THE TREASURE
“You mean to say you really own the timber yourself, Father?” Tom
cried, almost stupefied. For just a moment he had the idea that his
father’s mind had become slightly deranged; but Mr. Jackson’s
practical and competent manner, growing more vigorous every minute,
put that idea to flight.
“Of course I do. Armstrong knows all about it. What a pity you
didn’t tell him when you were in town! But it can’t be helped. We’re
not too late—I hope. What has that Harrison done toward lifting the
walnut?”
“Not very much, when I left, three days ago. I think he’d just got
to work. They had dug out quite a number of the logs.”
“How many men did he have? How many teams? You don’t know? You
should have found out, Tom. Anyhow, it’ll be a matter of weeks to
get all that lumber up and raft or haul it away. But we don’t want
him to have any claim for salvage against us. We must get on the
spot the first minute we can. We’ll start for Coboconk at once, my
boy.”
“Let me go alone, Father. Give me authority to act for you. You’re
not strong enough to go into the woods.”
“I guess I’m plenty strong enough when there’s something really to
be done,” laughed the old lumberman. “It was doing nothing that was
killing me—sitting still and seeing nothing but ruin. No, this is
just the medicine I want.”
Tom still felt dubious, but Mr. Jackson insisted on action.
“I don’t see why we can’t start to-morrow,” he said. “We can get our
outfit and men at Ormond. I guess that’s the nearest railway point
to the lake.”
“I thought Oakley was the nearest.”
“Oakley’s down the river—thirty-five miles or so, isn’t it? And we
couldn’t take teams up the river in canoes. Ormond is straight west
from the Coboconk lakes, only twenty miles, and there’s a logging
road, or used to be. That’s the way you go to Phil’s ranch. You
can’t teach me much about that district, Tom. Just wait till we get
out there.”
Tom’s mother was astounded, half an hour later, to find Mr. Jackson
walking briskly up and down the balcony arm in arm with his son,
talking with enthusiasm about business matters. Mr. Jackson laughed
at her alarm; he declared he felt a hundred per cent. better
already, and, in fact, he presently ate a better lunch than he had
eaten for a long time. Afterward, however, he consented to take his
prescribed nap, and while he was sleeping Tom detailed the new
enterprise to his mother. On her suggestion Tom went to consult the
doctor who was attending his father. For a dangerously sick man to
start suddenly upon the trail did seem a risky experiment.
“This may be just the thing he needs,” said the physician, after
listening to Tom’s tale. “Inaction and worry were the hardest things
on him. He hasn’t any real disease at all. Make him travel as
comfortably as possible, and try to keep him from overexerting
himself, and you may bring him back cured.”
Tom did not tell his father about this visit to the doctor, but he
was able to throw himself into the preparations with a much better
conscience. They did not, however, leave for a day or two. It was
not so very far to the Coboconk district, but it was a very
circuitous journey by rail. They had to go half-way to Toronto and
then back upon a branch line to reach Ormond, and it was late in the
afternoon when they at last got off at that backwoods village. The
timber treasure lay only twenty-two miles to the east, but it was
twenty-two miles of dense second-growth forest penetrated only by
the almost disused logging roads.
Ormond was a village of two-score houses and a store or two, larger
than Oakley but not now so flourishing. Once this district had been
the seat of a thriving lumber industry; Mr. Jackson had worked over
it before setting up in Toronto; but most of the pine had been long
ago cut, and dull times had come upon Ormond. But Tom was astonished
to find his father well known and remembered there still. The
proprietor of the hotel, elderly, bearded, and rough, stared at his
guests for a moment, and then uttered a shout of recognition.
“Jumping crickets! If it ain’t Matt Jackson!”
Mr. Jackson shook the hotel man’s hand heartily.
“I didn’t know you were up here yet, Andrews,” he said. “I used to
know Mr. Andrews well, years ago, when I was lumbering around
Coboconk,” he said to Tom. “I expect there may be some of my old
lumber-jacks here still. If there are they’re just what we need now.
I’ve got a little timber proposition on,” he added to the
proprietor.
