“Yes,” answered Mattawa, “one or two went over the fall this afternoon.”
“Drift logs?”
“Two had the branches chopped off them.”
Wheeler made a sign of comprehension. “Well,” he predicted, “you’re going to see a good many more of that kind before very long.” He turned to Nasmyth. “I’m going to stay over to-morrow. The mill’s held up again. We had an awkward break, and I can’t get the new fixings in. You can tell me how you’re getting on.”
They talked until late that night, and on awakening next morning found the river higher and thick with shattered ice. It had also crept into the heading, and 280 the men who worked in it were knee-deep in water. They, however, went on as usual, and it was in the afternoon that several great trees leapt the fall, and, driving down the rapid, whirled away into the black depths of the cañon. Wheeler, who stood watching attentively, nodded as the trees drove by.
“Hemlock. That’s not going to count for milling purposes,” he observed.
Nasmyth, who came up dripping wet, sat down on a boulder and took out his pipe.
“Did you expect anything else?” he asked.
Wheeler laughed. “I’m not sure that I did. It seems to me the men who want those timber rights don’t figure on doing much milling.” He looked up sharply. “This one’s red cedar.”
Another great trunk leapt the fall, swept round the pool, and then brought up with a crash upon the pile of shattered rock which still lay athwart the head of the rapid. Nasmyth rose and straightened himself wearily.