“I’ve got the papers what says I own it,” Big Ben shouted.
“And so have I,” Mr. Golden declared, more quietly but no less firmly. “Didn’t the boys tell you that my deed had been found?” he asked.
“S’posin’ they did, that don’t make it so. I say the land is mine.”
“Well, well, I see there’s no use in arguing about it now. We’ll have the court settle that question at the next term. Meanwhile I’m sure there is no reason why we should have trouble. You’ve cut on the tract and it seems that we have done the same. If the court says the land is yours then the timber which we have cut belongs to you, and the same the other way round. That’s fair, isn’t it?” and Mr. Golden glanced at the sheriff, who nodded his head.
But Big Ben, evidently realizing that the argument was going against him, had already turned away and was walking rapidly toward his men. He said a few words to them in a tone too low to be heard by the boys, and after a short pause the mob turned and soon disappeared in the woods.
“You sure came in the nick of time,” Bob declared as he shook hands with his father and the sheriff. “Those fellows were just in the right mood for a fight and it’s hard telling how long we could have held them off.”
“You seem pretty well fortified,” Mr. Golden laughed as he turned to the six men with the rifles and shook hands with each of them.
“It’s good to see you, Jacques,” he added, as he welcomed the big trapper. “I hope you’ve had a good season.”
“Ver’ bon merci,” Jacques replied with a bright smile. “I bring down one beeg load ver’ fine pelt. Mebby geet ’nother fore spring.”
“Oh, by the way, Tom, I managed to scare up four horses for you and they ought to be along in an hour or two,” Mr. Golden said, turning to the foreman. “How are the sick ones? Did you find out what’s the matter with them?”