A summons sent forth by Echford Flagg, the last of the giants among the
independent operators on the Noda waters, had made that day in early
April a sort of gala affair in the village of Adonia.
Men by the hundred were crowded into the one street, which stretched
along the river bank in front of the tavern and the stores. The
narrow-gauge train from downcountry had brought many. Others had come
from the woods in sledges; there was still plenty of snow in the woods;
but in the village the runner irons squalled over the bare spots. Men
came trudging from the mouths of trails and tote roads, their duffel in
meal bags slung from their shoulders.
An observer, looking on, listening, would have discovered that a
suppressed spirit of jest kept flashing across the earnestness of the
occasion--grins lighting up sharp retort--just as the radiant sunshine
of the day shuttled through the intermittent snow squalls which dusted
the shoulders of the thronging men.
There was a dominant monotone above all the talk and the cackle of
laughter; ears were dinned everlastingly by the thunder of the cataract
near the village. The Noda waters break their winter fetters first of
all at Adonia, where the river leaps from the cliffs into the whirlpool.
The roar of the falls is a trumpet call for the starting of the drive,
though the upper waters may be ice-bound; but when the falls shout
their call the rivermen must be started north toward the landings where
logs are piled on the rotting ice.
On that day Echford Flagg proposed to pick his crew.
To be sure, he had picked a crew every year in early April, but the
hiring had been done in a more or less matter-of-fact manner.
This year the summons had a suggestion of portent. It went by word o'
mouth from man to man all through the north country. It hinted at an
opportunity for adventure outside of wading in shallows, carding ledges
of jillpoked logs, and the bone-breaking toil of rolling timber and
riffling jams.
"Eck Flagg wants roosters this year," had gone the word. Spurred
roosters! Fighting gamecocks! One spur for a log and one for any hellion
who should get in the way of an honest drive!
The talk among the men who shouldered one another in the street and
swapped grins and gab revealed that not all of them were ready to
volunteer as spurred roosters, ready for hazard. It was evident that
there were as many mere spectators as there were actual candidates for
jobs. Above all, ardent curiosity prevailed; in that region where events
marshaled themselves slowly and sparsely men did not balk at riding or
hoofing it a dozen miles or more in order to get first-hand information
in regard to anything novel or worth while.
Finally, Echford Flagg stalked down the hill from his big, square
house--its weather-beaten grayness matching the ledges on which it was
propped. His beard and hair were the color of the ledges, too, and the
seams in his hard face were like ledgerifts. His belted jacket was stone
gray and it was buttoned over the torso of a man who was six feet
tall--yes, a bit over that height. He was straight and vigorous in spite
of the age revealed in his features. He carried a cant dog over his
shoulder; the swinging iron tongue of it clanked as he strode along.
The handle of the tool was curiously striped with colors. There was no
other cant dog like it all up and down the Noda waters. Carved into the
wood was an emblem--it was the totem mark of the Tarratines--the sign
manual by Sachem Nicola of Flagg's honorary membership in the tribe.
He was no popular hero in that section--it was easy to gather that much
from the expressions of the men who looked at him when he marched
through the crowd. There was no acclaim, only a grunt or a sniff. Too
many of them had worked for him in days past and had felt the weight of
his broad palm and the slash of his sharp tongue. Ward Latisan had
truthfully expressed the Noda's opinion of Flagg in the talk with the
girl in the cafeteria.
The unroofed porch of the tavern served Flagg for a rostrum that day. He
mounted the porch, faced the throng, and drove down the steel-shod point
of his cant dog into the splintering wood, swinging the staff out to
arm's length.
"I'm hiring a driving crew to-day," he shouted. "As for men----"
"Here's one," broke in a volunteer, thrusting himself forward with
scant respect for the orator's exordium.
Flagg bent forward and peered down into the face uplifted hopefully.
