Connie soon learned the simple process of bookkeeping, and hardly had he finished when the door opened and Slue Foot Magee entered.
"Well, well! They sure beat ye up bad, boss. I heerd about it on my way down. I'd like to lay hands on them crooks, an' I bet they'd think twict before they beat another man up! But yer a fightin' man, Hurley; they must of got ye foul."
"Foul is the word. When the wagon tipped over my head hit a tree an' that's the last I remember 'til I come to an' the boy, Steve, was bathin' my head with snow an' tyin' up my cuts with strips of his shirt."
"Too bad," condoled Slue Foot, shaking his head sympathetically; "an' they got plumb away?"
"Sure they did. It wasn't so far to the railroad, an' the snow fallin' to cover their tracks. But, Oi'll lay holt av 'em sometime!" he cried, relapsing into his brogue. "An' whin Oi do, law er no law, Oi'll bust 'em woide open clane to their dirty gizzards!"
"Sure ye will!" soothed Slue Foot. "But, it's better ye don't go worryin' about it now. They're miles away, chances is, mixed up with a hundred like 'em in some town er nother. I started the cuttin' this mornin'. I'm workin' to the north boundary, an' then swing back from the river."
Hurley nodded: "That's right. We want to make as good a showin' as we kin this year, Slue Foot. Keep 'em on the jump, but don't crowd 'em too hard."
Slue Foot turned to Connie: "An' now, if ye hain't got nawthin' better to do than set there an' beaver that pencil, ye kin come on up to Camp Two an' I'll give ye the names of the men."
"If you didn't have anything better to do than hike down here, why didn't you stick a list of the names in your pocket?" flashed the boy, who had found it hard to sit and listen to the words of the double-dealing boss of Camp Two.
"Kind of sassy, hain't ye?" sneered Slue Foot. "We'll take that out of ye, 'fore yer hair turns grey. D'ye ever walk on rackets?"
"Some," answered Connie. "I guess I can manage to make it."
Slue Foot went out, and Hurley motioned the boy to his side. "Don't pay no heed to his growlin' an' grumblin', it was born in him," he whispered.
"I'll show him one of these days I ain't afraid of him," answered the boy, so quickly that Hurley laughed.
"Hurry along, then," he said. "An' if ye git back in time I've a notion to send ye out after a pa'tridge. Saginaw says yer quite some sport with a rifle."
"That's the way to work it, kid," commended Slue Foot, as Connie bent over the fastenings of his snow-shoes. "I'll growl an' you sass every time we're ketched together. 'Twasn't that I'd of made ye hike way up to my camp jest fer to copy them names, but the time's came fer to begin to git lined up on shadin' the cut, an' we jest nachelly had to git away from the office. Anyways it won't hurt none to git a good trail broke between the camps."
"There ain't any chance of getting caught at this graft, is there?" asked the boy.
"Naw; that is, 'tain't one chanct in a thousan'. Course, it stan's to reason if a man's playin' fer big stakes he's got to take a chanct. Say, where'd you learn to walk on rackets? You said you hadn't never be'n in the woods before."
"I said I'd never worked in the woods—I've hunted some."
The talk drifted to other things as the two plodded along the tote road, but once within the little office at Camp Two, Slue Foot plunged immediately into his scheme. "It's like this: The sawyers gits paid by the piece—the more they cut, the more pay they git. The logs is scaled after they're on the skidways. Each pair of sawyers has their mark they put on the logs they cut, an' the scaler puts down every day what each pair lays down. Then every night he turns in the report to you, an' you copy it in the log book. The total cut has got to come out right—the scaler knows all the time how many feet is banked on the rollways. I've got three pair of sawyers that's new to the game, an' they hain't a-goin' to cut as much as the rest. The scaler won't never look at your books, 'cause it hain't none of his funeral if the men don't git what's a-comin' to 'em. He keeps his own tally of the total cut. Same with the walkin' boss—that's Hurley. All he cares is to make a big showin'. He'll have an eye on the total cut, an' he'll leave it to Saginaw an' me to see that the men gits what's comin' to 'em in our own camps. Now, what you got to do is to shade a little off each pair of sawyers' cut an' add it onto what's turned in fer them three pair I told you about. Then, in the spring, when these birds cashes their vouchers in town, I'm right there to collect the overage."
"But," objected Connie, "won't the others set up a howl? Surely, they will know that these men are not cutting as much as they are."
"How they goin' to find out what vouchers them six turns in? They hain't a-goin' to show no one their vouchers."
"But, won't the others know they're being credited with a short cut?"
"That's where you come in. You got to take off so little that they won't notice it. Sawyers only knows about how much they got comin'. They only guess at the cut. A little offen each one comes to quite a bit by spring."
"But, what if these men that get the overage credited to 'em refuse to come across?"
Slue Foot grinned evilly: "I'll give 'em a little bonus fer the use of their names," he said. "But, they hain't a-goin' to refuse to kick in. I've got their number. They hain't a one of the hull six of 'em that I hain't got somethin' on, an' they know it."
"All right," said Connie, as he arose to go. "I'm on. And don't forget that you promised to let me in on something bigger, later on."
"I won't fergit. It looks from here like me an' you had a good thing."
An hour later Connie once more entered the office at Camp One. Steve sat beside Hurley, and Saginaw Ed stood warming himself with his back to the stove.
"Back ag'in," greeted the big boss. "How about it, ye too tired to swing out into the brush with the rifle? Seems like they wouldn't nothin' in the world taste so good as a nice fat pa'tridge. An' you tell the cook if he dries it up when he roasts it, he better have his turkey packed an' handy to grab."
"I'm not tired at all," smiled Connie, as he took Saginaw's rifle from the wall. "It's too bad those fellows swiped your gun, but I guess I can manage to pop off a couple of heads with this."
"You'd better run along with him, Steve," said Hurley, as he noted that the other boy eyed Connie wistfully. "The walk'll do ye good. Ye hain't hardly stretched a leg sense I got hurt. The kid don't mind, do ye, kid?"
"You bet I don't!" exclaimed Connie heartily. "Come on, Steve, we'll tree a bunch of 'em and then take turns popping their heads off."
As the two boys made their way across the clearing, Hurley raised himself on his elbow, and stared after them through the window: "Say, Saginaw," he said, "d'ye know there's a doggone smart kid."
"Who?" asked the other, as he spat indifferently into the wood box.
"Why, this here Connie. Fer a greener, I never see his beat."
"Yeh," answered Saginaw, drily, his eyes also upon the retreating backs, "he's middlin' smart, all right. Quite some of a kid—fer a greener."
"HELLO!" cried Saginaw Ed, as he stared in surprise at a wide, flat trail in the snow. The exclamation brought Connie Morgan to his side. The two were hunting partridges and rabbits, and their wanderings had carried them to the extreme western edge of the timber tract, several miles distant from the camps that were located upon the Dogfish River, which formed its eastern boundary. Despite the fact that the work of both camps was in full swing, these two found frequent opportunity to slip out into the timber for a few hours' hunt, which answered the twofold purpose of giving them a chance to perfect their plans for the undoing of Slue Foot Magee, and providing a welcome addition to the salt meat bill of fare.
"Wonder who's be'n along here? 'Tain't no one from the camps—them's Injun snow-shoes. An' they ain't no one got a right to hunt here, neither. Hurley posted the hull trac' account of not wantin' no permiscu's shootin' goin' on with the men workin' in the timber. Them tracks is middlin' fresh, too."
"Made yesterday," opined Connie, as he examined the trail closely. "Travelling slow, and following his own back trail."
