24831	----	None 
9968	----	THE YOUNG WOODSMAN OR Life in the Forests of Canada BY J. MACDONALD OXLEY Author of "Diamond Rock; or, On the Right Track," &c. &c. 1895 CONTENTS. I. THE CALL TO WORK II. THE CHOICE OF AN OCCUPATION III. OFF TO THE WOODS IV. THE BUILDING OF THE SHANTY V. STANDING FIRE VI. LIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP VII. A THRILLING EXPERIENCE VIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME IX. OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE X. A HUNTING-TRIP XI. THE GREAT SPRING DRIVE XII. HOME AGAIN THE YOUNG WOODSMAN. CHAPTER I. THE CALL TO WORK. "I'm afraid there'll be no more school for you now, Frank darling. Will you mind having to go to work?" "Mind it! Why, no, mother; not the least bit. I'm quite old enough, ain't I?" "I suppose you are, dear; though I would like to have you stay at your lessons for one more year anyway. What kind of work would you like best?" "That's not a hard question to answer, mother. I want to be what father was." The mother's face grew pale at this reply, and for some few moments she made no response. * * * * * The march of civilization on a great continent means loss as well as gain. The opening up of the country for settlement, the increase and spread of population, the making of the wilderness to blossom as the rose, compel the gradual retreat and disappearance of interesting features that can never be replaced. The buffalo, the beaver, and the elk have gone; the bear, the Indian, and the forest in which they are both most at home, are fast following. Along the northern border of settlement in Canada there are flourishing villages and thriving hamlets to-day where but a few years ago the verdurous billows of the primeval forest rolled in unbroken grandeur. The history of any one of these villages is the history of all. An open space beside the bank of a stream or the margin of a lake presented itself to the keen eye of the woodranger traversing the trackless waste of forest as a fine site for a lumber camp. In course of time the lumber camp grew into a depot from which other camps, set still farther back in the depths of the "limits," are supplied. Then the depot develops into a settlement surrounded by farms; the settlement gathers itself into a village with shops, schools, churches, and hotels; and so the process of growth goes on, the forest ever retreating as the dwellings of men multiply. It was in a village with just such a history, and bearing the name of Calumet, occupying a commanding situation on a vigorous tributary of the Ottawa River--the Grand River, as the dwellers beside its banks are fond of calling it--that Frank Kingston first made the discovery of his own existence and of the world around him. He at once proceeded to make himself master of the situation, and so long as he confined his efforts to the limits of his own home he met with an encouraging degree of success; for he was an only child, and, his father's occupation requiring him to be away from home a large part of the year, his mother could hardly be severely blamed if she permitted her boy to have a good deal of his own way. In the result, however, he was not spoiled. He came of sturdy, sensible stock, and had inherited some of the best qualities from both sides of the house. To his mother he owed his fair curly hair, his deep blue, honest eyes, his impulsive and tender heart; to his father, his strong symmetrical figure, his quick brain, and his eager ambition. He was a good-looking, if not strikingly handsome, boy, and carried himself in an alert, active way that made a good impression on one at the start. He had a quick temper that would flash out hotly if he were provoked, and at such times he would do and say things for which he was heartily sorry afterwards. But from those hateful qualities that we call malice, rancour, and sullenness he was absolutely free. To "have it out" and then shake hands and forget all about it--that was his way of dealing with a disagreement. Boys built on these lines are always popular among their comrades, and Frank was no exception. In fact, if one of those amicable contests as to the most popular personage, now so much in vogue at fairs and bazaars, were to have been held in Calumet school, the probabilities were all in favour of Frank coming out at the head of the poll. But better, because more enduring than all these good qualities of body, head, and heart that formed Frank's sole fortune in the world, was the thorough religious training upon which they were based. His mother had left a Christian household to help her husband to found a new home in the great Canadian timberland; and this new home had ever been a sweet, serene centre of light and love. While Calumet was little more than a straggling collection of unlovely frame cottages, and too small to have a church and pastor of its own, the hard-working Christian minister who managed to make his way thither once a month or so, to hold service in the little schoolroom, was always sure of the heartiest kind of a welcome, and the daintiest dinner possible in that out-of-the-way place, at Mrs. Kingston's cozy cottage. And thus Frank had been brought into friendly relations with the "men in black" from the start, with the good result of causing him to love and respect these zealous home missionaries, instead of shrinking from them in vague repugnance, as did many of his companions who had not his opportunities. When he grew old enough to be trusted, it was his proud privilege to take the minister's tired horse to water and to fill the rack with sweet hay for his refreshment before they all went off to the service together; and very frequently when the minister was leaving he would take Frank up beside him for a drive as far as the cross-roads, not losing the chance to say a kindly and encouraging word or two that might help the little fellow heavenward. In due time the settlement so prospered and expanded that a little church was established there, and great was the delight of Mrs. Kingston when Calumet had its minister, to whom she continued to be a most effective helper. This love for the church and its workers, which was more manifest in her than in her husband--for, although he thought and felt alike with her, he was a reserved, undemonstrative man--Mrs. Kingston sought by every wise means to instill into her only son; and she had much success. Religion had no terrors for him. He had never thought of it as a gloomy, joy-dispelling influence that would make him a long-faced "softy." Not a bit of it. His father was religious; and who was stronger, braver, or more manly than his father? His mother was a pious woman; and who could laugh more cheerily or romp more merrily than his mother? The ministers who came to the house were men of God; and yet they were full of life and spirits, and dinner never seemed more delightful than when they sat at the table. No, indeed! You would have had a hard job to persuade Frank Kingston that you lost anything by being religious. He knew far better than that; and while of course he was too thorough a boy, with all a boy's hasty, hearty, impulsive ways, to do everything "decently and in order," and would kick over the traces, so to speak, sometimes, and give rather startling exhibitions of temper, still in the main and at heart he was a sturdy little Christian, who, when the storm was over, felt more sorry and remembered it longer than did anybody else. Out of the way as Calumet might seem to city folk, yet the boys of the place managed to have a very good time. There were nearly a hundred of them, ranging in age from seven years to seventeen, attending the school which stood in the centre of a big lot at the western end of the village, and with swimming, boating, lacrosse, and baseball in summer, and skating, snow-shoeing, and tobogganing in winter, they never lacked for fun. Frank was expert in all these sports. Some of the boys might excel him at one or another of them, but not one of his companions could beat him in an all-round contest. This was due in part to the strength and symmetry of his frame, and in part to that spirit of thoroughness which characterized all he undertook. There was nothing half-way about him. He put his whole soul into everything that interested him, and, so far as play was concerned, at fifteen years of age he could swim, run, handle a lacrosse, hit a base-ball, skim over the ice on skates, or over snow on snow-shoes, with a dexterity that gave himself a vast amount of pleasure and his parents a good deal of pride in him. Nor was he behindhand as regarded the training of his mind. Mr. Warren, the head teacher of the Calumet school, regarded him favourably as one of his best and brightest pupils, and it was not often that the "roll of honour" failed to contain the name of Frank Kingston. At the midsummer closing of the school it was Mr. Warren's practice to award a number of simple prizes to the pupils whose record throughout the half-year had been highest in the different subjects, and year after year Frank had won a goodly share of these trophies, which were always books, so that now there was a shelf in his room upon which stood in attractive array Livingstone's "Travels," Ballantyne's "Hudson Bay," Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" side by side with "Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's Progress," and "Tom Brown at Rugby." Frank knew these books almost by heart, yet never wearied of turning to them again and again. He drew inspiration from them. They helped to mould his character, although of this he was hardly conscious, and they filled his soul with a longing for adventure and enterprise that no ordinary everyday career could satisfy. He looked forward eagerly to the time when he would take a man's part in life and attempt and achieve notable deeds. With Amyas Leigh he traversed the tropical wilderness of Southern America, or with the "Young Fur Traders" the hard-frozen wastes of the boundless North, and he burned to emulate their brave doings. He little knew, as he indulged in these boyish imaginations, that the time was not far off when the call would come to him to begin life in dead earnest on his own account, and with as many obstacles to be overcome in his way as had any of his favourite heroes in theirs. Mr. Kingston was at home only during the summer season. The long cold winter months were spent by him at the "depot," many miles off in the heart of the forest, or at the "shanties" that were connected with it. At rare intervals during the winter he might manage to get home for a Sunday, but that was all his wife and son saw of him until the spring time. When the "drive" of the logs that represented the winter's work was over, he returned to them, to remain until the falling of the leaves recalled him to the forest. Frank loved and admired his father to the utmost of his ability; and when in his coolest, calmest moods he realized that there was small possibility of his ever sailing the Spanish main like Amyas Leigh, or exploring the interior of Africa like Livingstone, he felt quite settled in his own mind that, following in his father's footsteps, he would adopt lumbering as his business. 'Tis true, his father was only an agent or foreman, and might never be anything more; but even that was not to be despised, and then, with a little extra good fortune, he might in time become an owner of "limits" and mills himself. Why not? Many another boy had thus risen into wealth and importance. He had at least the right to try. Fifteen in October, and in the highest class, this was to be Frank's last winter at school; and before leaving for the woods his father had enjoined upon him to make the best of it, as after the summer holidays were over he would have to "cease learning, and begin earning." Frank was rather glad to hear this. He was beginning to think he had grown too big for school, and ought to be doing something more directly remunerative. Poor boy! Could he have guessed that those were the last words he would hear from his dear father's lips, how differently would they have affected him! Calumet never saw Mr. Kingston again. In returning alone to the depot from a distant shanty, he was caught in a fierce and sudden snowstorm. The little-travelled road through the forest was soon obliterated. Blinded and bewildered by the pitiless storm beating in their faces, both man and beast lost their way, and, wandering about until all strength was spent, lay down to die in the drifts that quickly hid their bodies from sight. It was many days before they were found, lying together, close wrapped in their winding-sheet of snow. Mrs. Kingston bore the dreadful trial with the fortitude and submissive grace that only a serene and unmurmuring faith can give. Frank was more demonstrative in his grief, and disposed to rebel against so cruel a calamity. But his mother calmed and inspired him, and when the first numbing force of the blow had passed away, they took counsel together as to the future. This was dark and uncertain enough. All that was left to them was the little cottage in which they lived. Mr. Kingston's salary had not been large, and only by careful management had the house been secured. Of kind and sympathizing friends there was no lack, but they were mostly people in moderate circumstances, like themselves, from whom nothing more than sympathy could be expected. There was no alternative but that Frank should begin at once to earn his own living, and thus the conversation came about with which this chapter began, and which brought forth the reply from Frank that evidently gave his mother deep concern. CHAPTER II. THE CHOICE OF AN OCCUPATION. The fact was that Mrs. Kingston felt a strong repugnance to her son's following in his father's footsteps, so far as his occupation was concerned. She dreaded the danger that was inseparable from it, and shrank from the idea of giving up the boy, whose company was now the chief delight of her life, for all the long winter months that would be so dreary without him. Frank had some inkling of his mother's feelings, but, boy like, thought of them as only the natural nervousness of womankind; and his heart being set upon going to the woods, he was not very open to argument. "Why don't you want me to go lumbering, mother?" he inquired in a tone that had a touch of petulance in it. "I've got to do something for myself, and I detest shopkeeping. It's not in my line at all. Fellows like Tom Clemon and Jack Stoner may find it suits them, but I can't bear the idea of being shut up in a shop or office all day. I want to be out of doors. That's the kind of life for me." Mrs. Kingston gave a sigh that was a presage of defeat as she regarded her son standing before her, his handsome face flushed with eagerness and his eyes flashing with determination. "But, Frank dear," said she gently, "have you thought how dreadfully lonely it will be for me living all alone here during the long winter--your father gone from me, and you away off in the woods, where I can never get to you or you to me?" The flush on Frank's face deepened and extended until it covered forehead and neck with its crimson glow. He had not taken this view of the case into consideration before, and his tender heart reproached him for so forgetting his mother while laying out his own plans. He sprang forward, and kneeling down beside the lounge, threw his arms about his mother's neck and clasped her fondly, finding it hard to keep the tears back as he said,-- "You dear, darling mother! I have been selfish. I should have thought how lonely it would be for you in the winter time." Mrs. Kingston returned the embrace with no less fervour, and as usually happens where the other side seems to be giving way, began to weaken somewhat herself, and to feel a little doubtful as to whether, after all, it would be right to oppose her son's wishes when his inclinations toward the occupation he had chosen were evidently so very decided. "Well, Frank dear," she said after a pause, while Frank looked at her expectantly, "I don't want to be selfish either. If it were not for the way we lost your father, perhaps I should not have such a dread of the woods for you; and no doubt even then it is foolish for me to give way to it. We won't decide the matter now. If you do go to the woods, it won't be until the autumn, and perhaps during the summer something will turn up that will please us better. We will leave the matter in God's hands. He will bring it to pass in the way that will be best for us both, I am confident." So with that understanding the matter rested, although of course it was continually being referred to as the weeks slipped by and the summer waxed and waned. Although Frank felt quite convinced in his own mind that he was not cut out for a position behind a desk or counter, he determined to make the experiment, and accordingly applied to Squire Eagleson, who kept the principal shop and was the "big man" of the village, for a place in his establishment. Summer being the squire's busy season, and Frank being well known to him, he was glad enough to add to his small staff of clerks so promising a recruit, especially as, taking advantage of the boy's ignorance of business affairs, he was able to engage him at wages much below his actual worth to him. This the worthy squire regarded as quite a fine stroke of business, and told it to his wife with great gusto, rubbing his fat hands complacently together as he chuckled over his shrewdness. "Bright boy that Frank Kingston! Writes a good fist, and can run up a row of figures like smoke. Mighty civil, too, and sharp. And all for seven shillings a week! Ha, ha, ha! Wish I could make as good a bargain as that every day." And the squire looked the picture of virtuous content as he leaned back in his big chair to enjoy the situation. Mrs. Eagleson did not often venture to intermeddle in her husband's business affairs, although frequently she became aware of things which she could not reconcile with her conscience. But this time she was moved to speak by an impulse she could not control. She knew the Kingstons, and had always thought well of them. Mrs. Kingston seemed to her in many respects a model woman, who deserved well of everybody; and that her husband, who was so well-to-do, should take any advantage of these worthy people who had so little, touched her to the quick. There was a bright spot on the centre of her pale cheeks and an unaccustomed ring in her voice as she exclaimed, with a sharpness that made her husband give quite a start of surprise,-- "Do you mean to tell me, Daniel, that you've been mean enough to take advantage of that boy who has to support his widowed mother, and to hire him for half the wages he's worth, just because he didn't know any better? And then you come home here and boast of it! Have you no conscience?" The squire was so taken aback by this unexpected attack that at first he hardly knew how to meet it. Should he lecture his wife for her presumption in meddling in his affairs, which were quite beyond her comprehension as a woman, or should he make light of the matter and laugh it off? After a moment's reflection he decided on the latter course. "Hoity, toity, Mrs. Eagleson! but what's set you so suddenly on fire? Business is business, you know, and if Frank Kingston did not know enough to ask for more wades, it wasn't my concern to enlighten him." Mrs. Eagleson rose from her chair and came over and stood in front of her husband, pointing her long, thin forefinger at him as, with a trembling yet scornful voice, she addressed him thus,-- "Daniel, how you can kneel down and ask the blessing of God upon such doings is beyond me, or how your head can lie easy on your pillow when you know that you are taking the bread out of that poor lone widow's mouth it is not for me to say. But this I will say, whether you like it or not: if you are not ashamed of yourself, I am for you." And before the now much-disturbed squire had time to say another word in his defence the speaker had swept indignantly out of his presence and hastened to her own room, there to throw herself down upon the bed and burst into a passion of tears, for she was at best but a weak-nerved woman. Left to himself, the squire shifted about uneasily in his chair, and then rose and stumped angrily to the window. "What does she know about business?" he muttered. "If she were to have her own way at the store, she'd ruin me in a twelvemonth." Yet Mrs. Eagleson's brave outburst was not in vain. Somehow or other after it the squire never felt comfortable in his mind until, much to Frank's surprise and delight, he one day called him to him, and, with an air of great generosity and patronage, said,-- "See here, my lad. You seem to be doing your work real well, so I am going to give you half-a-crown a week more just to encourage you, and then if a little extra work comes along"--for autumn was approaching--"ye won't mind tackling it with a goodwill; eh?" Frank thanked his employer very heartily, and this unexpected increase of earnings and his mother's joy over it for a time almost reconciled him to the work at the shop, which he liked less and less the longer he was at it. The fact of the matter was, a place behind the counter was uncongenial to him in many ways. There was too much in-doors about it, to begin with. From early morning until late evening he had to be at his post, with brief intervals for meals; and the colour was leaving his cheeks, and his muscles were growing slack and soft, owing to the constant confinement. But this was the least of his troubles. A still more serious matter was that his conscience did not suffer him to take kindly to the "tricks of the trade," in which his employer was a "passed master" and his fellow-clerks very promising pupils. He could not find it in his heart to depreciate the quality of Widow Perkins's butter, or to cajole unwary Sam Struthers, from the backlands, into taking a shop-worn remnant for the new dress his wife had so carefully commissioned him to buy. His idea of trade was that you should deal with others as fairly as you would have them deal with you; and while, of course, according to the squire's philosophy, you could never make a full purse that way, still you could at least have a clear conscience, which surely was the more desirable after all. The squire had noticed Frank's "pernickety nonsense," as he was pleased to call it, and at first gave him several broad hints as to the better mode of doing business; but finding that the lad was firm, and would no doubt give up his place rather than learn these "business ways," he had the good sense to let him alone, finding in his quickness, fidelity, and attention to his work sufficient compensation for this deficiency in bargaining acumen. "You'll be content to stay at the shop now, won't you, Frank?" said his mother as they talked over the welcome and much-needed rise of salary. "It does seem to make it easier to stay, mother," answered Frank. "But--" And he gave a big sigh, and stopped. "But what, dear?" asked Mrs. Kingston, tenderly. Frank was slow in answering. He evidently felt reluctant to bring up the matter again, and yet his mind was full of it. "But what, Frank?" repeated his mother, taking his hands in hers and looking earnestly into his face. "Well, mother, it's no use pretending. I'm not cut out for keeping shop, and I'll never be much good at it. I don't like being in-doors all day. And then, if you want to get on, you've got to do all sorts of things that are nothing else but downright mean; and I don't like that either." And then Frank went on to tell of some of the tricks and stratagems the squire or the other clerks would resort to in order to make a good bargain. Mrs. Kingston listened with profound attention. More than once of late, as she noticed her son's growing pallor and loss of spirits, she had asked herself whether she were not doing wrong in seeking to turn him aside from the life for which he longed; and now that he was finding fresh and fatal objections to the occupation he had chosen in deference to her wishes, she began to relent of her insistence, and to feel more disposed to discuss the question again. But before doing so she wished to ask the advice of a friend in whom she placed much confidence, and so for the present she contented herself with applauding Frank for his conscientiousness, and assuring him that she would a thousand times rather have him always poor than grow rich after the same fashion as Squire Eagleson. The friend whose advice Mrs. Kingston wished to take was her husband's successor as foreman at the depot for the lumber camps--a sensible, steady, reliable young man, who had risen to his present position by process of promotion from the bottom, and who was therefore well qualified to give her just the counsel she desired. At the first opportunity, therefore, she went over to Mr. Stewart's cottage, and, finding him at home, opened her heart fully to him. Mr. Stewart, or Alec Stewart, as he was generally called, listened with ready sympathy to what Mrs. Kingston had to say, and showed much interest in the matter, for he had held a high opinion of his former chief, and knew Frank well enough to admire his spirit and character. "Well, you see, Mrs. Kingston, it's just this way," said he, when his visitor had stated the case upon which she wanted his opinion: "if Frank's got his heart so set upon going into the woods, I don't know as there's any use trying to cross him. He won't take kindly to anything else while he's thinking of that; and he'd a big sight better be a good lumberman than a poor clerk, don't you think?" Mrs. Kingston felt the force of this reasoning, yet could hardly make up her mind to yield to it at once. "But, Mr. Stewart," she urged, "it may only be a boyish notion of Frank's. He thinks, perhaps, he'd like it because that's what his father was before him, and then he may find his mistake." "Well, Mrs. Kingston," replied Mr. Stewart, "if you think there's any chance of that being the case, we can settle the question right enough in this way:--Let Frank come to the woods with me this winter. I will give him a berth as chore-boy in one of the camps; and if that doesn't sicken him of the business, then all I can say is you'd better let the lad have his will." Mrs. Kingston sighed. "I suppose you're right. I don't quite like the idea of his being chore-boy; but if he's really in earnest, there's no better way of proving him." Now Frank knew well enough how humble was the position of "chore-boy" in a lumber camp. It meant that he would be the boy-of-all-work; that he would have to be up long before dawn, and be one of the last in the camp to get into his bunk; that he would have to help the cook, take messages for the foreman, be obliging to the men, and altogether do his best to be generally useful. Yet he did not shrink from the prospect. The idea of release from the uncongenial routine of shopkeeping filled him with happiness, and his mother was almost reconciled to letting him go from her, so marked was the change in his spirits. CHAPTER III. OFF TO THE WOODS. September, the finest of all the months in the Canadian calendar, was at hand, as the sumac and the maple took evident delight in telling by their lovely tints of red and gold, and the hot, enervating breath of summer had yielded to the inspiring coolness of early autumn. The village of Calumet fairly bubbled over with business and bustle. Preparations for the winter's work were being made on all sides. During the course of the next two weeks or so a large number of men would be leaving their homes for the lumber camps, and the chief subject of conversation in all circles was the fascinating and romantic occupation in which they were engaged. No one was more busy than Mrs. Kingston. Even if her son was to be only a chore-boy, his equipment should be as comfortable and complete as though he were going to be a foreman. She knew very well that Jack Frost has no compunctions about sending the thermometer away down thirty or forty degrees below zero in those far-away forest depths; and whatever other hardships Frank might be called upon to endure, it was very well settled in her mind that he should not suffer for lack of warm clothing. Accordingly, the knitting-needles and sewing-needles had been plied industriously from the day his going into the woods was decided upon; and now that the time for departure drew near, the result was to be seen in a chest filled with such thick warm stockings, shirts, mittens, and comforters, besides a good outfit of other clothing, that Frank, looking them over with a keen appreciation of their merits and of the loving skill they evidenced, turned to his mother, saying, with a grateful smile,-- "Why, mother, you've fitted me out as though I were going to the North Pole." "You'll need them all, my dear, before the winter's over," said Mrs. Kingston, the tears rising in her eyes, as involuntarily she thought of how the cruel cold had taken from her the father of the bright, hopeful boy before her. "Your father never thought I provided too many warm things for him." Frank was in great spirits. He had resigned his clerkship at Squire Eagleson's, much to that worthy merchant's regret. The squire looked upon him as a very foolish fellow to give up a position in his shop, where he had such good opportunities of learning business ways, in order to go "galivanting off to the woods," where his good writing and correct figuring would be of no account. Frank said nothing about his decided objections to the squire's ideas of business ways and methods, but contented himself with stating respectfully his strong preference for out-door life, and his intention to make lumbering his occupation, as it had been his father's before him. "Well, well, my lad," said the squire, when he saw there was no moving him, "have your own way. I reckon you'll be glad enough to come back to me in the spring. One winter in the camps will be all you'll want." Frank left the squire, saying to himself as he went out from the shop:-- "If I do get sick of the camp and want a situation in the spring, this is not the place I'll come to for it; you can depend upon that, Squire Eagleson. Many thanks to you, all the same." Mr. Stewart was going up to the depot the first week in September, to get matters in readiness for the men who would follow him a week later, and much to Frank's satisfaction he announced that he would take him along if he could be ready in time. Thanks to Mrs. Kingston's being of the fore-handed kind, nothing was lacking in her son's preparations, and the day of departure was anticipated with great eagerness by him, and with much sinking of heart by her. The evening previous mother and son had a long talk together, in the course of which she impressed upon him the absolute importance of his making no disguise of his religious principles. "You'll be the youngest in the camp, perhaps, Frank darling, and it will, no doubt, be very hard for you to read your Bible and say your prayers, as you've always done here at home. But the braver you are about it at first, the easier it'll be in the end. Take your stand at the very start. Let the shanty men see that you're not afraid to confess yourself a Christian, and rough and wicked as they may be, never fear but they'll respect you for it." Mrs. Kingston spoke with an earnestness and emphasis that went straight to Frank's heart. He had perfect faith in his mother. In his eyes she was without fault or failing, and he knew very well that she was asking nothing of him that she was not altogether ready to do herself, were she to be put in his place. Not only so. His own shrewd sense confirmed the wisdom of her words. There could be no half-way position for him at the lumber camp; no half-hearted serving of God would be of any use there. He must take Caleb for his pattern, and follow the Lord wholly. His voice was low, but full of quiet determination, as he answered,-- "I know it, mother. It won't be easy, but I'm not afraid. I'll begin fair and let the others know just where I stand, and they may say or do what they like." Mrs. Kingston needed no further assurance to make her mind quite easy upon this point; and she took no small comfort from the thought that, faithful and consistent as she felt so confident Frank would be, despite the many trials and temptations inseparable from his new sphere of life, he could hardly fail to exercise some good influence upon those about him, and perhaps prove a very decided power for good among the rough men of the lumber camp. The day of departure dawned clear and bright. The air was cool and bracing, the ground glistened with the heavy autumn dew that the sun had not yet had time to drink up, and the village was not fairly astir for the day when Mr. Stewart drove up to Mrs. Kingston's door for his young passenger. He was not kept long waiting, for Frank had been ready fully half-an-hour beforehand, and all that remained to be done was to bid his mother "good-bye," until he should return with the spring floods. Overflowing with joy as he was at the realization of his desire, yet he was too fond a son not to feel keenly the parting with his mother, and he bustled about very vigorously, stowing away his things in the back of the waggon, as the best way of keeping himself under control. He had a good deal of luggage for a boy. First, of all, there was his chest packed tight with warm clothing; then another box heavy with cake, preserves, pickles, and other home-made dainties, wherewith to vary the monotony of shanty fare; then a big bundle containing a wool mattress, a pillow, two pairs of heavy blankets, and a thick comforter to insure his sleep being undisturbed by saucy Jack Frost; and finally, a narrow box made by his own father to carry the light rifle that always accompanied him, together with a plentiful supply of ammunition. In this box Frank was particularly interested, for he had learned to handle this rifle pretty well during the summer, and looked forward to accomplishing great things with it when he got into the woods. Mr. Stewart laughed when he saw all that Frank was taking with him. "I guess you'll be the swell of the camp, and make all the other fellows wish they had a mother to fit them out. It's a fortunate thing my waggon's roomy, or we'd have to leave some of your stuff to come up by one of the teams," said he. Mrs. Kingston was about to make apologies for the size of Frank's outfit, but Mr. Stewart stopped her. "It's all right, Mrs. Kingston. The lad might just as well be comfortable as not. He'll have plenty of roughing it, anyway. And now we've got it all on board, we must be starting." The moment Mrs. Kingston dreaded had now come. Throwing her arms around Frank's neck, she clasped him passionately to her heart again and again, and then, tearing herself away from him, rushed up the steps as if she dared not trust herself any longer. Gulping down the big lump that rose into his throat, Frank sprang up beside Mr. Stewart, and the next moment they were off. But before they turned the corner Frank, looking back, caught sight of his mother standing in the doorway, and taking off his cap he gave her a farewell salute, calling out rather huskily his last "good-bye" as the swiftly-moving waggon bore him away. Mr. Stewart took much pride in his turn-out, and with good reason; for there was not a finer pair of horses in Calumet than those that were now trotting along before him, as if the well-filled waggon to which they were attached was no impediment whatever. His work required him to be much upon the road in all seasons, and he considered it well worth his while to make the business of driving about as pleasant as possible. The horses were iron-grays, beautifully matched in size, shape, and speed; the harness sparkled with bright brass mountings; and the waggon, a kind of express, with specially strong springs and comfortable seat, had abundant room for passengers and luggage. As they rattled along the village street there were many shouts of "Good-bye, Frank," and "Good luck to you," from shop and sidewalk; for everybody knew Frank's destination, and there were none that did not wish him well, whatever might be their opinion of the wisdom of his action. In responding to these expressions of good-will, Frank found timely relief for the feelings stirred by the parting with his mother, and before the impatient grays had breasted the hill which began where the village ended he had quite regained his customary good spirits, and was ready to reply brightly enough to Mr. Stewart's remarks. "Well, Frank, you've put your hand to the plough now, as the Scripture says, and you mustn't turn back on any account, or all the village will be laughing at you," he said, scanning his companion closely. "Not much fear of that, Mr. Stewart," answered Frank firmly. "Calumet won't see me again until next spring. Whether I like the lumbering or not, I'm going to stick out the winter, anyway; you see if I don't." "I haven't much fear of you, my boy," returned Mr. Stewart, "even if you do find shanty life a good deal rougher than you may have imagined. You'll have to fight your own way, you know. I shan't be around much, and the other men will all be strangers at first; but just you do what you know and feel to be right without minding the others, and they won't bother you long, but will respect you for having a conscience and the pluck to obey it. As for your work, it'll seem pretty heavy and hard at the start; but you've got lots of grit, and it won't take you long to get used to it." Frank listened attentively to Mr. Stewart's kindly, sensible advice, and had many questions to ask him as the speedy horses bore them further and further away from Calumet. The farms, which at first had followed one another in close succession, grew more widely apart, and finally ended altogether before many miles of the dusty road had been covered, and thenceforward their way ran through unbroken woods, not the stately "forest primeval" but the scrubby "second growth," from which those who have never been into the heart of the leafy wilderness can form but a poor conception of the grandeur to which trees can attain. About mid-day they halted at a lonely log-house which served as a sort of inn or resting-place, the proprietor finding compensation for the dreariness of his situation in the large profit derived from an illegal but thriving traffic in liquor. A more unkempt, unattractive establishment could hardly be imagined, and if rumour was to be relied upon, it had good reason to be haunted by more than one untimely ghost. "A wretched den!" said Mr. Stewart, as he drew up before the door. "I wouldn't think of stopping here for a moment but for the horses. But we may as well go in and see if old Pierre can get us a decent bite to eat." The horses having been attended to, the travellers entered the house, where they found Pierre, the proprietor, dozing on his bar; a bloated, blear-eyed creature, who evidently would have much preferred making them drunk with his vile whisky to preparing them any pretence for a dinner. But they firmly declined his liquor, so muttering unintelligibly to himself he shambled off to obey their behests. After some delay they succeeded in getting a miserable meal of some kind; and then, the horses being sufficiently rested, they set off once more at a good pace, not halting again until, just before sundown, they arrived at the depot, where the first stage of their journey ended. This depot was simply a large farm set in the midst of a wilderness of trees, and forming a centre from which some half-dozen shanties, or lumber camps, placed at different distances in the depths of the forest that stretched away interminably north, south, east, and west, were supplied with all that was necessary for their maintenance. Besides the ordinary farm buildings, there was another which served as a sort of a shop or warehouse, being filled with a stock of axes, saws, blankets, boots, beef, pork, tea, sugar, molasses, flour, and so forth, for the use of the lumbermen. This was Mr. Stewart's headquarters, and as the tired horses drew up before the door he tossed the reins over their backs, saying,-- "Here we are, Frank. You'll stay here until your gang is made up. To-morrow morning I'll introduce you to some of your mates." CHAPTER IV. THE BUILDING OF THE SHANTY. Frank looked about him with quick curiosity, expecting to see some of the men in whose society he was to spend the jointer. But there were only the farm-hands lounging listlessly about, their days work being over, and they had nothing to do except to smoke their pipes and wait for nightfall, when they would lounge off to bed. The shantymen had not yet arrived, Mr. Stewart always making a point of being at the depot some days in advance of them, in order to have plenty of time to prepare his plans for the winter campaign. Noting Frank's inquiring look, he laughed, and said,-- "Oh, there are none of them here yet--we're the first on the field-but by the end of the week there'll be more than a hundred men here." A day or two later the first batch made their appearance, coming up by the heavy teams that they would take with them into the woods; and each day brought a fresh contingent, until by the time Mr. Stewart had mentioned the farm fairly swarmed with them, and it became necessary for this human hive to imitate the bees and send off its superfluous inhabitants without delay. They were a rough, noisy, strange-looking lot of men, and Frank, whose acquaintance with the shantymen had been limited to seeing them in small groups as they passed through Calumet in the autumn and spring, on their way to and from the camps, meeting them now for the first time in such large numbers, could not help some inward shrinking of soul as he noted their uncouth ways and listened to their oath-besprinkled talk. They were "all sorts and conditions of men"--habitants who could not speak a word of English, and Irishmen who could not speak a word of French; shrewd Scotchmen, chary of tongue and reserved of manner, and loquacious half-breeds, ready for song, or story, or fight, according to the humour of the moment. Here and there were dusky skins and prominent features that betrayed a close connection with the aboriginal owners of this continent. Almost all bad come from the big saw-mills away down the river, or from some other equally arduous employment, and were glad of the chance of a few days' respite from work while Mr. Stewart was dividing them up and making the necessary arrangements for the winter's work. Frank mingled freely with them, scraping acquaintance with those who seemed disposed to be friendly, and whenever he came across one with an honest, pleasant, prepossessing face, hoping very much that he would be a member of his gang. He was much impressed by the fact that he was evidently the youngest member of the gathering, and did not fail to notice the sometimes curious, sometimes contemptuous, looks with which he was regarded by the fresh arrivals. In the course of a few days matters were pretty well straightened out at the depot, and the gangs of men began to leave for the different camps. Mr. Stewart had promised Frank that he would take care to put him under a foreman who would treat him well; and when one evening he was called into the office and introduced to a tall, powerful, grave-looking man, with heavy brown beard and deep voice, Mr. Stewart said,-- "Here is Frank Kingston, Dan; Jack's only son, you know. He's set his heart on lumbering, and I'm going to let him try it for a winter." Frank scrutinized the man called Dan very closely as. Mr. Stewart continued,-- "I'm going to send him up to the Kippewa camp with you, Dan. There's nobody'll look after him better than you will, for I know you thought a big sight of his father, and for his sake as well as mine you'll see that nothing happens to the lad." Dan Johnston's face relaxed into a smile that showed there were rich depths of good nature beneath his rather stern exterior, for he was pleased at the compliment implied in the superintendent's words, and stretching out a mighty hand to Frank, he laid it on his shoulder in a kindly way, saying,-- "He seems a likely lad, Mr. Stewart, and a chip of the old block, if I'm not mistaken. I'll be right glad to have him with me. But what kind of work is he to go at? He seems rather light for chopping, doesn't he?" Mr. Stewart gave a quizzical sort of glance at Frank as he replied,-- "Well, you see, Dan, I think myself he is too light for chopping, so I told him he'd have to be chore-boy for this winter, anyway." A look of surprise came over Johnston's face, and, more to himself than the others, he muttered in a low tone,-- "Chore-boy, eh? Jack Kingston's son a chore-boy!" Then turning to Frank, he said aloud, "All right, my boy. There's nothing like beginning at the bottom if you want to learn the whole business. You must make up your mind to put in a pretty hard time, but I'll see you have fair play, anyway." As Frank looked at the rugged, honest, determined face, and the stalwart frame, he felt thoroughly satisfied that in Dan Johnston he had a friend in whom he could place perfect confidence, and that Mr. Stewart's promise had been fully kept. The foreman then became quite sociable, and asked him many questions about his mother, and his life in Calumet, and his plans for the future, so that before they parted for the night Frank felt as if they were quite old friends instead of recent acquaintances. The following morning Johnston was bestirring himself bright and early getting his men and stores together, and before noon a start was made for the Kippewa River, on whose southern bank a site had already been selected for the lumber camp which would be the centre of his operations for the winter. Johnston's gang numbered fifty men all told, himself included, and they were in high spirits as they set out for their destination. The stores and tools were, of course, transported by waggon; but the men had to go on foot, and with fifteen miles of a rough forest road to cover before sundown, they struck a brisk pace as, in twos and threes and quartettes, they marched noisily along the dusty road. "You stay by me, Frank," said the foreman, "and if your young legs happen to go back on you, you can have a lift on one of the teams until you're rested." Frank felt in such fine trim that although he fully appreciated his big friend's thoughtfulness, he was rash enough to think he would not require to avail himself of it; but the next five miles showed him his mistake, and at the end of them he was very glad to jump upon one of the teams that happened to be passing, and in this way hastened over a good part of the remainder of the tramp. As the odd-looking gang pushed forward steadily, if not in exactly martial order, Frank had a good opportunity of inspecting its members, and making in his own mind an estimate of their probable good of bad qualities as companions. In this he was much assisted by the foreman, who, in reply to his questions, gave him helpful bits of information about the different ones that attracted his attention. Fully one-half of the gang were French Canadians, dark-complexioned, black-haired, bright-eyed men, full of life and talk, their tongues going unceasingly as they plodded along in sociable groups. Of the remainder, some were Scotch, others Irish, the rest English. Upon the whole, they were quite a promising-looking lot of men; indeed, Johnston took very good care to have as little "poor stuff" as possible in his gang; for he had long held the reputation of turning out more logs at his camp than were cut at any other on the same "limits;" and this well-deserved fame he cherished very dearly. Darkness was coming on apace, when at last a glad shout from the foremost group announced that the end of the journey was near; and in a few minutes more the whole band of tired men were resting their wearied limbs on the bank of the river near which the shanty was to be erected at once. The teams had arrived some time before them, and two large tents had been put up as temporary-shelter; while brightly-burning fires and the appetizing fizzle of frying bacon joined with the wholesome aroma of hot tea to make glad the hearts of the dusty, hungry pedestrians. Frank enjoyed his open-air tea immensely. It was his first taste of real lumberman's life, and was undoubtedly a pleasant introduction to it; for the hard work would not begin until the morrow, and in the meantime everybody was still a-holidaying. So refreshing was the evening meal that, tired as all no doubt felt from their long tramp, they soon forgot it sufficiently to spend an hour or more in song and chorus that made the vast forest aisles re-echo with rough melody before they sank into the silence of slumber for the night. At daybreak next morning Dan Johnston's stentorian voice aroused the sleepers, and Frank could hardly believe that he had taken more than twice forty winks at the most before the stirring shout of "Turn out! turn out! The work's waiting!" broke into his dreams and recalled him to life's realities. The morning was gray and chilly, the men looked sleepy and out of humour, and Johnston himself had it a stern distant manner, or seemed to have, as after a wash at the river bank Frank approached him and reported himself for duty. "Will you please to tell me what is to be my work, Mr. Johnston?" said he, in quite a timid tone; for somehow or other there seemed to be a change in the atmosphere. The foreman's face relaxed a little as he turned to answer him. "You want to be set to work, eh? Well, that won't take long." And looking around among the moving men until he found the one he wanted, he raised his voice and called,-- "Hi, there, Baptiste! Come here a moment." In response to the summons a short, stout, smooth-faced, and decidedly good-natured looking Frenchman, who had been busy at one of the fires, came over to the foreman. "See here, Baptiste; this lad's to be your chore-boy this winter, and I don't want you to be too hard on him--_savez?_ Let him have plenty of work, but not more than his share." Baptiste examined Frank's sturdy figure with much the same smile of approval that he might bestow upon a fine capon that he was preparing for the pot, and murmured out something like,-- "_Bien, m'sieur_. I sall be easy wid him if ee's a good boy." The foreman then said to Frank,-- "There, Frank, go with Baptiste, and he'll give you work enough." So Frank went dutifully off with the Frenchman. He soon found out what his work was to be. Baptiste was cook, and he was his assistant, not so much in the actual cooking, for Baptiste looked after that himself, but in the scouring of the pots and pans, the keeping up of the fires, the setting out of the food, and such other supplementary duties. Not very dignified or inspiring employment, certainly, especially for a boy "with a turn for books and figures." But Frank had come to the camp prepared to undertake, without a murmur, any work within his powers that might be given him, and he now went quietly and steadily at what was required of him. As soon as breakfast was despatched, Johnston called the men together to give them directions about the building of the shanty, which was the first thing of all to be done; and having divided them up into parties, to each of which a different task was assigned, he set them at work without delay. Frank was very glad that attention to his duties would not prevent his watching the others at theirs; for what could be more interesting than to study every stage of the erection of the building that was to be their shelter and home during the long winter months now rapidly approaching? It was a first experience for him, and nothing escaped his vigilant eye. This is the way he described the building of the shanty to his mother on his return to Calumet:-- "You see, mother, everybody except Baptiste and myself took a hand, and just worked like beavers. I wish you could have seen the men. And Mr. Johnston--why, he was in two places at once most of the time, or at least seemed to be! It was grand fun watching them. The first thing they did was to cut down a lot of trees--splendid big fellows, that would make the trees round here look pretty small, I can tell you. Then they chopped off all the branches and cut up the trunks into the lengths that suited, and laid them one on the top of the other until they made a wall about as high as Mr. Johnston, or perhaps higher, in the shape of one big room forty feet long by thirty feet wide, Mr. Johnston said. It looked very funny then--just like a huge pig-pen, with no windows and only one door--on the side that faced the river. Next day they laid long timbers across the top of the wall, resting them in the middle on four great posts they called 'scoop-bearers.' Funny name, isn't it? But they called them that because they bear the 'scoops' that make the roof; and a grand roof it is, I tell you. The scoops are small logs hollowed out on one side and flat on the other; and they lay them on the cross timbers in such a way that the edges of one fit into the hollows of two others, so that the rain hasn't a chance to get in, no matter how bard it tries. Next thing they made the floor; and that wasn't a hard job, for they just made logs flat on two sides and laid them on the ground, so that it was a pretty rough sort of a floor. All the cracks were stuffed tight with moss and mud, and a big bank of earth thrown up around the bottom of the wall to keep the draught out. "But you should have seen the beds, or 'bunks,' as they called them, for the men. I don't believe you could ever sleep on them. They were nothing but board platforms all around three sides of the room, built on a slant so that your head was higher than your feet; so you see I'd have had nothing better than the soft side of a plank for a mattress if you hadn't fitted me out with one. And when the other fellows saw how snug I was, they vowed they'd have a soft bed too; so what do you think they did? They gathered an immense quantity of hemlock branches--little soft ones, you know--and spread them thick over the boards, and then they laid blankets over that and made a really fine mattress for all. So that, you see, I quite set the fashion. The last thing to be made was the fireplace, which has the very queer name of 'caboose,' and is queerer than its name. It is right in the middle of the room, not at one end, and is as big as a small room by itself. First of all, a great bank of stones and sand is laid on the floor, kept together by boards at the edges; then a large square hole is cut in the roof above, and a wooden chimney built on the top of it; and then at two of the corners cranes to hold the pots are fixed, and the caboose is complete. And oh, mother, such roaring big fires as were always going in it after the cold came--all night long, you know; and sometimes I had to stay awake to keep the fire from going out, which wasn't much fun, but, of course, I had to take my turn. So now, mother, you ought to have a pretty good idea of what our shanty was like; for, besides a table and our chests, there was nothing much else in it to describe." Such were Frank Kingston's surroundings as he entered upon the humble and laborious duties of chore-boy in Camp Kippewa, not attempting to conceal from himself that he would much rather be a chopper or teamster or road-maker, but with his mind fully fixed upon doing his work, however uncongenial it might be, cheerfully and faithfully for one winter at least, feeling confident that if he did he would not be chore-boy for long, but would in due time be promoted to some more dignified and attractive position. CHAPTER V. STANDING FIRE. The shanty finished, a huge mass of wood cut into convenient lengths and piled near the door, a smooth road made down to the river-bank, the store-house filled with barrels of pork and flour and beans and chests of tea, the stable for the score of horses, put up after much the same architectural design as the shanty, and then the lumber camp was complete, and the men were free to address themselves to the business that had brought them so far. As Frank looked around him at the magnificent forests into whose heart they had penetrated, and tried with his eyes to measure the height of the splendid trees that towered above his head on every side, he found himself touched with a feeling of sympathy for them--as if it seemed a shame to humble the pride of those silvan monarchs by bringing them crashing to the earth. And then this feeling gave way to another; and as he watched the expert choppers swinging their bright axes in steady rhythm, and adding wound to wound in the gaping trunk so skilfully that the defenceless monster fell just where they wished, his heart thrilled with pride at man's easy victory over nature, and he longed to seize an axe himself and attack the forest on his own account. He had plenty of axe work as it was, but of a much more prosaic kind. An important part of his duty consisted in keeping up the great fire that roared and crackled unceasingly in the caboose. The appetite of this fire seemed unappeasable, and many a time did his arms and legs grow weary in ministering to its wants. Sometimes, when all his other work was done, he would go out to the wood-pile, and selecting the thickest and toughest-looking logs, arrange them upon the hearth so that they might take as long as possible to burn; and then, congratulating himself that he had secured some respite from toil, get out his rifle for a little practice at a mark, or would open one of the few books he had brought with him. But it seemed to him he would hardly have more than one shot at the mark, or get through half-a-dozen pages, before Baptiste's thick voice would be heard calling out,-- "Francois, Francois! Ver is yer? Some more wood, k'vick!" And with a groan poor Frank would have to put away the rifle or book and return to the wood-pile. "I suppose I'm what the Bible calls a hewer of wood and a drawer of water," he would say to himself; for hardly less onerous than the task of keeping the fire in fuel was that of keeping well filled the two water-barrels that stood on either side of the door--one for the thirsty shantymen, the other for Baptiste's culinary needs. The season's work once well started, it went forward with commendable steadiness and vigour under Foreman Johnston's strict and energetic management. He was admirably suited for his difficult position. His grave, reserved manner rendered impossible that familiarity which is so apt to breed contempt, while his thorough mastery of all the secrets of woodcraft, his great physical strength, and his absolute fearlessness in the face of any peril, combined to make him a fit master for the strangely-assorted half-hundred of men now under his sole control. Frank held him in profound respect, and would have endured almost anything rather than seem unmanly or unheedful in his eyes. To win a word of commendation from those firm-set lips that said so little was the desire of his heart, and, feeling sure that it would come time enough, he stuck to his work bravely, quite winning good-natured Baptiste's heart by his prompt obedience to orders. "You are a _bon garçon,_ Francois," he would say, patting his shoulder with his plump palm. "Too good to be chore-boy; but not for long--eh, Francois? You be chopper _bientôt_, and then"--with an expressive wave of his hand to indicate the rapid flight of time--"you'll be foreman, like M'sieur Johnston, while Baptiste"--and the broad shoulders would rise in that meaning shrug which only Frenchmen can achieve--"poor Baptiste will be cook still." Beginning with Johnston and Baptiste, Frank was rapidly making friends among his companions, and as he was soon to learn, much to his surprise and sorrow, some enemies too--or, rather, to be more correct, he was making the friends, but the enemies were making themselves; for he was to blame in small part, if at all, for their rising against him. There were all sorts and conditions of men, so far at least as character and disposition went, among the gang, and the evil element was fitly represented by a small group of inhabitants who recognized one Damase Deschenaux as their leader. This Damase made rather a striking figure. Although he scorned the suggestion as hotly as would a Southern planter the charge that negro blood darkened his veins, there was no doubt that some generations back the dusky wife of a _courier du bois_ had mingled the Indian nature with the French. Unhappily for Damase, the result of his ancestral error was manifest in him; for, while bearing but little outward resemblance to his savage progenitor, he was at heart a veritable Indian. Greedy, selfish, jealous, treacherous, quick to take offence and slow to forgive or forget, his presence in the Johnston gang was explained by his wonderful knowledge of the forest, his sure judgment in selecting good bunches of timber to be cut, and his intimate acquaintance with the course of the stream down which the logs would be floated in the spring. Johnston had no liking for Damase, but found him too valuable to dispense with. This year, by chance, or possibly by his own management, Damase had among the gang a number of companions much after his own pattern, and it was clearly his intention to take the lead in the shanty so far as he dared venture. When first he saw Frank, and learned that he was to be with Johnston also, he tried after his own fashion to make friends with him. But as might be expected, neither the man himself nor his overtures of friendship impressed Frank favourably. He wanted neither a pull from his pocket flask nor a chew from his plug of "navy," nor to handle his greasy cards; and although he declined the offer of all these uncongenial things as politely as possible, the veritable suspicious, sensitive, French-Indian nature took offence, which deepened day after day, as he could not help seeing that Frank was careful to give himself and companions as wide a berth as he could without being pointedly rude or offensive. When one is seeking to gratify evil feelings toward another with whom he has daily contact, the opportunity is apt to be not long in coming, and Damase conceived that he had his chance of venting his spite on Frank by seizing upon the habit of Bible reading and prayer which the lad had as scrupulously observed in the shanty as if he had been at home. As might be imagined, he was altogether alone in this good custom, and at first the very novelty of it had secured him immunity from pointed notice or comment. But when Damase, thinking he saw in his daily devotions an opening for his malicious purposes, drew attention to them by jeering remarks and taunting insinuations, the others, yielding to that natural tendency to be incensed with any one who seems to assert superior goodness, were inclined to side with him, or at all events to make no attempt to interfere. At first Damase confined himself to making as much noise as possible while Frank was reading his Bible or saying his prayers, keeping up a constant fire of remarks that were aimed directly at the much-tried boy, and which were sometimes clever or impertinent enough to call forth a hearty laugh from his comrades. But finding that Frank was not to be overcome by this, he resorted to more active measures. Pretending to be dancing carelessly about the room he would, as if by accident, bump up against the object of his enmity, sending the precious book flying on the floor, or, if Frank was kneeling by his bunk, tripping and tumbling roughly over his outstretched feet. Another time he knocked the Bible out of his hands with a well-aimed missile, and, again, covered him with a heavy blanket as he knelt at prayer. All this Frank bore in patient silence, hoping in that way to secure peace in time. But Damase's persecutions showing no signs of ceasing, the poor lad's self-control began to desert him, and at last the crisis came one night when, while he was kneeling as usual at the foot of his bunk, Damase crept up softly behind him, and springing upon his shoulders, brought him sprawling to the floor. In an instant Frank was on his feet, and when the others saw his flashing and indignant countenance and noticed his tight-clinched fists, the roar of laughter that greeted his downfall was checked half way, and a sudden silence fell upon them. They all expected him to fly at his tormentor like a young tiger, and Damase evidently expected it too, for he stepped back a little, and his grinning face sobered as he assumed a defensive attitude. But Frank had no thought of striking. That was not his way of defending his religion, much as he was willing to endure rather than be unfaithful. Drawing himself up to his full height, and looking a splendid type of righteous indignation, he commanded the attention of all as in clear, strong tones, holding his sturdy fists close to his sides as though he dared not trust them elsewhere, and looking straight into Damase's eyes, lie exclaimed,-- "Aren't you ashamed to do such an unmanly thing--you, who are twice my size and age? I have done nothing to you. Why should you torment me? And just when I want most to be quiet, too!" Then, turning to the other men with a gesture of appeal that was irresistible, he cried,-- "Do you think it's fair, fellows, for that man to plague me so when I've done him no harm? Why don't you stop him? You can do it easy enough. He's nothing but a big coward." Frank's anger had risen as he spoke, and this last sentence slipped out before he had time to stop it. No sooner was it uttered than he regretted it; but the bolt had been shot, and it went straight to its mark. While Frank had been speaking, Damase was too keen of sight and sense not to notice that the manly speech and fine self-control of the boy were causing a quick revulsion of feeling in his hearers, and that unless diverted they would soon be altogether on his side, and the taunt he had just flung out awoke a deep murmur of applause which was all that was needed to inflame his passion to the highest pitch. The Frenchman looked the very incarnation of fury as, springing towards Frank with uplifted fist, he hissed, rather cried, through his gleaming teeth,-- "Coward! I teach you call me coward." Stepping back a little, Frank threw up his arms in a posture of defence; for he was not without knowledge of what is so oddly termed "the noble art." But before the blow fell an unlooked-for intervention relieved him from the danger that threatened. The foreman, when the shanty was being built, had the farther right-hand corner partitioned off so as to form a sort of cabin just big enough to contain his bunk, his chest, and a small rude table on which lay the books in which he kept his accounts and made memoranda, and some half-dozen volumes that constituted his library. In this nook, shut off from the observation and society of the others, yet able to overhear and, if he chose to open the door, to oversee also all that went on in the larger room, Johnston spent, his evenings poring over his books by the light of a tallow candle, the only other light in the room being that given forth by the ever-blazing fire. Owing to this separation from the others, Johnston had been unaware of the manner in which Frank had been tormented, as it was borne so uncomplainingly. But this time Frank's indignant speech, followed so fast by Damase's angry retort, told him plainly that there was need of his interference. He emerged from his corner just at the moment when Damase was ready to strike. One glance at the state of affairs was enough. Damase's back was turned toward him. With a swift spring, that startled the others as if he had fallen through the roof, he darted forward, and ere the French-Canadian's fist could reach its mark a resistless grasp was laid upon his collar, and, swung clear off his feet, he was flung staggering across the room as though he had been a mere child. "You Indian dog!" growled Johnston, in his fiercest tones, "what are you about? Don't let me catch you tormenting that boy again!" CHAPTER VI. LIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP. For a moment there was absolute silence in the shanty, the sudden and effectual intervention of the big foreman in Frank Kingston's behalf filling the onlookers with astonishment. But then, as they recovered themselves, there came a burst of laughter that made the rafters ring, in the midst of which Damase, gathering himself together, slunk scowling to his berth with a face that was dark with hate. Not deigning to take any further notice of him, Johnston turned to go back to his corner, touching Frank on his shoulder as he did so, and saying to him in a low tone,-- "Come with me, my lad; I want a word with you." Still trembling from the excitement of the scene through which he had just passed, Frank followed the foreman into his little sanctum, the inside of which he had never seen before, for it was kept jealously locked whenever its occupant was absent. Johnston threw himself clown on his bunk, and motioned Frank to take a seat upon the chest. For a few moments he regarded him in silence, and so intently that, although his expression was full of kindness, and it seemed of admiration, too, the boy felt his face flushing under his steady scrutiny. At last the foreman spoke. "You're a plucky lad, Frank. Just like your father-God bless him' He was a good friend to me when I needed a friend sorely. I heard all that went on to-night, though I didn't see it, and had some hint of it before, though I didn't let on, for I wanted to see what stuff you were made of. But you played the man, my boy, and your father would have been proud to see you. Now just you go right ahead, Frank; and if any of those French rascals or anybody else tries to hinder you, out of this shanty he'll go, neck and crop, and stay out, as sure as my name is Dan Johnston." "You're very kind, Mr. Johnston," said Frank, his eyes glistening somewhat suspiciously, for, to tell the truth, this warm praise coming after the recent strain upon his nerves was a little too much for his self-control. "I felt sometimes like telling you when the men tormented me so; but I didn't want to be a tale-bearer, and I was hoping they'd get tired of it and give up of their own accord." "It's best as it is, lad," replied Johnston. "If the men found out you told me, they'd be like to think hard of you. But there's no fear of that now. And look here, Frank. After this, when you want to read your Bible in peace, and say your prayers, just come in here. No one'll bother you here, and you can sit down on the chest there and have a quiet time to yourself." Frank's face fairly beamed with delight at this unexpected invitation, and he stood up on his feet to thank his kind friend. "Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I've never been able to read my Bible or say my prayers right since I came to the shanty-there's always such a noise going on. But I won't mind that in here. It's so good of you to let me come in." The foreman smiled in his deep, serious way, and then as he relapsed into silence, and took up again the book he had laid down to spring to Frank's assistance, Frank thought it time to withdraw; and with a respectful "Good-night, sir," which Johnston acknowledged by a nod, returned to the larger room. The shantymen were evidently awaiting his reappearance with much curiosity; but he went quietly back to his bunk, picked up his Bible, finished the passage in the midst of which he had been interrupted, and, having said his prayers, lay down to sleep without a word to any one; for no one questioned him, and he felt no disposition to start a discussion by questioning any of the others. From this time forth he could see clearly that two very different opinions concerning himself prevailed in the shanty. By all the English members of the gang, and some of the. French, headed by honest Baptiste, he was looked upon, with hearty liking and admiration, as a plucky chap that knew how to take care of himself; by the remainder of the French contingent, with Damase as the ruling spirit, he was regarded as a stuck-up youngster that wanted taking down badly, and who was trying to make himself a special favourite with the foreman just to advance his own selfish ends. Gladly would Frank have been on friendly terms with all; but this being now impossible, through no fault of his own, he made up his mind to go on his way as quietly as possible, being constantly careful to give no cause of offence to those who, as he well knew, were only too eager to take it. There were some slight flurries of snow, fragile and short-lived heralds of winter's coming, during the latter part of November, and then December was ushered in by a grand storm that lasted a whole day, and made glad the hearts of the lumbermen by filling the forest aisles with a deep, soft, spotless carpet, that asked only to be packed smooth and hard in order to make perfect roads over which to transport the noble logs that had been accumulating upon the "roll-ways" during the past weeks. A shantyman is never so completely in his element as when the snow lies two feet deep upon the earth's brown breast. An open winter is his bane, Jack Frost his best friend; and there was a perceptible rise in the spirits of the occupants of Camp Kippewa as the mercury sank lower and lower in the tube of the foreman's thermometer. Plenty of snow meant not only easy hauling all winter long, but a full river and "high water" in the spring-time, and no difficulty in getting the drive of logs that would represent their winter's work down the Kippewa to the Grand River beyond. Frank did not entirely share their exultation. The colder it got the more wood had to be chopped, the more food had to be cooked--for the men's appetites showed a marked increase--and, furthermore, the task of keeping the water-barrels filled became one of serious magnitude. But bracing himself to meet his growing burdens, he toiled away cheerfully, resisting every temptation to grumble, his clear tuneful whistling of the sacred airs in vogue at Calumet making Baptiste, who had a quick ear for music, so familiar with "Rock of Ages," "Abide with Me," "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and other melodies, which have surely strayed down to us from heaven, that unconsciously he took to whistling them himself, much to Frank's amusement and approval. The days were very much alike. At early dawn, before it was yet light enough to see clearly, Johnston would emerge from his corner, and, in stentorian tones whose meaning was not to be mistaken, shout to the sleeping men scattered along the rows of sloping bunks. "Up with ye, men! up with ye!" And with many a growl and grunt they would, one by one, unroll from their blankets. As their only preparation for bed had been to lay aside their coats and boots or moccasins, the morning toilet did not consume much time. A dash of cold water as an eye-opener, a tugging on of boots or lacing up of moccasins, a scrambling into coats, and that was the sum of it. The only brush and comb in the camp belonged to Frank, and he felt half ashamed to use them, because no one else thought such articles necessary. Breakfast hurriedly disposed of, all but Baptiste and Frank sallied forth into the snow, to be seen no more until mid-day. There were just fifty persons, all told, in the camp, each man having his definite work to do the carpenter, whose business it was to keep the sleighs in repair; the teamsters, who directed the hauling of the logs; the "sled-tenders," who saw that the loads were well put on; the "head chopper" and his assistants, whose was the laborious yet fascinating task of felling the forest monarchs; the "sawyers," who cut their prostrate forms into convenient lengths; the "scorers," who stripped off the branches and slab sides from tree trunks set apart for square timber; and finally, the "hewer," who with his huge, broad axe made square the "stick," as the great piece of timber is called. All these men had to be fed three times a day, and almost insatiable were their appetites, as poor Frank had no chance to forget. Happily they did not demand the same variety in their bill of fare as do the guests at a metropolitan hotel. Pork and beans, bread and tea, these were the staple items. Anything else was regarded as an "extra." A rather monotonous diet, undoubtedly; but it would not be easy to prescribe a better one for men working twelve hours a day, in the open air, through the still, steady cold of a Canadian winter in the backwoods. At noon the hungry toilers trooped back for dinner, which they devoured in ravenous haste that there might be as much as possible left of the hour for a lounge upon the bunk, with pipe in mouth, in luxurious idleness. Then as the dusk gathered they appeared once more, this time for the night, and disposed to eat their supper with much more decorous slowness. Supper over, the snow-soaked mittens and stockings hung about the fire to dry, and pipes put in full blast, they were ready for song, story, or dance, until bed time. Thus day followed day, until Frank, whose work kept him closely confined to the camp, grew so weary of it that he was on the verge of heartily repenting that he had ever consented to be a chore-boy, ever thought that was the only condition upon which he could gratify his longing for a lumberman's life, when another mischance became his good fortune, and he was unexpectedly relieved of a large part of his tiresome duties. This was how it came about. One morning he was surprised by seeing one of the sleighs returning a good while before the dinner hour, and was somewhat alarmed when he noticed that it bore the form of a man, who had evidently been the victim of an accident. Happily, however, it proved to be not a very serious case. An immense pine in falling headlong had borne with it a number of smaller trees that stood near by, and one of these had fallen upon an unwary "scorer," hurling him to the ground, and badly bruising his right leg, besides causing some internal injury. He was insensible when picked up, but came to himself soon after reaching the shanty, where Frank made him as comfortable as he could, even putting him upon his own mattress that he might lie as easy as possible. The injured man proved to be one of Damase Deschenaux's allies; but Frank did not let that prevent his showing him every kindness while he was recovering from his injuries, with the result of completely winning the poor ignorant fellow's heart, much to Damase's disgust. Damase, indeed, did his best to persuade Laberge that Frank's attentions were prompted by some secret motive, and that it was not to be trusted. But deeds are far stronger arguments than words, and the sufferer was not to be convinced. By the end of a week he was able to limp about the shanty, but it was very evident that he would not be fit to take up his work again that season. This state of affairs caused the foreman some concern, for he felt loath to send the unfortunate fellow home, and yet he could not keep him in idleness. Then it appeared that what is one man's extremity may be another's opportunity. Johnston knew very well that however bravely he might go about it, Frank's work could not help being distasteful to him, and a bright plan flashed into his mind. Calling Frank into his corner one evening, he said,-- "How would you like, my lad, to have some of the out-door work for a change?" The mere expression of Frank's face was answer enough. It fairly shone with gladness, as he replied,-- "I would like it above all things, sir, for I am a little tired of being nothing but a chore-boy." "Well, I think we might manage it, Frank," said the foreman. "You see, Laberge can't do his work again this winter, and it goes against my heart to send him home, for he's nobody but himself to depend upon. So I've hit upon this plan: Laberge can't chop the wood or haul the water, but he can help Baptiste in cooking and cleaning up. Suppose, then, you were to get the wood ready and see about the water in the morning, and then come out into the woods with us after dinner, leaving Laberge to do the rest of the work. How would that suit you?" "It would suit me just splendidly, sir," exclaimed Frank, delightedly. "I can see about the wood and water all right before dinner, and I'll be so glad to go to the woods with you. I'll just do the best I can to fill Laberge's place." "I'm right sure you will, Frank," replied Johnston. "So you may consider it settled for the present, at any rate." Frank felt like dancing a jig on the way back to his bunk, and not even the scowling face of Damase, who had been listening to the conversation in the foreman's room with keen Indian ears, and had caught enough of it to learn of the arrangement made, could cast any damper upon his spirits. In this case half a loaf was decidedly better than no bread at all. Freedom from the restraints and irksome duties of chore-boy's lot for even half the day was a precious boon, and the happy boy lay down to rest that night feeling like quite a different person from what he had been of late, when there seemed no way of escape from the monotonous, wearisome task he had taken upon himself, except to give it all up and return to Calumet, which was almost the last thing that he could imagine himself doing; for Frank Kingston had plenty of pride as well as pluck, and his love for lumbering had not suffered any eclipse because of his experiences. But what is one man's meat is another man's poison, according to the homely adage, and in this case what made Frank so happy made--Damase miserable. The jealous, revengeful fellow saw in it only another proof of the foreman's favouritism, and was also pleased to regard the relegating of Laberge to the dish-washing and so forth as the degradation of a compatriot, which it behoved him to resent, since Laberge seemed lacking in the spirit to do it himself. Had he imagined that he would meet with the support of the majority, he would have sought to organize a rebellion in the camp. But he knew well enough that such a thing was utterly out of the question, so he was forced to content himself with fresh determinations to "get even" with the foreman and his favourite in some way before the winter passed; and, as will be seen, he came perilously near attaining his object. CHAPTER VII. A THRILLING EXPERIENCE. Frank was very happy now that the way had been so opportunely opened for him to take part in the whole round of lumbering operations. He awaited with impatience the coming of noon and the rush of hungry men to their hearty dinner, because it was the signal for his release from chore-boy work and promotion to the more honourable position of assistant-teamster. The long afternoons out in the cold, crisp air, amid the thud of well-aimed axes, the crash of falling trees, the shouts of busy men, and all the other noisy incidents of the war they were waging against the innocent, defenceless forest, were precisely what his heart had craved so long, and he felt clearer than ever in his mind that lumbering was the life for him. After he had been a week at his new employment, Con Murphy, the big teamster to whom he had been assigned by the foreman, with the injunction to "be easy on the lad, and give him plenty of time to get handy," was heard to say in public,-- "Faith, an' he's a broth of a boy, I can tell you; and I wouldn't give him for half-a-dozen of those _parlez-vous_ Frenchies like the chap whose place he took--indade that I wouldn't." Which, coming to Damase's ears, added further fuel to the fire of jealousy and hate that was burning within this half-savage creature's breast. So fierce indeed were Damase's feelings that he could not keep them concealed, and more than one of the shantymen took occasion to drop a word of warning into Frank's ear about him. "You'd better keep a sharp eye on that chap Damase, Frank," they would say. "He's an ugly customer, and he seems to have got it in for you." Frank, on his part, was by no means disposed to laugh at or neglect these kindly warnings. Indeed, he fully intended repeating them to Johnston at the first opportunity. But the days slipped by without a favourable chance presenting itself, and Damase's wild thirst for the revenge which he thought was merited came perilously near a dreadful satisfaction. February had come, and supplies at the shanty were running low, so that Foreman Johnston deemed it necessary to pay a visit to the depot to see about having a fresh stock sent out. The first that Frank knew of his intention was the night before he started. He had gone into the foreman's little room as usual to read his Bible and pray, and having finished, was about to slip quietly out, Johnston having apparently been quite unobservant of his presence, when he was asked,-- "How would you like to go over to the depot with me to-morrow?" How would he like! Such a question to ask of a boy, when it meant a twenty-five miles' drive and a whole day's holiday after months of steady work at the camp! "I should be delighted, sir," replied Frank, as promptly as he could get the words out. "Very well, then; you can come along with me. We'll start right after breakfast. Baptiste will have to look after himself for one day," said the foreman. And with a fervent "Thank you, sir," Frank went off, his face wreathed with smiles and his heart throbbing with joy at the prospect before him. So eager was he that it did not need Johnston's shout of "Turn out, lads, turn out!" to waken him next morning, for he was wide awake already, and he tumbled into his clothes with quite unusual alacrity. So soon as breakfast was over, the foreman had one of the best horses in the stable harnessed to his "jumper," as the low, strong, comfortable wooden sleigh that is alone able to cope with the rough forest roads is called; abundance of thick warm buffalo-robes were provided; and then he and Frank tucked themselves in tightly, and they set out on their long drive to the depot. The mercury stood at twenty degrees below zero when they started, but they did not mind that. Not a breath of wind stirred the clear cold air. The sun soon rose into the blue vault above them, and shone down upon the vast expanse of snow about them with a vigour that made their eyes blink. The horse was a fine animal, and, having been off duty for a few days previous, was full of speed and spirit, and they glided over the well-beaten portion of the road at a dashing pace. But when they came to the part over which there had been little travel all winter long the going was too heavy for much speed, and often the horse could not do more than walk. This seemed to Frank just the opportunity for which he had been waiting, to tell the foreman about Damase and his threats of revenge. At first Johnston was disposed to make light of the matter, but when Frank told him what he had himself observed, as well as what had been reported to him by the others, the foreman was sufficiently impressed to say,-- "The rascal wants some looking after, that's clear. He's a worthless fellow, anyway, and I'm mighty sorry I ever let him into my gang. I think the best thing will be to drop him as soon as I get back, or he may make some trouble for us. I'm glad you told me this, Frank. I won't forget it." At the depot they found Alec Stewart, just returned from a tour of inspection of the different camps, and full of hearty welcome. He was very glad to see Frank. "Ah ha, my boy!" he cried, slapping him vigorously on the back, "I needn't ask you how you are. Your looks answer for you. Why, you must weigh ten pounds more than when I last saw you. Well, what do you think of lumbering now, and how does Mr. Johnston treat you? They tell me," looking at the foreman with a sly smile, "that he's a mighty stiff boss. Is that the way you find him?" Frank was ready enough to answer all his friend's questions, and to assure him that the foreman treated him like a kind father, and that he himself was fonder of lumbering than ever. Both he and Johnston had famous appetites for the bountiful dinner that was soon spread before them, and the resources of the depot permitting of a much more extensive bill of fare than was possible at the shanty, he felt in duty bound to apologize for the avidity with which he attacked the juicy roast of beef, the pearly potatoes, the toothsome pudding, and the other dainties that, after months of pork and beans, tasted like ambrosia. The superintendent and the foreman had much to say to one another which did not concern Frank, and so while they talked business he roamed about the place, enjoying the freedom from work, and chatting with the men at the depot, telling them some of his experiences and being told some of theirs in return. Happening to mention Damase Deschenaux, one of the men at once exclaimed,-- "That's a first-class scoundrel! It beats me to understand why Johnston has him in his gang. He's sure to raise trouble wherever he goes." Frank felt tempted to tell how Damase had "raised trouble" with him, but thought he would better not, and the talk soon turned in another direction. The afternoon was waning before Johnston prepared to start on the return journey, and Mr. Stewart tried hard to persuade him to stay for the night--an invitation that Frank devoutly hoped would be accepted. But the big foreman would not hear of it. "No, no," said be in his decided way, "I must get back to the shanty. There's been only half a day's work done to-day, I'll warrant you, because I wasn't on hand to keep the beggars at it. Why, they'll lie abed till mid-day to-morrow if I'm not there to rouse them out of their bunks." Whatever Johnston said he stuck to, so there was no use in argument, and shortly after four o'clock he and Frank tucked themselves snugly into the jumper again and drove away from the depot, Stewart shouting after them,-- "If you change your mind after you've gone a couple of miles, don't feel delicate about coming back. I won't laugh at you." Johnston's only answer was a grim smile and a crack of the whip over the horse's hind-quarters that sent him off at full gallop, the snow flying in clouds from his plunging feet into the faces of his passengers. The hours crept by as the sleigh made its slow way over the heavy ground, and Frank, as might be expected after the big dinner he had eaten, began to feel very sleepy. There was no reason why he should not yield to the seductive influence of the drowsy god, so, sinking down low into the seat and drawing the buffalo-robe up over his head, he soon was lost to sight and sense. While he slept the night fell, and they were still many miles from home. The cold was great, but not a breath of wind stirred the intense stillness. The stars shone out like flashing diamonds set in lapis-lazuli. Silence reigned supreme, save as it was intruded upon by the heavy breathing of the frost-flaked horse and the crunching of the runners through the crisp snow. Johnston felt glad when they breasted the hill on the other side of which was Deep Gully, crossed by a rude corduroy bridge; for that bridge was just five miles from the camp, and another hour, at the farthest, would bring them to the end of their journey. When the top of the hill was reached, the foreman gathered up the reins, called upon the horse to quicken his pace, and away they went down the slope at a tearing gallop. Deep Gully well deserved the name that had been given it when the road was made. A turbulent torrent among the hills had in the course of time eaten a way for itself, which, although very narrow, made up for its lack of breadth by a great degree of depth. It was a rather picturesque place in summer time, when abundant foliage softened its steep sides; but in winter, when it seemed more like a crevasse in a glacier than anything else, there was no charm about it. The bridge that crossed it was a very simple affair, consisting merely of two long stringers laid six feet apart, and covered with flattened timbers. Upon this slight structure the jumper descended with a bump that woke Frank from his pleasant nap, and, putting aside the buffalo-robe, he sat up in the sleigh to gather his wits. It was well he did, for if ever he needed them it was at that moment. Almost simultaneous with the thud of the horse's feet upon the bridge there came a crash, a sound of rending timbers, the bridge quivered like a ship struck by a mighty billow, and the next instant dropped into the chasm below, bearing with it a man, and boy, and horse, and sleigh! Full thirty feet they fell; the bridge, which had given way at one end only, hurling them from it so that they landed at the bottom of Deep Gully in a confused heap, yet happily free from entanglement with its timbers. So soon as he felt himself falling Frank threw aside the robes and made ready to spring; but Johnston instinctively held on to the reins, with the result that, being suddenly dragged forward by the frantic plunging of the terrified animal, he received a kick in the forehead that rendered him insensible, and would have dashed his brains out but for the thick fur cap he wore, while the jumper, turning over upon him, wrenched his leg so as to render him completely helpless. Frank was more fortunate. His timely spring, aided by the impetus of their descent, carried him clear of the horse and sleigh, and sent him headlong into a deep drift that filled a hollow at the gully's bottom. The snow-bank opened its arms to receive him, and buried him to the hips. The first shock completely deprived him of breath, and almost of his senses too. But beyond that he received no injury, and was soon struggling with all his might to free himself from the snow that held him captive. This proved to be no easy task. He was pretty firmly embedded, and at first it seemed as though his efforts at release only made his position worse. "This is a fine fix to be in!" said he to himself. "Buried in a snow-drift; and dear knows what's happened to Mr. Johnston." He had been hoping that the foreman would come to his assistance, but getting no reply to his shouts, he began to fear lest his companion might be unable to render any help. Perhaps, indeed, he might be dead! The thought roused him to still greater exertions, and at last by a heroic effort he succeeded in turning a kind of somersault in his cold prison, which had the happy result of putting his head where his heels had been. To scramble out altogether was then an easy job, and in another instant he was beside the sleigh. His first thought was that his worst fears were realized. Certainly the sight was one that might have filled a stouter heart with chill alarm. The horse had fallen into a deep drift, which covered him to the shoulders, and rendered him utterly helpless, entangled as he was with the harness and the over-turned jumper. He had evidently, like Frank, been struggling violently to free himself, but finding it useless, had for a time ceased his efforts, and stood wild-eyed and panting, the picture of animal terror. On seeing Frank he made another frantic plunge or two, looking at the boy with an expression of agonized appeal, as though he would say,-- "Oh, help me out of this dreadful place!" And glad would Frank have been to respond to the best of his ability. But the poor horse could not be considered first. Half under the sleigh, half buried in the snow, lay the big foreman, to all appearance dead, the blood flowing freely from an ugly gash in his forehead, where the fur cap had failed to protect him entirely from the horse's hoof. Frank sprang to his side, and with a tremendous effort turned him over upon his back, and getting out his handkerchief, wiped the blood away from his face. As he did so, the first awful thought of death gave way to a feeling of hope. White and still as Johnston lay, his face was warm, and he was surely breathing a little. Seizing a handful of snow, Frank pressed it to the foreman's forehead, and cried to him as though he were asleep,-- "Mr. Johnston, Mr. Johnston! What's the matter with you? Tell me, won't you?" For some minutes there was no sign of response. Then the injured man stirred, gave a deep sigh followed by a groan, opened his eyes with a look of dazed bewilderment, and put his hand up to his head, which was evidently giving him intense pain. "Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I was afraid you were dead!" exclaimed Frank. "Can't I help you to get up?" Turning upon his shoulder, the foreman made an effort to raise himself, but at once sank back with a groan. "I'm sore hurt, my lad," he said; "I can't stir. You'll have to get help." And so great was his suffering that he well nigh lost consciousness again. Frank tried his best to lift him away from the sleigh, but found the task altogether beyond his young strength in that deep snow, and had to give it up as hopeless. Certainly he was in a most trying situation for a mere boy--fully five miles from the shanty, with an almost untravelled road between that must be traversed by him alone, while the injured man would have to lie helpless in the snow until his return. Little wonder if he felt in sore perplexity as to what should be done, and how he should act under the circumstances. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME. If Frank was undecided, Mr. Johnston's mind was fully made up. "Our only chance is for you to get to the shanty at once, Frank. It'll be a hard job, my boy, but you'll have to try it," said he. "But what'll become of you, sir, staying here all alone? The wolves might find you out, and how could you defend yourself then?" asked Frank, in sore bewilderment as to the solution of the dilemma. "I'll have to take my chances of that, Frank; for if I stay here all night, I'll freeze to death, anyway. So just throw the buffaloes over me, and put for the shanty as fast as you can," replied the foreman. Unable to suggest any better plan, Frank covered Johnston carefully with the robes, making him as comfortable as he could; then buttoning up his coat and pulling his cap on tightly, he was about to scramble up the steep side of the gully to regain the road, when the foreman said, in a low tone, almost a whisper,-- "This is about the time you generally say your prayers, Frank. Couldn't you say them here before you start?" With quick intuition Frank divined the big bashful man's meaning. It was his roundabout way of asking the boy to commit him to the care of God before leaving him alone in his helplessness. Feeling half condemned at not having thought of it himself, Frank came back, and kneeling close beside his friend, lifted up his voice in prayer with a fervour and simplicity that showed how strong and sure was his faith in the love and power of his Father in heaven. When he had finished his petition, the foreman added to it an "Amen" that seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; and then, yielding to an impulse that was irresistible, Frank bent down and implanted a sudden kiss upon the pale face looking at him with such earnest, anxious eyes. This unexpected proof of warm affection completely overcame the foreman, whose feelings had been already deeply stirred by the prayer. Strong, reserved man as he was, be could not keep back the tears. "God bless you, my boy!" he murmured huskily. "If I get safely out of this, I shall be a different man. You have taught me a lesson I won't forget." "God bless you and take care of you, sir!" answered Frank. "I hope nothing will happen to you while I'm away, and I'll be back as soon as I can." The next moment he was making his way up the gully's side, and soon a triumphant shout announced that he had reached the road and was off for the lumber camp at his best speed. The task before him was one from which many a grown man might have shrunk in dismay. For five long, lonely miles the road ran through the forest that darkened it with heavy shadows, and not a living soul could he hope to meet until he reached the shanty. It was now past eight o'clock, and to do his best it would take him a whole hour to reach his goal. The snow lay deep upon the road, and was but little beaten down by the few sleighs that had passed over it. The air was keen and crisp with frost, the temperature being many degrees below zero. And finally, the most fear-inspiring of all, there was the possibility of wolves, for the dreaded timber wolf had been both heard and seen in close proximity to the camp of late, an unusual scarcity of small game having made him daring in his search for food. But Frank possessed a double source of strength. He was valiant by nature, and he had implicit faith in God's overruling providence. He felt specially under the divine care now, and resolutely putting away all thoughts of personal danger, addressed himself, mind and body, to the one thing--the relief of Johnston from his perilous position. With arms braced at his sides and head bent forward, he set out at a jog-trot, which was better suited for getting through the deep snow than an ordinary walk. Fortunately he was in the very pink of condition. The steady, hard work of the preceding months, combined with the coarse but abundant food and early hours, had developed and strengthened every muscle in his body and hardened his constitution until few boys of his age could have been found better fitted to endure a long tramp through heavy snow than he. Moreover, running had always been his favourite form of athletic exercise, and the muscles it required were well trained for their work. "I'll do it all right inside the hour," he said to himself. And then, as a sudden thought struck him, he gave a nervous little laugh, and added, "And perhaps make a good deal better time if I hear anything of the wolves." Try as he might, he could not get the wolves out of his head. He had not himself seen any signs of them, but several times the choppers working farthest from the camp had mentioned finding their tracks in the snow, and once they had been heard howling in the distance after the men had all come into the shanty for the night. On he went through the snow and night, now making good progress at his brisk jog-trot, now going more slowly as he dropped into a walk to rest himself and recover breath. Although the moon rode high in the heavens, the trees which stood close to the road allowed few of her beams to light his path. "If it was only broad daylight I wouldn't mind it a bit," Frank soliloquized; "but this going alone at this time of night is not the sort of a job I care for." And then the thought of poor Johnston lying helpless but uncomplaining in the snow made him feel ashamed of his words, and to ease his conscience he broke into a trot again. Just as he did so a sound reached his ear that sent a thrill of terror to his heart. Hoping he might be mistaken, he stopped and listened with straining senses. For a moment there was absolute silence. Then the sound came again--distant, but clear and unmistakable. He had heard it only once before, yet he felt as sure of it now as if it had been his mother's voice. It was the howl of the timber wolf sounding through the still night air from somewhere to the north; how far away he could not determine. At the sound all his strength seemed to leave him. How helpless he was alone in that mighty forest without even so much as a knife wherewith to defend himself! But it would not do to stand irresolute. His own life as well as the foreman's depended upon his reaching the shanty. Were he to climb one of the big trees that stood around, the wolves, of course, could not get at him; but Johnston would be dead before daylight came to release him from his tree citadel, and perhaps he would himself fall a victim to the cold in that exposed situation. There was no other alternative than to run for his life, so, breathing out a fervent prayer for divine help and protection, he summoned all his energies to the struggle. He was more than a mile from the shanty, and his exertion had told severely upon his strength; but the great peril of his situation made him forget his weariness, and he started off as if he were perfectly fresh. But the howling of the wolves grew more and more distinct as they drew swiftly nearer, and with agony of heart the poor boy felt his breath coming short and his limbs beginning to fail beneath him. Nearer and nearer came his dreaded pursuers, and every moment he expected to see them burst into the road behind him. Fortunately, be had reached a part of the road which, being near the camp, was much used by the teams drawing logs to the river-bank, and was consequently beaten hard and smooth. This welcome change enabled him to quicken his steps, which had dropped into a walk; and although he felt almost blind from exhaustion, he pushed desperately forward, hoping at every turn of the road to catch a glimpse of the shanty showing dark through the trees. The cry of the disciples caught in the sudden storm on Galilee, "Lord, save us; we perish!" kept coming to his lips as he staggered onward. Surely there could not be much further to go! He turned for a moment to look behind him. The wolves were in sight, their dark forms showing distinctly against the snow as in silence now they gained upon their prey. Run as hard as he might, they must be upon him ere another fifty yards were passed. He felt as if it were all over with him, and so utter was his exhaustion that it seemed to benumb his faculties and make him half willing for the end to come. But the end was not to be as the wolves desired. Just at the critical moment, when further exertion seemed impossible, he caught sight of some one approaching him rapidly from the direction of the shanty, and shouting aloud while he rushed forward to meet him. With one last supreme effort he plunged toward this timely apparition, and a moment later fell insensible at his feet. It was Baptiste--good-hearted, affectionate Baptiste--who, having awaited the travellers' return and grown concerned at their long delay, had gone out to look along the road to see if they were anywhere in view. Catching sight of Frank's lonely figure, he had made all haste to meet him, and reached him just in time to ward off the wolves that in a minute more would have been upon him. When the wolves saw Baptiste, who swung a gleaming axe about his head, as he shouted, "_Chiens donc!_ I'll split your heads eef I get at you!" they stopped short, and even retreated a little, drawing themselves together in a sort of group in the middle of the road, snapping their teeth and snarling in a half-frightened, half-furious manner. But Baptiste was not to be daunted. Lifting his axe on high, he shouted at them in his choicest French, and charged upon the pack as though they had been simply a flock of marauding sheep. Wolves are arrant cowards, and without pausing to take into consideration the disparity of numbers, for they stood twelve to one, they fled ignominiously before the plucky Frenchman, not halting until they had put fifty yards between themselves and him. Whereupon Baptiste seized upon the opportunity to pick up the still senseless Frank, throw him over his broad shoulder, and hasten back to the shanty before the wolves should regain their self-possession. They were all asleep in the shanty when the cook returned with his unconscious burden; but he soon roused the others with his vigorous shouts, and by the time they were fully awake, Frank was awake too, the warm air of the room quickly reviving him from his faint. Looking round about with a bewildered expression, he asked anxiously,-- "Where is Mr. Johnston? Hasn't he come back too?" Then he recollected himself, and a picture of his good friend lying prostrate and helpless in the snow, perhaps surrounded by the same wolves that brave Baptiste had rescued him from, flashed into his mind, and springing to his feet he cried,-- "Hurry--hurry! Mr. Johnston is in Deep Gully, and he can't move. The bridge broke under us, and he was almost killed. Oh, hurry, won't you, or the wolves will be after him!" The men looked at one another in astonishment and horror. "Deep Gully!" they exclaimed. "That's five miles off. We must go at once." And immediately all was bustle and excitement as they prepared to go out into the night. As lumbermen always sleep in their clothes, they did not take long to dress, and in a wonderfully short space of time the teamsters had a sleigh with a pair of horses at the door, upon which eight of the men, armed with guns and axes, sprang, and off they went along the road as fast as the horses could gallop. Frank wanted to accompany them, but Baptiste would not allow him. "No, no, _mon cher._ You must stay wid me. You tired out. They get him all right, and bring him safe home." And he was fair to lie back, so tortured with anxiety for the foreman that he could hardly appreciate the blessing of rest, although his own exertions had been tremendous. Not sparing the horses, the rescuers sped over the road, ever now and then discharging a gun, in order to let Johnston know of their approach and keep his courage up. In less than half-an-hour they reached the gully, and peering over the brink, beheld the dark heap in the snow below that was the object of their search. One glance was sufficient to show how timely was their coming, for almost encircling the hapless man were smaller shapes that even at that distance could be readily recognized. "We're too late!" cried one of the men; "they're wolves." And with a wild shout he flung himself recklessly down the snowy slope, and others followed close behind. Before their tumultuous onset the wolves fled like leaves before the autumn wind, and poor Johnston, almost dead with pain, cold, and exhaustion, raising himself a little from the snow, called out in a faint but joyful tone,-- "Thank God; you've come in time! I thought it was all over with me." CHAPTER IX. OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE. Great was the joy of the men at finding Johnston alive and still able to speak, and at once their united strength was applied to extricating him from his painful position. The poor horse, utterly unable to help himself, had long ago given up the vain struggle, and in a state of pitiful exhaustion and fright was lying where he first fell, the snow all about him being torn up in a way that showed how furious had been his struggles. Johnston had by dint of heroic exertion managed to withdraw his leg a little from underneath the heavy jumper; but he could not free himself altogether, so that had the wolves found out how completely both horse and man were in their power, they would have made short work of both. Fortunately, by vigorous shouting and wild waving of his arms, the foreman had been able to keep the cowardly creatures at bay long enough to allow the rescuing party to reach him. But he could not have kept up many minutes more, and if strength and voice had entirely forsaken him the dreadful end would soon have followed. Handling the injured man with a tenderness and care one would hardly have looked for in such rough fellows, the lumbermen after no small exertion got him up out of the gully and laid him upon the sleigh in the road. Then the horse was released from the jumper, and, being coaxed to his feet, led down the gully to where the sides were not so steep and he could scramble up, while the jumper itself was left behind to be recovered when they had more time to spare. Before they started off for the shanty one of the men had the curiosity to cross the gully and examine the bridge where it broke, in order to find out the cause of the accident. When he returned there was a strange expression on his face, which added to the curiosity of the others who were awaiting his report. "Both stringers are sawed near through!" he exclaimed. "And it's not been done long, either. Must have been done to-day, for the sawdust's lying round still." The men looked at one another in amazement and horror. The stringers sawed through! What scoundrel could have done such a thing? Who was the murderous traitor in their camp? Then to the quickest-witted of them came the thought of Damase's dire threat and consuming jealousy. "I know who did it," he cried. "There's only one man in the camp villain enough to do it. It was that hound Damase, as sure as I stand here!" Instantly the others saw the matter in the same light. Damase had done it beyond a doubt, hoping thereby to have the revenge for which his savage heart thirsted. Ill would it have gone with him could the men have laid hands on him at that moment. They were just in the mood to have inflicted such punishment as would probably have put the wretch in a worse plight than his intended victim, and many and fervent were their vows of vengeance, expressed in language rather the reverse of polite. Strict almost to severity as Johnston was in his management of the camp, the majority of the men, including all the best elements, regarded him with deep respect, if not affection; and that Damase Deschenaux should make so dastardly an attempt upon his life aroused in them a storm of indignant wrath which would not soon be allayed. They succeeded in making the sufferer quite comfortable upon the sleigh; but they had to go very slowly on the return journey to the shanty, both to make it easy for Johnston, and because the men had to walk now that the sleigh was occupied. So soon as they came in sight, Frank ran to meet them, calling out eagerly,-- "Is he all right? Have you got him?" "We've got him, Frank, safe enough," replied the driver of the sleigh. "But we wasn't a minute too soon, I can tell you. I guess you must have sent your wolves off to him when you'd done with them." "Were the wolves at you, sir?" exclaimed Frank, bending over the foreman, and looking anxiously into his face. Johnston had fallen into a sort of doze or stupor but the stopping of the sleigh and Frank's anxious voice aroused him, and he opened his eyes with a smile that told plainly how dear to him the boy had become. "They weren't quite at me, Frank, but they soon would have been if the men hadn't come along," he replied. With exceeding tenderness the big helpless man was lifted from the sleigh and placed in his own bunk in the corner. The whole shanty was awake to receive him, a glorious fire roared and crackled upon the hearth, and the pleasant fragrance of fresh-brewed tea filled the room. So soon as the foreman's outer garments had been removed, Frank brought him a pannikin of the lumberman's pet beverage, and he drank it eagerly, saying that it was all the medicine he needed. Beyond making him as comfortable as possible, nothing further could be done for him, and in a little while the shantymen were all asleep again as soundly as though there had been no disturbance of their slumbers. Frank wanted to sit up with Johnston; but the foreman would not hear of it, and, anyway, thoroughly sincere as was his offer, he never could have carried it out, for he was very weary himself and ready to drop asleep at the first chance. Of Damase there was no sign. Some of the men had noticed him quitting work earlier than usual in the afternoon, and when he did not appear at supper-time had thought he was gone off hunting, which he loved to do whenever he got the opportunity. Whether or not he would have the assurance to return to the shanty would depend upon whether he had waited in ambush to see the result of his villany; for if he had done so, and had witnessed the at least partial failure of his plot, there was little chance of his being seen again. The next morning a careful examination of Johnston showed that, while no bones were broken, his right leg had been very badly twisted and strained almost to dislocation, and he had been internally injured to an extent that could be determined only by a doctor. It was decided to send a message for the nearest doctor, and meanwhile to do everything possible for the sufferer in the way of bandages and liniments that the simple shanty outfit afforded. By general understanding Frank assumed the duties of nurse; and it was not long before life at the camp settled down into its accustomed routine, Johnston having appointed the most experienced and reliable of the gang its foreman during his confinement. In due time the doctor came, examined his patient, made everybody glad by announcing that none of the injuries were serious, and that they required only time and attention for their cure, wrote out full directions for Frank to follow, and then, congratulating Johnston upon his good fortune in having so devoted and intelligent a nurse, set off again on the long drive to his distant home with the pleasant consciousness of having done his duty and earned a good fee. The weeks that followed were the happiest Frank spent that winter. His duties as nurse were not onerous, and he enjoyed very much the importance with which they invested him. So long as his patient was well looked after, he was free to come and go according to his inclinations, and the thoughtful foreman saw to it that he spent at least half the day in the open air, often sending him with messages to the men working far off in the woods. Frank always carried his rifle with him on these tramps, and frequently brought back with him a brace of hares or partridges, which, having had the benefit of Baptiste's skill, were greatly relished by Johnston, who found his appetite for the plain fare of the shanty much dulled by his confinement. As the days slipped by the foreman began to open his heart to his young companion and to tell him much about his boyhood, which deeply interested Frank. Living a frontier life, he had his full share of adventure in hunting, lumbering, and prospecting for limits, and many an hour was spent reviewing the past. One evening while they were thus talking together Johnston became silent and fell into a sort of reverie, from which he presently roused himself, and looking very earnestly into Frank's face, asked him,-- "Have you always been a Christian, Frank?" The question came so unexpectedly and was so direct that Frank was quite taken aback, and being slow to answer, the foreman, as if fearing he had been too abrupt, went on to say,-- "The reason I asked was because you seem to enjoy so much reading your Bible and saying your prayers that I thought you must have had those good habits a long time." Frank had now fully recovered himself, and with a blush that greatly became him, answered modestly,-- "I have always loved God. Mother taught me how good and kind he is as soon as I was old enough to understand; and the older I get the more I want to love him and to try to do what is right." A look of ineffable tenderness came into Johnston's dark eyes while the boy was speaking. Then his face darkened, and giving vent to a heavy sigh, he passed his hand over his eyes as though to put away some painful recollection. After a moment's silence, he said,-- "My mother loved her Bible, and wanted me to love it too. But I was a wild, headstrong chap, and didn't take kindly to the notion of being religious, and I'm afraid I cost her many a tear. God bless her! I wonder does she ever up there think of her son down here, and wonder if he's any better than he was when she had to leave him to look after himself." Not knowing just what to say, Frank made no reply, but his face glowed with sympathetic interest; and after another pause the foreman went on,-- "I've been thinking a great deal lately, Frank, and it's been all your doing. Seeing you so particular about your religion, and not letting anything stop you from saying your prayers and reading your Bible just as you would at home, has made me feel dreadfully ashamed of myself, and I've been wanting to have a talk with you about it. Would you mind reading your Bible to me? I haven't been inside a church for many a year, and I guess I'd be none the worse of a little Bible-reading." Frank could not restrain an exclamation of delight. Would he mind? Had not this very thing been on his conscience for weeks past? Had he not been hoping and praying for a good opportunity to propose it himself, and only kept back because of his fear lest the foreman should think this offer presumptuous? "I shall be very glad indeed to read my Bible to you, sir," he answered eagerly. "I've been wanting to ask if I mightn't do it, but was afraid that perhaps you would not like it." "Well, Frank, to be honest with you, I'd a good deal rather have you read to me than read it for myself," said Johnston; "because you must know it 'most by heart, and I've forgotten what little I did know once." The reading began that night, and thenceforward was never missed while the two were at Camp Kippewa. Young as Frank was, he had learned from his parents and at the Sunday school a great deal about the Book of books, and especially about the life of Christ, so that to Johnston he seemed almost a marvel of knowledge. It was beautiful to see the big man's simplicity as he sat at the feet, so to speak, of a mere boy, and learned anew from him the sublime and precious gospel truths that the indifference and neglect of more than forty years had buried in dim obscurity; and Frank found an ever-increasing pleasure in repeating the comments and explanations that he had heard from the dear lips at home. Even to his young eyes it was clear that the foreman was thoroughly in earnest, and would not stop short of a full surrender of himself to the Master he had so long refused to acknowledge. Above all things, he was a thorough man, and therefore this would take time, for he would insist upon knowing every step of the way; but once well started; no power on earth or beneath would be permitted to bar his progress to the very end. And this great end was achieved before he left his bunk to resume his work. He lay down there bruised and crippled and godless; but lie arose healed and strengthened and a new man in Christ Jesus! If Frank was proud of his big convert, who can blame him? But for his coming to the camp, Johnston might have remained as he was, caring for none of those things which touched his eternal interests; but now through the influence of his example, aided by favouring circumstances, he had been led to the Master's feet. But Damase--what of Damase? There is not much to tell. Whether or not he was watching when the bridge fell, and how he spent that night, no one ever knew. The next morning he was seen at the depot, where he explained his presence by saying that the foreman had "bounced" him, and that he was going back to his native town. Beyond this, nothing further was ever heard of him. CHAPTER X. A HUNTING-TRIP. The hold of winter had begun to relax ere Johnston was able fully to resume his work, and a good deal of time having been lost through his accident, every effort had to be exerted to make it up ere the warm sunshine should put an end to the winter's work. Frank was looking forward eagerly to the day when they should break camp, for, to tell the truth, he felt that he had had quite enough of it for one season, and he was longing to be back in Calumet and enjoying the comforts of home once more. He was not exactly homesick. You would have very much offended him by hinting at that. He was simply tired of the monotony of camp fare and camp life, and anxious to return to civilization. So he counted the days that must pass before the order to break camp would come, and felt very light of heart when the sun shone warm, and correspondingly downcast when the thermometer sank below zero, as it was still liable to do. "Striving" was the order of the day at the lumber camp--that is, the different gangs of choppers and sawyers and teamsters vied with each other as to which could chop, saw, and haul the most logs in a day. The amount of work they could accomplish when thus striving might astonish Mr. Gladstone himself, from eighty to one hundred logs felled and trimmed being the day's work of two men. Frank was deeply interested in this competition, and enjoying the fullest confidence of the men, he was unanimously appointed scorer, keeping each gang's "tally" in a book, and reporting the results to the foreman, who heartily encouraged the rivalry among his men; for the harder they worked the better would be the showing for the season, and he was anxious not to lose the reputation he had won of turning out more logs at his shanty than did any other foreman on the Kippewa. As the weeks passed and March gave way to April, and April drew toward its close, the lumbermen's work grew more and more arduous; but they kept at it bravely until at last, near the end of April, the snow became so soft in the woods and the roads so bad that no more hauling could be done, and the whole attention of the camp was then given to getting the logs that had been gathering at the river-side all through the winter out upon the ice, so that they might be sure to be carried off by the spring floods. This work did not require all hands, and Johnston now saw the way clear to giving Frank a treat that he had long had in mind for him, but had said nothing about. They were having their usual chat together before going to bed, when the foreman said,-- "Is there anything you would like to do before we break up camp?" Frank did not at first see the drift of the question, and looking at Johnston with a puzzled sort of expression, replied, questioningly,-- "I don't know. I've had a very good time here." "Well, but can you think of anything you would like to do before you go back to Calumet?" persisted the foreman. "I'm asking you because there'll not be enough work to go round next week, and you can have a bit of holiday. Now, isn't there something you would like to have a taste of while you have the chance?" And as he spoke his eyes were directed toward the wall at the head of his bed, where hung his rifle, powder-flask, and hunting knife. Frank caught his meaning at once. "Oh, I see what you are driving at now!" he exclaimed. "You want to know if I wouldn't like to go out hunting." "Right you are," said Johnston. "Would you?" "Would I?" cried Frank. "Would a duck swim? Just try me, that's all." "Well, I do intend to try you," returned Johnston. "The firm have some limits over there near the foot of the mountain that they want me to prospect before I go back, and pick out the best place for a camp. I've been trying to make out to go over there all winter, but getting hurt upset my plans, and I've not had a chance until now. So I'm thinking of making a start to-morrow. There's nothing much else to do except to finish getting the logs on the ice, and I can trust the men to see to that; and, no odds what kind of weather we have, the ice can't start for a week at least. So if you'd like to come along with me and take your rifle, you may get a chance to have a shot at something before we get back. Does that suit you?" This proposition suited Frank admirably. A week in the woods in Johnston's company could not fail to be a week of delight, and he thanked the foreman in his warmest words for offering to take him on his prospecting tour. The following morning they set off, the party consisting of four--namely, the foreman, Frank, Laberge, who accompanied them as cook, and another man named Booth as a sort of assistant. The snow still lay deep enough to render snow-shoes necessary, and while Johnston and Frank carried their rifles, Laberge and Booth drew behind them a toboggan, upon which was packed a small tent and an abundant supply of provisions. Their route led straight into the heart of the vast and so far little-explored forest, and away from the river beside whose bank they had been living all winter. It was Johnston's purpose to penetrate to the foot of the mountain range that rose into sight nearly thirty miles away, and then work backward by a different route, noting carefully the lie of the land, the course of the streams, and the best bunches of timber, so as to make sure of selecting a site for the future camp in the very best locality. He was evidently in excellent spirits himself at the prospect of a week's holiday, for such it would really be, and all trace of his injury having entirely disappeared, there was no drawback to the energy with which he led his little expedition into the forest where they would be buried for the rest of the week. The weather was as fine as heart could wish. All day the sun shone brightly, and even at night the temperature never got anywhere near zero, so that with a buffalo-robe under you and a couple of good blankets over you it was possible to sleep quite comfortably in a canvas tent. "I can't promise you much in the way of game, Frank," said Johnston, as the two tramped along side by side. "It is too late in the season. But the bears must be out of their dens by this time, and if we see one we'll do our best to get his skin for you to take home." The idea of bringing a big bear-skin home as a trophy of his first real hunting expedition pleased Frank mightily, and his eyes flashed as he grasped his rifle in a way that would in itself have been sufficient warning to bruin, could he only have seen it, to keep well out of the way of so doughty an assailant. "I'd like immensely to have a shot at a bear, sir," he replied. "So I do hope we shall see one." "You must be precious careful, though, Frank," said Johnston, "for they're generally in mighty bad humour at this time of year, and you need to get your work in quick, or they may make short work of you." Various kinds of game were seen during the next day or two, and Frank had many a shot. But Johnston seldom fired, preferring to let Frank have all the fun, as he said. One afternoon, just before they went into camp, the keen eyes of Laberge detected something among the branches of a pine a little distance to the right of their path which caused his face to glow with excitement as he pointed eagerly to it, and exclaimed,-- "_Voila_! A lucifee--shoot him, quick!" They all turned in the direction he pointed out, and there, sure enough, was a dark mass in the fork of the tree that, as they hastened toward it, resolved itself into a fierce-looking creature, full four times the size of an ordinary cat, which, instead of showing any fear at their approach, bristled up its back and uttered a deep, angry snarl that spoke volumes for its courage. "Now, then, Frank," said Johnston, "take first shot, and see if you can fetch the brute down." Trembling with excitement, Frank threw up his rifle, did his best to steady himself, took aim at the bewhiskered muzzle of the lynx, and pulled the trigger. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by an ear-piercing shriek of mingled pain and rage, and the next instant the wounded creature launched forth into the air toward the hunters. Frank's nervousness, natural enough under the circumstances, had caused him to miss his mark a little, and the bullet, instead of piercing the "lucifee's" brain, had only stung him sorely in the shoulder. But quick as was its movements, Johnston was still quicker, and the moment its feet touched the snow, ere it could gather itself for another spring, his rifle cracked and a bullet put an end to its career. "Just as well you weren't by yourself, Frank; hey?" said he, with a smile of satisfaction at the accuracy of his shot. "This chap would have been an ugly customer at close quarters, and," turning the body over to find where the first bullet had hit, "you see you hardly winged him." Frank blushed furiously and looked very much ashamed of himself for not being a better marksman; but the foreman cheered him up by assuring him that he had really done very well in hitting the animal at all at that distance. "You only want a little practice, my boy," said he. "You have plenty of pluck; there's no mistake about that." The lynx had a fine skin, which Laberge deftly removed, and it was given to Frank because he had fired the first shot at it, so that he would not go back to Calumet without at least one hunting trophy on the strength of which he might do a little boasting. Further and further into the forest the little party pierced their way, not following any direct line, but making detours to right and left, in order that the country might be thoroughly inspected. As they neared the mountains the trees diminished in size and the streams shrank until, at the end of their journey, the first were too small to pay for cutting, and the second too shallow to be any good for floating. With no little difficulty they ascended a shoulder of the mountain range, in order to get a look over all the adjoining country, and then, Johnston having made up his mind as to the location of the best bunches of timber and the most convenient site for the projected lumber camp, the object of the expedition was accomplished, and they were at liberty to return to the shanty. But before they could do this they were destined to have an adventure that came perilously near taking away from them the youngest of their number. It was the afternoon before they struck camp on the return journey. The foreman was sitting by the tent mending one of his snow-shoes, which had been damaged tramping through the bush, Booth was busy cutting firewood, and Laberge making preparations for the evening meal. Having nothing else to do, Frank picked up his rifle and sauntered off toward the mountain side, with no very clear idea as to anything more than to kill a little time. Whistling cheerfully one of the many sacred melodies he knew and loved, he made his way over the snow, being soon lost to sight from the camp, Johnston calling after him just before he disappeared,-- "Take care of yourself, my boy, and don't go too far." To which Frank responded with a smiling, "All right, sir." At the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the camp he noticed a sort of rift in the mountain, where the rocks were bare and exposed, and at the end of this rift a dark aperture was visible, which at once attracted his attention. The boy that could come across a cave without being filled with a burning curiosity to take a peep in and, if possible, explore its interior, would have to be a very dull fellow, and Frank certainly was not of that kind. This dark aperture was no doubt the mouth of a cave of some sort, and he determined to inspect it. When he got within about fifteen yards, he noticed what he had not seen before, that there was a well-defined track leading from the cave to the underbrush to the right, which had evidently been made by some large animal; and with somewhat of a start Frank immediately thought of a bear. Now, of course, under the circumstances, there was but one thing for him to do if he wished to illustrate his common sense, and that was to hurry back to the tent as fast as possible for reinforcements. Ordinarily, he would have done so at once, but this time he was still smarting a bit at his poor marksmanship in the case of the "lucifee," and the sight of the track in the snow suggested the idea of winning a reputation for himself by killing a bear without any assistance from the others. It was a rash and foolish notion; but then boys will be boys. Moving forward cautiously, he approached within ten yards of the cave and then halted again, bringing his rifle forward so as to be ready to fire at a moment's notice. Bending down until his eyes were on a level with the opening, he tried hard to peer into its depths; but the darkness was too deep to pierce, and he could not make out anything. Then he bethought him of another expedient. Picking up a lump of snow, he pressed it into a ball and threw it into the cave, at the same time shouting out, "Hallo there! Anybody inside?" A proceeding that capped the climax of his rashness and produced quite as sensational a result as he could possibly have desired, for the next moment a deep angry roar issued from the rocky retreat and a fiery pair of eyes gleamed out from its shadows. The critical moment had come, and taking aim a little below the shining orbs, so as to make sure of hitting, Frank pulled the trigger. The report of the rifle and the roar of the bear followed close upon one another, awaking the echoes of the adjoining heights. Then came a moment's silence, broken the next instant by a cry of alarm from Frank; for the bear, instead of writhing in the agonies of death, was charging down upon him with open mouth! Once more he had missed his mark and only wounded when he should have killed. There was but one thing for him to do--to flee for his life; and uttering a shout of "Help! help!" with all the strength of his lungs, he threw down his rifle and started for the tent at the top of his speed. It was well for him that the snow still lay deep upon the ground, and that he was so expert in the use of his snow-shoes; for while the bear wallowed heavily in the drifts, he flew lightly over them, so that for a time the furious creature lost ground rather than gained upon him. For a hundred yards the boy and bear raced through the forest, Frank continuing his cries for help while he ran. Looking back for an instant, he saw that the bear bad not yet drawn any nearer, and, terrified as he was, the thought flashed into his mind that if the brute followed him all the way to the camp he would soon be despatched by the men, and then he, Frank, would be entitled to some credit for thus bringing him to execution. On sped the two in their race for life, the boy skimming swiftly over the soft snow, the bear ploughing his way madly through it, until more than half the distance to the camp had been accomplished. If Johnston had heard the report of the rifle and Frank's wild cries for help, he should be coming into sight now, and with intense anxiety Frank looked ahead in hopes of seeing him emerge from the trees which clustered thickly in that direction. But there was no sign of him yet; and shouting again as loudly as he could, the boy pressed strenuously forward. There was greater need for exertion than ever, for he had reached a spot where the snow was not very deep and had been firmly packed by the wind, so that the bear's broad feet sank but little in it, and his rate of speed ominously increased. So close was the fierce creature coming that Frank could hear his paws pattering on the snow and his deep panting breath. Oh why did not Johnston appear? Surely he must have heard Frank's cries. Ah, there he was, just bursting through the trees into the opening, with Laberge and Booth close at his heels. Frank's heart bounded with joy, and he was tempted to take a glance back to see how close the bear had got. It was not a wise thing to do, and he came near paying dearly for doing it; for at the same instant his snowshoes caught in each other, and before he could recover himself he fell headlong in the snow with the bear right upon him. CHAPTER XI. THE GREAT SPRING DRIVE. At the sight of Frank's fall the three men gave a simultaneous shout of alarm that caused the bear to halt for a moment in his fierce pursuit, and lifting his head to look angrily in the direction from which the sound had come. This action saved the helpless boy--striving to regain his feet only a yard from death. The instant the creature's broad breast was exposed, Johnston threw his rifle to his shoulder, and without waiting to take aim, but ejaculating a fervent "Help me, O God!" pulled the trigger. The report of the rifle rang out sharp and clear, the heavy bullet sped through the air straight to its mark, and with it embedded in his heart the mighty animal, leaving untouched the boy at his feet, made a mad bound across his body to reach the assailant who had given him his death wound. But it was a vain though gallant attempt. Ere he was half-way to the foreman, he staggered and rolled over upon the snow, and before he could lift himself again the men were upon him, and Laberge, swinging his keen axe high in the air, brought it down with a mighty blow upon the brute's slanting forehead, letting daylight into his brain. Not even a bear could survive such a stroke, and without a struggle the creature yielded up its life. Instantly the foreman sprang to Frank's side and lifted him upon his feet. "My dear boy!" he cried, his face aflame with anxious love, as he clasped Frank passionately in his arms, "are you hurt at all? Did he touch you?" What between his previous exertions and the big man's mighty embrace, poor Frank had hardly enough breath left in him to reply, but he managed to gasp out,-- "Not a bit. He never touched me." "Are you quite sure now?" persisted Johnston, whose anxiety could not be at once relieved. "O my lad! my heart stood still when you fell down right in front of the brute." "I'm quite sure, Mr. Johnston," said Frank. "See!" And to prove his words he gave a jump into the air, threw up his arms, and shouted, "Hip! hip! hurrah!" with the full force of his lungs. "God be praised!" exclaimed the foreman. "What a wonderful escape! Let us kneel down right here, and give Him thanks," he added, suiting his action to his words. Frank at once followed his example; so too did Laberge and Booth; and there in the midst of the forest-wilds this strange praise-meeting was held over the body of the fierce creature from whose murderous rage Frank had been so happily delivered. Johnston sent Laberge back to the tent for the toboggan, and before darkness set in the bear was dragged thither, where the two men skilfully skinned him by the light of the camp fire, and stretched the pelt out to dry. The quartette had a long talk over the whole affair after supper had been disposed of. Frank was plied with questions which he took much pleasure in answering, for naturally enough he felt himself to be in some measure the hero of the occasion. While he could not help admiring and cordially praising Frank's audacity, the foreman felt bound to reprove him for it, and to impress upon him the necessity of showing more caution in future, or he might get himself into a situation of danger from which there might be no one at hand to deliver him. Frank, by this time thoroughly sobered down, listened dutifully, and readily promised to be more careful if he ever came across bear tracks again. "Anyway, my boy," said Johnston, "you won't go home empty-handed; and when your mother sees those two skins, which are both pretty good ones, she'll think more of you than she ever did before." "Yes, but you know," said Frank, "both skins oughtn't to be mine, for I didn't kill either of the animals." "Neither you did, Frank," replied Johnston, "but you came mighty near killing the one, and the other came mighty near killing you; so I think it's only fair you should have both.--Don't you think so, mates?" turning to the men. "Ah, _oui_," exclaimed Laberge, with a vigorous nod of his head. "Of course," added Booth, no less emphatically; and so the matter was settled very much to Frank's satisfaction. The next day the tent was packed and the little party set out for the shanty, which was reached in good time without anything eventful occurring on the way. They found the work of getting the logs down upon the ice well nigh completed, and the foreman's return giving an impetus to the men's exertions, it was finished in a few days more, and then there was nothing to do but to await the breaking up of the ice. They were not kept long in expectancy. The sun was now in full vigour; before his burning rays the snow and ice fled in utter rout; and the frost king, confessing defeat, withdrew his grasp from the Kippewa, which, as if rejoicing in its release, went rippling and bounding merrily on toward the great river beyond, bearing upon its bosom the many thousand logs which represented the hard labour of Camp Kippewa during the long cold winter months that were now past and gone. The most arduous and exciting phase of the lumberman's life had begun, the great spring drive, as they call it, and for weeks to come he would be engaged playing the part of shepherd after a strange fashion, with huge, clumsy, unruly logs for his flock, and the rushing river for the highway along which they should be driven. The shantymen were divided into two parties, one section taking the teams and camp-belongings back to the depot, the other and much larger section following the logs in their journey to the mills. Johnston put himself at the head of the latter, and Frank, of course, accompanied him, for the foreman was no less anxious to have him than the boy was to go. The bonds of affection that bound the two were growing stronger every day they were together. Frank regarded Johnston as the preserver of his life, and Johnston, on his part, looked upon Frank as having been in God's hands the means of bringing light and joy to his soul. It might be said, without exaggeration, that either of them would risk his life in the other's behalf with the utmost willingness. The journey down the river had to be done in light marching order. Not much baggage could be carried, so as not to burden too heavily the three or four "_bonnes_," as they call the long, light, flat-bottomed boats peculiar to lumbermen, which had been all winter awaiting the time when their services would be required. The shore work being beyond his strength, Frank was given a place in one of the _bonnes_ along with Baptiste, Laberge, and part of the commissariat, and it was their duty to precede the main body of the men, and have their dinner and supper ready for them when they came up. In this way Frank would get a perfect view of the whole business of river driving, and he was in high feather as they made a start on a beautiful morning in early May, with the sun shining brightly, the air soft and balmy, and the river reflecting the blue of the unclouded heavens. "Now take good care of Baptiste and the grub," said Johnston, with a smile, as he pushed the boat in which Frank was sitting off into the stream. "If you let anything happen to them, Frank, I don't know what we'll do to you." "I'll do my best, sir," replied Frank, smiling back. "The boat won't upset if I can help it, and as Baptiste can't swim, he'll do his best to be careful too; won't you, Baptiste?" "_Vraiment, mon cher_," cried Baptiste. "If we upset--poor Baptiste! zat will be the last of him." And he shrugged his fat shoulders and made a serio-comic grimace that set everybody laughing. If the Kippewa, through all its course, had been as deep and free from obstructions as it was opposite the lumber camp, the river drivers would have had an easy time of it getting their wooden flock to market. But none of the rivers in this part of the country go quietly on their way from source to outlet. Falls and rapids are of frequent occurrence, and it is these which add difficulty and danger to the lumberman's work. Carrying pike-poles and cant-hooks, the former being simply long tough ash poles with a sharp spike on the business end, and the latter shorter stouter poles, something like the handle of a shovel, with a curious curved iron attachment that took a firm grip of a log and enabled the worker to roll its lazy bulk over and over in the direction he desired--with these weapons taking the place of the axe and saw, the men set off on their journey down the river side, two of the boats going ahead, and two bringing up the rear. Frank felt in great spirits. He was thoroughly expert in the management of a _bonne_, and the voyage down the river in this lovely spring weather could be only continued enjoyment, especially as beyond steering the boat he had nothing to do, and it would be practically one long holiday. There were nearly twenty thousand logs to be guided, coaxed, rolled, and shoved for one hundred miles or more through sullen pools, sleeping reaches, turbulent rapids, and roaring falls, where, as if they were living things, they would seem to exhaust every possible means of delay. The way in which they would stick at some critical point and pile one upon another, until the whole river was blocked, defies description; and one seeing the spectacle for the first time might well be pardoned if he were to be positive that there could be no way of bringing order out of so hopeless a confusion, and releasing the tangled obstructed mass. For the first few days matters went very smoothly, the river being deep and swift, and the logs giving little trouble. Of course, numbers of them were continually stranding on the banks, but the watchful drivers soon spied them out, and with a push of the pike-pole, or drag of the cant-hook, sent them floating off again on their journey. At mid-day all the men would gather about Baptiste's kettles and dispose of a hearty dinner, and then again at night they would leave the logs to look after themselves while they ate their supper and talked, and then lay down to rest their weary bodies. But this condition of things was too good to last. In due time the difficulties began to show themselves, and then Frank saw the most exciting and dangerous phase of a lumberman's life--a part of it with which when he grew older he must himself become familiar if he would be master of the whole business, as it was his ambition to be. The great army of logs, forging onward slowly or swiftly, according to the force of the current, would come to a point where the stream narrowed and jagged rocks thrust their unwelcome heads above the surface. The vanguard of the army, perhaps, passing either to right or left of the rocks, would go on its way unchecked. But when the main body came up, and the whole stream was full of drifting logs, some clumsy tree trunk going down broadside first would bring up short against the rock. As quickly as a crowd will gather in a city street, the other logs would cluster about the one that obstructed their passage. There would be no stopping the on-rush. In less time than it takes to describe it, a hundred logs would be jostling one another in the current; and every minute the confusion would increase, until ere long the disordered mass would stretch from shore to shore, the whole stream would be blocked up, and the event most dreaded by the river driver would have taken place, to wit, a log jam. The worst place that Johnston had to encounter in getting his drive of logs to the river was at the Black Rapids, and never will Frank forget the thrilling excitement of that experience. These rapids were the terror of the Kippewa lumbermen. They were situated in the swiftest part of the river, and if Nature had in cold blood tried her utmost to give the despoilers of her forest a hard nut to crack she could scarcely have succeeded better. The boiling current was divided into two portions by a jagged spur of rock that thrust itself above the surging waters, and so sure as a log came broadside against this projection it was caught and held in a firm embrace. Johnston thoroughly understood this, and had taken every care to prevent a jam occurring; and if it had been possible for him to do what was in his mind--namely, to land upon the troublesome rock, and with his pike-pole push back again into the current every log that threatened to stick--the whole drive would have slipped safely by. He did make a gallant attempt to carry this out, putting four of the best oarsmen into Frank's boat, and trying again and again to force his way through the fierce current to the rock, while Frank watched him with breathless interest from the bank. But, strain and tug as the oarsmen might, the eddying, whirling stream was too strong for them, and swept them past the rock again and again, until at length the foreman had to give up his design as impracticable. It was exciting work, and Frank longed very much to be in the boat; but Johnston, indulgent as he was toward his favourite, refused him this time. "No, no, Frank; I couldn't think of it," he said decidedly. "It's too risky a business. The _bonne_ might be smashed any time, and if it did we'd run a poor chance of getting out of these rapids. More than one good man has gone to his death here." "Have there been men killed in these rapids?" Frank asked, with a look of profound concern at his big friend, who was taking such risks. "The poor fellows! What a dreadful death! They must have been dashed against the rocks. Surely you won't try it again, will you?" For it was dinner-time, and all hands were taking a welcome rest before resuming the toils of the day. Johnston thoroughly understood and appreciated the boy's anxiety in his behalf, and there was a look of wonderful tenderness in his eyes as he answered him:-- "I must try it once more, Frank; for if I can only get out to that rock there'll be no jam this day. But don't you worry. I've taken bigger risks and come out all right." So he made one more attempt, while Frank watched every movement of the boat, praying earnestly for its preservation. Again he failed, and the _bonne_ returned to the bank unharmed. But hardly had the weary men thrown themselves down for a brief spell of rest than what they all so dreaded happened. One of the logs, getting into a cross eddy, rolled broadside against the rock. It was caught and held fast. Another and another charged against it and stayed there. The main body of the drive was now passing down, and every moment the jam increased in size. Soon it would fill the whole stream. Yet the lumbermen were powerless to prevent its growth. They could do nothing until it had so checked the current that it would be possible to make a way over to its centre. So soon as this took place, Johnston, accompanied by three of his best men, armed with axes and cant-hooks, leaping from log to log with the sure agility only lumbermen could show, succeeded in reaching the heart of the jam, and at once proceeded to attack it with tremendous energy. One log after another was detached from the disordered mass and sent whirling off down stream, until at the end of an hour's arduous exertion, the key-piece--that is, the log that had caused all the trouble--was found. "Now, my boys," said Johnston to his men, "get ashore as quick as you can. I'll stay and cut out the key-piece." The men demurred for a moment. They were reluctant to leave their chief alone in a position of such extreme peril. But he commanded them to go. "There's only one man wanted," he said; "and I'll do it myself. It's no use you risking your lives too." So the men obeyed, and returned to the bank to join the group watching Johnston's movements with intense anxiety. They all knew as well as he did the exceeding peril of his position, and not one of them would breathe freely until he had accomplished his task, and found his way safely back to the shore. CHAPTER XII. HOME AGAIN. For so large a man the foreman showed an agility that was really wonderful, as he leaped from log to log with the swiftness and sureness of a chamois. He had been lumbering all his life, and there was nothing that fell to the lumberman's experience with which he was not perfectly familiar. Yet it is doubtful if he ever had a more difficult or dangerous task than that before him now. The "key-piece" of the jam was fully exposed, and once it was cut in two it would no longer hold the accumulation of logs together. They would be released from their bondage, and springing forward with the full force of the pent-up current, would rush madly down stream, carrying everything before them. But what would Johnston do in the midst of this tumult? A few more moments would tell; for his axe was dealing tremendous strokes, before which the key-piece, stout though it was, must soon yield. Ah, it is almost severed. The foreman pauses for an instant and glances keenly around, evidently in order to see what will be his best course of action when the jam breaks. Frank, in an agony of apprehension and anxiety, has sunk to his knees, his lips moving in earnest prayer, while his eyes are fixed on his beloved friend. Johnston's quick glance falls upon him, and, catching the significance of his attitude, his face is irradiated with a heavenly light of love as lie calls out across the boiling current,-- "God bless you, Frank! Keep praying." Then he returns to his work. The keen axe flashes through the air in stroke after stroke. At length there comes a sound that cannot be mistaken. The foreman throws aside his axe and prepares to jump for life; and, like one man, the breathless onlookers shout together as the key-piece rends in two, and the huge jam, suddenly released, bursts away from the rock and charges tumultuously down the river. If ever man needed the power of prompt decision, it was the foreman then. To the men on shore there seemed no possible way of escape from the avalanche of logs; and Frank shut his eyes lest he should have to witness a dreadful tragedy. A cry from the men caused him to open them again quickly, and when he looked at the rock it was untenanted--Johnston had disappeared! Speechless with dread, he turned to the man nearest him, his blanched countenance expressing the inquiry he could not utter. "He's there," cried the man, pointing to the whirl of water behind the body of logs. "He dived." And so it was. Recognizing that to remain in the way of the jam was to court certain death, the foreman chose the desperate alternative of diving beneath the logs, and allowing them to pass over him before he rose to the surface. Great was the relief of Frank and the others when, amid the foaming water, Johnston's head appeared, and he struck out to keep himself afloat. But it was evident that he had little strength left, and was quite unable to contend with the mighty current. Good swimmer as he was, the danger of drowning threatened him. Frank's quick eyes noticed this, and like a flash the fearless boy, not stopping to call any of the others to his aid, bounded down the bank to where the _bonne_ lay upon the shore, shoved her off into deep water, springing in over the bow as she slipped away, and in another moment was whirling down the river, crying out at the top of his voice,-- "I'm coming! I'll save you! Keep up!" His eager shouts reached Johnston's ears, and the sight of the boat, pitching and tossing as the current swept it toward him, inspired him to renewed exertion. He struggled to get in the way of the boat, and succeeded so well that Frank, leaning over the side as far as he dared, was able to seize his outstretched hand and hold it until he could grasp the gunwale himself with a grip that no current could loosen. A glad shout of relief went up from the men at sight of this, and Frank, having made sure that the foreman was now out of danger, seized the oars and began to ply them vigorously with the purpose of beaching the _bonne_ at the first opportunity. They had to go some distance before this could be done, but Johnston held on firmly, and presently a projecting point was reached, against which Frank steered the boat; and the moment she was aground, he hastened to the stern and helped the foreman ashore, the latter having just strength enough left to drag himself out of the water and fall in a limp, dripping heap upon the ground. "God bless you, Frank dear," he said, as soon as he recovered his breath. "You've saved my life again. I never could have got ashore if you hadn't come after me. One of the logs must have hit me on the head when I was diving, for I felt so faint and dizzy when I came up that I thought it was all over with me. But, thank God, I'm a live man still; and I'm sure it's not for nothing that I've been spared." The men all thought it a plucky act on Frank's part to go off alone in the boat to the foreman's rescue, and showered unstinted praise upon him; all of which he took very quietly, for, indeed, he felt quite sufficiently rewarded in that his venture was crowned with success. The exciting incident of course threw everybody out in their work, and when they returned to it they found that the logs had taken advantage of their being left uncared for to play all sorts of queer pranks and run themselves aground in every conceivable fashion. But the river drivers did not mind this very much. The hated Black Rapids were passed, and the rest of the Kippewa was comparatively smooth sailing. So, with song and joke, they toiled away until all their charges were afloat again and gliding steadily onward toward their goal. Thenceforward they had little interruption in their course; and Frank found the life wonderfully pleasant, drifting idly all day long in the _bonne_, and camping at night beside the river, the weather being bright, and warm, and delightful all the time. So soon as the Kippewa rolled its burden of forest spoils out upon the broad bosom of the Ottawa--the Grand River, as those who live beside its batiks love to call it--the work of the river drivers was over. The logs that had caused them so much trouble were now handed over to the care of a company which gathered them up into "tows," and with powerful steamers dragged them down the river until the sorting grounds were reached, where they were turned into the "booms" to await their time for execution--in other words, their sawing up. Frank felt really sorry when the driving was over. He loved the water, and would have been glad to spend the whole summer upon it. He was telling Johnston this as they were talking together on the evening of the last day upon the Kippewa. Johnston had been saying to him how glad he must be that the work was all over, and that they now could go over to the nearest village and take the stage for home. But Frank did not entirely agree with him. "I'm not anxious to go home by stage," said he. "I'd a good deal rather stick to the river. I think it's just splendid, so long as the weather's fine." "Why, what a water-dog you are, Frank!" said the foreman, laughing. "One would think you'd have had enough of the water by this time." "Not a bit of it," said Frank, returning the smile. "The woods in winter, and the water in summer--that's what I enjoy." "Well, but aren't you in a hurry to get home and see your mother again?" queried Johnston. "Of course I am," answered Frank. "But, you see, a day or two won't make much difference, for she doesn't know just when to look for me; and I've never been on this part of the Ottawa, and want to see it ever so much." "Well--let me see," reflected Johnston. "How can we manage it? You'd soon get sick of the steamers. They're mortal slow and very dirty. Besides, they don't encourage passengers, or they'd have too many of them. But hold on!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with a new idea. "I've got it. How would you like to finish the rest of the trip home on a square timber raft? There'll be one passing any day, and I know 'most all the men in the business, so there'll be no difficulty about getting a passage." "The very idea!" cried Frank, jumping up and bringing his hand down upon his thigh with a resounding slap. "Nothing would please me better. Oh, what fun it will be shooting the slides!" And he danced about in delight at the prospect. "All right then, my lad," said Johnston, smiling at the boy's exuberance. "We'll just wait here until a raft comes along, and then we'll board her and ask the fellows to let us go down with them. They won't refuse." They had not long to wait, for the very next day a huge raft hove in sight--a real floating island of mighty timbers--and on going out to it in the _bonne_, Johnston was glad to find that the foreman in charge was an old friend who would be heartily pleased at having his company for the rest of the voyage. So he and Frank brought their scanty baggage on board, and joined themselves to the crew of men that, with the aid of a towing steamer, were navigating this very strange kind of craft down the river. This was an altogether novel experience for Frank, and he found it much to his liking. The raft was an immense one. "As fine a lot of square timber as I ever took down," said its captain proudly. "It's worth five thousand pounds if it's worth a penny." Five thousand pounds! Frank's eyes opened wide at the mention of this vast sum, and he wondered to himself if he should ever be the owner of such a valuable piece of property. Although he had begun as a chore-boy, his ambition was by no means limited to his becoming in due time a foreman like Johnston, or even an overseer like Alec Stewart. He allowed his imagination to carry him forward to a day of still greater things, when he should be his own master, and have foremen and overseers under him. This slow sailing down the river was very favourable to day dreaming, and Frank could indulge himself to his heart's content during the long lovely spring days. There were more than twoscore men upon the raft, the majority of them habitants and half-breeds, and they were as full of songs as robins; especially in the evening after supper, when they would gather about the great fire always burning on its clay bed in the centre of the raft, and with solo and chorus awake the echoes of the placid river. In common with the rivers which pour into it, the Ottawa is broken by many falls and rapids, and to have attempted to run the huge raft over one of these would have insured its complete destruction. But this difficulty is duly provided for. At one side of the fall a "slide" is built--that is, a contrivance something like a canal, with sides and bottom of heavy timber, and having a steep slope down which the water rushes in frantic haste to the level below. Now the raft is not put together in one piece, but is made up of a number of "cribs"--a crib being a small raft containing fifteen to twenty timbers, and being about twenty-four feet wide by thirty feet in length. At the head of the slide the big raft is separated into the cribs, and these cribs make the descent one at a time, each having three or four men on board. Shooting the slides, as it is called, is a most delightful amusement to people whose nerves don't bother them. Frank had heard so much about it that he was looking forward to it from the time he boarded the raft, and now at Des Joachim Falls he was to have the realization. He went down in one of the first cribs, and this is the way he described the experience to his mother:-- "But, mother, the best fun of the whole thing is shooting the slides. I just wish there was a slide near Calumet, so that I could take you down and let you see how splendid it is. Why, it's just like--let me see--I've got it! It's just like tobogganing on water. You jump on board the crib at the mouth of the slide, you know, and it moves along very slowly at first, until it gets to the edge of the first slant; then it takes a sudden start, and away it goes shooting down like greased lightning, making the water fly up all around you, just like the snow does when you're tobogganing. Oh, but if it isn't grand! The timbers of the crib rub against the bottom of the slide, and groan and creak as if it hurt them. And then, besides coming in over the bow, the water spurts up between the timbers, so that you have to look spry or you're bound to get soaking wet. I got drenched nearly every time; but that didn't matter, for the sun soon made me dry again, and it was too good fun to mind a little wetting." Frank felt quite sorry when the last of the slides was passed, and wished there were twice as many on the route of the raft. But presently he had something else to occupy his thoughts, for each day brought him nearer to Calumet, and soon his journeyings by land and water would be ended, and he would be at home again to make his mother's heart glad. It was the perfection of a spring day when the raft, moving in its leisurely fashion--for was not the whole summer before it?--reached Calumet, and Mrs. Kingston, sitting alone in her cottage, and wondering when her boy would make his appearance, was surprised by an unceremonious opening of the front door, a quick step in the hall, and a sudden enfolding by two stout arms, while a voice that she had not heard for months shouted in joyous accents,-- "Here I am, mother darling, safe and sound, right side up with care, and oh, so glad to be at home again!" Mrs. Kingston returned the fond embrace with interest, and then held Frank off at arms-length to see how much he had changed during his six months' absence. She found him both taller and stouter, and with his face well browned by the exposure to the bright spring sunshine. "You went away a boy, and you've come back almost a man, Frank," she said, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. "But you're my own boy the same as ever; aren't you, darling?" It was many a day before Frank reached the end of his story of life at the lumber camp, for Mrs. Kingston never wearied of hearing all about it. When she learned of his different escapes from danger, the inclination of her heart was to beseech him to be content with one winter in the woods, and to take up some other occupation. But she wisely said nothing, for there could be no doubt as to the direction in which Frank's heart inclined, and she determined not to interfere. When in the following autumn Frank went back to the forest, he was again under Johnston's command, but not as chore-boy. He was appointed clerk and checker, with liberty to do as much chopping or other work as he pleased. Whatever his duty was he did it with all his might, doing it heartily as to the Lord and not unto men, so that he found increasing favour in his employer's eyes, rising steadily higher and higher until, while still a young man, he was admitted into partnership, and had the sweet satisfaction of realizing the day dreams of that first trip down the Ottawa on a timber raft. Yet he never forgot what he had learned when chore-boy of Camp Kippewa, and out of that experience grew a practical philanthropic interest in the well-being and advancement of his employees, that made him the most popular and respected "lumber-king" on the river. THE END. 
46586	----	[Illustration: "I must return to the house! There's something in the garret I must have."--page 34.] ALICE WILDE: THE RAFTSMAN'S DAUGHTER. A FOREST ROMANCE. BY MRS. METTA V. VICTOR. NEW YORK: IRWIN P. BEADLE AND COMPANY, 141 WILLIAM ST., CORNER OF FULTON. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, by IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. ALICE WILDE. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE CABIN HOME. CHAPTER II. PALLAS AND SATURN. CHAPTER III. REJECTED ADDRESSES. CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS. CHAPTER V. AN APPALLING VISITOR. CHAPTER VI. THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING. CHAPTER VII. SUSPENSE. CHAPTER VIII. AWAY FROM HOME. CHAPTER IX. A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. CHAPTER X. RECONCILIATION. CHAPTER XI. A MEETING IN THE WOODS. CHAPTER XII. FAMILY AFFAIRS. CHAPTER XIII. THE TORNADO. CHAPTER XIV. GATHERING TOGETHER. CHAPTER XV. BEN AND ALICE. CHAPTER I. THE CABIN HOME. "That ar' log bobs 'round like the old sea-sarpint," muttered Ben Perkins to himself, leaning forward with his pole-hook and trying to fish it, without getting himself too deep in the water. "Blast the thing! I can't tackle it no how;" and he waded in deeper, climbed on to a floating log, and endeavored again to catch the one which so provokingly evaded him. Ben was a "hand" employed in David Wilde's saw-mill, a few rods farther up the creek, a young fellow not without claims to admiration as a fine specimen of his kind and calling. His old felt-hat shadowed hair as black as an Indian's, and made the swarthy hue of his face still darker; his cheeks and lips were red, and his eyes blacker than his hair. The striped wammus bound at the waist by a leather belt, and the linen trowsers rolled up to the knees, were picturesque in their way and not unbecoming the lithe, powerful figure. Ben had bobbed for saw-logs a great many times in his life, and was a person too quick and dextrous to meet with frequent accidents; but upon this day, whether the sudden sight of a tiny skiff turning the bend of the river just below and heading up the creek threw him off his guard, or what it was, certain it is, that stretching forward after that treacherous log, he lost his balance and fell into the water. He did not care for the ducking; but he cared for the eyes which saw him receive it; his ears tingled and his cheeks burned as he heard the silvery laugh which greeted his misfortune. Climbing up on to a log again, he stood dripping like a merman and blushing like a peony, as the occupant of the boat rowed nearer. "Keep out the way them logs, Miss Alice, or ye'll get upsot!" he cried, glad of an excuse for attracting attention from his own mishap. "I can take care of myself, thank you," was the gay answer. "Do you see father's boat coming, anywhere in sight, Ben? He was to be home this afternoon; and I took a fancy to go down and meet him." "I don't see nuthin' of it. That war a mighty big raft he took down to Centre City; the biggest raft that ever floated on that river, I reckon. He mought not be home for two or three days yet, Miss Alice. Gorry! but won't he hev a heap of money when he sells that ar' raft!" "And he'll be sure to bring me something pretty--he always does." "He knows what's what," responded Ben, stealing a sidelong, admiring glance at the sweet, young face in the skiff. If a compliment was intended, it was not understood by the hearer. "Yes, father always knows _just_ what suits me best. Dear father! I hope he _will_ come home to-night. I've been out picking blackberries for supper--just look at my hands," and she held up two pretty, dimpled hands, as if to show how charming they were, instead of to betray the purple-tipped fingers. But Alice Wilde did not know they were pretty, in sober truth, for she had never been praised, flattered, nor placed in a situation where she could institute comparisons. "Well, Ben, good-by. I shall float down the river a few miles, and if I don't see him, I can row back alone." "You're mighty pert with the oars, for a gal. I never seed no woman 't could row a boat like you, Miss Alice." "Thank you," she said, with a bright smile, as she turned her little birchen skiff about and struck out into the river again. Ben watched that graceful form until it was out of sight, heaving a sigh, as he turned again to his work, which told how absorbed he had been. Drifting down the river, under the shadow of precipitous bluffs, while the sunshine flecked with gold the rolling prairie-land upon the opposite side, the young girl sang wild negro-melodies which she had learned of the two old colored people who formed her father's retinue of house-servants. Rich and clear, her voice floated through those beautiful solitudes, heard only by the envious birds in the trees which overtopped the bluffs. Presently she had listeners, of whom she was unaware. An abrupt bend in the river hid from her the little boat with its single sail, fluttering like a butterfly against the current. It held two persons--David Wilde, the owner and captain of the raft of which Ben had spoken, a rough, striking-looking man of middle age, attired in a pink calico shirt and brown linen jacket and trowsers, who sat at the tiller smoking his pipe; and a young man of four and twenty, extremely good-looking and fashionably-dressed. "What's that?" exclaimed the latter, as the sweet voice thrilled over the water. "That's herself, sure," replied the raftsman, listening; "she's comin' to meet me, I reckon. It's just like her." "And who's 'herself?'" queried the other, laughing. "My cub, sir. Won't yer take yer flute out of yer pocket and give her a tune, before she sees us? It'll set her to wonderin' what 'n earth it is." The young man put the pieces of his flute together, and joined in the strain, rising loud and exultant upon the breeze; the voice ceased; he stopped playing; the voice began, and again he accompanied it; it sang more exuberently than ever, and the flute blent in with it accordantly. It was not until they were nearly upon her fairy bark that they came in sight of the singer, her bright hair flying, her cheeks redder than roses with the double exercise of rowing and singing. Philip Moore thought he had never beheld so lovely an apparition. "Oh, father, I'm so glad you're home again. Did you hear that beautiful echo?" she asked, her eyes all aglow with surprise and pleasure. "I never heard any thing like it before. It must be the rocks." "'Twant the rocks--'twas this here gentleman," said David Wilde, smiling. "Mr. Moore, this is my daughter Alice." Unknown to himself, his tone and look were full of pride as he presented her to his companion, who never paid a more sincere tribute of admiration to any woman, however accomplished, than he did to the artless child who returned his deep bow with so divine a blush. "I thought I'd come to meet you, and run a race home with you," she said to her father, with a fond look. "That's just like my little cub--allers on hand. Wall, go ahead! the breeze is fair, and I guess we'll beat ye. Hope ye'll make good time, fur I'm beginning to get rather growly in the region of the stomach." "Pallas expects you," returned Alice, laughing. "If your skiff were large enough for two, I'd take those oars off your hands," said the young gentleman. "Nobody ever touches this, but myself," and away sped the fairy affair with its mistress, darting ahead like an arrow, but presently dropping behind as they tacked, and then shooting past them again, the young girl stealing shy glances, as she passed, at the stranger who was watching her with mingled curiosity and admiration. So sweetly bashful, yet so arch and piquant--so rustic, yet so naturally graceful--so young, he could not tell whether she esteemed herself a child or a woman--certainly she was very different from the dozen of tow-headed children he had taken it for granted must run wild about the 'cabin' to which he was now about to make a visit. "How many children have you, Mr. Wilde?" "She's all. That's my mill you see just up the mouth of the creek thar. We're nigh on to my cabin now; when we've rounded that pint we shall heave in sight. Seems to me I smell supper. A cold snack is very good for a day or two, but give me suthin' of Pallas' getting up after it. Thar's the cabin!" Philip had been following with his eyes the pretty sailor, who had already moored her craft to the foot of a huge elm, overhanging the gravelly shore from a sloping bank above, and now stood in the shadow of the tree awaiting them. If it had not been for the blue smoke curling up in thin wreaths from a stick chimney which rose up in the rear, he would hardly have discovered the dwelling at first sight--a little one-story log-house, so completely covered with clambering vines that it looked like a green mound. Tartarian honeysuckles waved at the very summit of the chimney, and wild-roses curtained every window. Taking upon herself the part of hostess, Alice led the way to the house. Philip was again agreeably surprised, as he entered it. He had read of squatter life, and considered himself "posted" as to what to expect--corn-bread and bacon, an absence of forks and table-cloths, musquitoes, the river for a wash-basin, sand for soap, the sun for a towel, and the privilege of sharing the common bed. But upon entering the cabin, he found himself in a large room, with two smaller apartments partitioned from the side; the cooking seemed to be done in a shanty in the rear. The table was set in the center of the room, with a neat cloth, and a great glass plate, heaped with blackberries, stood upon it, and was surrounded by a wreath of wild-flowers woven by the same dimpled hands which had managed the oars so deftly. "'Clar to gracious, masser, you tuk us unbeknown." The new speaker was an old negro woman, portly and beaming, who appeared at the back door, crowned with a yellow turban, and bearing in her left hand that scepter of her realm, the rolling-pin. "But not unprepared, hey, Pallas?" "Wall, I dunno, masser. I didn't spec' the pickaninny 'ud eat more 'n _one_ roas' chicken. But thar's two in de oven; for, to tell de trute, masser, I had a sense dat you war a comin'; and I know'd if you wasn't, me and my ole man wouldn't be afraid of two fowls." "But I've brought home company, Pallas." "Hev you now, masser? I'se mighty glad to hear it. I'd as soon wait on masser's frien's as to sing de Land of Canaan. Yer welcome," she added, dropping a courtesy to the guest with as much importance as if she were mistress of the house--as, in fact, she had been, in most matters, for many long years. He made her a deep and gracious bow, accompanied by a smile which took her old heart by storm. Retreating to the kitchen outside, where Saturn, her husband, had been pressed into service, and sat with an apron over his knees pareing potatoes, buoyed up by the promise of roast chicken from his wife, she told him as she rolled and cut out her biscuits: "The finest gentleum she had sot eyes on sence she left ole Virginny. His smile was enough to melt buttah--jus' de smile what a sweet-mannered young gentleum ought to have. She was mighty glad," she added, in a mysterious whisper, "dat ar' pickaninny was no older." "Wha' for?" queried Saturn, pausing, with a potato on the end of his knife, and a look of hopeless darkness on his face, barring the expanding whites of his eyes. "You nebbah could see tru a grin'-stone till I'd made a hole in it for yer. It's a wonder I tuk up wid such an ole fool as you is, Saturn. If yer eyes were wurf half as much as dem pertaters' eyes, yer could see for yerself. Hasn't masser swore agin dem city gentleum?" "He's swore--dat's so." "And he never would forgive one as would come and steal away his precious child--nebbah!" continued Pallas, lifting her rolling-pin threatingly at the bare thought. "If he war rich as gold, and lubbed her to distruction, 'twouldn't make a speck o' difference. He's jealous of the very ground she walks on; and he hates dem smoof-spoken city folks." "Do you suspec' he's a kidnapper--dat ar' vis'ter?" asked Saturn, his eyes growing still bigger, and looking toward the door as if he thought of the possibility of the handsome young stranger carrying _him_ off. "You is born a fool, and you can't help it. Put 'em 'taters in de pot, and mind yer own bisness. I want some more wood for dis fiah--immejetly!" When Pallas said "immejetly!" with that majestic air, there was nothing left for her worser half save to obey, and he retreated to the wood-pile with alacrity. On going out he run against Ben Perkins, who had been standing by the open door, unperceived, for the last five minutes. "Why, Ben, dat you?" asked Pallas, good-naturedly, not dreaming that he had overheard her confidential conversation. "Yes; I came up to the house to seen if Captain Wilde had any orders for the mill to-night. I see him when he passed the creek. Who's with him, Pallas?" The old colored woman gave a sudden sharp glance at the youth's troubled face. "It's a frien' for all I know. What bisness is it of yours to be askin'?" "I s'pose I hain't no business. Do you think it's likely it's anybody as expects to marry Miss Alice?" his voice trembled, and he looked at his boots as he asked the question. "Marry Miss Alice! What a simpl'un you is, Ben. Wha's that pickaninny but a chile yet, I'se like to know? a little chit as don't know nothin' 'bout marryin' nobody. 'Sides that, long as her fadder libs, she'll never marry, not if it war a king. He'd be mad as fury ef any one was to dar' to speak of such a thing. Humf! my pickaninny, indeed!" with an air of scorn and indignation deeply felt by the youth, whose face was flushing beneath the implied rebuke. "Ef you'll stop a few minutes, I'll give yer some of dese soda biscuits," she said, after a brief silence, secretly pitying a trouble at which she had shrewdly guessed, though she resented the audacity of the hope from which it sprang. "Dat ar' man-cook what gets up the vittles for the mill-hands can't make sech biscuits as mine. Stop now, and hab some, won't yer?" "Thank ye, Pallas, I ain't hungry," was the melancholy reply--melancholy when proceeding from a hearty, hard-working young man, who _ought_ to have been hungry at that hour of the day. He turned away, and without even going to the cabin-door to inquire of Mr. Wilde as he had proposed, struck into the pine-woods back of the garden-patch. CHAPTER II. PALLAS AND SATURN. Supper was over, and David Wilde was cutting with his jack-knife the strings of several packages which had accompanied him on his trip back from Center City, where he had disposed of his raft. His guest sat upon a wooden settle, as much interested as the others in the proceedings, though his eyes were fixed mostly upon the happy girl, who, with all of her sex's love of finery, was upon her knees on the floor, assisting, with smiling eyes and eager fingers, at the pleasant task of bringing forth the contents of these packages. A dark-blue dress of the finest merino, a rich shawl, and some pretty laces for collars and ruffles rewarded her search. There was another package which was all her own, with which she was equally delighted; it was made up of a dozen of books, whose titles she eagerly read before she continued her explorations. "Here's a dress Mr. Moore picked out for you," said the raftsman, maliciously, unfolding a gorgeous red and yellow calico. "But I hadn't seen you, you know," returned Philip coloring. At this moment Pallas, who had an eye upon the bundles, came in on a pretence of clearing off the table. "Come and look at my beautiful presents, Pallas," cried her young mistress. "You've got little les'n an angel fer a fadder, my dear chile," ejaculated that personage, catching sight of the calico from the corner of her eye while admiring the merino. Alice looked up into the rough sun-burnt face of her father with a smile; the idea of his being an angel was not so ludicrous to her as it was to their guest. "Here's somethin' to help you along with yer sewing," continued David, taking a little box containing a gold thimble from his jacket-pocket. "See if it fits," and he placed it on the little fair hand. "It sets to your finger like a cup to an acorn," exclaimed Pallas. "Thar's none like masser to tell per-_cisely_ what a person wants and is a wishin' fer," and again her covert glance sought the calico. "Sartainly, old girl; no doubt," chuckled the raftsman. "If that's the case, jist take them handkerchiefs and that dress-pattern and give 'em to Saturn. You can keep the vest and the tobacker and the boots yerself, and especially the trowsers--you've allers worn 'em!" "Laws, masser, ef I _hadn't_, things would a gone to rack and ruin long ago. Dat nigger of mine no use, but to sleep hisself to deaf. He's a great cross to me, Saturn is," and with a profusion of smiles and thanks she carried off her booty to the kitchen, graciously dispensing his share to her "ole man," and condescending to be unusually affable. "Ef we only had a camp-meetin' to go to now," she said, spreading out the new jacket and trowsers beside the calico. "It's four yeer, come nex' monf, since we went to dat meetin' down de riber. I declar' it's jes' like de heathen fer decent culled pussons not to have any place to holler Glory, and show der new clo'es." "I'd like to go to meetin' wid dese boots," remarked her spouse, looking down at the immense pair into which he had squeezed his feet. "Ef you did, all I can say is, dar' wouldn' be no room fer anybody else dar'," returned Pallas, giving way, by mere force of habit, to her custom of snubbing her companion. "Wha' fer?" inquired Saturn. "No matter, ef yer don't know. My! my!"--hopelessly--"what a fool you is!" "Dat's so, wife;" was the humble reply, "but," picking up courage at the sight of his new rig, "mebbe when I get my new jacket on, I'll know more." "You'd bettar put it on quick, den, and nebbar take it off." When her dishes were washed, Pallas took the calico in her lap and sat down. "I've a sense," she said, in a low voice, "dat things is goin' to happen." "Wha' fer?" "I haven't had such a sense fer years," she continued, too preoccupied to administer her customary rebuke. "And when I've a sense, it allers comes to suthin'--it never fails. I haven't had such feelin's since missus died. 'Pears to me dat young gentleum looks like missus' family. And it's de same name--curus, isn't it?" "Berry," replied Saturn, at random, lost in the study of his feet; "dem boots is beauties." "I dunno what masser brought him here fer, he's allers been so keerful. He tole me 'twas a pardner in de steam saw-mill dat takes his lumber off his han's; a young storekeeper in Center City now, though he use to be a lawyer in New York--bress it! it's a long time since I sot eyes on dat city now. Our fus' masser, Mortimer Moore, usin to invite no shop-keepers to _his_ house. My! my! but he was a mighty proud man, and dat's what made all de trouble. Dem was grand times, wid all de serbents and de silber--never tought I cud come to dis--but I promised missus, when she died, I'd stan' by her chile, and I shall stand by her, long as der's any bref left in dis ole body--bress her! She's growing up jes' as han'some as ever her mudder was, and she's got her ways; and as for manners--hi! hi! folks might larf at the idea of ole Pallas learnin' manners to her missus, but dar ain't nobody knows better how table ought to be set and sarbed, and things to be done, than my dear chile now, dis minit. Ef masser _will_ keep her, like de children of Israel, forty years in de wilderness, she shall be a lady for all dat, bress her, and a Christian lady, too! She knows all de bes' part of de psalms by heart, now; and she can sing hymns like a cherubim. Sometimes I mos' think she's got one of dem golden harps in her hand. If dat ole fool ain't asleep. Saturn!" kicking his shins, "wake up yer, and go to bed--immejetly!" Saturn had a discouraging time getting his new boots off in the sleepy state which had come upon him; but this being at last accomplished, and he safely lodged in the bed, which took up the greater portion of Pallas' "settin'-room," off her kitchen, she stole out to the corner of the house to "spy out the land," in Bible language, which, to her, sheltered the deed from opprobrium. Pallas was no mischief-making listener; she considered herself entitled to know all that transpired in the family, whose secrets she kept, and whose welfare she had in her heart. "My! my! they make a pretty pictur' sittin' dar' in de light ob de moon," she thought, peeping at the group, now gathered outside of the door, enjoying the glory of a most brilliant August moon. The young stranger was telling some story of foreign adventure, his fine face and animated gestures showing well in the pure light, while the old raftsman smoked his pipe to keep away musquitoes, as he said--though they were not particularly troublesome in that neighborhood--and Alice sat on the step at his feet, her arms folded over his knee, her eager, girlish face lifted to the story-teller. "He sartainly belongs to _our_ family of Moores, ef he ain't no nearer than a forty-second cousin," whispered Pallas to herself. "Masser don't know 'em, root and branch, as well as I do, else he'd see it right away. How that pickaninny is a watchin' of him talk! Laws! nobody knows what their doing in dis yere worl', or we'd all act different." As she stood there, taking observations, she thought she saw a person in the shade of the great elm on the bank; and not being afraid of any thing but "gosstesses" and "sperits," she went back to the kitchen for a bucket, as an excuse for going down to the river and finding out who it was. "Ef it's that yer young Perkins, won't I let him know what a fool he's making of hisself--he, indeed! Gorry! I'll give a scolding 'at'll las' him his lifetime." But she had no opportunity of venting her indignation, as the form, whosever it was, slipped down the bank, and ran away along the wet sand, taking shelter behind a ledge of rock, before she could recognize it. "My! my! dis ole bucket full of silber," she ejaculated, as she lifted it out of the river, glittering in the moonlight. "Dis yere ribber looks lubly as de stream of life dat's flowin' round de streets ob Paradise, to-night;" and the good old creature stood watching the burnished ripples. The rush of waters and the murmur of the pine-forest were sweet even to her ears. "It's a bad night for young folks to be sittin' out-o'-doors," she reflected, shaking her yellow turban suggestively, as she looked at the two by the cabin-door. But let us go back a little way with our story. CHAPTER III. REJECTED ADDRESSES. Through the spacious lengths of a suite of richly-furnished rooms, a woman was wandering, with that air of nervous restlessness which betokens a mind ill at ease. The light, stealing in soft tints through the curtains, fell upon many pictures and objects of taste and art, and all that lavish richness of plenishing to which wealthy Gothamites are prone--but upon nothing so beautiful as the mistress of them all, who now moved from place to place, lifting a costly toy here, pausing before a picture there, but really interested in neither. "Virginia!" Her cousin Philip had come in through the library so silently that she was unaware of his presence until he spoke, although it was waiting for him which had made her so uneasy. "Well, Philip?" She had started when he spoke her name, but recovered her haughty self-possession immediately. "Sit down, please, on this sofa. I can not talk to you when you are standing. You look too cold and too imperious. I have come to-day for your answer, Virginia." They sat upon the sofa together, he turning so as to read her face, which was bent down as she played with the diamond ring upon her finger. She looked cool and quiet enough to dampen the ardor of her lover; but he was so absorbed in his own feelings that he could not and would not understand it. "Speak, Virginia! I can not bear this suspense." Still she hesitated; she _liked_ him too well to take any pleasure in giving him pain, frivolous coquette though she was. "I have questioned my heart closely, Philip, as you bade me," she began after a few moments, "and I have satisfied myself that I can never be happy as the wife of a poor man." "Then you do not love me! Love does not put itself in the scales and demand to be balanced with gold." "But gold is very necessary to its welfare and long life. No, Philip, I do not know that I love you--perhaps I do not--since I am not willing to make this sacrifice. I certainly think better of you than of any other living man, except my father; I would rather marry you than any other man, if you had the wealth necessary to support me in the station for which only I am fitted. A young man, with nothing to rely upon but the profession of the law, in a great city like this, must expect to wait some time before he can pour many honors and much wealth into the lap of the woman he loves." "You are sarcastic, Virginia!" "No, only practical. My father is not so rich as in days gone by. His fortune has dwindled until it is barely sufficient to keep up the house in the old style. If I would still preserve the family pride, still rule queen of the circle I have brought around me, I must marry rich." "And for this you can resign a love like mine." "It is my nature, Philip--born in me, cherished in me. My father, I know, would not listen to the match, as highly as he esteems you. I had a sister, a woman when I was a child--you remember her, do you not? she married against his will, married poor, and tried this 'love in a cottage' sentiment--he never forgave her, and she never prospered; she is dead, poor thing, and I do not care to emulate her." "Humph! I am to understand that your father then rears his children as slaves to be sold to the highest bidder--that you hold yourself ready for the market?" "Don't provoke me, Philip." The black eyes were fixed upon him haughtily. "Forgive me, Virginia. I am half-mad just now, you know. You can not say that you have not encouraged me." "Perhaps I have--shown you the affection of a cousin. I have felt as if you were one of the family. I might even have felt a still closer interest, had I allowed myself. But I am, what you never will be--prudent. I may yet see some one whom I can really respect and love, who has also the fortune you lack; if not, I shall accept some one for glory's sake, and let the love go! Don't look so scornful, Phil. I have beauty, fashion, pride of place, family, every thing but the means wherewith to set these off magnificently; and this has made me ambitious. Dear Philip, much as I like you, I could never be contented to wait your slow promotion." "Prudence is very commendable, Virginia. Its maxims fall with double force from lips as beautiful as yours. I will try to learn it. I, a man, upon whom such cold duties are supposed most naturally to devolve, will be taught by you, a soft, tender woman, who looks as if made for the better purpose of loving and teaching love. Farewell! when you see me again, perhaps I shall rival you in prudence." "You are not going away, cousin Philip?" He was already opening the door into the hall, as she followed him, and caught his hand. "Oh, yes, I am. Since only rich men can possess the happiness such gentle creatures have it in their power to bestow, I must make haste after wealth," and he looked down bitterly at the proud girl over whose face was coming a faint expression of remorse and relenting. "Shall I not hear from you?" she asked, quite humbly. "No; not until I am in a fair way to achieve that which will recommend me to your _disinterested affection_!" He withdrew his hand from her clasp, and went out with a quick, resounding step which told of the firmness of his resolution. The girl who had rejected him sank down in the nearest seat. She had never seen him look more--as a woman is proud to have a man look--handsome, self-reliant, determined, than in the hour of his disappointment. Two or three tears trickled through her jeweled fingers; she shook them off impatiently. "He is a man who would never have shamed my choice," she whispered. "But I have decided for the best. I know my own disposition; I should fret at the chains which limited my power. And I am used to every indulgence. I am selfish. Poor Phil! if somebody would present you with a check for half-a-million, I'd marry you to-morrow." In the mean time Philip Moore, all the dregs stirred up from the bottom of the fountain in his usually transparent soul, hurried to the office which he had just set up in Wall-street. There, as if in answer to the wish which had been aroused, he found a letter from a friend who had emigrated westward three years previously, forsaking the law for speculations in pine-lands and lumber, merchandise, etc. He was doing well, was getting rich in seven-league strides, had married a pretty western girl, was happy, had gone to housekeeping, wanted a partner in business as well as domestic affairs--recommended Philip to accept the chance--a few thousand dollars would be all the capital required. Philip had seven thousand dollars in stocks; he sold out, shook off the dust from his feet as he left the great metropolis, and answered his friend's letter in person, in less than a fortnight. Virginia Moore missed the convenient escort, the constant attentions, _and_ the profound worship of her high-hearted cousin; but a rich Spaniard, ugly and old, was come into the market, and she was among the bidders. Let us leave Virginia Moore, and return to that western wilderness, where a certain little girl looks lovelier, in her blue-gingham dress and wild-flower wreath, than the other in all the family diamonds. CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS. The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to try her new thimble in running up the skirt of her merino dress. The frock which she wore, and all her others, probably, were fashioned in the style of twenty years ago--short under the arms; a belt at the waist; low in the neck; full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline. Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden torrent around her neck, was looped up in the quaint style which marked the fashion of her dress. She looked like the portrait, come to life, of some republican belle and beauty of long ago. Quite unconscious that this ancient style had been superseded by the balloons of to-day, she measured off the three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leave her pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered feet, peeped from beneath her gingham. If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art, and had possessed "patterns" of the latest mode, he would not have instructed his hostess in any changes, she looked so picturesque and quaint as she was. But he did not let her sew very steadily that day. He wanted to explore the surroundings of the cabin, and she was his ready, intelligent guide. They went back into the forest, through which thundered, ever and anon, the crash of a falling tree; for many men were busy cutting timber for another raft, on which, at its completion, Philip was to return to Center City. His business would not have detained him more than three or four days, but he was in no haste; he wanted to hunt and fish a little, and he liked the novelty of the idea of floating down the river on a raft of logs in company with a score of rough fellows. Although David Wilde sawed up some of his timber himself, his old-fashioned mill was not equal to the supply, and he sent the surplus down to the steam saw-mills, one of which was owned by Philip and his partner. It called forth all his affability to conquer the shyness of his pretty guide, who at last dared to look full into his face with those brilliant blue eyes, and to tell him where the brooks made the sweetest music, where the fawns came oftenest to drink, where the violets lingered the latest, and where there was a grape-vine swing. Both of them looked very happy when they came in, just in time to meet Mr. Wilde at the supper-table, who had been at the mill all day. _He_ did not seem in such good spirits. Some new thought troubled him. His keen, gray eyes scanned the countenance of his child, as if searching for something hitherto undiscovered; and then turned suspiciously to the stranger, to mark if he, too, held the same truth. For the first time it occurred to him, that his "cub," his pet, was no longer a little girl--that he might have done something fatally foolish in bringing that fine city aristocrat to his cabin. Had he not always hated and despised these dandified caricatures of men?--despised their vanity, falsehood, and affectation?--hated their vices, their kid-gloves, their perfumed handkerchiefs, and their fashionable nonsense? Yet, pleased with one of them, and on a mere matter of business, he had, without the wisdom of a fool, much less of a father, brought one of that very class to his house. How angry he was with himself his compressed lip alone revealed, as he sharply eyed his guest. Yet the laws of hospitality were too sacred with him to allow of his showing any rudeness to his guest, as a means of getting rid of him. Unconscious of the bitter jealousy in her father's heart, Alice was as gay as a humming-bird. She had never been happier. We are formed for society; children are charmed with children, and youth delights in youth. Alice had been ignorant of this sweet want, until she learned it now, by having it gratified. For, although she had passed pleasant words with such young men as chanced to be employed by her father, they had never seemed to her like companions, and she naturally adopted the reserve which her father also used with them. His cabin was his castle. No one came there familiarly, except upon invitation. The "hands" were all fed and lodged in a house by themselves, near the mill. The gloom of the host gradually affected the vivacity of the others; and the whole household retired early to rest. The next day, Philip set off to the mill with Mr. Wilde, carrying on his shoulder the excellent rifle of the latter, as he proposed, after business was over, to make a search for deer, now nearly driven away from that locality by the sound of the ax in those solitudes once so deep and silent. "Tell Aunt Pallas I'll bring her a haunch of venison for supper," he said gayly to the young girl, touching his straw hat with a grace that quite confused her. She looked after them wistfully as they went away. She felt lonely; her sewing fatigued her; the sun was too hot to go out on the water; she didn't know what to do. Even her new books failed for once to keep her interested many hours. When Pallas looked for her to help pick over berries to dry, she was not to be found. She had sought that delightful refuge of early youth--the garret; which in this instance was but a loft over the main story, reached by a ladder, and seldom resorted to by any one, except when the raftsman stored away a bear-skin, a winter's store of nuts, or something of the kind. To-day Alice felt powerfully attracted toward a certain trunk which had stood in that garret ever since she could remember. It was always locked; she had never seen it open; and did not know its contents. Now, for a wonder, the key was in the lock; she never thought of there being any thing wrong in the act, as she had never heard the trunk mentioned, and had never been forbidden access to it, and lifting the lid, she sat down beside it and began an examination of its mysteries. Lifting up a napkin spread over the top, she was met by a lovely face, looking up at her from the ivory upon which it was so exquisitely painted. The breath died upon her lips. "It must be my mother's; how very beautiful she was--my mother!" Hot tears rushed up into her eyes at this life-like vision of a being she did not remember, of whom old Pallas often spoke, but whom her father seldom mentioned--never, save in the most intimate moments of their association. She was sorry she had opened the trunk, realizing at once that if her father had desired her to know of the miniature he would have shown it to her years ago; she had a glimpse of a white-silk dress, some yellow lace, a pair of white-silk slippers, and long white-kid gloves, but she would not gratify the intense curiosity and interest which she felt. She remembered hearing her father descend from the garret late in the preceding night; and she guessed now the purpose of his visit. An impulse was given to her thoughts which drove away her restless mood; she retreated from the loft, and set very quietly to work helping Pallas with the blackberries. She was sitting in the kitchen-door, an apron on, and a huge bowl in her lap, when Philip Moore came through the pines, dragging after him a young deer which he had slain. Pallas was on a bench outside the shanty, and it was at her feet the hunter laid his trophy. "Bress you, masser Moore, I'se mighty glad you went a huntin'. Miss Alice she laugh and say de deer needn't be afraid of you, 'cause you was a city gentleum, but I tol' her she didn't know nuffin' about it. I was afeard you'd get tired of white-fish and salmon, and bacon and fowls,--dis ven'sen jes' de meat I want." "Well, Aunt Pallas, I shall claim one of your best pies as my reward," said the amateur hunter, laughing. "But little Alice here mustn't think no one can do any thing right except foresters and lumbermen." "Oh, I don't!" exclaimed she, blushing. "I think you do every thing beautifully, Mr. Moore, that you've been brought up to do, you know--but shooting deer--they don't do that in cities, do they?" "Not exactly in cities; but there are wild woods near enough New York yet for young men to have a chance at gaining that accomplishment. I suppose you wouldn't trust me to take you out sailing, to-morrow, would you?" "If she would, yer couldn't do it, for I want the boat myself. Captain Wilde's goin' to send me down to the pint with it." Mr. Moore looked up in surprise at the speaker, who had just come up from the river, and whose looks and tones were still ruder than his words. "Hi, Ben! yer as surly as a bar," spoke up Pallas; "yer haven't a grain of perliteness in yer body," she added, in a lower tone. "I leaves perliteness to them as is wimmen enough to want it," answered Ben, throwing back a glance of defiance and contempt at the innocent stranger, as he stepped into the shanty. "I want them new saws as came home with the capt'n." "There's somebody that looks upon me in the same light you do," laughed Philip, when the youth had secured the saws and departed. "Oh, Mr. Moore, you don't know how I look upon you!" she exclaimed, earnestly; neither did he, any more than he knew how the fate of that black-eyed, heavy-browed mill-hand was to be mixed and mingled with his own. He admired Alice Wilde as he would have done any other pretty and singular young creature; but he never thought of loving her; she was a child in his eyes, ignorant and uncultivated in many things, though always graceful and refined; a child, who would be out of place in any other sphere except that peculiar one in which she now moved. He did not guess that in her eyes he was a hero, almost supernatural, faultless, glorious--such as an imaginative girl who had seen nothing of the world, but who had read many poems and much fiction, would naturally create out of the first material thrown in her way. No! all through that happy fortnight of his visit he talked with her freely, answering her eager questions about the world from which she was so secluded, roamed the woods with her, sailed the river, played his flute, sang favorite love-songs, and all without reflecting upon the deathless impression he was making. Keen eyes were upon him, and saw nothing to justify censure; he would have laughed at the idea of that little wild girl falling in love with him, if he had thought of it at all; but he did not think of it; sometimes he frolicked with her, as if they were both children; and sometimes he kindly took upon himself the pleasant task of teaching her in matters about which she showed an interest. He was touched by her beauty and innocence; and was extremely guarded in her presence not to let a hint of evil be breathed upon that young soul--her father, Pallas, all who approached her, seemed naturally to pay her purity the same deference. The raft for which Philip was waiting was now in readiness, and was to commence its drifting journey upon the next day. Alice had fled away into the pine-woods, after dinner, to anticipate, with dread, her coming loneliness; for her father was also to accompany it, and would be absent nearly three weeks. Her footsteps wandered to a favorite spot, where the grape-vine swing had held her in its arms, many and many a frolic hour. She sat down in it, swinging herself slowly to and fro. Presently a footfall startled her from her abstraction, and, looking up, she saw Ben Perkins coming along the path with a cage in his hand, of home manufacture, containing a gorgeous forest-bird which he had captured. "I reckon I needn't go no further, Miss Alice," he said; "I war a bringin' this bird to see if you'd be so agreeable as to take it. I cotched it, yesterday, in the wood." "Oh, Ben, how pretty it is!" she cried, quickly brushing away her tears, that he might not guess what she had been crying about. "It sings like any thing. It's a powerful fine singer, Miss Alice--I thought mebbe 't would be some comfort to ye, seein' yer about to lose that flute that's been turnin' yer head so." "What do you mean?--you speak so roughly, Ben." "I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken; but I mean what I say, which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks thinks it good sport to be telling you fine fibs, I've no doubt." "Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have no reason to, Ben? It isn't generous." "But I _have_ reason--O Alice, you don't know how much!" he set the bird-cage down, and came closer to her. "I've got suthin' to say that I can't keep back no longer. Won't you set down 'side of me on this log?" "I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was about to take her hand. The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the question changed to a look which half frightened her, at her gesture of refusal. "You didn't object to settin' by that town chap; you sot here on this very log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and his fine clothes, I say!" "I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language; I don't know what's the matter with you to-day," and she turned to go home. "I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he caught her hand almost fiercely. "I can't keep still any longer and see that feller hangin' 'round. I didn't mean to speak this long time yet, but that stranger's driven me crazy. Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see him smirking and bowin' and blowin' on that blasted flute, around _you_; and you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off? Do you s'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton of the purtiest girl that ever growd? You needn't wince--it's true; jist as soon as he'd got away from here he'd forget all about you, or only think of you to laugh at your hoosier ways with some proud lady as fine as himself." "Oh, I am afraid it's too true!" burst forth Alice, involuntarily. "Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde! Or, at the best, he'd take yer away from yer own old father as loves the ground you tread, and try and make a lady of you, and never let you speak to your own flesh and blood agin. While I--I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer father wanted; I'd settle down side of him, work for him, see to things, and take the care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them proud peacocks, Alice--he _hates_ 'em, and so do I! I know he'd ruther have me. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl." "I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to pass, for she was troubled and wanted to get away. "I'll tell you then," he said, "I want you to marry me, Alice. I've been thinking about it these two years--night and day, night and day." "Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "_I_ never thought of it--never! and I can not now. Father will be very angry with you. Let go of my hand; I want to go home." "You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess yer father 'll find it out. He may be mad for a spell; but he'll get over it; and when he comes to think of the chances of his dyin' and leavin' yer alone, he'll give his consent. Come, Alice, say yes, do, now?" The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, from sympathy, but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as she replied, "Never! so long as I live, never! And you must not speak of it again, unless you want to be discharged from--" "Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to be threatened. If I'd have said what I've said this day, three weeks ago, you wouldn't have been so mighty cool. Not that I think I'm good enough for ye--there ain't the man livin' that's that; but I'm as good as some as thinks themselves better--and I won't be bluffed off by any broadcloth coat. I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in the mill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye more years than he's seen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' so sure as I live, that man shall never marry you, Alice Wilde." "He never thought of it; and it hurts me, Ben, to have you speak of it. Let me go now, this instant." She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful of the bird he had given her. Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; but when, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, he passed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, _hate_--the dangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy brow. Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way. She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far, Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and the instincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon her by this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her equal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor. And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhaps others thought the same--perhaps her father would wish her to accept him, some time in the far future--perhaps Philip--ah, Philip! how almost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came out of the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the wind tossing his brown hair. "Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to fly away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?" How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while _she_ was so sad! she felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her lip trembled. "What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindly looking down into the suffused eyes. "I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is going away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas." "And that handsome young man I just saw parting from you," he said, mischievously, looking to see her blush and smile. "Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for _him_?" she asked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which vanished in a deep blush the next instant. "Well, I don't know; you _are_ too good for him," he answered, frankly, as if the idea had just occurred to him. An expression of pain swept over Alice's face. "I know, Mr. Moore, how you must regard me; and I can not blame you for it. I know that I am ignorant--a foolish, ignorant child,--that my dress is odd, my manner awkward,--that the world, if it should see me, would laugh at me--that my mind is uncultivated,--but oh, Mr. Moore, you do not know how eager I am to learn--how hard I should study! I wish my father would send me away to school." "That would just spoil your sweet, peculiar charms, little Alice." He smoothed her hair soothingly, as he would have done a child's; but something in her tone had put a new thought in his mind; he looked at her earnestly as she blushed beneath this first slight caress which he had ever given her. "Can it be so?" he asked himself; and in his eyes the young girl suddenly took more womanly proportions. "How very--how exquisitely beautiful she is now, with the soul glowing through her face. Shall I ever again see a woman such as this--pure as an infant, loving, devoted, unselfish, and so beautiful?" Another face, haughty, clear-cut, with braids of perfumed black hair, arose before his mental vision, and took place beside this sweet, troubled countenance. One so unmoved, so determined, even in the moment of giving bitter pain--this other so confiding, so shy, so full of every girlish beauty. Philip was touched--_almost_ to saying something which he might afterward regret; but he was a Moore, and he had his pride and his prejudices, stubborn as old Mortimer Moore's, nearly. These hardened his heart against the sentiment he saw trembling through that eloquent countenance. "You are but a little girl yet, and will have plenty of chance to grow wise," he continued playfully. "This pretty Wilde-rose 'needs not the foreign aid of ornament.' When I come again, I hope to find her just as she is now--unless she should have become the bride of that stalwart forester." "Then you are coming again?" she asked, ignoring the cruel kindness of the latter part of his speech, and thinking only of that dim future possibility of again seeing and hearing him, again being in his presence, no matter how indifferent he might be to her. For Alice Wilde, adoring him as no man ever deserved to be adored, still, in her forest simplicity, called not her passion love, nor cherished it from any hope of its being reciprocated. No; she herself considered herself unworthy of the thought of one so much more accomplished, so much wiser than herself. Her's was "The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow;" and now that there was a chance in the future for her to burn her white wings still more cruelly, she grew a shade happier. "I have business with your father which will bring me here again, perhaps this fall, in October, certainly, in the spring. What shall I bring you when I come again, Alice? You've been a kind hostess, and I owe you many happy hours. I should like to make you some trifling return." She looked up in his face sadly, thinking she should like to ask him to remember her, but she dared not trust herself. "If you will select some books--such as you think I ought to study, my father will buy them for me." "Don't you love jewelry and such pretty trifles as other girls seek after?" "I really don't know; I've no doubt I could cultivate such a liking," she replied, with some of her native archness. "I wouldn't try very hard--you're better without," he said, pressing a light kiss on her forehead; and the two went slowly home, walking more silently than was their wont. Pallas saw them, as they came up through the garden, and gave them a scrutinizing look which did not seem to be satisfactory. "Dat chile's troubles jes' began," she murmured to herself. "Ef dese yer ole arms could hide her away from ebery sorrow, Pallas would be happy. But dey can't. Things happen as sure as the worl'; and girls will be girls--it's in em; jes' as sartin as it's in eggs to be chickens, and acorns to be oaks. Hi! hi!" CHAPTER V. AN APPALLING VISITOR. One bright September day, after David Wilde had been gone about a week with his raft, a wood-cutter came to the cabin with bad news. He informed Alice that the woods were on fire two or three miles back, and that the wind was driving the fire in a broad belt of a mile wide directly toward the house; that if the wind did not subside with the setting of the sun, nothing could preserve the place from destruction by the middle of the next day. Alice had been sitting at the window, thinking how delicious that soft, dry wind was, but now she prayed with all her heart that it might speedily die. It was yet many hours to sunset; and she, with Pallas, went into the forest until they could see the fire, and were in some danger from the drifting sparks. The foresters shook their heads and told her to be prepared for the worst; Pallas groaned and prayed as if she had been at a camp-meeting; but Alice, although she trembled before the mighty power of the conflagration, endeavored not to lose her presence of mind. "I shall hope for the best," she said to the men, "but shall be prepared for the worst. Go to the mill and bring round by the river all the skiffs you can muster--there are two or three, are there not? They will be ready by evening, and if the wind does not change, or go down, by that time, we will try and save the furniture by means of the boats. Come, Pallas, let us go home and pack up the smaller things." "Home!" The word sounded sweet, when destruction hovered so near; but Alice had a brave heart; she would think of nothing now but of being equal to the emergency; her calmness had a salutary effect upon the characteristic excitability of her sable attendant, who followed her back in quite a composed and serviceable mood. Moving quietly about, putting her precious books into packages, and getting into movable shape all those little articles of household use which become so dear from association, a looker-on would hardly have guessed how anxiously the young girl waited for sunset--how earnestly she wished that her father had been at home. "My! my! dat nigger of mine is a wusser fool 'an ever," said Pallas, as she bustled about like an embodied storm; "jes' see him, Miss Alice; he's went and put on his bes' clo'es, and dar' he stands, nebber doin' a single ting, but jes' holding dem new boots of his." "What are you dressed up for, Saturn," called Alice, laughing, in spite of her anxiety, to find that he had made provision for that which was dearest to him--his new suit would be saved if he was, and if he perished, it would share his fate. "Oh, missus," he replied, looking foolish, "it's the easiest way to carry 'em." "Better put your boots on, also; then you'll have your hands to work with," suggested Alice. "Jes' so, missus; I never tought of dat;" and on went the boots, after which Saturn was ready to get as much in the way as possible. At sunset, the boats, consisting of two little skiffs which would hold but small freightage, and one larger boat which would accomodate the heavier pieces of furniture, were moored under the stately old elm which had so long stood sentinel over that forest home. Three or four men, among whom was Ben Perkins, held themselves in readiness to give the necessary assistance. The sun went down in a clear sky; there were no clouds to threaten a wished-for rain; but that cold, firm wind which sometimes blows unceasingly three days at a time, in the autumn months, rose higher and higher. There was no moon, and as twilight deepened into night, the thick smoke which hung above the earth rendered the darkness intense; and occasionally when heavy volumes of smoke dropped lower toward the earth, the atmosphere was suffocating. Pallas prepared supper for all, with a strong cup of coffee to keep off drowsiness; and no one retired to bed that night. Shortly after midnight the fire traveled within sight; the roar of the conflagration swelled and deepened until it was like the dashing of a thousand seas; the hot breath of the flames aroused the wind, until it rushed in fury directly toward the cabin. Light flashes of flame would run from tree-top to tree-top, while farther back was a solid cone of fire--trunks from which all the foliage and lesser branches had fallen, stretching their glowing arms across the darkness, towering up against the starless background. Frequently these fiery columns would crumble, with crashes scarcely heard through the continuous roar, sending up a fitful shower of sparks to be whirled on high by the rushing currents of air. Fascinated by the beautiful, appalling scene, Alice sat on the bank of the river, wrapped in a shawl, from which her pale, excited face shone like a star, kindling the enthusiasm of the rude men about her to do something in her service. As for Ben, he scarcely looked at the fire--his eyes were upon the girl. "It's no use," he said to her, about two o'clock in the morning, "waitin' any longer. That fire will be on this very spot by break of day. The wind's a blowin' a perfect gale. Ain't you cold, Miss Alice?" "No, no--not at all. If you think it the only way, then let us begin. My father's desk, with his papers, stands in his bedroom. See to that first, Ben, and then the other things." It did not take long for the active fellows engaged to clear the cabin of all its contents; every thing was put into the boats--and then, as Ben said, "it was high time to clear out." The smoke was suffocating, and sparks and small branches of burning trees were beginning to fall around. Saturn and Pallas were safely stowed in the largest boat, while Alice paddled out into the stream in her own tiny canoe. The track of the fire was a mile in width; but the mill was not threatened by it, nor much troubled by the smoke, the wind carrying it in another direction. The house then occupied by the mill-hands must be the present shelter of the captain's family. Down the river, in the full glare of the conflagration, floated the little convoy. The smoke was not so dense about them now; it hung high above, and rolled in dark billows far beyond. The stream was crimson with the reflection, and the faces of the party looked pallid in the lurid glare--always excepting those two sable faces, turned, with awe and dread, toward that sublime picture of devastation. Suddenly Alice, who was in advance, dropped back. "I must return to the house," she cried, as she came along side of the boat containing Ben and the old servants. "No, you mus'n't," shouted Ben; "it's too late. It's getting mighty warm here now; and them flyin' branches 'll hit ye." "I can't help it," replied Alice, firmly. "There's something in the garret I must have. Father would never forgive us for forgetting that trunk, Pallas." "Law, suz! dat trunk! sure enough," groaned Pallas. "I must get it," said the young girl. "How can you, chile? it's locked, so yer can't get out the things, and of course _you_ couldn't carry it down. Come back! oh, come back, dear chile, won't yer? What's forty trunks to yer own precious life, chile? and them sparks 'll set your dress on fire, and the heat 'll smother yer all up." "I've got a hatchet, and I'll break it open," shouted Alice, now fast rowing back toward the cabin. "That girl's right down crazy," said Ben Perkins; "here Saturn, take these oars, and make 'em fly. I'm goin' after her." He threw off his jacket and boots, plunged into the stream, swam ashore, and ran along the bank, keeping pace with the skiff. Both reached the house at the same instant, they were gone perhaps three minutes, and came forth again, Ben carrying the trunk upon his shoulder. One instant they paused to look upon the wall of fire behind them; but the heat was intolerable. "These falling bits will sartainly set your clothing a-blaze," said Ben, hurrying the young girl away, who would fain have lingered yet around the home which had grown dear to her with her growth--already the garden was withering, and the vines she had planted were drooping before their impending ruin. "My dress is woolen," she said; "but I will go. Oh, Ben, this is terrible, is it not?" "Yes, Miss Alice, but if ye get away safe now, you may thank yer stars. I don't believe the canoe 'll hold you and the trunk both," he remarked, as he deposited his precious (to Alice) burden in the bottom of it. "Yes it will--but you, Ben?" "Oh, I ain't of as much consequence as a trunk," he replied, bitterly. "Take car' of yourself--don't mind me." "I shan't stir from this spot until you come with me, Ben. So get into the boat, quick." "Get in yourself, Miss Alice, and make good time. You'll be baked like a brick, if yer don't get out of this soon. I'm going to swim 'long side. What's a mile or two, swimmin' down stream?" He threw himself in the water, and struck out, as he spoke. She kept beside of him, refusing to go faster than he, that she might give him aid, in case he became exhausted; the river at this spot was over a mile in width, and it would have been difficult for him, tired and heated as he already was, to make the opposite shore. As they made their way along in this manner, the wind swept the hot breath of the fire around them in suffocating waves. The cold surface of the river kept the air comparatively pure for two or three feet above it, or they would have smothered; but as it was, Alice gasped for breath convulsively at times. "Alice! Alice! you are sufferin'--you can't stand it," cried her companion in a voice which betrayed the agony of his soul--it thrilled through her, it was so sharp with pain. "Don't be uneasy, Ben, we're nearly clear of the fire, now;" but struggle as bravely as she might, she could endure the heat no longer, and she, too, leaped into the river, and sheltering herself beneath the shadow of the skiff, swam boldly on, holding a small rope in her hand which secured it from floating off. As soon as the advance party had got out of the smoke and heat, they waited the return of the two, who made their appearance in an alarming condition, Alice having become exhausted in the water, and Ben having her in one arm, and swimming with the other, while he towed the skiff by a rope held between his teeth. Alice fainted away when she found herself safe in Pallas' motherly arms; and Ben might have followed her example had not one of his comrades been ready with a flask of spirits. It was thought best to administer the same restorative to the young girl, who soon revived, murmuring: "Father will be so glad the trunk is safe, Pallas." As the morning broke, the party reached the shelter of the mill. It was two or three days before Alice was well enough to visit the ruins of her beloved home; and then she could only row along the river and gaze upon the blackened and smoking mass, for the earth was still too hot to be ventured upon. The cabin smoldered in a heap; the top of the great elm was blackened and the foliage gone, but it had not fallen, and the grass was crisped and withered to the edge of the river. The tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed; but with the hopefulness of youth, she passed on, seeking a new spot to consecrate as a second home. It was vain to think of rebuilding in the same vicinity, as all its beauty was destroyed, and it would take some years for it to renew itself. She knew that her father did not wish to live too near to his mill, as he had always kept his home aloof from it; that he would be satisfied with such a spot as she liked; and she was ambitious to begin the work, for she knew the winter would be upon them before they could complete a new house, if plans were not early made. There was a lovely spot just beyond the ravages of the fire, where the river made a crescent which held in its hollow a grove of beech and elm and a sloping lawn, standing in advance of the dark pines stretching back into the interior. As her father owned the land for some distance along the shore she was at liberty to make her choice, and she made it here. Ben Perkins, when necessity demanded, was the carpenter of the place. He had a full set of tools, and there were others of the men capable of helping him. There was timber, plenty of it, already sawed, for the frame of the new house, and while a portion went to work upon it, boards were sawed for the siding, and shingles turned out of the shingle-machine. As the "hands" said, Alice made an excellent captain. A little sleeping-apartment had been constructed for her off the main cabin, at the mill, and her own bed put up in it; but she did not like the publicity of the table and the place, and longed for the new home to be completed. The emotions of David Wilde were not enviable when, upon his return, he came in sight of the blackened ruins of his home. He did not so much heed the vast destruction of valuable timber, as he did the waste of that snug little, vine-covered cabin, with the garden, the flowers, and the associations clustering about all. The first question he asked when he clasped his child to his heart, and found _her_ safe, was of old Pallas: "That trunk in the garret--was it saved?" "Pickaninny saved dat ar' trunk, masser. She tought you had suthin' important in it, and she _would_ go back;" and Alice felt repaid for all the risk she had run, when she saw the look of relief upon her father's face. Ben Perkins had planned the new house, the frame of which was ready to be raised the day after the captain's return. Whether he had cunningly calculated that the family would some time be increased, or not, certain it is that he made liberal allowance for such a contingency. He had much natural talent as an architect, and from some printed plans which had fallen into his possession, he contrived a very pretty rustic cottage, with sharp-pointed gables something in the Gothic style, and a porch in front. Alice was charmed with it. "We'll get the house in livin' order in a month or two; but yer can't have all the fixin's over the windows and the porch afore spring; I'll have to make 'em all by hand, through the winter, when thar' ain't much else a-doin'." Ben was ambitious to conciliate Alice, and to make her feel how useful he could be to her and her father. Love prompted his head and hands to accomplish wonders. Poor Ben! work as he might, gain her expressions of gratitude and admiration as he might, that was the most. There was always a reserve about her which held his fiery feelings in check. His was not a nature, either to check and control its own strong passions, or to give up an object upon which they were once set. A settled gloom came over his olive face, and his eyes burned like smoldering fires beneath their black brows. He no longer had pleasant remarks to make; no longer brought daily gifts of fish, birds, berries, squirrels, venison, or grapes to Alice; no longer tried to break down her reserve--he just worked--worked constantly, perseveringly, moodily. Alice herself was scarcely more gay. He guessed whose image filled her mind, when she sat so long without moving, looking off at the frost-tinted forests; and the thought was bitterness. It was necessary for Captain Wilde to go again to some settlement down the river, to get hinges, locks, window-sashes, glass, etc., for the new house, which was to be ready for those finishing touches, by the time of his return. He did not know, when he set out, whether he would go as far as Center City, or stop at some smaller point nearer home. One day, about the time of his expected return, Ben had gone for Alice, to get her opinion about some part of the house. They stood together, on the outside, consulting about it, so interested in the detail that they neither of them noticed the boat upon the river, until it was moored to the bank, and the voice of the raftsman was heard calling to them. Both turned at the same moment and saw that Philip Moore was in company with Mr. Wilde. Ben's eyes fixed themselves instantly upon Alice's face, which was first pale and then red. He saw the great throb her heart gave, heard the sudden catch in her breath; and he was still looking at her when Philip sprang gayly up the path and seized her hand--the man who loved her better than life saw all the blushes of womanhood coming and going upon her face at the touch of another's hand. A threatening blackness clouded his brow; Alice saw it, and knew that he read her secret by the light of his own passion; she almost shuddered at the dark look which he flashed upon Philip; but her father was calling for assistance to unload his craft, and Ben went forward without speaking. "What a surly fellow that is, for one so good-looking and young," remarked Philip, carelessly, looking after him. "He is not always so surly," Alice felt constrained to say in his defense: "he's vexed now about something." "But that's an ill-tempered look for a youthful face, Alice. I'm afraid he'd hardly make a woman very happy--eh, Alice?" "That's a matter which does not interest me, Mr. Moore, I assure you," answered the young girl, with an unexpected flash of pride. CHAPTER VI. THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING. "It's an ill-wind dat blows nobody no good; and dat yar wind dat blowed de fire right down on our cabin did us some good ater all. Masser 'ud libbed in dat log-house till de day he died, hadn't been for dat fire dat frighted me so, and made me pray fasser 'n eber I prayed afore. Lord! Miss Alice, it looked like de judgment-day, when we sailed down de ribber in de light ob de pine-woods. 