"I said men," he roared. "You're Larsen. You went to sleep on the Lotan
ledges----"
"I had been there alone for forty-eight hours, carding 'em, and the
logs----"
"You went to sleep on the Lotan ledges, I say, and let a jam get
tangled, and it took twenty of my men two days to pull the snarl loose."
The man was close to the edge of the porch. Flagg set his boot suddenly
against Larsen's breast and drove him away so viciously that the victim
fell on his back among the legs of the crowd, ten feet from the porch.
"I never forget and I never forgive--and that's the word that's out
about me, and I'm proud of the reputation," declared Flagg. "I don't
propose to smirch it at this late day. And now I look into your faces
and realize that what I have just said and done adds to the bunch that
has come here to-day to listen and look on instead of hiring out. I'm
glad I'm sorting out the sheep from the goats at the outset. It happens
that I want goats--goats with horns and sharp hoofs and----"
"The word was you wanted roosters," cried somebody from the outskirts of
the crowd.
There was laughter, seeking even that small excuse for vent; the
hilarity was as expressive as a _viva voce_ vote, and its volume
suggested that there were more against Flagg than there were for him.
He did not lower his crest. "You all know what is happening this
season. You know why I have sent out for men. The Three C's crowd has
started stealing from my crews. I want men who have a grudge against the
Three C's. I want men who will fight the Three C's. Rufe Craig proposes
to steal the Noda as he has stolen the Tomah. He has been making his
brags of what he'll do to me. He won't do it, even if I have to make a
special trip to hell and hire a crew of devils. Now let me test out this
crowd." He was searching faces with a keen gaze. "All proper men to the
front ranks! Let me look at you!"
A slow movement began in the throng; men were pushing forward.
"Lively on the foot!" yelled Flagg. "I'm standing here judging you by
the way you break this jam of the jillpokes. Walk over the cowards, you
real men! Come on, you bully chaps! Come running! Hi yoop! Underfoot
with 'em!"
He swung his cant dog and kept on adjuring.
The real adventurers, the excitement seekers, the scrappers, drove into
the press of those who were in the way. The field became a scene of
riot. The bullies were called on to qualify under the eyes of the
master. There were fisticuffs aplenty because husky men who might not
care to enlist with old Eck Flagg were sufficiently muscular and ugly to
strike back at attackers who stamped on their feet and drove fists into
their backs.
Flagg, on the porch, followed all phases of the scattered conflict,
estimated men by the manner in which they went at what he had set them
to do, and he surveyed them with favor when they crowded close to the
edge of his rostrum, dwelling with particular interest on the faces
which especially revealed that they had been up against the real thing
in the way of a fight. Behind and around the gladiators who had won to
the porch pressed the cordon of malcontents who cursed and threatened.
"Much obliged for favor of prompt reply to mine of day and date," said
Flagg, with his grim humor. He drove his cant-dog point into the floor
of the porch and left the tool waggling slowly to and fro. He leaped
down among the men. He did not waste time with words. He went among
them, gripping their arms to estimate the biceps, holding them off at
arm's length to judge their height and weight. He also looked at their
teeth, rolling up their lips, horse-trader fashion. The drive provender
did not consist of tender tidbits; a river jack must be able to chew
tough meat, and the man in the wilderness with a toothache would have
poor grit for work in bone-chilling water after a sleepless night.
Flagg carried a piece of chalk in his right hand. When he accepted a man
he autographed the initials "E F" on the back of the fellow's shirt or
jacket, in characteristic handwriting. "Show your back as you go north,"
he proclaimed for the benefit of the strangers to his custom. "My
initials are good for stage team, tote team, lodging, and meals--the
bills are sent to Flagg. The sooner you start the sooner you'll get to
headwaters."
A big chap followed at Flagg's back as the despot moved among the men.
He was Ben Kyle, Flagg's drive boss, the first mate of the Flagg ship of
state. He was writing down the names of the men as they were hired.
Occasionally the master called on the mate to give in an opinion when a
candidate ran close to the line between acceptance or rejection.
