WHEN TITANS DRIVE

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.

Hands up! he cried out harshly, Quick!

He did not have to speak twice. There was something in his voice, coupled with an emphatic gesture with the automatic, which made those six men, big and powerful as they were, obey him with remarkable unanimity.

Take their guns, Jack, continued Bainbridge, in that same commanding voice.

Peters stepped forward to obey. The first man drew back instinctively, and started to pull down the hand which held a revolver. Without an instant’s hesitation Bob fired. The bullet struck the upraised weapon on its blued-steel barrel, wringing a cry of surprise and pain from the fellow’s lips as he dropped the gun.

There was no more trouble after that, Peters collected four revolvers and two Remingtons. Then he glanced questioningly at Bainbridge.

Throw ’em in the river, the latter commander curtly. ’Way out in the middle, where they can’t be recovered.

The riverman walked a few steps toward the bank; then, pausing, he glanced back at the straight young figure standing behind him.

They’re mighty good guns, he said hesitatingly. Seems a shame to throw ’em away like this.

Bainbridge returned briefly: I’m simply pulling the stings of this gang.

He watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him.

Go! he commanded, with a momentary flare of passion. Beat it, and don’t let me set eyes on you again—understand? I won’t be so easy on you the next time. Here, take that scum with you. He’s only stunned.

He waited, staring from under lowered lids, until the gang had disappeared in the bushes, half dragging, half carrying their stunned leader with them. Then, with a long sigh, he turned slowly and smiled at Peters.

All right, Jack, he said quietly. I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble here. Just hustle all you can to make up for this delay.

Peters grinned, and snapped out some orders to the men which sent them flying along the bank and even out on the stream over the tumbling logs. But as they went they cast glances of open, unadulterated admiration at the young man coolly brushing a bit of mud from one shoulder, and their comments to each other left no trace of doubt of their thorough approval of everything he had said and done.

Bob heard some of them, and when the men had gone on he smiled a bit. To get that drive down successfully he knew he must have the men with him. He knew also that deliberate planning could not have accomplished that result half so well as this encounter with the tools of the Lumber Trust. The whole affair had proved a great piece of luck for him, thought the young lumberman. His meditation was broken in upon by the sound of a strange voice.

I had no idea lumbering was such a strenuous occupation.

A moment later Bainbridge was looking into a pair of pleasant, friendly eyes set in the handsome face of a man of about fifty. He was roughly dressed in well-worn, but finely made fishing clothes, and carried a good trout rod in one hand. There was, too, about the stranger an air of forceful capability which attracted the younger man.

It’s not usually quite so full of incident, said Bob; but I don’t believe you’d ever find it exactly tame.

The stranger smiled, and made a comprehensive gesture with his hands. And this is your idea of incident, he murmured whimsically. I should call it something decidedly stronger.

He hesitated for an instant, then moved closer to Bob.

You’re going downstream, aren’t you? Do you mind if I walk along with you? My camp’s down that way.

Bainbridge acquiesced readily. There was something very taking about the stranger, and within ten minutes he found himself chatting as if to an old friend. His companion turned out to be Wolcott Sears, of Boston, on a two weeks’ trip in the Maine woods. The name was only vaguely familiar, but Bob felt sure from his manner that he was a man of affairs. He was tremendously interested in hearing all about the peculiar conditions of this particular drive, and before Bainbridge realized it he had given a brief narrative of his fight with the Lumber Trust and the events which had grown out of it.

You interest me extraordinarily, Mr. Bainbridge, the older man said, in his crisp, decisive way, when at last they paused at the point several miles below the scene of the last jam, where Sears had to branch off to reach his camp. Things of this sort always do, for it’s only those one has to struggle for which are really worth while. You’ve certainly had to fight hard in this case, but you’ve practically won out, haven’t you? After this last fracas I shouldn’t suppose there’d be much chance for further interference.

Bob shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. You sadly underestimate the power of the trust, Mr. Sears. I shan’t be beyond the chance of interference until the drive is safe in our mill booms at Lancaster, and even then it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d try to work some dirty trick.

Sears frowned indignantly; then his face brightened.

In spite of everything I think I should bet on you. he chuckled. There’s a certain vigor in your method of dealing with these people which makes for success. I really believe you’ll win, Mr. Bainbridge, and I surely hope so. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and I trust one to be repeated. I shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before I leave.

Bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while Sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward.

Fine man, commented the younger man aloud. Hope I do run into him again. Meanwhile, however, the rear isn’t coming along half quick enough, and I haven’t seen a darn thing all afternoon of the wangan. I hope nothing’s happened to it and the grub. That would be one awful blow!

It was one that was spared him. Within half an hour the clumsy scow hove in sight. It tied up to the bank a little later, and before dark preparations for supper were going on merrily.

Bob did not get in till later. Assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how Peters and his gang were progressing. On his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. He looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant Bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat.

From Mr. Tweedy, sir.

The young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. It was natural for Tweedy to write. He would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time. Bainbridge noted that it had been written in the Bangor office the night before. Then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read:

Dear Bobby: It’s all up with us, boy. We’re done, and we may as well admit it first as last and make what terms we can with the gang. I can’t get credit anywhere. Crane’s been ahead of me and spilled the beans each time. What’s more, Gastich absolutely refuses to renew that note. Says he must have the cash for some stocks he’s carrying, and all that; but you know what it means. It’s due in less than a week, and I can’t for the life of me see an earthly way of scraping the money together. Last of all—and worst of all—I haven’t been able to make a single sale of lumber for the simple reason that the trust has cut prices below cost and has taken every customer from us. If I cut to meet them they go lower. You can see that. They’ve got the stock and the resources. Crane’s set out to ruin us at any cost, and he’s succeeded. It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can. Let me hear from you at once. Yours ever, John Tweedy.

CHAPTER XI. NO QUITTER

The letter dropped into Bob’s lap, and for a long minute he sat staring into the yellow, dancing flames. His face was blank, and just a little white, for the blow had been a heavy one, and totally unexpected. He could not seem to understand it. It was unbelievable that he and Tweedy, who had been fair and square in every one of their business dealings, could be forced to the wall by such a monster of corruption as Elihu Crane.

There must be some mistake. Tweedy must have been thrown into one of his unjustifiable panics. That was it, of course.

