Great American Industries Series

                          TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN

                                  OR

                   FROM MAINE TO OREGON FOR FORTUNE

                         BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER

     Author of "At the Fall of Montreal," "Young Explorers of the
         Isthmus," "American Boy's Life of William McKinley,"
                 "Old Glory Series," "Between Boer and
                     Briton," "On to Pekin," etc.

                     _ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. SHUTE_

                                BOSTON
                            LEE AND SHEPARD
                                 1903

                       Published, October, 1903

                  COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY LEE AND SHEPARD

                         _All rights reserved_

                             Norwood Press

                            BERWICK & SMITH
                            Norwood, Mass.

                               U. S. A.

                                PREFACE

"TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN" is a complete story in itself, but forms
the first volume of a line to be issued under the general title of
"Great American Industries Series."

In beginning this series, I have in mind to acquaint our boys and young
men with the main details of a number of industries which have become
of prime importance, not alone to ourselves as a nation, but likewise
to a large part of the world in general.

Our United States is a large country and consequently the industries
are many, yet none is perhaps of greater importance than that of the
lumber trade. Lumber gives us material for our buildings and our ships,
our railroads and our telegraph lines, and furnishes the pulp from
which millions of pounds of paper are made annually. We export lumber
to Europe, to the West Indies, and even to the Orient, drawing on a
forest treasure that covers thousands of square miles of territory.

The tale opens in Maine, which in years gone by was the paradise of
the American lumberman. In those days pine was king, and Maine became
known far and wide as the Pine Tree State. When the best of the pine
had disappeared, spruce claimed the logger's attention; and then the
lumberman looked elsewhere for his timber, first in Michigan and along
the Great Lakes, and in the South, and then in California, and in that
vast section of our country drained by the Columbia (or Oregon) River.

The two young lumbermen of this story are hardly heroes in the accepted
sense of that term. They are bright youths of to-day, willing to
work hard for what they get, but always on the alert to better their
condition. As choppers, river-drivers, mill hands, and general camp
workers they have a variety of adventures, but only such as fall to the
lot of more than one lumberman working in the woods of Maine, Michigan,
or Oregon to-day. It was in the Far West that they found their greatest
opportunity for advancement, and how they made the most of that chance
is described in the pages which follow.

In presenting this work the author desires once again to thank the many
who have interested themselves in his previous books. May they find the
reading of this volume even more interesting and profitable.

                                                    EDWARD STRATEMEYER.

                                                      _August 1, 1903._

                               CONTENTS

                      I. A TALK ABOUT EMPLOYMENT

                     II. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE BROOK

                    III. TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN AT HOME

                     IV. A FRESH START

                      V. SOMETHING ABOUT THE MAINE LUMBER TRADE

                     VI. DEEP IN THE WOODS

                    VII. THE DANGERS OF LOG-ROLLING

                   VIII. CHRISTMAS, AND AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

                     IX. DALE AND OWEN SPEAK THEIR MIND

                      X. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE WOODS

                     XI. SPRINGTIME IN THE CAMP

                    XII. THE LODGE AT PINE TREE LAKE

                   XIII. A LOG JAM ON THE PENOBSCOT

                    XIV. BERTIE AND GERTRUDE

                     XV. TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS

                    XVI. PURSUED BY THE FOREST FIRE

                   XVII. THE RAGING OF THE ELEMENTS

                  XVIII. BOUND FOR THE GREAT LAKES

                    XIX. A TALK ON THE TRAIN

                     XX. AT JOHN HOOVER'S HOME

                    XXI. AN UNSIGNED CONTRACT

                   XXII. A LUMBER BOAT IN A STORM

                  XXIII. OFF FOR OREGON

                   XXIV. SOMETHING ABOUT THE NORTHWEST LUMBER INDUSTRY

                    XXV. AN INTERVIEW WITH ULMER BALASCO

                   XXVI. IN AN OREGON FOREST

                  XXVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LOG TRAIN

                 XXVIII. JEFFERSON WILBUR SEEKS INFORMATION

                   XXIX. MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE

                    XXX. ULMER BALASCO SHOWS HIS HAND

                   XXXI. THE CRISIS

                  XXXII. AN UNEXPECTED APPOINTMENT

                 XXXIII. THE RAILROAD CONTRACT

                  XXXIV. DALE COMES INTO HIS OWN

                   XXXV. END OF THE CONTRACT AND OF THE STORY

                             ILLUSTRATIONS

"Want a job, eh?"

It leaped forward with lowered antlers directly for the young lumberman.

"Jump! Don't wait! Jump!" yelled Owen.

"A bear!" cried Dale.

Logs rose and fell in front and on each side of them.

"Have ye got 'em?" he demanded, in a shrill voice.

"Hurrah! it's down!" cried Dale.

Ulmer Balasco shook his fist in the young lumberman's face.

                          TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN

                               CHAPTER I

                        A TALK ABOUT EMPLOYMENT

"Do you mean to tell me that Hickley said he wouldn't send over that
lot of logs I ordered last week?"

"That is what he said, Mr. Larson. He is short himself, and said he
told you he thought he couldn't spare them. Not a drive has come down
the river for three weeks."

"I know that, Bradford." John Larson, the owner of the Enterprise
Lumber Mill, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's hard luck. I guess
I'll have to shut down after all. And I was calculating to keep you all
working."

The face of Dale Bradford became as serious as that of his employer.
"How soon will you close up the mill?" he asked after a pause.

"As soon as those logs over yonder are cut up." The owner of the
sawmill kicked a block of wood out of his way rather savagely. "It's a
shame not to get logs, with so much timber cut ready to use."

"The pulp mill is what's done it," replied Dale. "They have a big
contract to fill, so I was told over in Oldtown, and so they are
willing to pay big prices for any sort of stuff."

"You're right, Bradford. They'll buy little sticks that we couldn't
afford to handle."

"What we've got on hand won't keep us going longer than Saturday,"
continued Dale, gazing around at the small pile of logs resting partly
in and partly out of the stream upon which the sawmill was situated.

"Just about Saturday."

"And there's no telling when we'll be able to start up again, I
suppose."

"Just as soon as I can get hold of the stuff to go ahead with. I don't
like to have the mill idle any more than you or the others like to be
out of work."

"I'll have to get something to do pretty quick," said Dale earnestly.
"I can't live on nothing."

"You ought to have something saved."

"A fellow can't save much out of six dollars a week, Mr. Larson.
Besides, I've been paying off that little debt my father left when he
died."

"I see, I see," interposed the mill owner hastily. "You're a good sort
of a lad, Dale--as good a lad as your father was a man. If we shut
down on Saturday perhaps I can keep you on a week longer--cleaning up
around the mill and along the river, and doing other odd jobs. That
will give you more time in which to look for another opening."

The head sawyer of the mill now came up to question John Larson
concerning the cutting up of certain large logs, and Dale moved away
to resume his regular work, that of piling up the boards in the little
yard adjoining the steamboat landing.

