There was no time lost either in turning in that night or in rising next
morning. So early was Bainbridge astir that the cold, gray half-light
dawn had barely begun to lighten the velvety blackness. The two men had
embarked and were paddling vigorously upstream before it was possible to
see more than the vague, indistinct shadows of concrete things.
Bob’s rage at the treachery of his trusted drive boss had not lessened
greatly. There was mingled with it, however, a bitter hatred for the man
higher up, and a dogged determination not only to thwart Elihu Crane in
his attempt to ruin the independent firm, but to carry the war into the
enemies’ camp with a zest and vim which his more or less impersonal
blocking of the Lumber Trust’s game had hitherto lacked.
Before sunrise they had reached and crossed the first of the three
lakes, which was little more than a good-sized pond. Two miles northwest
of the inlet another stream, almost as large, joined the Megantic. The
juncture was scarcely passed before Bainbridge became aware of the
slackening current, and unnaturally low level of water in the stream.
Something was holding it back, and that something could be nothing less
than a jam of unusual size and extent.
Bob’s eyes narrowed ominously, and three deep, vertical lines flashed
suddenly into view above the straight nose. Downstream there were
several spots which had always been more or less dreaded by river
drivers. There all the skill and care in the world could not always
prevent trouble. To the northward, however, was comparatively clear
sailing. The most ordinary skill in driving, and just average attention
to business would make the forming of a jam impossible.
Bob set his teeth, and drove the canoe ahead swiftly. He made no
comment, nor did the guide. For ten minutes or so they paddled in
silence. Bainbridge was quite aware that under ordinary conditions such
a proceeding would have been foolhardy to a degree. For all he knew the
jam might be started at any moment; the swirling, tumbling logs might
sweep down upon them with irresistible force, overwhelming them before
they could even reach the shore. But these were not ordinary conditions.
Having allowed the jam to form with malicious intent, there was not one
chance in a hundred of Schaeffer’s doing anything to break it unless
absolutely forced to.
Events proved the accuracy of this judgment. Some three miles above the
juncture of the two streams the Megantic curved suddenly to the westward
almost at a right angle, narrowing around the bend to less than
two-thirds its usual width. It was at this narrow spot that Bainbridge
expected to find the jam, and before they had circled the bend he saw
above the low fringe of bushes on the point the jagged, bristling line
of logs thrust high above the surface of the choked and dwindling stream
by the tremendous pressure of well-nigh the whole drive behind it.
There was not the slightest hint of hesitation or indecision in the
manner of Bainbridge now. He had evidently made up his mind exactly what
course to take, and he proceeded to take it without delay. His face was
no longer impatient or angry, but stern and determined, while his black
eyes gleamed with satisfaction that the tedious delay was over at last
and he could begin to act.
Speaking briefly in a low tone to the Indian, he turned the canoe
inshore and drove the bow deftly up on the gently sloping bank. Giving
Moose a hand in carrying the light craft well back into the bushes,
Bainbridge straightened up and pushed through the undergrowth toward the
scene of action.
From the location of the jam came the sound of intermittent clinking, as
of peavies languidly applied. Mingled with it was a vast deal of loud
talk and raucous laughter which brought Bob’s lips together tightly, and
made him flush darkly under his tan. He uttered not a word of comment,
even to himself. His muscular fists were clenched as he strode on.
Though he made not the slightest effort at concealment, conditions were
such that his approach was entirely unnoticed. Passing swiftly through
the bushes, with the Indian close behind, he reached the other side and
paused for a moment, staring intently at the scene before him.
From this viewpoint the jam looked much more serious and far-reaching
than from below. It seemed like some huge abatis bristling with spikes,
and holding in place a vast expanse of tumbled timber piled up and
mingled together in inextricable confusion. A greenhorn, unused to
lumbering conditions, would have said at once that no human power could
possibly break up this terrific tangle. Bainbridge’s practiced eye,
ranging swiftly from right to left, and back again to the breast of the
jam, saw instantly that affairs were serious indeed, but far from being
hopeless.
