King Spruce, A Novel

When April came, and with caressing fingers began to stroke the softening snow from the mountain flanks, she found full half a million of the Enchanted cut still on the yards.

“If it’s to be a gamble, let’s make it a good one,” Rodburd Ide had counselled his partner. “Pile on every stick that winter’s back will carry. Pile till it breaks!”

Dwight Wade had a trustworthy “kitchen cabinet” of advisers in old Christopher Straight, Tommy Eye, and the chopping-boss; and with them as counsellors he ventured further than his own narrow experience would have prompted.

On nights when April slept and the trickling slopes were stiffened by the cold, the crew of the Enchanted stole a march on spring. They awoke at sundown with the owls. They ate breakfast in the gloom of early evening. And, with the moon holding her lantern for them in the serene skies, they rushed their logs into the waiting arms of Blunder valley. That those arms would surrender the timber when the time was ripe seemed more certain as the days went by. The word of their zealous young man of law was encouraging. There had been pleas, representations, digging over of old charters, hunt through dusty records, citation of precedents, and some very direct talk regarding a thorough legislative investigation of conditions in the north country to regulate the rights of independent operators.

It was admittedly too big a question to be hurried. Litigation fattens by what it feeds on. Grown ponderous, it marches, slow and dignified, in short stages between terms, and sits and rests and puffs at every cross-road of argument, exception, appeal, and writ of error. Even that exigency of five millions of timber waiting in Blunder valley could not hasten the settlement of the young reformer’s main contention or the big question. But there are in this life some deeper sentiments than enthusiasm in reform. The old college friendship between Dwight Wade, famous centre of Burton’s eleven, and the little quarter-back whom he had shielded was one of those deeper sentiments. And now the lawyer, for the sake of that friendship, was willing to buy Dwight Wade’s success in Blunder valley by honorable compromise on certain points where compromise was honorable.

With a man open to sane reason and moral decency a compromise might have been effected. But after Pulaski D. Britt had craftily drawn out proffer of a truce and proposition of a trade in one phase of the great question of water-rights, he burst into a bellow of “blackmail” that echoed from end to end of the State. The words bristled in the newspapers controlled by the land barons and was rolled on the tongues of gossip. And as humanity in general, selfish in its easy-going way and jealous of resolute activity, likes to believe ill of reformers, men were readier to believe Britt than to give a motive of honest friendship its due. The jeers of the mob make what some people like to call “public opinion.” And sometimes when public opinion is loudly gabbling and can be politely referred to in case of doubt, there can be found judges who will listen with one ear to the voices of the street and with the other to the specious representations of the man in power.

So it came about that the judge presiding at the nisi prius term in the great county dominated by Pulaski D. Britt hearkened in chambers to some very distressing details set before him by that gentleman and certain other “employers of labor” and “developers of the great timber interests.” The judge pursed his lips and with his tongue clucked horrified astonishment at stories of brutal assaults made “on members of Pulaski Britt’s crew” (this being Dwight Wade’s desperate defence of himself, as pictured by Britt), and other tales of lunatics provoked to deeds of violence towards aforesaid “developers”; of incendiaries spirited away from officers; of men stolen out of Britt’s crew (poor Tommy Eye’s rescue from torture, as revamped for evidence by the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt); and, lastly, of that desperate and malignant attempt on the life of Honorable Pulaski D. Britt when a load of timber was sluiced at him from the shoulder of Enchanted Mountain.

Dwight Wade had not put into the hands of his lawyer the details of those pitiful secrets of the woods; for not only his honor as a man set a seal on his lips, but the sacredness of his love imposed higher obligation still. So his lawyer listened, amazed, incredulous, but incapable of refuting these tales in the categorical way that the law demands.

So much, then, for what “the gang” had done for Pulaski D. Britt and his interests. Britt lacked neither words nor will to make the story a black one.

As to what they intended to do, the Honorable Pulaski declaimed, with quivering finger rapping tattoo on the map of the Blunder valley, his voice hoarse with emotion and the perspiration of apprehensiveness streaking his puffy cheeks.

And with past enormities standing undefended, what might not a judge believe as to future atrocities when the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt had made the prediction, his chief exhibit of intended outlawry being five millions of timber stranded in Blunder valley, and requiring “stolen water” to move it? His last argument was an uncontradicted allegation of attempted compromise, his last word “Blackmail!” shot at the face of the opposing lawyer while his stubby finger vibrated under the lawyer’s nose.

Therefore, at the end of it all, the clerk of courts wrote, the judge signed, and five minutes after the ink was dry High Sheriff Bennett Rodliff buttoned his coat over the folded paper and set his face towards Enchanted.

Forty-eight hours later, having travelled by train, by stage, by sledge, and on foot, he stood before Dwight Wade in the midst of his crew at the landings in Blunder valley, gave the paper to him, and watched his face while he read it. Being a man who enjoyed his own authority and exulted in the power of the law when it dealt crushing blows, the high sheriff noted with satisfaction that the young man’s face grew pale under its tan.

