HURLEY
With a long-drawn whistle the great trans-continental train ground to a
stop at a tiny town that consisted simply of a red painted depot, a huge
water tank, and a dozen or more low frame houses, all set in a little
clearing that was hardly more than a notch in one of the parallel walls
of pine that flanked the railroad. The coloured porter glanced
contemptuously out of the window and grumbled at the delay. The
conductor, a dapper little man of blue cloth and brass buttons, bustled
importantly down the aisle and disappeared through the front door.
Connie raised his window and thrust his head out. Other heads protruded
from the long line of coaches, and up in front men were swinging from
the platforms to follow the trainmen who were hurrying along the sides
of the cars. Connie arose and made his way forward. Two days and nights
in the cramped quarters of the car had irked the boy, used as he was to
the broad, open places, and it was with a distinct feeling of relief
that he stepped to the ground and breathed deeply of the pine-scented
air.
Upon a siding stood several flat cars onto which a dozen or more roughly
dressed men were busily loading gear and equipment under the eye of a
massive-framed giant of a man in a shirt of brilliant red flannel, who
sat dangling his legs from the brake wheel of the end car. A stubble of
red beard covered the man's undershot jaw. The visor of a greasy plush
cap, pushed well back upon his head, disclosed a shock of red hair that
nearly met the shaggy eyebrows beneath which a pair of beady eyes kept
tab on the movements of his crew. To the stalled train, and the people
who passed close beside him, the man gave no heed.
Up ahead, some eight or ten rods in front of the monster engine that
snorted haughty impatience to be gone, Connie saw the cause of the
delay. A heavy, underslung logging wagon was stalled directly upon the
tracks, where it remained fixed despite the efforts of the four big
horses that were doing their utmost to move it in response to a loud
string of abusive epithets and the stinging blows of a heavy whip which
the driver wielded with the strength of a husky arm. A little knot of
men collected about the wagon, and the driver, abandoning his vain
attempt to start the load, addressed the crowd in much the same language
he had used toward the horses. The train conductor detached himself from
the group and hurried toward the flat cars.
"Hey, you," he piped, "are you the boss of this crew?"
The huge man upon the brake wheel paid him no heed, but bawled a profane
reprimand for the misplacing of a coil of wire line.
"Hey, you, I say!" The little conductor was fairly dancing impatience.
"You, Red Shirt! Are you the boss?"
The wire line having been shifted to suit him, the other condescended to
glare down into the speaker's face. "I be--what's loose with you?"
"Get that wagon off the track! You've held us up ten minutes already!
It's an outrage!"
"Aw, go chase yersilf! Whad'ye s'pose I care av yer tin minutes late, er
tin hours? I've got trouble av me own."
"You get that wagon moved!" shrilled the conductor. "You're obstructing
the United States mail, and I guess you know what that means!"
Reference to the mail evidently had its effect upon the boss, for he
very deliberately clambered to the ground and made his way leisurely
toward the stalled wagon. "Give 'em the gad, ye wooden head! What ye
standin' there wid yer mout' open fer?"
Once more the driver plied his heavy lash and the big horses strained to
the pull. But it was of no avail.
"They can't pull it, it ain't any good to lick 'em," remonstrated the
engineer. "A couple of you boys climb up and throw some of that stuff
off. We can't wait here all day."
The fireman and the brakeman started toward the load, but were
confronted by the glowering boss. "Ye'll lay off a couple av trips while
they fan ye back to life, av ye try ut!" he roared. The men turned back,
and the boss addressed the engineer. "You try ut yersilf, av ye're
lookin' fer a nice little lay-off in the hospital. Av ye lay here all
day an' all night, too, ye've got no wan but yer company to thank. Who
was ut put them rotten planks in that crossin'?"
The engineer possessed a certain diplomacy that the conductor did not.
"Sure, it's the company's fault. Any one can see that. They've got no
business putting such rotten stuff into their crossings. I didn't want
to butt in on you, boss, but if you'll just tell us what to do we'll
help you get her out of there."
