“If it’ll only last,” Bob returned, sitting down on a log for a moment’s rest.
Somewhat to their surprise Jean Larue had not left the camp after his fight with Bob. The lot of a dethroned bully in a lumber camp is not an enviable one. Once lost, his power can seldom be regained.
“Kape yer eyes on thot Larue,” Tom had cautioned Bob only that morning. “He wouldn’t be after staying on here after thot batin’ ye gave him if he wan’t up ter sumpin.”
“Oh, I guess he’s all right,” Bob had replied easily.
But now, as from his seat on the log he glanced across the space from which the trees had been cut, and saw the Frenchman staring at him, a look of fierce hatred in his eyes, the foreman’s warning returned to his mind.
“Guess I had better look out for that fellow,” he thought, as he slipped from the log and attacked a large spruce. “He certainly has it in for me if he ever gets the chance.”
When at noon time the loud blast of the dinner horn rang through the woods, Bob had nearly finished the felling of an extra large spruce. Fearing that if he left it as it was the rising wind would blow it over in the wrong direction, he decided to finish it before leaving.
“You trot along and I’ll be with you by the time you get to eating,” he said to Jack who had just finished trimming a tree.
“Well, make it snappy,” Jack replied, as he followed the last of the men leaving Bob making the forest ring with the sound of his blows.
He had almost finished and the big spruce was beginning to totter when, just as he drew back his ax for what he thought would be the final stroke, he felt rather than heard something whiz past his head. Quickly he glanced up and there, sticking in the trunk of the tree upon which he was at work was an ax minus its helve. A cold chill ran down his spine as he realized how narrowly it had missed him. A quick glance behind him revealed Jean Larue, standing about twenty feet away, and holding in his hand a helve minus an ax.
Immediately the Frenchman came forward and Bob could see that he was shaking, but whether with fear or anger, he was uncertain.
“Head fly off ax. Wedge, she work loose, come out,” and he held out the helve for Bob to examine.
“So I see,” Bob replied, as he took the helve in his hand. “But how is it that you haven’t gone to dinner with the rest of the men?”
“I feenesh trim tree first,” he replied uneasily. “I ver’ glad ax no heet boy,” he added as he pulled it from the trunk.
“Thanks, so am I,” Bob returned dryly, as he struck the final blow which sent the tree crashing to the earth.
“You no tink I do eet purpose, heh?” Jean asked as he nervously shoved the helve back into the ax.
“We’ll let it go at that,” Bob evaded the question. “But please see to it that nothing like that happens again,” he added as he started for the camp. “We don’t want it to get to be a habit, you know.”
“I drive wedge in ver’ hard thes time,” Jean promised, as he fell in behind Bob.
“You go ahead,” Bob ordered, stepping to one side.
The Frenchman hesitated a moment, seemed about to speak, then changed his mind, and without a word struck off at a rapid gait toward the camp.
“That was a little too close for comfort,” Bob thought as he followed a few feet behind. “Of course it was no accident, but I hardly think he’ll dare try it again, but it’s dead certain that I’ve got to keep a sharp lookout or he’ll try something else. If he’d hit me I imagine he had it all planned to light out, but when he missed he knew that he’d give himself away if he did, so he decided to face it out.”
By the time his thoughts had reached this point he had struck the camp and making a hasty toilet was soon at Jack’s side eating with, as he told his brother, “a regular Maine woods appetite.”
“Did you get the tree down?” Jack asked between mouthfuls.
“Sure did, and if she don’t scale 800 feet I miss my guess,” Bob replied, helping himself to a big dish of baked beans.
“Didn’t I see you coming in with Larue?” Jack asked a moment later.
“Yes, he waited to trim a tree.” Bob had made up his mind to say nothing even to Jack about the “accident,” knowing that it would only worry him.
“That’s a funny thing for Jean to do. Whence his sudden inclination to extreme industry?” and the boy glanced suspiciously at the Frenchman who was shoveling food into his mouth near the other end of the table.
Bob made no reply and after a moment Jack declared:
“If I’d known he was hanging behind you bet I’d have waited. I don’t like it a little bit.”
