AN ANNOUNCEMENT
Despite the handicap of the deep snow, results in the new camp were
highly satisfactory to Bill Carmody.
Not a man in the crew but swore by the boss, and each day threw himself
into the work with a will that made for success. And each night, as he
rolled into his bunk, not a man but knew that the boss himself had that
day worked harder than he.
"Niver wuz such a crew in th' woods, miss," boasted Daddy Dunnigan one
afternoon as Ethel stood in the door of the cook-shack and watched the
old man's preparation of the gigantic supper.
"Oi've logged a bit, here an' there, an' always Oi've be'n where min
wuz--but niver Oi've seed 'em buckle down an' tear out th' bone, wan
day wid another, save in th' so'gerin' days av Captain Fronte McKim.
"Th' same wuz th' boss's uncle, an' he's a McKim fr' th' sole av his
feet to th' peak av his head, barrin' th' licker, an' th' min'll go
t'rough hell an' hoigh wather fer um, beggin' ye're pardon--an' he
ain't no dommed angel, nayther, beggin' ut ag'in, miss.
"Ye sh'd see th' hand av poker he plays, an' th' beautiful swearin' av
um, phwin things goes wrong! An' ye sh'd see um foight wanst! An' now
he's gone an' poshted a foive per cint bonus av they bate Moncrossen's
cut, an' uts loike handin' ut to 'em, 'cause he knows th' b'ys is
already doin' their dommedest, beggin' ye're pardon, miss.
"Oi'll bet me winther's wages, come shpr-ring, we'll have Moncrossen
shnowed undher dayper thin' yon smithy, an' they had to tunnel to foind
ut."
The girl laughed happily and passed on with a great love in her heart
for Daddy Dunnigan and the big, rough men out in the timber who were
"tearing out the bone" that _her_ man might make good.
Day by day the black pyramids of the rollways lengthened, and the
skidways were pushed farther and farther into the timber. And, of all
the men in the crew, none worked harder nor to better purpose than
Stromberg, the big hulking Swede, whom Fallon had warned Bill was the
brains of Moncrossen's bird's-eye gang.
Neither Bill nor the big swamper had ever alluded to that affair in the
bunk-house upon the night of their first meeting, and it was with a
feeling of surprise that the foreman looked up one evening as he sat
alone in the little office to see Stromberg enter and cross to his
side.
The man lost no time in coming to the point.
"Bill," he began, "I went up with Buck Moncrossen this summer to bring
down the bird's-eye. We found a pile of ashes where the logs should
have been. Moncrossen thinks Creed burned them--or let someone do it.
"It was a crooked game, and I was in it as deep as any one. I ain't
trying to beg off--but, I'd rather be square than crooked--and that's
the truth. I ain't spent most of my life in the woods not to be able to
tell hardwood ashes from soft-wood, and I know you slipped one over on
us.
"You're going to make good in the woods. You'll be the big boss, some
day. I expect to do time for my part in the bird's-eye game, and I'll
take all that's coming to me. And I won't snitch on the rest to get a
lighter sentence, either.
"I know Appleton, and I know we'll get ours in the spring, but what I
want to know is: when I get out, can I come to you for a job?"
Bill rose from his chair and thrust a big hand toward the other.
"Stromberg," he said, "you are no more a crook than I am. You threw in
with a bad bunch--that's all. Suppose we just forget the bird's-eye
business. You and Fallon are the two best men I've got.
"We are going to beat Moncrossen this year, and every man in the crew
has got to help do it--and next winter--well, Mr. Appleton will have an
eye peeled for a man to take Moncrossen's job--see?"
The two big men shook hands, and as he made his way to the bunk-house,
Stromberg wondered at the peculiar smile on the boss's lips as he said:
"There are a hell of a lot of good men wasted because of a bad start.
So-long."
The weeks slipped rapidly by. The weather settled, keen and cold, with
the crew keyed to the highest pitch of efficiency.
"Beat Buck Moncrossen!" became the slogan of the camp, and with the
lengthening days it became apparent that a record cut was being banked
on the rollways.
It was a wonderful winter for Ethel Manton. The spirit of the big
country entered her blood. More and more she loved the woods, and
learned to respect and admire the rough loyalty of the big men of the
logs.
She had come to call most of them by name, as with a smile and a nod,
or a wave of the hand, she passed them in the timber on her daily
excursions in search of rabbits and ptarmigan. And not a man in the
crew but would gladly have fought to the last breath for "the boss's
girl."
