Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps Read online

  CHAPTER III

  INTO THE WOODS

  The upshot of Connie Morgan's interview with Hurley, the big red-shirtedcamp boss, was that the boss hired him with the injunction to show upbright and early the following morning, as the train that was to haulthe outfit to the Dogfish Spur would leave at daylight.

  "'Tiz a foine job ye've got--wor-rkin' f'r forty dollars a month in yerown timber," grinned big Mike Gillum, as he packed the tobacco into thebowl of his black pipe, when the two found themselves once more seatedupon the Syndicate foreman's little veranda at the conclusion of theevening meal.

  Connie laughed. "Yes, but it will amount to a good deal more than fortydollars a month if I can save the timber. We lost fourteen thousanddollars last year because those logs got mixed. I don't see yet how heworked it. You say the logs are all branded."

  "Who knows what brands he put on 'em? Or, wuz they branded at all? Theywuz sorted in th' big river but the drive was fouled in the Dogfish.S'pose the heft of your logs wuz branded wid the Syndicate brand--or nobrand at all? The wans that wuz marked for the Syndicate w'd go toSyndicate mills, an' the wans that wuzn't branded w'd go into the pool,to be awarded pro raty to all outfits that had logs in the drive."

  "I'll bet the right brand will go onto them this year!" exclaimed theboy.

  Mike Gillum nodded. "That's what ye're there for. But, don't star-rtnawthin' 'til way along towards spring. Jake Hurley's a boss that canget out the logs--an' that's what you want. Av ye wuz to tip off yerhand too soon, the best ye c'd do w'd be to bust up the outfit widnawthin' to show f'r the season's expenses. Keep yer eyes open an' yermout' shut. Not only ye must watch Hurley, but keep an eye on thescaler, an' check up the time book, an' the supplies--av course ye c'nonly do the two last av he puts ye to clerking, an' Oi'm thinkin' that'swhat he'll do. Ut's either clerk or cookee f'r you, an most an-ny wanw'd do f'r a cookee."

  The foreman paused, and Connie saw a twinkle in his eye as he continued:"Ye see, sometimes a boss overestimates the number av min he's gotworkin'. Whin he makes out the pay roll he writes in a lot av names avmin that's mebbe worked f'r him years back, an' is dead, or mebbe it'sjust a lot av names av min that ain't lived yet, but might be bornsometime; thin whin pay day comes the boss signs the vouchers an' sticksthe money in his pockets. Moind ye, I ain't sayin' Hurley done that buthe'd have a foine chanct to, wid his owner way up in Alaska. An' nowwe'll be goin' to bed f'r ye have to git up early. Oi'll be on WillowRiver; av they's an-nything Oi c'n do, ye c'n let me know."

  Connie thanked his friend, and before he turned in, wrote a letter tohis partner in Ten Bow:

  "DEAR WASECHE:

  "I'm O.K. How are you? Got the job. Don't write. Mike Gillum is O. K. See you in the spring.

  "Yours truly, "C. MORGAN."

  Before daylight Connie was at the siding where the two flat cars loadedat Pine Hook, and two box cars that contained the supplies and thehorses were awaiting the arrival of the freight train that was to haulthem seventy miles to Dogfish Spur. Most of the crew was there beforehim. Irishmen, Norwegians, Swedes, Frenchmen, and two or three Indians,about thirty-five in all, swarmed upon the cars or sat in groups uponthe ground. Hurley was here, there, and everywhere, checking up hiscrew, and giving the final round of inspection to his supplies.

  A long whistle sounded, and the headlight of a locomotive appeared fardown the track. Daylight was breaking as the heavy train stopped to pickup the four cars. Connie climbed with the others to the top of a box carand deposited his turkey beside him upon the running board. The turkeyconsisted of a grain sack tied at either end with a rope that passedover the shoulder, and contained the outfit of clothing that Mike Gillumhad advised him to buy. The tops of the cars were littered with similarsacks, their owners using them as seats or pillows.

  As the train rumbled into motion and the buildings of the town droppedinto the distance, the conductor made his way over the tops of the carsfollowed closely by Hurley. Together they counted the men and theconductor checked the count with a memorandum. Then he went back to thecaboose, and Hurley seated himself beside Connie.

