Bunch Grass Part 62

"Never saw the sun shine till you did," murmured Mamie.

At this he tried to take her hand, but she evaded his grasp. Then, with an extraordinary dignity, looking deep into the man's eyes, she said slowly: "I tole you that because it's G.o.d's truth, and sorter justifies your comin'; but I aim ter be an honest woman, and you must help me to remain so."

With that she flitted away.

Next day Dennis went back to work. And what work, for a man never at best strong, and now enfeebled by severe pain and illness! Some magnificent timber had been found a couple of miles inland, situated not too far from the Coho. The experts had already felled, stripped, and sawed into logs the huge trees. To Dennis and others remained the arduous labour of guiding, with the help of windla.s.ses, these immense logs to the river, whence they would descend in due time to the inlet, there to be joined together into vast rafts, later on again to be towed to their destination. Of all labour, this steering of logs through dense forest to their appointed waterway is the hardest and roughest. Dennis, of course, wore thick gloves, but in spite of these his hands were mutilated horribly, because he lacked the experience to handle the logs with discretion. Even the best men are badly knocked about at this particular job, and the duffers are very likely to be killed outright.

At the end of ten lamentable days Dennis came to the conclusion that Tom Barker wanted to kill him by the Chinese torture of Ling, or death by a thousand cuts. More than one of the boys said: "Why don't you get what dough is comin' to ye and skip?" Dennis shook his head. Not being able to explain to himself why he stayed, he held his tongue, and thus gained a reputation for grit which lightened other burdens. Jim Doolan, the big Irishman, was of opinion that Dennis Brown was little better than a denied baby with a soft spot in his head, but he admitted that the cow-puncher was "white," and obviously bent upon self-destruction. By this time the camp knew that the boss was taking an unholy interest in Dennis, although he continued to treat him with derisive civility. The rage he couldn't suppress was vented upon the dog. And Dennis never saw the poor beast kicked or beaten without reflecting: "He does that to Mamie when n.o.body ain't lookin'." In his feeble fashion he tried to interfere. Dollars to Tom Barker were dearer than cardinal virtues, and he had never been known to refuse an opportunity to make a bit on any deal. Dennis offered to buy the dog.

"What's he worth?" said Tom, thrusting out his jaw.

"I'll give five for him."

"Five? For a dog that I've learned to love? Not much!"

"Ten?"

"Nope!"

"Fifteen?"

Tom laughed.

"You ain't got money enough to buy him," he said. "I'm going to have more fun than a barrel o' monkeys out o' this yere dog, and don't you forget it!"

After this Dennis, the Sunday-school teacher, the man whose golden slippers were awaiting him in the sweet by-and-by, began to lie awake at night and wrestle with the problem: "Is a man ever justified in breaking the sixth commandment?" The camp held that Tom bore a charmed life. Men had tried to kill him more than once, and had perished ingloriously in the attempt. His coolness and courage were indisputable. There are moments in a lumberman's business when nothing will save an almost impossible situation but the instant exercise of the most daring and devil-may-care pluck, determination, and skill.

Tom was never found wanting at such moments. To see him "ride a log"

was a sight to inspire admiration and respect in a Texas broncho- buster. To kill such a superb animal might well rack a simple and guileless cowboy whose name was--Dennis.

It is relevant to mention that Dennis, the dog, licked the hand that beat him, fawned upon the foot that kicked him, and rendered unto his lord and master implicit and invariable obedience. The Siwash, his former owner, had trained him to retrieve, and of this Tom took shameless advantage. He would throw his hat or a glove or a stick into the middle of a rapid, and the gallant Dennis would dash into the swirling waters, regardless of colliding logs, fanged rocks, or spiky stumps. One day the dog got caught. Tom, with an oath, leapt on to the nearest log, from that to another and another till he reached the poor beast, whom he released with incredible skill and audacity, returning as he had come, followed by the dog. The boys yelled their appreciation of this astounding feat. Jimmy Doolan asked--

"What in thunder made ye do that, Tom?"

Tom scowled.

"I dunno," he answered. "Dennis Brown knows that I think the world of that cur."

