At this moment the cook stepped into view, and, making a trumpet of his
two hands, sent across the water a long, weird, and not unmusical cry.
The men at once began slowly to drift in the direction of the camp.
There, when the tin plates had all been filled, and each had found a
place to his liking, Orde addressed them. His manner was casual and
conversational.
“Boys,” said he, “the old mossback who owns that dam has come up here
loaded to scatter. He's built up the sill of that gate until we can't
get a draw on the water, and he refuses to give, lend, or sell us the
right to cut her out. I've made him every reasonable proposition, but
all I get back is quotations from the prophets. Now, we've got to get
those logs out--that's what we're here for. A fine bunch of whitewater
birlers we'd look if we got hung up by an old mossback in a plug hat.
Johnny Sims, what's the answer?”
“Cut her out,” grinned Johnny Sims briefly.
“Correct!” replied Orde with a chuckle. “Cut her out. But, my son, it's
against the law to interfere with another man's property.”
This was so obviously humourous in intent that its only reception
consisted of more grins from everybody.
“But,” went on Orde more seriously, “it's quite a job. We can't work
more than six or eight men at it at a time. We got to work as fast as we
can before the old man can interfere.”
“The nearest sheriff's at Spruce Rapids,” commented some one
philosophically.
“We have sixty men, all told,” said Orde. “We ought to be able to carry
it through.”
He filled his plate and walked across to a vacant place. Here he found
himself next to Newmark.
“Hello!” he greeted that young man, “fixed it with the doctor all
right?”
“Yes,” replied Newmark, in his brief, dry manner, “thanks! I think I
ought to tell you that the sheriff is not at Spruce Rapids, but at the
village--expecting trouble.”
Orde whistled, then broke into a roar of delight.
“Boys,” he called, “old Plug Hat's got the sheriff right handy. I guess
he sort of expected we'd be thinking of cutting through that dam. How'd
you like to go to jail?”
“I'd like to see any sheriff take us to jail, unless he had an army with
him,” growled one of the river-jacks.
“Has he a posse?” inquired Orde of Newmark.
“I didn't see any; but I understood in the village that the governor had
been advised to hold State troops in readiness for trouble.”
Orde fell into a brown study, eating mechanically. The men began an
eager and somewhat truculent discussion full of lawless and bloodthirsty
suggestion. Some suggested the kidnapping and sequestration of Reed
until the affair should be finished.
“How'd he get hold of his old sheriff, then?” they inquired with some
pertinence.
Orde, however, paid no attention to all this talk, but continued to
frown into space. At last his face cleared, and he slapped down his tin
plate so violently that the knife and fork jumped off into the dirt.
“I have it!” he cried aloud.
But he would not tell what he had. After the noon hour he instructed
a half-dozen men to provide themselves with saws, axes, picks, and
shovels, and all marched in the direction of the mill.
When within a hundred yards or so of that structure the advancing
riverman saw the lank, black figure of the mill owner flap into sight,
astride a bony old horse, and clatter away, coat-tails flying, up the
road and into the waiting forest.
“Now, boys!” cried Orde crisply. “He'll be back in an hour with the
sheriff. Lively!” He rapidly designated ten men of his crew. “You boys
get to work and make things hum. Get as much done as you can before the
sheriff comes.”
“He'll have to bring all of Spruce County to get me,” commented one of
those chosen, spitting on his hands.
“Me, too!” said others.
“Now, listen,” said Orde, holding them with an impressive gesture. “When
that sheriff comes, with or without a posse, I want you to go peaceably.
Understand?”
“Cave in? Not much!” cried Purdy.
“See here,” and Orde drew them aside to an earnest, low-voiced
conversation that lasted several minutes. When he had finished he
clapped each of them on the back, and all moved off, laughing, to the
dam.
“Now, boys,” he commanded the others, “no row without orders.
Understand? If there's going to be a fight, I'll give you the word
when.”
The chopping crew descended to the bottom of the sluice, the gate of
which had been shut, and began immediately to chop away at the apron.
