THE HOLD-UP
Ole Porson took a final glance round his shanty. The last of the
daylight was rapidly fading. There was still sufficient penetrating the
begrimed double window, however, to reveal the littered, unswept
condition of the place. But he saw none of it. It was the place he knew
and understood. It was at once his office, and his living quarters; a
shanty with a tumbled sleeping bunk, a wood stove, and a table littered
with the books and papers of his No. 10 camp. He was a rough creature,
as hard of soul as he was of head, who could never have found joy in
surroundings of better condition.
He solemnly loaded the chambers of a pair of heavy guns. Then he
bestowed them in the capacious pockets of his fur pea-jacket. He also
dropped in beside them a handful of spare cartridges. In his lighter
moments he was apt to say that these weapons were his only friends. And
those who knew him best readily agreed. Drawing up the storm-collar
about his face, he passed out into the snow which was falling in flakes
the size of autumn leaves. There was not a breath of wind to disturb the
deathly stillness of the winter night.
Minutes later he was lounging heavily against the rough planked counter
of Abe Risdon's store. He was talking to the suttler over a deep
"four-fingers" of neat Rye, while his searching eyes scanned the body of
the ill-lit room. The place was usually crowded with drinkers when the
daylight passed, but just now it was almost empty.
"Who's that guy in the tweed pea-jacket an' looks like a city man?" he
asked his host in an undertone, pointing at one of the tables where a
stranger sat surrounded by four of the forest men.
Abe's powerful arms were folded as he leant on the counter.
"Blew in about noon," he said. "Filled his belly with good hash an' sat
around since."
"He's a bunch o' the boys about him now, anyway. An' I guess he's
talking quite a lot, an' they're doing most o' the listening. Seems
like he's mostly enjoying hisself."
Abe shrugged. But the glance he flung at the man sitting at the far-off
table was without approval.
"It's mostly that way now," he said, with an air of indifference his
thoughtful eyes denied. "There's too many guys come along an' sell
truck, an' set around, an' talk, an' then pass along. Things are
changing around this lay out, an' I don't get its meanin'. Time was I
had a bunch of boys ready most all the time to hand me the news going
round. Time was you'd see a stranger once in a month come along in an'
buy our food. Time was they mostly had faces we knew by heart, and we
knew their business, and where they came from. Tain't that way now. You
couldn't open the boys' faces fer news of the forest with a can-opener.
These darn guys are always about now. They come, an' feed the boys'
drink, an' talk with 'em most all the time. An' they're mostly
strangers, an' the boys mostly sit around with their faces open like
fool men listenin' to fairy tales. How's the cut goin'?"
Porson laughed. There was no light in his hard eyes.
"At a gait you couldn't change with a trail whip."
The other nodded.
'"That's how 'nigger' Pilling said. He guessed the cut was down by
fifty. What is it? A buck? Wages?"
Porson's hand was fingering one of the guns in his pocket. His eyes were
snapping.
"Curse 'em," he cried at last. "I just don't get it. They're goin'
slow."
He pushed his empty glass at the suttler who promptly re-filled it.
"Young Pete Cust," Abe went on confidentially, "handed me a good guess
only this mornin'. He'd had his sixth Rye before startin' out to work.
Maybe he was rattled and didn't figger the things he said. He was astin'
fer word up from the mills. I didn't worry to think, and just said I
hadn't got. I ast 'why'? The boy took a quick look round, kind o'
scared. He said, 'jest nothin'.' He reckoned he'd a dame somewhere
around Sachigo. She'd wrote him things wer' kind of bad with the mills.
They were beat fer dollars, and looked like a crash. He'd heard the same
right there, an' it had him rattled. He thought of quittin' and goin'
over to the Skandinavia. Maybe it's the sort o' talk that's got 'em all
rattled. Maybe they're goin' slow on the cut, worryin' for their
pay-roll. You can't tell. They don't say a thing. Seems to me we want
Sternford right here to queer these yarns. Father Adam's around an'
talked some. But--"
Porson drank down his liquor, and his glass hit the counter with angry
force.
"They're mush-faced hoodlams anyway," he cried fiercely. "Ther' ain't a
thing wrong with the mills. I'd bet a million on it."