The next day was Sunday and the boys had planned to spend the day with an old Indian friend of theirs who lived alone in a little log cabin about eight miles farther up the lake. The Indian’s name was Kernertok, meaning, “he is black,” and, as told in a previous volume, the boys had on two occasions saved his life. Naturally he was intensely fond of them and they in turn thought that there was no one quite like Kernertok. The Indian had taught them much of woodcraft of which he was a master and the boys never tired of listening to his stories of the far north where he had spent his younger days.
It was a beautiful day, clear and cold as they set off soon after daybreak. Their way led up the lake for about seven miles, then in through the thick forest for a trifle over a mile. The snow was fairly well packed and their snow-shoes sank but slightly making easy going.
“My, but it’s great to be alive,” Jack declared, breathing in deep breaths of the spruce laden air.
“Particularly up here in the Maine woods,” Bob agreed.
“You said a mouthful,” Jack laughed, as he stopped to tighten the thong of one of his shoes. “I don’t believe there’s another place in the world that’s so fine. Just taste that air.”
They were out on the lake some distance from the shore which, at this point curved sharply inward, as the traveling was much easier than through the woods.
“There’s the old cabin,” Bob said, after they had made about three miles. “Had we better go in and see if everything is all right?”
The cabin referred to was one belonging to their father and in, or rather, about which, they spent the most of their time in summer.
“Guess we might as well,” Jack replied. “It won’t take but a few minutes and we’ve got plenty of time. You got the key?”
“I think so, but wait a minute and I’ll see. Yes, here it is,” as he pulled it from his pocket.
They headed in and in a few minutes were on the porch of the cabin where they removed their snow-shoes.
“My, but it seems colder in here than outside,” Jack declared, as he stepped inside. “We’ll have to come up some Saturday before we go back and stay over Sunday. What do you say?”
“I say yes. We can keep a good fire going in the fireplace and I guess we won’t have any trouble to keep warm.”
“Let’s make it next Saturday, then.”
“Righto, next Saturday it is,” Bob agreed.
It was just nine o’clock when they reached Kernertok’s cabin. They found the old Indian washing his breakfast dishes and they knew that he was overjoyed to see them, although his stoical nature made it impossible for him to be demonstrative.
“Injun very glad see white boys,” he said as he took both their hands.
“And you bet we’re tickled to death to see you,” Jack declared, and Bob’s greeting was no less warm.
At the sound of their voices a large collie dragged himself from beneath a bunk at one side of the room, and the way he jumped at the boys striving to lick their faces gave abundant evidence that the dog also was overjoyed.
“Good old Sicum,” Jack declared, stroking the dog’s head. “You haven’t forgotten us, have you boy?” and a sharp bark of delight said as plainly as words that he had not.
Bob had always insisted that no one could cook like Kernertok, although Jack would never agree that he could beat his brother when it came to baking biscuits. However the dinner to which they sat down a few hours later, consisting of trout caught through the ice the day before, and hot biscuits, to say nothing of the baked potatoes and apple pie, left little to be desired.
It was shortly after three o’clock when Bob, glancing out of the little window, first noticed that the sun was no longer visible.
“Guess we’d better be beating it back,” he announced, as he stepped to the door and threw it open. “Looks as though it might storm before night,” he said a moment later, as he came back into the room.
At the words Kernertok knocked the ashes from his pipe and went to the door.
“How about it, Kernertok?” Bob asked, as he came back.
“Look heap like storm. White boys better hurry unless stay all night,” the Indian replied, as he threw more wood on the fire.
“I wish we could, but Tom’ll be worried if we don’t get back so I guess we’d better go,” and they started pulling on their mackinaws.
A brisk wind was blowing as they fastened on their snow-shoes and bade their old friend goodbye, after they had made him promise them that he would meet them the following Saturday afternoon at the cabin and spend the week end.
“And don’t forget to bring Sicum,” Jack called back as they waved the old man goodbye.
“That wind’s coming from the northeast and unless I miss my guess we’re in for some snow before we get very far,” Bob prophesied as he cast an anxious glance at the sky.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” Jack agreed. “But we’ll have it at our back as soon as we get out on the lake.”
