"Who are they, Claude?" his wife said. "What does it mean?" "I don't know, honey. Maybe they just stopped here to eat. That's what it must be." "But the men. The way they're measuring.... As if they're going to build." "We'll straighten it out, Joan.... Probably some mistake. I have our land title. That'll prove they've made a mistake. Come on. We'll talk to them." The intruders stopped what they were doing as they approached, and the man—a huge, block-shouldered fellow in a leather jacket—pushed out a hand. The man said: "Hello. My name's Whiting—Bruce Whiting." Claude took the hand. "Claude Marshall," he said. "And this is my wife and my son." The man who called himself Whiting nodded, and looked over at his wife. "We're fixing dinner," he said. "Why don't you and your family join us before you push on?" Claude watched the man's face while he spoke. It was an open face. Guileless. With ruddy skin and mild, grey eyes that twinkled a bit at the corners. "We're not pushing on," he said evenly. "We're staying. This is our land." Bruce Whiting smiled. "There must be some mistake. This land is ours. The boy and I are just fixing to start building." Claude shook his head. "Not here you're not. Not on this land." He spoke quietly; trying to keep his voice pitched below the emotion that churned up inside him. "What's wrong, Dad?" The man's son joined them.... He was a big strapping lad, with sandy hair and very bright skin. "These people are looking for their homestead," the man with the jacket said. "They think this is their site." "You think wrong, Mister," the youth said. "We double checked this location three times before we made camp.... Right?" He turned to the older man for confirmation. Whiting nodded. "The boy's right. This land is ours. We've got a deed to prove it." "So have I," Claude said frowning. "It's right here in the luggage.... Wait. I'll show you...." He bent over, unzipping the knapsack and rummaged around till he produced the manila envelope that held the title papers.
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