CHAPTER IX
SAGINAW ED IN THE TOILS
CONNIE hoped that during the ride to Camp Two Slue Foot would further enlighten him concerning his various schemes for defrauding his employers, but the man sat silent, eyeing the tall pines that flanked the roadway on either side.
"Pretty good timber, isn't it?" ventured the boy, after a time.
The boss nodded: "They hain't much of them kind left. If I owned this trac' an' could afford to pay taxes I'd never lay down a stick of it fer ten year—mebbe twenty."
"Why not?"
"Why not! 'Cause it'll be worth ten dollars where it's worth a dollar now—that's why. Pine's a-goin' up every year, an' they've cut the best of it everywheres except here an' there a strip that fer one reason an' another they couldn't git holt of."
"The Syndicate's cutting theirs now, and surely they can afford to pay taxes."
Slue Foot grinned: "They wouldn't be cuttin' their white pine along Dogfish if this trac' wasn't bein' cut."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Mebbe if you kind of stick around, like I told you, you'll see. I'm one of these here hairpins that never tells no one nawthin' about anythin' 'til the time comes—see?"
"You're all right, Slue Foot," laughed the boy. "I guess I'll stick around."
"It's a good thing fer you you got sense enough to know who to tie to. No one never made nawthin' workin' fer wages—an' no one ever will."
As they drew into Camp Two's clearing Slue Foot cocked a weatherwise eye skyward. "Shouldn't wonder an' the snow'll be comin' tonight or tomorrow—them clouds looks like it. Come on, le's git at them supplies. They's two wagons in a'ready an' two more comin' an' we want to git 'em onloaded by night."
Slue Foot called a dozen men to help with the unloading and stowing, and for the rest of the afternoon Connie had his hands full checking off the goods as they were carried past him at the door. At last the task was completed and after supper the boy struck out for Camp One. As he plodded through the jet blackness of the tote road his mind was busy with the problem that confronted him. What should he do? Manifestly the easiest course would be to go straight to Hurley and tell him just what Slue Foot had told him, and let the boss deal with him as he saw fit. But, in that case Hurley would, in all probability, fly off the handle and either discharge Slue Foot or "beat him up" or both. In which event the man would go unpunished for last winter's work, whatever that had been, and worst of all, there would be absolutely no evidence against the Syndicate. And he had no intention of pocketing last year's loss without at least an attempt to recover it and bring its perpetrators to justice.
From what he had seen of Hurley, and what Saginaw and Slue Foot had told him, the boy was confident that the big boss was square and honest as the day is long—but there was Mike Gillum, himself an honest man and a friend of Waseche, who had reported that Hurley was in the pay of the Syndicate; and Connie knew that men like Mike Gillum did not lie about other men, nor would they make an open accusation unless reasonably sure of their ground. Therefore there was a bare possibility that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Hurley, unknown to either Slue Foot or Saginaw, was playing into the hand of the Syndicate.
"I wonder what's the matter with Saginaw," muttered the boy as he stumbled on through the darkness. "He looked at me kind of funny when we left the office. As if he knows Slue Foot is crooked, and thinks I have thrown in with him." His fists clenched and his lips drew into a hard, straight line. "I'll get to the bottom of it if it takes all winter!" he gritted. "And when I do, someone is going to squirm." Something prickled sharply against his cheek and he glanced upward. He could see nothing in the inky blackness, but the prickling sensation was repeated and he knew that it was snowing. The wind rose and the snow fell faster. By the time he reached the clearing it whitened the ground. The little office was dark as he let himself in. The sound of heavy breathing told him that Saginaw was already in bed, and, without lighting the lamp, he undressed and crawled between his blankets.
When Connie awoke the following morning the fire was burning brightly in the stove and Saginaw stood staring out through the little window that showed a translucent grey square against the dark log wall. He turned at the sound of the boy's feet upon the floor. "Snow's held off fer a long time this year, but when she come she come a-plenty," he observed.
"Still snowing?" asked the boy, as he wriggled into his clothing. "It started last night while I was coming down from Camp Two."
"Yeh, it's still snowin.' Foot deep a'ready an' comin' down in fine flakes an' slantin' like she's a-goin' to keep on snowin'!"
"Are you going to begin laying 'em down today?"
Saginaw shook his head: "No. I'm a-goin' to set 'em overhaulin' the sleds, an' the sprinkler, an' the drays, an' gittin' the skidways in shape, an' breakin' out the road. It's cold enough fer to make a good bottom an' things ort to go a-whoopin' when this snow lets up."
Connie snickered. "I bet Slue Foot's growling this morning, with no roof on his office and blacksmith shop, and his stable and oat house only about half chinked."
"He'd growl if his camp was 'lectric lit an' steam het. I'm ready fer breakfast, if the cook's saved us some. You go on over an' I'll be 'long when I git the men strung out." Saginaw filled the stove with chunks and together they left the office, the older man heading for the men's camp, while Connie made directly for the cook's camp. As the boy lowered his head to the sting of the sweeping snow and plodded across the clearing, a feeling of great loneliness came over him, for he knew that there lurked in the man's mind a feeling of distrust—a feeling that he had studiously attempted to conceal. Nothing in the spoken words revealed this distrust, but the boy was quick to note that the voice lacked something of the hearty comradery that had grown up between them.
"This is almost like Alaska," Connie muttered, as he breathed deeply of the clean, cold air. "I wish I was in Ten Bow right now—with Waseche Bill, and MacDougall, and Dutch Henry and the rest of 'em—or else over on the Yukon with Big Dan McKeever, and Rickey." The boy's fists clenched within his mittens, as was their habit when he faced a difficult situation. "If it wasn't that Waseche is depending on me to straighten out this mess, I'd strike out for Ten Bow today. But I've just naturally got to see it through—and I've got to go it alone, too. If I should let Saginaw in, and it should turn out that Hurley is crooked, my chance of nailing him would be shot, because Saginaw and Hurley are one, two, three.
"The first thing I better do," he decided, as he stamped the snow from his boots before the door of the cook's camp, "is to slip up and see Mike Gillum and find out how he knows Hurley is in the pay of the Syndicate."
