WHEN TITANS DRIVE

Adventures of Bainbridge of Bangor

by Burt L. Standish

CHAPTER I. STRUCK IN THE NIGHT

With muscles tense and legs spread wide apart, Bob Bainbridge found himself crouching in the middle of the office shanty. It was yet dark, and in his ears still seemed to sound the dull, rumbling detonation which had made him leap from the bunk before he was even half awake. For a second the stillness was absolute. Then from the other side of the small room came a hoarse, shaking whisper:

“Bobby! What the dickens was that?”

The young man drew a long breath, and an instant later the flame of a match split the darkness.

“Don’t know, John,” he answered, hastily lighting a candle. “It sounded a lot like—dynamite!”

He set the candle down on a rough table, and, reaching for one high, spiked shoe, began swiftly to drag it on. From the bunk across the room came a stifled gasp of dismay, and a short, stout, middle-aged man with a heavy, square face and deep-set blue eyes rolled forth into the uncertain, wavering light, and sat for an instant staring at his companion.

“Dynamite!” he repeated, in a tone of consternation. “You don’t mean to say——”

“I don’t mean to say anything,” was the crisp reply, as Bainbridge tied the leather lacings with a jerk, and reached for the other shoe. “I only know it sounded like dynamite to me, and people don’t usually set that off at three in the morning—for fun.”

John Tweedy delayed no longer. With an agility surprising in one so bulky, he fairly flung himself at the pile of outer garments lying on a near-by box, and when Bainbridge, a couple of minutes later, jerked open the door to plunge forth into the night, the stout man was close at his heels.

Quickly as they had acted, there were others equally swift. The windows of the big bunk house across the clearing glowed faintly, and they had no more than reached the open before the door was flung wide to eject a crowd of men fully dressed in the garb of the lumber country. They were headed by Griggs, foreman of the drive. Tall, lean, with a tanned, impassive countenance which betrayed nothing, he glanced for a second toward the approaching pair, and then fell into step with Bainbridge.

“Well?” queried the latter crisply. “What is it, Harvey? The dam?”

The foreman’s eyes narrowed, and, under the drooping lids, seemed to gleam dully.

“I don’t know what else,” he said. “Listen!”

For a second Bainbridge stood still, head thrust slightly forward in the direction of his foreman’s pointing finger. Behind him was the thud and clatter of men still pouring from the bunk house, mingled with the bustle of those already in the open, chafing at the delay, and impatient to reach the scene of action. The wind was blowing half a gale from the north, but above it all could be heard—faintly, intermittently—the distant, ominous roar of rushing water.

It brought Bob’s teeth together with a click, but not in time to cut off a savage exclamation. Then he turned and started down the slope toward the south, followed closely by the entire crowd.

The hillside was dotted thick with stumps and great piles of tops and “slashings.” The resinous, green, unwithered masses of pine branches, as well as the whiteness of stump ends and scattered chips, showed the cutting to have been lately done. It had, in fact, been completed scarcely a month before; the last load of timber had been sent down the short, narrow stream to Chebargo Lake within the past twelve hours. And at the thought of that great drive of logs, held in place by the many booms until the moment came for it to be sent down the river to the mills, Bob’s jaw hardened, and his face took on an expression of tense anxiety and suspense.

Still he did not speak. Griggs was at one elbow, Tweedy at the other, both puffing a little, but moving with unexpected ease and agility. Behind, at a lope, came the throng of husky woodsmen.

At the foot of the hill Bainbridge swerved sharply to the left along the narrow stream. A space had been cleared through the undergrowth for a rough road diversified by protruding roots and bowlders, bog holes and stretches of corduroy leading across swampy places. The rush of water sounded clearer now, and more distinct, and presently, unable longer to restrain himself, Bob broke into a run.

Up and down slopes and hillocks, in and out of hard-wood groves he sped. Behind him the thud of many feet pounding on the frozen ground mingled with quickening breaths and an occasional muttered imprecation. Then suddenly the whole crowd, racing up the side of a knoll which overlooked the upper end of the lake, stopped abruptly with an odd, concerted gasp.

Below them lay the lake bed—for it was a lake no longer. In spite of the darkness, the starlight showed Bainbridge quite enough to make him give a low groan of dismay and fury.

The lake was an artificial one some two miles long by three-quarters wide, formed for the purpose of facilitating the handling of Bainbridge & Tweedy’s huge Chebargo cut. The dam had been constructed only the summer before under Bob’s personal supervision, and was equipped with the latest thing in patent locked gates to prevent any possible meddling with the head of water.

Evidently, however, these had proved insufficient in the present instance. Out in the center of the lake bed a swiftly diminishing flow of water was vanishing toward the dam. In five minutes at most nothing would be left save the narrow, crooked stream curving between slopes of mud. Along the face of these slopes sprawled the massive, useless booms of logs which had been designed and constructed to hold in check the great drive of timber that now towered over and behind them, stranded high and dry beyond the possibility of human interference.

Bob paused here only a minute or two before starting on toward the location of the dam. He realized perfectly the futility of such a move. He knew as well as if they were looking upon the ruin that the dam had been destroyed or rendered utterly useless. The mere opening of the gates could have no such far-reaching effect as this. Nevertheless, he felt that he must see it with his own eyes before he could bring himself to plan for the future. And so he kept on.

He was right, of course. They found the concrete structure utterly ruined. More than half its surface had been blown away, leaving a great, gaping, ragged fissure through which the water must have rushed, a veritable flood. Long before that could be repaired the spring freshets would have ceased entirely. It would be a physical impossibility to bring the head of water back to its original level until next season. The great drive of finest white pine stranded back in that mudhole was doomed to lie there a prey to rot and destructive boring insects for the better part of a twelvemonth, and in the end was quite likely to prove an almost total loss.

Such a catastrophe would be a serious blow to any firm, no matter how great their resources might be. To a concern whose credit had already been strained almost to the breaking point, it would quite likely mean ruin.

CHAPTER II. THE INDOMITABLE SPIRIT

“My country!” gasped Tweedy, suddenly clenching a fat fist, and shaking it fiercely. “Sixty thousand dollars gone to pot! How in thunder can you stand there, Bobby, and not say a word? Don’t you realize that near half our season’s work is lost? That timber can’t be got out this year any way you think of, an’ by next spring the logs’ll be so full o’ worms they won’t be worth touching hardly. It’s Crane and his gang that’s put one over on us! The trust’s been after us ever since you started that reform racket, and now they’ve got us good!”

The stout man fairly choked in the excess of his fury, thrusting a purpling face close to Bainbridge’s.

“It’s sixty thousand dollars as good as thrown into the gutter,” he sputtered. “For the love of Heaven, Bobby, can’t you wake up and say something?”

The young man’s gaze turned slowly from where it had been resting thoughtfully on that last wrecked boom with the shadowy masses of logs sprawling behind it, and he moved his shoulders impatiently.

“What’s the use in saying anything until there’s something to say?” he inquired, with some tartness. “I’m not quite a fool, John. I know Crane’s turned a rotten trick, which is going to cripple us badly. I’m trying to think of a way out.”

“Humph!” granted Tweedy despondently. “There ain’t any that I can see. I tell you, son, every penny of that sixty is gone beyond the reach of anybody.”

“Not quite,” Bob said curtly, turning to Griggs. “What’s it cost a thousand to bark white pine, Harvey? About a dollar, isn’t it?”

“Round that,” nodded the foreman.

“That cuts out any danger from borers, doesn’t it?” Bainbridge continued Bob’s eyes narrowed, and his well-shaped mouth grew firmer. He glanced again at Tweedy, and raised his eyebrows.

“That’s all there is left for us to do—eh, John?” he said quickly, and even the not particularly sensitive Tweedy was aware of a ringing undercurrent in his voice. “We’ll bark ’em at once, and I’ll send down to Bangor for men and material to repair the dam. Harvey will look after all that, and we’ll save three-quarters, at least, of the value of the drive, in spite of Crane’s dirty work.”

“That may be true enough,” retorted the older man dispiritedly, “but do you realize what it’s going to mean to lose the use of that capital for a whole year?”

