INTO THE WOODS
The upshot of Connie Morgan's interview with Hurley, the big red-shirted
camp boss, was that the boss hired him with the injunction to show up
bright and early the following morning, as the train that was to haul
the outfit to the Dogfish Spur would leave at daylight.
"'Tiz a foine job ye've got--wor-rkin' f'r forty dollars a month in yer
own timber," grinned big Mike Gillum, as he packed the tobacco into the
bowl of his black pipe, when the two found themselves once more seated
upon the Syndicate foreman's little veranda at the conclusion of the
evening meal.
Connie laughed. "Yes, but it will amount to a good deal more than forty
dollars a month if I can save the timber. We lost fourteen thousand
dollars last year because those logs got mixed. I don't see yet how he
worked it. You say the logs are all branded."
"Who knows what brands he put on 'em? Or, wuz they branded at all? They
wuz sorted in th' big river but the drive was fouled in the Dogfish.
S'pose the heft of your logs wuz branded wid the Syndicate brand--or no
brand at all? The wans that wuz marked for the Syndicate w'd go to
Syndicate mills, an' the wans that wuzn't branded w'd go into the pool,
to be awarded pro raty to all outfits that had logs in the drive."
"I'll bet the right brand will go onto them this year!" exclaimed the
boy.
Mike Gillum nodded. "That's what ye're there for. But, don't star-rt
nawthin' 'til way along towards spring. Jake Hurley's a boss that can
get out the logs--an' that's what you want. Av ye wuz to tip off yer
hand too soon, the best ye c'd do w'd be to bust up the outfit wid
nawthin' to show f'r the season's expenses. Keep yer eyes open an' yer
mout' shut. Not only ye must watch Hurley, but keep an eye on the
scaler, an' check up the time book, an' the supplies--av course ye c'n
only do the two last av he puts ye to clerking, an' Oi'm thinkin' that's
what he'll do. Ut's either clerk or cookee f'r you, an most an-ny wan
w'd do f'r a cookee."
The foreman paused, and Connie saw a twinkle in his eye as he continued:
"Ye see, sometimes a boss overestimates the number av min he's got
workin'. Whin he makes out the pay roll he writes in a lot av names av
min that's mebbe worked f'r him years back, an' is dead, or mebbe it's
just a lot av names av min that ain't lived yet, but might be born
sometime; thin whin pay day comes the boss signs the vouchers an' sticks
the money in his pockets. Moind ye, I ain't sayin' Hurley done that but
he'd have a foine chanct to, wid his owner way up in Alaska. An' now
we'll be goin' to bed f'r ye have to git up early. Oi'll be on Willow
River; av they's an-nything Oi c'n do, ye c'n let me know."
Connie thanked his friend, and before he turned in, wrote a letter to
his partner in Ten Bow:
"DEAR WASECHE:
"I'm O.K. How are you? Got the job. Don't write. Mike Gillum is
O. K. See you in the spring.
"Yours truly,
"C. MORGAN."
Before daylight Connie was at the siding where the two flat cars loaded
at Pine Hook, and two box cars that contained the supplies and the
horses were awaiting the arrival of the freight train that was to haul
them seventy miles to Dogfish Spur. Most of the crew was there before
him. Irishmen, Norwegians, Swedes, Frenchmen, and two or three Indians,
about thirty-five in all, swarmed upon the cars or sat in groups upon
the ground. Hurley was here, there, and everywhere, checking up his
crew, and giving the final round of inspection to his supplies.
A long whistle sounded, and the headlight of a locomotive appeared far
down the track. Daylight was breaking as the heavy train stopped to pick
up the four cars. Connie climbed with the others to the top of a box car
and deposited his turkey beside him upon the running board. The turkey
consisted of a grain sack tied at either end with a rope that passed
over the shoulder, and contained the outfit of clothing that Mike Gillum
had advised him to buy. The tops of the cars were littered with similar
sacks, their owners using them as seats or pillows.
As the train rumbled into motion and the buildings of the town dropped
into the distance, the conductor made his way over the tops of the cars
followed closely by Hurley. Together they counted the men and the
conductor checked the count with a memorandum. Then he went back to the
caboose, and Hurley seated himself beside Connie.