It seemed as though the wind increased with every minute as they hurried through the thick woods, and before they were half way to the lake a few stray flakes began to sift their way down through the trees.
“We’re going to get it all right. Think we’d better go back?” Bob asked, as a strong blast of wind tore its way through the forest.
“Nix on the going back stuff, as I’ve often heard you say,” Jack replied with a light laugh. “Who’s afraid of a little snow? We’ll make it all right.”
By the time they had reached the lake the storm had set in in earnest and the snowflakes, driven here and there by the gusts of wind, were coming down with ever increasing rapidity.
“It’s lucky we got the wind at our backs, I’d sure hate to have to face it very far,” Jack said as they started down the lake. “This is going to be a corker,” he added a few minutes later, as driving snow began to blot out the shore of the lake.
The walking rapidly grew harder as the freshly fallen snow increased in depth, and before they had covered a mile their shoes were sinking several inches at each step.
“My, hear that wind howl. It’s enough to blow the hair off a bald man’s head,” Jack declared as he pulled his cap down farther over his ears. “I sure pity anyone who’s coming up the lake tonight,” he added.
“They’d need it,” Bob agreed. “I don’t think I ever saw it snow so fast. I’ll bet it’s making an inch in five minutes. We don’t want to get too far from the shore, and I think we’d better turn in a bit. If we lose sight of it and the wind should change, we could get lost as easy as falling off a log.”
They were hardly twenty feet from the shore at the time, but so thick was the falling snow that it was barely visible and they at once took Bob’s advice and it was not long before they realized the wisdom of the move. Almost in a moment it seemed the wind shifted and like sharp particles of ice the snow was being driven against the side of their faces.
“You spoke just in the nick of time,” Jack shouted, as he turned his head to the storm. “Hope it don’t reverse entirely,” he added a moment later.
By this time the going was very heavy and it is doubtful if they were making much over a mile an hour. Snow-shoeing on well packed snow through the surface of which the shoe barely breaks is one thing and an expert can travel at a rapid pace. But when the snow is light and newly fallen and the shoes sink deep and at every step the wearer has to lift, not only the shoe but the snow which falls upon it, the conditions are vastly different and progress is very slow. The feet feel as though loaded with lead and each step advances the traveler but a few inches.
Darkness was coming rapidly as Jack, who at the moment was in the lead, stopped and turned around.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked.
“Pretty hard to say,” Bob replied, as he glanced at his watch. “It was four o’clock when we struck the lake and it’s a quarter past five now. I’d say not over two miles or two miles and a half at the most. We’ve been creeping for the last half hour.”
“And I’m mighty tired already,” Jack said, as he turned his back to the wind. “I sure wish we’d accepted Kernertok’s invitation and waited till morning.”
“Yes, it would have been better,” Bob agreed, “but we must be pretty near half way down so I suppose we might as well keep on as turn back.”
“Who said anything about turning back?” Jack laughed. “I’m worth a dozen dead men, so come on.”
“On it is,” Bob shouted, “but it’s my turn to break trail,” and before Jack could object he had pushed ahead of him. “It seems as though the snow keeps coming down faster and faster all the time,” he declared as he started off.
“Yes, and wouldn’t I like to get hold of that fellow that wrote the poem about the beautiful snow,” Jack growled, as he fell in close behind.
For another hour they struggled on without a word being spoken. They both knew that they needed to husband all their strength, and talking so as to be heard above a Maine blizzard, takes breath. It was now so dark that although he was scarcely six feet behind, it was all Jack could do to see the form of his brother.
“We’ll never make it,” Bob declared, as he stopped and waited for Jack to come close. “But, thank goodness, we must be nearly to the cabin and we’ll stop there.”
At the words Jack let out a wild yell of joy. “And to think that I never thought of the cabin,” he said, adding: “If we can only find it.”
“All we’ve got to do is to follow down close to the shore till we bump into the wharf,” Bob said cheerfully, as he started off once more. “Here we are,” he shouted ten minutes later, and soon they were removing their snow-shoes on the porch of the cabin.
“I don’t believe I could have held out much longer,” Jack panted, as he followed Bob inside.