He stepped closer to his young partner, and lowered his voice to a whisper:

“You know the condition we’re in financially, Bob. This campaign of yours against graft has cost us money—bunches of it. Our resources have never been so low. This loss is going to cripple us in a way which even the officials of the trust, with all their means of finding out things, can’t guess. It may be impossible even to get credit, and I don’t see how on earth we’re going to get through the year without something——”

“We’ve got to!” Bob’s voice was hard and determined. “Can’t you see that’s just what Crane’s after? He’s done this to draw our sting and leave us helpless. We’ll have to weather the storm somehow, John. I’ll be hanged if I’ll let that crowd of crooks have their way. We’ve got the biggest stock of manufactured lumber in years—that’s one good thing. The other is our Megantic drive. Once that’s down at the mills we ought to be in fair shape, and able to tell our esteemed former partner and his crowd to go to—Halifax.”

But Tweedy refused to brace up and look upon the bright side. Instead of being cheered and encouraged by Bob’s optimistic manner and fighting spirit, his frown deepened, and his lips drooped still farther at the corners.

“Once it’s at the mills—yes,” he retorted significantly. “What guarantee have we got that it’ll ever get there? You don’t suppose for a minute they’re going to let that alone, do you, after what they’ve done here?”

Bainbridge flung back his head, his dark eyes glittering.

“No, but they’re welcome to try their darndest!” he exclaimed. “They can’t turn any such trick as this, and I mean to start for the Megantic camp as soon as day breaks. I’ll stick with that drive till the last log is safe in our mill booms, and if the gang tries any more dirty work there’ll be something doing, believe me! You’d better beat it down to Bangor and arrange about credit. You can do it, somehow. It’s going to be a fight to the finish, John, and I reckon they’ll find out before it’s over that we’re not quite the easy marks they seem to think.”

Tweedy made no reply save a pessimistic hunch of his pudgy shoulders. It seemed to him that Bainbridge was decidedly underestimating the extent of the damage done them by the treachery of those cowardly miscreants who, though actually unknown, could not possibly be other than tools of the hostile and unscrupulous Lumber Trust.

For practically the entire winter the firm had been pouring out money in wages, supplies, and equipment, expecting to clean up large and immediate profits from as fine a lot of timber as either of the lumbermen had ever seen. To have the entire drive suddenly stranded in this manner was like losing every cent which had been paid out, for Tweedy was not at all sure that anything could be saved from the wreck. He had no great faith in the efficacy of barking. It seemed like throwing good money after bad, and he said as much in very decided terms when they were back in the office shanty making hurried preparations for instant departure.

He was overruled, however, by both Bainbridge and Griggs, who were quite certain the logs could be saved at an expenditure of about a fifth of their value. And since Bob was in charge of the woods end of the business, the older man was forced to give in.

There followed, during a hasty breakfast, a brief consultation regarding the steps Tweedy should take toward getting additional credit, at the same time doing his best, of course, to sell at once some of their big stock of manufactured lumber. Griggs was given instructions as to the method of working and the number of men to keep. Then came a hurried farewell between the two partners.

The sun had scarcely risen above the fringe of trees around the camp before Tweedy was being driven rapidly toward the nearest railroad station, while Bob, accompanied only by Joe Moose, an Indian guide, was sitting in the stern of a canoe, paddling steadily up Chebargo Stream.

CHAPTER III. MORE TREACHERY

The Megantic drive, starting from a point some forty miles northwest of Chebargo, was already in motion. Its course would be down the Megantic Stream through several ponds and lakes into the Katahdin River, and thence down the Penobscot to the mills at Bangor.

By paddling upstream and making three portages of less than a mile each, Bainbridge and the guide cut off a lot of distance, and struck the Megantic between the second and third lake toward three in the afternoon.

Knowing when Pete Schaeffer, the drive boss, had started, Bob calculated that he would have advanced considerably beyond this point, and turned the canoe downstream, keeping a close lookout along the banks for signs which would inevitably be left by a great drive.

The country was rough and wild, the stream boiling and tumbling between rather high, rocky banks. Presently, however, these gave place to lower, muddy stretches, which bore no single trace of stranded logs, or the tracks made by the rear crew following along behind a big drive and “sacking” the River.

It took Bob very little time to make certain of this, and his heavy, dark brows came suddenly together above the bridge of his well-shaped nose, a single, emphatic line.

“The drive hasn’t passed,” he said abruptly, thrusting his paddle straight down by the side of the canoe, and stopping the frail craft instantly.

The Indian moved slightly, and turned a copper-colored profile over one shoulder.

“Him held up above,” he suggested. “Mebbe jam.”

“Jam!” repeated Bainbridge sharply. “Why should there be a jam? The stream’s straight and wide enough, with a fine head of water. The hard parts come farther down. With a boss on the job, and halfway attending to business, the drive ought to be down as far as Loon Lake by this time.”

Still frowning, he gave a wide, powerful sweep of his paddle, which headed the canoe upstream.

“Besides,” he went on, as the craft danced along under the impetus of their sturdy, practiced strokes, “Schaeffer’s had time to break up half a dozen ordinary jams. He’s no fool, and he knows his business as well as any man in the country. He knows this high water can’t last much longer, and that we’re altogether dependent on it till we reach the Penobscot. If he ——”

A sudden extremely unpleasant thought made the speaker break off abruptly, with a swift catching of his breath. His frown deepened into a scowl, and a touch of angry red glowed under the clear, healthy tan of his clean-cut face.

“Mebbe him no care about making hurry,” remarked the Indian coolly, without even glancing around. “Mebbe him like to see drive hang up.”

The extraordinary manner in which the guide’s comment chimed in with his own mental process fairly took Bob’s breath away. He hesitated for an instant, wondering whether the Indian knew anything special or whether his remark had been prompted by mere guesswork. Knowing Moose for many years, Bainbridge had never been quite able to determine whether the man was attached to him personally, as sometimes in his stolid, self-restrained manner he seemed to be. It was more likely to be simply the canny shrewdness of the native knowing on which side his bread was buttered. At all events, Bob had never counted on it to the extent of any great familiarity, though, under the conditions in which they were frequently alone together in the woods, he could scarcely help letting down the bars a little.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, suddenly making up his mind. “What earthly reason could Pete Schaeffer have for wanting to see the drive hang up? He’s been offered a bonus for every extra day he gains in landing the logs at the mill booms.”

The square, buckskin-covered shoulders hunched again, “Mebbe not offer ’nuff,” retorted the Indian stolidly. “Mebbe he get more to hang up drive.”

“Who the deuce are you talking about, Joe?” inquired Bainbridge crisply, “Who would pay him to play a dirty trick like that?”

The guide slowly turned his head, and regarded Bob with a sort of impassive significance.

“Big Punch know who,” he retorted briefly.

“Perhaps I do, perhaps not.” Bob’s tone was decidedly impatient. “Anyhow, let’s have the name, and see if we agree.”

“Huh!” grunted Moose wearily. “Him Crane. Pete, he great friends with Crane’s man, K’lock.”

Bainbridge’s jaw dropped, and unconsciously he drove his paddle deep down into the current, checking the canoe for a moment or two.

“Bill Kollock!” he exploded, in angry amazement. “Do you know what you’re talking about, Joe?”

The Indian grinned faintly.

“Sure! Joe see ’em in s’loon in Bangor heap many times. Ver’ friendly. Come to Pete’s camp yonder five—six days ago, see K’lock goin’ away.”

Bob’s face was scarlet with rage, and the eyes fastened upon the guide’s impassive countenance flashed.

“You did, did you?” he cried angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me, then? You talk a lot about being a friend of mine. Why didn’t you put me wise to all this before?”

“Big Punch no ask of K’lock,” replied the Indian, “Joe think he no care. Think he pull K’lock’s stinger last month when find him out.”

Bainbridge’s lips parted for a vitriolic retort, closed with a snap, and he resumed his paddling in silence. After all, the fellow was not to blame for possessing the characteristic Indian quality of reticence. Knowing his habit of wandering all over the northern part of the state, Bob should have questioned him the instant the Indian set foot in Chebargo camp the day before.

