As he passed a bunk midway of the room, Steve rose to his feet and confronted him. "Ha! Here's the greener kid—the boss's pet that's too good to bunk in the men's camp! Whatchu doin' in here? Did Hurley send you after some strap oil?" As the two boys stood facing each other in the middle of the big room the men saw that the cookee was the taller and the heavier of the two. The harmonica stopped and the men glanced in grinning expectation at the two figures. Steve's sneering laugh sounded startingly loud in the sudden silence. "He made his brag he used to tame bear-cats over in Canady!" he said. "Well, I'm a bear-cat—come on an' tame me! I'm wild!" Reaching swiftly the boy jerked the cap from Connie's head and hurled it across the room where it lodged in an upper bunk. Some of the men laughed, but there were others who did not laugh—those who noted the slight paling of the smaller boy's face and the stiffening of his muscles. With hardly a glance at Steve, Connie stepped around him and walked to where Saginaw Ed sat, an interested spectator of the scene.
"The boss wants to see you in the office," he said, and turning on his heel, retraced his steps. Steve stood in the middle of the floor where he had left him, the sneering smile still upon his lips.
"I believe he's goin' to cry," he taunted, and again some men laughed.
"What is it you say you are? I don't believe they all heard you." Again Connie was facing him, and his voice was steady and very low.
"I'm a bear-cat!"
Connie stretched out his arm: "Give me my cap, please, I'm in a hurry." The boy seized the hand roughly, which was just what Connie expected, and the next instant his other hand closed about Steve's wrist and quick as a flash he whirled and bent sharply forward. There was a shrill yelp of pain as the older boy shot over Connie's lowered shoulder and struck with a thud upon the uneven floor. The next instant Connie was astride the prostrate form and with a hand at his elbow and another at his wrist, slowly forced the boy's arm upward between his shoulder blades.
"O-o-o, O-w-w!" howled Steve. "Take him off! He's killin' me!" Roars of laughter filled the room as the lumberjacks looked on with shouts of encouragement and approval. The cookee continued to howl and beg.
"Once more, now," said Connie, easing up a bit on the arm. "Tell them what you are."
"Le' me up! Yer broke my arm!"
"Oh, no I didn't." Connie increased the pressure. "Come on, tell them what you told them a minute ago. Some of them look as if they don't believe it."
"O-w-w, I'm a-a bear-cat—O-w-w!" whimpered the boy, with such a shame-faced expression that the men roared with delight.
Connie rose to his feet. "Climb up there and get my cap, and bring it down and hand it to me," he ordered tersely. "And the next time you feel wild, just let me know."
For only an instant the boy looked into the blue-grey eyes that regarded him steadily and then sullenly, without a word, he stepped onto the lower bunk, groped for a moment in the upper one and handed Connie his cap. A moment later the boy, accompanied by Saginaw Ed, stepped out into the night, but Saginaw saw what Connie did not—the look of crafty malevolence that flashed into Steve's eyes as they followed the departing pair.
"By jiminetty, kid, y're all right!" approved the man, as they walked toward the office. "That was as handy a piece of work as I ever seen, an' they ain't a man in camp'll fergit it. You're there! But keep yer eye on that cookee—he's a bad egg. Them kind can't take a lickin' like a man. He'll lay fer to git even, if it takes him all winter—not so much fer what you done to him as where you done it—with the men all lookin' on. They never will quit raggin' him with his bear-cat stuff—an' he knows it."
WANT to go 'long?" asked Hurley, the morning after the "bear-cat" incident, as he and Connie were returning to the office from breakfast at the cook's camp. "I've got to locate the new camp an' then we'll blaze her out an' blaze the road so Saginaw can keep the men goin'." The boy eagerly assented, and a few moments later they started, Hurley carrying an axe, and Connie with a light hand-axe thrust into his belt. Turning north, they followed the river. It was slow travelling, for it was necessary to explore every ravine in search of a spot where a road crossing could be effected without building a bridge. The spot located, Hurley would blaze a tree and they would strike out for the next ravine.
"It ain't like we had to build a log road," explained the boss, as he blazed a point that, to Connie, looked like an impossible crossing. "Each camp will have its own rollways an' all we need is a tote road between 'em. Frenchy Lamar can put a team anywhere a cat will go. He's the best hand with horses on the job, if he is a jumper."
"What's a jumper?" asked Connie.
"You'll find that out fast enough. Jumpin' a man generally means a fight in the woods—an' I don't blame 'em none, neither. If I was a jumper an' a man jumped me, he'd have me to lick afterwards—an' if any one jumps a jumper into hittin' me, he'll have me to lick, too."
When they had proceeded for four or five miles Hurley turned again toward the river and for two hours or more studied the ground minutely for a desirable location for the new camp. Up and down the bank, and back into the woods he paced, noting in his mind every detail of the lay of the land. "Here'd be the best place for the camp if it wasn't fer that there sand bar that might raise thunder when we come to bust out the rollways," he explained, as they sat down to eat their lunch at midday. "There ain't no good rollway ground for a half a mile below the bar—an' they ain't no use makin' the men walk any furthur'n what they have to 'specially at night when they've put in a hard day's work. We'll drop back an' lay her out below—it ain't quite as level, but it'll save time an' a lot of man-power."
As Connie ate his lunch he puzzled mightily over Hurley. He had journeyed from far off Alaska for the purpose of bringing to justice a man who had swindled him and his partner out of thousands of dollars worth of timber. His experience with the Mounted had taught him that, with the possible exception of Notorious Bishop whose consummate nerve had commanded the respect even of the officers whose business it was to hunt him down, law-breakers were men who possessed few if any admirable qualities. Yet here was a man who, Connie was forced to admit, possessed many such qualities. His first concern seemed to be for the comfort of his men, and his orders regarding the keeping of the wanagan book showed that it was his intention to deal with them fairly. His attitude toward the despicable I. W. W.'s was the attitude that the boy knew would have been taken by any of the big men of the North whose rugged standards he had unconsciously adopted as his own. He, himself, had been treated by the boss with a bluff friendliness—and he knew that, despite Hurley's blustering gruffness, the men, with few exceptions, liked him. The boy frankly admitted that had he not known Hurley to be a crook he too would have liked him.
Luncheon over, the boss arose and lighted his pipe: "Well, 'spose we just drop back an' lay out the camp, then on the way home we'll line up the road an' take some of the kinks out of it an' Saginaw can jump the men into it tomorrow mornin'." They had proceeded but a short distance when the man pointed to a track in the softer ground of a low swale: "Deer passed here this mornin'," he observed. "The season opens next week, an' I expect I won't be back with the crew in time for the fun. If you'd like to try yer hand at it, yer welcome to my rifle. I'll dig you out some shells tonight if you remind me to."
"I believe I will have a try at 'em," said Connie, as he examined the tracks; "there were two deer—a doe, and a half-grown fawn, and there was a loup-cervier following them—that's why they were hitting for the river."