During the breakfast the boy was unusually silent and when the meal was finished he returned directly to the office, and stood for a long time staring out into the whirling white smother. As he turned to his desk his eye encountered Hurley's snow-shoes hanging from their peg on the opposite wall. "It's only ten miles to Willow River," he muttered, "and I've just got to see Mike Gillum."
A moment later he stepped through the door, fastened on the snow-shoes and, hastening across the clearing, plunged into the timber.
It was nearly noon when Saginaw Ed returned to the office and found it empty. Almost instantly he noticed that the boss's snow-shoes were missing and he grinned: "Kid's out practising on the rackets, I guess." Then he stepped to the door. The snow had continued to fall steadily—fine, wind-driven flakes that pile up slowly. The trail was very faint, and as the man's eye followed it across the clearing his brows drew into a puzzled frown. "That don't look like no practice trail," he muttered. "No, sir! They ain't no greener ever yet started off like that." He pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger and scowled at the trail. "One of two things: Either the kid ain't the greener he lets on to be, or else someone else has hiked off on the boss's snow-shoes. An' either which way, it's up to me to find out." Crossing swiftly to the cook shack he returned a few minutes later, the pockets of his mackinaw bulging with lunch, and drawing his own snow-shoes from beneath his bunk, struck out upon the fast dimming trail.
"I mistrust Slue Foot, an' I didn't like the way he started to bawl out the kid yeste'day. It seemed kind of like it wasn't straight goods. He's a beefer an' a growler, all right, but somehow, this time it seemed as if it was kind of piled on fer my special benefit."
In the timber, sheltered from the sweep of the wind, the track had not drifted full, but threaded the woods in a broad, trough-like depression that the woodsman easily followed. Mile after mile it held to the north, dipping into deep ravines, skirting thick windfalls, and crossing steep ridges. As the trail lengthened the man's face hardened. "Whoever's a-hikin' ahead of me ain't no greener an' he ain't walkin' fer fun, neither. He's travellin' as fast as I be, an' he knows where he's a-goin', too." He paused at the top of a high ridge and smote a heavily mittened palm with a mittened fist. "So that's the way of it, eh? I heard how the Syndicate was runnin' a big camp on Willow River—an' this here's the Willow River divide. They ain't only one answer, the kid, or whoever it is I'm a-follerin', has be'n put in here by the Syndicate to keep cases on Hurley's camps—either that, or Slue Foot's in with 'em, an' is usin' the kid fer a go-between. They're pretty smart, all right, headin' way up to this here Willow River camp. They figgered that no one wouldn't pay no 'tention to a trail headin' north, while if it led over to the Syndicate camp on Dogfish someone would spot it in a minute. An' with it snowin' like this, they figgered the trail would drift full, or else look so old no one would bother about it. They ain't only one thing to do, an' that's to go ahead an' find out. What a man knows is worth a heap more'n what he can guess. They's a-goin' to be some big surprises on Dogfish 'fore this winter's over, an' some folks is a-goin' to wish they'd of be'n smarter—or stayed honester."
Saginaw descended the slope and, still following the trail, walked steadily for an hour. Suddenly he paused to listen. Distinctly to his ears came the measured thud of pounded iron, punctuated at regular intervals by the metallic ring of a hammer upon an anvil. "It's the Syndicate's Willow River camp," he muttered, and advanced cautiously. Presently he gained the clearing and, skirting it, halted at the edge of a log road that reached back into the timber. The man noted that whoever made the trail had made no attempt to conceal his visit from the Syndicate crew, for the tracks struck into the road which led directly into the clearing. Not a soul was in sight and, hurriedly crossing the road, Saginaw continued to skirt the clearing until he arrived at a point directly opposite a small building that stood by itself midway between the men's camp and the stable. "That had ort to be the office," he said as he studied the lay of the camp and the conformation of the ground. Several large piles of tops lay between the edge of the clearing and the small building, against the back of which had been placed a huge pile of firewood. Across the clearing upon the bank of the river a crew of men were engaged in levelling off the rollways, and other men were busy about the open door of the blacksmith shop, where the forge fire burned brightly. The storm had thinned to a scarcely perceptible downfall and the rising wind whipped the smoke from the stovepipe of the building. "I've got to find out who's in that office," he decided and, suiting the action to the word, moved swiftly from one pile of tops to another, until he gained the shelter of the woodpile.
It is a very risky thing to peer into the window of a small room occupied by at least two people in broad daylight, and it was with the utmost caution that Saginaw removed his cap and applied his eye to the extreme corner of the pane. Seated facing each other, close beside the stove, were Connie and Mike Gillum. The boss's hand was upon the boy's knee and he was talking earnestly. At the sight Saginaw could scarce refrain from venting his anger in words. He had seen enough and, dodging quickly back, retraced his steps, and once more gained the shelter of the timber.
"So that's yer game, is it, you sneakin' little spy? Takin' advantage of Hurley the minute his back's turned! You've got him fooled, all right. An' you had me fooled, too. You're a smart kid, but you ain't quite smart enough. You can't do no harm now we're onto yer game, an' 'fore them logs hits the water in the spring yer goin' to find out you ain't the only smart one in the timber—you an' Slue Foot, too."
It was well past the middle of the afternoon when Saginaw took the back trail and struck out at a long swinging walk for the camp on Dogfish. The flash of anger, engendered by the sight of the boy in friendly conference with the boss of the Syndicate camp, gave way to keen disappointment as he tramped on and on through the timber. He had liked Connie from the first, and as the days went by his regard for the boy, whose brains and nerve had won the respect and admiration of the whole camp, grew. "I've a good mind to git him off to one side an' give him a good straight talk. He ain't like that Steve. Why, doggone it! I couldn't feel no worse about findin' out he's headed wrong, if he was my own boy. An' if he was my own boy, it would be my job to talk things over with him an' try to steer him straight, instead of layin' for to catch him in some crooked work an' send him over the road for it. By gum, I'll do it, too! An' I'll give it to him right straight, without no fancy trimmin's neither. Tonight'll be a good time when him an' I'll be alone."