Bob picked up the letter to read it carefully again.

He perused it to the last word, and then leaned back against the sapling, his face drawn and somber. It really did not sound like a mistake. It was all clear and logical, and singularly cohesive. It was the sort of thing Crane would delight in planning and putting into execution—the cutting of prices on a competitor. Tweedy had written that if they attempted to cut under the trust’s present rates, there would be a further reduction. That was quite true. Bob knew, because he had had a vast deal of experience with the trust’s method of doing business. They would ruin him, no matter how great the cost, because he was dangerous to their continued well-being. With Bainbridge in the ring, and fighting vigorously against the graft and wholesale theft of timberlands, those juicy melon cuttings which had been so pleasing to the stockholders would cease—therefore Bainbridge must go.

Presently Bob’s eyes fell again to the letter, and somehow that single sentence seemed to stand out as if written in capitals: It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can.

For a second Bob stared, the blood rushing into his face, a crimson flood. Make terms with Crane? Go on his knees to that scoundrel, who had long ago parted with the last shred of decency and self-respect? Not much!

They must have resources enough to meet that note, at least. The trust could not keep the price of lumber down indefinitely. They must weather the storm in some way. And when this drive was safe at the mills, ready to be cut into lumber, they would have the laugh on Elihu Crane.

Oblivious to the men about him, even to the fact that the cook had some time ago announced supper, Bainbridge began to search his mind for means of staving off the evil day. Most of the stocks and bonds constituting his private fortune had been already pledged as collateral for loans to the firm. He still had a few thousand dollars’ worth of Steel Preferred which could be sold; and there was Pinecrest, the beautiful and costly home on the outskirts of Bangor, which had been left him by his father. It should not be difficult to raise a mortgage of ten thousand, at least, on the place.

The note’s for ten thousand, so that’s all straightened out, Bainbridge murmured, with a snap of his fingers. The money from the stock can go for current expenses. I’ll fix it up this very night.

He did. Fortunately Tweedy held his power of attorney with the right to sign checks and execute papers of any sort, so it was possible for him to put through these deals without his returning to Bangor. That another note for nearly as much as the first fell due in little more than a fortnight Bainbridge knew quite well. By that time, however, he fully intended to have the drive down as far as their mill at Lancaster, fifty miles or so above Bangor. And it is always possible to raise money on timber, even in the rough.

Of course, if the trust continued their campaign of cutting prices Bob’s plans would be materially affected. He could not believe, however, that they would do such a thing for any great length of time. A dollar meant as much to them as to any one, and even the pleasure of ruining a competitor would scarcely compensate for the loss of so much money.

A long letter of instruction and explanation was written to Tweedy that night, and despatched the first thing in the morning by the trusty hand of Joe Moose, the Indian. That off his mind, Bob returned to his drive with renewed vigor, for the necessity for haste was now even greater than before. It was a question of getting the logs down in double-quick time or being dragged into the bankruptcy court; and that sort of notoriety did not appeal in the least to the young man.

It was this feeling of necessity which got Bob up next morning before the blackness of the night was more than faintly tinged by streaks of pale gray in the east. He wanted to be off and doing; even necessary inaction chafed. It seemed an eternity before the men had finished breakfast, and were ready for the day’s work. As a matter of fact, they took less time than usual, for something of Bainbridge’s intense eagerness for speed seemed to have made itself felt.

All morning Bob worked like a Trojan getting the drive out into the Katahdin River. He did not storm and swear at his men, as many bosses do. Instead he had a way of jollying them along in a manner which might sound superficially like fun, but which held more than an undercurrent of seriousness. He treated them as human beings, not as if they were slaves from whom every last atom of work was to be extracted. And yet, when the need arose, he could hand out a rebuke, the caustic sting of which was enough to make a man’s hair stand on end. The result was that the crew soon admired him, and when they found how urgent was the need for haste they fell to with a will, and gave the best that was in them.

Bainbridge was not long in perceiving their attitude, and it gratified him intensely. He had never actually had charge of a drive before. He knew the theory, of course, but that is very different from the practical operation; and the discovery that he could handle a rough-and-ready crowd like this in a manner so totally different from that generally practiced by bosses of crews gave him no small satisfaction.

By dint of constant labor, at which Bob spared neither himself nor his men, the drive was successfully swung into the slightly larger river by two o’clock. There was no real respite even then. The stream was almost as difficult as the Megantic, and constant watchfulness was necessary to prevent fresh jams at a number of points. Consequently the men snatched a hurried dinner in relays and hustled back to work again.

It was about three, and Bob had just left the spot where only the most strenuous personal labor on the part of himself and four river jacks had kept the drive from jamming. He was hot and sweaty, and generally weary as he continued his way downstream, and his wrath was naturally instant when, on suddenly rounding a bend, he came upon Curly Kollock, cool, calm, and unruffled, sitting comfortably on a rock, enjoying a cigarette.

As the latter saw Bainbridge, he flushed slightly, and half rose from the bowlder. Then, with a stubborn twist of his lips, he sank back again, pulling hard on the cigarette, and doing his best to look unconcerned.

Bob walked straight up to him, and stopped.

Well, he said bitingly, I’m sorry you’ve lost the use of your feet and hands. Is it paralysis?

Kollock’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something inane about taking a smoke. He found that he had arisen, apparently without volition, and was standing before the other man, who stared at him a long half minute.

This is no rest cure, said Bob at length. You’re paid for helping the drive along. I don’t want any loafers in this gang. Understand? Now, get down to the head of the drive—and do something!

Kollock’s face was flaming, and his eyes gleamed angrily. I don’t take that line of talk from anybody! he growled, clenching his fists threateningly. I’ll——

You’ll do what I said, and do it quick! Bainbridge’s voice was not raised above a conversational pitch, but there was a ring in it which seemed to take the fight and bluster out of the big riverman with the effectiveness of a keen knife thrust into an inflated bladder. For a second he stood in awkward silence, swallowing hard in his embarrassment. Then he raised his head again.

I don’t need your job, he said, in a poor imitation of devil-may-care defiance. I’ll get my time, and——

Bainbridge cut him short. You’ll get down to the drive and work. Beat it now—quick!

Without another protesting word, Kollock turned meekly and obeyed.

