“Now!” broke in the crisp voice of the lumberman. “Hard over, boy. Toward me—all you know how!”
Curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the pull. The key log creaked and groaned as if agony but was thrust gradually forward. Curly felt it moving faster and faster, and instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs.
A second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse of half the face of the jam. The logs at his side vanished in the unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious moment. Below him he saw Bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for something solid. Instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous, muscular hands, and as swiftly Bob gripped them. There was a heave, an upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared into the foaming water. But the two men had leaped in time, and a moment later they were standing together on the bank.
“Thank you—Curly,” Bainbridge said in a level voice. “That was touch-and-go for a minute.”
That was all, but somehow Curly knew that what he had done was understood and appreciated. In the stress of the peril which the two had shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, Kollock’s anger and hate had vanished utterly. He no longer desired revenge. His attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. He had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again.
CHAPTER XIII. THE LIMIT
Curly Kollock’s interest and liking for his boss grew stronger day after day. There was something about Bob Bainbridge which stirred the finer qualities in his nature, and brought twinges of shame to the young riverman whenever he thought how near he had come to throwing his lot with his brother. If Bill ever showed up he resolved to tell him just what he thought of him, too. But in the meantime, not being much of a penman, he made no effort to answer the letter. It was sufficient that he considered himself cut loose from the whole miserable bunch. If they were expecting aid from him in their plotting they were doomed to disappointment.
More and more often as they descended the Katahdin River, the boy was stirred to anger at the constant succession of moves made by that gang of crooks against the man who fought them practically alone and singlehanded.
Along the river were several dams placed for the purpose of regulating the head of water and facilitating the process of driving. They belonged to the trust, but their owners were bound at all times to allow a normal head of water when it was called for. Instead of doing this now, they played all sorts of tricks on Bainbridge. When he particularly needed plenty of water to float his drive past a shallow or narrow spot, the gates were arbitrarily shut down, and the drive hung up. Again, at one point where the middle part of the drive had jammed and the crew were occupied in picking it instead of using dynamite, the gates which Bob had personally closed were raised without warning, letting down a flood of water which struck the jam with terrific force. It gave instantly, carrying three men with it. Two managed to escape by a miracle, and were dragged ashore with broken limbs; the other was crushed and drowned.
After that Bainbridge placed guards at the various dams with instructions to shoot any one who attempted to interfere with them. This resulted in a terrific outcry on the part of Crane’s underlings, an appeal to the law, injunctions, and all that sort of thing. To which Bainbridge paid no attention whatever. He went on his way calmly, knowing well that they could not stop him in this manner, and willing to put up with the inconvenience that would follow when it was all over and he had returned to civilization.