“Go back and take your booze with you,” he ordered; “and don’t let me catch you this side of that line again.”
“Must think you own the woods,” said he of the jug, slipping the bag from his shoulder in readiness for trouble. “You go to hell!”
The axe resting on MacNutt’s shoulder leaped forward and down in a sweeping stroke. There was a crash of crockery and a sudden strong odour of alcohol; following these a tremendous burst of profanity. The three men rushed at MacNutt.
The foreman was not foolish enough to meet three hardened “bully-boys” with his fists. His axe flashed up and just missed the head of the leader in its descent. There was such evident deadly sincerity in the blow that the men paused. MacNutt gave them no time. He charged them instantly, axe aloft, and, prudence getting the better of anger, they ran for their lives. MacNutt followed for a short distance, shouted a final warning, and returned to camp. He did not think that he had put a stop to the contraband traffic, but he had fired the first gun and made his attitude clear.
The following day, as he was overseeing the work, Rough Shan McCane came striding through the snow.
“What’s this I hear about your chasing three of my men with an axe?” he demanded.
“Well, what about it?” asked MacNutt indifferently, and the men near at hand listened with all their ears.
“This much,” said Rough Shan truculently. “My men have a right in the woods, an’ not you nor anny one else will stop them going where they like.”
“Well, I did stop them,” retorted MacNutt. “I smashed a jug of booze they were bringing to my camp, and I’d have split their heads if they hadn’t run.”
This was news to the Kent men. MacNutt rose several notches in their estimation. Regan, who had expected to share the contents of the jug and had been disappointed by its non-arrival, whispered to Devlin: