Blazed Trail Stories, and Stories of the Wild Life, Page 2

  II

  THE FOREMAN

  A man is one thing: a man _plus_ his work is another, entirelydifferent. You can learn this anywhere, but in the lumber woods best ofall.

  Especially is it true of the camp boss, the foreman. A firm that knowsits business knows this, and so never considers merely what sort of acharacter a candidate may bear in town. He may drink or abstain, mayexhibit bravery or cowardice, strength or weakness--it is all one to thelumbermen who employ him. In the woods his quality must appear.

  So often the man most efficient and trusted in the especial environmentof his work is the most disreputable outside it. The mere dignifyingquality of labour raises his value to the _nth_ power. In it hediscovers the self-respect which, in one form or another, is absolutelynecessary to the man who counts. His resolution to succeed has back ofit this necessity of self-respect, and so is invincible. A good bossgives back before nothing which will further his job.

  Most people in the North Country understand this double standard; butoccasionally someone, either stupid or inexperienced or unobservant,makes the mistake of concluding that the town-character and thewoods-character are necessarily the same. If he acts in accordance withthat erroneous idea, he gets into trouble. Take the case of Silver Jackand the walking boss of Morrison & Daly, for instance. Silver Jackimagined his first encounter with Richard Darrell in Bay City indicatedthe certainty of like results to his second encounter with thatindividual in Camp Thirty. His mistake was costly; but almost anybodycould have told him better. To understand the case, you must first meetRichard Darrell.

  The latter was a man about five feet six inches in height, slenderlybuilt, yet with broad, hanging shoulders. His face was an exacttriangle, beginning with a mop of red-brown hair, and ending with apointed chin. Two level quadrilaterals served him as eyebrows, beneathwhich a strong hooked nose separated his round, brown, chipmunk's eyes.When he walked, he threw his heavy shoulders slightly forward. This, inturn, projected his eager, nervous countenance. The fact that he wasaccustomed to hold his hands half open, with the palms square to therear, lent him a peculiarly ready and truculent air. His name, as hasbeen said, was Richard Darrell; but men called him Roaring Dick.

  For upward of fifteen years he had been woods foreman for Morrison &Daly, the great lumber firm of the Beeson Lake district. That would makehim about thirty-eight years old. He did not look it. His firm thoughteverything of him in spite of the fact that his reputation made itexceedingly difficult to hire men for his camps. He had the name of a"driver." But this little man, in some mysterious way of his own, couldget in the logs. There was none like him. About once in three months hewould suddenly appear, worn and haggard, at Beeson Lake, where he woulddrop into an iron bed, which the Company maintained for that especialpurpose. Tim Brady, the care-taker, would bring him food at statedintervals. After four days of this, he would as suddenly disappear intothe forest, again charged with the vital, restless energy which kept himon his feet fourteen hours a day until the next break down. When helooked directly at you, this nerve-force seemed to communicate itself toyou with the physical shock of an impact.

  Richard Darrell usually finished banking his season's cut a monthearlier than anybody else. Then he drew his pay at Beeson Lake, took thetrain for Bay City, and set out to have a good time. Whiskey was itsmain element. On his intensely nervous organisation it acted likepoison. He would do the wildest things. After his money was all spent,he started up river for the log-drive, hollow-eyed, shaking. Intwenty-four hours he was himself again, dominant, truculent, fixing hisbrown chipmunk eyes on the delinquents with the physical shock of animpact, coolly balancing beneath the imminent ruin of a jam.

  Silver Jack, on the other hand, was not nervous at all, but very talland strong, with bronze-red skin, and flaxen white hair, mustache andeyebrows. The latter peculiarity earned him his nickname. He was at alltimes absolutely fearless and self-reliant in regard to materialconditions, but singularly unobservant and stupid when it was a questionof psychology. He had been a sawyer in his early experience, but laterbecame a bartender in Muskegon. He was in general a good-humouredanimal enough, but fond of a swagger, given to showing off, andexceedingly ugly when his passions were aroused.

  His first hard work, after arriving in Bay City, was, of course, tovisit the saloons. In one of these he came upon Richard Darrell. Thelatter was enjoying himself noisily by throwing wine-glasses at a beeradvertisement. As he always paid liberally for the glasses, no onethought of objecting.

  "Who's th' bucko?" inquired Silver Jack of a man near the stove.

