A TWO-FISTED MAN
A half-hour later when Bill sought out the boss in the little office,
the latter received him in surly silence; and as he read Appleton's
note his lip curled.
"So you think you'll make a lumberjack, do you?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation; nothing of doubt in the reply.
"My crew's full," the boss growled. "I don't need no men, let alone a
greener that don't know a peavey from a bark spud. Wha'd the old man
send you up here for, anyhow?"
"That, I presume, is _his_ business."
"Oh, it is, is it? Well, let me tell you first off--I'm boss of this
here camp!" Moncrossen paused and glared at the younger man. "You get
that, do you? Just you remember that what I say goes, an' I don't take
no guff offen no man, not even one of the old man's pets--an' that's
_my_ business--see?"
Bill smiled as the scowling man crushed the note in his hand and
slammed it viciously into the wood-box.
"Wants you broke in, does he? All right; I'll break you! Ag'in' spring
you'll know a little somethin' about logs, or you'll be so damn sick of
the woods you'll run every time you hear a log chain rattle; an' either
way, you'll learn who's boss of this here camp."
Moncrossen sank his yellow teeth into a thick plug of tobacco and tore
off the corner with a jerk.
"Throw yer blankets into an empty bunk an' be ready fer work in the
mornin'. I'll put you swampin' fer the big Swede--I guess that 'll hold
you. Yer wages is forty-five a month--an' I'm right here to see that
you earn 'em."
"Can I buy blankets here? I threw mine away coming out."
"Comin' out! Comin' in, you mean! Men come _in_ to the woods. In the
spring they go _out_--if they're lucky. Get what you want over to the
van; it'll be charged ag'in' yer wages." Bill turned toward the door.
"By the way," the boss growled, "what's yer name--back where you come
from?"
"Bill."
"Bill what?"
"No. Just Bill--with a period for a full stop. And that's _my_
business--see?" As Moncrossen encountered the level stare of the gray
eyes he leered knowingly.
"Oh, that's it, eh? All right, _Bill_! 'Curiosity killed the cat,' as
the feller says. An' just don't forget to remember that what a man
don't know don't hurt him none. Loggin' is learned _in_ the choppin's.
Accidents happens; an' dead men tells no tales. Them that keeps their
eyes to the front an' minds their own business gen'ally winters
through. That's all."
Bill wondered at the seemingly irrelevant utterances of the boss, but
left the office without comment.
On the floor of the bunk-house Irish Fallon, assisted by several of the
men, was removing the skin from Diablesse, while others looked on.
The awkward hush that fell upon them as he entered told Bill that he
had been the subject of their conversation. Men glanced at him
covertly, as though taking his measure, and he soon found himself
relating the adventures of the trail to an appreciative audience, which
grinned approval and tendered flasks, which he declined.
Later, as he helped Fallon nail the wolfskin to the end of the
bunk-house he told him of the interview with Moncrossen. The Irishman
listened, frowning.
"Ye've made a bad shtar-rt wid um," he said, shaking his head. "Ye eyed
'im down in th' grub-shack, an' he hates ye fer ut. How ye got by wid
ut Oi don't know, fer he's a scr-rapper from away back, an' av he'd
sailed into ye Oi'm thinkin' he'd knocked th' divil out av ye, fer he's
had experience, which ye ain't. But he didn't dast to, an' he knows ut,
an' he knows that the men knows ut. An' now he'll lay fer a chanst to
git aven. Ut's th' besht ye c'n do--loike he says, kape th' two eyes av
ye to th' front an' moind yer own business--only kape wan eye behint ye
to look out fer throuble. Phwat fer job did he give yez?"
"I am to start swamping, whatever that is, for the big Swede."
The Irishman grinned.
"Oi thoucht so; an' may God have mercy on yer sowl."
"What is the matter with the Swede?"
"Mather enough. Bein' hand an' glove wid Moncrossen is good rayson to
suspicion any man. Fer t'is be the help av Shtromberg that Moncrossen
kapes a loine on th' men an' gits by wid his crooked wor-rk.
"He ain't long on brains nohow, Moncrossen ain't, an' he ain't a good
camp-boss nayther, fer all he gits out th' logs.
"Be bluff an' bullyin' he gits th' wor-rk out av th' crew; but av ut
wasn't that Misther Appleton lets um pay a bit over goin' wages, he'd
have no crew, fer th' men hate um fer all they're afraid av um.