He looked for Schaeffer, but at first he could see nothing of the person
who was supposed to have charge of operations. There were in sight some
seventy or eighty men, fully half of whom were gathered on the near
bank, lounging in groups, laughing; talking, smoking, or sprawling at
full length in the sun, luxuriating in its increasing warmth. Scattered
over the jam were the remainder of the crew, making a half-hearted
pretense at working which could not possibly deceive any one. As he
watched one after another of them dally with a peavey in an indolent,
purposeless kind of way, smoking a cigarette the while, and carrying on
a jocular sort of repartee with neighbors, Bainbridge felt swelling
within him the fury he had so long suppressed, but which seemed now as
if it must find expression.
He was about to step impetuously from the undergrowth, and wake up that
crowd with a volley of vigorous English, when a figure appeared at the
entrance of one of the tents pitched a little way back from the water.
At the sight of this person the watcher held himself motionless, a gleam
of intense satisfaction flashing into his eyes.
The man was tall and lean and narrow-loined, with wide, muscular
shoulders. His face was rather rough hewn, and the heavy black brows
gave him a lowering, almost sullen look. There was, however, no lack of
strength and intelligence of a certain sort in his expression. One would
never have called him stupid, even though his appearance might not seem
particularly prepossessing.
He stood for a second or two staring at the jam and that throng of men
playing at work, without changing his expression a particle. Then he
strolled slowly down toward the crowd, hands thrust into his pockets,
and lithe body swaying easily from side to side in the manner of one
having all the time there is.
His course led him along the edge of the bushes, and Bainbridge waited
his coming with poorly restrained impatience. The man’s complacency
infuriated him, and yet he was wise enough to realize that now was the
time of all others when it was absolutely necessary to hold himself in
hand. He stood there, lips tightly pressed together, and nails digging
into the palms of his hands, until the foreman was almost opposite. Then
he stepped suddenly forth.
“I seem to have arrived at a very opportune moment, Schaeffer,” he said.
The man gave a barely perceptible start, and stopped with a jerk. For an
instant he stared at Bainbridge, the dull red creeping slowly up from
the open collar of his flannel shirt. Then his thin curled in a smile
which held little mirth in it.
“Quite a surprise you’ve given us, Mr. Bainbridge,” he drawled, “Didn’t
expect you around for a week yet.”
Bob’s eyes blazed dangerously, but his voice was steady and cold as ice.
“That’s very evident,” he retorted curtly, with a swift side glance at
the jam.
Schaeffer moved his shoulders slightly and his lids drooped a little.
Otherwise he entirely ignored Bainbridge’s meaning.
“Yes, we got in a bit o’ trouble here,” he said coolly; “but it ain’t
anything very serious. Now that the boys are all here to git after it,
we’ll have her pullin’ in great shape before you can say Jack Robinson.”
Bainbridge took a single step forward, bringing his flushed and angry
face close to Schaeffer.
“Don’t think for a minute you can bluff me with that sort of rot,
Schaeffer,” he said, in a voice which held in it the essence of
concentrated fury. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes watching
what’s going on out there. I never yet had a man who was fool enough to
let a drive hang up at this bend unless he wanted to. Get me? I’m wise
to everything, and the sooner you pack your duffle bag and beat it out
of here the better it’ll be for you.”
Schaeffer’s face had turned a brick red, and his eyes were glittering
dangerously. For a second Bainbridge thought the man meant to pour out a
furious stream of profane abuse. Instead of that, however, he turned
suddenly, and his gaze swept keenly over the throng of men, each one of
who had become aware of the newcomer’s presence, and was watching the
altercation with frank curiosity and interest.
“So I’m fired, am I?” inquired Schaeffer, in an oddly gentle voice, and
without glancing at Bainbridge. “Fired without a chance to say a word in
my own defense?”
“You are!” retorted Bob crisply. “As for saying anything in your own
defense, you may as well save your breath. I haven’t the time or the
inclination to listen to lies. You’ve played the traitor and been found
out, and if anybody ever asks why I let you go they’ll get the truth--no
more, no less.”
“That so?” murmured Schaeffer, idly moving a small pebble with the toe
of his heavy, spiked shoe. “I wonder, now?”
Without the slightest warning or preliminary movement of any sort, he
whirled and smashed Bob square in the face with every ounce of strength
he possessed. Bainbridge, staggered by the force and unexpectedness of
it, stumbled back, tripped, and struck the ground with a crash. The
drive boss leaped forward, his face distorted with passion, and
delivered a fierce, slashing kick straight at the prostrate man’s groin.