Flagg began to show good humor beyond his usual wont. He was finding men
who suited him. Many of them growled anathema against the Three C's.
They had worked for that corporation. They had been obliged to herd with
roughscuff from the city employment agencies, unskilled men who were all
the time coming and going and were mostly underfoot when they were on
the job. One humorist averred that the Three C's had three complete sets
of crews--one working, one coming in, and one going out.
Kyle began to loosen up and copy some of Flagg's good humor.
He encouraged the wag who had described the three shifts to say more
about the Comas crews; he had some witticisms of his own to offer.
And so it came to pass that when he tackled one hulking and bashful sort
of a chap who stuttered, Kyle was in most excellent mood to have a
little fun with a butt. Even Echford Flagg ceased operations to listen,
for the humor seemed to be sharp-edged enough to suit his satiric taste.
"You say you're an ox teamster!" bawled the boss. "Well, well! That's
good. Reckon we'll put some oxen onto the drive this spring so as to
give you a job. How much do you know about teaming oxen?"
After a great deal of mirth-provoking difficulty with b and g, the man
meekly explained that he did know the butt end of a gad from the brad
end.
"Who in the crowd has got an ox or two in his pocket?" queried Kyle. "We
can't hire an ox teamster for the drive"--he dwelt on oxen for the drive
with much humorous effect--"without being sure that he can drive oxen.
It would be blasted aggravating to have our drive hung up and the oxen
all willing enough to pull it along, and then find out that the teamster
was no good."
Martin Brophy, tavernkeeper, was on the porch, enjoying the events that
were staged in front of his place that day.
"Hey, Martin, isn't there a gad in the cultch under your office desk?"
"Most everything has been left there, from an umbrella to a clap o'
thunder," admitted Brophy. "I'll look and see."
"Better not go to fooling too much, Ben," warned the master. "I've seen
fooling spoil good business a lot of times."
It was rebuke in the hearing of many men who were showing keen zest in
what might be going to happen; it was treating a right-hand man like a
child. Kyle resented it and his tone was sharp when he replied that he
knew what he was doing. He turned away from the glaring eyes of the
master and took in his hand the goad which Brophy brought.
There was a sudden tautness in the situation between Flagg and Kyle, and
the crowd noted it. The master was not used to having his suggestions
flouted.
The boss thrust the goad into the hand of the bashful fellow. "There's a
hitchpost right side of you, my man. Make believe it's a yoke of oxen.
What are your motions and your style of language in getting a start. Go
to it!"
The teamster swished the goad in beckoning fashion after he had rapped
it against the post in imitation of knocking on an ox's nose to summon
attention. His efforts to vault lingually over the first "double-u"
excited much mirth. Even the corners of Flagg's mouth twitched.
"Wo, wo hysh! Gee up, Bright! Wo haw, Star!" Such was the opening
command.
"They don't hear you," declared Kyle. "Whoop 'er up!"
The teamster did make a desperate effort to drive his imaginary yoke of
oxen. He danced and yelled and brandished the goad as a crazy director
might slash with his baton. He used up all his drive words and
invective.
Kyle could not let the joke stop there after the man had thrown down the
goad, wiped his forehead, and declared that it wasn't fair, trying to
make him start a hitching post.
"Pick up your gad," commanded the boss. He dropped on his hands and
knees. "Now you show us what you can do. I'm a yoke of oxen."
"You ain't."
"I tell you I am. Get busy. Start your team."
"That's about enough of that!" warned Flagg, sourly. "Kyle, get up onto
your feet where you belong."
But the spirit of jest made the boss reckless and willfully disobedient.
He insisted doggedly on his role as a balky ox and scowled at the
teamster. "If you want a job you'll have to show _me_!"
The teamster adjured Mr. Kyle in very polite language, and did not bring
the swishing goad within two feet of the scornful nose; the candidate
wanted a job and was not in a mood to antagonize a prospective boss.