“I don’t feel exactly rested myself,” Bob laughed. “Now if you’ll get the fireplace going I’ll do the same by the range and we’ll soon have the molecules in here dancing about a little more lively.”
There was plenty of wood piled under cover just back of the cabin and soon the range was roaring and the fireplace, as Jack declared, was doing its best to hold up its end.
“That heat sure does feel good,” the latter remarked, as he held out his hands to the cheerful warmth.
The cabin was well stocked with provisions and it was not long before supper was on the table and never did a meal taste better.
“This sure beats plugging through that storm out there,” Bob declared, as he listened to the howling of the wind which showed no signs of abatement.
By the time they had the dishes washed and put away the living room was good and warm and, drawing their chairs up in front of the fireplace, they were soon deeply interested in the books which they had chosen from the well-filled bookcase.
Outside the wind still howled and drove the flying snow against the windows with fierce energy, but inside the cabin was warm and cozy. They had been reading for the better part of two hours, stopping only to replenish the fire as the logs burned away, leaving a thick bed of glowing embers.
“I say, Bob, who is the funniest writer you know of?” Jack asked, looking up from his book.
“James Whitcomb Riley,” Bob replied after a moment’s thought. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing, only you’re wrong. He was funny all right, but you see the man who wrote this poem Snow Bound, which I’ve been reading, was ‘Whittier.’”
Bob caught up a sofa cushion and was about to hurl it at his brother, when suddenly he paused, holding the cushion in the air.
“Listen,” he cried.
Slowly the hand holding the cushion dropped to his side and both strained their ears.
“What was it?” Jack asked, after a moment’s pause.
“I thought I heard a cry,” Bob replied, still listening. “But I guess I was mistaken,” he added, as he picked up his book from the floor where it had fallen.
But he had hardly started reading again when he sprang to his feet and, rushing to the door, flung it wide open.
“There, I knew I heard something,” he shouted, as a faint but distinct cry reached their ears above the wail of the storm.
“Help, help.”
The last time the call was barely audible and although they listened intently it was not repeated.
“There’s someone out there sure’s you’re alive,” Bob shouted as he closed the door. “Come on, we’ve got to make it snappy,” he said, as he began to pull on his moccasins.
“Who in the world can it be?” Jack asked, as he donned his mackinaw and pulled his cap well down over his ears.
In another moment they were fastening their snow-shoes on their feet on the porch.
“I believe it’s worse than when we came in if such a thing is possible,” Jack declared, shouting at the top of his voice, in order to make himself heard, as they started toward the lake.
And such seemed to be the case. It was impossible to see more than a half dozen feet ahead and the rays from their flashlights availed but little against the thick cloud of falling snow. Every few steps they paused to listen, but not a sound save the roar of the wind and the creaking of the trees as they bent their lofty tops to the strength of the blasts, came to their ears.
“He must have given out,” Bob shouted, as they paused again at the end of the wharf, “and unless we find him mighty quick he’ll be buried.”
“Well, we can only do our best,” Jack shouted back, as he plunged forward, sinking nearly to his knees in the light snow, despite his snow-shoes.
Until they were out on the lake, facing into the storm, they had not realized the full strength of the wind; but here, where it had a clear sweep, they were hardly able to stand against it. But bending low, they crept on inch by inch, the beating particles of snow stinging their faces like so many needles.
“It’s worse than looking for a needle in a hay stack,” Jack yelled as they again stopped to listen. “But,” he added, “he can’t be very far away or we’d never have heard him.”
“I believe we’re out far enough,” Bob declared a few minutes later. “He could hardly have been farther away than this. Suppose you circle round to the right and I’ll do the same to the left. Yell if you find anything,” he shouted, as he started off at right angles to the course they had been pursuing.
It was perhaps ten minutes later that he was brought to a sudden stop by the sound of his brother’s voice faintly piercing the storm.
“Oh, Bob, I’ve found him.”
“I’m a coming,” he shouted, retracing his steps as rapidly as possible.
“Keep calling,” he added, bending his head to avoid so far as possible the stinging snow.
