"Well, Billy," he inquired, "how do you like your fiddler?""All RIGHT!" replied Billy with emphasis."She's got some go to her."In the woods the work proceeded finely.From the travoy sledges and the short roads a constant stream of logs emptied itself on the bank.There long parallel skidways had been laid the whole width of the river valley.Each log as it came was dragged across those monster andirons and rolled to the bank of the river.The cant-hook men dug their implements into the rough bark, leaned, lifted, or clung to the projecting stocks until slowly the log moved, rolling with gradually increasing momentum.Then they attacked it with fury lest the momentum be lost.Whenever it began to deviate from the straight rolling necessary to keep it on the center of the skids, one of the workers thrust the shoe of his cant-hook under one end of the log.That end promptly stopped; the other, still rolling, soon caught up; and the log moved on evenly, as was fitting.
At the end of the rollway the log collided with other logs and stopped with the impact of one bowling ball against another.The men knew that being caught between the two meant death or crippling for life.Nevertheless they escaped from the narrowing interval at the latest possible moment, for it is easier to keep a log rolling than to start it.
Then other men piled them by means of long steel chains and horses, just as they would have skidded them in the woods.Only now the logs mounted up and up until the skidways were thirty or forty feet high.
Eventually the pile of logs would fill the banking ground utterly, burying the landing under a nearly continuous carpet of timber as thick as a two-story house is tall.The work is dangerous.A saw log containing six hundred board feet weighs about one ton.This is the weight of an ordinary iron safe.When one of them rolls or falls from even a moderate height, its force is irresistible.But when twenty or thirty cascade down the bold front of a skidway, carrying a man or so with them, the affair becomes a catastrophe.
Thorpe's men, however, were all old-timers, and nothing of the sort occurred.At first it made him catch his breath to see the apparent chances they took; but after a little he perceived that seeming luck was in reality a coolness of judgment and a long experience in the peculiar ways of that most erratic of inanimate cussedness--the pine log.The banks grew daily.Everybody was safe and sound.
The young lumberman had sense enough to know that, while a crew such as his is supremely effective, it requires careful handling to keep it good-humored and willing.He knew every man by his first name, and each day made it a point to talk with him for a moment or so.The subject was invariably some phase of the work.Thorpe never permitted himself the familiarity of introducing any other topic.By this course he preserved the nice balance between too great reserve, which chills the lumber-jack's rather independent enthusiasm, and the too great familiarity, which loses his respect.
He never replied directly to an objection or a request, but listened to it non-committally; and later, without explanation or reasoning, acted as his judgment dictated.Even Shearer, with whom he was in most intimate contact, respected this trait in him.Gradually he came to feel that he was making a way with his men.It was a status, not assured as yet nor even very firm, but a status for all that.
Then one day one of the best men, a teamster, came in to make some objection to the cooking.As a matter of fact, the cooking was perfectly good.It generally is, in a well-conducted camp, but the lumber-jack is a great hand to growl, and he usually begins with his food.
Thorpe listened to his vague objections in silence.
"All right," he remarked simply.
Next day he touched the man on the shoulder just as he was starting to work.
"Step into the office and get your time," said he.
"What's the matter?" asked the man.
"I don't need you any longer."
The two entered the little office.Thorpe looked through the ledger and van book, and finally handed the man his slip.
"Where do I get this?" asked the teamster, looking at it uncertainly.
"At the bank in Marquette," replied Thorpe without glancing around.
"Have I got to go 'way up to Marquette?"
"Certainly," replied Thorpe briefly.
"Who's going to pay my fare south?"
"You are.You can get work at Marquette.""That ain't a fair shake," cried the man excitedly.
"I'll have no growlers in this camp," said Thorpe with decision.
"By God!" cried the man, "you damned---"
"You get out of here!" cried Thorpe with a concentrated blaze of energetic passion that made the fellow step back.
"I ain't goin' to get on the wrong side of the law by foolin' with this office," cried the other at the door, "but if I had you outside for a minute---""Leave this office!" shouted Thorpe.
"S'pose you make me!" challenged the man insolently.
In a moment the defiance had come, endangering the careful structure Thorpe had reared with such pains.The young man was suddenly angry in exactly the same blind, unreasoning manner as when he had leaped single-handed to tackle Dyer's crew.
Without a word he sprang across the shack, seized a two-bladed ax from the pile behind the door, swung it around his head and cast it full at the now frightened teamster.The latter dodged, and the swirling steel buried itself in the snowbank beyond.Without an instant's hesitation Thorpe reached back for another.The man took to his heels.
"I don't want to see you around here again!" shouted Thorpe after him.
Then in a moment he returned to the office and sat down overcome with contrition.
"It might have been murder!" he told himself, awe-stricken.
But, as it happened, nothing could have turned out better.
