doughnuts were bitter in his mouth because they were so pleasing to
him. He devoured half a dozen of them and then forced himself to stop,
for he was beginning to feel good-humored. His gaze turned shiftily
towards the kitchen, where Hot Biscuit Slim was frying doughnuts with
astonishing rapidity. The assistant cooks were rolling out the dough;
Big Ole, the blacksmith, bare-armed and streaming with sweat, tossed
the doughnuts on his anvil and punched the holes in them with swift
strokes. Jonah Wiles glowered malignantly on the scene. With one meal
the son of his enemy had brought happiness to the camp and achieved
glory.
“He’ll learn Jonah Wiles has a few tricks yet,” the worst bunkhouse
crank muttered savagely.
After supper he waited for a lull in the bunkhouse merriment. When it
came he emitted a terrific groan.
“I’m afeard them new biscuits with the holes in ’em ain’t goin’ to set
well on the stummick. I’m afeard----”
“Take yer bellyache outside!” yelled the loggers.
They shoved him through the door and began to roar out their favorite
song, “Jack Haggerty.”
“I’ve still got some tricks,” said Jonah Wiles.
He entered the kitchen and greeted Hot Biscuit Slim with a twisted grin
that was supposed to express sympathy and understanding.
“I’m yer pap’s best friend,” he said unctuously, “an’ I shore am glad
to see yeh makin’ sech a fine beginnin’ with sourdough.”
“Yeh?” said Hot Biscuit Slim.
“Yes siree! An’ I allus like to help folks get along, too. I’ve jist
thought uh somethin’ new to try with sourdough. Yeh see, the loggers
been havin’ trouble gettin’ inner soles fer their boots. Now if yer
pap was doin’ it, why he’d jist slip into all the bunkhouses to-night
and put sourdough in every boot, fer.... Here now, don’t yeh go to hit
me! I’m a ailin’ ol’ man, an’ crippled, too. What’s the matter uh yeh,
anyway?”
Hot Biscuit’s face was afire with rage.
“So you’re the pizen ol’ devil what got my ol’ man into all that
trouble, what nearly got him kilt, what ruint his life!”
He grasped a cold doughnut, swung it far behind him, then hurled it
with terrific force at Jonah Wiles’ head. It struck him squarely
between the eyes, and he dropped without a groan.
“There!” panted Hot Biscuit Slim. “You moanin’ ol’ hound--you hissin’
ol’ reptile--you squawlin’ ol’ tomcat!...”
When Jonah Wiles recovered consciousness two months later he discovered
the camp in holiday attire. When he learned the occasion of the
celebration he was bewildered. He saw the loggers forming in a great
crowd on the shore of Redbottom Lake. The water line was low; the
spring thaw had evidently come early, for the lake was black with
logs. The logging had not been finished before the lake sank below its
outlet. Yet the camp was celebrating. Jonah Wiles wondered. Had the
new biscuits made the loggers so idiotically happy that no misfortune
could quench their spirits?
Jonah Wiles saw that a new cookhouse had been built; the old one was
now standing above a rollway on the lake shore. From crevices in its
swelling walls, from the eaves and from the chimneys some thick white
stuff was oozing and bubbling. “Sourdough!” exclaimed Jonah Wiles, yet
more amazed.
At this moment Paul Bunyan lifted Sourdough Sam aloft in his hand that
all the loggers might see him. The old cook waved a new crutch at his
friends. He was dressed in an amazing fine style; he was even wearing a
necktie. He seemed to be the hero of the celebration.
Paul Bunyan now made a speech. He told the loggers of all the marvelous
edibles that Hot Biscuit Slim had revealed to him, and he explained
in detail his latest and greatest invention, the Big Feed. When the
loggers were done cheering Paul Bunyan paid a tribute to Sourdough
Sam; the old cook’s creation had served a great purpose in the logging
industry, he said. Its day was done now, but there remained a last
great work for it to perform, a dramatic work that would keep the
memory of its creator alive forever. It was fitting that Sourdough
Sam should see this before retiring to his old home. Now Paul Bunyan
turned to the big blue ox, who was hitched to blocks supporting the old
cookhouse.
“Yay, Babe!” he commanded.
The blue ox heaved, the old cookhouse tottered, then it crashed down
the rollway. A heaving mass of sourdough rumbled from its cracking
sides and surged like a boiling tidal wave over the lake. The waters
began to hiss and foam; the logs were all hidden from sight; the lake
looked like a heavy white cloud had dropped into its basin. The loggers
all stared prayerfully; hopeful, yet hardly daring to hope. Only
Sourdough Sam had confidence in the rising powers of his sourdough.
