Part 9

"You own a couple of judges, don't you?" said Locke cheerfully. "A nice pair they are, too. You think my clients will get the worst of it from them. Of course they will, but I appeal most of their decisions now. You can injure me to some extent, but not as much as you think. Go to it, Garwood. When I get through with you you'll be a discredited man."

On the whole he considered that he had broken even with the railway magnate. The settlement of the Dingle action was a confession of weakness. When that individual made an apologetic appearance the next day, Locke turned his anger loose and almost kicked him out of the office. Then he sat down and did some really first-class thinking, marshalling all the facts he had, drawing deductions, sorting and arranging, and finally he decided that he had a _prima facie_ case.

Thereupon he brought action against everybody concerned, directly or remotely, in the assault on the business of Kent and Crooks.

Meanwhile Joe Kent was impatient to get back to the woods, but certain business held him. A year before he would have been quite content to pass his evenings at the club, with cards, billiards and the like. Now these seemed strangely futile and inadequate, as did the current conversation of the young men about town. It all struck him as not worth while. He longed for the little log shack with the dully glowing stove within, the winter storm without, and the taciturn MacNutt. As he lay back with a cigar in a luxurious chair he could see the bunk-house filled with the smoke of unspeakable tobacco, the unkempt, weather-hardened men on the "deacon seat," and the festoons of garments drying above the stove. The smart slang and mild swearing disgusted him. He preferred the ribald, man's-size oaths of the shanty men, the crackling blasphemies which embellished their speech. In fact, though he did not know it, he was passing through a process of change; shedding the lightness of extreme youth, hardening a little, coming to the stature of a man.

Because the club bored him he took to spending his evenings with Jack Crooks. There was a cosey little room with an open fire, a piano, big, worn, friendly easy-chairs, and an atmosphere of home. This was Jack's particular den, to which none but her best friends penetrated. Sometimes Crooks would drop in, smoke a cigar, and spin yarns of logging in the early days; but more often they were alone. Jack played well and sang better; but she made no pretence of entertaining Joe. He was welcome; he might sit and smoke and say nothing if he chose. She sang or played or read or created mysterious things with linen, needle, and silk, as if he were one of the household. On the other hand, if he preferred to talk she was usually equally willing.

One night she sat at the piano and picked minor chords. Joe, sunk in the chair he particularly affected, scowled at the fire and thought of logs. Lately he had thought of little else. He wanted to get back and see the work actually going on. Jack half turned and looked at him.

"He needs cheering up," she said. "He's thinking of her still."

"What's that?" said Joe with a start.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost," she quoted mockingly. "Brace up, Joe." She often teased him about his temporary infatuation with Edith Garwood, knowing that it did not hurt. She swung about to the piano and her fingers crashed into the keys:

"Whin _I_ was jilted by Peggy Flynn, The heart iv me broke, an' I tuk to gin; An' I soaked me sowl both night an' day While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.

"Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay, Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay, Oh, sorra th' cint I saved of me pay While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.

"But in eighteen hundred an' seventy-three I went an' married Biddy McGee, An' th' foine ould woman she was to me While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.

"We'll omit the next thirteen stanzas, Joe. See what your fate might have been:

"In eighteen hundred an' eighty-siven, Poor Biddy died an' she went to Hiven; An' I was left wid kids eliven Worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y."

"Great Scott, Jack, where did you pick up that old come-all-ye?" Joe interrupted. "You sing it like an Irish section hand."

"I learned it from one. He was a good friend of mine. Do you want the rest of the verses? There are about seventy, I think."

"If Biddy is in Heaven, we'll let it go at that," laughed Joe. "Why don't you sing something touching and sentimental, appropriate to my bereaved condition? By the way, Jack, where is Drew keeping himself? I haven't seen him lately. I was just beginning to feel _de trop_ when he called."

This was carrying the war into Jack's territory. Young Drew had paid her very pronounced, attentions and had recently discontinued them, for a reason which only she and himself knew. The colour flamed into her cheeks.

"Don't talk nonsense! There was no reason why you should feel that way."

"Hello! You're blushing!" Joe commented.

