The Boss of Wind River/Chapter 15

OE KENT tore himself away from his new happiness, visited Tobin's and Deever's camps, spent a few days at each, and wound up at Wind River. The banking grounds were full—great piles of timber stretching along the water's edge waiting the going of the ice. The winter roads were failing fast and the last logs were coming out the woods in half loads. Most of the hauling was done by night, for then the roads hardened with frost. By day the air was mild and the depth of snow sank sensibly. Then came the first rain of the season, destroying the roads utterly.

All the men, save the driving crew, were paid off. Since a lumber camp is a self-contained community including a store or “van” at which the hands purchase most of their simple necessaries, paying off involves an adjustment of accounts, A lumber jack seldom keeps a record of his purchases, and is thus dependent upon the honesty of his employer's bookkeeping. The custom is to run rapidly over the account of each man in his presence. If he remembers the purchases and is satisfied, as he is in the majority of cases, well and good. If he does not remember or is not satisfied after reasonable explanation he is tendered a check and told to see a lawyer. But there have been logging firms who have robbed their men shamelessly.

“Jack,” one employer is alleged to have said, “you remember that pair of socks you got in December?”

Jack, after an effort, remembered.

“That's one pair,” said the employer, and went on rapidly. “And you remember the pair you didn't get in January—that's two pairs.” And Jack agreed. Keener men have been flimflammed by much the same formula.

But, on the whole, the men get a square deal, few employers being small enough to charge excessive prices for supplies, much less to make fictitious entries against them. There was no dissatisfaction among Kent's men. Differences of opinion never reached the point of absolute assertion.

“Well, Billy,” MacNutt would say, “there's the entry in our books made at the time. If you say flat you didn't get the goods we'll let it go, because we know you're a straight man, and think you're right. But if you just say you don't remember, why, then, our books show we do.”

This unusual but effective system had been installed by William Kent and worked like a charm. Seldom did a man, having it put up to him in that way, flatly contradict the books. And then it prevented all friction.

After the surplus men had been paid off, the weather hardened. A bitter wind held in the north by day; the nights were still, clear, and cold. Ice actually made and thickened in the river.

It was unheard-of. Each morning the rivermen rose, cocked wise eyes at the sky, and cursed the weather. Each night they sat around the stove, for the cold was penetrating.

“It's the qualified adjective moon,” said Cooley. “The weather will break when she changes.”

“She'll break when she gets ready,” said Jackson. “This will make a late drive.”

“But high water when it does come,” said another.

Joe Kent took to looking into the sleeping camp for an hour or so each night. He had brought a banjo with him, and he exhausted his song repertory. The men enjoyed it thoroughly. It was, perhaps, bad for discipline, but it developed a feeling of comradeship. His authority was not in danger, for they had seen him hold his own against the redoubtable Mike Callahan, who was a dangerous fighter; and he had also bested big Finn Clancy, who had whipped many a good man in his day.

Suddenly the weather changed. One morning a southerly wind and a cloudy sky greeted them; by noon there was a warm rain slashing against the earth; at night mists and fog hung everywhere.

“She breaks up this time,” said Cooley, who was engaged in saturating his driving boots with oil and hot tallow, not with intent to keep his feet dry, but to preserve the leather.

“An' time it is,” said Regan, busy with a file at the inch spikes which studded the soles of his footgear. “She's a fortnight later nor she should be.”

This was so, but it had caused Joe little uneasiness, for his margin seemed ample. His plan was to drive the Wind River cut down the Wind to the Mattawagan. Tobin and Deever would drive down the Missabini to the latter stream. The drives would unite at McColl's Sney, where the main drive would be formed. Thence it would proceed down that great water artery past Falls City to Wismer & Holden's booms. It was all very simple—on paper.

