DAVE--THE MAN
Dave's buckboard swept up the slope of the last valley. It reached the
dead level of the old travoy trail, which passed in front of Mason's
dugout on its way to the lumber camp. He was looking ahead for signs
which he feared to discover; he wanted the reason of the smoke he had
seen from afar off. But now a perfect screen of towering pine forest
lined the way, and all that lay beyond was hidden from his anxious eyes.
He flogged his horses faster. The perfect mountain calm was unbroken;
even the speeding horses and the rattle of his buckboard were powerless
to disturb that stupendous quiet. It was a mere circumstance in a world
too vast to take color from a detail so insignificant. It was that
wondrous peace, that thrilling silence that aggravated his fears. His
apprehension grew with each passing moment, and, though he made no
display, his clutch upon the reins, the sharpness with which he plied
his whip, the very immobility of his face, all told their tale of
feelings strung to a high pitch.
Mason was standing directly behind him in the carryall. He steadied
himself with a grip upon the back of the driving-seat. Beside him the
wretched Truscott was sitting on the jolting slats of the body of the
vehicle, mercilessly thrown about by the bumping over the broken trail.
Mason, too, was staring out ahead.
"Seems quiet enough," he murmured, half to himself.
Dave caught at his words.
"That's how it seems," he said, in a tone of doubt.
"It's less than half a mile now," Mason went on a moment later. "We're
coming to the big bend."
Dave nodded. His whip fell across his horses' quarters. "Best get
ready," he said significantly. Then he laughed mirthlessly and tried to
excuse himself. "I don't guess there'll be a heap of trouble, though."
"No."
Mason's reply carried no conviction. Both men were in doubt. Neither
knew what to expect. Neither knew in what way to prepare for the
meeting that was now so near.
Now the trail began to swing out to the right. It was the beginning of
the big bend. The walls of forest about them receded slightly, opening
out where logs had been felled beside the trail in years past. The
middle of the curve was a small clearing. Then, further on, as it
inclined again to the left, it narrowed down to the bare breadth of the
trail.
"Just beyond this----"
Mason broke off. His words were cut short by a loud shout just ahead of
them. It was a shout of triumph and gleeful enjoyment. Dave's whip fell
again, and the horses laid on to their traces. From that moment to the
moment when the horses were almost flung upon their haunches by the
sudden jolt with which Dave pulled them up was a matter of seconds
only. He was out of the buckboard, too, having flung the reins to
Mason, and was standing facing a small group of a dozen men whom it was
almost impossible to recognize as lumberjacks. In truth, there were
only three of them who were, the others were some of those Mason had
been forced to engage in his extremity.
At the sight of Dave's enormous figure a cry broke from the crowd. Then
they looked at the buckboard with its panting horses, and Mason
standing in the carryall, one hand on the reins and one resting on the
revolver on his hip. Their cry died out. But as it did so another broke
from their midst. It was Betty's voice, and her uncle's. There was a
scuffle and a rush. Gripping the girl by the arm Tom Chepstow burst
from their midst and ran to Dave's side, dragging Betty with him.
"Thank God!" he cried.
But there was no answering joy from Dave. He scarcely even seemed to
see them. A livid, frozen rage glared out of his eyes. His face was
terrible to behold. He moved forward. His gait was cat-like, his head
was thrust forward, it was almost as if he tiptoed and was about to
spring upon the mob. As he came within a yard of the foremost of the
men he halted, and one great arm shot out with its fist clenching.
"Back!" he roared; "back to your camp, every man of you! Back, you
cowardly hounds!"
There were twelve of them; fierce, savage, half-drunken men. They cared
for no one, they feared no one. They were ready to follow whithersoever
their passions led them. There was not a man among them that would not
fight with the last breath in his body. Yet they hesitated at the sound
of that voice. They almost shrank before that passion-lit face. The
man's enormous stature was not without awe for them. And in that moment
of hesitation the battle was won for Dave. Chepstow's repeating-rifle
was at his shoulder, and Mason's revolver had been whipped out of its
holster and was held covering them.
Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, somewhere behind. If Dave
saw it he gave no sign. But Mason saw it, and, sharply incisive, his
voice rang out--
"The first man that moves this way I'll shoot him like a dog!"
Instantly every eye among the strikers was turned upon the two men with
their ready weapons, and to a man they understood that the game was up.