His cogitations had carried him to within a mile of Camp Two, which the trail carefully avoided, when suddenly, at the bottom of a deep ravine, a man stepped in front of him:
"Hands up!" It was some seconds before Saginaw realized that he was staring straight into the muzzle of a rifle that the man held within six inches of his nose. Two other men stepped from behind trees and joined the leader.
"Makes a difference which end of the gun yer at when ye hear them words, don't it?" sneered the man, and in the deep twilight of the thick woods Saginaw recognized the men as the three I. W. W.'s that he and Connie had arrested in their attempt to burn the stable. Also he recognized the boss's rifle.
"Where's Hurley?" he cried, as full realization of the situation forced itself upon him.
"I said 'hands up'!" reminded the man with the gun, "an' I meant it. An' if I wus you I'd put 'em up. I guess when we git through with ye ye'll think twict before ye lock folks up in a oat house to freeze to death all night—you an' that smart alec kid."
"Where's Hurley?" repeated Saginaw, with arms upraised.
The man laughed, coarsely: "Hurley, we fixed his clock fer him. An' we'll fix yourn, too. We'll learn ye to fool with the I. W. W. when it's a-goin' about its business. An' we'll learn everyone else, too. We're stronger 'n the law, an' stronger 'n the Government, an' when we git ready we'll show the bosses an' the capitalists where to git off at!"
"You're a bunch of dirty crooks, an' thieves, an' murderers—an' you ain't got the brains to show nobody nawthin'."
"Search him!" commanded the leader, his face livid with rage. "We'll show you somethin', 'fore we git through with you—jest like we showed Hurley. Come on, now, git a move on. We got to see a party an' git holt of some grub. 'Fore we git started, though, ye kin jest take off them snow-shoes, I kin use 'em myself, an' you kin see how it feels to waller through the snow like we be'n doin'." The transfer was soon accomplished, and marching Saginaw before them, the three headed off at a right angle from the trail.
CHAPTER X
CONNIE DOES SOME TRAILING
CONNIE MORGAN halted abruptly and stared down at the snow. At the point where, a couple of hours before, he had emerged into the tote road, another, fresher, snow-shoe track crossed the road and struck out upon his back trail. For some moments he studied the track, his trained eye taking every slightest detail. "Whoever it was followed my trail to here, and for some reason didn't want to follow it on into the clearing. So he kept on, and it wasn't long before he took the back trail." He bent closer, and when he once more stood erect his face was very grave. "It's Saginaw," he muttered. "I helped him restring that left racket." Swiftly the boy followed the tracks to the point where the man had struck into the clearing at the rear of the little office. "He followed me and found me talking to Mike Gillum."
As Connie struck out on the back trail he smiled grimly: "Gee, I bet he thinks I'm a bad one. He knows the Syndicate put one over on Hurley last winter, and now he thinks I'm hand in glove with 'em. I would like to have run this thing down alone, but I guess I'll have to let Saginaw in on it now. Maybe he won't believe me, and maybe Hurley won't, and then I'll get fired! Anyhow, he broke a good trail for me," grinned the boy as he swung swiftly through the timber. Travelling light, he made rapid progress, and as he walked, his brain was busy trying to solve his riddle of the woods. Mike Gillum had told him that he had worked on several jobs with Hurley, that he was a good lumberman, that he could handle men, and get out the logs. Knowing this, he had recommended him to Waseche Bill, as foreman of his camp. Gillum said that by accident he had seen Hurley's name on the Syndicate pay roll and had asked one of the clerks in the office about it, and that the clerk had winked and told him that Hurley was well worth all the Syndicate paid him because he was boss of an independent outfit that was logging up on Dogfish. It was then that Gillum had written to Waseche Bill. He had known nothing of the latter's loss of last winter until Connie had told him at the time of their first meeting. Despite the man's statements, Connie could not bring himself to believe that Hurley was guilty. "There's a mistake somewhere," he muttered as he trudged on, "and I've got to find out where. I can't let Hurley in on it, because he's hot-headed and he'd jump in and spoil every chance we had of catching the real culprit, or, if he is mixed up in it, he'd have all the chance in the world to cover his tracks so I never could prove anything on him. But he isn't guilty!" This last was uttered aloud and with the emphasis of conviction. For the life of him the boy could not have given a good and sufficient reason for this conviction. Indeed, all reason was against it. But the conviction was there, and the reason for the conviction was there—even if the boy could not have told it—and it ran a great deal deeper than he knew.
From the moment three years before, when he had landed, a forlorn and friendless little figure, upon the dock at Anvik, he had been thrown among men—men crude and rough as the land they lived in. His daily associates had been good men—and bad. He had known good men with deplorable weaknesses, and bad men with admirable virtues. In his association with these men of the lean, lone land the boy had unconsciously learned to take keen measure of men. And, having taken his measure, he accepted a man at his worth. The boy knew that Mike Gillum had not lied to him—that under no circumstances would he lie to injure another. But, despite the man's positive statement, Connie's confidence in Hurley remained unshaken. Hurley had assumed a definite place in his scheme of things, and it would take evidence much more tangible than an unsubstantiated statement to displace him.
Under the heavily overcast sky and the thickly interlaced branches of the pines, daylight passed into twilight, and twilight fast deepened to darkness as the boy pushed on through the forest. Suddenly he halted. To his surprise, the trail he was following turned abruptly to the west. He knew that the fresher tracks of Saginaw's snow-shoes had been laid over his own back trail, and he knew that he had made no right angle turn in his trip to Willow River. Bending close to the snow he made out in the deep gloom other tracks—the tracks of three men who had not worn snow-shoes. The three had evidently intercepted Saginaw and a powwow had ensued, for there had been much trampling about in the snow. Then Saginaw had abandoned his course and accompanied the men to the westward.
"Camp Two is west of here," muttered the boy. "I guess the men were part of Slue Foot's crew, and he went over to the camp with 'em." Darkness prevented him from noting that the trail that led to the westward was a clumsier trail than Saginaw would have made, or he never would have dismissed the matter so lightly from his mind. As it was, he continued upon his course for Camp One, where he arrived nearly an hour later to find the camp in a turmoil. The boy hastened, unnoticed, to the edge of a crowd of men that encircled Frenchy Lamar, who talked as fast as he could in an almost unintelligible jargon, which he punctuated with shrugs, and wild-flung motions of his arms.
