CHAPTER XXVIII
DAVE--THE MAN
Dave's buckboard swept up the slope of the last valley. It reached thedead level of the old travoy trail, which passed in front of Mason'sdugout on its way to the lumber camp. He was looking ahead for signswhich he feared to discover; he wanted the reason of the smoke he hadseen from afar off. But now a perfect screen of towering pine forestlined the way, and all that lay beyond was hidden from his anxious eyes.
He flogged his horses faster. The perfect mountain calm was unbroken;even the speeding horses and the rattle of his buckboard were powerlessto disturb that stupendous quiet. It was a mere circumstance in a worldtoo vast to take color from a detail so insignificant. It was thatwondrous peace, that thrilling silence that aggravated his fears. Hisapprehension grew with each passing moment, and, though he made nodisplay, his clutch upon the reins, the sharpness with which he pliedhis whip, the very immobility of his face, all told their tale offeelings strung to a high pitch.
Mason was standing directly behind him in the carryall. He steadiedhimself with a grip upon the back of the driving-seat. Beside him thewretched Truscott was sitting on the jolting slats of the body of thevehicle, mercilessly thrown about by the bumping over the broken trail.Mason, too, was staring out ahead.
"Seems quiet enough," he murmured, half to himself.
Dave caught at his words.
"That's how it seems," he said, in a tone of doubt.
"It's less than half a mile now," Mason went on a moment later. "We'recoming to the big bend."
Dave nodded. His whip fell across his horses' quarters. "Best getready," he said significantly. Then he laughed mirthlessly and tried toexcuse himself. "I don't guess there'll be a heap of trouble, though."
"No."
Mason's reply carried no conviction. Both men were in doubt. Neitherknew what to expect. Neither knew in what way to prepare for themeeting that was now so near.
Now the trail began to swing out to the right. It was the beginning ofthe big bend. The walls of forest about them receded slightly, openingout where logs had been felled beside the trail in years past. Themiddle of the curve was a small clearing. Then, further on, as itinclined again to the left, it narrowed down to the bare breadth of thetrail.
"Just beyond this----"
Mason broke off. His words were cut short by a loud shout just ahead ofthem. It was a shout of triumph and gleeful enjoyment. Dave's whip fellagain, and the horses laid on to their traces. From that moment to themoment when the horses were almost flung upon their haunches by thesudden jolt with which Dave pulled them up was a matter of secondsonly. He was out of the buckboard, too, having flung the reins toMason, and was standing facing a small group of a dozen men whom it wasalmost impossible to recognize as lumberjacks. In truth, there wereonly three of them who were, the others were some of those Mason hadbeen forced to engage in his extremity.
At the sight of Dave's enormous figure a cry broke from the crowd. Thenthey looked at the buckboard with its panting horses, and Masonstanding in the carryall, one hand on the reins and one resting on therevolver on his hip. Their cry died out. But as it did so another brokefrom their midst. It was Betty's voice, and her uncle's. There was ascuffle and a rush. Gripping the girl by the arm Tom Chepstow burstfrom their midst and ran to Dave's side, dragging Betty with him.
"Thank God!" he cried.
But there was no answering joy from Dave. He scarcely even seemed tosee them. A livid, frozen rage glared out of his eyes. His face wasterrible to behold. He moved forward. His gait was cat-like, his headwas thrust forward, it was almost as if he tiptoed and was about tospring upon the mob. As he came within a yard of the foremost of themen he halted, and one great arm shot out with its fist clenching.
"Back!" he roared; "back to your camp, every man of you! Back, youcowardly hounds!"
There were twelve of them; fierce, savage, half-drunken men. They caredfor no one, they feared no one. They were ready to follow whithersoevertheir passions led them. There was not a man among them that would notfight with the last breath in his body. Yet they hesitated at the soundof that voice. They almost shrank before that passion-lit face. Theman's enormous stature was not without awe for them. And in that momentof hesitation the battle was won for Dave. Chepstow's repeating-riflewas at his shoulder, and Mason's revolver had been whipped out of itsholster and was held covering them.
Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, somewhere behind. If Davesaw it he gave no sign. But Mason saw it, and, sharply incisive, hisvoice rang out--
"The first man that moves this way I'll shoot him like a dog!"
Instantly every eye among the strikers was turned upon the two men withtheir ready weapons, and to a man they understood that the game was up.