But questioned him for what purpose? Up to five minutes ago not the slightest suspicion of Pete Schaeffer had ever entered his employer’s head. The man had worked for them a number of years. He was quiet and taciturn, sometimes almost sullen; but few woodsmen have much to say for themselves. He had proved himself more than competent, and was apparently faithful to the interests of those who paid his wages.

“Faithful so long as it suited his purpose and no longer!” said Bainbridge under his breath, “The minute the trust gets after him to do its dirty work he’s perfectly willing to knife us. I can hardly wait to get at the cur!”

He was obliged to postpone that gratification a good deal longer than he had expected, however. Though they strained every effort, and sent the canoe fairly flying upstream, the sun sank lower and lower, without the slightest sign of the drive appearing.

With every thousand feet of progress Bob grew more raging. When at length the sun dipped behind the cold, gray, distant hill line, he was filled with a hot, furious anger against the treacherous Schaeffer—an anger which needed every ounce of will power he possessed to suppress.

Determined to find the drive, and have a settlement that night, he stubbornly continued to paddle long after darkness had fallen, and when they could not see much more than a boat length in any direction. At length, however, there was forced upon him a realization of his folly. It would be much wiser to land now and camp, continuing the journey at daybreak, rather than try to make headway through this pitchy blackness.

Still reluctant to pause, Bob milled this over in his mind for ten minutes or more before finally giving the word to Moose, who had made no comment of any sort. The Indian obeyed stolidly, driving the canoe toward the right bank. Within five minutes the two men were hunting dry sticks for a fire.

Later, as he sat relaxed before the grateful blaze, consuming the rough supper with an appetite which only life in those wonderful north woods can give, Bainbridge remained preoccupied, his forehead wrinkled thoughtfully, and his brooding eyes fixed upon the dancing flames.

CHAPTER IV. THE JAM ON MEGANTIC

There was no time lost either in turning in that night or in rising next morning. So early was Bainbridge astir that the cold, gray half-light dawn had barely begun to lighten the velvety blackness. The two men had embarked and were paddling vigorously upstream before it was possible to see more than the vague, indistinct shadows of concrete things.

Bob’s rage at the treachery of his trusted drive boss had not lessened greatly. There was mingled with it, however, a bitter hatred for the man higher up, and a dogged determination not only to thwart Elihu Crane in his attempt to ruin the independent firm, but to carry the war into the enemies’ camp with a zest and vim which his more or less impersonal blocking of the Lumber Trust’s game had hitherto lacked.

Before sunrise they had reached and crossed the first of the three lakes, which was little more than a good-sized pond. Two miles northwest of the inlet another stream, almost as large, joined the Megantic. The juncture was scarcely passed before Bainbridge became aware of the slackening current, and unnaturally low level of water in the stream. Something was holding it back, and that something could be nothing less than a jam of unusual size and extent.

Bob’s eyes narrowed ominously, and three deep, vertical lines flashed suddenly into view above the straight nose. Downstream there were several spots which had always been more or less dreaded by river drivers. There all the skill and care in the world could not always prevent trouble. To the northward, however, was comparatively clear sailing. The most ordinary skill in driving, and just average attention to business would make the forming of a jam impossible.

Bob set his teeth, and drove the canoe ahead swiftly. He made no comment, nor did the guide. For ten minutes or so they paddled in silence. Bainbridge was quite aware that under ordinary conditions such a proceeding would have been foolhardy to a degree. For all he knew the jam might be started at any moment; the swirling, tumbling logs might sweep down upon them with irresistible force, overwhelming them before they could even reach the shore. But these were not ordinary conditions. Having allowed the jam to form with malicious intent, there was not one chance in a hundred of Schaeffer’s doing anything to break it unless absolutely forced to.

Events proved the accuracy of this judgment. Some three miles above the juncture of the two streams the Megantic curved suddenly to the westward almost at a right angle, narrowing around the bend to less than two-thirds its usual width. It was at this narrow spot that Bainbridge expected to find the jam, and before they had circled the bend he saw above the low fringe of bushes on the point the jagged, bristling line of logs thrust high above the surface of the choked and dwindling stream by the tremendous pressure of well-nigh the whole drive behind it.

There was not the slightest hint of hesitation or indecision in the manner of Bainbridge now. He had evidently made up his mind exactly what course to take, and he proceeded to take it without delay. His face was no longer impatient or angry, but stern and determined, while his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction that the tedious delay was over at last and he could begin to act.

Speaking briefly in a low tone to the Indian, he turned the canoe inshore and drove the bow deftly up on the gently sloping bank. Giving Moose a hand in carrying the light craft well back into the bushes, Bainbridge straightened up and pushed through the undergrowth toward the scene of action.

From the location of the jam came the sound of intermittent clinking, as of peavies languidly applied. Mingled with it was a vast deal of loud talk and raucous laughter which brought Bob’s lips together tightly, and made him flush darkly under his tan. He uttered not a word of comment, even to himself. His muscular fists were clenched as he strode on.

Though he made not the slightest effort at concealment, conditions were such that his approach was entirely unnoticed. Passing swiftly through the bushes, with the Indian close behind, he reached the other side and paused for a moment, staring intently at the scene before him.

From this viewpoint the jam looked much more serious and far-reaching than from below. It seemed like some huge abatis bristling with spikes, and holding in place a vast expanse of tumbled timber piled up and mingled together in inextricable confusion. A greenhorn, unused to lumbering conditions, would have said at once that no human power could possibly break up this terrific tangle. Bainbridge’s practiced eye, ranging swiftly from right to left, and back again to the breast of the jam, saw instantly that affairs were serious indeed, but far from being hopeless.

He looked for Schaeffer, but at first he could see nothing of the person who was supposed to have charge of operations. There were in sight some seventy or eighty men, fully half of whom were gathered on the near bank, lounging in groups, laughing; talking, smoking, or sprawling at full length in the sun, luxuriating in its increasing warmth. Scattered over the jam were the remainder of the crew, making a half-hearted pretense at working which could not possibly deceive any one. As he watched one after another of them dally with a peavey in an indolent, purposeless kind of way, smoking a cigarette the while, and carrying on a jocular sort of repartee with neighbors, Bainbridge felt swelling within him the fury he had so long suppressed, but which seemed now as if it must find expression.

He was about to step impetuously from the undergrowth, and wake up that crowd with a volley of vigorous English, when a figure appeared at the entrance of one of the tents pitched a little way back from the water. At the sight of this person the watcher held himself motionless, a gleam of intense satisfaction flashing into his eyes.

The man was tall and lean and narrow-loined, with wide, muscular shoulders. His face was rather rough hewn, and the heavy black brows gave him a lowering, almost sullen look. There was, however, no lack of strength and intelligence of a certain sort in his expression. One would never have called him stupid, even though his appearance might not seem particularly prepossessing.

He stood for a second or two staring at the jam and that throng of men playing at work, without changing his expression a particle. Then he strolled slowly down toward the crowd, hands thrust into his pockets, and lithe body swaying easily from side to side in the manner of one having all the time there is.

His course led him along the edge of the bushes, and Bainbridge waited his coming with poorly restrained impatience. The man’s complacency infuriated him, and yet he was wise enough to realize that now was the time of all others when it was absolutely necessary to hold himself in hand. He stood there, lips tightly pressed together, and nails digging into the palms of his hands, until the foreman was almost opposite. Then he stepped suddenly forth.

“I seem to have arrived at a very opportune moment, Schaeffer,” he said.

The man gave a barely perceptible start, and stopped with a jerk. For an instant he stared at Bainbridge, the dull red creeping slowly up from the open collar of his flannel shirt. Then his thin curled in a smile which held little mirth in it.

“Quite a surprise you’ve given us, Mr. Bainbridge,” he drawled, “Didn’t expect you around for a week yet.”

Bob’s eyes blazed dangerously, but his voice was steady and cold as ice.

“That’s very evident,” he retorted curtly, with a swift side glance at the jam.

