“But Ward Latisan did not run away with me from his duty. My being here answers that lie. And I have even a better answer—a reason why I would be the last one in the world to interfere willingly with his work this spring.” She stepped close to them, nearer the fire, so that they could see what she held forth, tightly clutched in both hands. “This is Echford Flagg’s cant dog—he told me it would be known by all his men. He gave it into my keeping for a sign that he has sent me north. And I have a right to carry it. I am Lida Kennard. I am Echford Flagg’s granddaughter.”
Behind her came crowding the Tarratines.
“Men have deserted from your crew. Here are others to take their places,” she announced with pride.
She was dealing with men who were bashed by utter stupefaction; she noted it and her self-reliance grew steadier. She drove the point of the cant dog into the soft duff with a manner after the heart of Flagg himself. She spread her freed hands to them in appeal. “I have come here to tell you the truth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LATISAN had pitched the tune for that drive when he started it.
It was a tune in quick tempo, with the staccato clangor of the kettle drums of the dynamite when he burst the icy sheathing of the waters in order to dump the first logs in.
When he was on the job the directing wand of his pick pole kept everything jumping.
Even when he was away for a few days his men toiled with the spirit that he had left with them. They had adopted his cause and shared his righteous resentment against the tactics of the Three C’s.