“Get the sense, do you?” inquired the sheriff, allowing himself the relaxation of a chew of tobacco after his headlong rush into the north; “it’s an injunction. You can’t meddle with Blunder Lake dam; can’t h’ist gates; can’t take water!” He gazed about him at the heaped logs piled in the bed of the stream. “Kind o’ seems to me,” he observed, with smug rebuke, “that I’d have been slow in landin’ logs down here till I knowed what the law court was goin’ to do about these water-rights. Law steps slow and careful, and this whole thing has got to wait till it gets way up to the full bench. Lettin’ you have water here might be an admission by the big crowd that they was all wrong on the chief proposition. The big crowd ain’t that kind!”

Wade had read the injunction through to its bitter end. Every stilted phrase, every estopping, restraining word of its redundancy, was like a bar between him and his hopes. It was a temporary injunction. But the date set for a hearing on the question of permanency was a date that made those log-piles in Blunder valley loom in his dizzy gaze like monuments to buried expectations.

“Where was our lawyer when this damnable document was issued?” he cried, shaking the paper under the sheriff’s nose. His heart was aflame against the thing called Law. The sheriff stood there as Law’s representative, expressing in his blank face such unfeeling acceptance of the situation as hopeless, that Wade wanted to jam the paper between those jaws wagging blandly on their tobacco.

“Oh, he was there!” remarked Rodliff, dryly. “Perhaps if he hadn’t been there your case would have come off better. Judges ain’t got much use for lawyers when the shyster kind get shown up in a graft game. The fellow who named this Blunder valley years ago,” he observed, running his eyes over the log-piles once more, “must have had a gift of second-sight. Rod Ide’s always been cal’lated to be level-headed. It’s a wonder to me he let you fool him into this. I’ve heard considerable about it outside. But it’s worse than I’d reckoned on.”

For a sickening instant the thing showed to Wade in its blackest light. To be sure, it was the Law that struck down his hands. But it was plain that the Law was, after all, only a part of the game—and his enemies had invoked it and had won.

“Look here, men!” shouted the high sheriff, turning from his survey of this defeated wretchedness, “I want you to take note of what I’ve done here. I’ve served an injunction on your boss. It means that he’s got to leave Blunder Lake dam alone. Him and all his crew! Understand?”

The men had been slowly gathering near on the log-piles, in order to get drift of what this visit meant. Some of them had private reasons for wondering what business a high sheriff was on; all of them were curious. And the sheriff saw Tommy Eye in the forefront.

“By-the-way, Eye,” he called, “the wardens want you! You’d better come along out with me and save trouble.”

“I’m an outlaw,” cried Tommy, defiantly, “and I won’t come with nobody!”

The sheriff blinked at the man who had been his uncomplaining prisoner for so many summers, and seemed to be trying to digest this defiance.

“I’m an outlaw!” repeated the man. “I ain’t to work for nobody. I’ve jacked my job here. I’m just plain outlaw. I ain’t responsible to nobody. Nobody ain’t responsible for me. You tell that to everybody concerned. I’m an outlaw!”

Rodliff, still with wondering eyes on Tommy, slowly worked a revolver out of his hip-pocket.

“Come down off’n that pile!” he shouted. “I want you!”

But once the revolver was out the target was not visible. Three leaps, his calk boots biting the logs, put Tommy out of sight behind the pile. Two minutes later they heard him among the trees far up the slope of Blunder valley. He was still shouting his declaration of outlawry, and the diminuendo of tone indicated that he was running like a deer.

The high sheriff shoved back his revolver, scowling up at the grinning faces on the log-piles. But he found no hint of similar amiability in Wade’s expression when he turned to face the young man; and after surveying him up and down with much disfavor, he shook his fist in a gesture that embraced them all, and started away, flinging over his shoulder the contemptuous remark that he seemed to have “lighted in a pretty tough gang.” The significance of that expressed conviction was not lost on the young man. It revealed what machination was doing. Britt, bulwarked by the courts and public sentiment, was not to be fought by the outlawry he had invoked as the code of combat.

An hour later Dwight Wade was urging his horse towards Castonia. If Rodburd Ide or a message from Rodburd Ide were on the way north he would meet the situation so much the sooner. The sting of his bitter thoughts and the goad of his impatience would not allow him to stay at Enchanted. He wanted to know the exact facts “outside.” He did not dare to jeopardize his partner by the rashness his bitter anger once contemplated.

A half-mile down the tote road Tommy Eye dashed at him from the covert of the spruces.

“I reckoned you’d be goin’, Mr. Wade!” he panted. “I ain’t intendin’ to bother you—but what did Ben Rodliff say that was—that paper that he clubbed you with?”