  "That's Roaring Dick Darrell, walkin' boss for M. & D.," replied theother.

  Silver Jack drew his flax-white eyebrows together.

  "Roaring Dick, eh? Roaring Dick? Fine name fer a bad man. I s'pose hethinks he's perticular all hell, don't he?"

  "I do'no. Guess he is. He's got th' name fer it."

  "Well," said Silver Jack, drawing his powerful back into a bow, "I ain'tmuch; but I don't like noise--'specially roaring."

  With the words he walked directly across the saloon to the foreman.

  "My name is Silver Jack," said he, "I come from Muskegon way. I don'tlike noise. Quit it."

  "All right," replied Dick.

  The other was astonished. Then he recovered his swagger and went on:

  "They tell me you're the old he-coon of this neck of th' woods. P'r'apsyou _were_. But I'm here now. Ketch on? I'm th' boss of this shebangnow."

  Dick smiled amiably. "All right," he repeated.

  This second acquiescence nonplussed the newcomer. But he insisted on hisfight.

  "You're a bluff!" said he, insultingly.

  "Ah! go to hell!" replied Dick with disgust.

  "What's that?" shouted the stranger, towering with threatening bulk overthe smaller man.

  And then to his surprise Dick Darrell began to beg.

  "Don't you hit me!" he cried, "I ain't done nothing to you. You let mealone! Don't you let him touch me!" he called beseechingly to thebarkeeper. "I don't want to get hurt. Stop it! Let me be!"

  Silver Jack took Richard Darrell by the collar and propelled him rapidlyto the door. The foreman hung back like a small boy in the grasp of aschoolmaster, whining, beseeching, squirming, appealing for help to thebarkeeper and the bystanders. When finally he was energetically kickedinto the gutter, he wept a little with nervous rage.

  "Roaring Dick! Rats!" said Silver Jack. "Anybody can do him proper. Ifthat's your 'knocker,' you're a gang of high bankers."

  The other men merely smiled in the manner of those who know.Incidentally Silver Jack was desperately pounded by Big Dan, later inthe evening, on account of that "high-banker" remark.

  Richard Darrell, soon after, went into the woods with his crew, andbegan the tremendous struggle against the wilderness. Silver Jack andBig Dan took up the saloon business at Beeson Lake, and set themselvesto gathering a clientele which should do them credit.

  The winter was a bad one for everybody. Deep snows put the job behind;frequent storms undid the work of an infinitely slow patience. When thelogging roads were cut through, the ground failed to freeze because ofthe thick white covering that overlaid it. Darrell in his mysteriouscompelling fashion managed somehow. Everywhere his thin eager triangleof a face with the brown chipmunk eyes was seen, bullying the men intotitanic exertions by the mere shock of his nervous force. Over the thincrust of ice cautious loads of a few thousand feet were drawn to thebanks of the river. The road-bed held. Gradually it hardened andthickened. The size of the loads increased. Finally Billy O'Brien drewup triumphantly at the rollway.

  "There's a rim-racker!" he exclaimed. "Give her all she'll stand,Jimmy."

  Jimmy Hall, the sealer, laid his flexible rule over the face of eachlog. The men gathered, interested in this record load.

  "Thirteen thousand two hundred and forty," announced the scaler at last.

  "Whoopee!" crowed Billy O'Brien, "that'll lay out Rollway Charley by twothousand feet!"

  The me
n congratulated him on his victory over the other teamster,Rollway Charley. Suddenly Darrell was among them, eager, menacing,thrusting his nervous face and heavy shoulders here and there in thecrowd, bullying them back to the work which they were neglecting. Whenhis back was turned they grumbled at him savagely, threatening todisobey, resolving to quit. Some of them did quit: but none of themdisobeyed.

  Now the big loads were coming in regularly, and the railways becamechoked with the logs dumped down on them from the sleighs. There werenot enough men to roll them down to the river, nor to "deck" them therein piles. Work accumulated. The cant-hook men became discouraged. Whatwas the use of trying? They might as well take it easy. They did take iteasy. As a consequence the teamsters had often to wait two, three hoursto be unloaded. They were out until long after dark, feeling their wayhomeward through hunger and cold.

