“Doyle had not caught the lumber thieves. The march of his party had been so retarded by the thaw that they had halted before going half-way. As the storm increased, and they observed how the water was rising in the brook beside which they had encamped, they became alarmed. They realized the prospect of a big flood; and Steve Doyle led his men back in hot haste. It was full daylight when they came out upon the devastated clearing where once had stood the camp.
“The horror in the lumbermen’s hearts is not to be described. In a pile of wreckage, strangely mixed up with hay and straw from the stable, they found the cook, with a leg and an arm broken, but still alive. Of no one else was there a sign, nor of the horses. From the cook, Doyle learned of Arty’s presence in the camp. Without a word, but with a wild, white face, the man started down stream in a despairing search; and the whole band followed, with the exception of two that stayed to take care of the unfortunate cook.
“When the father clasped Arty in his arms he was almost beside himself with joy for a few moments; then he remembered the poor fellows who were gone. Giving the child into the arms of one of the men, he busied himself with Mart, whom, by means of rubbing, he soon brought back to consciousness. The brave fellow had been stunned by a blow on the head, and afterward half drowned; but he soon recovered so far as to be able to walk with assistance. To Arty he owed his life, even as he had himself saved Arty’s.
“A little later a melancholy procession started back for Beardsley Settlement. The poor cook was placed on Jerry’s back, and bore his pain like a hero. Arty trudged by the side of McCann, to whose charge he was committed by his father, and Mart was helped along by two of his comrades. With these went five or six more of the hands, to get them safely to the settlement. All the rest, under the leadership of Steve Doyle, set off down river on a search for the three missing men, or their bodies. And the site of the camp was left to its desolation.
“As for Doyle’s search, it proved fruitless, and the party returned heavy-hearted. Henceforth the scene of the catastrophe became known throughout that region as ‘Lost Camp,’ and was sedulously avoided by the lumbermen. Next season the Ryckert Company’s camp on the Little St. Francis was built on higher ground some miles farther up stream.”
“That’s a most depressing tale, Queerman,” grumbled Ranolf. “I suppose it’s my turn now; and, thank goodness, I’ve got something frivolous to tell!”
“Heave ahead, then,” urged Stranion.
“Your title?” I demanded.
“This is the tale of ‘The Cart before the Steer,’” replied Ranolf.