The chopping crew descended to the bottom of the sluice, the gate of which had been shut, and began immediately to chop away at the apron. As the water in the pond above had been drawn low by the morning's work, none overflowed the gate, so the men were enabled to work dry. Below the apron, of course, had been filled in with earth and stones. As soon as the axe-men had effected an entry to this deposit, other men with shovels and picks began to remove the filling.
The work had continued nearly an hour when Orde commanded the fifty or more idlers back to camp.
“Get out, boys,” he ordered. “The sheriff will be here pretty quick now, and I don't want any row. Get out of sight.”
“And leave them to fight her out alone? Guess not!” grumbled a tall, burly individual with a red face.
Orde immediately walked directly to this man.
“Am I bossing this drive, or am I not?” he demanded.
The riverman growled something.
SMACK! SMACK! sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken by surprise, went down in a heap, but immediately rebounded to his feet as though made of rubber. But Orde had seized a peavy, and stood over against his antagonist, the murderous weapon upraised.
“Lie down, you hound, or I'll brain you!” he roared at the top strength of his great voice. “Want fight, do you? Well, you won't have to wait till the sheriff gets here! You make a move!”
For a full half minute the man crouched breathless, and Orde, his ruddy face congested, held his threatening attitude. Then he dropped his peavy and stepped aside.