'Peared to me de worl' was all on fire. I see Saturn a shakin' in his boots. He tole me, nex' day, he tought it was de day of judgment, sure 'nuff. I heard him askin' de good Lord please forgib him fur all de 'lasses he'd taken unbeknown. My! my! I larfed myself to pieces when I tought of it arterward, case I'd never known where de 'lasses went to hadn't been for dat fire. Dis new house mighty nice. Ben didn't forget ole niggers when he built dis--de kitchen, and de pantry, and my settin'-room is mighty comfor'able. Ben's a handy young man--smart as a basket o' chips. He's good 'nuff for _most_ anybody, but he's not good 'nuff for _my_ pickaninny, and he ought to hab sense 'nuff to see it. Ye'd best be kerful, Miss Alice; he's high-tempered, and he'll make trouble. 'Scuse me for speakin'; I know ye've allers been so discreet and as modest as an angel. None can blame you, let what will happen. But I wish dat Mr. Moore would go way. Yes, I _do_, Miss Alice, for more 'n one reason. Don't tink ole Pallas not see tru a grin'-stone. Ef he wants to leab any peace o' mind behind him, he'd better clar out soon. Thar! thar, chile, nebber mind ole nigger. My! how purty you has made de table look. I'm much obleeged for yer assistance, darlin'. I'se bound to hab a splendid supper, de fust in de new house. 'Taint much of a house-warmin', seein' we'd nobody to invite, and no fiddle, but we've done what we could to make things pleasant. Laws! ef dat nigger ob mine wasn't sech a fool he could make a fiddle, and play suthin' for us, times when we was low-sperited." Pallas' tongue did not go any faster than her hands and feet. It was the first day in the new house, and Alice and herself had planned to decorate the principal apartment, and have an extra nice supper. Ever since her father left for the mill, in the middle of the day, after the furniture was moved in, while Pallas put things "to rights," she had woven wreaths of evergreens, with scarlet dogberries and brilliant autumn-leaves interspersed, which she had festooned about the windows and doors; and now she was busy decorating the table, while the old colored woman passed in and out, adding various well-prepared dishes to the feast. Pallas had been a famous cook in her day, and she still made the best of the materials at her command. A large cake, nicely frosted, and surrounded with a wreath, was one of the triumphs of her skill. A plentiful supply of preserved strawberries and wild-plum marmalade, grape-jelly, and blackberry-jam adorned the board. A venison-pie was baking in the oven, and a salmon, that would have roused the envy of Delmonico's, was boiling in the pot, while she prepared a sauce for it, for which, in times gone by, she had received many a compliment. Philip had been taken into the secret of the feast, as Alice was obliged to depend upon him for assistance in getting evergreens. He was now out after a fresh supply, and Alice was beginning to wish he would make more haste, lest her father should return before the preparations were complete. Again and again she went to the door to look out for him; and at last, six o'clock being come and past, she said with a pretty little frown of vexation: "There's father coming, and Mr. Moore not back!" The feast waited until seven--eight--and yet Philip had not returned. Several of the men who had been busy about the house during the day were invited into supper; and at eight o'clock they sat down to it, in something of silence and apprehension, for every one by this time had come to the conclusion that Philip was lost in the woods. Poor Alice could not force herself to eat. She tried to smile as she waited upon her guests; but her face grew paler and her eyes larger every moment. Not that there was any such great cause for fright; there were no wild animals in that vicinity, except an occasional hungry bear in the spring, who had made his way from some remote forest; but she was a woman, timid and loving, and her fears kept painting terrible pictures of death by starvation, fierce wolves, sly panthers, and all the horrors of darkness. "Poh! poh! child, don't look so scart," said her father, though he was evidently hurrying his meal, and quite unconscious of the perfection of the salmon-sauce, "there's no cause. He's lost; but he can't get so fur in the wrong direction but we'll rouse him out with our horns and lanterns and guns. We'll load our rifles with powder and fire 'em off. He hasn't had time to get fur." "Likely he'll make his own way back time we're through supper," remarked one of the men cheerfully, as he helped himself to a second large piece of venison-pie. "'Tain't no use to be in a hurry. These city folks can't find thar way in the woods quite like us fellers, though. They ain't up to 't." Alice looked over at the speaker; and, albeit she was usually so hospitable, wished he _would_ make more speed with his eating. Pallas waited upon the table in profound silence. Something was upon her mind; but when Alice looked at her anxiously she turned her eyes away, pretending to be busy with her duties. Ben Perkins had been asked to supper, but did not make his appearance until it was nearly over. When he came in he did not look anybody straight in the face, but sitting down with a reckless, jovial air, different from his usual taciturn manner, began laughing, talking, and eating, filling his plate with every thing he could reach. "Have you seen any thing of Mr. Moore?" was the first question put to him, in the hope of hearing from the absent man. "Moore? no,--ain't he here? Thought of course he'd be here makin' himself agreeable to the women;" and he laughed. Whether Alice's excited state exalted all her perceptions, or whether her ears were more finely strung than those around her, this laugh, short, dry, and forced, chilled her blood. He did not look toward her as he spoke, but her gaze was fixed upon him with a kind of fascination; she could not turn it away, but sat staring at him, as if in a dream. Only once did he lift his eyes while he sat at the table, and then it was toward her; they slowly lifted as if her own fixed gaze drew them up; she saw them clearly for an instant, and--such eyes! His soul was in them, although he knew it not--a fallen soul--and the covert look of it through those lurid eyes was dreadful. A strange tremulousness now seized upon Alice. She hurried her father and his men in their preparations, brought the lanterns, the rifles, the powder-horns; her hands shaking all the time. They laughed at her for a foolish child; and she said nothing, only to hurry them. Ben was among the most eager for the search. He headed a party which he proposed should strike directly back into the wood; but two or three thought best to go in another direction, so as to cover the whole ground. When they had all disappeared in the wood, their lights flashing here and there through openings and their shouts ringing through the darkness, Alice said to Pallas: "Let us go too. There is another lantern. You won't be afraid, will you?" "I'll go, to please you, chile, for I see yer mighty restless. I don't like trabelling in de woods at night, but de Lord's ober all, and I'll pray fas' and loud if I get skeered." A phantom floated in the darkness before the eyes of Alice all through that night spent in wandering through forest depths, but it was shapeless, and she would not, dared not give shape to it. All night guns were fired, and the faithful men pursued their search; and at daybreak they returned, now really alarmed, to refresh their exhausted powers with strong coffee and a hastily-prepared breakfast, before renewing their exertions. The search became now of a different character. Convinced that the missing man could not have got beyond the hearing of the clamor they had made through the night, they now anticipated some accident, and looked closely into every shadow and under every clump of fallen trees, behind logs, and into hollows. Drinking the coffee which Pallas forced upon her, Alice again set forth, not with the others, but alone, walking like one distracted, darting wild glances hither and thither, and calling in an impassioned voice that wailed through the wilderness, seeming to penetrate every breath of air,--"Philip! Philip!" And now she saw where he had broken off evergreens the day before, and fluttering round and round the spot, like a bird crying after its robbed nest, she sobbed,--"Philip! Philip!" And then she saw _him_, sitting on a log, pale and haggard-looking, his white face stained with blood and his hair mottled with it, a frightful gash across his temple and head, which he drooped upon his hand; and he tried to answer her. Before she could reach him he sank to the ground. "He is dead!" she cried, flying forward, sinking beside him, and lifting his head to her knee. "Father! father! come to us!" They heard her sharp cry, and, hastening to the spot, found her, pale as the body at her feet, gazing down into the deathly face. "Alice, don't look so, child. He's not dead--he's only fainted. Here, men, lift him up speedily, for he's nigh about gone. Thar's been mischief here--no mistake!" Captain Wilde breathed hard as he glared about upon his men. The thought had occurred to him that some one had attempted to murder the young man for his valuable watch and chain and the well-filled purse he was supposed to carry. But no--the watch and money were undisturbed;--may be he had fallen and cut his head--if he should revive, they would know all. They bore him to the house and laid him upon Alice's white bed in the pretty room just arranged for her comfort; it was the quietest, pleasantest place in the house, and she would have him there. After the administration of a powerful dose of brandy, the faint pulse of the wounded man fluttered up a little stronger; more was given him, the blood was wiped away, and cool, wet napkins kept around his head; and by noon of the same day, he was able to give some account of himself. He was sitting in the very spot where they had found him, on the previous afternoon, with a heap of evergreens gathered about him, preoccupied in making garlands, so that he saw nothing, heard nothing, until _something_--it seemed to him a club wielded by some assailant who had crept up behind him--struck him a blow which instantly deprived him of his senses. How long he lay, bleeding and stunned, he could only guess; it seemed to be deep night when he recalled what had happened, and found himself lying on the ground, confused by the pain in his head and faint from loss of blood. He managed to crawl upon the log, so as to lean his head upon his arms, and had been there many hours. He heard the shouts and saw the lights which came near him two or three times, but he could not make noise enough to attract attention. When he heard Alice's voice, he had lifted himself into a sitting posture, but the effort was too great, and he sank again, exhausted, at the moment relief reached him. His hearers looked in each other's faces as they heard his story. _Who_ could have done that murderous deed? What was the object? the pleasant young stranger had no enemies,--he had not been robbed; there were no Indians known to be about, and Indians would have finished their work with the scalping-knife. Alas! the terrible secret preyed at the heart of Alice Wilde. She knew, though no mortal lips had revealed it, who was the would-be murderer. A pair of eyes had unconsciously betrayed it. She had read "_murder_" there, and the wherefore was now evident. Yet she had no proof of that of which she was so conscious. Should she denounce the guilty man, people would ask for evidence of his crime. What would she have to offer?--that the criminal loved her, and she loved the victim. No! she would keep the gnawing truth in her own bosom, only whispering a warning to the sufferer should he ever be well enough to need it; a matter by no means settled, as David Wilde was doctor enough to know. Despite of all the preventives within reach, a fever set in that night, and for two or three days, Philip was very ill, a part of the time delirious; there was much more probability of his dying than recovering. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas had that skill picked up by the necessity of being doctors to all accidents and diseases around them; and they exerted themselves to the utmost for their unfortunate young guest. Then it was that Mr. Wilde found where the heart of his little girl had gone astray; and cursed himself for his folly in exposing her to a danger so probable. Yet, as he looked at her sweet face, worn with watching and trouble, he could not but believe that the hand of the proudest aristocrat on earth was none too good for her, and that Philip would recognize her beauty and worth. If she _must_ love, and be married, he would more willingly resign her to Philip Moore than to any other man. Alice lacked experience as a nurse, but she followed every motion of the good old colored woman, and stood ready to interfere where she could be of any use. Sitting hour after hour by Philip's bedside, changing the wet cloths constantly to keep them cool, she heard words from his delirious lips which added still more to her despair--fond, passionate words, addressed not to her, but to some beloved woman, some beautiful "Virginia," now far away, unconscious of her lover's danger, while to her fell the sad pleasure of attending upon him. "Oh, that he may live, and not die by the hand of an assassin, so innocent a victim to a needless jealousy. Oh, that he may live to save this Virginia, whoever she may be, from the fate of a hopeless mourner. It will be joy enough for _me_ to save his life," she cried to herself. The crisis passed; the flush of fever was succeeded by the languor and pallor of extreme prostration; but the young man's constitution was excellent, and he recovered rapidly. Then how it pleased Pallas to cook him tempting dishes; and how it pleased Alice to see the appetite with which he disposed of them. Women love to serve those who are dear to them; no service can be so homely or so small that their enthusiasm does not exalt it. Yet the stronger Philip grew, the more heavily pressed a cold horror upon the soul of Alice. Ben Perkins had not been to the house since the wounded man was brought into it; and when Alice would have asked her father of his whereabouts, her lips refused to form his name. She hoped that he had fled; but then she knew that if he had disappeared, her father would have mentioned it, and that the act would have fixed suspicion upon him. She felt that he was hovering about, that he often beheld her, when she was unaware of the secret gaze; she could not endure to step to the door after dark, and she closed the curtains of the windows with extremest care, especially in Philip's room. The first light snow of November had fallen when the invalid was able to sit up all day; but, although he knew that his long absence would excite consternation among his friends at Center City, and that business at home required his attention, he found each day of his convalescence so pleasant, that he had not strength of will sufficient to break the charm. To read to his young friend while she sewed; to watch her flitting about the room while he reclined upon a lounge; to talk with her; to study her changing countenance, grew every day more sweet to him. At first he thought it was gratitude--she had been so kind to him. But a thrilling warmth always gathered about his heart when he remembered that passionate voice, crying through the pine-woods with such a sobbing sound--"Philip! Philip!" Finding himself thus disposed to linger, he was the more chagrined to perceive that Alice was anxious to have him go; she gave him no invitation to prolong his visit, and said unequivocally, that if he did not wish to be ice-bound for the winter, he would have to depart as soon as his strength would permit. Her father had promised him, when he came up, to take him down the river again when he was ready, as he should be obliged to go down again for his winter stores; and he now waited his visitor's movements. No words had passed between Alice and Pallas on the subject of the attempted murder, yet the former half knew that the truth was guessed by the faithful servant who also hastened the departure of their guest. "I declare, Aunt Pallas, I believe I have worn out my welcome. I've been a troublesome fellow, I know; but it hurts my vanity to see you getting so tired of me," he said, laughingly, one day, when they were alone together, he sitting on the kitchen-steps after the lazy manner of convalescents, trying to get warmth, both from the fire within and the sun without. "Ole folks never gets tired of young, bright faces, masser Philip. But ole folks knows sometimes what's fer de best, more 'n young ones." "Then you think Miss Alice wants to get rid of me, and you second your darling's wishes--eh, Pallas?" and he looked at her, hoping she would contradict him. "I'd do a' mos' any thing for my pickaninny--I lub her better den life; an' dar' never was anudder such a chile, so pretty and so good, as _I_ know as has been wid her sence she drew her firs' bref. If I tought she wanted you to go, I'd want you to go, too, masser, not meanin' any disrespeck--and she _do_ want you to go; but she's got reasons for it;" and she shook her yellow turban reflectively. "Do you think she is getting to dislike me?" "Dat's her own bisness, ef she is; but dat ain't de main reason. She don't like de look of that red scar down your forrid. She knows who made dat ugly scar, and what fer they did it. She tinks dis a _dangerous_ country for you, Masser Moore, and Pallas tink so too. Go way, masser, quick as you can, and nebber come back any more." "But I _shall_ come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring you something nice for all you've done for me, and because--because--I shan't be able to stay away," he answered, though somewhat startled and puzzled by her revelation. "Why not be able to stay 'way?" queried she, with a sharp glance. "Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you." "People isn't allers satisfied with guessing--like to have things plain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas. "Just so. _I_ am not satisfied with guessing who tried to kill me, and what their object was. I am going to ask Alice, this evening. She's evidently frightened about me; she won't let me stir a step alone. So you think your pickaninny is the best and the prettiest child alive, do you?" "Dat I do." "So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such a worthless kind of a person as myself? Do, now, tell me, won't you, auntie?" "You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy wid dis ironin'. You'd better ask _her_, if yer want to find out." "But can't you say something to encourage me?" "You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin' on hand." "You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas; for, be it known to you, to-morrow is set for my departure, and when I'm gone it will be too late to send your answer after me;" and the young man rose, with a very becoming air of injured feeling which delighted her much. "Hi! hi! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after him. "But we can't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite so easy as I smoof out dis table-cloth. He's one ob de family, no mistake; and masser's found it out, too, 'fore dis." That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen putting up her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions for the next day's journey, and the master himself busied about many small affairs demanding attention. The two young people sat before a blazing wood-fire in the front room; the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's convenience, and his companion at his request had taken a seat by his side. The curtains were closely drawn, yet Alice would frequently look around in a timid, wild way, which he could not but notice. "You did not use to be so timid." "I have more reason now;" and she shuddered. "Until you were hurt, Mr. Moore, I did not think how near we might be to murderers, even in our house." "You should not allow it to make such an impression on your mind. It is passed; and such things scarcely happen twice in one person's experience." "I do not fear for myself--it is for you, Mr. Moore." "Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing I _was_ in danger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?" She did not answer. "Well, what would you risk for some one you loved--say, your father?" "All things--my life." "There are some people who would rather risk their life than their pride, their family name, or their money. Supposing a man loved a woman very much, and she professed to return his love, but was not willing to share his meager fortunes with him; could not sacrifice splendor and the passion for admiration, for his sake--what would you think of her?" "That she did not love him." "But you do not know, little Alice; you have never been tempted; and you know nothing of the strength of fashion in the world, of the influence of public opinion, of the pride of appearances." "I have guessed it," she answered, sadly. He thought there was a shadow of reproach in those pure eyes, as if she would have added, that she had been made to feel it, too. "I loved a woman once," he continued; "loved her so rashly that I would have let her set her perfect foot upon my neck and press my life out. She knew how I adored her, and she told me she returned my passion. But she would not resign any of her rank and influence for my sake." "Was her name Virginia?" "It was; how did you know?" "You talked of her when you were ill." "I'll warrant. But _she_ wouldn't have sat up one night by my bedside, for fear her eyes would be less brilliant for the next evening's ball. She drove me off to the West to make a fortune for her to spend, in case she did not get hold of somebody else's by that time. Do you think I ought to make it for her?" There was no answer. His companion's head was drooping. He lifted one of her hands, as he went on: "I was so dazzled by her magnificence that, for a long time, I could see nothing in its true light. But my vision is clear now. Virginia shall never have my fortune to spend, nor me to twist around her jeweled finger." The hand he held began to tremble. "Now, little Alice, supposing I had told _you_ of such love, and you had professed to answer it, what sacrifices would you have made? Would you have given me that little gold heart you wear about your neck--your only bit of ornamentation?" "I would have made a sacrifice, full as great in its way, as the decline in pomp and position might have been to the proud lady," she replied, lifting her eyes calmly to his face. "I would have _refused_ the offered happiness if, by accepting it, I thought I should ever, by my ignorance of proprieties, give him cause to blush for me--if I thought my uncultivated tastes would some time disappoint him, that he would grow weary of me as a friend and companion because I was not truly fitted for that place--if I thought I was not worthy of him, I would sacrifice _myself_, and try to wish only for his best happiness." Her eyes sank, as she ceased speaking, and the tears which would come into them, gushed over her cheeks. "Worthy! you are more than worthy of the best man in the world, Alice! far more than worthy of _me_!" cried Philip, in a rapture he could not restrain. "O Alice, if you only loved _me_ in that fashion!" "You know that I do," she replied, with that archness so native to her, smiling through her tears. "Then say no more. There--don't speak--don't speak!" and he shut her mouth with the first kiss of a lover. For a while their hearts beat too high with happiness to recall any of the difficulties of their new relation. "We shall have small time to lay plans for the future, now. But I shall fly to you on the first breezes of spring, Alice. Your father shall know all, on our way down the river. Oh, if there was only a mail through this forlorn region. I could write to you, at least." "I shall have so much to do, the winter will speedily pass; I must study the books you brought me. But I shall not allow myself to hope too much," she added, with a sudden melancholy, such as sometimes is born of prophetic instinct. "_I_ can not hope too highly!" said Philip, with enthusiasm. "Here comes your father. Dear Alice, your cheeks are so rosy, I believe he will read our secret to-night." CHAPTER VII. SUSPENSE. What was the consternation of Alice when her father returned the evening of the day of his departure and told her he had concluded he could not be spared for the trip, and so, when they reached the mill, he had chosen Ben to fill his place! Every vestige of color fled from her face. "O father! how could you trust him with Philip?" burst forth involuntarily. "Trust Ben? Why, child, thar ain't a handier sailor round the place. And if he wan't, I guess Moore could take care of himself--he'll manage a craft equal to an old salt." "Can't you go after them, father? oh, do go, now, this night--this hour!" "Why, child, you're crazy!" replied the raftsman, looking at her in surprise. "I never saw you so foolish before. Go after a couple of young chaps full-grown and able to take care of themselves? They've the only sail-boat there is, besides--and I don't think I shall break my old arms rowing after 'em when they've got a good day's start," and he laughed good-naturedly. "Go along, little one, I'm 'fraid you're love-cracked." Got the only sail-boat there was! There would be no use, then, in making her father the confidant of her suspicions. It seemed as if fate had fashioned this mischance. Several of the men had got into a quarrel, at the mill, that morning; some of the machinery had broken, and so much business pressed upon the owner, that he had been obliged to relinquish his journey. He had selected Ben as his substitute because he was his favorite among all his employees; trusty, quick, honest, would make a good selection of winter stores, and render a fair account of the money spent. Such had been the young man's character; and the little public of Wilde's mill did not know that a stain had come upon it--that the mark of Cain was secretly branded upon the swarthy brow which once could have flashed back honest mirth upon them. They say "the devil is not so black as he is painted;" and surely Ben Perkins was not so utterly depraved as might be thought. He was a heathen; one of those white heathen, found plentifully in this Christian country, not only in the back streets of cities, but in the back depths of sparsely-settled countries. He had grown up without the knowledge of religion, as it is taught, except an occasional half-understood sensation sermon from some travelling missionary--he had never been made to comprehend the beauty of the precepts of Christ--and he had no education which would teach him self-control and the noble principle of self-government. Unschooled, with a high temper and fiery passions, generous and kindly, with a pride of character which would have been fine had it been enlightened, but which degenerated to envy and jealousy of his superiors in this ignorant boy-nature--the good and the bad grew rankly together. From the day upon which he "hired out," a youth of eighteen, to Captain Wilde, and saw Alice Wilde, a child of twelve, looking shyly up at him through her golden curls, he had loved her. He had worked late and early, striven to please his employer, shown himself hardy, courageous, and trustworthy--had done extra jobs that he might accumulate a little sum to invest in property--all in the hope of some time daring to ask her to marry him. Her superior refinement, her innate delicacy, her sweet beauty were felt by him only to make him love her the more desperately. As the sun fills the ether with warmth and light, so she filled his soul. It was not strange that he was infuriated by the sight of another man stepping in and winning so easily what he had striven for so long--he saw inevitably that Alice would love Philip Moore--this perfumed and elegant stranger, with his fine language, his fine clothes, and his fine manners. He conceived a deadly hate for him. All that was wicked in him grew, choking down every thing good. He allowed himself to brood over his wrongs, as he regarded them; growing sullen, imprudent, revengeful. Then the opportunity came, and he fell beneath the temptation. Chance had saved him from the consummation of the deed, though not from the guilt of the intent. He had thought himself, for half a day, to be a murderer,--and during those hours the rash boy had changed into the desperate man. Whether he had suffered so awfully in conscience that he was glad to hear of the escape of his intended victim, or whether he swore still to consummate his wish, his own soul only knew. Everybody at Wilde's mill had remarked the change in him, from a gay youth full of jests and nonsense to a quiet, morose man, working more diligently than ever, but sullenly rejecting all advances of sport or confidence. If he _was_ secretly struggling for the mastery over evil, it was a curious fatality which threw him again upon a temptation so overwhelming in its ease and security of accomplishment. Ah, well did the unhappy Alice realize how easily now he could follow his intent--how fully in his power was that unsuspicious man who had already suffered so much from his hands. Appetite and sleep forsook her; if she slept it was but to dream of a boat gliding down a river, of a strong man raising a weak one in his grasp and hurling him, wounded and helpless, into the waters, where he would sink, sink, till the waves bubbled over his floating hair, and all was gone. Many a night she started from her sleep with terrified shrieks, which alarmed her father. "'Tain't right for a young girl to be having the nightmare so, Pallas. Suthin' or another is wrong about her--hain't no nerves lately. I do hope she ain't goin' to be one of the screechin', faintin' kind of women folks. I detest sech. Her health can't be good. Do try and find out what's the matter with her; she'll tell you quicker 'an she will me. Fix her up some kind of tea." "De chile ain't well, masser; dat's berry plain. She's getting thin every day, and she don't eat 'nuff to keep a bird alive. But it's her _mind_, masser--'pend on it, it's her mind. Dese young gentleum make mischief. Wish I had masser Moore under my thumb--I'd give him a scoldin' would las' him all his life." "Cuss Philip Moore, and all others of his class," muttered the raftsman, moodily. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas began to lose their high opinion of the young man, as they witnessed the silent suffering of their darling. His going down the river without his expected company had cheated Philip out of the revelation he had desired to make; and Alice, with that excessive delicacy of some timid young girls, had not even confided her secret to her good old nurse. Much better it would have been for her peace of mind, had she told all to her friends--her love and her fears. Then, if they had seen good reason for her apprehensions, they might have chased the matter down, at whatever trouble, and put her out of suspense. But she did not do it. She shut the growing terror in her heart where it fed upon her life day by day. There was no regular communication between Wilde's mill and the lower country, and in the winter what little there had been was cut off. The lovely, lingering Indian-summer days, in the midst of which the two voyagers had set out, were over, and ice closed the river the very day after the return of Ben. A sudden agony of hope and fear convulsed the heart of Alice, when her father entered the house one day, and announced Ben's arrival. "Did he not bring me a letter? was there no letter for you, father?" It would be so natural that he should write, at least to her father, some message of good wishes and announcement of his safe journey--if she could see his own handwriting, she would be satisfied that all was well. "Thar' was none for me. If Ben got a letter for you, I s'pose he'll tell you so, as he's coming in with some things." "Have you any thing for me--any message or letter?" It was the first time she had met Ben, face to face, since that never-to-be-forgotten night of the house-warming; but now he looked her in the eyes, without any shrinking, and it appeared to her as if the shadow which had lain upon him was lifted. He certainly looked more cheerful than he had done since the day of Philip's unexpected arrival at the new house. Was it because he felt that an enemy was out of the way? Alice could not tell; she waited for him to speak, as the prisoner waits for the verdict of a jury. "Thar' ain't any letter, Miss Alice," he replied, "but thar's a package--some presents for you, and some for Pallas, too, from Mr. Moore. He told me to tell you that he was safe and sound, and hoped you'd accept the things he sent." His eyes did not quail as he made this statement, though he knew that she was searching them keenly. Perhaps there was a letter in the bundle. She carried it to her own room and tore it open. No! not a single written word. The gifts for the old servant--silk aprons, gay-colored turbans, and a string of gold beads--were in one bundle. In another was a lady's dressing-case, with brushes, perfumeries, and all those pretty trifles which grace the feminine toilet, a quantity of fine writing materials, paper-folder, gold-pen, some exquisite small engravings, and, in a tiny box, a ring set with a single pure pearl. That ring! was it indeed a betrothal ring, sent to her by her lover, which she should wear to kiss and pray over? or was it intended to help her into a bond with his murderer? Eagerly she scanned every bit of wrapping-paper to find some proof that it was Philip's own hand which had made up the costly and tasteful gifts. She could find nothing to satisfy her. They might have been purchased with his money, but not by him. The ring which she would have worn so joyfully had she been certain it had come from him, she put back in its case without even trying it on her finger. "O God!" she murmured, throwing herself upon her knees, "must I bear this suspense all this endless winter?" Yes, all that endless winter the weight of suspense was not to be lifted--nor for yet more miserable months. December sat in extremely cold, and the winter throughout was one of unusual severity. As the Christmas holidays drew near, that time of feasting so precious to the colored people raised in "ole Virginny," Saturn bestirred himself a little out of his perpetual laziness. If he would give due assistance in beating eggs and grinding spices, chopping suet and picking fowls, as well as "keep his wife in kindling-wood," Pallas promised him rich rewards in the way of dainties, and also to make him his favorite dish a--woodchuck pie. "'Clar' to gracious, I don't feel a bit of heart 'bout fixin' up feastesses dis yere Chris'mas," said she to him, one evening in the midst of the bustle of preparation. "We've allers been Christian folks 'nuff to keep Chris'mas, even in de wilderness; but what's de use of cookin' and cookin' and dar's Miss Alice don't eat as much as dat frozen chick I brought in and put in dat basket by de fire." "But dar's masser, _he_ eat well 'nuff,--and I--I'se mighty hungry dese days. Don't stop cookin', Pallas." "You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger, Saturn. Nobody'd tink you was brought up in one de best families. If I could only tink of somethin' new dat would coax up pickaninny's appetite a little!" "P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested Saturn. It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish which he usually reserved especially to himself, but he, too, felt as tender as his organism would permit, toward his youthful mistress. "Our missus eat woodchuck pie! you go 'long, Saturn; she wouldn't stomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our chile begins to look jus' as missus did de year afore she died. I feel worried 'bout her." "Does you? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neurology. I got de rheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish you'd fix up some of yer liniment, wife." "Wall, wall, eberybuddy has der troubles, even innocen' ones like our chile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse generation, and dat is de reason our woods tuk fire and our house burn up; and now our dear chile mus' go break her heart 'bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs her or not. She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'd a thought our family wud ever come to sech an end? I remember when Mortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran' style 'fore he sol' ebery buddy but you and I, Saturn, and kep' us cause we wouldn't leab de family, and tuk us to New York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sides with my young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and run 'way wid her, and see to her tru thick and thin. But I see her die, and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chile die. Dun know what poor old woman lib for to bury all her children for. When I tink of all de mince-pies and de chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, for Chris'mas, I don't feel no heart for to lif' dis choppin'-knife anodder time." Yet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New Year's day the men at the mill were supplied with a feast; but Alice could not bring herself to decorate the house with wreaths of evergreen, according to custom--it brought back hateful fears too vividly. The unceasing cry of her heart was for the river to open. She counted the hours of the days which must drag on into weeks and months. Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would not talk to him, he would make himself agreeable to the old servants; any thing for an excuse to linger about where he could obtain glimpses of the face growing so sad and white. Mr. Wilde had always favored him as a work-hand, and now he invited him often to his home. He hoped that even Ben's company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from her "love-sickness." It was a few weeks after the holidays that, one evening, Mr. Wilde took Alice upon his knee, smoothing her hair as if she were a baby, and looking fondly into her face. "I've some curious news for you, little one," he said, with a smile. "Would you believe that any one had been thinking of my little cub for a wife, and had asked me if he might talk to her about it?" "Was it Ben, father?" "Yes, it was Ben. No doubt you knew of it before, you sly puss!" "I refused him long ago, father. Didn't he tell you that?" "No." "Would you be willing I should marry a person like him?" "No, not willing. Once I'd have set him afloat if he'd had the impudence to mention it. But you're failing so, Alice, and you're so lonesome and so shut up here. I know how it is. The young must have their mates; and if _you_ want him, I shan't make any serious objection. He's the best there is in these parts. He's better than a flattering, deceiving _gentleman_, Alice. I _was_ fool enough once to imagine you'd never marry, but live your lifetime with yer old father; but I ought to have known better. 'Tain't the way of the world. 'Twasn't my way, nor your mother's way. No, Alice, if yer ever in love, and want to marry, unless I know the man's a villain, I shall make no objections. Ben loves you, my dear, desperately. A girl should give two thoughts before she throws away such a love as his. 'Tain't every man is capable of it." "But I'm engaged to Philip Moore, father. _We_ love each other." Her blushing cheek was pressed against his that he might not see it. "Alice, my child," said the raftsman very gently, in a voice full of pity and tenderness; "Mr. Moore is a rascal. He may have told you that he loved you, but he don't. He don't intend to marry you. He's a d---- proud aristocrat!" waxing wrathy as he went on. "There! there! don't you feel hurt; I know all about him. Knew't he made fun of us, after all we'd done for him, in his store down to Center City, when he didn't know Ben was listenin'. Besides, he advised Ben to marry you, to keep you from breakin' your heart about _him_; said you expected him back in the spring, but he was goin' on East to marry a girl there. So you see you must think no more of that rascally fellow, Alice. If he ever does come back here I'll whip him." "Ben told you this?" cried Alice, her eyes flashing fire and her white lips quivering. "And you believed the infamous lie, father? No! no! Ben has _murdered_ him, father--he has murdered my Philip, and has invented this lie to prevent our expecting him. O Philip!"--her excitement overpowered her and she fainted in her father's arms. Now that the tension of suspense had given way, and she deemed herself certain of the fate of her lover, she yielded for a time to the long-smothered agony within her, going from one fainting-fit to another all through that wretched night. The next day, when composed enough to talk, she told her father all--Ben's offer of marriage, his threats, the circumstantial evidence which fixed the guilt of the assault in the woods upon him, and her belief now that Philip had been made away with. The raftsman himself was startled; and to quiet and encourage his child, he promised to set off, by to-morrow, upon the ice, and _skate_ down to Center City, that her fears might be dispelled or confirmed. But that very night the weather, which had been growing warm for a week, melted into rain, and the ice became too rotten to trust. There was nothing to do but to wait. "'Tain't by no means certain he's done sech a horrible thing. And if you'll pick up courage to think so, and make yerself as easy as you can, I'll start the very first day it's possible. Likely in March the spring 'll open. You may go 'long with me, too, if you wish, so as to learn the news as soon as I do. I'll say nothing of my suspicions to young Perkins, but try to treat him the same as ever, till I know he desarves different." CHAPTER VIII. AWAY FROM HOME. A quaint party were to be seen passing through some of the streets of Center City one April day of the following spring. A tall and vigorous man, with a keen, intelligent face, clad in a calico shirt, a blue-woolen hunter's frock and buckskin breeches, strode on as if anxious to reach his destination; or, rather, as if used to making good time over endless prairies and through unsurveyed forests. By his side walked a young girl whose dress, though of the best materials, was antique as our grandmothers'; a broad-brimmed hat shaded a face the loveliest ever beheld in that city; her little slippers with their silver buckles peeped out from beneath her short frock. Those who were fortunate enough to see her as she passed did not know which to admire most--the exquisite, unstudied grace of her manners, which was as peculiar as her beauty, or the seraphic innocence of her expression. She kept pace with her companion, looking gravely forward with those great blue eyes, only occasionally giving the crowd a fawn-like, startled look, when it pressed too near. A few paces behind trudged an ancient colored couple, the man short, and white-eyed, rolling smiles as he passed, evidently supposing all the attention of the lookers-on to be concentrated on his flaming vest, his flowered coat, and bran-new boots; the woman a perfect black Juno, really superb in her air and physique, wearing her neatly-folded yellow turban as if it were a golden crown. She seldom took her eyes off the young mistress whom she followed, except occasionally to frown at some impudent fellow who stared too hard. The group wended their way onward until they read the names of "Raymond & Moore," in gilt letters over a new four-story brick store of this thriving new town, and here they disappeared from the view of outsiders. "Captain Wilde! how do you do? you're down early this spring. Well, the mill's waiting for you to feed it. Come down on a raft?" "Yes, Mr. Raymond, a thundering big one. Brought my family this time to give 'em a chance to pick out a few things for themselves. My daughter, sir." The merchant gave the young lady a chair. She took it, mechanically, but her heart, her eyes, were asking one question of the smiling, curious man, the friend and partner of her own Philip, who for the first time began to suspect the cause which had kept the latter so long, "hunting and fishing" up at Wilde's mill. Could he look so smiling, so assured, and her Philip be dead? The cry: "Where is he?" trembled silently on her lips. "Yes, a thundering big raft we got out this spring. Wood-choppers to work all winter," continued the raftsman, walking along farther from his daughter, and speaking with apparent carelessness. "By the way, where's Mr. Moore? did he get home safe, after his spell of sickness, at our house last fall?" "Oh, yes! he got home safe and in fine spirits. He was soon as well or better than ever. I expect he got pretty good care," and the merchant glanced over at the young girl respectfully. Mr. Raymond was a good-hearted, refined young married man; but if he had been gross or impure, or not over-fastidious, or fond of a jest, there was something about both father and child to suppress all feelings but those of respect and wondering admiration, Alice Wilde's beauty was of a kind to defy criticism. She might have worn sackcloth and ashes, or flannel and thick boots, or a Turkish dress, or a Puritan maiden's, or a queen's robe, it would have made but small difference; her loveliness was of that overmastering kind which draws the hearts of high and low, and makes every man feel in her presence, forgetful of every lesser consideration--lo! here is a beautiful woman! Such charms as hers have had great power whenever they have been found--they have exalted peasant women to thrones, and led men of genius and rank, as if they were children, hither and thither. It is not strange that Alice's personal loveliness, added to her still more unusual unconsciousness of it, and infantile innocence, should at once have commanded the reverence of people of the world, in spite of the quaintness of manner and attire, in themselves pretty and piquant. Although her father had spoken in a low voice, Alice had heard his question and the answer. The splendor of happiness broke over her countenance--blushes rose to her cheeks and smiles to her eyes; she hardly dared to glance in any direction lest she should see her lover unexpectedly, and betray her joy to strangers. "Is he about the store this morning; or will I have to go to the mill to see him?" asked the raftsman. "You will not see him at all, this trip, I'm afraid. Mr. Moore has gone on East; he's been away several weeks now, and I hardly know when to expect him. He was called there quite unexpectedly, upon business connected with his uncle, and their relatives in England. It would not surprise me at all if he should bring a bride home--that is, if he can persuade his fair cousin that the West is not such a terrible savage wilderness as she supposes." Mr. Raymond was perfectly honest in this remark. He knew that Virginia Moore used to be the idol of his friend; and as Philip had not communicated the change in his ideas, he still supposed that Philip was only waiting to get rich enough to go home and marry her; and as Philip was now doing so well with his western enterprises, he had planned it all out in his own imagination--fortune, acceptance, and the happy _finale_ of a grand wedding. He could not help looking over at the pretty forester to see how she received the news, but the portly person of the old colored woman had come between them, and he could not see her face. "Laws, Miss Alice, do see them yere calikers--they're sruperb! Look at that red one with the blue flowers--'tain't so handsome though, as this with the yaller. My! my! thar's a jewerlly shop across the way. Yer fadder ought to take yer in dar', fust place. Young gals likes them places. Laws, darlin', dis don't compare wid New York City. Le's have a drink of water, and step over de street." All this volubility was to screen the young girl from scrutiny. A pitcher of water stood on the counter, near her, and she poured a glass for her mistress. But Alice waved the glass away, and arose without any signs of grief and pain in her face; but the expression had changed--an icy pride composed every feature; she asked the merchant to show her some of his goods in a clear, low tone as sweet as it was passionless. Her hand did not tremble as she turned over silks and laces. "Good for her! She's got her father's grit," thought the raftsman to himself, while his own throat swelled almost to choking with anger and grief, and he felt that if he only had Philip Moore within sight he would have the satisfaction of thrashing a little conscience into him. Neither he nor Alice any longer doubted the statements of Ben Perkins. Mr. Moore _had_ ridiculed them--_had_ mockingly given another permission to console her whom he had forsaken--_had_ said that he was going East to marry a more fit companion. As the raftsman looked in the quiet face of his child which repelled sympathy with a woman's pride--that pride so terrible because it covers such tortured sensibilities--his blood boiled up with ungovernable rage. He was not accustomed to concealing his sentiments upon any subject. "Let them finnified fixin's alone, Alice," he said, taking her hand and drawing her away. "Men that make it a business to handle that sort of thing, grow about as flimsy as their wares. I despise 'em. I want you to understand, Mr. Raymond, that all connection between me and this firm, business or other, is dissolved. I won't even take your cussed money. When Mr. Moore returns, tell him that the laws of hospitality practised by your four-story-bricks ain't known in squatters' cabins, and if he ever comes on my premises again I'll consider myself at liberty to shoot him down for a dog;" and before the surprised merchant could reply he had strode forth. "Come 'long, Saturn! don' stan' dar' starin'; don't yer see masser's gone? I shall be sorry I brought yer 'long ef yer don't behabe wid more propisciousness. What der s'pose folks 'll tink your missus and masser is, ef you don't act like a fust-family nigger? Ef yer don't do credit to Miss Alice, I'll nebber bring you 'way from home agin;" and Pallas took "her nigger" by the elbow and drew him away from the fascinating array of dry-goods and ready-made clothing. That afternoon Captain Wilde and his daughter sat in a little private sitting-room of the hotel, overlooking the street. Every thing was novel to Alice. This was absolutely her first experience away from her forest home. Yet upon all the busy, bustling scene beneath her she gazed with vacant eyes. About the rapid rise and growth of some of our western cities there is an air peculiar to themselves--an experience unique in the history of civilization. Situated amid scenes of unparalleled beauty, they seem to jar upon and disturb the harmony of their surroundings; brick and plaster, new shingles, and glowing white paint, unsubdued by time, rise up in the midst of fairy-land; rude wharves just over the silver waters where erst the silent canoe of the Indian only glided; wild roses flush the hill-sides crowned with sudden dwellings; stately old forests loom up as backgrounds to the busiest of busy streets. The shrill cry of the steam-whistle startles the dreamy whippoorwill; the paddle-wheel of the intrusive steamboat frightens the indolent salmon from his visions of peace. As the landscape, so the people; curiously mixed of rough and refined. Center City was one of the most picturesque of these young towns; and, at present, one of the most prosperous. Broken-down speculators from the East came thither and renewed their fortunes; and enterprising young men began life with flattering prospects. It was upon the principal street that Alice sat and looked. Streams of people hurried by, like the waves of the river past her cabin in the wood. She saw ladies dressed in a fashion differing widely from her own; across the way, in a suite of parlors in the second story, she saw, through the open blind, a young girl of about her own age sitting at a musical instrument, from which she drew, as if by magic, music that held her listener as by golden chains. New thoughts and aims came into the mind of the raftsman's daughter. Pride was struggling to heal the wounds which love had made. "Father, will you send me to school?" For a long time there was no answer; his head was bent upon his hand. She crept upon his knee, in her little-girl way, and drew away the hand. "It'll be undoin' the work of sixteen year to send you to one of them boarding-schools. They'll learn you plenty of vanity and worse things, my child; they'll make you unfit to be happy and contented with yer plain old father. But that you are already. I've made a failure. You're too good for them that's about you, and not good enough for them you wish to be like. Go to school if you want to, child; go, and learn to put on airs and despise those who would give their heart's blood for ye. I shall make no objections." "Do you think I could learn to be so very bad, father? If you can not trust me, I will not go. So let us say no more about it," and she kissed him. "Thar', thar', child, I didn't mean to deny ye. But I feel bitter to-day--hard and bitter--as I used to in days gone by, when your mother died, turned off by them that were ashamed of yer father. If you'll only keep like yer mother, you may do what you will. _She_ went to school, and she knew more than a dozen fine-lady scholars; but it didn't spoil her. May be I've done wrong to bring you up the way I have--to visit my experience and my doubts on your young head. We must all live and learn for ourselves. Go to school, if you want to. I'll try and get along without my little cubbie for a year or two." "It's hard, father--hard for me--but I wish it." Pride was steeling the heart of the forest maiden. "But are you able, father; can you pay the expense." This thought never came to her until after she had his promise. "Yes, I'm able--and if it's done, it shall be done in the best style. I haven't cut down all the pine timber I've set afloat for the last fifteen year, without laying up something for my cub. I want you to dress as well as any you see, and study whatever you like, and play lady to yer heart's content. You'd better find a dress-maker, the first thing, and not be stared at every time you step out of the door. Get yourself silks and satins, girl, and hold your head up like the queen of the prairie." When Captain Wilde returned up the river, he and his sable suite made a melancholy journey; for the light of their eyes, the joy of their hearts, was left behind them. A young ladies' seminary, "a flourishing young institution, beautifully located in a healthy region, with spacious grounds enjoying the salubrious river-breezes," etc., etc., held prisoner, the wild bird of the forest. "Where's your daughter?" asked Ben Perkins of his employer, when he saw the returning party land without Alice. His face was blanched to a dead-white, for he expected certainly to hear that she had been claimed as his bride by Philip Moore. "Yer story was true, Ben, though I did ye the wrong to doubt it. Alice will never be the wife of that counter-jumper. But she'll never be yours, neither; so you might as well give up, first as last. Go off somewhere, Ben, and find somebody else; that's my advice." "Look-a-here, Captain Wilde, I know you mean the best, and that my chance is small; but I tell you, sir, jest as long as Alice is free to choose, and I've got breath and sense to try for her, I shan't give her up. Never, sir! I'll work my fingers off to serve you and her--I'll wait years--I'll do any thing you ask, only so you won't lay any thing in my way." The raftsman looked pityingly in the haggard face of the speaker--the face which a year ago was so bright and boyish. He saw working in those dark lineaments, in the swart blood coursing under the olive skin, in the gleam of the black eyes, passions difficult to check, which might urge him in future years to yet other crimes than the one into which he had already been betrayed. "You're high-tempered, Ben, my boy, and a little too rough to suit a girl like mine. She knows what your temper has already led you to do;" and he looked straight at the youth as he spoke, whose eyes wavered and sunk to the ground--it was the first intimation he had had that his guilt was suspected. "Why not go off, and find some one more like yourself--some pretty, red-cheeked lass who'll think you the best and handsomest fellow on the earth, and be only too happy to marry you? Thar's plenty such chances--and you'd be a deal happier." "Don't, _don't_ talk so!" burst forth Ben, impetuously. "I _can't_ do it, and that's the end on 't. I've tried to get away, but I'm bound here. It's like as if my feet were tied to this ground. I've done bad things in my determination to keep others away. I know it, and I own up to it. I've been desp'rate-crazy! But I ain't a bad fellow. If Miss Alice would smile upon me, 'pears to me I _couldn't_ be bad--'pears to me I'd try to get to be as good as she is. Even if she never would marry me, if she'd let me stay 'round and work for you, and she didn't take up with nobody else, I'd be content. But if I have to give her up entirely, I expect I'll make a pretty bad man, cap'n. I've all kinds of wicked thoughts about it, and I can't help it. I ain't made of milk-and-water. I'd rather fight a bar' than court a girl. I shan't never ask another woman to have me--no, sir! I'd 'ave made you a good son, if all hands had been willin'. But if Miss Alice means to make herself a fine lady to catch some other sweet lady-killer like the one that's given her the mitten, it's her choice. She'll up and marry somebody that won't speak to her old father, I s'pose." "Thar's no telling," answered the raftsman, sadly; for, in truth, the changed manner of his darling before he left her, lay like a weight upon his memory and heart. He felt a chord of sympathy binding him to the young man, as if theirs was a common cause. Alice seemed to have receded from them, as in a dream, growing more cold and reserved, as she glided into the distance. Her trouble, instead of flinging her more closely into her father's arms, had torn her from him, and taught her self-control. She had deserted her home, had left him to care for himself, while she fitted herself for some sphere into which he could not come. That "sharper than a serpent's tooth--a thankless child," he was tempted to call her. Yet his heart refused such an accusation. She had been suddenly shaken in her innocent faith in others, had been wounded in pride and deserted in love--and her present mood was the high reaction of the blow. Presently she would be herself again, would come back to her home and her humble friends with the same modest, affectionate, gentle character as of old. But he would treat her differently; he would gratify her love of the beautiful. She should have books, music, fine furniture, fine clothes. He did not ask himself what all these would be worth without that paramount necessity of the youthful mind--companionship. Alas! the raftsman, bringing up his idol in seclusion, had foolishly and selfishly thought to fix her heart only upon himself; but the little bird had learned to fly and had gone out of the parent nest, fluttering out into the untried world, impelled by the consciousness of wings. CHAPTER IX. A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. "You are rich, Philip!" "Yes, Virginia, or soon shall be." "How like a fairy-story it all sounds." "Or a modern novel." "_We can be happy now, Philip!_" The two young people were leaning over the balustrade of a balcony of the summer residence of Mortimer Moore. The rich moonlight was still permeated with the rosy tinges of sunset; the early dew called out the fragrance of a near meadow in which the grass had been cut that day, and its odors were mingled with the perfumes of roses and lilies in the garden beneath the balcony. It was an hour to intoxicate the souls of the young and loving. If Virginia had been dressing herself for a ball she would not have used more care than she had shown in the simple afternoon toilet she now wore--simple, and yet the result of consummate tact. A single string of pearls looped up the heavy braids of black hair, an Indian muslin robe, in whose folds lurked precious perfumes, floated about her form, the wide, full sleeves falling away from the ivory arms, gave softness to their rounded outlines. A bunch of violets nestled in the semi-transparent fabric where it was gathered over her bosom. The creamy tint of her low, smooth forehead just deepened in her cheek to that faint flush which you see in the heart of a tea-rose; her straight brows, long lashes, and the deep, dark eyes smiling under them, all showed to wonderful advantage in the delicious light. As she uttered the last words, she laid her hand lightly upon Philip's arm, and looked up into his face. He was fully aware, at that moment, of her attractions; a smile, the meaning of which she could not fully fathom, answered her own, as he said: "I _hope_ we can be happy, my fair cousin. I expect to be very much blessed as soon as a slight suspense which I endure is done away with." "Why should you feel suspense, Philip? every thing smiles upon you." "I see _you_ are smiling upon me, my beautiful cousin; and that is a great deal, if not every thing. You always promised to smile upon me, you know, if I ever got gold enough to make it prudent." "It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice, Philip. You know that I have always thought more of you than any one else; and if I would not marry you when poor, it was because I dared not. Now we are equal--in fortune, youth, health. My father is so much better. He was out walking this afternoon; the country air has benefited him. The doctor thinks it may be years before he has another attack. You've been very kind to him, Philip. When our fortunes are joined, we can live almost as we please--as well as I care to live. Won't it be charming?" The tapering white hand slid down upon his own. "Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of Lyons, which the mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to encore. Supposing we change the scene from the Lake of Como to the banks of the Hudson--listen, Virginia! how prettily sentiment sounds in this moonshine: "'A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours. And when night came, amidst the breadthless heavens, We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music of sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth In the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?' Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part?" "Let me see, can I recall it?-- "'Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue; Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly-- Who would not love thee like Virginia?'" "A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought you really meant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice. But-- "'O false one! It is the _prince_ thou lovest, not the _man_.'" "Nay, Philip, like Pauline, I must plead that you wrong me. Already, before my father summoned you, before we heard the whisper of your coming fortune, I had resolved to search you out and take back my cruel resolution--more cruel to myself than to you. I found that I had overrated my powers of endurance--that I did not know my own heart. Dear Philip, will you not forgive me? Remember how I was brought up." Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon his hand. They ought to have melted a stonier susceptibility than his. "Willingly, Virginia. I forgive you from my heart--and more, I thank you for that very refusal which you now regret. If that refusal had not driven me into the wilds of the West, I should never have met my perfect ideal of womanhood. But I have found her there. A woman, a child rather, as beautiful as yourself--as much _more_ beautiful, as love is lovelier than pride; an Eve in innocence, with a soul as crystal as a silver lake; graceful as the breezes and the wild fawns; as loving as love itself; and so ignorant that she does not know the worth of money, and didn't inquire about the settlements when I asked her to marry me. Think of that, Virginia!" "Are you in earnest, Philip?" "I am. I am sorry for your disappointment, my sweet cousin, and hope you have not thrown away any eligible chances while waiting for me. I'm going to-morrow, as fast as steam can carry me, to put an end to that suspense of which I spoke. My little bird is deep in the western forests, looking out for me with those blue eyes of hers, so wistfully, for I promised to be back long ago. Your father's affairs are in a tangled condition, I warn you, Virginia; and you'd better make a good match while you've still the reputation of being an heiress. I've been trying to get my uncle's matters into shape for him; but I'm quite discouraged with the result." "Perhaps that's the reason you have forgotten me so easily, Philip." "I should expect you, my disinterested and very charming cousin, to entertain such a suspicion; but my pretty forester lives in a log-cabin, and has neither jewels nor silk dresses. So, you see, I am not mercenary. _Her_ 'loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament.' She looks better with a wild-rose in her hair than any other lady I ever saw with a wreath of diamonds." "You are in a very generous mood, this evening, Philip Moore. You might at least spare comparisons to the woman you have refused." "I couldn't inflict any wounds upon your _heart_, cousin; for that's nothing but concentrated carbon--it's yet beyond the fusible state, and it's nothing now but a great diamond--very valuable, no doubt, but altogether too icy cold in its sparkle for me." "Go on, sir. My punishment is just, I know. I remember when _you_ were the pleader--yet I was certainly more merciful than you. I tempered my refusal with tears of regret, while you spice yours with pungent little peppery sarcasms." "Don't pull those violets to pieces so, Virginia, I love those flowers; and that's the reason you wore them to-night. If you'd have followed your own taste, you'd have worn japonicas. But, seriously, I must go to-morrow. I have remained away from my business much longer than I should; but I could not desert my uncle in his sickness and difficulties until I saw him better. He was kind to me in my boyhood, he made me much of what I am, and if he did not think me fitted to carry the honors of his family to the next generation, I can still be grateful for what he did do." "You do not give me credit for the change which has come over me--if you did, you could not leave me so coolly. I'm not so bound up in appearances as I was once. Ah, Philip! this old country-house will be intolerably lonely when you are gone." He looked down into the beautiful face trembling with emotion; he had never seen her when she looked so fair as then, because he had never seen her when her feelings were really so deeply touched. The memory of the deep passion he had once felt for her swept back over him, tumultuous as the waves of a sea. Her cheek, wet with tears, and flushed with feeling, pressed against his arm. It was a dangerous hour for the peace of that other young maiden in the far West. Old dreams, old habits, old hopes, old associates, the glittering of the waves of the Hudson, familiar to him from infancy, the scent of the sea-breeze, and the odors of the lilies in the homestead garden, the beautiful face upon his arm which he had watched since it was a babe's rosy face in its cradle,--all these things had power, and were weaving about him a rapid spell. "What does that childish, ignorant young thing know of love, Philip? If some rustic fellow with rosy cheeks, who could not write his own name, had been the first to ask her, she would have said 'Yes' just as prettily as she did to you. But I have been tried--I know others, myself, and you. My judgment and my pride approve my affection. Then the West is no place for a man like you. You used to be ambitious--to plan out high things for your future. I adore ambition in a man. I would not have him sit at my feet day and night, and make no effort to conquer renown. I would have him great, that I might honor his greatness. I would aspire with and for him. You might be a shining light here, Philip, where it is a glory to shine. Why will you throw yourself away upon a rude and uncultivated community? Stay here a week or two longer, and think better of the mode of life you have chosen." The moon hung in the heavens, high and pure, drawing the tides of the ocean, whose sighs they could almost hear; and like the moon, fair and serene, the memory of Alice Wilde hung in the heaven of Philip's heart, calming the earthly tide of passion which beat and murmured in his breast. He remembered that touching assurance of hers that she would sacrifice _herself_ for him, at any time, and he could not think her love was a chance thing, which would have been given to a commoner man just as readily. "I have tarried too long already, Virginia; I must go to-morrow." He did not go on the morrow; for while they stood there upon the balcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came hastily with word, that the master of the house was again stricken down, in his library, as he sat reading the evening paper. He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconscious state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, that this time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician had only left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. The evening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes; Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York, and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning. Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconscious man, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom withering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside, holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hours passed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for some sign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer's eyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air-- "Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you, quite, and I want you to come home." "He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with awe into the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousin nearer to her side. "Don't tell me she is dead--Alice, the pride of my house--not dead!" "Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you do something to relieve him?" "Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, my dear girl, I will help you to bear it." Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tenderness to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to. Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes. "Virginia, is that you? My poor child, I am dying. Nothing can save me now. I leave you alone, no father, no mother, sister, or brother, or husband to care for you when I am gone. Philip, are you here? will you be all these to Virginia? Do not hesitate, do not let pride control you in this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when you asked to be my son; but I see my mistake now. You have been very kind and unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are a man of prudence and honor. I should die content, if I knew Virginia was your wife, if you had not a thousand dollars to call your own. Poor girl! she will have very little, after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Gold is nothing--_happiness_ is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am a witness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and discontented man for years. The memory of my cruelty to my Alice has stood like a specter between me and joy. Choose love--marry for love. Philip is more than worthy of you; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak. Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good care of my last and only child." He had uttered all this in a low voice, rapidly, as if afraid his strength would not last him to say what he wished. Virginia turned to her cousin and seized his hand. "Philip! Philip! can you refuse--can you desert me, too? O father! I shall be alone in this world." "Why do you not promise me, and let me die in peace?" exclaimed the old man with some of that stern command in his voice which had become a part of him; "do you not love my child?" "Not as I did once. At least--but that's no matter. Do not distress yourself, uncle, about Virginia. I will be to her a true and faithful brother. I promise to care for her and share with her as if she were my sister." "If I could see her your wife, my boy, I should feel repaid for all I have done for you, since you were thrown upon my hands, an orphan and friendless, as my child will soon be. Send for the priest, children, and make it sure." Philip was silent; his cousin, too, was silent and trembling. "Don't you see I'm going?--do you want to let me die unsatisfied?"--the querulous voice was weak and sinking. "I promise to be a brother to Virginia--to care for her as if she were my own, uncle. Is not that enough?" "No--no--no!" fretted the dying man, who, having been unreasonable and exacting all his life, could not change his nature at the hour of death. Distressed and uncertain what to do, tempted by the force of circumstances, Philip wavered; but the moment when his promise would have given his uncle any satisfaction had passed--the awful change was upon his face, the sweat upon his brow, the rattle in his throat. "O, my father!" sobbed Virginia, sinking upon her knees and flinging her arms over the heart which had ceased to beat. The gray morning broke over her as she wept wildly beside the bed. Philip was obliged to draw her away from the room by force, while others came to attend upon the dead. To see her so given up to grief, so desolate, with no one but himself to whom she could turn, touched him with pity and tenderness. "Weep, if you will, poor girl, it will be better than choking back all those tears. Weep in my arms, for I am your brother now," he said, very gently, as he seated her upon a sofa and drew her head to his shoulder, soothing her and quieting her excess of emotion, until, from fatigue and exhaustion, she dropped asleep on his bosom. "How lovely she is, with her arrogance and vanity all melted away by some real sorrow," he thought, as he laid her carefully upon the pillow, and went out to give directions to the disturbed household. During the next week Philip made himself of use to all, overseeing, quietly directing and controlling every thing; and when the funeral was over, the outer excitement subsided, and nothing left but that emptiness and shadow of the house from which the dead has recently been borne, then he had to consult with the orphan girl what should be done for the future. "Will you stay where you are for the summer, while I go back and attend to my affairs at the West? If you will, I can come back again in the autumn, and we can then decide upon some settled plan for the future." "I can stay here, if you think best. But it seems to me as if I shall go wild with fear and loneliness in this great house, with no one but the servants, after you are gone. I don't know _what_ to do, Philip." "Is there no friend of your own sex who would be comfort and company, whom you could invite to stay with you till I come back? You will not wish to go into town this weather. Besides, my dear girl, I must tell you that the town-house will not be long in your hands. When the estate is settled up, this property here, and a small annuity possibly, will be all that I can save for you. Will it not be best for you to break up, dismiss the expensive array of servants, rent your house, and board in some agreeable family?" "Oh, Philip, I don't know. I can't think and I can't decide. I know nothing of business. I wish you to do every thing for me;" her helplessness appealed to him strongly. She could only think of one way with which she should be happy and content; but he did not propose that way. "I can only suggest this, then, for the present: stay where you are now until I go home and arrange matters there. I _must_ go home for a few weeks. In the mean time the affairs of the estate will be closing up. When I return, I will see to them; and when all is settled, if you wish to go to the West with me, you shall go. If I have a home by that time, you shall share it." "How share it, Philip?" He did not reply. He was resolved to see Alice Wilde again, to satisfy himself her character was all he had dreamed it--her love what he hoped; if so, nothing should tempt him from the fulfillment of the sweet promise he had made himself and her--neither gratitude to the dead nor sympathy with the living. CHAPTER X. RECONCILIATION. Alice Wilde had been taught by her father to "read, write, and cipher," and was not ignorant of the rudiments of some of the sciences; for, curiously enough, considering surrounding circumstances, there was quite a little library of books at the cabin-home, and some old-fashioned school-books among the number. If, when she first went into the seminary at Center City, some of the young ladies were disposed to ridicule her extreme ignorance upon some matters, they would be surprised by superior knowledge upon others; and finally were content to let her assert her own individuality, and be, what she was--a puzzle; a charming puzzle, too, for her kindness and sweetness made her beauty so irresistible that they could look upon it without envy. Another thing which helped her along both with teachers and pupils was the excellence of her wardrobe and her lavish supply of pocket-money, for it is tolerably well known that the glitter of gold conceals a great many blemishes. Before the first term was over she was the praise, the wonder, and the pet of the school; flying rumors of her great beauty and her romantic "belongings" having even winged their way over the pickets which sentineled the seminary grounds, and wandered into the city. The evening that Philip Moore reached home, after his eastern journey, chanced to be the same as that upon which the seminary began its annual exhibition, previous to closing for the long August holiday. He would not have thought of attending any thing so tiresome; but, taking tea with his partner, whose pretty wife was going and urged him to accompany them, he was persuaded against his inclination. "As you are already spoken of for mayor, Raymond, and as I am one of the city fathers, I suppose we must show a becoming interest in all the various 'institutions' which do honor to our rising town," laughed Philip, as he consented to attend with his friends. "It will be very encouraging, especially to the young ladies, to see your wise and venerable countenance beaming upon them," remarked Raymond. "But really, Mr. Moore, there's somebody there worth seeing, I'm told--somebody quite above the average of blue-ribbon and white-muslin beauty. I've heard all kinds of romantic stories about her, but I haven't seen her yet," chatted the young wife. "She's the daughter of a fisherman, I believe, who's grown enormously rich selling salmon and white-fish, and who's very proud of her. Or else she's an Indian princess whose father dug up a crock of buried gold--or something out of the common way, nobody knows just what." Philip's heart gave a great bound. "Could it be?" he asked himself. "No--hardly--and yet"--he was now as anxious to be "bored" by the stupid exhibition as he had hitherto been to escape it. They took seats early in the hall, and had leisure to look about them. Philip bowed to acquaintances here and there. After a time he began to feel unpleasantly conscious of some spell fastening upon him--some other influence than his own will magnetizing his thoughts and movements, until he was compelled to look toward a remote part of the room, where, in the shadow of a pillar, he saw two burning eyes fixed upon him. The face was so much in the shade that he could not distinguish it for some time; but the eyes, glowing and steady as those of a rattlesnake, seemed to pierce him through and transfix him. He looked away, and tried to appear indifferent, yet his own eyes would keep wandering back to those singular and disagreeable ones. At last he made out the face: it was that of the young man who had brought him down from Wilde's mill the last autumn. What was Ben Perkins doing in such a place as this? He began to feel certain who the mysterious pupil was. "She has thought to please and surprise me," he mused; "yet I believe I would rather she would have kept herself just as unsophisticated as she was, until she learned the world under _my_ tutelage." Young ladies came on to the stage, there was music and reading--but Philip was deaf, for _she_ was not amid the graceful throng. At last she came. His own timid wild-flower, his fawn of the forest, stole out into the presence of all those eyes. A murmur of admiration could be heard throughout the hall. She blushed, yet she was self-possessed. Philip gazed at her in astonishment. Her dress, of the richest blue silk, the flowers on her breast and in her hair, the bow, the step, the little personal adornments, were all _a la mode_. His woodland sylph had been transformed into a modern young lady. He was almost displeased--and yet she was so supremely fair, such a queen amid the others, that she looked more lovely than ever. He wondered if everybody had been teaching her how beautiful she was. There was nothing of coquetry or vanity in her looks--but a pride, cold and starry, which was entirely new to her. He turned to look at Ben Perkins, who had leaned forward into the light so that his face was plainly visible; and the suspicions he had often entertained that the youth loved Alice were confirmed by his expression at that moment. "Poor boy! how can he help it?" thought the proud and happy gentleman, regarding the untaught lumberman with a kind of generous compassion. He now saw that Mr. Wilde was sitting by Ben's side, his heart and eyes also fixed upon the stage. "I've seen that face before," whispered Mr. Raymond; "where was it? Ah, I remember it well, now. I can tell you who she is, Philip. She's the daughter of Captain Wilde, that queer customer of ours, who hails from the upper country. She's a glorious, remarkable girl! By the way, Phil., did you flirt with her? Because I've a message for you. Capt. Wilde told me to inform you that if you ever set foot on his premises again he should consider himself at liberty to shoot you." "Flirt with her! let me tell you, Raymond, I'm engaged to her, and intend to marry her just as soon as I can persuade her to set a day. I love her as deeply as I honor her. There's something gone wrong, somewhere, or her father would not have left such word--he's a stern, high-tempered man, but he does not threaten lightly. They could not have received my letters." "I presume I made part of the mischief myself," confessed Raymond, "for almost the first thing I told them when they entered my store this spring, was, that you had gone off to marry your elegant cousin. You needn't look so provoked, Phil.; I told them in good faith. You used to love Virginia in the days when you confided in me; and if you'd have kept up your confidence, as you should, I would have been posted, and could have given your friends all the information they were in search of. Don't you see 'twas your own fault?" "I suppose it was," replied Philip, with a smile, but still feeling uneasy, and oh, how intensely anxious to get where he could whisper explanations to the heart, which he now saw, had suffered more in his absence than he could have dreamed. Henceforth his eyes were fixed only upon Alice. Soon she perceived him; as their eyes met, she grew pale for a moment, and then went on with her part more calmly than ever. To him, it seemed as if they both were acting a part; as if they had no business in that hour, to be anywhere but by each other's side; he did not even know what share she had in the performances, except that once she sung, and her voice, full, sweet, melancholy, the expression of the love-song she was singing, seemed to be asking of him why he had been so cruel to her. The two hours of the exercises dragged by. The people arose to go; Philip crowded forward toward the stage, but Alice had disappeared. He lingered, and presently, when she thought the hall was vacated, she came back to see if her father had waited to speak with her. He was there; other parties were scattered about, relatives of the pupils, who wished to speak with them or congratulate them. She did not see him, but hurried down the aisle to where her father and Ben were standing. She looked pale and fatigued--all the pride had gone out of her air as the color had gone out of her cheek. "Alice! dear Alice!" exclaimed Philip, pressing to her side, just as she reached her father. Instantly she turned toward him with haughty calmness. "Mr. Moore. Allow me to congratulate you. Was that your bride sitting by your side during the exercises." "That was Mrs. Raymond, my partner's wife. But what a strange question for _you_ to ask, Alice. I supposed _you_ had consented to take that name, if ever any one. Mr. Wilde, I received your message through Mr. Raymond, but I knew you were once too sincere a friend of mine, and are always too honorable a man, to refuse me a chance of explanation." "Say your say," was the raftsman's curt reply. "You need not speak one word, Philip. It is I who ought to beg _your_ forgiveness, that I have wronged you by doubting you. Love--oh, love, should never doubt--never be deceived!" exclaimed Alice. "It would have taken much to have disturbed my faith in you, Alice." "Because I had every motive for loving you; while you--you had pride, prejudice, rank, fashion, every thing to struggle against in choosing me." "Indeed!" cried Philip. "Yes, every thing, to be sure!" and he cast such an expressive glance over her youthful loveliness that she blushed with the delicious consciousness of her own charms. "Old, ugly, awkward, and ignorant, how ashamed I shall be of my wife!" "But, Philip!" her tearful eyes, with the smiles flashing through them, made the rest of her excuses for her. Holding her hand, which was all the caress the presence of strangers would permit, Philip turned to the raftsman. "I asked you for your daughter's hand, in the letter which I sent you on the return of the young man who brought me from your home, last autumn, since your sudden change of plans prevented my asking you in person. I have not yet had your answer." When he said "letter" Alice's eyes turned to Ben, who had been standing within hearing all this time; he met her questioning look now with one of stubborn despair. "You gave us no letters, Ben." Philip also turned, and the angry blood rushed into his face. "Did you not deliver the letters I sent by you, young man?" "Ha! ha! ha! no, by thunder, I didn't! Did you think a man was such a fool as to help put the halter round his own neck? I didn't give the letters, but I told all the lies I could to hurt you, Philip Moore. You ought to be a dead man now, by good rights. The game's not up yet. Let me tell you that!" and scowling at the party, he strode away into the night. "He ought to be arrested--he is a dangerous fellow," said Mr. Wilde, looking after him uneasily. "I am sorry for him," said Philip, "but that can do him no good." "Look out for him, Philip; you can not be too wary--he will kill you if he gets a chance. Oh, how much trouble that desperate boy has given me. I can not be happy while I know he is about." "Thar', thar', child, don't you go to getting nervous again. We'll take care of Ben. Don't you trouble your head about him." "If you could guess what I have suffered this winter past," whispered Alice, pressing closer to her lover. "My poor little forest-fawn," he murmured. "But we must stop talking here; eavesdroppers are gathering about. I suppose this ogre of a seminary will shut you up to-night; but where shall I see you to-morrow, and how early? I have yet to explain my absence to you and your father--and I'm eager, oh, so eager to talk of the future as well as the past." "Meet us at the Hotel Washington, at my room," replied Mr. Wilde, speaking for her. "We will be there at nine o'clock in the morning. And now good-night, puss. You did bravely to-night. I'm going to see Philip safe home, so you needn't dream of accidents." Alice kissed her father good-night. That she wanted to kiss his companion too, and that he wanted to have her, was evident from the lingering looks of both; but people were looking askance at them, and their reluctant hands were obliged to part. That night the store of Raymond & Moore was discovered to be on fire; the flames were making rapid headway when the alarm was given; it was the hour of night when sleep is soundest, but the alarm spread, and persons were thundering at the door and windows in two minutes. "Does any one sleep in the store?" shouted one. "Yes! yes! young Moore himself--he has a room at the back." "Why don't he come out then? He'll be burned alive. Burst in the doors. Let us see what has happened him." "The fire seems to come from that part of the building. He will surely perish." The crowd shouted, screamed, battered the doors in wild excitement--some ran round to the back, and a ladder was placed at the window of his room, which was in the second story. Light shone from that room. David Wilde, whose hotel was not far distant, mingling with others who rushed out at the alarm, as is the custom in provincial towns, was the first to place his foot upon the ladder; his strength was great, and he broke in the sash with a stroke of his fist, leaped into the building, appearing in a moment with the young man, whom he handed down to the firemen clambering up the ladder after him. "He's nigh about suffocated with the smoke--that's all. Dash water on him, and he'll be all right presently," he cried to those who pressed about. "It's that Ben, I know--cuss me, if I don't believe the boy's crazy," he muttered to himself. Philip soon shook off the stupor which had so nearly resulted in the most horrible of deaths, and was able to help others in rescuing his property. The fire was got under without much loss to the building, though its contents suffered from smoke and water. The young firm was not discouraged by this, as all loss was covered by insurance; they had the promise of a busy time "getting to rights" again, but that was the worst. It was apparent, upon examination, that the fire was the work of an incendiary; Philip felt, in his heart, what the guilty intention was, and shuddered at his narrow escape. It was decided by him and Mr. Wilde to put the authorities upon the proper track; but the perpetrator had fled, and no clue could be got to him in the city. Mr. Wilde at once suspected he had gone up the river, and feeling that they should have no peace until he was apprehended, and not knowing what mischief he might do at the mill, he took the sheriff with him and started for home, leaving Alice, for the present, at the school, with permission of the principal to see her friends when she chose, as it was now vacation. Before he left there was a long consultation between the three--Philip, Alice, and her father. Philip explained his absence. As he went on to speak of Mortimer Moore and his daughter, of his death, the troubled state of the family affairs, etc., the raftsman betrayed a keener interest than his connection with those affairs would seem to warrant. "Poor Virginia! she is all alone, and she is your cousin, Philip," said Alice. "She tried hard to get back her old power over me, Alice. You must beware how you compassionate her too much. But when we are married, and have a home of our own, we will share it with her, if you consent. I've no doubt she can find somebody worthy of her, even in this savage West, as she thinks it. And, by the way, I think we ought to get a home of our own as soon as possible, in order to have a shelter to offer my cousin--don't you, Alice?" "She's tongue-tied. Girls always lose their tongues when they need 'em the most." "Now, father, I should think you might answer for me," said Alice, trying to raise her eyes, but blushes and confusion would get the better of her, and she took refuge in her father's lap. "Well, puss, I s'pose you want to go to school five or six years yet--tell him you've made your cacklations to keep in school till you're twenty-two." "School! I'll be your teacher," said Philip. "Choose for yourself, puss. I s'pose the sooner you shake off yer old father, the better you'll like it." "I shan't shake you off, father. Neither shall I leave you alone up there in the woods. That matter must be settled at the start. I shall never marry, father, to desert you, or be an ungrateful child." "Suppose we arrange it this way then. We will live with your father in the summer, and he shall live with us in the winter. I don't want a prettier place than Wilde's mill to spend my summers in." "Oh, that will be delightful," exclaimed the young girl; and then she blushed more deeply than ever at having betrayed her pleasure. "Then don't keep me in suspense any longer, but tell me if you will get ready to go back to New York with me in the latter part of September. We will be gone but a few weeks, and can be settled in the new mansion I've given orders for, before the winter is here. Shall it be so?" "Say 'yes,' cubbie, and done with it, as long as you don't intend to say 'no.' I see she wants to say 'yes,' Mr. Moore, and since it's got to be, the sooner the suspense is over, the better I'll like it;" and with a great sigh, the raftsman kissed the forehead of his child and put her hand in that of Philip. With that act he had given away to another the most cherished of his possessions. But children never realize the pang which rends the parent heart, when they leave the parent nest and fly to new bowers. "All I shall be good for now, will be to keep you in spending-money, I s'pose. You're going to marry a fashionable young man, you know, cubbie, and he'll want you tricked out in the last style. How much can you spend before I get back?" and he pulled his leather money-bag out of his pocket. "I haven't the least idea, father." "Sure enough, you haven't. You'll have to keep count of the dollars, when you get her, Mr. Moore; for never having been indulged in the pastime of her sex, going a-shopping, she won't know whether she ought to spend ten dollars or a hundred. Like as not, she'll get a passion for the pretty amusement, to pay for having been kept back in her infancy. You'd better get some of your women friends to go 'long with you, puss. Here's, then, for the beginning." He poured a handful or more of gold into her lap. "Nay, Mr. Wilde, you need not indulge her in any thing beyond your means, upon _my_ account, for--although she may have to conform to more modern fashions, as she has already done, since moving among others who do--she will never look so lovely to me in any other dress, as in those quaint, old-fashioned ones she wore when I learned to love her. And Alice, whatever other pretty things you buy or make, I request you to be married in a costume made precisely like that you wore last summer--will you?" The raftsman heard, two or three times, on his way up the river, from boatmen whom he hailed, of Ben's having been seen only a little way ahead of him, and he, with the sheriff, had little doubt but they should capture him immediately upon their arrival at Wilde's mill. But upon reaching their destination they could not find him. The men had seen him hovering about the mill, and Pallas had given him his dinner only a few hours before, when he came to the house, looking, as she said, "like a hungry wild beas', snatching what I give him and trotting off to de woods agin." Help was summoned from the mill and the woods scoured; but no farther trace of the fugitive could be discovered. They kept up the search for a week, when the sheriff was obliged to return. David Wilde wished to believe, with the officer, that Ben had fled the country and gone off to distant parts; but he could not persuade himself to that effect. He still felt as if the unseen enemy was somewhere near. However, nothing further could be done; so cautioning the house-servants to keep a good watch over the premises, and the mill-hands to see that the property was not fired at night, or other mischief done, he returned for his daughter. "Give Pallas this new dress to be made up for the occasion, and tell her to be swift in her preparations, for the time is short. It will be a month, Alice, before I see you again--a whole, long month--and then I hope for no more partings. I shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Raymond to the wedding, with your permission," said Philip, with other parting words, which being whispered we can not relate, as he placed her on the sail-boat, well laden down with boxes and bales containing the necessary "dry-goods and groceries" for the fete. "We'll charter a steam-tug next time," growled the raftsman, looking about him on the various parcels. CHAPTER XI. A MEETING IN THE WOODS. Pallas was in "her elements." There's nothing a genuine cook likes so well as to be given _carte blanche_ for a wedding. If the Wildes had invited a hundred guests to stop with them a fortnight, she would hardly have increased the measure of her preparations. No wonder the old soul was happy in the prospect of the really excellent match her darling was to make, as well as in the promise that she was to go with her and take the culinary department of the new household under her charge. "We's goin' to lib soon whar' de clo'es massa gives us 'll do us some good, Saturn. We can go to meetin' once more like 'spectable colored quality should. An' de house 'll be bran new, and I'm to keep de keys of all de closets myself--and young missus will set at de head ob de table, wid plenty of silber, as my missuses have allers done. An' you'll have to have some pride about you, and get ober bein' so sleepy. Nebber hear nor see any ting so cur'us as we goin' back into dat berry family. Now, Saturn, don't you let me cotch you cookin' or eatin' a single egg, 'cause I want 'em all for cake. Masser only brought home twenty dozen, which ain't near enough. I want ebery one dem pullets lays. An' you feed em chickens up good and fat an' dem wild turkeys in de pen. Dis isn't a bad country for a cook, arter all. I've been reck'nin' up, an' I find we can have wild turkey and partridges and salmon and ven'sen and chicken, and masser's brought home ebery ting from de grocery-stores a pusson could ask. Whar's dat citron now? Saturn, has you been in dat citron? Laws, I cotch you in _dat_, you'll nebber forget it! Stop eatin' dem raisins! I declar' to gracious, ef I trus' you to chop a few raisins for me, you eat half of 'em up. Cl'ar out de kitchen--immejetly! I'd rudder get 'long alone." Poor Saturn had to "fly round" more than was agreeable to his temperament; but he contrived to keep up his strength and his spirits upon stolen sweets, and he tried to be excessively useful. "Wall, wall, his arpetite does beat all; he's gettin' ole and childish, my nigger is and I s'pose I mus' humor him a little. His heart is set on de good tings ob dis worl'. I'se 'fraid he'll hate to gib up eatin' and sleepin' when he comes to die. Dar ain't no eatin' and drinkin' _thar_, Saturn; no marryin' nor givin' in marriage." "Wha' for? is eatin' wicked, Pallas?" "Not on dis yearth, where it is a necessary evil. But _dar_--dar's better tings. We'll sing dar, Saturn," she continued, anxious to rekindle the religious ardor which she was fearful of cooling by her picture of the purely spiritual pleasures of the next world. "We'll set under de tree ob life, by side de beautiful ribber, and sing all de hymns and psalms;" and she struck up, in a voice of rich melody, "O Canaan, my happy home, Oh, how I long for thee!" while her husband joined in the strain with equal fervor. Alice loved to hear them singing at their work; not only because of their musical voices, but the enthusiasm, the joy and expectation swelling through them, awakened her own young soul to hope and prayer. A happier face than hers, as she sat in the little parlor, sewing upon the wedding-garments, it would be difficult to find--a kind of intense radiance from the utter content and love within shone through her features. When a young girl is about to marry the man she loves, with the full approval of her judgment and conscience, the consent of parents and friends, when her heart is full of hopes, when she blushes in solitude at her own happy thoughts, as she sits quietly sewing upon rich and delicate fabrics which are to enhance her beauty in _his_ eyes, then she experiences the most blessed portion of her life. The sunshine of promise rested upon the house. All its delightful activity was pervaded by thrilling anticipations. And yet there was a shadow--a light shadow, which at times would darken and again entirely disappear. It was the dread of Ben. The men at the mill reported having caught glimpses of some one whom they were quite sure was him, at different times, in different lonely places in the forest. Saturn came in, one day, with the whites of his eyes of frightful circumference, averring that a ghost had run after him in the woods. What could be the purpose of a person thus hovering about in concealment? surely nothing good. Alice was not herself, personally, much afraid. She did not think Ben would harm her, but she felt that he was hanging about, that his eyes watched every preparation, that he would know when Philip came, and she was afraid he would have another opportunity to attempt his life. The courage which would not quail on the battle-field will fail before a secret and unknown evil. Even the raftsman, brave and powerful as he was, felt that uneasiness which springs from such a source. Many a time he went out with his rifle on his shoulder, resolved that if he met with the wretched and desperate youth, he would deal with him severely. His search was always in vain. Alice gave up all her rambles, much as she longed to get again into the heart of the whispering pine-forest. One afternoon, when her father was at the mill, and Pallas, as usual, busy in the kitchen, as she sat sewing and singing to herself in a low voice, the bright room suddenly grew dark, and looking up at the open window, she saw Ben standing there gazing at her. If she had not known of his vicinity, she would not have recognized him at the first glance; his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and tangled, his clothing soiled and worn. "Don't scream!" he begged, as he saw that she perceived him, in a voice so hollow that it checked the cry rising to her lips. "I ain't going to harm you. I wouldn't harm a hair of your head--not to save the neck yer so anxious to see hanging from the gallows. I know where your father is, and I just crept up to have a look at you. You look happy and content, Alice Wilde. See me! how do you like your work?" "It is _not_ my work, Ben, and you know it. Do not blame me. I pity you; I pray for you. But do go away from here--do go! I would rather you would harm me than to harm those I love. Oh, if you really care for me, go away from this spot--leave me to my happiness, and try and be happy yourself. Be a man. Go, Ben--let us alone. If you do _not_ go, you will certainly be taken by others, and perhaps punished." "Catch a weasel asleep, but you can't catch me. You may put twenty men on the watch. How pleasant it must be for you to sit here making your weddin'-clothes; I think of it nights, as I lay on the hemlock boughs, with my eyes wide open, staring up at the stars. What's that song I used to like to hear you sing so well, Alice? "'They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by the fire-fly lamp, She paddles her light canoe.'" The maiden shuddered to her heart's core as his voice rose wild and mournful in the sweet tune to which the ballad was set, "Ha! ha! Alice, it's the same little canoe that you used to come up to the mill in so often, in those pleasant old times-- "'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.'" Alice seemed to be listening to her own dirge; "'Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds-- His path was rugged and sore: Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before!'"-- and with an unearthly shriek he bounded away through the garden and into the woods, leaving Alice so overcome, that Pallas, who had been attracted to the door by the strange voice, brought her the "camfire" bottle to restore her. "He's a ravin' maniac, that poor boy is, my chile. He ought to be cotch'd and put in de 'sylum at onct 'fore harm's done. Mercy, chile, I was jus' goin' to take down de rifle to 'fend my pickaninny. I was 'fraid he'd t'ar you all to pieces, like a ragin' wild beas'." "You wouldn't have had courage to fire, would you? I'm sure I shouldn't." "In course I should have had courage. S'pose I'd stan' by and see my chile toted off into the woods by a madman? Tush! even a hen'll fight for her chickens. Ef I hadn't a rifle, I'd spring on 'em, tooth and nail, ef he laid a hand on my chile;" and the old negro woman breathed hard, holding herself erect, and looking so determined, that she inspired courage in the one who regarded her. "Then I shall choose you for my body-guard," said Alice, "for I begin to feel like a poor little chick in a big field, with an unseen hawk in the air which might pounce on it at any time. Oh, Pallas, didn't he look fearful?" "Awful, missus, awful! We can't be too kerful of a fanatick--and poor Ben's got to be one, sure 'nuff. Poor Ben! a year ago he was as merry a young pusson as dese yere ole eyes car' for to see; and so willin' and kind, allers lookin' out to do a little sarvice, bringin' us game and berries, and makin' us furnitur' and fixin's about de house,--ready to work all day, jus' to hab you say, 'Tank you, Ben,' or gib him one smile. I jes' wish dis weddin' was safe ober. I has a sense as suthin' is goin' to happen. And you know, chile, when ole Pallas has a sense, it allers comes to suthin'." "Don't tell me of it, if you have, Pallas, for I'm nervous enough already. There comes father now. I feel safe when he is near." Upon hearing her account of Ben's looks and words, the raftsman resolved more firmly than ever to take him into custody if possible. Leaving Pallas, who was a better man than her husband, with a double-barreled gun, to defend the house, if necessary, in their absence, he summoned his full force and hunted the woods for twenty-four hours without success. He then stationed two men in the outskirts, in view of the house, to be relieved every eight hours by two others, and to keep up the watch, on double wages, day and night, till the enemy was taken or the wedding over. On the third day of his watch, one of the men, while standing by the garden-fence, eating his lunch, his rifle leaning against the rails beside him, was suddenly knocked down, and by the time he got upon his feet again, he saw Ben Perkins vanishing into the forest with the weapon on his shoulder. The news of this mishap was any thing but encouraging, for the chances of his doing mischief were increased tenfold by the fact of his having possession of a loaded gun. Yet Alice sung and sewed, praying silently to Heaven that all might be well, and, happy in the faith and hope of youth, went on with her preparations; and Pallas finished shelves full of frosted cake and other niceties; and Saturn hewed wood and brought water, receiving his reward as he went, from his wife's benevolent hand; and Mr. Wilde was alert and vigilant, ready for all emergencies. It was now near the middle of September; the blackberries were gone; and the grapes were yet green and unpalatable. Pallas was in want of wild-plums to pickle, and of wild-mint to flavor some of the dressings for dishes yet to be cooked. She set forth into the woods, having no occasion for personal fears, and not finding what she desired, wandered further into their depths than she had intended. Suddenly she started, with a--"Hi! hi! what's this?" "If you've any thing in that basket a starving man can eat, give it to me." It was Ben Perkins who spoke, from behind a fallen tree, where he was crouching, lifting his emaciated face to her view. "I hab nothin' at all; and ef I had, why should I gib it to you, when you'se makin' us all de trouble you can?" "You've turned against me, too, Aunt Pallas," he said, in so hopeless a tone, that she paused from her purpose of getting away as fast as she could. "I've done you many favors in days gone by; I've never refused to lend you a helpin' hand, and I've never done nothin' to injure you; but you, too, will try to get me on to the gallows. Go and tell 'em where I am, if you want to. I don't know as I've strength to get away any longer. It's a week sence any thing has passed my lips but a nest full of bird's-eggs I climbed up after yesterday. Say, won't you bring me a piece of bread?" "You go home wid me, and behabe yourself, and you shall hab all de bread you want. Nobody's starving you but yourself." "Ha! ha! you're a cute 'un, ain't you now? I don't think I shall put my foot into that trap." "Well, den, you gib me dat gun what you've got thar'. Gib me dat gun and I'll bring you suthin' to eat, and won't tell where you are." "No--no! you can't come that game." "You doesn't s'pose I'd bring you any ting to eat or help keep you alive, when you're tryin' yer bes' to kill my masser's frien's, do ye? It's _you_ is foolish, Ben. What for you be so bad, so wicked for, Ben? You use to be a nice boy. I like you berry much a year ago. I can't bar' to see you hurtin' yerself so--let alone odders. Come, now, yer gib me back dat gun, an' ac' like a man 'stid of a wil' beas', and I'll do all I can for you, sartain sure, Ben." "Pallas, I tell you, I'm starving. I want somethin' to eat. Let that gun alone. I swear to you, I won't use it on any of your family. I wouldn't hurt a hair of Alice's head--nor her father's. But I want that rifle--it's none of your business why. Won't ye give me suthin' to eat, for the sake of old times, Pallas?" That miserable, hungry, beseeching look--how could she refuse it? "You've acted like a crazy man, Ben, and you've done berry wrong to yourself as well as odders. I can't help you, 'less you promise to do better. Gib me dat gun, and take yer Bible oath you'll never try to hurt him that's to be Miss Alice's husband, an' I'll help you all I can." "Why should I promise not to harm him? hasn't he done all he could to injure me? hadn't I _ought_ to kill him if I can? wouldn't it be right and justifiable for me to take his heart's blood?--as he's taken mine, but in a different way. I was a homeless, poor, hard-workin' young man, with nuthin' but my hands to rely on. I hadn't no education, I hadn't no money, but I loved the captain's daughter--I worshiped her shadow. She'd have been mine--I know she would--if he hadn't come along and got her away from me. He, who had every thing, came and robbed me of the only thing I cared to have. He used his education and his money and his fine ways to steal my only hope. As soon as he come hangin' round I was nuthin'--Miss Alice walked right over me to get in his arms. I tell ye, that man has robbed me and wronged me and murdered me, as it were. I _ought_ to be revenged." "You is wuss den crazy, Ben Perkins; and I'll tell ye de trute, if ye get as mad as fire at me for it. 'Tain't noways likely my missus would eber 'ave taken up wid ye, if Philip Moore had neber seen her. She's a lady, born and bred; she came of a high family--and it was in her blood. She wouldn't neber have taken up wid you. She liked you, and we all liked you; but she wouldn't a married you. You'd no business to 'spect she would. It's you is all de wrong. Den when a young man what is suitable to her comes along, and can't no more help fallin' in love wid her sweet face den you can, when he loves her, and wants to marry her, and she loves him, as she naturally would, you get wicked and ugly, and want to kill him. Fie, man! you _don't_ love her! Ef you did, you couldn't neber break her heart, killing her husband as is to be. What would you gain by it? 'Stid of likin' and pityin' you, she'd shudder to hear your name, and she'd wilt away and die, and you'd be her murderer, well as his. For shame! call dat love? Why, ef you _really_ loved her, you'd try to make her happy, and seein' you couldn't hab her, you'd be glad she got de man she like bes'. You is a bad fellow, Ben Perkins, and you jus' show how lucky it is Miss Alice didn't take up wid you." "_She_ thinks I'm so bad, too, doesn't she?--oh, yes, of course she must; she must hate me, and wish me dead. I know it, but I couldn't help it. Oh, Pallas, tell her not to think too hard of me. I was never well brought up. I'd only my wild passions to guide me. I've done wrong only because my heart was so set upon her. Yet I've struggled against temptation--I've tried to wish she could be happy without me. Tell her, when I was on the river alone with Philip Moore, I might have put him out of the way, but for her sake I wouldn't do it. Often and often as we sat together in that little boat, alone on the water, the devil in my heart set me on to strangle him and throw him overboard, I don't know why I didn't do it, 'ceptin' it seemed as if Alice's eyes was lookin' at me and wouldn't let me do it. One night he was asleep, his head on his arm, and I was bending over him--my hand was on his throat, when _she_ took hold of me and held me back. I seen her as plain as I see you now. She had on a long, white dress, and her hair was streamin' down her shoulders, and her feet was bare. She looked at me _so_--I couldn't stand it; and I made up my mind never to lay hands on that person again. And I felt so much more like a man, I could look her straight in the face agin, when I got back. But I told lies, and tried to get in her good graces. Do you think that was so very bad, under the circumstances, Aunt Pallas? I never meant to do nuthin' worse; but when I seen all my plans knocked in the head, and that person meeting her agin and making up, and she lookin' so like an angel, and so proud and happy, and all of 'em casting scornful eyes on me, the devil broke out again worse 'an ever, and I set fire to Philip Moore's store, hopin' to burn him up; and since then I've been about as desp'rate as a man ever gets to be. Part the time I'm as good as crazy, I think such thoughts out here in the woods alone--and agin I'm quite cool and reflect all over my bad conduct. I'd take it all back, if I could, for _her_ sake;" and he burst out weeping. "Yer poor, mis'able soul, I pity you. But I mus' say you did wrong. 'Tain't too late to repent and be saved. Gib up all dose wil', wicked feelin's, be resigned to de will ob Providence which doesn't allow of your having the girl you happen to love fust. 'Tain't for us to hab all we want in dis yere worl'. 'Tain't for us to revenge our enemies. Chris' says do good to dem dat despitefully use yer. And nobody has used you bad. He says love your enemies. O Ben! Ben! ef, instid of bein' de wicked bein' you has, you had prayed to de Lord Jesus to sabe yer from temptation, and sence yer couldn't be happy in dis life, to make yer good, yer wouldn't be hidin' here in dis state. People has had troubles 'fore yer. Don't tink yer de only one, poor boy. Dar's plenty of tears for Chris' to wipe away on dis yearth." "I don't know nuthin about it. I've never been taught. 'Tain't nateral for a man to love his enemies. I can't do it. But if I thought you'd pity me and pray for me--if I thought Miss Alice would pray for me, I'd give up wicked thoughts, and try to govern myself." "She does pray for yer, Ben, wid all her heart every time she prays. I've seen her cry about yer many time. She'd gib her right hand mos', to hab you good and happy. Masser's sorry for yer, too; he tought so much of you once; but course he can't let you kill his friends. Come, now, Ben, you promise to do right, and I'll stan' by yer tru thick and thin." "Some of the time I'm good, and agin I'm bad. I didn't use to be so. It's only wretchedness has made me so ugly. I don't know how to try to be better." "May I pray for you, Ben?" "Yes--if you want to be such a fool," he said, reluctantly. The good old colored woman went down on her knees there upon the mossy cushion of the earth, pouring out her soul in prayer for the haggard being, who sat, with his chin in his hands, listening to her appeal in his behalf. Tears streamed down her cheeks; the earnestness, the pathos of her sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed to believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt him as a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature--his sobs accompanied her "Amen!" "I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she had finished, "if I wasn't so weak; but when a fellow's fasted a week he ain't none of the bravest. I thank you, though, for your prayer, Aunt Pallas--I'll remember it to my dyin' day. Here's the gun--take it. P'raps if I keep it an hour longer, I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it, while you can get it; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up, I shan't never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make a Christian of me, you mus'n't fool me." "Neither will I," said Pallas; "I'll be back here in an hour wid bread and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat time, to go home wid me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him do as he feels is best wid yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure." She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that means of harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not to break her promise to him, much as she desired that he might be put in safe quarters, and this uncomfortable suspense be done away with. As he had confessed himself so changeable in his moods, she did not rely much upon his present one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying nothing about it, and filling her basket with substantial food, she returned to the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was not there. She waited a few minutes, but he did not come. "I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def," she muttered, setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree. "I'll leave dis here--and now I've kep' my promise I'll go straight home and tell masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech steps as he tinks bes'." She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the raftsman as soon as he came in to tea. When she came to that part of his confession where he spoke of being about to choke Philip, while on the river, Alice turned pale, saying with a shudder--as she recalled one of those visions which haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the journey of her lover with his deadly enemy: "Yes! yes! I did--but it was in a dream. I beheld the skiff gliding along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm under his head, and his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was stooping over him, his face was white as ashes, his teeth were clenched, his hands were creeping toward Philip's throat--I sprang upon him--I held his hands--I drew him back--I screamed--and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into my room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my nightmare, father, don't you recollect?" "Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek, when his servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right down sorry for the lad. And when you are married and out of the way, puss, I'll take him in hand, and try and reclaim him. He'll make a man yet." "He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no good broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doctrines ef he'll only let me, once Miss Alice is 'way," remarked Pallas. Mr. Wilde went to the spot indicated by Pallas--the basket of food had been taken away, but no one was in the vicinity. CHAPTER XII. FAMILY AFFAIRS. It was the day before the wedding. The house was in order, to the full satisfaction of the sable housekeeper. Viands, worthy of the occasion, filled the store-room to overflowing. Philip, with his suite, including the minister who was to officiate, was expected to arrive by supper-time. The last touches were given to the arrangements, and Alice was dressed to receive her guests, by the middle of the afternoon. The motherly heart of her old nurse was so absorbed in her, that she came very near making fatal mistakes in her dressings and sauces. Every five minutes she would leave her work to speak with the restless young creature, who, beautiful with hopes and fears, fluttered from room to room, trying to occupy herself so that her heart would not beat quite so unreasonably. "They are coming!" she cried, at last, having stolen out for the hundredth time to the top of a little knoll which gave her a farther view of the river. How gladly the ripples sparkled, how lightly the winds danced, to her joyous eyes. "Oh, Pallas, they are coming! what shall I do?" and she hid her face on the old woman's bosom, as if flying from what she yet so eagerly expected. "Do, darlin'? oh, my chile, you got to be a woman now; no more little chile to run away and hide. Masser Moore berry proud of his wife dat is to be. Don't make him 'shamed, darlin'." Ashamed of her! mortify Philip! the thought was death to Alice's sensitive spirit. She lifted her head and became calm at once. "There, nursie, I don't feel so startled any more. I think I can meet them, clergyman and all, without flinching." Her father, who had been on the look-out, took a little skiff and went down to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore, as she had done upon the day of Philip's first arrival. A soft rose glowed in either cheek, which was all the outward sign of the inward tumult as she saw her bridegroom sailing near enough to recognize and salute her. She saw in the boat Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, and a young lady whom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman. It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that young lady turned and grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low voice: "I don't wonder you refused _me_, cousin Philip. I did not know such beings existed except in poetry and painting." Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and the new dress sent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny did credit to _her_ "broughten' up," as she saw the manner, quiet, modest, but filled with peculiar grace, with which Alice received her guests. "Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud stranger in hers; "this is my cousin Virginia." "I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kissing her cheek lightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way. Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her manner, touched the affectionate heart of her hostess, who returned her kiss with interest. "For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick--quick! Who be dat comin' up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny? Ef dat ain't little Virginny Moore, growed up, who is it?" "It's Virginny, sure 'nuff!" ejaculated her husband. In the mean time that young lady herself began to look about with quick, inquiring glances; she peered into the raftsman's face anxiously, and again toward the old servants, a perplexed look coming over her face as she neared the house. "You needn't say a word, Miss Virginny--it's us, sartain--Pallas and Saturn, your fadder's people, who had you in our arms ebery day till you was eight year old. You do remember old Pallas, don't you now, honey? My! my! what a han'some, tall girl you is growed--de picture ob your fadder. Yer a Moore tru and tru, Missus. My ole eyes is glad to see you." "Hi! hi! Miss Virginny!" chuckled Saturn, bowing and scraping. "Come 'long and let me get your bunnit off. I want to take a good look at ye, honey. Missus Alice neber was a Moore--she was like _her_ mudder, small and purty and timid-like; but ye's a perfect Moore, Miss Virginny. My! my! I know 'em all, root and branch. I tol' my ole man Masser Philip belonged to our Mooreses, but Masser Wilde he neber let on"--she had the visitor's bonnet off by this time, talking all the time, and oblivious, in her excited state, of the other guests. "Yes, Miss Virginia," said the raftsman, drawing his powerful figure up to its full height, "I am that brother-in-law you have been taught to detest and be ashamed of. You would hardly have come to the wedding, if you had known what poor company you were to get in." All those of the company who knew him looked at him in surprise, for he had dropped his hoosier form of speech and took on the air of a superior man. Virginia looked at him a moment calmly, taking, as it were, an estimate of the mind and heart outside of that athletic frame, and gleaming through those noble though weather-beaten features. "I do not see any thing to be ashamed of," she said, with a smile, giving him her hand, frankly, in a sisterly manner. "I was but a little child, you know, when your connection with our family commenced. Doubtless I have been influenced by what I have heard. If my father wronged you, David Wilde, it is time for you to forgive it--lay up no hard thoughts against the dead." Her lip trembled over the last sentence. "Dear Virginia! is it possible my Alice is to find in you--" "An aunt? yes, Philip,--and you are about to marry your third cousin. It's rather curious, isn't it?" "We'll talk it over after supper," said the host. "Pallas, our guests are hungry. The river breeze sharpens the appetite." Pallas wanted no further hint. Perfectly content that she had the means of satisfying any amount of hunger, she retired, with her subordinate husband, to dish up the feast. "I 'spect I'll spile half dese tings, I'se so flusterated. Did you mind whar' I put dat pepper, Saturn? I declar' I can't say wedder I put it in de gravy or in de coffee. I jes' turn 'round and put it in de _suthin'_ on de stove, wile I was tinkin' how cur'us tings happens. Dear! dear! I put it in de coffee, sure 'nuff, and now dat's all to be trowed away! 'Spect tings won't be fit to eat. Why don' you fly round and grin' more coffee? You is de stupidest nigger!" In spite of small tribulations, however, the supper was served in due season and with due seasoning. Gay conversation prevailed; but Alice, though bright and attentive, felt uneasy. Her glance frequently wandered to the windows and open doors. A certain dark figure had so often started up in unexpected places, and seemed to hover about so when least expected, that she could not be entirely at her ease. It was true that several men were on guard, and that Ben had not been heard of for a week; but he was so sly, so subtle, she felt almost as if he might drop out of the roof or come up out of the earth at any instant. Philip was warned to be on the look-out. He laughed and said he was a match for Ben in a fair fight, and if the other had no fire-arms, he could take care of himself. Long after the rest of the party, fatigued with their journey, had retired for the night, David Wilde, Alice, Philip, and Virginia sat up, talking over the past, present, and future. Alice, who had never known the particulars of her mother's marriage and death, except as she had gathered hints from her old nurse, now listened with tearful eyes to brief explanations of the past. Her father, in his youth, had been a medical student, poor, but possessed of talent--a charity-student, in fact, who, one day had, at the risk of his own life, saved the lovely daughter of Mortimer Moore from the attack of a rabid dog in the street. He had actually choked the ferocious creature to death in his desperate grip. Grateful for the noble and inestimable service, the father invited him to the house to receive a substantial token of his gratitude in the shape of a sum of money sufficient to carry him through his course of study. But the courage, the modesty, the fine address and respectful admiration of her preserver, made a deep impression upon Alice Moore--it was a case of love at first sight upon both sides--they were young and foolish--the father opposed the match with contempt and indignation. His rudeness roused the ire of the proud student; he resolved to marry the woman he loved, in spite of poverty. They fled, accompanied by Pallas, the attendant of the young girl; the father refused to forgive them; and then, when sickness and suffering, untempered by the luxuries of wealth, came upon his delicate wife, the young husband realized what he had done in persuading her away from her home and the habits of her life. If he had first finished his studies and put himself in the way of gaining even a modest living, and she had chosen to share such a lot, he would have done right in following the dictates of his heart. Now he felt that he had been cruelly rash. A year of strange, wild happiness, mixed with sorrow and privation passed, and the wife became a mother. Pallas nursed her with tireless assiduity; her husband, bound to her sick couch, could not exert himself as he might have done alone; they grew desperately poor--he could not see her suffer without humbling his pride, and writing to her father to send _her_, not him, the means necessary to her comfort and recovery. They were coldly denied. Privation somewhat, but care, grief, and trouble more, retarded her recovery,--she fell into a decline, and died in his arms, who swore a great oath over her beloved corpse to forsake a world so unjust, so cruel, so unhappy. Sending a bitter message to her father, he disappeared with their infant child. The old colored nurse, who had also persuaded her husband to accompany them, went with him as foster-mother to the child. They traveled to the far West--much farther in those days than now--and when they first settled where they now were, they were isolated in the wilderness. Mr. Wilde took up his portion of government land. By the time other emigrants had made settlements down the river, he had made enough from it to purchase more. He felled timber with his own hands, and drifted it down to where it was wanted. As years passed, he employed hands, built a mill, and as towns grew up within market-distance, found business increasing upon him. During all this time he had nurtured his spleen against the civilized world; natures strong and wayward like his, are subject to prejudice--and because one haughty old aristocrat had allowed a fair child to perish neglected, he condemned refined society _en masse_. He adopted the conversation and manners, to a great degree, of those by whom he was surrounded. All these things explained to Philip many incongruities in the talk and habits of Mr. Wilde--the possession of books, the knowledge of man--which had hitherto challenged his curiosity. It had been the object of the raftsman to bring up his daughter in strict seclusion from the world he despised; he had not thought of further consequences than to keep her innocent, unselfish, unsuspicious, and free from guile. Chance threw Philip in their way. His frankness, pleasant temper, and sincerity excused his fashionable graces in Mr. Wilde's estimation; more intimate association with him did much to wear away the prejudices he had been heaping up unchallenged for so long; and when it came to the certainty that his daughter must choose between one of the rough and uneducated men around her, or on a man like Philip, he could not conceal from himself that Philip was his choice. "And what do you think brought _me_ out here at this critical moment?" asked Virginia. "I come to throw myself upon Philip's charity--to become a pensioner upon his bounty. Yes, Mr. Wilde, upon closing up my father's estate, there was absolutely nothing left for his only child. He lived up to all that he possessed, hoping, before his poverty became known, that I would make a brilliant match. A fortnight ago my lawyer told me there would be nothing left, but a small annuity from my mother, which they can not touch. It is a sum barely sufficient to dress me plainly--it will not begin to pay my board. So I, unable to bear my discomfiture alone, friendless, sorrowful, thought it less bitter to begin anew among strangers than in the scenes of my former triumph. I came on to beg Philip to find me some little rural school where I might earn my bread and butter in peace, unstung by the coldness of past worshipers. I'll make a good teacher,--don't you think so?--so commanding!" Yet she sighed heavily, despite her attempt at pleasantry. It was easy to be seen that earning her own living would go hard with the accomplished daughter of Mortimer Moore. "But Philip will never let you go away from us, I am sure," said Alice's soft voice, caressingly. "Until she goes to a home of her own," added her cousin, with a mischievous smile. "I wouldn't be guilty of match-making; but I own I had a purpose in asking my friend Irving to stand as groomsman with Virginia. How do you like him, my sweet cousin?--be honest now." "Not as well as I have liked some other man, sir?" "Oh, of course, not yet; but you'll grow to it; and he has no stain upon his escutcheon--he isn't even a flour-merchant or mill-owner." "You haven't told me what he is yet," said Virginia, with a slight show of interest. "He's my book-keeper." "Oh, Philip! you're jesting." "No, indeed, I'm not. He has not a cent, saving his salary; but he's a gentleman and a scholar, and has seen better days." "Well, I like him, anyhow," she remarked, presently. "You ought to encourage him to pay his addresses to you. You could teach school, and he could keep books. You could take a suite of three rooms, and wait upon yourselves. I'll promise to furnish the rooms with dimity, delf, and rag-carpeting." "You are generous, Philip." "And to send you an occasional barrel of flour and load of refuse kindling-wood." "My prospects brighten." "Don't tease the girl," said the raftsman, "she'll do better'n you think for yet. Since my own chick has deserted me for another nest, I don't know but I shall adopt Virginia myself." "I wish you would," and the great black eyes were turned to him with a mournful, lonely look. "Everybody else is so happy and blessed, they do not need me. But I should love to wait upon you, and cheer you, sir." It was a great change which misfortune was working in the spirit of the proud and ambitious girl. Philip, who knew her so well, regarded her present mood with surprise. "Well, well, without joking, I intend to adopt this orphan girl. She's the sister of my own dead wife, and she shall share equally with my little Alice in all that the rough old raftsman has." "Which won't be much, father," said Alice, with a smile, glancing around upon their humble forest home. "Don't be too sure of that, little one. I haven't felled pine logs and sawed lumber for fifteen years to no account. Did you think your two dresses a year, your slippers, and straw-hats had eaten up all the money-bags I brought home with me upon my trips? Here's a check for five thousand dollars, puss, to furnish that new house with; and when Philip gets time to 'tend to it, the cash is ready to put up a steam saw-mill nigh about here, somewhere--the income to be yours. It'll bring you in a nice little bit of pocket-money. And if Virginia concludes to accept that pale-faced book-keeper, thar's an equal sum laid aside for her--and home and money as much as she wants in the mean time. It shan't be said the old raftsman's pretty daughters had no wedding portion." Virginia took his rough hand in her two white ones, and a tear mingled with the kiss which she pressed upon it. CHAPTER XIII. THE TORNADO. When Alice came out of her room dressed for the marriage ceremony she looked quaintly lovely. Old Pallas sobbed as she looked at her, and her father wiped the dimness again and again from his eyes; for it was as if the fair young bride of long ago had come to life. Philip had made it an especial request that she should dress in a costume similar to that she wore when he first loved her; and her father had told her to provide no wedding-robe, as he wished her to wear one of his own choosing. She had been attired in the bridal robe and vail, the high-heeled satin slippers, the long white gloves which had lain so many years in the mysterious trunk. Philip's gift, a bandeau of pearls, shone above a brow not less pure--set in the golden masses of her hair. Virginia laid aside her mourning for that day, appearing in a fleecy muslin robe, as bride-maid, and none the less queenly on account of the simplicity of her dress. Her face had gained an expression of gentleness which added very much to her superb attractions, and which was not unnoticed by her companion in the ceremonies. The words had been said which made the betrothed pair man and wife. A more romantic wedding seldom has occurred than was this, in which wealth and elegance were so intimately combined with the rude simplicity of frontier life. To see those beautiful and richly-dressed ladies flitting in and out the modest house buried in the shadows of the western woods; the luxurious viands of the cook's producing served upon the plainest of delf, to have the delicate and the rough so contrasted, made a pretty and effective picture against the sunshine of that September day. The spirit of the scene was felt and enjoyed by all, even the venerable clergyman--rich voices and gay laughter blent with the murmur of the river--fond, admiring eyes followed every motion of the bride. The bride! where was the bride? She had been standing on the lawn, just in front of the door with Mrs. Raymond, who was saying-- "'Happy is the bride the sun shines on,'" just the previous moment; Mrs. Raymond had run down to the river-bank, and was throwing pebbles in the water. Mr. Wilde, ever apprehensive, ever vigilant, had just missed her, and was turning to inquire of the bridegroom, when a shriek, wild, sharp, agonizing, paralyzed for an instant every faculty of the listeners. "Great God, it is that madman!" burst from the father's lips. Philip and he sprang out-of-doors together, just in time to see her borne into the forest, flung like an infant over the shoulder of her abductor, who was making great leaps along the path with the speed and strength of a panther. The two men appointed as guards were running after him. Mr. Wilde sprang for his rifle--the bridegroom waited for nothing. "Don't shoot!" he shouted to the men; "you will kill the girl!" Philip reached and distanced the men; the raftsman, strong and tall, and accustomed to the woods, passed him even, madly as he exerted himself. "If I only dared to fire," he breathed, between his clenched teeth. "If he would give me just one second's fair and square aim--but my child, she is his shield!" Two or three times the two foremost pursuers came in sight, almost within arm's reach of the terrified girl, crying, "Philip! father!" in such piercing tones of entreaty. "Can not you save me, Philip?" once he was so near, he heard the question distinctly--but the furious creature who grasped her, gave a tremendous whoop and bound, leaping over logs and fallen trees, brooks, and every obstacle with such speed, that his own feet seemed to be loaded with lead, and he to be oppressed with that powerlessness which binds us during terrible dreams. He flew, and yet to his agony of impatience, he seemed to be standing still. "Philip--father--Philip!" How faint, how far away. At length they heard her no more; they had lost the clue--they knew not which way to pursue. The forest grew wilder and denser; it was dim at mid-day under those tall, thick-standing pines; and now the afternoon was wearing toward sunset. "Philip," said the raftsman in a hoarse voice, "we must separate--each man of the party must take a different track. Here is my rifle; I will get another from the men. Use it if you dare--use it, _at all risks_, if that devil seeks to harm her. His strength must give up some time." "Don't despair, father," said the new-made husband, but his own heart was cold in his bosom, and he felt so desperate that he could have turned the rifle upon himself. Not knowing but that he was going farther from instead of nearer to the objects of his search, with every step, he had to pause frequently to listen for some sound to guide him. Wandering on in this wild, unsatisfactory way, his brain growing on fire with horror, suddenly he heard a sharp voice chanting-- "'I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.'" The next moment he came face to face with Ben Perkins--but no Alice was in his arms now, nor was she anywhere in sight. "Fiend! devil! what have you done with my wife?" His eyes shone like coals out of a face as white as ashes, as he confronted his enemy with a look that would have made any sane man tremble; but the wretch before him only stared him vacantly in the face with a mournful smile, continuing to sing-- "'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Her paddle I soon shall hear.'" "Where is she--answer me, devil?" The hand of Philip clutched the lunatic's throat, and with the strength of an anguish as superhuman as the transient power of the other had been, he shook him fiercely as he repeated the question. The madman wilted under his grasp, but as soon as the hold was relaxed, he slid from under it, and sprang away. "'They made her a grave too cold and damp,'" he chanted, darting from tree to tree, as Philip, hopeless of making him tell what he had done with Alice, tried to shoot him down. "He has murdered her," he thought; and getting a momentary chance, he fired, but without effect; Ben climbed a tree, springing from branch to branch like a squirrel, until he reached the top, and like a squirrel, chattering nonsense to himself. "If I had another shot I would put an end to his miserable existence," muttered Philip, turning away to trace, if possible, the track of the man, and find where he had dropped Alice. Soon he came out upon a small, open, elevated space--the river was upon one side, the woods all around. Something strange was in the air--nature seemed to be listening--not a breath rippled the water or made a leaf quiver--he felt hot and suffocated. Despite of all his mental misery, he, too, paused and listened like the elements--his ear caught a far-away murmur. The day had been very warm for that season of the year; it grew, now, oppressive. A low bank of dark clouds lay along the south and west, hanging over the prairie on the opposite side of the stream--it was such a bank of clouds as would seem to threaten rain before midnight; but even while he gazed, a great black column wheeled up from the mass and whirled along the sky with frightful rapidity. The distant murmur grew to a roar, and the roar deepened and increased until it was like the surf-swell of a thousand oceans. Stunned by the tumult, fascinated by the sublime terror of the spectacle, he followed with his gaze the course of the destructive traveler, which flew forward, sweeping down upon the country closer and more close. The air was black--night fell upon every thing--he saw the tornado--holding in its bosom dust, stones, branches of trees, roofs of houses, a dark, whirling mass of objects, which it had caught up as it ran--reach the river, and with an instinct of self-preservation, threw himself flat upon the ground, behind a rock which jutted up near him. He could tell when it smote the forest, for the tremendous roar was pierced through with the snapping, crackling sound of immense trees, broken off like pipe-stems and hurled in a universal crash to the earth. A short time he crouched where he was, held down in fact, pressed, flattened, hurt by the trampling winds; but nothing else struck him, and presently he struggled to his feet. What a spectacle met him, as he looked toward the forest from which he had so lately emerged! A vast and overwhelming ruin, in the midst of which it seemed impossible that any life, animal or vegetable, should have escaped. A desolation, such as poets have pictured as clinging to the "last man," came over the soul of Philip Moore. Where were his friends? where that gay party he had invited from their distant homes to meet this fate? where was Alice, his wife of an hour? His manhood yielded to the blow; he cowered and sobbed like a child. The darkness passed over for a brief time, only to come again with the setting sun, which had sent some lurid gleams of light, like torches to fire the ruin, through the storm, before sinking from sight. A drenching rain fell in torrents, the wind blew chilly and rough. "I will search for her--I will find her, and die beside her mangled remains," murmured Philip, arising and turning toward the forest. The incessant flashes of lightning were his only lamps as he struggled through the intricate mazes of fallen trees. It was a task which despair, not hope, prompted, to toil through rain and wind and darkness, over and under and through splintered trunks and tangled foliage, looking, by the lightning's evanescent glare, for some glimpse of the white bridal robe of his beloved. The hours prolonged themselves into days and weeks to his suffering imagination, and still it was not morning. As if not content with the destruction already wrought, the elements continued to hurl their anger upon the prostrate wilderness; ever and anon the sharp tongue of the lightning would lick up some solitary tree which the wind had left in its hurry; hail cut the fallen foliage, and the rain fell heavily. It was a strange bridal night. Not knowing what moment he might stumble upon the crushed body of some one of his friends, Philip wandered through the storm. He felt more and more as if he were going mad--reason trembled and shuddered at his misfortunes. Two or three times he resolved to dash his brains out against a tree, to prevent himself the misery of going mad and yet living on in those dismal solitudes, till hunger conquered what grief refused to vanquish. Then the lightning would glimmer over some white object, perchance the bark freshly scaled from some shattered trunk, and he would hurry toward it, calling--"Alice!" as once she had called, "Philip," through a less wretched night. It seemed to him that if no other morning began to come before long, the morning of eternity must open its gates upon the world; the strength of the tempest was spent; only fitful gushes of wind swept past; here and there a star looked down hurriedly through the drifting clouds; the solemn roll of the thunder resounded afar, like the drums of an enemy beating a retreat. Exhausted, he sank at the foot of one of those Indian mounds common in western forests. A gleam of the vanishing lightning flickered over the scene. Hardly had it faded into darkness before a voice close to his side whispered his name; a warm hand felt through the night, touching his; a form glowing with life, soft, and tender, albeit its garments were cold and drenched, sank into his outstretched arms. "Yes, Philip, it is I--safe, unhurt. And you--are you uninjured?" He could not answer; his throat was choked with the sweetest tears which ever welled from a man's heart; he could only press her close, close, in the silence of speechless delight. In that hour of reunion they knew not if they had a friend left; but the thought only drew them more near in heart than ever they had or could have been before. Weary and storm-beaten, but filled with a solemn joy, they clasped each other close and sank upon the wet sod, to sleep the sleep of exhaustion, until the morning should dawn upon them to light their search for their friends. CHAPTER XIV. GATHERING TOGETHER. The first ray of morning startled the young couple from their sweet but troubled sleep. "You shiver!" exclaimed Philip, looking at the damp, disordered attire of his wife; "I ought not to have allowed you to fall asleep in those wet garments." "It is but a momentary chill, dear Philip. Oh, let us go and find my father. Certainty will be more endurable than this dreadful suspense." They arose, pursuing their search through the gray dawn which brightened soon into as glorious a September day as ever shone. There was no use in trying to convict Mother Nature of crime and bloodshed; she appeared totally unconscious of the waste and ruin she had spread over the land the previous day. Through the wrecked wilderness they struggled forward, silent, sad, looking in every direction for traces of their friends, and making their way, as correctly as they could discern it, with the river for a guide, toward the home which they expected to find overwhelmed and scattered by the storm. It was four or five hours before they came in sight of the cabin, so toilsome was their course; many times Alice had been obliged to rest, for hunger and fatigue were becoming overpowering, and now Philip had to support her almost entirely, as she clung to his arm. "Take courage, dearest,--there is the house, and standing, as I live!" The storm, sweeping on, had just touched with its scattering edges the house, which was unroofed and the chimney blown down, and otherwise shaken and injured, though not totally demolished. As the two came in sight of it, they perceived old Pallas, sitting on the front step in an attitude of complete despondency, her apron thrown over her face, motionless and silent. She did not hear them nor see them until they stood by her side. "Pallas! what is the news? where is my father?" The old woman flung her apron down with a mingled laugh and groan. "Oh, my chile, my darlin', my pickaninny, is dat you, an' no mistake?" Springing up, she caught her young mistress to her bosom, and holding her there, laughed and sobbed over her together. "Sence I seen you safe agin, and young masser, too, bof of you safe and soun', as I neber 'spected to behold on dis yearth agin, let me go now, 'long wid my ole man--O Lord! let thy serbent depart in peace!" "My father--have you heard from him since the storm?" "No, darlin', not from one single soul, all dis awful night. De ladies dey were wid me till de mornin' broke, den dey set out, cryin' and weepin' and wringin' dere han's, to look for all you who was in de wood. Oh, dis has been a turrible season for a weddin'. I had a sense all de time suthin' was goin' to happen. My poor ole man!" "What's become of him?" asked Philip. "De Lord above alone knows where he be now--oh! oh! He was tuk right up to glory, wid his weddin' garment on. I see him sailin' off, but I couldn't help him. Laws! if missus isn't a goin' to faint dead over." "Give her to me, and get something for her to eat and drink, if you can find it, Pallas. She's worn out." "I've kep' up a fire in de kitchen, which is low, an' not much hurt. I'll spread a bed down dar and lay her down on de floor till I make some right strong tea. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! It's times as make ole Pallas's heart ache. Come 'long wid her, masser--I'll tro a mattress on de floor. Dar, lay her down, I'll hab de tea direckly. Sech sights as I see yesterday is 'nuff to unsettle anybody as sots dar heart on de tings ob dis worl'. When I heard my chile scream, I tought a knife went right tru me--I could n' run, nor do nuthin', I was jes' all weak and trimbling. Dar I stood, lookin' into de woods, wid eberybody out ob sight, when I hear de storm a comin'. First I tought it was de ribber broking loose; I looked round, but _dat_ was jes' as peaceable as a lamb. Here, honey, set up, and drink yer tea. Den I tought de woods on fire, as dey was onct, when dey made sech a roar, but dey wan't. Den I looked up to see if de sky was fallin', which was de fust I saw ob de wind. It war a whirlin' and a roarin' like eber so many tousend, hundred mill-wheels. It look for all de worl' like a big funnel wid water pourin' tru. I was so scart, I run back to de house, hollerin' for my ole man, who was settin' on de fence, lookin' t'odder way. But he didn' hear me. It went right past, holdin' me up agin de wall as ef I war nailed. I seen de air all full ob ebery ting, chickens and pigs and boards and trees, and it tuk my ole man right up off dat fence an' carried him up to de nex' worl'. I see him, wid my own eyes, ridin' off in de chariot ob de wind, way over de woods, way off, off, out ob sight. Oh, missus, when I see him goin' so, I mos' wish I was 'long. I know Saturn was a foolish nigger, and a mighty sleepy-headed. He was n' no use to me much--he was a great cross; but dar neber was a better-hearted husband. He min' me like a chile. And he was so fond of presarbed plums, and such a hand to help 'bout de kitchen--'pears to me I hain't no heart. But laws, what bus'ness I to speak _my_ troubles, and you neber to know where your own fadder is. If masser don't come back, I'll jes' lay down an' die. Poor ole nigger no more use. Dar's Saturn tuk away in de clouds wid his bes' raiment on, as de Bible commands; and neber one moufful ob de weddin' feas' which is standin' on de table, and de rain leaking down upon it--oh! hi! hi!" "Poor Pallas, I'm sorry for you. But, Philip, I must go--I feel stronger now." "No, no, my own darling Alice, you are not fit for further exertion. Remain here in the hands of your nurse. Pallas, I leave my wife to your care. She is in a fever now. Change her clothing and give her hot drinks. I must be off. Keep up heart, dearest, till I get back." He had hastily disposed of a cup of tea and a few mouthful of food, kissed his bride, and was hurrying from the house, to go again into the woods for tidings, when a tumult outside drew all three to the door. Every one of the missing party, except poor old Saturn, whose own case was hopeless, and the raftsman himself, were coming up in a group. Virginia and Mrs. Raymond had encountered them in their search for the clearing, and had led them out of the woods. Mr. Raymond and the clergyman had been together overtaken by the tempest; but it was not so severe where they were, as in that part of the forest reached by Mr. Wilde and Philip. Trees had fallen before and around them, but they had escaped unharmed. Night coming on, and the rain and changed character of the scene bewildering them, they had not been able to make their way out of the woods; and of course had suffered from anxiety, in common with their friends. Their astonishment and joy at beholding the bride and groom in safety were only held in check by the uncertainty which hung about the fate of their host. Not one would enter the house, until that fate was known; taking from Pallas the cakes and cold meat she brought them, they hastened away--all but Alice, who was really too ill from exposure and surpense, to make any further effort. "Yes, you rest yourself, and try to be composed, honey. Ef your dear, good father is really taken away, you hab much to be thankful for, that yer not left unpertected in this bleak worl'. You've a husband dat loves you as his heart's blood--and yer father himself will smile in de heaben above, to tink how glad he is, all was made right, and you with some one to care for you, 'fore he was tooken away. Dar', dar', don't hurt yourself a sobbin' so. I cried all night, and now dese poor ole eyes hab no more tears lef'. When I tought I was lef' all alone--no masser, no missus, no husband--my heart was like a cold stone. I feel better now. Ef masser war here, I could almost rejoice, spite of my 'flictions. I mus' bustle round and get suthin' ready for all dese tired, hungry people to eat, and get dem bed-clo'es dried where de rain beet in. De table sot, jus' as it wos, when I was out here goin' fer to put de coffee on, and herd you scream. My poor ole man. He's gone up, sure, for I saw him go. Saturn 'll neber eat no more woodchuck pie in dis life--hi! hi! Now, now, pickaninny, guess whose comin', and who they're a-bringin'. You needn't jump out of yer skin, chile, if it _is_ yer own father--hurt, too, I'm afraid, by the way he looks." Alice sprang to the door. Philip was lending her father the aid of his strong young arm. Mr. Wilde walked with difficulty, and his arm hung down in a helpless manner. "Oh, father, are you hurt?" "Nothing to speak of--not worth mentioning,--a little bruised, and my left arm broken. Positively, I don't feel a bit of pain, since I see you unharmed, my darling." "But you'll come to a realizing sense of it, by the time we have set it, after its going so long unattended to," said Philip. "If I groan, punish me for it," replied the sturdy raftsman. The broken limb was soon set and splintered, and the friends had time to look in each others' faces, and realize they were altogether and safe. "You have not told us how you escaped so remarkably," said they to Alice. "Not anodder word at presen'," said Pallas, opening the door to the dining-room. "De weddin'-feas' has not been eaten--sech as it is, ye mus' stan' in need of it. 'Tain't what it would have been yesterday,--but I've did my bes' under de circumstances." "Take my place, Philip; I'll lie here on this lounge, and when puss is through, she can feed me." "If missus'll cut up his food, I'll wait on massa." As the declining energies of the party were recruited by the dinner, their spirits rose to something of the hilarity of the previous day;--if it had not been for genuine sympathy with the sorrow of the old servant, mirth would have prevailed in proportion to their past distress. An occasional exclamation, smothered in its birth, told them their host was not quite so easy as he affected to be; but he would let no one pity him, bearing his pain with fortitude. In the center of the table stood the bride's-cake, a snowy pyramid, the triumph of Pallas's skill, wreathed about with garlands. It was fair to look upon, within and without, and sweet to the taste as agreeable to the eyes. "Dar' was de whites of fifty eggs beaten up in dat cake," its maker declared, in an aside to Virginia. "Then I should call it a very egg-spensive and egg-stravagant article," remarked Mr. Raymond, who had heard the assertion. "'Tain't any too nice for de bride it was made fer, masser." "There's a ring in it," said Alice, as she performed the duty of the occasion by cutting the cake. "Who has it?" Everybody took their piece with curiosity, and finally Mr. Irving held up the golden circlet, giving, at the same time, a glance towards Virginia, too expressive to be misunderstood. "You'll be married next, Mr. Irving, and we hold ourselves all invited to the wedding," said Mrs. Raymond. "I hope I may be," replied that gentleman, with a second glance toward the bride-maid; but she was looking to her plate, and did not seem to hear him. Virginia had pursued the art of flirtation too long to abandon it at once. As they lingered over the closing cup of coffee, Alice related the circumstance which had probably saved her life. It seemed she could not endure to dwell upon the terror of her flight in that wild maniac's arms, passing it over as briefly as possible. "When I had given up all hope of rescue, and felt as if actually dying, from the terror of my situation, my abductor suddenly paused, before what seemed to be a small ledge of rock, such as frequently juts out of the ground in these woods, especially near the river. Pushing aside a vine which trailed thickly before it, he thrust me into the mouth of a cave, but instead of following me in, as I expected, he drew the vine carefully over it again, and sprung away, singing,-- "'I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.' "The feeling of exquisite relief which came to me in that moment was quickly superseded by the thought of his speedy return. While I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to get out of sight and hearing, in the hope that I might creep out and elude him, I heard the roar of the approaching tempest. Peering through the foliage, I felt my rocky shelter tremble, and saw the forest fall prostrate. As soon as the first shock was over, I crept out, thinking nothing but of the destruction of my friends. Too distracted to feel any personal fear, I wandered through the storm, I knew not how many hours, until, by the merest chance, a flash of lightning revealed Philip, not four feet away from me." "The first thing you did, I suppose, was to give him a curtain-lecture, for staying out nights," remarked Mr. Raymond. "And now, dear father, I think the roof blew off, and the house blew to pieces almost, and your arm was broken, on purpose to convince you of the necessity of spending your winter with us. It would be foolish to try to make this comfortable again, this fall. Your men can put a roof on, to protect it from the weather, and we'll leave it to its fate." "Since he's disabled and can't defend himself, we'll take him captive," said Philip. "Have it as you like, children, I expect to be led around by apron-strings after this. Next spring, I'll take Virginia, and come back here, and will put up the handsomest mansion that ever graced this river-side--it shall be large enough to accommodate the whole family, present and prospective. _You_ needn't color up, little girl,--I was only thinking of Virginia's future spouse--eh, Virginia,--what's Mr. Irving blushing for?" "I don't know--men should never blush--it's a weakness." "I wish I could be as unmoved as you," he whispered in her ear, for he sat by her side. "It would be more becoming to me than it is to you. Women were made to blush and tremble." "_Were_ they, Mr. Irving, then you'd better leave those things to them, and not be intruding upon their sphere." "Perhaps I shall obey you, Miss Moore," he said, recovering all his coolness. She felt that he was a man not to be trifled with. Sensitive and full of sensibility as he might be, he was not the man to let a woman put her foot on his neck. He might worship the foot, but he would not submit to be trampled upon by it. He would love, truly and deeply, but he must be respected and loved in return. His was just the spirit fitted to take the reins and curb the too headstrong and wilful disposition of Virginia--under the control of a wise and gentle nature like his, her faults might change into virtues. Philip was secretly regarding them, delighted to see how soon he recovered his self-possession, and how quietly he made his companion feel it. He saw that she fretted under it, and finally, giving up, exerted herself to be friendly and agreeable. "They will be well matched. I never saw a better mate for my naughty cousin. I had an idea of it, when I invited him to act as groomsman. She'll be a good while giving up, though." That Virginia would not yield to this new mastership very soon was evident. When they had left the dining-room, and were standing on the portico, Mr. Irving desired to place the ring which had fallen to him upon her finger--but she refused it with considerable hauteur. "I only desired you to wear it for safe-keeping. It's a lady's ring, and I don't know what to do with it. Mrs. Raymond, will you accept it?" He placed it on the finger of the married lady with as pleasant an air, as if it had been accepted where he first offered it. "I had not ought to wear it; give it to some fair maiden." "There is but one, and she will not have it. If there were others, I should certainly offer it. So you see it is chance only that has left it to you." "Well, I'm not very much flattered Mr. Irving--but the ring is just as pretty, and I ought to be thankful to chance." So the ring was lost to Virginia, without the satisfaction of her having annoyed the one who offered it. CHAPTER XV. BEN AND ALICE. "Now that the wedding-feast is disposed of, I must remind you all that there is yet work to be done. I have not heard from the mill; and poor old Saturn must be searched for, as well as that unfortunate young man who has made us so much trouble. It frets me to think I can do nothing. Philip, you must do service in place of my broken arm." The party were making ready to go out again, when two or three men came from the mill, to inquire after the family, and to relate to the captain the story of the vast damage his property had sustained. "Oh, what is de riches of dis worl', masser," said Pallas, as she, too, paused from her work to hear their interesting narrative of wreck and chaos upon every side, with accounts which had reached them from people farther down, where the tornado had made a yet more terrible visitation. "What is de riches of dis worl', when a bref of de Almighty can sweep 'em away like as dey were dust and trash. My ole masser he turn you 'way, 'cause yer had no riches, and your chile-wife, she die of grief; and you come out here and work and work in de wilderness half as long as de chil'en of Israel--and you set your foot down, _you_ will be rich, and your chile shall have much to gib her husband when she got one--and de storm come, and all yer pine-trees is laid low, and yer mill-wheel is broken at de fountain, and your riches pass 'way in de whirlwind." "It's time for me to begin thinking of these things I suppose, Pallas. But, as to my losses--I can stand 'em. My wood-choppers must work briskly this winter, among this fallen timber--and as for the old mill, I think it has gone to pieces to hasten the fulfillment of my plan of erecting a steam-mill in its place. I've worked for Alice, and now I must work for Virginia." "Let us at least," said the clergyman, who was standing by, "be reminded of our duty by this humble colored woman--let us offer up thanks for our wonderful preservation." All knelt, except the disabled raftsman, while the minister offered up a heartfelt thanksgiving, when the party set forth into the tangled forest again. Alice, who had been overcome more by anxiety than by fatigue, was so recruited, that she insisted upon going with Philip. Her familiarity with the woods she thought would enable her to trace the way to the spot where Ben would doubtless be found a corpse; the fact that he was high up in the branches of a tall tree when the tempest struck the spot, making it almost certain that he was destroyed. Two or three foresters, Raymond, and Philip, followed their guide, as she wound through and climbed over matted branches and fallen trunks, pausing occasionally for some trace of the familiar aspect of yesterday. In many places the forest looked actually as if a band of giant reapers had passed that way and mowed down the trees in mighty swaths. Again, when the tornado had taken a more whirling moment, the great trunks would be twisted and snapped off in long splinters, ten or twelve feet from the ground. An overwhelming sense of the terrific power of their unwelcome visitor oppressed them, as they beheld its ravages in the broad daylight. "And yet, dear Philip, it may have been sent by Providence to save me from a fearful fate--or at least, it _did_ save me, and I am grateful--oh, so grateful," whispered the young wife, as Philip assisted her over a huge tree which lay, torn up by the roots, across their path. "It must have been somewhere about here," she said, presently. "I am sure I have no idea of the locality," answered Philip. "Yes! there is the ledge of rock, and the cavern into which he thrust me. Poor Ben! I forgive him all. I hardly dare go on--I am afraid I shall see some dreadful sight;" and she shuddered. "Perhaps you had better rest yourself, while we search this vicinity closely." "Oh, no! I am too nervous to be left alone. I will keep by your side," and she clung to his arm, growing paler every moment, and scarcely daring to look before her. "Hush!" exclaimed one of the foresters, half-an-hour later, turning back toward the young couple who were some distance behind. "Don't let her come near. We've found him; he's dead as a hammer." Alice sat down upon a fallen tree-trunk, faint and trembling. "Stay here, dearest, a few moments. I will come back to you," and Philip went forward with the men to where, amid the ruins of the forest,--Ben lay, a crushed and senseless human thing. He was dreadfully mutilated, and to every appearance dead. They dragged him out from under the heavy branches, and as they did so, a low groan startled them. One of the men sank down and took the head upon his knee. "Where's Alice?" Ben unclosed his eyes, as he asked the question, moving them about from one face to another with a searching glance. "I'm dying--bring her quick. Oh, do bring her, won't you?" The gasping voice was loud and thrilling in the eagerness of its entreaty. Philip turned away and went for his wife. "Do you think you can bear the sight?" "If he wishes to see me, I shall not deny a dying man. He took many a step for me, in his better days--poor boy." Ben seemed to distinguish her footsteps as she drew near. He could not stir, but his eyes turned in that direction. "Are you cryin' for me?" he asked, as she stood by his side, the tears flowing down her cheeks like rain. "It's enough to make a man die happy to see you cryin' for him, Alice." "O Ben! I wish I could help you," she sobbed. "I'm past earthly help, and I'm glad of it. It's the best thing could happen to a used-up fellow like me. I don't blame you for it, Alice, but I'm to blame for things I've done, and I won't ask you to forgive me. My head's been on fire for weeks--I've been in a strange state--I can't recall what I've did or said. Then I got hurt, I don't know how--and when I could think again, that burning pain in my head was gone. I knew I was dyin', and I wanted to see you. I wanted to carry the pictur' of your face to the next world. I shouldn't be ashamed to show it to the angels--if they'll have any thing to do with a poor, ignorant fellow like me, as Pallas said they would. You're married, ain't you?" "She is my wife," said Philip, gently, taking her hand. "It made me crazy to think of it once; but it's over now. Alice, you've my blessin' and my wishes that you may be happy all your life. Forgive me the trouble I've made ye, and may you and him be happy long after the grass grows over poor Ben Perkins." Alice sobbed aloud, and the rough men standing around were grave and silent. The last sentence had been spoken in a whisper, and it was evident that life was ebbing away rapidly. He closed his eyes, and the sweat gathered on the pallid face, but a short time since, rich with the olive and crimson of health and youth. "I shan't be twenty-two till next month," he whispered, with shut eyes. "Put it on my tombstone, and let 'em put on it-- "'Oh, his heart, his heart was broken For the love of Alice Wilde.'" They stood looking at him. "Alice--good-by. Alice--where are you? Alice!" "Here, Ben--here I am;" but she spoke to a corpse. He died with the name of the woman he had loved with all the power of his passionate nature trembling upon his last breath. The next day they buried him in a lovely spot on the bank of the river; and, spite of all his errors and crimes, he was not unwept and not unmourned. Once he had been gay and frank, kind and honest, handsome and merry--and the memory of his good qualities swept away the judgment passed upon his later actions. Poor Saturn's remains were not discovered; and Pallas, with the superstition of her class, was inclined to believe that he had been translated bodily, in the chariot of the wind, to that better world of which they had spoken so much together. It was a pleasant belief, and afforded her great consolation. "He allers was so fond of dressin' and good clo'es; and he'd been taken up in his new suit as if a-purpose to please him. Ef he'd only a partaken of de weddin'-feas', he couldn't hab been better prepared 'an he was. Hi! hi!" It was a picturesque-looking party which sailed away from Wilde's mill one brilliant day in September. "One doesn't see such a bridal-party every day, or take such a bridal tour," remarked Virginia to the groomsman by her side. "It's better than six fashionable weddings, with the usual routine. I used to have a contempt for the romantic--but I'm beginning to like it." Yes, even the aristocratic Virginia, the beautiful metropolitan, began to be infatuated with the romance of the forest. We may yet hear of more remarkable changes than her change of opinion. We may yet see a villa, charming as those which grace our lordly Hudson, rising amid the elms and beeches on the banks of that fairer Western river--for love, beauty, taste, and money can accomplish wonders more surprising than making the wilderness blossom like a rose--and "out West" Aladdin's lamp is no myth. But, for the present, we will leave this picturesque party sailing down this broad, silver river in the purple and gold of an autumn day--leave it to its joyous light, and leave that one new-made grave to its silence and shadow. THE END. THE GOLDEN BELT CHAPTER V. THE CARIB'S PLEDGE. The next day Hernando mounted his charger, and went forth to the forest. Guarcia's flower had withered, though he had kept its stem in crystal water all night. He was impatient to hear her voice again, athirst for the sweet words that told him of her love. As he galloped through the forest, followed by the hounds that had learned to crouch at Guarcia's feet and play lovingly with her fawns, a figure stepped suddenly across his path and seized his horse by the bit. The horse, restive at feeling a strange hand near his head, made an attempt to rear, but the Carib savage drew him back to the earth with a wrench of his strong arm, and, before Hernando could speak, was looking him gravely in his face. "Come with me, stranger, there is a black cloud over this path." "I am used to danger, chief, as some of your tribe may know," said Hernando, smiling, as he touched the hilt of his sword. "Vipers are not killed with weapons like that," answered the chief; "it is with them you have to deal." "Well, what of them? I prefer an open foe, like the warriors of your tribe. You are an enemy to our people, but now and straightforward what other assailant need I fear?" "We are foes to the Spaniard, but not to you. Come, and I will show you the snares which white men lay for each other." "But what if this were itself a snare?" The Indian drew a knife from his belt, and seizing Hernando's hand in his iron grasp, pierced a vein with the point. Applying his lips to the cut, he drew a mouthful of blood and swallowed it. Then dashing one clenched hand against his broad chest, he exclaimed, with vehemence: "The blood of my pale brother flows here. What Carib ever betrayed his own blood?" Hernando knew that this was a sacred pledge, and turning to the Indian, with a smile, bade him lead on. The Indian did not smile, but his eyes broke into a blaze of delight, and, with a gesture, he plunged into the forest. Some four or five miles from the place of the encounter lay a stretch of swampy land, dark and dismal as stagnant water and the slimy growth of swamp vegetation could render it. Many a rough passage and deep gully lay between the broad savannas and this dreary spot; but the savage passed them without halting, and Hernando followed, though his good steed grew restive with the broken path. At last they came out on a precipice which it was impossible that the horse could descend. "Leave your beast here--he will be safe," said the Indian pointing to a footpath which wound like a black serpent down the precipice. Hernando dismounted, tied his horse to a sapling, and prepared to follow his guide on foot. With a step as firm and more rapid than a wild goat's, the savage took to the path. Hernando followed. With a fearless and steady step, they wound their way still on the edge of the precipice, till the moon had risen, and flung her luxuriant gilding upon every object. They now walked more rapidly, and soon took a southern course, and began to descend. Hernando now understood where he was going. The continual and monotonous cries of the frogs, and the tall trees with their long festoons of Spanish moss--which hung over the alluvial bottom, like the curtains of a funeral pall--indicated sufficiently that they were approximating, or had already reached the Cypress Swamp. Many a slimy toad hopped croaking out of their way, as they advanced in the swamps, and the angry scream of some huge "swamp owl," as it flapped its broad wings, and malignantly snapped its bill at them, gave him a hint that it was time to tread warily in the tracks of his guide, or he might suddenly be precipitated headlong into the mud and slime, for they were approaching the interior of the swamp. After walking for some time, till even the Indian, whose knowledge of that country was unlimited, was constrained to step with extreme caution, for fear of sinking into the deceptive mud, they stopped. The scene around bore a terrifying appearance--not one step further could they advance, without being overwhelmed in mud and water. As far as the eye could see, by the imperfect light which penetrated that dismal spot, was but one sickening sight of the green mud and water, where no human foot could tread without sinking ten feet or more, to find death at the bottom. "Look upon that spot," said the savage, pointing with his finger to a pool of stagnant water; it had the appearance of being deep, and a large green frog sat on a broken stump that floated there, with his gray eyes fixed upon them, and with his hind legs drawn under him, as if preparing to leap into their faces. Hernando turned his eyes away from this loathsome sight. "That spot," continued the savage, still pointing toward it--"that spot was to have been my white brother's grave." "What!" exclaimed Hernando, recoiling; "what you say can not be true--who could make that spot my grave? Is this a time for trifling with me, chief?" "It is not, my white brother! I did not bring you here to play with your feelings, but to save your life; you look at me,--you would inquire what interest I have in saving your life. Listen: It was a great many summers ago, when a Carib chief went out to shoot deer; he walked all day--no deer--he sat on a log, tired and hungry; while he sat there, weak and tired, almost asleep, a crouching panther sprang upon him and bore him to the earth; the Carib fought hard, for he was fighting for his life, but he was weak and hungry, and the panther seized him and was bearing him off, when a white man, who heard the noise, came running to the spot. He, drawing his knife like a true warrior, jumped upon the enraged animal's back, and stabbed him to the heart. The Indian was saved. The white man had a warrior's heart--he took from his wallet some provisions, which he gave to his starving brother, and bade him eat, then he walked off. The Carib's heart swelled, and when the pale man had disappeared, he fell upon one knee, and called the Great Spirit to witness, and he swore an oath; he swore in the presence of that mighty Spirit to protect all in whom that pale man's blood flowed." "That man was my father," interrupted Hernando; "I have heard him tell that story many times; and what became of the Carib?" "He stands before you! Now will my pale brother suspect me of playing with his feelings? But stay. The Carib became a great chief in his nation, and sat in the councils of Caonabo. He still hunted in these woods, and as he hunted three suns ago, sounds came to his ears, more terrific than the swamp owl's, for it was not the sound of defiance, but of cowardly murder. Two men advanced; your brother, who did not wish to be seen, stepped behind a tree. It was a big Captain of the fort, and a man whom I have seen taking care of the horses at the fort--a slim-faced Spaniard, with eyes like a snake's; their looks were black, and they talked of murder; your brother understood, for he had learned their language in trading with them; they struck upon the track that we have just passed--what would they in this track, for no game can live here? Your brother followed them cautiously, and the slim one cursed my white brother, because he loved a daughter of the Spaniard whose mother was a Carib princess, and he swore he should be killed, and hid from his comrades in the black heart of the cypress swamp. I left them, and hunted you--here we are!" Hernando was thunderstruck at what he heard; a feeling of horror pervaded his frame, as he looked around on that dismal spot. The tall trees above them bore no other verdure than the rank Spanish moss, which swept the swamp far and wide, and the dark green water, with its thousand loathsome reptiles, was horrible to look upon. "My brother must keep a sharp eye about him--he must play the fox, and if the Spaniards are too strong, send this belt to Orazimbo, and he will find your brother, who will come to your help though he must bring as many warriors as there are leaves on the trees." Hernando took the belt, which glittered richly even in that murky light; for it was a girdle of virgin gold, flexible, from its own purity, with a rivulet of burning opal stones, rough emeralds, and rude gems running through it like a rainbow. READY AUGUST 15TH. BEADLE'S DIME NOVELS, NO. 5.--"THE GOLDEN BELT; OR, THE CARIB'S PLEDGE," COMPLETE. Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Italics are represented with _underscores_. Retained some unusual (presumed archaic) spellings (e.g. "musquitoes"). Page 10, added missing quote after "no older." Page 13, added missing quote after "new clo'es." Page 15, changed "a a watchin'" to "a watchin'" and added missing period after "right away." Page 32, the line "The sun went down in a clear sky; there were no clouds to" appeared several lines above its intended position; it has been moved down. Page 51, changed "your love-cracked" to "you're love-cracked." Page 54, added missing period after "her fears." Page 63, changed "of of thrashing" to "of thrashing." Page 65, changed "somethimg" to "something." Page 88, added missing period after "dis worl'." Page 91, removed extra quote after "sure 'nuff." Page 96, changed period to question mark in "May I pray for you, Ben?" Page 104, changed comma to period after "groomsman with Virginia." Added missing period after "rag-carpeting." Page 105, changed period to question mark after "upon my trips?" Page 113, changed comma to period after "in de wood." Page 124, changed "begining" to "beginning." 
34775	----	THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER [Illustration: The girl caught Joe's arm. "It's going out, Joe! It's going out! Oh, see it pull!"] THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER BY A. M. CHISHOLM ILLUSTRATED GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION TO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY STREET & SMITH ILLUSTRATIONS The girl caught Joe's arm. "It's going out, Joe! It's going out! Oh, see it pull!" Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him ... "I'm so glad to see you, Joe. I've been looking for you for days" Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs "There's the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane's crew before I tell you to, and I'll shut down" I As young Joe Kent entered the office of the Kent Lumber Company at nine o'clock he was conscious of a sudden pause in the morning's work. He felt rather than saw that the eyes of every employee were fixed upon him with an interest he had never before excited. And the quality of this interest, as he felt it, was curiously composite. In it there was a new respect, but mingled with misgivings; a sympathy repressed by the respect; a very dubious weighing of him, a comparison, a sizing up--a sort of mental shake of the head, as if the chances were in favour of his proving decidedly light in the balance; and running through it all was a waiting expectancy, frankly tinged with curiosity. Kent nodded a somewhat embarrassed, comprehensive good morning, and as he did so a thick-set, grizzled man came forward and shook hands. This was Wright, the office and mill manager. "The personal and important mail is on your desk, Mr. Kent," he said. "Later I suppose you will want to go into the details of the business." "I expect Mr. Locke about ten o'clock," Kent replied. "I thought we might have a little talk together then, if you have time." Wright smiled a little sadly. "My time is yours, you know. Just let me know when you want me." Kent opened the door of the private office that had been his father's, stepped in, and shut it. He glanced half expectantly at the big, leather-cushioned revolving chair behind the broad, flat-topped desk on which the morning's mail lay neatly stacked. The chair was empty. It came to him in a keen, stabbing pain that whenever in future he should enter this office which was now his, the chair would be empty--that the big, square, kindly, keen-eyed man whose business throne it had been would sit in it no more. He seated himself at the desk, branded to right and left by countless cigars carelessly laid down, and drew the pile of correspondence to him. The topmost envelope bore no stamp, and as he saw his name upon it in the familiar, bold handwriting, his heart pounded and a lump rose in his throat. The fingers which slid a paper cutter beneath the flap were a trifle unsteady. He read: My Dear Boy: Locke will see that you get this when I have gone out. It is just a little personal note which I like to think you will be glad to read. I am not going to begin by apologizing for the fact that I leave behind me less money than most people, including myself, expected. There will be enough to give you a start and keep you hustling, which will do you no harm. You'll find it easier to hustle now than later. But, nevertheless, a word of explanation is due you. As you grow older you will observe that when the ordinary man acquires a comfortable stack at his own game he is seized with an unaccountable desire to play another man's game, at which he usually loses. It turned out so with me. I know the logging business; but I didn't know, and don't know, the stock market. I lost and I have no kick coming. It serves me right, but it may be a little hard on you. If that Power which put me in this world had seen fit to allow me to remain in it for a few years I would have stuck exclusively to my own last and repaired the damage. As it is I am warned that I must go out inside six months, and may do so at any earlier moment. It is in contemplation of the latter possibility that I write you now. Afterward I intend to go into business details with Locke. You may tie to him and Crooks. They are both white men. Don't be too proud to consult them occasionally. And if they both think one way and you think the other, make up your mind you're wrong. At a rough estimate, setting the present value of my assets against my liabilities, there should be a credit balance of fifty or sixty thousand dollars. That is lumping the whole thing--mills, timber limits, camp equipments, real estate, and so on. If you sold out everything you should get that much clear cash, perhaps more. But I hope you won't sell. For one thing the assets will increase in value. The water powers I own will be worth a fortune some day. And then I want you to carry on the business because I think you'll like it. You'll make mistakes, of course; but in a few years or less I am certain you will have lifted the incumbrances with which my folly has saddled the concern, and you will begin to lay up a competence against the time when your chief regret at leaving this world will be that you must become only a memory to some one whom you love. Preaching isn't my forte, and I am not trying to write a letter which shall be a guide through life under all conceivable conditions. But one or two hints may not be amiss. Such as they are I've bought 'em with my own money and paid mighty dear for some of them. Remember this: Straight business is good business, and crooked business isn't, no matter how much money you make at it. Apart from ethics there's a come-back with it, every time. A very fair test of the rectitude or otherwise of any deal is this: How will it look in print beneath a good scare head? If you don't mind the answer, it's probably all right. If you do, it's apt to be mostly wrong, no matter how expensive a lawyer drew the papers. Be steady. Don't let any man or thing rattle you into unconsidered action. Take your own time; it's just as easy to make other people wait for you as to wait for them, but don't keep them standing. Know as much of other people's business as is consistent with minding your own. When any man offers you a gilt-edged snap, try to figure out why he doesn't keep it all for himself; and if the answer is that he likes you, guess again. If you ever feel that you're beaten and want to quit, make sure that the other fellow isn't feeling worse; one more punch will help you to make sure. Get your fun as you go along. And now and then, Joe, old boy, when the sun is bright on the river and woods and the fish are leaping and the birds are flying and the tang of the open air makes life taste extra good, take time for a thought of him who was your loving father. -- William Kent. Young Kent choked suddenly, put down the letter, and stared out of the window at a landscape which had become very indistinct and misty. Before him lay the silver bosom of the river, checkered with the long, black lines of the booms stretching from shore to anchor-pier, great water corrals for the herds of shaggy, brown logs that were driven down from their native forests every spring. The morning breeze, streaming through the open window, was laden with the clean, penetrating, never-to-be-forgotten odour of newly cut pine. The air was vibrant with the deep hum of distant machinery. The thunderous roll of the log-carriages, the high-pitched whine of the planers, the sharp notes of edgers and trimmers, blended into one grand harmony; and shouting through it at exactly spaced intervals came the sustained, ripping crash of the great saws as their teeth bit into the flesh of some forest giant, bound and prostrate on an iron bed of torment. As he looked and listened, his eyes cleared of mists. For the first time he realized dimly that it was worth while. That the sounds he heard were part of a great song, a Song of Progress; the triumphant, virile song of the newest and greatest of nations, ringing from sea to sea across the breadth of a continent as it built itself, self-sustaining, strong, enduring. And young Joe Kent, standing by the window facing his inheritance, was a fair representative of the average young American who works with his hands or with his head, and more often with both. There was nothing striking about him. He was of medium height, of medium weight, of medium good looks. From the top of his close-clipped brown head to the toes of his polished brown boots he was neat and trim and healthy and sound. Only, looking closer, an accurate observer might have noticed a breadth of shoulder and a depth of chest not apparent at first glance, and a sweep of lean jaw and set of mouth at variance with the frank, boyish good humour of the tanned face and brown eyes. Kent left the window, settled himself in his father's seat with as business-like an air as he could assume, and proceeded to wade through the pile of correspondence. In five minutes he was hopelessly bewildered. It was much less intelligible to him than Greek, for he was beautifully ignorant of the details of his father's business. It had been an understood thing between them that some day, in a year or two--no hurry at all about it--he should enter that office and master the details of that business against the time--how far off it looked then!--when it should devolve upon him to conduct it. But they had both put it off. He was young, just through college. A year of travel was merely a proper adjunct to a not particularly brilliant academic degree. And in the midst of it had come the cablegram summoning him home, where he arrived a scant twenty-four hours before his father's death. And now, William Kent having been laid to rest on the sunny slope where the great, plumed elms whispered messages with every summer breeze to the dead below them, his son was called to con the business ship through unknown waters, without any knowledge of navigation or even of ordinary seamanship. The letters which he scanned, reading the words but not getting the sense because he had not the remotest idea of what they were about, were for the most part exceedingly terse and business-like. They were the morning cream of the correspondence, skimmed from the mass by the practised hand of Wright, the manager; letters which, in the ordinary course of business, go direct to the head of the house to be passed upon. But in this case the head of the house had rather vaguer ideas than his office boy as to how they should be handled. They dealt with timber berths, with logs, with lumber, with contracts made and to be made; in fact with almost everything that Joe Kent knew nothing about and with nothing that he knew anything about. And so, in utter despair, he was on the point of summoning Wright to elucidate matters when, after an emphatic rap, the door opened, admitting a burly, red-faced man of fifty. This was Locke. He had the appearance of a prosperous farmer, and he was an exceedingly busy lawyer, with the reputation of a relentless fighter when once he took a case. He had been William Kent's friend as well as his legal adviser. "Well, Joe," said he, "getting into harness already?" "I can get into it easy enough," Joe replied; "but it's a lot too big for me." Locke nodded. "You'll grow. When I started I didn't know any more about law than you do about logs. You got that letter?" "Yes, thanks. He said I might tie to you and Crooks." Locke looked out of the window because his eyes were filling. To disguise the fact he pretended to search his pockets for a cigar and growled: "So you may, within limits. Got a smoke there? I'm out." He lit one of William Kent's big, black cigars, leaned back in his chair, and crossed one leg over the other. "Now, then, Joe, where shall we start?" he asked. "I'm busy, and you ought to be. What do you know of your father's affairs, anyway?" "Almost nothing," young Kent admitted. "Say I don't know anything, and it will be about right. This letter hints at debts--mortgages and things, I suppose." "Mortgages and things!" repeated the lawyer. "Lord, what an unsophisticated young blood you are! I should say there were. Now here it is, as your father explained it to me." Kent tried to follow the lawyer's practised analysis, but did not altogether succeed. Three things emerged clearly. The mills, plant, and real estate were heavily mortgaged. There was an indebtedness to the Commercial Bank on notes made by William Kent and endorsed by Crooks. And there was a further indebtedness to them on Kent's notes alone, secured by a collateral mortgage on certain timber lands. "Now, you see," Locke concluded, "setting the assets against the liabilities you are solvent to the extent of sixty or seventy thousand dollars, or perhaps more. In all probability you could get that clear if you sold out. Properly managed for you by somebody else, it would yield an income of between three and four thousand dollars per annum. On that you could live comfortably, be free from worry, and die of dry-rot and Scotch highballs at about my age." "I'm going to run the business," said Joe. "My father wished it; and anyway I'm going to." Locke smoked thoughtfully for some moments. "That's good talk," he said at length. "I understand your feelings. But before you come to a definite conclusion take time to look at all sides of the question. The cold fact is that you have had no experience. The business is solvent, but too involved to give you much leeway. It is an expensive one to run, and you can't afford to make many mistakes. For seven months in the year your payroll and camp supply bill will run into five figures. Your father intended to make a big cut next winter and clear off some of the debt. Suppose you try that yourself. It means a big outlay. Can you swing it? Remember, you haven't got much rope; and if you fail and smash it won't be a case of living on three or four thousand a year, but of earning five or six hundred a year to live on." "I hadn't thought of it in just that way," said Kent. "You see it's all new to me. But I'm going into it, sink or swim. My mind's made up." "I thought it would be," said Locke with satisfaction. "If I were you I'd take Wright into my confidence from the start. He is a good man, and thinks as much of your interests as if they were his own." Wright, called in, listened to Locke's succinct statement without much surprise. "Of course, I knew these things already in a general way," he commented. "I have decided to carry on the business," Joe told him. "What do you think of it?" "The carrying or the business?" "Both." "Well," said Wright slowly, "the business might be in worse shape--a lot worse. With your father handling it there would be no trouble. With you--I don't know." "That's not very encouraging," said Joe, endeavouring to smile at Locke, an effort not entirely successful. Locke said nothing. "I don't mean to be discouraging," said Wright. "It's a fact. I _don't_ know. You see, you've never had a chance; you've no experience." "Well, I'm after it now," said Kent. "Will you stay with me while I get it?" "Of course I will," said Wright heartily. When Locke had gone Joe turned to his manager. "Now," he said, "will you please tell me what I ought to know about the business, just what we have on hand and what we must do to keep going? I don't know a thing about it, and I'm here to learn. I've got to. Make it as simple as you can. I'm not going to pretend I understand if I don't. Therefore I'll probably ask a lot of fool questions. You see, I'm showing you my hand, and I own up to you that there's nothing in it. But I won't show it to any one else. When I want to know things I'll come to you; but for all other people know to the contrary I'll be playing my own game. That is, till I'm capable of running the business without advice I'll run it on yours. I've got to make a bluff, and this is the only way I see of doing it. What do you think?" "I think," said Wright, "that it's the best thing you can do, though I wouldn't have suggested it myself. I'll give you the best I've got. An hour ago I was rather doubtful, but now I think you've got it in you to play a mighty good game of your own one of these days." Whereupon old Bob Wright and young Joe Kent shook hands with mutual respect--Wright because he had found that Kent was not a self-sufficient young ass, and Kent because Wright had treated him as a man instead of merely as an employer. II In the course of a few weeks Joe Kent began to feel that he was making some progress. The business was no longer a mysterious machine that somehow produced money for his needs. It became a breathing, throbbing creature, sensitive to the touch, thriving with attention, languishing with neglect. It was a delicate organism, wonderfully responsive to the handling. Every action, every word, every hastily dictated letter had far reaching results. Conscientiously and humbly, as became a beginner, he came to the study of it. He began to meet his men. Not those with whom he came in daily contact in the office; but his foremen, tanned, weather-beaten, level-eyed logging bosses, silent for the most part, not at all certain how to take the "Old Man's" son, and apparently considering "yes" and "no" perfectly adequate contributions to conversation, who consumed his proffered cigars, kept their own opinions, and went their several ways. Kent was conscious that he was being held at arm's length; conscious that the steady eyes took note of his smart shoes, his well-pressed clothes, and his smooth cheeks. He did not know that the same critical eyes also noted approvingly his broad shoulders, deep chest, and firm jaw. He felt that the questions he asked and the conversation he tried to make were not the questions and conversation which his father would have addressed to them. But he was building better than he knew. Many old friends of William Kent dropped in to shake hands with his son, and one morning Joe was handed the card of Mr. Stanley Ackerman. "Tell him to walk in," said Joe. Mr. Ackerman walked in. He was tall and slim and gray and accurately dressed. Mr. Ackerman's business, if his varied pursuits might be thus consolidated, was that of a Director of Enterprises. He was on all sorts of directorates from banks to hospitals. He had promoted or caused to be promoted many corporate activities. He was identified in one way and another with a dozen financial and industrial concerns. He was the confidential friend and twin brother of Capital; and he was smooth, very smooth. His handshake expressed tender, delicate sympathy. "I should have called sooner, Mr. Kent, after the recent melancholy event," said he, "but that I feared to intrude. I knew your father very well, very well indeed. I hope to know his son as well--or better. These changes come to us all, but I was shocked, deeply shocked. I assure you, Mr. Kent, I--was--shocked." "Sit down, won't you?" said Joe. "Have a cigar?" "Not in the morning, thank you," said Ackerman. "My constitution won't stand it now. Don't mind me, though." He watched Joe strike a match. His gaze was very keen and measuring, as if the young man were a problem of some sort to be solved. "And how do you find it going?" he asked. "Quite a change for you, to be saddled with a big business at a moment's notice. If I recollect, you were at college till very recently. Yes? Unfortunate. Not that I would deprecate the value of education. Not at all. A most excellent thing. Fine training for the battle of life. But at the same time scarcely a practical preparation for the duties you have been called on so suddenly to assume." "That's a fact," said Joe. "Just at present I'd trade a couple of the years I spent there for one in the office. However, I'm learning slowly. Doing the best I can, you know." "No doubt, no doubt," returned Ackerman cordially. "If I had a son--I am sorry I haven't--and Providence in its inscrutable wisdom saw fit to remove me--we never can tell; as the Good Book says, Death comes like a thief in the night--that is how I would wish him to face the world. Bravely and modestly, as you are doing. No doubt you feel your responsibilities, eh?" "Well, yes," Joe admitted. "I have my experience to get, and the concern is pretty large. Naturally it worries me a little." "Ah," said Mr. Ackerman thoughtfully, "it's a pity your father never took action along the lines of a conversation I had with him a few months ago. I expressed surprise that he had never turned his business into a joint stock company, and--rather to _my_ surprise I confess, for he was a little old-fashioned in such matters--he said he had been thinking of doing so. He observed, and very truly, that he was as capable of managing his own affairs as any board of directors, but that if anything happened to him, such experienced advice would be of inestimable benefit to you. And then he spoke of the limited liability feature as desirable. Looking back at that conversation," said Mr. Ackerman with a gentle sigh, "it almost seems as if he had a premonition. I assure you that he spoke with the greatest earnestness, as if he had thought the matter over carefully and arrived at a definite conclusion. And yet I suppose nothing has been done in that direction, yet?" No, nothing had been done, Joe told him. In fact, this was the first intimation he had had that such a thing had entered his father's thoughts. That, said Mr. Ackerman, was too bad. It was a great responsibility for a young man--too great. Now, a board of experienced directors would share it, and they would have an active interest in advising properly. "Meaning that the advice I get now isn't proper?" asked Joe, with just a little tightening of the mouth. "Meaning nothing of the sort," Ackerman hastened to disclaim. "Don't misunderstand me. But you must admit that it is irresponsible. In the long run you pay the piper." "That's true enough," Joe admitted. "In the end it's up to me, of course." "Just so," said Mr. Ackerman. "That is what your father foresaw and intended to provide against. If he had been spared a few months longer I believe he would have formed a company, retaining the controlling interest himself, so that you might have had the benefit of the advice of a board of experienced directors." Joe Kent was quite sure his father would not have done anything of the kind, but he did not say so. Ackerman bestowed on him another measuring glance and proceeded: "You see, Mr. Kent, business history shows that, generally speaking, the collective wisdom of half a dozen men is greater than that of the individual. The exceptions only prove the rule. The weak points in any proposition rarely get past half a dozen experienced men. And then we must remember that influence makes for success. Naturally the influence of half a dozen representative men helps to get business as it helps the business to buy cheaply, and as it helps to transact business properly. Why,"--here Mr. Ackerman became prophetic--"I venture to say, Mr. Kent, that if this business of yours were turned into a joint stock company and the proper gentlemen interested, its volume would double in a very short time." "Perhaps so," said Joe doubtfully. "Why not do it?" said Mr. Ackerman, seizing the psychological moment. "I would take stock myself. I think I know of others who would. And as to forming and organizing the company, I need not say that any small knowledge I may have of such matters is entirely at your service." "Very good of you," said Joe. "It's a new idea to me. I don't think, though, that I quite like it. This is my business now, and I run it. If a company were formed I couldn't do that. I'd have to do as I was told. Of course I understand I'd have votes according to what stock I held, but it wouldn't be the same thing." "Nominally different only," Ackerman assured him. "Very properly you would retain a majority of the shares--that is, a controlling interest. Then you'd be made managing director, at a good salary. No doubt that would be the arrangement. So that you would have an assured income, a dividend on your stock, and practical control of the business, as well as the advice of experienced men and consequent freedom from a good deal of worry. If I were in your place--speaking as one who has seen a good many ups and downs in business--I should not hesitate." But in spite of this personal clinching argument young Kent did hesitate. And this hesitation so much resembled a plain mulish balk that Mr. Ackerman was a trifle disconcerted. Nevertheless he beamed upon the young man with tolerant good nature. "Well, well, a new proposition," said he. "Take time to think it over--take plenty of time. You must see its advantages. New capital brought in would permit the business to expand. It would pay off the debts----" "Debts!" said young Kent icily. "What debts?" "Why--ah"--Mr. Ackerman was again slightly disconcerted--"you must be aware of the mortgages existing, Mr. Kent." "I am," said Kent, "but how do you know about them? What business are they of yours?" "Tut, tut!" said Ackerman reprovingly. "I read a weekly commercial report, like other men. The mortgages are no secret." "I beg your pardon," said Kent. "I shouldn't have spoken as I did. Fact is, I'm a little touchy on that subject." "Needlessly so," said Ackerman. "Most of my own property is mortgaged, and I don't consider it a disgrace. I can use the money to better advantage in other ways. Well, as I was saying, the new capital would expand the business, the advice of experienced gentlemen would make things easy for you; and if the property was put in at a good, liberal valuation--as of course it would be--your holding would be worth more than it is to-day." "That is, the experienced gentlemen would water the stock," said Kent. Mr. Ackerman reddened a little. "A liberal valuation isn't water," he replied. "Those who would buy into the concern wouldn't be apt to give you too much. Of course, they would desire to be perfectly fair." "Oh, of course," said Kent. "Well, Mr. Ackerman, I don't think we need discuss the matter further, for I've decided to keep on paddling my own little canoe." "Think it over, think it over," Ackerman urged. "I have thought it over," said Joe. "You see, Mr. Ackerman, I may not know much about this business, but I don't know any more about any other. So I might as well stick to it." "The plan I have outlined"--Ackerman began. "I don't like," Kent put in, smiling. "My position is this: I want to handle this business myself and make a success at it. I expect to make mistakes, but not the same mistake twice. I'm awfully obliged for your interest, but to be told what to do by a board of directors would spoil all my fun." "Fun!" echoed Mr. Ackerman, horrified. "My dear sir, business--is--not--fun!" "It is for me--about the bulliest fun I ever had in my life," said young Kent. "I never played a game I liked as well." Mr. Ackerman shook his head sadly. The young man was hopeless. "I suppose," he said casually, as he rose to go, "that in the event of a syndicate offering you a fair price for the whole concern, lock, stock, and barrel, you wouldn't sell?" "No, I don't think so," Joe replied. "Ah, well, youth is ever sanguine," said Mr. Ackerman. "Your energy and confidence do you credit, Mr. Kent, though I'm rather sorry you won't entertain the company idea. We could make this a very big business on that basis. Perhaps, later, you may come around to it. Anyway, I wish you luck. If I can assist you in any way at any time just let me know. Good morning. _Good_ morning! Remember, in _any_ way, at _any_ time." Joe, from his favourite position at the window, saw Mr. Ackerman emerge from the building and begin his dignified progress down the street. "I didn't like his stock proposition," he thought, "but I guess he isn't a bad old sport at bottom. Seems to mean well. I'm sorry I was rude to him." Just then Mr. Ackerman, looking up, caught his eye. Joe waved a careless, friendly hand. Mr. Ackerman so far forgot his dignity as to return the friendly salute, and smiled upward benignantly. "The damned young pup!" said Mr. Ackerman behind his smile. III William Crooks, the old lumberman who had been the friend of the elder Kent, was big and broad and burly, and before the years had silvered his mane it was as red as any danger flag that ever wagged athwart steel rails. He held strong opinions, he used strong language, he was swift to anger, he feared no man on earth, and he knew the logging business from stump to market. He inhabited a huge, square, brick structure that would have given an architect chronic nightmare. Twenty odd years before he had called to him one Dorsey, by trade a builder. "Dorsey," said Crooks, "I want you to build me a house." Dorsey, who was a practical man, removed his pipe, scratched his head and asked: "What of?" "Red brick," said Crooks. He held out a sheet of foolscap. "Here's the number of rooms and the sizes of them." Dorsey scanned the paper. "What do you want her to cost?" "What she's worth, and a fair profit to you," said Crooks. "Get at her and finish her by frost. I'll want to move in by then." "All right," said Dorsey. "She'll be ready for you." By frost "she" was finished, and Crooks moved in. There he had lived ever since; and there he intended to live as long as he could. Kindly time had partially concealed the weird creation of Dorsey's brain by trees and creepers; here and there an added veranda or bow window was offered in mitigation of the original crime; but its stark, ungraceful outline remained a continual offence to the eye. That was outside. Inside it was different. The rooms were big and airy and well lighted. There was an abundance of open fireplaces, as became the residence of a man whose life had been spent in devastating forests, and the furniture and furnishings were practical and comfortable, for Bill Crooks hated "frills." In that house his children were born, and there three of them and his wife died. There Jean, his youngest girl, grew to womanhood, a straight, lithe, slender, dark-haired young tyrant, with his own fearlessness and directness of speech. She was known to her intimates as "Jack," and she and Joe Kent had been friends all their young lives. Since coming home Kent had seen little of her. He was very busy mastering details of the business, and either went back to his office in the evenings or spent them quietly at the club. But on the day of his interview with Mr. Ackerman it occurred to him that he should call upon Jack Crooks. When he opened the gate that evening he saw that the wide veranda was well occupied. Four young men were making exceedingly light conversation to two young women. William Crooks was nowhere visible. Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him, and held out two slim hands in welcome. "I'm so glad to see you, Joe. I've been looking for you for days." "You see, I've been busy," said Kent. "And then, naturally, I haven't been going out much." She nodded sympathetic comprehension. "I understand, of course. Come up and be presented. I have a very charming visitor." "Any one I know?" "Edith Garwood. She's my guest for a few weeks. Have you met her?" Joe had never met Miss Garwood. He decided as he shook hands with her that this was his distinct loss. Edith Garwood was tall and fair and blue eyed, with the dainty bloom and colouring of a flower. Her smile was simply distracting. Her voice was low and musical, and her laughter carried a little trill that stuck in the memory like the first bird notes of spring. She seemed to be one of those rare girls who are made to be loved by everybody, madly adored by several, and finally captured by some undeservingly lucky man. [Illustration: Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him ... "I'm so glad to see you, Joe. I've been looking for you for days"] At that moment she was holding a little court. Mallane, a young lawyer; Drew, of Drew & Son; Leadly, whose chief occupation was the dissemination of his father's money, which he had almost accomplished; and young Jolly, who honoured a bank with his presence by day, clustered around her closely. Each was quite positive that her glances and laughter held a meaning for him which the others did not share. The charmed circle, momentarily broken by the entrance of Kent, closed again. They talked at Miss Garwood, they postured at her, and when, now and then, they remembered the existence of their young hostess and included her in the conversation, it was evidently as a matter of duty only. Just then Edith Garwood was the only star in all the heavens. Joe drew chairs for himself and Miss Jack just outside the group. "Well?" she asked. "Quite, thank you." "I didn't mean that. Is it love at first sight with you, too?" "No chance for me," laughed Joe. "Competition is too keen. Besides, Jack, I've been in love with you for years." "Nonsense!" she said, so sharply that he looked at her in surprise. "I waive my prior claim," she added, with a laugh. "Confess, Joe! Isn't she the prettiest girl you ever saw?" "She seems to be a good deal of a peach," Joe admitted. "Is she related to Hugh Garwood, the president of the O. & N. Railway?" "Daughter," said Jack briefly. "His only child." Joe grinned. "Which probably accounts for the obvious devotion of Mallane and Leadly." "Don't be so cynical; it isn't nice. She can't help it, can she?" "Of course not. I was speaking of the men." "Well, she's very pretty and charming. If I were a young man I'd fall in love with her. It wouldn't surprise me a bit to see you smitten." Joe reddened a trifle, conscious that while he had been talking to Jack his eyes had been on Miss Garwood. Once or twice her glance had met his and she had given him a friendly smile. It seemed to hint at an understanding between them--as if she would have been very glad to have him change places with one of the others. And yet it was absolutely frank and open. Kent, being an average young man, did not analyze the quality of it. He merely felt that he liked Edith Garwood, and she probably did not dislike him. At the same time he began to feel a slight aversion to the four men who monopolized her; but he explained this to himself quite honestly on the ground that it was boorish of them to neglect Jack Crooks for a guest, no matter how charming the latter might be. His reply to Jack's prediction was interrupted by William Crooks. "Well, young people," said the old lumberman, emerging upon the veranda, "why don't you come into the house and have some music?" "It's cooler out here, dad," said Jack. "Sit down and make yourself at home and have a smoke. Here's Joe." Crooks laid a huge hand on Kent's shoulder. "I want to talk over some business with you, Joe. You won't mind if I take him away for half an hour, Jack?" "Not a bit, dad. Don't keep him all night, though." "I won't," he promised, smiling at her fondly. "Come on, Joe. We'll go to the library." William Crooks's library held few books. Such as there were mainly dealt with the breeding, training, and diseases of horses and dogs. Stuffed birds and fish, guns and rods adorned the walls. A huge table in the centre of the room bore a mass of papers in which pipes, cartridge cases, trout flies, and samples of various woods mingled in gorgeous confusion. Crooks laid an open box of cigars on top of the disarray. "Well, Joe," he asked, "how you makin' it?" "I don't quite know yet," Kent replied. "I'm just beginning to learn the ropes around the office. So far I like it." "You'll like it better," said Crooks. "You come to me if you get stuck; but work things out for yourself if you can. Now, about those notes I've indorsed!" "Yes," said Kent. "I don't see how I'm to take them up just yet." "Nobody wants you to," said Crooks. "Your father helped me out often enough. I was doing the same for him, and what I'd do for him I'll do for you. Don't worry about the notes or renewals. Only--I may as well talk straight to you, Joe--I don't want to increase my liabilities without I have to. Understand, if it's a case of need I'll back you up to any amount in reason, but if you can worry along without more accommodation I wish you would." "It's very good of you," said Joe. "I'll try to get along. Anyway, I never thought of asking you for more endorsements." "Well, you think of it if you need them," said Crooks gruffly. "Come to me as if I were your father, boy. I'll go with you as far as I would with him, and that's to the rim-ice of Hades." For acknowledgment Joe took his hand and shook it, an action which embarrassed the old lumber baron exceedingly. "All right, all right," he growled. "Don't be a blamed young fool. I'm not going away anywhere." Joe laughed. "I'm glad of that. I'll ask your advice pretty often, Mr. Crooks. By the way, what would you think of turning my business into a joint stock company? I don't fancy the idea myself." "Who's been talking to you?" demanded Crooks. "Well, Mr. Ackerman dropped in this morning." "What did he want?" "I don't suppose he wanted anything in particular. He just happened in, being in town. This came up in the course of conversation." "Son," said Crooks, "Ackerman doesn't go anywhere or see anybody without he wants something. You tie into that. What did he talk about?" Joe told him. Crooks listened intently, chewing his cigar. "He suggested the same thing to your father, and your father refused to consider it," he said. "Now he comes to you. Huh!" He smoked in silence for several moments. "I wonder what his game is?" he concluded thoughtfully. "Why, I suppose if he organized the company he'd get a block of stock for his services," said Joe, and he thought the comment particularly shrewd. "That's all I see in it, Mr. Crooks." "You don't know a thing about it," growled the lumberman bluntly. "If you fell in with his proposition he'd kick you out when he got ready." "No," said Joe. "He suggested that I retain a majority of the shares." Crooks eyed him pityingly. "In about six months he'd issue more and cut your throat." "How could he do that unless I consented?" "You would consent--the way they'd put it up to you. However, you won't deal with him if you have any sense. Now, look here. You're not twenty-five, just starting business. You think all there is to it is to cut your logs, bring down your drives, cut them up into lumber, and the demand will take care of the rest. That's how it used to be. It isn't so now. Timber is getting scarcer and prices are going up. There is a scramble for what timber limits are left, and the men with the pull get them. Same way with contracts. You'll find it out. The big concerns are eating up the little ones in our line, just as in others. That's why you'd better keep clear of any proposals of Ackerman's." "I will," Joe promised. At the same time he thought Crooks unduly pessimistic. "Now about timber," the old lumberman went on. "I'm starting men to cruise all north of Rat Lake to the divide. You'd better send a couple of cruisers into Wind River and let them work east over that stuff, so you will be in shape to bid for it. That was what your father intended to do." "We have two men there now," Joe told him. "Do you know how this bidding works?" asked Crooks. "The government calls for tenders and accepts the highest," Joe replied. "Theoretically," said Crooks. "Practically, if you're not a friend of their rotten outfit you might tender the mint and not get a look in. They used to have sales by public auction, and those were square enough; though sometimes the boys pooled on 'em. Now what happens is this: The government may open any timber for sale on any man's application, and they are supposed to advertise for tenders. If the applicant isn't a friend they won't open it. If he is, they advertise in a couple of issues of some backwoods paper that no one sees, nobody else tenders, and he gets it for a song. Of course some one high up gets a rake-off. Only you can't prove it." "How do you buy, then?" Joe asked. "You're not friendly to the present government, and I'm not." Crooks hesitated for a moment. "You'll have to know sooner or later," he said. "I tender in the name of another man, and I pay him from ten to twenty per cent. of the amount I tender for the bare use of his name--if I get what I want. Oh, I know it's rotten, but I have to stand for it or shut down. Your father did the same thing; you'll have to do it, too. I'm not defending it. I'll tell you more. This infernal political graft is everywhere. You can't supply a foot of lumber to a contractor on any public work unless you stand in." Joe whistled astonishment, not unmixed with disbelief. "Sounds pretty stiff, hey?" said Crooks. "Well, here's something else for you to digest. There's a concern called the Central Lumber Company, capitalized for a hundred thousand, composed of a young lawyer, a bookkeeper, a real estate man, and an insurance agent--individuals, mind you, who couldn't raise ten thousand dollars between them--who have bought in timber lands and acquired going lumber businesses worth several millions. What do you think of that?" Joe did not know what to think of it, and said so. The suspicion that Crooks was stringing him crossed his mind, but the old lumberman was evidently in deadly earnest. "And now I'll tell you one thing more," said Crooks, instinctively lowering his voice. "I had an offer for my business some time ago, and I turned it down. It came through a firm of lawyers for clients unnamed. Since then I've had a run of bad luck. My sales have fallen off, I have trouble in my mills, and the railway can't supply me with cars. There isn't a thing I can fasten on, either." "Oh, you must be mistaken," said Joe. It seemed to him that bad luck, which often runs in grooves, had given rise to groundless suspicions in Crooks's mind. "I'm not mistaken," the latter replied. "I'm playing with a cold deck, and though I can't see a blame thing wrong with the deal I notice I draw rags every time. That's enough for me. I'm going to find out why, because if I don't I may as well quit playing." He banged his big fist viciously on the table. "I'll know the reason why!" he thundered. "I will, by the Glory Eternal! If any gang of blasted high-bankers think they can run me out of my own business without a fight they miss their guess." His white hair bristled and his cold blue eyes blazed. Thirty years before he had been a holy terror with fists and feet. Few men then had cared to arouse Bill Crooks. Now the old fighting spirit surged up and took possession of him, and he was proceeding to stronger language when Miss Jack tapped imperatively at the door and opened it. "May I come in? Dad, this isn't playing fair. You've kept Joe all evening. Edith and I have been waiting alone for half an hour. Come in, Edith, and tell him what you think of him." "Well, you girls had four young fellows without Joe. How many do you want?" She raised inquiring eyebrows at his tone. "Anything the matter, daddy? I didn't mean to intrude." "You never do that, Jack," he smiled at her fondly. "Business bothers--nothing to worry about. It'll be all right 'when the drive comes down!'" "That always means I mustn't ask questions. I won't; but for being rude to me you shall sing the song. Edith wants to hear it." "Oh, do please, Mr. Crooks," said Miss Garwood sweetly. "I've no more voice than a crow, and Jack knows it," said Crooks, but followed his daughter meekly to the piano in the next room. "'When the Drive Comes Down,' as sung by Mr. William Crooks, Selected Record," Jack announced in a metallic voice. She struck a chord, and Crooks, his face beaming and his ill humour forgotten, with the preliminary whine of the genuine shanty vocalist struck into an ancient ballad of the river, which was his especial favourite: "Come all ye gallant shanty boys, an' listen while I sing, We've worked six months in cruel frosts, but soon we'll take our fling. The ice is black an' rotten, an' the rollways is piled high, So boost upon yer peavey sticks while I do tell ye why-y-y. For it's break the roll ways out, me boys, an' let the big stick slide, An' file yer corks, an' grease yer boots, an' start upon the drive, A hundred miles of water is the nearest way to town, So tie into the tail of her, an' keep her hustlin' down-n-n." He roared it in a heavy bass, beating time with a thunderous fist. Jack's clear alto and Joe's strong baritone struck into the first refrain: "When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down, Oh, it's then we're paid our money, an' it's then we own the town. All the gutters runs with whiskey when the shanty boys so frisky Sets their boot corks in the sidewalks when the drive is down-n-n." "Splendid!" cried Miss Garwood. "More, Mr. Crooks!" He nodded at her indulgently, and let his big voice go: "There's some poor lads will never lift a peavey-hook again, Nor hear the trees crack wid the frost, nor feel a warm spring rain. 