Holman Day

“And never a knight in a tournament
Rode lists with a jauntier mien,
Than he of the drive who came alive
Thro’ the hell of the Hulling Machine.”

—The Spike-sole Knight.

Larry Gorman, “the woodsman’s poet,” whose songs are known and sung in the camps from Holeb to Madawaska, was with Rodburd Ide’s incoming crew. His three most notable lyrics are these: “I feed P.I.’s on tarts and pies,” “Bushmen all, your ear I call until I shall relate,” and “The Old Soubungo Trail.”

When Rodburd Ide’s hundred men “met up” with the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt’s hundred men at the foot of Pogey Notch, Larry Gorman displayed a true poet’s obliviousness to the details of the wrangle between principals. He didn’t understand why Pulaski Britt, blue with anger above his grizzled beard, and “Stumpage John” Barrett, mottled with rage, should object so furiously when Rodburd Ide’s girl took away the tatterdemalion maid of the Skeets, nor did Larry ask any questions. If this be the attitude of a true poet, there was evidently considerable true poetry in both crews, for no one appeared to be especially curious as to the why of the quarrel. However, the imminence of a quarrel was a matter demanding woodsmen’s attention. It might have been noted that Poet Gorman cut the biggest shillalah of any of them. And while he rounded its end and waited for more formal declaration of hostilities, he lustily sang the solo part of “The Old Soubungo Trail,” with a hundred hearty voices to help him on the chorus:

Spirit rather than melody characterized the efforts of these wildwood songsters. The Honorable Pulaski Britt, who didn’t like music anyway, and was trying to talk in an undertone to timber baron Barrett, swore a deep bass obligato.

He did not take his baleful gaze from Dwight Wade, who had gone apart, and was leaning against the mouldering walls of the Durfy hovel.

“You had your chance to block their game, and you didn’t do it, John. You make me sick!” muttered the belligerent Britt. “You’ve let that college dude scare you with threats, and old Ide champ his false teeth at you and back you down. You don’t get any of my sympathy from now on. I had a good plan framed. You knocked it galley-west by poking yourself into the way. They’ve got the girl. They’ll use her against you. You can fight it yourself after this.”

Barrett stared uneasily from one crew to the other.

“It would have been too tough a story to go out of these woods,” he faltered. “Two crews ste’boyed together by us to capture a State pauper.”

“A story of a woods rough-and-tumble, that’s all!” snorted Britt. “And these dogs wouldn’t have known what they were fightin’ about—and would have cared less. And while they were at it I could have taken the girl out of sight! You spoiled it! Now, don’t talk to me! You go ahead and see if you can do any better.” He tossed his big hand into the air and whirled away, snuffling his disgust.

Larry Gorman, having peeled a hand-hold on his bludgeon, was moved to sing another verse:

Sturdy little Rodburd Ide, magnate of Castonia, bestrode in the middle of the trail to the south. His head was thrown back, and his mat of whiskers jutted forward with an air of challenge. To be sure, he did not exactly understand as yet the full animus of the quarrel. He had heard his partner, Dwight Wade, announce on behalf of Honorable John Barrett that the latter proposed to educate the girl protÉgÉe of the Skeets’ tribe. He had noted that the timber baron did not warm to the announcement in a way that might be expected of the true philanthropist.

Tommy Eye’s astonishing declaration from the house-top that the timber magnates of Jerusalem townships were proposing to marry the girl off to Colin MacLeod, boss of “Britt’s Busters,” and that, too, in spite of MacLeod’s lack of affection, had some effect in enlisting Ide’s sympathies and interference. But his daughter’s spirited championship of the poor girl was really the influence that clinched matters with the puzzled Mr. Ide.

“Rodburd,” declared the Honorable Pulaski, approaching him on the contemptuous retreat from Barrett, “you’ve gone to work and stuck your nose into matters that don’t concern you. Your man Wade there, instead of attending to your operation on Enchanted, has been spending his time beauing that girl around these woods and stirring up a blackmail scheme. I’m telling you as a friend that you’d better ship him. He’s going to make more trouble for you than he has yet. He isn’t fit for the woods. I found it out and fired him. Do the same yourself, or you’ll never get your logs down and through the Hulling Machine.”

“Do you mean that you’re going to fight him on the drive on account of your grudge?” demanded Ide.

“I don’t mean that,” blustered Britt. “It’s the man himself who’ll queer you.”