Hurley stared at the boy in open-mouthed astonishment: "Looky here, kid, I thought you said you never worked in the woods before!"
Connie smiled: "I never have, but I've hunted some, up across the line."
"I guess you've hunted some, all right," observed the boss, drily; "I wondered how it come you wasn't petered out that night we come into the woods. Wherever you've hunted ain't none of my business. When a man's goin' good, I b'lieve in tellin' him so—same's I b'lieve in tellin' him good an' plain when he ain't. You've made a good start. Saginaw told me about what you done to that mouthy cookee. That was all right, fer as it went. If I'd be'n you I'd a punched his face fer him when I had him down 'til he hollered' 'nough'—but if you wanted to let him off that hain't none of my business—jest you keep yer eye on him, that's all—he's dirty. Guess I didn't make no mistake puttin' you in fer clerk—you've learnt to keep yer eyes open—that's the main thing, an' mebbe it'll stand you good 'fore this winter's over. There's more'n I. W. W.'s is the matter with this camp—" The boss stopped abruptly and, eyeing the boy sharply, repeated his warning of a few days before: "Keep yer mouth shet. There's me, an' Saginaw, an' Lon Camden—he'll be the scaler, an' whoever bosses Number Two Camp—Slue Foot Magee, if I can git holt of him. He was my straw-boss last year. If you've got anythin' to say, say it to us. Don't never tell nothin' to nobody else about nothin' that's any 'count—see?"
"You can depend on me for that," answered the boy, and Hurley picked up his axe.
"Come on, le's git that camp laid out. We won't git nothin' done if we stand 'round gassin' all day." The two followed down the river to the point indicated by Hurley where the banks sloped steeply to the water's edge, well below the long shallow bar that divided the current of the river into two channels. As they tramped through the timber Connie puzzled over the words of the boss. Well he knew that there was something wrong in camp beside the I. W. W.'s. But why should Hurley speak of it to him? And why should he be pleased at the boy's habit of observation? "Maybe he thinks I'll throw in with him on the deal," he thought: "Well, he's got an awful jolt coming to him if he does—but, things couldn't have broken better for me, at that."
At the top of the steep bank Hurley blazed some trees, and with a heavy black pencil, printed the letter R in the centre of the flat, white scars. "That'll show 'em where to clear fer the rollways," he explained, then, striking straight back from the river for about twenty rods, he blazed a large tree. Turning at right angles, he proceeded about twenty five rods parallel with the river bank and made a similar blaze. "That gives 'em the corners fer the clearin', an' now fer spottin' the buildin's." Back and forth over the ground went the man, pausing now and then to blaze a tree and mark it with the initial of the building whose site it marked. "We don't have to corner these," he explained, "Saginaw knows how big to build 'em—the trees marks their centre." The sun hung low when the task was completed. "You strike out for the head of the nearest ravine," said Hurley, "an' when you come to the tree we blazed comin' up, you holler. Then I'll blaze the tote road to you, an' you can slip on to the next one. Straighten her out as much as you can by holdin' away from the short ravines." Connie was surprised at the rapidity with which Hurley followed, pausing every few yards to scar a tree with a single blow of his axe.
The work was completed in the dark and as they emerged onto the clearing Hurley again regarded the boy with approval: "You done fine, kid. They's plenty of older hands than you be, that would of had trouble locatin' them blazes in the night, but you lined right out to 'em like you was follerin' a string. Come on, we'll go wash up an' see what the cook's got fer us."
After supper Saginaw Ed received his final instructions, and early next morning Hurley struck out on foot fer Dogfish Spur. "So long, kid," he called from the office door. "I left the shells on top of my desk an' yonder hangs the rifle. I was goin' to give you a few pointers, but from what I seen yeste'day, I don't guess you need none about huntin'. I might be back in a week an' it might be two 'cordin' to how long it takes me to pick up a crew. I've got some men waitin' on me, but I'll have to rustle up the balance wherever I can git 'em. I told Saginaw he better move his turkey over here while I'm gone. You'll find Saginaw a rough-bark piece of timber—but he's sound clean plumb through to the heart, an' if you don't know it now, before this winter's over yer goin' to find out that them's the kind to tie to—when you kin find 'em."
Connie gazed after the broad-shouldered form 'til it disappeared from sight around a bend of the tote road, then he turned to his books with a puzzled expression. "Either Mike Gillum was wrong, or Hurley's the biggest bluffer that ever lived," he muttered, "and which ever way it is I'll know by spring."
Saginaw put his whole crew at work on the tote road. Saplings and brush were cleared away and thrown to the side. Trees were felled, the larger ones to be banked on the skidways and later hauled to the rollways to await the spring break-up, and the smaller ones to be collected and hauled to the new camp for building material.
Connie's duties were very light and he spent much time upon the new tote road watching the men with whom he had become a great favourite. Tiring of that, he would take long tramps through the woods and along the banks of the numerous little lakes that besprinkled the country, searching for sign, so that, when the deer season opened he would not have to hunt at random, but could stalk his game at the watering places.
"Whar's yer gun, sonny?" called out a lanky sawyer as the boy started upon one of these excursions.
"Hay ain' need no gun," drawled Swede Larson, with a prodigious wink that distorted one whole side of his face. "Ay tank he gon fer hont some bear-cat." And the laughter that followed told Connie as he proceeded on his way, that his handling of Steve had met the universal approval of the crew.
It was upon his return from this expedition that the boy witnessed an actual demonstration of the effect of sudden suggestion upon a jumper. Frenchy Lamar pulled his team to the side of the roadway and drew his watch from his pocket. At the same time, Pierce, one of the I. W. W. suspects, slipped up behind him and bringing the flat of his hand down upon Frenchy's shoulder, cried: "throw it." Frenchy threw it, and the watch dropped with a jangle of glass and useless wheels at the foot of a tree. The next instant Frenchy whirled upon his tormentor with a snarl. The man, who had no stomach for an open fight, turned to run but the Frenchman was too quick for him. The other two I. W. W.'s started to their pal's assistance but were halted abruptly, and none too gently by other members of the crew. "Fight!" "Fight!" The cry was taken up by those nearby and all within hearing rushed gleefully to the spot. The teamster was popular among the men and he fought amid cries of advice and encouragement: "Soak 'im good, Frenchy!" "Don't let 'im holler ''nough' till he's down!"
The combat was short, but very decisive. Many years' experience in the lumber woods had taught Frenchy the art of self-defence by force of fist—not, perhaps, the most exalted form of asserting a right nor of avenging a wrong—but, in the rougher walks of life, the most thoroughly practical, and the most honourable. So, when the teamster returned to his horses a few minutes later, it was to leave Pierce whimpering upon the ground nursing a badly swollen and rapidly purpling eye, the while he muttered incoherent threats of dire vengeance.
CHANGED yer job?" inquired Saginaw Ed, sleepily a few mornings later when Connie slipped quietly from his bunk and lighted the oil lamp.
"Not yet," smiled the boy. "Why?"
"No one but teamsters gits up at this time of night—you got an hour to sleep yet."
