A week before Dominion Day men began applying for leave of absence until
the exodus depleted the crew to such an extent that it was deemed
advisable to shut down for a week. Donald turned to Gillis as he saw the
whole crew of “redshirts” pile tumultuously on the train.
“How often do the men quit like this?” he asked rather irritably.
“Every holiday,” replied Gillis.
Donald pondered a moment.
“That means that we may lose a week for Labour Day.”
“Very likely.”
“Jack, do you think we could keep them here if we held some sort of
celebration at the lake?”
“I believe we could,” responded Gillis warmly.
“We’ll do it then,” declared Donald. “We’ve so many orders ahead that
this lay-off may force us to run a night crew.”
“Did you spend all your dough, Blackie?” asked Gillis when the
“redshirts” arrived back from town.
“Me and Hoop-la spent about two hundred bucks, but we had three hundred
dollars’ worth o’ fun. We ain’t got enough money to buy a humminbird a
pair o’ leggin’s, but we sure had a helluva good time, so we ain’t
worryin’.”
“S’pose you bought them new boots?” inquired Gillis.
Blackie forced a laugh. “Goin’ to git them next time, Jack,” he
continued, moving closer to his big boss; “say, Jack, you know that I
send twenty dollars to my mother back east ev’ry month. I—I——”
“All right, Blackie,” said Gillis gently, “I’ll advance it to you.”
“Thanks, Jack, you’re a good pal,” commended Blackie in a relieved tone.
Donald and Gillis walked down the hill to inspect the logs in the boom,
and as they walked Gillis indulged in some pointed observations. “You
know, Donnie, that these loggers are game guys to come back after
spendin’ all their money and say: ‘We had a good time, so we ain’t
worryin’.’ The man ain’t human that won’t worry after spendin’ in a few
days the money it’s taken him six months to earn swingin’ an axe an’
draggin’ a saw. Still, they hide their remorse under a grin and tell of
what a good time they’ve had. So many people think that loggers spend
all their money for booze. ’Tain’t so. That gang of mine give away about
half their money to bums around town. I have seen Blackie give away
twenty bucks at a time.”
As they passed the high-rigger’s little cabin, Gillis poked his head
through the door. Blackie was absorbed in the task of sewing a patch on
a pair of worn boots. A mournful wind blew querulously around the cabin.
“Say, Blackie, do you know what that wind is saying?”
Blackie grunted a negative.
“Here’s what it’s a sayin’,” said Gillis as he puckered his lips:
“O-o-o-o-h! W-h-e-e-r-r-e-e has your summer wages gone! O-o-o-h!
W-h-e-r-r-e-e has your summer——”
Gillis dodged back as a boot came whizzing past his head.
* * * * *
Midsummer brought an epidemic of labour disturbances throughout the
Province. A radical labour organization seized on a time when work was
plentiful and labour scarce to spread their insidious propaganda through
the camps. Railroad construction in the interior had been seriously
interfered with, and in many cases there had been violence and
bloodshed.
Two agitators arrived at the Summit Mill, and the next day several of
the men—including Hand and Blackie—did not appear when the whistle
blew. Gillis found them in Blackie’s cabin in a half-drunken condition.
That afternoon Renwick ordered the two strangers off the premises and
discharged Hand.
Hoop-la begged successfully for lenience toward his erring pal. “You
know how booze affects Blackie, Jack,” he pleaded.
Donald became aware of a changed bearing on the part of many of the men.
Sullenness had fallen upon them; discontent manifested itself, as well
as insubordination. That afternoon spikes driven in the logs wreaked
havoc with the saws and forced a partial shut-down.
A committee of four men waited on Renwick and presented an ultimatum.
They demanded a heavy increase in wages, or they would call for an
immediate cessation of work on the part of the men they represented.
Renwick promptly refused. In fifteen minutes every man in the mill
except the clerical staff, the mechanics and the engineer, walked out.
In the woods only Gillis’s “redshirts” remained at work.
The strikers moved up the track and made camp on a point of land on the
lake-shore. That night the door of the commissary was prised from its
hinges and a quantity of food stolen, and the night-watchman put out a
fire of incendiary origin.
