When Titans Drive/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE SWIFT CURRENT.
THE clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of Deer Pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the Megantic. It was a full day’s work, much better than Bainbridge had hoped for, and, as he approached the big drying fire flaming up at one side of the camp made by Charlie Hanley, the cook, Bob shook his own hand in silent, grinning self-congratulation. He knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off.
Presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry. The drying racks were swiftly steaming with the soggy garments, and the men fell to upon their supper without a second’s delay. There was little conversation—they were too busy for that; but Bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. Evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning. In fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so.
Next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of Loon Lake, with the drive before them. Bob could not understand it. All day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust. When it did not come he was almost disappointed. It was impossible to believe that Crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. He would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack.
However, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. Bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of Crane or his satellites. It was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another. It was done without mishap, however, and Bainbridge was just congratulating himself on having got safely over one of the most disagreeable bits of the entire distance when Jerry Calker approached him as he stood watching the last few logs bob slowly out of the lake into the swifter current of the stream.
“Jack wants to know can you spare him a few minutes, sir,” he explained. “There’s a bit of trouble down below.”
“What kind of trouble?” Bob asked swiftly, turning downstream without an instant’s delay; and walking by the side of the dynamite man.
Calker scratched his head slowly. “I ain’t quite certain sure, Mr. Bainbridge,” he drawled, “but I got a idea there’s a fellow with a mill who’s run out a sortin’ boom that’s goin’ to hang up our drive if we ain’t mighty keerful.”
“A mill!” exclaimed Bob incredulously. “Why, there isn’t such a thing within twenty miles—at least, there wasn’t three months ago.”
Calker grinned. “Thought it looked kinda new. I couldn’t rightly say that it’s finished, but there ain’t no manner of a doubt about the boom. The jam had started before I come away, an’ I left Jack havin’ it hot an’ heavy with a red-headed son of a gun who sure looked as if scrap was his middle name.”
Bainbridge frowned, but asked no further questions. He scarcely spoke, in fact, during all of the four miles, but it was evident to his observing companion that he was doing a lot of thinking.
Long before reaching the point of obstruction it became evident that another jam had formed. The current grew more and more sluggish, and the progress of the logs downstream became slower and slower, until at length the entire surface of the water was covered with floating timber. These in turn crowded upon one another with a rapidity which threatened to equal that first jam unless something was swiftly done.
Hurrying on, Bob presently caught up with a throng of his own men, who had apparently just landed from the dangerous, constantly shifting surface of the river. They looked at him with a frank curiosity, as if wondering what he meant to do in this emergency. On the faces of a few were expressions of grim, anticipatory amusement, but Bainbridge heeded these no more than he had the others. Without pausing even glancing to right or left, he strode on, and reached the scene of action.
On the same bank, a little way back from the water, stood a small building, so hastily thrown together that the roof was not yet completed. One or two men were standing near it, staring interestedly at the crowd gathered about something at the water’s edge which Bob at once saw to be one end of a massive, well-constructed log boom. The other end, out beyond the middle of the river, was supported by some stout spiles, and the whole affair took up so much of the stream’s width that Bainbridge’s drive had jammed against it hard and fast.
All this Bob took in without slackening his pace. Reaching the outer edge of the circle, he pushed through to where Jack Peters, his jam boss, stood facing a compact group of six or eight strangers, gathered closely about the end of the boom. Jack was florid with rage, and choking with impotent fury. The strangers composing the little group instantly struck Bob as being singularly strong and rugged. They looked as if they had been picked for their physical efficiency. Each one was armed with rifle or pistol, while their leader, a competent-looking person with red hair and whiskers, held in one hand a snub-nosed, businesslike automatic.
“Well, Jack,” Bainbridge said curtly, as he reached the foreman’s side, “what’s the trouble?”
Before Peters could reply the red-haired man took a single step forward and faced Bob.
“I can tell you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he snapped viciously. “This river hog o’ yours thinks he kin play the devil with my boom, but he’s got another guess comin’. I own this land an’ that sawmill. I got a right to run my booms out in the river same as anybody else. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, but the first man as tries any monkey business wants to look out, that’s all.”