He stood up from the counter and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of
his coat. He was a powerful figure with legs like the tree trunks it was
his work to see cut. Quite abruptly he moved away, and Abe's questioning
eyes followed him.
He strode down amongst the scattered tables and came to a halt before
the tweed-coated stranger. All the men looked up, and their talk died
out.
"Say, what's your bizness around here?"
Ole Person's manner was threatening as he made his demand. The stranger
dived at the bag lying on the floor beside his chair. He picked it up
and flung it open.
"Why, I got right here the dandiest outfit of swell jewellery," he
cried, grinning amiably up at the man's threatening eyes. "There's just
everything here," he went on, with irrepressible volubility, "to suit
you gents of the forest, an' make you the envy of every jack way down
at Sachigo. Here, there's a be-autiful Prince Albert for your watch.
This ring. It's full o' diamonds calculated to set Kimberly hollerin'.
Maybe you fancy a locket with it. It'll take a whole bunch of your
dame's--"
"You'll light right out of this camp with daylight to-morrow!"
The tone of the camp-boss banished the last shadow of the pedlar's
cast-iron smile.
"Oh, yes?" he said, his eyes hardening.
"That's wot I said. This camp's private property an' you'll light out.
You get that? Daylight. If you don't, we've a way of dealing with Jew
drummers that'll likely worry you. Get it. An' get it good."
For a moment they looked into each other's eyes. There was not the
flicker of an eyelid between them. Then Porson turned and strode away.
He passed down the store re-fastening his coat. He paused at the door as
a chorus of rough laughter reached him from the little gathering at the
table. But it was only for an instant. He looked back. No face was
turned in his direction. So he passed out.
* * * * *
The night outside was inky black. The heavy falling snow made progress
almost a blind groping. But Porson knew every inch of the way. He passed
down the lines of huts and paused outside each bunkhouse. His reason was
obvious. There was a question in his mind as to the whereabouts of the
crowd of his men who usually thronged the liquor store at this hour of
the evening.
It was at the last bunkhouse he paused longest. He stood for quite a
while listening under the double glassed window. Then he passed on and
stood beside the tightly closed storm-door. The signs and sounds he
heard were apparently sufficient. For, after a while, he turned back and
set out to return to his quarters.
For many minutes he groped his way through the blinding snow, his mind
completely given up to the things his secret watch had revealed. His
brutish nature, being what it was, left him concerned only for the
forceful manner by which he could restore that authority which he felt
to be slipping away from him under the curious change which had come
over the camp. His position depended on the adequate output of his
winter's cut and on nothing else. That, he knew, was desperately
falling, and--
But in a moment, all concern was swept from his mind. A sound leapt at
him out of the stillness of the night. It was the whimper of dogs and
the sharp command of a man's voice. He shouted a challenge and waited.
And presently a dog train pulled up beside him.
* * * * *
Bull Sternford was standing before the wood stove in the camp-boss's
shanty. He had removed his snow-laden fur coat. He had kicked the damp
snow from his moccasins. Now he was wiping the moisture out of his eyes,
and the chill in his limbs was easing under the warmth which the stove
radiated.
Ole Porson's grim face was alight with a smile of genuine welcome, as he
stood surveying his visitor across the roaring stove.
"It's surely the best thing happened in years, Mr. Sternford," he was
saying. "I'm more glad you made our camp this night than any other.
Maybe I'd ha' got through someways, but I don't know just how. We're
down over fifty on our cut, an', by the holy snakes, I can't hand you
why."
Bull put his coloured handkerchief away, and removed the pea-jacket
which he had worn under his furs.
"Don't worry," he said with apparent unconcern. "I can hand it you.
That's why I'm here."
The camp-boss waited. He eyed his chief with no little anxiety. He had
looked for an angry outburst.
Bull pulled up a chair. He flung the litter of books it supported on to
the already crowded table and sat down. Then he filled his pipe and lit
it with a hot coal from the stove.
"Here," he said, "I'll tell you. I've been the round of four camps. I've
been over a month on the trail, and I've heard just the same tale from
every camp-boss we employ. I've three more camps to visit besides yours,
and when I've made them maybe I'll get the sleep I'm about crazy for.
Night and day I've been on the dead jump for a month following the trail
of a red-hot gang that's going through our forests. If I come up with
them there's going to be murder."
