The Rules of the Game

by Stewart Edward White

  XI

  Bob rode jubilantly into camp. The expedition had taken him all theafternoon, and it was dropping dusk when he had reached the mill.

  "We can get busy," he cried, waving the permit at Welton. "Here it is!"

  Welton smiled. "I knew that, my boy," he replied, "and we're alreadybusy to the extent of being ready to turn her loose to-morrow morning.I've sent down a yard crew to the lower end of the flume; and I'vestarted Max to rustling out the teams by 'phone."

  Next day the water was turned into the flume. Fifty men stood by.Rapidly the skilled workmen applied the clamps and binders that made ofthe boards a compact bundle to be given to the rushing current. Thenthey thrust it forward to the drag of the water. It gathered headway,rubbing gently against the flume, first on one side, then on the other.Its weight began to tell; it gathered momentum; it pushed ahead of itsblunt nose a foaming white wave; it shot out of sight grandly, careeningfrom side to side. The men cheered.

  "Well, we're off!" said Bob cheerfully.

  "Yes, we're off, thank God!" replied Welton.

  From that moment the affairs of the new enterprise went as well as couldbe expected. Of course, there were many rough edges to be smoothed off,but as the season progressed the community shaped itself. It was indeeda community, of many and diverse activities, much more complicated, Bobsoon discovered, than any of the old Michigan logging camps. A greatmany of the men brought their families. These occupied separateshanties, of course. The presence of the women and children took awaymuch of that feeling of impermanence associated with most pioneeractivities. As without exception these women kept house, the company"van" speedily expanded to a company store. Where the "van" kept merelyrough clothing, tobacco and patent medicines, the store soon answereddemands for all sorts of household luxuries and necessities. Provisions,of course, were always in request. These one of the company'sbookkeepers doled out.

  "Mr. Poole," the purchaser would often say to this man, "next time awagon comes up from Sycamore Flats would you just as soon have thembring me up a few things? I want a washboard, and some shoes for Jimmy,and a double boiler; and there ought to be an express package for mefrom my sister."

  "Sure! I'll see to it," said Poole.

  This meant a great deal of trouble, first and last, what with thecharges and all. Finally, Welton tired of it.

  "We've got to keep a store," he told Bob finally.

  With characteristic despatch he put the carpenters to work, and sent forlists of all that had been ordered from Sycamore Flats. A study ofthese, followed by a trip to White Oaks, resulted in the equipment of astore under charge of a man experienced in that sort of thing. As timewent on, and the needs of such a community made themselves more evident,the store grew in importance. Its shelves accumulated dress goods, drygoods, clothing, hardware; its rafters dangled with tinware and kettles,with rope, harness, webbing; its bins overflowed with variousfood-stuffs unknown to the purveyor of a lumber camp's commissary, butin demand by the housewife; its one glass case shone temptingly withfancy stationery, dollar watches, and even cheap jewelry. There wascandy for the children, gum for the bashful maiden, soda pop for thefrivolous young. In short, there sprang to being in an astonishinglybrief space of time a very creditable specimen of the country store. Itwas a business in itself, requiring all the services of a competent manfor the buying, the selling, and the transportation. At the end of theyear it showed a fair return on the investment.

  "Though we'd have to have it even at a dead loss," Welton pointed out,"to hold our community together. All we need is a few tufts of chinwhiskers and some politics to be full-fledged gosh-darn mossbacks."

  The storekeeper, a very deliberate person, Merker by name, was muchgiven to contemplation and pondering. He possessed a German pipe ofporcelain, which he smoked when not actively pestered by customers. Atsuch times he leaned his elbows on the counter, curved one hand aboutthe porcelain bowl of his pipe, lost the other in the depths of hisgreat seal-brown beard, and fell into staring reveries. When a customerentered he came back--with due deliberation--from about one thousandmiles. He refused to accept more than one statement at a time, toconsider more than one person at a time, or to do more than one thing ata time.

  "Gim'me five pounds of beans, two of sugar, and half a pound of tea!"demanded Mrs. Max.

  Merker deliberately laid aside his pipe, deliberately moved down theaisle behind his counter, deliberately filled his scoop, deliberatelymanipulated the scales. After the package was duly and neatly encased,labelled and deposited accurately in front of Mrs. Max, Merker lookedher in the eye.