"Ever work in the woods?" he asked.
"No."
"Be'n to school much?"
"Yes, some."
"'Nough to figger up time books, an' keep track of supplies, an' set
down the log figgers when they're give to you?"
"I think so."
"Ye look like a smart 'nough kid--an' ye've got nerve, all right. I
tried to holler ye back when I seen ye swimmin' out to that canoe
yeste'day--I didn't think you could make it--that woman was a fool.
She'd ort to drownded. But, what I was gettin' at, is this: I'm a goin'
to put you to clerkin'. Clerkin' in a log camp is a good job--most
bosses was clerks onct. A clerk's s'posed to make hisself handy around
camp an' keep the books--I'll show you about them later. We're goin' in
early this year, 'cause I'm goin' to run two camps an' we got to lay
out the new one an' git it built. We won't start gittin' out no timber
for a month yet. I'll git things a goin' an' then slip down an' pick up
my crew."
"Why, haven't you got your crew?" Connie glanced at the men who lay
sprawled in little groups along the tops of the cars.
"Part of it. I'm fetchin' out thirty-five this time. That's 'nough to
build the new camp an' patch up the old one, but when we begin gittin'
out the logs, this here'll just about make a crew for the new camp. I
figger to work about fifty in the old one."
"Do you boss both camps?"
Hurly grinned. "Don't I look able?"
"You sure do," agreed the boy, with a glance at the man's huge bulk.
"They'll only be three or four miles apart, an' I'll put a boss in each
one, an' I'll be the walkin' boss." The cars jerked and swayed, as the
train roared through the jack pine country.
"I suppose this was all big woods once," ventured the boy.
"Naw--not much of it wasn't--not this jack pine and scrub spruce
country. You can gener'lly always tell what was big timber, an' what
wasn't. Pine cuttin's don't seed back to pine. These jack pines ain't
young pine--they're a different tree altogether. Years back, the
lumbermen wouldn't look at nawthin' but white pine, an' only the very
best of that--but things is different now. Yaller pine and spruce looks
good to 'em, an' they're even cuttin' jack pine. They work it up into
mine timbers, an' posts, an' ties, an' paper pulp. What with them an'
the pig iron loggers workin' the ridges, this here country'll grow up to
hazel brush, and berries, an' weeds, 'fore your hair turns grey."
"What are pig iron loggers?" asked the boy.
"The hardwood men. They git out the maple an' oak an' birch along the
high ground an' ridges--they ain't loggers, they jest think they are."
"You said pine cuttings don't seed back to pine?"
"Naw, it seems funny, but they don't. Old cuttin's grow up to popple and
scrub oak, like them with the red leaves, yonder; or else to hazel brush
and berries. There used to be a few patches of pine through this jack
pine country, but it was soon cut off. This here trac' we're workin' is
about as good as there is left. With a good crew we'd ort to make a big
cut this winter."
The wheels pounded noisily at the rail ends as the boss's eyes rested
upon the men who sat talking and laughing among themselves. "An'
speakin' of crews, this here one's goin' to need some cullin'." He fixed
his eyes on the boy with a look almost of ferocity. "An' here's another
thing that a clerk does, that I forgot to mention: He hears an' sees a
whole lot more'n he talks. You'll bunk in the shack with me an' the
scaler--an' what's talked about in there's _our_ business--d'ye git me?"
Connie returned the glance fearlessly. "I guess you'll know I can keep a
thing or two under my cap when we get better acquainted," he answered
The reply seemed to satisfy Hurley, who continued,
"As I was sayin', they's some of them birds ain't goin' to winter
through in no camp of mine. See them three over there on the end of that
next car, a talkin' to theirselfs. I got an idee they're I. W.
W.'s--mistrusted they was when I hired 'em."
"What are I. W. W.'s?" Connie asked.
"They're a gang of sneakin' cutthroats that call theirselfs the
Industrial Workers of the World, though why they claim they're workers
is more'n what any one knows. They won't work, an' they won't let no one
else work. The only time they take a job is when they think there's a
chanct to sneak around an' put the kibosh on whatever work is goin' on.
