Harding laughed and lifted his ax.
"But enough of that! If we're to get our homesteads up before the frost comes, we'll have to hustle."
The big ax flashed in the sunshine and bit deep into a poplar trunk; but when a few more logs had been laid beside the rest the men stopped again, for they heard a beat of hoofs coming toward them across the prairie. The trees cut off their view of the rider, but when he rounded a corner of the bluff and pulled up his horse, they saw a young lad, picturesquely dressed in a deerskin jacket of Indian make, decorated with fringed hide and embroidery, cord riding-breeches, and polished leggings. His slouch hat was pushed back on his head, showing a handsome face that had in it a touch of imperiousness.
"Hello!" he said, with a look of somewhat indignant surprise. "What are you fellows doing here?"
Harding felt amused at the tone of superiority in the youngster's voice; yet he had a curious, half-conscious feeling that there was something he recognized about the boy. It was not that he had met him before, but that well-bred air and the clean English intonation were somehow familiar.
"If you look around you," Harding smiled, "you might be able to guess that we're cutting down trees."
The boy gave an imperious toss of his head.
"What I meant was that you have no right on this property."
"No?"
"It belongs to us. And logs large enough for building are scarce enough already. As a matter of fact, we're not allowed to cut these ourselves without the Colonel's permission."