CHAPTER VII
THE WORK AT THE MILLS
It was sundown. The evening shadows, long drawn out, were rapidlymerging into the purple shades of twilight. The hush of night wasstealing upon the valley.
There was one voice alone, one discordant note, to jar upon the peaceof Nature's repose. It was the voice of Dave's mills, a voice that wasnever silent. The village, with all its bustling life, its noisyboarding-houses, its well-filled drinking booths, its roysteringlumber-jacks released from their day's toil, was powerless to disturbthat repose. But the harsh voice of the driving machinery rose dominantabove all other sounds. Repose was impossible, even for Nature, wherethe restless spirit of Dave's enterprise prevailed.
The vast wooden structures of the mills, acres of them, stood like somedevouring growth at the very core of Nature's fair body. It almostseemed like a living organism feeding upon all the best she had toyield. Day and night the saws, like the gleaming fangs of a voraciouslife, tore, devoured, digested, and the song of its labors dronedwithout ceasing.
Controlling, directing, ordering to the last detail, Dave sat in hisunpretentious office. Love of the lumberman's craft ran hot in hisveins. He had been born and bred to it. He had passed through its everyphase. He was a sawyer whose name was historical in the forests ofOregon. As a cant-hook man he had few equals. As foreman he couldextract more work from these simple woodsman giants than could those heemployed in a similar capacity.
In work he was inevitable. His men knew that when he demanded they mustyield. In this direction he displayed no sympathy, no gentleness. Heknew the disposition of the lumber-jack. These woodsmen rate theiremployer by his driving power. They understand and expect to be ruledby a stern discipline, and if this treatment is not forthcoming, theiremployer may just as well abandon his enterprise for all the work theywill yield him.
But though this was Dave in his business, it was the result of histremendous force of character rather than the nature of the man. If hedrove, it was honestly, legitimately. He paid for the best a man couldgive him, and he saw that he got it. Sickness was sure of readysympathy, not outspoken, but practical. He was much like the prairieman with his horse. His beast is cared for far better than its mastercares for himself, but it must work, and work enthusiastically to thelast ounce of its power. Fail, and the horse must go. So it was withDave. The man who failed him would receive his "time" instantly. Therewas no question, no excuse. And every lumber-jack knew this and gladlyentered his service.
Dave was closeted with his foreman, Joel Dawson, receiving the day'sreport.
"The tally's eighty thousand," Dawson was saying.
Dave looked up from his books. His keen, humorous eyes surveyed theman's squat figure.
"Not enough," he said.
"She's pressing hard now," came the man's rejoinder, almost defensively.
"She's got to do twenty thousand more," retorted Dave finally.
"Then y'll have to give her more saw room."
"We'll see to it. Meanwhile shove her. How are the logs running? IsMason keeping the length?"
"Guess he cayn't do better. We ain't handled nothin' under eighty foot."
"Good. They're driving down the river fast?"
"The boom's full, an' we're workin' 'em good an' plenty." The manpaused. "'Bout more saw beds an' rollers," he went on a moment later."Ther' ain't an inch o' space, boss. We'll hev to build."
Dave shook his head and faced round from his desk.
"There's no time. You'll have to take out the gang saws and replacethem for log trimming."
Dawson spat into the spittoon. He eyed the ugly, powerful youngfeatures of his boss speculatively while he made a swift mentalcalculation.
"That'll mebbe give us eight thousand more. 'Tain't enough, I guess,"he said emphatically. "Say, there's that mill up river. Her as belongsto Jim Truscott. If we had her runnin' I 'lows we'd handle twenty-fivethousand on a day and night shift. Givin' us fifty all told."
Dave's eyes lit.
"I've thought of that," he said. "That'll put us up with a smallmargin. I'll see what can be done. How are the new boys making? I'vehad a good report from Mason up on No. 1 camp. He's transferred hisolder hands to new camps, and has the new men with him. He's started tocut on Section 80. His estimate is ten million in the stump on thatcut; all big stuff. He's running a big saw-gang up there. The roadswere easy making and good for travoying, and most of the timber iswithin half a mile of the river. We don't need to worry about the'drive.' He's got the stuff plenty, and all the 'hands' he needs. It'sthe mill right here that's worrying."
Dawson took a fresh chew.
"Yes, it's the mill, I guess," he said slowly. "That an' this yerstrike. We're goin' to feel it--the strike, I mean. The engineers andfiremen are going 'out,' I hear, sure."
