CHAPTER XIV
A week before Dominion Day men began applying for leave of absence until the exodus depleted the crew to such an extent that it was deemed advisable to shut down for a week. Donald turned to Gillis as he saw the whole crew of “redshirts” pile tumultuously on the train.
“How often do the men quit like this?” he asked rather irritably.
“Every holiday,” replied Gillis.
Donald pondered a moment.
“That means that we may lose a week for Labour Day.”
“Very likely.”
“Jack, do you think we could keep them here if we held some sort of celebration at the lake?”
“I believe we could,” responded Gillis warmly.
“We’ll do it then,” declared Donald. “We’ve so many orders ahead that this lay-off may force us to run a night crew.”
“Did you spend all your dough, Blackie?” asked Gillis when the “redshirts” arrived back from town.
“Me and Hoop-la spent about two hundred bucks, but we had three hundred dollars’ worth o’ fun. We ain’t got enough money to buy a humminbird a pair o’ leggin’s, but we sure had a helluva good time, so we ain’t worryin’.”
“S’pose you bought them new boots?” inquired Gillis.
Blackie forced a laugh. “Goin’ to git them next time, Jack,” he continued, moving closer to his big boss; “say, Jack, you know that I send twenty dollars to my mother back east ev’ry month. I—I——”
“All right, Blackie,” said Gillis gently, “I’ll advance it to you.”
“Thanks, Jack, you’re a good pal,” commended Blackie in a relieved tone.
Donald and Gillis walked down the hill to inspect the logs in the boom, and as they walked Gillis indulged in some pointed observations. “You know, Donnie, that these loggers are game guys to come back after spendin’ all their money and say: ‘We had a good time, so we ain’t worryin’.’ The man ain’t human that won’t worry after spendin’ in a few days the money it’s taken him six months to earn swingin’ an axe an’ draggin’ a saw. Still, they hide their remorse under a grin and tell of what a good time they’ve had. So many people think that loggers spend all their money for booze. ’Tain’t so. That gang of mine give away about half their money to bums around town. I have seen Blackie give away twenty bucks at a time.”
As they passed the high-rigger’s little cabin, Gillis poked his head through the door. Blackie was absorbed in the task of sewing a patch on a pair of worn boots. A mournful wind blew querulously around the cabin.
“Say, Blackie, do you know what that wind is saying?”
Blackie grunted a negative.
“Here’s what it’s a sayin’,” said Gillis as he puckered his lips: “O-o-o-o-h! W-h-e-e-r-r-e-e has your summer wages gone! O-o-o-h! W-h-e-r-r-e-e has your summer——”
Gillis dodged back as a boot came whizzing past his head.
Midsummer brought an epidemic of labour disturbances throughout the Province. A radical labour organization seized on a time when work was plentiful and labour scarce to spread their insidious propaganda through the camps. Railroad construction in the interior had been seriously interfered with, and in many cases there had been violence and bloodshed.
Two agitators arrived at the Summit Mill, and the next day several of the men—including Hand and Blackie—did not appear when the whistle blew. Gillis found them in Blackie’s cabin in a half-drunken condition. That afternoon Renwick ordered the two strangers off the premises and discharged Hand.
Hoop-la begged successfully for lenience toward his erring pal. “You know how booze affects Blackie, Jack,” he pleaded.
Donald became aware of a changed bearing on the part of many of the men. Sullenness had fallen upon them; discontent manifested itself, as well as insubordination. That afternoon spikes driven in the logs wreaked havoc with the saws and forced a partial shut-down.
A committee of four men waited on Renwick and presented an ultimatum. They demanded a heavy increase in wages, or they would call for an immediate cessation of work on the part of the men they represented. Renwick promptly refused. In fifteen minutes every man in the mill except the clerical staff, the mechanics and the engineer, walked out. In the woods only Gillis’s “redshirts” remained at work.
The strikers moved up the track and made camp on a point of land on the lake-shore. That night the door of the commissary was prised from its hinges and a quantity of food stolen, and the night-watchman put out a fire of incendiary origin.
