For a moment the three men stared at each other without speaking.
“What does it mean?” almost whispered Carpenter.
“Mean? Foul play!” snarled Thorpe. “Come on, Tim.”
The two struck into the brush, threading the paths with the ease of
woodsmen. It was necessary to keep to the high inland ridges for the
simple reason that the pole trail had by now become impassable. Wallace
Carpenter, attempting to follow them, ran, stumbled, and fell through
brush that continually whipped his face and garments, continually
tripped his feet. All he could obtain was a vanishing glimpse of his
companions' backs. Thorpe and his foreman talked briefly.
“It's Morrison and Daly,” surmised Shearer. “I left them 'count of a
trick like that. They wanted me to take charge of Perkinson's drive and
hang her a purpose. I been suspecting something--they've been layin' too
low.”
Thorpe answered nothing. Through the site of the old dam they found
a torrent pouring from the narrowed pond, at the end of which the
dilapidated wings flapping in the current attested the former structure.
Davis stood staring at the current.
Thorpe strode forward and shook him violently by the shoulder.
“How did this happen?” he demanded hoarsely. “Speak!”
The man turned to him in a daze. “I don't know,” he answered.
“You ought to know. How was that 'shot' exploded? How did they get in
here without you seeing them? Answer me!”
“I don't know,” repeated the man. “I jest went over in th' bresh to kill
a few pa'tridges, and when I come back I found her this way. I wasn't
goin' to close down for three hours yet, and I thought they was no use a
hangin' around here.”
“Were you hired to watch this dam, or weren't you?” demanded the tense
voice of Thorpe. “Answer me, you fool.”
“Yes, I was,” returned the man, a shade of aggression creeping into his
voice.
“Well, you've done it well. You've cost me my dam, and you've killed
five men. If the crew finds out about you, you'll go over the falls,
sure. You get out of here! Pike! Don't you ever let me see your face
again!”
The man blanched as he thus learned of his comrades' deaths. Thorpe
thrust his face at him, lashed by circumstances beyond his habitual
self-control.
“It's men like you who make the trouble,” he stormed. “Damn fools who
say they didn't mean to. It isn't enough not to mean to. They should
MEAN NOT TO! I don't ask you to think. I just want you to do what I tell
you, and you can't even do that.”
He threw his shoulder into a heavy blow that reached the dam watcher's
face, and followed it immediately by another. Then Shearer caught his
arm, motioning the dazed and bloody victim of the attack to get out
of sight. Thorpe shook his foreman off with one impatient motion,
and strode away up the river, his head erect, his eyes flashing, his
nostrils distended.
“I reckon you'd better mosey,” Shearer dryly advised the dam watcher;
and followed.
Late in the afternoon the two men reached Dam Three, or rather the spot
on which Dam Three had stood. The same spectacle repeated itself here,
except that Ellis, the dam watcher, was nowhere to be seen.
“The dirty whelps,” cried Thorpe, “they did a good job!”
He thrashed about here and there, and so came across Ellis blindfolded
and tied. When released, the dam watcher was unable to give any account
of his assailants.
“They came up behind me while I was cooking,” he said. “One of 'em
grabbed me and the other one kivered my eyes. Then I hears the 'shot'
and knows there's trouble.”
Thorpe listened in silence. Shearer asked a few questions. After the
low-voiced conversation Thorpe arose abruptly.
“Where you going?” asked Shearer.
But the young man did not reply. He swung, with the same long, nervous
stride, into the down-river trail.
Until late that night the three men--for Ellis insisted on accompanying
them--hurried through the forest. Thorpe walked tirelessly, upheld by
his violent but repressed excitement. When his hat fell from his head,
he either did not notice the fact, or did not care to trouble himself
for its recovery, so he glanced through the trees bare-headed, his broad
white brow gleaming in the moonlight. Shearer noted the fire in his
eyes, and from the coolness of his greater age, counselled moderation.
“I wouldn't stir the boys up,” he panted, for the pace was very swift.
