The Young Forester Page 4

  "Did you see a Mexican come into camp?" I inquired of the Negro.

  "Sure. Greaser got here this mornin'."

  "He tried to rob me in Holston."

  "'Tain't nothin' new fer Greaser. He's a thief, but I never heerd of him holdin' anybody up. No nerve 'cept to knife a feller in the back."

  "What'll I do if I meet him here?"

  "Slam him one! You're a strappin' big lad. Slam him one, an' flash your gun on him. Greaser's a coward. I seen a young feller he'd cheated make him crawl. Anyway, it'll be all day with him when Dick finds out he tried to rob you. An' say, stranger, if a feller stays sober, this camp's safe enough in daytime, but at night, drunk or sober, it's a tough place."

  Before I had finished eating a shrill whistle from the sawmill called the hands to work; soon it was followed by the rumble of machinery and the sharp singing of a saw.

  I set out to see the lumber-camp, and although I stepped forth boldly, the truth was that with all my love for the Wild West I would have liked to be at home. But here I was, and I determined not to show the white feather.

  I passed a row of cook-shacks like the one I had been in, and several stores and saloons. The lumber-camp was a little town. A rambling log cabin attracted me by reason of the shaggy mustangs standing before it and the sounds of mirth within. A peep showed me a room with a long bar, where men and boys were drinking. I heard the rattle of dice and the clink of silver. Seeing the place was crowded, I thought I might find Dick there, so I stepped inside. My entrance was unnoticed, so far as I could tell; in fact, there seemed no reason why it should be otherwise, for, being roughly dressed, I did not look very different from the many young fellows there. I scanned all the faces, but did not see Dick's, nor, for that matter, the Mexican's. Both disappointed and relieved, I turned away, for the picture of low dissipation was not attractive.

  The hum of the great sawmill drew me like a magnet. I went out to the lumber-yard at the back of the mill, where a trestle slanted down to a pond full of logs. A train loaded with pines had just pulled in, and dozens of men were rolling logs off the flat-cars into a canal. At stations along the canal stood others pike-poling the logs toward the trestle, where an endless chain caught them with sharp claws and hauled them up. Half-way from, the ground they were washed clean by a circle of water-spouts.

  I walked up the trestle and into the mill. The noise almost deafened me. High above all other sounds rose the piercing song of the saw, and the short intervals when it was not cutting were filled with a thunderous crash that jarred the whole building. After a few confused glances I got the working order into my head, and found myself in the most interesting place I had ever seen.

  As the stream of logs came up into the mill the first log was shunted off the chain upon a carriage. Two men operated this carriage by levers, one to take the log up to the saw, and the other to run it back for another cut. The run back was very swift. Then a huge black iron head butted up from below and turned the log over as easily as if it had been a straw. This was what made the jar and crash. On the first cut the long strip of bark went to the left and up against five little circular saws. Then the five pieces slipped out of sight down chutes. When the log was trimmed a man stationed near the huge band-saw made signs to those on the carriage, and I saw that they got from him directions whether to cut the log into timbers, planks, or boards. The heavy timbers, after leaving the saw, went straight down the middle of the mill, the planks went to the right, the boards in another direction. Men and boys were everywhere, each with a lever in hand. There was not the slightest cessation of the work. And a log forty feet long and six feet thick, which had taken hundreds of years to grow, was cut up in just four minutes.

  The place fascinated me. I had not dreamed that a sawmill could be brought to such a pitch of mechanical perfection, and I wondered how long the timber would last at that rate of cutting. The movement and din tired me, and I went outside upon a long platform. Here workmen caught the planks and boards as they came out, and loaded them upon trucks which were wheeled away. This platform was a world in itself. It sent arms everywhere among the piles of lumber, and once or twice I was as much lost as I had been up in the forest.

