In less than sixty seconds—so close had been Bob’s calculations—came a detonation which shook the earth, making several of the running men stagger and lose their stride. Up spurted a great mass of water, carrying with it massive logs leaping like agonized things alive. They fell back again, followed by a shower of débris mingled with fine spray, which the wind sifted down on the heads of the ducking, dodging men.
From his place behind a stump Bainbridge rose swiftly, shielding his face with one crooked arm from the rain of chips and splinters and bits of bark, and stared eagerly toward the jam. It took but a moment to see that the spiles had disappeared, and the boom was shattered. Moreover, the key logs of the jam were so loosened that the whole drive was again on its way downstream. Bob turned to Peters with a gesture of satisfaction.
“She’s off, Jack,” he said. “Get a wiggle on, now, and rush her along. The water’s dropping every minute, and we’ve got a mean stretch to cover before we strike the Penobscot. I’ll go back and hustle the rear along——”
He stopped abruptly, and whirled around as a voice, shrill and trembling with passion, was raised behind him.
“You’ll pay for that, you meddlin’ pup! I’ll teach you to go blowin’ up folks’ property, an’ mighty near committin’ murder! I’ll show you you can’t play tricks on John Joyce an’ get away with it. That game might work with some, but it won’t——”
Things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble.
The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger.
For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. Perhaps he read a hint of Joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye; perhaps it was simply intuition which made him guess what was coming. At all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle.
His shoulder struck Joyce’s knees, and the wicked, snapping shot of the revolver rang out at precisely the same moment. There was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. Then almost oppressive silence.
Bob was on his feet like a cat, fingers gripping the automatic he had snatched from the owner’s nerveless hand. His jaw was hard, and there was a glint of more than anger in the eyes he bent upon Joyce’s supporters hurrying up to the aid of their chief.