“What shall we do, Ed?” exclaimed Rob. “It will take us all summer to get them off our land, and that means almost a whole year lost.”
Practical Ed was silent a few moments and then replied, “Don’t worry, Rob, maybe we can get the job of hauling them into the river. Let’s see whose mark is on them.” Examining the hack marks on the sides of the logs, and the brand in the ends, Rob said, “Well, about all of them are the I F brand—they’re Isaac Fitts’ logs.”
“Whew!” said Ed, “that old bear; but I believe we can haul them back into the river cheaper for him than he can bring a crew up here from Necedah and do it. We’ll try him, anyway.”
However, the Allen boys were not the only ones who were interesting themselves in stray logs left ashore by the breaking of the big dams. Next morning as they were preparing for their trip to the sawmill town, there appeared a crew of swampers with teams, who, without so much as “By your leave” were proceeding to haul the logs into the river. A big man with red whiskers was directing the work, with many a shouted oath and curse. “It’s not Fitts’ crew,” said Ed. “It’s some up-river folks. Rob, I believe they’re rebranding those logs! They’re going to steal them from old Fitts. It’s Larry Phelan, the timber thief and gambler. I’m going to stop him. He has no rights on our ground anyway. You run down after Mr. Thompson, he’s a Justice, and I’ll go warn Larry.”
Although Ed was but a lad, he blustered up to the big Irishman, and demanded that he leave those logs alone. Back and forth they parleyed. At last Larry exclaimed, “They’re my logs, an I’ll do as I plaze wid thim.” Then to his men who had come up to listen, he roared, “Be aff wid ye to yer work. What are ye doin’ here!”
“You are trespassing on this land,” insisted Ed, “and these are Isaac Fitts’ logs. I can see what you are doing—making an L out of the I and a P out of the F and putting your own brand over his on the ends.”
“Git out o’ here, or I’ll brain ye wid this peavey!” shouted the boss, lifting his heavy cant-hook threateningly.
“Hold on! Hold on!” called Mr. Thompson, coming up with Rob. “I’m a peace officer of this township, and I warn you that you are committing trespass on this land. Don’t lay the weight of your finger on that lad, or you’ll get something more than a fine.”
As Larry looked into the eyes of the old man, he saw something that had not glowed there since the old days at Harper’s Ferry, when Mr. Thompson had watched his own young brothers, riddled with bullets, floating down the river—and he quieted down.
But the stakes were too large—here were at least two thousand dollars worth of logs, and nobody but the boy had seen the changing of the brands. All that the Justice had charged him with could be settled by a fine, at the worst, and his lawyer could probably beat that case with a jury.