“I don’t believe it,” replied Ide, stoutly. “There are some things goin’ on here that I don’t understand the inside of up to now; but as for that young man, I picked him for square the first time I laid my eyes on him at Castonia. I’ve had him looked up by friends of mine outside, and now I know he’s square. You can’t break up our partnership by that kind of talk, Britt. Now own up! What’s the nigger in the woodpile here, anyway?” The little man was still unbending, but his eyes snapped with curiosity.

But the Honorable Pulaski’s shifty eyes dodged the inquiring stare of the Castonia man. The view down the tote road in the direction in which Nina Ide and Kate Arden had disappeared under convoy of Christopher Straight seemed to be a more welcome prospect than that frankly inquisitive face. And the view down the trail also suggested a safer topic for conversation.

“I believe in indulgin’ a girl’s whims, Rod, but this is a time when you’ve let yourself go too far. That lucivee[2] kitten that your daughter has lugged off home set this fire that we’ve been fightin’ up here. She set it maliciously, in the face and eyes of Sheriff Rodliff and myself. She’s the worst one of the whole lot, and as a plantation officer you know the Skeets and Bushees pretty well. Are you goin’ to let your girl take a critter like that back home with her?” He noted a flicker of consternation in the little man’s eyes. “Now, don’t be a fool in this thing. Let a half-dozen men run after that girl and fetch her back. She don’t belong in any decent home. John Barrett and I have arranged a plan to take care of her and keep her out of mischief.”

But again the timber magnate’s eyes failed to meet the test of Ide’s frank stare.

“I’ve known you a good many years, Pulaski,” said he. “I’ve done a lot of business with you, and you can’t fool me for a minute. You’ve been into a milk-pan, for I can see cream on your whiskers.”

“I’m only warnin’ you not to harbor such a criminal!” stormed the other. His wrath slipped its leash once more. The presence of Dwight Wade, his very silence, seemed tacit proclamation of victory and the boast of it. “The girl belongs back here, and we’re goin’ to have her back. If your men don’t fetch her, mine will.”

But Ide set his short legs astride a little more solidly.

“As first assessor of the nearest plantation, I can handle the State pauper business of these parts, and do it without help,” he said.

“You mean that meddlin’ girl of yours is runnin’ it,” taunted Britt.

In his heart the fond father realized the force of the taunt, and knew why he was blocking that trail so resolutely. A mother bear would have shown no more determination in closing the retreat of her cubs.

“If for any reason that I don’t understand as yet you want the guardianship of that girl, Britt,” he declared, “come down any time you want to and get your rights legally. But just now I’m tellin’ you again that you and your men can’t get past here. And if you do, you’ll go with cracked heads.”

And once more Pulaski D. Britt substituted oaths for action.

Stamping back towards his men, he saw Tommy Eye squatting like a jack-rabbit on the top of the Durfy camp. That guileless marplot offered a fair target for his rage against the world in general.

“MacLeod,” bawled Britt to the boss, who had not yet pulled himself together after that final flash of scorn from the eyes of Nina Ide, “pull that drunken loafer off that roof and yard the men back to camp!”

“I’m discharged out of your crew, Mr. Britt,” squealed Tommy, a quaver of apprehensiveness in his voice. “I’ve discharged myself. I’ve told the truth about what you was tryin’ to do. So I ain’t fit for you to hire.”

It was not the unconscious satire of the statement that put a wire edge on the Honorable Pulaski’s temper. It was Tommy Eye’s rebelliousness, displayed for the first time in a long life of utter subservience.

“You won’t be fit for anything but bait for a bear-trap ten minutes after I get you back to camp,” bellowed the tyrant. “MacLeod, get that man down!”

“Don’t you want to hire a teamster, Mr. Ide?” bleated Tommy, crawfishing to the peak of the low roof. “You know what I be on twitchro’d, ramdown, or in a yard. You don’t find my hosses calked or shoulder-galled.” He hastened in nervous entreaty: “You hire me, Mr. Ide. I never had a team sluiced yet. You know what I can do in the woods.”

The plaintiveness of the frightened man’s appeal touched Wade. He realized the weight of misery this pathetic turncoat might expect thereafter at the hands of Britt and his crew of “Busters.” MacLeod was advancing towards the ladder that conducted to the roof, his sullen face lighting with a certain amount of satisfaction. Wade put himself before the ladder.

“Hirin’ men out from under isn’t square woods style, Tommy,” said Ide, shaking his head.

“That man isn’t a slave,” protested Wade. “He is the only man I’ve found in these woods with courage enough to stand up for what’s right, Mr. Ide. I don’t believe in leaving him to those who are going to make him suffer for it.”

“Up to now, you dude, you’ve done about everything that shouldn’t be done in the woods!” cried Britt. “But there’s one thing you can’t do, and that’s take a man out of my crew.”