CHAPTER XII. THE TEST

Before he had taken a dozen steps, Kollock was furious with himself, and by the time Bainbridge was out of sight the wrath of the riverman had risen to a white heat.

From the first he had tried to dislike Bainbridge. Pete Schaeffer had been his friend, and after he had been whipped Curly made up his mind that there could be no getting along in a crew bossed by the victor. Then came that brief but pointed interview with Bob which affected him so oddly. He had never before had anybody tell him that he was to be trusted; most bosses had been emphatic in saying the opposite thing. Or, if they kept silent, they showed in a dozen obvious ways that they considered him in the same class with his notorious brother.

Then there was the incident of the day before. Curly could not help admiring the manner in which Bainbridge had handled the crowd that was trying to hold up the drive. It was exactly the sort of thing he would like to have done himself, and his heart warmed toward the man with the courage and ability to act in that fashion. Moreover, Jack Joyce was an old enemy of his, and the sight of the fellow’s humiliation had inclined the riverman even more strongly toward the man who had brought it about.

But that was over now, he told himself furiously as he stamped along the stream, hands clenched and face set in a black scowl. He hated Bainbridge! The man had no right to jump on him that way. How did he know what had been the cause of Kollock’s behavior? He had asked no questions, given Curly no chance to explain even had the latter been inclined to lower himself to that extent. He had taken it for granted that the river jack was loafing in spite of the fact that record as a worker was equal to that of the best.

This was where the sting lay. Kollock was aggrieved and disgruntled because of what was, to him, a very good reason. There had been a definite object in his pause by that stone. The night before he had received a brief note from Bill, in which he was urged to make use of any chance you git to do—you know what.

Curly did know what very well. It meant that he was to thwart and delay the progress of the drive by any means in his power. Any means! The simplest, of course, was to cause some to happen to Bainbridge himself. Bill had not hesitated to suggest several ways by which this happy end could be reached. None of them appealed particularly to Curly. He was not overscrupulous, but he disliked doing up a man in cold blood without giving him even a ghost of a show. Still, Bill had done him good turns more than once when he was out of work; and, last but not least, there was the financial side of the affair. Curly had never been told who or what was back of these attacks on the independent lumber company, but he knew there was plenty of money in it.

All this he had been thinking over as he sat smoking that cigarette. In the end he decided to have nothing to do with it. Bainbridge had trusted him and played square. For that reason he would be equally square and aboveboard, and let this dirty work alone.

That was what he had decided, but now——

He gritted his teeth, glared fiercely around, and came to an abrupt stop. Every instinct of the riverman was aroused. On his left the river dropped over short falls into a narrow gorge. It was a spot where things were likely to happen at any time, and where a man or two should have been stationed continually. Curly knew, in fact, that there had been men here all morning. They had been called away for some purpose, leaving the little falls unguarded. And as he stood there his practiced eyes told him that he was beholding the very start of a jam.

A log, plunging over the falls, upended. Another was thrust under it. A third and fourth, coming down together, caught on the obstruction, all being held by some stones rising midstream. Before the current could tear them loose several more timbers were forced against the mass which was piling up so swiftly, bridging to the opposite shore.

To carry out that angry resolve of a minute or two ago, Curly should have rolled himself another cigarette, and watched the growing damage with a sardonic smile. He did nothing of the sort. For a flash he had forgotten his grievance, and was a river hog, pure and simple. The stoppage must be broken before it reached the proportions of a real jam. There was no one else to do it, and so he leaped to the task without a second’s pause for thought.

Upstream he ran a few feet, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river above the falls. Then he saw what he wanted. An instant later, using his peavey much as a pole vaulter does his pole, he leaped straight out over the water, landed squarely on a big log, and was carried down to the falls—and over them.

He took the drop easily, riding the log with that perfect balance which is second nature to the seasoned riverman. When the timber bumped against the rapidly forming jam, Curly leaped again, thrusting the log down as he did so, and landed on the solid barrier. Scrambling lightly over to the face of this, he thrust deftly with his peavey into the mass, and began to work desperately to loosen the key log—that first upended stick of pine which had started the whole trouble, and which must be started before the rest of the barrier would give.

He got a good hold on it, but the thing defied his efforts to tear it loose. It was wedged too tightly for even his great strength, and, though he seemed to feel it move slightly, he strained his muscles to the utmost in vain to accomplish anything further. Presently he realized, with a thrill, that the jam was piling up behind him faster and faster. He ceased his efforts, and clamping the peavey on timber above the key log, pried it free, and sent it bobbing downstream. Another followed, and another still. Sweat poured in streams from him, trickling blindingly into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. There was no time. He must go on doing his best till help came, or else——

A faint jar shook the jam. A second later Curly felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder. A familiar voice sounded in his ear:

Good work, son! Where’s that trouble maker? Oh, I see. Let me drop down to that ledge, where I can get a good hold. That’s the idea. Now grip her above me. Fine! Ready, now? Yank away!

It was Bainbridge—swift, agile, incredibly fresh considering what he had accomplished that day. For a moment or two Curly did not realize that this was the man he hated. He simply felt an overwhelming thankfulness that some one had come at last, and obeyed orders mechanically and without question.

But as his peavey gripped the end of that troublesome log, there suddenly flamed into Curly’s mind—temptation. Bainbridge stood below him, perched perilously on the very face of the jam. A little thrust—the tiniest movement of the riverman’s arm—would send him plunging into the stream, while another movement would suffice to drop one of the looser logs upon him. There were no witnesses; the whole affair would pass as an unfortunate accident. A chance like this, so easy, so absolutely safe, would never come again.

Now! broke in the crisp voice of the lumberman. Hard over, boy. Toward me—all you know how!

Curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the pull. The key log creaked and groaned as if agony but was thrust gradually forward. Curly felt it moving faster and faster, and instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs.

A second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse of half the face of the jam. The logs at his side vanished in the unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious moment. Below him he saw Bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for something solid. Instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous, muscular hands, and as swiftly Bob gripped them. There was a heave, an upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared into the foaming water. But the two men had leaped in time, and a moment later they were standing together on the bank.

Thank you—Curly, Bainbridge said in a level voice. That was touch-and-go for a minute.