"Get out! Get out--quick!" Dave's great voice split the air withanother deep roar. And the retreat began on the instant with those inthe rear. Some one started to run, and in a moment the rest had joinedin a rush for the camp, vanishing into the forest like a pack of timberwolves, flinging back fierce, vengeful glances over their shoulders atthose who had so easily routed them.
No one stirred till the last man had disappeared. Then Dave turned.
"Quick!" he cried, in an utterly changed voice, "get into thebuckboard!"
But Betty turned to him in a half-hysterical condition.
"Oh, Dave, Dave!" she cried helplessly.
But Dave was just now a man whom none of them had ever seen before. Hehad words for no one--not even for Betty. He suddenly caught her in hisarms and lifted her bodily into the buckboard. He scrambled in afterher, while Chepstow jumped up behind. In a moment, it seemed, they wereracing headlong for the camp.
* * * * *
The camp was in a ruinous condition. The destructive demon in mentemporarily demented was abroad and his ruthless hand had fallenheavily. The whole atmosphere suggested the red tide of anarchy. Thecharred remains of the sutler's store was the centre of a net of ruinspread out in every direction, and from this radiated the wreckage ofat least a dozen shanties, which had, like the store, been burned tothe ground.
In the circumstances it would be impossible to guess at the reasons forsuch destruction: maybe it was the result of carelessness, maybe amischievous delight in sweeping away that which reminded these men oftheir obligations to their employer, maybe it was merely a consequenceof the settlement of their own drunken feuds. Whatever the cause, thehideous effect of the strike was apparent in every direction.
In the centre of the clearing was a great gathering of the lumbermen.Their seared faces expressed every variety of mental attitude, fromfierce jocularity down to the blackest hatred of interference fromthose whose authority had become anathema to them.
They were gathered at the call of those who had fled from the dugout,spurred to a defense of what they believed to be their rights by ahurried, garbled account of the summary treatment just meted out tothem. They were ready for more than the mere assertion of theirdemands. They were ready to enforce them, they were ready for anymischief which the circumstances prompted.
It was a deadly array. Many were sober, many were sobering, many werestill drunk. The latter were those whose cunning had prompted them, atthe outset of the strike, to secrete a sufficient supply of liquor fromtheir fellows. And the majority of these were not the reallumber-jacks, those great simple children of the forest, but theriffraff that had drifted into the camp, or had been sent thither bythose who promoted the strike. The real lumber-jacks were more or lessincapable of such foresight and cunning. They were slow-thinkingcreatures of vast muscle, only swift and keen as the axes they usedwhen engaged in the work which was theirs.
Through the rank animal growth of their bodies their minds had remainedtoo stunted to display the low cunning of the scallywags whoseunscrupulous wits alone must supply their idle bodies with alivelihood. But simple as babes, simple and silly as sheep, and asdependent upon their shepherd, as these men were, they were at alltimes dangerous, the more d
angerous for their very simplicity. Justnow, with their unthinking brains sick with the poison of labor'simpossible argument, and the execrable liquor of the camp, they were ahundred times more deadly.
Men had come in for the orgy from all the outlying camps. They had beencarefully shepherded by those whose business it was to make the strikesuccessful. Discontent had been preached into every ear, and the seedhad fallen upon fruitful, virgin soil. Thus it was that a greatconcourse had foregathered now.
There was an atmosphere of restrained excitement abroad among them. Forthem the news of Dave's arrival had tremendous possibilities. A babelof harsh voices debated the situation in loud tones, each man forcinghome his argument with a mighty power of lung, a never-failing methodof supporting doubtful argument. The general attitude was threatening,yet it hardly seemed to be unanimous. There was too much argument.There seemed to be an undercurrent of uncertainty with no single,capable voice to check or guide it.
As the moments sped the crowd became more and more threatening, butwhether against the master of the mills, or whether the result of hotblood and hot words, it would have been difficult to say. Then, just asthe climax seemed to be approaching, a magical change swept over thethrong. It was wrought by the sudden appearance of Dave's buckboard,which seemed to leap upon the scene from the depth of the forest. Andas it came into view a hoarse, fierce shout went up. Then, in a moment,an expectant hush fell.
Dave's eyes were fixed upon the crowd before him. He gave no sign. Hisface, like a mask, was cold, hard, unyielding. No word was spoken bythose in the buckboard. Every one, with nerves straining and pulsesthrobbing, was waiting for what was to happen; every one except theprisoner, Truscott.
The master of the mills read the meaning of what he beheld with thesureness of a man bred to the calling of these men. He knew. Andknowing, he had little blame for them. How could it be otherwise withthese unthinking souls? The blame must lie elsewhere. But his sympathyleft his determination unaltered. He knew, no one better, that here theiron heel alone could prevail, and for the time his heel was shod forthe purpose.
He drew near. Some one shouted a furious epithet at him, and the crywas taken up by others. The horses shied. He swung them back with aheavy hand, and forced them to face the crowd, his whip fallingviciously at the same time. But, for a moment, his face relaxed itscold expression. His quick ears had detected a lack of unanimity in theexecration. Suddenly he pulled the horses up. He passed the reins toMason and leaped to the ground.
It was a stirring moment. The mob advanced, but the movement seemedalmost reluctant. It was not the rush of blind fury one might haveexpected, but rather as though it were due to pressure from behind bythose under cover of their comrades in front.
Dave moved on to meet them, and those in the buckboard remained deathlystill. Mason was the first to move. He had just become aware that Davehad left his revolver on the seat of the vehicle. Instantly he liftedthe reins and walked the horses closer to the crowd.
"He's unarmed," he said, in explanation to the parson.
Chepstow nodded. He moved his repeating-rifle to a handier position.Betty looked up.
"He left that gun purposely," she said. "I saw him."
Her face was ghastly pale, but a light shone in her eyes which nobodycould have failed to interpret. Mason saw it and no longer hesitated.
"Will you take these reins?" he said. "And--give me your revolver."
The girl understood and obeyed in silence.
"I think there'll be trouble," Mason went on a moment later, as he sawDave halt within a few yards of the front rank of the strikers.
He watched the men close about his chief in a semicircle, but thebuckboard in rear always held open a road for retreat. Now the crowdpressed up from behind. The semicircle became dense. Those in thebuckboard saw that many of the men were carrying the tools of theircalling, prominent among them being the deadly peavey, than which, incase of trouble, no weapon could be more dangerous at close quarters.
As he halted Dave surveyed the sea of rough, hard faces glowering uponhim. He heard the mutterings. He saw the great bared arms and theknotty hands grasping the hafts of their tools. He saw all this andunderstood, but the sight in no way disturbed him. His great body waserect, his cold eyes unwavering. It was the unconscious pose of a manwho feels the power to control within him.
"Well?" he inquired, with an easy drawl.
Instantly there was silence everywhere. It was the critical moment. Itwas the moment when, before all things, he must convince these lawlesscreatures of his power, his reserve of commanding force.
"Well?" he demanded again. "Where's your leader? Where's the gopherrunning this layout? I've come right along to talk to you boys to seeif we can't straighten this trouble out. Where's your leader, the manwho was hired to make you think I wasn't treating you right; where ishe? Speak up, boys, I can't rightly hear all you're saying. I want toparley with your leaders."
Mason listening to the great voice of the lumberman chuckled inaudibly.He realized something of Dave's method, and the shrewdness of it.
The mutterings had begun afresh. Some of the front rank men drewnearer. Dave did not move. He wanted an answer. He wanted an indicationof their actual mood. Somebody laughed in the crowd. It was promptlyshouted down. It was the indication the master of the mills sought.They wanted to hear what he had to say. He allowed the ghost of a smileto play round the corners of his stern mouth for a moment. But hisattitude remained uncompromising. His back stiffened, his greatshoulders squared, he stood out a giant amongst those giants of theforest.
"Where's your man?" he cried, in a voice that could be heard byeverybody. "Is he backing down? That's not like a lumber-jack. P'r'apshe's not a lumber-jack. P'r'aps he's got no clear argument I can'tanswer. P'r'aps he hasn't got the grit to get out in the open and talkstraight as man to man. Well, let it go at that. Guess you'd best setone of you up as spokesman. I've got all the time you need to listen."
"Your blasted skunk of a foreman shot him down!" cried a voice in thecrowd, and it was supported by ominous murmurs from the rest.