They tell the men they're downtrod by capital an' they'd ort to raise up
an' kill off the bosses an' grab everything fer theirselfs. Alongside of
them birds, rattlesnakes an' skunks is good companions."
"Aren't there any laws that will reach them?"
"Naw," growled Hurley in disgust. "When they git arrested an' convicted,
the rest of 'em raises such a howl that capital owns the courts, an' the
judges is told to hang all the workin' men they kin, an' a lot of rot
like that, till the governors git cold feet an' pardon them. If the
government used 'em right, it'd outlaw the whole kaboodle of 'em. Some
governors has got the nerve to tell 'em where to head in at--Washington,
an' California, an' Minnesota, too, is comin' to it. They're gittin' in
their dirty work in the woods--but believe me, they won't git away with
nothin' in my camps! I'm just a-layin' an' a-honin' to tear loose on
'em. Them three birds over there is goin' to need help when I git
through with 'em."
"Why don't you fire 'em now?"
"Not me. I _want_ 'em to start somethin'! I want to git a crack at 'em.
There's three things don't go in my camps--gamblin', booze, an' I. W.
W.'s. I've logged from the State of Maine to Oregon an' halfways back.
I've saw good camps an' bad ones a-plenty, an' I never seen no trouble
in the woods that couldn't be charged up ag'in' one of them three."
The train stopped at a little station and Hurley rose with a yawn.
"Guess I'll go have a look at the horses," he said, and clambered down
the ladder at the end of the car.
The boss did not return when the train moved on and the boy sat upon the
top of the jolting, swaying box car and watched the ever changing woods
slip southward. Used as he was to the wide open places, Connie gazed
spellbound at the dazzling brilliance of the autumn foliage. Poplar and
birch woods, flaunting a sea of bright yellow leaves above white trunks,
were interspersed with dark thickets of scarlet oak and blazing sumac,
which in turn gave place to the dark green sweep of a tamarack swamp,
or a long stretch of scrubby jack pine. At frequent intervals squared
clearings appeared in the endless succession of forest growth, where
little groups of cattle browsed in the golden stubble of a field. A
prim, white painted farmhouse, with its big red barn and its setting of
conical grain stacks would flash past, and again the train would plunge
between the walls of vivid foliage, or roar across a trestle, or whiz
along the shore of a beautiful land-locked lake whose clear, cold waters
sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight as the light breeze rippled its
surface.
Every few miles, to the accompaniment of shrieking brake shoes, the
train would slow to a stop, and rumble onto a siding at some little flat
town, to allow a faster train to hurl past in a rush of smoke, and dust,
and deafening roar, and whistle screams. Then the wheezy engine would
nose out onto the main track, back into another siding, pick up a box
car or two, spot an empty at the grain spout of a sagging red-brown
elevator, and couple onto the train again with a jolt that threatened to
bounce the cars from the rails, and caused the imprisoned horses to
stamp and snort nervously. The conductor would wave his arm and, after
a series of preliminary jerks that threatened to tear out the drawbars,
the train would rumble on its way.
At one of these stations a longer halt than usual was made while train
crew and lumberjacks crowded the counter of a slovenly little restaurant
upon whose fly swarming counter doughnuts, sandwiches, and pies of
several kinds reposed beneath inverted semispherical screens that served
as prisons for innumerable flies.
"The ones that wiggles on yer tongue is flies, an' the ones that don't
is apt to be blueberries," explained a big lumberjack to Connie as he
bit hugely into a wedge of purplish pie. Connie selected doughnuts and a
bespeckled sandwich which he managed to wash down with a few mouthfuls
of mud-coloured coffee, upon the surface of which floated soggy grounds
and flakes of soured milk.
"Flies is healthy," opined the greasy proprietor, noting the look of
disgust with which the boy eyed the filthy layout.
"I should think they would be. You don't believe in starving them,"
answered the boy, and a roar of laughter went up from the loggers who
proceeded to "kid" the proprietor unmercifully as he relapsed into
surly mutterings about the dire future in store for "fresh brats."