The pitiful intensity of his loyal anxiety struck Wade to the heart. “It was an injunction, Tommy,” he explained, patiently. “It’s an order from the court. Oh, it’s horribly unjust! It may be law, but it isn’t justice; for justice would take into account a man’s common rights, and wouldn’t tie them up by pettifogging delays.” He was talking as much to himself as to the poor fellow who clung to the thill. The words surged into his mouth out of his full soul. “I have been square with men, Tommy, square and decent. I believe in law, and I want to respect it. But when law obeys Pulaski Britt’s bidding, and takes you by the throat and kneels on you and chokes you, and lets such a man as Britt walk past on his own business, free and clear, it’s law that’s devil-made.”

But the incantation of that law was having its effect on a nature that was more docile than it realized. In his hot anger he had said he would fight Britt with the tyrant’s own lawless choice of weapons. He looked back and remembered that he had intended to do so. A sheriff with a gold badge and a bit of paper had prevailed over his bitter resolution when Pulaski Britt and his army at his back would have failed to cow him.

The dull roll of a distant detonation came to them in the little silence that followed on Wade’s outburst. It came from the west, where men of the Enchanted crew were at work widening the granite jaws of Blunder gorge to give clear egress to the Enchanted drive. In that moment of his utter despair the roar of the rend-rock was a mocking voice.

“And that’s all there is to an injunction?” demanded Tommy. “Ben Rodliff hands you a paper, and spits tobacker-juice on the snow, and calls you a fool, and goes down past here, like he did a little while ago, swingin’ his reins and singin’ a pennyr’yal hymn? Only has to do that to tie up the whole Enchanted drive that we hundred men have sweat and froze and worked to get onto the landings?”

“Only that, Tommy,” replied Wade, bitterly. “The law is sitting there on Blunder dam. You can’t see it, but it’s there, and it says, ‘Hands off!’”

“There’s something you can see, though,” Tommy declared. “You can see two men in a shack that’s been built over the gates of Blunder Lake dam. One sleeps daytimes, the other sleeps nights, and they’ve both got Winchesters. I’ve been there private and personal, and looked ’em over.”

“I don’t want any of my men lurking about that dam,” commanded Wade.

Tommy Eye cinched his worn belt one notch tighter over his thin haunches and buttoned his checkered wool jacket. “I ain’t one of your men,” he growled, with such sudden and sullen change in demeanor that Wade stared at him in amazement. “I’ve gone into the outlaw business, and I’ve told you so, and I’ve told Ben Rodliff so.”

They heard the thudding boom of dynamite once more, and the absolutely fiendish look that came into Tommy’s face as he turned his gaze towards Blunder valley enlightened his employer.

“That sounds good to me!” shrieked the teamster. It was as though one of the docile Dobbins of the hovel had suddenly perked up ears and tail and begun to play the part of a beast of prey.

When Tommy ran back into the spruces Wade shouted after him, insistently and angrily. But he did not reply, and after a time Wade drove on, cursing soulfully the whole innate devilishness of the woods. That another weak nature had run amuck after the fashion to which he had become accustomed in his woods experience seemed probable; but he had neither time nor inclination to chase Tommy Eye. As to Blunder Lake dam, he reflected that the eternal vigilance of the Winchesters guaranteed Pulaski Britt’s interests in that direction, and, soul-sick of the whole wicked situation, he was glad that the Winchesters were there. He had failed. He could at least own that much man-fashion to Rodburd Ide.

It was a messenger that he met—not the partner himself. And as he had anticipated, the messenger summoned him to Castonia. The last few miles of his journey took him along the bank of the Umcolcus. The big river had already thrown off its winter sheathing and was running full and free. It was waiting for the northern lakes, still ice-bound, to surrender their waters and sweep the logs down to it.

Rodburd Ide’s stout soul uttered no complaints when the two had locked themselves in the little back office of the store. But his mute distress and bewilderment in the face of calamity sanctioned by the law touched his young partner more than complaints would have done. The fighting spirit was gone out of the little man.

“I didn’t reckon it could go against us that bad, not after what the lawyer said. He seemed to know his business, Wade. But maybe he was too honest to fight a crowd like that. It’s a crusher to come after hopes was up like mine was. I even went to work the minute the ice slid down-river, and set our sheer-booms above the logan and got the sortin’-gap ready. I was that sure our logs were comin’ down. But it ain’t your fault, Wade, and it ain’t mine. It’s just as I told you once before. It’s what we’re up against!”

And then, striving for a pretext to end the doleful session, he invited Wade to walk up the river-bank. He wanted to show him the site for the new great mills. “They can’t steal that much away from me, my boy,” he said, trying to be cheerful. “The mills will have to buy out of the corporation drive this year, seeing that we’re coopered on our contract. That means so much more good profit for Britt and his crowd. They’ve got their smell of what’s comin’, too, and that’s probably why they fought so hard to get the injunction. They’re in for a big make and their own prices this year. But the more I know about that charter of the Great Independent the more trouble I can see for the old crowd when the next legislature gets to tearin’ this thing to pieces. The G. I.’s know what they’re doin’. They’ll have their rights. And when the big wagon starts little fellers like you and me can climb aboard and ride, too. But the big wagon won’t start till next year,” he added, sadly.