But it took a week for the ice to move in the Wind. The driving crew chafed and cursed, for they regarded Kent's interests as their own, and they longed to feel a rocking log beneath their feet once more. When the ice finally moved they attacked the rollways with fury, and the huge piles of great sticks cascaded thunderously into the water like huge amphibians. At that point the river was deep and had little current. Therefore the logs strung out slowly and in an orderly manner with a dignity befitting their weight and age.

When the drive began to string with the slow current, MacNutt sent part of the crew downstream to keep the logs moving and prevent jams. The remainder divided and strung along either bank, releasing such sticks as grounded in the shallows or caught in the “sweepers” from the banks.

Last of all came the “wanegan,” also known as the “sweep.” This was a long, heavy, flat bottomed scow, of primitive but enormously strong construction. It was the base of supplies for the driving crew. It held tents, provisions, clothing, and tools, and it was manned by the cook, cookees, and blacksmith. For propulsion it possessed long sweeps; but since it had merely to keep pace with the logs and the logs moved no faster than the current, these were used only for guidance. In slow water the life of its crew by day was one of dreamy, idyllic ease; but in fast water this condition was reversed. The scow was big, heavy, and unwieldy. It refused to be guided, checked or restrained; it bumped malevolently against boulders, grounded on sandbars, scraped its crew against overhanging limbs, and dragged them, cursing, into the water when they tried to line it down a fast, obstructed current.

For the first few days they always endeavoured to control their craft; after that they let it go and trusted to luck, clinging perfunctorily to the sweeps and damning the grinning rivermen who shouted sarcastic comment and advice from the banks and solitary logs.

At night the crew sought the wanegan and ate voraciously. They were always wet to the waist and often to the ears. They changed and dried their soaked clothing on pole racks by roaring fires, smoked, and slept in little tents pitched ready for them. Before the first light they had breakfasted, and they stepped into ice water in the gray dawn. But with it they were happy and contented, for the drive was the crowning glory of the year.

The drive made average progress. There were small jams, easily broken, minor delays which always occur, but both MacNutt and Joe were pleased.

“The late opening won't matter,” said the former as they spread their blankets in the little wedge tent. “The head will hit the first dam to-morrow, sometime. We ought to sluice her through inside two days. Then there's the second dam. If we have luck we'll tie into the main drive pretty near on time. The others'll be about as late as we are.”

“I hope so,” said Joe. “We don't want to hang up anywhere. I suppose McCane's drive will be out of our way?”

“Sure to unless he jams somewhere,” said MacNutt. “Lebret Creek is faster than the Wind and opens earlier. It's good drivin'. He ought to be through the second dam by now.”

Lebret Creek joined the Wind above the second dam. They were then some twenty-five miles from the confluence, and four miles above the first dam.

The day broke clear and splendid. Joe and MacNutt set off down stream for the dam half an hour behind a dozen of the crew. They cut through the woods across a three-mile bend of the stream and came suddenly upon it again.

“By the G. jumping Jasper!” cried MacNutt.

The river seemed to have shrunk. Logs lay along the banks, were caught in shallows, rocked in the feeble current. As far as the eye could reach stretched the shaggy backs of the brown herd, motionless or nearly so. The ancient bed of the stream appeared as it had been before the dams were built—a flat, rocky bottom over which a foot or so of water brawled noisily and ineffectively, utterly useless from the standpoint of a logger. The drive was plugged for want of water.

A man appeared through the trees. He was running. “Dam's gone out!” he shouted as he came within hailing distance.

Joe and the foreman looked at each other. There was no need to put the single thought into words.

“Come on,” said Joe briefly, and broke into a trot.

They found the men gathered by the remnants of the dam. The wings of the structures sagged forlornly, and through the wrecked centre the stream poured over a rocky bed. The débris had been swept downstream by the rush of released water, and the ruin was beautifully complete. The cause of its going out must remain speculation merely.

“What's the best thing to do?” Joe asked MacNutt.

“Ward,” said MacNutt, “you hike. Bring every man here, a-jumping. Load up a peakie with tools, blocks and tackle and dynamite and run her down river somehow. Load up another with tents, blankets, and grub, and tell the cook to bring her down. Camp is here till we move the logs. Get a move on you, now!”

