Andrews is the only man I know of who could do it, but I think Billy Mason said Andrews had gone up on the Gunther track to run lines.
Come on; we'll see."
With infinite difficulty and caution, they reached the shore.
Across the gleaming logs shone dimly the lanterns at the scene of work, ghostly through the rain.Beyond, on either side, lay impenetrable drenched darkness, racked by the wind.
"I wouldn't want to tackle it," panted Thorpe."If it wasn't for that cursed tote road between Sadler's and Daly's, I wouldn't worry.It's just too EASY for them."Behind them the jam cracked and shrieked and groaned.Occasionally was heard, beneath the sharper noises, a dull BOOM, as one of the heavy timbers forced by the pressure from its resting place, shot into the air, and fell back on the bristling surface.
Andrews had left that morning.
"Tim Shearer might do it," suggested Thorpe, "but I hate to spare him."He picked his rifle from its rack and thrust the magazine full of cartridges.
"Come on, Wallace," said he, "we'll hunt him up."They stepped again into the shriek and roar of the storm, bending their heads to its power, but indifferent in the already drenched condition of their clothing, to the rain.The saw-dust street was saturated like a sponge.They could feel the quick water rise about the pressure at their feet.From the invisible houses they heard a steady monotone of flowing from the roofs.Far ahead, dim in the mist, sprayed the light of lanterns.
Suddenly Thorpe felt a touch on his arm.Faintly he perceived at his elbow the high lights of a face from which the water streamed.
"Injin Charley!" he cried, "the very man!"Chapter LIV
Rapidly Thorpe explained what was to be done, and thrust his rifle into the Indian's hands.The latter listened in silence and stolidity, then turned, and without a word departed swiftly in the darkness.The two white men stood a minute attentive.Nothing was to be heard but the steady beat of rain and the roaring of the wind.
Near the bank of the river they encountered a man, visible only as an uncertain black outline against the glow of the lanterns beyond.
Thorpe, stopping him, found Big Junko.
"This is no time to quit," said Thorpe, sharply.
"I ain't quittin'," replied Big Junko.
"Where are you going, then?"
Junko was partially and stammeringly unresponsive.
"Looks bad," commented Thorpe."You'd better get back to your job.""Yes," agreed Junko helplessly.In the momentary slack tide of work, the giant had conceived the idea of searching out the driver crew for purposes of pugilistic vengeance.Thorpe's suspicions stung him, but his simple mind could see no direct way to explanation.
All night long in the chill of a spring rain and windstorm the Fighting Forty and certain of the mill crew gave themselves to the labor of connecting the slanting stone cribs so strongly, by means of heavy timbers chained end to end, that the pressure of a break in the jam might not sweep aside the defenses.Wallace Carpenter, Shorty, the chore-boy, and Anderson, the barn-boss, picked a dangerous passage back and forth carrying pails of red-hot coffee which Mrs.Hathaway constantly prepared.The cold water numbed the men's hands.With difficulty could they manipulate the heavy chains through the auger holes; with pain they twisted knots, bored holes.They did not complain.Behind them the jam quivered, perilously near the bursting point.From it shrieked aloud the demons of pressure.Steadily the river rose, an inch an hour.
The key might snap at any given moment,they could not tell,--and with the rush they knew very well that themselves, the tug, and the disabled piledriver would be swept from existence.The worst of it was that the blackness shrouded their experience into uselessness;they were utterly unable to tell by the ordinary visual symptoms how near the jam might be to collapse.
However, they persisted, as the old-time riverman always does, so that when dawn appeared the barrier was continuous and assured.
Although the pressure of the river had already forced the logs against the defenses, the latter held the strain well.
The storm had settled into its gait.Overhead the sky was filled with gray, beneath which darker scuds flew across the zenith before a howling southwest wind.Out in the clear river one could hardly stand upright against the gusts.In the fan of many directions furious squalls swept over the open water below the booms, and an eager boiling current rushed to the lake.
Thorpe now gave orders that the tug and driver should take shelter.
A few moments later he expressed himself as satisfied.The dripping crew, their harsh faces gray in the half-light, picked their way to the shore.
In the darkness of that long night's work no man knew his neighbor.
Men from the river, men from the mill, men from the yard all worked side by side.Thus no one noticed especially a tall, slender, but well-knit individual dressed in a faded mackinaw and a limp slouch hat which he wore pulled over his eyes.This young fellow occupied himself with the chains.Against the racing current the crew held the ends of the heavy booms, while he fastened them together.He worked well, but seemed slow.Three times Shearer hustled him on after the others had finished, examining closely the work that had been done.On the third occasion he shrugged his shoulder somewhat impatiently.
The men straggled to shore, the young fellow just described bringing up the rear.He walked as though tired out, hanging his head and dragging his feet.When, however, the boarding-house door had closed on the last of those who preceded him, and the town lay deserted in the dawn, he suddenly became transformed.Casting a keen glance right and left to be sure of his opportunity, he turned and hurried recklessly back over the logs to the center booms.
There he knelt and busied himself with the chains.