It was hard work, especially in this summer, noon-day sun, but Dale was
used to it and did not complain. And this was a good thing, as nobody
would have listened to his complaint, for all around that mill worked
just as hard as he did. John Larson was a just man, but a strict one,
and he required every man he employed to earn his salary.

Dale Bradford was an orphan, eighteen years of age, tall, muscular,
healthy, and as sunburnt as outdoor life could make him. He was the
only son of Joel Bradford, who in years gone by had owned a good-sized
lumber tract on the west branch of the Penobscot River, in Maine, where
this story opens.

When a small boy Dale had had two sisters, and his home with his
parents, on the shore of Chesuncook Lake, had been a happy one. But
the death of the two sisters and the mother had caused great grief to
the father and the son, and it can truthfully be said that after these
loved ones were laid away in the little cemetery among the pines, Joel
Bradford was never the same. He lost interest in his lumber camp and
in the spot that had been his home for so many years, and at the first
opportunity he sold out and moved down to Bangor.

It was at Bangor that he fell in with several men who were interested
in the gold and silver mines of the great West. One of these men
induced him to invest nearly all his money in a mine said to be located
in Oregon. The ground was purchased by Joel Bradford, and preparations
were made to begin mining on a small scale, when word came that no
gold or silver was to be found in that locality, and the scheme fell
through, and the man who had induced Mr. Bradford to invest disappeared.

The money lost in this transaction amounted to six thousand
dollars--nearly the whole of Joel Bradford's capital--and the former
lumberman felt the blow keenly. He grew reckless and speculated in
lumber in and around Bangor, and soon found himself in debt to the sum
of five hundred dollars. This he paid all but a hundred dollars, when,
during unusually severe weather on the river, he contracted pneumonia,
from which he never recovered.

Dale was not yet seventeen years of age when he found himself utterly
alone in the world, for this branch of the Bradford family had never
been large and the grandparents had come to Maine from Connecticut
years before. Dale had a fair common-school education, but most of his
life had been spent at the lumber camps and along the river and the
lakes with his father. He could fell a tree almost as well as a regular
lumberman, and had followed more than one drive down the stream to the
boom or the sawmill.

"I've got to buckle in and make a man of myself," was what he told
himself after the first great grief over the loss of his father was
over. "I can't afford to sit down and do nothing. I've got to support
myself, and pay off that debt father left behind him."

He had been doing odd jobs for a lumber firm owning an interest in
yards at Bangor and at Oldtown, twelve miles further up the Penobscot.
But these did not pay very well, and he looked further, until he struck
Larson's Run, a small settlement located on a tributary of the big
river. Larson had known Joel Bradford well for years, and had purchased
many a cut of logs from him.

"So your father is dead and you want a job," John Larson had said.
"Well, I'll give you the best that I have open"; and then and there he
had engaged Dale at a salary of four dollars per week, a sum which was
afterwards raised to six dollars.

Dale secured board with a mill hand living near by, and as soon as he
was settled he began a systematic reduction of the debt his father had
left unpaid. He felt that this was a duty he owed to the memory of his
parent and to the honor of the family at large.

"They shan't say that he swindled anybody," was the way he put it to
himself. "I'll pay every dollar of it before I buy a thing for myself
that isn't actually necessary."

In the bottom of his trunk at the boarding house Dale had the deed to
the land in Oregon which his father had purchased--that unfortunate
transaction that had practically beggared them. The young lumberman
often read the papers over carefully. They showed that his father had
been the sole owner of many acres of territory located in the heart of
the great West. Of this great tract of land Dale was now the sole owner.

"And to think that the tract is only a rocky mountain side, good for
nothing at all," he would say with a sigh. "Now, if it were only a
stretch of farm land, I might go out and try my luck at farming some
day. I guess it's only fit for a stone quarry,--same as the rocky lands
here,--but nobody wants a quarry out there, a hundred miles or more
from nowhere at all."

So far Dale had managed to pay up all but thirty dollars of the debt
left behind by his parent. He might have paid this, but a log had
rolled on his foot, causing him a bruise that had kept him from work
for two weeks and given him a doctor's bill to pay in addition.

The thirty dollars was owing to a riverman named Hen McNair. The fellow
was a Scotchman and exceedingly close-fisted, and he had bothered Dale
a good deal, hoping to have his claim paid at once.

"You can pay up if you want to," said McNair in his Scotch accent. "If
you've not the money sell off some of your things."

"I've sold off all I can spare," had been Dale's reply. "You'll have to
wait. From next Saturday on I'll pay you two dollars a week."

"Hoot! 'Twill be fifteen weeks--nigh four months--before we come to the
end."

"It's the very best I can do."

"Can't you pay me five or ten dollars now?"

"No. The most I can give you is two dollars."

"Then give me that. And see you keep your word about the balance." And
stuffing the bill Dale handed him into his pocket, Hen McNair had gone
off grumbling something about the want of honor in a lad who wouldn't
pull himself together and pay his father's honest debts.

The sawmill owned by John Larson was run both by water power and by
steam--the latter helping out the former when the flow of the stream
was not at its best. Rain had been wanting for several weeks, and this
had delayed a drive of logs the mill owner had counted on, and had
also made it necessary to depend entirely on steam as a motive power.
The plant employed twenty-four hands, and this and another mill on the
opposite shore were the main industries of the Run.

"How did you make out about those logs, Dale?" questioned a fellow
worker in the yard, as the young lumberman resumed his labors.

"Didn't get them," was the laconic answer.

"Didn't think you would," went on Philip Sommers. "Hickley is in with
the pulp mill. If he can't get logs, what is the old man going to do?"

"He'll have to shut down."

"Phew! That's bad!"

"Yes, and the worst of it is there is no telling when we'll start up
again."

"In that case I'm going to pack up and go up to the West Branch. A
friend of mine is going to open up on a claim there about the first of
October."

"That is a good while yet. I can't afford to be idle that long."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know yet--perhaps try the other mills."

"Better try the pulp mill--they've got the business just now. Folks
must have paper even if they don't get boards," and Philip Sommers gave
a short laugh.

"I don't think I'd care to work in a pulp mill," answered Dale. "I like
a sawmill or else being out in a lumber camp. But I'd rather work in a
pulp mill than be idle."

"The pulp mill over----Hullo, there goes the noon whistle!" Philip
Sommers dropped the board he was carrying. "Aint got time to talk any
more," he cried. "Going home for something to eat." And picking up his
jacket from a lumber pile, he walked away, leaving Dale alone.

                              CHAPTER II

                      WHAT HAPPENED AT THE BROOK

The hoarse whistle of the mill, proclaiming the noon hour, sounded out
fully half a minute, and when it ceased the machinery in the mill also
came to a stop, and men and boys poured forth to get their dinner.
Some went to their homes, or to their boarding-places, while others,
who lived at a distance and had brought their dinner with them, sought
shady and cool spots along the bank of the stream.