  "Five pounds of beans," said he, and paused for the next item.

  The moment the woman had departed, Merker resumed his pipe and hiswide-eyed vacancy.

  Welton was immensely amused and tickled.

  "Seems to me he might keep a little busier," grumbled Bob.

  "I thought so, too, at first," replied the older man, "but his store isalways neat, and he keeps up his stock. Furthermore, he never makes amistake--there's no chance for it on his one-thing-at-a-time system."

  But it soon became evident that Merker's reveries did not mean vacancyof mind. At such times the Placid One figured on his stock. When he putin a list of goods required, there was little guess-work as to thequantities needed. Furthermore, he had other schemes. One evening hepresented himself to Welton with a proposition. His waving brown hairwas slicked back from his square, placid brow, his wide, cowlike eyesshone with the glow of the common or domestic fire, his brown beard wasneat, and his holiday clothes were clean. At Welton's invitation he sat,but bolt upright at the edge of a chair.

  "After due investigation and deliberation," he stated, "I have come tothe independent conclusion that we are overlooking a means of revenue."

  "As what?" asked Welton, amused by the man's deadly seriousness.

  "Hogs," stated Merker.

  He went on deliberately to explain the waste in camp garbage, the priceof young pigs, the cost of their transportation, the average sellingprice of pork, the rate of weight increase per month, and the numberpossible to maintain. He further showed that, turned at large, theywould require no care. Amused still at the man's earnestness, Weltontried to trip him up with questions. Merker had foreseen everycontingency.

  "I'll turn it over to you. Draw the necessary money from the storeaccount," Welton told him finally.

  Merker bowed solemnly and went out. In two weeks pigs appeared. Theybecame a feature of the landscape, and those who experimented withgardens indulged in profanity, clubs and hog-proof fences. Returninghome after dark, the wayfarer was apt to be startled to the edge offlight by the grunting upheaval of what had seemed a black shadow underthe moon. Bob in especial acquired concentrated practice in horsemanshipfor the simple reason that his animal refused to dismiss his firsthypothesis of bears.

  Nevertheless, at the end of the season Merker gravely presented a dulymade out balance to the credit of hogs.

  Encouraged by the success of this venture, he next attempted chickens.But even his vacant-eyed figuring had neglected to take intoconsideration the abundance of such predatory beasts and birds aswildcats, coyotes, raccoons, owls and the swift hawks of the falconfamily.

  "I had thought," he reported to the secretly amused Welton, "that evenin feeding the finer sorts of garbage to hogs there might be an economicwaste; hogs fatten well enough on the coarser grades, and chickens willeat the finer. In that I fell into error. The percentage of loss fromnoxious varmints more than equals the difference in the cost of eggs. Ifurther find that the margin of profits on chickens is not large enoughto warrant expenditures for traps, dogs and men sufficient forprotection."

  "And how does the enterprise stand now?" asked Welton.

  "We are behind."

  "H'm. And what would you advise by way of retrenchment?"

  "I should advise closing out the business by killing the fowl," wasMerker's opinion. "Crediting the account with the value of the chickensas food would bring us out with
a loss of approximately ten dollars."

  "Fried chicken is hardly applicable as lumber camp provender," pointedout Welton. "So it's scarcely a legitimate asset."

  "I had considered that point," replied Merker, "and in my calculations Ihad valued the chickens at the price of beef."

  Welton gave it up.

  Another enterprise for which Merker was responsible was the utilizationof the slabs and edgings in the construction of fruit trays and boxes.When he approached Welton on the subject, the lumberman was littleinclined to be receptive to the idea.

  "That's all very well, Merker," said he, impatiently; "I don't doubtit's just as you say, and there's a lot of good tray and box materialgoing to waste. So, too, I don't doubt there's lots of material fortoothpicks and matches and wooden soldiers and shingles and all sorts ofthings in our slashings. The only trouble is that I'm trying to run abig lumber company. I haven't time for all that sort of little monkeybusiness. There's too much detail involved in it."

  "Yes, sir," said Merker, and withdrew.

  About two weeks later, however, he reappeared, towing after him anelderly, bearded farmer and a bashful-looking, hulking youth.

