THE DEVIL OF THE HEMPEN STRANDS
"When the snub-line parts and the great load starts
There's nothing that men may do,
Except to cower with quivering hearts
While the wreck goes thundering through."
--The Ballad of Tumbledick.
Days of winter snow and blow; days of sunshine, hard and cold as the
radiance from a diamond's facets; days of calm and days of tempest; days
when the snowflakes dropped as straight as plummets, and days when the
whirlwinds danced in crazy rigadoons down the valleys or spun like
dervishes on the mountain-tops! And all were days of honest, faithful
toil in the black growth of Enchanted, and the days brought the
dreamless sleep o' nights that labor won.
In those long evenings hope lighted a taper that shone brightly beside
the lantern of the office camp in whose dull beams Dwight Wade wrote
long and earnest letters. But these were not to John Barrett's daughter;
the conditions of their waiting love had tacitly closed the mail between
them.
Again Dwight Wade, in the honesty of his soul, had seen a light of hope
that contrasted cheerily with the red glare of might against might which
made his decency quail. He saw a chance to win as a man, not as a thug.
The most brilliant young attorney of the newer generation in the State
had been Wade's college mate. To him Wade detailed in those long
letters the iniquitous conditions that fettered independent operators in
the north country, and gave the case into his enthusiastic keeping. It
meant digging into the black heart of the State's political corruption,
timber graft, and land steals. It was a task that the young attorney,
with earnest zeal and new ideals of civic honor, had long before entered
upon. He seized upon this store of new ammunition with delight, and Wade
rejoiced at the tenor of his replies. That the law and the right would
intervene in Blunder valley to preserve him from a conflict in which he
must use the shameful weapons selected by Britt for the duello was a
promise that he cherished. And thus heartened, he toiled more eagerly.
It was well into February before they began to haul their logs to the
landing-place on Blunder Stream. But even with an estimated five
millions to dump upon the ice of Blunder, time was ample, for the
snub-line down the steep quarter-mile of Enchanted's shoulder made a
cut-off that doubled the efficiency of the teams. It was the crux of the
situation, that snubbing-pitch. With its desperate dangers, its
uncertainties, its celerity, it was ominous and it was fascinating. But
it was the big end of the great game. Dwight Wade made himself its
captain. Tommy Eye, master of horses, came into his own and was his
lieutenant.
Those two trudged there together in the gray of the dawn; they trudged
back together in the chilled dusk, still trembling with the racking
strain of it all.
Wade, cant-dog in hand, stood beside the snubbing-post and gave the word
for every load to start, and watched every inch of its progress with
tense muscles and pounding heart. Tommy Eye mounted the load and took
the reins from the deposed driver as each team came to the top of the
pitch; and the snorting, fearing horses seemed to know his master touch,
and in blind faith went into their collars and floundered down under
the fateful looming of the great load. Thus, every hour of the day,
Tommy Eye silently, boldly ventured his life in the interests of the man
who had once saved it, and Dwight Wade watched over his safety from the
top of the slope. No word passed between the two. But they understood.
There was no other man in the north country with the soothing voice, the
assuring touch on the reins, and the mystic power to inspire confidence
in dumb brutes--no other man that could bring the qualities that Tommy
Eye brought to his task, coupled with the blind courage to perform. The
horses turned their heads to make sure that he held the reins and was
adventuring with them. Then they went on.
The snubbing-post was a huge beech, sawed to leave four feet of stump.
It had been adzed to the smoothness of an axe-handle. The three-inch
hawser clasped it with four turns, and two men, whose hands were
protected by huge leather mittens, kept the squalling coils loosened and
paid out the slack, when the cable was hooked to the load of logs on its
way down the slope in order to hold it back. And when the coils yanked
themselves loose and the rope ran too swiftly, even making the leather
mittens smoke, Wade, with his cant-dog, threw the hawser hard against
the stump and checked it. It was a trick that Tommy Eye taught him, and
it required muscle and snap. At the instant of peril he drove his
cant-dog's iron nose into the roots of the stump, surged back on his
lever, and pinched the rope between post and ash handle of the tool.
Friction checked and held the load, but it was muscle-stretching,
back-breaking labor.
And all the time there was the rope to watch to make sure that no rock's
edge or sharp stick had severed a strand, for broken strands uncoil like
a spring under the mighty strain. There were the flipping bights of the
coiled hawser to guard against as the men paid it out. Men are caught
by those bights and ground to horrible death against the snubbing-post.
