When Titans Drive/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
THE TEST.
BEFORE he had taken a dozen steps, Kollock was furious with himself, and by the time Bainbridge was out of sight the wrath of the riverman had risen to a white heat.
From the first he had tried to dislike Bainbridge. Pete Schaeffer had been his friend, and after he had been whipped Curly made up his mind that there could be no getting along in a crew bossed by the victor. Then came that brief but pointed interview with Bob which affected him so oddly. He had never before had anybody tell him that he was to be trusted; most bosses had been emphatic in saying the opposite thing. Or, if they kept silent, they showed in a dozen obvious ways that they considered him in the same class with his notorious brother.
Then there was the incident of the day before. Curly could not help admiring the manner in which Bainbridge had handled the crowd that was trying to hold up the drive. It was exactly the sort of thing he would like to have done himself, and his heart warmed toward the man with the courage and ability to act in that fashion. Moreover, Jack Joyce was an old enemy of his, and the sight of the fellow’s humiliation had inclined the riverman even more strongly toward the man who had brought it about.
But that was over now, he told himself furiously as he stamped along the stream, hands clenched and face set in a black scowl. He hated Bainbridge! The man had no right to jump on him that way. How did he know what had been the cause of Kollock’s behavior? He had asked no questions, given Curly no chance to explain even had the latter been inclined to lower himself to that extent. He had taken it for granted that the river jack was loafing in spite of the fact that record as a worker was equal to that of the best.
This was where the sting lay. Kollock was aggrieved and disgruntled because of what was, to him, a very good reason. There had been a definite object in his pause by that stone. The night before he had received a brief note from Bill, in which he was urged to “make use of any chance you git to do—you know what.”
Curly did know “what” very well. It meant that he was to thwart and delay the progress of the drive by any means in his power. Any means! The simplest, of course, was to cause some to happen to Bainbridge himself. Bill had not hesitated to suggest several ways by which this happy end could be reached. None of them appealed particularly to Curly. He was not overscrupulous, but he disliked doing up a man in cold blood without giving him even a ghost of a show. Still, Bill had done him good turns more than once when he was out of work; and, last but not least, there was the financial side of the affair. Curly had never been told who or what was back of these attacks on the independent lumber company, but he knew there was plenty of money in it.
All this he had been thinking over as he sat smoking that cigarette. In the end he decided to have nothing to do with it. Bainbridge had trusted him and played square. For that reason he would be equally square and aboveboard, and let this dirty work alone.
That was what he had decided, but now
He gritted his teeth, glared fiercely around, and came to an abrupt stop. Every instinct of the riverman was aroused. On his left the river dropped over short falls into a narrow gorge. It was a spot where things were likely to happen at any time, and where a man or two should have been stationed continually. Curly knew, in fact, that there had been men here all morning. They had been called away for some purpose, leaving the little falls unguarded. And as he stood there his practiced eyes told him that he was beholding the very start of a jam.
A log, plunging over the falls, upended. Another was thrust under it. A third and fourth, coming down together, caught on the obstruction, all being held by some stones rising midstream. Before the current could tear them loose several more timbers were forced against the mass which was piling up so swiftly, bridging to the opposite shore.
To carry out that angry resolve of a minute or two ago, Curly should have rolled himself another cigarette, and watched the growing damage with a sardonic smile. He did nothing of the sort. For a flash he had forgotten his grievance, and was a “river hog,” pure and simple. The stoppage must be broken before it reached the proportions of a real jam. There was no one else to do it, and so he leaped to the task without a second’s pause for thought.
Upstream he ran a few feet, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river above the falls. Then he saw what he wanted. An instant later, using his peavey much as a pole vaulter does his pole, he leaped straight out over the water, landed squarely on a big log, and was carried down to the falls—and over them.
He took the drop easily, riding the log with that perfect balance which is second nature to the seasoned riverman. When the timber bumped against the rapidly forming jam, Curly leaped again, thrusting the log down as he did so, and landed on the solid barrier. Scrambling lightly over to the face of this, he thrust deftly with his peavey into the mass, and began to work desperately to loosen the key log—that first upended stick of pine which had started the whole trouble, and which must be started before the rest of the barrier would give.
He got a good hold on it, but the thing defied his efforts to tear it loose. It was wedged too tightly for even his great strength, and, though he seemed to feel it move slightly, he strained his muscles to the utmost in vain to accomplish anything further. Presently he realized, with a thrill, that the jam was piling up behind him faster and faster. He ceased his efforts, and clamping the peavey on timber above the key log, pried it free, and sent it bobbing downstream. Another followed, and another still. Sweat poured in streams from him, trickling blindingly into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. There was no time. He must go on doing his best till help came, or else
A faint jar shook the jam. A second later Curly felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder. A familiar voice sounded in his ear:
“Good work, son! Where’s that trouble maker? Oh, I see. Let me drop down to that ledge, where I can get a good hold. That’s the idea. Now grip her above me. Fine! Ready, now? Yank away!”
It was Bainbridge—swift, agile, incredibly fresh considering what he had accomplished that day. For a moment or two Curly did not realize that this was the man he hated. He simply felt an overwhelming thankfulness that some one had come at last, and obeyed orders mechanically and without question.
But as his peavey gripped the end of that troublesome log, there suddenly flamed into Curly’s mind—temptation. Bainbridge stood below him, perched perilously on the very face of the jam. A little thrust—the tiniest movement of the riverman’s arm—would send him plunging into the stream, while another movement would suffice to drop one of the looser logs upon him. There were no witnesses; the whole affair would pass as an unfortunate accident. A chance like this, so easy, so absolutely safe, would never come again.
“Now!” broke in the crisp voice of the lumberman. “Hard over, boy. Toward me—all you know how!”
Curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the pull. The key log creaked and groaned as if in agony but was thrust gradually forward. Curly felt it moving faster and faster, and instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs.
A second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse of half the face of the jam. The logs at his side vanished in the unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious moment. Below him he saw Bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for something solid. Instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous, muscular hands, and as swiftly Bob gripped them. There was a heave, an upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared into the foaming water. But the two men had leaped in time, and a moment later they were standing together on the bank.
“Thank you—Curly,” Bainbridge said in a level voice. “That was touch-and-go for a minute.”
That was all, but somehow Curly knew that what he had done was understood and appreciated. In the stress of the peril which the two had shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, Kollock’s anger and hate had vanished utterly. He no longer desired revenge. His attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. He had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again.