And as a man had to be able to ride any kind of a log in any water;to propel that log by jumping on it, by rolling it squirrel fashion with the feet, by punting it as one would a canoe; to be skillful in pushing, prying, and poling other logs from the quarter deck of the same cranky craft; as he must be prepared at any and all times to jump waist deep into the river, to work in ice-water hours at a stretch; as he was called upon to break the most dangerous jams on the river, representing, as they did, the accumulation which the jam crew had left behind them, it was naturally considered the height of glory to belong to the rear crew.Here were the best of the Fighting Forty,--men with a reputation as "white-water birlers"--men afraid of nothing.
Every morning the crews were divided into two sections under Kerlie and Jack Hyland.Each crew had charge of one side of the river, with the task of cleaning it thoroughly of all stranded and entangled logs.Scotty Parsons exercised a general supervisory eye over both crews.Shearer and Thorpe traveled back and forth the length of the drive, riding the logs down stream, but taking to a partly submerged pole trail when ascending the current.On the surface of the river in the clear water floated two long graceful boats called bateaux.
These were in charge of expert boatmen,--men able to propel their craft swiftly forwards, backwards and sideways, through all kinds of water.They carried in racks a great supply of pike-poles, peaveys, axes, rope and dynamite, for use in various emergencies.
Intense rivalry existed as to which crew "sacked" the farthest down stream in the course of the day.There was no need to urge the men.Some stood upon the logs, pushing mightily with the long pike-poles.Others, waist deep in the water, clamped the jaws of their peaveys into the stubborn timbers, and, shoulder bent, slid them slowly but surely into the swifter waters.Still others, lining up on either side of one of the great brown tree trunks, carried it bodily to its appointed place.From one end of the rear to the other, shouts, calls, warnings, and jokes flew back and forth.Once or twice a vast roar of Homeric laughter went up as some unfortunate slipped and soused into the water.When the current slacked, and the logs hesitated in their run, the entire crew hastened, bobbing from log to log, down river to see about it.Then they broke the jam, standing surely on the edge of the great darkness, while the ice water sucked in and out of their shoes.
Behind the rear Big Junko poled his bateau backwards and forwards exploding dynamite.Many of the bottom tiers of logs in the rollways had been frozen down, and Big Junko had to loosen them from the bed of the stream.He was a big man, this, as his nickname indicated, built of many awkwardnesses.His cheekbones were high, his nose flat, his lips thick and slobbery.He sported a wide, ferocious straggling mustache and long eye-brows, under which gleamed little fierce eyes.His forehead sloped back like a beast's, but was always hidden by a disreputable felt hat.Big Junko did not know much, and had the passions of a wild animal, but he was a reckless riverman and devoted to Thorpe.Just now he exploded dynamite.
The sticks of powder were piled amidships.Big Junko crouched over them, inserting the fuses and caps, closing the openings with soap, finally lighting them, and dropping them into the water alongside, where they immediately sank.Then a few strokes of a short paddle took him barely out of danger.He huddled down in his craft, waiting.One, two, three seconds passed.Then a hollow boom shook the stream.A cloud of water sprang up, strangely beautiful.After a moment the great brown logs rose suddenly to the surface from below, one after the other, like leviathans of the deep.And Junko watched, dimly fascinated, in his rudimentary animal's brain, by the sight of the power he had evoked to his aid.
When night came the men rode down stream to where the wanigan had made camp.There they slept, often in blankets wetted by the wanigan's eccentricities, to leap to their feet at the first cry in early morning.Some days it rained, in which case they were wet all the time.Almost invariably there was a jam to break, though strangely enough almost every one of the old-timers believed implicitly that "in the full of the moon logs will run free at night."Thorpe and Tim Shearer nearly always slept in a dog tent at the rear; though occasionally they passed the night at Dam Two, where Bryan Moloney and his crew were already engaged in sluicing the logs through the chute.
The affair was simple enough.Long booms arranged in the form of an open V guided the drive to the sluice gate, through which a smooth apron of water rushed to turmoil in an eddying pool below.Two men tramped steadily backwards and forwards on the booms, urging the logs forward by means of long pike poles to where the suction could seize them.Below the dam, the push of the sluice water forced them several miles down stream, where the rest of Bryan Moloney's crew took them in charge.
Thus through the wide gate nearly three-quarters of a million feet an hour could be run--a quantity more than sufficient to keep pace with the exertions of the rear.The matter was, of course, more or less delayed by the necessity of breaking out such rollways as they encountered from time to time on the banks.At length, however, the last of the logs drifted into the wide dam pool.The rear had arrived at Dam Two, and Thorpe congratulated himself that one stage of his journey had been completed.Billy Camp began to worry about shooting the wanigan through the sluice-way.
Chapter XLVIII
The rear had been tenting at the dam for two days, and was about ready to break camp, when Jimmy Powers swung across the trail to tell them of the big jam.
