King Spruce Part 12

"Oh, the little brown bull came down from the mountain, Shang, ro-ango, whango-wey!

And as he was feelin' salutatious, Chased old Pratt a mile, by gracious, Licked old Shep and two dog Towsers, Then marched back home with old Pratt's trousers.

Whango-whey!"

"Yes, as I was tellin' you a spell ago--just a little cracked!"

apologized Ide. "There's my house, there! The one with the tower. It would look better to me, Mr. Wade, if only my wife had lived to enjoy it with me." But his eyes lighted at sight of his daughter. She was standing at the gate waiting for them. "Her own mother over again, and the best girl in the whole north country, sir! It was man's work you did there to-day for the sake of my girl and her good name--I only wish her father had the muscle to do as much for her." He stretched out his puny arms and shook his head wistfully. "But there's one thing I can do, Mr.

Wade. It can't be said that Rod Ide stood by and saw you get thrown out of a job for his daughter's sake, and didn't make it square with you!"

"Is that the reason you are offering this partnership to me?" inquired the young man, his pride taking alarm.

"No, sir!" replied the little man, with emphasis. But he added, out of his honesty: "It's straight business between us, sir, but it wouldn't be human nature if your best recommendation to me wasn't the fact that you've done for my girl the service that her father ought to have done, and I'm not goin' to try to separate that from our business. But before I get done talking with you, I'll show you that by the time you've helped me to win out against Pulaski Britt and old King Spruce you'll have earned your share in this partnership."

And then, with an air that was distinctly triumphant, he pushed Wade ahead of him through the gate, chatting voluble explanation to a girl who listened with a welcoming light in her gray eyes. It was a light that cheered a roving young man who had acquired friends by such a dizzying train of circ.u.mstances.

They talked until far into the night, he and Rodburd Ide.

The next day Christopher Straight was called into the conference.

"There ain't any part of the north country that Christopher don't know,"

eulogized Ide, caressing the woodsman's arm. "Forty years trapper, guide, and explorer--that's his record."

Wade gazed into the quiet eyes of the veteran as he grasped his hand, and needed no further recommendation than the look old Christopher returned. There are few men in the world with such appealing qualities as those who have pa.s.sed their lives in the woods and know what the woods mean. Wade realized now, after his talk with Ide, the nature of the task that he faced. Knowing that Christopher Straight was to be his companion and guide, he was heartened, having seen the man.

And with intense eagerness to be away, he completed his modest preparations for the exploring trip, and set forth towards the great unknown of the north. He had Rodburd Ide's parting hand-clasp for rea.s.surance, his daughter's sincere G.o.dspeed for his comfort, and the chance to do battle for his love. And he walked with Christopher Straight with head erect and a heart full of new hope.

CHAPTER VII

ON MISERY GORE

"I reckon if gab had been sprawl, He'd have climb' to the very top notch.

As it was, though, he made just one crawl To a perch in a next-the-ground crotch."

--The Pauper.

The two men "hopped" the broad expanse of Patch Dam heath, springing from tussock to tussock of the sphagnum moss. In that mighty flat they seemed as insignificant as frogs, and their progress suggested the batrachian as they leaped and zigzagged.

Ahead bounced Christopher Straight, the few tins of his scanty cooking-kit rattling in the meal-bag pack on his back.

At his heels came Dwight Wade, blanket-roll across his shoulders and calipers and leather-sheathed axe in his hands. Sweat streamed into his eyes, and, athlete though he was, his leg muscles ached cruelly. The September sunshine shimmered hotly across the open, and the young man's head swam.

Old Christopher's keen side glance noted this. With the veteran guide's tactful courtesy towards tenderfeet, he halted on a mound and made pretence of lighting his pipe. There was not even a bead of perspiration on his face, and his crisp, gray beard seemed frosty.

"I'm ashamed of myself," blurted the young man in blunt outburst. His knees trembled as he steadied himself after his last leap.

"It ain't exactly like strollin' down the shady lane, as the song says,"

replied old Christopher, with gentle satire. He looked away towards the fringe of distant woods.

"We could have kept on around by the Tomah trail, Mr. Wade, but I reckon you got as sick as I did of climbin' through old Britt's slash. And until he operated there last winter it used to be one of the best trails north of Castonia. I blazed it myself forty years ago."

"And just a little care in felling it would have left it open," cried the young man, indignantly.

