In the construction of the railroad to Summit Lake the speed and
efficiency of the R. C. & L. Co’s organization excelled any past effort.
The land-clearing outfit arrived the evening after Andy’s party and
began work on that portion of the right-of-way that skirted the west
shore of the lake. Like a swath of destruction, the ground became
covered with the litter and wreckage of blasted trees—noble trees that
had stood for centuries like silent sentinels guarding the limpid blue
lake lapping gently at their feet.
For two days Connie had been no nearer than the bluff. Seated astride
her horse, she now gazed in startled awe on the invasion of her loved
valley. On the third day, drawn by a horrible fascination, she ventured
timidly into the valley and watched with wide eyes the advance of the
pygmy army, who, with such tiny tools as the axe and saw, crashed to
earth mammoth trees that seemed as enduring as the mountains on which
they stood.
The steam-shovel roared and crashed in the distance as it ploughed deep
gashes in the green hillside, men shouted, heavy wagons banged over the
rough road, and fearful blasts shook the air. Through all this tumult
the men worked in a frenzy of haste.
A giant fir—a veritable king of the forest, towering in regal glory
high above its mates—stood near the water’s edge. Around the massive
bole of this tree Connie had played since her earliest recollection. She
had endowed this half-god with a living personality, to whom she had
confided all her childish fancies and aspirations. The corrugated bark
bore numerous bits of nursery rhymes, and her name was etched deep with
a sharp knife in several places. With a lump in her throat she saw the
“fallers” move to the foot of this great tree and gaze aloft with
appraising eyes. Then sinewy arms sent shining axes through the thick
bark to form the “scarf,” which to Connie appeared as a gaping white
wound on the dark grey trunk.
As the cross-cut saw with its rasping clang ate its way slowly through
the tough fibre of the great titan, Connie made inarticulate sounds in
her throat and for a moment covered her eyes. As the wedge was applied,
a great shudder passed through the tree. Connie held her breath. The
tower of dark branches at the top nodded as if in fond farewell. There
was a pause, then with a rending and tearing crash it fell to earth with
a thunder of sound that filled the valley with a wild tumult of echoes.
A whistle blew shrilly, and the men picked up their coats and walked
toward their camp.
For a short space Connie stood motionless. Then, with a last long look
at the fallen monarch, she sighed deeply and turned to the trail.
That night at dusk she came again. Donald came upon her as she crouched,
a forlorn figure, by the prostrate tree. Pointing to her fallen friend,
whose top was torn and splintered, she told Donald in halting sentences
of the day’s disaster. As he noted the grave face and trembling lips, he
wondered at the depth of feeling in one so young. His soft words of
sympathy brought unseen tears to her eyes, and she dared not trust her
voice in answer. He spoke to her cheerily on other subjects, but could
not shake her melancholy mood.
Even the night calm was ravaged by the thunder of blasts. A lurid wall
of flame shot high in the air as a rocky portion of the shoreline was
rent asunder, and huge boulders plunged into the calm lake, sending up
pyramids of water to break in noisy waves on the shore.
Donald enjoyed the unusual experience of witnessing the construction of
a railroad, but he understood now why the old trapper had wagged his
grey head sadly when he heard the clamour of striving men and machinery
creeping up from the south.
The night work had ceased, and a welcome silence settled over the
shattered forest. Lambent stars sparkled and twinkled in the high, clear
air, with colours that changed from orange to blue and back again. The
eastern sky brightened, the glow gradually spread through the heavens,
then the moon came slowly over the towering snow-peaks, flooding the
valley with light. The fallen tree took on a ghost-like appearance in
the moon’s radiance.
Then an uncanny thing happened. Suddenly from a clear sky, without a
moment’s warning, a dark and ominous cloud obscured the moon’s light.
Connie came quickly to her feet and gazed with startled eyes at this
strange phenomenon. The air took on a sudden chill. A quick, strong wind
swept up the hill. From the swaying tree-tops there came a moaning like
a wailing requiem for the dead—so much like the human voice that Donald
shivered.
