Ide’s little gray eyes were gleaming at him, and the expression of his face showed that he was narrowing possibilities to one prospect, and was wondering whether his partner had grasped the full import of that prospect.
“I think I see all sides of it, Mr. Ide,” he said, at last. Then he put his fingers on the thin thread that marked the course of Blunder Stream. “And the only side that doesn’t hurt the eyes seems to be this side, west of Enchanted Mountain.”
“Well, even then it depends on what kind of specs you’ve got on,” returned Ide.
“Suppose we forget that dam at the west end of Blunder and Britt’s canal to the east for just a moment, Mr. Ide. If we got our logs down the side of Enchanted Mountain and landed them on Blunder Stream we’d stand our only show of heading Britt’s drive at the Hulling Machine, wouldn’t we?”
“You was reckonin’ on havin’ water under ’em, wasn’t you?” inquired the little man, with good-natured satire. “Wasn’t plannin’ on havin’ ’em walk like a caterpillar, nor fly down, nor anything of the sort?”
“I was reckoning on water,” returned the young man, flushing slightly, “but I was not discussing Blunder Lake. I asked you to leave that out for a moment.”
“Leave out Blunder Lake, and you haven’t got a brook that will float chips,” said Ide. Then he jumped up and shot his fists above his head. “But with a drivin’-pitch in Blunder Stream we can have the head of our drive down into Umcolcus River and to Castonia logan while Pulaski Britt is still swearin’ and warpin’ with head-works across Jerusalem dead-water. We’d have our head there before he had a log down the last five miles of lower Jerusalem into the main river. We’ll have our sheer booms set and our sortin’-gap, and we’ll hold our logs and let his through—his and the corporation drive that he’s master of, and has been master of for thirty years. He’s been the river tyrant, Wade; but with our head first at Castonia, and our booms set, and we willin’ to sort free of expense to them followin’, I’d like to see the man that would dare to interfere with our common river rights. The old Umcolcus was rollin’ its waters for the use of the tax-payin’, law-abidin’ citizens of this State before old Pulaski Britt and his log-drivin’ association gang of pirates was ever heard of. They’ve usurped, Wade! They’ve usurped until they’ve made possession seem like ownership. I’ve picked you as a man that can handle the men that’s under him, and isn’t afraid of Pulaski Britt. And it’s got to be a case of reach and take what belongs to you. If they’ve got any law with ’em in this thing, it’s law they’ve stolen like they’ve stolen the timber lands.”
“I’ve never intended to break law in my dealings with men,” said Wade, with a cadence of mournfulness in his tones. “Law up in the big woods doesn’t seem to be quite as clear-cut as it is in men’s relations outside. But can there be honest law, Mr. Ide, that will allow men like Pulaski Britt to step in and deprive a man of rightful profits earned by his own hard labor—to deprive him of—” He was thinking then, despite of himself, of Elva Barrett, but choked and added, wistfully, “When it’s only an even show a man asks, a fair chance to travel his own course, it seems hard that there are men who go out of their path to trip him.” It was not lament. He had the air of one who displayed his convictions to have them indorsed.
“It’s Britt’s way,” retorted the other, curtly. “He’s made money by doin’ it, and expects to make a lot more by bossin’ the river.”