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[Frontispiece: "Don't think that makes any difference. I shall marryhim just the same." _Frontispiece.--The Trail of the Axe_.]
The Trail of the Axe
_A Story of the Red Sand Valley_
BY RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of "The Watchers of the Plains," "The Sheriff of Dyke Hole", etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
By CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1910, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. Dave II. A Picnic in the Red Sand Valley III. Affairs in Malkern IV. Dick Mansell's News V. Jim Truscott Returns VI. Parson Tom Interferes VII. The Work at the Mills VIII. At the Church Bazaar IX. In Dave's Office X. An Auspicious Meeting XI. The Summer Rains XII. The Old Mills XIII. Betty Decides XIV. The Mills XV. Betty Takes Cover XVI. Disaster at the Mill XVII. The Last of the Sawyer XVIII. Face To Face XIX. In the Mountains XX. The Church Militant XXI. An Adventure in the Fog XXII. Terror in the Mountains XXIII. The Red Tide of Anarchy XXIV. In the Dead of Night XXV. Mason's Prisoner XXVI. To the Lumber Camp XXVII. At Bay XXVIII. Dave--the Man XXIX. The End of the Strike XXX. In the Dugout XXXI. At Midnight XXXII. Two Men--and a Woman
The Trail of the Axe
CHAPTER I
DAVE
Dave was thirty-two, but looked forty; for, in moulding his great,strong, ugly face, Nature had been less than kind to him. It isprobable, from his earliest, Dave had never looked less than ten yearsolder than he really was.
Observing him closely, one had the impression that Nature had setherself the task of equipping him for a tremendous struggle in thebattle of life; as though she had determined to make him invincible.Presuming this to have been her purpose, she set to work with a liberalhand. She gave him a big heart, doubtless wishing him to be strong tofight and of a great courage, yet with a wonderful sympathy for thebeaten foe. She gave him the thews and sinews of a Hercules, probablyarguing that a man must possess a mighty strength with which to carryhimself to victory. To give him such physical strength it was necessaryto provide a body in keeping. Thus, his shoulders were abnormally wide,his chest was of a mighty girth, his arms were of phenomenal length,and his legs were gnarled and knotted with muscles which could never besatisfactorily disguised by the class of "store" clothes it was hisfrugal custom to wear.
For his head Nature gave him a fine, keen brain; strong, practical,subtly far-seeing in matters commercial, bluntly honest and temperate,yet withal matching his big heart in kindly sympathy. It was thrillingwith a vast energy and capacity for work, but so pronounced was itsdominating force, that in the development of his physical features itcompletely destroyed all delicacy of mould and gentleness ofexpression. He displayed to the world the hard, rugged face of thefighter, without any softening, unless, perhaps, one paused to lookinto the depths of his deep-set gray eyes.
Nature undoubtedly fulfilled her purpose. Dave was equipped as few menare equipped, and if it were to be regretted that his architect hadforgotten that even a fighting man has his gentler moments, and thatthere are certain requirements in his construction to suit him to suchmoments, in all other respects he had been treated lavishly. Summed upbriefly, Dave was a tower of physical might, with a face of strikingplainness.
It was twelve years since he came to the Red Sand Valley. He was thenfresh from the lumber regions of Puget Sound, on the western coast ofthe United States. He came to Western Canada in search of a country tomake his own, with a small capital and a large faith in himself,supported by a courage that did not know the meaning of defeat.
He found the Red Sand Valley nestling in the foot-hills of the RockyMountains. He saw the wonders of the magnificent pine woods whichcovered the mountain slopes in an endless sea of deep, sombre green.And he knew that these wonderful primordial wastes were only waitingfor the axe of the woodsman to yield a building lumber second to nonein the world.
The valley offered him everything he needed. A river that flowed infull tide all the open season, with possibilities of almost limitless"timber booms" in its backwaters, a delicious setting for a village,with the pick of a dozen adequate sites for the building of lumbermills. He could hope to find nothing better, so he stayed.
His beginning was humble. He started with a horse-power saw-pit, and afew men up in the hills cutting for him. But he had begun his greatstruggle with fortune, and, in a man such as Nature had made him, itwas a struggle that could only end with his life. The battle wastremendous, but he never hesitated, he never flinched.
Small as was his beginning, six years later his present great mills andthe village of Malkern had begun to take shape. Then, a year later, theresult of his own persistent representation, the Canadian NorthwesternRailroad built a branch line to his valley. And so, in seven years, hissuccess was practically assured.
Now he was comfortably prosperous. The village was prosperous. But noneknew better than he how much still remained to be achieved before thefoundations of his little world were adequate to support the weight ofthe vast edifice of commercial enterprise, which, with his own twohands, his own keen brain, he hoped to erect.
