"Timber"/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX
Saturday was a lazy June day; there was little breeze, little movement of any sort and blue-bottle flies droned through the open door of the office of the Blueberry Banner. Humphrey Bryant sat in his chair, arms hanging limply from his shoulders, one foot resting on its side, the other leg sprawled before him.
It was nearly noon. All day yesterday, all the night before he had worked to batter down the defense that Jim Harris had built about the individuals of his board of supervisors—his by right of possession. It had availed nothing. Bryant had watched them come into town, watched them gather at the court house and he could see them now, in the upper corner of the red building, moving about as they got at the work before them—
That he could see, and something else, the feet of Jim Harris, propped against the window sill, as he tilted his chair backward and let the machinery of legislation grind its way—the way he had directed. Those feet rested idly enough, lazily enough, but Bryant knew that they were ready to stamp down upon any challenge that might be flaunted, that Harris would not leave that meeting until the motion to adjourn had carried, that it was such vigilance that had made him valuable to Pontiac Power, and a menace to honest men.
And the old editor was slumped listlessly in his chair, riffling the pages of that worn note book because he was an old man, and a shrewd old man; being old, he had lost his best vigor; being shrewd he did not deceive himself. His heart did not falter and he tried to see clearly, but he read in those contented feet a barrier against which any javelin he might hurl in the cause of right would crumple and fall.
The morning freight came down and John Taylor and Black Joe, who had swung aboard at Seven Mile, dropped off and walked up First Street, Taylor looked into the Banner office.
"Have dinner with us?" he asked.
"No thanks, Taylor. Chained to the desk today."
There was no laugh in the blue eyes and they did not rest long on Taylor's face. They were fixed on those feet in that court house window.
John and Black Joe went on.
"Chained to his desk," Black Joe muttered and laughed, "An' his eyes glued on that damn tin court house!"
They entered the poolroom. It was a dingy, smelly place, with two battered tables on a littered floor that still bore the faint marks of river boots. The cigar case was fly specked and broken and patched. There was a dusty one-eyed deer on the wall beside a lithograph of a fat-legged girl in red stockings, and a dirty-faced clock. A stuffed owl stared fixedly from the opposite wall and there was a faded photograph of the Blueberry, jammed with pine logs over which rivermen posed self-consciously.
Joe eyed the stock of cigars.
"What seegar is it Jim Harris smokes?" he asked. "He give me one onct—"
"This one, Joe," the greasy-faced proprietor said. "Fifteen centers. Good stuff, that; none better. Jim always buys here," proudly. "Comes in after every meal, regular as a clock."
"That so? Always comes here, eh?
"Yup. Says I know how to keep tobacco, an' Jim sure ought to know."
"He sure ought," said Joe, putting the cigar in his pocket and bringing out his pipe and Peerless.
The two retired to a bench in the window and talked, heads close together.
Noon. Movement on the court house steps as the board adjourned for dinner and trooped together to the Commercial House to eat with Jim and on Jim.
Harris was in fine feather. This morning the resolutions had been drawn as he had planned and this afternoon the board would pass them, as he had planned. Within sixty days the county would bond itself for a new court house which was sop to the community pride, and the roads, which would speed the settling of that waste land to the northward with more wretched families.
After the meal Harris bought cigars for the board members at the hotel desk; he did not take one for himself and when the others started back toward the court house he lumbered across the street to the poolroom, waving his hand and saying that he would be along directly.
He meant that. But he was forced to wait for attention because the proprietor sat on the wide window ledge, beside him was Lucius Kildare and on the bench facing them sat Black Joe, pipe in his hands, leaning forward, talking earnestly. John Taylor occupied the rest of the bench and another lounger leaned over the back, grinning broadly.
Black Joe's gaze was directed at the face of the poolroom owner and he held the man's attention even after he knew that the great Jim Harris waited.
Then the proprietor broke away and Joe leaned back and puffed while Harris took a handful of cigars from the box. Silence.
"An' you never heerd tell 'bout Paul's mule team?" Joe asked Taylor.
"Never!"
Joe shook his head and clicked his tongue. "My Lord, you're igerent," he said and hitched about to face Taylor, and see Harris. He waited a moment before he commenced to talk, prefacing his tale by a moment of suspense, as is the way with the best spinners of yarns. Harris, biting off the end of his cigar, watched. There had been no unfriendly stare from Black Joe this time; there seemed to be no barrier between the woodsman and any who might be within earshot. For months Jim Harris had awaited such a moment.