“Sure, I’ll find ye some of the boys,” exclaimed Andrews. “They’ll
be powerful glad to work for ye again, too—the more as jobs is
scarce around Ormond these days.”
Tom went up to his room to wash, pleased immensely at the reception
they had received. Coming down again, he found his father in
animated conversation with a group of old residents, and looking
more alive and interested than he had seen him for years. Mr.
Jackson was tired, indeed, and went early to bed that night; but he
was far from exhausted by the journey, and was up the next morning
before his son.
Tom found his father down-stairs, consulting with a big, roughly
dressed fellow, bull-necked and huge-chested. His hair was grizzling
a little, but his strength appeared noway abated with years, and he
treated the lumber merchant with marked deference.
“This is Joe Lynch—Big Joe, they used to call him, and likely do
yet,” said Mr. Jackson. “He’s one of the best bushmen in the north,
and it isn’t the first time he’s worked for me. He’ll be our foreman
now, and he thinks he can pick up six or eight men for us right
away. We want to get started at once. Teams and supplies can come on
later. Remember, Joe,” he added, “I want men who wouldn’t be afraid
of a little trouble. Not roughs, you know, but fellows who can fight
if they need to. Maybe there’ll be a row where we’re going.”
“Trust me for thot, sorr,” responded Lynch, with a wink. “They’ll
like nothing better. I’ll get ye a bunch that’ll fight their weight
in wildcats, any day.”
At that moment breakfast was called, and Tom and his father went
into the dining-room.
“I’ve heard news of your man Harrison,” said Mr. Jackson. “He was
here ten days ago, hiring men and getting supplies. Nobody knew what
he wanted them for. He’s got five men and one team of horses, and he
can’t have made any great progress at getting out the walnut yet.
But I think we’d better hurry ahead as soon as we can. It’ll take
some time to get our outfit together here, but I suppose I can leave
that to Lynch—though I’d rather see after it myself. Something’s
sure to be overlooked.”
“Better let me scout ahead, Father!” Tom urged. “We can’t tell what
Harrison may be doing. He might raft down the timber in small
quantities as fast as he got it out, and sell it at Oakley.”
“That’s a fact,” said Mr. Jackson, struck by this danger. “I suppose
you could stop anything like that, if you took a man or two with
you. I’d give you written authority.”
“But Uncle Phil’s ranch must be on the way,” cried Tom, struck with
a fresh idea. “He’d go over with me, or Cousin Ed—maybe somebody
else.”
This proposition was so evidently sound that Tom set out soon after
breakfast. Plenty of people knew where Phil Jackson’s farm lay, and
Tom regretted that he had not originally come to Ormond instead of
Oakley. But then he would probably never have reached Coboconk and
the lost raft.
He carried only his rifle and a package of cold lunch, expecting to
reach the farm some time that afternoon. It was supposed to be only
fifteen miles, and there was a road,—not much used, indeed, but
still a road,—which it would be easy to follow. Mr. Jackson was to
collect his men and their outfit and come on the next day, to rejoin
Tom where the trail struck the river, below Little Coboconk.
The old road proved rough traveling. Apparently it had not been used
at all for a long time, and it was grown up thickly with small
spruces and raspberry thickets—so jungly, in fact, that Tom often
found it easier to take to the woods.
It was not going to be easy traveling for the wagons, he thought;
and wondered if Harrison’s men had come in this way. Still, he
plodded on and ate his lunch about noon, and within the next few
miles he began to look for traces of settlement. Nothing appeared,
however, and he began to travel slowly, looking about him more
carefully for trails. An uneasy qualm began to assail him, but he
kept on until, as the sun came down close to the tree-tops, he
became assured that he had somehow missed the way.
He turned back at once on his own trail. Once he came to what seemed
a cow track crossing the path, but it presently became untraceable.
The sun was going down, and he stopped. By this time he was grown
hardened to being lost in the woods; but he was hungry, and the
prospect of a supperless night was not attractive.