He was an American business man raised in the commercial faith of hiscountry. He understood the value of "monopoly," and he made for it.Thus, when he could ill spare capital, by dint of heavy borrowings hepurchased all the land he required, and the "lumbering" rights of thatvast region.
Then it was that he extended operations. He abandoned his first milland began the building of his larger enterprise further down thevalley, at a point where he had decided that the village of Malkernshould also begin its growth.
Once the new mill was safely established he sold his old one to a manwho had worked with him from the start. The transaction was more in thenature of a gift to an old friend and comrade. The price was nominal,but the agreement was binding that the mill should only be used for theproduction of small building material, and under no circumstances to beused in the production of rough "baulks." This was to protect his ownmonopoly in that class of manufacture.
George Truscott, the lumberman with whom he made the transaction,worked the old mills with qualified success for two years. Then he diedsuddenly of blood-poisoning, supervening upon a badly mutilated armtorn by one of his own saws. The mill automatically became the propertyof his only son Jim, a youth of eighteen, curly-headed, bright,lovable, but wholly irresponsible for such an up-hill fight as theconduct of the business his father had left him.
The master of the Malkern mills, as might be expected, was a man ofsimple habits and frugal tastes. In his early struggles he had hadneither time nor money with which to indulge himself, and the habit ofsimple living had grown upon him. He required so very little. He had noluxurious home; a mere cottage of four rooms and a kitchen, over whichan aged and doting mother ruled, her establishment consisting of onesmall maid. His office was a shack of two rooms, bare but useful,containing one chair and one desk, and anything he desired to find atemporary safe resting-place for strewn about the floor, or hung uponnails driven into the walls. It was all he needed, a roof to shade himfrom the blazing summer sun when he was making up his books, and fourwalls to shut out the cruel blasts of the Canadian winter.
He was sitting at his desk now, poring over a heap of letters which hadjust arri
ved by the Eastern mail. This was the sort of thing hedetested. Correspondence entailed a lot of writing, and he hatedwriting. Figures he could cope with, he had no grudge against them, butcomposing letters was a task for which he did not feel himselfadequately equipped; words did not flow easily from his pen. Hiseducation was rather the education of a man who goes through the worldwith ears and eyes wide open. He had a wide knowledge of men andthings, but the inside of books was a realm into which he had notdeeply delved.
At last he pushed his letters aside and sat back, his complaining chairprotesting loudly at the burden imposed upon it. He drew an impatientsigh, and began to fill his pipe, gazing through the rain-stainedwindow under which his untidy desk stood. He had made up his mind toleave the answering of his letters until later in the day, and thedecision brought him some relief.
He reached for the matches. But suddenly he altered his mind andremoved his pipe from his mouth. A smile shone in his deep-set eyes atthe sight of a dainty, white figure which had just emerged from behinda big stack of milled timber out in the yard and was hurrying towardthe office.
He needed no second glance to tell him who the figure belonged to. Itwas Betty--little Betty Somers, as he loved to call her--who taught theextreme youth of Malkern out of her twenty-two years of erudition andworldly wisdom.
He sprang from his chair and went to the door to meet her, and as hewalked his great bulk and vast muscle gave his gait something of theroll of a sailor. He had no lightness, no grace in his movements; justthe ponderous slowness of monumental strength. He stood awaiting her inthe doorway, which he almost filled up.
Betty was not short, but he towered above her as she came up, his sixfeet five inches making nothing of her five feet six.
"This is bully," he cried delightedly, as she stood before him. "Ihadn't a notion you were getting around this morning, Betty."
His voice was as unwieldy as his figure; it was husky too, in themanner of powerful voices when their owners attempt to moderate them.The girl laughed frankly up into his face.
"I'm playing truant," she explained. Then her pretty lips twistedwryly, and she pointed at the lintel of the door. "Please sit downthere," she commanded. Then she laughed again. "I want to talk to you,and--and I have no desire to dislocate my neck."
He made her feel so absurdly small; she was never comfortable unless hewas sitting down.
The man grinned humorously at her imperious tone, and sat down. Theywere great friends, these two. Betty looked upon him as a very dear,big, ugly brother to whom she could always carry all her little worriesand troubles, and ever be sure of a sympathetic adviser. It neveroccurred to her that Dave could be anything dearer to anybody. He wasjust Dave--dear old Dave, an appellation which seemed to fit himexactly.
The thought of him as a lover was quite impossible. It never enteredher head. Probably the only people in Malkern who ever considered thepossibility of Dave as a lover were his own mother, and perhaps Mrs.Tom Chepstow. But then they were wiser than most of the women of thevillage. Besides, doubtless his mother was prejudiced, and Mrs. Tom, inher capacity as the wife of the Rev. Tom Chepstow, made it her businessto study the members of her husband's parish more carefully than theother women did. But to the ordinary observer he certainly did notsuggest the lover. He was so strong, so cumbersome, so unromantic. Thenhis ways were so deliberate, so machine-like. It almost seemed asthough he had taken to himself something of the harsh precision of hisown mills.