  While turning into one of these byways I came suddenly upon Buell and another man. They were standing near a little house of weather-strips, evidently an office, and were in their shirt-sleeves. They had not seen or heard me. I dodged behind a pile of planks, intending to slip back the way I had come. Before I could move Buell's voice rooted me to the spot.

  "His name's Ward. Tall, well-set lad. I put Greaser after him the other night, hopin' to scare him back East. But nix!"

  "Well, he's here now—to study forestry! Ha! ha!" said the other.

  "You're sure the boy you mean is the one I mean?"

  "Greaser told me so. And this boy is Leslie's friend."

  "That's the worst of it," replied Buell, impatiently. "I've got Leslie fixed as far as this lumber deal is concerned, but he won't stand for any more. He was harder to fix than the other rangers, an' I'm afraid of him." he's grouchy now.

  "You shouldn't have let the boy get here."

  "Stockton, I tried to prevent it. I put Greaser with Bud an' Bill on his trail. They didn't find him, an' now here he turns up."

  "Maybe he can be fixed."

  "Not if I know my business, he can't; take that from me. This kid is straight. He'll queer my deal in a minute if he gets wise. Mind you, I'm gettin' leary of Washington. We've seen about the last of these lumber deals. If I can pull this one off I'll quit; all I want is a little more time. Then I'll fire the slash, an' that'll cover tracks."

  "Buell, I wouldn't want to be near Penetier when you light that fire. This forest will burn like tinder."

  "It's a whole lot I care then. Let her burn. Let the Government put out the fire. Now, what's to be done about this boy?"

  "I think I'd try to feel him out. Maybe he can be fixed. Boys who want to be foresters can't be rich. Failing that—you say he's a kid who wants to hunt and shoot—get some one to take him up on the mountain."

  "See here, Stockton. This young Ward will see the timber is bein' cut clean. If it was only a little patch I wouldn't mind. But this slash an' this mill! He'll know. More'n that, he'll tell Leslie about the Mexican. Dick's no fool. We're up against it."

  "It's risky, Buell. You remember the ranger up in Oregon."

  "Then we are to fall down on this deal all because of a fresh tenderfoot kid?" demanded Buell.

  "Not so loud.... We'll not fall down. But caution—use caution. You made a mistake in trusting so much to the Greaser."

  "I know, an' I'm afraid of Leslie. An' that other fire-ranger, Jim Williams, he's a Texan, an' a bad man. The two of them could about trim up this camp. They'll both fight for the boy; take that from me."

  "We are sure up against it. Think now, and think quick."

  "First, I'll try to fix the boy. If that won't work... we'll kidnap him. Then we'll take no chances with Leslie. There's a cool two hundred an' fifty thousand in this deal for us, an' we're goin' to get it."

  With that Buell went into his office and closed the door; the other man, Stockton, walked briskly down the platform. I could not resist peeping from my hiding-place as he passed. He was tall and had a red beard, which would enable me to recognize him if we met.

  I waited there for some little time. Then I saw that by squeezing between two plies of lumber could reach the other side of the platform. When I reached the railing I climbed over, and, with the help of braces and posts, soon got to where I could drop down. Once on the ground I ran along under the platform until I saw a lane that led to the street. My one thought was to reach the cabin where the Negro cook stayed and ask him if Dick Leslie had come to camp. If he had not arrived, then I intended to make a bee-line for my mustang.

  VI. DICK LESLIE, RANGER

  Which end of the street I entered I had no idea. The cabins were all alike, and in my hurry I would have passed the cook's shack had it n
ot been for the sight of a man standing in the door. That stalwart figure I would have known anywhere.

  "Dick!" I cried, rushing at him.

  What Dick's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me.

  "Ken, blessed if I'd have known you," he said, shoving me back at arm's-length. "Let's have a look at you.... Grown I say, but you're a husky lad!"

  While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. Dick had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his fair skin.

  "Ken, didn't you get my letter—the one telling you not to come West yet a while?"

