"Well, you've done it well.You've cost me my dam, and you've killed five men.If the crew finds out about you, you'll go over the falls, sure.You get out of here! Pike! Don't you ever let me see your face again!"The man blanched as he thus learned of his comrades' deaths.Thorpe thrust his face at him, lashed by circumstances beyond his habitual self-control.
"It's men like you who make the trouble," he stormed."Damn fools who say they didn't mean to.It isn't enough not to mean to.They should MEAN NOT TO! I don't ask you to think.I just want you to do what I tell you, and you can't even do that."He threw his shoulder into a heavy blow that reached the dam watcher's face, and followed it immediately by another.Then Shearer caught his arm, motioning the dazed and bloody victim of the attack to get out of sight.Thorpe shook his foreman off with one impatient motion, and strode away up the river, his head erect, his eyes flashing, his nostrils distended.
"I reckon you'd better mosey," Shearer dryly advised the dam watcher;and followed.
Late in the afternoon the two men reached Dam Three, or rather the spot on which Dam Three had stood.The same spectacle repeated itself here, except that Ellis, the dam watcher, was nowhere to be seen.
"The dirty whelps," cried Thorpe, "they did a good job!"He thrashed about here and there, and so came across Ellis blindfolded and tied.When released, the dam watcher was unable to give any account of his assailants.
"They came up behind me while I was cooking," he said."One of 'em grabbed me and the other one kivered my eyes.Then I hears the 'shot' and knows there's trouble."Thorpe listened in silence.Shearer asked a few questions.After the low-voiced conversation Thorpe arose abruptly.
"Where you going?" asked Shearer.
But the young man did not reply.He swung, with the same long, nervous stride, into the down-river trail.
Until late that night the three men--for Ellis insisted on accompanying them--hurried through the forest.Thorpe walked tirelessly, upheld by his violent but repressed excitement.When his hat fell from his head, he either did not notice the fact, or did not care to trouble himself for its recovery, so he glanced through the trees bare-headed, his broad white brow gleaming in the moonlight.Shearer noted the fire in his eyes, and from the coolness of his greater age, counselled moderation.
"I wouldn't stir the boys up," he panted, for the pace was very swift."They'll kill some one over there, it'll be murder on both sides."He received no answer.About midnight they came to the camp.
Two great fires leaped among the trees, and the men, past the idea of sleep, grouped between them, talking.The lesson of twisted timbers was not lost to their experience, and the evening had brought its accumulation of slow anger against the perpetrators of the outrage.These men were not given to oratorical mouthings, but their low-voiced exchanges between the puffings of a pipe led to a steadier purpose than that of hysteria.Even as the woodsmen joined their group, they had reached the intensity of execution.Across their purpose Thorpe threw violently his personality.
"You must not go," he commanded.
Through their anger they looked at him askance.
"I forbid it," Thorpe cried.
They shrugged their indifference and arose.This was an affair of caste brotherhood; and the blood of their mates cried out to them.
"The work," Thorpe shouted hoarsely."The work! We must get those logs out! We haven't time!"But the Fighting Forty had not Thorpe's ideal.Success meant a day's work well done; while vengeance stood for a righting of the realities which had been unrighteously overturned.Thorpe's dry-eyed, burning, almost mad insistence on the importance of the day's task had not its ordinary force.They looked upon him from a standpoint apart, calmly, dispassionately, as one looks on a petulant child.The grim call of tragedy had lifted them above little mundane things.
Then swiftly between the white, strained face of the madman trying to convince his heart that his mind had been right, and the fanatically exalted rivermen, interposed the sanity of Radway.
The old jobber faced the men calmly, almost humorously, and somehow the very bigness of the man commanded attention.When he spoke, his coarse, good-natured, everyday voice fell through the tense situation, clarifying it, restoring it to the normal.
"You fellows make me sick," said he."You haven't got the sense God gave a rooster.Don't you see you're playing right in those fellows' hands? What do you suppose they dynamited them dams for?
To kill our boys? Don't you believe it for a minute.They never dreamed we was dry pickin' that jam.They sent some low-lived whelp down there to hang our drive, and by smoke it looks like they was going to succeed, thanks to you mutton-heads.
"'Spose you go over and take 'em apart; what then? You have a scrap; probably you lick 'em." The men growled ominously, but did not stir."You whale daylights out of a lot of men who probably don't know any more about this here shooting of our dams than a hog does about a ruffled shirt.Meanwhile your drive hangs.Well?
Well? Do you suppose the men who were back of that shooting, do you suppose Morrison and Daly give a tinker's dam how many men of theirs you lick? What they want is to hang our drive.If they hang our drive, it's cheap at the price of a few black eyes."The speaker paused and grinned good-humoredly at the men's attentive faces.Then suddenly his own became grave, and he swung into his argument all the impressiveness of his great bulk, "Do you want to know how to get even?" he asked, shading each word.