"By God, and Mason was right!" cried Dave, in a voice so fierce that itpromptly silenced the murmurs. His dilating eyes rested on severalfamiliar faces. The faces of men who had worked for him for years, menwhose hair was graying in the service of the woods. He also flashed hislightning glance upon faces unfamiliar, strangers to his craft. "ByGod, he was right!" he repeated, as though to force the violence of hisopinion upon them. "I could have done it myself. And why? Because hehas come here and told you you are badly treated. He's told you thetale that the profits of this work of yours belong to you. He's toldyou I am an oppressor, who lives by the sweat of your labors. He tellsyou this because he is paid to tell you. Because he is paid by thosewho wish to ruin my mills, and put me out of business, and so rob youall of the living I have made it possible for you to earn. You refuseto work at his bidding; what is the result? My mill is closed down. Iam ruined. These forests are my right to cut. There is no more cuttingto be done. You starve. Yes, you starve like wolves in winter. You'llsay you can get work elsewhere. Go and get it, and you'll starve tillyou get it at half the wage I pay you. I am telling you what is right.I am talking to you with the knowledge of my own ruin staring me in theface. You have been told you can squeeze me, you can squeeze a fractionmore of pay out of me. But you can't, not one cent, any man of you; andif you go to work again to keep our ship afloat you'll have to workharder than ever before--for the same pay. Now pass up your spokesman,and I'll talk to him. I can't bellow for all the world to hear."
It was a daring beginning, so daring that those in the buckboard gaspedin amazement. But Dave knew his men, or, at least, he knew the reallumber-jack. Straight, biting talk must serve him, or nothing would.
Now followed a buzz of excited talk. There were those among the crowdwho from the beginning had had doubts, and to these Dave's wordsappealed. He had voiced something of what they had hazily thought.Others there were who were furious at h
is biting words. Others again,and these were not real lumber-jacks, who were for turning upon him thesavage brutality of their drink-soaked brains.
An altercation arose. It was the dispute of factions suddenly inflamed.It was somewhere in rear of the crowd. Those in front turned to learnthe cause. Dave watched and listened. He understood. It was the resultof his demand for a spokesman. Opinions were divided, and a dozendifferent men were urged forward. He knew he must check the dispute.Suddenly his voice rang out above the din.
"It's no use snarling about it like a lot of coyotes," he roared. "Passthem all through, and I'll listen to 'em all. Now, boys, pass 'emthrough peaceably."
One of the men in front of him supported him.
"Aye, aye," he shouted. "That's fair, boys, bring 'em along. Theboss'll talk 'em straight."
The man beside him hit him sharply in the ribs, and thebroad-shouldered "jack" swung round.
"Ther' ain't no 'boss' to this layout, Peter," objected the man who haddealt the blow. "Yonder feller ain't no better'n us."
The man scowled threateningly as he spoke. He was an enormous brutewith a sallow, ill-tempered face, and black hair. Dave heard the wordsand his eyes surveyed him closely. He saw at a glance there was nothingof the lumberman about him. He set him down at once as a FrenchCanadian bully, probably one of the men instrumental in the strike.
However, his attention was now drawn to the commotion caused by six ofthe lumbermen being pushed to the front as spokesmen. They joined thefront rank, and stood sheepishly waiting for their employer. Custom andhabit were strong upon them, and a certain awe of the master of themills affected them.
"Now we'll get doing," Dave said, noting with satisfaction that four ofthe six were old hands who had worked beside him in his early days."Well, boys, let's have it. What's your trouble? Give us the wholestory."
But as spokesmen these fellows were not brilliant. They hesitated, and,finally, with something approaching a shamefaced grin, one of themspoke up.
"It's--it's jest wages, boss."
"Leave it at 'wages,' Bob!" shouted a voice at the back of the crowd.
"Yes," snarled the sallow-faced giant near by. "We're jest man to man.Ther' ain't no 'bosses' around."
"Hah!" Dave breathed the ejaculation. Then he turned his eyes, steelyhard, upon the last speaker, and his words came in an unmistakabletone. "It seems there are men here who aren't satisfied with theirspokesmen. Maybe they'll speak out good and plenty, instead ofinterrupting."
His challenge seemed to appeal to the original spokesman, for helaughed roughly.
"Say, boss," he cried, "he don't cut no ice, anyways. He's jest a bumroadmaker. He ain't bin in camp more'n six weeks. We don't pay no'tention to him. Y'see, boss," he went on, emphasizing the last wordpurposely, "it's jest wages. We're workin' a sight longer hours than isright, an' we ain't gettin' nuthin' extry 'cep' the rise you give usthree months back. Wal, we're wantin' more. That's how."
He finished up his clumsy speech with evident relief, and mopped hisforehead with his ham-like hand.
"And since when, Bob Nicholson, have you come to this conclusion?"demanded Dave, with evident kindliness.
His tone produced instant effect upon the man. He became easier atonce, and his manner changed to one of distinct friendliness.
