not see Hiram as he went by.
 
Hiram's quest led him past the place and to the Dickerson farm. There nobody was yet astir, save the mules⁵ and horses in the barnyard, who called as he went by, hoping for their breakfast.
 
Hiram knew that the Dickersons had turkeys and, like most of the other farmers, cooped them in distant fields away from the house. He found three coops in the middle of an old oat-field tinder a spreading beech⁶.
 
The old turks roosted upon the limbs of the beech at night; they were already up and away, hunting grasshoppers⁷ for breakfast. But quite a few poults were running and peeping about the coops, with two hen turkeys playing guard to them.
 
Hiram saw where a wagon⁸ had been driven in here, and turned, too. The tracks were made recently. And one of the coops was shut tight, although he knew by the rustling⁹ within that there were young turkeys in it.
 
It was too dark within the hutch, however, for the youth to number the poults confined there.
 
He strolled back across the fields to the rear of the Dickerson house. Passing the barnyard first, he halted and examined the bright bay horse, with white feet—the one that Pete had driven to the barbecue the day before—the only one Pete was ever allowed to drive off the farm.
 
The Dickersons, father and son, were not as early risers as most farmers in those parts. At least, they were not up betimes on this morning.
 
But Mrs. Dickerson had built the fire now and was stirring about the porch when Hiram arrived at the step, filling her kettle at the pump.
 
“Mornin', Mr. Strong,” she said, in her startled way, eyeing Hiram askance.
 
She was a lean, sharp-featured woman, with a hopeless droop¹⁰ to her shoulders.
 
“Good-morning, Mrs. Dickerson,” said Hiram, gravely. “How many young turkeys have you this year?”
 
The woman shrank back and almost dropped the kettle she had filled to the pump-bench. Her eyes glared.
 
Somewhere in the house a baby squatted¹¹; then a door banged and Hiram heard Dickerson's heavy step descending¹² the stair.
 
“You have a coop of poults down there, Mrs. Dickerson,” continued Hiram, confidently, “that I know belongs to us. I traced Pete's tracks with the wagon and the white-footed horse. Now, this is going to make trouble for Pete——”
 
“What's the matter with Pete, now?” demanded Dickerson's harsh voice, and he came out upon the porch.
 
He scowled¹³ at sight of Hiram, and continued:
 
“What are you roaming around here for, Strong? Can't you keep on your own side of the fence?”
 
“It's little I'll ever trouble you, Mr. Dickerson,” said Hiram, “sharply, if you and yours don't trouble me, I can assure you.”
 
“What's eating you now?” demanded the man, roughly.
 
“Why, I'll tell you, Mr. Dickerson,” said Hiram, quickly. “Somebody's stolen our turkeys—ten of them. And I have found them down there where your turkeys roost. The natural inference is that somebody here knows about it——”
 
Dickerson—just out of his bed and as ugly as many people are when they first get up—leaped for the young farmer from the porch, and had him in his grip before Hiram could help himself.
 
The woman screamed. There was a racket in the house, for some of the children had been watching from the window.
 
“Dad's goin' to lick him!” squalled one of the girls.
 
“You come here and intermate that any of my family's thieves, do you?” the angry man roared.
 
“Stop that, Sam Dickerson!” cried his wife. She suddenly gained courage and ran to the struggling pair, and tried to haul Sam away from Hiram.
 
“The boy's right,” she gasped¹⁴. “I heard Pete tellin' little Sam last night what he'd done. It's come to a pretty pass, so it has, if you are goin' to uphold that bad boy in thieving——”
 
“Hush up, Maw!” cried Pete's voice from the house.
 
“Come out here, you scalawag!” ordered his father, relaxing his hold on Hiram.
 
Pete slouched out on the porch, wearing a grin that was half sheepish, half worried.
 
“What's this Strong says about turkeys?” demanded Sam Dickerson, sternly.
 
“'Tain't so!” declared Pete. “I ain't seen no turkeys.”
 
“I have found them,” said Hiram, quietly. “And the coopful is down yonder in your lot. You thought to fool me by turning into our farm from the direction of Scoville, and driving back that way; but you turned around in the road under that overhanging oak, where I picked Lettie Bronson off the back of the runaway¹⁵ horse last Spring.
 
“Now, those ten turkeys belong to Sister. She'll be heart-broken if anything happens to them. You have played me several mean tricks since I have been here, Pete Dickerson——”
 
“No, I ain't!” interrupted the boy.
 
“Who took the burr off the end of my axle and let me down in the road that night?” demanded Hiram, his rage rising.
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