"Timber"
iHKfWfMPmaswygBnwwTrawewaBCCBWuMftwto ji.iiti;u-;iir-<u;;>;r.',fc;a;i*iO?CSTO;iUK&i-' V M HAROLD TIT ^AuX* ^J liiJ ^«^ M jgj} 1 MiigwwMiwiwwiw»wwwwii<iiiiiiiilil^^ i ijunminimw. t^r ;±:ii ! ! ■'■v-re^. i<: ot" - »« 1^' 7^ ; 'TIMBER >> "TIMBER" BY HAROLD TITUS Author of " The Last Straw," " Bruce of the Circle A," etc. BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPTSIQHT, 1922 BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY ( Incobporated) Ajp4l,-:Foiestr\^ 4.r \ Printed in the United States of America / THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY CAMBRIDQE, MABS. ^'TIMBER" CHAPTER I A WHITE Florida moon hung low over the river, flanked, for Luke Taylor and his son John, by a yellow pine and a moss-bearded oak. The night was mild and young John was dressed in summer clothing, but Luke sat drawn into his mink-lined overcoat, as if the outlook from the wide verandah of his winter home were of the bleak north instead of the edge of the tropics. His withered hands lay on the arm of the wicker chair and his cold eyes stared straight before him. "So you think I owe you that, do you?" John shifted uneasily and ran a big white hand through his light hair. "You see, father, if I'm to have an even start with other men of my — sort, it's necessary. " Luke grunted skeptically. "Of course T could start out now and find a job, go to work for some of my friends who are no better equipped to hold an advantage over me than I am over them, but who've been — who've had fathers who helped them. " "You mean it's work you don't want?" Luke asked, still watching the river. "Of course not; I'm not afraid of work, but I don't want to put, in the best years of my life grubbing when I might be building." "A flying start — that's what you want, eh?" 1 4 2 . TIMBER Luke's blue eyes swung to his son and studied the young face. ''That's it.'' "Hum, a flyin' start! And I suppose that's what all you young bucks 're looking for now. You don't want to grub out a foundation; you want that done for you." The old man drew a long breath. "We never thought of them things," he said with a hint of bitterness. "The start I got — an' I was younger than you are now — was standin' to my waist in the Saginaw, with th' river gone mad with ice an' logs. That wa'n't much like a flyin' start. It was hard toil, until th' water warmed an' the last log was in the boom. Then it was a summer in th' mills and when the snow came, back to th' woods again. Five — Six? Devil himself knows how many years, we didn't count years then; not lads my age. There was time a-plenty. Harmon put me to head th' drive; then I was woods boss, an' later he made me walkin' boss for five camps. Come next fall he took my savin's, and what they bought give me my chance to buy pine of my own — Pine!" He spoke the word as if it should be capitalized. He sighed. "From then on it was a fight against debt an' rivers an' men. I'd learned about men an' rivers when I was dryin' my socks around some other man's stove. I had to learn about debt myself, an' that was all. I did learn, an' I made money, I did things that even old Harmon was afraid to do. I took what other men thought was chances an' made big on 'em; but they wasn't chanceSc I knew that, because I knew about men an' rivers, an' debt — finally." "You surely — ," began John. TIMBER 3 "Wait! It aint just the amblin' of an old man. I^m goin' some place. For a long time youVe been fixin' for this. I know/' nodding fiercely. "IVe watched an' waited to see when you'd screw up your nerve." John stirred uneasily, but his father proceeded. "An' what did all that work an' knowledge mean? It meant a fortune!" Within the house a man with sleek black hair spoke quietly into a desk telephone, and Luke jerked his head toward him. "Rowe, there, can tell you how much it is. I don't even pay attention to that, now. I used to keep my own books, used to be proud to figure that fortune — no longer!" He shook his head and the old mouth set grimly. *'I'd give it all, every dollar, every cent; give my credit to the last dime to be back there again with an' ice-cold river huggin' my legs an' a peavy in my hand, gettin' my start, learnin' about men an' timber an' wonderin' about debt. I read the other day about a doctor that makes men young. Paper talk! But if it was true, if he could make me young again, I'd want to leave all I've made with the old shell and go back to th' beginning once more with nothin' but my hands." He eyed his old palms, protruding from the sleeves of the overcoat. "Only — steady hands. " ^> ^^. Luke again looked at the moon, now edging toward the pine trees. "But there's nothin' to go back to, nothin' I care about! Th' Pine that made me dream dreams when I was drivin' the Saginaw 's gone. No Michigan White Pine left, which was the only White Pine worth th' name! Western — yes; mixed stands; it ain't the real old quality; not th' cork." He shook his head. "An' such 4 TIMBER as that!" a contemptuous gesture toward the plume into which the moon drifted, '' counterfeit pine ! " He breathed