To Donald the darkening moon and the sighing trees were a coincidence,
but to this child of nature, who had been reared in loneliness where
rivers roared and mountains loomed, and who understood so intimately the
wild things of the forest, it was a manifestation of sorrow by the God
of Nature. With her breast heaving tumultuously, she leaned against the
mammoth tree and pressed her cheek to its rough bark. “I’m sorry! I’m
sorry!” she whispered brokenly.
As if in answer to her words of compassion, the veil suddenly lifted
from the moon and the wind ceased. Donald shook himself. “Rather weird,”
he said, with a quick, nervous laugh. He turned to find that he was
alone.
* * * * *
Events moved swiftly that week.
King’s report was favourable to Donald’s plan, and word came that
electrical equipment for the Summit Mill had been ordered.
At Donald’s invitation Connie came to the station to witness the arrival
of the first train. As the awesome black monster, with whistle screaming
and bell clanging, roared through the rock cut at the south end of the
lake and bore down upon them, Connie gasped in wonder. As the train came
to a hissing stop she shrank against the walls of the building, a
startled look in her eyes. She flushed at the men’s hearty laughter.
The train was loaded with working-men, who with their bundles of
blankets overflowed the small platform. A kitchen-car and a sleeping-car
were shunted to the side-track which would be their home until the
erection of the big dining-hall.
Donald was given charge of constructing the dam, Gillis started the
lumbering operations, while Douglas moved to the Cheakamus Mill. Andy
was to be boss of the kitchen staff, and was kept busy overseeing the
work of interior construction.
A portable mill was fast at work turning out timbers for the big plant,
and carpenters and millwrights worked night and day. An American expert
came with the machinery to superintend the installation.
With the new task set for him there descended on Donald a deep sense of
responsibility. Unlike the others, he worked no regular hours. A feeling
of gratitude toward Robert Rennie for the confidence displayed in him
kept him at top speed; his energy and resource seemed inexhaustible.
From the time his alarm clock—that harsh, brutal little destroyer of
sleep—shrilled its call at daylight until darkness filled the valley,
he stuck to his task.
One week earlier than the time allotted he reported the dam as finished.
* * * * *
Robert Rennie came with Renwick and King for a short trip of inspection,
and as he was leaving he spoke a kindly word in commendation of Donald’s
work.
The Summit Mill was to be modern in every respect, lighted with
electricity and provided with modern plumbing and hot shower-baths. The
white steel beds of the dormitory were clothed in clean white sheets and
pillow-cases. There was no analogy in this perfection to the ordinary
logging-camp.
For hours Donald followed the expert through the mill, while the latter
explained and tested the different motors.
Once a week Robert Rennie came to the mill, taking a keen interest in
all phases of its construction, and invariably he went away with a
pleased smile on his face.
“Never saw the old man so worked up,” commented Gillis. “Guess he’d like
to come up here and run her himself.”
Renwick was still sceptical. For no apparent reason he had taken a
dislike to Donald. “It’s just ’cause you and I are such good friends,”
explained Gillis. “Me and him get on like a couple of strange
bull-dogs.”
When the huge three-storied mill, with its dry kiln, lumber skids,
conveyor shed and railroad spurs, was ready for operation, and each
machine had been tested, Robert Rennie arrived with other officials of
the Company. Next morning Donald’s heart thumped as the mill’s big
whistle sent out its first call to work and the men filed eagerly to
their posts.
The logs were sprayed with huge water-jets as they came up the
chain-haul to clean them of gravel and débris. The electric “nigger”
spun them about and threw them into place with a thud that shook the
mill. Then in a wild crescendo of sound there rose the harsh chorus of
saws: the singing howl of the cut-off, the strident, slurring sound of
the gang-saws, and the staccato snarl of the trimmer.
Smiling and rubbing his hands, Robert Rennie walked through the mill.
“Running like a greased pig,” shouted Gillis above the clamour. The
owner of the R. C. & L. Co. so far forgot his decorum as to slap the
astonished Gillis heartily on the back.
Donald noticed an ever-increasing irritability on the part of the
logging foreman during the next week. The ertswhile jocular Gillis
became sulky and morose. Donald got an inkling as to the cause of his
friend’s gloom when he heard Gillis in conversation with Andy.
