CHAPTER XIX
IN THE MOUNTAINS
It was Sunday evening. Inside a capacious "dugout" a small group of twomen and a girl sat round the stove which had just been lit.
In the mountains, even though the heat of August was still at itsheight, sundown was the signal for the lighting of fires. Dave's lumbercamps were high up in the hills, tapping, as they did, the upper forestbelts, where grew the vast primordial timbers. In the extreme heat ofsummer the air was bracing, crisp, and suggested the process ofbreathing diamonds, but with the setting of the sun a cold shiver fromthe ancient glaciers above whistled down through the trees and bit intothe bones.
The daylight still lingered outside, and the cotton-covered windows ofthe dugout let in just sufficient of it to leave the remoter corners ofthe hut bathed in rapidly growing shadow. There was a good deal ofcomfort in the room, though no luxury. The mud cemented walls werewhitewashed and adorned with illustrations from the _Police Gazette_,and other kindred papers. For the most part the furniture was of "home"manufacture. The chairs, and they were all armchairs of sorts, weremere frames with seats of strung rawhide. The table was of the roughestbut most solid make, strong enough to be used as a chopping-block, andlarge enough for an extra bed to be made down upon it. There was alarge cupboard serving the dual purpose of larder and pantry, and, inaddition to the square cook-stove, the room was heated by a giant woodstove. The only really orthodox piece of furniture was the smallwriting-desk.
For a dugout it was capacious, and, unlike the usual dugout, itpossessed three inner rooms backing into the hill against which it wasbuilt. One of these was a storeroom for dynamite and other campequipment, one was a bedroom, and the other was an armory. Thenecessity for the latter might be questioned, but Bob Mason, the camp"boss," the sole authority over a great number of lumber-jacks, morethan a hundred and fifty miles from the faintest semblance ofcivilization, was content that it should be there.
The three faces were serious enough as they gazed down in silence atthe glowing, red-hot patch in the iron roof of the stove, and watchedit spread, wider and wider, under the forced draught of the opendamper. They had been silent for some moments, and before that one ofthem had practically monopolized the talk. It was Betty who had donemost of the talking. Bronzed with the mountain air and sun, her cheeksflushed with interest and excitement, her sweet brown eyes aglow, shehad finished recounting to her uncle and Bob Mason a significantincident that had occurred to her that afternoon on her way from thesick camp to the dugout.
Walking through a patch of forest which cut the sick quarters off fromthe main, No. 1, camp, she had encountered two lumber-jacks, whom shehad no recollection of having seen before.
"They weren't like lumber-jacks," she explained, "except for theirclothes. You can't mistake a lumber-jack's manner and speech,particularly when he is talking to a girl. He's so self-consciousand--and shy. Well, these men were neither. Their speech was the sameas ours might be, and their faces, well, they were good-lookingfellows, and might never have been out of a city. I never saw anybodylook so out of place, as they did, in their clothes. There was nobeating about the bush with them. They simply greeted me politely,asked me if I was Miss Somers, and, when I told them I was, calmlywarned me to leave the hills without delay--not later than to-morrownight. I asked them for an explanation, but they only laughed, notrudely, and repeated their warning, adding that you, uncle, had bettergo too, or they would not be answerable for the consequences. Ireminded them of the sick folk, but they only laughed at that too. Oneof them cynically reminded me they were all 'jacks' and were of no sortof consequence whatever, in fact, if a few of them happened to die offno one would care. He made me angry, and I told them we shouldcertainly care. He promptly retorted, very sharply, that they had notcome there to hold any sort of debate on the matter, but to give mewarning. He said that his reason in doing so was simply that I was agirl, and that you, uncle, were a much-respected parson, and they hadno desire that any harm should come to either of us. That was all.After that they turned away and went off into the forest, taking anopposite direction to the camp."
Mason was the first to break the silence that followed the girl's story.
"It's serious," he said, speaking with his chin in his hands and hiselbows resting on his parted knees.
"The warning?" inquired Chepstow, with a quick glance at the other'sthoughtful face.
Mason nodded.
"I've been watching this thing for weeks past," he said, "and the worstof it is I can't make up my mind as to the meaning of it. There'ssomething afoot, but---- Do you know I've sent six letters down theriver to Dave, and none of them have been answered? My monthly budgetof orders is a week overdue. That's not like Dave. How long have youbeen up here? Seven weeks, ain't it? I've only had three letters fromDave in that time."
