Holman Day

“When the snub-line parts and the great load starts
There’s nothing that men may do,
Except to cower with quivering hearts
While the wreck goes thundering through.”

—The Ballad of Tumbledick.

Days of winter snow and blow; days of sunshine, hard and cold as the radiance from a diamond’s facets; days of calm and days of tempest; days when the snowflakes dropped as straight as plummets, and days when the whirlwinds danced in crazy rigadoons down the valleys or spun like dervishes on the mountain-tops! And all were days of honest, faithful toil in the black growth of Enchanted, and the days brought the dreamless sleep o’ nights that labor won.

In those long evenings hope lighted a taper that shone brightly beside the lantern of the office camp in whose dull beams Dwight Wade wrote long and earnest letters. But these were not to John Barrett’s daughter; the conditions of their waiting love had tacitly closed the mail between them.

Again Dwight Wade, in the honesty of his soul, had seen a light of hope that contrasted cheerily with the red glare of might against might which made his decency quail. He saw a chance to win as a man, not as a thug.

The most brilliant young attorney of the newer generation in the State had been Wade’s college mate. To him Wade detailed in those long letters the iniquitous conditions that fettered independent operators in the north country, and gave the case into his enthusiastic keeping. It meant digging into the black heart of the State’s political corruption, timber graft, and land steals. It was a task that the young attorney, with earnest zeal and new ideals of civic honor, had long before entered upon. He seized upon this store of new ammunition with delight, and Wade rejoiced at the tenor of his replies. That the law and the right would intervene in Blunder valley to preserve him from a conflict in which he must use the shameful weapons selected by Britt for the duello was a promise that he cherished. And thus heartened, he toiled more eagerly.

It was well into February before they began to haul their logs to the landing-place on Blunder Stream. But even with an estimated five millions to dump upon the ice of Blunder, time was ample, for the snub-line down the steep quarter-mile of Enchanted’s shoulder made a cut-off that doubled the efficiency of the teams. It was the crux of the situation, that snubbing-pitch. With its desperate dangers, its uncertainties, its celerity, it was ominous and it was fascinating. But it was the big end of the great game. Dwight Wade made himself its captain. Tommy Eye, master of horses, came into his own and was his lieutenant.

Those two trudged there together in the gray of the dawn; they trudged back together in the chilled dusk, still trembling with the racking strain of it all.

Wade, cant-dog in hand, stood beside the snubbing-post and gave the word for every load to start, and watched every inch of its progress with tense muscles and pounding heart. Tommy Eye mounted the load and took the reins from the deposed driver as each team came to the top of the pitch; and the snorting, fearing horses seemed to know his master touch, and in blind faith went into their collars and floundered down under the fateful looming of the great load. Thus, every hour of the day, Tommy Eye silently, boldly ventured his life in the interests of the man who had once saved it, and Dwight Wade watched over his safety from the top of the slope. No word passed between the two. But they understood. There was no other man in the north country with the soothing voice, the assuring touch on the reins, and the mystic power to inspire confidence in dumb brutes—no other man that could bring the qualities that Tommy Eye brought to his task, coupled with the blind courage to perform. The horses turned their heads to make sure that he held the reins and was adventuring with them. Then they went on.

The snubbing-post was a huge beech, sawed to leave four feet of stump. It had been adzed to the smoothness of an axe-handle. The three-inch hawser clasped it with four turns, and two men, whose hands were protected by huge leather mittens, kept the squalling coils loosened and paid out the slack, when the cable was hooked to the load of logs on its way down the slope in order to hold it back. And when the coils yanked themselves loose and the rope ran too swiftly, even making the leather mittens smoke, Wade, with his cant-dog, threw the hawser hard against the stump and checked it. It was a trick that Tommy Eye taught him, and it required muscle and snap. At the instant of peril he drove his cant-dog’s iron nose into the roots of the stump, surged back on his lever, and pinched the rope between post and ash handle of the tool. Friction checked and held the load, but it was muscle-stretching, back-breaking labor.

And all the time there was the rope to watch to make sure that no rock’s edge or sharp stick had severed a strand, for broken strands uncoil like a spring under the mighty strain. There were the flipping bights of the coiled hawser to guard against as the men paid it out. Men are caught by those bights and ground to horrible death against the snubbing-post.

