CHAPTER XX
THE CHURCH MILITANT
Outside the hut Mason led the way. The mist had deepened into a whitefog which seemed to deaden all sound, so quiet was everything, sosilent the grim woods all around. It had settled so heavily that it wasalmost impossible to see anything beyond the edge of the trail. Therewas just a hazy shadow, like a sudden depth of mist, to mark thewoodland borders; beyond this all was gray and desolate.
The dugout was built at the trail-side, a trail which had originallybeen made for travoying logs, but had now become the main trail linkingup the camp with the eastern world. The camp itself--No. 1, the maincamp--was further in the woods to the west, a distance of nearly a mileand a half by trail, but not more than half a mile through the woods.It was this short cut the two men took now. They talked as they went,but in hushed tones. It was as though the gray of the fog, and theknowledge of their mission weighed heavily, inspiring them with aprofound feeling of caution.
"You've not had any real trouble before?" Chepstow asked. "I meantrouble such as would serve you with a key to what is going on now?"
"Oh, we've had occasional 'rackets,'" said Mason easily. "But nothingserious--nothing to guide us in this. No, we've got to find this out.You see there's no earthly reason for trouble that I know. The boys arepaid jolly well, a sight better than I would pay them if this was myoutfit. The hours are exacting, I admit. This huge contract has causedthat. It's affected us in most every way, but Dave is no niggard, andthe inducement has been made more than proportionate, so there's nokick coming on that head. Where before axemen's work was merely a fulleight hours, it now takes 'em something like nine and ten, and worklike the devil to get through even in that time. But their wages aresimply out of sight. Do you know, there are men in this camp drawingfrom four to five dollars a day clear of food and shelter? Why, theincome of some of them is positively princely."
"What is it you think is on foot?" Chepstow demanded, as he buttonedhis coat close about his neck to keep out the saturating mist. Then, ashis companion didn't answer at once, he added half to himself, "It's nowonder there's fever with these mists around."
Bob Mason paid no heed to the last remark. The fever had lost interestfor him in the storm-clouds he now saw ahead. Hitherto he had not puthis thoughts on the matter into concrete form. He had not given actualexpression to his fears. There had been so little to guide him.Besides, he had had no sound reason to fear anything, that is nodefinite reason. It was his work to feel and understand the pulse ofthe men under him, and it largely depended on the accuracy of hisreading whether or not the work under his charge ran smoothly. He hadfelt for some time that something was wrong, and Betty's story hadconfirmed his feeling. He was some moments before he answered, but whenhe did it was with calm decision.
"Organized strike," he said at last.
Tom Chepstow was startled. The words "organized strike" had anunpleasant sound. He suddenly realized the isolation of these hillcamps, the lawless nature of the lumber-jacks. He felt that a strike uphere in the mountains would be a very different thing from a strike inthe heart of civilization, and that was bad enough. The fact that thetone of Mason's pronouncement had suggested no alarm made him curiousto hear his views upon the position.
"The reason?" he demanded.
The lumberman shrugged.
"Haven't a notion."
They tramped on in silence for some time, the sound of their footstepsmuffled in the fog. The gray was deepening, and, with oncoming night,their surroundings were rapidly becoming more and more obscure.Presently the path opened out into the wide clearing occupied by No. 1camp. Here shadowy lights were visible in the fog, but beyond thatnothing could be seen. Mason paused and glanced carefully about him.
"This fog is useful," he said, with a short laugh. "As we don't want toadvertise our presence we'll take to the woods opposite, and work ourway round to the far side of the camp."
"Why the far side?"
"The store is that way. And--yes, I think the store is our best plan.Jules Lieberstein is a time-serving ruffian, and will doubtless lendhimself to any wildcat scheme of his customers. Besides, this singsongof the boys sounds suggestive to me."
"I see." Chepstow was quick to grasp the other's reasoning. Thesingsong had suggested nothing to him before.
Now they turned from the open and hastened across to the wood-belt. Asthey entered its gloomy aisles, the fog merged into a pitchy blacknessthat demanded all the lumberman's woodcraft to negotiate. The parsonhung close to his heels, and frequently had to assure himself of hisimmediate presence by reaching out and touching him. A quarter of anhour's tramp brought them to a halt.