  Dick Darrell, walking boss of all the camps, did the best he could. Hesent message after message to Beeson Lake demanding more men. If therollways could be definitely cleared once, the work would lighten allalong the line. Then the men would regain their content. More help waspromised, but it was slow in coming. The balance hung trembling. At anymoment the foreman expected the crisis, when the men, discouraged by theaccumulation of work, would begin to "jump," would ask for their "time"and quit, leaving the job half finished in the woods. This catastrophemust not happen. Darrell himself worked like a demon until dark, andthen, ten to one, while the other men rested, would strike feverishlyacross to Camp Twenty-eight or Camp Forty, where he would consult withMorgan or Scotty Parsons until far into the night. His pale, triangularface showed the white lines of exhaustion, but his chipmunk eyes and hiseager movements told of a determination stronger than any protests of amere nature.

  Now fate ordained that Silver Jack for the purposes of his enlightenmentshould select just this moment to drum up trade. He was, in his way, asanxious to induce the men to come out of the woods as Richard Darrellwas to keep them in. Beeson Lake at this time of year was very dull.Only a few chronic loafers, without money, ornamented the saloon walls.On the other hand, at the four camps of Morrison & Daly were threehundred men each with four months' pay coming to him. In the ordinarycourse of events these men would not be out for sixty days yet, butSilver Jack and Big Dan perfectly well knew that it only needed thesuggestion, the temptation, to arouse the spirit of restlessness. That ataste or so of whiskey will shiver the patience of men oppressed by longmonotony is as A B C to the north-country saloon-keeper. Silver Jackresolved to make the rounds of the camps sure that the investment of afew jugs of whiskey would bring down to Beeson Lake at least thirty orforty woods-wearied men.

  Accordingly he donned many clothes, and drove out into the wilderness acutter containing three jugs and some cigars in boxes. He anticipatedtrouble. Perhaps he would even have to lurk in the woods, awaiting hisopportunity to smuggle his liquor to the men.

  However, luck favoured him. At Camp Twenty-eight he was able to dodgeunseen into the men's camp. When Morgan, the camp foreman, finallydiscovered his presence, the mischief had been done. Everybody wassmoking cigars, everybody was happily conscious of a warm glow at thepit of the stomach, everybody was firmly convinced that Silver Jack wasthe best fellow on earth. Morgan could do nothing. An attempt to ejectSilver Jack, an expostulation even, would, he knew, lose him his entirecrew. The men, their heads whirling with the anticipated delights of aspree, would indignantly champion their new friend. Morgan retiredgrimly to the "office." There, the next morning, he silently made outthe "time" of six men, who had decided to quit. He wondered what wouldbecome of the rollways.

  Silver Jack, for the sake of companionship, took one of the "jumpers" inthe cutter with him. He was pleased over his success, and intended nowto try Camp Thirty, Darrell's headquarters. In regard to Morgan he hadbeen somewhat uneasy, for he had never encountered that individual; butDarrell he thought he knew. The trouble at Bay City had inspired himwith a great contempt for the walking boss. That is where his mistakecame in.

  It was very cold. The snow was up to the horses' bellies, so Silver Jackhad to drive at a plunging walk. Occasionally one or the other of thetwo stood up and thrashed his arms about. At noon they ate sandwiches ofcold fried bacon, which the frost rendered brittle as soon as it leftthe warmth of their inside pockets. Underfoot the runners of the cuttershrieked loudly. They saw the tracks of deer and wolves and partridge,and encountered a few jays, chickadees, and woodpeckers. Otherwise theforest seemed quite empty. By half-past two they had made nine miles,and the sun, in this high latitude, was swinging lower. Silver Jackspoke angrily to his struggling animals. The other had fallen into thesilence of numbness.

  They did not know that across the reaches of the forest a man washurrying to intercept them, a man who hastened to cope with this newcomplication as readily as he would have coped with the emergency of alack of flour or the sickness of horses. They drove confidently.

  Suddenly from nowhere a figure appeared in the trail before them. Itstood, silent and impassive, with forward-drooping, heavy shoulders,watching the approaching cutter through inscrutable chipmunk eyes. Whenthe strangers had approached to within a few feet of this man, thehorses stopped of their own accord.

  "Hello, Darrell," greeted Silver Jack, tugging at one of the stone jugsbeneath the seat, "you're just the man I wanted to see."

  The figure made no reply.

  "Have a drink," offered the big man, finally extricating the whiskey.

