When Titans Drive

by Burt L. Standish

He gritted his teeth, glared fiercely around, and came to an abrupt stop. Every instinct of the riverman was aroused. On his left the river dropped over short falls into a narrow gorge. It was a spot where things were likely to happen at any time, and where a man or two should have been stationed continually. Curly knew, in fact, that there had been men here all morning. They had been called away for some purpose, leaving the little falls unguarded. And as he stood there his practiced eyes told him that he was beholding the very start of a jam.

A log, plunging over the falls, upended. Another was thrust under it. A third and fourth, coming down together, caught on the obstruction, all being held by some stones rising midstream. Before the current could tear them loose several more timbers were forced against the mass which was piling up so swiftly, bridging to the opposite shore.

To carry out that angry resolve of a minute or two ago, Curly should have rolled himself another cigarette, and watched the growing damage with a sardonic smile. He did nothing of the sort. For a flash he had forgotten his grievance, and was a “river hog,” pure and simple. The stoppage must be broken before it reached the proportions of a real jam. There was no one else to do it, and so he leaped to the task without a second’s pause for thought.

Upstream he ran a few feet, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river above the falls. Then he saw what he wanted. An instant later, using his peavey much as a pole vaulter does his pole, he leaped straight out over the water, landed squarely on a big log, and was carried down to the falls—and over them.

He took the drop easily, riding the log with that perfect balance which is second nature to the seasoned riverman. When the timber bumped against the rapidly forming jam, Curly leaped again, thrusting the log down as he did so, and landed on the solid barrier. Scrambling lightly over to the face of this, he thrust deftly with his peavey into the mass, and began to work desperately to loosen the key log—that first upended stick of pine which had started the whole trouble, and which must be started before the rest of the barrier would give.

He got a good hold on it, but the thing defied his efforts to tear it loose. It was wedged too tightly for even his great strength, and, though he seemed to feel it move slightly, he strained his muscles to the utmost in vain to accomplish anything further. Presently he realized, with a thrill, that the jam was piling up behind him faster and faster. He ceased his efforts, and clamping the peavey on timber above the key log, pried it free, and sent it bobbing downstream. Another followed, and another still. Sweat poured in streams from him, trickling blindingly into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. There was no time. He must go on doing his best till help came, or else——

A faint jar shook the jam. A second later Curly felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder. A familiar voice sounded in his ear:

“Good work, son! Where’s that trouble maker? Oh, I see. Let me drop down to that ledge, where I can get a good hold. That’s the idea. Now grip her above me. Fine! Ready, now? Yank away!”

It was Bainbridge—swift, agile, incredibly fresh considering what he had accomplished that day. For a moment or two Curly did not realize that this was the man he hated. He simply felt an overwhelming thankfulness that some one had come at last, and obeyed orders mechanically and without question.

But as his peavey gripped the end of that troublesome log, there suddenly flamed into Curly’s mind—temptation. Bainbridge stood below him, perched perilously on the very face of the jam. A little thrust—the tiniest movement of the riverman’s arm—would send him plunging into the stream, while another movement would suffice to drop one of the looser logs upon him. There were no witnesses; the whole affair would pass as an unfortunate accident. A chance like this, so easy, so absolutely safe, would never come again.