by Byron White
“Jingoes, Ben,” Stan said. “You wouldn’t think a horse would break through here pulling an empty sled.”
“No,” Uncle Ben replied. “Still, King is a big animal. That’s a lot of weight even with an empty sled.”
“True, but still . . .” Stan had decided to take no more chances. He would give instructions for the men to pile the rest of the day’s wood farther back near the edge of the pond. The few remaining loads that would come out this afternoon could be floated out to the dam when the spring melt began.
Uncle Ben set off to resume helping the teamsters unload. Stan headed in over the cutovers to speak to Allan. He wanted to get things organized for tomorrow. Today was Monday, and for the next couple of days, Tuesday and Wednesday, they would drop the wood along the small brook outside the dam. To do this the teamsters would come out the present trail, then turn to the left and go along the shoreline. They would swing inland around the edge of the dam and then head out to the small brook. The trails had all been cut and stumped in the fall. All that was left was to get a couple of men and horses to go over the trail and get the snow beaten down for tomorrow.
Stan and Allan chatted. Everything was going well in on the cutovers, Allan reported. Allan had heard of Uncle Aram’s mishap, and Stan filled him in on the details.
“My worlds!” Allan stated. “It was lucky that Uncle Aram jumped from the sled when he did.”
“Is that what happened?” Stan asked. In all the excitement he hadn’t really stopped to get Uncle Aram’s side of the story.
“Yes, when King went in the water, Uncle Aram was standing on the forward sled,” Allan began. “When he jumped off, the water was coming over the tops of his boots.”
“Yes, b’y, it could have been a bad thing, I guess,” Stan said, giving a silent prayer of thanks that Uncle Aram had escaped unscathed.
“Anyway, Allan,” Stan continued, “I’m going to take a couple of the teamsters and have them break the road along the edge of the pond and around the edge of the dam to the small brook.”
“Yes, okay, we’ll haul the rest of the wood out there over the next couple of days.”
Stan nodded. The two men had already discussed the plan back at the forepeak. Stan now headed off to get Gerald Head and Cyril Cooper to break the new wood road. Cyril was stopped beside a brow of wood and was partly loaded. Stan walked up and gave Cyril his instructions.
“Cyril, you stop what you’re doing now and go outside and break trail for tomorrow,” Stan stated. He filled Cyril in on the details.
Cyril threw a final piece of pulpwood onto the load. His rack was about a third full. Stan turned. Gerald Head had just pulled up to a brow of pulpwood up ahead and was beginning to load.
“You wait here, Cyril. I’ll go grab Gerald. I’ll send him ahead with the empty sled to break the trail. You come behind Gerald with that part of a load. That’ll firm the trail up.” That said, Stan headed off to catch Gerald.
Cyril stood there for a minute watching Stan head off in Gerald’s direction. Cyril grinned. He wasn’t big on breaking trail himself, but he knew how much Gerald purely hated it. Cyril was enjoying the moment. He would have loved to see Gerald’s face when Stan broke the news to him.
Gerald had a couple dozen pieces of pulpwood on his sleds when Stan arrived.
“How’s it going, Gerald b’y?” Stan asked. “You’ve pulled a good bit of wood today, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve done wonderful well today. I’ve moved almost as much wood as Alb and Art!” Gerald replied, his young chest blowing up like a balloon.
“That’s good. That’s good.” Gerald was beaming as Stan spoke, but then Stan continued. “I’m going to give you a bit of a break now. I want you to take Scott down to the edge of the pond and break trail along the shore to the left. Then I want you to go in to the edge of the dam and follow the trail we cut last fall out to the edge of the brook.”
Gerald’s smile disappeared. His eyes bulged out a bit, and his face flushed and turned red.
“Repeat that five or six times,” Stan continued. “Cyril Cooper will be coming behind you with a sled partly loaded. That should pack the snow down. It’ll be a bit colder tonight and the trail should harden up well for tomorrow morning.”
Gerald nodded but said nothing. He slapped the reins against Scott’s back and headed off to do Stan’s bidding. Stan had noticed the redness in Gerald’s face and his flushed cheeks. Jingoes! He wondered if maybe Gerald was working too hard. Perhaps he was overdoing it by trying to keep up with Alb and Art. It was a good thing that Stan had come along to give him a break.
