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[Frontispiece: "Don't think that makes any difference. I shall marry
him just the same." _Frontispiece.--The Trail of the Axe_.]
The Trail of the Axe
_A Story of the Red Sand Valley_
BY RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of "The Watchers of the Plains," "The Sheriff of Dyke Hole", etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
By CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1910, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. Dave
II. A Picnic in the Red Sand Valley
III. Affairs in Malkern
IV. Dick Mansell's News
V. Jim Truscott Returns
VI. Parson Tom Interferes
VII. The Work at the Mills
VIII. At the Church Bazaar
IX. In Dave's Office
X. An Auspicious Meeting
XI. The Summer Rains
XII. The Old Mills
XIII. Betty Decides
XIV. The Mills
XV. Betty Takes Cover
XVI. Disaster at the Mill
XVII. The Last of the Sawyer
XVIII. Face To Face
XIX. In the Mountains
XX. The Church Militant
XXI. An Adventure in the Fog
XXII. Terror in the Mountains
XXIII. The Red Tide of Anarchy
XXIV. In the Dead of Night
XXV. Mason's Prisoner
XXVI. To the Lumber Camp
XXVII. At Bay
XXVIII. Dave--the Man
XXIX. The End of the Strike
XXX. In the Dugout
XXXI. At Midnight
XXXII. Two Men--and a Woman
The Trail of the Axe
CHAPTER I
DAVE
Dave was thirty-two, but looked forty; for, in moulding his great,
strong, ugly face, Nature had been less than kind to him. It is
probable, from his earliest, Dave had never looked less than ten years
older than he really was.
Observing him closely, one had the impression that Nature had set
herself the task of equipping him for a tremendous struggle in the
battle of life; as though she had determined to make him invincible.
Presuming this to have been her purpose, she set to work with a liberal
hand. She gave him a big heart, doubtless wishing him to be strong to
fight and of a great courage, yet with a wonderful sympathy for the
beaten foe. She gave him the thews and sinews of a Hercules, probably
arguing that a man must possess a mighty strength with which to carry
himself to victory. To give him such physical strength it was necessary
to provide a body in keeping. Thus, his shoulders were abnormally wide,
his chest was of a mighty girth, his arms were of phenomenal length,
and his legs were gnarled and knotted with muscles which could never be
satisfactorily disguised by the class of "store" clothes it was his
frugal custom to wear.
For his head Nature gave him a fine, keen brain; strong, practical,
subtly far-seeing in matters commercial, bluntly honest and temperate,
yet withal matching his big heart in kindly sympathy. It was thrilling
with a vast energy and capacity for work, but so pronounced was its
dominating force, that in the development of his physical features it
completely destroyed all delicacy of mould and gentleness of
expression. He displayed to the world the hard, rugged face of the
fighter, without any softening, unless, perhaps, one paused to look
into the depths of his deep-set gray eyes.
Nature undoubtedly fulfilled her purpose. Dave was equipped as few men
are equipped, and if it were to be regretted that his architect had
forgotten that even a fighting man has his gentler moments, and that
there are certain requirements in his construction to suit him to such
moments, in all other respects he had been treated lavishly. Summed up
briefly, Dave was a tower of physical might, with a face of striking
plainness.
It was twelve years since he came to the Red Sand Valley. He was then
fresh from the lumber regions of Puget Sound, on the western coast of
the United States. He came to Western Canada in search of a country to
make his own, with a small capital and a large faith in himself,
supported by a courage that did not know the meaning of defeat.
He found the Red Sand Valley nestling in the foot-hills of the Rocky
Mountains. He saw the wonders of the magnificent pine woods which
covered the mountain slopes in an endless sea of deep, sombre green.
And he knew that these wonderful primordial wastes were only waiting
for the axe of the woodsman to yield a building lumber second to none
in the world.
The valley offered him everything he needed. A river that flowed in
full tide all the open season, with possibilities of almost limitless
"timber booms" in its backwaters, a delicious setting for a village,
with the pick of a dozen adequate sites for the building of lumber
mills. He could hope to find nothing better, so he stayed.
His beginning was humble. He started with a horse-power saw-pit, and a
few men up in the hills cutting for him. But he had begun his great
struggle with fortune, and, in a man such as Nature had made him, it
was a struggle that could only end with his life. The battle was
tremendous, but he never hesitated, he never flinched.
Small as was his beginning, six years later his present great mills and
the village of Malkern had begun to take shape. Then, a year later, the
result of his own persistent representation, the Canadian Northwestern
Railroad built a branch line to his valley. And so, in seven years, his
success was practically assured.
Now he was comfortably prosperous. The village was prosperous. But none
knew better than he how much still remained to be achieved before the
foundations of his little world were adequate to support the weight of
the vast edifice of commercial enterprise, which, with his own two
hands, his own keen brain, he hoped to erect.
