CHAPTER XII
Andy’sstudy of nature proved to be no idle whim, and Gillis had long since ceased teasing him. All his leisure moments were spent in scouring the hills and meadows for specimens, and regularly every Sunday afternoon he ascended the hill to Wainwright’s cabin with his collection for the learned Englishman’s inspection.
On this afternoon, Wainwright, being in one of his solitary moods, had wandered up the mountain, and Andy found Connie busily engaged in spading the earth in search of worms, which she tossed to the swarm of birds that hopped on the ground and filled the air about her.
Scolding the bold camp-robbers that ventured dangerously near the shovel blade, she scattered the soil, then laughed joyously as the birds with a great flutter of wings pounced on the fat worms.
Andy threw himself luxuriously on the green sward. This beautiful spot was a diversion from the hot kitchen, a veritable haven of rest. The gentle murmur of the bees among the flowers, the soft, subdued twittering of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the laughing of the water, all combined to make one sweet monotone of sound that lulled him into drowsiness.
Connie sat down near him, the birds all about her.
“ ’Ow do you get them so tame, Connie?”
“They know that I love them,” she replied simply.
“I can’t get anything but the camp-robbers to come near me,” said Andy.
“It takes time and patience, Andy. As soon as the birds are assured that you mean them no harm, they are eager to be your friends. You’ll remember, Dad told you that without plants man could not live,” she went on. “It is equally true that if all the birds should perish, man would soon follow. And, still more wonderful, if we had no insects man could not survive.”
Andy came to a sitting posture. “Do you mean to s’y that we would die if we ’ad no insects?” he asked incredulously.
“Surely, Andy, you haven’t forgotten what Dad told you last Sunday about the insects carrying the pollen from flower to flower,” reproved Connie.
“I ’ave it now!” cried Andy, after a few moments of reflection. “If we ’ad no insects to carry the pollen the plants couldn’t live. And if the birds were all gone ther’d be so many insects that they’d eat up every blinkin’ thing the farmers raised, and we’d starve to death.”
Connie nodded.
“Strike me ’andsome if it ain’t wonderful!” said Andy in an awed voice.
Connie explained very simply to Andy the benefits derived by mankind from the various birds. Her discourse proved so interesting to him that he paid little heed to the time until the sun, disappearing behind the trees, warned him that it was time to return to his duties. Regretfully he arose and turned to the trail, Connie walking by his side. A goldfinch, rich in his summer plumage of bright yellow, black and white, hung swaying like a dainty sprite on a slender stem near the path. From its bulging little throat came a rippling, bubbling song like a miniature torrent of ecstasy.
“Dear, dear, dearie,” he called sweetly.
“Oh, you darling!” cried Connie as she clasped her hands in rapture. “I’ve been trying to find their nest for several days, Andy, but the little dears have hidden it too well.”
She made soft clucking sounds as she moved nearer to the beautiful bird. The goldfinch fluttered close to her side to perch like a yellow flower on the top of a tall thistle, perked its pretty head and looked up at her with bright shining eyes.
“Dear, dear, dearie,” it sang again, then flew with characteristic wavy motion to a clump of willows, twittering sweetly as if calling Connie to follow.
“I ’ave to ’urry ’ome,” said Andy as he looked at his watch. He glanced back at a turn in the trail to see Connie pressing the willows gently aside in her search for the goldfinch’s nest.
“Strike me pink! but she is a wonderful girl,” soliloquized Andy. “The ’andsomest and the brainiest kid I ever saw in me life. If I was thirty years younger, two feet ’igher, and ’arf decent to look at, I’d fall ’ead over ’eels in love with ’er.”
He smiled broadly at these ridiculous reflections, but there was a tender light in his bright blue eyes. A swarthy foreign labourer, moving aimlessly up the trail, merely grunted in reply to Andy’s cheerful salutation.
“One of Gillis’s beloved bohunks,” chuckled Andy.
A moment later he stopped suddenly. Connie was up there alone. For a short interval he hesitated, then resumed his downward journey. “She’d shoot ’is blinkin’ ’ead off if ’e tried to ’arm ’er,” he decided.
Just then he heard Connie’s voice raised in a quick cry of anger. Andy jumped as though subjected to a galvanic shock. He turned in mid-air and before he struck the ground his short legs were going through the motion of running. The picture of Connie struggling in the arms of the burly foreigner made him fairly fly.
“I’m coming, Connie!” he shouted as he tore up the hill.
Donald and Gillis, sitting near the bluff enjoying a smoke came to their feet as they heard a faint shout from above. For an interval they listened intently, but hearing no further sound they resumed their seats. Andy slackened his pace as he came to the clearing and saw that Connie was unharmed. She was standing near the labourer with her head bowed over an object held in her hand.
“What’s wrong, Connie?” panted Andy.
“Andy, look!” she choked, “it’s the mother bird. I had just found her nest—here it is.” She parted the bushes to disclose a compact, cosy, cup-like structure of fine grass and moss placed in a crotch of the tree. In the centre lay four downy fledglings whose tiny mouths gaped wide to receive the expected bit of food from the mother’s bill. “Oh, Andy, if she dies the little ones won’t live,” said Connie in a voice filled with pity.
Andy took the wounded bird from her hand. “ ’Ow did it ’appen, Connie?” he asked tenderly.
Connie was as open and unaffected as the wild birds of the forest. She was as capable of hating as she was of loving. Her eyes were laughing eyes, and the soul that looked out of them a merry soul, but she had a temper, and under sufficient provocation her blue eyes could take on a dangerous glow.
She now turned like an enraged lioness on the foreigner. “He killed it with a stick!” she cried furiously. “You brute, you cowardly brute. . . .” In her rage her voice became incoherent. With hands clenched and with breath coming in short gasps, she moved nearer to the object of her hatred. In her hysterical anger her voice rose almost to a scream.
“You cur, if I were a man I’d—I’d lick you!”
The cry came to Donald’s ears, and he was off up the trail like a deer.
“Something wrong, Jack!” he shouted.
“Go ahead, I’ll follow,” responded Gillis.
