THE GIFT OF THE FLOOD
The wages from Ed’s winter’s work at the logging camp, together with
the sixty dollars each had earned on the drive in the spring, enabled
the Allen boys to purchase a fine span of half-blood, two-years-old
Norman colts, from “Old Man” LaDauger, a half-woodsman, half-farmer,
whose capacious cabin was a stopping place for rivermen, and for
teamsters going to and from the lumber camps. The colts, though huge
fellows, were as gentle, if as playful, as kittens, and Ed soon had
them well broken to such tasks as were suitable to their age and
strength.
Several acres of the rich, level land had been cleared of willow
bushes, and the larger bunches of their roots dug out. Now, with the
sprightly yoke of young oxen hitched in front of the colts, the boys
had a breaking team not to be despised.
It had been a busy summer for the lads, and the toil was severe, but
they had a goal ahead, and to them hardship and weariness were but
milestones on the road to its realization. By the time November snows
were heralded by the “honk, honk” of wild geese, there had been a large
field of well-plowed land ready for the mellowing frosts, and later
planting of corn.
Uncle Henry Thompson pronounced the white oak leaves to be “as large
as squirrel ears,” which marked corn planting time. Now the days were
hardly long enough for the boys. From gray dawn to twilight of evening
they “dropped and covered” (modern machinery was unknown to that time
and country) until the last hill in the last row was planted with a
shout.
The soft showers fell, and the corn sprouted and grew. But an
occasional riverman brought word of heavy rains up on “headwaters.”
Signs of weakness had been noticed in “Big Bull” dam, and if that
should break, “Jennie Bull” and “Grandfather,” below, would be swept
away also.
“What did that mean? That means a second Noah’s flood for you fellows,”
said the rivermen.
Steadily the rains fell, and steadily the river rose. “She is nearly
bank full,” announced Ed, coming in from an inspection late one night.
“Lucky that the main drive has gone down, or the lumbermen would have
an all summer job hauling their logs out of these high-water sloughs.”
In the night the boys were awakened by the “boom! boom!” as of steady
cannonading at a distance. “It must be the ‘sack drive,’” said Rob. “It
would take big logs to make that booming.”
“But, Rob, listen! That booming is on the west side of the house. You
know the river isn’t over there.” The boys sprang from their bed, and
in the early morning light beheld a vast expanse of wildly-rushing
water all about them. Fences were gone, but so far, the substantially
framed log buildings of the farm were intact.
“It’s the flood!” exclaimed Ed. “Big Bull dam has given way! See those
big logs sailing right across our corn field.”
Indeed, it was a disheartening situation that daylight brought to view.
Undoubtedly their corn crop was ruined, and Rob’s school days were
removed to a more distant, shadowy future. But another misfortune was
to be revealed. Wading out to the big pine on the river bank, to which
their flat-bottomed boat was moored, Ed brought it to the house, and
the boys paddled out to the barn lots. There they found the cattle
safe, though knee deep in water, under the sheds. But when they came to
the sheep fold, the fences were all gone, and not a woolly animal was
in sight.
“Dead!” exclaimed Rob. “Every last one of them drowned! And we expected
the coming lambs would double our flock.” “Maybe they’re not all dead,”
replied Ed. “Sheep can swim when they have to, though of course not
far in their heavy wool. But see! the current here sets in to Big Bend
timber where there are some patches of high ground. We may find some of
them stranded there. We’ll take the boat after breakfast, and have a
hunt for them.”
Happily, Ed’s surmise proved to be correct. Upon the small patches of
high ground in the big bend they found here and there a half-drowned
sheep, and in two days of exhausting toil they rescued and carried back
to life and safety eighteen of their flock of twenty-six.
The crest of the flood past, the waters receded as quickly as they had
come, and after a few days of bright sunshine the boys were able to
learn the extent of damage done to their crop. As soon as they came
upon the ground they saw that it could not have been worse. Not only
the growing corn, but the soil itself, as deep as the plow had loosened
it, was washed away. Not only that, but here and there, scattered over
the field, were logs--hundreds of them--left stranded by the receding
waters.
“What shall we do, Ed?” exclaimed Rob. “It will take us all summer to
get them off our land, and that means almost a whole year lost.”
Practical Ed was silent a few moments and then replied, “Don’t worry,
Rob, maybe we can get the job of hauling them into the river. Let’s see
whose mark is on them.” Examining the hack marks on the sides of the
logs, and the brand in the ends, Rob said, “Well, about all of them are
the I F brand--they’re Isaac Fitts’ logs.”
“Whew!” said Ed, “that old bear; but I believe we can haul them back
into the river cheaper for him than he can bring a crew up here from
Necedah and do it. We’ll try him, anyway.”
However, the Allen boys were not the only ones who were interesting
themselves in stray logs left ashore by the breaking of the big dams.
Next morning as they were preparing for their trip to the sawmill town,
there appeared a crew of swampers with teams, who, without so much as
“By your leave” were proceeding to haul the logs into the river. A big
man with red whiskers was directing the work, with many a shouted oath
and curse. “It’s not Fitts’ crew,” said Ed. “It’s some up-river folks.
Rob, I believe they’re rebranding those logs! They’re going to steal
them from old Fitts. It’s Larry Phelan, the timber thief and gambler.
I’m going to stop him. He has no rights on our ground anyway. You run
down after Mr. Thompson, he’s a Justice, and I’ll go warn Larry.”
Although Ed was but a lad, he blustered up to the big Irishman, and
demanded that he leave those logs alone. Back and forth they parleyed.
At last Larry exclaimed, “They’re my logs, an I’ll do as I plaze wid
thim.” Then to his men who had come up to listen, he roared, “Be aff
wid ye to yer work. What are ye doin’ here!”