He was an American business man raised in the commercial faith of his
country. He understood the value of "monopoly," and he made for it.
Thus, when he could ill spare capital, by dint of heavy borrowings he
purchased all the land he required, and the "lumbering" rights of that
vast region.
Then it was that he extended operations. He abandoned his first mill
and began the building of his larger enterprise further down the
valley, at a point where he had decided that the village of Malkern
should also begin its growth.
Once the new mill was safely established he sold his old one to a man
who had worked with him from the start. The transaction was more in the
nature of a gift to an old friend and comrade. The price was nominal,
but the agreement was binding that the mill should only be used for the
production of small building material, and under no circumstances to be
used in the production of rough "baulks." This was to protect his own
monopoly in that class of manufacture.
George Truscott, the lumberman with whom he made the transaction,
worked the old mills with qualified success for two years. Then he died
suddenly of blood-poisoning, supervening upon a badly mutilated arm
torn by one of his own saws. The mill automatically became the property
of his only son Jim, a youth of eighteen, curly-headed, bright,
lovable, but wholly irresponsible for such an up-hill fight as the
conduct of the business his father had left him.
The master of the Malkern mills, as might be expected, was a man of
simple habits and frugal tastes. In his early struggles he had had
neither time nor money with which to indulge himself, and the habit of
simple living had grown upon him. He required so very little. He had no
luxurious home; a mere cottage of four rooms and a kitchen, over which
an aged and doting mother ruled, her establishment consisting of one
small maid. His office was a shack of two rooms, bare but useful,
containing one chair and one desk, and anything he desired to find a
temporary safe resting-place for strewn about the floor, or hung upon
nails driven into the walls. It was all he needed, a roof to shade him
from the blazing summer sun when he was making up his books, and four
walls to shut out the cruel blasts of the Canadian winter.
He was sitting at his desk now, poring over a heap of letters which had
just arrived by the Eastern mail. This was the sort of thing he
detested. Correspondence entailed a lot of writing, and he hated
writing. Figures he could cope with, he had no grudge against them, but
composing letters was a task for which he did not feel himself
adequately equipped; words did not flow easily from his pen. His
education was rather the education of a man who goes through the world
with ears and eyes wide open. He had a wide knowledge of men and
things, but the inside of books was a realm into which he had not
deeply delved.
At last he pushed his letters aside and sat back, his complaining chair
protesting loudly at the burden imposed upon it. He drew an impatient
sigh, and began to fill his pipe, gazing through the rain-stained
window under which his untidy desk stood. He had made up his mind to
leave the answering of his letters until later in the day, and the
decision brought him some relief.
He reached for the matches. But suddenly he altered his mind and
removed his pipe from his mouth. A smile shone in his deep-set eyes at
the sight of a dainty, white figure which had just emerged from behind
a big stack of milled timber out in the yard and was hurrying toward
the office.
He needed no second glance to tell him who the figure belonged to. It
was Betty--little Betty Somers, as he loved to call her--who taught the
extreme youth of Malkern out of her twenty-two years of erudition and
worldly wisdom.
He sprang from his chair and went to the door to meet her, and as he
walked his great bulk and vast muscle gave his gait something of the
roll of a sailor. He had no lightness, no grace in his movements; just
the ponderous slowness of monumental strength. He stood awaiting her in
the doorway, which he almost filled up.
Betty was not short, but he towered above her as she came up, his six
feet five inches making nothing of her five feet six.
"This is bully," he cried delightedly, as she stood before him. "I
hadn't a notion you were getting around this morning, Betty."
His voice was as unwieldy as his figure; it was husky too, in the
manner of powerful voices when their owners attempt to moderate them.
The girl laughed frankly up into his face.
"I'm playing truant," she explained. Then her pretty lips twisted
wryly, and she pointed at the lintel of the door. "Please sit down
there," she commanded. Then she laughed again. "I want to talk to you,
and--and I have no desire to dislocate my neck."
He made her feel so absurdly small; she was never comfortable unless he
was sitting down.
The man grinned humorously at her imperious tone, and sat down. They
were great friends, these two. Betty looked upon him as a very dear,
big, ugly brother to whom she could always carry all her little worries
and troubles, and ever be sure of a sympathetic adviser. It never
occurred to her that Dave could be anything dearer to anybody. He was
just Dave--dear old Dave, an appellation which seemed to fit him
exactly.
The thought of him as a lover was quite impossible. It never entered
her head. Probably the only people in Malkern who ever considered the
possibility of Dave as a lover were his own mother, and perhaps Mrs.