Saginaw nodded approval. "Yup," he agreed. "An', bein' as he was travellin' slow, he must of went quite a little piece. He wasn't carryin' no pack."
"Travelling light," corroborated the boy. "And he went up and came back the same day."
"Bein' as he headed north and come back from there, it ain't goin' to do us no hurt to kind of find out if he's hangin' 'round clost by. They ain't nothing north of us, in a day's walk an' back, except the Syndicate's Willer River camp. An', spite of yer stickin' up fer him, I don't trust that there Mike Gillum, nor no one else that would claim Hurley throw'd in with the Syndicate." The man struck into the trail, and Connie followed. They had covered scarcely half a mile when Saginaw once more halted in surprise.
"Well, I'll be doggoned if there ain't a dugout! An' onless I'm quite a bit off my reckonin', it's inside our line." For several moments the two scrutinized the structure, which was half cabin, half dugout. From the side of a steep bank the log front of the little building protruded into the ravine. Smoke curled lazily from a stovepipe that stuck up through the snow-covered roof. The single window was heavily frosted, and a deep path had been shovelled through a huge drift that reached nearly to the top of the door. The trail the two had been following began and ended at that door, and without hesitation they approached and knocked loudly. The door opened, and in the dark oblong of the interior stood the grotesque figure of a little old man. A pair of bright, watery eyes regarded them from above a tangle of grey beard, and long grey hair curled from beneath a cap of muskrat skin from which the fur was worn in irregular patches. "Phwat d'yez want?" he whined, in a voice cracked and thin. "Is ut about me money?"
"Yer money?" asked Saginaw. "We don't know nothin' about no money. We're from the log camps over on Dogfish. What we want to know is what ye're doin' here?"
"Doin' here!" exclaimed the little old man. "Oi'm livin' here, that's what Oi'm doin'—jest like Oi've done f'r fifteen year. Come on in av ye want to palaver. Oi'm owld an' like to freeze standin' here in th' dure, an' if ye won't come in, g'wan away, an' bad cess to yez f'r not bringin' me back me money."
Saginaw glanced at Connie and touched his forehead significantly. As they stepped into the stuffy interior, the old man closed the door and fastened it with an oak bar. Little light filtered through the heavily frosted window, and in the semi-darkness the two found difficulty picking their way amid the litter of traps, nets, and firewood that covered the floor. The little room boasted no chair, but, seating himself upon an upturned keg, the owner motioned his visitors to the bunk that was built along the wall within easy reach of the little cast iron cooking stove that served also to heat the room.
"Ye say ye've lived here for fifteen years?" asked Saginaw, as he drew off his heavy mittens.
"Oi have thot."
"Ye wasn't here last winter."
"Thot's whut Oi'm afther tellin' yez. Last winter I wuz to the city."
"This here shack looks like it's old, all right," admitted Saginaw. "Funny no one run acrost it last winter."
"Ut snowed airly," cut in the little man, "an' if they ain't no wan here to dig her out, she'd drift plumb under on th' furst wind."
"Who are you?" asked Connie. "And what do you do for a living? And what did you mean about your money?"
"Who sh'd Oi be but Dinny O'Sullivan? 'An' phwat do Oi do fer a livin'?' sez ye. 'Til last winter Oi worked f'r Timothy McClusky, thot owned this trac' an' w'd died befoor he'd av sold ut to th' Syndicate. Good wages, he paid me, an' Oi kep' off th' timber thayves, an' put out foires, an' what not. An' Oi thrapped an' fished betoimes an' Oi made me a livin'. Thin, McClusky sold th' timber. 'Ye betther come on back wid me, Dinny,' sez he. 'Back to the owld sod. Ut's rich Oi'll be over there, Dinny, an' Oi'll see ye'll niver want.'
"But, ut's foorty year an' more since Oi come to Amurica, an' Oi'd be a stranger back yon. 'Oi'll stay,' Oi sez, 'f'r Oi've got used to th' woods, an' whin they cut down th' timber, Oi'll move on till somewheres they ain't cut.' 'Ut's hatin' Oi am to lave yez behind, Dinny,' sez he, 'but, Oi won't lave ye poor, fer ye've served me well,' an' wid thot, he puts his hand in his pocket loike, an' pulls out some bills, an' he hands 'em to me. 'Put 'em by f'r a rainy day, Dinny,' he sez, an' thin he wuz gone. Oi come insoide an' barred th' dure, an' Oi counted th' money in me hand. Tin bills they wuz, all bright an' new an' clane, an' aich bill wuz foive hunder' dollars. 'Twas more money thin Oi'd iver see, or thought to see, an' ut wuz all moine—moine to kape or to spind, to t'row away er to save. 'Oi'll save ut,' sez Oi, 'loike McClusky said, ag'in' a rainy day.' An' Oi loosed a board in th' flure—'tiz th' wan to th' left in under th' bunk, yonder—an' Oi put th' bills in a tobaccy tin an' put 'em in th' hole Oi'd scooped out, an' put back th' board." The little old man paused and poked noisily at the stove, fumbled in his pockets and produced a short, black cutty pipe and a pouch of tobacco, and continued:
"Oi've wor-rked hard from six years owld to siventy, but ut's not in th' name av O'Sullivan to lay an-nything by. 'Twus come hard an' go aisy—but f'r a month Oi niver lifted th' board. Thin wan day Oi tuk 'em out an' counted 'em. Th' nixt wake Oi done th' same. Th' days begun to git shorter, an' th' noights colder, an' th' ducks come whistlin' out av th' narth. Ivery day, now, Oi'd take thim bills out an' count 'em. Oi cut three little notches in the carners wid me knife—'tis the mark Oi file on me thraps, so whin an-nyone sees 'em, 'Tiz Dinny O'Sullivan's bill,' they'll say, an' Oi can't lose 'em. ''Tiz a cowld winter comin', Dinny,' sez Oi, 'f'r th' mushrats is buildin' airly. Yer gittin' owld f'r th' thrappin',' sez Oi, but Oi know'd 'twuz a loie whin Oi said ut; 'beloike ye'd betther go to th' city.' 'Ye'll not!' sez Oi, moindin' what McClusky said about a rainy day. An' Oi put back th' bills an' covered thim wid th' board. Th' nixt day ut wuz cloudy an' cowld, an' Oi set be th' stove an' counted me bills. 'Th' loights is bright av an avenin' in th' city, Dinny,' Oi sez, 'an' there's shows an' what not, an' min av yer koind to palaver. Ut's loike a mink ye'll be livin' in yer hole in th' woods av ye stay. There's too much money, an-nyhow,' Oi sez; 'av ye don't git sick, ye don't nade ut, an' if ye do, 'twill outlast ye, an' whin ye die, who'll have th' spindin' av thim clane new bills? They's prob'ly O'Sullivans lift unhung yit in Oirland,' sez Oi—though av me mimory's good, they's few that aught to be—'Oi'll spend 'em mesilf.' Th' wind wailed t'rough th' trees loike th' banshee. Oi looked out th' windie—'twuz rainin'. ''Tis a token,' sez Oi; ''tiz th' rainy day thot McClusky said w'd come.'" The old man chuckled. "'Tiz loike thot a man argys whin ut's himself's th' judge an' jury.
