CHAPTER XVII
THE LAST OF THE SAWYER
Dave's lead took the foreman in the direction of the wrecked office.Now, in calmer moments, the full extent of the damage became apparent.The first three sets of rollers were hopelessly wrecked, and the sawswere twisted and their settings broken and contorted out of allrecognition. Then the fire had practically destroyed the whole of theadjacent northwest corner of the mill. The office was a mere skeleton,a shattered shell, and the walls and flooring adjoining had been tornand battered into a complete ruin. In the midst of all this, half adozen heavy logs, in various stages of trimming, lay scattered aboutwhere the machinery happened to have thrown them.
It was a sickening sight to the master of the mills, but in his presentmood he put the feeling from him, lost in a furious desire to discoverthe author of the dastardly outrage.
He paused for a moment as one great log lying across half a dozen ofthe roller beds barred his way. He glanced swiftly over the wreckage.Then he turned to the man following him.
"Any of the boys cut up?" he inquired.
"Some o' them is pretty mean damaged," Dawson replied. "But it ain'ttoo bad, I guess. I 'lows it was sheer luck. But ther's Mansell. Weain't located him."
Mansell was uppermost in his mind. He could think of nothing, and noone, else. He wanted to get his hands about the fellow's throat. In hisrage he felt that the only thing to give him satisfaction at the momentwould be to squeeze the fellow's life slowly out of him. Dawson was asavage when roused, nor did he make pretense of being otherwise. If hecame across the sawyer--well, perhaps it was a good thing that Dave waswith him--that is, a good thing for Mansell.
Dave scrambled over the log and the two men hurried on to the saw thathad been Mansell's. Neither spoke until this was reached. Then Daveturned.
"Say, go you right on over by the crane and rake around there. Maybe hejumped the boom and got out that way. I'll be along directly."
It was a mere excuse. He wanted to investigate alone. The foremanobeyed, although reluctantly.
The moment he was gone, Dave jumped up on the rollers to examine themachinery that had held the saw. The light of the dying fire wasinsufficient, and he was forced to procure a lantern. His first angerhad passed now, and he was thoroughly alert. His practiced eye lost nodetail that could afford the least possible clue to the cause of thesmash. Dawson had said it was Mansell, and that it was no accident. Butthen he knew well enough that Dawson had a bad enough opinion of thesawyer, and since the smash had apparently originated on No. 1, he hadprobably been only too glad to jump to the conclusion. For himself, hewas personally determined to avoid any prejudice.
He quickly discovered that the saw in question had been broken offshort. The settings were desperately twisted, and he knew that theforce capable of doing this could have only been supplied by thegigantic log that had been trimming at the moment. Therefore theindication must come from the saw itself. He searched carefully, andfound much of the broken blade. The upper portions were broken clean.There was neither dinge nor bend in them. But the lower portions wereless clean. One piece particularly looked as though a sharp instrumenthad been at work upon it. Then the memory of that faint rasping sound,which had been the first thing to attract his attention before thesmash, came back to him. He grew hot with rising anger, and stuffed thepiece of saw-blade inside his shirt.
"The cur!" he muttered. "Why? Why? Guess Dawson was right, after all.The liquor _was_ in him. But why should he try to smash us?"
He jumped down to the alleyway, intending to join his foreman, when afresh thought occurred to him. He looked over at the remains of theoffice, then he glanced up and down at the broken rollers of No. 1. Andhis lips shut tight.
"I was in there," he said to himself, with his eyes on the wreckedoffice, "and--he knew it."
At that moment Dawson's excited voice interrupted him. "Say, boss, comeright along here. Guess I've got him."
Dave joined him hurriedly. He found the foreman bending over a baulk oftimber, one that had evidently been hurled there in the smash. It waslying across the sill of the opening over the boom, projecting a longway out. Beneath it, just where it rested on the sill, but saved fromits full weight by the cant at which it was resting, a human figure wasstretched out face downward.
Dawson was examining the man's face when Dave reached him, and startedto explain hurriedly.
"I didn't rightly rec'nize him," he said. "Y'see he's got out of hisworkin' kit. Might ha' bin goin' to the Meetin'. He was sure lightin'out of here for keeps."