"This is the first day of the season, and I'm going out and get a deer."
Saginaw laughed: "Oh, yer goin' out an' git a deer—jest like rollin' off a log! You might's well crawl back in bed an' wait fer a snow. Deer huntin' without snow is like fishin' without bait—you might snag onto one, but the chances is all again' it."
"Bet I'll kill a deer before I get back," laughed the boy.
"Better pack up yer turkey an' fix to stay a long time then," twitted Saginaw. "But, I won't bet—it would be like stealin'—an' besides, I lost one bet on you a'ready."
The teamsters, their lanterns swinging, were straggling toward the stable as the boy crossed the clearing.
"Hey, w'at you gon keel, de bear-cat?" called Frenchy.
"Deer," answered Connie with a grin.
"Ho! She ain' no good for hont de deer! She too mooch no snow. De groun' she too mooch dry. De deer, she hear you comin' wan mile too queek, den she ron way ver' fas', an' you no kin track heem."
"Never mind about that," parried the boy, "I'll be in tonight, and in the morning you can go out and help me pack in the meat."
"A'm help you breeng in de meat, a'ri. Ba Goss! A'm lak A'm git to bite me on chonk dat venaison."
Connie proceeded as rapidly as the darkness would permit to the shore of a marshy lake some three or four miles from camp, and secreted himself behind a windfall, thirty yards from the trail made by the deer in going down to drink. Just at daybreak a slight sound attracted his attention, and peering through the screen of tangled branches, the boy saw a large doe picking her way cautiously down the trail. He watched in silence as she advanced, halted, sniffed the air suspiciously, and passed on to the water's edge. Lowering her head, she rubbed an inquisitive nose upon the surface of the thin ice that sealed the shallow bay of the little lake. A red tongue darted out and licked at the ice and she pawed daintily at it with a small front foot. Then, raising the foot, she brought it sharply down, and the knifelike hoof cut through the ice as though it were paper. Pleased with the performance she pawed again and again, throwing the cold water in every direction and seeming to find great delight in crushing the ice into the tiniest fragments. Tiring of this, she paused and sniffed the air, turning her big ears backward and forward to catch the slightest sound that might mean danger. Then, she drank her fill, made her way back up the trail, and disappeared into the timber. A short time later another, smaller doe followed by a spring fawn, went down, and allowing them to pass unharmed, Connie settled himself to wait for worthier game. An hour passed during which the boy ate part of the liberal lunch with which the cook had provided him. Just as he had about given up hope of seeing any further game, a sharp crackling of twigs sounded directly before him, and a beautiful five-prong buck broke into the trail and stood with uplifted head and nostrils a-quiver. Without taking his eyes from the buck, Connie reached for his rifle, but just as he raised it from the ground its barrel came in contact with a dry branch which snapped with a sound that rang in the boy's ears like the report of a cannon. With a peculiar whistling snort of fear, the buck turned and bounded crashing away through the undergrowth. Connie lowered the rifle whose sights had been trained upon the white "flag" that bobbed up and down until it was lost in the thick timber.
"No use taking a chance shot," he muttered, disgustedly. "If I should hit him I would only wound him, and I couldn't track him down without snow. I sure am glad nobody was along to see that, or they never would have quit joshing me about it." Shouldering his rifle he proceeded leisurely toward another lake where he had spotted a water-trail, and throwing himself down behind a fallen log, slept for several hours. When he awoke the sun was well into the west and he finished his lunch and made ready to wait for his deer, taking good care this time that no twig or branch should interfere with the free use of his gun.
At sunset a four-prong buck made his way cautiously down the trail and, waiting 'til the animal came into full view, Connie rested his rifle across the log and fired at a point just behind the shoulder. It was a clean shot, straight through the heart, and it was but the work of a few moments to bleed, and draw him. Although not a large buck, Connie found that it was more than he could do to hang him clear of the wolves, so he resorted to the simple expedient of peeling a few saplings and laying them across the carcass. This method is always safe where game or meat must be left exposed for a night or two, as the prowlers fear a trap. However, familiarity breeds contempt, and if left too long, some animal is almost sure to discover the ruse.
Packing the heart, liver, and tongue, Connie struck out swiftly for camp, but darkness overtook him with a mile still to go.
As he approached the clearing a low sound caused him to stop short. He listened and again he heard it distinctly—the sound of something heavy moving through the woods. The sounds grew momentarily more distinct—whatever it was was approaching the spot where he stood. A small, thick windfall lay near him, and beside it a large spruce spread its low branches invitingly near the ground. With hardly a sound Connie, pack, gun, and all, scrambled up among those thick branches and seated himself close to the trunk. The sounds drew nearer, and the boy could hear fragments of low-voiced conversation. The night prowlers were men, not animals! Connie's interest increased. There seemed to be several of them, but how many the boy could not make out in the darkness. Presently the leader crashed heavily into the windfall where he floundered for a moment in the darkness.
"This is fer enough. Stick it in under here!" he growled, as the others came up with him. Connie heard sounds as of a heavy object being pushed beneath the interlaced branches of the windfall but try as he would he could not catch a glimpse of it. Suddenly the faces of the men showed vividly as one of their number held a match to the bowl of his pipe. They were the three I. W. W.'s and with them was Steve! "Put out that match you eediot! D'ye want the hull camp a pokin' their nose in our business?"
"'Tain't no one kin see way out here," growled the other, whom Connie recognized as Pierce.
"It's allus fellers like you that knows more'n any one else, that don't know nawthin'," retorted the first speaker, "come on, now, we got to git back. Remember—'leven o'clock on the furst night the wind blows stiff from the west. You, Steve, you tend to swipin' Frenchy's lantern. Pierce here, he'll soak the straw, an' Sam, you stand ready to drive a plug in the lock when I come out. Then when the excitement's runnin' high, I'll holler that Frenchy's lantern's missin' an' they'll think he left it lit in the stable. I tell ye, we'll terrorize every business in these here United States. We'll have 'em all down on their knees to the I. W. W.! Then we'll see who's the bosses an' the rich! We'll hinder the work, an' make it cost 'em money, an' Pierce here'll git even with Frenchy, all in one clatter. We'll be gittin' back, now. An' don't all pile into the men's camp to onct, neither."
Connie sat motionless upon his branch until the sounds of the retreating men were lost in the darkness. What did it all mean? "Swipe Frenchy's lantern." "Plug the lock." "Soak the straw." "Terrorize business." The words of the man repeated themselves over and over in Connie's brain. What was this thing these men were planning to do "at eleven o'clock the first night the wind blows stiff from the west?" He wriggled to the ground and crept toward the thing the men had cached in the windfall. It was a five-gallon can of coal-oil! "That's Steve's part of the scheme, whatever it is," he muttered. "He's got a key to the storehouse." Leaving the can undisturbed, he struck out for camp, splashing through the waters of a small creek without noticing it, so busy was his brain trying to fathom the plan of the gang. "I've got all day tomorrow, at least," he said, "and that'll give me time to think. I won't tell even Saginaw 'til I've got it doped out. I bet when they try to start something they'll find out who's going to be terrorized!" A few minutes later he entered the office and was greeted vociferously by Saginaw Ed:
"Hello there, son, by jiminetty, I thought you'd took me serious when I told you you'd better make a long stay of it. What ye got there? Well, dog my cats, if you didn't up an' git you a deer! Slip over to the cook's camp an' wade into some grub. I told him to shove yer supper onto the back of the range, again' you got back. While yer gone I'll jest run a couple rags through yer rifle."
