“You sassy young rascal,” cried one of the men, who carried a gun, bringing his weapon to a ready; “you stand where you be or I’ll—” and he tapped the butt of his gun impressively.
“You wouldn’t dast to,” Nathan gasped defiantly, but he went no further, and stood at bay, grinding the soft mold under his naked heel while he cast furtive glances at the intruders, till the remainder of the party came up. The surveyor, impressed with the dignity of his position, maintained a haughty bearing toward all the members of his party save one, a swarthy, thick-set, low-browed man, whom he addressed as Mr. Graves.
“A fine clearing, indeed,” said Mr. Felton when he came to the fence. “I wonder what Yankee scoundrel has dared to so seize, hold and occupy the lands of the Royal Colony of New York.”
“Mayhap this younker can tell you, sir,” said the man guarding the boy, and lowering his gun as he spoke.
“Boy, what scoundrel has dared to steal this land and establish himself upon it without leave or license of His Excellency, the Governor of New York? Yes, and cut down the pine trees, especially reserved for the masting of His Majesty’s navy,” and he tapped the top log impressively.
“It’s holler, Mr. Felton,” Jenkins suggested, satisfying himself of the fact by a resonant thump of his axe.
“Who stole this land? Where’s your tongue, boy?” Mr. Felton demanded sharply.
But the boy, out of mind an instant, in that instant was out of sight. Many a time he had heard Job recount the manner of retreat practised by the Rangers, and now the knowledge served him well. While the surveryor’s party was engaged with the pine, he slipped down on the same side of the fence, gained the veiling of a low bush, wormed his way a few feet along the ground, reached the protection of a large tree trunk, when he leaped to his feet, and, fleet and noiseless as a Ranger himself, fled from tree to tree in a circuitous route to his father.
Seth Beeman was hard at work on an extension of his clearing to the westward when Nathan came up, panting and breathless.
“Oh, father, there’s a whole lot of Yorkers come and they’re runnin’ a line right through our clearin’.”