As the fun was at its height, two men, one clad in a sleek, brown minkskin, the other in a coal-black bearskin overcoat, were noticed approaching the cabins. The one with the bearskin coat, whose bristling red hair and stubby beard proclaimed his Hibernian ancestry, walked up to Mr. Thompson, and without other ceremony or salutation began, “This is Calhoun, the sheriff of this county, an’ I’m Phelan. We’ve come to see what ye mane by cuttin’ the timber on my land.”
Without waiting for a reply, he proceeded, “Av ye pile yer dunnage onto yer tote teams an’ lave at onct, ye can give me yer bill o’ sale to the timber ye’ve browed, an’ we’ll let it drop. Ave ye don’t, well, ye know what we do here to timber thaves.”
The crew had gathered about, and a sound came from them like a low growl of an angry beast. The hand of the sheriff went to his hip, but Mr. Thompson’s voice rang out clear and cold: “Stop, men! I handle this. Now you, Larry Phelan, I’ve heard of you. You certainly are qualified to talk about timber thieves—but you’ve got the wrong man this time. Mr. Medford took precaution to give me the field notes of this tract, and I have run the lines and know exactly where I am. Now I give you just ten minutes, you and your bogus sheriff, to get out of sight, or my men and I will start a new game—and it won’t be a game of bluff.”
There was that in the voice of the speaker which left no doubt that he meant what he said. And while Phelan cursed and vowed he would “have a posse upon them that would move them,” the two strangers turned away to where their team was standing in the distance.
Mr. Thompson was not altogether easy in his mind over the affair, although he felt sure as to his legal right upon the tract. He knew Larry Phelan to be the most unscrupulous timber thief in that section of the state, and who was more than suspected of having arrangements for his own advantage with certain officers of the courts. But more serious were his apprehensions of the threat of Phelan as to his “posse,” for a more reckless and desperate band of outlaws never served another villain than this Irishman had gathered about him in that northern wilderness. If Phelan considered the stake large enough, a descent upon the camp by these ruffians was something to be taken into consideration.
Shortly after the opening of the new year, the successful completion of the winter’s work was threatened in a way that served to put all thoughts of Larry Phelan out of mind. It came with a “January thaw.” Day after day the sun rose clear and bright in the heavens, and the south wind came in spring-like mildness. The melting snows filled the hidden hollows in the woods with slush and water, into which the choppers unsuspectingly dropped, sometimes waist deep, while the wet snow kept the clothing of the entire crew constantly saturated.
Notwithstanding the growing discomfort of the situation, no let up on the work could be allowed, as hope argued for a soon return of zero weather.
The pressure of the immense loads upon the main road had made of it an almost solid bed of ice, and so it was that with the aid of an extra team from the skidways to the main road, the hauling operations were not seriously interfered with at the first.
But the warm days continued, and the sharp calks of the horseshoes began to tear up the surface of the icy road. “If we could only keep the smooth ice surface on the road, we could make it; but a few more days of such cutting and the road is ruined,” gloomily exclaimed Mr. Thompson, as the crew gathered for a noon meal.
Ed started to speak, but being only a boy, and fearing the railery of the men, waited until he could talk to Mr. Thompson privately. “I don’t know, Mr. Thompson, that the plan would work here, but I’ve an idea that you might think over, and try if you wished,” said he.