In Paul Bunyan’s hand, he shouted joyously and waved his new crutch.
The great logger himself was not absolutely sure of success at first,
but as the tumult of the lake waters increased, he too showed joy and
carefully patted Sourdough Sam’s back with his little finger. The
leader-hero was pleased to share the glory of this enterprise with
such a noble and faithful little man. Now the waters rose so rapidly
that the loggers rushed back in a panic. In half an hour the sourdough
had caused the lake to rise so high that the season’s logs were all
thundering down Red River valley. It was a grand day for everyone; but
it was the grandest that Sourdough Sam had ever known.
Jonah Wiles was sickened by his enemy’s triumph. He contemplated the
magnificence of the new cookhouse, and he realized that there was now
small chance of promoting misery among Paul Bunyan’s loggers. The camp
could be nothing but a hostile place for him in the new dispensation.
A dejected, baffled man, he sneaked away in his white pants before
the loggers returned, and shambled over the hills, traveling towards
Kansas.
THE BLACK DUCK DINNER
Except in the spring, when the log drives were being made down the
rivers, Sunday was a day of rest in Paul Bunyan’s camp. It was a day of
earnest thought, and of cleanliness and pleasure also. For on Sunday
Paul Bunyan planned the next week’s work, thought out his orations,
imagined new inventions, and dreamed of historical exploits for the
future. And on Sunday his loggers made their beds, cleaned their
clothes, and shaved their faces. The pleasures of this day were the
pleasures of the table, for Paul Bunyan, after building his second
cookhouse, and developing his famous kitchen organization around Hot
Biscuit Slim, the chief cook, originated the custom of grand Sunday
dinners.
Every Sunday dinner was a feast; but some of them, of course, were
nobler and more enjoyable than others. His roast pork and plum pudding
dinners always delighted the loggers when they were served on winter
Sundays; they shouted over the baked trout and cherry pie Sunday
dinners that he gave them in the spring; in the summer a vegetable and
strawberry shortcake Sunday dinner made them happy every time; and in
the fall the Sunday dinners of fried chicken and peach cobbler made
them prance and roar with pleasure. And the Thanksgiving and Christmas
dinners of roasted webfooted turkeys, cranberries and chocolate
cake--the loggers were always speechless when they thought about them.
Every Sunday morning would see the loggers performing the ceremonies
of cleanliness as soon as their after-breakfast pipes were smoked.
First, the beds were made; and this was a more trying job than you
would think, especially for the loggers who had poor eyesight. These
unfortunates would throw their blankets into a pile, then shake them
out one at a time, and attempt to replace them in the bunks. Here
difficulties beset them, for Paul Bunyan’s blankets had small square
checks; and it took a sharp eye to detect which was the long way of a
blanket, and which was the wide way. Even the most sharp-eyed loggers
would sometimes lose confidence in their vision when replacing these
perplexing blankets; and they would remove them time and again before
deciding that they were spread correctly. As for the cross-eyed and
near-sighted men, it was sometimes pitiful to behold the most troubled
of them stretching out blankets in their extended hands, turning them
in slow revolutions, doubtfully placing them on the bunks, and then
wearily lifting them again. These unfortunate men never quitted their
Sunday bed-making until they were worn out; and all the following week
they were sure that they had the long way of their blankets on the wide
way of their bunks. They would swear to have them right next time; but
every Sunday their attempts at bed-making would end in as unsatisfying
a manner.
Everyone in the West knows that sheepherders of our time often worry
themselves into insanity in their lonely camps, trying to discover the
wide way and the long way of their quilts and blankets. Fortunately,
Paul Bunyan’s loggers were all strong-minded men, and their blankets
did no more than bedevil them.
After bed-making the loggers heated cans of water over small
fires built out in the timber, and they washed their clothes.
Shaving, boot-greasing, sole-calking, hair-cutting, beard-trimming,
button-sewing, and rip-mending followed; and he was an expert in
these Sunday morning chores who had time to stretch out on his smooth
blankets for a smoke before the dinner gong rang at twelve.
At the ringing of this gong the inexpressible pleasures of Paul
Bunyan’s Sundays began. First, the loggers enjoyed the ecstasy of
eating; and it was an ecstasy they were fitted to enjoy gloriously.