CHAPTER 22
THEY HAD FINISHED HAULING wood in on the small brook by Wednesday evening. Back at camp, Stan’s thoughts turned to his horses. The events of the week—King going through the ice and his subsequent rescue—caused Stan to reflect. The horses, he knew, were a key component to the success or failure of the woods operations. One horse had already been lost—gone over the cliff into the Southwest Gander River. The other horses, like he and the men, had worked hard, were working hard to deliver the wood. The animals were beginning to show signs of wear and tear.
Stan insisted that his horses be looked after. They were well-fed. Each was given the daily ration of hay and oats. Each night around 8: 30 p.m., the teamsters returned to the barn with their lanterns. Each horse was checked over and given a thorough brushing.
Now, at this time of year with the haul-off well-advanced, some horses had chafed around their collar. In some areas the skin was gone and the flesh was exposed and raw. To these areas the men applied medication and sometimes “stove black” was spread over the sensitive area. This strange medication formed a crust over the affected area and seemed to prevent infection.
Daytime, when wood was being moved, Stan was ever on the go checking to see that the horses were not being ill-used. After the horses had delivered their loads of wood, they walked back in the trail with their empty sleds in tow. This gave the horses a time to relax their muscles and prepare for the strenuous pull-off. Stan understood that horses that were pushed too hard did not last. He insisted that the horses be cared for and not trotted. He insisted that teamsters look after their horses and he held them accountable. Stan smiled and shook his head. He was still remembering the incident with Gerald Head trotting his horse in on the big ridge. It had not been repeated.
Still thinking of Gerald, Stan shook his head again. Gerald, it seemed, was involved with a lot of the rompsing taking place in the bunkhouse this winter. The latest incident had occurred only a few nights ago. Apparently, there had been retribution for the “hellfire salve” incident. Gerald and Cyril Cooper had been the two “hangashores” suspected of switching Bert Fudge’s ointment. There had been a similar incident over at Camp 9, Uncle Frank White’s camp. Reg Canning from Newstead had developed a problem similar to Bertie’s. His healing balm had been switched with “hellfire salve,” as well. Gerald and Cyril, it was known, had good friends at Camp 9. They knew of the incident and, it was suspected, they had pulled the same heinous prank on poor Bertie.
A few nights ago, rough bunkhouse justice had been meted out. Bertie had enlisted the assistance of Albert Oake and Art Brenton. The three had lain in wait and fallen upon an unsuspecting Gerald. He had been accosted in the centre of the bunkhouse and pinned face down to the bunkhouse floor. There his trousers had been removed to the knees and the trapdoor of his long johns undone. Then “stove black” had been produced and Bertie had unceremoniously blackened Gerald’s posterior! A great roar of joyous approval had gone up from the men. Cyril, seeing the lie of the land, had aided in pinning Gerald to the floor, and in so doing had escaped retribution himself.
Art Brenton? Yes, Art Brenton had been involved in meting out justice to Gerald. Stan smiled as he contemplated this fact. Good for Art! Art was only a young man. He was a quiet, unassuming fellow not given to raucous behaviour. Art was not big in stature, but he was steady and hard-working. Stan was fond of A
rt, and in the bunkhouse Uncle Walt Cooper saw that no harm came Art’s way.
Another thing that Stan liked about Art Brenton was his attitude. Art was teamed with big Jim. Jim was a relatively young horse, wild and unpredictable. Jim had tried to kill Stan’s younger brother, Don, early in Camp 13’s operation. After Don moved to Camp 12, the men had wondered which of the teamsters would inherit Jim. None relished the idea of having to use that horse. Young Art had spoken up and asked to be paired with Jim. This had taken some courage and Stan had respected that. At first, Stan was doubtful that this was a good idea. Art was a young man and Stan was considering placing Jim with a more experienced teamster. But in the end he had given Jim to Art. Now, Stan was glad that he had. At first, Jim had tested Art severely. Even now he could not always be trusted. However, Jim and Art had bonded and made a good team. The two were moving a fine lot of wood at Camp 13.
