“I do believe we’ve got possession of the thing at last, Father,” said Tom, surveying the raft with joy, despite his aching head, which Harrison’s blow had jarred afresh.

“Yes, I don’t see what’s to stop us now,” returned Mr. Jackson.

It was near sunset, and peace had fallen on the camp again. The men of the two parties had fraternized and were sitting about on the logs and smoking. In the background the cook was preparing supper at an open-air fire. Mr. Archer had discreetly withdrawn into a tent, leaving Tom and his father to examine the property they had at last secured.

Harrison must have worked his men skilfully and hard while he had them. The partly built raft already stretched far out from the shore. It was by no means all of walnut, of course. Harrison had cut down all the spruce, jack-pine, and hemlock in sight for the floating foundation. They were put together in “cribs,” connected by strong traverses, pinned down with huge hardwood bolts. The walnut was piled on top of this foundation, and each log was “withed” down to its support with ironwood saplings as thick as a man’s wrist, twisted like rope around the timbers. There were already more than seventy cribs put together, each of them containing fully a thousand feet of walnut.

“His men knew how to handle logs,” Mr. Jackson remarked, looking with an expert eye at the way the timber was withed and pinned together. “Never saw a better built raft. If Dan Wilson had built it as well as this, it mightn’t have broken up so easily. That’s fine walnut, too. It’ll take some drying out and seasoning again, of course, but it’s practically as good as the day it was cut. I don’t believe there’s as much walnut timber as this anywhere else in one spot in all Canada.”

“And nobody knows how much that isn’t dug out yet,” Tom returned. “We ought to be thankful to Harrison, maybe, for all the work he’s done for us. We’ll have the use of his tents and tools too, until he comes to take them away. Not to forget that if he hadn’t tried to drive me out by burning the woods I’d probably never have found the walnut at all.”

“Yes, he seems to have cheated himself all around,” said his father. “If he presents a reasonable bill for labor, I’ll pay it. But I don’t think he ever will. As for what walnut is left,” he added, looking over the scarred surface of the shore, “I suspect that there isn’t much more of it.”

There was some, however, and the combined gangs went to work vigorously on the morrow. About noon the delayed wagon came in from Ormond, with two more men and the supplies, and Mr. Archer and the postmaster rode back in it when it returned. They promised to send out more provisions, for, with Harrison’s gang, Mr. Jackson had more men than he had counted on.

With this strong force the work of getting out the timber went forward rapidly. Tom went over the shore inch by inch, sounding deep into the sand with a long, sharp steel rod. When he struck wood, they dug down to it. Sometimes it was walnut, sometimes merely an old spruce stump, but little by little the precious stuff accumulated, and more cribs were built out upon the raft. By the end of the week they seemed to have got everything that lay in the sand of the shore, and they began to dig at the bottom of the shallow water nearest land.

But evidently they were nearing the end. Mr. Jackson’s shrewd guess had been right. With great exertions and inconvenience they recovered three or four hundred logs from the shoal water, but the labor almost outweighed the gain. These logs, too, were heavily water-soaked. They would dry out in time, but meanwhile they required much light timber to buoy them up, and were spongy and easily damaged. But from Mr. Jackson’s measurements, and he was an experienced “scaler,” the raft then contained about 125,000 feet of walnut. Besides, there was the soft-wood foundation, which was not without value.

“This ought pretty well to clean up all business troubles, my boy,” said Mr. Jackson to Tom, as they viewed the majestic outlines of the raft, which surged and heaved at its moorings in a strong southwest gale. “It’ll net us three hundred dollars a thousand feet; more than that, in fact, for we’ll cut it up ourselves, with thin saws. The ordinary mill wastes ten per cent. in sawdust, and you’ve no idea how valuable even the scraps of such wood are. They make veneer, brush backs, knobs, all sorts of small things. We don’t waste a chip of the stuff.”

For some time, Tom noticed, Mr. Jackson had been saying “we,” and the implied partnership was very pleasant to him. Working day by day with him, Tom had come to realize and respect his father’s science and energy as he never had done before. Up here in the woods, “Matt” Jackson’s reputation was an established one. The rough lumber-jacks jumped at his orders and took his advice unhesitatingly about all sorts of timber craft. The veteran lumberman was in his element and seemed to have almost entirely recovered his health and spirits.