Facing directly into the storm it seemed to the boy that he would never reach his brother, but at last he caught sight of him less than a dozen feet ahead. Jack was on his knees in the snow holding a man’s head close against his breast.
“He’s pretty far gone, I’m afraid,” he shouted, as Bob plowed his way to his side. “He was entirely covered with the snow and I’d never have found him if I hadn’t stepped on him,” he explained.
“It’s no wonder he gave out,” Bob declared a moment later, as he took hold of the man’s feet and pulled them out of the snow. “One of his snow-shoes has given out and his foot has gone clean through it. But we must get a move on and get him to the cabin, if we can,” he added doubtfully.
It was indeed a task to test the endurance of the strongest. The man was large and heavy, but with a prayer on their lips, they did not hesitate. Quickly removing the man’s snow-shoes, Bob fastened them together by their thongs and slung them on his back.
“You take his feet and I’ll lead,” he ordered, as he got his right arm under his shoulder pit. It was all he could do to straighten up under the load, but he managed it and they started. How they made it neither could tell; but, as Bob afterward declared, God must have given them the strength necessary. Foot by foot they plowed through the deep snow, sinking far down at every step, and obliged to stop to rest every few minutes.
If the task was difficult while they were still on the lake, it was doubly so when they reached the shore. The cabin sat on a sharp rise about a hundred feet from the lake, and it took them all of half an hour to make that short distance. It was literally inch by inch that they struggled on, praying that their strength would hold. Not once since they started had the man given the slightest indication of life, and the thought that he might even now be dead was discouraging. But, as Jack had declared when they had started out, they had done their best and they could leave the rest in the hands of God.
Finally, when their endurance seemed at the breaking point, they struggled onto the porch, and with what seemed his last ounce of strength, Bob pushed open the door not waiting to remove his snow-shoes. A good fire still burned in the fireplace and dragging the heavy body onto the bear skin directly in front of it, they quickly removed their snow-shoes, after which they stood for some moments leaning against the sides of the mantle exposing their half-numbed bodies to the grateful heat. But they both realized that this was a time when minutes might well mean the difference between life and death, and as soon as the first sign of returning strength began to flow back into their tired bodies, they sat to work.
“If you’ll make some strong coffee, Jack, I’ll be getting the blankets warm,” Bob said, as he started up the stairs. He returned almost immediately, his arms full of thick woolen blankets which he draped over the backs of chairs as near the fire as he dared.
“I suppose whiskey or brandy is what he ought to have,” he thought, “but we haven’t got any of either and I guess coffee is the next best thing.”
The form on the bear skin was lying face down and now Bob turned him over and, unbuttoning the heavy mackinaw, he placed his ear on his chest. For a moment he could detect no signs of life, but just as he was about to give up, he moved his head a trifle and his quick ear caught the faint sound of heart beats.
“Thank God, he’s alive,” he breathed as he lifted his head and for the time glanced at the man’s face. “Why, it’s Jean Larue,” he gasped in surprise. “If that don’t beat the Dutch,” and he hurriedly ran to the kitchen to tell Jack.
“Well of all things, to think of an old stager like that getting lost up here where he has lived all his life,” Jack declared as he poured out a cup of very black coffee.
“It was probably that broken snow-shoe,” Bob said, adding: “Anyhow he’s alive and we must get him into bed as soon as we can.”
It was the work of but a minute to strip off the man’s outer clothes and wrapping him in the blankets now thoroughly warmed, they lifted him to a large couch, which they pulled as close to the fire as they could.
“Now let’s see if we can get some of that coffee into him,” Bob said.
It was slow work but by dint of much perseverance they managed to get a few spoonsful of the liquid down his throat.
“Better see if his hands or feet are frozen,” Jack suggested, as he pulled off one of his moccasins. “I guess they’re all right,” he announced a moment later, as he dropped the other one to the floor. “How about his hands?”
“They’re all right. I think it’s more exhaustion than cold,” Bob declared. “I don’t believe you could freeze one of those Kanucks anyway,” he added as he raised the man’s head again and told Jack to see if he could get some more of the hot coffee down him. “His heart is getting stronger,” he announced a moment later, “and he seems to be breathing quite easily now. He’ll be all right before long, see if he isn’t.” And his prediction was correct, for in a few minutes the man gave vent to a long moan and slowly opened his eyes.