"So Oi put th' bills in me pocket an' tuck th' thrain fer St. Paul. Oi seen Moike Gillum on th' thrain an' Oi show'd um me money. 'Go back to th' woods, Dinny,' he sez. 'There's no fool loike an owld fool, ye'll moind, an' they'll have ut away from yez.' 'They'll not!' sez Oi. 'An' Oi'll be betther fer a year av rist.' He thried to argy but Oi'd have none av ut, an' Oi put up wid th' Widdy MacShane, 'twuz half-sister to a cousin av a frind av moine Oi know'd in Brainard in nointy-sivin. Foive dollars a week Oi paid fer board an' room an' washin'—Oi'd live in style wid no thought fer expince. Oi bought me a hat an' a suit wid brass buttons t'w'd done proud to Brian Boru himsilf."
The old man paused and looked out the window. "To make a long story short, be Christmas Oi wuz toired av me bargain. Oi've lived in th' woods too long, an' Oi'll lave 'em no more. Oi stuck ut out 'til th' spring, but, what wid th' frinds Oi'd picked up to hilp me spind ut, an' th' clothes, an' th' shows ut costed me three av me clane new bills. Comin' back Oi shtopped off at Riverville, an' showed Mike Gillum the sivin Oi had lift. 'Yez done well, Dinny,' sez he. 'An' now will yez go to th' woods?' 'Oi will,' sez Oi, 'f'r Oi'm tired av ristin'. But Oi'm glad Oi wint, an' Oi don't begrudge th' money, f'r sivin is aisier thin tin to count an-nyway an' Oi've enough av ut rains f'r a year.' So Oi come back an' wuz snug as a bug in a rug, 'til ut's mebbe two wakes ago, an' snowin' that day, an' they comed a Frinchy along, an' he sez, 'Oi've a noice fat deer hangin'; ut's a matther av a couple av moile from here. Av ye'll hilp me cut um up, Oi'll give ye th' shoulders an' rib mate—f'r ut's only th' quarters Oi want.' Oi wint along an' we cut up th' deer, an' he give me th' mate an' Oi packed ut home. Whin Oi got back Oi seen somewan had be'n here. Ut wuz snowin' hard, an' th' thracks wuz drifted full loike th' wans me an' th' Frinchy made whin we started off to cut up th' deer, so Oi know'd the other had come jist afther we lift. I dropped me mate an' run in an' pulled up th' board. Th' tobaccy tin wuz impty! Th' thracks headed narth, an' Oi tuck out afther th' dirthy spalpeen, but th' snow got worse an' Oi had to turn back. Whin ut quit Oi wint to Willow River where Mike Gillum is runnin' a Syndicate crew, but he said they wuzn't none av his men gone off th' job. 'Oi'll do all Oi kin to thry an' locate th' thafe,' sez he; 'but yez sh'd put yer money in th' bank, Dinny.' Well, Oi hurd nawthin' more from him, an' this marnin' Oi wint up there ag'in. He'd found out nawthin', an' he sez how he don't think ut wuz wan av his min—so Oi comed back, an' th' nixt thing Oi knows yez two comed along—ye've th' whole story now, an' ye'll know av th' rainy days comes, Dinny O'Sullivan's a-goin' to git wet."
"What d'ye think of yer fine friend, Mike Gillum now?" asked Saginaw Ed, breaking a silence that had lasted while they had travelled a mile or so through the woods from Denny O'Sullivan's cabin.
"Just the same as I did before," answered Connie, without a moment's hesitation. "You don't think Mike Gillum swiped the old man's money, do you?"
Saginaw stopped in his tracks and faced the boy wrathfully. "Oh, no! I don't think he could possibly have swiped it," he said, with ponderous sarcasm. "There ain't no chanct he did—seein' as he was the only one that know'd the money was there—an' seein' how the tracks headed north—an' seein' how he denied it. It couldn't of be'n him! The old man's got his own word fer it that it wasn't."
"If those I. W. W.'s wer'n't locked up safe in jail, I'd think they got the money. I know it wasn't Mike Gillum," maintained the boy, stoutly. "If you knew Mike you wouldn't think that."
"I don't know him, an' I don't want to know him! It's enough that I know Hurley. An' anyone that would claim Hurley was crooked, I wouldn't put it beyond him to do nothin' whatever that's disreligious, an' low-down, an' onrespectable. He done it! An' him writin' like he done about Hurley, proves that he done it—an' that's all they is to it."
Connie saw the uselessness of arguing with the woodsman whose devoted loyalty to his boss prevented his seeing any good whatever in the man who had sought to cast discredit upon him. "All right," he grinned. "But I'm going to find out who did do it, and I bet when I do, it won't be Mike Gillum that's to blame."
Saginaw's momentary huff vanished, and he shook his head in resignation, as he returned the boy's grin. "I've saw a raft of folks, take it first an' last, but never none that was right down as stubborn as what you be. But, about findin' out who got the old man's money, you've bit off more than you kin chaw. You ain't got enough to go on." A partridge flew up with a whirr and settled upon the bare branch of a young birch a few yards farther on. Saginaw took careful aim and shot its head off. "I got one on you this time, anyhow. That's five fer me, an' four fer you, an' it's gittin' too dark to see the sights."
"Guess that's right," admitted the boy. "But I'll get even, when I show you who raided the old man's cabin."
"'Spect I'll do a little projektin' 'round myself, if I git time. It might be such a thing I'll git two on ye." Thus they engaged in friendly banter until the yellow lights that shone from the windows of the camp buildings welcomed them across the clearing.
The next day Connie hunted up Frenchy Lamar. He found him in the stable carefully removing the ice bangles from the fetlocks of his beloved horses. He had spent the morning breaking trail on the tote road.
"Why don't you get yourself some real horses?" teased the boy. "One of those log team horses will outweigh the whole four of yours."
"Log team! Sacre! Dem hosses fat, lak wan peeg! Dey go 'bout so fas' lak wan porkypine! Dey drag de log 'roun' de woods. Dey got for have de ice road for haul de beeg load to de rollway. But, me—I'm tak' ma four gran' hoss, I'm heetch dem oop, I'm climb on ma sleigh, I'm crack ma wheep, an—monjee! Dem hoss she jomp 'long de tote road, de bells dey ring lak de Chreestmas tam, de snow fly oop from de hoof, an' dem hoss dey ron t'rough de woods so fas' lak de deer! Me—I ain' trade wan leetle chonk ma hoss's tail for all de beeg fat log team w'at ees een de woods."
"You're all right, Frenchy," laughed the boy. "But, tell me, why didn't you slip me a chunk of that venison you brought in the other day?"
The Frenchman glanced about swiftly. "Non! W'at you mean—de venaison? I ain' keel no deer—me. Hurley she say you ain' kin keel no deer w'en de season ees close."
"Sure, I know you didn't kill it. But you brought it in. What I want to know is, who did kill it?"
"I ain' breeng no venaison een dis camp since de season git shut."
"Oh, you took it to Camp Two! Slue Foot shot the deer, did he?"
"How you fin' dat out? Hurley ain' lak I'm tak' de venaison to Camp Two, no mor' lak Camp Wan. She fin' dat out she git mad, I'm t'ink she bus' me wan on ma nose."
"Hurley don't know anything about it," reassured the boy. "And I'll give you my word he never will find out from me. I just happen to want to know who sent you after that meat. I won't squeal on either one of you. You can trust me, can't you?"
