THE END OF THE STRIKE
When the master of the mills faced the men again he hardly knew what to
expect. He could not be sure how they would view his action, or what
attitude they would adopt. He had considered well before provoking the
sallow-faced giant, he had measured him up carefully; the thing had
been premeditated. He knew the influence of physical force upon these
men. The question was, had he used it at the right moment? He thought
he had; he understood lumbermen, but there were more than lumbermen
here, and he knew that it was this element of outsiders with whom he
was really contending.
The fallen man's pistol was on the ground at his feet. He put a foot
upon it; then, glancing swiftly at the faces before him, he became
aware of a silence, utter, complete, reigning everywhere. There was
astonishment, even something of awe in many of the faces; in others
doubt mingled with a scowling displeasure. The thing had happened so
suddenly. The firing of the shot had startled them unpleasantly, and
they were still looking for the result of it. On this point they had no
satisfaction. Only Dave knew--he had reason to. The arm hanging limply
at his side, and the throb of pain at his shoulder left him in no
doubt. But he had no intention of imparting his knowledge to any one
else yet. He had not finished the fight which must justify his
existence as the owner of the mills.
The effect of his encounter was not an unpleasant one on the majority
of the men. The use of a fist in the face of a gun was stupendous, even
to them. Many of them reveled in the outsider's downfall, and
contemplated the grit of their employer with satisfaction. But there
were others not so easily swayed. Amongst these were the man's own
comrades, men who, like himself, were not real lumbermen, but agitators
who had received payment to agitate. Besides these there were those
unstable creatures, always to be found in such a community, who had no
very definite opinions of their own, but looked for the lead of the
majority, ready to side with those who offered the strongest support.
All this was very evident in that moment of silence, but the moment
passed so quickly that it was impossible to say how far Dave's action
had really served him. Suddenly a murmur started. In a few seconds it
had risen to a shout. It started with the fallen giant's friends. There
was a rush in the crowd, an ominous swaying, as of a struggle going on
in its midst. Some one put up a vicious cry that lifted clear above the
general din.
"Lynch him! Lynch him!"
The cry was taken up by the rest of the makeshifts and some of the
doubters. Then came the sudden but inevitable awakening of the slow,
fierce brains of the real men of the woods. The awakening brought with
it not so much a desire to champion their employer, as a resentment
that these men they regarded as scallywags should attempt to take
initiative in their concerns; it was the rousing of the latent hatred
which ever exists in the heart of the legitimate tradesman for the
interloper. It caught them in a whirlwind of passion. Their blood rose.
All other considerations were forgotten, it mattered nothing the object
of that mutiny, all thought of wages, all thought of wrongs between
themselves and their employer were banished from their minds. They
hated nothing so badly as these men with whom they had worked in
apparent harmony.
It was at this psychological moment that the final fillip was given. It
came from a direction that none of the crowd realized. It came from one
who knew the woodsman down to his very core, who had watched every
passing mood of the crowd during the whole scene with the intentness of
one who only waits his opportunity. It was Bob Mason in the buckboard.
"Down with the blacklegs! Down with the dirty 'scabs'!" he shouted.
In a moment the battle was raging. There was a wild rush of men, and
their steel implements were raised aloft. "Down with the 'scabs'!" The
cry echoed and reechoed in every direction, taken up by every true
lumberman. A tumult of shouting and cursing roared everywhere. The
crowd broke. It spread out. Groups of struggling combatants were dotted
about till the sight suggested nothing so much as a massacre. It was a
fight of brutal savagery that would stop short only at actual
slaughter. It was the safety-valve for the accumulated spleen of a
week's hard drinking. It was the only way to steady the shaken,
drink-soaked nerves and restore the dull brains to the dead level of a
desire to return to work and order.
Fortunately it was a short-lived battle too. The lumber-jacks were the
masters from the outset. They were better men, they were harder, they
had more sheer "grit." Then, too, they were in the majority. The
"scabs" began to seek refuge in flight, but not before they had
received a chastisement that would remain a sore memory for many days
to come. Those who went down in the fight got the iron-shod boots of
their adversaries in their ribs, till, in desperation, they scrambled
to their feet and took their punishment like men. But the victory was
too easy for the lumber-jacks' rage to last. Like the wayward,
big-hearted children of nature they were, their fury passed as quickly
as it had stirred. The terror-stricken flight of those upon whom their
rage had turned inspired in them a sort of fiendish amusement, and in
this was perhaps the saving of a terrible tragedy. As it was, a few
broken limbs, a liberal tally of wounds and bruises were the harvest of
that battle. That, and the final clearing out of the element of
discontent. It was victory for the master of the mills.