The future no longer looked black to him. He had arrived at the point of talking to his son freely about his business affairs, a compliment which Tom appreciated deeply. On leaving Toronto Mr. Jackson had seen nothing ahead but a voluntary assignment. He had no faith in Mr. Armstrong’s being able to straighten things out. Thirty or forty thousand dollars would be needed, and he could not see any source from which they were to come.

“That’s what it would have come to if you hadn’t dug up this old timber, Tom,” he said. “I wasn’t very genial when you came north, I guess, but I give you the credit, my boy.”

“I don’t deserve it,” said Tom earnestly. “I came up here like a fool. I didn’t have any reasonable idea what I was going to do. It was blind luck that made me stumble on this old raft. But I do think it ought to make enough to clear the business, and something over. Shouldn’t you let Mr. Armstrong hear of it? He’ll be astonished, when we produce a new asset like this.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed his father. “Things have been so busy that I’ve neglected it, and there’s no hurry anyway. He’d write or wire me before he did anything important, and a message would be forwarded at once from the Royal Victoria. I suppose he thinks I’m still lying on my back there. But I’ll send a letter out to him to-morrow.”

Charlie could have taken a letter out to Ormond or down to Oakley. The Ojibway boy was still hanging about the camp, watching the work impassively, seeking out Tom whenever Tom had any leisure. He brought in trout almost daily, and occasionally ducks and partridge, and Mr. Jackson remarked on the advantage of having an Indian about the camp who was exempt from the game-laws. But Charlie was obviously not so happy in the midst of all this activity as he had been at the original camp in the old barn.

Mr. Jackson, however, did not write his letter the next day. It was windy and rainy. One of the last cribs of lumber showed signs of breaking loose under the strain of the weather and had to be refastened. Then they unexpectedly found a “pocket” of eight or ten more walnut logs at a spot where they had not previously looked, and these were dug out and loaded. Altogether it was a busy day and a stormy one. The rain ceased at sunset, but the wind grew even stronger, driving white-capped waves racing across Big Coboconk.

The wind kept Tom awake that night. It roared over the forest and thrummed on the stiff canvas flaps. On the cot opposite him his father slept profoundly rolled in his blankets, but Tom could not settle himself to rest. His mind dwelt on the raft. They had thought of launching it the next day, but this would be out of the question unless the wind went down. It would be impossible to float it down the lake in the face of that gale.

He wondered if there could be any danger of damage as it lay at its mooring. At last, unable to rest, he got up and looked from the tent. It was after eleven o’clock. The night was warm and not very dark. Not a man was in sight. The fires, which had burned low, threw off gusts of fizzing sparks in the wind. A high sea was crashing on the shore, but he could make out the dark expanse of the raft, rising and falling, but apparently secure.

Somewhat reassured, he went back to his cot and lay down again, leaving the lantern burning. He did not undress and lay awake for some time longer, but at last he grew hardened to the roaring of the wind and dozed off. Finally he must have slept soundly, for he wakened with a shock to feel a hand gently gripping his shoulder. Blinking up, he saw Charlie’s battered black hat leaning over him in the dim light.

“You come, Tom. Raft gone,” the Indian said softly.

Tom leaped up with an exclamation. He gave a single glance at his father, who was still sleeping, and bolted from the tent. Outside the water and the wind still roared and crashed; but at the first glance Tom saw in the pale starlight that the raft was no longer there, nor anywhere in sight.

“I wake up—think I hear something,” said Charlie at his elbow. “I go—look. Raft gone.”

Tom rushed down to the landing where it had been moored. Then to his relief he sighted it, a hundred yards from land, a huge expanse like an island, heaving and plunging and drifting out diagonally over the lake.

Tom raised a tremendous shout to alarm the camp, and thought he heard an answer from the tents. The raft must have broken loose in the gale; yet he could hardly understand how that had happened, for six strong ropes had bound it to trees ashore. But Charlie picked up the slack of one of the ropes that was trailing in the wash of the waves and held it silently under his eyes. Tom gasped. The end was not frayed; it was cut squarely off.

“Cut!” he exclaimed.

“I think mebbe so,” said Charlie. “That man come back, I guess. We git him this time, mebbe.”