The foreman flung himself back in his chair with a look of perplexityon his broad, open face.
"What can be afoot?" asked Chepstow, after a pause. "The men areworking well."
"They're working as well as 'scabs' generally do," Mason complained."And thirty per cent, are 'scabs,' now. They're all slackers. They'renone of them lumber-jacks. They haven't the spirit of a 'jack.' I haveto drive 'em from morning till night. Oh, by the way, parson, thatreminds me, I've got a note for you. It's from the sutler. I knowwhat's in it, that is, I can guess." He drew it from his pocket, handedit across to him. "It's to tell you you can't have the store forservice to-night. The boys want it. They're going to have a singsongthere, or something of the sort."
The churchman's eyes lit.
"But he promised me. I've made arrangements. The place is fixed up forit. They can have it afterward, but----"
"Hadn't you better read the note, uncle?" Betty said gently. Shedetected the rising storm in his vehemence.
He turned at once to the note. It was short, and its tone, thoughapologetic, was decided beyond all question.
"You can't have the store to-night. I'm sorry, but the boys insist onhaving it themselves. You will understand I am quite powerless when youremember they are my customers."
Tom Chepstow read the message from Jules Lieberstein twice over. Thenhe passed it across to Mason. Only the brightness of his eyes told ofhis feelings. He was annoyed, and his fighting spirit was stirring.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Mason inquired, as he passed thepaper on to Betty in response to her silent request.
"Do? Do?" Chepstow cried, his keen eyes shining angrily. "Why, I'llhold service there, of course. Jules can't give a thing, and, at thelast minute, take it away like that. I've had the room prepared andeverything. I shall go and see him. I----"
"The trouble--whatever it is--is in that note, too," Betty interrupted,returning him the paper with the deliberate intention of checking hisoutburst.
Mason gave her a quick glance of approval. Though he did not approve ofwomen in a lumber camp, Betty's quiet capacity, her gentle womanliness,with her great strength of character and keenness of perceptionunderlying it, pleased him immensely. He admired her, and curiouslyenough frequently found himself discussing affairs of the camp with heras though she were there for the purpose of sharing the burden of hisresponsibilities. In the ordinary course this would not have happened,but she had come at a moment when his difficulties were many andtrying. And at such a time her ready understanding had become decidedmoral support which was none the less welcome for the fact that hefailed to realize it.
"You're right," he nodded. "There's something doing. What's that?"
All three glanced at the door. And there was a look of uneasiness ineach which they could not have explained. Mason hurried across the roomwith Chepstow at his heels.
Outside, night was closing in rapidly. A gray, misty twilight held themountain world in a gloomy shroud. The vast hills, and the darkwoodland belts, loomed hazily through the mist. But the deathlystillness was broken by the rattle of wheels and the beating of hoofsupon the hard trail. The vehicle, whatever it was, had passed thedugout, and th
e sounds of it were already dying away in the directionof the distant camp.
"There's a fog coming down," observed Mason, as they returned to thestove.
"That was a buckboard," remarked the parson.
"And it was traveling fast and light," added Betty.
And each remark indicated the point of view of the speaker.
Mason thought less of the vehicle than he did of the fog. Anyuneasiness he felt was for his work rather than the trouble he felt tobe brewing. A heavy fog was always a deterrent, and, at this time ofyear, fogs were not unfrequent in the hills. Chepstow was bent on theidentity of the arrival, while Betty sought the object of it.
Mason did not return to his seat. He stood by the stove for a momentthinking. Then he moved across to his pea-jacket hanging on the walland put it on, at the same time slipping a revolver into his pocket.Then he pulled a cloth cap well down over his eyes.
"I'll get a good look around the camp," he said quietly.
"Going to investigate?" Chepstow inquired.
"Yes. There have been too many arrivals lately--one way and another.I'm sick of 'em."
Betty looked up into his face with round smiling eyes.
"You need a revolver--to make investigations?" she asked lightly.
The lumberman looked her squarely in the eyes for a moment, and therehe read something of the thought which had prompted her question. Hesmiled back at her as he replied.