Andy looked down on the mother goldfinch as it lay in his hand. He felt the quick throbbing of its heart grow fainter and fainter. One wing was broken and its white breast was stained with blood. The bird’s head drooped lower, and a film settled over its bright eyes. The beautiful wings stretched rigidly, and it gasped convulsively, sending a tiny stain of crimson from its mouth that felt warm on his palm.
Andy’s face became colourless. His hand shook violently as he placed the dead bird tenderly on the ground. “Connie dear,” he said, in a voice that trembled, “I ain’t a whole man, but ’ere’s where you see ’arf a man goin’ into battle to give all he’s got.”
He removed his coat and threw it from him. Through a rage-mist Andy saw the grinning foreigner throw up his arms in an absurdly unscientific posture of defence. Like a mad cat, Andy launched himself straight at his husky opponent. The grin was wiped from the big man’s face by Andy’s compact fist, as it smacked resonantly on the end of his thick nose with a snap like that of a whip, and with a skilled force that brought blood.
Andy’s years of training boxers now stood him in good stead. He well knew that a small man would stand little chance in long range fighting, and he kept well inside the larger man’s wild swings. With his blond head tucked against his adversary’s body, his fists worked like pistons; he kept sending short jolts to the body that brought heavy grunts every time they landed.
Connie was delirious with excitement.
“Hit him, Andy! Hit him! Good! Good!”
And then she groaned as the big man’s hand found Andy’s throat and flung him to the ground. Little Andy was up immediately, but stepped into a swinging fist that caught him over the eye and sent him sprawling. Undaunted, he came to his feet, waited warily for an opening, and again sprang under the big man’s guard.
Andy’s fist shot up in a ripping upper-cut that was judged to a nicety, catching his opponent on the point of his chin with force enough to send him rocking on his heels, and before he could recover himself the same fist, accompanied by its mate, beat a tattoo on his solar plexus.
In desperation the bewildered man wound his arms about the little Australian and lifted him high in air. Like a game bulldog Andy hung on. Though his feet were off the ground, he clung to the big man’s body like a leech.
Again the big hands felt for Andy’s throat, and he was flung six feet to strike with a thump that shook every bone in his body. Connie cried out in fear as he narrowly avoided a brutal blow aimed at his head.
Andy’s sense of British fair play had received a rude shock. “As Methusalem said,” he panted, as he came to his feet, “when in Bohunkia do as the Bohunks do.”
“Take that, Spaghetti!” he shouted, as he kicked the foreigner viciously on the shin. While the latter leaned over in pain, Andy shot a well-directed upper-cut to his face. The big man sat down, a dazed look in his eyes.
Breathless, Donald arrived on the scene, with Gillis puffing in the rear.
Breathing heavily, Andy’s adversary came to his feet, picked up his hat, and with arms wound about his head beat a hasty retreat. Andy was after him like a hornet, sending stinging blows through his vulnerable guard. Donald and Gillis stood with mouths agape to see Andy administering a sound thrashing to a man twice his size. Right to the edge of the woods he relentlessly pursued his fleeing enemy.
Andy’s head was held at its usual cocky angle, and he assumed a swagger as he retraced his steps, but his short legs wobbled and he sank dizzily to a stump.
“I brought ’is blinkin’ meat-’ouse down, Connie,” he gasped.
“Oh, Andy, you’re a darling!” she cried, throwing her arms impulsively around the little man’s neck, and touching her lips to his cheek.
Andy’s florid face took on a deeper magenta, and he blinked hard to hide certain signs of emotion. He afterwards admitted to Donald that he was no “sweet sixteen,” and that it was the first time that he had ever been kissed in his “bloomin’ ” life.
Connie wet her handkerchief in the cold water of the creek and bathed his face with tender care.
She showed Donald and Gillis the nest with the motherless birds, doomed to die a premature death by this act of wanton cruelty, and pointed to the tiny bird on the ground, for whose untimely end Andy had taken a well deserved and summary vengeance. Connie choked as the lovely male bird flew to a stalk of goldenrod near its dead mate and sent out its throaty warble.
“Dear, dear, dearie,” sang the goldfinch in a plaintive, questioning note.
Andy presented a pitiful figure with an eye closed, his lips swollen, and his face bruised, but the indomitable spirit of him shone from his one bright orb.
“You darned little buzz-saw!” said Gillis tenderly.
Donald slapped his little friend on the back, his eyes shining with admiration.
CHAPTER XIII
Renwickannounced that Robert Rennie’s daughter and a party of girl friends were to visit Summit Lake the following week, and carpenters were set to work erecting cottages for their accommodation.
A few days before her arrival Donald was both surprised and pleased to receive a cordial letter from her in which she said that she was looking forward with pleasure to the coming holiday, and that she would deeply appreciate anything he might do for the entertainment of her friends.
As always, her father spared no expense in providing for the comfort and pleasure of his daughter. That week a car containing a motor-boat, canoes and six saddle-horses was run in on a side-track at the mill.
Connie learned of the coming event through Donald as she was watching with keen interest the unloading of the spirited animals.
“You will enjoy yourself next week, Connie,” he said gaily. “Miss Rennie is coming with friends. We’ll have rides, picnics and dancing.”
A few minutes later Connie joined Andy, who sat on the steps of the kitchen door enjoying a breath of fresh air.
“Is Miss Rennie rich, Andy?”
“An ’ole barrel o’ dough.”
“Is—is she beautiful?”
“I’ve ’eard so, Connie.”
A short pause ensued while she searched the pockets of her overalls and produced several neatly folded papers. She extracted one, pressed it smooth, then passed it to Andy.
“Does Miss Rennie dress like that?”
It was a photograph of an actress dressed for the street, taken from one of the magazines that Donald had given her.
“I think so, Connie.”
“Oh! She must be wonderful, then!” said Connie earnestly.
She moved closer to Andy, unfolded another page, and spread it on her knee.
Andy bent his blond head close to the one of gold. A startled look crossed his features and his brows bobbed up and down. It was a full-page advertisement of ladies’ lingerie. The highly coloured illustration of a lady, partially dressed, achieved its object of arresting the eye, while the remainder of the space was occupied by articles of apparel similar to those adorning the lady’s graceful form.