audibly through his open mouth and turned to glare at his son who sat motionless. ''Counterfeit! So's my life! They tell me it was th' weeks in cold water that drives me down here when the geese comes over Detroit, an' keeps me here until the ice is out of the Great Lakes. They tell me it's th' cold of Michigan rivers that's in my bones now. It ain't! I know what it is!" He wriggled deeper into his fur coat, mutter- ing inarticulately. "It's somethin' else that's gone, boy. It's the Pine! You young bucks ain't what we were. There's nothin' to make your blood jump like a White Pine forest did mine! If I could lose every penny even now, old as I am, but could walk through a stand of real Michigan timber again, I wouldn't be cold. Them days, I could sink my axe to th' eye every blow; with a saw gang, I could finish my fifteen thousand a day, an' th' days were short, too. There was somethin' in that, which you bucks can't know. Pine! Pine, standin' there, straight an' true, trees thick as hair on a dog, waitin' for good men to come an' get it!" He seemed to shrink in size as his voice fell. "Gad! It warms me to think about goin' into Pine again! Not to make money!" with a sudden cry. "To cut! To drive! To saw it! To see a forest all about you when th' snow flies an' to know that when winter breaks up there'll be sections with nothin' left but tops an' stumps on 'em; to know that it's your hands an' your men's hands that'll do it! There's power in that, boy, because logs build homes an' homes build nations! TIMBER 5 "Some flap-doodle old women are callin' us destroyers and devastators! What was timber for? They use it, don't they, while they yell about what weVe done! They sob about th' next generation, but why th' hell should we care about what's comin'? Didn't Michigan Pine build th' corn belt? An' where 'd this country be without its grain lands now? Didn't Michigan Pine build cities that make the country wealthy? Hump! What's th' next generation to me? Every generation has its work to do. Anyhow look at yourself! Bah! you want to commence to learn some business from th' top down. You want to put on th' cornice before you've got the foundation in, because you don't want th' rough work. You're the kind that these old women are worrying over. I tell you, boy, you an' your like don't deserve worry from anybody, even from an old woman in pants. " "That's unfair!" John half rose as he said it, and color rushed into his face. "This has been corked up in me too long now!" His son settled back. "Unfair, am I? If you think that's unfair, wait till I get through! You come to me for what you call a start, an' what my daddy would call a finish. You, with your six feet, your hunderd-eighty pounds of youth, your strong back an' good eye, an' a better educa- tion than any of us ever had; you who're fitted for harder work than any of us, an' now you don't want to muss up your hands!" "You don't consider one thing, sir," John cried. "You blame me for not doing the way your generation did, and you don't stop to think that this is no longer your gen- eration." "I don't, eh? 1 don't consider that? You don't con- J 6 TIMBER sider then, young man, that I'm not only tryin' to give you hell but to include your whole generation, if you're a sample of it. Listen to me!" wriggling erect again. *'I come up on a Pennsylvania farm with never enough to wear, an' sometimes not enough to eat. I worked from th' time I can remember. When I went to school it was because there was no work to do. You come up in a house that when it was built was th' finest in all Detroit. You had more clothes in your first ten years than I'd had before you were born. What was spent on your grub in one month would' ve kept my brothers an' sisters a year, an' I've lost track how many of us there was. You never did a tap for yourself from th' time your mother turned you over to a nurse girl until you went to college, an' then you lived in a club with a nigger to look after you. You've gone through all the schools there are, an' what I spent on you would've educated my school district. " He tapped the arm of his chair with a trembling hand. ''When you got out of college, I sort of thought maybe you'd start in an' help th' old man out, you bein' th' only child," a mild disappointment in the tone. "Anyhow. I thought — But you didn't. I had to have somebody, so I hired Rowe. He knows how to work; not like I did, not with an axe of course, but with his head. Work's all pretty much the same. He's a good boy, but sometimes it grinds me to think I have to turn my affairs over to some other man's son to run. You're as strong as I ever was; you know about things that I never heard of," voice rising — *'But I'm through! I'm goin' on th' back trail again. Now — you talk!" and from his tone it was certain that he added in his own thoughts, "If you dare!" TIMBER 7 Young John dared. He rose slowly, and stood looking down at his father, feet spread, hands in pockets of his smart coat. "That's the hardest ride I've ever taken, " he said. "It wasn't very pleasant, I wouldn't