"We must get out of this now," whispered Mason. "We are about oppositethe store. I've no doubt that buckboard will be somewhere around. I'vea great fancy to see it."
They moved on, this time with greater caution than before. Leaving theforest they found the fog had become denser. The glow of the camplights was no longer visible, just a blank gray wall obscuredeverything. However, this was no deterrent to Mason. He moved alongwith extreme caution, stepping as lightly and quietly as possible. Hewished to avoid observation, and though the fog helped him in this itequally afforded the possibility of his inadvertently running into someone. Once this nearly happened. His straining ears caught the faintsound of footsteps approaching, and he checked his companion only justin the nick of time to let two heavy-footed lumber-jacks cross theircourse directly in front of them. They were talking quite unguardedlyas they went, and seemed absorbed in the subject of their conversation.
"Y're a fool, a measly-headed fool, Tyke," one of them was saying, witha heat that held the two men listening. "Y'ain't got nuthin' to lose.We ain't got no kick comin' from us; I'll allow that, sure. But if bykickin' we ken drain a few more dollars out of him I say kick, an' kickgood an' hard. Them as is fixin' this racket knows, they'll do thefancy work. We'll jest set around an'--an' take the boodle as it comes."
The man laughed harshly. The shrewdness of his argument pleased himmightily.
"But what's it for, though?" asked the other, the man addressed as"Tyke." "Is it a raise in wages?"
"Say, ain't you smart?" retorted the first speaker. "Sure, it's wages.A raise. What else does folks strike for?"
"But----"
"Cut it. You ain't no sort o' savee. You ain't got nuthin' but to setaround----"
The voice died away in the distance, and Mason turned to his companion.
"Not much doubt about that. The man objecting is 'Tyke' Bacon, one ofour oldest hands. A thoroughly reliable axeman of the real sort. Theother fellow's voice I didn't recognize. I'd say he's likely one of thescallywags I've picked up lately. This trouble seems to have beenbrewing ever since I was forced to pick up chance loafers who floatedinto camp."
Chepstow had no comment to make, yet the matter was fraught with thekeenest interest for him. Mason's coolness did not deceive him, and,even with his limited experience of the men of these camps, the thingwas more than significant. Caution became more than ever necessary nowas they neared their destination, and in a few moments a ruddy glow oflight on the screen of fog told them they had reached the sutler'sstore. They came to a halt in rear of the building, and it wasdifficult to estimate their exact position. However, the sound of apowerful, clarion-like voice reached them through the thickness of thelog walls, and the lumberman at once proceeded to grope his way alongin the hope of finding a window or some opening through which it wouldbe possible to distinguish the words of the speaker. At last his desirewas fulfilled. A small break in the heavy wall of lateral logs provedto be a cotton-covered pivot-window. It was closed, but the light shonethrough it, and the speaker's words were plainly audible. Chepstowclosed up behind him, and both men craned forward listening.
Some one was addressing what was apparently a meeting of lumber-jacks.The words and voice were not without refinement, and, obviously, werenot belonging to a lumberman. Moreover, it struck the listeners thatthis man, whoever he be, was not addres
sing a meeting for the firsttime. In fact Mason had no difficulty in placing him in the calling towhich he actually belonged. He was discoursing with all the delectablespeciousness of a regular strike organizer. He was one of thoseproducts of trade unionism who are always ready to createdissatisfaction where labour's contentment is most nourishing tocapital--that is, at a price. He is not necessarily a part of tradeunionism, but exists because trade unionism has created a market forhis wares, and made him possible.
Just now he was lending all his powers of eloquence and argument to thethreadbare quackery of his kind; the iniquity of the possession ofwealth acquired by the sweat of a thousand moderately honest brows. Itwas the old, old dish garnished and hashed up afresh, whose poisonousodors he was wafting into the nostrils of his ignorant audience.