"Get out! Get out--quick!" Dave's great voice split the air with
another deep roar. And the retreat began on the instant with those in
the rear. Some one started to run, and in a moment the rest had joined
in a rush for the camp, vanishing into the forest like a pack of timber
wolves, flinging back fierce, vengeful glances over their shoulders at
those who had so easily routed them.
No one stirred till the last man had disappeared. Then Dave turned.
"Quick!" he cried, in an utterly changed voice, "get into the
buckboard!"
But Betty turned to him in a half-hysterical condition.
"Oh, Dave, Dave!" she cried helplessly.
But Dave was just now a man whom none of them had ever seen before. He
had words for no one--not even for Betty. He suddenly caught her in his
arms and lifted her bodily into the buckboard. He scrambled in after
her, while Chepstow jumped up behind. In a moment, it seemed, they were
racing headlong for the camp.
* * * * *
The camp was in a ruinous condition. The destructive demon in men
temporarily demented was abroad and his ruthless hand had fallen
heavily. The whole atmosphere suggested the red tide of anarchy. The
charred remains of the sutler's store was the centre of a net of ruin
spread out in every direction, and from this radiated the wreckage of
at least a dozen shanties, which had, like the store, been burned to
the ground.
In the circumstances it would be impossible to guess at the reasons for
such destruction: maybe it was the result of carelessness, maybe a
mischievous delight in sweeping away that which reminded these men of
their obligations to their employer, maybe it was merely a consequence
of the settlement of their own drunken feuds. Whatever the cause, the
hideous effect of the strike was apparent in every direction.
In the centre of the clearing was a great gathering of the lumbermen.
Their seared faces expressed every variety of mental attitude, from
fierce jocularity down to the blackest hatred of interference from
those whose authority had become anathema to them.
They were gathered at the call of those who had fled from the dugout,
spurred to a defense of what they believed to be their rights by a
hurried, garbled account of the summary treatment just meted out to
them. They were ready for more than the mere assertion of their
demands. They were ready to enforce them, they were ready for any
mischief which the circumstances prompted.
It was a deadly array. Many were sober, many were sobering, many were
still drunk. The latter were those whose cunning had prompted them, at
the outset of the strike, to secrete a sufficient supply of liquor from
their fellows. And the majority of these were not the real
lumber-jacks, those great simple children of the forest, but the
riffraff that had drifted into the camp, or had been sent thither by
those who promoted the strike. The real lumber-jacks were more or less
incapable of such foresight and cunning. They were slow-thinking
creatures of vast muscle, only swift and keen as the axes they used
when engaged in the work which was theirs.
Through the rank animal growth of their bodies their minds had remained
too stunted to display the low cunning of the scallywags whose
unscrupulous wits alone must supply their idle bodies with a
livelihood. But simple as babes, simple and silly as sheep, and as
dependent upon their shepherd, as these men were, they were at all
times dangerous, the more dangerous for their very simplicity. Just
now, with their unthinking brains sick with the poison of labor's
impossible argument, and the execrable liquor of the camp, they were a
hundred times more deadly.
Men had come in for the orgy from all the outlying camps. They had been
carefully shepherded by those whose business it was to make the strike
successful. Discontent had been preached into every ear, and the seed
had fallen upon fruitful, virgin soil. Thus it was that a great
concourse had foregathered now.
There was an atmosphere of restrained excitement abroad among them. For
them the news of Dave's arrival had tremendous possibilities. A babel
of harsh voices debated the situation in loud tones, each man forcing
home his argument with a mighty power of lung, a never-failing method
of supporting doubtful argument. The general attitude was threatening,
yet it hardly seemed to be unanimous. There was too much argument.
There seemed to be an undercurrent of uncertainty with no single,
capable voice to check or guide it.
As the moments sped the crowd became more and more threatening, but
whether against the master of the mills, or whether the result of hot
blood and hot words, it would have been difficult to say. Then, just as
the climax seemed to be approaching, a magical change swept over the
throng. It was wrought by the sudden appearance of Dave's buckboard,
which seemed to leap upon the scene from the depth of the forest. And
as it came into view a hoarse, fierce shout went up. Then, in a moment,
an expectant hush fell.
Dave's eyes were fixed upon the crowd before him. He gave no sign. His
face, like a mask, was cold, hard, unyielding. No word was spoken by
those in the buckboard. Every one, with nerves straining and pulses
throbbing, was waiting for what was to happen; every one except the
prisoner, Truscott.
The master of the mills read the meaning of what he beheld with the
sureness of a man bred to the calling of these men. He knew. And
knowing, he had little blame for them. How could it be otherwise with
these unthinking souls? The blame must lie elsewhere. But his sympathy
left his determination unaltered. He knew, no one better, that here the
iron heel alone could prevail, and for the time his heel was shod for
the purpose.