"Oui," answered the teamster, without hesitation. "You pass de word—dat good. Slue Foot, she keel dat deer wan tam, an' hang heem oop to freeze. Wan day she say, 'Frenchy, you go rat ovaire on de wes' line an' git de deer wat I'm got hangin'.' I ain' lak dat mooch, but Slue Foot say: 'She startin' for snow an' you track git cover oop. Me an' you we have wan gran' feast in de office, an' Hurley she ain' gon fin dat out. Wan leetle ol' man she got cabin 'bout two mile nort' of where de deer hang by de creek where four beeg maple tree stan' close beside. You git de ol' man to help you cut oop de meat, an' you breeng de hine qua'ter, an' give heem de res'. He ees poor ol' man, an' lak to git som' meat.' I'm t'ink dat pret' good t'ing Slue Foot lak to giv' som' poor ol' man de meat, so I gon an' done lak he says."
"It was snowing that day, was it?"
"Oui, she snow hard all day. I'm git back 'bout noon, an' ma tracks ees snow full."
"Was Slue Foot here when you got back?"
"Oui, an' dat night we hav' de gran' suppaire. Slue Foot say dat better you ain' say nuttin' 'bout dat deer, 'cause Hurley she git mad lak t'undaire. I'm tell you 'bout dat 'cause I'm know you ain' gon' try for mak' no trouble. Plenty deer in de woods, anyhow."
Connie nodded. "Yes, but orders are orders. If I were you I wouldn't have anything to do with deer killed out of season. Suppose Hurley had found out about that deer instead of me. You'd have been in a nice fix. When Hurley gives an order he generally sees that it's obeyed."
"Dat rat," agreed Frenchy, with alacrity. "Dat better I ain' got Hurley mad on me, ba goss!"
A WEEK later Connie was roused from his desk in the little office by the sound of bells. There was a loud "Whoa!" and Frenchy, wearing his long stocking cap of brilliant red yarn, and clad in his gayest mackinaw, pulled up his four-horse tote-team with a flourish before the door, and stepped smiling from the sleigh.
"W'at you t'ink, now, m's'u l'infant? S'pose I'm trade ma gran' team for de beeg fat log hoss, de cook she don' git no supply for wan week. Den, mebbe-so you got to eat porkypine an' spruce tea. Me—I'm back to-mor' night, wit ma gran' tote-team, bien!"
Connie laughed. "I guess you've got the right team for the job, Frenchy. But it seems to me you picked out a bad day for the trail." It had turned suddenly warm during the night, and the boy indicated a shallow pool of muddy water that had collected in the depression before the door.
"De snow she melt fas' w'ere she all tromp down an' dirty, but on de tote road w'ere she w'ite an' clean she ain' melt so fas'." He paused and cocked an eye skyward. "I'm git to Dogfish before she melt an' tonight she gon' for turn col', an' tomor', ba goss, I'm com' back on de ice, lak de log road."
"What's this?" asked the boy, picking up a small bundle done up in brown wrapping paper that lay upon the seat of the sleigh.
"Oh, dat wan pair wool sock Slue Foot sen' down to Corky Dyer for ke'p he's feet wa'm. I'm mak' dat go on de, w'at you call, de express."
Connie picked up the package and regarded it with apparent unconcern. "Who's Corky Dyer?" he asked, casually.
"Corky Dyer, she ke'p de s'loon down to Brainard. She frien' for Slue Foot, lak wan brudder."
As Frenchy's glance strayed to Steve, who came hurrying toward them with his list of supplies from the cook's camp, Connie's foot suddenly slipped, the package dropped from his hand squarely into the middle of the puddle of dirty water, and the next instant the boy came heavily down upon it with his knee.
"O-o-o-o!" wailed the excitable Frenchman, dancing up and down. "Now I'm ketch, w'at you call, de t'undaire! Slue Foot, she git mad on me now, ba goss! She say, 'You mak' dat leetle package los' I'm bre'k you in two!'"
Connie recovered the package, from which the wet paper was bursting in a dozen places. He glanced at it ruefully for a moment, and then, as if struck with a happy thought, he grinned. "We'll fix that all right," he said reassuringly, and turned toward the door.
"Non," protested Frenchy, dolefully, "dat ain' no good, to put on de new papier. De sock she got wet, an' de new papier she bus', too."
"You just hold your horses——"
"I ain't got for hol' dem hosses. Dey broke to stan' so long I want 'em."
"Come on in the office, then," laughed the boy, "and I'll show you how we'll fix it." Frenchy followed him in, and Connie opened the wanagan chest. "We'll just make a new package, socks and all, and I'll copy the address off on it, and Corky Dyer's feet will keep warm this winter just the same."
"Oui! Oui!" approved the Frenchman, his face once more all smiles. He patted the boy admiringly upon the back. "You got de gran' head on you for t'ink."
"You don't need to say anything about this to Slue Foot," cautioned the boy.
The Frenchman laughed. "Ha! Ha! You t'ink I'm gon' hont de trouble? Slue Foot she git mad jes' de sam'. She lak for chance to growl. I tell him 'bout dat, I'm t'ink he bus' me in two."
It was but the work of a few minutes to duplicate the small bundle, and the teamster took it from the boy's hand with a sigh of relief. "So long!" he called gaily, as he climbed into the sleigh and gathered up his reins with an air. "Som' tam' you lak you git de fas' ride, you com' long wit' me." His long whip cracked, and the impatient tote-team sprang out onto the trail.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Connie hurriedly thrust the package into his turkey. Saginaw entered, and, with a vast assumption of carelessness, walked to the wall and took down his rifle. "Guess I might's well take a siyou out into the brush an' see what fer meat they is stirrin'."
"Want a partner?"
"Sure," answered the man, "I wish't you could go 'long, but I don't guess you better. The log roads is softenin' up, an' I give orders to keep the teams offen 'em. They ain't nothin'll sp'ile a log road like teamin' on 'em soft. The teamsters won't have nothin' to do, an' they'll be hornin' in on ye all day, to git stuff out of the wanagan. Hurley an' Lon's both up to Camp Two, so I guess yer elected to stick on the job."
"That's so," answered the boy, "but, I bet the real reason you don't want me is because you're afraid I'd kill more game than you do."
"Well, ye might, at that," laughed Saginaw. "But we'll have plenty of chances to try out that part of it. I'm gittin' old, but I ain't so old but what I kin see the sights of a rifle yet." He drew the rackets from under his bunk and passed out, and as Connie watched him swing across the clearing, he grinned:
"You're hiking out to see if you can't hang a little evidence up against Mike Gillum, and that's why you didn't want me along. Go to it, old hand, but unless I miss my guess when you come in tonight you'll find out that your game has turned into crow."
Saginaw had prophesied rightly. The wanagan did a land-office business among the idle teamsters, and at no time during the day did Connie dare to open the package that lay concealed in his turkey. Darkness came, and the boy lighted the lamp. The teamsters continued to straggle in and out, and, just as the boy was about to lock the office and go to supper, Saginaw returned.
"What luck?" inquired Connie.
"Never got a decent shot all day," replied the man, as he put away his rifle and snow-shoes. "I got somethin' to tell you, though, when we've et supper. Chances is, Hurley an' Lon'll be late if they ain't back by now. We kin powwow in the office onless they come, an' if they do, we kin mosey out an' hunt us up a log."
Supper over, the two returned to the office and seated themselves beside the stove. Saginaw filled his pipe and blew a great cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "I swung 'round by Willer River," he imparted, after a few shorter puffs. Connie waited for him to proceed. "Ye mind, the old man said how it was a Frenchy that got him to help cut up that deer? Well, they's a raft of French workin' up there fer the Syndicate."
"Any of 'em been deer hunting lately?" asked the boy, innocently.
"Gosh sakes! How'd ye s'pose I kin tell? If I'd asked 'em they'd all said 'no.' I jes' wanted to see if they was Frenchmens there."