Dale did not quit work instantly, as Philip Sommers had done. He, too,
was carrying a board, and this he placed on a pile a hundred feet away,
as originally intended. Then he straightened out the whole pile of
boards, work that took another five minutes of his time.

"Hullo, Bradford, working overtime?" cried one of the mill hands, who
had quit at the first sound of the whistle.

"Sure," answered Dale pleasantly.

"Of course the old man is going to pay you double wages for it."

"Guess he will--if I ask him."

"You won't get a cent. Better stop and make the job last."

"I'll stop, now I have finished," answered Dale, and walked away with a
quiet smile.

Although neither Dale nor the other workman knew it, John Larson
overheard the conversation.

"Young Bradford is a good one," he murmured. "Just as good as his
father was before him. Hang such men as Felton, who are always looking
at their watches or waiting for the whistle to blow."

It soon became noised around among the workmen that their employer had
been unable to obtain the logs he had sent for, and that evening, after
the mill had shut down, a number of them waited on John Larson and
asked him about the prospects. He was frank and told them what he had
told Dale.

"I expected to keep going all summer," he said. "But I can't do it, and
after this week I'm afraid you'll have to look for other openings."

As a consequence of this talk several of the men that very evening
rowed over to the mill opposite, while some went down to the mills on
the Penobscot. A few obtained other situations and left John Larson's
employ the next day, but the majority came back from their quests
unsuccessful.

By Saturday noon the big circular saws had cut up the last of the logs,
and two hours later the men at the shingle machine also stopped work.
Then ensued several hours of sorting out and clearing up, and by five
o'clock the hands of the Enterprise Lumber Mill were paid off and told
that when they should be wanted again they would be notified.

Dale had been asked by John Larson to remain after the others, and he
did so.

"I told you I'd keep you another week," said the mill owner. "There is
not a great deal to do, and you can come around every morning at six
o'clock and work until twelve, and then have the rest of the day in
which to hunt up another job. On Saturday I'll pay you for a full week."

This was certainly very fair, and Dale thanked his employer heartily
for his kindness. Yet the youth's heart was heavy, for he knew that
finding another opening would not be easy.

"I'll tell you what to do, Dale," said Frank Martinson, the man with
whom he boarded. "You try down to Crocker's and over to Odell's. Tell
'em I sent you. They'll give you a job if they have anything at all to
do."

"All right, I will," answered the young lumberman.

Crocker's mill was located down on the Penobscot. It was a new place,
filled with the latest of machinery, and employing over half a hundred
hands. Dale visited it on Monday afternoon, going down on a small
lumber raft that happened to be passing.

The din around this hive of industry was terrific, for Crocker turned
out much lumber in the rough for a furniture company, and the buzzing
and zipping went on constantly from morning till night. The mill itself
was knee-deep in shavings and sawdust, a good portion of which was fed
into the furnaces under the boilers for fuel.

"Sorry, young man, but I can't take you on," said the superintendent
of the works. "Had an opening last week, but it is filled now. Come
around in two or three weeks. If Frank Martinson recommends you I know
you're all right." And thus poor Dale had his trip for nothing. It took
him until midnight to get home, and he had to walk a good part of the
distance.

But he was not one to give up easily, and two days later borrowed one
of John Larson's horses and directly after dinner set off for the mill
run by Peter Odell. This was up in the hills, on the edge of a small
lake, a ride of thirteen miles.

The way was rough, but Dale did not mind this, and as he loved to ride
on horseback, the journey proved pleasant enough. Once he stopped at
a brook to let the horse drink and sprang down himself to quench his
thirst and bathe his face and hands.

"This is like old times, when I used to be home with all the others,"
he thought. "Oh, how I wish those times could come back."

At last he came in sight of the mill, nestling among the trees
bordering the little lake--a scene full of rural beauty. To his
surprise all was quiet about the place.

"It can't be that Odell has shut down, too," he thought. "If that is so
we ought to have heard of it before this."

He was just turning into a side path leading to the mill when a man
leaped out from behind a clump of trees and caught his animal by the
bridle. The fellow was a French-Canadian, with a dark face and dark,
evil-looking eyes.

"Hi! what do you mean by that?" demanded Dale. He did not like the
looks of the stranger.

"You stop, talk wiz me," said the Canadian.

"What do you want?"

"You go to de mill, yes?"

"What if I am going to the mill?"

At this the French-Canadian muttered something in French which the
young lumberman could not understand. "You look for job, hey? No job no
more down by de Larson mill, hey?"

"That is none of your business. Let go of my horse."

Again the man muttered something in French. "You no go to de mill. Geet
hurt sure. All mens dare on de strike. You go back." And now he shook
his fist in Dale's face.

"Are you on a strike?"

"Yees."

"What are you striking about?"

"Dat none your bus'nees. You go back."

"I will not go back!" declared Dale, his temper rising. "If you don't
let go of that horse pretty quick, somebody will get hurt."

"Hah! You are von big fool!" snarled the man, and clung to the animal
as tightly as ever. The horse began to prance, and, watching his
chance, Dale leaned forward and struck the French-Canadian a sharp blow
in the forehead that caused him to stagger back in dismay.

"Good for you!" sang out a voice not far off, and looking in the
direction Dale saw a young man of twenty approaching. The newcomer was
a young lumberman like himself, and Dale had met him several times, on
the river and elsewhere.

"Hullo, Owen," replied Dale. "Who is this chap?"

"That is Baptiste Ducrot, one of the mill hands up here," replied Owen
Webb. "Odell hired him about a month ago, but I guess he wishes he
hadn't, for the rascal drinks like a fish."

"He says there is a strike on at the mill."

"So there is, among the Canadians. They wanted me to join, but I
wouldn't do it."

While this talk was in progress, Baptiste Ducrot recovered himself and
glared first at Dale and then at Owen Webb. Evidently he did not fancy
the coming of his fellow workman to the spot. Dale now smelt the liquor
on Ducrot and noticed that his steps were far from steady. He urged
his horse forward, and left the French-Canadian standing in the road
shaking his fist savagely.

"That was a neat crack you gave him," observed Owen Webb, as he strode
along beside Dale. "I guess he won't forgive you for it."

"He had no business to stop me, Owen."

"You're right there. What brought you up? I heard something of a
shut-down at Larson's."

"Yes, we've shut down and I came up here to look for work."

"You came at a bad time--with some of the men on a strike."

"That's true." Dale's brow grew thoughtful. "Perhaps I had better go
back, after all. I don't want to do some poor chap out of his job."

"They don't deserve work--half of them!" declared Owen. "The crowd that
is out is the drinking gang. They want more money to waste on liquor.
All the steady fellows are working the same as usual."

"Then I'll see Mr. Odell and chance it. Where can I find him?"

"He was in the mill a short while ago."

