“How do you get your logs out?” asked McKenna.
“We’ll haul down to Lebret Creek and drive that to the Wind.”
McKenna nodded. The Kent logs would be driven down Wind River. Lebret Creek lay east of it. It was a small stream, but fast and good driving.
“Well, I must be gettin’ back,” said McCane. “Your timber runs better than ours. So long!”
He nodded and slouched off. McKenna looked after him and shook his head.
“I’d rather have any one else jobbin’ Clancys’ limit,” he observed. “McCane keeps a bad camp an’ feeds his crew on whiskey. He has a wild bunch of Callahans, Red McDougals, and Charbonneaus workin’ for him always. No other man could hold ’em down.”
“How does he get his work done with whiskey in camp?” Joe asked.
“He can make a man work, drunk or sober—or else he half kills him. The worst is that with a booze-camp handy our boys will get it once in awhile. Still, MacNutt can hold ’em down. McCane laid him out a couple of years ago with a peavey, and he hates him. He won’t stand any nonsense. A good man is Mac!”
MacNutt, the foreman of the Wind River crew, was a lean, sinewy logger who had spent twenty years in the camps. He owned a poisonous tongue and a deadly temper when aroused; but he had also a cool head, and put his employer’s interests before all else. He heard the news in silence.
“Of course we can’t stand for booze in the camp,” said Joe. “If any man gets drunk on whiskey from McCane’s camp or elsewhere, fire him at once.” He thought he was putting the seal of authority on a very severe measure.