Tom gave another alarm shout, and jumped into a boat on the shore, followed by the Ojibway. It was a bateau that had been left there by Harrison, heavy to row, but the wind drove them fast in the wake of the raft. Laboring at the oars, Tom saw the outline of the floating timber growing clearer. His blood boiled with wrath; he knew that Harrison must have done this as a last act of revenge. They had not set eyes on the fellow for a week; they thought he had gone for good, but he had come back to retaliate for his loss. Well timed, too, his return had been. The raft was hardly built for rough seas. Under the full force of the gale in the center of the lake it might go to pieces, or be driven against the opposite shore and broken up, repeating the ancient history of the original raft of Dan Wilson.

Fortunately Charlie’s alertness had detected it in time. Tom was disconcerted at seeing that no stir was visible yet in the camp behind. His yells could not have been heard. It was useless now to try to shout in the teeth of the gale, but he strained his muscles to reach the raft.

It was too big to drift very fast, and Tom’s oars overtook it before it had gone another two hundred yards. It looked alarming as he came close, and it was going to be risky to get aboard, for the great mass of logs heaved on the waves, and crashed down on the water. A touch would have crushed the bateau-like bark, but Tom, watching his chance, jumped, landed on his knees, clutched the logs, and staggered to his feet. The boat with Charlie in it recoiled away, thrust backward by his leap.

He was scarcely up when he saw a dark figure shoot across the raft just behind him. Startled, Tom rushed after it. It flashed upon him that this must be Harrison. But the man jumped,—apparently over the side,—and a canoe went spinning away into the gloom, dipping and reeling in the heavy sea.

It had not looked like Harrison’s build. It had more resembled the woodsman McLeod. Tom had no weapon or he would have fired and by the time Charlie had joined him, carrying his shot-gun as always, the canoe was lost in the windy obscurity.

“Got away again!” Tom exclaimed in disgust. “But we’ve got the raft again, anyhow.”

Then he wondered what he was going to do with it. The huge mass of timber was beyond any control. He could only let it drive. Continually he had expected to see the men from ashore following him, but no one seemed to have become aware of what was going on. The sparks whirled up from the low fires, and that was all. Every minute the raft was getting farther from shore, and it would be impossible to tow it back against the wind. It was well out in the open lake now, and it heaved and swung up and down with a motion that strained all the fastenings of the cribs and made Tom’s stomach turn with a qualm like seasickness.

“Fire your gun, Charlie!” he said anxiously. “Maybe they’ll hear it. Hold on! What’s that?”

A report like a pistol-shot had sounded from the far forward end of the raft. Tom rushed forward over the heaving logs. In the center was a great heap of material used in building: withes, cross timbers, pike-poles, axes, ropes, spikes. As he passed around this obstruction he saw, to his horror, one of the cribs swing loose and drift clear, spilling its load of walnut as it went.

Was the raft breaking up already? Tom caught up a pike-pole and rushed forward. Buffeted by the wind and almost deafened by the noise of it and by the creaking and threshing of the timbers, he slipped and staggered in his unspiked boots over the wet logs. As he crossed the fourth crib he stopped with a thrill. He saw the dim figure of a second man close to the forward edge of the raft, with an ax poised over his shoulder.

The miscreant was actually cutting the raft apart. When Tom realized it, he charged forward with a shout. Apparently the man had been quite unaware that the boys had come aboard. He glanced about quickly. The ax blow never fell. He waited till Tom was within ten feet, charging with the steel-shod pole, and then he swung the ax round his head and flung it with all his force.

Tom ducked just in time to dodge the whirling missile as it went over his head with a “whish.” It came so close that the boy lost his balance and stumbled down on one knee, and before he could recover himself the man had pounced on him, forcing him down.

Tom was able to let out a single yell. He recognized Harrison; he had felt that grip before. Again Harrison tried to seize him by the throat, but this time Tom was less off guard. He was lighter than his enemy, but more active. He was a good wrestler, his muscles were hardened now with labor, and he fought like a wildcat.

He squirmed free from the fierce grip and got to his feet. Loosing his arm an instant, he drove a heavy blow into Harrison’s face and heard him grunt. But the next moment Harrison surged upon him with all his weight, and Tom despite his utmost effort, was gripped almost helplessly. He put forth every ounce of strength he had. Defeat meant the loss of the raft. But he could not hold Harrison. He was forced down; he went heavily against the slippery logs, and the next instant he felt Harrison’s knee on his chest.