"Oui, dat be'n w'en de las' of de Camp Two tote teams be'n pass 'bout de half hour. We com' 'long by de place w'er de road she twis' 'roun an' slant down de steep ravine. Woof! Rat on de trail stan' de leetle black bear, an', Sacre! Ma leaders git so scare dey stan' oop on de hine leg lak dey gon for dance. Dey keek, dey jomp, dey plonge, an', Voila! Dem wheelers git crazy too. I'm got ma han' full, an' plenty mor', too, an' de nex' t'ing I'm fin' out dey jomp de wagon oop on de beeg stomp an' she teep ovaire so queek lak you kin say Jac Robinshon. Crack! Ma reach she brek in two an' ma front ax' she git jerk loose from de wagon an' de nex' t'ing I'm drag by de lines 'cross de creek so fas' dat tear ma coat, ma shirt, ma pants mos' lak de ribbon. I'm bomp ma head, an' lose ma cap, an' scratch ma face, but by gar, I'm hang holt de lines, an' by-m-by dem horse dey git tire to haul me roun' by de mout', and dey stan' still a minute on top de odder side. I'm look back an', Sacre! Hurley is lay on de groun' an' de boss I. W. W. is hit heem on de head wit' de gon. De res' is cuttin' loose deir han's. I'm yell on dem to queet poun' on de boss head, wit de rifle, an' de nex' t'ing I'm know: Zing! de bullet com' so clos' eet mak de win' on ma face, an' de nex' t'ing, Zing! Dat bullet she sting de horse an' I'm just got tam to jomp oop on de front ax', an' de horses start out lak she got far business away from here queek. Dey ron so fas' I'm got to hol' on wit' ma han's, wit' ma feet! Dem horses ron so fas' lak de train, dem wheels jomp feefty feet high, an' dey only com' on de groun' 'bout once every half a mile an' den I'm git poun', an' bomp, an' rattle, 'til I'm so black lak de, w'at you call, de niggaire!
"De neares' doctaire, she down to Birch Lak'. I'm leave ma team een de store-keeper stable, an' Ol' Man Niles she say de train don' stop no mor' today, so I can't go to Birch Lak' 'til mornin'. I t'ink, by gar, I'm mak' de train stop, so I'm push de beeg log on de track an' lay on ma belly in de weeds, an' pret' soon de train com' long an' she see de beeg log an' she stop queek, an' dey all ron opp front an' I'm climb on an' tak' de seat in de smokaire. De train go 'long w'en dey git de log shov' off, an' de conductaire, he com' long an' seen me sit dere. 'We're you git on dis train?' she say, an' I'm tell heem I'm git on to Dogfish, w'en de train stop. 'I'm goin' to Birch Lak' for git de doctaire for man w'at git keel,' I'm say, an' he say de train don' stop to Birch Lak', neider. She t'rough train, an' we'n we git to de firs' stop, she gon' for hav' me arres'. I ain' say no mor' an' I'm look out de window, an' de conductaire she go an' set down in de back of de car. De train she gon' ver' fas' an' by-m-by she com' to de breege, an' Birch Lak' is wan half mile.
"I'm travel on de car before, an' I'm see dem stop de train mor' as once to put off de lumbaire-jack w'en dey git to fightin' Voila! I'm jomp oop on ma feet ver' queek an' pull two, t'ree tam on de leetle rope, an' de las' tam I'm pull so hard she bre'k in two. De train she stop so queek she mak' fellers bomp 'roun' in de seat, an' de conductaire she so mad she lak to bus', an' she holler ver' mooch, an' com' ronnin' down de middle. She ain' ver' beeg man, an' I'm reach down queek, de nex' t'ing she know she light on de head in de middle w'ere four fellers is playin' cards. Den, I'm ron an' jomp off de car an' fin' de doctaire. Dat gittin' dark, now, an' she startin' to snow, an' de doctaire she say we can't go to Dogfish 'til mornin', day ain' no mor' train. I'm see de han' car down by de track, but de doctaire she say we ain' can tak' dat for 'cause we git arres'. But I'm laugh on heem, an' I'm say I'm tak' dat han' car, 'cause I'm got to git arres' anyhow—but firs' dey got to ketch—eh? So I'm tak' a rock an' bus' de lock an' we lif' her on de track an' com' to Dogfish. Ol' Man Niles she tak' hees team an' gon' oop an' got Hurley an' de cookee, an' breeng heem to de store. De doctaire she feex de boss oop, an' she say eef eet ain' for dat cookee stay 'roun' an' mak' de blood quit comin', Hurley she would be dead befor' we com' long. Dis mornin' I'm tak' ma team an' Ol Man Niles's wagon an' com' to de camp. Hurley she won' go to de hospital, lak de doctaire say, so de doctaire she com' 'long. Eet tak' me all day long, de snow she so d'ep, an' by gar——"
Connie left in the middle of the Frenchman's discourse and hurried into the office. In his bunk, with his head swathed in bandages, lay Hurley. The doctor stood beside the stove and watched Steve feed the injured man gruel from a spoon. The big boss opened his eyes as the boy entered. He smiled faintly, and with ever so slight a motion of his head indicated Steve: "An' I said they wasn't the worth of a lath in his hide," he muttered and nodded weakly as Connie crossed swiftly to the boy's side and shook his hand. Hurley's voice dropped almost to a whisper: "I'll be laid up fer a couple of days. Tell Saginaw to—keep—things—goin'."
"I'll tell him," answered Connie, grimly, and, as the boss's eyes closed, stepped to his own bunk and, catching up the service revolver from beneath the blankets, hurried from the room.