It was warm, however, and he built a fire and made himself as
comfortable as possible. Despite an empty stomach, he managed to
sleep; and in the earliest morning, rested but famished, he started
back on the road over which he had come. But it was only after an
hour or so that he came upon an obscure-looking cross trail that he
had previously overlooked. He might have passed it again, had not
his attention been caught by something like the far-away bellow of a
cow.
He followed up the trail toward the sound, and within a quarter of a
mile he struck a wide, stumpy, pasture clearing. Beyond another belt
of trees he emerged upon a plowed field, with a view of a large log
house and barns, which he knew must be the elusive homestead of
Uncle Phil.
So it proved. Tom hurried up to the house and got an astonished but
enthusiastic welcome. He had come at an unfortunate moment, however.
Uncle Phil and Cousin Ed had started within the last hour for the
store and post-office, nine miles away on a bush road that Tom had
not suspected, and were not likely to be back before evening.
No one was at home but his aunt and the younger children. Tom ate a
huge breakfast, told his story, and gave news of Dave on the gold
trail, and rested for an hour or so. But he was uneasily impatient
to reach the lakes. He was afraid to wait for his uncle’s return,
and he got an early dinner, took a packet of lunch, and set out
again shortly after midday.
He had his directions more accurately laid now; but it was rough
travel through the woods, and he went more slowly than he had hoped.
The sun was almost setting when he emerged at last on the shore of
the river. He was still a mile or two below Little Coboconk, but he
hastened up the stream and saw the long, placid expanse of the lake.
Nothing moved on its waters. From away up by the narrows he thought
he saw a curl of smoke in the evening air. The emptiness relieved
him; somehow he had almost expected to see the raft afloat and
steering down the lake. But he knew that it was almost impossible
for Harrison to have salvaged any great quantity of the timber so
soon.
Peering ahead, he walked up the stony margin of the lake in the
twilight. He had a strange, uneasy feeling that eyes were upon him,
as he had had during the journey to Roswick; but this time he was
certain that no one could have followed him through the woods. More
than once, all the same, he turned quickly to look, but nothing
stirred on the surface of the lake or the darkening shores.
Smoke was certainly rising from Harrison’s encampment, but he was
afraid to go within sight of the place while the light lasted. He
sat down in the thickets just back from the shore and ate his
lunch—wise enough this time to reserve a portion for breakfast.
Darkness fell on the water. A half-moon grew visible over the trees,
and up by the narrows a red glow began to shine.
Tom resumed his course up the shore, careful to make no noise. The
glare over the trees looked as if Harrison had set fire to the
forest again. But it was not until he reached the head of Little
Coboconk that he could see what was going on.
Harrison’s camp lay across the narrows from him, and there were
great fires burning on the shore that cast a flood of red light
across the water. Dark figures moved through the lurid illumination;
he heard the rattle of chains, the thud of axes, and the cries of
men hauling and heaving at the timbers. Evidently Harrison, in his
desperate haste to get the walnut out, was working day and night.
Tom crept up closer to the narrow channel, feeling secure in the
outlying darkness. From the opposite shore he made out a huge, dark
shape stretching like a pier. The raft was being rebuilt. And then
Tom distinguished Harrison himself, standing in the full light of
one of the fires, talking earnestly to another man, a stranger, an
elderly man, who did not look in the least like a lumber-jack.
For a long time Tom crouched in the shadows, watching the scene of
activity. Logs were being dug out and piled in place. They were not
working on the raft just then. Probably daylight was needed for
that. But it looked rather certain that no timber was likely to be
floated away for some time, and Tom felt vastly relieved. By the
next night his father would be here.
He wondered if they were going to work all night. He was tired of
waiting on the shore, and he had a great desire to examine the
partly constructed raft more closely. Toward nine o’clock, however,
he observed the activity slackening. The fires began to die down.
Work was knocked off. He perceived that a kettle was being boiled at
a smaller and more distant fire. The men gathered around and were
served with food. They smoked for a little while after this, while
Tom watched impatiently, and then one by one they disappeared into
the tents. There were evidently not men enough for the day and night
shifts, and so Harrison had simply extended the day as long as
possible.