Andy coughed. “Er—yes, Connie.”
Connie raised her eyebrows incredulously.
“All at one time?”
“Sure—sure,” mumbled Andy.
Connie stared. “Why, there must be nearly a dozen pieces. How is this fastened?” she questioned as she pointed with a slender brown finger to one of the engravings.
Andy took a quick glance. “Buttons.”
“And this?”
“Buttons,” replied Andy, gripping the bowl of his pipe and sending out clouds of smoke.
“And this?”
“Strike me blind, what a ’ell of an ’ole,” thought Andy.
“Buttons,” he responded desperately without looking at the paper.
Connie raised her head. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Andy; that must slip on,” she objected.
Andy made a pretence of studying the article in question.
“Yes, yes, sure! That’s right! that’s right!” he conceded quickly.
Andy’s pipe was now sending out billows of acrid smoke. Connie coughed and moved beyond the smoke screen. Much to Andy’s relief, she sat for a moment silently studying the advertisement. When she raised her golden head there was a look of wistful yearning in her blue eyes.
“Oh, Andy,” she said dreamily, “it must be lovely to feel those soft silky things next your skin.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Connie,” stuttered Andy, “but I ’ave a roast in the oven—I——”
“Just a minute, Andy,” she pleaded, “there is something else I want to ask you.” She sorted the papers for a moment.
“God ’elp me, what will it be now?” thought Andy, as he braced himself for the next question.
“Andy, what is a camisole?”
A look of profound relief crossed the little Australian’s face.
“A camisole,” he explained with an air of wisdom, “is a fish. It’s a——”
He was interrupted by Connie’s peal of laughter. “Oh, Andy,” she cried, “you’re a funny man!” She turned and ran laughing down the hill.
“Strike me lucky!” exclaimed Andy as he mopped his brow. “It’s enough to make a blighter’s ’eart bleed. The poor motherless kid comin’ to a bloke like me to ask such questions.”
He watched Connie as she slowly ascended the trail, still studying the magazine pages.
“But ’ow the ’ell can I ’elp ’er?”
He pondered deeply for a moment, but, seemingly unable to answer the question, shook his head sadly and turned to his duties.
Fortunately for Janet’s peace of mind, none of her friends had recognized in the photograph of the new champion of Canada the handsome young man they had met at her home. They were puzzled by her decision to spend a holiday in the wilds until she casually mentioned that Mr. McLean was arranging for their entertainment, and she accepted with a smile the sly teasing that followed.
The party arrived by special train a day earlier than originally planned, and as Janet stepped to the platform Donald was for a moment disconcerted by the warmth of her greeting and the softness in her eyes as they rested on him.
That afternoon Connie came riding down the hill holding in her hand an enormous bouquet of Alpine flowers. She leaped from her horse and ran blithely around the corner of the big building. Andy, dressed in white coat and hat, came smilingly forward to meet her.
“Andy, here are some rare flowers Dad sent for——” She ceased speaking abruptly as Donald, leading Janet and her friends from a tour of the kitchen, came through the door.
Donald’s face lighted with a glad smile as he saw Connie.
“Miss Rennie, I want you to meet Miss Wainwright.”
Connie’s face burned with embarrassment as all eyes turned toward her, and the mass of wild flowers held crushed to her breast quivered as though shaken by a breeze. She glanced about her quickly, strongly tempted to flee the spot.
For a moment the society belle and the girl of the mountains eyed each other silently. Janet stared at Connie as if she were some strange creature unclassified by science. Connie for the first time was gazing on a stylishly-clad member of her own sex. Janet’s dress of white silk shimmered in the sunshine, and her broad-brimmed white hat, with lining of pale rose, gave to her beautiful face a ruddy glow.
Connie’s eyes roved in admiring awe from the neat high-heeled shoes to the silken hose and skirt, and then to the flowered hat set jauntily on thick shining coils of dark hair.
There was a certain dewy freshness, a native frankness, about the girl of the woods that made Janet appear artificial. Their eyes met, and Connie’s lips parted in a timid smile, revealing two rows of perfect milk-white teeth and forming two tiny dimples in her brown cheeks. Her lonely heart longed for the friendship of this wonderful girl, but the smile quickly faded when she saw that Janet’s eyes remained cold and appraising.
Janet scrutinized Connie’s faded blue overalls and coarse cotton shirt, which, even though loose and ill-fitting, could not conceal the graceful lines of the childish figure. Confused by the cold reception, her eyes wide and misty with a hint of pain, Connie turned quickly away.
Moving with the easy grace and freedom that an empress might envy, Connie walked to the side of her cayuse, and with characteristic bird-like motion sprang to his back. Her moccasined feet struck his sides, and with ears flattened Pegasus leaped forward with a speed that sent Connie’s hair streaming. His spurning hoofs sent a cloud of dust in their faces, then horse and rider went tearing down the hill.
Janet stood staring after the flying rider, a look of blank astonishment on her face.
Connie’s visits to the mill ceased, but from the highest point on the bluff she watched the merry-makers with keen interest as, dressed in natty riding costumes, they rode their stylish horses, disported themselves in bathing-suits on the sandy beach, paddled the lake in light, graceful canoes, or chugged about in the shiny white motor-boat. For two evenings she sat with a feeling of dreary lonesomeness while Donald and Janet floated on the placid lake in one of the tiny canoes, their subdued voices and gentle laughter coming up faintly from below.
During the evenings she spent with Donald, Janet was assailed by fleeting emotions in which she tried to define her attitude toward him. She felt that the time was not far distant when some definition would be necessary. In a number of artful ways she had tried, but without success, to lead him to talk of himself. When she put a direct question she saw the lines about his mouth tighten, and his reply carried a tone of such unmistakable rebuke that her face reddened and the subject was instantly dropped.
On the night before Janet’s departure a dance was arranged, to which the clerical staff of the Cheakamus Mill was invited. Gillis promised a special feature on the programme in the form of an old-fashioned square-dance with his “redshirts” as the performers.