Connie Morgan was a boy that experience and training had taught to think quickly. When he left the office it was with the idea of heading a posse of lumberjacks in the capture of the three I. W. W.'s, for from the moment he heard of their escape the boy realized that these were the three men who had intercepted Saginaw Ed on his return from Willow River. His one thought was to rescue the captive, for well he knew that, having Saginaw in their power, the thugs would stop at nothing in venting their hatred upon the helpless man. As he hurried toward the crowd in front of the men's camp his brain worked rapidly. Fifty men in the woods at night would make fifty times as much noise as one man. Then again, what would the men do if they should catch the three? The boy paused for a moment at the corner of the oat house. There was only one answer to that question. The answer had been plain even before the added outrage of the attack upon Hurley—and Hurley was liked by his men. Stronger than ever became the boy's determination to have the I. W. W.'s dealt with by the law. There must be no posse.
His mind swung to the other alternative. If he went alone he could follow swiftly and silently. The odds would be three against one—but the three had only one gun between them. He fingered the butt of his revolver confidently. "I can wing the man with the gun, and then cover the others," he muttered, "and besides, I'll have all the advantage of knowing what I'm up against while they think they're safe. Dan McKeever was strong for that. I guess I'll go it alone."
Having arrived at this decision the boy crossed the clearing to the men's camp where he singled out Swede Larson from the edge of the crowd. "Saginaw and I've got some special work to do," he whispered; "you keep the men going 'til we get back." Without waiting for a reply, he hastened to the oat house, fastened on his snow-shoes, and slipped into the timber.
It was no hardship, even in the darkness, for him to follow the snow-shoe trail, and to the point where the others had left it his progress was rapid. The snow had stopped falling, and great rifts appeared in the wind-driven clouds. Without hesitation Connie swung into the trail of the four men. He reasoned that they would not travel far because when they had intercepted Saginaw there could not have been more than two or three hours of daylight left. The boy followed swiftly along the trail, pausing frequently to listen, and as he walked he puzzled over the fact that the men had returned to the vicinity of the camp, when obviously they should have made for the railway and placed as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of their crimes. He dismissed the thought of their being lost, for all three were woodsmen. Why, then, had they returned?
Suddenly he halted and shrank into the shelter of a windfall. Upon the branches of the pine trees some distance ahead his eye caught the faint reflection of a fire.
Very cautiously he left the trail and, circling among the trees, approached the light from the opposite direction. Nearer and nearer he crept until he could distinctly see the faces of the four men. Crouching behind a thick tree trunk, he could see that the men had no blankets, and that they huddled close about the fire. He could see Saginaw with his hands tied, seated between two of the others. Suddenly, beyond the fire, apparently upon the back trail of the men, a twig snapped. Instantly one of the three leaped up, rifle in hand, and disappeared in the woods. Connie waited in breathless suspense. Had Swede Larson followed him? Or had someone else taken up the trail? In a few moments the man returned and, taking Saginaw by the arm, jerked him roughly to his feet and, still gripping the rifle, hurried him into the woods away from the trail. They passed close to Connie, and the boy thanked his lucky star that he had circled to the north instead of the south, or they would have immediately blundered onto his trail. A short distance further on, and just out of sight of the camp fire, they halted, and the man gave a low whistle. Instantly another man stepped into the circle of the firelight—a man bearing upon his back a heavily laden pack surmounted by several pairs of folded blankets. He tossed the pack into the snow and greeted the two men who remained at the fire with a grin. Then he produced a short black pipe, and, as he stooped to pick up a brand from the fire, Connie stared at him in open-mouthed amazement.
The newcomer was the boss of Camp Two!
CHAPTER XI
CONNIE FINDS AN ALLY
WHER'S Pierce?" asked Slue Foot Magee, as he glanced down upon the two figures that crouched close about the little fire.
"He went on ahead to hunt a place to camp. We waited to pack the stuff," lied the man, nodding toward the pack sack that the boss of Camp Two had deposited in the snow.
"I sure was surprised when Sam, here, popped out of the woods an' told me ye'd got away an' needed blankets an' grub. Wha'd ye do to Hurley? An' how come ye didn't hit fer the railroad an' make yer git-away?"
"We beat Hurley up a-plenty so'st he won't be in no hurry to take no I. W. W.'s nowheres ag'in. An' as fer hittin' fer the railroad, it's too cold fer to ride the rods or the bumpers, an' we hain't got a dollar between us. You'll have to stake us fer the git-away."
Slue Foot frowned: "I hain't got a cent, neither. Come into the woods on credick—an' hain't draw'd none."
"That's a fine mess we're in!" exclaimed the leader angrily. "How fer d' ye figger we're a-goin' to git on what little grub ye fetched in that pack? An' wher' we goin' to—bein' as we're broke? We hit back fer you 'cause we know'd ye stood strong in the organization an' we had a right to think ye'd see us through."
"I'll see ye through!" growled Slue Foot, impatiently. "But I can't give ye nawthin' I hain't got, kin I?" He stood for a few moments staring into the fire, apparently in deep thought. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "The Syndicate's got a camp 'bout ten mile north of here on Willer River. They're short handed an' the boss'll hire anything he kin git. Seen him in town 'fore I come out, an' he wanted to hire me, but I was already hired to Hurley—got a boss's job, too, an' that's better'n what I'd got out of him. If youse fellers hadn't of be'n in such a hurry to pull somethin' an' had of waited 'til I come, ye wouldn't of botched the job an' got caught."
"Is that so!" flared the leader. "I s'pose we'd ort to know'd ye was goin' to be hired on this job! An' I s'pose our instructions is not to pull no rough stuff onless you're along to see it's done right!"
"They hain't nawthin' in standin' 'round argerin'," interrupted Slue Foot. "What I was a-goin' on to say is that youse better hike on up to Willer River an' git ye a job. There's grub enough in the pack to last ye twict that fer."
"Wher'll we tell the boss we come from? 'Taint in reason we'd hit that fer into the woods huntin' a job."
"Tell him ye got sore on me an' quit. If they's any questions asked I'll back ye up."
The leader of the I. W. W.'s looked at Sam, and Sam looked at the leader. They were in a quandary. For reasons of their own they had not told Slue Foot that they had picked up Saginaw—and with Saginaw on their hands, how were they going to follow out the boss's suggestion?