Tom still waited and listened. Silence fell on the camp. The red
shine of the fires grew dim, and the pale moonlight began to take
its place. But for the fifty yards of channel, Tom would have
ventured to reconnoiter the raft more closely; and he was in fact
thinking of taking off his clothes and wading and swimming over when
a faint, unmistakable splash close at hand caught his attention.
He shrank back into the bushes, cocking his rifle. For full five
minutes he stood motionless, every sense alert, but without hearing
a twig rustle. Then a shadow moved out of a thicket.
“Tom!” said a subdued voice.
Tom started violently, half raising his rifle.
“You no shoot me, Tom. I watch you long time,” said the shadow.
“Charlie!” exclaimed the boy, recovering himself. “That isn’t you?
Why, I thought you were gone long ago. How did you see me?”
“I see you when you come out on river, ’fore dark. Think it’s you,
not sure. I follow you—watch long time. I think mebbe you come back
some time, Tom. I look for you every day.”
“Charlie, you’re a good scout!” said Tom, his heart warming. “Yes,
I’ve found out that timber really is mine after all, so I came
back.”
“We fight um, then?” asked Charlie, hopefully.
“Not to-night, anyhow,” Tom responded, smiling. “My father is coming
to-morrow. May be a fight then. But how did you get here? Got a
canoe? Where’d you get it?”
“My canoe. That red-hair man steal him from you—I steal him back
again.”
“Good!” Tom looked across at the dying firelight and the dim tents.
“Put me across there, Charlie. I want to see how much of that timber
they’ve got out.”
The Ojibway seemed to vanish without a word into the gloom. Within a
few minutes the canoe glided up, a darker shadow in the shadow of
the lake-side spruces. Tom stepped in cautiously, and Charlie,
dipping the paddle without a sound, guided the canoe across the
channel and touched the extremity of the half-built raft.
It was not all of walnut, of course. It had to be buoyed with
lighter wood, and even in the faint light Tom could see the
fresh-cut spruce and pine logs. It was impossible to estimate how
much of the old timber there was. He climbed out of the canoe and
stood upon the raft itself, which felt as solid under him as a ship.
He raked the silent camp with another cautious glance and walked
toward the shore. Reaching the land he could see the earth torn up
in wild hollows and mounds, where the walnut had been disinterred.
Piles of logs lay in every direction. It looked as if surely the
greater part of the lost raft was there, ready for rebuilding again,
and Tom was filled with renewed anxiety. They were running it fine.
If anything should delay his father and the men from Ormond,
Harrison might still get away with his plunder.
He stepped off the raft upon the earth and looked keenly about
again. Through his mind passed the idea of doing something to wreck
operations—to halt them, at any rate; but he dismissed it. The gain
would not be worth the danger. Next day he would have reinforcements
on the spot. The best thing would be to retreat into the darkness
again and wait.
He had taken half a dozen steps, and he turned to go back. Some dim
obstacle lay at his feet. Trying to avoid it, he tripped on
something, with a clashing of chains. He stumbled forward and
blundered into a hole where a log had been dug up, knocking down a
pile of cant-hooks and spades, mingled with chains, which made a
deafening crash and clatter. The rifle flew out of his hand.
Almost instantly he heard a voice asking what was the matter. A man
dived out of the nearest tent, stared about, and then started toward
him. Tom lay flat where he had fallen, invisible, as he hoped, in
the darkness. The man came within two yards of him, gazed about
again, while Tom lay holding his breath, and then, with a muttered
exclamation, struck a match. In the quick, brilliant flare Tom
caught a glimpse of the man’s fox-colored hair. He jerked his legs
under him and made a plunge to get away, but the fellow was even
more agile. He was upon him before Tom touched the raft, and the boy
was pulled back by rough hand on his collar.
McLeod turned Tom’s face to the moonlight.
“I declare, ef it ain’t that youngster again!” he exclaimed. “Can’t
keep away, hey? All right—I got him!” he called over his shoulder.