In time that rope came to have sentiency in the eyes of Wade. Some days
it seemed to be possessed by the spirit of evil. It would not run
smoothly. It fed out by jerks, getting more and more of slack at each
jump. It began to sway and vibrate between post and load, a wider arc
with every jerk, a gigantic cello-string booming horrible music. It
snarled on the post; it growled grim and sinister warning along its
tense length. So terrible are these wordless threats that men have been
known to surrender in panic, flee from the snubbing-post, and let
destruction wreak its will. Hence the silent and understanding
partnership between Tommy Eye, shadowed by death on the load, and Dwight
Wade fiercely alert at the snubbing-post.
There came a day when the spirit of evil had full sway.
The weather was hard, with gray skies and a bone-searching chill. The
hawser, made smooth as glass by attrition, was steely and stiff with the
cold. It had new voices. Once it leaped so viciously at the legs of one
of the post-men that he gave a yell and ran. In the tumult of his
passion and fear Wade cursed the caitiff, his own legs in the swirl of
the bights, his cant-dog nipping the rope to the post and checking it
short. And far down the slope Tommy Eye, his teeth hard shut on his
tobacco, waited without turning his head, a mute picture of utter
confidence.
It was while Wade held the line, waiting for the men to re-coil the
hawser into safe condition to run, that the Honorable Pulaski Britt
appeared. He came trotting his horses down the Enchanted main road and
jerked them to a halt at the top of the pitch. Two men were with him on
the jumper. Each wore the little blue badge of a game warden.
"We are after a man named Thomas Eye, of your crew," said one of the
men, catching Wade's inquiring gaze. "We've traced that cow-moose
killing to him--the Cameron case."
For an instant Wade's heart went sick, and then it went wild. Such an
impudent, barefaced plot to rob him of an invaluable man at this crisis
in his affairs seemed impossible to credit. It was vengefulness run mad,
gone puerile.
"Mr. Britt has signed the complaint and has the witnesses," said the
warden. "We've got a warrant and we'll have to take the man."
"And there he is on that load," said the Honorable Pulaski, pointing his
whip-butt.
"Hold that line, men," commanded Wade, coming away from the post. "Tommy
Eye has not been out of my camp, wardens. He is absolutely indispensable
to me. He has killed no moose. But if it can be proven I'll pay his
fine."
"It takes a trial to prove it," said the warden, dryly. "That's why
we're after him."
"Britt, I didn't think you'd get down to this," stormed the young man.
"I'm not a game warden," retorted the baron of the Umcolcus. "You're
dealin' with them, not me."
He sat, slicing his whip-lash into the snow, and watched the young man's
bitter anger with huge enjoyment. And when Wade seemed unable to frame a
suitable retort he went on: "If you think I've got anything to do with
taking that crack teamster out of your crew, you'd better thank me.
Anything that interferes with your landing your logs in a blind pocket
like Blunder Stream is a godsend to you and Rod Ide." His temper began
to flame. "What do you think you're going to do there? Do you calculate
to steal any of my water? Do you think that whipper-snapper whelp of a
lawyer that you've set yappin' at our heels is goin' to spin a thread
for you against the men that have run this section for thirty years? If
you've only got the law bug in your head, give it up. But if you have
the least sneakin' idea of troublin' that dam up there"--he shook his
fist into the north--"coil your snub-line and save time and money; for,
by the eternal Jehovah, blood will run in that valley before water
does!"
In the pause that followed one of the wardens asked, "Do you propose to
resist the arrest of Eye, Mr. Wade?"
The question was an incautious one. In a flash the young man saw that
this last sortie of the Honorable Pulaski was not so much an adventure
against Tommy Eye as against himself--with intent to embroil him with
the officers of the law. That might mean more trouble than he dared
reflect upon. He had a very definite apprehension of what the legal
machinery of Britt and his associates might do to him if he afforded any
pretence for their procedure.
One of the wardens dropped off the jumper at a word from Britt, and the
timber baron urged his horses down the slope, the other officer
accompanying him.
Tommy Eye sat on his load, still with gaze patiently to the front,
waiting in serene confidence the convenience of his employer. That back
turned to Wade was the back of the humble confider, the back of the
martyr. In his sudden trepidation at thought of his own imperilled
interests, were he himself enmeshed in the law, Wade had thought to
leave Tommy's possible fate alone. But now, almost without reflection or
plan, he ran down the hill. The martyr's serene obliviousness struck a
pang to his heart. In those days of strife and toil and understanding
Tommy Eye had grown dear to him. Britt, turning, yelled to the officer
at the top of the slope, "Give that snub-line a half-hitch and hold that
load!"
A bit of a rock shelf broadened the road where the logs were halted.
Britt lashed his horses around in front of the load with apparent intent
to intimidate Tommy. The warden dropped off the jumper and shut off
retreat in the rear. And Wade, running swiftly, carrying his cant-dog,
came and leaped upon the load and stood above Tommy--his protecting
genius, but a genius who had no very clear idea of what he was about to
do.