As the water in the pond above had been drawn low by the morning's work,
none overflowed the gate, so the men were enabled to work dry. Below the
apron, of course, had been filled in with earth and stones. As soon
as the axe-men had effected an entry to this deposit, other men with
shovels and picks began to remove the filling.
The work had continued nearly an hour when Orde commanded the fifty or
more idlers back to camp.
“Get out, boys,” he ordered. “The sheriff will be here pretty quick now,
and I don't want any row. Get out of sight.”
“And leave them to fight her out alone? Guess not!” grumbled a tall,
burly individual with a red face.
Orde immediately walked directly to this man.
“Am I bossing this drive, or am I not?” he demanded.
The riverman growled something.
SMACK! SMACK! sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken by surprise, went
down in a heap, but immediately rebounded to his feet as though made
of rubber. But Orde had seized a peavy, and stood over against his
antagonist, the murderous weapon upraised.
“Lie down, you hound, or I'll brain you!” he roared at the top strength
of his great voice. “Want fight, do you? Well, you won't have to wait
till the sheriff gets here! You make a move!”
For a full half minute the man crouched breathless, and Orde, his ruddy
face congested, held his threatening attitude. Then he dropped his peavy
and stepped aside.
“March!” he commanded. “Get your turkey and hit the hay trail. You'll
get your time at Redding.”
The man sullenly arose and slouched away, grumbling under his breath.
Orde watched him from sight, then turned to the silent group, a new
crispness in his manner.
“Well?” he demanded.
Hesitating, they turned to the river trail, leaving the ten still
working at the sluice. When well within the fringe of the brush, Orde
called a halt. His customary good-humour seemed quite restored.
“Now, boys,” he commanded, “squat down and lay low. You give me an ache!
Don't you suppose I got this thing all figured out? If fight would do
any good, you know mighty well I'd fight. And the boys won't be in jail
any longer than it takes to get a wire to Daly to bail them out. Smoke
up, and don't bother.”
They filled their pipes and settled down to an enjoyment of the
situation. Ordinarily from very early in the morning until very late at
night the riverman is busy every instant at his dangerous and absorbing
work. Those affairs which do not immediately concern his task--as the
swiftness of rapids, the state of flood, the curves of streams, the
height of water, the obstructions of channels, the quantities of
logs--pass by the outer fringe of his consciousness, if indeed they
reach him at all. Thus, often he works all day up to his waist in a
current bearing the rotten ice of the first break-up, or endures the
drenching of an early spring rain, or battles the rigours of a
belated snow with apparent indifference. You or I would be exceedingly
uncomfortable; would require an effort of fortitude to make the plunge.
Yet these men, absorbed in the mighty problems of their task, have
little attention to spare to such things. The cold, the wet, the
discomfort, the hunger, the weariness, all pass as shadows on the
background. In like manner the softer moods of the spring rarely
penetrate through the concentration of faculties on the work. The warm
sun shines; the birds by thousands flutter and twitter and sing their
way north; the delicate green of spring, showered from the hand of the
passing Sower, sprinkles the tops of the trees, and gradually sifts down
through the branches; the great, beautiful silver clouds sail down
the horizon like ships of a statelier age, as totally without actual
existence to these men. The logs, the river--those are enough to strain
all the faculties a man possesses, and more.
So when, as now, a chance combination of circumstances brings them
leisure to look about them, the forest and the world of out-of-doors
comes to them with a freshness impossible for the city dweller to
realise. The surroundings are accustomed, but they bring new messages.
To most of them, these impressions never reach the point of coherency.
They brood, and muse, and expand in the actual and figurative warmth,
and proffer the general opinion that it is a damn fine day!
Another full half hour elapsed before the situation developed further.
Then Tom North's friend Jim, who had gathered his long figure on the top
of a stump, unclasped his knees and remarked that old Plug Hat was back.
The men arose to their feet and peered cautiously through the brush.