Renwick, while returning from the power-house, was shot at twice from
ambush. He wired his resignation to Robert Rennie, and in terrified
haste packed his belongings and left on the next train. An hour later
the agent brought Donald a telegram:
“Donald McLean,
“Summit Mill.
“You are promoted to position vacated by Renwick. Refuse
strikers’ demands. Ship at Squamish Oriental order white pine.
Utmost importance lumber loaded within week. Use every means in
power to keep plant operating.
“Robert Rennie.”
He passed the message to Gillis. The big man turned and grasped Donald’s
hand in congratulation.
“We’ll get that order out on time or bust,” declared Gillis grimly.
Donald distributed firearms among his loyal men, and one-half the crew
patrolled the plant while the others slept.
Donald had been up the greater part of the night, and at Gillis’s
earnest request he went to his cabin near midnight. As the door closed
behind him, Connie, with her rifle resting in the hollow of her arm,
rose silently from behind a tree in the darkness of the hillside and
flitted noiselessly on moccasined feet from stump to stump. Unseen she
reached the corner of Donald’s cabin, where she sank to the ground with
the soft, slow grace of a nestling bird.
The Cheakamus Mill, robbed of man-power, was forced to cease operations.
At the Summit Mill work went on with such speed as in the situation
Donald was able to induce in the men, who were on edge. To him it seemed
that they were working on top of a powder mine that might go off at any
moment. He discovered in himself a faculty to handle men and to raise
them to a fever pitch of enthusiasm—not that the B.C. logger is a hard
man to lift to the fighting point. His fight against great odds had
gained the sympathy of the loyal—a sympathy and respect that money
could not buy. Gillis’s gang, with the exception of “Blackie,” remained
fervently faithful.
Toiling in the hot sun, nearly blinded by sweat, singing lustily, this
gallant crew worked their twelve hours without a murmur of complaint.
Donald lived on the job, ate on the job, and all day long he drove his
men even as he drove himself. His rest consisted of such fitful snatches
of sleep as he could steal between his rounds of the night guards.
The first move of the strikers was not of open violence. The haul-back
on two of the donkeys broke without apparent reason; one of the big saws
had been tampered with; Wilkinson reported two fires of incendiary
origin, and also that an attempt to dynamite the power-house had been
frustrated.
On the third morning Hand, at the head of a mob of fifty men, made a
swift descent on the lumbering operations. It might have been successful
if Donald had not expected something of this kind and set efficient
watch.
The invaders came down the track in a solid body, armed with cant-dog
handles, pick-axes and clubs, and thirsting for battle. At Donald’s
quick shout of warning his men dropped their tools and came on the run
to form in a compact body behind him.
“Don’t use your guns unless you have to,” he warned, as he noticed
several of them flash their revolvers.
Donald climbed quickly to the top of a large stump. In his left hand he
held a stick of dynamite with fuse attached; in his right he held a
match close to the dangling fuse. “Men,” he cried in a determined tone,
“if you move forward one step I will throw this.”
“To hell mit him!” shouted Hand. “He don’t dare do it. Rush him.”
But the mob did not obey their leader’s rash command. Donald’s pale face
and burning black eyes were sufficient evidence that he made no idle
threat. Donald saw the big hand of his foreman stealing to the butt of
the heavy Colts that hung at his side. “Keep cool, Jack,” he begged;
“don’t start anything.”
For days Gillis had been without sleep. He turned bloodshot eyes on
Donald. “By G——! I would like to take a crack at Hand,” he said in a
voice thick with rage.
The hostile crowd did not advance; neither did they leave. Scattered in
groups, they lay or sat on the hillside to shout occasionally words of
derision at Donald’s faithful crew.
Donald’s nerves were on edge. At any moment there might be a pitched
battle with loss of lives. He studied the faces of the strikers to see
how many were from his crew, and was surprised to recognize fully forty
of his men. He saw “Blackie” in the rear of the crowd of strikers. When
his eyes met Donald’s he turned away shamefacedly. All the men from his
camp refused to meet his gaze squarely. “Those men are ready to come
back right now,” he said to Gillis. “Hand has bullied them into this.
Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gillis. “I never thought Blackie would go back
on me. I’ll wring his d——d neck when I catch him in town!” he added
bitterly.
Donald heard a slight movement behind him, and turned to see Connie
standing with her rifle in the crook of her arm.
“Good heavens! Connie, you shouldn’t be here!” he exclaimed.
Connie’s face bore traces of weariness and sleeplessness. For three
nights she had stolen softly away from her cabin on the hillside to lie
hidden outside that of Donald. By night she had kept up a weary vigil,
ever on the alert; in the forenoon she had lain behind a stump on the
hill with eyes on Donald’s tall figure whenever he came in sight, her
rifle ready for instant action. Hand did not know that death had nearly
claimed him when he stepped forward to urge his men to charge. At that
crucial moment Connie’s rifle was aimed at his heart.
“Get away from here at once, Connie!” said Donald, firmly, but kindly.
Connie lowered her eyes to her moccasined foot, that was weaving
patterns in the dry soil, and shook her small head obstinately.
“Why do you wish to stay?” he asked.
She patted the stock of her rifle. “I—I want to help you.”
Donald looked down at the weary little figure. He stepped down from the
stump, keeping a wary eye on the belligerent strikers, and came to her
side. “Connie,” he said softly, “you are a dear, brave little girl, but
you must get away from this place, as there may be serious trouble.
Please, Connie,” he entreated, reaching out a hand to stroke her shining
hair.
Connie’s face paled quickly, and she shrank from the caress. Her slender
body trembled at his touch, and his display of tenderness brought a
sudden rush of tears to her eyes. But she made no move to leave the
scene.
Finding that he could not shake Connie’s determination to stay, Donald
returned to the vantage point of the stump. “Jack,” he said, turning to
his big foreman, “I am going to make one last appeal to these men. If I
am any judge of human nature about half of them, if they can save their
faces, will welcome the chance to go back to work. They are being
dominated by Hand.”
Gillis shrugged his shoulders. “Do what you think best,” he said.
Donald passed the dynamite to Gillis and stepped forward with his arms
extended, palms upward. The crowd moved uneasily. Hand came slowly to
his feet, his small eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“What’s up?” he growled.
“Men,” Donald began in a high clear voice, “I would like to convince you
that you will gain nothing by your present tactics. Bloodshed will
surely ensue. I have orders to refuse your exorbitant demands.
Personally, I have no choice in the matter; there is no other course for
me to pursue. In spite of your interference we will continue working
with the few men who have remained loyal. I will ask for police
protection only as a last resort. I appeal particularly to the men who
worked for me here at this camp. Is there one of you who can truthfully
say that you were not accorded fair treatment? Is there one of you who
will not admit that the general equipment for your comfort is unequalled
in any camp in British Columbia? You are making a mistake, men,” he went
on in a pleading tone, “a mistake you will be sorry for later, for you
will be blacklisted in every camp in the country. Go back to work, and I
promise you there will be no mark against you. That’s all.”
Donald walked back to Connie’s side. The men had not interrupted him
once.
Hand turned to the wavering crowd. “To hell mit him and all
capitalists!” he snarled. He turned to shake a huge fist at Donald.
“You treaten us, do you? You d——” The epithet that came from his
coarse lips was one that would cause any decent man to see red.
Donald stiffened. His face turned livid. “You dirty cur!” he flamed.
“Don’t you know that there is a lady present? You apologize to this
little girl or I will whip you within an inch of your life!” His voice
trembled with passion.
“Lady,” scoffed Hand, “vat you call a lady? She moost be nice lady,
runnin’ in de woods wit’ you ev’ry Sunday.”
A murderous look shot from Donald’s dark eyes. A terrible rage possessed
him, a rage that made his blood feel hot in his veins and gave him the
unnatural strength of a madman. A dull red flamed in Connie’s tanned
cheeks. She sat down and covered her hot face with her hands.
Andy now came running from the cook-house, dressed in white cap and
apron, his rifle trailing at his side. “What’s goin’ on, Donnie?” he
questioned.
Donald did not answer. Gillis spoke to Andy in an undertone.