"Wal, boss, I can't rightly say jest when, fer sure. Guess it must ha'bin when that orator-feller got around----"
"Shut up!" roared some one in the crowd, and the demand was followed upby distinct cursing in several directions. The sallow-faced roadmakerseized his opportunity.
"It's wages we want an' wages we're goin' to git!" he shouted so thatthe crowd could hear. "You're sweatin' us. That's wot you're doin',sweatin' us, to make your pile a sight bigger. We're honest men uphere; we ain't skunks what wants wot isn't our lawful rights. Ef you'reyearnin' fer extry work you got to pay fer it. Wot say, boys?"
"Aye! That's it. Extry wages," cried a number of voices in thebackground. But again the chorus was not unanimous. There were those,too, in the front whose scowling faces, turned on the speaker, showedtheir resentment at this interference by a man they did not recognizeas a lumber-jack.
Dave seized his opportunity.
"You're wanting extra wages for overtime," he cried, in a voice thatcarried like a steam siren. "Well, why didn't you ask for them? Why didyou go out on strike first, and then ask? Why? I'll tell you why. I'lltell you why you chose this damned gopher racket instead of acting likethe honest men you boast yourselves to be. I can tell you why youwanted to lock up your camp-boss, and so prevent your wishes reachingme. I can tell you why you had men on the road between here and Malkernto stop letters going through. I can tell you why you honest men setfire to the store here, and stole all the liquor and goods in it. I cantell you why you did these things. Because you've just listened likesilly sheep to the skunks who've come along since the fever broke out.Because you've listened to the men who've set out to ruin us both, youand me. Because you've listened to these scallywags, who aren'tlumbermen, who've come among you. They're not 'jacks' and they don'tunderstand the work, but they've been drawing the same wages as you,and they're trying to rob you of your living, they're trying to takeyour jobs from you and leave you nothing. That's why you've done thesethings, you boys who've worked with me for years and years, and had allyou needed. Are you going to let 'em rob you? They _are_ robbing you,for, I swear before God, my mills are closed down, and they'll remainclosed, and every one of you can get out and look for new work unlessyou turn to at once."
A murmur again arose as he finished speaking, but this time there was anote of alarm in it, a note of anger that was not against theiremployer. Faces looked puzzled, and ended by frowning into the faces ofneighbors. Dave understood the effect he had made. He was waiting for abigger effect. He was fighting for something that was dearer to himthan life, and all his courage and resource were out to the limit. Heglanced at the sallow-faced giant. Their eyes met, and in his was afierce challenge. He drew the fellow as easily as any expert swordsman.The man had been shrewd enough to detect the change in his comrades,and he promptly hurled himself into the fray to try and recover thelost ground. He stepped forward, towering over his fellows. He meantmischief.
"See, mates," he shouted, trying to put a jeer in his angry voice,"look at 'im! He's come here to call us a pack o' skunks an' gophers.Him wot's makin' thousands o' dollars a day out of us. He's come hereto kick us like a lot o' lousy curs. His own man shot up our leader,him as was trying to fit things right fer us. I tell you it wasmurder--bloody murder! We're dirt to him. He can kick us--shoot us up.We're dogs--lousy yeller dogs--we are. You'll listen to his slobberytalk an' you'll go to work--and he'll cut your wages lower, so he canmake thousan's more out o' you." Then he suddenly swung round on Davewith a fierce oath. "God blast you, it's wages we want--d'yehear--wages! An' we're goin' to have 'em! You ain't goin' to grind usno longer, mister! You're goin' to sign a 'greement fer a rise o' wagesof a quarter all round. That's wot you're goin' to do!"
Dave was watching, watching. His opportunity was coming.
"I came to talk to honest 'jacks,'" he said icily, "not to blacklegs.I'll trouble you to get right back into the crowd, and hide your uglyhead, and keep your foul tongue quiet. The boys have got theirspokesmen."
His voice was sharp, but the man failed to apprehend the danger thatlay behind it. He was a bigger man than Dave, and, maybe, he thought tocow him. Perhaps he didn't realize that the master of the mills was nowfighting for his existence.
There was an instant's pause, and Dave took a step toward him.
"Get back!" he roared.
His furious demand precipitated things, as he intended it should. Likelightning the giant whipped out a gun.
"I'll show you!" he cried.
There was a sharp report. But before he could pull the trigger a secondtime Dave's right fist shot out, and a smashing blow on the chin felledhim to the ground like a pole-axed ox.
As the man fell Dave turned again to the
strikers, and no one noticedthat his left arm was hanging helpless at his side.