IN THE MOUNTAINS
It was Sunday evening. Inside a capacious "dugout" a small group of two
men and a girl sat round the stove which had just been lit.
In the mountains, even though the heat of August was still at its
height, sundown was the signal for the lighting of fires. Dave's lumber
camps were high up in the hills, tapping, as they did, the upper forest
belts, where grew the vast primordial timbers. In the extreme heat of
summer the air was bracing, crisp, and suggested the process of
breathing diamonds, but with the setting of the sun a cold shiver from
the ancient glaciers above whistled down through the trees and bit into
the bones.
The daylight still lingered outside, and the cotton-covered windows of
the dugout let in just sufficient of it to leave the remoter corners of
the hut bathed in rapidly growing shadow. There was a good deal of
comfort in the room, though no luxury. The mud cemented walls were
whitewashed and adorned with illustrations from the _Police Gazette_,
and other kindred papers. For the most part the furniture was of "home"
manufacture. The chairs, and they were all armchairs of sorts, were
mere frames with seats of strung rawhide. The table was of the roughest
but most solid make, strong enough to be used as a chopping-block, and
large enough for an extra bed to be made down upon it. There was a
large cupboard serving the dual purpose of larder and pantry, and, in
addition to the square cook-stove, the room was heated by a giant wood
stove. The only really orthodox piece of furniture was the small
writing-desk.
For a dugout it was capacious, and, unlike the usual dugout, it
possessed three inner rooms backing into the hill against which it was
built. One of these was a storeroom for dynamite and other camp
equipment, one was a bedroom, and the other was an armory. The
necessity for the latter might be questioned, but Bob Mason, the camp
"boss," the sole authority over a great number of lumber-jacks, more
than a hundred and fifty miles from the faintest semblance of
civilization, was content that it should be there.
The three faces were serious enough as they gazed down in silence at
the glowing, red-hot patch in the iron roof of the stove, and watched
it spread, wider and wider, under the forced draught of the open
damper. They had been silent for some moments, and before that one of
them had practically monopolized the talk. It was Betty who had done
most of the talking. Bronzed with the mountain air and sun, her cheeks
flushed with interest and excitement, her sweet brown eyes aglow, she
had finished recounting to her uncle and Bob Mason a significant
incident that had occurred to her that afternoon on her way from the
sick camp to the dugout.
Walking through a patch of forest which cut the sick quarters off from
the main, No. 1, camp, she had encountered two lumber-jacks, whom she
had no recollection of having seen before.
"They weren't like lumber-jacks," she explained, "except for their
clothes. You can't mistake a lumber-jack's manner and speech,
particularly when he is talking to a girl. He's so self-conscious
and--and shy. Well, these men were neither. Their speech was the same
as ours might be, and their faces, well, they were good-looking
fellows, and might never have been out of a city. I never saw anybody
look so out of place, as they did, in their clothes. There was no
beating about the bush with them. They simply greeted me politely,
asked me if I was Miss Somers, and, when I told them I was, calmly
warned me to leave the hills without delay--not later than to-morrow
night. I asked them for an explanation, but they only laughed, not
rudely, and repeated their warning, adding that you, uncle, had better
go too, or they would not be answerable for the consequences. I
reminded them of the sick folk, but they only laughed at that too. One
of them cynically reminded me they were all 'jacks' and were of no sort
of consequence whatever, in fact, if a few of them happened to die off
no one would care. He made me angry, and I told them we should
certainly care. He promptly retorted, very sharply, that they had not
come there to hold any sort of debate on the matter, but to give me
warning. He said that his reason in doing so was simply that I was a
girl, and that you, uncle, were a much-respected parson, and they had
no desire that any harm should come to either of us. That was all.
After that they turned away and went off into the forest, taking an
opposite direction to the camp."
Mason was the first to break the silence that followed the girl's story.
"It's serious," he said, speaking with his chin in his hands and his
elbows resting on his parted knees.
"The warning?" inquired Chepstow, with a quick glance at the other's
thoughtful face.
Mason nodded.
"I've been watching this thing for weeks past," he said, "and the worst
of it is I can't make up my mind as to the meaning of it. There's
something afoot, but---- Do you know I've sent six letters down the
river to Dave, and none of them have been answered? My monthly budget
of orders is a week overdue. That's not like Dave. How long have you
been up here? Seven weeks, ain't it? I've only had three letters from
Dave in that time."
