THE TOLL OF BIG TIMBER

Day came again, in the natural sequence of events. Matt, the cook, roused all the camp at six o’clock with a tremendous banging on a piece of boiler plate hung by a wire. Long before that Stella heard her brother astir. She wondered sleepily at his sprightliness, for as she remembered him at home he had been a confirmed lie-abed. She herself responded none too quickly to the breakfast gong, as a result of which slowness the crew had filed away to the day’s work, her brother striding in the lead, when she entered the mess-house.

She killed time with partial success till noon. Several times she was startled to momentary attention by the prolonged series of sharp cracks which heralded the thunderous crash of a falling tree. There were other sounds which betokened the loggers’ activity in the near-by forest, the ringing whine of saw blades, the dull stroke of the axe, voices calling distantly.

She tried to interest herself in the camp and the beach and ended up by sitting on a log in a shady spot, staring dreamily over the lake. She thought impatiently of that homely saw concerning Satan and idle hands, but she reflected also that in this isolation even mischief was comparatively impossible. There was not a soul to hold speech with except the cook, and he was too busy to talk, even if he had not been afflicted with a painful degree of diffidence when she addressed him. She could make no effort at settling down, at arranging things in what was to be her home. There was nothing to arrange, no odds and ends wherewith almost any woman can conjure up a homelike effect in the barest sort of place. She beheld the noon return of the crew much as a shipwrecked castaway on a desert shore might behold a rescuing sail, and she told Charlie that she intended to go into the woods that afternoon and watch them work.

“All right,” said he. “Just so you don’t get in the way of a falling tree.”

A narrow fringe of brush and scrubby timber separated the camp from the actual work. From the water’s edge to the donkey engine was barely four hundred yards. From donkey to a ten-foot jump-off on the lake shore in a straight line on a five per cent. gradient ran a curious roadway, made by placing two logs in the hollow scooped by tearing great timbers over the soft earth, and a bigger log on each side. Butt to butt and side to side, the outer sticks half their thickness above the inner, they formed a continuous trough the bottom and sides worn smooth with friction of sliding timbers. Stella had crossed it the previous evening and wondered what it was. Now, watching them at work, she saw. Also she saw why the great stumps that rose in every clearing in this land of massive trees were sawed six and eight feet above the ground. Always at the base the firs swelled sharply. Wherefore the falling gangs lifted themselves above the enlargement to make their cut.

Two sawyers attacked a tree. First, with their double-bitted axes, each drove a deep notch into the sapwood just wide enough to take the end of a two-by-six plank four or five feet long with a single grab-nail in the end, the springboard of the Pacific coast logger, whose daily business lies among the biggest timber on God’s footstool. Each then clambered up on his precarious perch, took hold of his end of the long, limber saw, and cut in to a depth of a foot or more, according to the size of the tree. Then jointly they chopped down to this sawed line, and there was the undercut complete, a deep notch on the side to which the tree would fall. That done, they swung the ends of their springboards, or if it were a thick trunk, made new holding notches on the other side, and the long saw would eat steadily through the heart of the tree toward that yellow, gashed undercut, stroke upon stroke, ringing with a thin, metallic twang. Presently there would arise an ominous cracking. High in the air the tall crest would dip slowly, as if it bowed with manifest reluctance to the inevitable. The sawyers would drop lightly from their springboards, crying:

“Tim-ber-r-r-r!”

The earthward swoop of the upper boughs would hasten till the air was full of a whistling, whishing sound. Then came the rending crash as the great tree smashed prone, crushing what small timber stood in its path, followed by the earth-quivering shock of its impact with the soil. The tree once down, the fallers went on to another. Immediately the swampers fell upon the prone trunk with axes, denuding it of limbs; the buckers followed them to saw it into lengths decreed by the boss logger. When the job was done, the brown fir was no longer a stately tree but saw-logs, each with the square butt that lay donkeyward, trimmed a trifle rounding with the axe.

Benton worked one falling gang. The falling gang raced to keep ahead of the buckers and swampers, and they in turn raced to keep ahead of the hook tender, rigging slinger, and donkey, which last trio moved the logs from woods to water, once they were down and trimmed. Terrible, devastating forces of destruction they seemed to Stella Benton, wholly unused as she was to any woodland save the well-kept parks and little areas of groomed forest in her native State. All about in the ravaged woods lay the big logs, scores of them. They had only begun to pull with the donkey a week earlier, Benton explained to her. With his size gang he could not keep a donkey engine working steadily. So they had felled and trimmed to a good start, and now the falling crew and the swampers and buckers were in a dingdong contest to see how long they could keep ahead of the puffing Seattle yarder.

