But no such honor awaited it. Another team of sawyers attacked it at once, cutting it into mill lengths. Then came “Jim.” Jim, so Pat proudly claimed, was “some hoss.” Clanking at his heels was a stout chain ending in a sharp heavy hook. This was driven into one end of one of the logs and then at a word from his master—one could hardly say driver, for there were no reins—the big horse set his neck into his collar and guided solely by the “gee” and “haw” of shouted command dragged his burden down to the skidway where the logs were piled to await the coming of snow. It was wonderful to see with what intelligence the horse picked his way through the tangled brush, and it was equally wonderful to see the lumber-jacks at the skidway catch the great log with their peaveys and roll it up to the very top of the huge pile already on the skids.
A rough lot, these lumbermen, of many nationalities, English, Irish, Scotch, French “canucks,” a half-breed or two, and some who boasted that they were pure “Yank.” They were rough in looks and rough of speech, ready to fight at the drop of a hat, but warm-hearted, loyal to a fault to their employers, ever ready for work or frolic. Rough indeed, but theirs is a rough life. They took a kindly interest in Walter, explaining the many things he found so strange, and it was with real regret that he finally took the back trail.
And it was with something of sadness too, for he was a true lover of nature and there was something tragic in the crashing of those great trees and the despoiling of the great forest.
But Pat left him little time for thoughts of this kind. Producing a bag of the famous cookies of which Walter had once had a sample through the agency of Chip Harley, Pat kept up a running fire of comment on his camp mates, while they munched the crisp brown wafers.
As they sighted the camp the cook was hanging a wash. Pat’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Motioning Walter to follow him he stole in back of the stable. “Shure ’tis meself that clane forgot to inthrodush ye to th’ most important number av Durant camp,” he whispered. “Shtay here till yez see some fun.”
He slipped into the stable, and in a few minutes was back, leaving the door open. Peeping around the corner Walter saw a crow walk out with the stately step of his tribe. “’Tis Crafty Moike!” whispered Pat.
The black rascal stood for a minute or two blinking in the sun. Then he flew up on the stable roof, where he appeared to have no interest in anything in the world save the proper preening and dressing of his feathers. In the meantime the cook finished hanging out his wash to dry and turned back to the cabin. Hardly was he inside the door when Crafty Mike spread his wings and without a sound flew over to the clothes-line, where he quickly and deftly pulled out every pin, giving each a throw to one side.
When the last pin was out and half the wash lay on the ground he flew swiftly to a tall pine on the far side of the clearing, cawing derisively as he went. It was plain that “Cookie” knew only too well what the sound of that raucous voice meant. With a pot in one hand and a dish towel in the other he rushed from the cabin pouring out a perfect flood of vituperation and invective on his black tormentor, while behind the stable Pat fairly hugged himself with glee.
“Caw, caw, Billee, Billee! Caw, caw, caw!” shouted Mike, sidling back and forth along a bare limb of the pine, evidently in huge enjoyment of the joke.
“Oi shplit his tongue so he talks a little, and Billy is the cook’s name,” whispered Pat, noting the look of amazement on Walter’s face when he heard the crow speak.