He was dealing with men as ignorant and hard as the timber it was theirlife to cut, and he painted the picture in all the crude, lurid colorsmost effective to their dull senses. The blessings of liberalemployment, of ample wages, the kindly efforts made to add to theirhappiness and improve their lives were ignored, even rigorously shutout of his argument, or so twisted as to appear definite sins againstthe legions of labor. For such is the method of those who live upon thehard-earned wages of the unthinking worker.
For some minutes the two men listened to the burden of the man'sunctuous periods, but at last an exclamation of disgust broke from thelumberman.
"Makes you sick!" he whispered in his companion's ear. "And they'llbelieve it all. Here!" He drew a penknife from his pocket and passedthe blade gently through the cotton of the window. The aperture wassmall, he dared not make it bigger for fear of detection, but, bypressing one eye close up against it, it was sufficient for him toobtain a full view of the room.
The place was packed with lumber-jacks, all with their keenestattention upon the speaker, who was addressing them from thereading-desk Tom Chepstow had set up for the purposes of his Sundayevening service. The desecration drew a smothered curse from thelumberman. He was not a religious man, but that an agitator such asthis should stand at the parson's desk was too much for him. Hescrutinized the fellow closely, nor did he recognize him. He was astranger to the camp, and his round fat face set his blood surging.Besides this man there were three others sitting behind him on thetable the parson had set there for the purposes of administering HolyCommunion, and the sight maddened him still more. Two of these herecognized as laborers he had recently taken on his "time sheet," butthe other was a stranger to him.
At last he drew back and made way for his companion.
"Get a good look, parson," he said. Then he added with an angry laugh,"I've thought most of what you'll feel like saying. I'd--I'd like toriddle the hide of that son-of-a-dog's-wife. We did well to get around.We're in for a heap bad time, I guess."
Chepstow took his place. Mason heard him mutter something under hisbreath, and knew at once that the use of his reading-desk and Communiontable had struck home.
But the sacrilege was promptly swept from the parson's mind. Thespeaker was forgotten, the matter of the coming strike, even, wasalmost forgotten. He had recognized the third man on the table, the manwho was a stranger to Mason, and he swung round on the lumberman.
"What's Jim Truscott doing there?" he demanded in a sharp whisper.
"Who? Jim Truscott?"
For a second a puzzled expression set Mason frowning. Then his facecleared. "Say, isn't that the fellow who ran that mill--he's a friendof--Dave's?"
But the other had turned back to the window. And, at that moment,Mason's attention was also caught by the sudden turn the agitator'stalk had taken.
"Now, my friends," he was saying, "this is the point I would impress onyou. Hitherto we have cut off all communication of a damaging nature toourselves with the tyrant at Malkern, but the time has come when evenmore stringent measures must be taken. We wish to conduct ournegotiations with the mill-owner himself, direct. We must put beforehim our proposals. We want no go-betweens. As things stand we cannotreach him, and the reason is the authority of his representative uphere. Such obstacles as he can put in our way will be damaging to ourcause, and we will not tolerate them. He must be promptly set aside,and, by an absolute stoppage of work, we can force the man from Malkernto come here so that we can talk to him, and insist upon our demands.We must talk to him as from worker to fellow worker. He must be forcedto listen to reason. Experience has long since taught me that such isthe only way to deal with affairs of this sort. Now, what we propose,"and the man turned with a bow to the three men behind him, thusincluding them with himself, "is that without violence we takepossession of these camps and strike all work, and, securing the personof Mr. Mason, and any others likely to interfere with us, we hold themsafe until all our plans are fully put through. During the periodnecessary for the cessation of work, each man will draw an allowanceequal to two-thirds of his wages, and he will receive a guarantee ofemployment when the strike is ended. The sutler, Mr. Lieberstein here,will be the treasurer of the strike funds, and pay each man his dailywage. There is but one thing more I have to say. We intend to take thenecessary precautions against interference to-night. The cessation ofwork will date from this hour. And in the meantime we will put to thevote----"
Chepstow, his keen eyes blazing, turned and faced the lumberman.
"The scoundrels!" he said, with more force than discretion. "Did youhear? It means----"
The lumberman chuckled, but held up a warning hand.
"They're going to take me prisoner," he said. Then he added grimly,"There's going to be a warm time to-night."
