Читать книгу Wind River Westerns - Arthur Murray Chisholm - Страница 23

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Joe Kent preceded his drive to Falls City by a few days. He found Wright in great feather. Several large orders had been placed, proof that the terms of the settlement mentioned by Locke in his letter were being carried out. But when Joe asked the lawyer for more details the latter shook his head.

“I can’t mention names, for that was part of the arrangement,” said he. “You be satisfied with what you’ve got. You’re a hundred times better off than if you had merely exposed Garwood.”

“I know it,” Joe admitted; “but are you sure the arrangement will be carried out?”

“Certain. You’ve got good orders coming in, haven’t you? You won’t have anything to complain of hereafter. How about those logs? Can you deliver them on time?”

“I think so,” Joe replied.

“Well, you’d better be mighty sure before you take them past your own booms. Wismer will refuse to accept them if he gets half a chance, and see where that would leave you. You couldn’t bring them back upstream, and there isn’t a concern on the river below Wismer that would buy them, this side of Hughson’s Mills. To get there, towing charges and tolls would eat up your profits, and old Hughson would whipsaw you, anyway.”

“Crooks says I can do it, and so do my foremen,” said Joe. “I’ve got to sell the logs to meet my liabilities. I’ll keep barely enough for my own mill.”

“All right—if you’re dead-sure,” said Locke.

The situation was made very clear to Joe. He was told plainly that the bank had gone with him as far as it would go. In the event of non-delivery his credit would be cut off and his securities sold. The mortgage company would enforce their rights in any event. Also there was no doubt that Wismer & Holden would enforce to the letter the penalty clause in their contract. These things, taken together, meant bankruptcy. And that would mean that his marriage with Jack must be put off indefinitely. On the other hand, if he delivered the logs he could wipe off most of the debt, put his business on a solid basis, and ask her to become mistress of the old Kent homestead without delay. It was worth fighting for, and Joe’s’ lean jaw hardened as he swore to himself that nothing should stop his drive.

Business claimed him by day, but the evenings he was able to spend with Jack. They sat in the dusk of Crooks’s wide veranda, watching the stars light and wink in the June sky, while soft-winged moths fluttered ghost-like among the shading vines. Neither was overly given to sentiment, but in those brief evenings their confidences grew; and each, looking into the other’s inmost mind, found there only honour and loyalty and little of ambition, but a great desire to live straightly and cleanly and truly, thinking evil of none and doing such good as might be.

Being ordinary young people they did not put these things into words. They rather shied from the sentimental and high-flown, preferring the more accustomed planes of speech and thought. But they understood each other, and so were content. The only shadow, and a constantly recurring one, was the question of the drive.

“If I don’t make it I’m busted,” said Joe practically, “and so I’ve got to make it. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. Now, it’s this way.” For the twentieth time he went over the problem.

“Dad says you can make it,” Jack agreed. “It’s a week to Steven’s Ferry. Down to Burritt’s Rapids is two days more. Then allow time to tow through Thirty Mile Lake—oh, you can make it with nearly a week to spare.”

“Of course I can,” said Joe, “and then, Jack, I think we’d better get married.”

She flushed to the roots of her brown hair.

“In the fall, Joe?”

“No—right away. What’s the use of waiting? My business will be solid then, and I deserve a holiday. Let’s take one together.”

“Well”—she considered the question gravely, without affected hesitation—“I’d like that. I’ll see what dad says about it.”

“It’s up to you.”

“Yes—I know. Still, we’d better not leave him out.”

“I don’t want to. He’s as good a friend as I have. What he says goes, of course; but he won’t object if you don’t.”

“I won’t.” Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Oh, Joe, you’ve got to deliver those logs! You’ve got to, you’ve got to!”

“Jack,” he said grimly, “I’d deliver ’em now if the whole blamed river dried up. Come down to-morrow and see them go through. We’ll cut out enough to run the mill, but the main drive will go straight ahead and I’m going with it. I’ll wire you as soon as we strike Burritt’s Rapids. I can tell then how it’s going to go.”

“Do you think I’ll stay here?” she cried. “Dad and I are going down to see the drive come into Wismer & Holden’s booms. You’ll probably see us at Thirty Mile.”

The sun was barely risen when the first logs of the big drive swung down leisurely, their pace accelerating as the faster current above the falls gripped them. This vanguard was run into Kent’s booms, and the rivermen cheered as they caught sight of the young boss, and cheered again for William Crooks and his daughter who stood beside him. They ran gaily along the slippery brown logs and danced lightly across their backs, pushing, pulling, prodding, guiding and restraining, and the booms filled magically.

