“Don’t do that,” MacNutt dissuaded. “The boys will look after it all right. You better keep out.”
“No, I’ll go,” said Joe with determination. “You need every hand on the drive. I won’t ask any man to do what I won’t do myself. Pick your man and fetch him in here. We ought to start now.”
MacNutt arose and left the tent. In five minutes he returned with a little, brown-faced riverman, Dave Cottrell by name. Joe was surprised. He had expected the foreman to choose Cooley, Haggarty, or one of the noted “bully-boys.” Cottrell was an excellent riverman, active as a squirrel and ready to take any chances, but extremely quiet and self-effacing. He was never in a row, had no chums, and, apparently, no enemies. He minded his own business and avoided notice. Such speech as he essayed was brief and to the point.
“Now Dave,” said the foreman, “we think McCane may blow this dam on us. Mr. Kent is going down to see that it ain’t done, and he wants a man with him. How about you? Of course this ain’t what you were hired for.”
“That’s all right,” said Cottrell.
“You understand,” said Joe, “that we’re going to protect the dam at all costs. Can you shoot?”
“Some,” said Cottrell, and MacNutt chuckled to himself.
“Then get ready,” Joe ordered. “We’ll start in half an hour.”
“C’rect,” said Cottrell, and departed to roll his blanket.
Blankets and food for two days were made into packs. The outfit owned two rifles, one belonging to Joe, the other to the foreman, who gave it to Cottrell. The little riverman tested the action, filled the magazine, and shouldered his pack.