He was at his own place, on his own land. He had done more than his old man had, the pain. His father - the man of bruised backs and black eyes and fractured arms and mood swings and shoves down the stair-case and lies lies LIES and constant put-downs - his FATHER . . . The mean bastard was probably rolling around in his grave at all Jacobs had accomplished.
Jacobs heard a soft voice latent with anger from just within the trees, and immediately knew who his visitor was. He had been expecting this ever since his father's death - the death that couldn't be pinned on Jacobs in any way.
The voice got louder, multiplied. The crunching of leaves. The whisper of foot-steps on the forest floor.
Jacobs raised his chopping axe and laughed. Somewhere nearby, a bird took flight.