“Come,” she said to Hugh, and, “Come, Carl,” she added as she held out her hand to her small son and moved toward the door. But Jake barred the way.
“He tried to tell me that bear skin wasn’t mine,” he blustered. “He said it was Ole Peterson’s, but Peterson vows it isn’t his. What do you make of that? Has he any right to call me a thief?”
Linda answered quite undisturbed.
“He is a shrewder boy than are we Swedes,” she said, “and has been quick to see the truth. Yet he is not the only one to know you for a thief.”
The man’s blazing eyes narrowed into slits and his grating, harsh voice was full of suppressed fury.
“There are not many who have dared to call me that, Linda Ingmarsson,” he said, “and whoever does it, whether man, woman or boy, will live to be bitterly sorry. John Edmonds did, and where is he? Out there in the woods, I hear, lost, dead beyond a doubt, he and his brother, the worthless two of them. I heard the whistles blowing as I came down the valley, and I thought to myself, ‘You can blow them until they split, but you will never call him back.’” He lowered his voice, yet still spoke so that all could hear—“He didn’t want to be called back.”
“John Edmonds and his brother will come back,” insisted Linda steadily, “for they have friends who believe in them and will help them still. Whatever John has left in confusion he will make plain and straight when he returns.”
“What friends has he?” cried Jake scornfully. “Before another day has passed every one in Rudolm Valley will know just why they went, both of them, and then where will their friends be?”
“There is still my brother Oscar,” returned Linda.
“And do you think your brother Oscar can save them? He does not even know what has happened, and if he did, what help could he give?” Jake laughed harshly. “He is having all that he can do to save himself, these days, has Oscar Dansk.”