“It’s that same—”
Tom was aware that Harrison and the stranger were hurrying toward
him. Other men were appearing from the tents. He glanced toward the
end of the raft. Charlie and his canoe had vanished. He was ashamed
at being caught so ignominiously, but he was not particularly
afraid. He felt in possession of authority now. He had the
whip-hand.
“What’s this?” Harrison cried, turning on the white beam of a
flashlight. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Didn’t I warn you to clear out?”
“I’ve come back to stay this time,” Tom retorted. “I know all—”
“Who is it? Do you know him?” interrupted the strange man, who had
an honest and good-humored face. He wore a soft collar and a tie,
and had slightly the air of a sportsman from town.
“He’s been hanging about all spring,” said Harrison, impatiently. “I
don’t know his name. Trying to steal something, I guess.”
“That won’t do,” said Tom. “I know a good deal more than I did when
I was here last. I’ve heard all about Daniel Wilson. My father’ll be
here in the morning. Just now, I’m in his place.”
“You must be crazy!” Harrison exclaimed. “Look here, you get out of
this camp at once.” He took Tom by the shoulder, and propelled him
toward the woods. “Got anything to say to me? Well, say it quick!”
The rest of the party remained where they were, laughing. Harrison
shoved Tom into the shadows of the trees, gripped his arm hard, and
led him on, stumbling over fallen timber.
“You want to talk to me?” he repeated. “Well, go ahead.”
He had dropped the bluff tone of intimidation, and his voice was
subtle, conciliating. They were out of ear-shot of the camp now.
“I haven’t much to say,” returned Tom. “I saw my father—Matthew
Jackson, of Toronto—and told him all about the raft. You can guess
the rest. He took over Dan Wilson’s business, you know. You haven’t
any rights here at all. We might pay you something for the work
you’ve done already on it, but that’ll be all we’ll do. You’ll have
to get ready to quit.”
Harrison steered Tom a little way farther into the woods, saying
nothing. Then he stopped, and spoke in a low tone of intense
passion.
“Do you think I’d quit now? It’s a year that I’ve been working for
this. Part of the timber’s sold already. I’m going to float out a
raft to-morrow or the next day. Do you want to have one fight now
and another in the courts? Look here, I’ll make a reasonable deal.
I’ve got maybe a third of this stuff ready to move. Let me get away
with that and I’ll leave the rest of it for you.”
“Can’t do it,” returned Tom promptly. “I couldn’t make such a deal
myself, and I know father wouldn’t. He’ll be here to-morrow, and—”
“Your father won’t be here to-morrow. He’s going to be turned back
before he gets to the lake,” said Harrison.
“Turned back? What do you mean?” Tom exclaimed, with a sudden,
horrified vision of his father being ambushed, perhaps shot on the
trail. “Are you going to try another trick? You can’t work it,
Harrison!”
They were standing close together and face to face, and at that
moment Tom felt something hard against his body. Glancing down, he
saw a revolver that glittered dimly, its muzzle digging into his
stomach.
“I gave you a chance!” Harrison muttered between clenched teeth.
“What do you take—life or death? You young fool, I’m a desperate
man. I’m going to have that timber now, and I don’t care what stands
in my way—not even murder.”
Tom shrank back involuntarily from the revolver barrel, which sent a
cold thrill to his very backbone. He had lost his rifle; he was
entirely unarmed. But reason told him that Harrison would not really
shoot. He would not go the length of murder, with a dozen men within
fifty yards. It was a bluff! Charlie was surely lurking somewhere in
the shadows offshore. Tom filled his lungs, and suddenly opened his
mouth to yell.
“Char—!”
Before the sound could leave his lips Harrison had him by the throat
like a tiger, forcing him back against a tree. Tom hit out savagely
into the man’s face, but that iron grip seemed to choke the life out
of his body. His head swam; everything turned black before him. For
an instant the throttling grasp relaxed, and then he received a
fearful blow on the head, that sent him plunging down, it seemed
into darkness. As he fell he was scarcely aware of another
shattering blow, and he knew nothing whatever afterward.