In time that rope came to have sentiency in the eyes of Wade. Some days it seemed to be possessed by the spirit of evil. It would not run smoothly. It fed out by jerks, getting more and more of slack at each jump. It began to sway and vibrate between post and load, a wider arc with every jerk, a gigantic cello-string booming horrible music. It snarled on the post; it growled grim and sinister warning along its tense length. So terrible are these wordless threats that men have been known to surrender in panic, flee from the snubbing-post, and let destruction wreak its will. Hence the silent and understanding partnership between Tommy Eye, shadowed by death on the load, and Dwight Wade fiercely alert at the snubbing-post.

There came a day when the spirit of evil had full sway.

The weather was hard, with gray skies and a bone-searching chill. The hawser, made smooth as glass by attrition, was steely and stiff with the cold. It had new voices. Once it leaped so viciously at the legs of one of the post-men that he gave a yell and ran. In the tumult of his passion and fear Wade cursed the caitiff, his own legs in the swirl of the bights, his cant-dog nipping the rope to the post and checking it short. And far down the slope Tommy Eye, his teeth hard shut on his tobacco, waited without turning his head, a mute picture of utter confidence.

It was while Wade held the line, waiting for the men to re-coil the hawser into safe condition to run, that the Honorable Pulaski Britt appeared. He came trotting his horses down the Enchanted main road and jerked them to a halt at the top of the pitch. Two men were with him on the jumper. Each wore the little blue badge of a game warden.

“We are after a man named Thomas Eye, of your crew,” said one of the men, catching Wade’s inquiring gaze. “We’ve traced that cow-moose killing to him—the Cameron case.”

For an instant Wade’s heart went sick, and then it went wild. Such an impudent, barefaced plot to rob him of an invaluable man at this crisis in his affairs seemed impossible to credit. It was vengefulness run mad, gone puerile.

“Mr. Britt has signed the complaint and has the witnesses,” said the warden. “We’ve got a warrant and we’ll have to take the man.”

“And there he is on that load,” said the Honorable Pulaski, pointing his whip-butt.

“Hold that line, men,” commanded Wade, coming away from the post. “Tommy Eye has not been out of my camp, wardens. He is absolutely indispensable to me. He has killed no moose. But if it can be proven I’ll pay his fine.”

“It takes a trial to prove it,” said the warden, dryly. “That’s why we’re after him.”

“Britt, I didn’t think you’d get down to this,” stormed the young man.

“I’m not a game warden,” retorted the baron of the Umcolcus. “You’re dealin’ with them, not me.”

He sat, slicing his whip-lash into the snow, and watched the young man’s bitter anger with huge enjoyment. And when Wade seemed unable to frame a suitable retort he went on: “If you think I’ve got anything to do with taking that crack teamster out of your crew, you’d better thank me. Anything that interferes with your landing your logs in a blind pocket like Blunder Stream is a godsend to you and Rod Ide.” His temper began to flame. “What do you think you’re going to do there? Do you calculate to steal any of my water? Do you think that whipper-snapper whelp of a lawyer that you’ve set yappin’ at our heels is goin’ to spin a thread for you against the men that have run this section for thirty years? If you’ve only got the law bug in your head, give it up. But if you have the least sneakin’ idea of troublin’ that dam up there”—he shook his fist into the north—“coil your snub-line and save time and money; for, by the eternal Jehovah, blood will run in that valley before water does!”

In the pause that followed one of the wardens asked, “Do you propose to resist the arrest of Eye, Mr. Wade?”

The question was an incautious one. In a flash the young man saw that this last sortie of the Honorable Pulaski was not so much an adventure against Tommy Eye as against himself—with intent to embroil him with the officers of the law. That might mean more trouble than he dared reflect upon. He had a very definite apprehension of what the legal machinery of Britt and his associates might do to him if he afforded any pretence for their procedure.

One of the wardens dropped off the jumper at a word from Britt, and the timber baron urged his horses down the slope, the other officer accompanying him.

Tommy Eye sat on his load, still with gaze patiently to the front, waiting in serene confidence the convenience of his employer. That back turned to Wade was the back of the humble confider, the back of the martyr. In his sudden trepidation at thought of his own imperilled interests, were he himself enmeshed in the law, Wade had thought to leave Tommy’s possible fate alone. But now, almost without reflection or plan, he ran down the hill. The martyr’s serene obliviousness struck a pang to his heart. In those days of strife and toil and understanding Tommy Eye had grown dear to him. Britt, turning, yelled to the officer at the top of the slope, “Give that snub-line a half-hitch and hold that load!”

A bit of a rock shelf broadened the road where the logs were halted. Britt lashed his horses around in front of the load with apparent intent to intimidate Tommy. The warden dropped off the jumper and shut off retreat in the rear. And Wade, running swiftly, carrying his cant-dog, came and leaped upon the load and stood above Tommy—his protecting genius, but a genius who had no very clear idea of what he was about to do.