When Connie returned from the cook's camp Saginaw was squinting down the barrel of the gun. "Shines like a streak of silver," he announced; "Hurley's mighty pernickety about his rifle, an' believe me, it ain't everyone he'd borrow it to. Tell me 'bout yer hunt," urged the man, and Connie saw a gleam of laughter in his eye. "Killed yer deer dead centre at seven hundred yards, runnin' like greased lightnin', an' the underbrush so thick you couldn't hardly see yer sights, I 'pose."
The boy laughed: "I got him dead centre, all right, but it was a standing shot at about twenty yards, and I had a rest. He's only a four-prong—I let a five-prong get away because I was clumsy."
Saginaw Ed eyed the boy quizzically: "Say, kid," he drawled. "Do you know where folks goes that tells the truth about huntin'?"
"No," grinned Connie.
"Well, I don't neither," replied Saginaw, solemnly. "I guess there ain't no place be'n pervided, but if they has, I bet it's gosh-awful lonesome there."
Despite the volubility of his companion, Connie was unusually silent during the short interval that elapsed before they turned in. Over and over in his mind ran the words of the four men out there in the dark, as he tried to figure out their scheme from the fragmentary bits of conversation that had reached his ears.
"Don't mope 'cause you let one buck git away, kid. Gosh sakes, the last buck I kilt, I got so plumb rattled when I come onto him, I missed him eight foot!"
"How did you kill him then?" asked Connie, and the instant the words were spoken he realized he had swallowed the bait—hook and all.
With vast solemnity, Saginaw stared straight before him: "Well, you see, it was the last shell in my rifle an' I didn't have none in my pocket, so I throw'd the gun down an' snuck up an' bit him on the lip. If ever you run onto a deer an' ain't got no gun, jest you sneak up in front of him an' bite him on the lip, an' he's yourn. I don't know no other place you kin bite a deer an' kill him. They're like old Acolyte, or whatever his name was, in the Bible, which they couldn't kill him 'til they shot him in the heel—jest one heel, mind you, that his ma held him up by when she dipped him into the kettle of bullet-proof. If he'd of be'n me, you bet I'd of beat it for the Doc an' had that leg cut off below the knee, an' a wooden one made, an' he'd of be'n goin' yet! I know a feller's got two wooden ones, with shoes on 'em jest like other folks, and when you see him walk the worst you'd think: he's got a couple of corns."
"Much obliged, Saginaw," said Connie, with the utmost gravity, as he arose and made ready for bed, "I'll sure remember that. Anyhow you don't need to worry about any solitary confinement in the place where the deer hunters go." And long after he was supposed to be asleep, the boy grinned to himself at the sounds of suppressed chuckling that came from Saginaw's bunk.
Next morning Connie helped Frenchy pack in the deer, and when the teamster had returned to his work, the boy took a stroll about camp. "Let's see," he mused, "they're going to soak the straw inside the stable with oil and set fire to it on the inside, and they'll do it with Frenchy's lantern so everyone will think he forgot it and it got tipped over by accident. Then, before the fire is discovered they'll lock the stable and jam the lock so the men can't get in to fight it." The boy's teeth gritted savagely. "And there are sixteen horses in that stable!" he cried. "The dirty hounds! A west wind would sweep the flames against the oat house, then the men's camp, and the cook's camp and storehouse. They sure do figure on a clean sweep of this camp. But, what I can't see is how that is going to put any one in terror of the I. W. W., if they think Frenchy caused the fire accidentally. Dan McKeever says all crooks are fools—and he's right." He went to the office and sat for a long time at his pine desk. From his turkey he extracted the Service revolver that he had been allowed to keep in memory of his year with the Mounted. "I can take this," he muttered, as he affectionately twirled the smoothly running cylinder with his thumb, "and Saginaw can take the rifle, and we can nail 'em as they come out of the woods with the coal-oil can. The trouble is, we wouldn't have anything on them except maybe the theft of a little coal-oil. I know what they intend to do, but I can't prove it—there's four of them and only one of me and no evidence to back me up. On the other hand, if we let them start the fire, it might be too late to put it out." His eyes rested on the can that contained the supply of oil for the office. It was an exact duplicate of the one beneath the windfall. He jumped to his feet and crossing to the window carefully scanned the clearing. No one was in sight, and the boy passed out the door and slipped silently into the thick woods. When he returned the crew was crowding into the men's camp to wash up for supper. The wind had risen, and as Connie's gaze centred upon the lashing pine tops, he smiled grimly,—it was blowing stiffly from the west.
After supper Saginaw Ed listened with bulging eyes to what the boy had to say. When he was through the man eyed him critically:
"Listen to me, kid. Nonsense is nonsense, an' business is business. I don't want no truck with a man that ain't got some nonsense about him somewheres—an' I don't want no truck with one that mixes up nonsense an' serious business. Yer only a kid, an' mebbe you ain't grabbed that yet. But I want to tell you right here an' now, fer yer own good: If this here yarn is some gag you've rigged up to git even with me fer last night, it's a mighty bad one. A joke is a joke only so long as it don't harm no one——"
"Every word I've told you is the truth," broke in the boy, hotly.
"There, now, don't git excited, kid. I allowed it was, but they ain't no harm ever comes of makin' sure. It's eight o'clock now, s'pose we jest loaf over to the men's camp an' lay this here case before 'em."
"No! No!" cried the boy: "Why, they—they might kill them!"
"Well, I 'spect they would do somethin' of the kind. Kin you blame 'em when you stop to think of them horses locked in a blazin' stable, an' the deliberate waitin' 'til the wind was right to carry the fire to the men's camp? The men works hard, an' by eleven o'clock they're poundin' their ear mighty solid. S'pose they didn't wake up till too late—what then?"
Connie shuddered. In his heart he felt, with Saginaw Ed, that any summary punishment the men chose to deal out to the plotters would be richly deserved. "I know," he replied: "But, mob punishment is never right, when a case can be reached by the law. It may look right, and lots of times it does hand out a sort of rough justice. But, here we are not out of reach of the law, and it will go lots farther in showing up the I. W. W. if we let the law take its course."
Saginaw Ed seemed impressed: "That's right, kid, in the main. But there ain't no law that will fit this here special case. S'pose we go over an' arrest them hounds—what have we got on 'em! They swiped five gallons of coal-oil! That would git 'em mebbe thirty days in the county jail. The law can't reach a man fer what he's goin' to do—an' I ain't a goin' over to the men's camp an' advise the boys to lay abed an' git roasted so's mebbe we kin git them I. W. W.'s hung. The play wouldn't be pop'lar."