And now the feel of spring was in the air. Each day the sun climbed
higher and higher, and the wind lost its sting. The surface of the snow
softened by day, and high-piled white drifts settled slowly into soggy
masses of saturated, gray slush.
Bill figured that he had nearly fifteen million feet down when he
called off his sawyers and ordered the clean-up. The nights remained
cold, freezing the surface of the sodden snow into a crust of excellent
footing, so that the day's work began at midnight and continued until
the crust softened under the rays of the morning sun.
The men laughed and sang and talked of the drive, and of the waterfront
dives of cities, whose calk-pocked floors spoke the shame of the men of
the logs.
But most of all they talked of the wedding. For as they sat at the
supper-table on the day the last tree fell, the boss entered,
accompanied by the girl.
In a few brief words he told them that he was proud of every man jack
of them; that they were the best crew that ever came into the woods,
and that they had more than earned the bonus.
He told them that he realized he was a greener, and thanked them for
their loyalty and cooeperation, without which his first season as camp
foreman must have been doomed to failure.
Cheer after cheer interrupted his words, and when he took Ethel by the
hand and announced that they were soon to be married in that very room
and invited all hands to the wedding, their cheers drowned his voice
completely.
But when the girl tried to speak to them, choked in confusion, and with
her eyes brimming with tears, extended both hands and gasped: "Oh, I--I
love you all!" the wild storm of applause threatened to tear the roof
from the log walls.
It was Ethel's idea that they should be married in the woods. Her love
for the wild country grew deeper with the passing days. She loved it
all--the silent snow-bound forest, the virile life of the big camp with
its moments of tense excitement, the mighty crash with which tall trees
tore through the branches of lesser trees to measure their length on
the scarred snow, the thrill of hunting wild things, and the long
evenings when the rich tones of the graphophone fell upon her ears amid
rough surroundings, like a voice from the past.
But most of all she loved the long walks in the forest, in the deep
gloom of moonlit nights with the weird, mysterious shadows all about
them as the big man at her side told her of his great love while they
planned and dreamed of the future; and then returned to the little
office where she listened while he read aloud, pausing now and then to
light his black pipe and blow clouds of blue smoke toward the low
ceiling.
He had grown very close to her, and very dear, this big, impetuous boy,
who had suddenly become a masterful man, and in whom she found each day
some new depth of feeling--some entirely unsuspected and unexplored
nook of his character.
Her doubts and fears had long since been thrust aside, and even the
existence of the Indian girl had been forgotten. And so it was that
when Ethel told Bill one evening she wished their wedding to take place
in the camp, amid the scenes of their future hardships and happiness,
he acquiesced gladly, and to the laughing outrage of her dignity picked
her up in his two hands and tossed her high in the air as he would have
tossed a baby.
And now the time of the wedding was very near. The clean-up was
finished, and day by day they awaited the coming of Appleton and
Sheridan, and of Father Lapre, of the Rice Lake Mission.
The men of the crew set about to make the event one long to be
remembered in the Northland. Flowers were unobtainable, but a frame in
the form of a giant horseshoe was constructed and covered over with
pine-cones.
A raid was made upon the oat-bin, and the oats sifted between the
scales of the cones and moistened. The structure was placed near the
stove in the bunk-house, and when the tiny, green shoots began to
appear, woe to him who procrastinated in the closing of the door or
neglected to tend fire when it was his turn!
The walls of the grub-shack were completely hidden behind
pine-branches, and festoons of brilliant red _bakneesh_ encircled the
room and depended from the chains of the big, swinging lamps.
In the bunk-house the men busied themselves in the polishing of
buck-horns for the fashioning of a wonderful chair in whose make-up
would be found neither nails nor glue, its parts being bound together
by means of sinews and untanned buckskin thongs.
The bateaux were set up and waiting at the head of the rollways. The
snow of the forest slumped lower and lower, and innumerable icy rills
found their way to the river over the surface of whose darkened,
honeycombed ice flowed a shallow, slushy stream.
Father Lapre arrived one morning, pink, smiling, and wet to the middle,
having blundered onto thin ice in the darkness. The following morning
Sheridan and Appleton appeared with mysteriously bulging packs, and
weary from their three nights' battle with the slippery, ice-crusted
tote-road.