“It’s an unwritten law, Wade,” protested his partner. “It isn’t square business to meddle with another operator’s crew.”

“When a case like this comes up, it’s time to change the law, then,” declared Wade, with savageness of his own, the menacing proximity of MacLeod acting on his anger like bellows on coals.

“I can’t afford to be mixed into anything of the sort,” persisted Ide.

“And nobody but a fool would try it, Rod. I’ve warned you to get rid of him. You can see for yourself now! He don’t fit. He’s protectin’ fire-bugs, standin’ out against timber-owners’ interests, and breaking every article in the code up here.”

“And I’m likely to keep on breaking the kind of code that seems to go north of Castonia!” cried the young iconoclast. For a moment his flaming eyes dwelt on the face of the Honorable John Barrett, and that gentleman, who had been wondering just what shaft his own recalcitrancy would next draw from this champion of the oppressed, looked greatly perturbed. “Mr. Ide, do you forbid me to hire this man?”

“N-no,” admitted his partner, rather grudgingly.

“Then you’re hired, Eye.” Wade looked up and answered the gratitude in Tommy’s eyes by a nod of encouragement. “Come down, my man, and get into our crew. You’ve acted man-fashion, and I’ll back you up in it.”

“Let it stand—let it stand as it is,” whispered Barrett, huskily, clutching at the arm of Britt as that furious gentleman surged past him. “If we tackle the young fool now he’s apt to blab all he knows about me. It’s a ticklish place. Handle it easy.”

“I’ll handle it to suit myself!” stormed Britt, yanking himself loose. “You set back there if you want to, and play dry nurse to your twins—your family scandal on one arm and your governor’s boom on the other. But when it comes to my own crew and my private business, by the Lord Harry, I’ll operate without your advice!”

He began to call on his men, rallying them with shrill cries. He ordered them to surround the camp and take the rebel. In the next breath he bade MacLeod to go up the ladder and pull Tommy down.

“Poet” Larry Gorman, who had been gradually edging near the spot which he had sagely picked as the probable core of conflict, set himself suddenly before Colin MacLeod as the boss advanced towards Wade with a look in his eye that was blood-lust. MacLeod had a weather-beaten ash sled-stake.

“Sure, and a gent like him don’t fight with clubs,” said Gorman. “We’ve all heard about his lickin’ ye once, and man-fashion, too! Now, go get your reputation. Start with me.” The redoubtable bard poked his shillalah into MacLeod’s breast and drove him suddenly back. At this overture of combat the men for Enchanted came up with a rush. They met the “Busters” face to face and eye to eye.

“We’re all axe-tossers together, boys!” cried Gorman. “Ye know me and you’ve sung my songs, and ye know there’s no truer woodsman than me ever chased beans round a tin plate. Now, Britt’s men, if ye want to fight to keep a free man a slave when he wants to chuck his job, then come and fight. But may the good saints put a cramp into the arm of the man that fights against the interests of woodsmen all together!”

Under most circumstances even such a cogent argument as this would not have stayed their hands. But coming from Larry Gorman, author of “Bushmen All,” it made even the “Busters” stop and think a moment. And when MacLeod was first and only in renewing hostilities—obeying Britt’s insistent commands—Gorman again held him off at the end of his bludgeon, and shouted:

“Oh, my cock partridge, you’re only brisk to get into the game because you’re daffy over a girl. You’d wipe your feet on Tommy Eye or any other honest woodsman to polish your shoes for the courtin’ of her.”

It was a taunt whose point the “Busters” realized and relished. It was even more forceful than Larry’s first appeal. Some of the men grinned. All held back. But for MacLeod it was the provocation unforgivable. He drew back his arm and swept his stake at Larry’s head. That master of stick-play warded and leaped back nimbly.

“Fair, now! Fair!” he cried. “They’re all lookin’ at us, and there can’t be dirty work.” Gorman’s face glowed, for he had won his point. His wit had balked a general combat. His massing fellows had tacitly selected him as their champion. He had put the thing on a plane where the “Busters” were a bit ashamed to take part. They turned their backs on Britt in order to watch the duellists more intently. They knew that Larry Gorman was vain of two things—his songs and his stick-swinging.

“What say ye to waitin’ till your shoulder ain’t so stiff?” he inquired, with pointed reference to the injury MacLeod had received at the hands of Wade. His mock condolence pricked Colin to frenzy. He drove so vicious a blow at the bard that when the latter side-stepped the boss staggered against the side of the camp.

“But sure I can make it even,” said Larry, facing him again without discomposure; “for I’ll sing a bit of song for you to dance by.”

