The Trail of the Axe: A Story of Red Sand Valley

  CHAPTER XI

  THE SUMMER RAINS

  Truscott looked up from his paper and watched the rain as it hissedagainst the window. It was falling in a deluge, driven by a gale ofwind which swept the woodlands as though bent on crushing out the lastdignity of the proud forest giants. The sky was leaden, and held out nopromise of relenting. It was a dreary prospect, yet to the man watchingit was a matter of small moment.

  It was nearly midday, and as yet he had not broken his fast. In facthis day was only just beginning. His appearance told plainly the storyof his previous night's dissipation. Still, his mood was in no waydepressed--he was too well seasoned to the vicious life he had adoptedfor that. Besides, the prosperity of Malkern brought much grist to hismill, and its quality more than made up for the after effects of hisexcesses.

  He turned to his paper again. It was a day old. A large head-line facedhim announcing the spreading of the railway strike. Below it was acolumn describing how business was already affected, and how, shortly,if a settlement were not soon arrived at, it was feared that thetrans-continental traffic could only be kept open with the aid ofmilitary engineers. The rest of the paper held no interests for him; hehad only read this column, and it seemed to afford him food for muchthought. He had read it over twice, and was now reading it for a thirdtime.

  At last he threw the paper aside and walked across to the table to pourhimself out a drink. The thought of food sickened him. The only thingpossible was a whiskey-and-milk, and he mixed the beverage and held itto his lips. But the smell of it sickened him, and he set it down andmoved away to the window.

  There was little enough to attract him thither, but he preferred theprospect to the sight and smell of whiskey at that hour of the day.After some moments he made another attempt on his liquid breakfast. Heknew he must get it down somehow. He turned and looked at it,shuddered, and turned again to the window. And at that instant herecognized the great figure of Dave, clad from head to foot inoilskins, making his way back from the depot to the mill.

  The sight fixed his attention, and all the venom in his distortednature shone in the wicked gleam that sprang into his eyes. His bloodwas fired with hatred.

  "Betty for you? Never in your life," he muttered at the passing figure."Never in mine, Dave, my boy. It's you and me for it, and by God I'llnever let up on you!"

  All unconscious of the venomous thoughts the sight of him had inspired,Dave strode on through the rain. He was deep in his own concerns, andat that moment they were none too pleasant. The deluge of rain dampedhis spirits enough, but the mail he had just received had brought himnews that depressed him still more. The Engineers' Union had called fora general cessation of work east of Winnipeg, and he was wondering howit was likely to affect him. Should his engineers go out, would it bepossible to replace them? And if he could, how would he be able to copewith the trouble likely to ensue? He could certainly fall in with theUnion's demands, but--well, he would wait. It was no use anticipatingtrouble.

  But more bad news was awaiting him when he reached his office. Dawson,in his absence, had opened a letter which had arrived by runner fromBob Mason, the foreman of the camps up in the hills.

  Dawson was no alarmist. He always looked to Dave for everything when acrisis confronted them. He felt that if not a crisis, something verylike it was before them now, and so he calmly handed Mason's letter tohis boss, confident in the latter's capacity to deal with the situation.

  "This come along by hand," he said easily. "Guess, seein' it's wrote'important' on it, I opened it."

  Dave nodded while he threw off his oilskins. He made no particularhaste, and deposited his mail on his desk before he took the letterfrom his foreman. At last, however, he unfolded the sheet of foolscapon which it was written, and read the ominous contents. It was a longletter dealing with the business of the camps, but the one paragraphwhich had made the letter important threw all the rest intoinsignificance. It ran--

  "I regret to have to report that an epidemic of mountain fever hasbroken out in two of our camps--the new No. 8 and No. 1. We havealready nearly eighty cases on the sick list, chiefly amongst the newhands from Ottawa who are not yet acclimatized. The summer rains havebeen exceedingly heavy, which in a large measure accounts for thetrouble. I shall be glad if you will send up medical aid, and a supplyof drugs, at once. Dysentery is likely to follow, and you know whatthat means.