Stella sat on a stump, watching. Over an area of many acres the ground was a litter of broken limbs, ragged tops, crushed and bent and broken younger growth, twisted awry by the big trees in their fall. Huge stumps upthrust like beacons in a ruffled harbor, grim, massive butts. From all the ravaged wood rose a pungent smell of pitch and sap, a resinous, pleasant smell. Radiating like the spokes of a wheel from the head of the chute ran deep, raw gashes in the earth, where the donkey had hauled up the Brobdingnagian logs on the end of an inch cable.

“This is no small boy’s play, is it, Stell?” Charlie said to her once in passing.

And she agreed that it was not. Agreed more emphatically and with half-awed wonder when she saw the donkey puff and quiver on its anchor cable, as the hauling line spooled up on the drum. On the outer end of that line snaked a sixty-foot stick, five feet across the butt, but it came down to the chute head, brushing earth and brush and small trees aside as if they were naught. Once the big log caromed against a stump. The rearward end flipped ten feet in the air and thirty feet sidewise. But it came clear and slid with incredible swiftness to the head of the chute, flinging aside showers of dirt and small stones, and leaving one more deep furrow in the forest floor. Benton trotted behind it. Once it came to rest well in the chute, he unhooked the line, freed the choker (the short noosed loop of cable that slips over the log’s end), and the haul-back cable hurried the main line back to another log. Benton followed, and again the donkey shuddered on its foundation skids till another log laid in the chute, with its end butted against that which lay before. One log after another was hauled down till half a dozen rested there, elongated peas in a wooden pod.

Then a last big stick came with a rush, bunted these others powerfully so that they began to slide with the momentum thus imparted, slowly at first then, gathering way and speed, they shot down to the lake and plunged to the water over the ten-foot jump-off like a school of breaching whales.

All this took time, vastly more time than it takes in the telling. The logs were ponderous masses. They had to be maneuvered sometimes between stumps and standing timber, jerked this way and that to bring them into the clear. By four o’clock Benton and his rigging-slinger had just finished bunting their second batch of logs down the chute. Stella watched these Titanic labors with a growing interest and a dawning vision of why these men walked the earth with that reckless swing of their shoulders. For they were palpably masters in their environment. They strove with woodsy giants and laid them low. Amid constant dangers they sweated at a task that shamed the seven labors of Hercules. Gladiators they were in a contest from which they did not always emerge victorious.

When Benton and his helper followed the haul-back line away to the domain of the falling gang the last time, Stella had so far unbent as to strike up conversation with the donkey engineer. That greasy individual finished stoking his fire box and replied to her first comment.

“Work? You bet,” said he. “It’s real graft, this is. I got the easy end of it, and mine’s no snap. I miss a signal, big stick butts against something solid; biff! goes the line and maybe cuts a man plumb in two. You got to be wide awake when you run a loggin’ donkey. These woods is no place for a man, anyway, if he ain’t spry both in his head and feet.”

“Do many men get hurt logging?” Stella asked. “It looks awfully dangerous, with these big trees falling and smashing everything. Look at that. Goodness!”

From the donkey they could see a shower of ragged splinters and broken limbs fly when a two-hundred-foot fir smashed a dead cedar that stood in the way of its downward swoop. They could hear the pieces strike against brush and trees like the patter of shot on a tin wall.

The donkey engineer gazed calmly enough.

“Them flyin’ chunks raise the dickens sometimes,” he observed. “Oh, yes, now an’ then a man gets laid out. There’s some things you got to take a chance on. Maybe you get cut with an axe, or a limb drops on you, or you get in the way of a breakin’ line, though a man ain’t got any business in the bight of a line. A man don’t stand much show when the end of a inch ‘n’ a quarter cable snaps at him like a whiplash. I seen a feller on Howe Sound cut square in two with a cable-end once. A broken block’s the worst, though. That generally gets the riggin’ slinger, but a piece of it’s liable to hit anybody. You see them big iron pulley blocks the haul-back cable works in? Well, sometimes they have to anchor a snatch block to a stump an’ run the main line through it at an angle to get a log out the way you want. Suppose the block breaks when I’m givin’ it to her? Chunks uh that broken cast iron’ll fly like bullets. Yes, sir, broken blocks is bad business. Maybe you noticed the boys used the snatch block two or three times this afternoon? We’ve been lucky in this camp all spring. Nobody so much as nicked himself with an axe. Breaks in the gear don’t come very often, anyway, with an outfit in first-class shape. We got good gear an’ a good crew about as skookum a bunch as I ever saw in the woods.”

