CHAPTER XXIX
THE END OF THE STRIKE
When the master of the mills faced the men again he hardly knew what toexpect. He could not be sure how they would view his action, or whatattitude they would adopt. He had considered well before provoking thesallow-faced giant, he had measured him up carefully; the thing hadbeen premeditated. He knew the influence of physical force upon thesemen. The question was, had he used it at the right moment? He thoughthe had; he understood lumbermen, but there were more than lumbermenhere, and he knew that it was this element of outsiders with whom hewas really contending.
The fallen man's pistol was on the ground at his feet. He put a footupon it; then, glancing swiftly at the faces before him, he becameaware of a silence, utter, complete, reigning everywhere. There wasastonishment, even something of awe in many of the faces; in othersdoubt mingled with a scowling displeasure. The thing had happened sosuddenly. The firing of the shot had startled them unpleasantly, andthey were still looking for the result of it. On this point they had nosatisfaction. Only Dave knew--he had reason to. The arm hanging limplyat his side, and the throb of pain at his shoulder left him in nodoubt. But he had no intention of imparting his knowledge to any oneelse yet. He had not finished the fight which must justify hisexistence as the owner of the mills.
The effect of his encounter was not an unpleasant one on the majorityof the men. The use of a fist in the face of a gun was stupendous, evento them. Many of them reveled in the outsider's downfall, andcontemplated the grit of their employer with satisfaction. But therewere others not so easily swayed. Amongst these were the man's owncomrades, men who, like himself, were not real lumbermen, but agitatorswho had received payment to agitate. Besides these there were thoseunstable creatures, always to be found in such a community, who had novery definite opinions of their own, but looked for the lead of themajority, ready to side with those who offered the strongest support.
All this was very evident in that moment of silence, but the momentpassed so quickly that it was impossible to say how far Dave's actionhad really served him. Suddenly a murmur started. In a few seconds ithad risen to a shout. It started with the fallen giant's friends. Therewas a rush in the crowd, an ominous swaying, as of a struggle going onin its midst. Some one put up a vicious cry that lifted clear above thegeneral din.
"Lynch him! Lynch him!"
The cry was taken up by the rest of the makeshifts and some of thedoubters. Then came the sudden but inevitable awakening of the slow,fierce brains of the real men of the woods. The awakening brought withit not so much a desire to champion their employer, as a resentmentthat these men they regarded as scallywags should attempt to takeinitiative in their concerns; it was the rousing of the latent hatredwhich ever exists in the heart of the legitimate tradesman for theinterloper. It caught them in a whirlwind of passion. Their blood rose.All other considerations were forgotten, it mattered nothing the objectof that mutiny, all thought of wages, all thought of wrongs betweenthemselves and their employer were banished from their minds. Theyhated nothing so badly as these men with whom they had worked inapparent harmony.
It was at this psychological moment that the final fillip was given. Itcame from a direction that none of the crowd realized. It came from onewho knew the woodsman down to his very core, who had watched everypassing mood of the crowd during the whole scene with the intentness ofone who only waits his opportunity. It was Bob Mason in the buckboard.
"Down with the blacklegs! Down with the dirty 'scabs'!" he shouted.
In a moment the battle was raging. There was a wild rush of men, andtheir steel implements were raised aloft. "Down with the 'scabs'!" Thecry echoed and reechoed in every direction, taken up by every truelumberman. A tumult of shouting and cursing roared everywhere. Thecrowd broke. It spread out. Groups of struggling combatants were dottedabout till the sight suggested nothing so much as a massacre. It was afight of brutal savagery that would stop short only at actualslaughter. It was the safety-valve for the accumulated spleen of aweek's hard drinking. It was the only way to steady the shaken,drink-soaked nerves and restore the dull brains to the dead level of adesire to return to work and order.
Fortunately it was a short-lived battle too. The lumber-jacks were themasters from the outset. They were better men, they were harder, theyhad more sheer "grit." Then, too, they were in the majority. The"scabs" began to seek refuge in flight, but not before they hadreceived a chastisement that would remain a sore memory for many daysto come. Those who went down in the fight got the iron-shod boots oftheir adversaries in their ribs, till, in desperation, they scrambledto their feet and took their punishment like men. But the victory wastoo easy for the lumber-jacks' rage to last. Like the wayward,big-hearted children of nature they were, their fury passed as quicklyas it had stirred. The terror-stricken flight of those upon whom theirrage had turned inspired in them a sort of fiendish amusement, and inthis was perhaps the saving of a terrible tragedy. As it was, a fewbroken limbs, a liberal tally of wounds and bruises were the harvest ofthat battle. That, and the final clearing out of the element ofdiscontent. It was victory for the master of the mills.