Renwick, while returning from the power-house, was shot at twice from ambush. He wired his resignation to Robert Rennie, and in terrified haste packed his belongings and left on the next train. An hour later the agent brought Donald a telegram:
“Donald McLean,
“Summit Mill.
“You are promoted to position vacated by Renwick. Refuse strikers’ demands. Ship at Squamish Oriental order white pine. Utmost importance lumber loaded within week. Use every means in power to keep plant operating.
“Robert Rennie.”
He passed the message to Gillis. The big man turned and grasped Donald’s hand in congratulation.
“We’ll get that order out on time or bust,” declared Gillis grimly.
Donald distributed firearms among his loyal men, and one-half the crew patrolled the plant while the others slept.
Donald had been up the greater part of the night, and at Gillis’s earnest request he went to his cabin near midnight. As the door closed behind him, Connie, with her rifle resting in the hollow of her arm, rose silently from behind a tree in the darkness of the hillside and flitted noiselessly on moccasined feet from stump to stump. Unseen she reached the corner of Donald’s cabin, where she sank to the ground with the soft, slow grace of a nestling bird.
The Cheakamus Mill, robbed of man-power, was forced to cease operations. At the Summit Mill work went on with such speed as in the situation Donald was able to induce in the men, who were on edge. To him it seemed that they were working on top of a powder mine that might go off at any moment. He discovered in himself a faculty to handle men and to raise them to a fever pitch of enthusiasm—not that the B.C. logger is a hard man to lift to the fighting point. His fight against great odds had gained the sympathy of the loyal—a sympathy and respect that money could not buy. Gillis’s gang, with the exception of “Blackie,” remained fervently faithful.
Toiling in the hot sun, nearly blinded by sweat, singing lustily, this gallant crew worked their twelve hours without a murmur of complaint. Donald lived on the job, ate on the job, and all day long he drove his men even as he drove himself. His rest consisted of such fitful snatches of sleep as he could steal between his rounds of the night guards.
The first move of the strikers was not of open violence. The haul-back on two of the donkeys broke without apparent reason; one of the big saws had been tampered with; Wilkinson reported two fires of incendiary origin, and also that an attempt to dynamite the power-house had been frustrated.
On the third morning Hand, at the head of a mob of fifty men, made a swift descent on the lumbering operations. It might have been successful if Donald had not expected something of this kind and set efficient watch.
The invaders came down the track in a solid body, armed with cant-dog handles, pick-axes and clubs, and thirsting for battle. At Donald’s quick shout of warning his men dropped their tools and came on the run to form in a compact body behind him.
“Don’t use your guns unless you have to,” he warned, as he noticed several of them flash their revolvers.
Donald climbed quickly to the top of a large stump. In his left hand he held a stick of dynamite with fuse attached; in his right he held a match close to the dangling fuse. “Men,” he cried in a determined tone, “if you move forward one step I will throw this.”
“To hell mit him!” shouted Hand. “He don’t dare do it. Rush him.”
But the mob did not obey their leader’s rash command. Donald’s pale face and burning black eyes were sufficient evidence that he made no idle threat. Donald saw the big hand of his foreman stealing to the butt of the heavy Colts that hung at his side. “Keep cool, Jack,” he begged; “don’t start anything.”
For days Gillis had been without sleep. He turned bloodshot eyes on Donald. “By G——! I would like to take a crack at Hand,” he said in a voice thick with rage.
The hostile crowd did not advance; neither did they leave. Scattered in groups, they lay or sat on the hillside to shout occasionally words of derision at Donald’s faithful crew.
Donald’s nerves were on edge. At any moment there might be a pitched battle with loss of lives. He studied the faces of the strikers to see how many were from his crew, and was surprised to recognize fully forty of his men. He saw “Blackie” in the rear of the crowd of strikers. When his eyes met Donald’s he turned away shamefacedly. All the men from his camp refused to meet his gaze squarely. “Those men are ready to come back right now,” he said to Gillis. “Hand has bullied them into this. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” answered Gillis. “I never thought Blackie would go back on me. I’ll wring his d——d neck when I catch him in town!” he added bitterly.