Connie nodded. "That looks bad," he admitted.
"Yes, an' what's comin' looks worst. On the way back, I swung 'round by the old Irishman's. He hadn't heard nothin' more from this here Mike Gillum, so he went up ag'in yesterday to see him. Gillum claimed he hadn't found out nothin', an' then the old man told him how he was broke an' needed grub to winter through on. Well, Gillum up an' dug down in his pocket an' loant him a hundred dollars!"
"Good for Mike Gillum!" exclaimed Connie. "That's what I call a man!"
"What d'ye mean—call a man?" cried Saginaw, disgustedly. "Look a-here, you don't s'pose fer a minute that if Gillum hadn't of got the old man's pile he'd of loant him no hundred dollars, do ye? How's he ever goin' to pay it back? Gillum knows, an' everyone knows that's got any sense, that what huntin' an' fishin' an' trappin' that old man kin do ain't only goin' to make him a livin', at the best. He ain't never goin' to git enough ahead to pay back no hundred dollars."
"So much the more credit to Gillum, then. What he did was to dig down and give him a hundred."
"Give him a hundred! An' well he could afford to, seein' how he kep' thirty-four hundred fer himself. Don't you think fer a minute, kid, that any one that's low-down enough to blackguard a man like Hurley would give away a hundred dollars—he'd see a man starve first. It's plain as the nose on yer face. We've got a clear case, an' I'm a-goin' to git out a search warrant ag'in' him, 'fore he gits a chanct to send that money out of the woods. He's got it, an' I know it!"
Connie smiled broadly. "He must have got it while we were at supper, then."
Saginaw regarded him curiously. "What d'ye mean—supper?" he asked.
For answer the boy crossed to his bunk, and, reaching into his turkey, drew out the soggy package. "Do you know who Corky Dyer is?" he asked, with seeming irrelevance.
"Sure, I know who Corky Dyer is—an' no good of him, neither. He lives in Brainard, an' many's the lumberjack that's the worse off fer knowin' him. But, what's Corky Dyer got to do with Mike Gillum an' the old man's money?"
"Nothing, with Mike Gillum. I was only thinking I hope Corky can keep his feet warm this winter, I sent him down a nice pair of wool socks today."
Saginaw bent closer, and stared at the boy intently. "Be ye feelin' all right, son?" he asked, with genuine concern.
"Sure, I feel fine. As I was going on to say, Slue Foot felt sorry for Corky Dyer's feet, so he picked out a pair of nice warm socks——"
"Thought ye said——"
The boy ignored the interruption, "and gave them to Frenchy to send to Corky by express. When Frenchy stopped here for his list I happened to pick up the package and while I was looking at it my foot slipped and I dropped it in a mud puddle and then fell on it. I hated to think of poor Corky wearing those dirty wet socks, and I didn't want Frenchy to get an awful bawling out from Slue Foot for not taking care of his package, so I just took a new pair out of the wanagan and sent them to him. I guess, now, we'd better open this package and wring these wet ones out, or they'll spoil."
Saginaw continued to stare as the boy drew his knife and cut the cord. Then he exploded angrily: "What in thunder d'ye s'pose I care about Corky Dyer's socks? An' what's his socks got to do with gittin' old Denny O'Sullivan's money back fer him? I thought ye was a better sport than that—Ye see yer fine friend's got cornered, an' right away ye switch off an' begin talkin' about Slue Foot, an' Frenchy, an' Corky Dyer's wet socks! Fer my part, Corky Dyer's feet could git wet an' froze fer six foot above 'em—an' it would be a good thing fer the timber country, at that!"
As Saginaw raved on, Connie unrolled the grey woollen socks and smoothed them out upon his knee. Saginaw watched, scowling disapproval as he talked. "They's somethin' in one of 'em," he said with sudden interest. "What's it got in it?"
Connie regarded him gravely. "I don't know, for sure—I haven't looked, but I think maybe it's Denny O'Sullivan's missing bills."
Saginaw Ed's jaw dropped, and his hands gripped the chair arms till the knuckles whitened, as the boy thrust his hand into the damp sock. "Yes, that's what it is, all right," he said, as he drew forth the missing bills. "They're not quite as new and clean, maybe, as they were, but they're the ones—see the little notches in the corners, just like the marks on his traps."
Saginaw stared in silence while the boy finished counting: "—five, six, seven." Then, as full realization dawned upon him, he burst forth, and the roars of his laughter filled the little log office. "Well, dog my cats!" he howled, when at length he found his voice. "'My foot slipped,' says he, 'an' I dropped it in a mud puddle an' fell on it!'" He reached over and pounded the boy on the back with a huge hand. "You doggone little cuss! Here you set all the time, with the missin' bills tucked away safe an' sound in yer turkey—an' me trompin' my legs off tryin' to find out what's became of 'em!" He thrust out his hand. "Ye sure outguessed me, kid, an' I don't begrudge it. When it comes to headwork, yer the captain—with a capital K. An' believe me! I'd give a hull lot to be where I could see Corky Dyer's face when he unwrops that package of socks!"
Connie laughed. "So you see," he said, as he shook the extended hand, "we've got a clear case, all right—but not against Mike Gillum."
THE two camps on Dogfish hummed with activity. Both Saginaw Ed and Slue Foot Magee had their crews "laying 'em down" with an efficiency that delighted the heart of Hurley, who came into the little office of Camp One after an inspection of the rollways, fairly radiating approval and good humour. That evening around the roaring stove the big walking boss lighted his pipe, and tilting back in his chair, contentedly wriggled his toes in the woollen socks, cocked comfortably upon the edge of his bunk, the while he held forth upon the merits of his crews to Lon Camden and Saginaw Ed and Connie Morgan who shared the quarters with him:
"The best crews ever went into the woods!" he began, "barrin' none. I've logged from Westconsin to the coast, an' never I seen the like. It's partly because the men is doin' what they never thought to be doin' again—layin' down white pine. An' it's partly the bosses, an' the cook, an' the scaler, an' the clerk. I'll show the owner a profit this year that'll make him fergit last year's loss like a busted shoestring. I've twict as many logs on the rollways of each camp as I had altogether last year."
Lon Camden shook his head: "Yeh, that's so, Hurley, but logs on the rollways ain't logs at the mills. Ye had enough banked along the river last year to show a good profit—an' ye can bet yer last dollar the Syndicate's foulin' our drive wasn't no accident."
"But our brands was on the logs," insisted Hurley. "Even the Syndicate wouldn't dare to saw branded logs."
The scaler shook his head doubtfully: "I do'no, boss, some one sawed 'em. To my certain knowledge there was better than two million feet on the landin's when we broke 'em out—an' two million feet of white pine ort to showed a good profit."
Hurley nodded, glumly: "Sure it ort," he agreed. "I seen the logs myself on the rollways, an' when they got to the mills, the boom scale was—" The big boss paused and scratched his head thoughtfully, "—well, I ain't got no noodle fer figgers, an' I disremember jest what it was, but it was short enough so it et up the profits an' handed us a fourteen-thousan'-dollar loss, or thereabouts. An' me with the owner way up in Alasky, an' thinkin' mebbe I done him out of his money. 'Twas a long head I had when I stuck out fer a two-year contrack, an' this year if we don't roll eight million feet in the river my name ain't Jake Hurley!"
"Yes," broke in Saginaw Ed, "an' if we make the same rate of loosin', the loss this year'll figger somewheres up around fifty thousan'."