After dinner the loggers would lie on their bunks and dream drowsily
all afternoon of a loggers’ paradise; and the paradise they dreamed
about was none other than Paul Bunyan’s camp; but a camp whose life
began each day with a Sunday dinner, and whose days were all like the
warm drowsy hours of these Sunday afternoons.
But most of the loggers would be awake and hungry again at suppertime,
ready to enjoy the Sunday supper of cold meat, potato salad, doughnuts,
jelly rolls and coffee. Then in the twilight, and for a long time after
the bunkhouse lamps were lit, they would smoke, and talk contentedly
of the delight they got from Paul Bunyan’s cookhouse; and they would
prophesy about the Sunday dinners of the future. There were no
bunkhouse pastimes on Sunday nights. After some hours of low-voiced
contented talk, the loggers would change their underclothes and get
into their newly made beds, rested and inspired for Monday’s labor.
The great cookhouse which so ennobled and cheered Paul Bunyan’s loggers
on their Sundays was the grandest and best planned affair of its kind
ever heard of. The dining hall was so commodious and had so much room
between the tables that four-horse teams hauled wagonloads of salt,
pepper and sugar down the aisles when the shakers and bowls were to be
filled. Conveyor belts carried clean dishes to the tables and returned
the dirty ones to the wash room. The long-legged flunkies wore roller
skates at mealtime, and the fastest among them could sometimes traverse
the dining hall in forty-seven minutes.
But it was the kitchen, the powerhouse of this vast establishment,
which had the most interest. This domain, ruled by the temperamental
culinary genius, Hot Biscuit Slim, was as large as ten Ford plants and
as noisy as the Battle of Gettysburg. The utensils that hung on its
walls, from the steam-drive potato mashers and sleeve-valve, air-cooled
egg beaters to the big armorplate potato kettles, the bigger force-feed
batter mixers and the grandiose stew kettles, in which carcasses of
cattle floated about like chips in a mill pond when beef dinners were
being prepared--these polished utensils glittered even when the ranges
were smoking their worst at hot cake time.
Paul Bunyan had devised the monorail system for this kitchen, and
overhead cranes rattled about at all hours, carrying loads of dishes
from the Dishwashing Department to the Serving Department, loads of
vegetables and meats from the Supply Department to the Preparations
Department, and loads of dressed food from the Preparations Department
to the Finishing Department. The dishes were washed on a carriage like
the log carriages of modern sawmills. The head dishwashers jerked
levers that threw heaps of dirty dishes from the conveyor belts to the
carriage, then the carriage was shot forward until the dishes struck a
sharp-edged stream of soapy water that had dropped one hundred feet.
The clean dishes were bucked off on live rolls, and the head dishwasher
shot the carriage back for another load. Some of the clean dishes were
run through dry kilns, and others were piled for air-drying by Swede
dish-pilers, who wore leather aprons and mittens and could pile sixty
thousand dishes per pair in twelve hours.
A list of the marvels of Paul Bunyan’s kitchen would fill a book as
large as a dictionary. Elevators whirred between the kitchen and the
vegetable bins, and a wide subway held four tracks that led to the
fruit and vinegar cellars. A concrete chute carried the coffee grounds,
eggshells and other waste to the kitchen yard, and from morning till
night it roared like a millrace. Billy Puget, boss over the scraper
gang, often had to work his mules and men fourteen hours a day in order
to keep the kitchen yard cleaned of coffee grounds and eggshells.
Paul Bunyan’s loggers had little understanding of the tremendous
organization that was required for the operation of such an
establishment as the cookhouse. They thanked old Paul for feeding them
so well, and they agreed that Hot Biscuit Slim was a powerful good
cook. Less fortunate loggers of to-day think of Paul Bunyan’s camp life
as a dream of bliss, and they are sure that if they had been there they
would have worshiped Paul Bunyan. His own loggers, however, took the
cookhouse glories as a matter of course, and they never realized what
inventiveness, thought and effort were needed to give them such Sunday
dinners and such Sunday afternoon dreams and content.
Nor did Paul Bunyan expect shouted praises and thanks from his loggers.
