They came out on the river and on McCane’s rear. Cottrell led the way back into the bush and when they emerged again it was at the dam. The dam pond was brown with logs, and they were being sluiced through in a great hurry. A crew of unkempt, tousled rivermen manned the booms and kept the sticks hustling. Rough Shan McCane stood on the boom by the water-gate directing operations, and his profane urgings came to them above the sound of the water. As they stood on the bank, rifles under their arms, one of the men caught sight of them and pointed. Immediately they became the nucleus of all eyes. McCane came ashore accompanied by half a dozen of his crew. He walked up to the new comers.
“What do yez want?” he demanded.
“When will you be sluiced through?” Joe asked.
“What business is that of yours?” growled the rough one.
“You know what business it is of mine,” Joe answered. “My drive’s coming down. And I’ll tell you something more, McCane, we’re going to camp right here till it does. I warn you now—don’t try to wreck this dam!”
“Wreck the dam, is it?” said McCane innocently. “For why should we wreck the dam?”
“I suppose you don’t know that the one above went out and hung my drive for a week,” said Joe with sarcasm.
“Is that so?” said McCane with mock sympathy. “Well, well, ye do be in hard luck. What’s the guns for? Deer is out o’ season. Yon’s a pretty-lookin’ rifle, now. I’ll bet it cost ye somethin’. Let me have a look at it.”
He stretched out his hand casually, and suddenly leaped. His hand fastened on the rifle barrel. Instantly Cottrell’s weapon sprang to a level.
“Drop that, McCane!” snapped the little riverman. “You men keep back there, or I’ll onhook her into you.”