have stood it this way if I thought you understood. You don't." Luke grunted. "If I had been a young man in your generation, I'd have started as you did, because that was the way all men began. It was backs and brains that made money then. It isn't that way now." "What makes money, then?" "Money." Luke eyed his son who waited a moment before going on: "Money makes money. The man with money makes money. The man who starts without it now is under as much of a handicap as you would have been if your back had been weak. Your father gave you your back to start with. The fathers of sons today give them money to make a beginning. I don't consider, then, when I ask you to set me up, that I am asking any more than you expected in your time. A different sort of favor, but it's no greater. " The old man snuggled down into his chair. "WeU?" " That's — that's all, sir. " One withered hand tapped the chair arm testily. "If I give you money, how do I know you have got sense enough to use it to make more? What've you ever donef' John shifted one foot slowly. i "Well I was a captain in — " "Don't make me laugh; I've got a stitch in my side. Captain in the Quartermaster Corps, eh? An' what else? " 8 TIMBER "There hasn't been time for much else." "Time! Good God, boy, you've been out of th' army most a year! What've you done with that year? Tame women? Yes. Hump! From where I sit you seem to be a pretty capable Turk, or maybe it's my money they want — like you want it. Do you list that with your refer- ences? Your luck with these flossy young petticoats?" The boy flushed so deeply that it was evident even in the dim light. "An' this little wisp of goldenrod, she seems to have run th' others out. I s'pose you think I owe her something. " "J owe Marcia something. That much is true." "Our women used to put up with hardships, shoulder to shoulder." "Our women don't do that, they are a different breed." Inside, a telephone bell w^hirred. "Yes, a different breed. You said it there; different. Like you bucks are different." Luke nodded sagely; his mouth was shut, letting his loose cheeks sag over the corners. "You want it in a hurry; all that matters is the reward. The race don't mean anything." A sudden resentment rang in that tone. John stirred uneasily. He did not speak, nor did the old man's lips relax. The telephone called again, then steps on the rug, and Philip Rowe crossed the room hurriedly. They heard his voice. "Yes, this is Mr. Taylor's residence — No — This is Mr. Taylor's secretary speaking." "Secretary!" snorted Luke. "Give me the message please, — all ready — '* And from Luke: "Bookkeeper! Bookkeeper! They've all got their notions." TIMBER 9 The French doors were open and John Taylor did not care to continue his discussion under the ears of the sleek Rowe who was writing hurriedly on a pad. When he was through he stood up and read what he had written, strok- ing his small mustache thoughtfully. Luke roused and strained to look over his shoulder. ''Forme, Rowe?" "Yes, Mr. Taylor. A telegram from McLellan. I will frame an answer." He had stepped outside, the paper m his hand. His voice was slow, even and assured. "What was it?" "About the Blueberry hardwood." "Oh!" Luke sat back, rubbing his nose with a knuckle. "He's looked it up?" "Yes, sir. There are about three hundred thousand feet left." "Three hunderd thousand!" He looked at Rowe with a decided glitter of rage. The secretary retui'ned the stare and shook his head slowly. After a moment Luke's gaze wandered as he again rubbed his sharp nose with a thin knuckle. It came to rest on his son's face, enigmatic, speculative. His lips worked. "Three hunderd thousand of hardwood logs," he mumbled, "an' the price of lumber gone hog-wild — eh!" He settled back and his hands, palms up, lay relaxed on the chair arms. A queer smile played around his mouth and the wrath died in his eyes. "Boy, a man's never so apt to be wrong as when he's too sure," he began. Rowe started to withdraw, but Luke's gesture stayed him. "I don't want to be wrong on this. — John an' me, Rowe, have been talkin' business. He's 10 TIMBER decided it's time he does something to make his — fortune," dryly. "WeVe had a little argument, which didn't get us much of anywhere. John calculates I owe him somethin', and mebby I do — after hearing what he's had to say to me tonight." There was a streak of grit in the tone, as though he repressed some strong impulse. "He wants a start, a flyin' start — somethin' he can turn over quick, an' not have to monkey along at hard work and spend the years I did — " He licked his lips and, before his disconcerting manner, John stirred uneasily. "John's got a better education than I ever had. He's more sure of himself than I was at his age. He thinks I don't understand him, an' mebby I don't. " He wheezed an odd laugh and rubbed his nose briskly. "Ah-he! There's nothin' so likely to upset a man as bein' too sure. "Son," sobering and stirring in his chair, "logs are worth money today. Three hundred thousand of hard- wood's worth what I'd have called a lot of money. How'd that suit you, if I give you this three hundred thousand for your start — so's you wouldn't have to grub along, so's you'd have it plumb easy compared to what I had?" The secretary's head made a slight forward movement, as in surprise, but Luke's face betrayed nothing, except a grim settling of the mouth; Rowe then looked at John and the boy thought a smirk crossed his lips. "You can make out the papers, Rowe, an' throw in that forty," said the old man. "You can do it tomorrow, can't you? " "Yes, sir, the first thing in the morning." Silence for a moment; Rowe walked away, and as he TIMBER 11 crossed the room inside his head rocked back, as though, perhaps, he laughed to himself. Young Taylor watched him go and then turned to his father. "Logs?" he asked, rather bewildered. "Why, I don't know saw-logs from — " "From bumble-bees," Luke finished for him with anger in his voice — and a smile in his eyes. "But, mebby your fortune's there, in them logs, boy. Fd 'a jumped at a gift like that — You've heard about logs all your life ; likely you know more about logs than you do anything else — Well, there's your chance. Take it or leave it. — Course, think it over; think it over. There ain't any rush as far as I can judge by th' way you put in your time — Now run along, I got all stirred up, talkin' about Michigan Pine. Think it over, Fd say it was a hand- some start — " For a moment their gazes met, and apprehension ran through the younger man, for he did not like the sort of smile that clung to his father's eyes; did not like the for- bidding set of his mouth. "Very well, sir; I will think it over," he said, trying to cram his reply with dignity, and walked inside. John stood before a mirror in the library, studying his own reflection. He did not like this, it struck at his con- ceit; it was distasteful, but there had been something else in his father's manner beside subtle derision — a chal- lenge, perhaps. He sat down to think it over. CHAPTER II John Taylor was so absorbed that he did not hear the motor ear come up the drive and stop at the side of the house. Philip Rowe was just leaving, light coat over his arm, when the headlights swung in from the street and blinded him. He stood on the step until the car stopped. ''Hello, Phil." It was a girl's voice, crisp and clear. ''Marcia?" He stepped forward and put out his hand. "Is John here?" she asked, and added, "I have an engagement with him." The interval before Rowe replied was long enough to imply disappointment.^ "He's in the house now — unfortunately!" "Flatterer! Tonight I — " "You what?" "Came for John— " "And what else? What were you going to say?" He moved nearer so he could see her face, dimly revealed by the dash light. She drew back, showing her very white teeth. "Nothing at all," she laughed lowly, and when he gave a breath of only half -pretended dejection, she whispered: "I came for John — tonight! " Rowe Jooked quickly into the house, then made as if to open the car door, but the girl's hand flew out to hold the latch fast. "Please, PhH!" 12 TIMBER 13 Their gazes held a moment, bright with insinuating lights. Then Rowe bowed. "Very well, " he said, and entered the house to smnmon yoimg Taylor. When John appeared Rowe was walking out the drive toward the street, very erect, with confidence in the sway of his shoulders. The girl had been watching him. Taylor spoke slowly to Marcia Murray and smiled and slouched down beside her, showing an ease that was some- thing more than familiarity with this one girl. There are men who never can be comfortable in the presence of any woman, who must always be self-conscious even before the mothers of their children; these are the men who are failures with women and who are secretly afraid and consciously inferior. On the other extreme are the men whose glances at women are always penetrating and never very curious; they have the assurance which makes for easy acquaintanceships that they take lightly and which thrill their gentler parties; they are at once fond and scornful of women, and know that the one does not live who can blind them to her weaknesses; they hke to see this deception tried simply to give them justification for bringing some presumptuous female to humiliation. The chief difference between these two types of men is that now and again the former is surprised by having a triumph forced on him; quite often the latter is bewildered by a defeat. John Taylor belonged to the second group. The car swung out to the street. "Where away?" John asked. She did not respond to his smile. "You are worried," she said. "Not much." 14 TIMBER "But some!" "Yes." "Want to talk?" "More than anything else." She turned along the car tracks, reached a small foot for the accelerator and they leaped ahead. "Now talk to me," she said. "I'd rather just look at you. " She lifted her chin. "An unfair advantage! My eyes are on the road. " "So's your mind. When we're somewhere else, I'll talk." She dropped one hand from the wheel to pat his knee swiftly and flashed a smile at him. Then she kept busy with