He looked down the street. The last of the supervisors was disappearing within the court house. Had Joe waited another instant Jim might have gone on to join them, but Joe did not wait. He commenced to talk, slowly, deliberately. He told his story as the Bunion stories have been told for two generations in the Lake States. Those about him were schooled listeners; they knew when to inject the questions that led him into the byways of Bunion classics, knew when to laugh, when to repress their mirth until the point of the narrative should be completed.
And Jim Harris waited and listened, wanting to go, putting aside his caution from moment to moment because Black Joe was recounting the adventures of this mythical logger and to hear any of Joe's kind and generation tell these tales is to be blessed.
This is the story that Black Joe told:
"Now, this here mule team of Paul's was a right good pair. They done a lot of work an' Paul he treated 'em right, allus cattelatin' it was best policy to be good to stock. When they was workin' hard it cost a lot to keep 'em up fer sure, but when they was just standin' in th' barn he only fed 'em four bushels of corn to th' feed.
"Paul fed 'em hisself, when he wasn't away, an' when he was gone Swede Charley looked atter 'em—along with th' ox-team, little Babe an' her mate. You heerd tell 'bout that team, ain't you?
"My God, Taylor, don't you know nothin'? This here was a good team, too. Never seen 'em myself, but I knowed a chore boy who worked for Paul th' winter of th' blue snow, an' he was a-tellin' as how little Babe was four axe-handles wide atween th' eyes—"
He spit and wiped his chin.
"One day when Paul was loggin' off section thirty-seven, he was feedin' th' mules an' he sees what looks like a good-sized kernel of corn. Might' good-sized kernel, all right. Paul, he was allus lookin' atter good things, so he stuck her in his vest pocket an' didn't give it to th' mules.
"Atter dinner he was rummagin' round fer a tooth-pick an' locates this here kernel o' corn. He was out behint th' barn jus' then an' so he kicks a hole in th' ground an' plants her—
"That was th' big barn. See, Paul he kep' a lotta teams on th' haul which meant pret' big barn. Big job, cleanin' this here barn an' Paul was great for this—now, efficiency. So he had th' barn set on wheels an' moved it along every day, 'stead of acleanin' her out.
"That night a settler drives in to talk to Paul 'bout some cord wood. He was thar awhile an' 'long 'bout dusk he goes out fer to start home—
"In a minute he was back an' says to Paul that his team's got away.
"'So'? says Paul, 'Where'd you leave 'em?'
"'Out tied to that air telephone pole behint your barn," gesturing.
"'They ain't no telephone pole thar,' says Paul.
"'Sure they is,' says the settler.
"So Paul goes out to investigate. He an' th' settler walks aroun' behint th' barn an' th' settler says to look thar; thar she is. Paul looks an' blinks because b' God, his corn had sprouted an' this here telephone pole was his cornstalk!
"Well, it was a pret' high cornstalk by then an' Paul leans back to look up an' see how high it was an', b' gosh, what's he see but that air team an' wagon belongin' to th' settler away up thar, most outta sight. Th' stalk had growed up an' took th' whole shebang along!
"Now Paul he knowed he's got fer to get this here team down, so he sends fer Swede Charley an' says, 'Charley, you climb up an' ontie that air team.'
"So Charley he spits on his hands an' starts up. Darn good climber, Charley; he climbs pret' darn fast, an' he gits away up thar an' then they see him makin' funny motions, wavin' his arms an' such, an' th' boys begin to wonder what's up.
"Well, Paul he figgers it out. Charley can't make it an' 's tryin' to slide down, but this gol-darn stock's growin' up faster 'n he can slide down an' he keeps right on goin' outta sight."
He paused and pulled twice at his pipe, ignoring the mirth about him.
"Now, this 's pret' serious, thinks Paul, Swede Charley up thar an' goin' higher; what's goin' to happen to him? He'll starve, won't he?
"So Paul runs to th' cook shanty an' gits a lotta biscuits an' into th' van where he keeps his shot gun.
"Pret' good gun, this here one of Paul's. Fair-sized gun, too. Paul he used to load each bar'l with a dish pan full of powder an' brick bats an' he'd shoot her first east an' if he didn't git game thar, he'd shoot her west; allus got game one place or t'other.
"So Paul loads her with biscuits an' shoots both bar'ls up toward where Charley's went, most outta sight by then. And they knowed Charley 'd have somethin' to eat ontil they could git him down.
