The Rules of the Game

by White, Stewart Edward

  Now arrived on the scene the "swampers" and cross-cut men, swarming over the prostrate tree like ants over a piece of sugar. Some of them cut off limbs; others, with axes and crowbars, began to pry away great slabs of bark; still others, with much precaution of shovel, wedge and axe against jamming, commenced the slow and laborious undertaking of sawing apart the logs.

  But most interesting and complicated of all were the further processes of handling the great logs after they had been peeled and sawed.

  The ends of steel cables were dragged by a horse to the prostrate tree, where they were made fast by means of chains and hooks. Then the puffing and snorting donkey engine near the chute tightened the cable. The log stirred, moved, plunged its great blunt nose forward, ploughing up the soil. Small trees and bushes it overrode. But sooner or later it collided head on, with a large tree, a stump, or a boulder. The cable strained. Men shouted or waved their arms in signal. The donkey engine ceased coughing. Then the horse pulled the end of the log free. Behind it was left a deep trough, a half cylinder scooped from the soil.

  At the chutes the logs were laid end to end, like a train of cars. A more powerful cable, endless, running to the mill and back again, here took up the burden. At a certain point it was broken by two great hooks. One of these, the one in advance, the men imbedded in the rear log of the train. The other was dragged behind. Away from the chutes ten feet the returning cable snapped through rude pulleys. The train of logs moved forward slowly and steadily, sliding on the greased ways.

  On the knoll the donkey engine coughed and snorted as it heaved the mighty timbers from the woods. The drag of the logs was sometimes heavier than the engine, so it had to be anchored by other cables to strong trees. Between these opposing forces—the inertia of the rooted and the fallen—it leaped and trembled. At its throttle, underneath a canopy knocked together of rough boards, the engineer stood, ready from one instant to another to shut off, speed up, or slow down, according to the demands of an ever-changing exigence. His was a nervous job, and he earned his repose.

  At the rear of the boiler a boy of eighteen toiled with an axe, chopping into appropriate lengths the dead wood brought in for fuel. Next year it would be possible to utilize old tops for this purpose, but now they were too green. Another boy, in charge of a solemn mule, tramped ceaselessly back and forth between the engine and a spring that had been dug out down the hill in a ravine. Before the end of that summer they had worn a trail so deep and hard and smooth that many seasons of snow failed to obliterate it even from the soft earth. On either side the mule were slung sacks of heavy canvas. At the spring the boy filled these by means of a pail. Returned to the engine, he replenished the boiler, draining the sacks from the bottom, cast a fleeting glance at the water gauge of the donkey engine, and hastened back to the spring. He had charge of three engines; and was busy.

  And back along the line of the chutes were other men to fill out this crew of many activities—old men to signal; young men to stand by with slush brush, axe, or bar when things did not go well; axe-men with teams laying accurately new chutes into new country yet untouched.

  Bob found plenty to keep him busy. Post, the woods foreman, was a good chute man. By long experience he had gained practical knowledge of the problems and accidents of this kind of work. To get the logs out from the beds in which they lay, across a rugged country, and into the mill was an engineering proposition of some moment. It is easy to get into difficulties from which hours of work will not extricate.

  But a man involved closely in the practical management of a saw log may conceivably possess scant leisure to correlate the scattered efforts of such divergent activities. The cross cutters and swampers may get ahead of the fellers and have to wait in idleness until the latter have knocked down a tree. Or the donkey may fall silent from lack of logs to haul; or the chute crews may smoke their pipes awaiting the donkey. Or, worst and unpardonable disgrace of all, the mill may ran out of logs! When that happens, the Old Fellow is usually pretty promptly on the scene.

  Now it is obvious that if somewhere on the works ten men are always waiting—even though the same ten men are not thus idle over once a week—the employer is paying for ten men too many. Bob found his best activity lay in seeing that this did not happen. He rode everywhere reviewing the work; and he kept it shaken together. Thus he made himself very useful, he gained rapidly a working knowledge of this new kind of logging, and, incidentally, he found his lines fallen in very pleasant places indeed.