driving, while Taylor took his unfair advantage. Marcia Murray was small and very trim. Her hair, even in the cold light of the arc under which they swept, was a glorious yellow. Luke had called her a wisp of goldenrod and John knew the old man had been half contemptuous; now the words came back to him and his throat contracted. She was just that; a stalk of golden- rod, fragile, slight, lovely. Her little features were sharp, eyes large and heavy-lashed. The silken legs stretching for clutch and brake were as gently moulded as her fine hands on the wheel. They left town and swept along the paved drive through scattered yellow pines where the moonlight bathed the girl and made John's heart leap — She was so like a cameo! He could conjure all manner of delightful things to say of her — And then they slowed where the road swung to the right and she let the car roll from pavement to turf beneath great oaks that dripped moss with the TIMBER 15 river again before them spattered by the superwhite moonlight. The engine stopped and upon them burst the cries of miUions of night bodies, a shrill, sustained chorus, a metallic trill. A wind rippled the stream and moon- beams flashed from it, like rays from mirrors. A bunch of coots, sleeping on the water, showed black not fifty yards from them. Marcia leaned forward and switched off the dash light; her slim, very cool hand found Taylor's. "Now what?" she said gravely — and Taylor told what had taken place with his father; told it, mostly, looking straight into her eyes, which looked back at him, wide, understanding and patient, but when he finished his narrative of what had happened and turned his gaze out on the river, the girl's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and a look that was not patience showed there. "My father's a queer old bird," he went on. "He's never understood me. He's never seemed to have much interest in me, especially since I went away to college; never stinted me in allowance and never crabbed because I didn't settle down, but there hasn't been much in common — except that we're father and son. I hadn't intended to put it up to him quite this way, but he forced my hand. He doesn't like the notion of any one getting anything without sweating for it, he doesn't like to have any one have opinions of his own — Logs are worth a lot of money, I know, but this isn't a marker to what I'd expected he would do for me. He knows, as well as I know, that it won't fill the bill and give me any sort of a start. I've thought it over and the only answer I can find is that he wants to see what I am woimd on. " "And if you make good on this — ?" 16 TIMBER "Then he might come across properly." The girl put a hand to his shoulder and shook him. "Then you will, John! You have everything to gain, nothing to lose. " He nodded. " That's about the size of it. I don't want that sort of start, I've had my share of roughing it in the army; but it's only for a few weeks and it's a good gamble — if I make good. " "Of course you will," Marcia said. Taylor turned toward her impulsively and put both arms around her small body, looking down into her moon- lit face. "Will you go with me, Marcia?" he asked. "Go with you? You mean— ?" He nodded. "Marry me now. Let's start together. Let's begin as though this really were the beginning, and we were going to make a fortune by the strength of my back — Marcia, will you?" His voice was unsteady with eagerness and he drew her closer, struggling to hold her face to the moonlight, but she ducked it out of his sight, buried it against his shoulder and he felt a shudder travel her body. "Marcia!" "Don't, John!" "Marcia, what is it?" He forced her chin upward and called her name again when he saw tears in her eyes. "What is it?" She shook her head and pressed knuckles against her lips, looking away. "It's the same thing you tried to explain to your father, " she whispered, voice husky, words rapid. "Don't you see, that, John? Don't you see that to begin that way is asking something of me that you have TIMBER 17 tried to avoid yourself?" He murmured contritely as she went on. ^' I'm no more fitted to begin life as a poor man's wife than you are to — to work with your back! It isn't in me, dear. I feel small, mean and inferior. You've been so big and fine to me; I know you need me, but I'm thinking of the future. I don't want to mar our happiness by a bad beginning. I want to be with you. I'd give any- thing if I could marry you now and go into the woods with you. But what is a girl to do?" She held out a hand in query, which disengaged his close embrace. "I can't break away from the environment of my whole life, can I? After I've been schooled to tastes for beautiful things, after I've been taught to think that nothing is worth while, which is ugly, I'm not wholly to blame if I find my ideas fixed, am I?" *' Don't, Marcia! It's all such nonsense to be miserable over this. " "But I am! Don't you see that the two strongest impulses in my life are coming into conflict tonight? On one side is my love for you, on the other my