THE CHURCH MILITANT
Outside the hut Mason led the way. The mist had deepened into a white
fog which seemed to deaden all sound, so quiet was everything, so
silent the grim woods all around. It had settled so heavily that it was
almost impossible to see anything beyond the edge of the trail. There
was just a hazy shadow, like a sudden depth of mist, to mark the
woodland borders; beyond this all was gray and desolate.
The dugout was built at the trail-side, a trail which had originally
been made for travoying logs, but had now become the main trail linking
up the camp with the eastern world. The camp itself--No. 1, the main
camp--was further in the woods to the west, a distance of nearly a mile
and a half by trail, but not more than half a mile through the woods.
It was this short cut the two men took now. They talked as they went,
but in hushed tones. It was as though the gray of the fog, and the
knowledge of their mission weighed heavily, inspiring them with a
profound feeling of caution.
"You've not had any real trouble before?" Chepstow asked. "I mean
trouble such as would serve you with a key to what is going on now?"
"Oh, we've had occasional 'rackets,'" said Mason easily. "But nothing
serious--nothing to guide us in this. No, we've got to find this out.
You see there's no earthly reason for trouble that I know. The boys are
paid jolly well, a sight better than I would pay them if this was my
outfit. The hours are exacting, I admit. This huge contract has caused
that. It's affected us in most every way, but Dave is no niggard, and
the inducement has been made more than proportionate, so there's no
kick coming on that head. Where before axemen's work was merely a full
eight hours, it now takes 'em something like nine and ten, and work
like the devil to get through even in that time. But their wages are
simply out of sight. Do you know, there are men in this camp drawing
from four to five dollars a day clear of food and shelter? Why, the
income of some of them is positively princely."
"What is it you think is on foot?" Chepstow demanded, as he buttoned
his coat close about his neck to keep out the saturating mist. Then, as
his companion didn't answer at once, he added half to himself, "It's no
wonder there's fever with these mists around."
Bob Mason paid no heed to the last remark. The fever had lost interest
for him in the storm-clouds he now saw ahead. Hitherto he had not put
his thoughts on the matter into concrete form. He had not given actual
expression to his fears. There had been so little to guide him.
Besides, he had had no sound reason to fear anything, that is no
definite reason. It was his work to feel and understand the pulse of
the men under him, and it largely depended on the accuracy of his
reading whether or not the work under his charge ran smoothly. He had
felt for some time that something was wrong, and Betty's story had
confirmed his feeling. He was some moments before he answered, but when
he did it was with calm decision.
"Organized strike," he said at last.
Tom Chepstow was startled. The words "organized strike" had an
unpleasant sound. He suddenly realized the isolation of these hill
camps, the lawless nature of the lumber-jacks. He felt that a strike up
here in the mountains would be a very different thing from a strike in
the heart of civilization, and that was bad enough. The fact that the
tone of Mason's pronouncement had suggested no alarm made him curious
to hear his views upon the position.
"The reason?" he demanded.
The lumberman shrugged.
"Haven't a notion."
They tramped on in silence for some time, the sound of their footsteps
muffled in the fog. The gray was deepening, and, with oncoming night,
their surroundings were rapidly becoming more and more obscure.
Presently the path opened out into the wide clearing occupied by No. 1
camp. Here shadowy lights were visible in the fog, but beyond that
nothing could be seen. Mason paused and glanced carefully about him.
"This fog is useful," he said, with a short laugh. "As we don't want to
advertise our presence we'll take to the woods opposite, and work our
way round to the far side of the camp."
"Why the far side?"
"The store is that way. And--yes, I think the store is our best plan.
Jules Lieberstein is a time-serving ruffian, and will doubtless lend
himself to any wildcat scheme of his customers. Besides, this singsong
of the boys sounds suggestive to me."
"I see." Chepstow was quick to grasp the other's reasoning. The
singsong had suggested nothing to him before.
Now they turned from the open and hastened across to the wood-belt. As
they entered its gloomy aisles, the fog merged into a pitchy blackness
that demanded all the lumberman's woodcraft to negotiate. The parson
hung close to his heels, and frequently had to assure himself of his
immediate presence by reaching out and touching him. A quarter of an
hour's tramp brought them to a halt.