  "Ever work in the woods?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Be'n to school much?"

  "Yes, some."

  "'Nough to figger up time books, an' keep track of supplies, an' setdown the log figgers when they're give to you?"

  "I think so."

  "Ye look like a smart 'nough kid--an' ye've got nerve, all right. Itried to holler ye back when I seen ye swimmin' out to that canoeyeste'day--I didn't think you could make it--that woman was a fool.She'd ort to drownded. But, what I was gettin' at, is this: I'm a goin'to put you to clerkin'. Clerkin' in a log camp is a good job--mostbosses was clerks onct. A clerk's s'posed to make hisself handy aroundcamp an' keep the books--I'll show you about them later. We're goin' inearly this year, 'cause I'm goin' to run two camps an' we got to layout the new one an' git it built. We won't start gittin' out no timberfor a month yet. I'll git things a goin' an' then slip down an' pick upmy crew."

  "Why, haven't you got your crew?" Connie glanced at the men who laysprawled in little groups along the tops of the cars.

  "Part of it. I'm fetchin' out thirty-five this time. That's 'nough tobuild the new camp an' patch up the old one, but when we begin gittin'out the logs, this here'll just about make a crew for the new camp. Ifigger to work about fifty in the old one."

  "Do you boss both camps?"

  Hurly grinned. "Don't I look able?"

  "You sure do," agreed the boy, with a glance at the man's huge bulk.

  "They'll only be three or four miles apart, an' I'll put a boss in eachone, an' I'll be the walkin' boss." The cars jerked and swayed, as thetrain roared through the jack pine country.

  "I suppose this was all big woods once," ventured the boy.

  "Naw--not much of it wasn't--not this jack pine and scrub sprucecountry. You can gener'lly always tell what was big timber, an' whatwasn't. Pine cuttin's don't seed back to pine. These jack pines ain'tyoung pine--they're a different tree altogether. Years back, thelumbermen wouldn't look at nawthin' but white pine, an' only the verybest of that--but things is different now. Yaller pine and spruce looksgood to 'em, an' they're even cuttin' jack pine. They work it up intomine timbers, an' posts, an' ties, an' paper pulp. What with them an'the pig iron loggers workin' the ridges, this here country'll grow up tohazel brush, and berries, an' weeds, 'fore your hair turns grey."

  "What are pig iron loggers?" asked the boy.

  "The hardwood men. They git out the maple an' oak an' birch along thehigh ground an' ridges--they ain't loggers, they jest think they are."

  "You said pine cuttings don't seed back to pine?"

  "Naw, it seems funny, but they don't. Old cuttin's grow up to popple andscrub oak, like them with the red leaves, yonder; or else to hazel brushand berries. There used to be a few patches of pine through this jackpine country, but it was soon cut off. This here trac' we're workin' isabout as good as there is left. With a good crew we'd ort to make a bigcut this winter."

  The wheels pounded noisily at the rail ends as the boss's eyes restedupon the men who sat talking and laughing among themselves. "An'speakin' of crews, this here one's goin' to need some cullin'." He fixedhis eyes on the boy with a look almost of ferocity. "An' here's anotherthing that a clerk does, that I forgot to mention: He hears an' sees awhole lot more'n he talks. You'll bunk in the shack with me an' thescaler--an' what's talked about in there's _our_ business--d'ye git me?"

  Connie returned the glance fearlessly. "I guess you'll know I can keep athing or two under my cap when we get better acquainted," he answeredThe reply seemed to satisfy Hurley, who continued,

  "As I was sayin', they's some of them birds ain't goin' to winterthrough in no camp of mine. See them three over there on the end of thatnext car, a talkin' to theirselfs. I got an idee they're I. W.W.'s--mistrusted they was when I hired 'em."

  "What are I. W. W.'s?" Connie asked.