Out-of-doors they did not talk. The roar of the Hulling Machine dominated everything, and the spume-clouds swaying above it spat in their faces. On the platform of Ide’s store the pathetic brotherhood of the “It-’ll-git-ye Club” sat in silent conclave, stunned into a queer stupor by the bellow of the Hulling Machine, even as habitual opium-eaters succumb to the blissful influence of the drug.

Above the falls an island divided the river. On the channel side the waters raced turbulently. The island sentinelled the mouth of the logan that deeply indented the shore on the quiet side of the river. Ide had installed a system of sheer-booms. They spanned the current diagonally, and were to be the silent herders that would edge the log-flocks away from the banks, crowd them to centre at the sorting-gap, and keep them running free. Below the sorting-gap there were two sheer-booms—divergent. One ushered the down-river logs back into the current that dashed towards the Hulling Machine. The other would swing the logs of the Enchanted drive into the quiet holding-ground of the logan.

The thought of the heaped logs in Blunder valley, the memory of the dynamite bellowing its farewell to him over the tree-tops, and now the spectacle of these empty booms, had the eloquence of despair and the pathos of failure for Dwight Wade. And as the two of them—he and his partner—stood there and gazed silently, they were forced to face bitter accentuation of their stricken fortunes. Pulaski D. Britt, master of the Umcolcus drive, came on his way north at the head of his men. It was an army marching with all its impedimenta. There were many huge bateaux swung upon trucks that had hauled them around the white-water. Men launched them into the eddy above the Hulling Machine, and began to load them with tents, cordage, and the wangan stores.

Rodburd Ide and his young partner stood at one side, and surveyed this scene of activity without speaking. And Britt marched up to them, raucous and domineering with the masterfulness of the river tyrant. It had long been the saying along the Umcolcus that Pulaski Britt got mad a week before the driving season opened, and stayed mad a week after it ended.

“Ide,” he cried, “you and I seem to be always in trouble with each other lately! But it’s of your own makin’, not mine! These sheer-booms that you’ve stuck in here obstruct navigation. I want to get my boats up. You’ve got to cut these booms loose.”

“Mr. Britt,” returned Ide, his tones quivering with passion, “two men in each bateau crew can shove those booms down with pick-poles and let a bateau over without wasting a minute’s time. You’ve brought those bateaux over all your own sheer-booms below here—you’ve got your own booms above. You’ve been riding over ’em for thirty years. Now be reasonable.”

“You run back down there to your store and get onto your job of sellin’ kerosene and crackers,” advised the Honorable Pulaski, sarcastically. “Don’t you undertake to tell me my business. As river-master, I say those logs obstruct navigation, and what I say on this river goes!”

“You talk, Britt, as though a title that you’ve grabbed onto, the same as you have everything else along this river, amounted to anything in law,” objected the magnate of Castonia. “I own the land that those booms are hitched to, and you’re not goin’ to bluff me by any of your obstruction-to-navigation talk. You’ve managed to get most things along this river this spring your own way, but I reckon I know when you’ve gone about far enough. Don’t try to rub it in!”

Mr. Britt, serene in his autocracy as drive-master, was in no mood to bandy arguments nor waste time on such as Rodburd Ide.

He whirled away, lifted a wooden box from one of the wagons, and set it down gingerly.

“MacLeod!” he called. The boss came away from the river-bank, where he was superintending stowing of supplies. “Unpack this dynamite, and blow damnation out of those booms—the sortin’-gap first!”

The man twisted his face in a queer grimace.

“I don’t think I’ll do it, Mr. Britt,” he said, curtly.

He looked away from Britt when the tyrant began to storm at him, and fixed his eyes on Wade’s face with an expression there was no reading.

“No, I ain’t no coward, either,” he said, at last, interrupting his employer’s flow of invective. “But dynamitin’ other folks’ booms with the folks lookin’ at you ain’t laid down in a river-driver’s job; and I ain’t got any relish for nailin’ boot-heels all next summer in a jail workshop.”

“I’ll take the responsibility of this!” shouted Britt.

“Then you’d better do the job, sir,” suggested MacLeod, firmly. “Law has queer quirks, and I don’t propose to get mixed into it.”

There was no gainsaying the logic of the boss’s position. The Honorable Pulaski noted that the men had overheard. He noted also that there were no signs of any volunteers coming from the ranks. And so, with the impetuosity of his temper, when the eyes of men were upon him, he set his own hand to the job. With a cant-dog peak he began to pry at the box-cover.

And Colin MacLeod, hesitating a moment, walked straight up to Dwight Wade—to that young man’s discomposure, it must be confessed. Wade set his muscles to meet attack. But MacLeod halted opposite him, folded his arms, and gazed at him with something of appeal in his frank, gray eyes. There was candor in his look. In their other meetings Wade had only seen blind hate and unreasoning passion.