“What the ’ell’s the matter, you big lunkus? You’re like a bear with a
sore foot,” complained Andy.
“If my gang don’t get here pretty soon, and I have to put up with this
crowd of bohunks much longer, I won’t be fit to live with,” growled
Gillis.
Gillis’s gang of “redshirts” were known the length and breadth of
British Columbia. Employers bid high for their services, but for many
years they had stuck loyally with Gillis and the R. C. & L. Co. At
present they were employed by the Company in one of their camps up the
coast, but, at Gillis’s earnest request, Robert Rennie had promised to
send them to Summit Lake.
Gillis’s “redshirts” had the well-earned reputation of being the wildest
crew of lumber-jacks west of the Rockies. “They’re wild, all right,”
Gillis had admitted; “a swearin’, drinkin’, fightin’ gang of roughnecks.
But holy mackerel! How them boys can log!”
That night Gillis confided his troubles to Donald. “I don’t know what in
tarnation’s to become of loggin’ in years to come if things keep on as
they are now,” he began in a despondent tone. “It used to be that when
you sent down town for loggers you got loggers. But now,” with a gesture
of disgust, “you git a lot of silk-stockin’d, mandolin-playin’,
gum-chewin’, smooth-haired guys, or else a bunch of snuff-chewin’,
garlic-smellin’, macaroni-eatin’ bohunks, whose names sound like a war
in Central Europe.”
Sighing reminiscently, he continued: “I often wonder if it’s because I’m
gittin’ old; but, you know, when I look back on the days, when we logged
with bull teams, it seems to me that the men at that time _liked_ to
work. I can still see the old timers in their whiskers, and their big
black hats and flannel shirts, as they sailed out on the old _Comox_ or
the _Cassiar_.” He shook his head sadly. “Ah! there was only one kind of
logger in them days.”
Seeing that Donald was interested, he went on: “Yes, there’s two kinds
of loggers nowadays, Donnie, the ‘single-breasted’ and the
‘double-breasted.’ And there’s a hell of a lot of difference between the
two. The ‘single-breasted’ logger is a man that don’t speak anythin’ but
English, an’ he don’t belong to the ‘I won’t works’ neither. He knows
loggin’ from A to Z; don’t mind sleepin’ in a bunk, and always carries
his own blankets. If he borrows a ten-spot off you, as soon as he earns
it he comes lookin’ for you, slips you the money, grabs you by the hand,
and lookin’ you straight in the eye, says: ‘Thanks, friend, come and
have a drink.’ At night, when he is through work, he’ll smoke his pipe,
grind his axe, talk about the next day’s work with the boss, read the
paper and go to bed. In the mornin’ he’ll swallow a big load of prunes
and ham and eggs and go to work a-singin’.
“But this ‘double-breaster’,” he snorted disgustedly, “he’s a mixture of
a taxi-driver, bartender and soap-box orator, and just because he lives
in B.C., he thinks he is a logger. He knows the difference between a
fallin’ saw and a bucket’s saw, and that just about lets him out. If he
borrows a dollar off you, the minute the bill slips out of your hand you
can see a look in his eye that says, ‘You’re hooked.’ And the devil of
it is that he won’t cross to the other side of the street when he sees
you comin’, but he’ll walk right up to you a-smilin’ and ask you for
another buck.
“When he gets through at night he cleans his finger-nails and picks on a
mandolin while he tells how many Janes is stuck on him in Vancouver;
gives an opinion that the shower-bath was not hot enough, and how we
sufferin’ workers should rise against the capitalists. He’ll kick at the
breakfast table because there is only oranges and no grape-fruit. When
he goes in the woods he’ll throw a few tools away so’s to help the cause
of the workers.
“Workers!” he exploded, as he came to his feet and walked the floor,
“we’ve got too many ‘double-breasteds’ and ‘hunks’ in this camp right
now, Donnie. A hunk will work if you show him a pick and shovel, but
these other guys are trouble-breeders. Did you see that big brute that
came in to-day?”
Donald remembered seeing an enormous man with narrow, piggish eyes, in
the crowd of men sent by the employment agency.
