At that point the river ran past the mouth of a backwater, an old channel, now an almost currentless little lake, reedy, with shores of floating bog and bottomed with ooze of unknown depth. The water ran into it sluggishly, and drained out half a mile below over muddy shallows. Logs once ensnared in this backwater could be taken out only at the cost of much time and labour.
The dozen, working at speed, constructed a boom of logs shackled end to end. This they strung slantwise across the stream. One end was moored to the lower side of the backwater’s inlet; the other to the opposite bank upstream. Thus logs coming down were deflected to the backwater. Six men with pike poles manned the boom, walking to and fro on the precarious footing, shoving the logs, as they came down, toward the slough. The others saw them safe inside. Dave Cottrell sat in midstream in the peakie, a rifle across his knees, watching either bank.
The work proceeded merrily, for the rivermen enjoyed the trick. Late in the afternoon half a dozen of McCane’s crew hove in sight. When they saw the boom and comprehended its meaning they ran forward to cut its moorings.
“You get back there!” yelled Cottrell, raising his rifle. As they paid no attention to him he fired. The bullet cut dirt at the toes of the foremost. “I’ll drop one of ye next time,” Cottrell warned them, his eyes glued to the sights.
They halted and cursed him.
“When I count twenty I’m goin’ to start shootin’ the hats off of ye,” said Cottrell. “If I was on shore I could do it easy, an’ hurt no one. Out here the water jiggles the boat, an’ I may go high or low. One—two—three——”
He began to count. At “ten” they gave back; at “fifteen” they were in full retreat.
McCane, when the news was brought to him, ran out on the booms, his face working with rage. Profanity spewed from his mouth in a steady stream.
“You’ll bring every log out o’ that backwater or I’ll know why,” he thundered. “A dirty trick!”
“Dealin’ with you we’re dirty every time from now out, and you can tie to that,” MacNutt told him. “Every log in your drive is goin’ into that backwater if she’ll hold them. You’ll get them out yourself, or train beavers to do it for you. You stinkin’, lowdown Mick, you’ve been givin’ us dirt all winter. Here’s where we get square. Now get off o’ these booms, or I’ll bash in your head with a peavey. If I say ‘sic ’em’ to the boys you know what’ll happen. You won’t have camp nor crew nor nothin’ in ten minutes, an’ you’ll spend the summer in a hospital, like enough. I’m sick of you! Get out!”