unfitness to live a life that is cramped by the lack of money. I've been on the ragged edge of want ever since I can remember! Here I was with girls for friends who knew no scrimping, no ugliness, being taught to devote my whole soul to things that they thought were worth while, and, of course, things that only money could buy. And I lived in a home — Why, John, you and I never would have been here tonight if we hadn't established the practice of renting the apart- ment winters. Papa takes a room and mama and I come up here. We couldn't do it unless we leased the place we live in most of the year. I can pioneer as well as my father pioneered, for a little while. I will show him that I can work, as he worked, if necessary. I'll make him regret what he said to me and when I do that, I'll bring comfort to you, sweetheart! You're right! Your training has been right! Money and what it will bring is all that matters. How you get it, even, doesn't count any more, unless you're a downright thief. It's dog eat dog and the weak man lose! I hate to grub. I hate to make a mean, slow beginning, but it's my father's way. He doesn't care about money, but he doesn't care about me particularly, either. If I can make him like me by taking up this offer — it won't be long, Marcia, it won't be long!" She yielded to his embrace again, and lifted her tear- wet face to his. One arm crept about his shoulders and lay there — like the caressing tendril of a flower — or the binding tendril of a creeper; and her eyes, on a distant star, narrowed again, though they were still wet, as she drew his face into the hollow of her soft throat. "I feel like a rotter," he said. "I've come up short against the collar, when I thought there was no limit to the leash. I've been doing you an injustice, been wasting our youth, when we should have every hour together. I've been keeping you in this damned uncomfortable situation TIMBER 19 you have at home, while I dawdled. Now Fm through!" "I knew I could trust you," she breathed, and though the voice was very gentle and sweet it possessed a quality which indicated that she had arrived at that trust only after difficulties — and perhaps she was not yet sure. It made the man start and repeat his promise, lips against her cheek, determination hot and not to be questioned. Their hands met in a clasp of good will, and Taylor again pressed his kisses upon her lips and throat, and all the time her eyes were open, fixed on space, as though she listened for some word, waited for some thought — unshaken by his burst of passion. They drove home slowly, John at the wheel, Marcia snuggled against him, her arm over his shoulder. Halfway in she said: ''John, don't you sometimes think Phil Rowe is awfully close to your father? Almost dangerously close?" "Dangerously?" he asked with an idle laugh. "I think Phil's safe enough." '* I don't mean that — Dangerously for you. He seems to have a better grasp on your father's affairs than any one. " "Oh, I see — Of course, father leaves all the details to him, and Phil's a mighty competent chap for an underling. " "He doesn't strike me as an underling." John chuckled. "He calls himself father's secretary, which of course he is. Father — insists on calling him his bookkeeper." Marcia's laugh was most perfunctory. "He's the sort of chap who would take a lot of ridicule and wait for the last laugh. He — seems so tenacious. " 20 TIMBER '' That's the sort father needs." ''Perhaps." A pause. ''When you are away, he even answers your letters, doesn't he? He has told me that. " "Father never writes to me." "But he spoke as if your father didn't even dictate them; as though he had even the responsibility of giving answers to his employer's son." The motor speeded as John's foot unconsciously pressed the accelerator. "He does have a good deal of authority — " Two hours later, John Taylor walked thoughtfully up the drive and let himself in the carriage door. His father and mother were sitting in the library, his mother reading the newspaper aloud to Luke. She took off her glasses when John came in. After a moment old Luke looked up and it struck the boy that his eye was cold, not at all as it usually appeared when he talked to Philip Rowe. "Father, I've decided to go north right away," John said almost casually. "The sooner I am on the job, the sooner I'll make my start. I want to thank you again. " His mother made a little flutter of pleasure, but Luke did not stir. He spat in the general direction of the fire and rolled a skeptical eye at his wife. "Son, when you get on the job, think about thanks." There was something subtly derisive in his manner. CHAPTER III John Taylor's good intentions to become active at once lasted until he reached Detroit. There he dawdled a week with his friend Dick Mason and other pals, and it was not until one afternoon when he telephoned McLellan, his father's attorney, that he was stirred to action again. "Mr. McLellan, this is John Taylor — Yes — Oh, several days — On my way to White's camp to look after logs that are there — Father gave them