The very evening that he arrived at the
homestead, while Annersley was milking the one tame cow out in the
corral, Young Pete decided that he would help matters along by catching
the hen which Annersley had pointed out to him when he drove into the
yard. Milking did not interest Young Pete; but chasing chickens did.
The hen, a slate-colored and maternal-appearing biddy, seemed to
realize that something unusual was afoot. She refused to be driven
into the coop, perversely diving about the yard and circling the
out-buildings until even Young Pete's ambition flagged. Out of breath
he marched to the house. Annersley's rifle stood in the corner. Young
Pete eyed it longingly, finally picked it up and stole gingerly to the
doorway. The slate-colored hen had cooled down and was at the moment
contemplating the cabin with head sideways, exceedingly suspicious and
ruffled, but standing still. Just as Young Pete drew a bead on her,
the big red rooster came running to assure her that all was well--that
he would protect her; that her trepidation was unfounded. He blustered
and strutted, declaring himself Lord High Protector of the hen-yard and
just about the handsomest thing in feathers--_Bloom_! Young Pete
blinked, and rubbed his shoulder.
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