'Twas fallin' timber, rowlin' logs that handed them their time; It was their luck to get it so--it may be yours or mine. "But break the rollways out, me lads, an' let the big sticks slide, For one man killed within the woods ten's drownded on the drive. So make yer sowls before ye take the nearest way to town While the lads that be's in Heaven watch the drive go down-n-n. "When the drive starts dow-un, when the drive starts down, Oh, it's every lad in Heaven he wud swop his golden crown For a peavey stick again, an' a soakin' April rain, An' to birl a log beneath him as he drives the river down-n-n." "Oh, I don't like that verse," protested Miss Garwood. "It's sad, fatalistic, reckless--anything and everything it shouldn't be. I thought shanty songs were more cheerful." "Some of 'em are cheerful enough," said Crooks, winking at Joe, who had the grace to blush. "But most describe the lingering deaths of true lovers," said Jack. "A shantyman requires sentiment or murder, and preferably both, in his music. Dad, sing us 'The Fate of Lovely May.'" "I will not," Crooks refused. "It has five hundred verses, more or less. I'm going to bed. You can lose sleep if you want to." "Don't take that hint, Joe," laughed Jack. "You're not company." "Hint nothing," said Crooks. "Jack knows it wasn't." "I'm a business man now," said Joe. "I feel it my duty to set an example to frivolous young people." "Come around often, the way you used to," said Jack. Miss Garwood, obviously, could not second the invitation in words: but much can be expressed by a pair of blue eyes. Joe felt that, unless he was an absolute dub at interpreting such things, his visits would not be unwelcome to her. IV Wright stalked into Joe's office one morning and slapped an open letter down on his desk. Evidently he was red hot. "What do you think of that?" he demanded. The communication was brief and business-like: BARKER & SMITH Contractors--Builders Oshkook, June 10th. The Kent Lumber Co., Falls City. Dear Sirs: Referring to our correspondence as to a quantity of lumber f.o.b. Falls City, we would say that we will not require same from you, having been quoted a more favourable rate. Regretting that in this instance we must place our order elsewhere, we are, -- Yours truly, Barker & Smith. Joe whistled dismally. Barker & Smith were large contractors and retail dealers. The quantity of lumber referred to was large, and the contract had been all but closed; in fact, he was not sure that it had not been closed. After consultation with Wright he had quoted the firm a rock bottom cash price because he needed the money more than the lumber. Now he was thrown down hard. "Well, some one underbid us," he said, trying to hide his disappointment. "That's all there is to it." "Nobody could underbid us and get out even," said Wright. "We figured our margin down to a hair-line. I'll bet a hundred to one they can't get it cheaper without stealing." "They say they can, and I suppose it goes," said Joe wearily. "Hang it, I thought it was as good as closed!" "Same here; and I'm not sure it isn't," said Wright. "They practically agreed to take the stuff from us." "Show the correspondence to Locke then, and see what he says," Joe suggested. But Locke, after he had waded through the papers, tossed them back to Wright. "No good," he said. "What's here doesn't amount to a contract, though it comes mighty close to it." "It comes so close to it that we had cars run up the spur and started to load," said Wright. "The understanding was--" "It had no business to be," Locke interrupted. "You've shown me all the papers in the matter, haven't you? Very well, I tell you they don't amount to an agreement. They're simply a series of proposals, rejections, and requests for other proposals, though you came very nearly agreeing. While you're dickering some one cuts in with a better rate and they call it off. You can't hold them." "But nobody could underbid us; we quoted 'em rock bottom," Wright persisted. That was the main point in his mind. "Oh, pshaw, Wright, have some sense!" snapped Locke. "That may be an excuse, or it may not. It's quite immaterial. Can't you see that?" "That's all right from a lawyer's standpoint, but not from ours," said Wright. "Barker & Smith use a lot of lumber, and they're not in business to lose money. I say nobody could underbid us. They lie when they say they got a better rate. What do they want to lie for? It's money out of their pockets." "I'm a lawyer, not a mind reader," Locke reminded him. "Your quotations were f.o.b. Falls City. It's just possible the freight rate may have something to do with it." Wright returned to the office, pulled out his tariff books and compared the rate from Falls City to Oshkook with rates from other competitive points to the latter place. "We've got 'em skinned there, too," he soliloquized. "They can't lay down any lumber cheaper than ours. It beats me." For an hour he pulled at a blackened brier and pondered the question. Then he went to Kent. "This thing worries me," he said. "I can't see through it. I think I'll take a run over to Oshkook and have a talk with Barker & Smith." "I wouldn't," said Joe, his pride up in arms. "We don't want to go begging for their business. We quoted 'em a good rate. If they don't want our stuff at that let 'em go to the devil." He was sore and stiff-necked, as is the wont of youth when things go wrong. But the older man persisted: "I don't care so much that we lost the contract; I want to find out, if I can, why we lost it. I know we weren't underbid, and I want to know why they lied about it. It isn't a case of soliciting business; it's a case of finding out why we don't get what's coming to us, and that's a mighty vital question to any concern. We've sold Barker & Smith before, and never had any friction. We can't afford to ride the high horse just now. There's something behind this, and it's up to us to find out what." Kent recognized the force of the argument. "I was wrong. Go ahead and find out all you can." Wright took train for Oshkook and dropped into Barker & Smith's office. Barker was out, and he saw Smith. "I called about the lumber we quoted you a price on," said Wright. "Oh, that?" said Smith, who was plainly uneasy. "Yes. Let's see! We didn't come to terms, did we?" "No, we didn't." said Wright. "We quoted you a price that left us practically no margin. I don't see how any one could give a lower quotation. In fact, I wouldn't have believed it possible if your letter hadn't said so. I tell you whoever underbid us will lose money by it, or else you'll get poor stuff." "We won't accept poor stuff," said Smith. "As to whether the other people lose money or not, that's their affair. I presume they know their own business." "Would you mind telling me who they are?" Wright asked. The question appeared to embarrass Smith. "Why, upon my word, Wright, I don't exactly know," he replied. "We got a number of quotations, of course. Barker has been looking after it. Better see him." "You'd have the information in the office, wouldn't you?" Wright pressed. "I suppose so, I suppose so; but--here, you see Barker. He knows all about it. I don't. Sorry to leave you, but I've got an appointment." And he left Wright to wait for the senior partner. When Barker came in, fully two hours later, his surprise at seeing Wright was so much overdone that the latter knew Smith had been talking to him. "Well, now, look here," said Barker when Wright had opened the matter, "I don't want to talk about this. We got a dozen quotations and picked out the one that suited us. That's all there is to it. I'm not going to tell you where we buy or what we buy for. That's our business." "You said we were underbid, and that's my business," said Wright. "I tell you we weren't." "That," said Barker with first-class indignation, "amounts to a reflection on our veracity." "I wouldn't put it that way," retorted Wright. "Your letter was a darned poor lie, if you want my opinion of it. Now, hold your horses for a minute while I talk. No one quoted you a better rate then we did; I know that. And I know that transportation charges cut no figure, either. I'm not kicking, understand, but I do want to know why we didn't land the contract. We've done business with you before and hope to do business with you again. Where do we fall down? Why are you throwing it into us? What do we have to figure on besides cost, next time you ask us for a quotation?" "Better wait till I ask you," said Barker. "No, because this is a serious thing for us. I want to make it plain that we recognize your right to buy anywhere, and for any price you choose to pay. That's all right. You needn't have given any reason at all. But the reason you did give was not the true one, and we both know it. Now, man to man, Mr. Barker, tell me what we're up against. Why didn't we get the contract?" "Well," said Barker hesitatingly, "there is something in what you say. I don't mind telling you this much: There are a holy lot of wires in our business, and we have to stand in with the people who pull them, see? Sometimes we have to buy where we're told, no matter what the price is. We get square in other ways. That's about what happened in this case, otherwise you would have got the order." Wright felt quite elated when he took his departure, for he had justified his contention that they had not been underbidden. Wright's business was to cut logs into lumber and sell the lumber. William Kent had looked after the logging end of the concern. The limits, the camps, and the drives were his field. What logs he did not sell he handed over to Wright and thought no more about, knowing that they would be worked up into everything from rough boards to matched flooring. Wright, then, having ascertained the reason of the throw down, accepted it philosophically as arising from circumstances beyond his control. But young Kent, when he received his manager's report, was not so philosophic. "Pretty rotten state of affairs if people have to buy where they are told," he fumed. "Nice free country we inhabit! I never took much stock in such yarns, but I'm beginning to see that there may be something in them." He took his troubles to Crooks, who listened, growled profane comment, but offered no advice. When Kent had gone he went to Locke's office. Locke heard him with attention. "What does the boy think about it?" he asked. "So far," Crooks replied, "he's more indignant because Barker & Smith have to buy somewhere else than because he can't sell to them. Same thing in one way, of course. But he's looking at it from what he thinks is their standpoint. Says it's an outrage that they have to buy where they're told." "Now I wonder," said Locke thoughtfully, "if we may go a step further? I wonder if they are told where not to buy?" "By George!" exclaimed Crooks. "It proves nothing," said Locke. "It may not be especially directed at Kent." "I'll bet it is," said Crooks. "I'm losing good customers myself without reason. I can stand it, but Joe can't. He needs good luck to pull him through as it is." "What in thunder do you suspect anyway?" asked Locke. "A combine?" "Not a bit of it," replied Crooks. "I've not been asked to join any ring to boost prices; but I have been asked to sell out. So has Kent. We won't do it, and immediately our businesses suffer." "That is, you think somebody is forcing your hand?" "That's what I think. If Barker had told the truth he'd have said he'd been ordered not to buy from Kent." "Well, if any one is hammering you he'll have to show his hand sooner or later," said Locke. "Take your medicine till you can get hold of one definite illegal act susceptible of proof beyond all question. Then we'll simply raise the roof." V In less than a week from their first meeting, Edith Garwood and Joe Kent were giving a very fair imitation of a flirtation. Joe, as has been said before, was merely an average young man. He was not genuinely or at all in love at first; but he was strongly attracted, and he played the pleasant game without much thought of consequences. And Edith Garwood, being so constituted that admiration was as the breath of life to her, entered into it with zest. Not that she confined herself to Joe. Mallane, Leadly, and half a dozen others basked in the sunshine of her smiles, and she held the balance fairly level, enjoying her power. Thus jealousies sprang up which threatened to disrupt the _entente cordiale_ normally existing in the younger set of Falls City. These were by no means confined to the young men, for certain young ladies found themselves suddenly deserted by cavaliers to whose loyalty they would have sworn, and were much displeased thereby. These things bore somewhat hardly on Jack Crooks. She was a frank, unspoiled, straight-forward girl, and loyalty to her friends was one of her distinguishing features. But she was very human, and the general male adoration of her guest made her just a little tired. No young hostess likes to be completely outshone by a visitor, even a very lovely one, and to find herself practically overlooked by the young men of her own town was a new and unpleasant experience. "I thought Joe, anyway, had more sense," she reflected. "She doesn't care for him any more than for the others, and he ought to see it. Oh, well, let him burn his fingers. I don't care." But she did care, because he was a very old friend, and she rather resented the pumping process to which Miss Garwood subjected her one evening. That young lady, after eliciting certain information as to the habits, characters, and worldly prospects of several young gentlemen, at last came around to Kent, a sequence which was suspicious in itself. "Now your Mr. Kent, dear--tell me about him!" "He's not _my_ Mr. Kent," said Jack, a shade of red stealing into her cheeks. "Joe's a nice boy, quite the nicest I know. We played together when we were kids--that is, he condescended to amuse me when he was nine and I was five, and that's quite a concession for a boy, isn't it? Lately he's been away at college, and so we haven't seen much of each other." "His father died recently. He is the only son, isn't he?" "Yes. And his mother died when he was a little fellow, so he is quite alone. He is carrying on the business himself." "It's a big business, isn't it? Somebody said the late Mr. Kent was quite wealthy." Jack's brows drew together a little. She disliked these questions, perfectly natural though they were. "I believe he was; that is, of course, he owned mills and timber limits and so on. I suppose Joe is well off, but he has never confided in me." "But he may some day?" The unmistakable meaning in the words brought the red to Jack's cheeks again. She turned the question carelessly. "Oh, perhaps, when he is in a confidential mood. He always was a clam, though." "Jack, dear," said Miss Garwood, "look at me. Is there anything between you and Mr. Kent?" "Not a blessed thing," said Jack honestly. "Why?" "I wanted to make sure I wasn't trespassing," replied Miss Garwood lightly. "Well, you're not," said Jack. "Now let me ask a question: Have you fallen in love with him?" "No, not exactly," said Miss Garwood. "But--well, dearie, I half suspect that he has fallen in love with me." In spite of herself Jack winced. It was what she had told herself, but to hear it from Edith Garwood's careless lips was different. And yet why should she care? Joe was no more to her than any other old friend. Naturally he would fall in love some day and marry. Perhaps Edith, in spite of her denial, did care for him. In that case-- She gave herself a mental shake and met the curious look in her guest's blue eyes squarely. "I don't see how he could help it," she said truthfully. "He isn't the only one, either. Shall you marry him, Edith?" Edith Garwood laughed, well pleased, for she liked to be told of her conquests. "It's rather early to say," she replied. "You see, dear, he hasn't asked me yet. And if he did, there are all sorts of things to be considered." "Such as what?" asked Jack. "If you love one another that's the main thing, isn't it?" "You dear, unsophisticated child!" laughed Miss Garwood. "That's only one thing. We should have to live after we were married, you see." "Well, I suppose Joe has enough money for that," Jack commented. "And then you have plenty of money yourself, or your father has." "Yes," Miss Garwood agreed; "but papa has his own ideas of what would be a suitable match for me. I'm not sure he would approve of Joe--I mean Mr. Kent. Confidentially, Jack, how much do you suppose he is worth?" "I never supposed," said Jack shortly. "His income may be one thousand or ten thousand a year; I don't know. You aren't marrying him for his money." "I haven't decided to marry him at all, you goose," said Miss Garwood lightly. "It will be time enough to make up my mind when he asks me." Nevertheless she lay awake for half an hour that night, thinking. Her flirtation with Joe had reached a point for thought. She wondered how Hugh Garwood would regard him as a prospective son-in-law. Finding the answer rather doubtful, she sighed, turned her facile mind to something else, and almost immediately slept. For hours after her guest slumbered, Jack Crooks stared from her bed at the treetops outside the window, and watched the patch of moonlight on the floor slowly shift and finally disappear. And this sleeplessness was the more unaccountable because she told herself again that she didn't care whether Joe married Edith or not. She was quite honest about it. "But I didn't like her questions about his money," she reflected. "She has or will have enough for both. I know if I were in love--which thank goodness I'm not--the amount of money a young man had would be the last thing I'd think of. I don't believe dad would think of it either, just so we had enough to live on, and good prospects. Of course not. She can't think much of Joe if she lets that stand in the way. If he isn't exactly rich he can't be poor. Mr. Kent was as well off as dad, I should think. Oh, dear! I've simply _got_ to go to sleep." And finally she did, just as the faintest light grew in the east. Meanwhile, Joe Kent was doing a little soul searching himself, without coming to any definite conclusion. He liked Edith Garwood, and he suffered acute jealousy when she accepted the marked attentions of others; but to save his life he couldn't make up his mind whether he would care to look at her across his breakfast coffee as long as they both should live. The question of money occurred to him, but not as an important factor. He knew that old Hugh Garwood, the president of the O. & N. Railway, had it to burn, to throw at the birds, to stuff cats with, and half a dozen other ways of disposition. But he himself had enough to keep a wife in the modest comfort which had always been his. He was clean, healthy, well educated, and owned a business which, though encumbered, was perfectly solvent. Therefore he considered himself, without egotism, eligible for the hand of any girl, no matter how wealthy her father might be. But apart from the question of whether he loved Edith Garwood or not was the somewhat embarrassing one of whether she loved him. It was all right to flirt, to play the two-handed game for fun. But suppose it was for marbles; suppose one took it seriously---- "Hang it," said young Kent to himself, "I don't know whether I've got the real thing or not; and I don't know whether she has been stringing me along or not. But if she hasn't been it's pretty nearly up to me to come across with a formal proposal. I wish I knew where I was at. I wonder if I could get a line from Jack?" From which the experienced will readily deduce that young Mr. Kent was somewhat rattled and a little afraid of the future, but not altogether unwilling to pay for his fun like a man. His endeavour to sound Miss Crooks was by no means a success. With unwonted density she did not or would not see the drift of his questions, framed with what he considered great subtlety; and when he became more direct she went to the point with embarrassing candour: "Do you want to marry her, or don't you?" she asked. "Why, Jack, I'll be hanged if I know," he admitted. "Well, when you make up your mind, ask her," said Jack. "Meanwhile don't try to pump me. I don't know anything about her sentiments, and if I did I wouldn't tell you." So Joe had to go it blind. The flirtation, however, progressed. One night the moon, rising gorgeous and serene above a notch in the hills, discovered Edith Garwood and Joe Kent seated prosaically upon a huge log by the river side, both very tongue-tied, and both apparently absorbed in the engrossing pastime of tossing pebbles into the black water and seeing the rings spread. In fact it had come to a showdown. It was distinctly Joe's play, but he held up his hand. It was provoking, from Miss Garwood's standpoint. "I think," she said, "that we should go home." "Oh, not yet; it's early," said Joe. Pause. Miss Garwood sighed inaudibly but impatiently, and her fingers played nervously with a ring. Joe stared blankly at the water. The ring, escaping from the lady's hand, fell tinkling on the beach pebbles. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I've dropped my ring!" She knelt at once and began to search for it in the semi-darkness. So did Joe. Quite by accident her slim white hand came in contact with his broad brown one. And the natural thing happened. "Mr. Kent!" "Yes--Edith!" "Please!" But she swayed toward him slightly. Accepting the situation, Joe Kent's unoccupied hand and arm encircled her waist with considerable facility. He even applied gentle pressure. She yielded a little, but protested: "Mr. Kent--Joe!" "Yes, dear!" "You shouldn't--I shouldn't. I never gave you any reason to think that I thought that you thought--I mean you couldn't think I did, could you?" Which confusion of speech went to show that the usually composed Miss Garwood was slightly rattled. She had created the situation and she felt it slipping beyond her control. Joe, who had accepted it recklessly, drew a long breath and made the plunge. "I hope you do. I--I love you, Edith." He wondered if the words rang true. To him they sounded hollow and forced. But Miss Garwood's waist yielded a little more. The fingers of her disengaged hand clasped the lapel of his coat and played with it, and her sweet blue eyes looked up pleadingly, trustfully, into his brown ones. "Joe," she murmured, "I don't know what to say. I'm not sure, but I half suspect that I--I--oh!" The exclamation was smothered, for again the natural thing had happened. Five minutes afterward Miss Garwood smoothed her hair and said irrelevantly: "But we haven't found my ring!" "Good old ring," said Joe, producing it from his pocket. "Joe!" she cried in unaffected astonishment. "Did you have it there all the time?" "I found it pretty early in the game," he acknowledged without shame. "I'll buy you another to-morrow." The dim light hid the sudden gravity of her features. "Do you mean an engagement ring, Joe?" "Of course." "Are we really engaged?" "Simple process, isn't it? I guess we are." Miss Garwood dug a daintily shod foot into the sand. This was getting serious. "But we ought to have papa's consent first." "Well, I'll take a run over to your town and tell him about it," said Joe carelessly. "Matter of form, I suppose. I'll look after that in a day or two." Miss Garwood laughed uneasily. "It's plain that you don't know him. I think you would better leave that to me--about our engagement, I mean. And meantime we won't say anything about it to anybody." "I don't like that," said Joe frankly. Having made the plunge he was ready to stay in the water. "Why shouldn't we announce it? Do you mean your father wouldn't consent?" "I doubt if he would, at first," she replied, apparently with equal frankness. "You see he expects me--please don't be offended--but he expects me to make what is called a good marriage." "Do you mean he expects you to marry for money?" "No, not altogether. But money and social position are desirable." Thus early she sought to provide an avenue of retreat. Joe stared at her, his pride hurt. It had never occurred to him that his own social position was not as good as any one's. He was received everywhere he wished to go; of fashionable society and the grades and jealousies of it he knew little and cared less. He had no social ambitions whatever, and his own modest place was perfectly assured. "I don't quite get it," said he. "I have enough to live on. And I suppose I could butt into society, if that's what you mean." She explained gently, shouldering the responsibility upon her father. In any event they could not marry at once. Then let their engagement remain a secret between them. She sighed with relief when she carried her point, for it gave her time to pause and reflect. Joe had swept her away a little, for she really liked him. Now she saw things clearly once more. Relative values emerged. Even a temporary engagement to a comparatively poor, obscure young man would never do; that is, it must not be made public. But she was given to following the line of the least resistance. It never occurred to her to doubt that he was genuinely in love, and she hated a scene. Later it would be an easy thing to break with him. Meanwhile she would have what fun she could out of it, for Joe was really very nice. VI As a matter of fact Kent was rather relieved when Miss Garwood's visit ended. Whether he had made a mistake or not he was ready to abide by it; but he found himself in a false position, and he greatly disliked to witness the open attentions of numerous young men, to which he could not very well object. However, he had a number of other things, just as important and considerably more pressing, to think about. For instance, there was the question of car shortage. The Peninsular Railway, which was the only line serving Falls City, seemed to have no rolling stock available. Promises were forthcoming in plenty--but no cars. Complaints of delayed shipments from indignant purchasers poured down on Kent in a daily deluge. He and Wright besieged the manager, the traffic superintendent, and the dispatchers, demanding flats and boxes--anything on wheels--and by dint of unremitting persistence were able to obtain about half as many cars as they needed. It was this difficulty which made Joe, after consultation with Wright, refuse a proposition of Clancy Brothers, with whom they already had a large delivery contract, calling for almost double the quantity of lumber which they had a right to purchase under the existing agreement, and at the same rate and same terms of delivery. "No use making contracts if we can't get cars," said Joe regretfully when he had read the Clancys' letter. "That's so," said Wright. "We'll explain it to them. I suppose if they want more lumber, and if we can ever get anything to ship it in, we can sell it to them." And he wrote them to that effect and subsequently regretted it, for cars began to come easier. And then there was the situation at the bank. The notes were coming due, and though there was no objection to renewing those which Crooks had endorsed, the bank intimated that the others should be reduced. "But why?" asked Joe. "You have collateral. The security is as good now as when they were given." "The personal liability is different," replied Hagel, manager of the Commercial Bank. He was a stout, pompous, side-whiskered man of middle age, inclined to a solemnity of speech which partially cloaked an innate stupidity, and he held his position mainly because he did as he was told, without question. "Your father's ability to pay was one thing; yours--you'll pardon me--is quite another." "In other words, you don't think I can run the business?" said Joe. Hagel raised a protesting hand. "It is not what _I_ think, Mr. Kent. My directors, in their wisdom, foresee a--er--a financial storm. We must shorten sail, Mr. Kent--hem!--yes--shorten sail. I regret the necessity, but----" "All right," Joe interrupted. "If you insist, of course I'll have to take up the notes when they mature. To do that I'll have to borrow money, and I don't feel inclined to leave my account where I can't get ordinary accommodation. I'll go over to the Farmers' National and see what McDowell will do for me." McDowell was manager of the latter institution, and the very antipodes of Hagel, who hated him. He was young, popular, brusque, and a thorough-paced sport after banking hours. "I trust you won't do that," said Hagel, for the Kent account was a very valuable one. "You have other accommodation from us, and we have had your account for a long time." "That's got nothing to do with it," said Joe, who was developing a most disconcerting habit of going straight to the point. "You people are trying to keep the cream and make me hustle to sell skim milk. If you force me to hunt accommodation elsewhere not another dollar of my money goes through your hands. You'll do what seems best to you, of course; but I want to know now where I am at." Hagel had lost some very good accounts which the Farmers' National had subsequently acquired, and his directors had made unpleasant remarks. Although he was merely carrying out their instructions in this instance, he knew director nature well enough to realize that he would be blamed if the account were withdrawn. "Better wait a few days, Mr. Kent," he said. "I'll put your views before my board, and I think it very likely the matter can be arranged--very likely indeed." "All right," said Joe; "but that's how it lies. I don't think I'm getting a square deal, and if I have to lift the notes I'll take the account with them." On top of this there came another trouble, and a serious one. Joe, one morning, had just rung for his stenographer when Wright burst in upon him in considerable agitation, brushing past that long-suffering young lady in the doorway. "What do you think of this?" he cried, waving a sheet of paper. "That infernal railway--" He swore venomously, and Joe's stenographer, with a glance at her employer, discreetly withdrew, for she was a young woman of experience. "What's the row?" Joe asked. "And you might shade your language a little. Not that I mind, but I don't want Miss Brown to quit her job." "A readjustment of freight rates!" cried Wright. "A readjustment! And look what they've done to lumber!" Joe grabbed the paper, glanced at it, and supplemented his manager's remarks with great heartiness. In a general and long-promised overhauling of freight rates that on lumber was boosted sky-high. But he did not at once grasp the full significance of it. He saw that the result would be to increase the price of lumber proportionately and restrict building to some extent in certain localities; but in the end the consumer would pay, as usual. "Rotten!" he commented. "The old rate was high enough. Looks like a case for the Transportation Commission. They ought to scale this down." "They'll get around to it in a couple of years," snorted Wright with bitter contempt. "Meanwhile where do we get off at? I tell you it just cuts the heart out of our business." "I don't see--" Joe began. "You don't?" Wright fairly shouted. "No, and I don't see it all myself--yet. But look what it does to our contract with the Clancys!" Now the contract with Clancy Brothers, mentioned before, was peculiar. They logged and manufactured lumber, but not nearly all for which they had sale. They operated a system of selling yards in twenty towns. By the terms of an agreement made by his father, which had more than a year to run, Kent was bound to supply them with lumber as required to a stated maximum amount at a stated price according to quality; and they, on their part, were bound to order lumber to a stated minimum quantity. But instead of the price being f.o.b. Falls City, as was usual, the Clancys had insisted on a delivery price at their central yard, thus striking an average and getting rid of trouble. Therefore the price of the lumber per thousand feet was based on a calculation in which the then existing freight rate was an important factor. Thus an unforeseen and substantial increase in the rate meant a corresponding loss to Kent, if the Clancys chose to hold him to the agreement. Joe looked at his manager in slowly, dawning comprehension. "Why--why--hang it, Wright," he said slowly, "it means a dead loss to us on every foot of boards we sell them!" "Just that," Wright agreed grimly. "And they'll boost their price with the rest of the retail men and make a double profit." "Surely they won't hold us up when we're losing money and they're making two kinds?" said Joe, from his utter inexperience. "Won't they?" snapped Wright. "They'll hold us up for every foot the contract calls for." He stopped suddenly. "And only a couple of weeks ago they wanted us to enter into a new contract for double the quantity at the same rates. Now I see it!" "They had advance information of the change!" gasped Joe. "Sure. After all, that car shortage was a good thing; otherwise we'd have closed with them. Now our only chance to get out even is to find a hole in the contract." Joe's hope that the Clancys would not hold him to a losing agreement went glimmering, but he didn't quite like Wright's suggestion. "We made this contract with our eyes open," he said. "At least my father did. Would it be square to back out now, even if we could?" "Square?" exclaimed Wright. "Look at the dirty game they tried on us! Anything's square with people like them. I'd rob their safe if I could. Didn't they try to get a new contract that would kill us? Did you ever see them?" "No," Joe admitted. "I heard they were good business men, that's all." "Business men!" Wright struggled for appropriate words, and finding none threw out his hands in a protesting gesture. "They're all that and then some. I wish I had half their business ability. They're a pair of cold-blooded, dirty-tongued, sewer-rat devils, with the knack of making money hand over fist. And you see how they do it! But they pay up to the day and the cent, and they never squeal when they're hit, I'll say that for them." "Then we won't squeal either," said Joe proudly. "Maybe, after all, they'll let us down easy." "Not them," said Wright, ungrammatically but positively. Not two hours afterward a wire was received from Clancy Brothers ordering a large consignment of dressed lumber which they wanted rushed. "What did I tell you?" said Wright sadly. "And the nerve of them to want it rushed. Rushed! I'll see them in blazes first. They'll take their turn, and that's last." This strategic delay was provocative of results. Some days afterward Joe's telephone rang. "Is that Misther Kent?" demanded a heavy voice at the other end of the wire. "It is? Well, this is Finn Clancy, talkin'--Finn Clancy of Clancy Brothers. I want to know how about that lumber we ordered. Is ut shipped yit?" "Not yet," Joe replied. "We don't----" "An' why the divil isn't ut?" interrupted Clancy. "Haven't ye got ut cut?" "Yes," Joe admitted, "but----" "No 'buts' about it," Clancy cut him short again. "Don't tell me ye can't get cars. I know better. That gag don't work no more. I'll have yeez people to understand that when we order lumber we want lumber an' not excuses. Th' contract calls for----" "I know quite well what it calls for," Joe interrupted in his turn. "If you think you've got a kick, come up to the office and make it." And he slammed the receiver back on the hook viciously. Half an hour afterward Wright ushered in the brothers Clancy. Finn Clancy fulfilled the promise of his telephone voice. He stood over six feet; he was broad, deep-chested, and red-bearded, with a pair of bright blue eyes hard as polished steel. John Clancy was small, dark, and wizened, and his mouth was a straight slit, tucked in at the corners. "This is Mr. Kent," said Wright. The brothers stared at Joe for a moment. "So ut was you I was talkin' to?" growled Finn Clancy belligerently. "It was," said Joe shortly, but, realizing the advisability of holding his temper, he added: "Sit down, gentlemen." They sat down. Finn heavily; John cautiously. "Now about the lumber," Joe began. "We've been delayed one way and another, but we'll ship it in a day or two." "You betther," Finn rumbled. "We got contracts to fill, an' we got a contract wid you. You want to remember that." "I do remember it," said Joe. "Also I remember that you tried to get us to sign a new one for double the amount, not so very long ago. I suppose it was a coincidence that the freight rate was boosted a few days afterward." They simply grinned at him. John Clancy chuckled dryly, as if it were the best joke in the world. "If we'd 'a' got that we'd 'a' made money," he said. "No doubt," Joe commented. "You're making enough as it is. We lose money on every order of yours that we fill." "That's your business," said Finn, and John's mouth tucked in a little more. He shot an understanding glance at his brother, but said nothing. "Quite true," said Joe. "And your profits will be doubled by the increased price of lumber. In view of that it occurred to us that you might be willing to amend the contract so as to let us out even." "That occurred to ye, did it?" said the big man. There was a sneer in his voice. "It didn't occur to us, did it, Jawn?" "It did not, Finn," said John positively. "Well, I mention it to you now," said Joe. "We don't want to lose money, but we'd be satisfied with an even break. Your profits will be big enough to allow us that. But it's up to you. If you choose to hold us up I suppose you can do it." "There's no holdin' up about it," said Finn. "You contract to deliver lumber at one price; we contract to buy it at that price. If it goes down we lose; if it goes up you lose. Anyways ye had yer eyes open when ye signed. That's how I look at it. Am I right, Jawn?" "Ye are," declared his brother. "If so be lumber had went down, wud we have came whinin to ye to let us off our contract? We wud not. When we lose we pay, an' say nawthin' about it. That's business." "All right," said Joe; "it may be. But if I stood to make as much money as you do I'd see that the other fellow didn't lose anything, that's all." "It's aisy to talk," sneered Finn; "an' all the time ye do be holdin' up our order, thinkin' to bluff us into amendin' the contract. Is that straight business, young felly?" Joe flushed, for there was just a little truth in the words. "That's not so," he replied. "Your order will go through, but I won't rush it for you. And if you'll allow me to give you a pointer, Clancy, it's to the effect that you're not in a position to make insinuations." "I don't insinuate, I talk straight," retorted Clancy. "I'm onto ye, young felly. Ye'll keep that contract to the letter, or I'll know why!" and he emphasized his ultimatum with an oath. "Mr. Clancy," said Joe icily, though his temper was at boiling point, "we'll dispense with profanity. I do all the necessary swearing here myself, understand. I won't have strong language or loud talk in my office." "Won't ye?" shouted Clancy. "Why, ye damned little----" Joe Kent's chair crashed back against the wall. Its occupant put his hand on the desk and vaulted it, alighting poised on his toes in front of the big man so suddenly that the latter paused in sheer amazement. "Go ahead and say what you were going to," said Joe with a queer little shake in his voice; "and then, you dirty mucker, I'll give you a lesson in manners!" Finn Clancy would have tackled a Dago armed with a knife or a construction hand holding a shovel without an instant's hesitation, for he was quite devoid of physical fear and a scrapper to his fingers' tips. But to have a quiet, brown-eyed young man suddenly leap a desk in an orderly business office and challenge him was so surprising that he paused. He took careful note of the steady, watchful eyes, the sweep of the lean jaw, the two brown fists swinging to just the slightest oscillation of the tensed forearms, and the poise of the body on the gripping feet; and he knew that if his tongue uttered the words on the tip of it those fists would smash into him with all the driving power of a very fine pair of shoulders behind them. Knowing it, his lips opened to speak the words; and Joe Kent, who had mastered the difficult art of starting a punch from wherever his hand happened to be, tautened his arm and shoulder muscles to steel. John Clancy intervened. "There's enough of this," he said. "Dry up, Finn. For why wud ye start rough-house wid the lad? An' you, Kent, 'tis wan punch ye'd have, an' then he'd kill ye." He pushed roughly between them and took his brother by the shoulder. "Come on out o' here, Finn, now. Lave him be, I tell ye!" "I won't," said Finn. "I'll tell him what I think iv him. An' if he makes a pass at me, Jawn, I'll break him acrost me knee!" "An' be pulled f'r it, wid yer name in the papers, an' a fine, an' a lawyer to pay, an' all," said his brother bitterly. "Have some sense. I'll not stand f'r it, an' I warn ye!" "Let him go, and stand out of the way!" cried Joe. "There'll be no law about it, Clancy, I promise you that, whichever way it goes." His blood was dancing in his veins and he laughed nastily in the surge of his anger. He fairly hungered to whirl two-handed into this big, beefy Irishman, and give or take a first-class licking. John Clancy put his open hand on his brother's breast and pushed him back. "Ye're a pair of fools," he announced dispassionately. "Can't ye talk over a business matter widout scrappin'? Be ashamed! It's little good ye've done yerself, Kent, this day. Finn, come on out of here!" "All right," growled Finn as he took a step toward the door, propelled by his brother's insistent hand. "Lave me be, Jawn. I'll get him another time. Mind ye, now," he cried to Kent, "we mane to have every foot of timber the contract calls for, an' no shenanigan about ut! An' ye may bless yer stars for Jawn, here, me bucko. Only for him I'd have lamed ye!" Joe did not reply to the threat. "When you came in I was willing to stay with the contract, even at a loss," he said. "Now, I tell you straight that if there's a way out of it you won't get another foot of boards from me." John Clancy grinned at him. "Hunt for holes in it, an' welcome," he said dryly. "If our lawyers is bum we want to know it, so we can change 'em. Nicholas K. Ryan drawed that agreement. I'm thinkin' ye couldn't break it wid dynymite." When they had gone Joe dug his copy of the agreement out of the safe and went to see Locke. "I want to know," he said, "if this agreement will hold water." Locke barely glanced at the document. "Ryan drew this, and your father signed it against my advice," he said. "Hold water? It would hold gas. What's the matter? Aren't they living up to it?" "Living up to it? I should say they are!" exclaimed Joe. "That's just the trouble. I want to know if there's a way out of this for me?" He explained the position, and the lawyer listened, frowning. "They're a sweet pair," he commented. "And so you want to dodge out of an agreement with them because you stand to lose money on it?" Joe reddened. Baldly put it amounted to just that, though in the heat of his anger he had lost sight of his former scruples. "They've rubbed you the wrong way," said Locke, "and no doubt they're too crooked to lie straight in a ditch, but that doesn't affect this contract. You can't break it." "If I haven't a chance I won't fight," said Joe. "I guess you're right about the ethics of the case, too. They made me so mad I forgot that side of it. Of course they knew the railway was going to jump the rate on us. Have you any idea why it was jumped." "I suppose they knew you'd have to stand for it," said Locke, grimly. "That's enough reason for any railroad." VII Coincident with the rise in the freight rate the car shortage became a thing of the past. Orders from Clancy Brothers poured in and were filled as slowly as possible. Around them flourished a mass of acrid correspondence--complaints and threats from the consignees, tart rejoinders from Kent. In other quarters sales were slow and small, for the time was one of money stringency. Credit, once long and easy, contracted, and the men who held the purse-strings drew them tight. Hagel, of the Commercial Bank, communicated his directors' decision as to the maturing notes, with his usual verbose solemnity. Done into plain English it amounted to this: The directors insisted on having the notes reduced by half, and they didn't care a hoot for the Kent current account. Kent thereupon drew a check for his balance and took it to the Farmers' National, where he had already made tentative arrangements. New notes were signed, the Commercial paid off, and the securities held by them transferred to the Farmers'. That incident was closed. Joe found McDowell a vast improvement upon Hagel. Where the latter had backed and filled and referred to his directors, McDowell, to whom responsibility was as the breath of life, decided instantly. He was less bound by routine and tradition, more willing to take a chance, and in closer touch with the exigencies of modern business. But for all that he never lost sight of his bank's interests, and his impartial and cool advice was of inestimable benefit to Joe. Also he made it very plain that while his institution would meet any reasonable proposition more than half way, it would protect itself first, last, and all the time. But their policy was a more liberal one than the Commercial's. Thus Joe was able to pay the interest on the mortgages held by the Northern Loan Company. This was overdue, and the mortgagees had threatened legal proceedings. And he was able, also, to accompany his tender for the choice Wind River limits by a marked check, a necessary formality which had cost him some sleepless nights. Naturally neither Crooks nor Kent sat down quietly under the new freight rate. They protested warmly, and, protests failing, deputed Locke to handle the matter for them. Locke went straight to headquarters, as was his custom. Henry J. Beemer, the general manager of the Peninsular Railway, tilted back his chair and knocked the ashes from his cigar. "As a matter of fact, Locke," he said, "there never was a freight rate that pleased everybody." "Certainly not this one," Locke replied. "It pleases no one." "Oh, I don't know," said Beemer. "It's not such a bad rate. We have the usual number of complaints, but nothing more. Before promulgating it we made inquiries----" "From my clients?" Locke interrupted sceptically. "No, I'm afraid we overlooked them. But we have letters from several large lumber shippers and dealers. Like to read them?" Locke nodded. He perused the letters produced, with a sardonic smile. "Very pretty," he commented, handing them back. "You couldn't have worded them better yourself. They wouldn't deceive a child." "Do you insinuate that they are not genuine?" asked Beemer sharply, frowning. "They're not forgeries, but that lets them out," said Locke. "They're inspired, every one of them. The signatories would admit it under oath, too. Are you paying them rebates?" "Illegal," said Beemer, recovering his usual suavity. "Yes--but are you?" Locke retorted. "I'm not in the witness box," said Beemer. "You will be, one of these days," Locke predicted. "Then we'll thresh out the letters and the rebate question, if I have the cross-examining of you." Beemer smiled rather uneasily. "We don't seem to be getting ahead. What do you want us to do?" "Restore the old rate. My clients--or one of them--made contracts on the faith of it." "Shouldn't have done it," said Beemer. "Good heavens! You, as a lawyer, can't hold us responsible for that." "No, but you see how the new rate hits them." "We were losing money on the old one," said Beemer. "This has just gone into effect. We must see how it works. I won't promise anything, but later we may be able to reduce it." "That isn't satisfactory," Locke told him bluntly. "I shall advise my clients to file a complaint with the Transportation Commission." Beemer laughed. The commission was notoriously slow and over-loaded with work. Taken in its order of priority the complaint would not, in all probability, be disposed of inside a year. "Go ahead!" he said indifferently. "All right," said Locke. "Give me a list of your directors." "What do you want that for?" "I want to find out, if I can, how many or which of them will benefit by this increased rate on lumber." "Confound it, Locke," snapped Beemer, "that's another insinuation. It amounts to a charge of manipulation of rates." "Which is, of course, absurd," said Locke ironically. "Will you give me the names, or must I get them another way?" That night he and Crooks went carefully over the list of directors. They found several names whose owners were more or less connected with lumber interests, though just how they benefited by the new rate was not apparent, unless they received rebates in some form, as doubtless they did. "As to Carney it's plain enough," said Crooks. "His business is over on the O. & N. The rise won't touch him and will cut us out of his markets." "That's so," responded Locke. "Now, take Ackerman. I know he's mixed up in about everything, but I never heard that he had lumber interests." "He tried to get young Kent to turn his business into a stock company, and failing that to sell it," said Crooks. "The devil he did? Then we may assume his interest. But what is it?" Neither could answer the question. Mr. Ackerman's varied activities were not blazoned forth to the world. He was more prominent in finance than in commerce, and so far as they knew he was not identified with any lumber business. "But he must be," said Locke thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can find out. It's strange. I wonder----" He broke off abruptly and pulled out a drawer of his desk, burrowing among the papers. "Yes, here we are. Huh!" He laid two papers side by side and ran his eye down them. "By the Lord Harry, Crooks, Ackerman is a director of the Peninsular Railway, of the Commercial Bank, and of the Northern Loan Company!" "Is, hey?" Crooks did not see the connection. "He's in a lot of things besides." "Don't you get it?" Locke rapped out. "That bank was Joe Kent's till they tried to squeeze him and he changed. The loan company hold his mortgages and threatened foreclosure for an instalment of interest not much overdue. The railway makes a rate that loses money for him. And Ackerman, director in all three concerns, tries to get hold of his business. What do you think of that?" Crooks's thought compressed itself into one forcible word. "So there's a coon in the tree somewhere," Locke pursued. "Now, here's another thing: Clancy Brothers knew of the intended change before the new rate was promulgated. The contract which they tried to obtain would have been absolutely ruinous to Kent. The one they have is bad enough. Therefore we seem to be warranted in assuming some connection between Ackerman and the Clancys." The assumption seemed warranted but did not put them much further forward. Out of their speculations two salient points emerged: Some person or persons were hammering the lumber interests along the Peninsular Railway, and Kent's in particular; and Mr. Stanley Ackerman represented the people who wielded the hammer. Joe, when told of their deductions, was not nearly as surprised and indignant as he would have been a couple of months before. He was learning in a hard school, and hardening in the process. And his brief and pointed reference to Ackerman, the Clancys, _et hoc genus omne_, would have done credit to old Bill Crooks in his most vitriolic mood. "Showing the effect of a modern college education upon the vocabulary," Locke commented dryly. Joe grinned mirthlessly. "They're all that and then some," he said. "I'll show them yet." Therefore it was unfortunate for Mr. Stanley Ackerman that he should have chosen this juncture for a second call upon the son of his highly respected deceased acquaintance, William Kent. Joe had just finished reading a letter from that eminent lawyer, Nicholas K. Ryan, setting forth the law in the matter of breach of contract, when Mr. Ackerman's accurately engraved card was handed to him. Followed Mr. Ackerman, perfectly dressed, bland, and smiling. His manner had lost nothing in warmth; indeed it was, if possible, more fatherly than ever. He beamed upon Joe, greatly to that young man's disgust. "Well, Mr. Ackerman," he said shortly, "what can I do for you?" "Why, my dear boy, that is exactly what I was about to ask _you_," replied Mr. Ackerman. "I promised myself that the first time I was in Falls City I would drop in and ask if I could be of _any_ assistance in _any_ way." "Awfully kind of you," said Joe in a tone which should have given his visitor warning. "Not a bit of it, my boy. The signs point to hard times, and the advice of one who has--hem!--a certain amount of business experience may not come amiss. What can I do for you? Out with it! How is the business?" "The business," said Joe grimly, "is doing about as well as can be expected--under the circumstances." Involuntarily his eyes sought the letter lying open on his desk. So did Mr. Ackerman's, and as he recognized the huge, sprawling signature of that eminent attorney, Nicholas K. Ryan, a satisfied comprehension came into them. "Ah," he said, "you feel the prevailing depression already. I am sorry to say--hem!--it is only beginning. These things move in cycles. Buoyant trade, optimism, expansion; over-expansion, falling trade, pessimism. We are on the down grade now, and have not nearly reached the lowest point. It may be one year or two or three before there is a revival. Those whose businesses are sound will weather the storm; but those who are unprepared will perhaps founder." "Well, I'll weather it all right, if that's what you mean," said Joe. "I hope so--I sincerely hope so," said Mr. Ackerman in a tone which implied grave doubt. "By the way, since I was here I mentioned in a certain quarter--no matter where--the possibility of your being willing to stock your business or sell it, and I think a very good arrangement might be made--good from your standpoint, I mean. Let me tell you just what might be done." "I won't trouble you," said Joe. "I told you once I wasn't open to anything of the kind." "But this would be most advantageous," Ackerman persisted. "It would allow you to retain practical control of the business and give you more money than you are making at present." "Drop it!" rasped Joe. "You and your friends will get hold of the pieces of my business when you smash it and me, and not before." Mr. Ackerman was amazed, shocked, and pained. At least his face assumed an expression combining all three emotions. "My _dear_ boy----" "What's the use?" Joe interrupted hotly. "I know more about you than I did. You and your fellow directors of the railway raised the rate on lumber and tipped off the Clancys in advance. You nearly got me on that. You and your fellow directors of the bank tried to close me out when my security was ample. You and your fellow directors of the loan company wouldn't give me an ordinary extension of time for an interest payment. And if I went into any such arrangement as you seem prepared to suggest you'd cut my throat and throw me overboard when it suited you. And so, Mr. Ackerman, I think we may as well close this interview now." "I assure you----" Mr. Ackerman began earnestly. "Don't!" Joe interrupted curtly. "I wouldn't believe you." Mr. Stanley Ackerman rose and held out his hand, a smile, tolerant and forgiving, illuminating a countenance which, to tell the truth, was somewhat red. "I'd rather not, thanks," said Joe, looking at the hand. His tone was so thoroughly contemptuous that Mr. Ackerman's beautiful smile vanished. "All right, then, young man," he snapped. "This is the last offer you'll get from me. And in future you need expect no consideration from any institution with which I am identified. Go ahead and run your own little business, and see what happens." Joe brightened instantly. "That's better talk--and I believe you are telling the truth for once," he said cheerfully. "That's precisely what I'm going to do." Mr. Ackerman's lips opened in a further remark; but thinking better of it he shut them again and left the office, wearing his dignity about him as a mantle. He brushed past Wright in the hall, and the latter whistled his astonishment, for the highly respectable and usually unperturbed twin brother of Capital was swearing through his teeth in a way that would have increased the reputation of any drunken pirate who ever infested the Florida Keys. VIII The year drew into September, time of goldenrod, browning grasses, crisp, clear mornings and hazy, dreamy days. The shanty lads began to straggle back to town from little backwoods farms where they had spent the summer loafing or increasing the size of the clearings, from mills, from out-of-the-way holes and corners. They haunted the lumber companies' offices looking for jobs. There things began to hum with the bustle of preparation and owners held long consultations with walking bosses and laid plans for the winter's campaign. Kent's tender for the choice Wind River limits was accepted, somewhat to his surprise and to Crooks's profane amazement. The latter, through the good offices of a middleman working for his rake-off, secured the limits on Rat Lake. Remained the question of how the logs should be cut, and when. Joe, after taking counsel with Crooks, Wright, and Locke, decided on his course. That winter he would make a supreme effort to cut every stick he could, and sell them in the drive, retaining only enough logs to run his mill on half time or a little better. This seemed the only thing to do. Locke had been unable to push his complaint anent the freight rate to a hearing before the commission. Kent's liabilities were piling up and maturing; the general financial stringency was increasing, as predicted by Ackerman; his timber sales, taking into consideration the unprofitable contract with the Clancys, showed a very narrow margin; and the consensus of advice he received was to market his raw product while he could, reduce his liabilities as much as possible, and then sit tight and hope for better luck and better times. For once fortune seemed to play into his hand, for while he was considering the question of opening negotiations for the disposal of the surplus logs the following spring he received a letter from Wismer & Holden, who were very large millmen and did little logging, either jobbing out such limits as they bought or buying their logs from loggers who had no mills. The letter stated that they wished to obtain from twenty million feet upward, in the log, deliverable at their booms not later than July 1st of the following year. They offered a good price, and were prepared to pay cash on delivery. And they wished to know if Kent could supply them with the above quantity of logs, or, if not, what part of it. This was too good a proposition to be neglected, and Joe immediately took train and called on Wismer & Holden. In half an hour the preliminaries were settled. "You understand," said Wismer, "that we must have these logs by July 1st. A later date won't do." "I can get them down by then, of course," said Joe. "Then we might as well close the deal now," said Wismer, and called his stenographer. He dictated an agreement from a form which he took from his desk. In this agreement was a clause providing a penalty for non-delivery by the date named. Joe was not versed in legal terminology, but it read pretty stiff and he took objection to it. "That's our ordinary form of delivery contract," said Wismer. "We have to protect ourselves somehow. We give you ample margin for delivery, you see, but we've got to have some guarantee that you'll make good, because we make other contracts in the expectation of getting the logs by a certain date. If we didn't get them we'd be up against it." That seemed reasonable enough, and Joe signed the instrument. But when a few days afterward he showed it to Locke, the lawyer pounced on that clause like a hawk, switched over to the last page, looked at Joe's signature duly witnessed, and groaned. "Boy, what on earth did you sign that for? Did they chloroform you?" "What's the matter with it?" asked Joe. "Matter with it?" snorted Locke. "Why, it's a man-trap, nothing short of it. Can't you read, or didn't you read? If you didn't know what you were signing there's a glimmer of hope." "I read the thing," Joe admitted. "And yet you signed it! Why, you young come on, if you fail to deliver by July 1st they may refuse to accept any logs whatever; and, moreover, you become their debtor and bind yourself to pay an amount which they say is ascertained damages for non-performance. Do you get that with any degree of clarity?" "Oh, that's all right, I guess," said Joe, and repeated Wismer's explanation. "I'm sure to have the logs down early in June, so it doesn't matter." "Any clause in a contract matters," said Locke. "You're gambling on a date. The amount they specify as damages is an arbitrary one, and may be twice as great as the loss to them. This is another of Nick Ryan's deadfalls--I recognize the turn of the phrases--and he's got the little joker tucked inside, as usual. After this don't you sign a blame thing without showing it to me." Locke's words would have caused Joe some uneasiness but for the fact that he was sure of making delivery. Having arranged a market for his logs, or, rather, one having arranged itself for him, the next thing was to provide the logs themselves. He and Wright held council with McKenna, Tobin, Deever, and MacNutt, the former being Kent's walking boss and the last three his foremen. The winter's work was divided in this way: Deever and Tobin were to finish cutting the limits on the Missabini; MacNutt was to take the Wind River limit, just acquired; Dennis McKenna, the walking boss, had a general oversight of the camps, but would divide his time between Tobin's and Deever's, after locating the camp at Wind River, which limit he had cruised before the purchase. Immediately on reaching this decision, the foremen got together the nucleus of crews. "Why don't you go up to the Wind with McKenna and take a look at things?" said Crooks. Joe welcomed the suggestion with enthusiasm. He had been sticking pretty closely to the office, and the prospect of a couple of weeks in the open air was attractive. Three days later saw him trudging beside McKenna and MacNutt, while behind them a wagon laden with tents, blankets, food, and tools bumped and jolted. They left roads behind, and plunged into unmarked, uncharted country where the wheels sank half-way to the hubs in damp, green moss, crashed through fern to the horses' bellies, or skidded perilously on rocky hillsides. Ahead, McKenna piloted his crew, a light axe in his hand, gashing the trees with blazes at frequent intervals. He blazed them both back and front, until the road was plainly marked so that going and coming the way might be seen. To Joe the instinct of the old woodsman was marvellous. He made no mistakes, never hesitated, never cast back. But always he followed the lines of the least natural resistance, and somehow these lines, which he apparently carried in his head, became a fairly straight route to an objective point. There were obstacles easier to surmount than to avoid--logs to be cut and thrown aside, pole bridges to be built, bits of corduroy to be laid in shaky places; merely temporary things, these, for the flying column. Later others would make a road of it, but at present anything that would carry team and wagon served. So the crew slashed out a way with double-bitted or two-faced axes--"Methodist axes," as they were called in an unwarranted reflection upon that excellent denomination--throwing light, frail bridges together with wonderful celerity, twisting fallen timber out of the way with peavey-hook and cant-dog, and doing the work effortlessly and easily, for they were one and all experts with the tools of their trade, and such work was child's play to them. In due course they arrived at the site chosen by McKenna when he had cruised the limit. It was a natural opening, ringed about with towering, feathery-headed pines. At one end it sloped down to alder and willow through which a little stream slid gently between brown roots and mossy banks. This meant water supply. Ruffed grouse roared up from under Joe's feet as he parted the bushes, and when he rose to his knees, having drunk his fill lying flat on the ground, he saw a big, brown swamp hare, already graying about the ears, watching him not twenty feet away. Also, in a bare and muddy place, he saw the pointed tracks of deer, and dog-like prints which were those of a stray wolf. However, he had not come to hunt. Tents came out of the wagon and were rammed up and made fast in short order. The cook dug a shallow trench and built his fireplace, drove forked stakes, laid a stout, green pole between them, slung his pot-hooks on it and below them his pots, and so was ready to minister to the needs of the inner man. With tape-line and pegs McKenna laid out the ground plans of bunk-house, eating-camp, caboose, foreman's quarters, and stables. At a safe distance he located the dynamite storehouse. Already the crashing fall of trees announced that the crew was getting out timbers for the buildings, and Joe watched the work of axes and saws with a species of fascination. No sooner did a tree strike the ground than men were on it, measuring, trimming, cutting it to length. When a square timber was required, one man cut notches three feet apart down the sides of a prostrate trunk and split off the slabs. Another, a lean, wasp-waisted tiemaker, stripped to underclothes and moccasins, mounted one end with a huge, razor-edged broad-axe which was the pride of his heart. Every stroke fell to a hair. He hewed a straight line by judgment of eye alone, and the result was a stick of square or half-square timber, absolutely straight, and almost as smooth as if planed. As fast as the logs were ready the teamster grappled them with hook and chain, and the big horses yanked them out into position. Another wagon and more men arrived. Buildings grew as if by magic. The wall-logs were mortised and skidded up into place; the whole was roofed in; the chinks were stuffed with moss and plastered with wet clay; bunks in tiers were built around the walls; tables and benches knocked together in no time; and the Wind River camp was finished and ready for occupation. While these preparations were going forward, Joe, McKenna, and MacNutt prowled the woods at such times as the last two had to spare from construction work. The walking boss and the foreman sized up the situation with the sure rapidity of experts. They knew just how many feet of timber a given area held, how long it should take so many men to cut it, and in how many loads, given good sleigh-roads, it should be hauled out to the banking grounds at the river. "It'll depend a lot on the season, of course," said McKenna. "If she's a fair winter--a powder of snow and good frost for a bottom and then snow and hard weather with odd flurries to make good slippin'--we can get out all we cut. But if she freezes hard and dry, and the snow's late and scanty or hits us all in a bunch when it comes, it will put us back. Or if mild weather gets here early and the roads break it will be bad." As the walking boss spoke he and Joe were standing at the top of a height looking down a vista of brown tree-trunks which sloped gently away to a dense cedar swamp. Suddenly Joe's eye caught a moving figure and he pointed it out to McKenna. "It can't be one of our men," said the latter; "we'd better see who it is." As the stranger came into plain view, heading straight for them, McKenna gave a grunt of recognition and displeasure. "That's Shan McCane!" "Never heard of him," said Joe carelessly. "You don't miss much," the walking boss commented. "'Rough Shan,' they call him. The name fits." Mr. McCane was no beauty. He was big, and looked fleshy, but was not. A deceptive slouchiness of carriage covered the quickness of a cat when necessary. His cheeks and chin bristled with a beard of the texture and colour of a worn-out blacking brush; his nose had a cant to the northeast, and his left eye was marred by a sinister cast. Add to these a chronic, ferocious scowl and subtract two front teeth, and you have the portrait of Rough Shan McCane, as Joe saw him. For attire he wore a greasy flannel shirt, open in front so that his great, mossy chest was bare to the winds, short trousers held in place by a frayed leather strap, and a pair of fourteen-inch larrigans. He and McKenna greeted each other without enthusiasm. "Cruisin'?" asked the walking boss. "Nope," replied McCane. "I got a camp over here a ways. I'm cuttin' Clancys' limit." "Clancys'!" said Joe in surprise, for Clancy Brothers had purchased the next limit in the name of a third party a couple of years before and their interest did not appear. "Do they own timber here?" "Their limit butts on your east line," McCane told him. "How do you get your logs out?" asked McKenna. "We'll haul down to Lebret Creek and drive that to the Wind." McKenna nodded. The Kent logs would be driven down Wind River. Lebret Creek lay east of it. It was a small stream, but fast and good driving. "Well, I must be gettin' back," said McCane. "Your timber runs better than ours. So long!" He nodded and slouched off. McKenna looked after him and shook his head. "I'd rather have any one else jobbin' Clancys' limit," he observed. "McCane keeps a bad camp an' feeds his crew on whiskey. He has a wild bunch of Callahans, Red McDougals, and Charbonneaus workin' for him always. No other man could hold 'em down." "How does he get his work done with whiskey in camp?" Joe asked. "He can make a man work, drunk or sober--or else he half kills him. The worst is that with a booze-camp handy our boys will get it once in awhile. Still, MacNutt can hold 'em down. McCane laid him out a couple of years ago with a peavey, and he hates him. He won't stand any nonsense. A good man is Mac!" MacNutt, the foreman of the Wind River crew, was a lean, sinewy logger who had spent twenty years in the camps. He owned a poisonous tongue and a deadly temper when aroused; but he had also a cool head, and put his employer's interests before all else. He heard the news in silence. "Of course we can't stand for booze in the camp," said Joe. "If any man gets drunk on whiskey from McCane's camp or elsewhere, fire him at once." He thought he was putting the seal of authority on a very severe measure. MacNutt smiled sourly. "I won't fire a good man the first time--I'll just knock the daylights out of him," he said. "As for McCane, I look for trouble with him." Suddenly he swore with venom. "I'll split his head with an axe if he crowds me again!" "Oh, come--" Joe began. "Sounds like talk, I know," MacNutt interrupted. "But he nigh brained me with a peavey once, when I had only my bare hands. It's coming to him, Mr. Kent. I'll take nothing from him nor his crew." Joe, on his way back to town the following day, thought of MacNutt's hard eyes and set mouth, and felt assured that he would meet any trouble half-way. His own disposition being rather combative on occasion, he endorsed his foreman's attitude irrespective of the diplomacy of it. IX When he returned from Wind River, Kent determined, after clearing off what work had accumulated in his absence, to pay a visit to Edith Garwood. He sent no advance notice of his coming, and her surprise at seeing him was considerably more apparent than any joy she might have felt; for she was carrying on an interesting affair with a young gentleman who really did not know the extent of resources which had been in his family in the form of real estate for something over a century. It was most annoying that Joe Kent should turn up just then. "I'm just going out," she said. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" "No particular reason," said Joe, feeling the coolness of his reception. "Does it matter?" "Of course it matters. I have made engagements which I can't very well break, even for you. If you had told me----" "Don't worry," said Joe. "I'll take what's left. You're going out, and I shan't keep you. May I call to-night?" That evening happened to be blank. She gave him the desired permission, and feeling that she had perhaps shown her irritation too plainly, asked him to accompany her. "It's an afternoon affair," she explained, "and of course you won't care to come in; but you may see me that far if you like, and the car will set you down anywhere." As they entered the waiting car a gentleman on the other side of the street raised his hat. Miss Garwood bowed, and Joe acknowledged the salute mechanically. It was only when the car shot by the pedestrian that he recognized him as Mr. Stanley Ackerman. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "Do you know that fellow?" "Really, Joe," she replied, "I wish you wouldn't speak of my father's friends in that way." Her annoyance was genuine, but his words were not the cause of it. She disliked Ackerman and distrusted him. Also he knew the young man with the real estate pedigree. "I can't congratulate your father on that particular friend," Kent observed bluntly, and became thoughtful. Mr. Ackerman looked after the car and became thoughtful also. Shortly afterward he entered Hugh Garwood's office. The president of the O. & N. would have been spare and shapely if he had taken ordinary exercise; but being far too busy a man to spend any time on the trifling matter of physical well-being his figure had run to seed. Only his head was lean and alertly poised, by virtue of the keen, ever-working brain within. The face was narrow, hard, and determined; and the mouth, set awry beneath the close-clipped gray moustache, was ruthless and grim. It was, in fact, a fairly good indication of his character and methods. He was never known to forego an advantage of any kind, and he was accustomed to bludgeon opponents into submission without being particular where he cut his clubs. "Well, Ackerman," he said, "what's the news?" Mr. Ackerman had no news. It was a fine day, though cool. Beautiful weather. Made a man want to be outdoors. Garwood grunted. He was not interested in the weather, save as it affected business. Snow blockades and wash-outs and natural phenomena producing them received his attention. Apart from such things he scarcely knew whether a day was fine or not. "All very well for people who have time to burn," he commented. "I haven't." "Young people enjoy it," said Mr. Ackerman, getting his opening. "I saw your daughter go by in a car as I came downtown. Lovely girl that. I thought she looked remarkably well and happy." "She ought to be happy," said her father grimly. "She spends enough money." "You can afford it. It won't be long till some one else is paying her bills. Plenty of young men would think it a privilege." Garwood, from his knowledge of Mr. Ackerman's indirect methods of approach, suddenly regarded him with attention. "What are you driving at, anyway, Ackerman?" he asked. "_You_ don't want to marry her, do you?" Mr. Ackerman disclaimed any such desire with haste and evident sincerity. "There was a very good-looking young fellow with her this afternoon," he observed. "Trust her for that," growled Garwood. "Who was it? Young Statten?" "No," said Mr. Ackerman slowly, enjoying the sensation in advance, "his name is Kent, Joseph Kent of Falls City." "What?" cried Garwood, and straightened in his chair as if he had received a shock, as indeed he had. "Yes," said Mr. Ackerman. "You remember she was in Falls City for some weeks this summer. I heard somewhere--you know how these things get about--that she and Kent were--well, in fact, I heard that they were together a great deal." Garwood rapped out a man's size oath. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" "Knowing Miss Edith's penchant for innocent summer flirtations I attached no importance to it," smiled Mr. Ackerman. Garwood sat frowning. "You may be right. That girl would flirt with a man's shadow. However, I'll put a stop to this at once. Now see here, Ackerman, you've bungled the Kent matter so far." "I have not," denied Mr. Ackerman indignantly. "He simply would not sell. That's not my fault." Garwood dismissed the protest with an impatient gesture. "The fact remains that I haven't got what I'm after. Crooks's business and Kent's are all that prevent us from controlling the lumber market on the O. & N. and the Peninsular. Crooks is pretty strong, but this winter must break Kent, and after that we'll get Crooks. We absolutely must have the water powers which Kent owns. He has a fortune in them, if he only knew it and had money enough to develop them, and we also need his mills. We must have these things, and there must be no mistake about it." "If he doesn't deliver the logs he has contracted to deliver----" Ackerman began, but Garwood cut him short. "It must be made impossible for him to deliver them. If he makes good it gives him a new lease of life and delays our plans; but if he doesn't cut the logs he can't deliver them, whether his drive is hung up or not." "It was against my advice that his tender for the Wind River limits went through." "I know. But he could ill afford to put up the cash for them. His credit is becoming badly strained. A small cut or non-delivery will be fatal to him." "But how can we prevent his cutting?" "Really, Ackerman, you are dense to-day," said Garwood. "Clancy Brothers have timber near Wind River. We can't touch the other camps, so far as I can see at present, but if you represent matters properly to the Clancys I think they will look after that one." When Garwood went home that evening he called his daughter into his private room and went straight to the point. "Now, Edith," said he, "I want to know what there is between you and young Kent." She flushed angrily, immediately fixing the responsibility for the leak on Ackerman. "Who told you there was anything between us?" "Never mind. Is it a fact?" "Is what a fact?" "Don't beat about the bush with me. How far has this flirtation of yours gone?" "Not very far," she answered calmly. "Mr. Kent has merely asked me to marry him." "What!" cried Garwood, "you don't mean to tell me you're engaged?" "I suppose we are--in a way." "This must stop," said Garwood. "I thought you had more sense. You can't marry him. He is a nobody; he is on the verge of bankruptcy; he is merely after my money." She cast a sidewise glance at a long mirror and laughed at the lovely reflection. "You are not complimentary, papa. Don't you think a young man might fall in love with me for myself?" "I am not talking of love, but of marriage," said Garwood cynically. "I won't have it, I tell you. You must drop Kent now." "Why?" "Because I say so," said her father, his mouth setting firmly. "I won't mince matters with you, Edith. Inside a year Kent will be looking for a clerk's job. You're not cut out for a poor man's wife." "You mean that if I married him you would give me nothing?" "You grasp my meaning exactly. Not a cent during my life nor after my death." Edith Garwood sighed as plaintively as she could; but it was in fact a sigh of relief. It was put up to her so squarely that she had no choice, as she looked at it. She was already tired of Kent, anxious for an excuse to break with him, and she had secretly dreaded the affair coming to her father's knowledge. Now the worst was over. And she saw an opportunity of avoiding a scene with Joe, which she had dreaded also. "Of course I haven't been brought up to marry a poor man," she said. "We would both be miserable, if it came to that. So it would be a mistake, wouldn't it?" "Undoubtedly," responded Garwood, who, having carried his point much more easily than he expected, found a certain amusement in her mental processes, as one is entertained by the antics of a kitten. "Then I suppose I shall have to give him up," she continued, with another beautifully plaintive sigh. "He is to call to-night. Will you tell him? Or shall I write him a note?" "No doubt you know the correct procedure," said Garwood. "Write your note and give it to me. Make it firm and definite." She nodded agreement. "And now, papa, don't you think I am a very dutiful, self-sacrificing daughter?" Garwood reached for his check-book with a smile of grim comprehension. "How much does it cost me this time?" he asked. When Joe called that evening he was shown into Hugh Garwood's study. The railway man, seated at his desk, eyed him keenly. Kent found the scrutiny unfriendly, and stiffened. "I called to see Miss Garwood," said he. "My name is Kent." "Sit down, Mr. Kent," said Garwood. "My daughter has given me this note for you. Will you please read it." Joe read. It was brief and to the point, and wound up with perfunctory regrets. There was no possibility of misunderstanding it. He folded the missive. "I presume you know the contents of this letter, Mr. Garwood?" "I am aware of them, yes." "Miss Garwood says that you object to her engagement to me. Will you kindly tell me why?" "With pleasure. You are not in a position to marry, and you entrapped my daughter into a clandestine engagement, which was not a manly thing to do. In fact, to put it very plainly, you are trying to marry money." "To put it just as plainly," said Joe, flushing, "I don't care about your money at all. I am in a position to marry. The secret engagement I own up to and take the blame for. I shouldn't have consented to it." "Consented?" said Garwood sharply. "Then it was my daughter who suggested that?" "Not at all," said Joe, lying manfully as he felt bound to do after the slip. "It was my fault entirely." Garwood smiled cynically. "You needn't shoulder all the blame. I know her better than you do." He was rather surprised at the equanimity with which Kent accepted his dismissal. He had looked for a stormy interview with a disappointed, unreasonable youth who would protest and indulge in heroics. He felt quite kindly toward this young man, whose business, nevertheless, he intended to smash. Inwardly he made a note to offer him some sort of a job when that was accomplished. "I take back what I said a moment ago. But you must understand that there can be nothing between you and my daughter." "I think I understand that very well," said Joe. "Glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Garwood. By the way, please tell Mr. Ackerman I recognized him to-day. Good night." Edith Garwood, peeping from behind a drawn blind, expected to see an utterly crushed being slink from the house. What she saw was an erect young man who paused on the steps to light a cigar, cocked it up at a jaunty angle, and went down the street head up and shoulders back. In fact, Joe Kent was shaking hands with himself. He had known for some time that his feeling for Edith Garwood fell far short of love; but as he looked at it, he could not tell her so. So that his dismissal, instead of plunging him into the depths of gloom, boosted his spirits sky-high. "Thank the Lord!" he exclaimed fervently as he swung down the street. "Joe, my son, let this be a lesson to you. Cut out the girl proposition and stick to business." He became thoughtful. "So old Ackerman's a friend of Garwood's. And Garwood tells me I'm not in a position to marry. I wonder how he knows so much about it? I wonder----" He did not complete the sentence, but Garwood's words stuck in his recollection. X When Mr. Ackerman, following the hint received from Garwood, called at the office of Clancy Brothers, his reception was nothing short of frosty. John Clancy was alone, and he regarded his visitor from beneath a lowering brow. "Now, here's what I want to know about," said he. "How does it come that Kent gets them limits at Wind River? We tendered for them ourselves." "Likely his tender was higher," said Mr. Ackerman with assumed carelessness. "An' what's that got to do wid it?" demanded Clancy, who appeared to find this explanation inadequate. "Don't we give up strong to th' campaign fund? Neither young Kent nor his father ever gave a cent to it, and their politics is the other way. It's a raw deal we got, an' ye can say that we'll remember it. If them limits had gone to one of our own people we'd have said nawthin', for we could have fixed it wid him or he'd a had to fix it wid us. But th' way it is we're sore, an' we make no bones about sayin' so. Where's his pull, that's what we want to know? An' if it's come to this, that a young felly whose politics is agin ye an' who don't give up to th' fund can buy limits ahead of us, why, then, we're through an' be damned to ye! An' there's others who thinks the same way." This unusually long and evidently heartfelt speech of Clancy's indicated a dissatisfaction which Mr. Ackerman, who held confidential relations with certain members of a thoroughly rotten and graft-ridden administration, could not afford to ignore. "Oh, that's nonsense, Clancy," said Ackerman. "There was a reason why Kent got the limits and we'll see that you get something else." "We want what we go after, an' we don't have to take what's handed to us," retorted Clancy unappeased. "See now, Ackerman, we know a thing or two. Here's Kent been makin' up to ould Garwood's girl. Garwood works his pull, an' th' limits goes to Kent. I have it from the inside that Garwood got them for him. Now, I'm not settin' our pull agin Garwood's--not by no manes--but we will not be used by you to double-cross him. We want no trouble wid Garwood." "What do you mean?" Ackerman queried. "I mane this: You tip us off to make a new contract wid Kent bekase the railway will raise the rates on boards. Ye don't do that for love of us, nor yet for a rake-off, for ye asked for none. So ye do it to hit Kent. Then he tenders for timber limits, an' Garwood, bekase the young man is keepin' company wid his daughter, sees he gets them. You an' Garwood do be thick together, an' it's strange you're knockin' his son-in-law-to-be. Me an' Finn will have no more to do wid it." Mr. Ackerman chuckled at Clancy's very natural mistake. "If you think Garwood is a friend of Kent's you're wrong." "Show me," said Clancy. "There's nothing now between Garwood's daughter and Kent," responded Ackerman. "If Garwood had cared to use his influence for him the Peninsular would not have raised the rate on lumber. That's obvious enough, I should think." "I'm talkin' about them limits," said Clancy obstinately. "Well, admitting that Garwood is responsible for that, he had his reasons other than the one you mentioned. Kent has sunk a lot of money in that timber. He may not get it out again." "Ye mane that the limits was onloaded onto him to tie up his cash resources?" said Clancy, comprehending. "I didn't say so," said Mr. Ackerman, smiling sweetly, "but his business is involved already, and if anything unforeseen should occur he might smash." "An' somebody might buy him in," Clancy commented with an appreciative grin. "I wish ye luck, but what do we get in place of our tender that was turned down?" "Let me know what you want and I'll do my best for you," Ackerman promised. "Now, I understand you have some timber near Kent's Wind River limits?" "Buttin' onto 'em at one line," Clancy replied. "That's why we tendered--to round out our holdin'." "Are you cutting it this winter?" "We are." "Yourselves?" "We jobbed it out." "That's too bad," said Mr. Ackerman in disappointment. "I suppose the jobber is a good man?" "A good man!" echoed John Clancy. "Is Rough Shan McCane a good man? If there's a worse one anywheres I never seen him." "Then why did you give him the stuff to cut?" "Bekase he'll put in the logs. He can drive a crew, drunk or sober." "I thought liquor wasn't allowed in the camps?" "No more it is--in most." "I suppose," said Mr. Ackerman casually, "that if whiskey got into Kent's camp his work would suffer?" John Clancy eyed him keenly. "Two an' two makes four," he said oracularly. "What are ye drivin' at? Put it in plain words." Mr. Ackerman put it as plainly as his bias in favour of indirect speech would permit. Clancy considered with pursed mouth. "These things works both ways," he said. "A loggin' war, wanst started bechune two camps, means hell an' docthers' bills to pay, to say nawthin' of lost time. What would we get out of it?" Mr. Ackerman told him, prudently sinking his voice to little more than a whisper, and Clancy's eyes glistened. "Them's good contracts," he commented. "I'll speak to Finn. He has it in for Kent." This partial assurance seemed to satisfy Mr. Ackerman. "Is Kent still delivering lumber under your contract?" he asked. "He is--as slow as he can. Ryan says we can't have the law on him for breach of contract yet. I had him write a letter makin' a bluff, an' Kent's lawyer wrote back callin' it. So there ye are." "Well, I suppose it can't be helped," said Mr. Ackerman regretfully. But on the whole he was very well satisfied with the position of affairs, and left Clancy's office wearing the peculiarly bland, guileless smile which was his whenever he had succeeded in arranging a particularly unpleasant programme for some one else. The smile, however, lost something of its quality when, just outside the street door, he ran into Locke. The lawyer glanced from him to Clancy Brothers' window lettering and back again, and smiled. His expression somehow reminded Mr. Ackerman of a dog that has found an exceedingly choice bone. "Hallo, Ackerman!" said he. "What are you framing up now?" "I don't think I understand you," said Mr. Ackerman with dignity. "Well, here's something I wanted to ask you," Locke went on. "Is it a fact that the O. & N.--otherwise Garwood--has secured control of the Peninsular?" The question was so entirely unexpected that Mr. Ackerman was almost caught off his guard, but he said: "Control of the Peninsular? You must be joking." "It is not a fact, then?" asked Locke. "He may have bought some shares. But control--oh, no! that would be most unlikely. Our shares are all too strongly held." "Not an impossibility, however?" Locke persisted. "Humanly speaking, anything is possible," smiled Mr. Ackerman, getting his second wind. "Rumours are most unreliable things." "Yes," Locke assented. "When did you and Garwood go into the lumber business?" Once more Mr. Ackerman was taken flat aback. Figuratively speaking, he even gathered sternway. He simply stared at Locke for a moment. "The--lumber--business?" he exclaimed, recovering power of speech. "My dear sir, I am not in the lumber business, save for a few shares which I own here and there." "No?" Locke smiled unpleasant, open disbelief. "How about Garwood?" "Why don't you ask him?" said Mr. Ackerman with unnecessary tartness. "I will, one of these days," said Locke. "By the way, I'm going to subpoena both of you in my application to the commission." "That will come on next year, I believe," said Mr. Ackerman with something very like a sneer. "Probably next month," Locke retorted. "Good morning." Locke's words were by no means random shots. Once convinced that Ackerman represented some person or persons inimical to Kent and Crooks, he sought for a clue. One by one he went over Ackerman's business associates, including Garwood, and discarded them one by one. Then came the rumour of Garwood's acquisition of the Peninsular, an acquisition almost coincident with the rise in rates. Therefore, Locke argued, Garwood somehow benefited by it. But how? The railway man was not known to be interested in lumber. Still, as Locke saw it, he must be. "Here," said Locke to himself, "is this Central Lumber Company officered by dummies, capitalized for a mere trifle, and yet acquiring business after business. Why the secrecy? Who is behind it? Obviously some man or men who don't wish their identity known until they have accomplished a certain purpose. What is the purpose? So far it seems to be the buying out of existing lumber concerns. Ackerman approached Kent. For whom? Probably for this Central Lumber Company. Therefore Ackerman is one of those behind it. Ackerman's influence has been unfriendly to Kent in every way. Garwood no sooner acquired control of Peninsular stock than the rate on lumber was boosted. Ackerman is associated with him. Therefore it is not a wild hypothesis to say that Garwood is financing the Central Lumber Company." Thus Locke argued to himself, and he found fresh confirmation in the methods adopted toward Kent, which were typically those of Hugh Garwood. Then, too, Mr. Ackerman's evident discomposure when directly charged with association with him in a lumber business was suspicious. He arrived at these conclusions quite independently and mentioned them to no one. His surprise, therefore, was great when Joe Kent, dropping in one morning, asked what he knew about Hugh Garwood. "Did it ever strike you," Joe asked, "that he may be the man behind?" "It did," Locke answered, "but tell me how it happened to strike you." "Well--it just occurred to me," replied Joe, embarrassed. "Give up, give up," said the lawyer impatiently. "Don't hold out on your doctor, your banker, or your lawyer." Thereupon Joe, under pledge of secrecy, outlined the conjunction of events. It was a slight thing, but another corroboratory circumstance. Suppressing Joe's part, Locke mentioned his suspicions to Crooks. "I'll bet a thousand you're right," said the old lumberman thoughtfully. "Garwood, hey? He's the last man I'd have suspected. And usually the last man you suspect is the first man you ought to. It's just like him to cut a man's throat and then pick his pocket. Why, damn him"--Bill Crooks' voice rose in indignation--"his girl visited my girl for a month last summer. You know that, Joe; you used to trot around with her." Joe reddened. Crooks went on: "Well, what can we do about it? This is up to you, Locke. Start your game and I'll back it. So will Joe." "I haven't got enough evidence to start anything," said Locke. "I hope to prove Garwood's connection with the Peninsular when our application to the Transportation Commission comes up for hearing. Outside of that our best chance lies in investigating this Central Lumber Company. I'll see what I can find out about them and you'd better get busy along the same line and pump every lumberman and dealer you know." Kent's good spirits and increased cheerfulness were so noticeable that Jack Crooks, knowing of his recent flying trip, drew her own conclusions. Casually one evening she approached the subject. "Of course you saw Edith?" "Oh, yes, I saw her," Joe replied. "She must have been very glad to see you?" Joe smiled enigmatically. "Well, Jack, she didn't exactly fall on my neck. I don't think I brightened up life for her to any extent." "Modest young man. Are you aware that you have worn a sunny smile ever since you returned? You can't bluff me, Joe. Why don't you own up?" "Own up to what?" Joe's smile became a broad grin. Jack thought he looked idiotically pleased. To her eyes his face expressed the good-natured fatuity of the recently engaged man who rather likes to be joked about it--a being whom she despised. She was disappointed in Joe. "If you expect me to jolly you into admitting your engagement to her you're making a mistake," she said coldly. "I can wait till you see fit to announce it." "Are you sure you can?" he teased. "Very nicely. And I beg your pardon for what must have seemed an impertinent curiosity." She regarded him with an icy dignity. "Fine speech, that," Joe commented genially. "It's from some third act, isn't it? And then I say: 'Ah, Beatrice, why that cold and haughty tone? Me life holds no secrets from you: me heart----'" "Joe Kent, I'll throw something at you!" she cried indignantly. Then she laughed. "Joe, I'll come down to the ploughed ground. You and Edith were very much taken with each other, and when you come back, wearing an idiotic grin, I'm entitled to suppose. I confess to curiosity. Come, now; give up, like a good boy!" "There's nothing to give up," said Joe frankly. "Not a thing." "I know better," said Jack. "Edith was in a very confidential mood one night and she told me something. Afterward she regretted it and swore me to secrecy. Does that make any difference?" "Not much," said Joe. "But now I can tell you that I've been thrown down hard. What you spoke of is very much off." He outlined what had occurred. She listened, indignant but puzzled. "But--but you seem so cheerful about it. I don't understand. Weren't you fond of her? And if you weren't, why did you tell her you were? And if you were, why----" "Stop!" cried Joe. "Don't get me in so deep." He became serious. "Jack, most people make mistakes at times. Edith and I made one together. I think we both saw it as soon as it was made, but it took all this time to straighten out. I'm sure she's relieved, and, though it doesn't seem a nice thing to say, I'm just tickled to death." "Well," said Jack judicially, "I don't approve of flirting, and I never flirt myself. I think she was flirting straight through, and I don't know whether to blame you or not. But, anyway, I'm awfully glad it's all off." "It's great," said Joe. "Now I can get down to work." There was, indeed, much to be done. Wright looked after the manufacturing and sales end of the business and looked after it well; McKenna was an excellent walking boss; MacNutt, Deever, and Tobin were good, practical foremen. But the concern lacked a strong, competent executive head who knew the logging business intimately, who could decide at once and finally the questions that must ever arise, and who could command the loyalty and unquestioning obedience of his men in the camps. For there is a vast difference in the mind of a lumber jack between working for wages merely and working for an employer. For the one he will do a day's work; for the other he will do a day's work and a half, with the pay as an entirely secondary consideration. Just as great commanders have fired their troops with enthusiasm to the point of performing practical impossibilities through pride in them and in themselves and that magic, mystic thing called _esprit du corps_, so there have been employers who, in time of need, command the unswerving, uncomplaining loyalty of the shantyman. For such men he will work without grumbling in all kinds of weather; he will take all manner of chances on land or water; he will fight for them at the drop of a hat; and, finally, he will throw his loyalty into each lick of axe and pull of saw, so that at the end of the season it may be measured in saw logs. Nor does this depend wholly or even materially upon the treatment accorded him by the "Old Man"--save that he must have a square deal. He may be driven like a mule, cursed in language for which he would kill any one else, fed poorly and housed worse; but if the essential thing is possessed by the boss the lumber jack will not grumble overmuch nor ask for his time. And this essential is mysterious and hard to define. Much as the shantyman admires physical prowess, it is not a prime requisite. But courage is, and so is firmness in dealing with any situation. The boss must never recede from a position once taken. He may listen to advice, but he must decide for himself and by himself. He must never argue, he must never give reasons. He must hold himself aloof and above his men, and yet not overdo it. He must be approachable but dignified, friendly but not familiar. He must be boss, first, last, and all the time, and from his decisions, right or wrong, there must be no appeal and of them no slackness of enforcement. William Kent had filled this bill. With his passing a place became vacant. Some of the old hands hired again into the Kent camps; more did not come back, but went to others of renown. New blood drifted in, and a generation arose which literally knew not Joseph--to whom the name of Kent meant nothing. The old hands would have fought at one word uttered against the "Old Man's" son, whom most of them had never seen, but they would have done so on general principles merely, and not because they cherished any particular feeling toward him. Neither walking boss nor foreman could take the place which William Kent had filled. Thus the work of the camps was no better and no worse than the average. The foremen's capability ensured fair effort. But the something necessary to weld the crews into a supremely efficient machine was lacking. The winter opened hard and dry, without snowfall. Day after day the wind wailed through the bare arms of the deciduous trees and moaned in the feathery tops of the pines. The ground was frozen to an iron hardness, and the little lakes, creeks, and rivers were bound in black ice, smooth and unbroken. At the Wind River camp the logging roads--veins leading to main arteries which in turn led to the river and the banking grounds--were useless. By dint of effort and good luck logs could be got to the various skidways located at convenient places beside the roads, and piled there, but they could not be transported farther. The big sleighs with their nine-foot bunks, built to accommodate ten thousand feet and upward of logs at a load, lay idle. MacNutt prayed for snow, or, rather, cursed the lack of it. When it came, with continued cold weather, it was hard, dry, and powdery. It had no bottom. It gritted like sand beneath the sleigh-shoes, and they went through it to the ground, even without a load. To obviate this and to get going in some way MacNutt put the sprinklers to work. These were huge tank affairs on runners, drawn by from four to six horses. At the top of the tank was a stout, wooden triangle with a block. A wire rope ran through the block. At one end of the rope was a barrel; at the other end was a horse. The horse walked away; the barrel, filled at a water-hole cut in the ice, ran up an inclined, rungless ladder to the top of the tank, where it dumped its contents automatically. The water found its exit from the tank through auger holes bored in the rear, controlled by a closely fitting trap door. Thus the roads were flooded, they froze, and the hauling began. So far MacNutt had seen nothing of Rough Shan McCane. Occasionally on a Sunday, when work was suspended, one of the latter's men would drift over, but the gang kept very much to themselves. There was no indication of undue sociability. Still MacNutt, on the principle that storms always brew in fine weather, kept a very open pair of eyes and ears. Some of the men, he knew, could not resist liquor; given access to it they would become drunk as certainly as effect ever follows cause. Over these weak vessels, then, he kept watch. It was shortly after the road went into operation that he found the first sign of trouble. A swamper, named Flett, was trimming the top of a fallen tree. MacNutt observed the listless rise and fall of the man's axe in high displeasure. It fell almost of its own weight; there was no power to the blow, and instead of being recovered and swung up again with vim for another stroke the blade lay for an appreciable instant in the gash. "You, Flett," rasped MacNutt, "I'll have no sojerin' on this job! Understand?" The man turned, startled, exhibiting a pair of reddened, bloodshot eyes. "Who's sojerin'?" he growled. "Wake up an' work, ye damned lazy dog!" roared MacNutt. "Take a man's pay, eat a man's grub, an' then loaf on the job, would ye, ye slab-mouthed, slouchin' son of sin?" For the first time he noticed the man's eyes, and swore a great oath. "Ye've been drinkin'!" "I ain't," Flett denied sullenly. "Ye lie!" barked MacNutt. "Where did ye get it?" "Go to blazes!" said Flett. MacNutt caught him by the throat, crooked a knee, and threw him back down across the log with a shock that almost broke his spine. "Talk, ye dog, or I'll kill ye!" he gritted; and Flett, staring up helpless and half stunned into the savage face of the foreman, gave up. "Regan and me got a bottle apiece from a man in McCane's camp." MacNutt jerked him to his feet and turned him loose. "Get yer time to-night and hike in the morning!" he ordered. "You're fired! Not because ye got drunk, but for bein' no use, drunk or sober." He sought Regan. Regan was doing a man's work, and doing it well. "I've fired Flett," said MacNutt without preliminary. "I'll have no booze in this camp, Regan." Regan, who was made of different stuff than his fellow-transgressor, spat on the dry snow and regarded the foreman with a level stare. "Do I get my time?" he asked. "Not unless you want it," MacNutt replied. "I can do with ye or without ye. Suit yourself. But I'll have no more of it." "A drink now an' then hurts no man," said Regan. "It raises Cain with a camp, and you know it," MacNutt retorted. "That's true enough," admitted Regan, who was not unreasonable, "but the boys over to McCane's camp shoved it at us. They've plenty there." MacNutt said no more. He could not forbid his men from strolling on Sunday, when there was nothing else to do, over the few miles which separated the two camps. But he could and did issue a warning that any man bringing liquor into the camp would get his time forthwith. He saw no man drunk, but the little signs were unmistakable. The percentage of quarrels and fights became higher; the bunk-house at night, usually noisy, was now uproarious; some of the men obeyed with less alacrity and grumbled with a great deal more; and through the entire crew there spread a spirit of devil-may-care slackness very hard indeed upon a foreman. One Sunday MacNutt shouldered an axe and took the well-marked trail which led through the forest to McCane's camp. Arrived at the compass line dividing the limits, he sat down and lit his pipe. For an hour he waited, smoking thoughtfully, watching the fluffy, impudent whiskey-jacks. At the end of that time three men appeared down the trail from McCane's. One carried a sack over his shoulder, and the sack bulged suggestively in the shape of a two-gallon jug. MacNutt tapped out his pipe and stepped into the trail. "Where are you men headin' for?" he asked. "None o' your business," replied the man with the sack. "What's in that sack?" MacNutt demanded. "Cold tea," answered the man, and the others laughed. MacNutt shut his lips grimly. "Go back and take your booze with you," he ordered; "and don't let me catch you this side of that line again." "Must think you own the woods," said he of the jug, slipping the bag from his shoulder in readiness for trouble. "You go to hell!" The axe resting on MacNutt's shoulder leaped forward and down in a sweeping stroke. There was a crash of crockery and a sudden strong odour of alcohol; following these a tremendous burst of profanity. The three men rushed at MacNutt. The foreman was not foolish enough to meet three hardened "bully-boys" with his fists. His axe flashed up and just missed the head of the leader in its descent. There was such evident deadly sincerity in the blow that the men paused. MacNutt gave them no time. He charged them instantly, axe aloft, and, prudence getting the better of anger, they ran for their lives. MacNutt followed for a short distance, shouted a final warning, and returned to camp. He did not think that he had put a stop to the contraband traffic, but he had fired the first gun and made his attitude clear. The following day, as he was overseeing the work, Rough Shan McCane came striding through the snow. "What's this I hear about your chasing three of my men with an axe?" he demanded. "Well, what about it?" asked MacNutt indifferently, and the men near at hand listened with all their ears. "This much," said Rough Shan truculently. "My men have a right in the woods, an' not you nor anny one else will stop them going where they like." "Well, I did stop them," retorted MacNutt. "I smashed a jug of booze they were bringing to my camp, and I'd have split their heads if they hadn't run." This was news to the Kent men. MacNutt rose several notches in their estimation. Regan, who had expected to share the contents of the jug and had been disappointed by its non-arrival, whispered to Devlin: "Ain't ould Mac th' bully-boy? I'd 'a' give a week's pay to 'a' seen it." "A jug of booze among fifty men!" sneered Rough Shan. "What's that? Can't ye let the boys have a drink if they want it? An' if it was a bar'l ain't ye man enough to be boss of yer own camp?" "When I want your help to run it I'll send for you," rasped MacNutt. "There's been booze comin' over from your camp, an' I'm goin' to stop it; an' the way I stop it is my business." "If you lay out a man of mine I'll take you to pieces," threatened Rough Shan. "I done it once, an' I'll do it again." MacNutt's eyes blazed. He caught Regan's axe and tossed it on the snow before McCane. Himself he seized Devlin's. "If you want a fight pick up that axe and go to it!" he cried. McCane was rough and tough, but he had come to run a bluff rather than to look for serious trouble, and a fight with axes was too cold-blooded a proposition, even for him. "I'll go ye with fists an' feet in a minute," he offered. "No," MacNutt refused. "Take an axe. I want to kill ye!" McCane was bluffed, to the huge delight of the Kent men. "I'm no damn fool, if you are," he said. "Leave my men alone, an' I'll leave you alone. But if you don't, I'll come over and take you apart." "Bring your own axe," said MacNutt. "Now you get out o' here." This conversation, retailed at the camp by Devlin, Regan, and others, with such additions, mainly blasphemous, as the imagination of the individual narrator could suggest, sent MacNutt's stock booming. The lumber jack loves a fighter, and a man who could run three of McCane's crew out of the woods and bluff Rough Shan himself was one after their own hearts. Regan, himself a rough-and-tumble artist of considerable ability, voiced the sentiments of the better men. "I like me drink as well as anny man; but ould Mac is boss, an' what he says goes wid me, after this. I'll save me thirst till the drive is down, an' then--" An uplifting of the eyes and a licking of the lips expressed more than mere words. But many of the men did not see it in that way. If they could get liquor they would drink it. Visitors from McCane's camp came empty-handed, and Kent's men seldom went there. And yet there was liquor in the camp! MacNutt could not account for it. He pondered the problem over many pipes. "They get it somewhere," he said to himself. "For a week not a man has gone to McCane's and not a man of his has been here. There's only one answer. They've got a _cache_." Having reached this conclusion by the Holmes process of elimination, he began a new line of investigation; and he was struck by the popularity of the tote road as a promenade. There was no reason why the men should not walk on it, and it bore directly away from McCane's camp, but in the light of his deduction the fact had to be explained. MacNutt walked out the tote road. Over a mile from camp he saw a blazed tree. With this as a base he began a systematic search, and finally found beneath the butt of a windfall a small keg containing rye whiskey of peculiarly malignant quality. In the keg was a spigot, so that each visitor might fill a bottle for himself. MacNutt did not demolish the keg. Instead he made a flying trip to camp. When he returned he carried one bottle of horse liniment, half a pound of cayenne pepper, a tin of mustard, two boxes of "Little Giant" pills, a cake of soap, and a huge plug of black chewing tobacco. All these he introduced to the keg's interior and replaced the spigot. This took time. Afterward he took fifteen minutes' violent exercise in shaking the keg. Thus it was that Hicks, up-ending Chartrand's bottle with a grin of pure anticipation, suddenly choked and gagged, for he had taken two mighty swallows before the taste reached his toughened palate. Now two swallows may not make a summer, but they may make a very sick lumber jack. The winter forest echoed to the sounds of upheaval. Between paroxysms Hicks cursed Chartrand. The latter regarded him in amazement. "W'at's de mattaire wit' you, hey?" he queried. "Mo' Gee! I t'ink you eat too moche grub dat you ain't chaw. S'pose you tak one leetle drink, encore, for help hold heem down." "I'll kill you, you blasted pea-soup!" howled Hicks. "I'll kick your backbone up through your hat; I'll----" Here circumstances over which he had no control interrupted him. "I' t'ink you go crazee, me," said Chartrand. "You eat lak one dam beeg _cochon_--de pork, de bean, de bread an' molass'--_tous les choses_. All right. I tak heem one leetle drink, _moi-meme_. _A votre sante, mon ami!_" He grinned pleasantly at Hicks and tilted the bottle to his own mouth, rolling a beatific eye as the liquid gurgled down. Suddenly he choked as Hicks had done. "_Sacré nom du bon Dieu!_" he shrieked, spitting like a cat. "What is it that it is? Ah, holy Sainte Agathe, I am poison' lak one wolf! Ah, _bon Saint Jean Baptiste, venez mes secours_, for I have been one sinful man! _Sacré dam_, I burn lak hell inside!" Hicks, sitting weakly on a log, his hands clasped across his outraged epigastrium, watched Chartrand's gyrations with huge satisfaction, and roared vindictive sarcasm at the final catastrophe. "Eat too much grub that I don't chaw, do I?" he mocked. "Make a pig of meself wid pork an' beans, hey? Take some yerself, me laddybuck. That's right--tie yerself in knots. How would ye like another little drink to help hold her down?" In the end they sat together on the log, cursing in two languages, and regarding the fragments of the broken bottle balefully. Chartrand rose and picked up a heavy club. "Bagosh, I bus' up dat keg for sure!" he announced. But Hicks, whose wisdom was of the serpentine variety, demurred. "Let the boys find it out for themselves," he counselled. "If we give ourselves away we get the dirty laugh." Therefore there descended upon the camp a sudden sickness amounting to an epidemic; for the effects of MacNutt's concoction, though violent and immediate, were also far-reaching and enduring. The foreman noted the victims of his strategy, issued them chlorodyne from the van, and kept his mouth shut. He had won the first round, but he knew very well it was only a preliminary. Rough Shan was still to be reckoned with. XI The east line of Kent's limit butted on the west line of Clancys', and in due course MacNutt began to cut along the line. The snow he had been longing for fell in plenty and the road already bottomed and made became good. A constant stream of logs flowed down it on the big-bunked sleighs, draining the skidways, which were continually replenished by more logs travoyed out of the woods. At the banking grounds the big piles grew. The work was going merrily. About the time MacNutt began to cut to his line McCane did the same. The crews fraternized to some extent, but the bosses had nothing to say to each other, each keeping to his own side. Hence Kent's foreman was surprised when one morning, after a fresh fall of snow, Rough Shan accompanied by two other men came to him. He noted, also, with an eye experienced in reading signs of trouble, that most of McCane's crew were working, or making a pretence of working, just across the line. "These men is sawyers, MacNutt," said Rough Shan. "Yesterday, late on, they dropped a tree an' cut her into two lengths. This morning the logs is gone." "What have I got to do with that?" asked MacNutt. "That's what I've come to find out," retorted McCane. "Our teamsters never touched them. Logs don't get away by themselves." MacNutt frowned at him. "If you think we took your logs there's our skidways, and the road is open to the river. Take a look for yourself." McCane and his men went to the nearest skidway and examined the logs. They passed on to another, and MacNutt thought it advisable to follow. At the second skidway one of the sawyers slapped a stick of timber. "This is her," he announced. "I know her by this here knot. Yes, an' here's the other length." Jackson, Ward, and Haggarty, cant-hook men and old employees of the Kents, had been regarding McCane and his followers with scowling disfavour, and Haggarty, from his post on top of the pile where he had been "decking" the logs as they were sent up to him, asked: "What's wrong wid them sticks?" "We cut them yesterday on our limit," the man told him. "Ye lie!" cried Haggarty fiercely, dropping his cant-hook and leaping to the ground. Jackson and Ward sprang forward as one man. "You keep out o' this," said Rough Shan. "This is log stealin', and a matter for your boss, if he's man enough to talk to me face." "Man enough? Come over here an' say we stole yer logs, ye dirty----" Haggarty's language became lurid. He was an iron-fisted old-timer and hated McCane. MacNutt, when he saw Haggarty drop his cant-hook and jump, ran across to the skids. So did other men at hand. A ring of fierce, bearded faces and level, inquiring eyes gathered about the intruders. "Here is the logs, MacNutt," said Rough Shan. "Now, I want to know how they come here." MacNutt examined the logs. They had not yet been branded by the marking-iron with the big K which proclaimed Kent ownership. They were in no material particular different from the rest. It was possible that his teamsters had made a mistake. His sawyers could not identify the logs positively; they thought they had cut them, but were not sure. On the other hand, the two teamsters, Laviolette and old Ben Watkins, were very sure they had never drawn those particular sticks to the pile. "One o' yeez must 'a done it," asserted McCane. "Not on your say-so," retorted Watkins, whose fighting blood had not cooled with age. "Don't you get gay with the old man, Shan McCane. I'll----" "Shut up, Ben!" MacNutt ordered. He turned to McCane. "I'll give you the logs because your men are sure and mine ain't. Break them out o' that, Haggarty; and you, Laviolette, hitch on and pull them across the line to wherever they say they laid. All the same I want to tell ye it wasn't my teamsters snaked them here." "An' do ye think mine did?--a likely t'ing" said Rough Shan. "Mind this, now, MacNutt, you be more careful about whose logs ye take." MacNutt lit his pipe deliberately before replying. "The next one ye pull onto our skidways we'll keep," said he. McCane glowered at him. "Ye've got a gall. Steal our logs, an' tell me I done it meself! I want to tell ye, MacNutt, I won't take that from you nor anny man." "Go back and boss your gang," said MacNutt coldly, refusing the evident challenge. He had made up his mind to give no provocation; but he had also determined to push the fight to a finish when it came, as he saw it inevitably must. The occurrence of the morning' confirmed his suspicion that McCane was following out a deliberate plan. He perceived, too, that the matter of the logs was a tactical mistake of the latter's. For, if Rough Shan had confined his activities to supplying the men with whiskey and fomenting discontent, MacNutt would have been forced to discharge half of them, and good hands were scarce. Thus the camp would have been practically crippled. But an accusation of log stealing would weld the men solidly together for the honour of their employer. Haggarty, the iron-fisted cant-hook man, who had drawn Kent pay for years, took up the matter in the bunk-house that night. "Nobody knows better nor Rough Shan hisself who put them logs on our skidway," he declared with a tremendous oath. "An' for why did he do it? To pick a row, no less. He thought ould Mac would keep the sticks an' tell him to go to the divil. Mac was too foxy for him that time." "If he wants a row he can have it," said Regan; "him or anny of his gang. It's the dirty bunch they are. An' I want to say right here," he continued, glaring at the row of men on the "deacon seat," "that the man that fills himself up on rotgut whiskey from McCane's camp after this is a low-lived son of a dog, an' I will beat the head off of him once when he's drunk an' again when he's sober." A growl of approval ran along the bench. "That's right." "That's the talk, Larry!" "To hell wid McCane an' his whiskey, both!" "Mo' Gee! we pass ourself on hees camp an' clean heem out." The temperance wave was so strong that the minority maintained a discreet silence. Indeed, even those who relished the contraband whiskey most would have relished no less an encounter with McCane's crew, for whom they had little use, individually or collectively. Save for the first few bottles to whet their appetites, the whiskey had not been supplied free. They had paid high for it, and the mystery of the fatal keg had never been cleared up. The sufferers were inclined to blame one or more of McCane's men, and, not being able to fasten the responsibility for the outrage on any individual, saddled it on the entire crew. At this juncture Joe Kent arrived in camp, following out a laudable determination to become acquainted with the woods end of his business. He came at night, and took up his quarters with MacNutt. Although he had visited camps before with his father, it was still fresh and new to Joe--the roomy box stove, the log walls hung with mackinaw garments, moccasins, and snowshoes, the water pail on the shelf beside the door, the bunks with their heavy gray blankets and bearskins--all the raffle that accumulates in a foreman's winter quarters. And because his imagination was young and active and unspoiled he saw in these things the elements of romance where an older hand would have seen utility only. He felt that they typified a life which he had come to learn, that they were part of a game which he had studied theoretically from a distance, but was now come to play himself. MacNutt was silent from habit. A foreman cannot mingle socially with his men to any extent and preserve his authority. Hence his life is lonely and loneliness begets silence. He answered questions with clear brevity, but did not make conversation. He was not at all embarrassed by the presence of his employer; nor would he have been if the latter had been old and experienced instead of young and green. He knew very well that Kent had come to learn the practical side of the woods business. That was all right and he approved of it. He would tell him whatever he wanted to know; but as a basis he must know enough to ask intelligent questions. Outside of that he must learn by experience. That was how MacNutt had learned himself, and if Joe had asked him the best way to obtain practical knowledge he would have been advised to go into the woods with another man's crew and use an axe. "And now about McCane's gang," said Joe when he had learned what he could absorb as to the progress of the work. "Are they giving you any trouble." "Not more than I can handle," said MacNutt, and for the first time told of the doctored whiskey. Joe roared at the recital, and MacNutt smiled grimly. He was not a humourist, and his narrative was not at all embellished. He went on to relate the incident of the logs and his deductions. Kent thought of Finn Clancy and frowned. He told the foreman of the contract with the Clancy firm and of the narrowly averted row with Finn. "Then they are behind McCane," said MacNutt conclusively. "That means he will make it bad for us yet--unless we stop him." "I don't understand," said Joe. "It's this way," MacNutt explained. "McCane has his instructions, but you can't prove them. Suppose he claims a log and doesn't get it and a fight starts between the crews--why, he's jobbing the limit himself and the Clancys ain't responsible." "A bit of a scrap won't matter," said Joe cheerfully. "It will matter if the woods ain't big enough to hold but one crew--ours or theirs," returned MacNutt. "I've seen it happen before." "Tell me about it," said Joe. He listened eagerly to the concise narrative that followed, which was the little-known history of a logging war in which the casualties were large. "The dead men were reported killed by falling timber," the foreman concluded. "Five of them there was--five lives, and all for one pine tree that turned out punk when it was cut." He tapped his pipe out against the stove. "You'll be tired. I get up before light, but I'll try not to wake you, Mr. Kent." "I'll get up when you do," said Joe. "I'm going out on the job with the crew." "All right; I'll wake you," said the foreman without comment, but likewise without conviction. In the morning--or as it seemed to Joe about midnight--he awoke with a light in his eyes and the foreman's hand on his shoulder. The light came from the lamp. Outside it was pitch dark, and the wind was shouting through the forest and whining around the cabin. Now and then a volley of snow pattered against the window. By way of contrast never had a bed seemed so absolutely comfortable. For a moment he was tempted to exercise his right to sleep. The ghost of a smile on MacNutt's face decided for him. He tumbled out, soused his head in water, pulled on his heavy clothes, high German socks, and moccasins, and in five minutes stood, a very solid, good-looking young lumber jack with a very healthy appetite for breakfast. The darkness was lifting when the crew left camp for the woods. Joe and the foreman tramped behind. There was little speech. However excellent early rising may be theoretically it does not sweeten the temper, especially in mid-winter. There was a notable absence of laughter, of jest, even of ordinarily civil conversation. Almost every man bent his energies to the consumption of tobacco. They had not shaken off the lethargy of the night, and their mental processes were not yet astir. They plodded mechanically, backs humped, eyes upon the ground, dully resentful of the weather, the work, of existence itself. Arrived at the scene of operations, the lethargy vanished. Men sighed as they lifted axes for the first blow--such a sigh as one gives when stooping to resume a burden. With the fall of the blow, and the shock of it running up the helve through arms and shoulders, they were completely awake. What remained of the dull, aimless resentment was directed at the timber that ringed them around--the timber that represented at once a livelihood and an unending toil. Joe followed MacNutt, keenly observant. He knew little about the work--how it should be done, how much each man and team should do, where odd moments might be saved, and the way in which a desired object might be accomplished with the least expenditure of effort. But he was by no means absolutely ignorant, for, like the average young American, he had spent considerable time in the woods, which involves a more or less intimate acquaintance with the axe, and he had also the average American's aptitude for tools and constructive work of any kind. Then, too, he had absorbed unconsciously much theory from his father and from the conversation of his father's friends, added to which was the study and thought of the past few months. Thus he possessed a groundwork. Remained analysis of the actual individual operations as they were performed before his eyes, and synthesis into a whole. With the foreman he went over most of the job, from the first slashings to the river rollways, and thus gained a comprehensive idea of what had been done, what remained to do, and what time there was to do it in. He drank scalding tea and ate pork, bread, and doughnuts with the men at noon, and smoked a pipe, sheltered from the biting north wind by a thick clump of firs. In the afternoon, to keep himself warm, he took an axe and trimmed tree tops with the swampers, showing a fair degree of efficiency with the implement. Also he took a turn at the end of the long, flexible cross-cut saw, an exercise which made a new set of muscles ache; but he learned the rudiments of it--to pull with a long, smooth, level swing, not to push, but to let the other man pull on the return motion, to tap in a wedge when the settling trunk began to bind the thin, rending ribbon of steel, and to use kerosene on the blade when it gummed and pulled heavily and stickily. When the work ceased with the falling darkness he tramped back to camp with the men, ate a huge supper, spent an hour in the bunk-house with them, and sang them a couple of songs which were received with wild applause, and then rolled into his bunk, dog-tired, and was asleep as his head settled in the pillow. Behind him, in the sleeping-camp, he left a favourable impression. "He's good stuff, that lad," said Haggarty. "He minds me of some one--a good man, too." "Would it be Alec Macnamara, now?" asked Regan. Macnamara, a famous "white-water birler," had met his fate in the breaking of a log-jam some years before. "That's who it is, God rest his soul," said Haggarty. "He's younger, but he's the dead spit of Alec in the eyes an' mouth. It's my belief he laughs when he fights, like him, an' he'd die game as Alec died." Whether Haggarty's belief was right or wrong did not appear. Nothing arose to put the young boss's courage to a test. All went merry as a marriage bell, and the quantity of logs pouring down to the banking grounds attested the quality of the work done. Then came trouble out of a comparatively clear sky. One day Joe was bossing the job, MacNutt being in camp. His bossing, truth to tell, lay more in the moral effect of his presence than in issuing orders or giving instruction. Having the good sense to recognize his present limitations, he let the men alone. The air was soft with a promise of snow, and he lit his pipe and sauntered up the logging road. Before a skidway stood four men in hot argument. Two of these were Haggarty and Jackson. One was unknown to Kent. The fourth he recognized as Rough Shan McCane. "Here's Mr. Kent now," said Haggarty, catching sight of him. Rough Shan favored Joe with a contemptuous stare. "Where's MacNutt?" he demanded. "I told him this log stealin' had got to stop." "MacNutt is in camp," said Joe. "You can talk to me if you like. What's the matter?" Rough Shan cursed the absent foreman. "Log stealin's the matter," he announced. "A load of our logs has gone slick an' clean." "Gone where?" asked Joe coldly. "MacNutt knows where!" asserted Rough Shan with an oath. "This is the second time. I'm goin' to find them, an' when I do----" "What'll ye do?" demanded Haggarty truculently. "It is the likes of you can come over here an' say----" "Dry up, Haggarty!" Joe commanded shortly. "Now, look here, Mr. McCane, we haven't got your logs." "But ye have," Rough Shan proclaimed loudly. "I know the dirty tricks of ye. That's stealin'--stealin', d'ye mind, young felly? I want them logs an' I want 'em quick, drawed over an' decked on our skidways an' no words about it. As it is, I'm a good mind to run ye out o' the woods." Joe's temper began to boil. Here was an elemental condition confronting him. Rough Shan was big and hard and tough, but he was not much awed. To him the big lumber jack was not more formidable than any one of a score of husky young giants who had done their several and collective bests to break his neck on the football field, and he was not inclined to take any further gratuitous abuse. "What makes you think we took your logs?" he asked. "Who else could 'a' done it?" demanded Rough Shan with elemental logic. "You might have done it yourself," Joe told him. "Now, you listen to me for a minute and keep a civil tongue in your head. You're trying to make trouble for us, and I know it, and I know who is behind you. If you want a row you can have it, now or any old time. You won't run anybody out of the woods. As for the logs, you know what MacNutt told you. Still, if you can prove ownership of any, satisfactorily to me, you may haul them back with the team you hauled them in with. But, mind you, this is the last time. The trick is stale, and you mustn't play it again." "I'll find them an' then I'll talk to you," said Rough Shan with contempt. "Come on, Mike." He made for the nearest skidway. "You two men go along and tell the boys to let him look till he's tired," said Joe to Haggarty and Jackson. "Don't scrap with him, remember." "Well, we'll try not," said Haggarty. "That's Mike Callahan wid him--a divil!" "You do what I tell you!" Joe snapped, and Haggarty and Jackson uttered a suddenly respectful "Yes, sir." In half an hour Jackson came for Joe. He found Rough Shan at the banking grounds. Before him lay a little pile of thin, round circles of wood; also sawdust. McCane picked one circle up and handed it to him. It was a slice cut from the end of a saw log. One side was blank. On the other the letters "CB" proclaiming the ownership of Clancy Brothers were deeply indented. "Well, what about it?" asked Joe. "What about it!" Rough Shan repeated. "Here's the ends sawed from our marked logs. Then ye mark them fresh for yerself. A nice trick! That's jail for some wan." "Pretty smooth," said Joe. "Saves you the trouble of hauling the logs in here, doesn't it? One man could carry these ends in a sack." Rough Shan glared at him. "I want them logs, an' I want them now," he cried with an oath. "All right; take them," Joe retorted. "Of course you'll have to match these ends on the logs they belong to. Possibly you overlooked that little detail. Haggarty, you see that he makes a good fit." Haggarty grinned. "Then I'm thinkin' I'll be goin' over onto Clancys' limit wid him," he commented. Rough Shan took a fierce step forward. Joe stood his ground and the other paused. "Our logs is here," he exclaimed. "These ends proves it. I'll not match them, nor try to. I give ye an hour to deliver a full load of logs, average twelve-inch tops, at our skidways." "Not a log, unless you prove ownership of it, and then you do your own delivering," said Joe. "Pshaw! McCane, what's the use? You can't bluff me. Let your employers go to law if they want to." "Law!" cried Rough Shan. "We run our own law in these woods, young felly. I give ye fair warnin'!" "You make me tired," Joe retorted. "Why don't you _do_ something?" Joe was quick on his feet, but he was quite unprepared for the sudden blow which Rough Shan delivered. It caught him on the jaw and staggered him. Instantly Haggarty hurled himself at McCane, while Jackson tackled Callahan. The men at the rollways ran to the scrap. Callahan floored Jackson and went for Joe, who met him with straight, stiff punches which surprised the redoubtable Mike. As reinforcements came up, McCane and his henchman backed against a pile of timber. "Come on, ye measly log stealers!" roared the foreman, thoroughly in his element. The odds against him had no effect save to stimulate his language. He poured forth a torrent of the vilest abuse that ever defiled a pinery. Beside him Callahan, heavy-set and gorilla-armed, supplemented his remarks. There was no doubt of the thorough gameness of the pair. In went Haggarty, Reese, Ward, and Chartrand. Others followed. The rush simply overwhelmed the two. They went down, using fists, knees, and feet impartially. A dozen men strove to get at them. [Illustration: Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs] Joe's sense of fair play was outraged. He caught the nearest man by the collar and slung him back twenty feet. "Quit it!" he shouted. "Haggarty! Chartrand! White! Let them alone, do you hear me?" In his anger he rose to heights of unsuspected eloquence and his words cut like whips. The men disentangled before his voice and hands. At the bottom Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs, each trying for room to apply the knee to the other's stomach. "Pull 'em apart!" Joe ordered sharply, and unwilling hands did so. They cursed each other with deep hatred. Their vocabularies were much on a par and highly unedifying. "That'll do, Haggarty!" Joe rasped. "McCane, you shut your dirty mouth and get out of here." "You--" McCane began venomously. "Don't say it," Joe warned him. "Clear out!" "A dozen of ye to two!" cried McCane. "If I had ye alone, Kent, I'd put ye acrost me knee!" "Come to my camp any night this week and I'll take you with the gloves," said Joe. "If you want a scrap for all hands bring your crew with you. Now, boys, get back on the job. We've wasted enough time. These men are going." He turned away, and the men scattered unwillingly to their several employments. Rough Shan and Callahan, left alone, hesitated, shouted a few perfunctory curses, and finally tramped off. But every one who knew them knew also that this was only the beginning. XII Locke, by means known to himself alone, managed to have his application to the Transportation Commission set down for an early hearing. This made Joe's presence necessary, and he came out of the woods lean and hard and full of vigour. Neither McCane nor his crew had taken up the challenge, and their intentions remained matter of speculation. Just before the hearing, however, the railway suddenly restored the old freight rate on lumber, thus taking the wind out of Locke's sails. "This puts us in the position of flogging a dead horse," he grumbled. "Now the commission will tell us we ought to be satisfied, and refuse to let me show the genesis of the cancelled rate. Confound it! I depended on this to find out more about Garwood." This prediction turned out to be correct. The commission refused to allow its time to be wasted. The old rate was restored, and that was not complained of. Therefore, said they, there was no question for them to consider, their powers not being retroactive. Locke was unable to convince them to the contrary. Outgeneralled in his plan of attack he sought another, finding it in a grievance possessed by one Dingle, a small contractor in a town on the O. & N. There the price of lumber had been boosted sky-high, and this destroyed Dingle's profits on contracts he had undertaken. Investigation showed that the Central Lumber Company had bought out two competing dealers and immediately raised the price. Locke brought action for Dingle, claiming damages and charging an unlawful combination. He named the Central Lumber Company, its directors, Ackerman, Garwood, and the O. & N. Railway, defendants. It was, in fact, a legal fishing expedition and little more. The object of it was to obtain information looking to an action by Crooks and Kent against the same defendants, with the Peninsular Railway added. Locke's first intimation that he had drawn blood came in the shape of a visit from Henry J. Beemer, manager of the Peninsular. Beemer offered him the position of general counsel for that railway. The offer was apparently _bona fide_, and no visible strings dangled from it. Beemer, in fact, was not aware of the Dingle action and was merely carrying out instructions, and he was much surprised when Locke refused the offer. "But why?" he asked. "It's a good thing." "I know it is," said Locke with a sigh, as he thought of his own rough-and-tumble practice. "Still I can't take it. I don't suppose you are aware of the fact, Beemer, but this is an attempt to buy me up." "Nonsense!" said Beemer indignantly. "If we had wanted to buy you we should have done it before. There is no litigation against us now in which you are interested. We make you the offer in good faith, because you are the man for the job." "I have litigation pending against Ackerman and Garwood," the lawyer informed him. "You didn't know that. So, you see, I have to refuse." Beemer took his departure, rather indignant at Ackerman for keeping him in the dark. But a few days afterward Hugh Garwood himself walked into Locke's office. "My name is Garwood," he announced. "I know you by sight," said Locke. "Sit down, Mr. Garwood." Garwood sat down and looked at the lawyer from narrowed eyes. His face was an inscrutable mask. "You have made me a defendant in litigation of yours," he said bluntly. "Why?" "Because I believe you are financing the Central Lumber Company." "Can you prove that?" Garwood asked. "I think so; at least I can put it up to you to disprove it." "Suppose I am financing it," said Garwood after a pause. "Suppose this man-of-straw, Dingle, gets a judgment and his paltry damages are paid--what then?" "Then he should be satisfied," said Locke. Garwood frowned impatiently. "You are a clever man, Locke. Give me credit for average intelligence, please." "Certainly--for much more than the average, Mr. Garwood." "Very good. Now I am going to talk plainly. You are promoting this litigation to form a groundwork for more. If you find what you hope to find, you will bring an action against myself and others." "Well?" "Well, I don't want that action brought." Locke smiled. "Understand me, I am not afraid of it; but it might disarrange some of my plans. Now, a certain offer has been made to you. You refused it. Wasn't it big enough?" "No." "In the not improbable event of the fusion of the Peninsular with the O. & N.," said Garwood slowly, "you might be offered the post of counsel for the amalgamated road." "I should refuse that also, for the same reason." Garwood threw himself back in his chair. "Then what _do_ you want?" "Several things," said Locke. "I want a fair deal for my clients, Crooks and Kent. I want damages for the outrageous freight rate you made for their injury. They must have cars, hereafter, when they want them. The political ukase forbidding purchases from them must be withdrawn, and the markets must be thrown open to them again. The crooked system of double-check tenders for timber limits must be altered. And generally you must stop hammering these men and using your influence against them." Garwood waved an impatient hand. "We are not discussing these things now. Leave them aside. What do you want for yourself?" "They are not to be left aside. My clients will pay my fees. I can't accept anything from you as matters stand." Garwood stared incredulously. "I thought I was dealing with a lawyer," said he. "You will be absolutely certain of that in a very short time," Locke retorted bitingly. Garwood saw his own mistake immediately. You may make an amusing pun on a man's name or gently insinuate that the majority of the members of the profession to which he belongs are unblushing rascals, and the man may smile: but in his heart he feels like killing you. And so Garwood, who desired to come to terms with Locke if possible, apologized. The lawyer accepted the apology coldly and waited. "Your demands for your clients are out of the question," Garwood resumed positively. "We need not discuss them at all. I came here to make an arrangement with you. I have made you an offer which most men would snap at. I ask you again what you want?" "I have told you," Locke replied. "I am bound to my clients. That is absolute and final. If you will not recognize their claims I will proceed with the Dingle action and follow it by another, as you infer." "I dislike to upset your carefully arranged plans," said Garwood, "but Dingle will come to you to-morrow, pay your fees, and instruct you to discontinue the action." "What?" cried Locke, shaken out of his usual calm. If this were true the enemy had again executed a masterly retreat. It annoyed him exceedingly to be blocked twice by the same trick, although he did not see how he could have helped it. "As I told you, we don't want litigation just now," said Garwood. "Without admitting Dingle's claim at all, we considered a settlement the easiest way." "No doubt," said Locke dryly. "Well, you won't be able to buy off the next action. I'll take care of that." "You persist in your refusal to make terms?" "That is a very cool way of putting it," said Locke. "I tell you now, Garwood, I'm going after you, and when I get you I'll nail your hide to the sunny side of the barn." Garwood rose and shook a threatening forefinger at the lawyer. "Remember, if you make trouble for me I'll smash your business. Perhaps you don't think I can. You'll see. Inside a year you won't have a case in any court." "You own a couple of judges, don't you?" said Locke cheerfully. "A nice pair they are, too. You think my clients will get the worst of it from them. Of course they will, but I appeal most of their decisions now. You can injure me to some extent, but not as much as you think. Go to it, Garwood. When I get through with you you'll be a discredited man." On the whole he considered that he had broken even with the railway magnate. The settlement of the Dingle action was a confession of weakness. When that individual made an apologetic appearance the next day, Locke turned his anger loose and almost kicked him out of the office. Then he sat down and did some really first-class thinking, marshalling all the facts he had, drawing deductions, sorting and arranging, and finally he decided that he had a _prima facie_ case. Thereupon he brought action against everybody concerned, directly or remotely, in the assault on the business of Kent and Crooks. Meanwhile Joe Kent was impatient to get back to the woods, but certain business held him. A year before he would have been quite content to pass his evenings at the club, with cards, billiards and the like. Now these seemed strangely futile and inadequate, as did the current conversation of the young men about town. It all struck him as not worth while. He longed for the little log shack with the dully glowing stove within, the winter storm without, and the taciturn MacNutt. As he lay back with a cigar in a luxurious chair he could see the bunk-house filled with the smoke of unspeakable tobacco, the unkempt, weather-hardened men on the "deacon seat," and the festoons of garments drying above the stove. The smart slang and mild swearing disgusted him. He preferred the ribald, man's-size oaths of the shanty men, the crackling blasphemies which embellished their speech. In fact, though he did not know it, he was passing through a process of change; shedding the lightness of extreme youth, hardening a little, coming to the stature of a man. Because the club bored him he took to spending his evenings with Jack Crooks. There was a cosey little room with an open fire, a piano, big, worn, friendly easy-chairs, and an atmosphere of home. This was Jack's particular den, to which none but her best friends penetrated. Sometimes Crooks would drop in, smoke a cigar, and spin yarns of logging in the early days; but more often they were alone. Jack played well and sang better; but she made no pretence of entertaining Joe. He was welcome; he might sit and smoke and say nothing if he chose. She sang or played or read or created mysterious things with linen, needle, and silk, as if he were one of the household. On the other hand, if he preferred to talk she was usually equally willing. One night she sat at the piano and picked minor chords. Joe, sunk in the chair he particularly affected, scowled at the fire and thought of logs. Lately he had thought of little else. He wanted to get back and see the work actually going on. Jack half turned and looked at him. "He needs cheering up," she said. "He's thinking of her still." "What's that?" said Joe with a start. "'Tis better to have loved and lost," she quoted mockingly. "Brace up, Joe." She often teased him about his temporary infatuation with Edith Garwood, knowing that it did not hurt. She swung about to the piano and her fingers crashed into the keys: "Whin _I_ was jilted by Peggy Flynn, The heart iv me broke, an' I tuk to gin; An' I soaked me sowl both night an' day While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y. "Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay, Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay, Oh, sorra th' cint I saved of me pay While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y. "But in eighteen hundred an' seventy-three I went an' married Biddy McGee, An' th' foine ould woman she was to me While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y. "We'll omit the next thirteen stanzas, Joe. See what your fate might have been: "In eighteen hundred an' eighty-siven, Poor Biddy died an' she went to Hiven; An' I was left wid kids eliven Worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y." "Great Scott, Jack, where did you pick up that old come-all-ye?" Joe interrupted. "You sing it like an Irish section hand." "I learned it from one. He was a good friend of mine. Do you want the rest of the verses? There are about seventy, I think." "If Biddy is in Heaven, we'll let it go at that," laughed Joe. "Why don't you sing something touching and sentimental, appropriate to my bereaved condition? By the way, Jack, where is Drew keeping himself? I haven't seen him lately. I was just beginning to feel _de trop_ when he called." This was carrying the war into Jack's territory. Young Drew had paid her very pronounced, attentions and had recently discontinued them, for a reason which only she and himself knew. The colour flamed into her cheeks. "Don't talk nonsense! There was no reason why you should feel that way." "Hello! You're blushing!" Joe commented. "I'm not; it's the fire." "Is it?" said Joe sceptically. For the first time in his life he regarded her carefully. He had been used to taking Jack for granted, and had paid no more attention to her looks than the average brother pays to those of a younger sister. Now it struck him that she was pretty. Her hair was abundant, brown and glossy; her eyes and skin were clean and clear and healthy, and her small, shapely head was carried with regal uprightness; she was slim and straight and strong and capable. In fact she suddenly dawned upon his accustomed vision in an entirely new way. "Jack," said he, and his surprise showed in his voice, "upon my word I believe you are rather good looking!" She rose and swept him a mock curtsey. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "Nice eyes, plenty of hair, and a good figure," Joe drawled. "I don't blame Drew at all." "Now, Joe, quit it. I don't care to be jollied about that." "What's sauce for the gander is ditto for the goose. I wasn't aware that there was anything serious----" "There isn't," Jack snapped, "and there never will be. Will you stop when I ask you to?" Joe dropped the subject, but eyed her curiously. "I take it back," said he after an interval of silence. "Jack, you're absolutely pretty. What have you been doing to yourself?" "I always was pretty," Jack declared. "The trouble was with your powers of observation." "Likely," said Joe, and fell silent again. Jack picked up a book and began to read. He watched her idly, pleased by the picture she presented. She fidgeted beneath his gaze. "I wish you wouldn't stare at me as if I were a recently discovered species," she exclaimed at last. "Now I wonder," said he, "why I never noticed it before." Jack dimpled charmingly. "I want to tell you, young man, that you are singularly dense. Even dad knows what I look like." "So do I--now," said Joe. "I suppose I've been thinking of you as a little girl. Great Scott!" He shook his head, puzzled by his blindness. Jack's eyes twinkled and her dimples became pronounced. She was enjoying his discovery greatly. Presently she said: "When do you go up to Wind River?" "As soon as I can--in a day or two, anyway." A slight frown drew lines between his eyes. "I ought to be up there now. Not that I can tell MacNutt anything about his job, of course. But there's that outfit of McCane's! No telling what they will be up to next. And then I ought to go round to the other camps and see how there're making it. We want a main drive of twenty-five or thirty million this year. Got to have it. Yes, I ought to be on the spot." He was talking to himself rather than to her, and the boyishness had vanished from his voice and manner. He was the man of affairs, the executive head, thinking, planning, immersed in his business. Jack was quick to recognize the change. "You need the logs, don't you, Joe?" "I'll smash without 'em, sure. Twenty million feet delivered at Wismer & Holden's booms by July 1st. Not a day later. Then I can lift the notes, square my overdraft, and meet the mortgage payments. If I don't--well, my credit is strained pretty badly now." "You'll pull through, Joe. I know you will." Her hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up abstractedly and saw her standing beside him. Mechanically his hand reached up and closed on hers. At the contact he felt a little thrill, and something stirred within him. It was the first time he had touched her hand since childhood, save in greeting or farewell. And her touch was the first of understanding human sympathy he had had since called upon to hoe his own row. He vibrated to it responsively. "You're a good little sport, Jack," he said gratefully and pressed her hand. There was a discreet knock at the door. "Telegram for you, Joe," said Jack, taking the yellow envelope from the maid. "May I?" said Joe, and tore it open. His face became a thunder-cloud. He bit back the words that rose to his lips. "What is it?" asked Jack anxiously. "Not bad news?" "Couldn't be much worse." He held out the slip of yellow paper. She read: Camp burnt out. McCane's crew. Wire instructions. --MacNutt. Joe tore a leaf from a note-book and scribbled: Hold men together and build new camp. Rushing supplies. Coming at once. "I've got to have that camp going again in a week," said he grimly. "That means hustle. I shan't see you again before I go up." "You're going yourself," she said with approval. "Good boy, Joe. Oh, how I wish I were a man!" "If you were I'd have you for a partner," he declared. "But I'm glad you're not. I like you best this way. Good-bye, little girl, and thanks for many pleasant evenings. I'll tell you all about the war when I come back." In spite of Joe's misfortune Jack went upstairs that night with a light step, humming the refrain of the last stanza of her father's favourite song: When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down. What makes yeez lads so wishful-eyed as we draw near to town? Other eyes is soft an' bright like the stars of a June night-- Wives an' sweethearts--prayin' waitin'--as we drive the river down. (Oh, ye divils!) God bless the eyes that shine for us when we boil into town. "Other eyes is soft an' bright;" she crooned to her white-clad reflection as she braided the great coils of glossy brown hair. "To think Joe has just found out that _my_ eyes are bright. Charlie Drew knew it long ago. How stupid some boys are!" Meanwhile Wright and Locke were swearing angrily as they read the telegram, while Joe told them of his determination to rebuild at once. "That's the talk," said Wright. "I'll sue Clancy Brothers at once," said Locke. "I believe they can be made liable. Anyway, it will have a good moral effect. And when you get the names of the men who did the burning I'll have them arrested." "I don't think I'll bother about law," said Joe. Locke stared at him in surprise. "Because the way I feel now," young Kent continued, "I think as soon as I can spare the time I'll take a bunch of bully-boys and run them out of the woods." XIII At Maguire's station Joe disembarked from the crawling, snow-smothered train, consisting of engine, baggage car, and day coach. The platform was covered with boxes, sacks, and bundles; and men were piling them on bobsleighs. These were shanty boys from the Wind River camp. Haggarty, one eye blackened and almost closed, growled a hearty welcome to the young boss. The latter, looking around, observed other marks of combat. He asked the cause. "It was like this, Mr. Kent," Haggarty replied. "The camp was burnt at noon. Half a dozen men wid flour sacks over their heads ran in on the cook, the cookee bein' out on the job. They took him out an' fired the camp. Then they tied him, covered him wid blankets so he wouldn't freeze, an' lit out. The cookee come back an' found him, an' brought us word. MacNutt an' what men he could hold hit for camp to see what could be done, but the rest of us was too mad, an' we boiled across to do up McCane's crew. It was a good fight, but they was too many for us." He swore with deep feeling. "Just wait. The woods ain't big enough to hold us both after this." "Are all the men at camp now?" "All but what's down wid the teams. There was tents an' stoves went up yesterday. Before that she was a cold rig for sleepin' and eatin'. Now it's better." On the long sleigh drive Joe got details, but the main facts were as stated by Haggarty. None of the incendiaries had been recognized, but nobody doubted that they were of Rough Shan's crew. Joe found a dozen tents pitched around the clearing, well banked with snow and floored with boughs. New buildings were going up as fast as the logs could be hauled out of the woods and laid in place. The work of logging was temporarily suspended. MacNutt, grim and in a poisonous temper, drove the willing crew from streak of dawn till fall of dark. "You'll blame me, like enough," said he. "I blame myself. I've seen the like before, and I knew McCane, curse him! If you say so I'm ready to quit, but I'll get even with him for this." "I don't blame you a bit," Joe told him. "It can't be helped. We must get the camp and the cutting going on again, and then we'll square up with McCane when we have time." As the buildings neared completion new men began to arrive--strapping, aggressive-eyed fellows who viewed each other and the Wind River men very much after the manner of strange mastiffs. These were draughts from Tobin's and Deever's camps--the "hardest" men from each, picked by the foremen by Joe's instructions and sent on to him. In return, Joe instructed some of his original crew to report to Deever and Tobin. Thus he found himself with a crew of "bully-boys" who feared nothing on earth and were simply spoiling for a fight. In the completed bunk-house a huge, bearded, riverman leaped high, cracked his heels together and whooped. "Is it Rough Shan McCane?" he yelled as he hit the floor. "Is it him wid his raft of Callahans an' Red McDougals an' scrapin's of hell wud burn a Kent camp?" His blasphemy was original and unreproducible. "By the Mortal! The moon's high, an' the travellin's good. Come on, bullies, we'll burn them out of their bunks this night!" The yell that arose reached the ears of Joe and MacNutt. The foreman looked at his employer. "What's up?" the latter asked. "If you want McCane's camp burnt and his gang run out of the woods all you have to do is to sit here and smoke your pipe," MacNutt replied. Joe seized his cap and opened the door just as the crew began to pour out of the bunk-house hastily pulling on garments as they came. He dashed across the open space and met the leaders. "What's the excitement, boys?" he asked. "We're going to burn out Rough Shan for you," answered the big riverman. "Oh, you are!" said Joe. "Well, Cooley, I don't remember asking you to do anything of the kind." "Sure, you don't need to ask it, Mr. Kent," returned big Cooley with what he intended for an amiable, protective smile. "The boys will see to it for you." A yell of fierce affirmation arose behind him. "You go to bed an' know nawthin' about it." "Are you giving me orders, Cooley?" Joe demanded in biting tones. "Let me tell you this," he cried. "Not a man goes out to-night. When I want McCane's camp burnt I'll tell you. Yes, and I'll set fire to it myself. That's the kind of fellow I am. I won't hide behind you boys. Now get back, every man of you!" They hesitated and murmured. Those behind pushed forward. The young man was showing unsuspected qualities. Joe stepped up close. "Do you men think I'll let you run this camp?" he demanded. "You're here to cut logs when I tell you and not to fight till I tell you. Get it through you now and get it clear that I'm Boss. _Boss_, do you understand? BOSS! What I say goes, day or night." He drew a furrow in the snow with his moccasin. "The man who crosses that line gets his time. If you all cross you all get it. If half of you cross you all get it, and I'll shut down this camp. That's what Clancy and McCane are trying to make me do. If you want to help them and smash me--cross the line!" [Illustration: "There's the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane's crew before I tell you to, and I'll shut down"] His voice rang clear as a trumpet in the frozen stillness. By accident, almost, he had chosen the right course. Pleadings alone would have been in vain; orders alone would have been useless; the placing of this responsibility upon the men turned the scale. "Aw, now, Mr. Kent," said big Cooley coaxingly, "what harm to put the run on them high-bankers and burn their dirty camp?" Joe eyed him coldly. "I won't argue," he said. "There's the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane's crew before I tell you to, and I'll shut down. I mean it, boys. Goodnight." He turned and walked to the foreman's quarters without looking back. Behind him the men stood huddled foolishly. Then, one by one, they straggled back to the bunk-house. From that moment Joe Kent stood with his crew on his own feet. He was _boss_. The following night, when he came in with the crew from the woods, he was served with an injunction restraining him, his servants, agents, or workmen, from entering upon the limits of Clancy Brothers, or injuring or interfering with their property or employees. "Wouldn't that jar a brick wall?" he commented to MacNutt. "They burn our camp and get an injunction against us. I half wish I had let the boys go over last night. Now, I suppose it would be contempt of court to cross their line." "Don't let that worry you," said the foreman grimly. "Orders of court is a poor rig in the woods. All you've got to do is to give me and the boys our time and hire us again when we've cleaned 'em out." But this beautifully simple evasion of the law did not appeal to Joe. He wanted logs, and had no time to waste in satisfying his grudges. The weather, which had been ideal for logging, changed and choking snows fell. The road had to be ploughed out time after time. The hauling was heavy and slow. Then came a great thaw. The horses balled and stumbled and caulked themselves. The huge sleighs made pitch-holes in the road. Altogether it was discouraging. Finally the wind switched into the north and the weather hardened. The mercury dropped to zero at night and rose to twenty at noon. The road became icy and the runners slid easily in the ruts. Once more the teamsters took full loads and the choked skidways found relief. The men, denied the innocent recreation of burning out the other camp, worked with vim. The word went around that Kent needed the logs--needed them, in fact, badly. That was enough. Haggarty, Regan, big Cooley, and half a dozen others set the pace, and the rest of the crew kept up to it. They were at work by the first light, and only darkness forced a halt. The nooning was cut short voluntarily, the men contenting themselves with a few whiffs of tobacco and resuming work without a word from MacNutt. Joe felt the change. There was a subtle difference in the ring of the axes and the vibration of the saws. They sang a faster song and held a truer note. As he went over the work from man to man with a joke or a pleasant word--criticisms, instructions, and suggestions he still wisely left to MacNutt--he was met by cheerful grins. These rough, virile men of the woods and the river recognized a kinship with the young boss; they felt in him their own fearlessness and willingness to take a chance, and a strength of purpose and of character unmarred by their vices. Since the rebuilding of the camp they had seen little of McCane's crew. Curses and threats had been exchanged between individuals across the deadline, but on the whole Peace brooded dove-like and triumphant, as it is accustomed to brood above armed states, and the manner of its sudden, startled flight was thus: Joe and MacNutt, going through a slashing at the farthest corner of the limit which they had reached in the cutting, inadvertently trespassed upon Clancys'; thereby becoming technically guilty of contempt of court. As they ploughed through the deep snow two men came into view from behind the fallen tops. One of these was Rough Shan; the other, to Joe's astonishment, proved to be Finn Clancy. The two advanced. Joe and MacNutt stopped. Clancy opened the ball with an explosion of profanity. "Are ye lookin' for more logs to steal?" he observed in conclusion. "Keep to yer own limit, ye young thief, or I'll break yer neck!" "You've reached _your_ limit!" said Joe through his teeth, and put his whole weight behind his left fist. Clancy went back in the snow as if he had been hit by an axe. MacNutt, like a dog unleashed, went for McCane. The latter, nothing loath, met him half-way. Clancy staggered up out of the snow spitting blood and broken dentistry, and charged Joe like a bull moose, roaring inarticulate invective. Joe smashed him right and left, took a counter in the face that made his brain swim, was caught in the big man's arms and fought himself free by straight, hard body punches. Two of McCane's men ran into the slashing. At sight of the fight they raised a yell and charged. This yell reached the ears of Kent's teamster, little Narcisse Laviolette, bending to clutch the butt of a log with a swamp-hook. He straightened himself at the sound. "Bagosh, some feller mak' de beeg row!" he muttered. "I see heem dat boss an' MacNutt pass heemself dat way. Mo' Gee! mebbe dey ron into plaintee troub'." He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Ya-hoo-ee! Ya-hoo-ee!" he shouted in a far-carrying cry. Leaving his team to their own devices he turned and ran, shouting at every step. The buoyant cry went echoing through the forest. It spelt trouble. Man after man left saw in the cut and axe in the limb and ran toward it. Laviolette bounded into the slashing. In the middle were half a dozen men, fighting fiercely. On the other side, the woods poured forth a yelling crew. Laviolette did not hesitate. He hurled himself through the snow in great leaps, and plunged into the thick of the fray. His heavy "snag-proof" gum boot crashed into one man's face with all the power of his leg-muscles behind it. He sprang on the back of another and bore him to the ground, gripping one ear and tearing it half away from the head, for little Laviolette was a dirty fighter. Then he was kicked in the throat and stamped into the snow. Clancy was getting the worst of it from Joe, and MacNutt was holding his own with Rough Shan. The first newcomers turned the scale. Laviolette almost evened it again. Then all were swamped by the rush of McCane's crew. Kent and MacNutt went down fighting gamely, and were kicked and hammered until the world swam before their outraged senses. At this stage of the combat Kent's crew caught sight of the enemy. The roar that went up from them was heard even at the rollways. They charged home. A wave of fighting shantymen surged over Joe, and he raised himself and staggered up as he had often done from the bottom of a scrimmage. Big Cooley raged in the van of the fight, spouting blasphemies and swinging his enormous fists right and left. Beside him Haggarty and Regan found vent for their hatred of the other camp. The fight spread out into a number of single combats, and it was then that Kent's picked fighters proved their quality. Man after man of McCane's gang had enough, quit, and ran. The rout became general. "Burn them out!" was the cry. Joe turned to MacNutt, who stood beside him gasping for breath and swaying. "Shall I stop them?" he said. "Stop nothing!" said the foreman. "If I get there in time I'll touch her off myself!" He ran twenty yards and fell in the snow. For the first time in his life he had fainted. Joe caught Laviolette darting past and held him. "Get a sleigh and haul him into camp," he ordered. Laviolette, mad with excitement, tried to break away. Joe gripped the teamster by the throat and shook him violently, despite a grinding pain in his side which made the forest swim. "Do you hear me, damn you?" he thundered. "A sleigh, I say, or----" His fingers tightened. "Sure, sure," croaked the teamster. "_Oui, m'sieu!_ Mo' Gee, I choke!" Joe released him and bent over MacNutt. Suddenly the world grew black and he pitched down head foremost beside his foreman. Thus neither of them saw the finish of McCane's camp. The gang roared through the woods and stormed the camp like demons. McCane's cook, game enough, grabbed an axe. Instantly an iron pot, thrown with full force, sailed through the air and broke his right arm. The cookee emerged from the bunk-house with a gun in his hand and found himself face to face with Cooley. He levelled the weapon. The big riverman grinned at him. "Put it down an' ye won't be hurted," he said. "Shoot, an' the boys will burn ye alive." There was no mistaking the temper of the gang, and the cookee wisely did as he was told. The men raided the van and broached a barrel of kerosene oil. They threw the contents by the pailful inside the buildings. "Here she goes to hell!" shouted big Cooley as he struck a match. The light blue flames ran up the oil-soaked wood and took hold. It began to crackle and then to roar. Outside, Kent's crew danced with glee. Some one found a keg of whiskey. Regan smashed in one end and upset the contents on the snow. "No booze," said he. "This is no work to get drunk at." From a neighbouring knoll most of McCane's crew looked on with curses loud and deep, but they had no collective stomach for further warfare just then. When nothing but charred end-logs and glowing coals remained, Kent's men tramped off through the deep snows shouting gibes and taunts at their enemies. Their vengeance had been ample and satisfying. XIV MacNutt was able to boss the job on the following day; but Kent was less fortunate. Pains in side and head attacked him, what of the pounding he had received. After waiting a couple of days for them to disappear, with a healthy man's confidence in his own recuperative powers, he was driven back to Maguire's, where he took train for Falls City. There his injured side was strapped and he was ordered complete rest and quiet. Early in the winter, because he was alone in the world, he had leased his house and moved to an apartment building. This now seemed to him about as cheerful as a prison. He longed for human companionship of some sort, and he would have disobeyed his doctor's orders and gone out in search of it, but for the fact that his face, covered with bruises, would have attracted attention. But in the afternoon of his first day's confinement came William Crooks and Miss Jack. That young lady took charge of the situation with calm capacity. "Now, Joe," she said, "you're coming up to the house until you're well. Doctor's orders. So tell me what things you want and I'll pack them for you." "I couldn't think of troubling you," he protested. "I'm not sick, you know. Just a cracked rib and a jolt on the head. I feel all right, really." "You do as you're told," she replied. She began to pull out the drawers of his chiffonier. "What a mess your things are in! Nothing where it ought to be. Where _do_ you keep your pajamas? Dad, look in that closet for his suit case." "This is kidnapping," said Joe. "Call it what you like," chuckled Crooks. "Do as Jack tells you and quit kicking. _I_ have to." He brought out a suit case and a deep club bag. "Fire in what you think he needs, Jack." Joe watched uneasily her selection of articles supposedly indispensable to his comfort, and gave in. "Hold on, Jack, or else get a trunk. Let me show you, if I have to go." "That's better," said Crooks. He paused and regarded Joe critically. "Well, you did get a pounding. Did the whole crew jump on your face?" "It felt that way at the time," said Joe, "but you ought to see Finn Clancy's." He told the story of the fight briefly, making little mention of his own part in it. "So you see I was out of the fun at the wind-up," he concluded. "Too bad," said Crooks with a sympathy born of personal experience. "There will be trouble over that, though. They'll call it contempt of court, and malicious destruction, and the Lord and Locke only know what else." This prophecy proved to be correct. As soon as he could be located writs, summonses, and orders to appear and show cause showered on Joe. These passed on to Locke, who secured delay by physicians' certificates, affidavits, motions--all the methods by which the experienced attorney can clog the slowly moving wheels of the law. Meanwhile Joe nursed his knitting ribs and rested completely. Jack established an invisible wall about him through which no business affairs penetrated. "Dad and Mr. Wright can look after things for a week or two," she explained. "Mr. Locke says you needn't worry about law matters. Everything at the camps is going well. So, young man, you just make yourself comfortable and be lazy. That's your job for the present." When a few days had accustomed him to inaction it proved to be a very pleasant job. He developed an unsuspected capacity for sleep. This meant the restorage of his nerve cells. The pains in his head lessened and ceased, and the bruised flesh gradually assumed a normal hue. His favourite place was Jack's den. There was a bow window with a south exposure, and in the recess stood a huge easy-chair. Joe lay in it and absorbed sunshine, for the days were warming and lengthening, and stared up into the blue sky dotted with little white-wool clouds, or watched Jack, who had made the den her workroom. He found the latter pursuit the more entertaining. Jack affected white, with a superb disregard of laundry bills. It set off her lithe, straight figure, the small uplifted head with the abundant coils of dark hair, and the pretty piquant face with the firm yet tender mouth. From top to toe she was spotless and neat and trim and dainty. Her conversation was a tonic in itself. She was direct of speech, frank, and often slangy when slang best expressed her meaning. There were many odd "characters" dependent upon the open-handed bounty of William Crooks, and from them she had heard strange philosophies born of twisted lives, odd expressions which occasionally crept into her speech, and scraps of forgotten song. She had listened by the hour to old Micky Keeliher who tended the garden; to the widowed Mrs. Quilty who came once a week to do the washing; to crippled Angus McDougal, once a mighty riverman, whose strength had departed, and to a dozen others. Not one of them but would have died for William Crooks's daughter. To her they sang the songs of their youth in cracked, quavering voices; for her they unlocked the storehouses of their experience and gave of it freely. She absorbed their songs, their sayings, their tales; and as nearly as her youth would permit she understood their viewpoint of life. Joe, buried in his chosen chair, listened to the queer tunes she lilted--tunes which had stirred the hearts of by-gone generations in other lands--and by turns stared at the bright out-of-doors and slept. And Jack, on her part, felt a strange happiness, as if the room held all that was best and most to be desired. She did not analyze the feeling; she was content that it was hers. Bending over her sewing one bright afternoon during the last days of Joe's convalescence she crooned: "Is it far away ye're goin', Danny, dear? Is it lavin' me ye arre, widout a tear? Sure the ship's white sails is swellin', But it's this to ye I'm tellin'-- Ye shall love an' seek me out widin the year, "By the spell that's laid upon ye ye shall come agin to me, The dear, bould, handsome head of ye shall drop upon me knee. While ye sleep or while ye wake, It's the heart of ye shall ache Wid love o' that poor weepin' gyurl ye left beside the sea!" "That's a cheerful song," said Joe ironically from his chair. "Did he come back?" "Of course," laughed Jack. "Unfortunately, he died as his head touched her knee, and naturally she was inconsolable. Like to hear her lament?" She drew her face into lines of sorrow and threw back her head in a preliminary wail, as a dog howls. E-e-yah-h-h! Oh, why did he die? Oh-h-h-h, why did---- "Stop!" cried Joe. "Look here, Jack, remember I'm an interesting invalid. I want something cheerful." "Well, that _is_ comparatively cheerful. Now, if I sang you a real Hielan' lament----" "Don't you dare," Joe interrupted. "I am still far from strong." Jack laughed. "You smoked yesterday. Doctor Eberts says that a man who can enjoy a smoke is well enough to work." "Good for the doc!" cried Joe. "Me for the office and then back to the woods. Hooray!" "Not for a day or two," said Jack. "Things are going all right. You keep quiet." Joe sank back in his chair. "I suppose so, but--well, I want to look after them myself." Far off against the blue sky a wedge of black specks bored through space, swinging off beyond the limits of the town. "Look, Jack! The first geese going north. That means the end of winter and open water. We'll start our drives in a few weeks." "Yes, Joe." She perched on the arm of the big chair and stared after the birds, her face clouded with discontent. "That's life, and you can live it. Oh, heavens! Why wasn't I a boy? I'd love it so. I want to go up to the camps and see the rollways broken out and the banking grounds emptied. I want to wear spiked boots and ride a stick in white water and use a peavey. I want to come back to the wanegan at night, and eat and dry off by a big fire and sleep out of doors. I want--don't you dare to laugh at me, Joe Kent--I want to come into town with the bully-boys, with a hat pulled down over my eyes and a cigar in my mouth sticking up at an angle, and sing 'Jimmy Judge,' and 'From Far Temiskamang.' I want"--she faced him defiantly--"I want to ride up town in a hack--_with my feet out of the window!_ Yes, I do. And now tell me you are shocked." "I might be if I saw you do it," said Joe. "I've felt the same way myself--like breaking loose from everything. If you were a man you wouldn't, though. Only the shanty boys tear off these stunts. _We_ can't." "All very well for you to talk--you could if you wanted to," said Jack disconsolately. "I'm a girl. I can't even go up to the camps unless dad takes me." She voiced her grievance again. "I wish I had been a boy." She turned to the window and stared out. Joe rose and stood beside her, looking down at the burnished brown of her hair and the soft profile of her cheek. Once more the nameless thrill he had felt before when he had touched her hand possessed him. Hesitatingly, awkwardly, impelled by something which was not of his own volition, he put his arm around her. Instantly, as if a curtain had been rolled up--as if a screen had been withdrawn--he saw his own mind clearly. Why, he loved her! It came to him with a shock of utter amazement. Little Jack Crooks, his playmate, his friend, his confidant, the girl he had looked at so long with unseeing eyes--she, she was the only woman in the wide world for him. She had always been the only one. Edith Garwood? Pshaw! How could he have been so blind? Not all her radiant beauty and deceptive sweetness could compare with straight, loyal, little Jack, his chum and his love. She seemed unconscious of his arm until he spoke her name. Then she turned her head slowly and her dark eyes looked directly into his. What she saw there brought the red to her cheeks in a wave. Up and up the telltale crimson tide leaped to her brow, to the roots of her glossy brown hair, but her gaze did not waver. "Should you, Joe?" she asked simply. Stumblingly, humbly he told her, and she listened, nestling in his arms as one who has found her own place. And so, when bluff old William Crooks came home, he found them sitting in the twilight, planning wonderful things. Joe put the situation simply. "Jack has consented to marry me, sir." William Crooks stared at him and then at his daughter. "Fact, dad," she confirmed. "Well, I'll be--" began Crooks out of his unbounded astonishment. She put her hand over his lips. "I hope not, dad." "Well, you take a man unawares," growled Crooks. "How long has this been going on?" "About two hours, I think," said Joe happily. "Oh," said Crooks; "I was afraid you had been holding out on me. You're sure about this, I suppose?" They were very sure. "Well," said Crooks judicially, "I don't know any young fellow I'd rather give Jack to, Joe. Shake hands, you robber. But, mind you, you've got to put your business on its feet before you marry her." "I'll do it," Joe promised. "Of course he will," Jack asserted with perfect faith. Bill Crooks regarded them wistfully. In their youth and hope he saw his own. He thought of a far day when he and a girl had faced the world together, determined to wring from it success. The success had come, but the woman of his heart no longer shared it with him. Suddenly he felt old and lonely. He roused himself with a sigh and a shake of his big shoulders. No one, not even his daughter, suspected old Bill Crooks of sentiment. His thoughts were his own. XV Joe Kent tore himself away from his new happiness, visited Tobin's and Deever's camps, spent a few days at each, and wound up at Wind River. The banking grounds were full--great piles of timber stretching along the water's edge waiting the going of the ice. The winter roads were failing fast and the last logs were coming out the woods in half loads. Most of the hauling was done by night, for then the roads hardened with frost. By day the air was mild and the depth of snow sank sensibly. Then came the first rain of the season, destroying the roads utterly. All the men, save the driving crew, were paid off. Since a lumber camp is a self-contained community including a store or "van" at which the hands purchase most of their simple necessaries, paying off involves an adjustment of accounts, A lumber jack seldom keeps a record of his purchases, and is thus dependent upon the honesty of his employer's bookkeeping. The custom is to run rapidly over the account of each man in his presence. If he remembers the purchases and is satisfied, as he is in the majority of cases, well and good. If he does not remember or is not satisfied after reasonable explanation he is tendered a check and told to see a lawyer. But there have been logging firms who have robbed their men shamelessly. "Jack," one employer is alleged to have said, "you remember that pair of socks you got in December?" Jack, after an effort, remembered. "That's one pair," said the employer, and went on rapidly. "And you remember the pair you didn't get in January--that's two pairs." And Jack agreed. Keener men have been flimflammed by much the same formula. But, on the whole, the men get a square deal, few employers being small enough to charge excessive prices for supplies, much less to make fictitious entries against them. There was no dissatisfaction among Kent's men. Differences of opinion never reached the point of absolute assertion. "Well, Billy," MacNutt would say, "there's the entry in our books made at the time. If you say flat you didn't get the goods we'll let it go, because we know you're a straight man, and think you're right. But if you just say you don't remember, why, then, our books show we do." This unusual but effective system had been installed by William Kent and worked like a charm. Seldom did a man, having it put up to him in that way, flatly contradict the books. And then it prevented all friction. After the surplus men had been paid off, the weather hardened. A bitter wind held in the north by day; the nights were still, clear, and cold. Ice actually made and thickened in the river. It was unheard-of. Each morning the rivermen rose, cocked wise eyes at the sky, and cursed the weather. Each night they sat around the stove, for the cold was penetrating. "It's the qualified adjective moon," said Cooley. "The weather will break when she changes." "She'll break when she gets ready," said Jackson. "This will make a late drive." "But high water when it does come," said another. Joe Kent took to looking into the sleeping camp for an hour or so each night. He had brought a banjo with him, and he exhausted his song repertory. The men enjoyed it thoroughly. It was, perhaps, bad for discipline, but it developed a feeling of comradeship. His authority was not in danger, for they had seen him hold his own against the redoubtable Mike Callahan, who was a dangerous fighter; and he had also bested big Finn Clancy, who had whipped many a good man in his day. Suddenly the weather changed. One morning a southerly wind and a cloudy sky greeted them; by noon there was a warm rain slashing against the earth; at night mists and fog hung everywhere. "She breaks up this time," said Cooley, who was engaged in saturating his driving boots with oil and hot tallow, not with intent to keep his feet dry, but to preserve the leather. "An' time it is," said Regan, busy with a file at the inch spikes which studded the soles of his footgear. "She's a fortnight later nor she should be." This was so, but it had caused Joe little uneasiness, for his margin seemed ample. His plan was to drive the Wind River cut down the Wind to the Mattawagan. Tobin and Deever would drive down the Missabini to the latter stream. The drives would unite at McColl's Sney, where the main drive would be formed. Thence it would proceed down that great water artery past Falls City to Wismer & Holden's booms. It was all very simple--on paper. But it took a week for the ice to move in the Wind. The driving crew chafed and cursed, for they regarded Kent's interests as their own, and they longed to feel a rocking log beneath their feet once more. When the ice finally moved they attacked the rollways with fury, and the huge piles of great sticks cascaded thunderously into the water like huge amphibians. At that point the river was deep and had little current. Therefore the logs strung out slowly and in an orderly manner with a dignity befitting their weight and age. When the drive began to string with the slow current, MacNutt sent part of the crew downstream to keep the logs moving and prevent jams. The remainder divided and strung along either bank, releasing such sticks as grounded in the shallows or caught in the "sweepers" from the banks. Last of all came the "wanegan," also known as the "sweep." This was a long, heavy, flat bottomed scow, of primitive but enormously strong construction. It was the base of supplies for the driving crew. It held tents, provisions, clothing, and tools, and it was manned by the cook, cookees, and blacksmith. For propulsion it possessed long sweeps; but since it had merely to keep pace with the logs and the logs moved no faster than the current, these were used only for guidance. In slow water the life of its crew by day was one of dreamy, idyllic ease; but in fast water this condition was reversed. The scow was big, heavy, and unwieldly. It refused to be guided, checked or restrained; it bumped malevolently against boulders, grounded on sandbars, scraped its crew against overhanging limbs, and dragged them, cursing, into the water when they tried to line it down a fast, obstructed current. For the first few days they always endeavoured to control their craft; after that they let it go and trusted to luck, clinging perfunctorily to the sweeps and damning the grinning rivermen who shouted sarcastic comment and advice from the banks and solitary logs. At night the crew sought the wanegan and ate voraciously. They were always wet to the waist and often to the ears. They changed and dried their soaked clothing on pole racks by roaring fires, smoked, and slept in little tents pitched ready for them. Before the first light they had breakfasted, and they stepped into ice water in the gray dawn. But with it they were happy and contented, for the drive was the crowning glory of the year. The drive made average progress. There were small jams, easily broken, minor delays which always occur, but both MacNutt and Joe were pleased. "The late opening won't matter," said the former as they spread their blankets in the little wedge tent. "The head will hit the first dam to-morrow, sometime. We ought to sluice her through inside two days. Then there's the second dam. If we have luck we'll tie into the main drive pretty near on time. The others'll be about as late as we are." "I hope so," said Joe. "We don't want to hang up anywhere. I suppose McCane's drive will be out of our way?" "Sure to ---- unless he jams somewhere," said MacNutt. "Lebret Creek is faster than the Wind and opens earlier. It's good drivin'. He ought to be through the second dam by now." Lebret Creek joined the Wind above the second dam. They were then some twenty-five miles from the confluence, and four miles above the first dam. The day broke clear and splendid. Joe and MacNutt set off down stream for the dam half an hour behind a dozen of the crew. They cut through the woods across a three-mile bend of the stream and came suddenly upon it again. "By the G. jumping Jasper!" cried MacNutt. The river seemed to have shrunk. Logs lay along the banks, were caught in shallows, rocked in the feeble current. As far as the eye could reach stretched the shaggy backs of the brown herd, motionless or nearly so. The ancient bed of the stream appeared as it had been before the dams were built--a flat, rocky bottom over which a foot or so of water brawled noisily and ineffectively, utterly useless from the standpoint of a logger. The drive was plugged for want of water. A man appeared through the trees. He was running. "Dam's gone out!" he shouted as he came within hailing distance. Joe and the foreman looked at each other. There was no need to put the single thought into words. "Come on," said Joe briefly, and broke into a trot. They found the men gathered by the remnants of the dam. The wings of the structures sagged forlornly, and through the wrecked centre the stream poured over a rocky bed. The débris had been swept downstream by the rush of released water, and the ruin was beautifully complete. The cause of its going out must remain speculation merely. "What's the best thing to do?" Joe asked MacNutt. "Ward," said MacNutt, "you hike. Bring every man here, a-jumping. Load up a peakie with tools, blocks and tackle and dynamite and run her down river somehow. Load up another with tents, blankets, and grub, and tell the cook to bring her down. Camp is here till we move the logs. Get a move on you, now!" "There's only one thing to do," he continued to Kent. "The dam has got to be put in again. There's no fall to speak of, and four foot of water will float the best part of the logs. The rest we'll have to sack out. It means a week, but we can't help it." Regan, who after examining the wreck narrowly had taken to the bank, appeared above them. He carried a piece of timber, twisted and riven. This he dumped down before the boss. "Found her back in the brush," said he. "They used powder. I knowed that dam never went out by herself." "The infernal scoundrels!" said Joe. Regan looked at him hopefully. "I seen an Injun yesterday. He says McCane's drive is jammed near the mouth of Lebret. Say the word, boss, an' we'll mosey over an' half murder every mother's son of them!" "Thank you, Regan, but I can't say it," said Joe. "I have to get these logs out. If I don't get them I bust. Tell the boys that." The men began to arrive. MacNutt divided them into gangs and set them to work staying and shoring the remnants of the dam. Slight progress was made that day. The wanegan was looted and the peakies--a peakie is a flat-bottomed, double-ended river boat--made trip after trip, drawn by men wading in the shallows, until sufficient supplies were transferred to the camp by the dam. Light saw the crew at work. There was nothing fancy about the structure which MacNutt planned. It was built entirely of logs. Holes were blown in the bed of the river at intervals of a few feet, and in these were set buttress-logs slanted sharply upstream to back the timbers when the weight of the water should come against them. These things took time--days of the hardest kind of toil--but the impromptu dam was finally completed, even to the construction of a short slide to run the logs to the free water below. The river rose and backed up. The newly laid timbers groaned and complained. Now and then a startling crack made Joe's heart leap. "Will she hold, Mac?" he asked anxiously. "She's got to hold," said the foreman grimly. "I don't mean she's a permanent job; she ain't. If she'll last till we get through we'll blow her to glory." "Why?" asked Joe. "Because if we don't she may go out herself or some skunk may blow her for us when we're downstream. Half of us might be drowned and the logs winged out into the bush." But the jury-rig held. The water mounted higher and higher. Booms were strung, forming a funnel of which the sluiceway was the outlet. These also served to keep the weight of floating timber off the dam structure. Satisfied with the strength of his work, MacNutt hurried up stream. Many of the logs were afloat, moving sullenly; others were beginning to rock in the rising water. The men were working hard and steadily, with concentrated energy. Their peavies clanked regularly, and the logs twirled out of their resting places and trundled into the stream. Still the river rose, and MacNutt judged that it was high enough. Fearful for the strength of his dam he made an outlet by the simple expedient of knocking a few timbers loose. The water held at the new level. Down by the dam the herd of logs thickened and packed tight. The boom strained with their pressure. It was manned by men with long pike poles. They pushed here, restrained there, feeding the slide constantly and evenly, so that a nearly solid stream of timber shot through it into the good water below. When darkness fell, huge fires were lighted on the banks and the sluicing continued. Half the crew turned in immediately after supper; the other half kept the logs going. At two o'clock in the morning they shifted. By noon the last logs shot through. Then came the wanegan. MacNutt picked half a dozen men. "Throw her down little by little, boys," he ordered. "Don't be in a hurry, and don't use powder till there's no danger of a wave hitting us. We want a head of water, but not too much of it. The river's rising now." Joe looked back from the stern of the peakie in which he rode to catch up with the drive. The men had clambered out on the timbers and were busy with axes and saws destroying what had been so laboriously constructed. It had served his turn, but he felt regret. He would have liked it to stand, so that some day he might show Jack the rude, effective structure, and tell her the story of its building. He had had but small part in it, though his hands were blistered and ragged from handling rocks and rough timbers. He did not pose even to himself as a conqueror of difficulties; he gave the credit to MacNutt and his crew. XVI MacNutt suddenly struck his head a violent blow with his clenched fist and swore. He and Joe sat before the fire smoking a final pipe before turning in, and the gurgle of the water under the banks was music to their ears, for it meant that the logs were travelling free by night. "What's the matter?" Joe asked, sleepily. "I ought to be kicked!" cried the foreman in tones of bitter self-condemnation. "I'm a saphead. I got no more sense than a hen. McCane blew that dam on us. What's to hinder his blowing the other when he's finished sluicing his drive? He may be through now." "By heavens, Mac!" Joe ejaculated, appalled by the prospect. With the late season's start and the delays which had already occurred such an occurrence would be a calamity. "By heavens Mac, we can't let him get away with it again! We can't afford to take a chance. We've got to be _sure_ he doesn't." MacNutt scowled at the fire, biting his pipe stem. "I can't think of but one way out," said he. "We've got to put a guard on that dam, and if it comes to a case they must have the nerve to make good." "You mean--?" "Just what I say. If any one starts monkeying with it they must stop him--with lead if they have to. Of course you'll be held responsible for such an order." Joe's mouth hardened. "Mac," said he, "this is make or break with me. I've got to get these logs out. Pick one man and I'll go with him myself." "Don't do that," MacNutt dissuaded. "The boys will look after it all right. You better keep out." "No, I'll go," said Joe with determination. "You need every hand on the drive. I won't ask any man to do what I won't do myself. Pick your man and fetch him in here. We ought to start now." MacNutt arose and left the tent. In five minutes he returned with a little, brown-faced riverman, Dave Cottrell by name. Joe was surprised. He had expected the foreman to choose Cooley, Haggarty, or one of the noted "bully-boys." Cottrell was an excellent riverman, active as a squirrel and ready to take any chances, but extremely quiet and self-effacing. He was never in a row, had no chums, and, apparently, no enemies. He minded his own business and avoided notice. Such speech as he essayed was brief and to the point. "Now Dave," said the foreman, "we think McCane may blow this dam on us. Mr. Kent is going down to see that it ain't done, and he wants a man with him. How about you? Of course this ain't what you were hired for." "That's all right," said Cottrell. "You understand," said Joe, "that we're going to protect the dam at all costs. Can you shoot?" "Some," said Cottrell, and MacNutt chuckled to himself. "Then get ready," Joe ordered. "We'll start in half an hour." "C'rect," said Cottrell, and departed to roll his blanket. Blankets and food for two days were made into packs. The outfit owned two rifles, one belonging to Joe, the other to the foreman, who gave it to Cottrell. The little riverman tested the action, filled the magazine, and shouldered his pack. "Now if you're ready we'll be goin'," said he. Straightway he took the lead and the command. Joe found himself relegated to a subordinate position, compelled to follow one who seemed to possess the eyesight and easy movement of a nocturnal animal. The riverman had discarded his spiked boots and taken to moccasins. His gait was the bent-kneed amble of the confirmed woods-loafer. It was not pretty, and it looked slouchy and slow; but it carried him along at a tremendous rate. Now and then he paused and waited for the young boss, but made no comment. They left the river and took to the bush, following a course presumably known to Cottrell. They crossed swamps and wormed through alder swales, coming out again on pine and hardwood ridges. Joe was hopelessly lost and bewildered. He had no idea of the direction in which they were going. "You're sure you're heading right?" he asked. "Why, of course," said Cottrell, surprised at the question. About two o'clock in the morning he halted by a little creek. "We better take a spell," he said. "You ain't used to this, but the travellin' will be better from now on." Joe was glad to sit down. His legs ached, and he was torn by limbs and briers; but besides the purely physical fatigue was that which comes of travelling an unknown route without the faintest idea of how much of it you are covering. He stretched himself out with his back to a log. Cottrell built a fire and hung a little pail over it. When the water boiled he made tea, and they ate. Afterward they smoked. Warmed and weary, Joe began to nod. "We better be gettin' on," said Cottrell. Once more they plunged into the forest, but it was more open and, as the riverman had foretold, the going was easier. Gradually the stars paled in the east, and a faint gray light succeeded. Then came the rosy streaks of dawn. Cottrell halted and held up his hand. Faint in the distance sounded the measured music of an axe. "We're in time," said Cottrell. They came out on the river and on McCane's rear. Cottrell led the way back into the bush and when they emerged again it was at the dam. The dam pond was brown with logs, and they were being sluiced through in a great hurry. A crew of unkempt, tousled rivermen manned the booms and kept the sticks hustling. Rough Shan McCane stood on the boom by the water-gate directing operations, and his profane urgings came to them above the sound of the water. As they stood on the bank, rifles under their arms, one of the men caught sight of them and pointed. Immediately they became the nucleus of all eyes. McCane came ashore accompanied by half a dozen of his crew. He walked up to the new comers. "What do yez want?" he demanded. "When will you be sluiced through?" Joe asked. "What business is that of yours?" growled the rough one. "You know what business it is of mine," Joe answered. "My drive's coming down. And I'll tell you something more, McCane, we're going to camp right here till it does. I warn you now--don't try to wreck this dam!" "Wreck the dam, is it?" said McCane innocently. "For why should we wreck the dam?" "I suppose you don't know that the one above went out and hung my drive for a week," said Joe with sarcasm. "Is that so?" said McCane with mock sympathy. "Well, well, ye do be in hard luck. What's the guns for? Deer is out o' season. Yon's a pretty-lookin' rifle, now. I'll bet it cost ye somethin'. Let me have a look at it." He stretched out his hand casually, and suddenly leaped. His hand fastened on the rifle barrel. Instantly Cottrell's weapon sprang to a level. "Drop that, McCane!" snapped the little riverman. "You men keep back there, or I'll onhook her into you." Rough Shan looked into the ominous tube and slowly released his grip. "Don't ye get gay wid that gun!" he warned. "I could have ye jailed for pointin' it at me." The little man's bright eyes twinkled behind the sights. "If she went off as she's pointin' now you wouldn't know what happened," he announced gravely. Joe backed up alongside him. "We're not looking for trouble," said he, "but the man who tries any funny business with that dam will get hurt. Go ahead with your sluicing, or my drive will be down on top of you." "Will it?" said McCane. "Then, let me tell ye this, young felly, it'll stop till I get through. I'll sluice when I please." Behind him his men growled angrily. He shook his fist and roared, forth a flood of blasphemy. To Joe's utter amazement it was answered by Cottrell. The little man's language was fairly blood-curdling. His words snapped and crackled with venom. Such a "cursing out" had never been heard along the Wind. Finally his voice cracked. "Burn our camp, would ye?" he croaked hoarsely in conclusion. "Hang our drive, would ye? Blow a dam on us, an' think for to do it again! The man that takes a stick of powder near it will never draw his pay. See them birds!" Fifty yards away two woodpeckers clung to the bark of a tree, hopping and tapping in search of the worms that were their food. Dave Cottrell's rifle swung to his shoulder. Two reports followed, spaced inappreciably by the jangle of the magazine action. Two mangled masses of bloody feathers fell from the tree. The little man regarded the unkempt crew with evil eyes. "Lemme see one o' ye make a bad move!" he challenged, and there was death in his voice. Not a man made a move, bad or otherwise. Cottrell chose a spot overlooking the packed logs and the sliding water of the sluiceway. There he sat down, rifle on knees, and smoked. He had apparently talked himself out, for he answered Joe's remarks with customary brevity. In half an hour McCane quit sluicing. He and his crew came ashore and lit their pipes, lounging in the sun. The men from the rear came in and the whole camp rested. This continued all day. It was evident that McCane had a purpose in view. With the fall of night Joe and Cottrell moved down on the dam. The stars gave an intermittent light. The banks were deep in shadow, but objects could be made out on the river. "You better lie down and get some sleep," Dave advised his boss. "Then you can spell me later. They won't touch the dam till their logs is through, likely, but they may try to do us up." Joe rolled up in his blanket and presently slept. The fires of the camp died down. Save for the deep roar of rushing water the night was still. About twelve o'clock three stones, thrown simultaneously, whizzed out of the darkness. Two missed Cottrell's head by a few inches; the third, thrown short, struck Joe's shoulder a glancing blow as he lay in his blanket. As he woke with a startled cry Cottrell's rifle spat a rod of flame into the dark. The man fired three shots and paused. A stick cracked in the bushes. Instantly he fired twice more at the sound, and listened. The camp was astir. Men poured out cursing in three languages. Through the babel Cottrell tried to make out the sound of footsteps. Failing, he fired once more, on general principles. "Stop it, Cottrell!" cried Joe. "We don't want to kill any one." "If one o' them rocks had hit my head it would have killed _me_," snarled Cottrell. "I'll put the fear o' God in their rotten hearts!" He shoved in fresh cartridges savagely. "I think you've put it there now," Joe commented as the row subsided. "But don't shoot at their camp, or they'll start shooting back. They must have a gun in their outfit." Boom! The roar of a shotgun shattered the silence, and the shot pellets pattered against the logs and stones. Boom! the second barrel spoke. "Damn scatter-gun!" said Cottrell with contempt, and fired one shot. The crowd stampeded for cover as the bullet whined a foot above their heads. "It's all right--I held high," he explained. "It'd be just my darn luck to get one o' them little shots in the eye. Now they won't do no more shootin'." This prediction proved correct. The night passed without further incident. With daylight McCane's cook appeared and made up his fire. Later the crew crawled out of their dingy tents. A few washed at the river; but most made no attempt at a toilet. They sat on the ground and wolfed down their food. With the last mouthful they reached for tobacco. "Red McDougals, Callahans, and Charbonneaus--a dirty bunch," said Cottrell. The little man had sluiced himself with icy water from top to toe in the gray of the dawn, and was now frying slices of pork strung on green twigs above a small fire. "Some day the small pox will do a good job for 'em. Look at them scratch their backs against the rocks. Ugh!" His disgust was too deep for words. McCane emerged from his tent and Cottrell cursed him with venom. "What have you got against the man?" asked Joe reaching for a slice of bread. "He beat up a chum of mine once," Cottrell replied, "a little feller about my size that had no chance agin him. I'll get him yet for that. I wish t' God he'd made a move yesterday, an' I'd 'a' blowed his head off!" "Now, look here, Dave," said Joe, "we're here to protect the dam, and that's all. I won't have any feud mixed up with it." "I ain't mixin' it," said Cottrell. "I'm just prayin' he'll have the nerve to walk out to the sluice gate with a stick of powder in his hand or even a bulge in his shirt." But McCane and his crew lay around camp. Nobody went out on the booms or touched a log. The Kent drive would soon be running into their rear, and this meant confusion as well as delay. Joe finally left Cottrell on the dam and walked down to the camp. "See here, McCane," said he, "you've got to get your logs out of my way. You can't hang me up like this." McCane leered up at him insolently from where he lay stretched on the ground, resting comfortably against a log. "Can't I? Not a log goes through till I'm good an' ready." "But you've got no right----" Joe began hotly, and paused as he saw the living sneer in the other's eyes. He realized that argument was worse than useless and went back to his position. There he awaited the coming of MacNutt and his own crew, wondering what had delayed them. MacNutt had been delayed for a few hours by a small jam, but finally he ran into the logs of McCane's rear. He reached the dam at the head of a dozen indignant "bully-boys," and he and Joe tackled McCane. "You've got to move your logs," Joe told him again. "Not till I get ready," McCane answered as before. "You think you'll hang our drive, do you?" said MacNutt. "Well, you won't. You get your crew out on them booms at once and go to sluicing." McCane merely grinned. "Get at it!" cried the foreman furiously, and took a step forward. Rough Shan did not yield an inch. "If you want a fight you can have it quick," said he. "Me men have quit me. I can't pay their wages; I'm hung up meself." "That's a poor lie," said MacNutt. "Ask them," returned McCane. "If ye will step out here I'll beat the face off of ye!" MacNutt ignored the challenge and questioned the men. They backed up Rough Shan's statement surlily. Convinced that they were lying but unable to prove it, Joe and MacNutt held council. They had to get their logs through, and the only way to do it was to sluice McCane's first, and charge him with the time. "A lot of good that will do," said Joe. "He'll let us sluice them and then hang us up somewhere again." "Not if I can help it," said MacNutt. "I think I can work a game on him. Act as if you were good and sore." They returned to Rough Shan. "Your men say they won't work," said Joe. "We'll do your sluicing for you, but you'll pay us for it." "Like hell I will," said Rough Shan. "I'll sluice me own logs when I get a fresh crew." "You want to hang us up, do you?" cried Joe, finding no difficulty in simulating anger. "You can't do it. My men will pitch the whole bunch of you into the pond if I give them the word. I'll put your logs through. MacNutt, start the sluicing." "I warn ye to let my logs alone," said Rough Shan. "I'll hold ye responsible for every stick that goes through the chute." "All right," said Joe, and turned away. The sluicing began at once. MacNutt issued private instructions to Cooley and Cottrell. They started upstream, where they were shortly joined by ten more. There they picked up a peakie, and laboriously portaged the heavy boat through the woods well out of sight of the dam, setting it in the water below. With another trip they brought augers, boom-chains and shackles, and a manilla rope. Embarking they ran downstream two miles. At that point the river ran past the mouth of a backwater, an old channel, now an almost currentless little lake, reedy, with shores of floating bog and bottomed with ooze of unknown depth. The water ran into it sluggishly, and drained out half a mile below over muddy shallows. Logs once ensnared in this backwater could be taken out only at the cost of much time and labour. The dozen, working at speed, constructed a boom of logs shackled end to end. This they strung slantwise across the stream. One end was moored to the lower side of the backwater's inlet; the other to the opposite bank upstream. Thus logs coming down were deflected to the backwater. Six men with pike poles manned the boom, walking to and fro on the precarious footing, shoving the logs, as they came down, toward the slough. The others saw them safe inside. Dave Cottrell sat in midstream in the peakie, a rifle across his knees, watching either bank. The work proceeded merrily, for the rivermen enjoyed the trick. Late in the afternoon half a dozen of McCane's crew hove in sight. When they saw the boom and comprehended its meaning they ran forward to cut its moorings. "You get back there!" yelled Cottrell, raising his rifle. As they paid no attention to him he fired. The bullet cut dirt at the toes of the foremost. "I'll drop one of ye next time," Cottrell warned them, his eyes glued to the sights. They halted and cursed him. "When I count twenty I'm goin' to start shootin' the hats off of ye," said Cottrell. "If I was on shore I could do it easy, an' hurt no one. Out here the water jiggles the boat, an' I may go high or low. One--two--three----" He began to count. At "ten" they gave back; at "fifteen" they were in full retreat. McCane, when the news was brought to him, ran out on the booms, his face working with rage. Profanity spewed from his mouth in a steady stream. "You'll bring every log out o' that backwater or I'll know why," he thundered. "A dirty trick!" "Dealin' with you we're dirty every time from now out, and you can tie to that," MacNutt told him. "Every log in your drive is goin' into that backwater if she'll hold them. You'll get them out yourself, or train beavers to do it for you. You stinkin', lowdown Mick, you've been givin' us dirt all winter. Here's where we get square. Now get off o' these booms, or I'll bash in your head with a peavey. If I say 'sic 'em' to the boys you know what'll happen. You won't have camp nor crew nor nothin' in ten minutes, an' you'll spend the summer in a hospital, like enough. I'm _sick_ of you! Get out!" McCane's courage was beyond question, but the odds were against him. Twenty hardened fighters, every one of whom thirsted for a chance to trample on his face with caulked boots, crowded up behind MacNutt. His crew, rough and tough as they were, were outnumbered, and Kent's men were picked "bully-boys" with a score to even. "All right," said he. "You hear _me_, MacNutt--I'll get even with you an' Kent. It's comin' to both of ye. The woods ain't big enough for me an' you now." "Bah!" said MacNutt, and spat. McCane went ashore. MacNutt shut down the sluicing with darkness. In the morning it began again. That day saw McCane's entire drive packed in the backwater. He was helpless to prevent it. Kent's logs slid down merrily into the free current, and Rough Shan and his wild crew cursed the rear out of sight as it swept around a bend below. Then they went at the tedious task of extricating their own drive from the backwater. Rough Shan the next day put Callahan in charge and departed, as he said, to see about supplies, for his grub was running low. XVII In due course the Wind River logs reached McColl's Sney, where Tobin and Deever had already brought their respective drives, and were waiting impatiently with McKenna for the others. A strong crew had gone upriver to lend a hand, and as soon as MacNutt's logs got within a few miles the booms were opened and the entire drive thrown into the current. McColl's boasted a post-office, and there Joe found a stack of mail awaiting him, among it half a dozen letters from Jack; and it is a sad commentary on his attention to business that he opened these first. Jack did not run to sentiment in correspondence. Her letters were frank, newsy notes, and she was keenly interested in the drive and all that pertained to it. She wrote much as a partner in the business might write, giving here and there a bit of advice from Bill Crooks's ripe experience; but beneath the frank words and often slangy phrases ran a tender undercurrent which Joe was quick to detect. "What a little brick she is," he said to himself as he folded her last letter and placed it carefully in an inside pocket. "When we get into touch with the railway, I'll bring her up to see the drive. She'd like that, bless her little heart." This was the real thing at last. He knew that thenceforth no pleasure would be perfect which she did not share, no sorrow too great to be borne with her help. He looked at the logs, acres and acres of them herded in the booms and drifting by in the current, at the steel-shod rivermen who ran here and there pushing and guiding, at his camp set back beneath the budding trees; and he realized that the mainspring of his life and his endeavour had changed. It was no longer the business--his father's business--personal pride, nor the desire to succeed that held him to effort; but it was Jack--straight, slim little Jack, with the crown of dark hair and the frank, fearless eyes. From such realizations spring success. The next letter he opened was from Locke, and the news it contained was not only unexpected but very good indeed. You will be surprised to hear the action against Garwood _et al._ has been discontinued, Crooks agreeing with me that we should accept the terms of settlement offered, which, however, did not proceed from Garwood directly. As a matter of fact, the action was getting out of the realm of law into that of politics. The newspapers were beginning to sit up and take notice, and it looked as if our innocent little lawsuit might blossom into a general investigation which, in turn, might involve a number of prominent people. At this stage I received an intimation that if we dropped the action we could have what we wanted, and after consultation with Crooks we decided to do so. Having the whip hand we were by no means modest in our demands. You will hear no more of the proceedings in contempt against you for your disregard of the Court's order re-trespass upon Clancys' limits, and destruction of their property. So, too, Clancys' action against you for the said destruction will be withdrawn. In future you will both receive a fair share of orders from the contractors who have been boycotting you; you will get a fair deal in buying timber berths; the railway will give you all the cars you want; and there will be no discrimination against you in haulage rates. This means that your businesses will be henceforth on a fair competitive basis in the above respects, which is all you can expect. It also means that the riot act has been read to Garwood by some people who are in a position to read it. Just how he was persuaded to crawl down I don't know, though I rather think a threat of legislation affecting his railways was the means used. You see he might very easily be forced to spend anywhere from half a million up on useless frills and equipment merely as a beginning. Anyway, you may depend upon these terms of settlement being carried out. But all the same you are by no means out of the woods, and a great deal depends upon your ability to deliver your logs to Wismer & Holden by July 1st. I am satisfied in my own mind that their offer and the "little joker" in the contract were both inspired by Garwood; also that they will not give you an hour's grace. McDowell, of the Farmers' National, tells me that his bank cannot carry you after that date--indeed, only the practical certainty of your filling the contract induced them to finance you to the extent which they did. If you don't make good they will shut down on you, and proceed to realize on what securities they hold. Then, a payment will be due on your mortgage to the Northern Loan Company. You need not expect any leniency from them. So, if I were you, I'd hustle the logs down day and night. Joe was delighted with the first part of the letter. With fair competition in the future he saw plain sailing ahead. But the latter part gave him some uneasiness. It was then well along in May, and the drive was at least three weeks later than it should have been, due to the backward season and to the unforeseen delays. That night Joe held council with his foremen. The probabilities were carefully canvassed, and at the end of the discussion old Dennis McKenna voiced the general opinion. "We can make her with a week or two to spare--if we don't strike a snag somewheres," said he. "That's allowin' for usual hard luck, too. The river's risin' now. The snows up north are meltin' and she'll boom soon. That'll help us a lot." Day after day the brown logs of Kent's big drive slipped down the current. He had experienced foremen and a strong driving crew. A log no sooner touched the shore than it was thrust back into deep water. The drive was strung for miles, and all along the banks prowled husky rivermen, peavey or pike pole in hand, keeping the sticks hustling. MacNutt and the Wind River crew, reinforced by most of Deever's, had the rear, which usually means hard work, for none of the logs must be left behind. McKenna travelled daily up and down the banks overseeing the whole, and Joe tramped with him. Tobin, ahead, kept a sharp lookout for obstructions and possible jams. But so far not a jam worth mentioning had formed. "She's too good to last," said McKenna one night. "Tobin will hit the Silver Chain to-morrow, and then look out. I figured on higher water than this." The Silver Chain was a succession of rapids greatly disliked by river drivers. It extended for a couple of miles, white, torn patches of water with some clear current between. The banks were steep, sheer rock fringed with dwarf pines, frowning ceaselessly at the foam and turmoil below. Jams had a habit of forming there, and nearly always some sort of trouble occurred. The crew had calculated upon this and they got it, for early the next day Tobin sent them word of a jam which he had not been able to break, and demanded more men. "And she's a bad one, sure enough," said McKenna, when he and Joe arrived. The jam had occurred in a rapid familiarly known as "Hell's Bumps," about midway in the Chain. Just how it had formed nobody knew. The logs were running free when suddenly half a dozen plugged and held for an instant only, but it was sufficient for others to pile on top of them. Every moment brought down fresh sticks, and the fast water flung them at the growing mass to make a part of it. Some shoved, up-ended, and forced others aloft. The face of the jam rose high, abrupt, and dangerous. The tail grew swiftly upstream. By the time McKenna arrived it had become a genuine, old-time "teaser." The foremen went over it carefully, with glum faces, for this meant more delay; no one could tell how long it would take to break it. They pondered the current and the depth of water as they knew it by experience, and were not encouraged. "Sooner or later we'll have to use powder on her," said McKenna; "we might as well use it sooner." He set the crew to work picking out logs so that the dynamite might be exploded in the bowels of the monster. The men worked with a will but gingerly, for the task was dangerous. The dynamite was placed deep in the jam. When it exploded the mass heaved, shook, buckled, and moved a few yards downstream, where it plugged again. Nothing had been gained. "It'd take a carload of powder to root her out," said Tobin in disgust. "We'll just have to dig into her with the peavies, Dinny, and trust to luck." So they dug with the peavies for three days, and nothing happened. Occasionally there would be a quiver and a long, shuddering groan as if a monster were awaking from sleep; and once a series of startling, premonitory cracks and a sharp movement set the jam crew zig-zagging for shore. But this proved a false alarm, for the tremendous pack of timber merely settled down and squatted immutably upon its brown haunches, the bristling top of it seeming to grin defiance at the puny efforts of man. "If it takes a trainload of powder we've got to break it," said Joe desperately, and telegraphed Wright from the nearest station to send on a supply of high-explosive. As the keystone supports an arch so key-logs hold a jam. If they can be found and dislodged, the jam collapses and disentangles. Finding them is difficult, laborious, and very dangerous. If there are dams above, a head of water is sometimes let loose suddenly and the jam swept away. But there were no dams, so that Kent had his choice between manual labour, which is slow and costly, and dynamite, which is sudden but uncertain. By way of compromise he used both, and still the logs did not move. He began to feel a strange personal enmity toward them. They were his, bought by his money, cut by his crew, inanimate, senseless things. And yet in the mass they seemed to possess a personality, a living spirit of pure, balky cussedness; they lay in bulk, a brown shaggy monster that obstinately refused to heed the voice of its master. XVIII Joe stood on the jam, watching the crew dry-picking out the logs and throwing them into the water, burrowing down for a place to use more powder, when his name was shouted. He looked up, and his heart gave a decided thump. Above him stood William Crooks and Jack. Joe leaped the logs and ran up the bank. "How did you get here?" he cried. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" "We thought we'd surprise you," said Jack sedately. "I persuaded dad. I wanted to see how _our_ drive was coming down." "It isn't coming down just now," Joe observed. "We can't stir it. Here, come over to my tent and make yourselves at home. Oh, Jimmy," he called to the cook, "rustle a good meal, will you? Spread yourself on something fancy, now." The cook grinned amiably, and became suddenly shamefaced as Jack smiled at him. "I ain't got much fixin's," he apologized. "If th' lady, there'd tell me what she'd like----" "Why, you're Jimmy Bowes!" cried Jack. "I remember you, twelve years ago on dad's camp on the Little Canoe. You used to give me lumps from the brown sugar barrel. Jimmy, I'll always love you for that." Jimmy Bowes blushed to the top of his bald head as he shook hands. "You've growed," said he. "Sure, I remember, but I didn't think you'd know the old bull-cook. You're--you're real purty!" Suddenly embarrassed by his own candour and Joe's laughter he retreated to his own domain where, cursing his cookee, he plunged into preparations for a magnificent meal. McKenna and MacNutt came ashore and met Crooks. "Well, boys," said the old lumberman, "she's a teaser, hey!" "You bet," replied McKenna. "She's solid as a cellar--froze to the bottom all the way. Still, the water's risin' now, an' she may pull most any time." He did not believe a word of his statement, but he spoke so that Joe should not be discouraged. Crooks, who did not believe a word of it either, nodded. "That's the way with big jams. I remember, thirty years ago on Frenchman's Creek--" He drew McKenna and MacNutt out of earshot, relating his story. Suddenly he stopped. "Look here, Dinny, if this jam don't break mighty soon young Kent goes out of business." "Well, I wish t' God I knew how to break her," said McKenna. "The boys can't work harder than they're doing. We've put in shots 't'd rip a mountain loose, and she just lays back her ears and sits tighter." Meanwhile Jack and Joe walked upstream along the bank. Here and there on the flanks of the wooden monster crews of men picked away with peavies. The clean smell of the millions of feet of freshly cut, wet timber struck the nostrils. The water tore and snarled at the wedged logs, and little streams shot through the mass, hissing and gurgling; the voice of the checked river was deep and angry. "To-morrow we're going to fill it up with powder and see what that does," said Joe. "With the rising water it may start things. If it does not--" He shrugged his shoulders. If the jam did not "pull" soon he was broken, and he knew it. Jack slid her arm in his. "Dad says the big jams go when you least expect it. This will. You have time yet, Joey-boy." He patted her hand. "It's good of you, Jack. Anyway, I've done my best, and if I'm downed this time I can make a fresh start. I know something about the business now." Jack looked at him and nodded. He was quite unlike the neatly tailored Joe Kent of a year before. He wore a battered felt hat, a gray shirt, trousers cut off below the knees, and heavy woollen stockings. On his feet were the "cork boots" of the riverman. Already he had mastered the rudiments of "birling," and could run across floating logs, if not gracefully at least with slight chance of a ducking. He was bronzed and hard, and his hands were rough and calloused. But the difference went deeper than outward appearance. He was stronger, graver, more self-reliant, and the girl recognized and approved of the change. The day faded into dusk. Big fires were lighted at the camp. Crooks and his daughter remained for supper; afterward they were to drive back to the little town, coming back the next morning to see the big shots let off. Crooks lit a cigar and joined the foremen, to discuss the jam and the probability of breaking it, and yarn of his own experiences with mighty rivermen whose names were now but traditions. The men lay about the fires, smoking and talking. They were tired, and the popular vocalists, shy because there was a girl in the camp, hung back and muttered profane refusals when asked to sing. Jack was disappointed. "I haven't heard a shanty song sung by a crew in ages. I wish they would wake up. Am I the wet-blanket?" "I'll go over and tell them to sing anything you like," Joe offered promptly. "No, that wouldn't do. Some of them are going to their blankets already. To-morrow night--when the jam is broken--we'll have a celebration. I'll sing to them myself." "If it _is_ broken!" "Now, Joe," she reproved him severely, "you brace up. We're going to break that jam to-morrow; and we're going to deliver our logs on time, and don't you dare to even _think_ we're not. I tell you we are! Don't get discouraged, for we're going to win out." "You're a good booster, Jack" he said, smothering a sigh. "Of course we are. And once we get through here we'll have plain sailing." He pressed her hand gratefully. It was something to receive encouragement, even if it was plainly labelled, and he would not be so ungracious as to tell her so. Crooks loomed out of the darkness and called for his team. Half an hour afterward Joe was the only man awake in camp, and he drifted into slumber with the memory of the soft touch of Jack's lips as they lay for a moment on his. In the morning the jam was sown with dynamite, planted deep beneath the logs at points approved by McKenna. Crooks and Jack arrived. The men came ashore and waited anxiously. Almost simultaneously, columns of water, strips of bark and twisted, riven wood shot high in the air, and the detonations thundered back from the rocks. A rumbling growl issued from the inwards of the wooden monster. It heaved and rose. Logs toppled down the face of it, and then the whole front cascaded in wild confusion. Just when it seemed that the whole thing must go motion ceased. The shaggy, bristling brute settled back into immobility. The shots had failed. Bosses and men swore fervently. These continued failures were blots on their records as rivermen. Their employer needed those logs badly, and it was up to them not to disappoint him. The jam was big and ugly, but it must be broken. Doggedly they climbed out on the logs again and set to work. When the jam failed to "pull," Kent looked at Jack, reading the bitter disappointment in her face. Somehow it helped him to conceal his own. "Better luck next time, girlie," he said. "Anyway, we made a lot of noise." She smiled back at him, but her lips quivered, "Of course it will pull next time; it can't help it." "Of course not," he agreed, being quite convinced to the contrary. They fell silent, gloomily watching the crew at work. Below them a man clamped his peavey into a log at the base of the pile and swung back on it so that the tough stock bent like a whip. Failing to move it he called a comrade. They pried and boosted, their clinging shirts bulging with the swell of their back-muscles. Suddenly the log came away. Immediately a groan rose from the timbers. The men sprang to alertness. Crackings and complainings ran through the mass. The girl caught Joe's arm. "It's going out, Joe! It's going out! Oh, see it pull!" There was no doubt of it. The jam "pulled" with the bellow of a maddened beast. Logs shot outward, upward, downward--every way, rolling over and over, smashing, up-ending, grinding. Through them the white, torn water boiled madly. The core of the jam seemed to leap bodily downstream and then split into fragments. Over the turmoil the rivermen fled for shore, each man balancing himself with his peavey, held low across his body. Their flight was swift, but unhurried and calculated. In face of the deadliest peril of the riverman--the breaking jam--they were cool and wary, timing to a nicety leap from tossing log to tossing log. Suddenly, opposite the watchers, a man lost his footing and pitched forward. Another, twenty feet away, cleared the space with two leaps, caught the first by the collar and dragged him upright, but the man sagged down, evidently badly hurt. The other dropped his peavey, heaved him up in his arms and, thus burdened, made for shore. He sprang once, twice, hampered by his load. Then a wave of smashing timber surged down and over them. They were blotted from the world, effaced without even a stain on the torn water. Jack, deadly white, with shining eyes and parted lips, stared at the spot where they had been. "Oh, the brave boy--the poor, brave boy!" she cried. "Who was he, Joe?" "Ward--Ward and McClung, two of my best men--chums," Joe told her bitterly. "I wouldn't have--Jack! Jack, look there!" Strung along the jam as the men were when it pulled, some of them had no direct route for shore. Among these were McKenna, Dave Cottrell, and Hill and Laflamme of Deever's crew. The last three were noted "white water birlers," experts upon logs under any and all conditions, and McKenna, the old walking boss, in his best days had never found a man who could put him off a stick of pine. When the jam began to pull they were opposite a stretch of rocky bank that offered no way of escape. "Boys," said McKenna, "it's a bad chance, but we've got to take it--we've got to ride her down." As he spoke the log on which he stood pitched sideways beneath him. He left it as a bird leaves a bough, alighting on another, and ran the tossing mass downstream. Cottrell, active as a squirrel, kept close to him. Hill and Laflamme, too, kept together but without premeditation, for each instinctively took the course that looked best to him. They dodged over and across the up-ending, smashing timbers, avoiding death at each spring by the thickness of a hair. It was this sight which had caused Joe Kent's exclamation. Hill was the first to go. Just once he miscalculated by the fraction of an inch. He disappeared without a sound. Laflamme, just behind him, sprang across the spot where his companion had been, his eyes widening, his teeth bared and set, his gaudy voyageur's sash streaming from his waist, a bright flag fluttering in the face of destruction. Suddenly an up-ending log brushed his thigh. It was little, but it threw him from his stride. His shriek soared high above the roar of wood and water as the great logs nipped out his life. Neither McKenna nor Cottrell looked back, though they heard the cry. Their own case was too perilous. A log thrust up suddenly beneath Cottrell's feet and threw him into the air as if he had been shot from a springboard. He alighted on his feet again by the purest of luck, and seeing an opening of water and a free log, leaped on it, whence he made his way to shore. McKenna, dead-beat, gained the outlying logs and fell as he reached solid earth. Behind them the jam swept by in tossing, foaming grandeur, the backed-up water scouring all before it. McKenna staggered to his feet and waved a gaunt arm. "Into her, boys, and keep her hustling!" he shouted. But MacNutt and Deever were already on their way upstream. Tobin and his crew attacked the outlying logs and flung them into the current. Soon the channel was brown with the shooting sticks, flashing by in the racing water. Jack, pale and shaken, sat and watched them go by. The bright sun, the dancing water, the bird songs from the woods, and the fierce activity of the rivermen were all at variance with the vision of sudden death which she had beheld. Joe, grave and silent, came up accompanied by her father. "I guess we'd better be going, daughter," said Crooks gently. She shook her head. "No, dad, I'd like to stay, please. Just leave me here. Joe has the work to see to, and you'd like to be there, too." The men looked at each other, and her father nodded silently. They went upstream to where the rear was working ferociously. Jack, left alone, stared at the river, reconstructing the scene, which she was never to entirely forget. It was the first time she had seen men, rejoicing in the pride of their strength, wiped from life as dust is wiped up by a damp cloth. From her childhood she had spent days and even weeks in her father's camps, meeting the big, rough shantymen who one and all adored her; getting glimpses of their life, but only touching the outer shell of it; seeing them against a background of cheerful labour, ringing axes, song and jest, as real and yet as unreal as a stage setting--a background which in her eyes surrounded them with the elements of romance. Of their vices she knew nothing save by hearsay; of the tragedy of their lives she knew even less. Now, before her young eyes, Fate had swooped and struck instantly and without warning. Small wonder that she was shocked. And she was shocked, also, by the apparent callousness of the dead men's comrades. They worked carelessly, as it seemed, about the very spot where the others had died. But here common sense came to her aid. The logs--Joe's logs, their logs--must be got out. No matter what toll the river claimed the drive must go down and to market. It was the way of the world. In this as in other things, human life was the cheapest of commodities; its loss the least important hindrance, of less practical moment than the breakage of an ingenious man-made machine. She sighed as the realization came to her. It seemed heartless, yet she could not escape it. Sitting on the log, staring at the river, her lips moved in almost unconscious prayer for the men who had died like men, doing the work they were paid to do. XIX With the breaking of the big jam the luck of the drive seemed to change. The river was rising, the water was good, the logs travelled freely day and night without halt. Indeed, the delays seemed about to prove blessings in disguise, for other firms' drives, more fortunate, would be out of the way. Also when they reached the lower almost currentless stretches of the river, down which the logs would have to be towed in booms by steamers, there would be no delay. But these calculations were upset one day when they got news of a drive just ahead of them. Straightway Tobin and Joe went down to see about it. Sure enough there was a drive, and as he looked at the end of a stranded log the foremen swore indignantly, for on it was stamped the "CB" of Clancy Brothers. "It's their drive from Basket Lake," said Tobin. "They should have had it down three weeks gone." As they passed downstream he called Joe's attention to the rear crew. "Look at that. See 'em sojerin' on the job. They're loafin', every mother's son of them, and they've a stronger crew than they need, too." They found Clancys' river-boss, Tom Archer by name, smoking a pipe and watching the indolent efforts of half a dozen men who were not even pretending to hustle. "I thought you would have been down long ago," said Tobin. "Our drive is right behind, and we'll be bumping your rear to-morrow if you don't get some ginger into your crew." "They're a lazy bunch," said Archer without the flicker of an eyelid. "I just have to do the best I can with them. I've cursed them till my throat went back on me." Tobin regarded him narrowly. "Let me handle them for twenty-four hours and I'll show you a difference." "Thanks, but I can run my job myself," said Archer dryly. "The point is," Joe explained, "that my drive is coming down a-humping, and we need all our time because we have a delivery contract to fill. Can you keep ahead of us, do you think?" "Couldn't say," returned Archer. "I don't want to run down on top of you," said Joe. "How would it be if I turned a dozen men into your rear to lend a hand?" Archer regarded him in silence for a ten-second interval. "When I need your help, bub, I'll ask for it." "I didn't mean it that way," Joe explained. "I don't suppose you want to delay me. It's about four days to Moore's Rapids. Will you oblige me by booming there till I get through? Of course I'll pay for the time of your crew." "No," Archer replied. "I have my rights on the river and I don't have to get out of your way. You can tail along behind me." "The hell we can!" flared Tobin, whose temper was always set on a hair-trigger. "Do you think we ain't onto you, Archer. What's Clancys payin' you for doin' their dirty work?" Archer put his pipe in his pocket with deliberation. "Any more talk like that, Tobin, and you and me will settle it right here," he announced. Tobin, nowise loath, would have accepted the challenge instantly, but Joe restrained him and pointed to a man who appeared on the bank. "It's quite plain what this gentleman is up to, Tobin. There's Rough Shan McCane. I guess any more talk is waste time." McCane sprang down like a cat and advanced truculently. "Tom," said he to Archer, "I'm going to give this young feller a father of a lickin' an' put the boots to him afterward. You look after the other one." Joe did not assume any attitude popularly supposed to be one of defence, but the bunched shoulder muscles crept and crawled beneath his shirt, and Archer, eying him carefully, interposed a decided negative. "No, you won't. I don't want any trouble with Mr. Kent or his crew. If they crowd us it'll be different." "It'll be a lot different," said Tobin. "You're McCane, are you? I've heard of your doin's this winter. You've got it comin' to you, me buck, tie into that." Then and there hostilities would have started but for Joe and Archer, who kept cool. Tobin and McCane growled at each other like leashed fighting-dogs. "Come along, Tobin," Joe ordered. "We're wasting time. You won't reconsider my offer, Archer?" "No," replied Archer flatly, "I won't. I have the right-of-way, and I'll keep it." The way he intended to keep it immediately became apparent. His drive travelled with maddening slowness. His rear crew made great pretence of working, but the feint was transparent and the tempers of Kent's men wore under the strain. One or two fights took place, more or less indecisive. Clearly a climax was at hand. Joe took counsel with his foremen, and they threshed the matter out one night sitting around the fire. It was plain that as long as Clancys' drive kept ahead they could make no speed. Much time had already been lost. They could not pass it on the river, and Archer would not yield his right-of-way at Moore's Rapids. It looked like an impasse. It was quiet Deever who suggested the only way out. Deever usually had little to say. The reverse of Tobin, he was slow to anger, but knew no limit when aroused, as unruly lumber jacks found to their cost. He was rather small of frame, but built of wires and steel springs. "If we run our drive right on top of them and mix the logs we'll make better time than we're making now," said he. "Then we sack out our own, and they can bring theirs along or not, as they like. There's sortin' booms at Moore's, and we've a strong crew, just spoilin' for a scrap. If we take charge an' cull out all Clancys' logs, why, then we get ahead. It just means a little fight." The foremen looked at each other and nodded. Then they looked at Joe. "It sounds good," said he. "Of course, we haven't any right to do it." "Not a right," said MacNutt cheerfully, "but we've got a blame good crew." Joe laughed. "Go to it, then," said he. "Slam the whole drive down on top of them as soon as you can." The speed of a drive depends upon the work of the crew, for although logs can travel no faster than the current the more that are kept in the current the faster the whole will travel. Kent's men sailed into the work like demons. No log had a chance to rest. Soon the two drives tangled and became one, although naturally Clancys' leading logs were far in advance of Kent's. The latter's crew left the other logs religiously alone, but Clancys' men soon began to shove Kent's logs toward the shallows. "Leave them logs alone!" roared Big Cooley savagely, detecting a man in the act. The man swore back at him defiantly and shoved another log shoreward. Cooley jumped from the log on which he stood, alighting on the one ridden by the offender, and knocked him into the water. In two minutes the crews were more tangled than the logs. More of Kent's men piled downstream and joined the melee. Finally Clancys' rear crew, badly whipped, left the field to their opponents. When Archer heard of the fight he came back at once. "I won't stand this," said he. "You've got no right to run into my drive." "Keep it out of my way, then," said Joe. "I gave you your chance; I'm going to drive clean through you." "We'll see about that," said Archer, and took his departure. Thereafter his crew worked hard but avoided trouble. Nevertheless the drives were hopelessly entangled, and they drew near Moore's Rapids. The booms at Moore's had been put in and were maintained by the various lumber firms for their own convenience, so that one had as much right to them as another. This was lucky for Kent, for had the booms been owned by a river improvement company, as were those on the lower river, he could not have carried out the high-handed act he contemplated. As it was, the question resolved itself into whether he could seize the booms and hold control of them while he sorted the logs. By so doing he laid himself open to an action for damages, but he could better afford that than further delay. Twenty-four hours before any logs could reach Moore's, McKenna chose a picked crew and took possession of the booms, forestalling Archer, who intended to do that very thing himself. Therefore when he arrived with a picked crew of his own some hours later he became righteously indignant. "I have the right-of-way, McKenna," said he, "and my logs are going down that channel first. You can sort out yours and wait your turn." "I hear what you say," said McKenna from the boom. "You're making a little mistake, Archer. _Ours_ are going through first." "What?" cried Archer, suddenly realizing the situation. "Do you know what the law is? The leading drive has precedence in booms, chutes, and slides. You'd better be careful!" "I know all that," retorted McKenna. "That's the law--_and we're going to break it_. You'd hog the river on us, would you? Well, we'll hog the booms and channel on you!" Archer spat into the stream and swore. "I have nothing against you, McKenna, but you nor no other man can hang my drive. I'll bring down my crew and clear you off the booms. If I can't do that I'll cut them and let the whole shootin' match go down together." "That's big talk," said McKenna. "Now you listen here. We're doing this cold because we have to, and you know it. We won't stop at anything. Bring down your crew and try to clean us out if you like. We expect it. But if you try to cut the booms it's different." He pointed to a pier out in the current. On it in a state of splendid isolation, sat Davy Cottrell. "That man out there has a rifle and he can hit birds flying with it. He'll shoot the first man that touches the booms. If you don't believe that, get somebody to try." Shortly afterward the first logs began to arrive, and with them Archer's entire crew. Immediately they made a determined attempt to seize the booms, but as these were already occupied by Kent's men, against whom they could advance only in single file, their numbers gave them little advantage. The fight raged along the length of the slippery, swaying boom-logs. Men knocked off into the river swam and climbed up again, or cunningly seized others by the ankles and upset them, taking the chance of being kicked in the face by spiked boots. Gradually Archer's men pushed McKenna's backward and might have driven them from the booms altogether had not the rest of Kent's crew arrived, thirsting for battle. Archer's crew, now hopelessly outnumbered, fought gamely. The fight spread from booms to shore. Tobin went for Archer and met his match. MacNutt tried to get to Rough Shan, but could not. Quiet Deever, white-faced and eyes ablaze, his lips lifting at the corners in a wolfish snarl, was before him. "'Rough Shan' they call you," he gritted through set teeth. "Let's see how rough you are, you dirty cur. Come on an' rough it with a littler man, you lousy, camp-burnin' high-banker!" He planted a terrific right in McCane's face, and was himself knocked sideways the next instant by a heavy swing. They went at it hammer-and-tongs. Joe Kent found himself paired with a smooth-faced, bronzed, shanty lad who fought with a grin and hit with a grunt. His blows were like the kicks of a mule, but his knowledge of boxing was rudimentary. The young boss smashed him almost at will, but the grin never faded. Always he came back for more, and when he landed, it jarred Joe from top to toe. Finally they clenched and wrestled to and fro among the rough stones of the beach. At this game Joe rather fancied himself, but all he ever remembered of the outcome was that suddenly his feet flew into the air--the rest was a shock, accompanied by marvellous constellations. He came to with water sluicing his face and a hat fanning air into his lungs. He got to his feet rather dizzily, looked around and laughed. "You cleaned them out, did you?" Deever, his face battered and swollen and his knuckles cut to raw meat, grinned happily. Tobin, one eye closed and the other blinking, nodded. "We're sluicin' now." "We put the run on them," said McKenna, whose leathery face bore the marks of war. "Lucky for us we had the numbers. They're hard lads, but 'tis not like they'll bother us again. Now, boys, the boss is all right. Out on the booms with yez." Without delay they swarmed out on the booms. Others went upstream to hustle the logs down. The work of sorting and sluicing went forward merrily, for Kent's logs outnumbered Clancys' in the proportion of four to one, and besides the crew was not very particular as to the ownership of individual logs, which could be culled out later. The main thing was speed. Clancys' logs were sided into an inner boom; Kent's were allowed to go down with the current. It took time, but it was worth it. Thus Kent's big drive passed Clancys' and ran Moore's Rapids in defiance of the law and usage of the river; but every man, from the young boss down, was very sure that the end justified the means, and was quite ready to take any consequences that might accrue from the high-handed act. XX Joe Kent preceded his drive to Falls City by a few days. He found Wright in great feather. Several large orders had been placed, proof that the terms of the settlement mentioned by Locke in his letter were being carried out. But when Joe asked the lawyer for more details the latter shook his head. "I can't mention names, for that was part of the arrangement," said he. "You be satisfied with what you've got. You're a hundred times better off than if you had merely exposed Garwood." "I know it," Joe admitted; "but are you sure the arrangement will be carried out?" "Certain. You've got good orders coming in, haven't you? You won't have anything to complain of hereafter. How about those logs? Can you deliver them on time?" "I think so," Joe replied. "Well, you'd better be mighty sure before you take them past your own booms. Wismer will refuse to accept them if he gets half a chance, and see where that would leave you. You couldn't bring them back upstream, and there isn't a concern on the river below Wismer that would buy them, this side of Hughson's Mills. To get there, towing charges and tolls would eat up your profits, and old Hughson would whipsaw you, anyway." "Crooks says I can do it, and so do my foremen," said Joe. "I've got to sell the logs to meet my liabilities. I'll keep barely enough for my own mill." "All right--if you're dead-sure," said Locke. The situation was made very clear to Joe. He was told plainly that the bank had gone with him as far as it would go. In the event of non-delivery his credit would be cut off and his securities sold. The mortgage company would enforce their rights in any event. Also there was no doubt that Wismer & Holden would enforce to the letter the penalty clause in their contract. These things, taken together, meant bankruptcy. And that would mean that his marriage with Jack must be put off indefinitely. On the other hand, if he delivered the logs he could wipe off most of the debt, put his business on a solid basis, and ask her to become mistress of the old Kent homestead without delay. It was worth fighting for, and Joe's' lean jaw hardened as he swore to himself that nothing should stop his drive. Business claimed him by day, but the evenings he was able to spend with Jack. They sat in the dusk of Crooks's wide veranda, watching the stars light and wink in the June sky, while soft-winged moths fluttered ghost-like among the shading vines. Neither was overly given to sentiment, but in those brief evenings their confidences grew; and each, looking into the other's inmost mind, found there only honour and loyalty and little of ambition, but a great desire to live straightly and cleanly and truly, thinking evil of none and doing such good as might be. Being ordinary young people they did not put these things into words. They rather shied from the sentimental and high-flown, preferring the more accustomed planes of speech and thought. But they understood each other, and so were content. The only shadow, and a constantly recurring one, was the question of the drive. "If I don't make it I'm busted," said Joe practically, "and so I've got to make it. There's no reason why I shouldn't. Now, it's this way." For the twentieth time he went over the problem. "Dad says you can make it," Jack agreed. "It's a week to Steven's Ferry. Down to Burritt's Rapids is two days more. Then allow time to tow through Thirty Mile Lake--oh, you can make it with nearly a week to spare." "Of course I can," said Joe, "and then, Jack, I think we'd better get married." She flushed to the roots of her brown hair. "In the fall, Joe?" "No--right away. What's the use of waiting? My business will be solid then, and I deserve a holiday. Let's take one together." "Well"--she considered the question gravely, without affected hesitation--"I'd like that. I'll see what dad says about it." "It's up to you." "Yes--I know. Still, we'd better not leave him out." "I don't want to. He's as good a friend as I have. What he says goes, of course; but he won't object if you don't." "I won't." Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Oh, Joe, you've got to deliver those logs! You've got to, you've got to!" "Jack," he said grimly, "I'd deliver 'em now if the whole blamed river dried up. Come down to-morrow and see them go through. We'll cut out enough to run the mill, but the main drive will go straight ahead and I'm going with it. I'll wire you as soon as we strike Burritt's Rapids. I can tell then how it's going to go." "Do you think I'll stay here?" she cried. "Dad and I are going down to see the drive come into Wismer & Holden's booms. You'll probably see us at Thirty Mile." The sun was barely risen when the first logs of the big drive swung down leisurely, their pace accelerating as the faster current above the falls gripped them. This vanguard was run into Kent's booms, and the rivermen cheered as they caught sight of the young boss, and cheered again for William Crooks and his daughter who stood beside him. They ran gaily along the slippery brown logs and danced lightly across their backs, pushing, pulling, prodding, guiding and restraining, and the booms filled magically. The main drive did not halt at all. The river was crowded with logs, and they were fed through the huge water-gates of the slides as fast and as thick as they would run. It was beautiful, clean, uninterrupted work, and when the last stick had shot through Joe bade Jack good-bye and followed. Now, at last, the drive was on the homestretch with a few days to spare--a narrow margin, but still a margin. It was then the fifteenth of June, and the river was at its best. Taking into consideration the high water and consequently more rapid current, Joe hoped to reach Burritt's Rapids by the twenty-third. That would give one week from that point to Wismer & Holden's mills, a distance of thirty-five miles. Below Burritt's Rapids, however, was Thirty Mile Lake, a shallow, almost currentless expansion of the river, some thirty miles long and varying in width from half a mile to two miles, through which the drive would have to be towed by steamers owned by a river improvement company, who also owned the booms above the rapids. The time occupied by towing would depend on the weather. Therefore, although the probabilities were in Joe's favour there was always a doubt. He must remain on the anxious seat till the actual event. Because of the good water the drive made Burritt's on the twenty-second instead of the twenty-third. They made it in a heavy downriver gale with an accompaniment of slashing rain that soaked every one to the skin. Because a drive turned down the rapids would simply float all over the lake and have to be gathered up again, a task involving much time and trouble, the logs were always put through a narrow, inner channel protected by cribwork and booms, and caught in other booms below. There steamers took them in tow and turned them loose down other rapids at the foot of the lake, which were about three miles above Wismer & Holden's booms. Accordingly, when they made Burritt's with some daylight to spare the dripping crew ran the drive into the booms and started to feed down the inner channel. When darkness fell they winched a boom across the narrow mouth and quit. The ground was wet, the tents were wet, and so were the blankets. Although it was June the wind was raw and cutting. The rain slashed and sputtered at the fires. Clothes hung before them steamed, but accumulated moisture faster than they dried. Altogether it was miserable, and the rivermen cursed the weather heartily. They squatted on the sodden ground beneath canvas that let through fine spray with every gust, and big teardrops which had an aggravating habit of landing on the back of the neck, and juggled tin plates piled with pork and beans on their knees, wiping them up with huge wedges of bread. "A curse of a night," grumbled Haggarty, shifting away from a drop which threatened to become a stream. "Black as a cord of black cats, an' rainin' fit to flood hell! An' not a dry stitch to me back, an' the blanket's soaked, an' all. Fill up me plate again, you, cookee, an' slap a dose of molasses on her. Praise be, me hide is waterproof an' the inside of me's dry." "An' that's more nor mine will be this day week," said big Cooley, licking his lips in pure anticipation. "A hard winter, an' a long drive. The throat of me aches for the rasp of a drink of the good stuff!" "For sure, for sure," Chartrand agreed with him. "I'll be dry, me, lak one sap maple in August. When dat drive is finish', by dam' I stay dronk for one mont'. Hooray!" "An' you see me so," Cooley promised. "I'll find that McCane an' put the boots till him till he can't crawl. A dirty dog! An' Tom Archer is no better--no, nor his bosses." In another tent Joe and his foremen ate supper and listened to the rain, the wind, the roar of the rapids, and the swirl of the current as it talked against the booms. MacNutt went out and came back dripping. "Can't see a thing," he reported. "The wind is gettin' worse, an' the water's risen nigh a foot. How is them booms, Dinny? Our whole drive is down by now, an' there's an awful weight on them with this wind an' the high water." "I went over them when we came down," returned McKenna. "They're all right. The big lower one is three logs, and well anchored." "They should have another anchor-pier in the middle of it," growled MacNutt. "It has an awful belly. If it went out on us----" He paused and shook his head. The boom referred to was directly above the rapids, strung at an angle across the river. Upon it came all the pressure of the logs above. It was a massive affair, built of three logs fastened side by side and chained to other threes end to end. The ends of the boom were secured to huge, stone-filled piers. It appeared capable of holding any weight of logs. "What's the use of talkin' like that, Mac?" said Tobin, half angrily. "You're borrowin' trouble for every one. The boom's all right. I looked at it myself after Dinny did." Nevertheless he went out ten minutes later and was absent sometime. "She sure has a belly on her," he said when he returned. "She'll hold, though. I think the wind's dropped some." As he uttered the words a shrieking gust almost laid the tent flat. A shout and muffled curses followed. "I'll bet one of the men's tents has blown down," said Joe. "Hear Cooley swear." They grinned at each other as Cooley rose to the occasion. The wind grew worse. The side and roof of the tent bellied in and slatted in the squalls. Tobin went out and tautened the guy ropes. "It'd blow the bark from a tree," he cried when he came in. McKenna sat pulling his grizzled moustache. The wind, the rapidly rising water, the huge weight of timber, and MacNutt's forebodings were getting on his nerves. Suddenly he began to pull on his spiked river boots. "What's up, Dinny?" MacNutt asked. "I'm going to look at that boom," McKenna replied. "You've got me all worked up over it. I _know_ it's all right; but all the same----" "I'll go with you," said Joe, reaching for his boots. "You're not good enough on the logs yet," said the walking boss bluntly. "It's pitch dark and blowin' great guns. It's an old hand's job, Mr. Kent. You'd only hinder me." Joe realized the truth of the words. "Well, I'm going," said MacNutt. "Same here," said Tobin. "Sure," said Deever. Each man took a lantern. Joe went with them. Anyway he would go as far as the first pier. They could hear the logs grumbling and complaining. "I don't like it," said MacNutt. "It sounds--" He hesitated to put the thought into words, and swung his lantern high, peering at the intensified darkness. "Oh, shut _up!_" snapped Tobin. "What do you want to croak for? Of course they'll talk with the wind an' current an' all. Funny if they wouldn't." They ran out across the almost solid carpet of timber that filled the head of the channel, and reached the anchor-pier of the big lower boom. McKenna, in advance, stopped short with a gasp: "They're moving, boys--they're _moving!_" Slowly, with the calm certainty of irresistible might, the big drive was on its way. The logs ground at the anchor pier and thrust and bumped at it. The feeble rays of the upheld lanterns threw a short circle of light on the field of timber as it slid smoothly downstream. Joe's heart, for the first time, skipped a beat. The boom had gone out. McKenna leaped out on the moving logs. MacNutt caught him. "Come back, Dinny! What do you think you can do?" McKenna's seamed face was absolutely colourless as he turned to Joe. "He's right, Mr. Kent. I can't do a damned thing. It's my fault. I should 'a' backed the boom with another." His voice was vibrant with sorrow and self-accusation. He knew what it meant to his employer. The logs, driven by the wind, would go down the rapids and be flung far and wide over Thirty Mile Lake. To gather them up would be a task of weeks; they could not be delivered on time. Joe met the blow like a man. "That's all right, Dinny," he said. "It was up to the company, not to you. Their boom was weak somewhere, that's all. Now what can we do about it? They have two steamers below. We'll need 'em right away. Mac, you tell 'em to get fire under their boilers, quick. Promise 'em anything. Say you've got the company's orders--but get 'em. Tobin, rouse out the boys and get 'em down to the boats double-quick. Take every foot of rope and chain you can find or steal. Deever, you open the channel boom and let everything go that will go. Dinny, you come with me." In five minutes they were banging at the door of the boom company's representative, bringing that worthy citizen from his bed to the window. "Your boom has gone out and my drive is over the rapids into the lake," Joe told him. "I haven't got time to talk about damages or liabilities now. I want your steamers day and night till I sweep my logs up and every other boat you can hire as well. I want every river man you can lay your hands on, too. I'll pay for these things at once, pending the adjustment of any question of responsibility. Will you do your best for me?" "Sure I will," said the agent. "Wait till I get my clothes on and I'll come along. It's funny about that boom. I don't see----" But Joe and McKenna were already out of earshot, hurrying back to the river. The camp was buzzing like a hornet's nest. Men were catching up ropes, chains, peavies, and pike poles and hurrying off into the darkness. Joe, Tobin, and McKenna followed. As they passed the head of the channel where Deever and half a dozen men were stationed the foreman called to them: "I've got something to show you, Mr. Kent. It won't take five minutes." He led the way over the logs and down the cribwork and booming of the channel, and stopped: "One end of the boom swung down here when she went out," he said, and lowered his lantern. "Look at that!" They bent low and peered at the ends of three joined boom-timbers. The ends were white, square, and new. "Sawed through, by thunder!" cried McKenna. XXI The _Sophie Green_, a beamy, shallow-draft, paddle-wheeled old teakettle, lay broad-side-on to a rickety wharf which was piled with cord wood. From the pile, across her gang-plank and back again, trotted an endless procession of deckhands and rivermen, carrying the big sticks that were her fuel. The fires were roaring beneath her boilers, and the gauge was beginning to move. A hundred yards away, at another cord wood pile, her sister craft, the _Ada Bell_, was receiving like attentions. Out in the darkness, by the fitful light of lanterns, half a dozen big riverboats crowded with men, were shackling up short lengths of boom into longer ones. Chains rattled and hammers rang on cold-shuts as the crews joined the timbers. Down the shore for a mile and more other rivermen hunted for boats, taking everything that would pull two pairs of oars. When she had steam enough the _Sophie Green_ bellowed and cast off, wallowing around in a short semi-circle. A peakie shot under her stern and a heaving-line uncoiled across her deck. To this was attached a hawser. It came inboard to the bucking clatter of a winch, and was made fast to the towing bitts. Then the crew of the peakie swarmed aboard; the peakie was hoisted up with half a dozen others, and the _Sophie_ felt her way downstream in the darkness, a half-mile of boom trailing after her. In twenty minutes the _Ada Bell_ followed with more boom-timbers in tow. The river just below the rapids was obstructed by the floating logs of the broken drive, and the _Sophie_ went through them gingerly, fearful for her paddle-wheels. It was still pitch-dark and blowing hard, but the rain had ceased. The lake opened out before them, scummed with foam and torn into choppy, white-topped waves among which the logs were tossing. Joe and McKenna were in the wheel-house with Capt. Jimmy Congdon, a veteran of the river who had been a warm friend of William Kent's, and was ready to do anything for his son. Captain Jimmy was broad, ruddy, and silver-haired, with a pair of steady blue eyes that never shifted. Periodically he spat to leeward with precision, but until the lake opened up his whole attention was devoted to the wheel. "Steerin' on a night like this is mostly be-guess and be-god," he vouchsafed. "There's Six Mile Light off to sta'bo'rd. Now, young man, I run this boat to suit you, so tell me what you want." "I want to boom the logs the easiest and quickest way," Joe informed him. "How would you do it?" Captain Jimmy spat and reflected. "Blowin' like she is now logs'd jump a boom even if we got 'em into one; but she's breezin' too hard to last. If it was me, come daylight I'd boom off the Fire Island Channel and sweep the floatin' stuff into it." This advice was identical with McKenna's. Joe decided to adopt it. Daylight found them lying to, below long, swampy Fire Island, which lay well over toward the eastern shore. They strung a boom from the lower end to the mainland, thus closing the channel and forming a great pocket; and then they went at the tough job of "sweeping up" the scattered drive. The logs were strewn all over the upper end of the lake; but by that strange attraction which floating objects have for one another many of them lay in small rafts. They lay inert, motionless on the almost glassy expanse, for the storm had blown itself out and a sunny day of almost perfect calm succeeded. When these floating patches of timber were reached the peakies were dumped over the side and the rivermen tumbled into them. The _Sophie Green_ steamed in a slow, careful circle, and when she had completed it her half-mile of trailing boom lay in a great loop about many patches of logs. She picked up the other end and went ahead, and the logs naturally sagged back into the farther end of the loop. The _Ada Bell_ went through a similar manoeuvre. Then they steamed up to more logs, winged out one end of the boom alongside, and the men in the peakies fed them more logs through the opening. When the booms were full, they took them to Fire Island, emptied the logs out into the big pocket, and came back for more. As the morning lengthened they obtained reinforcements in the form of a powerful tug belonging to the company and a couple of launches whose owners were not averse to making a few honest dollars. These were of material assistance. The tug took one end of a boom and the _Sophie_ the other and steamed straight ahead in parallel courses. The swath of the boom took up every log between the two boats. Then the _Sophie_ took up both ends as before, but left a dozen lengths of boom-timbers trailing free. These were winged out by a launch, and the rivermen fed logs down the moving funnel thus formed. The tug, meanwhile, went to the assistance of the _Ada Bell_. In this manner the lake was being expeditiously cleared of the rafts of floating logs. Joe blessed his stars for the quiet weather, but for which he could have made but little progress, and prayed for its continuance. He had eight days to sweep up the broken drive and bring it through, and this was not a bit too much. The logs floating openly in the lake were the easiest part of the job; but there were more, strewn along the shore, washed high and dry and embedded in the sand by the storm or caught in shallows and marshy bays--there was where the pull would come. In the afternoon a long, lean power-boat racketed up the lake, nosed the logs inside Fire Island, went up one shore and down the other, and finally ran alongside the _Sophie Green_. In it sat Wismer, and he hailed Joe, who looked over the rail. "This is a nice mess your drive is in, Kent," said he. "I'm afraid you won't be able to get it down in time." "I'll try, anyway," Joe told him. "You can't make it," said Wismer. "Now, I don't want to be hard on you, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make you an offer for the logs as they lie, and if you'll accept it I'll cancel our existing contract." "Let's hear your offer," said Joe. When he heard it he laughed, for it was entirely piratical. "You must think I'm easy. You couldn't steal logs much cheaper." "Take it or leave it," said Wismer, a little puzzled. The Joe Kent with whom he had made his contract had certainly been easy; but this bronzed young fellow leaning over the rail was different. "You don't want to forget that penalty clause," he added warningly. "Not for a minute," said Kent. "I know quite well that Ackerman or Garwood framed up that cinch contract. And I know you're trying to get the logs cheap now, and give them the double-cross. I'm not kicking--merely pointing out that I know what you're up to." Wismer reddened, and for the first time found a difficulty in meeting the young man's eye. "You're talking utter nonsense," said he. "I don't know what you mean, and I don't much care. If you like to take up the offer I've just made, all right. If not, I'll hold you to the letter of our contract." "I'm holding myself to it," said Joe. "I want you to have your booms ready for me, for the first tow of logs goes down the lake to-night." He watched Wismer's launch gather way, and turned to the business in hand. At dusk the _Ada Bell_ picked up one tow and the tug another, and started down the lake. The tired crew went ashore just above Fire Island, where the camp was established. Joe and McKenna remained on the _Sophie_. After supper the foreman came aboard to plan the next day's work. "Boys," said Joe, "who cut that boom?" "McCane, an' no one else," MacNutt answered, and the others nodded. "That's what I think," said Joe, "but I'll never be able to prove it. Now, then, about the drive. Is it possible to get it down on time?" "Shure," said McKenna, "if we have good weather." "Not unless," said Tobin. On a fine-weather basis they planned the work. In the morning they went at it again. Before noon the tow-boats returned, the long booms trailing behind them. Their tows had been emptied down the rapids, and a small crew was seeing them safe into Wismer & Holden's booms. Late in the afternoon a launch--a flying thing of spotless paint, burnished brass, and throbbing engines--split the lake. A wall of water fell away on either side of her shearing stem, and the white kick of her wake streamed out behind like a giant ribbon. She slowed and swung daintily up to the dingy _Sophie Green_. In her sat William Crooks and his daughter. "Hello, Joe!" roared the veteran lumberman. "Hello, Jimmy!" to Captain Congdon. "Throw down a ladder or something. We want to come aboard." They came aboard, and the very spick-and-span young man who owned the launch looked doubtfully at the other young man in the flannel shirt, short trousers, and spiked boots, who was on such enviable terms with pretty little Miss Crooks. "How's she comin'?" Crooks demanded, and Joe told him. "I got twenty boys off my drive on the way to give you a boost," the old lumberman continued. "We'll show these fellows a thing or two about sweepin' up logs. Jimmy, my girl and I are going to camp down on this old tub of yours till the last log's out of the lake. Got room for us?" "You bet I have, Bill," replied Congdon, "Miss Jack, you take my quarters." "Couldn't think of it, thank you, Captain Congdon," said Jack promptly. "I wouldn't put you out for the world." "Mutiny, by the Lord!" shouted Captain Jimmy. "Young woman, I'm a bachelor, and used to having my own way. I get awful mean and cranky when I'm opposed. It'd be just like me to refuse to tow a single blame log if you don't obey orders." "Aye, aye, sir!" said Jack. "Any more orders, sir?" "Only that you're to ask for what you want if you don't see it," said Captain Jimmy, grinning. The launch shot away down the lake, and the _Sophie_ continued to gather logs. Night fell. This time one boat was sufficient to tow all the day's take. Jack and Joe sat on the foredeck in the dusk, listening to the soft lap of water alongside. "I can't tell you what I felt when I heard the drive had broken, Joe," said she. "It seemed so safe before, and now--but you'll make it, Joe, I know you will!" "I'll make it or bust--and that's no figure of speech," he told her grimly. "Those twenty men your father has lent me will just about turn the scale. The boys are working like demons--each man doing the work of two; but it depends on the weather more than on anything else. A couple of windy days would knock us cold. However, there's no use worrying about that, and all the weather sharps in the crew, and Congdon as well, say it has set for fair. To-morrow night we'll work by moonlight. I feel a presentiment amounting to a hunch that you'll be Mrs. Kent before another moon." She nestled closer to him. "If I were a very conventional person I'd insist on three months at least to prepare a trousseau and make sure of a lot of wedding presents--but I'm not. I've spoken to dad, and he makes your delivery of these logs the only condition. And now, boy, it's time you were asleep. You're working as hard as any of the men." The floating logs had all been gathered up. Now the crew attacked those hung in bays and jettisoned on shoals and points. It was slow, hard work, but little by little the broken drive was gathered up. The fine weather held. Nightly tows went down the lake, and each morning the empty-booms trailed back for more. Joe Kent worked with his men. He was strong, active, and enduring. He developed a fair amount of skill with a peavey, and he derived a fierce satisfaction from each log that he twisted from its resting place and rolled into free water. By just that much he was beating Garwood, Ackerman, Clancys--all the gang who, as principals or tools, had determined to loot his business and strip him of his inheritance. His young, sinewy body responded to the calls made upon it. Wet to the waist he worked all day and at night until the moon set, cheering on his crew with laugh and joke. Afterward he stumbled aboard the _Sophie Green_ almost too tired to speak, even to Jack; but the first dim light saw him drop over the side eager for the new day's work. That week Joe lost twenty pounds--and he was not fleshy to start with. Those days of heartbreaking work and the nerve-strain back of it cut lines in his face which were never wholly erased. It was for him a desperate hand-to-hand grapple with time. Logs, logs, logs! By day he worked with them, and by night they crowded his dreams. He had to lift them, to climb over them, to count millions of them; sometimes piles of them cascaded on him, burying him from the world; sometimes they were about to fall on Jack. He would wake, a cry of warning on his lips and the sweat running from every pore of his iron-hard body. His men responded nobly to the call. They held a fierce, jealous pride in their drive, in their ability to bring it down, in making good any promise given by their employer. Chronic grumblers over small things, they accepted cheerfully the eighteen hours a day of work, and even stretched it a little. And every minute of every hour they worked. Each man moved with a spring and a jump. There were no laggards--none for the foremen to curse. They took in Bill Crooks's chosen twenty and fired them with the same fierce energy. But this was not a hard task, for the word passed around somehow that on their success in getting out the logs depended the marriage of Kent and Miss Jack. Every man straightway felt a personal responsibility, and the way they sailed into the job made Kent's crew hustle to keep pace. Bill Crooks threw off thirty years, put on a pair of spiked boots, and tramped up and down the shore bellowing encouragement to the rivermen. Most of it took the form of virulent curses directed at the men who had persistently tried to hang Kent's drive. "But they can't do it, boys!" the old logger would roar. "They may blow dams and saw booms, but we'll do them yet. Birl into her, bullies! All the blasted high-bankers between this and the booms of hell can't hang us up." Then the men would bark fierce assent, and whirl into the logs with fury. And so, by unremitting work by day and night, the big drive was swept up from open water, shoal, point, and bay. On the twenty-eighth of June, at midnight, the last logs were boomed. Half an hour afterward the _Sophie Green_, the _Ada Bell_, and the big tug started down the lake with heavy tows. The boats were full of rivermen, proud in the consciousness that they had set a record for the river. Their toil and their weariness of body were forgotten. Only a few days separated them from town, where they would make up for both, according to time-honoured custom. They shouted songs--expurgated editions out of deference to Jack Crooks--and the hoarse cough of the ancient _Sophie Green's_ exhaust, delivered at exact intervals, chopped the verses in two. Jack and Joe had arranged a little treat. The cook rustled a wonderful meal. Boxes of good cigars were passed around. A phonograph played in the bow of each boat. The trip down the lake was as good as a moonlight excursion, and the men of Kent's drives talk of it yet. One by one they lay down on the deck, beside the boilers, anywhere and everywhere, and slept the sleep of exhaustion. In the morning they let the tows down the rapids. The rivermen debarked, followed down the river, and hustled out the bunches of logs that the few men who had preceded them had not bothered about. It was plain sailing now. That day and the next the channel was brown with logs. Kent's foremen and Wismer & Holden's cullers checked them as they came. Joe and Jack stood out on an anchor pier and watched the booms fill. More logs came down and still more. Far away on the morning of the thirtieth they heard the bellowing whistles of the _Sophie Green_ and _Ada Bell_, and the deep-throated blast of the tug telling them that the last of the big drive was down. At six o'clock that night the booms closed behind the last log. Joe drew a long breath. "Thank heaven," said he. "Now, girlie, we'll have the best meal they can put up in this little town." "We will--but we'll have it in camp," she informed him. "I've arranged with Jimmy Bowes. This is my treat to the men." They occupied the head of an impromptu table of pine boards. Down its length and along similar tables were ranged the rivermen. Huge roasts, fowls, vegetables, and stacks of pies were piled before them, for Jimmy Bowes, having _carte blanche_ from Jack, had raided the shops of the town. When the meal was over Haggarty rose, very red and confused amid low growls of encouragement: "Go to it, Larry!" "What are ye waitin' for?" "Shut up an' listen to him, now!" "Mr. Kent, an' Miss Crooks an' Mister Crooks," began Haggarty, and paused. More growls of encouragement. "I'm no speaker, but the boys wants me to tell ye something, an' it's this: There's them that's had it in for ye these months past, an' has done their da--I mean their dirtiest--to spoil yer cut an' hang yer drive. They haven't done it, an' for why? Bekase ye're good stuff, an' kept a stiff upper lip an' stayed wid the game when others would have give it up, beaten. There ain't a man that ain't proud to work for ye, an' we'll stick by ye, Mr. Kent, till there's snowballin' in--in summer. That's what I was to say. An' besides that, an' not wantin' to be fresh at all, we wish you an' the young lady all sorts of luck an' happiness." Haggarty sat down and was pounded on the back. Joe rose, almost as confused as Haggarty. "Boys," said he, "you knew I was in a tight place and you stayed with me. I've got you to thank that my logs are here to-night, instead of somewhere upriver. Each man of you has done the work of a dozen, and I want you to know that I'm grateful. I can't pay you in money, but I want to say that I'm the friend of each man here, and any time one of you wants anything from me all he has to do is to ask for it. I hope to have you all with me next year, and I'll saw every log we cut in my own mills. Just one thing more, and that's an important one." He took Jack's hand and she rose blushing and laughing while the men cheered madly. "Miss Crooks will be Mrs. Kent in a few weeks, boys, and we ask you all to the wedding." The shout that went up startled the little town. They cheered and pounded the table with hammer-like fists. Then in the tumult began a cry which soon grew insistent: "Cooley, Cooley! Big Bill Cooley!" "Speech, Bill!" "Get up on yer hind-legs, ye bully-boy!" "Tell the boss about it, Bill!" From the seclusion of the foot of the farthest table came muffled, shamefaced protest and muttered profanity. Suddenly half a dozen pairs of arms heaved the big riverman upon the long table. "Heavens, Joe! what has he been doing?" gasped Jack. For big Bill Cooley's face was puffed and cut, and one eye was quite closed. The other glared wickedly at those who had thrust him into prominence. His right hand was bandaged, and the knuckles of the left resembled a hamburger steak. Plainly Cooley had been in the wars. "You fellies make me tired," he growled. "Let me down out o' this!" "Tell the boss an' his young lady first," howled the crew. "Go ahead, Cooley," Joe encouraged him. "They ain't nothin' to tell, Mr. Kent," said Cooley. "I only catched Rough Shan McCane in among the lumber piles this afternoon and took a birl out of him." The crew yelped joyously beneath him. "He won't walk for a month!" "Ye done him up good, Billy-buck!" "The boots in his face, an' all!" "Hooray for dat beeg Bill Cooley, de boss bully-boy!" "Dry up, ye divils! How can he hear himself?" But Cooley made a flying leap from the table, and nothing could induce him to mount it again. Joe got details at second hand of the fearful licking administered to McCane by Cooley, a combat which had been witnessed by only half a dozen. In the end the big riverman had kicked his enemy into unconsciousness with his spiked boots, according to ancient custom. He desisted only when it was apparent that the fallen man's life hung in the balance. As he and his fellows looked at it, this was merely justice, and very light justice at that. More than half the crew started for town to drink the health of the young boss and his bride-to-be. It was a beautiful excuse. Jack and Joe walked up the river's bank to take a last look at the logs. They had little to say, for the reaction had set in. They stood silently in the moonlight, gazing at the fields of brown timber covering the surface of the river, safe down at last at the cost of a winter's toil, a spring's heartbreaking endeavour, and a toll of human life. Joe put his arm around the girl's waist and drew her to him. Strong and full-throated, mellowed by distance, came the last refrain of old Bill Crooks's favourite river-song as the crew shouted it on their way to town. "When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down, What makes yeez lads so wishful-eyed as we draw near to town? Other eyes is soft an' bright, like the stars of a June night-- Wives an' sweethearts--prayin', waitin'--as we drive the river down. (Oh, ye divils!) God bless the eyes that shine for us when we boil into town." "God bless _your_ eyes, Jack, dear!" said Joe softly, and kissed her. The future lay clear and fair before them, a-flush with the rosy lights of youth and hope. XXII By the terms of Joe's contract with Wismer & Holden, these astute millmen had agreed to pay cash for the logs on delivery. Joe held them to this, refusing acceptances at thirty and sixty days. He was thus at once in a position to reduce his liabilities and sustain his credit, which had been seriously strained, with his own bank. His mill was running at capacity. All day the air was vibrant with the hum of it, the thunder of the log carriages, the deep raucous drone of the big saws, the higher pitched voices of the smaller. All day a stream of shaggy, brown logs, prodded by pike poles, was swept upward in dripping procession on an endless chain, tossed on iron beds, flung against the saws, rolled on carriers as rough boards to other saws--to edgers, trimmers and planers--and disgorged from the farther end of the mill in a dozen grades of product to be carried to the piling yards and drying sheds. Day and night the smoke from burning sawdust in the huge, stack-like consumer poured upward to the sky. Thus the producing end of his business was satisfactory. Not less so were the sales. In addition to a particularly brisk local demand, Wright's activities had resulted in some excellent contracts not only for immediate, but for future delivery. There would be no lack of a market for every foot the mill could turn out. Also there was no car shortage. The tacit agreement which Locke had been able to obtain as part of the price of withdrawing his action was being held to rigidly. The firm could sell all its mills could cut and deliver all it could sell. Naturally Wright and Joe were pleased and congratulated each other upon the rosy outlook. "It looks as if we were over the hump," said Joe one afternoon. "Those are good contracts you landed. I want to show you that I appreciate all you have done. Left to myself I'd have been as helpless as a baby in this business." "Oh, I don't know," said Wright. "You pick up things pretty fast. I've been paid for whatever I've done. But apart from that I've been with this concern a good many years and your father always treated me well. Funny if I wouldn't do all I could for you. You've come pretty near making good so far. You made the big cut that your father planned to make and you brought the logs down. That's all he could have done, and I tell you not even Crooks knows the logging business better than he did. So far as showing your appreciation goes it isn't necessary--or, anyway, that can wait till you are in better shape. I'm not shouting for money the minute I see your head above water." "I know you're not, but at the end of the year we'll fix things up on a better basis," said Joe. While Joe was occupied with his business, Jack was busy, too. Mysterious packages were constantly arriving at Bill Crooks's home. As the wedding day drew near the patter of these became a downpour. Jack's friends gave luncheons in her honour, and she was "showered" with articles of alleged usefulness or ornament. She and Joe, sitting chatting one night in her den, heard the heavy, decided tread of the old lumber baron in the darkened hall. Suddenly there was a stumble, a wrathful bellow, and Bill Crooks's voice raised in insistent demand for the name of the thus-and-so-forth wretch who left boxes in the hall, mingled with a prophecy as to his ultimate fate. "What kind of 'fire' and 'nation' were you speaking of, dad?" asked Jack as he appeared in the door. "Never mind," growled Crooks, who was under the impression that his remarks had been sotto voce. "This house is being cluttered up with a bunch of junk. I've peeled a six-inch strip of hide clean off my shin. Who left that box out there?" "I think you did." "Hey?" "I think you did. You took it from the expressman." "Huh?" snorted Crooks. "If I did I didn't leave it in the middle of the hall. I put it out of the way behind the hatrack. Somebody moved it out. That's only one thing. There's a hundred others. You've got enough truck to start a china shop or a jewellery store or a whitewear sale!" "I don't get married every summer," his daughter returned placidly. "We have to have things. And then our friends are good to us. I know one darling old grouch who gave me a big cheque. Remember what he told me to do with it?" "I didn't need to tell you. You can get away with a cheque without instructions. Never knew a woman who couldn't." "You told me to 'blow it' on myself--not to put a dollar of it into house furnishings." "Suppose I did! You don't need house furnishings. There's two houses ready furnished for you--this one and Kent's. How many blamed houses do you want to live in, anyway?" "Oh, Heavens, Joe, give him a cigar!" exclaimed Jack at the end of her patience. "He's going to be an awful crank of a father-in-law." Crooks took Joe's cigar and dropped into a chair, while Jack departed in search of refreshment; men being, as she declared, invariably hungry when they were not thirsty. "I've been thinking, Joe," said the old lumberman, "quite a bit about my business lately." "Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Joe in surprise, for Crooks's business, like his own, had been very good indeed. "Nothing's the matter with it," Crooks replied. "It's good--it's too good. I've run it for a long time, and now it's beginning to run me." "I don't quite understand." "It's this way," Crooks explained: "I'm getting on, and outside of Jack I've nobody. Now you're going to marry her. It had to be somebody, I suppose, and I'm glad it's you. Still, there's the business. It's mine, I made it and I like it--but it's beginning to drive me too much. I can't go away for a month or a week without being afraid things will be tied up in hard knots before I get back. If I had a man as good as Wright it might be different, but I haven't. I have to be on the job myself all the time, and I'm getting too old for that. I want to take it easy a little and get the most out of the years that are left me." "I see," said Joe as Crooks paused. "You'll know better how it is yourself thirty years from now," Crooks continued. "I've nobody but Jack. If the boys had lived they'd have been able to run the business and let me sit back and just give them a hand now and then. But they died." He was silent for a long moment. "I'll tell you something, Joe, you were the one thing I envied your father. I saw you growing up, a good, clean, healthy young fellow, with no bad habits to speak of--oh, I don't mean that you were any saint; I suppose you kicked up once in a while, same as any healthy young colt, but there was nothing vicious about you--and it seemed hard luck that out of my three boys one wasn't left me. Well, never mind that. Now all I've got will be Jack's when I get my time. And so I was thinking of making you a little proposition." "Yes," said Joe wondering what this was leading up to. "What is it, Mr. Crooks?" "I was wondering," Crooks pursued, "whether you'd care to combine our businesses?" Joe was thoughtful for a moment. His eyes narrowed a little, and his brows drew down in a slight frown. He looked at Crooks steadily. The old lumberman returned his gaze. "Is there anything behind this, sir?" Joe asked. "Behind it--how? You don't think I'm putting up a job to freeze you out, do you?" "No, not that. But are you making this proposition for Jack's sake? I mean, do you think I'd make a mess of my business if I ran it alone? Because if that's really the reason I'd like to show you." "If I thought you couldn't run your own business I wouldn't want your help to run mine," Crooks replied. "Mind you, I consider myself able to give you a few pointers. You've a lot to learn, but you're one of the young fellows who will learn. Some can't; others won't. I'd hate to see Jack marry a man I didn't think would make good. I'd tell him so mighty quick. No, I gave you my real reason." "It's a good proposition for me, Mr. Crooks," said Joe. "I'm for it, if we can arrange details. Were you thinking of forming a company?" "No, I wasn't," said Crooks. "I don't like companies--too much shenanigan about stock and directors and meetings. A company can't do a blamed thing without seeing a lawyer first. I own one business which will be Jack's and yours some day, and you own another. We just make a little 'greement to run 'em together and divide the profits; and we arrange who's to do what work--and there you are. Any time things don't run to suit us we split the blanket. If we tell Locke what we want he'll put it in shape in half an hour." "I'll do it," Joe agreed; "but I feel that I'm getting the best of the bargain in your experience." "My experience is all right," said Crooks, "but I can't hustle like I used to--or else I won't. You will, and I'll be able to tell you how. That makes it an even break. And then you've got Wright. I've wanted him or some one like him for years." "I feel that I owe Wright a good deal," said Joe. "He has really run the business end of the concern. I was thinking of giving him a share in it. Seems to me something like that is coming to him." "I'm glad to hear you say so. We'll take him in with us and give him an interest." "I want it to come out of my share." "No. He's going to work for me as much as for you. Wright is a part of your equipment and a big asset. Whatever interest he gets must come out of the whole business and not out of one end of it." They took their proposition in the rough to Locke, and that experienced adjuster of other men's perplexities proceeded to hammer it into working shape, finally producing an agreement, clear, concise and satisfactory. Thus the lumber firm of Crooks & Kent was born. A couple of days before the wedding, certain quarters of the town--and also those charged with the duty of enforcing a fair imitation of law and order therein--began to notice a sudden influx of strangers. They were for the most part big and very brown, and they walked with a truculent swagger and regarded the world through humorously insolent eyes. Also they held together clannishly, and for the most part--to the relief of the authorities--maintained themselves in a condition of near sobriety. "For if ye get too full," big Cooley explained to the bibulously inclined Chartrand, "ye miss the weddin'. An' it's not the likes of you is axed to one every day." "I'll be mos' awful dry, me!" Chartrand complained. He hailed little Narcisse Laviolette. "_Hola_, Narcisse, _mon vieux!_ Come on, tak' leetle drink wit' me. Come on, you beeg Cooley. We don't get dronk--_pas du tout_. We jus' feex ourself so we lak for sing leetle _chanson_." He hammered the bar with the heavy-bottomed little glass constructed in the interests of the house to hold one man's size drink and no more, and burst into alleged melody: "Dat square-face-gin, she'll be ver' fine, Some feller lak dat champagne wine-- But de bes' dam' drink w'hat I never saw Come out of a bottle of _whiskey blanc_. (O listen to me now, while I'll tol' you how!) Dere was Joe Leduc an' me, Larry Frost an' Savigny, Chevrier an' Prevost, Jimmy Judge an' Larribee, Lamontagne an' Lajeunesse--mebbe fifty mans, I guess; You would know de whole kaboodle if I ain't forget de res'. We was drive upon dat reever an' we ron heem down _les Chats_, An' den we hit dat Quyon where we buy dat _whiskey blanc_!" "Yell her out, _mes amis!_ Bus' dat roof!" "Hooraw! hooraw! _pour le_ good ol' _whiskey blanc_! She's gran' for mak love on, she's bully for fight, She'll keep out dat col', an'----" "Shut up!" roared Cooley. "Now you listen here--you ain't goin' to show up drunk at the boss's weddin', puttin' the whole crew on the hog. Savvy? You're three parts full now. I'll sober ye, me buck, if it's wid me feet in yer face!" And the threat of Cooley, combined with the eloquent profanity of a self-constituted temperance committee, caused Chartrand to postpone his celebration. It was Cooley also who constituted himself an authority on social usage. "Bein' asked to this weddin'," said he, "the c'rect thing is to put up a present." "Sure!" "That's right, Cooley." "You bet!" "We'll do it right while we're about it," said the big man. "Here's ten dollars in me hat. Sweeten as she goes 'round, boys. Let's buy the boss an' his girl somethin' good--somethin' they won't be ashamed to keep in the front room an' tell their friends it come from the boys of Kent's big drive!" An hour later the proprietor of Falls City's leading jewelry store was somewhat startled by an invasion of half a dozen weather-beaten, rough-looking customers quite different from his ordinary patrons; and he nearly fainted when the spokesman told him that they were in search of a wedding present on which they were prepared to expend between three and four hundred dollars. In the end they chose a cabinet filled with silver, eying respectfully the dainty knives, forks, and spoons, and other articles of whose use they had small conception. "We want a name plate put on her," said Cooley, "showing a lad in river clothes standin' on a log wid a peavey in his fist; an' above that we want the date; an' underneath it, 'From Kent's River Crew.'" It is safe to say that never had the church, to whose support old Bill Crooks contributed more often than he attended it, held as motley a gathering as on the morning of the wedding of his daughter and Joe Kent. Big, brown men, painfully shaven, in aggressively new garments which cramped their strong muscles and rendered them awkward and ill at ease, occupied seats beside the members of Falls City's leading families, who eyed the intruders askance. And here and there, also ill at ease, were old men and women, dependents of William Crooks and friends of his daughter, whom they loved. Joe and his best man entered from the vestry; but there was a slight delay. They stood before the chancel waiting for the bride and her father. "The boss is nervous," Cooley commented to Haggarty in a low whisper. "Look at him shift on his feet. An' see the ears of him. Red!" "Small blame to him," Haggarty responded sympathetically. "I'll bet he'd rather be swappin' punches wid a man twice his own weight." But Jack entered on her father's arm--a dainty, queenly Jack, clad in bride-white, her eyes demurely downcast but the small head with the crown of glossy brown hair carried as proudly as ever. "An' I used to give her lumps out of the sugar bar'l!" said Jimmy Bowes, the fat old bull-cook, in sentimental reminiscence. "Purty as a little red wagon," said Haggarty with approval. "Mo' Gee! I leave home for dat myself!" commented little Narcisse Laviolette, who possessed a wife of double his own fighting weight and offspring of about the same combined avoirdupois. And Cooley, who overheard this tribute from the little teamster, took offence thereat. "Shut up, ye blasted little pea-soup!" he growled. "She's the boss's wife--or as good as. You remember that, and don't try to be funny!" "Who's try for be fonnee?" demanded Laviolette with indignation at this unjust interpretation of his well-meant speech. "You give me de swif' pain, you. Sacré dam! Some tam, bagosh, I ponch your beeg Irish mug!" "Sh!" rumbled Haggarty. "Can't ye quit yer dam' swearin' in a church? Shut up, the both of ye!" The ceremony, which was rapidly changing Jack Crooks into Mrs. Joe Kent, proceeded, finished. Kisses were showered on her, handshakes and slaps on the back on Joe. In the midst of these the latter caught sight of a group of weather-tanned faces in the centre of the church. Their owners were standing uncertainly, diffident, not caring to mingle with the more fashionably clad throng that clustered about the principals. Joe turned to his bride. "There's Cooley and Haggarty and a bunch of the boys of my river crew, Jack," he said. "They want to wish us luck, and they're too bashful to mix. Come on down and shake hands." "Of course," said Jack. With his bride on his arm Joe went down the aisle to the men of his drive, to have his right hand almost permanently disabled in the grips he received; but the pressure of the big hands that closed bashfully around Jack's slim fingers would not have crushed a butterfly. "Wishin' ye good luck an' happiness, ma'am," was the formula, but little varied. Into the midst of them came old Bill Crooks. "Come on, boys!" he exclaimed. "There's a wedding spread up at my house, and I want every man of you there to drink good luck to the bride--and to the new firm of Crooks & Kent. No holding back, now. Come along, everybody!" They came along, though most of them would have preferred to go down a bad piece of water on a single stick of pine, and their coming taxed the space of Crooks's dining-room--to say nothing of the commissariat and canteen--to the limit. They ate and drank solemnly, on their best behaviour and conscious of it, sipping the unaccustomed wines with reserved judgment. "What'll be a dose of this?" whispered Regan, eying his champagne glass with suspicion. "The waitin' gyurls fill it up whenever I empty it. This makes five I've had and I can't feel it yet. Belike it acts suddint. I wouldn't want to get full here." "Nor me," Cooley agreed. "They're all drinkin' it, an' none the worse. If they can stand it we can." He gulped down half a glass and thrust his tongue back and forth experimentally. "Champagne, hey? It has a puckery taste till it, but no rasp. It might be hard cider wid more fizz. There's no harm in it. I cud drink enough of it to float a log. Here's some lad speakin'. Listen to what he says." They heard the health of the bride proposed in customary language; Joe's reply, embarrassed, jerky, brief. "Speaking isn't Kent's strong point," a guest commented. Cooley glowered at him, resentful of the just criticism. "He can talk when he has anything to say, and he can curse _fine_!" he affirmed. He led vociferous cheers as Joe sat down, and cheered almost equally hard when Crooks concluded five minutes of pointed remarks in which he announced the formation of the new firm. But these cheers were as nothing to the leather-lunged roars that bade Jack and Joe farewell as they stepped into the carriage. With the cheers came showers of rice. Joe turned up his coat collar; but Jack laughed back through the fusillade of it, blowing kisses to her father, her girl friends, and the rivermen, impartially. And the memory of them stayed with the rough shantymen for years. The train which bore Joe and his bride on their wedding journey clanked slowly through the yards following the line of the river. As it looped around a curve they could see, looking backward from the rear platform of the last coach which they had to themselves, the mills of Bill Crooks and of Joe Kent each flying a flag from the topmost point, the silver of the flowing water checkered with the black lines of the long booms and the herds of brown logs inside them. In the mills not a wheel turned that day. But steam was in the boilers, for as they looked it poured white from the roofs of the engine houses and the bellowing howls of two fire sirens bade them a joyous farewell. Jack slipped her hand in Joe's. "Are you glad?" "Glad it's over? You bet I am!" "No--glad we're married?" "That's a nice question. And you know the answer." "Of course I do," she admitted happily. "I suppose a wedding trip is a fine thing. Anyway, it's conventional. But--I'll be glad to come back home." "Same here," he agreed. "There's lot to be done--a holy lot. I have to get right down to work. I want to take all the weight I can off your father's shoulders. That's up to me. Then, when you come to running two mills under one management, there must be all sorts of economies possible, if a fellow could only find out what they are. I don't want to let Wright do all the finding out for me. Yes, I'll be pretty busy." "Well, you like the work. That's the main thing." "That's so," he admitted. "I like it better all the time. I never knew what real fun was till I had to hustle for myself. A year ago I was no better than a big kid. I could feed myself and dress myself if somebody handed me the price, and that just about let me out. And at that I thought I was having a good time. A good time? Huh! Why, I didn't know I was alive. Oh, well ... we'll cut out business on this trip--not talk of it or think of it at all. Shall we?" "No--o. I like to talk about it. It makes me think I'm helping. If I were a man----" "I'm mighty glad you're not. Remember the time you wished you were a boy?" "That was before----" "Before what?" "You know very well. Before I knew you thought anything of me." "You are absolutely the best little girl in the world," he said with conviction. "I always loved you, Jack--ever since we were kids--only I didn't know it." She gave his arm a quick little understanding hug, with a new womanly pride in the hard, swelling muscles that met the pressure. They stood close together, watching the last silvery reach of the river, burnished, mirror-like, lustrous beneath the sloping afternoon sun. They had been born beside it; as children they had played on it, in it; and they loved it as a part of their lives. It was a treasure stream, bearing to them year after year the loot of the northern forests--the great, brown sticks of pine. Changeless and yet ever changing it never failed to charm. Ages old but ever young it held its children in the spell of its eternal life. And so as it vanished, shut out by a landscape that seemed to rush backward as the train gathered speed, their eyes and their thoughts clung to it; for by the river and with the pine their lifework lay. THE END LOUIS TRACY'S CAPTIVATING AND EXHILARATING ROMANCES May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. A pretty American girl in London is touring in a car with a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. An amusing mystery. THE STOWAWAY GIRL. Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson. A shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in South Seas. THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS. Love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance. THE MESSAGE. Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase. A bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a buried treasure. A thrilling mystery develops. THE PILLAR OF LIGHT. The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants. THE WHEEL O'FORTUNE. With illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg. The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of some of the treasures of the Queen of Sheba. A SON OF THE IMMORTALS. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. A young American is proclaimed king of a little Balkan Kingdom, and a pretty Parisian art student is the power behind the throne. THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. A sort of Robinson Crusoe _redivivus_ with modern setting, and a very pretty love story added. The hero and heroine are the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures on their desert island. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list HIS HOUR. By Elinor Glyn. Illustrated. A beautiful blonde Englishwoman visits Russia, and is violently made love to by a young Russian aristocrat. A most unique situation complicates the romance. THE GAMBLERS. By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. A big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits--or repudiate the methods. CHEERFUL AMERICANS. By Charles Battell Loomis. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn and others. A good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some Americans rat home and abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation. THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the best solutions of them. A book every girl and woman should possess. THE LIGHT THAT LURES. By Percy Brehner. Illustrated. Handsomely colored wrapper. A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a Frenchwoman. THE RAMRODDERS. By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett. A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play--even in their romances. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are making theatrical history. MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with scenes from the play. A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success. THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens. An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew Wallace. A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic spectacle. TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy. A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season. YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester. Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh. A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage. THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe. Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list A CERTAIN RICH MAN. By William Allen White. A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its wide spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American novel. IN OUR TOWN. By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W. Glackens. Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention. NATHAN BURKE. By Mary S. Watts. The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence. Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book. THE HIGH HAND. By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grefe. A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the one side, and a "kid glove" politician on the other. A pretty girl, interested in both men, is the chief figure. THE BACKWOODSMEN. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated. Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed. YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS. By Herbert Quick. A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at night. Brilliantly clever and original. THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY. By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated by Hanson Booth. A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped in a big mystery. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. By Meredith Nicholson. Illustrated by C. Coles Phillips and Reginald Birch. Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer amusement. THE MAGNET. By Henry C. Rowland. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. The story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls. THE TURN OF THE ROAD. By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham. A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is stronger than worldly success. SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY. By Margaret Morse. Illustrated by Harold M. Brett. A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented with a Scotch Collie to divert her mind, and the roving adventures of her pet lead the young mistress into another romance. SHEILA VEDDER. By Amelia E. Barr. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher. A very beautiful romance of the Shetland Islands, with a handsome, strong willed hero and a lovely girl of Gaelic blood as heroine. A sequel to "Jan Vedder's Wife." JOHN WARD. PREACHER. By Margaret Deland. The first big success of this much loved American novelist. It is a powerful portrayal of a young clergyman's attempt to win his beautiful wife to his own narrow creed. THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT. By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by Maynard Dixon. One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the most accurate and picturesque of the stampede of gold seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL Skillful in plot, dramatic in episode, powerful and original in climax. MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. by A. I. Keller and Kinneys. A New England state is under the political domination of a railway and Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes the moment when the cause of the people against corporation greed is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way, by taking up this cause. The daughter of the railway president, with the sunny humor and shrewd common sense of the New England girl, plays no small part in the situation as well as in the life of the young attorney who stands so unflinchingly for clean politics. THE CROSSING. Illus. by S. Adamson and L. Baylis. Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie and the British fleet in the harbor of Charleston, the blazing of the Kentucky wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of dauntless followers in Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, and the treasonable schemes builded against Washington and the Federal Government. CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn. A deft blending of love and politics distinguishes this book. The author has taken for his hero a New Englander, a crude man of the tannery, who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman. It is a sermon on civic righteousness, and a love story of a deep motive. THE CELEBRITY. An Episode. An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman of the most blatant type. The story is adorned with some character sketches more living than pen work. It is the purest, keenest fun--no such piece of humor has appeared for years: it is American to the core. THE CRISIS. Illus. by Howard Chandler Christie. A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring. The several scenes in the book in which Abraham Lincoln figures must be read in their entirety for they give a picture of that great, magnetic, lovable man, which has been drawn with evident affection and exceptional success. GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list THE SILENT CALL. by Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play. The hero of this story is the Squaw Man's son. He has been taken to England, but spurns conventional life for the sake of the untamed West and a girl's pretty face. JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. By George W. Cable. A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. As fragrant in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of mystery and racial troubles as any romance of "after the war" days. MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES. By E. W. Hornung. This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player out of the toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and amusing. FORTY MINUTES LATE. By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated by S. M. Chase. Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a lecturer's laughable experience because he's late, a young woman's excursion into the stock market, etc. OLD LADY NUMBER 31. By Louise Forsslund. A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the adventures of an old couple in an old folk's home, their sunny, philosophical acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity. THE HUSBAND'S STORY. By David Graham Phillips. A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much food for thought. A young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich--the wife in the most aristocratic European society--but at the price of their happiness. THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT. By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by Maynard Dixon. One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. THE SECOND WIFE. By Thompson Buchanan. Illustrated by W. W. Fawcett. Harrison Fisher wrapper printed in four colors and gold. An intensely interesting story of a marital complication in a wealthy New York family involving the happiness of a beautiful young girl. TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. An amazingly vivid picture of low class life in a New York college town, with a heroine beautiful and noble, who makes a great sacrifice for love. FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING. By Graces Miller White. Frontispiece and wrapper in colors by Penrhyn Stanlaws. Another story of "the storm country." Two beautiful children are kidnapped from a wealthy home and appear many years after showing the effects of a deep, malicious scheme behind their disappearance. THE LIGHTED MATCH. By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R. F. Schabelitz. A lovely princess travels incognito through the States and falls in love with an American man. There are ties that bind her to someone in her own home, and the great plot revolves round her efforts to work her way out. MAUD BAXTER. By C. C. Hotchkiss. Illustrated by Will Grefe. A romance both daring and delightful, involving an American girl and a young man who had been impressed into English service during the Revolution. THE HIGHWAYMAN. By Guy Rawlence. Illustrated by Will Grefe. A French beauty of mysterious antecedents wins the love of an Englishman of title. Developments of a startling character and a clever untangling of affairs hold the reader's interest. THE PURPLE STOCKINGS. By Edward Salisbury Field. Illustrated in colors; marginal illustrations. A young New York business man, his pretty sweetheart, his sentimental stenographer, and his fashionable sister are mixed up in a misunderstanding that surpasses anything in the way of comedy in years. A story with a laugh on every page. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK 
41712	----	images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) CONNIE MORGAN IN THE LUMBER CAMPS BY JAMES B. HENDRYX AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA," "CONNIE MORGAN WITH THE MOUNTED" [Illustration] _ILLUSTRATED_ G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1919 COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY JAMES B. HENDRYX The Knickerbocker Press, New York [Illustration] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I.--CONNIE MORGAN GOES "OUTSIDE" 1 II.--HURLEY 14 III.--INTO THE WOODS 28 IV.--CONNIE TAMES A BEAR-CAT 45 V.--HURLEY LAYS OUT THE NEW CAMP 58 VI.--THE I. W. W. SHOWS ITS HAND 69 VII.--THE PRISONERS 89 VIII.--THE BOSS OF CAMP TWO 103 IX.--SAGINAW ED IN THE TOILS 114 X.--CONNIE DOES SOME TRAILING 129 XI.--CONNIE FINDS AN ALLY 145 XII.--SHADING THE CUT 162 XIII.--SAGINAW ED HUNTS A CLUE 175 XIV.--A PAIR OF SOCKS 192 XV.--HURLEY PREPARES FOR THE DRIVE 204 XVI.--SLUE FOOT "COMES ACROSS" 217 XVII.--HEINIE METZGER 235 XVIII.--CONNIE SELLS SOME LOGS 255 XIX.--THE UNMASKING OF SLUE FOOT MAGEE 277 XX.--CONNIE DELIVERS HIS LOGS 292 [Illustration] ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Hurley 8 Mike Gillum took Connie to the river where miles of booms held millions of feet of logs 23 "Come on, tell them what you told them a minute ago" 55 Swiftly the boy followed the tracks to the point where the man had struck into the clearing 131 The boy hastened unnoticed to the edge of a crowd of men that encircled Frenchy Lamar 134 "What in the name of time be you doin' here?" exclaimed Saginaw 150 "Phy don't yez tell me oi'm a big liar?" he roared 167 "Phwat d'yez want?" he whined 178 "What's this?" asked the boy, pushing up a small bundle 193 Slue Foot turned. "Think y're awful smart, don't ye?" 232 He leaned back in his chair and stared at Connie through his glasses, as one would examine a specimen at the zoo 251 Very gingerly he donned the garments and for some moments stood and viewed himself in the mirror 265 Hurley had remained at the Upper Camp, and as the drive at last began to thin out, he came floating down, standing erect upon a huge log 299 Connie placed his hand affectionately upon the arm of the big boss who stood at his side grinning broadly 309 Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps CHAPTER I CONNIE MORGAN GOES "OUTSIDE" [Illustration] With an exclamation of impatience, Waseche Bill pushed a formidable looking volume from him and sat, pen in hand, scowling down at the sheet of writing paper upon the table before him. "I done give fo' dollahs fo' that dictionary down to Faihbanks an' it ain't wo'th fo' bits!" "What's the matter with it?" grinned Connie Morgan, glancing across the table into the face of his partner. "The main matteh with it is that it ain't no good. It's plumb full of a lot of wo'ds that no one wouldn't know what yo' was talkin' about if yo' said 'em, an' the common ones a man has got some use fo' is left out." "What word do you want? I learned to spell quite a lot of words in school." "Gillum." "What?" "Gillum--I want to write a letteh to Mike Gillum. They ain't no betteh man nowheahs than Mike. He's known all along the Tanana an' in the loggin' woods outside, an' heah's this book that sets up to show folks how to spell, an' it cain't even spell Mike Gillum." Connie laughed. "Gillum is a proper name," he explained, "and dictionaries don't print proper names." "They might a heap betteh leave out some of the impropeh an' redic'lous ones they've got into 'em, then, an' put in some of the propeh ones. I ain't pleased with that book, nohow. It ain't no good. It claims fo' to show how to spell wo'ds, an' when yo' come to use it yo' got to know how to spell the wo'd yo' huntin' fo' oah yo' cain't find it. The only wo'ds yo' c'n find when yo' want 'em is the ones yo' c'n spell anyhow, so what's the use of findin' 'em?" "But, there's the definitions. It tells you what the words mean." Waseche Bill snorted contemptuously. "What they mean!" he exclaimed. "Well, if yo' didn't know what they mean, yo' wouldn't be wantin' to use them, nohow, an' yo' wouldn't care a doggone how they was spelt, noah if they was spelt at all oah not. Fact is, I didn't give the matteh no thought when I bought it. If it had be'n a big deal I wouldn't have be'n took in, that way. In the hotel at Faihbanks, it was, when I was comin' in. The fellow I bought it off of seemed right pleased with the book. Why, he talked enough about it to of sold a claim. I got right tired listenin' to him, so I bought it. But, shucks, I might of know'd if the book had be'n any good he wouldn't have be'n so anxious to get red of it." "Where is this Mike Gillum?" Connie asked, as he folded a paper and returned it to a little pile of similar papers that lay before him on the table. "I don't jest recollec' now, but I got the place copied down in my notebook. It's some town back in Minnesota." "Minnesota!" "Yes. Fact is we be'n so blamed busy all summeh right heah in Ten Bow, I'd plumb forgot about ouh otheh interests, till the nippy weatheh done reminded me of 'em." "I didn't know we had any other interests," smiled the boy. "It's this way," began Waseche Bill, as he applied a match to his pipe and settled back in his chair. "When I was down to the hospital last fall they brought in a fellow fo' an operation an' put him in the room next to mine. The first day he stuck his nose out the do', I seen it was Mike Gillum--we'd prospected togetheh oveh on the Tanana, yeahs back, an' yo' bet yo' boots I was glad to see someone that had been up heah in the big country an' could talk sensible about it without askin' a lot of fool questions about what do the dawgs drink in winteh if everythin's froze up? An' ain't we afraid we'll freeze to death? An' how high is the mountains? An' did you know my mother's cousin that went up to Alaska after gold in '98? While he was gettin' well, we had some great old powwows, an' he told me how he done got sick of prospectin' an' went back to loggin'. He's a fo'man, now, fo' some big lumbeh syndicate in one of theih camps up in no'the'n Minnesota." "One day we was settin' a smokin' ouh pipes an' he says to me, 'Waseche,' he says, 'you've got the dust to do it with, why don't you take a li'l flyeh in timbeh?' I allowed minin' was mo' in my line, an' he says, 'That's all right, but this heah timbeh business is a big proposition, too. Jest because a man's got one good thing a-goin', ain't no sign he'd ort to pass up anotheh. It's this way,' he says: 'Up to'ds the haid of Dogfish Riveh, they's a four-thousand-acre tract of timbeh that's surrounded on three sides by the Syndicate holdin's. Fo' yeahs the Syndicate's be'n tryin' to get holt of this tract, but the man that owns it would die befo' he'd let 'em put an axe to a stick of it. They done him dirt some way a long time ago an' he's neveh fo'got it. He ain't got the capital to log it, an' he won't sell to the Syndicate. But he needs the money, an' if some private pahty come along that would take it off his hands an' agree to neveh sell it to the Syndicate, he could drive a mighty good ba'gain. I know logs,' Mike says, 'an' I'm tellin' yo' there ain't a betteh strip of timbeh in the State.' "'Why ain't no one grabbed it befo'?' I asks. "'Because this heah McClusky that owns it is a mighty suspicious ol' man, an' he's tu'ned down about a hund'ed offehs because he know'd they was backed by the Syndicate.' "'Maybe he'd tu'n down mine, if I'd make him one,' I says. "Mike laughed. 'No,' he says, 'spite of the fact that I'm one of the Syndicate's fo'men, ol' man McClusky takes my wo'd fo' anything I tell him. Him an' my ol' dad come oveh f'om Ireland togetheh. I'd go a long ways around to do ol' Mac a good tu'n, an' he knows it. Fact is, it's me that put him wise that most of the offehs he's had come from the Syndicate--my contract with 'em callin' fo' handlin' loggin' crews, an' not helpin' 'em skin folks out of their timbeh. If I'd slip the we'd to Mac to sell to you, he'd sell.'" Waseche refilled his pipe, and Connie waited eagerly for his big partner to proceed. "Well," continued the man, "he showed me how it was an awful good proposition, so I agreed to take it oveh. I wanted Mike should come in on it, but he wouldn't--Mike's squah as a die, an' he said his contract has got three mo' yeahs to run, an' it binds him not to engage in no private business oah entehprise whateveh while it's in fo'ce. "Befo'e Mike left the hospital he sent fo' McClusky, an' we closed the deal. That was last fall, an' I told Mike that as long as the timbeh was theah, I might's well staht gettin' it out. He wa'ned me to keep my eye on the Syndicate when I stahted to layin' 'em down, but befo'e he'd got a chance to give me much advice on the matteh, theah come a telegram fo' him to get to wo'k an' line up his crew an' get into the woods. Befo'e he left, though, he said he'd send me down a man that might do fo' a fo'man. Said he couldn't vouch for him no mo'n that he was a tiptop logman, an' capable of handlin' a crew in the woods. So he come, Jake Hurley, his name is, an' he's a big red Irishman. I didn't jest like his looks, an' some of his talk, but I didn't know wheah to get anyone else so I took a chance on him an' hired him to put a crew into the woods an' get out a small lot of timbeh." Waseche Bill crossed the room and, unlocking a chest, tossed a packet of papers onto the table. "It's all in theah," he said grimly. "They got out quite a mess of logs, an' in the spring when they was drivin' 'em down the Dogfish Riveh, to get 'em into the Mississippi, they fouled a Syndicate drive. When things got straightened out, we was fo'teen thousan' dollahs to the bad." The little clock ticked for a long time while Connie carefully examined the sheaf of papers. After a while he looked up. "Why, if it hadn't been for losing our logs we would have cleaned up a good profit!" he exclaimed. [Illustration: HURLEY] Waseche Bill nodded. "Yes--if. But the fact is, we didn't clean up no profit, an' we got the tract on ouh hands with no one to sell it to, cause I passed ouh wo'd I wouldn't sell it--o' co'se McClusky couldn't hold us to that acco'din' to law, but I reckon, he won't have to. I got us into this heah mess unbeknownst to you, so I'll jest shouldeh the loss, private, an'----" "You'll _what!_" interrupted Connie, wrathfully. And then grinned good-humouredly as he detected the twinkle in Waseche Bill's eye. "I said, I c'n get a raise out of yo' any time I'm a mind to try, cain't I?" "You sure can," laughed the boy. "But just so you don't forget it, we settled this partnership business for good and all, a couple of years ago." Waseche nodded as he glanced affectionately into the face of the boy. "Yes, son, I reckon that's done settled," he answered, gravely. "But the question is, now we ah into this thing, how we goin' to get out?" "Fight out, of course!" exclaimed the boy, his eyes flashing. "The first thing for us to find out is, whether the fouling of that drive was accidental or was done purposely. And why we didn't get what was coming to us when the logs were sorted." "I reckon that's done settled, as fah as _knowin'_ it's conse'ned. Provin' it will be anotheh matteh." He produced a letter from his pocket. "This come up in the mail," he said. "It's from Mike Gillum. Mike, he writes a middlin' sho't letteh, but he says a heap. It was wrote from Riverville, Minnesota, on July the tenth." "FRIEND WASECHE: "Just found out Hurley is on pay roll of the Syndicate. Look alive. "MIKE." "Double crossed us," observed the boy, philosophically. "Yes, an' the wo'st of it is, he wouldn't sign up without a two-yeah contract. Said some yeahs a boss has bad luck an' he'd ort to be give a chance to make good." "I'm glad of it," said Connie. "I think he'll get his chance, all right." Waseche looked at his small partner quizzically. "What do yo' mean?" he asked. "Let's go to bed. It's late," observed the boy, evasively. "Maybe in the morning we'll have it doped out." At breakfast the following morning Connie looked at Waseche Bill, and Waseche looked at Connie. "I guess it's up to me," smiled the boy. "Yo' mean----?" "I mean that the only way to handle this case is to handle it from the bottom up. First we've got to get this Jake Hurley with the goods, and when we've got him out of the way, jump in and show the Syndicate that they've run up against an outfit it don't pay to monkey with. That timber is ours, and we're going to have it!" "That sums the case right pert as fa' as talkin' goes, but how we goin' to do it? If we go down theah an' kick Hurley out, we've got to pay him fo' a whole winteh's wo'k he ain't done an' I'd hate to do that. We don't neitheh one of us know enough about loggin' to run the camp, an' if we was to hunt up anotheh fo'man, chances is he'd be as bad as Hurley, mebbe wo'se." "There's no use in both of us going. You're needed here, and besides there wouldn't be much you could do if you were there. Hurley don't know me, and I can go down and get enough on him by spring to put him away where he can think things over for a while. I've just finished a year's experience in handling exactly such characters as he is." Waseche Bill grinned. "I met up with Dan McKeeveh comin' in," he said. "From what I was able to getheh, heahin' him talk, I reckon they cain't be many bad men left oveh on the Yukon side." "Dan was prejudiced," laughed Connie. "I did just what any one else would have done--what good men any place you put 'em have _got_ to do, or they wouldn't be good men. After I'd found out what had to be done, I figured out the most sensible way of doing it, and then did it the best I knew how. I haven't lived with men like you, and Dan, and MacDougall, and the rest of the boys, for nothing----" "Jest yo' stick to that way of doin', son, an', I reckon, yo'll find it's about all the Bible yo'll need. But, about this heah trip to the outside. I sho' do hate to have yo' go down theh, so fah away from anywhehs. S'posin' somethin' should happen to yo'. Why, I don't reckon I eveh would get oveh blamin' myself fo' lettin' yo' go." "Any one would think I was a girl," smiled the boy. "But I guess if I can take care of myself up here, I can handle anything I'll run up against outside." "What do yo' aim to do when yo' get theah?" "The first thing to do will be to hunt up Mike Gillum and have a talk with him. After that--well, after that, I'll know what to do." Waseche Bill regarded the boy thoughtfully as he passed his fingers slowly back and forth along his stub-bearded jaw. "I reckon yo' will, son," he said, "from what I know of yo', an' what Dan done tol' me, comin' in, I jest reckon yo' will." When Connie Morgan made up his mind to do a thing he went ahead and did it. Inside of a week the boy had packed his belongings, bid good-bye to Ten Bow, and started upon the journey that was to take him far from his beloved Alaska, and plunge him into a series of adventures that were to pit his wits against the machinations of a scheming corporation. CHAPTER II HURLEY With a long-drawn whistle the great trans-continental train ground to a stop at a tiny town that consisted simply of a red painted depot, a huge water tank, and a dozen or more low frame houses, all set in a little clearing that was hardly more than a notch in one of the parallel walls of pine that flanked the railroad. The coloured porter glanced contemptuously out of the window and grumbled at the delay. The conductor, a dapper little man of blue cloth and brass buttons, bustled importantly down the aisle and disappeared through the front door. Connie raised his window and thrust his head out. Other heads protruded from the long line of coaches, and up in front men were swinging from the platforms to follow the trainmen who were hurrying along the sides of the cars. Connie arose and made his way forward. Two days and nights in the cramped quarters of the car had irked the boy, used as he was to the broad, open places, and it was with a distinct feeling of relief that he stepped to the ground and breathed deeply of the pine-scented air. Upon a siding stood several flat cars onto which a dozen or more roughly dressed men were busily loading gear and equipment under the eye of a massive-framed giant of a man in a shirt of brilliant red flannel, who sat dangling his legs from the brake wheel of the end car. A stubble of red beard covered the man's undershot jaw. The visor of a greasy plush cap, pushed well back upon his head, disclosed a shock of red hair that nearly met the shaggy eyebrows beneath which a pair of beady eyes kept tab on the movements of his crew. To the stalled train, and the people who passed close beside him, the man gave no heed. Up ahead, some eight or ten rods in front of the monster engine that snorted haughty impatience to be gone, Connie saw the cause of the delay. A heavy, underslung logging wagon was stalled directly upon the tracks, where it remained fixed despite the efforts of the four big horses that were doing their utmost to move it in response to a loud string of abusive epithets and the stinging blows of a heavy whip which the driver wielded with the strength of a husky arm. A little knot of men collected about the wagon, and the driver, abandoning his vain attempt to start the load, addressed the crowd in much the same language he had used toward the horses. The train conductor detached himself from the group and hurried toward the flat cars. "Hey, you," he piped, "are you the boss of this crew?" The huge man upon the brake wheel paid him no heed, but bawled a profane reprimand for the misplacing of a coil of wire line. "Hey, you, I say!" The little conductor was fairly dancing impatience. "You, Red Shirt! Are you the boss?" The wire line having been shifted to suit him, the other condescended to glare down into the speaker's face. "I be--what's loose with you?" "Get that wagon off the track! You've held us up ten minutes already! It's an outrage!" "Aw, go chase yersilf! Whad'ye s'pose I care av yer tin minutes late, er tin hours? I've got trouble av me own." "You get that wagon moved!" shrilled the conductor. "You're obstructing the United States mail, and I guess you know what that means!" Reference to the mail evidently had its effect upon the boss, for he very deliberately clambered to the ground and made his way leisurely toward the stalled wagon. "Give 'em the gad, ye wooden head! What ye standin' there wid yer mout' open fer?" Once more the driver plied his heavy lash and the big horses strained to the pull. But it was of no avail. "They can't pull it, it ain't any good to lick 'em," remonstrated the engineer. "A couple of you boys climb up and throw some of that stuff off. We can't wait here all day." The fireman and the brakeman started toward the load, but were confronted by the glowering boss. "Ye'll lay off a couple av trips while they fan ye back to life, av ye try ut!" he roared. The men turned back, and the boss addressed the engineer. "You try ut yersilf, av ye're lookin' fer a nice little lay-off in the hospital. Av ye lay here all day an' all night, too, ye've got no wan but yer company to thank. Who was ut put them rotten planks in that crossin'?" The engineer possessed a certain diplomacy that the conductor did not. "Sure, it's the company's fault. Any one can see that. They've got no business putting such rotten stuff into their crossings. I didn't want to butt in on you, boss, but if you'll just tell us what to do we'll help you get her out of there." The boss regarded him with suspicion, but the engineer was smiling in a friendly fashion, and the boss relented a little. "Mostly, ut's the company's fault, but partly ut's the fault av that blockhead av a teamster av mine. He ain't fit to drive a one-horse phaeton fer an owld woman's home." While the boss talked he eyed the stalled wagon critically. "Come over here, a couple av you sleepwalkers!" he called, and when the men arrived from the flat cars, he ripped out his orders almost in a breath. "Git a plank befront that hind wheel to ride ut over the rail! You frog-eater, there, that calls yersilf a teamster--cramp them horses hard to the right! Freeze onto the spokes now, ye sons av rest, an' ROLL 'ER!" Once more the big horses threw their weight into the traces, and the men on the wheels lifted and strained but the wagon held fast. For a single instant the boss looked on, then with a growl he leaped toward the wagon. "Throw the leather into 'em, Frenchy! Make thim leaders pull up!" Catching the man on the offending hind wheel by the shoulder he sent him spinning to the side of the track, and stooping, locked his thick fingers about a spoke, set his great shoulder against the tire and with legs spread wide, heaved upward. The load trembled, hesitated an instant, and moved slowly, the big boss fairly lifting the wheel up the short incline. A moment later it rolled away toward the flat cars, followed by the boss and his crew. "Beef and bluff," grinned Connie to himself as the crowd of passengers returned to the coaches. Connie found Mike Gillum busily stowing potatoes in an underground root cellar. "He's almost as big as the man with the red shirt," thought the boy as he watched Mike read the note Waseche Bill had given him before he left Ten Bow. The man paused in the middle to stare incredulously at the boy. "D'ye mane," he asked, in his rich Irish brogue, "thot ut's yersilf's the pardner av Waseche Bill--a kid loike you, the pardner av _him_?" Connie laughed; and unconsciously his shoulders stiffened. "Yes," he answered proudly, "we've been partners for two years." Still the man appeared incredulous. "D'ye mane ye're the wan thot he wuz tellin' thrailed him beyant the Ogilvies into the Lillimuit? An' put in the time whilst he wuz in the hospital servin' wid the Mounted? Moind ye, lad, Oi've be'n in the Narth mesilf, an' Oi know summat av it's ways." "Yes, but maybe Waseche bragged me up more than----" Mike Gillum interrupted him by thrusting forth a grimy hand. "Br-ragged ye up, is ut! An-ny one thot c'n do the things ye've done, me b'y, don't nade no braggin' up. Ut's proud Oi am to know ye--Waseche towld me ye wuz ondly a kid, but Oi had in me moind a shtrappin' young blade av mebbe ut's twinty-foor or -five, not a wee shtrip av a lad loike ye. Come on in the house till Oi wash up a bit, thim praties has got me back fair bruk a'ready." The big Irishman would not hear of the boy's putting up at a hotel, and after supper the two sat upon the foreman's little veranda that overlooked the river and talked until far into the night. "So ye've got to kape yer oye on um, lad," the Irishman concluded, after a long discourse upon the ins and outs, and whys and wherefores of the logging situation on Dogfish. "Ut's mesilf'll give you all the help Oi can, faylin' raysponsible fer sindin' him to Waseche. There's divilmint in the air fer this winter. The Syndicate's goin' to put a camp on Dogfish below ye, same as last winter. Oi've wor-rked fer um long enough to know ut's only to buck you folks they're doin' ut, fer their plans wuz not to do an-ny cuttin' on the Dogfish tract fer several years to come. Whin Oi heard they wuz goin' to put a camp there Oi applied fer the job av bossin' ut, but they towld me Oi wuz nayded over on Willow River." Mike Gillum knocked the dottle from his pipe and grinned broadly. "'Twuz a complimint they paid me," he said. "They know me loike Oi know thim--av there's crooked wor-ruk to be done in a camp, they take care that Oi ain't the boss av ut. But Willow River is only tin miles back--due narth av the McClusky tract." [Illustration: MIKE GILLUM TOOK CONNIE TO THE RIVER WHERE MILES OF BOOMS HELD MILLIONS OF FEET OF LOGS] The next morning Mike Gillum took Connie to the river where miles of booms held millions of feet of logs which awaited their turn at the sawmills whose black smoke belched from stacks at some distance downstream where the river plunged over the apron of the dam in a mad whirl of white water. "How can they tell which mill the logs are to go to?" asked the boy, as he gazed out over the acres of boomed timber. "Each log carries uts mark, they're sorted in the river. We'll walk on down where ye c'n see um jerked drippin' to the saws." "Does Hurley live here?" asked Connie, as the two followed the river bank toward the dam. "Naw, he lives at Pine Hook, down the road a ways. Ut's about time he wuz showin' up, though. He lays in his supplies an' fills in his crew here. He towld me last spring he wuz goin' to run two camps this winter." They were close above the dam and had to raise their voices to make themselves heard above the roar of the water that dashed over the apron. "Look!" cried Connie, suddenly, pointing toward a slender green canoe that floated in the current at a distance of a hundred yards or so from shore, and the same distance above the falls. "There's a woman in it and she's in trouble!" The big Irishman looked, shading his eyes with his hands. "She's losin' ground!" he exclaimed. "She's caught in the suck av the falls!" The light craft was pointed upstream and the woman was paddling frantically, but despite her utmost efforts the canoe was being drawn slowly toward the brink of the white water apron. With a roar the big Irishman sprang to the water's edge and raced up the bank toward a tiny wharf to which were tied several skiffs with their oars in the locks. Connie measured the distance with his eye. "He'll never make it!" he decided, and jerking off coat and shoes, rushed to the water. "Keep paddling, ma'am!" he called at the top of his lungs, and plunged in. With swift, sure strokes the boy struck out for the canoe. The woman saw him coming and redoubled her efforts. "Come back, ye idiot!" bellowed a voice from the bank, but Connie did not even turn his head. He had entered the water well upstream from the little craft, and the current bore him down upon it as he increased his distance from shore. A moment later he reached up and grasped the gunwale. "Keep paddling!" he urged, as he drew himself slowly over the bow, at the same time keeping the canoe in perfect balance. "Where's your other paddle?" he shouted. "There's--only--this," panted the woman. "Give it here!" cried the boy sharply, "and lie flat in the bottom! We've got to go over the dam!" "No, no, no!" shrieked the woman, "we'll be killed! Several----" With a growl of impatience, Connie wrenched the paddle from her hands. "Lie down, or I'll knock you down!" he thundered, and with a moan of terror the woman sank to the bottom of the canoe. Kneeling low, the boy headed the frail craft for a narrow strip of water that presented an unbroken, oily surface as it plunged over the apron. On either hand the slope showed only the churning white water. Connie gave one glance toward the bank where a little knot of men had collected, and the next moment the canoe shot, head on, straight over the brink of the falls. For an instant it seemed to hang suspended with half its length hanging over, clear of the water. Then it shot downward to bury its bow in the smother of boiling churning, white water at the foot of the apron. For a moment it seemed to Connie as though the canoe were bound to be swamped. It rolled loggily causing the water it had shipped to slosh over the clothing and face of the limp form of the woman in the bottom. The boy was afraid she would attempt to struggle free of it, but she lay perfectly still. She had fainted. The canoe hesitated for a moment, wobbling uncertainly, as the overroll at the foot of the falls held it close against the apron, then it swung heavily into the grip of an eddy and Connie at length succeeded in forcing it toward the bank, wallowing so low in the water that the gunwales were nearly awash. Eager hands grasped the bow as it scraped upon the shore, and while the men lifted the still form from the bottom, Connie slipped past them and made his way to the place he had left his coat and shoes. Mike Gillum met him at the top of the bank. "Arrah! Me laddie, ut's a gr-rand thrick ye pulled! No wan but a _tillicum_ av the Narth country c'ud of done ut! Oi see fer mesilf how ut come ye're the pardner av Waseche Bill. Av Oi had me doubts about yer bitin' off more thin ye c'ud chaw wid Hurley, Oi've got over 'em, now, an'--" He stopped abruptly and glanced toward the river. "Shpakin' av Hurley--there he comes, now!" he whispered, and Connie glanced up to see a huge man advancing toward them at the head of a little group that approached from the point where he had landed the canoe. The boy stared in amazement--it was the red-shirted giant of the stalled wagon. "So that's Hurley," said he, quietly. "Well, here's where I strike him for a job." CHAPTER III INTO THE WOODS The upshot of Connie Morgan's interview with Hurley, the big red-shirted camp boss, was that the boss hired him with the injunction to show up bright and early the following morning, as the train that was to haul the outfit to the Dogfish Spur would leave at daylight. "'Tiz a foine job ye've got--wor-rkin' f'r forty dollars a month in yer own timber," grinned big Mike Gillum, as he packed the tobacco into the bowl of his black pipe, when the two found themselves once more seated upon the Syndicate foreman's little veranda at the conclusion of the evening meal. Connie laughed. "Yes, but it will amount to a good deal more than forty dollars a month if I can save the timber. We lost fourteen thousand dollars last year because those logs got mixed. I don't see yet how he worked it. You say the logs are all branded." "Who knows what brands he put on 'em? Or, wuz they branded at all? They wuz sorted in th' big river but the drive was fouled in the Dogfish. S'pose the heft of your logs wuz branded wid the Syndicate brand--or no brand at all? The wans that wuz marked for the Syndicate w'd go to Syndicate mills, an' the wans that wuzn't branded w'd go into the pool, to be awarded pro raty to all outfits that had logs in the drive." "I'll bet the right brand will go onto them this year!" exclaimed the boy. Mike Gillum nodded. "That's what ye're there for. But, don't star-rt nawthin' 'til way along towards spring. Jake Hurley's a boss that can get out the logs--an' that's what you want. Av ye wuz to tip off yer hand too soon, the best ye c'd do w'd be to bust up the outfit wid nawthin' to show f'r the season's expenses. Keep yer eyes open an' yer mout' shut. Not only ye must watch Hurley, but keep an eye on the scaler, an' check up the time book, an' the supplies--av course ye c'n only do the two last av he puts ye to clerking, an' Oi'm thinkin' that's what he'll do. Ut's either clerk or cookee f'r you, an most an-ny wan w'd do f'r a cookee." The foreman paused, and Connie saw a twinkle in his eye as he continued: "Ye see, sometimes a boss overestimates the number av min he's got workin'. Whin he makes out the pay roll he writes in a lot av names av min that's mebbe worked f'r him years back, an' is dead, or mebbe it's just a lot av names av min that ain't lived yet, but might be born sometime; thin whin pay day comes the boss signs the vouchers an' sticks the money in his pockets. Moind ye, I ain't sayin' Hurley done that but he'd have a foine chanct to, wid his owner way up in Alaska. An' now we'll be goin' to bed f'r ye have to git up early. Oi'll be on Willow River; av they's an-nything Oi c'n do, ye c'n let me know." Connie thanked his friend, and before he turned in, wrote a letter to his partner in Ten Bow: "DEAR WASECHE: "I'm O.K. How are you? Got the job. Don't write. Mike Gillum is O. K. See you in the spring. "Yours truly, "C. MORGAN." Before daylight Connie was at the siding where the two flat cars loaded at Pine Hook, and two box cars that contained the supplies and the horses were awaiting the arrival of the freight train that was to haul them seventy miles to Dogfish Spur. Most of the crew was there before him. Irishmen, Norwegians, Swedes, Frenchmen, and two or three Indians, about thirty-five in all, swarmed upon the cars or sat in groups upon the ground. Hurley was here, there, and everywhere, checking up his crew, and giving the final round of inspection to his supplies. A long whistle sounded, and the headlight of a locomotive appeared far down the track. Daylight was breaking as the heavy train stopped to pick up the four cars. Connie climbed with the others to the top of a box car and deposited his turkey beside him upon the running board. The turkey consisted of a grain sack tied at either end with a rope that passed over the shoulder, and contained the outfit of clothing that Mike Gillum had advised him to buy. The tops of the cars were littered with similar sacks, their owners using them as seats or pillows. As the train rumbled into motion and the buildings of the town dropped into the distance, the conductor made his way over the tops of the cars followed closely by Hurley. Together they counted the men and the conductor checked the count with a memorandum. Then he went back to the caboose, and Hurley seated himself beside Connie. "Ever work in the woods?" he asked. "No." "Be'n to school much?" "Yes, some." "'Nough to figger up time books, an' keep track of supplies, an' set down the log figgers when they're give to you?" "I think so." "Ye look like a smart 'nough kid--an' ye've got nerve, all right. I tried to holler ye back when I seen ye swimmin' out to that canoe yeste'day--I didn't think you could make it--that woman was a fool. She'd ort to drownded. But, what I was gettin' at, is this: I'm a goin' to put you to clerkin'. Clerkin' in a log camp is a good job--most bosses was clerks onct. A clerk's s'posed to make hisself handy around camp an' keep the books--I'll show you about them later. We're goin' in early this year, 'cause I'm goin' to run two camps an' we got to lay out the new one an' git it built. We won't start gittin' out no timber for a month yet. I'll git things a goin' an' then slip down an' pick up my crew." "Why, haven't you got your crew?" Connie glanced at the men who lay sprawled in little groups along the tops of the cars. "Part of it. I'm fetchin' out thirty-five this time. That's 'nough to build the new camp an' patch up the old one, but when we begin gittin' out the logs, this here'll just about make a crew for the new camp. I figger to work about fifty in the old one." "Do you boss both camps?" Hurly grinned. "Don't I look able?" "You sure do," agreed the boy, with a glance at the man's huge bulk. "They'll only be three or four miles apart, an' I'll put a boss in each one, an' I'll be the walkin' boss." The cars jerked and swayed, as the train roared through the jack pine country. "I suppose this was all big woods once," ventured the boy. "Naw--not much of it wasn't--not this jack pine and scrub spruce country. You can gener'lly always tell what was big timber, an' what wasn't. Pine cuttin's don't seed back to pine. These jack pines ain't young pine--they're a different tree altogether. Years back, the lumbermen wouldn't look at nawthin' but white pine, an' only the very best of that--but things is different now. Yaller pine and spruce looks good to 'em, an' they're even cuttin' jack pine. They work it up into mine timbers, an' posts, an' ties, an' paper pulp. What with them an' the pig iron loggers workin' the ridges, this here country'll grow up to hazel brush, and berries, an' weeds, 'fore your hair turns grey." "What are pig iron loggers?" asked the boy. "The hardwood men. They git out the maple an' oak an' birch along the high ground an' ridges--they ain't loggers, they jest think they are." "You said pine cuttings don't seed back to pine?" "Naw, it seems funny, but they don't. Old cuttin's grow up to popple and scrub oak, like them with the red leaves, yonder; or else to hazel brush and berries. There used to be a few patches of pine through this jack pine country, but it was soon cut off. This here trac' we're workin' is about as good as there is left. With a good crew we'd ort to make a big cut this winter." The wheels pounded noisily at the rail ends as the boss's eyes rested upon the men who sat talking and laughing among themselves. "An' speakin' of crews, this here one's goin' to need some cullin'." He fixed his eyes on the boy with a look almost of ferocity. "An' here's another thing that a clerk does, that I forgot to mention: He hears an' sees a whole lot more'n he talks. You'll bunk in the shack with me an' the scaler--an' what's talked about in there's _our_ business--d'ye git me?" Connie returned the glance fearlessly. "I guess you'll know I can keep a thing or two under my cap when we get better acquainted," he answered The reply seemed to satisfy Hurley, who continued, "As I was sayin', they's some of them birds ain't goin' to winter through in no camp of mine. See them three over there on the end of that next car, a talkin' to theirselfs. I got an idee they're I. W. W.'s--mistrusted they was when I hired 'em." "What are I. W. W.'s?" Connie asked. "They're a gang of sneakin' cutthroats that call theirselfs the Industrial Workers of the World, though why they claim they're workers is more'n what any one knows. They won't work, an' they won't let no one else work. The only time they take a job is when they think there's a chanct to sneak around an' put the kibosh on whatever work is goin' on. They tell the men they're downtrod by capital an' they'd ort to raise up an' kill off the bosses an' grab everything fer theirselfs. Alongside of them birds, rattlesnakes an' skunks is good companions." "Aren't there any laws that will reach them?" "Naw," growled Hurley in disgust. "When they git arrested an' convicted, the rest of 'em raises such a howl that capital owns the courts, an' the judges is told to hang all the workin' men they kin, an' a lot of rot like that, till the governors git cold feet an' pardon them. If the government used 'em right, it'd outlaw the whole kaboodle of 'em. Some governors has got the nerve to tell 'em where to head in at--Washington, an' California, an' Minnesota, too, is comin' to it. They're gittin' in their dirty work in the woods--but believe me, they won't git away with nothin' in my camps! I'm just a-layin' an' a-honin' to tear loose on 'em. Them three birds over there is goin' to need help when I git through with 'em." "Why don't you fire 'em now?" "Not me. I _want_ 'em to start somethin'! I want to git a crack at 'em. There's three things don't go in my camps--gamblin', booze, an' I. W. W.'s. I've logged from the State of Maine to Oregon an' halfways back. I've saw good camps an' bad ones a-plenty, an' I never seen no trouble in the woods that couldn't be charged up ag'in' one of them three." The train stopped at a little station and Hurley rose with a yawn. "Guess I'll go have a look at the horses," he said, and clambered down the ladder at the end of the car. The boss did not return when the train moved on and the boy sat upon the top of the jolting, swaying box car and watched the ever changing woods slip southward. Used as he was to the wide open places, Connie gazed spellbound at the dazzling brilliance of the autumn foliage. Poplar and birch woods, flaunting a sea of bright yellow leaves above white trunks, were interspersed with dark thickets of scarlet oak and blazing sumac, which in turn gave place to the dark green sweep of a tamarack swamp, or a long stretch of scrubby jack pine. At frequent intervals squared clearings appeared in the endless succession of forest growth, where little groups of cattle browsed in the golden stubble of a field. A prim, white painted farmhouse, with its big red barn and its setting of conical grain stacks would flash past, and again the train would plunge between the walls of vivid foliage, or roar across a trestle, or whiz along the shore of a beautiful land-locked lake whose clear, cold waters sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight as the light breeze rippled its surface. Every few miles, to the accompaniment of shrieking brake shoes, the train would slow to a stop, and rumble onto a siding at some little flat town, to allow a faster train to hurl past in a rush of smoke, and dust, and deafening roar, and whistle screams. Then the wheezy engine would nose out onto the main track, back into another siding, pick up a box car or two, spot an empty at the grain spout of a sagging red-brown elevator, and couple onto the train again with a jolt that threatened to bounce the cars from the rails, and caused the imprisoned horses to stamp and snort nervously. The conductor would wave his arm and, after a series of preliminary jerks that threatened to tear out the drawbars, the train would rumble on its way. At one of these stations a longer halt than usual was made while train crew and lumberjacks crowded the counter of a slovenly little restaurant upon whose fly swarming counter doughnuts, sandwiches, and pies of several kinds reposed beneath inverted semispherical screens that served as prisons for innumerable flies. "The ones that wiggles on yer tongue is flies, an' the ones that don't is apt to be blueberries," explained a big lumberjack to Connie as he bit hugely into a wedge of purplish pie. Connie selected doughnuts and a bespeckled sandwich which he managed to wash down with a few mouthfuls of mud-coloured coffee, upon the surface of which floated soggy grounds and flakes of soured milk. "Flies is healthy," opined the greasy proprietor, noting the look of disgust with which the boy eyed the filthy layout. "I should think they would be. You don't believe in starving them," answered the boy, and a roar of laughter went up from the loggers who proceeded to "kid" the proprietor unmercifully as he relapsed into surly mutterings about the dire future in store for "fresh brats." During the afternoon the poplar and birch woods and the flaming patches of scarlet oak and sumac, gave place to the dark green of pines. The farms became fewer and farther between, and the distance increased between the little towns, where, instead of grain elevators, appeared dilapidated sawmills, whose saws had long lain idle. Mere ghosts of towns, these, whose day had passed with the passing of the timber that had been the sole excuse for their existence. But, towns whose few remaining inhabitants doggedly clung to their homes and assured each other with pathetic persistence, as they grubbed in the sandy soil of their stump-studded gardens, that with the coming of the farmers the town would step into its own as the centre of a wonderfully prosperous agricultural community. Thus did the residents of each dead little town believe implicitly in the future of their own town, and prophesy with jealous vehemence the absolute decadence of all neighbouring towns. Toward the middle of the afternoon a boy, whom Connie had noticed talking and laughing with the three lumberjacks Hurley suspected of being I. W. W.'s, walked along the tops of the swaying cars and seated himself beside him. Producing paper and tobacco he turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette, which he lighted, and blew a cloud of smoke into Connie's face. He was not a prepossessing boy, with his out-bulging forehead and stooping shoulders. Apparently he was about two years Connie's senior. "Want the makin's?" he snarled, by way of introduction. "No thanks. I don't smoke." The other favoured him with a sidewise glance. "Oh, you don't, hey? My name's Steve Motley, an' I'm a bear-cat--_me!_ I'm cookee of this here camp--be'n in the woods goin' on two years. Ever work in the woods?" Connie shook his head. "No," he answered, "I never worked in the woods." "Whatcha done, then? You don't look like no city kid." "Why, I've never done much of anything to speak of--just knocked around a little." "Well, you'll knock around some more 'fore you git through this winter. We're rough guys, us lumberjacks is, an' we don't like greeners. I 'spect though, you'll be runnin' home to yer ma 'fore snow flies. It gits forty below, an' the snow gits three foot deep in the woods." Connie seemed unimpressed by this announcement, and Steve continued: "They say you're goin' to do the clerkin' fer the outfit. Hurley, he wanted me to do the clerkin', but I wouldn't do no clerkin' fer no man. Keep all them different kind of books an' git cussed up one side an' down t'other fer chargin' 'em up with somethin' they claim they never got out'n the wanagan. Not on yer life--all I got to do is help the cook. We're gettin' clost to Dogfish Spur now, an' the camp's twenty-seven mile off'n the railroad. Guess you won't feel lost nor nothin' when you git so far back in the big sticks, hey?" Connie smiled. "That's an awfully long ways," he admitted. "You bet it is! An' the woods is full of wolves an' bears, an' bobcats! If I was figgerin' on quittin' I'd quit 'fore I got into the timber." The train was slowing down, and Steve arose. "Y'ain't told me yer name, greener! Y'better learn to be civil amongst us guys." Connie met the bullying look of the other with a smile. "My name is Connie Morgan," he said, quietly, "and, I forgot to mention it, but I did hold down one job for a year." "In the woods?" "Well, not exactly. Over across the line it was." "Acrost the line--in Canady? What was _you_ doin' in Canady?" "Taming 'bear-cats' for the Government," answered the boy, dryly, and rose to his feet just as Hurley approached, making his way over the tops of the cars. "You wait till I git holt of you!" hissed Steve, scowling. "You think y're awful smart when y're around in under Hurley's nose. But I'll show you how us guys handles the boss's pets when he ain't around." The boy hurried away as Hurley approached. "Be'n gittin' in his brag on ye?" grinned the boss, as his eyes followed the retreating back. "He's no good--all mouth. But he's bigger'n what you be. If he tries to start anything just lam him over the head with anything that's handy. He'll leave you be, onct he's found out you mean business." "Oh, I guess we won't have any trouble," answered Connie, as he followed Hurley to the ground. CHAPTER IV CONNIE TAMES A BEAR-CAT As the cars came to rest upon the spur, plank runways were placed in position and the horses led to the ground and tied to trees. All hands pitched into the work of unloading. Wagons appeared and were set up as if by magic as, under the boss's direction, supplies and equipment were hustled from the cars. "You come along with us," said Hurley, indicating a tote wagon into which men were loading supplies. "I'm takin' half a dozen of the boys out tonight to kind of git the camp in shape. It'll take four or five days to haul this stuff an' you can help along till the teams start comin', an' then you've got to check the stuff in. Here's your lists--supplies on that one, and equipment on this. Don't O. K. nothin' till it's in the storehouse or the cook's camp or wherever it goes to." Connie took the papers and, throwing his turkey onto the load, climbed up and took his place beside the men. The teamster cracked his whip and the four rangy horses started away at a brisk trot. For five miles or so, as it followed the higher ground of a hardwood ridge, the road was fairly good, then it plunged directly into the pines and after that there was no trotting. Mile after mile the horses plodded on, the wheels sinking half-way to the hubs in the soft dry sand, or, in the lower places, dropping to the axles into chuck holes and plowing through sticky mud that fell from the spokes and felloes in great chunks. Creeks were forded, and swamps crossed on long stretches of corduroy that threatened momentarily to loosen every bolt in the wagon. As the team swung from the hardwood ridge, the men leaped to the ground and followed on foot. They were a cheerful lot, always ready to lend a hand in helping the horses up the hill, or in lifting a wheel from the clutch of some particularly bad chuck hole. Connie came in for a share of good-natured banter, that took the form, for the most part, of speculation upon how long he would last "hoofing it on shank's mares," and advice as to how to stick on the wagon when he should get tired out. The boy answered all the chafing with a smiling good humour that won the regard of the rough lumberjacks as his tramping mile after mile through the sand and mud without any apparent fatigue won their secret admiration. "He's a game un," whispered Saginaw Ed, as he tramped beside Swede Larson, whose pale blue eyes rested upon the back of the sturdy little figure that plodded ahead of them. "Yah, ay tank hay ban' valk befoor. Hay ain' drag hees foot lak he gon' for git tire out queek. Ay bat ju a tollar he mak de camp wit'out ride." "You're on," grinned Saginaw, "an', at that, you got an even break. I can't see he's wobblin' none yet, an' it's only nine or ten miles to go. I wished we had that wapple-jawed, cigarette-smokin' cookee along--I'd like to see this un show him up." "Hay show ham up a'rat--ju yoost vait." Twilight deepened and the forest road became dim with black shadows. "The moon'll be up directly," observed Hurley, who was walking beside Connie. "But it don't give none too much light, nohow, here in the woods. I've got to go on ahead and pilot." "I'll go with you," said the boy, and Hurley eyed him closely. "Say, kid, don't let these here jay-hawkers talk ye inter walkin' yerself to death. They don't like nawthin' better'n to make a greener live hard. Let 'em yelp theirself hoarse an' when you git tuckered jest you climb up beside Frenchy there an' take it easy. You got to git broke in kind of slow to start off with an' take good care of yer feet." "Oh, I'm not tired. I like to walk," answered the boy, and grinned to himself. "Wonder what he'd think if he knew about some of the trails I've hit. I guess it would make his little old twenty-mile hike shrink some." As they advanced into the timber the road became worse, and Connie, who had never handled horses, wondered at the dexterity with which Frenchy guided the four-horse tote-team among stumps and chuck holes, and steep pitches. Every little way it was necessary for Hurley to call a halt, while the men chopped a log, or a thick mat of tops from the road. It was nearly midnight when the team swung into a wide clearing so overgrown that hardly more than the roofs of the low log buildings showed above the tops of the brambles and tall horseweed stalks. "All right, boys!" called the boss. "We won't bother to unload only what we need for supper. Don't start no fire in the big range tonight. Here, you, Saginaw, you play cook. You can boil a batch of tea and fry some ham on the office stove--an' don't send no more sparks up the stovepipe than what you need to. If fire got started in these weeds we'd have two camps to build instead of one; Swede, you help Frenchy with the horses, an' yous other fellows fill them lanterns an' git what you need unloaded an' cover the wagon with a tarp." "What can I do?" asked Connie. Hurley eyed him with a laugh. "Gosh sakes! Ain't you petered out yet? Well, go ahead and help Saginaw with the supper--the can stuff and dishes is on the hind end of the load." The following days were busy ones for Connie. Men and teams laboured over the road, hauling supplies and equipment from the railway, while other men attacked the weed-choked clearing with brush-scythes and mattocks, and made necessary repairs about the camp. It was the boy's duty to check all incoming material whether of supplies or equipment, and between the arrival of teams he found time to make himself useful in the chinking of camp buildings and in numerous other ways. "I'll show you about the books, now," said Hurley one evening as they sat in the office, or boss's camp, as the small building that stood off by itself was called. This room was provided with two rude pine desks with split log stools. A large air-tight stove occupied the centre of the floor, and two double-tier bunks were built against the wall. The wanagan chests were also ranged along the log wall into which pins had been inserted for the hanging of snow-shoes, rifles, and clothing. The boss took from his desk several books. "This one," he began, "is the wanagan book. If a wanagan book is kep' right ye never have no trouble--if it ain't ye never have nawthin' else. Some outfits gouge the men on the wanagan--I don't. I don't even add haulin' cost to the price--they can git tobacker an' whatever they need jest as cheap here as what they could in town. But they've be'n cheated so much with wanagans that they expect to be. The best way to keep 'em from growlin' is to name over the thing an' the price to 'em after they've bought it, even if it's only a dime's worth of tobacker. Then jest name off the total that's ag'in' 'em--ye can do that by settin' it down to one side with a pencil each time. That don't never give them a chanct to kick, an' they soon find it out. I don't run no 'dollar you got, dollar you didn't get, an' dollar you ort to got' outfit. They earn what's comin' to 'em. Some augers they might as well gouge 'em 'cause they go an' blow it all in anyhow, soon as they get to town--but what's that any of my business? It's theirn. "This here book is the time book. Git yer pen, now, an' I'll call ye off the names an' the wages an' you can set 'em down." When the task was completed the boss continued: "Ye know about the supply book, an' here's the log book--but ye won't need that fer a while yit. I've got to cruise around tomorrow an' find a location fer the new camp. I want to git it laid out as quick as I can so the men can git to cuttin' the road through. Then they can git to work on the buildin's while I go back an' fill me out a crew. "Wish't you'd slip over to the men's camp an' tell Saginaw I want to see him. I'll make him straw boss while I am gone--the men like him, an' at the same time they know he won't stand for no monkey business." "What's a straw boss?" asked the boy. "He's the boss that's boss when the boss ain't around," explained Hurley, as Connie put on his cap and proceeded to the men's camp, a long log building from whose windows yellow lamplight shone. The moment he opened the door he was thankful indeed, that Hurley had invited him to share the boss's camp. Although the night was not cold, a fire roared in the huge box stove that occupied the centre of the long room. A fine drizzle had set in early in the afternoon, and the drying racks about the stove were ladened with the rain-dampened garments of the men. Steam from these, mingled with the smoke from thirty-odd pipes and the reek of drying rubbers and socks, rendered the air of the bunk house thick with an odorous fog that nearly stifled Connie as he stepped into the superheated interior. Seated upon an upper bunk with his feet dangling over the edge, one of the men was playing vociferously upon a cheap harmonica, while others sat about upon rude benches or the edges of bunks listening or talking. The boy made his way over the uneven floor, stained with dark splotches of tobacco juice, toward the farther end of the room, where Saginaw Ed was helping Frenchy mend a piece of harness. As he passed a bunk midway of the room, Steve rose to his feet and confronted him. "Ha! Here's the greener kid--the boss's pet that's too good to bunk in the men's camp! Whatchu doin' in here? Did Hurley send you after some strap oil?" As the two boys stood facing each other in the middle of the big room the men saw that the cookee was the taller and the heavier of the two. The harmonica stopped and the men glanced in grinning expectation at the two figures. Steve's sneering laugh sounded startingly loud in the sudden silence. "He made his brag he used to tame bear-cats over in Canady!" he said. "Well, I'm a bear-cat--come on an' tame me! I'm wild!" Reaching swiftly the boy jerked the cap from Connie's head and hurled it across the room where it lodged in an upper bunk. Some of the men laughed, but there were others who did not laugh--those who noted the slight paling of the smaller boy's face and the stiffening of his muscles. With hardly a glance at Steve, Connie stepped around him and walked to where Saginaw Ed sat, an interested spectator of the scene. "The boss wants to see you in the office," he said, and turning on his heel, retraced his steps. Steve stood in the middle of the floor where he had left him, the sneering smile still upon his lips. "I believe he's goin' to cry," he taunted, and again some men laughed. "What is it you say you are? I don't believe they all heard you." Again Connie was facing him, and his voice was steady and very low. "I'm a bear-cat!" Connie stretched out his arm: "Give me my cap, please, I'm in a hurry." The boy seized the hand roughly, which was just what Connie expected, and the next instant his other hand closed about Steve's wrist and quick as a flash he whirled and bent sharply forward. There was a shrill yelp of pain as the older boy shot over Connie's lowered shoulder and struck with a thud upon the uneven floor. The next instant Connie was astride the prostrate form and with a hand at his elbow and another at his wrist, slowly forced the boy's arm upward between his shoulder blades. "O-o-o, O-w-w!" howled Steve. "Take him off! He's killin' me!" Roars of laughter filled the room as the lumberjacks looked on with shouts of encouragement and approval. The cookee continued to howl and beg. "Once more, now," said Connie, easing up a bit on the arm. "Tell them what you are." "Le' me up! Yer broke my arm!" "Oh, no I didn't." Connie increased the pressure. "Come on, tell them what you told them a minute ago. Some of them look as if they don't believe it." [Illustration: "COME ON, TELL THEM WHAT YOU TOLD THEM A MINUTE AGO"] "O-w-w, I'm a-a bear-cat--O-w-w!" whimpered the boy, with such a shame-faced expression that the men roared with delight. Connie rose to his feet. "Climb up there and get my cap, and bring it down and hand it to me," he ordered tersely. "And the next time you feel wild, just let me know." For only an instant the boy looked into the blue-grey eyes that regarded him steadily and then sullenly, without a word, he stepped onto the lower bunk, groped for a moment in the upper one and handed Connie his cap. A moment later the boy, accompanied by Saginaw Ed, stepped out into the night, but Saginaw saw what Connie did not--the look of crafty malevolence that flashed into Steve's eyes as they followed the departing pair. "By jiminetty, kid, y're all right!" approved the man, as they walked toward the office. "That was as handy a piece of work as I ever seen, an' they ain't a man in camp'll fergit it. You're there! But keep yer eye on that cookee--he's a bad egg. Them kind can't take a lickin' like a man. He'll lay fer to git even, if it takes him all winter--not so much fer what you done to him as where you done it--with the men all lookin' on. They never will quit raggin' him with his bear-cat stuff--an' he knows it." CHAPTER V HURLEY LAYS OUT THE NEW CAMP "Want to go 'long?" asked Hurley, the morning after the "bear-cat" incident, as he and Connie were returning to the office from breakfast at the cook's camp. "I've got to locate the new camp an' then we'll blaze her out an' blaze the road so Saginaw can keep the men goin'." The boy eagerly assented, and a few moments later they started, Hurley carrying an axe, and Connie with a light hand-axe thrust into his belt. Turning north, they followed the river. It was slow travelling, for it was necessary to explore every ravine in search of a spot where a road crossing could be effected without building a bridge. The spot located, Hurley would blaze a tree and they would strike out for the next ravine. "It ain't like we had to build a log road," explained the boss, as he blazed a point that, to Connie, looked like an impossible crossing. "Each camp will have its own rollways an' all we need is a tote road between 'em. Frenchy Lamar can put a team anywhere a cat will go. He's the best hand with horses on the job, if he is a jumper." "What's a jumper?" asked Connie. "You'll find that out fast enough. Jumpin' a man generally means a fight in the woods--an' I don't blame 'em none, neither. If I was a jumper an' a man jumped me, he'd have me to lick afterwards--an' if any one jumps a jumper into hittin' me, he'll have me to lick, too." When they had proceeded for four or five miles Hurley turned again toward the river and for two hours or more studied the ground minutely for a desirable location for the new camp. Up and down the bank, and back into the woods he paced, noting in his mind every detail of the lay of the land. "Here'd be the best place for the camp if it wasn't fer that there sand bar that might raise thunder when we come to bust out the rollways," he explained, as they sat down to eat their lunch at midday. "There ain't no good rollway ground for a half a mile below the bar--an' they ain't no use makin' the men walk any furthur'n what they have to 'specially at night when they've put in a hard day's work. We'll drop back an' lay her out below--it ain't quite as level, but it'll save time an' a lot of man-power." As Connie ate his lunch he puzzled mightily over Hurley. He had journeyed from far off Alaska for the purpose of bringing to justice a man who had swindled him and his partner out of thousands of dollars worth of timber. His experience with the Mounted had taught him that, with the possible exception of Notorious Bishop whose consummate nerve had commanded the respect even of the officers whose business it was to hunt him down, law-breakers were men who possessed few if any admirable qualities. Yet here was a man who, Connie was forced to admit, possessed many such qualities. His first concern seemed to be for the comfort of his men, and his orders regarding the keeping of the wanagan book showed that it was his intention to deal with them fairly. His attitude toward the despicable I. W. W.'s was the attitude that the boy knew would have been taken by any of the big men of the North whose rugged standards he had unconsciously adopted as his own. He, himself, had been treated by the boss with a bluff friendliness--and he knew that, despite Hurley's blustering gruffness, the men, with few exceptions, liked him. The boy frankly admitted that had he not known Hurley to be a crook he too would have liked him. Luncheon over, the boss arose and lighted his pipe: "Well, 'spose we just drop back an' lay out the camp, then on the way home we'll line up the road an' take some of the kinks out of it an' Saginaw can jump the men into it tomorrow mornin'." They had proceeded but a short distance when the man pointed to a track in the softer ground of a low swale: "Deer passed here this mornin'," he observed. "The season opens next week, an' I expect I won't be back with the crew in time for the fun. If you'd like to try yer hand at it, yer welcome to my rifle. I'll dig you out some shells tonight if you remind me to." "I believe I will have a try at 'em," said Connie, as he examined the tracks; "there were two deer--a doe, and a half-grown fawn, and there was a _loup-cervier_ following them--that's why they were hitting for the river." Hurley stared at the boy in open-mouthed astonishment: "Looky here, kid, I thought you said you never worked in the woods before!" Connie smiled: "I never have, but I've hunted some, up across the line." "I guess you've hunted _some_, all right," observed the boss, drily; "I wondered how it come you wasn't petered out that night we come into the woods. Wherever you've hunted ain't none of my business. When a man's goin' good, I b'lieve in tellin' him so--same's I b'lieve in tellin' him good an' plain when he ain't. You've made a good start. Saginaw told me about what you done to that mouthy cookee. That was all right, fer as it went. If I'd be'n you I'd a punched his face fer him when I had him down 'til he hollered' 'nough'--but if you wanted to let him off that hain't none of my business--jest you keep yer eye on him, that's all--he's dirty. Guess I didn't make no mistake puttin' you in fer clerk--you've learnt to keep yer eyes open--that's the main thing, an' mebbe it'll stand you good 'fore this winter's over. There's more'n I. W. W.'s is the matter with this camp--" The boss stopped abruptly and, eyeing the boy sharply, repeated his warning of a few days before: "Keep yer mouth shet. There's me, an' Saginaw, an' Lon Camden--he'll be the scaler, an' whoever bosses Number Two Camp--Slue Foot Magee, if I can git holt of him. He was my straw-boss last year. If you've got anythin' to say, say it to us. Don't never tell nothin' to nobody else about nothin' that's any 'count--see?" "You can depend on me for that," answered the boy, and Hurley picked up his axe. "Come on, le's git that camp laid out. We won't git nothin' done if we stand 'round gassin' all day." The two followed down the river to the point indicated by Hurley where the banks sloped steeply to the water's edge, well below the long shallow bar that divided the current of the river into two channels. As they tramped through the timber Connie puzzled over the words of the boss. Well he knew that there was something wrong in camp beside the I. W. W.'s. But why should Hurley speak of it to him? And why should he be pleased at the boy's habit of observation? "Maybe he thinks I'll throw in with him on the deal," he thought: "Well, he's got an awful jolt coming to him if he does--but, things couldn't have broken better for me, at that." At the top of the steep bank Hurley blazed some trees, and with a heavy black pencil, printed the letter R in the centre of the flat, white scars. "That'll show 'em where to clear fer the rollways," he explained, then, striking straight back from the river for about twenty rods, he blazed a large tree. Turning at right angles, he proceeded about twenty five rods parallel with the river bank and made a similar blaze. "That gives 'em the corners fer the clearin', an' now fer spottin' the buildin's." Back and forth over the ground went the man, pausing now and then to blaze a tree and mark it with the initial of the building whose site it marked. "We don't have to corner these," he explained, "Saginaw knows how big to build 'em--the trees marks their centre." The sun hung low when the task was completed. "You strike out for the head of the nearest ravine," said Hurley, "an' when you come to the tree we blazed comin' up, you holler. Then I'll blaze the tote road to you, an' you can slip on to the next one. Straighten her out as much as you can by holdin' away from the short ravines." Connie was surprised at the rapidity with which Hurley followed, pausing every few yards to scar a tree with a single blow of his axe. The work was completed in the dark and as they emerged onto the clearing Hurley again regarded the boy with approval: "You done fine, kid. They's plenty of older hands than you be, that would of had trouble locatin' them blazes in the night, but you lined right out to 'em like you was follerin' a string. Come on, we'll go wash up an' see what the cook's got fer us." After supper Saginaw Ed received his final instructions, and early next morning Hurley struck out on foot fer Dogfish Spur. "So long, kid," he called from the office door. "I left the shells on top of my desk an' yonder hangs the rifle. I was goin' to give you a few pointers, but from what I seen yeste'day, I don't guess you need none about huntin'. I might be back in a week an' it might be two 'cordin' to how long it takes me to pick up a crew. I've got some men waitin' on me, but I'll have to rustle up the balance wherever I can git 'em. I told Saginaw he better move his turkey over here while I'm gone. You'll find Saginaw a rough-bark piece of timber--but he's sound clean plumb through to the heart, an' if you don't know it now, before this winter's over yer goin' to find out that them's the kind to tie to--when you kin find 'em." Connie gazed after the broad-shouldered form 'til it disappeared from sight around a bend of the tote road, then he turned to his books with a puzzled expression. "Either Mike Gillum was wrong, or Hurley's the biggest bluffer that ever lived," he muttered, "and which ever way it is I'll know by spring." Saginaw put his whole crew at work on the tote road. Saplings and brush were cleared away and thrown to the side. Trees were felled, the larger ones to be banked on the skidways and later hauled to the rollways to await the spring break-up, and the smaller ones to be collected and hauled to the new camp for building material. Connie's duties were very light and he spent much time upon the new tote road watching the men with whom he had become a great favourite. Tiring of that, he would take long tramps through the woods and along the banks of the numerous little lakes that besprinkled the country, searching for sign, so that, when the deer season opened he would not have to hunt at random, but could stalk his game at the watering places. "Whar's yer gun, sonny?" called out a lanky sawyer as the boy started upon one of these excursions. "Hay ain' need no gun," drawled Swede Larson, with a prodigious wink that distorted one whole side of his face. "Ay tank he gon fer hont some bear-cat." And the laughter that followed told Connie as he proceeded on his way, that his handling of Steve had met the universal approval of the crew. It was upon his return from this expedition that the boy witnessed an actual demonstration of the effect of sudden suggestion upon a jumper. Frenchy Lamar pulled his team to the side of the roadway and drew his watch from his pocket. At the same time, Pierce, one of the I. W. W. suspects, slipped up behind him and bringing the flat of his hand down upon Frenchy's shoulder, cried: "_throw it_." Frenchy threw it, and the watch dropped with a jangle of glass and useless wheels at the foot of a tree. The next instant Frenchy whirled upon his tormentor with a snarl. The man, who had no stomach for an open fight, turned to run but the Frenchman was too quick for him. The other two I. W. W.'s started to their pal's assistance but were halted abruptly, and none too gently by other members of the crew. "Fight!" "Fight!" The cry was taken up by those nearby and all within hearing rushed gleefully to the spot. The teamster was popular among the men and he fought amid cries of advice and encouragement: "Soak 'im good, Frenchy!" "Don't let 'im holler ''nough' till he's down!" The combat was short, but very decisive. Many years' experience in the lumber woods had taught Frenchy the art of self-defence by force of fist--not, perhaps, the most exalted form of asserting a right nor of avenging a wrong--but, in the rougher walks of life, the most thoroughly practical, and the most honourable. So, when the teamster returned to his horses a few minutes later, it was to leave Pierce whimpering upon the ground nursing a badly swollen and rapidly purpling eye, the while he muttered incoherent threats of dire vengeance. CHAPTER VI THE I. W. W. SHOWS ITS HAND "Changed yer job?" inquired Saginaw Ed, sleepily a few mornings later when Connie slipped quietly from his bunk and lighted the oil lamp. "Not yet," smiled the boy. "Why?" "No one but teamsters gits up at this time of night--you got an hour to sleep yet." "This is the first day of the season, and I'm going out and get a deer." Saginaw laughed: "Oh, yer goin' out an' git a deer--jest like rollin' off a log! You might's well crawl back in bed an' wait fer a snow. Deer huntin' without snow is like fishin' without bait--you might snag onto one, but the chances is all again' it." "Bet I'll kill a deer before I get back," laughed the boy. "Better pack up yer turkey an' fix to stay a long time then," twitted Saginaw. "But, I won't bet--it would be like stealin'--an' besides, I lost one bet on you a'ready." The teamsters, their lanterns swinging, were straggling toward the stable as the boy crossed the clearing. "Hey, w'at you gon keel, de bear-cat?" called Frenchy. "Deer," answered Connie with a grin. "Ho! She ain' no good for hont de deer! She too mooch no snow. De groun' she too mooch dry. De deer, she hear you comin' wan mile too queek, den she ron way ver' fas', an' you no kin track heem." "Never mind about that," parried the boy, "I'll be in tonight, and in the morning you can go out and help me pack in the meat." "A'm help you breeng in de meat, a'ri. Ba Goss! A'm lak A'm git to bite me on chonk dat _venaison_." Connie proceeded as rapidly as the darkness would permit to the shore of a marshy lake some three or four miles from camp, and secreted himself behind a windfall, thirty yards from the trail made by the deer in going down to drink. Just at daybreak a slight sound attracted his attention, and peering through the screen of tangled branches, the boy saw a large doe picking her way cautiously down the trail. He watched in silence as she advanced, halted, sniffed the air suspiciously, and passed on to the water's edge. Lowering her head, she rubbed an inquisitive nose upon the surface of the thin ice that sealed the shallow bay of the little lake. A red tongue darted out and licked at the ice and she pawed daintily at it with a small front foot. Then, raising the foot, she brought it sharply down, and the knifelike hoof cut through the ice as though it were paper. Pleased with the performance she pawed again and again, throwing the cold water in every direction and seeming to find great delight in crushing the ice into the tiniest fragments. Tiring of this, she paused and sniffed the air, turning her big ears backward and forward to catch the slightest sound that might mean danger. Then, she drank her fill, made her way back up the trail, and disappeared into the timber. A short time later another, smaller doe followed by a spring fawn, went down, and allowing them to pass unharmed, Connie settled himself to wait for worthier game. An hour passed during which the boy ate part of the liberal lunch with which the cook had provided him. Just as he had about given up hope of seeing any further game, a sharp crackling of twigs sounded directly before him, and a beautiful five-prong buck broke into the trail and stood with uplifted head and nostrils a-quiver. Without taking his eyes from the buck, Connie reached for his rifle, but just as he raised it from the ground its barrel came in contact with a dry branch which snapped with a sound that rang in the boy's ears like the report of a cannon. With a peculiar whistling snort of fear, the buck turned and bounded crashing away through the undergrowth. Connie lowered the rifle whose sights had been trained upon the white "flag" that bobbed up and down until it was lost in the thick timber. "No use taking a chance shot," he muttered, disgustedly. "If I should hit him I would only wound him, and I couldn't track him down without snow. I sure am glad nobody was along to see that, or they never would have quit joshing me about it." Shouldering his rifle he proceeded leisurely toward another lake where he had spotted a water-trail, and throwing himself down behind a fallen log, slept for several hours. When he awoke the sun was well into the west and he finished his lunch and made ready to wait for his deer, taking good care this time that no twig or branch should interfere with the free use of his gun. At sunset a four-prong buck made his way cautiously down the trail and, waiting 'til the animal came into full view, Connie rested his rifle across the log and fired at a point just behind the shoulder. It was a clean shot, straight through the heart, and it was but the work of a few moments to bleed, and draw him. Although not a large buck, Connie found that it was more than he could do to hang him clear of the wolves, so he resorted to the simple expedient of peeling a few saplings and laying them across the carcass. This method is always safe where game or meat must be left exposed for a night or two, as the prowlers fear a trap. However, familiarity breeds contempt, and if left too long, some animal is almost sure to discover the ruse. Packing the heart, liver, and tongue, Connie struck out swiftly for camp, but darkness overtook him with a mile still to go. As he approached the clearing a low sound caused him to stop short. He listened and again he heard it distinctly--the sound of something heavy moving through the woods. The sounds grew momentarily more distinct--whatever it was was approaching the spot where he stood. A small, thick windfall lay near him, and beside it a large spruce spread its low branches invitingly near the ground. With hardly a sound Connie, pack, gun, and all, scrambled up among those thick branches and seated himself close to the trunk. The sounds drew nearer, and the boy could hear fragments of low-voiced conversation. The night prowlers were men, not animals! Connie's interest increased. There seemed to be several of them, but how many the boy could not make out in the darkness. Presently the leader crashed heavily into the windfall where he floundered for a moment in the darkness. "This is fer enough. Stick it in under here!" he growled, as the others came up with him. Connie heard sounds as of a heavy object being pushed beneath the interlaced branches of the windfall but try as he would he could not catch a glimpse of it. Suddenly the faces of the men showed vividly as one of their number held a match to the bowl of his pipe. They were the three I. W. W.'s and with them was Steve! "Put out that match you eediot! D'ye want the hull camp a pokin' their nose in our business?" "'Tain't no one kin see way out here," growled the other, whom Connie recognized as Pierce. "It's allus fellers like you that knows more'n any one else, that don't know nawthin'," retorted the first speaker, "come on, now, we got to git back. Remember--'leven o'clock on the furst night the wind blows stiff from the west. You, Steve, you tend to swipin' Frenchy's lantern. Pierce here, he'll soak the straw, an' Sam, you stand ready to drive a plug in the lock when I come out. Then when the excitement's runnin' high, I'll holler that Frenchy's lantern's missin' an' they'll think he left it lit in the stable. I tell ye, we'll terrorize every business in these here United States. We'll have 'em all down on their knees to the I. W. W.! Then we'll see who's the bosses an' the rich! We'll hinder the work, an' make it cost 'em money, an' Pierce here'll git even with Frenchy, all in one clatter. We'll be gittin' back, now. An' don't all pile into the men's camp to onct, neither." Connie sat motionless upon his branch until the sounds of the retreating men were lost in the darkness. What did it all mean? "Swipe Frenchy's lantern." "Plug the lock." "Soak the straw." "Terrorize business." The words of the man repeated themselves over and over in Connie's brain. What was this thing these men were planning to do "at eleven o'clock the first night the wind blows stiff from the west?" He wriggled to the ground and crept toward the thing the men had _cached_ in the windfall. It was a five-gallon can of coal-oil! "That's Steve's part of the scheme, whatever it is," he muttered. "He's got a key to the storehouse." Leaving the can undisturbed, he struck out for camp, splashing through the waters of a small creek without noticing it, so busy was his brain trying to fathom the plan of the gang. "I've got all day tomorrow, at least," he said, "and that'll give me time to think. I won't tell even Saginaw 'til I've got it doped out. I bet when they try to start something they'll find out who's going to be terrorized!" A few minutes later he entered the office and was greeted vociferously by Saginaw Ed: "Hello there, son, by jiminetty, I thought you'd took me serious when I told you you'd better make a long stay of it. What ye got there? Well, dog my cats, if you didn't up an' git you a deer! Slip over to the cook's camp an' wade into some grub. I told him to shove yer supper onto the back of the range, again' you got back. While yer gone I'll jest run a couple rags through yer rifle." When Connie returned from the cook's camp Saginaw was squinting down the barrel of the gun. "Shines like a streak of silver," he announced; "Hurley's mighty pernickety about his rifle, an' believe me, it ain't everyone he'd borrow it to. Tell me 'bout yer hunt," urged the man, and Connie saw a gleam of laughter in his eye. "Killed yer deer dead centre at seven hundred yards, runnin' like greased lightnin', an' the underbrush so thick you couldn't hardly see yer sights, I 'pose." The boy laughed: "I got him dead centre, all right, but it was a standing shot at about twenty yards, and I had a rest. He's only a four-prong--I let a five-prong get away because I was clumsy." Saginaw Ed eyed the boy quizzically: "Say, kid," he drawled. "Do you know where folks goes that tells the truth about huntin'?" "No," grinned Connie. "Well, I don't neither," replied Saginaw, solemnly. "I guess there ain't no place be'n pervided, but if they has, I bet it's gosh-awful lonesome there." Despite the volubility of his companion, Connie was unusually silent during the short interval that elapsed before they turned in. Over and over in his mind ran the words of the four men out there in the dark, as he tried to figure out their scheme from the fragmentary bits of conversation that had reached his ears. "Don't mope 'cause you let one buck git away, kid. Gosh sakes, the last buck I kilt, I got so plumb rattled when I come onto him, I missed him eight foot!" "How did you kill him then?" asked Connie, and the instant the words were spoken he realized he had swallowed the bait--hook and all. With vast solemnity, Saginaw stared straight before him: "Well, you see, it was the last shell in my rifle an' I didn't have none in my pocket, so I throw'd the gun down an' snuck up an' bit him on the lip. If ever you run onto a deer an' ain't got no gun, jest you sneak up in front of him an' bite him on the lip, an' he's yourn. I don't know no other place you kin bite a deer an' kill him. They're like old Acolyte, or whatever his name was, in the Bible, which they couldn't kill him 'til they shot him in the heel--jest one heel, mind you, that his ma held him up by when she dipped him into the kettle of bullet-proof. If he'd of be'n me, you bet I'd of beat it for the Doc an' had that leg cut off below the knee, an' a wooden one made, an' he'd of be'n goin' yet! I know a feller's got two wooden ones, with shoes on 'em jest like other folks, and when you see him walk the worst you'd think: he's got a couple of corns." "Much obliged, Saginaw," said Connie, with the utmost gravity, as he arose and made ready for bed, "I'll sure remember that. Anyhow you don't need to worry about any solitary confinement in the place where the deer hunters go." And long after he was supposed to be asleep, the boy grinned to himself at the sounds of suppressed chuckling that came from Saginaw's bunk. Next morning Connie helped Frenchy pack in the deer, and when the teamster had returned to his work, the boy took a stroll about camp. "Let's see," he mused, "they're going to soak the straw inside the stable with oil and set fire to it on the inside, and they'll do it with Frenchy's lantern so everyone will think he forgot it and it got tipped over by accident. Then, before the fire is discovered they'll lock the stable and jam the lock so the men can't get in to fight it." The boy's teeth gritted savagely. "And there are sixteen horses in that stable!" he cried. "The dirty hounds! A west wind would sweep the flames against the oat house, then the men's camp, and the cook's camp and storehouse. They sure do figure on a clean sweep of this camp. But, what I can't see is how that is going to put any one in terror of the I. W. W., if they think Frenchy caused the fire accidentally. Dan McKeever says all crooks are fools--and he's right." He went to the office and sat for a long time at his pine desk. From his turkey he extracted the Service revolver that he had been allowed to keep in memory of his year with the Mounted. "I can take this," he muttered, as he affectionately twirled the smoothly running cylinder with his thumb, "and Saginaw can take the rifle, and we can nail 'em as they come out of the woods with the coal-oil can. The trouble is, we wouldn't have anything on them except maybe the theft of a little coal-oil. I know what they intend to do, but I can't prove it--there's four of them and only one of me and no evidence to back me up. On the other hand, if we let them start the fire, it might be too late to put it out." His eyes rested on the can that contained the supply of oil for the office. It was an exact duplicate of the one beneath the windfall. He jumped to his feet and crossing to the window carefully scanned the clearing. No one was in sight, and the boy passed out the door and slipped silently into the thick woods. When he returned the crew was crowding into the men's camp to wash up for supper. The wind had risen, and as Connie's gaze centred upon the lashing pine tops, he smiled grimly,--it was blowing stiffly from the west. After supper Saginaw Ed listened with bulging eyes to what the boy had to say. When he was through the man eyed him critically: "Listen to me, kid. Nonsense is nonsense, an' business is business. I don't want no truck with a man that ain't got some nonsense about him somewheres--an' I don't want no truck with one that mixes up nonsense an' serious business. Yer only a kid, an' mebbe you ain't grabbed that yet. But I want to tell you right here an' now, fer yer own good: If this here yarn is some gag you've rigged up to git even with me fer last night, it's a mighty bad one. A joke is a joke only so long as it don't harm no one----" "Every word I've told you is the truth," broke in the boy, hotly. "There, now, don't git excited, kid. I allowed it was, but they ain't no harm ever comes of makin' sure. It's eight o'clock now, s'pose we jest loaf over to the men's camp an' lay this here case before 'em." "No! No!" cried the boy: "Why, they--they might kill them!" "Well, I 'spect they would do somethin' of the kind. Kin you blame 'em when you stop to think of them horses locked in a blazin' stable, an' the deliberate waitin' 'til the wind was right to carry the fire to the men's camp? The men works hard, an' by eleven o'clock they're poundin' their ear mighty solid. S'pose they didn't wake up till too late--what then?" Connie shuddered. In his heart he felt, with Saginaw Ed, that any summary punishment the men chose to deal out to the plotters would be richly deserved. "I know," he replied: "But, mob punishment is never _right_, when a case can be reached by the law. It may look right, and lots of times it does hand out a sort of rough justice. But, here we are not out of reach of the law, and it will go lots farther in showing up the I. W. W. if we let the law take its course." Saginaw Ed seemed impressed: "That's right, kid, in the main. But there ain't no law that will fit this here special case. S'pose we go over an' arrest them hounds--what have we got on 'em! They swiped five gallons of coal-oil! That would git 'em mebbe thirty days in the county jail. The law can't reach a man fer what he's _goin'_ to do--an' I ain't a goin' over to the men's camp an' advise the boys to lay abed an' git roasted so's mebbe we kin git them I. W. W.'s hung. The play wouldn't be pop'lar." Connie grinned: "Well, not exactly," he agreed. "But, why not just sit here and let them go ahead with their scheme. I've got a good revolver, and you can take the rifle, and we can wait for 'em in the tote wagon that's just opposite the stable door. Then when they've soaked the straw, and tipped over Frenchy's lantern, and locked the door behind 'em, and plugged the lock, we can cover 'em and gather 'em in." "Yeh, an' meanwhile the fire'll be workin' on that oil-soaked straw inside, an' where'll the horses be? With this here wind a blowin' they ain't men enough in the woods to put out a fire, an' the hull camp would go." Connie laughed, and leaning forward, spoke rapidly for several moments. When he had finished, Saginaw eyed him with undisguised approval: "Well, by jiminetty! Say, kid, you've got a head on you! That's jest the ticket! The courts of this State has jest begun to wake up to the fact that the I. W. W. is a real danger. A few cases, with the evidence as clean again' 'em as this, an' the stinkin' varmints 'll be huntin' their holes--you bet!" At nine-thirty Saginaw and Connie put out the office light, and with some clothing arranged dummies in their bunks, so that if any of the conspirators should seek to spy upon them through the window they would find nothing to arouse their suspicion. Then, fully armed, they crept out and concealed themselves in the tote wagon. An hour passed, and through the slits cut in the tarpaulin that covered them, they saw four shadowy forms steal silently toward them from the direction of the men's camp. Avoiding even the feeble light of the stars, they paused in the shadow of the oat house, at a point not thirty feet from the tote wagon. A whispered conversation ensued and two of the men hastily crossed the open and disappeared into the timber. "Stand still, can't ye!" hissed one of those who remained, and his companion ceased to pace nervously up and down in the shadow. "I'm scairt," faltered the other, whom the watchers identified as Steve. "I wisht I wasn't in on this." "Quit yer shiverin'! Yer makin' that lantern rattle. What they do to us, if they ketch us, hain't a patchin' to what we'll do to you if you back out." The man called Sam spat out his words in an angry whisper, and the two relapsed into silence. At the end of a half-hour the two men who had entered the timber appeared before the door of the stable, bearing the oil can between them. The others quickly joined them, there was a fumbling at the lock, the door swung open, and three of the men entered. The fourth stood ready with the heavy padlock in his hand. A few moments of silence followed, and then the sound of the empty can thrown to the floor. A feeble flicker of flame dimly lighted the interior, and the three men who had entered rushed out into the night. The heavy door closed, the padlock snapped shut and a wooden plug was driven into the key hole. "_Hands up!_" The words roared from the lips of Saginaw Ed, as he and Connie leaped to the ground and confronted the four at a distance of ten yards. For one terrified instant the men stared at the guns in their captors hands, and then four pairs of hands flew skyward. "Face the wall, an' keep a reachin'," commanded Saginaw, "an' if any one of you goes to start somethin' they'll be wolf-bait in camp in about one second." A horse snorted nervously inside the stable and there was a stamping of iron shod feet. "Jest slip in an' fetch out Frenchy's lantern, kid, an' we'll git these birds locked up in the oat house, 'fore the men gits onto the racket." With a light crow-bar which the boy had brought for the purpose, he pryed the hasp and staple from the door, leaving the plugged lock for evidence. Entering the stable whose interior was feebly illumined by the sickly flare of the overturned lantern, he returned in time to hear the petty bickering of the prisoners. "It's your fault," whined Pierce, addressing the leader of the gang. "You figgered out this play--an' it hain't worked!" "It hain't neither my fault!" flashed the man. "Some one of you's blabbed, an' we're in a pretty fix, now." "'Twasn't me!" came in a chorus from the others. "But at that," sneered Sam, "if you'd a lit that oil, we'd a burnt up the camp anyhow." "I did light it!" screamed the leader, his face livid with rage. "I tipped over the lantern an' shoved it right under the straw." "That's right," grinned Connie, from the doorway, as he flashed the lantern upon the faces of the men. "And if you hadn't taken the trouble to soak the straw with water it would have burned, too." "Water! Whad' ye mean--water?" "I mean just this," answered the boy, eyeing the men with a glance of supreme contempt, "I sat out there beside that windfall last night when you hid your can of oil. I listened to all you had to say, and today I slipped over there and poured out the oil and filled the can with water. You I. W. W.'s are a fine outfit," he sneered: "If you had some brains, and nerve, and consciences, you might almost pass for _men!_" CHAPTER VII THE PRISONERS "I wish't Hurley was here," said Saginaw Ed, as he and Connie returned to the boss's camp after locking the prisoners in the oat house. "The men's goin' to want to know what them four is locked up fer. If we don't tell 'em there'll be trouble. They don't like them birds none but, at that, they won't stand fer 'em bein' grabbed an' locked up without nothin' ag'in' 'em. An' on the other hand, if we do tell 'em there's goin' to be trouble. Like as not they'd overrule me an' you an' hunt up a handy tree an' take 'em out an' jiggle 'em on the down end of a tight one." "Couldn't we slip 'em down to the nearest jail and tell the men about it afterwards, or send for a constable or sheriff to come up here and get them?" Saginaw shook his head: "No. If me an' you was to take 'em down the camp would blow up in no time. When the men woke up an' found the boss, an' the clerk, an' three hands, an' the cookee missin', an' the lock pried offen the stable door, work would stop right there. There ain't nothin' like a myst'ry of some kind to bust up a crew of men. We couldn't wake no one else up to take 'em without we woke up the whole men's camp, an' they'd want to know what was the rookus. If we sent fer a constable it'd be two or three days 'fore he'd git here an' then it would be too late. This here thing's comin' to a head when them teamsters goes fer the oats in the mornin', an' I've got to be there when they do." "I hate to see Steve mixed up in this. He's only a kid. I wonder if there isn't some way----" Saginaw Ed interrupted him roughly: "No. There ain't no way whatever. He's a bad aig or he wouldn't do what he done. You're only a kid, too, but I take notice you ain't throw'd in with no such outfit as them is." "I can't help thinking maybe he's getting a wrong start----" "He's got a wrong start, all right. But he got it quite a while ago--this here kind of business ain't no startin' job. They're all of a piece, kid. It's best we jest let the tail go with the hide." "What will Hurley do about it? If he agrees with us, won't the men overrule him?" "I don't know what he'll do--I only wish't he was here to do it. But, as fer as overrulin' him goes--" Saginaw paused and eyed Connie solemnly, "jest you make it a p'int to be in the same township sometime when a crew of men ondertakes to overrule Hurley. Believe me, they'd have the same kind of luck if they ondertook to overrule Mont Veesooverus when she'd started in to erup'." The door swung open and Hurley himself stood blinking in the lamplight. "This here's a purty time fer workin' men to be up!" he grinned. "Don't yous lads know it's half past twelve an' you'd orter be'n asleep four hours?" "I don't hear _you_ snorin' none," grinned Saginaw. "An' you kin bet me an' the kid sure is glad to see you." "Got through sooner'n I expected. Slue Foot had the crew all picked out. He'll bring 'em in from the Spur in the mornin'. Thought I'd jest hike on out an' see how things was gittin' on." "Oh, we're gittin' on, all right. Tote road's all cleared, Camp Two's clearin's all ready, an' the buildin's most done. An' besides that, four prisoners in the oat house, an' me an' the kid, here, losin' sleep over what to do with 'em." "Prisoners! What do you mean--prisoners?" "Them I. W. W.'s an' that cookee that throw'd in with 'em. They tried to burn the outfit--locked the hosses in the stable an' set fire to it, after waitin' 'til the wind was so it would spread over the hull camp." Hurley reached for a peavy that stood in the corner behind the door. "Ye say they burn't thim harses?" he rasped, in the brogue that always accompanied moments of anger or excitement. "No they didn't, but they would of an' it hadn't be'n fer the kid, here. He outguessed 'em, an' filled their coal-oil can with water, an' then we let 'em go ahead an' put on the whole show so we'd have 'em with the goods." The big boss leaned upon his peavy and regarded Connie thoughtfully. "As long as I've got a camp, kid, you've got a job." He bit off a huge chew of tobacco and returned the plug to his pocket, after which he began deliberately to roll up his shirt sleeves. He spat upon the palms of his hands, and as he gripped the peavy the muscles of his huge forearm stood out like steel cables. "Jist toss me th' key to th' oat house," he said in a voice that rumbled deep in his throat. "Wait!" Connie's hand was upon the boss's arm. "Sit down a minute and let's talk it over----" "Sure, boss," seconded Saginaw. "Let's have a powwow. If you go out there an' git to workin' on them hounds with that there peavy you're liable to git excited an' tap 'em a little harder'n what you intended to, an' then----" Hurley interrupted with a growl and the two saw that his little eyes blazed. "Oi ain't got the strength to hit 'em har-rder thin Oi intind to! An-ny one that 'ud thry to bur-rn up harses--let alone min slaypin' in their bunks, they can't no man livin' hit 'em har-rd enough wid an-nything that's made." "I know," agreed Saginaw. "They ain't nothin' you could do to 'em that they wouldn't still have some a-comin'. But the idee is this: Bein' misclassed as humans, them I. W. W.'s is felonious to kill. Chances is, the grand jury would turn you loose when they'd heard the facts, but the grand jury don't set 'til spring, an' meantime, where'd you be? An' where'd this camp be? Your contract calls fer gittin' out logs, an' don't stipulate none whatever about spatterin' up the oat house with I. W. W.'s. I don't like to spoil a man's fun, but when a mere frolic, that way, interferes with the work, as good a man as you be is a-goin' to put it off a spell. You know, an' I know, there's more than gittin' out logs to this winter's work." Saginaw's words evidently carried weight with Hurley. The muscles of the mighty arms relaxed and the angry gleam faded from his eyes. Also, the brogue was gone from his voice; nevertheless, his tone was ponderously sarcastic as he asked: "An' what is it you'd have me to do, seein' ye're so free with yer advice--pay 'em overtime fer the night work they done tryin' to burn up my camp?" Saginaw grinned: "The kid's got it doped out about right. He figgers that it'll show 'em up better if we let the courts handle the case an' convict 'em regular. With what we've got on 'em they ain't no chanct but what they'll get convicted, all right." "You see," broke in Connie, "the I. W. W.'s are a law-defying organization. The only way to bring them to time is to let the law do it. As soon as _all_ the I. W. W.'s see that the law is stronger than they are, and that their lawless acts are sure to be punished, there won't be any more I. W. W.'s. The law can't teach them this unless it has the chance. Of course, if the law had had the chance and had fallen down on the job because the men behind it were cowardly, it would be time enough to think about other ways. But, you told me yourself that Minnesota was beginning to give 'em what's coming to 'em, and she'll never get a better chance to hand 'em a jolt than this is, because we've got 'em with the goods. Now, if we'd go to work and let the men at 'em, or if you'd wade into 'em yourself we wouldn't be smashing at the I. W. W.'s, but only at these three men. When you stop to think of it, you can't teach an outfit to respect the law when you go ahead and break the law in teaching 'em." Hurley seemed much impressed. "That stands to reason," he agreed. "You're right, kid, an' so's Saginaw. I know Judge McGivern--used to go to school with him way back--he ain't much as fer as size goes but believe me he ain't afraid to hand these birds a wallop that'll keep 'em peekin' out between black ones fer many a day to come. I'll take 'em down myself, an' then I'll slip around an' have a talk with Mac." Hurley tossed the peavy into its corner and proceeded to unlace his boots. "I kind of hate to see Steve go along with that bunch. He ain't a regular I. W. W., and----" The boss looked up in surprise as a heavy boot thudded upon the floor. "What d'ye mean--hate to see?" he asked. "Why, he might turn out all right, if we kept him on the job and kind of looked after him." The boss snorted contemptuously. "Huh! He done you dirt onct didn't he?" "Yes, but----" "He throw'd in with these here ornery scum that ain't neither men, fish, nor potatoes, didn't he?" "Yes, but----" "'Yes' is all right--an' they ain't no 'buts' about it. I had him last winter, an' he wasn't no 'count. I thought they might be some good in him so I hired him ag'in this fall to give him another chanct, but he's rotten-hearted an' twisty-grained, an' from root to top-branch they ain't the worth of a lath in his hide. He's a natural-borned crook. If it was only hisself I wouldn't mind it, but a crook is dangerous to other folks--not to hisself. It ain't right to leave him loose." The other boot thudded upon the floor and Hurley leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and regarded the toes of his woollen socks. "I've often thought," he continued, after a moment of silence, "that men is oncommon like timber. There's the select, straight-grained, sound stuff, an' all the grades down through the culls 'til you come to the dozy, crooked, rotten-hearted stuff that ain't even fit to burn. There's sound stuff that's rough-barked an' ugly; an' there's rotten-hearted stuff that looks good from the outside. There's some timber an' some men that's built to take on a high polish--don't know as I kin git it acrost to you jest like I mean--but bankers and pianos is like that. Then there's the stuff that's equal as sound an' true but it wouldn't never take no polish on account its bein' rough-grained an' tough-fibred--that's the kind that's picked to carry on the world's heavy work--the kind that goes into bridges an' ships, an' the frames of buildin's. It's the backbone, you might say, of civilization. It ain't purty, but its work ain't purty neither--it jest does what it's picked to do. "It's cur'us how fer you kin carry it on if yer a mind to. There's some good timber an' some good men that's started bad but ain't got there yet. The bad habits men take on is like surface rot, an' weather checks, an' bug stings--take that stuff an' put it through the mill an' rip it an' plane it down to itself, an' it's as good as the best--sometimes. The danger to that kind is not puttin' it through the mill quick enough, an' the rot strikes through to the heart. "There's a lot of timber that there ain't much expected of--an' a lot of humans, too. They're the stuff that works up into rough boards, an' cull stuff, an' lath, an' pulp wood, an' cordwood an' the like of that--an' so it goes, folks an' timber runnin' about alike. "It takes experience an' judgment to sort timber, jest like it takes experience an' judgment to pick men. But no matter how much experience an' judgment he's got, as long as _man's_ got the sortin' to do, mistakes will be made. Then, a long time afterwards, somewheres somethin' goes wrong. They can't no one account fer it, nor explain it--but the Big Inspector--he knows." Hurley ceased speaking, and Connie, who had followed every word, broke in: "Couldn't we keep Steve here and--put him through the mill?" The boss shook his head: "No--we didn't catch him young enough. I'm responsible, in a way, fer the men in this camp. This here runt has showed he don't care what he does--s'pose he took a notion to slip somethin' into the grub--what then? Keepin' him in this camp would be like if I seen a rattlesnake in the bunk house an' walked off an' left it there." Connie realized that any further effort on his part to save Steve from sharing the richly deserved fate of the I. W. W.'s would be useless. The three turned in and it seemed to the boy that he had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by the sounds of someone moving about the room. Hurley and Saginaw Ed were pulling on their clothes as the boy tumbled out of bed. "You don't need to git up yet, kid. Me an' Saginaw's goin' to slip out an' see that the teamsters gits their oats without lettin' no I. W. W.'s trickle out the door. Better pound yer ear fer an hour yet, cause you're goin' to be busier'n a pet coon checkin' in Slue Foot's supplies, an' gittin' his men down on the pay roll." As Connie entered the cook's camp for breakfast he noticed an undercurrent of unrest and suppressed excitement among the men who stood about in small groups and engaged in low-voiced conversation. Hurley and Saginaw Ed were already seated, and, as the men filed silently in, many a sidewise glance was slanted toward the big boss. When all were in their places Hurley rose from his chair. "We've got three I. W. W.'s an' the cookee locked up in the oat house," he announced bluntly. "An' after breakfast me an' Frenchy is goin' to take 'em down to jail." There was a stir among the men, and Hurley paused, but no one ventured a comment. "They tried to burn the stable last night, but the kid, here, outguessed 'em, an' him an' Saginaw gathered 'em in." "Last night!" cried a big sawyer, seated half-way down the table. "If they'd a-burnt the stable last night the whole camp would of gone! Let us boys take 'em off yer hands, boss, an' save you a trip to town." The idea gained instant approval among the men, and from all parts of the room voices were raised in assent. "Over in Westconsin we----" Hurley interrupted the speaker with a grin: "Yeh, an' if we was over in Westconsin I'd say go to it! But Minnesota's woke up to these here varmints--an' it's up to us to give her a chanct to show these here other States how to do it. You boys all know Judge McGivern--most of you helped elect him. Give him the chanct to hand the I. W. W.'s a wallop in the name of the State of Minnesota! If the State don't grab these birds, they'll grab the State. Look at North Dakota! It ain't a State no more--it's a Non-partisan League! Do you boys want to see Minnesota an I. W. W. Lodge?" As Hurley roared out the words his huge fist banged the table with a force that set the heavy porcelain dishes a-clatter. "No! No!" cried a chorus of voices from all sides. "The boss is right! Let the State handle 'em!" The men swung unanimously to Hurley and the boss sat down amid roars of approval. And so it was that shortly after breakfast Frenchy cracked his whip with a great flourish and four very dejected-looking prisoners started down the tote road securely roped to the rear of the tote wagon, at the end gate of which sat Hurley, rifle in hand and legs a-dangle as he puffed contentedly at his short black pipe. CHAPTER VIII THE BOSS OF CAMP TWO Slue Foot Magee, who was to boss Camp Two, was a man of ambling gait and a chronic grumble. He arrived with the vanguard of the new crew a half-hour before dinner time, grumbled because grub wasn't ready, growled when he learned that the buildings at Camp Two were not entirely completed, and fumed because Hurley had told him to leave fifteen of his fifty men at Camp One. "What's the use of pickin' out a crew an' then scatterin' 'em all over the woods?" he demanded querulously of Connie, as they stood in the door of the boss's camp while the men washed up for dinner. "If Hurley wants thirty-five men in Camp Two an' fifty in Camp One why don't he send Camp One's crew up to Two an' leave me have Camp One?" "I don't know," answered the boy, and refrained from mentioning that he was mighty glad Hurley had not ordered it so. Slue Foot slanted him a keen glance. "Be you the kid Hurley was tellin' nailed them I. W. W.'s that he was fetchin' out of the woods when we come in this mornin'?" Connie nodded: "Yes, Saginaw Ed and I caught 'em." "Purty smart kid, hain't you? What's Hurley payin' you?" "Forty dollars a month." "An' no rake-off on the wanagan. There's plenty room in the woods to use brains--same as anywheres else." Slue Foot turned at the sound of the dinner gong. "Let's go eat while there's some left. When we come back I'll give you the names." During the meal Connie furtively studied the new boss. He was fully as large as Hurley, and slovenly in movement and appearance. His restless eyes darted swift glances here, there, and everywhere, and never a glance but registered something of disapproval. But it was the man's words that most interested the boy. Why had he asked what Hurley was paying him? And what did he mean by his observation that there was no rake-off on the wanagan? Also, there was his reference to the fact that in the woods there was plenty of room for brains. That might mean anything or nothing. "At any rate," thought the boy, as he attacked his food, "you're going to be a pretty good man to throw in with--for a while." Presently the man pushed back his bench and arose: "If you ever git that holler in under yer ribs filled up we'll go over an' I'll give you the names of the men that stays here an' the ones that goes on with me." "'Lead on, MacDuff,'" grinned Connie, misquoting a line from a play Waseche Bill had taken him to see in Fairbanks. "Magee's my name," corrected the man gruffly, and led the way to the office. It was only after much deliberation and growling that Slue Foot finally succeeded in rearranging his crew, but at last the task was completed and Connie leaned back in his chair. "So you think there ain't going to be any rake-off on the wanagan?" he asked, as the man sat scowling at his list of names. Slue Foot glanced up quickly and the boy met the glance with a wink: "I thought maybe----" "It don't make no difference what you thought mebbe!" the man interrupted. "If you know'd Hurley like I do you'd know a whole lot better'n to try it." Connie looked disappointed and the boss eyed him intently. "They's other ways of killin' a cat without you choke him to death on butter," he observed drily, and lapsed into silence while the restless gimlet eyes seemed to bore into the boy's very thoughts. Suddenly the man brought his fist down with a bang upon the top of the pine desk: "Why should Hurley be drawin' down his big money, an' me an' you our seventy-five an' forty a month?" he demanded. "Well, he's the boss, and they say he can get out the logs." "I'm a boss, too! An' I kin git out the logs!" he roared. "I was bossin' camps when Hurley was swampin'." Again he paused and regarded the boy shrewdly. "Mind you, I hain't sayin' Hurley hain't a good logger, 'cause he is. But jest between me and you there's a hull lot about this here timber game that he hain't hep to. Any one kin draw down wages workin' in the woods--but if you want to make a real stake out of the game you've got to learn how to play both ends ag'in' the middle. An' that's where the brains comes in." "That's why I thought----" "--you could soak it to 'em on the wanagan an' shove the rake-off in your pocket," finished the man. "Well, you'd better fergit it! Some bosses would stand fer it, but not Hurley. He'd tumble to yer game in a minute, an' you'd be hikin' down the tote road with yer turkey on yer back a-huntin' a new job." "Do you mean there's nothing in it for me but my forty dollars a month?" asked Connie, with apparent disgust. "M-m-m-m, well, that depends," muttered Slue Foot. "Be you goin' to keep the log book, or Hurley?" "I am. He told me the other day he'd show me about that later." "They'll be a little somethin', mebbe, in shadin' the cut when the time comes--nothin' big, but enough to double our wages. Wait 'til the crew gits strung out an' layin' 'em down an' we'll fix that up." "Will the scaler throw in with us?" ventured the boy. "What! Lon Camden! Not on yer life, he won't! Hurley picked him, an' he picked Saginaw Ed, too. What you an' me do we got to do alone." Connie smiled: "Yes, but he picked you, and he picked me, too." "He did," agreed the other, with a leer. "I don't know nawthin' about why he picked you, but he give me a job 'cause he thinks I done him a good turn onct. Over in Idaho, it was, an' we was gittin' out logs on the Fieldin' slope. Old Man Fieldin' had a contrac' which if he didn't fill it by a certain day, he'd lose it, an' the Donahue crowd that was operatin' further down would deliver their logs an' take over the contrac'. That's when I got it in fer Hurley. Him an' me was working fer Fieldin' an' he made Hurley boss of a camp he'd ort to give to me. "The Donahue crowd worked politics an' got holt of the water rights on Elk Creek, an' Fieldin' couldn't float his logs. It looked like it was good-night fer Fieldin' an' his contrac' but Hurley grabbed all the men he could git holt of an' started buildin' a flume. Old Man Fieldin' said it couldn't be done, but fer Hurley to go ahead, 'cause he was ruint anyhow. So Hurley worked us night and day, an' by gosh, he built the flume an' got his logs a-runnin'! "When the flume was up the Donahues seen they was beat, so they come to me an' offered me a bunch of coin if I'd blow it up. It was resky 'cause Hurley was expectin' some such play, an' he had it guarded. But I got on guardin' nights an' I planted the dynamite and got the wires strung, an' it was all set. Then I went an' overplayed my hand. I thought I seen the chanct to git even with Hurley, as well as Old Man Fieldin', an' make me a nice little stake besides. So I tips it off to Hurley that I seen a fellow sneakin' around suspicious an' he'd better take the shift where I'd be'n, hisself. You see, I made it up with the Donahues to send three of their men over to explode the shot so I'd have a alibi, an' I figgered that Hurley'd run onto 'em, an' they'd give him an' awful lickin'." The man paused and crammed tobacco into his pipe. "And did he?" asked Connie, eagerly "Naw, he didn't he!" growled the man. "He run onto 'em all right--an' when the rookus was over the hull three of 'em was took to the horspital. When it comes to mixin' it up, Hurley, he's there. He found the dynamite, too, an' after that the guards was so thick along that flume that one couldn't do nawthin' without the next ones could see what he was up to. "Fieldin's logs was delivered on time an' the old man handed Hurley a check fer twenty-five hundred dollars over an' above his wages. Hurley slipped me five hundred fer tellin' him--but I'd of got five thousan' if I'd of blow'd up the flume. I had to skip the country 'fore them three got out of the horspital, an' I've swore to git even with Hurley ever since--an' I'll do it too. One more winter like last winter, an' they won't no outfit have him fer a boss." It was with difficulty Connie refrained from asking what had happened last winter but he was afraid of arousing the man's suspicion by becoming too inquisitive, so he frowned: "That's all right as far as your getting even with Hurley, but it don't get me anything." Slue Foot leaned forward in his chair: "I see you've got yer eye on the main chanct, an' that shows you've got somethin' in your noodle. Folks can talk all they want to, but the only thing that's any good is money. Them that's got it is all right, an' them that hain't got it is nowhere. Take Hurley, he's got the chanct to make his everlastin' stake right here, an' he's passin' it up. The owner of this here trac' lives up in Alaska or somewheres, an' he hain't a loggin' man nohow--an' here Hurley would set and let him git rich--offen Hurley's work, mind you--an' all Hurley gits out of it is his wages. An' if you throw in with him you'll go out in the spring with yer forty dollars a month minus yer wanagan tab." "Guess that's right," agreed the boy. "I'd like to make a lot of money, but it looks like there's nothin' doing in this camp." "Oh, I don't know," replied the man. "I'm a-goin' to git mine, an' the way things is, I kin use a party about your size that kin keep his eyes open and his mouth shet. Looks like, from here, they might be considerable in it fer you, long about spring." He paused and glanced about the office. "You sleep in here don't you?" Connie nodded, and Slue Foot seemed satisfied, "I kin use you, 'cause you're right here on the job where you kin keep tab on the boss, an' Saginaw, an' Lon Camden." The man paused abruptly and peered through the window. "What's the game?" asked Connie boldly. "I can't do any good going it blind." The man silenced him with a gesture: "Shet up! Here comes Saginaw. That'll keep 'til later. Meanwhile, it don't pay fer me an' you to seem none too friendly. When any one's around I'll kick an' growl about the books and you sass me back." He rose from his chair and was stamping about the room when Saginaw entered. "Here it's took a good hour to git them names down that any one with half sense had ort to got down in fifteen minutes! If you can't check in them supplies no quicker'n what you kin write down names, the grub will rot before we git it onloaded. Come on, we'll go up to the camp an' git at it." The man turned to greet the newcomer. "Hello Saginaw! I hear you're a boss now. Well, good luck to you. How's the new camp, 'bout ready?" "Yes, a couple of days will finish her up. Yer storehouse an' men's camp, an' cook's camp is done, so you can go ahead an' move in." Slue Foot scowled: "I seen Hurley comin' out an' he says I should leave you fifteen men out of my crew, so I done it. Seems funny he'd give a green boss the biggest crew, but he's got you right here where he kin keep his eye on you, so I s'pose he knows what he's doin'." "I 'spect he does," agreed Saginaw. "When you git to camp send them men back with mine." Slue Foot nodded. "Well come on, kid," he ordered, gruffly. "We'll go up on the tote wagon." Connie picked up his book and followed, and as he went out the door he turned to see Saginaw regarding him curiously. CHAPTER IX SAGINAW ED IN THE TOILS Connie hoped that during the ride to Camp Two Slue Foot would further enlighten him concerning his various schemes for defrauding his employers, but the man sat silent, eyeing the tall pines that flanked the roadway on either side. "Pretty good timber, isn't it?" ventured the boy, after a time. The boss nodded: "They hain't much of them kind left. If I owned this trac' an' could afford to pay taxes I'd never lay down a stick of it fer ten year--mebbe twenty." "Why not?" "Why not! 'Cause it'll be worth ten dollars where it's worth a dollar now--that's why. Pine's a-goin' up every year, an' they've cut the best of it everywheres except here an' there a strip that fer one reason an' another they couldn't git holt of." "The Syndicate's cutting theirs now, and surely they can afford to pay taxes." Slue Foot grinned: "They wouldn't be cuttin' their white pine along Dogfish if this trac' wasn't bein' cut." "What's that got to do with it?" "Mebbe if you kind of stick around, like I told you, you'll see. I'm one of these here hairpins that never tells no one nawthin' about anythin' 'til the time comes--see?" "You're all right, Slue Foot," laughed the boy. "I guess I'll stick around." "It's a good thing fer you you got sense enough to know who to tie to. No one never made nawthin' workin' fer wages--an' no one ever will." As they drew into Camp Two's clearing Slue Foot cocked a weatherwise eye skyward. "Shouldn't wonder an' the snow'll be comin' tonight or tomorrow--them clouds looks like it. Come on, le's git at them supplies. They's two wagons in a'ready an' two more comin' an' we want to git 'em onloaded by night." Slue Foot called a dozen men to help with the unloading and stowing, and for the rest of the afternoon Connie had his hands full checking off the goods as they were carried past him at the door. At last the task was completed and after supper the boy struck out for Camp One. As he plodded through the jet blackness of the tote road his mind was busy with the problem that confronted him. What should he do? Manifestly the easiest course would be to go straight to Hurley and tell him just what Slue Foot had told him, and let the boss deal with him as he saw fit. But, in that case Hurley would, in all probability, fly off the handle and either discharge Slue Foot or "beat him up" or both. In which event the man would go unpunished for last winter's work, whatever that had been, and worst of all, there would be absolutely no evidence against the Syndicate. And he had no intention of pocketing last year's loss without at least an attempt to recover it and bring its perpetrators to justice. From what he had seen of Hurley, and what Saginaw and Slue Foot had told him, the boy was confident that the big boss was square and honest as the day is long--but there was Mike Gillum, himself an honest man and a friend of Waseche, who had reported that Hurley was in the pay of the Syndicate; and Connie knew that men like Mike Gillum did not lie about other men, nor would they make an open accusation unless reasonably sure of their ground. Therefore there was a bare possibility that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Hurley, unknown to either Slue Foot or Saginaw, was playing into the hand of the Syndicate. "I wonder what's the matter with Saginaw," muttered the boy as he stumbled on through the darkness. "He looked at me kind of funny when we left the office. As if he knows Slue Foot is crooked, and thinks I have thrown in with him." His fists clenched and his lips drew into a hard, straight line. "I'll get to the bottom of it if it takes all winter!" he gritted. "And when I do, someone is going to squirm." Something prickled sharply against his cheek and he glanced upward. He could see nothing in the inky blackness, but the prickling sensation was repeated and he knew that it was snowing. The wind rose and the snow fell faster. By the time he reached the clearing it whitened the ground. The little office was dark as he let himself in. The sound of heavy breathing told him that Saginaw was already in bed, and, without lighting the lamp, he undressed and crawled between his blankets. When Connie awoke the following morning the fire was burning brightly in the stove and Saginaw stood staring out through the little window that showed a translucent grey square against the dark log wall. He turned at the sound of the boy's feet upon the floor. "Snow's held off fer a long time this year, but when she come she come a-plenty," he observed. "Still snowing?" asked the boy, as he wriggled into his clothing. "It started last night while I was coming down from Camp Two." "Yeh, it's still snowin.' Foot deep a'ready an' comin' down in fine flakes an' slantin' like she's a-goin' to keep on snowin'!" "Are you going to begin laying 'em down today?" Saginaw shook his head: "No. I'm a-goin' to set 'em overhaulin' the sleds, an' the sprinkler, an' the drays, an' gittin' the skidways in shape, an' breakin' out the road. It's cold enough fer to make a good bottom an' things ort to go a-whoopin' when this snow lets up." Connie snickered. "I bet Slue Foot's growling this morning, with no roof on his office and blacksmith shop, and his stable and oat house only about half chinked." "He'd growl if his camp was 'lectric lit an' steam het. I'm ready fer breakfast, if the cook's saved us some. You go on over an' I'll be 'long when I git the men strung out." Saginaw filled the stove with chunks and together they left the office, the older man heading for the men's camp, while Connie made directly for the cook's camp. As the boy lowered his head to the sting of the sweeping snow and plodded across the clearing, a feeling of great loneliness came over him, for he knew that there lurked in the man's mind a feeling of distrust--a feeling that he had studiously attempted to conceal. Nothing in the spoken words revealed this distrust, but the boy was quick to note that the voice lacked something of the hearty comradery that had grown up between them. "This is almost like Alaska," Connie muttered, as he breathed deeply of the clean, cold air. "I wish I was in Ten Bow right now--with Waseche Bill, and MacDougall, and Dutch Henry and the rest of 'em--or else over on the Yukon with Big Dan McKeever, and Rickey." The boy's fists clenched within his mittens, as was their habit when he faced a difficult situation. "If it wasn't that Waseche is depending on me to straighten out this mess, I'd strike out for Ten Bow today. But I've just naturally got to see it through--and I've got to go it alone, too. If I should let Saginaw in, and it should turn out that Hurley is crooked, my chance of nailing him would be shot, because Saginaw and Hurley are one, two, three. "The first thing I better do," he decided, as he stamped the snow from his boots before the door of the cook's camp, "is to slip up and see Mike Gillum and find out how he knows Hurley is in the pay of the Syndicate." During the breakfast the boy was unusually silent and when the meal was finished he returned directly to the office, and stood for a long time staring out into the whirling white smother. As he turned to his desk his eye encountered Hurley's snow-shoes hanging from their peg on the opposite wall. "It's only ten miles to Willow River," he muttered, "and I've just got to see Mike Gillum." A moment later he stepped through the door, fastened on the snow-shoes and, hastening across the clearing, plunged into the timber. It was nearly noon when Saginaw Ed returned to the office and found it empty. Almost instantly he noticed that the boss's snow-shoes were missing and he grinned: "Kid's out practising on the rackets, I guess." Then he stepped to the door. The snow had continued to fall steadily--fine, wind-driven flakes that pile up slowly. The trail was very faint, and as the man's eye followed it across the clearing his brows drew into a puzzled frown. "That don't look like no practice trail," he muttered. "No, sir! They ain't no greener ever yet started off like that." He pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger and scowled at the trail. "One of two things: Either the kid ain't the greener he lets on to be, or else someone else has hiked off on the boss's snow-shoes. An' either which way, it's up to me to find out." Crossing swiftly to the cook shack he returned a few minutes later, the pockets of his mackinaw bulging with lunch, and drawing his own snow-shoes from beneath his bunk, struck out upon the fast dimming trail. "I mistrust Slue Foot, an' I didn't like the way he started to bawl out the kid yeste'day. It seemed kind of like it wasn't straight goods. He's a beefer an' a growler, all right, but somehow, this time it seemed as if it was kind of piled on fer my special benefit." In the timber, sheltered from the sweep of the wind, the track had not drifted full, but threaded the woods in a broad, trough-like depression that the woodsman easily followed. Mile after mile it held to the north, dipping into deep ravines, skirting thick windfalls, and crossing steep ridges. As the trail lengthened the man's face hardened. "Whoever's a-hikin' ahead of me ain't no greener an' he ain't walkin' fer fun, neither. He's travellin' as fast as I be, an' he knows where he's a-goin', too." He paused at the top of a high ridge and smote a heavily mittened palm with a mittened fist. "So that's the way of it, eh? I heard how the Syndicate was runnin' a big camp on Willow River--an' this here's the Willow River divide. They ain't only one answer, the kid, or whoever it is I'm a-follerin', has be'n put in here by the Syndicate to keep cases on Hurley's camps--either that, or Slue Foot's in with 'em, an' is usin' the kid fer a go-between. They're pretty smart, all right, headin' way up to this here Willow River camp. They figgered that no one wouldn't pay no 'tention to a trail headin' north, while if it led over to the Syndicate camp on Dogfish someone would spot it in a minute. An' with it snowin' like this, they figgered the trail would drift full, or else look so old no one would bother about it. They ain't only one thing to do, an' that's to go ahead an' find out. What a man knows is worth a heap more'n what he can guess. They's a-goin' to be some big surprises on Dogfish 'fore this winter's over, an' some folks is a-goin' to wish they'd of be'n smarter--or stayed honester." Saginaw descended the slope and, still following the trail, walked steadily for an hour. Suddenly he paused to listen. Distinctly to his ears came the measured thud of pounded iron, punctuated at regular intervals by the metallic ring of a hammer upon an anvil. "It's the Syndicate's Willow River camp," he muttered, and advanced cautiously. Presently he gained the clearing and, skirting it, halted at the edge of a log road that reached back into the timber. The man noted that whoever made the trail had made no attempt to conceal his visit from the Syndicate crew, for the tracks struck into the road which led directly into the clearing. Not a soul was in sight and, hurriedly crossing the road, Saginaw continued to skirt the clearing until he arrived at a point directly opposite a small building that stood by itself midway between the men's camp and the stable. "That had ort to be the office," he said as he studied the lay of the camp and the conformation of the ground. Several large piles of tops lay between the edge of the clearing and the small building, against the back of which had been placed a huge pile of firewood. Across the clearing upon the bank of the river a crew of men were engaged in levelling off the rollways, and other men were busy about the open door of the blacksmith shop, where the forge fire burned brightly. The storm had thinned to a scarcely perceptible downfall and the rising wind whipped the smoke from the stovepipe of the building. "I've got to find out who's in that office," he decided and, suiting the action to the word, moved swiftly from one pile of tops to another, until he gained the shelter of the woodpile. It is a very risky thing to peer into the window of a small room occupied by at least two people in broad daylight, and it was with the utmost caution that Saginaw removed his cap and applied his eye to the extreme corner of the pane. Seated facing each other, close beside the stove, were Connie and Mike Gillum. The boss's hand was upon the boy's knee and he was talking earnestly. At the sight Saginaw could scarce refrain from venting his anger in words. He had seen enough and, dodging quickly back, retraced his steps, and once more gained the shelter of the timber. "So that's yer game, is it, you sneakin' little spy? Takin' advantage of Hurley the minute his back's turned! You've got him fooled, all right. An' you had me fooled, too. You're a smart kid, but you ain't quite smart enough. You can't do no harm now we're onto yer game, an' 'fore them logs hits the water in the spring yer goin' to find out you ain't the only smart one in the timber--you an' Slue Foot, too." It was well past the middle of the afternoon when Saginaw took the back trail and struck out at a long swinging walk for the camp on Dogfish. The flash of anger, engendered by the sight of the boy in friendly conference with the boss of the Syndicate camp, gave way to keen disappointment as he tramped on and on through the timber. He had liked Connie from the first, and as the days went by his regard for the boy, whose brains and nerve had won the respect and admiration of the whole camp, grew. "I've a good mind to git him off to one side an' give him a good straight talk. He ain't like that Steve. Why, doggone it! I couldn't feel no worse about findin' out he's headed wrong, if he was my own boy. An' if he was my own boy, it would be my job to talk things over with him an' try to steer him straight, instead of layin' for to catch him in some crooked work an' send him over the road for it. By gum, I'll do it, too! An' I'll give it to him right straight, without no fancy trimmin's neither. Tonight'll be a good time when him an' I'll be alone." His cogitations had carried him to within a mile of Camp Two, which the trail carefully avoided, when suddenly, at the bottom of a deep ravine, a man stepped in front of him: "Hands up!" It was some seconds before Saginaw realized that he was staring straight into the muzzle of a rifle that the man held within six inches of his nose. Two other men stepped from behind trees and joined the leader. "Makes a difference which end of the gun yer at when ye hear them words, don't it?" sneered the man, and in the deep twilight of the thick woods Saginaw recognized the men as the three I. W. W.'s that he and Connie had arrested in their attempt to burn the stable. Also he recognized the boss's rifle. "Where's Hurley?" he cried, as full realization of the situation forced itself upon him. "I said _'hands up'!_" reminded the man with the gun, "an' I meant it. An' if I wus you I'd put 'em up. I guess when we git through with ye ye'll think twict before ye lock folks up in a oat house to freeze to death all night--you an' that smart alec kid." "Where's Hurley?" repeated Saginaw, with arms upraised. The man laughed, coarsely: "Hurley, we fixed his clock fer him. An' we'll fix yourn, too. We'll learn ye to fool with the I. W. W. when it's a-goin' about its business. An' we'll learn everyone else, too. We're stronger 'n the law, an' stronger 'n the Government, an' when we git ready we'll show the bosses an' the capitalists where to git off at!" "You're a bunch of dirty crooks, an' thieves, an' murderers--an' you ain't got the brains to show nobody nawthin'." "Search him!" commanded the leader, his face livid with rage. "We'll show you somethin', 'fore we git through with you--jest like we showed Hurley. Come on, now, git a move on. We got to see a party an' git holt of some grub. 'Fore we git started, though, ye kin jest take off them snow-shoes, I kin use 'em myself, an' you kin see how it feels to waller through the snow like we be'n doin'." The transfer was soon accomplished, and marching Saginaw before them, the three headed off at a right angle from the trail. CHAPTER X CONNIE DOES SOME TRAILING Connie Morgan halted abruptly and stared down at the snow. At the point where, a couple of hours before, he had emerged into the tote road, another, fresher, snow-shoe track crossed the road and struck out upon his back trail. For some moments he studied the track, his trained eye taking every slightest detail. "Whoever it was followed my trail to here, and for some reason didn't want to follow it on into the clearing. So he kept on, and it wasn't long before he took the back trail." He bent closer, and when he once more stood erect his face was very grave. "It's Saginaw," he muttered. "I helped him restring that left racket." Swiftly the boy followed the tracks to the point where the man had struck into the clearing at the rear of the little office. "He followed me and found me talking to Mike Gillum." [Illustration: SWIFTLY THE BOY FOLLOWED THE TRACKS TO THE POINT WHERE THE MAN HAD STRUCK INTO THE CLEARING.] As Connie struck out on the back trail he smiled grimly: "Gee, I bet he thinks I'm a bad one. He knows the Syndicate put one over on Hurley last winter, and now he thinks I'm hand in glove with 'em. I would like to have run this thing down alone, but I guess I'll have to let Saginaw in on it now. Maybe he won't believe me, and maybe Hurley won't, and then I'll get fired! Anyhow, he broke a good trail for me," grinned the boy as he swung swiftly through the timber. Travelling light, he made rapid progress, and as he walked, his brain was busy trying to solve his riddle of the woods. Mike Gillum had told him that he had worked on several jobs with Hurley, that he was a good lumberman, that he could handle men, and get out the logs. Knowing this, he had recommended him to Waseche Bill, as foreman of his camp. Gillum said that by accident he had seen Hurley's name on the Syndicate pay roll and had asked one of the clerks in the office about it, and that the clerk had winked and told him that Hurley was well worth all the Syndicate paid him because he was boss of an independent outfit that was logging up on Dogfish. It was then that Gillum had written to Waseche Bill. He had known nothing of the latter's loss of last winter until Connie had told him at the time of their first meeting. Despite the man's statements, Connie could not bring himself to believe that Hurley was guilty. "There's a mistake somewhere," he muttered as he trudged on, "and I've got to find out where. I can't let Hurley in on it, because he's hot-headed and he'd jump in and spoil every chance we had of catching the real culprit, or, if he is mixed up in it, he'd have all the chance in the world to cover his tracks so I never could prove anything on him. But he isn't guilty!" This last was uttered aloud and with the emphasis of conviction. For the life of him the boy could not have given a good and sufficient reason for this conviction. Indeed, all reason was against it. But the conviction was there, and the reason for the conviction was there--even if the boy could not have told it--and it ran a great deal deeper than he knew. From the moment three years before, when he had landed, a forlorn and friendless little figure, upon the dock at Anvik, he had been thrown among men--men crude and rough as the land they lived in. His daily associates had been good men--and bad. He had known good men with deplorable weaknesses, and bad men with admirable virtues. In his association with these men of the lean, lone land the boy had unconsciously learned to take keen measure of men. And, having taken his measure, he accepted a man at his worth. The boy knew that Mike Gillum had not lied to him--that under no circumstances would he lie to injure another. But, despite the man's positive statement, Connie's confidence in Hurley remained unshaken. Hurley had assumed a definite place in his scheme of things, and it would take evidence much more tangible than an unsubstantiated statement to displace him. Under the heavily overcast sky and the thickly interlaced branches of the pines, daylight passed into twilight, and twilight fast deepened to darkness as the boy pushed on through the forest. Suddenly he halted. To his surprise, the trail he was following turned abruptly to the west. He knew that the fresher tracks of Saginaw's snow-shoes had been laid over his own back trail, and he knew that he had made no right angle turn in his trip to Willow River. Bending close to the snow he made out in the deep gloom other tracks--the tracks of three men who had not worn snow-shoes. The three had evidently intercepted Saginaw and a powwow had ensued, for there had been much trampling about in the snow. Then Saginaw had abandoned his course and accompanied the men to the westward. [Illustration: THE BOY HASTENED UNNOTICED TO THE EDGE OF A CROWD OF MEN THAT ENCIRCLED FRENCHY LAMAR.] "Camp Two is west of here," muttered the boy. "I guess the men were part of Slue Foot's crew, and he went over to the camp with 'em." Darkness prevented him from noting that the trail that led to the westward was a clumsier trail than Saginaw would have made, or he never would have dismissed the matter so lightly from his mind. As it was, he continued upon his course for Camp One, where he arrived nearly an hour later to find the camp in a turmoil. The boy hastened, unnoticed, to the edge of a crowd of men that encircled Frenchy Lamar, who talked as fast as he could in an almost unintelligible jargon, which he punctuated with shrugs, and wild-flung motions of his arms. [Illustration] "_Oui_, dat be'n w'en de las' of de Camp Two tote teams be'n pass 'bout de half hour. We com' 'long by de place w'er de road she twis' 'roun an' slant down de steep ravine. Woof! Rat on de trail stan' de leetle black bear, an', _Sacre!_ Ma leaders git so scare dey stan' oop on de hine leg lak dey gon for dance. Dey keek, dey jomp, dey plonge, an', _Voila!_ Dem wheelers git crazy too. I'm got ma han' full, an' plenty mor', too, an' de nex' t'ing I'm fin' out dey jomp de wagon oop on de beeg stomp an' she teep ovaire so queek lak you kin say Jac Robinshon. Crack! Ma reach she brek in two an' ma front ax' she git jerk loose from de wagon an' de nex' t'ing I'm drag by de lines 'cross de creek so fas' dat tear ma coat, ma shirt, ma pants mos' lak de ribbon. I'm bomp ma head, an' lose ma cap, an' scratch ma face, but by gar, I'm hang holt de lines, an' by-m-by dem horse dey git tire to haul me roun' by de mout', and dey stan' still a minute on top de odder side. I'm look back an', _Sacre!_ Hurley is lay on de groun' an' de boss I. W. W. is hit heem on de head wit' de gon. De res' is cuttin' loose deir han's. I'm yell on dem to queet poun' on de boss head, wit de rifle, an' de nex' t'ing I'm know: Zing! de bullet com' so clos' eet mak de win' on ma face, an' de nex' t'ing, Zing! Dat bullet she sting de horse an' I'm just got tam to jomp oop on de front ax', an' de horses start out lak she got far business away from here queek. Dey ron so fas' I'm got to hol' on wit' ma han's, wit' ma feet! Dem horses ron so fas' lak de train, dem wheels jomp feefty feet high, an' dey only com' on de groun' 'bout once every half a mile an' den I'm git poun', an' bomp, an' rattle, 'til I'm so black lak de, w'at you call, de niggaire! "De neares' doctaire, she down to Birch Lak'. I'm leave ma team een de store-keeper stable, an' Ol' Man Niles she say de train don' stop no mor' today, so I can't go to Birch Lak' 'til mornin'. I t'ink, by gar, I'm mak' de train stop, so I'm push de beeg log on de track an' lay on ma belly in de weeds, an' pret' soon de train com' long an' she see de beeg log an' she stop queek, an' dey all ron opp front an' I'm climb on an' tak' de seat in de smokaire. De train go 'long w'en dey git de log shov' off, an' de conductaire, he com' long an' seen me sit dere. 'We're you git on dis train?' she say, an' I'm tell heem I'm git on to Dogfish, w'en de train stop. 'I'm goin' to Birch Lak' for git de doctaire for man w'at git keel,' I'm say, an' he say de train don' stop to Birch Lak', neider. She t'rough train, an' we'n we git to de firs' stop, she gon' for hav' me arres'. I ain' say no mor' an' I'm look out de window, an' de conductaire she go an' set down in de back of de car. De train she gon' ver' fas' an' by-m-by she com' to de breege, an' Birch Lak' is wan half mile. "I'm travel on de car before, an' I'm see dem stop de train mor' as once to put off de lumbaire-jack w'en dey git to fightin' _Voila!_ I'm jomp oop on ma feet ver' queek an' pull two, t'ree tam on de leetle rope, an' de las' tam I'm pull so hard she bre'k in two. De train she stop so queek she mak' fellers bomp 'roun' in de seat, an' de conductaire she so mad she lak to bus', an' she holler ver' mooch, an' com' ronnin' down de middle. She ain' ver' beeg man, an' I'm reach down queek, de nex' t'ing she know she light on de head in de middle w'ere four fellers is playin' cards. Den, I'm ron an' jomp off de car an' fin' de doctaire. Dat gittin' dark, now, an' she startin' to snow, an' de doctaire she say we can't go to Dogfish 'til mornin', day ain' no mor' train. I'm see de han' car down by de track, but de doctaire she say we ain' can tak' dat for 'cause we git arres'. But I'm laugh on heem, an' I'm say I'm tak' dat han' car, 'cause I'm got to git arres' anyhow--but firs' dey got to ketch--eh? So I'm tak' a rock an' bus' de lock an' we lif' her on de track an' com' to Dogfish. Ol' Man Niles she tak' hees team an' gon' oop an' got Hurley an' de cookee, an' breeng heem to de store. De doctaire she feex de boss oop, an' she say eef eet ain' for dat cookee stay 'roun' an' mak' de blood quit comin', Hurley she would be dead befor' we com' long. Dis mornin' I'm tak' ma team an' Ol Man Niles's wagon an' com' to de camp. Hurley she won' go to de hospital, lak de doctaire say, so de doctaire she com' 'long. Eet tak' me all day long, de snow she so d'ep, an' by gar----" Connie left in the middle of the Frenchman's discourse and hurried into the office. In his bunk, with his head swathed in bandages, lay Hurley. The doctor stood beside the stove and watched Steve feed the injured man gruel from a spoon. The big boss opened his eyes as the boy entered. He smiled faintly, and with ever so slight a motion of his head indicated Steve: "An' I said they wasn't the worth of a lath in his hide," he muttered and nodded weakly as Connie crossed swiftly to the boy's side and shook his hand. Hurley's voice dropped almost to a whisper: "I'll be laid up fer a couple of days. Tell Saginaw to--keep--things--goin'." "I'll tell him," answered Connie, grimly, and, as the boss's eyes closed, stepped to his own bunk and, catching up the service revolver from beneath the blankets, hurried from the room. Connie Morgan was a boy that experience and training had taught to think quickly. When he left the office it was with the idea of heading a posse of lumberjacks in the capture of the three I. W. W.'s, for from the moment he heard of their escape the boy realized that these were the three men who had intercepted Saginaw Ed on his return from Willow River. His one thought was to rescue the captive, for well he knew that, having Saginaw in their power, the thugs would stop at nothing in venting their hatred upon the helpless man. As he hurried toward the crowd in front of the men's camp his brain worked rapidly. Fifty men in the woods at night would make fifty times as much noise as one man. Then again, what would the men do if they should catch the three? The boy paused for a moment at the corner of the oat house. There was only one answer to _that_ question. The answer had been plain even before the added outrage of the attack upon Hurley--and Hurley was liked by his men. Stronger than ever became the boy's determination to have the I. W. W.'s dealt with by the law. There must be no posse. His mind swung to the other alternative. If he went alone he could follow swiftly and silently. The odds would be three against one--but the three had only one gun between them. He fingered the butt of his revolver confidently. "I can wing the man with the gun, and then cover the others," he muttered, "and besides, I'll have all the advantage of knowing what I'm up against while they think they're safe. Dan McKeever was strong for that. I guess I'll go it alone." Having arrived at this decision the boy crossed the clearing to the men's camp where he singled out Swede Larson from the edge of the crowd. "Saginaw and I've got some special work to do," he whispered; "you keep the men going 'til we get back." Without waiting for a reply, he hastened to the oat house, fastened on his snow-shoes, and slipped into the timber. It was no hardship, even in the darkness, for him to follow the snow-shoe trail, and to the point where the others had left it his progress was rapid. The snow had stopped falling, and great rifts appeared in the wind-driven clouds. Without hesitation Connie swung into the trail of the four men. He reasoned that they would not travel far because when they had intercepted Saginaw there could not have been more than two or three hours of daylight left. The boy followed swiftly along the trail, pausing frequently to listen, and as he walked he puzzled over the fact that the men had returned to the vicinity of the camp, when obviously they should have made for the railway and placed as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of their crimes. He dismissed the thought of their being lost, for all three were woodsmen. Why, then, had they returned? Suddenly he halted and shrank into the shelter of a windfall. Upon the branches of the pine trees some distance ahead his eye caught the faint reflection of a fire. Very cautiously he left the trail and, circling among the trees, approached the light from the opposite direction. Nearer and nearer he crept until he could distinctly see the faces of the four men. Crouching behind a thick tree trunk, he could see that the men had no blankets, and that they huddled close about the fire. He could see Saginaw with his hands tied, seated between two of the others. Suddenly, beyond the fire, apparently upon the back trail of the men, a twig snapped. Instantly one of the three leaped up, rifle in hand, and disappeared in the woods. Connie waited in breathless suspense. Had Swede Larson followed him? Or had someone else taken up the trail? In a few moments the man returned and, taking Saginaw by the arm, jerked him roughly to his feet and, still gripping the rifle, hurried him into the woods away from the trail. They passed close to Connie, and the boy thanked his lucky star that he had circled to the north instead of the south, or they would have immediately blundered onto his trail. A short distance further on, and just out of sight of the camp fire, they halted, and the man gave a low whistle. Instantly another man stepped into the circle of the firelight--a man bearing upon his back a heavily laden pack surmounted by several pairs of folded blankets. He tossed the pack into the snow and greeted the two men who remained at the fire with a grin. Then he produced a short black pipe, and, as he stooped to pick up a brand from the fire, Connie stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. The newcomer was the boss of Camp Two! CHAPTER XI CONNIE FINDS AN ALLY "Wher's Pierce?" asked Slue Foot Magee, as he glanced down upon the two figures that crouched close about the little fire. "He went on ahead to hunt a place to camp. We waited to pack the stuff," lied the man, nodding toward the pack sack that the boss of Camp Two had deposited in the snow. "I sure was surprised when Sam, here, popped out of the woods an' told me ye'd got away an' needed blankets an' grub. Wha'd ye do to Hurley? An' how come ye didn't hit fer the railroad an' make yer git-away?" "We beat Hurley up a-plenty so'st he won't be in no hurry to take no I. W. W.'s nowheres ag'in. An' as fer hittin' fer the railroad, it's too cold fer to ride the rods or the bumpers, an' we hain't got a dollar between us. You'll have to stake us fer the git-away." Slue Foot frowned: "I hain't got a cent, neither. Come into the woods on credick--an' hain't draw'd none." "That's a fine mess we're in!" exclaimed the leader angrily. "How fer d' ye figger we're a-goin' to git on what little grub ye fetched in that pack? An' wher' we goin' to--bein' as we're broke? We hit back fer you 'cause we know'd ye stood strong in the organization an' we had a right to think ye'd see us through." "I'll see ye through!" growled Slue Foot, impatiently. "But I can't give ye nawthin' I hain't got, kin I?" He stood for a few moments staring into the fire, apparently in deep thought. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "The Syndicate's got a camp 'bout ten mile north of here on Willer River. They're short handed an' the boss'll hire anything he kin git. Seen him in town 'fore I come out, an' he wanted to hire me, but I was already hired to Hurley--got a boss's job, too, an' that's better'n what I'd got out of him. If youse fellers hadn't of be'n in such a hurry to pull somethin' an' had of waited 'til I come, ye wouldn't of botched the job an' got caught." "Is that so!" flared the leader. "I s'pose we'd ort to know'd ye was goin' to be hired on this job! An' I s'pose our instructions is not to pull no rough stuff onless you're along to see it's done right!" "They hain't nawthin' in standin' 'round argerin'," interrupted Slue Foot. "What I was a-goin' on to say is that youse better hike on up to Willer River an' git ye a job. There's grub enough in the pack to last ye twict that fer." "Wher'll we tell the boss we come from? 'Taint in reason we'd hit that fer into the woods huntin' a job." "Tell him ye got sore on me an' quit. If they's any questions asked I'll back ye up." The leader of the I. W. W.'s looked at Sam, and Sam looked at the leader. They were in a quandary. For reasons of their own they had not told Slue Foot that they had picked up Saginaw--and with Saginaw on their hands, how were they going to follow out the boss's suggestion? Behind his big tree, Connie Morgan had been an interested listener. He knew why the men stared blankly at each other, and chuckled to himself at their predicament. "What's to hinder someone from Camp One a-trailin' us up there?" suggested Sam. "Trailin' ye! How they goin' to trail ye? It was a-snowin' clean up to the time ye got to Camp Two, an' if any one sees yer tracks around there I'll say I sent some men up that way fer somethin'. An' besides," he continued, glancing upward where the clouds that had thinned into flying scuds had thickened again, obliterating the stars, "this storm hain't over yet. It'll be snowin' ag'in 'fore long an' ye won't leave no more trail'n a canoe. Anyways, that's the best way I kin think of. If you've got a better one go to it--I've done all I kin fer ye." There was finality in Slue Foot's voice as he drew on his mittens, and turned from the fire. "So long, an' good luck to ye." "So long," was the rather surly rejoinder. "If that's the best we kin do, I s'pose we gotta do it. Mebbe if it starts snowin' we're all right, an' if we make it, we'll be safer up there than what we would down along the railroad, anyways. They won't be no one a-huntin' us in the woods." "Sure they won't," agreed Slue Foot, as he passed from sight into the timber. The two beside the fire sat in silence until the sound of Slue Foot's footsteps was swallowed up in the distance. Then Sam spoke: "What we goin' to do with this here Saginaw?" he asked. The leader glanced skyward. "It's startin' to snow--" he leered and, stopping abruptly, rose to his feet. "Wait till we git Pierce in here." Producing some pieces of rope from his pocket, he grinned. "Lucky I fetched these along when I cut 'em off my hands. We'll give him a chanct to see how it feels to be tied up onct." The man stepped into the timber and a few minutes later returned accompanied by Pierce, to whom they immediately began to relate what had passed between them and the boss of Camp Two. The moment they seated themselves about the fire, Connie slipped from his hiding place behind the tree and stole noiselessly toward the spot where the men had left Saginaw. Snow was falling furiously now, adding the bewildering effect of its whirling flakes to the intense blackness of the woods. Removing his snow-shoes to avoid leaving a wide, flat trail, the boy stepped into the tracks of the two who had returned to the fire and, a few moments later, was bending over a dark form that sat motionless with its back against the trunk of a tree. "It's me, Saginaw," he whispered, as the keen edge of his knife blade severed the ropes that bound the man's hands and feet. [Illustration: "WHAT IN THE NAME OF TIME BE YOU DOIN' HERE?" EXCLAIMED SAGINAW.] The man thrust his face close to Connie's in the darkness. "What in the name of time be you doin' here?" he exclaimed. "Sh-sh-sh," whispered the boy. "Come on, we've got to get away in a hurry. There's no tellin' how soon those fellows will finish their powwow." "What do you mean--git away? When we git away from here we take them birds along, er my name ain't Saginaw Ed! On top of tryin' to burn up the camp they've up an' murdered Hurley, an' they'd of done the like by me, if they'd be'n give time to!" "We'll get them, later. I know where they're going. What we've got to do is to beat it. Step in my tracks so they won't know there were two of us. They'll think you cut yourself loose and they won't try to follow in the dark, especially if the storm holds." "But them hounds has got my rackets." "I've got mine, and when we get away from here I'll put 'em on and break trail for you." "Look a here, you give me yer gun an' I'll go in an' clean up on them desperadoes. I'll show 'em if the I. W. W.'s is goin' to run the woods! I'll----" "Come on! I tell you we can get 'em whenever we want 'em----" "I'll never want 'em no worse'n I do right now." "Hurley's all right, I saw him a little while ago." "They said they----" "I don't care what they said. Hurley's down in the office, right now. Come on, and when we put a few miles behind us, I'll tell you all you want to know." "You'll tell a-plenty, then," growled Saginaw, only half convinced. "An' here's another thing--if you're double crossin' me, you're a-goin' to wish you never seen the woods." The boy's only answer was a laugh, and he led, swiftly as the intense darkness would permit, into the woods. They had gone but a short distance when he stopped and put on his rackets. After that progress was faster, and Saginaw Ed, mushing along behind, wondered at the accuracy with which the boy held his course in the blackness and the whirling snow. A couple of hours later, Connie halted in the shelter of a thick windfall. "We can rest up for a while, now," he said, "and I'll tell you some of things you want to know." "Where do you figger we're at?" asked Saginaw, regarding the boy shrewdly. "We're just off the tote road between the two camps," answered the boy without hesitation. A moment of silence followed the words and when he spoke the voice of Saginaw sounded hard: "I've be'n in the woods all my life, an' it would of bothered me to hit straight fer camp on a night like this. They's somethin' wrong here somewheres, kid--an' the time's come fer a showdown. I don't git you, at all! You be'n passin' yerself off fer a greener. Ever sence you went out an' got that deer I've know'd you wasn't--but I figgered it worn't none of my business. Then when you out-figgered them hounds--that worn't no greener's job, an' I know'd that--but, I figgered you was all to the good. But things has happened sence, that ain't all to the good--by a long shot. You've got some explainin' to do, an' seein' we're so clost to camp, we better go on to the office an' do it around the stove." "We wouldn't get much chance to powwow in the office tonight. Hurley's there, and the doctor, and Steve, and Lon Camden." "The doctor?" "Yes, those fellows beat Hurley up pretty bad, but he's coming along all right. Steve stayed by him, and the doctor said it saved his life." "You don't mean that sneakin' cookee that throw'd in with the I. W. W.?" "Yup." "Well, I'll be doggoned! But, them bein' in the office don't alter the case none. We might's well have things open an' above board." Connie leaned forward and placed his hand on the man's arm. "What I've got to say, I want to say to you, and to no one else. I wanted to play the game alone, but while I was trailing you down from Willow River, I decided I'd have to let you in on it." "You know'd I follered you up there?" "Of course I knew it. Didn't I help you string that racket?" Saginaw shook his head in resignation. "We might's well have it out right here," he said. "I don't git you. First off, you figger how to catch them jaspers with the goods an' lock 'em up. Then you throw in with Slue Foot. Then you hike up to the Syndicate camp an' is thicker'n thieves with the boss. Then you pop up in a blizzard in the middle of the night an' cut me loose. Then you turn 'round an' let them hounds go when we could of nailed 'em where they set--seems like you've bit off quite a contract to make all them things jibe. Go ahead an' spit 'er out--an' believe me, it'll be an earful! First, though, you tell me where them I. W. W.'s is goin' an' how you know. If I ain't satisfied, I'm a-goin' to hit right back an' git 'em while the gittin's good." "They're going up to work for the Syndicate in the Willow River Camp." "Know'd they was loose an' slipped up to git 'em a job, did you?" asked Saginaw sarcastically. Connie grinned. "No. But there's a big job ahead of you and me this winter--to save the timber and clear Hurley's name." "What do you know about Hurley an' the timber?" "Not as much as I will by spring. But I do know that we lost $14,000 on this job last winter. You see, I'm one of the owners." "One of the owners!" Saginaw exclaimed incredulously. "Yes. I've got the papers here to prove it. You couldn't read 'em in the dark, so you'll have to take my word for it 'til we get where you can read 'em. Waseche Bill is my partner and we live in Ten Bow, Alaska. Soon after Hurley's report reached us, showing the loss, a letter came from Mike Gillum, saying that Hurley was in the pay of the Syndicate----" "He's a liar!" cried Saginaw wrathfully shaking his mittened fist in Connie's face. "I've know'd Hurley, man an' boy, an' they never was a squarer feller ever swung an axe. Who is this here Mike Gillum? Lead me to him! I'll tell him to his face he's a liar, an' then I'll prove it by givin' him the doggonest lickin' he ever got--an' I don't care if he's big as a meetin' house door, neither!" "Wait a minute, Saginaw, and listen. I know Hurley's square. But I didn't know it until I got acquainted with him. I came clear down from Alaska to catch him with the goods, and that's why I hired out to him. But, Mike Gillum is square, too. He's boss of the Syndicate camp on Willow River. A clerk in the Syndicate office told him that the Syndicate was paying Hurley, and Mike wrote to Waseche Bill. He's a friend of Waseche's--used to prospect in Alaska----" "I don't care if he used to prospeck in heaven! He's a liar if he says Hurley ever double crossed any one!" "Hold on, I think I've got an idea of what's going on here and it will be up to us to prove it. The man that's doing the double crossing is Slue Foot Magee. I didn't like his looks from the minute I first saw him. Then he began to hint that there were ways a forty-dollar-a-month clerk could double his wages, and when I pretended to fall in with his scheme he said that when they begin laying 'em down he'll show me how to shade the cut. And more than that, he said he had something big he'd let me in on later, provided I kept my eyes and ears open to what went on in the office." "An' you say you an' yer pardner owns this here timber?" "That's just what I said." "Then Slue Foot's ondertook to show you a couple of schemes where you kin steal consider'ble money off yerself?" Connie laughed. "That's it, exactly." Saginaw Ed remained silent for several moments. "Pervidin' you kin show them papers, an' from what I've saw of you, I ain't none surprised if you kin, how come it that yer pardner sent a kid like you way down here on what any one ort to know would turn out to be a rough job anyways you look at it?" "He didn't send me--I came. He wanted to come himself, but at that time we thought it was Hurley we were after, and Hurley knows Waseche so he could never have found out anything, even if he had come down. And besides, I've had quite a lot of experience in jobs like this. I served a year with the Mounted." "The Mounted! You don't mean the Canady Mounted Police!" "Yes, I do." There was another long silence, then the voice of Saginaw rumbled almost plaintively through the dark, "Say, kid, you ain't never be'n _President_, have you?" Connie snickered. "No, I've never been President. And if there's nothing else you want to know right now, let's hit the hay. We've both done some man's size mushing today." "You spoke a word, kid," answered Saginaw, rising to his feet; "I wouldn't put no crookedness whatever past Slue Foot. But that didn't give this here Gillum no license to blackguard Hurley in no letter." "Has Hurley ever worked for the Syndicate?" asked Connie. "No, he ain't. I know every job he's had in Minnesoty an' Westconsin. Then he went out West to Idyho, or Montany, or somewheres, an' this here's the first job he's had sence he come back." "What I've been thinking is that Slue Foot has passed himself off to the Syndicate as Hurley. They know that Hurley is boss of this camp, but they don't know him by sight. It's a risky thing to do, but I believe Slue Foot has done it." "Well, jumpin' Jerushelam! D'you s'pose he'd of dared?" "That's what we've got to find out--and we've got to do it alone. You know Hurley better than I do, and you know that he's hot-headed, and you know that if he suspected Slue Foot of doing that, he couldn't wait to get the evidence so we could get him with the goods. He'd just naturally sail into him and beat him to a pulp." Saginaw chuckled. "Yes, an' then he'd squeeze the juice out of the pulp to finish off with. I guess yer right, kid. It's up to me an' you. But how'd you know them I. W. W.'s is headin' fer Willer River?" "Because I heard Slue Foot tell them to." "Slue Foot!" "Yes, I forgot to tell you that Slue Foot is an I. W. W., too. I didn't know it myself 'til tonight. You see, when I got back to camp and found that Hurley's prisoners had made a get-away, I knew right then why you had turned off the back trail from Willow River. I knew they'd treat you like they did Hurley, or worse, so I hit the trail." "Wasn't they no one else handy you could of brung along?" asked Saginaw, drily. "The whole camp would have jumped at the chance--and you know it! And you know what they'd have done when they caught 'em. I knew I could travel faster and make less noise than a big gang, and I knew I could handle the job when I got there. I had slipped up and was watching when Pierce took you into the timber. He did that because they heard someone coming. It was Slue Foot, and he brought 'em a grub stake and some blankets. They knew he was an I. W. W., and they'd managed to slip him the word that they were loose. They wanted him to stake them to some money, too, but Slue Foot said he didn't have any, and told them to get a job up on Willow River. He told them they'd be safer there than they would anywhere down along the railroad." "Yes, but how'd you know they'll go there?" "They can't go any place else," laughed the boy. "They're broke, and they've only got a little bit of grub." "When we goin' up an' git 'em?" persisted Saginaw. "We'll let the sheriff do that for us, then the whole thing will be according to law." "I guess that's right," assented the man, as the two swung down the tote road. "We'd better roll in in the men's camp," suggested Connie, as they reached the clearing. A little square of light from the office window showed dimly through the whirling snow, and, approaching noiselessly, the two peeked in. Mounded blankets covered the sleeping forms of the doctor and Lon Camden; Hurley's bandaged head was visible upon his coarse pillow, and beside him sat Steve, wide awake, with the bottles of medicine within easy reach. "Half past one!" exclaimed Saginaw, glancing at the little clock. "By jiminetty, kid, it's time we was to bed!" CHAPTER XII SHADING THE CUT It was nine o'clock the following morning when Connie was awakened by someone bending over him. It was Saginaw, and the boy noticed that his cap and mackinaw were powdered with snow. "Still snowing, eh? Why didn't you wake me up before?" "It's 'bout quit, an' as fer wakin' you up," he grinned, "I didn't hardly dast to. If I was the owner of an outfit an' any doggone lumberjack woke me up 'fore I was good an' ready I'd fire him." "Oh, you want to see my papers, do you?" grinned Connie. "Well, I might take a squint at 'em. But that ain't what I come fer. The boss is a whole lot better, an' the doctor's a-goin' back. What I want to know is, why can't he swear out them warrants ag'in them three I. W. W.'s an' have it over with? I didn't say nothin' to Hurley 'bout them bein' located, er he'd of riz up an' be'n half ways to Willer River by now." "Sure, he can swear out the warrants! I'll slip over to the office and get their names out of the time book, and while I'm gone you might look over these." The boy selected several papers from a waterproof wallet which he drew from an inner pocket and passed them over to Saginaw, then he finished dressing and hurried over to the office. Hurley was asleep, and, copying the names from the book, Connie returned to the men's camp. "You're the goods all right," said Saginaw, admiringly, as he handed back the papers. "From now on I'm with you 'til the last gap, as the feller says. You've got more right down nerve than I ever know'd a kid could have, an' you've got the head on you to back it. Yer good enough fer me--you say the word, an' I go the limit." He stuck out his hand, which Connie gripped strongly. "You didn't have to tell me that, Saginaw," answered the boy, gravely, "if you had, you would never have had the chance." Saginaw Ed removed his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. "That there'll strike through 'bout dinner time, I guess. But I suspicion what you mean, an'--I'm obliged." "Here are the names for the doctor--better tell him to swear out warrants both for arson and for attempted murder." "Yes, sir," answered Saginaw, respectfully. "Yes, _what!_" The man grinned sheepishly. "Why--I guess--bein' I was talkin' to the owner----" "Look here, Saginaw," interrupted the boy, wrathfully, "you just forget this 'owner' business, and don't you start 'siring' me! What do you want to do--give this whole thing away? Up where I live they don't call a man 'sir' just because he happens to have a little more dust than somebody else. It ain't the 'Misters' and the 'Sirs' that are the big men up there; it's the 'Bills' and the 'Jacks' and the 'Scotties' and the 'Petes'--men that would get out and mush a hundred miles to carry grub to a scurvy camp instead of sitting around the stove and hiring someone else to do it--men that have gouged gravel and stayed with the game, bucking the hardest winters in the world, sometimes with only half enough to eat--men with millions, and men that don't own the tools they work with! My own father was one of 'em. 'The unluckiest man in Alaska,' they called him! He never made a strike, but you bet he was a man! There isn't a man that knew him, from Skagway to Candle, and from Candle to Dawson and beyond, that isn't proud to call him friend. Sam Morgan they call him--and they don't put any 'Mister' in front of it, either!" Saginaw Ed nodded slowly, and once more he seized the boy's hand in a mighty grip. "I git you, kid. I know they's a lot of good men up in your country--but, somehow, I've got a hunch they kind of overlooked a bet when they're callin' your pa onlucky." He took the slip of paper upon which Connie had written the names. At the door he turned. "We begin layin' 'em down today," he said. "Shouldn't wonder an' what Slue Foot'll be down 'fore very long fer to give you yer first lesson." "Hurley will think I'm a dandy, showing up at ten o'clock in the morning." "Never you mind that," said Saginaw; "I fixed that part up all right--told him you was up 'til after one o'clock helpin' me git things strung out fer to begin work today." Connie bolted a hasty breakfast, and, as he made his way from the cook's camp to the office, sounds came from the woods beyond the clearing--the voices of men calling loudly to each other as they worked, the ring of axes, and the long crash of falling trees. The winter's real work had begun, and Connie smiled grimly as he thought of the cauldron of plot and counter-plot that was seething behind the scenes in the peaceful logging camp. The boy found Hurley much improved, although still weak from the effects of the terrible beating he had received at the hands of the escaped prisoners. The big boss fumed and fretted at his enforced inactivity, and bewailed the fact that he had given the doctor his word that he would stay in his bunk for at least two days longer. "An' ut's partly yer fault, wid yer talk av th' law--an' partly mine fer listenin' to yez," he complained fiercely, in rich brogue, as Connie sat at his desk. The boy's shoulders drooped slightly under the rebuke, but he answered nothing. Suddenly Hurley propped himself up on his elbow. "Phy don't yez tell me Oi'm a big liar?" he roared. "Ye was right, an' Oi know ut. Don't pay no heed to me, kid. Oi've got a grouch fer lettin' them shpalpeens git away. Furst Oi was thryin' to lay ut on Frinchy, an' him the bist teamster in th' woods! Ut's loike a sp'ilt b'y Oi am, thryin' to blame somewan f'r what c'udn't be helped at all. Ut was an accident all togither, an' a piece av bad luck--an' there's an end to ut. Bring me over yer book, now, an' Oi'll show ye about kaypin' thim logs." [Illustration: "PHY DON'T YEZ TELL ME OI'M A BIG LIAR?" HE ROARED.] 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." CHAPTER XIII SAGINAW ED HUNTS A CLUE "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?" [Illustration: "PHWAT D'YEZ WANT?" HE WHINED.] "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!" CHAPTER XIV A PAIR OF SOCKS 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." [Illustration: "WHAT'S THIS?" ASKED THE BOY, PUSHING UP A SMALL BUNDLE.] "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." CHAPTER XV HURLEY PREPARES FOR THE DRIVE 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. CHAPTER XVI SLUE FOOT "COMES ACROSS" 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? "An speakin' of I. W. W.'s--them Germans is slick some ways, an' blamed fools in another. With the I. W. W.'s. threatenin' the timber interests, these here Germans, that owns more mills an' standin' timber than any one else, is eggin' 'em on an' slippin' 'em money to keep 'em goin'. The I. W. W.'s., don't know that--an' I wouldn't neither except fer a lucky accident, an' I cashed in on it, too." The man paused and grinned knowingly. "In Duluth, it was, we pulled off a meetin' right under the nose of the police, an' not one of 'em in the hall. Called it a Socialist meetin', an' word was passed that they was a feller name of Mueller, from Germany, a student that was wised up to every wrinkle from blowin' up dams to wipin' out the Government. He come with greetin's from the 'brothers acrost the sea,' he said, an' what was more to the point, he brung along a nice fat package of cash money which he claimed had be'n raised by subscription fer to help the cause over here. I listened an' kep' a studyin' about where I'd saw this here Mueller before, but it didn't stand to reason I had, an' him just over from Germany. But they was somethin' about him made me sure I know'd him. He was dressed cheap an' wore glasses half an inch thick, an' they hadn't no barber be'n into his hair fer quite a spell; he'd needed a shave fer about three weeks, too, an' he looked like a reg'lar b'ilin' out wouldn't of hurt him none. Anyways, before the meetin' was over, I'd spotted him, so 'long about midnight, after the meetin' had be'n over about an hour I loafs down to the hotel. It was a cheap dump, a hang-out fer lumberjacks an' lake sailors, an' I know'd the clerk an' didn't have no trouble gittin' to his room. "'Hello, von Kuhlmann,' I says, when he opens the door, an' with a wild look up an' down the hall to see if any one had heard, he reaches out an' yanks me in. Tried to bluff it out first, but it wasn't no use." Slue Foot grinned: "I come out in about a half an hour with five hundred dollars in my jeans. These here 'brothers from acrost the sea' is sure some donaters when you git 'em where you want 'em--'course this here student business was all bunk. But, what I ain't never be'n able to git onto is, what in thunder does the Syndicate want to be slippin' the I. W. W. money fer?" "Are you an I. W. W.?" Connie shot the question directly. Slue Foot hesitated a moment and then answered evasively. "Git me right, kid, I'm anything that's agin' capital--an' I'm anything that's agin' the Government. First and foremostly, I'm fer Magee. No man kin make money by workin'. I've got money, an' I'm a-goin' to git more--an' I don't care how it's come by. I'm a wolf, an' I'll howl while the rabbit squeals! I'm a bird of prey! I'm a Government all my own! All Governments is birds of prey, an' beasts of prey. What do you see on their money, an' their seals, an' their flags--doves, an' rabbits, an' little fawns? No, it's eagles, an' bears, an' lions--beasts that rips, an' tears, an' crushes, an' kills! "You're lucky to git to throw in with a man like me--to git started out right when yer young. If you wasn't smart, I wouldn't fool with ye, but I'll git mine, an' you'll git yourn--an' some day, von Kuhlmann's kind of let it slip, they's somethin' big comin' off. I don't know what he's drivin' at, but it's somethin' he's all-fired sure is a-goin' to happen--an' he's kind of hinted that when it comes he kin use a few like me to good advantage." "What kind of a thing's coming off?" "I jest told ye I don't know--mebbe the Syndicate's goin' to grab off all the timber they is, or mebbe it's figgerin' on grabbin' the hull Government, or the State--but whatever it is, he kin count on me bein' in on it--if he pays enough--an' by the time he pays it, I'd ort to know enough about the game so's I kin flop over to the other side an' sell him out. It's the ones that plays both ends from the middle that gits theirn--brains makes the money--not hands." Slue Foot glanced out the window and turned to the boy. "Here comes Saginaw. When he gits here I'll growl an' you sass. Remember to keep your ears open an' find out when Hurley's goin' to break out the rollways, an' where he's goin' to deliver the logs. I've tended to the brandin'--if they's anything more I'll let ye know." Slue Foot paused and scowled darkly: "An' don't try to double-cross me! They ain't nothin' I've told ye that ye could prove anyhow. An' even if ye could, it's just as you said, this outfit won't pay ye as much as what you'll git out of the deal by playin' square with me." The door opened and Saginaw Ed entered, to interrupt a perfect torrent of abuse from Slue Foot, and a rapid fire of recrimination from the boy. Presently the boss of Camp Two departed, threatening to have Connie fired for incompetence, as soon as he could get in a word with Hurley. [Illustration: SLUE FOOT TURNED. "THINK Y'RE AWFUL SMART, DON'T YE?"] On the tote road at the edge of the clearing, Slue Foot turned and gazed at the little office. And as he gazed an evil smile twisted his lips: "Think yer awful smart, don't ye? Well, yer in on the scheme--'cause I need ye in. An' I'll use ye fer all there is in ye--but when cashin'-in time comes, yer goin' to be left whistlin' fer yourn--er my name ain't Slue Foot Magee!" Then the smile slowly faded from his face, and removing his cap, he thoughtfully scratched his head. "Only trouble is, he _is_ smart--an' where'll I git off at, if it turns out he's too _doggone_ smart?" [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII HEINIE METZGER Saginaw Ed listened as Connie detailed at length all that Slue Foot had told him. When the boy finished, the woodsman removed his pipe and regarded him thoughtfully: "Takin' it off an' on, I've know'd some consider'ble ornery folks in my time, but I never run acrost none that was as plumb crooked as this here specimen. Why, along side of him a corkscrew is straight as a stretched fiddle gut. He ain't square with no one. But, a man like him can't only go so far--his rope is short, an' when he comes to the end of it, they ain't a-goin' to be no knot fer to hang holt of. A man that's double-crossed folks like he has ain't got no right to expect to git away with it. If they don't no one else git him, the law will." "Yes," answered the boy, "and we've got enough on him so that when the law gets through with him he's not going to have much time left for any more crookedness." "How d'you figger on workin' it?" asked Saginaw. Connie laughed: "I haven't had time to dope it out yet, but there's no use starting anything 'til just before the drive. Slue Foot's crowding 'em up there in Camp Two, putting every last log he can get onto the landings--he said he'd have close to three million feet branded with his own paint." "Expects Hurley's goin' to let Long Leaf boss the drive agin, I s'pose an' the Syndicate crew do the sortin'!" "I guess that's what's he's counting on," answered the boy. "Hurley will tend to that part. And now we know his scheme, the logs are safe--what we want is evidence. When we get him we want to get him right." Saginaw Ed rose to go. "It's up to you, son, to figger out the best way. Whatever you say goes. Take yer time an' figger it out good--'cause you want to remember that the Syndicate owes ye some thirty-odd thousand dollars they stoled off ye last year, an'----" "Thirty-odd thousand?" "Sure--ye stood to clean up twenty thousan', didn't ye? Instead of which ye lost fourteen thousan'--that's thirty-four thousan', ain't it? An' here's somethin' fer to remember when yer dealin' with the Syndicate: Never law 'em if you can git out of it. They've got the money--an' you ain't got no square deal. Git the dope on 'em, an' then settle out o' court, with old Heinie Metzger." When Saginaw had gone, Connie sat for hours at his desk thinking up plans of action, discarding them, revising them, covering whole sheets of paper with pencilled figures. When, at last, he answered the supper call and crossed the clearing to the cook's camp, a peculiar smile twitched the corners of his lips. "I've got to go up the road a piece an' figger on a couple of new skidways," said Saginaw, when the four who bunked in the office arose from the table. "It's good an' moonlight, an' I kin git the swampers started on 'em first thing in the morning." "I'll go with you," decided the boy, "I've been cooped up all the afternoon, and I'll be glad of the chance to stretch my legs." Leaving Hurley and Lon Camden, the two struck off up one of the broad, iced log roads that reached into the timber like long fingers clutching at the very heart of the forest. The task of locating the skidways was soon finished and Saginaw seated himself on a log and produced pipe and tobacco. "Well, son," he said, "what's the game? I watched ye whilst we was eatin', an' I seen ye'd got it figgered out." After a moment of silence, Connie asked abruptly: "How am I going to manage to get away for a week or ten days?" "Git away!" exclaimed Saginaw. "You mean leave camp?" The boy nodded: "Yes, I've got to go." He seated himself astride the log and talked for an hour, while Saginaw, his pipe forgotten, listened. When the boy finished Saginaw sat in silence, the dead pipe clenched between his teeth. "Well, what do you think of it?" The other removed the pipe, and spat deliberately into the snow. "Think of it?" he replied, "I never was much hand fer thinkin'--an' them big figgers you're into has got me woozy headed. Personal an' private, I'm tellin' ye right out, I don't think it'll work. It sounds good the way you spoke it, but--why, doggone it, that would be outfiggerin' the _Syndicate!_ It would be lettin' 'em beat theirself at their own game! It can't be did! They ain't no one kin do it. It ain't on." "What's the matter with it?" asked the boy. "Matter with it! I can't find nothin' the matter with it--That's why it won't work!" Connie laughed: "We'll make it work! All you've got to remember is that if any stranger comes into the camp asking for Hurley, you steer him up against Slue Foot. This von Kuhlmann himself will probably come, and if he does it will be all right--he knows Slue Foot by sight. The only thing that's bothering me is how am I going to ask Hurley for a week or ten days off? Frenchy's going in tomorrow, and I've got to go with him." Saginaw Ed slapped his mittened hand against his leg: "I've got it," he exclaimed. "There was three new hands come in today--good whitewater men fer the drive. One of 'em's Quick-water Quinn. I've worked with him off an' on fer it's goin' on fifteen year. He'll do anything fer me, account of a little deal onct, which he believed I saved his life. I'll slip over to the men's camp an' write a letter to you. Then later, when we're all in the office, Quick-water, he'll fetch it over an' ask if you're here, an' give it to ye. Then ye read it, and take on like you've got to go right away fer a week er so. You don't need to make any explainin'--jest stick to it you've got to go. Hurley'll prob'ly rave round an' tell ye ye can't, an' bawl ye out, an' raise a rookus generally, but jest stick to it. If it gits to where ye have to, jest tell him you quit. That'll bring him 'round. He sets a lot of store by you, an' he'll let ye go if ye make him." And so it happened that just as the four were turning in that night, a lumberjack pushed open the door. "Is they any one here name o' C. Morgan?" he asked. Connie stepped forward, and the man thrust a letter into his hand: "Brung it in with me from the postoffice. They told me over to the men's camp you was in here." Connie thanked the man, and carrying the letter to the light, tore it open and read. At the end of five minutes he looked up: "I've got to go out with Frenchy in the morning," he announced. Hurley let a heavy boot fall with a thud, and stared at the boy as though he had taken leave of his senses. "Go out!" he roared, "What'ye mean, go out?" "I've got to go for a week or ten days. It's absolutely necessary or I wouldn't do it." "A wake er tin days, sez he!" Hurley lapsed into brogue, as he always did when aroused or excited. "An' fer a wake or tin days the books kin run theirsilf! Well, ye can't go--an' that's all there is to ut!" "I've got to go," repeated Connie stubbornly. "If I don't go out with Frenchy, I'll walk out!" The boss glared at him. "I know'd things wuz goin' too good to last. But Oi didn't think th' trouble wuz a-comin' from ye. Ye can tell me, mebbe, what, Oi'm a-goin' to do widout no clerk whoilst yer gaddin' round havin' a good toime? Ye can't go!" "Steve can run the wanagan, and Lon, and Saginaw, and Slue Foot can hold their reports 'til I get back. I'll work night and day then 'til I catch up." "They ain't a-goin' to be no ketch up!" roared Hurley. "Here ye be, an' here ye'll stay! Av ye go out ye'll stay out!" Connie looked the big boss squarely in the eye: "I'm sorry, Hurley. I've liked you, and I've liked my job. But I've got to go. You'll find the books all up to the minute." Hurley turned away with a snort and rolled into his bunk, and a few minutes later, Connie blew out the lamp and crawled between his own warm blankets, where he lay smiling to himself in the darkness. By lamplight next morning the boy was astir. He placed his few belongings in his turkey, and when the task was accomplished he noticed that Hurley was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He tied the sack as the others sat upon the edge of the bunks and drew on their boots. And in silence they all crossed the dark clearing toward the cook's camp. With a great jangle of bells, Frenchy drew his tote-team up before the door just as they finished breakfast. Connie tossed his turkey into the sleigh and turned to Hurley who stood by with Lon Camden and Saginaw Ed. "I'll take my time, now," said the boy, quietly. "And good luck to you all!" For answer the big boss reached over and, grabbing the turkey, sent it spinning into the boy's bunk. "Ye don't git no toime!" he bellowed. "Jump in wid Frenchy now, an' don't be shtandin' 'round doin' nawthin'. Tin days ye'll be gone at the outsoide, an' av' ye ain't at yer disk here be th' 'leventh day, Oi'll br-reak ye in two an' grease saws wid the two halves av ye!" Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth a roll of bills. "How much money d'ye nade? Come spake up! Ye kin have all, or par-rt av ut--an' don't ye iver let me hear ye talk av quittin' agin, er Oi'll woind a peavy around yer head." Connie declined the money and jumped into the sleigh, and with a crack of the whip, Frenchy sent the horses galloping down the tote road. When they were well out of hearing the Frenchman laughed. "Dat Hurley she lak for mak' de beeg bluff, w'at you call; she mak' you scairt lak she gon' keel you, an' den she giv' you all de mon' she got." "He's the best boss in the woods!" cried the boy. "_Oui_ dat rat. Ba goss, we'n she roar an' bluff, dat ain' w'en you got for look out! Me--A'm know 'bout dat. A'm seen heem lick 'bout fifty men wan tam. Ovaire on----" "Oh, come now, Frenchy--not fifty men." "Well, was seex, anyhow. Ovaire on Leech Lak' an' _sacre!_ He ain' say nuttin', dat tam--joos' mak' hees eyes leetle an' shine lak de _loup cervier_--an' smash, smash, smash! An', by goss, 'bout twenty of dem feller, git de busted head." Connie laughed, and during all the long miles of the tote road he listened to the exaggerated and garbled stories of the Frenchman--stories of log drives, of fights, of bloody accidents, and of "hants" and windagoes. At the railroad, the boy helped the teamster and the storekeeper in the loading of the sleigh until a long-drawn whistle announced the approach of his train. When it stopped at the tiny station, he climbed aboard, and standing on the platform, waved his hand until the two figures whisked from sight and the train plunged between its flanking walls of pine. In Minneapolis Connie hunted up the office of the Syndicate, which occupied an entire floor, many stories above the sidewalk, of a tall building. He was a very different looking Connie from the roughly clad boy who had clambered onto the train at Dogfish. A visit to a big department store had transformed him from a lumberjack into a youth whose clothing differed in no marked particular from the clothing of those he passed upon the street. But there was a difference that had nothing whatever to do with clothing--a certain something in the easy swing of his stride, the poise of his shoulders, the healthy bronzed skin and the clear blue eyes, that caused more than one person to pause upon the sidewalk for a backward glance at the boy. Connie stepped from the elevator, hesitated for a second before a heavily lettered opaque glass door, then turned the knob and entered, to find himself in a sort of pen formed by a low railing in which was a swinging gate. Before him, beyond the railing, dozens of girls sat at desks their fingers fairly flying over the keys of their clicking typewriters. Men with green shades over their eyes, and queer black sleeves reaching from their wrists to their elbows, sat at other desks. Along one side of the great room stood a row of box-like offices, each with a name lettered upon its glass door. So engrossed was the boy in noting these details that he started at the sound of a voice close beside him. He looked down into the face of a girl who sat before a complicated looking switchboard. "Who do you wish to see?" she asked. Connie flushed to the roots of his hair. It was almost the first time in his life that any girl had spoken to him--and this one was smiling. Off came his hat. "Is--is Heinie Metzger in?" he managed to ask. Connie's was a voice tuned to the big open places, and here in the office of the Syndicate it boomed loudly--so loudly that the girls at the nearer typewriters looked up swiftly and then as swiftly stooped down to pick up imaginary articles from the floor; the boy could see that they were trying to suppress laughter. And the girl at the switchboard? He glanced from the others to this one who was close beside him. Her face was red as his own, and she was coughing violently into a tiny handkerchief. "Caught cold?" he asked. "Get your feet dry, and take a dose of quinine, and you'll be all right--if you don't get pneumonia and die. If Heinie ain't in I can come again." Somehow the boy felt that he would like to be out of this place. He felt stifled and very uncomfortable. He wondered if girls always coughed into handkerchiefs or clawed around on the floor to keep from laughing at nothing. He hoped she would say that Heinie Metzger was not in. "Have you a card?" the girl had recovered from her coughing fit, but her face was very red. "A what?" asked the boy. "A card--your name." "Oh, my name is Connie Morgan." "And, your address?" "Ma'am?" "Where do you live?" "Ten Bow." "Where? Is it in Minnesota?" "No, it's in Alaska--and I wish I was back there right now." "And, your business?" "I want to see Heinie Metzger about some logs." A man passing the little gate in the railing whirled and glared at him. He was a very disagreeable looking young man with a fat, heavy face, pouchy eyes of faded blue, and stiff, close-cropped reddish hair that stuck straight up on his head like pig's bristles. "Looks like he'd been scrubbed," thought Connie as he returned glare for glare. The man stepped through the gate and thrust his face close to the boy's. "Vat you mean, eh?" "Are you Heinie Metzger?" "No, I am not _Herr_ Metzger. _Unt_ it pays you you shall be civil to your betters. You shall say _Herr_ Metzger, _oder_ Mister Metzger. _Unt_ he has got not any time to be mit poys talking. Vat you vanted? If you got pusiness, talk mit me. I am _Herr_ von Kuhlmann, confidential secretary to _Herr_ Metzger." "I thought you were the barber," apologized the boy. "But anyhow, you won't do. I want to see Heinie Metzger, or 'hair' Metzger, or Mister Metzger, whichever way you want it. I want to sell him some logs." The other sneered: "Logs! He wants to sell it some logs! _Unt_ how much logs you got--on de vagon a load, maybe? Ve dondt fool mit logs here, exceptingly ve get anyhow a trainload--_unt_ _Herr_ Metzger dondt mention efen, less dan half a million feets. Vere iss your logs?" "I've got 'em in my pocket," answered the boy. "Come on, Dutchy, you're wasting my time. Trot along, now; and tell this Metzger there's a fellow out here that's got about eight or nine million feet of white pine to sell----" "Vite pine! Eight million feets! You krasy?" The man stooped and swung open the little gate. "Come along _mit_ me, _unt_ if you trying some foolishness _mit_ _Herr_ Metzger, you vish you vas some blace else to have stayed avay." He paused before a closed door, and drawing himself very erect, knocked gently. A full minute of silence, then from the interior came a rasping voice: "Who is it?" "It is I, sir, von Kuhlmann, at your service, _unt_ I have _mit_ me one small poy who say he has it some logs to sell." Again the voice rasped from behind the partition--a thin voice, yet, in it's thinness, somehow suggesting brutality: "Why should you come to me? Why don't you buy his logs and send him about his business?" Von Kuhlmann cleared his throat nervously: "He says it iss vite pine--eight million feets." "Show him in, you fool! What are you standing out there for?" Von Kuhlmann opened the door and motioned Connie to enter: "_Herr_ Morgan," he announced, bowing low. "Connie Morgan," corrected the boy quickly, as he stepped toward the desk and offered his hand to the small, grey-haired man, with the enormous eyeglasses, and the fierce upturned mustache. "I suppose you are Heinie Metzger," he announced. The man glared at him, his thin nostrils a-quiver. Then, in a dry, cackling voice, bade Connie be seated, giving the extended hand the merest touch. Von Kuhlmann withdrew noiselessly, and closed the door. Metzger opened a drawer and drew forth a box of cigars which he opened, and extended toward the boy. Connie declined, and replacing the cigars, the man drew from another drawer, a box of cigarettes, and when the boy declined those he leaned back in his chair and stared at Connie through his glasses, as one would examine a specimen at the zoo. [Illustration: HE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND STARED AT CONNIE THROUGH HIS GLASSES, AS ONE WOULD EXAMINE A SPECIMEN AT THE ZOO.] "Young man, how do I know you have any logs?" the question rasped suddenly from between half-closed lips. "You don't know it," answered the boy. "That's why I came here to tell you." "White pine, you said," snapped the man, after a pause. "Eight million feet?" "Yes, white pine--at least eight million, maybe nine, and possibly more, if we continue to have good luck." "Where are these logs?" "On our landings on Dogfish River." "Dogfish! You're the man from Alaska that bought the McClusky tract?" "I'm his partner." "Show a profit last year?" "No. But we only had one camp then, and this year we have two and each one has cut more than the one we had last year." "Who did you sell to, last year?" "Baker & Crosby." "Satisfied with their boom scale?" "Well, no, we weren't. That's why we thought we'd offer the cut to you this year, if you want it." "Want it! Of course we want it--that is, if the price is right." "What will you pay?" _Herr_ Heinrich Metzger removed his glasses and dangled them by their wide black ribbon, as he glanced along his thin nose. "Sure you can deliver eight million feet?" he asked. "Yes, our foreman reports eight million already on the rollways, or in the woods all ready for the rollways. Yes, I can be sure of eight million." "We have a big contract," said Metzger, "that is just about eight million feet short of being filled. If we can be sure of getting the entire eight million in one lump, we could afford to pay more--much more, in fact, than we could if there was anything short of eight million feet." Connie nodded: "There will be eight million feet, at least," he repeated. "What will you pay?" For a long time the other was silent, then he spoke: "It is a large deal," he said. "There are many things to consider. Lest we make haste too quickly, I must have time to consider the transaction in all it's phases. Meet me here one week from today, at eleven o'clock, and I will give you a figure." "A week is a long time," objected the boy, "And I am a long way from home." "Yes, yes, but there are others--associates of mine in the business with whom I must consult." The boy had risen to go, when the man stayed him with a motion. "Wait," he commanded. "Your name is----?" "Morgan--Connie Morgan." "To be sure--Connie Morgan." He picked the receiver from the hook of his desk phone. "Get me the Laddison Hotel," he commanded, and hung up the receiver. "The delay is of my own making, therefore I should pay for it. You will move your luggage into the Laddison Hotel, which is the best in the city, and shall remain there until our deal is closed, at the expense of this company----" "But," objected the boy, "suppose the deal don't go through?" "The expense will be ours whether the deal goes through or not. You see, I am confident that we can deal." The telephone rang and Metzger made the arrangements, and again, turned to the boy. "Each evening at dinner time, you are to ask at the desk for an envelope. In the envelope you will receive a ticket to the theatre. This, also, at our expense." He smiled broadly. "You see, we treat our guests well. We do not wish them to become tired of our city, and we wish those with whom we have dealings to think well of us." CHAPTER XVIII CONNIE SELLS SOME LOGS Connie Morgan left the office of the Syndicate, and once more upon the sidewalk, filled his lungs with the keen air. "It's going to work!" "It's going to work!" he repeated over and over to himself as he made his way toward the store where he had left his discarded clothing stuffed into a brand new brown leather suitcase. The boy returned unhesitatingly to the store, not by means of street signs, but by the simple process of back-trailing. Trained in observation, his eyes had unfailingly registered the landmarks in his brain--even when that brain had been too busy wondering what was to be the outcome of his conference with Heinie Metzger, to know that it was receiving impressions. It was this trained habit of observation that had enabled him to select his wearing apparel and the brown leather suitcase. He had simply studied the passengers on the train, and selecting a man who looked well dressed, had copied his apparel and even his suitcase. The clerk at the store directed him to his hotel, and a few minutes later he stood in the window of a thickly carpeted room, and stared out over the roofs of buildings. "It's--it's like the mountains," he mused, "stretching away, peak after peak, as far as you can see, and the streets are the canyons and the valleys--only this is more--lonesome." Tiring of looking out over the roofs, he put on his overcoat and spent the afternoon upon the streets, admiring the goods in the store windows and watching the people pass and repass upon the sidewalks. It was a mild, sunshiny afternoon and the streets were thronged with ladies, the browns, and greys, and blacks, and whites of their furs making a pretty kaleidoscope of colour. At the Union Station he procured a folder and after looking up the departure of trains, returned to his hotel. He walked back at the time when factories, stores, and office buildings were disgorging their human flood onto the streets, and the boy gazed about him in wonder as he elbowed his way along the sidewalk. He smiled to himself. "I guess I don't know much about cities. In the store I was wondering where in the world they were going to find the people to buy all the stuff they had piled around, and when I was looking out the window, I wondered if there were enough people in the world to live in all the houses--and now I'm wondering if there is enough stuff to go around, and enough houses to hold 'em all." In this room Connie glanced at his watch, performed a hasty toilet, and hurried into the elevator. "Gee, it's most six!" he muttered, "I bet I'm late for supper." He was surprised to find men in the lobby, sitting about in chairs or talking in groups, as they had been doing when he left in the afternoon. "Maybe they don't have it 'til six," he thought, and seating himself in a leather chair, waited with his eyes on the clock. Six o'clock came, and when the hand reached five minutes after, he strolled to the desk. "Anything here for me?" he asked. The clerk handed him an envelope. "Heinie's making good," thought the boy, and then, trying not to look hungry, he turned to the clerk: "Cook hollered yet?" he asked casually. The man smiled: "Grill's down stairs," he announced, pointing to a marble stairway at the other end of the room. "I ain't too late, am I?" asked the boy. "Too late! Too late for what?" "For supper. It ain't over is it?" "The grill is open from eight in the morning until midnight," explained the man, and as Connie turned away, he called after him: "Oh, Mr. Morgan----" "Connie Morgan," corrected the boy gravely. "Well, Connie, then--you are not to pay your checks, just sign them and the waiter will take care of them." "That suits me," smiled Connie, and as he crossed the tiled floor he muttered: "If they hadn't wasted so much space making the office and rooms so big, they wouldn't have to eat in the cellar. In Fairbanks or Skagway they'd have made four rooms out of that one of mine." At the door of the grill a man in black met him, conducted him through a maze of small tables at which men and women were eating, and drew out a chair at a table placed against the wall. Another man in black appeared, filled a glass with water from a fat bottle, and flipped a large piece of cardboard in front of him. Connie scanned the printed list with puckered brow. Way down toward the bottom he found three words he knew, they were tea, coffee, milk. The man in black was waiting at his side with a pencil poised above a small pad of paper. "Go ahead, if you want to write," said the boy, "I won't bother you any--I'm just trying to figure out what some of these names mean." "Waiting for your order, sir." "Don't 'sir' me. You mean you're the waiter?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I'm hungry, suppose you beat it out and bring me my supper." "What will it be, sir? I will take your order, sir." "Cut out that 'sir,' I told you. If these things they've got down here stand for grub, you'll just have to bring along the whole mess, and I'll pick out what I want." "Might I suggest, s----" "Look here," interrupted the boy, grasping the idea. "If any of these names stand for ham and eggs, or beefsteak, or potatoes, or bread and butter, you bring 'em along." The man actually smiled, and Connie felt relieved. "Whose place is that?" he indicated a chair across the table. "Not reserved, sir." Connie glanced around the room: "You ain't very busy, now. Might as well bring your own grub along, and if you can ever remember to forget that 'sir' business, we'll get along all right--I'm lonesome." When the waiter returned with a tray loaded with good things to eat, Connie again indicated the empty chair. "Against the rules," whispered the waiter, remembering to leave off the "sir." Connie did justice to the meal and when he had finished, the man cleared the dishes away and set a plate before him upon which was a small bowl of water and a folded napkin. "What's that?" asked the boy, "I drink out of a glass." "Finger bowl," whispered the waiter. "Do you wish a dessert?" "Might take a chance on a piece of pie," answered the boy, "here take this along. I washed up-stairs." When the waiter presented his check, Connie took the pencil from his hand, signed it, and passed it back. "Very good. One moment, 'til I verify this at the desk." He hurried away, and returned a moment later. "Very good," he repeated. Connie handed him a dollar: "I'm going to be here a week," he said, "I want three good square meals a day, and it's up to you to see that I get 'em. No more lists of stuff I can't read. No more 'yes sir,' 'no sir,' 'very good sir.'" The waiter pocketed the dollar: "Thank you, s--. Very good. Always come to this table. I will reserve this place for you. You will find your chair tilted, so. I shall speak to the head waiter." Connie went directly to his room and putting on his cap and overcoat, returned to the lobby and again approached the man at the desk: "What time does the show start?" he asked. "Curtain rises at eight-fifteen." "Where is it?" "Which one?" The boy reached for his envelope and handed the ticket to the clerk. "Metropolitan," informed the man, with a glance at the cardboard. "Marquette, between Third and Fourth." The boy glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past seven. Hurrying to Nicollet Avenue, he walked rapidly to the depot and accosted a uniformed official: "Is the seven-fifty-five for Brainard in yet?" "Naw, third gate to yer right, where them folks is waitin'." Connie turned up his collar, pulled his cap well down over his eyes, and strolled to the edge of the knot of people that crowded close about one of the iron gates. His eyes ran rapidly over each face in the crowd without encountering the object of his search, so he appropriated an inconspicuous seat on a nearby bench between a man who was engrossed in his newspaper, and an old woman who held a large bundle up on her lap, and whose feet were surrounded with other bundles and bags which she insisted upon counting every few minutes. Closely the boy scrutinized each new arrival as he joined the waiting group. Beyond the iron grill were long strings of lighted coaches to which were coupled engines that panted eagerly as they awaited the signal that would send them plunging away into the night with their burden of human freight. Other trains drew in, and Connie watched the greetings of relatives and friends, as they rushed to meet the inpouring stream of passengers. It seemed to the lonely boy that everybody in the world had someone waiting to welcome him but himself. He swallowed once or twice, smiled a trifle bitterly, and resumed his scrutiny of the faces. A man bawled a string of names, there was a sudden surging of the crowd which rapidly melted as its members were spewed out into the train shed. A few stragglers were still hurrying through the gate. The hands of a clock pointed to seven-fifty-four, and Connie stood up. As he did so, a man catapulted down the stairs, and rushed for the gate. He was a young man, clothed in the garb of a woodsman, and as he passed him, Connie recognized the heavy face of von Kuhlmann. "That's just what I've been waiting for," he spoke aloud to himself, after the manner of those whose lives are cast in the solitudes. The man glanced up from his newspaper, and the old woman regarded him with a withering scowl, and gathered her bundles more closely about her feet. The play that evening was a musical comedy, and during the entire performance the boy sat enthralled by the music and the dazzling costumes. He was still in a daze when he reached his hotel, and once more stood in his room and gazed out over the city of twinkling lights. He turned from the window and surveyed his apartment, the thick carpet, the huge brass bed, the white bath tub in the tiny room adjoining, with its faucets for hot and cold water, the big mirror that reflected his image from head to foot--it seemed all of a piece with the play. Instantly the boy's imagination leaped the snow-locked miles and he saw the tiny cabin on Ten Bow, the nights on the snow-trail when he had curled up in his blankets with the coldly gleaming stars for his roof; he saw the rough camp on Dogfish and in a flash he was back in the room once more. "This ain't real _living_," he muttered, once more glancing about him, "It's--it's like the show--like living in a world of make-believe." Undressing, he drew the white tub nearly full of water. "I'm going to make it just as hot as I can stand it. Any one can take a bath in cold water." He wallowed in the tub for a long time, dried himself with a coarse towel, and rummaging in his new suitcase, produced a pair of pink pyjamas which had been highly recommended by the clerk at the big store. Very gingerly he donned the garments and for some moments stood and viewed himself in the mirror. "Gee," he muttered, "I'm sure glad Waseche Bill ain't here!" and switching out the light, he dived into bed. [Illustration: VERY GINGERLY HE DONNED THE GARMENTS AND FOR SOME MOMENTS STOOD AND VIEWED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR.] Promptly at eleven o'clock, one week from the day he arrived in Minneapolis, Connie Morgan again presented himself at the office of the Syndicate. That he had been expected was evidenced by the fact that the girl at the switchboard did not ask him any questions. She greeted him by name, and touching a button beneath the edge of her desk summoned a boy who conducted him to Metzger's private office. The lumber magnate received him with an oily smile: "Promptly on the minute," he approved. "That's business. Sit here and we will see whether two business men are able to make their minds meet in a contract that will be profitable to both." The man placed the points of his fingers together and sighted across them at Connie. "In the first place," he began, "the quantity of logs. You are sure you can deliver here at our mills at least eight million feet?" "Yes." "Because," continued the man, "owing to the conditions of a contract we have on hand, any less than eight million feet would be practically of no value to us whatever. That is, we have concluded to rely entirely upon your logs to fulfill our big contract, and should you fail us, the other contract would fail, and we would be at the expense of marketing the lumber elsewhere." "How much more than eight million feet could you use?" asked the boy. "As much more as you can deliver. Say, anything up to ten million." Connie nodded: "That's all right," he assented, "and the price?" "Ah, yes--the price." Metzger frowned thoughtfully. "What would you say to twenty dollars a thousand?" Connie shook his head. "I can get twenty-five anywhere." "Well, twenty-five?" Again the boy shook his head. "You told me you could pay liberally for the logs if you could be sure of getting them all in one lot," he reminded. "I can get twenty-five, anywhere, and by hunting out my market I can boost it to thirty." Metzger's frown deepened. "What is your price?" he asked. "Fifty dollars." "Fifty dollars!" The man rolled his eyes as if imploring high heaven to look down upon the extortion. "Ridiculous! Why the highest price ever paid was forty!" "We'll make a new record, then," answered the boy calmly. "Forty dollars--if you must have it," offered the man. "Forty dollars or nothing. And, even at forty, we must insist on inserting a protective clause in the contract." "A protective clause?" "Yes, it is this way. If we assume to pay such an outrageous price for your logs, we must insist upon being protected in case you fail to deliver. Suppose, for instance, something prevented your delivering the logs, or part of them at our mills. Say, you could deliver only four or five million. We could not pay forty dollars for them, because our price is fixed with the understanding that we are to receive eight million." "That's fair enough," answered the boy; "we'll fix that. If we don't deliver eight million, then you take what we do deliver at twenty dollars." Metzger pondered. "And you will bind yourself to sell to us, and not to others, if you deliver a short cut?" "Sure we will." "Well, there is fairness in your offer. We will say, then, that we are to pay you forty dollars a thousand for any amount between eight and ten million, and only twenty dollars if you fail to deliver at least eight million." "I said fifty dollars," reminded the boy. "And I say we cannot pay fifty! It is unheard of! It is not to be thought of! It is exorbitant!" Connie arose and reached for his cap: "All right," he answered. "The deal's off." At the door he paused, "I liked your hotel, and the shows," he said, but Metzger cut him short: "The hotel and the shows!" he cried. "Bah! it is nothing! Come back here. You are an extortionist! You know you have us at your mercy, and you are gouging us! It is an outrage!" "See here, Metzger." The man flinched at the use of his name, shorn of any respectful _Herr_, or Mister. But he listened. "It's my business to get as much for those logs as I can get. There is nothing more to talk about. If you want 'em at fifty dollars, take 'em, if you don't--good-bye." Muttering and grumbling, the man motioned him back to his seat. "We've got to have the logs," he whined, "but it is a hard bargain you drive. One does not look for such harshness in the young. I am disappointed. How would forty-five do?" "Fifty." "Well, fifty, then!" snapped Metzger, with a great show of anger. "But look here, if we go up ten dollars on our part, you come down ten dollars on your part! We will pay fifty dollars a thousand for all logs between eight and ten million--and ten dollars a thousand for all logs delivered short of eight million--and you bind yourself to sell us your entire drive on those terms." "That's a deal," answered the boy. "And our crew to work with yours at the sorting gap. When will you have the papers?" "Come back at two," growled the man, shortly. When Connie had gone, Metzger touched one of a row of buttons upon his desk, and von Kuhlmann entered, and standing at military attention, waited for his superior to speak. For a full minute Metzger kept him standing without deigning to notice him. Then, scribbling for a moment, he extended a paper toward his subordinate. "Have a contract drawn in conformity with these figures," he commanded. Von Kuhlmann glanced at the paper. "He agreed? As it iss so said here in America--he bite?" Metzger's thin lip writhed in a saturnine grin: "Yes, he bit. I strung him along, and he has an idea that he is a wonderful business man--to hold out against me for his price. Ha, little did he know that the top price interested me not at all! It was the lesser figure that I was after--and you see what it is, von Kuhlmann--_ten dollars a thousand_!" The other made a rapid mental calculation: "On the deal, at five million feet, we make, at the least, more than three hundred thousand!" Metzger nodded: "Yes! That is business!" he glared into von Kuhlmann's face, "This deal is based on _your_ report. If you have failed us----!" Von Kuhlmann shuddered: "I haff not fail. I haff been on Dogfish, and I haff mit mine eyes seen the logs. I haff talk mit Hurley, the boss. He iss mit us. Why should he not be mit us? We pay him well for the logs from which comes the paint off. He haff brand with the dissolving paint three million feets. Mineself I apply vater _unt_ from the ends, I rub the paint, in each rollway, here and there, a log." Metzger pencilled some figures on a pad. "If you have failed us," he repeated, "we pay _four hundred thousand_ dollars for eight million feet. _Four hundred thousand!_ And we lose forty dollars a thousand on the whole eight million feet. Because we expect to pay this Hurley ten dollars a thousand for the three million feet branded with the dissolving paint--and also to pay ten dollars a thousand for the five million that will be delivered under the contract." The man paused and brought his fist down on the desk: "Ha, these Americans!" the thin lips twisted in sneering contempt, "they pride themselves upon their acumen--upon their business ability. They boast of being a nation of traders! They have pride of their great country lying helpless as a babe--a swine contentedly wallowing in its own fat, believing itself secure in its flimsy sty--little heeding the Butcher, who watches even as he whets his knife under the swine's very eyes, waiting--waiting--waiting only for--THE DAY!" At the words both Metzger and von Kuhlmann clicked their heels and came to a stiff military salute. Standing Metzger, continued: "Traders--business men--bah! It is the Germans who are the traders--the business men of the world. Into the very heart of their country we reach, and they do not know it. Lumber here, iron there, cotton, wool, railroads, banks--in their own country, and under protection of their own laws we have reached out our hands and have taken; until today Germany holds the death-grip upon American commerce, as some day she will hold the death-grip upon America's very existence. When the Butcher thrusts the knife the swine dies. And, we, the supermen--the foremost in trade, in arms, in science, in art, in thought--we, the Germans, will that day come into our place in the sun!" "_Der Tag!_" pronounced von Kuhlmann, reverently, and with another clicking salute, he retired. At two o'clock Connie found himself once more in Metzger's office. The head of the Syndicate handed him a copy of a typed paper which the boy read carefully. Then, very carefully he read it again. "This seems to cover all the points. It suits me. You made two copies, did you?" Metzger nodded. "And, now we will sign?" he asked, picking up a pen from the desk, and touching a button. Von Kuhlmann appeared in the doorway. "Just witness these signatures," said Metzger. "If it's just the same to you, I saw Mike Gillum, one of your foremen, waiting out there; I would rather he witnessed the signing." "What's this? What do you mean?" "Nothing--only I know Mike Gillum. He's honest. I'd like him to witness." "Send Gillum in!" commanded Metzger, glaring at the boy, and when the Irishman appeared, he said brusquely. "Witness the signature to a contract for the sale of some logs." Arranging the papers he signed each copy with a flourish, and offered the pen to Connie. The boy smiled. "Why, I can't sign it," he said. "You see, I'm a minor. It wouldn't be legal. It wouldn't bind either one of us to anything. If the deal didn't suit me after the logs were here, I could claim that I had no right to make the contract, and the courts would uphold me. Or, if it didn't suit you, you could say 'It is a mere scrap of paper.'" Metzger jerked the thick glasses from his nose and glared at the boy. "What now? You mean you have no authority to make this contract? You have been jesting? Making a fool of me--taking up my time--living at my expense--and all for nothing?" Connie laughed at the irate magnate: "Oh, no--not so bad as that. I have the authority to arrange the terms because I am a partner. It is only the legal part that interferes. Hurley, our walking boss has the power of attorney signed by my partner, who is not a minor. Hurley is authorized to sell logs and incur indebtedness for us. I will have to take those contracts up to our camp and get his signature. Then everything will be O.K." Metzger scowled: "Why did you not have this Hurley here?" "What, and leave a couple of hundred men idle in the woods? That would not be good business, would it? I'll take the contracts and have them signed and witnessed, and return yours by registered mail within two days." The head of the Syndicate shot a keen sidewise glance at the boy who was chatting with Mike Gillum, as he selected a heavy envelope, slipped the two copies of the contract into it, and passed it over. Connie placed the envelope in an inner pocket and, buttoning his coat tightly, bade Metzger good-bye, and passed out of the door. Alone in the office Metzger frowned at his desk, he drew quick, thin lined figures upon his blotting pad: "These Americans," he repeated contemptuously under his breath. "To send a boy to do business with _me_--a past master of business! The fools! The smug, self-satisfied, helpless fools--I know not whether to pity or to laugh! And, yet, this boy has a certain sort of shrewdness. I had relied, in case anything went wrong with our plan, upon voiding the contract in court. However, von Kuhlmann is clever. He has been this week on the field. His judgment is unerring. _He is German!_" Late that evening, clad once more in his woodsman's garb, Connie Morgan sat upon the plush cushion of a railway coach, with his new leather suitcase at his feet, and smiled at the friendly twinkling lights of the farm-houses, as his train rushed northward into the night. CHAPTER XIX THE UNMASKING OF SLUE FOOT MAGEE Connie Morgan did not leave the train at Dogfish Spur, but kept on to the county seat. In the morning he hunted up the sheriff, a bluff woodsman who, until his election to office, had operated as an independent stumpage contractor. "Did you arrest three I. W. W.'s in Mike Gillum's camp on Willow River a while back?" he asked, when the sheriff had offered him a chair in his office in the little court-house. "D'you mean those two-legged skunks that tried to brain Hurley when he was bringin' 'em in fer tryin' to burn out his camp?" "Those are the ones." "They're here. An' by the time they got here they know'd they hadn't be'n on no Sunday-school picnic, too. Doc swore out the warrants, an' I deputized Limber Bill Bradley, an' Blinky Hoy to go an' fetch 'em in. 'Treat 'em kind,' I tells 'em when they started. But, judgin' by looks when they got 'em out here, they didn't. You see, them boys was brought up rough. Limber Bill mixed it up with a bear one time, an' killed him with a four-inch jack-knife, an' Blinky Hoy--they say he eats buzz-saws fer breakfast. So here they be, an' here they'll stay 'til June court. They started hollerin' fer a p'liminary hearin', soon as they got here, but I know'd Hurley was strainin' hisself fer a good showin' this year, an' wouldn't want to stop an' come down to testify, so I worked a technicality on 'em to prevent the hearin'." "A technicality?" "Yeh, I shuck my fist in under their nose an' told 'em if they demanded a hearing, they'd git it. But it would be helt up in Hurley's camp, an' Limber Bill, an' Blinky Hoy would chaperoon 'em up, an' provided they was enough left of 'em to bother with after the hearin' them same two would fetch 'em back. So they changed their minds about a hearin', and withdraw'd the demand." Connie laughed: "I'm Hurley's clerk, and I just dropped down to tell you that if those fellows should happen to ask you how you got wind of where they were hiding, you might tell them that Slue Foot Magee tipped them off." "If they'd happen to ask!" exclaimed the sheriff. "They've b'en tryin' every which way they know'd how to horn it out of me, ever since they got out here. What about Slue Foot? I never did trust that bird--never got nothin' on him--but always livin' in hopes." "I happen to know that Slue Foot is an I. W. W., and if these fellows think he doubled-crossed them, they might loosen up with some interesting dope, just to even things up. You see, it was Slue Foot who advised them to go to Willow River." "O-ho, so that's it!" grinned the sheriff. "Well, mebbe, now they'll find that they _kin_ pump me a little after all." "And while I'm here I may as well swear out a couple of more warrants, too. You are a friend of Hurley's, and you want to see him make good." "You bet yer life I do! There's a man! He's played in hard luck all his life, an' if he's got a chanct to make good--I'm for him." "Then hold off serving these warrants 'til just before the break-up. When the thaw comes, you hurry up to Hurley's camp, and nab Slue Foot." The sheriff nodded, and Connie continued: "First I want him arrested for conspiring with the Syndicate in the theft of thirty-four thousand dollars' worth of logs during April and May of last year." "With the Syndicate--stealin' logs!" "Yes, if it hadn't been for that, Hurley would have made good last year." The sheriff's lips tightened: "If we can only rope in Heinie Metzger! He ruined me on a dirty deal. I had stumpage contracts with him. Then he tried to beat me with his money for sheriff, but he found out that John Grey had more friends in the woods than the Syndicate had. Go on." "Then, for conspiring to defraud certain sawyers by shading their cut. Then, for the theft of three thousand, five hundred dollars from Denny O'Sullivan. And, last, for conspiracy with the Syndicate to steal some three million feet of logs this year." The sheriff looked at the boy in open-eyed astonishment. "D'you mean you kin _proove_ all this?" "I think so. I can prove the theft of the money, and the shading the cut--when it comes to the timber stealing, with the Syndicate's money back of 'em, we'll have a harder time. But I've got the evidence." The sheriff grinned: "Well, when Slue Foot let go, he let go all holts, didn't he? If you've got the evidence to back you up, like you say you have, Slue Foot'll be usin' a number instead of a name fer the next lifetime er so." Shortly after noon of the tenth day, following his departure from camp, Connie stepped off the train at Dogfish Spur, to find Frenchy waiting for him with the tote-team. "Hurley say, 'you go long an' git de kid. She gon' for com' today--tomor'--sure, an' I ain' wan' heem git all tire out walkin' in.' Hurley lak you fine an' Saginaw lak you, but Slue Foot, she roar an' growl w'en you ain' here. Bye-m-bye, Hurley tell heem 'shut oop de mout', who's runnin' de camp?' an Slue Foot gon' back to Camp Two mad lak tondaire." The trip up was uneventful. Frenchy's "gran' team" was in fine fettle, and just as the men were filing into the cook's camp for supper, he swung the team into the clearing with a magnificent whoop and flourish. After supper, in the office, Lon Camden began to shuffle his reports, arranging them day by day for the boy's convenience. Saginaw and Hurley filled their pipes, and the former, with a vast assumption of nonchalance, removed his boots and cocked his heels upon the edge of his bunk. Hurley hitched his chair about until it faced the boy, and for a space of seconds glared at him through narrowed eyes. "Ye made a mistake to come back! Ye dhirty little thayfe! An' me offerin' to lind ye money!" The blood left Connie's face to rush back to it in a surge of red, and his lips tightened. "Oh, ye don't nade to pertind ye're insulted," the huge man's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "Ye had me fooled. Oi'd of soon caught wan av me own b'ys in a dhirty game--Oi thought that well av ye. But whin Slue Foot com' ragin' down whin he heer'd ye'd gon' for a wake er so, Oi misthrusted there was a rayson, so Oi tuk a luk at th' books, an' ut didn't take me long to find out yer dhirty cut-shadin' scheme." Connie met the glare eye for eye. "Yes," he answered, "it is a dirty deal, isn't it? I don't blame you fer bein' mad. I was, too, when I threw in with it--so mad I came near spilling the beans." Hurley was staring open mouthed. "Well, av all th' nerve!" he choked out the words. "But I held onto myself," continued the boy, "and now we've got the goods on Slue Foot--four ways from the jack. You noticed I kept a record of just how much has been shaved off from each man's cut? If I hadn't you would never have tumbled to the deal, no matter how long you studied the books. We are going to return that money to the sawyers who have it coming--but not yet. We want those false vouchers issued first. By the way, how much do you figure we've got on the landings, now?" "Eight million, seven hundred thousan'--and clost to three hundred thousan' layin' down. Th' thaw's right now in th' air--'an we're t'rough cuttin'. Tomorrow all hands wor-rks gittin' the logs to the rollways. But what's that to ye? An' what d'ye mane settin' there ca'm as a lake on a shtill noight, an' admittin' ye wuz in on a low-down swindle? An-ny wan 'ud think ye wuz accused av shwoipin' a doughnut off the cook!" "I'll come to that directly," answered the boy. "First, I wish you'd sign this contract. Saginaw or Lon will witness the signature. And we can get it into the mail tomorrow." "Contrack!" roared Hurley, snatching the paper from the boy's hand. The boss's eyes ran rapidly over the typewritten page, and with a low exclamation he moved the chair to the light. For ten minutes there was tense silence in the little office. Then Hurley looked up. "Fifty dollars a thousan'!" he gasped. "Fer an-nything from eight to tin million! Tin dollars a thousan', fer an-nything less nor eight million! From th' Syndicate!" With a bellow of rage the big boss leaped from his chair and stood over the boy. "Niver Oi've wanted to paste a man so bad!" he foamed. "Oi said ye wuz shmar-rt--an' ye ar-re. But ye ain't shmar-rt enough to put this over on me--ye an' Slue Fut--yer game is bushted!" He shook the paper under the boy's nose. "Somehow, ye figger on soide-thrackin' enough av thim logs to turn in less thin eight million--an the Syndicate gits the cut fer tin dollars a thousan'--an' ye an' Slue Fut divoides up the price av the logs that's missin'." Connie laughed. "You've hit the idea pretty well, boss--only you've got the wrong boot on the wrong foot." "What d'ye mane wid yer boots and futs? Oi see yer game, an' Oi know now ut it wuz Slue Fut had a hand in the lasht year's loosin'. Wait 'til Oi git me hands on thot dhirty cur! Wait--" In his wrath the man hurled the paper to the floor, and reached for his mackinaw with one hand, and his peavy with the other. Lon Camden sat looking on with bulging eyes, and beyond the stove Saginaw Ed shook with silent mirth as he wriggled his toes in his thick woollen socks. "Hold on, Hurley," said Connie, as he rescued the precious contract from the floor. "Just sit down a minute and let's get this thing straight. As soon as the thaw sets in, John Grey will be up to tend to Slue Foot. I swore out three or four warrants against him, besides what the I. W. W.'s are going to spill." "John Grey--warrants--I. W. W.'s." The man stood as one bewildered. "An' the kid ca'm as butter, flashin' contracks aroun' th' office, an' ownin' up he's a thayfe--an' Saginaw a-laughin' to hisself." He passed a rough hand across his forehead as the peavy crashed to the floor. "Mebbe, ut's all here," he babbled weakly. "Mebbe thim I. W. W.'s give me wan crack too many--an' me brain's let go." "Your brain's all right," said Connie. "Just sit down and light your pipe, and forget you're mad, and listen while I explain." Hurley sank slowly into his chair: "Sure, jist fergit Oi'm mad. Jist set by quiet an' let ye ate th' doughnut ye shwoiped off th' cook. Don't say nawthin' whoilst ye an' Slue Fut an' the Syndicate steals th' whole outfit. Mebbe if Oi'd take a little nap, ut wid be handier fer yez." The man's words rolled in ponderous sarcasm. Lon Camden arose and fumbled in his turkey. A moment later he tendered the boss a small screw-corked flask. "I know it's again' orders in the woods, boss. But I ain't a drinkin' man--only keep this in case of accident. Mebbe a little nip now would straighten you out." Hurley waved the flask aside: "No, Oi'm off thot stuff fer good! Ut done me har-rm in me younger days--but ut kin do me no more. Av Oi ain't going crazy, Oi don't nade ut. Av Oi am, ut's betther to be crazy an' sober, thin crazy an' drunk. Go on, b'y. Ye was goin' to mention somethin', Oi believe--an' av me name's Jake Hurley, ut betther be a chinful. In the first place, what business ye got wid contracks, an' warrants, an-nyhow?" "In the first place," grinned the boy, "I'm a partner of Waseche Bill, and one of the owners of this outfit. Here are the papers to show it." While Hurley studied the papers, Connie proceeded: "We got your report, and then a letter from Mike Gillum saying that you were in the pay of the Syndicate----" Hurley leaped to his feet: "Moike Gillum says Oi wuz in the pay of th' Syndicate! He's a dhirty----" "Yes, yes--I know all about that. Slue Foot is the man who is in the pay of the Syndicate--and he borrowed your name." Hurley subsided, somewhat, but his huge fists continued to clench and unclench as the boy talked. "So I came down to see what the trouble was. It didn't take me long, after I had been with you for a while, to find out that you are square as a die--and that Slue Foot is as crooked as the trail of a snake. I pretended to throw in with him, and he let me in on the cut-shading--and later on the big steal--the scheme they worked on you last winter, that turned a twenty-thousand-dollar profit into a fourteen-thousand-dollar loss. When I got onto his game, I asked for a leave of absence and went down and closed the deal with the Syndicate--or rather, I let Heinie Metzger and von Kuhlmann close a deal with me. I had doped it all out that, if Metzger believed Slue Foot could prevent the delivery of part of the logs, he'd offer most anything for the whole eight million, because he knew he would never have to pay it, providing he could get the figure way down on anything less than eight million. So I stuck out for fifty dollars a thousand on the eight million, and he pretended it was just tearing his heart out; at the same time I let him get me down to ten dollars a thousand on the short cut--And we don't care how little he offered for that, because _we're going to deliver the whole cut_!" Hurley was staring into the boy's face in open-mouthed incredulity. "An' ye mane to say, ye wint to Minneapolis an' hunted up Heinie Metzger hisself, an' let him make a contrack that'll lose him three or foor hundred thousan' dollars? Heinie Metzger--the shrewdest lumberman in the wor-rld. Th' man that's busted more good honest min than he kin count! Th' man that howlds th' big woods in the holler av his hand! An' ye--a b'y, wid no hair on his face, done thot? Done ut deliberate--figgered out befoor hand how to make Heinie Metzger bate hisself--an' thin went down an' _done ut_?" Connie laughed: "Sure, I did. Honestly, it was so easy it is a shame to take the money. Heinie Metzger ain't shrewd--he just thinks he is--and people have taken him at his own valuation. I told Saginaw the whole thing, before I went down. Didn't I, Saginaw?" "You sure did. But I didn't think they was any such thing as puttin' it acrost. An' they's a whole lot more yet the kid's did, boss. Fer one thing, he's got them three I. W. W. 's locked in jail. An'----" Hurley waved his arm weakly: "Thot's enough--an' more thin enough fer wan avenin'. Th' rist Oi'll take in small doses." He struggled into his mackinaw and reached fer the peavy that lay where it had fallen beside the stove. "Where ye headin', boss?" asked Saginaw. "Camp Two. Oi've a little conference to howld with the boss up there." Lon Camden removed his pipe and spat accurately and judiciously into the woodbox. "The kid's right, Hurley," he said. "Let John Grey handle Slue Foot. All reason says so. If anything should happen to you just before the drive, where'd the kid's contract be? He's done his part, givin' the Syndicate the first good wallop it ever got--now it's up to you to do yourn. If you lay Slue Foot out, when John Grey comes he wouldn't have no choist but to take you along--so either way, we'd lose out." "But," roared Hurley, "s'pose John Grey don't show up befoor the drive? Thin Slue Fut'll be free to plot an' kape us from deliverin' thim logs." "Slue Foot's done!" cried Connie. "He can't hurt us now. You see, the Syndicate people furnished him with a paint that looks just like the regular branding paint. When the logs have been in the water a short time the paint all comes off--And, last year, with you bossing the rear drive, by the time they got to the mills all the logs they dared to steal were wearing the green triple X." "An' ye mane he's got thot wash-off stuff on them logs now?" "On about three million feet of 'em," answered the boy. "All we've got to do is to sit tight until John Grey comes for Slue Foot, and then put a crew to work and brand the logs with regular paint and get 'em into the water." The boy laughed aloud, "And you bet I want to be right at the sorting gap, when old Heinie Metzger sees the sixth, and seventh, and eighth, and ninth million come floating along--with the red block-and-ball bobbing all shiny and wet in the sun! Oh, man! Old Heinie, with his eyeglasses, and his store clothes!" Hurley banged the peavy down upon the wooden floor. "An' ut's proud Oi'll be to be sthandin' be yer soide whin them logs rolls in. Ut's as ye say, best to let th' law deal with Slue Foot. Yez nade have no fear--from now on 'til John Grey sets fut in th' clearin'--fer all an-ny wan w'd know, me an' Slue Foot could be brother-in-laws." CHAPTER XX CONNIE DELIVERS HIS LOGS The following days were busy ones in the two camps in Dogfish. Connie worked day and night to catch up on his books, and while Saginaw superintended the building of the huge bateau, and the smoothing out of the rollways, Hurley and Slue Foot kept the rest of the crew at work hauling logs to the landings. Spring came on with a rush, and the fast softening snow made it necessary for the hauling to be done at night. The thud of axes, the whine of saws, and the long crash of falling trees, was heard no more in the camps, while all night long the woods resounded to the calls of teamsters and swampers, as huge loads of logs were added to the millions of feet already on the rollways. Then came a night when the thermometer failed to drop to the freezing point. The sky hung heavy with a thick grey blanket of clouds, a steady drenching rain set in, and the loggers knew that so far as the woods were concerned, their work was done. Only a few logs remained to be hauled, and Hurley ordered these peeled and snaked to the skidways to await the next season. The men sang and danced in the bunkhouse that night to the wheeze of an accordion and the screech of an old fiddle. They crowded the few belongings which they would take out of the woods with them into ridiculously small compass, and talked joyfully and boisterously of the drive--for, of all the work of the woods it is the drive men most love. And of all work men find to do, the log drive on a swollen, quick-water river is the most dangerous, the most gruelling, and the most torturing, when for days and nights on end, following along rough shores, fighting underbrush, rocks, and backwater, clothing half torn from their bodies, and the remnants that remain wet to their skin, sleeping in cat-naps upon the wet ground, eating out of their hands as they follow the logs, cheating death by a hair as they leap from log to log, or swarm out to break a jam--of all work, the most gruelling, yet of all work the most loved by the white-water birlers of the north. Next morning water was flowing on top of the ice on Dogfish, and the big bateau was man-hauled to the bank and loaded with supplies and a portable stove. Strong lines were loaded into her, and extra axes, pickpoles, and peavys, and then, holding themselves ready to man the river at a moment's notice, the crew waited. And that morning, also appeared John Grey, worn out and wet to the middle by his all night's battle with the deep, saturated slush of the tote road. He had started from Dogfish with a horse and a side-bar buggy, but after a few miles, he had given up the attempt to drive through, and had unharnessed the horse and turned it loose to find its way back, while he pushed on on foot. After a prodigious meal, the sheriff turned in and slept until noon. When he awoke, his eyes rested for a moment on Connie, and he turned to Hurley: "Quite some of a clerk you got holt of, this season, Jake," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Yeh," replied Hurley, drily. "He's done fairly good--for a greener. I mistrusted, after he'd be'n in here a spell, that he wasn't just a pick-up of a kid--but, I didn't hardly think he'd turn out to be the owner." "Owner?" "Yup. Him an' his pardner owns this timber, an' the kid come down to find out what the trouble was----" "Y'ain't tellin' me a kid like him----" "Yup--they come that way--up in Alasky. He's put in a year with the Canady Mounted, too. I ain't a-braggin' him up none, but I'm right here to tell you that what that there kid don't know ain't in the books--an' he kin put over things that makes the smartest men me an' you ever heer'd of look like pikers." John Grey smiled, and the boss continued: "Oh, you needn't laff! Old Heinie Metzger busted _you_, didn't he? An' he busted a-many another good man. But this here kid slipped down an' put a contrack over on him that'll cost him between three an' four hundred thousand dollars of his heart's blood. The contrack is all signed and delivered, an' when Dogfish lets go tonight or tomorrow, the logs'll start." "Where is Slue Foot?" asked the sheriff, after listening to Hurley's explanation. "Up to Camp Two, we'll be goin' up there now. Me an' you an' the kid an' Lon'll go long. An' a crew of men with paint buckets and brushes. Saginaw, he'll have to stay here to boss the breakin' out of the rollways, in case she let's go before we git back." At the edge of Camp Two's clearing Hurley called a halt: "We'll wait here 'til the kid gits Slue Foot's signature to them vouchers. When ye git 'em kid, open the door an' spit out into the snow--then we'll come." "I'll just keep out these," grinned Slue Foot, as he selected the false vouchers from the sheaf of good ones, "so them birds don't git no chanct to double-cross me. You've done yer part first rate, kid. There's a little better than three million feet on the rollways that'll be wearin' the green triple X again they hit the sortin' gap. Von Kuhlmann was up here hisself to make sure, an' they's goin' to be a bunch of coin in it fer us--because he says how the owner is down to Minneapolis an' contracted fer the whole cut, an' old Heinie Metzger made a contrack that'll bust this here Alasky gent. He'll be so sick of the timber game, he'll run every time he hears the word log spoke. An' Hurley--he's broke fer good an' all. I be'n layin' to git him good--an' I done it, an' at the same time, I made a stake fer myself." Connie nodded, and opening the door, spat into the snow. A moment later there was a scraping of feet. The door opened, and John Grey, closely followed by Hurley and Lon Camden, entered the office. "Hullo, John," greeted Slue Foot. "Huntin' someone, er be ye up here tryin' to git some pointers on how to make money loggin'?" The sheriff flushed angrily at the taunt: "A little of both, I guess," he answered evenly. "Who you huntin'?" "You." "Me! What d'you want of me? What I be'n doin'?" "Oh, nothin' to speak of. Countin' the four warrants the kid, here, swore out, I only got nine agin ye--the other five is on information swore to by yer three friends down in jail." With a roar of hate, Slue Foot sprang straight at Connie, but Hurley who had been expecting just such a move, met him half way--met his face with a huge fist that had behind it all the venom of the big boss's pent-up wrath. Slue Foot crashed into a corner, and when he regained his feet two steel bracelets coupled with a chain encircled his wrists. The man glared in sullen defiance while the sheriff read the warrants arising out of the information of the three I. W. W.'s. But when he came to the warrants Connie had sworn out, the man flew into a fury of impotent rage--a fury that gradually subsided as the enormity of the offences dawned on him and he sank cowering into a chair, wincing visibly as he listened to the fateful words. "So you see," concluded the sheriff, "the State of Minnesota is mighty interested in you, Slue Foot, so much interested that I shouldn't wonder if it would decide to pay yer board and lodgin' fer the rest of yer natural life." "If I go over the road there'll be others that goes too. There's them in Minneapolis that holds their nose pretty high that's into this as deep as me. An' if I kin knock a few years offen my own time, by turnin' State's evidence, yer kin bet yer life I'll spill a mouthful." Suddenly he turned on Connie: "An' you," he screamed, "you dirty little double-crosser! What be you gittin' out of this?" "Well," answered the boy, "as soon as the crew out there on the rollways get the red block-and-ball in good honest paint on the ends of those logs, I'll get quite a lot out of it. You see I own the timber." [Illustration: HURLEY HAD REMAINED AT THE UPPER CAMP, AND AS THE DRIVE AT LAST BEGAN TO THIN OUT, HE CAME FLOATING DOWN, STANDING ERECT UPON A HUGE LOG.] Just at daylight the following morning the Dogfish River burst its prison of ice and "let go" with a rush and a grind of broken cakes; breakfast was bolted, and the men of the drive swarmed to the bank where they stood by to break-out the rollways as soon as the logs from the upper Camp began to thin out. Connie stood beside the big bateau with the cook and John Grey and watched Camp Two's drive rush past--a floating floor of logs that spanned the river from bank to bank. Hurley had remained at the upper Camp and as the drive at last began to thin out, he came floating down, standing erect upon a huge log. When opposite the camp the big boss leaped nimbly from log to log until he reached the bank, where Saginaw stood ready to order out the breaking out of the first rollway. Many of the men of the upper drive had passed, riding as Hurley had done upon logs--others straggled along the shore, watching to see that no trouble started at the bends, and still others formed the rear drive whose business it was to keep the stranded logs and the jill-pokes moving. So busy were all hands watching the logs that nobody noticed the manacled Slue Foot crawl stealthily from the bateau and slip to the river's brink. A big log nosed into shore and the former boss of Camp Two leaped onto it, his weight sending it out into the current. The plan might have worked, for the next bend would have thrown Slue Foot's log to the opposite bank of the river before any one could possibly have interfered, but luck willed otherwise, for the moment the unfortunate Slue Foot chose as the moment of his escape was the same moment Saginaw Ed gave the word for the breaking-out of the first rollway. There was a sharp order, a few well-directed blows of axes, a loud snapping of toggle-pins, and with a mighty roar the towering pile of logs shot down the steep bank and took the river with a splash that sent a wave of water before it. Then it was that the horrified spectators saw Slue Foot, his log caught in the wave, frantically endeavouring to control, with his calked boots, its roll and pitch. For a moment it seemed as if he might succeed, but the second rollway let go and hurtled after the first, and then the third, and the fourth--rolling over each other, forcing the tumbling, heaving, forefront farther and farther into the stream, and nearer and nearer to Slue Foot's wildly pitching log. By this time word had passed to the men at the rollways and the fifth was held, but too late to save Slue Foot, for a moment later the great brown mass of rolling tumbling logs reached him, and before the eyes of the whole crew, the boss of Camp Two disappeared for ever, and the great brown mass rolled on. "Mebbe ut's best," said Hurley, as with a shudder he turned away, "'tis a man's way to die--in the river--an' if they's an-ny wan waitin' fer him um back there, they'll think he died loike a man." In the next breath he bellowed an order and the work of the rollways went on. It was at the first of his cleverly planned obstructions that Hurley overtook the head of the drive, and it was there that he encountered Long Leaf Olson and the men of the Syndicate crew. Long Leaf was ranting and roaring up and down the bank, vainly ordering his men to break the jam, and calling malediction upon the logs, the crew, river, and every foot of land its water lapped. Hurley had ordered Saginaw to the rear drive, promising to hold the waters back with his jams, and now he approached the irate Long Leaf, a sack of dynamite over his shoulder and a hundred picked men of his two crews at his back. "Call yer men off thim logs!" he bellowed, "Thim's my logs on the head end, an' I want 'em where they're at." "Go on back to the rear end where you belong!" screeched Long Leaf; "I'll learn you to git fresh with a Syndicate drive! Who d'you think you be, anyhow?" "Oi'll show ye who I be, ye Skanjehoovyan Swade! An' Oi'll show ye who's runnin' this drive! Oi'm bossin' th' head ind mesilf an' Saginaw Ed's bossin' the rear, an' av ye've fouled our drive, ye'll play the game our way! What do Oi care fer yer Syndicate? Ye ain't boss of nawthin' on this river this year--ye' ain't aven boss of the bend-watchers!" Long Leaf, who's river supremacy had heretofore been undisputed, for the simple reason that no outfit had dared to incur the wrath of the Syndicate, stared at the huge Irishman in astonishment. Then placing his fingers to his lips he gave a peculiar whistle, and instantly men swarmed from the jam, and others appeared as if by magic from the woods. In a close-packed mob, they centred about their boss. "Go git 'em!" roared Long Leaf, beside himself with rage. "Chase the tooth-pickers off the river!" "Aye, come on!" cried Hurley. "Come on yez spalpeens! Come on, chase us off th' river--an' whoilst yer chasin' ye bether sind wan av ye down to Owld Heinie fer to ship up a big bunch av long black boxes wid shiney handles, er they'll be a whole lot of lumberjacks that won't go out av the woods at all, this spring!" As the men listened to the challenge they gazed uneasily toward the crew at Hurley's back. One hundred strong they stood and each man that did not carry an axe or a peavy, had thoughtfully provided himself with a serviceable peeled club of about the thickness of his wrist. "Git at 'em!" roared Long Leaf, jumping up and down in his tracks. But the men hesitated, moved forward a few steps, and stopped. "They hain't nawthin' in my contrack calls fer gittin' a cracked bean," said one, loud enough to be heard by the others. "Ner mine," "ner mine," "ner mine." "Let old Metzger fight his own battles, he ain't never done nawthin' to me but skinned me on the wanagan." "What would we git if we did risk our head?" "Probably git docked fer the time we put in fightin'." Rapidly the mutiny spread, each man taking his cue from the utterance of his neighbour, and a few minutes later they all retired, threw themselves upon the wet ground, and left Long Leaf to face Hurley alone. "Git out av me road," cried the big Irishman, "befoor Oi put a shtick av giant in under ye an' blow ye out!" Long Leaf backed away and, proceeding to a point opposite the jam, Hurley seated himself upon a log, and calmly filled his pipe. "If you think you're bossin' this drive, why in tarnation ain't you busted this jam," growled Long Leaf, as he came up a few minutes later. "They ain't no hurry, me b'y, not a bit of a hurry. They'll be another wan just a moile above th' mouth. Ut's a way good river-min has got to let the rear drive ketch up." "You wait 'til Metzger hears of this!" fumed Long Leaf. Hurley laughed: "Oi'll be there at th' tellin'. An' you wait 'til Metzger sees eight er noine million feet av my logs slidin' t'rough his sortin' gap--an' him havin' to pay fifty dollars a thousand fer um. D'ye think he'll doie av a stroke, er will he blow up?" "What do you mean--eight million--fifty dollars----" Hurley laughed tantalizingly: "Wait an' see. 'Twill be worth th' proice av admission." And not another word could Long Leaf get out of him. During the previous summer Hurley had studied his ground well. For several miles above the jam the river flowed between high banks, and it was that fact that made his scheme practicable, for had the land extended back from the river in wide flats or meadows, the backwater from the jam would have scattered his drive far and wide over the country. It was mid-afternoon when the rear-drive crew came up and then it was that Hurley, bearing a bundle of yellow cylinders, crept out along the face of the jam. A quarter of an hour later he came crawling back and joined the men who watched from the edge of the timber. Five minutes passed and the silence of the woods was shattered by a dull boom. The whole mass of logs that had lain, heaped like jack-straws in the bed of the river, seemed to lift bodily. A few logs in the forefront were hurled into the air to fall with a noisy splash into the river, or with a crash upon the trembling mass that settled slowly into the stream again. For an instant the bristling wall quivered uncertainly, moved slowly forward, hesitated, and then with a roar, the centre shot forward, the sides tumbled in upon the logs that rushed through from behind, and the great drive moved. The breaking of the second jam was a repetition of the first, and when the drive hit the big river there were left on the bars and rock-ledges of the Dogfish only a few stragglers that later could be dry-rolled by a small crew into the stream and rafted down. The crew worked indefatigably. Lumbermen said it was as pretty a drive as ever took water. In the cook's bateau Connie and Steve worked like Trojans to serve the men with hot coffee and handouts that were kept on tap every minute of the day and night. At the various dams along the great river the boy never tired of standing beside Hurley and watching the logs sluiced through, and at last, with Anoka behind them, it was with a wildly beating heart that he stepped into a skiff and took his place in the stern beside Hurley, while the brawny men of the sorting crew worked their way to the front of the drive. As the black smudge that hovered over the city of mills deepened, the boy gazed behind him at the river of logs--his logs, for the most part; a mighty pride of achievement welled up within him--the just pride of a winter's work well done. News of the drive had evidently preceded them, for when the skiff reached the landing of the Syndicate's sorting gap, the first persons the boy saw, standing at the end of the platform, apart from the men of the sorting crew, were Metzger and von Kuhlmann. The former greeting Connie with his oily smile. "Ah, here we have the youthful financier, himself," he purred. "He has accompanied his logs all the way down the river, counting them and putting them to bed each night, like the good mother looks after the children. I am prepared to believe that he has even named each log." "That's right," answered the boy evenly. "The first log to come through is named Heinie, and the last log is named Connie--and between the two of them there are four hundred and fifty thousand dollars' worth of assorted ones--you're going to pay for them--so I left the naming to you." Metzger shot him a keen glance: "How many logs have you brought down?" "About nine million feet of mine, and about three million and a half of yours--from your Dogfish Camp--at least that's what we estimated when we sluiced through at Anoka." Von Kuhlmann had turned white as paper: "Where's Hurley?" he asked in a shaky voice. [Illustration: CONNIE PLACED HIS HAND AFFECTIONATELY UPON THE ARM OF THE BIG BOSS WHO STOOD AT HIS SIDE GRINNING BROADLY.] Connie placed his hand affectionately upon the arm of the big boss who stood at his side grinning broadly: "This is Jake Hurley--my foreman," he announced, and then to the boss: "The old one is Heinie Metzger, and the shaky one's von Kuhlmann." "But," faltered von Kuhlmann--"there iss some mistake! Hurley I haff seen--I know him. I say he iss not Hurley! There iss a mistake!" "Yes, there's a mistake all right--and you made it," laughed the boy. "And it's a mistake that cost your boss, there, dearly. The man you have been dealing with was not Hurley at all. He passed himself off for Hurley, and last year he got away with it. Your game is up--you crooks! The three million feet that Slue Foot Magee, alias Hurley, branded with your disappearing paint, have all been repainted with good, honest, waterproof paint--and, _here they come!_" As the boy spoke, a log scraped along the sheer-boom, and for a moment all eyes rested upon the red block-and-ball, then instantly lifted to the thousands of logs that followed it. Several days later when the boom scale had been verified, Connie again presented himself at the office of the Syndicate and was shown immediately to Metzger's private room. The magnate received him with deference, even placing a chair for him with his own hands. "I hardly know how to begin, _Herr_ Morgan----" "_Connie Morgan_," snapped the boy. "And as far as I can see you can begin by dating a check for four hundred and forty-eight thousand, three hundred and twenty dollars--and then you can finish by signing it, and handing it over." "But, my dear young man, the price is exorbitant--my stockholders in Germany--they will not understand. It will be my ruin." "Why did you agree to it then? Why did you sign the contract?" "Ah, you do not understand! Allow me----" "I understand this much," said Connie, his eyes flickering with wrath, "that you'd have held me to my bargain and taken my logs for ten dollars a thousand, and ruined me, if I hadn't been wise to your dirty game." "Ah, no! We should have adjusted--should have compromised. I would have been unwilling to see you lose! And yet, you would see me lose--everything--my position--my friends in Germany--surely your heart is not so hard. There should be fellowship among lumbermen----" "Is that the reason you ruined John Grey, and Lige Britton, and Lafe Weston, and poor old Jim Buck? Every one of them as square a man as ever lived--and every one of them an independent logger, 'til you ruined them! What did you answer when they sat right in this office and begged for a little more time--a little more credit--a little waiver of toll here and there? Answer me that! You bloodsucking weasel!" The cowardly whine of the beaten German made the boy furious. He was upon his feet, now, pounding the desk with his fist. A crafty gleam shot from Metzger's eyes, and abruptly he changed his tactics: "Let us not abuse each other. It is probable we can come to an agreement. You are smart. Come in with us. I can use you--in von Kuhlmann's place. I paid von Kuhlmann eighteen-hundred a year. Make a concession to me on the contract and I will employ you with a ten year contract, at ten thousand a year. We are a big corporation; we will crush out the little ones! I can even offer you stock. We will tighten our grip on the timber. We will show these Americans----" "Yes," answered the boy, his voice trembling with fury, "we'll show these Americans--we'll show 'em what _fools_ they are to allow a lot of wolves from across the water to come over here and grab off the best we've got. I'm an American! And I'm proud of it! And what's more, I'll give you just five minutes to write that check, Metzger, and if it isn't in my hands when the time's up, I'll get out an attachment that'll tie up every dollar's worth of property you own in the State, from the mills to your farthest camp. I'll tie up your logs on the rollways--and by the time you get the thing untangled you won't have water enough to get them to the river. You've got three minutes and a half left." Slowly, with shaking fingers, Metzger drew the check, and without a word, passed it over to Connie, who studied it minutely, and then thrust it into his pocket. At the door he turned and looked back at Metzger who had sloughed low in his chair. "If you'd listened to those other men--John Grey and the others you've busted, when they were asking for favours that meant nothing to you, but meant ruin to them if you withheld them--if you'd played the game square and decent--you wouldn't be busted now. And, when you get back to Germany, you might tell your friends over there that unless they change their tactics, someday, something is going to happen that will wake America up! And if you're a fair specimen of your kind, when America does wake up, it will be good-bye Germany!" And as the door slammed upon the boy's heels, Metzger for a reason unaccountable to himself shuddered. THE END Connie Morgan with the Mounted By James B. Hendryx Author of "Connie Morgan in Alaska" _Illustrated._ It tells how "Sam Morgan's Boy," well known to readers of Mr. Hendryx's "Connie Morgan in Alaska," daringly rescued a man who was rushing to destruction on an ice floe and how, in recognition of his quick-wittedness and nerve, he was made a Special Constable in the Northwest Mounted Police, with the exceptional adventures that fell to his lot in that perilous service. It is a story of the northern wilderness, clean and bracing as the vigorous, untainted winds that sweep over that region; the story of a boy who wins out against the craft of Indians and the guile of the bad white man of the North; the story of a boy who succeeds where men fail. Connie Morgan in Alaska By James B. Hendryx Author of "The Promise," "The Law of the Woods," etc. _12°. Over twenty illustrations_ Mr. Hendryx, as he has ably demonstrated in his many well-known tales, knows his Northland thoroughly, but he has achieved a reputation as a writer possibly "too strong" for the younger literary digestion. It is a delight, therefore, to find that he can present properly, in a capital story of a boy, full of action and adventure, and one in whom boys delight, the same thorough knowledge of people and customs of the North. The Quest of the Golden Valley By Belmore Browne Author of "The Conquest of Mount McKinley" _12°. Eight full-page illustrations_ The story of a search for treasure which lies guarded by the fastnesses of nature in the ragged interior of Alaska. The penetration of these wilds by the boys who are the heroes of the story is a thrilling narrative of adventure, and with every step of the journey the lore of the open is learned. The reader follows them through the mountains wreathed in misty enchantment, over swollen rivers, into inviting valleys, until the great discovery of gold is made, and then the adventure does not close but may be said to reach its height, for a wily good-for-nothing, who, under false pretenses, has inveigled in his scheme some men innocent of wicked intent, attempts to steal the prize, and there follows a race of days through the northland, involving innumerable dangers and culminating in a splendid rescue. The White Blanket By Belmore Brown Author of "The Quest of the Golden Valley," etc. _12°. Illustrated_ A sequel to _The Quest of the Golden Valley_, this time taking the chums through the vicissitudes of an Alaskan winter. They trap the many fur-bearing animals, hunt the big game, camp with the Indians, do dog-driving, snow-shoeing, etc. With the coming of spring they descend one of the wilderness rivers on a raft and at the eleventh hour, after being wrecked in a dangerous canyon, they discover a fabulous quartz lode, and succeed in reaching the sea coast. G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected. Illustrations have been moved closer to the relevant text. 
22667	----	JOAN OF ARC OF THE NORTH WOODS * * * * * BOOKS BY HOLMAN DAY JOAN OF ARC OF THE NORTH WOODS WHEN EGYPT WENT BROKE ALL-WOOL MORRISON THE RIDER OF THE KING LOG THE SKIPPER AND THE SKIPPED THE RED LANE THE RAMRODDERS THE LANDLOPER WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS SQUIRE PHIN BLOW THE MAN DOWN Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London * * * * * JOAN OF ARC OF THE NORTH WOODS by HOLMAN DAY Author of "The Rider of the King Log," "When Egypt Went Broke," Etc. Harper & Brothers, Publishers New York and London Joan of Arc of the North Woods Copyright, 1922 By Harper & Brothers Printed in the U.S.A. First Edition H-W _Joan of Arc of the North Woods_ CHAPTER ONE The timber situation in the Tomah country was surcharged. When Ward Latisan came upon Rufus Craig, one afternoon in autumn, steel struck flint and trouble's fuse was lighted. Their meeting was on the Holeb tote road just below Hagas Falls. Young Ward was the grandson of old John, a pioneer who was in his day a saw-log baron of the times of pumpkin pine; by heredity Ward was the foremost champion in the cause of the modern independent operators. In his own way, Craig, the field director of the Comas Consolidated Paper Company, was the chief gladiator for an invading corporation which demanded monopoly of the Tomah timber by absorption of the independents. Latisan tramped down the tote road from the shoulder of Holeb Mountain, where he had been cruising alone for a week on the Walpole tract, blazing timber for the choppers, marking out twitch roads and haul-downs, locating yards; his short-handled ax was in his belt, his lank haversack flapped on his back; he carried his calipers in one hand; with the other hand he fed himself raisins from his trousers pocket, munching as he went along. He had eaten the last of his scanty supply of biscuits and bacon; but, like other timber cruisers--all of them must travel light--he had his raisins to fall back on, doling them one by one, masticating them thoroughly and finding the nourishment adequate. He had been on the go every day from sunup till dark; nights he cinched his belted jacket closely and slept as best he could, his back against a tree; he had cruised into every nook and corner of the tract, spending strength prodigally, but when he strode down the tote road his vitality enabled him to hit it off at a brisk gait; his belt was a few holes tighter, yet his fasting made him keenly awake; he was more alert to the joy of being alive in the glory of the crisp day; his cap was in his pocket, his tousled brown hair was rampant; and he welcomed the flood of sunshine on his bronzed face. Craig was making his way along the tote road in a buckboard, with a driver. The road bristled with rocks and was pitted with hollows; the fat horses dragged their feet at a slow walk. Craig was a big man, a bit paunchy, and he grunted while he was bounced. He wore his city hard hat as if he wished by his headgear to distinguish himself from the herd of woodsmen whom he bossed. Latisan overtook the toiling buckboard, and his stride was taking him past when Craig hailed. "Ride?" "No--thank you!" The negative was sharp. Privation and toil had put an edge on the young man's temper, and the temper was not amiable where Craig was concerned. "I've got some business to talk with you, Latisan." "If that's so I can listen while I walk alongside." But Craig ordered the driver to halt. Then the Comas director swung around and faced Latisan. "I'm putting it up to you again--will you and your father sell to the Comas?" "No, sir!" "What is it going to be--a fight to a finish?" "If you keep your hands off us saw-log fellows, Mr. Craig, there'll be no fight. We were here first, you know!" "That's got nothing to do with the present situation, Latisan. We've built a million-dollar paper mill on the Toban, and it's up to me to feed it with pulp stuff. We can't lug our plant off in a shawl strap if supply fails." "Nor can the folks who have built villages around the sawmills lug away their houses if the mills are closed." "Paper dominates in this valley nowadays, instead of lumber. Latisan, you're old-fashioned!" The young man, feeling his temper flame, lighted his pipe, avoiding too quick retort. "You stand to lose money in the lumber market, with conditions as they are," proceeded Craig, loftily counseling another man about his own business. The Comas director, intent on consolidation, had persistently failed to understand the loyalty, half romantic, which was actuating the old-line employers to protect faithful householders. "Let the workers move down the river to our model town." "And live in those beehives of yours, paying big rent, competing with the riffraff help you hire from employment agencies? We can't see it that way, Mr. Craig!" "Look here! I've got some news for you. I've just pulled five of the independents in with us--Gibson, Sprague, Tolman, Brinton, and Bodwell. The Comas now controls the timber market on the Toban. How about logs for your mills?" Craig believed he was hitting Latisan five solid jolts to the jaw when he named the recreant operators. However, the young man had heard rumors of what the bludgeoning methods of the Comas had accomplished; he surveyed Craig resolutely through the pipe smoke. He had come down from the Walpole tract that day in a spirit of new confidence which put away all weariness from him. He was armed with a powerful weapon. In his exultation, fired by youth's natural hankering to vaunt success in an undertaking where his elders had failed, he was willing to flourish the weapon. Craig waggled a thick forefinger. "What are you going to saw, Latisan?" "Two million feet from the Walpole tract--where no ax has chipped a tree for twenty-five years." It was a return jolt and it made the Comas man blink. "But nobody can buy the right to cut there." "I have bought the right, Mr. Craig. An air-tight stumpage contract--passed on by the best lawyer in this county--a clear title." "Latisan, the Comas has never been able to round up those heirs--and what we can't do with all our resources can't be done by you." "The Latisans know this region better than the Comas folks know it, sir. Five cousins by hard hunting--two gravestones by good luck! All heirs located! Why don't you congratulate me?" Just then the Comas director was thinking instead of talking. In his operations he was a cocksure individual, Mr. Craig was! In his hands, by his suggestion, his New York superiors had placed all the details of business in the field of the north country. He had promised consolidation with full belief in his ability to perform; one explicit promise had been that this season would mark the end of the opposition by the independents; the Comas would secure complete control of the Toban timber and fix prices. But here were the ringleader Latisans in a way to smash the corner which Craig had manipulated by bulldozing and bribery! In the past Craig had not bothered headquarters with any minute explanations of how he accomplished results. This crusher which threatened all his plans and promises would make a monkey of him in New York, he reflected. "I want to say a last word to you, Mr. Craig," continued Latisan, stiffly. "Probably we are now in for that fight on which you've been insisting. I don't want to fight, but I'm ready for a fair stand-up. Just a moment, please!" Craig had barked a few oaths preliminary to an outpouring of his feelings. "I'm warning you to let up on those guerrilla tactics of yours. I propose to find out whether your big men in New York are backing you. I'm telling you now to your face, so you can't accuse me later of carrying tales behind your back, of my intention to go to New York and report conditions to the president of the Comas." "Don't you dare!" "I do dare. I'm going. I expect you to run in ahead of me, but no matter. And speaking of tales behind a man's back----" Craig was having difficulty in finding speech for retort; Latisan was rushing the affair. Again Craig blustered, "Don't you dare!" "Yes, I do dare. When I went away last summer I had good reasons for keeping my plans to myself. I got back to the Toban and found slander accusing me of sporting in the city, deviling around with liquor and women. That's a damnable lie!" Latisan delivered the accusation hotly; there was unmistakable challenge in his demeanor. "You yourself have handed around some of that slander, Mr. Craig. I get it straight from men whose word is good!" "I only said what others were saying." "I don't know, of course, who started those stories, but I do know that they have been used against me. They have helped you, it seems! I wanted to keep my plans under cover--but I've got to protect myself with the truth, even if the truth gives you a tip. I went away to take a special course in hydraulic engineering, so as to know more about protecting the common rights in the flowage of this river." He swung his hand to indicate the thundering falls of Hagas. "You have used your tongue to hurt my standing with some of the independents--they distrust my reliability and good faith--you have pulled in a few of them. The others will stand by me. Frankly, Mr. Craig, I don't like your style! It'll be a good thing for both of us if we have no more talk after this." He walked rapidly down the tote road, not turning his head when Craig called furiously after him. "Pretty uppish, ain't he?" ventured the driver, touching the horses with the whip. Craig, bouncing alone on the middle seat of the buckboard, grunted. "Excuse me, Mr. Craig, but that's some news--what he said about getting aholt of the old Walpole tract." The Comas boss did not comment. The driver said nothing more for some time; he was a slouchy woodsman of numb wits; he chewed tobacco constantly with the slow jaw motion of a ruminating steer, and he looked straight ahead between the ears of the nigh horse, going through mental processes of a certain sort. "Now 't I think of it, I wish I'd grabbed in with a question to young Latisan. But he doesn't give anybody much of a chance to grab in when he's talking. Still, I'd have liked to ask him something." He maundered on in that strain for several minutes. "Ask him what?" snapped Craig, tired of the monologue. "Whuther he's talked with my old aunt Dorcas about the heir who went off into the West somewheres. Grandson of the old sir who was the first Walpole of the Toban--real heir, if he's still alive! My aunt Dorcas had letters about him, or from him, or something like that, only a few years ago." "Look here!" stormed Craig. "Why haven't you said something about such letters or such an heir?" "Nobody has ever asked me. And he's prob'ly dead, anyway. Them lawyers know everything. And he's a roving character, as I remember what my aunt said. No use o' telling anybody about him--it would cost too much to find him." "Cost too much!" snarled the Comas director. "Oh, you----" But he choked back what he wanted to say about the man's intellect. Craig pulled out notebook and pencil and began to fire questions. Latisan was headed for home, the old family mansion in the village of Toban Deadwater where Ward and his widowed father kept bachelor's hall, with a veteran woods cook to tend and do for them. The male cook was Ward's idea. The young man had lived much in the woods, and the ways of women about the house annoyed him; a bit of clutter was more comfortable. It was a long tramp to the Deadwater, but he knew the blazed-trail short cuts and took advantage of the light of the full moon for the last stage of the journey. He was eager to report progress and prospects to his father. Ward was not anticipating much in the way of practical counsel from Garry Latisan. Old John had been a Tartar, a blustering baron of the timberlands. Garry, his son, had taken to books and study. He was slow and mild, deprecatory and forgiving. Ward Latisan had those saving qualities in a measure, but he was conscious in himself of the avatar of old John's righteous belligerency when occasion prompted. Ward, as he was trudging home, was trying to keep anger from clouding his judgment. When he felt old John stirring in him, young Latisan sought the mild counsel of Garry, and then went ahead on a line of action of his own; he was steering a safe course, he felt, by keeping about halfway between John's violence in performance and Garry's toleration. Ward was the executive of the Latisan business and liked the job; his youth and vigor found zest in the adventures of the open. Old John's timber man's spirit had been handed along to the grandson. Ward finished his education at a seminary--and called it enough. His father urged him to go to college, but he went into the woods and was glad to be there, at the head of affairs. The operations on the old tracts, thinned by many cuttings, had been keeping him closely on the job, because there were problems to be solved if profits were to be handled. His stroke in getting hold of the Walpole tract promised profits without problems; there were just so many trees to cut down--and the river was handy! In spite of his weariness, Ward sat till midnight on the porch with his father, going over their plans. The young man surveyed the Latisan mill and the houses of the village while he talked; the moon lighted all and the mill loomed importantly, reflected in the still water of the pond. If Craig prevailed, the mill and the homes must be left to rot, empty, idle, and worthless. As Ward viewed it, the honor of the Latisans was at stake; the spirit of old John blazed in the grandson; but he declared his intention to fight man fashion, if the fight were forced on him. He would go to the Comas headquarters in New York, he said, not to ask for odds or beg for favors, but to explain the situation and to demand that Craig be required to confine himself to the tactics of square business rivalry. "And my course in engineering was a good investment; I can talk turkey to them about our dams and the flowage rights. I don't believe they're backing up Craig's piracy!" Garry Latisan agreed fully with his son and expressed the wistful wish, as he did regularly in their conferences, that he could be of more real help. "Your sympathy and your praise are help enough, father," Ward declared, with enthusiasm. "We're sure of our cut; all I'm asking from the Comas is gangway for our logs. There must be square men at the head of that big corporation!" CHAPTER TWO In New York young Latisan plunged straight at his business. The home office of the Comas Consolidated Company was in a towering structure in the metropolis's financial district. On the translucent glass of many doors there was a big C with two smaller C's nested. In the north country everybody called the corporation The Three C's. After a fashion, the sight of the portentous monogram made Ward feel more at home. Up where he lived the letters were familiar. Those nested C's stood for wide-flung ownership along the rivers of the north. The monogram was daubed in blue paint on the ends of countless logs; it marked the boxes and barrels and sacks of mountains of supplies along the tote roads; it designated as the property of the Comas Company all sorts of possessions from log camps down to the cant dog in the hands of the humblest Polack toiler. Those nested C's were dominant, assertive, and the folks of the north were awed by the everlasting reduplication along the rivers and in the forests. Ward, indignantly seeking justice, resolved not to be awed in the castle of the giant. He presented himself at a gate and asked to see the president. The president could not be seen except by appointment, Latisan learned. What was the caller's business? Latisan attempted to explain, but he was halted by the declaration that all details in the timber country were left to Rufus Craig, field manager! When Ward insisted that his previous talks with Craig had only made matters worse for all concerned, and when he pleaded for an opportunity to talk with somebody--anybody--at headquarters, he finally won his way to the presence of a sallow man who filmed his hard eyes and listened with an air of silent protest. He also referred Latisan back to Craig. "We don't interfere with his management of details in the north." Evidently Mr. Craig had been attending to his defenses in the home office. Ward's temper was touched by the listener's slighting apathy. "I've come here to protest against unfair methods. Our men are tampered with--told that the Latisans are on their last legs. We are losing from our crews right along. We have been able to hire more men to take the places of those who have been taken away from us. But right now we are up against persistent reports that we shall not be able to get down our cut in the spring. Sawmill owners are demanding bonds from us to assure delivery; otherwise they will cancel their orders." "Do you know any good reason why you can't deliver?" probed the Comas man, showing a bit of interest. "Your Mr. Craig seems to know. I blame him for these stories." "I'm afraid you're laboring under a delusion, Mr. Latisan. Why don't you sell out to our company? Most of the other independents have found it to their advantage--seen it in the right light." "Mr. Craig's tactics have driven some small concerns to see it that way, sir. But my grandfather was operating in the north and supplying the sawmills with timber before the paper mills began to grab off every tree big enough to prop a spruce bud. Villages have been built up around the sawmills. If the paper folks get hold of everything those villages will die; all the logs will be run down to the paper mills." "Naturally," said the sallow man. "Paper is king these days." Then he received a handful of documents from a clerk who entered, again referred Ward to Mr. Craig, advised him to treat with the latter in the field, where the business belonged, and hunched a dismissing shoulder toward the caller. Ward had not been asked to sit down; he swung on his heel, but he stopped and turned. "As to selling out, even if we can bring ourselves to that! Mr. Craig has beaten independents to their knees and has made them accept his price. It's not much else than ruin when a man sells to him." "Persecutional mania is a dangerous hallucination," stated the sallow man. "Mr. Craig has accomplished certain definite results in the north country. We have used the word Consolidated in our corporation name with full knowledge of what we are after. We assure stable conditions in the timber industry. You must move with the trend of the times." Latisan had been revolving in his mind certain statements which he proposed to make to the big men of the Comas. He had assorted and classified those statements before he entered the castle of the great corporation. With youth's optimism he had anticipated a certain measure of sympathy--had in some degree pictured at least one kindly man in the Comas outfit who would listen to a young chap's troubles. Walking to the door, standing with his hand on the knob, he knew he must go back to the woods with the dolorous prospect of being obliged to fight to hold together the remnants of the Latisan business. He set his teeth and opened the door. He would have gone without further words, but the sallow man snapped a half threat which brought Ward around on his heels. "Mr. Latisan, I hope you will carry away with you the conviction that fighting the Comas company will not get you anything." Ward choked for a moment. Old John was stirring in him. A fettered yelp was bulging in his throat, and the skin of the back of his head tingled as if the hair were rising. But he spoke quietly when he allowed his voice to squeeze past the repressed impulse. "There's a real fight ready to break in the north country, sir." "Do you propose to be captain?" "I have no such ambition. But your Mr. Craig is forcing the issue. No company is big enough to buck the law in our state." "Look here, my good fellow!" The sallow man came around in his chair. Ward immediately was more fully informed as to the personage's status. "I am one of the attorneys of this corporation. I have been attending to the special acts your legislature has passed in our behalf. We are fully protected by law." "The question is how much you'll be protected after facts are brought out by a fight," replied Ward, stoutly. "I know the men who have been sent down to the legislature from our parts and how they were elected. But even such men get cold feet after the public gets wise." "That'll be enough!" snapped the attorney. He turned to his desk again. "Yes, it looks like it," agreed young Latisan; he did not bang the door after him; he closed it softly. The attorney was obliged to look around to assure himself that his caller was not in the room. Then he pushed a button and commanded a clerk to ask if Mr. Craig was still in the president's office. Informed that Mr. Craig was there, the attorney went thither. "I have just been bothered by that young chap, Latisan, from the Tomah region," reported Dawes, the attorney. "He threatens a fight which will rip the cover off affairs in the north country. How about what's underneath, provided the cover is ripped off, Craig?" "Everything sweet as a nut! Any other kind of talk is bluff and blackmail. So that's young Latisan's latest move, eh?" he ejaculated, squinting appraisingly at Dawes and turning full gaze of candor's fine assumption on Horatio Marlow, the president. "Just who is this young Latisan?" inquired Marlow. "Oh, only the son of one of the independents who are sticking out on a hold-up against us. Did he name his price, Dawes?" "He didn't try to sell anything," acknowledged the attorney. "Craig, let me ask you, are you moving along the lines of the law we have behind us in those special acts I steered through?" "Sure thing!" asserted the field director, boldly. "We've got to ask for more from the next legislature," stated the lawyer. The president came in with a warning. "Credit is touchy these days, Mr. Craig. We're going into the market for big money for further development. It's easy for reports to be made very hurtful." "I'm achieving results up there," insisted Craig, doggedly. "We're very much pleased with conditions," agreed the president. "We're able to show capital a constantly widening control of properties and natural advantages. But remember Achilles's heel, Mr. Craig." "I haven't been able to fight 'em with feathers all the time," confessed the field director. "There wasn't much law operating up there when I grabbed in. I have done the best I could, and if I have been obliged to use a club once in a while I have made the fight turn something for the corporation." He exhibited the pride of the man who had accomplished. The attorney warned Craig again. "We can't afford to have any uproar started till we get our legislation properly cinched. Tomah seems to be attended to. But we need some pretty drastic special acts before we can go over the watershed and control the Noda waters and pull old Flagg into line. He's the last, isn't he?--the king-pin, according to what I hear." "I'll attend to his case all right," declared Craig, with confidence. "I'll tackle the Noda basin next. Flagg must be licked before he'll sell. He's that sort. A half lunatic on this independent thing. I reckon you'll leave it to me, won't you?" "We'll leave all the details of operation in the field to you, Craig," promised the president. "But you must play safe." "I'll take full responsibility," affirmed Craig, whose pride had been touched. "Then we shall continue to value you as our right bower in the north," said Marlow. "The man on the ground understands the details. We don't try to follow them here in the home office." Craig walked out with Dawes. "That talk has put the thing up to you square-edged, Craig." Craig had been heartened and fortified by the president's compliments. "Leave it to me!" CHAPTER THREE Latisan had eaten his breakfast in the grill of a big hotel with a vague idea that such an environment would tune him up to meet the magnates of the Comas company. In his present and humbler state of mind, hungry again, he went into a cafeteria. Waiting at the counter for his meat stew and tea--familiar woods provender which appealed to his homesickness--he became aware of a young woman at his elbow; she was having difficulty in managing her tray and her belongings. There was an autumn drizzle outside and Ward had stalked along unprotected, with a woodman's stoicism in regard to wetness. The young woman had her umbrella, a small bag, and a parcel, and she was clinging to all of them, impressed by the "Not Responsible" signs which sprinkled the walls of the place. When her tray tipped at an alarming slant, as she elbowed her way from the crowded counter, Ward caught at its edge and saved a spill. The girl smiled gratefully. "If you don't mind," he apologized; his own tray was ready. He took that in his free hand. He gently pulled her tray from her unsteady grasp. "I'll carry it to a table." The table section was as crowded as the counter space. He did not offer to sit opposite her at the one vacant table he found; he lingered, however, casting about himself for another seat. "May I not exchange my hospitality for your courtesy?" inquired the girl. She nodded toward the unoccupied chair and he sat down and thanked her. She was an extremely self-possessed young woman, who surveyed him frankly with level gaze from her gray eyes. "You performed very nicely, getting through that crush as you did without spilling anything," she commended. "I've had plenty of practice." She opened her eyes on him by way of a question. "Not as a waiter," he proceeded. "But with those trays in my hand it was like being on the drive, ramming my way through the gang that was charging the cook tent." "The drive!" she repeated. He was surprised by the sudden interest he roused in her. "Are you from the north country?" Her color heightened with her interest. She leaned forward. Latisan, in his infrequent experiences, had never been at ease in the presence of pretty girls, even when their notice of him was merely cursory. In the region where he had toiled there were few females, and those were spouses and helpers of woods cooks, mostly. Here was a maid of the big city showing an interest disquietingly acute--her glowing eyes and parted lips revealed her emotions. At the moment he was not able to separate himself, as a personality, from the subject which he had brought up. Just what there was about him or the subject to arouse her so strangely he did not pause to inquire of himself, for his thoughts were not coherent just then; he, too, was stirred by her nearer propinquity as she leaned forward, questioning him eagerly. He replied, telling what he was but not who he was; he felt a twinge of disappointment because she did not venture to probe into his identity. Her questions were concerned with the north country as a region. At first her quizzing was of a general nature. Then she narrowed the field of inquiry. "You say the Tomah waters are parallel with the Noda basin! Do you know many folks over in the Noda region?" "Very few. I have kept pretty closely on my own side of the watershed." "Isn't there a village in the Noda called Adonia?" "Oh yes! It's the jumping-off place--the end of a narrow-gauge railroad." "You have been in Adonia?" "A few times." "I had--there were friends of mine--they were friends of a man in Adonia. His name was--let's see!" He wondered whether the faint wrinkle of a frown under the bronze-flecked hair on her forehead was as much the expression of puzzled memory as she was trying to make it seem; there did appear something not wholly ingenuous in her looks just then. "Oh, his name is Flagg." "Echford Flagg?" "Yes, that's it. My friends were very friendly with him, and I'd like to be able to tell them----" She hesitated. "You have given me some news," he declared, bluntly; in his mood of the day he was finding no good qualities in mankind. "I never heard of Eck Flagg having any friends. Well, I'll take that back! I believe he's ace high among the Tarratine Indians up our way; they have made him an honorary chief. But it's no particular compliment to a white man's disposition to be able to qualify as an Indian, as I look at it." This time he was not in doubt about the expression on her face; a sudden grimace like grief wreathed the red lips and there was more than a suspicion of tears in her eyes. He stared at her, frankly amazed. "If I have stepped on toes I am sorry. I never did know how to talk to young ladies without making a mess sooner or later." She returned no reply, and he went on with his food to cover his embarrassment. "Do you know Mr. Flagg?" she asked, after the silence had been prolonged. "Not very well. But I know about him." "What especially?" "That he's a hard man. He never forgets or forgives an injury. Perhaps that's why he qualified so well as an Indian." She straightened in her chair and narrowed those gray eyes. "Couldn't there have been another reason why he was chosen for such an honor?" "I beg your pardon for passing along to you the slurs of the north country, miss----" he paused but she did not help him with her name. "It's mostly slurs up there," he went on, with bitterness, "and I get into the habit, myself. The Indians did have a good reason for giving Flagg that honor. He is the only one in the north who has respected the Indians' riparian rights, given by treaty and then stolen back. He pays them for hold-boom privileges when his logs are on their shores. They are free to come and go on his lands for birch bark and basket stuff--he's the only one who respects the old treaties. That's well known about Flagg in the north country. It's a good streak in any man, no matter what folks say about his general disposition." "I'm glad to hear you say that much!" She pushed back her chair slightly and began to take stock of her possessions. A sort of a panic came upon him. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, and he could not seem to lay a tongue to one of them. He stammered something about the wet day and wondered whether it would be considered impudence if he offered to escort her, holding over her the umbrella or carrying her parcel. He had crude ideas about the matter of squiring dames. He wanted to ask her not to hurry away. "Do you live here in New York--handy by?" The cafeteria was just off lower Broadway, and she smiled. He realized the idiocy of the question. "I work near here! You are going home to the north soon?" The polite query was in a tone which checked all his new impulses in regard to her. "I'm headed north right now. If there's any information I can send you----" She shook her head slowly, but even the negative was marked by an indecisive quality, as if she were repressing some importunate desire. "I wish you a pleasant journey, sir." All her belongings were in her hands. "It's queer--it's almost more than queer how we happened to meet--both interested in the north country," he stuttered, wanting to detain her. He was hoping she would make something of the matter. But she merely acknowledged the truth of his statement, adding, "There would be more such coincidences in life if folks took the trouble to interest themselves a bit in one another and compare notes." She started to walk away; then she whirled and came back to the table and leaned over it. Her soul of longing was in her eyes--they were filled with tears. "You're going back there," she whispered. "God bless the north country! Give a friendly pat to one of the big trees for me and say you found a girl in New York who is homesick." She turned from him before he could summon words. He wanted to call after her--to find out more about her. He saw her gathering up her change at the cashier's wicket. The spectacle reminded him of his own check. Even love at first sight, if such could be the strange new emotion struggling within him, could not enable him to leap the barrier of the cashier's cold stare and rush away without paying scot. He hunted for his punched check. He pawed all over the marble top of the table, rattling the dishes. A check--it was surely all of that! The search for it checked him till the girl was gone, mingled with the street crowds. He found the little devil of a delayer in the paper napkin which he had nervously wadded and dropped on the floor. He shoved money to the cashier and did not wait for his change. He rushed out on the street and stretched up his six stalwart feet and craned his neck and hunted for the little green toque with the white quill. It was a vain quest. He did not know just what the matter was with him all of a sudden. He had never had any personal experience with that which he had vaguely understood was love; he had merely viewed it from a standpoint of a disinterested observer, in the case of other men. He hated to admit, as he stood there in the drizzle, his defeat by a cafeteria check. He remained in New York for another night, his emotions aggravatingly complex. He tried to convince his soul that he had a business reason for staying. He lied to himself and said he would make another desperate sortie on the castle of the Comas company. But he did not go there the next day. Near noon he set himself to watch the entrance of the cafeteria. When he saw a table vacant near the door he went in, secured food, and posted himself where he could view all comers. The girl did not come. At two o'clock, after eating three meals, he did not dare to brave the evident suspicions of that baleful cashier any longer. Undoubtedly the girl had been a casual customer like himself. He gave it up and started for the north. CHAPTER FOUR When Ward Latisan was home again and had laced his high boots and buttoned his belted jacket, he was wondering, in the midst of his other troubles, why he allowed the matter of a chance-met girl to play so big a part in his thoughts. The exasperating climax of his adventure with the girl, his failure to ask her name frankly, his folly of bashful backwardness in putting questions when she was at arm's length from him, his mournful certainty that he would never see her again--all conspired curiously to make her an obsession rather than a mere memory. He had never bothered with mental analysis; his effort to untangle his ideas in this case merely added to his puzzlement; it was like one of those patent trick things which he had picked up in idle moments, allowing the puzzle to bedevil attention and time, intriguing his interest, to his disgust. He had felt particularly lonely and helpless when he came away from Comas headquarters; instinctively he was seeking friendly companionship--opening his heart; he had caught something, just as a man with open pores catches cold. He found the notion grimly humorous! But Latisan was not ready to own up that what he had contracted was a case of love, though young men had related to him their experiences along such lines. He went into the woods and put himself at the head of the crews. He had the ability to inspire zeal and loyalty. In the snowy avenues of the Walpole tract sounded the rick-tack of busy axes, the yawk of saws, and the crash of falling timber. The twitch roads, narrow trails which converged to centers like the strands of a cobweb, led to the yards where the logs were piled for the sleds; and from the yards, after the snows were deep and had been iced by watering tanks on sleds, huge loads were eased down the slopes to the landings close to the frozen Tomah. Ward Latisan was not merely a sauntering boss, inspecting operations. He went out in the gray mornings with an ax in his hand. He understood the value of personal and active leadership. He was one with his men. They put forth extra effort because he was with them. Therefore, when the April rains began to soften the March snow crusts and the spring flood sounded its first murmur under the blackening ice of Tomah, the Latisan logs were ready to be rolled into the river. And then something happened! That contract with the Walpole second cousins--pronounced an air-tight contract by the lawyer--was pricked, popped, and became nothing. An heir appeared and proved his rights. He was the only grandson of old Isaac. The cousins did not count in the face of the grandson's claims. In the past, in the Tomah region, there had been fictitious heirs who had worked blackmail on operators who took a chance with putative heirs and tax titles. But the Latisans were faced with proofs that this heir was real and right. Why had he waited until the cut was landed? The Latisans pressed him with desperate questions, trying to find a way out of their trouble. He was a sullen and noncommunicative person and intimated that he had suited his own convenience in coming on from the West. The Latisans, when the heir appeared, were crippled for ready cash, after settling with the cousin heirs for stumpage and paying the winter's costs of operating. Those cousins were needy folks and had spent the money paid to them; there was no hope of recovering any considerable portion of the amounts. The true heir attached the logs as they lay, and a court injunction prevented the Latisans from moving a stick. The heir showed a somewhat singular disinclination to have any dealings with the Latisans. He refused their offer to share profits with him; he persistently returned an exasperating reply: he did not care to do business with men who had tried to steal his property. He said he had already traded with responsible parties. Comas surveyors came and scaled the logs and nested C's were painted on the ends of the timber. The Latisans had "gone bump"; the word went up and down the Tomah. "Well, go ahead and say it!" suggested Rufus Craig when he had set himself in the path of Ward Latisan, who was coming away from a last, and profitless, interview with the obstinate heir. "I have nothing to say, sir." Craig calculatingly chose the moment for this meeting, desiring to carry on with the policy which he had adopted. By his system the Comas had maneuvered after the python method--it crushed, it smeared, it swallowed. The Latisans had been crushed--Craig quieted his conscience with the arguments of business necessity; he had a big salary to safeguard; he had promised boldly to deliver the goods in the north country. Though his conscience was dormant, his fears were awake. He was not relishing Latisan's manner. The repression worried him. The grandson had plenty of old John in his nature, and Craig knew it! Craig tried to smear! "Latisan, I'll give you a position with the Comas, and a good one." "And the conditions are?" "That you'll turn over your operating equipment to us at a fair price and sign a ten-year contract." "I knew you'd name those conditions. I refuse." "You're making a fool of yourself--and what for?" "For a principle! I've explained it to you." "And I've explained how our consolidated plan butts against your old-fashioned principle. Do you think for one minute you can stop the Comas development?" "I'm still with the independents. We'll see what can be done." "You're licked in the Toban." "There's still good fighting ground over in the Noda Valley--and some fighters are left there." Craig squinted irefully at the presumptuous rebel. Latisan hid much behind a smile. "You see, Mr. Craig, I'm just as frank as I was when I said I was going to New York. You may find me in the Noda when you get there with your consolidation plans." "Another case of David and Goliath, eh?" "Perhaps! I'll hunt around and see what I can find in the way of a sling and pebble." CHAPTER FIVE A summons sent forth by Echford Flagg, the last of the giants among the independent operators on the Noda waters, had made that day in early April a sort of gala affair in the village of Adonia. Men by the hundred were crowded into the one street, which stretched along the river bank in front of the tavern and the stores. The narrow-gauge train from downcountry had brought many. Others had come from the woods in sledges; there was still plenty of snow in the woods; but in the village the runner irons squalled over the bare spots. Men came trudging from the mouths of trails and tote roads, their duffel in meal bags slung from their shoulders. An observer, looking on, listening, would have discovered that a suppressed spirit of jest kept flashing across the earnestness of the occasion--grins lighting up sharp retort--just as the radiant sunshine of the day shuttled through the intermittent snow squalls which dusted the shoulders of the thronging men. There was a dominant monotone above all the talk and the cackle of laughter; ears were dinned everlastingly by the thunder of the cataract near the village. The Noda waters break their winter fetters first of all at Adonia, where the river leaps from the cliffs into the whirlpool. The roar of the falls is a trumpet call for the starting of the drive, though the upper waters may be ice-bound; but when the falls shout their call the rivermen must be started north toward the landings where logs are piled on the rotting ice. On that day Echford Flagg proposed to pick his crew. To be sure, he had picked a crew every year in early April, but the hiring had been done in a more or less matter-of-fact manner. This year the summons had a suggestion of portent. It went by word o' mouth from man to man all through the north country. It hinted at an opportunity for adventure outside of wading in shallows, carding ledges of jillpoked logs, and the bone-breaking toil of rolling timber and riffling jams. "Eck Flagg wants roosters this year," had gone the word. Spurred roosters! Fighting gamecocks! One spur for a log and one for any hellion who should get in the way of an honest drive! The talk among the men who shouldered one another in the street and swapped grins and gab revealed that not all of them were ready to volunteer as spurred roosters, ready for hazard. It was evident that there were as many mere spectators as there were actual candidates for jobs. Above all, ardent curiosity prevailed; in that region where events marshaled themselves slowly and sparsely men did not balk at riding or hoofing it a dozen miles or more in order to get first-hand information in regard to anything novel or worth while. Finally, Echford Flagg stalked down the hill from his big, square house--its weather-beaten grayness matching the ledges on which it was propped. His beard and hair were the color of the ledges, too, and the seams in his hard face were like ledgerifts. His belted jacket was stone gray and it was buttoned over the torso of a man who was six feet tall--yes, a bit over that height. He was straight and vigorous in spite of the age revealed in his features. He carried a cant dog over his shoulder; the swinging iron tongue of it clanked as he strode along. The handle of the tool was curiously striped with colors. There was no other cant dog like it all up and down the Noda waters. Carved into the wood was an emblem--it was the totem mark of the Tarratines--the sign manual by Sachem Nicola of Flagg's honorary membership in the tribe. He was no popular hero in that section--it was easy to gather that much from the expressions of the men who looked at him when he marched through the crowd. There was no acclaim, only a grunt or a sniff. Too many of them had worked for him in days past and had felt the weight of his broad palm and the slash of his sharp tongue. Ward Latisan had truthfully expressed the Noda's opinion of Flagg in the talk with the girl in the cafeteria. The unroofed porch of the tavern served Flagg for a rostrum that day. He mounted the porch, faced the throng, and drove down the steel-shod point of his cant dog into the splintering wood, swinging the staff out to arm's length. "I'm hiring a driving crew to-day," he shouted. "As for men----" "Here's one," broke in a volunteer, thrusting himself forward with scant respect for the orator's exordium. Flagg bent forward and peered down into the face uplifted hopefully. "I said men," he roared. "You're Larsen. You went to sleep on the Lotan ledges----" "I had been there alone for forty-eight hours, carding 'em, and the logs----" "You went to sleep on the Lotan ledges, I say, and let a jam get tangled, and it took twenty of my men two days to pull the snarl loose." The man was close to the edge of the porch. Flagg set his boot suddenly against Larsen's breast and drove him away so viciously that the victim fell on his back among the legs of the crowd, ten feet from the porch. "I never forget and I never forgive--and that's the word that's out about me, and I'm proud of the reputation," declared Flagg. "I don't propose to smirch it at this late day. And now I look into your faces and realize that what I have just said and done adds to the bunch that has come here to-day to listen and look on instead of hiring out. I'm glad I'm sorting out the sheep from the goats at the outset. It happens that I want goats--goats with horns and sharp hoofs and----" "The word was you wanted roosters," cried somebody from the outskirts of the crowd. There was laughter, seeking even that small excuse for vent; the hilarity was as expressive as a _viva voce_ vote, and its volume suggested that there were more against Flagg than there were for him. He did not lower his crest. "You all know what is happening this season. You know why I have sent out for men. The Three C's crowd has started stealing from my crews. I want men who have a grudge against the Three C's. I want men who will fight the Three C's. Rufe Craig proposes to steal the Noda as he has stolen the Tomah. He has been making his brags of what he'll do to me. He won't do it, even if I have to make a special trip to hell and hire a crew of devils. Now let me test out this crowd." He was searching faces with a keen gaze. "All proper men to the front ranks! Let me look at you!" A slow movement began in the throng; men were pushing forward. "Lively on the foot!" yelled Flagg. "I'm standing here judging you by the way you break this jam of the jillpokes. Walk over the cowards, you real men! Come on, you bully chaps! Come running! Hi yoop! Underfoot with 'em!" He swung his cant dog and kept on adjuring. The real adventurers, the excitement seekers, the scrappers, drove into the press of those who were in the way. The field became a scene of riot. The bullies were called on to qualify under the eyes of the master. There were fisticuffs aplenty because husky men who might not care to enlist with old Eck Flagg were sufficiently muscular and ugly to strike back at attackers who stamped on their feet and drove fists into their backs. Flagg, on the porch, followed all phases of the scattered conflict, estimated men by the manner in which they went at what he had set them to do, and he surveyed them with favor when they crowded close to the edge of his rostrum, dwelling with particular interest on the faces which especially revealed that they had been up against the real thing in the way of a fight. Behind and around the gladiators who had won to the porch pressed the cordon of malcontents who cursed and threatened. "Much obliged for favor of prompt reply to mine of day and date," said Flagg, with his grim humor. He drove his cant-dog point into the floor of the porch and left the tool waggling slowly to and fro. He leaped down among the men. He did not waste time with words. He went among them, gripping their arms to estimate the biceps, holding them off at arm's length to judge their height and weight. He also looked at their teeth, rolling up their lips, horse-trader fashion. The drive provender did not consist of tender tidbits; a river jack must be able to chew tough meat, and the man in the wilderness with a toothache would have poor grit for work in bone-chilling water after a sleepless night. Flagg carried a piece of chalk in his right hand. When he accepted a man he autographed the initials "E F" on the back of the fellow's shirt or jacket, in characteristic handwriting. "Show your back as you go north," he proclaimed for the benefit of the strangers to his custom. "My initials are good for stage team, tote team, lodging, and meals--the bills are sent to Flagg. The sooner you start the sooner you'll get to headwaters." A big chap followed at Flagg's back as the despot moved among the men. He was Ben Kyle, Flagg's drive boss, the first mate of the Flagg ship of state. He was writing down the names of the men as they were hired. Occasionally the master called on the mate to give in an opinion when a candidate ran close to the line between acceptance or rejection. Flagg began to show good humor beyond his usual wont. He was finding men who suited him. Many of them growled anathema against the Three C's. They had worked for that corporation. They had been obliged to herd with roughscuff from the city employment agencies, unskilled men who were all the time coming and going and were mostly underfoot when they were on the job. One humorist averred that the Three C's had three complete sets of crews--one working, one coming in, and one going out. Kyle began to loosen up and copy some of Flagg's good humor. He encouraged the wag who had described the three shifts to say more about the Comas crews; he had some witticisms of his own to offer. And so it came to pass that when he tackled one hulking and bashful sort of a chap who stuttered, Kyle was in most excellent mood to have a little fun with a butt. Even Echford Flagg ceased operations to listen, for the humor seemed to be sharp-edged enough to suit his satiric taste. "You say you're an ox teamster!" bawled the boss. "Well, well! That's good. Reckon we'll put some oxen onto the drive this spring so as to give you a job. How much do you know about teaming oxen?" After a great deal of mirth-provoking difficulty with b and g, the man meekly explained that he did know the butt end of a gad from the brad end. "Who in the crowd has got an ox or two in his pocket?" queried Kyle. "We can't hire an ox teamster for the drive"--he dwelt on oxen for the drive with much humorous effect--"without being sure that he can drive oxen. It would be blasted aggravating to have our drive hung up and the oxen all willing enough to pull it along, and then find out that the teamster was no good." Martin Brophy, tavernkeeper, was on the porch, enjoying the events that were staged in front of his place that day. "Hey, Martin, isn't there a gad in the cultch under your office desk?" "Most everything has been left there, from an umbrella to a clap o' thunder," admitted Brophy. "I'll look and see." "Better not go to fooling too much, Ben," warned the master. "I've seen fooling spoil good business a lot of times." It was rebuke in the hearing of many men who were showing keen zest in what might be going to happen; it was treating a right-hand man like a child. Kyle resented it and his tone was sharp when he replied that he knew what he was doing. He turned away from the glaring eyes of the master and took in his hand the goad which Brophy brought. There was a sudden tautness in the situation between Flagg and Kyle, and the crowd noted it. The master was not used to having his suggestions flouted. The boss thrust the goad into the hand of the bashful fellow. "There's a hitchpost right side of you, my man. Make believe it's a yoke of oxen. What are your motions and your style of language in getting a start. Go to it!" The teamster swished the goad in beckoning fashion after he had rapped it against the post in imitation of knocking on an ox's nose to summon attention. His efforts to vault lingually over the first "double-u" excited much mirth. Even the corners of Flagg's mouth twitched. "Wo, wo hysh! Gee up, Bright! Wo haw, Star!" Such was the opening command. "They don't hear you," declared Kyle. "Whoop 'er up!" The teamster did make a desperate effort to drive his imaginary yoke of oxen. He danced and yelled and brandished the goad as a crazy director might slash with his baton. He used up all his drive words and invective. Kyle could not let the joke stop there after the man had thrown down the goad, wiped his forehead, and declared that it wasn't fair, trying to make him start a hitching post. "Pick up your gad," commanded the boss. He dropped on his hands and knees. "Now you show us what you can do. I'm a yoke of oxen." "You ain't." "I tell you I am. Get busy. Start your team." "That's about enough of that!" warned Flagg, sourly. "Kyle, get up onto your feet where you belong." But the spirit of jest made the boss reckless and willfully disobedient. He insisted doggedly on his rôle as a balky ox and scowled at the teamster. "If you want a job you'll have to show _me_!" The teamster adjured Mr. Kyle in very polite language, and did not bring the swishing goad within two feet of the scornful nose; the candidate wanted a job and was not in a mood to antagonize a prospective boss. "You're a hell of a teamster!" yapped Kyle. "What's your system? Do you get action by feeding an ox lollypops, kissing him on the nose and saying, 'Please,' and 'Beg your pardon'?" The big chap began to show some spirit of his own under the lash of the laughter that was encouraging Kyle. "I ain't getting a square deal, mister. That post wa'n't an ox; you ain't an ox." "I am, I tell you! Start me." "You vow and declare that you're an ox, do you, before all in hearing?" "That's what!" Mr. Kyle was receiving the plaudits and encouragement of all his friends who enjoyed a joke, and was certain in his mind that he had that bashful stutterer sized up as a quitter. Flagg folded his arms and narrowed his eyes--his was the air of one who was allowing fate to deal with a fool who tempted it. The candidate did not hurry matters. He spat meditatively into first one fist and then into the other. He grasped the goad in both hands. He looked calculatingly at Mr. Kyle, who was on his hands and knees, and was cocking an arch and provocative look upward, approving the grins of the men near him. When the teamster did snap into action his manner indicated that he knew how to handle balky oxen. First he cracked Mr. Kyle smartly over the bridge of the nose. "Wo haw up!" was a command which Kyle tried to obey in a flame of ire, but a swifter and more violent blow across the nose sent him back on his heels, his eyes shut in his agony. "Gee up into the yoke, you crumpled-horn hyampus!" The teamster welted the goad across Kyle's haunches and further encouraged the putative ox by a thrust of a full inch of the brad. When the boss came onto his feet with a berserker howl of fury and started to attack, the ox expert yelled, "Dat rat ye, don't ye try to hook your horns into me!" Then he flailed the stick once more across Kyle's nose with a force that knocked the boss flat on his back. Echford Flagg stepped forward and stood between the two men when Kyle struggled to his feet and started toward the teamster with the mania of blood lust in his red eyes. The master put forth a hand and thrust back the raging mate. Flagg said something, but for a time he could not be heard above the tempest of howling laughter. It was riotous abandonment to mirth. Men hung helplessly to other men or flapped their hands and staggered about, choking with their merriment. The savageness of the punishment administered to the boastful Kyle might have shocked persons with squeamish dispositions; it was wildly humorous in the estimation of those men o' the forest. They were used to having their jokes served raw. The roar that fairly put into the background the riot of the falling waters of the Noda was what all the region recognized as the ruination of a man's authority in the north country; it was the Big Laugh. Flagg, when he could make himself heard by his boss, holding Kyle in his mighty grip, made mention of the Big Laugh, too. "Kyle, you've got it at last by your damn folly. You're licked forever in these parts. I warned you. You went ahead against my word to you. You're no good to me after this." He yanked the list of names from Kyle's jacket pocket. "Let me loose! I'm going to kill that----" "You're going to walk out--and away! You're done. You're fired. You can't boss men after this. A boss, are you?" he demanded, with bitter irony. "All up and down this river, if you tried to boss men, they'd give you the grin and call you 'Co Boss'. They'd moo after you. Look at 'em now. Listen to 'em. Get out of my sight. I don't forgive any man who goes against my word to him and then gets into trouble." He thrust Kyle away with a force that sent the man staggering. He turned to the bashful chap, who had resumed his former demeanor of deprecation. "You're hired. You've showed that you can drive oxen and I reckon you can drive logs." The teamster was too thoroughly bulwarked by admirers to allow the rampant Kyle an opportunity to get at him. And there was Flagg to reckon with if violence should be attempted. The deposed first mate slunk away. "That, my men," proclaimed the master, "is what the Big Laugh can do to a boss. No man can be a boss for me after he gets that laugh. I reckon I've hired my crew," he went on, looking them over critically. "Stand by to follow me north in the morning." CHAPTER SIX When the autocrat of the Noda strode away, a stalwart young man instantly obeyed Flagg's command--seizing the occasion to follow then and there. He had been standing on the outskirts of the throng, surveying the happenings with great interest. The men who were in his immediate vicinity, lumberjacks who were strangers in the Noda region, were plainly of his appanage and had obeyed his advice to keep out of the mêlée that had been provoked by Flagg's methods of selection. When the big fellow hurried in pursuit of Flagg a bystander put a question to one of the strangers. "You ought to know who he is," returned the questioned. "That's Ward Latisan." And just then, apart from the crowd, having overtaken the autocrat, the young man was informing Flagg to that same effect. Flagg halted, swung around, and rammed his cant dog into the ground. "You've changed from a sapling into fair-sized timber since I saw you last. You look like old John, and that's compliment enough, I reckon. How do you happen to be over in the Noda country?" "I don't happen! I heard of the word you sent out. I came here on purpose, sir." "What for?" "To hire with you." Flagg looked Latisan up and down and showed no enthusiasm. "Yes, I heard that you and your father had let the Three C's slam you flat. And what makes you think I want that kind of a quitter in my crew?" Ward met the disparaging stare with a return display of undaunted challenge. "Because I belong in the crew of a man who is proposing to fight the Three C's." Flagg grunted. Latisan kept on. "You have been hiring men because they have been parading a lot of little grouches against the Comas folks. You need a man who has a real reason for going up against that outfit. And I'm the man." "What you think about yourself and what I may think about you are two different things," retorted Flagg, with insolence. "Looks to me like you had got the Big Laugh over in your section. You have probably noticed what I just did in a case of that sort." "I took it all in, sir." "Well, what then?" "They are not laughing with us or against us over in the Tomah, Mr. Flagg. They all know what happened, and that we fought the Comas fair and square as long as we could keep on our feet. It was a trick that licked us. Craig held out the Walpole heir on us." "I know about it; I manage to get most of the news." Flagg started to go on his way, but Ward put his clutch on the autocrat's arm. "Pardon me, Mr. Flagg, but you're going to hear what I have to ask of you." Mere apologetic suit would not have served with Flagg. He found this bold young man patterning after the Flagg methods in dealings with men. The boldness of the grip on his arm gained more effectively than pleading. "Ask it. I'm in a hurry." "You have fired Kyle. I want his place." "Well, I'll be----" "You needn't be, sir. I'm a Latisan and I have bossed our drives. I have brought along a bunch of my own men who have bucked white water with me and are with me now in standing up for the principle of the independents. Allow me to say that luck is with you. Here's your chance to get hold of a man who can put heart and soul into this fight you're going to make." "And now go on and tell me how much you admire me," suggested Flagg, sarcastically. "I can't do that, sir. I'm going to tell you frankly I don't relish what I have heard about you. It's for no love of you that I'm asking for a chance to go up against the Comas people. It's because you're hard--hard enough to suit me--hard enough to let me go to it and show the Three C's they can't get away with what they're trying to do up here through Rufus Craig." "All right. You're hired. You've got Ben Kyle's job," stated Flagg. Latisan was not astonished by this precipitate come-about. He was prepared for Flagg's tactics by what he had set himself to learn about the autocrat's nature--quick to adjudge, tenacious in his grudges, inflexible in his opinion, bitterly ruthless when he had set himself in the way his prejudices selected. "You have seen what happened to Kyle. Can you govern yourself accordingly?" Flagg in his turn had set his grip on Ward's arm. "Yes, sir!" "I'll kick you out just as sudden as I kicked him if anything happens to make men give you the grin. Can you start north with me in the morning?" "Now or in the morning; it makes no difference to me, sir." Flagg shifted his hand from Ward's arm to the young man's shoulder and propelled him back a few paces toward the crowd in front of the tavern. "Listen, one and all! Here's my drive boss. He's old John Latisan's grandson. If that isn't introduction enough, ask questions about old John from those who remember him; this chap is like his grandfather." Latisan went into the tavern after Flagg had marched away to the big house on the ledges. The crowd made way for the new drive boss; those in his path stared at him with interest; mumble of comment followed as the men closed in behind him. When he sat down in a corner of the tavern office and lighted his pipe his subalterns showed him deference by leaving him to himself. That isolation gave Landlord Brophy his opportunity to indulge his bent in gossip unheard by interlopers. Brophy plucked a cigar from a box in the little case on the desk and sat down beside Ward. "I sympathize with you," he said by way of backhanded congratulation. "Thank you." "I was born in this tavern; my father built it and run it before me," said Brophy, tucking his cigar through the shrubbery of his gray mustache. "And so I've had the chance to know Ech Flagg a good many years. He's a turk." "I have heard so." "He has always had a razor edge to his temper. Maybe you know what put the wire edge onto it?" It was query with the cock of an eyebrow accompanying. "What I know about Mr. Flagg is only a general reputation of being a hard man. I can say that much to you because I told him the same thing. And that's as far as I care to gossip about an employer," stated Ward, stiffly. "That's a safe stand," said Brophy, unperturbed. "Keep to it and they can't be running to him with stories about what you have said. But he don't pay me wages and I can say what I feel like saying. A new boss ought to know a few things about the man who hires him. It's my disposition to set a good chap on the right road with a tip. Whatever you may say to Flagg in the way of chat, don't you ever try to bring up the subject of his family affairs." "I'm not at all likely to," snapped Latisan, with asperity. "Oh, such a subject is easy out when folks get to going confidential," pursued the persistent Brophy. The suggestion that he would ever be on confidential terms with Flagg provoked an ill-tempered rebuke from Ward, but Brophy paid no attention. "If you lose your job with him, as you probably will, Latisan, let it be in the straight way of business, as he conducts it, instead of being by some fool slip of your tongue about family matters." He puffed at his cigar complacently and still was giving no heed to Ward's manifest repugnance at being made the repository of gossip. "Eck's wife died when the daughter Sylvia was small, and he sent the girl off to school somewheres when she was big enough to be sent. And she fell in with a dude kind of a fellow and came back home married to him. She was so much in love that she dared to do a thing like that with Eck Flagg--and that's being in love a whole lot, I'll say. Well, none of us knew what was said back and forth in the family circle, but we figured that the new husband's cheeks didn't tingle with any kisses that Eck gave him. At any rate, Eck set Kennard to work--that was the name, Alfred Kennard. Eck was never much good at ciphering. Office had been in his hip pocket, where he carried his timebook and his scale sheet. Kennard had an education and it came about that Eck let Alf do the ciphering; then he let him keep the books; then he let him handle contracts and the money; then he gave him power of attorney so that Alf wouldn't be hampered whilst Eck was away in the woods. Just handed everything over for the first and the only time in his life, figuring that it was all in the family. I guess that Alf went to figuring the same way, seeing that he was good at figures; felt that what was Eck's was his, or would be later--and Alf proceeded to cash in. Stole right and left, that was the amount of it. Prob'ly reckoned he'd rather have a sore conscience than have his feelings all ripped to pieces when he asked Eck for money. "We all knew when Eck found out that he had been properly trimmed by the only man he had ever trusted. "It happened in the dooryard of the big house up there, when Eck came home, wised up, and tackled Alf. Eck felt that the inside of the house might get mussed up by his language, so he stood in the yard and hollered for Alf to come out. We all went up and stood around; it seemed to be a free show, all welcome. We got the full facts in the case from Eck. "Sylvia came out on the heels of Alf, and she had with her the little Lida, Eck's granddaughter. And after Eck had had his say to Alf and had thrown him over the fence, he gave Sylvia her choice--stay with her father or go away with Alf. Well, she had loved Alf well enough to come home and face Eck with him; she loved Alf enough to turn her back on Eck and face the world with her husband. Natural, of course! Eck tried to grab the little girl away--to save his own from the thieves, so he said. Sylvia fought him off and hung to the girl. It was a tough sight, Latisan! And he stood there and shook his fists and cast 'em all off for ever and aye. That's his nature--no allowance made if anybody does him dirt. "I'll admit that Eck did make an allowance later, after Alf died and the news of it got back here to Adonia. Lida was grown up to around sixteen by that time. I got this from Rickety Dick. Know him?" Latisan, relighting his pipe, shook his head with an indifferent wag. "Well, you soon will. He cooks and waits and tends on Eck. Looks up to Eck. Loves Eck--and that's going some! Dick told me about the allowance Eck made for once in his life after I had touched Dick up by telling him that Eck Flagg never made an allowance to anybody. Eck allowed to Dick that Lida was too young to choose the right way that day in the yard. When she had grown up Eck sent old Dick to hunt for her in the city, to tell her she could come back to him, now that she was old enough to make her choice. Said Sylvia couldn't come back. Now that was a devil of a position to put a girl in. What? Hey?" Latisan nodded, displaying faint interest. "And Sylvia right then was in bed with her never-get-over, so Dick told me. Of course Lida wouldn't come back. And she was working her fingers to the bone to take care of her mother. Old Dick cried like a baby when he was telling me. He cries pretty easy, anyway. He never dared to give to Eck the word that Lida sent back. She's got the spirit of the Flaggs, so I judge from what Dick told me. She wouldn't even take the eggs and the truck Dick lugged down, though Dick had bought 'em with his own money; she thought the stuff came from her grandfather. Dick had to hide 'em under the table when he came away. And so Eck has crossed Lida off for ever and aye. Now that's some story, ain't it?" "I haven't enjoyed it," said Ward, brusquely. "Prob'ly not. I wasn't telling it thinking you'd give three cheers when I finished. But I've been warning you not to make a foolish break by stubbing your toe over the family topic. I've heard what has happened to the Latisans over Tomah way. You're our real sort, and I'm blasted sorry for you. I reckon you need a job and I'm trying to help you hold it. I like your looks, young Latisan. I hate the Comas crowd. Craig has never set down to my table but what he has growled about the grub. The cheap rowdies he hires for his operations on these waters come through here with bootleg booze and try to wreck my house. I'd like to be friends with you, young Latisan, and if you feel that way about it, put it there!" Brophy held out a fat hand and Latisan grasped it cordially. "In my position I hear all the news," stated the landlord. "I'll sift the wheat out of the chaff and hand you what's for your own good. And now you'll have to excuse me whilst I go and pound steak and dish up dinner and wait on the table. That's the trouble with running a tavern up here in the woods. I can't keep help of the girl kind. They either get homesick or get married." There was an ominous crash in the dining room. Brophy swore roundly and extricated his rotund haunches from the arms of his chair. "There goes Dirty-Shirt Sam! I have to double him as hostler and waiter. He'd smash the feed pails in the stable if they wasn't galvanized iron." He pounded with heavy gait across the office and flung open the dining-room door, disclosing a lop-sided youth who was listlessly kicking broken dishes into a pile. "You're fourteen dollars behind your wages, already, with dishes you've dropped and smashed," shouted Brophy. "I'd give a thousand dollars for the right kind of a girl to stay here and wait on tables if she wouldn't get married or homesick. I'll make it a standing offer." He cuffed the youth in a circle around the heap of broken crockery and went on his way to the kitchen. Latisan smoked and reflected on the nature of Echford Flagg as Brophy had exposed it from the family standpoint. Then he looked at the sullen youth who was sweeping up the fragments of the dishes. The whimsical notion occurred to Ward that he might post Brophy on the advantages of a cafeteria plan of operating his hostelry. But he had by these thoughts summoned the memory of one certain cafeteria, and of a handsome girl who sat across from him and who had so suddenly been swallowed up in the vortex of the city throngs--gone forever--only a memory that troubled him so much and so often that he was glad when his own Tomah men appeared to him, asking for commands and taking his mind off a constantly nagging regret. CHAPTER SEVEN The set-off of the Flagg expedition in the gray of early dawn had an element of picaresque adventure about it. Latisan was making an estimate of his crew while he mixed with the men, checking them up, as they assembled again in front of the tavern of Adonia. Old Cap'n Blackbeard would have cheerfully certified to the eminent fitness of many of them for conscienceless deeds of derring-do. The nature of Flagg's wide-flung summons and his provocative method of selection must needs bring into one band most of the toughest nuts of the region, Latisan reflected, and he had brought no milk-and-water chaps from the Tomah. He had come prepared for what was to face him. He had led his willing men in more or less desperate adventures in his own region; his clan had been busy passing the word among the strangers that old John Latisan's grandson was a chief who had the real and the right stuff in him. It was plain that all the men of the crew were receiving the information with enthusiasm. Some of them ventured to pat him on the shoulder and volunteered profane promises to go with him to the limit. They did not voice any loyalty to Flagg. Flagg was not a man to inspire anything except perfunctory willingness to earn wages. The men saw real adventure ahead if they followed at the back of a heroic youth who was avenging the wrongs dealt to his family fortunes. There were choruses of old river chanteys while the men waited for the sleds. A devil-may-care spirit had taken possession of the crew. Latisan began to feel like the brigand chief of bravos. He was jubilantly informed by one enthusiast that they were all in luck--that Larry O'Gorman, the woods poet, had picked that crew as his own for that season on the river. The songs of Larry O'Gorman are sung from the Mirimichi to the Megantic. He is analyst as well as bard. He makes it a point--and he still lives and sings--to attach himself only to forces which can inspire his lyre. It was conveyed to the new boss that already was Larry busy on a new song. Ward, his attention directed, beheld the lyricist seated on the edge of the tavern porch, absorbed in composition, writing slowly on the planed side of a bit of board, licking the end of a stubby pencil, rolling his eyes as he sought inspiration. A bit later Larry rehearsed his choristers and Latisan heard the song. Come, all ye bold and bully boys--come lis-sun unto me! 'Tis all abowit young Latis-an, a riverman so free. White water, wet water, he never minds its roar, 'Cause he'll take and he'll kick a bubble up and ride all safe to shore. Come, all, and riffle the ledges! Come, all, and bust the jam! And for all o' the bluff o' the Comas crowd we don't give one good-- Hoot, toot, and a hoorah! We don't give a tinker's dam. Every man in the crowd was able to come in on the simple chorus. They were singing when Echford Flagg appeared to them. He was riding on a jumper, with runners under it, and he was galloping his strapping bay horses down from the big house on the ledges. On the bare ground the runners shrieked, and he snapped his whip over the heads of the horses. "What is this, a singing school or a driving crew?" he demanded, raucously. "The sleds have just come, sir," explained Latisan, who had been marshaling the conveyances. "Listen, all ye!" shouted Flagg. "Nothing but dunnage bags go on those sleds till the runners hit the woods tote road and there's good slipping on the snow. The man who doesn't hoof it till then hears from me." He ordered Latisan to get onto the jumper seat beside him, slashed his horses with the whip, and led the way toward the north. There was no word between the two for many a mile. Near noon they arrived at a wayside baiting place, a log house in a clearing. They ate there and the horses were fed. There was plenty of snow in the woods and the first rains of April had iced the surface so that the slipping had been good. As if the chewing of food had unlocked Flagg's close-set jaws, he talked a bit to Latisan after the meal and while the horses were put to the jumper. "I'm going to swing off here and ride down to Skulltree dam. I'm hearing reports of something going on there." They heard something very definite in the way of reports before they reached Skulltree. The sound of explosions came booming through the trees. It was dynamite. Its down-thrusting thud on the frozen ground was unmistakable. "I knew that all those boxes of canned thunder that have been going through Adonia, with the Three C's on the lid, weren't intended to blow up log jams," vouchsafed Flagg, after a few oaths to spice his opinion of the Comas company. Latisan knew something about the lay of the land at Skulltree, himself. When he was a young chap the Latisans had operated in a small way as a side-line on the Noda waters. There was a rift in the watershed near Skulltree. There was a cañon leading down to the Tomah end, and the waters of the gorge were fed by a chain of ponds whose master source was near the Noda. The Latisans had hauled over to the pond from the Noda Valley. When Flagg pulled his horses to a halt on the edge of a cliff which commanded a view of the Skulltree and its purlieus, he sat in silence for five minutes until he had taken in every detail of what was going on there. Every little while there was an explosion across the river among the trees, and clotted frozen earth and rocks shot up into the air. When the horses leaped in fright Flagg slashed them and swore. It was plain that his ire was mounting as he made sure of what was taking place. They were blasting a rude canal from the Noda across the low horseback which divided the Noda waters from Tomah ponds. It meant the diversion of flowage. It was contemptuous disregard of the Noda rights in favor of the million-dollar paper mill of the Three C's on the Tomah lower waters. Rufus Craig had said something to young Latisan about the inexpediency of picking up a million-dollar paper mill and lugging it off in a shawl strap. It would be easier to blow a hole through the earth and feed in the logs from the Noda. "By the red-hot hinges of Tophet!" bawled Flagg, having made sure that the enormity he was viewing was not a dream. He cut his whip under the bellies of his horses, one stroke to right and the other to left, and the animals went over the cliff and down the sharp slope, skating and floundering through the snow. The descent at that place would have been impossible for horses except for the snow which trigged feet and runners in some degree; it was damp and heavy; but the frantic threshing of the plunging beasts kicked up a smother of snow none the less. It was like a thunderbolt in a nimbus--the rush of Flagg down the mountain. Rufus Craig was in the shack at the end of Skulltree dam--his makeshift office. Somebody called to him, and from his door he beheld the last stages of Flagg's harebrained exploit, a veritable touch-and-go with death. "There ain't much doubt about who it is that's coming for a social call," said the understrapper who had summoned the field director. "And the question is whether he's bound for hell or Skulltree." Craig did not comment; he had the air of one who had been expecting a visitor of this sort and was not especially astonished by the mode of getting there suddenly, considering the spur for action. Tempestuous was the rush of the horses across the narrow flats between the cliff and the end of the dam. So violently did Flagg jerk them to a standstill in front of the shack, one horse fell and dragged down the other in a tangle of harness. Flagg left them to struggle to their feet as best they were able. He leaped off the jumper and thrust with the handle of his whip in the direction of the dynamite operations. The old man's features were contorted into an arabesque--a pattern of maniacal rage. His face was purple and its hue was deepened because it was set off against the snow which crusted his garments after his descent through the drifts. Knotted veins stood out on his forehead. There was no coherence in the noises he was making in his effort to speak words. He kept jabbing with his whip handle. Evidently Craig's first thought was that the menace of the whip was for him; he half put up a curved arm to ward off blows. In spite of his attention to Flagg he surveyed Latisan with considerable astonishment. Ward had not recovered his poise. A passenger is usually more perturbed than a driver in desperate situations. That crazy dash down the cliff had frightened him into speechless and numb passivity. He still clung to the jumper seat with his stiffened fingers. "Before you do anything you'll be sorry for, Mr. Flagg, let me assure you that we have the law behind us in what we're doing," suggested Craig, with nervous haste. "The legislature extended our charter for development purposes and a special act protects us." Flagg strode away a dozen paces and then came back with better command over his faculties of speech. "Damn your legislature! What right has it got to tamper with a landbreak that God Almighty has put between waters?" "The act was passed, Mr. Flagg. There was an advertised hearing. If you were interested you should have been there." "What does a legislature know about conditions up here?" demanded Flagg, with fury. "They loaf around in swing chairs and hearken to the first one who gets to 'em. They pass laws with a joker here and a trick there, and they don't know what the law is really about. You're stealing my water. By the gods! there's no law that allows a thief to operate. And if you've got a law that helps you steal I'll take my chance on keeping my own in spite of your pet and private law." "Go ahead, Flagg," said Craig, impudently, no longer apprehensive about the whip. "I'm not your guardian to save you from trouble. There's water enough for all of us." "You have swept the slopes so clean for your cursed pulp-wood slivers that you have dried up the brooks, and there isn't enough water any more, and you know it. Your damnation canal will suck the life out of the Noda." "You listen to me, Flagg!" adjured Craig, getting back all his confidence as the executive of a powerful corporation. "Another special act allows us to raise this dam and conserve the water so that there'll be plenty after we use our share for the canal. You're safe and----" "Safe!" raged the old man, and again the veins knotted on his forehead and he panted for breath. Latisan wanted to urge him to be careful. Flagg was exhibiting the dread symptoms of apoplexy. "Safe! I'll be locked into this dam by you, with sluiceway refused to me--that's what it will come to--you offering me a cut price for the logs I can't get down to the Adonia sawmills. If you can't kill one way, as you killed off the Latisans, you'll kill in another way. You're a devilish thief, Craig. I wonder if the men who hire you know what you are. Special acts, hey? That legislature has given a robber a loaded gun without knowing it. By the bald-headed jeesicks! I've got a drive coming down this river! And for fifty years, every spring, it has gone through. It's going through this year, too, and if you're underfoot here you'll be walked on. And that's just as good as your trumped-up law; it's better--it's justice." Flagg acted like a man who did not dare to remain longer in the presence of such an enemy; his big hands were doubling into hard fists; he was shaking in all his muscles. He leaped back onto the seat of his jumper, swung his team and sent his horses leaping up a whiplash road which traversed the cliff--a road he had disdained in his wild impatience to meet his foe. When they reached the level of the wooded country Flagg had something to say about his abrupt departure from Craig, as if the master feared that his employe might suspect that there was an element of flight in the going-away. "There's a law against killing a man, and I've got to respect that law even if I do spit on special acts that those gum-shoers have put through. I didn't go down to their legislature and fight special acts, Latisan. I found these waters running downhill as God Almighty had set 'em to running. I have used 'em for my logs. And if any man tries now to steal my water at Skulltree, or block me with a raised dam, there's going to be one devil of a fight at Skulltree and I'll be there in the middle of it. What I wanted to do to Craig to-day can well wait till then when the doing can count for full value." Ward had been casting solicitous side glances at the empurpled face and the swollen veins. He did not dare to counsel Flagg as to his motions or his emotions. But he felt sure that an old man could not indulge in such transports without danger. He knew something about the effects of an embolism. His violent grandfather had been a victim of a fit of flaming anger in his old age. "I'll be in the middle of it, a club in each hand," promised Flagg. And his molten ponderings kept alight the fires in his face. They halted for the night at one of the Flagg store depots and were lodged in the office camp, reserved sacred to the master and his boss. Latisan slept in the bunk above the master. Flagg had been silent all the evening, poring over the accounts that the storekeeper had turned over. He sighed frequently; he seemed to be weary. After a time he kicked off his larrigans and rolled into his bunk, ready dressed as he had stood. He seemed to lack the volition to remove his clothing. He was snoring calmly when Latisan went to sleep. Sometime in the night the young man awoke. The sounds which he heard below him were not the snores of a man who was sleeping peacefully. There was something ominous about the spasmodic and stertorous breathing. Latisan slipped to the floor and lighted a lamp. He found the wide eyes of Flagg staring from the gloom of the bunk. "What is it, Mr. Flagg? What is the matter?" he asked, with solicitude. Flagg slowly reached with his left hand, picked up his right hand, and when he released it the hand fell as helplessly as so much dead flesh. "That's it," he said, without apparent emotion. "It's a shock." He employed the colloquial name for a stroke of paralysis. "My mother was that way. I've been afraid of it--have expected it, as you might say. Mother lived ten years after her shock. I hope to God I won't. For it has taken me just when I'm ready to put up my best fight--and it's my good right hand, Latisan, my right hand!" CHAPTER EIGHT That was Flagg's reiterated lament on the journey back to Adonia. "It's my right hand, Latisan!" Ward had insisted on being the charioteer for the stricken master, promising to rush back to headwaters and take charge of the crew. He tried to console the old man by urging that getting in touch as soon as possible with capable doctors might restore his strength. "It may be only a clot in the brain, sir. Such cases have been helped." "It's my right hand. It's like my mother's. She never could lift it again." They had started before dawn; a gibbous moon shed enough light on the tote road to serve Latisan. Flagg was couched on a sled, his blanket propped up by hay. His scepter, the curiously marked cant dog, lay beside him. He had made sure of that before he allowed the team to start. "I propose to be your right hand in so far as I'm able, Mr. Flagg," declared Latisan, at last, pricked by the repeatedly iterated plaint. "You can depend on me just as far as I can stretch my ability." "But you told me you didn't like me for myself. You said you were joining drives with me because I was proposing to fight. Now I can't fight. No man will do my fighting for me unless he likes me for myself." "I'll do it for you, sir," insisted Ward, determinedly. "It's right in line with my plans. I'll take your orders. I'll come to you regularly at Adonia. You shall know every move. I'll be merely your right hand to do what you want done." "I'm a hard man with my help, Latisan. You have agreed with me on that point. I shall be ugly when I'm chained up. I shall say something to you, and then you'll quit." Latisan had been looking the situation squarely in the eye on his own account. He was confronted by something wholly outside all his calculations. He had enlisted merely as a lieutenant and had never considered that he would be called on to assume authority as chief in the field. He had been led to serve with Flagg because the old man was the personification of permanency in the north country--seemed to be something that could not be shaken by the assaults of the Comas--a man who impressed all as being above the hazards of death and accident. Somehow, after all the years and because he had been there as a fixture through so many changes, Echford Flagg was viewed as something perennial--as sure as sunrise, as solid and everlasting as the peak of Jerusalem Knob, which overshadowed the big house on the ledges at Adonia; he was a reality to tie to in a fight against a common foe. But right then he was a whimpering old man who plucked and fumbled at a dead right hand. He was as helpless as a little man whom Latisan had plucked from a brutal clutch of an assailant in front of a bulletin board. Craig was still able enough. Craig was man size. Craig would be even more vicious when the news of Flagg's condition reached him; he would perceive his opportunity. "It's sort of the code up where I come from. There's no objection to a clean fight. But if you don't pick your bigness you must expect that your bigness will offer himself mighty sudden." Latisan was not recollecting what he had said to the chaps of Tech; he was putting before his mind one of his fundamental principles as he listened to the laments of the stricken giant and urged the horses down the tote road. Craig would keep on fighting; but Flagg was no longer of Craig's bigness. There was only one thing for Latisan to do--so that was why he put so much of determination and warmth into his pledges to a man whom he did not like from a personal standpoint. Flagg could not understand why this stranger should be loyal; the old man's wits were numbed along with his body. "I'll be ripping at you with my tongue, because it's been my style--and I'll be worse when I'm penned up." Flagg could not seem to hope for any reform in himself. He was accepting his nature as something forged permanently in the fires of his experience, not to be remolded. "I'm not thin-skinned, sir. If you can't keep from abusing me about business details, go ahead and abuse. It will ease your feelings and the abuse will not hurt me, because I don't propose to do anything knowingly to justify abuse. Twitting on real facts is what hurts. You hired me because you knew I had good reasons for fighting the Comas on account of the principle involved in the stand of the independents; you know that I still have the reasons, no matter how much your tongue may run away with you about foolish details." He was looking forward to an opportunity to place himself even more definitely on record in the hearing of Flagg. After the sun was up Latisan expected to be able to grasp that opportunity at almost any turn of the tote road. He knew he would meet the upcoming crew. Flagg's horses on the trip north had made twice the speed of the plodding woods teams, and the crew had been ordered to spend the night at any camp where darkness overtook them. Latisan heard, long before he came in sight of them, the shrill yells with which sled load interchanged repartee with sled load; everlastingly there was the monotone of the singers. It was plain that the same spirit of gay adventure was inspiring the men. The tote road was a one-track thoroughfare; Latisan picked a cleared knoll at one side for his turnout switch and swung his horses up there in order to give the heavy sleds passage. "How the hell can they come singing? Stop 'em," moaned Flagg. There were half a dozen sleds in close procession, and Ward's upflung hand halted them when the leading sled came abreast. By his own efforts Flagg propped himself into a sitting posture, braced by his left arm. Men leaped off the sleds and crowded forward in a phalanx, cupping with their ranks the sledge where their master was couched. Voices were hushed and eyes were wide. "I've been hit a wallop, boys," quavered the old man. "Overnight it has hit me. Shock. It ain't surprising at my age. Mother had the same." For that moment Flagg had put aside the shell of his nature; he found instant sympathy in the gaze which rough men of the forest bestowed on a stricken one of their ilk. He was responding to that sympathy. There were tears in his eyes. "Men, I'm hurrying Mr. Flagg home where he can be looked after by the doctors. I'm sure he'll soon be all right again," Latisan assured them, lying for the good of the cause. "In the meantime I'm saying to him for myself that I'm standing by for every ounce that's in me. What do you say to him?" "The same!" they yelled, in a ragged chorus. "Fact is," went on Ward, as spokesman for all, "to make up for your not being with us, Mr. Flagg, we've got to put in twice as many licks because you're not on the job, and you can depend on us. What, boys?" They bellowed promises and shrieked a pledge. "Get along to headwaters and start to rolling the jackstraws onto the ice," shouted Latisan. "Have the dynamite warmed when I get back there. If we have to do it, well beat the April rains to the job." They went on their way, cheering. "You've heard us. It ought to help some," stated Ward, urging his team along toward Adonia. "The songs of the angels never will sound any better, and the angels will never look any better than those men did just now," declared the old man, still in his softened mood. Latisan turned about and grinned at the master. "I know what you mean," averred Flagg. "Of course I know. I was after pirates and I've got the toughest gang in the north country. Feed 'em raw meat, Latisan!" Over the snow, which was slushy under the April sun of midday, and finally into Adonia over the rutted grit that the evening chill had frozen, the baron of the Noda was driven to the door of his mansion on the ledges. Latisan had picked up men at the tavern as helpers. A hail brought out a little old man whose white, close beard and fluffy hair gave his face the appearance of a likeness set into a frame of cotton batting. It was Rickety Dick; Brophy had told Latisan about him. He flung his hands above his head; it was his involuntary action when deep emotion stirred him; and his customary ejaculation was, "Praise the Lord!" It was possible that he would have shouted those words even then without regard to their irrelevance; but he was not able to utter a sound when Brophy and Latisan and the other men came bearing Flagg into the house. The master stoutly refused to be laid in his bed. There was his big armchair in the middle of the sitting room; he commanded that he be placed there. "I can't fight lying down. If I can't stand up, I can sit up." "Praise the Lord!" cried old Dick, finding an opportunity to interject his thanksgiving phrase. "I'll come to you often, Mr. Flagg," promised Ward, taking leave. "I'll not neglect matters up the river, of course. But I want you to feel that I'm merely your right hand, moving according to your orders." He went away with a thrill of sympathy inspiring his new resolution in behalf of the master's interests. The spectacle that he closed the door on had pathos in it. The tyrant of the Noda was shut away from the woods where he had ruled--away from the rush of white water under the prow of his great bateau; he could hear only the tantalizing summons of the cataract whose thunder boomed above the village of Adonia. Latisan had promised to send for the best doctors in the city--he had a messenger already on the way. But he knew well enough that Echford Flagg, if he lived, was doomed to sit in that big chair and wield his scepter vicariously. And Latisan knew, too, what sort of the torments of perdition Flagg would endure on that account. In the office of Brophy's tavern Rufus Craig, apparently a casual wayfarer, was sitting when Latisan entered after leaving the big house on the ledges. Craig either felt or assumed contrite concern. "Excuse me, Latisan, but is it true that Mr. Flagg has suffered a stroke of paralysis?" "It is true, sir." "I'm sorry. I'm not on pleasant terms with him, or with you, for that matter. But I hate to see a good fighter struck down." Latisan went to the desk and wrote his name on a leaf of the dog-eared register. He proposed to stay the night at Brophy's and start north in the morning. "Go up and take Number Ten," said Brophy, who had been called as a helper and who had walked down from the mansion with Latisan. When Craig plodded heavily along the upper corridor, on his way to bed a little later, the door of Number Ten was open for ventilation; Latisan was smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper which he had picked up in the tavern office. His stare, directed at Craig over the top of the newspaper, was inhospitable when the Comas man stopped and leaned against the door jamb. "Latisan, I'm presuming on that frankness of yours; you have bragged about it in the past." "That was before my experience with you in the Walpole matter, sir. But go ahead! What do you want?" "You're over here in the Noda region, according to your threat. You may be willing to inform me as to your status in the Flagg proposition, now the old man is on his back." "Mr. Flagg has put me in full charge of his drive." "Has he delegated to you any authority to compromise?" "No, sir!" "There ought to be an opportunity to compromise, now that he's down and out." "I just left Mr. Flagg sitting in his chair, and he says he intends to keep sitting there. Therefore, he isn't down." "Is his mind clear for business?" "I should say so--yes!" Craig tipped his hat and scratched the side of his head. "Then I'm afraid there isn't much use in my going to him to talk compromise," he confessed. "That's your affair, Mr. Craig." "And your affair--where he's concerned----" "Is to bring down his drive." "He has threatened a big fight at Skulltree. You heard him." "Yes." "And if he gives his orders to blow hell out of the bottom of the river, I suppose you'll obey, eh?" "He has ordered me to bring his logs into the hold-boom here at Adonia. I have promised to do so. I see no need of going into details of how I'm to do it." Latisan raised the shield of his newspaper in front of his face. But Craig persisted. He had promised the Noda to his superiors; he had not been sure how he could maneuver to deliver, but his past success had impelled him to go on with his cocksure pledges of performance; he was spurred by a hint of a raise in salary, a gift of Comas common stock; he had depended on the situation at Skulltree as his principal weapon, if bravado backed the special legislative act. But that act had been juggled, just as Echford Flagg had asserted. The thing was ticklish, and Craig knew it. Anger and apprehensiveness were working twin leverage on the Comas executive. "Latisan, by coming over here into the Noda and grabbing in where you have no timber interests of your own, you have shown your animus. You have made it a personal matter between you and me." "There's a lot of truth in what you say," admitted Ward, lowering his shield. "Let's exchange accusations! You held that Walpole heir up your sleeve till we had our cut on the landings. If you had worked such a trick on my grandfather he wouldn't be sitting on this chair, as I'm doing. He'd be kicking you around this tavern. I'll save my strength for the Flagg drive." "I've got some frankness of my own, Latisan. I'm at a point where my future with the Comas is in the balance, and I'm going to fight for that future. I'm not asking you to lie down. But you have it in your power--the circumstances being as they are--to swing the Flagg interests in with ours to mutual advantage. Why isn't that better than a fight?" "It would be better!" Craig brightened. But Latisan added: "For your interests! You're afraid of a fight--at Skulltree!" "Yes, I am," blurted Craig, trying candor. "Let's arrange a hitch-up!" "Now the trouble with that plan is this," returned Latisan, quietly, slowly. "It can't be done, not with a man like you've shown yourself to be. Hold in your temper, Mr. Craig! You're coming round now to ask square men to deal with you. You can't appeal on the ground of friendship--you haven't tried to make any friends up here. You have played too many tricks. We're all doubtful in regard to your good faith, no matter what the proposition may be. We can't deal with you. It's all your own doing. You are paying the penalty." "Much obliged for the sermon!" "I could say a lot more, but it wouldn't amount to anything in your case." "Then it has settled into a personal fight between you and me, has it?" "Bluntly speaking, yes!" "You have accused me of playing tricks!" Craig's rage burst bounds. "You young hick, you have never seen real tricks yet! You don't think I'm coming after you with fists or a cant dog, do you?" "I wish you were younger and would try it!" "I'm from the city. In the city we use our brains. Latisan, I have tried to show you in the past that the Comas means business. If you'll go back to the Toban, where you belong, I'll do something for you on that Walpole matter, now that I've taught you a lesson." "The Latisans are not out after charity, Mr. Craig." "You're out after punishment--a damnation good smashing, personally, and you're going to get it!" Latisan leaped from his chair and slammed the door suddenly and violently; expecting an attack. Craig leaped back and saved his fingers from a jamming. From behind his curtain in the morning he saw Latisan drive the Flagg team into the tavern yard. "I'll be coming down often, Brophy, to see Mr. Flagg. I'll depend on you to save out a room for me." "Number Ten is yours if it suits." Craig grunted with the satisfaction of one who had received interesting information; knowledge that Latisan would be regularly in Adonia helped some plans which the director had been revolving. Latisan lashed his horses away toward the north. Craig took the forenoon train down over the narrow-gauge, headed for New York. He was seeking that aid of which he had boasted--city brains. In handling certain affairs of his in the past he had found the Vose-Mern Detective Agency both crafty and active--and the roundabout method of craft, he decided, was the proper way to get at Latisan, without involving the Comas folks in any scandal. CHAPTER NINE Not cattishly, but with patronizing pity, Miss Leigh, bookkeeper, remarked to Miss Javotte, filing clerk, that if Miss Kennard did not change that green toque with the white quill to something else pretty soon, she could be identified by her hat better than by her fingerprints. Miss Leigh had been showing one of her new spring hats to Miss Javotte; she was able to express a _sotto voce_ opinion about Miss Kennard's toque because Miss Kennard, stenographer, was rattling her typewriter full tilt. Miss Javotte agreed, spreading her fingers fan shape and inspecting certain rings with calm satisfaction. "And not even a rock--only that same old-fashioned cameo thing--speaking of fingers." "I was speaking of fingerprints," said Miss Leigh, tartly, frowning at the display of rings, perfectly well aware that they were not bought on the installment plan out of a filing clerk's wages. It was quite natural for Miss Leigh to speak of fingerprints. She was an employe in the Vose-Mern offices. "Vose-Mern Bureau of Investigation" was the designation on the street corridor directory board of a building in the purlieus of New York City Hall. On the same board other parties frankly advertised themselves as detectives. The Vose-Mern agency called its men and women by the name of operatives. The scope of its activities was unlimited. It broke strikes, put secret agents into manufacturing concerns to stimulate efficiency, or calculatingly and in cold blood put other agents in to wreck a concern in the interests of a rival. It was a matter of fees. Mern could defend the ethics of such procedure with interesting arguments; he had been an inspector of police and held ironic views of human nature; he had invented an anticipatory system, so he called it, by which he "hothoused" criminal proclivities in a person in order to show the person's latent possibilities up to an employer before damage had been wrought to the employer's business or funds. That is to say--and this for the proper understanding of Mr. Mern's code in his operations as he moved in the special matters of which this tale treats--his agency deliberately set women of the type well hit off by the name "vamps"; "sicked" those women onto bank clerks and others who could get a hand into a till, and if the women were able to cajole the victim to the point of stealing or of grabbing in order to make a get-away to foreign parts with the temptress, the trick was considered legitimate work of the "anticipatory" sort. The operative would order the treasure _cached_, would appoint the day and hour for the get-away--and a plain-clothes man would be waiting at the _cache_! The Vose-Mern system thus nabbed the culprit, who had revealed his lack of moral fiber by reason of the hothouse forcing of the situation; Mern insisted that if the germ were there it should be forced. By his plan the loot was pulled back and returned to the owner. Mern had broken the big paper-mill strike for the Comas Consolidated; he calmly assured his clients that he could furnish a thousand men as well as one. When he did a thing it was expensive--for he had bands of picked men always on call, and the men must be paid during their loafing intervals, waiting for other strikes. Craig had been close to Mern during the strike. Mern stated that the ethics of the law allowed a lawyer to defend and extricate, if he could, a criminal whom he knew was hideously guilty; the lawyer's smartness was applauded if he won by law against justice. Mern excused on the same lines his willingness to accept any sort of a commission. It was a heartless attitude--Mern admitted that it was and said that he didn't pose as a demon. He seemed to get a lot of comfort out of declaring that if the fellow he was chasing had the grit and smartness to turn around and do Mern up, Mern would heartily give the fellow three cheers. Thus did Mern put his remarkable business on the plane of a man-to-man fight by his argument, not admitting that there was any baseness in his plots and his persecution. Miss Lida Kennard, as confidential stenographer, was deep into the methods of Mern. It was Mern's unvarying custom to have Miss Kennard in to listen to and take down all that a client had to state. She was extremely shocked in the first stages of her association with the Vose-Mern agency by the nature of the commissions undertaken. But it was the best position she had secured, after climbing the ladder through the offices of more or less impecunious attorneys. She needed the good pay because her mother was an invalid; she continued to need the pay after her mother died. There were bills to be settled. She had grown used to setting the installments on those bills ahead of new hats, and the cameo ring which had been her mother's keepsake was for the sake of memory, not adornment. By dint of usage, the Vose-Mern business had come to seem to her like a real business. Certainly some big men came and solicited Mern's aid and appeared to think that his methods were proper. In course of time, listening to Mern's ethics, she came to accept matters at their practical value and ceased to analyze them for the sake of seeking for nice balances of right and wrong. She was in and of the Vose-Mern organization! She sat in on conferences, wrote down placidly plots for doing up men who had not had the foresight to hire Mern--Vose had been merely an old detective, and he was dead--and she sometimes entertained a vague ambition to be an operative herself. She liked pretty hats and handsome rings--though she was scornfully averse to the Leigh-Javotte system as she was acquainted with it by the chance remarks the associates dropped. As to operatives--Miss Kennard had heard--well, she had heard Miss Elsham, for instance, a crack operative, reveal what the rewards of the regular work were; and, the way Miss Elsham looked at it, a girl did not have to lower her self-respect. In the midst of these thoughts, getting a side glance at the new hat which Miss Leigh was showing to Miss Javotte, Miss Kennard was called to conference; the buzzer summoned her. Mern introduced her to the client of the day; the chief made that his custom; it always seemed to put the client more at his ease because an introduction made her an important member of the party--and Mern stressed the "confidential secretary" thing. The client was Director Craig of the Comas company. He rose with a haste which betrayed a natural susceptibility to the charms of pretty women. He cooed at her rather than spoke, altering his natural tone, smoothing out all the harshness; it was that clumsy gallantry by which coarse men strive to pay court to charm. The girl warranted the approving gaze which Mr. Craig gave to her. He looked from her frank eyes to her copper-bronze hair, which seemed to have a glint of sunshine in its waves. He liked the uplift of that round chin--he remembered that it had seemed to indicate spirit--and he liked spunk in a girl. He had enjoyed the conferences of the days of the strike-breaking when he could survey her profile as she busied herself with her writing, admiring the beauty curve of her lips. Now he was thrilled by her manner of recognition; he had not expected that much. "I remember you, Mr. Craig," she assured the big man, her fingers as firm in the grip as were his. "You were in here so much on the strike matter two years ago." "That's a long time for a New York young lady to remember a man from the north woods." "To save myself from seeming like a flatterer, I must say it's because of the woods feature that I remember you so well. The forest interests me. I'm afraid I'm inclined to be very foolish about the woods. Why, in a cafeteria--last fall--there was----" But she checked herself and flushed. She turned to Mern. "I beg your pardon. I'm ready." She sat down and opened her notebook. "But what about it?" quizzed Craig. "A mere chance meeting with a man from the north country. I really don't understand why I mentioned it. My interest in the woods--the thought of the woods--tripped my tongue." She nodded to the stolid Mern as if to remind him of the business in hand, and Mern ducked his square head at Craig. It was the habit of Mern to go thoroughly over a case with a client before calling in Miss Kennard. At the second going-over in her presence the topic was better shaken down, was in a more solidified form for her notebook. The Comas director had already told his story once to the chief. Craig leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling, again collecting his data in his mind. He had dictated before to Miss Kennard and knew how Mern wanted his names and his facts. "Subject, the spring drives on the Noda water. Object, hanging up or blocking the independent drive of Echford Flagg and----" Miss Kennard's pencil slipped somehow. It fell from her fingers, bounced from the floor on its rubber tip, and ticked off the sharpened lead when it hit the floor again. Lida darted for it, picked it up, and ran out of the room. "I'm going for another," she explained. She was gone for some time. Craig glanced out of the window into the slaty sky, from which rain was falling. It was a day unseasonably warm and humid for early spring. "I hope it's raining in the Noda. But it's just as liable to be snow. Latisan can't do much yet awhile." He looked at his watch as if starting the Noda drives was a matter of minutes. He was showing some impatience when Miss Kennard returned. She went to the window, and sat in a chair there, her face turned from them. "If you don't mind," she apologized. "It's on account of the light. I can hear perfectly from here." She heard then that the Comas wanted to put Echford Flagg down and out as an operator, now that paralysis had stricken him. She had Craig's assurance delivered to Mern that, without a certain Ward Latisan old Flagg would not be able to bring his drive down. The Comas director declared that an ordinary boss could never get along with the devils who made up the crew. He declared further that Latisan was of a sort to suit desperadoes and had put into the crew some kind of fire which made the men dangerous to vested interests on the river. He devoted himself to Latisan with subdued profanity, despite the presence of the young woman. He averred that Latisan himself had no love for Flagg--nobody up-country gave a tinker's hoot for Flagg, anyway. He insisted, desperate in spite of certain modifying private convictions, that Latisan could be pried off the job if some kind of a tricky influence could be brought to bear or if his interest in the fight, as just a fight, could be dulled or shifted to something else or side-tracked by a ruse. He pictured Flagg as a man for whom nobody would stand up in his present state, now that he was sick and out of the game. "I hate to kick a cripple, even in my business," demurred Mern. "I have flashes of decency," he continued, dryly. "You seem to be particularly set on getting to the lumberjack, Latisan. Can't you do him up, and then let Flagg have half a show for this season--probably his last?" "Now you're talking of violence to Latisan, aren't you?" "Let the plug-ugly have what he seems to be looking for," advised Mern. "That is, if I get it straight from you what his nature is." "He's all of that--what I have said," reaffirmed Craig, venomously. "But look here, Mern, you can't go up into that region, where everything is wide open to all men, and kill a man or abduct him. I'm obliged to gum-shoe. I have to keep my own executive details away from the home office, even. We're waiting on the courts for law and on the legislature for more favors." Craig was sweating copiously, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's touchy business. If I can pull old Flagg into camp, it's my biggest stroke outside of nailing the Latisans in the Tomah. A monopoly will give us settled prices and control of the flowage. But I insist on doing the job through Latisan. I'm after him! Now do some thinking for me. No violence, however--nothing which can be traced to the Three C's." In the silence Miss Kennard asked, "How do you spell Latisan, Mr. Craig?" He told her. "First name Ward. He's the grandson of old John of the Tomah." "I'm trying to get the facts straight for Mr. Mern. Do I understand you to say that the Latisans have failed in their business?" "They're down and out. I gave the young fool a good tip to save the remnants, but he wouldn't take it. The only thing I'll give him after this is poison--if it can't be traced to me or my company." Mern had swung about in his chair, his vacant stare on the murky sky, doing the thinking to which he had been exhorted by his client. "Suppose I slip a picked crowd of my operatives into his crew?" "He's too wise to take on strangers. And while he's on the job with the crew the men are so full of that hell-whoop spirit that they can't be tampered with. Mern, he's got to be cut out of the herd." "What's his particular failing?" Craig, if his sour rage against Latisan had been less intense, might have been less ready to believe that Latisan had taken several months off as a prodigal son. But Craig wanted to believe that the young man had been doing what scandal said he had done. That belief strengthened Craig's hopes. He affected to believe in the reports. He told Mern that Latisan had been leading a sporting life in the city until the family money gave out. "How about bumping him on his soft spot?" Craig asked questions with his eyes, blinking away the perspiration. "With a girl," Mern explained. "With one who looks as if she had been picked right out of the rosy middle of the big bouquet he was attracted by in the city. With the background of the woods, a single bloomer will surely hold his attention." Craig showed interest; he had been obliged to pass up violence, bribery, bluster. This new plan promised subtlety and subterfuge that would let out the Three C's. "Got her?" "Call Miss Elsham on the phone, Miss Kennard! You may do it from the other room. Ask her to hurry down." The girl, her face hidden from them, paused at the door. "Are there more notes? Shall I come back?" She was having difficulty with her voice, but the men were now talking eagerly about the new plan, and her discomposure was not remarked. "I think not," said Mern. "Write out what you have. Make especially full characterizations of Flagg and Latisan as you have gathered facts about them from our talk." He had found Miss Kennard to be especially apt in that work. Not only did she deduce character from descriptions, but she worked in many valuable suggestions as to how men of a certain nature should be handled. She seemed to understand the vagaries of men's dispositions very well indeed. "What's the matter with Ken?" muttered Miss Javotte, nudging the bookkeeper. Lida had flung her arms across the frame of her typewriter and had hidden her face in her hands. "Headache," returned Miss Leigh, sapiently. "That toque has struck into the brain. No girl ought to take chances that way." CHAPTER TEN However, by the time Miss Marguerite Elsham--having given full attention to her person and attire--arrived at the office, Miss Kennard had completed her manuscript and the sheets were lying at Mern's elbow on his desk. In order to bridge a part of the gap of waiting Mern had given his client some information about Miss Elsham and her ability. "Very competent on the coax, Mr. Craig. Last job was a paying teller. He had twenty thousand in his jeans when he stepped out of the taxi that had taken him and Elsham to the steamer dock. Tickets for Rio! Crowley, our pinch artist, nabbed him and bawled out Elsham, who was weeping in the cab. Crowley and Elsham work well together. You understand that if she goes to the woods Crowley must go along on the side. They won't appear as knowing each other. But Crowley may be called on to shove his mitt between Elsham and trouble." "I don't care how many are on pay--if you achieve results," said Craig. The field director, introduced to Miss Elsham when she entered breezily, termed her in his thoughts as being at least a 1925 model. He wondered just what words he would find in the way of advice about toning down her style for north country operations. She took her seat sideways on the edge of Mern's desk, thus testifying to her sure standing in the establishment, her tightly drawn skirt displaying an attractive contour. For a fleeting moment--hating Latisan so venomously--Craig rather envied Latisan his prospects as a victim. Miss Elsham produced a silver cigarette case, lighted up, and exhaled twin streams of smoke from a shapely nose. "Shoot!" she counseled. Mern, after his slow fashion, fumbled with the sheets of Miss Kennard's manuscript. Miss Elsham thriftily utilized the moments allowed her by Mern's hesitation. She always tried to impress a client favorably. "I don't presume to pick and choose when it comes to cases," she informed Craig. "I'm an All-for-the-good-cause Anne! But I hope--I'm allowed to hope, I suppose--I do hope that my next one is going to remember some of the lessons he learned at mother's knee. The last one had forgotten everything. I was dragged through cafés till at the present time a red-shaded table lamp and a menu card make me want to bite holes in any man with a napkin over his arm. I've danced to jazz and listened to cabaret----" Mern was trying to say something, but she rattled on: "And that flask on his hip--he must have done all his breathing while he was asleep; he never allowed time enough between drinks while he was awake." "The next one is different," stated Mern. "Much obliged! But of course it's cafés again and----" Mern sliced off her complaints, chopping his flat hand to and fro in the air. "Nothing to it, sis! It's a tall-timber job, this time." "In the woods--the real woods," supplemented Craig. "Great!" indorsed Miss Elsham, accustomed to meeting all phases of action with agility. "I've just seen a movie with that kind of a girl in it. Leggings and knicks. I can see myself. Great!" Director Craig surveyed her and nodded approvingly. "We'll decide on what part you'll play before we measure you for a rig," objected the chief, with his official caution. "Listen to the size-up of your man." He began to read from Miss Kennard's manuscript. "'Ward Latisan. Young woodsman. Has lived and worked among rough men and has no particular amount of moral stamina, a fact shown by his desertion of his father in time of need in order to indulge in orgies in the city.'" "Oh, it's to go and set my hook and fish him out of the woods, and then he and I lean on our elbows across from each other--the cafés some more," said Miss Elsham, pouting. Mern suspended, for a moment, his reading and addressed Craig. "Miss Kennard, of course, is sizing up according to what you have said of Latisan. You're sure about his weakness for dames, are you? We don't want to give Miss Elsham any wrong tips." Craig hung tenaciously to his estimate of Latisan, in no mood to uproot the opinion which gossip had implanted and hatred had watered. And at the end of his arraignment he attempted an awkward compliment. "And even if he could have stood out against the Queen of Sheba up till now, I'll say he'll----" Craig gazed with humid indorsement of Miss Elsham's attractions and waved his hand in the way of a mute completion of the sentence. Miss Elsham smiled broadly and patted together her manicured thumbnails. "Loud applause!" she cried. "Pardon me if I don't blush, sir. I have used up my stock. The last case was oozing with flattery--after the flask had got in its work." Mern went on with his reading, portraying the character of Latisan as Miss Kennard had gathered and assimilated data. She had even gone to the extent of giving Latisan a black mustache and evil eyes. "Hold on," objected Craig. "Nothing was said about his looks. She's picking that up because I was strong on how he had acted. He doesn't look as savage as he is; he fools a lot of folks that way," stated Craig, in surly tones. "Well, how will I know when I meet up with him in the woods?" "You go to the Adonia tavern and make your headquarters, and you won't miss him. How does the thing look to you as a proposition?" demanded Craig, solicitously. "You ought to know pretty well what you can do with men, by this time." Miss Elsham tossed away her cigarette butt and referred mutely to Mern by a wave of her hand. "She always gets 'em--gets the better of the best of 'em. Rest easy," said the chief. "And it must be worked easy," warned Craig, catching at the word. "That's why you're in it, Miss Elsham, instead of its being a man's fight up there. We can't afford to let Latisan slam that drive down through our logs, as he threatens to do. If he does it--if we turn on Flagg and sue for damages, as we can do, of course--court action will only bring out a lot of stuff that better be kept covered. I want the agency to understand fully, Mern!" "We're on." "I'm achieving results without showing all the details to the home office. And I'm not a pirate. You spoke of kicking a cripple, Mern. We'll take over Flagg's logs as soon as he gets reasonable. His fight is only an old notion about the independents sticking on. Sawmills are in our way these days. Flagg is done, anyway. He ought to be saved from himself. I'm after Latisan. He's ready to fight and to ruin Flagg," declared Mr. Craig, with a fine assumption of righteous desire to aid a fallen foe, "just to carry out his grudge against me--using Flagg's property as his tool. It'll be too bad. So get busy, Miss Elsham--and keep him busy--off the drive." "Read on, Chief," she implored Mern. "I'm seeing as quick as this just how I'll do it." The conference continued. When Miss Elsham departed she stopped in the main office on her way out. "Good-by, girls! I'm off for the big sticks. I'll bring each of you a tree." She went to a mirror, taking out her vanity case. Beside the mirror were hooks for hats and outer garments. "Perfect dream!" she commented, examining a hat. "Whose?" "Mine," said Miss Leigh. Miss Elsham took the hat in admiring hands, dislodging a green toque, which fell upon the floor. She did not notice the mishap to the toque and left it where it had fallen. She touched up her countenance and went away. "Your hat is on the floor," Miss Leigh informed Miss Kennard. The girl did not reply; she was looking down upon the keys of her typewriter, and her demeanor suggested that her heart was on the floor, too. When Lida sat by the open window of her room that evening her depression had become doleful to the point of despair. The night was unseasonably warm with enervating humidity; in that atmosphere the dormant germs of the girl's general disgust with the metropolis and all its affairs were incubated. Breathing the heavy air which sulked at the window, she pondered on the hale refreshment of the northern forests. But it seemed to her that there was no honesty in the woods any more. That day, fate searching her out at last, she had been dragged in as a party in a plot against her stricken grandfather. She indulged her repugnance to her employment; it had become hateful beyond all endurance. Her association with the cynical business of the agency and her knowledge of the ethics of Mern had been undermining the foundations of her own innate sense of what was inherently right, she reflected, taking account of stock. Dispassionately considered, it was not right for her to use her acquired knowledge of the plot against Echford Flagg in order to circumvent the plans of an employer who trusted her. But after a while she resolutely broke away from the petty business of weighing the right and the wrong against each other; she was bold enough to term it petty business in her thoughts and realized fully, when she did so, that her Vose-Mern occupation had damaged her natural rectitude more than she had apprehended. But there was something more subtle, on that miasmatic metropolitan night, something farther back than the new determination to break away from Mern and all his works of mischief. It was not merely a call of family loyalty, a resolve to stand by the grandfather who had disowned his kin. She was not sure how much she did care for the hard old man of the woods. But right then, without her complete realization of what the subtle feeling was, the avatar of the spirit of the Open Places was rising in her. She longed avidly for the sight and the sound of many soughing trees. She was urged to go to her own in some far place where her feet could touch the honest earth instead of being insulated by the pavements which were stropped glossy by the hurry of the multitude. That urge really was just as insistent as consideration of the personal elements involved, though she did not admit it, not being able to analyze her emotions very keenly right then. Family affection needs propinquity and service to develop it. Her sentiments in regard to Echford Flagg were vague. This Latisan, whoever he was, was plainly a rough character with doubtful morals who was loyal to a grudge instead of to her grandfather. She knew what the Elsham girl had been able to with other men, in the blasé city; it stood to reason that in the woods, having no rivals to divert the attentions of a victim, Elsham would be still more effective. At last, having kept her thoughts away from an especial topic because of the shame that still dwelt with her, Lida faced what she knew was the real and greater reason for her growing determination to step between Echford Flagg and his enemies. Alfred Kennard had stolen money from Echford Flagg. Sylvia Kennard had grieved her heart out over the thing. There were the bitter letters which Lida had found among her mother's papers after Sylvia died. The mother had torn the name from the bottoms of those letters; it was as if she had endeavored to shield Echford Flagg from the signed proof of utter heartlessness. The debt to Echford Flagg had not been canceled. Could the daughter of Alfred Kennard repay in some degree for the sake of the father? That sense of duty surmounted all qualms involved in the betrayal of an employer, if it could be called betrayal, considering the ethics that had been adopted and preached by Mern. It was midnight when she reached her firm decision. She would go to the north country. She would do her best, single-handed, as opportunity might present itself. She would fight without allowing her grandfather to know her identity. Perhaps she might tell him when it was all over, if she won. The debt was owed by the father; it might help if it was known that the daughter had paid. Then she would go away; it was not in her mind to gain any favor for herself. If she merely ran to him, tattling an exposure of the plot, Echford Flagg, if her well-grounded estimate of his character were correct, might repudiate her as a mere tale-bearer; she remembered enough to know that he was a square fighter. She felt that she had some of the Flagg spirit of that sort in her. She had been fighting her battle with the world without asking odds of anybody or seeking favors from her only kin. She would go north and do her best, for her own, according to the code she had laid down. She was conscious then, having made up her mind, of the subtle longing that was back of the fierce impatience to repay her father's debt: the woods of the north and the hale spirit of the Open Places were calling her home again. She would not admit to herself that she was engaged in a quixotic enterprise, and in order to keep herself from making that admission she resolutely turned her thoughts away from plans. To ponder on plans would surely sap her courage. She could not foresee what would confront her in the north country and she was glad because her ideas on that point were hazy. It was not in her mind to hide herself from the other operatives of the Vose-Mern agency when she was at the scene; her experience had acquainted her with the efficacy of guile in working with human nature, and she was well aware that her bold presence where the operatives were making their campaign would prove such a mixture of honesty and guile that Miss Elsham and Crowley, and even Mern, himself, when he learned, would be obliged to expend a portion of their energy on guessing. She did not know how or whether one girl could prevail against the organization threatening her grandfather and Latisan, but she was fully determined to find out. She served the agency dutifully for one more day. She learned that the two operatives had started for the north. A day later she departed from New York on their trail. She did not inform Chief Mern that she was leaving. CHAPTER ELEVEN Adonia, terminus of the narrow-gauge, has one train arrival per day, in the late afternoon. That arrival always attracts the populace of the village. The train brings freight and mail and passengers. Ward Latisan had come down from the headwaters of the Noda and was at the station, waiting for the train. He had ordered more dynamite for the drive and proposed to take especial charge of the consignment. The drive was starting off slowly. There was ice in the gorges; the first logs through would have the freshet head of water. Latisan had heard more threats and he had definitely detected the trigs which the river bosses of the Three C's were laying--and he had ordered more dynamite! The arriving train dragged slowly into the station and Latisan kept pace with the freight car which was attached next behind the locomotive. The conductor swung off the steps of the coach before the train halted. He hailed Latisan, calling the name loudly. He beckoned with vigor and the drive master swung around and walked back to meet the trainman. "I did my best, Latisan, to have your shipment loaded from the freight car on the main line, but they wouldn't let me." "Who wouldn't?" "Our super. He was acting under orders from higher up. There was a special officer on hand to see that the orders were obeyed. Law says that explosives shall not be conveyed on a mixed train." "I know all about that law," retorted Latisan. "But it has been eased up on in these parts because you pull a passenger coach on every train." "But law is law; it has been jammed down on us!" "You mean that Craig has put the twist ring into your snout," shouted the drive master. "And he's leading your railroad by the nose like he's leading a good many others in the Noda country." "I'm only a hired man----" "And the Three C's will have everybody in this section hired if the money holds out, and that's the hell of it!" "Look here, Latisan, you're on railroad property, and that's no kind of talk to have over in front of passengers." The train was at a standstill; the new arrivals were on the platform. Latisan, well advertised by the name the conductor had bawled, glanced around and perceived that he was the center of observation. Especially was he concerned with the direct stare of a young woman; she continued to regard him steadfastly and he allowed his attention to be engaged with her for a moment. Latisan had his own mental tags for womankind; this was "a lady." He had set himself back to the plane of the woods and his rough associates. He felt a woodsman's naïve embarrassment in the presence of a lady. Her survey of him was rebuke for his language, he was sure. There could be no other reason why "a lady" should look at a man who was fresh down from the drive, unshaven and roughly garbed. She was from town, he could see that. Those sparkling eyes seemed like something that was aimed at him; he was in a helpless, hands-up sort of mood! He pulled off his cap. He had the courageous frankness of sincere manhood, at any rate. "I'm sorry! I was expecting dynamite. It didn't come. I blew up just the same." The lady smiled. Then she turned and started away. A stout man had been standing close behind her. Nobody among the loungers at the railroad station entertained any doubt whatever as to just what this stranger was. His clothes, his sample case, his ogling eyes, his hat cockily perched on one side of his head proclaimed him "a fresh drummer," according to Adonia estimates. He leaped forward and caught step with the girl. "Pardon! But I'm going your way! Allow me!" He set his hand on her traveling case. She halted and frowned. "I thank you. I can carry it myself!" "But I heard you asking the conductor the way to the hotel. I'm going right there!" "So am I, sir! But not in your company." "Oh, come on and be sociable! We're the only two of our kind up among these bushwhackers." Miss Elsham's fellow operative was stressing his play; he grabbed away her bag. "We may as well get a quick rise out of him," muttered Crowley. It was a plan they had devised in case their man should help their luck by being at the railroad station. "I'll call an officer!" she threatened. "You don't need to," Latisan informed her. He had followed the couple. "Besides, there isn't any. The only place they need officers is in a city where a rab like this is let run loose." He leaped to the stout chap and yanked away the girl's bag. "I'll carry it if you're going to the tavern." She accepted his proffer with another smile--a smile into which she put a touch of understanding comradeship. They walked along together. There was no conversation. The spring flood of the Noda tumbled past the village in a series of falls, and the earth was jarred, and there was an everlasting grumble in the air. The loungers stared with great interest when the drive master and the girl went picking their way along the muddy road. The volunteer squire delivered the traveling bag into the hand of Martin Brophy, who was on the porch of the tavern, his eye cocked to see what guests the train had delivered into his net. Mr. Brophy handled the bag gingerly and was greatly flustered when the self-possessed young lady demanded a room with a bath. Latisan did not wait to listen to Brophy's apologies in behalf of his tavern's facilities. He touched his cap to the discomposing stranger and marched up to the big house on the ledges; he was not approaching with alacrity what was ahead of him. He had arrived in Adonia from headwaters the previous evening, and had spent as much of that evening as his endurance would allow, listening to Echford Flagg, sitting in his big chair and cursing the fetters of fate and paralysis. Unable to use his limbs, he exercised his tongue all the more. That forenoon and again in the afternoon Latisan had gone to the big house and had submitted himself to unreasonable complaints when he reported on what was going forward at headwaters. He had ventured to expostulate when the master told him how the thing ought to be done. "No two drive bosses operate the same, sir. And the whole situation is different this season." "It was your offer to be my right hand, young Latisan--and I'm drive boss still! You move as I order and command." Ward was wondering how long the Latisan temperament could be restrained. In the matter of Craig at the tavern the scion of old John had been afforded disquieting evidence that the temperament was not to be trusted too far. He entered the mansion without knocking; it was the custom. Flagg was reading aloud from a big Bible for which Rickety Dick had rigged props on the arm of the chair. Dick was sitting on a low stool, the sole auditor of the master's declamation. The old servitor was peeling onions from a dish between his knees; therefore, his tears of the moment were of questionable nature. The caller stood for a time outside the open door of the room, averse to tempting the hazard of Flagg's temper by an interruption of what seemed to be absorbing all the attention of the old man. "'My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones. He hath builded against me, and compassed me with gall and travail. He hath set me in dark places as they that be dead of old. He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: he hath made my chain heavy.'" Flagg halted and looked up from the page. "Lamentations--lamentations, Dick! The best of 'em have whined when the smash came. It's human nature to let out a holler. Jeremiah did it. I'm in good company; it ain't crying baby; it's putting up a real man holler. It's----" Latisan stepped through the doorway. Flagg instantly grabbed at a wooden spill that made a marker in the volume and nipped back the pages. He shook aloft his clinched left hand. He raised his voice and boomed. "'And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.'" Flagg beat his knotted fist on the open page. "Do you hear that, Latisan? That's for you. I hunted it up. I haven't had time till now to read the Bible like I should. Plenty of good stuff in it--but in the Old Testament, mind you! Too much turn-your-cheek stuff in the New Testament. 