That was all, but somehow Curly knew that what he had done was understood and appreciated. In the stress of the peril which the two had shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, Kollock’s anger and hate had vanished utterly. He no longer desired revenge. His attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. He had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again.

CHAPTER XIII. THE LIMIT

Curly 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.

Having received orders from me by wire in the manner above specified, you will at once fire the mill in the manner discussed by us and decided upon by me at our last meeting. There must be no delay in action. Neither should you step before I order. This is of the greatest possible importance. Kindly advise me you thoroughly understand these instructions.

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!

CHAPTER XIV. FIRE AND SMOKE

Curly found himself, hatless, and with two letters and a scrap of paper clasped in one hand, running swiftly toward that portion of the riverbank where stood the Bainbridge mill. What he could accomplish alone and unaided was a question which troubled him vaguely. He meant, at least, to give the best that was in him toward fighting a calamity he might have prevented if only he had kept his wits about him.

Presently he slackened his pace a little, and a puzzled wrinkle came into his forehead. There was not the slightest glare to be seen in the direction of the mill. It seemed odd that a fire in such a place should not show itself sooner. He hurried on a little farther, but still there was no sign of fire—no noise or scurrying of people. At length, reaching the fence which surrounded mill and lumber yards, he paused, wondering in which direction lay the nearest gate. A second later, half turning, he saw the glow and sparks from a burning building rising above the leafless trees at least a mile away.

Gee! he muttered, in a tone of relief. I’m sure glad I was fooled. For a bit I thought it was all up, but now mebbe I kin put a crimp in their game.

He stood silent for a minute or two, turning the matter over in his mind. There were difficulties which had not occurred to him at first. If he went to Bainbridge or to the authorities with his discovery, Bill would be sure to pay the penalty. He was not anxious for this. He did not want to mix his brother up in the affair if it were possible to keep his name out of it. If he could only see Bill he felt sure he could make him cut it all and get out of the country. But that was the trouble—to find him and do it quickly. Where had he gone this night of all others? What was keeping him away so long? Was it possible, after all, that the burning had been planned for to-night, but planned to take place later?

The interior of the inclosure seemed very quiet and peaceful, yet Curly felt a fresh stab of apprehension when presently he discovered the big gate unlocked and ajar. After a momentary hesitation he pushed the gate still farther open, and, slipping through, closed it behind him, and crept, ghostlike, along in the shadow of the fence.

Ahead loomed the mill buildings, velvet-black shadows against a blue-black sky. To his left lay great stacks of manufactured lumber worth many thousand dollars. He could not see them now, but he knew their location, and the thought of all that property going up in smoke made him scowl fiercely, and clench his fists in the darkness.

Presently he stopped abruptly as the blackness was pierced by a single gleam of light from the corner of the shadowy building. The next instant he gave a relieved chuckle. It came from the watchman’s shanty, of course. That was where it stood, close by the corner of the main building.

Everything was so quiet and peaceful that it seemed futile to go any farther, yet somehow the man wanted to make sure. Finally he decided to gain this end by giving the watchman a tip about the gate.

Crossing the open space, he stepped to the window, and peered through the dingy glass. The shack seemed empty; the lighted lantern stood on a rough table from which a straight deal chair was pushed back. Yet, in spite of this, Curly could not be quite certain, so he reached for the latch and thrust the door open.

It was not empty. Some one—something was there, a huddled mass lying face down in the corner. With a quick gasp of horror and alarm, Curly straightened and whirled round.

Too late! Something heavy struck his head and pitched him, dazed, against the wall of the shanty. He threw out both hands toward the shadows he could barely see, and from his lips came a hoarse cry of mingled pain and fury. A second blow beat through his guard, and stretched him senseless on the ground.

The coming around seemed to Curly merely a matter of seconds; really it must have been much longer. When he recovered enough of his senses to make mental notes he discovered that he was lying flat on the sawdust-covered floor near a big circular saw that gleamed like burnished silver. He was bound round and round with ropes, unable to move hand or foot. A lighted lantern made a bright spot in the intense gloom, dimly revealing above him the heavy beams and rafters of the mill. After a little he saw, sitting on the other side of the lantern, a man who gazed steadily at him, and whose face, even in the shadows, seemed familiar. A moment later he realized that the man was John Joyce.

The discovery was not a pleasant one. Joyce and he had been enemies for a considerable time, owing mainly to the fact that both were paying attentions to a certain young woman who showed decided partiality for Kollock. In a moment of passion Joyce had sworn to get Curly, and the latter had jeered at him. He did not jeer now. The best he could do was to summon a forced smile.

You’ll grin out o’ the other side of your mouth afore I git done with you, you spyin’ scum, observed the red-haired individual acrimoniously. What are you doin’ here?

None o’ your business! retorted Kollock promptly. Where’s Bill?

Better keep a civil tongue in your head, snarled Joyce. How come you sneakin’ around this mill to-night? Who put you wise to what’s goin’ on?

Possessed of only a small fund of diplomacy, Curly saw a chance to make his enemy writhe, and at once took it, regardless of all other considerations.

Never you mind who put me wise, he retorted. I’m on, all right. I know you’re goin’ to set fire to the mill to-night, an’, what’s more, I know who put you up to it—see? Git that through your dome? I’ve got evidence stowed away—in a safe place, too—that’ll send somebody to Thomaston Prison for a nice little bit. Get me?

All of this was not strictly true, but the young riverman could not pass up the chance to make Joyce shiver. A moment later he more than regretted the impulse.

Little Johnny-on-the-spot, ain’t you? snarled the red-headed man, when he had partially recovered from the shock. You made a nice bull, though, exposin’ your cards before the show-down.

His jaws came together with a snap, and, rising suddenly to his feet, he dropped on one knee beside Curly. In another second he had thrust a lump of waste between the helpless riverman’s jaws, and tied it down with a dirty strip of cloth. Then he resumed his seat.

Jest a little precaution against noise, he said unpleasantly. My pals are out in the yard, an’ I ain’t anxious for ’em to know I brung you in here. They think you’re a second watchman—see? I got sight o’ your face first an’ covered it up so nobody would know you was here. Bill’s down to Lynchburg, soused, an’ likely won’t show up till mornin’. This was to be the night for our little shindy, only, not havin’ no word yet, I was goin’ to give it up—till you come along. Now I think I’ll let things go ahead, word or no word. Get me, Steve?