Donald heard a slight movement behind him, and turned to see Connie standing with her rifle in the crook of her arm.
“Good heavens! Connie, you shouldn’t be here!” he exclaimed.
Connie’s face bore traces of weariness and sleeplessness. For three nights she had stolen softly away from her cabin on the hillside to lie hidden outside that of Donald. By night she had kept up a weary vigil, ever on the alert; in the forenoon she had lain behind a stump on the hill with eyes on Donald’s tall figure whenever he came in sight, her rifle ready for instant action. Hand did not know that death had nearly claimed him when he stepped forward to urge his men to charge. At that crucial moment Connie’s rifle was aimed at his heart.
“Get away from here at once, Connie!” said Donald, firmly, but kindly.
Connie lowered her eyes to her moccasined foot, that was weaving patterns in the dry soil, and shook her small head obstinately.
“Why do you wish to stay?” he asked.
She patted the stock of her rifle. “I—I want to help you.”
Donald looked down at the weary little figure. He stepped down from the stump, keeping a wary eye on the belligerent strikers, and came to her side. “Connie,” he said softly, “you are a dear, brave little girl, but you must get away from this place, as there may be serious trouble. Please, Connie,” he entreated, reaching out a hand to stroke her shining hair.
Connie’s face paled quickly, and she shrank from the caress. Her slender body trembled at his touch, and his display of tenderness brought a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. But she made no move to leave the scene.
Finding that he could not shake Connie’s determination to stay, Donald returned to the vantage point of the stump. “Jack,” he said, turning to his big foreman, “I am going to make one last appeal to these men. If I am any judge of human nature about half of them, if they can save their faces, will welcome the chance to go back to work. They are being dominated by Hand.”
Gillis shrugged his shoulders. “Do what you think best,” he said.
Donald passed the dynamite to Gillis and stepped forward with his arms extended, palms upward. The crowd moved uneasily. Hand came slowly to his feet, his small eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“What’s up?” he growled.
“Men,” Donald began in a high clear voice, “I would like to convince you that you will gain nothing by your present tactics. Bloodshed will surely ensue. I have orders to refuse your exorbitant demands. Personally, I have no choice in the matter; there is no other course for me to pursue. In spite of your interference we will continue working with the few men who have remained loyal. I will ask for police protection only as a last resort. I appeal particularly to the men who worked for me here at this camp. Is there one of you who can truthfully say that you were not accorded fair treatment? Is there one of you who will not admit that the general equipment for your comfort is unequalled in any camp in British Columbia? You are making a mistake, men,” he went on in a pleading tone, “a mistake you will be sorry for later, for you will be blacklisted in every camp in the country. Go back to work, and I promise you there will be no mark against you. That’s all.”
Donald walked back to Connie’s side. The men had not interrupted him once.
Hand turned to the wavering crowd. “To hell mit him and all capitalists!” he snarled. He turned to shake a huge fist at Donald.
“You treaten us, do you? You d——” The epithet that came from his coarse lips was one that would cause any decent man to see red.
Donald stiffened. His face turned livid. “You dirty cur!” he flamed. “Don’t you know that there is a lady present? You apologize to this little girl or I will whip you within an inch of your life!” His voice trembled with passion.
“Lady,” scoffed Hand, “vat you call a lady? She moost be nice lady, runnin’ in de woods wit’ you ev’ry Sunday.”
A murderous look shot from Donald’s dark eyes. A terrible rage possessed him, a rage that made his blood feel hot in his veins and gave him the unnatural strength of a madman. A dull red flamed in Connie’s tanned cheeks. She sat down and covered her hot face with her hands.
Andy now came running from the cook-house, dressed in white cap and apron, his rifle trailing at his side. “What’s goin’ on, Donnie?” he questioned.
Donald did not answer. Gillis spoke to Andy in an undertone.