“Drink this,” Bob ordered, as he raised his head and held the cup to his lips.
“I go Heaven, oui?” the man whispered faintly, as Bob laid his head back after he had swallowed nearly a cupful of coffee.
“Not exactly,” Bob laughed. “You’re still on the earth but you had a pretty narrow call all right. Now you’d better not talk any just now. Just rest and we’ll get you something to eat.”
In a few minutes Bob had ready a steaming bowl of oatmeal gruel which the man ate greedily and strength seemed to almost rush back into his body as the hot food warmed his stomach.
“Now you go to sleep,” Bob ordered, when the last of the gruel had disappeared. And it was not many minutes before his deep breathing indicated that he had obeyed the order.
“He’ll be all right now if he don’t get pneumonia, and I don’t think that’s likely,” Bob said as he laid his hand on the man’s forehead. “He hasn’t a speck of fever so far.”
It was now after eleven o’clock and they decided that it would be safe to go to bed as Jean would probably sleep for a long time if undisturbed.
“I’ll hear him if he wakes up,” Bob assured his brother, as they threw themselves in the bed in the little bedroom which opened out of the living room. “It’s lucky we’ve got plenty of blankets,” he muttered sleepily, as he pulled them up around his neck.
During the night the storm blew itself out and when soon after eight o’clock Bob opened his eyes, the sun was shining in at the window. Jack still slept on and he got out of bed carefully so as not to waken him. A good bed of coals still glowed in the fireplace, and soon he had a roaring fire sending a shower of sparks up the broad chimney. The crackling of the fire woke Jean, and when Bob returned to the living room after starting a fire in the cook stove, he was sitting up.
“How you feel?” he asked.
“Feel ver’ goot, but ver’ hungry,” was the reply, as he got to his feet.
“Well, we’ll remedy that last symptom in short order,” Bob laughed as he threw some more wood on the fire.
Jack did not waken until breakfast was on the table, then he came from the bedroom with a sheepish look on his face.
“Why didn’t you let a fellow sleep all day?” he demanded.
“It’s all right, old man. You needed it and there was nothing you could do,” Bob assured him, giving him a good hug.
It was evident that Jean had nearly recovered his strength and would soon be as good as ever.
“It takes a lot to kill one of those fellows,” Bob whispered to Jack as they were washing the dishes.
With a few strips of rawhide which Bob found, Jean soon had the broken snow-shoe repaired temporarily and by eleven o’clock they were ready to start for the camp.
“But you haven’t told us how you came to get lost,” Bob said as he pulled on his mackinaw.
“I go Nor’East Carry yes’day mornin’. Come back, she ver’ hard goin’, geet ver’ tired, then shoe she bust, no can mak’ mooch go. See light in here, then yell, then no more,” Jean explained in his broken English. “You save life, me ver’ mooch tank, no ought. Me no goot, trow ax on purpose, ver’ sorry now. You no forgive, non?”
“Surest thing you know, old man. Forget it. We’ll be great friends from now on. How about it?” and Bob held out his hand, a kindly smile on his face.
The Frenchman had held his eyes steadily on the floor as he stammered out the confession, and it took some time for Bob’s eager words of forgiveness to penetrate his understanding. “An eye for an eye” has always been his creed and he was slow to grasp any other. But as he glanced up and saw the outstretched hand and the smile which accompanied it, the true meaning of forgiveness entered his mind for the first time in all his life. Tears glistened in his eyes as he grasped the proffered hand and stammered:
“Oui, we friends, you let me.”
“All right, that’s settled,” Bob declared joyfully, as Jack in turn held out his hand.
The going, though still heavy, was not so bad as they had feared, as the wind had packed the snow to some extent, and for the most of the way their snow-shoes sank only three or four inches. They reached the camp shortly after one o’clock and were received with shouts of joy by the crew.