"We must get out of this now," whispered Mason. "We are about opposite
the store. I've no doubt that buckboard will be somewhere around. I've
a great fancy to see it."
They moved on, this time with greater caution than before. Leaving the
forest they found the fog had become denser. The glow of the camp
lights was no longer visible, just a blank gray wall obscured
everything. However, this was no deterrent to Mason. He moved along
with extreme caution, stepping as lightly and quietly as possible. He
wished to avoid observation, and though the fog helped him in this it
equally afforded the possibility of his inadvertently running into some
one. Once this nearly happened. His straining ears caught the faint
sound of footsteps approaching, and he checked his companion only just
in the nick of time to let two heavy-footed lumber-jacks cross their
course directly in front of them. They were talking quite unguardedly
as they went, and seemed absorbed in the subject of their conversation.
"Y're a fool, a measly-headed fool, Tyke," one of them was saying, with
a heat that held the two men listening. "Y'ain't got nuthin' to lose.
We ain't got no kick comin' from us; I'll allow that, sure. But if by
kickin' we ken drain a few more dollars out of him I say kick, an' kick
good an' hard. Them as is fixin' this racket knows, they'll do the
fancy work. We'll jest set around an'--an' take the boodle as it comes."
The man laughed harshly. The shrewdness of his argument pleased him
mightily.
"But what's it for, though?" asked the other, the man addressed as
"Tyke." "Is it a raise in wages?"
"Say, ain't you smart?" retorted the first speaker. "Sure, it's wages.
A raise. What else does folks strike for?"
"But----"
"Cut it. You ain't no sort o' savee. You ain't got nuthin' but to set
around----"
The voice died away in the distance, and Mason turned to his companion.
"Not much doubt about that. The man objecting is 'Tyke' Bacon, one of
our oldest hands. A thoroughly reliable axeman of the real sort. The
other fellow's voice I didn't recognize. I'd say he's likely one of the
scallywags I've picked up lately. This trouble seems to have been
brewing ever since I was forced to pick up chance loafers who floated
into camp."
Chepstow had no comment to make, yet the matter was fraught with the
keenest interest for him. Mason's coolness did not deceive him, and,
even with his limited experience of the men of these camps, the thing
was more than significant. Caution became more than ever necessary now
as they neared their destination, and in a few moments a ruddy glow of
light on the screen of fog told them they had reached the sutler's
store. They came to a halt in rear of the building, and it was
difficult to estimate their exact position. However, the sound of a
powerful, clarion-like voice reached them through the thickness of the
log walls, and the lumberman at once proceeded to grope his way along
in the hope of finding a window or some opening through which it would
be possible to distinguish the words of the speaker. At last his desire
was fulfilled. A small break in the heavy wall of lateral logs proved
to be a cotton-covered pivot-window. It was closed, but the light shone
through it, and the speaker's words were plainly audible. Chepstow
closed up behind him, and both men craned forward listening.
Some one was addressing what was apparently a meeting of lumber-jacks.
The words and voice were not without refinement, and, obviously, were
not belonging to a lumberman. Moreover, it struck the listeners that
this man, whoever he be, was not addressing a meeting for the first
time. In fact Mason had no difficulty in placing him in the calling to
which he actually belonged. He was discoursing with all the delectable
speciousness of a regular strike organizer. He was one of those
products of trade unionism who are always ready to create
dissatisfaction where labour's contentment is most nourishing to
capital--that is, at a price. He is not necessarily a part of trade
unionism, but exists because trade unionism has created a market for
his wares, and made him possible.
Just now he was lending all his powers of eloquence and argument to the
threadbare quackery of his kind; the iniquity of the possession of
wealth acquired by the sweat of a thousand moderately honest brows. It
was the old, old dish garnished and hashed up afresh, whose poisonous
odors he was wafting into the nostrils of his ignorant audience.