They saw Reed, accompanied by a thick-set man whom some recognised as
the sheriff of the county, approach the edge of the dam. A moment later
the working crew mounted to the top, stacked their tools neatly, resumed
their coats and jackets, and departed up the road in convoy of the
sheriff.
A gasp of astonishment broke from the concealed rivermen.
“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated one. “What are we comin' to? That's
the first time I ever see one lonesome sheriff gather in ten river-hogs
without the aid of a gatlin' or an ambulance! What's the matter with
that chicken-livered bunch, anyway?”
Orde watched them, his eyes expressionless, until they had disappeared
in the fringe of the forest Then he turned to the astonished group.
“Jim,” said he, “and you, Ellis, and you, and you, and you, and you,
get to work on that dam. And remember this, if you are arrested, go
peaceably. Any resistance will spoil the whole game.”
The men broke into mingled cheers and laughter as the full significance
of Orde's plan reached them. They streamed back to the dam, where they
perched proffering advice and encouragement to those about to descend.
Immediately, however, Reed was out, his eyes blazing either side his
hawk nose.
“Here!” he cried, “quit that! I'll have ye arrested!”
“Arrest ahead,” replied Orde coldly.
Reed stormed back and forth for a moment, then departed at full speed up
the road.
“Now, boys, get as much done as possible,” urged Orde. “We better get
back in the brush, or he may try to take in the whole b'iling of us on
some sort of a blanket warrant.”
“How about the other boys?” inquired North.
“I gave one of them a telegram to send to Daly,” replied Orde. “Daly
will be up to bail them out.”
Once more they hid in the woods; and again, after a longer interval, the
mill owner and the sheriff reappeared. Reed appeared to be expostulating
violently, and a number of times pointed up river; but the sheriff went
ahead stolidly to the dam, summoned those working below, and departed
up the road as before. Reed stood uncertain until he saw the rivermen
beginning to re-emerge from the brush, then followed the officer at top
speed.
Without the necessity of command, a half-dozen men leaped down on the
apron. The previous crews had made considerable progress in weakening
the heavy supports. As soon as these should be cut out and the backing
removed, the mere sawing through of the massive sill should carry away
the whole obstruction.
“Next time will decide it,” remarked Orde. “If the sheriff brings a
posse and sits down to lay for us, of course we won't be able to get
near to finish the job.”
“I didn't think that of George Morris,” commented Sims in an aggrieved
way. “He was a riverman himself once before he was sheriff.”
“He's got to obey orders, and serve a warrant when it's issued, of
course,” replied Orde to this. “What did you expect?”
At the end of another hour, which brought the time to four o'clock, the
sheriff made his third appearance--this time in a side-bar buggy.
“I wish I dared join that confab,” said Orde, “and hear what's going on,
but I'm afraid he'd jug me sure.”
“He wouldn't jug me,” spoke up Newmark. “I'll go down.”
“Bully for you!” agreed Orde.
The young man departed in his precise, methodical manner, picking his
way rather mincingly among the inequalities of the trail. In spite of
the worn and wrinkled condition of his garments, they retained something
of a city hang and smartness that sharply differentiated their wearer
from even the well-dressed citizens of a smaller town. They seemed to
match the refined, shrewd, but cold intelligence of his lean and nervous
face.
About sunset he returned from a scene which the distant spectators had
watched with breathless interest. It was in essence only a repetition of
the two that had preceded it, but Reed had evidently gone almost to the
point of violence in his insistence, and the sheriff had shaken him
off rudely. Finally, Morris and his six prisoners had trailed away. The
sheriff and North's friend occupied the seat of the buggy, while the
other five trudged peaceably alongside. Once again Reed clattered away
on his bony steed, but this time ahead of the official party.
With a whoop the river crew, now reduced to a scant dozen, rushed down
to meet the too deliberate Newmark.
“Well?” they demanded, crowding about him.