All that day the skies drizzled continuously; lake and mountain were hidden under a heavy mist. The inclement weather did not dampen the ardour of the merry crowd, who, in slickers and oilskins of every description, gathered flowers and trees to decorate the big dining-room that was to be used as a dance-hall.
That night, lights gleamed from every window of the big room, which had undergone a sudden transformation. The walls were one mass of wild flowers, and on the beams overhead small cedars and jackpines stood upright in rows, adding a pungent odour to the air, already burdened with the sweet smell of wild flowers. The music of the phonograph flowed out of the open door to vibrate softly through the dripping trees.
Connie learned of the dance, and after dark she slipped quietly down into the valley. She crouched by the open window, heedless of the rain dripping from the eaves, her eyes glued upon the enchanting scene within. She saw Donald and Janet gliding across the floor, and she marvelled at the grace of their movements. The hum of talk, the constant ripple of feminine laughter, the rustle of silken skirts, were all foreign to Connie. She felt a touch of intense and utter loneliness, like a stranger in a strange land.
Janet seemed to have thrown aside her cloak of reserve; she brimmed over with an unwonted gaiety, but at times her big brown eyes held a troubled look as they rested on Donald.
Gillis’s “redshirts” filed in to give an exhibition of old-fashioned dancing. Half the men wore handkerchiefs tied about their arms to indicate that they were impersonating ladies. Blackie played the violin, while “Fightin’ ” Jack’s roaring voice did the “callin’ off.” Gillis informed the company that Blackie “didn’t know a note of music from a post-hole.” But what he lacked in technical knowledge was made up in the immense volume of sound he produced from the instrument, and the speed he set for the whirling dancers to follow soon had them dripping with perspiration. There were shouts of Homeric laughter, big feet thumped the floor as they girated through the intricate steps of the quadrille, and above all sounded the hoarse voice of “Fightin’ ” Jack in the colourful jargon of “callin’ off.”
“Birdie jump out and Jackie jump in;Jackie jump out and give Birdie a swing.All the men left; back to pardner;And grand right and left.Chickadee right and pack-rat left.Meet your pardners and all chaw hay.Gents sashay and put on style,Re-sashay with a little more style,Little more style, gents, little more style.”
“Birdie jump out and Jackie jump in;Jackie jump out and give Birdie a swing.All the men left; back to pardner;And grand right and left.Chickadee right and pack-rat left.Meet your pardners and all chaw hay.Gents sashay and put on style,Re-sashay with a little more style,Little more style, gents, little more style.”
“Birdie jump out and Jackie jump in;Jackie jump out and give Birdie a swing.All the men left; back to pardner;And grand right and left.Chickadee right and pack-rat left.Meet your pardners and all chaw hay.Gents sashay and put on style,Re-sashay with a little more style,Little more style, gents, little more style.”
“Birdie jump out and Jackie jump in;
Jackie jump out and give Birdie a swing.
All the men left; back to pardner;
And grand right and left.
Chickadee right and pack-rat left.
Meet your pardners and all chaw hay.
Gents sashay and put on style,
Re-sashay with a little more style,
Little more style, gents, little more style.”
At the finish the girls loudly applauded the efforts of this picturesque crew, and after a short breathing spell they again took the floor and danced until sheer exhaustion forced them to quit. Mopping their dripping faces with big red bandannas, they trooped boisterously outside.
Near midnight the rain ceased, and as Donald walked with Janet to her cabin the moon came suddenly from behind a dark wall of clouds to set the lake sparkling under its soft light.
“Too wonderful a night to sleep,” said Janet softly.
“Shall we walk to the lake?” asked Donald.
She nodded assent.
They stood near the edge of the lake in the light of the moon and looked across at the towering snow-fields etched against the star-spangled sky. There were lights still shining from the big room they had just vacated, and the night-watchman’s lantern bobbed jerkily as he made his rounds. Across the lake the light from the trapper’s cabin shone on the calm surface of the water. The faint, weird call of a loon wafted to their ears was echoed and re-echoed in soft cadences from the surrounding hills. A faint breath of wind came out of the rain-washed forest, laden with the sweet perfume of earth and flowers, and caressed their faces like loving fingers. Donald took a deep breath that seemed more like a sigh.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” He indicated with a sweep of his arm the lake, the wooded hills and the glittering glaciers lifting their heads high to the sparkling firmament. He turned to find his companion standing with downcast eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked, a trifle resentfully.
Janet raised her head slowly. The limpid depths of the big brown eyes were soft and languorous in the half-light; the full red lips were dewy and tremulous; the peaceful light of the moon shone upon her radiant upturned face, giving it an ethereal glow.
“It is wonderful,” she breathed.
Involuntarily he moved closer. What was this inner urge? Love—feeling—emotion, or, it might be, passion?
Laughter and voices came from the trail above. Douglas with several of the visiting party emerged into the white light of the moon. Douglas called his sister’s name and Janet and Donald moved up the hill to join them.
After the sound of their footsteps died in the distance there was a rustle in the bushes near the path as a slender, childish figure, clad in blue overalls and cotton shirt, glided into the soft moonlight. She stood leaning forward with the grace of some wild thing, her heavy hair flowing about her shoulders. The big blue eyes that usually were filled with light and happiness were now dark with passion, and two small brown fists were pressed against a wildly-heaving breast. Tears welled from the blue eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Her breath came in gasps.
“I hate you! Oh, how I hate you!” She stamped her tiny moccasined foot passionately, then turned and ran blindly along the dark forest trail.
An owl flew like a ghostly wraith to a thick growth of firs. The startled cheep of a flying-squirrel turned to a cry of terror, quickly silenced by the powerful beak of the owl as it made its kill. A song-sparrow, with her downy brood cuddled to her warm breast, heard the death-cry, and her eyes grew round with terror.
A mallard duck, sleeping quietly on the lake, emitted a terrified quack as it was drawn below the surface. A moment later the water was disturbed as a mink arose, with its sharp teeth fastened in the duck’s throat, and moved through widening ripples toward the land.