“Maybe you’ve got an idea that I’m a pretty cheap skate, Mr. Wade,” he blurted. “Maybe I am, but it ain’t been so between me and men unless there was women mixed in. My head ain’t strong where women is mixed in. You hold on and let me talk!” he cried, putting up his big hand. “I’ve got eleven hundred dollars in the bank that I’ve saved, my two hands, and a reputation of bein’ square between men. That’s all I’ve got, and I want to keep all three. I had you sized up wrong at the start. I mixed women in without any right to. I misjudged the cards as they laid. I used you dirty, and I got what was comin’ to me. Now I’ve found out. I know how things stand with you all along the line, from there”—he pointed south towards the outside world that held Elva Barrett—“to there on Enchanted. And I’m sorry! I’m sorry I ever got mistaken, and made things harder for a square man. You heard what I just said to Mr. Britt. I wanted you to hear it. All is, I’d like to shake hands with you and start fresh. It may have to be man to man between us yet on this river, but, by ——, for myself I want it man-fashion.”

He cast a glance behind him. Britt had the box open, and had dug out of the sawdust some cylinders in brown-paper wrappings. When MacLeod whirled again to face Wade the latter put out his hand without reservation in face or gesture. Months before, such amazing repentance and conversion might have astonished him, but now he understood the real ingenuousness of the woods. Pulaski Britt, hardened by avarice and outside associations, was not of the true life of the woods. This impulsive boy, with his mighty muscles and his tender heart, was of the woods, and only the woods.

MacLeod came one step nearer to Rodburd Ide, and pulled off his hat.

“If it ain’t too much trouble, Mr. Ide, I wish you’d tell Miss Nina that I’ve done it square and righted it fair. And don’t scowl at me that way, Mr. Ide! It was a dream—and I’ve woke up! It was a pretty wild dream—and a man does queer things in his sleep. Your girl ain’t for me or my kind, and I know it, now that I’ve woke up. I’d like to tell her so, and explain, but I don’t know how to do it, Mr. Ide. You do it for me. I ask you man-fashion!”

He started away from them hastily, strode back to the bateaux, and began to swear at the men who had stopped work to gaze on the Honorable Pulaski. The latter had already embarked in a bateau, carrying several of those ominous sticks wrapped in their brown-paper cases.

“Britt,” shrieked Ide, “we’ve been to law with you to find out our rights! Ain’t you willin’ to take your own medicine?”

“Hell on your law!” blazed the drive-master, contemptuously.

“Give us time to get an injunction before you destroy our good property,” demanded the little man, choking with his ire.

For answer Britt shook one of the dynamite sticks above his head without even turning to look back. His men crowded the boat over the boom at the sorting-gap, and Britt lighted the fuse and tossed the explosive upon the anchored log platform.

“Oh, if our men were only here instead of at Enchanted!” mourned Ide.

“They’re just where we ought to have them, Mr. Ide,” the young man growled.

Britt was safely away up-river when the dynamite did its work; his men had rowed like fiends. It was a beautiful job, viewed from the stand-point of destruction. The downward thrust of the mighty force splintered the platform into toothpicks and let the booms adrift.

The partners of Enchanted did not exchange comments. They gazed after the destroyer. Taking his time, as though to prolong their distress, Britt dynamited the booms above, and then stood up and jerked his arm as a signal for his crew to follow. They went splashing up the river, six oars to a bateau, and disappeared, one boat after the other, bound for the mouth of Jerusalem Stream. Already the jaws of the Hulling Machine were gulping down the gobbets of splintered logs.

“How soon can you replace those booms, Mr. Ide?” Wade edged the words through his teeth, as a man stricken with lockjaw might have spoken. And without waiting for reply, he hurried on. “Put ’em in, Mr. Ide, because you’re going to need ’em. And put along this shore all the men in Castonia who can handle guns. Winchesters and dynamite, with ‘Hell on law’ for a battle-cry! That’s what he’s given us. It’s good enough for me. Will you put those booms in, Mr. Ide?”

“I’ll put ’em in, and I’ll protect ’em after they’re put in,” declared the little man, stoutly. The fighting spirit was in him again.

They looked at each other a moment, and turned and hurried back towards the settlement. Neither man seemed to feel that words could help that situation nor emphasize determination.

Prophet Eli was in front of Ide’s store with his little white stallion when the two arrived there. The old man surveyed Wade shrewdly when he hastened to Nina Ide, who was waiting for a word with him.

“Boy! boy!” whispered the girl, clasping his tanned hand in both of hers, “I don’t like to see your eyes shine so! They’re hard. But I know how to soften them. I have a letter for you from the one woman of all the world. Come with me and get it.”