'Eye for an eye.' Do you know who said that?" "No, sir. I'm sorry to admit it, but----" "God Almighty said it. Said it to Moses on the mount. First straight-arm orders from God to man. It ought to be good enough for you and me, hadn't it? Take it for rule o' conduct, and if Rufe Craig says anything to you on the drive refer him here--to headquarters!" Again he beat his fist on the page. "I don't know what part of the Bible Craig ought to study, sir, but some of it ought to be good for him. I'm just from the train. They wouldn't load our dynamite at the junction. Craig is behind that!" "Wouldn't haul our dynamite?" raged Flagg. "And he has been shipping his canned thunder through here for Skulltree by the carload! Latisan, you're falling down on the job. When I, myself, was attending to it, my dynamite was loaded for Adonia all right enough!" The drive master did not reply to that amazing shifting of blame to him. "Did you say what ought to be said to that conductor?" "When I started to say something he bawled me out for using that kind of language on railroad property." Flagg lifted the useless right hand with his left, let it fall again, and groaned. "How many times, and where, did you hit him? And then what did you say?" "I did not hit him, sir. I said nothing more. And there was a lady present." Flagg choked and struggled with words before he could speak. "Do you mean to tell me you're allowing any ladee"--he put exquisite inflection of sarcasm on the word--"to stand betwixt you and your duty, when that duty is plain? Latisan, they tell me that you're a sapgag where women are concerned. I'm told that you have been down to the city and----" "Mr. Flagg, we'll stick to the subject of the dynamite!" broke in the young man, sharply. "Women are the same thing and belong in the talk." "Then we'll stick to the dynamite that comes in boxes." Latisan was just as peremptory as the master and was hurrying his business; he felt the dog of the Latisan temperament slipping neck from the leash. "You may have been able to make 'em haul dynamite for you, in spite of the law. I can't make 'em, it seems. I'm here merely to report, and to say that I'll have the dynamite up from the junction just the same." He started for the door. "By tote team--three times the cost! My Gawd! why ain't I out and around?" lamented the Adonia Jeremiah. Latisan wanted to say that he would pay the extra cost of transportation out of his own pocket, if that would save argument, but he did not dare to trust himself. He hurried out of the big house and slammed the door. On his way down the hill he was obliged to marshal a small host of reasons for hanging on to his job; the desire to quit then and there was looming large, potent, imperative. He was still scowling when he tramped into the office of the tavern where many loafers were assembled. Through the haze of tobacco smoke he saw Martin Brophy beckoning, and went to the desk. Brophy ran his smutted finger along under a name; "Mrs. Dana Haines Everett, New York City." "She has been asking for you. Matter o' business, she says. I've had to give her the front parlor for her room. Say, she's the kind that gets what she goes after, I reckon. Is eating her supper served in there private. Never was done in my tavern before." "Business--with me?" demanded Latisan. "Brophy, what's her own business in these parts?" "Can't seem to find out," admitted the landlord, and the young man bestowed on Brophy an expansive grin which was a comment on the latter's well-known penchant for gimleting in search of information. "Will say, however, that she's a widder--grass if I ain't much mistook--believes that a woman is equal to a man and should have all a man's privileges about going around by her lonesome if she so feels." "Well, you seem to have extracted a fair amount of information, considering that she's hardly got her feet planted." "Oh," confessed Brophy, "it came out because I made her mad when I hinted that it was kind of queer for a woman to be traveling around alone up here. Well, now that they're voting, you can look for 'most anything. What shall I tell her from you when I take in her pie?" "I'll wait on the lady after I eat my supper." When the drive master was ushered into the parlor-presence by the landlord, the lady was sitting in front of an open Franklin stove, smoking a cigarette. She had made a change in attire since her arrival, the new garb suggesting that she proposed to suit herself to the nature of the region to which she had come. She was in knickerbocker costume, had tipped back her chair, one foot on the hearth and the other foot propped on her knee, and she asked Latisan to sit down, pointing to a chair beside her. She offered a cigarette with a real masculine offhandedness. The caller faltered something about a pipe. She insisted that he smoke his pipe. "It rather puts strangers at their ease, don't you think, a little tobacco haze in the room?" Latisan, packing the bowl of his briar, agreed. "I take it that you're well acquainted with this region?" "Fairly so, though I know the Tomah country better." "You're a guide, I understand." "I don't understand where you got that information, madam," replied the drive master, a bit pricked. "I don't remember that anybody did tell me that in so many words. Somehow it was my impression. But no matter. Please listen a moment." She smiled on him, checking his attempt at a statement regarding himself; she had conned her little speech and used her best vocabulary to impress this woodsman. "No doubt you have something very important in the way of occupation. A man of your bearing is bound to. You needn't thank me for a compliment--I'm very frank. That's the way to get on and accomplish things quickly. So I'm frank enough to say it's my habit to meet men on the plane of man to man. Please do not regard me as a woman--that sort of stuff is old-fashioned in these days. I vote and pay taxes. Yet if I were merely a woman you gave evidence on the station platform to-day that you know how to protect one from insults. I was attracted by that trait in you--and afterwards minded your own business quite after my heart. I need outdoor life. I'm up here early for the first fishing. I want to tour the woods. I may invest in timberlands. Putting out of your mind all this foolish sex matter--as I have explained my man-to-man theory--will you go with me? I'll have a cook, of course. Pardon my sudden reference to pay--I'll pay you twice what you're getting now--providing you're working for wages." "I am working for wages. And I can't leave the work." "What is it?" "I'm the master of the Flagg drive on these waters." "And you prefer to boss rough men and endure hardship rather than to come with me?" The bitterness of the last interview with Flagg was still with Latisan. "If it was a matter of preference--but that isn't the way of it!" He returned her gaze and flushed. In spite of his resolve to go on with the battle that was ahead, he was tempted, and acknowledged to himself the fact; but Flagg was trying him cruelly. "You have been the drive master here for a long time--that's why you cannot be spared?" She tossed away her cigarette and gave him earnest attention. "I'm just beginning my work with Flagg." "Then of course you're not vital. Let the man who used to be master----" "That was Flagg, himself. He's laid up with paralysis." "Oh!" she drawled, provokingly. "A matter of conscientiousness--loyal devotion--champion of the weak--or a young man's opportunity to be lord of all for the future!" "He's an old devil to work for, and the job promises no future," blurted Latisan, his manner leaving no doubt as to his feelings. "Then come with me," she invited. "If I get to own timberlands, who knows?" He shook his head. "There are reasons why I can't quit--not this season." "I hoped I'd seem to you like a good and sufficient reason," she returned, insinuatingly; in her anxiety to make a quick job of it, in her cynical estimate of men as she had been finding them out in the city, she was venturing to employ her usual methods as a temptress, naturally falling into the habit of past procedure. She found it difficult to interpret the sudden look he gave her, but her perspicacity warned her that she was on the wrong tack with this man of the north country. "I'm afraid you're finding me a peculiar person, Mr. Latisan," she hastened to say. "I am. I'm quick to judge and quick to decide. Your gallantry at the railroad station influenced me in your behalf. I like your manners. And I know now what's in your mind! You think it will be very easy for me to find somebody else as a guide--and you're quite sure that you can't give up your responsibility for a woman's whim." The drive master owned to himself that she had called the turn. "I'll continue with my frankness, Mr. Latisan. It's rather more than a guide I'm looking for on that man-to-man plane I have mentioned. You can readily understand. I need good advice about land. Therefore, mine is not exactly a whim, any more than your present determination to go on with your job is a whim. This matter has come to us very suddenly. Suppose we think it over. We'll have another talk. At any rate, you can advise me in regard to other men." She rose and extended her hand. "We can be very good friends, I trust." He took her hand in a warm clasp. "I'll do what I can--be sure of that." "I feel very much alone all of a sudden. I'm depending on you. You're not going back to the drive right away, are you?" she asked, anxiously. "I'll be held here for a day or so." The matter of the dynamite was on his mind. "Good!" she said, and patted his arm when he turned to leave the room. CHAPTER TWELVE Latisan took the forenoon train down from Adonia to the junction the next day. He was keeping his own counsel about his intent. He had done some busy thinking during the evening after he left the new star boarder in her parlor. In spite of his efforts to confine his attention, in his thoughts, to business, he could not keep his mind wholly off her attractive personality and her peculiar proposition. He was obliged to whip up his wrath in order to get solidly down to the Flagg affairs. By the time he went to sleep he knew that he was determinedly ugly. There was the slur of Flagg about his slack efficiency in meeting the schemes of Craig. There was the ireful consciousness that the narrow-gauge folks were giving him a raw deal on that dynamite matter. They had hauled plenty of explosive for the Comas--for Craig. To admit at the outset of his career on the Noda that he could not get what the Three C's folks were getting--to advertise his impotency by making a twenty-mile tote trip over slushy and rutted roads--was a mighty poor send-off as a boss, he told himself. He knew what sort of tattle would pursue him. The stout young man--that "drummer"--was at the station. Latisan was uncomfortably conscious that this person had been displaying more or less interest in him. In the dining room at breakfast, in the office among the loafers, and now at the railroad station the stranger kept his eyes on Latisan. The drive master was just as ugly as he had been when he went to sleep. He was keeping his temper on a wire edge for the purposes of the job of that day, as he had planned the affair. He did not go up to the impertinent drummer and cuff his ears, but the stranger did not know how narrowly he escaped that visitation of resentment. The fellow remained on the platform when the train pulled out; it occurred to Latisan that the fresh individual maybe wished to make sure of a clear field in order to pursue his crude tactics with the lady of the parlor. After the arrival at the junction Latisan had matters which gave him no time to ponder on the possible plight of the lady. As he had ascertained by cautious inquiry, the crew of the narrow-gauge train left it on its spur track unattended while they ate at a boarding house. There were workmen in the yard of a lumber mill near the station, loafing after they had eaten their lunches from their pails. The Flagg dynamite was in a side-tracked freight car of the standard gauge. Latisan promptly learned that the lumber-yard chaps were ready and willing to earn a bit of change during their nooning. He grabbed in with them; the boxes of dynamite were soon transferred to the freight car of the narrow-gauge and stacked in one end of the car. Latisan paid off his crew and posted himself on top of the dynamite. In one hand he held a coupling pin; prominently displayed in the other hand was a fuse. "I'm in here--the dynamite is here," he informed the conductor when that official appeared at the door of the car, red-faced after hearing the news of the transfer. "I'm only demanding the same deal you have given the Three C's. You know you're wrong. Damn the law! I'm riding to Adonia with this freight. What's that? Go ahead and bring on your train crew." He brandished coupling pin and fuse. "If you push me too far you'll have a week's job picking up the splinters of this train." Bravado was not doing all the work for Latisan in that emergency. The conductor's conscience was not entirely easy; he had made an exception in the case of the Three C's--and Craig, attending to the matter before he went to New York, had borne down hard on the need of soft-pedal tactics. The conductor was not prepared to risk things with canned thunder in boxes and an explosive young man whose possession just then was nine points and a considerable fraction. Latisan was left to himself. At last the train from downcountry rumbled in, halted briefly, and went on its way. From his place in the end of the freight car Latisan could command only a narrow slice of outdoors through the open side door. Persons paraded past on their way to the coach of the narrow-gauge. He could see their backs only. There had been a thrill for him in the job he had just performed; he promptly got a new and more lively thrill even though he ridiculed his sensations a moment later. Among the heads of the arrivals he got a glimpse of an object for which he had stretched his neck and strained his eyes--the anxious soul of him in his eyes--on the street in New York City. He saw a green toque with a white quill. As though a girl--such a girl as he judged her to be--would still be wearing the same hat, all those months later! But that hat and the very cock of the angle of the quill formed, in a way, the one especially vivid memory of his life. However, he had a vague, bachelor notion that women's hats resembled their whims--often changed and never twice alike, and he based no hopes on what he had seen. Whoever she was, she was on the train. But there were stations between the junction and Adonia--not villages, but the mouths of roads which led far into remote regions where a green toque could not be traced readily. He acutely desired to inform himself regarding the face under that hat. But he had made possession the full ten points of his law, sitting on that load of dynamite. What if he should allow that train crew an opening and give Echford Flagg complete confirmation of the report that his drive master was a sapgag with women? After the intenseness of the thrill died out of him he smiled at the idea that a chance meeting in New York could be followed up in this fashion in the north country. At any rate, he had something with which to busy his thoughts during the slow drag of the train up to Adonia, and he was able to forget in some measure that he was sitting on dynamite and would face even more menacing explosives of another kind when the drive was on its way. He posted himself in the side door of the car when the train rolled along beside the platform at Adonia. He had ordered men of the Flagg outfit to be at the station with sleds, waiting for the train; they were on hand, and he shouted to them, commanding them to load the boxes and start north. There was a man displaying a badge on the platform--a deputy sheriff who had his eye out for bootleggers headed toward the driving crews; the conductor ran to the officer and reported that Latisan had broken the law relating to the transportation of explosives; the trainman proposed to shift the responsibility, anticipating that the sheriff might give official attention to the cargo. Just then Latisan spied the green toque; the face was concealed because the head was bowed to enable the toque's wearer to pick her way down the steps of the coach. The drive master leaped from the door of the car and his men scrambled past him to enter. "About that dynamite----" Latisan elbowed aside the questioning sheriff, and looked straight past the officer. "If you go after me on that point you'll have to go after Craig and the Three C's, too--and I'll put the thing up to the county attorney myself. Right now I'm busy." The men were lugging out the boxes. "If anybody gets in your way, boys, drop a box on his toes," he shouted, starting up the platform. "Leave it to us, Mr. Latisan," bawled one of the crew. The drive master had his eyes on the girl who was walking ahead of him. He could hardly believe that the voicing of his name attracted her attention. She did not know his name! But she stopped and whirled about and stared at him. It was surely the girl of the cafeteria! She plainly shared Latisan's amazement, but there was in her demeanor something more than the frank astonishment which was actuating him. He pulled off his cap and hurried to her and put out his hand. "I saw you--I mean I saw your hat. I thought it might be you--but I looked for you in New York--for that hat----" He knew he was making a fool of himself by his excitement and incoherence. "I have been thinking about you----" He was able to check himself, for her eyes were showing surprise of another sort. Her manner suggested to Latisan that she, at any rate, had not been thinking especially about him during the months. She had recovered her composure. "It is not surprising about the hat, Mr.--I believe I heard somebody call your name--Mr. Latisan?" There was an inflection of polite query, and he bowed. "My sarcastic friends are very explicit about this hat serving as my identifier." "I didn't mean it that way. I don't know anything about girls' hats. But to see you away up here----" She forced a flicker of a smile. "It seems quite natural to find you here in the woods, though I believe you did tell me that your home is over Tomah way." He was not able to understand the strange expression on her countenance. And she, on her part, was not able to look at him with complete composure; she remembered the character given to this man by Craig, and she had ventured to give him something else in her report--the swagger of a _roué_ and a black mustache! There was an awkward moment and he put his cap back on his head. He looked about as if wondering if she expected friends. He had treasured every word of hers in the cafeteria. She had spoken of the woods as if her home had been there at one time. "I'm not expecting anybody to meet me--here--to-day," she informed him, understanding his side glances. She was showing incertitude, uneasiness--as if she were slipping back into a former mood after the prick of her surprise. "There's a hotel here, I suppose." He took her traveling case from her hand, muttering a proffer to assist her. They walked away together. For the second time the loafers at Adonia saw Latisan escorting a strange woman along the street, and this one, also, was patently from the city, in spite of her modest attire. "Seems to be doing quite a wholesale business, importing dynamite and wimmen," observed a cynic. "According to the stories in Tomah, he has put in quite a lot of time looking over the market in regard to that last-named," agreed another detractor. "And when Eck Flagg gets the news I'd rather take my chances with the dynamite than with the wimmen," stated the cynic. "I guess I talked to you like an idiot at first," said Latisan, when he and his companion were apart from the persons on the station platform. "I'm getting control of my surprise. I remember you told me you were homesick for the woods. That's why you're up here, I suppose." "It's one reason, Mr. Latisan." "I'm sorry it isn't a better time of year. I'd like to--to--If you aren't going to be tied up too much with friends, I could show you around a little. But right now I'm tied up, myself. I'm drive master for Echford Flagg--you remember about speaking of him." "Yes; but I shall not trouble Mr. Flagg," she hastened to say. "He will not be interested in me simply on account of my friends. You are very busy on the drive, are you?" she questioned, earnestly. "Oh yes. I've got to start for headwaters in the morning." There was doleful regret in his tones. He was rather surprised to find so much pleased animation in her face; truly, this girl from the city acted as if she were delighted by the news of his going away; she even seemed to be confessing it. "I'm glad!" she cried. Then she smoothed matters after a glance at his grieved and puzzled face. "I'm glad to hear a man say that he's devoted to his work. So many these days don't seem to take any interest in what they're doing--they only talk wages. Yours must be a wonderful work--on the river--the excitement and all!" "Yes," he admitted, without enthusiasm. The street was muddy and they went slowly; he hung back as if he wanted to drag out the moments of their new companionship. He cast about for a topic; he did not feel like expatiating on the prospects ahead of him in his work. "If you're going to make much of a stop here----" She did not take advantage of his pause; he hoped she would indicate the proposed length of her stay, and he was worrying himself into a panic for fear she would not be in Adonia on his next visit to report to Flagg. "I wish we had a better hotel here, so that you'd stay all contented for a time--and--and enjoy the country hereabouts." "Isn't the hotel a fit place for a woman who is unaccompanied?" "Oh, that isn't it! It's the slack way Brophy runs it. The help question! Martin does the best he knows how, but he finds it hard to keep table girls here in the woods. Has to keep falling back on his nephew, and the nephew isn't interested in the waiter job. Wants to follow his regular line." "And what's that?" she asked, holding to a safe topic. "Running Dave's stable. Nephew says the horses can't talk back." She stopped and faced him. "Do you think the landlord would hire me as a waitress?" She had come to Adonia in haste, leaving her plans to hazard. Now she was obeying sudden inspiration. If she had slapped him across the face she could not have provoked more astonishment and dismay than his countenance showed. "I have done much waiting at tables." She grimly reflected on the cafés where she had sought the most for her money. "I'm not ashamed to confess it." He stammered before he was able to control his voice. "It isn't that. You ought to be proud to work. I mean I'm glad--no, what I mean is I don't understand why--why----" "Why I have come away up here for such a job?" "I haven't the grit to ask any questions of you!" he confessed, plaintively, his memory poignant on that point. The stout "drummer" had been trailing them from the station. When they halted he passed them slowly, staring wide-eyed at the girl, asking her amazed questions with his gaze. She flung the Vose-Mern operative a look of real fury; she had come north in a fighting mood. "I have left the city to escape just such men as that--men who aren't willing to let a girl have a square chance. I lost my last position because I slapped a cheap insulter's face in a hotel dining hall." She looked over Latisan's head when she twisted the truth. "I came north, to the woods, just as far as that railroad would take me. I hate a city!" Then she looked straight at him, and there was a ring of sincerity in her tone. "I'm glad to be where those are!" She pointed to the trees which thatched the slopes of the hills. "You're speaking of friends of mine!" They had stopped, facing each other. Crowley, lashed by looks from the girl and Latisan, had hurried on toward the tavern. Lida knew that the drive master was having hard work to digest the information she had given him. "They are standing up straight and are honest old chaps," he went on. He was looking into her eyes and his calm voice had a musing tone. "I like to call them my friends." He was trying hard to down the queer notions that were popping up. He would not admit that he was suspecting this girl of deceit. But she was so manifestly not what she claimed that she was! Still, there were reverses that might---- "I am alone in a strange land--nobody to back my word about myself. I must call on a reliable witness. You know the witness." She put up her hand and touched her hat. Then came laughter--first from her and then from Latisan--to relieve the situation. "You saw me wearing it more than six months ago. What better proof of my humble position in life do you want?" "I don't dare to tell you what you ought to be, Miss----" "Patsy Jones," she returned, glibly; his quest for her name could not be disregarded. "But what you are right now is good enough because it's honest work." "Do you think I can get the job?" "I am a witness of Martin Brophy's standing offer to give one thousand dollars for a table girl who won't get homesick or get married." "Take me in and collect the reward, Mr. Latisan. I'm a safe proposition, both ways." "I hope not!" he blurted--and then marched on with the red flooding beneath his tan. And though he strove to put all his belief in her word about herself, he was conscious of a persistent doubt, and was angered by it. "If you please, I'll do the talking to Mr. Brophy--is that his name?--when we reach the hotel," said the girl. "You really do not know me." There was a flash of honesty, she felt, in that statement, and she wanted to be as honest as she could--not wholly a compound of lies in her new rôle. "It might seem queer, my presenting myself under your indorsement, as if we had been acquainted somewhere else. Gossip up here is easily started, isn't it?" "It is." He surrendered her bag to her at the porch, as if his services had been merely the cursory politeness of one who was traveling her way. It was in Latisan's mind to go along to the big house on the ledges and inform Flagg what had been done that day, and glory in the boast that there was a new man in the region who could make a way for himself in spite of Flagg's opinions as to the prowess of an old man. Latisan was feeling strangely exhilarated. She had come there to stay! Martin Brophy was in the desperate state of need to chain a girl like that one to a table leg in his desire to keep her. And she had announced her own feelings in the matter! She was in the Noda--the girl who had stepped out of his life never to enter it again, so he had feared in his lonely ponderings. He was in the mood of a real man at last! He was resolved to take no more of Echford Flagg's contumely. He was heartsick at the thought of starting north and leaving her in the tavern, to be the object of attentions such as that cheap drummer man bestowed when he passed them on the street. The plea of the lady of the tavern parlor had made merely a ripple in his resolves. He had not thought of her or her proposition during that busy day. Now he was wondering whether the fight for Flagg--the struggle against Craig, even for vengeance, was worth while. Lida was having no difficulty in locating the landlord. He stood just beyond the dining-room door and was proclaiming that he was the boss and was shaking his fist under the nose of a surly youth who had allowed several dishes to slide off a tray and smash on the floor. "Do you want to hire a waitress from the city?" she demanded. "You bet a tin dipper I do," snapped back Brophy. "I'm ready to begin work at once. If you'll show me my room----" "You go up one flight, by them stairs there, and you pick out the best room you can find--the one that suits you! That's how much I'm willing to cater to a city waitress. And you needn't worry about wages." "I shall not worry, sir." She hurried up the stairs. The hostler-waiter slammed down the tray with an ejaculation of thankfulness. Brophy picked up the tray and banged it over the youth's head. "You ain't done with the hash-wrassling till she has got her feet placed. Sweep up that litter, stand by to do the heavy lugging, and take your orders from her and cater to her--cater!" Latisan, lingering on the porch, had hearkened and observed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dingy glass of the door. He scrubbed his hand doubtfully over his beard. Then he turned and hurried away. The single barber shop of Adonia was only a few yards from the door of the tavern. There was one chair in the corner of a pool room. Latisan overtook a man in the doorway and yanked him back and entered ahead. "I'm next!" shouted the supplanted individual. "Yes, after me!" declared Latisan, grimly. He threw himself into the chair. "Shave and trim! Quick!" The barber propped his hands on his hips. "What's the newfangled idea of shedding whiskers before the drive is down?" "Shave!" roared Latisan. "And if you're more than five minutes on the job I'll carve my initials in you with your razor." So constantly did he apostrophize the barber to hurry, wagging a restless jaw, that blood oozed from several nicks when the beard had been removed. "I've got a pride in my profession, just the same as you have in your job," stormed the barber when Latisan refused to wait for treatment for the cuts. "And I don't propose to have you racing out onto the streets----" But the drive master was away, obsessed by visions of that fresh drummer presuming further in his tactics with the new waitress. The barber, stung to defense of his art, grabbed a towel and a piece of alum and pursued Latisan along the highway and into the tavern office, cornered the raging drive master, and insisted on removing the evidences which publicly discredited good workmanship. The affair was in the nature of a small riot. The guests who were at table in the dining room stared through the doorway with interest. The new waitress, already on her job, gave the affair her amused attention. Especially absorbed was the sullen youth who halted in the middle of the room, holding a loaded tray above his head. In his abstraction he allowed the tray to tip, and the dishes rained down over Crowley, who was seated directly under the edge of the tray. Latisan strode in and took his seat at the small table with the city stranger while Brophy was mopping the guest off; the city chap had received his food on his head and in his lap. The waitress came and stood demurely at one side, meeting the flaming gaze of the Vose-Mern man with a look that eloquently expressed her emotions. "Shall I repeat the order?" "Don't be fresh!" snarled Crowley. Latisan rapped his knuckles on the table warningly. "Be careful how you talk to this lady!" "What have you got to say about it?" The stout chap started to rise. But Latisan was up first. He leaned over and set his big hand, fingers outspread like stiff prongs, upon the man's head, and twisted the caput to and fro; then he drove the operative down with a thump in his chair. "This is what I've got to say! Remember that she is a lady, and treat her accordingly, or I'll twist off your head and take it downstreet and sell it to the bowling-alley man." It was plain that the girl was finding a piquant relish in the affair. From the moment when she came down the stairs and took the white apron which Brophy handed to her she had ceased to be the city-wearied girl. It was homely adventure, to be sure, but the very plainness of it, in the free-and-easy environment of the north woods, appealed to her sense of novelty. There was especial zest for her in this bullyragging of Crowley by the man who was to be victim of the machinations by the Vose-Mern agency. Her eyes revealed her thoughts. The city man opened his mouth. He promptly shut it and turned sideways in his chair, his back to Latisan. Detective Crowley was enmeshed in a mystery which he could not solve just then. What was the confidential secretary doing up there? The girl smiled down on her champion--an expansive, charming, warming smile. "I thank you! What will you have?" She surveyed his face with concern; his countenance was working with emotion. In her new interest, she noted more particularly than in the New York cafeteria, that he apparently was, in spite of what Craig had said, a big, wholesome, naïve chap who confessed to her by his eyes, then and there, that he was honestly and respectfully surrendering his heart to her, short though the acquaintance had been, and she was thrilled by that knowledge. She was not responding to this new appeal, she was sure, but she was gratified because the man was showing her by his eyes that he was her slave, not merely a presumptuous conquest of the moment, after the precipitate manner of more sophisticated males. She repeated her question. It was evident enough what Latisan wanted at that moment, but he had not the courage to voice his wishes in regard to her; he had not enough self-possession left to state his actual desires as to food, even. There was one staple dish of the drive; he was heartily sick of that food, but he could not think of anything else right then. "Bub--bub--beans!" he stuttered. She hurried away. When she returned with her tray she did not interrupt any conversation between the two men at the little table; the Vose-Mern man still had his back turned on Latisan; the drive master sat bolt upright in a prim attitude which suggested a sort of juvenile desire to mind his manners. The girl's eyes were still alight with the spirit of jest. She placed steak and potatoes and other edibles in front of Latisan. She gave the gentleman from the agency a big bowl of beans. "I didn't order those!" "I'm sorry, sir. I must have got my orders mixed." "You have! You've given that"--he stopped short of applying any epithet to Latisan--"you've given him my order!" "Won't you try our beans--just once? The cook tells me they were baked in the ground, woodman style." "Then give 'em to the woodsmen--it's the kind of fodder that's fit for 'em." Latisan leaned across the table and tugged Crowley's sleeve. "Look me in the eye, my friend!" The man who was exhorted found the narrowed, hard eyes very effective in a monitory way. "I don't care what you eat, as a general thing. But you have just slurred woodsmen and have stuck up your nose at the main grub stand-by of the drive. You're going to eat those beans this lady has very kindly brought. If you don't eat 'em, starting in mighty sudden, I'll pick up that bowl and tip it over and crown you with it, beans and all. Because I'm speaking low isn't any sign I don't mean what I say!" The beans were steaming under the stout man's nose. He decided that the heat would be better in his stomach than on the top of his head; he had just had one meal served that way. He devoured the beans and marched out of the dining room, his way taking him past the sideboard where the new waitress was skillfully arranging glasses after methods entirely different from those of the sullen youth. "Don't jazz the game any more--not with _me_," growled Crowley, fury in his manner. "And I want to see you in private." She stiffened, facing him. She knew that Latisan's earnest eyes were on her. She assumed the demeanor of a girl who was resentfully able to take care of herself, playing a part for the benefit of the drive master. "Attend strictly to your end of the program, Crowley!" "What do you mean--my end?" "Protecting me from insults by these rough woodsmen. I suppose you are doing the same for Miss Elsham." Her irony was biting. He scowled and put his face close to hers. "If you're up here on the job--it's not a lark. It's a case of he-men in these parts. If you're not careful you'll start something you can't stop." "Keep away from me. They're watching us. You're bungling your part wretchedly. Can't you understand that I'm on the case, too?" She had planned her action, forestalling possibilities as well as she was able. She was determined to be bold, trusting to events as they developed. "You will kindly remember that I'm on this case along with you, and you can't make me jump through hoops!" Crowley, fresh from the city, narrow in his urban conceit, was seeing red because of a petty humiliation he had suffered in public. Another man was seeing red for a different reason. Latisan strode across the room, nabbed Crowley by the ear, and led him into the tavern office, where the aching ear was twisted until the city man subsided into a chair. The girl appraised at its full value the rancor that was developing in the Vose-Mern operative; his glaring eyes were accusing her. But the adoring eyes of Latisan promised really more complicated trouble for her. It was borne in on her that there were dangerous possibilities in the frank atmosphere of the north woods. Lida had the poignant feeling of being very much alone just then--and she was afraid! CHAPTER THIRTEEN Suppers were always over with early in Adonia. The red west was banded with half on hour's April daylight when the new waitress finished her work. She hurried up to her room; she locked her door with the panic-stricken air of one who desires to shut out danger. She was in no mood to question the worthiness of the impulse which had sent her into the north, but she was realizing in fuller measure the difficulties with which she must deal. In the dining room she had felt recklessly intrepid and the utter mystification of Buck Crowley had amused her. But she had had plenty of opportunity in her Vose-Mern work to know the nature of Crowley--he had the shell of an alligator and the scruples of a viper and would double-cross a twin brother if the project could help the fortunes of Buck himself. Once more she admitted that she was afraid. It was if she had touched levers and had started machinery which she could not stop; she had launched two men at each other and had observed the first ominous clinches--and Crowley had warned her that she was in the region of "he-men." But Crowley was not of a sort to use the manly weapons of the frank fighters of the north. With the sense of hiding away from impending trouble, sorry for her share in starting it, she sat by the window, put her forehead on her arms, wept weakly, and told herself that she was a very poor article of a heroine. However, the sunset soothed and invited her when she wiped her eyes. She beheld the honest outdoors of the forest country. She was hungry for those open places of earth. She knew that her resolution was ebbing the longer she hid herself in that hole of a room, like a terrified animal. She put on a hat and a wrap and started out. She was perfectly well aware of the gantlet she must run. Crowley was patrolling the porch; she issued from a side door of the tavern, but she was obliged to pass him in order to get into the street. His high sign to her was peremptory and unmistakable--Mr. Crowley had business with her! Right then, in spite of her planned intent to bluff out the situation just as long as she could at that distance from Mern, she was not in a state of mind to meet Crowley. She heard steps behind her and was accosted, but her frown of apprehensiveness became a smile of welcome when she turned and beheld Latisan; the welcome was not so much from interest in Latisan as from the sense that she would have a respite from Crowley. "If you're going to look the place over, won't you allow me to go along?" he pleaded. "I'll follow behind like a terrier, if you tell me to. I want to keep you from being bothered by anybody." She showed concern and looked about her. "Oh, by that cheap drummer, I mean. You needn't ever be afraid of woodsmen up here. I was watching him when you came out. If it wasn't for starting a lot of tattle I'd beat him up on the street." "Really, you'd better come along with me, Mr. Latisan, out of the reach of any such temptation." "Perhaps you'd like to get a view of the falls from the best point," he suggested, as they walked on. When they turned into a path and disappeared from Crowley's ken the latter buttoned his coat and started leisurely on their trail. On the edge of the gorge there was a niche in the cliff, a natural seat padded with moss. Latisan led her to the spot. He did not indulge his longing to sit beside her; he stood at a little distance, respectfully, and allowed her to think her thoughts. Those thoughts and her memories were very busy just then; she was glad because the everlasting diapason of the falls made conversation difficult. Until then, in her reflections, she had been considering Ward Latisan merely as her stricken grandfather's staff of hope, an aid so essential that the Comas had determined to eliminate him. She surveyed him as he stood there in his own and fitting milieu and found him reassuringly stalwart as a dependable champion. Alone with him, making estimate with her eyes and her understanding, she was conscious that her first surprise at sight of the real Latisan was giving way to deepening interest. She reflected again on the character which had been given this man by Rufus Craig, and remembered more vividly what she had written about him for the guidance of the Vose-Mern agency. There must be something wrong in Craig's estimate! She felt that she had an eye of her own for qualities in a man, and this man's clean sincerity had impressed her in their first meeting in the New York cafeteria. He turned from his survey of the waters and met her gaze. "I was pretty much flustered that day in New York, Miss Jones. I was more so to-day at the railroad station. I don't know how to act with girls very well," he confessed naïvely. "I want to say something right here and now. There are mean stories going the rounds about me up in this country. I'm afraid you'll hear some of them. I don't want you--I don't want everybody to think I'm what they are trying to make out I am--they lied over Tomah way to hurt me in business. But perhaps you don't care one way or the other," he probed, wistfully. He found encouragement in her expression and went on. "I was away at Tech, taking a special course, and they lied about me. I was trying to make something more of myself than just a lumberjack. And I thought there was a chance for me to help things on the Tomah after I learned something about engineering. I was doing my best, that's all, and the liars saw their opening and took it. If you hear the stories I hope you won't believe them." Hastily she looked away from his earnest and imploring eyes and gave her attention to the turbid freshet flood, shredded into a yellow and yeasty riot of waters. Her recollection of childhood became clearer now that she was back beside the cataract which was linked with all her early memories. He did not venture to disturb her with more talk. She remained there until the chill from the air and the mist from the falling waters and the growing dusk warned her. They were back at the edge of the village street before he spoke again. "The falls are pretty wild now; they're beautiful in the summer when the water is low. When I was a boy I footed it over here from the Tomah a few times and sat in that niche and listened to the song the waters seemed to sing. It was worth the long hike. Being there just now brought back something I'd almost forgotten. One day the waters sung me to sleep and when I woke up there was a little girl dancing in front of me and pointing her finger, and I looked at myself and saw she had made a chain of daisies and hung it around my neck and had stuck clover blooms all over me. And when she saw that I was awake she scampered off with some other children. Queer how the funny little thoughts like that pop up in a person's mind!" Fresh from the scene, softened by her ponderings, Lida felt the surge of an impulse to tell him that the same memory had come to her while she sat in the niche. She was the child who had made the daisy chain--who had been bolder than the other children in approaching the sleeping stranger. And she was not ready to agree with him that the memory was "queer." She wished she could confess her identity to him right then, because the confession would enable her to bring up a topic which had been interesting her very much--how personalities, meeting as strangers, often prompt each other through subtle psychic qualities of past association; there were instances in the books she had read where persons claimed to have recognized each other from past incarnations; but Lida did not believe that stuff, she had told herself. As to the mutual remembrance of the daisy chain--that was different--it seemed quite natural. She could remember just how comically that boy's nose twitched when she was waking him up with a buttercup blossom. Latisan was conscious of a queer unwillingness to have her leave him. He wondered what excuse he could offer to prolong the companionship of the evening. He wanted to link up her affairs with his in some way, if he could--that there might be something in common between them. To solicit her aid--her counsel; it is the first hankering of a man in his striving toward a woman's favor. In this case, the drive master, desperately casting about for an excuse, was guilty of something like an enormity in venturesomeness. His own business was calling him to the big house on the ledges; in his new state of softened spirit he was dreading any run-in with Echford Flagg. Perhaps gossip had already carried to Flagg the reason why the drive master had not hastened to report about the dynamite victory. To exhibit the actual reason for the delay, in her own winning person, seemed a very proper thing to do according to Latisan's clouded judgment of the moment. "Let me tell you!" he urged. "I've got to run up to Flagg's on business. You'll have something to talk to him about--those friends----" "No, no!" She hurried on toward the tavern. He ventured to clasp her arm, detaining her. "He's a poor, sick old man. A little talk with you will do him good." Her memory was vivid. "But you told me in New York that he won't have a woman near his house." "He's different nowadays," persisted Latisan. "He's sick and it will be a treat for him to have a girl say some kind words. I want him to meet you----" But she shook off his hand and resolutely kept on her way. "I must go in. I'm tired after my long journey--and my work." There were loafers in front of the tavern. "I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Latisan," she called so that all could hear, "for your kindness in showing me the way to the falls. Good night!" She disappeared. There was nothing for Latisan to do but to brave the old tiger of the big house alone. Outside of his desire to keep her with him as long as possible, he had wanted her to go along into the presence of Flagg as a guaranty of the peace; he did not believe that Flagg would launch invective in the hearing of the girl; furthermore, Latisan was conscious of a proud anxiety to exhibit her. Flagg tipped the shade of the lamp so that Latisan's face was illuminated when the drive master was in the room. "Shaved!" snorted the tyrant. "All duded up and beauing around a table girl. I know all about it. Latisan, you----" "Just a moment, Mr. Flagg!" "Shaved, right in the start of the driving season! Shut up! I can see what's happening. I heard you had brought the dynamite. But somebody else told me. Yes, told me other news! I can't depend on you any longer to bring me reports. But you're planting something worse than dynamite under yourself. Parading a girl and keeping me waiting and----" "Let me warn you, sir. Only my pride in doing a job I have set out to do is keeping me on with you. If you insult that young lady by another word I'll quit you cold, here and now!" There was a moment of silence. Rickety Dick, sitting on his stool with a cat in his arms, wriggled as uneasily as did the cat, who had been alarmed by the high voices. "Talk about dynamite being dangerous!" muttered Flagg. "There's something else----" But when he looked into Latisan's countenance he lowered the shade of the lamp and did not state what the something else was. "If you know about the dynamite, sir, there's no need of my saying anything. It's on its way north. I shall start for headwaters at daybreak. I'll be down to report as soon as possible." "When you get up on the drive, you stay there, Latisan." "It's my pledged word that I must report to you in person. You insisted on it. I don't propose to give you any chance for come-backs. I shall report, Mr. Flagg." He walked out. Soon he heard the pattering of feet behind him on the ledges and he was hailed cautiously by the quavering voice of old Dick. "Who is she, Mr. Latisan? Who is that girl?" panted Dick; "I saw her when she walked with you. I was side of the road." "And ran and tattled to Flagg, eh?" "No--no, sir! It was old Dempsey who came and gossiped. But what's her name?" "Patsy Jones." "Are you sure?" "I'm sure because she told me so," retorted the drive master. "Her word goes with me." "But--but----" "But what?" Latisan's manner was ominous. "Of course she knows who she is," faltered old Dick. "And my eyesight ain't clear--and it was a long time ago--and my memory ain't good, of course, and----" "And your wits don't seem to be of the best, either," snapped the young man. "You and Flagg better keep your tongues off that young lady. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mr. Latisan. Yes, sir!" Latisan stepped back and took hold of Dick by the sleeve of the ragged jacket. "Who did you think she was?" "I guess I didn't really think--I only dreamed," was the old man's stammering reply. "If you say she's Patsy Jones that's enough for me." "She says that she is--and that makes it so." Latisan strode on his way. Rickety Dick lifted his arms, then he lowered them without his "Praise the Lord!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN Crowley, shrouded in the evening gloom, tapped on the parlor window the signal tattoo agreed upon between himself and Miss Elsham. The light in the parlor went out promptly and she came and replied to Crowley under the edge of the lifted sash. She had been apprised by her associate of the advent of Miss Kennard on the scene; Crowley had hastened to slip a note under her door. "You saw 'em start for a walk, did you? Well, you saw me follow 'em, then. Chased 'em to the edge of the falls and hid." "What sort of talk is she giving him?" "Talk! I couldn't hear. I don't like water, anyway. I like it less when it bangs down over rocks and stops me from hearing what I want to hear." "What does she tell you?" "She has only shot a few words at me like beans out of an air gun. Claims she's here on the case." "Do you believe that?" "I don't dare to tell her that I don't believe it--considering the way she stands in with Mern. It may be his afterthought--he's a bird that flies funny sometimes, you know." "Leave her to me; I'll dredge her to-morrow." "That'll be good dope; she'll have to bring in your meals as soon as you give orders to Brophy." "They'll have to be snappy orders to make him stop bringing 'em himself," said Miss Elsham. "The old fool stood around while I was eating supper and told me how much money he has saved and how lonesome he is since his wife died. I have told him to send Latisan to me this evening on a matter of business, no matter how late Latisan comes in. He's too jealous to give the word, I do believe." "I can't understand the hang of it--her grabbing him so quick," lamented Crowley. "It's a devil of a note when we have to take time off the main job to detect out a mystery right in our own concern! What are you going to say about her when you write up your report to-night?" He was referring to the inviolable rule of the Vose-Mern office that a daily report must be made by each operative. "Nothing, Buck. Let's tread easy. We may seem to be trying to tell Mern his business. She's here and he must be perfectly well aware that she's here. Don't you write anything in your report. Leave her to me." "All right! You handle it." Then Crowley departed and sat down in his room and put into his report a full statement about Miss Kennard's arrival and actions and his own activity in regard to her. Crowley had elaborate ideas about the art of double-crossing everybody, even his associates in the agency. He figured that it could not hurt anything to give Mern a full report on all matters; and if there was anything peculiar in Kennard's presence there, Crowley's assiduity would contrast to his credit and shame Elsham's negligence. He had frequently made good hits by cajoling fellow operatives to suppress certain matters which he had then reported to his advantage with Mern. And Elsham, in this case, was claiming to be in charge, making him only the watchdog of her safety. Crowley growled derogatory comments on her temptress qualities when he peered past the edge of his curtain in the morning and looked down on Latisan mounting into his jumper seat. The young man did not seem to be in an amiable or a confident state of mind, and his plain dolor comforted Crowley somewhat, even though Latisan was going back to the drive. The drive master had not been able to see Miss Patsy Jones that morning, as he had hoped; he had no excuse to hang around the tavern till she did appear. Brophy served the breakfast; he declared that he was going to hang on to that table girl if good treatment could prevail, and he was never going to ask her to wait on early breakfasters. Crowley got additional comfort out of Latisan's loud proclamation that he would be down in Adonia again very soon. The drive master seemed to be striving to draw somebody's attention to that fact. He cast looks behind him at the upper windows of the tavern when he drove away. That day, according to the plans he had made in New York, Mr. Crowley took pains to give himself an occupation in Adonia; loafers who were not bashful were quizzing him about the nature of his business up there. The barber had one corner of the village pool room; Crowley made a trade to occupy another corner. He opened up a case of cheap jewelry and traded it by day and raffled it evenings; he was not molested in his sporting propositions, as he called the procedure, after he had arranged a private talk with the deputy sheriff. Crowley, with his fancy waistcoat and his tip-tilted hat, fitted the rôle he was playing. He was right in the path of all the gossip that traveled to and fro; therefore, the rôle suited his needs. His nightly conferences with Miss Elsham at the parlor window were not pleasant; Miss Elsham was not in a state of mind which conduced to cordial relations. She had not been able to "dredge" Miss Kennard. That young lady waited on Miss Elsham, but not with a tray. After a talk with Brophy, who agreed with her absolutely and placatingly, begging her to suit herself in all her acts provided she would stay on, Miss Kennard went into the parlor, closed the door carefully, and told Miss Elsham where that young woman got off as an exacting lady of leisure. "Mr. Mern would not allow it--one operative doing menial work for another. If you choose to come into the dining room, that's different." Miss Kennard then turned and walked out. She refused to stay with Miss Elsham and have a talk. "We are ordered to be very careful up here," she reminded the operative. Miss Elsham was impressed. It was as if Mern were sending new cautions by this latest arrival. Miss Kennard, in her dabblings in psychoanalysis, had secured some concrete aids for action in addition to the vague abstractions which had come into her mind when Latisan had so naïvely confessed on the cliff above the cataract. She understood fully the potency of a suggestion which left a lot to the imagination of the other party; only a bit of a suggestion is needed--and it must be left to itself, like yeast, to induce fermentation. For that reason Miss Kennard abruptly walked out and left Miss Elsham alone to reflect--not running away, but retiring with the air of one who had said a sufficient number of words to the wise. Miss Elsham, in her conference at the window with Crowley that evening, revealed how actively her batch of ponderings had been set to working by that bit of suggestion. Crowley, listening, wished privately that he could call back that report to Mern; Mern had repeatedly warned him to keep to his place as a strong-arm operative, bluntly bearing down on the fact that Crowley's brains were not suited for the finer points of machination. According to Miss Elsham's figuring--and Crowley acknowledged her innate brightness--the plot had thickened and Kennard, known to all operatives as Mern's close confidant, was up there as chief performer. Several days elapsed before Crowley--perspiring whenever his worries assailed him--got any word from Mern. The chief wrote guardedly, and Crowley read the letter over a dozen times without being exactly sure just what course he was to pursue. The truth was, Mr. Mern himself was doing so much guessing as to Miss Kennard that he was in no state of mind to give clean-cut commands. Crowley's letter was the first intimation to the chief of the whereabouts of his confidential secretary. She had not resigned, nor had she asked for a leave of absence, nor had she bothered to write or telephone; she did not show up at the office--that was all! Lida, having discarded ethics, had decided to play her game from an ambuscade, just as the Vose-Mern agency did its business. To give any information to the foes of Echford Flagg would be giving odds--and she was working single-handed and deserved odds for herself. She resolved to make her game as peculiar as possible--to keep all of them guessing--to oblige them to take the initiative against her if they should find out the secret of her strange actions. The element of time entered largely into her calculations: every day on which she stood between them and Ward Latisan--every day that he devoted to the drive--was a day to be charged to her side of the ledger; and there are not many days in the driving season when the waters _are_ high and the river is rushing. A keener mind than Crowley's would have detected in Mern's letter all the chief's inability to understand. What Crowley did get from the letter was the conviction that Miss Kennard was not to be molested at that time. Mern made that clear, though he was vague on other points. The chief was wondering whether excess of zeal might be the reason for Miss Kennard's amazing performance. He remembered certain hints which she had dropped as to her financial needs, and she had not seemed averse when he had told her on occasions that he thought of giving her a commission when the right kind of a case came along. To turn a trick for a rich corporation--working alone so that she might claim full credit--undoubtedly had appealed to her as her great opportunity, Mern reflected, and she had set off on her own hook, fearful that he would not alter the arrangements he had made. He was angry; he muttered oaths as he weighed the situation. But he did not put any of his anger into his letter to Crowley. Miss Kennard knew too much about the general inner workings of the agency! In this new case there was specifically a five-thousand-dollar net fee in case Latisan could be eliminated and his crew left to the mercies of Comas bluster and cash. Miss Kennard, if unduly molested, could say two words in the north country and put that contingent fee into limbo. Therefore, Chief Mern was treading softly at first. But from the letter which treated the general situation so gingerly the strong-arm operative extracted one solid and convincing command. He was to watch Miss Kennard. The command seemed entirely natural. Had he not been sent up there to watch--or watch over--no matter which--Miss Elsham? His instructions in regard to Miss Kennard seemed to make her a particularly valuable person in the Vose-Mern plans. He was not to allow anything to interfere with his watching of Miss Kennard, not even for the sake of Miss Elsham. He was to observe every movement, catch every word, if possible, mark every detail of Miss Kennard's operations. Crowley did not show the letter to Miss Elsham, nor did he speak of it. He would mortally offend her by revealing his double-crossing tactics; as a woman she would be more offended by being relegated to the background in favor of the newcomer. Crowley found his espionage an easy job at first. All he had to report to Mern for three or four days was that "Patsy Jones" did her work in the hotel and remained in her room till after dark--and then went out and strolled aimlessly. She would not talk with Crowley when he grasped at opportunities to speak to her on her walks. She reminded him that fellow operatives must be careful; furthermore, scandal might oblige her to abandon her job; he would be responsible if he insisted on dogging her about the village. However, Crowley was able, a few days later, to slip her a letter from Mern; the chief had inclosed it in a missive containing further instructions to the operative to make sure of every move of Lida. The inclosed letter was addressed to "Patsy Jones." Lida read it when she was back in her room. She noted with satisfaction that Chief Mern was still guessing and that his detective mind was unable to solve the mystery except on the ground that she was so loyal to the agency and so ambitious for herself that she had tackled the job as a speculation. He chided her because she had not reported her intention. He asked for a full statement. She hid the letter carefully in her bureau. Having put it away for further reference in case she did make up her mind to answer the questions when forced to do so, she delayed replying. She did not want to lie needlessly to Mern--she was willing to let him do imagining, too, seeing how well it was working, to all appearances, in the cases of Elsham and Crowley. She had her own reasons for keeping withindoors in the daytime. The matter of Rickety Dick was worrying her. He had seen her as a girl of sixteen, worn with her vigils beside a sick mother; the light through the area windows had been dim, and he had stumbled against chairs in the room as if his vision were poor. However, she discovered at the outset of her stay in Adonia that she had become the object of old Dick's intent regard whenever he found opportunity. He often trudged past the tavern on his errands; he dragged slow steps and squinted and peered. Once she caught him peeping at her through the open door of the dining room. She had feared some such closer inspection and had drawn back her hair and twisted its waviness into an unsightly pug; the moment she saw him she slipped into her mouth a piece of spruce gum which an admiring woodsman had presented, and then she chewed vigorously and slatted herself about in a tough manner. He sighed and went away muttering. He ventured another and a last sortie, as if he wanted to make an end of his doubts. He also made a sensation. Rickety Dick came to take dinner at the tavern! He was in his best rig, with which he was accustomed to outfit himself for the funerals of his old friends. There was a faded tail coat which flapped against baggy gray trousers. A celluloid collar on a flannel shirt propped up his wrinkled chin. Martin Brophy stared at old Dick and then cast a look up at the office clock, whose hands, like Dick's in the moment of mental stress, were upraised on the stroke of twelve. "Flagg dead?" inquired Brophy, unable otherwise to account for Dick's absence from the big house at the dinner hour. "No! Toothache! Can't eat to-day. He let me off to go to a burying." "Whose?" Old Dick shook his head and passed on into the dining room, peering hard into the face of the waitress as he plodded toward her. "Burying!" he muttered. "May as well make sure it's dead--and put it away." Lida met him as she was meeting her other problems up there--boldly. She leaned over him when he was seated and recited the daily bill of fare. He did not take his eyes off her face, now close to his. "Lida Kennard," he whispered, hoarsely, panting, pulling the hard collar away from his throat with trembling fingers, "why ain't ye home with your poor old grandfather, where ye belong? Lida Kennard, why ain't ye home?" Her eyes did not waver. Brophy had followed, to be better informed as to the funeral, and stood in the doorway. "Who's the nut?" inquired Patsy Jones, acridly, turning her gaze to the landlord. "He's calling me names." Her hard tones made the old man wince. "He's all right--safe--only a little crazier than usual," returned Brophy. "If you want to eat, Dick, go ahead and eat--but don't bother Miss Jones. I don't allow anybody to bother her. And where's that funeral, I ask you again?" "Here!" said the old man, rapping his knuckles on his breast. "It's buried. I guess I am crazy. Oh yes, I'll admit it. I see things that ain't so." "Well, go ahead and eat," commanded Brophy. "I don't want to eat--I can't, now." He pushed back his chair and rose. "What names did he call you?" demanded the landlord, truculently. "I won't have your feelings hurt, you know!" "Oh, only made some funny noises," retorted Miss Jones, flippantly. "Let him go. I don't mind." Rickety Dick plodded out as he had plodded in; he was shaking his head, dismissing all his hopes and his dreams. Miss Jones went to another guest. "The world is full of 'em," she said. "We have lamb, beef, and pork." Brophy retired, entertaining no further curiosity. The surge of homesickness that swept through the girl choked her--its spray blurred her eyes as she gazed after old Dick, pitying his bent shoulders under the sun-faded coat. But even in her sorrow, because she had been obliged to deny his wistful plaint so heartlessly, she was conscious of relief. She had been afraid of his recognition of her; after this she would be more free to come and go. That evening at supper there was a guest who troubled her thoughts more than had Rickety Dick, but in another way. Ward Latisan was down again from the drive, still adoring her frankly and unabashed with his eyes, following all her movements; it was plain that he had taken counsel with himself while he had been away from her and that his love had been made acute by separation. She was of a mind to hide away from him in her room after her work was done. But there was the cultivation of his friendship to consider! She must keep up that friendship in order to be able to influence him. Timorously, wondering what was to come from the coil of events as she saw them shaping in that region of barehanded conflict, she put on her hat and went forth. Latisan stepped off the porch and joined her, plainly no longer concerned with what the gossipers of Adonia might say or think. CHAPTER FIFTEEN As on a previous occasion, when the gloom of the night had settled, they were again at the side of the village street, at the mouth of the path by which they had returned from the cliff above the falls. She had sought the falls that evening because the din of the waters would keep him from talking too much. She was afraid of the light in his eyes and of the repressed feeling in his tones. She knew that she must repulse him if he wooed. Her emotions were mixed, but she was sure there was no love in her heart--all her thoughts were concerned with her quest. If love should by any possibility develop in her and she should allow him to see it, what would become of his man's appetite for fight and danger? She felt obliged to view surrender to him in that light. On the other hand, she could not afford to offend him deeply by allowing matters to come to a climax between them right then; the climax must disclose her lack of affection. She had been estimating that hale man of the woods--she was certain that what she felt toward him was only friendly respect for his character, and she could not lie to him or fawn falsely for her purposes. "I must go up now and face the usual music," he said, sourly. "I'm getting to be afraid of myself with Flagg." "I've heard he's afflicted with the toothache to-day. You must make all allowances," she entreated, with a dash of jest in her earnestness. "Then I especially need a protector. I'm going to ask you again to go along with me. Really, you're needed if I'm expected to stay on my job. Why," he went on, jest mingling with seriousness in his own case, "if the Flagg drive comes down all right through my efforts, you can take the credit of the victory because you were present to-night and smoothed things; he'll just have to be decent, with a strange young lady in the room." She was not ready with peremptory refusal, as she had been on the other occasion; she had met the bugbear of Rickety Dick and had prevailed over the old man's suspicions. As Latisan averred, her presence might help matters; she would entertain strange and acute regrets if her absence should allow the split that Latisan seemed to apprehend. He timidly put his hand on her arm. "Please!" "I'll be intruding on a business talk. I may make him all the more touchy." She was hesitating, weighing the hazards of each plan--to go or to stay away. "There's no private business to be talked. I'm simply going to tell him that I have blown the ice and have the logs in the river and I want to have his orders about how many splash dams I can blow up if I need to do it for a head o' water to beat the Three C's drive to Skulltree. Really, he needs to talk with somebody who is gentle," he went on, and she responded to the touch on her arm and walked slowly with him up the hill. "He sits there day by day and reads the tooth-for-tooth part of the Old Testament, and it keeps hardening his heart. I've thought of a plan. Suppose you get friendly with him! You can take some soothing books up to him in your off hours and read aloud. Let's try to make a different man of Eck Flagg, you and I." So, over the ledges where her childish feet had stumbled, Lida Kennard, trembling, anxious, yearning for her kin, went again to the door of the big mansion on the hill. Latisan's words had opened a vista of hope to her; she might be able, after all, to render the service to which old Dick had exhorted her, hiding her identity behind a woman's desire to cheer an invalid. It was the same square, bleak house of her early memories, now dark except for a dim glow through two dingy windows in the lower part; the yee-yawed curtains were eloquent evidence of the housekeeping methods. "He won't have any women around, as I told you." Latisan was not tactful in his excuse for the slack aspect of the house. "I'm afraid it isn't best for me to go in," she said, making a final stand. "If you go with me you're all right," declared the drive boss, with pride of power where the Flagg interests were concerned. "It'll do him good to be jumped out of himself--to see a young lady from the city." Latisan did not knock; he walked in, escorting the girl. In the middle of the sitting room, in a wheel chair that was draped with a moosehide tanned with the hair on it, she beheld an old man with a fleece of white mane and beard. A shaded oil lamp shed a circle of radiance on a big book which lay on his knees. The girl noted that the book was the Bible. Outside that circle of radiance the room was in darkness and the old man heard footsteps without being able to see who had entered; in the shadows was old Dick on his stool. "That you, Latisan?" demanded the master. "Yes, sir!" Ward was about to say more, introducing the girl, but Flagg broke in, paying no attention to what his drive master might have on his mind. "Here's the stuff for real men in this book! You ought to take time to read it. I'm sorry I didn't read it regular when I was going about on two legs." He pounded his hand on the opened pages. "The parsons are now preaching too much New Testament stuff. When my folks dragged me to the meetinghouse in the pod-auger days we got Old Testament--red hot. I've been hoping I remembered it right--I've been looking it up. Listen!" "'If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is thine soul, entice thee secretly, saying, "Let us go and serve other gods," which thou hast not known, thou, nor thy fathers; thou shalt not consent unto him, nor hearken unto him; neither shall thine eye pity him, neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal him; but thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shalt be first upon him to put him to death, and afterward the hand of all the people. And thou shalt stone him with stones, that he die.'" Again the old man beat his hand upon the book. "There are the orders for you, Latisan!" "I don't know as I just get you, sir!" "You don't expect to find the Three C's mentioned by name in Holy Writ, do you? But the case is covered. They're asking you and me to serve other gods. They're asking us to go into their combine. If we do so it means that the sawmills on this river will be closed and the homes deserted. They're taking all the timber down to the paper mills. To hell with their paper! The folks need lumber for houses. The Three C's shan't control the market and boost prices so that folks can't buy. Latisan! I tell you again, you've got your orders, backed by the Scripture. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! Families or corporations, it's all the same! Why don't you say something?" "I'm waiting to introduce a young lady, sir. This is Miss Jones who has just come to town." Flagg tipped the shade of the lamp and deflected the light upon the couple. He bawled an ugly oath. "Clean shaved, again! Making a dude of yourself! Sapgagging with a girl?" Latisan stepped forward and broke in on the tirade. "I'll have to ask you to trig that kind of talk, Mr. Flagg. Miss Jones has come here to cheer you up." "When I want any girl to come here and cheer me up I'll drop her a line and give her thirty days' notice." The caller who had been snubbed so bluntly turned on her heel. She pleaded, faintly, "I'm sorry, sir. I'll leave you and Mr. Latisan to talk over your business." "I can't blame you for going," said Latisan. He followed her, and to her profound amazement she discovered that a woodsman could be as temperamental as a prima donna. "I'm going, too, Mr. Flagg," he called over his shoulder. "I'm going for good and all where you're concerned. I'm done with you. I gave you your fair warning. Send another man north to the drive." "Just one minute, there, Latisan!" called the master, harshly. "Unless you're afraid to stay here that length of time or can't spare the minute away from your wench!" The drive master stopped at the door and spun around on his heel. There had been but one flash of the light's rays on Lida--the old man had immediately allowed the shade to drop; standing just beyond the doorway in the hall, she was safely in the shadows. "If you expect to hear me whinny like a sick horse you're mistaken," went on Flagg, with the staccato of ire. "Now I know what you're worth. You have appraised yourself. A girl's grin has bought you. I don't know what sort she is, nor care I. But unless she's a fool she can see what you're worth, too. Go along, now!" There was compunction in Latisan, and he realized it. But there was that untamed spirit of old John, as well, and it made for rancor and rebellion. In that room at the moment old John's spirit was veritably present in the grandson, reviving the ancient north-country duello of unconquered wills with old Echford in the flesh--and a Latisan had never lowered the crest before a Flagg. "It's a cheap hired man you want!" Compromise was offered no opportunity by young Latisan's manner and tone. "Hire one--of your picking! And a devilish fine boss that kind will make for you!" "I'll hire nobody," roared Flagg. "I'll ride to the head of the drive in this chair. Even with both sides of me paralyzed I'll be worth more than you are, you lallygagging, love-cracked loon! Get out of here!" When the two were outside in the night the girl faced Latisan. "I insist on going alone, sir. You have no right to leave a helpless man as you're doing. I cannot believe that you mean what you said just now!" "I'm through! I have let him curse me out all along and I took it whence it came. But this time it's different." "Please go back to him." "I will not. I'm done!" The grim thought came to her that she had ineluctably become a valuable operative in the interests of the Vose-Mern agency. According to appearances the work was finished. However, she promptly blazed into indignation which rang true. "I'm only a stranger to that poor old man. He did not understand. I had no right to rush in on him as I did." "I had the right to invite you." "I won't have it on my conscience that I have been a party to this break between you two. If it were not so dreadful it would be silly, sir." "I have the right to be silly about my own business, if you're bound to call it silly, what I have done." "Go back, I tell you!" "I will not!" "You shall not walk away with me." "I invited you to come up here. I shall see you to the door of that tavern. You may never speak to me again, but you won't be able to say about me that I deserted you in the dark night." "Will you come back here after you have escorted me to the tavern?" "No! It's settled into a stand-off between Flagg and me." "Don't you want to please me?" "Yes, even to lying down here in the mud and letting you walk on me," he declared, his fervor breaking from the repression he had been maintaining with difficulty. "And it's because he has insulted somebody that I feel like that toward--that's why I'm done with him. I'm not putting it very smoothly. But it's in here!" He pounded his fist on his breast. "Mr. Latisan, this is folly. I'm only a waitress." "I'm thanking God that you are and that you aren't too high above me, as I was afraid you were when I met you in New York. You're down where I can talk to you." She started to walk away, but he leaped and seized both her arms. "This is going mighty fast," he gasped. "I never talked to a girl in this way in all my life. I'll probably never dare to talk to you if I wait for daylight to-morrow--I'll be too scared of my thoughts overnight." She did not try to twist herself free from his grasp; she was more self-possessed than he was--he was trembling in all his frame. "It's like dynamite," he stammered. "I reckon it was in me all the time! The first flash of your eyes lighted the fuse! I've blown up." He pulled her close to him, flung his arms about her, and kissed her. But immediately he loosed her and stepped back. "I didn't intend to do that! My feelings got away from me." "And now may I go along?" she inquired, coldly, after he had remained silent for a time. "I'm sorry I have made you angry. I don't know how to go at a thing like this one I'm tackling," he said contritely. "But I feel that talking out straight and man fashion is the only way. Will you marry me?" "Certainly not, sir!" He did not attempt to stay her when she walked on. He trod humbly by her side. "I was afraid you wouldn't. But I couldn't keep back the asking any more than I can push back that flood you can hear down in the gorge. It just had to pour along, that asking!" "Mr. Latisan, you astonish me. You desert your employer on account of a mere whim----" "Don't you call my standing up for you any whim, if you please!" The change in his tone from humility to stern and masterful command caused her to catch her breath. She was not accustomed to dominance by men. "At any rate, sir, you have proposed marriage to a stranger, a mere come-by-chance into this place, not knowing who or what I am. I have a right to be astonished." "Probably! But you aren't any more so than I was in New York when I realized what had happened to me." "So, now you can forget all about me and go back to your work on the drive!" "You have said I did not know much about you. It's plain you don't know me! I have told Eck Flagg I am done. And I am! You don't understand. I'm a Latisan and----" he faltered then; it sounded like boyish boasting and he was a bit ashamed. "Somehow that helpless old man has stirred all my sympathy. Why won't you do as I ask?" "Because a girl who throws a man down as you have hasn't any right to ask him to do this or that." They were near the tavern before either spoke again. "I'm not saying that I'm not sorry for Eck Flagg," the drive master stated. "I don't want you to leave me to-night with the idea that I'm a quitter or a coward or a sneak about what's my duty. I'll be honest with you. You think I'm a fool because I've fallen in love with you so suddenly. A man who has tussled with drives and log jams for as many years as I have needs to think quickly, make up his mind about what it's right to do, and then stick to it. I'm not going to sacrifice myself for Flagg--a man with the hard heart that's in him." He caught his breath and plunged on: "You say to-night that you won't marry me. I'm going to stay close by and see if you won't change your mind. A roaring fire is in me right now!" His demeanor terrified her. The primitive man was blazing. "I don't dare to take the chances on what would be in me if I should go back to the drive and leave you here to be smirked at by every cheap man who comes along. I have dreamed too much about you!" He was wooing with the avatar of old John. "By the gods! you're my girl! I'm going to have you! I'll stay on that job!" "I shall leave this place to-morrow. It will be very--well, very unwise for you to annoy me." "I'm going to follow you." "Mr. Latisan, I have listened to you; you shall listen to me!" She spoke sharply. Now she displayed the equipoise of one who had learned much from self-reliant contact with men. "I'll not argue with you about what you call love. But there's something which love must have, and that's self-respect. If your folly on account of me takes you away from your honest duty you'll despise me when you come to yourself. You have been honest with me. I'll be honest with you. I like you. I can see that you're a big, true man--much different from most of the men I have met before this. But I shall lose all my good opinion of you if you desert your job. And, as I have said, you'll hate me if I allow you to do so. Can we afford to take chances?" While he pondered she made hurried mental account of stock in her own case. She was not admitting that she felt any especial consideration for this man as a lover; she was protecting her grandfather and striving for her own peace of mind as a payer of a debt of honor. He followed her when she walked on toward the tavern. "May I ask what you mean by taking chances? Chances on being something more to each other than we are now?" he asked, wistfully. "I think we have gone quite far enough for one evening, sir." He pulled off his cap. "Before I go to sleep I shall say my little prayer. I shall ask that you won't be thinking I have gone too far. I'm sure it won't be a prayer to the God of the Old Testament, such as Eck Flagg was reading about. I'll whisper up to Mother Mary. She understands women. I don't." He bowed in silence when she gave him a hasty "good night!" Latisan whirled suddenly after the girl closed the door behind her--came about on his heels so quickly that he nearly bumped into the assiduous operative Crowley, who had been taking desperate chances that evening. But Latisan's gaze was directed downward in deep thought as he walked slowly away, and he did not perceive the eavesdropper. Mr. Crowley had heard aplenty, so he informed himself; he had followed them all the way from the big house down to the tavern, treading close behind, depending on their absorption in each other, his shoes in his hand, not minding the ledges and the mud; and he was in his mental stocking feet, too, treading on the bedrock of the obvious, as he figured on the proposition. He had been told many times, Mr. Crowley had, that he possessed a single-track mind and was not fitted to deal with the subtleties of criminal investigation and had not the expansive wit to comprehend the roundabout ways of steering victims to their doom. But Mr. Crowley was indubitably fitted by training to write a handbook on the art of double-crossing--and he reckoned he knew an out-and-out job of that sort after what he had heard that evening. For his own peace of mind, and to save himself from going crazy by reason of any more puzzlement over Miss Kennard's alleged mysterious methods in her work, he kept insisting to himself that she was merely double-crossing the Vose-Mern agency in the good old-fashioned way. Not his the task to wonder why! He rushed up to his room and started in on his report. It had stuck in Crowley's crop--seemed humiliating--to be made a subaltern in the case of women operatives. He believed that at last he was in right and proper on the grand opportunity of his career; he would come down from the bush with the bacon; Elsham had fallen down and Kennard was double-crossing--and Crowley, good old reliable Crowley, would show Chief Mern where the credit should go! He set his little, cheap typewriter on his sturdy knees and pecked away stolidly with his forefingers. Latisan remained outdoors a long time, for the night matched the gloom of his thoughts. And once more, in spite of himself, his dark ponderings concerned themselves with suspicions as to what and who this girl really was. In his early deference to her he had been ready and willing to believe all she said about herself, and his suspicion had seemed to be extinguished; he realized that it merely had been smoldering. Why would not a waitress marry him, one of the Latisans of the Tomah? Was he what old Flagg had so inelegantly stated--a sapgag where a girl was concerned? He began to distrust his strength as a man; he had wasted a day in New York; he was ready to give up his man's job on the Noda because he could not get his thoughts away from her and on his work. His last stay at headwaters had been hours of torture. He had gone to sleep dreaming of the girl instead of putting his attention on the problems of the morrow--and the details of the drive that spring needed all sorts of judgment and foresight. While he was in that state of mind, trying to excuse defection, he told himself, as he trudged to and fro, that he was not a fit man for Flagg. Nevertheless he cursed himself for being so weak. He had read stories of woman's subjugation of the famous and the strong and had wondered what sort of lunacy had overtaken such men. Here he was making an invalid's tantrums an excuse to give up his work and dangle at the skirts of an unknown girl; and he knew it was because of the mystery of her real identity and because his jealousy was afire on account of an uncertainty which was now aggravated by her refusal to marry him. Latisan had not been in the village ten minutes that afternoon before Gossip Dempsey had giggled and told him he'd better keep sharp watch on his girl, because the jewelry man was everlastingly after her like a puppy chasing the butcher's cart; the simile was not nice, but Latisan was impressed by its suggestion of assiduity. In the tumult of his thought, grudgingly conscious that he was ashamed of the real reason for giving up his work, Latisan evasively decided that the thing was now up to Echford Flagg. He had warned Flagg man fashion. He had given his word to Flagg as to what would happen if Flagg persisted in treating him like a lackey. Flagg had persisted. Latisan had kept his word. He could not retreat from that stand; he could not crawl back to Flagg and still maintain the self-respect that a drive master must have in the fight that was ahead. Therefore, Latisan decided to stay in Adonia and let Flagg make overtures; for their future relations the drive master would be able to lay down some rules to govern Flagg's language and conduct. Under that decision persisted the nagging consciousness that he wanted to be with the girl instead of on the drive and he was more and more ashamed of the new weakness in his character. And he was also ashamed of the feeling that he wanted to find out more about her. In the past his manliness had despised prying and peering. He had been able to bluster loyally to old Dick; he was more truthful to himself. What was she, anyway? He would not admit that he had been so completely tipped upside down in all his hale resolves, aims, and objects by a mere nonentity who looked no higher than a job as waitress at Brophy's tavern. Then he went into the tavern out of the darkness and blinked at the landlord, who called him to the desk and gave a letter into his hands. It was sealed, but there was no stamp on it. "Ordered by Mrs. Everett to hand it to you," reported Brophy, sourly. "She wanted to see you last time you were down, but it slipped my mind to tell you." Latisan read the note. The lady of the parlor entreated him to come to her on a matter of business, no matter how late the hour might be. He tore up the paper on his way to the fireplace and tossed the bits on the embers. "Same room for me?" he asked Brophy. "Yes, but Mrs. Everett said for me----" "Damn Mrs. Everett! I'm going to bed." It consoled him a little, as he walked upstairs, to reflect that he was not dominated by all the women in the world, even if he was in the way of making himself a fool over one. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Latisan, going to sleep, hoped that he would awake with a saner viewpoint. He did admit to himself in the morning that if Echford Flagg should show the right spirit of compromise the thing could be patched up on terms which would allow the drive master to be his own man instead of being a spanked youngster. The girl seized an opportunity to speak to him when she brought his breakfast. "Things look better this morning--I'm sure they do. Tell me. I worried half the night. I must not be the cause of trouble." "Yes, they look better." "And you're starting back to-day for the drive?" Her voice was low but eager. "Tell me that you are!" His smouldering suspicion! Red tongues of fire darted up from it! "I'm afraid you won't be able to get rid of me to-day. Business is keeping me here." Her entreating smile faded; she backed way from him as if she had received a rude thrust, and then she went about her work. There was a real sensation in the tavern that morning! The exclusive star boarder of the parlor came into the public room to eat her breakfast. Her charms were enhanced by a becoming morning wrap, and, following out her liberal code governing the relations of sex in modern days, she seated herself at Latisan's table, greeting him with a mingling of bright good humor and gentle rebuke. "Give me a good reason why you have not been the advising friend you promised to be, and I may not be too angry, Mr. Latisan." "I--I thought I'd wait till this morning----" "Thank you! Then I'm welcome at your table." She lowered her voice after that. She was engrossed with ordinary topics whenever the waitress's duties brought Lida to the table. If there was to be rivalry between the operatives of Vose-Mern, Miss Elsham decided that her tactics with the Flagg drive master should not be known. She did the talking and Latisan gave the appearance of being an earnest listener. At a matter of fact, he played up strongly his affectation of devoted interest. Ingenuous amateur that he was in the subtleties of love, he was trying out a method which he had heard commended; he was wondering how much an aroused jealousy might accomplish in the case of Miss Patsy Jones. He cast side glances and saw that she seemed to be disturbed. He bestowed on Mrs. Everett more profound attention. He even allowed himself to say when the waitress was within earshot, "I think I'll know by to-morrow whether I'm to keep on at the head of the drive. If I don't and if matters allow, I'll be glad to take charge of your trip into the north country." Latisan, boyishly crude in his methods, felt that Miss Jones would have an interpretation of her own for "matters" and would do some earnest thinking before she turned him over to the companionship of a rich young widow, even in the humble rôle of a chief guide. In spite of Brophy's sign, "No Smoking in This Dining Room"--a restriction intended for woodsmen--Miss Elsham lighted a cigarette in her satisfaction; her failure to interest the man of the woods even to the extent of a second interview had been worrying the seductress de luxe of the Vose-Mern establishment after her unbroken successes with the men of the city. She went out of the room chatting with Latisan, and found an opportunity to sweep Miss Kennard with a patronizing glance. Latisan spent the forenoon on the tavern porch, smoking his pipe and waiting--even hoping--for a message from Echford Flagg. Rickety Dick passed the place several times on his usual errands. Flagg, therefore, would be informed that the drive master was loafing in the village. But old Dick did not bring any word from the big house to Latisan. To be sure, the split of the evening before had seemed discouragingly final. But after the girl's rebuke and appeal Ward was ashamed of the persisting stubbornness which was making him an idler in that exacting period when the thunderous Noda waters were sounding a call to duty. He did not want her to think of him as vindictive in his spirit, and still less did he desire her to consider him petty in his motives and notions. On the other hand, the proposition was strictly a man-to-man affair, and Echford Flagg had made relations unendurable. Ward wished devoutly that he could clear his thoughts; they were muddled. Back of the inertia which was hiding him in Adonia there seemed to be reasons other than the new animosity toward his employer. Really, he confessed to himself, he would like to go to Flagg and win to a manlike and mutual understanding which would serve both of them. But he muttered when he looked up at the big house, and he kept on waiting for the master to offer an opening. He confessed that his was a childish attitude toward an employer. Had he allowed his infatuation to twist him into this being who was putting the burden of an offer of compromise upon a poor old stricken man who ought to be protected from his own intolerance? However, the drive master was aware of a certain satisfaction in being on hand to watch and weigh affairs in Adonia that day. The raffle man, as the villagers called Crowley, seemed to have a great deal on his mind, Latisan reflected. Crowley made several trips to the telegraph office at the railroad station. At dinner Miss Jones averted her eyes from Latisan and there was no talk between them. Latisan tried to comfort himself, by the thought that jealousy was operating. He saw her go out in the afternoon for a walk, but he did not offer to accompany her. His naïve conviction was that his indifference and the threat of interest in Mrs. Everett would suffice to bring Miss Patsy Jones down from her coquette's pedestal. He was tempted to leap up and follow when he saw Crowley trailing after the waitress; but Crowley went only a little distance, and then he came back and went into the tavern and upstairs. Again in midafternoon old Dick passed, but he brought no word to the waiting drive master. This insulting indifference, as Latisan considered it, indicated that Echford Flagg was no longer depending on Ward as champion. There had been no misunderstanding of language. Latisan had quit--and Flagg was contented to let him stay quit. The young man felt more acutely cheap and small. He had been setting himself up as the one man who could drive down the Flagg logs. The fact that he could not bring himself to break away instanter and go north to his duty--without orders from Flagg and without considering further his entanglement with a girl--was a fact that steadily lessened his self-esteem. He had been able to go straightforwardly in all matters till then; this new inability to handle complex affairs and to untangle the situation made him distrust himself and wonder whether he was much of a man, anyway! Then came night--and he went to his room to brood. At supper the girl of his thoughts had been conspicuously rude in the manner with which she banged down dishes in front of him. Lida had been doing some pondering of her own. She would not admit that she had been piqued by his attentions to Elsham and by his partial promise to that complacent young lady. But she was finding him to be very much of a child, she told herself. He needed to be protected from himself at that juncture. And he needed to be convinced that he was wasting his time just then by staying away from duty and playing the lover. Lida's first thought was that if he found no profit in lovemaking he would go back to his work in spite of what he had told her. She could not bring herself to believe that a man like Latisan would succumb to Elsham's wiles. In that mood, both as protectress and as stanch believer in his uprightness, she found that her interest in him was becoming more vivid than she had realized. Her warming heart sent a flush into her cheeks when she remembered the passionate embrace. She noted that flush when she looked into her mirror. She was making herself ready for slumber. "Don't be a fool!" she warned the reflection in the mirror. Having clarified the situation to that extent in her thoughts before going to sleep, she awoke and began the new day with better confidence. The spirit of the Open Places certainly did make folks honest, she told herself! She felt that the morning must have brought common sense to Latisan, as it had to her. From her window she saw him walking to and fro in front of the tavern. The early dawn was flushing the east. His being abroad at that hour suggested that he was going back to his work instead of playing the idling lover. She decided to be frank with him; she dressed in haste, hurried down and faced him, and told him how glad she was that he had come into his right senses; she had determined that her best course was to take his reformed mental state for granted. "Yes, I'm sensible enough to quit being a boss bulldog for a man like Eck Flagg." He was sorry after he said it. But there was no word from Flagg--and her insistence, as if she wanted to be rid of him, rasped his raw temper. "But you're going back to the drive!" she gasped. "I am not." "Don't you value your reputation among men?" "I do!" "They'll say you're a quitter." She spoke boldly and sharply. "Let me tell _you_ something! When you told me that you wouldn't marry me I came nigh quitting where you're concerned. But I am back in my right senses, as you say! You're mine! I have told you so. I tell you again this morning. It's something of a fix you've got yourself into, eh?" She grew pale and her wide eyes were filled with startled protest; he was placid enough, but his calmness made the thing more grim and threatening when she reflected on the suggestiveness of that word "fix." She was unable to endure his scrutiny. He did not try to restrain her when she turned away, hastening into the tavern. Brophy came into the dining room when he heard her setting the tables. "Well, by swanny! You're up without being called! You ain't much like the others I've had here!" He was silent for some time, and when she turned she found him surveying her with curious intentness. "It ain't none of my business, of course, but I hope you ain't of a marrying notion, just yet awhile." "That remark seems a little uncalled for, Mr. Brophy." "I'm speaking out because Ward Latisan doesn't seem to be the flirting kind, miss. You can't fool with him." "I thank you. I shall avoid Mr. Latisan from now on. I have thoughtlessly taken walks with him." "If it's such a thing as you're intending to get married I'd rather lose you to Latisan than to anybody else in this region. He's solid goods, miss! Solid!" She was seeking confirmation to strengthen her resolves. "I hear that his employer is an invalid. I suppose that makes Mr. Latisan pretty nigh indispensable, doesn't it?" "There'll be no Flagg drive down this spring without Ward on the job--I'll say that much," declared Brophy, with vigor. "I can't afford to make any loud talk about the Three C's, miss," he went on, lowering his voice cautiously, "because I cater to all comers. But I don't know another boss driver who couldn't be scared off or bought off at the present time, considering the hold the big corporation has got on things up this way. They're bound to monopolize the river--the Three C's gang. But they can't freeze out the independents this year if Ward Latisan stays on the job for Eck Flagg. The death clinch comes this season!" "Where's your law up this way, Mr. Brophy?" she demanded. "I guess neither side dares to call on the law right now. Law might tie up everything. Logs have got to come along with the spring driving pitch, and high water won't wait till lawyers get done arguing." He took down a gong and pounded on it with a padded mallet while he marched through the office to the porch and back again. It was the breakfast call. "I'll say about Eck Flagg," he stated, when he hung the gong back on its hook, "that he ain't so much to blame for his sour temper as some folks are bound to have it. Old Job of the Bible had nothing on Eck for troubles. No matter what he has done, Eck has been a square fighter. Probably you ain't interested, even to the extent of a hoot, in gossip about the neighbors. But Eck had a bad one put over on him years ago. He hasn't been right since that time. Square dealing is his religion. But to get his worst trimming right in his own family, it was awful. Son-in-law done it. But I reckon I'd better hang up on that subject, miss. Here comes Latisan for breakfast." The landlord plodded out. This man who seated himself, waiting to be served by her, who was determined to possess her, had been unwittingly alienated by her from the duty which was owed to that helpless grandfather in his extremity. The reminder which Brophy had tossed at her carelessly had served to rouse her to desperation. She clung to a service table to keep from falling. She staggered when she started to cross the room to Latisan; her hands and feet were prickling as the blood resumed its course in her veins. "You're sick," he suggested, solicitously. She shook her head. She turned her face from him, afraid of his questioning gaze. "Give your order, please!" "Bring anything." She started away, but turned and hurried back to his table, her face hard with resolution. She feared that the resolution would be weakened by delay; in a few moments others would come into the room. "I have changed my mind about that offer of marriage. This morning I say, 'Yes!'" He gaped at her and started to rise. "Don't leave that chair!" she commanded, her low tones tense. "There are men in the office looking this way. I'll marry you when the Flagg drive is down, with you at the head of it, doing your duty. You may think that over while I'm in the kitchen." When she returned with food, Latisan, flushed, eager, only partially assured, looked her in the eye, challenging her candor. "That's straight talk, is it?" "It is!" "I thank God! But why--right here in the open--where I can't----" "I'll answer no questions." "I'd like to know why you picked out this place to tell me. I can't be shut away from all the glory in the grandest moment of my life! I want to get up and yell for joy. I want to take you in my arms." "I'll not allow that. Furthermore, you are to leave for the drive immediately after you have eaten your breakfast." Her manner cowed him. "Very well!" he returned, meekly. "When I looked into your eyes I knew that your word to me was good!" She was finding the fixity of his gaze disconcerting and leaned above the table, arranging the dishes which contained his food. She was grateful for the protection the public room was affording; she would not have been able to declare herself in the privacy which love, in most circumstances, demands. "Who are you?" he asked, in a half whisper, taking advantage of her nearness. "You are more than you seem to be. You are, I say! You are not silly and selfish like most girls in a time like this. You are able to make me do anything you ask. I'll go north and fight because you want me to. But an ordinary girl wouldn't take a big view of things, as you do." "Yes--for the sake of having a man be what he ought to be." He wagged his head doubtfully. "But if you'll tell me the honest truth about----" "Hush! Here comes a man." It was Crowley. He had looked from his chamber window and had seen the two in conversation in front of the tavern. He was strictly on the job that day; he had dressed in such a hurry that he was tying his necktie as he entered the room. He sat down at a table and glared grimly at Latisan and the girl; provided with ammunition that fortified his courage, Crowley had resolved to make his bigness in the matter, unafraid. His appearance at that moment and the manner of his espionage and the memory of what had been said concerning his pursuit of the girl stirred Latisan to the depths. His emotions had been in a tumult ever since the girl had declared her promise. He was in no mood to reason calmly. He could not control himself. He purposed to go to what he thought was his duty as her accepted champion. Therefore, he leaped from his chair, put his arm about her waist, and pulled her across the room, in spite of her resistance. "Listen to me, you sneak!" he adjured Crowley. "This young lady and I are engaged to be married." "Hush!" she cried, in mingled fright and fury. "You promised----It isn't----" "I made no promise except to go north because you have asked me to go. I'm going back to my job, and I'll have the Flagg logs down if I have to smash the bottom out of the river," he boasted, in his new pride. "Crowley--as I believe your name is--you have heard me announce the engagement. If you give this young lady another twisted look or crooked word while I'm away, may God have mercy on your soul!" He was talking to the one man who ought to hear that news, so the lover felt, but his voice was raised in his emotion and Brophy and the loungers in the office heard, too. Latisan kissed her once, swiftly and rapturously. According to the code of social procedure in Adonia, as the office onlookers viewed the matter of congratulation, the occasion called for three cheers; they were proposed and given and even Brophy joined, but with sour grace. She had endeavored ineffectually to check Latisan's outburst, understanding fully the interlocking perils involved in the promulgation to Crowley that the drive master was going back to his work. It had become her own personal, vital affair, this thing! She was far from admitting even then that love was urging her to the promise she had made so precipitately. The wild spirit of sacrifice had surged in her. She was able to pay--to redeem! It was all for the sake of the family! But this love-cracked idiot, babbling his triumph, had thrown wide the gate of caution--had exposed all to the enemy; she feared Crowley in his surly, new mood! Poor Ward turned to her a radiant, humid stare of devotion; she responded by flashing fury at him from her eyes. Her cheeks were crimson. "Haven't you any wit in you?" she raged, holding her tones in leash with effort, her convulsed face close to his amazed countenance. "It was to put you right----" he stammered. "It has made everything all wrong!" Men had come into the room. She hurried away from the dumfounded lover. While she went about her work, sedulously keeping her gaze from Latisan, she heard the men jocosely canvassing the matter. They called to the drive master, giving him clumsy congratulation. There were timber cruisers who were going into the north country; they declared with hilarity that they would spread the news. They ate and went stamping away, news bureaus afoot. She marched to the pathetic incarnation of doubt and dolor after a time; he was lingering at table in a condition that was near to stupefaction. "Why aren't you on your way?" she demanded, with ireful impatience. "You'll have to tell me what the matter is with you!" "I'll tell you nothing--not now! But you have something to tell Mr. Flagg, haven't you?" "You're right! I'll go and tell him that I'm starting for the drive. If I have to smash the hinges off the door of Tophet I'll put our logs----" "That's it!" she cried, eagerly. "Our logs! We'll call them our logs. Don't mind because I seemed strange a little while ago. You'll understand, some day. But now hurry! Hurry!" She forced herself to smile. She was eagerly in earnest, almost hysterical. She spoke his name, though with effort. "Remember, Ward! Our logs! Bring them through!" He leaped out of his chair. The other breakfasters were gone. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Immediately after Latisan had left on his way to assure Echford Flagg, the girl was reminded of her putative Vose-Mern affiliations. Crowley lounged back into the room, taking advantage of the fact that she was alone. "Put me wise as to why you're playing this shot with the reverse English." "Hands off, Crowley! You're only a watchdog, paid to guard me." "I don't propose to have our folks double-crossed. You have started that drive boss back onto his job, and you and he announce an engagement this morning! You're cagy or crazy! I won't have anything put over! If you're straight, come through to me and I'll back you. Otherwise----" He tossed his hands in an eloquent gesture. "I'll wire to have you pulled down to the city." "I have done some wiring ahead of you. It's up to our folks to find out what's the big idea." "Crowley, won't you leave it all to me?" she pleaded, fighting to the last ditch for her secret and for time. "Can't you see that I'm placing a double-crosser in the enemy's camp?" He looked at her hard and long and his lips curled into a sardonic grin. "You're a good one. I'll admit that. But you can't stand there and give me the straight eye and make me believe you have made over Latisan to that extent. I've got him sized. It can't be done!" Crowley was right--she could not meet his sophisticated gaze. "What do you expect me to do?" she asked, lamely. "Keep him off the drive. If he starts to leave this village to-day I'm going to grab in." She knew Crowley's obstinacy in his single-track methods. There was no telling what he would undertake nor what damage might be wrought by his interference. She tried to force from him his intentions; he paid no heed to her appeals or her threats. She was fighting for her own with all the wit and power that were in her; she was standing in the path by which the enemies must advance, resolved to battle as long as her strength might last, serving as best she could to distract attention from the main fight to herself, willing to sacrifice herself utterly. Crowley walked with a bit of a swagger from the room, lighted a cigarette in the office, puttered for a few moments with some old newspapers on a table, and then went out of doors and strolled along the road in the direction of the big house on the hill. She observed his course from a side window. She felt the impulse to run after him and beat her fists against that broad and stubborn back. She saw Latisan come striding down from the Flagg mansion, determination in his manner. The two men met. They halted. Her apprehension became agony, but she did not dare to interfere between them. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Crowley, standing in front of Latisan, twisted his countenance into an expression of deprecatory, appealing remorse. "I have taken the liberty of apologizing to the young lady, sir! Now that I know how matters stand, I want to beg your pardon very humbly. I haven't meant anything wrong, but a man of my style gets cheeky without realizing it." Latisan had come off well in his interview with Echford Flagg. The old man seemed to be in a chastened mood. When he had been informed of the part the girl was playing, the master had admitted that the right kind of a woman can influence a man to his own good. Therefore, when the drive master strode down the hill, the radiance of his expansive joy had cleared out all the shadows. He was willing to meet a penitent halfway. He put out his hand frankly. Crowley held to the hand for a moment and put his other palm upon Latisan's shoulder. "Congratulations! I know my place, now that it has become a man-to-man matter between us. But before--well, I'll tell you, Mr. Latisan, I had met Miss Jones in New York in a sort of a business way and I was probably a little fresh in trying to keep up the acquaintance." Latisan had extricated his hand, intending to hurry on about his affairs. But here was a person who seemed to be in a way to tell him something more definite about one who was baffling his wild anxiety to fathom her real identity. However, Latisan did not dare to ask questions. His own pride and the spirit of protecting her reasons for reticence, if she had any, fettered his tongue; he was ashamed to admit to this man, whom he had so recently hated, that the real character of a fiancée was a closed book. "Honestly, she ought to have told you that she knew me," complained Crowley. "It would have saved all that trouble between you and me." He rubbed his ear reminiscently. "But perhaps she did," he pursued, affecting to misinterpret the hardness which had come into Latisan's face. "But how she could say anything against me, as far as she and I are concerned, I can't understand." "She has not mentioned you to me," returned Latisan, curtly. "That's queer, too," said Crowley, wrinkling his brow, his demeanor adding to the young man's conviction that the whole situation was decidedly queer. Once more the smoldering embers were showing red flames! "Mr. Latisan, get me right, now! I don't propose to discuss the young lady, seeing what she is to you. But perhaps you'll allow me to refer back to what you said to me, personally, in the tavern a little while ago. We can make that our own business, can't we?" Crowley accepted a stiff nod as his answer and went on. "You told me that you are going back to the drive because the young lady has insisted on your doing so. That right?" "It is. But I fail to see how you can make it any part of your business and mine." "It happens to belong in my business." He put his hand to his breast pocket as if to reassure himself. He proceeded with more confidence. "Are you afraid of the truth, Mr. Latisan--scared to meet it face to face in a showdown?" "I'm in the habit of going after the truth, no matter where it hides itself." "Then I guess you'd better come along with me. I've got to the point where I've got to have the truth, too, or else fetch up in a crazy house." Crowley's determination was set definitely on his mind's single track. If a man had an urgent reason for doing a certain thing and the compelling reason were removed, he might naturally be expected to do something else, Crowley figured. If Latisan proposed to go back to work because his love and allegiance caused him to obey a girl's commands, he would do the opposite of what she asked if his love and confidence were destroyed. It seemed to be a case of two and two making four, as Crowley viewed the thing. He was done with tangled subtleties. He put his hand again on his breast pocket as he walked with the drive master down the hill. There was a letter in that pocket; Crowley had purloined it from the girl's bureau that day when he had so quickly returned from following her. And he also had a telegram in that pocket; the wire had come along that morning, addressed to Miss Patsy Jones, in his care. The job, as Crowley understood orders, was to keep Latisan off the river that season. Crowley saw a way of doing that job and of getting the credit for the performance. The girl, staring through the window with strained attention, noting every detail of the meeting, seeing the appearance of amity and of understanding, beholding Crowley put his hand on Latisan's shoulder in the pose of friendly adviser, suspected the worst; she was stricken with anguished certainty when Latisan strode toward the tavern; according to her belief, two men were now arrayed against her. The drive master's haste indicated that she had been betrayed by the sullen botcher of methods. In that room she felt like a creature that had been run to cover--cornered. She wanted to escape into the open. There was honesty outside, anyway, under the sky, at the edge of the forest, where the thunder of the great falls made human voices and mortal affairs so petty by contrast. She ran through the tavern office and faced Latisan in the yard; there were curious spectators on the porch, the loungers of the hamlet, but she paid no attention to them; she was searching the countenance of Latisan, avidly anxious, fearfully uncertain regarding what mischief had been wrought in him. He smiled tenderly, flourishing a salute. "All serene in the big house!" The white was succeeded by a flush in her cheeks. She looked up into his honest eyes and was thrilled by an emotion that was new to her. It was impossible not to answer back to that earnest affection he was expressing. Gratitude glowed in her--and gratitude is a sister of love! "I beg your pardon," put in Crowley, "But can't the three of us step inside and have a little private talk?" He made a gesture to indicate the gallery of listeners on the tavern porch. Once that morning Lida had found protection by handling an important crisis in a public place. She was having no time just then to think clearly. She was feeling sure of Latisan, after his look into her eyes. She mustered a smile and shook her head when the drive master mutely referred the matter to her, raising his eyebrows inquiringly. "You'd better," warned Crowley, bridling. The girl felt that she had no option except to keep on in the bold course she had marked for herself. She could not conceive that the operative would prejudice the Vose-Mern proposition in public. "I cannot understand what private matters we three have in common, sir. I have no desire to listen. Mr. Latisan has no time, I'm sure. He is leaving for the north country." "That's true," agreed Latisan, under the spell of her gaze, won by her, loyal in all his fiber, determined to exclude all others in the world from the partnership of two. He had put aside his anxiety to know what she had been in the city, as Crowley knew her; that quest seemed to be disloyalty to her. "I'm starting mighty sudden! Sorry, sir! Let Brophy put your business with us in his refrigerator till the drive is down." Careless of the onlookers, the girl patted his cheek, encouraging his stand. "Till _our_ drive is down. Remember, it's ours!" she whispered. "Harness in my horses," Latisan called to Brophy's nephew in the door of the tavern stable. She was human; she was a girl; Latisan's manner assured her that she had won her battle with Crowley, whatever might have been the methods by which he had tried to prevail over the drive master. She could not resist the impulse to give the Vose-Mern operative a challenging look of triumph that was lighted by the joy of her victory. Crowley's slow mind speeded up on its one track; he opened the throttle, smash or no smash! He marched up to Latisan and displayed a badge, dredging it from his trousers pocket. "That's what I am, mister, an operative for a detective agency. So is she!" "I am not," she declared defiantly. "Maybe not, after your flop in this case. But you were when you struck this place, if your word means anything!" "You're a liar," shouted Latisan. He doubled his fist and drew it back; the girl seized the hand and unclasped the knotted grip and braided her fingers with his. "I don't blame you, Latisan. It's natural for you to feel that way toward me right now," agreed Crowley. "She has slipped the cross-tag onto you. But you're no fool. I don't ask you to take my word. Go down to that railroad station and wire to an address I'll give you in New York. Ask her if she dares to have you do it." There was no longer a smolder in Latisan--it was all a red flame! He had not realized till then how penetratingly deep had been his conviction that this girl was something other than she assumed to be. Crowley pulled a letter from his pocket, flapped it open, and shoved it under Latisan's nose. There was no further attempt to deal behind doors with the affair. It was in Crowley's mind, then, that spreading the situation wide open before the gaping throng, which was increasing, crowding about in a narrowing circle, would assist his plan to make intolerable Latisan's stay in that region. "Look at the letterhead--Vose-Mern Agency! Look and you'll see that it's addressed to Miss Patsy Jones, Adonia. Take it and read it! It's orders to her from the chief!" Latisan was plainly in no state of mind to read; he crumpled the letter in his hand and stuffed the paper into his trousers pocket. "Here's a telegram," continued the operative. "It's for her to go back to New York. It hasn't been enough for her to double-cross you; she's doing the same thing to the folks who have hired her. Nice kind of dame, eh? I don't know just what her game is, friend! But I'm coming across to you and tell you that the big idea is to keep you off the drive this season. Good money has been put up to turn the trick." In the midst of the whirling torches which made up his thoughts just then, Latisan was not able to give sane consideration to her zeal in urging him to duty; he was conscious only of the revelation of her character. Out of the city had come some kind of a design to undo him! The village was still agog with the news of his engagement; the news bureaus on legs had gone north to tattle the thing among all the camps; and she was a detective sent to beguile him! The faces of the bystanders were creasing into grins. "Ask her!" urged Crowley, relentlessly. "Or ask New York." Postponement of the truth was futile; denial was dangerous; a confession forced by an appeal to New York would discredit her motives; she had not formally severed her connection with the agency. She determined to meet this man of the woods on his own plane of honesty. "Come with me where we can talk privately," she urged; her demeanor told Latisan that she was not able to back the defiant stand he had taken with Crowley a moment before. "It's too late now," he objected, getting his emotions partly under control. "The thing has been advertised too much to have any privacy about it now. When they are left to guess things in this section the guessing is awful! I'm never afraid to face men with the truth. He has said you came here as a detective. Those men standing around heard him. What have you to say?" "Won't you let me talk to you alone?" "If I'm to stand up here before men after this, the facts will have to come out later; they may as well come out now." He spoke mildly, but his manner afforded her no opportunity for further appeal; he was a man of the square edge and he was acting according to the code of the Open Places. She put away womanly weakness as best she was able and continued with him on his own ground. "There is a plot to keep you away from your duty on the drive this season. You know as well as I do what interests furnished the money for such a purpose." "And you know about it, do you, because you are one of the detective gang?" "I have worked for the Vose-Mern agency." She could not deny the evidence of that letter which he had shoved deep down into his pocket. He had reminded her of it by whacking his hand against his thigh. "So that's what you are!" Again he was losing control of himself. Men in the crowd snickered. They were perceiving much humor in the situation. "I can explain later." She, too, was breaking down under the strain. She whimpered, pleading with him. "After you have brought down the drive I can explain and----" "Now! It must be now! I can't bring down any drive till you do explain." She did not understand. But he knew all too bitterly under what a sword of Damocles he was standing. Ridicule was ready to slay him! The Big Laugh was already gurgling deep in the throats of all the folks. The news of his engagement had gone ahead of him to the north country; the Big Laugh would roar along in the wake of that news. "The truth! It must come out now!" he shouted. "All the truth--the whole truth about yourself!" "I can't tell you!" wailed Lida Kennard, turning her back fearsomely on the big house on the ledges. "You've got a mouthful of truth out of me. Can't you see how it is?" growled Crowley. "So that's what you are, is it?" Latisan dwelt on the subject, twisting the handle that Crowley had given him. "Mr. Latisan, listen to me! I implore you to forget me--what I am! Go to your work." "My work has nothing to do with this matter between you and me. So that's what you are!" he repeated, insistent on his one idea, looking her up and down. "A detective sneak!" "I am done with the work. I am a human being, at any rate, and you promised me----" He sliced his hand through the air. "That's all off! You lied to me. It must have been a lie, seeing what you are. But I believed, and I stood up and took you for mine. The word has gone out. Every man on the Noda will know about it. I had no rights over your life till you met me. But when a woman lies to a man to make him do this or that she is laughing at him behind his back. You have played me for a poor fool in the tall timber. That's the word that's starting now." "If you have found out how worthless I am," she sobbed, "you can go on with your work and be a real man." He loosed the leash on himself. He mocked her with bitter irony, his face working hideously. "'Go on with your work!' Don't you have any idea what men are up these woods? Who'll take orders from me after this? They'll hoot me off the river! I'm done. You have put me down and under!" More than the spirit of sacrifice was actuating her then. Her impulses were inextricably mingled, but they all tended to one end, to save him from error. His scorn had touched her heart; meeting him on his own plane--on the level of honesty--woman with man, she was conscious of bitter despair because he was leaving her life. She was fighting for her own--for the old man in the big house, for the new love that was springing up out of her sympathy for this champion from whom, without realizing the peril of her procedure, she had filched the weapons of his manhood at the moment when he needed them most. "The heart has gone out of me! You have taken it out!" he cried. "I swear before our God that I'll be straight with you from now on. Won't it put heart in you if I'm your wife, standing by you through everything?" She took a long breath. Her desperation drove her to the limits of appeal. "I love you! I know it. I must have known it when I urged you on to your duty. I'm willing to say it here before all. Take me, and let's fight together." In her hysterical fear lest she was losing all, she took no thought of her pride; she was making passionate, primitive appeal to the chosen mate. But she did not understand how absolutely hopeless was the wreck of this man's fortunes, as Latisan viewed the situation. Ridicule, the taunt that he had been fooled by a girl from the city, was waiting for him all along the river. Echford Flagg would be the first to deny the worth of a man who had received the Big Laugh. No man on the Noda had ever incurred mock to such a degree. And he had vaunted his engagement to her! She went toward him, her hands outstretched; he had been backing away from her. "Look out!" he warned. "I never struck a woman!" He spread his big hand. All the fury of his forebears was rioting in him. He was not swayed by rage, merely; there would have been something petty in ordinary human resentment at that moment. There was another quality that was devilishly and subtly complex in the sudden mania which obsessed him. He had seen woodsmen leaping and shouting in the ecstasy of drunkenness; liquor seemed to affect the men of the woods in that way--to accentuate their sense of wild liberty. Latisan had been obliged to pitch in and quell riots where woodsmen had heaped their clothes and were making a bonfire of the garments they needed for decency's sake. And a mere liquid had been able to put them into that temper! But this that was sweeping through all his being was liquid fire! He had never been else than a spectator of what alcohol would do to a man; he had never tasted the stuff. Here he was, all of a sudden, drunk with something else--he knew that he was drunk--and he let himself go! He leaped up and tossed his arms above his head. By action alone a woodsman expressed his feelings, he told himself, and he was only a woodsman; the hellions of the world were not allowing him to make anything else of himself! The north country was closed to him; his power as a boss was gone. Look at those grinning faces around him! Then he yelled shrilly. Many who stood around understood what that whoop meant, though it had not been heard for a long time on the Noda. It was "the Latisan lallyloo"! It had echoed among the hills in the old days when John Latisan was down from the river and had grabbed a bottle from the hand of the first bootlegger who offered his wares. The grandson, then and there, was veritably drunk with the frenzy of despair! Yanking his arms free, he dragged off his belted jacket and flung it on the ground; on the jacket, with a pile-driver sweep of his arm, he drove down his cap. "Lie there, drive master!" he shouted. The down train of the narrow-gauge was dragging out of the station; a succession of shrill whistle toots, several minutes before, had warned prospective passengers. Latisan ran down the middle of the road and leaped aboard the slowly moving train when it crossed the highway. Standing on the platform of the passenger car, he shook his fists at assembled Adonia and yelled again. Brophy, from the tavern porch, looked hard at the girl and started down the steps, making his way toward the jacket and cap which Latisan had thrown away. She ran and picked them up and hugged them in her arms with defiant proprietorship. "How come?" sneered Brophy. "Latest bulletin seemed to be that the engagement was broke!" He was suddenly hostile. She turned from the landlord and faced Crowley. The operative was triumphant. "It's understood that I get the credit for this job," he informed her, _sotto voce_. His air suggested that he was convinced that the destiny of the Flagg drive had been settled. All about her were implacable faces. The grins were gone. There was no misunderstanding the sentiments which those men entertained toward a woman who had wrought the undoing of a square man. She presented completely then the pathetic spectacle of a baited, cowering, wild creature at bay. She was bitterly alone among them. Even Crowley of the city was against her. In her agony of loneliness the thought of her kin in the big house on the hill came to her mind. But to her, in spite of her passionate efforts to aid, must be ascribed the defection of Latisan--the breaking of her grandfather's last prop. She had intensified in woeful degree the fault of her father; she had compassed the ruin of the old man at a time when he was unable to restore his fortunes by his own effort. The doors of the house on the hill were barred by the iron of unforgiveness and by these new fires of her fault, involuntary though that fault was. Brophy stood before her. "I reckon you ain't going to be very popular hereabout as a hash-slinger, Miss Whatever-your-name is." He snapped his fingers and stretched his hand to command the transfer of the jacket and cap. "I'll take 'em and put 'em in Ward's room." But she clung to what she had retrieved as if she felt that she held a hostage of fortune. Brophy refrained from laying violent hands on the articles, and to save his face and create a diversion he turned on Crowley. "Let's see! You have bragged about being a detective! We don't stand for your kind or tricks in this neck o' woods." There was the menace of growls in the crowd. The mob spirit was stirring. A man said something about a rail and tar and feathers. "I'll argue with the boys and try to give you a fair start," stated the landlord. "But you'd better pack up in a hurry. You can't wait for to-morrow's train under my roof. I'll furnish you a livery hitch to the junction. Take the woman with you." It was an ugly crowd; the landlord was obliged to push back men when Crowley followed Lida into the tavern. Miss Elsham was just inside the door, where she had posted herself as a spectator and listener. "There's no telling what they'll do; they're bound to find out that I'm an operative," she quavered. "You must take me with you, Buck." He had been appointed her guardian and he could not refuse. But he glowered at Lida, white and trembling. Brophy came in after a struggle at the door; he slammed the portal and bolted it. "They're usually pretty genteel up here where wimmen are concerned," he told Lida, "but they're laying it all to you. They'll let you go, Crowley, if you'll go in a hurry. Are you one of 'em, too?" he bluntly asked Miss Elsham, ready to suspect all strangers. She nodded. "I'm going with Crowley." "Understanding that you give me full credit," her associate told her, his lips close to her ear. "I ain't sure but what I'd better hide you till night," the landlord informed Lida. "As I said, they're naturally genteel, but----" He hesitated when he heard the growing grumble of voices. "I've got trouble enough in getting away without taking you on for an extra load," was Crowley's rough repudiation of Lida. "You have double-crossed----" "I'll accept your opinion as an expert in that line," she said, lashing her courage back to meet the situation. "I am not asking any favors from Vose-Mern or their operatives. Nor from you," she informed the landlord. She settled Ward's cap and jacket more securely in the clutch of her arms. "Unbar and open the door, if you please, Mr. Brophy." He demurred. "It's the door of a public inn. You must open it." He obeyed, standing ready to repel intruders. She walked straight out and through the crowd of hostile natives, who parted to allow her to pass; her chin was up and her eyes were level in meeting the gaze of any man who stared at her. She had made up her mind where she was going, and the thought of that intended destination put some of the spirit of old Echford Flagg in her. When she was free from the crowd she began to run; instinct of the homing sort impelled her to hasten. She had not settled in her mind what she would say or do when she got there, but there seemed to be no other place in all the world for her right then except the big house on the ledges. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Lida did not wait to be admitted to her grandfather's house in the conventional manner; she did not dare to test her new resolution by a pause on the steps, and she was afraid that Rickety Dick would enforce the Flagg injunction against a woman. Gasping for breath after her run across the ledges, she flung herself into the presence of her grandfather. Dick was holding a flaming splint of wood to the bowl of Flagg's pipe. Startled, he dropped the splint, and the fire burned out unheeded on the bare floor. She held on to the cap and the jacket and with her free hand she beat upon her breast and tried to pour out a confession of her part in the mischief which had been done. She could not tell Flagg who she was; she was telling him what she was. She made herself a part of the Vose-Mern conspiracy; that seemed to be the best way. She did not try to make herself better than her associates; she admitted that she was an operative; in no other way could she account for her presence in the north country; and the old man's keen eyes warned her that a less plausible statement would endanger her secret. Therefore, she arraigned herself bitterly as the cause of Latisan's undoing, and to explain her new attitude she pleaded love and resulting repentance. There seemed to be no other way of giving Flagg a good reason why she was interested in speeding the fortunes of Latisan and the Flagg drive. She began to babble rather incoherently. His silence troubled her. His gaze was intent. After a time, allowing her to talk on, he ordered Dick to bring more fire for the pipe, and then he puffed and listened a little longer. At last he jabbed his pipe stem toward the door, and Dick obeyed the silent command and left the room. "Now, my girl, hold up a moment and get your breath. Sit down!" She obeyed. "I see that you're hanging on to Latisan's cap and jacket. Did he pull himself out of the jacket whilst you were clinging to his collar?" In spite of the seriousness of the news which she had brought to him, there was a touch of dry humor in his tone. "He must have had a pretty desperate change of heart to run away from such a girl, after what he told me of his feelings this morning." He talked on, allowing her to recover. "Your words have been tumbling along like logs coming down the Hulling Machine Falls, but I reckon I understand that a detective agency sent you up here to Delilah my Samson. I've just been reading about that case in the Old Testament. And you're sorry, eh? It's a start in the right direction--being sorry. He told me this morning that he was going back to the drive in spite of me--he said it was because you had torched him on to do so. I'll admit I haven't got over being thankful to you for that help. And now it's all tipped upside down, eh? I'm not surprised. It's the Latisan nature to blow up! I knew his grandfather well--and I remember! We seem to have made a bad mess of it, you and I. I'll own to it that I haven't been careful in the management of my tongue where he's concerned. If I had, all the girls this side o' Tophet couldn't have made him jump his job in this style. You see, I'm willing to admit my mistake, and that makes me feel kinder toward you, now that you admit yours." Her courage was coming back to her. Only a veritable frenzy of despair had forced her into the presence of that old man who had declared his unalterable hostility to her and hers. She found him singularly and surprisingly mild in this crisis. Wreathed in the tobacco smoke, his countenance was full of sympathy. It was an amazing alteration in Echford Flagg, so those who knew him would have stated, had they been there to behold. "I suppose you have to slap on a lot of deceit in that detective business." "I'm done with deceit. I've left that work forever." "So I reckoned whilst I looked at you and heard you talk. I've got quite an eye for a change of heart in persons. I hate to see young folks in trouble. 'Most always I'm pretty hard on people. I've grown to be that way. Had good reasons! But you seem to have caught me to-day in a different frame of mind. I didn't get a good look at you last evening. I've just been telling myself that you remind me very much of somebody I used to know. There was a time," he went on, wrinkling his forehead, "when I would have ordered you out of this house, simply on your looks. But to-day, somehow, I like to keep my eyes on you. Old age has a lot of whims, you know." She did not venture to speak. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "It's too bad, sis! Too bad! 'Tis a tough thing to work out, this Latisan matter. You have started the old John devil a-roaring in him! And I reckon that now you're falling in love with the fool, even if you did come up-country to do something mean to him!" She nodded; her emotions were too deeply stirred to permit evasion or more deceit. "I have to depend on hired help, sis. And the trouble with any other drive master than Latisan is that the opposition crowd can hire away what Latisan wouldn't sell--I'll say that for the boy! It's a matter of principle with him--this fight for the independents." "But your men will keep on working, won't they, sir?" "They'll work--yes! But they won't fight without Latisan to lead 'em. That's why the Three C's folks are so hot on the trail of one man. They're going to trig my drive at the Skulltree dam unless we are through ahead of 'em. Conservation of water, that's what they will call it when they make their play for a court order," he snarled. "But it's only devilish theft of the rights I hold in common--and that's where lawyers have their chance to argue, when rights are common." He found himself becoming garrulous in his emotion. He frowned. "But why talk such matters to you; you can't understand!" "No," she admitted, sadly. "I haven't any knowledge about drives. I can only understand that through me a great mischief has been done." "Well, it might have been worse for young Latisan if they hadn't got rid of him by this underhand way. Now that he has quit and has gone larruping off on his own hook, you may as well get what comfort out of it you can," he said, trying to ameliorate her distress. "There's no telling what they might have been savage enough to do to him if he had stayed to make the fight as he intended to make it." "Do you give up the fight?" With the left hand he lifted his helpless right arm across his knees. "It's a two-fisted proposition this year. I guess I'm licked. They'll buy in my logs at what price they have a mind to pay and will turn 'em into paper. The sawmills will have to shut down, and the chap who wants to build a home will keep on cussing the price of lumber. I have made a good try of it, sis, but the big combinations are bound to have their way in the end." "It isn't right for anybody to have his own way without giving the other man a square deal," she cried, adding, with bitterness, "though I'm the last person entitled to preach on that subject." "It's all in the way of progress, so the syndicate fellows tell us," he remarked, dryly. "Maybe they know. Whilst they're grabbing in all the money, they may be getting control of all the brains, too." She flung up her arms and accused herself, passionately: "I have been a fool. I'd give my very heart to make matters right again!" "I think so," he admitted. "I reckon you're in earnest." Again his fixed, appraising stare was disturbing her. "About Mr. Latisan----" she hurried on. "I can't believe that he'll stay away long." "I guess you know as little about the ways of men up here as you know about the drives, my girl. There's plenty of iron in their natures, but there isn't much brass in their cheeks. He's done--he can't face the Big Laugh. He's seen what it has done to others. But you city folks don't understand woods ways and notions!" She set her firm teeth over her lower lip to control its quivering. Then she ventured. It was a resolve born out of her desperate desire to redeem, if she were able. There was one thing she could do--it seemed a natural thing to do, in that extremity. "I have something to ask of you. Please don't be angry! I'm trying to square myself!" "Go ahead! I'm ready now to be pretty easy natured when somebody is really in earnest about helping me." "Give me your permission to go north and explain to your men why Mr. Latisan isn't on the drive! I'll tell them everything. I'll open my soul to those men. They'll understand." "It's not a girl's job," he declared, sternly. "I have been trained in a hard school, sir. I have been forced to study men and to deal with men. I have been sorry because I have been obliged to do the things I have done. But my knowledge of men may help your affairs. I am glad I have been through my trials. Let me go north to your crews! I beg it of you!" "I don't want to have you messing into any such business. There's something about you--something that makes me want to put a safeguard over you, sis, instead of sending you into danger." "You'll make the danger worse for me if you don't give me that permission--a word from you to them that I'm your agent." She arose, flaming with her resolution. "I am going anyway, sir! You can't stop me from going where I will in the woods." "You're right!" he admitted, sadly. "I'm so old and helpless that I can't even boss a girl." She stood in front of him and put Latisan's cap on her head; she pulled on the belted jacket. "They'll know this jacket and cap! I'll tell the story! Do you think it is folly? No! I can see in your face that you know what those men will do!" "Yes, I do know! I have been a woodsman in my time, too! After they have listened to you they'll hammer hell out of anything that gets in front of 'em." His face lighted up. He beamed on her. "I told you that old age has its whims. A minute ago a whim made me want to keep you away from trouble. Now, by the gods! the same whim makes me want to send you north. You will stand for Eck Flagg, saying what he'd like to say to his men! The right spirit is in you! I ain't afraid that you won't make good!" He pointed to an object on the wall of the room. It was a stout staff of ash tipped with a steel nose and provided with a hook of steel; it was the Flagg cant dog. The ash staff was banded with faded red stripes and there was a queer figure carved on the wood. "Lift it down and bring it here and lay it across my knees," he commanded. She ran and brought it. "They know that stick along the Noda waters," he told her, caressing the staff with his hale hand. "I carried it at the head of the drive for many a year, my girl. You won't need letters of introduction if you go north with that stick in your hand. I would never give it into the hands of a man. It has propped the edge of my shelter tent, to keep the spring snow off my face when I caught a few winks of sleep; that steel dog has rattled nigh my ear when I couldn't afford to sleep and kept walking. Tell 'em your story, with that stick in your hand when you tell it! Take it and stand up in front of me!" Her face was white; she trembled when she lifted the staff from his knees. An old man's whim! The girl believed that she understood better than he the instinct which was prompting him to deliver over the scepter which he had treasured for so long. And some sort of instinct, trickling in the blood from that riverman forebear, prompted her strike a pose, which brought a yelp of admiration from the old man. She had set the steel nose close to her right foot and propped the staff, with right arm fully extended, swinging the stick with a man-fashion sweep. "Sis, where did ye learn the twist of the Flagg wrist when ye set that staff?" It was a compliment rather than a question, and the girl did not reply. She was not able to speak; a sob was choking her. Her grip on that badge of the family authority thrilled her; here was the last of her kin; he was intrusting to her, as his sole dependence, the mission of saving his pride and his fortunes. Her tear-wet eyes pledged him her devoted loyalty. "God bless you!" he said. "And may God help me," she added fervently. Impulse was irresistible. She succumbed. She dropped the staff and ran to the old man and threw her arms convulsively about his neck and kissed him. "I'm sorry," she faltered, stepping back. "I'm afraid I startled you." "No," he told her, after a moment of reflection, "I guess I rather expected you'd do that before you went away. Some more of that whim, maybe! When do you think of leaving?" "I'd like to go at once. I cannot stay any longer in this village." "You'd best get to my drivers as soon as the Three C's slander does." He shouted at a door and old Dick appeared. "Move spry now!" commanded the master. "Have Jeff hitch the big bays into the jumper. And Jeff will be able to tend and do for me whilst you're away. For here's the job I'm sending you on. Take this young woman north to the drive. She's tending to some business for me. See to it that she's taken good care of. And bring her back when she feels that she's ready to come." "Am I to come here--back to your house to-to----" she faltered. "To report? Of course you are!" He was suddenly curt and cold after his softness of the moment before. He looked as if he were impatient for her to be gone. "Have Dick stop at the tavern for your belongings." "There's only a small bag, sir." "If you're short of clothes--well, I advise you to wear Latisan's cap and jacket. They'll keep you warm--and they'll keep you--reminded!" He put much meaning in his emphasis of the last word. She bowed her head humbly; the clutch at her throat would not permit her to reply to him. Then, bearing with her the Flagg scepter, she went out to where the horses were being put to the jumper. When he was alone the old man laid his hand on the Bible at his side. For a long time he gazed straight ahead, deep in his ponderings. Then he opened the volume and leaved the pages until he came to the family register, midway in the book. After the New England custom, there were inscribed in faded ink the names of the Flaggs who had been born, the names of those who had died, the records of the marriages. Echford Flagg's father had begun the register; the son had continued it. Across the marriage record of Alfred Kennard and Sylvia Flagg were rude penstrokes. On the page of births was the name of Lida Kennard, and he slowly ran his finger under it. When he gazed down at the floor again in meditation he met the stare of the cat that Rickety Dick loved and petted. The cat was bestowing no friendly look on Flagg. He had often cuffed her whenever she ventured to leap into his lap. He had repulsed the cat as he repelled human beings who had sought to make up to him. Now he called to her softly, inviting her with his hand. She backed away with apprehensive haste. "I'm starting late, pussy," he muttered. "And I was never much of a hand at coaxing anybody to come to me. But I wish you'd hop up here on my knee. Come, kitty! Please come!" It was a long time before he was able to gain her confidence. He heard the big bays go trampling away down the ledges. At last the cat came cautiously, climbing up his leg, and sat on his knees and stared up at his face in a questioning way. "She's too much like her mother for me not to know her--like her mother looked when she went away," he informed the cat. "I reckon I'm a whole lot different right now than I ever was before. I'm old and sick--and I'm different. I don't blame you for looking hard at me, kitty. I'm so lonesome that I'm glad to have a cat to talk to. She's got her mother's looks--and the Flagg grit. She wants to do it her own way--like I'd want to do it my way, without being bothered. And I'm letting her do it. It wouldn't be a square deal if I didn't let her. And she'll do it! It's in her! She's trying to pay back. It's the style of the Flaggs. She didn't come up here to smash me or Latisan. I didn't believe what she said--a Flagg knows when another Flagg is lying. She came to help--and she'll do it yet! She's Lida, kitty, Lida!" His tone caressed the name. His hand caressed the written name. Then he turned the pages slowly, going forward in the volume--to the New Testament. And after a time he found words which fitted his new mood and he read aloud to his feline auditor. "'Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: and be ye kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another----'" Jeff, the servitor, hearing the mumble of the old man's voice, tiptoed to the door and peeped in. He goggled at the tableau and listened to the words. He was in the state of mind of that oft-quoted doubter who spat on the giraffe's hoof and remarked to the bystanders, "Hell! There ain't no such animile!" CHAPTER NINETEEN Brophy was distinctly inhospitable when Lida walked into the tavern. She curtly stated her errand as she passed him on her way to the stairs, and when she returned with her bag he allowed her to leave without opening his mouth. She took the money he offered and put it in her pocket without counting it. The men who were about the place were silent, too. The fact that Flagg was sending her away in his own hitch stirred their curiosity and had considerable to do with keeping their rude tongues off a person who had evidently come to an understanding with the master of the big house. "Where are ye headed, Dick?" asked a bystander while the girl was in the tavern. "Up and down," stated the old man, cryptically. "Well, if you want to overtake them chums of hers you'll have to lay on the braid pretty smart! If they kept on going at the rate they started off they're halfway to the junction by now." When the girl was in her seat Dick sent the bays along at a sharp clip down the highway by which Crowley and his companion had departed. Lida had conferred with Dick on the way down from the big house and had decided on a bit of guile to divert the attention of the gossips of Adonia from her real objective. According to all appearances she was in full flight toward the city, or else was chasing up Ward Latisan; the cynics, after that affair in the street when she had pleaded with the young man, opined that she was brazen enough to do almost anything that a girl should not. Brophy watched her out of sight. "If it ain't one thing it's another with these table girls," was his sour comment. "I don't know what I'm liable to draw next; the Queen of Sheby, maybe!" When a hill shut off the view from Adonia the bays swung into a side lane which connected with the tote road leading north along the Noda waters. A girl who wore for her armor Latisan's jacket and his cap, and carried as credentials the woods baton of the last of the independent timber barons of the Noda, was hastening on her mission with the same sort of fervent zeal that made Joan of Arc a conqueror. Family fealty, the eager desire to right in some measure the wrong done by her father, anxious determination to repair her own fault--all these were animating impulses in this Joan of the Northland. But now especially was she aware that she was seeking by service to absolve herself in the estimation of a poor chap whose love for her had made him forget his duty. There was no talk between the girl and her charioteer. She had plenty of thought to occupy her, and he drove on with his gaze straight between the ears of the nigh horse. The road was crooked; when she glanced behind, the woods seemed to be shutting doors on her, closing out the world with which she had been familiar; and ahead, as the road turned, she was looking into vistas which led to the unknown--to a duty of tremendous import--to a task which seemed too great for a girl to accomplish. One knowledge comforted her--it was a knowledge which came from her childhood memories--she could trust those rough men of the woods to treat a girl with respect if she deserved it; but would she be able to convince them that the girl who wrought such mischief to Ward Latisan deserved respect? They might, as her grandfather said, ridicule a man who had been fooled by a girl, if that man appeared to them and tried to make good his authority; but there would be no laugh in the north country behind Latisan's back, now that he had fled desperately from the wreck of his prospects. She perceived only silent rebuke, even resentment, in Dick's countenance when she stole glances at the hard profile above the old man's knitted scarf. It was plain that he did not relish his job. She wondered whether he believed that her errand was useless. When, after a time, she tried to draw some opinion out of him he gave her no replies that aided her. She felt acutely that she needed sympathy--something for her encouragement. The old man's taciturnity hinted that he could be trusted with a secret so far as outsiders were concerned; as to Flagg, she was not sure of Dick's reliability in keeping anything away from a master to whom he was devoted. But if the old man were kept away from Adonia---- "Do I understand that you're to stay north until I'm ready to go back?" "I've got to. It's orders." She was choking with the desire to tell him who she was. The lie which she had told him in the tavern was a rankling memory--he had been such a pitiful figure that day. Again she looked behind. There were many miles between her and Adonia, and the doors of the woods kept closing. "I need all your help in this thing. I must have a faithful friend. It is the one great effort of my life. You can understand so well! I--I _am_ Lida Kennard!" Rickety Dick threw up his arms. The reins fell from his hands. "Praise the Lord!" he yelled. The discarded reins slapped the big bays, the shout in that silence caused them to leap wildly. The tote road was rough and rocky and the equipage was light. Almost instantly the horses tore the tongue from the jumper, which was trigged by a bowlder. The animals crashed around in a circle through the underbrush, leaped into the tote road, and went galloping back toward Adonia, seeking their stalls and safety. Dick rose from where he had fallen and rushed to the girl, who was clinging to the seat of the jumper. He took her in his arms, comforting her as he would have soothed a child. He wept frankly and babbled incoherently. A part of his emotion was concern for her, but more especially was it joy because she had discovered herself to him. "It was in me--the hope that it was you. But I buried it; I buried it," he sobbed. For some moments he was too much absorbed to note the plight in which they had been left. Then his laments were so violent that the girl was obliged to soothe him in her turn. "But when those horses rush into the yard! Think of it! He'll cal'late we're killed. Him penned there in his chair with worry tearing at him! I must get the word to him." In his frantic care for the master's peace of mind he ran away down the road, forgetting that he was abandoning the girl. But in a few moments he came running back to her. "That's the way it always is with me! Him first! But after this it's you--and I was leaving you here in the lurch. But I don't know what to do!" He looked at her, then at the broken jumper; he gazed to the north and he stared to the south; in that emergency, his emotions stressed by what she had told him, he was as helpless as a child. Her own concern just then was for her grandfather as well as for herself. Those runaway horses appearing in the yard would rouse his bitter fear; they would also start a hue and cry which would follow her into the north country. "You must go back, at once!" she urged Dick. "Follow as fast as you can. The horses will quiet down; they'll walk. You may overtake them. You must try." "But you!" he mourned. She lifted the cant dog from the floor of the jumper. "I shall keep on toward the drive--somehow--some way. This will protect me; I'm sure of it." He puckered his face and shook his head and expressed his fears and his doubts. "Then I'm showing more faith than you in what this stands for," she said, rebukingly. "I believe in it. I trust to it. Haven't you the same kind of loyalty where my grandfather is concerned--after all your years with him?" She had appealed to zealous, unquestioning devotion, and it replied to her. "I reckon you're right. It wouldn't be showing proper respect if I didn't meet you halfway in the thing." He reached out his hand and patted the staff. "I'm only a poor old bent stick beside that one. I even let the horses run away. Yes, they have run away--and now it's all the long miles to the drive! How'll ye ever get there, Miss Lida?" "By starting!" she returned, crisply, with something of Flagg's manner. "There are tote teams going north. Anybody'll be glad to give you a lift. There are bateaus above here, ferrying supplies up the broad water, and you may see a canoeman----" He was wistfully grabbing at hopes. "I'm not afraid," she assured him bravely. He helped her with advice while he busied himself by hooking the handle of her bag over the staff; she carried it across her shoulder and had something cheerful to say about poverty making light luggage. In that fashion she fared toward the north, after she had forced a pledge from the old man that he would keep her secret until her work was done; she was guilelessly unaware that Flagg's perspicacity had penetrated her secret. Dick plodded toward the south. There, in the midst of the forest, dwarfed by the big trees, they seemed to be weak reeds for the support of the Flagg fortunes. Before a bend of the road shut them from sight of each other they turned and waved a farewell which renewed the pledge. CHAPTER TWENTY For a time Lida felt unutterably and miserably lonely and helpless. She had stepped out of everything that was familiar in the way of human contact and environment; she was facing the new, the untried, something that was not a woman's job, as her grandfather had declared. But it was a job for that one of the Flaggs who still had the grit and the strength to perform it! With that thought came her reaction. She began to realize that as long as Dick had been her companion, her guardian, she had not been conscious of the real exaltation of determination which now glowed in her. She felt courage born of sacred zeal. She was alone, but no longer did that thought trouble her. Because she was alone it was up to her! She walked on with a steadier stride. If she appeared at the drive under the convoy of old Dick she was only a girl sent to whine a confession of fault and to wheedle men to help her repair it. Would it not be well to take those men fully into her confidence? She was resolved to tell them that she loved Ward Latisan; she was admitting this truth to herself and she was in a mood to tell all the truth to honest men who would be able to understand. She was going north to inspire faith and courage and loyalty. Would not the known granddaughter of Echford Flagg be able to exert that compelling moral influence over the crew? Those men were primitive enough to understand the urge of honest love of woman for a man; and there was the spirit of chivalrous romance in the north country. She knew it. Her heart was bolder as she walked on, but her feet ached and the rough road wearied her. She met no human being; she sat for a time on a wayside bowlder, hoping that some straggling tote team would come up from the south and overtake her. The road snaked along in the Noda Valley, and from time to time she was close to the turbid flood which swept down ice cakes and flotsam. From her bowlder she could see a broad and calm stretch--a deadwater of which she did not know the name. Then, close to the shore where she waited, came a canoe headed upriver. Two men were in it, paddling sturdily, taking advantage of eddies and backwash. Fresh from the city as she was, she felt a thrill of sudden terror; the men were Indians and wore the full regalia of tribal dress. As a child she had seen and remembered well the Tarratines of the region; they had been dressed like other woodsmen. These Indians with feathers and beads put a strange fear into her in that solitude. She slid from the rock and crouched behind it. She grasped the staff of the cant dog more firmly; it was her only weapon of defense. But when her fingers felt the depressions of the totem mark she turned from terror to hope. Latisan, at their first meeting, had referred to the status of Echford Flagg among the Tarratines. Courage was back in her again, along with her new hope. She leaped to her feet and called to the Indians and flourished a salute. They hesitated a moment, then drove their craft to the shore a pebble toss away from her. She did not speak to them--she held the staff so that the emblem was shown to them. They disembarked, approached slowly, peered at the totem, and saluted with upraised palms. "I have the right to carry it," she told them. "It is Echford Flagg's. He gave it into my hands. He said it is known along the river and will help me. I want to go north to his drive. He has sent me. It is on his business!" She received no immediate encouragement from their manner; they looked at each other and turned their gaze again to her. "Frank Orono," said one, patting his hand on his beaded breast. "Him brother, Louis Orono." "The drive is up there. If you're going only a little way in that direction won't you take me along in your canoe?" she pleaded, confessing, "I'm so tired. There was an accident to the team--I've had to walk." "You see!" said Frank Orono, stroking his hand over the feathers of his headdress. "Big time for tribe. All dressed up. Him, me, we go to Olamon Island. Governor live there--Chief Susep Nicola. His girl she marry to-night. Big time!" He grinned. That evidence of human feeling in the countenance which had been so impassive heartened the girl. "And if I can get as far as Olamon with you----" They ducked their heads in permission. "Maybe Chief Susep send you on. Chief he much like him!" Frank Orono pointed to the staff. "Chief cut in totem sign, his own hands. You come. Be all right." They spread a blanket for her in the middle of the canoe and paddled on. It was then past midafternoon of her crowded day. When at last they swung around a wooded point and beheld the Indian village of Olamon the dusk was deepening. Many lights twinkled and a huge bonfire waved flaming tongues. "Big time!" chuckled Frank Orono. "Pretty girl--nice feller she marry. Chief be glad to see you--you tell him!" Those who were gathered at the pull-out place surveyed her with curiosity. The bonfire lighted the scene and many were able to see the totem mark on the staff of the cant dog. Those saluted her respectfully and passed the word to others, who came crowding about. Therefore, when the brothers Orono escorted her into the presence of Sachem Nicola, Lida entertained the confidence of one who was among friends. The chief--or rather, the elected governor of the tribe--dwelt in a modest cottage, and with him was the priest who had come for the wedding ceremony. It was the priest who displayed the liveliest interest in the girl and he promptly began to seek the reason that had brought her north with that emblem of authority. He questioned her with kindness, but with much vigor. But Susep Nicola asked no questions. He seemed to accept her presence as a quite natural thing. A Tarratine never puts a question to a guest; the guest may explain or state his business in his own good time. The sachem set a chair for her and relieved her of the staff and her bag. He put his finger on the emblem and smiled. There was inquiry in his eyes whether she knew and understood. She bowed her head. As best she could she parried the questions of the inquisitive priest without making it appear that she was trying to hide anything. "It's an errand, and Mr. Flagg was kind enough to loan the staff as my token in these parts. You know he is ill and cannot go about any more. He must leave certain things to others." "Well," admitted the priest, plainly struggling with a hankering to ask her bluntly what service a girl could perform for Flagg on the drive, "the ladies in these days are into all the affairs of men as well as on the juries, so we must consider it as quite natural that you have been sent up here by Mr. Flagg. At any rate, we should be grateful that you are here," he declared, gallantly. "It's on account of the accident to my team that I'm forced to intrude at a time like this," she apologized to Nicola. He was an old man, gaunt and bowed, and his festal trappings seemed rather incongruous decorations. "But you bring my brother's staff, and it makes you welcome for yourself and stands for him because he cannot come." He called, and a woman appeared. He gave directions, and the woman offered to conduct Lida to a room in the cottage. "You are honored guest," said the governor. "In an hour the wedding takes place in the church, and then the wedding supper!" "To which I beg permission to escort you," said the priest, bowing low as Lida went from the room. She laid off her woods panoply of cap and jacket and made herself fit for the festival to such an extent as her scanty wardrobe would permit. Before the wedding procession started for the church she was presented to the bride, Nicola's youngest daughter. The woman who had shown Lida to her room had gossiped a bit. The bride was the fruit of the governor's second marriage and had inherited her French Canadian mother's beauty. And the groom was a French Canadian, a strapping chap, a riverman of repute. Lida was told that the men of the river, the jacks of the driving crews far and near, were making much of the wedding on account of their liking for Felix Lapierre. She had looked from her window and had seen bateaus come sweeping down, loaded with shouting men, the oars flashing in the light of torches set in the bows of the big boats. She felt more confident in regard to the morrow; those bateaus would be going back to the north and she had determined to make her plea for passage. In her anxiety the halt for the night was irksome. But she concealed her feelings and took her place in the procession, a post of honor that was deferentially assigned to her by the chief. The flares of moving torches lighted all and the smoke from them wavered above the plumes of the festal costumes and spread the illumination among the swaying boughs of the spruces and the pines. An Indian brass band of pretensions rather more than modest led the way toward the church. The rear guard was made of rivermen who marched in ragged formation, scuffling, elbowing one another, shouting jokes, making merry after their manner. Their boots, spurred with drivers' spikes, crunched into the hard earth and occasionally struck fire from an outcropping of ledge. They pulled off those boots at the door of the church and went into the place, tiptoeing in their stocking feet. So Alice and Felix were joined in marriage. Lida sat beside the girl's mother during the ceremony. The tears that are shed by womankind at weddings form a baptism for sentiments which cannot be easily translated into exact understanding. It had begun to seem very far away in time and space, that tragedy of the morning in Adonia, that wreck of a man's love, and the blasting of what Lida had admitted to herself was her own fond hope. Now, in this scene, hearing the words which gave lovers the sacred right to face the world hand in hand, her own grievous case came back to her in poignant clearness. She wept frankly; there had been honest tears in the mother's eyes. The two looked at each other and then the mother's hand slid into the girl's and mutely expressed for the stranger what could not be put into words. There were no questions and no replies--the situation required none. For the more casual guests, the rivermen and others, the supper was spread out of doors near the water. It was a simple feast which had been cooked over coals in the open. The sachem's party ate in a large room; by day it served the women of the tribe as a workshop. The walls were gay with the handicraft which had been hung up to clear a space for the tables. There were braided or woven baskets of all sizes and every hue; there were beaded skins and frippery of feathered gewgaws and moccasins and miniature canoes and plaques of birch, hand carved. And subordinating all else, even the scents and savors of the food, was the perfume of the sweet grass. Outdoors, in a circle of torches, the band played merry airs. "You should not be sad, mam'selle," reproved Father Leroque, who had constituted himself Lida's squire at supper. "This is a very merry occasion." "I feel all the more as if I were intruding--bringing my troubles here." The chatter of many voices made a shield for conversation between the two. The priest hesitated for some time; then he made sure that nobody was listening and leaned closer to her. "I beg your pardon, mam'selle, if I seem presumptuous in touching on a matter regarding which you have not given me your confidence. I may be allowed to mention a bit of news. It came to me just before we sat down to supper. News travels fast in this region, you may know. From mouth to mouth it flies. Bateaus have come up the river, and the men of those bateaus have listened to timber cruisers and have heard from the drivers of tote teams who have come scattering through the woods below. There is the news of an engagement. I trust I may be allowed to speak of the news to you because it is my thought that you are the young lady concerned." She was not able to reply. "And there is more news," he persisted. "Pardon me if I mention that, too. It is my province to console those who are in trouble, as best I may. Perhaps there is some way in which I can help you. I think highly of young Latisan. I know him because my duties have taken me into the Tomah region. There has been trouble between you and him--a misunderstanding. Is there any way in which I can be a mediator--as his friend?" "He has gone away," she choked. "I don't know where he is. It was my fault. If I could have explained, it might have helped, but he would not wait to hear me through." The priest's gentleness had conquered her resolution to keep her secret till she reached the men of the Flagg drive. He perceived her bitter need of sympathy. "I respect confidences, even those given me outside the pale of my church's confessional. Young Latisan is like his grandfather--tinder for a stray spark. If I know your fault--if I can tell him, when I see him, what you would have liked to tell him----" Hurriedly, in low tones, stammering in her eagerness, she did reveal who she was, what she had tried to do, and what she hoped to be able to do. He was instantly alive to her cause with all the sympathy that was in him--an especially sincere sympathy because as a missionary priest he was close to the hearts of all the folk of the north country, probing their affairs with an innocent but vivid interest and striving always to aid with earnest zeal. Though Lida had parried his questions at first, protecting her secret, she was now grateful because he had persisted; his manner and his nature removed him from the ranks of mere busybodies. A comforting sense arose from having confided in him. "In the Tomah I will find young Latisan; I am on my way across the mountains, mam'selle. He must be awake and himself by now; he must have gone home. When I tell him the truth he will lift all the trouble from your shoulders. But till he comes you must be brave. And who knows? You may be able to smooth the path! If you plead your grandfather's cause up here, I believe even the great Comas company will listen and be kind. There are many outside this door who have come down from the drives to have a bit of fun at the wedding. There must be Flagg men. I will find out." "Let me go with you," she urged, anxiously. He demurred. "But I'll not speak to them. If I can see them--only a few of them--the real men of our drive--I believe I shall find courage to go on." She prevailed, though he was doubtful and warned her that the babbling of the new gossip might be embarrassing. And so it proved as Father Leroque feared; men perceived only the beguilement of Ward Latisan and had heard only the sordid side of the happenings in Adonia; the girl was glad because she was hid in the gloom outside the circle of light that was the nimbus of the bonfire. They were laughing as they discussed a matter which had eclipsed the interest in the wedding. Her cheeks were hot and she was scarcely restrained by the priest's monitory palm on her shoulder. Men were feasting and gossiping; they were herded around the fire, squatting Turk fashion, steaming pannikins on the ground by their sides, heaped plates on their knees. "Fifteen of us," stated a man, answering a question. "And prob'ly more to follow. Ben Kyle has gone up there in a hurry, grudge and all, and is hiring for the Comas. If there ain't going to be any fight we may as well work for the Three C's." "Stay here!" commanded Father Leroque, patting the girl's arm. "Stay where they can't see you." He stepped forward into the firelight. "Do I understand that the Flagg crew is breaking up?" "Fifteen of us in this bunch," restated the man, rapping his pannikin to dislodge the tea leaves and holding it out for more of the beverage. "Wedding brought us down--the news we hear is going to keep us going. Flagg is done." "Yes, if his men desert him. You mustn't do it; it isn't square." The priest found it easy to locate the recreants among the other rivermen; they shifted their eyes under his rebuking gaze. "Go back to your work. Another will come in young Latisan's place." "All respect to you, Father! But we can't do it," said the spokesman. "We're Latisan's men. The rest of the gang will laugh us out of the crew if we go back." "I'll have Latisan himself on the job inside of a few days, my men," declared the priest, stoutly. He had promised to them another who would take the drive master's place; now he promised Latisan. The men were merely puzzled; they were not convinced. "Will you go back?" "We can't go back." It was said with conviction, and a mumble of voices indorsed him. "Still, all respect to you, Father! But Latisan won't fit any longer even if he does go back. He has let himself be goofered." Father Leroque had set up his temporary altar in many a lumber camp; he knew woodsmen; therefore, he knew that argument with those men would be idle. "You have heard," he said to Lida when the two walked away deeper into the shadows. "I'm sorry. But so the matter stands." "But if I go now and talk to them--confess to them----" "They are Latisan's own men, and the story is fresh, and their resentment is hot. You will not prevail, mam'selle. And if you fail to-night with those men you risk failing with all. You must go on to the drive--talk to the others who are still loyal. I fear much, I must warn you, but I will not try to keep you from what seems to be your duty. It would be too great unhappiness for you if you should go back now, feeling that you had not done your best." The bandsmen had eaten of the wedding feast and were again valorously making gay music outside the workshop building from whose windows poured light and laughter. "I can't go back in there--I can't!" sobbed Lida. "Right now I want to hide away." With gentle understanding the priest escorted her to the door of the sachem's cottage. "I will pray for you, that the morning may bring good courage again. I will talk with you then--in the morning." She stammered broken words of gratitude and escaped to the covert of the little room. Father Leroque went back to the wedding party and called the governor out into the night. For a long time the two conferred, walking to and fro under the big pines. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Sunrise was crystal clear, with frosty crispness, for April in the northern latitudes flirts long with Winter on his way to everlasting snows. Lida saw the sun come quivering over the big trees and sat by her window, continuing the doleful ponderings which had made the night black and dismal. There was no cheer for her in the morning radiance; as she faced what was ahead of her, new fear grew in her; faith in herself was waning after the defection of Latisan's men. Would Echford Flagg's own crew stand by a stricken master or hearken to the appeal of Flagg's kin? The rivermen guests had departed; there were no bateaus on the shore; faint smoke came wreathing from the black embers of the feast fire. Early as it was, there was the stir of life in the other rooms of the cottage, and she ventured forth timidly into the presence of the governor's family. The little mirror in her room had revealed to her the pallor of her face and the mournful anxiety in her eyes. There was no talk at breakfast; the family copied the manner of the governor, who had greeted Lida with a single word, gestured her to her chair, and now ate in silence. All his festal trappings had been laid aside; he was a grave, wrinkled man in the ordinary attire of a woodsman. In her new humility Lida wondered how she would summon courage to ask for canoemen to take her north. The impulse to keep on toward the drive was no longer so keen and courageous and absorbing, she realized. She had dreamed vividly when she stood in the presence of Echford Flagg; but she had begun to face practicality, and the difficulties frightened her. Before the breakfast was finished, Father Leroque came in; he had lodged in the quarters provided for his visits, a small room in the vestry. The sisters who taught the boys and girls of the community had brought his food. But he sat at the elbow of the governor's wife and drank the coffee that she poured for him. He was cheery, vivacious, and he smiled consolingly on Lida, who was not able to return his morning optimism. His arrival broke the fetters of silence, and even Susep Nicola joined in the chatter which the priest kept stirring. Lida kept her gaze on the floor and saw the broad shaft of sunlight shift slowly and relentlessly, marking the passage of precious time. "I must go," she said, suddenly, looking into the countenance of Nicola. "Yes." "I'm afraid I ought to have been on my way before." "It's for you to say when you go; you are welcome here," he returned. "I have waited for you to say." It was according to his code of hospitality--the guest must indicate desire. He rose. His wife brought to Lida the jacket and the cap. But the chief picked up the Flagg cant dog and carried it when he led the way to the door. Father Leroque seemed to understand what was in Lida's mind just then. "You are worried about how you are to travel, is it not so? You do not need to ask, mam'selle!" He bowed her to the door. In front of the sachem's house hung a broad disk of tanned moosehide in a frame. Nicola pounded on the makeshift gong with a mallet. Men assembled quickly in front of him, coming as if they had expected the summons. "You know. I have told you," said the chief. He stroked his hand over the totem mark on the cant dog handle. "You know how our brother has been the good friend of the Tarratines on this river." One step in advance of the others of the throng stood Felix Lapierre, the bridegroom. "How many?" asked the chief. "Twenty," said Felix. "And all very much happy to do the good service." The priest smiled into the amazed eyes of the girl. "For your conveyance? Ah no, mam'selle. For your good help on the drive. They are rivermen--the best. Felix Lapierre leads them and you shall see for yourself what a king of the white water he is. He will be your right-hand man on the drive. It is all very fine, eh, mam'selle?" She was staring from face to face, overwhelmed. She could not reply. "We talk it over--him and me--last night," said Nicola, indicating the priest by a respectful bow. "It's for my brother, and the blood of my brother." He bowed to her. "And all so very happy," repeated Felix. His black eyes sparkled and he flung up his hands in the gay spirit of emprise. "You must not care because some have run away. They would not be good in a crew if they feel that way now. We feel good. We shall work for you; we are your men." The big matter, this astounding making good of her forces, this rallying of volunteers in such chivalrous and unquestioning fashion--she found herself unable to handle the situation in her thoughts or treat it with spoken words just then. But the other--the human thing---- "It's--it's the honeymoon," she stammered. "It will be taking you away from your wife." "She's my girl," put in Nicola. "She tells him to go." Father Leroque perceived Lida's distressful inability to pull herself together at that moment, and he employed his ready tact, giving her time for thought. "It's quite a natural thing, this taking away of the new bridegroom for the service of the Flaggs," he declared with a chuckle. "There's even a song--I think it was written by Poet O'Gorman. Do you know it, Felix? I can see by your grin that you do. Very well. Let's have it. As I remember it, it states the case according to the Flagg methods." Lapierre pulled off his cap; his eyes were alight with merriment; he sang gayly: The night that I was married--the night that I was wed-- Up there came old Echford Flagg and rapped on my bed head. Said he, "Arise, young married man, and come along with me, Where the waters of the Noda they do roar along so free." "You see!" suggested the priest, archly, smiling, palms spread. "When Flagg calls, the honeymoon must wait. It promises good adventure, and Felix would be sorry if he were not in it." Cap in hand, Lapierre swept his arm in a broad gesture of respectful devotion. It was a touch of gallantry which raised the affair above the prosaic details of mere business and which made the relations closer than those of employer and employed. In Lida gratitude was succeeding amazement, and the glow of that gratitude was warming her courage into life again. When she had stepped from Nicola's door a few moments before she felt bitterly alone and helpless and she had no eye for the glory of the day. Suddenly the sunshine seemed transcendently cheery. All the aspects of the case were changed. Now she could go on to the drive as one of the Flaggs should go--with loyal men at her back to replace those who had deserted. She could hearten a broken crew with men, not merely with a strange girl's plaintive story and appeal. "We're ready, mam'selle," said Felix. The women of the community were gathered in front of the sachem's house. Lapierre went smiling to his bride and put his arm about her; but when he started to draw her toward Lida the latter anticipated the coming by running to meet them. She took the little bride in her arms. The priest, Felix, and the governor swapped looks and nods which indorsed an understanding that was wordless between the young women. When Lida turned from the governor's daughter she saw the governor himself coming toward her. He held out the cant dog; it lay across his palms and he tendered it respectfully. She winked the mist of tears from her eyes and struggled with a hysterical desire to babble many words. "Hush!" warned the priest. "We all know!" There, in a golden silence, she realized how cheap and base was the clinking metal of speech that had been the currency of herself and others in the crowded town. The river, slowed by the deadwater, was mute, though its foam streaks showed where it had crashed through the gorges above. A few chickadees chirruped bravely. There were no other sounds while the girl took the Flagg scepter in her own hands. She walked with Felix to the shore, where the flotilla of canoes lay upturned at the pull-out place. Again the Oronos were assigned to her, and she was comforted much because they no longer seemed like strangers. "Au revoir!" called Father Leroque when the canoes were afloat on the brown flood. "I'm making haste to the Tomah, mam'selle, to keep my promise!" He had already accomplished so much for her! In her new thanksgiving spirit she was finding it easy to believe that he could bring about what her self-acknowledged love for Latisan so earnestly desired. In single file, holding close to the shore, the canoes went toward the north. There was no talk between those who paddled; against the brown shore the canoes were merely moving smudges. Rufus Craig, coming down the middle of the deadwater in one of the great bateaus of the Comas company, paid no attention to the smudges. The bateau rode high and rapidly on the flood that moved down the channel. Craig was writing in his notebook and four oarsmen were obeying his command to dip deep and pull strong. Craig had met Ben Kyle by appointment at the foot of the Oxbow portage and he had found Kyle to be particularly malevolent and entirely willing--and Kyle had gone north to the Flagg drive in the pay of the Three C's. It had been a profitable interview, as Director Craig viewed it. Now he was chasing along the trail of rumor to Adonia; the rumor was encouraging. If Latisan really had been pried out of the section, Craig saw an opportunity to run back to New York to make a private settlement with Mern and enjoy a little relaxation before the pressing matters of the drive in full swing claimed all his attention. Right then, according to all appearances, the Comas business up-country was doing very well in the hands of the understrapper bosses. Therefore, Director Craig smiled over the pages of his notebook. The brown smudges in single file went on and on. Noon at the foot of the portage at Oxbow! Lida sniffed the wood smoke of the cook fire and ate her lunch and drank her tea. Up the narrow trail of the gorge she followed at the rear of her men; the canoes, upturned on their shoulders, glistened in the sparkling sunshine. She was bringing real aid in a time of stress, as one of the Flaggs should! More and more that consciousness heartened her. Quiet water at the put-in, then rapids where the canoes were poled, the irons clinking on the rocks over which the turbid waters rolled; more calm stretches where haste was made. A night in the open at a camping site where a couch of boughs was piled for her under a deftly contrived shelter of braided branches of hemlocks. And on in the first flush of the morning toward the drive. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Ben Kyle made "his bigness" when he went into Flagg's crew on his mission for Craig. He was not admitting to himself or anybody else that he was traitor. He blustered and bullyragged; he had been their boss and he had been fired without cause, he insisted. Even the loyal men did not presume to answer back; he had been too recently their master and the aura of authority still persisted. He came with a white-hot grudge and with rumors which he embroidered to suit his needs. Kyle had been far on the edge of affairs, and only the ripples of the Adonia events reached him. But his statement that Latisan had run away with a girl seemed to be certified by the drive master's continued absence. And there were those stories of Latisan's former weakness in the city; they had been sleeping; they were not dead. Kyle was hiring for the Comas company--unabashed, blatantly. He strode from man to man, banging heavy palm on shoulders. "Come with the real folks. What's old Eck Flagg to-day? You might as well be hired by a bottle-sucking brat in a baby carriage. Where's Latisan? You tell me his men went downriver to meet him; they've kept on going. He has hid away, dancing his doxy on his knee. Where's your pay coming from when Eck Flagg goes broke?" Kyle waded in the shallows where men were rolling logs, shouting to be heard above the roar of the waters. "We hired for a fight," said the men who hated the Comas. "But it doesn't look like one is going to be made." "We've always stood behind Eck Flagg," said the old stand-bys of the crew. "But we ain't getting a square chance for honest work." It was plain that the spirit was being beaten out of them under the hammer of Kyle's harangue--whether it was the adventurous spirit which craved fight or the honest spirit which had sent them north to the job. When the night came down, after they had cleaned their pannikins of food, steaming hot, from the cook's kettles, while they smoked around the fire which drove away the evening chill, Kyle paced to and fro among the groups, declaiming, detracting, and urging. He knew that he was prevailing, though slowly. Woodsmen in shifting their allegiance are not swayed by sudden impulse. His voice rang among the trees in the silence of the evening. "Latisan is a sneak--Latisan is a runaway! Eck Flagg is next to a dead man!" Over and over he made those declarations, battering discouragement into their slow comprehension in order to win them to the Comas company. "And Latisan has thrown down real men for the sake of a girl! Do you want to get the Big Laugh when you show yourselves downriver?" Voyagers who came from the southward, leaving their canoes below the falls, moved silently, after the fashion of the Tarratines. They halted on a shadowed slope within the range of Kyle's raucous voice, and Lida stepped forward to listen. The red flames lighted a circle among the trees, and she beheld the seated groups and saw the swaggering malcontent who paced to and fro. "I'm with the Three C's now, first, last, and all the time! Their money is waiting for you, men. Come, with the real folks, I tell you!" And again, with even more fantastic trimmings, he set forth the story of Latisan's flight with a girl who had seduced him from his duty in the north. Lida snatched the Flagg cant dog from the hands of Felix; he had been the bearer of her scepter. He blinked when he looked at her. The far-flung light of the camp fire, reflected in her eyes, had set veritable torches there. Her lips were apart and her white teeth were clenched and her face was ridged with resolution. There was no mistaking the intention which righteous anger had stirred in her, but when she started down the slope Felix leaped and ventured to restrain her with a touch on her arm. "Is it well to let the Comas know that you are here or what you are going to do? Pardon, mam'selle, but think!" "The lies! The lies!" "Yes, mam'selle, but you can tell them the truth when he is not there to hear." "But now he is there, and I cannot go to the men." "In a little while you may go; he will not be there. And if he does not know what is going on up here, after his back is turned, maybe we shall have day after day to push our logs in ahead of all the others," explained the riverman. "They will be days worth much." Then with the imagery of his race he added, "Those days will be gold beads on our rosary, mam'selle!" He smiled into her eyes, from which the fires were departing. "Please wait here with the the others." He whispered to several of the Indians; when he sauntered down the slope the four summoned Tarratines stole to right and left, masking themselves in the shadows, flanking the champion who was going alone. Most of the men of the crew recognized Felix Lapierre when he walked into the circle of light. They leaped up, surrounded him, their mouths full of hilarious congratulation, of excuses why they had not attended the wedding, of awkward jokes and questions. They could not understand why he had come north so soon. He shook his head, mildly refusing to satisfy their curiosity. Kyle stood for a time; then he resumed his pacing. He no longer had listeners. Like children, the rivermen were wholly absorbed in a new toy--a bridegroom who had so suddenly deserted the handsomest girl between Adonia and The Forks. "Oh, let him alone," advised Kyle, whetting his new grouch. "If they ain't running away _with_ girls in this region, they're running away _from_ 'em!" Felix swung around and faced the speaker. "Do you speak of me?" he asked, quietly. "Take it that way if you want to." "Your tongue seems to be very busy, I have that to say to you. From up there on the hill I heard what you have to say about M'sieu Latisan, that he has run away with a girl." "And he has." "You lie!" That retort snapped the trigger on Kyle's inflamed temper. "You damnation squaw man!" he yelped, and drove a blow at the French Canadian; and Felix, following the fighting custom of his clan of the Laurentian Valley, ducked low, leaped high, and kicked Kyle under the hook of the jaw. It was the _coup à pied_. Kyle staggered and went down. When he struggled up and weakly attacked again, the antagonist met him face to face and smashed a stunning blow between Kyle's eyes; he fell and remained on his back. "One for me, and one for my wife he has insult'," cried Felix. He spun around, searching their faces. "Do any of you like to back him up?" "Not on your life," said a spokesman. "He doesn't belong in this crew." "I'm much oblige'," said Felix, politely. He whistled, and the four Indians rushed out from the shadows. "If he is not of the crew, then if he goes away it does not matter." He commanded the Indians, and they lifted Kyle and started off with him. "He'll not be hurt," Felix assured the men of the crew. "He'll go down the river where it's better for him." Nobody offered protest. They were glad to be rid of that bellowing, insistent voice of the trouble-maker. Their attention was wholly engaged with the involuntary departure of Kyle, and they did not observe Lapierre when he walked away; they turned to ask more questions, to be informed what this abduction signified, but Felix was nowhere to be seen. Men called but he did not reply. Babble of comment and argument! It was a picked fight--anybody could see that. Why should Lapierre come north in the Flagg interests? Lapierre had never worked in a Flagg crew. It was begun so suddenly and was ended so soon! A minute's flash of drama against the background of the night, into which they stared with searching eyes while they made clamor like quacking ducks that had been startled from sleep by a prowler! Curiosity was lashing them. They were wonted to their reckless adventure in the white water; it had become dull toil. This affair was something real in the way of excitement, with a mystery which tantalized them. Again they called into the night, seeking an explanation. The prologue by which the Comas agent had been removed as tempter and tale-bearer had not been staged by Felix for calculated effect; he had thought only of getting Kyle out of the way. But never was an audience in more keenly receptive mood for a sequel than were those men who crowded closely in the patch of camp-fire radiance and asked questions of one another. To them when they were in that mood came one who made the drama more poignant. They were hushed, they blinked uncertainly, they found it unreal, unbelievable. For here was a girl, far north at the head of the drive in the season of the roaring waters. She came slowly from the night and stood at the edge of the circle of light. She was wearing Latisan's jacket and cap--there was no mistaking the colors, the checkings and the stripes; a drive master needs to signal his whereabouts to a crew just as a fire captain must make himself conspicuous by what he wears. They glanced at her garb, amazed by it. Then her face claimed all their attention, for she said to them, her voice steady, her eyes meeting theirs frankly, "I have overheard the talk a man has just made about a girl who coaxed Ward Latisan away from his work here. I am the girl." It seemed as if men had been holding their breath since her appearance; in the profound silence the exhalations of that breath could be heard. "But Ward Latisan did not run away with me from his duty. My being here answers that lie. And I have even a better answer--a reason why I would be the last one in the world to interfere willingly with his work this spring." She stepped close to them, nearer the fire, so that they could see what she held forth, tightly clutched in both hands. "This is Echford Flagg's cant dog--he told me it would be known by all his men. He gave it into my keeping for a sign that he has sent me north. And I have a right to carry it. I am Lida Kennard. I am Echford Flagg's granddaughter." Behind her came crowding the Tarratines. "Men have deserted from your crew. Here are others to take their places," she announced with pride. She was dealing with men who were bashed by utter stupefaction; she noted it and her self-reliance grew steadier. She drove the point of the cant dog into the soft duff with a manner after the heart of Flagg himself. She spread her freed hands to them in appeal. "I have come here to tell you the truth." CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Latisan had pitched the tune for that drive when he started it. It was a tune in quick tempo, with the staccato clangor of the kettle drums of the dynamite when he burst the icy sheathing of the waters in order to dump the first logs in. When he was on the job the directing wand of his pick pole kept everything jumping. Even when he was away for a few days his men toiled with the spirit that he had left with them. They had adopted his cause and shared his righteous resentment against the tactics of the Three C's. They were able to work on without his guidance, after a fashion, but for the fight that was ahead of them down the river they had depended on his captainship. Therefore, Kyle with his scandals and reports and his urging had been in a way to break down their morale. When they reflected, they realized it. And it had been a wicked thing to face--the prospect that they might quit! With Latisan of the Latisans present with them, pursuing an honest vengeance, there were lift and sweep and swing which made their toil an adventure rather than plain drudgery. Then that day when rumor and Kyle and Latisan's protracted absence had nigh killed courage! But then, the inspiring night which had brought the granddaughter of Echford Flagg with her story, her confession, her plea, and her still strong faith in the awakening of Ward Latisan when he was able to know the truth! She did not gloss her own involuntary fault; she was frank in the statement that she loved the man whom she had harmed by her mistake. She knew it was the truth; she took them into her confidence. Then there was more than mere courage in the men of the drive--they were sharers in the spirit of romance which put the dynamic zeal of fanatics behind those logs. The girl's cause was linked with Latisan's and was a compelling force. * * * * * Like racing horses the Flagg timber rushed along, crowding the river from side to side. The stream drives, breaking the bonds of the ice, had caught the top pitch of the floods and were hurled into the boiling rapids. But there was more than the mere thrust of the roaring waters behind those tumbling logs. The Flagg drive had a soul that year! It was what the Comas corporation lacked. Behind the Flagg logs were honest men, pityingly loyal--still to Latisan--and behind the toilers was a dominating spirit that was a combination of courage, wild enthusiasm, loyalty, and devotion in a campaign that now was entered upon with tempestuous fervor in the presence of Lida Kennard. When that fervor went smashing against the Three C's crowd the men who were animated only by a corporation's wages became cowards and stepped aside and gave the champions the right of way. The slogan of Flagg men was, "Gangway for the girl!" They had taken up her cause; they had enrolled themselves with a perfect abandon of all considerations of self; for them, getting down that timber was merely a means to a much-desired end. They were recklessly determined to help the girl make good! That was the urgeful sentiment which their thoughts inscribed on the invisible oriflamme of the warfare that was waged for the new Joan along the waters of the Noda. It was not especially because she was the granddaughter of Echford Flagg. His wages had never bought more than perfunctory service from crews. She was herself--and she had confessed her debts. When she told them why she was wearing Latisan's cap and jacket, when she owned to her error and laid the blame on herself, when she pleaded with them to help her in undoing the bitter mischief, she won a devotion that questioned nothing. "Men, he will come back. He will understand it all when he is himself again. And if you and I are able to show him that we have done his work well he will hold up his head once more as he has a right to do." "God bless ye, girl, ye can't keep yourself apart from Latisan in this thing," declared an old man. "It's for the two o' ye that we do our work from now on! And it's for all of us, as well! For we'll ne'er draw happy breaths till we can stand by and see you meet him on the level--eye to eye--like one who has squared all accounts between you two! And the old grands'r, as well. What say, boys?" But cheers could not serve their emotions then. They pulled off their caps and scrubbed their rough hands across their jackets and walked to her in single file and shook her hand in pregnant silence. And then the timber went through; the drive was beating all the past records. When they needed water they took it. They blew their own dams and were very careless with dynamite when they came upon other dams of whose ownership they were not so sure. "You see, miss, rights are well mixed up all through this region," said old Vittum, who had been spokesman for his fellows on her first meeting with them. He gave her a demure wink. "The main idea is, God is making this water run downhill just now, and it doesn't seem right for mortal man to stop it from running." They "manned the river," as the drivers say. That meant overlapping crews, day and night. No squad was out of sight of another; a yell above the roar of the flood or a cap brandished on the end of a pike pole summoned help to break a forming jam or to card logs off ledges or to dislodge "jillpokes" which had stabbed their ends into the soggy banks of the river. Men ate as they ran and they slept as they could. Some of them, snatching time to eat, sitting on the shore, went sound asleep after a few mouthfuls and slumbered with their faces in their plates till a companion kicked them back into wakefulness. They grinned and were up again! As for Lida Kennard, she was treated with as much tender care as if she were a reigning princess on tour. She protested indignantly because they would not allow her to rough it along with them. They made soft beds of spruce tips at their camping sites and they gave her the post of honor in a big bateau. In the rush of affairs she did not pause to wonder whether she was offending any of the proprieties by staying on with the drive; she had become the Flagg spirit incarnate and was not troubling herself with petty matters. Old Vittum and Felix were her advisers, and they prized her presence as an asset of inestimable value; she allowed them to think for her in that crisis. "It's a tough life, miss, the best we can make it for you," admitted Vittum. "But if you can stick and hang till Skulltree is passed it means that the boys will keep the glory of doing in 'em!" From rendering service according to her ability they could not prevent her, though the men protested. She helped the cooks. Hurrying here and there, following the scattered men of the crews, she tugged great cans of hot coffee. When the toilers saw her coming and heard her voice they took desperate chances on the white water, jousting with their pike poles like knights in a tourney. She put into the hearts of the crew the passion of derring do! The drive that spring was not a sordid task--it was high emprise, it was a joyous adventure! Then the logs which had raced in the rapids came to the upper reaches of the slow deadwater of the flowage of the Skulltree dam; the flowage reached far back that year. At Skulltree was the crux of the situation, as Flagg had insisted, ragefully. From the early days there had been a dam at that point; it was common property and conserved the water to be loosed to drive logs over the shallow rapids below. The Three C's had spent more money on that dam, claiming that bigger drives needed extra water. The dam had been raised. The flowage vastly increased the extent of the deadwater, slowing the logs of the independents, whose towage methods were crude. The changes which had been made needed the sanction of impending legislation, required the authority of a charter for which application had been made. In the meantime the Three C's were holding the water and would be impounding logs; these logs were to be diverted through the new, artificial canal. In asserting their rights the corporation folks were endangering the independent drives which were destined for the sawmills of the Noda. Day by day, as the drive went on, the girl listened to the talk among her men until she understood, in some measure, the situation. All the reckless haste was made of no account unless their logs were to be permitted to pass the Skulltree dam. Vittum explained to her that the law was still considering the question of "natural flowage." The dam had been changed from time to time in past years until the matter was in doubt. "But the way the thing stands now there ain't much of that nat'ral flowage," he told her. "I claim that we have the right to go through, law or no law. Word was served early on Latisan that he must hold up at Skulltree this year and wait for the law." "Did he say what he proposed to do?" she asked. "Yes, miss! I'll have to be excused from repeating what he said, in the way he said it, but the gist of it was that he was going through. He said he would use some kind of flowage, and hoped that when the lawyers got done talking in court it would be decided that the aforesaid nat'ral flowage was the kind that had been used by him." She pulled off Ward's cap and turned it about in her hand, surveying it judiciously. "I can seem to see just how he looked when he said it." "He said it loud, miss, because the man he was talking to was a good ways off. He was a sheriff. He couldn't get very nigh to Latisan. We was holding the man off with our pick poles because he was trying to serve a paper." "An injunction?" "I don't know," confessed the relator mildly. "Somehow, none of us seemed to be at all curious that day to find out what it was. Sheriff nailed it to a tree and then somebody touched a match to it. Latisan said he reckoned it must have been an invitation to Felix's wedding, but it was just as well that nobody ever read it, because the crew was too busy to go, anyway!" "Are Comas men guarding Skulltree dam?" "They sure are, miss!" She and the old man were seated on the shore of the deadwater. The evening dusk was deepening. Near them the cook's fires were leaping against the sides of the blackened pots; in the pungent fragrance of the wood smoke which drifted past there were savory odors which were sent forth when the cook lifted off a cover to stir the stew. The peacefulness of the scene was profound; that peace, contrasted with the prospect of what confronted her men if Flagg's logs were to go through, stirred acute distress in the girl. Coming down through the riot of waters she had not had time to think. Their logs were ahead; the laggards of the corporation drive were following. She had wondered because even the cowards, as they had shown themselves to be, had not put more obstructions in the way. There had been abortive interference, but it was evident that the Three C's had been making the first skirmishes perfunctory affairs, depending on dealing the big blow at Skulltree. In the Flagg crew it was a subject for frequent comment that Rufus Craig had not appeared in the north country to take command of his forces in those parlous times when the Three C's interests were threatened. In council Lida and her advisers began to wonder how much information regarding the Flagg operations had filtered to the outside or whether the defeated Comas bosses were not apprehensively withholding word to headquarters that they had been beaten in the race on the upper waters. "Craig would be here before this if he knew what was going on," averred Vittum. "They're either ashamed or scared to send him word, and they think it can all be squared for 'em at Skulltree." He sighed and turned his eyes from her anxious stare. Near her were rivermen who were waiting for their suppers. She was aware of a very tender feeling toward those men who had been risking their lives in the rapids in order to indulge her in a hope which she had made known to them. She reflected on what the sarcastic Crowley had said when he told her that in that region she was among he-men. "If you're not careful, you'll start something you can't stop," he had threatened. Could she stop these men from going on to violent battle? Would she be honest with her grandfather and Latisan if she did try to prevent them from winning their fight? All past efforts would be thrown away if Skulltree dam were not won. Out on the deadwater were several floating platforms; the men called them "headworks." On the platforms were capstans. The headworks were anchored far in advance of the drifting logs, around which were thrown pocket booms; men trod in weary procession, circling the capstans, pushing against long ashen bars, and the dripping tow warp hastened the drift of the logs. As the men of the sea have a chantey when they heave at a capstan, so these men of the river had their chorus; it floated to her over the quiet flood. Come, all, and riffle the ledges! Come, all, and bust the jam! And for aught o' the bluff of the Comas gang we don't give one good-- Hoot, toot and a hoorah! We don't give a tinker's dam! "That's exactly how they feel, miss," said the old man. "They're on their way. They can't be stopped." But the declaration depressed rather than cheered her. Those men had taken up her cause valiantly and with single-hearted purpose, and she was obliged to assume responsibility for what they had done and what they would do to force the situation at Skulltree. In the rush of the drive, with the logs running free, the river was open to all and Latisan's task was in the course of fulfillment and the Flagg fortunes were having fair opportunity in the competition. But now competition must become warfare, so it seemed. She shrank from that responsibility, but she could not evade it--could not command those devoted men to stop with the job half finished. The priest's promise to find Latisan had been living with her, consoling the hours of her waiting. Her load had become so heavy that her yearning for Latisan's return had become desperate and anguished. The slow drag of the logs in the deadwater gave her time for pondering and she was afraid of her thoughts. She was not accusing Latisan of being an inexcusable recreant where duty was concerned; she was understanding in better fashion the men and the manners of the north country and she realized the full force of the reasons for his flight and why the situation had overwhelmed him. Her pity and remorse had been feeding her love. But the priest had promised. Latisan must know. Why did he not come to her and lift the dreadful burden in her extremity? Old Vittum, sitting on a bleached trunk among the dry kye stranded on the shore, plucked slowly the spills of a pine tassel, staring down between his knees. "You've seen how they have worked, miss, for every ounce that's in 'em. But I don't know how they'll fight if they don't have a real captain--a single head to plan--the right man to lead off. Latisan's that! Half of 'em came north because they figured on him. I've been hoping. But I'm sort of giving up." "I don't like to hear you say that," she cried. "As soon as he knows the truth he will come to us. Father Leroque promised to carry that truth to him." "Providing the priest can find him in the Tomah country--yes, you have said that to me and I've been cal'lating to see Latisan come tearing around a bend in the river most any minute ever since you told me. But Miah Sprague, the fire warden, went through to-day. I've been hating to report to you, miss, for I'm knowing to it how you feel these days; your looks tell me, and I'm sorry. But Sprague has come from the Tomah and he tells me that Ward Latisan hasn't been home--hasn't been heard from. Nobody knows where he is. That is straight from Garry Latisan, because Garry is starting a hue and a cry and asked Miah to comb the north country for news." She did not reply. She was not sure that there was a touch of rebuke in the old man's mournful tones, but she felt that any sort of reproach would be justified. She had never made a calm analysis of the affair between herself and Latisan, to determine what onus of the blame rested on her and how much was due to the plots and the falsehoods of Crowley. She clung to her sense of fault in order to spur herself to make good; that same sense, a heritage from a father, had served vicariously in rousing her spirit to battle for her grandfather. "I hope you're going to keep up your grit, miss," urged Vittum. "We'll do our best for you--but I ain't lotting much on Latisan's showing up again. It's too bad! It'll break his heart when he finds out at last what he has been left out of and what a chance he has missed." Like many another, she had, at times, dreamed vividly of falling from great heights. That was her sensation then, awake, when she heard that Ward Latisan was not to be found. Despair left her numb and quivering. Till then she had not realized how greatly her hope and confidence in his final coming had counted with her. She had not dared to think that his anger would persist; it had seemed to be too violent to last. However, it was plain that rage had overmastered the love he had proclaimed. Lida was very much woman and felt the feminine conviction that a lover would be able to find her if his heart were set on the quest. There was only a flicker of a thought along that line; it was mere irritation that was immediately swept away by her pity for him. She was able to comprehend man's talk then--she knew what Vittum meant when he spoke of the chance that was missed--and she understood how Ward Latisan would mourn if he heard too late what the struggle that year on the Noda waters signified in the case of the girl for whom he had professed love. She could not talk with the old man; she stumbled across the dry kye, threw herself on her couch of boughs, and pressed her palms over her ears to keep out the threat in the song of the men who toiled around and around the capstan post, drawing the Flagg logs in their slow, relentless passage to the scene of the promised conflict at Skulltree. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR "I'll be cursed if I don't think I ought to hire a real detective and put him onto the inside affairs in this office," was Chief Mern's ireful opinion after he had listened to Crowley and Miss Elsham when they reported in from the north country. They were voluble in their own behalf, but their talk was slippery, so the chief felt. They were also voluble in regard to Lida Kennard, but Mern found himself more than ever enmeshed in his guesswork about that mysterious young lady. Crowley kept shifting off the topic onto his own prowess, patting himself on the breast and claiming all the credit for getting Latisan off his job. Miss Elsham, on her part, kept lighting fresh cigarettes and was convincing on only one point: "No more wild men of the woods for me. Never again in the tall timber. I'll do night and day shifts in the cafés if you ask me to. And I've got a knickerbocker suit that's for sale!" Mern had several interviews with the two, trying to understand. When the blustering Crowley was present Miss Elsham allowed him to claim all the credit and made no protest. Alone with Mern, she declared that Buck was a big bluff, but she was not especially clear in her reports on his methods. "But what has become of Kennard?" "I don't know. Lynched, maybe. They were threatening to do it to Buck and me before we got away." One thing seemed to be true--Mern had a wire from Brophy in reply to an inquiry: Ward Latisan had gone away and was staying away. And Rufus Craig, arriving in the city, telephoned the same information to the chief and promised to call around and settle. Crowley was informed of that confirmation, and grinned and again patted his breast and claimed the credit. "All right," allowed the chief, "you're in for your slice of the fee. But if you're lying about Kennard I'll make you suffer for deserting her." "I stand by what I have said. She was double-crossing us." Later, Crowley began to inquire casually from time to time whether Miss Kennard had sent in any word. He was not good at concealing his thoughts, and he was manifestly worried by the prospect of possible developments, but Mern was not able to pin him down to anything specific. As a matter of fact, Crowley had not fathomed the mystery of Miss Kennard's actions in Adonia and was not in a way to do so by any processes of his limited intelligence; he admitted as much to himself. He was clumsy in his efforts to extract from the chief something in regard to the report which supposedly had been sent in by Miss Kennard, and Mern's suspicions were stirred afresh. He gave Crowley no information on that point; one excellent reason why he did not do so was this: Miss Kennard had not sent in any report. Mern was still waiting to hear from her as to certain details; he wanted to talk with her. Crowley ventured to state that she had left Adonia, and he suggested that she was on the trail of Latisan. The operative, pressed for reasons why she was still pursuing Latisan, if the drive master had been separated from his job by Crowley, averred that, according to his best judgment, the girl had gone crazy. That statement did not satisfy Mern, but it enabled Crowley to avoid tripping too often over inconsistencies. Under those circumstances the uneasy feeling persisted in Chief Mern that the Latisan case was not finished, in spite of Craig's compliments and Crowley's boasts and Miss Elsham's bland agreement as to facts as stated, though with avoidance of details. Mern usually shut down the cover on a case as soon as the point had been won; he had found in too many instances that memory nagged; he had assured Craig that having to do what a detective chief was called on to do in his business had not given him the spirit of a buccaneer. But in this case the lack of candor in his operatives disturbed him, though he did not presume to arraign them; he could not do that consistently; in the interests of his peace of mind he had always assured his workers that they need not trouble him with details after a job had been done. Crowley, mystified, had said nothing about the amazing love affair. It occurred to him that the protestations of Miss Kennard might have been a part of her campaign of subtlety, interrupted by his smashing in; he was more than ever convinced that his was not the kind of mind that could deal with subtlety. Miss Elsham never mentioned Latisan's apparent infatuation; she had been sent north in the rôle of a charmer and did not propose to confess to Mern that she had failed utterly to interest the woodsman. Undoubtedly the reticence of both of them was merciful; to heap this crowning burden upon Chief Mern's bewilderment in regard to the actions of a trusted employee would have disqualified him mentally for other cases which were coming along. Crowley loafed diligently at the Vose-Mern offices when he was not out on duty; there was no knowing when he might be able to turn a trick for the good of the concern by being on hand, he told himself, and for one of his bovine nature all waiting around was easy and all stalls were alike. Therefore, one day he was on hand to rush a quick tip to the chief. Crowley turned his back on a caller who entered the main office; the bulletin bearer hurried into Mern's presence. "It's the big boy from the bush--Latisan!" "Ugly?" "I didn't wait to see." "You have told me straight, have you, about his being a bad actor when he's riled?" "That's the real dope on him, Chief. Don't let him in to see you--that's my advice." Mern took a little time for thought, inspecting his operative narrowly. "I ain't intending to butt in, you understand," apologized Crowley, reddening. "I think that's good advice, speaking from the standpoint of prudence." "There's no good in hashing the thing over with him; he's off the job and I claim the credit and----" "But from the standpoint of curiosity," broke in Mern, relentlessly, "I'll be almighty glad to have a talk with him. I'll probably get some facts now. Shut up! If you have come back and told me all the truth I wouldn't be taking a chance with this man. You're to blame! Remember that another time. Beat it!" He jabbed his thumb in the direction of a door which enabled clients to leave without going back through the main office. "A man named Latisan," reported the door boy. "Tell him to come in." Crowley turned the knob of the catch lock and dodged out into the corridor. Mern stood up to receive the caller. He was not inspired by politeness. He was putting himself in an attitude of defense and was depending on the brawn of a man who had been a tough proposition when he swung his police club on a New York beat. He even moved a chair which might get underfoot in a rough-and-tumble. But his muscles relaxed when he looked at the man who entered. Latisan was deprecatory, if his manners were revealing his feelings. He was apologetic in his mien before he spoke; he gave Mern the impression of a man whose spirit was broken and whose estimate of himself had gone far toward condemnation. And Mern read aright! The bitter dregs of days and nights of doleful meditation were in Latisan--the memory of aimless venturings into this or that corner where he could hide away, the latest memory of the stale little room in a cheap New York hotel persisting most vividly in his shamed thoughts because he had penned himself there day after day, trying to make up his mind to do this or that--and, especially at the nadir of what he felt was his utter degradation, had he dwelt on the plan of ending it all, and from time to time had turned on a gas jet and sniffed at the evil fumes, wondering of what sort would be death by that means. To think that he would descend to that depth of cowardice! Nevertheless, he was not especially surprised by this weakness, even while he hated himself for entertaining such a base resolve. One after the other, right and left, the blows in his business affairs had crashed down on him. He understood those attacks, and he was still able to fight on. But the enemy that had ambuscaded him behind the guise of the first honest love of his experience had killed faith and pride and every tender emotion that enables a man to fight the ordinary battles of life. Therefore, he ventured into the presence of Mern with down-hunched shoulders under the sagging folds of a ready-made coat, bought from the pile in an up-country village. "Well, what can I do for you, sir?" demanded Mern, relieved of apprehension, seeing his advantage and more coldly curt than usual in his dealings with men whom he could bully. "I had this address," faltered Latisan; he pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper which had been crumpled into a mass and then folded back into its original creases. "I was thinking--I've been sort of planning--I thought I'd come around and ask you----" It was one of the things, this errand, for which he had been trying to summon resolution while he sat in the stuffy room, glancing up at the gas jet. Mern jerked away the paper, noting that its letterhead was his own. It was his epistle to one "Miss Patsy Jones, Adonia," demanding from her information as to just what she was doing as an operative for the Vose-Mern agency. "It's about Miss Jones. I thought I'd step in----" "Well?" demanded Mern when Latisan paused. "That's her real name, is it? I know how detectives----" "It's her real name," stated Mern, of a mind to protect her until he was convinced that she did not deserve protection by him. "She works for you?" "She does." "Could I see her for a few minutes--for a few words----" "I don't think so," hedged the chief. "Just why do you want to see Miss Jones?" "I've been thinking matters over. I did a terrible thing when I was sort of out of my mind. She had something to say to me and I didn't wait to hear it. Perhaps I have made a mistake. Now I'd like to talk with her and find out about something." "Just what?" probed Mern. "I can't say right now. It's between us two, Miss Jones and myself--at least I thought it was. I'm going to have a talk with her before I tell anything to anybody else." He declared that stubbornly. "How do I know what your scheme is? You're probably holding a grudge against one of my operatives. I can't turn her over to you to be harmed." Latisan straightened. "I shall not harm her by a word or a touch." "I suppose you hold a grudge against this agency, don't you?" "The Comas company--Craig, rather--hired you to do a thing, and it has been done. Craig is the one with a grudge; it's against me. I trigged him. I reckon he has a right to get even, as he looks at it, if his money can buy what you have to sell." "We don't like to do some of the things that are put up to us, Latisan. But I may as well be out and open with you. Craig paid us a lot of money when we broke the strike for him. We have to consider business. That's why we went ahead and got you, as we did. If you had been able to turn around and get us, I would not have held any hard feelings. It's all in the game." There was no especial sympathy in Mern's tone; he was treating a victim with a patronizing air. "I'm afraid I'm not up to tricks enough to play that game," retorted Latisan. "We'll have to let it stand as it is. I'm sort of trying to clear up my mind about the whole matter, so as to put it behind me. I don't want to feel that there's any mistake about Miss Jones. That's why I'd like to see her once more." He was showing nervous anxiety. It came to Mern that here was offered an opportunity to go even farther with Latisan than the contract had demanded. Now that the man had been pulled off the drive, a little shrewd maneuvering would hold him in New York, away from the Flagg interests, until the Comas folks could have their way. No doubt Craig would consider that the extra service was an acceptable bonus, over and above what the agency had done. "I'll tell you." Mern was affable. "Miss Jones is away on another case. She is likely to report 'most any time. The best way for you is to drop in each day, say around three o'clock in the afternoon. I think she will be glad to explain anything you're now puzzled about. You still think, do you, you'd better not tell me?" The chief's curiosity, his desire to dig into the doings of his operatives, urged him to solicit Latisan again. "My advice----" "I don't want it. I don't take any stock in a man who does the kind of work you're up to," declared Latisan, bluntly. "I don't take much stock in anybody, any more. I may be a fool for wanting to see that young lady again--but I'll call in to-morrow." "About three!" Mern reminded him, having an object in setting that hour. Latisan nodded and went away. The chief called the Comas corporation offices and got Director Craig on the telephone. When Mern announced his identity, Craig evidently supposed that it was a matter of a dun and broke in, chuckling: "I'll bring the check in to-morrow. I'd have done so, anyway, for I plan to start north right away. What's the matter, Mern? Grabbing for the coin because you are afraid the job isn't going to stay put?" "That isn't the idea at all. I simply want to show you something which will prove that the money has been well earned. I'll show you Latisan." "I don't care to meet that gentleman right now. Oh no!" "I'll plant you where you won't be seen. You can view Exhibit A. I think I'll be able to promise that Latisan is going to stay here in New York. That ought to make you feel safer when you go back north into the jungle. No tiger behind a tree!" "Say, I'll hand you that check like daddy giving a stick of candy to the baby!" said Craig with hearty emphasis. "I'll own up that I have been killing time here in the city, waiting to get a line on Latisan--where he is. I have found that he's a lunatic when he's ugly--and there's no telling how far a grudge will drive a man in the big woods. So he's here in town?" "Yes, and I'm rigging hopples to keep him here, I tell you. Come in at two forty-five. See the tame tiger!" Then Mern called in Crowley, who was very ill at ease, but was obstinately and manifestly at bay. "Let's see. Didn't I understand you to say, Buck, that Miss Kennard had gone chasing Latisan?" "That's the way I figured it." "You're wrong. He's chasing her. That's why he came in here." The chief had snarled, "You're wrong," in a peculiarly offensive tone. Mr. Crowley, after his proclaimed success in the Latisan case, had come up a number of notches in self-esteem and was inclined to dispute an allegation that he was wrong in that matter or in anything else. He was provoked into disclosures by sudden resentment. "She stood out there in the public street and said she was in love with him and would marry him after the drive was down, and she grabbed up his cap and coat when he ran away, and if it ain't natural to suppose that she was going to chase him up and hand 'em over, then what?" "Look here, Crowley, what kind of a yarn is this?" "It's true." "Why didn't you tell me before?" "It didn't have anything to do with the case, as I was working it. It was a side issue!" Crowley raised his voice, insisting on his own prowess. "The idea was to get him off the job--and I did it. I claim----" "You infernal, damnation lunkhead, get out of my office till I calm down," raged the chief. He yelped at Crowley when the operative was at the door: "Go hunt up Elsham and bring her here. It looks to me as if Kennard was foxier than the dame I sent, and has turned the trick in her own way." "I ain't afraid of questions," declared the operative. "They'll only bring out that I'm right when I claim the credit." He hastened to shut the door behind him. Mern acted as if he were looking for a missile. "But where is she? Why in the blue blazes doesn't she report in?" muttered the chief, worriment wrinkling his forehead. On the face of things, it seemed that, valuable as Miss Kennard had been as confidential secretary, she was still more valuable as a skillful operative--and Chief Mern was earnestly desirous of having her back on the job. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Chief Mern's interview with his two operatives the next forenoon did not yield the solid facts he was after. They disputed each other. Miss Elsham insisted that she had had Latisan on the run and claimed that his apparent involvement with Miss Kennard was merely a silly and fleeting flirtation with one whom he supposed was a table girl in a tavern. "You gave me his character, all written out," insisted Miss Elsham. "He's that kind. He didn't dare to presume with me as he would with a girl in a dining room; but I was getting along all right till Crowley butted in." She turned spitefully on that monopolizer and meddler. "And now don't stand there and say again that you claim the credit. I'll slap your face!" Miss Elsham lied so strenuously that she was convincing. Crowley, trying hard to tell the truth for once, stammered and stumbled over the amazing details of the lovemaking between Latisan and Miss Kennard. The chief found the really veracious recital beyond belief. "She wouldn't offer to marry him, standing there in public," stormed Mern. "I know Kennard. She isn't that sort. I'll go to the bottom of this thing, even if it means a trip for me to that God-forsaken tank town. I'd give a thousand dollars to see Lida Kennard walk in through that door. I was never so worried about anything in all my life," he lamented. "Crowley, you deserted the most valuable person I have ever had in my office--and God knows what has happened to her." He sent them away. "What does it get anybody to tell the truth?" grumbled Crowley. "Nothing, when it sounds so ridiculous as the truth in this case," averred Miss Elsham. "Everybody seems to go crazy up in the tall timbers. Give me the tall buildings for mine after this." In high good humor Rufus Craig appeared to Mern that afternoon a little before three o'clock. He sat down, pulled out the slide leaf of Mern's desk, and produced a check book. "No need my seeing Exhibit A before settling. Tell me the expense account. I'll include everything in one check." With pen poised, waiting until the figures were brought in, the Comas man expressed his satisfaction. "There were three on the job, so I was told in Adonia when I came through. That's all right, Mern. I expected you to use your own judgment. I didn't have much time in Adonia--grabbed what information I could while waiting for the train to start--but it's a sure bet that Latisan is off for good. From what I heard it was your Miss Jones who really put it over--gave Latisan what they call up there the Big Laugh. Now who the blazes is this Miss Jones?" "An operative of ours," the chief replied, with repression of enthusiasm decidedly in contrast with Craig's indorsement of her. Mern did not dare to be other than vague, leaving Lida Kennard's identity concealed until he could understand something about the inside affairs in his agency. The reflection that he was still in the dark--could not talk out to a client as a detective should--was stirring his sour indignation more and more. "I'd like to meet her," urged the director. "She must be a wonder. A great actress, I should judge, from what I was told in Adonia." "She's having her vacation just now." "Look here, Mern! I'm going to stick a couple of hundred more onto this check. Send it along to her and tell her to have an extra week or a new dress at my expense. I've made a side-line clean-up on the Tomah this season and money is easy with me." That was as explicit as Craig cared to be in regard to the deal with the Walpole heir. Still poising his pen, the director turned expectant gaze on the door when the knob was turned; a flurried, fat girl whose manner showed that she was new to the place had received Mern's orders about the figures; now she came bringing them. Craig frowned while he wrote the check after the girl had retired. He was a bit pettish when he snapped his check book shut. "Say, Mern, I always like to see that Kennard girl when I come into your office. I like her looks. I like the way she puts out her hand to a man." "I'm sorry she isn't here. But she's--she's out--sick." "Good gad! I hope it's nothing serious." Craig showed real concern. "Oh no! Just a--a rather severe cold." The chief was having hard work to conceal his mental state--being obliged to lie that way, like a fool, in order to hide the mystery in his own office! "Give me her street number. I'll send up a bunch of flowers." "She is out with some friends in the country to get clean air. I don't know the address." Mern perceived that more questions were coming. Craig was frankly revealing his interest in Miss Kennard. The chief pulled out his watch; he had a good excuse for changing an embarrassing subject. "Latisan is about due. Of course, you don't want to be seen. I'll post you in one of the side consulting rooms." "It seems rather silly, this spying," remonstrated Craig. "I'm taking your word about Latisan. I'm getting ready to start north, and have a lot of matters to look after." "Humor my notion," urged the chief. "He has been tamed down and I want you to see him. You'll understand why I believe I can keep him hanging around here till you have nailed things to the cross up-country." Craig showed no alacrity, but he allowed Mern to lead him to a small room that was separated from the main office by a ground-glass partition; there was a peephole at one corner of a panel. The director promised to wait there until the interview with Latisan was over. The chief said he would make it short. Latisan walked in exactly on the stroke of three; after he came up in the elevator he had waited in the corridor, humbly obedient to Mern's directions as to the hour. "Nothing doing in that matter to-day, Latisan," stated the chief, affecting to be busily engaged with papers on his desk. "Try me to-morrow, same time." "Very well, sir," agreed the young man, somberly. In prospect, another twenty-four hours filled with lagging minutes! He had grown to know the hideous torture of such hours in the case of a man who before-time had found the days too short for his needs. "By the way," said Mern, still hanging grimly to the desire to find out more about what the matter was with the office's internal affairs, "did anybody tell you that Miss Jones had returned to New York?" "I wired to Brophy a few days ago. He said she had come back here, according to what he knew of her movements." "You fell in love with her, didn't you?" The chief's tone was crisp with the vigor of third-degree abruptness. "Yes," admitted Latisan, showing no resentment; he had promulgated that fact widely enough in the north. "Just why did she urge you so strongly to go back to the drive?" The young man's meekness had drawn the overeager chief along to an incautious question. "You ought to know better than I, sir. I take it that she was obeying your orders about how to work the trick on me, though it isn't clear in my mind as yet; but I'm not a detective." "Did she promise to marry you as soon as the Flagg drive was down?" Still Mern was boldly taking advantage of the young man's docility. "That's true. I must admit it because it was said in public." Mern scratched his ear. The thing was clearing somewhat in Crowley's direction; the blunderer had not lied on one point at least--the point that Mern found most blindly puzzling. What in the mischief had happened to the nature of Lida Kennard, as Mern knew that nature, so he thought! "You remember Operative Crowley, do you?" "Naturally." "Are you holding an especial grudge against him?" "I don't know why I should, sir. It's a dirty business he's in, but he gave me that letter which I turned over to you yesterday, and for some reason he exposed the trick that was being put upon me by the girl. If I can get at the bottom of the thing, for my own peace of mind, I'll be glad." Chief Mern sympathized with that sentiment! Then he took a little time for reflection. Perhaps a meeting between Latisan and Crowley might strike a few sparks to illuminate a situation that was very much in the dark. "If Crowley is around the office I'm going to ask him to step in here. The talk will be all friendly, I take it?" "I have nothing against Crowley, as matters stand." Latisan did not greet Crowley when the operative replied to the summons and walked into the private office; on the other hand, Latisan showed no animosity. He merely surveyed Crowley with an expression of mingled pity and wonderment, as if he were sorry for an able-bodied man who earned a living by the means which the operative employed. Crowley, at first, was not as serene as the man whom he had injured. "Latisan tells me that he holds no grudge," stated Mern, encouragingly. "I'm glad of that, Latisan. We have to play the game in this business. And I'm not laying it up against you, how you made a monkey of me in that dining room and nigh twisted my head off. Both of us know now who it was that rubbed our ears and sicked us at each other." The victim of the operations nodded, no especial emotion visible in his countenance. "Right here between us three I'll come out all frank and free," continued Crowley. "I'm making a claim to the chief in this thing, Latisan, and I believe you'll back me up. She jumped in on me and Elsham--one day later from the agency than we were--and she wouldn't talk to me, and I'll admit I didn't have her play sized from the start. But she wasn't the one that turned the trick." Mr. Crowley was venturing rather far with the victim, but he was encouraged by Latisan's continued mildness and by a firm determination to set himself right with Mern, who had been doubting his efficiency. "As I have been looking at it, she was the one who did it," insisted the young man. "Now see here! Wake up!" Crowley was blustering as he grew bolder. "You were letting the girl wind you around her finger. What woke you up? What made you sore on the whole proposition up there? It was my tip to you! You can't deny it." "Yes, it might have been your tip," admitted Latisan, knotting his brows, staring at the floor, confused in his memories and puzzling over the mystery. "I had promised to bring down the logs because she asked me to keep on and do it." "There you have it!" indorsed Crowley, swinging his arm and flattening his thick palm in front of the chief. "I claim the credit." Crowley had become defiantly intrepid, facing that manner of man who was so manifestly cowed and muddled. The operative was back in his encouraging environment of the city; he remembered the thrust of those prongs of fingers on his head when he was obliged to dissemble and was shamed in the north country. He was holding his grudge. And he was assiduously backing up the claims he had made to his chief. "The girl you're talking about had nothing to do with pulling you off the job. She was double-crossing our agency." "Think so?" queried Latisan. "I know it. But I don't know what fool notion got into her up there. I have told Mr. Mern all about it. I'm the boy who woke you up!" "Do you agree, Latisan?" asked Mern, brusquely. "I'm not thinking clearly, sir. But if this man is right, I ought to apologize to her." "She is no longer employed by us, but we'll try to locate her." Mern was willing to come out in front of Crowley with that information; the situation did seem to have cleared up! "Hang around town. Come in again." Latisan dragged himself up from his chair. Then Crowley of the single-track mind--bull-headed blunderer--went on to his undoing. "I'm sorry it has come about that you've got to fire her, Chief. I know what a lot she was worth to you here, as long as she kept to her own job." "We'll let it rest," said Mern, warningly. He remembered that he had not posted Crowley on the fact that the sobriquet "Miss Patsy Jones" still hid the identity of the girl where Latisan was concerned. "All right! That suits me, Chief, so long as I get the credit. I'll shut up, saying only that I'm sorry for Miss Lida Kennard." Latisan had been moving slowly toward the door, aware that the conversation between the two pertained to their own affairs and that he was excluded. He halted and swung around when he heard the name of Lida Kennard. The torpor of idleness and woeful ponderings had numbed his wits. The name of Lida seemed to have been dragged into the affair by Crowley. Ward did not understand how she could be involved in the matter. He put that thought into a question which he stammered. Mern, knowing nothing about his secretary's lineage, resenting her secrecy and methods which he had not been able to penetrate, was not in a mood to shield her any longer. "It's the same girl, Latisan. She called herself Jones up your way. Her right name is Lida Kennard." Latisan blinked like one who had emerged from darkness into blazing light. He swayed slowly, breasting that deluge of the truth which suddenly swept through him. He walked to the window, turning his back on them, and gazed squarely into the quivering sun that was westering between lofty buildings. His eyes were enduring the unveiled sun with more fortitude than his soul endured the truth which had just been unveiled. This--this was the heart of the mystery! He was not meditating while he stood there; he was beholding! He saw in the white light the spirit of her sacrifice--a sacrifice which embraced even her submission to him; in his desolate denial of any worthy attributes in himself he was not admitting that she loved him. He realized what she had sought to achieve in the north country, why she could not declare herself. And he had allowed a trick to make a fool of him, make him a traitor to her, send him off, sneaking in byways, idling in dark corners, in the time of her most desperate need! Right then there was in him the awful conviction that he could not go and face her, wherever she was, so utterly a renegade had he shown himself. He was taking all the blame on himself. He had run away from a laugh--a fool obsessed by a silly notion of the north country--in this new light it seemed silly. He had not waited like a man to hear the truth from her! He had betrayed all the cause; he could not go back to the drive. He had listened to a lying sneak from a detective agency and had rebuffed, insulted, abused horribly Lida Kennard! Lida Kennard! The name seemed to be hammering at his eardrums. The granddaughter of Echford Flagg! A lone girl trying to save a cause! In her anguished desperation she had been willing to give herself in the way of sacrifice even to such a recreant as Ward Latisan must have appeared in his boyish and selfish resentment! Oh, the sun was cool in comparison with the fires which raged in him. The fatuous Crowley moved toward the window. "Well, what say, old boy?" When the young man turned slowly the operative stuck out his hand. "I'm agreeing with you--no grudges! Let's shake!" "Yes, you did it," said Latisan. He did not raise his voice. He was talking as much to himself as to Crowley. "A tip to me, you called it." "We have to do those things to get quick results," Crowley agreed, patronizingly. "Give us your hand, boy!" Crowley got what he asked for. He was not prepared for the amazing suddenness of the open-handed blow that fell on the side of his head and sent him staggering into a corner. Mern grabbed up the telephone. Latisan leaped and tore the instrument from the chief's grasp, ripped it loose from its fastenings, and hurled it through the ground-glass door. Mern was a big man; he had been invincible as a police officer. But when he leaped and struck at Latisan, the latter countered with his toil-hardened fist and knocked Mern down. Crowley had also served with the police. But he was no match for the berserker rage which had transformed the man from the woods. Latisan whirled again to Crowley, beat him to his knees, set his foot against the antagonist's breast and drove him violently backward, and he fell across Mern. But Latisan was not through. Men who had viewed John Latisan in the old days when he came roaring down to town, had they been present in the Vose-Mern offices that day, would have recognized in the grandson the Latisan temperament operating in its old form and would not have been surprised. The avenger picked up Mern's desk chair. He swung it about him, smashing everything in the room which could be smashed. He flung away the fragments of the chair and rushed into the outer office. The fat girl was calling for central, for police. "Hand it over!" he commanded. "And you'd all better step outside," he suggested, after he had torn loose the wires. "I'm using the office right now." He picked up the chair from which she fled. It was heavy and he used it to smash other furniture. Then he began to beat out the glass which shut off the other private rooms which adjoined the main office. In that process he brought the terrified Craig into view. He dropped the chair, reached in, and dragged Craig over the sill of the compartment. "This has been coming to you on the Noda waters! I'm glad you're here now to get it!" He held the Three C's director helpless in utter dismay, at the full length of a left arm, and pummeled him senseless with a right fist. Then he dragged him to the door of the chief's office and flung him across the two men who were stirring. "It's a fifty-fifty wreck--this office and me--pretty nigh total!" He walked out. Youth, strength, and an incentive which did not animate the others, had enabled him to prevail. Mern and Crowley struggled weakly from under the man who was pinning them down. "I'll get word to the cops," stuttered Crowley, holding his hand to his battered and bleeding lips. "Wait till Craig comes to!" protested Mern. "He may want us to hush the thing. He has been hollering for soft pedal all the time. He seems bad! Get a doctor!" The physician who came confirmed Mern's opinion as to the condition of the field director; Craig himself was querulously emphatic on the point when he had been brought to consciousness. But he insisted on postponing consideration of the proper action to take in Latisan's case until he had time to forget his aches and compose his thoughts. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Early the next morning glaziers, carpenters, and telephone repair men monopolized the Vose-Mern offices to the exclusion of regular business. The chief had told his office force to stay away for the day. He had found one chair that was whole, and he sat and watched the "after the storm" effect gradually disappear. Mern's thoughts were as much in disorder as the interior he was surveying. Instead of feeling lively enmity in the case of Latisan, he was admitting to himself that he rather admired the young wildcat from the woods. At any rate, Latisan had accepted at face value Mern's repeated dictum that if the other fellow could get Mern while Mern was set on getting the fellow, there would be no grudges. Latisan's come-back, the chief reflected, was crude work, but it was characteristically after the style of the men of the open; and the wreck of an office was less disastrous than the wreck of a man's prospects and his very soul. Mern was not a bit of a sentimentalist, but he could see the situation vaguely from Latisan's standpoint. And he realized that there was still something behind it all which he had not come at. He was roused from his ponderings by the crunching of feet on broken glass, and looked up and beheld Latisan. Halted just inside the door of the main office was a policeman in uniform. And the officer, well known by Mern, caught the chief's eye and winked. Mern jumped to his feet; he was much astonished and glanced to see whether Latisan's fists were doubled. "Good morning, sir!" said the caller, politely. "I have come around early to let you know that I'm not the kind of a man who does a thing and runs away from the responsibility of it." With prolonged scrutiny--stares which crossed like fencing blades--the two principals mutely questioned each other. Latisan displayed the most composure. He had not the same reason as had Mern to be surprised; it was immediately made plain that Latisan had devoted some thought to preparations for the interview. He stepped closer. Even though his smile seemed to be meant as an assurance of amity, Mern flinched; he remembered that the woodsman had begun the battle the day before after a remark in a most placid tone. Latisan tipped his head to indicate the waiting policeman. "I brought him along. I asked him to come up from the street. He doesn't know what for." "Nor I, either!" blurted Mern. "I thought you might want me arrested on sight, and I remember what I did to your telephones, and I figured I'd save you the trouble of sending out." There was no mistaking the drive master's new mood. He was polite; he was contrite. The picturesque touch furnished by supplying a policeman suggested the Vose-Mern "anticipatory system" and appealed to the chief's grim sense of humor. Also, Mern was moved by that consciousness which warms real men, when it's a mutual acknowledgment, "He's a good sport." Mern waved his hand to the policeman, putting into that gesture a meaning which the officer understood; the officer started for the outer door. "Just a second!" called Latisan. He pulled out a roll of money and gave the policeman a bill. "You can use that to pay your fare down in the elevator." Latisan held the roll in sight until he and Mern were alone. "While the cash is out, I may as well inquire what the bill is." "For what?" "For this." The woodsman swung the hand which held the money, making a wide sweep to take in all the wreck. "No bill, Latisan! You can't pay a cent. I think we'll call it natural wear and tear in the course of business." The chief was sitting in the chair which had escaped damage. He insisted on the caller taking that chair; Mern sat on a carpenter's sawhorse. "Perhaps I had you going yesterday, Chief Mern, but to-day it's you who have got me going!" admitted Latisan, frankly mystified by this forbearance. "I'm only backing up the talk I have always made about giving the other fellow his innings if he wants to take 'em and has the grit to put it over. Look here, Latisan, two men are never really well acquainted till they've had a good run-in with their fists. You and I have been standing each other off on facts. Let's get down to cases. How did it happen that you fell for Lida Kennard so suddenly?" Ward flushed. It was a sacred subject, but he resolved to be frank with Mern, searching for the truth. "It was not sudden. I met her here in the city by accident months ago--and I must have fallen in love with her then. I've been admitting that I did, though I did not know her real name till yesterday. And I did not know she was a detective, set on my trail. And even now----" "You don't believe it, eh? Let me say it to you, Latisan--and get me right! You're a square chap and I can afford to be square, now that the job is done and paid for. The girl never was an operative. She was my confidential secretary, and the best one I ever had. Working hard here to pay up the debts she had incurred on account of her mother. As clean as a whistle, Latisan! She never told me she was going north. That letter you brought is one I wrote after Crowley reported that she was there--and I wanted to know why she was there." "I can tell you why. She is Echford Flagg's granddaughter." Mern leaped up and kicked the carpenter's bench away from him. Latisan rose, too, as if prepared to resent any detracting speech. "Don't trouble yourself," snapped Mern. "I'm not saying a word against her for what she was doing up there. I trained her myself in what she called the ethics of this business, and she had been practicing what I have preached. It's all right, Latisan." "The thing cleared itself up pretty quickly for me yesterday when I found out her name. But now that I know who she is I'm in hell. I ran away! I have left that drive----" "Aw, to blazes with your drive!" yelped Mern, with scorn. "Only logs! But what I want to know is this, does the girl love you?" "She told me so, but how can she have any affection for such a man as I have shown myself to be? I think she was sacrificing herself because she believed I was the one who could bring down the Flagg drive." Mern surveyed him cynically. "Say, Latisan, I hope you're not the kind who would bite a gold coin stolen from a dead man's eye. You woods fellows have too much time for joint debates with your own selves. Go find that girl and square yourself. I want her to have what she wants, if she is in love with you. That's the kind of a friend I am to her. I can't tell you where she is. I haven't heard from her since she walked out of this office. But let me say something to you! My kind of work has wised me up to what folks are likely to do! I'll bet a thousand dollars the girl hasn't run very far away from the north country, even if you did think it was too hot to hold you." Latisan shook his head slowly. Confidence was still chilled in him; the memory of what had happened was a forbidding barrier; in her case, at the thought of thrusting himself back into her presence, he was as timid to an extreme as he had been fearless in his dealings with men in the Vose-Mern offices. While he was wrestling with his thoughts, delivery men were wrestling with furniture, bringing it in through the door from the corridor, blocking the passage. Mern snapped his attention from Latisan, then he pushed the latter out of the range of vision from the corridor door. Craig was out in the corridor, cursing the furniture and the men who were obstructing the doorway. Craig was in a hurry and in a state of mind; his language revealed his feelings. "It won't do--it won't do!" insisted Mern when Latisan protested at being shoved behind the partition. "He mustn't see you. Hear him rave! I'm not staging another fight to-day. Stay in there! Crouch down! Keep out of sight." When Craig won his way past the blocking furniture he stormed to Mern, stamping across the glass-strewn floor, shaking his fists and jabbering. He was in a horrible state of rage. His face was so apoplectically purple that the bruises on his patched-up countenance were subdued somewhat by lack of contrast. "Look at me! Called down to the home office just now, looking like this. Lying like blazes about an automobile accident! That's what your invitation to view the tame tiger has done for me. But that isn't what I'm here for, you damnation, four-flushing double-crosser." He continued to berate the chief. "Say, you hold on there!" barked Mern, managing a few oaths of his own after struggling out of the amazement stirred by this ferocious attack. "If you're here to do business or to complain about the business that has been done, you'll have to be decent, or I'll run you out." Mern jutted his jaw and took two steps in Craig's direction--and Craig had suffered violence too recently to persist in inviting more. But he was still as acrimonious as he dared to be. Behind his rage there was the bitterness of a man who had been tricked out of money--betrayed shamefully--but Craig was so precipitate, breathless, violent, so provokingly vague with his tumbling words and his broken sentences, that Mern ceased to be angry in return and was merely bewildered. The Comas field director shook under Mern's nose a sheet of paper. He kept referring to the writing on the paper and vouchsafed information that the writing was made up of notes of a long-distance conversation between the woods and the New York offices of the Comas company. After a time Mern suggested with acerbity that Craig was incoherent. "I don't doubt it. I feel that way," yelped Craig. "But this message has come over three or four hundred miles of wire--relayed, at that, and I think the man who started the word from a fire-outpost station wasn't entirely right in his head. There's no other way of accounting for the statement that Ward Latisan's cap and Eck Flagg's cant dog are bossing the Flagg drive." "Don't get wrought up by crazy guff!" "But here are some statements that I _am_ wrought up over," declared the director, brandishing the paper. "I've got to believe 'em. They sound straight. Three of our new hold dams in streams that feed the Noda have been blown. The water has been used to sweep the Flagg logs in ahead of ours. The lip of the Tougas Lake has been blown, too, and if we lose that water it's apt to leave us high and dry; our Tougas operation is a long way in from the main river. They've shot blue blazes out of Carron Gorge and have taken the water along with 'em. Merry hell is to pay all up and down that river, Mern." The agency chief did not relish Craig's bellicose manner, nor the glare in his one eye that showed, nor the imputation of vindictive rebuke in his rasping tones. "Craig, I never saw a log in a river. I know nothing about your drives. Why are you pitching into me?" "Why? Why? Because this message says that the girl you sent north--the girl who was paid by our money--this report says that she has gone up there and has put the very devil into Flagg's men; is making 'em do things that the worst pirates on the river never dared to do before. What kind of a she wildcat did you hand me, anyway? Mern, a thousand tons of liquid fire poured into the valley of the Noda couldn't hurt us like that girl is hurting us. Who is she? What is she? Get your word to her! Call her off!" That was no time for equivocation. Craig's frenzy demanded candor and threatened reprisal if the truth were not forthcoming. Mern told part of the truth. "She has called her own self off, Craig, so far as this agency is concerned. I have no further control over her actions." Chief Mern was not conscious of any especial surprise after Craig had reported that section of his news which could be understood. The granddaughter of Flagg could not be expected to do other than she was doing. In his honest regard for the helper who had served him so long and efficiently, the chief was wondering whether he ought to reveal her identity to the Comas man, trying to estimate the danger of such a revelation. Craig was not stating that his news hinted who she was. As to the details of the drive, he was more explicit. He raged on while Mern pondered. "The Flagg drive is a week ahead of time. It must be near Skulltree dam. I ought to have been up there and I don't understand why the infernal fools have been so slow in getting word to me." He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Look here, Mern, I never ought to do another stroke of business with you, but I'm in too much of a hurry to go anywhere else." The business instincts of the head of the agency were stirred; the Comas money had been good picking in the past. "I don't think I should be held responsible for an operative who has severed connections. Craig, you have probably made your own mistakes in depending on helpers." "Don't you make any mistake this time, Mern! I want a dozen or fifteen men--gunmen. Can you furnish 'em?" "Sure thing! Within an hour." "I have promised results to my folks this season. I've got to deliver. My job depends on it, after all the talk I've made at headquarters." "Will your headquarters back up my operatives?" "I'll do that! I'm playing this game on my own hook. There'll be no fight. The bluff will be enough, if I have the men. And if I have to--well, there's a fight between lumberjacks every season on that river, and there's a big wall of woods between Skulltree dam and New York, Mern! I'll take my chances up behind that wall. Get the men for me." "When are you leaving?" "One o'clock this afternoon--Grand Central." "I'll deliver the men to you there." Craig stamped away across the glass-littered floor and disappeared. "Well," averred the chief when Latisan came out from behind the partition, "it looks as if somebody had been attending to your job for you, son! Also looks as if there might be considerable more doing right away!" "So that's more of your devilish business, is it, sending gunmen to fight honest workers?" demanded the drive master, with venom. "Business is still business with me in spite of the looks of this office," returned Mern, unruffled. "Latisan, you can't beef about not getting a square deal--and I've put you in the way of getting a tip. It looks to me----" "Just the same as it looks to me!" cried the young man. "We're fully agreed as to all the looks! Good day!" He stood very straight and shot Mern through with a stare from hard gray eyes. There was no longer any of the faltering uncertainty that he had displayed. Grim determination radiated from him. "Good day to you, also!" Mern called after Latisan when he strode toward the door, then adding suggestively. "If any mail happens to come here for you, I'm to forward it along to that Skulltree dam, so I take it!" The irony did not provoke any retort from the drive master. He went away with a rush, but his demeanor showed that he was not running away from anything or anybody. He was hastening toward something. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Latisan was on that one o'clock train when it left Grand Central station. From the gallery of the concourse he had seen Craig march to the gate and give a packet into the hands of one of a group of men waiting there. Then Craig had gone on quickly with the air of a cautious performer who did not care to be identified with the persons for whom he had provided transportation. The drive master rode in a coach and felt safe from detection; he guessed that Craig would hide his battered face in the privacy of a drawing room. Latisan had trailed the operatives and saw them enter the smoking car. In the late afternoon, at a stage in the journey, he crossed a city on the heels of the party and again was an unobtrusive passenger in a coach, avoiding the sleeping cars. He slept a bit, as best he could, but mostly he pondered, fiercely awake, bitterly resolute. He fought away his memory of the betrayal of a trust; he indulged in no fond hopes in regard to one whom he now knew as Lida Kennard. He was concentrating on his determination to go back to the drive, not as master, but as a volunteer who would carry his cant dog with the rest of them, as humble as the plainest toiler. He did not try at that time to plan a course of action to be followed after he was back on the Flagg drive. He was going, that was all! It was a hideous threat, the menace that Craig was conveying into the north country in the persons of those gunmen from the city! There had been plenty of fights over rights on the river, but they had always been clean fights, where muscles and fists counted for the victory. Craig had claimed that the bluff of the guns would be sufficient. Latisan was not agreeing, and on that account he was finding the outlook a dark one. The train on which he was riding was an express headed for Canada, and was due to pass the junction with the Adonia narrow-gauge at about two o'clock in the morning. There was no scheduled stop at the junction; the afternoon train connected and served the passengers from downcountry. Latisan had bought a ticket to the nearest regular stopping place of the express. He began to wonder whether Craig, with the influence of the Comas to aid him and his fifteen fellow passengers in an argument, had been able to secure special favors. To the conductor, plucking out the hat check before the regular stop the hither side of the junction, he said, "By any chance, does this train ever stop at the Adonia narrow-gauge station?" "It happens that it stops to-night by special orders." Latisan paid a cash fare and rode on. The coach in which he sat was the last car on the train; the smoker and sleeping cars were ahead. When the train made its unscheduled stop, Latisan stepped down and was immediately hidden in the darkness. He saw Craig and his crew on the station platform; the headlight of a narrow-gauge locomotive threw a radiance which revealed them. Therefore, it was plain, Craig had wired for a special on the Adonia line. Only one car was attached to the narrow-gauge engine; Latisan went as close as he dared. There was no room for concealment on that miniature train. It puffed away promptly, its big neighbor on the standard-gauge roared off into the night, and Latisan was left alone in the blackness before the dawn. And he felt peculiarly and helplessly alone! In spite of his best efforts to keep up his courage, the single-handed crusader was depressed by Craig's command of resources; there was a sort of insolent swagger in the Comas man's ability to have what he wanted. Latisan knew fairly well the lay of the land at the junction, but he was obliged to light matches, one after the other, in order to find the lane which led to the stables of the mill company whose men had been drafted by him on one occasion to load his dynamite. The night was stiflingly black, there were no stars and not a light glimmered anywhere in the settlement. He stumbled over the rough ground that had been rutted by the wheels of the jigger wagons. The muffled thud of the hoofs of dozing horses guided him in his search for the stables, and he found the door of the hostlers' quarters and pounded. "You'll have to go see the super; I don't dare to let a hoss out of here without orders," said the man who listened to his request. "Tell me where his house is, and lend me a lantern." The hostler yawned and mumbled and complained because he had been disturbed, but he fumbled for the lantern, lighted it, and gave it to Latisan, along with directions how to find the super's home. That minor magnate was hard to wake, but he appeared at an open upper window after a time and listened. "We can't spare a horse in mud time, with the hauling as heavy as it is. Who are you, anyway?" "I'm Ward Latisan." "Hold that lantern up side of your face and let me see!" The young man obeyed meekly. "Excuse me for doubting your word of mouth," said the super, after he had assured himself, "but we hardly expected to see you back in this region." It was drawled with dry sarcasm. "I haven't the time to argue on that, sir. I have business north of here. I'll hire a horse or I'll buy a horse." "And you heard what I said, that I can't spare one. By the way, Latisan, you may as well understand that I won't do business with you, anyway. You got me in wrong with my folks and with the Three C's, too, when you bribed my men to load that dynamite." "I can't see why the Comas company----" "I can. My folks can. If we get saw logs this year we've got to buy 'em through Rufus Craig. When you ran away and let Ech Flagg get dished----" "His drive is coming through," insisted Latisan, desperately, breaking in on speech in his turn. "Where are you from, right now?" inquired the super. "New York." "And a devil of a lot you must have found out about the prospect of logs from the independents, Flagg or anybody else. Don't come up here and try to tell me my business; I've been here all the time. Good night!" He banged down the window. And once more Ward was alone in the night, distracted and desolate. This testing of the estimation in which he was held in the north country after the debacle in Adonia made his despondency as black as the darkness which surrounded him. He wanted to call to the super and ask if at least he could buy the lantern. He decided it would be better to borrow it. He set away afoot by the road which led to Adonia. Farms were scattered along the highway and he stopped at the first house and banged on the door and entreated. At two houses he was turned away relentlessly. The third farmer was a wrinkled old chap who came down to the door, thumbing his suspenders over his shoulders. "Ward Latisan, be ye?" He peered at the countenance lighted by the lantern. "Yes, I can see enough of old John in ye to prove what ye claim. I worked for old John when I was young and spry. And one time he speared his pick pole into the back of my coat and saved me from being carried down in the white water. And that's why ye can have a hoss to go where ye want to go, and ye can bring him back when you're done with him." Therefore, not by any merit of his own, Ward secured a mount and journeyed dismally toward the north. The farm horse was fat and stolid and plodded with slow pace; for saddle there was a folded blanket. With only the lantern to light the way, he did not dare to hurry the beast. It was not until wan, depressing light filtered from the east through the mists that he ventured to make a detour which would take him outside of Adonia. He realized that Craig would have arranged for tote teams to be waiting at Adonia, as he had had a special waiting at the junction, and was by that time far on his way toward Skulltree dam. Latisan beat the flanks of the old horse with the extinguished lantern and made what speed he could along the blazed trail that would take him to the tote road of the Noda basin. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The flare of the Flagg camp fires painted the mists luridly; the vapor rolled sluggishly through the tree tops and faded into the blackness of the night. Lida was seated apart from the men of the crew, knowing that they mercifully wished to spare her from hearing the plans for the morrow. The logs were down the deadwater to a point where the supremacy at Skulltree dam must be settled. She could hear the mumble of the voices of those who were in conference around the fires. Across a patch of radiance she beheld the swaggering promenade of one of the young cookees; he brandished a hatchet truculently. Old Vittum reached out and swept the weapon from the youngster's grasp. Lida heard Vittum's rebuke, for it was voiced sharply. "None o' that! We don't fight that way. And I'm believing that there are still enough honest rivermen in the Comas crowd to make it a square fight, like we've always had on the Noda when a fight had to be!" Unreconciled, all her woman's nature protesting, she had come to a settled realization that the fight must happen; Vittum was putting it in words. Now that the struggle was imminent--on the eve of it--she wanted to go down on her knees and beg them to give up the project; but she did not dare to weaken their determination or wound their pride. She crouched on her cot of spruce boughs in anguished misery. "Nobody has got to the point of using hatchets and guns on this river," corroborated a man on the other side of the fire from Vittum. Other men pitched their voices higher then, giving up the cautious monotone of the preceding conference. "Is any man afeard?" asked Vittum. They assured him with confidence and gay courage that no man was afraid. "I didn't hear any of you Injuns pipe up," said Vittum. "You ain't very strong on talk, anyway. But I'd kind of like to know how you feel in this matter. We all understood--all of us regulars--that we was coming up here to fight when it got to that point. You have grabbed in later and perhaps didn't understand it. We ain't asking you to do anything you don't want to do." The Indians were silent. Even Felix Lapierre said nothing when Vittum questioned him with a glance. The French Canadian turned to Frank Orono, squatting within arm's reach, and patted him on the shoulder. It became plain that there was an understanding which did not require words. Orono rose slowly; he grinned. From the breast of his leather jacket he brought forth a cow's horn and shook it over his head, and its contents rattled sharply. The other Indians leaped up. They were grinning, too. Orono began a slow march around the camp fire, lifting his knees high, stepping slowly, beating the rattling horn into the palm of his hand. Behind him in single file, imitating his step, marched the other Indians. The smiles faded out of their countenances; their jaws were set, and deep in their throats they growled a weird singsong. "My Gawd!" yelped Vittum. "It's the old Tarratine war dance and it just fits my notions right now, and I'm in on it!" He scrambled to his feet and fell into line at the rear of the Indians. Every man in the Flagg crew followed suit. They imitated the Indian singsong as best they were able, their voices constantly giving forth greater volume until they were yelling their defiance to the Three C's company and all its works. The men far out on the deadwater, pushing against the bars of the capstan, heard the tumult on the shore and shouted the chorus of their challenging chantey. Between Lida and the men who were circling the fire there was a veil of mist, and in the halation her champions loomed with heroic stature. She did not want them to suppose that she was indifferent; courage of her own leaped in her. The campaign which she had waged with them had given her an experience which had fortified the spirit of the Flaggs. She stepped forth from her little tent and walked down and stood in the edge of the light cast by the camp fire. They cheered her, and she put aside her qualms and her fears as best she was able. When she was back in her tent she did not shield her ears from the challenging chantey, as she had done before, and she heard with fortitude the vociferous pledges of faith in the morrow. The dawn came so sullenly and so slowly that the day seemed merely a faded copy of the night. A heavy fog draped the mountains and was packed in stifling masses in the river valley. Crews in shifts marched tirelessly around the capstans of the headworks. Their voices out in the white opaqueness sounded strangely under the sounding-board of the fog. It was a brooding, ominous, baleful sort of a day, when shapes were distorted in the mists and all sounds were magnified in queer fashion and the echoes played pranks with distances and locations and directions. Out of the murky blank came one who had gone a-scouting. He touched his cap to the girl and reported to her and to all who were in hearing. "The Three C's chief pirate has got along. Craig is down at the dam. I was able to crawl up mighty close in the fog. I heard him. He's ugly!" "I reckoned he would be a mite peevish as soon as the news of the social happenings along the river for the past few days got to him," said Vittum. "It's no surprise to me--been expecting him!" "He's got a special edge on his temper--has been all bunged up by an auto accident, so I heard him giving out to the men he was talking to." "And what's he saying of particular interest to us?" "Says he's going to stick right at Skulltree and kill us off singly and in bunches, just as we happen to come along." "News is news, and it's good or bad according to the way you look at it," declared the old man. "Does that fresh news scare anybody?" There was a vigorous chorus of denial; when one man averred that the statement only made the fight more worth while he was indorsed with great heartiness. "All right!" agreed Vittum. "We'll consider that point settled." He drew a long breath; he inquired with anxious solicitude; "Did you overhear him saying anything about Latisan? He might have heard something, coming in fresh from outside." The scout gave the girl a glance of apology; he was a tactless individual in shading facts. "Of course, all that Three C's bunch is liars, and Craig worst of all. But I did hear him say that Latisan is loafing in New York and is prob'ly in jail by this time." The girl rose and walked away, and the fog shut her from their sight immediately. She heard the old man cursing the incautious scout. "Why the blazes didn't you smooth it? You've gone to work and hurt her feelings. She made her mistake, and she admits it. We all make our mistakes," said the rebuker. "But she's true blue! I ain't laying up anything against Latisan because he doesn't show up. It's because the girl is here that we are making men of ourselves right now. She's deserving of all we can give her. By gad! say I, she's going to make good with our help." She was a considerable distance down the river path, but she heard that speech and the shout of the men indorsing the declaration. Lida hastened as rapidly as she was able along the path that led to Skulltree; she had reconnoitered on the previous day--going as near the dam as she dared, trying to make the lay of the land suggest some method by which battle might be avoided. While she ran down the path that morning she was arriving at some definite conclusions. The news about Director Craig had put desperate courage into her. The upper and the nether millstones of men and events in the north country had begun their grim revolutions; she resolved to cast herself between those stones in an effort to save faithful men who were innocent of fault. When the dull rumble of the sluiceway waters informed her that she was near the camp of the enemy she went more cautiously, and when she heard the voices of men she called, announcing that she desired to speak with Director Craig. Somebody replied, after a pause which indicated that considerable amazement had been roused by a woman's voice. "Come along, whoever you are! Mr. Craig is on the dam." A man who kept jerking his head around to stare frankly at her led her along the string piece of the great structure. Their meeting--she and the Comas director--was like a rencontre in the void of space; on the water side of the dam the mists matched the hue of the glassy surface and the blending masked the water; on the other side, the fog filled the deep gorge where the torrent of the sluiceway thundered. She was obliged to go close to him in order to emerge from the vapor into his range of vision and to make her voice heard above the roar of the water. His one visible eye surveyed her with blank astonishment; near as she was to him, he did not recognize her at first in her rough garb of the woods. "Mr. Craig, I _was_"--she stressed the verb significantly--"an employee in the Vose-Mern agency in New York. I met you in their office." He clasped his hands behind him as if he feared to have them free in front of him; her proximity seemed to invite those hands, but his countenance revealed that he was not in a mood then to give caresses. "Was, eh? May I ask what you are right now?" "I'm doing my best to help in getting the Flagg drive down the river--without trouble!" "Trouble!" He was echoing her again; it was as if, in his waxing ire, he did not dare to launch into a topic of his own. "What do you call it, what has been happening upriver?" "I presume you mean that dams have been blown to get water for our logs." "Our dams!" he shouted. "I'm a stranger up here. I don't know whose dams they were. I have heard all kinds of stories about the rights in the dams, sir." "I can't say to you what I think--and what I want to say! You're a girl, confound it! I'll only make a fool of myself, talking to you about our rights and our property. But I can say to you, about your own work, that you have been paid by our money to do a certain thing." She opened her eyes on him in offended inquiry. "I take it that you're the same one who called herself Miss Patsy Jones when you operated at Adonia." "I did use that name--for personal reasons." He did not moderate his wrath. "Here I find that Patsy Jones is Miss Kennard of the Vose-Mern agency. We have paid good money to the agency. When I settled for the last job I added two hundred dollars as a present to you." "I have not received the gift, sir. It does not belong to me. I'm here on my own account. I came north at my own expense without notifying Chief Mern that I was done with the agency; and strictly personal reasons, also, influenced me on that point." She was trying hard to keep her poise, not loosing her emotions, preserving her dignity with a man of affairs and phrasing her replies with rather stilted diction. "I have my good reasons for doing all I can in my poor power to help the Flagg drive go through." The fact that her name was Kennard meant nothing to Rufus Craig, a New Yorker who had never bothered himself with the ancient tales of the Noda country. He did not understand what interest she could have in opposing the Comas company; he could see only the ordinary and sordid side of the affair. He looked her up and down and curled his lip. "You have been a traitor!" "Not to the right, sir, when I found out what the right was." "I think you'll have a chance to say something about that in court, in your defense! You have put the devil into those men and I'm giving you warning." "I shall tell the truth in court, Mr. Craig. You may or you may not find that promise a warning of my own to you and your corporation methods." He blinked and looked away from her. "I'm busy! What are you doing here on this dam? What do you want of me? Is it more detective work?" he sneered. "Are you getting ready to double-cross the new gang you're hitched up with. For what reason you went over to 'em God only knows!" "He does know!" she returned, earnestly. She stepped closer to him. "I came down here to plead that you'll let the Flagg logs go through this dam." "I will not." His anger had driven him to the extreme of obstinacy. "Mr. Craig, that stand means a wicked fight between men who are not paid to fight." "You've had a lot of influence in making men blow our dams. Use that influence in keeping 'em away from this one, and there'll be no fight." He turned away, but she hastened forward and put herself in front of him. "I cannot do it, sir! That will be asking our men to give up all they have been struggling for. I don't know what the law is--or what the law will say. Please listen to me! Keep the men from fighting--this season! Then allow the law to put matters right up here. The Flagg logs have gone down the river every year before this one. The good Lord has furnished the water for all. Mr. Craig, out of the depths of my heart I entreat you." She had tried hard to keep womanly weakness away. She wanted to conduct the affair on the plane of business good sense; but anxiety was overwhelming her; she broke down and sobbed frankly. What appeared to be recourse to woman's usual weapons served to make him more furious. "The matter is before the courts. There's a principle involved. This dam stays as it is. That's final!" "I'm pleading for a helpless old man who cannot come here to talk for his own rights." "Look here, my girl, you're merely a smart trickster from the city--a turncoat who can't give one good excuse for being a traitor to your employers." "I can give an excuse!" "I've had enough of this," he retorted, brutally, pricked by the reflection that his corporation would disown him and his methods if he failed to make good. "Can't you see that you're driving me insane with your girl's folly? You're lucky because I haven't brought officers up here and ordered your arrest for conspiracy. You belong in jail along with that fool of a Latisan." His rage broke down all reserve. "Do you see what he did to me in New York?" He pointed to his bandaged face. "I'll admit that he did have some sort of an excuse. You have none." "I have this," she said. "Mr. Craig! I am Echford Flagg's granddaughter." The shell of his skepticism was too thick! "Do you think I am a complete fool? Flagg has no kin whatever!" "How long have you been acquainted in these parts?" "Three years," he admitted; but he scowled his sentiment of utter disbelief in her claim. "I am what I say I am," she insisted. "Does that make any difference in your stand here to-day?" "Not a bit!" They surveyed each other for some time, the mists swirling slowly about their heads. "If I shed any more tears and do any more pleading, sir, you'll have good reasons for believing that I have no blood of the Flaggs in me! Do you still think I'm not what I say I am?" He sliced the fog contemptuously with the edge of his palm. "You can't talk that stuff to me!" She understood the futility of appeal; he turned from her and she looked for a moment on the bulging scruff of his obstinate neck. "Very well, Mr. Craig! If talk can't convince you, I'll try another way!" She ran along the string piece and the curtain of the fog closed in behind her. During her absence from the deadwater there had been a rallying of forces. All the men were called in from the headworks and the booms. In that following conference over the methods of the impending battle the riverjacks were able to express themselves with more sanguinary vehemence than would have been allowed in the presence of the girl. They felt that the fog was a particularly fortunate circumstance, and with grim haste they set about taking advantage of the mask that would hide their advance. In single file they began their march down the river shore. There were men who bore cant dogs; others were armed with pike poles. But there was no intent to cut and thrust. It was to be a man's fight with the flat of those weapons, with the tools of the job, honest thwacks given and taken. If one of them had ventured to pack an edged weapon or a gun he would have been shamed among his fellows. Halfway to the dam they met the girl, hurrying back. She understood. She did not ask questions. But when they halted she explained her own movements. "I took it on myself to go to Director Craig," she said. "I was hoping I might be able to make him look at the thing in the right way. I did not apologize for you or for what has been done. If I could prevent this trouble I would make any sacrifice of myself." "We know that," stated Vittum, and he was indorsed by whole-souled murmurs. "But he would not listen to me. And all I can say to you men is this: God bless you and help you!" They thanked her and then they stood aside from the path, offering her a way for retreat to the rear. But she turned and walked on toward the dam. She shook her head when they protested. "No, I claim it as my right to go with you." She was even brave enough to relieve the tenseness of the situation by a flash of humor. "I don't believe one of those Comas cowards will get near enough to hurt any one of you. Haven't we found them out already? But if anybody in this crew does get hurt, you'll find me in full charge of the field hospital!" There was no more talk after that; they trod softly on the duff under the trees; they dodged the ledges where their spike-soled boots might have rasped. "Did you note where the main bunch is, miss?" whispered the old man at her side. "I saw only one man except Craig. The director was out on the dam, near the gates." "Where the cap'n is, there the gang must be. We'll use that tip." The men deployed as soon as they were in the open space near the end of the dam. Even though they had had the protection of the fog up to that point, they knew their attack could not be made wholly a surprise; they were depending on their resoluteness and on being able to beat their way to a control of the gates. Two men appeared to them in the fog. "Now just a moment before you start something for which you'll be sorry," said one of the men. "I'm from the shire town and I'm attorney for the Comas corporation." He pointed to a man at his side, who pulled aside his coat lapel and exhibited a badge. "This is a deputy sheriff. The courts are protecting this property by an injunction." "We've got only your word for that," stated the old man. "You have been warned in law. That's all I'm here for. Now unless you keep off this property you must take the consequences." The lawyer and the officer marched away and were effaced by the fog. "It's too bad it ain't a clear day," remarked the spokesman to the crew. "We'd prob'ly be able to see the injunction that's guarding this dam. But I ain't going to let a lawyer tell me about anything I can't see." "But there's a thing I can see," called one of the men who had gone skirmishing in the direction which the attorney and sheriff had taken. "Here's a Comas crowd strung along the wings o' the dam. I can see what they're lugging! Come on, men! It's a cant-dog, pick-pole fight." The attackers went into the fray with a yell. The defenders of the dam were on higher ground; some of them thrust with the ugly weapons, others swung the strong staves and fenced. There was the smash of wood against wood, the clatter of iron. Men fell and rolled and came up! They who were bleeding did not seem to mind. "They're backing up," yelled one of the Flagg crew. "Damn 'em, they're getting ready to run, as usual!" There did seem to be some sort of concerted action of retreat on the part of the defenders. "Look out for tricks," counseled Vittum, getting over the guard of an antagonist and felling him. A few moments later the line of the defense melted; the Comas men dodged somewhere into the fog. The assailants had won to the higher level of the dam's wing. And then that level melted, too! It was a well-contrived trap--boards covered with earth--a surface supported by props which had been pulled away by ropes. More than half the Flagg men tumbled into deep and muddy water and threshed helplessly in a struggling mass until the others laid down their weapons and pulled the drowning men out. The attacking army retired for repairs and grouped on the solid shore. Except for the roar of the sluiceway and the gasping of the men who were getting breath there was something like calm after the uproar of the battle. Out of the fog sounded the voice of Director Craig. "We have given you your chance to show how you respect the law. What you have done after a legal warning is chalked up against you. Now that you have proclaimed yourselves as outlaws I have something of my own to proclaim to you. I am up here----" A stentorian voice slashed in sharply, and Craig's speech was cut off. The voice came from one who was veiled in the fog, but they all knew it for Ward Latisan's. "Yes, Craig, you're here--here about five hours ahead of me because you had the cash to hire a special train. However, I know the short cuts for a man on horseback. I'm here, too!" His men got a dim view of him in the mists; he loomed like a statue of heroic size on the horse. Then he flung himself off and came running down the shore. He went straight to Lida and faced her manfully; but his eyes were humbly beseeching and his features worked with contrite apology. "I know now who you are, Miss Kennard. I don't mean to presume, in the case of either you or your men. But will you allow me to speak to them?" "Yes," she assented, trying to hold her poise, helped by his manner. He turned quickly from her eyes as if her gaze tortured him. "I have been a coward, men. I ran away from my job. I'm ashamed of myself. I can't square myself, but let me do my bit to-day." "I don't know what you can do--with that gang o' sneaks--after real men have had to quit," growled Vittum, unimpressed. "Maybe I'm sneak enough these days to know how to deal with 'em," confessed Latisan, bitterly. "I stayed back there just now while the fight was on, but I knew a man fight wouldn't get us anything from them." The men of the crew made no demonstration; they were awkwardly silent. The arrival of the deserter who confessed that he had been a coward did not encourage them at a time when they had failed ridiculously in their first sortie. He had ceased to be a captain who could inspire. He was one man more in a half-whipped crew, that was all. They who had been dumped over the dam dragged slimy mud from their faces and surveyed him with sullen rebuke, remembering sharply that he had run away from the girl whose cause they had taken up. The others, their faces marked with welts from blows, gazed and sniffed disparagingly. But when he spoke out to the girl and her crew they listened with increasing respect because a quick shift to manly resolution impressed them. His tone was tensely low and the noise of the tumbling water shielded his voice from eavesdroppers on the dam. "I stood back there in the fog and I heard what was said about an injunction. It's bad business, running against the courts, men. That injunction hangs over the crew of Echford Flagg. I am not one of that crew. What I may do is on my own account, and I'll stand the blame of it. All I ask is that you step aside and let me alone." "That ain't the way we want to play this game," declared Vittum. "It isn't a square game, men, and that's why you mustn't play it. It isn't a riverman fight to-day. I came north from New York on the train with Craig. He brought a gang of gunmen with him. They're hidden there in the fog. He means to go the limit, hoping to get by with it because you made the first attack. It's up to me from now on." "What in the name of the horn-headed Sancho do you think you can do all alone against guns?" demanded Vittum, scornfully. "Think?" repeated Latisan. "I've had plenty of time for thinking on my way up here. Let me alone, I say!" Lida went to him and put her hand on his arm, and he trembled; it seemed almost like a caress. But by no tenderness in his eyes or his expression was he indicating that he considered himself back on his former footing with her. "Miss Kennard, don't keep me from trying to square myself with the Flagg crew, if I can. I'm not hoping that anything can square me with you; it's past hope." He moved away, but she clung to him. "I must know what you intend to do. I'll not accept a reckless sacrifice--no, I'll not." "One evening in Adonia you gave me a lecture on duty and self-respect, Miss Kennard. I wish I'd taken your advice then. But that advice has never left my thoughts. I'm taking it now. I entreat you, don't let me shame myself again. This is before men," he warned her, in low tones. "Give me my fighting chance to make good with them--I beg you!" He set back his shoulders, turned from her, and shouted Craig's name till the Comas director replied. "Craig, yon in the fog! Do you hear?" "I hear you, Latisan!" "Do our logs go through Skulltree by your decent word to us?" "I'll never give that word, my man!" "Then take your warning! The fight is on--and this time I'm in it." "I'm glad to be informed. I have an announcement of my own to make. Listen!" He gave a command. Instantly, startlingly, in the fog-shrouded spaces of the valley rang out a salvo of gun fire. Many rifles spat. The sound rolled in long echoes along the gorge and was banged back by the mountain sides. "Latisan, those bullets went into the air. If you and your men come onto this dam----" "There's only one kind of a fight up here among honest men--and you won't stand for it, eh?" "We've got your number! You're declared outlaws. These men will shoot to kill." In the chorus from the Flagg crew there were howls and groans. "And argument won't bring to you any sense of reason and decency, will it?" demanded the drive master. "We shall shoot to kill!" insisted the magnate of the Comas corporation. "All right! If those are your damnable principles, I'll go according to 'em." The girl caught his hands when he started away. "You must not! No matter what you are--no matter what you know I am, now. He'll understand when we tell him--down there! There's more to life than logs!" "I have my plans," he assured her, quietly. "You must realize how much this thing means to me now." The unnatural silence in the ranks of the Flagg crew, after Latisan's declaration had been voiced, provoked Craig to venture an apprehensive inquiry. "You don't intend to come ramming against these guns, do you?" "Hold your guns off us! I'm going away. And these men are going with me." "That's good judgment." "But I'm coming back! I won't sneak up on you. That isn't my style of fighting. You'll hear me on the way. I'll be coming down almighty hard on my heels. Remember that, Craig!" Lida was at his side when he marched away up the shore toward the Flagg camp at the deadwater, and his men trailed him, mumbling their comments on the situation and wondering by what sort of miracle he would be able to prevail over armed gangsters who were paid to kill. "I'm going to ask you all to excuse me for playing a lone hand from now on, boys," said the drive master, standing in front of them when they were gathered at the camping place. "If they weren't working a dirty trick with their guns, I'd have you along with me just as I intended in the past. But you have had your fun while I've been making a fool of myself! Give me my chance now!" He bowed to Lida and walked up the shore alone. No one stayed him. The girl locked together her trembling fingers, straining her eyes till he disappeared. He knew the resources and methods of the drive. Soon he came upon a bateau pulled high on the river bank. There were boxes in the bateau, covered by a tarpaulin whose stripings of red signaled danger. He found a sack in the craft. He pried open one of the boxes and out of the sawdust in which they were packed he drew brown cylinders and tucked them carefully into the sack. The cylinders were sticks of dynamite. The sack was capacious and he stuffed it full. The bag sagged heavily with the weight of the load when he swung it over his shoulder and started up the bank, away from the river. When Latisan walked away from Lida the mist again had lent its illusion, and he seemed to become of heroic size before the gray screen hid him from her sight. Vittum tried pathetically to relieve the stress of the silence. "The last peek at him made him look big enough to do 'most anything he sets out to do." "Yes! But how can he fight them all single-handed?" She was pale and trembling. "If I'm any judge, by the direction he took just now he has gone up and tapped our stock of canned thunder, miss. And if I ain't mistook about his notions, he is going to sound just about as big as he looked when we got that last peek!" The rivermen did not lounge on the ground, as they usually did when they were resting. They stood, tensely waiting for what Latisan's manner of resolution had promised. Lida asked no more questions; she was unable to control her tones. She had been given a hint of Ward's intentions by what the old man had said about the "canned thunder." She did not dare to be informed as to the probable details of those intentions; to know fully the nature of the risk he was running would have made the agony of her apprehensiveness unendurable. It seemed to them, waiting there, that what Latisan had undertaken was never going to happen. They were not checking off the time in minutes; for them time was standing still. The far grumble of waters in the gorge merely accentuated the hush--did not break upon the profound silence. When a chickadee lilted near at hand the men started nervously and the girl uttered a low cry; even a bird's note had power to trip their nervous tension. The sound for which they were waiting came to them at last. It was a sound with a thud in it! Listeners who possessed an imagination would have found a suggestion of the crash of the hammer of Thor upon the mountain top. "He looked big enough for that when he left us!" muttered the old man. He had never heard of the pagan divinity whom men called Thor. His mind was on the river gladiator who had declared that he would come down heavy on his heels when he started. The brooding opacity which wrapped the scene made the location of the sound uncertain; but it was up somewhere among the hills. The echoes battered to and fro between the cliffs. Before those echoes died the sound was repeated. "He's coming slow, but he's come sure!" Vittum voiced their thoughts. "Them's the footsteps of Latisan!" On they came! And as they thrust their force upon the upper ledges there was a little jump of the earth under the feet of those who stood and waited. There was something indescribably grim and bodeful in those isochronal batterings of the solid ground. The echoes distracted the thoughts--made the ominous center of the sounds a matter of doubt. That uncertainty intensified the threat of what was approaching the dam of Skulltree. There were other sounds, after a few moments. Rifles were cracking persistently; but it was manifestly random firing. The old man stepped to Lida and grasped her hand and held it. "Don't be 'feared for him, miss. They're only guessing! He'll be knowing the ledges--every lift of 'em that's betwixt him and them. They'll never get him with their popguns. But he'll get _them_!" he declared, with venom. "I wonder what Craig is thinking now, with his old bug eyes poking into that fog and doing him as much good as if he was stabbing a mill pond with his finger!" The rifle fire died away, after a desultory patter of shots. "They're running!" said one of the crew. "They must be on the run!" "You bet they're running," agreed the old man. "The Three C's hasn't got money enough to hire men, to stand up in front of what's tromping down toward Skulltree! Heavier and heavier on his heels!" Measuredly slow, inexorably persistent, progressed the footsteps of the giant blasts. Latisan's men needed no eye-proof in order to understand the method. The drive master was hurling the dynamite sticks far in advance of himself and to right and to left, making his own location a puzzling matter. The men had seen him bomb incipient jams in that fashion, lighting short fuses and heaving the explosive to a safe distance. The blasts were nearer and still nearer, and more frequent; the ground quaked under their feet; in the intervening silences they heard the whine and the rustle of upthrown litter in the air, the patterings and plops of debris raining into the spaces of the deadwater. Behind the attack was the menace of the bodefully unseen--the lawlessness of the fantastically unprecedented. "I don't blame the fellers with the guns, if they have quit," commented Vittum. "They might as well try to lick the lightning in a thundercloud." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Mern's mercenaries were not cowards. They had served valiantly as guards of strike breakers, had fought in many forays, had winged their attackers, and had been winged in return. At mill gates they had resisted mobs and had endured missiles; they had ridden on trucks, protecting goods and drivers, through lanes of howling, hostile humanity; they had thrown the cordon of their bodies around dock workers. But the gunmen's exploits in intrepidity had been, of and in the cities. The environment at Skulltree was the Great Open. They were not backed by solidity or barricaded behind walls. There was not the reassurance of good, honest earth under their feet; they were precariously perched in space, so it seemed--standing on the stringers of the dam, peering into a void of shrouding mists and thunderous waters, the wilderness all about them! In their battles in past times they had been able to see the foe; now they were called on to fight a noise--the bodeful detonations of blasts, to right, to left--here and there. There was a foe; he was on his way. They did not know what sort of ruin he purposed to wreak as the climax of his performance. Craig himself did not know, so he affirmed in reply to anxious queries, and the boss's uncertainty and increasing consternation added to the peculiar psychological menace of the thing. "Give us orders, Mr. Craig!" pleaded the captain of the guards. "Show us something to fight against. How many of 'em are there? Where are they? "It's that damnable Latisan, working single-handed. I'm sure of it. Go get him!" "If you don't get him, he's going to blow up this dam," stated the frightened lawyer. A far-flung bomb of dynamite landed in the water and shot a geyser spraying against the fog pall. "I'm taking that guess for gospel," affirmed the chief gunman, wiping spray from his face. "Mr. Craig, you can't expect us to hang on here, facing a thing like what's coming!" "Shoot him!" gasped the Comas director, but he was revolving on unsteady feet and the aimlessness of his gaze revealed that he had no definite idea of procedure; his incertitude wrecked all the courage of his supporters. "It can't be done, sir. Not in this fog! We'd better get ashore----" "And let him wreck this dam?" "If he's going to wreck it, we'd better be off it." In his fear Craig became insulting, and that attitude ended his control of the situation. "You're hired with money, you cowards! Now earn it!" "This is where your money can't buy something for you, Mr. Craig," the captain of the gunmen declared, and then he led the retreat of his squad across Skulltree dam and into the woods on the far shore from the portentous, invisible peril. And with dire extremity clearing for the moment his clouded vision, enabling him to look squarely at the matter of service and loyalty as he was able to command it, Craig knew that when his money failed him in the north country he had no other resource. He had blinked that fact in the past, having found that in ordinary affairs his dollars were dominant; but this extraordinary event was knocking out from under him all the props of confidence; he felt bitterly alone all of a sudden. "We'll have to vamoose off this dam," declared the deputy sheriff. "You've got your duty as an officer of the law," shouted Craig, desperately feeling that in the case of this man, at least, he was making an appeal to something that was not covered by a money consideration. "And I've got my common sense, too!" retorted the sheriff. He started away. "So have I," agreed the attorney, a lawyer who had obeyed a telegram and had joined the Craig expedition at the shire town of the county the night before. "There's an injunction!" stormed the field director. "And there's a lunatic with a sack of dynamite." The lawyer crooked his arm across his face; a missile from the white void had splashed near by and water sprayed him. "You have told me that Latisan is no longer in Flagg's service. I'm not depending now on law, Mr. Craig, I'm depending on my legs." He fled on the trail of the officer. But he left a pregnant thought in Craig's mind: Latisan was not an employee of Echford Flagg. As a matter of fact, Craig owned to himself--his clarity of vision persisting in that time of overwhelming disaster, in the wreck of the hopes built on the power of his money--that the thing had now become almost wholly a personal, guerrilla warfare between himself and Latisan; and when the truth came out, if the matter were forced to that issue, Craig would lack the backing of authority fully as much as Latisan lacked it then, in his assault on property. The bluff of the guns had not worked! Craig was realizing that in hiring such men, as he had on the spur of the moment, his rage instead of his business good judgment had prevailed. There were the repeated warnings of his superiors! The law would be obliged to investigate if Skulltree dam were wrecked, and would probe to the bottom of the moving reasons! Scandal, rank scandal! Craig could behold President Horatio Marlow as he sat that day with upraised, monitory forefinger, urging the touchy matter of credits and reputation. Craig could hear Dawes, the attorney: "That talk puts the thing up to you square-edged!" Down from the mist-shrouded cliff was advancing a vengeful man who walked with the footsteps of thunder. As Craig had looked ahead, basing his judgment on his experience with men and matters, it had seemed an easy matter to guard Skulltree with money and law. But in this astounding sortie of Latisan's, Comas money was of no use and Craig was developing an acute fear of the law which, invoked, would take matters into court. Over and over, his alarmed convictions pounded on his caution. He crouched under a rain of dirt and pebbles--then he ran away. When he reached the far shore he jumped into a bateau that was pulled up there. With all the power of his lungs he yelled for rowers. He was obliged to confess loudly and unreservedly that he was giving up the fight--was seeking a way of stopping Latisan--before any of his men would come from the shelter of woods and fog and serve him. He cursed them with the vigor of a master of galley slaves when the bateau was frothing along the deadwater. Then he bellowed into the fog, seeking a replying hail which would locate for him the Flagg crew. There was no repentance in him; his was a panic of compromise--a headlong rush to save himself from consequences. There was just as much uncertainty about what Latisan would do as there was about the dynamiter's exact location in that fog. Therefore, Craig announced himself with raucous staccato of: "I quit! I quit! Get that man! Tell him I quit!" Men hailed from the shore and their voices guided the rowers. Craig leaped from the bow of the bateau and waded for the last few yards. "Go stop him! Bring him here!" He tossed his arms. "Huh!" scoffed old Vittum. "That's a job for somebody who can tell which way the next stroke of lightning is heading." "I'll give five hundred dollars to the man who'll get to him and stop him before he smashes that dam!" Craig added to the other visions which had been torturing him the possible catastrophe of the Comas logs roaring through past the mouth of a useless canal; he could look ahead still farther and see the grins of the sawmill men down the Noda, setting their own prices. Once more Craig was finding that his money was getting him nothing that day, and his sense of helplessness was revealed by his sagging jowls and dolorous eyes; and he had always depended on what money could buy! There was no alacrity for service shown by any man of Flagg's crew. "We're not afraid," said Felix Lapierre, breaking on Craig's furious taunts. "We have promise' to keep off and let him make good for himself--the lone hand--that's it!" "That's it!" agreed Vittum. "He has made good," bleated the Comas man. "If he goes any farther it will only be bad." The dialogue was taking place disjointedly in the silences between the blasts. But Craig made himself heard above the next explosion. "He's ripping hell out of that dam now. Get to him. A thousand dollars for the man who stops him!" "No man in this crew needs any of your money!" Lida was defiantly in front of the Comas director. "But if you're ready to listen to reason after this----" She broke off and turned from him. Before they realized that she had volunteered, she was away in the fog. In a moment they heard her voice, raised in a thrilling call, appealing to the avenger. "That'll fetch him back--even if he was two miles deep in hell," Craig was informed by one of the men. "It's a lucky thing for the Three C's that she's on the job to-day." The Comas director stood holding to a tree. He shivered every time an explosion clanged its echoes from cliff to cliff. And when, after a waiting that was agony, the dreadful bombardment ceased, Craig staggered to the bateau and sat down on its prow. "I don't blame you for looking that way," said Vittum. "If Latisan had been driven to get that dam to-day you would have lost your drive for the canal; and, before God and your directors, you would have been responsible!" When Latisan came out of the fog he had put away, somewhere, the sack which had held destruction. When he had gone away from them, entering upon the perils of his undertaking, he was calm and resolute. Now that he was back, a champion who had prevailed single-handed, he was pale, trembling, and broken; they did not understand, at first. Lida came with him, trying to soothe him, pleading and protesting; he constantly muttered broken speech and seemed to be trying to control a mood that was half frenzy. He left her and stumbled across the open space to Craig. "Everything else you have done--it's nothing as bad as this last. You sent her where you didn't dare to go yourself. Good God! you Comas sneak, I ought to kill you where you sit! For all you cared you were making me a murderer of an innocent girl!" "You had to be stopped. She went before I knew what she was going to do." "And if she hadn't gone on her own account you would have tried to hire her to do it! It's always a case of what you can buy with your money--that's your style, Craig. Now you're up against something you can't buy. I'm still working alone--understand that? If you want to report me as an outlaw, go ahead! I'm giving you squarer warning than you gave me on the Tomah when you smashed the Latisans. If I smash that dam down there I'll be smashing you! I'll do it if you put as much as a toothpick in the way of the independent drives. I'll blow the bottom out of your canal, in the bargain. And if you think you or your gang can locate me over there"--he pointed in the direction of the hills of the watershed between the rivers basins--"try it! I know every hole in those hills. I'll keep bombing your drives till you can't keep a man on the job. That's the kind of an outlaw I am from now on." "It's between us now, Latisan. I'll own up to it. It has come to that." "Yes, it's between renegades. I'm admitting that I'm one," retorted Ward. Craig stood up. If there was any of the spirit of Three C's bluster left in him he was concealing it successfully. "Latisan, all these men have heard me say that I quit. I lost my head and was pushing the thing too far, considering it from a business standpoint. Can I be any more honest than that?" "It sounds all right, but I take stock in you only to the extent that you'll stay in line if I stay on the job. I shall stay, as I have warned you." "Suppose we talk turkey about the common rights at Skulltree!" "You'll have to talk with Miss Kennard about her grandfather's interests. I'm simply a chance comer here!" Latisan walked away and leaned against a tree. Craig approached Lida. "We have already had some talk about the matter, I believe. I retreat from the position I have taken. Evidently we must make mutual allowances. What have you thought out about the details of a plan to let your logs through?" The girl did not reply; she had no plans; she did not understand such matters. "We'll have to decide on the head of water you'll need, and I take it you'll allow us enough for the canal so that we can save our drive." Craig was trying hard to offer compromise, but he was not able to repress all his sarcastic venom. "There's the matter of sorting and the other details. I'll have to ask for your views, Miss Kennard, because any misunderstanding may be dangerous, so I have been informed." She looked helplessly from Craig to Latisan. The latter's aloofness, which he had displayed ever since he first appeared to her that day, his present peculiar relationship to the affair, his insistence that he must serve alone, made her problem more complex. Her vivid yearning was to give all into Latisan's keeping, but she did not dare to propose it. She looked at Vittum and Felix, seeking advice. The French Canadian smiled and shrugged his shoulders, evading responsibility. He did not understand such matters, either. "I suppose I might be able to dig up some sort o' general ideas, give me time enough," said Vittum, when her eyes questioned him anxiously. "But I'm sort of hazy right now." He winked at her and ducked his head to indicate Latisan. "I'm afraid!" she phrased the lament with a doleful motion of her lips rather than with spoken words. "It can't be said but what he'll be impartial--the best one to ask," mumbled Vittum, stepping close to her. "He ain't hired by either side, as I understand it!" He was ironic, but there was a suggestion which she grasped desperately. She went to Latisan. Their conversation was in an undertone and the bystanders did not hear the words. When she returned to Craig, Lida, confident in her new poise, reassured, informed in a fashion which fortified her self-reliance, met the Comas man with a demeanor which did credit to the granddaughter of Echford Flagg. "I have not tried to involve Mr. Latisan in any way. I have asked his advice as an expert." She looked straight into the shifting eyes of the Comas director. "Last fall he was at Tech, and took a special course in hydraulic engineering. You know that, of course, Mr. Craig!" She paused till he bowed to admit the truth with which she insisted on displacing the lie which had followed Latisan in the north country. "And Mr. Latisan has had a great deal of practical experience on his own drives. It seems absolutely necessary to have a sorting gap here, with men of both crews handling the logs. When our timber is through the sluiceway--the daily run of logs--we are to be given a head of water which will take us through the gorge. As to the logs upriver--the rear--we are willing to join drives with you, Mr. Craig, so that we may use all the water together." She set back her shoulders. "That plan will serve us this season. For another season the independents will have laws of their own from the legislature. I'm quite sure that the independents have waked up and know now what some special legislative acts can do for their interests." "I beg your pardon for breaking in, Miss Kennard," said Latisan, from his distance. "But this seems to be the time for me to say to Mr. Craig, in the presence of witnesses, that the same plan goes for the Tomah region. The independents over there can't be licked, sir." "Nor the Latisans," shouted somebody in the Flagg crew. That friendly corroboration of the young man's inmost determination served as a challenge. The drive master walked toward Craig and shook his fist. "No, nor the Latisans! We have a sawmill, and we're not worrying about the logs to feed it. But you understand, Mr. Craig, that the independents must have gangway on the river for their cut. And we know how to get gangway!" He went back to his tree and resumed his whittling. "To me the future looks very promising," said Lida. "We're all a little disturbed now, Mr. Craig, but we're coming to a perfect understanding. Don't you think so?" Craig did not reply at once, and she added, with ingenuous affectation of desiring to bring forward reasons for his agreement, "If the Comas company does join drives with us you will have the help of a perfectly wonderful crew, Mr. Craig. I'm told that we're a week or ten days ahead of the usual time--and the men have never seemed to be considering mere wages!" The Three C's director rolled his eyes, avoiding her candidly provoking regard. He shifted his gaze to Latisan, who had turned his back on the group and was still whittling placidly, propped against a tree by his shoulder. "Wonderful teamwork," growled the Comas man. "But sticking out for anything else will be a fool stunt. Miss Kennard, there's a lawyer over there in the woods, somewhere! The thing to do now seems to be to hunt him up so that he can help us to pass papers of agreement." He swung his hand to indicate the bateau. "Will you go with me?" She hesitated. Then she smiled amiably on Craig. "I think I'd rather walk along the path, sir. I'll meet you and the lawyer at this end of the dam." Craig trudged down to the boat and was swept away into the fog. Latisan did not turn; he kept on whittling. "Mr. Latisan!" she invited. "May I have your company to the dam? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I may be obliged to refer to you for further advice." "I feel called on to remark," said old Vittum, always an irrepressible commentator when comment seemed to be necessary, speaking after Latisan and Lida had walked away into the mist--"I'll say to all that she knows her business." "But it was Latisan who advised her," objected a literalist. "Hell! I ain't speaking of this drive," snapped the old man. "I'm complimenting her on a job where she doesn't need anybody's advice!" CHAPTER THIRTY The sun at meridian that day burned away the mists, for it was May and the high sun was able to prevail. The sluiceway of Skulltree dam was open and in the caldron of the gorge a yeasty flood boiled and the sunlight painted rainbows in the drifting spume. Rolling cumbrously, end over end, at the foot of the sluice, lifting glistening, dripping flanks, sinking and darting through the white smother of the waters, the logs of the Flagg drive had begun their flight to the holdbooms of Adonia. Lida and the taciturn squire whom she had drafted had climbed to the cliffs above the gorge in order to behold the first fruits of the compact which had been concluded with Craig and the Comas. Latisan went with her to the cliff because she had asked him to show her the way. His manner with her was not exactly shyness; she had been studying him, trying anxiously to penetrate his thoughts. He was reserved, but awkwardly so; it was more like embarrassment; it was a mingling of deference and despair in the face of a barrier. It was warm up there where the sun beat against the granite, and she pulled off the jacket which had been one of her credentials in the north country. "I took the liberty of wearing it--and the cap. I'll not need them any more." She took the cap from her head. The breeze which had followed the calm of the mist fluttered a loose lock of her hair across her forehead and the sun lighted a glint within the tress. He gazed and blinked. "I heard you had them--I heard it in Mern's office in New York," he said, with poor tact. She offered them and he took the garments, clutching the cap and holding the jacket across his arm. "I don't blame you for looking at me as you do," she went on, demurely and deprecatingly feminine at that moment. She smoothed her blouse with both hands and glanced down at her stained and ragged skirt. "It's my only warm dress and I've lived and slept in it--and I haven't minded a bit when the coffee slopped. I was trying to do my best." He rocked his head voicelessly, helplessly--striving to fit speech to the thoughts that surged in him. Then she made a request which perturbed him still more: "You came up here on horseback, I think you said. May I borrow the horse?" "Do you mean that you're going away?" he gulped. She spread her hands and again glanced down at her attire. She was hiding deeper motives behind the thin screen of concern for her wardrobe, trying to make a jest of the situation, and not succeeding. "You must own up that I need to go shopping." He turned from her to the chasm where the logs were tumbling along. "And there's nothing to keep me here any longer, Mr. Latisan, now that you have come back!" He faced her again, swinging with a haste that ground his heels sharply on the ledge. But she put up her hand when he opened his mouth. "Do you think it will do us any good to bring up what has happened? I don't. I implore you not to mention it. You have come back to your work--it's waiting for you. After what you have done to-day you'll never need to lower your eyes before any man on this river. In my heart, when I gave you your cap and jacket, I was asking you to take back your work. I ask you with all the earnestness that's in me! Won't you do it?" There was a hint of a sob in her tones, but her eyes were full of the confidence of one who felt that she was not asking vainly. He did not hesitate. But words were still beyond the reach of his tongue. He dragged off the billycock hat which he had bought in town and scaled it far out into the turbid flood. He pulled off the wrinkled coat of the ready-made suit and tossed it down the side of the cliff. With the cap on his head and buckling the belt of the jacket he stood before her. "The men gave me my chance to-day; you're giving me a bigger one." "Then I'm only wasting your time--up here!" It had not been in Latisan's mind that he would make any reference to the past; she had implored him to keep silent and he was determined to obey. He was rigidly resolved to offer no plea for the future; this was the granddaughter--presumably the heiress of Echford Flagg, to be taken into her own after this service she had rendered. A Latisan of the broken Latisans had no right to lift his eyes to her! If there had been a twinkle of hope for his comfort in her attitude of reliance on him after he had arrived at Skulltree, there was none at that moment, for she had become distinctly dignified and distant. He swung back to that bitter conclusion which he had made a part of his convictions when he had pondered on the matter in his little room in New York--her frantically pledged affection had been only a part of her campaign of sacrifice. He was not blaming her for the pretense--he was not calling it deceit. She had fought for her own with such weapons as she could command in a time of stress. He followed her meekly when she hurried down from the cliff. On the path which led back to the Flagg camp a breathless cookee met them. "A team is here from Adonia, miss. It's the big bays--Mr. Flagg's horses." Instinctively she turned to Ward, making him her prop as she had done previously on that day. "I've been expecting it," he told her. "It's just what your grandfather would do after he got word that Craig had gone through Adonia with his roughnecks. Mr. Flagg wouldn't leave you here to face what was threatened." "I didn't tell my grandfather who I was. Dick promised to keep the secret," she faltered. "Remember! Words have wings up in this region! I explained to you once, Miss Kennard, and you know what happened when I let loose that flock of them at Adonia--like a fool. I don't dare to think about it!" He paced away from her; then he returned, calm again. "Mr. Flagg must have heard--he would keep in touch with what has been going on up here--and after he knew, it would be his style to let you go ahead and win out. He would understand what it is you're trying to do. His sending that team, now that he is afraid of danger, proves that he knows." When she ran on ahead Latisan did not try to keep up with her; he was once again the drive boss of Flagg's crew, a hired man; he had no excuse for meddling in the family affairs of his employers, he reflected, and in his new humility he was avoiding anything which might savor of inquisitive surveillance. The man who had put the horses to the jumper in Adonia, the man whom she knew as Jeff, was the deputy whom Flagg had sent. He had come in haste--that was plain to her; he was mopping the flanks of the sweating bays. The deference with which he touched his cap informed her fully as to the amount of knowledge possessed by the Flagg household. He unbuttoned, one after the other, his overcoat, his inner coat, his waistcoat, and from the deepest recess in his garments produced a sealed letter; his precautions in regard to it attested the value he put on a communication from the master to the master's granddaughter. The envelope was blank. The men of the shift that had been relieved stood about her in a circle. The arrival of the bays was an event which matched the other sensational happenings of the crowded day, and she was conscious that, without meaning to be disrespectful, the men were hankering to be taken wholly into her confidence--were expecting that much favor from her. Granddaughter of Echford Flagg she might be--but more than all she was one of the crew, that season, a companion who had inspired them, toiled with them, and triumphed with them. If any more good news had come they, as friends, were entitled to know it, their expressions told her. They were distinctly conveying to her their notion that she should stand there and read the letter aloud. The hand which clutched the missive was trembling, and she was filled with dread in spite of the consoling thought that she had achieved so much. She was afraid to open the letter and she escaped out of the circle of inquiring faces and hid herself in her tent; even the crude flourish of importance displayed by the manner of Jeff in delivering the communication to her had its effect in making her fears more profound. The whims of old age--Flagg had dwelt on the subject! She remembered that when she was in the big house with Latisan, her grandfather had beat on the page of the Bible and had anathematized the ties of family in his arraignment of faults. He had been kind, after his fashion, when she was incognito, but now that he knew---- She ripped the envelope from the letter and opened the sheet; it was a broad sheet and had been folded many times to make it fit the envelope. It was more like rude print than handwriting. At first she thought that her grandfather had been able to master a makeshift chirography with his left hand. But boldly at the top of the sheet, as a preface of apology, was this statement: "Dicktated to Dick and excuse looks and mesteaks. Hese a poor tool at writtin." Crouching on her bed of boughs, the sheet on her knees, her hands clutched into her wind-rumpled hair above her temples, she read the letter which her grandfather had contrived with the help of his drafted amanuensis. To my Grand-daughter. He have to use short words and few. Dick is slow and can't spel. Lida's thoughts were running parallel with her reading, and she remembered that, in those letters of hideous arraignment which she had found in her mother's effects, Echford Flagg's own spelling was fantastically original. But under the layers of ugly malediction she had found pathos: he said that he'd had no schooling of his own, and on that account had been led to turn his business over to the better but dishonest ability of Alfred Kennard. Reading on, she could picture the scene--the two old men toiling with pathetic earnestness over the task of preparing that letter; here and there, the words only partially deleted by lines run across them, were evidences that in his flustration under the master's vitriolic complaints, old Dick had confused comment with dictated matter--and had included comment in his unthinking haste to get everything down. Three times a "Dam your pelt" had been written and crossed out. He tell you I knew you when I gave you my old cant dog. Lida gasped when she read the blunt declaration. She might have guessed that Echford Flagg would have repulsed a stranger; he had disguised his true sentiments under the excuse of an old man's whim! I let you go. It was making a squair deal between you and me. Nicola sent me a man to tell me how you had gorn north with his men and so I took Dick back after I had fired him. It was at this point that a particularly prominent "Dam your pelt" was interjected. The old fool would have blabbed to me what you told him to keep quiet about. He aint fit to be trusted with any secrits. But he was scard to tell me you was Lida. I told him. But the Comas helyun has gorn past here with men and guns. Let him have the logs. I want you, my granddaughter. Come home. Tears flooded her eyes. "Come home!" Old Dick had printed those words in bold letters. This is in haist but he has been 2 hours writtin it and so I send Jeff to bring you. Dont wait. Kepe away from danjur. Come home. And old Dick, the toiling scribe, had smuggled in at the bottom of the sheet a postscript, a vicarious confession which Echford Flagg did not know how to make, "Hese cryin and monein for you. Come home!" It was as if those two summoning words were spoken in her ear, plaintively and quaveringly. She ran from the tent, carrying her little bag and the cant dog scepter of the Flaggs. "Can you start back at once?" she called to Jeff. "Aye! It's orders." She saw Latisan at the shore, directing the movements of the men; he was once more the drive master, his cant dog in his hand, terse in his commands, obeyed in his authority. He pulled off his cap and walked to meet her when she hastened toward him. "I'm going back to Adonia." "My guess was right, you see!" "Are you coming soon to report?--Shall I tell my grandfather----" She halted in her query as if she were regretting the eagerness in her tone. "I'll leave it to you to tell him all that has happened up here. But you may say to him, if you will, that I'm staying with the drive from now on." Her charioteer swung the big bays and headed them toward the mouth of the tote road, halting them near her. Her emotions were struggling from the fetters with which she tried to bind them. Those men standing around! She wished they would go away about their business, but they surveyed her with the satisfied air of persons who felt that they belonged in all matters that were on foot. Latisan was repressed, grave, keeping his place, as he had assigned a status to himself. She was glad when old Vittum broke upon the silence that had become embarrassing. "It won't be like what it has been, after you're gone, Miss Lida Kennard. But I feel that I'm speaking for the men when I say that you're entitled to a lay-off, and if you'll be out on the hill where you can wave your hand to us when we ride the leader logs into the hold-boom, we'll all be much obligated to you! I was thinking of calling for three cheers, but I remember how this idea seemed to hit better." He led the procession of men past her; they scrubbed their toil-roughened palms across their breasts and gave her silent pledges when they grasped her hand. "It's sort of a family party," said Vittum. There was inspiration for her in that suggestion. This was no time for convention, for placid weighing of this consideration against that, for strait-laced repression. The environment encouraged her. Her exulting joy drove her on. Once before, forced by the intensity of her need, she had made small account of convenances. But she acknowledged that a half truth had nearly compassed destruction of her hopes and the ruin of a man; a liar had taken advantage of an equivocal position. But now the whole truth about her was clear. Her identity was known--her motives were beyond all question. And there were no vindictive liars among those loyal followers who had come storming down the river for the sake of her cause. If she did what she had in her mind to do, what was it except the confirmation of a pledge and the carrying out of a promise? But when she looked appealingly up at Latisan he was steadfastly staring past her. Her impulses were already galloping, but the instant prick of pique was the final urge which made the impulses fairly run away. She reached out and took Ward's hand and pressed it between her palms. "If it's because I'm Lida Kennard instead of the table girl at Brophy's tavern, you're foolish," she whispered, standing on tiptoe. "I gave you my promise. But perhaps you think it isn't binding because there was no seal, such as I put on that lawyer's paper down at the dam. Well--then--here's the seal." She flung her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek. "Now let the winged word take flight through the region!" she told herself. No man could misunderstand the declaration of that kiss! When Latisan came to his senses sufficiently to move his muscles, she avoided his groping arms and ran to the wagon. For a moment the big bays crouched, expecting the whistling sweep of the whip, bending their necks to watch the passenger climbing to her seat. "Wait!" begged Latisan. He stumbled toward the wagon, staring at her, tripped by the earth ridges to which he paid no heed. "Yes!" she promised. And then in tones that were low and thrilling and significant with honest pledge she said, "I'll wait for you--at home--at home!" Jeff obeyed her quick command and swung the whistling whip, and Latisan stood gazing after her. The men respected his stunned absorption in his thoughts. They went scattering to their work. Felix walked with Vittum. "Ba gor!" The French Canadian vented the ejaculation after taking a deep breath. "When she say it to him--as she say it--it make goose flesh wiggle all over maself!" "As I have said!" Vittum was trudging along, his eyes on a big plug of tobacco from which he was paring a slice. "As I have said!" He slid the slice into his mouth from the blade of the knife. "She knows her business!" 
50091	----	provided by the Internet Archive SILAS STRONG, EMPEROR OF THE WOODS By Irving Bacheller New York and London Harper and Brothers Publishers 1906 [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0004] [Illustration: 0005] TO MY FRIEND THE LATE ARCHER BROWN in memory of summer days when we wandered far and sat down to rest by springs and brooks in the doomed empire of Strong and talked of saving it and of better times and knew not they were impossible. Some of the people of these pages, when the author endeavored to regulate their conduct according to well-known rules of literary construction, declared themselves free and independent. When, urged by him, they tried to speak and act in the fashion of most novels, they laughed, and seemed to be ashamed of themselves, and with good reason. They are slow, stubborn, modest, shy, and used to the open. Not for them are the narrow stage, the swift action, the fine-wrought chain of artful incident that characterize a modern romance. Of late authors have succeeded rather well in turning people into animals and animals into people. Why not, if one's art can perform miracles? This book aims not to emulate or amend the work of the Creator. Its people are just folks of a very old pattern, its animals rather common and of small attainments. It is in no sense a literary performance. It pretends to be nothing more than a simple account of one summer's life, pretty much as it was lived, in a part of the Adirondacks. It goes on about as things happen there, with a leisurely pace, like that of the woods lover on a trail who may be halted by nothing more than a flower or a bird-song. One day follows another in the old fashion of those places where men go for rest and avarice quits them with bloody spurs and they forget the calendar and measure time on the dial of the heavens. The book has one high ambition. It has tried to tell the sad story of the wilderness itself--to show, from the woodsman's view-point, the play of great forces which have been tearing down his home and turning it into the flesh and bone of cities. Were it to cause any reader to value what remains of the forest above its market-price and to do his part in checking the greed of the saws, it would be worth while--bad as it is. SILAS STRONG I THE song of the saws began long ago at the mouths of the rivers. Slowly the axes gnawed their way southward, and the ominous, prophetic chant followed them. Men seemed to goad the rivers to increase their speed. They caught and held and harnessed them as if they had been horses and drove them into flumes and leaped them over dams and pulled and hauled and baffled them until they broke away with the power of madness in their rush. But, even then, the current of the rivers would not do; the current of thunderbolts could not have whirled the wheels with speed enough. Now steam bursts upon the piston-head with the power of a hundred horses. The hungry steel races through columns of pine as if they were soft as butter and its' bass note booms night and day to the heavens. Hear it now. The burden of that old song is m-o-r-e, m-o-r-e, m-o-r-e! It is doleful music, God knows, but, mind you, it voices the need of the growing land. It sings of the doom of the woods. It may be heard all along the crumbling edge of the wilderness from Maine to Minnesota. Day by day hammers beat time while the saws continue their epic chorus. There are towers and spires and domes and high walls where, in our boyhood, there were only trees far older than the century, and these rivers that flow north go naked in open fields for half their journey. Every spring miles of timber come plunging over cataracts and rushing through rapids and crowding into slow water on its way to the saws. There a shaft of pine which has been a hundred years getting its girth is ripped into slices and scattered upon the stack in a minute. A new river, the rushing, steam-driven river of steel, bears it away to the growing cities. Silas Strong once wrote in his old memorandum-book these words: "Strong says to himself seems so the world was goin' to be peeled an' hollered out an' weighed an' measured an' sold till it's all et up like an apple." On the smooth shore of the river below Raquette Falls, and within twenty rods of his great mill, lived a man of the name of Gordon with two motherless children. Pity about him! Married a daughter of "Bill" Strong up in the woods--an excellent woman--made money and wasted it and went far to the bad. Good fellow, drink, poker, and so on down the hill! His wife died leaving two children--blue-eyed little people with curly, flaxen hair--a boy of four a girl of nearly three years. The boy's full name was John Socksmith Gordon--reduced in familiar parlance to Socky. The girl was baptized Susan Bradbury Gordon, but was called Sue. Their Uncle Silas Strong came to the funeral of their mother. He had travelled more than eighty miles in twenty-four-hours, his boat now above and now beneath him. He brought his dog and rifle, and wore a great steel watch-chain and a pair of moccasins w with fringe on the sides, and a wolf-skin jacket. He carried the children on his shoulders and tossed them in the air, while his great size and odd attire seemed to lay hold of their spirits. As time passed, a halo of romantic splendor gathered about this uncle's memory. One day Socky heard him referred to as the "Emperor of the Woods." He was not long finding out that an emperor was a very grand person who wore gold on his head and shoulders and rode a fine horse and was always ready for a fight. So their ideal gathered power and richness, one might say, the longer he lived in their fancy. They loved their father, but as a hero he had not been a great success. There was a time when both had entertained some hope for him, but as they saw how frequently he grew "tired" they gave their devotion more and more to this beloved memory. Their uncle's home was remote from theirs, and so his power over them had never been broken by familiarity. Socky and Sue told their young friends all they had been able to learn of their Uncle Silas, and, being pressed for more knowledge, had recourse to invention. Stories which their father had told grew into wonder-tales of the riches, the strength, the splendor, and the general destructive power of this great man. Sue, the first day she went to Sunday-school, when the minister inquired who slew a lion by the strength of his hands, confidently answered, "Uncle Silas." There was one girl in the village who had an Uncle Phil with a fine air of authority and a wonderful watch and chain; there was yet another with an Uncle Henry, who enjoyed the distinction of having had the small-pox; there was a boy, also, who had an Uncle Reuben with a wooden leg and a remarkable history, and a wen beside his nose with a wart on the same. But these were familiar figures, and while each had merits of no low degree, their advocates were soon put to shame by the charms of that mysterious and remote Uncle Silas. There was a little nook in the lumber-yard where children used to meet every Saturday for play and free discussion. There, now and then, some new-comer entered an uncle in the competition. There, always, a primitive pride of blood asserted itself in the remote descendants, shall we say, of many an ancient lord and chieftain. One day--Sue was then five and Socky six years of age--Lizzie Cornell put a cousin on exhibit in this little theatre of childhood. He was a boy with red hair and superior invention from out of town. He stood near Lizzie--a deep and designing miss--and said not a word, until Sue began about her Uncle Silas. It was a new tale of that remarkable hunter which her father had related the night before while she lay waiting for the sandman. She told how her uncle had seen a panther one day when he was travelling without a gun. His dog chased the panther and soon drove him up a tree. Now, it seemed, the only thing in the nature of a weapon the hunter had with him was a piece of new rope for his canoe. After a moment's reflection the great man climbed the tree and threw a noose over the panther's neck while his faithful dog was barking below. Then the cute Uncle Silas made his rope fast to a limb and shook the tree so that when the panther jumped for the ground he hung himself. To most of those who heard the narrative it seemed to be a rather creditable exploit, showing, as it did, a shrewdness and ready courage of no mean order on the part of Uncle Silas. Murmurs of glad approval were hushed, however, by the voice of the red-headed boy. "Pooh! that's nothing," said he, with contempt. "My Uncle Mose chased a panther once an' overtook him and ketched him by the tail an' fetched his head agin a tree, quick as a flash, an' knocked his brains out." His words ran glibly and showed an off-hand mastery of panthers quite unequalled. Here was an uncle of marked superiority and promise. There was a moment of silence in the crowd. "If ye don't believe it," said the red-headed boy, "I can show ye a vest my mother made out o' the skin." That was conclusive. Sue blushed for shame and looked into the face of Socky. Her mouth drooped a little and her under lip trembled with anxiety. Doubt, thoughtfulness, and confusion were on the face of her brother. He scraped the sand with his foot. He felt that he had sometimes stretched the truth a little, but this--this went beyond his capacity for invention. "Don't believe it," he whispered, with half a sneer as he glanced down at Sue. Lizzie Cornell began to titter. All eyes were fixed upon the unhappy pair as if to say, "How about your Uncle Silas now?" The populace, deserting the standard of the old king, gathered in front of the red-headed boy and began to inquire into the merits of Uncle Mose. Socky and Sue hesitated. Curiosity struggled with resentment. Slowly and thoughtfully they walked away. For a moment neither spoke. Soon a cheering thought came into the mind of Sue. "Maybe Uncle Silas has ketched a panther by the tail, too," said she, hopefully. Socky, his hands in his pockets, looked down with a dazed expression. "I'm going to ask father," said he, thoughtfully. It was now late in the afternoon. They went home and sat in silence on the veranda, watching for their father. The old Frenchwoman who kept house for him tried to coax them in, but they would make no words with her. Long they sat there looking wistfully down the river-bank. Presently Sue hauled out of her pocket a tiny rag doll which she carried for casual use. It came handy in moments of loneliness and despair outside the house. She toyed with its garments, humming in a motherly fashion. It was nearly dark when they saw their father staggering homeward according to his habit. They knew not yet the meaning of that wavering walk. "There he comes!" said Socky, as they both ran to meet him. "He can't carry us to-night. He's awful tired." They thought him "tired." They kissed him and took his hands in theirs, and led him into the house. Stern and silent he sat down beside them at the supper-table. The children were also silent and sober-faced from intuitive sympathy. They could not yet introduce the topic which weighed upon them. Socky looked at his father. For the first time he noted that his clothes were shabby; he knew that a few days before his father had lost his watch. The boy stole away from the table, and went to his little trunk and brought the sacred thing which his teacher had given him Christmas Day--a cheap watch that told time with a noisy and inspiring tick. He laid it down by his father's plate. "There," said he, "I'm going to let you wear my watch." It was one of those deep thrusts which only the hand of innocence can administer. Richard Gordon took the watch in his hand and sat a moment looking down. The boy manfully resumed his chair. "It don't look very well for you to be going around without a watch," he remarked, taking up his piece of bread and butter. His father put the watch in his pocket. "You can let me wear it Sundays," the boy added. "You won't need it Sundays." A smile overspread the man's face. The children, quick to see their opportunity, approached him on either side. Sue put her arms around the neck of her father and kissed him. "Tell us a story about Uncle Silas," she pleaded. "Uncle Silas!" he exclaimed. "We're all going to see him in a few days." The children were mute with surprise. Sue's little doll dropped from her hands to the floor. Her face changed color and she turned quickly, with a loud cry, and drummed on the table so that the dishes rattled. Socky leaned over the back of a chair and shook his head, and gave his feet a fling and then recovered his dignity. "Now don't get excited," remarked their father. They ran out of the room, and stood laughing and whispering together for a moment. Then they rushed back. "When are we going?" the boy inquired. "In a day or two," said Gordon, who still sat drinking his tea. Sue ran to tell Aunt Marie, the housekeeper, and Socky sat in his little rocking-chair for a moment of sober thought. "Look here, old chap," said Gordon, who was wont to apply the terms of mature good-fellowship to his little son. Socky came and stood by the side of his father. "You an' I have been friends for some time, haven't we?" was the strange and half-maudlin query which Gordon put to his son. The boy smiled and came nearer. "An' I've always treated ye right--ain't I? Answer me." "Yes, sir." "Well, folks say you're neglected an' that you don't have decent clothes an' that you might as well have no father at all. Now, old boy, I'm going to tell you the truth; I'm broke--failed in business, an' have had to give up. Understand me; I haven't a cent in the world." The man smote his empty pocket suggestively. The boy was now deeply serious. Not able to comprehend the full purport of his father's words, he saw something in the face before him which began to hurt. His lower lip trembled a little. "Don't worry, old friend," said Gordon, clapping him on the shoulder. Just then Sue came running back. "Say," said she, climbing on a round of her father's chair, "did Uncle Silas ever ketch a panther by the tail?" The children held their breaths waiting for the answer. "Ketch a panther by the tail!" their father exclaimed. "Whatever put that in your head?" Sue answered with some show of excitement. Her words came fast. "Lizzie Cornell's cousin he said that his Uncle Mose had ketched a panther by the tail an' knocked his brains out." Their father smiled again. "That kind o' floored ye, didn't it, old girl?" said he, with a kiss. "Le's see," he continued, drawing the children close on either side of him. "I don' know as he ever ketched a panther by the tail, but I'll tell ye what he did do. One day when he hadn't any gun with him he come acrost a big bear, an' Uncle Sile fetched him a cuff with his fist an' broke the bear's neck, an' then he brought him home on his back an' et him for dinner." "Oh!" the girl exclaimed, her mouth and eyes wide open. Socky whistled a shrill note of surprise and thankfulness. Then he clucked after the manner of one starting his horse. "My stars!" he exclaimed, and so saying he skipped across the floor and brought his fist down heavily upon the lounge. Uncle Silas had been saved--plucked, as it were, from the very jaws of obscurity. When they were ready to get into bed the children knelt as usual before old Aunt Marie, the housekeeper. Sue ventured to add a sentence to her prayer. "God bless Uncle Silas," said she, "and make him very--very----" The girl hesitated, trying to find the right word. "Powerful," her brother suggested, still in the attitude of devotion. "Powerful," repeated Sue, in a trembling voice, and then added: "for Christ's sake. Amen." They lay a long time discussing what they should say and do when at last they were come into the presence of the great man. Suddenly a notion entered the mind of Socky that, in order to keep the favor of fortune, he must rise and clap his hand three times upon the round top of the posts at the foot of the bed. Accordingly he rose and satisfied this truly pagan impulse. Then he repeated the story of his uncle and the bear over and over again, pausing thoughtfully at the point of severest action and adding a little color to heighten the effect. Here and there Sue prompted him, and details arose which seemed to merit careful consideration. "I wouldn't wonder but what Uncle Silas must 'a' spit on his hand before he struck the bear," said Socky, remembering how strong men often prepared themselves for a difficult undertaking. When the story had been amplified, in a generous degree, and well committed to memory, they began to talk of Lizzie Cornell and her cousin, the red-headed boy, and planned how they would seek them out next day and defy them with the last great achievement of their Uncle Silas. "He's a nasty thing," the girl exclaimed, suddenly. "I feel kind o' sorry for him," said Socky, with a sigh. "Why?" "Cos he thinks his uncle beats the world an' he ain't nowhere." "Maybe he'll want to fight," said Sue. "Then I'll fetch him a cuff." "S'pose you was to break his neck?" "I'll hit him in the breast," said Socky, thoughtfully, feeling his muscle. Sue soon fell asleep, but Socky lay thinking about his father. He had crossed the edge of the beginning of trouble. He thought of those words--and of a certain look which accompanied them--"I haven't got a cent in the world." What did they mean? He could only judge from experience--from moments when he had stood looking through glass windows and showcases at things which had tempted him and which he had not been able to enjoy. Oh, the bitter pain of it! Must his father endure that kind of thing? He lay for a few moments weeping silently. All at once the thought of his little bank came to him. It was nearly full of pennies. He rose in bed and listened. The room was dark, but he could hear Aunt Marie at work in the kitchen. That gave him courage, and he crept stealthily out of bed and went to his trunk and felt for the little square house of painted tin with a slot in the chimney. It lay beneath his Sunday clothes, and he raised and gently shook it. He could hear that familiar and pleasant sound of the coin. Meanwhile his father had been sitting alone. For weeks he had been rapidly going downhill. His friends had all turned against him. He had been fairly stoned with reproaches. He could see only trouble behind, disgrace before, and despair on either side. He held a revolver in his hand. A child's voice rang out in the silence, calling "father." Gordon leaned forward upon the table. He began to be conscious of things beyond himself. He heard the great mill-saw roaring in the still night; he heard the tick of the clock near him. Suddenly his little son peered through the halfopen door. "Father," Socky whispered. Gordon started from his chair, and, seeing the boy, sat down again. Socky was near crying but restrained himself. Without a word he deposited his bank on the table. It was a moment of solemn renunciation. He was like one before the altar giving up the vanities of the world. He looked soberly at his father and said, "I'm going to give you all my money." Gordon said not a word and there was a moment of silence. "More than a dollar in it," the boy suggested, proudly. Still his father sat resting his head upon his hand in silence while he seemed to be trying the point of a pen. "You may give me five cents if you've a mind to when you open it," Socky added. Gordon turned slowly and kissed the forehead of his little son. The boy put his arms around the neck of his father and begged him to come and lie upon the bed and tell a story. So it happened the current of ruin was turned aside--the heat-oppressed brain diverted from its purpose. For as the man lay beside his children he began to think of them and less of himself. "I cannot leave them," he concluded. "When I go I shall take them with me." In the long, still hours he lay thinking. The south wind began to stir the pines, and cool air from out of the wild country came through an open window. Fathoms of dusty, dead air which had hung for weeks over the valley, growing hotter and more oppressive in the burning sunlight, moved away. A cloud passing northward flung a sprinkle of rain upon the broad, smoky flats and was drained before it reached the great river. All who were sick and weary felt the ineffable healing of the woodland breeze. It soothed the aching brain of the mill-owner and slackened the ruinous toil of his thoughts. Gordon slept soundly for the first time in almost a month. II NEXT morning Gordon felt better. He began even to consider what he could do to mend his life. The children got ready for Sunday-school and were on their way to church an hour ahead of time. Sue, in her white dress and pretty bonnet, walked with a self-conscious, don't-touch-me air. Socky, in his little sailor suit, had the downward eye of meditation. Each carried a Testament and looked neither to right nor left. They hurried as if eager for spiritual refreshment. They were, however, like the veriest barbarians setting out with spears and arrows in quest of revenge. They were thinking of Lizzie Cornell and that boy of the red head and the doomed uncle. Socky's lips moved silently as he hurried. One might have inferred that he was repeating his golden text. Such an inference would have been far from the truth. He was, in fact, tightening the grasp of memory on those inspiring words: "an' Uncle Sile fetched him a cuff with his fist an' broke the bear's neck, an' then he brought him home on his back an' et him for dinner." They joined a group of children who were sitting on the steps of the old church. Their hearts beat fast when they saw Lizzie coming with her cousin, the red-headed boy. A number went forth to meet the two. "Tell us the badger story," said they to the red-headed boy. "Pooh! that ain't much," he answered, modestly. "Please tell us," they insisted. "Wal, one day my Uncle Mose see a side-hill badger--" "What's a side-hill badger?" a voice interrupted. "An animal what lives on a hill, an' has legs longer on one side than on t 'other, so 't he can run round the side of it," said he, glibly, and with a look of pity for such ignorance. "Go on with the story," said another voice. "My Uncle Mose sat an' watched one day up in the limb of a tree above the hole of a badger. By-an'-by an ol' he badger come out, an' my uncle dropped onto his back, an' rode him round an' round the hill 'til he was jes' tuckered out. Then Uncle Mose put a rope on his neck an' tied him to a tree, an' the ol' badger dug an' dug until they was a hole in the ground so big you could put a house in it. An' my uncle he got an idee, an' so one day he fetched him out to South Colton an' learnt him how to dig wells an' cellars, an' bym-by the ol' badger could earn more money than a hired man." "Shucks!" said Socky, turning upon his adversary with sneering, studied scorn. "That's nothing!" Then proudly stepping forward, he flung the latest exploit of his Uncle Silas into the freckled face of the red-headed boy. It stunned the able advocate of old Moses Leonard--a mighty hunter in his time--and there fell a moment of silence followed by murmurs of applause. The little barbarian--Lizzie Cornell--had begun to scent the battle and stood sharpening an arrow. "It's a lie," said the red-headed boy, recovering the power of speech. "His father's a thief an' a drunkard, anyway." That was the arrow of Lizzie Cornell. Socky had raised his fists to vindicate his honor, when, hearing the remark about his father, he turned quickly upon the girl who made it. What manner of rebuke he would have administered, history is unable to record. The minister had come. The children began to scatter. Lizzie and her red-headed cousin ran around the church. Socky and Sue stood with angry faces. Suddenly Socky leaned upon the church door and burst into tears. He dimly comprehended the disgrace which Lizzie had sought to put upon him. The minister could not persuade him to enter the church or to explain the nature of his trouble. When all had gone into Sunday-school, the boy turned, wiping his eyes. Sue stood beside him, a portrait of despair. "Le's go home an' tell our father," said she. They started slowly, but as their indignation grew their feet hurried. Neither spoke in the long journey to their door. They ran through the hall and rushed in upon their father who sat reading. "Oh, father!" said the girl, in excited tones; "Lizzie Cornell says you're a thief an' a drunkard." Gordon rose and turned pale. The hands and voices of the children were ever raised against him. "It's a lie!" said he, turning away. He stood a moment looking out of the window. He must take them to some lonely part of the wilderness and there make an end of his trouble and of theirs. He turned to the children, saying, "Right after dinner we'll start for the woods." So it befell that in the afternoon of a Sunday late in June, Socky and Sue, with all their effects in a pack-basket, and their father beside them, started in a spring-wagon over the broad, stony terraces that lift southward into thickening woods, on their way to great peril. And so, too, it befell that in leaving home and the tearful face of dear Aunt Marie, they were sustained by a thought of that good and mighty man whom they hoped soon to see--their Uncle Silas. III. THE day was hot and still. Slowly they mounted the foot-hills between meadows aglow with color. The country seemed to flow ever downward past their sleepy eyes on its way to the great valley. The daisies were like white foam on the slow cascade of Bowman's Hill, and there were masses of red and yellow which appeared to be drifting on the flats. A driver sat on the front seat, and Gordon behind with Socky and Sue. The little folk chattered together and wearied their father with queries about birds and beasts. By-and-by the girl grew silent, her chin sank upon her breast, and her head began to shake and sway as their wagon clattered over the rough road. In a moment Socky's head was nodding also, and the feet of both swung limp below the wagon-seat. They had seemed to sink and rise and struggle and cry out in the silence, and were now as those drowned beneath it. Gordon drew them towards him and lifted their legs upon the cushioned wagon-seat. He sat thinking as they rode. They had been hard on him--those creditors. He had not meant to steal, but only to borrow that small sum which he had taken out of the business in order to feed and clothe the children who lay beside him. True, some dollars of it had gone to buy oblivion--a few hours of unearned, of unholy relief. How else, thought he, could he have stood the reproaches of brutal men? They arrived at Tupper's Mill late in the afternoon. There Gordon found a canoe and made ready. At this point the river turned like a scared horse and ran east by south, around Tup-per Ridge, in a wide loop, and, as if doubting its way, slackened pace, and, wavering right and left, moved slowly into the shade of the forest, and then, as if reassured, went on at a full gallop, leaping over the cliff at Fiddler's Falls. Below, it turned to the north, and, seeming to see its way at last, grew calm and crossed the flats wearily, covered with foam. Socky woke and rubbed his eyes when he and his sister were taken out of the wagon. Sue continued to sleep, although carried like a sack of meal under the arm of the driver and Silas Strong laid amidships on a blanket. Mr. Tupper, the mill man, gave them a piece of meat which, out of courtesy to the law, he called "mountain lamb." With pack aboard and Socky on a blanket in the bow, Gordon pushed his canoe into the current. All who journeyed to the Lost River country from the neighborhood of Hillsborough arrived at Tupper's late in the afternoon. There, generally, they took canoe and paddled six miles to a log inn at the head of the still water. But as Gordon started from Tupper's Mill down stream he had in mind a destination not on any map of this world. Socky sat facing him, a little hand on either gunwale. Socky had thought often that day of the incident of the night before and of his father's poverty. Now he looked him over from head to foot. He saw the little steel chain fastened to his father's waistcoat and leading into the pocket where he knew that his own watch lay hidden. The look of it gave him a feeling of great virtue and satisfaction. "Father, will you please tell me what time it is?" he inquired. Gordon removed the watch from his pocket. "Half-past six. We've got to push on." It was fine to see that watch in his father's hand. "I'm going to give it to you," said the boy, soberly. "You can wear it Sundays an' every day." Gordon looked into the eyes of his son. He saw there the white soul of the little traveller just entering upon the world. "I'm going to buy you some new clothes, too," said Socky, now overflowing with generosity. "Where'll you get the money?" "From my Uncle Silas." After a few moments Socky added, "If I was Lizzie Cornell's father I'd give her a good whipping." They rode in silence awhile, and soon the boy lay back on his blanket looking up at the sky. "Father," said he, presently. "What?" "I'm good to you, ain't I?" "Very." There was a moment of silence, and then the boy added, "I love you." Those words gave the man a new sense of comfort. If he could have done so he would have embraced his son and covered his face with kisses. The sun had sunk low and they were entering the edge of the night and the woodland. Soon the boy fell asleep. The silence of the illimitable sky seemed to be flooding down and delightful sounds were drifting on its current. They had passed the inn, long ago and walls of fir and pine were on either side of them. Gordon put into a deep cove, stopping under the pine-trees with his bow on a sand-bar. Then he let himself down, stretching his legs on the canoe bottom and lying back on his blanket. For a long time he lay there thinking. He had been a man of some refinement, and nature had punished him, after an old fashion, for the abuse of it with extreme sensitiveness. He had come to the Adirondacks from a New England city and married and gone into business. At first he had prospered, and then he had begun to go down. He had been a lover of music and a reader of the poets. As he lay thinking in the early dusk he heard the notes of the wood-thrush. That bird was like a welcoming trumpeter before the gate of a palace; it bade him be at home. Above all he could hear the water song of Fiddler's Falls--the tremulous, organ bass of rock caverns upon which the river drummed as it fell, the chorus of the on-rushing stream and great overtones in the timber. Sound and rhythm seemed to be full of that familiar strain--so like a solemn warning: [Illustration: 0038] A long time he sat hearing it. He began to feel ashamed of his folly and awakened to the inspiration of a new purpose. He rose and looked about him. When you enter a house you begin to feel the heart of its owner. Something in the walls and furnishings, something in the air--is it a vibration which dead things have gathered from the living?--bids you welcome or warns you to depart. It is the true voice of the master. As Gordon came into the wilderness he felt like one returning to his father's house. In this great castle the heart of its Master seemed to speak to him with a tenderness fatherly and unmistakable. A subtle force like that we find in houses built with hands now bade him welcome. "Lie down and rest, my son," it seemed to say. "Let not your heart be troubled. Here in your Father's house are forgiveness and plenty." He put away the thought of death. He covered the sleeping boy and girl, pushed his canoe forward upon the sand, and lying back comfortably soon fell asleep. He awoke refreshed at sunrise. The great, green fountain of life, in the midst of which he had rested, now seemed to fill his heart with its uplifting joy and energy and persistence. He built a fire under the trees and broiled the meat and made toast and coffee. He lifted the children in his arms and kissed them with unusual tenderness. "To-day we'll see Uncle Silas," Gordon assured them. "My Uncle Silas!" said the boy, fondly. "He's mine, too," Sue declared. "He's both of our'n," Socky allowed, as they began to eat their breakfast. IV SILAS STRONG, or "Panther Sile," as the hunters called him, spent every winter in the little forest hamlet of Pitkin and every summer in the woods. Lawrence County was the world, and game, wood, and huckleberries the fulness thereof; all beyond was like the reaches of space unexplored and mysterious. God was only a word--one may almost say--and mostly part of a compound adjective; hell was Ogdensburg, to which he had once journeyed; and the devil was Colonel Jedson. This latter opinion, it should be said, grew out of an hour in which the Colonel had bullied him in the witness-chair, and not to any lasting resemblance. As to Ogdensburg itself, the hunter had based his judgment upon evidence which, to say the least, was inconclusive. When Sile and the city first met, they regarded each other with extreme curiosity. A famous hunter, as he moved along the street with rifle, pack, and panther-skin, Sile was trying to see everything, and everything seemed to be trying to see Sile. The city was amused while the watchful eye of Silas grew weary and his bosom filled with distrust. One tipsy man offered him a jack-knife as a compliment to the length of his nose, and before he could escape a new acquaintance had wrongfully borrowed his watch. His conclusions regarding the city were now fully formed. He broke with it suddenly, and struck out across country and tramped sixty miles without a rest. Ever after the thought of Ogdensburg revived memories of confusion, headache, and irreparable loss. So, it is said, when he heard the minister describing hell one Sunday at the little school-house in Pitkin, he had no doubt either of its existence or its location. All this, however, relates to antecedent years of our history--years which may not be wholly neglected if one is to understand what follows them. After the death of his sister--the late Mrs. Gordon--Strong began to read his Bible and to cut his trails of thought further and further towards his final destination. A deeper reverence and a more correct notion of the devil rewarded his labor. It must be added that his meditations led him to one remarkable conclusion--namely, that all women were angels. His parents had left him nothing save a maiden sister named Cynthia, and characterized by some as "a reg'lar human panther." "Wherever Sile is they's panthers," said a guide once, in the little store at Pitkin. "Don't make no dif'er'nce whuther he's t' home er in the woods," said another, solemnly. That was when God owned the wilderness and kept there a goodly number of his big cats, four of which had fallen before the rifle of Strong. Cynthia, in his view, had a special sanctity, but there was another woman whom he regarded with great tenderness--a cheery-faced maiden lady of his own age and of the name of Annette. To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave her this title without any thought or knowledge of foreign customs. "Miss Roice" would have been too formal, and "Ann" or "Annette" would have been too familiar. "Lady Ann" seemed to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity, and distinction. In his view a "lady" was a creature as near perfection as anything could be in this world. When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the log school-house. Since the death of her mother the care of the little home had fallen upon her. She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature with a genius for housekeeping. June had come, and Silas was getting ready to go into camp. There was no longer any peace for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest and the sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. Had he not heard in his dreams the splash of leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads? In the midst of his preparations, although a silent man, the tumult of joy in his breast came pouring out in the whistled refrain of "Yankee Doodle." It was a general and not a special sense of satisfaction which caused him to shake with laughter now and then as he made his way along the rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his long nose thoughtfully. A nature-loving publisher, who often visited his camp, had printed some cards for him. They bore these modest words: S. STRONG GUIDE AND CONTRIVER He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue control--in his management of silence. He was what they called in that country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse. His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly, especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence of the deep woods. Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his winter home--a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking down at him. "Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen. "T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone. "What time to-morrer?" "D-daylight." "I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'." Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water. Cynthia snapped: "If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin' all my life." Cynthia was now fifty years of age, and regarded with a stern eye every act of man which bore any suggestion of dilly-dallying. "Ain't g-good'nough," he stammered, calmly. "You're fool 'nough," she declared, with a twang of ill-nature. "S-supper, Mis' Strong," said he, stirring the fire. Whenever his sister indulged in language of unusual loudness and severity he was wont to address her in a gentle tone as "Mis' Strong"--the only kind of retaliation to which he resorted. He shortened the "Miss" a little, so that his words might almost be recorded as "Mi' Strong." In those rare and cheerful moments when her mood was more in harmony with his own he called her "Sinth" for short. In his letters, which were few, he had addressed her as "deer sinth." She was, therefore, a compound person, consisting of a severe and dissenting character called "Mis' Strong," and a woman of few words and a look of sickliness and resignation who answered to the pseudonyme of "Sinth." Born and brought up in the forest, there was much in Silas and Cynthia that suggested the wild growth of the woodland. Their sister--the late Mrs. Gordon--had beauty and a head for books. She had gone to town and worked for her board and spent a year in the academy. Silas and Cynthia, on the other hand, were without beauty or learning or refinement, nor had they much understanding of the laws of earth or heaven, save what nature had taught them; but the devotion of this man to that querulous little wild-cat of a sister was remarkable. She was to him a sacred heritage. For love of her he had carried with him these ten years a burden, as it were, of suppressed and yearning affection. Silas Strong alone might even have been "good enough," in his own estimation, but he accepted "Mis' Strong" as a kind of flaw in his own character. Every June he went to his camp at Lost River, taking Sinth to cook for him, and returning in the early winter. Next day, at sunrise, they were to start for the woods. To-day he helped to get supper, and, having wiped the dishes, put on his best suit, his fine boots, his new felt hat, and walked a mile to the little farm of Uncle Ben Roice. He carried with him a gray squirrel in a cage, and, as he walked, sang in a low voice: "All for the love of a charmin' creature, All for the love of a lady fair." It was like any one of a thousand visits he had made there. Annette met him at the door. "Why, of all things!" said she. "What have you here?" "C'ris'mus p-present, Lady Ann," said he. It should be said that with Silas a gift was a "Christmas present" every day in the year--the cheerful spirit of that time being always with him. He proudly put the cage in her hands. "Much obliged to you, Sile," said she, laughing. "S-Strong's ahead!" he stammered, cheerfully. This indicated that in his fight with the powers of evil Strong felt as if he had at least temporary advantage. When, perhaps, after a moment of anger it seemed that the Evil One had got the upper hold on him, he was wont to exclaim, "Satan's ahead!" But the historian is glad to say that those occasions were, in the main, rare and painful. "Strong will never give in," said Annette, with laughter. Strong's affection was expressed only in signs and tokens. Of the former there were his careful preparation for each visit, and many sighs and blushes, and now and then a tender glance of the eye. Of tokens there had been many--a tame fox, ten mink-skins, a fawn, a young thrush, a pancake-turner carved out of wood, and other important trifles. For twenty years he had been coming, but never a word of love had passed between them. Silas sat in a strong wooden chair. Under the sky he never thought of his six feet and two inches of bone and muscle; now it seemed to fill his consciousness and the little room in which he sat. To-day and generally he leaned against the wall, a knee in his hands as if to keep himself in proper restraint. "Did you just come to bring me that squirrel?" Annette inquired. "No," he answered. "What then?" "Squirrel come t' b-bring me." "Silas Strong!" she exclaimed, playfully, amazed by his frankness. He put his big hand over his face and enjoyed half a minute of silent laughter. "Silas Strong!" she repeated. "Present,"'said he, as if answering the call of the roll, and sobering as he uncovered his face. In conversation Silas had a way of partly closing one eye while the other opened wide beneath a lifted brow. The one word of the Emperor was inadequate. He was, indeed, present, but he was extremely happy also, a condition which should have been freely acknowledged. It must be said, however, that his features made up in some degree for the idleness of his tongue. He brushed them with a downward movement, of his hand, as if to remove all traces of levity and prepare them for their part in serious conversation. "All w-well?" he inquired, soberly. "Eat our allowance," said she, sitting near him. "How's Miss Strong?" "S-supple!" he answered. Then he ran his fingers through his blond hair and soberly exclaimed, "Weasels!" This remark indicated that weasels had been killing the poultry and applying stimulation to the tongue of Miss Strong. Silas had sent her fowls away to market the day before. "Too bad!" was the remark of Lady Ann. "Fisht?" By this word Silas meant to inquire if she had been fishing. "Yesterday. Over at the falls--caught ten," said she, getting busy with her knitting. "B-big?" "Three that long," she answered, measuring with her thread. He gave a loud whistle of surprise, thought a moment, and exclaimed, "M-mountaneyous!" He used this word when contemplating in imagination news of a large and important character. "How have you been?" "Stout," he answered, drawing in his breath. Annette rose and seemed to go in search of something. The kindly gray eyes of Silas Strong followed her. A smile lighted up his face. It was a very plain face, but there was yet something fine about it, something which invited confidence and respect. The Lady Ann entered her own room, and soon returned. "Shut yer eyes," said she. "What f-for?" "Chris'mas present." Silas obeyed, and she thrust three pairs of socks into his coat-pocket. With a smile he drew them out. Then a partly smothered laugh burst from his lips, and he held his hand before his face and shook with good feeling. "S-socks!" he exclaimed. "There are two parts of a man which always ought to be kep' warm--his heart an' his feet," said she. Silas whacked his knee with his palm and laughed heartily, his wide eye aglow with merriment. His expression quickly turned serious. "B-bears plenty!" he exclaimed, as he felt of the socks and looked them over. This remark indicated that a season of unusual happiness and prosperity had arrived. Worked in white yarn at the top of each leg were the words, "Remember me." "T-till d-death," he whispered. "With me on your mind an' them on your feet you ought to be happy," said Annette. "An' w-warm," he answered, soberly. Presently she read aloud to him from the _St. Lawrence Republican_. "S-some day," said Silas, when at last he had risen to go. "Some day," she repeated, with a smile. The only sort of engagement between them lay in the two words "some day." They served as an avowal of love and intention. Amplified, as it were, by look and tone as well as by the pressure of the hand-clasp, they were understood of both. To-day as Annette returned the assurance she playfully patted his cheek, a rare token of her approval. Silas left her at the door and made his way down the dark road. He began to give himself some highly pleasing assurances. "S-some day--tall t-talkin'," he stammered, in a whisper, and then he began to laugh silently. "Patted my cheek!" he whispered. Then he laughed again. At the store he had filled his pack with flour, ham, butter, and like provisions for Lost River camp. At Annette's he had filled his heart with renewed hope and happiness and was now prepared for the summer. While he walked along he fell to speculating as to whether Annette could live under the same roof with Cynthia. A hundred times he had considered whether he could ask her, and as usual he concluded, "Ca-can't." The hunter had an old memorandum-book which was a kind of storehouse for thought, hope, and reflection. Therein he seemed always to regard himself objectively and spoke of Strong as if he were quite another person. Before going to bed that evening he made these entries: _"June the 23. Strong is all mellered up. "Snags."_ With him the word "meller" meant to soften, and sometimes, even, to conquer with the club. The word "snags" undoubtedly bore reference to the difficulties that beset his way. V SILAS and his sister ate their breakfast by candle-light and were off on the trail before sunrise, a small, yellow dog of the name of Zeb following. Zeb was a bear-dog with a cross-eye and a serious countenance. He was, in the main, a brave but a prudent animal. One day he attacked a bear, which had been stunned by a bullet, and before he could dodge the bear struck him knocking an eye out. Strong had put it back, and since that day his dog had borne a cross-eye. Zeb had a sense of dignity highly becoming in a creature of his attainments. This morning, however, he scampered up and down the trail, whining with great joy and leaping to lick the hand of his master. "Sinth" walked spryly, a little curt in her manner, but passive and resigned. Silas carried a heavy pack, a coon in a big cage, and led a fox. When he came to soft places he set the cage down and tethered the fox, and, taking Sinth in his arms, carried her as one would carry a baby. Having gained better footing, he would let Sinth down upon a log or a mossy rock to rest and return for his treasures. After two or three hours of travel the complaining "Mis' Strong" would appear. "Seems so ye take pleasure wearin' me out on these here trails," she would say. "Why don't ye walk a little faster?" "W-whoa!" he would answer, cheerfully. "Roughlocks!" The roughlock, it should be explained, was a form of brake used by log-haulers to check their bobs on a steep hill. In the conversation of Silas it was a cautionary signal meaning hold up and proceed carefully. "You don't care if you do kill me--gallopin' through the woods here jes' like a houn' after a fox. I won't walk another step--not another step." "Rur-roughlocks!" he commanded himself, as he tied the fox and set the coon down. "Won't ride either," she would declare, with emphasis. "W-wings on, Mis' Strong?" Silas had been known to ask, in a tone of great gentleness. She would be apt to answer, "If I had wings, I'd see the last o' you." Then a little time of rest and silence, after which the big, gentle hunter would shoulder his pack and lift in his arms the slender and complaining Miss Strong and carry her up the long grade of Bear Mountain. Then he would make her comfortable and return for his pets. That day, having gone back for the fox and the coon, he concluded to try the experiment of putting them together. Before then he had given the matter a good deal of thought, for if the two were in a single package, as it were, the problem of transportation would be greatly simplified. He could fasten the coon cage on the top of his pack, and so avoid doubling the trail. He led the fox and carried the coon to the point where Sinth awaited him. Then he removed the chain from the fox's collar, carefully opened the cage, and thrust him in. The swift effort of both animals to find quarter nearly overturned the cage. Spits and growls of warning followed one another in quick succession. Then each animal braced himself against an end of the cage, indulging, as it would seem, in continuous complaint and recrimination. "Y-you behave!" said Silas, wamingly, as he put the cage on top of his basket and fastened a stout cord from bars to buckles. "They 'll fight!" Sinth exclaimed. "Let 'em f-fight," said Silas, who had sat down before his pack and adjusted the shoulder-straps. The growling increased as he rose carefully to his feet, and with a swift movement coon and fox exchanged positions. Sinth descended the long hill afoot, and Silas went on cautiously, a low, continuous murmur of hostile sound rising in the air behind him. Each animal seemed to think it necessary to remind the other with every breath he took that he was prepared to defend himself. Their enmity was, it would appear, deep and racial. At Cedar Swamp, in the flat below, the big hunter took Sinth in his arms. Then the sound of menace and complaint rose before and behind him. Slowly he proceeded, his feet sinking deep in the wet moss. Stepping on hummocks in a dead creek, he slipped and fell. The little animals were flung about like shot in a bottle. Each seemed to hold the other responsible for his discomfiture. They came together in deadly conflict. The sounds in the cage resembled an explosion of fire-crackers under a pan. Sinth lifted her voice in a loud outcry of distress and accusation. Without a word the hunter scrambled to his feet, renewed his hold upon the complaining Sinth, and set out for dry land. Luckily the mud was not above his boot-tops. The cage creaked and hurtled. The animals rolled from side to side in their noisy encounter. The indignant Sinth struggled to get free with loud, hysteric cries. Strong ran beneath his burden. He gained the dry trail, and set his sister upon the ground. He flung off the shoulder-straps, and with a stick separated the animals. He opened the cage and seized the fox by the nape of the neck, and, before he could haul him forth, got a nip on the back of his hand. He lifted the spitting fox and fastened the chain upon his collar. Then Silas put his hands on his hips and blew like a frightened deer. "Hell's b-bein' raised," he muttered, as if taking counsel with himself against Satan. "C-careful!" He was in a mood between amusement and anger, but was dangerously near the latter. A little profanity, felt but not expressed, warmed his spirit, so that he kicked the coon's cage and tumbled it bottom side up. In a moment he recovered self-control, righted the cage, and whispered, "S-Satan's ahead!" The wound upon his hand was bleeding, but he seemed not to mind it. Having done his best for the comfort of his sister, he brushed the mud from his boots and trousers, filled his pipe, and sat meditating in a cloud of tobacco-smoke. Presently he rose and shouldered his pack and untied the fox and lifted the coon cage. "I'll walk if it kills me!" Sinth exclaimed, rising with a sigh of utter recklessness. "'T-'tain't fur," said Strong, as they renewed their journey. It was past mid-day when they got to camp, and Sinth lay down to rest while he fried some ham and boiled the potatoes and made tea and flapjacks by an open fire. When he sat on his heels and held his pan over the fire, the long woodsman used to shut up, as one might say, somewhat in the fashion of a jack-knife. He was wont to call it "settin' on his hunches." His great left hand served for a movable screen to protect his face from the heat. As the odor and sound of the frying rose about him, his features took on a look of-great benevolence. It was a good part of the meal to hear him announce, "Di-dinner," in a tender and cheerful tone. As he spoke it the word was one of great capacity for suggestion. When the sound of it rose and lingered on its final r, that day they arrived at Lost River camp, Sinth awoke and came out-of-doors. "Strong's g-gainin'!" he exclaimed, cheerfully, meaning thereby to indicate that he hoped soon to overtake his enemy. The table of bark, fastened to spruce poles, each end lying in a crotch, had been covered with a mat of ferns and with clean, white dishes. Silas began to convey the food from fire to table. To his delight he observed that "Mis' Strong" had gone into retirement. The face of his sister now wore its better look of sickliness and resignation. "Opeydildock?" he inquired, tenderly, pouring from a flask into a cup. "No, sir," she answered, curtly, her tone adding a rebuke to her negative answer. "Le's s-set," said he, soberly. They sat and ate their dinner, after which Silas went back on the trail to cut and bring wood for the camp-fire. When his job was finished, the rooms were put to rights, the stove was hot and clean, and an excellent supper waiting. Strong's camp consisted of three little log cabins and a large cook-tent. The end of each cabin was a rude fireplace built of flat rocks enclosed by upright logs which, lined with sheet-iron, towered above the roof for a chimney. Each floor an odd mosaic of wooden blocks, each wall sheathed with redolent strips of cedar, each rude divan bottomed with deer-skin and covered with balsam pillows, each bedstead of peeled spruce neatly cut and joined--the whole represented years of labor. Every winter Silas had come through the woods on a big sled with "new improvements" for camp. Now there were spring-beds and ticks filled with husks in the cabins, a stove and all needed accessories in the cook-tent. Ever since he could carry a gun Silas had set his traps and hunted along the valley of Lost River, ranging over the wild country miles from either shore. Twenty thousand acres of the wilderness, round about, had belonged to Smith & Gordon, who gave him permission to build his camp. When he built, timber and land had little value. Under the great, green roof from Bear Mountain to Four Ponds, from the Raquette to the Oswegatchie, one might have enjoyed the free hospitality of God. From a time he could not remember, this great domain had been the home of Silas Strong. He loved it, and a sense of proprietorship had grown within him. Therein he had need only of matches, a blanket, and a rifle. One might have led him blindfolded, in the darkest night, to any part of it and soon he would have got his bearings. In many places the very soles of his feet would have told him where he stood. Long ago its owners had given him charge of this great tract. He had forbidden the hounding of deer and all kinds of greedy slaughter, and had made campers careful with fire. Soon he came to be called "The Emperor of the Woods," and every hunter respected his laws. Slowly steam-power broke through the hills and approached the ramparts of the Emperor. This power was like one of the many hands of the republic gathering for its need. It started wheels and shafts and bore day and night upon them. Now the song of doom sounded in far corridors of the great sylvan home of Silas Strong. It was only a short walk to where the dead hills lay sprinkled over with ashes, their rock bones bleaching in the sun beneath columns of charred timber. The spruce and pine had gone with the ever-flowing stream, and their dead tops had been left to dry and burn with unquenchable fury at the touch of fire, and to destroy everything, root and branch, and the earth out of which it grew. It concerned him much to note, everywhere, signs of a change in proprietorship. In Strong's youth one felt, from end to end of the forest, this invitation of its ancient owner, "Come all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Now one saw much of this legend in the forest ways, "All persons are forbidden trespassing on this property under penalty of the law." Proprietorship had, seemingly, passed from God to man. The land was worth now thirty dollars an acre. Silas had established his camp when the boundaries were indefinite and the old banners of welcome on every trail, and he felt the change. VI IT was near sunset of the second day after the arrival of Sinth and Silas. They sat together in front of the cook-tent. Silas leaned forward smoking a pipe. His great, brawny arms, bare to the elbow, rested on his knees. His faded felt hat was tilted back. He was looking down at the long stretch of still water, fringed with lily-pads, and reflecting the colors of either shore. "You'ain't got a cent to yer name," said Sinth, who was knitting. She gave the yam a pull, and, as she did so, glanced up at her brother. "B-better times!" said he, rubbing his hands. "Better times!" she sneered. "I'd like to know how you can make money an' charge a dollar a day for board." Sportsmen visiting there paid for their board, and they with whom Silas went gave him three dollars a day for his labor. The truth was that prosperity and Miss Strong were things irreconcilable. The representatives of prosperity who came to Lost River camp were often routed by the eye of resentment and the unruly tongue. Strong knew all this, but she was not the less sacred on that account. This year he had planned to bring a cow to camp and raise the price of board. "You s-see," Strong insisted. "Huh!" Sinth went on; "we'll mos' kill ourselves, an' nex' spring we won't have nothin' but a lot o' mink-skins." Miss Strong, as if this reflection had quite overcome her, gathered up her knitting and hastened into the cook-tent, where for a moment she seemed to be venting her spite on the flat-irons and the tea-kettle. Strong sat alone, smoking thoughtfully. Soon he heard footsteps on the trail. A stranger, approaching, bade him good-evening. "From the Migley Lumber Company," the stranger began, as he gave a card to Strong. "We have bought the Smith & Gordon tract. I have come to bring this letter and have a talk with you." Strong read the letter carefully. Then he rose and put his hands in his pockets, and, with a sly wink at the stranger, walked slowly down the trail. He wished to go where Sinth would not be able to hear them. Some twenty rods away both sat down upon a log. The letter was, in effect, an order of eviction. "I got t' g-go?" the Emperor inquired. "That's about the size of it," said the stranger. "Can't," Strong answered. "Well, there's no hurry," said the other. "We shall be cutting here in the fall. I won't disturb you this year." Silas rose and stood erect before the lumberman. "Cut everyth-thing?" he inquired, his hand sweeping outward in a gesture of peculiar eloquence. "Everything from Round Ridge to Carter's Plain," said the other. Strong deliberately took off his jacket and laid it on a stump. He flung his hat upon the ground. Evidently something unusual was about to happen. Then, forthwith, he broke the silence of more than forty years and opened his heart to the stranger. He could not control himself; his tongue almost forgot its infirmity; his words came faster and easier as he went on. "N-no, no," he said, "it can't be. Ye 'ain't no r-right t' do it, fer ye can't never put the w-woods back agin. My God, sir, I've w-wan-dered over these hills an' flats ever since I was a little b-boy. There ain't a critter on 'em that d-don't know me. Seems so they was all my b-brothers. I've seen men come in here nigh dead an' go back w-well. They's m-med'cine here t' cure all the sickness in a hunderd cities; they's f-fur 'nough here t' c-cover their naked--they's f-food'nough t' feed their hungry--an' they's w-wood 'nough t' keep 'em w-warm. God planted these w-woods an' stocked 'em, an' nobody's ever d-done a day's work here 'cept me. Now you come along an' say you've bought 'em an' are g-goin 't' shove us out. I c-can't understand it. God m-made the sky an' l-lifted up the trees t' sweep the dust out of it an' pump water into the clouds an' g-give out the breath o' the g-ground. Y-you 'ain't no right t' git together down there in Albany an' make laws ag'in' the will o' God. Ye r-rob the world when ye take the tree-tops out o' the sky. Ye might as well take the clouds out of it. God has gi'n us g-good air an' the woods an' the w-wild cattle, an' it's free--an' you--you're g-goin 't' turn ev'rybody out o' here an' seize the g-gift an' trade it fer d-dollars--you d---little bullcook!" A "bullcook," it should be explained, was the chore-boy in a lumber-camp. Strong sat down and took out an old red handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He was thinking of the springs and brooks and rivers, of the cool shade, of the odors of the woodland, of the life-giving air, of the desolation that was to come. "It's business," said the stranger, as if that word must put an end to all argument. A sound broke the silence like that of distant thunder. "Hear th-that," Strong went on. "It's the logs g-goin' over Rainbow Falls. They've been stole off the state l-lands. Th-that's business, too. Business is king o' this c-country. He t-takes everything he can l-lay his hands on. He'd t-try t' 'grab heaven if he could g-git over the f-fence an' b-back agin." "I am not here to discuss that," said the stranger, rising to go. "Had s-supper?" Silas asked. "I've a lunch in the canoe, thank you. The moon is up, an' I'm going to push on to Copper Falls. Migley will be waiting for me. We shall camp there for a day or two at Cedar Spring. Good-night." "Good-night." It was growing dark. Strong's outbreak had wearied him. He groaned and shook his head and stood a moment thinking. In the distance he could hear the hoot of an owl and the bull bass of frogs booming over the still water. "G-gone!" he exclaimed, presently. Soon he added, in a mournful tone, "W-wouldn't d-dast tell Mis' Strong." He started slowly towards the camp. "I'll l-lie to her," he whispered, as he went along. Before going to bed he made this note in his memorandum-book: _"June the 26 More snags Strong says trubel is like small-pox thing to do is kepe it from spreadin."_ VII SINCE early May there had been no rain save a sprinkle now and then. From Lake Ontario to Lake Champlain, from the St. Lawrence to Sandy Hook, the earth had been scorching under a hot sun. The heat and dust of midsummer had dimmed the glory of June. People those days were thinking less of the timber of the woods and more of their abundant, cool, and living green. The inns along the edge of the forest were filling up. About eleven o'clock of a morning late in June, a young man arrived at Lost River camp--one Robert Master, whose father owned a camp and some forty thousand acres not quite a day's tramp to the north. He was a big, handsome youth of twenty-two, just out of college. Sinth regarded every new-comer as a natural enemy. She suspected most men of laziness and a capacity for the oppression of females. She stood in severe silence at the door of the cook-tent and looked him over as he came. Soon she went to the stove and began to move the griddles. Silas entered with an armful of wood. "If he thinks I'm goin' to wait on him hand an' foot, he's very much mistaken," said Sinth. "R-roughlocks!" Silas answered, calmly, as he put a stick on the fire. Sinth made no reply, but began sullenly rushing to and fro with pots and pans. Soon her quick knife had taken the jackets off a score of potatoes. While her hands flew, water leaped on the potatoes, and the potatoes tumbled into the pot, and the pot jumped into the stove-hole as the griddle took a slide across the top of the stove. And so with a rush of feet and a rattle of pots and pans and a sliding of griddles and a banging of iron doors "Mis' Strong" wore off her temper at hard work. The Emperor used to smile at this variety of noise and call it "f-f-female profanity," a phrase not wholly inapt. When the "sport" had finished his dinner, and she and her brother sat side by side at the table, she was plain Sinth again, with a look of sickliness and resignation. She ate freely--but would never confess her appetite--and so leisurely that Strong often had most of the dishes washed before she had finished eating. The young man was eager to begin fishing, and soon after dinner the Emperor took him over to Catamount Pond. On their way the young man spoke of the object of his visit. "Mr. Strong, you know my father?" he half inquired. "Ay-ah," the Emperor answered. "He's been a property-holder in this county for five years, every summer of which I have spent on his land. I feel at home in the woods, and I cast my first vote at Tifton." Strong listened thoughtfully. "I want to do what I can to save the wilderness," young Master went on. "R-right!" said the Emperor. "If I were in the Legislature, I believe I could accomplish something. Anyhow, I am going to make a fight for the vacant seat in the Assembly." Strong surveyed him from head to foot. "I wish you would do what you can for me in Pitkin." "Uh-huh!" Strong answered, in a gentle tone, without opening his lips. It was a way he had of expressing uncertainty leaning towards affirmation. He liked the young man; there was, indeed, something grateful to him in the look and voice of a gentleman. "You'll never be ashamed of me--I'll see to that," said Master. Having reached the little pond, Strong gave him his boat, and promised to return and bring him into camp at six. Here and there trout were breaking through the smooth plane of water. The Emperor took a bee-line over the wooded ridge to Robin Lake. There he spent an hour repairing his bark shanty and gathering balsam boughs for a bed. Stepping on a layer of spruce poles over which the boughs were to be spread, in a dark corner of the shanty, his foot went through and came down upon the nest of one of the most disagreeable creatures in the wilderness. He sprang away with an oath and fled into the open air. For a moment he expressed himself in a series of sharp reports, Then, picking up a long pole, he met the offenders leaving their retreat, and "mellered" them, as he explained to Sinth that evening. "T-take that, Amos," he muttered, as he gave one of them another blow. It should be borne in mind that he called every member of this malodorous tribe "Amos," because the meanest man he ever knew had borne that name. He put his heel in the crotch of a fallen limb and drew his boot. Then he cautiously cut off the leg of his trousers at the knee, and, poking cloth and leather into a little hollow, buried them under black earth. Slowly the "Emperor of the Woods" climbed a ridge on his way to Lost River camp, one leg bare to the knee. Walking, he thought of Annette. Lately misfortune had come between them, and now he seemed to be getting farther from the trail of happiness. At a point on Balsam Hill he came into the main thoroughfare of the woodsmen which leads from Bear Mountain to Lost River camp. Where he could see far down the big trail, under arches of evergreen, he sat on a stump to rest. His bootless foot, now getting sore, rested on a giant toadstool. Thus enthroned, the Emperor looked down at his foot and reconsidered the relative positions of himself and the Evil One. His faded crown of felt tilting over one ear, his rough, bearded face wet with perspiration, his patched trousers truncated over the right knee, below which foot and leg were uncovered, he was an emperor more distinguished for his appearance than his lineage. He took out his old memorandum-book and made this note in it with a stub of a pencil: _"June the 27 Strong says one Amos in the bush is worth two in yer company an a pair of britches."_ The Emperor, although in the main a serious character, enjoyed some private fun with this worn little book, which he always carried with him. Therein he did most of his talking, with secret self-applause now and then, one may fancy. It has thrown some light on the inner life of the man, and, in a sense, it is one of the figures of our history. VIII SILAS put the book in his pocket and looked down the trail. Some ten rods away two children were running towards him, their hands full of wild flowers. They were Socky and Sue, on their way to Lost River camp, and were the first children--save one--who had ever set their feet on the old trail. Gordon walked slowly, under a heavy pack, well behind them. They knew they were near their destination. Their father could scarcely keep them in hailing distance. Sue had observed that Socky's generosity in the matter of the tin bank had pleased her father, and so, after much thought, she had determined to make a venture in benevolence. "When I see Uncle Silas," said she, "I'm going to give him the twenty-five cents my Aunt Marie gave me." "Pooh! he's got loads of money," Socky answered. They stopped suddenly. Sue dropped her flowers and turned to run. Socky gave a little jump and recovered his courage. Both retreated a few steps. There, before them, was the dejected "Emperor of the Woods." "Says I!" he exclaimed, looking down calmly from his throne. Socky glanced up at him fearfully. "Who b-be you?" "John Socksmith Gordon." "T-y-ty!" exclaimed the Emperor, an expression, as the historian believes', of great surprise, standing, perhaps, for the old oath "By 'Mighty." It consisted of the pronunciation of the two letters separately and then together. The Emperor turned to the girl. "And y-yourn?" he inquired. "Susan Bradbury Gordon," she answered, in a half-whisper. "I tnum!" exclaimed the Emperor, shaking his bootless foot, whereupon the new-comers retreated a little farther. The singular word "tnum" expressed an unusual degree of interest on the part of the Emperor. "G-goin' fur?" he inquired. "To Lost River, to see my Uncle Silas." The Emperor gave a loud whistle of surprise, and repeated the exclamation--"I tnum!" "My father's coming," said Socky, as he pointed down the trail. "Whee-o!" whistled the "Emperor of the Woods," who now perceived his brother-in-law ascending the trail. "Old man, what are you doing there?" Gordon asked. "Thinkin' out some th-thoughts," said the Emperor, soberly, as he came into the trail, limping on his bare foot, and shook hands. There were greetings, and the hunter briefly apologized for his bare leg and explained it. "Well, how are you?" Gordon asked. "S-supple!" Strong answered, cheerfully. The children got behind their father, peering from either side of him as they saw this uncouth figure coming near. Sue pressed the hand of her brother so tightly as to cause the boy to break her hold upon him. "R-ride?" said the Emperor, putting his great hand on the head of the boy and shaking it a little. Socky looked up at him with large, wondering, timid eyes. Sue hid her face under the coat-tails of her father. "They'd rather walk; come on," said Gordon. The men proceeded slowly over the hill and down into the valley of Lost River. The children followed, some twenty paces behind, whispering together. They were still in happy ignorance of the identity of the strange man. "S-sold out--eh?" said the hunter. "Sold out! Sorry! They're going to shove a railroad in here and begin cutting." A smothered oath broke from the lips of the Emperor. Gordon came near to him and whispered: "Sile," said he, "don't swear before the kids. I'm bad enough, but I've always been careful about that. Going to leave 'em here if you'll let me." "G-good--" The Emperor stopped short and his voice fell into thoughtful silence. As they came in sight of the little clearing and the tent and cabins of Lost River camp, Sue and Socky ran ahead of the men. "I'm in trouble," Gordon went on. "My account at the mill is overdrawn. They've pushed me to the verge of madness. I must have a little help." The woodsman stopped and put his hand on the shoulder of Gordon. "Been f-foolish, Dick?" said he, kindly. "I'm done with that. I want to begin new. I need a little money to throw to the wolves." "How m-much?" "Four hundred dollars would do me." Strong beckoned to him. "C-come to my goosepen," said the hunter, as he led the way to an old basswood some fifty paces from the camp. He removed a piece of bark which fitted nicely over a hole in the tree-trunk. He put his hand in the hole which he called a goosepen and took out a roll of bills. "You save like a squirrel," said Gordon. "Dunno no other w-way," Strong answered as he began to count the money. "Three hundred an' s-seventy dollars," he said, presently, and gave it to his brother-in-law. He felt in the hole again. "B-bank's failed!" he added. The kindness of the woodland was in the face of the hunter. He was like an old hickory drawing its nourishment from the very bosom of the earth and freely giving its crop. Where he fed there was plenty, and he had no more thought of his own needs than a tree. "Thank you' It's enough," said Gordon. "Better keep some of it." "N-no good here," Strong answered, with his old reliance on the bounty of nature. "I'll go out to Pitkin in the morning. I'm going to get a new start in the world. If you'll take care of the children I'll send you some money every month. You've been a brother to me, and I'll not forget." The Emperor sat upon a log and took a pencil and an old memorandum-book from his pocket and wrote on a leaf this letter to Annette: _"Deer frend--I am wel compny com today I dunno when I'll see you. woods is hot and dry fish plenty Socks on feel splendid hopin for better times "yours trewly "S. Strong. "P. S.--Strong's ahed."_ In truth, the whole purpose of the letter lay in that laconic postscript, expressing, as it did, a sense of moral triumph under great difficulties. The Emperor stripped a piece of bark off a birch-tree, trimmed it with his knife, and, enfolding it around the letter, bound it in the middle with a long thorn which he drew out of the lapel of his "jacket." He handed the missive to Gordon, saying, "F-for Ann Roice." The children stood peering into an open door when the men came and flung down their packs. Sinth had gone to work in the garden, which was near the river-bank. Silas Strong entered his cabin. The children came to their father, who had seated himself on a chopping-block. Having forgotten the real Uncle Silas, they had been looking for that splendid creature of whom they had dreamed. "Father," Socky whispered, "where is Uncle Silas?" "That was Uncle Silas," said Gordon. The eyes of the children were fixed upon his, while their faces began to change color. The long, dark lashes of little Sue quivered for a second as if she had received a blow. Socky's glance fell; his trembling hands, which lay on the knee of Gordon, seemed to clutch at each other; then his right thumb stood up straight and stiff; his lips parted. One might have observed a little upward twitch of the muscles under either cheek. It signalized the first touch of bitter disappointment. "That man?" he whispered, looking up doubtfully as he pointed in the direction of the door into which Strong had disappeared. "That's Uncle Silas," said Gordon, with smiling amusement. Socky turned and spat upon the ground. Slowly he walked away, scuffing his feet. Sue followed with a look of dejection. They went behind the camp and found the big potato-hole and crawled into it. The bottom was covered with dry leaves. They sat down, but neither spoke. Socky leaned forward, his chin upon his hands. "Do you like Uncle Silas?" Sue whispered. For a moment Socky did not change his attitude or make any reply. "I wouldn't give him no twenty-five cents," Sue added. "Don't speak to me," Socky answered, with a quick movement of his knee. It was a time of sad discovery--that pathetic day when the first castle of childhood falls upon its builder. "I'm going home," said Sue. "You won't be let," Socky answered, his under lip trembling as he thought of the old lumberyard. Suddenly he lay over on the leaves, his forehead on his elbow, and wept in silence. Sue lay beside him, her cheek partly covered by golden curls. She felt badly, but did not give way. They were both utterly weary and cast down. Sue lay on her back and drew out her tiny doll much as a man would light a cigarette in his moment of abstraction. She flirted it in the air and brought it down upon her breast. The doll had come out of her pocket just in time to save her. She lay yawning a few moments, then fell asleep, and soon Socky joined her. Gordon lay down upon a bed in one of the cabins. He, too, was weary and soon forgot his troubles. The Emperor, having shifted his garments, went behind the camp and stood looking down at his sorrowing people. A smile spread over his countenance. It came and passed like a billow of sunlight flooding over the hills. He shook his head with amusement. Soon he turned away and sauntered slowly towards the river-bank. These, children had been flung, as it were, upon the ruin of his hopes. What should he do with them and with "Mis' Strong"? Suddenly a reflection of unusual magnitude broke from his lips. "They's g-got t' be tall contrivin'," he whispered, with a sigh. Sinth, who had been sowing onions, heard him coming and rose to her feet. "G-Gordon!" said he, pointing towards camp. "Anybody with him?" she asked.. "The childem," said he. "G-goin't' leave 'em." Sinth turned with a look of alarm. "C-can't swear, nuther," Strong added. "He can take 'em back," said Miss Strong, with flashing eyes and a flirt of her apron. "R-roughlocks!" the Emperor demanded, in a low tone. "Who'll tek care of 'em?" "M-me." "Heavens!" she exclaimed, her voice full of despair. "C-come, Mis' Strong." So saying, Silas took the arm of his complaining sister and led her up the hill. When he had come to the potato-hole he pointed down at the children. They had dressed with scrupulous care for the eye of him who, not an hour since, had been the greatest of all men. The boy lay in his only wide, white collar and necktie, in his best coat and knee-breeches. The girl had on her beloved brown dress and pink sun-bonnet. It was a picture to fill one's eyes, and all the more if one could have seen the hearts of those little people. A new look came into the face of Sinth. "Land sakes!" she exclaimed, raising one of her hands and letting it fall again; "she looks like Sister Thankful--don't she, don't she, Silas?" Sinth wiped her eyes with her apron. The heart of Silas Strong had also been deeply touched. "R-reg'lar angel!" he exclaimed, thoughtfully. After a moment of silence he added, "K-kind o' like leetle f-fawns." They turned away, proceeding to the cook-tent. Sinth looked as if she were making up her mind; Silas as if his were already made up. Sinth began to rattle the pots and pans. "Sh-h!" Silas hissed, as he fixed the fire. "What's the matter?" she demanded. "W-wake 'em up." "Hope I will," she retorted, loudly. Strong strode off in the trail to Catamount Pond, where he was to get Master. Zeb, the bear-dog, had been digging at a foxhole over in Birch Hollow. Growing weary and athirst, by-and-by he relinquished his enterprise, crossed to the trail, and, discovering the scent of strangers, hurried home. Soon he found those curious little folks down in the potato-hole. He had never seen a child before. He smelled them over cautiously. His opinion was extremely favorable. His tail began to wag, and, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, he expressed himself in a loud bark. The children awoke, and Zeb retreated. Socky and Sue rose, the latter crying, while that little, yellow snip of a bear-dog, with cross-eye and curving tail, surveyed them anxiously. He backed away as if to coax them out of the hole. When they had come near he seemed to be wiping one foot after another upon the ground vigorously. As he did so he growled in a manner calculated to inspire respect. Then he ran around them in a wide circle at high speed, growling a playful challenge. Socky, who had some understanding of dogs, dashed upon Zeb, and soon they were all at play together. IX. ON Catamount Pond young Master had enjoyed a memorable day. He was an expert fisherman, but the lonely quiet of the scene had been more than fish to him: of it was a barren ridge, from the top of which a broken column of dead pine, like a shaft of wrought marble, towered straight and high above the woods. The curving shore had a fringe of lily-pads, starred here and there with white tufts. Around thickets of birch, on a point of land, a little cove was the end of all the deer-trails that came out of Jiminy Swamp. It was the gateway of the pond for all who journeyed thither to eat and drink. There were white columns on either side, and opposite the cove's end was a thicket of tamarack, clear of brush. A deep mat of vivid green moss came to the water's edge. When one had rounded the point in his canoe, he could see into those cool, dark alleys of the deer, leading off through slender tamaracks. A little beyond were the rock bastions of Painter Mountain, five hundred' feet above the water. The young man, having grown weary of fishing, leaned back, lighted his pipe, and drifted. He could hear the chattering of a hedgehog up in the dry timber, and the scream of a hawk, like the whistle of some craft, leagues away on the sunlit deep of silence. A wild goose steered straight across the heavens, far bound, his wings making a noise like the cleaving of water and the creak of full sails. He saw the man below him and flung a cry overboard. A great bee, driven out of a lily, threw his warning loop around the head of the intruder and boomed out of hearing. Those threads of sound seemed to bind the tongue of the youth, and to connect his soul with the great silence into which they ran. Robert Master had crossed that desert of uncertainty which lies between college and the beginning of a career. At last he had made his plan. He would try in his own simple way to serve his country. He was a man of "the new spirit," of pure ideals, of high patriotism. He had set out to try to make his way in politics. He had been one of the "big men," dauntless and powerful, who had saved the day for his _alma mater_ more than once on the track and the gridiron. Handsome was a word which had been much applied to him. Hard work in the open air had given him a sturdy figure and added the glow of health and power to a face of unusual refinement. It was the face of a man with whom the capacity, for stern trials had come by acquisition and not by inheritance. He had cheerful brown eyes and a smile of good-nature that made him beloved. His father was at the big camp, some twenty miles away, his mother and sister having gone abroad. He and his father were fond of their forest home; the ladies found it a bore. They loved better the grand life and the great highways of travel. Master sat in the centre of his canoe; an elbow rested on his paddle which lay athwart the gunwales. He drifted awhile. He had chosen his life work but not his life partner. He pictured to himself the girl he would love, had he ever the luck to find her. He had thrown off his hat, and his dark hair shone in the sunlight. Soon he pushed slowly down the pond. In a moment he stilled his paddle and sat looking into Birch Cove. Two fawns were playing in the edge of the water, while their dam, with the dignity of a matron, stood on the shore looking down at them. The fawns gambolled in the shallows like a colt at play, now and then dashing their muzzles in the cool water. Their red coats were starred white as if with snow-flakes. The deer stood a moment looking at Master, stamped her feet, and retired into one of the dark alleys. In a moment her fawns followed. Turning, the fisherman beheld what gave him even greater surprise. In the shadow of the birches, on a side of the cove and scarcely thirty feet from his canoe, a girl sat looking at him. She wore a blue knit jacket and gray skirt. There was nothing on her head save its mass of light hair that fell curling on her shoulders. Her skin was brown as a berry, her features of a noble and delicate mould. Her eyes, blue and large, made their potent appeal to the heart of Master. They were like those of his dreams--he could never forget them. So far it's the old story of love at sight--but listen. For half a moment they looked into each other's eyes. Then the girl, as if she were afraid of him, rose and disappeared among the columns of white birch. Long he sat there wondering about this strange vision of girlhood, until he heard the halloo of Silas Strong. Turning his canoe, he pushed for the landing. "L-lucky?" Strong asked. "Twenty fish, and I saw the most beautiful woman in the world." "Where?" "Sitting on the shore of Birch Cove. Any camp near?" The Emperor shook his head thoughtfully as he lighted his pipe. The two made their way up the trail. "W-wonder if it's her?" Strong whispered to himself as he walked along. After supper that evening Silas Strong gathered a heap of wood for a bonfire--a way he had of celebrating arrivals at Lost River camp. Soon he was running upon hands and knees in the firelight, with Socky and Sue on his back. "Silas Strong!" was the seornful exclamation of Sinth, as she took a seat by the fire, "P-present!" he answered, as he werit on, the children laughing merrily. "Be you a man 'or a fool?" "Both;" he answered, ceasing his harlequinade. Sinth began her knitting, wearing, a look of injury. "Plumb crazy 'bout them air childern!" she exclaimed. The "Emperor of the Woods" sat on a log, breathing heavily, with Sue and Socky upon his knees. "B-bears plenty, Mis' Strong," was the gentle reply of Silas. "Mis' Strong!" said she, as if insulted. "What ye Mis' Strongin' me for?" When others were present she was wont to fling back upon him this burning query. Now it seemed to stimulate him to a rather unusual effort. "S-some folks b-better when ye miss 'em," he suggested, with a smile of good-nature. Miss Strong gathered up her knitting and promptly retired, from the scene. Sue and Socky lay back on the lap of their Uncle Silas looking into the fire. They now saw in him great possibilities. Socky, in particular, had begun to regard him as likely to be useful if not highly magnificent. Sue lay back and began to make a drowsy display of her learning: "Intry, mintry, cutry com, Apple-seed an' apple-thorn, Wire, brier, limber lock, Twelve geese all in a white flock; Some fly east an' some fly west An' some fly over the cuckoo's nest." Miss Strong returned shortly and found the children asleep on the knees of their uncle. In a moment Silas turned his ear and listened. "Hark!" he whispered. They could hear some one approaching on the dark trail. A man oddly picturesque, with a rifle on his shoulder, strode into the firelight. He wore knee-breeches and a coat of buckskin. He had a rugged face, a sturdy figure, and was, one would have guessed, some sixty years of age. A fringe of thin, white hair showed below his cap. He had a white mustache, through which a forgotten cigar protruded. His black eyes glowed in the firelight beneath silvered brows. He nodded as they greeted him. His ruddy face wrinkled thoughtfully as he turned to Gordon. "It's a long time," said he, offering his hand. "Some years," Gordon answered, as he took the hand of Dunmore. "W-welcome!" said Silas Strong. "Boneka!" Dunmore exclaimed, gruffly, but with a faint smile. For years it had been his customary word of greeting. "The Emperor and his court!" he went on, as he looked about him. "Who are these?" He surveyed the sleeping children. "The Duke and Duchess of Hillsborough--nephew and niece of the Emperor," Master answered, giving them titles which clung to Socky and Sue for a twelvemonth. "The first children I've ever seen in the woods except my own," said the white-haired man. Zeb ran around the chair of the Emperor, growling and leaping playfully at Socky and Sue. "The court jester!" said Dunmore, looking down at the dog. He stood a moment with his back to the blazing logs. Then he went to the chair of the Emperor, and put his hand under the chin of little Sue and looked into her face. In half a moment he took her in his arms and sat down by the fireside. The child was yawning wearily. "Heigh-ho!" he exclaimed; "let's away to the Isles of Rest." He rocked back and forth as he held her against his breast and sang this lullaby: "Jack Tot was as big as a baby's thumb, And his belly could hold but a drop and a crumb, And a wee little sailor was he--Heigh-ho! A very fine sailor was he. 'He made his boat of a cocoa-nut shell, He sails her at night and he steers her well With the wing of a bumble-bee--Heigh-ho! With the wing of a bumble-bee. 'She is rigged with the hair of a lady's curl, And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl, And it never goes out in a gale--Heigh-ho! It never goes out in a gale. 'Her mast is made of a very long thorn, She calls her crew with a cricket's horn, And a spider spun her sail--Heigh-ho! A spider he spun her sail. 'She carries a cargo of baby souls, And she crosses the terrible nightmare shoals On her way to the Isles of Rest--Heigh-ho! We're off for the Isles of Rest. 'And often they smile as the good ship sails-- Then the skipper is telling incredible tales With many a merry jest--Heigh-ho! He's fond of a merry jest. 'When the little folks yawn they are ready to go, And Jack Tot is lifting his sail--Hee-hoo! In the swell how the little folks nod--He-hoo! Just see how the little folks nod. 'And some have sailed off when the sky was black, And the poor little sailors have never come back, But have steered for the City of God--Heigh-ho! The beautiful City of God!" The white-haired man closed his eyes and his voice sank low, and the last words fell softly in a solemn silence that lasted for a long moment after the lullaby was finished. Presently Sinth came to take the sleeping child. "These little folks will take our peace away from us," said he, in a warning tone. "Why?" "The call of the sown land is in their voices," said he. "They give me sad thoughts." Sinth smiled and introduced the young man to Dunmore. "Boneka!" said the latter as they shook hands. The curiosity of Master was aroused by the strange greeting. He smiled, and answered, modestly, "I don't understand you." The stranger sat silent, gazing into the fire, until Silas, who was evidently in the secret, said to his guest, "Tell 'em." "There was once a very wise and honored chief," began Dunmore, after a pause, and looking into the eyes of the young man. "Long before the lumber hunter had begun to shear the hills, he dwelt among them, with his good people. He was a great law-giver, and his law was all in two words--'_Be kind._' Kindness begat kindness, and peace reigned, to be broken only by some far-come invader. But as time went on quarrels arose and the law was forgotten. Thereupon the chief invited a great council and organized the Society of the Magic Word. Every member promised that whenever the greeting 'Boneka' were given him, he would smile and bow and answer, 'Ranokoli.' The greeting meant 'Peace,' and the answer, 'I forgive.' "Then, one by one, the law-giver called his councillors before him, and to each he said: 'The Great Spirit is in this greeting. I defy you to hear it and keep a sober face.' "Then he said 'Boneka,' and the man would try to resist the influence of the spirit, but soon smiled in spite of himself, amid the laughter of the tribe, and said 'Ranokoli.' Thereafter, when a quarrel arose between two people, an outsider, approaching, would greet them with the magic word, and immediately they would bow and smile, and answer, 'I forgive.' But, nevertheless, if one had wronged another he was justly punished by the chief. So it was that a great ruler made an end of quarrels among his people." "A grand idea!" said young Master. "Let's all join that society." "Those in favor of the suggestion will please say ay." It was Dunmore who put the question, and, after a vote in its favor, dictated the pledge, as follows: _"For value received from my Loving Father, I promise to give to any of His children, on demand, a smile and full forgiveness."_ All signed it, and so half in play the old Society of the Magic Word was revived at Lost River camp. The white-haired man rose and walked to the trail and turned suddenly. "Strong," said he, "I'm leaving the woods for a week. If they need your help at home they'll send word to you." With that he disappeared in the dark trail. The three other men still sat by the camp-fire. "Who is Dunmore?" Master inquired, turning to Gordon. The latter lighted his pipe and began the story. "An odd man who's spent the most of his life in the woods," said Gordon. "Came in here for his health long ago from I don't know where; grew strong, and has always stuck to the woods. Had to work, like the rest of us, when I knew him. Thirty years ago he began work in this part of the country as a boom rat--so they tell me. It was on a big drive way down the Oswegatchie. "Before we bought the Bear Mountain and Lost River tracts we were looking for a good cruiser--some one to go through here and estimate the timber for us. Well, Dunmore was recommended for the job, and we hired him. He and I travelled over some thirty thousand acres, camping wherever night overtook us. It did not take me long to discover that he was a gifted man. Many an evening, as we sat by our lonely fire in the woods, I have wept and laughed over his poems." "Poems!" Master exclaimed. "That's the only word for it," Gordon went on. "The man is a woods lover and a poet. One night he told me part of his life story. Sile, you remember when the old iron company shut down their works at Tifton. Well, everybody left the place except Tom Muir, the postmaster. He was a widower, and lived with one child--a girl about nineteen years old when the forest village died. Dunmore married that girl. He told me how beautiful she was and how he loved her. Well, they didn't get along together. He was fond of the woods and she was not. "For five years they lived together in the edge of the wilderness. Then she left him. Well--poor woman!--it was a lonely life, and some tourist fell in love with her, they tell me. I don't know about that. Anyhow, Dunmore was terribly embittered. A little daughter had been born to them. She was then three years of age." "She's the angel y-you met to-day over by the p-pond," Strong put in, looking at Master. Gordon lighted his pipe and went on with his story. "Dunmore said that a relative had left him a little money. I remember we were camping that night on the shore of Buckhorn. Its beauty appealed to him. He said he'd like to buy that section and build him a camp on the pond and spend the rest of his life there. "'But,' said I, 'you couldn't bring up your daughter in the woods.' Buckhorn was then thirty miles from anywhere. "'That's just what I wish to do,' he answered. 'The world is so full of d------d spaniels'--I remember that was the phrase he used--and there's so much infamy among men, I'd rather keep her out of it. I want her to be as pure at twenty as she is now. I can teach her all I wish her to know.' "Well, I sold him the Buckhorn tract. He built his camp, and moved there with the little girl and his mother--a woman of poor health and well past middle age. He brought an old colored man and his wife to be their servants, and there they are to-day--Dunmore and his mother and the girl and the two servants, now grown rather aged, they tell me." "They have never left the woods?" said Master, as if it were too incredible. "Dunmore goes to New York, but not oftener than once a year," Gordon went on. "He has property--a good deal of property, I suppose, and has to give it some attention. The others have never left the woods." "Sends home b-big boxes, an' I t-tote 'em in," Silas explained. "Do you mean to tell me that Dunmore's daughter has never seen the clearing since she was a baby?" Strong's interest was thoroughly aroused. He took off his coat and laid it down carefully, as if he were about to go in swimming. He was wont to do this when his thoughts demanded free and full expression. "B-been t' Tillbury post-office w-with the ol' man--n-no further," Strong explained. "Dunmore says she 'ain't never s-seen a child 'cept one. That was a b-baby. Some man an' his w-wife come through here w-with it from the n-north th-three year ago." "Fact is, I think he feared for a long time that his wife would try to get possession of the child," said Gordon. "Late years, I understand, the girl has had to take care of the old lady. In a letter to me once Dunmore referred to his daughter as the 'little nun of the green veil,' and spoke of her devotion to her grandmother." Gordon rose and went to his bed in one of the cabins. Strong and the young man kept their seats at the camp-fire, talking of Dunmore and his daughter and their life in the woods. The Emperor, who felt for this lonely child of the forest, talked from a sense of duty. "S-sail in," he presently said. "S-sail in an' t-tame her." "I don't know how to begin." "She'll be there t-to-morrer sure," Strong declared. "So shall I," said the young man. "C-cal'late she's w-wownded, too," Strong suggested. "B-be careful. She's like a w-wild deer." They were leaving the fire on their way to bed. The young man stopped and repeated the words incredulously--"Like a wild deer!" "T-take the ch-childem with ye," Strong advised. "She'll w-want t' look 'em over." X SOCKY woke early next morning, and lay looking up at the antlers, guns, and rifles which adorned the wall. On a table near him were some of the treasures of that sylvan household--a little book entitled _Melinda_, a dingy Testament, a plush-covered photograph-album, and a stuffed bird on a wire bough. Sinth and the album were inseparable. She sometimes left the dingy Testament or the little book entitled _Melinda_ at her Pitkin home, but not the plush-covered album. That was the one link which connected her, not only with the past, but with a degree of respectability, and even with a vague hope of paradise. What a pantheon of family deities! What a museum of hair and whiskers! What a study of the effect of terror, headache, rheumatism, weariness, Sunday apparel, tight boots, and reckless photography upon the human countenance! Therein was the face of Sinth, indescribably gnarled by the lens; a daguerreotype of her grandmother adorned with lace and tokens of a more cheerful time in the family history; faces and forms which for Sinth recalled her play-days, and were gone as hopelessly. Just after supper the night before, Socky had seen his uncle apply grease to a number of boots and guns. The boy had been permitted to put his hands in the thick oil of the bear, and, while its odor irked him a little, it had, as it were, reduced the friction on his bearings. Since then the gear of his imagination had seemed to work easier, and had carried him far towards the goal of manhood. Immediately after waking he found the bottle of bear's-oil and poured some on his own boots and rubbed it in. He was now delighted with the look of them. It was wonderful stuff, that bear's-oil. It made everything look shiny and cheerful, and gave one a grateful sense of high accomplishment. Soon he had greased the bird and the bush, and the oil had dripped on the album and the dingy Testament and the little book entitled _Melinda_. Then he greased the feet and legs of Zeb, who lay asleep in a corner, and who promptly awoke and ran across the floor and leaped through an open window, and hid himself under a boat, as if for proper consideration of ways and means. In a few moments Socky had greased the shoes of his sister, and a ramrod which lay on the window-sill, and taken the latter into bed with him. Soon he began to miss the good Aunt Marie, for, generally, when he first awoke he had gone and got into bed with her. He held to the ramrod and sustained himself with manly reflections, whispering as they came to mind: "I'm going to be a man. I ain't no cry-baby. I'm going to kill bears and send the money to my father, an' my Uncle Silas will give me a rocking-horse an' a silver dofunny--he said he would." He ceased to whisper. An imaginary bear had approached the foot of the bed just in time to save him, for the last of his reflections had been interrupted by little sobs. He struck bravely with the ramrod and felled the bear, and got out of bed and skinned him and hung his hide over the back of a chair. He found some potatoes in a sack beside the fireplace, and put down a row for the bear's body and some more for the feet and legs. Then he greased the bear's feet and got into bed again, for Sue had awoke and begun to cry. "What's the matter?" he inquired. "I want my Aunt Marie," the girl sobbed. "Stop, Uncle Silas 'll hear you," said Socky. "I don't care." "I'd be 'shamed," the boy answered, his own voice trembling with suppressed emotion. Since a talk he had had with his father the day before, he felt a large and expanding sense of responsibility for his sister. Just now an-idea occurred to him--why shouldn't he, in his own person, supply the deficiencies of the great man they had come to see? "I'll be your Uncle Silas," he remarked. "I'm a man now, an' I've killed a bear." "Where is he?" "Dead on the floor there." She covered her face with the blankets. "I'm going to have a pair o' moccasins an' a rifle, an' I'll carry you on my b-back." He had stammered on the last word after the manner of his uncle. Just then they heard a singular creaking outside the door, and before either had time to speak it was flung open. They were both sitting up in bed as their Uncle Silas entered. "I tnum!" said he, cheerfully. Suddenly he saw the bird and the books and the table-top and the potatoes and the ramrod and the hands of Socky. He whistled ruefully; his smile faded. "W-well greased!" he said, looking down at the books and the bird. He found a gun-rag and wiped up the oil as best he could. "She'll r-raise--" The remark ended in a cough as he wiped the books. Then he covered them with an empty meal-bag. The children began to dress while Strong went half-way up the ladder and called to Gordon, still asleep in the loft above. Then he sat on the bed and helped the boy and girl get their clothes buttoned.. "My little f-fawns!" he muttered, with a laugh. He had sat up until one o'clock at work in his little shop by the light of a lantern. He had sawed some disks from a round beech log and bored holes in them. He had also made axles and a reach and tongue, and put them together. Then he had placed a cross-bar and a pivot on the front axle and fastened a starch-box over all. The result was a wagon, which he had arisen early to finish, and with which he had come to wake "the little fawns." Now, when they were dressed, he sat them side by side in the wagon-box and clattered off down the trail. At first the children sat silent, oppressed as they were by the odor of bear's-oil, not yet entirely removed from their hands and faces. As the wagon proceeded they began to laugh and call the dog. Zeb peered from under the friendly cover of the boat, and gave a yearning bark which seemed to express regret, not wholly unmingled with accusation, that on account of other engagements he would be unable to accept their kind invitation. At the boat-house were soap and towel and glad deliverance from the flavor of the bear. On their return "Mis' Strong" met them at the door of the cook-tent. She raised both hands above her head. "My album!" she gasped. "T-y-ty!" the Emperor whispered. "An' the book my mother gave me!" she exclaimed, her tone rising from despair to anger. "They're ruined--Silas Strong!" "N-nonsense," said her brother, calmly. "Nonsense!" she exclaimed, tauntingly. "Silas Strong, do you know what has been done to 'em?" "G-greased," he answered, mildly. "D-do 'em good." She ran into the cook-tent and returned with the sacred album. There was an odd menace in her figure as she displayed the book. She spread it open. "Look at my grandfather!" she demanded. The bear's-oil had added emphasis to a subtle, inherent suggestion of smothered profanity in the image of her ancestor. It had, as it were, given clearness to an expression of great physical discomfort. "L-limber him up," said the Emperor, quite soberly. Master and Gordon were now approaching. The former took off his hat and bowed to the indignant Sinth and blandly remarked, "Boneka, madam." The men had begun to laugh. Sinth changed color. She looked down. A smile began to light her thin face. She turned away, repeated the magic word in a low voice, and added, "I forgive." She walked hurriedly through the cook-tent to her own quarters, and sat down and wept as if, in truth, the oil had entered her soul. It was, in a way, pathetic--her devotion to the tawdry plush and this poor shadow of her ancestor--and the historian has a respect for it more profound, possibly, than his words may indicate. She would have given her album for her friend, and it may be questioned if any man hath greater love than this. When she entered the dinner-tent and sat down to stir batter for the excellent "flapjacks" of Lost River camp, the children came and kissed her and stood looking up into her face. Socky had begun to comprehend his relation to the trouble. Shame, guilt, and uncertainty were in his countenance. Urgent queries touching the use and taste and constitution of batter and its feeling on the index-finger of one's hand were pressing upon him, but he saw that, in common decency, they must be deferred. "Aunt Sinthy," said the little Duke of Hillsborough. "What?" she answered. "I won't never grease your album again." The woman laughed, placed the pan on the table, and put her arms around the child. Then she answered, in a tone of good-nature, "If it had been anything else in this world, I wouldn't have minded." Just then Zeb slowly entered the cook-tent. He had got rid of some of the oil, but had acquired a cough. The hair on every leg was damp and matted. He seemed to doubt his fitness for social enjoyment. In a tentative manner he surveyed the breakfast-party, as if to study his effect upon the human species. The Emperor patted him and felt of his legs. "What's the matter o' him?" Sinth inquired. "G-greased!" said the Emperor, with a loud laugh, in which the campers joined, whereat the dog fled from the cook-tent. "S-slippery mornin'!" Strong exclaimed, while he stood looking through the doorway. "Hard t' keep yer feet," said Sinth, who had caught the contagion of good feeling which had begun to prevail. It was, indeed, a remark not without some spiritual significance. So it befell: the spirit of that old chief whose body had long been given to the wooded hills came into Lost River camp. Gordon hurried away after breakfast. While the children stood looking down the trail and waving their hands and weeping, Silas Strong ran past them two or three times with the noisy little wagon. Its consoling clatter silenced them. There had been a deep purpose in the heart of the Emperor while he spent half the night in his workshop. Gordon had laughingly explained the cause of their disappointment on arriving at Lost River camp. Strong was trying to recover their esteem. "C-come on!" he shouted. Soon Socky and Sue sat in the little wagon on their way to Catamount Pond with their Uncle Silas and the young fisherman. XI. THE sky was clear, and the rays of the sun fell hot upon the dry woods that morning when Master and the children and their Uncle Silas reached the landing at Catamount. Its eastern shore lay deep under cool shadows. The water plane was like taut canvas on which a glowing picture of wooded shore and sky and mountain had been painted. Golden robins darted across a cove and sang in the tree-tops. Master righted his canoe and put the children aboard and took his place in the stern-seat. "I'll slip over to R-Robin," said the Emperor as he shoved the canoe into deep water. With him to "slip" meant to go, and in his speech he always "slipped" from one point to another. Master pushed through the pads and slowly cut the still shadow. The inverted towers of Painter Mountain began to quake beneath his canoe. Sue sat in the bow and Socky behind her. The curly hair of the girl, which had, indeed, the silken yellow of a corn-tassel, showed beneath her little pink bonnet. Something about her suggested the rose half open. Socky wore his rabato and necktie and best suit of clothes. They were both in purple and fine linen, so to speak---no one had thought to tell them better. As they came near the point of Birch Cove, Master began to turn the bow and check his headway. There, on a moss-covered rock, stood the maiden whom he had seen the day before. A crow with a small scarlet ribbon about his neck clung upon her shoulder. The girl was looking at the two children. The bird rose on his wings and, after a moment of hesitation, flew towards them, the ends of the scarlet ribbon fluttering in the air. Socky drew back as the crow lighted on a gunwale near his side. Sue clung to the painter and sat looking backward with curiosity and fear in her face. The crow turned his head, surveying them as if he were, indeed, quite overcome with amazement. "Sit still," said Master, quietly. "He won't hurt you." The bird rose in the air again, and, darting downward, seized a shiny buckle above the visor of the boy's cap, which lay on the canoe bottom, and bore cap and all to his young mistress. Socky began to cry with alarm. Master reassured him and paddled slowly towards the moss-covered rock. Silently his bow touched the shore. He stuck his paddle in the sand. He stepped into the shallow water and helped the children ashore. In the edge of the tamaracks and now partly hidden by their foliage, Miss Dunmore stood looking at the children. Her figure was tall, erect, and oddly picturesque. Somehow she reminded Master of a deer halted in its flight by curiosity. Her face, charming in form and expression, betrayed a childish timidity and innocence. Her large, blue eyes were full of wonder. Pretty symbols of girlish vanity adorned her figure. There were fresh violets on her bodice, and a delicate, lacy length of the moss-vine woven among her curls. The girl's hair, wonderfully full and rich in color, had streaks of gold in it. A beaded belt and holster of Indian make held a small pistol. "Miss Dunmore, I believe?" he ventured. The girl retired a step or two and stood looking timidly, first at him and then at the children. Her manner betrayed excitement. She addressed him with hesitation. "My--my name is Edith Dunmore," she said, in a tone just above a whisper. With trembling hands she picked a spray of tamarack that for a moment obscured her face. "You are the nun of the green veil. I have heard of you," said Master. "I--I must not speak to you, sir," she said, as she retreated a little farther. "My name is Master--Robert Master," said he. "I shall stay only a minute, but these children would like to know you." While speaking he had returned to his canoe. Socky and Sue stood still, looking up at the maiden. "Children!" she exclaimed, in a low, sweet, tremulous, tone, as she took a step towards them. "The wonderful little children?" "Sometimes I think they are brownies," he answered, with a smile of amusement. "But their uncle calls them little fawns." Her right hand, which held the spray of tamarack, fell to her side; her left hand clung to a branch on which the crow sat a little above her shoulder, and her cheek lay upon her arm as she looked down wistfully, fondly, at the children. Her blue eyes were full of curiosity. Socky and Sue regarded the beautiful maiden with a longing akin to that in her. In all there was a deep, mysterious desire which had grown out of nature's need--in them for a mother, in her for the endearing touch of those newly come into the world and for their high companionship. Moreover, these two little ones, who had now a dim and imperfect recollection of their mother, had shaped an ideal--partly through the help of Gordon--to take its place. Therein they saw a lady, young and beautiful and more like this one who stood before them than like any they had yet beheld. Sue grasped the hand of her brother, and both stood gazing at the maiden, but neither spoke nor moved for a moment. Edith Dun-more leaned forward a little, looking into their faces. "Can you not speak to me?" she asked. Socky began to be embarrassed; his eyes fell; he shook his head doubtfully. Edith Dunmore looked up at the stalwart figure of the young man. Their eyes met. She quickly turned away. The tame crow, on the bough above, began to laugh and chatter as if he thought it all an excellent joke. "May--I--take them in my arms?" she asked, with hesitation. "Yes; but I warn you--they have a way of stealing one's heart." "Ah-h-h-h-h!" croaked the little crow, in a warning cry, as if he had seen at once the peril of it. She had begun to move slowly, almost timidly, towards the children. She knelt before them and took the little hand of Sue in hers and looked upon it with wonder. She touched it with her lips; she pressed it against her cheek; she trembled beneath its power. The touch of the child's hand was, for her, it would almost seem, like that of One on the eyes of Bartimeus. Suddenly, as by a miracle, Edith Dunmore rose out of childhood. The veil of the nun was rent away. She was a woman fast coming into riches of unsuspected inheritance. She put her arms about the two and gently drew them towards her and held them close. Her embrace and the touch of her breast upon theirs were grateful to them, and they kissed her. Her eyes were wet, her sweet voice full of familiar but uncomprehended longing when she said, "Dear little children!" "Tut, _tut!