Schaeffer moved his shoulders slightly and his lids drooped a little. Otherwise he entirely ignored Bainbridge’s meaning.

“Yes, we got in a bit o’ trouble here,” he said coolly; “but it ain’t anything very serious. Now that the boys are all here to git after it, we’ll have her pullin’ in great shape before you can say Jack Robinson.”

Bainbridge took a single step forward, bringing his flushed and angry face close to Schaeffer.

“Don’t think for a minute you can bluff me with that sort of rot, Schaeffer,” he said, in a voice which held in it the essence of concentrated fury. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes watching what’s going on out there. I never yet had a man who was fool enough to let a drive hang up at this bend unless he wanted to. Get me? I’m wise to everything, and the sooner you pack your duffle bag and beat it out of here the better it’ll be for you.”

Schaeffer’s face had turned a brick red, and his eyes were glittering dangerously. For a second Bainbridge thought the man meant to pour out a furious stream of profane abuse. Instead of that, however, he turned suddenly, and his gaze swept keenly over the throng of men, each one of who had become aware of the newcomer’s presence, and was watching the altercation with frank curiosity and interest.

“So I’m fired, am I?” inquired Schaeffer, in an oddly gentle voice, and without glancing at Bainbridge. “Fired without a chance to say a word in my own defense?”

“You are!” retorted Bob crisply. “As for saying anything in your own defense, you may as well save your breath. I haven’t the time or the inclination to listen to lies. You’ve played the traitor and been found out, and if anybody ever asks why I let you go they’ll get the truth—no more, no less.”

“That so?” murmured Schaeffer, idly moving a small pebble with the toe of his heavy, spiked shoe. “I wonder, now?”

Without the slightest warning or preliminary movement of any sort, he whirled and smashed Bob square in the face with every ounce of strength he possessed. Bainbridge, staggered by the force and unexpectedness of it, stumbled back, tripped, and struck the ground with a crash. The drive boss leaped forward, his face distorted with passion, and delivered a fierce, slashing kick straight at the prostrate man’s groin.

CHAPTER V. FIGHTING FOUL

Half stunned though he was, Bob still had the wit to fling himself swiftly to one side, and he did so with such quick, intuitive agility that the long, sharp spikes of Schaeffer’s shoe barely grazed the flesh of his thigh.

Bob Bainbridge’s brain was cleared with the thoroughness and rapidity of an electric shock. He leaped to his feet just as the foreman tripped over Joe Moose’s deftly extended foot, and crashed headlong to the ground.

“Get up, you cur!” cried Bainbridge, as he jerked off the encumbering Mackinaw and tossed it from him. “Get up and take what’s coming to you!”

He was filled with the sudden, fierce, elemental joy of physical combat. For what seemed an eternity he had been holding himself in check by sheer will power, and now the relief of handling with bare fists this fellow who had played such a contemptible trick upon him was indescribable.

Schaeffer was on his feet like a cat, and came at Bainbridge with a rush. Bob side-stepped, swinging with his right at the drive boss’ ribs. To his astonishment the blow was blocked with the cleverness of a professional. An instant later Schaeffer whirled like a Dervish, and again his opponent felt the tearing of those spikes in the flesh of his left leg as he went staggering to both knees.

The surprise of discovering that Schaeffer could box scientifically was undoubtedly what checked Bob, and gave the fellow a chance to get in that second foul kick. The touch of those spikes, the realization that a man who could fight fairly and squarely was low enough to resort to such disgraceful tactics, made Bainbridge see red. Whether the Indian interfered again in his behalf he could not tell. He only knew that he was on his feet once more, fighting instinctively, and fairly overwhelming his opponent with a series of rushes which there was no withstanding. Schaeffer blocked them as best he could, depending a lot on clever footwork, and waited for his chance. It seemed certain that Bainbridge would soon let up and take things easier, and then it would be possible for the tricky riverman to use some of the other fouls of which he seemed to be a master.

The moment Bob came to his senses he did cut down his steam considerably. No human being could keep up that speed for any length of time and hope for victory, and Bainbridge meant to be victorious in this struggle. Even though Schaeffer possessed the skill of a champion, he must be beaten in some way, for the thought of succumbing to a treacherous cur like this was intolerable.

The fight which followed was a strange one. Bainbridge had never known anything like it in all his varied experience as a boxer. His opponent possessed exceptional skill in the art; he would, in fact, have been a hard man to defeat in the conventional ring. Add to this a knowledge of fouling which was simply extraordinary, and it will be seen what sort of an antagonist he was.

The mere mental strain involved was exhausting. Not only had Bob the thousand legitimate devices of the ring to look out for, but he never knew when to expect a vicious jab below the belt, or a nasty butt from the head. And always in the back of his mind was a fear that those murderous spikes might at any moment strike deeply, maimingly at the vital spot for which they had been aimed twice before.

By this time, of course, every “river hog” within sight had raced up, and the combatants were surrounded by a ring of eager spectators, several deep, which swayed and moved and billowed out elastically as the fight progressed. A number of them were evidently in sympathy with Schaeffer, and kept urging him to go in and win, but the majority remained silent save for occasional muttered ejaculations when a particularly clever or vicious blow struck home. Moose, his small black eyes glistening, but otherwise as stolid and unmoved as ever, managed constantly to retain his position in the front row.

For a long time Bainbridge kept his opponent in hand. Always the strain of waiting, expecting, planning to meet the unknown foul, was uppermost in his mind, to the exclusion of almost everything else. He knew in an intuitive sort of way that he was fighting well. He had landed several blows which staggered the man, and the fellow’s face, from which Bob never for an instant withdrew his eyes, was cut and bleeding. That proved little, however. He was evidently the sort that could take any amount of punishment, and come up for more. His wind seemed to be quite as good as Bob’s, and at length the latter was conscious of a single flash of doubt regarding the issue.

What if he should not win, as he had determined in the beginning? What if Schaeffer should, by fair means or foul, manage to knock him out? It would not be like an ordinary knock-out—simply the end of a fairly fought contest to decide which of two men is the better scrapper. He would be helpless for a space, and in the power of this cur who had thus far stopped at nothing. Moose could accomplish little on his behalf when opposed by the crowd of spectators, all of whom seemed, from what Bainbridge had caught of their comments, to be on Schaeffer’s side.

The thought of what might happen was not a pleasant one, and possibly it was that which led to Bainbridge’s undoing. He had so far instinctively avoided clinches as being favorable to fouls, but now, with his mind for a second partially distracted, after delivering a left-hand jab he did not spring back as swiftly as he might have done. The riverman took instant advantage of the chance, and leaped forward, gripping Bob’s wrist. In an instant Bainbridge had wrenched it away, but not too soon to prevent that close contact which he felt to be so dangerous.

“He’ll try something dirty now,” flashed through Bob’s brain. “I knew it! No, you don’t—now.”

Just in time he saw Schaeffer’s left knee suddenly jerked up and forward. Like a flash he leaped to one side, his whole mind intent on thwarting the intended trick, and so he fell for a move which would never ordinarily have bothered him.

A clenched fist, hard and compact almost as a stone, thudded solidly on the very point of his jaw. Bainbridge went suddenly limp, slipping noiselessly to the ground.

CHAPTER VI. THE FINISH UNEXPECTED

As Bob toppled forward and lay still, a long, deep, concerted sigh of released tension arose from the spectators, followed by a chorus of admiring commendation. These rough-and-ready river hogs saw nothing unfair in their foreman’s method of fighting. The woods’ rules of combat are simple. “Get your man,” is the principle one. The manner of getting does not count.

“Nice work, Pete!” called one. “Pretty!”

“Good for you, old buck! You put him to sleep fine!”

Schaeffer made no reply to these comments; in fact, it is doubtful if he heard them. His face, torn and bleeding in many places, bore an expression of utter savagery. His cut lips were drawn back over sharp teeth in a bestial snarl. His fists were clenched tightly, and every muscle was tense as he stood glaring down with hate-filled, bloodshot eyes at the body of his fallen opponent.