“Keep it for me,” he muttered—“keep it until I come for it. I’m not fit to touch it now. It might make a decent man of me, and—and—I don’t want to be—not just yet, Miss Nina.” He whirled away, climbed upon his jumper, and lashed his horse back along the trail towards Enchanted. The words of that half-jeering ditty of Prophet Eli’s followed him, as they had on that memorable first day at Castonia, and grotesque as the lilt was, it seemed to express the young man’s flaming resolution:

CHAPTER XXVIII

“I’m gettin’ to be a worse outlaw than ever, Mr. Wade,” declared the teamster. “I’ve stole one of your hosses, and grub and hay from the store camp, and I’m livin’ here in the woods. I’ve been waitin’ for you,” he added, wistfully. “I might have slept a little last night when I didn’t know, but I reckon I didn’t. I figgered you’d come. I’ve been waitin’ for you. They can’t say I’m one of your men, Mr. Wade. I’m livin’ here in the woods.”

“Look here, Eye,” blurted his employer, roughly, “I haven’t any time nor taste for fool talk just now. You take the horse back to camp and get on your job.” He started on.

“You don’t sound as though you’d got what you went after,” cried Tommy, unabashed. He came trotting behind. “You didn’t get satisfaction, then, Mr. Wade! Injunction still there, hey? You didn’t get—”

“What did you suppose I’d get from Pulaski Britt, you infernal fool?” His own brutality towards the faithful servitor made him ashamed. But the spirit of evil that had taken possession of him was speaking through lips that he surrendered in weariness of body and bitterness of soul. And when a shade of repentance smote him at sight of Tommy trotting sorrowfully at his side, he gasped out of his woe. “He has dynamited our booms, Tommy. Did it with his own hands. And now”—he threw up his arms towards Blunder Lake—“wait till to-morrow!”

Tommy Eye stopped without a word and let Wade go on.

“Wait till to-morrow?” he mumbled, as he scrambled back up the knoll. “Wait till to-morrow, when I’ve got a two-hoss load of canned thunder planted under Blunder dam, and the devil helpin’ me by puttin’ them two to sleep ev’ry night, snorin’ like quill-pigs?” He waited until Wade had stumbled out of sight, then cinched upon his horse the blankets that had served for couch during his vigil, mounted, and urged the animal through the woods, kicking heels into its flanks.

There were men of the crew who heard an unwonted sound in the midnight hush of the Enchanted camp. It was a dull, heavy, earth-thudding noise that swept down from the north over the tree-tops and travelled on through the forest. Men awoke and asked themselves what had awakened them, and went to sleep again, and knew not what it meant.

Wade did not hear the sound. Exhaustion had fettered his senses when he crawled into his bunk in the office camp. What he did hear, as he roused himself in the gray of early dawn to set his hand to the desperate task he was resolved upon, was the splattering rush of a horse’s feet in the spring ooze of the tote road and a human voice that shrieked, hysterically: “Man the river, damn ye! Man the river!”

It was Tommy Eye. He was crouched on the back of his horse when the men came tumbling out. His little eyes were like fire-points. The wattles of his neck were blood-gorged. He spat froth as he raved at them.

“Man the river, I tell ye! She’s b’ilin’ full from bank to bank. Ben Rodliff’s injunction busted to blazes and the Enchanted drive started slam-whoopin’, and it’s me that’s done it!”

“You hellion, have you blowed Blunder dam?” shouted the chopping-boss, while Dwight Wade was still gasping for words.

“Blowed Blunder dam!” shrieked Tommy, “Why, I’ve blowed Blunder dam so high that Ben Rodliff’s injunction can’t get to it in a balloon. I’ve blowed a gouge ten feet deep in the bed-rock. I’ve let the innards out of Blunder Lake. She’s runnin’ valley-full, ice-cakes dancin’ jigs on the black water! And when they ask who done it, tell ’em it was me—Tommy Eye, the outlaw! Tommy Eye, with a two-hoss load of canned thunder!” He tried to shake his fists above his head, but groaned, and one arm dropped as though it were helpless. Blood was caked on his hand and wrist. He did not wait for Wade to ask the question.

“It’s the pay I got for wakin’ ’em up in time to run, Mr. Wade. I give ’em a chance. They give me a thirty-thirty! They’d have give me more if they could have shot straighter. I’m an outlaw, but there ain’t no blood on my head, Mr. Wade.”

He slid off the horse and staggered towards the cook camp.

“Gimme mine in my hand, cook!” he called. “I’ll eat it while I’m runnin’. For it’s man the river, boys!”

And the rest of them ate running, too. Wade led them, determined that no one should head him in the race. He heard the husky breathing of the hundred runners at his back when he swept around the granite dome of Enchanted and came in view of the valley. They stopped, panting, and surveyed the scene for a moment. They saw the tumbling waters, yeasty and brown. They heard the groan and grunt of dissolving log-piles as the fierce tide tore at them and bore away the logs. And each man took a new grip on his cant-dog handle and loped on.

It was plain that Tommy Eye had spoken the truth. That flood was not the mere outrush through shattered dam-gates. Blunder Lake was emptying itself through a rent deeper than nature had set in its side. In a stream-bed of intervales and broad levels the Enchanted drive would have been scattered to its own disaster. But Blunder valley was slashed deep between the hills. The turbid flood that raced there was penned. The log-herds could only butt the granite cliffs and surge on. There was but one outlet—the mad current of Blunder Stream pouring down to its junction with the Umcolcus.