The main drive did not halt at all. The river was crowded with logs, and they were fed through the huge water-gates of the slides as fast and as thick as they would run. It was beautiful, clean, uninterrupted work, and when the last stick had shot through Joe bade Jack good-bye and followed.

Now, at last, the drive was on the homestretch with a few days to spare—a narrow margin, but still a margin. It was then the fifteenth of June, and the river was at its best. Taking into consideration the high water and consequently more rapid current, Joe hoped to reach Burritt’s Rapids by the twenty-third. That would give one week from that point to Wismer & Holden’s mills, a distance of thirty-five miles. Below Burritt’s Rapids, however, was Thirty Mile Lake, a shallow, almost currentless expansion of the river, some thirty miles long and varying in width from half a mile to two miles, through which the drive would have to be towed by steamers owned by a river improvement company, who also owned the booms above the rapids. The time occupied by towing would depend on the weather. Therefore, although the probabilities were in Joe’s favour there was always a doubt. He must remain on the anxious seat till the actual event.

Because of the good water the drive made Burritt’s on the twenty-second instead of the twenty-third. They made it in a heavy downriver gale with an accompaniment of slashing rain that soaked every one to the skin.

Because a drive turned down the rapids would simply float all over the lake and have to be gathered up again, a task involving much time and trouble, the logs were always put through a narrow, inner channel protected by cribwork and booms, and caught in other booms below. There steamers took them in tow and turned them loose down other rapids at the foot of the lake, which were about three miles above Wismer & Holden’s booms. Accordingly, when they made Burritt’s with some daylight to spare the dripping crew ran the drive into the booms and started to feed down the inner channel. When darkness fell they winched a boom across the narrow mouth and quit.

The ground was wet, the tents were wet, and so were the blankets. Although it was June the wind was raw and cutting. The rain slashed and sputtered at the fires. Clothes hung before them steamed, but accumulated moisture faster than they dried. Altogether it was miserable, and the rivermen cursed the weather heartily. They squatted on the sodden ground beneath canvas that let through fine spray with every gust, and big teardrops which had an aggravating habit of landing on the back of the neck, and juggled tin plates piled with pork and beans on their knees, wiping them up with huge wedges of bread.

“A curse of a night,” grumbled Haggarty, shifting away from a drop which threatened to become a stream. “Black as a cord of black cats, an’ rainin’ fit to flood hell! An’ not a dry stitch to me back, an’ the blanket’s soaked, an’ all. Fill up me plate again, you, cookee, an’ slap a dose of molasses on her. Praise be, me hide is waterproof an’ the inside of me’s dry.”

“An’ that’s more nor mine will be this day week,” said big Cooley, licking his lips in pure anticipation. “A hard winter, an’ a long drive. The throat of me aches for the rasp of a drink of the good stuff!”

“For sure, for sure,” Chartrand agreed with him. “I’ll be dry, me, lak one sap maple in August. When dat drive is finish’, by dam’ I stay dronk for one mont’. Hooray!”

“An’ you see me so,” Cooley promised. “I’ll find that McCane an’ put the boots till him till he can’t crawl. A dirty dog! An’ Tom Archer is no better—no, nor his bosses.”

In another tent Joe and his foremen ate supper and listened to the rain, the wind, the roar of the rapids, and the swirl of the current as it talked against the booms. MacNutt went out and came back dripping.

“Can’t see a thing,” he reported. “The wind is gettin’ worse, an’ the water’s risen nigh a foot. How is them booms, Dinny? Our whole drive is down by now, an’ there’s an awful weight on them with this wind an’ the high water.”

“I went over them when we came down,” returned McKenna. “They’re all right. The big lower one is three logs, and well anchored.”

“They should have another anchor-pier in the middle of it,” growled MacNutt. “It has an awful belly. If it went out on us——” He paused and shook his head.

The boom referred to was directly above the rapids, strung at an angle across the river. Upon it came all the pressure of the logs above. It was a massive affair, built of three logs fastened side by side and chained to other threes end to end. The ends of the boom were secured to huge, stone-filled piers. It appeared capable of holding any weight of logs.

“What’s the use of talkin’ like that, Mac?” said Tobin, half angrily. “You’re borrowin’ trouble for every one. The boom’s all right. I looked at it myself after Dinny did.” Nevertheless he went out ten minutes later and was absent sometime. “She sure has a belly on her,” he said when he returned. “She’ll hold, though. I think the wind’s dropped some.”

