McCartney was as much a student of conditions as he was an intriguer, and was not slow to recognize that, given a little more work under conditions that were nearly impossible, the break that he so ardently desired was inevitable. He stood to one side, or walked about with a smirk on his face that expressed only too well his confidence in the outcome.
At one point, however, his calculations failed. Friday night found the work almost completed. In spite of all obstacles, the end of another day would see all the horses under cover and housed in buildings that would provide comfortable quarters during the weeks that lay between the closing of construction work and the opening of the tie-camps—for neither Hurley nor King would admit for a moment that the camps in the hills would not be running. They did not know how it was to be done, but they did not allow themselves to entertain the slightest doubt that the claim now registered in the name of McCartney would yet be worked without his permission or assistance.
Keith McBain was not nearly so sanguine. He knew—as no one else knew, except King and Cherry—that McCartney still held his high card and would play it when the time was ripe. What the results would be he could not guess—he could see nothing but chaos and disintegration ahead. King clung to the hope—it was a sort of blind faith with him—that somewhere, somehow, Keith McBain's fears would prove to be groundless. Cherry was cheerful, even hopeful, though none knew whether her high spirits were genuine or feigned. She drew some comfort, at least, from the knowledge that, if McCartney had a card to play, so had she—and she would play it when the moment was most opportune.
But to all this McCartney was apparently blind. He had one desire, one aim so single and so unshakeable that he could see nothing else. His mind was bent upon winning the game at all costs—or, losing it, to work such havoc in the place that no one would stay. It was all a bit of frontier politics, with all the ruthlessness and much of the intrigue and petty conspiracy that mark the game of politics as it was played, just over the hills, in the well-dressed, highly organized society that these men had left in the hope of gaining a new freedom from the restraints of their old life.
Sooner or later the break was bound to come—and McCartney had timed it to suit his own convenience. Saturday morning Tom Rickard turned out with the men as usual, and drove the team he had been driving all week. King had left the scene of operations and had walked slowly down the narrow trail worn by the logs that had been dragged out of the woods during the week. He had gone a little more than half way towards the point where the trail branched off in several directions at once and lost itself in the woods. Rickard and a companion were just emerging from the cover of the trees, bringing out two bits of timber bound together at one end with a heavy logging chain. Suddenly Rickard's team stopped with a jerk. The logs had slipped into an awkward position, wedged between two stout poplars that held them as in a vice.
King came up to them and looked for a moment at the muddle without speaking. Had Rickard showed the slightest good judgment he would never have allowed himself to get into the tangle. King knew that—but he stopped the words that were on his lips. Turning to Rickard's companion he directed him to make use of his cant-hook and dislodge the timbers. His request was made in a quiet tone and without anything offensive in his manner, and he stepped away from the men and started round to the other side of the horses to watch the work.
As he did so he heard Rickard muttering something that was meant for his companion, though he did not conceal the fact that he cared very little whether King heard it or not.
King stopped and came back.
"Just now, Rickard, this is a one man's job," he said. "You get that straight."
Rickard's mouth curled up into a sneer. He seemed on the point of making a reply, but he looked at King's face and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously without speaking.