Part 1 (2/2)

”Afterward? Then the men with brains and grit who have held on--the fittest, who have survived--will come into such prosperity as few farmers have ever had. America, with her population leaping up, will have less and less wheat to s.h.i.+p; England will steadily call for more; we'll have wheat at a price that will pay us well before we're through.

Then there'll be no more dug-outs and log-shacks, but fine brick homesteads, with all the farms fenced and mechanical transport on the roads. It's coming, Fred! Those who live through the struggle will certainly see it.”

Harding laughed and lifted his ax.

”But enough of that! If we're to get our homesteads up before the frost comes, we'll have to hustle.”

The big ax flashed in the suns.h.i.+ne and bit deep into a poplar trunk; but when a few more logs had been laid beside the rest the men stopped again, for they heard a beat of hoofs coming toward them across the prairie. The trees cut off their view of the rider, but when he rounded a corner of the bluff and pulled up his horse, they saw a young lad, picturesquely dressed in a deerskin jacket of Indian make, decorated with fringed hide and embroidery, cord riding-breeches, and polished leggings. His slouch hat was pushed back on his head, showing a handsome face that had in it a touch of imperiousness.

”h.e.l.lo!” he said, with a look of somewhat indignant surprise. ”What are you fellows doing here?”

Harding felt amused at the tone of superiority in the youngster's voice; yet he had a curious, half-conscious feeling that there was something he recognized about the boy. It was not that he had met him before, but that well-bred air and the clean English intonation were somehow familiar.

”If you look around you,” Harding smiled, ”you might be able to guess that we're cutting down trees.”

The boy gave an imperious toss of his head.

”What I meant was that you have no right on this property.”

”No?”

”It belongs to us. And logs large enough for building are scarce enough already. As a matter of fact, we're not allowed to cut these ourselves without the Colonel's permission.”

”Haven't met him yet,” said Devine dryly. ”Who's he?”

”Colonel Mowbray, of Allenwood Grange.”

”And who's Colonel Mowbray? And where's Allenwood Grange?”

The boy seemed nettled by the twinkle in Devine's eyes, but Harding noticed that pride compelled him to hide his feelings.

”You can't cut this lumber without asking leave! Besides, you're spoiling one of our best coyote covers.”

”Kyotes!” exclaimed Devine. ”What do you do with 'em?”

The youngster stared at him a moment in disdain.

”We have a pack of hounds at the Grange,” he then condescended to answer.

”Hunt them! Well, now, that's mighty strange. I'd have thought you'd find a.r.s.enic cheaper. Then if you were to lie out round the chicken-house with a gun----”

The boy cut him short.

”If you want these logs, you must ask for them. Shall I tell the Colonel you are coming to do so?”

”Well, sonny,” drawled Devine, ”you just run along home and send somebody grown-up. We might talk to him.”

”As it happens,” the boy said with great dignity, ”Kenwyne is in the bluff. I must warn you not to touch a tree until you see him.”

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