"I'm not; it's the fire."

"Is it?" said Joe sceptically. For the first time in his life he regarded her carefully. He had been used to taking Jack for granted, and had paid no more attention to her looks than the average brother pays to those of a younger sister. Now it struck him that she was pretty. Her hair was abundant, brown and glossy; her eyes and skin were clean and clear and healthy, and her small, shapely head was carried with regal uprightness; she was slim and straight and strong and capable. In fact she suddenly dawned upon his accustomed vision in an entirely new way.

"Jack," said he, and his surprise showed in his voice, "upon my word I believe you are rather good looking!"

She rose and swept him a mock curtsey.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Nice eyes, plenty of hair, and a good figure," Joe drawled. "I don't blame Drew at all."

"Now, Joe, quit it. I don't care to be jollied about that."

"What's sauce for the gander is ditto for the goose. I wasn't aware that there was anything serious----"

"There isn't," Jack snapped, "and there never will be. Will you stop when I ask you to?"

Joe dropped the subject, but eyed her curiously.

"I take it back," said he after an interval of silence. "Jack, you're absolutely pretty. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"I always was pretty," Jack declared. "The trouble was with your powers of observation."

"Likely," said Joe, and fell silent again. Jack picked up a book and began to read. He watched her idly, pleased by the picture she presented. She fidgeted beneath his gaze.

"I wish you wouldn't stare at me as if I were a recently discovered species," she exclaimed at last.

"Now I wonder," said he, "why I never noticed it before."

Jack dimpled charmingly. "I want to tell you, young man, that you are singularly dense. Even dad knows what I look like."

"So do I--now," said Joe. "I suppose I've been thinking of you as a little girl. Great Scott!" He shook his head, puzzled by his blindness. Jack's eyes twinkled and her dimples became pronounced. She was enjoying his discovery greatly. Presently she said:

"When do you go up to Wind River?"

"As soon as I can--in a day or two, anyway." A slight frown drew lines between his eyes. "I ought to be up there now. Not that I can tell MacNutt anything about his job, of course. But there's that outfit of McCane's! No telling what they will be up to next. And then I ought to go round to the other camps and see how there're making it. We want a main drive of twenty-five or thirty million this year. Got to have it. Yes, I ought to be on the spot."

He was talking to himself rather than to her, and the boyishness had vanished from his voice and manner. He was the man of affairs, the executive head, thinking, planning, immersed in his business.

Jack was quick to recognize the change.

"You need the logs, don't you, Joe?"

"I'll smash without 'em, sure. Twenty million feet delivered at Wismer & Holden's booms by July 1st. Not a day later. Then I can lift the notes, square my overdraft, and meet the mortgage payments. If I don't--well, my credit is strained pretty badly now."

"You'll pull through, Joe. I know you will." Her hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up abstractedly and saw her standing beside him. Mechanically his hand reached up and closed on hers. At the contact he felt a little thrill, and something stirred within him. It was the first time he had touched her hand since childhood, save in greeting or farewell. And her touch was the first of understanding human sympathy he had had since called upon to hoe his own row. He vibrated to it responsively.

"You're a good little sport, Jack," he said gratefully and pressed her hand.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"Telegram for you, Joe," said Jack, taking the yellow envelope from the maid.

"May I?" said Joe, and tore it open. His face became a thunder-cloud. He bit back the words that rose to his lips.

"What is it?" asked Jack anxiously. "Not bad news?"

"Couldn't be much worse." He held out the slip of yellow paper. She read:

Camp burnt out. McCane's crew. Wire instructions. --MacNutt.

Joe tore a leaf from a note-book and scribbled:

Hold men together and build new camp. Rushing supplies. Coming at once.

"I've got to have that camp going again in a week," said he grimly. "That means hustle. I shan't see you again before I go up."

"You're going yourself," she said with approval. "Good boy, Joe. Oh, how I wish I were a man!"

"If you were I'd have you for a partner," he declared. "But I'm glad you're not. I like you best this way. Good-bye, little girl, and thanks for many pleasant evenings. I'll tell you all about the war when I come back."