They “manned the river,” scattering along, one man posted at a curve in sight of another. A hat waved meant that a jam was forming and called for help. And when timber jack-strawed too wildly to be readily loosened by cant-dog and pick-pole they dynamited. There was no time for “knittin’-work” on that drive.

Tommy Eye, with meal-sack slung over his shoulder, made himself custodian of the “canned thunder.” It was Larry Gorman, woodsman poet, who first called him “Tommy Thunder.” If you go into the north country you can probably find some one to sing you the song that Larry Gorman composed, the first verse running:

His was the recklessness of mania. Men who saw him coming along the shore with his horrid burden dodged into the woods. Where and when he slept no one knew. Daytime and night-time he was racing to where logs had cob-piled. Roars that boomed among the hills told that he had arrived. In the first gray of morning men saw him warming his dynamite over a camp-fire, and shuddered and hurried away. To find the king log of a jam and drop his cartridge where it would have instant effect, he took chances that made men turn their backs. It isn’t pleasant to see a man macerated by grinding logs or scattered across the sky.

No word passed between Tommy Eye and Dwight Wade. Those days and nights when the Enchanted drive was on its roaring way down Blunder Stream towards the Umcolcus River were not the sort of days that invited conversation. On the ordinary stream-drives to the main river, in the desperate hurry of the driving-pitch, men work as many hours as they can stand up. With the drive under control, they can at least stop sluicing in the dead hours of the night. But the Enchanted drive that spring was a wild beast that never closed its eyes. As it raged along they did not dare to leave it alone for an hour. Men raced beside it, clutched at it, clung as long as they were able, and dropped off, stunned by the stupor of exhaustion.

After a few hours some one’s prodding foot stirred them back to wakefulness, and they stumbled up and began the fight once more. Outside of a charge in battle, there is no place where individual rivalry is so keen and eager as in a driving-crew on hard waters. Men do not require to be urged to do their utmost. “Coward” and “shirk” are sneers that cut deeply down-river.

Wade, rushing from point to point, cant-dog in hand, his shoes mere pulp, his clothes in tatters, saw men asleep with their faces in the tin plates that the cookee had heaped with food. They had gone to sleep with the first mouthful, hungry as demons, but overcome the moment their feet stopped moving.

Some he found asleep where they were posted to “card”[6] certain ledges. He beat them about the head with the flat of his hand, and they awoke and thanked him with wistful smiles that touched his heart. But brutal force had started the Enchanted drive, brutal force marked its rush, and it had to be brutal force that could keep it going. Brutal force took toll in the logs that were splintered by dynamite, but it was a toll that circumstances demanded. A man unwilling to take the chances that Tommy Eye took would have wasted thousands of feet instead of hundreds, and Wade knew it, and gulped words of gratitude when they met, hurrying on the shore.

Half-way to the Umcolcus, Lazy Tom Stream enters Blunder, and here Wade found Barnum Withee rushing in his logs and eager to accept an invitation to join drives. Withee was asking no questions. He did not need to. He understood. What had been done upstream was none of his business. He could declare that much when he got his drive down, and could defend himself from complicity. In the mean time he would take advantage of the situation.

There were now one hundred and sixty herders of the wild flock, with Barnum Withee, one of the best men on the river, to take command of the rear.

So Wade went to the front—to Castonia, sweeping down the swollen Umcolcus in one of Withee’s bateaux with four men at the oars. He had played violence against violence in the big game. It was natural to suppose that Pulaski Britt by this time had his fists clinched ready to retaliate.

On either side of his bateau as he hurried to Castonia the logs ran free. But they were all his own logs, this advance-guard, marked with the double diamond and cross.

Had Rodburd Ide done his part, and were they being held at Castonia?

He found the booms set again, Rodburd Ide in command at the sorting-gap, and various members of the “It-’ll-git-ye Club” sitting along the shore with guns across their knees. Every able-bodied man in Castonia was on the booms with a pick-pole, and already the double-diamond logs were swirling and herding in the logan.

“It’s done, and they’ll have us into court, but, by ——, we’ll have some ready money to fight ’em with!” screamed the little man, grasping Wade’s hand as the bateau swung broadside to the sorting-gap platform. And when he had heard the story of “Tommy Thunder, outlaw,” that his partner hurriedly related, his mouth parted in a grin, even though his forehead puckered with apprehension.

“But will it let us out, Wade?” he asked. “The man took it on himself out of his grudge against Britt. But will it let us out?”

“It’s your money that is in this thing, and not mine,” returned the young man, “and I suppose it’s natural for you to think of your property first. But as for me, Mr. Ide, I’ll take what profits are coming to me from this operation, and I’ll stand in with poor old Tommy Eye, jointly indicted, jointly in the dock, jointly in jail, till the last dollar is spent. For he did just what I meant to do!”