To Dave the prostrate figure suggested all that the foreman said. Theman had calculated that smash--manufactured it. No more evidence wasneeded. He had got himself ready for a bolt for safety, preferring theboom as offering the best means of escape and the least chance ofdetection. Once outside there would be no difficulty in getting away.As Dawson said, his clothes suggested a hurried journey. They were thethick frieze the lumber-jack wears in winter, and would be ampleprotection for summer nights out in the open. Yes, it had beencarefully thought out. But the reason of this attack on himself puzzledhim, and he repeatedly asked himself "Why?"
There could not be much question as to the man's condition. If he werenot yet dead, he must be very near it, for the small of his back wasdirectly under the angle of the beam and crushed against the sill. Davestood up from his examination.
"Get one of the boys, quick," he said. "Start him out at once for DocSymons, over at High River. It's only fifteen miles. He'll be alongbefore morning anyhow. I'll carry--this down to the office. Don't say aword around the mill. We've just had an--accident. See? And say,Dawson, you're looking for a raise, and you're going to get it, that isif this mill's in full work this day week. We're short of logs--well,this'll serve as an excuse for saws being idle. 'It's an ill wind,' eh?Meantime, get what saws you can going. Now cut along."
The foreman's gratitude shone in his eyes. Had Dave given him the leastencouragement he would undoubtedly have made him what he considered anelegant speech of thanks, but his employer turned from him at once andset about releasing the imprisoned man. As soon as he had prized thebeam clear he gathered him up in his arms and bore him down the spiralstaircase to the floor below. Then he hurried on to his office with hisburden.
And as he went he wondered. The sawyer might dislike Dawson. But he hadno cause for grudge against him, Dave. Then why had he waited until hewas alone in the tally room? The whole thing looked so like a directattack upon himself, rather than on the mills, that he was more thanever puzzled. He went back over the time since he had employed Mansell,and he could not remember a single incident that could serve him as anexcuse for such an attack. It might have been simply the madness ofdrink, and yet it seemed too carefully planned. Yes, that was anotherthing. Mansell had been on the drink for a week, "fighting-drunk,"Dawson had said. In the circumstances it was not reasonable for him toplan the thing so carefully. Then a sudden thought occurred to him.Were there others in it? Was Mansell only the tool?
He was suddenly startled by a distinct sound from the injured man. Itwas the sawyer's voice, harsh but inarticulate, and it brought with ita suggestion that he might yet learn the truth. He increased his paceand reached the office a few moments later.
Here he prepared a pile of fur rugs upon the floor and laid the sawyerupon it. Then he waited for some minutes, but, as nothing approachingconsciousness resulted, he finally left him, intending to return againwhen the doctor arrived. There was so much to be done in the mill thathe could delay his return to it no longer.
It was nearly four hours later when he went back to his office. He hadseen the work of salvage in order, and at last had a moment to spare toattend to himself. He needed it. He was utterly weary, and hislacerated chest was giving him exquisite pain.
He found Mansell precisely as he left him. Apparently there had been nomovement of any sort. He bent over him and felt his heart. It wasbeating faintly. He lifted the lids of his closed eyes, and theeyeballs moved as the light fel
l upon them.
He turned away and began to strip himself of his upper garments. Therewas a gash in his chest fully six inches long, from which the blood wassteadily, though sluggishly, flowing. His clothes were saturated andcaked with it. He bathed the wound with the drinking water in thebucket, and tearing his shirt into strips made himself a temporarybandage. This done, he turned to his chair to sit down, when, glancingover at the sick man, he was startled to find his eyes open and staringin his direction.
He at once went over to him.
"Feeling better, Mansell?" he inquired.
The man gave no sign of recognition. His eyes simply stared at him. Fora moment he thought he was dead, but a faint though steady breathingreassured him. Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and he went to acupboard and produced a bottle of brandy. Pouring some out into a tincup, with some difficulty he persuaded it into Mansell's mouth. Then hewaited. The staring eyes began to move, and there was a decidedfluttering of the eyelids. A moment later the lips moved, and anindistinct but definite sound came from them.
"How are you now?" Dave asked.
There was another long pause, during which the man's eyes closed again.Then they reopened, and he deliberately turned his head away.