During the afternoon the poplar and birch woods and the flaming patches
of scarlet oak and sumac, gave place to the dark green of pines. The
farms became fewer and farther between, and the distance increased
between the little towns, where, instead of grain elevators, appeared
dilapidated sawmills, whose saws had long lain idle. Mere ghosts of
towns, these, whose day had passed with the passing of the timber that
had been the sole excuse for their existence. But, towns whose few
remaining inhabitants doggedly clung to their homes and assured each
other with pathetic persistence, as they grubbed in the sandy soil of
their stump-studded gardens, that with the coming of the farmers the
town would step into its own as the centre of a wonderfully prosperous
agricultural community. Thus did the residents of each dead little town
believe implicitly in the future of their own town, and prophesy with
jealous vehemence the absolute decadence of all neighbouring towns.
Toward the middle of the afternoon a boy, whom Connie had noticed
talking and laughing with the three lumberjacks Hurley suspected of
being I. W. W.'s, walked along the tops of the swaying cars and seated
himself beside him. Producing paper and tobacco he turned his back to
the wind and rolled a cigarette, which he lighted, and blew a cloud of
smoke into Connie's face. He was not a prepossessing boy, with his
out-bulging forehead and stooping shoulders. Apparently he was about two
years Connie's senior.
"Want the makin's?" he snarled, by way of introduction.
"No thanks. I don't smoke."
The other favoured him with a sidewise glance. "Oh, you don't, hey? My
name's Steve Motley, an' I'm a bear-cat--_me!_ I'm cookee of this here
camp--be'n in the woods goin' on two years. Ever work in the woods?"
Connie shook his head. "No," he answered, "I never worked in the woods."
"Whatcha done, then? You don't look like no city kid."
"Why, I've never done much of anything to speak of--just knocked around
a little."
"Well, you'll knock around some more 'fore you git through this winter.
We're rough guys, us lumberjacks is, an' we don't like greeners. I
'spect though, you'll be runnin' home to yer ma 'fore snow flies. It
gits forty below, an' the snow gits three foot deep in the woods."
Connie seemed unimpressed by this announcement, and Steve continued:
"They say you're goin' to do the clerkin' fer the outfit. Hurley, he
wanted me to do the clerkin', but I wouldn't do no clerkin' fer no man.
Keep all them different kind of books an' git cussed up one side an'
down t'other fer chargin' 'em up with somethin' they claim they never
got out'n the wanagan. Not on yer life--all I got to do is help the
cook. We're gettin' clost to Dogfish Spur now, an' the camp's
twenty-seven mile off'n the railroad. Guess you won't feel lost nor
nothin' when you git so far back in the big sticks, hey?"
Connie smiled. "That's an awfully long ways," he admitted.
"You bet it is! An' the woods is full of wolves an' bears, an' bobcats!
If I was figgerin' on quittin' I'd quit 'fore I got into the timber."
The train was slowing down, and Steve arose. "Y'ain't told me yer name,
greener! Y'better learn to be civil amongst us guys."
Connie met the bullying look of the other with a smile. "My name is
Connie Morgan," he said, quietly, "and, I forgot to mention it, but I
did hold down one job for a year."
"In the woods?"
"Well, not exactly. Over across the line it was."
"Acrost the line--in Canady? What was _you_ doin' in Canady?"
"Taming 'bear-cats' for the Government," answered the boy, dryly, and
rose to his feet just as Hurley approached, making his way over the tops
of the cars.
"You wait till I git holt of you!" hissed Steve, scowling. "You think
y're awful smart when y're around in under Hurley's nose. But I'll show
you how us guys handles the boss's pets when he ain't around." The boy
hurried away as Hurley approached.
"Be'n gittin' in his brag on ye?" grinned the boss, as his eyes followed
the retreating back. "He's no good--all mouth. But he's bigger'n what
you be. If he tries to start anything just lam him over the head with
anything that's handy. He'll leave you be, onct he's found out you mean
business."
"Oh, I guess we won't have any trouble," answered Connie, as he followed
Hurley to the ground.