Owen had a mission up the lake and soon left Dale, and the latter
dismounted and entered the mill, just as the machinery started up once
more.

Mr. Odell was a burly old lumberman of sixty. He had spent all his life
in the woods and few knew woodcraft or mill work better than he. He
gazed at Dale sharply when he listened to what the young lumberman had
to say.

"Well, I guess I can give you a job, seeing as how about half of my
crew is gone," said Peter Odell. "But I can't guarantee it to last, for
I'm 'most in the same fix as Larson. The pulp mills have knocked the
sawmills endways up here."

"What about the strikers? I don't want to----"

"I haven't any strikers around here. Those fellows drank too much and
I discharged them, that's all. I won't take 'em back--I'll lock up the
mill first." And the mill owner's manner showed that he meant what he
said.

It was arranged that Dale should come to work the following Monday, at
the same rate of wages he was now receiving. He was to labor both in
and out of the mill and was to board at the same house where Owen Webb
was stopping. This latter arrangement suited him exactly, for he had
taken quite a fancy to Owen, who, like himself, was alone in the world.

The summer day was drawing to a close when Dale started on his return
to Larson's Run. He looked around to see if Baptiste Ducrot was at
hand, but the fellow did not show himself.

"I hope he keeps out of sight," thought the young lumberman. "I don't
want to have another quarrel with him."

The lake front was soon left behind and he plunged into the trail
leading down the hillside. Under the trees it was quite dark, and he
had to keep a tight rein on his horse for fear the animal might stumble
and break a leg.

"I must return the horse in as good a condition as when I took him
out," he told himself. "It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Larson if I didn't."

Soon he reached the brook where he had stopped to obtain a drink. Here
he paused as before.

As he was bending to quench his thirst he heard a slight noise behind
him. Then he received a violent push from the rear that sent him
headlong into the stream. His head struck on the rocks at the bottom of
the shallow watercourse, and for the time being he was partly stunned.

                      TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN AT HOME

For several minutes Dale could think of nothing but that he was at the
bottom of the brook and in danger of drowning. His head hurt, there
was a strange ringing in his ears, and almost before he knew it he had
gulped down a quantity of the cool water.

But "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and even though
dazed he floundered around and tried to pull himself up out of the
stream. Twice he slipped back. Then his hand fastened on a tree root
and he stuck there, gasping for breath, spluttering, and trying to
collect his senses.

"Who--who hit me?" he muttered at last.

When he felt strong enough to do so, he crawled up the bank of the
stream and sank in a heap at the foot of a big tree. On one side of his
forehead was a big lump, and on the other a small cut from which the
blood was flowing.

"Just wait till I catch the fellow who did that," he told himself.
"I'll square up with him."

His mind reverted to Baptiste Ducrot. Had the French-Canadian been the
one to attack him? It was more than likely.

It was fully five minutes later when the young lumberman made another
discovery. He was bathing the cut when, on glancing around, he noted
that the horse he had been riding had disappeared.

"Hullo, Jerry is gone," he said to himself. "Jerry! Jerry! Where are
you?" he called.

No sound came back in answer, nor did the animal put in an appearance.
Staggering to his feet, Dale walked a short distance up and down the
watercourse. It was useless; the horse could not be found.

With a sinking heart the young lumberman was retracing his steps to the
ford when he saw a form on horseback advancing along the trail. As the
person came closer he recognized Owen Webb.

"Owen!"

"Why, Dale, is that you?"

"Have you seen anything of my horse?"

"Your horse? No. Didn't you ride him back?"

"I rode him as far as here. Then somebody struck me and knocked me into
the brook, and now the horse is gone," went on Dale.

He told the particulars of the occurrence so far as they were clear to
him. Owen Webb was of a sympathetic nature, and as he listened his face
grew clouded.

"It must have been Ducrot, Dale. It's just like the cowardly sneak.
Didn't you see him at all?"

"No. I was attacked so quickly I didn't know a thing until I was trying
to pull myself out of the water. If he took the horse where do you
suppose he went to?"

"That's a conundrum. It's not likely he went on to Larson's Run, for
the folks there would recognize the horse. And he didn't go back to
Odell's, or I should have met him."

"I guess you are right, Owen. With the horse gone I don't know what to
do."

"Let us make sure that he hasn't strayed away, Dale. Then, if you wish,
you can ride behind me. That's better than walking the five miles."

Owen made a thorough search of the vicinity, while Dale again bathed
his wound. No horse came to view, and a little later the journey to
Larson's Run was resumed.

As said before, Owen Webb was a young man of twenty. He was alone
in the world, and after the death of his parents had drifted from
Portland to Bangor in search of employment. He had worked in several
lumber yards and sawmills before hiring out to Peter Odell. He was a
good workman and a clever fellow, and if he had any fault it was that
of moving from one locality to another, "just for the change," as he
expressed it. He generally spent his money as fast as he made it, but
his want of capital never bothered him. Like Dale, he was no drinker,
as are, unfortunately, so many lumbermen, and if his money went, it
went legitimately, for good board and clothing, music and newspapers,
and charity. Dale had liked him from the start, and the more the pair
saw of each other the more intimate did they become.

Owen was bound for a blacksmith shop located near the Run, and at
this place the two separated, and Dale continued his journey to John
Larson's home on foot. He felt much worried over the loss of Jerry, but
resolved to make a clean breast of the matter and did so.

John Larson was a good reader of character and saw that the young
lumberman was telling him the strict truth. "It must have been that
Ducrot who took the horse," he said. "I know him and never liked him.
Why Odell hired him is a mystery to me. I'll send out an alarm and I
guess I'll get the horse back sooner or later."

"And if you don't, Mr. Larson, I'll do what I can to pay for him," said
Dale.

His last week at the Run soon came to an end, and Monday morning found
Dale located at Odell's, and as hard at work as ever. In the meantime
Peter Odell had refused again to treat with the men who called
themselves strikers, and one by one they left the locality, taking
their belongings with them.

The going away of these men left a vacancy at the boarding place where
Owen was stopping, and this room was taken by Dale, so the two young
lumbermen saw more of each other than ever. Owen was a fair performer
on the violin and the banjo, and Dale could play a harmonica and
sing, and they often spent an evening over their music, which the
other boarders listened to with keen relish, for amusements in that
out-of-the-way spot were not numerous.

For several weeks nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Dale worked
hard, early and late, and for this Peter Odell gave him something
extra to do, with extra pay. By this means the young lumberman was
enabled to save more than usual, and one Saturday afternoon he had the
satisfaction of sending Hen McNair a letter containing Peter Odell's
check for the balance due the close-fisted riverman.

"That wipes out the last of my father's debts," said Dale to Owen.
"I can tell you it makes me feel like a different person to have
everything paid."

"I believe you, Dale. My father didn't leave any debts, but I had to
square up for the funeral, and that was no small sum."

"Now all I have left to do is to square up for the horse that was
stolen."

"What was he worth?"