“They'll kill some one over there, it'll be murder on both sides.”
He received no answer. About midnight they came to the camp.
Two great fires leaped among the trees, and the men, past the idea of
sleep, grouped between them, talking. The lesson of twisted timbers
was not lost to their experience, and the evening had brought its
accumulation of slow anger against the perpetrators of the outrage.
These men were not given to oratorical mouthings, but their low-voiced
exchanges between the puffings of a pipe led to a steadier purpose than
that of hysteria. Even as the woodsmen joined their group, they had
reached the intensity of execution. Across their purpose Thorpe threw
violently his personality.
“You must not go,” he commanded.
Through their anger they looked at him askance.
“I forbid it,” Thorpe cried.
They shrugged their indifference and arose. This was an affair of caste
brotherhood; and the blood of their mates cried out to them.
“The work,” Thorpe shouted hoarsely. “The work! We must get those logs
out! We haven't time!”
But the Fighting Forty had not Thorpe's ideal. Success meant a day's
work well done; while vengeance stood for a righting of the realities
which had been unrighteously overturned. Thorpe's dry-eyed, burning,
almost mad insistence on the importance of the day's task had not its
ordinary force. They looked upon him from a standpoint apart, calmly,
dispassionately, as one looks on a petulant child. The grim call of
tragedy had lifted them above little mundane things.
Then swiftly between the white, strained face of the madman trying to
convince his heart that his mind had been right, and the fanatically
exalted rivermen, interposed the sanity of Radway. The old jobber faced
the men calmly, almost humorously, and somehow the very bigness of
the man commanded attention. When he spoke, his coarse, good-natured,
everyday voice fell through the tense situation, clarifying it,
restoring it to the normal.
“You fellows make me sick,” said he. “You haven't got the sense God gave
a rooster. Don't you see you're playing right in those fellows' hands?
What do you suppose they dynamited them dams for? To kill our boys?
Don't you believe it for a minute. They never dreamed we was dry pickin'
that jam. They sent some low-lived whelp down there to hang our drive,
and by smoke it looks like they was going to succeed, thanks to you
mutton-heads.
“'Spose you go over and take 'em apart; what then? You have a scrap;
probably you lick 'em.” The men growled ominously, but did not stir.
“You whale daylights out of a lot of men who probably don't know any
more about this here shooting of our dams than a hog does about a
ruffled shirt. Meanwhile your drive hangs. Well? Well? Do you suppose
the men who were back of that shooting, do you suppose Morrison and Daly
give a tinker's dam how many men of theirs you lick? What they want is
to hang our drive. If they hang our drive, it's cheap at the price of a
few black eyes.”
The speaker paused and grinned good-humoredly at the men's attentive
faces. Then suddenly his own became grave, and he swung into his
argument all the impressiveness of his great bulk,
“Do you want to know how to get even?” he asked, shading each word. “Do
you want to know how to make those fellows sing so small you can't hear
them? Well, I'll tell you. TAKE OUT THIS DRIVE! Do it in spite of them!
Show them they're no good when they buck up against Thorpe's One!
Our boys died doing their duty--the way a riverman ought to. NOW HUMP
YOURSELVES! Don't let 'em die in vain!”
The crew stirred uneasily, looking at each other for approval of the
conversion each had experienced. Radway, seizing the psychological
moment, turned easily toward the blaze.
“Better turn in, boys, and get some sleep,” he said. “We've got a hard
day to-morrow.” He stooped to light his pipe at the fire. When he had
again straightened his back after rather a prolonged interval, the group
had already disintegrated. A few minutes later the cookee scattered the
brands of the fire from before a sleeping camp.
Thorpe had listened non-committally to the colloquy. He had maintained
the suspended attitude of a man who is willing to allow the trial of
other methods, but who does not therefore relinquish his own. At the
favorable termination of the discussion he turned away without comment.
He expected to gain this result. Had he been in a more judicial state
of mind he might have perceived at last the reason, in the complicated
scheme of Providence, for his long connection with John Radway.