“You meddling dog!” he snarled viciously, after a momentary silence. “Thought you could lick me, did you? Thought you could put one over on me, you skunk! Well, you got yours, an’ I ain’t done with you yet, not by a long shot!”

He took a single swift step toward the prostrate man. It was plain to every one that he meant to drive that heavy, spiked boot again and again at the helpless body, yet not one of the rivermen uttered a word of protest. A number of faces expressed disapproval, but in the big woods if a man chooses to end a combat in this manner it isn’t etiquette to interfere.

Schaeffer paused beside the prostrate figure for a second or two, as if to prolong his pleasurable anticipation. Then, with a sudden snarl of returning fury, he swiftly drew back one foot.

“Stop!”

The word which came snapping across the circle held in it so much of the essence of command that the riverman obeyed instinctively; obeyed, and then, realizing what he had done, foamed with a fresh fury.

“Why, you copper-colored whelp!” he exploded, glaring darkly at the imperturbable redskin. “Wait! When I get through with this junk here——”

He stopped abruptly, and drew his breath with a whistling sound. Joe Moose was moving leisurely toward him, a most efficient-looking revolver pointed casually at the riverman’s stomach. He halted within a few feet of Schaeffer, and stood regarding him with that cool, expressionless stare which was so characteristic. On the ground between them Bainbridge gave a low groan, and moved his head uneasily from side to side.

“Fight not finish,” remarked the Indian blandly, “Bell go clang, like in ring. Heap soon Big Punch get up, start ’nother round. Get me, Steve?”

Schaeffer took an involuntary step backward, his face distorted.

“Somebody get busy an’ put this lunatic out o’ business,” he roared, glaring around at the ring of interested faces. “Bury a lead slug in his worthless carcass where it’ll do the most good.”

The guide was bending over his friend, vigorously chafing one limp hand.

“Better not,” he advised coolly, without raising his eyes. “Joe’s gun go off plenty quick. Hit Pete in bread basket. Make plenty bad hole no cork up.”

His weapon was still aimed directly at the discomfited riverman’s person, and Schaeffer seemed for the moment bereft of ideas for a proper retort. The silence was swiftly broken by a loud guffaw from one of the spectators, to whom the whole affair seemed to appeal as something uncommonly amusing.

“By thunder, boys!” he chuckled. “Hanged if the flea-bitten old cuss ain’t right! The kid’s comin’ around fast. I move we call this the end o’ the first round, an’ let the fight go on. It’ll help pass the time away, if nothin’ else.”

Schaeffer snapped out an angry expostulation, but the Indian’s idea seemed to take with the rough-and-ready crowd. Not one of them thought for an instant that the contest could possibly be drawn out for more than a few minutes longer, or they would, perhaps, not have been so eager. As it was, however, they took the Indian’s part with a rough sort of jocularity which the irritated drive boss knew better than to oppose.

And so when Bainbridge struggled back to consciousness—it had not been a complete knock-out, and he had never, save for the briefest second, been entirely senseless—he found this unexpected condition of affairs.

As his glance flashed past the Indian’s inquiring black eyes, and came to rest on Schaeffer’s sullen, hate-filled face, he made a queer, inarticulate noise in his throat, and tried to scramble up. Moose placed a firm, restraining hand quietly on his chest, and forced him back.

“Take easy,” he whispered. “Plenty time. Big Punch lie still. Get wind.”

Bob was no more anxious for this delay than was his complaining antagonist, but he was forced by Moose to keep his place even to a point when the spectators began to grumble. When at last he was allowed to get on his feet, however, he was more than thankful for the redskin’s wisdom. Even now his legs were not quite steady; the dragging lassitude and weakness which had gripped him were not wholly gone.

It vanished an instant later before that rush of vim and vigor and fierce determination—strange as the second wind which surprises the distressed runner—that suddenly came over him.

He waited Schaeffer’s savage charge instead of meeting it; waited with a cunning pretense of weakly swaying on his heels. But when the riverman was almost on him, he side-stepped neatly, lashing out a stinging right which caught his antagonist on one cheek, and sent him spinning around.

That blow was the beginning of the end. In itself it was nothing, but it marked a vital change in Bainbridge’s method of fighting. Hitherto his work had been clever boxing, to be sure, but just a trifle lacking in that dynamic energy which animated his opponent. The sense of fight convention was so strongly ingrained that, without consciousness of so doing, he was playing according to the rules.

Now, though he lost not a particle of his former skill, he used the defensive part of it less. He did not parry or block or feint so much. His work became more simple, more elemental, and—more deadly. He was out for results now. The hot blood tingled through his veins and flamed into his brain. The crude brute lust for combat gripped him to the exclusion of all else. This man had hurt him cruelly, and humiliated him beyond words. He meant to make him pay, and pay well, for both these injuries. The only difference now between himself and his opponent was that he continued to fight fairly, if ferociously, while Schaeffer did not.

The latter found little opportunity of fouling, however. To his amazement, he discovered that he needed every bit of skill and strength he possessed to keep his feet. Bob bored into him relentlessly, slugging like a pile driver, hammering at his stomach, raining well-directed blows on the heart and kidneys, or varying them now and then with a solid jolt to the jaw.

At first Schaeffer met this extraordinary assault with blind confidence in his ability to wear it out, accompanied by a furious anger at the presumption of the man. But swiftly this mental attitude changed to doubt, nervousness—at length to fear.

It was all so pitilessly indomitable, so machinelike, yet not at all mechanical, that Schaeffer began to grow afraid. He had a yellow streak, of course—men of his stamp usually have—and now it began to come out. His defense grew weaker and more flurried. Bainbridge’s punches struck home with increasing strength and frequency. Once, after a series of swift, smashing blows in the face, Schaeffer staggered back and dropped his guard involuntarily. Bob was following up with a straight body punch, but his cracked and bleeding fist stopped less than an inch, it seemed, from his opponent’s heaving chest.

“Put up your hands, you cur!” he panted harshly. “This fight isn’t over yet. Put ’em up and get busy!”

A second later, having obeyed ineffectually, Schaeffer was flung back into the astonished crowd by a jolt which nearly cracked his jaw.

“Let up on him!” suddenly cried one of the men who had been particularly eager, earlier in the game, in urging Schaeffer to the attack. “He’s had enough, I says. Time to quit an’ have done with it.”

Bainbridge flung back a long lock of black hair with a quick jerk of his head, and glared around the circle with fiercely blazing eyes.

“Is that so?” he jeered. “Who’s running this game? I didn’t hear any talk like that when I was getting the worst of it. You were ready enough to let him do what he liked with me, so keep out of this now while he takes his medicine.”

His glance veered swiftly to Schaeffer’s face, looking like a chalky mask dabbled with crimson, and he thrust his head forward.

“Well?” he sneered. “Scared, are you? I thought you were yellow down at the bottom. Put up your hands!” His voice was hard and cold, and utterly pitiless. “I’m not half done with you yet.”

The man’s exhausted, almost pitiful condition did not move him in the slightest. He thought only of the fellow’s treachery, of the repeated exhibitions of foul play and attempts to maim, and he had no mercy. When the riverman raised his hands in a weak, instinctive attempt at defense, Bainbridge leaped forward and broke his guard by smashing blows on the face.

Schaeffer gasped, cried out in agony and then thrust forward blind, groping hands. He was a picture of utter helplessness, and suddenly the sight of him standing there, with quivering lips and trembling hands, aroused in Bainbridge a bitter disgust—disgust for Schaeffer, for himself, and every one in sight.

He stepped back, his heavy black brows contracted in a frown, and stood for a second sizing up his man, and deciding just what sort of a punch would most quickly end the contest. Like a flash he leaped forward. The blow started almost at Bob’s hip, and held the whole compact mass of him behind it. It doubled Schaeffer like a jackknife, and sent him whirling backward into the arms of his men, a limp, utterly senseless mass.

CHAPTER VII. MASTER OF THE SITUATION

Consciously Bob Bainbridge stepped back a pace or two, and rested one hand on the shoulder of Moose. He was breathing hard, and the reaction from the stress and strain of vigorous fighting made him feel limp and unsteady.