"I don't know exactly. I asked Mr. Larson, but he said to wait a while,
that Jerry might turn up somewhere."

So far the only word received concerning Baptiste Ducrot was through
an old riverman, who had once seen the French-Canadian in a drinking
resort near the upper end of Moosehead Lake. What had become of Ducrot
after that nobody knew.

The summer was drawing to an end, and still the sawmill at Larson's
Run remained idle. It was impossible to get logs, and soon Peter Odell
began to complain.

"I shouldn't be surprised if we had to shut down too," said Owen one
day. "If we do, Dale, what are you going to do?"

"I'm sure I don't know. This is certainly a hard year in the lumber
trade."

"I don't believe it is as hard elsewhere as it is in Maine. My uncle,
Jack Hoover, who owns a lumber camp out in Michigan, wrote that he was
as busy as ever. He said I might come on if I couldn't find anything to
do here."

"Why don't you go?"

Owen drew down the corners of his mouth into a peculiar pucker.

"You wouldn't ask that if you knew my Uncle Jack," he said.

"Anything wrong?"

"Uncle Jack is a worker--morning, noon, and night, and between times.
He never knows when to stop, and he expects everybody around him to
work just as hard or harder. Fact is, he's a regular slave driver. And
in addition to that he's as close-fisted as Hen McNair."

"In that case, I don't wonder you don't want to engage with him," said
Dale, with a laugh.

"Uncle Jack means well, but he never knows when to let up. I've heard
my mother say that more than once. He was her step-brother. He started
as a poor man, and when he went to Michigan he had less than a thousand
dollars. Now he must be worth thirty or forty thousand, and maybe more."

"I don't believe you'll be worth that, Owen; not if you have to save it
yourself."

"I don't want to be rich if I've got to slave like Uncle Jack. Money
isn't everything in this world."

"But you ought to save something. Supposing you got sick, or something
else happened to you?"

"Well, I'm going to start to save a little, some time."

"The best time to start is now. Some time generally means no time. You
can put away as much as I put away, if you try."

"All right, I'll do it--next week."

"No, this week," and Dale smiled good-humoredly.

"Gracious, Dale! are you becoming my guardian?"

"Not at all, Owen. But I want to see you begin."

"I can't spare the money this week. I've got to have some new strings
for the banjo, and hair for the fiddle bow, and have these boots
mended, and pay my board, and buy some shirts, and----"

"Not all this week. That fiddle bow will last a week or two yet, and
so will your shirts. Now here is this cigar box I've been using for a
bank. I cleaned it out paying off Hen McNair, but I am going to start a
new account. When I put in a dollar you put in a dollar, and when you
put in a dollar I'll do the same. Then, when we want our money, we can
whack up."

"How much are you putting in to start on?"

"Two dollars."

Owen gave something like a groan.

"All right, if I must, I must," he said, bringing out his week's wages.
"But it's worse than having a tooth pulled."

"It won't be after you get in the habit of it."

"I don't believe I could get in the habit of having my teeth pulled."

"You know what I mean. After a while it will become just as easy to
save money as to spend it--that is, a fair proportion of what you earn."

"Want me to become as close as my Uncle Jack?"

"I guess there is small danger of that." Dale reached for his
harmonica, which rested on a shelf. "Now strike up on the fiddle, and
then you'll forget all about the hardships of saving."

This was a sure way of pleasing Owen, and soon he had the violin from
its peg on the wall and was tuning up. Then the pair began to play,
one familiar tune after another, and thus the evening ended pleasantly
enough.

                              CHAPTER IV

                             A FRESH START

The shut-down at Odell's came sooner than anticipated. The mill owner
had been almost positive about another consignment of logs, but at the
last minute one of the pulp mills drove up the price on the timber and
the logs went elsewhere.

"It's no use," said Peter Odell, to his men. "I've got to shut down
until next spring. During the winter I'll make cast-iron contracts for
the next supply of timber, so there won't be any further trip-ups, pulp
mills or no pulp mills. It's going to cost me money to quit, but, as
you can see, I'm helpless in the matter."

To this the men said but little. A few of them felt that Odell was
to blame just as John Larson was to blame--because he had not made
"cast-iron" contracts before. But these mill owners were of the
old-fashioned sort, easy-going and willing to take matters largely as
they came.

"The pulp mills have the upper hand of the business," said Owen to
Dale. "They'll take anything that is cut down, and that gives them the
advantage. Now it wouldn't pay Odell, or Larson either, to handle logs
less than fourteen inches in diameter."

"But the loggers are foolish to cut small stuff," answered Dale. "They
don't give the trees a chance to grow, and before long there won't be a
tree left to cut."

"The most of 'em think only of the money to be had right now; not what
they might get later on. If I had my way I'd pass a law making it a
crime to cut down small trees."

There were but few other sawmills in that vicinity, and each of these
was working only three-quarters or half time. Water being low, power
was scarce, and the general condition was certainly disheartening.

The two young lumbermen spent an entire week in seeking other
employment, but without success. The only place offered was one to Owen
at a pulp mill, tending a row of vats, but the pay was so small he
declined it.

"I hate a pulp mill anyhow," he declared. "Now that winter is coming
on, I'd rather try my luck up the river at one of the big camps."

"Exactly my idea!" cried Dale. "Say the word, and I'll start with you
Monday morning. I'm sure we can find something to do up on the West
Branch, or along one of the lakes."

"The trouble is, how are we to get up on the West Branch?" came from
Owen. "I haven't any desire to tramp the distance."

"We can take the railroad train up to the lake," answered Dale, after a
moment's thought. "I know Phil Bailey, who runs on the night freight.
He'll give us a lift that far, I am sure. After we get to the lake we
can try for a job on one of the boats going up the river."

This was satisfactory to Owen, and the pair made preparations to leave
Odell's on Monday at noon. In the meantime Dale penned a letter to John
Larson, stating that he had not forgotten about the missing horse, and,
if the animal did not turn up, he would some day settle for him.

"It's the best that I can do," he said. "He was worth at least one
hundred and fifty dollars, and it will take me a good long while to
save up that amount."

The nearest railroad station on the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad was a
small place called Hemway. Here a passenger train stopped twice a day
and a mixed freight did the same. Phil Bailey lived at Hemway, so it
was not difficult for Dale to find the brakeman.

"Yes, I'll take you along," said Bailey, "and glad to give you a lift.
Carsons is sick, so I'm in charge this week. I'll look for you at the
freight switch when the train comes along."

As a consequence that night found Dale and Owen housed in the caboose
of the freight train, bumping along at the rate of twenty miles an hour
in the direction of the lake. It was not very comfortable riding, and
the stops and delays were frequent, but as Owen said, "it beat walking
all hollow," and as it cost them nothing they were well content.

"I don't know that this beating the railroad out of a fare is just
right," observed Dale, as they rode along. "But I guess such a
corporation won't miss our few dollars."