Tom Chepstow. But then they were wiser than most of the women of the
village. Besides, doubtless his mother was prejudiced, and Mrs. Tom, in
her capacity as the wife of the Rev. Tom Chepstow, made it her business
to study the members of her husband's parish more carefully than the
other women did. But to the ordinary observer he certainly did not
suggest the lover. He was so strong, so cumbersome, so unromantic. Then
his ways were so deliberate, so machine-like. It almost seemed as
though he had taken to himself something of the harsh precision of his
own mills.
On the other hand, his regard for Betty was a matter of less certainty.
Good comradeship was the note he always struck in their intercourse,
but oftentimes there would creep into his gray eyes a look which spoke
of a warmth of feeling only held under because his good sense warned
him of the utter hopelessness of it. He was too painfully aware of the
quality of Betty's regard for him to permit himself any false hopes.
Betty's brown eyes took on a smiling look of reproach as she held up a
warning finger.
"Dave," she said, with mock severity, "I always have to remind you of
our compact. I insist that you sit down when I am talking to you. I
refuse to be made to feel--and look--small. Now light your pipe and
listen to me."
"Go ahead," he grinned, striking a match. His plain features literally
shone with delight at her presence there. Her small oval, sun-tanned
face was so bright, so full of animation, so healthy looking. There was
such a delightful frankness about her. Her figure, perfectly rounded,
was slim and athletic, and her every movement suggested the open air
and perfect health.
"Well, it's this way," she began, seating herself on the corner of a
pile of timber: "I'm out on the war-path. I want scalps. My pocketbook
is empty and needs filling, and when that's done I'll get back to my
school children, on whose behalf I am out hunting."
"It's your picnic?" suggested Dave.
"Not mine. The kiddies'. So now, old boy, put up your hands! It's your
money or your life." And she sat threatening him with her pocketbook,
pointing it at him as though it were a pistol.
Dave removed his pipe.
"Guess you'd best have 'em both," he smiled.
But Betty shook her head with a joyous laugh.
"I only want your money," she said, extending an open hand toward him.
Dave thrust deep into his hip-pocket, and produced a roll of bills.
"It's mostly that way," he murmured, counting them out.
But his words had reached the girl, and her laugh died suddenly.
"Oh, Dave!" she said reproachfully.
And the man's contrition set him blundering.
"Say, Betty, I'm a fool man anyway. Don't take any sort of notice. I
didn't mean a thing. Now here's fifty, and you can have any more you
need."
He looked straight into her eyes, which at once responded to his
anxious smile. But she did not attempt to take the money. She shook her
head.
"Too much."
But he pushed the bills into her hand.
"You can't refuse," he said. "You see, it's for the kiddies. It isn't
just for you."
When Dave insisted refusal was useless. Betty had long since learned
that. Besides, as he said, it was for the "kiddies." She took the
money, and he sat and watched her as she folded the bills into her
pocketbook. The girl looked up at the sound of a short laugh.
"What's that for?" she demanded, her brown eyes seriously inquiring.
"Oh, just nothing. I was thinking."
The man glanced slowly about him. He looked up at the brilliant summer
sun. Then his eyes rested upon the rough exterior of his unpretentious
office.
"It meant something," asserted Betty. "I hate people to laugh--in that
way."
"I was thinking of this shack of mine. I was just thinking, Betty, what
a heap of difference an elegant coat of paint makes to things. You see,
they're just the same underneath, but they--kind of look different with
paint on 'em, kind of please the eye more."
"Just so," the girl nodded wisely. "And so you laughed--in that way."
Dave's eyes twinkled.
"You're too sharp," he said. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
"Now about this picnic. You're expecting all the grown folk?"
The girl's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Of course I do. Don't you always come? It's only once a year." The
last was very like a reproach.
The man avoided her eyes. He was looking out across the sea of stacked
timber at the great sheds beyond, where the saws were shrieking out
their incessant song.
"I was thinking," he began awkwardly, "that I'm not much good at those
things. Of course I guess I can hand pie round to the folks; any fellow
can do that. But----"
"But what?" The girl had risen from her seat and was trying to compel
his gaze.
"Well, you see, we're busy here--desperately busy. Dawson's always
grumbling that we're short-handed----"
Betty came up close to him, and he suddenly felt a gentle squeeze on
his shoulder.
"You don't want to come," she said.
"'Tisn't that--not exactly."
He kept his eyes turned from her.
"You see," he went on, "you'll have such a heap of folk there. They
mostly all get around--for you. Then there'll be Jim Truscott, and
Jim's worth a dozen of me when it comes to picnics and 'sociables' and
such-like."
The girl's hand suddenly dropped from his shoulder, and she turned
away. A flush slowly mounted to her sun-tanned cheeks, and she was
angry at it. She stood looking out at the mills beyond, but she wasn't
thinking of them.
At last she turned back to her friend and her soft eyes searched his.
"If--if you don't come to the picnic to-morrow, I'll never forgive you,
Dave--never!"
And she was gone before his slow tongue could frame a further excuse.