In spite of Joe's misfortune Jack went upstairs that night with a light step, humming the refrain of the last stanza of her father's favourite song:

When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down. What makes yeez lads so wishful-eyed as we draw near to town? Other eyes is soft an' bright like the stars of a June night-- Wives an' sweethearts--prayin' waitin'--as we drive the river down. (Oh, ye divils!) God bless the eyes that shine for us when we boil into town.

"Other eyes is soft an' bright;" she crooned to her white-clad reflection as she braided the great coils of glossy brown hair. "To think Joe has just found out that _my_ eyes are bright. Charlie Drew knew it long ago. How stupid some boys are!"

Meanwhile Wright and Locke were swearing angrily as they read the telegram, while Joe told them of his determination to rebuild at once.

"That's the talk," said Wright.

"I'll sue Clancy Brothers at once," said Locke. "I believe they can be made liable. Anyway, it will have a good moral effect. And when you get the names of the men who did the burning I'll have them arrested."

"I don't think I'll bother about law," said Joe.

Locke stared at him in surprise.

"Because the way I feel now," young Kent continued, "I think as soon as I can spare the time I'll take a bunch of bully-boys and run them out of the woods."

XIII

At Maguire's station Joe disembarked from the crawling, snow-smothered train, consisting of engine, baggage car, and day coach. The platform was covered with boxes, sacks, and bundles; and men were piling them on bobsleighs. These were shanty boys from the Wind River camp.

Haggarty, one eye blackened and almost closed, growled a hearty welcome to the young boss. The latter, looking around, observed other marks of combat. He asked the cause.

"It was like this, Mr. Kent," Haggarty replied. "The camp was burnt at noon. Half a dozen men wid flour sacks over their heads ran in on the cook, the cookee bein' out on the job. They took him out an' fired the camp. Then they tied him, covered him wid blankets so he wouldn't freeze, an' lit out. The cookee come back an' found him, an' brought us word. MacNutt an' what men he could hold hit for camp to see what could be done, but the rest of us was too mad, an' we boiled across to do up McCane's crew. It was a good fight, but they was too many for us." He swore with deep feeling. "Just wait. The woods ain't big enough to hold us both after this."

"Are all the men at camp now?"

"All but what's down wid the teams. There was tents an' stoves went up yesterday. Before that she was a cold rig for sleepin' and eatin'. Now it's better."

On the long sleigh drive Joe got details, but the main facts were as stated by Haggarty. None of the incendiaries had been recognized, but nobody doubted that they were of Rough Shan's crew.

Joe found a dozen tents pitched around the clearing, well banked with snow and floored with boughs. New buildings were going up as fast as the logs could be hauled out of the woods and laid in place. The work of logging was temporarily suspended. MacNutt, grim and in a poisonous temper, drove the willing crew from streak of dawn till fall of dark.

"You'll blame me, like enough," said he. "I blame myself. I've seen the like before, and I knew McCane, curse him! If you say so I'm ready to quit, but I'll get even with him for this."

"I don't blame you a bit," Joe told him. "It can't be helped. We must get the camp and the cutting going on again, and then we'll square up with McCane when we have time."

As the buildings neared completion new men began to arrive--strapping, aggressive-eyed fellows who viewed each other and the Wind River men very much after the manner of strange mastiffs. These were draughts from Tobin's and Deever's camps--the "hardest" men from each, picked by the foremen by Joe's instructions and sent on to him. In return, Joe instructed some of his original crew to report to Deever and Tobin. Thus he found himself with a crew of "bully-boys" who feared nothing on earth and were simply spoiling for a fight.

In the completed bunk-house a huge, bearded, riverman leaped high, cracked his heels together and whooped.

"Is it Rough Shan McCane?" he yelled as he hit the floor. "Is it him wid his raft of Callahans an' Red McDougals an' scrapin's of hell wud burn a Kent camp?" His blasphemy was original and unreproducible. "By the Mortal! The moon's high, an' the travellin's good. Come on, bullies, we'll burn them out of their bunks this night!"

The yell that arose reached the ears of Joe and MacNutt. The foreman looked at his employer.

"What's up?" the latter asked.