The merry insolence of this brought a hoarse hoot of delight from both sides. And pressing upon his foe so actively that the crippled MacLeod was put to his utmost to ward thwacks off his head and shoulders, this sprightly Cyrano of the kingdom of spruce carolled after this fashion:

MacLeod got a tap that made his eyes shut like the snap of a patent cigar-cutter.

“Chorus!” exhorted the lyrist. And they bellowed jovially:

Larry leaped back, whirled his stick so rapidly that its bright peeled surface seemed to spit sparks, and again got over the boss’s indifferent guard with a whack that echoed hollowly.

MacLeod was too angry to retreat. He was too angry to see clearly, and his brain rang dizzily with the blows he had received. His injured shoulder ached with the violence of his exertions. But his pride kept him up, and forced him to meet the fresh attack that Gorman made—an attack in which that master seemed to be fencing mostly to mark the time of his jeering song:

The blow that time staggered MacLeod.

“Chorus!” called “Poet” Larry. But before he could rap his antagonist at the end of that roaring iteration the Honorable Pulaski was between them, having at last contrived to fight his way through the ranks of the crowding men. He narrowly missed getting the blow intended for the boss. He yanked the sled-stake out of the nerveless grasp of the sweating and discomfited MacLeod, and raised it.

“Be careful, Mr. Britt,” yelped Gorman. His mien changed from gay insouciance to bitter fury. “You’ve struck me once in my life, and I took it and went on my way, because I was getting your grub and your pay. You strike me to-day, and I’ll split your head open like a rotten punkin!”

Britt had begun to rant that he could thrash the whole Enchanted crew single-handed. He was maddened by the lamblike demeanor of his own men. But he knew a desperate and dangerous man when he saw him. At that moment Larry Gorman was dangerous. The tyrant lowered his club and backed away, muttering some wordless recrimination at which the poet curled his lip. Seeing his chance, Tommy Eye hooked his legs about the uprights and slid down the ladder with one dizzy plunge, struck the ground in squatting fashion, and shot head-first into the ranks of his protectors.

But after that masterly raillery of Gorman’s there was no fight left in the “Busters.” And his vengeful bearding of the Honorable Pulaski left the autocrat himself speechless and helpless.

Tommy Eye’s trembling hand fingered his chin, his wistful eyes peered over the shoulders of his new friends, and he knew he was safe. The “Busters,” nudging each other and growling half-humorous comment, began to sift out of the yard of the Durfy hovel, and lounge back along the trail towards the Jerusalem camp.

“D—n ye for cowards!” yelled the Honorable Pulaski, viciously flinging the ash sled-stake after them.

“Oh, but they’re not cowards!” cried Larry. In his bushman’s soul he realized that even now a chance taunt, a random prick of word, might start the fight afresh. “Every man-jack there is known to me of old, and the good, brave boys they are! But your money ain’t greasy enough, Mr. Britt, to make good men as them fight to take away a comrade’s man-rights.”

The “Busters” nodded affirmation and kept on. One man stepped back and hallooed: “Right ye are, Larry Gorman! And when ye try to get your Enchanted logs first through the Hulling Machine next spring, ye’ll find that we’re the kind of gristle that can’t be chawed. That’ll be man’s business, and no Teamster Tommy Eye to stub a toe over!”

There was a grin on the man’s face, but none the less it was a challenge, and Larry accepted it.

“Sure, and we’ll be there!” he called. “We’ll be there with hair a foot long, pick-pole[3] in one hand, peavy-stick[4] in the other, ready for a game of jack-straws in the white water and a fist-jig on the bank!”

“And will ye write it all into a song, Larry Gorman?”

“All into a song it shall go!”

And roaring a good-natured cheer over their shoulders, the “Busters” filed away into the mouth of Pogey Notch.

“You may as well move, boys,” ordered Rodburd Ide. “This business here isn’t swampin’ yards nor buildin’ camps!”

The men for Enchanted cheerfully shouldered dunnage-sacks, and in their turn set off up the Notch.

“Here’s Tommy Eye’s bill of his time, Mr. Britt,” said Gorman, holding out a crumpled paper to the choking tyrant. Tommy himself had prudently departed, bulwarked by his new comrades.

“I’ll not pay it!” blustered Britt. “He broke the contract!”

“No more does he want you to pay it,” replied Larry, serenely, speaking in behalf of the amiable prodigal. “He says to credit it on that one drink of whiskey he took out of your bottle, and when he earns more money workin’ for honest men he’ll pay ye the rest.”

He tore the paper across and across, snapped the bits in Britt’s face, turned, and followed the crew.