He spoke quietly without a sign of emotion. But the light in his hot
eyes was almost desperate.
"I want to hand you the story so you'll get it all clear," he went on
after a moment. "So I'll start by telling you how we stand at the mill.
Get this, an' hold it tight in your head, and the rest'll come clear as
day. Sachigo's right on top. We've boosted it sky high on to the top of
the world's pulp trade. In less than twelve months we'll have grabbed
well-nigh the whole of this country's pulp industry, and we'll beat the
foreigners right back over the sea to their own country. The Skandinavia
folk are rattled. They know all about us and they've done their best to
buy us out of the game. We turned 'em down cold, and they're mad--mad as
hell. It means they're in for the fight of their lives. So are we. And
we know Peterman an' his gang well enough to know what that means. It's
'rough an' tough.' Everything goes. If they can't gouge our eyes they'll
do their best to chew us to small meat. But we've got 'em every way.
This forest gang is sent by the Skandinavia. If they can't smash us by
fire or labour trouble next year'll see us floated into a seventy
million dollar corporation with the whole Canadian wood-pulp industry
lying right in the palms of our hands. That's the reason for the things
doing."
He paused, and the camp-boss nodded his rough head. It was a story he
could clearly understand. Then there were those figures. Seventy million
dollars! They swept the last shadow of doubt from his mind.
"That's the position," Bull went on. "Now for the trouble as it is in
the forests right now. The thing that's had me travelling night an' day
for a month. There's an outfit going right through these forests. I
can't locate its extent. Only the way it works. There's two objects in
view. One is to fire our limits. The other reckons to paralyse our cut.
So far these folks have failed against the fire-guard organisation, and
I guess they'll likely miss most of their fire-bugs when they call the
roll. The other's different."
Bull knocked out his pipe on the stove and gazed thoughtfully at the
streak of brilliant light under the edge of the front damper.
"I've a notion there's an outfit of pedlars at work, as well as others,"
he went on presently.
The camp-boss nodded.
"Sure," he said.
Bull looked up.
"You think that way?" he asked. Then he nodded. "Yes, I guess we're
right. They're handing the boys dope to keep 'em guessing--worrying.
They're telling 'em we're on the edge of a big smash at Sachigo. That we
can't see the winter through. We're cleaned out for cash, and the mill
folk are shouting for their wages and starting in to riot. It's a swell
yarn. It's the sort of yarn I'd tell 'em myself if I was working for the
Skandinavia. It's the sort of dope these crazy forest-jacks are ready to
swallow the same as if it was Rye. Do you see? These fools are being
told they won't get their pay for their winter's cut. So, being what
they are, the boys are going slow. They're going slow, and drawing goods
at the store against each cord they cut. Well, do you see what's going
to happen if the game succeeds? With our forests ablaze, and our cut
fifty down, and the whole outfit on the buck, when spring comes,
Skandinavia reckons our British financiers, when they come along to look
our land over will turn the whole proposition of the flotation down, and
quit us cold. But that's not just all. No, sir. Elas Peterman isn't the
boy to leave it that way. He's handing out the story that when Sachigo
smashes the Skandinavia's going to jump right in and collect the
wreckage cheap. Then they'll start up the mill, and sign on all hands on
their own pay-roll, only stipulating that they won't pay one single cent
of what Sachigo owes for their cut. So, if they're such almighty fools
as to cut, it's going to be their dead loss and the Skandinavia's gain.
Do you get it? It's smart. I guess there's a bigger brain behind it than
Peterman's."
The camp-boss spat into the stove. It was his one expression of disgust.
Bull rose from his chair.
"Here, I need food. So does my boy out there with the dogs. We'll take
it after I'm through with the men. It's snowing like hell, but I pull
out two hours from now. You see, I'm on a hot trail, an' don't fancy
losing a minute."
"You're goin' to talk to 'em--the boys?" Porson's eyes lit with a gleam
of satisfaction. "Can you--twist 'em?"
Bull thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew out a sealed packet.
He held it up before the other's questioning eyes.