  "
They're a gang of sneakin' cutthroats that call theirselfs theIndustrial Workers of the World, though why they claim they're workersis more'n what any one knows. They won't work, an' they won't let no oneelse work. The only time they take a job is when they think there's achanct to sneak around an' put the kibosh on whatever work is goin' on.They tell the men they're downtrod by capital an' they'd ort to raise upan' kill off the bosses an' grab everything fer theirselfs. Alongside ofthem birds, rattlesnakes an' skunks is good companions."

  "Aren't there any laws that will reach them?"

  "Naw," growled Hurley in disgust. "When they git arrested an' convicted,the rest of 'em raises such a howl that capital owns the courts, an' thejudges is told to hang all the workin' men they kin, an' a lot of rotlike that, till the governors git cold feet an' pardon them. If thegovernment used 'em right, it'd outlaw the whole kaboodle of 'em. Somegovernors has got the nerve to tell 'em where to head in at--Washington,an' California, an' Minnesota, too, is comin' to it. They're gittin' intheir dirty work in the woods--but believe me, they won't git away withnothin' in my camps! I'm just a-layin' an' a-honin' to tear loose on'em. Them three birds over there is goin' to need help when I gitthrough with 'em."

  "Why don't you fire 'em now?"

  "Not me. I _want_ 'em to start somethin'! I want to git a crack at 'em.There's three things don't go in my camps--gamblin', booze, an' I. W.W.'s. I've logged from the State of Maine to Oregon an' halfways back.I've saw good camps an' bad ones a-plenty, an' I never seen no troublein the woods that couldn't be charged up ag'in' one of them three."

  The train stopped at a little station and Hurley rose with a yawn."Guess I'll go have a look at the horses," he said, and clambered downthe ladder at the end of the car.

  The boss did not return when the train moved on and the boy sat upon thetop of the jolting, swaying box car and watched the ever changing woodsslip southward. Used as he was to the wide open places, Connie gazedspellbound at the dazzling brilliance of the autumn foliage. Poplar andbirch woods, flaunting a sea of bright yellow leaves above white trunks,were interspersed with dark thickets of scarlet oak and blazing sumac,which in turn gave place to the dark green sweep of a tamarack swamp,or a long stretch of scrubby jack pine. At frequent intervals squaredclearings appeared in the endless succession of forest growth, wherelittle groups of cattle browsed in the golden stubble of a field. Aprim, white painted farmhouse, with its big red barn and its setting ofconical grain stacks would flash past, and again the train would plungebetween the walls of vivid foliage, or roar across a trestle, or whizalong the shore of a beautiful land-locked lake whose clear, cold waterssparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight as the light breeze rippled itssurface.

  Every few miles, to the accompaniment of shrieking brake shoes, thetrain would slow to a stop, and rumble onto a siding at some little flattown, to allow a faster train to hurl past in a rush of smoke, and dust,and deafening roar, and whistle screams. Then the wheezy engine wouldnose out onto the main track, back into another siding, pick up a boxcar or two, spot an empty at the grain spout of a sagging red-brownelevator, and couple onto the train again with a jolt that threatened tobounce the cars from the rails, and caused the imprisoned horses tostamp and snort nervously. The conductor would wave his arm and, aftera series of preliminary jerks that threatened to tear out the drawbars,the train would rumble on its way.

  At one of these stations a longer halt than usual was made while traincrew and lumberjacks crowded the counter of a slovenly little restaurantupon whose fly swarming counter doughnuts, sandwiches, and pies ofseveral kinds reposed beneath inverted semispherical screens that servedas prisons for innumerable flies.

  "The ones that wiggles on yer tongue is flies, an' the ones that don'tis apt to be blueberries," explained a big lumberjack to Connie as hebit hugely into a wedge of purplish pie. Connie selected doughnuts and abespeckled sandwich which he managed to wash down with a few mouthfulsof mud-coloured coffee, upon the surface of which floated soggy groundsand flakes of soured milk.

  "Flies is healthy," opined the greasy proprietor, noting the look ofdisgust with which the boy eyed the filthy layout.

  "I should think they would be. You don't believe in starving them,"answered the boy, and a roar of laughter went up from the loggers whoproceeded to "kid" the proprietor unmercifully as he relapsed intosurly mutterings about the dire future in store for "fresh brats."

