Before he had taken a dozen steps, Kollock was furious with himself, and
by the time Bainbridge was out of sight the wrath of the riverman had
risen to a white heat.
From the first he had tried to dislike Bainbridge. Pete Schaeffer had
been his friend, and after he had been whipped Curly made up his mind
that there could be no getting along in a crew bossed by the victor.
Then came that brief but pointed interview with Bob which affected him
so oddly. He had never before had anybody tell him that he was to be
trusted; most bosses had been emphatic in saying the opposite thing. Or,
if they kept silent, they showed in a dozen obvious ways that they
considered him in the same class with his notorious brother.
Then there was the incident of the day before. Curly could not help
admiring the manner in which Bainbridge had handled the crowd that was
trying to hold up the drive. It was exactly the sort of thing he would
like to have done himself, and his heart warmed toward the man with the
courage and ability to act in that fashion. Moreover, Jack Joyce was an
old enemy of his, and the sight of the fellow’s humiliation had inclined
the riverman even more strongly toward the man who had brought it about.
But that was over now, he told himself furiously as he stamped along the
stream, hands clenched and face set in a black scowl. He hated
Bainbridge! The man had no right to jump on him that way. How did he
know what had been the cause of Kollock’s behavior? He had asked no
questions, given Curly no chance to explain even had the latter been
inclined to lower himself to that extent. He had taken it for granted
that the river jack was loafing in spite of the fact that record as a
worker was equal to that of the best.
This was where the sting lay. Kollock was aggrieved and disgruntled
because of what was, to him, a very good reason. There had been a
definite object in his pause by that stone. The night before he had
received a brief note from Bill, in which he was urged to “make use of
any chance you git to do--you know what.”
Curly did know “what” very well. It meant that he was to thwart and
delay the progress of the drive by any means in his power. _Any_ means!
The simplest, of course, was to cause some to happen to Bainbridge
himself. Bill had not hesitated to suggest several ways by which this
happy end could be reached. None of them appealed particularly to Curly.
He was not overscrupulous, but he disliked doing up a man in cold blood
without giving him even a ghost of a show. Still, Bill had done him good
turns more than once when he was out of work; and, last but not least,
there was the financial side of the affair. Curly had never been told
who or what was back of these attacks on the independent lumber company,
but he knew there was plenty of money in it.
All this he had been thinking over as he sat smoking that cigarette. In
the end he decided to have nothing to do with it. Bainbridge had trusted
him and played square. For that reason he would be equally square and
aboveboard, and let this dirty work alone.
That was what he _had_ decided, but now----
He gritted his teeth, glared fiercely around, and came to an abrupt
stop. Every instinct of the riverman was aroused. On his left the river
dropped over short falls into a narrow gorge. It was a spot where things
were likely to happen at any time, and where a man or two should have
been stationed continually. Curly knew, in fact, that there had been men
here all morning. They had been called away for some purpose, leaving
the little falls unguarded. And as he stood there his practiced eyes
told him that he was beholding the very start of a jam.
A log, plunging over the falls, upended. Another was thrust under it. A
third and fourth, coming down together, caught on the obstruction, all
being held by some stones rising midstream. Before the current could
tear them loose several more timbers were forced against the mass which
was piling up so swiftly, bridging to the opposite shore.
To carry out that angry resolve of a minute or two ago, Curly should
have rolled himself another cigarette, and watched the growing damage
with a sardonic smile. He did nothing of the sort. For a flash he had
forgotten his grievance, and was a “river hog,” pure and simple. The
stoppage must be broken before it reached the proportions of a real jam.
There was no one else to do it, and so he leaped to the task without a
second’s pause for thought.
Upstream he ran a few feet, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river
above the falls. Then he saw what he wanted. An instant later, using his
peavey much as a pole vaulter does his pole, he leaped straight out over
the water, landed squarely on a big log, and was carried down to the
falls--and over them.
He took the drop easily, riding the log with that perfect balance which
is second nature to the seasoned riverman. When the timber bumped
against the rapidly forming jam, Curly leaped again, thrusting the log
down as he did so, and landed on the solid barrier. Scrambling lightly
over to the face of this, he thrust deftly with his peavey into the
mass, and began to work desperately to loosen the key log--that first
upended stick of pine which had started the whole trouble, and which
must be started before the rest of the barrier would give.
He got a good hold on it, but the thing defied his efforts to tear it
loose. It was wedged too tightly for even his great strength, and,
though he seemed to feel it move slightly, he strained his muscles to
the utmost in vain to accomplish anything further. Presently he
realized, with a thrill, that the jam was piling up behind him faster
and faster. He ceased his efforts, and clamping the peavey on timber
above the key log, pried it free, and sent it bobbing downstream.
Another followed, and another still. Sweat poured in streams from him,
trickling blindingly into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away.
There was no time. He must go on doing his best till help came, or
else----
A faint jar shook the jam. A second later Curly felt a hand lightly
touch his shoulder. A familiar voice sounded in his ear:
“Good work, son! Where’s that trouble maker? Oh, I see. Let me drop down
to that ledge, where I can get a good hold. That’s the idea. Now grip
her above me. Fine! Ready, now? Yank away!”
It was Bainbridge--swift, agile, incredibly fresh considering what he
had accomplished that day. For a moment or two Curly did not realize
that this was the man he hated. He simply felt an overwhelming
thankfulness that some one had come at last, and obeyed orders
mechanically and without question.
But as his peavey gripped the end of that troublesome log, there
suddenly flamed into Curly’s mind--temptation. Bainbridge stood below
him, perched perilously on the very face of the jam. A little
thrust--the tiniest movement of the riverman’s arm--would send him
plunging into the stream, while another movement would suffice to drop
one of the looser logs upon him. There were no witnesses; the whole
affair would pass as an unfortunate accident. A chance like this, so
easy, so absolutely safe, would never come again.
“Now!” broke in the crisp voice of the lumberman. “Hard over, boy.
Toward me--all you know how!”
Curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the
pull. The key log creaked and groaned as if agony but was thrust
gradually forward. Curly felt it moving faster and faster, and
instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him
out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs.
A second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse
of half the face of the jam. The logs at his side vanished in the
unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious
moment. Below him he saw Bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for
something solid. Instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous,
muscular hands, and as swiftly Bob gripped them. There was a heave, an
upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared
into the foaming water. But the two men had leaped in time, and a moment
later they were standing together on the bank.
“Thank you--Curly,” Bainbridge said in a level voice. “That was
touch-and-go for a minute.”
That was all, but somehow Curly knew that what he had done was
understood and appreciated. In the stress of the peril which the two had
shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, Kollock’s
anger and hate had vanished utterly. He no longer desired revenge. His
attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. He
had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and,
given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again.