When Titans Drive/Chapter 13

URLY KOLLOCK’S interest and liking for his boss grew stronger day after day. There was something about Bob Bainbridge which stirred the finer qualities in his nature, and brought twinges of shame to the young riverman whenever he thought how near he had come to throwing his lot with his brother. If Bill ever showed up he resolved to tell him just what he thought of him, too. But in the meantime, not being much of a penman, he made no effort to answer the letter. It was sufficient that he considered himself cut loose from the whole miserable bunch. If they were expecting aid from him in their plotting they were doomed to disappointment.

More and more often as they descended the Katahdin River, the boy was stirred to anger at the constant succession of moves made by that gang of crooks against the man who fought them practically alone and singlehanded.

Along the river were several dams placed for the purpose of regulating the head of water and facilitating the process of driving. They belonged to the trust, but their owners were bound at all times to allow a normal head of water when it was called for. Instead of doing this now, they played all sorts of tricks on Bainbridge. When he particularly needed plenty of water to float his drive past a shallow or narrow spot, the gates were arbitrarily shut down, and the drive hung up. Again, at one point where the middle part of the drive had jammed and the crew were occupied in picking it instead of using dynamite, the gates which Bob had personally closed were raised without warning, letting down a flood of water which struck the jam with terrific force. It gave instantly, carrying three men with it. Two managed to escape by a miracle, and were dragged ashore with broken limbs; the other was crushed and drowned.

After that Bainbridge placed guards at the various dams with instructions to shoot any one who attempted to interfere with them. This resulted in a terrific outcry on the part of Crane’s underlings, an appeal to the law, injunctions, and all that sort of thing. To which Bainbridge paid no attention whatever. He went on his way calmly, knowing well that they could not stop him in this manner, and willing to put up with the inconvenience that would follow when it was all over and he had returned to civilization.

Mr. Wolcott Sears continued his fishing trip along the route the lumbermen were following, and began frequently to appear in camp for an evening pipe with Bainbridge. One evening they had a private conference, which lasted until the small hours, and the Boston capitalist finally departed, leaving Bainbridge apparently much gratified.

The crew was with Bob to a man. By this time they had gathered an inkling of the plot against the firm, and of the stakes involved. Men had strayed into camp telling of the extraordinary reductions made by the trust in the price of manufactured lumber. Large sales had resulted to various parties, report said, thus preventing Bainbridge & Tweedy, as well as several other small independents, from disposing of a single plank.

The lumberjacks were not slow in putting two and two together. They remembered rumors current in the big woods for many months of the fight which had started between the trust and this man who was their boss. It was a fight to the finish, people said, in which one side or the other must go under, From all appearances it looked to these earnest, simple-minded woodsmen as if Bainbridge would be vanquished unless he could get that drive safely into the mill booms; and to that end they strained every nerve. They toiled from dawn to dark, staggering into camp each night so utterly weary that they sometimes fell asleep with their supper half eaten before them; only to be up before daybreak to do it all over again.

It was a period of stress and strain, but it ended at last when the drive was ushered into the Penobscot, to be seized by the strong current and urged on toward the mills at Lancaster, that goal which had seemed a little while ago so unattainable, yet which was now so near.

That very afternoon was perpetrated the crowning outrage. Bainbridge was shot at from the bushes—shot at deliberately with an intent to kill which was defeated only by the miracle of chance which made him bend over to tighten a shoe lace at the precise moment of firing.

Wild with fury, the men who were present dashed in pursuit of the would-be assassins, but to no purpose. They were in the land of civilization now, where there were motor cars. By the time the crowd of rivermen had surged up the bank and plunged through the undergrowth, the rascally tools of the trust were well away, leaving their pursuers to rage impotently that there was not a gun in the party with which the tires could be punctured and the car stopped.