“Sure an’ we were jest after startin’ out ter look fer yez,” Tom Bean declared as he followed them to the mess house, where, between mouthfuls, they told him of their adventure. Not until Jean had left them, declaring that he was all right and was going to work, did Bob tell the foreman about his conversation with the Frenchman.
“Do yer think he meant it?” Tom asked as he finished.
“I’m sure of it,” Bob replied. “You’ll see that Jean’s a different man or I miss my guess. But why all the gloom?” he asked, as for the first time he noted a worried look on Tom’s face.
“Sure an’ the devil’s ter pay,” and the foreman shook his head sadly.
“Well, shoot it,” Jack demanded.
“It’s hooch, so it is.”
“Hooch,” repeated both boys in the same breath. “Where are they getting it?”
“Sure an’ it’s meself thot don’t know thot same, but six or seven of them were drunk last night and it’s sick men they are this day,” and again he shook his head. “It’s nadin’ ivery man we’ve got it is ter fill thot contract.”
“I’ll bet it’s some more of Big Ben’s work,” Jack declared as he got up from the table. “Anyhow we’ve got to find out where they are getting it and put a stop to it. Do you know when they got it?” he asked, turning to Tom.
“It must a bin some time yes’day afternoon fer they were all right at dinner time,” Tom told him.
Fully three feet of snow had fallen during the night and it took the crew all of that day to get the tote road shoveled out and the snow cleared away at the chopping. That meant the loss of a day so far as getting the lumber out was concerned, and the boys could see that Tom was much worried.
Until a late hour that night Tom and the boys sat in the office discussing the situation.
“It’s evident that Ben doesn’t intend to stop at anything to keep Father from filling that contract,” Bob declared. “But why do you suppose he is so anxious to do it? Is it just a matter of spite?”
“Not at all, at all. Yer see if yer father falls down on thot contract, then Ben thinks he’ll be dead sure ter land it nixt year,” Tom explained.
“I see, and there are so many ways that he can put a spoke in our wheel that we’ve got to be mighty sharp to get the better of him,” and Bob gave Jack a glance which told him that it was up to them to do it.
The stars were still shining the next morning when the two boys crept quietly from their bunks and groped their way to the door. Once outside they quickly made their way to the office where they kept their snow-shoes.
“It’s more than likely a wild goose chase but we’ve got to do something,” Bob said as he took a 38 Winchester from the closet.
“But what makes you think some one’s coming today?” Jack asked as they were fastening their snow-shoes.
“Well, I’ll tell you. I didn’t dare tell Tom for fear he wouldn’t let us go; but last night, just before supper, I was out back of the cook house. It was dark, of course, and I heard two of the men talking only a few feet away but I couldn’t see them. I was hunting for my knife which I missed and thought I knew just where I had dropped it, right by that big spruce, the one where we were digging gum just before dark you know. Well, I didn’t pay any attention to them till I heard one of them say, ‘He say he be out by big pine this morning.’ That was all I heard, as they walked away then. Now it may be something entirely different of course, but I believe that someone is going to bring some more of that stuff this morning.”
“Why not tell Tom and try to catch him?” Jack asked.
“Because that might make some of the men mad and then they’d up and quit. You know how fickle they are. They want the stuff and we’ve got to keep them from getting it without letting them know that we’re doing it.”
By this time they were ready to start and swinging the rifle beneath his arm Bob led the way toward Big Ben’s camp. It was twenty below by the thermometer on the office porch, but there was no wind, and without wind the clear dry air of Northern Maine is not penetrating.
“I have an idea that he’ll start about daybreak so we want to find a good hiding place before it begins to get light,” Bob said as they swung along between the towering spruces.
The snow had settled enough to make good snow-shoeing and they made good time although it was still dark when Jack who was in the lead stopped.
“I guess we’re there,” he whispered, “I can see a light just a little ahead.”
“It’s in the cook house, I guess,” Bob said, moving a little to one side to get a better view. “Yes, that’s it,” he added in a low voice, “now to find a good hiding place. Let’s go over this way a bit.”
“Here’s just the place,” Jack declared a few minutes later, as he spied a thick clump of bushes in between two large pines.
It was indeed an ideal place for their purpose and just as the first hint of the coming day was showing in the east, they crouched down in their hiding place.
