“Red McDougals, Callahans, and Charbonneaus—a dirty bunch,” said Cottrell. The little man had sluiced himself with icy water from top to toe in the gray of the dawn, and was now frying slices of pork strung on green twigs above a small fire. “Some day the small pox will do a good job for ’em. Look at them scratch their backs against the rocks. Ugh!” His disgust was too deep for words. McCane emerged from his tent and Cottrell cursed him with venom.
“What have you got against the man?” asked Joe reaching for a slice of bread.
“He beat up a chum of mine once,” Cottrell replied, “a little feller about my size that had no chance agin him. I’ll get him yet for that. I wish t’ God he’d made a move yesterday, an’ I’d ’a’ blowed his head off!”
“Now, look here, Dave,” said Joe, “we’re here to protect the dam, and that’s all. I won’t have any feud mixed up with it.”
“I ain’t mixin’ it,” said Cottrell. “I’m just prayin’ he’ll have the nerve to walk out to the sluice gate with a stick of powder in his hand or even a bulge in his shirt.”
But McCane and his crew lay around camp. Nobody went out on the booms or touched a log. The Kent drive would soon be running into their rear, and this meant confusion as well as delay. Joe finally left Cottrell on the dam and walked down to the camp.
“See here, McCane,” said he, “you’ve got to get your logs out of my way. You can’t hang me up like this.”
McCane leered up at him insolently from where he lay stretched on the ground, resting comfortably against a log.
“Can’t I? Not a log goes through till I’m good an’ ready.”
“But you’ve got no right——” Joe began hotly, and paused as he saw the living sneer in the other’s eyes. He realized that argument was worse than useless and went back to his position. There he awaited the coming of MacNutt and his own crew, wondering what had delayed them.