He arose, leering hideously, and Curly felt the perspiration begin to burst out all over his body. His wide-open eyes—the only part of him which could move—sought Joyce’s, but the fellow’s gaze, shifting continually, thwarted the attempt. Kollock noticed—just why he did not know—that the other’s face was deathly pale, and that his low forehead was covered with little beads of sweat. A second later Joyce picked up the lantern and moved lightly toward the door.

Jest tell ’em that you saw me, an’ give ’em my regards, he sneered over his shoulder, but his voice cracked on the last word, and, stumbling over a loose board in the floor, he disappeared.

For perhaps half a minute Curly lay absolutely still. Then the horror of what that human fiend meant to do struck him with full force, turning him cold and then hot as fire. He rolled over on his face, and, bracing both feet against the foundation of the saw, strained the splendid muscles of back and arm and shoulder as he had never strained them before. The ropes cracked a little, but held fast, biting deep into his flesh. He paid no heed to the pain. Again he strove with all his might to break those bonds. Again he failed. Joyce had done his work well.

He was still straining, twisting, and flinging himself about till every inch of his body seemed sore to the touch, when of a sudden the faint, light tang of something new in the air made him stop like a person paralyzed.

Smoke!

For a second he did not dare to breathe. Slowly, fearfully, he drew in the air. Then a smothered, inarticulate sound, half scream, half groan, echoed through the dark mill. It was smoke! The coward had kept his word and fired the building. No one would ever know. The flames were coming fast—fast. Presently they would reach him——

In a panic of horror he again cast himself here and there over the board floor, the sawdust sometimes muffling the thudding sound of his body. There was not one chance in a thousand that one would hear him. He stopped and listened, but detected no sound. A fresh puff of smoke made him gag. It was coming faster and faster, thicker and thicker.

Gasping for breath, he flung himself about again in a mad paroxysm of fear. Above the thudding noise of his own making he could hear the horrible, ominous crackling of flames. Crevices here and there began to be outlined in dull, glowing, changing red. He thought he heard the clanging of the primitive alarm, but he could not be sure.

Hither and thither he rolled, keeping up the motion without conscious volition, scraping, scratching, bumping against obstacles, but always blindly to get farther away from the consuming element beyond the partition.

At one time the lapping, gurgling sound of water struck on his dazed senses with the shock of the incredible. Then he realized that it came from beneath him, and knew that he must be in the portion of the mill built out over the river. A few inches of flooring was all that separated him from the cool, soothing touch of that water. The bitter irony of it ate into his soul like caustic, and brought a sudden rush of scalding tears to the stinging, smoke-blinded eyes.

The glow brightened, grew more vivid. A single tongue of flame slid through a crack, and began licking up the wall. The sight seemed to arouse Curly to fresh exertions. He flung himself furiously to one side, and by a strange chance he struck glancingly against the teeth of the circular saw, which cut his face cruelly and tore away the gag.

It took him a second or two to realize what had happened. Then from between his swollen lips a fierce, wild cry of desperate appeal rang out. It rose shrilly, piercingly, ended in a choke. He tried to cry again, but the smoke rushed into his lungs and turned the shout into a gruesome groan.

That smoke was pouring into the room in clouds now. The single tongue of flame had bred a score, casting a lurid light over the place, and driving black despair into the half-conscious brain of the hopeless victim.

CHAPTER XV. THE WAY OUT

Bob Bainbridge came down to Lancaster that same evening. He had made arrangements with Tweedy to be there at a certain hour to receive the wire his partner planned to send regarding a loan necessary to cover that second note. Arriving in town about a quarter to Bob went straight to the telegraph office. The operator, a dapper youth of almost tender years, promptly handed him an envelope.

Came in just in time, Mr. Bainbridge, he announced. We close at six, you know.

Bob nodded absently without speaking, and departed at once for the hotel he usually patronized. There would be plenty of time in the morning to send his partner an answer, and he was anxious to have a chance to think the matter over quietly.

Reaching the hotel, he registered, and went at once to the room assigned him. Here he opened the message, and read it through with a perfectly blank expression:

Have cover removed on tank house. Can’t use other timber.

Well, I’ll be hanged! Bainbridge exclaimed aloud. What the deuce does that mean? Have cover removed on tank house. Can’t use other timber. Blamed if I think it means anything. Sounds like gibberish to me.

Puzzled, and decidedly ill-tempered, he sat down and scanned the message closely. He could not believe it had been sent him as a joke. Tweedy was not the sort to perpetrate that kind of a pleasantry, especially at present. But what else could it be?

For twenty minutes or more he sat staring at the sheet before he made a curious discovery. The telegram was not addressed to him at all, but to one William Kollock.

The genial Bill, he muttered, his eyes sparkling with a new interest. Jove! The plot thickens!

A glance at the envelope showed his own name written plainly thereon. Evidently the boy had carelessly transposed the messages, giving Bainbridge the one intended for the tool of his bitterest enemy. To Bob the annoyance of realizing that, in all probability, Kollock was in possession of Tweedy’s wire about the loan was swallowed up in the interest of those ten words before him.

That they were written in a secret code Bainbridge had not a doubt. There was a superficial coherency about them, but when one studied the message, the impossibility of a careless operator being responsible for those errors became plain. Just what that code might be Bob did not know, but he meant to find out if such a thing were possible. A cryptogram addressed to Bill Kollock must, almost certainly, be of vital importance to himself.

The reading of the ciper—if such it could be called—proved ever simpler than he had expected. Taking the first letters of each word from left to right made no sense at all. Reversing the process, however, produced this cryptic phrase:

Touch torch.

About as dotty as the other. grumbled Bob, crumpling the message into a pocket. I’m hanged if I’ll bother with the thing any longer.

He could not help thinking about it, however, and after a futile walk to the telegraph office, and equally futile attempt to locate the operator, he went back to the hotel and turned in.

But even here his mind refused to respond to the urgings of his tired body. Though he did best to forget those two tantalizing words, he found it impossible. What did they mean? What could they mean? Perhaps, after all, they meant nothing in themselves, but were simply a cryptic sort of signal which the recipient alone would understand.