Bainbridge raised his eyebrows, and let his gaze wander leisurely from the man’s head to his heels with an expression which brought an added touch of color to the already flushed cheeks.
“Indeed!” he drawled. “Who are you?”
“Who be I?” retorted the other angrily. “Humph! I don’t see that it makes no difference, but my name’s Joyce—John Joyce. An’ I ain’t the kind as backs down an’ takes water, believe me!”
A singularly irritating smile curved the corners of Bob’s lips. His unruffled composure served, as he hoped it might, to increase the rage of Mr. Joyce.
“Do you realize that you’re obstructing navigation?” he inquired suavely.
“I don’t admit it,” snapped Joyce. “There’s plenty of room for your drive to git past if you had a gang that knew their business, instead of a lot o’ greenhorns.”
“I dare say you could give us all points,” Bainbridge murmured smoothly, with just the right inflection of sarcasm to sting. It had suddenly occurred to him that the fellow’s object was to make him lose his temper, and thus precipitate a clash, during which almost anything might be accomplished. Not only did he refuse to let go his grip, but he did his very best to goad Joyce himself into flaming out, and possibly betraying a few secrets.
“That’s hardly the question, though,” he went on swiftly. “Strikes me you’ve been rather premature in running out the boom. Your mill isn’t operating, and I have yet to see a single log coming downstream except our own.”
“Never you mind that,” retorted Joyce hotly. “Do you think a man’s going to wait till his timber comes in sight afore makin’ arrangements to take care of it? You can’t come over me with no soft talk like that. The boom’s there, an’ there it stays. Half the river’s clear for you to use, an’ that’s all you gets.”
“Hum! That’s your last word, is it?” inquired Bainbridge quietly. “You even refuse to let us swing the boom around so we can break our jam?”
“I do!” replied the red-haired individual emphatically. “The first man that tries to monkey with my property will wish he hadn’t, that’s all I got to say.”
He raised his automatic significantly, but Bob was not even looking at him. The young man’s gaze had swept out to the face of the jam, and in an incredibly short space an accurate picture of its appearance had been photographed on his brain. Still without giving Joyce the satisfaction of a glance, he turned away, motioning Peters to accompany him.
“A put-up job, of course,” he said tersely, when they were through the circle of his own men. “Same gang who bought Schaeffer.”
The jam boss nodded in a troubled way. “I’m afraid they’ve got us bad, too. It’s goin’ to take one long time pickin’ that jam apart, but I can’t see anythin’ else to do. I spose I’d better start ’em at it right away, sir.”
“Not at all,” retorted Bob swiftly. “Do nothing of the kind. Let ’em stay just where they are, Jerry!”
At the sound of his imperative undertone Calker hustled up. There was a brief interchange of words between the trio, during which the faces of both lumberjacks brightened—amazingly. Then all three disappeared into the bushes a little way upstream, from which they did not emerge for a considerable time.
When they finally appeared, Bainbridge held by his side a shapeless package of considerable size. Had not Peters and Calker walked so close beside him as he bent his way leisurely toward the crowd about the jam, it would probably have been noticed that this package was made up of a dozen or more sticks of giant powder fastened securely together, and depending from a sling of stout manila rope.
The line of rivermen had turned, and were watching his approach with interested curiosity, but Joyce and his gang could see nothing. Reaching the men, Bob paused, struck a match, and carefully lighted the end of a protruding fuse. As it sputtered up he gave a short, sharp word of command, the line of men opened instantly to let him through, and a second later he stood not a dozen paces from Joyce, deliberately swinging the deadly package round and round his head.
For a second there was a breathless hush. Then the red-haired man leaped forward.
“Stop!” he roared. “You young whelp, if you”
He broke off with a gurgling sound, and the color left his face. With a final swing, Bob loosened his hold on the bundle, which curved in a perfect arc over the rear of the jam, over the jagged crest, and dropped swiftly out of sight amid the massive timbers upended in confusion along the face and close to the spot where protruded the freshly driven spiles which had caused all the trouble.
An instant later the whole throng of men hustled frantically for cover.