Art was a quiet and patient man. His personality seemed to be having a positive effect on Jim, who seemed to trust Art even if the opposite were not always true. Jim came to know Art, and Art came to know Jim. Jim was an intelligent horse and learned quickly. He would walk back in the return road without instructions, turn at the correct branch road, and stop by the brow of wood. When the pulpwood was being loaded onto the sled, Art would simply say “step” and Jim would move ahead and stop. He was quick to learn and follow routines.
In the early mornings, too, Jim learned to be a model of good behaviour. Stan had asked Art and Alb to get ahead of the other teamsters with the slower horses. In the early morning darkness the men would enter the barn with just a lantern for light. After putting on the collar, Art would approach Jim and simply throw the harness over his back. Then with a “click, click,” Art would have Jim back out of his stall and head out of the barn. The other teamsters were in awe of Art’s speed. But it was outside at the nearby watering hole that a minor miracle occurred. It was there while Jim was drinking that Art buckled up Jim’s harness and tightened up the straps.
Stan just shook his head. It was hard to believe, but Jim allowed Art to move around him and finish the preparations. Yes, Art and Jim had bonded. Yet with other horses and in other situations Jim remained wild and unpredictable. Just last fall, while Stan was shoeing him, Jim had kicked out at Stan, striking him in the shoulder and sending him across the barn. Stan’s upper body had been blackened and badly bruised. It had taken him all fall to recover. And this winter, at day’s end, it was still not an uncommon occurrence for Jim to return to the barn with cracked shafts on the sled. But yet, overall, Stan was glad he had paired Art and Jim.
Most of the other teamster-horse combinations were doing well, too. Others, like Alb and Paddy, Gerald and Scott, and Uncle Aram and King were moving a lot of wood. Jingoes! Even Bill Ginn and old Min moved a lot of wood when Min was in a good mood and not being temperamental!
All things considered, things had gone well this winter. If things continued this way, the haul-off at Camp 13 would be over in another week. If so, Camp 13 would be the first to get their wood off. Others had heard of this possibility and Stan had been asked to loan out some of his horses. Stan planned to send some over to Charlie at Camp 12, and a couple to Uncle Frank White at Camp 9. He would ask the teamsters to go with their horses. This would be good for the other camps and more money for the teamsters and Stan.
Stan’s thoughts went back to last fall when he had gone out to the mouth of Southwest Gander River to gather his horses. When Stan had first decided to acquire his own horses, he had been faced with a problem. After the winter haul-offs were over, he was now responsible for their care and feeding. Feeding fifteen to seventeen large horses year-round was not a cheap proposition. Also, if the horses were to be kept at camp all year, someone would have to be paid to look after their needs. Any savings that Stan might accrue by not leasing the animals from Bowater’s would soon be eaten up in caring for them. Stan had pondered the problem and in the end had come up with a solution.
Miles outside Camp 13 the Southwest Gander River flowed into Gander Lake. Near the camp, the river flowed through a deep gorge and low hills. But near the mouth of the river, the river valley spread out and widened to reveal a large area of flat land, the river flood plain. Near the riverbanks the valley was torn up and scoured by the seasonal rafting ice and the spring pulpwood drive. Farther back, large birch trees towered above the land and here and there an occasional large spruce rose high above the flat landscape. In the openings between the large trees, grass had taken root and spread and flourished. In the rich soil, vast fields of hay ripened and rippled like wheat in a prairie wind. It was to this area that Stan brought his horses. Stan visited this area each year after the winter haul-off and the spring pulpwood drive were over. When the river receded to its normal channel, and the grasses sprouted and grew green, the horses were led out the road to feed in this oasis.
That first year it had taken three men to guide the horses from the barn to the summer feeding ground. But after that, the horses had remembered. Now it was simply a matter of taking a lead horse and a few oats in a bucket and heading out the road. Stan, at the head of the procession, had become the pied piper of the Southwest Gander. He at the head, the horses strung out behind—a strange procession heading to the Promised Land.
