IVGRAMPAW MOSELEY WAS a man of action. He groped for the rifle swinging loosely in d**k’s grasp. He said, “Gimme! Minute I set eyes on that fat ol’ popinjay I knew—”
Dick said, “Hush, Grampaw!” and looked at Pop. Pop looked baffled. He watched speechlessly as the caravan drew up beside them, the members dismounted from their odd beasts of burden. Then he said, hesitantly, “There seems to be some misunderstanding here, stranger. Allow me to introduce myself and my family. I am Robert Moseley. This is my father, my wife, my son and his wife and child, my other children—”
The heavy-set man made no offer to shake hands. He grunted, “Meetcha! I’m Sam Wilkes. This is my wife, my dad, my kids.” He stared at the house, the cultivated fields. A look of grudging respect was in his eyes; there was