"Th' settler he walks home an' Paul he goes to bed, thinkin' 'bout that air team an' Charley. Nothin' he can do till mornin' but when mornin' comes, th' top of that stalk, th' team an' Charley is all clean outta sight—
"Paul he gits right worried. Atter a few days they commences to find dead crows in th' swamp. Crows kep' fallin' down plumb dead an' nothin' but skin an' bones. Lot o' crows. Paul he figgers that air out, too. This here team's died up thar an' th' crows has started up atter 'em for a nice meal, but they 's starved to death on th' way!"
Taylor glanced at the battered clock. It was after one.
"Now this here cornstalk gives no sign of slowin' up. She grows over ag'in' the barn an' they have fer to put th' barn on another set o' wheels so's it'll run sideways. Then she grows ag'in' th' men's shanty an' they has to put that on wheels too, an' th' cornstalk keeps crowdin' 'em apart ontil they has to string a telephone line atween th' barn an' shanty to communicate ready-like.
"Paul he's pret' worried. Never seen nothin' like this here afore. One day a man drives into camp with a feather in his hat an' gold buttons on his coat an' solid gold medals on his chist an' gold things on his shoulders. He's got a sword an' stripes on his pants an' shiny boots an' he carried a big paper all stuck over with red sealin' wax an' blue ribbins. He walks up to Paul.
"'You Mister Bunion?' he asks, an' Paul he 'lows how he is. 'Well I gotta warrant for your arrest from Congress,' he says.
"'Warrant?' says Paul, surprised-like. 'From Congress? What for? An' who are you?'
"'I'm th' Admiral of th' Navy,' says th' gent, 'An' this here cornstalk 's got its roots into Lake Huron on one side an' Lake Michigan on th' other an' she is suckin' the water up so fast that all th' boats is aground!'
"Now Paul, he ain't no mean talker, so he argufies with this here Admiral an' promises him he'll get this here cornstalk out th' way. Th' Admiral he don't want to leave it that way, but Paul he's done a lotta loggin' fer Congress, y' know, an' he stands pret' well. Yup. He logged off North Dakoty. See, when th' Governor who was a reformed Swede found out th' King o' Sweden was drivin' all th' good farmers out an' that they was comin' over here, he wants 'em in Dakoty. But they wa'n't no place for 'em, then, so th' governor gits Congress to say it'll log off th' state an' Congress gives th' contrack to Paul an' makes good, which gives him a pret' fair stand-in—
"Well the Admiral he goes off an' Paul, he sets down to think. He's gotta cut that damn cornstalk down somehow, but it's a big job. He thinks an thinks an' then he sends for th' Tie-Cuttin' Finn an' says—
"Tie-Cuttin Finn? Never heerd tell on him?"
He clicked his tongue in disgust and sighed.
"Well this here Finn, he was th' best broad-axe man Paul ever had, but he ain't quite so good as Paul wants at that, him havin' a big tie contrack. So Paul he gits an idea. He rigs a thirty-pound broad-axe on each of th' Finn's feet like skates." He drew up a foot to illustrate. "Straps 'em on good an' solid. Then th' Finn goes into th' cedar swamp. He goes up a tree, usin' these here axes for climbers, scores goin' up, gits to th' top, slides down, hewes two faces on th' way an' knocks off a tie every eight feet—"
Taylor did not laugh with the others. He looked again at the clock. It was quarter after one.
"Well Paul, he calls in th' Tie-Cuttin' Finn an' tells him to pick out fifty of th' likeliest-lookin' broad-axe men in camp, which th' Finn does. He takes 'em into th' swamp an' fer a month he teaches 'em ontil he's got fifty of th' best axe-men that ever spit on a hand.
"Then one mornin' bright an' early they all come out, axes all sharp, stripped to their shirts an' lines up roun' th' cornstalk.
"Paul he gits the dinner horn from th' cook shanty—Ever hear 'bout that dinner horn? Nope? Huh! Well she's a good one. Has to have a good one y' know, 'cause he runs a big camp an' th' men git scattered a long ways by dinner time, but nobody but Paul can blow this here horn. The sound carries all right when Paul blows her, but it's kinda expensive 'cause every time he blows he knocks down 'bout 'leven acres of standin' timber.
"Well, Paul, he gits these here men all strung 'round th' cornstalk an' he blows th' horn for 'em to start. They slam into th' stalk good an' heavy, fifty of 'em, each sinkin' his axe to th' eye—but—" He sighed and paused. "You see, their choppin' don't do a dime's worth of good, 'cause this here damn stalk grows so fast that they can't hit twice in th' same place to git a chip off."