Touch torch, he murmured drowsily, as he stretched his weary body luxuriously on the first real bed he had known in months. What the deuce! Touch torch——Great guns! The mill!

With a single bound he cleared the space between bed and bureau. In a second the lamp was lighted, and he was flinging on his clothes in mad haste. What a thick-headed fool he had been! That was it, of course! Thwarted in those other cowardly attacks, it was the most natural thing in the world for Elihu Crane to make use of this means of crippling his competitor. He who had not hesitated at attempted assassination was not likely to stop at arson.

Within five minutes Bainbridge had left the hotel, and was tearing down the road in the direction of his property. The sky was still dark and placid, and for a little while he thought he would be in time. But as he reached the fence surrounding the mill, and ran along it toward the nearest gates, a sudden reddish glow flashed up through the blackness beyond the high board structure, followed by a little shower of sparks like a feathery rocket.

Without pausing an instant in his rush, Bainbridge drew his revolver and fired twice in the air. Then he broke the stillness with a cry of fire from his powerful lungs—a cry which might almost have raised the dead.

The gates were wide open, and, as he raced through into the inclosure, he almost collided with a shadowy figure, bent over, and running with long, agile strides. The pistol was still in Bob’s hand, and, without a moment of hesitation, he sent it crashing square in the middle of the unknown’s forehead, dropping the fellow like a log.

One good thing done, anyhow, muttered Bainbridge, with a fierce kind of satisfaction.

He hesitated an instant, wondering whether to pause and make the fellow secure, or hurry on toward the burning building. Brief as had been the space since it first showed, the fire was beginning to break forth, illumining the sky, and making the mill seem almost like a flaming furnace within. There was little chance of accomplishing any good there, while it would be a pity if one of the undoubted criminals escaped.

He had made up his mind, and was searching through his pockets for something to bind the fellow with, when a scream rang out, so wild and full of agonized appeal that it chilled his blood. It came from the burning building, and in an instant Bob was running toward it with all his might.

He raced around a corner, peering through windows as he ran. The front half of the building was one glare of flaming crimson, in which no human being could live a minute. The man—it was the watchman, of course—must be in the rear.

He kept on around. Reaching another window, he smashed it with a piece of edging caught up from the ground, letting out a volume of smoke. With a bound he was inside, facing the glare which came from the billowing mass of fire.

Tom! he cried, shielding his face with one crooked arm. Tom! Where are you?

There was no answer. Crouching low and holding his breath, he hurried toward a portion of the mill which overlooked the river. Behind him the flames closed in with chuckling crackles like sentient things of murderous intent bent on cutting off his retreat.

Tom! he cried again. Where are——

The words died in his throat. Sprawled across the log carrier near one of the huge circular saws was the inert body of a man. The fire had almost reached it, but Bainbridge plunged forward without faltering. Through heat that singed hair and eyebrows, and seemed to sear his lungs with the breath of death he plunged. Stooping, he grasped the unconscious man by the shoulders, and dragged him across the floor. He could not retreat as he had come. He did not try. He was making for the opening to the runway or chute over which logs were yanked up from the river. This was rather steep and slippery, and he was forced to change his grip on the man. An instant later he gave a cry of amazement as he recognized the blackened, bloody features of his own riverman.

But there was not a second to lose in speculation as to what Curly was doing here. The glare of the burning building lit up the whole river, and already from the other side came cries of arriving villagers. He could see them running; doubtless many of them saw him as he paused in the fire-lit arch of the chute with the unconscious youth in his arms.

It’s a swim for it, he muttered, glancing at Kollock. Not much of a one, but mighty cold. Reckon we’ll be on our way.

Hoisting Kollock over his shoulder, he stepped into the log-polished trough. For a fraction of a second he seemed to stand motionless, straight as a dart, a striking figure against that background of lurid crimson. Then, still remaining upright, he shot downward at an angle like a person sliding on ice, to plunge with a great splash into the icy water.

CHAPTER XVI. THE VERGE OF RUIN

Stepping hastily from his car, John Tweedy hurried across the sidewalk, and entered the lobby of the Bangor House. His plump face had an oddly sunken, pasty look. The jowls were pendulous, and there were dark rings under the eyes. His whole manner, in fact, was that of a man on the verge of a nervous collapse, holding himself together by sheer determination of will.

Inside the door he paused a moment, staring almost furtively to right and left, as if the ruin he knew to be so imminent was already a matter of public knowledge and comment. The fairly well-filled lobby held a number of familiar faces, whose owners either did not or would not see the stout man. Tweedy made sure that the slight was intentional, and a nervous tremor quivered on his lips.

Bah! he muttered, hastening on toward the desk, They’re beginning to cut me. After the fire last night they think I’m out for more credit. It’s the beginning of the end.

To his supersensitive mind the very desk clerk, who had so often laughed obsequiously at the lumber magnate’s jokes and pocketed with effusive thanks his expensive cigars, delayed purposely in attending him. It was the subtle impertinence of an inferior which seems to cut so much more deeply than any other kind, and it stung Tweedy into a momentary flash of his old spirit.

Griggs! he snapped, in a voice which brought the clerk instantly forward. I have an appointment to meet Mr. Bainbridge here at twelve, he went on, transfixing the young man with an icy stare. Has he left any word for me?

Before the flushed, embarrassed youth could answer, a hand dropped lightly on Tweedy’s shoulder, and a cheery, familiar voice sounded in his ear:

Well, John, you’re certainly on the dot. Put it there, old man! I’m mighty glad to see you.

It was Bob, clean, fresh, and well groomed. His eyes sparkled, the glow of health was in his cheeks. There was an air of vigor and physical fitness about him which made Tweedy stare in bewilderment, wondering whether his partner was made of iron.

I’m certainly glad to see you, Bobby, he echoed, gripping the strong, brown fingers. I don’t know how you can stand the pace, though. I’m about all in sitting up most of the night trying to figure out our losses from the incomplete——

Just one second, John, interrupted Bainbridge, and only then was his partner aware of the pleasant-faced, rather distinguished-appearing, gray-haired man who stood just behind the young lumberman. I want you to meet Mr. Wolcott Sears, of Boston. He’s been up in the woods fishing, and we got acquainted up there.

