V
Bob saw that afternoon the chopping contest. Thorne assigned to each atree some eighteen or twenty inches in diameter, selecting those whoseloss would aid rather than deplete the timber stand, and also, it mustbe confessed, those whose close proximity to others might make axeswinging awkward. About twenty feet from the base of each tree he placedupright in the earth a sharpened stake. This, he informed the axe-man,must be driven by the fall of the tree.
As in the previous contests, three classes of performers quicklymanifested themselves--the expert, the man of workmanlike skill, and theabsolute duffer. The lumberjacks produced the implements they had thatnoon so carefully ground to an edge. It was beautiful to see them atwork. To all appearance they struck easily, yet each stroke buried halfthe blade. The less experienced were inclined to put a great deal ofswift power in the back swing, to throw too much strength into thebeginning of the down stroke. The lumberjacks drew back quitedeliberately, swung forward almost lazily. But the power constantlyincreased, until the axe met the wood in a mighty swish and whack. Andeach stroke fell in the gash of the one previous. Methodically theyopened the "kerf," each face almost as smooth as though it had beensawn. At the finish they left the last fibres on one side or another,according as they wanted to twist the direction of the tree's fall. Thenthe trunk crashed down across the stake driven in the ground.
The mountaineers, accustomed to the use of the axe in their backwoodswork, did a workmanlike but not expert job on their respective trees.They felled their trees accurately over the mark, and their axe work wasfairly clean, but it took them some time to finish the job.
But some of the others made heavy weather. Young Elliott was the worst.It was soon evident that he had probably never had any but a possibleand casual wood-pile axe in his hand before. The axe rarely hit twice inthe same place; its edge had apparently no cutting power; the handleseemed to be animated with a most diabolical tendency to twist inmid-air. Bob, with the wisdom of the woods, withdrew to a safe distance.The others followed.
Long after the others had finished, poor Elliott hacked away. He seemedto have no definite idea of possible system. All he seemed to be tryingto do was to accomplish some kind of a hole in that tree. The chips hecut away were small and ragged; the gash in the side of the tree waslong and irregular.
"Looks like somethin' had set out to _chaw_ that tree down!" drawled amountain man to his neighbour.
But when the tree finally tottered and crashed to the ground it fairlycentred the direction stake!
The bystanders stared; then catching the expression of ludicrousastonishment on Elliott's face, broke into appreciative laughter.
"I'm as much surprised as you are, boys," said Elliott, showing thepalms of his hands, on which were two blisters.
"The little cuss is game, anyhow," muttered California John to Thorne.
"It was an awful job," confided the other; "but I marked him somethingon it because he stayed with it so well."
Toward sunset Bob said farewell, expressing many regrets that he couldnot return on the morrow to see the rest of the examinations. He rodeback through the forest, thoughtfully inclined. The first taste of theWestern joy of mere existence was passing with him. He was beginning tolook upon his life, and ask of it the why. To be sure, he could tellhimself that his day's work was well done, and that this should sufficeany man; that he was an integral part of the economic machine; that incomparison with the average young man of his age he had made his waywith extraordinary success; that his responsibilities were sufficient tokeep him busy and happy; that men depended on him--all the reasons thatphilosophy or acquiescence in the plan of life ultimately bring to aman. But these did not satisfy the uneasiness of his spirit. He was tooyoung to settle down to a routine; he was too intellectually restless tobe contented with reiterations, however varied, of that which he hadseen through and around. It was the old defect--or glory--of hischaracter; the quality that had caused him more anxiety, moreself-reproach, more bitterness of soul than any other, the Rolling Stonespirit that--though now he could not see it--even if it gathered no mossof respectable achievement, might carry him far.
So as he rode he peered into the scheme of things for the finalsatisfaction. In what did it lie? Not for him in mere activity, nor inthe accomplishment of the world's work, no matter how variedlypicturesque his particular share of it might be. He felt his interestebbing, his spirit restless at its moorings. The days passed. He arosein the morning: and it was night! Four years ago he had come toCalifornia. It seemed but yesterday. The days were past, gone, used. Ofit all what had he retained? The years had run like sea sands betweenhis fingers, and not a grain of them remained in his grasp. A littlemoney was there, a little knowledge, a little experience--but whattoward the final satisfaction, the justification of a man's life? Bobwas still too young, too individualistic to consider the doctrine of theday's work well done as the explanation and justification of all. Thecoming years would pass as quickly, leaving as little behind. Never sopoignantly had he felt the insistence of the _carpe diem_. It wasnecessary that he find a reality, something he could winnow from theyears as fine gold from sand, so that he could lay his hand on thetreasure and say to his soul: "This much have I accomplished." Bob hadlearned well the American lesson: that the idler is to be scorned; thata true man must use his powers, must work; that he must _succeed_. Nowhe was taking the next step spiritually. How does a man really use hispowers? What is success?
Troubled by this spiritual unrest, the analysis of which, even thenature of which was still beyond him, he arrived at camp. The familiarobjects fretted on his mood. For the moment all the grateful feeling ofpower over understanding and manipulating this complicated machinery ofindustry had left him. He saw only the wheel in which these activitiesturned, and himself bound to it. In this truly Buddhistic frame of mindhe returned to his quarters.