No hint of this appeared on the surface. With cold, unemotional eyes he watched three or four men pick up the unconscious Schaeffer and carry him back to the tent.

Some of the men stood staring curiously, but the majority had gathered about a brawny youngster, handsome in a physical way, with bold blue eyes, a thatch of tawny yellow curls, and a reckless, dare-devil manner. He was one of those who had been readiest to take Schaeffer’s part, and now, as he turned toward Bainbridge, followed by a dozen or more of his companions, Bob was conscious of a sudden, curious sense of familiarity with the boy’s face. For a second he thought it simply the result of a rather good memory. This was his first sight of Schaeffer’s river gang but it was quite possible he had run across the rather striking youngster at some other time or place.

Curiously, yet—impassively, he watched the latter approach. There was a devil-may-care impudence in the very swing of his lithe, muscular body. When he came to a stop before the lumberman, hat stuck rakishly on one side of that yellow thatch, and hands resting lightly on his slim hips, his whole manner was one of such cool arrogance that Bob’s eyes narrowed, and the angry blood began to tingle again through his veins.

“Look here,” said the fellow insolently, “that was one dirty trick you played on Pete, and you’re goin’ to pay for it. Do you know what we’re goin’ to do?”

“Yes!” flamed Bainbridge, in a voice which made more than one husky river hog start nervously. “I do! You’re going down to that jam on the jump—and work! Get me? I mean real work, too, and not an imitation of kids playing. Thanks to a crooked drive boss the logs are hung up where no drive ever hung before. If you’d been half-way men you’d never have let such a thing happen.”

“By cripes!” roared the blond furiously, leaping at Bob, “there ain’t a man livin’ as can talk like that to me an’ git away with it. Why, you city dude, I’m going to show you that you can’t——”

“Cut that!”

Bainbridge suddenly loosened his grip on the Indian’s shoulder, and thrust his face squarely into the young fellow’s, until scarcely six inches separated them. He said not another word, but something blazed in his black eyes which presently sent the lids fluttering down over the blue ones, and brought a touch of dull scarlet flaming dully beneath the deeply tanned skin. It was simply the force of a stronger nature, a nature untroubled by brag and bluster which imposes its will on others by sheer strength of character.

The instant the silent duel had ended, Bob flung back his head and glanced again at the puzzled, waiting throng of men.

“I’m Bob Bainbridge,” he said, in a crisp, unemotional tone, which was in odd contrast to the sense of tension just passed. “We’ve wasted entirely too much time jawing, and it’s up to you boys to get a move on. That jam’s got to be started before sundown. Understand? Now, where’s the jam boss, Jack Peters?”

“Laid up,” explained one of the men, after a moment’s hesitation. “He got his foot near cut off with an ax.”

Bainbridge’s eves narrowed. This would be termed an accident, of course, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was simply another score to the credit of Schaeffer and the men who had bribed him to do his dirty work.

“Humph!” he shrugged. “Where’s your dynamite, then? Oh, you’re the one, are you? Well, get your stuff down to the jam in a hurry. How many charges have been fired already?”

With downcast eyes the riverman explained that dynamite had not yet been used. Bob’s lips curled.

“I might have guessed it,” he said scornfully. “Well, hustle along the canned thunder! The rest of you get ready to follow down the drive.”

The men obeyed without question, and in a moment were streaming toward the jam. Besides command in Bainbridge’s voice, there was optimistic confidence which stirred these rough-and-ready river hogs. Because Schaeffer ordered it they had dawdled along fruitlessly for several days, knowing perfectly well that the jam was beyond any hope from picking, and that dynamite was the only thing which would stir it. Superficially they had enjoyed these days of loafing, but deep down in their hearts had lingered a feeling of personal shame that a gang of supposedly A-1 lumberjacks should be knowingly throwing away their time in this manner.

The youngster with the bold blue eyes and curly yellow hair went with the rest, but more slowly, perhaps, and biting his lip as he strode away. His face was flushed darkly ad his muscular hands tightly clenched at the thought of having allowed himself to be called down in this humiliating manner, without even a word of retort. Even now he did not know why he had done it. The fact that the newcomer was Bob Bainbridge was not a thing entirely to influence his independent soul. There was something else—some quality in the man himself that had made him knuckle down as he had never done before.

Puzzled, chagrined, scowling blackly, he slouched after his comrades, hands thrust deep in trousers pockets, and feet kicking at roots or hummocks—for all the world like a spoiled, sullen schoolboy.

Bainbridge was, by this time, utterly oblivious to the man’s very existence. He had thrust from his mind every thought save the immediate pressing need of starting the jam, and to this end he bent every effort.

While Jerry Calker was making ready the dynamite cartridges, Bob went out on the great mass of logs piled up like a heap of gigantic jackstraws, and inspected it hastily but thoroughly. It was he who directed the placing of the first blast, and he who was the first to seek cover. He it was who first rushed to the spot in the very midst of that shower of bark and splinters and wood chips raining down after the upheaval of timber had subsided.

He saw the whole vast surface of the jam quiver and heave, and for a moment he hoped the shot had been successful. That hope proved groundless, however. The jam settled back into immovability again; they would have to try once more.

The second blast seemed at first to be no more effective than the other. Then Bob’s keen eye perceived an encouraging variation. Over the surface of the jam a curious, uneasy motion began to spread from one log to another. The crew, which had run lightly out to the very face, worked swiftly with their peavies, pulling, shoving, jerking the timbers this way and that. From his point of vantage Bainbridge watched their work with approval. They were evidently far from being the incompetents that first sight of them might have led one to suppose. He noticed that the fellow with the curly yellow hair was particularly skillful, having apparently laid aside his grouch, and taken hold from sheer love of the work and delight in accomplishing something.

Somehow Bob could not help following his movements for a minute or two, and presently, in spite of all that had gone before, his heart began to warm to the lithe, active, fearless youngster who seemed to have the knack of always being in the right place and doing the thing most needed at precisely the right moment.

“A good man,” Bainbridge muttered to himself at length, “Hanged if he isn’t!”

But now the jam was actually in motion, crawling forward with many creaks and crackings. The men worked harder, accelerating its progress, and making sure that nothing went wrong. Suddenly the whole central part of the face fell forward into the stream with a tremendous crash, and there was a whirling, backward rush on the part of those who had been working on the very brink. As they zigzagged to shore by devious routes, they raised the gladsome cry:

“She pulls, boys—she pulls!”

The sound was as music to Bainbridge’s ears, but he only smiled grimly and strode rapidly along the bank of the stream. His eyes were fixed on the foam and spray and rolling, rushing timbers, on some of which, holding by their sharp spikes and balancing perfectly, rode the skilled rivermen who preferred this method to the more prosaic one of walking ashore.

One of these was the blond youngster, and presently, reaching a point on the bend where he thought a man was needed to prevent fresh jamming, Bob beckoned him ashore.

He came—lightly from log to log, or temporarily rode nearer the bank by means of his peavey. His last easy spring brought him to land beside Bainbridge, where he stood at silent attention, his boldly handsome face beginning to show anew the look of sullen embarrassment it had momentarily lost.

“Keep a lookout here for while,” Bob said briefly. “It’s rather a bad place. By the way,” he went on, struck afresh by that haunting sense of familiarity which had come to him before, “what’s your name?”

The young giant dropped his lids, and his muscular fingers interlocked tightly around the stout ash pole of the peavey.

“Curly,” he said, in an oddly embarrassed tone.

“Ah! That all?”

The youngster hesitated, and then, flinging back his head, stared defiantly at Bainbridge.

“No,” he retorted. “It’s Kollock—Curly Kollock.”

Bob frowned slightly. “Indeed! Any relation to Bill?”

“His brother.”

The frown deepened and there was silence for a moment. Bill Kollock, the “trouble man” of Elihu Crane and his associates in the Lumber Trust, was not a character to commend himself to Bainbridge. The brother was more than likely to be of the same breed, he reflected as he stared with hard, narrowing eyes at the flushed, defiant face of the boy before him. And yet——

“Well?” snapped the boy suddenly. “I s’pose this means git my time?”