“My God, Donnie, ’e’s twice your size! Don’t fight ’im!” implored Andy.
“I’ll kill him!” rasped Donald.
Gillis seized his arm. “Let me fix the d—— skunk; he’s nearer my
size.”
“No, this is my affair!” shaking himself from the grasp.
The sound of a paddle came from below, and the trapper sprang from his
dugout and came swiftly up the hill. As Andy briefly explained the
situation the old man’s grey eyes narrowed to mere slits beneath the
shaggy brows.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Me and ‘Betsey’,” patting his six-shooter, “we likes
to shoot up bohunks. We shoots them in the heel so’s to save their
clothes.” His mouth was set in a grim smile, a smile that was belied by
the steely look in his deep-set eyes. He seated himself on a log and
placed his gun on his knees.
Donald had by this divested himself of coat and shirt and now stepped
forward dressed in light cotton trousers, a sleeveless undershirt and
moccasins. “Hand,” he said in a steady voice, “this is between you and
me. See to it that your men do not interfere; I will vouch for mine.”
The big foreigner was rubbing his big hands as though in pleased
anticipation. “I suppose you know how we iss goin’ to fight? Everything
goes, you know.” His grin was fiendish.
Donald knew what was meant. There were to be no rules of combat; no time
duration; no referee; no rounds, and woe to the man who should go down.
It was to be a battle as of primeval man. It might result in terrible
injury and mutilation. He sickened at the thought.
Hand stripped to the waist. Connie’s eyes rested on the mighty frame of
this huge blond; the bunched and rippling muscles, the great chest
covered with a mat of thick hair, and the enormous limbs. Her glance
then turned and roved to the man who was to fight for her honour.
Donald’s eyes were like burning coals. His face had regained its colour,
but was contorted with a passion that made him seem unnatural. Yet he
appeared a mere stripling in comparison to his burly antagonist.
For a moment Connie became a primitive woman. She felt as though she
could rend and tear. Her eyes darted blue lightnings of wrath toward the
man who had insulted her, and her small hands clinched in impotent fury.
Her nails cut into her palms as she exercised every ounce of
self-control to keep from screaming aloud. Donald was fighting for her.
She caught her breath in a quick stab. Her heart was beating with
alternate throbs of joy and fear. A sudden fit of trembling seized her,
and her head felt light and giddy.
Hand’s reputation as a rough and tumble fighter was well known
throughout the Province. It was his proud boast that he never had been
whipped. He advanced now, a sinister leer on his face. Andy ran to
Donald’s side.
“Box ’im, Donnie,” he whispered. “Don’t let ’im get ’old on you.”
“You goin’ to vip me? De dude goin’ to vip me? Ach!” scoffed Hand in
guttural accents.
He came slowly forward with arms spread wide, his thick fingers working
convulsively. Donald leaned slightly forward and waited. As he neared
him, Hand tore in, sure of himself in the rough and tumble. Donald
side-stepped the big man’s first rush and shot his left to his face. He
was not properly set for the blow, but it stung Hand to madness.
“Ach!” he grunted, “stand and fight you d—— coward!”
He came on, his arms swinging wildly. Leaping aside, Donald’s heel
struck a stump, and before he could regain his footing the giant’s arms
were around him in a bone-crushing grasp. His hands were clasped at
Donald’s waist, and the big head was pressed suffocatingly against his
throat. Donald was forced slowly backward to strike the ground with a
thud, the big man on top.
“Now I got you!” panted Hand as he released his hold on Donald’s waist
and aimed a blow at his face. With a quick movement the under man turned
face down. Hand struck him viciously as he lay prostrate under him.
Connie’s eyes were wide with horror, and a muffled scream escaped her
lips as the blow fell.
With a quick, convulsive movement of his lithe body Donald threw Hand
from his back and sprang to his feet. Whirling quickly as the foreigner
came toward him, he sent in a volley of blows to his opponent’s face.
Hand staggered, but did not fall. His lips were cut and bleeding: his
nose was broken; and he spat out several broken teeth. Any one of the
blows landed was sufficient to send an ordinary man down for the count,
but still the gargantuan giant came on.