  "This is Mr. Lee," said Merker, "and he wants to make arrangements withyou to set up a little cleat and box-stuff mill, and use from yourdump."

  Mr. Lee, it turned out, had been sent up by an informal association ofthe fruit growers of the valley. Said informal association had beenformed by Merker through the mails. The store-keeper had submitted suchconvincing figures that Lee had been dispatched to see about it. Itlooked cheaper in the long run to send up a spare harvesting engine, tobuy a saw, and to cut up box and tray stuff than to purchase thesenecessities from the regular dealers. Would Mr. Welton negotiate? Mr.Welton did. Before long the millmen were regaled by the sight of asnorting little upright engine connected by a flapping, sagging belt toa small circular saw. Two men and two boys worked like beavers. Theracket and confusion, shouts, profanity and general awkwardness weresomething tremendous. Nevertheless, the pile of stock grew, and everyonce in a while six-horse farm wagons from the valley would climb themountain to take away box material enough to pack the fruit of a wholedistrict. To Merker this was evidently a profound satisfaction. Often hewould vary his usual between-customer reverie by walking out on hisshaded verandah, where he would lean against an upright, nursing thebowl of his pipe, gazing across the sawdust to the diminutive andrackety box-plant in the distance.

  Welton, passing one day, laughed at him.

  "How about your economic waste, Merker?" he called. "Two good men couldturn out three times the stuff all that gang does in about half thetime."

  "There are no two good men for that job," replied Merker unmoved. Hislarge, cowlike eyes roved across the yards. "Men grow in a generation;trees grow in ten," he resumed with unexpected directness. "I havecalculated that of a great tree but 40 per cent. is used. All the restis economic waste--slabs, edging, tops, stumps, sawdust." He sighed. "Icouldn't get anybody to consider your toothpick and matches idea, northe wooden soldiers, nor even the shingles," he ended.

  Welton stared.

  "You didn't quote me in the matter, did you?" he asked at length.

  "I did not take the matter as official. Would I have done better to havedone so?"

  "Lord, no!" cried Welton fervently.

  "The sawdust ought to make something," continued Merker. "But I amunable to discover a practical use for it." He indicated the greatyellow mound that each day increased.

  "Yes, I got to get a burner for it," said Welton, "it'll soon swamp us."

  "There might be power in it," mused Merker. "A big furnace, now----"

  "For heaven's sake, man, what for?" demanded Welton.

  "I don't know yet," answered the store-keeper.

  Merker amused and interested Welton, and in addition proved to be avaluable man for just his position. It tickled the burly lumberman, too,to stop for a moment in his rounds for the purpose of discussing withmock gravity any one of Marker's thousand ideas on economic waste,Welton discovered a huge entertainment in this. One day, however, hefound Merker in earnest discussion with a mountain man, whom thestore-keeper introduced as Ross Fletcher. Welton did not pay very muchattention to this man and was about to pass on when his eye caught thegleam of a Forest Ranger's badge. Then he stopped short.

  "Merker!" he called sharply.

  The store-keeper looked up.

  "See here a minute. Now," said Welton, as he drew the other aside, "Iwant one thing distinctly understood. This Government gang don't gohere. This is my property, and I won't have them loafing around. That'sall there is to it. Now understand me; I mean business. If those fellowscome in here, they must buy what they want and get out. They're a lazy,loafing, grafting crew, and I won't have them."

  Welton spoke earnestly and in a low tone, and his face was red. Bob,passing, drew rein in astonishment. Never, in his long experience withWelton, had he seen the older man plainly out of temper. Welton's usualhabit in aggravating and contrary circumstances was to show a surface,at least, of the most leisurely good nature. So unprecedented was thepresent condition that Bob, after hesitating a moment, dismounted andapproached.

  Merker was staring at his chief with wide and astonished eyes, andplucking nervously at his brown beard.

  "Why, that is Ross Fletcher," he gasped. "We were just talking about theeconomic waste in the forests. He is a good man. He isn't lazy. He--"

  "Economic waste hell!" exploded Welton. "I won't have that crew aroundhere, and I won't have my employees confabbing with them. I don't carewhat you tell them, or how you fix it, but you keep them out of here.Understand? I hate the sight of one of those fellows worse than apoison-snake!"