"That doesn't hit us," said Dave sharply. But there was a keen look ofinquiry in his eyes.
"Don't it?" Dawson raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"Our stuff is merely to be placed on board here. The government willsee to its transport."
The foreman shook his head.
"What o' them firemen an' engineers in the mill? Say, they're mostlyunion men, an'----"
"I see." Dave became thoughtful.
"Guess that ain't the only trouble neither," Dawson went on, warming."Strikes is hell-fire anyways. Ther' ain't no stoppin' 'em when theygit good an' goin'. Ther's folk who'd hate work wuss'n pizin whenothers, of a different craft, are buckin'. I hate strikes, anyway, an'I'll feel a sight easier when the railroaders quits."
"You're alarming yourself without need," Dave said easily, closing hisbooks and rising from his seat. "Guess I'll get to supper. And see youremember I look to you to shove her. Are you posting the 'tally'?"
"Sure. They're goin' up every shift."
A few minutes later the foreman took his departure to hand over toSimon Odd, who ran the mills at night. Dave watched him go. Then,instead of going off to his supper, he sat down again.
Dawson's warning was not without its effect on him, in spite of theeasy manner in which he had set it aside. If his mills were to beaffected by the strike it would be the worst disaster that couldbefall--short of fire. To find himself with millions of feet comingdown the river on the drive and no possibility of getting it cut wouldmean absolute ruin. Yes, it was a nasty thought. A thought sounpleasant that he promptly set it aside and turned his attention tomore pleasant matters.
One of the most pleasant that occurred to him was the condition ofthings in the village. Malkern had already begun to boom as the firstresult of his sudden burst of increased work. Outside capital wascoming in for town plots, and several fresh buildings were going up.Addlestone Chicks, the dry-goods storekeeper, was extending hispremises to accommodate the enormous increase in his trade. Two moresaloons were being considered, both to be built by men from Calford,and the railroad had promised two mails a day instead of one.
Dave thought of these things with the satisfaction of a man who issteadily realizing his ambitions. It only needed his success forprosperity to come automatically to the village in the valley. That wasit, his success. This thought brought to his mind again the matter ofJim Truscott's mill, and this, again, set him thinking of Jim himself.
He had seen nothing of Jim since his meeting with him on the bridge,and the memory of that meeting was a dark shadow in his recollection.Since that time two days had passed, two days spent in arduous labor,when there had been no time for more than a passing thought foranything else. He had seen no one outside of his mills. He had seenneither Betty nor her uncle; no one who could tell him how matters weregoing with the prodigal. He felt somehow that he had been neglectful,he felt that he had wrongfully allowed himself to be swamped in thevortex of the whirling waters of his labors. He had purposely shut outevery other consideration.
Now his mind turned upon Betty, and he suddenly decided to take half anhour's respite and visit Harley-Smith's saloon. He felt that this wouldbe the best direction in which to seek Jim Truscott.
Five years ago itwould have been different.
He rose from his seat and stretched his cumbersome body. Young as hewas, he felt stiff. His tremendous effort was making itself felt.Picking up his pipe he lit it, and as he dropped the charred end of thematch in the spittoon a knock came at the door. It opened in answer tohis call, and in the half-light of the evening he recognized the veryman whom he had just decided to seek.
It was Jim Truscott who stood in the doorway peering into the darkenedroom. And at last his searching eyes rested on the enormous figure ofthe lumberman. Dave was well in the shadow, and what light came inthrough the window fell full upon the newcomer's face.
In the brief silence he had a good look at him. He saw that now he wasclean-shaven, that his hair had been trimmed, that his clothes weregood and belonged to the more civilized conditions of city life. He wasgood-looking beyond a doubt; a face, he thought, to catch a younggirl's fancy. There was something romantic in the dark setting of theeyes, the keen aquiline nose, the broad forehead. It was only the lowerpart of the face that he found fault with. There was that viciousweakness about the mouth and chin, and it set him pondering. There werethe marks of dissipation about the eyes too, only now they were ahundredfold more pronounced. Where before the rounded cheeks had onceso smoothly sloped away, now there were puffings, with deep,unwholesome furrows which, in a man of his age, had no right to bethere.
Jim was the first to speak, and his manner was almost defiant.
"Well?" he ejaculated.
"Well?" responded Dave; and the newly-opened waters suddenly froze overagain.
They measured each other, eye to eye. Both had the memory of theirmeeting two days ago keenly alive in their thought. Finally Jim brokeinto a laugh that sounded harshly.