There, to his vague annoyance, he found Baker. Usually the liveliness ofthat able young citizen was welcome, but to-night it grated.
"Well, Gentle Stranger," sang out the power man, "what jungle have youbeen lurking in? I laboured in about three and went all over the workslooking for you."
"I've been over watching the ranger examinations at their headquarters,"said Bob. "It's pretty good fun."
Baker leaned forward.
"Have you heard the latest dope?" he demanded.
"What sort?"
"They're trying to soak us, now. Want to charge us so much per horsepower! Now _what_ do you think of that!"
"Can't you pay it?" asked Bob.
"Great guns! Why _should_ we pay it?" demanded Baker. "It's the publicdomain, isn't it? First they take away the settler's right to take uppublic land in his own state, and now they want to _charge_, actually_charge_ the public for what's its own."
But Bob, a new light shining in his eyes, refused to become heated.
"Well," he asked deliberately, "who _is_ the public, anyhow?"
Baker stared at him, one chubby hand on each fat knee.
"Why, everybody," said he; "the people who can make use of it. You and Iand the other fellow."
"Especially the other fellow," put in Bob drily.
Baker chuckled.
"It's like any business," said he. "First-come collect at the ticketoffice for his business foresight. But we'll try out this hold-up beforewe lie down and roll over."
"Why shouldn't you pay?" demanded Bob again. "You get your value, don'tyou? The Forest Service protects your watershed, and that's where youget your water. Why shouldn't you pay for that service, just the same asyou pay for a night watchman at your works?"
"Watershed!" snorted Baker. "Rot! If every stick of timber was cleanedoff these mountains, I'd get the water just the same."[A]
"Baker," said Bob to this. "You go and take a long, long look at yourbathroom sponge in action, and then come back and I'll talk to you."
Baker contemplated his friend for a full ten seconds. Then his fat,pugnacious face wrinkled into a grin.
&n
bsp; "Stung on the ear by a wasp!" he cried, with a great shout ofappreciation. "You merry, merry little josher! You had me going forabout five minutes."
Bob let it go at that.
"I suppose you won't be able to pay over twenty per cent. this nextyear, then?" he inquired, with an amused expression.
"Twenty per cent.!" cried Baker rolling his eyes up. "It's as much as Ican do to dig up for improvements and bond interest and the preferred."
"Not to mention the president's salary," amended Bob.
"But I've got 'em where they live," went on Baker, complacently, withoutattention to this. "You don't catch Little Willie scattering shekelswhen he can just as well keep kopecks. They've left a little joker inthe pack." He produced a paper-covered copy of the new regulations,later called the Use Book. "They've swiped about everything in sight forthese pestiferous reserves, but they encourage the honest prospector.'Let us develop the mineral wealth,' says they. So these forests arestill open for taking up under the mineral act. All you have to do is tomake a 'discovery,' and stake out your claim; and there you are!"
"All the mineral's been taken up long ago," Bob pointed out.
"All the valuable mineral," corrected Baker. "But it's sufficient, soErbe tells me, to discover a ledge. Ledges? Hell! They're easier to findthan an old maid at a sewing circle! That's what the country is madeof--ledges! You can dig one out every ten feet. Well, I've got peopleout finding ledges, and filing on them."
"Can you do that?" asked Bob.
"I am doing it."
"I mean legally."
"Oh, this bunch of prospectors files on the claims, and gets thempatented. Then it's nobody's business what they do with their ownproperty. So they just sell it to me."
"That's colonizing," objected Bob. "You'll get nailed."
"Not on your tintype, it isn't. I don't furnish a cent. They do it allon their own money. Oldham's got the whole matter in hand. When we getthe deal through, we'll have about two hundred thousand acres all aroundthe head-waters; and then these blood-sucking, red-tape, autocraticslobs can go to thunder."
Baker leaned forward impressively.
"Got to spring it all at once," said he, "otherwise there'll beoutsiders in, thinking there's a strike been made--also they'll getinquisitive. It's a great chance. And, Orde, my son, there's a fewclaims up there that will assay about sixty thousand board feet to theacre. What do you think of it for a young and active lumberman? I'mgoing to talk it over with Welton. It's a grand little scheme. Wonderhow that will hit our old friend, Thorne?"
Bob rose yawning.
"I'm tired. Going to turn in," said he. "Thorne isn't a bad sort."
"He's one of these damn theorists, that's what he is," said Baker; "andhe's got a little authority, and he's doing just as much as he can tounsettle business and hinder the legitimate development of the country."He relaxed his earnestness with another grin. "Stung again. That's tworises you got out of me," he remarked. "Say, Orde, don't get persuadedto turn ranger. I hear they've boosted their salaries to ninety a month.Must be a temptation!"
[Footnote A: Extraordinary as it may seem to the modern reader, thissentiment--or this ignorance--was at that time sincerely entertained bymen as influential, as powerful, and as closely interested in waterpower as Baker is here depicted.]
The Rules of the Game Page 55