Tweedy acknowledged the introduction with the best grace he could summon, in view of the fact that he was burning to get Bob by himself, and find out something of where the firm stood. He knew Sears by reputation as an influential and powerful capitalist, and it was his policy always to be agreeable to moneyed men. But even that, combined with the Boston man’s undoubted charm of manner, did not prevent Tweedy from being a trifle austere. He only thawed completely when Sears presently announced that he would have to tear himself away at once, or else miss the Boston train.

I was afraid he’d stick around for hours, Tweedy said, as Bob returned from seeing Sears to the door. Let’s go over here where there’s less crowd.

Couldn’t have a better man, said Bob, falling into step with his partner. He’s one of the best ever, John, and has been a good friend to me.

Of course, of course! returned Tweedy, with a nervous sort of pettishness. That’s all very well, but we don’t want anybody else around just now. Tell me about the mill. Complete loss, I suppose?

Bainbridge nodded. Just about. Saved a few hundred thousand feet of pine stacked at the upper end of the yard. Everything else went.

A facial muscle quivered, as if the confirmation of what Tweedy had feared, yet hoped desperately against, had touched a raw nerve. He dropped down in one of the row of leather-covered chairs facing Main Street, and took out his handkerchief.

My country! he groaned, staring in bewilderment at his companion. I don’t see how you can take it all so easy. You know as well as I do that there’s not a cent of insurance on the stock. You must realize that Lancaster was the only mill we had capable of taking care of a big drive.

Bainbridge sat on the arm of the adjoining chair, one leg lightly swinging back and forth.

That’s true enough, he nodded, feeling for his cigarette case. I’ve always contended, though, that with proper equipment, the mill at Colport could turn out a third more cut lumber than the Lancaster mill.

Tweedy groaned, and cast up his eyes. What if it could? he demanded. How in creation are we going to find out? We’re broke—busted—cleaned out! Even in the stress of his emotion he remembered to lower his voice cautiously. We’ve hardly an asset left except the drive. We’ve no credit. One of our notes for eight thousand dollars is due in less than twenty-four hours—due to the very scoundrel who’s brought us where we are, and whose plotting won’t stop there.

At last he seemed to find a shaft capable of penetrating the armor of Bob’s self-possession. With a start, the young man dropped the match, and stared fixedly at Tweedy, the fresh-lighted cigarette dangling unheeded between the fingers of his other hand.

Crane? he exclaimed sharply. You mean to say he’s bought up that note?

Precisely.

Huh! Bainbridge lifted the cigarette, and took a thoughtful puff or two. That must be why he sent the message I found here a little while ago. Said if I was quite ready to crawl he’d be in his office till two this afternoon.

He hesitated a second longer, and then stood up with a sudden, determined squaring of his wide shoulders.

How about it, John? he asked, a curious gleam in the dark eyes. What do you say to making a call on the genial Elihu?

Tweedy rose heavily. I give up. he said, with a deep sigh. Do as you like, son, it’s all one to me. Only don’t for an instant expect any from Elihu Crane. Personally I’d rather spare myself the humiliation of an interview which can result in no possible good, but if you’re keen on it——

He finished with an eloquent gesture of resignation which brought a sudden softness into the young man’s eyes.

By Jove, but you’re a sport! he exclaimed, with a touch of his hand on the other’s shoulder, which was almost a caress. Don’t you care, though, old man. It won’t take long, and I’ll attend to the talk. All you’ll have to do will be to furnish me with the moral support of your presence.

CHAPTER XVII. THE VISIT TO ELIHU

For so many years Elihu Crane had preserved his impassive demeanor in public that he gradually ceased to let down the bars at all. Even in his own office—that inner sanctum which he had made as difficult of access as the specie vault of the Bank of England—he retained his pose. At this particular moment, even, holding in his hand that slip of paper which was the strongest thread in the web he had been weaving so long and patiently about his hated competitors, his face revealed nothing of the fierce joy which filled his soul.

That paper was the note which fell due upon the morrow. Bainbridge & Tweedy could not meet it, he was certain. Their funds were exhausted; their credit gone. Barring a miracle, he held them in his power at last. He meant to exercise that power ruthlessly and without mercy.

There was one little carping doubt in his mind—though that, too, was hidden behind the impenetrable mask. Was he to be deprived, after all, of the keen pleasure he had planned for himself—the pleasure of being the one imparting to young Bainbridge by word of mouth the exact status of his affairs, and a gloating account of what the future held in store?

His letter had been placed in Bainbridge’s hands hours before. Bob was not obliged to come, but Crane had written with a perfect knowledge of the young man’s nature, coupled with all the diabolical cunning he possessed. It would be strange if the combination did not serve to goad the high-spirited youngster into doing what his former partner desired, and yet the minute hand of the clock was climbing swiftly upward from half past one, and there had come no word.

Frowning the least bit, Crane at length stretched out a lean, wrinkled hand toward one of a row of pearl-topped buttons set in the surface of the flat mahogany desk. Almost as he did so one of the telephones at his left tinkled lightly, and he lifted it swiftly. A brief conversation took place which smoothed miraculously the forehead of the Lumber Trust official.

Show them in at once, Banning, he finished.

Setting down the instrument, he leaned back, eyes fixed on the door with a touch almost of pleasurable anticipation in them. When presently it swung open to admit Bob Bainbridge, followed closely by Tweedy, Crane’s mouth tightened cruelly, and the sandy-fringed lids drooped a trifle.

And so, he said at length, his lips curling, you’ve come to crawl.

Bainbridge did not answer for a moment. He was busy settling down in the chair which had not been offered him, and in seeing that Tweedy did the same. Then he drew out a cigar case and, with elaborate courtesy, extended it to Crane.

No? he murmured, as the latter declined with a brief gesture. Given up smoking? Here, John.

When Tweedy had accepted, and his own weed was lighted, Bainbridge leaned comfortably back in his chair.

To crawl? he repeated slowly, Well, I don’t know about that. A fellow never likes to crawl if there’s another way out of a difficulty.

Crane’s eyes glinted. Rest assured there isn’t, he retorted crisply. You’re in a hole. You haven’t a single resource left. Your credit’s no good.

Oh, I don’t admit that, put in Bob hastily.