  "No," I replied, blankly. "The last one I got was in May—about the middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick, don't you want me—now?"

  Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.

  "Ken, I'm glad to see you," he said, earnestly. "It's like getting a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed—there's something doing here—I'll—"

  "You needn't explain, Dick," I replied, gravely. "I know. Buell and—" I waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.

  Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.

  "Ken!... You're on," he said, recovering his composure. "Well, wait till you hear—Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner."

  A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step.

  "Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the States," said Dick. "Ken, you know Jim."

  If ever I knew anything by heart it was what Dick had written me about this Texan, Jim Williams.

  "Ken, I shore am glad to see you," drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze that I thought must break every bone in it.

  Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of him fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten face seemed set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a quivering alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into. He wore a wide sombrero, a blue flannel shirt with a double row of big buttons, overalls, top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A heavy revolver swung at his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim Williams had fought Indians and killed bad men, I should still have seen something that awed me in the look of him.

  I certainly felt proud to be standing with those two rangers, and for the moment Buell and all his crew could not have daunted me.

  "Hello! what's this?" inquired Dick, throwing back my coat; and, catching sight of my revolver, he ejaculated: "Ken Ward!"

  "Wal, Ken, if you-all ain't packin' a gun!" said Jim, in his slow, careless drawl. "Dick, he shore is!"

  It was now my turn to blush.

  "Yes, I've got a gun," I replied, "and I ought to have had it the other night."

  "How so?" inquired Dick, quickly.

  It did not take me long to relate the incident of the Mexican.

  Dick looked like a thunder-cloud, but Jim swayed and shook with laughter.

  "You knocked him off the roof? Wal, thet shore is dee-lightful. It shore is!"

  "Yes; and, Dick," I went on, breathlessly, "the Greaser followed me, and if I hadn't missed the trail, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, he got here first."

  "The Greaser trailed you?" interrupted Dick, sharply.

  When I replied he glanced keenly at me. "How do you know?"

  "I suspected it when I saw him with two men in the forest. But now I know it."

  "How?"

  "I beard Buell tell Stockton he had put the Greaser on my trail."

  "Buell—Stockton!" exclaimed Dick. "What'd they have to do with the Greaser?"

  "I met Buell on the train. I told him I had come West to study forestry. Buell's afraid I'll find out about this lumber steal, and he wants to shut my mouth."

  Dick looked from me to Jim, and Jim slowly straitened his tall form. For a moment neither spoke. Dick's white face caused me to look away from him. Jim put a hand on my arm.

  "Ken, you shore was lucky; you shore was."

  "I guess he doesn't know how lucky," added Dick, somewhat huskily. "Come on, we'll look up the Mexican."

  "It shore is funny how bad I want to see thet Greaser."

  Dick's hard look and tone were threatening enough, yet they did not affect me so much as the easy, gay manner of the Texan. Little cold quivers ran over me, and my knees knocked together. For the moment my animosity toward the Mexican vanished, and with it the old hunger to be in the thick of Wild Western life. I was afraid that I was going to see a man killed without being able to lift a hand to prevent it.

  The rangers marched me between them down the street and into the corner saloon. Dick held me half behind him with his left hand while Jim sauntered ahead. Strangest of all the things that had happened was the sudden silencing of the noisy crowd.

  The Mexican was not there. His companions, Bud and Bill, as Buell had called them, were sitting at a table, and as Jim Williams walked into the center of the room they slowly and gradually rose to their feet. One was a swarthy man with evil eyes and a scar on his cheek; the other had a brick-red face and a sandy mustache with a vicious curl. Neither seemed to be afraid, only cautious.

  "We're all lookin' for thet Greaser friend of yourn," drawled Jim. "I shore want to see him bad."

  "He's gone, Williams," replied one. "Was in somethin' of a rustle, an' didn't leave no word."

  "Wal, I reckon he's all we're lookin' for this pertickler minnit."