The quick “plop” of a startled muskrat sounded sharply on the night air as the Breed rose slowly from a spot not far from where Connie had lain in hiding. He stood with arms folded, the stolid look of the Indian on his face, and stared toward the spot where Connie had disappeared. A look of ineffable sadness was in his sombre eyes. Thus he stood as immovable as a statue for an interval. Then a long-drawn sigh escaped him. “She loves him,” he said in a dead voice.
He walked to the shore, his distorted limb causing him to sway grotesquely in the moonlight. He drew a skilfully concealed dugout from the bushes and launched it gently. His paddle spurned the water noiselessly, and in a moment he was lost in a bright patch of reflected moonlight.
CHAPTER XIV
A weekbefore Dominion Day men began applying for leave of absence until the exodus depleted the crew to such an extent that it was deemed advisable to shut down for a week. Donald turned to Gillis as he saw the whole crew of “redshirts” pile tumultuously on the train.
“How often do the men quit like this?” he asked rather irritably.
“Every holiday,” replied Gillis.
Donald pondered a moment.
“That means that we may lose a week for Labour Day.”
“Very likely.”
“Jack, do you think we could keep them here if we held some sort of celebration at the lake?”
“I believe we could,” responded Gillis warmly.
“We’ll do it then,” declared Donald. “We’ve so many orders ahead that this lay-off may force us to run a night crew.”
“Did you spend all your dough, Blackie?” asked Gillis when the “redshirts” arrived back from town.
“Me and Hoop-la spent about two hundred bucks, but we had three hundred dollars’ worth o’ fun. We ain’t got enough money to buy a humminbird a pair o’ leggin’s, but we sure had a helluva good time, so we ain’t worryin’.”
“S’pose you bought them new boots?” inquired Gillis.
Blackie forced a laugh. “Goin’ to git them next time, Jack,” he continued, moving closer to his big boss; “say, Jack, you know that I send twenty dollars to my mother back east ev’ry month. I—I——”
“All right, Blackie,” said Gillis gently, “I’ll advance it to you.”
“Thanks, Jack, you’re a good pal,” commended Blackie in a relieved tone.
Donald and Gillis walked down the hill to inspect the logs in the boom, and as they walked Gillis indulged in some pointed observations. “You know, Donnie, that these loggers are game guys to come back after spendin’ all their money and say: ‘We had a good time, so we ain’t worryin’.’ The man ain’t human that won’t worry after spendin’ in a few days the money it’s taken him six months to earn swingin’ an axe an’ draggin’ a saw. Still, they hide their remorse under a grin and tell of what a good time they’ve had. So many people think that loggers spend all their money for booze. ’Tain’t so. That gang of mine give away about half their money to bums around town. I have seen Blackie give away twenty bucks at a time.”
As they passed the high-rigger’s little cabin, Gillis poked his head through the door. Blackie was absorbed in the task of sewing a patch on a pair of worn boots. A mournful wind blew querulously around the cabin.
“Say, Blackie, do you know what that wind is saying?”
Blackie grunted a negative.
“Here’s what it’s a sayin’,” said Gillis as he puckered his lips: “O-o-o-o-h! W-h-e-e-r-r-e-e has your summer wages gone! O-o-o-h! W-h-e-r-r-e-e has your summer——”
Gillis dodged back as a boot came whizzing past his head.
Midsummer brought an epidemic of labour disturbances throughout the Province. A radical labour organization seized on a time when work was plentiful and labour scarce to spread their insidious propaganda through the camps. Railroad construction in the interior had been seriously interfered with, and in many cases there had been violence and bloodshed.
Two agitators arrived at the Summit Mill, and the next day several of the men—including Hand and Blackie—did not appear when the whistle blew. Gillis found them in Blackie’s cabin in a half-drunken condition. That afternoon Renwick ordered the two strangers off the premises and discharged Hand.
Hoop-la begged successfully for lenience toward his erring pal. “You know how booze affects Blackie, Jack,” he pleaded.
Donald became aware of a changed bearing on the part of many of the men. Sullenness had fallen upon them; discontent manifested itself, as well as insubordination. That afternoon spikes driven in the logs wreaked havoc with the saws and forced a partial shut-down.
A committee of four men waited on Renwick and presented an ultimatum. They demanded a heavy increase in wages, or they would call for an immediate cessation of work on the part of the men they represented. Renwick promptly refused. In fifteen minutes every man in the mill except the clerical staff, the mechanics and the engineer, walked out. In the woods only Gillis’s “redshirts” remained at work.
The strikers moved up the track and made camp on a point of land on the lake-shore. That night the door of the commissary was prised from its hinges and a quantity of food stolen, and the night-watchman put out a fire of incendiary origin.
Renwick, while returning from the power-house, was shot at twice from ambush. He wired his resignation to Robert Rennie, and in terrified haste packed his belongings and left on the next train. An hour later the agent brought Donald a telegram:
“Donald McLean,“Summit Mill.“You are promoted to position vacated by Renwick. Refuse strikers’ demands. Ship at Squamish Oriental order white pine. Utmost importance lumber loaded within week. Use every means in power to keep plant operating.“Robert Rennie.”
“Donald McLean,
“Summit Mill.
“You are promoted to position vacated by Renwick. Refuse strikers’ demands. Ship at Squamish Oriental order white pine. Utmost importance lumber loaded within week. Use every means in power to keep plant operating.
“Robert Rennie.”
He passed the message to Gillis. The big man turned and grasped Donald’s hand in congratulation.
“We’ll get that order out on time or bust,” declared Gillis grimly.
Donald distributed firearms among his loyal men, and one-half the crew patrolled the plant while the others slept.
Donald had been up the greater part of the night, and at Gillis’s earnest request he went to his cabin near midnight. As the door closed behind him, Connie, with her rifle resting in the hollow of her arm, rose silently from behind a tree in the darkness of the hillside and flitted noiselessly on moccasined feet from stump to stump. Unseen she reached the corner of Donald’s cabin, where she sank to the ground with the soft, slow grace of a nestling bird.