"Th' rayson he puts ye shwampin' fer th' big Swede is so's he'll kape
an eye on yez. As long as ye do yer wor-rk an' moind yer own business
ye'll get along wid him as well as another. But, moind ye, phwin th'
bird's-eye shtar-rts movin' ye don't notice nothin,' or some foine
avenin' ye'll turn up missin'."
"What is this bird's-eye thing?" asked Bill. "What has it got to do
with Moncrossen--and me?"
The Irishman considered the question and, without answering, walked to
the corner of the bunk-house near which they were standing and peered
into the black shadow of the wall. Apparently satisfied, he returned
again to where Bill was standing.
"Come on in th' bunk-house, now," he said. "I want to locate Shtromberg
an' wan or two more. We'll sit around an' shmoke a bit, an' phwin they
begin rollin' in ye'll ask me phwere is th' van, fer ye must have
blankets an' phwat not. Oi'll go along to show ye, an' we'll take a
turn down th' tote-road phwere we c'n talk widout its gittin' to th'
ears av th' boss."
Wondering at the man's precautions for secrecy, he followed, and for a
half-hour listened to the fireside gossip of the camp. He noticed that
Fallon's glance traveled over the various groups as if seeking some
one, and he wondered which of the men was Stromberg.
Suddenly the door was flung open and a huge, yellow-bearded man stamped
noisily to the stove, disregarding the curses that issued from the
bunks of those who had already turned in.
This man was larger even than Moncrossen, with protruding eyes of china
blue, which stared weakly from beneath heavy, straw-colored eyebrows.
Two hundred and fifty pounds, thought Bill, as the man, snorting
disagreeably, paused before him and fixed him with an insolent stare.
"Hey, you! Boss says you swamp for me," he snorted. Bill nodded
indifferently.
"You know how to swamp good?" he asked. Bill studied the toes of his
moccasins and, without looking up, replied with a negative shake of his
head.
"I learn you, all right. In couple days you swamp good, or I fix you."
Bill looked up, encountered the watery glare of the blue eyes, and
returned his gaze to the points of his moccasins. The voice of the
Swede grew more aggressive. He snorted importantly as the men looked
on, and smote his palm with a ponderous fist.
"First thing, I duck you in waterhole. Then I slap you to peak an'
break off the peak." The men snickered, and Stromberg, emboldened by
the silence of his new swamper, continued:
"It's time boys was in bed. To-morrow I make you earn your wages."
Bill rose slowly from his seat, and as he looked again into the face of
the big Swede his lips smiled. But Fallon noticed, and others, that in
the steely glint of the gray eyes was no hint of smile, and they
watched curiously while he removed his mackinaw and tossed it
carelessly onto the edge of a near-by bunk from where it slipped
unnoticed to the floor.
Stromberg produced a bottle, drank deep, and returned the flask to his
pocket. He rasped the fire from his throat with a harsh, grating sound,
drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and kicked contemptuously
at the mackinaw which lay almost at his feet.
As he did so a long, thick envelope, to which was tightly bound the
photograph of a girl, slipped from the inner pocket. Instantly he
stooped and seized it.
"Haw, haw!" he roared, "the greener's got a woman. Look, she's a----"
"Drop that!" The voice was low, almost soft in tone, but the words cut
quick and clear, with no hint of gentleness.
"Come get it, greener!" The man taunted as he doubled a huge fist, and
held the photograph high that the others might see.
Bill came. He covered the intervening space at a bound, springing
swiftly and straight--as panthers spring; and as his moccasined feet
touched the floor he struck. Once, twice, thrice--and all so quickly
that the onlookers received no sense of repeated effort.
The terrific force of the well-placed blows, and their deadly accuracy,
seemed to be consecutive parts of a single, continuous, smoothly
flowing movement.
In the tense silence sounds rang sharp--the peculiar smack of living
flesh hard hit, as the first blow landed just below the ear, the dull
thump of a heavy body blow, and the clash of teeth driven against teeth
as the sagging jaw of the big Swede snapped shut to the impact of the
long swing that landed full on his chin's point.
The huge form stiffened, spun half-way around, and toppled sidewise
against a rack of drying garments, which fell with a crash to the
floor.
Without so much as a glance at the ludicrously sprawled figure, Bill
picked up his mackinaw and returned the envelope to the pocket.
"Irish," he asked, "where is the van? I must get some blankets. My
nurse, there, says it's time to turn in."
"Oi'll go wid ye," said Fallon, and a roar of laughter followed them
out into the night.