Hurley's eyes grew hard "They ain't a-goin' to be no loss this year!" he replied savagely. "The Syndicate had more logs in Dogfish than me last year, an' a bigger crew, an' more white-water birlers amongst 'em, so Long Leaf Olson, the foreman of the Syndicate camp, ordered me to take the rear drive. I tuk it—an' be the time I'd got through cardin' the ledges, an' sackin' the bars, an' shovin' off jill-pokes, the main drive was sorted an' the logs in the logans, an' I was handed me boom scale at the mills. But, this year it's different. I'll have agin as many logs as them, an' two crews, an' when we git to the mills I'll have men of my own at the sortin' gap."
"If they was dams on Dogfish the rear drive wouldn't be so bad," opined Saginaw.
"If they was dams on Dogfish, we'd be worse off than ever," growled Hurley, "because the Syndicate would own the dams, an' we'd stand a fat show of sluicin' anything through 'em. No sir! We'll go out with the ice, an' me on the head of the drive, an' if Long Leaf fouls us, I won't be carin'. I see through the game he done me last year—keepin' me on the rear, an' it worked like this: Dogfish runs out with a rush an' then falls as quick as it run out. All the logs that ain't into the big river on the run-out is left fer the rear drive, an', believe me, we had a plenty dry-rollin' to do. For why? Because that thievin' Long Leaf nipped every jam before it started, an' left me with a month's work gittin' the stranded logs out of Dogfish. This year, it'll be me that's boss of the main drive, an' if a jam starts I'll let 'em pile up—an' I'll see that one starts, too—that'll back the water up behind 'em an' give the rear plenty of river to float down on, then when everything's caught up, I'll put some canned thunder in under her an' away we go to the next jam."
"Ye' talk like ye could jam 'em whenever ye wanted to," said Lon Camden.
Hurley regarded him gravely: "It's twenty-three miles from here to the big river. There'll be a jam ten miles below here, an' another, one mile above the mouth." The three stared at him in surprise. "You see," the boss continued, with evident satisfaction in their astonishment, "when I got the boom scale last summer, it turned me sick. I made out me report an' sent it to Alasky, an' then I went home to Pine Hook an' hoed me garden a day, an' put in the next one choppin' firewood. It was after supper that day an' the kiddies to bed, the wife comes out to where I was an' sets down on the choppin' log beside me. I smokes me pipe, an' don't pay her no mind, 'cause I was sore in the heart of me. After while she lays a hand on the sleeve of me shirt. 'Jake,' she says, 'all the winter an' spring the childer gabbles about the fun they'll be havin' when daddy comes home.'" The man paused and grinned, slyly. "It's like a woman to begin at the backwards of a thing an' work up to the front. I bet when one gits to heaven it'll be the health of Adam an' Eve they'll be inquirin' about furst, instead of John L. Sullivan, roight out. Anyway, that's what she says, an' I replies in the negative by sayin' nothin'. 'An' here you be'n home two days,' she goes on, an' stops, like they's enough be'n said.
"'An' I've hoed the garden, an' cut the firewood,' says I. 'What would you be havin' me do?'" Again Hurley grinned: "I dropped a match in the bung of an empty gasoline bar'l onct, that had laid in the sun behind the store, thinkin' to see if it would make a good rain bar'l. It didn't. Part of it made fair kindlin's, though, an' I was out an' around in a week. Giant powder, gasoline, an' wimmin is all safe enough if ye don't handle 'em careless—but, if ye do, ye git quick action—an' plenty of it.
"'Do!' she says, in the same tone of voice used by the gasoline bar'l that day. 'Well, if you can't think of nothin' else to do, give the poor darlints a beatin' just to let 'em know you're around!' Then she gits up an' starts fer the house." Hurley held a match to his pipe and puffed deeply for a few moments, "I never believed much in signs," he grinned, "but they's some signs I heed—so I laughed. The laugh come from the throat only, an' not from the heart, an' at the sound of it she turned, an' then she come back slow an' set down agin on the choppin' log. 'Tell me what's wrong, Jake,' she says. 'Two kin carry a load better than one.' So I up an' told her, an' she set for quite a while an' looked out over the slashin'.
"'Is that all?' she says, after a bit. 'Is that what ye've be'n hoein' an' choppin' over fer two days, an' gittin' madder with every whack—an' not payin' no heed to the important things that's been pilin' up to be done.' 'What's to be done?' says I, 'if it ain't the wood an' the garden?' 'It's the first time ye ever come back from the woods an' didn't see fer yerself what's to be done,' she says. 'With two wheels busted off Jimmy's tote wagon, an' Paddy's logs in the crick an' on his landin's waitin' fer daddy to show him how to build his dam an' sluice, an' Jimmy with the timber all out fer his Injun stockade, an' waitin' fer daddy to tell him does the logs go in crossways or up an' down!'
"So the next week I put in loggin' on the crick behind the pig pen. We put in a dam an' sluice, an' run a season's cut through, an' sorted 'em an' boomed 'em, an even rigged a goat-power saw-mill that would jerk the logs out of the crick but wouldn't cut 'em. An' by gosh, when the week was gone I had some good schemes in me own head, an' takin' five men with me, I went off up Dogfish an' studied the stream, an' this spring they'll be jams where I want jams! An' I'm the bucko that'll be on the head end, an' I'll bust 'em when I want to!"
"You ain't obstructed navigation, have ye?" asked Lon, with concern. "Cause if you have the Syndicate'll take it up in a minute, an' they'll law ye out of ten seasons' profit. Buckin' the Syndicate has cost many a little feller his pile. If they can't steal ye poor, they'll law ye poor—an' it's the same thing fer the small operator."
"Never you fret about the lawin', Lon. What I an' me five hearties put into Dogfish last summer looks like drift piles from a summer rain, an' the same charge of canned thunder that busts the jam will blow the log-an' rock foundations of the drift piles to smithereens."
Lon smoked in silence for a few moments, as though pondering the boss's words, and as he smoked his lips gradually expanded into a grin of approval. Hurley noted the smile: "An' it all come of me workin' out the problems of a six-year old kid on the little crick behind the pig pen. An' what's more, I've got some of the problems of the big river more clear in me noodle."
Saginaw Ed winked at Connie; and leaning over, whispered into the boy's ear: "Hurley's done a smart thing," he confided, "an' it'll hurry the drive out of Dogfish. But he ain't got to the meat of the trouble—an' that's up to you an' me."
As the season progressed Hurley had increased his crews until each numbered one hundred and twenty-five men, and the daily work of these men was an unceasing source of interest to Connie. Every moment that could be spared from his duties, the boy was out among them, swinging an axe with the swampers, riding the huge loads of logs that slipped smoothly over the iced log roads on their trips to the landings, standing beside Lon Camden as he scaled the incoming loads, or among the sawyers, watching some mighty pine crash to earth with a roar of protest.
"I never seen a clerk before that ye could prize away from the office stove with a pickpole," remarked Lon Camdon, one day, as he and Hurley watched the boy riding toward them balanced upon the top log of a huge load.
"He'll know more about loggin' be spring," replied the boss, "than many an' old lumberjack. It's the makin' of a fine boss the kid has."
"He kin scale as good as me, a'ready," admitted Lon. "An' that other kid, too—why just from trottin' 'round with this one he's got so he shows some real stuff. If ever I picked a kid fer a bad egg it was him."
"Me too," admitted Hurley. "But Connie stuck up for him, even after he'd throw'd in with the I. W. W's. Steve kin have anything I've got," he added, after a pause. "He saved me life, an' after the drive I'm goin' to take him home with me up to Pine Hook, instead of turnin' him loose to go to the bad around such dumps as Corky Dyer's where I picked him up. He'd got a wrong start. It's like he was follerin' a log road, an' got switched off onto a cross-haul—but, he's back on the main road again, an' it's Jake Hurley'll keep him there."