to me, and I thought—" ^^Gave them to you!" came a rather startled voice. ''What for?" "A dowry!" "You mean, you're going to try to do something with them?" "Of course," vaguely alarmed by the tone. "I thought perhaps you had some suggestions." A pause. "By George. I haven't a suggestion to my back, John! You know the situation of course. " "Why — yes," hesitantly. "All right. Help you out if I can; good-bye." The situation? McLellan's voice had been rather dumbfounded. What situation? And his father's warning to withhold his thanks until he saw the logs — Rowe's smile when Luke first proposed the gift. He did not like it; there was something here which alarmed him. 21 22 TIMBER There was to have been a party that night, with wine smuggled from Canada, but John did not wait. He pre- pared to leave in a mad rush, missed the last train by- minutes, and on Dick Mason's advice bought a ticket for Pancake, clear across the country from the logs. He could drive in, however, and save a day. And so on April 5, 1920, a sleepy porter put John off at Pancake, Michigan, in the gray mist of morning. Taylor had seen such towns as this on trips to Windigo Lodge, Dick Mason's fishing retreat on the Au Sable, hopeless little towns in the back-wash of progress. It had a main street of sand, now black and rutted by spring rains, wooden sidewalks, false-fronted stores built of wood. It boasted a court house pathetically struggling to set itself up with a measure of distinction with iron stamped to indicate red brick for sheeting, and zinc cornices of extravagant design. Beyond was the Commercial House with its sign nearly weathered away. The bank was of pressed brick and very tiny. The front windows of the office of the Blueberry Banner were broken and patched with yellowing newsprint. There was a livery stable with a high-stepping wooden horse hung in front, and beneath the enthusiastic equine a board painted with a word indicative of the influence which had deposed him from his once important estate: Garage. Other thoroughfares branched from First Street and as Taylor walked toward the hotel he could see the dwell- ings that fronted on them. Here and there was one which pretended to be something, with a tower on one corner and gingerbread work dripping from the porches, but others were boxes only and needed paint, while numbers had never known garnishment of any sort Beyond these TIMBER 23 the quality and number both frayed out until off toward the jack pine which grew thinly over the country were the weather-beaten tar-paper houses of the Michigan pine barrens. One other passenger had arrived with John, he noticed, when halfway across the street. This was a big man with a broad-brinamed hat, an unbuttoned coat, showing a heavy watch chain and charm. His eyes were blue and sunny, his skin rough and red, mouth large. He emanated good nature and when he said by way of greeting, "We should grab the worm this morning, neighbor," John grinned and remarked that they were early enough. No one was astir on the street, though every chimney belched breakfast smoke. Within the office of the Com- mercial House a gaunt man, smoking a pale cigar, was putting wood in the base burner as John and his companion entered. ''Hello, Jim," he said to the big man, coughing from his cigar smoke. "Morning, Henry. Every little thing settin' pretty?" "Sure is." Henry rattled the stove dampers, while Jim dropped his bag and walked behind the desk. John noticed that this fixture was a portion of an old bar and that the floor before it was pitted with innumerable fine holes, the marks left by boots of rivermen, gone now, like the timber and the saloons. Jim took a packet of letters from a shelf behind the desk and rummaged through them, sorting those that were for him. Then he retired to a chair by the stove and began opening envelopes. The proprietor — the man with the cigar — went behind the desk, slapping his hands together to cleanse them. 24 TIMBER ''Do you wish accommodations?" he asked in a low voice, evidently desiring to leave Jim undisturbed with his mail. "Breakfast, anyhow; probably that will be all." John signed the register. The other looked at his signature. "I'd like to get out to White's camp today. Maybe you can tell me who'll take me." The man shook his head. "Ain't been up in th' hardwood all winter, " he confessed still in that half tone. "When he gets through w^ith his mail," — a nod toward Jim — "Mr. Harris can tell you. He knows. " "What? What's that?" Harris looked up from his letter. "This man wants to get to White's camp, Jim. " Harris removed his gold-rimmed eye-glasses and looked more closely at John. Behind the genial quality in that gaze was appraisal, a cunning, that Taylor had not sensed earlier. ''Up in Lincoln township," he said, ''away at th' other end of the county. The livery can take you up." He replaced his glasses and shook the fold from the letter he read. Then: "White's gone." "Gone?" startled. "Yup. Camp's abandoned. Want to see him? " John heard his own voice say: "No, I'm only interested in what