The girl was gazing shrewdly at this sudden champion. There was no shade of coquetry in her glance. It was the frank gaze of man to man.
“I protest, Mr. Britt!” cried Wade.
“And that’s all the good it will do,” snorted that angry master of the situation. “Rodliff, you’ve got my orders!”
Young Jed, sidling near Britt, with the mien of a Judas and with manifest intent to curry favor, whimpered:
“We don’t back her up in all she says, Mr. Britt. We ain’t got rights and we know it, but we’ve got feelin’s. Be ye goin’ to do the us’al thing about damages, Mr. Britt?”
“Why,” roared the tyrant, bluffly, “ain’t the land-owners always made it worth your while to move? It’s all business, boys! Don’t let fools bust in. We don’t want fire here. Get to Little Lobster as quick as the Lord’ll let ye. We’ll have six months’ supply of pork, flour, and plug tobacco there waitin’ for ye—all with the land-owners’ compliments. We’ve always believed that the easiest way is the best way, but you don’t buy that way by buckin’. Buck, and the trade is all off—and you get thrown into another county. Close your girl’s mouth and keep it shut.”
“There!” grunted old Christopher, “if ye haven’t got any more sympathy to waste on critters like that”—a jab of his thumb at young Jed—“you’d better come along.”
But at sight of woe on the faces of the women, and mute entreaty in the eyes of the girl, Wade still lingered.
“She’s speakin’ for herself,” whispered young Jed, hoarsely. “She don’t want to leave the woods because your boss, Colin MacLeod, is courtin’ her, and she’s waitin’ to see him, now that he’s back from down-country.”
Riotous laughter “guffled” in the throat of Pulaski Britt as he stared from the scarlet face of the girl to Wade’s confusion.