"There was orders from Britt to drop ev'ry top across that trail that could be dropped there, Mr. Wade. So, unless they come in flyin'-machines, there's been few fishermen and hunters up the Tomah trail this season to build fires and cut tent-poles."

"Does the old hog begrudge that much from the acres he stole from the people of the State?" demanded Wade.

"He'd ruther you'd pick your teeth with your knife-blade than pull even a sliver out of a blow down," replied Christopher, mildly. He tossed his brown hand to point his quiet satire, and Wade's eyes swept the vast expanse of wood, from the nearest ridges to the dim blue of the tree-spiked horizon.

Christopher put his hand to his forehead and gazed north.

"I can show you your first peek at it, Mr. Wade," he said, after a moment. "That's old Enchanted--the blue sugar-loaf you see through Pogey Notch there. Under that sugar-loaf is where we are bound, to Ide's holdin's."

There was a thrill for the young man in the spectacle--in the blue mountains swimming above the haze, and in the untried mystery of the miles of forest that still lay between. Even the word "Enchanted"

vibrated with suggestion.

The zest of wander-l.u.s.t came upon him later--a zest dulled at first by two days of perspiring fatigue, uneasy slumbers under the stars, breathless scrambles through undergrowth and up rocky slopes.

"That's Jerusalem Mountain, layin' a little to the right," went on Christopher. "That's Britt's princ.i.p.al workin' on the east slope of that this season. He'll yard along Attean and the other streams, and run his drive into Jerusalem dead-water--and that's where you and Ide will have a ch.o.r.e cut out for you." The old man wrinkled his brows a bit, but his voice was still mild.

The romance oozed from Wade's thrill. The thrill became more like an angry bristling along his spine. During the days of his preparation for this trip into the north country, Rodburd Ide--suddenly become his partner by an astonishing juncture of circ.u.mstances--had spent as much time in setting forth the character of the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt as he had in instructing his neophyte in the duties of a timber explorer.

As a matter of fact, Ide left it mostly to old Christopher to be mentor and instructor in the art of "exploring," as search for timber in the north woods is called. Ide was better posted on the acerbities and sinuosities of Britt's character than he was on the values of standing timber and the science of economical "twitch-roads," and, with sage purpose, he had freely given of this information to his new partner.

"Don't worry about the explorin' part--not with Christopher postin'

you," Ide had cheerfully counselled, when he had shaken hands with them at the edge of Castonia clearing. "You and he together will find enough timber to be cut. But you can't get dollars for logs until they're sorted and boomed--and that part means dividin' white water with Britt next spring. So, don't spend all your time measuring trees, Wade.

Measure chances!"

Now, with his eyes on the promised field of battle, Wade growled under his breath.

Britt!

For four days now he had struggled behind old Christopher through tangled undergrowth of striped maple, witch hobble, and mountain holly--Mother Nature's pathetic attempt to cover with ragged and stunted growth the breast that the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt had stripped bare.

"He cut her three times," Christopher explained. "First time the virgin black growth--and as handsome a stand of timber as ye ever put calipers to; second time, the battens--all under eleven inches through; third time, even the poles. That's forestry as he practises it! He's robbin'

the squirrels!"

Britt!

Wade had seen rotting tops that would have yielded logs--the refuse of the first reckless and wasteful cutting. He had pa.s.sed skidways and toiled over corduroy in which thousands of feet of good spruce had been left to decay. The deploring finger of the watchful Christopher pointed out b.u.t.ts hacked off head high.

"The best timber in the log left standin' there, Mr. Wade. But Pulaski Britt ain't lettin' his men stop to shovel snow away."

Britt behind him, in the tangled undergrowth! Britt about him, in the straggle of trees on the hard-wood ridges! Britt ahead of him, where the black growth shaded the mountains in the blue distance! The same Britt who had so contemptuously tossed him aside as useless baggage when Foreman Colin MacLeod had demanded his discharge!

Wade clutched calipers and axe, and went leaping after old Christopher with new strength in his legs.

But in spite of the vigor that resentment lent him, he was glad when the guide tossed off his pack beside a brook that trickled under mossy rocks on the hard-wood slope. It was good to hear the tinkle of water, to feel the solid ground after the weird wobbling of the sphagnum moss, and to snuff the smoke of the handful of fire crackling under the tea-pail.