“That’s ol’ Hand. He’s a bad egg. I s’pose I’d ought to fire him, but
he’s a good logger, and they are mighty scarce ’round these diggin’s.”
He yawned sleepily. “Got to fix a ‘spar-tree’ for a ‘high-lead’
to-morrow, so I better hit the hay.”
Preparing the “spar-tree” for “high-lead,” or “sky-line” rigging, is the
most spectacular and thrilling performance in the logging industry. A
standing tree is trimmed of top and branches, then strengthened with
guys. With the pull coming from this altitude, the advantage over the
straight ground pull is enormous as logs are lifted high in air over all
impedimenta. The men who do this hazardous work are known as
“high-riggers.”
Next morning, a man with a short-handled axe, wearing a wide belt to
pass around the treetrunk, and a pair of lineman’s spurs, slowly climbed
a big fir. As he ascended he trimmed the trunk clear of limbs. Quite a
crowd gathered, among them the trapper, with his rifle on his arm.
“I ain’t got a ‘high-rigger’ in the outfit,” growled Gillis. “This
feller agreed to trim her, but he says he never chopped the top off one,
so I guess we’ll dynamite her.”
The explosive, with a detonating cap, was tied around the top of the
tree and wires strung to the ground. For some reason the batteries would
not act, and Gillis chafed under the delay.
“I kin set her off for ye,” said the old trapper.
Gillis turned to him. “How?”
The trapper tapped his gun. “Put a piece of paper on the cap so’ I kin
see her and I’ll pop it.”
“That’s a new one on me,” laughed Gillis.
He sent the man aloft to place a square piece of pasteboard on the cap.
The men moved back from the foot of the tree, and Gillis gave the signal
that all was clear. The old man sprang briskly to the top of a stump,
tipped his big hat to the back of his head, and raised his rifle slowly.
For an instant the long barrel wavered slightly, then steadied. The
report of the rifle was drowned by a splintering crash. The
heavily-branched top lifted, then came hurtling through the air to
strike the ground a mass of wreckage. For a moment the big spar swayed
drunkenly from the shock, then stood stark and rigid. Deprived of its
fronds of green, it appeared a ghastly relic of its former self.
That afternoon, as they waited the arrival of the train, Gillis talked
again of his “redshirts.” “White men, every one of them,” he declared
proudly, “and every one of them with a nickname that is known all over
the Coast. Ye just ought to see my two ‘high-riggers,’ ‘Hoop-la’
McKenzie and ‘Blackie’ Anderson. ‘Blackie’ is as black as an Indian, and
‘Hoop-la’ got his name from standing on the top of a spar-tree, after he
cuts her off, wavin’ his hat and yellin’ ‘Hoop-la’.
“I got five Jack McDonalds in the gang. Their names are ‘Sly’ Jack,
‘Fightin’ Jack, ‘Check-Book’ Jack, ‘Johnnie-On-The-Spot,’ and ‘Crazy’
Jack. An’ if they had all bin named ‘Crazy’ Jack it wouldn’t bin no
mistake,” he finished with a laugh.
The train rumbled to the station and the usual crowd of workers came
pouring from the cars, while a crowd stood waiting to board the train.
It was the same every day—men coming and men going.
Gillis uttered the glad cry, “Here they are!”
A big, ostentatious man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, stepped
to the platform. His dress was truly colourful and striking—wide hat,
high boots, a vivid scarlet shirt, with a cloth belt of the same bright
hue tied at the side, the ends dangling loosely.
“Get out of the way, hunkies, and make room for a logger!” he roared, as
he elbowed his way through a crowd of scattering foreigners behind him,
a line of men clad in the same brilliant attire.
“Hello, Hoop-la! you ornery ol’ skate!” bellowed Gillis.
The big man turned. “Here he is fellers!” he shouted.
In a moment Gillis was surrounded by this picturesque crew, howling
tumultuous greetings.
“Hello, ol’ hoss!”
“Hello, you son-of-a-gun!”
“How the hell are ye?”
Donald was subjected to crushing hand-clasps as he was introduced to
each and every one of this crowd of husky loggers.
As Donald studied them he did not wonder at Gillis’s pride in these men.