"They'll make the summer tourists foot the bill," said Owen, with a
grin. "Did you notice how crowded the train going south was?"

"I did. The cold snap last week is causing them to scatter. In a few
weeks more they'll be flying home fast, and leaving everything to us
lumbermen."

"And to the hunters."

It was early in the morning and still dark when the lake was reached.
Thanking Phil Bailey for his kindness they crawled from the caboose
just before the freight switch was gained and made their way down to
one of the lumber yards along the shore. Here they found a comfortable
corner in a shanty and slept until daybreak.

Lakeport, as the settlement was called, was divided into two parts, the
bluff, where the fine cottages and the Lake View Hotel were located,
and the lower end, where were situated several lumber yards and a
number of lumbermen's cabins and two general stores.

Down at the lumber yards everything was quiet, for the booms from the
former winter's cuttings had long since been distributed to the mills
far below, and scarcely anything would be received until the spring
"yarding" began. Only a few men were around, and the majority of
these were either preparing to go up into the timber to work or else
to act as guides and cooks to the sportsmen who would soon put in an
appearance for a winter's hunt after moose and other game.

Each of the young lumbermen wore the typical costume of the woodsmen
of that locality, so neither attracted special attention when they
walked into one of the general stores. The wife of the storekeeper took
boarders and she readily consented to serve them with breakfast and as
many other meals as they wanted and were willing to pay for. The ride
had made them tremendously hungry and they ate all that was set before
them with keen relish.

"Going up among the loggers, eh?" said the storekeeper, when they were
settling their bill. "Well, I reckon as how it's going to be a mighty
good year--logs is wanted the wust way, not only fer the sawmills an'
pulp mills, but also fer export."

"Right you are, Sanson," put in another man who was present. "I heard
from a deputy surveyor at Bangor that we cut over 150,000,000 feet o'
pine and spruce last year and they expect to cut even more this year.
Twelve million feet was exported to England--an' we got a rousin' good
price fer it, too."

"Yes, but times aint as good as they was," came from the storekeeper.
"1899 was the banner year fer lumber here. The cut was 183,000,000
feet, an' not only thet, but spruce thet had been sellin' fer $14 and
$18 a thousand sold down to Boston fer $20 and $24. Times aint what
they was." And the storekeeper heaved a long sigh.

At the side door of the general store a clerk was loading a wagon
with various provisions, beans, potatoes, salt fish, flour, a sack
of coffee, and the like. Dale watched him for a few seconds and then
accosted him.

"Loading up for one of the hotels?" he questioned pleasantly.

"No, this load is going up the river," was the answer.

"May I ask who is going to take it and where it is bound?"

"It's going up to the Paxton camp. Old Joel Winthrop and a couple of
other men are going to take it up. Paxton is going to start in early
this fall, so we're rushing the stuff up to him."

"How many hands does he employ?"

"About a hundred or more. Want a job?"

[Illustration: "Want a job, eh?"]

"Yes."

"Then you'd better see Winthrop about it. He's looking for likely men."

"Where can I find him?"

"Down to the lake. He's got a bateau he calls the _Lily_--name is
daubed on the stern. You can't miss him."

"Thanks; we'll try him," answered Dale, and set off, followed by Owen.

It was not a difficult task to locate Joel Winthrop, an aged woodsman,
with whitish hair and beard, and shrewd gray eyes. He had been patching
up a leak in his clumsy craft, and he listened to Dale's application
while holding a pitch pot in one hand and a brush in the other.

"Want a job, eh?" he said, looking them over. "What can you do?"

"Almost anything but cook," answered Owen. "Might do that, but I
shouldn't care to risk it."

"Guess you wouldn't--not up to our camp," laughed Joel Winthrop. "Had a
cook last year who burnt the beans an' they tuk him down to the river,
chopped a hole in the ice, an' soused him under three times. He never
burnt a bean after thet, so long as he stayed."

"We'd like to go as choppers or swampers," said Dale. A chopper is one
who fells trees, while a swamper is one who cuts down brushwood and
makes a road from the forest to where the logs are piled for shipment
in the spring.

"An' what wages are you expectin'?"

"Regular wages," said Dale boldly. "We expect to do regular men's work."

"Got a recommend?"

"Several of them," and Dale handed over the letters he had received
from Larson, Odell, and his other employers. Owen also exhibited
several recommendations he possessed.

"I see ye don't drink," said Joel Winthrop. "Glad to hear o' that.
Drink is the curse of a lumber camp, you know that well as I do. The
question is, can ye both stand the work fer a whole season?"

"If we can't you'll not have to keep us," answered Owen.

"Ours is a mighty cold camp, I can tell ye that."

"We are used to roughing it," said Dale. "I was brought up that way
from a baby."

"We aint payin' young fellows like you more'n twenty dollars a month
an' found."

"How many months work?" asked Owen.

"Six months, an' maybe seven or eight."

"I'll accept," said Owen.

"So will I," said Dale.

The old lumberman then said he knew John Larson fairly well and that a
recommendation from such a person must be all right.

"We're going to start up the lake this afternoon," said he. "So if
ye mean business be on hand at two o'clock sharp. I'll give ye free
passage, an' you help work the boat and carry stuff around the falls."

By this time the provisions from the store were arriving, and both set
to work to assist Joel Winthrop in stowing them away. Then, having
nothing else to do, the two young lumbermen strolled around the
settlement, past the big hotel and back by way of the freight yard.

As they were passing the latter place, the down freight came in,
stopped to take on two cars piled with lumber, and then started on its
way again. As it moved off a man ran from the freight yard and leaped
on board of the last car.

"Well, I declare!" gasped Dale. "Did you see that fellow?"

"Who?" questioned Owen, with interest.

"The fellow who jumped on the last car." Dale pointed to the
fast-vanishing figure. "As sure as I stand here it was Baptiste
Ducrot!"

                               CHAPTER V

                SOMETHING ABOUT THE MAINE LUMBER TRADE

Owen was as amazed as Dale to think that the man who had leaped on the
disappearing freight train was the French-Canadian who had caused the
latter so much trouble.

"Well, he's gone," said he, after a moment's pause. "It's a pity you
didn't spot him before the train started."

"He didn't show himself, Owen." Dale drew a long breath. "Do you know
what I think? I think he was hanging around this town, when he saw us
and made up his mind that he had better get out."

They made a number of inquiries and soon learned that Ducrot had been
in Lakeport two days. He had applied to Joel Winthrop and several
other lumbermen for a position, but had smelt so strongly of liquor
that nobody had cared to engage him. From general indications all the
lumbermen doubted if the fellow had much money in his possession.

"I'll wager he sold the horse and drank up the best part of the
proceeds," said Dale. "It's a rank shame, too! I'll have to save a long
time to square up with Mr. Larson. I'd give a week's wages if I could
have Ducrot arrested."

"You might telegraph to the next station, Dale."