  The forest never lost its marvel to him, but after he had to some extent become accustomed to the immense trees, he began to notice the smaller affairs of the woodland. The dogwoods and azaleas were beginning to come out; the waxy, crimson snow plants were up; the tiny green meadows near the heads of streams were enamelled with flowers; hundreds of species of birds sang and flashed and scratched and crept and soared. The smaller animals were everywhere. The sun at noon disengaged innumerable and subtle tepid odours of pine and blossom.

  One afternoon, a little less than a week subsequent to the beginning of work, Bob, riding home through the woods by a détour around a hill, came upon sheep. They were scattered all over the hill, cropping busily at the snowbush, moving ever slowly forward. A constant murmur arose, a murmur of a silent, quick, minute activity. Occasionally some mother among them lifted her voice. Bob sat his horse looking silently on the shifting grays. In ten seconds his sight blurred; he experienced a slight giddiness as though the substantial ground were shifting beneath him in masses, slowly, as in a dream. It gave him a curious feeling of instability. By an effort he focused his eyes; but almost immediately he caught himself growing fuzzy-minded again, exactly as though he had been gazing absently for a considerable period at a very bright light. He shook himself.

  "I don't wonder sheep herders go dotty," said he aloud.

  He looked about him, and for the first time became aware of a tow-headed youth above him on the hill. The youth leaned on a staff, and at his feet crouched two long-haired dogs. Bob turned his horse in that direction.

  When he had approached, he saw the boy to be about seventeen years old. His hair was very light, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. Only a decided tinge of blue in his irises saved him from albinism. His lips were thick and loose, his nose flat, his expression vacant. In contrast, the two dogs, now seated on their haunches, their heads to one side, their ears cocked up, their eyes bright, looked to be the more intelligent animals.

  "Good evening," said Bob.

  The boy merely stared.

  "You in charge of the sheep?" inquired the young man presently.

  The boy grunted.

  "Where are you camped?" persisted Bob.

  No answer.

  "Where's your boss?"

  A faint gleam came into the sheep-herder's eyes. He raised his arm and pointed across through the woods.

  Bob reined his horse in the direction indicated. As he passed the last of the flock in that direction, he caught sight of another herder and two more dogs. This seemed to be a bearded man of better appearance than the boy; but he too leaned motionless on his long staff; he too gazed unblinking on the nibbling, restless, changing, imbecile sheep.

  As Bob looked, this man uttered a shrill, long-drawn whistle. Like arrows from bows the two dogs darted away, their ears flat, their bodies held low to the ground. The whistle was repeated by the youth. Immediately his dogs also glided forward. The noise of quick, sharp barkings was heard. At once the slow, shifting movement of the masses of gray ceased. The sound of murmurous, deep-toned bells, of bleating, of the movement of a multitude arose. The flock drew to a common centre; it flowed slowly forward. Here and there the dark bodies of the dogs darted, eager and intelligently busy. The two herders followed after, leaning on their long staffs. Over the hill passed the flock. Slowly the sounds of them merged into a murmur. It died. Only remained the fog of dust drifting through the trees, caught up by every passing current of air, light and impalpable as powder.

  B
ob continued on his way, but had not proceeded more than a few hundred feet before he was overtaken by Lejeune.

  "You're the man I was looking for," said Bob. "I see you got your sheep in all right. Have any trouble?"

  The sheepman's teeth flashed.

  "Not'tall," he replied. "I snik in ver' easy up by Beeg Rock."

  At the mill, Bob, while luxuriously splashing the ice cold water on his face and throat, took time to call to Welton in the next room.

  "Saw your sheep man," he proffered. "He got in all right, sheep and all."

  Welton appeared in the doorway, mopping his round, red face with a towel.

  "Funny we haven't heard from Plant, then," said he. "That fat man must be keeping track of Leejune's where-abouts, or he's easier than I thought he was."