  "We are necessarily short-handed now, but, by increasing hours andoffering inducements, and by engaging any stray hands that filter up tothe camps, I hope to keep the work going satisfactorily. I am isolatingthe sick, of course, but it is most important that you send me themedical aid at once," etc., etc.

  Dave was silent for a while after reading the letter, and the gravityof his expression was enhanced by the extreme plainness of hisfeatures. His steady eyes were looking out through the open doorway atthe mill beyond, as though it were some living creature to whom he wasbound by ties of the deepest affection, and for whom he saw theforeshadowing of disaster. At last he turned.

  "Damn the rain," he said impatiently. Then he added, "I'll see to it."

  Dawson glanced quickly at his chief.

  "Nothin' I ken do, boss?" he inquired casually.

  A grim smile played over Dave's rugged features.

  "Nothing, I guess," he said, "unless you can fix a nozzle on toheaven's water-main and turn it on to the strikers down east."

  The other shook his head seriously.

  "I ain't worth a cent in the plumbin' line, boss," he said.

  Dawson left the office. The mill claimed him at all times. He neverneglected his charge, and rarely allowed himself long absences beyondthe range of its strident music. The pressure of work seemed toincrease every day. He knew that the strain on his employer wasenormous, and somehow he would have been glad if he could have sharedthis new responsibility.

  Dave had just taken his slicker from the wall again when Dawson cameback to the door.

  "Say, ther's that feller Mansell been around this mornin' lookin' fer ajob. I sed he'd best come around to-morrer. I didn't guess I'd take himon till I see you. He's a drunken bum anyway."

  Dave nodded.

  "He used to be a dandy sawyer," he said, "and we need 'em. Is hedrinking now?"

  "I've heard tell. He stank o' whiskey's mornin'. That's why I passedhim on. Yes, he's a dandy sawyer, sure. He was on the 'water wagon''fore he went off up north with young Truscott. Mebbe he'll sober upagin--if we put him to work."

  Dave clenched the matter in his decided way.

  "Put him on the 'time sheet' to-morrow, and set him on the No. 1rollers, beside our night office. You can keep a sharp eye on himthere. He's a bit of a backslider, but if giving him a job'll pull himup and help him, why, give it him. We've no right to refuse."

  He struggled into his slicker again as Dawson went off. He inspectedthe weather outside with no very friendly eye. It meant so much to him.At the moment the deluge was like a bursting waterspout, and the yardswere like a lake dotted with islands of lumber. But he plunged out intoit without a moment's hesitation. His work must go on, no matter whatcame.

  He hurried off in the direction of Chepstow's house. It was some timesince he had seen his friend, and though the cause of his present visitwas so serious, he was glad of the opportunity of making it.

  Tom Chepstow saw him coming, and met him on the veranda. He was alwaysa man of cheery spirits, and just now, in spite of the weather, he waswell enough satisfied with the world. Matters between Betty and JimTruscott had been settled just as he could wish, so there was little tobother him.

  "I was really considering the advisability of a telephone from here toyour office, Dave," he said, with a smiling welcome. "But joking apart,I never seem to see you now. How's things down there? If report saystruly, you're doing a great work."

  Dave shook his head.

  "The mills are," he said modestly.

  Chepstow laughed heartily.

  "That's your way of putting it. You and the mills a
re one. Nobody everspeaks of one without including the other. You'll never marry, my boy.You are wedded to the shriek of your beloved buzz-saws. Here, take offthose things and come in. We've got a drop of Mary's sloe ginsomewhere."

  They went into the parlor, and Dave removed his oilskins. While he hungthem to drain on a nail outside, the parson poured him out a wineglassof his wife's renowned sloe gin. He drank it down quickly, not becausehe cared particularly about it, but out of compliment to his friend'swife. Then he set his glass down, and began to explain his visit.

  "This isn't just a friendly visit, Tom," he said. "It's business. Badbusiness. You've got to help me out."

  The parson opened his eyes. It was something quite new to have Davedemanding help.

  "Go ahead," he said, his keen eyes lighting with amusement.

  Dave drew a bunch of letters from his coat pocket. He glanced over themhastily, and picked out Mason's and handed it to the other. In pickingit out he had discovered another letter he had left unopened.