“Hope we don’t have to wait long,” Jack whispered, “because it’s not exactly warm here.”
His hopes were realized for they had not been there more than fifteen minutes when his sharp ears caught the creaking of snow.
“Somebody’s coming,” he whispered, and soon they could see a man coming toward them. It was now fairly light and as he came nearer they could see that he carried a jug in one hand.
“You hit it all right,” Jack whispered.
Just then the man caught sight of the tracks of their snow-shoes and stopped as though undecided what to do. But after a short pause he started off again.
Suddenly the sharp report of a rifle rang through the forest and the jug smashed in pieces.
“Honestly, if ever a man was scared it was that fellow, and I nearly died trying not to laugh,” Jack afterward told Tom.
For an instant the man stood as if petrified; then, with a wild yell, he turned and started back. In his haste he tripped and fell headlong in the deep snow. He was so scared that it took him some little time to get on his feet again, but he finally accomplished it and soon disappeared.
“Come on now we’ve got to beat it,” Bob said, as he crept out of the hiding place closely followed by Jack.
“I don’t believe they’ll try it that way again very soon,” Jack panted as they made the best time possible toward home.
“Where in the name of goodness yer been?” Tom was standing in the doorway of the office as they returned.
“Just taking a morning stroll,” Jack laughed. “Did you save any breakfast for us?”
“Sure an’ I guess cookie’ll give yer some, but I thought sure ye’d gone an’ got inter some kind o’ fix agin, so I did.”
When they had finished telling him of their trip, Tom laughed long and loudly.
“Sure an’ who but ye’d iver have thought of it? I’d give a year of me life ter have seen thot guy when his jug went smash. Sure an’ it’s meself thot’s bettin’ thot he thought the devil was after him.”
Six of the crew were nearly an hour late at work that morning. Bob saw them crossing the clearing as he was coming from the mess house after he had finished his belated breakfast. Stepping back into the room he watched them from the half-closed door.
“They seem disappointed about something,” he said to Jack, who had joined him.
“I guess the party they were looking for failed to materialize,” Jack laughed as he watched them. “I wonder if those fellows could talk at all if their hands were tied behind their backs,” he added, laughing at their vigorous gesticulations.
“It would certainly be a serious handicap to them,” Bob declared, as he stepped outside the door. Before Jack had time to follow him, however, he dodged back again.
“Now for it,” he said, closing the door. “Who do you suppose is making us a call?”
“From your excitement I should guess it’s Big Ben himself,” Jack quickly replied.
“Right the first time. Now watch for fireworks.”
Big Ben Donahue was all that his name implied. Standing a full six feet and four inches in his moccasins, his broad shoulders and perfectly proportioned body made him appear even taller. A typical politician, his face, which habitually wore a broad smile, could in a second, change to lines of fierce determination. Although of Irish descent, he was born in America and spoke without a brogue. His strength was prodigious and he delighted in such feats as tearing in two an entire pack of playing cards, straightening out, with a single jerk, a new horse shoe, and once, on a bet, he had in eight hours, felled and trimmed three thousand feet of spruce. One thousand feet is considered a good day’s work for an experienced chopper, and the feat had never, so far as any one around there knew, been duplicated. “As strong as Big Ben Donahue” was a common expression in Maine.
“It’s too bad Tom had to go to Greenville,” Jack said, as glancing through the window he saw the man making his way, with rapid strides, toward the office.
“Yes, I guess we’ll have to do the honors, but be mighty careful what you say,” Bob replied.
Big Ben, after hammering on the office door several times without result, tried the latch but finding that the door was locked he turned his steps toward the mess house.
“He’s got his company smile on anyhow,” Jack whispered, as the big man gave the door a resounding whack with his big fist.
Bob threw open the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Donahue,” he greeted the guest pleasantly.
“Good morning boys,” and he held out his hand with a broad smile.
“Come in,” Bob invited, as he shook hands.
Big Ben followed them into the room and Bob waved his hand toward a big rocking chair near the stove.
“It’s a pretty cold day even for Maine,” he said as Big Ben sat down making the chair creak with his great weight.