“You are trespassing on this land,” insisted Ed, “and these are Isaac
Fitts’ logs. I can see what you are doing--making an L out of the I and
a P out of the F and putting your own brand over his on the ends.”
“Git out o’ here, or I’ll brain ye wid this peavey!” shouted the boss,
lifting his heavy cant-hook threateningly.
“Hold on! Hold on!” called Mr. Thompson, coming up with Rob. “I’m a
peace officer of this township, and I warn you that you are committing
trespass on this land. Don’t lay the weight of your finger on that lad,
or you’ll get something more than a fine.”
As Larry looked into the eyes of the old man, he saw something that
had not glowed there since the old days at Harper’s Ferry, when Mr.
Thompson had watched his own young brothers, riddled with bullets,
floating down the river--and he quieted down.
But the stakes were too large--here were at least two thousand dollars
worth of logs, and nobody but the boy had seen the changing of the
brands. All that the Justice had charged him with could be settled by a
fine, at the worst, and his lawyer could probably beat that case with a
jury.
“Misther Thompson, ye ould nigger-stealer, will ye tind yer own
affairs. I know what I’m doin’. Go awn, boys.” But no more marks were
changed while Mr. Thompson stayed.
“Well, boys,” said Uncle Henry, “it’s no use for us to get into a fight
with that mob. I’m too old now, and you are too young.”
“Uncle Henry,” spoke up Rob, “How much nearer is it to Necedah by the
woods trail than by the prairie road?”
“A matter of four miles,” replied Mr. Thompson; “but there is no
crossing at Little Yellow.”
“But I can swim it, even if the water is cold. Four from sixteen miles
leaves but twelve, and I believe I can make it with the ‘long trot’ in
two hours. We’ve just got to get Mr. Fitts here. Those logs that Larry
Phelan is rolling into the river are his.”
“Good, lad! I believe you can do it. The roads are something fearful,
but if old man Fitts learns that Larry Phelan is stealing his timber,
he’ll drive his buckskins here if he has to swim ’em through the mud
half way and run ’em over stumps the other half.”
There remained yet two hours of daylight as Rob swung into the forest
trail on the long trot his Indian friend Kalichigoogah had taught him.
Little Yellow was reached, and in spite of the numbing cold of the
water, was safely crossed, the lad swimming with one hand, while he
held the bundle of his clothes high and dry in the other. Then on he
sped in the long race of eight more miles.
The sun had been down for half an hour when the gruff old lumberman
opened his door at Rob’s knock. “Well, an’ what do ye want? We don’t
feed tramps here. What! What’s that ye say! My logs--an’ ’tis that
blackguard gambler Larry Phelan puttin’ his brand on ’em and bankin’
’em!” And, to tell the truth, the language of the old man was as
explosive as had been that of Larry himself.
“Jim, put the buckskins to the light ‘democrat.’ But lad, you’re hungry
an’ tired. Come in, come in an’ have a snack. Ran it in two-thirty, did
ye? An’ swam the river! Well, well! But we’ll tend to the rascal this
night.”
However, as the old man cooled down, the needlessness of a night ride
over the waste of ruined roads and flood-piled debris convinced him
of the wisdom of waiting until the light of day to make the journey.
By the time the birds were fairly awake, Mr. Fitts and Rob were well
upon their way, and Rob had broached the matter of securing the job of
hauling the logs into the river. The old man turned his keen eyes upon
the boy. “An’ what would ye do with all the money if ye got the job?
College! What for would a likely lad with good sense and good arms fool
away his time in college? Humph! Well, we’ll see.”
Phelan and his men and teams had not been idle: all night long they had
worked, and fully two hundred of the five hundred or more stray logs
were already piled in the river, bearing the changed marks, ready to go
down to the Necedah boom with the next rise.
Old man Fitts charged the swamping outfit like an enraged bull. “So yer
at yer old tricks, are ye, Larry? I’ve been wantin’ to ketch ye for a
long time. An’ now I’ve got the witnesses on ye.”
Phelan started in to bluster and curse, but evidently the presence of
Fitts was something he had not calculated upon, nor the fact that Henry
and Sam Thompson, who now arose from where they had been in hiding,
were witnesses to the felonious changing of the log marks.
Larry changed his mood. “Perhaps the men may have made a mistake in
the dark, Misther Fitts. If they’re yer logs ye can pay us what is
raysonable fer bankin’ av thim, and we’ll jist call it square.”
“No, we won’t, ye thief!” roared the old man. “Those logs in the river
are your logs now, do ye understand? They’ve got yer mark on ’em, every
one, an’ they’ll be put into your chute at the boom. An’ they’ve cost
ye just fifteen dollars the thousand, board measure. Do ye understand?
We’ll lump ’em at twelve hundred dollars, an’ ye’ll write the check fer
that just now. I can trust ye not to stop payment on that check.”
Counter threat and curses; calling the old man a robber (for Fitts had
made a gilt edge price on his logs), were of no avail. Larry Phelan, at
the end of many evil deeds, faced an open prison door, and he knew it.
After all, the twelve hundred dollars would not be all loss--and the
check was written.
“Well, now, boys,” said Mr. Fitts, when the men and teams had departed,
“what about the balance of these logs?--three hundred, I should say.
How would a dollar apiece do? Yes, that’s fair. Ye can worry them
all in by fall. An’ young man,” said he, turning to Rob with a queer
smile, “You can count the hauling of the two hundred already in the
river, as your share, for that college nonsense. I tacked that much
onto that thief, Larry Phelan. I reckon college won’t utterly ruin a
lad who can run twelve miles an’ swim an icy river.”