“Whar be the land?” gasped Birt, possessed by a dreadful fear.
His face was white, its muscles rigid. Its altered expression could not for an instant have escaped the notice of Timothy’s brother Nathan.
“Why, it lays bout’n haffen mile off - all down the ravine nigh that thar salt-lick; but look-a-hyar, Birt - what ails ye?”
The stunned despair in the white face had at last arrested his careless attention.
“Don’t ye be mindin’ of me - I feel sorter porely an’ sick all of a suddint; tell on ’bout the land an’ sech,” said Birt.
He sat down on the end of the wood-pile, and Tim, still leaning on the rifle, recommenced. He was generally much cowed and kept down by Nate, and was unaccustomed to respect and consideration. Therefore he felt a certain gratification in having so attentive a listener.
“Waal, I never hearn o’ this fashion o’ enterin’ land like Nate done in all my life afore; though dad say that’s the law in Tennessee, ter git a title ter vacant land ez jes’ b’longs ter the State. Mebbe them air the ways ez Nate l’arned whilst he war a-hangin’ round the Settlemint so constant, an’ forever talkin’ ter the men thar.”
Birt’s precocity had never let him feel at a disadvantage with Nate, although his friend was five years older. Now he began to appreciate that Nate was indeed a man grown, and had become sophisticated in the ways of his primitive world by his association with the other men at the Settlement.
There was a pause. But the luxury of being allowed to talk without contradiction or rebuke presently induced Tim to proceed.
“He war hyar mighty nigh all day long,” he said reflectively. “He eat his dinner along of we-uns.”