He caught a glimpse of Charlie’s form flitting distractedly around them with gun half raised, and he was afraid of getting an accidental charge of shot himself. Then Charlie seemed to swing the butt. Tom scarcely heard the thud of the blow, for at that instant the logs seemed to give way under him. A great rift opened, and he went down into the black water, with Harrison still clutching him.

For a second he was dazed and went deep down. His enemy’s grip relaxed and fell away. Then, with a half-involuntary stroke, he came toward the surface. His head knocked against something hard. He was under the raft itself.

In terror he struck out blindly. He knew no directions. He might be swimming toward the center of the raft, where he would surely drown. His breath grew short; then, all at once, his head came out into the fresh air, and he filled his lungs with a great gasp. The raft plunged almost over his shoulders. Tom dodged and ducked to escape having his skull crushed, and caught sight of the Indian peering wildly out into the darkness. He shouted hoarsely, and Charlie helped him aboard with an extended pike-pole.

There was no sign of Harrison, neither swimming on the water nor aboard the raft. He might also have gone under the logs, and be drowning there.

“See anything of him—that other man?” Tom gasped; but Charlie shook his head.

“Think him drown, mebbe. Good job, too!”

Tom cast another anxious glance over the water, ready to rescue his late enemy if he sighted him. But just then the front of the raft swung up and down with a tremendous plunge. Several withes gave way with snapping reports, and another crib disengaged itself from the main body. In his confusion and fright, Tom imagined the whole raft was going to pieces under him. The loose crib still hung by one end, however, and he rushed to the pile of material amidships, seized a bundle of rope, and looped one end over the head of one of the great hardwood pins in the loosened crib. Taking a hitch around another bolt-head on the main raft, he tried to bring the two sections together again. Assisted by the pull of the waves, he brought them together inch by inch, closed the gap to a foot’s width, tied the rope firmly, and repeated the lashing in two other places.

He glanced ashore, where there was still no sign of life. Bitterly now he repented his rashness in going in chase of the raft instead of immediately arousing the camp. But the bateau was still there.

“Get into the boat and make for shore as fast as you can, Charlie,” he commanded. “Rouse them up. Tell them the raft is going to pieces.”

“All right!” said the Ojibway, without emotion. “Can’t paddle much ’gainst wind,” he added. “Mebbe have to cross lake—go round.”

“Any way you like—only do it quick!” cried Tom; and just then another crib, whose transverse bar had split, began to break away.

Tom brought more rope and lashed this also, straining at it as Charlie got into the boat and cast off. He saw the Indian struggling hard against the wind and waves, and then lost sight of him in the darkness. Charlie would do the best he could, Tom knew well; it was only a question of whether he could bring help in time.

Another ironwood withe snapped. Fearing that all the cribs would break apart, Tom set to work to strengthen their fastenings. He dragged up the flattened pieces of timber that had been prepared for transverse and cap-pieces, laid them across the logs wherever there was any sign of weakening, and spiked them down with eight-inch spikes, which he drove home with an ax. Not content with that, he lashed the cribs together with rope as long as the rope lasted; then with odd pieces of chain, and then tried to use the withes. But the ironwood saplings were too stiff for one pair of hands to twist.

He ran to and fro, staggering and slipping on the reeling raft, and he looked almost hopelessly at intervals toward the shore. Nothing could be seen of Charlie’s boat. The Indian might have been driven far up the lake, and obliged to make a long detour by land. The camp-fire was nearly a mile away now. It was a mere red point, and there was no sign of any help coming.

The raft was now well into the middle of the lake, and it plunged and tossed fearfully. It had not been built for any such strains; it was threatening to go as the first raft had gone years ago. To keep it together was work for more than one man; and Tom was, after all, an inexperienced raftsman. Over the wet, swaying surface he hastened up and down, spiking down cross-bars and reinforcing the cap-pieces, but, despite his efforts, the timbers continually worked loose. In the darkness it was impossible to see a part giving way till it was almost beyond mending.

All at once, as he crouched over his work, he was aware of a faint glow on the sky. He looked up. One of the camp-fires ashore had sprung suddenly to a tremendous blaze—a vast, glaring flame blown into long streamers by the wind, whose light spread far out over the water, almost, indeed, to the raft itself.

“Charlie’s stirred them up! Hurrah! Who-oo-p! This way!” Tom shrieked. His voice could not have carried half the distance, but almost immediately a second fire flared up. The men ashore could hardly have been able to see the raft, and Tom had no means of making a light, but they would surely know that it would drift down wind. Tom saw the distant scurrying of figures about the shore, and presently a boat pushed off, and then another.