  * * *

  VIII

  The week slipped by. Welton seemed to be completely immersed in the business of cutting lumber. In due time Orde senior had replied by wire, giving assurance that he would see to the matter of the crossing permits.

  "So that's settled," quoth Welton. "You bet-you Jack Orde will make the red tape fly. It'll take a couple of weeks, I suppose—time for the mail to get there and back. Meantime, we'll get a cut ahead."

  But at the end of ten days came a letter from the congressman.

  "Don't know just what is the hitch," wrote Jack Orde. "It ought to be the simplest matter in the world, and so I told Russell in the Land Office to-day. They seem inclined to fall back on their technicalities, which is all rot, of course. The man wants to be annoying for some reason, but I'll take it higher at once. Have an appointment with the Chief this afternoon...."

  The next letter came by the following mail.

  "This seems to be a bad mess. I can't understand it, nor get to the bottom of it. On the face of the showing here we've just bulled ahead without any regard whatever for law or regulations. Of course, I showed your letter stating your agreement and talks with Plant, but the department has his specific denial that you ever approached him. They stand pat on that, and while they're very polite, they insist on a detailed investigation. I'm going to see the Secretary this morning."

  Close on the heels of this came a wire:

  "Plant submits reports of alleged sheep trespass committed this spring by your orders. Wire denial."

  "My Lord!" said Welton, as he took this. "That's why we never heard from that! Bobby, that was a fool move, certainly; but I couldn't turn Leejune down after I'd agreed to graze him."

  "How about these lumber contracts?" suggested Bob.

  "We've got to straighten this matter out," said Welton soberly.

  He returned a long telegram to Congressman Orde in Washington, and himself interviewed Plant. He made no headway whatever with the fat man, who refused to emerge beyond the hard technicalities of the situation. Welton made a journey to White Oaks, where he interviewed the Superintendent of the Forest Reserves. The latter proved to be a well-meaning, kindly, white-whiskered gentleman, named Smith, who listened sympathetically, agreed absolutely with the equities of the situation, promised to attend to the matter, and expressed himself as delighted always to have these things brought to his personal attention. On reaching the street, however, Welton made a bee-line for the bank through which he did most of his business.

  "Mr. Lee," he asked the president, "I want you to be frank with me. I am having certain dealings with the Forest Reserve, and I want to know how much I can depend on this man Smith."

  Lee crossed his white hands on his round stomach, and looked at Welton over his eyeglasses.

  "In what way?" he asked.

  "I've had a little trouble with one of his subordinates. I've just been around to state my case to Smith, and he agrees with my side of the affair and promises to call down his man. Can I rely on him? Does he mean what he says?"

  "He means what he says," replied the bank president, slowly, "and you can rely on him—until his subordinate gets a chance to talk to him."

  "H'm," ruminated Welton. "Chinless, eh? I wondered why he wore long white whiskers."

  As he walked up the street toward the hotel, where he would spend the night before undertaking the long drive back, somebody hailed him. He looked around to see a pair of beautiful driving horses, shying playfully against each other, coming to a stop at the curb. Their harness was the lightest that could be devised—no blinders, no breeching, slender, well-oiled straps; the rig they drew shone and twinkled with bright varnish, and seemed as delicate and light as thistledown. On the narrow seat sat a young man of thirty, covered with an old-fashioned linen duster, wearing the wide, gray felt hat of the country. He was a keen-faced, brown young man, with snapping black eyes.

  "Hullo, Welton," said he as he brought the team to a stand; "when did you get out of the hills?"

  "How are you, Mr. Harding?" Welton returned his greeting. "Just down for the day?"

  "How are things going up your way?"

  "First rate," replied Welton. "We're going ahead three bells and a jingle. Started to saw last week."

  "That's good," said Harding. "I haven't heard of one of your teams on the road, and I began to wonder. We've got to begin deliveries on our Los Angeles and San Pedro contracts by the first of August, and we're depending on you."

  "We'll be there," replied Welton with a laugh.