No one ever explained exactly how it happened!

The warden, who was at the top of the pitch and who did it, gazed a moment, saw what he had done, and fled with a howl of abject terror, never to appear on Enchanted again. The men at the snub-post stated afterwards that he came to them, hearing Pulaski Britt’s orders, elbowed them aside with an oath, and took the hawser. He probably undertook to loosen the coils to make a half-hitch; but a game warden has no business with a snub-line when the devil is in it.

It gave one triumphant shriek at its release, and then—“Toom! Toom! Toom!”—it began to sing its horrible bass note. It was slipping faster and faster around the snubbing-post under the strain of Tommy Eye’s load, which it had been holding back.

Tommy Eye knew without looking—knew without understanding. He knew—that most terrible knowledge of all woods terrors—that he was “sluiced.” He screamed once—only once—and the horses came into their collars. Their hot breath was on the back of Pulaski Britt’s neck when he started—started with a hoarse oath above which sang the shrill yelp of his whip-lash, and behind him, on the icy slope, slid the great load of logs now released from anchorage to the snubbing-post and guided only by the nerve of Tommy Eye.

“Jump, Mr. Wade! Jump!” gasped the teamster. But Wade drove the peak of his cant-dog into a log and clung to the upright handle. He looked back. The great hawser spun itself off the spindle of the post and chased down the hill in spirals, utterly loose and free.

It was no dare-devil spirit that held him on the load. His soul was sick with horrible fear. It was something that was almost subconsciousness that kept him there. Perhaps it was pity—pity for Tommy Eye, so brave a martyr at his post of duty. In the flash of that instant when the great load gathered speed he stiffened himself to leap, then he looked at Tommy’s patched coat and remembered his oft-repeated little boast: “I’ve never left my hosses yet!” And so if Tommy could stay with his horses, he, Dwight Wade, could stay with Tommy! There was a queer thrill in his breast and the sting of sudden tears in his eyes as he decided.

The first rush of the descent was along an incline, steep but even. There were benches below—each shelf ten feet or so of jutting level—that broke the descent. Wade saw the jumper of Pulaski Britt strike the first bench. The old man went off the seat into the air, and when he fell he dropped his reins, clutched the seat, and kneeled, facing the pursuers, his face ghastly with terror. He crouched there, not daring to turn. Even if he had held his reins they would have been as useless in his hands as strips of fog. Ledges and trees hemmed either side. There was only the narrow road for his flying horses, and they ran straight on, needing neither whip nor admonitions.

The groan of five thousand feet of timber chafing the bind-chains when their great load struck the shelf was like the groan of an animal in agony. The chains held. It was Tommy who had seen to every link and every loop. Then, for the first time in his life, Wade heard the scream of horses in mortal fear. The lurch of the forward sled lifted the pole, and for one dreadful instant both animals kicked free and clear in air.

Tommy Eye shot two words at them like bullets. “Steady, boys!” he yelled. His head was hunched between his shoulders. His arms were out-stretched and rigid. Tommy Eye, master of horses! It was his lift on the bits at just the fraction of a second when they needed it that set them on their feet when the pole dropped. And down the next descent they swooped.

From his height Wade looked straight into the eyes of Pulaski Britt. It seemed that with every plunge of their hoofs Tommy Eye’s horses would smash that puffy face. The checks of the benches, when the huge load struck and staggered from time to time, allowed Britt’s lighter equipage a little start. But the mighty projectile that drove on him down the smooth slopes gained with every yard, for the thrusting pole swept the horses off their feet in plunge after plunge. And then it was Tommy Eye’s desperate coolness that helped them to their infrequent footing. All of the man’s face that Wade could see was a ridged jaw muscle above the faded collar of his coat. The peak of his cap hid all but that.

There was a curve at the foot of the snub slope. The wall of trees that closed the vista was disaster spelled by bolled trunk and sturdy limb. There stood the nether millstone: the upper was rushing down, and the grist would be flesh of horses and men. No man could see any other alternative. That horses, shaken every now and then on the up-cocked pole as helplessly as kittens, could bring that load around the curve was not a hope; it could be nothing but a dream of desperation.

As to what Tommy Eye dreamed or thought, his passenger had no hint. There was only the patch of cheek showing under the tilted cap. But the reins were just as tight, the out-stretched arms just as steady. Wade crouched low, his eyes on that rigid jaw muscle.

