Jackson, Ward, and Haggarty, cant-hook men and old employees of the Kents, had been regarding McCane and his followers with scowling disfavour, and Haggarty, from his post on top of the pile where he had been “decking” the logs as they were sent up to him, asked:
“What’s wrong wid them sticks?”
“We cut them yesterday on our limit,” the man told him.
“Ye lie!” cried Haggarty fiercely, dropping his cant-hook and leaping to the ground. Jackson and Ward sprang forward as one man.
“You keep out o’ this,” said Rough Shan. “This is log stealin’, and a matter for your boss, if he’s man enough to talk to me face.”
“Man enough? Come over here an’ say we stole yer logs, ye dirty——” Haggarty’s language became lurid. He was an iron-fisted old-timer and hated McCane.
MacNutt, when he saw Haggarty drop his cant-hook and jump, ran across to the skids. So did other men at hand. A ring of fierce, bearded faces and level, inquiring eyes gathered about the intruders.
“Here is the logs, MacNutt,” said Rough Shan. “Now, I want to know how they come here.”
MacNutt examined the logs. They had not yet been branded by the marking-iron with the big K which proclaimed Kent ownership. They were in no material particular different from the rest. It was possible that his teamsters had made a mistake. His sawyers could not identify the logs positively; they thought they had cut them, but were not sure. On the other hand, the two teamsters, Laviolette and old Ben Watkins, were very sure they had never drawn those particular sticks to the pile.
“One o’ yeez must ’a done it,” asserted McCane.