“My God, Donnie, ’e’s twice your size! Don’t fight ’im!” implored Andy.
“I’ll kill him!” rasped Donald.
Gillis seized his arm. “Let me fix the d—— skunk; he’s nearer my size.”
“No, this is my affair!” shaking himself from the grasp.
The sound of a paddle came from below, and the trapper sprang from his dugout and came swiftly up the hill. As Andy briefly explained the situation the old man’s grey eyes narrowed to mere slits beneath the shaggy brows.
“Ah!” he breathed. “Me and ‘Betsey’,” patting his six-shooter, “we likes to shoot up bohunks. We shoots them in the heel so’s to save their clothes.” His mouth was set in a grim smile, a smile that was belied by the steely look in his deep-set eyes. He seated himself on a log and placed his gun on his knees.
Donald had by this divested himself of coat and shirt and now stepped forward dressed in light cotton trousers, a sleeveless undershirt and moccasins. “Hand,” he said in a steady voice, “this is between you and me. See to it that your men do not interfere; I will vouch for mine.”
The big foreigner was rubbing his big hands as though in pleased anticipation. “I suppose you know how we iss goin’ to fight? Everything goes, you know.” His grin was fiendish.
Donald knew what was meant. There were to be no rules of combat; no time duration; no referee; no rounds, and woe to the man who should go down. It was to be a battle as of primeval man. It might result in terrible injury and mutilation. He sickened at the thought.
Hand stripped to the waist. Connie’s eyes rested on the mighty frame of this huge blond; the bunched and rippling muscles, the great chest covered with a mat of thick hair, and the enormous limbs. Her glance then turned and roved to the man who was to fight for her honour. Donald’s eyes were like burning coals. His face had regained its colour, but was contorted with a passion that made him seem unnatural. Yet he appeared a mere stripling in comparison to his burly antagonist.
For a moment Connie became a primitive woman. She felt as though she could rend and tear. Her eyes darted blue lightnings of wrath toward the man who had insulted her, and her small hands clinched in impotent fury. Her nails cut into her palms as she exercised every ounce of self-control to keep from screaming aloud. Donald was fighting for her. She caught her breath in a quick stab. Her heart was beating with alternate throbs of joy and fear. A sudden fit of trembling seized her, and her head felt light and giddy.
Hand’s reputation as a rough and tumble fighter was well known throughout the Province. It was his proud boast that he never had been whipped. He advanced now, a sinister leer on his face. Andy ran to Donald’s side.
“Box ’im, Donnie,” he whispered. “Don’t let ’im get ’old on you.”
“You goin’ to vip me? De dude goin’ to vip me? Ach!” scoffed Hand in guttural accents.
He came slowly forward with arms spread wide, his thick fingers working convulsively. Donald leaned slightly forward and waited. As he neared him, Hand tore in, sure of himself in the rough and tumble. Donald side-stepped the big man’s first rush and shot his left to his face. He was not properly set for the blow, but it stung Hand to madness.
“Ach!” he grunted, “stand and fight you d—— coward!”
He came on, his arms swinging wildly. Leaping aside, Donald’s heel struck a stump, and before he could regain his footing the giant’s arms were around him in a bone-crushing grasp. His hands were clasped at Donald’s waist, and the big head was pressed suffocatingly against his throat. Donald was forced slowly backward to strike the ground with a thud, the big man on top.
“Now I got you!” panted Hand as he released his hold on Donald’s waist and aimed a blow at his face. With a quick movement the under man turned face down. Hand struck him viciously as he lay prostrate under him.
Connie’s eyes were wide with horror, and a muffled scream escaped her lips as the blow fell.
With a quick, convulsive movement of his lithe body Donald threw Hand from his back and sprang to his feet. Whirling quickly as the foreigner came toward him, he sent in a volley of blows to his opponent’s face. Hand staggered, but did not fall. His lips were cut and bleeding: his nose was broken; and he spat out several broken teeth. Any one of the blows landed was sufficient to send an ordinary man down for the count, but still the gargantuan giant came on.