Bob raised his eyebrows. “Why so?” he inquired coldly.

Kollock shrugged his shoulders with an exaggerated nonchalance and ease which defeated its purpose.

“I don’t reckon you’re very keen about having a Kollock on your drive,” he retorted.

“That’s where you guess wrong,” returned Bainbridge, with a sudden bland indifference. “If you want to quit, of course, that’s your own affair; but as for laying you off, I never fire a good workman because his family doesn’t happen to be to my liking. So far as anything really underhand is concerned”—he paused for a second and looked the boy square in the eyes—“I’m not afraid of that—from you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode on along the river bank, leaving young Curly to stare after him, his face flushed, and a curious, unwonted expression in his blue eyes.

CHAPTER VIII. THE EMPTY BOX

As soon as the drive was actually started on its way downstream, Bob made haste to bring some sort of order out of the chaos he had found. Having watched the men at work, he was able to get some slight idea of their capabilities, which was vitally necessary in dividing them into the “rear” and the “jam” crew.

The latter, in charge of a hastily appointed foreman, went forward to take charge of the head of the drive. The work of the rear comprised setting stranded logs afloat, breaking up incipient jams, and other duties too numerous to mention.

The men composing the squad were always the most skillful and experienced in the gang. They had to be continually on the alert, working usually at high tension, and more than half the time in icy water to their waists. They had to be able to ride anything in the shape of a log in any sort of water, and work day after day for twelve and fourteen hours at a stretch. They must be swift as lightning in their movements, and possessed of judgment, ability, and nerve.

It was impossible, of course, for Bob to pick out an ideal rear crew from merely having seen the men in action for a scant few minutes. He did not try. He simply used his very excellent judgment, reserving mentally the right to change his mind whenever he felt like it, and juggle the men around as he chose.

The principal necessity was to start things moving. When he had done so, Bainbridge returned to camp with the twofold object of giving the cook his orders, and having a final settlement with Schaeffer. The latter was not particularly pleasant, but it was important. The man must quit the crew at once. Bob had made up his mind not to let the fellow spend even the night where he would have a chance to talk with and perhaps influence the others. With this determination uppermost, he passed by the mess tent to the other where the men slept, pulled aside the flap, and stepped inside.

The place was a mess of blankets and half-dried clothes, but to Bob’s surprise it was vacant of anything in the nature of a man. Evidently Schaeffer had recovered and vamoosed. Thoughtfully he sought the cook, and put the question.

“Came in here an’ got some grub a full hour ago,” that servitor explained briefly. “When he’d eat it he went off agin.”

“Didn’t he say where he was going?” Bainbridge asked.

The cook shook his head. “Nary word.”

“And you didn’t happen to see what direction he took?”

“Nary a sight,” was the reply. “I was busy inside.”

Bob frowned for a second, and then shrugged his shoulders. After all, what did it matter where the fellow had gone, so long as he had taken himself away? It was very natural for him to avoid the man who had so humiliated him, though it was rather puzzling to have him slip away without apparently encountering any one.

Bob proceeded to give his orders to the cook, explaining that he would have to pull up stakes at once and start down the river.

“The boys will be a long way from here by nightfall,” he said, “so you’ll have to hustle. I’ve saved out a couple of men to help you and the cookee, who’ll be under your orders till you pitch camp to-night.”

Outside the mess tent he hesitated an instant. Then he entered the other tent. This time he did not pause by the door, but crossed hastily to the farther corner, where there was a small space crudely partitioned off from the main portion. This would be Schaeffer’s sanctum, of course, and Bob entered it curiously—only to stop with an exclamation of mingled surprise, anger, and chagrin.

The place was in the utmost disorder. Blankets were rolled up in a ball and flung into the corner. Articles of wearing apparel were scattered about, while over everything were sifted scraps of white paper in seemingly endless quantity. It was these torn scraps that roused Bob’s indignation. He seemed to know intuitively, without the evidence of the limp, empty book covers here and there, that the foreman had taken time to tear into shreds every record and paper connected with the drive which he possessed. Time books, scalers’ measurements—everything—had been destroyed practically beyond the possibility of reconstruction. There would be no accurate way now by which the firm could figure their profits or costs or labor charges. The very paying of the drive crew would be a matter of guesswork.

“Jove!” exclaimed Bainbridge through his clenched teeth. “I didn’t know a man could be so rotten!”

He stared at the wreck for a minute longer, and then turned over with his foot the square, wooden box which lay upset in the middle of the mess. Apparently it had served Schaeffer as a receptacle for these same records. It was quite empty, but underneath lay something which brought a thoughtful, questioning expression into the searcher’s face, and made him stoop to pick it up.

“Thirty-eight caliber,” he murmured, staring at the freshly opened pasteboard box which had contained fifty cartridges. “Hum!”

Presently he let it drop again. He did not move for a space, but stood staring at the ground with that same odd, thoughtful pucker in his forehead.

There was nothing surprising in the fact of Schaeffer’s being armed, Neither was it strange for a man in the riverman’s position to carry off his ammunition loose instead of in the box. That was not the point. It was simply the train of thought aroused which struck Bainbridge unpleasantly. He felt Schaeffer to be capable of almost any villainy provided it could be accomplished with safety to himself. The humiliation of that fight, too, had added a powerful incentive to the one already offered by Crane and the Lumber Trust for the eclipse of Bob Bainbridge. And a total eclipse would be so easy! Just a single shot fired from the bushes at a moment when there was no one else about to see or hear. In this wild country the chances of escaping were infinite. The man might not even be suspected.

Bob suddenly moved his shoulders impatiently, frowned, and turned away. A moment later his eyes twinkled mirthfully.

“Another minute and I’d have the undertaker picked out,” he chuckled. “The scoundrel hasn’t the common courage to do murder. All the same,” he added, with a decisive squaring of the shoulders, “I’ll put a crimp in his little game about those records. I’ll have cookee scrape ’em all up, and ship the whole bunch down to John. That clerk, Wiggins, can put ’em together, I’ll bet! Patience is his middle name—patience and picture puzzles. We’ll have the laugh on Pete, after all—hanged if we won’t!”

CHAPTER IX. IN THE SWIFT CURRENT

The clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of Deer Pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the Megantic. It was a full day’s work, much better than Bainbridge had hoped for, and, as he approached the big drying fire flaming up at one side of the camp made by Charlie Hanley, the cook, Bob shook his own hand in silent, grinning self-congratulation. He knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off.

Presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry. The drying racks were swiftly steaming with the soggy garments, and the men fell to upon their supper without a second’s delay. There was little conversation—they were too busy for that; but Bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. Evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning. In fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so.

Next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of Loon Lake, with the drive before them. Bob could not understand it. All day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust. When it did not come he was almost disappointed. It was impossible to believe that Crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. He would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack.

However, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. Bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of Crane or his satellites. It was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another. It was done without mishap, however, and Bainbridge was just congratulating himself on having got safely over one of the most disagreeable bits of the entire distance when Jerry Calker approached him as he stood watching the last few logs bob slowly out of the lake into the swifter current of the stream.

“Jack wants to know can you spare him a few minutes, sir,” he explained. “There’s a bit of trouble down below.”

“What kind of trouble?” Bob asked swiftly, turning downstream without an instant’s delay; and walking by the side of the dynamite man.

Calker scratched his head slowly. “I ain’t quite certain sure, Mr. Bainbridge,” he drawled, “but I got a idea there’s a fellow with a mill who’s run out a sortin’ boom that’s goin’ to hang up our drive if we ain’t mighty keerful.”

“A mill!” exclaimed Bob incredulously. “Why, there isn’t such a thing within twenty miles—at least, there wasn’t three months ago.”

Calker grinned. “Thought it looked kinda new. I couldn’t rightly say that it’s finished, but there ain’t no manner of a doubt about the boom. The jam had started before I come away, an’ I left Jack havin’ it hot an’ heavy with a red-headed son of a gun who sure looked as if scrap was his middle name.”