Connie grinned: "Well, not exactly," he agreed. "But, why not just sit here and let them go ahead with their scheme. I've got a good revolver, and you can take the rifle, and we can wait for 'em in the tote wagon that's just opposite the stable door. Then when they've soaked the straw, and tipped over Frenchy's lantern, and locked the door behind 'em, and plugged the lock, we can cover 'em and gather 'em in."
"Yeh, an' meanwhile the fire'll be workin' on that oil-soaked straw inside, an' where'll the horses be? With this here wind a blowin' they ain't men enough in the woods to put out a fire, an' the hull camp would go."
Connie laughed, and leaning forward, spoke rapidly for several moments. When he had finished, Saginaw eyed him with undisguised approval: "Well, by jiminetty! Say, kid, you've got a head on you! That's jest the ticket! The courts of this State has jest begun to wake up to the fact that the I. W. W. is a real danger. A few cases, with the evidence as clean again' 'em as this, an' the stinkin' varmints 'll be huntin' their holes—you bet!"
At nine-thirty Saginaw and Connie put out the office light, and with some clothing arranged dummies in their bunks, so that if any of the conspirators should seek to spy upon them through the window they would find nothing to arouse their suspicion. Then, fully armed, they crept out and concealed themselves in the tote wagon. An hour passed, and through the slits cut in the tarpaulin that covered them, they saw four shadowy forms steal silently toward them from the direction of the men's camp. Avoiding even the feeble light of the stars, they paused in the shadow of the oat house, at a point not thirty feet from the tote wagon. A whispered conversation ensued and two of the men hastily crossed the open and disappeared into the timber.
"Stand still, can't ye!" hissed one of those who remained, and his companion ceased to pace nervously up and down in the shadow.
"I'm scairt," faltered the other, whom the watchers identified as Steve. "I wisht I wasn't in on this."
"Quit yer shiverin'! Yer makin' that lantern rattle. What they do to us, if they ketch us, hain't a patchin' to what we'll do to you if you back out." The man called Sam spat out his words in an angry whisper, and the two relapsed into silence.
At the end of a half-hour the two men who had entered the timber appeared before the door of the stable, bearing the oil can between them. The others quickly joined them, there was a fumbling at the lock, the door swung open, and three of the men entered. The fourth stood ready with the heavy padlock in his hand. A few moments of silence followed, and then the sound of the empty can thrown to the floor. A feeble flicker of flame dimly lighted the interior, and the three men who had entered rushed out into the night. The heavy door closed, the padlock snapped shut and a wooden plug was driven into the key hole.
"Hands up!" The words roared from the lips of Saginaw Ed, as he and Connie leaped to the ground and confronted the four at a distance of ten yards. For one terrified instant the men stared at the guns in their captors hands, and then four pairs of hands flew skyward.
"Face the wall, an' keep a reachin'," commanded Saginaw, "an' if any one of you goes to start somethin' they'll be wolf-bait in camp in about one second."
A horse snorted nervously inside the stable and there was a stamping of iron shod feet.
"Jest slip in an' fetch out Frenchy's lantern, kid, an' we'll git these birds locked up in the oat house, 'fore the men gits onto the racket."
With a light crow-bar which the boy had brought for the purpose, he pryed the hasp and staple from the door, leaving the plugged lock for evidence. Entering the stable whose interior was feebly illumined by the sickly flare of the overturned lantern, he returned in time to hear the petty bickering of the prisoners.
"It's your fault," whined Pierce, addressing the leader of the gang. "You figgered out this play—an' it hain't worked!"
"It hain't neither my fault!" flashed the man. "Some one of you's blabbed, an' we're in a pretty fix, now."
"'Twasn't me!" came in a chorus from the others.
"But at that," sneered Sam, "if you'd a lit that oil, we'd a burnt up the camp anyhow."
"I did light it!" screamed the leader, his face livid with rage. "I tipped over the lantern an' shoved it right under the straw."
"That's right," grinned Connie, from the doorway, as he flashed the lantern upon the faces of the men. "And if you hadn't taken the trouble to soak the straw with water it would have burned, too."
"Water! Whad' ye mean—water?"
"I mean just this," answered the boy, eyeing the men with a glance of supreme contempt, "I sat out there beside that windfall last night when you hid your can of oil. I listened to all you had to say, and today I slipped over there and poured out the oil and filled the can with water. You I. W. W.'s are a fine outfit," he sneered: "If you had some brains, and nerve, and consciences, you might almost pass for men!"
"I WISH'T Hurley was here," said Saginaw Ed, as he and Connie returned to the boss's camp after locking the prisoners in the oat house. "The men's goin' to want to know what them four is locked up fer. If we don't tell 'em there'll be trouble. They don't like them birds none but, at that, they won't stand fer 'em bein' grabbed an' locked up without nothin' ag'in' 'em. An' on the other hand, if we do tell 'em there's goin' to be trouble. Like as not they'd overrule me an' you an' hunt up a handy tree an' take 'em out an' jiggle 'em on the down end of a tight one."
"Couldn't we slip 'em down to the nearest jail and tell the men about it afterwards, or send for a constable or sheriff to come up here and get them?"
Saginaw shook his head: "No. If me an' you was to take 'em down the camp would blow up in no time. When the men woke up an' found the boss, an' the clerk, an' three hands, an' the cookee missin', an' the lock pried offen the stable door, work would stop right there. There ain't nothin' like a myst'ry of some kind to bust up a crew of men. We couldn't wake no one else up to take 'em without we woke up the whole men's camp, an' they'd want to know what was the rookus. If we sent fer a constable it'd be two or three days 'fore he'd git here an' then it would be too late. This here thing's comin' to a head when them teamsters goes fer the oats in the mornin', an' I've got to be there when they do."
"I hate to see Steve mixed up in this. He's only a kid. I wonder if there isn't some way——"
Saginaw Ed interrupted him roughly: "No. There ain't no way whatever. He's a bad aig or he wouldn't do what he done. You're only a kid, too, but I take notice you ain't throw'd in with no such outfit as them is."
"I can't help thinking maybe he's getting a wrong start——"
"He's got a wrong start, all right. But he got it quite a while ago—this here kind of business ain't no startin' job. They're all of a piece, kid. It's best we jest let the tail go with the hide."
"What will Hurley do about it? If he agrees with us, won't the men overrule him?"
"I don't know what he'll do—I only wish't he was here to do it. But, as fer as overrulin' him goes—" Saginaw paused and eyed Connie solemnly, "jest you make it a p'int to be in the same township sometime when a crew of men ondertakes to overrule Hurley. Believe me, they'd have the same kind of luck if they ondertook to overrule Mont Veesooverus when she'd started in to erup'."
The door swung open and Hurley himself stood blinking in the lamplight. "This here's a purty time fer workin' men to be up!" he grinned. "Don't yous lads know it's half past twelve an' you'd orter be'n asleep four hours?"
