[CHAPTER VI—THE YORKERS]
Though the presentation of claims, under the authority of the New York government, to the land which Seth Beeman occupied by virtue of a title derived from the Governor of New Hampshire, had for some time been expected and resistance fully determined upon, Seth’s heart was as hot with anger and heavy with anxiety as if invasion had come without warning. Tenacious of his rights, he yet hated strife and contention. Nor could he foresee whether he must lose the home he had wrought with toil and privation out of the savage wilderness, or whether, after a sharp, brief contest, he would be left in peaceable possession of it, or whether he could then hold it only by continued resistance.
Nathan had not been long away when he shouldered his axe and hastened toward the house. When it came in view, between the tall pillars of tree trunks that paled the verge of the clearing, the rough-walled dwelling had never looked more homelike nor better worth keeping. It had overcome the strangeness of new occupancy and settled to its place. The logs had begun to gather again the moss that they lost when they ceased to be trees. Wild vines, trained to tamer ways, clambered about the doorway and deep-set windows, beneath which beds of native and alien posies, carefully tended, alike flourished in the virgin soil. The young garden stuff was promising, and the broader expanse of fall-sown wheat, grown tall enough to toss in the wind, made a rippling green sea of the clearing, with islands of blackened stumps jutting here and there above the surface. The place had outgrown its uncouth newness and transient camp-like appearance and become a home to cling to and defend.
“What is it, Seth?” asked Ruth, coming to greet him at the door, her smile fading as she saw his troubled face.
“The Yorkers have come.” And then he explained Nathan’s mission. “Our folks’ll come to help as soon as they can, but the Yorkers’ll get here first. Look a there,” and, following his eyes, Ruth saw the surveyor’s party approaching the border of the clearing, just as the Beemans passed into the house.
“It won’t come to that, will it?” she asked, in a low, awed voice, as Seth took down his gun.
“I hope not, but I want the gun out of their reach and where I can get it handy. There ain’t a bullet or buckshot in the house,” he declared, after examining the empty bullet pouch. “Give me some beans. They’re good enough for Yorkers.”
As he spoke he measured a charge of powder into the long barrel, rammed a tow wad upon it, poured in a half handful of the beans that Ruth brought him in a gourd, rammed down another wad, put priming in the pan, clapped down the hammer, then mounted half way up the ladder that served as a stair, laid the gun on the floor of the upper room, and was down at the door when the surveyor led his party to it. He saluted the party civilly, and, upon demand, gave his name.
“Well, Mr. Beeman,” began the surveyor, in a pompous tone, “I sent your son to bring you to me, but it seems you did not please to come.”
“No,” said Seth quietly; “it does not please me to leave my affairs at the beck and call of every stranger that comes this way.”