"After five years' absence your cordiality is overwhelming," he said.
"I seem to remember meeting you on the bridge two days ago," retortedDave.
Then he turned to his desk and lit the lamp. The mill siren hooted outits mournful cry. Its roar was deafening, and answered as an excuse forthe silence which remained for some moments between the two men. Whenthe last echo had died out Truscott spoke again. Evidently he hadavailed himself of those seconds to decide on a more conciliatorycourse.
"That's nerve-racking," he said lightly.
"Yes, if your nerves aren't in the best condition," replied Dave. Thenhe indicated a chair and both men seated themselves.
Truscott made himself comfortable and lit a cigar.
"Well, Dave," he said pleasantly, "after five years I return here tofind everybody talking of you, of your work, of the fortune you aremaking, of the prosperity of the village--which, by the way, iscredited to your efforts. You are the man of the moment in the valley;you are it!"
Dave nodded.
"Things are doing."
"Doing, man! Why, it's the most wonderful thing. I leave a little dozyvillage, and I come back to a town thrilling with a magnificentprosperity, with money in plenty for everybody, and on every hand talkof investment, and dreams of fortunes to be made. I'm glad I came. I'mglad I left that benighted country of cold and empty stomachs andreturned to this veritable Tom Tiddler's ground. I too intend to sharein the prosperity you have brought about. Dave, you are a wonder."
"I thought you'd come to talk of other matters," said Dave quietly.
His words had ample effect. The enthusiasm dropped from the other likea cloak. His face lost its smile, and his eyes became watchful.
"You mean----"
"Betty," said Dave shortly.
Truscott stirred uneasily. Dave's directness was a littledisconcerting. Suddenly the latter leant forward in his chair, and hissteady eyes held his visitor.
"Five years ago, Jim, you went away, and, going, you left Betty to mycare--for you. That child has always been in my thoughts, and thoughI've never had an opportunity to afford her the protection you asked ofme, it has not been my fault. She has never once needed it. You wentaway to make money for her, so that when you came back you could marryher. I remember our meeting two days ago, and it's not my intention tosay a thing of it. I have been so busy since then that I have seennobody who could tell me of either her or you, so I know nothing of howyour affairs stand. But if you've anything to say on the matter now I'mprepared to listen. Did you make good up there in the Yukon?"
Dave's tone was the tone Truscott had always known. It was kindly, itwas strong with honesty and purpose. He felt easier for it, and hisrelief sounded in his reply.
"I can't complain," he said, settling himself more comfortably in hischair.
"I'm glad," said Dave simply. "I was doubtful of the experiment,but--well, I'm glad. And----?"
Suddenly Jim sprang to his feet and began to pace the room. Davewatched him. He was reading him. He was studying the nervous movements,and interpreting them as surely as though their meaning were writtenlarge in the plainest lettering. It was the same man he had known fiveyears ago--the same, only with a difference. He beheld the weakness hehad realized before, but now, where there had been frank honesty in allhis movements and expressions, there was a furtive undercurrent whichsuggested only too clearly the truth of the stories told about him.
"Dave," he burst out at last, coming to a sudden stand in front of him."I've come to you about Betty. I've come to you to tell you all theregret I have at that meeting of ours on the bridge, and all I said atthe time. I want to tell you that I'm a rotten fool and blackguard.That I haven't been near Betty since I came back. I was to have gone totea that afternoon, and didn't do so because I got blind drunk instead,and when her uncle came to fetch me I told him to go to hell, andinsulted him in a dozen ways. I want to tell you that while I was awayI practically forgot Betty, I didn't care for her any longer, that Iscarcely even regarded our engagement as serious. I feel I must tellyou this. And now it is all changed. I have seen her and I want her. Ilove her madly, and--and I have spoiled all my chances. She'll neverspeak to me again. I am a fool and a crook--an utter wrong 'un, but Iwant her. I must have her!"
The man paused breathlessly. His words carried conviction. His mannerwas passion-swept There could be no doubt as to his sincerity, or ofthe truth of the momentary remorse conveyed in his self-accusation.
Dave's teeth shut tight upon his pipe-stem.
"And you did all that?" he inquired with a tenseness that made hisvoice painfully harsh.
"Yes, yes, I did. Dave, you can't say any harder things to me than I'vesaid to myself. When I drink there's madness in my blood that drives mewhere it will."