"I don't hear you snorin' none," grinned Saginaw. "An' you kin bet me an' the kid sure is glad to see you."
"Got through sooner'n I expected. Slue Foot had the crew all picked out. He'll bring 'em in from the Spur in the mornin'. Thought I'd jest hike on out an' see how things was gittin' on."
"Oh, we're gittin' on, all right. Tote road's all cleared, Camp Two's clearin's all ready, an' the buildin's most done. An' besides that, four prisoners in the oat house, an' me an' the kid, here, losin' sleep over what to do with 'em."
"Prisoners! What do you mean—prisoners?"
"Them I. W. W.'s an' that cookee that throw'd in with 'em. They tried to burn the outfit—locked the hosses in the stable an' set fire to it, after waitin' 'til the wind was so it would spread over the hull camp."
Hurley reached for a peavy that stood in the corner behind the door. "Ye say they burn't thim harses?" he rasped, in the brogue that always accompanied moments of anger or excitement.
"No they didn't, but they would of an' it hadn't be'n fer the kid, here. He outguessed 'em, an' filled their coal-oil can with water, an' then we let 'em go ahead an' put on the whole show so we'd have 'em with the goods."
The big boss leaned upon his peavy and regarded Connie thoughtfully. "As long as I've got a camp, kid, you've got a job." He bit off a huge chew of tobacco and returned the plug to his pocket, after which he began deliberately to roll up his shirt sleeves. He spat upon the palms of his hands, and as he gripped the peavy the muscles of his huge forearm stood out like steel cables. "Jist toss me th' key to th' oat house," he said in a voice that rumbled deep in his throat.
"Wait!" Connie's hand was upon the boss's arm. "Sit down a minute and let's talk it over——"
"Sure, boss," seconded Saginaw. "Let's have a powwow. If you go out there an' git to workin' on them hounds with that there peavy you're liable to git excited an' tap 'em a little harder'n what you intended to, an' then——"
Hurley interrupted with a growl and the two saw that his little eyes blazed. "Oi ain't got the strength to hit 'em har-rder thin Oi intind to! An-ny one that 'ud thry to bur-rn up harses—let alone min slaypin' in their bunks, they can't no man livin' hit 'em har-rd enough wid an-nything that's made."
"I know," agreed Saginaw. "They ain't nothin' you could do to 'em that they wouldn't still have some a-comin'. But the idee is this: Bein' misclassed as humans, them I. W. W.'s is felonious to kill. Chances is, the grand jury would turn you loose when they'd heard the facts, but the grand jury don't set 'til spring, an' meantime, where'd you be? An' where'd this camp be? Your contract calls fer gittin' out logs, an' don't stipulate none whatever about spatterin' up the oat house with I. W. W.'s. I don't like to spoil a man's fun, but when a mere frolic, that way, interferes with the work, as good a man as you be is a-goin' to put it off a spell. You know, an' I know, there's more than gittin' out logs to this winter's work."
Saginaw's words evidently carried weight with Hurley. The muscles of the mighty arms relaxed and the angry gleam faded from his eyes. Also, the brogue was gone from his voice; nevertheless, his tone was ponderously sarcastic as he asked: "An' what is it you'd have me to do, seein' ye're so free with yer advice—pay 'em overtime fer the night work they done tryin' to burn up my camp?"
Saginaw grinned: "The kid's got it doped out about right. He figgers that it'll show 'em up better if we let the courts handle the case an' convict 'em regular. With what we've got on 'em they ain't no chanct but what they'll get convicted, all right."
"You see," broke in Connie, "the I. W. W.'s are a law-defying organization. The only way to bring them to time is to let the law do it. As soon as all the I. W. W.'s see that the law is stronger than they are, and that their lawless acts are sure to be punished, there won't be any more I. W. W.'s. The law can't teach them this unless it has the chance. Of course, if the law had had the chance and had fallen down on the job because the men behind it were cowardly, it would be time enough to think about other ways. But, you told me yourself that Minnesota was beginning to give 'em what's coming to 'em, and she'll never get a better chance to hand 'em a jolt than this is, because we've got 'em with the goods. Now, if we'd go to work and let the men at 'em, or if you'd wade into 'em yourself we wouldn't be smashing at the I. W. W.'s, but only at these three men. When you stop to think of it, you can't teach an outfit to respect the law when you go ahead and break the law in teaching 'em."
Hurley seemed much impressed. "That stands to reason," he agreed. "You're right, kid, an' so's Saginaw. I know Judge McGivern—used to go to school with him way back—he ain't much as fer as size goes but believe me he ain't afraid to hand these birds a wallop that'll keep 'em peekin' out between black ones fer many a day to come. I'll take 'em down myself, an' then I'll slip around an' have a talk with Mac." Hurley tossed the peavy into its corner and proceeded to unlace his boots.
"I kind of hate to see Steve go along with that bunch. He ain't a regular I. W. W., and——"
The boss looked up in surprise as a heavy boot thudded upon the floor. "What d'ye mean—hate to see?" he asked.
"Why, he might turn out all right, if we kept him on the job and kind of looked after him."
The boss snorted contemptuously. "Huh! He done you dirt onct didn't he?"
"Yes, but——"
"He throw'd in with these here ornery scum that ain't neither men, fish, nor potatoes, didn't he?"
"Yes, but——"
"'Yes' is all right—an' they ain't no 'buts' about it. I had him last winter, an' he wasn't no 'count. I thought they might be some good in him so I hired him ag'in this fall to give him another chanct, but he's rotten-hearted an' twisty-grained, an' from root to top-branch they ain't the worth of a lath in his hide. He's a natural-borned crook. If it was only hisself I wouldn't mind it, but a crook is dangerous to other folks—not to hisself. It ain't right to leave him loose." The other boot thudded upon the floor and Hurley leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and regarded the toes of his woollen socks. "I've often thought," he continued, after a moment of silence, "that men is oncommon like timber. There's the select, straight-grained, sound stuff, an' all the grades down through the culls 'til you come to the dozy, crooked, rotten-hearted stuff that ain't even fit to burn. There's sound stuff that's rough-barked an' ugly; an' there's rotten-hearted stuff that looks good from the outside. There's some timber an' some men that's built to take on a high polish—don't know as I kin git it acrost to you jest like I mean—but bankers and pianos is like that. Then there's the stuff that's equal as sound an' true but it wouldn't never take no polish on account its bein' rough-grained an' tough-fibred—that's the kind that's picked to carry on the world's heavy work—the kind that goes into bridges an' ships, an' the frames of buildin's. It's the backbone, you might say, of civilization. It ain't purty, but its work ain't purty neither—it jest does what it's picked to do.
"It's cur'us how fer you kin carry it on if yer a mind to. There's some good timber an' some good men that's started bad but ain't got there yet. The bad habits men take on is like surface rot, an' weather checks, an' bug stings—take that stuff an' put it through the mill an' rip it an' plane it down to itself, an' it's as good as the best—sometimes. The danger to that kind is not puttin' it through the mill quick enough, an' the rot strikes through to the heart.