In less than ten minutes the victors were straggling back from their
pursuit of a routed foe. Dave had not moved. He was still standing
beside the fallen giant, who was now recovering consciousness from the
knock-out blow he had received. They came up in small bands, laughing
and recounting episodes of the fight. They were in the saving mood for
their employer. All thoughts of a further strike had passed out of
their simple heads. They came back to Dave, like sheep, who, after a
wild stampede, have suddenly refound their shepherd, and to him they
looked for guidance. And Dave was there for the purpose. He called
their attention and addressed them.
"Now, boys," he said cheerfully, "you've got nicely rid of that scum,
and I'm going to talk to you. We understand each other. We've worked
too long together for it to be otherwise. But we don't understand those
others who're not lumbermen. Say, maybe you can't all hear me; my voice
isn't getting stronger, so I'll just call up that buckboard and stand
on it, and talk from there."
Amidst a murmur of approval the buckboard was drawn up, and not without
tremendous pain Dave scrambled up into the driving-seat. Then it was
seen by both lumbermen and those in the buckboard that he had left a
considerable pool of blood where he had been standing.
Betty, with horror in her eyes, turned to him.
"What is it?" she began. But he checked her with a look, and turned at
once to the men.
"I'm first going to tell you about this strike, boys," he said. "After
that we'll get to business, and I guess it won't be my fault if we
don't figger things out right. Here, do you see this fellow sitting
here? Maybe some of you'll recognize him?" He pointed at Jim Truscott
sitting in the carryall. His expression was surly, defiant. But somehow
he avoided the faces in front of him. "I'm going to tell you about him.
This is the man who organized the strike. He found the money and the
men to do the dirty work. He did it because he hates me and wants to
ruin me. He came to you with plausible tales of oppression and so
forth. He cared nothing for you, but he hated me. I tell you frankly he
did this thing because he knew I was pushed to the last point to make
good my contract with the government, because he knew that to delay the
output of logs from this camp meant that I should go to smash. In doing
this he meant to carry you down with me. That's how much he cares for
your interests." A growl of anger punctuated his speech. But he
silenced them with a gesture and proceeded. His voice was getting
weaker, and a deadly pallor was stealing over his face. Chepstow,
watching him, was filled with anxiety. Betty's brown eyes clung to his
face with an expression of love, horror and pity in them that spoke far
louder than any words. Mason was simply calculating in his mind how
long Dave could keep up his present attitude.
"Do you get my meaning, boys?" he went on. "It's this, if we don't get
this work through before winter I'm broke--broke to my last dollar. And
you'll be out of a billet--every mother's son of you--with the winter
staring you in the face."
He paused and took a deep breath. Betty even thought she saw him sway.
The men kept an intense silence.
"Well?" he went on a moment later, pulling himself together with an
evident effort. "I'm just here to talk straight business, and that's
what you're going to listen to. First, I'll tell you this fellow's
going to get his right medicine through me in the proper manner. Then,
second and last, I want to give you a plain understanding of things
between ourselves. There's going to be no rise in wages. I just can't
do it. That's all. But I'm going to give each man in my camp a big
bonus, a nice fat wad of money with which to paint any particular town
he favors red, when the work's done. That's to be extra, above his
wages. And the whole lot of you shall work for me next season on a
guarantee. But from now to the late fall you're going to work, boys,
you're going to work as if the devil himself was driving you. We've got
time to make up, and shortage besides, and you've got to make it up. I
don't want any slackers. Men who have any doubts can get right out.
You've got to work as you never worked in your lives before. Now, boys,
give us your word. Is it work or----"
Dave got no further. A shout--hearty, enthusiastic--went up from the
crowd. It meant work, and he was satisfied.
The next few minutes were passed in a scene of the wildest excitement.
The men closed round the buckboard, and struggled with each other to
grip the big man's hand. And Dave, faint and weary as he was, knew them
too well to reject their friendly overtures. Besides, they were, as he
said, like himself, men of the woods, and he was full of a great
sympathy and friendliness for them. At last, however, he turned to
Chepstow.
"Drive back to the dugout, Tom," he said. "Things are getting misty. I
think--I'm--done."