“There's only one thing to do,” he continued to Kent. “The dam has got to be put in again. There's no fall to speak of, and four foot of water will float the best part of the logs. The rest we'll have to sack out. It means a week, but we can't help it.”

Regan, who after examining the wreck narrowly had taken to the bank, appeared above them. He carried a piece of timber, twisted and riven. This he dumped down before the boss.

“Found her back in the brush,” said he. “They used powder. I knowed that dam never went out by herself.”

“The infernal scoundrels!” said Joe.

Regan looked at him hopefully. “I seen an Injun yesterday. He says McCane's drive is jammed near the mouth of Lebret. Say the word, boss, an' we'll mosey over an' half murder every mother's son of them!”

“Thank you, Regan, but I can't say it,” said Joe. “I have to get these logs out. If I don't get them I bust. Tell the boys that.”

The men began to arrive. MacNutt divided them into gangs and set them to work staying and shoring the remnants of the dam. Slight progress was made that day. The wanegan was looted and the peakies—a peakie is a flat-bottomed, double-ended river boat—made trip after trip, drawn by men wading in the shallows, until sufficient supplies were transferred to the camp by the dam.

Light saw the crew at work. There was nothing fancy about the structure which MacNutt planned. It was built entirely of logs. Holes were blown in the bed of the river at intervals of a few feet, and in these were set buttress-logs slanted sharply upstream to back the timbers when the weight of the water should come against them. These things took time—days of the hardest kind of toil—but the impromptu dam was finally completed, even to the construction of a short slide to run the logs to the free water below.

The river rose and backed up. The newly laid timbers groaned and complained. Now and then a startling crack made Joe's heart leap.

“Will she hold, Mac?” he asked anxiously.

“She's got to hold,” said the foreman grimly. “I don't mean she's a permanent job; she ain't. If she'll last till we get through we'll blow her to glory.”

“Why?” asked Joe.

“Because if we don't she may go out herself or some skunk may blow her for us when we're downstream. Half of us might be drowned and the logs winged out into the bush.”

But the jury-rig held. The water mounted higher and higher. Booms were strung, forming a funnel of which the sluiceway was the outlet. These also served to keep the weight of floating timber off the dam structure.

Satisfied with the strength of his work, MacNutt hurried up stream. Many of the logs were afloat, moving sullenly; others were beginning to rock in the rising water. The men were working hard and steadily, with concentrated energy. Their peavies clanked regularly, and the logs twirled out of their resting places and trundled into the stream. Still the river rose, and MacNutt judged that it was high enough. Fearful for the strength of his dam he made an outlet by the simple expedient of knocking a few timbers loose. The water held at the new level.

Down by the dam the herd of logs thickened and packed tight. The boom strained with their pressure. It was manned by men with long pike poles. They pushed here, restrained there, feeding the slide constantly and evenly, so that a nearly solid stream of timber shot through it into the good water below. When darkness fell, huge fires were lighted on the banks and the sluicing continued. Half the crew turned in immediately after supper; the other half kept the logs going. At two o'clock in the morning they shifted. By noon the last logs shot through. Then came the wanegan.

MacNutt picked half a dozen men. “Throw her down little by little, boys,” he ordered. “Don't be in a hurry, and don't use powder till there's no danger of a wave hitting us. We want a head of water, but not too much of it. The river's rising now.”

Joe looked back from the stern of the peakie in which he rode to catch up with the drive. The men had clambered out on the timbers and were busy with axes and saws destroying what had been so laboriously constructed. It had served his turn, but he felt regret. He would have liked it to stand, so that some day he might show Jack the rude, effective structure, and tell her the story of its building. He had had but small part in it, though his hands were blistered and ragged from handling rocks and rough timbers. He did not pose even to himself as a conqueror of difficulties; he gave the credit to MacNutt and his crew.