The Cheakamus Mill, robbed of man-power, was forced to cease operations. At the Summit Mill work went on with such speed as in the situation Donald was able to induce in the men, who were on edge. To him it seemed that they were working on top of a powder mine that might go off at any moment. He discovered in himself a faculty to handle men and to raise them to a fever pitch of enthusiasm—not that the B.C. logger is a hard man to lift to the fighting point. His fight against great odds had gained the sympathy of the loyal—a sympathy and respect that money could not buy. Gillis’s gang, with the exception of “Blackie,” remained fervently faithful.
Toiling in the hot sun, nearly blinded by sweat, singing lustily, this gallant crew worked their twelve hours without a murmur of complaint. Donald lived on the job, ate on the job, and all day long he drove his men even as he drove himself. His rest consisted of such fitful snatches of sleep as he could steal between his rounds of the night guards.
The first move of the strikers was not of open violence. The haul-back on two of the donkeys broke without apparent reason; one of the big saws had been tampered with; Wilkinson reported two fires of incendiary origin, and also that an attempt to dynamite the power-house had been frustrated.
On the third morning Hand, at the head of a mob of fifty men, made a swift descent on the lumbering operations. It might have been successful if Donald had not expected something of this kind and set efficient watch.
The invaders came down the track in a solid body, armed with cant-dog handles, pick-axes and clubs, and thirsting for battle. At Donald’s quick shout of warning his men dropped their tools and came on the run to form in a compact body behind him.
“Don’t use your guns unless you have to,” he warned, as he noticed several of them flash their revolvers.
Donald climbed quickly to the top of a large stump. In his left hand he held a stick of dynamite with fuse attached; in his right he held a match close to the dangling fuse. “Men,” he cried in a determined tone, “if you move forward one step I will throw this.”
“To hell mit him!” shouted Hand. “He don’t dare do it. Rush him.”
But the mob did not obey their leader’s rash command. Donald’s pale face and burning black eyes were sufficient evidence that he made no idle threat. Donald saw the big hand of his foreman stealing to the butt of the heavy Colts that hung at his side. “Keep cool, Jack,” he begged; “don’t start anything.”
For days Gillis had been without sleep. He turned bloodshot eyes on Donald. “By G——! I would like to take a crack at Hand,” he said in a voice thick with rage.
The hostile crowd did not advance; neither did they leave. Scattered in groups, they lay or sat on the hillside to shout occasionally words of derision at Donald’s faithful crew.
Donald’s nerves were on edge. At any moment there might be a pitched battle with loss of lives. He studied the faces of the strikers to see how many were from his crew, and was surprised to recognize fully forty of his men. He saw “Blackie” in the rear of the crowd of strikers. When his eyes met Donald’s he turned away shamefacedly. All the men from his camp refused to meet his gaze squarely. “Those men are ready to come back right now,” he said to Gillis. “Hand has bullied them into this. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gillis. “I never thought Blackie would go back on me. I’ll wring his d——d neck when I catch him in town!” he added bitterly.
Donald heard a slight movement behind him, and turned to see Connie standing with her rifle in the crook of her arm.
“Good heavens! Connie, you shouldn’t be here!” he exclaimed.
Connie’s face bore traces of weariness and sleeplessness. For three nights she had stolen softly away from her cabin on the hillside to lie hidden outside that of Donald. By night she had kept up a weary vigil, ever on the alert; in the forenoon she had lain behind a stump on the hill with eyes on Donald’s tall figure whenever he came in sight, her rifle ready for instant action. Hand did not know that death had nearly claimed him when he stepped forward to urge his men to charge. At that crucial moment Connie’s rifle was aimed at his heart.
“Get away from here at once, Connie!” said Donald, firmly, but kindly.
Connie lowered her eyes to her moccasined foot, that was weaving patterns in the dry soil, and shook her small head obstinately.
“Why do you wish to stay?” he asked.
She patted the stock of her rifle. “I—I want to help you.”
Donald looked down at the weary little figure. He stepped down from the stump, keeping a wary eye on the belligerent strikers, and came to her side. “Connie,” he said softly, “you are a dear, brave little girl, but you must get away from this place, as there may be serious trouble. Please, Connie,” he entreated, reaching out a hand to stroke her shining hair.
Connie’s face paled quickly, and she shrank from the caress. Her slender body trembled at his touch, and his display of tenderness brought a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. But she made no move to leave the scene.
Finding that he could not shake Connie’s determination to stay, Donald returned to the vantage point of the stump. “Jack,” he said, turning to his big foreman, “I am going to make one last appeal to these men. If I am any judge of human nature about half of them, if they can save their faces, will welcome the chance to go back to work. They are being dominated by Hand.”
Gillis shrugged his shoulders. “Do what you think best,” he said.
Donald passed the dynamite to Gillis and stepped forward with his arms extended, palms upward. The crowd moved uneasily. Hand came slowly to his feet, his small eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“What’s up?” he growled.
“Men,” Donald began in a high clear voice, “I would like to convince you that you will gain nothing by your present tactics. Bloodshed will surely ensue. I have orders to refuse your exorbitant demands. Personally, I have no choice in the matter; there is no other course for me to pursue. In spite of your interference we will continue working with the few men who have remained loyal. I will ask for police protection only as a last resort. I appeal particularly to the men who worked for me here at this camp. Is there one of you who can truthfully say that you were not accorded fair treatment? Is there one of you who will not admit that the general equipment for your comfort is unequalled in any camp in British Columbia? You are making a mistake, men,” he went on in a pleading tone, “a mistake you will be sorry for later, for you will be blacklisted in every camp in the country. Go back to work, and I promise you there will be no mark against you. That’s all.”
Donald walked back to Connie’s side. The men had not interrupted him once.
Hand turned to the wavering crowd. “To hell mit him and all capitalists!” he snarled. He turned to shake a huge fist at Donald.
“You treaten us, do you? You d——” The epithet that came from his coarse lips was one that would cause any decent man to see red.
Donald stiffened. His face turned livid. “You dirty cur!” he flamed. “Don’t you know that there is a lady present? You apologize to this little girl or I will whip you within an inch of your life!” His voice trembled with passion.
“Lady,” scoffed Hand, “vat you call a lady? She moost be nice lady, runnin’ in de woods wit’ you ev’ry Sunday.”
