“By giving me your word that you’ll cut no more timber on that tract.”
“Thin, begorra, it’s meself thot gesses there’ll have ter be a fight after all,” Tom declared with a grin.
“Is that your answer?” Big Ben asked, looking at Bob.
“That depends,” Bob replied slowly. “For how long a time do you expect us to keep off?”
“Till I tell ye that ye can go ahead,” he snapped.
“I’m afraid that’s too indefinite,” Bob asserted firmly.
“Then ye refuse?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to,” Bob replied sadly. “But I warn you once more that you will be held responsible if there is any trouble.”
Big Ben made no reply but turned and waved his hand, evidently a prearranged signal. The sign was greeted with a loud chorus of yells, and the mob, brandishing their clubs, charged forward.
At that moment Bob put his hand to his mouth and a shrill whistle sounded through the forest. Instantly six men, led by Jacques Lamont and Jean Lareau, stepped into sight, and each man carried in his hands a Winchester.