  "Read that," he said, while he glanced at the address on the unopenedenvelope.

  The handwriting was strange to him, and while Tom Chepstow was readingMason's letter he tore the other open. As he read, the gravity of hisface slowly relaxed. At last an exclamation from the parson made himlook up.

  "This is terrible, Dave!"

  "It's a bit fierce," the other agreed. "Have you read it all?" heinquired.

  "Yes."

  "Then you've got my meaning in coming to you?"

  "I see. I hadn't thought of it."

  Dave smiled into the other's face.

  "You're going to do it for me? It may mean weeks. It may even meanmonths. You see, it's an epidemic. At the best it might be only acouple of weeks. They're tough, those boys. On the other hand it mightmean--anything to me."

  Chepstow nodded. He understood well enough what an epidemic of mountainfever in his lumber camps must mean to Dave. He understood theconditions under which he stood with regard to his contract. Acatastrophe like that might mean ruin. And ruin for Dave would meanruin for nearly all connected with Malkern.

  "Yes, I'll do it, Dave. Putting all friendship on one side, it isclearly my duty. Certainly. I'll go up there and lend all the aid Ipossibly can. You must outfit me with drugs and help."

  Dave held out his hand, and the two men gripped.

  "Thanks, Tom," he said simply, although he experienced a world ofrelief and gratitude. "I wouldn't insult you with a bribe before youconsented, but when you come back there's a thumping check for yourcharities lying somewhere around my office."

  The parson laughed in his whole-hearted fashion, while his friend oncemore donned his oilskins.

  "I'm always open to that sort of bribery, old boy," he said, and waspromptly answered by one of Dave's slow smiles.

  "That's good," he said. Then he held up his other letter, but he didnot offer it to be read.

  "Betty told you what happened at my office the other day--I mean, whathappened to Jim Truscott?" The parson's face clouded with swift anger.

  "The ras----"

  "Just so. Yes, we had some bother; but he's just sent me this. A mostapologetic letter. He offers to sell me his mill now. I wanted to buyit, you know. He wants twenty thousand dollars cash for it. I shallclose the deal at once." He laughed.

  "Hard up, I s'pose?"

  Dave shook his head.

  "I don't think so. His change of front is curious, though," he went onthoughtfully. "However, that don't matter. I want the mill, and--I'mgoing to buy. So long. I've got to go and look at that piece of newtrack I'm getting laid down. My single line to the depot isn'tsufficient. I'll let you know about starting up to the camps. I've gota small gang of lumber-jacks coming up from Ottawa. Maybe I'll get youto go up with them later. Thanks, Tom."

  The two men shook hands again, and Dave departed.

  He battled his way through the driving rain to his railroadconstruction, and on the road he thought a good deal of Truscott'sneglected letter. There was something in its tone he could not convincehimself about. Why, he asked himself, should he, so closely followingon the events which had happened in his office, deliberately turn roundand display such a Christian-like spirit? Somehow it didn't seem tosuit him. It didn't carry conviction. Then there was the letter; itswording was too careful. It was so deliberately careful that itsuggested a suppression of real feeling. This was his impression, andthough Dave was usually an unsuspicious man, he could not shake it off.

  He thought of little else but that letter all the way to his works, andafter reviewing the man's attitude from what, in his own simplehonesty, he considered to be every possible standpoint, he finally,with a quaint, even quixotic, kindliness assured himself that therecould after all be but one interpretation to it. The man was penitentat his painful exhibition before Betty, and his vile accusationsagainst himself. That his moral strength was not equal to standing thestrain of a personal interview. That his training up at the Yukon,where he had learned the sordid methods of a professional gambler, hadsuggested the selling of his mill to him as a sort of peace-offering.And the careful, stilted tone of the letter itself was due to thedifficulty of its composition. Further, he decided to accept his offer,and do so in a cordial, friendly spirit, and, when opportunity offered,to endeavor, by his own moral influence, to drag him back to the pathsof honest citizenship. This was the decision to which his generousnature prompted him. But his head protested.