“Since about three o'clock.”
“Six hours,” computed Thorpe. “I wish you'd come for me sooner.”
He cast his eye rapidly over the men.
“I don't know just who to send. There isn't a good enough woodsman in the lot to make Siscoe Falls through the woods a night like this. The river trail is too long; and a cut through the woods is blind. Andrews is the only man I know of who could do it, but I think Billy Mason said Andrews had gone up on the Gunther track to run lines. Come on; we'll see.”
With infinite difficulty and caution, they reached the shore. Across the gleaming logs shone dimly the lanterns at the scene of work, ghostly through the rain. Beyond, on either side, lay impenetrable drenched darkness, racked by the wind.
“I wouldn't want to tackle it,” panted Thorpe. “If it wasn't for that cursed tote road between Sadler's and Daly's, I wouldn't worry. It's just too EASY for them.”
Behind them the jam cracked and shrieked and groaned. Occasionally was heard, beneath the sharper noises, a dull BOOM, as one of the heavy timbers forced by the pressure from its resting place, shot into the air, and fell back on the bristling surface.
Andrews had left that morning.
“Tim Shearer might do it,” suggested Thorpe, “but I hate to spare him.”
He picked his rifle from its rack and thrust the magazine full of cartridges.