For an instant Ide’s eyes flickered. Then they became shiny.

“My boy,” he said, “the Enchanted Township Lumber Company is incorporated, and you and I own the stock. With your consent, I’m goin’ to make over ten shares of that stock to Thomas Eye before I sleep to-night. I reckon this company stands ready to fight its battles and protect its members.”

“Mr. Ide,” gulped Wade, contritely, “forgive me for that hasty speech. But God help me, partner, I’ve been in hell since I saw you last, and I’m full of the fires of it! I think you can understand.”

He crouched there in the bateau, clutching the gunwale with hands that trembled until they shook his body to and fro. His face was streaked with the grime of days and nights of toil. His eyes were haggard with sleeplessness. Fasting had hollowed his cheeks. Such lines as only the bitter things of life can set in the human countenance were traced deep upon the brown skin. In his rags and his weariness he was as one who had been conquered instead of one who had fulfilled. The little man of Castonia reached down and patted his shoulder with a hand that had a father’s sympathy in its touch.

“Bub,” he murmured, “I’m goin’ to take some other time to tell you what I think of you. Just now I want you to go down to the house. My Nina will know what to do for you and what to say to you. She has some letters for you to read before you go to sleep, and I reckon they’ll give you pleasant dreams.”

Kate Arden opened the door and welcomed him with a smile, the first he had ever seen on her face. His heart came into his mouth at sight of her. Never had she seemed so like Elva Barrett. But before he had word with her Nina Ide came running, floury hands outspread, her face alight above her housewife’s tire. She stood on tiptoe, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“Brother Dwight! Brother Dwight!” she half sobbed. “Oh, Brother Dwight, I didn’t know—I didn’t realize—I didn’t understand, or I would have held you back until you had torn these two arms from my shoulders. I prayed for you and watched for you. They buy their logs with blood up there. But it shall not be with your blood, Dwight. I have hated father all these days. He knew what you were going back to, and didn’t stop you!”

“It was all my own affair, little girl,” Wade returned, gently—“my duty, to which I was bound by fair man-promise. And I’ve got our logs into the river, but it has been the kind of work that blisters souls, Sister Nina!” His voice had a pathetic quaver of weariness.

“I was at the sorting-gap when the first one came, and I knelt and kissed it,” she said, smiling at him from misty eyes. “And then I wrote to the one of all the world and told her about a hero.”

An hour later he lay asleep in a darkened room, the tense lines gone from his face, his lax hand spread over a letter, finding the sweetest solace in slumber he had known for many a day.

At the first peep of light next morning he was at the sorting-gap in full command, removing a burden of responsibility from Rodburd Ide which had made that little man a quaking wreck of his ordinarily self-reliant self; for in every log that had come spinning around the upper bend of the Umcolcus his fears had seen the peak of Pulaski Britt’s rushing bateau.

That the river tyrant would come, furious beyond words, was a fact accepted by Dwight Wade, and Wade was ready to meet him. But every hour that passed without bringing the drive-master meant so much more towards the success of the Enchanted drive.

The logs came in stampeding droves. Withee’s were mixed among the “double diamonds,” but there were no delays at the sorting-gap. Two crews fed them through—one for day and one for night, with a dozen lanterns lighting their work. Wade was resolved that Britt should lack at least one argument in the bitter contention. The sorting should be done faithfully and promptly, and the down-river drive should be hurried on its way. But at the end of four days not one of the logs nicked with the “double hat,” Britt’s registered mark, had shown up. Nor did Britt himself appear.

A sullen, suffering man of Britt’s crew, who came walking into Castonia with hand held above his head to ease the agony of a felon, brought the first news.

Blunder Lake dam had been blown up, he reported, and such a chasm had been opened in the bed-rock that the lake had vomited its waters to the west until the bed of Britt’s shallow canal to the east was above the water-line. Britt had only his splash dams along Jerusalem for a driving-head. In the past years the pour of the canal had given him a current in Jerusalem dead-water. Now he was trying to warp his logs across there with head-works and anchor. But the south wind was howling against him, and no human muscle could turn the windlass, even when the oaths of the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt dinned in the ears of his toilers. All this the new-comer related.

“And it’s something awful to hear!” said the man. “He walks the platform of that head-works, back and forth and back and forth. He cusses God and the angels, the wind and all it blows across. And then when he is well worked up to cussin’, he ’tends to the case of the devil that blowed up Blunder Lake dam. And his face is as red as my shirt, and the veins stick out on his for’ead as big as a baby’s finger. They say that you can’t cuss only about so much without somethin’ happenin’ to you. I’ve read about the cap’n of a ship that done it too much once, and his ghost is still a-sailin’. All I’ve got to say is that if Pulaski Britt don’t stop, he’ll get his.”

The “It-’ll-git-ye Club” had listened to this recital intently. It agreed forebodingly. In fact, in special session the club passed a vote of dismal prophecy for the whole Jerusalem operation.

CHAPTER XXIX