The other suddenly rose from his seat and towered over him. The look onhis rugged face was one of mastery. His personality dominated Truscottat that moment in a manner that made him shrink before his steady,luminous eyes.
"How've you earned your living?" he demanded sharply.
"I'm a gambler," came Jim's uneasy reply, the truth forced from himagainst his will.
"You're a drunkard and a crook?"
"I'm a fool. I told you."
Dave accepted the admission.
"Then for God's sake get out of this village, and write and releaseBetty from her engagement. You say you love her. Prove it by releasingher, and be a man."
Dave's voice rang out deep with emotion. At that moment he was thinkingof Betty, and not of the man before him. He was not there to judge him,his only thought was of the tragedy threatening the girl.
Truscott had suddenly become calm, and his eyes had again assumed thatfurtive watchfulness as he looked up into the larger man's face. Heshook his head.
"I can't give her up," he said obstinately, after a pause.
Dave sat down again, watching the set, almost savage expression of theother's face. The position was difficult; he was not only dealing withthis man, but with a woman whose sense of duty and honor was such thatleft him little hope of settling the matter as he felt it should besettled. Finally he decided to appeal again to the man's better nature.
"Jim," he said solemnly, "you come here and confess yourself a crook,a
nd, if not a drunkard, at least a man with a bad tendency that way.You say you love Betty, in spite of having forgotten her while you wereaway. On your conscience I ask you, can you wilfully drag this girl,who has known only the purest, most innocent, and God-fearing life,into the path you admit you have been, are treading? Can you drag herdown with you? Can you in your utter selfishness take her from a homewhere she is surrounded by all that can keep a woman pure and good? Idon't believe it. That is not the Jim I used to know. Jim, take it fromme, there is only one decent course open to you, one honest one. Leaveher alone, and go from here yourself. You have no right to her so longas your life is what it is."
"But my life is going to be that no longer," Truscott broke in withpassionate earnestness. "Dave, help me out in this. For God's sake, do.It will be the making of me. I have money now, and I want to get rid ofthe old life. I, too, want to be decent. I do. I swear it. Give me thischance to straighten myself. I know your influence with her. You canget her to excuse that lapse. She will listen to you. My God! Dave, youdon't know how I love that girl."
While the lumberman listened his heart hardened. He understood theselfishness, the weakness underlying this man's passion. He understoodmore than that, Betty was no longer the child she was five years ago,but a handsome woman of perfect moulding. And, truth to tell, he feltthis sudden reawakening of the man's passion was not worthy of the nameof the love he claimed for it, but rather belonged to baserinspiration. But his own feelings prevented his doing what he wouldlike to have done. He felt that he ought to kick the man out of hisoffice, and have him hunted out of the village. But years ago he hadgiven his promise of help, and a promise was never a light thing withhim. And besides that, he realized his own love for Betty, and couldnot help fearing that his judgment was biassed by it. In the end hegave the answer which from the first he knew he must give.
"If you mean that," he said coldly, "I will do what I can for you."
Jim's face lit, and he held out his hand impulsively.
"Thanks, Dave," he cried, his whole face clearing and lighting up as ifby magic. "You're a bully friend. Shake!"
But the other ignored the outstretched hand. Somehow he felt he couldno longer take it in friendship. Truscott saw the coldness in his eyes,and instantly drew his hand away. He moved toward the door.
"Will you see her to-night?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I can't say. You'll probably hear from her."
At the door the man turned, and Dave suddenly recollected something.
"Oh, by the way," he said, still in his coldest manner, "I'd like tobuy that old mill of yours--or lease it. I don't mind which. How muchdo you want for it?"
Jim flashed a sharp glance at him.
"My old mill?" Then he laughed peculiarly. "What do you want with that?"
The other considered for a moment.
"My mill hasn't sufficient capacity," he said at last. "You see, mycontract is urgent. It must be completed before winter shutsdown--under an enormous penalty. We are getting a few thousand a daybehind on my calculations. Your mill will put me right, with a marginto spare against accidents."
"I see." And the thoughtfulness of Truscott's manner seemedunnecessary. He avoided Dave's eyes. "You're under a penalty, eh? Is'pose the government are a hard crowd to deal with?"
Dave nodded.
"If I fail it means something very like--ruin," he said, almost asthough speaking to himself.
Truscott whistled.
"Pretty dangerous, traveling so near the limit," he said.
"Yes. Well? What about the mill?"
"I must think it over. I'll let you know."
He turned and left the office without another word, and Dave staredafter him, speechless with surprise and disgust.