He drew near. Some one shouted a furious epithet at him, and the cry
was taken up by others. The horses shied. He swung them back with a
heavy hand, and forced them to face the crowd, his whip falling
viciously at the same time. But, for a moment, his face relaxed its
cold expression. His quick ears had detected a lack of unanimity in the
execration. Suddenly he pulled the horses up. He passed the reins to
Mason and leaped to the ground.
It was a stirring moment. The mob advanced, but the movement seemed
almost reluctant. It was not the rush of blind fury one might have
expected, but rather as though it were due to pressure from behind by
those under cover of their comrades in front.
Dave moved on to meet them, and those in the buckboard remained deathly
still. Mason was the first to move. He had just become aware that Dave
had left his revolver on the seat of the vehicle. Instantly he lifted
the reins and walked the horses closer to the crowd.
"He's unarmed," he said, in explanation to the parson.
Chepstow nodded. He moved his repeating-rifle to a handier position.
Betty looked up.
"He left that gun purposely," she said. "I saw him."
Her face was ghastly pale, but a light shone in her eyes which nobody
could have failed to interpret. Mason saw it and no longer hesitated.
"Will you take these reins?" he said. "And--give me your revolver."
The girl understood and obeyed in silence.
"I think there'll be trouble," Mason went on a moment later, as he saw
Dave halt within a few yards of the front rank of the strikers.
He watched the men close about his chief in a semicircle, but the
buckboard in rear always held open a road for retreat. Now the crowd
pressed up from behind. The semicircle became dense. Those in the
buckboard saw that many of the men were carrying the tools of their
calling, prominent among them being the deadly peavey, than which, in
case of trouble, no weapon could be more dangerous at close quarters.
As he halted Dave surveyed the sea of rough, hard faces glowering upon
him. He heard the mutterings. He saw the great bared arms and the
knotty hands grasping the hafts of their tools. He saw all this and
understood, but the sight in no way disturbed him. His great body was
erect, his cold eyes unwavering. It was the unconscious pose of a man
who feels the power to control within him.
"Well?" he inquired, with an easy drawl.
Instantly there was silence everywhere. It was the critical moment. It
was the moment when, before all things, he must convince these lawless
creatures of his power, his reserve of commanding force.
"Well?" he demanded again. "Where's your leader? Where's the gopher
running this layout? I've come right along to talk to you boys to see
if we can't straighten this trouble out. Where's your leader, the man
who was hired to make you think I wasn't treating you right; where is
he? Speak up, boys, I can't rightly hear all you're saying. I want to
parley with your leaders."
Mason listening to the great voice of the lumberman chuckled inaudibly.
He realized something of Dave's method, and the shrewdness of it.
The mutterings had begun afresh. Some of the front rank men drew
nearer. Dave did not move. He wanted an answer. He wanted an indication
of their actual mood. Somebody laughed in the crowd. It was promptly
shouted down. It was the indication the master of the mills sought.
They wanted to hear what he had to say. He allowed the ghost of a smile
to play round the corners of his stern mouth for a moment. But his
attitude remained uncompromising. His back stiffened, his great
shoulders squared, he stood out a giant amongst those giants of the
forest.
"Where's your man?" he cried, in a voice that could be heard by
everybody. "Is he backing down? That's not like a lumber-jack. P'r'aps
he's not a lumber-jack. P'r'aps he's got no clear argument I can't
answer. P'r'aps he hasn't got the grit to get out in the open and talk
straight as man to man. Well, let it go at that. Guess you'd best set
one of you up as spokesman. I've got all the time you need to listen."
"Your blasted skunk of a foreman shot him down!" cried a voice in the
crowd, and it was supported by ominous murmurs from the rest.
"By God, and Mason was right!" cried Dave, in a voice so fierce that it
promptly silenced the murmurs. His dilating eyes rested on several
familiar faces. The faces of men who had worked for him for years, men
whose hair was graying in the service of the woods. He also flashed his
lightning glance upon faces unfamiliar, strangers to his craft. "By
God, he was right!" he repeated, as though to force the violence of his
opinion upon them. "I could have done it myself. And why? Because he
has come here and told you you are badly treated. He's told you the
tale that the profits of this work of yours belong to you. He's told
you I am an oppressor, who lives by the sweat of your labors. He tells
you this because he is paid to tell you. Because he is paid by those
who wish to ruin my mills, and put me out of business, and so rob you
all of the living I have made it possible for you to earn. You refuse
to work at his bidding; what is the result? My mill is closed down. I
am ruined. These forests are my right to cut. There is no more cutting
to be done. You starve. Yes, you starve like wolves in winter. You'll
say you can get work elsewhere. Go and get it, and you'll starve till
you get it at half the wage I pay you. I am telling you what is right.