He gave so much to them because he expected much from them. He worked
his men twelve hours a day, and, had they thought about it, they would
have been astounded by any idea of working less. And they would have
been perplexed by any other scheme to ease their lot. If there were not
to be great exertions, they would have asked, why their sturdy frames,
their eager muscular force? If they were not meant to face hazards,
why was daring in their hearts? A noble breed, those loggers of Paul
Bunyan’s, greatly worthy of their captain! He himself told them in a
speech he made at the finishing of the Onion River Drive that they were
“a good band of bullies, a fine bunch of savages.” I should like to
quote this speech in its entirety, for it celebrated the accomplishment
of a historical logging enterprise, and it was a master oration which
showed the full range and force of Paul Bunyan’s oratorical powers.
But as nine days and eight nights were required for its delivery, it is
obvious that no publication save the _Congressional Record_ could give
all of it. It was at this time that Paul Bunyan served his great black
duck dinner.
The speech ended on a Tuesday, and until the following Saturday morning
there were no sounds save the snores of weary men and the scratching
of the sleepless Johnny Inkslinger’s fountain pen. By Saturday noon he
had a time check and a written copy of the oration for every man in
camp. After dinner the Big Swede, using a fire hose, a ton of soap, and
a tank of hair tonic began to give the blue ox his spring cleaning,
and Johnny Inkslinger turned in for the three hours of sleep which he
required each week. Paul Bunyan was arranging his personal belongings
for the move to a new job and musing on his recent accomplishment. He
had never driven logs down a rougher or more treacherous stream than
Onion River. And the hills over which the timber had been skidded were
so rocky and steep that they tried even the strength of the blue ox.
Worst of all was the rank growth of wild onions that had covered the
ground. They baffled all attempts to fell the trees at first, for they
brought blinding floods of tears to the loggers’ eyes and made their
efforts not only futile but dangerous. When the Big Swede was standing
on a hillside one day, dreaming of the old country, he failed to
observe a blinded logger come staggering up the slope, and he did not
hear him mumble, “This looks like a good stick.” Not until the logger
had chopped a notch in the leg of his boot had the Big Swede realized
his peril. Paul Bunyan, baffled by such incidents, was about to abandon
the whole operation when the alert Johnny Inkslinger heard of the
failure of the Italian garlic crop. He quickly made a contract with the
Italian government, which sent over shiploads of laborers to dig up the
wild onions and take them home as a substitute for the national relish.
When this had been accomplished it was possible to log off the country.
There had been other difficulties to overcome, too, and as Paul
Bunyan spread out a tarpaulin and prepared to roll up his boots and
workclothes, he remembered them and praised the saints that they were
ended. The next job offered the best promise of easy and simple logging
of any he had ever encountered. For miles the land rose in gentle
slopes from a wide and smoothly flowing river; there was no brush
or noxious vegetation among the clean, straight trees; and, best of
all, the timber was of a species now extinct, the Leaning Pine. The
trees of this variety all leaned in the same direction, and it was
thus possible to fell them accurately without the use of wedges. Paul
Bunyan was sure of a season’s record on this new job. He thought of
the fresh brilliancy it would give his fame, and like a row of snowy
peaks glimpsed through the spaces of a forest, his teeth glittered
through his beard in a magnificent smile. But another thought quickly
sobered his countenance. “Those good bullies of mine!” The words came
in a gusty murmur. He dropped the tarpaulin and strode over to the
cookhouse. Hot Biscuit Slim, the kitchen chief, came forth to meet him.
There was a knowing look in the cook’s eyes.
“It’s to be a great Sunday dinner to-morrer?” he asked, before Paul
Bunyan could speak.
“The greatest Sunday dinner ever heard of,” said Paul Bunyan. “I want
this to be remembered as the noblest meal ever served in a logging
camp. My loggers shall feast like the victorious soldiers of old time.
It is a natural privilege of heroes to revel after conquest. Remember,
as you prepare this feast, that you may also be making immortal glory
for yourself.”
“You jest leave it to me, Mr. Bunyan!” answered Slim. “If the baker’ll
do his part with the cream puffs, cakes and pies, I promise you
I’ll make ’em a meal to remember. First, oyscher stew, an’ then for
vegytables, cream’ cabbage, of course, mash’ potatoes an’ potato cakes,
lettuce an’ onions----”
“No onions!” thundered Paul Bunyan. There was a terrific crash in the
kitchen as hundreds of skillets and kettles were shaken to the floor.
