In the afternoon they went to the woods and followed the operation, from the stump to the landing. They watched the great towering pines, sawed off the stump and wedged over, come smashing down wherever the sawyers willed them to fall. They saw them cut into logs and the logs rolled onto little single sleds, with the back ends dragging in the snow and saw them hauled over the skidroads to the ice-coated logging road and piled on the skidways. They saw those skidways dwindle as the logs were piled high on the broad bunks of the logging sleds and hauled away, forty tons at a load, over the ice road to the river bank where they were rolled on the ice to await the spring floods which would carry them away to the mills hundreds of miles down the river, or, as in another part of the tract, hauled to the railroad track to be carried directly to the mill by rail.
It was on the last day of their stay that Scott suddenly and unexpectedly blossomed out into the hero of the whole camp. He and Greenleaf walked five miles over to the next camp to see the steam log loader, or jammer, which was working there. It was located on a steep side hill where the logs, piled high on the upper side of the track, were swung across onto the cars. On the other side of the track the ground sloped away steeply.
While they were watching the big machine Scott thought he recognized something familiar about a man who was working further down the slope locating a new skidroad. He knew he had seen those quick, cat-like motions before. He left Greenleaf and started down there. Before he had gone half way he recognized Johnson.
Suddenly there was a shout from the jammer, a cry of warning. Johnson was evidently so accustomed to the general clamor that he did not look around, but Scott, who was a little nervous in these strange surroundings, turned instantly.
An enormous log which was being swung onto the car had broken loose from the iron clutches of the jammer, dropped over the down-hill side of the car and was sweeping sideways with the speed of an arrow directly toward Johnson. It was almost on him. An instant’s delay meant sure death. The men on the jammer stood horrified and helpless.
Scott saw that Johnson could not be made to understand in time to jump. Shouting at him would do no good; before he could comprehend it would be too late. Scott took the only chance left to him, poor as it seemed. To the horror of the workmen he jumped directly in the course of the log and striking Johnson full in the chest with all the power of his practiced right arm, he jumped wildly straight in the air. The huge log swished under him, striking his feet as it went and bringing him down heavily on his head.
Scott struggled quickly to his feet and looked half-dazed toward Johnson. Before he could see what had happened he felt himself in Greenleaf’s arms and knew from the cheers of the men on the jammer that his blow had carried Johnson out of danger. He needed Greenleaf’s support for his knees kept doubling up under him and a cold sweat had broken out all over his body.
Johnson rose slowly and looked down the slope after the log. Then he turned and recognized Scott.
“By George, Scotty,” he cried, grasping Scott’s hand warmly, “how did you come here? You surely saved my life that time and risked your own to do it. Hello, Greenleaf.”
“Are you hurt?” Scott asked anxiously.