A year later, the dispute of the Governors of New York and New Hampshire, concerning the boundaries of the two provinces, was at its height, and the quarrel between claimants of grants of the same lands, under charters from both governors, became every day more violent. The disputed territory was that between the Connecticut River and Lake Champlain, and was for a long time known as the New Hampshire Grants.

If a New York grantee found the claim which he had selected, or which had been allotted to him, occupied by a New Hampshire grantee, when the strength of his party was sufficient he would take forcible possession of the land, without regard to the improvements made upon it, and without making any compensation therefor. He was seldom left long in enjoyment of possession thus gained, for the friends of the New Hampshire grantee quickly rallied to his aid and summarily ousted the aggressor, who, if he proved too stubborn, was likely to be roughly handled, and have set upon his back the imprint of the beech seal, the name given to the blue-beech rod wherewith such offenders were chastised. The New Hampshire grantees were as unscrupulous in their ejectment of New York claimants who had first established themselves on the New Hampshire Grants. Surveyors, acting under the authority of New York, were especially obnoxious to settlers of the other party, and rough encounters of the opposing claimants were not infrequent. Seth Beeman and his neighbors had all taken up land under a New Hampshire charter, without a thought of its validity being questioned.

One bright June morning, Nathan was watching the corn that, pushing its tender blades above the black mould in a corner of the clearing, offered sweet and tempting morsels to the thieving crows. It was a lazy, sleep-enticing occupation, when all the crows but one, who sat biding his opportunity on a dry tree top, had departed, cawing encouragement to one another, in quest of a less vigilantly guarded field. There was no further need for beating with his improvised drumsticks on the hollow topmost log of the fence, to the tune of “Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, Dan, Dan,” which would not scare the wise old veteran from his steadfast waiting.

The indolent fluting of the hermit thrushes rang languidly through the leafy chambers of the forest, and the wood pewees sang their pensive song on the bordering boughs, too content with song and mere existence to chase the moth that wavered nearest their perch. The languor of their notes pervaded all the senses of the boy, and, with his body in the shade of the log fence and his bare feet in the sunshine, he fell into a doze.

Suddenly he was awakened by an alarmed outcry of the crow, now sweeping in narrow circles above some new intruder upon his domain. Then he became aware of strange voices, the tramp of feet, the swish of branches pushed aside regaining their places, a metallic clink, and occasional lightly delivered axe strokes. Mounting the topmost log of the fence, and shading his eyes with his hands, he peered into the twilight of the woods. To this his eyes had hardly accustomed themselves, when he saw what sent flashes of anger and chills of dread chasing one another through his veins. But a few rods away, and coming towards him, were two men, one bearing the end of a surveyor’s chain and a bundle of wire rods, the other carrying an axe and gun. A little behind these were two men similarly equipped, and still further in the rear, half hidden by the screen of undergrowth, more figures were discovered, one of whom was squinting through the sights of a compass, whose polished brass glittered in a stray sunbeam. Nathan was sure this must be the party of the New York surveyor of whom there had been a rumor in the settlement, and he felt that trouble was at hand.

“Hello, here’s a clearin’,” the foremost man, as he ran to the fence, called back to the one at the other end of the chain. “Jenkins, tell Mr. Felton there’s a fenced clearin’ here,—and boy,” now deigning to notice so insignificant an object.

“Stake,” cried Jenkins.

As the first speaker planted one of the wire rods beside the fence, Jenkins pulled up the last one stuck in the woods, at the same time shouting the news back to the surveyor.

“Hold on, boy,” the first speaker said, as Nathan jumped from the fence. “You stay here till Mr. Felton comes up.”

“I’m going home,” Nathan answered boldly; “if Mr. Felton wants me he can come there.”

“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’.”

Seth listened attentively until the men and their work had been described minutely, and then, without a word, resumed the trimming of the great hemlock he had just felled. As Nathan waited for some response, he knew by his father’s knitted brow that his thoughts were busy. At length, breaking off a twig of hemlock, he came to his son and said, handing the evergreen to him:

“Take this to Newton’s and show it to the men folks, and say ‘There’s trouble to Beeman’s,’ and then go on and do the same at every house, ’round to Job’s, and show it to him and tell him the‘ same, and do whatever he tells you. Be spry, my boy; I must stay here and ta’ care of mother and Sis. Keep in the woods till you get clear of the Yorkers, then take the road and clipper.”