"If you want McCane's camp burnt and his gang run out of the woods all you have to do is to sit here and smoke your pipe," MacNutt replied.

Joe seized his cap and opened the door just as the crew began to pour out of the bunk-house hastily pulling on garments as they came. He dashed across the open space and met the leaders.

"What's the excitement, boys?" he asked.

"We're going to burn out Rough Shan for you," answered the big riverman.

"Oh, you are!" said Joe. "Well, Cooley, I don't remember asking you to do anything of the kind."

"Sure, you don't need to ask it, Mr. Kent," returned big Cooley with what he intended for an amiable, protective smile. "The boys will see to it for you." A yell of fierce affirmation arose behind him. "You go to bed an' know nawthin' about it."

"Are you giving me orders, Cooley?" Joe demanded in biting tones. "Let me tell you this," he cried. "Not a man goes out to-night. When I want McCane's camp burnt I'll tell you. Yes, and I'll set fire to it myself. That's the kind of fellow I am. I won't hide behind you boys. Now get back, every man of you!"

They hesitated and murmured. Those behind pushed forward. The young man was showing unsuspected qualities. Joe stepped up close.

"Do you men think I'll let you run this camp?" he demanded. "You're here to cut logs when I tell you and not to fight till I tell you. Get it through you now and get it clear that I'm Boss. _Boss_, do you understand? BOSS! What I say goes, day or night." He drew a furrow in the snow with his moccasin. "The man who crosses that line gets his time. If you all cross you all get it. If half of you cross you all get it, and I'll shut down this camp. That's what Clancy and McCane are trying to make me do. If you want to help them and smash me--cross the line!"

His voice rang clear as a trumpet in the frozen stillness. By accident, almost, he had chosen the right course. Pleadings alone would have been in vain; orders alone would have been useless; the placing of this responsibility upon the men turned the scale.

"Aw, now, Mr. Kent," said big Cooley coaxingly, "what harm to put the run on them high-bankers and burn their dirty camp?"

Joe eyed him coldly. "I won't argue," he said. "There's the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane's crew before I tell you to, and I'll shut down. I mean it, boys. Goodnight."

He turned and walked to the foreman's quarters without looking back. Behind him the men stood huddled foolishly. Then, one by one, they straggled back to the bunk-house. From that moment Joe Kent stood with his crew on his own feet. He was _boss_.

The following night, when he came in with the crew from the woods, he was served with an injunction restraining him, his servants, agents, or workmen, from entering upon the limits of Clancy Brothers, or injuring or interfering with their property or employees.

"Wouldn't that jar a brick wall?" he commented to MacNutt. "They burn our camp and get an injunction against us. I half wish I had let the boys go over last night. Now, I suppose it would be contempt of court to cross their line."

"Don't let that worry you," said the foreman grimly. "Orders of court is a poor rig in the woods. All you've got to do is to give me and the boys our time and hire us again when we've cleaned 'em out."

But this beautifully simple evasion of the law did not appeal to Joe. He wanted logs, and had no time to waste in satisfying his grudges. The weather, which had been ideal for logging, changed and choking snows fell. The road had to be ploughed out time after time. The hauling was heavy and slow. Then came a great thaw. The horses balled and stumbled and caulked themselves. The huge sleighs made pitch-holes in the road. Altogether it was discouraging. Finally the wind switched into the north and the weather hardened. The mercury dropped to zero at night and rose to twenty at noon. The road became icy and the runners slid easily in the ruts. Once more the teamsters took full loads and the choked skidways found relief.

The men, denied the innocent recreation of burning out the other camp, worked with vim. The word went around that Kent needed the logs--needed them, in fact, badly. That was enough. Haggarty, Regan, big Cooley, and half a dozen others set the pace, and the rest of the crew kept up to it. They were at work by the first light, and only darkness forced a halt. The nooning was cut short voluntarily, the men contenting themselves with a few whiffs of tobacco and resuming work without a word from MacNutt.