On the other hand, his regard for Betty was a matter of less certainty.Good comradeship was the note he always struck in their intercourse,but oftentimes there would creep into his gray eyes a look which spokeof a warmth of feeling only held under because his good sense warnedhim of the utter hopelessness of it. He was too painfully aware of thequality of Betty's regard for him to permit himself any false hopes.
Betty's brown eyes took on a smiling look of reproach as she held up awarning finger.
"Dave," she said, with mock severity, "I always have to remind you ofour compact. I insist that you sit down when I am talking to you. Irefuse to be made to feel--and look--small. Now light your pipe andlisten to me."
"Go ahead," he grinned, striking a match. His plain features literallyshone with delight at her presence there. Her small oval, sun-tannedface was so bright, so full of animation, so healthy looking. There wassuch a delightful frankness about her. Her figure, perfectly rounded,was slim and athletic, and her every movement suggested the open airand perfect health.
"Well, it's this way," she began, seating herself on the corner of apile of timber: "I'm out on the war-path. I want scalps. My pocketbookis empty and needs filling, and when that's done I'll get back to myschool children, on whose behalf I am out hunting."
"It's your picnic?" suggested Dave.
"Not mine. The kiddies'. So now, old boy, put up your hands! It's yourmoney or your life." And she sat threatening him with her pocketbook,pointing it at him as though it were a pistol.
Dave removed his pipe.
"Guess you'd best have 'em both," he smiled.
But Betty shook her head with a joyous laugh.
"I only want your money," she said, extending an open hand toward him.
Dave thrust deep into his hip-pocket, and produced a roll of bills.
"It's mostly that way," he murmured, counting them out.
But his words had reached the girl, and her laugh died suddenly.
"Oh, Dave!" she said reproachfully.
And the man's contrition set him blundering.
"Say, Betty, I'm a fool man anyway. Don't take any sort of notice. Ididn't mean a thing. Now here's fifty, and you can have any more youneed."
He looked straight into her eyes, which at once responded to hisanxious smile. But she did not attempt to take the money. She shook herhead.
"Too much."
But he pushed the bills into her hand.
"You can't refuse," he said. "You see, it's for the kiddies. It isn'tjust for you."
When Dave insisted refusal was useless. Betty had long since learnedthat. Besides, as he said, it was for the "kiddies." She took themoney, and he sat and watched her as she folded the bills into herpocketbook. The girl looked up at the sound of a short laugh.
"What's that for?" she demanded, her brown eyes seriously inquiring.
"Oh, just nothing. I was thinking."
The man glanced slowly about him. He looked up at the brilliant summersun. Then his eyes rested upon the rough exterior of his unpretentiousoffice.
"It meant something," asserted Betty. "I hate people to laugh--in thatway."
"I was thinking of this shack of mine. I was just thinking, Betty, whata heap of difference an elegant coat of paint makes to things. You see,they're just the same underneath, but they--kind of look different withpaint on 'em, kind of please the eye more."
"Just so," the girl nodded wisely. "And so you laughed--in that way."
Dave's eyes twinkled.
"You're too sharp," he said. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
"Now about this picnic. You're expecting all the grown folk?"
The girl's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Of course I do. Don't you always come? It's only once a year." Thelast was very like a reproach.
The man avoided her eyes. He was looking out across the sea of stackedtimber at the great sheds beyond, where the saws were shrieking outtheir incessant song.
"I was thinking," he began awkwardly, "that I'm not much good at thosethings. Of course I guess I can hand pie round to the folks; any fellowcan do that. But----"
"But what?" The girl had risen from her seat and was trying to compelhis gaze.
"Well, you see, we're busy here--desperately busy. Dawson's alwaysgrumbling that we're short-handed----"
Betty came up close to him, and he suddenly felt a gentle squeeze onhis shoulder.
"You don't want to come," she said.
"'Tisn't that--not exactly."
He kept his eyes turned from h
er.
"You see," he went on, "you'll have such a heap of folk there. Theymostly all get around--for you. Then there'll be Jim Truscott, andJim's worth a dozen of me when it comes to picnics and 'sociables' andsuch-like."
The girl's hand suddenly dropped from his shoulder, and she turnedaway. A flush slowly mounted to her sun-tanned cheeks, and she wasangry at it. She stood looking out at the mills beyond, but she wasn'tthinking of them.
At last she turned back to her friend and her soft eyes searched his.
"If--if you don't come to the picnic to-morrow, I'll never forgive you,Dave--never!"
And she was gone before his slow tongue could frame a further excuse.