"I haven't failed yet," he said quietly. "In nine of our camps back on
the river the work's running full already. I've a whole big yarn for our
boys. But right here I've got what's better. It's the only thing that'll
clinch the yarn I'm going to hand 'em. This," he went on, indicating the
parcel in his hand, "is the bunch of dollars representing the price of
this camp's full winter cut, and the price of a bonus for making up all
leeway already lost. I'm going to have the boys count it. Then I'm going
to have them hand it right over to Abe Risdon to set in his safe, with a
written order from me to pay out in full the moment the winter cut is
complete. Is it good? Can the Skandinavia's junk stand in face of it?
No, sir. And so I've proved right along. I don't hold much of a brief
for the intelligence of the forest-jack, but his belly rules him all the
time. You see, he's human, and no more dishonest than the rest of us.
Have him guessing and worried and you'll get trouble right along. Show
him the lies the Skandinavia's been doping him with, and he'll work out
of sheer spite to beat their game. You get right out and collect the
gang."
* * * * *
The snowfall had ceased. And with its passing the temperature had fallen
to something far below its average winter level. The clouds had vanished
miraculously, and in their place was a night sky ablaze with the light
of myriad stars, and the soft splendour of a brilliant moon.
It was a scene of frigid desolation. Away on the southern horizon lay
the black line which marked the tremendous forest limits of the Beaver
River. For the rest it was a world of snow that hid up the rugged
undulations of a sterile territory.
The dog train was moving at a reckless gait over the untracked,
hardening snow. The man Gouter was driving under imperative orders such
as he loved. Bull Sternford had told him when he left the shelter of
No. 10 Camp: "Get there! Get there quick! There's dogs and to spare at
all our camps, and I don't care a curse if you run the outfit to death."
To a man of Gouter's breed the order was sufficient. Half Eskimo, half
white man, he was a savage of the wild, born and bred to the fierce
northern trail, one of Labrador's hereditary fur hunters by sea and
land. Speed on the fiercest trail was the dream of his vanity. Relays of
dogs, such as he could never afford, and something accomplished which he
could tell of over the camp fire to his less fortunate brethren. So he
accepted the white man's order and drove accordingly.
Bull Sternford sat huddled in the back of the sled under the fur robes
which alone made life possible. His work at No. 10 Camp had left him
satisfied, but every nerve in his body was alert for the final coup he
contemplated. He was weary in mind as well as body. And in his heart he
knew that the need of his physical resources was not so very far off.
But he was beyond care. He had said he was crazy for sleep, but the
words gave no indication of his real condition. His eyes ached. His head
throbbed. There were moments, even, when the things he beheld, the
things he thought became distorted. But he knew that somewhere ahead a
ghostly outfit of strangers was pursuing its evil work against him, and
he meant to come up with it, and to wreak his vengeance in merciless,
summary fashion. His purpose had become an obsession in the long
sleepless days and nights he had endured.
It was war. It was bitter ruthless war on the barren hinterland of
Labrador, where civilisation was unknown. Mercy? Nature never designed
that terrible wilderness as a setting for mercy.
The dogs had been running for hours when Gouter's voice came sharply
back over his shoulder.
"Dog!" he cried, in the laconic fashion habitual to him.
Bull knelt up. His movement suggested the nervous strain he was
enduring. It was almost electrical.
"Where?" he demanded, peering out into the shining night over the man's
furry shoulder.
The half-breed raised a pointing whip ahead and to the south.
"Sure," he said. "I hear him."
Bull had heard nothing. Nothing but the hiss of the snow under their own
runners, and the whimper of their own dogs.
"It wouldn't be a wolf or fox?" he demurred.
The half-breed clucked his tongue. His vanity was outraged.
Bull gazed intently in the direction the whip had pointed. He could see
only the far-off forest line, and the soft whiteness of the world of
snow.
"Hark!"
The half-breed again held up his whip. This time it was for attention.
Bull listened. Still he could hear nothing, nothing at all but the
sounds of their own progress.
"Man! Him speak with dog. Oh, yes."
Gouter had turned. His beady black eyes were shining with a smile of
triumph into the white man's face.
"By the forest?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then in God's name swing over and run to head them off!"
Gouter obeyed with alacrity. He had impressed his white chief. It was
good. A series of unintelligible ejaculations and the dogs swung away to
the south. Then the whip rolled out and fell with cruel accuracy. The
rawhide tugs strained under a mighty effort, as the great dogs were set
racing with their lean bellies low to the ground.
Bull wiped the icicles from about his mouth and nose.