There in this lush Garden of Eden, the horses relaxed and healed and fattened. The river flowed through and provided drink. The succulent grasses in this wild, verdant meadow provided nourishment. And in the noonday heat on warm summer days, the horses rested and swished their tails in the shade of the birch trees that dotted the landscape. It was a beautiful, peaceful haven in which the horses rested and renewed. Then, late in the fall, after the first frosts touched the land, the horses were gathered together and taken back to the barn for the coming winter.
This fall Stan and Albert Oake had headed out over the gravel road to retrieve the horses. It was not a long distance from the river’s mouth to Camp 13. Still, the nine to ten miles were a considerable hike. The horses had not been hard to locate. Perhaps they had remembered; perhaps they were awaiting the men’s arrival. Three horses were feeding on the lowlands just down from the road. Stan saw them and rattled the oat bucket. One horse looked up and whinnied a greeting. With ears erect, the three large animals strode eagerly toward the waiting men. The horses looked down and nudged the men with their long snouts. Each was rewarded with a handful of oats. The men reached up and patted the horses and ran their hands along their shoulders. It was a meeting among friends and the horses seemed happy that the men had come.
Alb looked the horses over. My, oh my! Fat as butter, my son! Fat as butter! The oat bucket was rattled again and the other horses were called. They had all been feeding in the same general area and soon all were accounted for. Leather snubs were produced and attached to the head of the lead horse and a rope was added. Then more snubs were attached to the other horses, tying each horse to the tail of the horse immediately in front of it. When all was ready, Alb took the lead rope and Stan walked ahead with the oat bucket. This strange parade headed off for Camp 13. Behind the men a steady clomp, clomp, clomp filled the air as the horses trudged along.
About a mile in the road Stan left Alb alone with the horses. Stan had work to attend to back at camp, so with bucket in hand he disappeared around a bend in the road and was out of sight. The horses noticed this and raised their heads and stared; their ears stood erect on the tops of their heads. But soon they resumed their normal gait and the procession wended slowly onward.
The previous fall Allan had brought the horses back from their summer feeding grounds. Bert Collins from Carmanville had a camp partway along the main road. When Allan had arrived Bert had waved him in. Allan had had supper and stayed the night with Bert. The horses had been billeted in Bert’s barn. But today, Albert could not stop at Bert Collins’s camp. Stan had told Albert to continue on to Camp 13.
Alb looked around. He was still five or six miles from Camp 13 and the fall afternoon was fa
st advancing. Darkness came early now and it would be late before he reached camp. Alb picked up the pace and hastened forward. But leading a line of horses was by nature a slow process. Alb noticed that there were a lot of moose tracks along the side of the road. In some locations a lot of activity had occurred and the road was scuffed and torn up. At this time of year only a few men were in the camps. There was little traffic on the road and he saw no one.
As darkness fell, Alb turned onto the branch road that led to Camp 13. Soon the wooden bridge that spanned Dead Wolf Brook echoed to the sound of heavy horses; their large hooves drummed on the wooden planks.
Once past the brook, the road turned and headed upgrade a little, passing under a low, gravelly hill. In the darkness the trees standing on top resembled moose peering down at Albert. Alb shivered and looked around him. He had heard the stories of Stan’s and Ron’s encounter with the moose earlier in the fall. That moose had been a large bull. These old bulls could be very aggressive at this time of year, since the fall was the mating season for moose, the time of the annual rut. Bull moose could be belligerent and dangerous now, and Alb had seen such moose in on the cutovers. He had seen them lock horns and knock down sizable trees. One had charged some members of the road crew, forcing them to run for cover. The moose had hung around and the men had climbed up into nearby trees to wait until the beast’s passion and fury had subsided. Eventually, it had walked away and left the area.
Alb thought of all these things as he headed on alone in the darkness. The train of horses snaked out along the road behind him. He was getting closer to Camp 13 now and was anxious to see the lantern lights. His eyes strained as he peered ahead into the darkness. Was that something moving just up ahead? He hesitated but walked on. It was just a bush by the side of the road. He grinned to himself and shook his head. Your mind played tricks with you at times like this. But there! There ahead! There was something dark in the centre of the road and it was moving! Moving toward him! Was it a moose? A bear? He had seen bear tracks before dark. Alb stopped and the horses behind him halted and snorted. Then the lead horse let out a long, loud whinnying sound.