Behind his big tree, Connie Morgan had been an interested listener. He knew why the men stared blankly at each other, and chuckled to himself at their predicament.
"What's to hinder someone from Camp One a-trailin' us up there?" suggested Sam.
"Trailin' ye! How they goin' to trail ye? It was a-snowin' clean up to the time ye got to Camp Two, an' if any one sees yer tracks around there I'll say I sent some men up that way fer somethin'. An' besides," he continued, glancing upward where the clouds that had thinned into flying scuds had thickened again, obliterating the stars, "this storm hain't over yet. It'll be snowin' ag'in 'fore long an' ye won't leave no more trail'n a canoe. Anyways, that's the best way I kin think of. If you've got a better one go to it—I've done all I kin fer ye." There was finality in Slue Foot's voice as he drew on his mittens, and turned from the fire. "So long, an' good luck to ye."
"So long," was the rather surly rejoinder. "If that's the best we kin do, I s'pose we gotta do it. Mebbe if it starts snowin' we're all right, an' if we make it, we'll be safer up there than what we would down along the railroad, anyways. They won't be no one a-huntin' us in the woods."
"Sure they won't," agreed Slue Foot, as he passed from sight into the timber.
The two beside the fire sat in silence until the sound of Slue Foot's footsteps was swallowed up in the distance. Then Sam spoke: "What we goin' to do with this here Saginaw?" he asked.
The leader glanced skyward. "It's startin' to snow—" he leered and, stopping abruptly, rose to his feet. "Wait till we git Pierce in here." Producing some pieces of rope from his pocket, he grinned. "Lucky I fetched these along when I cut 'em off my hands. We'll give him a chanct to see how it feels to be tied up onct." The man stepped into the timber and a few minutes later returned accompanied by Pierce, to whom they immediately began to relate what had passed between them and the boss of Camp Two.
The moment they seated themselves about the fire, Connie slipped from his hiding place behind the tree and stole noiselessly toward the spot where the men had left Saginaw. Snow was falling furiously now, adding the bewildering effect of its whirling flakes to the intense blackness of the woods. Removing his snow-shoes to avoid leaving a wide, flat trail, the boy stepped into the tracks of the two who had returned to the fire and, a few moments later, was bending over a dark form that sat motionless with its back against the trunk of a tree.
"It's me, Saginaw," he whispered, as the keen edge of his knife blade severed the ropes that bound the man's hands and feet.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF TIME BE YOU DOIN' HERE?" EXCLAIMED SAGINAW.
The man thrust his face close to Connie's in the darkness. "What in the name of time be you doin' here?" he exclaimed.
"Sh-sh-sh," whispered the boy. "Come on, we've got to get away in a hurry. There's no tellin' how soon those fellows will finish their powwow."
"What do you mean—git away? When we git away from here we take them birds along, er my name ain't Saginaw Ed! On top of tryin' to burn up the camp they've up an' murdered Hurley, an' they'd of done the like by me, if they'd be'n give time to!"
"We'll get them, later. I know where they're going. What we've got to do is to beat it. Step in my tracks so they won't know there were two of us. They'll think you cut yourself loose and they won't try to follow in the dark, especially if the storm holds."
"But them hounds has got my rackets."
"I've got mine, and when we get away from here I'll put 'em on and break trail for you."
"Look a here, you give me yer gun an' I'll go in an' clean up on them desperadoes. I'll show 'em if the I. W. W.'s is goin' to run the woods! I'll——"
"Come on! I tell you we can get 'em whenever we want 'em——"
"I'll never want 'em no worse'n I do right now."
"Hurley's all right, I saw him a little while ago."
"They said they——"
"I don't care what they said. Hurley's down in the office, right now. Come on, and when we put a few miles behind us, I'll tell you all you want to know."
"You'll tell a-plenty, then," growled Saginaw, only half convinced. "An' here's another thing—if you're double crossin' me, you're a-goin' to wish you never seen the woods."
The boy's only answer was a laugh, and he led, swiftly as the intense darkness would permit, into the woods. They had gone but a short distance when he stopped and put on his rackets. After that progress was faster, and Saginaw Ed, mushing along behind, wondered at the accuracy with which the boy held his course in the blackness and the whirling snow. A couple of hours later, Connie halted in the shelter of a thick windfall. "We can rest up for a while, now," he said, "and I'll tell you some of things you want to know."
"Where do you figger we're at?" asked Saginaw, regarding the boy shrewdly.
"We're just off the tote road between the two camps," answered the boy without hesitation.
A moment of silence followed the words and when he spoke the voice of Saginaw sounded hard: "I've be'n in the woods all my life, an' it would of bothered me to hit straight fer camp on a night like this. They's somethin' wrong here somewheres, kid—an' the time's come fer a showdown. I don't git you, at all! You be'n passin' yerself off fer a greener. Ever sence you went out an' got that deer I've know'd you wasn't—but I figgered it worn't none of my business. Then when you out-figgered them hounds—that worn't no greener's job, an' I know'd that—but, I figgered you was all to the good. But things has happened sence, that ain't all to the good—by a long shot. You've got some explainin' to do, an' seein' we're so clost to camp, we better go on to the office an' do it around the stove."
"We wouldn't get much chance to powwow in the office tonight. Hurley's there, and the doctor, and Steve, and Lon Camden."
"The doctor?"
"Yes, those fellows beat Hurley up pretty bad, but he's coming along all right. Steve stayed by him, and the doctor said it saved his life."
"You don't mean that sneakin' cookee that throw'd in with the I. W. W.?"
"Yup."
"Well, I'll be doggoned! But, them bein' in the office don't alter the case none. We might's well have things open an' above board."
Connie leaned forward and placed his hand on the man's arm. "What I've got to say, I want to say to you, and to no one else. I wanted to play the game alone, but while I was trailing you down from Willow River, I decided I'd have to let you in on it."
"You know'd I follered you up there?"
"Of course I knew it. Didn't I help you string that racket?"