Bainbridge frowned, but asked no further questions. He scarcely spoke, in fact, during all of the four miles, but it was evident to his observing companion that he was doing a lot of thinking.

Long before reaching the point of obstruction it became evident that another jam had formed. The current grew more and more sluggish, and the progress of the logs downstream became slower and slower, until at length the entire surface of the water was covered with floating timber. These in turn crowded upon one another with a rapidity which threatened to equal that first jam unless something was swiftly done.

Hurrying on, Bob presently caught up with a throng of his own men, who had apparently just landed from the dangerous, constantly shifting surface of the river. They looked at him with a frank curiosity, as if wondering what he meant to do in this emergency. On the faces of a few were expressions of grim, anticipatory amusement, but Bainbridge heeded these no more than he had the others. Without pausing even glancing to right or left, he strode on, and reached the scene of action.

On the same bank, a little way back from the water, stood a small building, so hastily thrown together that the roof was not yet completed. One or two men were standing near it, staring interestedly at the crowd gathered about something at the water’s edge which Bob at once saw to be one end of a massive, well-constructed log boom. The other end, out beyond the middle of the river, was supported by some stout spiles, and the whole affair took up so much of the stream’s width that Bainbridge’s drive had jammed against it hard and fast.

All this Bob took in without slackening his pace. Reaching the outer edge of the circle, he pushed through to where Jack Peters, his jam boss, stood facing a compact group of six or eight strangers, gathered closely about the end of the boom, Jack was florid with rage, and choking with impotent fury. The strangers composing the little group instantly struck Bob as being singularly strong and rugged. They looked as if they had been picked for their physical efficiency. Each one was armed with rifle or pistol, while their leader, a competent-looking person with red hair and whiskers, held in one hand a snub-nosed, businesslike automatic.

“Well, Jack,” Bainbridge said curtly, as he reached the foreman’s side, “what’s the trouble?”

Before Peters could reply the red-haired man took a single step forward and faced Bob.

“I can tell you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he snapped viciously. “This river hog o’ yours thinks he kin play the devil with my boom, but he’s got another guess comin’. I own this land an’ that sawmill. I got a right to run my booms out in the river same as anybody else. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, but the first man as tries any monkey business wants to look out, that’s all.”

Bainbridge raised his eyebrows, and let his gaze wander leisurely from the man’s head to his heels with an expression which brought an added touch of color to the already flushed cheeks.

“Indeed!” he drawled. “Who are you?”

“Who be I?” retorted the other angrily. “Humph! I don’t see that it makes no difference, but my name’s Joyce—John Joyce. An’ I ain’t the kind as backs down an’ takes water, believe me!”

A singularly irritating smile curved the corners of Bob’s lips. His unruffled composure served, as he hoped it might, to increase the rage of Mr. Joyce.

“Do you realize that you’re obstructing navigation?” he inquired suavely.

“I don’t admit it,” snapped Joyce. “There’s plenty of room for your drive to git past if you had a gang that knew their business, instead of a lot o’ greenhorns.”

“I dare say you could give us all points,” Bainbridge murmured smoothly, with just the right inflection of sarcasm to sting. It had suddenly occurred to him that the fellow’s object was to make him lose his temper, and thus precipitate a clash, during which almost anything might be accomplished. Not only did he refuse to let go his grip, but he did his very best to goad Joyce himself into flaming out, and possibly betraying a few secrets.

“That’s hardly the question, though,” he went on swiftly. “Strikes me you’ve been rather premature in running out the boom. Your mill isn’t operating, and I have yet to see a single log coming downstream except our own.”

“Never you mind that,” retorted Joyce hotly. “Do you think a man’s going to wait till his timber comes in sight afore makin’ arrangements to take care of it? You can’t come over me with no soft talk like that. The boom’s there, an’ there it stays. Half the river’s clear for you to use, an’ that’s all you gets.”

“Hum! That’s your last word, is it?” inquired Bainbridge quietly. “You even refuse to let us swing the boom around so we can break our jam?”

“I do!” replied the red-haired individual emphatically. “The first man that tries to monkey with my property will wish he hadn’t, that’s all I got to say.”

He raised his automatic significantly, but Bob was not even looking at him. The young man’s gaze had swept out to the face of the jam, and in an incredibly short space an accurate picture of its appearance had been photographed on his brain. Still without giving Joyce the satisfaction of a glance, he turned away, motioning Peters to accompany him.

“A put-up job, of course,” he said tersely, when they were through the circle of his own men. “Same gang who bought Schaeffer.”

The jam boss nodded in a troubled way. “I’m afraid they’ve got us bad, too. It’s goin’ to take one long time pickin’ that jam apart, but I can’t see anythin’ else to do. I spose I’d better start ’em at it right away, sir.”

“Not at all,” retorted Bob swiftly. “Do nothing of the kind. Let ’em stay just where they are, Jerry!”

At the sound of his imperative undertone Calker hustled up. There was a brief interchange of words between the trio, during which the faces of both lumberjacks brightened—amazingly. Then all three disappeared into the bushes a little way upstream, from which they did not emerge for a considerable time.

When they finally appeared, Bainbridge held by his side a shapeless package of considerable size. Had not Peters and Calker walked so close beside him as he bent his way leisurely toward the crowd about the jam, it would probably have been noticed that this package was made up of a dozen or more sticks of giant powder fastened securely together, and depending from a sling of stout manila rope.

The line of rivermen had turned, and were watching his approach with interested curiosity, but Joyce and his gang could see nothing. Reaching the men, Bob paused, struck a match, and carefully lighted the end of a protruding fuse. As it sputtered up he gave a short, sharp word of command, the line of men opened instantly to let him through, and a second later he stood not a dozen paces from Joyce, deliberately swinging the deadly package round and round his head.

For a second there was a breathless hush. Then the red-haired man leaped forward.

“Stop!” he roared. “You young whelp, if you——”

He broke off with a gurgling sound, and the color left his face. With a final swing, Bob loosened his hold on the bundle, which curved in a perfect arc over the rear of the jam, over the jagged crest, and dropped swiftly out of sight amid the massive timbers upended in confusion along the face and close to the spot where protruded the freshly driven spiles which had caused all the trouble.

An instant later the whole throng of men hustled frantically for cover.

CHAPTER X. THE POWER BEHIND IT ALL

In less than sixty seconds—so close had been Bob’s calculations—came a detonation which shook the earth, making several of the running men stagger and lose their stride. Up spurted a great mass of water, carrying with it massive logs leaping like agonized things alive. They fell back again, followed by a shower of débris mingled with fine spray, which the wind sifted down on the heads of the ducking, dodging men.

From his place behind a stump Bainbridge rose swiftly, shielding his face with one crooked arm from the rain of chips and splinters and bits of bark, and stared eagerly toward the jam. It took but a moment to see that the spiles had disappeared, and the boom was shattered. Moreover, the key logs of the jam were so loosened that the whole drive was again on its way downstream. Bob turned to Peters with a gesture of satisfaction.

“She’s off, Jack,” he said. “Get a wiggle on, now, and rush her along. The water’s dropping every minute, and we’ve got a mean stretch to cover before we strike the Penobscot. I’ll go back and hustle the rear along——”

He stopped abruptly, and whirled around as a voice, shrill and trembling with passion, was raised behind him.

“You’ll pay for that, you meddlin’ pup! I’ll teach you to go blowin’ up folks’ property, an’ mighty near committin’ murder! I’ll show you you can’t play tricks on John Joyce an’ get away with it. That game might work with some, but it won’t——”

Things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble.

The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger.

For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. Perhaps he read a hint of Joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye; perhaps it was simply intuition which made him guess what was coming. At all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle.

His shoulder struck Joyce’s knees, and the wicked, snapping shot of the revolver rang out at precisely the same moment. There was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. Then almost oppressive silence.

Bob was on his feet like a cat, fingers gripping the automatic he had snatched from the owner’s nerveless hand. His jaw was hard, and there was a glint of more than anger in the eyes he bent upon Joyce’s supporters hurrying up to the aid of their chief.