To Newmark, on one of his occasional visits to the camps, Orde detailed the situation.
“It doesn't amount to much,” said he, “except that it complicates matters. We'll make him scratch gravel, if we have to sit up nights and work overtime to do it. We can't injure him or leave his logs, but we can annoy him a lot.”
The state of affairs was perfectly well known to the men, and the entire river entered into the spirit of the contest. The drivers kept a sharp lookout for “H” logs, and whenever possible thrust them aside into eddies and backwaters. This, of course, merely made work for the sackers Heinzman had left above the rear. Soon they were in charge of a very fair little drive of their own. Their lot was not enviable. Indeed, only the pressure of work prevented some of the more aggressive of Orde's rear—among whom could be numbered the Rough Red—from going back and “cleaning out” this impertinent band of hangers-on. One day two of the latter, conducting the jam of the miniature drive astern, came within reach of the Rough Red. The latter had lingered in hopes of rescuing his peavy, which had gone overboard. To lose one's peavy is, among rivermen, the most mortifying disgrace. Consequently, the Rough Red was in a fit mood for trouble. He attacked the two single-handed. A desperate battle ensued, which lasted upward of an hour. The two rivermen punched, kicked, and battered the Rough Red in a manner to tear his clothes, deprive him to some extent of red whiskers, bloody his face, cut his shoulder, and knock loose two teeth. The Rough Red, more than the equal of either man singly, had reciprocated in kind. Orde, driving in toward the rear from a detour to avoid a swamp, heard, and descended from his buckboard. Tying his horses to trees, he made his way through the brush to the scene of conflict. So winded and wearied were the belligerents by now that he had no difficulty in separating them. He surveyed their wrecks with a sardonic half smile.
“I call this a draw,” said he finally. His attitude became threatening as the two up-river men, recovering somewhat, showed ugly symptoms. “Git!” he commanded. “Scat! I guess you don't know me. I'm Jack Orde. Jimmy and I together could do a dozen of you.” He menaced them until, muttering, they had turned away.
“Well, Jimmy,” said he humorously, “you look as if you'd been run through a thrashing machine.”
“Those fellers make me sick!” growled the Rough Red.
Orde looked him over again.
“You look sick,” said he.
When the buckboard drew into camp, Orde sent Bourke away to repair damages while he called the cookee to help unpack several heavy boxes of hardware. They proved to contain about thirty small hatchets, well sharpened, and each with a leather guard. When the rear crew had come in that night, Orde distributed the hatchets.
“Boys,” said he, “while you're on the work, I want you all to keep a watch-out for these “H” logs, and whenever you strike one I want you to blaze it plainly, so there won't be any mistake about it.”