Two hundred yards distant Charlie Benton rose on a stump and semaphored with his arms. The engineer whistled answer and stood to his levers; the main line began to spool slowly in on the drum. Another signal, and he shut off. Another signal, after a brief wait, and the drum rolled faster, the line tautened like a fiddle-string, and the ponderous machine vibrated with the strain of its effort.

Suddenly the line came slack. Stella, watching for the log to appear, saw her brother leap backward off the stump, saw the cable whip sidewise, mowing down a clump of saplings that stood in the bight of the line, before the engineer could cut off the power. In that return of comparative silence there rose above the sibilant hiss of the blow-off valve a sudden commotion of voices.

“Damn!” the donkey engineer peered over the brush. “That don’t sound good. I guess somebody got it in the neck.”

Almost immediately Sam Davis and two other men came running.

“What’s up?” the engineer called as they passed on a dog trot.

“Block broke,” Davis answered over his shoulder. “Piece of it near took a leg off Jim Renfrew.”

Stella stood a moment, hesitating.

“I may be able to do something. I’ll go and see,” she said.

“Better not,” the engineer warned. “Liable to run into something that’ll about turn your stomach. What was I tellin’ about a broken block? Them ragged pieces of flyin’ iron sure mess a man up. They’ll bring a bed spring, an’ pack him down to the boat, an’ get him to a doctor quick as they can. That’s all. You couldn’t do nothin’.”

Nevertheless she went. Renfrew was the rigging slinger working with Charlie, a big, blond man who blushed like a schoolboy when Benton introduced him to her. Twenty minutes before he had gone trotting after the haul-back, sound and hearty, laughing at some sally of her brother’s. It seemed a trifle incredible that he should lie mangled and bleeding among the green forest growth, while his fellows hurried for a stretcher.

Two hundred yards at right angles from where Charlie had stood giving signals she found a little group under a branchy cedar. Renfrew lay on his back, mercifully unconscious. Benton squatted beside him, twisting a silk handkerchief with a stick tightly above the wound. His hands and Renfrew’s clothing and the mossy ground was smeared with blood. Stella looked over his shoulder. The overalls were cut away. In the thick of the man’s thigh stood a ragged gash she could have laid both hands in. She drew back.

Benton looked up.

“Better keep away,” he advised shortly. “We’ve done all that can be done.”

She retreated a little and sat down on a root, half-sickened. The other two men stood up. Benton sat back, his first-aid work done, and rolled a cigarette with fingers that shook a little. Off to one side she saw the fallers climb up on their springboards. Presently arose the ringing whine of the thin steel blade, the chuck of axes where the swampers attacked a fallen tree. No matter, she thought, that injury came to one, that death might hover near, the work went on apace, like action on a battlefield.

A few minutes thereafter the two men who had gone with Sam Davis returned with the spring from Benton’s bed and a light mattress. They laid the injured logger on this and covered him with a blanket. Then four of them picked it up. As they started, Stella heard one say to her brother:

“Matt’s jagged.”

“What?” Benton exploded. “Where’d it come from?”

“One uh them Hungry Bay shingle-bolt cutters’s in camp,” the logger answered. “Maybe he brought a bottle. I didn’t stop to see. But Matt’s sure got a tank full.”

Benton ripped out an angry oath, passed his men, and strode away down the path. Stella fell in behind him, wakened to a sudden uneasiness at the wrathful set of his features. She barely kept in sight, so rapidly did he move.

Sam Davis had smoke pouring from the Chickamin’s stack, but the kitchen pipe lifted no blue column, though it was close to five o’clock. Benton made straight for the cookhouse. Stella followed, a trifle uncertainly. A glimpse past Charlie as he came out showed her Matt staggering aimlessly about the kitchen, red-eyed, scowling, muttering to himself. Benton hurried to the bunkhouse door, much as a hound might follow a scent, peered in, and went on to the corner.

On the side facing the lake he found the source of the cook’s intoxication. A tall and swarthy lumberjack squatted on his haunches, gabbling in the Chinook jargon to a klootchman and a wizen-featured old Siwash. The Indian woman was drunk beyond any mistaking, affably drunk. She looked up at Benton out of vacuous eyes, grinned, and extended to him a square-faced bottle of Old Tim gin. The logger rose to his feet.