  "You can't take that whiskey into camp," said Darrell.

  "Oh, I guess so," replied Silver Jack, easily, hoping for the peacefulsolution. "There ain't enough to get anybody full. Have a taster,Darrell; it's pretty good stuff."

  "I mean it," repeated Darrell. "You got to go back." He seized thehorses' bits and began to lead them in the reversing circle.

  "Hold on there!" cried Silver Jack. "You let them horses alone! You damnlittle runt! Let them alone I say!" The robe was kicked aside, andSilver Jack prepared to descend.

  Richard Darrell twisted his feet out of his snow-shoe straps. "You can'ttake that whiskey into camp," he repeated simply.

  "Now look here, Darrell," said the other in even tones, "don't you makeno mistake. I ain't selling this whiskey; I'm _giving_ it away. The lawcan't touch me. You ain't any right to say where I'll go, and, by God,I'm going where I please!"

  "You got to go back with that whiskey," replied Darrell.

  Silver Jack threw aside his coat, and advanced. "You get out of my way,or I'll kick you out, like I done at Bay City."

  In an instant two blows were exchanged. The first marked Silver Jack'sbronze-red face just to the left of his white eyebrow. The second sentRichard Darrell gasping and sobbing into the snow-bank ten feet away. Hearose with the blood streaming from beneath his mustache. His eager,nervous face was white; his chipmunk eyes narrowed; his great hands,held palm backward, clutched spasmodically. With the stealthy motion ofa cat he approached his antagonist, and sprang. Silver Jack stoodstraight and confident, awaiting him. Three times the aggressor wasknocked entirely off his feet. The fourth he hit against the cutterbody, and his fingers closed on the axe which all voyagers through theforest carry as a matter of course.

  "He's gettin' ugly. Come on, Hank!" cried Silver Jack.

  The other man, with a long score to pay the walking boss, seized theiron starting-bar, and descended. Out from the inscrutable white forestmurder breathed like a pestilential air. The two men talked about iteasily, confidently.

  "You ketch him on one side, and I'll come in on the other," said the mannamed Hank, gripping his short, heavy bar.

  The forest lay behind; the forest, easily penetrable to a man inmoccasins. Richard Darrell could at any moment have fled beyond thepossibility of pursuit. This had become no mere question of a bar-roomfisticuff, but of life and death. He had begged abjectly from the painof a cuff on the ear; now he merely glanced over his shoulder toward thesafety that lay beyond. Then, with a cry, he whirled the axe about hishead and threw it dire
ctly at the second of his antagonists. The flatof the implement struck heavily, full on the man's forehead. He fell,stunned. Immediately the other two precipitated themselves on theweapons. This time Silver Jack secured the axe, while Darrell had tocontent himself with the short, heavy bar. The strange duel recommenced,while the horses, mildly curious, gazed through the steam of theirnostrils at their warring masters.

  Overhead the ravens of the far north idled to and fro. When the threemen lay still on the trampled snow, they stooped, nearer and nearer.Then they towered. One of the men had stirred.

  Richard Darrell painfully cleared his eyes and dragged himself to asitting position, sweeping the blood of his shallow wound from hisforehead. He searched out the axe. With it he first smashed in thewhiskey jugs. Then he wrecked the cutter, chopping it savagely until itwas reduced to splinters and twisted iron. By the time this was done,his antagonists were in the throes of returning consciousness. He stoodover them, dominant, menacing.

  "You hit th' back trail," said he, "damn quick! Don't you let me see you'round these diggings again."

  Silver Jack, bewildered, half stunned, not understanding this littlecowardly man who had permitted himself to be kicked from the saloon,rose slowly.

  "You stand there!" commanded Darrell. He opened a pocket-knife, and cutthe harness to bits, leaving only the necessary head-stalls intact.

  "Now git!" said he. "Pike out!--fer Beeson Lake. Don't you stop at noCamp Twenty-eight!"

  Appalled at the prospect of the long journey through the frozen forest,Silver Jack and his companion silently led the horses away. As theyreached the bend in the trail, they looked back. The sun was justsetting through the trees, throwing the illusion of them gigantic acrossthe eye. And he stood there huge, menacing, against the light--thedominant spirit, Roaring Dick of the woods, the incarnation ofNecessity, the Man defending his Work, the Foreman!