"You--didn't--get--hurt?" he asked, in faint, spasmodic gasps.
"No." Dave leaned over him. "Have some more brandy?"
The man turned his head back again. He didn't answer, but the look inhis eyes was sufficient. This time Dave poured out more, and there wasno difficulty in administering it.
"Well?" he suggested, as the color slowly crept over the man's face.
"Good--goo----"
The sound died away, and the eyes closed again. But only to reopenquickly.
"He--said--you'd--get--killed," he gasped.
"He--who?"
"Jim."
The sawyer's eyelids drooped again. Without a moment's hesitation Daveplied him with more of the spirit.
"You mean Truscott?" he asked sharply. He was startled, but he gave nosign. He realized that at any time the man might refuse to say more.Then he added: "He's got it in for me."
The sick man remained perfectly still for some seconds. His brainseemed to move slowly. When he did speak, his voice had grown fainter.
"Yes."
Dave's face was hard and cold as he looked down at him. He was justabout to formulate another question, when the door opened and Dr.Symons hurried in. He was a brisk man, and took the situation in at aglance.
"A smash?" he inquired. Then, his eyes on the bottle at Dave's side:"What's that--brandy?"
"Brandy." The lumberman passed it across to him. "Yes, a smash-up. Thispoor chap's badly damaged, I'm afraid. Found him with a heavy beamlying across the small of his back. You were the nearest doctor, so Isent for you. Eh? oh, yes," as the doctor pointed at the blood on hisclothes. "When you've finished with him you can put a stitch inme--some of the boys too. I'll leave you to it, Doc, they'll need me inthe mill. I gave him brandy, and it roused him to consciousness."
"Right. You might get back in half an hour."
Dr. Symons moved over to the sick man, and Dave put on his coat andleft the office.
When he returned the doctor met him with a grave face.
"What's the night like?" he asked. "I've got to ride back."
He went to the door, and Dave followed him out.
"His back is broken," he said, when they were out of ear-shot. "It'sjust a question of hours."
"How many?"
"Can't say with any certainty. It's badly smashed, and no doubt otherthings besides. Paralysis of the----"
"Has he said anything? Has he shown any inclination to talk?"
"No. That is, he looked around the room a good deal as though lookingfor some one. Maybe you."
"Can nothing be done for the poor chap?"
"Nothing. Better get him a parson. I'll come over to-morrow to see him,if he's alive. Anyway I'll be needed to sign a certificate. I must getback to home by daylight. I've got fever patients. Now just comeinside, and I'll fix you up. Then I'll go and see to the boys. Afterthat, home."
"You're sure nothing----"
"Plumb sure! Sure as I am you're going to have a mighty bad chest ifyou don't come inside and let me stop that oozing blood I see comingthrough your clothes."
Without further protest Dave followed the doctor into the office, andsubmitted to the operation.
"That's a rotten bad place," he assured him, in his brisk way. "You'llhave to lie up. You ought to be dead beat from loss of blood. Gad, man,you must go home, or I won't answer----"
But Dave broke in testily.
"Right ho, Doc, you go and see to the boys. Send your bill in to me forthe lot."
As soon as he had gone, Dave sat thoughtfully gazing at the doomedsawyer. Presently he glanced round at the brandy bottle. The doctor hadpositively said the poor fellow was doomed. He rose from his seat andpoured out a stiff drink. Then he knelt down, and supporting the man'shead, held it to his lips. He drank it eagerly. Dave knew it had beenhis one pleasure in life. Then he went back to his chair.
"Feeling comfortable?" he inquired gently.
"Yes, boss," came the man's answer promptly. Then, "Wot did the Docsay?"
"Guess you're handing in your checks," Dave replied, after a moment'sdeliberation.
The sawyer's eyes were on the brandy bottle.
"How long?" he asked presently.
"Maybe hours. He couldn't say."
"'E's wrong, boss. 'Tain't hours. I'm mighty cold, an'--it's creepin'up quick."
Dave looked at his watch. It was already past two o'clock.
"He said he'd come and see you in the morning."
"I'll be stiff by then," the dying man persisted, with his eyes stillon the bottle. "Say, boss," he went on, "that stuff's a heapwarming--an' I'm cold."