"So I might!" Dale's face brightened a little, then fell again. "But
I guess I won't. It will cost extra money, and I'll have to go and
identify him, and stay around when he is tried, and all that. No, I'll
watch my chance to catch him some time when it is more convenient."

Promptly at the time appointed by old Joel Winthrop the journey up the
lake was begun. Counting Dale and Owen there were five lumbermen on the
_Lily_, which was a craft ten feet wide by about twenty feet long. The
_Lily_ was to be towed along by a small tug which did all sorts of odd
jobs around the lake. The bateau was piled high with the provisions and
with the boxes and valises belonging to the lumbermen, not forgetting
the case that contained Owen's precious violin and the green bag with
the banjo.

"I see you're a player," said Joel Winthrop. "I used to scratch a
fiddle myself years ago. You'll have to give us some music goin' up."
And Owen did, much to the satisfaction of all on board.

The distance to the Paxton lumber camp was over a hundred and fifteen
miles, and it took five days to cover the journey. At the end of the
lake the goods had to be portaged up to the river, and then had to
be portaged around the falls beyond. On the West Branch and the side
stream on which the camp was located the bateau had to be poled along,
and owing to the low water often caught on the mud or the rocks. But
nobody minded the work, and as the weather was cool and dry the journey
passed off pleasantly enough.

The two strange lumbermen were from Bangor and were named Gilroy and
Andrews. They were experienced hands, and Gilroy was an under boss at
the camp, having charge of the North-Section Gang, as it was called.
All the older men loved to talk about lumbering in general and old
times in Maine in particular, and Dale and Owen listened to the
conversation with interest.

"Got to go putty far back for lumber now," said Joel Winthrop. "All the
good stuff nigh to the river has been cut away."

"I've heard my grandfather tell of the times when they cut good logs
less than ten miles from Bangor," put in Gilroy. "I reckon they didn't
think what an industry lumbering would become in these days."

"I suppose they cut nothing but pine in those days," said Dale.

"Nothing but pine, lad; spruce wasn't looked at."

"Yes, and pine was the great thing even up to the Civil War," said
Joel Winthrop. "But that was the last of it, and a couple of years
after the war ended spruce came to the front, and now, as you perhaps
know, we cut five times as much spruce as we do anything else."

"I've often wondered how many men worked in Maine at lumbering," said
Owen. "There must be a small army of us, all told."

"I heard that last year more than fourteen thousand men were in the
woods," came from Andrews. "The total number of feet of all kinds of
lumber cut was over half a billion."

"What a stack of logs!" cried Dale.

"No wonder we have a pine tree on the coat of arms of the State," added
Owen. "But it ought to be a spruce tree now instead of a pine," he
continued.

"I can remember the day when the lumber camps claimed the very best of
our people," said Joel Winthrop. "Folks wasn't stuck up in them days,
and many of the richest men in Bangor and Portland earned their first
dollar choppin' down pine trees. But now we've got all sorts in the
camps, an' have to take 'em or git nobody. Not but what we've got good
men at our camp," he added hastily.

"I wouldn't mind a job as a lumber surveyor," said Dale. "They get good
wages, don't they?"

"A deputy surveyor gets ten cents a thousand on all the lumber he
checks off," answered Gilroy. "I've known a man to make six to ten
dollars a day at it. The fellows who overhaul the lumber for him get
seven and a half cents a thousand each. The surveyor-general of the
county gets a cent a thousand on all lumber passed on in the county."

"Some day I reckon I'll be a surveyor-general," observed Owen dryly.

"I'd rather own a rich lumber tract," returned Dale. "I'd work it
systematically, cutting nothing but big trees and planting a new tree
for every old one cut. By that means I'd make the tract bring me in a
regular income."

"That's the way to talk," came from Joel Winthrop. "And unless the
owners do something like that putty soon Maine won't be in the lumber
business no more."

"They tell me that the big pulp mill near here can use up 50,000,000
feet of lumber in a year," went on Dale.

"It's true," said Gilroy. "They'll chew up logs almost as fast as you
can raft 'em along. What we are coming to if the pulp mills and paper
makers keep on crowding us for logs, I don't know."

It was night when they reached the landing place nearest to the Paxton
camp, which was located up the hillside, half a mile away. At this
point the stream opened up into something of a pond, with a cove in
which several small boats were moored.

The shores of the pond were rocky and covered in spots with a stunted
undergrowth, while further back was the forest of spruce, pine, fir,
and a few other trees, sending forth a delicious fragrance that was as
invigorating as it was delightful. As the bateau grounded, Dale leaped
ashore, stretched himself and took a long, deep breath, filling his
lungs to their utmost capacity.

"This is what I like!" he cried. "It's better than a tonic or any other
medicine."

"And what an appetite it will give a fellow," added Owen. "I can always
eat like a horse when I'm in the woods working."

As it was a clear night, the bateau was hauled up on the shore and the
provisions carefully covered with a thick tarpaulin. Then the party
struck out up the hillside for the camp, Joel Winthrop leading the way.

The trail was a rough one, for this camp was new, being located nearly
a mile from the one of the season before, the loggers moving from place
to place according to the cutting to be done. More than once they had
to climb over the rough rocks with care, and once Owen slipped into
a hollow and gave his leg a twist that was far from agreeable. The
ground lay thick with needles, cones, and dead leaves, and here and
there a fallen tree brought down by storm or old age.

The young lumbermen had already been informed that the camp was a new
one, so they were not surprised when they learned that so far only a
cook's shanty had been erected and that the men assembled were sleeping
in little shacks and tents or in the open. When they arrived they found
but two men awake, the others having retired almost immediately after
supper.

Joel Winthrop had his own shack, a primitive affair, made by leaning a
number of poles against a rocky cliff eight or ten feet high. Over the
poles were placed a number of pine boughs, and boughs were also placed
on the floor of the structure, for bedding purposes.

"Come right in and make yourselves at home," he said cheerily, after
lighting a camp lantern and hanging it on a notch of one of the poles.
"Nothing more to do to-night, so we might as well go to sleep."

"The boys can sleep with you; I'll stay outside where I can get the
fresh air," said Gilroy, and wrapping himself in a blanket he went to
rest at the foot of a neighboring tree, with Andrews beside him.

A youth not used to roughing it might have found the flooring of the
shack rather a hard bed. But Dale and Owen thought nothing of this. The
last day on the river had been a busy one, and soon each was in the
land of dreams, neither of them being disturbed in the slightest by the
loud snoring around them--for lumbermen in camp do snore, and that most
outrageously--why, nobody can tell, excepting it may be as a warning to
wild beasts to keep away!

The next morning the sun came up as brightly as ever. Long before that
time the camp was astir, and from the cook's shanty floated the aroma
of broiled mackerel, fried potatoes, and coffee.

"That smells like home!" exclaimed Owen and started for a spring near
by, where there was a small tub, in which the men washed, one after
another.

