When Titans Drive/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
THE POWER BEHIND IT ALL.
IN less than sixty seconds—so close had been Bob’s calculations—came a detonation which shook the earth, making several of the running men stagger and lose their stride. Up spurted a great mass of water, carrying with it massive logs leaping like agonized things alive. They fell back again, followed by a shower of débris mingled with fine spray, which the wind sifted down on the heads of the ducking, dodging men.
From his place behind a stump Bainbridge rose swiftly, shielding his face with one crooked arm from the rain of chips and splinters and bits of bark, and stared eagerly toward the jam. It took but a moment to see that the spiles had disappeared, and the boom was shattered. Moreover, the key logs of the jam were so loosened that the whole drive was again on its way downstream. Bob turned to Peters with a gesture of satisfaction.
“She’s off, Jack,” he said. “Get a wiggle on, now, and rush her along. The water’s dropping every minute, and we’ve got a mean stretch to cover before we strike the Penobscot. I’ll go back and hustle the rear along”
He stopped abruptly, and whirled around as a voice, shrill and trembling with passion, was raised behind him.
“You’ll pay for that, you meddlin’ pup! I’ll teach you to go blowin’ up folks’ property, an’ mighty near committin’ murder! I’ll show you you can’t play tricks on John Joyce an’ get away with it. That game might work with some, but it won’t”
Things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble.
The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger.
For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. Perhaps he read a hint of Joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye; perhaps it was simply intuition which made him guess what was coming. At all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle.
His shoulder struck Joyce’s knees, and the wicked, snapping shot of the revolver rang out at precisely the same moment. There was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. Then almost oppressive silence.
Bob was on his feet like a cat, fingers gripping the automatic he had snatched from the owner’s nerveless hand. His jaw was hard, and there was a glint of more than anger in the eyes he bent upon Joyce’s supporters hurrying up to the aid of their chief.
“Hands up!” he cried out harshly, “Quick!”
He did not have to speak twice. There was something in his voice, coupled with an emphatic gesture with the automatic, which made those six men, big and powerful as they were, obey him with remarkable unanimity.
“Take their guns, Jack,” continued Bainbridge, in that same commanding voice.
Peters stepped forward to obey. The first man drew back instinctively, and started to pull down the hand which held a revolver. Without an instant’s hesitation Bob fired. The bullet struck the upraised weapon on its blued-steel barrel, wringing a cry of surprise and pain from the fellow’s lips as he dropped the gun.
There was no more trouble after that, Peters collected four revolvers and two Remingtons. Then he glanced questioningly at Bainbridge.
“Throw ’em in the river,” the latter commander curtly. “’Way out in the middle, where they can’t be recovered.”
The riverman walked a few steps toward the bank; then, pausing, he glanced back at the straight young figure standing behind him.
“They’re mighty good guns,” he said hesitatingly. “Seems a shame to throw ’em away like this.”
Bainbridge returned briefly: “I’m simply pulling the stings of this gang.”
He watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him.
“Go!” he commanded, with a momentary flare of passion. “Beat it, and don’t let me set eyes on you again—understand? I won’t be so easy on you the next time. Here, take that scum with you. He’s only stunned.”
He waited, staring from under lowered lids, until the gang had disappeared in the bushes, half dragging, half carrying their stunned leader with them. Then, with a long sigh, he turned slowly and smiled at Peters.
“All right, Jack,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble here. Just hustle all you can to make up for this delay.”
Peters grinned, and snapped out some orders to the men which sent them flying along the bank and even out on the stream over the tumbling logs. But as they went they cast glances of open, unadulterated admiration at the young man coolly brushing a bit of mud from one shoulder, and their comments to each other left no trace of doubt of their thorough approval of everything he had said and done.
Bob heard some of them, and when the men had gone on he smiled a bit. To get that drive down successfully he knew he must have the men with him. He knew also that deliberate planning could not have accomplished that result half so well as this encounter with the tools of the Lumber Trust. The whole affair had proved a great piece of luck for him, thought the young lumberman. His meditation was broken in upon by the sound of a strange voice.
“I had no idea lumbering was such a strenuous occupation.”
A moment later Bainbridge was looking into a pair of pleasant, friendly eyes set in the handsome face of a man of about fifty. He was roughly dressed in well-worn, but finely made fishing clothes, and carried a good trout rod in one hand. There was, too, about the stranger an air of forceful capability which attracted the younger man.
“It’s not usually quite so full of incident,” said Bob; “but I don’t believe you’d ever find it exactly tame.”
The stranger smiled, and made a comprehensive gesture with his hands. “And this is your idea of incident,” he murmured whimsically. “I should call it something decidedly stronger.”
He hesitated for an instant, then moved closer to Bob.
“You’re going downstream, aren’t you? Do you mind if I walk along with you? My camp’s down that way.”
Bainbridge acquiesced readily. There was something very taking about the stranger, and within ten minutes he found himself chatting as if to an old friend. His companion turned out to be Wolcott Sears, of Boston, on a two weeks’ trip in the Maine woods. The name was only vaguely familiar, but Bob felt sure from his manner that he was a man of affairs. He was tremendously interested in hearing all about the peculiar conditions of this particular drive, and before Bainbridge realized it he had given a brief narrative of his fight with the Lumber Trust and the events which had grown out of it.
“You interest me extraordinarily, Mr. Bainbridge,” the older man said, in his crisp, decisive way, when at last they paused at the point several miles below the scene of the last jam, where Sears had to branch off to reach his camp. “Things of this sort always do, for it’s only those one has to struggle for which are really worth while. You’ve certainly had to fight hard in this case, but you’ve practically won out, haven’t you? After this last fracas I shouldn’t suppose there’d be much chance for further interference.”
Bob shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. “You sadly underestimate the power of the trust, Mr. Sears. I shan’t be beyond the chance of interference until the drive is safe in our mill booms at Lancaster, and even then it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d try to work some dirty trick.”
Sears frowned indignantly; then his face brightened.
“In spite of everything I think I should bet on you.” he chuckled. “There’s a certain vigor in your method of dealing with these people which makes for success. I really believe you’ll win, Mr. Bainbridge, and I surely hope so. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and I trust one to be repeated. I shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before I leave.”
Bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while Sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward.
“Fine man,” commented the younger man aloud. “Hope I do run into him again. Meanwhile, however, the rear isn’t coming along half quick enough, and I haven’t seen a darn thing all afternoon of the wangan. I hope nothing’s happened to it and the grub. That would be one awful blow!”
It was one that was spared him. Within half an hour the clumsy scow hove in sight. It tied up to the bank a little later, and before dark preparations for supper were going on merrily.
Bob did not get in till later. Assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how Peters and his gang were progressing. On his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. He looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant Bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat.
“From Mr. Tweedy, sir.”
The young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. It was natural for Tweedy to write. He would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time. Bainbridge noted that it had been written in the Bangor office the night before. Then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read:
Dear Bobby: It’s all up with us, boy. We’re done, and we may as well admit it first as last and make what terms we can with the gang. I can’t get credit anywhere. Crane’s been ahead of me and spilled the beans each time. What’s more, Gastich absolutely refuses to renew that note. Says he must have the cash for some stocks he’s carrying, and all that; but you know what it means. It’s due in less than a week, and I can’t for the life of me see an earthly way of scraping the money together. Last of all—and worst of all—I haven’t been able to make a single sale of lumber for the simple reason that the trust has cut prices below cost and has taken every customer from us. If I cut to meet them they go lower. You can see that. They’ve got the stock and the resources. Crane’s set out to ruin us at any cost, and he’s succeeded. It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can. Let me hear from you at once. Yours ever, John Tweedy.