"He's all right, an' the men like him—but he ain't got the head the other one has."
"Sure he ain't!" agreed Hurley. "You kin take it from me, Lon, before that there Connie is thirty, he'll be ownin' timber of his own."
"I'd almost bet money on it," said Saginaw Ed, who had come up in time to hear Hurley's prophecy. "Say boss, them irons come in fer the cook's bateau; I expect we better put to work on it. Month from now, an' we'll be listenin' night an' day fer the boomin' of the ice."
The boss assented: "Hop to it, fer we don't want no delay when this drive starts."
Saginaw turned toward the blacksmith shop to give his orders regarding the scow, in which the cook would follow the drive and furnish hot meals for the rivermen. His eye fell upon Connie as the boy slid from the load: "Better get over to the office, son," he grinned. "Slue Foot's over there just a-meltin' the snow, 'cause you ain't around to sell him a plug of terbacker." The boy joined him, and Saginaw cast a look at the rollways: "Lots of logs on the landin's, son," he remarked.
"Seven million, three hundred thousand feet, up to last night," said the boy proudly. "Everything looks fine."
"Fine as frog hair, son—which some folks holds is too fine to last."
"What do you mean?"
"Well nothin' that I could name—only, what you said about Slue Foot's bein' mixed up with the I. W. W. It's like I told you, them birds gits jobs just so they kin git a chanct to distroy property. They don't want to work, an' they don't want no one else to work. We caught three of 'em tryin' to burn the stables, which is about their size, an' if the sheriff served Doc's warrants, I guess they're in jail now. But how do we know that them three was all the I. W. W.'s in the outfit? An' how do we know that Slue Foot ain't plottin' some move that'll put a crimp in us somehow er other?"
The boy smiled: "I've thought of that, too," he answered. "But I don't think there is much danger from the I. W. W.'s. I've been watching Slue Foot, and I know that he's not going to start anything. He was glad to get those I. W. W.'s off the works. You see he's got a fish of his own to fry. He belongs to the I. W. W. just because it's natural for him to throw in with crooks and criminals, but he's so crooked himself that he won't even play square with his gang of crooks. He saw a chance to make some crooked money for himself, so he threw his friends over. We're all right, because the more logs we put into the river the bigger his graft is. And we've got him right where we want him. We can nail him in a minute, if we want to, for swiping the old Irishman's money—but I don't want to spring that unless I have to until I get the goods on the Syndicate."
Saginaw nodded: "I guess that's good dope, all right. But, if I was you, I'd git a line on his scheme as soon as I could. You can't never tell what'll happen in the woods—an' when it does, it's most generally always somethin' different."
As the boy continued his way to the office, after parting from Saginaw at the blacksmith shop, he decided to carry out Saginaw's suggestion at once. In fact, for a week or ten days Connie had been watching for an opportunity to force Slue Foot to show his hand. And now he decided, the time had come. There was no one in sight; the boss of Camp Two had evidently gone into the office.
AS Connie pushed open the door he was greeted with a growl: "It's a doggone wonder ye wouldn't stay 'round an' tend to business onct in a while! Here I be'n waitin' half an' hour fer to git a plug of terbacker, an' you off kihootin' 'round the woods——"
"Save your growling, 'til someone's round to hear it," grinned the boy, as he produced the key to the chest. "Here's your tobacco, twenty cents' worth—makes thirty-two dollars and sixty cents, all told."
"Thirty-two sixty!" Slue Foot glared: "Thought Hurley's outfits never gouged the men on the wanagan?" he sneered. "My tab ain't over twenty-five dollars at the outside."
"Get it out of your system," retorted the boy. "You can't bluff me. Thirty-two sixty's down here. Thirty-two sixty's right—and you know it's right! What's on your mind? You didn't walk clear down from Camp Two for a twenty-cent plug of tobacco, when you've got the biggest part of a carton in your turkey."
With his back to the stove, the boss scowled at the boy! "Smart kid, ain't you?" The scowl faded from his face, an' he repeated: "Smart kid—an' that's why I tuk a notion to ye, an'—'" he paused abruptly and crossing to the window, took a position that commanded the clearing. "—an' let ye in on some extry money."
Connie nodded: "Yes, and it's about time you were loosening up on the proposition—you haven't let me in yet."
"Ain't let ye in!" exclaimed Slue Foot. "What ye mean, 'ain't let ye in'? How about shadin' the cut?"
"Shading the cut," exclaimed the boy, with contempt. "What's a couple of hundred dollars? That's a piker's job—Injun stealing! You promised to let me in on something big—now, come across."
Slue Foot stared at him: "Say, who's runnin' this, you? Yer all-fired cocky fer a kid. When I was your age a couple hundred dollars looked big as a township o' timber to me."
"Well, it don't to me," snapped the boy. "And you might as well come across."
Slue Foot advanced one threatening step: "Who d'ye think ye're talkin' to?" he roared. "I'll break ye in two!"
"And when I break, you break," smiled the boy. "Let me tell you this, Slue Foot Magee, I've got these books fixed so that if anything happens to me, your nose goes under, and all that's left is a string of bubbles—see? I've been doing some figuring lately, and I've decided the time's about right for me to get in on the other. According to the talk, it will be twenty or thirty days yet before the break-up. But, suppose the break-up should come early this year—early and sudden? You'd have your hands full and couldn't waste time on me. And besides you'd never let me in then, anyway. You're only letting me in because I'm supposed to furnish the dope on what's going on here. I'm playing safe—see the point?"
Slue Foot glowered: "An' what if I've changed my mind about lettin' ye in?" he asked truculently.
"Oh, then I'll just naturally sell your cut-shading scheme out to Hurley and his boss for what I can get—and let you stand the gaff."
Slue Foot's fists clenched, a big vein stood out upon his reddened forehead, and he seemed to swell visibly: "You—you'd double-cross me, would you?"
"Sure, I would," said the boy, "if you don't come through. Look here, Slue Foot, business is business. I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw a saw log, and you may as well get that right now."
"How do I know you won't double-cross me on the big deal?" asked the man.
"Matter of figures," answered Connie. "You don't suppose Hurley and his boss would pay me as much as we can get out of the logs do you? Of course they won't—but they might agree to pay me as much as I'll get out of the cut-shading—especially if I tell them that you've got a bigger game up your sleeve. You might as well be reasonable. It'll be better all around if you and I understand each other. They're beginning to talk in here about the drive. If I don't know what your scheme is, how am I to know what to remember? I can't remember everything they say, and if I'm onto the game I can pick out what'll do us good, and not bother with the rest."
Once more Slue Foot took up his place by the window, and for some minutes the only sound in the little office was the ticking of the alarm clock. Finally the man spoke: "I figgered you was smart all right—smarter'n the run of kids. But I didn't figger you could out-figger me—or believe me, I'd of laid off of ye." The boss of Camp Two sat and scowled at the boy for several minutes. Then he spoke, sullenly at first, but as he warmed to his topic, the sullenness gave place to a sort of crafty enthusiasm—a fatuous pride in his cleverly planned scheme of fraud. "I was goin' to let ye in anyhow, so I s'pose it might's well be now as later. But, git this, right on the start: ye ain't bluffed me into takin' ye in, an' ye ain't scared me into it. You've augered me into it by common sense ... what ye said about they might come a sudden thaw, an' we'd be too busy to git together—an' about you knowin' what to remember of the talk that goes on here.
