The Megantic drive, starting from a point some forty miles northwest of
Chebargo, was already in motion. Its course would be down the Megantic
Stream through several ponds and lakes into the Katahdin River, and
thence down the Penobscot to the mills at Bangor.
By paddling upstream and making three portages of less than a mile each,
Bainbridge and the guide cut off a lot of distance, and struck the
Megantic between the second and third lake toward three in the
afternoon.
Knowing when Pete Schaeffer, the drive boss, had started, Bob calculated
that he would have advanced considerably beyond this point, and turned
the canoe downstream, keeping a close lookout along the banks for signs
which would inevitably be left by a great drive.
The country was rough and wild, the stream boiling and tumbling between
rather high, rocky banks. Presently, however, these gave place to lower,
muddy stretches, which bore no single trace of stranded logs, or the
tracks made by the rear crew following along behind a big drive and
“sacking” the River.
It took Bob very little time to make certain of this, and his heavy,
dark brows came suddenly together above the bridge of his well-shaped
nose, a single, emphatic line.
“The drive hasn’t passed,” he said abruptly, thrusting his paddle
straight down by the side of the canoe, and stopping the frail craft
instantly.
The Indian moved slightly, and turned a copper-colored profile over one
shoulder.
“Him held up above,” he suggested. “Mebbe jam.”
“Jam!” repeated Bainbridge sharply. “Why should there be a jam? The
stream’s straight and wide enough, with a fine head of water. The hard
parts come farther down. With a boss on the job, and halfway attending
to business, the drive ought to be down as far as Loon Lake by this
time.”
Still frowning, he gave a wide, powerful sweep of his paddle, which
headed the canoe upstream.
“Besides,” he went on, as the craft danced along under the impetus of
their sturdy, practiced strokes, “Schaeffer’s had time to break up half
a dozen ordinary jams. He’s no fool, and he knows his business as well
as any man in the country. He knows this high water can’t last much
longer, and that we’re altogether dependent on it till we reach the
Penobscot. If he ----”
A sudden extremely unpleasant thought made the speaker break off
abruptly, with a swift catching of his breath. His frown deepened into a
scowl, and a touch of angry red glowed under the clear, healthy tan of
his clean-cut face.
“Mebbe him no care about making hurry,” remarked the Indian coolly,
without even glancing around. “Mebbe him like to see drive hang up.”
The extraordinary manner in which the guide’s comment chimed in with his
own mental process fairly took Bob’s breath away. He hesitated for an
instant, wondering whether the Indian knew anything special or whether
his remark had been prompted by mere guesswork. Knowing Moose for many
years, Bainbridge had never been quite able to determine whether the man
was attached to him personally, as sometimes in his stolid,
self-restrained manner he seemed to be. It was more likely to be simply
the canny shrewdness of the native knowing on which side his bread was
buttered. At all events, Bob had never counted on it to the extent of
any great familiarity, though, under the conditions in which they were
frequently alone together in the woods, he could scarcely help letting
down the bars a little.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, suddenly making up his mind. “What
earthly reason could Pete Schaeffer have for wanting to see the drive
hang up? He’s been offered a bonus for every extra day he gains in
landing the logs at the mill booms.”
The square, buckskin-covered shoulders hunched again, “Mebbe not offer
’nuff,” retorted the Indian stolidly. “Mebbe he get more to hang up
drive.”
“Who the deuce are you talking about, Joe?” inquired Bainbridge crisply,
“Who would pay him to play a dirty trick like that?”
The guide slowly turned his head, and regarded Bob with a sort of
impassive significance.
“Big Punch know who,” he retorted briefly.
“Perhaps I do, perhaps not.” Bob’s tone was decidedly impatient.
“Anyhow, let’s have the name, and see if we agree.”
“Huh!” grunted Moose wearily. “Him Crane. Pete, he great friends with
Crane’s man, K’lock.”
Bainbridge’s jaw dropped, and unconsciously he drove his paddle deep
down into the current, checking the canoe for a moment or two.
“Bill Kollock!” he exploded, in angry amazement. “Do you know what
you’re talking about, Joe?”
The Indian grinned faintly.
“Sure! Joe see ’em in s’loon in Bangor heap many times. Ver’ friendly.
Come to Pete’s camp yonder five--six days ago, see K’lock goin’ away.”
Bob’s face was scarlet with rage, and the eyes fastened upon the guide’s
impassive countenance flashed.
“You did, did you?” he cried angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me, then? You
talk a lot about being a friend of mine. Why didn’t you put me wise to
all this before?”
“Big Punch no ask of K’lock,” replied the Indian, “Joe think he no care.
Think he pull K’lock’s stinger last month when find him out.”
Bainbridge’s lips parted for a vitriolic retort, closed with a snap, and
he resumed his paddling in silence. After all, the fellow was not to
blame for possessing the characteristic Indian quality of reticence.
Knowing his habit of wandering all over the northern part of the state,
Bob should have questioned him the instant the Indian set foot in
Chebargo camp the day before.
But questioned him for what purpose? Up to five minutes ago not the
slightest suspicion of Pete Schaeffer had ever entered his employer’s
head. The man had worked for them a number of years. He was quiet and
taciturn, sometimes almost sullen; but few woodsmen have much to say for
themselves. He had proved himself more than competent, and was
apparently faithful to the interests of those who paid his wages.
“Faithful so long as it suited his purpose and no longer!” said
Bainbridge under his breath, “The minute the trust gets after him to do
its dirty work he’s perfectly willing to knife us. I can hardly wait to
get at the cur!”
He was obliged to postpone that gratification a good deal longer than he
had expected, however. Though they strained every effort, and sent the
canoe fairly flying upstream, the sun sank lower and lower, without the
slightest sign of the drive appearing.
With every thousand feet of progress Bob grew more raging. When at
length the sun dipped behind the cold, gray, distant hill line, he was
filled with a hot, furious anger against the treacherous Schaeffer--an
anger which needed every ounce of will power he possessed to suppress.
Determined to find the drive, and have a settlement that night, he
stubbornly continued to paddle long after darkness had fallen, and when
they could not see much more than a boat length in any direction. At
length, however, there was forced upon him a realization of his folly.
It would be much wiser to land now and camp, continuing the journey at
daybreak, rather than try to make headway through this pitchy blackness.
Still reluctant to pause, Bob milled this over in his mind for ten
minutes or more before finally giving the word to Moose, who had made no
comment of any sort. The Indian obeyed stolidly, driving the canoe
toward the right bank. Within five minutes the two men were hunting dry
sticks for a fire.
Later, as he sat relaxed before the grateful blaze, consuming the rough
supper with an appetite which only life in those wonderful north woods
can give, Bainbridge remained preoccupied, his forehead wrinkled
thoughtfully, and his brooding eyes fixed upon the dancing flames.