The foreman flung himself back in his chair with a look of perplexity
on his broad, open face.
"What can be afoot?" asked Chepstow, after a pause. "The men are
working well."
"They're working as well as 'scabs' generally do," Mason complained.
"And thirty per cent, are 'scabs,' now. They're all slackers. They're
none of them lumber-jacks. They haven't the spirit of a 'jack.' I have
to drive 'em from morning till night. Oh, by the way, parson, that
reminds me, I've got a note for you. It's from the sutler. I know
what's in it, that is, I can guess." He drew it from his pocket, handed
it across to him. "It's to tell you you can't have the store for
service to-night. The boys want it. They're going to have a singsong
there, or something of the sort."
The churchman's eyes lit.
"But he promised me. I've made arrangements. The place is fixed up for
it. They can have it afterward, but----"
"Hadn't you better read the note, uncle?" Betty said gently. She
detected the rising storm in his vehemence.
He turned at once to the note. It was short, and its tone, though
apologetic, was decided beyond all question.
"You can't have the store to-night. I'm sorry, but the boys insist on
having it themselves. You will understand I am quite powerless when you
remember they are my customers."
Tom Chepstow read the message from Jules Lieberstein twice over. Then
he passed it across to Mason. Only the brightness of his eyes told of
his feelings. He was annoyed, and his fighting spirit was stirring.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Mason inquired, as he passed the
paper on to Betty in response to her silent request.
"Do? Do?" Chepstow cried, his keen eyes shining angrily. "Why, I'll
hold service there, of course. Jules can't give a thing, and, at the
last minute, take it away like that. I've had the room prepared and
everything. I shall go and see him. I----"
"The trouble--whatever it is--is in that note, too," Betty interrupted,
returning him the paper with the deliberate intention of checking his
outburst.
Mason gave her a quick glance of approval. Though he did not approve of
women in a lumber camp, Betty's quiet capacity, her gentle womanliness,
with her great strength of character and keenness of perception
underlying it, pleased him immensely. He admired her, and curiously
enough frequently found himself discussing affairs of the camp with her
as though she were there for the purpose of sharing the burden of his
responsibilities. In the ordinary course this would not have happened,
but she had come at a moment when his difficulties were many and
trying. And at such a time her ready understanding had become decided
moral support which was none the less welcome for the fact that he
failed to realize it.
"You're right," he nodded. "There's something doing. What's that?"
All three glanced at the door. And there was a look of uneasiness in
each which they could not have explained. Mason hurried across the room
with Chepstow at his heels.
Outside, night was closing in rapidly. A gray, misty twilight held the
mountain world in a gloomy shroud. The vast hills, and the dark
woodland belts, loomed hazily through the mist. But the deathly
stillness was broken by the rattle of wheels and the beating of hoofs
upon the hard trail. The vehicle, whatever it was, had passed the
dugout, and the sounds of it were already dying away in the direction
of the distant camp.
"There's a fog coming down," observed Mason, as they returned to the
stove.
"That was a buckboard," remarked the parson.
"And it was traveling fast and light," added Betty.
And each remark indicated the point of view of the speaker.
Mason thought less of the vehicle than he did of the fog. Any
uneasiness he felt was for his work rather than the trouble he felt to
be brewing. A heavy fog was always a deterrent, and, at this time of
year, fogs were not unfrequent in the hills. Chepstow was bent on the
identity of the arrival, while Betty sought the object of it.
Mason did not return to his seat. He stood by the stove for a moment
thinking. Then he moved across to his pea-jacket hanging on the wall
and put it on, at the same time slipping a revolver into his pocket.
Then he pulled a cloth cap well down over his eyes.
"I'll get a good look around the camp," he said quietly.
"Going to investigate?" Chepstow inquired.
"Yes. There have been too many arrivals lately--one way and another.
I'm sick of 'em."
Betty looked up into his face with round smiling eyes.
"You need a revolver--to make investigations?" she asked lightly.
The lumberman looked her squarely in the eyes for a moment, and there
he read something of the thought which had prompted her question. He
smiled back at her as he replied.