"There's a lot of timber that there ain't much expected of—an' a lot of humans, too. They're the stuff that works up into rough boards, an' cull stuff, an' lath, an' pulp wood, an' cordwood an' the like of that—an' so it goes, folks an' timber runnin' about alike.
"It takes experience an' judgment to sort timber, jest like it takes experience an' judgment to pick men. But no matter how much experience an' judgment he's got, as long as man's got the sortin' to do, mistakes will be made. Then, a long time afterwards, somewheres somethin' goes wrong. They can't no one account fer it, nor explain it—but the Big Inspector—he knows."
Hurley ceased speaking, and Connie, who had followed every word, broke in: "Couldn't we keep Steve here and—put him through the mill?"
The boss shook his head: "No—we didn't catch him young enough. I'm responsible, in a way, fer the men in this camp. This here runt has showed he don't care what he does—s'pose he took a notion to slip somethin' into the grub—what then? Keepin' him in this camp would be like if I seen a rattlesnake in the bunk house an' walked off an' left it there."
Connie realized that any further effort on his part to save Steve from sharing the richly deserved fate of the I. W. W.'s would be useless. The three turned in and it seemed to the boy that he had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by the sounds of someone moving about the room. Hurley and Saginaw Ed were pulling on their clothes as the boy tumbled out of bed.
"You don't need to git up yet, kid. Me an' Saginaw's goin' to slip out an' see that the teamsters gits their oats without lettin' no I. W. W.'s trickle out the door. Better pound yer ear fer an hour yet, cause you're goin' to be busier'n a pet coon checkin' in Slue Foot's supplies, an' gittin' his men down on the pay roll."
As Connie entered the cook's camp for breakfast he noticed an undercurrent of unrest and suppressed excitement among the men who stood about in small groups and engaged in low-voiced conversation. Hurley and Saginaw Ed were already seated, and, as the men filed silently in, many a sidewise glance was slanted toward the big boss.
When all were in their places Hurley rose from his chair. "We've got three I. W. W.'s an' the cookee locked up in the oat house," he announced bluntly. "An' after breakfast me an' Frenchy is goin' to take 'em down to jail." There was a stir among the men, and Hurley paused, but no one ventured a comment. "They tried to burn the stable last night, but the kid, here, outguessed 'em, an' him an' Saginaw gathered 'em in."
"Last night!" cried a big sawyer, seated half-way down the table. "If they'd a-burnt the stable last night the whole camp would of gone! Let us boys take 'em off yer hands, boss, an' save you a trip to town."
The idea gained instant approval among the men, and from all parts of the room voices were raised in assent.
"Over in Westconsin we——"
Hurley interrupted the speaker with a grin: "Yeh, an' if we was over in Westconsin I'd say go to it! But Minnesota's woke up to these here varmints—an' it's up to us to give her a chanct to show these here other States how to do it. You boys all know Judge McGivern—most of you helped elect him. Give him the chanct to hand the I. W. W.'s a wallop in the name of the State of Minnesota! If the State don't grab these birds, they'll grab the State. Look at North Dakota! It ain't a State no more—it's a Non-partisan League! Do you boys want to see Minnesota an I. W. W. Lodge?"
As Hurley roared out the words his huge fist banged the table with a force that set the heavy porcelain dishes a-clatter.
"No! No!" cried a chorus of voices from all sides. "The boss is right! Let the State handle 'em!" The men swung unanimously to Hurley and the boss sat down amid roars of approval.
And so it was that shortly after breakfast Frenchy cracked his whip with a great flourish and four very dejected-looking prisoners started down the tote road securely roped to the rear of the tote wagon, at the end gate of which sat Hurley, rifle in hand and legs a-dangle as he puffed contentedly at his short black pipe.
SLUE FOOT MAGEE, who was to boss Camp Two, was a man of ambling gait and a chronic grumble. He arrived with the vanguard of the new crew a half-hour before dinner time, grumbled because grub wasn't ready, growled when he learned that the buildings at Camp Two were not entirely completed, and fumed because Hurley had told him to leave fifteen of his fifty men at Camp One.
"What's the use of pickin' out a crew an' then scatterin' 'em all over the woods?" he demanded querulously of Connie, as they stood in the door of the boss's camp while the men washed up for dinner. "If Hurley wants thirty-five men in Camp Two an' fifty in Camp One why don't he send Camp One's crew up to Two an' leave me have Camp One?"
"I don't know," answered the boy, and refrained from mentioning that he was mighty glad Hurley had not ordered it so.
Slue Foot slanted him a keen glance. "Be you the kid Hurley was tellin' nailed them I. W. W.'s that he was fetchin' out of the woods when we come in this mornin'?"
Connie nodded: "Yes, Saginaw Ed and I caught 'em."
"Purty smart kid, hain't you? What's Hurley payin' you?"
"Forty dollars a month."
"An' no rake-off on the wanagan. There's plenty room in the woods to use brains—same as anywheres else." Slue Foot turned at the sound of the dinner gong. "Let's go eat while there's some left. When we come back I'll give you the names."
During the meal Connie furtively studied the new boss. He was fully as large as Hurley, and slovenly in movement and appearance. His restless eyes darted swift glances here, there, and everywhere, and never a glance but registered something of disapproval. But it was the man's words that most interested the boy. Why had he asked what Hurley was paying him? And what did he mean by his observation that there was no rake-off on the wanagan? Also, there was his reference to the fact that in the woods there was plenty of room for brains. That might mean anything or nothing.
"At any rate," thought the boy, as he attacked his food, "you're going to be a pretty good man to throw in with—for a while."
Presently the man pushed back his bench and arose: "If you ever git that holler in under yer ribs filled up we'll go over an' I'll give you the names of the men that stays here an' the ones that goes on with me."
"'Lead on, MacDuff,'" grinned Connie, misquoting a line from a play Waseche Bill had taken him to see in Fairbanks.
"Magee's my name," corrected the man gruffly, and led the way to the office.
It was only after much deliberation and growling that Slue Foot finally succeeded in rearranging his crew, but at last the task was completed and Connie leaned back in his chair.
"So you think there ain't going to be any rake-off on the wanagan?" he asked, as the man sat scowling at his list of names. Slue Foot glanced up quickly and the boy met the glance with a wink: "I thought maybe——"
"It don't make no difference what you thought mebbe!" the man interrupted. "If you know'd Hurley like I do you'd know a whole lot better'n to try it." Connie looked disappointed and the boss eyed him intently.
"They's other ways of killin' a cat without you choke him to death on butter," he observed drily, and lapsed into silence while the restless gimlet eyes seemed to bore into the boy's very thoughts.
Suddenly the man brought his fist down with a bang upon the top of the pine desk: "Why should Hurley be drawin' down his big money, an' me an' you our seventy-five an' forty a month?" he demanded.
"Well, he's the boss, and they say he can get out the logs."