He was dealing with men as ignorant and hard as the timber it was their
life to cut, and he painted the picture in all the crude, lurid colors
most effective to their dull senses. The blessings of liberal
employment, of ample wages, the kindly efforts made to add to their
happiness and improve their lives were ignored, even rigorously shut
out of his argument, or so twisted as to appear definite sins against
the legions of labor. For such is the method of those who live upon the
hard-earned wages of the unthinking worker.
For some minutes the two men listened to the burden of the man's
unctuous periods, but at last an exclamation of disgust broke from the
lumberman.
"Makes you sick!" he whispered in his companion's ear. "And they'll
believe it all. Here!" He drew a penknife from his pocket and passed
the blade gently through the cotton of the window. The aperture was
small, he dared not make it bigger for fear of detection, but, by
pressing one eye close up against it, it was sufficient for him to
obtain a full view of the room.
The place was packed with lumber-jacks, all with their keenest
attention upon the speaker, who was addressing them from the
reading-desk Tom Chepstow had set up for the purposes of his Sunday
evening service. The desecration drew a smothered curse from the
lumberman. He was not a religious man, but that an agitator such as
this should stand at the parson's desk was too much for him. He
scrutinized the fellow closely, nor did he recognize him. He was a
stranger to the camp, and his round fat face set his blood surging.
Besides this man there were three others sitting behind him on the
table the parson had set there for the purposes of administering Holy
Communion, and the sight maddened him still more. Two of these he
recognized as laborers he had recently taken on his "time sheet," but
the other was a stranger to him.
At last he drew back and made way for his companion.
"Get a good look, parson," he said. Then he added with an angry laugh,
"I've thought most of what you'll feel like saying. I'd--I'd like to
riddle the hide of that son-of-a-dog's-wife. We did well to get around.
We're in for a heap bad time, I guess."
Chepstow took his place. Mason heard him mutter something under his
breath, and knew at once that the use of his reading-desk and Communion
table had struck home.
But the sacrilege was promptly swept from the parson's mind. The
speaker was forgotten, the matter of the coming strike, even, was
almost forgotten. He had recognized the third man on the table, the man
who was a stranger to Mason, and he swung round on the lumberman.
"What's Jim Truscott doing there?" he demanded in a sharp whisper.
"Who? Jim Truscott?"
For a second a puzzled expression set Mason frowning. Then his face
cleared. "Say, isn't that the fellow who ran that mill--he's a friend
of--Dave's?"
But the other had turned back to the window. And, at that moment,
Mason's attention was also caught by the sudden turn the agitator's
talk had taken.
"Now, my friends," he was saying, "this is the point I would impress on
you. Hitherto we have cut off all communication of a damaging nature to
ourselves with the tyrant at Malkern, but the time has come when even
more stringent measures must be taken. We wish to conduct our
negotiations with the mill-owner himself, direct. We must put before
him our proposals. We want no go-betweens. As things stand we cannot
reach him, and the reason is the authority of his representative up
here. Such obstacles as he can put in our way will be damaging to our
cause, and we will not tolerate them. He must be promptly set aside,
and, by an absolute stoppage of work, we can force the man from Malkern
to come here so that we can talk to him, and insist upon our demands.
We must talk to him as from worker to fellow worker. He must be forced
to listen to reason. Experience has long since taught me that such is
the only way to deal with affairs of this sort. Now, what we propose,"
and the man turned with a bow to the three men behind him, thus
including them with himself, "is that without violence we take
possession of these camps and strike all work, and, securing the person
of Mr. Mason, and any others likely to interfere with us, we hold them
safe until all our plans are fully put through. During the period
necessary for the cessation of work, each man will draw an allowance
equal to two-thirds of his wages, and he will receive a guarantee of
employment when the strike is ended. The sutler, Mr. Lieberstein here,
will be the treasurer of the strike funds, and pay each man his daily
wage. There is but one thing more I have to say. We intend to take the
necessary precautions against interference to-night. The cessation of
work will date from this hour. And in the meantime we will put to the
vote----"
Chepstow, his keen eyes blazing, turned and faced the lumberman.
"The scoundrels!" he said, with more force than discretion. "Did you
hear? It means----"
The lumberman chuckled, but held up a warning hand.
"They're going to take me prisoner," he said. Then he added grimly,
"There's going to be a warm time to-night."