"It's a handy thing to have about you when dealing with the scum of the
earth. Lumbermen on this continent are not the beau ideal of
gentlefolk, but when you are dealing with the class of loafer such as I
have been forced to engage lately, well, the real lumber-jack becomes
an angel of gentleness by contrast. A gun doesn't take up much room in
your pocket, and it gives an added feeling of security. You see, if
there's any sort of trouble brewing the man in authority is not likely
to have a healthy time. By the way, parson, I'd suggest you give up
this service to-night. Of course it's up to you, I don't want to
interfere. You see, if the boys want that store, and you've got
it--why----"
He broke off with a suggestive shake of the head. Betty watched her
uncle's face.
She saw him suddenly bend down and fling the damper wider open, and in
response the stove roared fiercely. He sat with his keen eyes fixed on
the glowing aperture, watching the rapidly brightening light that shone
through. The suggestion of fiery rage suited his mood at the moment.
But his anger was not of long duration. His was an impetuous
disposition generally controlled in the end by a kindly, Christian
spirit, and, a few moments later, when he spoke, there was the mildness
of resignation in his words.
"Maybe you're right, Mason," he said calmly. "You understand these boys
up here better than I do. Besides, I don't want to cause you any
unnecessary trouble, and I see by your manner you're expecting
something serious." Then he added regretfully: "But I should have liked
to hold that service. And I would have done it, in spite of our Hebrew
friend's sordid excuse. However---- By the way, can I be of any service
to you?" He pointed at the lumberman's bulging pocket. "If it's
necessary to carry that, two are always better than one."
Betty sighed contentedly. She was glad that her uncle had been advised
to give up the service. Her woman's quick wit had taken alarm for him,
and--well, she regarded her simple-minded uncle as her care, she felt
she was responsible to her aunt for him. It was the strong maternal
instinct in her which made her yearn to protect and care for those whom
she loved. Now she waited anxiously for the foreman's reply. To her
astonishment it came with an alacrity and ready acceptance which
further stirred her alarm.
"Thanks," he said. "As you say two---- Here, slip this other gun into
your coat pocket." And he reached the fellow revolver to his own from
its holster upon the wall. "Now let's get on."
He moved toward the door. Chepstow was in the act of following when
Betty's voice stopped him.
"What time will you get back?" she inquired. "How shall I know that----"
She broke off. Her brown eyes were fixed questioningly upon the
lumberman's face.
"We'll be around in an hour," said Mason confidently "Meanwhile, Miss
Betty, after we're gone, just set those bars across the door. And don't
let anybody in till you hear either mine or your uncle's voice."
The girl understood him, she always understood without asking a lot of
questions. She was outwardly quite calm, without the faintest trace of
the alarm she really felt. She had no fear for herself. At that moment
she was thinking of her uncle.
After the men had gone she closed the heavy log door but did not bar it
as she had been advised; then, returning to the stove, she sat down and
took up some sewing, prepared to await their return with absolute faith
and confidence in the lumberman's assurance.
She stitched on in the silence, and soon her thoughts drifted back to
the man who had so strangely become the lodestone of her life. The
trouble suggested by Mason must be his trouble. She wondered what could
possibly happen on top of the fever, which she and her uncle had been
fighting for the past weeks, that could further jeopardize his
contract. She could see only one thing, and her quickness of perception
in all matters relating to the world she knew drove her straight to the
reality. She knew it was a general strike Mason feared. She knew it by
the warning she had received, by the foreman's manner when he prepared
to leave the hut.
She was troubled. In imagination she saw the great edifice Dave had so
ardently labored upon toppling about his ears. In her picture she saw
him great, calm, resolute, standing amidst the wreck, with eyes looking
out straight ahead full of that great fighting strength which was his,
his heart sore and bruised but his lips silent, his great courage and
purpose groping for the shattered foundations that the rebuilding might
not be delayed an instant. It was her delight and pride to think of him
thus, whilst, with every heart-beat, a nervous dread for him shook her
whole body. She tried to think wherein she could help this man who was
more to her than her own life. She bitterly hated her own womanhood as
she thought of those two men bearing arms at that instant in his
interests. Why could not she? But she knew that privilege was denied
her. She threw her sewing aside as though the effeminacy of it sickened
her, and rose from her seat and paced the room. "Oh, Dave, Dave, why
can't I help you?" It was the cry that rang through her troubled brain
with every moment that the little metal clock on the desk ticked away,
while she waited for the men-folk's return.