  Merker glanced from Welton to the ranger and back again perplexed.

  "But--but--" he stammered. "I've known Ross Fletcher a long time. Whatcan I say--"

  Welton cut in on him with contempt.

  "Well, you'd better say something, unless you want me to throw him offthe place. This is no corner saloon for loafers."

  "I'll fix it," offered Bob, and without waiting for a reply, he walkedover to where the mountaineer was leaning against the counter.

  "You're a Forest Ranger, I see," said Bob.

  "Yes," replied the man, straightening from his lounging position.

  "Well, from our bitter experiences as to the activities of a ForestRanger we conclude that you must be very busy people--too busy to wastetime on us."

  The man's face changed, but he evidently had not quite arrived at thedrift of this.

  "I think you know what I mean," said Bob.

  A slow flush overspread the ranger's face. He looked the young man upand down deliberately. Bob moved the fraction of an inch nearer.

  "Meaning I'm not welcome here?" he demanded.

  "This place is for the transaction of business only. Can I have Merkerget you anything?"

  Fletcher shot a glance half of bewilderment, half of anger, in thedirection of the store-keeper. Then he nodded, not without a certaindignity, at Bob.

  "Thanks, no," he said, and walked out, his spurs jingling.

  "I guess he won't bother us again," said Bob, returning to Welton.

  The latter laughed, a trifle ashamed of his anger.

  "Those fellows give me the creeps," he said, "like cats do some people.Mossbacks don't know no better, but a Government grafter is a littlemore useless than a nigger on a sawlog."

  He went out. Bob turned to Merker.

  "Sorry for the row," he said briefly, for he liked the gentle, slowman. "But they're a bad lot. We've got to keep that crew at arm's lengthfor our own protection."

  "Ross Fletcher is not that kind," protested Merker. "I've known him foryears."

  "Well, he's got a nerve to come in here. I've seen him and his kindholding down too good a job next old Austin's bar."

  "Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back nowfrom the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down.
Iwant to tell you about Ross."

  Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bobswung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe.

  "Ross Fletcher is a ranger because he loves it and believes in it," saidMerker earnestly. "He knows things are going rotten now, but he hopesthat by and by they'll go better. His district is in good shape. Why,let me tell you: last spring Ross was fighting fire all alone, and hewent out for help and they docked him a day for being off the reserve!"

  "You don't say," commented Bob.

  "You don't believe it. Well, it's so. And they sent him in after sheepin the high mountains early, when the feed was froze, and wouldn't allowhim pay for three sacks of barley for his animals. And Ross gets sixtydollars a month, and he spends about half of that for trail tools andfire tools that they won't give him. What do you think of that?"

  "Merker," said Bob kindly, "I think your man is either a damn liar or adamn fool. Why does he say he does all this?"

  "He likes the mountains. He--well, he just believes in it."

  "I see. Are there any more of these altruists? or is he the only bird ofthe species?"

  Merker caught the irony of Bob's tone.

  "They don't amount to much, in general," he admitted. "But there's afew--they keep the torch lit."

  "I supposed their job was more in the line of putting it out," observedBob; then, catching Merker's look of slow bewilderment, he added: "Sothere are several."

  "Yes. There's good men among 'em. There's Ross, and Charley Morton, andTom Carroll, and, of course, old California John."

  Bob's amused smile died slowly. Before his mental vision rose thepicture of the old mountaineer, with his faded, ragged clothes, hisbeautiful outfit, his lean, kindly face, his steady blue eyes, guardingan empty trail for the sake of an empty duty. That man was no fool; andBob knew it. The young fellow slid from the counter to the floor.

  "I'm glad you believe in your friend, Merker," said he "and I don'tdoubt he's a fine fellow; but we can't have rangers, good, bad, orindifferent, hanging around here. I hope you understand that?"

  Merker nodded, his wide eyes growing dreamy.

  "It's an economic waste," he sighed, "all this cross-purposes. Here'syou a good man, and Ross a good man, and you cannot work in harmonybecause of little things. The Government and the private owner shouldconduct business together for the best utilization of all rawmaterial--"

  "Merker," broke in Bob, with a kindly twinkle, "you're a Utopian."

  "Mr. Orde," returned Merker with entire respect, "you're a lumberman."

  With this interchange of epithets they parted.