I am talking to you with the knowledge of my own ruin staring me in the
face. You have been told you can squeeze me, you can squeeze a fraction
more of pay out of me. But you can't, not one cent, any man of you; and
if you go to work again to keep our ship afloat you'll have to work
harder than ever before--for the same pay. Now pass up your spokesman,
and I'll talk to him. I can't bellow for all the world to hear."
It was a daring beginning, so daring that those in the buckboard gasped
in amazement. But Dave knew his men, or, at least, he knew the real
lumber-jack. Straight, biting talk must serve him, or nothing would.
Now followed a buzz of excited talk. There were those among the crowd
who from the beginning had had doubts, and to these Dave's words
appealed. He had voiced something of what they had hazily thought.
Others there were who were furious at his biting words. Others again,
and these were not real lumber-jacks, who were for turning upon him the
savage brutality of their drink-soaked brains.
An altercation arose. It was the dispute of factions suddenly inflamed.
It was somewhere in rear of the crowd. Those in front turned to learn
the cause. Dave watched and listened. He understood. It was the result
of his demand for a spokesman. Opinions were divided, and a dozen
different men were urged forward. He knew he must check the dispute.
Suddenly his voice rang out above the din.
"It's no use snarling about it like a lot of coyotes," he roared. "Pass
them all through, and I'll listen to 'em all. Now, boys, pass 'em
through peaceably."
One of the men in front of him supported him.
"Aye, aye," he shouted. "That's fair, boys, bring 'em along. The
boss'll talk 'em straight."
The man beside him hit him sharply in the ribs, and the
broad-shouldered "jack" swung round.
"Ther' ain't no 'boss' to this layout, Peter," objected the man who had
dealt the blow. "Yonder feller ain't no better'n us."
The man scowled threateningly as he spoke. He was an enormous brute
with a sallow, ill-tempered face, and black hair. Dave heard the words
and his eyes surveyed him closely. He saw at a glance there was nothing
of the lumberman about him. He set him down at once as a French
Canadian bully, probably one of the men instrumental in the strike.
However, his attention was now drawn to the commotion caused by six of
the lumbermen being pushed to the front as spokesmen. They joined the
front rank, and stood sheepishly waiting for their employer. Custom and
habit were strong upon them, and a certain awe of the master of the
mills affected them.
"Now we'll get doing," Dave said, noting with satisfaction that four of
the six were old hands who had worked beside him in his early days.
"Well, boys, let's have it. What's your trouble? Give us the whole
story."
But as spokesmen these fellows were not brilliant. They hesitated, and,
finally, with something approaching a shamefaced grin, one of them
spoke up.
"It's--it's jest wages, boss."
"Leave it at 'wages,' Bob!" shouted a voice at the back of the crowd.
"Yes," snarled the sallow-faced giant near by. "We're jest man to man.
Ther' ain't no 'bosses' around."
"Hah!" Dave breathed the ejaculation. Then he turned his eyes, steely
hard, upon the last speaker, and his words came in an unmistakable
tone. "It seems there are men here who aren't satisfied with their
spokesmen. Maybe they'll speak out good and plenty, instead of
interrupting."
His challenge seemed to appeal to the original spokesman, for he
laughed roughly.
"Say, boss," he cried, "he don't cut no ice, anyways. He's jest a bum
roadmaker. He ain't bin in camp more'n six weeks. We don't pay no
'tention to him. Y'see, boss," he went on, emphasizing the last word
purposely, "it's jest wages. We're workin' a sight longer hours than is
right, an' we ain't gettin' nuthin' extry 'cep' the rise you give us
three months back. Wal, we're wantin' more. That's how."
He finished up his clumsy speech with evident relief, and mopped his
forehead with his ham-like hand.
"And since when, Bob Nicholson, have you come to this conclusion?"
demanded Dave, with evident kindliness.
His tone produced instant effect upon the man. He became easier at
once, and his manner changed to one of distinct friendliness.