The boss regarded him with suspicion, but the engineer was smiling in a
friendly fashion, and the boss relented a little. "Mostly, ut's the
company's fault, but partly ut's the fault av that blockhead av a
teamster av mine. He ain't fit to drive a one-horse phaeton fer an owld
woman's home." While the boss talked he eyed the stalled wagon
critically. "Come over here, a couple av you sleepwalkers!" he called,
and when the men arrived from the flat cars, he ripped out his orders
almost in a breath. "Git a plank befront that hind wheel to ride ut over
the rail! You frog-eater, there, that calls yersilf a teamster--cramp
them horses hard to the right! Freeze onto the spokes now, ye sons av
rest, an' ROLL 'ER!" Once more the big horses threw their weight into
the traces, and the men on the wheels lifted and strained but the wagon
held fast. For a single instant the boss looked on, then with a growl
he leaped toward the wagon.
"Throw the leather into 'em, Frenchy! Make thim leaders pull up!"
Catching the man on the offending hind wheel by the shoulder he sent him
spinning to the side of the track, and stooping, locked his thick
fingers about a spoke, set his great shoulder against the tire and with
legs spread wide, heaved upward. The load trembled, hesitated an
instant, and moved slowly, the big boss fairly lifting the wheel up the
short incline. A moment later it rolled away toward the flat cars,
followed by the boss and his crew.
"Beef and bluff," grinned Connie to himself as the crowd of passengers
returned to the coaches.
Connie found Mike Gillum busily stowing potatoes in an underground root
cellar. "He's almost as big as the man with the red shirt," thought the
boy as he watched Mike read the note Waseche Bill had given him before
he left Ten Bow.
The man paused in the middle to stare incredulously at the boy. "D'ye
mane," he asked, in his rich Irish brogue, "thot ut's yersilf's the
pardner av Waseche Bill--a kid loike you, the pardner av _him_?"
Connie laughed; and unconsciously his shoulders stiffened. "Yes," he
answered proudly, "we've been partners for two years."
Still the man appeared incredulous. "D'ye mane ye're the wan thot he wuz
tellin' thrailed him beyant the Ogilvies into the Lillimuit? An' put in
the time whilst he wuz in the hospital servin' wid the Mounted? Moind
ye, lad, Oi've be'n in the Narth mesilf, an' Oi know summat av it's
ways."
"Yes, but maybe Waseche bragged me up more than----"
Mike Gillum interrupted him by thrusting forth a grimy hand. "Br-ragged
ye up, is ut! An-ny one thot c'n do the things ye've done, me b'y, don't
nade no braggin' up. Ut's proud Oi am to know ye--Waseche towld me ye
wuz ondly a kid, but Oi had in me moind a shtrappin' young blade av
mebbe ut's twinty-foor or -five, not a wee shtrip av a lad loike ye.
Come on in the house till Oi wash up a bit, thim praties has got me back
fair bruk a'ready."
The big Irishman would not hear of the boy's putting up at a hotel, and
after supper the two sat upon the foreman's little veranda that
overlooked the river and talked until far into the night.
"So ye've got to kape yer oye on um, lad," the Irishman concluded, after
a long discourse upon the ins and outs, and whys and wherefores of the
logging situation on Dogfish. "Ut's mesilf'll give you all the help Oi
can, faylin' raysponsible fer sindin' him to Waseche. There's divilmint
in the air fer this winter. The Syndicate's goin' to put a camp on
Dogfish below ye, same as last winter. Oi've wor-rked fer um long enough
to know ut's only to buck you folks they're doin' ut, fer their plans
wuz not to do an-ny cuttin' on the Dogfish tract fer several years to
come. Whin Oi heard they wuz goin' to put a camp there Oi applied fer
the job av bossin' ut, but they towld me Oi wuz nayded over on Willow
River." Mike Gillum knocked the dottle from his pipe and grinned
broadly. "'Twuz a complimint they paid me," he said. "They know me loike
Oi know thim--av there's crooked wor-ruk to be done in a camp, they take
care that Oi ain't the boss av ut. But Willow River is only tin miles
back--due narth av the McClusky tract."
[Illustration: MIKE GILLUM TOOK CONNIE TO THE RIVER WHERE MILES OF BOOMS
HELD MILLIONS OF FEET OF LOGS]
The next morning Mike Gillum took Connie to the river where miles of
booms held millions of feet of logs which awaited their turn at the
sawmills whose black smoke belched from stacks at some distance
downstream where the river plunged over the apron of the dam in a mad
whirl of white water.
"How can they tell which mill the logs are to go to?" asked the boy, as
he gazed out over the acres of boomed timber.