He lost sight of them, but they must have come fast and rowed hard, with the wind behind them. In ten minutes he heard shouts, and he shouted back to give his direction. There was a rattle of oars, and the excited murmur of men’s voices. He saw the boats now, heaving high and low on the waves, and the leading one steered up alongside. Tom hooked it with a pike-pole; the men caught hold, and Mr. Jackson scrambled actively aboard the raft, followed by Joe Lynch and two more men.

“That you, Tom?” cried Mr. Jackson. “Are you all right? How’s the raft?”

“Pretty near breaking up,” Tom shouted back. “I’m all right—a little wet. Tell you about it later. Must get the raft fastened together.”

Mr. Jackson gave Tom’s arm a rough, affectionate squeeze. “Good for you, old boy! We’ll save the timber—don’t fear. Lynch, get the men—”

Big Joe had not needed any orders. With his two men he was already at work on the raft timbers. The other boat came up at this moment, with four more men in her. Lynch ordered two of them to row back to camp at once and bring out all the rope, chain, spikes, and pieces of heavy plank they could lay hands on, for Tom had already used up nearly all the loose material aboard.

That left a crew of five men. They had a doubtful fight before them, for the raft was laboring under the full force of the wind, out in the open lake, and it was already weakened at every joint. But the lumbermen set vigorously to work. In their spiked boots they raced over the shifting logs, retwisting withes, and lashing and spiking cross-bars with a skill that produced more effect than Tom’s inexpert efforts.

Tom still took his share of the work, and so did Mr. Jackson. The lumber dealer ran over the raft as fearlessly and almost as actively as any of the men, encouraging them, taking in the needs of each spot with a quick glance, using ax and pike-pole himself whenever he could. The break-up of the raft seemed checked; the fight seemed a winning one. No more cribs had escaped, and, though the whole framework was badly strained, it seemed capable of holding together at least until the boat came off with more men and material.

But there was no relaxation of effort. Unexpectedly half a dozen of the withed walnut logs broke loose, rolled off the raft, and, being already saturated, went to the bottom almost like stones. All the rope and chain was used up, but the lumbermen brought up more withes and proceeded to make the rest more secure. Tom and his father were bending over among a group of men who bent a thick ironwood sapling. The butt of it was pegged into a huge auger-hole in the lower framework, and it was to be twisted over the walnut and down into the loading timbers beneath. The men put all their brawny arms into it, when the walnut log rolled suddenly with a heave of the raft. The butt of the withe slipped and flew up with the force of a catapult. It touched one man on the shoulder and sent him sprawling, and the full force of it seemed to catch Mr. Jackson on the side of the head. He reeled over, and went off backward into the water.

There was a shout of alarm. Tom poised himself at the edge of the raft, ready to plunge if he should see his father’s head come up. The rest stood ready with pike-poles, but moment and moment passed, and they saw nothing.

“He’s gone under the raft!” exclaimed Tom.

“Cut her apart!” Big Joe yelled. “Never mind them timbers now. The boss is under ’em!”

Recklessly the men chopped the fastenings they had so labored to secure. A crib swung aside and left a strip of black water—empty. Another gap opened, and this time something was floating on it. In another moment a pike hooked the floating clothing, and they drew the lumberman out upon the logs. He was quite unconscious.

“He’s dead!” Tom gasped.

“You bet he ain’t,” said Lynch, who had put his head over the dripping figure. “He’s breathin’, and his heart’s a-beatin’ strong. He ain’t drowned—just knocked out. He’ll come to!”

The men carried him carefully to the center of the raft, the safest place, and Tom sat down beside him in unspeakable anxiety. The men were working afresh to secure the cribs they had cut apart, but for the moment Tom had lost his concern for the raft. Mr. Jackson did not “come to,” as they had hoped. He breathed, but seemed in a heavy stupor, from which he could not rouse. Tom feared his skull might be fractured, and there was no doctor nearer than Ormond.

The other boat came back with three men and more supplies, and the whole crew worked more furiously than ever. Whenever any of them passed the center of the raft they paused to ask after the “boss” and hurried on again. The raft still held together, but Tom gave it only scant thought; and as he sat by his father’s side he saw at last the grayness of dawn begin to spread over the lake.