A murderous look shot from Donald’s dark eyes. A terrible rage possessed him, a rage that made his blood feel hot in his veins and gave him the unnatural strength of a madman. A dull red flamed in Connie’s tanned cheeks. She sat down and covered her hot face with her hands.
Andy now came running from the cook-house, dressed in white cap and apron, his rifle trailing at his side. “What’s goin’ on, Donnie?” he questioned.
Donald did not answer. Gillis spoke to Andy in an undertone.
“My God, Donnie, ’e’s twice your size! Don’t fight ’im!” implored Andy.
“I’ll kill him!” rasped Donald.
Gillis seized his arm. “Let me fix the d—— skunk; he’s nearer my size.”
“No, this is my affair!” shaking himself from the grasp.
The sound of a paddle came from below, and the trapper sprang from his dugout and came swiftly up the hill. As Andy briefly explained the situation the old man’s grey eyes narrowed to mere slits beneath the shaggy brows.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Me and ‘Betsey’,” patting his six-shooter, “we likes to shoot up bohunks. We shoots them in the heel so’s to save their clothes.” His mouth was set in a grim smile, a smile that was belied by the steely look in his deep-set eyes. He seated himself on a log and placed his gun on his knees.
Donald had by this divested himself of coat and shirt and now stepped forward dressed in light cotton trousers, a sleeveless undershirt and moccasins. “Hand,” he said in a steady voice, “this is between you and me. See to it that your men do not interfere; I will vouch for mine.”
The big foreigner was rubbing his big hands as though in pleased anticipation. “I suppose you know how we iss goin’ to fight? Everything goes, you know.” His grin was fiendish.
Donald knew what was meant. There were to be no rules of combat; no time duration; no referee; no rounds, and woe to the man who should go down. It was to be a battle as of primeval man. It might result in terrible injury and mutilation. He sickened at the thought.
Hand stripped to the waist. Connie’s eyes rested on the mighty frame of this huge blond; the bunched and rippling muscles, the great chest covered with a mat of thick hair, and the enormous limbs. Her glance then turned and roved to the man who was to fight for her honour. Donald’s eyes were like burning coals. His face had regained its colour, but was contorted with a passion that made him seem unnatural. Yet he appeared a mere stripling in comparison to his burly antagonist.
For a moment Connie became a primitive woman. She felt as though she could rend and tear. Her eyes darted blue lightnings of wrath toward the man who had insulted her, and her small hands clinched in impotent fury. Her nails cut into her palms as she exercised every ounce of self-control to keep from screaming aloud. Donald was fighting for her. She caught her breath in a quick stab. Her heart was beating with alternate throbs of joy and fear. A sudden fit of trembling seized her, and her head felt light and giddy.
Hand’s reputation as a rough and tumble fighter was well known throughout the Province. It was his proud boast that he never had been whipped. He advanced now, a sinister leer on his face. Andy ran to Donald’s side.
“Box ’im, Donnie,” he whispered. “Don’t let ’im get ’old on you.”
“You goin’ to vip me? De dude goin’ to vip me? Ach!” scoffed Hand in guttural accents.
He came slowly forward with arms spread wide, his thick fingers working convulsively. Donald leaned slightly forward and waited. As he neared him, Hand tore in, sure of himself in the rough and tumble. Donald side-stepped the big man’s first rush and shot his left to his face. He was not properly set for the blow, but it stung Hand to madness.
“Ach!” he grunted, “stand and fight you d—— coward!”
He came on, his arms swinging wildly. Leaping aside, Donald’s heel struck a stump, and before he could regain his footing the giant’s arms were around him in a bone-crushing grasp. His hands were clasped at Donald’s waist, and the big head was pressed suffocatingly against his throat. Donald was forced slowly backward to strike the ground with a thud, the big man on top.
“Now I got you!” panted Hand as he released his hold on Donald’s waist and aimed a blow at his face. With a quick movement the under man turned face down. Hand struck him viciously as he lay prostrate under him.
Connie’s eyes were wide with horror, and a muffled scream escaped her lips as the blow fell.
With a quick, convulsive movement of his lithe body Donald threw Hand from his back and sprang to his feet. Whirling quickly as the foreigner came toward him, he sent in a volley of blows to his opponent’s face. Hand staggered, but did not fall. His lips were cut and bleeding: his nose was broken; and he spat out several broken teeth. Any one of the blows landed was sufficient to send an ordinary man down for the count, but still the gargantuan giant came on.
In and out Donald flashed, his arms moving like steel pistons. Hand could not keep away from the punishing left hand of his lighter opponent. Men not trained in the science of boxing have no punishing power in their left hand, but depend solely on their right. Such was the case with Hand. His style did not vary for a moment. With head lowered between his powerful shoulders, he would bore in, swinging wildly in the hope of landing a lucky punch, or striving to get a hold on his adversary. Donald’s hand kept beating a tattoo on his rock-like jaw, but still Hand came forward, slowly and relentlessly as a steam-roller.
Crowding Donald back to the line of tense spectators, Hand rushed him into the scattering crowd and seized him in a rib-cracking embrace. Donald broke the hold, but not before the brute had butted him over the eye. With the blow Donald’s senses reeled and the blood gushed from a wide gash on his brow. A blow from the foreigner’s big fist then caught him over the heart and sent him staggering to his knees. With a curse the big man came after him.
Andy shouted hysterical words of advice.
Donald came slowly to his feet and mechanically side-stepped as Hand came stumbling toward him. Donald evaded him until his head cleared, and then summoned his remaining strength into one mighty blow that landed flush on his opponent’s midriff. The blond beast came to his knees with a dull grunt.
“Go after him!” yelled excited voices from the crowd.
Donald stepped forward with fist drawn back to strike the kneeling man, but his arm fell to his side and he shook his head. “Get up!” he commanded hoarsely.
Even the strikers gasped their appreciation of this honourable act. A murmur of applause came from both sides. The foreigner shook his shaggy blond head and came uncertainly to his feet and the sanguinary battle went on. Both men were tired. Hand’s breath was coming in short, choking gasps from his tortured lungs, and his face was one smear of blood. Donald’s left eye was closed; his lips were split, and the gash over his eye had covered his body with blood. His arms were tired from pounding the iron jaw of his adversary. The big logger’s strength was waning; the pounding administered by Donald was beginning to tell. But Donald was too weak to avoid his rushes. In a clinch Hand again butted him with his head.