  The young man laughed back.

  "You'd better be, if you don't want us to come up and take your scalp," said he, gathering his reins.

  "Guess I lay in some hair tonic so's to have a good one ready for you," returned Welton, as Harding nodded his farewell.

  * * *

  IX

  Matters stood thus dependent on the efforts of Jack Orde, at Washington, when, one evening, Baker rode in to camp and dismounted before the low verandah of the sleeping quarters. Welton and Bob sat, chair-tilted, awaiting the supper gong.

  "Thrice hail, noble chiefs!" cried Baker, cautiously stretching out first one sturdy leg, then the other. "Against which post can I lean my trusty charger?"

  Baker was garbed to suit the rôle. His boots were very thick and very tall, and most bristly with hobnails; they laced with belt laces through forty-four calibre eyelets, and were strapped about the top with a broad piece of leather and two glittering buckles. Furthermore, his trousers were of khaki, his shirt of navy blue, his belt three inches broad, his neckerchief of red, and his hat both wide and high.

  In response to enthusiastic greetings, he struck a pose.

  "How do you like it?" he inquired. "Isn't this the candy make-up for the simple life—surveyor, hardy prospector, mountain climber, sturdy pedestrian? Ain't I the real young cover design for the Out-of-door number?"

  He accepted their congratulations with a lofty wave.

  "That's all right," said he; "but somebody take away this horse before I bite him. I'm sore on that horse. Joke! Snicker!"

  Bob delivered over the animal to the stableman who was approaching.

  "Come up to see the tall buildings?" he quoted Baker himself.

  "Not so," denied that young man. "My errand is philanthropic. I'm robin redbreast. Leaves for yours."

  "Pass that again," urged Bob; "I didn't get it."

  "I hear you people have locked horns with Henry Plant," said Baker.

  "Well, Plant's a little on the peck," amended Welton.

  "Leaves for yours," repeated the self-constituted robin redbreast. "Babes in the Woods!"

  Beyond this he would vouchsafe nothing until after supper when, cigars lighted, the three of them sprawled before the fireplace in quarters.

  "Now," he began, "you fellows are up against it good and plenty. You can't wish your lumber out, and that's the only feasible method unless you get a permit. Why in blazes did you make this break, anyway?"

  "What break?" asked Welton.

  Baker looked at him and smiled slowly.

  "You don't think I own a telephone line without knowing what little birdies light on the wires, do you?"

  "Does that d
amn operator leak?" inquired Welton placidly but with a narrowing of the eyes.

  "Not on your saccharine existence. If he did, he'd be out among the scenery in two jumps. But I'm different. That's my business."

  "Mighty poor business," put in Bob quietly.

  Baker turned full toward him.

  "Think so? You'll never get any cigars in the guessing contest unless you can scare up better ones than that. Let's get back to cases. How did you happen to make this break, anyway?"

  "Why," explained Welton, "it was simply a case of build a road and a flume down a worthless mountain-side. Back with us a man builds his road where he needs it, and pays for the unavoidable damage. My head was full of all sorts of details. I went and asked Plant about it, and he said all right, go ahead. I supposed that settled it, and that he must certainly have authority on his own job."

  Baker nodded several times.

  "Sure. I see the point. Just the same, he has you."

  "For the time being," amended Welton. "Bob's father, here, is congressman from our district in Michigan, and he'll fix the matter."

  Baker turned his face to the ceiling, blew a cloud of smoke toward it, and whistled. Then he looked down at Welton.

  "I suppose you know the real difficulty?" he asked.

  "One thousand dollars," replied Welton promptly—"to hire extra fire-fighters to protect my timber," he added ironically.

  "Well?"

  "Well!" the lumberman slapped his knee. "I won't be held up in any such barefaced fashion!"

  "And your congressman will pull you out. Now let me drop a few pearls of wisdom in the form of conundrums. Why does a fat man who can't ride a horse hold a job as Forest Supervisor in a mountain country?"