“Uh--I forgot,” stammered Hot Biscuit Slim. “Well, anyway, they’ll be
oyscher soup, vegytables, sauces, puddin’s, hot biscuits, an’ meat in
dumplin’ stew an’ mulligan stew, an’ they’ll be drippin’ roasts, all
tender an’ rich-seasoned--oh, the meat that I’ll give ’em! the meat--”
he paused sharply, shivered as though from a physical shock, and misery
glistened in his eyes--“only--uh--only----”
“Only you have no meat,” said Paul Bunyan gently.
“I’m admittin’ it,” said Slim wretchedly. “Honest, Mr. Bunyan, no
matter how I try I jest _can’t_ remember to order meat, ’specially for
Sunday dinner. I can remember vegytables, fruits an’ greens easy as
pie, but, by doggy, I always forget meat. I ain’t pertendin’ a cook’s
worth keepin’ who can’t remember meat, no matter how good he is at a
fixin’ it. I wouldn’t blame you if you fired me right off, Mr. Bunyan.”
Hot Biscuit Slim leaned against the toe of the hero’s boot and wept.
“That means I must rustle deer and bear,” said Paul Bunyan patiently.
“Well, bear meat and venison will make a royal feast when they have
passed through your kettles and ovens. Light the fires, go ahead with
your plans; you may yet make history to-morrow!”
He turned away, and Hot Biscuit Slim watched him worshipfully until he
was a dim figure on distant hills.
“The best friend me an’ my pap ever had,” he said. “I’d do anything for
a boss like that. I’ll learn to remember meat, by doggy, I will!”
Rumors of the marvelous dinner that was being planned reached the
bunkhouses, and the loggers indulged in greedy imagining of the
promised delights. The day went slowly; the sun seemed to labor down
the western sky. Before it sank soft clouds obscured its light,
bringing showers and early shadows.
At the approach of darkness Paul Bunyan began his return march to the
camp. He was vastly disappointed by the meager results of his hunt.
Although he had gone as far as the Turtle River country, he had snared
but two deer and three small bears. These only filled a corner of one
pocket of his mackinaw, and they would provide but a mere shred of
meat apiece for his men. Paul Bunyan did not feel that he had done his
best; he was not one to rest on feeble consolations. As he journeyed
on he was devising other means to carry out his plans for a memorable
and stupendous feast. And ere he was within an hour of the camp the Big
Swede was unconsciously outlining the solution of the problem for him.
The Big Swede went to the stable some time after supper to see that
Babe was at ease for the night. The clouds were thinning now, and when
he opened the stable door soft light poured in on the blue ox, making
lustrous spots and streaks on his sleek sides. He turned his head, his
bulging blue eyes shining with gentleness and good-will, and his tongue
covered the foreman’s face in a luscious caress.
“Har noo,” remonstrated the Big Swede.
As he solemnly wiped his drenched face he sniffed the fragrance of
Babe’s breath and stared with a feeling of envy at the clean, glowing
hair. When he had finished his inspection and left the stable, it was
evident that he was wrestling with some laborious problem. His whole
face was tense with a terrific frown; his memory groped among the
shadows of some distant happening; he scratched his sides vigorously
and breathed deeply of the air, sweet with the odors of washed earth.
The purity of the spring weather, the fresh cleanliness it gave the
world, and the aroma and sleekness of the blue ox, had brought the
Big Swede to face his own sore need of a washing. He dreaded it as
an ordeal, an exceptional and hazardous undertaking, and for that
reason he wished that he might accomplish it immediately. He wandered
aimlessly on, tormented by an unaccustomed conflict of the soul and
the flesh, and at last he came to the edge of a cliff. He stared in
surprise at the appearance of a lake below. He could not remember so
large a body of water near the camp. But the Big Swede had no room for
more than one emotion at a time, and a violent resolve now smothered
his surprise.
“Yah, aye do him noo,” he muttered.
He disrobed swiftly and ran to a rock that jutted from the cliff.
Swinging his fists he leaped twice into the air; the second time he
flung himself outward in a magnificent dive, his body made a great
curve, and then, head first, he plunged downward. But there was no
tumultuous surge and splash of waters as a climax of this splendid
dive. Instead, the Big Swede’s head struck white canvas with a dull,
rending impact. For he had mistaken Paul Bunyan’s tarpaulin for a lake!
The force of his plunge drove him through the canvas and half-buried
him in the soft earth underneath. His arms were imprisoned, but his
legs waved wildly, and his muffled bellows shook the earth. A prowling
logger saw what seemed to be shining marble columns dancing in the
moonlight and felt the ground trembling under his feet.
“It can’t be,” he thought bravely.