In and out Donald flashed, his arms moving like steel pistons. Hand could not keep away from the punishing left hand of his lighter opponent. Men not trained in the science of boxing have no punishing power in their left hand, but depend solely on their right. Such was the case with Hand. His style did not vary for a moment. With head lowered between his powerful shoulders, he would bore in, swinging wildly in the hope of landing a lucky punch, or striving to get a hold on his adversary. Donald’s hand kept beating a tattoo on his rock-like jaw, but still Hand came forward, slowly and relentlessly as a steam-roller.
Crowding Donald back to the line of tense spectators, Hand rushed him into the scattering crowd and seized him in a rib-cracking embrace. Donald broke the hold, but not before the brute had butted him over the eye. With the blow Donald’s senses reeled and the blood gushed from a wide gash on his brow. A blow from the foreigner’s big fist then caught him over the heart and sent him staggering to his knees. With a curse the big man came after him.
Andy shouted hysterical words of advice.
Donald came slowly to his feet and mechanically side-stepped as Hand came stumbling toward him. Donald evaded him until his head cleared, and then summoned his remaining strength into one mighty blow that landed flush on his opponent’s midriff. The blond beast came to his knees with a dull grunt.
“Go after him!” yelled excited voices from the crowd.
Donald stepped forward with fist drawn back to strike the kneeling man, but his arm fell to his side and he shook his head. “Get up!” he commanded hoarsely.
Even the strikers gasped their appreciation of this honourable act. A murmur of applause came from both sides. The foreigner shook his shaggy blond head and came uncertainly to his feet and the sanguinary battle went on. Both men were tired. Hand’s breath was coming in short, choking gasps from his tortured lungs, and his face was one smear of blood. Donald’s left eye was closed; his lips were split, and the gash over his eye had covered his body with blood. His arms were tired from pounding the iron jaw of his adversary. The big logger’s strength was waning; the pounding administered by Donald was beginning to tell. But Donald was too weak to avoid his rushes. In a clinch Hand again butted him with his head.
Blackie, his eyes blazing, leaped forward with a peavy handle in his hand. “You fight fair, d—— you, or I’ll brain you!” he shouted. One of the strikers attempted to wrest the peavy handle from his hands. Blackie felled him with a blow of his fist. It looked for one tense moment as if there would be a general mêlée. There came sullen mutterings from the crowd of strikers.
“Back!” John Hiller’s voice rang out sharp and clear. “I’ll kill the first man that interferes!” The eyes shining over the long-barrelled Colt held a dangerous glint. The men who had moved to the centre backed away hurriedly.
Back and forth the combatants struggled, neither gaining any decided advantage, each trying to land a blow that would end the battle. Reeling, gasping, striking, falling to their knees from sheer weakness, the men fought on under a burning noonday sun.
No knight of old ever fought more nobly for a fair lady’s honour than did Donald McLean that day by the lake-shore. His undershirt was torn to tatters, showing his white skin blotched with welts and bruises. He was losing his sense of distance. Swinging wildly with his left, his wrist struck Hand’s adamantine jaw and the onlookers saw his face writhe in pain as the arm fell helplessly to his side.
“ ’E’s broken ’is ’and,” groaned Andy.
“Oh, stop it, Andy, please stop it!” sobbed Connie, her arms held out in entreaty.
Donald’s face turned a sickly grey, and as the well-nigh sightless foreigner staggered weakly toward him, he with a strength born of agony whipped his right to his opponent’s sagging jaw. The big man faltered, sank slowly to hands and knees, then stretched at full length, his face pressing the soil, quivered and lay still. No sound came from the crowd. The thing had been too stupendous for immediate shouting or applause. Donald stood for an instant swaying uncertainly, then turned to stumble toward his cabin.
Blackie sprang to the top of a stump and swung his hat in the air. “Three cheers for our boss!” he yelled wildly.
A roaring cheer came from the crowd with a right good will.
“Boys, let’s go back to work!” shouted Blackie.
“We’re with you, Blackie!” they answered.
Gillis reached Donald’s side as he tottered into the cabin and caught him in his arms as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The big man picked him up tenderly and placed him on the bed.
“Get some ’ot water and towels and telephone for Dr. Paul,” commanded Andy tersely.
As Gillis left to fill Andy’s commission, Connie fell on her knees by the bedside and wept with wild and passionate violence. “Oh, Donald! Donald!” she sobbed, “you fought for me. I love you! I love you! Oh, Andy,” turning her streaming eyes to the little man, “he won’t die, will he? Tell me he won’t die!” Her trembling fingers were smoothing Donald’s dark hair, and she kissed his battered face tenderly, all the while calling his name hysterically.
With tears in his eyes and a heart full of sympathy, little Andy looked down on the recumbent form of his unconscious friend. “ ’E’s all right, Connie. ’E’ll be all right in a few days,” he answered her in a choking voice.
Donald stirred as Andy applied the water, and his one good eye opened slowly. “Did I win?” he questioned weakly.
“You bet your blinkin’ life you did.”
When Donald’s gaze rested on Connie his face twisted into a wry smile. He reached for her hand and held it in a firm pressure. “Good little sport,” he whispered through split lips.
Connie felt as though her heart would burst. Scorching tears ran down her face, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she controlled the suffocating sobs that filled her throat.
The sound of the big mill whistle smote their ears in a wild medley of short, sharp blasts, quite unlike the decorous tone that summoned and dismissed the men.
“What’s that?” asked Donald, attempting to sit up.
“The engineer is celebrating, Donnie. The men ’ave returned to work. The strike is broken.”
“Ah!” sighed Donald happily as he fell back on the pillows.
The distant hum of a gas-car gradually increased to a series of staccato explosions, then died out suddenly. They heard the light rumble of wheels as it drew to a stop at the station below. There was the sound of quick footsteps on the board sidewalk and the door opened to admit Dr. Paul. He crossed the room and took Donald’s hand. “Is it true,” he asked incredulously, “that you whipped Ole Hand?”
“Strike me pink if ’e didn’t,” Andy vouchsafed.
“I have patched up Hand’s victim’s many times,” the doctor stated, “but this is the first time that I have attended his victor, and I can assure you that it’s a pleasure.” He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll look you over,” he added, then glanced significantly at Connie, who rose and left the room.
“A couple of cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, and a few hundred bruises,” was the doctor’s verdict a few minutes later.
The physician’s deft hands soon bandaged the broken ribs and set the bone of the forearm.
“I’ll go and patch up the fallen bully. I hope he’s worse still,” he chuckled as he left the room.
Andy stepped to the door and called in Connie.
“Don’t look so frightened, Connie,” smiled Donald. “I don’t feel half as bad as I look.”
“I’ll have to go now,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.
Andy accompanied her outside the door. “ ’Ave a bite to eat, Connie?” he invited.
Connie shook her head. Now that the excitement was over, the strain of the emotion she had experienced showed in the dark shadows under her eyes and in the droop of her slight shoulders. “Andy,” she began, as she placed a small hand on his arm, “you—you won’t say anything what—what—I——”
A flood of rose dyed her tanned cheeks and her blue eyes fell in embarrassment. Andy patted her shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ll never s’y a blinkin’ word, Connie; an oyster’s got nothin’ on me.”
Connie, visibly relieved, picked up her gun and started up the hill. Andy watched the pathetic little figure until she disappeared in the woods. For a moment he stood staring into nothingness, then, shaking his head sadly, he entered the cabin.
“She’s a little brick, Andy,” Donald spoke weakly from his bed.
Andy glared at him. “Brick!” he repeated sarcastically. “Is that all? You big, bone-’eaded, blinkin’ boob!” He slammed the door as he went out to give emphasis to the remark.
“What the devil does he mean?” puzzled Donald. He turned painfully to his side, yawned equally as painfully, then fell into a sound sleep.