Whether you admit it or not, it’s true, retorted Crane, a note of cold, calculating triumph creeping into his voice. You can’t bluff me. I’ve had a man looking up your affairs for some time, and I know what I’m talking about. Tweedy, here, has been breaking his neck all last week trying to borrow enough to meet your note of eight thousand which is due at noon to-morrow. That note—he bent forward, and raised for an instant the oblong sheet of paper from his desk—is here.

If he expected signs of surprise or consternation from Bainbridge he was disappointed. Bob simply crossed one leg over the other, and nodded.

So I understand, he drawled.

There was a briefest sort of pause, during which his dark eyes held the older man’s in thrall. Suddenly he arose.

You may as well hand it over now, he said coolly, moving toward the desk.

In a twinkling Crane had acted. With amazing agility he bent forward over the desk. A buzzer sounded. A drawer popped open. A second later he had snatched from it a revolver, which he leveled swiftly at Bob. Last of all, doors at either end of the office opened noiselessly to admit a pair of stalwart attendants.

Bainbridge, pausing in the middle of the floor, surveyed these maneuvers with interest and frank amusement.

Very clever and effective, he murmured slowly, exhaling a whiff of smoke. Plainly no one’s ever going to catch you napping. It happens, though, that I had no idea of playing the holdup game. I wished merely to hand you a check for the amount of that note and interest, and cancel it. Would you mind turning that barrel just a trifle to one side? Accidents will happen, you know, and your staff here seems quite able to cope with the situation alone.

A single momentary flash of incredulous anger ripped across Crane’s impassive countenance. Then the mask fell again, and, lowering the revolver, he bent forward.

You certainly don’t expect me to accept a personal check of yours for that amount, do you? he inquired coldly.

Not quite, smiled Bainbridge. Knowing your skeptical nature, I took the trouble to have it certified.

He drew out his bill case, and, taking from it a narrow slip of paper, laid it before Crane. Silence followed—tense, vibrating with something of the sense of that bitter, baffled fury which was rending the older man as he stared at the scrap of paper that was depriving him of his revenge. It was the equivalent of currency. He could not refuse to take it. The amount was correct to the last cent. The whole transaction was one in which even his cunning could find no flaw.

But where had the money come from? He could not believe that any one in Bangor had supplied it. It was impossible that his subordinates could have been so deceived.

With swiftly growing fury Crane made a brief note of payment on the back of the paper. His hand trembled. By the time the signature was written his lips were quivering—his face dark.

There! he rasped harshly, thrusting the note at Bainbridge. Where you got it I don’t know, but it’ll do you no good. Your best mill’s a total loss. You haven’t sold a foot of lumber in weeks, and you won’t for months to come. Everybody’s bought what they want from us at easy rates. You may think this is a mighty smart move, but I’ll get you in the end!

I think not!

Bob’s voice had taken on a sudden quality of hardness. His face lost the half-bantering expression of a moment before, and grew coldly stern. It was as if he had all at once wearied of the little drama he had been staging, and was determined to ring down the curtain without delay.

I think not, he repeated curtly. Who did you make those biggest sales of cut-rate lumber to, Crane?

There was an underlying significance in his tone which made Crane glance sharply at him from under penthouse brows, and then dismiss the two silent attendants with a gesture.

What business is that of yours? he demanded.

Bainbridge laughed harshly, triumphantly, What business is it of mine? I’ll tell you.

He bent suddenly forward, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. His face was slightly flushed; his eyes, fixed intently on Crane, held in their depths a gleam of singularly disconcerting triumph.

I’ll tell you, he said rapidly. J. G. Brown, of Porltand, had two million feet, didn’t he? Creighton, of Rockland, bought half as much. There was Cox, of Portsmouth—Blanchard—Manning—Lafitte. You see, I know!

There was a ring in his voice which made Tweedy begin to tingle and sit forward, suddenly erect, in thrilling anticipation of the bombshell he felt sure was coming.

Why don’t you ask the questions you’re dying to? How? Why? You’re wild to know; I can see it in your eyes. Bob laughed again, and Crane winced at the sound. I’ll tell you. I know because they’re only my agents—buying—for—me!

It’s a lie! burst from Crane’s white lips. They paid cash! You haven’t a cent.

I have something better—unlimited credit. Shall I tell you who’s backing me because he hates the trust, and has faith in my ability to fight you? Wolcott Sears, of Boston. Now do you understand? Instead of ruining us by cutting rates, you’ve played straight into our hands. Timber values can’t go down. We’ll sell at market prices what we bought from you and clean up a cool half million on the deal.

With an inarticulate cry of fury, Crane leaped to his feet, and stood glaring at Bainbridge with flaming, maddened eyes. The mask of inscrutability had vanished from his face. One saw the real man now, stripped of the veneer of temperament and civilization.

It’s a plot! he raved, shaking a skinny fist in Bob’s face. It’s a vile conspiracy. I’ll take the case to court. I’ll have you jailed for——

Sit down!

Bainbridge’s tone was not loud, but there was a compelling quality about it which stopped the boiling torrent of fury with amazing suddenness. Crane gulped hard, caught his trembling lips between his teeth—and finally subsided into his chair.

You talk of plots—you! The young man’s voice was hard, cold, full of unutterable contempt. Do you happen to know the penalty for conspiracy to commit arson—and worse?

I don’t know—what you mean, faltered Crane, avoiding the dark eyes bent so keenly on his face.

Oh, yes, you do. Look at these.

With a swift, dramatic motion Bainbridge suddenly jerked from his pocket some sheets of paper covered closely with erect, spitefully black writing, and held them before Crane.

Your own hand, he accused. Instructions to your henchman, Bill Kollock? I think the jury at your trial will consider them proof enough.

Crane’s jaw dropped. His white face had turned a sickly green.

You—wouldn’t—dare! he gasped.

Wouldn’t I? Just let me show you.

Without waiting a reply, Bob leaned over, and, picking up one of the telephones, stood erect.

Headquarters, he said briefly. Then, after a momentary pause: That you, chief? This is Bainbridge. Will you send up those two plain-clothes men we arranged about? Yes, the arrest can be made any time. That’s all. Thank you!

The receiver clicked into place again, and Bainbridge returned the instrument to the desk. Crane sat hunched in his chair, his face a mixture of hate and fear and baffled fury. Tweedy looked as if a mammoth weight had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. Bob’s expression was inscrutable.

The room was very still.