In less than ten minutes the victors were straggling back from theirpursuit of a routed foe. Dave had not moved. He was still standingbeside the fallen giant, who was now recovering consciousness from theknock-out blow he had received. They came up in small bands, laughingand recounting episodes of the fight. They were in the saving mood fortheir employer. All thoughts of a further strike had passed out oftheir simple heads. They came back to Dave, like sheep, who, after awild stampede, have suddenly refound their shepherd, and to him theylooked for guidance. And Dave was there for the purpose. He calledtheir attention and addressed them.
"Now, boys," he said cheerfully, "you've got nicely rid of that scum,and I'm going to talk to you. We understand each other. We've workedtoo long together for it to be otherwise. But we don't understand thoseothers who're not lumbermen. Say, maybe you can't all hear me; my voiceisn't getting stronger, so I'll just call up that buckboard and standon it, and talk from there."
Amidst a murmur of approval the buckboard was drawn up, and not withouttremendous pain Dave scrambled up into the driving-seat. Then it wasseen by both lumbermen and those in the buckboard that he had left aconsiderable pool of blood where he had been standing.
Betty, with horror in her eyes, turned to him.
"What is it?" she began. But he checked her with a look, and turned atonce to the men.
"I'm first going to tell you about this strike, boys," he said. "Afterthat we'll get to business, and I guess it won't be my fault if wedon't figger things out right. Here, do you see this fellow sittinghere? Maybe some of you'll recognize him?" He pointed at Jim Truscottsitting in the carryall. His expression was surly, defiant. But somehowhe avoided the faces in front of him. "I'm going to tell you about him.This is the man who organized the strike. He found the money and themen to do the dirty work. He did it because he hates me and wants toruin me. He came to you with plausible tales of oppression and soforth. He cared nothing for you, but he hated me. I tell you frankly hedid this thing because he knew I was pushed to the last point to makegood my contract with the government, because he knew that to delay theoutput of logs from this camp meant that I should go to smash. In doingthis he meant to carry you down with me. That's how much he cares foryour interests." A growl of anger punctuated his speech. But hesilenced them with a gesture and proceeded. His voice was gettingweaker, and a deadly pallor was stealing over his face. Chepstow,watching him, was filled with anxiety. Betty's brown eyes clung to hisface with an expression of love, horror and pity in them that spoke farlouder than any words. Mason was simply calculating in his mind howlong Dave could keep up his present attitude.
"Do you get my meaning, boys?" he went on. "It's this, if we don't getthis work through before winter I'm broke--broke to my last dollar. Andyou'll be out of a billet--every mother's son of you--with the winterstaring you in the face."
He paused
and took a deep breath. Betty even thought she saw him sway.The men kept an intense silence.
"Well?" he went on a moment later, pulling himself together with anevident effort. "I'm just here to talk straight business, and that'swhat you're going to listen to. First, I'll tell you this fellow'sgoing to get his right medicine through me in the proper manner. Then,second and last, I want to give you a plain understanding of thingsbetween ourselves. There's going to be no rise in wages. I just can'tdo it. That's all. But I'm going to give each man in my camp a bigbonus, a nice fat wad of money with which to paint any particular townhe favors red, when the work's done. That's to be extra, above hiswages. And the whole lot of you shall work for me next season on aguarantee. But from now to the late fall you're going to work, boys,you're going to work as if the devil himself was driving you. We've gottime to make up, and shortage besides, and you've got to make it up. Idon't want any slackers. Men who have any doubts can get right out.You've got to work as you never worked in your lives before. Now, boys,give us your word. Is it work or----"
Dave got no further. A shout--hearty, enthusiastic--went up from thecrowd. It meant work, and he was satisfied.
The next few minutes were passed in a scene of the wildest excitement.The men closed round the buckboard, and struggled with each other togrip the big man's hand. And Dave, faint and weary as he was, knew themtoo well to reject their friendly overtures. Besides, they were, as hesaid, like himself, men of the woods, and he was full of a greatsympathy and friendliness for them. At last, however, he turned toChepstow.
"Drive back to the dugout, Tom," he said. "Things are getting misty. Ithink--I'm--done."