"Each log carries uts mark, they're sorted in the river. We'll walk on
down where ye c'n see um jerked drippin' to the saws."
"Does Hurley live here?" asked Connie, as the two followed the river
bank toward the dam.
"Naw, he lives at Pine Hook, down the road a ways. Ut's about time he
wuz showin' up, though. He lays in his supplies an' fills in his crew
here. He towld me last spring he wuz goin' to run two camps this
winter." They were close above the dam and had to raise their voices to
make themselves heard above the roar of the water that dashed over the
apron.
"Look!" cried Connie, suddenly, pointing toward a slender green canoe
that floated in the current at a distance of a hundred yards or so from
shore, and the same distance above the falls. "There's a woman in it and
she's in trouble!" The big Irishman looked, shading his eyes with his
hands.
"She's losin' ground!" he exclaimed. "She's caught in the suck av the
falls!" The light craft was pointed upstream and the woman was paddling
frantically, but despite her utmost efforts the canoe was being drawn
slowly toward the brink of the white water apron.
With a roar the big Irishman sprang to the water's edge and raced up the
bank toward a tiny wharf to which were tied several skiffs with their
oars in the locks. Connie measured the distance with his eye. "He'll
never make it!" he decided, and jerking off coat and shoes, rushed to
the water. "Keep paddling, ma'am!" he called at the top of his lungs,
and plunged in. With swift, sure strokes the boy struck out for the
canoe. The woman saw him coming and redoubled her efforts.
"Come back, ye idiot!" bellowed a voice from the bank, but Connie did
not even turn his head. He had entered the water well upstream from the
little craft, and the current bore him down upon it as he increased his
distance from shore. A moment later he reached up and grasped the
gunwale. "Keep paddling!" he urged, as he drew himself slowly over the
bow, at the same time keeping the canoe in perfect balance. "Where's
your other paddle?" he shouted.
"There's--only--this," panted the woman.
"Give it here!" cried the boy sharply, "and lie flat in the bottom!
We've got to go over the dam!"
"No, no, no!" shrieked the woman, "we'll be killed! Several----"
With a growl of impatience, Connie wrenched the paddle from her hands.
"Lie down, or I'll knock you down!" he thundered, and with a moan of
terror the woman sank to the bottom of the canoe. Kneeling low, the boy
headed the frail craft for a narrow strip of water that presented an
unbroken, oily surface as it plunged over the apron. On either hand the
slope showed only the churning white water. Connie gave one glance
toward the bank where a little knot of men had collected, and the next
moment the canoe shot, head on, straight over the brink of the falls.
For an instant it seemed to hang suspended with half its length hanging
over, clear of the water. Then it shot downward to bury its bow in the
smother of boiling churning, white water at the foot of the apron. For
a moment it seemed to Connie as though the canoe were bound to be
swamped. It rolled loggily causing the water it had shipped to slosh
over the clothing and face of the limp form of the woman in the bottom.
The boy was afraid she would attempt to struggle free of it, but she lay
perfectly still. She had fainted. The canoe hesitated for a moment,
wobbling uncertainly, as the overroll at the foot of the falls held it
close against the apron, then it swung heavily into the grip of an eddy
and Connie at length succeeded in forcing it toward the bank, wallowing
so low in the water that the gunwales were nearly awash.
Eager hands grasped the bow as it scraped upon the shore, and while the
men lifted the still form from the bottom, Connie slipped past them and
made his way to the place he had left his coat and shoes.
Mike Gillum met him at the top of the bank.
"Arrah! Me laddie, ut's a gr-rand thrick ye pulled! No wan but a
_tillicum_ av the Narth country c'ud of done ut! Oi see fer mesilf how
ut come ye're the pardner av Waseche Bill. Av Oi had me doubts about yer
bitin' off more thin ye c'ud chaw wid Hurley, Oi've got over 'em, now,
an'--" He stopped abruptly and glanced toward the river. "Shpakin' av
Hurley--there he comes, now!" he whispered, and Connie glanced up to see
a huge man advancing toward them at the head of a little group that
approached from the point where he had landed the canoe. The boy stared
in amazement--it was the red-shirted giant of the stalled wagon.
"So that's Hurley," said he, quietly. "Well, here's where I strike him
for a job."