In and out Donald flashed, his arms moving like steel pistons. Hand
could not keep away from the punishing left hand of his lighter
opponent. Men not trained in the science of boxing have no punishing
power in their left hand, but depend solely on their right. Such was the
case with Hand. His style did not vary for a moment. With head lowered
between his powerful shoulders, he would bore in, swinging wildly in the
hope of landing a lucky punch, or striving to get a hold on his
adversary. Donald’s hand kept beating a tattoo on his rock-like jaw, but
still Hand came forward, slowly and relentlessly as a steam-roller.
Crowding Donald back to the line of tense spectators, Hand rushed him
into the scattering crowd and seized him in a rib-cracking embrace.
Donald broke the hold, but not before the brute had butted him over the
eye. With the blow Donald’s senses reeled and the blood gushed from a
wide gash on his brow. A blow from the foreigner’s big fist then caught
him over the heart and sent him staggering to his knees. With a curse
the big man came after him.
Andy shouted hysterical words of advice.
Donald came slowly to his feet and mechanically side-stepped as Hand
came stumbling toward him. Donald evaded him until his head cleared, and
then summoned his remaining strength into one mighty blow that landed
flush on his opponent’s midriff. The blond beast came to his knees with
a dull grunt.
“Go after him!” yelled excited voices from the crowd.
Donald stepped forward with fist drawn back to strike the kneeling man,
but his arm fell to his side and he shook his head. “Get up!” he
commanded hoarsely.
Even the strikers gasped their appreciation of this honourable act. A
murmur of applause came from both sides. The foreigner shook his shaggy
blond head and came uncertainly to his feet and the sanguinary battle
went on. Both men were tired. Hand’s breath was coming in short, choking
gasps from his tortured lungs, and his face was one smear of blood.
Donald’s left eye was closed; his lips were split, and the gash over his
eye had covered his body with blood. His arms were tired from pounding
the iron jaw of his adversary. The big logger’s strength was waning; the
pounding administered by Donald was beginning to tell. But Donald was
too weak to avoid his rushes. In a clinch Hand again butted him with his
head.
Blackie, his eyes blazing, leaped forward with a peavy handle in his
hand. “You fight fair, d—— you, or I’ll brain you!” he shouted. One of
the strikers attempted to wrest the peavy handle from his hands. Blackie
felled him with a blow of his fist. It looked for one tense moment as if
there would be a general mêlée. There came sullen mutterings from the
crowd of strikers.
“Back!” John Hiller’s voice rang out sharp and clear. “I’ll kill the
first man that interferes!” The eyes shining over the long-barrelled
Colt held a dangerous glint. The men who had moved to the centre backed
away hurriedly.
Back and forth the combatants struggled, neither gaining any decided
advantage, each trying to land a blow that would end the battle.
Reeling, gasping, striking, falling to their knees from sheer weakness,
the men fought on under a burning noonday sun.
No knight of old ever fought more nobly for a fair lady’s honour than
did Donald McLean that day by the lake-shore. His undershirt was torn to
tatters, showing his white skin blotched with welts and bruises. He was
losing his sense of distance. Swinging wildly with his left, his wrist
struck Hand’s adamantine jaw and the onlookers saw his face writhe in
pain as the arm fell helplessly to his side.
“’E’s broken ’is ’and,” groaned Andy.
“Oh, stop it, Andy, please stop it!” sobbed Connie, her arms held out in
entreaty.
Donald’s face turned a sickly grey, and as the well-nigh sightless
foreigner staggered weakly toward him, he with a strength born of agony
whipped his right to his opponent’s sagging jaw. The big man faltered,
sank slowly to hands and knees, then stretched at full length, his face
pressing the soil, quivered and lay still. No sound came from the crowd.
The thing had been too stupendous for immediate shouting or applause.
Donald stood for an instant swaying uncertainly, then turned to stumble
toward his cabin.
Blackie sprang to the top of a stump and swung his hat in the air.
“Three cheers for our boss!” he yelled wildly.
A roaring cheer came from the crowd with a right good will.
“Boys, let’s go back to work!” shouted Blackie.