"It's like this: The logs is paint-branded, an' the mark of this outfit is the block-an'-ball in red on the butt end. They're branded on the landin's, an' I done the markin' myself. Last year Hurley inspected 'em an' so did Lon, an' they know the brands showed up big an' bright an' sassy. But when them logs reached the booms an' was sorted they wasn't near as many of them wearin' the red block-an'-ball as when they started—an' the difference is what I split up with the Syndicate—boom-toll free!"
"You mean," asked the boy, "that the Syndicate men changed the brands, or painted them out and painted their own over them?"
Slue Foot sneered. "Ye're pretty smart—some ways. But ye ain't smart enough to change a red block-an'-ball to a green tripple X. An' as fer paintin' over 'em, why if a log hit the big river with a brand painted out they'd be a howl go up that would rock the big yaller ball on top of the capital. No sir, it takes brains to make money loggin'. The big ones has stole and grabbed up into the millions—an' they do it accordin' to law—because they've got the money to make the law an' twist it to suit theirselves. They put up thousands fer lobbys an' legislaters, an' fer judges an' juries, an' they drag down millions. The whole timber game's a graft. The big operators grab water rights, an' timber rights, an' they even grab the rivers. An' they do it legal because they own the dummies that makes the laws. The little operator ain't got no show. If he don't own his own timber he has to take what he can get in stumpage contracks, an' whether he owns it or not they git him on water-tolls, an' when he hits the river there's boom-tolls an' sortin'-tolls, an' by the time he's got his logs to the mills an' sold accordin' to the boom scale he ain't got nawthin' left, but his britches—an' lucky to have them. All business is crooked. If everyone was honest they wouldn't be no millionaires. If a man's got a million, he's a crook. It ain't no worse fer us little ones to steal agin' the law, than it is fer the big ones to steal accordin' to law." Fairly started upon his favourite theme, Slue Foot worked himself into a perfect rage as he ranted on. "This here outfit's a little outfit," he continued. "It ain't got no show, nohow. I seen the chanct to git in on the graft an' I grabbed it—if I hadn't, the Syndicate would have had it all. An' besides I got a chance to git square with Hurley. They's two kinds of folks in the world—them that has, an' them that hain't. Them that has, has because they've retch out an' grabbed, an' them that hain't, hain't because they wasn't smart enough to hang onto what they did have." Connie listened with growing disgust to the wolfish diatribe. Slue Foot's eyes blazed as he drove his yellow fangs deep into his tobacco plug. "But people's wakin' up to their rights," he continued. "There's the Socialists an' the I. W. W.'s, they're partly right, an' partly wrong. The Socialists wants, as near as I kin make out, a equal distribution o' wealth—that ain't so bad, except that there's only a few of 'em, an' they'd be doin' all the work to let a lot of others that don't do nawthin', in on their share of the dividin'. What's the use of me a-workin' so someone else that don't help none gits a equal share? An' the I. W. W.'s is about as bad. They try to bust up everything, an' wreck, an' smash, an' tear down—that's all right, fer as it goes—but, what's it goin' to git 'em? Where do they git off at? They ain't figgered themselves into no profit by what they do. What's it goin' to git me if I burn down a saw-mill? I don't git the mill, do I? No—an' neither don't they. What I'm after is gittin' it off them that's got it, an' lettin' it stick to me. I ain't worryin' about no one else. It's every man fer hisself—an' I'm fer me!" The boss prodded himself in the chest, as he emphasized the last word. "An' if you want yourn, you'd better stick with me—we'll gather."
It was with difficulty that Connie masked the loathing he felt for this man whose creed was more despicable even than the creed of the organized enemies of society, for Slue Foot unhesitatingly indorsed all their viciousness, but discarded even their lean virtues.
For three years the boy's lot had been cast among men—rough men of the great outland. He had known good men and bad men, but never had he known a man whom he so utterly despised as this Slue Foot Magee. The bad men he had know were defiant in their badness, they flaunted the law to its face—all except Mr. Squigg, who was a sneak with the heart of a weasel, and didn't count. But this man, as bad as the worst of them, sought to justify his badness. Connie knew what Waseche Bill, or big MacDougall would have done if this human wolf had sought to persuade them to throw in with him on his dirty scheme, and he knew what Hurley or Saginaw Ed would do—and unconsciously, the boy's fists doubled. Then came the memory of McKeever and Ricky, the men of the Mounted with whom he had worked in the bringing of bad men to justice. What would McKeever do? The boy's fists relaxed. "He'd get him," he muttered under his breath. "He'd throw in with him, and find out all he could find out, and then he'd—get him!"
"Whut's that?" Slue Foot asked the question abruptly, and Connie faced him with a grin:
"Your dope sounds good to me," he said, "but come across with the scheme. Hurley or Saginaw may drop in here any time. If the Syndicate didn't change the brands, or paint over them, how did they work it?"
"They didn't work it—it was me that worked it. All they done was to furnish me the paint an' put their own marks on the logs after I'd got 'em into the big river, brand free. It's this way: Brandin' paint will stand water. You kin paint-brand a log here an' the brand will still be on it if it floats clean to New Orleans. That's the kind of paint Hurley furnished. An' that's the kind of paint that went on some of the logs. But another kind went on the rest of the logs. It was just as red an' just as purty lookin' as the other—while the logs stayed on the rollways. After they'd b'en in the water a while they wasn't no paint on 'em. German chemists mixed that paint—an' water'll take it off, like it'll take dirt offen a floor—easier 'cause you don't have to use no soap, an' you don't have to do no scrubbin'—it jest na'chelly melts an' floats off. Hurley bossed the rear end drive, an' when our crews got to the mills, the Syndicate had saw to it that all unbranded logs was took care of an' wore the green tripple X."
Connie nodded and Slue Foot continued: "Pretty slick, eh? But they's more to it than that. It's got to be worked right. I had to slip Long Leaf Olson the word when the rollways would be busted out so he could foul our drive an' git his logs in on the head end. Then, there was the dickerin' with the Syndicate. It took some rammin' around before I got next to old Heinie Metzger—he's the big boss of the Syndicate. I worked it through passin' myself off fer Hurley to a stuck-up young whipper-snapper name of von Kuhlmann, that's old Heinie's side-kick—confidential secretary, he calls him. Them Germans is slick, but at last we got together an' made the deal, an' they paid me all right, boom scale, when the logs was in. This here von Kuhlmann hisself slipped me the money—he's a funny galoot, always swelled up an' blowin' like he owned the world, an' always noddin' an' winkin', like they was somethin' he was holdin' out on ye, as if he know'd somethin' that no one else know'd—an' brag! You'd ort to hear him brag about Germany, like they wasn't no other reg'lar country, the rest of the world just bein' a kind of place that wasn't hardly worth mentionin'. They say the Syndicate stock is all owned in Germany, an' some of the cruisers that's worked fer 'em say it's a sight the amount of stuff they make 'em put in their reports. Accordin' to his job a cruiser or a land-looker is supposed to estimate timber. But the cruisers that works fer the Syndicate is supposed to report on everything from the number of box cars an' engines on the railroads, to the size of the towns, an' the number of folks in 'em that's Socialists an' I. W. W.'s. an' their name. They don't care nawthin about wastin' postage stamps, neither, 'cause all that stuff is sent over to Germany. What do they care over in the old country how many box cars is on some little old branch loggin' road in the timber country, or how many I. W. W.'s. lives in Thief River Falls?