Suddenly, with a yell like the cry of something wild, Eye sprang to his feet, bestriding the logs, bracing himself for some mighty effort. They were at the Curve of Death! There came a surge on the tight reins, eight hoofs dug the snow in one frantic thrust, and they went around—they went around! With horses and driver straining to one side the great load pitched, swerved, and, after one breathless instant, swept on in the road around the curve.

Twenty rods farther on they struck the hay, spread thickly for the trig—the checking of the runners. And the sled-runners, biting it, jerked and halted, the bind-chains creaked, the chafing logs groaned—and they were stopped! The lathering horses stood with legs wide spraddled, their heads lowered, their snorting noses puffing up the snow.

Tommy Eye dug the tobacco from his cheek and thoughtfully tossed it away. Britt’s team had disappeared, reins dragging, the horses running madly, the whitened, puffy face flashing one last look as it winked out of sight among the trees.

“I’ve dreamed of such a thing as this,” observed Tommy, at last, a strange tremor in his tones. “I’ve dreamed of chasin’ old P’laski Britt, me settin’ on five thousand feet of wild timber and lookin’ down into his face and seein’ him a-wonderin’ whether they’d let him into the front door of hell or make him go around to the back. It’s the first time he was ever run good and plenty, and I done it—but,” he sighed, “it was damnation whilst it lasted!”

He turned now and gazed long and wistfully at Wade.

“Ye stuck by me, didn’t ye, Mr. Wade?” he said, softly. “Stuck by me jest like I was a friend, and not old, drunken Tommy Eye! I reckon we’ll shake on that!” And when they clasped hands he asked, with the wistful, inexpressible pathos of his simple devotion to duty: “What was it all about? I jest only know they sluiced me!”

And Wade gasped an explanation, Tommy Eye staring at him with wrinkling brows and squinting eyes.

“Come to arrest me for northin’ I hadn’t done?” he shrilled. “Come to take me off’n a job where I was needed, and where I was earnin’ my honest livin’?”

“They had the warrant, and Britt swore out the lying complaint.”

“Mr. Wade,” said Tommy, after a solemn pause, “I’ve done a lot of things in this life to be ashamed of—but jest gittin’ drunk, that’s all. I ain’t never done a crime. But jest now, if it hadn’t been for that toss-up between supper in camp or hot broth in tophet to-night, I’d be travellin’ down-country, pulled away from you when you need me worst, and all on account of P’laski Britt. If that’s the chances an honest man runs in this world, I’m an outlaw from now on!”

Wade stared at him in amazement, for there was a queer significance in Tommy’s tone.

“An outlaw!” repeated Tommy, slapping his breast. “Yes, s’r, I’m an outlaw! An outlaw so fur as P’laski Britt is concerned. I’ve showed him I can run him! Did you see him lookin’ at me? He’ll dream of me after this when he has the nightmare.”

He took Wade by the arm.

“I ’ain’t been sayin’ much, Mr. Wade, but I see how things are gettin’ ready to move in this valley. You ain’t built for an outlaw. But you need one in your business. I’m the one from now on.”

He pulled his thin hand out of his mitten and shook it towards the north in the direction in which Blunder Lake lay.

“You need an outlaw in your business, I say! I’m tough from now on. I’ll be so tough in April that you’ll have to discharge me. There’s no knowin’ what an outlaw will do, is there, Mr. Wade? I’d ruther go to jail as an outlaw than as a drunk, like I’ve done every summer. They look up to outlaws. They make drunks scrub the floors and empty the slops.” His voice trembled. “Oh, you needn’t worry, Mr. Wade! I’ll be proud to be an outlaw. And I ain’t northin’ but old Tommy Eye, anyway.”

He slid down off the load and went between the horses’ heads, and fondled them and kissed them above their eyes.

“Brace up, old fellers!” he said. “You won’t have to pull no more to-day. I reckon you’ve done your stunt!”

“I—I don’t understand this outlaw business, Tommy,” stammered Wade, looking down on him from the load. Tommy peered up, his head between the shaggy manes of the horses.

“Don’t you try to, Mr. Wade!” he cried, earnestly. “There ain’t no good in tryin’ to understand outlaws. They ain’t no kind to hitch up to very close. Don’t you try to understand them!” And as he bent to unhook the trace-chains he muttered to himself: “I ain’t sure as I understand much about ’em myself, but there’s one outlawin’ job that it’s come to my mind can be done without takin’ private lessons off’n Jesse James, or whoever is topnotcher in the line just now. In the mean time, let’s see that warden try to arrest me!”

But as days went by it became apparent that the wardens and the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt considered that they had precipitated an affair on Enchanted whose possible consequences they did not care to face.