Dave poured him out more brandy. Then he took off his own coat and laidit over the man's legs. His fur coat and another fur robe were in thecupboard, and these he added. And the man's thanks came awkwardly.
"I can't send for a parson," Dave said regretfully, after a fewmoments' silence. "I'd like to, but Parson Tom's away up in the hills.It's only right----"
"He's gone up to the hills?" the sick man interrupted him, as thoughstruck by a sudden thought.
"Yes. It's fever."
Mansell lay staring straight up at the roof. And as the other watchedhim he felt that some sort of struggle was going on in his slowlymoving mind. Twice his lips moved as though about to speak, but for along time no sound came from them. The lumberman felt extreme pity forhim. He had forgotten that this man had so nearly ruined him, so nearlycaused his death. He only saw before him a dimly flickering life, alife every moment threatening to die out. He knew how warped had beenthat life, how worthless from a purely human point of view, but he feltthat it was as precious in the sight of One as that of the veriestsaint. He racked his thoughts for some way to comfort those last dreadmoments.
Presently the dying man's head turned slightly toward him.
"I'm goin', boss," he said with a gasp. "It's gettin' up--the cold."
"Will you have--brandy?"
The lighting of the man's eyes made a verbal answer unnecessary. Davegave him nearly half a tumbler, and his ebbing life flickered up againlike a dying candle flame.
"The Doc said you wus hurt bad, boss. I heard him. I'm sorry--realmiser'ble sorry--now."
"Now?"
"Yep--y' see I'm--goin'."
"Ah."
"I'm kind o' glad ther' ain't no passon around. Guess ther's a heap Iwouldn't 'a' said to him."
The dying man's eyes closed for a moment. Dave didn't want to break inon his train of thought, so he kept silent.
"Y' see," Mansell went on again almost at once, "he kind o' drove me toit. That an' the drink. He give me the drink too. Jim's cur'us mean byyou."
"But Jim's gone east days ago."
"No, he ain't. He's lyin' low. He ain't east now."
"You're sure?" Dave's as
tonishment crept into his tone.
Mansell made a movement which implied his certainty.
"He was to give me a heap o' money. The money you give fer his mill. Hewants you smashed. He wants the mill smashed. An' I did it. Say, I bustthat saw o' mine, an' she was a beaut'," he added, with pride andregret. "I got a rasp on to it. But it's all come back on me. GuessI'll be goin' to hell fer that job--that an' others. Say, boss----"
He broke off, looking at the brandy bottle. Dave made no pretense atdemur. The man was rapidly dying, and he felt that the spirit gave hima certain ease of mind. The ethics of his action did not trouble him.If he could give a dying man comfort, he would.
"There's no hell for those who are real sorry," he said, when thefellow had finished his drink. "The good God is so thankful for a man'sreal sorrow for doing wrong that He forgives him right out. He forgivesa sight easier than men do. You've nothing to worry over, lad. You'resorry--that's the real thing."
"Sure, boss?"
"Dead sure."
"Say, boss, I'd 'a' hate to done you up. But ther' was the money,an'--I wanted it bad."
"Sure you did. You see we all want a heap the good God don't reckongood for us----"
The man's eyes suddenly closed while Dave was speaking. Then theyopened again, and this time they were staring wildly.
"I'm--goin'," he gasped.
Dave was on his knees in a second, supporting his head. He poured somebrandy into the gasping mouth, and for a brief moment the man rallied.Then his breathing suddenly became violent.
"I'm--done!" he gasped in a final effort, and a moment later thesupporting hand felt the lead-like weight of the lolling head. The manwas dead.
The lumberman reverently laid the head back upon the rugs, and for someminutes remained where he was kneeling. His rough, plain face wasburied in his hands. Then he rose to his feet and stood looking downupon the lifeless form. A great pity welled up in his heart. PoorMansell was beyond the reach of a hard fate, beyond the reach ofearthly temptation and the hard knocks of men. And he felt it werebetter so. He covered the body carefully over with the fur robe, andsat down at his desk.
He sat there for some minutes listening to the sounds of the workers atthe mills. He was weary--so weary. But at last he could resist the callno longer, and he went out to join in the labor that was his very life.