Saginaw shook his head in resignation. "We might's well have it out right here," he said. "I don't git you. First off, you figger how to catch them jaspers with the goods an' lock 'em up. Then you throw in with Slue Foot. Then you hike up to the Syndicate camp an' is thicker'n thieves with the boss. Then you pop up in a blizzard in the middle of the night an' cut me loose. Then you turn 'round an' let them hounds go when we could of nailed 'em where they set—seems like you've bit off quite a contract to make all them things jibe. Go ahead an' spit 'er out—an' believe me, it'll be an earful! First, though, you tell me where them I. W. W.'s is goin' an' how you know. If I ain't satisfied, I'm a-goin' to hit right back an' git 'em while the gittin's good."
"They're going up to work for the Syndicate in the Willow River Camp."
"Know'd they was loose an' slipped up to git 'em a job, did you?" asked Saginaw sarcastically.
Connie grinned. "No. But there's a big job ahead of you and me this winter—to save the timber and clear Hurley's name."
"What do you know about Hurley an' the timber?"
"Not as much as I will by spring. But I do know that we lost $14,000 on this job last winter. You see, I'm one of the owners."
"One of the owners!" Saginaw exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes. I've got the papers here to prove it. You couldn't read 'em in the dark, so you'll have to take my word for it 'til we get where you can read 'em. Waseche Bill is my partner and we live in Ten Bow, Alaska. Soon after Hurley's report reached us, showing the loss, a letter came from Mike Gillum, saying that Hurley was in the pay of the Syndicate——"
"He's a liar!" cried Saginaw wrathfully shaking his mittened fist in Connie's face. "I've know'd Hurley, man an' boy, an' they never was a squarer feller ever swung an axe. Who is this here Mike Gillum? Lead me to him! I'll tell him to his face he's a liar, an' then I'll prove it by givin' him the doggonest lickin' he ever got—an' I don't care if he's big as a meetin' house door, neither!"
"Wait a minute, Saginaw, and listen. I know Hurley's square. But I didn't know it until I got acquainted with him. I came clear down from Alaska to catch him with the goods, and that's why I hired out to him. But, Mike Gillum is square, too. He's boss of the Syndicate camp on Willow River. A clerk in the Syndicate office told him that the Syndicate was paying Hurley, and Mike wrote to Waseche Bill. He's a friend of Waseche's—used to prospect in Alaska——"
"I don't care if he used to prospeck in heaven! He's a liar if he says Hurley ever double crossed any one!"
"Hold on, I think I've got an idea of what's going on here and it will be up to us to prove it. The man that's doing the double crossing is Slue Foot Magee. I didn't like his looks from the minute I first saw him. Then he began to hint that there were ways a forty-dollar-a-month clerk could double his wages, and when I pretended to fall in with his scheme he said that when they begin laying 'em down he'll show me how to shade the cut. And more than that, he said he had something big he'd let me in on later, provided I kept my eyes and ears open to what went on in the office."
"An' you say you an' yer pardner owns this here timber?"
"That's just what I said."
"Then Slue Foot's ondertook to show you a couple of schemes where you kin steal consider'ble money off yerself?"
Connie laughed. "That's it, exactly."
Saginaw Ed remained silent for several moments. "Pervidin' you kin show them papers, an' from what I've saw of you, I ain't none surprised if you kin, how come it that yer pardner sent a kid like you way down here on what any one ort to know would turn out to be a rough job anyways you look at it?"
"He didn't send me—I came. He wanted to come himself, but at that time we thought it was Hurley we were after, and Hurley knows Waseche so he could never have found out anything, even if he had come down. And besides, I've had quite a lot of experience in jobs like this. I served a year with the Mounted."
"The Mounted! You don't mean the Canady Mounted Police!"
"Yes, I do."
There was another long silence, then the voice of Saginaw rumbled almost plaintively through the dark, "Say, kid, you ain't never be'n President, have you?"
Connie snickered. "No, I've never been President. And if there's nothing else you want to know right now, let's hit the hay. We've both done some man's size mushing today."
"You spoke a word, kid," answered Saginaw, rising to his feet; "I wouldn't put no crookedness whatever past Slue Foot. But that didn't give this here Gillum no license to blackguard Hurley in no letter."
"Has Hurley ever worked for the Syndicate?" asked Connie.
"No, he ain't. I know every job he's had in Minnesoty an' Westconsin. Then he went out West to Idyho, or Montany, or somewheres, an' this here's the first job he's had sence he come back."
"What I've been thinking is that Slue Foot has passed himself off to the Syndicate as Hurley. They know that Hurley is boss of this camp, but they don't know him by sight. It's a risky thing to do, but I believe Slue Foot has done it."
"Well, jumpin' Jerushelam! D'you s'pose he'd of dared?"
"That's what we've got to find out—and we've got to do it alone. You know Hurley better than I do, and you know that he's hot-headed, and you know that if he suspected Slue Foot of doing that, he couldn't wait to get the evidence so we could get him with the goods. He'd just naturally sail into him and beat him to a pulp."
Saginaw chuckled. "Yes, an' then he'd squeeze the juice out of the pulp to finish off with. I guess yer right, kid. It's up to me an' you. But how'd you know them I. W. W.'s is headin' fer Willer River?"
"Because I heard Slue Foot tell them to."
"Slue Foot!"
"Yes, I forgot to tell you that Slue Foot is an I. W. W., too. I didn't know it myself 'til tonight. You see, when I got back to camp and found that Hurley's prisoners had made a get-away, I knew right then why you had turned off the back trail from Willow River. I knew they'd treat you like they did Hurley, or worse, so I hit the trail."
"Wasn't they no one else handy you could of brung along?" asked Saginaw, drily.
"The whole camp would have jumped at the chance—and you know it! And you know what they'd have done when they caught 'em. I knew I could travel faster and make less noise than a big gang, and I knew I could handle the job when I got there. I had slipped up and was watching when Pierce took you into the timber. He did that because they heard someone coming. It was Slue Foot, and he brought 'em a grub stake and some blankets. They knew he was an I. W. W., and they'd managed to slip him the word that they were loose. They wanted him to stake them to some money, too, but Slue Foot said he didn't have any, and told them to get a job up on Willow River. He told them they'd be safer there than they would anywhere down along the railroad."