The most angry of them all was Curly Kollock. He had double cause for wrath, having received that morning a letter from the very town of Lancaster toward which they were striving so hard to push the drive. Brief it was, and to the point. He had played the traitor, Bill wrote scathingly. There was only one way by which he could rid himself of the stigma, and return to the good graces of the gang. He must come at once to a certain house on the outskirts of the town, prepared to place himself absolutely in his brother’s hands.

When the younger Kollock read those lines he swore roundly. That even Bill should dare write in such a manner made him rage. He was no man’s slave, and there were bounds beyond which even a brother could step. He was on the point of asking for time off to come to a definite, final settlement with the crowd when the attempted shooting occurred. At first this cowardly deed only added to his rage, but swiftly in its wake came unwonted gravity.

Disagreeable, even serious, as all those other persecutions had been, not one of them held the weight of this last culminating effort to put Bob Bainbridge out of the running. That Bill was mixed up in it Curly had no doubt, and the realization frightened him. He had always looked up to his older brother with admiration and a little awe, and he could not bear now to think of him mixed up in anything so contemptible. There was the danger involved, too, and altogether the youngster felt as if he must see Bill at once and try to make him cut the gang and get away. His efforts might have no effect, but there was at least a chance.

That night—or rather early in the morning, while it was still pitch black—he slipped quietly out of camp without a word to any one. He reached Lancaster at four in the afternoon, having made most of the journey in a scow doing about six miles an hour. Going at once to the address given in the letter, he found that his brother had gone out not fifteen minutes before.

“Mebbe if you step in an’ wait he’ll be back soon,” suggested the slatternly woman who kept the house.

Curly was shown to a room on the second floor back, where he recognized a number of Bill’s belongings scattered about in the usual disorder. Perhaps it was the sight of them which aroused in the young fellow an increasing doubt of his ability to do what he came for. Would this man, who had never been in the habit of taking any one’s advice, listen to him? He wondered, and then, unable to remain still, arose and paced the floor anxiously.

Presently he dropped in a chair before a rough deal table, on top of which was tacked a large sheet of blotting paper. A corner of white paper protruded from beneath it, but Curly scarcely noticed this save as something to pluck at nervously with thumb and forefinger. Finally he lighted the lamp, walked back and forth some more, then relapsed into the chair again, resuming his absent plucking of the paper beneath the blotter.

Ultimately, of course, he drew it gradually forth, and, catching a word or two of writing, he did not hesitate to read the entire page.

It was a portion of a letter, both superscription and first page. Neither was it signed. But there was enough in those few lines to make the riverman leap to his feet with a startled cry of dismay.

“Great guns!” he gasped. “Burn the mill—our mill? Well, I guess not!”

He carried the paper over to the light thinking that he might have made a mistake. But it was plain enough.

For a minute or two Curly stood staring at this extraordinary fragment. Then his gray eyes gleamed.

“Gee!” he muttered. “I sure wish I could find the rest o’ this letter. It sounds like it might be from that old skunk Crane that Bill’s so thick with, but o’ course you never kin tell. It would certain be worth somethin’ to know for sure.”

Without hesitation he yanked up the blotter, tacks and all. There was nothing underneath, so he next jerked forth the single drawer of the table, and dumped out its contents. A search through these revealed nothing of interest and he was about to replace the drawer when it occurred to him to thrust an inquiring hand into the space back of it. His fingers encountered paper, and a moment later his eyes gleamed with satisfaction as they rested on two envelopes addressed to his brother in that same erect black writing which had characterized the single sheet.

“Got you this time, I reckon,” he muttered, in a tone of intense satisfaction. “If Bainbridge ain’t interested in this”

He paused abruptly, and raised his head with a jerk, his eyes narrowing, and his grip tightening unconsciously on the letters. From outside came a queer, vibrating clang. For an instant he listened tensely as the sound rose and fell on the night air, muffled a little by closed doors and windows, but still clear and unmistakable—the primitive village fire alarm. With a gasp of dismay, he leaped toward the door.

“Cripes!” he cried, gripping the knob. “It’s to-night—to-night! An’ I never guessed!”