“We’re with you, Blackie!” they answered.
Gillis reached Donald’s side as he tottered into the cabin and caught
him in his arms as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The big man picked
him up tenderly and placed him on the bed.
“Get some ’ot water and towels and telephone for Dr. Paul,” commanded
Andy tersely.
As Gillis left to fill Andy’s commission, Connie fell on her knees by
the bedside and wept with wild and passionate violence. “Oh, Donald!
Donald!” she sobbed, “you fought for me. I love you! I love you! Oh,
Andy,” turning her streaming eyes to the little man, “he won’t die, will
he? Tell me he won’t die!” Her trembling fingers were smoothing Donald’s
dark hair, and she kissed his battered face tenderly, all the while
calling his name hysterically.
With tears in his eyes and a heart full of sympathy, little Andy looked
down on the recumbent form of his unconscious friend. “’E’s all right,
Connie. ’E’ll be all right in a few days,” he answered her in a choking
voice.
Donald stirred as Andy applied the water, and his one good eye opened
slowly. “Did I win?” he questioned weakly.
“You bet your blinkin’ life you did.”
When Donald’s gaze rested on Connie his face twisted into a wry smile.
He reached for her hand and held it in a firm pressure. “Good little
sport,” he whispered through split lips.
Connie felt as though her heart would burst. Scorching tears ran down
her face, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she controlled the
suffocating sobs that filled her throat.
The sound of the big mill whistle smote their ears in a wild medley of
short, sharp blasts, quite unlike the decorous tone that summoned and
dismissed the men.
“What’s that?” asked Donald, attempting to sit up.
“The engineer is celebrating, Donnie. The men ’ave returned to work. The
strike is broken.”
“Ah!” sighed Donald happily as he fell back on the pillows.
The distant hum of a gas-car gradually increased to a series of staccato
explosions, then died out suddenly. They heard the light rumble of
wheels as it drew to a stop at the station below. There was the sound of
quick footsteps on the board sidewalk and the door opened to admit Dr.
Paul. He crossed the room and took Donald’s hand. “Is it true,” he asked
incredulously, “that you whipped Ole Hand?”
“Strike me pink if ’e didn’t,” Andy vouchsafed.
“I have patched up Hand’s victim’s many times,” the doctor stated, “but
this is the first time that I have attended his victor, and I can assure
you that it’s a pleasure.” He removed his coat and rolled up his
sleeves. “I’ll look you over,” he added, then glanced significantly at
Connie, who rose and left the room.
“A couple of cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, and a few hundred bruises,”
was the doctor’s verdict a few minutes later.
The physician’s deft hands soon bandaged the broken ribs and set the
bone of the forearm.
“I’ll go and patch up the fallen bully. I hope he’s worse still,” he
chuckled as he left the room.
Andy stepped to the door and called in Connie.
“Don’t look so frightened, Connie,” smiled Donald. “I don’t feel half as
bad as I look.”
“I’ll have to go now,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.
Andy accompanied her outside the door. “’Ave a bite to eat, Connie?” he
invited.
Connie shook her head. Now that the excitement was over, the strain of
the emotion she had experienced showed in the dark shadows under her
eyes and in the droop of her slight shoulders. “Andy,” she began, as she
placed a small hand on his arm, “you—you won’t say anything
what—what—I——”
A flood of rose dyed her tanned cheeks and her blue eyes fell in
embarrassment. Andy patted her shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ll never s’y a blinkin’ word, Connie; an oyster’s got nothin’ on me.”
Connie, visibly relieved, picked up her gun and started up the hill.
Andy watched the pathetic little figure until she disappeared in the
woods. For a moment he stood staring into nothingness, then, shaking his
head sadly, he entered the cabin.
“She’s a little brick, Andy,” Donald spoke weakly from his bed.
Andy glared at him. “Brick!” he repeated sarcastically. “Is that all?
You big, bone-’eaded, blinkin’ boob!” He slammed the door as he went out
to give emphasis to the remark.
“What the devil does he mean?” puzzled Donald. He turned painfully to
his side, yawned equally as painfully, then fell into a sound sleep.