As he uttered the words a shrieking gust almost laid the tent flat. A shout and muffled curses followed.

“I’ll bet one of the men’s tents has blown down,” said Joe. “Hear Cooley swear.”

They grinned at each other as Cooley rose to the occasion. The wind grew worse. The side and roof of the tent bellied in and slatted in the squalls. Tobin went out and tautened the guy ropes.

“It’d blow the bark from a tree,” he cried when he came in.

McKenna sat pulling his grizzled moustache. The wind, the rapidly rising water, the huge weight of timber, and MacNutt’s forebodings were getting on his nerves. Suddenly he began to pull on his spiked river boots.

“What’s up, Dinny?” MacNutt asked.

“I’m going to look at that boom,” McKenna replied. “You’ve got me all worked up over it. I know it’s all right; but all the same——”

“I’ll go with you,” said Joe, reaching for his boots.

“You’re not good enough on the logs yet,” said the walking boss bluntly. “It’s pitch dark and blowin’ great guns. It’s an old hand’s job, Mr. Kent. You’d only hinder me.”

Joe realized the truth of the words.

“Well, I’m going,” said MacNutt.

“Same here,” said Tobin.

“Sure,” said Deever.

Each man took a lantern. Joe went with them. Anyway he would go as far as the first pier. They could hear the logs grumbling and complaining.

“I don’t like it,” said MacNutt. “It sounds—” He hesitated to put the thought into words, and swung his lantern high, peering at the intensified darkness.

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Tobin. “What do you want to croak for? Of course they’ll talk with the wind an’ current an’ all. Funny if they wouldn’t.”

They ran out across the almost solid carpet of timber that filled the head of the channel, and reached the anchor-pier of the big lower boom. McKenna, in advance, stopped short with a gasp:

“They’re moving, boys—they’re moving!”

Slowly, with the calm certainty of irresistible might, the big drive was on its way. The logs ground at the anchor pier and thrust and bumped at it. The feeble rays of the upheld lanterns threw a short circle of light on the field of timber as it slid smoothly downstream. Joe’s heart, for the first time, skipped a beat. The boom had gone out.

McKenna leaped out on the moving logs. MacNutt caught him.

“Come back, Dinny! What do you think you can do?”

McKenna’s seamed face was absolutely colourless as he turned to Joe.

“He’s right, Mr. Kent. I can’t do a damned thing. It’s my fault. I should ’a’ backed the boom with another.”

His voice was vibrant with sorrow and self-accusation. He knew what it meant to his employer. The logs, driven by the wind, would go down the rapids and be flung far and wide over Thirty Mile Lake. To gather them up would be a task of weeks; they could not be delivered on time.

Joe met the blow like a man. “That’s all right, Dinny,” he said. “It was up to the company, not to you. Their boom was weak somewhere, that’s all. Now what can we do about it? They have two steamers below. We’ll need ’em right away. Mac, you tell ’em to get fire under their boilers, quick. Promise ’em anything. Say you’ve got the company’s orders—but get ’em. Tobin, rouse out the boys and get ’em down to the boats double-quick. Take every foot of rope and chain you can find or steal. Deever, you open the channel boom and let everything go that will go. Dinny, you come with me.”

In five minutes they were banging at the door of the boom company’s representative, bringing that worthy citizen from his bed to the window.

“Your boom has gone out and my drive is over the rapids into the lake,” Joe told him. “I haven’t got time to talk about damages or liabilities now. I want your steamers day and night till I sweep my logs up and every other boat you can hire as well. I want every river man you can lay your hands on, too. I’ll pay for these things at once, pending the adjustment of any question of responsibility. Will you do your best for me?”

“Sure I will,” said the agent. “Wait till I get my clothes on and I’ll come along. It’s funny about that boom. I don’t see——”

But Joe and McKenna were already out of earshot, hurrying back to the river. The camp was buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Men were catching up ropes, chains, peavies, and pike poles and hurrying off into the darkness. Joe, Tobin, and McKenna followed.

As they passed the head of the channel where Deever and half a dozen men were stationed the foreman called to them:

“I’ve got something to show you, Mr. Kent. It won’t take five minutes.”

He led the way over the logs and down the cribwork and booming of the channel, and stopped: “One end of the boom swung down here when she went out,” he said, and lowered his lantern. “Look at that!”

They bent low and peered at the ends of three joined boom-timbers. The ends were white, square, and new.

“Sawed through, by thunder!” cried McKenna.