King Spruce Part 17

For, painfully acquired, with gouges, clawings, and scratches to show for it all, "Ladder" Lane had acc.u.mulated companions of his loneliness, to wit:

One bull moose, captured in calfhood in deep snow; two bear cubs; a racc.o.o.n; a three-legged bobcat, victim of an excited hunter; two horned owls; and a fisher cat.

On this menagerie, variously tethered or crated in sapling cages, the visitor with the disabled arm bestowed a contemptuous side glance while he blinked at the tall figure on the cabin's flat roof.

Without haste Lane worked himself through the roof-scuttle like an angle-worm drawing into his hole; without cordiality he appeared at the cabin door, lounging out into the sunshine.

"I suppose you are still doing the second-hand swearing for Britt, MacLeod," he suggested.

The young man grunted.

"How did ye hurt your arm? Britt chaw it?"

"Peavy-stick flipped on me," growled the young man, willing to hide his humiliation from at least one person in the world--and the hermit of the Jerusalem station seemed to be the only one sufficiently isolated.

"Huh! I thought his name was Wade." There was no spirit of jest in the tone. The old man surveyed him sourly. "That's what the Attean helio said."

"Is that what you use them things for--to pa.s.s gossip like an old maid's quiltin'-bee?"

"There's a good deal in this world in letting a man place his own self where he belongs," remarked Lane, with calm conviction. "I've let you prove yourself a liar."

He turned and went into the cabin and back up the stairs to the roof, picking up a huge telescope as he went. Something in the valley seemed to have attracted his attention. MacLeod followed, his face red, oaths clucking in his throat.

In the nearer middle ground of the great plat of country below Patch Dam heath was set into the green of the forest like a medallion of rusty tin. To the west of it smoke began to puff above the tree-tops.

"On Misery," mumbled Lane, his long arms steadying his instrument. Then, with the caution of a man of method, he went into the scuttle-hole and secured his range-finder.

"What's the good of tinker-fuddlin' with that thing?" demanded MacLeod; "it's on Misery, as you said."

"Two hundred and fifty-nine degrees," muttered the fire-scout, booking the figures in his dog's-eared diary.

"Say, about that fire, Mr. Lane," blurted MacLeod, nervously. "I'm up here to-day by Mr. Britt's orders to tell you not to report it. It's on Misery Gore, and he's there looking after it, and it ain't goin' to be worth while to report. I know all about it, and that's the truth."

Lane, without bestowing a glance on the speaker, was setting up his heliograph tripod. At the young man's last words he grunted over his shoulder:

"So it was a peavy-stick! But they told me his name was Wade."

"Now you look here," stormed the timber baron's boss, "you can slur all you want to about my lyin', but I tell you, Lane, this is straight goods. You report that fire, after the orders you've got from Britt, and you'll lose your job. I know what I'm talkin' about."

Lane kneeled, his thin trousers hanging over his slender shanks like cloth over broomsticks. MacLeod stifled an inclination to take him in one hand and snap him like a whip-lash. The old man was peering through the centre hole in the sun-mirror, bringing his disks into alignment.

"Britt has got orders from the court, and he's there to put the Skeets and Bushees out and torch off their shacks. That's all there is to that fire, Lane, and Britt don't want a stir and hoorah made about it. He told me to tell you that. He says the cussed newspapers get a word here and a word there, and they're always ready to string out a lot of lies about King Spruce and wild-landers, and how they abuse settlers, and all that rot--and it hurts prominent men, like Mr. Britt and his a.s.sociates, because folks get wrong ideas from the papers. Now you know that! Don't report that fire, Lane."

It was fulsome appeal and eager appeal, and MacLeod was apparently obeying some very emphatic orders from his superior, who had supplied language as well as directions of procedure.

But the old fire-warden kept on with his preparations, exact, careful, without haste.

"He said you understood--Britt did," clamored MacLeod, hastening around in front of the heliograph. "You know it ain't right to have those people there in this dry time, with all that slash about 'em. Mr. Britt will make it all right with them--the same as the land-owners always do.

It will be the papers that will lie and call the land-owners names for the sake of stirrin' up a sensation about leadin' men--makin' politics out of it, and gettin' the people prejudiced so as to put more taxes onto wild lands." More of Britt's ammunition! "Mr. Britt said you'd understand--and you do understand--and you can't report that fire."

Lane set his gaunt grasp about the handle of the screen, ready to tilt it for the first flash.

"I understand just this, MacLeod--that I'm a fire-warden of the State, sworn to do my duty as my duty is spread before me." He swept his left arm in impressive gesture. "Look behind you! Do you see that?"

Smoke was ballooning from the notch of the woods below them. Round puffs seemed to be dancing in fantastic ballet from tree-top to tree-top.

"That's a fire, MacLeod. I take no man's say-so as to what and why. That may be Pulaski Britt smoking a cigar. It may be Jule Skeet's new spring bonnet on fire. I don't care what it is. It's a fire, and it's going to be reported. Stand out of range."

His code-card was in the top of his hat. He waved the headgear impatiently at MacLeod, his right hand still on the handle of the screen.

MacLeod knew what the orders of Pulaski D. Britt meant. Britt had not hesitated to rely upon the loyalty of "Ladder" Lane, for Britt, when State senator, had caused Lane to be appointed to the post on Jerusalem.

MacLeod reflected, with fury rising like flame from the steady glow of his contemptuous resentment at this old recalcitrant, that Pulaski Britt would never make allowance for failure under these circ.u.mstances. To be sure, that fire yonder didn't look like a carefully conducted incineration of the dwellings of Misery Gore, and it was a little ahead of time--that time being set for the calm of early evening. But orders from Britt were--to his men--orders from the supreme tribunal.

"Britt put you here!" stuttered MacLeod.

"I'm working for the State, not Pulaski D. Britt," replied the old man.

"And I'm working for Britt, and, by ---- he runs the State in these parts! Him and you and the State can settle it between you later, but just now"--he swung to one side, leaned back, and drove his foot with all the venom of his repressed rage against the apparatus--"that fire report don't go!"

"Ladder" Lane, serene in his proud conjuration, "The State," had expected no such enormity. The heliograph skated on its spider legs, went over the edge of the roof, and, after a hushed moment of drop, crashed upon the ledge with shiver and tinkle of flying gla.s.s.

The boss of "Britt's Busters" turned and darted through the scuttle and down the stairs, excusing this flight to himself on the ground of his out-of-commission arm.

He leaped out into the sunshine and clattered away over the ledges, the spikes in his shoes striking sparks.

He had made half a dozen rods when he heard the old man scream "Halt!"

MacLeod kept on, with a taunting wave of his well hand above his head.

The next moment a rifle barked, and the bullet chipped the ledge in front of him.

"The next one bores you in the back, MacLeod!"

He stopped then, and whirled in his tracks.

Lane stood at the edge of his roof, his rifle-b.u.t.t at his cheek.

"Come back here!"

"You ain't got the right to hold me up, Lane. I'll have the law on ye!"

"Come back here!"

There was a grate in the tone, a menace not to be braved.

The young man shuffled slowly towards the cabin, roaring oaths and insults to which Lane deigned no reply.

MacLeod did not try to run when the warden disappeared for his trip to the door. He waited sullenly.

Near the door was a good-sized, empty cage of strong saplings, built in "Ladder" Lane's abundant leisure, for the reception of any new candidate for the menagerie. The old man jerked his head sideways at it. There was a gap of three saplings in the side, and the poles stood there ready to be set in.