Joe felt the change. There was a subtle difference in the ring of the axes and the vibration of the saws. They sang a faster song and held a truer note. As he went over the work from man to man with a joke or a pleasant word--criticisms, instructions, and suggestions he still wisely left to MacNutt--he was met by cheerful grins. These rough, virile men of the woods and the river recognized a kinship with the young boss; they felt in him their own fearlessness and willingness to take a chance, and a strength of purpose and of character unmarred by their vices.

Since the rebuilding of the camp they had seen little of McCane's crew. Curses and threats had been exchanged between individuals across the deadline, but on the whole Peace brooded dove-like and triumphant, as it is accustomed to brood above armed states, and the manner of its sudden, startled flight was thus:

Joe and MacNutt, going through a slashing at the farthest corner of the limit which they had reached in the cutting, inadvertently trespassed upon Clancys'; thereby becoming technically guilty of contempt of court. As they ploughed through the deep snow two men came into view from behind the fallen tops. One of these was Rough Shan; the other, to Joe's astonishment, proved to be Finn Clancy.

The two advanced. Joe and MacNutt stopped. Clancy opened the ball with an explosion of profanity.

"Are ye lookin' for more logs to steal?" he observed in conclusion. "Keep to yer own limit, ye young thief, or I'll break yer neck!"

"You've reached _your_ limit!" said Joe through his teeth, and put his whole weight behind his left fist.

Clancy went back in the snow as if he had been hit by an axe. MacNutt, like a dog unleashed, went for McCane. The latter, nothing loath, met him half-way. Clancy staggered up out of the snow spitting blood and broken dentistry, and charged Joe like a bull moose, roaring inarticulate invective. Joe smashed him right and left, took a counter in the face that made his brain swim, was caught in the big man's arms and fought himself free by straight, hard body punches. Two of McCane's men ran into the slashing. At sight of the fight they raised a yell and charged.

This yell reached the ears of Kent's teamster, little Narcisse Laviolette, bending to clutch the butt of a log with a swamp-hook. He straightened himself at the sound.

"Bagosh, some feller mak' de beeg row!" he muttered. "I see heem dat boss an' MacNutt pass heemself dat way. Mo' Gee! mebbe dey ron into plaintee troub'." He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Ya-hoo-ee! Ya-hoo-ee!" he shouted in a far-carrying cry. Leaving his team to their own devices he turned and ran, shouting at every step.

The buoyant cry went echoing through the forest. It spelt trouble. Man after man left saw in the cut and axe in the limb and ran toward it.

Laviolette bounded into the slashing. In the middle were half a dozen men, fighting fiercely. On the other side, the woods poured forth a yelling crew. Laviolette did not hesitate. He hurled himself through the snow in great leaps, and plunged into the thick of the fray. His heavy "snag-proof" gum boot crashed into one man's face with all the power of his leg-muscles behind it. He sprang on the back of another and bore him to the ground, gripping one ear and tearing it half away from the head, for little Laviolette was a dirty fighter. Then he was kicked in the throat and stamped into the snow.

Clancy was getting the worst of it from Joe, and MacNutt was holding his own with Rough Shan. The first newcomers turned the scale. Laviolette almost evened it again. Then all were swamped by the rush of McCane's crew. Kent and MacNutt went down fighting gamely, and were kicked and hammered until the world swam before their outraged senses.

At this stage of the combat Kent's crew caught sight of the enemy. The roar that went up from them was heard even at the rollways. They charged home. A wave of fighting shantymen surged over Joe, and he raised himself and staggered up as he had often done from the bottom of a scrimmage. Big Cooley raged in the van of the fight, spouting blasphemies and swinging his enormous fists right and left. Beside him Haggarty and Regan found vent for their hatred of the other camp. The fight spread out into a number of single combats, and it was then that Kent's picked fighters proved their quality. Man after man of McCane's gang had enough, quit, and ran. The rout became general.

"Burn them out!" was the cry.

Joe turned to MacNutt, who stood beside him gasping for breath and swaying. "Shall I stop them?" he said.

"Stop nothing!" said the foreman. "If I get there in time I'll touch her off myself!"

He ran twenty yards and fell in the snow. For the first time in his life he had fainted. Joe caught Laviolette darting past and held him.