"Now have your guns ready," he cried. "The driver of that team is your
man. The other's mine. If he shows fight kill him. There's five hundred
dollars for you if you get 'em."
"I get 'em."
The half-breed's confidence was supreme. Bull dropped back into the
sled. He sat with a pair of automatic pistols ready to his hand and
gazed out over the sled rail.
It was a terrific race and all feeling of weariness had passed under the
excitement of it. The dogs were silent now. Every nerve in their
muscular bodies were straining. The pace seemed to increase with every
passing moment, and up out of the horizon the dark line of the forest
leapt at them, deepening and broadening as it came.
For some time the less practised white man saw and heard nothing of his
enemies. He was forced to rely on the half-breed. He observed the man
closely. He noted his every sign and read it as best he could. Presently
Gouter leant forward peering. Then he straightened up and his voice came
back triumphantly.
"I see dem," he exclaimed. And pointed almost abreast. "Dogs.
One--two--five. Yes. Two man. Now we get him sure."
Down fell the whip on the racing dogs. The man shouted his jargon at
them. The sled lurched and swayed with the added spurt, and Bull held
fast to the rail. A glad thrill surged through his senses.
It was a moment of tremendous uplift. Bull had yearned for it for weeks.
But the short days and long nights of deferred hope had had their
effect. He had almost come to feel that this thing that was now at hand
was something impossible.
Yes. There was the outfit growing plainer and plainer with every moment.
He could see it clearly. He could even count its details as the other's
sharper eyes had counted them minutes before. There were five dogs. And
they were running hard. They, too, were being flogged, and the man
driving them was shouting furiously in his urgency.
Suddenly there was a leap of flame and a shot rang out. It came from the
driver of the fleeing dog train. It was replied to on the instant by
Gouter who lost not a second. His own shot sped even as the enemy's
bullet whistled somewhere past his head. He fired again. A third shot
split the air. And with that last shot the enemy's sled seemed to leap
in the air. There was a moment of hideous confusion. Then the wreckage
dropped away behind the pursuers, sprawled and still in the snow.
A fierce shout from Gouter and his dogs swung round. The sled under him
heeled over, and took a desperate chance on a single runner. But the
half-breed's skill saved them from catastrophe. It righted itself, and
the dogs slowed to a trot. Then they halted. And the occupants of the
sled flung themselves prone, with their guns ready for the first sign of
movement in the tangled mass of their adversary's outfit.
* * * * *
Two of the dogs lay buried under the overturned sled. Three others were
sprawling at the end of their rawhide tugs. They were alive. They were
unhurt. They lay there taking full advantage of the situation for rest.
But for the moment interest centred round the body of a white man lying
some yards away. A groan of pain came up to the two men standing over
him.
Bull dropped on his knees. He reached down and turned the body over. The
eyes of the man were visible between the sides of his fur hood. But that
was all.
There was a moment of silent contemplation. Then the injured man
struggled desperately to rise.
"Sternford?" he ejaculated
Gouter was on him in a moment. He heard the tone of voice, and
interpreted the man's movement in his own savage fashion. He knew the
man to be the driver of the team, whom his boss had told him was his
man. So he threw him back and held him.
Bull stood up. The man's voice told him all he wanted to know.
"Laval, eh?" he said quietly. "A second time. I didn't expect it. No."
Then he laughed and turned away. And the sound of his laugh possessed
something terribly mocking in the night silence of the wilderness.
He passed back to the sled. There had been two men in it. He had seen
that for himself.
The wreckage looked hopeless. The sled was completely overturned and its
gleaming runners caught and reflected the white rays of the moon. It had
been thrown by reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which lay under
it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fast by their own
tangled harness.
Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose in his mind. So he
reached out and caught the steel runners in his mitted hands and flung
the vehicle aside.
Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggage and lying cheek
by jowl with the mangled remains of the dogs. He cleared the debris, and
dragged the dogs aside. Then he stood and gazed down at the figure that
remained.
It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat. It was hooded, as was every man
who faced the fierce Labrador trail. But--
The figure moved. It stirred, and deliberately sat up. Bull's hands had
been on his guns at the first movement. But he released them, as the
hood fell back from the face which was ghastly pale in the moonlight.
He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supported the swaying
figure.
"God in Heaven!" he cried. "Nancy! You?"