But the churchman was not listening. Again his thought had reverted to
the presence of Jim Truscott at that meeting.
"What on earth is young Truscott doing in there?" he asked. "He went
away east the night I set out for these hills. What's he got to do with
that--that rascally agitator? Why--he must be one of the--leaders of
this thing. It's--it's most puzzling!"
Chepstow's puzzlement did not communicate itself to Mason. The camp
"boss" was less interested in the identity of these people than in the
strike itself. It was his work to see that so much lumber was sent down
the river every day. That was his responsibility. Dave looked to him.
And he was face to face with a situation which threatened the complete
annihilation of all his employer's schemes. A strike effectually
carried out might be prolonged indefinitely, and then--
"Look here, parson," he said coolly, "I want you to stay right here for
a minute or so. They aren't likely to be finished for a while inside
there. I want to 'prospect.' I want to find that buckboard. That damned
agitator--'scuse the language--must have come up in it, so I guess it's
near handy. The fog's good and thick, so there's not a heap of chance
of anybody locating us, still----" he paused and glanced into the
churchman's alert eyes. "Have a look to your gun," he went on with a
quiet smile, "and--well, you are a parson, but if anybody comes along
and attempts to molest you I'd use it if I were in your place."
Chepstow made no reply, but there was something in his look that
satisfied the other.
Mason hurried away and the parson, left alone, leant against the wall,
prepared to wait for his return. In spite of the plot he had listened
to, the presence of Jim Truscott in that room occupied most of his
thoughts. It was most perplexing. He tried every channel of supposition
and argument, but none gave him any satisfactory explanation. One thing
alone impressed its importance on his mind. That was the necessity of
conveying a warning to Dave. But he remembered they--these
conspirators--had cut communications. Mason and probably he were to be
made prisoners.
His ire roused. He blazed into a sudden fury. These rascals were to
make them prisoners. Almost unconsciously he drew his gun from his
pocket and turned to the window. As he did so the sound of approaching
footsteps set him alert and defensive. He swung his back to the wall
again, and, gun in hand, stood ready. The next moment he hurriedly
returned the weapon to his pocket, but not before Mason had seen the
attitude and the fighting expression of his face, and it set him
smiling.
"I've found the buckboard," he said in a whisper. Then he paused and
looked straight into the churchman's eyes. "We're up against it," he
went on. "Maybe you as well as myself. You can't tell where these
fellows'll draw the line. And there's Miss Betty to think of, too. Are
you ready to buck? Are you game? You're a parson, I know, and these
things----"
"Get to it, boy," Chepstow interrupted him sharply. "I am of necessity
a man of peace, but there are things that become a man's duty. And it
seems to me to hit hard will better serve God and man just now than to
preach peace. What's your plan?"
Mason smiled. He knew he had read the parson aright. He knew he had in
him a staunch and loyal support. He liked, too, the phrase by which he
excused his weakness for combat.
"Well, I mean to do this sponge-faced crawler down, or break my neck in
the attempt. I don't intend to be made a prisoner by any damned
strikers. This thing means ruin to Dave, and it's up to me to help him
out. I'm going to get word through to him. I understand now how our
letters have been intercepted, and no doubt his have been stopped too.
I'm going to have a flutter in this game. It's a big one, and makes me
feel good. What say? Are you game?"
"For anything!" exclaimed the parson with eyes sparkling.
"Well, there's not a heap of time to waste in talk. I'll just get you
to slip back to the dugout. Gather some food and truck into a sack, and
a couple of guns or so, and some ammunition. Then get Miss Betty and
slip out. Hike on down the trail a hundred yards or so and wait for me.
Can you make it?"
Chepstow nodded.
"And you?" he asked.
"I'm going to get possession of that buckboard, and--come right along.
The scheme's rotten, I know. But it's the best I can think of at the
moment. It's our only chance of warning Dave. There's not a second to
spare now, so cut along. You've got to prepare for a two days' journey."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing. Miss Betty's good grit--in case----?"
Chepstow nodded.
"Game all through. How long can you give me?"
"Maybe a half hour."
"Good. I can make it in that."
"Right. S'long."
"S'long."