“H’lo, Benton,” he greeted thickly. “How’s every-thin’?”

Benton’s answer was a quick lurch of his body and a smashing jab of his clenched fist. The blow stretched the logger on his back, with blood streaming from both nostrils. But he was a hardy customer, for he bounced up like a rubber ball, only to be floored even more viciously before he was well set on his feet. This time Benton snarled a curse and kicked him as he lay.

“Charlie, Charlie!” Stella screamed.

If he heard her, he gave no heed.

“Hit the trail, you,” he shouted at the logger. “Hit it quick before I tramp your damned face into the ground. I told you once not to come around here feeding booze to my cook. I do all the whisky-drinking that’s done in this camp, and don’t you forget it. Damn your eyes, I’ve got troubles enough without whisky.”

The man gathered himself up, badly shaken, and holding his hand to his bleeding nose, made off to his rowboat at the float.

“G’wan home,” Benton curtly ordered the Siwashes. “Get drunk at your own camp, not in mine. Sabe? Beat it.”

They scuttled off, the wizened little old man steadying his fat klootch along her uncertain way. Down on the lake the chastised logger stood out in his boat, resting once on his oars to shake a fist at Benton. Then Charlie faced about on his shocked and outraged sister.

“Good Heavens!” she burst out. “Is it necessary to be so downright brutal in actions as well as speech?”

“I’m running a logging camp, not a kindergarten,” he snapped angrily. “I know what I’m doing. If you don’t like it, go in the house where your hyper-sensitive tastes won’t be offended.”

“Thank you,” she responded cuttingly and swung about, angry and hurt only to have a fresh scare from the drunken cook, who came reeling forward.

“I’m gonna quit,” he loudly declared. “I ain’t goin’ to stick ’round here no more. The job’s no good. I want m’ time. Yuh hear me, Benton. I’m through. Com-pletely, ab-sho-lutely through. You bet I am. Gimme m’ time. I’m a gone goose.”

“Quit, then, hang you,” Benton growled. “You’ll get your check in a minute. You’re a fine excuse for a cook, all right get drunk right on the job. You don’t need to show up here again, when you’ve had your jag out.”

“’S all right,” Matt declared largely. “’S other jobs. You ain’t the whole Pacific coast. Oh, way down ’pon the Swa-a-nee ribber

He broke into dolorous song and turned back into the cookhouse. Benton’s hard-set face relaxed. He laughed shortly.

“Takes all kinds to make a world,” he commented. “Don’t look so horrified, Sis. This isn’t the regular order of events. It’s just an accumulation and it sort of got me going. Here’s the boys.”

The four stretcher men set down their burden in the shade of the bunkhouse. Renfrew was conscious now.

“Tough luck, Jim,” Benton sympathized. “Does it pain much?”

Renfrew shook his head. White and weakened from shock and loss of blood, nevertheless he bravely disclaimed pain.

“We’ll get you fixed up at the Springs,” Benton went on. “It’s a nasty slash in the meat, but I don’t think the bone was touched. You’ll be on deck before long. I’ll see you through, anyway.”

They gave him a drink of water and filled his pipe, joking him about easy days in the hospital while they sweated in the woods. The drunken cook came out, carrying his rolled blankets, began maudlin sympathy, and was promptly squelched, whereupon he retreated to the float, emitting conversation to the world at large. Then they carried Renfrew down to the float, and Davis began to haul up the anchor to lay the Chickamin alongside.

While the chain was still chattering in the hawse pipe, the squat black hull of Jack Fyfe’s tender rounded the nearest point.

“Whistle him up, Sam,” Benton ordered. “Jack can beat our time, and this bleeding must be stopped quick.”

The tender veered in from her course at the signal. Fyfe himself was at the wheel. Five minutes effected a complete arrangement, and the Panther drew off with the drunken cook singing atop of the pilot house, and Renfrew comfortable in her cabin, and Jack Fyfe’s promise to see him properly installed and attended in the local hospital at Roaring Springs.

Benton heaved a sigh of relief and turned to his sister.

“Still mad, Stell?” he asked placatingly and put his arm over her shoulders.

“Of course not,” she responded instantly to this kindlier phase. “Ugh! Your hands are all bloody, Charlie.”

“That’s so, but it’ll wash off,” he replied. “Well, we’re shy a good woodsman and a cook, and I’ll miss ’em both. But it might be worse. Here’s where you go to bat, Stella. Get on your apron and lend me a hand in the kitchen, like a good girl. We have to eat, no matter what happens.”