"You're a hell of a teamster!" yapped Kyle. "What's your system? Do you
get action by feeding an ox lollypops, kissing him on the nose and
saying, 'Please,' and 'Beg your pardon'?"
The big chap began to show some spirit of his own under the lash of the
laughter that was encouraging Kyle.
"I ain't getting a square deal, mister. That post wa'n't an ox; you
ain't an ox."
"I am, I tell you! Start me."
"You vow and declare that you're an ox, do you, before all in hearing?"
"That's what!" Mr. Kyle was receiving the plaudits and encouragement of
all his friends who enjoyed a joke, and was certain in his mind that he
had that bashful stutterer sized up as a quitter. Flagg folded his arms
and narrowed his eyes--his was the air of one who was allowing fate to
deal with a fool who tempted it.
The candidate did not hurry matters. He spat meditatively into first one
fist and then into the other. He grasped the goad in both hands. He
looked calculatingly at Mr. Kyle, who was on his hands and knees, and
was cocking an arch and provocative look upward, approving the grins of
the men near him.
When the teamster did snap into action his manner indicated that he knew
how to handle balky oxen. First he cracked Mr. Kyle smartly over the
bridge of the nose. "Wo haw up!" was a command which Kyle tried to obey
in a flame of ire, but a swifter and more violent blow across the nose
sent him back on his heels, his eyes shut in his agony.
"Gee up into the yoke, you crumpled-horn hyampus!" The teamster welted
the goad across Kyle's haunches and further encouraged the putative ox
by a thrust of a full inch of the brad.
When the boss came onto his feet with a berserker howl of fury and
started to attack, the ox expert yelled, "Dat rat ye, don't ye try to
hook your horns into me!" Then he flailed the stick once more across
Kyle's nose with a force that knocked the boss flat on his back.
Echford Flagg stepped forward and stood between the two men when Kyle
struggled to his feet and started toward the teamster with the mania of
blood lust in his red eyes. The master put forth a hand and thrust back
the raging mate. Flagg said something, but for a time he could not be
heard above the tempest of howling laughter.
It was riotous abandonment to mirth. Men hung helplessly to other men or
flapped their hands and staggered about, choking with their merriment.
The savageness of the punishment administered to the boastful Kyle
might have shocked persons with squeamish dispositions; it was wildly
humorous in the estimation of those men o' the forest. They were used to
having their jokes served raw.
The roar that fairly put into the background the riot of the falling
waters of the Noda was what all the region recognized as the ruination
of a man's authority in the north country; it was the Big Laugh.
Flagg, when he could make himself heard by his boss, holding Kyle in his
mighty grip, made mention of the Big Laugh, too. "Kyle, you've got it at
last by your damn folly. You're licked forever in these parts. I warned
you. You went ahead against my word to you. You're no good to me after
this." He yanked the list of names from Kyle's jacket pocket.
"Let me loose! I'm going to kill that----"
"You're going to walk out--and away! You're done. You're fired. You
can't boss men after this. A boss, are you?" he demanded, with bitter
irony. "All up and down this river, if you tried to boss men, they'd
give you the grin and call you 'Co Boss'. They'd moo after you. Look at
'em now. Listen to 'em. Get out of my sight. I don't forgive any man who
goes against my word to him and then gets into trouble." He thrust Kyle
away with a force that sent the man staggering. He turned to the bashful
chap, who had resumed his former demeanor of deprecation. "You're hired.
You've showed that you can drive oxen and I reckon you can drive logs."
The teamster was too thoroughly bulwarked by admirers to allow the
rampant Kyle an opportunity to get at him. And there was Flagg to reckon
with if violence should be attempted. The deposed first mate slunk
away.
"That, my men," proclaimed the master, "is what the Big Laugh can do to
a boss. No man can be a boss for me after he gets that laugh. I reckon
I've hired my crew," he went on, looking them over critically. "Stand by
to follow me north in the morning."