“Reed wanted the sheriff to stay and protect the dam,” reported Newmark
in his brief, dry manner. “Sheriff refused. Said his duty was simply
to arrest on warrant, and as often as Reed got out warrants, he'd serve
them. Reed said, then, he should get a posse and hunt up Orde and the
rest of them. Sheriff replied that as far as he could see, the terms of
his warrant were covered by the men he found working on the dam, Reed
demanded protection, Sheriff said for him to get an injunction, and it
would be enforced.”
“Well, that's all right,” interjected Orde with satisfaction. “We'll
have her cut through before he gets that injunction, and I guess I've
got men enough here and down river to get through before we're ALL
arrested.”
“Yes,” said Newmark, “that's all very well. But now he's gone to
telegraph the governor to send the troops.”
Orde whistled a jig tune.
“Kind of expected that, boys,” said he. “Let's see. The next train out
from Redding--They'll be here by five in the morning at soonest. Hope
it'll be later.”
“What will you do?” asked Newmark.
“Take chances,” replied Orde. “All you boys get to work. Zeke,” he
commanded one of the cookees, “go up road, and report if Morris comes
back. I reckon this time we'll have to scatter if he comes after us. I
hope we won't have to, though. Like to keep everything square on account
of this State troop business.”
The sun had dropped below the fringe of trees, which immediately etched
their delicate outlines against a pale, translucent green sky. Two
straight, thin columns of smoke rose from the neglected camp-fires.
Orde, glancing around him, noticed these.
“Doctor,” he commanded sharply, “get at your grub! Make some coffee
right off, and bring it down. Get the lanterns from the wanigan, and
bring them to the dam. Come on, boys!”
Over a score of men attacked the sluice-way, for by now part of the rear
crew had come down river. The pond above had recovered its volume.
Water was beginning to trickle over the top of the gate. In a short time
progress became difficult, almost impossible, The men worked up to their
knees in swift water. They could not see, and the strokes of axe or pick
lost much of their force against the liquid. Dusk fell. The fringe of
the forest became mysterious in its velvet dark. Silver streaks, of a
supernal calm, suggested the reaches of the pond. Above, the sky's
day surface unfolded and receded and dissolved and melted away until,
through the pale afterglow, one saw beyond into the infinities. Down
by the sluice a dozen lanterns flickered and blinked yellow against the
blue-blackness of the night.
After some time Orde called his crew off and opened the sluice-gates.
The water had become too deep for effective work, and a half hour's flow
would reduce the pressure. The time was occupied in eating and in drying
off about the huge fire the second cookee had built close at hand.
“Water cold, boys?” asked Orde.
“Some,” was his reply.
“Want to quit?” he inquired, with mock solicitude.
“Nary quit.”
Orde's shout of laughter broke the night silence of the whispering
breeze and the rushing water.
“We'll stick to 'em like death to a dead nigger,” was his comment.
Newmark, having extracted a kind of cardigan jacket from the bag he had
brought with him as far as the mill, looked at the smooth, iron-black
water and shivered.
When the meal was finished, the men lit their pipes and went back to
work philosophically. With entire absorption in the task, they dug,
chopped, and picked. The dull sound of blows, the gurgle and trickle
of the water, the occasional grunt or brief comment of a riverman alone
broke the calm of evening. Now that the sluice-gate was down and the
water had ceased temporarily to flow over it, the work went faster.
Orde, watching with the eye of an expert, vouchsafed to the taciturn
Newmark that he thought they'd make it.
Near midnight, however, a swaying lantern was seen approaching. Orde,
leaping to his feet with a curse at the boy on watch, heard the sound of
wheels. A moment later, Daly's bulky form stepped into the illumination
of the fire.
Orde wandered over to where his principal stood peering about him.
“Hullo!” said he.
“Oh, there you are!” cried Daly angrily. “What in hell you up to here?”
“Running logs,” replied Orde coolly.
“Running logs!” shouted Daly, tugging at his overcoat pocket, and
finally producing a much-folded newspaper. “How about this?”
Orde unfolded the paper and lowered it to the campfire. It was an extra,
screaming with wood type. He read it deliberately over.