No one ever explained exactly how it happened!
The warden, who was at the top of the pitch and who did it, gazed a
moment, saw what he had done, and fled with a howl of abject terror,
never to appear on Enchanted again. The men at the snub-post stated
afterwards that he came to them, hearing Pulaski Britt's orders, elbowed
them aside with an oath, and took the hawser. He probably undertook to
loosen the coils to make a half-hitch; but a game warden has no business
with a snub-line when the devil is in it.
It gave one triumphant shriek at its release, and then--"Toom! Toom!
Toom!"--it began to sing its horrible bass note. It was slipping faster
and faster around the snubbing-post under the strain of Tommy Eye's
load, which it had been holding back.
Tommy Eye knew without looking--knew without understanding. He
knew--that most terrible knowledge of all woods terrors--that he was
"sluiced." He screamed once--only once--and the horses came into their
collars. Their hot breath was on the back of Pulaski Britt's neck when
he started--started with a hoarse oath above which sang the shrill yelp
of his whip-lash, and behind him, on the icy slope, slid the great load
of logs now released from anchorage to the snubbing-post and guided only
by the nerve of Tommy Eye.
"Jump, Mr. Wade! Jump!" gasped the teamster. But Wade drove the peak of
his cant-dog into a log and clung to the upright handle. He looked
back. The great hawser spun itself off the spindle of the post and
chased down the hill in spirals, utterly loose and free.
It was no dare-devil spirit that held him on the load. His soul was sick
with horrible fear. It was something that was almost subconsciousness
that kept him there. Perhaps it was pity--pity for Tommy Eye, so brave a
martyr at his post of duty. In the flash of that instant when the great
load gathered speed he stiffened himself to leap, then he looked at
Tommy's patched coat and remembered his oft-repeated little boast: "I've
never left my hosses yet!" And so if Tommy could stay with his horses,
he, Dwight Wade, could stay with Tommy! There was a queer thrill in his
breast and the sting of sudden tears in his eyes as he decided.
The first rush of the descent was along an incline, steep but even.
There were benches below--each shelf ten feet or so of jutting
level--that broke the descent. Wade saw the jumper of Pulaski Britt
strike the first bench. The old man went off the seat into the air, and
when he fell he dropped his reins, clutched the seat, and kneeled,
facing the pursuers, his face ghastly with terror. He crouched there,
not daring to turn. Even if he had held his reins they would have been
as useless in his hands as strips of fog. Ledges and trees hemmed either
side. There was only the narrow road for his flying horses, and they ran
straight on, needing neither whip nor admonitions.
The groan of five thousand feet of timber chafing the bind-chains when
their great load struck the shelf was like the groan of an animal in
agony. The chains held. It was Tommy who had seen to every link and
every loop. Then, for the first time in his life, Wade heard the scream
of horses in mortal fear. The lurch of the forward sled lifted the pole,
and for one dreadful instant both animals kicked free and clear in air.
Tommy Eye shot two words at them like bullets. "Steady, boys!" he
yelled. His head was hunched between his shoulders. His arms were
out-stretched and rigid. Tommy Eye, master of horses! It was his lift on
the bits at just the fraction of a second when they needed it that set
them on their feet when the pole dropped. And down the next descent they
swooped.
From his height Wade looked straight into the eyes of Pulaski Britt. It
seemed that with every plunge of their hoofs Tommy Eye's horses would
smash that puffy face. The checks of the benches, when the huge load
struck and staggered from time to time, allowed Britt's lighter equipage
a little start. But the mighty projectile that drove on him down the
smooth slopes gained with every yard, for the thrusting pole swept the
horses off their feet in plunge after plunge. And then it was Tommy
Eye's desperate coolness that helped them to their infrequent footing.
All of the man's face that Wade could see was a ridged jaw muscle above
the faded collar of his coat. The peak of his cap hid all but that.
There was a curve at the foot of the snub slope. The wall of trees that
closed the vista was disaster spelled by bolled trunk and sturdy limb.
There stood the nether millstone: the upper was rushing down, and the
grist would be flesh of horses and men. No man could see any other
alternative. That horses, shaken every now and then on the up-cocked
pole as helplessly as kittens, could bring that load around the curve
was not a hope; it could be nothing but a dream of desperation.
As to what Tommy Eye dreamed or thought, his passenger had no hint.
There was only the patch of cheek showing under the tilted cap. But the
reins were just as tight, the out-stretched arms just as steady. Wade
crouched low, his eyes on that rigid jaw muscle.