With the exception of Blackie, there was none under six feet in height,
and they carried themselves with a loose swing that was almost a
swagger. Many of them were well past middle age, some quite grey about
the temples. They were all filled with the sparkling health of the great
outdoors, their skins the colour of mahogany.
“Where’s the bunk-house?” asked Blackie.
“We don’t call them bunk-houses any more, we have dormitories,”
corrected Gillis as he nudged Donald slyly.
“A what?” questioned the puzzled Blackie.
“Dormitories,” repeated Gillis.
Blackie glowered at his boss. “What are you runnin’, a ladies’
seminary?” he questioned sarcastically.
“And another thing, you don’t need your blankets. Company furnishes
’em,” informed Gillis.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing right now,” declared ‘Crazy’ Jack, “I
ain’t goin’ to sleep in a pair of blankets that forty smelly bohunks has
wrapped themselves in. What kind of a joint you brought us to, Jack?”
“What I want to tell you fellers,” said Gillis, ignoring ‘Crazy’ Jack’s
remarks, “is this: I want you to stay all summer. None of this running
to town to get your teeth fixed, or a new suit, see the ball game, or to
meet your sister who’s comin’ out from the East, and all that old bunk.
We got more orders——”
“Can that chatter,” interrupted ‘Fighting’ Jack with a wide grin. “We’re
all goin’ to town on Dominion Day, ain’t we, boys?”
“You bet!” they roared as one.
Gillis shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Thought you fellers was
gettin’ old enough to have a little sense,” he said.
“Too much kick in us yet, Jack,” demurred Blackie.
“Where is this door-mee-tory, Jack?” asked Hoop-la.
Gillis pointed to the long building, and the boisterous crowd moved
noisily up the hill. The men dropped their packs to the ground outside
the door, and, shouldering each other, peered in. The long rows of white
beds stood immaculate against the walls, and two white-coated flunkeys
were sweeping the glossy varnished floor.
“This ain’t the right place,” growled Hoop-la, “this is the hospital.
They must expect to kill about a hundred men every day. Hi! Jack! Come
here. Where’s the bunk-room?” he asked as Gillis approached.
“That’s it.”
“That!”
“Sure.”
“Say! what you givin’ us? I wouldn’t dare sit down on one of them beds;
’fraid of dirty’n it.”
The others gathered round.
“Jack, can we put up a log shack for ourselves?” asked Blackie.
“You sure can,” responded Gillis tolerantly.
“All right, we’ll sleep in this morgue ’till we get a decent place,”
said Blackie.
He poked his head in the door just as Andy, clad in white coat, entered
by the rear.
“Say, nurse,” shouted Blackie, “get ready for twenty-two cases of
delirium tremens!”
“That’s easy,” was Andy’s quick retort; “I’ve ’ad more than that by
myself.” His eyebrows lifted in quick surprise as he saw the brilliant
shirts.
“When does the blinkin’ circus start?” he grinned.
That evening in their explorations Blackie and Hoop-la found the log
shack on the lake-shore.
“Say, Jack, can me and Hoop-la have that cabin down there?”
“You bet you can, Blackie. You and Hoop-la can have anythin’ round
here,” replied Gillis heartily.
Blackie had turned to go, but on hearing this broad statement he stopped
quickly. “Say, Jack, me and Hoop-la came away from Vancouver owin’ a
little money—an’ I promised to send——”
“Ye’ve got me when the gittin’ is good,” interrupted Gillis. “How much
do you want?”
“Let me see,” reflected Blackie, “I owe for my room in town; and I owe
at Old Joe’s, and—and——”
“How much? Spit it out, I can stand the shock,” commanded Gillis.
“’Bout a hundred, Jack.”
“Whew!” whistled Gillis as he reached for his purse.
With Donald’s assistance the hundred dollars was found and Blackie ran
joyously down the hill.
“Little devil!” smiled Gillis as he gazed after him. “Good-hearted a
feller as ever lived,” he added feelingly, “but he can’t take one drink
without goin’ crazy.”
The “redshirts” had been up in the woods looking over the logging
operations, and they now came swinging down the hill, their bright
shirts flashing in the sun. They were loggers, “every inch of them,” as
Gillis had said.