"Yes, but how'd you know they'll go there?"
"They can't go any place else," laughed the boy. "They're broke, and they've only got a little bit of grub."
"When we goin' up an' git 'em?" persisted Saginaw.
"We'll let the sheriff do that for us, then the whole thing will be according to law."
"I guess that's right," assented the man, as the two swung down the tote road.
"We'd better roll in in the men's camp," suggested Connie, as they reached the clearing. A little square of light from the office window showed dimly through the whirling snow, and, approaching noiselessly, the two peeked in. Mounded blankets covered the sleeping forms of the doctor and Lon Camden; Hurley's bandaged head was visible upon his coarse pillow, and beside him sat Steve, wide awake, with the bottles of medicine within easy reach.
"Half past one!" exclaimed Saginaw, glancing at the little clock. "By jiminetty, kid, it's time we was to bed!"
CHAPTER XII
SHADING THE CUT
IT was nine o'clock the following morning when Connie was awakened by someone bending over him. It was Saginaw, and the boy noticed that his cap and mackinaw were powdered with snow.
"Still snowing, eh? Why didn't you wake me up before?"
"It's 'bout quit, an' as fer wakin' you up," he grinned, "I didn't hardly dast to. If I was the owner of an outfit an' any doggone lumberjack woke me up 'fore I was good an' ready I'd fire him."
"Oh, you want to see my papers, do you?" grinned Connie.
"Well, I might take a squint at 'em. But that ain't what I come fer. The boss is a whole lot better, an' the doctor's a-goin' back. What I want to know is, why can't he swear out them warrants ag'in them three I. W. W.'s an' have it over with? I didn't say nothin' to Hurley 'bout them bein' located, er he'd of riz up an' be'n half ways to Willer River by now."
"Sure, he can swear out the warrants! I'll slip over to the office and get their names out of the time book, and while I'm gone you might look over these." The boy selected several papers from a waterproof wallet which he drew from an inner pocket and passed them over to Saginaw, then he finished dressing and hurried over to the office. Hurley was asleep, and, copying the names from the book, Connie returned to the men's camp.
"You're the goods all right," said Saginaw, admiringly, as he handed back the papers. "From now on I'm with you 'til the last gap, as the feller says. You've got more right down nerve than I ever know'd a kid could have, an' you've got the head on you to back it. Yer good enough fer me—you say the word, an' I go the limit." He stuck out his hand, which Connie gripped strongly.
"You didn't have to tell me that, Saginaw," answered the boy, gravely, "if you had, you would never have had the chance."
Saginaw Ed removed his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. "That there'll strike through 'bout dinner time, I guess. But I suspicion what you mean, an'—I'm obliged."
"Here are the names for the doctor—better tell him to swear out warrants both for arson and for attempted murder."
"Yes, sir," answered Saginaw, respectfully.
"Yes, what!"
The man grinned sheepishly. "Why—I guess—bein' I was talkin' to the owner——"
"Look here, Saginaw," interrupted the boy, wrathfully, "you just forget this 'owner' business, and don't you start 'siring' me! What do you want to do—give this whole thing away? Up where I live they don't call a man 'sir' just because he happens to have a little more dust than somebody else. It ain't the 'Misters' and the 'Sirs' that are the big men up there; it's the 'Bills' and the 'Jacks' and the 'Scotties' and the 'Petes'—men that would get out and mush a hundred miles to carry grub to a scurvy camp instead of sitting around the stove and hiring someone else to do it—men that have gouged gravel and stayed with the game, bucking the hardest winters in the world, sometimes with only half enough to eat—men with millions, and men that don't own the tools they work with! My own father was one of 'em. 'The unluckiest man in Alaska,' they called him! He never made a strike, but you bet he was a man! There isn't a man that knew him, from Skagway to Candle, and from Candle to Dawson and beyond, that isn't proud to call him friend. Sam Morgan they call him—and they don't put any 'Mister' in front of it, either!"
Saginaw Ed nodded slowly, and once more he seized the boy's hand in a mighty grip. "I git you, kid. I know they's a lot of good men up in your country—but, somehow, I've got a hunch they kind of overlooked a bet when they're callin' your pa onlucky." He took the slip of paper upon which Connie had written the names. At the door he turned. "We begin layin' 'em down today," he said. "Shouldn't wonder an' what Slue Foot'll be down 'fore very long fer to give you yer first lesson."
"Hurley will think I'm a dandy, showing up at ten o'clock in the morning."
"Never you mind that," said Saginaw; "I fixed that part up all right—told him you was up 'til after one o'clock helpin' me git things strung out fer to begin work today."
Connie bolted a hasty breakfast, and, as he made his way from the cook's camp to the office, sounds came from the woods beyond the clearing—the voices of men calling loudly to each other as they worked, the ring of axes, and the long crash of falling trees. The winter's real work had begun, and Connie smiled grimly as he thought of the cauldron of plot and counter-plot that was seething behind the scenes in the peaceful logging camp.
The boy found Hurley much improved, although still weak from the effects of the terrible beating he had received at the hands of the escaped prisoners. The big boss fumed and fretted at his enforced inactivity, and bewailed the fact that he had given the doctor his word that he would stay in his bunk for at least two days longer. "An' ut's partly yer fault, wid yer talk av th' law—an' partly mine fer listenin' to yez," he complained fiercely, in rich brogue, as Connie sat at his desk. The boy's shoulders drooped slightly under the rebuke, but he answered nothing. Suddenly Hurley propped himself up on his elbow. "Phy don't yez tell me Oi'm a big liar?" he roared. "Ye was right, an' Oi know ut. Don't pay no heed to me, kid. Oi've got a grouch fer lettin' them shpalpeens git away. Furst Oi was thryin' to lay ut on Frinchy, an' him the bist teamster in th' woods! Ut's loike a sp'ilt b'y Oi am, thryin' to blame somewan f'r what c'udn't be helped at all. Ut was an accident all togither, an' a piece av bad luck—an' there's an end to ut. Bring me over yer book, now, an' Oi'll show ye about kaypin' thim logs."