  Jim spoke in a soft, drawling voice, and his almost expressionless tone seemed to indicate pleasant indifference; still, no one could have been misled by it, for the long, steady gaze he gave the men and his cool presence that held the room quiet meant something vastly different. No reply was offered. Bud and Bill sat down, evidently to resume their card-playing. The uneasy silence broke to a laugh, then to subdued voices, and finally the clatter and hum began again. Dick led me outside, where we were soon joined by Jim.

  "He's holed up," suggested Dick.

  "Shore. I don't take no stock in his hittin' the trail. He's layin' low."

  "Let's look around a bit, anyhow."

  Dick took me back to the cook's cabin and, bidding me remain inside, strode away. I beard footsteps so soon after his departure that I made certain he had returned, but the burly form which blocked the light in the cabin door was not Dick's. I was astounded to recognize Buell.

  "Hello!" he said, in his blustering voice. "Heard you had reached camp, an' have been huntin' you up."

  I greeted him pleasantly enough—more from surprise than from a desire to mislead him. It seemed to me then that a child could have read Buell. He'd an air of suppressed excitement; there was a glow on his face and a kind of daring flash in his eyes. He seemed too eager, too glad to see me.

  "I've got a good job for you," he went on, glibly, "jest what you want, an' you're jest what I need. Come into my office an' help me. There'll be plenty of outside work—measurin' lumber, markin' trees, an' such."

  "Why, Mr. Buell—I—you see, Dick—he might not—"

  I hesitated, not knowing how to proceed. But at my halting speech Buell became even more smiling and voluble.

  "Dick? Oh, Dick an' I stand all right; take thet from me. Dick'll agree to what I want. I need a young feller bad. Money's no object. You're a bright youngster. You'll look out for my interests. Here!" He pulled out a large wad of greenbacks, and then spoke in a lower voice. "You understand that money cuts no ice 'round this camp. We've a big deal. We need a smart young feller. There's always some little irregularities about these big timber deals out West. But you'll wear blinkers, an' make some money while you're studyin' forestry. See?"

 
"Irregularities? What kind of irregularities?"

  For the life of me I could not keep a little scorn out of my question. Buell slowly put the bills in his pocket while his eyes searched; I could not control my rising temper.

  "You mean you want to fix me?"

  He made no answer, and his face stiffened.

  "You mean you want to buy my silence, shut my mouth about this lumber steal?"

  He drew in his breath audibly, yet still he did not speak. Either he was dull of comprehension or else he was astonished beyond words. I knew I was mad to goad him like that, but I could not help it. I grew hot with anger, and the more clearly I realized that he had believed he could "fix" me with his dirty money the hotter I got.

  "You told Stockton you were leary of Washington, and were afraid I'd queer your big deal.... Well, Mr. Buell, that's exactly what I'm going to do—queer it!"

  He went black in the face, and, cursing horribly, grasped me by the arm. I struggled, but I could not loose that iron hand. Suddenly I felt a violent wrench that freed me. Then I saw Dick swing back his shoulder and shoot out his arm. He knocked Buell clear across the room, and when the man fell I thought the cabin was coming down in the crash. He appeared stunned, for he groped about with his hands, found a chair, and, using it as a support, rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily.

  "Leslie, I'll get you for this—take it from me," he muttered.

  Dick's lips were tight, and he watched Buell with flaming eyes. The lumberman lurched out of the door, and we heard him cursing after he had disappeared. Then Dick looked at me with no little disapproval.

  "What did you say to make Buell wild like that?"

  I told Dick, word for word. First he looked dumfounded, then angry, and he ended up with a grim laugh.

  "Ken, you're sure bent on starting something, as Jim would say. You've started it all right. And Jim'll love you for it. But I'm responsible to your mother. Ken, I remember your mother—and you're going back home."

  "Dick!"

  "You're going back home as fast as I can get you to Holston and put you on a train, that's all."

  "I won't go!" I cried.