he's been doing." His heart sank. If White was gone, where were his logs, and how was he to get them out? Or had there ever been logs? He wanted to blurt out questions, but he could not; this was his business, his first business; and he had been so sm-e that it would all be simple. To ask questions would TIMBER 25 admit doubt; he would not do that to himself, let alone to strangers. Harris went on with his mail. Henry puttered quietly. A door opened in a few minutes and a blowsy blonde appeared. "Breakfast's ready, " said Henry, and Taylor and Harris went into the dining room. They were the only guests and sat at the same table, and Harris, after glancing at the head-lines of a Detroit paper, put it aside. He winked at the girl when she put butter at his plate, and she smiled with lumbering coyness. "You got back for 'lection, I see,*' she observed. "Yup." "Seems like we can't do nothin' important without you, any more, Mr. Harris. " "Hope you'll never do anything rash without me!" he drawled in his big voice, and the girl giggled with a mix- ture of confusion and delight. Breakfast came on. John had selected the best from the girl's chant, but Harris had half a grapefruit and, later, a palatable-looking steak; neither of these had been offered Taylor. The two talked in desultory manner. Rain pattered the window and passed, and the day brightened. The proprietor came into the room. "The auto livery is open, Mr. Taylor, " he said. "Shall I tell 'em you want to make a drive?" "Thanks, yes." In a moment he looked up to find Harris' eyes on him with a knowing smile. "So, you're young Taylor," he said and grinned. "Taylor is my name and I am young." John smiled; this man made one feel comfortable. 2a TIMBER "You're Luke Taylor's boy?" "lam." "Well, well — Who'd thought it!" "And how did you know it?" "Why you're a Taylor an' you're headed for White's camps to look after those logs, I suppose. Everybody here knows the trick that was turned on your daddy. Say, Taylor, that was a shame!" shaking his head. "I expect your daddy '11 put the screws on White. " John said nothing; nothing of which he was conscious. He mumbled a few words and went back to his breakfast, not for nourishment, but for refuge from his own con- fusion. A trick, the man had said! Harris talked on, a genial ambler in conversation, drifting from logs and lumber to an odd assortment of topics, and when they left the dining room, they smoked together in the office. It was noon before Taylor got under way. Harris took him to the garage where a narrow-faced boy wielded a wrench over the motor of a decrepit Ford. On the street men greeted Harris as good inferiors address a genial master. "Yes," the boy said, he would make the trip when he had his motor working. "If anybody can make her turn over, Lucius is the boy, " said Jim. "You Godam know it," tittered Lucius. Harris went his way. "Got to vote," he explained. "If you get over here again be sure and look me up, Taylor." "Who's Harris?" It was the first question John put to his driver as they TIMBER 27 rattled out of Pancake and took the ruts of the sand road that led straight north. ''Jim? Oh, he's lawyer for Chief Pontiac Power. You know about th' dam? No? Hell, they've got th' biggest dam in th' world right here in this county. " ''No!" "Well, th' biggest in Michigan — or this part of it anyhow," the youth qualified. "Chief Pontiac Power an' Light put it in ten years ago. They shoot juice clear down to them big towns like Saginaw and Flint. Jim, he runs things. Fine feller, Jim, an' he sure makes the dough. " Lucius had further praises for Harris, but John paid little attention. It was evident that unless he wanted continual loquaciousness in his ear it would be well to be chary with questions. Beyond Pancake was nothing; literally nothing, no farms, no houses, no fences. The road was simply two deep ruts in the thin June grass sod and red brown moss, and wound on interminably across the monotonous Michigan pine barrens, or, as the natives call them, the plains. Here and there stood patches of jack pine, at times many acres in extent. Again it was oak, with some sizeable trees and much brush; in other places native poplar and balm of Gilead; birch and soft maple rose on ridges; in the distance was the blue-green of swamps. All about stood stumps, big stumps, close together, rotted by time and blackened by fire, ugly and desolate, but marking the places where within the generation mighty pine had reared their ragged plumes in dignified congregation. The same black that was on the stumps was on living trees, too; whole halves had been eaten from the butts of oak by creeping flames; smaller oaks, fire-killed, stood black and I 28 TIMBER dead, while a clump of fresh brush rose from the living roots. Poplar and birch grew up through a tangle of punky, brittle trunks that had been trees not so long ago, that had given up life before fire and had finally fallen among their growing progeny. From ridges, Taylor could see miles of this. They dropped down into sweeping valleys of the same thing. 