_" said the tame crow, who had crept to the end of his branch, where he stood looking down at them. In a moment he began to break the green twigs and let them fall on the head of his mistress. Sue felt the hair and looked into the face and eyes of the maiden with wondering curiosity. Socky ran his fingers over the beaded belt. Both had a suspicion which they dared not express that here was an angel in some way related to their mother. "You are a beautiful lady," said the boy, with childish frankness. Master has often tried to describe the scene. He confesses that words, even though vivid and well spoken, cannot make one to understand the something which lay beneath all said and done, and which went to his heart so that for a time he turned and walked away from them. "Do you remember when you were fairies?" the girl asked of the children. The latter shook their heads. "Tell us about the fairies," Sue proposed, timidly. "They are old, old people--so my father has told me," said the beautiful lady. "They came into this world thousands of years ago riding in a great cloud that was drawn by wild geese. The fairies came down, each on a big flake of snow, and got off in the tree-tops and never went away. At first they were the teentiest folks--so little that a hundred of them could stand on a maple leaf--and very, very old. My father says they were never young in their lives, and I guess they have always lived. They rode around on the backs of the birds and saw everything in the world and had such a good time they all began to grow young. Now, as they grew young they grew bigger and bigger, and every spring a lot more of the little old people came out of the sky and began to grow young like the others. And by-and-by some of them were as big as your thumb and bigger." "How big do they grow?" the boy asked. "As they grow young they keep growing bigger. By-and-by the birds cannot carry them. Then they have to walk, and for the first time in their lives they begin to get hungry and learn to cry and nobody knows what is the matter with them. The fairies complain about the noise they make, and one night a little old woman takes them down into the woods to get them out of the way. And violets grow wherever their feet touch the ground, and they sit in a huckleberry bush and make a noise like the cry of a spotted fawn. The fawns hear them and know very well what they are crying for. The fawns have always loved them. When the fairies come down out of the tree-tops they always ride on the fawns, and where they have sat you can see a little white spot about as big as a flake of snow. That's why the fawns are spotted, and you know how shy they are--they mustn't let anybody see the fairies. Well, the young ones sit there in a huckleberry bush crying. The little animals come and lick their faces and tell them of a wonderful spring where milk flows out of a little hill and has a magic power in it, for even if one were crying and tasted the milk he always became happy. The young fairies climb on the backs of the fawns and ride away. By-and-by the fawns come to their mothers and their mothers tell them that no one who has teeth in his head can drink at the spring. So they wonder what to do. By-and-by they go to the woodpecker, for he has a pair of forceps and can pull anything, and the woodpecker pulls their teeth. Then the young fairies do nothing but ride around--each on a spotted fawn--and drink at the wonderful spring and grow fat and lazy, and the birds pull every hair out of their heads to build nests with. They live down in the woods, for they cannot climb the trees any more, and one day they fall asleep for the first time and tumble off the fawns and lie on the ground dreaming. "They dream of the fairy-heaven where they shall grow old again and each shall have a mother and his own wonderful spring of milk. Now that day trees begin to grow in the ground beneath them. The trees grow fast, and all in a night they lift the sleeping fairies far above the ground. The wind rocks them and they lie dreaming in the tree-tops until a crane, as he is crossing over the sky, looks down and sees them and goes and takes them away. You know the cranes have to go through the sky every day and pick up the young fairies." She paused and sat holding the hands of little Sue and looking at them as if their beauty were a great wonder. "Where do they take them?" Master was returning, and the girl rose like one afraid and whispered to the children, "I will tell you if--if you will come again." "I shall ask your father if I may come and see you," said Master as he came near. "Ha! ha! ha!" the bird croaked, fluttering in the air and lighting on the shoulder of his mistress. The children stepped aside quickly, as if in fear of it. She took the crow on her finger and held him at arm's-length. He turned and tried to catch an end of the scarlet ribbon. She was a picture then to remind one of the days of falconry. She ran a few paces up a green aisle in the thicket. She stopped where the young man was unable to see her. "Could--could you bring the children again, sir?" she asked. "On Thursday, at the same hour," he answered. He heard again the warning of the little crow and her footsteps growing fainter in the dark trail of the deer. XII. MASTER paddled slowly to the landing where he had left Strong, and gathered lilies while they waited. He pushed up to the shore as soon as the Emperor had arrived. "Sp'ilt," said the latter, pointing in the direction of Robin Lake. "You mean that we cannot use the camp over there?" "Ay-ah," Strong almost whispered, with a face in which perspiration was mingled with regret and geniality. "S-see 'er?" "Yes," Master answered. "The children were a great help. She fell in love with them. We are to meet her again Thursday." "Uh-huh!" Strong exclaimed, in a tone which seemed to say, "I told you so." "S-sociable?" he inquired, after a little pause. "No, but interested." "Uh-huh, says I!" the Emperor exclaimed again, with playful conceit. When he was in the mood of self-congratulation he had an odd way of bringing out those two words--"says I." "She was afraid of me. I backed away and said very little," Master explained. "Th-they'll t-tame her," the Emperor assured him. "She has a wonderful crow with her," said the young man. "Her g-guide," Strong explained. "Alwus knows the n-nighest way home." "If you'll help me, I'll make my camp here," said Master. "Ay-ah," the Emperor answered. His manner and his odd remark were full of approval and almost affectionate admiration. In half a moment his tongue lazily added, "L-lean her 'gin th-that air rock." In his conversation he conferred the feminine gender upon all inanimate things--a kind of compliment to the sex he revered so highly. "How long will it take?" "Day," said Strong, surveying the ground. "I have to speak in Hillsborough on the Fourth. Suppose we tackle it on my return?" Strong agreed, and while he and the children set out for camp Master remained to fish. Two "sports" had arrived in the absence of the Emperor and were shooting at a mark--a pastime so utterly foolish in the view of Silas Strong that he would rarely permit any one at Lost River camp to indulge in it. He who discharged his rifle without sufficient provocation was roughly classed with that breed of hounds which had learned no better than to bark at a squirrel. "Paunchers!" he muttered, as he came up the trail. It should be explained here that he divided all "would-be sportsmen" into three classes--namely, swishers, pouters, and paunchers. A swisher was one who filled the air within reach of his cast, catching trees and bushes, but no fish; a pouter, one who baited and hauled his fish as if it were no better than a bull-pout; a pauncher was wont to hit his deer "in the middle" and never saw him again. The Emperor stopped suddenly. He had seen a twig fall near him and heard the whiz of a bullet. "Whoa!" he called, his voice ringing in the timber. "H-hold on!" The Migleys--father and son--of Migleyville, hastened to greet the "Emperor of the Woods." They were the heralds of the great king of which Strong had complained that night he laid his heart bare and whose name was Business--a king who ruled not with the sword, but with flattery and temptation and artful devices. The Emperor knew that they were the men who had bought his stronghold; that they were come to shove the frontier of their king far beyond the Lost River country; that axes and saws and dams and flooded flats and whirling wheels and naked hill-sides would soon follow them. "How are you, Mr. Strong?" said the elder Migley, who, by his son, was familiarly called "Pop." He overflowed with geniality. "Glad to see you. Hot an' dry out in the clearing. Little track-worn. Thought we'd come in here for a breath o' fresh air an' a week or two o' sport. Have a drink?" He winked one eye in a significant manner, which seemed to say that he had plenty and was out for a good time. "N-no th-thanks," said Strong, as he surveyed the stout figure of the elder Migley. Here was one of the royal family of Business, in dress neatly symbolic, for Mr. Migley wore a light suit of clothes divided into checks of considerable magnitude by stripes that ran, as it were, north, south, east, and west. The broad convexity of his front resembled, in some degree, an atlas globe. One might have located any part of his system by degrees of latitude and longitude. His equator was represented by a large golden chain which curved in a great arc from one pocket of his waistcoat to the other. As he walked one might have imagined that he was moving in his orbit. His large, full face was adorned with a chin-whisker and a selfish and prosperous-looking nose. It had got possession of nearly all the color in his countenance, and occupied more than its share of space. The son, "Tom," had older manners and a more severe face. He carried with him a look of world-weariness and a sense of all-embracing knowledge so frequently derived from youthful experience. He was the-only-son type of domestic tyrant--overfed, selfish, brutal, wearied by adulation, crowned with curly hair. "Look at that boy," the elder Migley whispered, pointing at the fat young man of twenty-three who sat on a door-sill cleaning his rifle. "Ain't he a picture? Got a fast mark in Hash-ford Seminary." Mr. Migley owned a number of trotting-horses, and his conversation was always flavored with the cant of the stable. Strong looked sadly at the fat young man, who was, indeed, the very personification of pulp, and thought of the doom of the woods. The elder Migley, as if able to read the mind of Strong, offered him the consolation of a cigar. Then he reached to the pegs above him and lowered a quaking whip of greenheart which he had put together soon after his arrival. "Heft it," he whispered, pressing his rod upon the Emperor. "Ain't that a dandy?" He looked into the eyes of the woodsman. He winked a kind of challenge, and added, "Seems to me that ought to fetch 'em." "Mebbe," Strong answered, gently swaying the rod. He was never too free in committing himself. "Got it for Tommy," said the new sportsman. "Ketched a four-pounder with it--ask him if I didn't." Mr. Migley had the habit of self-corroboration, and Strong used to say that he never believed that kind of a liar. "Le's go an' try 'em," Migley suggested. The Emperor smoked thoughtfully a moment. "D-down river, bym-by," he said, pointing at the cook-tent as if he had now to prepare the dinner. Strong had seen the Migleys before, although he had never entertained them. They had paunched and pouted in territory not far remote from Lost River, and won a reputation which had travelled among the guides. They worked hard, and hurried out of the woods with all the fish and meat they could carry, and no respect for any law save one--the law of gravitation. They sat down or lay upon their backs every half-hour. Now, it seemed, they were to abandon the vulgar art of the pouter for one more gentle and becoming. Strong hastened to the cook-tent, where he found Sinth treating the children to sugared cakes and words of motherly fondness. "Teenty little dears!" she was saying when Silas entered the door. She rose quickly, and hurried to the stove with a kind of shame on her countenance. Silas kept a sober face while he went for the water-pail, as if he had not "took notice." His joy broke free and expressed itself in loud laughter on his way to the spring. "Snook!" Sinth exclaimed, her face red with embarrassment as she heard him. She poked the fire with great energy, and added: "Let the fool laugh. I don't care if he did hear me." A new impulse from the heart of nature entered the Migley breast. Father and son were seeking an opportunity to use their muscles. The son seized a girder above his head and began to chin it; the father went to work with an axe, and his enthusiasm fell in heavy blows upon a beech log. Strong peered through the window at him and muttered the one contemptuous word, "W-woodpecker!" A poor chopper in that part of the country was always classed with the woodpeckers. Dinner over, the elder Migley opened his tin fishing-box and displayed an assortment of cheap flies and leaders. "Well, captain," said the young man, as he turned to Strong, "if you'll show us where the trout live, we'll show you who they belong to." He passed judgment and bestowed rank upon a great many people, and most of his brevets, if he had been frank with them, would have put his life in peril. "Pop" Migley touched a rib of the Emperor with his big, coercive thumb, shut one eye, and produced a kind of snore in his larynx. The wit of his son had increased the cheerfulness of Mr. Migley. He began telling coarse tales, and continued until, as the Emperor would say, he had "emptied his reel." The man who talked too much always had a "big reel," in the thought of the Emperor, and "slack line" was the phrase he applied to empty words. With everything ready for sport, they proceeded to the landing on Lost River and were soon seated in a long canoe. "We'll t-try Dunmore's trout," said Strong as they left the shore. "Dunmore's trout?" said the elder Migley. "Ay-uh," the Emperor answered. "He hitched onto an' l-lost him." "Oh, it's that fish I've heard about that grabbed off one of Dunmore's flies," said the elder Migley. "Uh-huh," the Emperor assented. As a matter of fact, the old gentleman who lived on the shore of Buckhorn had done a good deal of talking about this remarkable fish. Father and son sat with rods in hand while Strong worked through the still water and down a long rush of rapids and halted below them near a deep pool flecked with foam. "C-cast," said he. With a wild swish and a spasmodic movement of arm and shoulder, "Pop" Migley, who sat amidships, tipped the canoe until it took water. Strong dashed his paddle and recovered balance. The young man swore. "C-cast yer _f-flies_," Strong suggested, and his emphasis clearly indicated that the fisherman should cease casting his body. Again the _nouveau_ worked his rod, whipping its point to the water fore and aft. Flies and leader clawed over the back of Silas Strong, fetching his hat off. Before he could recover, the young man went into action. Strong ducked in time to save an ear, splashing his paddle again to keep the canoe on its bottom. The tail-fly had caught above his elbow. When Strong tried to loosen its hold the young man was tugging at the line. Strong endeavored to speak, but somehow the words wouldn't come. Suddenly the other rod came back with a powerful swing and smote him on the top of his head. He had been trying to say "See here," but his tongue had halted on the s. Then he took a new tack, as it were, and tried a phrase which began with the letter g, and had fair success with it. Both Migleys gave a start of surprise. The Emperor waited to recover self-control and felt a touch of remorse. "Le' me c-climb a t-tree," he suggested, presently. The elder Migley burst into loud laughter. "Stop fooling!" said the young man. "I'd like to get some fish." He swung his rod, and was again tugging at the shirt-sleeve of the Emperor. Strong blew as he clung to the leader. "C-cast c-crossways," he commanded, with a gesture. The fishermen rested a moment. A hundred feet or so below them Strong saw a squirrel crossing the still water. Suddenly there was a movement behind him, and he sank out of sight. In half a moment he rose again, swimming with frantic haste to reach a clump of alder branches. Strong knew the mysterious villain of this little drama of the river, but said not a word of what he had seen. The "sports" resumed fishing with less confidence and more care. Soon they were able to reach off twenty feet or so, but they raked the air with deadly violence, and every moment one leader was laying hold of the other or catching in a tree-top. Strong pulled down bough after bough to free the flies. Presently they were caught high in a balsam. "Take us where there's trout. What do you think we're fishing for, anyway?" said young Migley. "B-birds," Strong answered, as he continued hauling at the tree-top with hand and paddle. He used language always for the simple purpose of expressing his thoughts. Soon the elder Migley began to feel the need of information. He passed his rod to the Emperor. "Show me how ye do it," said he. Strong paddled to a large, flat rock which rose, mid-stream, a little above water. He climbed upon it and sat down lazily. Nature had taught him, as she teaches all who bear heavy burdens, to conserve his strength. He had none to waste in the support of dignity. When he sat down his weight was braced with hand, foot, and elbow so as to rest his heart and muscles. Now he seemed to anchor himself by throwing his right knee over his left foot. His garment of cord and muscle lay loosely on his bones. There was that in the pose of this man to remind one of an ox lying peacefully in the field. He drew a loop of line off the reel, and with no motion of arm or body, his wrist bent, the point of the rod sprang forward, his flies leaped the length of his line and fell lightly on the river surface. They wavered across the current. He drew another loop of line. The rod rose and gave its double spring, and his flies leaped away and fell farther down the current. So his line flickered back and forth, running out and reaching with every cast until it spanned near a hundred feet. Still the Emperor smoked lazily, and, saving that little movement of the wrist, reposed as motionless and serene as the rock upon which he sat. Suddenly Strong's figure underwent a remarkable change. He bent forward, alert as a panther in sight of his prey. His mouth was open, his eyes full of animation. The supple wrist bent swiftly. The flies sprang up and flashed backward; the line sang in its flight. Where the squirrel rose a big trout had sprung above water and come down with a splash. But he had missed his aim. Again the flies lighted precisely where the trout sprang and wavered slowly through the bubbles. A breath of silence followed. The finned arrow burst above water in a veil of mist; down he plunged with a fierce grab at the tail-fly. The wrist of the fisherman sprang upward. The barb caught; the line slanted straight as a lance and seemed to strike at the river-bottom. The rod was bending. The fish had given a quick haul, and now the line's end came rushing in. The shrewd old trout knew how to gather slack on a fisherman. Strong rose like a jack-in-the-box. His hand flashed to the reel. It began to play like the end of a piston. He swung half around and his rod came up. The fish turned for a mad rush. With hands upon rod and silk the fisherman held to check him. Strong's line ripped through the water plane from mid-river to the shadow of the bank. The strain upon the fish's jaw halted him. He settled and began to jerk on the line. Strong raised his foot and tapped the butt of his rod. The report seemed to go down the line as if it had been a telephone message. It startled the trout, and again he took a long reach of silk off the reel. Then slowly he went back and forth through an arc of some twenty feet, and the long line swung like a pendulum. Weakened by his efforts, he began to lead in. Slowly he came near the rock, and soon the splendid trout lay gasping from utter weariness an arm's-length from his captor. As the net approached him he dove again, hauling with fierce energy. The man was leaning over the edge of the rock, his rod in one hand, his net in the other. He came near losing his balance in the sudden attack. He scrambled into position. Again the trout gave up and followed the strain of the leader. Strong let himself down upon the river-bottom beside the rock, and stood to his belt in water. The fish retreated again and came back helpless and was taken. He filled the net. A great tail-fin waved above its rim. The Emperor hefted his catch and blew like a buck deer, after his custom in moments of great stress. Then came a declaration of unusual length. "Ye could r-reel me in with a c-c-cotton th-thread an' p-pick me up in yer f-fingers." It was growing dusk. Strong clambered to the top of the rock. "Pop" Migley brought the canoe alongside. The Emperor gave a loud whistle of surprise. "Dunmore's t-trout!" he said, soberly. He had found a "black gnat" embedded in the fish's mouth, its snell broken near the loop. He put the struggling fish back in the net and tied his handkerchief across the top of it. The Migleys both agreed that they were ready for supper. The Emperor got aboard and requested the elder Migley to keep the fish under water, while he took his paddle and pushed for camp. They put their trout in a spring at the boat-house. The sports hurried to camp. Master came down the path and met Strong. "I've got D-Dunmore's t-trout," said the latter. "Good!" Master answered; "that will give us an excuse to go and call on him." XIII THAT evening, while the others went out to sit by the camp-fire, Silas Strong put the children to bed and lay down beside them. They begged him for a story, he had neither skill nor practice in narration, he had, as the rustic merchant is wont to say, a desire to please. He knew that he had disappointed the children and was doing his best to recover their esteem. Possibly he ought to try and be more like other folks. He rubbed his thin, sandy beard, he groped among the treasures of his memory. Infrequently he had gone over them with Sinth or the Lady Ann, but briefly and with halting words and slow reflection. He had that respect for the past which is a characteristic of the true historian, but, in his view, it gave him little to say of his own exploits. He was wont to observe, ironically, that others knew more of them than he knew himself. Owing, it may be, to his little infirmity of speech, he had never been misled into the broad way of prevarication. Brevity had been his refuge and his strength. He regarded with contempt the boastful narratives of woodsmen. Now the siren voices of the little folks had made him thoughtful. Had he nothing to give them but disappointment? He hesitated. Then he fell, as it were, but, happily, for the sake of those two he had begun to love, and not through pride. It was a kind of modesty which caused him to reach for the candle and blow it out. Then, boldly, as it were, he began to sing a brief account of one of his own adventures. He could sing without stammering, and therefore he sang an odd and almost tuneless chant. He accepted such rhyme and rhythm as chanced to drift in upon the monotonous current of his epic; but he turned not aside for them. He sang glibly, jumping in and out of that old, melodious trail of "The Son of a Gamboleer." Strong called this unique creation of his "THE STORY OF THE MELLERED BEAR. "One day yer Uncle Silas went for to kill a bear, An' a dog he took an' follered which his name was little Zeb; Bym-by we come acrost a track which looked as big as sin, An' Zeb he hollered 'twas a bear, which I didn't quite believe in Until I got down on my knee, an' then I kind o' laughed, For su'thin' cur'us showed me where he'd wrote his autygraft, An' which way he was travellin' all in the frosty snow; An' I follered Zeb, the bear-dog, as fast as I could go, An' purty soon I see Where the bear had tore his overcoat upon a hem lock-tree, An' left some threads behind him which fell upon his track, Which I wouldn't wonder if he done a-scratchin' of his back, Which caused me for to grin an' laugh all on ac count o' my feelin's." Here came a pause, in which the singer sought a moment of relaxation, as it would seem, in a thoughtful and timely cough. "Bym-by I come up kind o' dost an' where that I could see Zeb was jumpin' like a rabbit an' a-hollerin' t' me; An' I could see the ol' bear's home all underneath a ledge, An' the track of his big moggasins up to the very edge. I took an' fetched some pine-knots an' a lot of ol' dead limbs, An' built a fire upon his door-step an' let the smoke blow in; An' then I took a piece o' rope an' tethered Zeb away So's that he'd keep his breeches fer to use another day. An' purty soon I listened an' I heard the bear a-coughin', An' he sneezed an' bellered out as if he guessed he'd be excused. All t' once he bust out an' the rifle give a yell, An' I wouldn't wonder if he thought--" The narrator was halted for half a moment by another frog in his throat--as he explained. Then he went on: "An' Zeb he tore away an' took an' fastened on the bear, An' they rolled down-hill together, an' the critter ripped the air, An' I didn't dast t' shoot him for fear o' killin' Zeb, So I clubbed my rifle on the bear an' mellered up his head." Moist with perspiration, Silas Strong rose and stood by the bedside and blew. Fifty miles with a boat on his back could not have taxed him more severely. He answered a few queries touching the size, fierceness, and fate of the bear. Then he retreated, whispering as he left the door, "Strong's ahead." Zeb lay on the foot of the bed, and Socky, being a little timid in the dark, coaxed him to lie between them, his paws on the pillow. With their hands on the back of Zeb, they felt sure no harm could come to them. "Do you love Uncle Silas?" It was the question of little Sue. Socky answered, promptly, "Yes; do you?" "Yes." "Hunters don't never wear good clothes." So Socky went on, presently, as if apologizing to his own spirit for the personal appearance of his uncle. "They git 'em all tore up by the bears an' panthers." "That's how he got his pants tore," Sue suggested, thinking of his condition that day they met him on the trail. "Had a fight with a 'kunk," Socky answered, quickly. He had overheard something of that adventure at Robin Lake. They lay thinking a moment. Then up spoke the boy. "I wisht he had a gold watch." With Socky the ladder by which a man rose to greatness had many rounds. The first was great physical strength, the next physical appearance; the possession of a rifle and the sacred privilege of bathing the same in bear's-oil was distinctly another; symbols of splendor, such as watches, finger-rings, and the like, had their places in the ladder, and qualities of imagination were not wholly disregarded. Sue tried to think of something good to say--something, possibly, which would explain her love. It was her first trial at analysis. "He wouldn't hurt nobody," she suggested. "He can carry a tree on his back"--so it seemed to Socky. "He wouldn't let nothin' touch us," said Sue, still working the vein of kindness which she had discovered. "He's the most terrible powerful man in the world," Socky averred, and unconsciously twisted the soft ear of Zeb until the latter gave a little yelp of complaint. "He can kill bears an' panthers an' deers an'--an' ketch fish," said Sue. "He could swaller a whale," Socky declared, as he thought of the story of Jonah. "Aunt Sinthy has got a hole in her shoe." The girl imparted this in a whisper. Both felt the back of Zeb and were silent for a little. "She blubbers!" Socky exclaimed, with a slight touch of contempt in the way he said it. "Maybe she got her feet wet and Uncle Silas Spanked her." "Big folks don't get spanked," the boy assured Sue. "Do you like her?" He answered quickly, as if the topic were a bore to him, "Purty well." Sue had hoped for greater frankness. Her own opinion of her Aunt Cynthia, while favorable, was unsettled. She thought of a thing in connection with her aunt which had given her some concern. She had been full of wonder as to its hidden potentialities. In a moment Sue broached the subject by saying, "She's got a big mold on her neck." "With a long hair on it," Socky added. "Bet you wouldn't dast pull that hair." Sue squirmed a little. That single hair had, somehow, reminded her of the string on a jumping-jack. She reflected a moment, "I put my finger on it," said she, boastfully. "That's nothing," Socky answered. "Uncle Silas let me feel the shot what he got in his arm. Gee, it was kind o' funny." He squirmed a little and thoughtfully felt his foot. Sue recognized the superior attraction of the buried shot and held her peace a moment. Both had begun to yawn. "Wisht it was t'-morrow," said Sue. "Why?" "'Cause I'm going to see the beautiful lady." "An' the crow, too," Socky whispered. They were, indeed, to see her sooner than they knew--in dreamland. Zeb now retired discreetly to the foot of the bed. After a little silence Sue put her arms about her brother's neck and pressed him close. "Wisht I was in heaven," she said, drowsily, with a little cry of complaint. "Why?" "So I could see my mother." "She's way up a Trillion miles beyond where the hawks fly," said the boy, as he gaped wearily. Thereafter the room was silent, save for the muffled barking of Zeb in his slumber. He, too, was dreaming, no doubt, of things far away. XIV THEY were a timely arrival--those new friends who had found Edith Dunmore. She was no longer satisfied with the narrow world in which her father had imprisoned her, and had begun to wander alone as if in quest of a better one. That hour of revelation on the shore of Birch Cove led quickly to others quite as wonderful. She had no sooner reached home than she told her grandmother of the young man and the children who had come with him to the shore of Catamount and of a strange happiness in her heart. It was then that a sense of duty in the old Scotchwoman broke away from promises to her son which had long suppressed it. As they sat alone, together, the old lady talked to her granddaughter of the mysteries of life and love and death. Much in this talk the girl had gathered for herself, by inference, out of books--mostly fairy tales that her father had brought to her--and out of the evasions which had greeted her questioning and out of her own heart. Her queries followed one another fast and were answered freely. She learned, among other things, a part of the reason for their lonely life--that her father was not like other men, not even like himself; that their isolation had been a wicked and foolish error; that men were not, mostly, children of the devil seeking whom they might destroy, but kindly, giving and desiring love; that she, Edith Dunmore, had a right to live like the rest of God's children, and to love and be loved and given in marriage and to have her part in the world's history. All this and much good counsel besides the old lady gave to the girl who sat a long time pondering after her grandmother had left her. In the miracle of birth and the storied change that follows dissolution she saw the magic of fairyland. To her Paristan had been much more real than the republic in which she lived. She longed for the hour to come when she should again see those wonderful children and the still more wonderful being who had brought them in his canoe. Next morning she set out early in the trail to Catamount with her little guide and companion. She had named him Roc, after the famous bird of Oriental tradition. She arrived there long before the hour appointed. Slowly she wandered to the trail over which Master and the children would be sure to come. She approached the camp at Lost River and stood peering through thickets of young fir, She saw the boy and girl at play, and watched them. Soon Master came out of one of the cabins. Now, somehow, she felt a greater fear of him than before, yet she longed to look into his face--to feel the touch of his hand. The crow had taken his perch in a small tree beside his mistress. He seemed to be looking thoughtfully at the children, with now and then a little croak of criticism or of amusement, ending frequently in a sound like half-suppressed laughter. He raised a foot and slowly scratched his head, a gaze of meditation deepening in his eyes. Suddenly his interest seemed to grow keener. He moved a step aside, rose in the air, and approached the children. Darting to the ground, he picked up a little silver compass which, one of them had dropped, and quickly returned with it. The children called to Master, and all three followed the crow. His mistress, scarcely knowing why, had run up the trail, and Roc pursued her with foot and wing, croaking urgently, as if his life and spoil depended on their haste. Reaching a thicket beside the trail, she hid under its sheltering cover and sat down to rest. The crow, following, scrambled upon her shoulder and dropped the bit of silver into her lap. She held his beak to keep him quiet when Master and the children came near, but as the latter were passing they could hear the smothered laughter of Roc. In a moment Socky and Sue ran to their new friend, while Master waited near them. The crow spread his wings and seemed to threaten with a scolding chatter. The girl threw the bird in the air and took the hands of the children and drew them to her breast. She held them close and looked into their faces. "Dear fairies!" said she, impulsively kissing them. "Tell us where the cranes go with--with the young fairies," Sue managed to say, her hands and voice trembling. Miss Dunmore sat looking down sadly for a little before she answered. Sue, curiously, felt "the lady's" cheeks that were now rose-red and beautiful. "I will tell you what my father says," the latter began. "The cranes take them to Slum-bercity on a great marsh and put them in their nests. The heads of the young fairies are bald and smooth and the cranes sit on them as if they were eggs. By-and-by wonderful thoughts and dreams come into them so that the fairies wake up and begin crying for they are very hungry. They remember the spring of milk, but they are so young and helpless they can only reach out their hands and cry for it. Some of the cranes stand on one leg in the marsh and listen. The moment they hear the young fairies crying they fly away to find mothers for them. The unhappy little things are really not fairies any more--they are babies. Some of the cranes come and dance around the nest to keep them quiet, and the babies sit up and open their eyes and begin to laugh, it is so very funny. And that night a big crane sits by the side of each baby and the baby creeps on his back and rides away to his mother. And he is so weary after his ride that he sleeps and is scarcely able to move, and when he wakes and smiles and laughs, he remembers how the cranes danced in the marsh." Curiously, silently, the children looked into her face, while she, with wonder equal to their own, put her arms around them. "My father says that there are no people--that we are really nothing but young fairies asleep and dreaming up in the tops of the trees, and that the fairy heaven is not here." She gazed into the eyes of the boy a moment, all unconscious of his mental limitations. Then she added, "You're nothing but a big fairy--you're so very young." Socky drew away with a look of injury and threw out his chest. "I'm six years old," he answered, with dignity. "In a little while I'll be a man." Miss Dunmore drew them close to her and said, "I wish I could take you home with me." "Have you any maple sugar there?" the little girl inquired. "Yes, and a tame fox and a little fawn." "But you'ain't got no Uncle Silas," said the boy, boastfully. "Ner no Aunt Sinth," Sue ventured. Then, with her tiny fingers, she felt the neck of "the beautiful lady" to see if there were a "mold" on it. She was thinking of one of the chief attractions of her aunt. In a moment she added, "Ner no Uncle Robert." They had begun to call him Uncle Robert. "Is he the man I saw?" the maiden asked. Both children nodded affirmatively. "Do you love him?" "Yes; would you like to take him home with you, too?" Socky asked, with a look of deep interest. If they were to go he would wish to have his new uncle with them, and Sue saw the point. "He can carry you on his back and growl jes' like a bear," she urged. "He can put his mouth on your cheek and make such a funny noise." Miss Dunmore looked away, blushing red. It was a curious kind of love-making. She whispered in the ear of the little girl, "Would you let me have him?" Sue looked up into her eyes doubtfully. "She wants our Uncle Robert," Socky guessed aloud. "But not to keep?" Sue questioned, as if it were not to be thought of. The eyes of the children were looking into those of "the beautiful lady." "I couldn't have him?" the latter asked. "We'll give you our coon," Sue suggested, by way of compromise. "I am sure he--your uncle--would not go with me," Miss Dunmore suggested. Socky seemed now to think that the time had come for authoritative information. He broke away and called to his new uncle. The maiden rose quickly, blushing with surprise. She turned away as Robert Master came in sight, and stood for half a moment looking down. Then, stooping, she picked a wild flower and timidly offered it. The act was full of childish simplicity. It spoke for her as her tongue could not. Knowledge acquired since she saw him last had possibly increased her shyness. "She wants you," said the boy, with vast innocence, while he looked up at the young man. "I wish I could believe it were true," said Master, as he came nearer by a step to the daughter of the woodland. She turned with a look of fear and said, "I must go," as she ran to the trail, followed by Roc. A little distance away she turned, looking back at the young man. Something in her eyes told of a soul beneath them lovelier than its nobly fashioned house. Moreover, they proclaimed the secret which she would fain have kept. "Shall we shake hands?" he asked. She took a step towards him and stopped. "No," she answered. "I must see you again," said Master, with passionate eagerness, fearing that she was about to leave. She looked down but made no answer. The children put their arms about her knees as if to detain her. "You will not forget to come Thursday?" he added. "The beautiful lady" stood looking at him, her left hand upon her chin, her arms bare to the elbows. A smile, an almost imperceptible nod, and the eloquence of her eyes were the only answer she gave him, but they were enough. "Will you not speak to me?" the young man urged, as he came nearer. She stood looking, curiously, until he could almost have touched her. Then, gently, she pushed the children away and fled up the trail, her pet following. In a moment she had gone out of sight. She was like the spirit of the woodland--wild, beautiful, silent. XV THERE was a great marsh around a set-back leading off the still water near Lost River camp. There the children had seen many cranes, and they did not forget that certain of them had stood upon one leg. After supper that evening they sat together whispering awhile and presently stole away. There was a trail for frog-hunters that led to their destination. They ran, eagerly, and, just as the sun was going down, stopped on a high bank overlooking the marshes. It was a broad flat covered with pools and tall grasses and bogs, crowned with leaves of the sweet-flag and with cattails and pussy-willows. Now it was still and hazy. The pools were like mirrors with the golden glow of the sky and soft, dark shadows in them. Far out on the marsh they discovered a crane strolling leisurely among the bogs, and began to chatter about him. They looked and listened until the sun had gone below the tops of the trees. Then cranes came flying homeward out of the four skies, and, one by one, lighted on the edge of a bog some two or three hundred feet from the children. Sue uttered a little cry of joy. The cranes stood motionless with heads up. "They're listening," Socky assured his sister. Bull-frogs had begun croaking and a mud-hen was making a sound like that of a rusty pump. The children now sat on the side of the bank and leaned forward straining their eyes and ears. Soon the far, shrill cry of some little animal rang above the chorus of the marsh. The children took it to be a baby, and seemed almost to writhe with suppressed laughter mingled with hopeful and whispered comment. In his excitement Socky slipped off his perch and came near rolling down the side of the bank. One of the cranes began to shuffle about, his wings half open, like an awkward dancer. Soon the whole group of birds seemed to be imitating him, and each shuffled on his long legs as if trying to be most ridiculous. The dusk was thickening, and the children could only just discern them. They sat close together and held each other's hands tightly, and looked out upon the marsh and were silent with awe and expectation. Suddenly the cranes scattered into the bushes and the sedge. Socky and Sue were now watching to see them fly. It was almost dark and a big moon seemed to be peering through the tops of the trees. Soon the great birds strode slowly in single file past the wonder-stricken two. "See the babies! See the babies!" Sue cried out. They squirmed and shivered with awe, their lips and eyes wide with amazement. In the dim light they imagined that a baby sat on the back of each crane. Sue had no sooner cried out than there came a flapping of wings that seemed to fill the sky. The feathered caravan had taken to the air and were swinging in a wide circle around the edge of the marsh. They quickly disappeared in the gloom. "Gone to find mothers for 'em," said Socky, in a trembling whisper. The children had suddenly become aware that it was quite dark, but neither dared speak of it. They still sat looking out upon the marsh and clinging hand to hand. Soon a procession of grotesque and evil creatures began to pass them: the great bear of the woods who had swallowed alive all the little runaways, and who, having made them prisoners, only let them come out now and then to ride upon his back; the big panther-bird who lured children from their homes with berries and flowers and nuts and, maybe, raisins, and who, when they were in some lonely place, dropped stones upon their heads and slew them; odd, indescribable shapes, some having long, hairy necks and heads like cocoa-nuts; and, lastly, came that awful horned creature, with cloven hoofs and the body of a man, who carried a pitchfork and who, soon or late, flung all the bad children into a lake of fire. Socky and Sue covered their faces with their hands. Suddenly a prudent thought entered the mind of the boy. "I'm going to be good," said he, in a loud but timid voice. "I love God best of every one." His sister gave a little start. In half a moment she suggested, her eyes covered with her hands, "You don't love God better than Uncle Silas?" Socky hesitated. Prudence and affection struggled for the mastery. "Yes," he managed to say, although with some difficulty. "Don't you?" Sue hesitated. He nudged her and whispered, "Say yes--say it out loud." The word came from Sue in a low, pathetic wail of fear. "I ain't never goin' to tell any more lies," the boy asserted, in a firm, clear voice, "er swear er run away." They both gave a cry of alarm, for Zeb had sprung upon them and begun to lick their faces. Their aunt and uncle had missed them and Zeb had led his master to where they sat. Strong had heard the children choosing between him and their Creator and understood. Socky and Sue, after the shock of Zeb's sudden arrival, were encouraged by his presence and began to take counsel together. "We better go home," said Socky. "What if we meet something?" "Pooh! I'll crook my finger to him an' say, 'Sile Strong is my uncle,'" Socky answered, confidently. "You'll see him run fast enough." It was a formula which his uncle had taught him, and he had tried it upon a deer and a hedgehog with eminent success. The Emperor had planned to give them a scare by way of punishment, but now he had no heart for severity. He walked through the bushes whistling. He said not a word as he knelt before them--indeed, the man dared not trust himself to speak. With cries of joy they climbed upon his shoulders and embraced him. Strong rose and slowly carried them through the dark trail. He could not even answer their questions. He. was thinking of their faith in him--of their love, the like of which he had-never known or dreamed of and was not able to understand. Sinth was out with a lantern when they returned. The children were asleep in his arms. "Sh-h-h! Don't scold, sister," said he, in a voice so gentle it surprised himself. They put the children to bed and walked to the cook-tent. Strong told of all he had heard them say. "I dunno but you'll have to whip 'em," said Sinth. Strong was drying the little boots of the boy. He touched them tenderly with his great hand. He smiled and shook his head and slowly stammered, "If we're g-goin't' be g-good'nough t' 's-sociate with them we got t' wh-whip ourselves." He rose and put a stick of wood on the fire. "Th-they think I'm m-most as good as God," he added, huskily, and then he went out-ofdoors. Before going to bed that night he made this entry in his memorandum-book: _"Strong won't do he'll have to be tore down an' built over."_ XVI THE Migleys had engaged Strong to take them out of the woods next day. They were going to the Fourth-of-July celebration at Hillsborough. Master was going also, be orator of the day. Strong, hearing the talk of the others, had "got to wishin'," as Sinth put it, and had finally concluded to go on to Hillsborough and witness the celebration. So Master had sent for his guide to come and stay at Lost River camp until the return of Silas. The Emperor was getting ready to go. Some one had told him that a man at Hillsborough was buying coons and foxes for the zoological gardens in New York. He considered whether he had better take his young pet coon with him. In that hour of expanding generosity when he had broken his bank, as the saying goes, he had forgotten his new responsibilities. There were the children, and that necessity which often awoke him at night and whispered of impending evil--he must leave his old home and find a new one somewhere in the forest. The little people would need boots and dresses, and why shouldn't they have a rocking-horse or some cheering toy of that character? Such reflections began to change--to amend, as it were--his view of money. Furthermore, Sinth had no respect for coons. Ever since the Emperor had captured him, much of her ill-nature had been focussed upon the coon. "W-woods g-goin'," he mused, as he fed the little creature. "W-we got t' git t-tame." "You better take him along," said Sinth, as she came out of the cook-tent. "Jim Warner got ten dollars for a coon down to Canton las' summer." "C-come on, Dick," said the hunter, with some regret in his tone as he fastened the coon's cage upon his basket. Strong looped a cord through the wire and the buckles of both shoulder-braces. Master had taken the river route, and would drive to Hillsborough from Tupper's. Strong and the Migleys were going out through Pitkin. The "sports" had been on their way for more than half an hour. Strong put his arms in the straps and followed them. He turned in the trail and called back: "B-better times!" he shouted. It was a cheerful sentiment which he often expressed in moments of parting with Sinth. "Don't believe it," Sinth answered. "You s-see," he insisted, and then he disappeared in the timber. As the travellers went on, the Migleys exhibited increasing respect for the law of gravitation. They gave their coats to the Emperor, who studiously kept as far ahead or behind them as possible to avoid conversation. He was "tongue weary," and told them so. Late in the afternoon they came to a new lumber-camp. "The Warren job" had pushed its front across the old trail. What desolation had fallen where Strong passed, two weeks before, in the shadow of the primeval wood! Its green roof lay in scraggled, withering heaps; the under thickets had been cut away; the ferns lay flat, blackening on the sunburned soil. An old skeleton of pine lifted its broken arms high above the scene of desolation, and one could hear its bones creak and rattle in the breezy heavens. Great shafts of spruce and pine were being sawed into even lengths and hauled to a skidway. Busy men looked small as ants in the edge of the high forest. Some swayed in pairs, "pulling the briar," as woodsmen say of those who work with a saw. Strong and the Migleys halted to watch the downfall of a great pine. Soon the sawyers put their wedge in the slit and smote upon it. The sheet of steel hissed back and forth. Then a few blows of the axe. The men gave a shout of warning and drew aside. The great tree began to creak and tremble. Slowly it bent and groaned; its long arms seemed to clutch at the air. Then it pitched headlong, its top whistling, its heavy stem shaking the ground upon which it fell. A voice of thunder seemed to proclaim its fate. The axemen lopped off its branches, and soon the long column lay stark, and the growth of two centuries had come to its end. Strong and his companions stood a moment longer watching the scene. "Huh!" the Emperor grunted, with a sorry look as they passed on. Near sundown they came into the cleared land--the sandy, God-forsaken barrens of Tifton, robbed of root and branch and soil, of their glory, and the one crop nature had designed for them. The travellers passed a deserted cabin on a hot, stony hill. In its door-yard they could see a plough and an old wagon partly overgrown with weeds. Some one had tried to live on the spoiled earth and had come to discouragement. Where ten thousand men could have found healing and refreshment there was not enough growing to feed a dozen sheep. Here a part of the great inheritance of man had been forever ruined. Strong spoke of the pity of it. "Can't be helped," said the elder Migley. "A man has a right to cut and sell his timber." Strong made no question of that, claiming only that the cutting should be "reg'lated," an expression which he rarely took the trouble to explain. It stood for a meaning well considered--that the forest belonged to the people, the timber to the owner of the land; that the right of the owner should be subject to restraint. He should be permitted to cut trees of a certain size only. So the forest would be made permanent, and the owner and the generations to follow him would get a crop of timber every eight or ten years. The sun was setting when they came into the little forest hamlet. The Migleys put up at the Pitkin general store, where one might have rude hospitality as well as merchandise. There Strong left pack and coon behind the counter and hastened to the home of Annette. The comely young woman rose from the supper-table and took both his hands in hers. "Strong's ahead!" he answered, cheerfully, as she greeted him. In response to her invitation he sat down to eat. Her father lighted his pipe and left them. Silas told of the swishers and the big trout and the children. "M-me an' Sinth is b-bein' cut over," here-marked, with a smile, as he thought of the children. "What do you mean?" "B-bein' cleared an' p-ploughed an' sowed." She laughed a little as the Emperor unfolded his pleasantry. He thought of his improved account in the matter of swearing and of the better temper of Sinth. "G-gittin' p-proper," he added. Annette was amused. "G-got t' leave Lost R-river," he said, presently. "Got to leave Lost River!" Annette exclaimed. "Ay-ah," Strong answered. He looked down for a second, then he added, sorrowfully, "G-goin' to tear down the w-woods." "It's an outrage. Couldn't you go to the plains?" "S-sold an' f-fenced." "How about the Rag Lake country?" "B-bein' cut." Annette shook her head ruefully. "W-woods got t' g-go," said Strong, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. . "What'll you do?" "G-git tame," Strong answered, as he rose and went to the squirrel cage and began to play with his old pet. The little animal came to his wire gateway and stood upon the palm of the Emperor's hand. "T-trespasser!" he remarked, stroking the squirrel. "Th-they'll have me in a c-cage, too, purty s-soon." He put the squirrel away and offered his hand to Annette. "S-some day," he whispered. "Some day," she answered, with a sigh. "Y-you're g-goin' to hear me d-do some t-talkin'," he assured her. The Lady Ann had often mildly complained of his reticence. They now stood in front of the little veranda. She was looking up at him. "It'll 'mount to s-suthin', t-too," he went on. It seemed as if he were making an honest effort to correct the idleness of his tongue. He was looking down at her and groping in his mind for some other cheerful sentiment. He seemed to make this happy discovery, and added, "W-won-derful good t-times comin'." With a full heart she pressed his great hand in both of hers. "K-keep ahead," said he, cheerfully, and bade her good-night. With this he left her and was happy, for the taming of Sinth had seemed to bring that "some day" of his promise into the near future. At the Pitkin general store his two companions had retired for the night, and he joined a group of woodsmen who occupied everything in the place which had a fairly smooth and accessible top on it. They were all in debt to the storekeeper and seemed to entertain a regard for him not unmingled with pity. This latter sentiment was, the historian believes, rather well founded. They called him "Billy," with the inflection of fondness. Two sat slouching, apologetically, on the counter. One rested his weight, as tenderly and considerately as might be, on a cracker-barrel. Another reposed with a look of greater confidence on the end of a nail-keg. They were guides, two of whom had come out for provisions; the others, like Strong, were on their way to Hillsborough. "Here's the old Emp'ror," said one, as Strong entered and returned their greetings and sat down astride the beam of a plough. "I'd like to know what he thinks of it," said a guide from the Jordan Lake country. Strong looked up at him without a word. "A millionaire has bought thirty thousand acres alongside o' my camp," the guide explained. "He won't let me cross on the old trail. I had to go six mile out o' my way to git here." He smote the counter with his fist and coupled the name of the rich man with vile epithets. "My father and my grandfather travelled that trail before he was born," the angry woodsman declared. Strong leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked at his hands without speaking. One laughed loudly, another gave out a sympathetic curse. "I'll git even with him--you hear me." So the aggrieved party expressed himself. "How?" Strong inquired, looking up suddenly. "I'll git even. I'll send a traveller into that preserve who'll put him off it." He spoke with a sinister suggestion. "Huh!" the Emperor grunted. He understood the threat of the other, who clearly meant to set the woods afire. "Ain't I right? What d' ye come to, anyway, when ye think it all over?" The words came hot and fast off the tongue of the com-plainer. "F-fool," Strong stammered, calmly. There was something in his way of saying it that made the others laugh. A faint smile of embarrassment showed in the face of the angry woodsman. "Me or the millionaire?" he inquired. "B-both," Strong answered, soberly, as the storm ended in a little gust of laughter. Strong had stripped the guide of his anger as deftly as a squirrel could take the shell off a nut. In the brief silence that followed he thought of another maxim for his memorandum-book, and soon it was recorded therein as follows: _"Man that makes trouble sure to have most of it."_ Presently he who sat on the cracker-barrel remarked, "If them air woods git afire now, they'll burn the stars out o' heaven." All eyes turned upon the once violent man. "Of course, I wouldn't fire the woods," he muttered. He was now cool, and could see the folly and also the peril which lay in his threat. "I never said I'd set the woods afire, but the ol' trail has been a thoroughfare for nigh a hunderd year.-I believe I've got as good a right to use it as he has." "Th-think so?" the Emperor inquired. "Yes, sir." "Then d-do it," Strong answered, dryly. There was much in those three words and in the look of the speaker. It said, plainly, that the other was to do what he thought to be right and never what he knew to be wrong. "Lumbermen are more to blame," said another. "Where they've been nobody wants to go. They cut everything down t' the size o' yer wrist an' leave the soil covered with tinder-stacks. They think o' nothin' but the profit. Case o' fire, woods 'round 'em wouldn't hev a ghost of a show." "Look at the Weaver tract," said he who sat on the nail-keg. "Four thousand acres o' dead tops--miles on 'em--an' all as dry as gunpowder. If you was t' touch a match there ye'd have to run fer yer life." "Go like a scairt deer," said he of the cracker-barrel. "'Fore it stopped I guess ye'd think the world was afire." "W-woods g-goin'," said the Emperor, sadly. He thought of the cold springs at which he had refreshed himself in the heat of the summer day and which were to perish utterly; he thought of the brooks and rivers, slowing their pace like one stricken with infirmity, and, by-and-by, lying dead in the sunlight--lying in a chain of slimy pools across the great valley of the St. Lawrence; he thought of green meadows which, soon or late, would probably wither into a desert. "What 'll become of us?" said he on the nail-keg. "Have t' be sawed an' trimmed an' planed an' matched an' go into town." It was the voice above the cracker-barrel. "Not me," said the occupant of the nail-keg. "Too many houses an' folks an' too much noise. Couldn't never stan' it." "Village is a cur'ous place," said another, who had never been sober when he saw it. "Steeples an' buildin's an' folks reel 'round in pairs. Seems so the sidewalk flowed like a river, an' nothin' stan's still long 'nough so ye can see how 't looks." The speaker was interrupted by the proprietor of the Pitkin general store, who came downstairs and flung himself on the top of the counter. "Goin't' the Fourth?" said he of the cracker-barrel. "Might as well--got t' hev a tooth drawed." "I've got one that's been growlin' purty spiteful," said the nail-kegger. "Dunno but I might as well go an' hev it tore out." "I got t' be snaked, too," said the cracker-barrel man. "Reg'lar tooth-drawin' down thar to-morrer," said a voice from the counter. "Beats all how the teeth git t' rairin' up ev'ry circus an' Fourth o' July," said the nail-kegger. The laughter which now ensued seemed, as it were, to shake everybody off his perch. The counter and the cracker-barrel expressed themselves in a creak of relief, and all went abovestairs save the Emperor. He cut a few boughs for a pillow, spread his blanket under the pine-trees, flung an end of it over his great body, and "let go," as he was wont to say. At any time of day or night he had only to lie down and "let go," and enjoy absolute forgetfulness. XVII AT the break of day next morning, Strong rose and called his fellow-travellers. Beside the turnpike he built a fire, over which he began to cook fish and potatoes and coffee. When the Migleys had come, all sat on a blanket within reach of their food and helped themselves in a fashion almost as ancient as the hills. Then Strong gave the coon his share, and washed the dishes and got his pack ready. It was a tramp of four miles to the station below Pitkin. They arrived there, however, before the sun was an hour high. When they were seated in the end of the smoking-car, with coon and pack beside them, Mr. Migley began to reveal the plans of the great king, Business. Having increased his territory, he now felt the need of adding to his power. He must have more legislation, for there were to be ruthless changes of the map. Those few really free and independent people who dwelt in and near the Lost River country were to be his subjects and they must learn to obey. At least they must not oppose him and make trouble. Gently his envoy began. "You know," said he, "there's to be a new member of Assembly in our district." Strong nodded. "I want my son to go," the elder Migley went on, as he winked suggestively. "He's going to make his home in Pitkin, and it's very necessary to his plans that you people should be with him. He's got the talent of a statesman. Ask anybody who knows the boy." He paused a moment. The Emperor made no reply. "Level-headed and reliable in every spot an' place, an' a good-looker," Migley continued, as if he were selling a road-horse, while he nudged the Emperor. "Look at him. I'd swap faces with that boy any day and give him ten thousand dollars to boot. Wouldn't you?" Mr. Migley spoke in dead earnest. He pinched the knee of Strong and waited for his reply. "W-wouldn't fit me," the Emperor replied. "Pop" Migley took the answer as a compliment and gurgled with good feeling. "Strong, you're a kind of a boss up here in the hills," said he. "There isn't a jay in the pine lands that wouldn't walk twenty miles to caucus if you asked him to." "Dunno," Strong answered, doubtfully. "I know what I'm talking about," said the lumberman, with a smile. "I want the vote o' the town o' Pitkin. If we get that we can give 'em all the flag." Strong was not unaccustomed to this kind of appeal. There were not many voters in his town, but they always followed the Emperor. "You can get it for us," Mr. Migley insisted. "N-no." "Why not?" "I've promised to help M-Master." "Oh, well, now, look here--you and I ought to be friends," said Migley. "We ought to stand by each other. You look out for me and I'll look out for you." As he offered his alliance, Migley tenderly pressed the shoulder of Silas Strong. Then he put his index-finger on that square of latitude and longitude which indicated the region of his heart, and added, impressively, "I have the reputation of being true to my friends--ask anybody." The hunter sat filling his pipe in silence. "With what's pledged to us, if we get this town we can win easy." Strong began to puff at his pipe thoughtfully. Here sat a man who could make or break him. His face reddened a little. He shook his head. Mr. Migley had caught the eye of a man he knew--Joe Socket--postmaster and politician of Moon Lake. He rose, tapped the shoulder of Strong, and said, "Think it over." Then he hurried down the aisle of the car. He leaned over and whispered into the ear of Socket, "What kind of a man is Strong?" "Square," said the other, promptly. "A little cranky in some ways, but you can depend upon him. He'll do What he says--the devil couldn't turn him." "He says he's pledged to Master--that chap who's come up here with a bag o' money. Do you think Master has bought him?" "I don't think so. I suppose he could be bought, but--but I never knew of his taking money. The boys of the back country swear by the Emperor; they look up to him. Fact is, Sile Strong is a ------ ---- good fellow." His oath seemed to contradict his affirmation. "He's like a rock," said Migley. "The glad hand don't make any impression. What ye going to do with a man who won't drink or talk or swap lies with ye? I could put the poor devil out of house and home, but he don't seem to care." "We'll turn him over to the Congressman," Socket answered. "He'll bring him into camp. If not we can get along without him." The fact was the "Emperor of the Woods" was not like any other man they had to deal with--in history, character, and caliber. He used his brain for a definite purpose--"to think out thoughts with," as he was wont to say, and if his heart approved of them they were right, and he could no more change them than a tree could change its bark or its foliage. As yet the arts and allies of the flatterer had no power over him. He was content and without any false notion of his own importance. XVIII WHAT a fair of American citizenship was on its way to Hillsborough this morning of the Fourth of July! They that now crowded the train were like others travelling on all the main thoroughfares of the county--farmers and their wives, rustic youths and their sweethearts, mill-hands and mill-owners, teamsters, sawyers, axemen, guides, and storekeepers. They were celebrating a day's release from the tyranny of Business, and were not deeply moved by the tyranny which their grandfathers had suffered. History, save that of the present hour, did not much concern them. They were mostly sound-hearted men. There were some who, in answer to the charge that a local statesman had got riches in the Legislature, were wont to say, "He'd be a fool if he hadn't." He was "a good fellow," anyhow, and they loved a good fellow. All the men of wealth and place and power were in his favor, and had practised upon them the subtle arts of the friend-maker. They would not have accepted "a bribe"--these good people now on their way to Hillsborough--but they could get all kinds of favors from Joe Socket and Pop Migley and Horace Dumay and other henchmen of the wealthy boss and legislator. They had yielded to the insidious briberies of friendship--warm greetings and handshakes, loans, small sinecures, compliments, pledges of undying esteem over clinking glasses, and similar condescension. They loved the forest and were sorry to see it go, but many of them got their bread-and-butter by its downfall--directly or indirectly--and then Socket, Dumay, and Migley were nothing more or less than lumber, pulp, and water-power personified. They were like the lords and barons of the olden time--less arrogant but more powerful. Indeed, Strong was right--the tyrant of the modern world is that ruthless giant that he called "Business," and his nobles are coal, iron, cotton, wool, food, power, paper, and lumber. These people on the edge of the woodland were slaves of power, paper, and lumber. With able and designing chiefs this great triumvirate gently drove the good people this way and that, and there was a little touch of irony in this journey of the latter to celebrate their freedom and independence. One who knew them could not help feeling that the old martial spirit of the day was wholly out of harmony with their own. They were a peace-loving people, purged of their fathers' hatred, and roars of defiance found no echo in any breast--save those overheated by alcohol. Some wore flannel shirts and the livery of a woodsman's toil; some, unduly urged, no doubt, by a wife or sister, had ventured forth in more conventional attire. They sat, as if posing for a photograph, galled, hot, gloomy, suspicious, self-suppressed, silent, their necks hooped in linen, their bodies resisting the tight embrace of new attire. In the crowd were a number to whom the reaping of the ruined hills, on either side of the train, had brought wealth and an air of proprietorship. Most of the crowd were in high spirits. The sounds of loud talk and laughter and the rankling smoke of cheap cigars filled the air above them. A lank youth under a dark, broad-brimmed hat, tilted backward, so as neither to conceal nor disarrange a rare embellishment of curls upon his brow, entered the car with another like him. His hair had the ginger-brown, ringletudinous look of spaniel fur. He began to whistle loudly and, as it would seem, prelusively. In a moment he was in full song on a ballad of the cheap theatres, with sentiment like his hair--frank, bold, oily, and outreaching. As the train stopped at Hillsborough, Strong rose and put on his pack and left with the crowd, coon in hand. The sidewalks were crowded, and Strong took the centre of the street. There, at least, was comparative seclusion. Silas had not travelled a block when, all unexpectedly, he became a centre of attraction. A group of whining dogs gathered about him, peering wistfully at the coon. They were shortly reinforced by a number of small boys, which grew with astonishing rapidity. Cries of curiosity and derision rose around him. Sportsmen who had visited his camp and who recognized him shouted their greeting to the "Emperor of the Woods." A "swisher" of some prominence in the little school of sportsmanship at Lost River came and dispersed the boys. The Emperor kicked at a dog and ran a little way in pursuit of him. He came back and set down the coon-cage and shook hands with his pupil. Immediately a dog, approaching from behind, sprang at the cage and tipped it over, and leaped upon it and began to claw. Strong seized and flung the dog away, and as he righted the cage its door came open and the coon escaped. Dodging his enemy, the little animal sought refuge in a thicket of people. Being pursued by dogs, and accustomed also to avoid peril by climbing, he straightway climbed, not a tree, but a tall sapling of a youth, from which the others broke away in a panic. They were opposite a little park, and the youth, not daring to lay hold of the animal, fled among the trees, pursued by Strong and two dogs and a throng of brave spirits who shouted information as to what he had best do. For half a moment the frightened coon clung on a shoulder, his tail in the air, growling at the dogs. The latter leaped up at him, and he began to feel for more altitude. The youth, who had some knowledge of the nature of coons, ran to the nearest tree. Quickly the coon sprang upon it and scrambled far out of reach. He ran up the smooth shaft of elm and settled on a swaying bough some forty feet above ground. A crowd of people were now looking up at him. "Coon in a cage is worth two in a tree," a man shouted. Strong sat down beneath the tree and lighted his pipe and "thought out" another bit of wisdom for his memorandum-book. It was: _"Coon on yer shoulder worth less'n what he is anywhere."_He sat in meditation--as if, indeed, he were resting in the wilderness. A cannon, not a hundred feet away, shook the windows of Hillsborough with a loud explosion for every star on the flag. A perpetual fusillade of fire-crackers seemed to suggest the stripes. Accustomed to woodland silences, the Emperor's feeling was, in a measure, like that of his coon. The "morning salute" ended presently, and then he uttered an exclamation which indicated clearly that he had been losing ground in his late struggle with Satan. One of the guides with whom he had sat in the store at Pitkin came near. "Had yer tooth drawed?" was the question he put to the Emperor. Strong was now looking at the empty cage. "Had my coon d-drawed," he answered. "Where is he?" "Up-s-stairs." Strong pointed in the direction of the coon's refuge. Silas was now the centre of an admiring company. His former pupil had brought the president of the corporation of Hillsborough to meet him. The official invited Strong to participate in the games. The Emperor was willing to do anything to oblige, and walked with his new acquaintance to the public square. A trial at lifting and carrying was the first number on the programme. The contestants leaned, with hands behind them, while others on a raised platform began to heap bags of oats upon their backs and shoulders. Loaded to the limit of their strength, they carried the burden as far as they were able and flung it down. One after another tried, and the last carried nine bags a distance of seven feet and was rewarded with many cheers. It was Strong's turn now. He bent his broad back, and the loaders began to burden him. At ten they stopped, but Strong called for more. Three others were heaped upon him, and slowly he began to move away. One could see only his legs beneath his burden, which towered far above him. Ten feet beyond the farthest mark he bore the bags and let them down. The people began cheering, and many came to shake his hand and feel the sinews in his arms and shoulders. Of the trial at scale-lifting a woodsman who stood near gave this illuminating description, "When they all got through, Strong put on two hundred more an' raised his neck an' lifted, an' the bar come up like a trout after a fly." Silas Strong stood, his coat off, his trousers tucked in his boots, looking soberly at the people who cheered him. One eye was wide open, the other partly closed. There were wrinkles above his wide eye, and his faded felt hat, tilted backward and to one side, left his face uncovered. He had a new and grateful sense of being "ahead," but seemed to wonder if so much brute strength were altogether creditable. Master was to address the people, and Strong was invited to sit behind the speaker's table with the select of the county. He accompanied the president of the corporation to the platform in the park, his pack-basket on his arm. More than a thousand men and women had gathered in front of them when the chairman introduced the young orator. The speech delighted Silas Strong, and he summed it up in his old memorandum-book as follows: _"folks cant be no better than the air they brethe "roots of a plant are in the ground but the roots of a man are in his lungs_ _"whair the woods ar plenty the air is strong an folks are stout an supple like our forefathers when they licked the British them days they got a powrful crop of folks sometimes fifteen in a famly the powr of the woods was in em. now folks live under a sky eight feet above their heads an take their air secont handed an drink at the bar instead of the spring an eat more than what they earn an travel on wheels an think so much of their own helth they aint got no time to think of their countrys when a man's mind is on his stummick it cant be any where else brains warnt made to digest vittles with old fashioned ways is best which Strong says is so also that a man had not oughto eat any more than what he's earnt by hard labor."_ After the address Strong went home to dinner with Congressman Wilbert, the leading citizen of Hillsborough. That little town still retained the democratic spirit of old times. There one had only to be clean and honest to be respectable, and the mighty often sat at meat with the lowly. Strong declined the invitation at first, on the plea that he had fried cakes in his pack-basket, and yielded only after some urging. The statesman's wife received the hunter cordially and presented him to her daughter. The girl led Strong aside and began to entertain him. He had lost his easy, catlike stride, his unconscious control of bone and muscle. He looked and felt as if he were carrying himself on his own back. He seemed to be balancing his head carefully, for fear it would fall off, and had treated his hands like detached sundries in a camp-outfit by stuffing them into the side pockets of his coat. Gradually he limbered in his chair and settled down. His confidence grew, and soon he "horsed" one knee upon the other and flung his hands around it as if to bind an invisible burden resting on his lap. He carried this objective treatment of his own, person to such an extreme that he seemed even to be measuring his breath and to find little opportunity for cerebration. When the young lady addressed him he often answered with the old formulas of "I tnum!" or "T-y-ty!" They eased the responsibility of his tongue, and, without seriously committing him, expressed a fair degree of interest and surprise. At the table Strong behaved himself with the utmost conservatism. They treated him very tenderly, and he found relief in the fact that his embarrassment seemed not to be observed. He thought it the part of politeness to refuse nearly everything that was offered and to eat in a gingerly fashion. The Congressman had often heard of Silas and gave him many compliments, and finally asked what, in his opinion, should be done to protect the forest. Briefly Strong gave his views, and the other seemed to agree with him. "I'll do what I can for the woods and for you, too," said the statesman. "You ought to be a warden with a good salary." These kindly assurances flattered the "Emperor of the Woods." Insidiously the great world power was making its most potent appeal to him. "I may ask you for a favor now and then," said Wilbert. "I'd be glad if you'd do what you could to help Migley. He needs the vote of your town." Strong knew not what to say. "M-mind's m-made up," he stammered, after a little pause. When his mind was "made up" he had nothing further to do but obey its will. The other did not quite comprehend his meaning. Strong in his embarrassment had put too much tabasco sauce on his meat. He blew, according to his custom in moments of distress, and took a drink of water. He looked thoughtfully at the small cylinder of glass. He tried to read its label. "Small b-bore," he remarked, presently. "Sh-shoots w-well," he added, after a moment of reflection. Strong had begun to think of his coon, now clinging in a tree-top. Suddenly he had become too proud to try to sell him, but he could not bear to abandon his old pet. So while the others talked together he began to contrive against the dogs of Hillsborough. As he was about to leave, he asked Mrs. Wilbert where he could buy "one o' them l-little r-red guns," by which he meant a bottle of tabasco sauce. She immediately sent a servant to bring one, which the Emperor accepted with her compliments. His host went with him to a store where Strong invested some of his prize-money in "C'ris'mus presents"--so he called them--for Sinth and the "little fawns," filling his pack well above the brim. Then, forthwith, Strong proceeded to the coon's refuge, in the public park, where, with the aid of a Roman-candle, as he explained to Sinth in the privacy of their cook-tent, he made the coon "l-let go all holts." The animal had been clinging high in the old elm, and, being stunned by his fall, Strong caught and held him firmly by the nape of the neck while he covered him with an armor of liquid fire from the tabasco bottle. The fur of back and neck and shoulders had now the power to inflict misery sharper than a serpent's tooth. "D-Dick," he whispered, "Strong is 'shamed o' y-you. He c-can't 'sociate n-no more with c-coons in this v-village. But he won't let ye git t-tore up." Strong carried his coon out of the park and let him down. In Hillsborough popular enthusiasm had turned from revelry to refreshment. The crowd, having retired to home and hostelry, had left the streets nearly deserted. Strong's coon set out in the direction of the river, and soon a bull-dog laid hold of him. The dog gave the coon a shake, and began, as it were, to lose confidence. He dropped the hot-furred animal, shook his head, and tarried the tenth part of a second, as if to make a note of the coon's odor for future reference, and then ran with all speed to the river. He heeded not the call of his master or the jeering of a number of small boys. They were no more to him than the idle wind. The coon proceeded on his way to the woods. Farther on three other dogs bounded into trouble, and rushed for water. The coon passed two bridges and made his way across an open field in the direction of Turner's wood. Strong, whose hunger had not been satisfied, bought some cake and pie, and made for open country where he sat down by the road-side. Tree-tops above him were full of chattering birds, driven out of town probably by its hideous uproar. The Emperor, having appeased his hunger, took half an hour for reflection. Before the end of it came he began for the first time in his life to suffer the penalty of idleness and high living. Indigestion, the bane of towns and cities, had taken hold of him. Before leaving he made these entries in his little book: _"July the 4 "This aint no place for Strong "Man might as well be in Ogdensburg * as have Ogdensburg in him. "Strong's coon snaked out of his cage contrived to git even also coon made free and independent."_ His revenge was of such lasting effect that, some say, for a long time thereafter dogs in Hillsborough fled terror-stricken at the sight of a coon-skin overcoat. * _It should be remembered that with the woods-loving and wholly mistaken Emperor, Ogdensburg meant nothing less than hell._ XIX MEANWHILE Socky and Sue, in Sunday costume, had gone out with their aunt for a holiday picnic in the forest. Sinth had been busy until ten o'clock preparing a sumptuous dinner of roasted wild fowl and jelly, of frosted cake and sugared berries and crab-apple tarts. They went to the moss-covered banks of a little brook over in Peppermint Valley, half a mile or so from the camp. Master's man carried their dinner and blankets, upon which they could repose without impairing the splendor of their dress. Sinth had put on her very best attire--a sacred silk gown and Paisley shawl which had come on a cheerful Christmas Day from her sister. "Might as well show 'em to the birds an' squirrels," said she. "There ain't nobody else t' dress up for 'cept the little fawns." The man left them, to return later for their camp accessories. Sinth played "I spy" and "Hide the penny" and other games of her childhood with Socky and Sue. She had brought some old story-papers with her, and when the little folks grew weary they sat down beside her on the blankets while she read a tale. To her all things were "so" which bore the sacred authority of print, and she read aloud in a slow, precise, and responsible manner. It was a thunderous tale she was now reading--a tale of bloody swords and high-sounding oaths and epithets. Socky began to feel his weapon. Master had shaped a handle on a piece of lath and presented it for a sword to the little "Duke of Hillsborough." Since then it had trailed behind the boy, fastened by a string to his belt. He sat listening with a serious, thoughtful look upon his face. At the climax of the tale he raised his weapon. Presently, unable to restrain his heroic impulse, he sprang at Zeb, sword in hand, and smote him across the ribs, shouting, "Defend yourself!" Zeb retreated promptly and took refuge in a fallen tree-top, out of which he peered, his hair rising. Soon he satisfied himself that the violence of the Duke was not a serious matter. Socky ran upon him, waving his sword and crying, in a loud voice, "You're a coward, sir!" Zeb rushed through the ferns, back and forth around the boy, growling and grimacing as if to show that he could be a swashbuckler himself. On his merry frolic he ran wide in thickets of young fir. Suddenly he began barking and failed to return. They called to him, but he only barked the louder, well out of sight beyond the little trees. Socky went to seek him, and in a moment the barking ceased, but neither dog nor boy came in sight of the others. Sinth followed with growing alarm. Back in a mossy glade, not a hundred feet from where they had been sitting, she stopped suddenly and grew pale with surprise. There sat a beautiful maiden looking down at the boy, who lay in her arms. Sue, who had followed her aunt, now sprang forward with a cry of delight. The maiden rose, her cheeks crimson with embarrassment. "Oh, aunt," said the boy, as he clung fondly to the hand of Edith Dunmore, "this is the beautiful lady." "What's your name?" Sinth demanded. "Edith Dunmore." The girl's voice had a note of sadness. "My land! Do you go wanderin' all over the woods like a bear?" Sinth inquired. The maiden turned away and made no answer. "Land sakes alive! you 'ain't got no business goin' around these woods an' meetin' strange men." "Oh, silly bird!" croaked the little crow from a bough near them. "Mercy!" exclaimed Sinth, as she looked up at the ribboned crow. "It's enough to make the birds talk." There were tears in the maiden's eyes, and the children glanced from her to their aunt, sadly and reprovingly. Sinth, now full of tender feeling, put her arms around the neck of the girl in a motherly fashion. "Poor, poor child!" said she, her voice trembling. "I've laid awake nights thinkin' of you." Something in the tone and touch of the woman brought the girl closer. Another great need of her nature was for a moment satisfied. She leaned her head upon the shoulder of Sinth, and her heart confessed its loneliness in tears and broken phrases. "I--I followed you. I couldn't--couldn't help it," said she. "Poor girl!" Sinth went on, as she patted the head of the maiden. "I've scolded Mr. Master. He oughter let you alone, 'less he's in love, which I wouldn't wonder if he was." "Ah-h-h!" croaked the bird, as if to attract his mistress. "Sakes alive!" exclaimed Sinth, looking up at the crow with moist eyes. "That bird is like a human bein'. Hush, child, you mus' come an' help us celebrate. Come on now; we'll all set down an' have our dinner." Socky and Sue stood by the knees of the maiden looking up at her. Gently the woman led her new acquaintance to their little camp, and bade her sit with the children. Sinth had a happy look in her face while she hurried about getting dinner ready. "Jes' straighten the end, please--that's right," said she as Edith Dunmore put a helping hand on the snowy table-cloth. Sinth began to spread the dishes, and the maiden furtively embraced Socky and Sue. "My land! you do like childem--don't ye? So do I. They's jes' nothin' like 'em in this world." "Dinner's ready," said Sinth, when all the dainties had been set forth. "Heavens an' earth! I'm so glad t' see a woman I could lay right down an' bawl." "You have made me as happy as a young fawn," said Miss Dunmore. "I am not afraid of you or the children." "Are you afraid of _him?_" The maiden looked down, blushing, and almost whispered her answer. "Yes; I am afraid." "He wouldn't hurt ye--he's jest as gentle as a lamb," said Sinth. She paused to cut the cake, and added, with a far-away look in her eyes, "Still an' all, I dunno what I'd do if he was to make love to me." Sinth ate in silence for a moment and remarked, dreamily, "Men are awful cur'is critters when they git love in 'em." For a little, one might have heard only the chatter of the children and the barking of Zeb. By-and-by the maiden said, "I am sure that Mr. Master is--is a good man." "No nicer in the world," Sinth answered. "Pleasant spoke, an' he don't set around as if he wanted ye t' breathe fer him. He'll be a good provider, too." After a few moments the children took their cake and went away to share it with Zeb and the tame crow. "Do you--do you think he would care to see me again?" Edith Dunmore asked, blushing and looking down as she touched a wild rose on her breast. "'Course he would," Sinth answered, promptly. "Can't sleep nights, an' looks kind o' sick an' dreamy, like a man with a felon." Sinth looked into the eyes of the girl and added, soberly, "I guess _you're_ in love with him fast enough." "I do not know," said Miss Dunmore, with a sigh. "I--I know that all the light of the day is in his eyes--that I am lonely when I cannot find him." Sinth nodded. "It's love," said she, decisively--"the real, genuwine, pure quill. Don't ye let him know it." She sat looking down for a moment with a dreamy look in her eyes. "I know what 'tis," she went on, sadly. "Had a beau myself once. Went off t' the war." After a little pause she added, "He never come back--shot dead in battle." She began to pick up the dishes. Having stowed them in a pail, she turned and said, in a solemn manner: "He was goin' t' bring me a gold ring with a shiny purple stone in it. Not that I'd 'a' cared for that if I could have had him." That old look of sickliness and resignation returned to the face of Sinth. "Folks has to give fer their country," she added soon. "My father an' my gran'father an' my oldest brother an' my true love all died in the wars. I hope you'll never have to give so much." A great, earth-quaking roar from far down the valley of Lost River sped over the hills, and shook the towers of the wilderness and broke the peace of that remote chamber in which they stood. It was Business breaking through the side of a mountain to make a trail for the iron horse. "Blastin'!" Sinth exclaimed. "It's the king of the world coming through the woods--so my father tells me," said Miss Dunmore. Then, as if fearful that he might arrive that day, she rose quickly and said: "I--must go home. I must go home." Sinth kissed her, and the children came and bade her good-bye and stood calling and waving their hands as Edith Dunmore, with the ribboned crow, slowly went up the trail to Catamount. XX ON his way home at night Strong was really nearing the City of Destruction, like that pilgrim of old renown. Shall we say that Satan had filled the man with his own greatness the better to work upon him? However that may be, a new peril had beset the Emperor. For long he had been conscious only of his faults. Now the thought of his merits had caused him to forget them. Turning homeward, the world in his view consisted of two parts--Silas Strong and other people. One regrets to say it was largely Silas Strong--the great lifter, the guide and hunter whose fame he had not until then suspected. Master took the train with him that evening. This old-fashioned man--Silas Strong--whose mind was, in the main, like that of his grandfather--like that, indeed, of the end of the eighteenth century--sat beside one who represented the very latest ideals of the Anglo-Saxon. They were both descended from good pioneer ancestry, but the grandfather of one had moved to Boston, while the grandfather of the other had remained in the woods. The boulevard and the trail had led to things very different. They had sat together only a few moments when the two Migleys entered the car. These ministers of the great king got to work at once. "Hello!" said the elder of them, addressing Master. "I congratulate you. I told my son it was a great speech. Ask him if I didn't." "I enjoyed your speech," said young Migley. "But there's no use talking to us about saving the wilderness. If we did as you wish, we'd have nothing to do but twirl our thumbs." "On the contrary, you'd have a permanent business, whereas your present course will soon lead you to the end of it. I would have you cut nothing below twelve inches at the butt, and get your harvest as often as you can find it." "'Twouldn't pay," said "Pop" Migley, with a shake of his head. "You condemn the plan without trial," Master continued. "Anyhow, if an owner wants his value at once, let us have a law under which he can transfer his timber-land to the State on a fair appraisal." "The State wouldn't pay us half we can make by cutting it." "Probably not, but you'd have your time and capital for other uses. Then, too, you should think of the public good. You're rich enough." "But not fool enough," said young Mr. Migley, in a loud voice. The train stopped to take water, and those near were now turned to listen. "I thought you were ambitious to be a public servant," said Master, calmly. "But not as a professor of moral philosophy." This declaration of the young candidate was greeted with laughter. "And, of course, not as a professor of moral turpitude," said the woods lover. "The public is not to be wholly forgotten." "I'm for my part of the public, first, last, and always," young Migley answered. It is notable that lawless feeling--especially after it has passed from sire to son--some day loses the shame which has covered and kept it from insufferable offence. Two or three citizens who sat near began to whisper and shake their heads. One of them spoke out loudly and indignantly; "His part of the public is mostly himself. He is trying to buy his way into the Assembly, and I hope he'll fail." There were hot words between the Migleys and their accuser, until the lumbermen left the car. Soon Master fell asleep. Strong took out his old memorandum-book and went over sundry events and reflections. When Master awoke the Emperor still sat with the worn book in his hands. "I've been asleep," said the young man. "What have you been doing?" "Th-thinkin' out a few th-thoughts," Strong answered, as he put the book in his pocket. The Emperor began to speak of the Congressman's courtesies in a tone of self-congratulation. Master laughed heartily. "It was a pretty little plot," said he. "Those common fellows couldn't manage you, and they passed you on. I'll bet he asked you to help Migley." Strong smiled and nodded. "You haven't made me any promise, and I want you to feel free to do what you think best," said the young man. The train pulled into Bees' Hill in the edge of the wilderness, and they left it and took quarters at the Rustic Inn. Bees' Hill was a new lumber settlement where there were two mills, three inns, a number of stores, and a post-office. The bar-room was crowded with brawny mill-hands from across the border, in varying stages of intoxication. The inn itself was full of the reek of cheap tobacco and the sound of cheaper oaths. The most offensive in the crowd were of the new generation of back-country Americans. Their boastfulness and profanity were in full flood. They used the sacred names with a cheerful, glib familiarity, as if they were only saying "Bill" or "Joe." The town had begun to ruin the woodsman as well as the woods. Here were some of the sons of the pioneers--mostly "guides" and choremen of abundant leisure. Every day they were "dressed up," and sat about the inn like one who patiently tries his luck at a fishing-hole. They had discovered themselves and were like a child with its first doll. They had, as it were, torn themselves apart and put themselves together again. They had experimented with cologne, hair-oil, poker, colored neckties, hotel fare, and execrable whiskey. They were in love with pleasure and had sublime faith in luck. They spent their time looking and listening and talking and primping and dreaming of sudden wealth and kitchen-maids. Strong and Master stood a moment looking at a noisy company of youths at the bar. "They speak of the President by his first name, and are rather free with the Creator," said Master. "J-jus' little mehoppers," Strong remarked, with a look of pity. In his speech a conceited fellow, who spoke too frequently of himself, was always a "mehopper." "Large heads!" Master exclaimed, as he turned away. "Like a b-balsam," Strong stammered. "B-big top an' little r-roots." "And they can't stand against the wind," said Master. Before he went to bed the Emperor made these entries in his memorandum-book: _"Strong says he had just as soon be seen with a coon as a congressman also that a fool gits so big in his own eyes he dont never dast quarrell with himself. Strong got to mehoppin. he has fit and conkered_ _"God never intended fer a man to see himself er else hed have set his eyes difernt."_ XXI IN the morning, a little after sunrise, Strong and Master set out across the State land stretching from the railroad to Lost River, a distance of some fourteen miles. Not an hour's walk from the station, at Bees' Hill, they passed another lumber job, where, on the land of the State, nearly a score of men were engaged felling the tall pines and hauling them to skid ways. The Emperor flung off his pack and hurried to the workers. "Who's j-job?" he inquired. "Migley's. We're working on a contract for the dead timber." "Ca-call that dead?" Strong waved his hand in the direction of a number of trees, newly felled, which had been as healthy as any in the forest. "Q-quit, er I'll go to-day an' c-com-plain o' ye," he added. "You can go to ------ if you like," said the foreman, angrily. Quicker than the jaws of a trap Strong's hand caught the boss by the back of his neck and flung him headlong. The dealer in hasty speech rose and took a step towards the Emperor and halted. "B-better think it over," said Strong, coolly. The boss turned to his men. He shouted at some eight or ten of them who had come near, "Are you going to stand there and see me treated that way." "You fight your own battles," said one of them. "For my part, I think the Emp'ror is right." "So do I," said another. "I've pulled the brier for you as long as I want to." The rest of the "gang" stood still and said nothing. "I'll go and see Migley about this," declared the foreman, who was walking hurriedly in the direction of his camp. He turned and shouted to the toilers, "You fellers can go 'histe the turkey.'" One who had to pick up his effects and get out was told to "histe the turkey" there in the woods. Strong and Master had a few words with the men and resumed their journey to Lost River. As they walked on a brush whip hit the Emperor in the face. He stopped and broke it and flung it down with a word of reproof. He often did that kind of thing--as if the trees and brushes were alive and on speaking terms with him. Sometimes he would stop and compliment them for their beauty. Soon the young man spoke. "After all, the law is no better than they who make it," said he. The Emperor turned as if not sure of his meaning. "Bribery!" said Master. "Migley got a law passed which provides a fine so low for cutting State timber that he can pay it and make money." "B-Business is k-king," said Strong, thoughtfully. He perceived how even the State itself had become a subject of the great ruler. "And Satan is behind the throne," Master went on. "Down goes the forest and the will of the people. I tell you, Strong, the rich thief is a great peril; so many souls and bodies are mortgaged by his pay-roll and his favor. Look out for him. He can make you no better than beef or mutton." They proceeded on their journey in silence, and, when the sun had turned westward and they sat down to drink and rest on the shore of Lost River, Strong began to write, slowly and carefully, in his old memorandum-book, some thoughts intended for his future guidance. And he wrote as follows _"July the 5 "Strong says 'Man that advises other folks to go to hell is apt to git thair first.' "also that 'a man who loses his temper aint got nothin left but a fool.' Strong is shamed. "'Taint nuff to look a gift hoss in the mouth better turn him rong side out and see how hes lined."_ Having "thought out" these thoughts and set them down, the Emperor rose and put the book in his pocket and hurried up the familiar trail, followed by his companion. A little farther on they met Socky, Sue, and Sinth. "Merry C'ris'mus!" the Emperor shouted as he caught sight of them. He put his great hands upon their backs and drew the boy and girl close against his knees. "My leetle f-fawns!" he said, with a chuckle of delight, as he clumsily patted them. His eyes were damp with joy; his hands trembled in their eagerness to open the pack. He untied the strings and uncovered the rocking-horse and other trinkets. "Whoa!" he shouted, as he put the little, dapple-gray, wooden horse on the smooth trail and set him rocking. Cries of delight echoed in that green aisle of the woods. Strong put the children on the back of the wooden horse and gave a brass trumpet to Socky and buckled a girdle of silver bells around the waist of Sue. Then he put on his pack, lifted horse and children, and bore them into Lost River camp. The laughter of the young man joined that of the children. "Silas Strong!" Sinth exclaimed, as the Emperor unloaded in front of the cook-tent. "P-present!" he answered, promptly. "Can't hear myself think," said she, with a suggestion of the old twang in her voice. "N-now, t-try," said Silas Strong, as he gave her a little package. The expression of her face changed quickly. With slow but eager hands she undid the package. Her mouth opened with surprise when she discovered a ring with a shiny, purple stone in it. "G-gold an' amethys'!" the Emperor exclaimed, calmly and tenderly, his voice mellowed by affection. "Gold an' amethyst," she repeated, solemnly. "Uh-huh!" It was a low, affectionate sound of affirmation from the Emperor, made with his mouth closed. Her lips trembled, her face changed color, her eyes filled. It was oddly pathetic that so vain a trifle should have so delighted her--homely and simple as she was. Since her girlhood' she had dreamed of a proud but impossible day that should put upon her finger a gold ring with a shiny, purple stone in it. Strong knew of her old longing. He knew that she had never had half a chance in this world of unequal burdens, and he felt for her. "I tol' ye," said he, in a voice that trembled a little. "B-better times." She looked down at the ring, but did not answer. "That celebrates your engagement to the Magic Word," said Master. She put it on her finger and gave it a glance of pride. Then she said, "Thank you, Silas," and repaired to her quarters and sat down and wept. Her brother shouldered the axe and went to cut some wood for the stove. She could hear him singing as he walked away slowly: "The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie, Where oft we have wandered an' sung, An' gone are the cool, shady rills, Maggie, Where you an' I were young." XII THE next was one of the slow-coming days that seem to be delayed by the great burden of their importance. With eager, impatient curiosity, Master had looked 'orward. Had he witnessed the first scenes of his own life comedy? If so, what would the next be? He rose early and dressed with unusual care, and was delighted to see a sky full of warm sunlight. The children were awake, and he helped them to put on their best attire while Sinth was getting breakfast in the cook-tent. Soon, with Socky and Sue in the little wagon, he was on the trail to Catamount Pond. Strong was to come later and bring their luncheon and begin the construction of a camp. On the way Master gathered wild flowers and adorned the children with gay colors of the forest floor. They found their canoe at the landing, and got aboard and pushed across the still water. The sky had never seemed to him so beautiful and silent. From far up the mountain he could hear the twittering of a bird--no other sound. The margin of the pond was white with lilies in full bloom. Their perfume drifted in slow currents of air. His canoe moved in harmony with the silence. He could hear the bursting of tiny bubbles beneath his bow and around his paddle. Soon they came in sight of Birch Cove. There stood the moss-covered rock at the edge of the pond, but no maiden. Master felt a pang of disappointment. A fear grew in his heart. Would she not come again? Was it all a pleasant dream, and was there no such wonderful creature among the children of men? He shoved his bow on the little sand beach and helped the children ashore. In a moment they heard the voice of the crow laughing as if unable longer to control himself. "I'm going to find her," said Socky, as he ran up the deer-trail followed by Sue. In a moment they gave a cry of delight. Edith Dunmore had stepped from behind a thicket, and, stooping, had put her arms around the children and was kissing them. The cunning crow walked hither and thither and picked at the dead leaves and chattered like a child at play. "Oh, it has been such a long time!" said "the beautiful lady," looking fondly into the faces of. the little folk. "Where is he?" "Over there," said Socky, pointing in the direction of the canoe. "I'll go and tell him." "No," the maiden whispered, holding the boy closer. "He wants to see you," said the boy, "Me?--he would like to see me?" she asked. "He wants you to go home with us," the boy went on, as if he were a kind of Cupid--an ambassador of love between the two. He felt her hair curiously and with a sober face. "He has a beautiful watch an' chain," said Socky. "An' a gol' pencil," said Sue. "He's rich," the little Cupid urged, in a quaint tone of confidence. "What makes you think he wants me?" the girl asked. "He told Uncle Silas--didn't he, Sue?" The face of Edith Dunmore was now glowing with color. She drew the children close together in front of her. "Don't tell him--don't tell him I am here," said she, under her breath, as she trembled with excitement. "He wouldn't hurt anybody," Sue volunteered. The pet crow had wandered in the direction of the canoe. Catching sight of Master, he ran away cawing. The young man started slowly up the trail. For a moment the girl hid her face behind the children. As he came near she rose and timidly gave him her hand. Quickly she turned away. His hand had been like those of the children--its touch had stirred new and slumbering depths in her. "If--if you wish to be alone with the children," he said, "I--I will go fishing." For a little she dared not look in his face. But since her talk with Miss Strong she was determined not to run away again for fear of him. She stood without speaking, her eyes downcast. "You do want her--don't you, Uncle Robert?" said the youthful ambassador. "You--you mustn't ask me to tell secrets," said the young man, as he turned away with a little laugh of embarrassment. "Is your father at home?" he asked. "He will return Saturday." "If he were willing, would--would you let me come to see you?" She hesitated, looking down at the green moss. "I--I think not," said she. "You are right--you do not know me. But, somehow, I--I feel as if I knew you very well." "Where do you live?" "At Clear Lake in the summer--in New York City the rest of the year." "I have never seen a city," said she, turning and looking up at him. "My father has told me they are full of evil men." "There are both good and evil." "Do you live in a palace?" "It is a very large house, although we do not call it a palace." "Tell me--please tell me about it." Then he told her of his home and life and people. She listened thoughtfully. When he had finished she said, "It must be like that wonderful land where people go when they die." From far away they could hear the sound of a steam-whistle. Its echoes were dying in the near forest. "It is the whistle," said she, looking away, her eyes wide open. "Every time I hear it I long to go. Sometimes I think it is calling me." Neither spoke for a moment. "It comes from a distant village where there are many people," she added. "Yesterday I climbed the mountain. Far away I could see the smoke and great white buildings." "I go to that village to-morrow," said Master. She dropped her violets and looked down at them. "Would you care if you never saw me again?" he asked. She turned away and made no answer. In the silence that followed the young man was thinking what he should say next. She was first to speak, and her voice trembled a little. "Could I not see the children?" "If you would go to Lost River camp." "I cannot," said she, with a touch of despair in her voice. "My father has told me never to go there." The young man thought a moment. She turned suddenly and looked up at him. "I know you are one of the good men," she declared. "I am at least harmless," he answered, with a smile, "and--and you will make me happy if you will let me be your friend." "Tut, _tut!_" said the little crow as he flew into the tree above her head. "I would try to make you happier," the young man urged. "How?" she asked. "I could tell you about many wonderful things. You ought not to stay here in the woods," he went on. "Do you never think of the future?" She turned with a serious look in her eyes. He continued: "You _cannot_ always live at Buckhorn. Your father is growing old." "And he is well," said she. "My father has always taught me that Death comes only to those who think of him." In the distance they could hear the thunder of a falling tree. "Even the great trees have to bow before him," said the young man. A moment of silence followed. "Let me be your friend," he pleaded. She thought of what her grandmother had lately said to her and looked up at him sadly and thoughtfully. "But you--you would make me love you," said she, "and when you were like the heart in my breast--so I could not live without you--then--then you would leave me." "Ah, but you do not know," he answered. "I love you, and, even now, you are like the heart in my breast--I cannot live without you." He approached her as he spoke and his voice trembled with emotion. She rose and ran a short distance up the trail and stopped. "Will you not stay a little longer?" he pleaded. She looked back at him with a curious interest and the least touch of fear in her eyes. She moved her head slowly, negatively, as if to tell him that she would love to stay but dared not. "May I see you here to-morrow?" he asked. She smiled and nodded and waved her hand to him and ran away. The crow laughed as if her haste were amusing. Master sat awhile after she had gone. He could not now endure the thought of leaving. He had planned to go with Strong and visit a number of woodsmen at their camps, and talk to the mill-hands in a few villages on the lower river. It was a formality not to be neglected if one would receive the votes of Pitkin, Till-bury, and Tifton. But suddenly he had become a candidate for greater happiness, he felt sure, than was to be found in politics. His election thereto depended largely on the vote of one charming citizen of a remote corner of Till-bury township. Her favor had now become more important, in his view, than that of all the voters in the county. He would delay his canvass over the week's end. So thinking, Master put off in his canoe with the children, gathering lilies until he came at last to the landing. There Sinth and the Emperor had just arrived. "W-weasels," said Strong, with a little nod in the direction of his sister, who stood on the shore. With him, as Master knew, the weasel had come to be a symbol of needless worry. "About what?" Master inquired. "L-little f-fawns." "Keep thinkin' they're goin' to git lost or drownded," said she, giving each of the children a sugared cooky. "Don't worry. I shall always take good care of the children," said Master. "I know that, but I keep a-thinkin'. Sometimes I wisht there wasn't any woods. I'm kind o' sick of 'em, anyway." Those little people with the dress, talk, and manners of the town--with a subtle power in their companionship, in their very dependence upon her, which the woman felt but was not able to understand--were surely leading her out of the woods. They had increased her work; they had annoyed her with ingenious mischief; they had harassed her with questions, but they had awakened something in her which had almost perished in years of disappointment and utter loneliness. At first they had reminded her of her dead sister, and that, in a measure, had reconciled her to their coming. Later, the touch of their hands, the call of their voices, had made their strong appeal to her. Slowly she had begun to feel a mother's fondness and responsibility and a new interest in the world. Again sound-waves of the great whistle at Benson Falls swept wearily through the silence above them. "Makes me kind o' homesick," said Sinth, as she listened thoughtfully. The Emperor had begun, just faintly, to entertain a feeling akin to hers. Master helped her up the hill on her way to camp with the children. He returned shortly and gave a hand to the building of his little home on the shore of Catamount. It was to be an open shanty, leaning on the ledge, its pole roof covered with tar-paper, its floor carpeted with balsam boughs. "Migleys have gone into c-camp at Nick Pond," said the Emperor. "Tol 'em I had t' go w-with you t'-morrer." "I'm sorry that we have to delay our trip a little," said the young man. Strong laughed. "Mellered!" said he, merrily. He shook his head as he added, "You ain't g-givin' her no slack line." After a little silence the hunter added: "Don't t-twitch too quick." It was a phrase gathered from his experience as a fisherman. The young man blushed but made no answer. "K-keep cool an' use a l-long line," Strong added. XXIII NEXT morning, an hour after sunrise, Master set out with the children. He promised Sinth that he would keep them near him and bring them back before noon, They shut Zeb in a cabin, and he stood on his hind feet peering out of the window and barking loudly as they went away. Master brought his blankets, rifle, books, and cooking outfit, for that day he was to take possession of the new camp. Strong had gone with the Migleys and their outfit in the trail to Nick. It was another hot, still morning, but the eastern shore of Catamount lay deep under cool shadows when Master dropped his pack at the shanty. A deer stood knee-deep in the white border of lilies. It looked across the cove at them, walked slowly along the margin of the shaded water, and disappeared in the tamaracks. Master and the children crossed to Birch Cove, hallooed, but received no answer, and sat down upon the high, mossy bank. "Maybe she won't come?" Socky suggested. "She will come soon," said Master. Sue propped her little doll against a fern leaf and said: "Oh, dear! I wish she'd never go 'way." "She's awful good"--that was the opinion of Socky. "She wouldn't tell no falsehoods," Sue suggested. "I wish she'd come an' live with us; don't you?" Socky queried, turning to Master. The little Cupid was searching for another arrow. "Wouldn't dare say--you little busybody!" the young man replied. "You'd go and tell on me." Both looked up at him soberly. Socky was first to speak. "Where'bouts does 'the beautiful lady' live?" "Way off in the woods." "At the home of the fairies?" "No, but on the road to it." "If she'd come an' live with us, she wouldn't have to fill no wood-box, would she?" Sue inquired. "Or pick up chips," Socky put in, brushing one palm across the other with a look of dread. The children had discussed that problem in bed the night before. Their aunt had made them fill the wood-box and bring in a little basket of chips every night and morning. It went well enough for a day or two, but the task had begun to interrupt other plans. "Oh no," said Master. "We'll be good to her." Socky was noting every look and word--nothing escaped him. He felt grateful to his young lieutenant, and sat for a little time looking dreamily into the air. Then, with thoughtful eyes, he felt the watch-chain of the young man. "You'd let her wear your watch--wouldn't you?" "Gladly." "She could look at my aunt's album," Sue suggested, as she thought of the pleasures of the camp. Socky looked a bit doubtful. "She mustn't git no grease on it or she'll git spoke to," Sue went on as she thought of the perils of the camp. "Uncle Silas has put the bear's-oil away," said Socky, in a tone of regret. He thought a moment, and then added, "Ladies don't never git spoke to." "You'd carry her on your back--wouldn't you, Uncle Robert?" inquired little Sue. Both children fixed him with their eyes. "Oh no--that wouldn't do," said Master. "Men don't never carry ladies on their backs," Socky wisely assured her. "Uncle Silas carries 'em," Sue insisted. "That's only Aunt Sinthy," said the boy, now a little in doubt of his position. Just then they heard the crow chattering away up the dusky trail. The children rose and ran to meet "the beautiful lady," and their voices rang in the still woods, calling, "Hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo!" Master slowly followed so as to keep in sight of them. When he saw Edith Dunmore come out of a thicket suddenly and embrace them, he turned back and stood where he could just hear the sound of their voices. She drew them close to her breast a moment, and a low strain of song sounded within her closed lips--that unconscious, irrepressible song of the mother at the cradle. "Dear little brownies! I love you--I love you," she said, presently. Then she whispered, "Where is he?" "Over there," the boy answered, pointing with his finger. "Come, I'll show you," said Sue. "Fairy queen--I dare not follow you," the girl answered. "I am afraid." "He wants you to come and live with us--he does," the boy declared. "He'll be awful good to you--he said he would." "Did he say that he liked me very much?" she asked. "I wouldn't tell," said the boy, with a winsome look as he thought of Master's reproof. "You wouldn't tell me?" "'Cause it's a secret." "You are like the little god I have read of!" Miss Dunmore exclaimed, drawing him closer. "Will you never stop wounding me?" "Please come," said Sue. "You can sleep in our bed an' hear Uncle Silas sing." "Where is your mother?" "Dead," Sue answered, cheerfully. "'Way up in heaven," said Socky, as he pointed aloft with his finger. "And your father?" "Gone away," said the boy. "I give him all my money--more'n a dollar." "And you live at Lost River camp?" Socky nodded. "Are they good to you?" "Yes, ma'am." "I wonder why he doesn't come?" said Miss Dunmore, impatiently. "'Fraid--maybe," Sue suggested. "Pooh! he ain't'fraid," Socky declared, as he broke away and ran down the trail. Miss Dun-more tried to call him back, but he did not hear her. "'The beautiful lady'! She wants to see you," he said to Master, his eyes glowing with excitement. The young man took the boy's hand. They proceeded up the trail in the direction whence Socky had come. "You ain't'fraid, are you, Uncle Robert?" the boy asked, eager to clear his friend of all unjust suspicion. "Oh no," Master answered, with a nervous laugh. "He ain't 'fraid," the boy proclaimed as they came into the presence of Edith Dunmore. "He can kill a bear." "Afraid only of interrupting your pleasure," said the young man as he approached her. She retreated a step or two and turned half away. The children began to gather flowers. "I tremble when I hear you coming," said she, timidly. "You are so--" She thought a moment. "Strange," she added, with a smile. She looked up at him curiously. "So very strange to me, sir." "You are strange to me also," he answered. "I have seen no one like you, and I confess to one great fear." "What fear?" "That I may not see you again," the young man answered, with a smile. She stooped to pick a flower. Every movement of her lithe, tall figure, every glance of her eye seemed to tighten her hold upon him. He stood dumb in the spell of her beauty, until she added, sorrowfully, "I am afraid of you, sir--I cannot help it." "I wish I were less terrible," he answered, with a sigh. "I will not see you again." "But--but I love you," he said, simply. "When I am here I am afraid--when I go away I am sorry." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I have no peace any more. I cannot enjoy books or music. I cannot stay at home. I wander--all day I wander, and the night is long--and I hear the voices of children--like those I have heard here--calling me." There was a note of sympathy in his voice when he answered, "It is the same with me, only it is your voice that I hear." She looked up at him, her face full of wonder. "I think no more of the many things I have to do, but only of one," he said, with feeling. Miss Dunmore seemed not to hear him. "I think only of coming here," he added. She stepped away timidly, and turned and stood straight as the young spruce, looking into his eyes. "I, too, have no more peace," he said, restraining his impulse to go further. "I must leave you--I must not speak to you any more," she answered. "Stay," he pleaded. "I will be silent--I will say not a word unless you bid me speak--but let me look at you." She stood a moment as if thinking. "Do you hear that bird song?" she asked, looking upward. "Yes, it has a merry sound." "It is my answer to you," said she. "Then I am sure you love me." As he came nearer she retreated a little. "I give you everything--everything but myself," said she. "And why not yourself?" Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she said to him, "There are those who need me more." "I offer myself to you and to them also." She stood with averted eyes. In a moment she said, "Tell me what are we to do when those we love die?" "I, too, and all the children of men have that same worry," said he. "There's an old Eastern maxim, 'Love as many as you can, so that death may not make you friendless.'" She walked away slowly. She stopped where the children sat playing and embraced them. "Will you not say that you love me?" the young man urged. The girl went up the gloomy trail with lagging feet as if it were steep and difficult. That clear-voiced love-call of the children halted her, and she looked back. Again the bird flung his song upon the silence. The sweet voice of the maiden rang like a bell in the still forest, as if answering the bird's message. "I love you--I love you," it said. Then she turned quickly and ran away. XXIV EDITH DUNMORE wandered slowly through deep thickets, and where she could just see the lighted chasm of Catamount between far tree-tops she lay down to weep and think and be alone. She was like some wounded creature of the forest who would hide, even from its own eyes, on the soft, kindly bosom of the great mother. She had learned enough to have some understanding of that strange power which of late had broken every day into seconds. These little fragments of time had all shades of color, from joy to despair. She lay recalling those which had been full of revelation. In a strange loneliness she thought of all Robert Master had said, of far more in that wordless, wonderful assurance which had passed from his soul to hers. She knew that to be given in marriage was to leave all for a new love. She knew better than they suspected--those few dwellers at Buckhorn--how dear, how indispensable she was to them. She knew how soon that loneliness, which had often seemed to fill the heavens above her, would bear them down. Yet she would not hesitate; she would go with him, and for this she felt a sense of shame. She lay longer than she knew, looking up at the sky through needled crowns of pine. That passion which has all the fabled power of Fate was busy with her. A band of crows had alighted in a tree above her head and begun cawing. Roc, who had gone to roost in a small fir, answered them. One dove into the great, dusky hall of the near woods and made it echo with his cawing. Roc rose and followed through its green roof into the open sky. The maiden called to him, but he heeded only the call of his own people, and made his choice between flying and creeping, between loneliness and joy, between the paths of men and that appointed for him in the heavens. His had been like her own decision--so she thought--he had heard the one cry which he could not resist. Lately she had neglected him. He had missed her caresses and begun to think of better company, Again and again she called, but he had gone quickly far out of hearing. She listened, waiting and looking into the sky, but he came not. Master had taken the children home and returned to his little' camp on the pond. She could hear the stroke of his axe; she could hear him singing. She fancied, also, that she could hear the children call--that little trumpet tone which had thrilled her when it rang in the woods. She rose and walked slowly towards the lighted basin below her. She could not bear to turn away from it. She would go down and look across from the edge of the thickets. She feared that she had too freely uncovered her feeling for him. Soon she turned back, but then she seemed to be treading on her own heart. She ran towards the place where she had met him. She thought not of the children now, but only of the young man. She had heard her father say: "A man throws off his mask when he is alone. If we could see him then we should know what is in his soul." Could she look into his face while he knew not of her being near she would know if he loved her. She tried to enlarge this fancy into a motive. It failed, however, to end her self-reproaches. Soon, almost in tears, she began to whisper: "I do not care. I must see him again. I cannot go until I have seen him." Moose-birds flew in the tops above her, scolding loudly, as if to turn her back. They annoyed her, and she stopped until they had flown away. She trembled as she drew near the familiar cove. Stealthily she made her way, halting where they had talked together. A solemn silence brooded there. She felt the moss where his feet had stood. He had held this fragrant, broken lily in his hand. She picked it up and pressed it to her lips. She slowly crossed the deep, soft mat sloping to the water's edge, and peered between sprays of tamarack. The shadows had shifted to the farther shore. A sprinkle of hot light fell upon her shoulders. The disk of the sun was cut by dead pines on the bald ridge opposite. She heeded not the warning it gave her, but only looked and listened. She could hear Master over at the landing, hidden by the point of Birch Cove. He was cutting wood for the night. Under cover of thickets, she made her way along the edge of the pond. It was a walk of more than half a mile around the coves. By-and-by she could hear the tread of Master's feet and the crackle of his fire. She moved with the stealth of a deer. Soon she could smell the odor of frying meat and was reminded of her hunger. She passed a spring, above which a cup hung, and saw the trail leading to his camp. Possibly very soon he would be going after water. She knelt in a thicket where she could see him pass, and waited. For a long time she waited. Suddenly she rose and peered about her. She paled with alarm. It was growing dusk; she had forgotten that the day would have an end. It was a journey to Buckhom, and her little guide--where was he? Cautiously she retraced her steps along the shore. In a moment she' began to weep silently. When she tried to hurry the rustling of the brush halted her. Had he heard it? What was that sound far up the ridge before her? She knelt and listened. It was a man coming in the distance. She could hear him whistling as he walked. Slowly he approached, passing within a few feet of her. She had often hidden that way from unexpected travellers in the forest. She waited a little and hurried on. The thickets seemed now to hold her back as if to defeat her purpose. She got clear of them by-and-by and ran up the side of the ridge. She peered about her, seeking the familiar trail. The dusk had thickened--her alarm had grown. She stopped a moment to make sure of her way. Again she hurried on. Soon she entered the little six-mile thoroughfare from Catamount to Buckhorn. She ran a few rods down the trail and stopped. It was growing dark; she could scarcely see the ground beneath her; she might soon lose her way in the forest. She leaned against a tree-trunk and shook with sobs, thinking of her folly and of her friends at home. Presently she ran back in the direction of Master's camp. She left the trail and went slowly down the side of the ridge. She must go and tell him that she had lost her way and ask for a lantern. She could see the flicker of his fire. She groped through the bushes to a little cove opposite, where, across water some twenty rods away, she could see his camp. In the edge of the dark forest the girl sat gazing off at the firelight. She was weary and athirst; she was tortured with anxiety, but she could not summon courage to go. She could see the light flooding between tree columns, leaping into high tops, gilding the water-ripples. She could see shadows moving; she could hear voices. Light and shadow seemed to beckon and the voices to invite her, but she dared not go. She would boldly rise and feel her way a few paces, only to sit down again. Tales which her father had told her concerning the wickedness of men flashed out of her memory. That light was on the edge of the unknown world--full of mystery and peril. She could not goad herself nearer. XXV IT was Strong who had passed Edith Dunmore as night was falling over the hollow of Catamount. He was returning from his day of toil at Nick Pond. "Just in time," said the young man, who was eating supper at a rude table, from a pole above which two lighted lanterns hung. The great body of the Emperor fell heavily on a camp-stool. He blew as he flung his hat off. "Hot!" said he, and then with three or four great gulps he poured a dipper of water down his throat. Master put a small flask on the table at which they sat. "Opey-d-dildock?" Strong inquired, softly. "The same," said Master. "Help yourself." The Emperor obeyed him without a word. "How's that?" inquired the young man. "S-sassy," Strong answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fall to," said Master, putting the platter of trout in front of him. "Here's f-fishin'," said Strong, as he lifted a large trout by the tail. "Good place to anchor. Anything new?" "B-bear," Strong stammered, with a little shake of his head. "Where?" The Emperor crushed a potato' and filled' his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before he answered, "Up t-trail." "How far?" Strong pointed with his fork. He stopped chewing and turned and listened for a breath. "B-bout mile." He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. "What's the matter?" "F-feelin's!" Strong answered, pointing the fork towards his bosom. "No gun?" Strong nodded. It was a moment of moral danger. He knew that Satan would lay hold of his tongue unless it were guarded with great caution. He sat back and whistled for half a moment. "S-safe!" he exclaimed, presently, with a sigh, as he went on eating. "Which way was he travelling?" "Th-this way--limpin'," said Strong. "Limping?" "W-wownded," Strong, added, softly, gently, as if he were still on dangerous ground. They finished their meal in silence and drew up to the fire and filled their pipes. He rose and lighted his pipe and returned to the table as soon as he had begun smoking. He took out his worn memorandum-book and thoughtfully wrote these words: _"July the 6 "See a bear--best way to kepe the ten commandments is to kepe yer mouth shet."_ Strong resumed his chair at the camp-fire. Suddenly he raised his hand. They could hear the cracking of dead brush across the cove. "S-suthin'," Strong whispered. Again the sound came to their ears out of the silent forest. "Hearn it d-dozen times," said the Emperor. They listened a moment longer. Then Strong rose. "B-bear!" he whispered. "Light an' rifle." Master tiptoed to the shanty. He lighted the dark lantern--a relic of deer-stalking days--with which he had found his way to Catamount the night before. He adjusted the leathern helmet so its lantern rested 'above his forehead. He raised his rifle and opened the small box of light. A beam burst out of it and shot across the darkness and fell on a thicket. The spire of a little fir, some forty feet away, seemed to be bathed in sunlight. The beam glowed along the top of his rifle-barrel, and he stood a moment aiming to see if he could catch the sights. Strong beckoned to him. The young man came close to the side of the hunter and suggested, "Maybe it's a deer." "'T-'tain' no deer," Strong whispered. "S-suthin' dif'er'nt." He listened again. "It's over on th-that air cove." He explained briefly that in his opinion the bear, being wounded, had come down for rest and water. He presented his plan. They would cross the cove in their canoe. When they were near the sound he would give the canoe a little shake, whereupon Master should carefully open the slide and throw its light along the edge of the pond. If he saw the glow of a pair of eyes he was to aim between, them and fire. They tiptoed to the landing, lifted their canoe into water, and, without a sound louder than the rustle of their garments or the fall of a water-drop, took their places, Master in the bow and Strong in the paddle-seat behind him. The hunter leaned forward and felt for bottom and gave her a careful shove. Then, with a little movement of his back, he tossed his weight against the cedar shell and it moved slowly into the black hollow of Catamount. The hunter sank his paddle-blade. It pulled in little, silent, whirling slashes. The canoe sheared off into thick gloom, cleaving its way with a movement soundless and indistinguishable. For a few seconds Master felt a weird touch of the soul in him--as if, indeed, it were being stripped of its body and were parting with the senses. Then he could scarcely resist the impression that he had risen above the earth and begun a journey through the black, silent air. So, for a breath, his consciousness had seemed to stray from its centre; then, quickly, it came back. He began to know of that which, mercifully, in the common business of life, is just beyond the reach of sense. He could hear the muffled rivers of blood in his own body; he felt his heart-beat in the fibres of the slender craft beneath him, sensitive as a bell; he became strangely conscious of the great, oxlike body behind him--of moving muscles in arm and shoulder, of the filling and emptying of its lungs, of its stealthy, eager attitude. The night life of the woods was beginning--that of beasts and birds that see and wander and devour in the darkness.. From far away the faint, wild cry of one of them wavered through the woods. It was like the yell of a reveller in the midnight silence of a city. The sky was overcast. Dimly Master could see the dying flicker of his firelight on the mist before him. A little current of air, nearly spent, crept over the pine-tops and they began to whisper. The young man thought of the big, blue, tender eyes which had looked up at him that day, so full of childish innocence and yet full of the charm and power of womanhood. Master turned his head quickly. Near him he had heard the sound of a deep-drawn, shuddering breath, and then a low moan. He thought with pity of the poor creature now possibly breathing its last. He was eager to end its agony. He trembled, waiting for the signal to open his light. The bow brushed a lily-pad. He could feel the paddle backing with its muffled stroke. The canoe had stopped. Again he heard a movement in the brush. It was very near; he could feel the canoe backing for more distance. Then he felt the signal. That little shake in the shell of cedar had seemed to go to his very heart. He raised his hand carefully and opened the lantern-slide. The beam fell upon tall grass and flashed between little columns of tamarack. At the end of its misty pathway he could just dimly make out the foliage. He could see nothing clearly. Again he felt the signal. He knew that the hunter had seen the game. Now the light-beam illumined the top of his rifle-barrel. Suddenly the trained eye of Strong had caught the gleam of eyes--then the faint outline of lips dumb with terror. He struck with his paddle and swung his bow. The hammer fell. A little flame burst out of the rifle-muzzle, and a great roar shook the silences. A shrill cry rang in its first echo. The canoe bounded over lily-pads and flung her bow on the bank a foot above water. Master sprang ashore followed by Strong. They clambered up the bank. "Strong, I've killed somebody," said the young man, his voice full of the distress he felt. He swept the shore with his light. It fell on the body of a young woman lying prone among the brakes. Quickly he knelt beside her and threw the light upon her face. "My God! Come here, Strong!" he shouted, hoarsely. His friend, alarmed by his cry, hurried to him. Master had raised the head of Miss Dun-more upon his arm and was moaning pitifully. He covered the beautiful white face with kisses. Strong, who stood near with the lantern, had begun to stammer in an effort to express his thoughts. "K-keep c-cool," he soon succeeded in saying. "I switched the canoe an' ye n-never t-touched her. She's scairt--th-that's all." Edith Dunmore had partly risen and opened her eyes. Master lifted her from the earth and held her close and kissed her. His joy overcame him so that the words he tried to utter fell half spoken from his lips. She clung to him, and their silence and their tears and the touch of their hands were full of that assurance for which both had longed. "T-y-ty!" Strong whispered as he held the light upon them. For a long moment the lovers stood in each other's embrace. . . "I don't know why I came here," said she, presently, in a troubled voice. He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips. "I must go; I must go," she said. "Come, we will go with you," said the young man. He put his arm around the waist of the girl. They walked slowly up the side of the ridge, with Strong beside them, throwing light upon their path. Master heard from her how it befell that darkness had overtaken her in the basin of Catamount, and she learned from him why they had come out in their canoe. "You will not be afraid of me any more," he said. She stopped and raised one of his hands and held it against her cheek with a little moan of fondness. Curiously she felt his face. "It is so dark--I cannot see you," she whispered. "I loathe the darkness that hides your beauty from me," said the young man. Strong turned his light upon her face. Tears glittered in the lashes of her eyes and a new peace and trustfulness were upon her countenance. "We shall see better to-morrow," the young man said. "My father is coming--he will be angry--he will not let me see you again--" Her voice trembled with its burden of trouble. "Leave that to me--no one shall keep us apart," he assured her. "I will see him tomorrow and tell him all." They walked awhile in silence. The whistle blew for the night-shift at Benson Falls. Its epic note bellowed over the plains and up and down the timbered hills of the Emperor. It seemed to warn the trees of their doom. She thought then of the great world, and said, "I will go with you." "And be my wife?" "Yes. I am no longer afraid." "We shall go soon," he answered. A mile or so from the shore of Buckhom they could hear the voice of a woman calling in the still woods, and they answered. Soon they saw the light of a lantern approaching in the trail. For a moment Master and the maiden whispered together. Soon the old nurse and servant of Edith Dun-more came out of the darkness trembling with fear and anxiety. Gently the girl patted the bare head of the woman as she whispered to her. In a moment all resumed their journey. When they had come to Buckhom and could see the camp-lights, Master launched a canoe and took the girl and her servant across the pond. He left them without a word and returned to the other shore. Strong and he stood for a moment listening. Then they set out for their homes far down the trail. The Emperor was busy "thinking out thoughts." "Mountaneyous!" he muttered, "g-great an' p-powerful." For the second time in his life he felt strongly moved to expression and seemed to be feeling for adequate words. Master put his arm around the big hunter and asked him what he meant. "Oh-h-h! Oh-h-h!" Strong murmured, in a tone of singular tenderness. "P-purty! purty! w-wonderful purty! She's too g-good fer this w-world. I jes' f-felt like t-takin' her on my b-back an' makin' r-right across the s-swamps an' hills fer heaven." The Emperor wiped his eyes and added: "You're as handy with a g-gal as I am with a f-fish-rod." Next day he noted this conclusion in his memorandum-book: _"Strong cant wait much longer. He's got to have a guide for the long trail."_ XXVI NEXT day Master went to Tillbury for his mail, a-walk of some twenty miles. He lingered for awhile near the shore of Buckhom on his way, but saw nothing of her he loved. Two fishermen had arrived at Strong's, and the Emperor had taken them to spring holes in the lower river. After supper that evening he built a big fire in front of the main camp, and sat down beside the fishermen with Socky and Sue in his lap. Darkness had fallen when Dunmore strode into the firelight. "Dwellers in the long house," he said, removing his cap, "I am glad to sit by your council fire." "Had supper?" Strong inquired. "No--give me a doughnut and a piece of bread and butter. I'll eat here by the fire." He took the children in his arms while Strong went to prepare his luncheon. "I love and fear you," said he. "You make me think of things forgotten." Of late Socky had thought much of the general subject of grandfathers. He knew that they were highly useful members of society. He had seen them carry children on their backs and draw them in little wagons. This fact had caused him to put all able-bodied grandfathers in the high rank of ponies and billy-goats. His uncles Silas and Robert had been out of camp so much lately they had been of slight service to him. The thought that a grandfather would be more reliable, had presented itself, and he had broached the subject to little Sue. How they were acquired--whether they were bought or "ketched" or just given away to any who stood in need of them--neither had a definite notion. On this point the boy went to his aunt for counsel. She told him, laughingly, that they were "spoke for" in a sort of proposal like that of marriage. He had begun to think very favorably of Mr. Dunmore, and timidly put the question: "Are--are you anybody's gran'pa?" "No." "Mebbe you'd be my gran'pa," the boy suggested, soberly. . "Maybe," said Dunmore, with a smile. "We could play horse together when Uncle Silas is away," was the further suggestion of Socky. "Why not play horse with your sister?" "She's too little--she can't draw me." "Gran'pas don't make the best horses," Dunmore objected. "Yes they do," Socky stoutly affirmed. "May Butler's gran'pa draws her 'round everywhere in a little cart." "Well, that shows that old men can be good for something," said Dunmore. "Where's your wagon?" Socky ran for the creaking treasure. "Now get in--both of you," said the whitehaired man. Socky and Sue mounted the wagon. Dunmore took the tongue-peg in both hands and began to draw them around the fire. Their cries of pleasure seemed to warm his heart. He quickened his pace, and was soon trotting in a wide circle while Zeb ran at his side and seemed to urge him on. When, wearied by his exertion, he sat down to rest, the children stood close beside him and felt his face with their hands, and gave him the silent blessing of full confidence. For Dunmore there was a kind of magic in it all. Somehow it faced him about and set him thinking of new things. That elemental appeal of the little folk had been as the sunlight breaking through clouds and falling on the darkened earth. In his lonely heart spring-time had returned. The children climbed upon his knees, and he began a curious chant with closed eyes and trembling voice. The firelight fell upon his face while he chanted as follows: "I hear the voices of little children ringing like silver bells, And the great bells answer them--they that hang in the high towers-- The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of hope and love and friendship. They call me in the silence and have put a new song in my mouth." So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured song of the old time as if his heart were full and could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood and youth and of joys half forgotten. Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her hands, before he finished. He let the children go and began eating. "This is good," said he, "and I feel like blessing every one of you. Sometimes I think God looks out of the eyes of the hungry." After a moment he added: "Strong, do you remember that song I wrote for you? It gives the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 'The Song of the Venison-Tree.'" The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious fact that many who stammer can follow the rut of familiar music without betraying their infirmity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the song of THE VENISON-TREE [Illustration: 0261] [Illustration: 0262] [Illustration: 0263] [Illustration: 0264] [Illustration: 0265] As the Emperor ceased, Dunmore turned quickly, his black eyes glowing in the firelight. Raising his right hand above his head, he chanted these lines: "The wilderness shall pass away like Babylon of old, And every tree shall go to build a thing of greater mould; The chopper he shall fall to earth as fell the mighty tree, And his timber shall be used to build a nobler man than he." "Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?" Strong asked. "His character," Dunmore answered. "Men are like trees. Some are hickory, some are oak, some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some are strong, beautiful, generous; some are small and sickly for want of air and sunlight; some are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. Every year we must draw energy out of the great breast of nature and put on a fresh ring of wood. We must grow or die. You know what comes to the rotten-hearted?" "Uh-huh," said the hunter. "There's good timber enough in you and in that little book of yours," Dunmore went on. "If it's only milled with judgment--some of it would stand planing and polishing--there's enough, my friend, to make a mansion. Believe me, it will not be lost." Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' b-but a woodpecker's drum," he answered. After a moment of silence he asked, "What'll become o' the country?" "Without forests it will go the way of Egypt and Asia Minor," said the white-haired man. "They were thickly wooded in the day of their power. Now what are they? Desert wastes!" Dunmore rose and filled his lungs, and added: "As you said to me one day, 'People are no better than the air they breathe.' There's going to be nothing but cities, and slowly they will devour our substance. Indigestion, weakness, impotency, degeneration will follow. "Strong, I'm already on the downward path. Half a day's walk has undone me. I'll get to bed and go home in the morning." XXVII DUNMORE was up at daybreak. He set out in the dusk and, as the sun rose, entered the hollow of Catamount. Master met him on the trail. They greeted each other. Then said the young man, "I have something to say regarding one very dear to me and to you." Promptly and almost aggressively the query came, "Regarding whom?" "Your daughter." Dunmore took a staggering step and stopped and looked sternly at Master. "I met her by chance--" the other began to say. Dunmore interrupted him. "I will not speak with you of my daughter," he said. He turned away, frowning, and resumed his journey. "You are unjust to her and to me," said Master. "You have no right to imprison the girl." The white-haired man hurried on his way and made no answer. Master had seen a strange look come into the eyes of Dunmore. That trouble, of which he had once heard, might have gone deeper than any one knew. It might have left him a little out of balance. Full of alarm, the young lover hastened to Lost River camp. He found his friend at the spring and told of his ill luck. Without a word Strong killed the big trout which he had taken that day he fished with the pouters. "D-didn't tell him 'bout that t-trout," he said to Master as he wrapped the fish in ferns and flung him into his pack. "Th-thought I b-better wait an' s-see." He asked the young man to "keep cool," and made off in the trail to Buckhorn. Always when starting on a journey he reckoned his task and set his pace accordingly and kept it up hill and down. He was wont to take an easy, swinging stride even though he was loaded heavily. Woodsmen who followed him used to say that he could bear "weight an' misery like a bob-sled." That day he lengthened his usual stride a little and calculated to "fetch up" with Dunmore about a mile from Buckhorn. The older man had hurried, however, and was nearing the pond when Strong overtook him. "What now?" Dunmore inquired. "B-business," was the cheerful answer of Strong. "It'll be part of it to paddle me across the pond. I'm tired," said the other. They walked in silence to the shore. Strong launched a canoe and held it for the white-haired man. Without a word he pulled to the camp veranda where Dunmore's mother and daughter stood waiting. The old gentleman climbed the steps and greeted the two with great tenderness. "Snares!" he muttered, as he touched the brow of his daughter. "The devil is setting snares for my little nun." Edith and her grandmother went into the house. Dunmore sat down with a stem, troubled look. "Got s-suthin' fer you," said Strong as he held up the big fish. "C'ris'mus p-present!" Dunmore turned to the hunter, and instantly a smile seemed to brush the shadows from his wrinkled face. "It's your t-trout," the Emperor added. "S-see there!" He opened the jaws of the fish and showed the encysted remnant of a black gnat. "Bring him here," Dunmore entreated, with a look of delight. Strong mounted the steps and put the trout in his hands. "Sit down and tell me how and where you got him," said Dunmore. Strong told the story of his capture, and the old gentleman was transported to that familiar place in the midst of the quick-water. The Emperor had not finished his account when the other interrupted him. Dunmore told of days, forever memorable, when he had leaned over the bank and seen his flies come hurtling up the current; of moments when he had heard the splash of the big trout and felt his line hauling; of repeated struggles which had ended in defeat. The white-haired man was in his best humor. Strong saw his opportunity. "I w-want a favor," said he. Dunmore turned with a look of inquiry. The Emperor urged his lazy tongue. "Master w-wants t' go t' Albany an' f-fight them air cussed ballhooters. W-wisht you'd g-go out to caucus." A "ballhooter" was a man who rolled logs, and Strong used the word in a metaphorical sense. "I don't vote," said Dunmore, and in half a moment he added just what the Emperor had hoped for: "What do you know about him?" "He's a g-gentleman--an' his f-father's a gentleman." A moment of silence followed. "He's the b-best chap that ever c-come to my camp," Strong added. Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke in a low tone. "Tell him," said he, "that I send apologies for my rudeness--he will understand you. Tell him to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish, but I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his mind I cannot now bear to think of it. But I will try--" Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, his hand over his mouth. "I will try," he repeated, in a whisper, "and, if he will let us alone, some day I may ask you to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and keep away." Strong nodded, with full understanding of all that lay behind the message. The old lady came out of the door and that ended their interview. She spoke to Strong with a kindly query as to his sister, and then came a great surprise for him. "I wish she would come and visit me," said the old lady. "And I would love also to see those little children." Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no word was spoken for half a moment. "It's a good idea," he said, thoughtfully. Then, turning to Strong, he added: "We shall ask them to come soon. I shall want to see those children again." In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little people--of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for what had come. The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp. XXVIII MASTER accepted the counsel of his friend and kept away from Buckhom. He was, at least, relieved of the dark fears which Dunmore's angry face had imparted to him. He left camp to look after his canvass and was gone a fortnight. Strong had promised to let him know if any word came down the trail from their neighbors. The young man returned to his little shanty at Catamount and suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. Every day Master went to Birch Cove and wandered through the deer trails. Every graceful thing in the still woods reminded him of her beauty and every bird-song had the music of her voice in it. He began to think of her as the embodied spirit of the woodland. She was like Strong himself, but Strong was the great pine-tree while she was like the young, white birches. One bright morning--it was nearly a month after Strong had returned from Buckhom---Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the camp of Dunmore alone. The Emperor had gone away with some fishermen and Master with the children. Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her heart was in the cause of the young people, and she had waited long enough for developments. The injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled her with indignation. She had her own private notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, and was of no mind to "mince matters." She stood for a few moments at the landing on Buckhom and waved her handkerchief. The old lady saw her and sent the colored manservant to fetch her across. Dunmore and his mother welcomed her at the veranda steps. "My land! So you're Mis' Dunmore!" said Sinth, coolly, as she took a chair and glanced about her. "Yes, and very glad to see you.". "An' you've stayed fifteen years in this camp?" The old lady nodded. "It's a long time," said she. "It's a wonder ye ain't all dead--livin' here on the bank of a pond like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t' be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so unhuman." A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him. "I mean jest what I say an' more too," Sinth went on. "You 'ain't done right, an' if you can't see it you 'ain't got common-sense. My stars! I don't care how much trouble you've had. A man that can't take his pack full o' trouble an' keep agoin' is a purty poor stick. I know what 'tis to be disapp'inted. Good gracious me! you needn't think you're the only one that ever got hurt. The Lord has took away ev'rything I loved 'cept one. He 'ain't left me nothin' but a brother an' a weak back an' lots o' work t' do, an' a pair o' hands an' feet an' a head like a turnup. He's blessed you in a thousan' ways. He's gi'n ye health an' strength an' talents an' a? gal that's more like an angel than a human bein', an' you don't do nothin' but set aroun' here an' sulk an' write portry!" Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look of unspeakable contempt at him. The face of Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, somehow, disarmed the man--it was like the honesty of his own conscience. There had been a note of strange authority in her voice--like that which had come to him now and then out of the depths of his own spirit. "Suppose every one that got a taste o' trouble was t' fly mad like a little boy an' say he wouldn't play no more," Sinth went on. "My land! we wouldn't be no better than a lot o' cats an' dogs that's all fit out an' hid under a barn! Cyrus Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You won't play yerself an' ye won't let these women play nuther. You're as selfish as a bear. You 'ain't got no right t' keep 'em here, an' if you don't know it you better go t' school somewhere. Now there's my mind right out plain an' square." She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little squirm of indignation. Dunmore paced up and down for half a moment, a troubled look on his face. He stopped in front of Sinth. "Boneka, madam," said he, extending his hand. "I forgive," said Sinth, quickly, "providin' you'll try to do better. It's nonsense to forgive any one 'less he'll quit makin' it nec'sary." "I acknowledge here in the presence of my mother," said Dunmore, "that all you say is quite right. I have been a fool." Sinth rose and adjusted her shawl as if to warn them that she must go. "Wal, I'm glad you've come t' yer senses," said she, with a glance at the man. "'Tain't none o' my business, but I couldn't hold in no longer. I've fell in love with that girl o' your'n. She's as purty as a yearling doe." "I don't know what I would have done without her," said the old lady. "Since she was a little girl she's been eyes and hands and feet for me. I fear that I'm most to blame for her imprisonment." As she talked the indignation of Sinth wore away. Soon Dunmore helped her into his canoe and set her across the pond. "I'll find out about the young man," said he, as they parted. "He'll hear from me." One day soon after that Dunmore began to think of the children. In spite of himself he longed to see them again. He started for the camp at Lost River, and planned while there to have a talk with Strong and Master. At Nick Pond, on his way down, he met the two Migleys. After his interview with them he decided that he must have more information regarding the young man before going farther. XXIX MORE than a month had passed since the journey of Sinth to Buck-horn; but nothing had come of it. Silas, tramping with a party of fishermen, had met Dunmore one day, but the latter had stopped only for a word of greeting. Master had left his little camp and Strong was to send for him on the arrival of important news. The candidate had canvassed every mill village among the foot-hills of the county but had found it up-hill work. Many voters had lately become bosom friends of Joe Socket, the able postmaster at Moon Lake. Once Master had wandered into the Emperor's camp with a plan to invade the stronghold of Dunmore and release the girl if, perchance, she might desire to be free. Strong had wisely turned the young man's thought from all violence. He had taken out his old memorandum-book and pointed to this entry: _"Strong says the best thing fer a man to do in hell is kepe cool. Excitement will increase the heat."_ So a foolish purpose had ended in a laugh. Since midsummer some rain had fallen, but not enough to slake the thirst of the dry earth. Now in the third week of September the tops were ragged and the forest floor strewn with new leaves and with great rugs of sunlight. Big, hurtling flakes of red and gold fell slowly and shook out the odors of that upper, fairy world of which Edith Dunmore had told the children. One still, sunlit day of that week the old struggle between Satan and Silas Strong reached a critical stage. Sinth had gone for a walk with Sue and Socky, and young Migley, coming down from his camp at Nick, had found the Emperor alone. He was overhauling a boat in his little workshop. . "Well, Colonel," said the young lumberman, "we want to know why you're fighting us." Strong had lately gone over to the scene of his quarrel on the State land and plugged some of the pines with dynamite and posted warnings. He had rightly reckoned that thereafter the thieves would not find it easy to hire men for that job. "You're f-fightin' me," said Strong, as he continued his work. "How's that?" "C-cause ye ain't honest." "Look here, Colonel, you'd better fight for us." The young man spoke with a show of feeling. "We'd like to be friendly with you." Strong went on with his work, but made no answer. "We're only taking old trees that are dead or dying over there on the State land. Some of 'em are stag-headed--full of 'widow-makers,'" said Thomas Migley. It should be explained that a big, dead branch was called a "widow-maker" by the woods folk. "We shall obey the law and pay a fine for every stump," the young man continued. "That's square." "N-no," said the Emperor, firmly. "That l-law was intended to p-protect the forest." "You want us to be too -------- honest to live," said young Migley, with an oath. "N-no. I'll t-tell ye what's the matter with y-you," said Strong. "Y-you 'ain't got no r-res-pec' fer God, country, man, er f-fish." "You must agree to stand for us against all comers or get out of here to-morrow," the young man added. "Th-that's quick," said Strong, as he laid down his draw-shave and looked at Thomas Migley. "You can do as you like," said the latter. "We're willing to let you stay here as long as you want to." Strong saw clearly that the words were a bid for his manhood. He weighed it carefully--this thing they were seeking to purchase--he thought of his sister and the children, of his talk with Master on the journey from Bees' Hill. The skin upon his forehead was now gathered into long, deep furrows. His body trembled a little as he rose and slowly crossed the floor. There was a kind of gentleness in his hand as he touched the shoulder of the young man. He spoke almost tenderly one would have thought who heard him stammer out the one word, "Run." Suddenly his big hand shut like the jaws of a bear on Migley's arm and then let go. The young man hesitated and was rudely flung through the open door. He scrambled to his feet and made for the trail in frantic haste. "R-run!" the Emperor shouted, in hot pursuit of young Thomas Migley, whose feet flew with ridiculous animation. Strong stopped at the edge of the clearing. He leaned against a tree-trunk and shook his head and stammered half an oath. Soon he hurried into one of the cabins and sat down. He looked about him--at the fireplace and the mantel, at the straight, smooth timbers of young spruce, at the floor of wooden blocks, patiently fitted together, at the rustic chairs and tables, at the sheathing of riven cedar. He thought of all that these things had cost him and for a moment his eyes filled. He went to the cook-tent and found a map and spread it on the table. He could go over on the State land, pitch a couple of tents and build a shanty with a paper roof and siding, and make out for the rest of the summer. There would be two rivers and some rather wet land to cross. For a few moments he looked thoughtfully at the map. Soon he took out his worn memorandum-book and wrote as follows: _"Sep the 25. Strong has a poor set of feel in's in him Satans ahed but Strong will flore him."_ He took his axe and saw and went to a big birch-tree which he had felled in the edge of the clearing a few days before. He cut a twelve-foot log out of the trunk and began to hollow it. He stuck his axe when he heard Sinth and the children coming. He lifted Socky and Sue in his arms and carried them into camp. "G-goin' t' m-move," he said to Sinth as he put them down. "Move!" his sister exclaimed. "They're going to put us out?" Gently, fearfully, he whispered, "Ay-uh--" Sinth turned and hurried into the cook-tent. It was curious that she, who had raised her voice against the camp whenever a new plan had been proposed, who had seen nothing but folly, one would think, in its erection or their life in it, should now lean her head upon the table and sob as if her dearest possession had been taken away. The Emperor followed and sat down at the table, his faded crown of felt hanging over one ear--a dejected and sorrowful creature. "D-don't," he said, tenderly. The children stood with open mouths peering in at the door. Sinth's emotion slowly subsided. "You've worked so, Silas," Sinth moaned, as she sat wiping her eyes. "You've had to carry ev'rything in here on your back." After all, it had been a tender thought of him which had inspired all her scolding and her weeping. He had always known the truth, but he alone of all the many who had falsely judged her had known it. Strong sat looking down soberly in the silence that followed. His voice trembled a little when he spoke. "G-got 'nother house," said he, calmly. His voice sank to a whisper as he added, "Couldn't b-bear t' see it t-tore down." Failing to understand, she looked up at him. "Myself," he added, as he rose and smote his chest with his heavy right hand. He explained in a moment--"M-Migley wanted t' b-buy me." He put his hand on his sister's head and said, "B-better times." After a little silence he added, "You s-see." He left her sitting with her head leaning on her hand in deep and sorrowful meditation. He had built a fire in the stove and got their supper well under way before she joined him. While Sinth was making her tearful protest, the children sat on a log outside the door and were much depressed. "Somebody's gone and done something to her album," Sue whispered. The album was, in her view, the storm-centre of the camp. After Strong had gone to work getting supper ready the two came stealthily to the knees of their aunt. "Aunt Sinthy," Socky whispered. "What?" she asked, turning and beginning to smooth his hair with her hand. "I'm going to buy you a new album." He spoke in a low, tentative, troubled tone. The boy's resources would seem to be equal to every need. Sinth shook with silent laughter. In a moment she kissed the boy and girl and drew them to her breast with a little moan of fondness. Then she rose and went to help her brother. A little before sundown they heard the report of a rifle which had been fired within a mile of camp. Strong stood listening and could hear distant voices. He walked down the trail and returned in half an hour. "It's B-Business," he said to Sinth. "His army is c-comin'." XXX STRONG was chopping and hewing on his birch log until late bedtime. He was like Noah getting ready for the destruction of the world. Having finished, he took his lantern off a branch beside him and surveyed a singular device. He called it a boat-jumper, and, inspired by a thought of the children, whispered to himself, "Uncle S-Silas is improvin'." It was a mere shell about two inches thick, flat on the bottom and sheared on one end, canoe-fashion. It would serve as a jumper--a rough, sledlike conveyance--on the ground and as a boat on the rivers; it would carry Sinth and the children, with tents, blankets, provisions, and bedding enough to last until he could return for more. He hurried to camp and helped his sister with the packing. When a dozen great bundles lay on the floor, ready for removal, Sinth went to bed. But the tireless Emperor had more work to do. He made two seats, with back-rests upon each, for the boat-jumper and fastened a whiffle-tree to the bow end of the same. On its stern he put two handles--like those of a plough--so that he might lay hold of them and steady the jumper in rough places. Next morning a little before sunrise he made off on the trail to Pitkin. At the general store and post-office in that hamlet he received a letter. It was from the forest, fish, and game commissioner, who thus addressed him: _"Dear Mr. Strong,--I hear that timber thieves and deer-slayers are operating on State land near Rainbow Lake. I learn also that you are about to leave your camp at Lost River. If that is true I wish you would accept an appointment as deputy for that district and go at once and do what you can to protect the valley of Rainbow. The salary would be five hundred dollars. A letter just received informs me that 'Red' Macdonald is there with dogs. If you could deliver him into custody you would be a public benefactor, but I warn you that he is a desperate man. Please let me hear from you immediately."_ This gave Strong a new and grateful sense of being "ahead." Before leaving the post-office he penned his acceptance of the offer. Then he proceeded to the home of Annette and found her gone for the day. He sat down at the dinner-table and wrote these lines with all the deliberation their significance merited: _"Deer lady,--In Ogdensburg an' anxious to move. Patrick can snake me out. Meet me at Benson Falls Friday if possibul an' youll heare some talkin' done by yours hopin fer better times, "S. Strong. "P.S. Strong's ahed."_ Meanwhile Sinth was in trouble. Young Mr. Migley had come, with a gang of sawyers and axemen, to dethrone the Emperor and take possession. He had his customary get-off-the-earth air about him--an air that often accompanies the title to vast acreage. He found only Sinth and the children and summarily ordered them to leave. Then she gave him what she called "a piece of her mind." It was a good-sized piece, all truth and just measure. While the furniture was being thrown out-ofdoors she got ready to go. In the heart of Sinth indignation had supplanted sorrow. It was in her countenance and the vigor of her foot-fall and in the way that she filled and closed and handled her satchel. Some of the brawny woodsmen stood looking as she and the children came out-of-doors--a solemn-faced little company. Something from the hearts of the men made Sinth touch her eyes with her handkerchief. Then a curious thing happened. Some of the lumber-jacks dropped their saws and axes. Those people could forgive much in "a good fellow"--they could forgive almost any infamy, it would seem, but the stony heart. Let one do a mean thing and rouse their quick sympathies a little and their oaths were as a deadly, fateful curse upon him. They never forgot the tear of sympathy or the wrath of resentment. The sorrow of the weak now seemed to touch the hearts of the strong. The children, seeing the tears of their aunt as she turned for a last look at her home, followed slowly with an air of great dejection. Then a strange pathos rose out of their littleness, and an ancient law seemed to be writ upon the faces of the men: "Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea." A murmur of disapproval arose, and suddenly one voice blared a sacred name coupled and qualified with curious adjectives--jumped up, livin', sufferin', eternal--as if it would be most explicit. "Boys," the voice added, "I can't see no woman ner no childern treated that way." A man took the satchel out of Sinth's hand. "You stay here," said he. "We won't stan' fer this." Another burly woodsman had lifted little Sue in his arms. "I'm goin' down the trail to wait fer Silas," said Sinth, brokenly. She put out her hand to take the satchel. "We'll carry it an' the childern too," said the woodsman, whose voice, which had been harsh and profane, now had a touch of gentleness. They made their way down the trail in silence. "He better try t' be a statesman," said one of the escort. "He ain't fit t' be a bullcook." They passed a second gang with horses and a big jumper bearing supplies for the camp. The Emperor had surrendered; the green hills were taken. Half a mile or so from the camp Sinth halted. "I'll wait here, thank ye," said she. With offers of assistance the men left them and returned. All through the night Sinth had been thinking of their new trouble and was in a way prepared for the worst. But now, as she was leaving forever the old, familiar trees and the still water she sat down for awhile and covered her face. Already the saws had begun their work. She could hear them gnawing and hissing and the shouts and axes of the woodsmen. Socky and Sue came near their aunt and stood looking at her, their cheeks tear-stained, their sympathy now and then shaking them with half-suppressed sobs. The reason for their departure and for the coming of the woodsmen they were not able to understand. Zeb lay lolling on his stomach, bored, but, like his master, hoping for better times. "Aunt Sinthy--you 'fraid?" Sue ventured to ask, and her doll hung limp from her right hand. Socky felt his sword and looked up into the face of his aunt. "Where we goin'?" he asked, with another silent sob. "Pon my soul, I dunno," Sinth answered, wearily. "Don't you be 'fraid," he said, waving his sword manfully. Sinth took her knitting out of the satchel and sat down comfortably on a bed of leaves. Zeb began to growl and run around them in a circle, like the cheerful jester that he was. It seemed as if he were trying to remind them that, after all, the situation was not hopeless. He continued his gyrations until Socky and Sue joined him. Soon the big trees began falling and their thunder and the hoots of the "briermen" echoed far. The children came to their aunt. "What's that?" they asked, with awe in their faces. "The trees," Sinth answered, solemnly. "They're a-mowin' of 'em down." In a moment, thinking of the young man who had heartlessly put her out, she added: "I guess he'll find he's hurt himself more'n he has us." "Who?" Socky asked. "That mehopper." The children turned with a look of interest. "What's a mehopper?" Socky asked. Sinth sat looking thoughtfully at her knitting. "He steals folks' albums," said Sue, confidently, "an' he can run like a deer." "Ain't a bit like a deer," Sinth responded. "He can't go nowhere but down-hill--that's why ye always find him in low places--an' he's so 'fraid folks won't see him that he swears an' talks about himself." Sue looked at her aunt as if she thought her a woman of wonderful parts. "He better look out for the Sundayman," Sinth continued. "Who's the Sundayman?" they both asked. "He's a wonderful hunter an' he ketches all the wicked folks," Sinth answered. "An' them that swears he makes 'em into mehoppers, an' them that does cruel things he turns their hearts into stones, an' them that steals he takes away everything they have, an' if anybody lies he makes a fool of 'em so they b'lieve their own stories, an' he takes an' marks the face of every one he ketches so if ye look sharp ye can always tell 'em." In a moment they heard some one coming down the trail. It was young Mr. Migley who suddenly had found himself in the midst of a small rebellion. Half his men had threatened to "histe the turkey" unless he brought back the "woman and the kids." It was not their threat of quitting that worried him, however--it was a consequence more remote and decisive. "Miss Strong, I was hot under the collar," he began. "I didn't mean to put you out. I want you to come back and stay as long as you like. We can spare you one of the cabins." "No, sir," Sinth answered, curtly. "All right," said he, "you're the doctor." In a moment she asked, "What you goin' t' do with them sick folks that's camped over at Robin?" "I won't hurry 'em," said he; "but they'll have t' git out before long." "It's a shame," Sinth answered. "You oughto hev consumption an' see how you'd like it." "There are plenty of hotels east of here." "But they're poor folks an' can't afford to pay board, even if they'd let 'em in, which they wouldn't." "I can't help it--we've got to get these logs down to the river before snow flies--it's business." With him that brief assertion was the end of many disputes. They were few that even dared question the authority of the old tyrant whom Silas had called Business. The young man began to walk away. Sinth sent a parting shot after him. "It's business," said she, "to think o' nobody but yerself." It was long past mid-day when Silas came with the ox. He stood listening, his hands upon his hips, while Sinth related the story of their leaving camp and of Migley's effort to bring them back. "S-Sawed himself off," said Strong, with a smile. "You s-see." The dethroned Emperor turned, suddenly, and drew a line across the trail with the butt of his ox-whip. "All t-toe the s-scratch," he demanded, soberly. He led Sinth and Sue forward and stopped them with their toes on the line. He motioned to Socky, who took his place by the others. Zeb sat in front of them. The boy seemed to wonder what was coming. His fingers were closed but his thumbs stood up straight according to their habit when the boy's heart was troubled. "Th-thumbs down," Strong commanded. He surveyed his forces with an odd look of solemnity and playfulness. "S. Strong has been app'inted W-warden o' Rainbow V-valley," said the exiled Emperor. "F-forward march." His command was followed by a brief appeal to the ox. "Purty good luck!" Sinth exclaimed, with a look of satisfaction. "But they's a lot o' pirates over there--got t' look out fer 'em." "They'll m-move," said Strong, as if he had no worry about that. Slowly they went up the trail and soon reentered Lost River camp. The young lumberman saw them coming and went off into the woods. Some men, who had been at work near, gathered about the Emperor and offered to stand by him as long as he wished to remain. Strong shook his head. "W-we got t' g-go," he stammered. He looked sadly at the fallen tree-trunks--at the door-yard, now full of brush. "D-don't never w-want t' s-see this place ag'in," he muttered. He brought the boat-jumper into camp and loaded it. Then with Sinth on the bow seat and Socky and Sue behind her they set out, the men cheering as they moved away. A clear space at the stern afforded room for the Emperor if he should wish to get aboard in crossing water and an axe and paddle were stored on either side of it. Strong had tacked a notice on one of the trees, and it read as follows: S STRONG HAS MOVED TO RAINBOW LAKE The camp was now in the shadow of Long Ridge. Sinth and the Emperor were silent. Bird-songs that rang in the deep, shaded hall of the woods had a note of farewell in them. The children were laughing and chattering as ox and boat-jumper entered the unbroken forest. Zeb stood in front of the children, his forefeet on the gunwale, and seemed to complain of their progress. It was, in a way, historic, that journey of the boat-jumper, that parting of the ancient wood and the last of its children. Their expedition carried about all that was left of the spirit of the pioneer--his ingenuity, his dauntless courage, his undying hope of "better times." The hollow log, with its heart hewn out of it, groaning on its way to the sown land, suggested the fate of the forest. Now, soon, the Lost River country would have roads instead of trails, and its emperor would be a common millionaire. The jumper and the woodsman had had their day. Slowly they pursued their way, skirting thickets and going around fallen trees, and stopping often to clear a passage. Strong followed, gripping the handles that rose well above the stern of his odd craft, and so he served as a rudder and support. An ox is able to go in soft footing, and they struck boldly across a broad swamp nearly three miles down the river shore. It was near sundown when they camped for the night far down the outlet of Catamount Pond. Strong put up a small tent and bottomed it with boughs while Sinth was getting supper ready. Their work done, they sat before the camp-fire and Sinth told tales of the wilderness. Sile sang again "The Story of the Mellered Bear," and also an odd bit of nonsense which was, in part, a relic of old times. The first line of each stanza came out slowly and solemnly while the second ran as fast as he could move his tongue. In his old memorandum-book he referred to it as "The Snaik Song," and it ran as follows: [Illustration: 0298] [Illustration: 0299] Strong whittled as he sang, and soon presented the girl with a straight rod of yellow osier upon which he had carved the brief legend, "Su--her snaik stick." If she held to that, he explained, no snake would be able to swallow her. "I want one, too," said Socky. "You m-mean a bear stick," Strong answered. "Girls have t' l-look out fer s-snakes an' boys for b-bears." They were all asleep on their bough beds before eight o'clock. At that hour which Strong was wont to designate as "jes' daylight" he was on his feet again. Whether early or late to bed he was always awake before dawn. Some invisible watcher seemed to warn him of the coming of the light. He held to one ol the ancient habits of the race, for he began every day by kneeling to start a fire. He bent his head low and brought his lips near it as if the flame were a sacred thing and he its worshipper. For a time that morning he was careful not to disturb the others. But having attended to Patrick, he hurried to call the children. He hurried for fear that Sinth would forestall him. He loved to wake and wait upon them and hear their chatter. Their confidence in his power over all perils had become a sweet and sacred sort of flattery in the view of Silas. He had, too, a curious delight in seeing and feeling their little bodies while he helped them to dress. Somehow it had all made him think less of the pleasures of the wild country and more of Lady Ann. That "someday" of his laconic pledge was drawing nearer and its light was in every hour of his life. The children were leading him out of the brotherhood of the forest into that of men. He lifted the sleeping boy in his arms and gently woke him. Zeb had followed and put his cold nose on the ear of Sue. Soon the children were up and the Emperor kneeling before them, while his great hands awkwardly held a "teenty" pair of stockings. Sinth awoke and jealousy remarked, "Huh! I should think you was plumb crazy 'bout them air childern." Strong smiled and left them to her and began to prepare breakfast. Soon all were on their way again, heading for the lower valley of Lost River. They crossed two ridges and entered a wide swamp. There were many delays, for they encountered fallen trees which had to be cleared away with axe and lever, while here and there Strong gave the ox a footing of corduroy. It was a warm day and the children fell asleep after an hour or so. Sinth, who had been tossed about until speech wearied her tongue and put it in some peril, sank into sighful resignation. The jumper had stopped; Strong had gone ahead to look out his way. Reaching higher ground he saw man tracks and followed them to an old trail. Soon a piece of white paper pinned to a tree-trunk caught his eye. He stopped and read this warning: _"To Sile Strong_ _"You haint goin t' find the Rainbow country helthy place. If you go thare youll git hung up by the heels. I mean business."_ The Emperor took off his faded crown. He scratched his head thoughtfully. That message was probably inspired by some lawless man who had felt the authority of the woods lover and who wanted no more of it. He had heard that Migley had four camps on the Middle Branch, between there and Rainbow, and that they were full of "cutthroats." That was a word that stood for deer-slayers and all dare-devil men. Whoever had put this threat in the way of the Emperor had probably heard of his appointment and was trying to scare him away. The offender might have been sent by Migley himself. "W-We'll s-see," Strong muttered, with a stern look, as he returned to the boat-jumper. Many had threatened him, one time or another, but he never worried over that kind of thing. To-day, as on many occasions, he kept his tongue sinless by keeping his mouth shut, and, touching his discovery on the trail, said only the two words, "W-we'll see," and said them to himself. He didn't believe in spreading trouble. Slowly they made their way to a bend in Lost River far from the old camp. As they halted to seek entrance to the water channel Strong came forward and poked the children playfully until they opened their eyes. Then he put a hand on either shoulder of Sinth and gave her a little shake. "How ye f-feelin'?" he asked. "Redic'lous," she answered, "settin' here 'n a holler tree jest as if we was a fam'ly o' raccoons." It was the most impatient remark she had made in many days. "B-Better times!" said the Emperor. He smiled and sat down to rest on the side of the boat-jumper. He turned to the boy and asked, hopefully, "How 'bout yer Uncle S-Silas?" It had been rough, adventurous riding, but full of delight for the children. That morning their uncle had loomed into heroic and satisfactory proportions. Socky had long been thinking of the little silver compass Master had given him one day and which hung on a ribbon tied about his neck. He hoped they might be going where there would be other boys and girls. He had been considering how to give to his uncle's person a touch of grandeur and impressiveness fitting the story of the "mellered bear" and his power and skill as a hunter. Soberly he removed the ribbon from his neck and presented the shiny trinket to his uncle. "Put that on yer neck," said he, proudly. "Wh-what?" his uncle stammered. "C'ris'mus present," said the boy, with a serious look. The Emperor took off his faded crown. He put the ribbon over his head so that the compass dangled on his breast. "There," said Socky, "that looks a little better." In a moment, with that prudence which always kept the last bridge between himself and happiness, he added, "You can let me have it nights." Every night since it fell to his possession he had gone forth into the land of dreams with that compass held firmly in his right hand. "Here's twenty-five cents," said Sue, holding out the sacred coin which her nurse had given her, and which, on her way into the forest, had been set aside for a sacrifice to the great man of her dreams. At last the two had accepted him, without reserve, as worthy of all honor. They could still wish for more in the way of personal grandeur, supplied in part by the glittering compass, but something in him had satisfied their hearts if not their eyes. He was again their sublime, their wonderful Emperor. "You better keep it; you're going to buy an album for Aunt Sinthy," the boy warned her. Her little hand closed half-way on the silver; it wavered and fell in her lap. She seemed to weigh the coin between her thumb and finger. She looked from the man to the woman. Socky saw her dilemma and felt for her. "I'll get her an album myself," he proposed. In that world of magic where he lived nothing could discourage his faith and generosity. Their uncle lifted them in his arms and held them against his breast without speaking. "You've squeezed them childern till they're black in the face," said Sinth, who now stood near him with a look of impatience. She took them out of his arms and held them closer, if possible, than he had done. At the edge of the stream he shouted, "All 'board!" The others took their seats, and the Emperor sat in the stern with his paddle. Socky faced him so that he could see the compass. He often asked, proudly, "Which way we goin'?" and Strong would look at the compass and promptly return the information, "Sou' by east." The river ran shallow for more than a mile in the direction of their travel. Patrick hauled them slowly down the edge of the current. Strong steadied and steered with his paddle as they crept along, bumping over stones and grinding over gravel until, at a sloping, sandy beach on the farther shore, they mounted the bank and headed across Huckleberry Plain. Noon-time had passed when they left the hot plain. They threaded a narrow fringe of tamaracks and entered thick woods again. At a noisy little stream near by they stopped for dinner. Strong caught some trout and built a fire and fried them, and made coffee. Sinth spread the dishes and brought sandwiches and cheese and a big, frosted cake and a can of preserved berries from the boat-jumper. They sat down to the reward of honest hunger where the pure, cool air and the sylvan scene and the sound of flowing water were more than meat to them, if that were possible. Having eaten, they rose and pressed on with a happy sense of refreshment. A thought of it was to brighten many a less cheerful hour. Half a mile from their camping-place they found a smooth trail which led across level country to the Middle Branch. Socky and Sue were again fast asleep on the bottom of the boat-jumper long before they reached the river. When they halted near its bank a broad stream of deep, slow water lay before them. Strong unhitched the ox and led him along shore until he came to rapids where, half a mile below, the river took its long, rocky slope to lower country. There he tethered his ox and returned to fetch the others. He launched his boat-jumper and got aboard and paddled carefully down-stream. Having doubled a point, they came in sight of a slim boy who stood by the water's edge aiming an ancient, long-barrelled gun. His head, which rested against the breech, seemed, as the Emperor reported, "'bout the size of a pippin." "E-look out!" Strong shouted, as the boy lowered his gun to regard the travellers with an expression of deep concern. "See any mushrats?" the boy asked, eagerly. "N-no; who're you?" "Jo Henyon." Strong had heard of old Henyon, who was known familiarly as "Mushrat Bill." For years Bill had haunted the Middle Branch. "Wh-where d' ye live?" "Yender," said the boy, pointing downstream as he ran ahead of them. Presently they came to an old cabin near the water's edge with a small clearing around it. A woman wearing a short skirt and Shaker bonnet stood on one leg looking down at them. Children were rushing out of the cabin door. "My land! where's her other leg?" Sinth mused. The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the strange woman. "F-folks are like cranes over in this c-country," Strong answered. "Always rest on one leg." He drove his bow on a sloping, sandy beach. The woman hopped into the cabin door. Her many children hurried to the landing. A man with head and feet bare followed them. An old undershirt, one suspender, and a tattered pair of overalls partly covered his body. He walked slowly towards the shore. He was the famous trapper of the Middle Branch. "F-fur to Rainbow T-Trail?" Strong inquired of him. The latter put his hand to his ear and said, "What?" Strong repeated his query in a much louder voice. "Fur ain't very thick," the stranger answered. Strong perceived that the man was very deaf and also that he was devoted to one idea. "B-big fam'ly," he shouted, as he began to push off. The trapper, with his hand to his ear and still looking a bit doubtful, answered, "Ain't runnin' very big this year." Thereafter the word "mushrats," in the vocabulary of Strong, stood for unworthy devotion to a single purpose. Down-stream a little the ox took his place again at the bow of the boat-jumper. They struck off into thick woods reaching far and wide on the acres of Uncle Sam. A mile or so inland they came to Rainbow Trail, and thereafter followed it. Timber thieves had been cutting big pines and spruces and had left a slash on either side of the trail. The travellers dipped down across the edge of a wide valley, and after climbing again were in the midst of burned ground on the top of a high ridge. Below them they could see Rainbow Lake and the undulating canopy of a great, two-storied forest reaching to hazy distances. Mighty towers of spruce and pine and hemlock rose into the sunlit, upper heavens. It was growing dusk when, below them and well off the trail, they saw a column of smoke rising. They halted, and Strong stood gazing. The smoke grew in volume and he made off down the side of the ridge. He came in sight of the fire and stopped. Some one had fled through thickets of young spruce and Zeb was pursuing him. Strong looked off in the gloomy forest and shouted a fierce oath at its invisible enemy. Near him flames were leaping above a fallen top and running in tiny jets over dry duff like the waste of a fountain. Swiftly Strong cut branches of green birch and began to lay about him. He stopped the flames and then dug with his hatchet until he struck sand. He scooped it into his hat and soon smothered the cinders. His face had a troubled expression as he returned to the boat-jumper. "Who you been yellin' at?" Sinth asked. "C-careless cuss," he answered, evasively. Socky wore a look of indignation. He glibly repeated the oath which he had heard his uncle use. "Hush! The Sundayman'll ketch you," Sinth answered, severely. Strong gave a whistle of surprise. "Uncle Silas ain't 'fraid o' no Sundayman," Socky guessed. "Y-yes I be--could kill me with a s-snap of his finger," Strong declared. Socky trembled as he thought of that one inhabitant of the earth who was greater than his Uncle Silas and said no more. "S-see here, boy," said Strong, as he put his fingers under Socky's chin and raised his head' a little, "I w-won't never swear ag'in if y-you won't." He held out his great hand and Socky took it. "Y-you agree?" Socky nodded with a serious look, and so it happened that Silas became the master of his own tongue. He had "boiled over" for the last time--so he thought. The old habit which had grown out of a thousand trials and difficulties must give way, and henceforth he would be emperor of his own spirit. As to the fire and the man who had fled before him, Strong was perplexed, but kept his own counsel. He knew that the law permitted lumbermen to enter burned lands on the State preserve and take all timber which fire had damaged. A fire which might only have scorched the trunks while it devoured the crowns above them gave a rich harvest to some lucky lumberman. Having gained access, he stripped the earth, helping himself to the living as well as the dead trees. _Fire, therefore, had become a source of profit wherein lay the temptation to kindle it._ Silas Strong knew that his land of refuge was doomed--that the forerunner of its desolation was even then hiding somewhere in the near, dusky woods. He thought of the peril after a dry summer. The mould of the forest would burn like tinder. The dethroned Emperor reached the shore of Rainbow, put up a tent, and helped to get supper ready. After supper he lay down to rest in the firelight, and told the children about the great bear and the panther-bird. Sinth, weary after that long day of travel, had gone to sleep. After an hour or so Strong rose and looked down at her. "Sh-sh!--don't w-wake her," he warned them. "I'll put ye t' b-bed." He helped them undress. "You'll have to hear our prayers," Socky whispered. Strong nodded. He sat on a box and they knelt between his knees and he put his hands on their heads and bowed his own. When they had finished he bent lower and dictated this brief kind of postscript, "An' keep us from all d-danger this n-night." They repeated the words with no suspicion of what lay behind them. Then Socky whispered, "Say something 'bout the Sundayman." "An' keep the Sundayman away," Strong added. They repeated the words, and then, as if his heart were still unsatisfied, Socky added these, "An' please take care o' my Uncle Silas." The Emperor lay thinking long after his weary companions had gone to sleep. He thought of that angry outcry and his heart smote him; he thought of the danger. Perhaps, after all, they would not dare to burn the woods now. But Strong resolved to keep awake and be ready for trouble if it came. By-and-by he lighted a lantern and wrote in his old memorandum-book as follows: _"Strong use to say prufanity does more harm when ye keep it in than when ye let it natcherly drene off but among childem it's as ketchin' as the measles. Sounds like thunder when it comes out of a boy's mouth an hits like chain lightnin."_ Long before midnight rain began to fall. Strong rose and went out under the trees and lifted his face and hands, in a picturesque and priestlike attitude, to feel the grateful drops and whispered, "Thank God!" It was a gentle shower but an hour of it would be enough. He went back to his bed and lay listening. The faded leaves that still clung in the maple-tops above them rattled like a thousand tambourines. After an hour of the grateful downpour Strong's fear abated and he "let go" and sank into deep slumber. Almost the last furrow in the old sod of his character had been turned. XXXI THE sun rose clear next morning. Although a long shower of rain had come one could see no sign of it save in the drifted leaves. The earth had drunk it down quickly and seemed to be drying with its own heat. Strong felt the soil and the leaves. He blew and shook his head with surprise. While the others lay sleeping in their tent, he made a fire and set out in quest of a spring. Half a mile or so up the lake shore a bear broke out of a thicket of young firs just ahead of him. Strong was caught again without his rifle. Satan came as swiftly as the bear had fled, but could not prevail against him. Strong was delighted with this chance of showing the strength of his new purpose. In among the fir-trees he found the carcass of a buck upon which the bear had been feeding. "P-paunchers!" Strong muttered. He climbed the side of the ridge and presently struck the trail leading into camp. Soon he could hear some one coming, and sat on a log and waited. It was Master, who had gone to Lost River camp and then followed the trail of the boat-jumper. "Slept last night in a lean-to over on the Middle Branch," said he. "Been travelling since an hour before daylight and I'm hungry." "N-news from the gal?" "No. Have you?" Strong shook his head solemnly. "They've t-took the hills, an' I've come over here t' work fer Uncle S-sam," said he. "Warden?" "Uh-huh--been app'inted," Strong answered, with a look of sadness and satisfaction. "They're very cunning--Wilbert and the rest of them," Master said. "They've put a little salve on you and sent you out of the way. You're too serious-minded for them. That dynamite trick of yours set 'em all thinking. They won't keep you here long--you're too dead in earnest. But there's room enough for you over in the Clear Lake country, and when they get ready to shove you out come and be at home with us." A moment of silence followed. The simple mind of the woodsman was looking deep into the darkness that surrounded the throne of the great king. "You're camp looks as if it had been struck by lightning," Master added. Strong showed the letter containing his appointment, and told of the threat to hang him up by the heels. "The commissioner is on the square--he means well," said Master, "but they're using him. These lumbermen intend to drive you out of the woods, and they've got you headed for the clearing. You won't stay here long. In my opinion they'll burn this valley." Strong looked into the face of the young man. "What makes ye think so?" he asked. "Because they want the timber, and because they've got you here," said Master. "I heard of your appointment. I heard, too, that Joe Socket and Pop Migley and Dennis Mulligan thought you were the right man for the place. I knew there'd be something doing, and I came in here to warn you. Don't ever trust the benevolence of Satan." "By--" Strong paused and gave his thigh a slap. "I know w-what they're up to," he muttered, thoughtfully. "They'll make it too hot f-fer m-me here." He told of the fire and the man who fled in the bushes. "They're going to fire the valley, and don't intend to give you time to sit down," said Master. "It's a dangerous country just now." "Have t' take Sinth an' the ch-childem out o' here r-right off," the hunter answered. "If you'll stay with 'em t'-day, I'll go an' g-git some duffle an' we'll p-put over the r-ridge with 'em t'-night." Back at the old camp there were things he needed sorely, and he reckoned that he could make the round trip with a pack-basket by five in the afternoon. "It's still and the leaves are d-damp," Strong mused. "Fire wouldn't run much t'-day." "To-morrow I'll get a force of men and we'll surround this valley," said Master. They hurried into camp and were greeted with merry cries. Soon they were sitting on a blanket beside the others, eating in the ancient fashion of the pioneer. The young man had brought a letter from Gordon which contained a sum of money and welcome news. Sinth read the letter aloud. "'My dear friends,'" she read, "'I had hoped to write you long ago, but I have been waiting for better news to tell. My struggle is over and I am now master of myself. I paid to my creditors all the money you gave me.'" "Did you give him money?" Sinth looked up to inquire. "Uh-huh," Strong answered. "How much?" "All I had." "You're a fool!" Sinth exclaimed, and went on reading as follows:' "'Socky had given me his little tin bank. It contained just a dollar and thirty-two cents. The sacred sum paid my fare to Benson Falls and bought my dinner. I got a job there in the mill and soon I expect to be its manager. I'm a new man. If you want a job I can place you here at good pay. In a week or two I shall--'" Sinth stopped reading and covered her face with her apron. "What does it s-say?" Silas inquired, soberly. She handed the letter to him, and he read the last words: "'I shall come after the children and will then pay you in full with interest. No, I can never pay you in full, for there's something better than money that I owe you.'" Strong's face changed color. He dropped the letter and rose. "W-well," he stammered. "He sha'n't have 'em," said Sinth, decisively. "Tut, tut!" Silas answered. He raised the boy in his arms and kissed him. "W-we're both f-fools," he said, huskily. "You ain't exac'ly fools, but yer both childern," said Sinth, wiping her eyes. "Well, you know the Bible says we must become as a little child," said Master. "After all, money is only a measure of value, and one thing it does with absolute precision--a man's money measures the depth of his heart." XXXII STRONG left camp with his pack and rifle and two bear-traps. He was nearing the dead buck when a shot stopped him, and a bullet cut through his left fore-arm. The deadly missile came no swifter than his understanding of it. He dropped as if a death-blow had struck him, and, clinging to his rifle, crept in among the firs. He flung off the straps of his basket. He lay still a moment and then cautiously got to his knees. Blood was trickling down his hand, but he gave no heed to it. The ball had come from higher ground, towards which he had been walking. The man who had tried to kill him could not have stood more than two hundred feet away. Strong sat, rifle in hand, peering through the fir branches--alert as a panther waiting for its prey. Soon he caught a glimpse of his enemy fleeing between distant tree columns. The sight seemed to fill him with deadly anger. He leaped to his feet, seized his pack-basket, and started swiftly in pursuit of him. He gained the summit of the high ground and saw a broad slash covered with berry bushes and sloping to the flats around Bushrod Creek. A trail cut through it from the edge of the woods near him. He stopped and listened. He could hear the sound of retreating footsteps and could see briers moving some thirty rods down the slash. His heart had shaken off its rage. He was now the cunning, stealthy, determined hunter. He saw a dry, stag-headed pine in the edge of the briers near him and hurried up its shaft like a bear pressed by the dogs. On a dead limb, some thirty feet above ground, he halted and looked away. He could see nothing of his unknown foe. Slowly Strong descended from the dead tree. He had just begun to feel the pain of his wound. Blood was dripping fast from it; he looked like a butcher in the midst of his task. He muttered as he began to roll his sleeve, "G-guess they do inten't' shove me out o' this c-country." He blew as he looked at the wound. "B-Business is p-prosperin'," he went on, as he held one end of a big red handkerchief between his teeth and wound it above the torn muscles and firmly knotted the ends. "W-war!" he muttered, as he went to the near bushes and began to gather spiders' webs. It is to be regretted that for a moment he forgot his promise to Socky and "boiled over" from the heat of his passion. He sat on the ground and with his knife scraped away the blood clots. "D-damn soft-nose bullet!" he muttered, with a serious look, smoothing, down the fibres of torn flesh. He spread the webs upon his wound, and held them close awhile under his great palm. Soon he moistened a lot of tobacco and put it on the webs and held it there. After an hour or so the blood stopped. Then, gradually, he relieved the tension of his handkerchief, and by-and-by used it for a bandage on his wound. He rose and shouldered his pack and began to search for the tracks of his enemy. He soon discovered those of the bear which had fled before him that morning. "S-see here, Strong," he muttered, "th-this won't scurcely do. I arrest you, S. Strong, Esquire. Y-you're my prisoner. T-tryin' t' kill a man--you b-bloodthirsty devil! C-come with me. We'll hunt fer b-bears." The Emperor had often addressed himself with severe and even copious condemnation, but this was the first time that he had ever taken S. Strong by the coat-collar and violently faced him about. He could see clearly where the bear had broken through the wet briers on his way down to the flat country. It was a moment of peril, and he gave himself no time for argument. He hurried away in the trail of the bear. It lay before him, unmistakable as the wake of a boat, and would show where the animal was wont to cross the water below. He came soon to a great log lying from shore to shore of that inlet of Rainbow which was called Bushrod Creek. He could see tracks near the end of the log, and there, with a spruce pole for a lever, he set his traps in the sand so that, if the first were not sprung, the second would be sure to take hold. He covered the great, yawning, seven-toothed jaws of steel and fastened heavy clogs upon both trap chains. Then he took the piece of bacon from his pack and hung it on a branch above the traps. Shrewdly the hunter had made his plan. That bear would probably return to the dead buck, and the scent of the bacon would attract him to that particular crossing. He tore two pages from his memorandum-book, and wrote this warning on each: STOP TRAPS AHED S. STRONG. He fastened them to stakes and posted them on two sides of the point of danger. It was then past eleven and too late for the long journey to Lost River camp. He decided to go to Henyon's on the Middle Branch and get the trapper to come and keep watch while he took Sinth and the children to Benson Falls. On his way out of the slash he killed a deer, and dressed and hung him on a tree. Then he set out for the trail to Henyon's. He had walked for an hour or so when his pace began to slacken. "T-y-ty!" he whispered, stopping suddenly. "S. Strong, what's the m-matter? Yer all of a-tremble." Strong felt sick and weary, and took off his pack and sat down to rest on a bed of leaves. Then he discovered that the handkerchief upon his arm was dripping wet. Again he stopped the blood by cording. He lay back on the ground suffering with faintness and acute pain. Soon obeying the instinct of man and beast, which prompts one to hide his weakness and even his death-throes, he crept behind the top of a fallen tree. His heart had been overstrained of late by worry and heavy toil. Now for the first time he could feel it laboring a little as if it missed the blood which had been dripping slowly but steadily from his arm. At last a day was come that had no pleasure in it--a day when the keepers of the house had begun to tremble. Soon the warm sunlight fell through forest branches on the great body of Strong, who had lost command of himself and become the prisoner of sleep. In the memorandum-book there is an entry without date in a script of unusual size. Those large letters were made slowly and with a trembling hand. It was probably written while he sat there in the lonely, autumn woods before giving up to his weakness. This is the entry: _"Theys days when I dont blieve God is over per-ticklar with a man bout swearin."_ XXXIII SOON after breakfast that morning Master had hitched the ox to the boat-jumper. "My land! Where ye goin'?" Sinth inquired. "To-morrow we're going out to Benson Falls with you and the children," said Master. "I thought we'd better take the ox and what things you need to-day as far as Link Harris's. That's about four miles down the Leonard trail. The ox will have all he can do to-morrow if he starts from Harris's." The young man said nothing of another purpose which he had in mind--that of learning, as soon as possible, the nearest way out of the Rainbow country. "What does that mean?" Sinth asked. "Only this--we may have trouble with these pirates, and we want to get you out of the way. We'll have to travel, and we can't leave you in the camp alone. You and the children can ride over, and we'll come back afoot." So Sinth packed her satchels and a big camp-bag, and all made the journey to Harris's where they left the ox and the jumper. It was near six o'clock when they returned to the little camp at Rainbow. Strong was not there, and after supper, while the dusk fell, they sat on a blanket by the fire, and Sinth raked the old scrap-heap of family history to which a score of ancestors had contributed, each in his time. It was all a kind of folk-lore--mouldy, rusty, distorted, dreamlike. It told of bears in the pig-pen, of moose in the door-yard, of panthers glaring through the windows at night, of Indians surrounding the cabin, and of the torture by fire and steel. At bedtime Silas had not arrived. Sinth, however, showed no sign of worry. He knew the woods so well, and there were bear and fish and sundry temptations, each greater than his bed. "Mebbe he's took after a bear," Sinth suggested, while she began to undress the children. "You remember we heard him shoot soon after he left here," said Master. "It may be he wounded a bear and followed him." "Like as not," she answered. In a moment she put her hand on Master's arm and whispered to him. "Say!" said she, "I don't want to make trouble, but if I was you I wouldn't wait no longer for that old fool." She stalled the needles into her ball of yarn and rolled up her knitting. She continued, with a sigh of impatience: "I'd go over to Buckhom an' git that girl, if I had to bring 'er on my back." "That's about what I propose to do," said the young man, with a laugh. "I'm sick o' this dilly-dally in'," said Sinth, "an' I guess she is, too." With that she led Socky and Sue into the tent. When the others had gone to bed Master began to think of the shot which had broken the silence of the autumn woods that morning. He lighted a lantern and followed as nearly as he could the direction his friend had taken. By-and-by he stopped and whistled on his thumb and stood listening. The woods were silent. Soon he could see where Strong had crossed a little run and roughed the leaves beyond it. Master followed his tracks and came to the dead deer. He saw that a bear had found it, and near by there were signs of a struggle and of fresh blood. Now satisfied that Strong had shot and followed the bear, he hurried back to camp. He spread a blanket before the fire and laydown to think and rest in the silence. Buck-horn was only four miles from the upper end of Rainbow. One could put his canoe in the Middle Branch and go without a carry to the outlet of Slender Lake--little more than a great marsh--then up the still water to a landing within half an hour of Dunmore's. He would make the journey in a day or two, and, if possible, take the girl out of the woods. The night was dark and still. He could hear now and then the fall of a dead leaf that gave a ghostly whisper as it brushed through high branches on its way down. Suddenly another sound caught his ear. He rose and listened. It was a distant, rhythmic beat of oars on the lake. Who could be crossing at that hour? He walked to the shore and stood looking off into inky darkness. He could still hear the sound of oars. Some one was rowing with a swift, nervous, jumping stroke, and the sound was growing fainter. Somehow it quickened the pulse of the young, man a little--he wondered why. XXXIV MASTER returned to the fire and lay back on his blanket. Little puffs of air had begun to rattle the dead leaves above him. Soon he could hear a wind coming over the woodland. It was like the roar of distant sea-billows. Waves of wind began to whistle in the naked branches overhead. In a moment the main flood of the gale was roaring through them, and every tree column had begun to creak and groan. Master rose and looked up at the sky. He could see a wavering glow through the tree-tops. The odor of smoke was in the air. He ran to call Miss Strong, and met her coming out of her tent. She had smelled the smoke and quickly dressed. "My land, the woods are afire!" she cried. The sky had brightened as if a great, golden moon were rising. Sinth ran back into her tent and woke the children. With swift and eager hands the young man helped her while she put on their clothes. She said not a word until they were dressed. Then, half blinded by thickening smoke and groping on her way to the other tent, she said, despairingly, "I wonder where Silas is?" A great, feathery cinder fell through the tree-tops. "Come quick, we must get out of here," Master called, as he lifted the crying children. "We've no time to lose." She flung some things in a satchel and tried to follow. In the smoke it was difficult to breathe and almost impossible to find their way. Master put down the children and tore some rope from a tent-side and tied it to the dog's collar. Then he shouted, "Go home, Zeb!" They clung to one another while the dog led them into the trail. Master had Socky and Sue in his arms. He hurried up the long slope of Rainbow Ridge, the woman following. They could now hear the charge and raven of the flames that were tearing into a resinous swamp-roof not far away. "Comin' fast!" Sinth exclaimed. "Can't see or breathe hardly." "Drop your satchel and cling to my coat-tails," Master answered, stopping to give her a hold. A burning rag of rotten timber, flying with the wind, caught in a green top above them. It broke and fell in flakes of fire. Master flung one off his coat-sleeve, and, seizing a stalk of witch-hopple, whipped the glow out of them. On they pressed, mounting slowly into better air. Just ahead of them they could see the wavering firelight on their trail. On a bare ledge near the summit they stopped to rest their lungs a moment. They were now above the swift army of flame and a little off the west flank of it. They could see into a red, smoky, luminous gulf, leagues long and wide, beneath the night-shadow. Ten thousand torches of balsam and spruce and pine and hemlock sent aloft their reeling towers of flame and flung their light through the long valley. It illumined a black, wind-driven cloud of smoke waving over the woodland like a dismal flag of destruction. A great wedge of flame was rending its way northward. Sparks leaped along the sides of it like fiery dust beneath the feet of the conqueror. They rose high and drifted over the lake chasm and fell in a sleet of fire on the lighted waves. The loose and tattered jacket of many an old stub was tom into glowing rags and scattered by the wind. Some hurtled off a mile or more from their source, and isolated fountains of flame were spreading here and there on balsam flats near the lake margin. Some of the tall firs, when first touched by the cinder-shower, were like great Christmas-trees hung with tinsel and lighted by many candles. New-caught flames, bending in the wind, had the look of horses at full gallop. Ropes and arrows and spears and lances of fire were flying and curveting over the doomed woods. The travellers halted only for a moment. They could feel the heat on their faces. Black smoke had begun to roll over the heights around them. "It'll go up the valley in an hour an' cut Silas off," Sinth whimpered as they went on. "He must have crossed the valley before now," the young man assured her. The woman ran ahead and called, loudly, "Silas! Silas!" She continued calling as they hurried on through thickening smoke. They halted for a word at Leonard's Trail, which left the main thoroughfare to Rainbow, and, going down the east side of the ridge, fared away some ten miles over hill and dale to the open country. It was at right angles with the way of the wind and would soon lead them out of danger. "Make for Benson Falls with the childem!" cried Sinth. "I'm goin' after Silas." She knew that her brother would surely be coming--that, seeing the fire, he would take any hazard to reach them. Master knew not what to do. He had begun to worry about the people at Buckhom, but his work was nearer to his hand. It was there at the fork in the trail. He sent a loud, far-reaching cry down the wind, but heard no answer. "He'll take care of himself--you'd better get away from this valley," he called. An oily top had taken fire below and within a hundred yards of them. "Go, go quick, an' save them childern!" she urged. Then she ran away from him. She hurried along the top of the ridge, calling as she went. A dim, misty glow filled the cavern of the woods around her. Just ahead drops of fire seemed to be dripping through the forest roof. It failed to catch. It would let her go a little farther, and she pressed on. A fold of the great streamer of smoke was rent away and rolled up the side of the ridge and covered her. She sank upon her knees, nearly smothered, and put her skirt over her face. The cloud passed in a moment. Her sleeve caught fire and she put it out with her hand. She felt her peril more keenly and tried to run. She heard Zeb sniffing and coughing near. Master had let him go, thinking that he might help her in some way. She stooped and called to him and took hold of the dragging rope. The dog pressed on so eagerly that he carried part of her weight. A broken bough in a tree-top just ahead of her had caught fire and swung like a big lantern. She had no sooner passed than she heard the tree burst into flame with a sound like the frying of fat. She felt her hand stinging her and saw that a little flame was running up the side of her skirt. She cried, "Mercy!" and knelt and smothered it with her hands. Gasping for breath, she fell forward, her face upon the ground. "Silas Strong," she moaned, "you got to come quick or I won't never see you again." The dog heard her and licked her face. Down among the ferns and mosses she found a stratum of clear air, and in a moment rose and reeled a few steps farther. The flank of the invader had overrun the heights. Her seeking was near its end. Showers of fire were falling beyond and beside her. She lay down and covered her face to protect it from heat and smoke. She rose and staggered on, calling loudly. Then she heard a bark from Zeb and the familiar halloo of Silas Strong. Through some subtle but sure intuition the two had known what to expect of each other and had clung to the trail. She saw him running out of the smoke-cloud and whipping his arms with his old felt hat. One side of his beard was burned away. He picked her up as if she had been a child and ran down the east side of the ridge with her, leaping over logs and crashing through fallen tops. Beyond the showering sparks he stopped and smothered a circle of creeping fire on her skirt. Sinth lay in his arms moaning and sobbing. He shook her and shouted, almost fiercely, "The leetle f-fawns--wh-where be they?" "Gone with him on Leonard's Trail," Sinth answered, brokenly. He entered a swamp in the dim-lighted forest, now running, now striding slowly through fallen timber and up to his knees in the damp earth. Every moment the air was growing clearer. He ran over a hard-wood hill and slackened pace while he made his way half across a wide flat. When he struck the trail to Benson Falls the fire-glow was fainter. Now and then a great, rushing billow of light swept over them and vanished. He stopped and blew and put Sinth on her feet. "Hard n-night, sis," said he, tenderly. She stood and made no answer. In a flare of firelight he saw that she was holding out one of her hands. He struck a match and looked at it and made a rueful cluck. The fire of the match seemed to frighten her; she staggered backward and fell with a cry. He caught her up and strode slowly on. Soon she seemed to recover self-control and lay silent. He was in great pain; he was reeling under his burden, but he kept on. She put up a hand and felt his face. "Why, Silas," she said, in a frightened voice, "you're crying." It was then that he fell to the ground helpless. XXXV TERROR had begun to spread in the wilderness north of Rainbow. The smoky wind, the growing firelight had roused all the children of the forest. Chattering birds rose high and took the way of the wind to safety. One could see flying lines of wild-fowl in the lighted heavens; faintly, as they passed, one could hear their startled cries. Deer ran aimlessly through the woods like frightened sheep. From scores of camps on lake and pond and river--from Buckhorn, from Barsook, from Five Ponds, from Sabattis, from Big and Little Sandy, from Lost River--people, who had seen the fire coming, were on their way out of the woods. Master ran at first down Leonard's Trail with the boy and girl in his arms. Soon his thoughts halted him. He had withstood the severest trial that may be set before a man. To be compelled to seek safety with the children, while a woman took the way of peril before his eyes, had made him falter a moment. He hoped that Sinth had left the ridge, now overrun with flames, and fled down the slope. If so she would be looking for Leonard's Trail. He stopped every few paces and sent a loud halloo into the woods. Fire was crackling down the side of the ridge. As he looked back it seemed to him that the great lake of hell must be flooding into the world. Soon the trail led him to Sinth, who was on her knees and sobbing beside her brother. That wiry little woman had struggled there alone with energy past all belief. She thought only of the danger and forgot her pain. She had toiled with the heavy body of her brother, as the ant toils with a burden larger than itself, dragging it slowly, inch by inch, in the direction of Harris's. She had moved it a distance of some fifty feet before she heard the call of Master. Then she fell moaning and clinging to the hands of him she loved better, far better even, than she had ever permitted herself to know. It may well be doubted--O you who have probably lost patience with her long ago!--if anything in human history is more wonderful than the lonely struggle of hers in that dim, flaring, threatening hell-glow. Master quickly knelt by the fallen Emperor. "What's the matter?" he asked. "He's gi'n out--done fer me until he can't do no more," she wailed. She put her arms around the great breast of the man and laid her cheek upon it tenderly. Then her heart, which had always hidden its fondness, spoke out in a broken cry: "Silas Strong--speak t' me. I can't--I can't spare ye nohow--I can't spare ye." The children knelt by her and called with frightened voices: "Uncle Silas! Uncle Silas!" Strong began to move. Those beloved voices had seemed to call him back. He put his hand on the head of Sinth and drew it close to him. "B-better times!" he whispered. "B-better times, I tell ye, s-sis!" He struggled to his knees. "S-say," he said to Master, "I've been shot. T-tie yer han'kerchief r-round my arm quick." The young man tied his handkerchief as directed. Then Strong tried to rise, but his weight bore him down. "Lie still," said Master. "I can carry you." He took the rope from Zeb's collar and looped it over the breast of the helpless man and drew its ends under his arms and knotted them. Then, while Sinth supported her brother, the young man reached backward over his shoulders and, grasping the rope, lifted his friend so their backs were against each other, and, leaning under his burden, struggled on with it, the others following. It was a toilsome, painful journey to Harris's. But what is impossible when the strong heart of youth, warmed with dauntless courage, turns to its task? We that wonder as we look backward may venture to put the query, but dare not answer it. Often Master fell to his knees and there steadied himself a moment with heaving breast, then tightened his thews again and rose and measured the way with slow, staggering feet. An hour or so later a clear-voiced call rang through the noisy wind. They stopped and listened. "Somebody coming," said Master. He answered with, a loud halloo as they went on wearily. Soon they saw some one approaching in the dusky trail. "Who's there?" the young man asked. "Edith Dunmore," was the answer that trembled with gladness. "Oh, sir! I would have gone through the fire." "I know," said he, "you would have gone through the fire." "For--for you," she added, brokenly. Master dared not lay down his burden. He toiled on, his heart so full that he could not answer. The girl walked beside him for a moment of solemn, suggestive silence. She could dimly see the prostrate body of Strong on the back of her lover, and understood. What a singular and noble restraint was in that meeting! "I love you--I love you, and I want to help you," she said, as she walked beside him. "Help Miss Strong," he answered. "She is badly burned." Little Sue was overcome with weariness and fear, and could not be comforted. The maiden carried her with one arm and with the other supported Sinth. So, slowly, they made their way over the rough trail. "How came you here?" Master inquired, presently. "We saw the fire coming and hurried to Slender Lake, and fled in boats and came down the river." When, late in the night, the little band of lovers reeled across the dimlit clearing, it was in sore distress. Their feet dragged, their hearts and bodies stooped with heaviness. A company of woods-folk, who stood in front of Harris's looking off at the fire, ran to meet them. They lifted the dragging Emperor and helped the young man carry him in-doors. Master was no sooner relieved of his burden than he fell exhausted on the floor. Edith Dunmore knelt by him and raised his hands to her lips. She helped him rise, and then for a moment they stood and trembled in each other's arms, and were like unto the oak and the vine that clings to it. Dunmore and his mother stood looking at them. The white-haired man had taken the children in his arms. "I thought she went to bed and to sleep long ago," he muttered. "Without her we should have perished," said the old lady. . "Yes, and she shall have her way," he answered. "One might as well try to keep the deer out of the lily-pads." He kissed the boy and girl, and added, with a sigh, "This world is for the young." XXXVI ALL stood aghast for a moment in the light of the lamps around the bed of Strong. His clothes were burned, bloody, and torn--they lay in rags upon him. His face and hands were swollen; part of his hair and beard had been shorn off in the storm of fire through which he had fought his way. He spoke not, but there was the grim record of his fight with the flames--of the terrible punishment they had put upon him while the sturdy old lover sought his friends. All hands made haste to do what they could for him and for the woman he had carried out of the fire of the pit. He had told Master that Annette was waiting for him at the Falls. The young man sent Harris to bring her with horse and buckboard. Strong lay like one dead while they gave him spirits and bathed his face and hands in oil. Soon he revived a little. "It's Business," he muttered. In a moment his thoughts began to wander in a curious delirium filled with suggestions of the old cheerfulness. He sang, feebly: "The briers are above my head, the brakes above my knee, An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son- tree." Rain had begun falling and daylight was on the window-panes. The dethroned Emperor continued to sing fragments of old songs so familiar to all who knew him. "It was in the summer-time when I sailed, when I sailed," he sang. Socky stood by the bed of his uncle with a sad face. "Th-thumbs down," Strong demanded, faintly. Master went out on the little veranda and looked down the road. He could hear the voice of his friend singing: "The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie." "It is true," thought the young man as he looked off at the smouldering woods. "They are gone and so are the green hearts." Annette came presently and Strong rose on his elbow and looked at her. "Ann," he called, as she knelt by his bedside. "To-day--to-day! It's n-no' some day any m-more. It's to-day." He sank back on his pillow when he saw her tears, and whispered, almost doubtfully, "Better t-times!" He leaned forward and put up his hands as if to relieve the pressure of his pack-straps, and in a moment he had gone out of hearing on a trail that leads to the "better times" he had hoped for, let us try to believe. So ends the history of Silas Strong, guide, contriver, lover of the woods and streams, of honor and good-fellowship. He was never to bow his head before the dreaded tyrant of this world. We may be glad of that, and remember gratefully and with renewed thought of our own standing that Strong was ahead. A curious procession made its way out of the woods that morning. Socky and Sue walked ahead. Master and Edith and her father followed. Then came the boat-jumper with Sinth and all that remained of Silas Strong in it; then the buckboard that carried Harris and old Mrs. Dunmore and the servants. Slowly they made their way towards the sown land. "What ye cryin' fer?" a stranger asked the children as he passed them. "Our Uncle Silas died," was the all-sufficient reply of Socky. Soon they could hear the roar of the saws. "Look!" said Dunmore to his daughter, as they came in sight of the mill chimney. "There's the edge of the great world." He looked thoughtfully at the children a moment and added: "It all reminds me of the words of a mighty teacher, 'A little child shall lead them.'" And what of Migley and the rest? Word of his harshness in driving Sinth and the children out of their home had travelled over the land, and not all the king's money could have saved him. Master went to the Legislature--where God prosper him!--and the young lumberman was condemned to obscurity. Master and Edith live at Clear Lake most of the year, and the cranes have brought them a young fairy regarded by Socky and Sue, who often visit there, with deep interest and affection. Sinth will spend the rest of her days, probably, in the home of Gordon at Benson Falls. As to Annette, like many daughters of the Puritan, she lives with a memory, and her hope is still and all in that "some day," gone now into the land of faith and mystery. The once beautiful valley of Rainbow was turned into black ruins that night of the fire. Soon a "game pirate," who had "blabbed" in a spree, was arrested for the crime of causing it. The authorities promised to let him go if he would tell the truth. He told how he had been with "Red" Macdonald that night and saw him fire the woods. They fled to the shore of Rainbow and crossed in a boat. Near the middle of the lake they broke an oar, and a mile of green tops had begun to "fry" before they landed. They ran eastward in a panic. They crossed Bushrod Creek on a big log that spanned the water. At the farther end of it Macdonald, who was in the lead, put his foot in one bear-trap and fell into another. His friend tried to release him, but soon had to give up and run for his life. He went with an officer and found the heap of bones that lay between two rusty traps in the desolate valley. "After all, he got exac'ly what was comin' to him," said he, looking down at the ghastly thing. "It was him shot the 'Emp'ror o' the Woods.'" Who was to pay Macdonald for his work? That probably will never be known.