"Wal, boss, I can't rightly say jest when, fer sure. Guess it must ha'
bin when that orator-feller got around----"
"Shut up!" roared some one in the crowd, and the demand was followed up
by distinct cursing in several directions. The sallow-faced roadmaker
seized his opportunity.
"It's wages we want an' wages we're goin' to git!" he shouted so that
the crowd could hear. "You're sweatin' us. That's wot you're doin',
sweatin' us, to make your pile a sight bigger. We're honest men up
here; we ain't skunks what wants wot isn't our lawful rights. Ef you're
yearnin' fer extry work you got to pay fer it. Wot say, boys?"
"Aye! That's it. Extry wages," cried a number of voices in the
background. But again the chorus was not unanimous. There were those,
too, in the front whose scowling faces, turned on the speaker, showed
their resentment at this interference by a man they did not recognize
as a lumber-jack.
Dave seized his opportunity.
"You're wanting extra wages for overtime," he cried, in a voice that
carried like a steam siren. "Well, why didn't you ask for them? Why did
you go out on strike first, and then ask? Why? I'll tell you why. I'll
tell you why you chose this damned gopher racket instead of acting like
the honest men you boast yourselves to be. I can tell you why you
wanted to lock up your camp-boss, and so prevent your wishes reaching
me. I can tell you why you had men on the road between here and Malkern
to stop letters going through. I can tell you why you honest men set
fire to the store here, and stole all the liquor and goods in it. I can
tell you why you did these things. Because you've just listened like
silly sheep to the skunks who've come along since the fever broke out.
Because you've listened to the men who've set out to ruin us both, you
and me. Because you've listened to these scallywags, who aren't
lumbermen, who've come among you. They're not 'jacks' and they don't
understand the work, but they've been drawing the same wages as you,
and they're trying to rob you of your living, they're trying to take
your jobs from you and leave you nothing. That's why you've done these
things, you boys who've worked with me for years and years, and had all
you needed. Are you going to let 'em rob you? They _are_ robbing you,
for, I swear before God, my mills are closed down, and they'll remain
closed, and every one of you can get out and look for new work unless
you turn to at once."
A murmur again arose as he finished speaking, but this time there was a
note of alarm in it, a note of anger that was not against their
employer. Faces looked puzzled, and ended by frowning into the faces of
neighbors. Dave understood the effect he had made. He was waiting for a
bigger effect. He was fighting for something that was dearer to him
than life, and all his courage and resource were out to the limit. He
glanced at the sallow-faced giant. Their eyes met, and in his was a
fierce challenge. He drew the fellow as easily as any expert swordsman.
The man had been shrewd enough to detect the change in his comrades,
and he promptly hurled himself into the fray to try and recover the
lost ground. He stepped forward, towering over his fellows. He meant
mischief.
"See, mates," he shouted, trying to put a jeer in his angry voice,
"look at 'im! He's come here to call us a pack o' skunks an' gophers.
Him wot's makin' thousands o' dollars a day out of us. He's come here
to kick us like a lot o' lousy curs. His own man shot up our leader,
him as was trying to fit things right fer us. I tell you it was
murder--bloody murder! We're dirt to him. He can kick us--shoot us up.
We're dogs--lousy yeller dogs--we are. You'll listen to his slobbery
talk an' you'll go to work--and he'll cut your wages lower, so he can
make thousan's more out o' you." Then he suddenly swung round on Dave
with a fierce oath. "God blast you, it's wages we want--d'ye
hear--wages! An' we're goin' to have 'em! You ain't goin' to grind us
no longer, mister! You're goin' to sign a 'greement fer a rise o' wages
of a quarter all round. That's wot you're goin' to do!"
Dave was watching, watching. His opportunity was coming.
"I came to talk to honest 'jacks,'" he said icily, "not to blacklegs.
I'll trouble you to get right back into the crowd, and hide your ugly
head, and keep your foul tongue quiet. The boys have got their
spokesmen."
His voice was sharp, but the man failed to apprehend the danger that
lay behind it. He was a bigger man than Dave, and, maybe, he thought to
cow him. Perhaps he didn't realize that the master of the mills was now
fighting for his existence.
There was an instant's pause, and Dave took a step toward him.
"Get back!" he roared.
His furious demand precipitated things, as he intended it should. Like
lightning the giant whipped out a gun.
"I'll show you!" he cried.
There was a sharp report. But before he could pull the trigger a second
time Dave's right fist shot out, and a smashing blow on the chin felled
him to the ground like a pole-axed ox.
As the man fell Dave turned again to the strikers, and no one noticed
that his left arm was hanging helpless at his side.