"It's a handy thing to have about you when dealing with the scum of theearth. Lumbermen on this continent are not the beau ideal ofgentlefolk, but when you are dealing with the class of loafer such as Ihave been forced to engage lately, well, the real lumber-jack becomesan angel of gentleness by contrast. A gun doesn't take up much room inyour pocket, and it gives an added feeling of security. You see, ifthere's any sort of trouble brewing the man in authority is not likelyto have a healthy time. By the way, parson, I'd suggest you give upthis service to-night. Of course it's up to you, I don't want tointerfere. You see, if the boys want that store, and you've gotit--why----"
He broke off with a suggestive shake of the head. Betty watched heruncle's face.
She saw him suddenly bend down and fling the damper wider open, and inresponse the stove roared fiercely. He sat with his keen eyes fixed onthe glowing aperture, watching the rapidly brightening light that shonethrough. The suggestion of fiery rage suited his mood at the moment.
But his anger was not of long duration. His was an impetuousdisposition generally controlled in the end by a kindly, Christianspirit, and, a few moments later, when he spoke, there was the mildnessof resignation in his words.
"Maybe you're right, Mason," he said calmly. "You understand these boysup here better than I do. Besides, I don't want to cause you anyunnecessary trouble, and I see by your manner you're expectingsomething serious." Then he added regretfully: "But I should have likedto hold that service. And I would have done it, in spite of our Hebrewfriend's sordid excuse. However---- By the way, can I be of any serviceto you?" He pointed at the lumberman's bulging pocket. "If it'snecessary to carry that, two are always better than one."
Betty sighed contentedly. She was glad that her uncle had been advisedto give up the service. Her woman's quick wit had taken alarm for him,and--well, she regarded her simple-minded uncle as her care, she feltshe was responsible to her aunt for him. It was the strong maternalinstinct in her which made her yearn to protect and care for those whomshe loved. Now she waited anxiously for the foreman's reply. To herastonishment it came with an alacrity and ready acceptance whichfurther stirred her alarm.
"Thanks," he said. "As you say two---- Here, slip this other gun intoyour coat pocket." And he reached the fellow revolver to his own fromits holster upon the wall. "Now let's get on."
He moved toward the door. Chepstow was in the act of following whenBetty's voice stopped him.
"What time will you get back?" she inquired. "How shall I know that----"
She broke off. Her brown eyes were fixed questioningly upon thelumberman's face.
"We'll be around in an hour," said Mason confidently "Meanwhile, MissBetty, after we're gone, just set those bars across the door. And don'tlet anybody in till you hear either mine or your uncle's voice."
The girl understood him, she always understood without asking a lot ofquestions. She was outwardly quite calm, without the faintest trace ofthe alarm she really felt. She had no fear for herself. At that momentshe was thinking of her uncle.
After the men had gone she closed the heavy log door but did not bar itas she had been advised; then, returning to the stove, she sat down andtook up some sewing, prepared to await their return with absolute faithand confidence in the lumberman's assurance.
She stitched on in the silence, and soon her thoughts drifted back tothe man who had so strangely become the lodestone of her life. Thetrouble suggested by Mason must be his trouble. She wondered what couldpossibly happen on top of the fever, which she and her uncle had beenfighting for the past weeks, that could further jeopardize hiscontract. She could see only one thing, and her quickness of perceptionin all matters relating to the world she knew drove her straight to thereality. She knew it was a general strike Mason feared. She knew it bythe warning she had received, by the foreman's manner when he preparedto leave the hut.
She was troubled. In imagination she saw the great edifice Dave had soardently labored upon toppling about his ears. In her picture she sawhim great, calm, resolute, standing amidst the wreck, with eyes lookingout straight ahead full of that great fighting strength which was his,his heart sore and bruised but his lips silent, his great courage andpurpose groping for the shattered foundations that the rebuilding mightnot be delayed an instant. It was her delight and pride to think of himthus, whilst, with every heart-beat, a nervous dread for him shook herwhole body. She tried to think wherein she could help this man who wasmore to her than her own life. She bitterly hated her own womanhood asshe thought of those two men bearing arms at that instant in hisinterests. Why could not she? But she knew that privilege was deniedher. She threw her sewing aside as though the effeminacy of it sickenedher, and rose from her seat and paced the room. "Oh, Dave, Dave, whycan't I help you?" It was the cry that rang through her troubled brainwith every moment that the little metal clock on the desk ticked away,while she waited for the men-folk's return.