Joe scowled and rubbed his chin.
"Bad," he muttered. "Pret' bad, with Congress waitin' fer to arrest Paul an' ruin his reppetation.
"So Paul, he does some more thinkin'. Now you recalled 'bout Paul's big saw mill. Pret' good-sized mill. Right fair mill. She'd cut a million feet an hour. To keep this mill in logs he had to build a pret' good railroad. Light steel wouldn't stand his trains 'cause they had to load fairly heavy, so Paul had some special steel made, mite heavier 'n anythin' they'd ever used loggin'. Each rail was a quarter-mile long an' a foot square on th' end.
"Now this road, good as she was, couldn't quite keep th' mill in logs. The' was a Scotchman engineer on th' loggin' train an' he used to roll 'em in pret' fast, but Paul he ain't satisfied, an' he laces into th' Scotchman one day an' tells it to him good an' hard an' says to put on a little steam, wood's cheap, an' travel some. That made the engineer mad—'cause he thought he'd been doin' pret' good. So when he goes out with his empties to th' bankin' ground he opens her wide an' she goes so damn fast that th' draft picks up th' steel an' ties an' rolls 'em up behint an' over th' way car ontil railroad, train an' everythin' 's junk.
"Now that air railroad she was Paul's first big failure; gettin' rid of this here cornstalk 's th' other. So he natterly thinks 'bout both, an' that gives him 'n idee. He goes over to this here junk pile an' commences pullin' her apart.
"Quite a job, with them quarter-mile rails, but by-an'-by he gits a few pulled loose an' straightened out an' puts 'em over his shoulder an' walks back to camp.
"That evenin' atter supper he takes a look at th' cornstalk, which is a right good-sized stalk by then. He takes these here rails an' knots 'em together, strings 'em aroun' th' stalk, ties 'em up tight in a knot an' stands back an' says: 'There, durn ye, pinch yerself off!' Which the stalk perceeds to do."
Harris relighted his cigar with a hand that trembled.
"Well she pinches all right. They can hear her crackin' over in Wisconsin.
"Then Paul he thinks to hisself, what 'll happen when she comes down?
"So he sends fer his surveyor an' puts him out 'n th' brush with his transit to watch th' top of this here cornstalk. They strings a telephone line out to th' place an' th' surveyor camps there. Th' stalk keeps growin' an' snappin' an' atter a while th' surveyor he telephones an' says she's commencin' to sag.
"Paul he sends his men out into th' clearin' to warn th' settlers an' gets 'em all outen th' way. Everybody's pret' much excited.
"'She's commencin' to sag somethin' bad,' telephones th' surveyor. Everybody gits away back—an' looks—They can see her quiver an' quake an' by-'n-by they can hear her top whistlin'."
He spat.
"Yes, sir, they heerd that top whistlin' four days afore she hit th' ground!"
He stopped with a nod and tightening of his lips. Harris rocked with laughter. Taylor, though, was very serious and looked again at the clock. A half hour had passed.
"Four days," repeated Joe, seriously. "An' no wonder! Why, Paul, he figgered out that about a mile 'n half of that air top had frazzeled out on th' way down!
"They went out to look th' thing over atter she was safe down an' up pret' well toward what was left of th' top end they found 'n ear of corn. Pret' sizeable ear, this here was, and it was druv straight into th' ground by th' stalk.
"Paul he scratched his head an' thinks he better git that air ear out. So he goes gits th' mule team 'nd builds a stump puller. He has to build a pret' big stump puller all right. He rigs her up good an' strong an' hooks on th' mules an' pulls on that cob an' when he gits her up he has 'n eighty foot well, all cobbled up with kernels."
Harris leaned against the door and his eyes swam with tears as he laughed.
Joe looked at Taylor and the young man nodded—after he had glanced into the street—toward the court house. At that Black Joe got up and drew a paper of tobacco from his pocket.
"Joe, that's a good yarn," said Harris, drawing a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.
"Yup, Paul was quite a lad. He never let anythin' interfere with his work."
"More than I've done," sliding his watch to a big palm. "I'm overdue—a half hour!"
Still chuckling, making brief farewells, he departed. Joe and Taylor watched him swing along the board sidewalk. They could see the supervisors through the open window of their room—and one figure was in the street, the figure that John had seen as Joe brought his story to a finish: Humphrey Bryant, walking slowly from the court house toward the Banner office, slowly but not like an old man—with a spring in his stride, and his thin plume of white hair waved triumphantly above his scalp.