Within a fortnight, by an admittedly amazing coincidence, Dennis, the man, was caught in a precisely similar fashion. As a "river-driver"

Dennis was beginning to "catch on." But he had not yet learned what he could or could not do. River-drivers wear immense boots, heavily spiked. Dennis upon this occasion had been sent with a crew to what is technically called "sweep the river" after a regular drive. Such logs as have wandered ash.o.r.e, or been hung up in back eddies, are collected and sent on to join the others. This is hard work, but exciting, and not without its humours. Certain obstinate logs have to be coaxed down the river. It would almost seem as if they knew the fate that awaited them in the saw-pits, and in every fibre of their being exercised an instinct for self-preservation. For instance, a log may refuse to pa.s.s a certain rock in the river which has offered no obstruction whatever to other logs. Then the lumberman, armed with his long pole, with its spike to push and its sharp hook to pull, must reach that rock and pull and prod the recalcitrant traveller on his appointed way.

Dennis, in attempting this, had slipped upon the rock, and his heavy boot had been caught and held between the log and the rock. Below was a boiling rapid; above the river swirled in a heavy, oily ma.s.s.

Dennis, to save his life, held tight on to the rock. He was in the position of the drunken Scot who dared not abandon his grip of the rail of the refreshment bar, because if he let go he would fall down, and if he did not let go he must miss his train. Dennis held on with both hands. If he endeavoured to unfasten his boot, he would be swept into the rapid; if he did not let go, and none came to his rescue, the log would grind his leg to powder.

Tom happened to see him and plunged into the river. Dennis had crawled on to the rock from the other side, a feat easily achievable. Tom might have gone round; any other man in the camp would have done so.

The odds were slightly against his reaching the rock, for the river was running like a mill-race.

Five minutes later both men, dripping wet, were safely ash.o.r.e, and the log was careering down stream!

"Ye've saved my life," gasped Dennis.

"Never seen such a blamed fool as you in all my days," replied Tom, as he stared savagely into Dennis's mild blue eyes. "You'd hurt yerself rockin' a baby's cradle, you would. 'Bout time you quit men's work, ain't it?"

"Not yet," said Dennis.

During these weeks upon the river Dennis had not seen anything of Mamie. Tom Barker, as supreme boss, visited all crews, and then returned to his wife, with either a leer or a frown upon his face. She had come to loathe the leer more than the frown. In the different camps the boys told the same story--

"He knocks the stuffin' out of her!"

The stay-at-home Briton, warm with roast beef and indigestion, will wonder that one man amongst a hundred should be suffered to ill-treat a thin, dough-faced little woman. Why did they not arise and slaughter him? Had Tom stolen a colt in the cattle-country he would have been lynched. Let publicists resolve the problem!

Finally, one Sunday morning, Dennis and Mamie met again.

"Holy Mackinaw!" exclaimed Dennis.

"Anything wrong?"

"Everything."

"I don't understand." But, of course, she did.

"It's G.o.d's truth, then, what the boys say?"

She hung her head.

"I thought he'd quit when I went up the river," said Dennis. "Say, let's you an' me skin out o' this. I'll get my dough to-night."

"Oh, Dennis!" she murmured, in piteous protestation, "we'd burn in eternal torment."

"We'd burn together," said Dennis. "Anyways, if this ain't torment, and if Barker ain't Beelzebub himself, I'm a liar."

She shook her head, with the tears streaming down her thin, white cheeks.

"Gee!" said Dennis, reduced to silence.

"I tuk him for better and worse," sobbed Mamie.

"You might ha' guessed that it would be worse," growled Dennis. Then, desperately, he blurted out, "Because you're dead-set on keepin' the seventh commandment, you're jest naterally drivin' me to break the sixth."

"What?"

"I've said it. And he saved my life, too. But when I look at yer, I get to thinking." His voice sank to a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I think lots, nights. He comes back to ye alone, through them trees, and there's one place where the pine needles is thick as moss. And I mind me what a Dago told me onst. He'd killed his man, he had, stabbed him from behind with a knife he showed me: jest an ordinary knife, only sharp.

An' he told me how he done it, whar to strike--savvy? It goes in slick!"

He stopped, seeing that Mamie was regarding him with wide-eyed horror and consternation.

"Dennis!"

"Yes, my name's Dennis, right enough. That's the trouble. I hav'n't the nerve to kill Barker, and you hav'n't the nerve to skip off with me. Were two of a kind, Mamie, scairt to death of what comes after death. And you know it. So long!"