Suddenly, with a yell like the cry of something wild, Eye sprang to his
feet, bestriding the logs, bracing himself for some mighty effort. They
were at the Curve of Death! There came a surge on the tight reins, eight
hoofs dug the snow in one frantic thrust, and they went around--they
went around! With horses and driver straining to one side the great load
pitched, swerved, and, after one breathless instant, swept on in the
road around the curve.
Twenty rods farther on they struck the hay, spread thickly for the
trig--the checking of the runners. And the sled-runners, biting
it, jerked and halted, the bind-chains creaked, the chafing logs
groaned--and they were stopped! The lathering horses stood with legs
wide spraddled, their heads lowered, their snorting noses puffing up
the snow.
Tommy Eye dug the tobacco from his cheek and thoughtfully tossed it
away. Britt's team had disappeared, reins dragging, the horses running
madly, the whitened, puffy face flashing one last look as it winked out
of sight among the trees.
"I've dreamed of such a thing as this," observed Tommy, at last, a
strange tremor in his tones. "I've dreamed of chasin' old P'laski Britt,
me settin' on five thousand feet of wild timber and lookin' down into
his face and seein' him a-wonderin' whether they'd let him into the
front door of hell or make him go around to the back. It's the first
time he was ever run good and plenty, and I done it--but," he sighed,
"it was damnation whilst it lasted!"
He turned now and gazed long and wistfully at Wade.
"Ye stuck by me, didn't ye, Mr. Wade?" he said, softly. "Stuck by me
jest like I was a friend, and not old, drunken Tommy Eye! I reckon we'll
shake on that!" And when they clasped hands he asked, with the wistful,
inexpressible pathos of his simple devotion to duty: "What was it all
about? I jest only know they sluiced me!"
And Wade gasped an explanation, Tommy Eye staring at him with wrinkling
brows and squinting eyes.
"Come to arrest me for northin' I hadn't done?" he shrilled. "Come to
take me off'n a job where I was needed, and where I was earnin' my
honest livin'?"
"They had the warrant, and Britt swore out the lying complaint."
"Mr. Wade," said Tommy, after a solemn pause, "I've done a lot of things
in this life to be ashamed of--but jest gittin' drunk, that's all. I
ain't never done a crime. But jest now, if it hadn't been for that
toss-up between supper in camp or hot broth in tophet to-night, I'd be
travellin' down-country, pulled away from you when you need me worst,
and all on account of P'laski Britt. If that's the chances an honest man
runs in this world, I'm an outlaw from now on!"
Wade stared at him in amazement, for there was a queer significance in
Tommy's tone.
"An outlaw!" repeated Tommy, slapping his breast. "Yes, s'r, I'm an
outlaw! An outlaw so fur as P'laski Britt is concerned. I've showed him
I can run him! Did you see him lookin' at me? He'll dream of me after
this when he has the nightmare."
He took Wade by the arm.
"I 'ain't been sayin' much, Mr. Wade, but I see how things are gettin'
ready to move in this valley. You ain't built for an outlaw. But you
need one in your business. I'm the one from now on."
He pulled his thin hand out of his mitten and shook it towards the north
in the direction in which Blunder Lake lay.
"You need an outlaw in your business, I say! I'm tough from now on. I'll
be so tough in April that you'll have to discharge me. There's no
knowin' what an outlaw will do, is there, Mr. Wade? I'd ruther go to
jail as an outlaw than as a drunk, like I've done every summer. They
look up to outlaws. They make drunks scrub the floors and empty the
slops." His voice trembled. "Oh, you needn't worry, Mr. Wade! I'll be
proud to be an outlaw. And I ain't northin' but old Tommy Eye, anyway."
He slid down off the load and went between the horses' heads, and
fondled them and kissed them above their eyes.
"Brace up, old fellers!" he said. "You won't have to pull no more
to-day. I reckon you've done your stunt!"
"I--I don't understand this outlaw business, Tommy," stammered Wade,
looking down on him from the load. Tommy peered up, his head between the
shaggy manes of the horses.
"Don't you try to, Mr. Wade!" he cried, earnestly. "There ain't no good
in tryin' to understand outlaws. They ain't no kind to hitch up to very
close. Don't you try to understand them!" And as he bent to unhook the
trace-chains he muttered to himself: "I ain't sure as I understand much
about 'em myself, but there's one outlawin' job that it's come to my
mind can be done without takin' private lessons off'n Jesse James, or
whoever is topnotcher in the line just now. In the mean time, let's see
that warden try to arrest me!"
But as days went by it became apparent that the wardens and the
Honorable Pulaski D. Britt considered that they had precipitated an
affair on Enchanted whose possible consequences they did not care to
face.