But the churchman was not listening. Again his thought had reverted tothe presence of Jim Truscott at that meeting.
"What on earth is young Truscott doing in there?" he asked. "He wentaway east the night I set out for these hills. What's he got to do withthat--that rascally agitator? Why--he must be one of the--leaders ofthis thing. It's--it's most puzzling!"
Chepstow's puzzlement did not communicate itself to Mason. The camp"boss" was less interested in the identity of these people than in thestrike itself. It was his work to see that so much lumber was sent downthe river every day. That was his responsibility. Dave looked to him.And he was face to face with a situation which threatened the completeannihilation of all his employer's schemes. A strike effectuallycarried out might be prolonged indefinitely, and then--
"Look here, parson," he said coolly, "I want you to stay right here fora minute or so. They aren't likely to be finished for a while insidethere. I want to 'prospect.' I want to find that buckboard. That damnedagitator--'scuse the language--must have come up in it, so I guess it'snear handy. The fog's good and thick, so there's not a heap of chanceof anybody locating us, still----" he paused and glanced into thechurchman's alert eyes. "Have a look to your gun," he went on with aquiet smile, "and--well, you are a parson, but if anybody comes alongand attempts to molest you I'd use it if I were in your place."
Chepstow made no reply, but there was something in his look thatsatisfied the other.
Mason hurried away and the parson, left alone, leant against the wall,prepared to wait for his return. In spite of the plot he had listenedto, the presence of Jim Truscott in that room occupied most of histhoughts. It was most perplexing. He tried every channel of suppositionand argument, but none gave him any satisfactory explanation. One thingalone impressed its importance on his mind. That was the necessity ofconveying a warning to Dave. But he remembered they--theseconspirators--had cut communications. Mason and probably he were to bemade prisoners.
His ire roused. He blazed into a sudden fury. These rascals were tomake them prisoners. Almost unconsciously he drew his gun from hispocket and turned to the window. As he did so the sound of approachingfootsteps set him alert and defensive. He swung his back to the wallagain, and, gun in hand, stood ready. The next moment he hurriedlyreturned the weapon to his pocket, but not before Mason had seen theattitude and the fighting expression of his face, and it set himsmiling.
"I've found
the buckboard," he said in a whisper. Then he paused andlooked straight into the churchman's eyes. "We're up against it," hewent on. "Maybe you as well as myself. You can't tell where thesefellows'll draw the line. And there's Miss Betty to think of, too. Areyou ready to buck? Are you game? You're a parson, I know, and thesethings----"
"Get to it, boy," Chepstow interrupted him sharply. "I am of necessitya man of peace, but there are things that become a man's duty. And itseems to me to hit hard will better serve God and man just now than topreach peace. What's your plan?"
Mason smiled. He knew he had read the parson aright. He knew he had inhim a staunch and loyal support. He liked, too, the phrase by which heexcused his weakness for combat.
"Well, I mean to do this sponge-faced crawler down, or break my neck inthe attempt. I don't intend to be made a prisoner by any damnedstrikers. This thing means ruin to Dave, and it's up to me to help himout. I'm going to get word through to him. I understand now how ourletters have been intercepted, and no doubt his have been stopped too.I'm going to have a flutter in this game. It's a big one, and makes mefeel good. What say? Are you game?"
"For anything!" exclaimed the parson with eyes sparkling.
"Well, there's not a heap of time to waste in talk. I'll just get youto slip back to the dugout. Gather some food and truck into a sack, anda couple of guns or so, and some ammunition. Then get Miss Betty andslip out. Hike on down the trail a hundred yards or so and wait for me.Can you make it?"
Chepstow nodded.
"And you?" he asked.
"I'm going to get possession of that buckboard, and--come right along.The scheme's rotten, I know. But it's the best I can think of at themoment. It's our only chance of warning Dave. There's not a second tospare now, so cut along. You've got to prepare for a two days' journey."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing. Miss Betty's good grit--in case----?"
Chepstow nodded.
"Game all through. How long can you give me?"
"Maybe a half hour."
"Good. I can make it in that."
"Right. S'long."
"S'long."