  During the afternoon the poplar and birch woods and the flaming patchesof scarlet oak and sumac, gave place to the dark green of pines. Thefarms became fewer and farther between, and the distance increasedbetween the little towns, where, instead of grain elevators, appeareddilapidated sawmills, whose saws had long lain idle. Mere ghosts oftowns, these, whose day had passed with the passing of the timber thathad been the sole excuse for their existence. But, towns whose fewremaining inhabitants doggedly clung to their homes and assured eachother with pathetic persistence, as they grubbed in the sandy soil oftheir stump-studded gardens, that with the coming of the farmers thetown would step into its own as the centre of a wonderfully prosperousagricultural community. Thus did the residents of each dead little townbelieve implicitly in the future of their own town, and prophesy withjealous vehemence the absolute decadence of all neighbouring towns.

  Toward the middle of the afternoon a boy, whom Connie had noticedtalking and laughing with the three lumberjacks Hurley suspected ofbeing I. W. W.'s, walked along the tops of the swaying cars and seatedhimself beside him. Producing paper and tobacco he turned his back tothe wind and rolled a cigarette, which he lighted, and blew a cloud ofsmoke into Connie's face. He was not a prepossessing boy, with hisout-bulging forehead and stooping shoulders. Apparently he was about twoyears Connie's senior.

  "Want the makin's?" he snarled, by way of introduction.

  "No thanks. I don't smoke."

  The other favoured him with a sidewise glance. "Oh, you don't, hey? Myname's Steve Motley, an' I'm a bear-cat--_me!_ I'm cookee of this herecamp--be'n in the woods goin' on two years. Ever work in the woods?"

  Connie shook his head. "No," he answered, "I never worked in the woods."

  "Whatcha done, then? You don't look like no city kid."

  "Why, I've never done much of anything to speak of--just knocked arounda little."

  "Well, you'll knock around some more 'fore you git through this winter.We're rough guys, us lumberjacks is, an' we don't like greeners. I'spect though, you'll be runnin' home to yer ma 'fore snow flies. Itgits forty below, an' the snow gits three foot deep in the woods."Connie seemed unimpressed by this announcement, and Steve continued:"They say you're goin' to do the clerkin' fer the outfit. Hurley, hewanted me to do the clerkin', but I wouldn't do no clerkin' fer no man.Keep all them different kind of books an' git cussed up one side an'down t'other fer chargin' 'em up with somethin' they claim they nevergot out'n the wanagan. Not on yer life--all I got to do is help thecook. We're gettin' clost to Dogfish Spur now, an' the camp'stwenty-seven mile off'n the railroad. Guess you won't feel lost nornothin' when you git so far back in the big sticks, hey?"

  Connie smiled. "That's an awfully long ways," he admitted.

  "You bet it is! An' the woods is full of wolves an' bears, an' bobcats!If I was figgerin' on quittin' I'd quit 'fore I got into the timber."

  The train was slowing down, and Steve arose. "Y'ain't told me yer name,greener! Y'better learn to be civil amongst us guys."

  Connie met the bullying look of the other with a smile. "My name isConnie Morgan," he said, quietly, "and, I forgot to mention it, but Idid hold down one job for a year."

  "In the woods?"

  "Well, not exactly. Over across the line it was."

  "Acrost the line--in Canady? What was _you_ doin' in Canady?"

  "Taming 'bear-cats' for the Government," answered the boy, dryly, androse to his feet just as Hurley approached, making his way over the topsof the cars.

  "You wait till I git holt of you!" hissed Steve, scowling. "You thinky're awful smart when y're around in under Hur
ley's nose. But I'll showyou how us guys handles the boss's pets when he ain't around." The boyhurried away as Hurley approached.

  "Be'n gittin' in his brag on ye?" grinned the boss, as his eyes followedthe retreating back. "He's no good--all mouth. But he's bigger'n whatyou be. If he tries to start anything just lam him over the head withanything that's handy. He'll leave you be, onct he's found out you meanbusiness."

  "Oh, I guess we won't have any trouble," answered Connie, as he followedHurley to the ground.