Blackie, his eyes blazing, leaped forward with a peavy handle in his hand. “You fight fair, d—— you, or I’ll brain you!” he shouted. One of the strikers attempted to wrest the peavy handle from his hands. Blackie felled him with a blow of his fist. It looked for one tense moment as if there would be a general mêlée. There came sullen mutterings from the crowd of strikers.
“Back!” John Hiller’s voice rang out sharp and clear. “I’ll kill the first man that interferes!” The eyes shining over the long-barrelled Colt held a dangerous glint. The men who had moved to the centre backed away hurriedly.
Back and forth the combatants struggled, neither gaining any decided advantage, each trying to land a blow that would end the battle. Reeling, gasping, striking, falling to their knees from sheer weakness, the men fought on under a burning noonday sun.
No knight of old ever fought more nobly for a fair lady’s honour than did Donald McLean that day by the lake-shore. His undershirt was torn to tatters, showing his white skin blotched with welts and bruises. He was losing his sense of distance. Swinging wildly with his left, his wrist struck Hand’s adamantine jaw and the onlookers saw his face writhe in pain as the arm fell helplessly to his side.
“ ’E’s broken ’is ’and,” groaned Andy.
“Oh, stop it, Andy, please stop it!” sobbed Connie, her arms held out in entreaty.
Donald’s face turned a sickly grey, and as the well-nigh sightless foreigner staggered weakly toward him, he with a strength born of agony whipped his right to his opponent’s sagging jaw. The big man faltered, sank slowly to hands and knees, then stretched at full length, his face pressing the soil, quivered and lay still. No sound came from the crowd. The thing had been too stupendous for immediate shouting or applause. Donald stood for an instant swaying uncertainly, then turned to stumble toward his cabin.
Blackie sprang to the top of a stump and swung his hat in the air. “Three cheers for our boss!” he yelled wildly.
A roaring cheer came from the crowd with a right good will.
“Boys, let’s go back to work!” shouted Blackie.
“We’re with you, Blackie!” they answered.
Gillis reached Donald’s side as he tottered into the cabin and caught him in his arms as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The big man picked him up tenderly and placed him on the bed.
“Get some ’ot water and towels and telephone for Dr. Paul,” commanded Andy tersely.
As Gillis left to fill Andy’s commission, Connie fell on her knees by the bedside and wept with wild and passionate violence. “Oh, Donald! Donald!” she sobbed, “you fought for me. I love you! I love you! Oh, Andy,” turning her streaming eyes to the little man, “he won’t die, will he? Tell me he won’t die!” Her trembling fingers were smoothing Donald’s dark hair, and she kissed his battered face tenderly, all the while calling his name hysterically.
With tears in his eyes and a heart full of sympathy, little Andy looked down on the recumbent form of his unconscious friend. “ ’E’s all right, Connie. ’E’ll be all right in a few days,” he answered her in a choking voice.
Donald stirred as Andy applied the water, and his one good eye opened slowly. “Did I win?” he questioned weakly.
“You bet your blinkin’ life you did.”
When Donald’s gaze rested on Connie his face twisted into a wry smile. He reached for her hand and held it in a firm pressure. “Good little sport,” he whispered through split lips.
Connie felt as though her heart would burst. Scorching tears ran down her face, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she controlled the suffocating sobs that filled her throat.
The sound of the big mill whistle smote their ears in a wild medley of short, sharp blasts, quite unlike the decorous tone that summoned and dismissed the men.
“What’s that?” asked Donald, attempting to sit up.
“The engineer is celebrating, Donnie. The men ’ave returned to work. The strike is broken.”
“Ah!” sighed Donald happily as he fell back on the pillows.
The distant hum of a gas-car gradually increased to a series of staccato explosions, then died out suddenly. They heard the light rumble of wheels as it drew to a stop at the station below. There was the sound of quick footsteps on the board sidewalk and the door opened to admit Dr. Paul. He crossed the room and took Donald’s hand. “Is it true,” he asked incredulously, “that you whipped Ole Hand?”
“Strike me pink if ’e didn’t,” Andy vouchsafed.
“I have patched up Hand’s victim’s many times,” the doctor stated, “but this is the first time that I have attended his victor, and I can assure you that it’s a pleasure.” He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll look you over,” he added, then glanced significantly at Connie, who rose and left the room.
“A couple of cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, and a few hundred bruises,” was the doctor’s verdict a few minutes later.
The physician’s deft hands soon bandaged the broken ribs and set the bone of the forearm.
“I’ll go and patch up the fallen bully. I hope he’s worse still,” he chuckled as he left the room.
Andy stepped to the door and called in Connie.
“Don’t look so frightened, Connie,” smiled Donald. “I don’t feel half as bad as I look.”
“I’ll have to go now,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.
Andy accompanied her outside the door. “ ’Ave a bite to eat, Connie?” he invited.
Connie shook her head. Now that the excitement was over, the strain of the emotion she had experienced showed in the dark shadows under her eyes and in the droop of her slight shoulders. “Andy,” she began, as she placed a small hand on his arm, “you—you won’t say anything what—what—I——”
A flood of rose dyed her tanned cheeks and her blue eyes fell in embarrassment. Andy patted her shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ll never s’y a blinkin’ word, Connie; an oyster’s got nothin’ on me.”
Connie, visibly relieved, picked up her gun and started up the hill. Andy watched the pathetic little figure until she disappeared in the woods. For a moment he stood staring into nothingness, then, shaking his head sadly, he entered the cabin.
“She’s a little brick, Andy,” Donald spoke weakly from his bed.
Andy glared at him. “Brick!” he repeated sarcastically. “Is that all? You big, bone-’eaded, blinkin’ boob!” He slammed the door as he went out to give emphasis to the remark.
“What the devil does he mean?” puzzled Donald. He turned painfully to his side, yawned equally as painfully, then fell into a sound sleep.