"I'm a boss, too! An' I kin git out the logs!" he roared. "I was bossin' camps when Hurley was swampin'." Again he paused and regarded the boy shrewdly. "Mind you, I hain't sayin' Hurley hain't a good logger, 'cause he is. But jest between me and you there's a hull lot about this here timber game that he hain't hep to. Any one kin draw down wages workin' in the woods—but if you want to make a real stake out of the game you've got to learn how to play both ends ag'in' the middle. An' that's where the brains comes in."
"That's why I thought——"
"—you could soak it to 'em on the wanagan an' shove the rake-off in your pocket," finished the man. "Well, you'd better fergit it! Some bosses would stand fer it, but not Hurley. He'd tumble to yer game in a minute, an' you'd be hikin' down the tote road with yer turkey on yer back a-huntin' a new job."
"Do you mean there's nothing in it for me but my forty dollars a month?" asked Connie, with apparent disgust.
"M-m-m-m, well, that depends," muttered Slue Foot. "Be you goin' to keep the log book, or Hurley?"
"I am. He told me the other day he'd show me about that later."
"They'll be a little somethin', mebbe, in shadin' the cut when the time comes—nothin' big, but enough to double our wages. Wait 'til the crew gits strung out an' layin' 'em down an' we'll fix that up."
"Will the scaler throw in with us?" ventured the boy.
"What! Lon Camden! Not on yer life, he won't! Hurley picked him, an' he picked Saginaw Ed, too. What you an' me do we got to do alone."
Connie smiled: "Yes, but he picked you, and he picked me, too."
"He did," agreed the other, with a leer. "I don't know nawthin' about why he picked you, but he give me a job 'cause he thinks I done him a good turn onct. Over in Idaho, it was, an' we was gittin' out logs on the Fieldin' slope. Old Man Fieldin' had a contrac' which if he didn't fill it by a certain day, he'd lose it, an' the Donahue crowd that was operatin' further down would deliver their logs an' take over the contrac'. That's when I got it in fer Hurley. Him an' me was working fer Fieldin' an' he made Hurley boss of a camp he'd ort to give to me.
"The Donahue crowd worked politics an' got holt of the water rights on Elk Creek, an' Fieldin' couldn't float his logs. It looked like it was good-night fer Fieldin' an' his contrac' but Hurley grabbed all the men he could git holt of an' started buildin' a flume. Old Man Fieldin' said it couldn't be done, but fer Hurley to go ahead, 'cause he was ruint anyhow. So Hurley worked us night and day, an' by gosh, he built the flume an' got his logs a-runnin'!
"When the flume was up the Donahues seen they was beat, so they come to me an' offered me a bunch of coin if I'd blow it up. It was resky 'cause Hurley was expectin' some such play, an' he had it guarded. But I got on guardin' nights an' I planted the dynamite and got the wires strung, an' it was all set. Then I went an' overplayed my hand. I thought I seen the chanct to git even with Hurley, as well as Old Man Fieldin', an' make me a nice little stake besides. So I tips it off to Hurley that I seen a fellow sneakin' around suspicious an' he'd better take the shift where I'd be'n, hisself. You see, I made it up with the Donahues to send three of their men over to explode the shot so I'd have a alibi, an' I figgered that Hurley'd run onto 'em, an' they'd give him an' awful lickin'." The man paused and crammed tobacco into his pipe.
"And did he?" asked Connie, eagerly
"Naw, he didn't he!" growled the man. "He run onto 'em all right—an' when the rookus was over the hull three of 'em was took to the horspital. When it comes to mixin' it up, Hurley, he's there. He found the dynamite, too, an' after that the guards was so thick along that flume that one couldn't do nawthin' without the next ones could see what he was up to.
"Fieldin's logs was delivered on time an' the old man handed Hurley a check fer twenty-five hundred dollars over an' above his wages. Hurley slipped me five hundred fer tellin' him—but I'd of got five thousan' if I'd of blow'd up the flume. I had to skip the country 'fore them three got out of the horspital, an' I've swore to git even with Hurley ever since—an' I'll do it too. One more winter like last winter, an' they won't no outfit have him fer a boss."
It was with difficulty Connie refrained from asking what had happened last winter but he was afraid of arousing the man's suspicion by becoming too inquisitive, so he frowned: "That's all right as far as your getting even with Hurley, but it don't get me anything."
Slue Foot leaned forward in his chair: "I see you've got yer eye on the main chanct, an' that shows you've got somethin' in your noodle. Folks can talk all they want to, but the only thing that's any good is money. Them that's got it is all right, an' them that hain't got it is nowhere. Take Hurley, he's got the chanct to make his everlastin' stake right here, an' he's passin' it up. The owner of this here trac' lives up in Alaska or somewheres, an' he hain't a loggin' man nohow—an' here Hurley would set and let him git rich—offen Hurley's work, mind you—an' all Hurley gits out of it is his wages. An' if you throw in with him you'll go out in the spring with yer forty dollars a month minus yer wanagan tab."
"Guess that's right," agreed the boy. "I'd like to make a lot of money, but it looks like there's nothin' doing in this camp."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the man. "I'm a-goin' to git mine, an' the way things is, I kin use a party about your size that kin keep his eyes open and his mouth shet. Looks like, from here, they might be considerable in it fer you, long about spring." He paused and glanced about the office. "You sleep in here don't you?" Connie nodded, and Slue Foot seemed satisfied, "I kin use you, 'cause you're right here on the job where you kin keep tab on the boss, an' Saginaw, an' Lon Camden." The man paused abruptly and peered through the window.
"What's the game?" asked Connie boldly. "I can't do any good going it blind."
The man silenced him with a gesture: "Shet up! Here comes Saginaw. That'll keep 'til later. Meanwhile, it don't pay fer me an' you to seem none too friendly. When any one's around I'll kick an' growl about the books and you sass me back." He rose from his chair and was stamping about the room when Saginaw entered.
"Here it's took a good hour to git them names down that any one with half sense had ort to got down in fifteen minutes! If you can't check in them supplies no quicker'n what you kin write down names, the grub will rot before we git it onloaded. Come on, we'll go up to the camp an' git at it."
The man turned to greet the newcomer. "Hello Saginaw! I hear you're a boss now. Well, good luck to you. How's the new camp, 'bout ready?"
"Yes, a couple of days will finish her up. Yer storehouse an' men's camp, an' cook's camp is done, so you can go ahead an' move in."
Slue Foot scowled: "I seen Hurley comin' out an' he says I should leave you fifteen men out of my crew, so I done it. Seems funny he'd give a green boss the biggest crew, but he's got you right here where he kin keep his eye on you, so I s'pose he knows what he's doin'."
"I 'spect he does," agreed Saginaw. "When you git to camp send them men back with mine."
Slue Foot nodded. "Well come on, kid," he ordered, gruffly. "We'll go up on the tote wagon."
Connie picked up his book and followed, and as he went out the door he turned to see Saginaw regarding him curiously.