A table of rough deal boards had been erected under the trees, with a
long bench on either side. There was no tablecloth, but the table was
as clean as water and soap could make it. Each man was provided with a
tin cup, a tin plate, a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and each was served
his portion by the cook or the cook's assistant. If the man wanted more
he usually rapped on his empty cup or plate until he was supplied.

The cook was a burly negro named Jeff, his full name being Jefferson
Jackson. Jeff was usually good-natured, but when the men hurried him
too much for their victuals he would often growl back at them.

"Fo' de lan' sake!" he would bellow. "Say, can't you gib dis chile no
chance 'tall? Yo' lobsters dun got no bottom to yo' stummicks. T'ink
I'se heah to fill up de hull ob de 'Nobscot Ribber? Yo' dun eat like
yo' been starvin' all summah."

"Jeff wants to turn us into skeletons," cried one of the young
lumbermen, winking at the others. "He's got a contract to furnish a
Boston museum with 'em."

"Skellertons, am it?" exploded Jeff. "Wot yo' is gwine to do is to hire
out to 'em fer a fat man--if yo' kin git filled up yere. But Mastah
Paxton aint raisin' no fat men fo' no museums 'round dis camp, so yo'
jest dun hole yo' hosses till I gits 'round dar a fo'th time."

And then the men would have to wait, until each had had his fill, when
he would scramble from his seat with scant ceremony and prepare for the
day's work.

                              CHAPTER VI

                           DEEP IN THE WOODS

Before the morning meal was over Dale and Owen became acquainted with
ten or a dozen of the lumbermen, all rough-and-ready fellows, but above
the average of the lumber camps in manner and speech.

"I'm glad we didn't strike a tough crowd," said Dale, remembering a
lumber camp he had once visited, in which drinking was in evidence all
day long and the talk was filled with profanity.

"So am I," answered Owen. "But I knew this camp was O. K. from the way
Winthrop talked."

Luke Paxton, the owner of the camp, was away, but he came in during the
forenoon and had a talk with each of the new hands. He was of a similar
turn to Winthrop, and asked Dale and Owen a number of short questions,
all of which they answered promptly.

"I guess I knew your father," he said to Owen. "I used to have an
interest in a lumber yard in Portland. He was a good man." And then he
turned away to give directions for putting up two additional shanties
in the camp and a log cabin, which would become the general home of
the lumbermen when cold weather set in.

That afternoon found Dale and Owen at work close to the camp, helping
to cut the timbers for the new cabin. Joel Winthrop watched them as
each brought down the first tree. "That's all right," he said, and then
gave them directions for continuing their labors.

The men in the camp were divided into gangs of twenty to thirty
persons, consisting of choppers or fellers, swampers, drivers or
haulers, and a boss who watched the work, picking out the trees to be
cut and directing just how they should be made to fall, so that they
could be gotten away with the least trouble. Later in the season there
would be sled drivers and tenders, or loaders, and also a man to bring
out the midday meal when the gang was too far into the woods to come to
camp to eat.

The building of the big cabin was no mean task, and it took one gang
three weeks to do it. It was built of rough logs, notched and set
together at the ends. There was a heavy ridge-pole, with a sloping
roof of logs on either side, and the floor was also of logs, slightly
smoothed on the upper side.

When the cabin proper was complete it was divided into two parts,
each containing a window, and one a door in addition. One end was
the sleeping room, with bunks built of rough boards, each bunk four
feet wide and twelve feet long. Each bottom bunk had another over it,
and each was meant for four sleepers, a pair at each end, with feet
all together. The bunks had clean pine boughs in them, and a pair of
regular camp blankets for each occupant.

The second apartment was that devoted to eating and general living
purposes. The door was close to the cook's shanty, but when the weather
grew colder the big cooking stove would be placed directly in the
middle of the living room, to add its warmth to the comfort of the
place. The stove was of course a wood burner, a square affair capable
of taking in a log a yard long. For a dining table the deal table
from outside was brought in, with its benches, and half a dozen empty
provision boxes were also brought in for extra seats. To keep out the
cold the cracks of the entire building were stuffed with mud, and on
the inside certain parts were covered with heavy roofing paper and
strips of bark.

"Now we are ready for cold weather," said Owen, when the cabin was
finished and the most of the men of their gang had moved in. He and
Dale had a small corner bunk which held but two, and in this they were
"as snug as a bug in a rug," as the younger of the lumbermen declared.

The last of the choppers had now arrived, and it was found necessary
to put up another cabin for them. Dale and Owen, however, did not work
on this, but instead spent every day in the depths of the great forest,
bringing down one tree after another, as Gilroy, who now had charge of
the gang, directed. Each of the young lumbermen proved that he could
swing an ax with the best of the workers, and Gilroy pronounced himself
satisfied with all they did.

"It only shows what a young fellow can do when he's put to it," said
the foreman one day to Owen. "Now, half these chaps are merely working
for their wages and their grub. They do as little as they can for their
money, and the minute the season is over they'll go down to Oldtown or
Bangor, or some other city, and blow in every dollar they have earned."

"But this camp is better than lots of others."

"Yes, I know that. It's because old Winthrop and Mr. Paxton sort out
the men they engage. They won't take every tramp who strikes them for a
job."

The men often worked in sets of fours, and when this happened Dale and
Owen's usual companions were Andrews and a short, stout French-Canadian
named Jean Colette. Colette was good-natured to the last degree and
full of fun in the bargain.

"Vat is de use to cry ven de t'ing go wrong," he would say. "My fadder
he say you mus' laugh at eferyt'ing, _oui_! I laugh an' I no geet seek,
neffair! I like de people to laugh, an' sing, an' dance. Dat ees best,
_oui_!"

"You're right on that score," said Owen. "But some folks would rather
grumble than laugh any day."

"Dat is de truf. _Bon!_ You play de feedle, de banyo; he play de mout'
harmonee an' sing, an' yo' are happy, _oui_? I like dat. No bad man
sing an' play, neffair!" And the little man bobbed his head vigorously.

"What a difference between a man like Colette and that Ducrot!" said
Dale to Owen, later on. "Yet they come from the same place in Canada,
so I've heard."

"Well, there are good men and bad in every town in Maine," answered
Owen sagely. "Locality has nothing to do with it."

The fact that Dale and Owen could play and sing was a source of
pleasure to many in the camp, and the pair were often asked to "tune
up," as the lumbermen expressed it. There was also another violin
player at hand, and many of the men could sing, in their rough,
unconventional way, so amusement was not lacking during the cold winter
evenings. More than once the men would get up a dance, jigs and reels
being the favorite numbers, with a genuine break-down from Jeff, the
cook, that no one could match.

Winter came on early, as it usually does in this section of our
country, and by the end of October the snow lay deep among the trees
of the forest, while the pond and the river presented a surface of
unbroken ice, swept clear in spots by the wind. For many days the wind
howled and tore through the tall trees, and banked up the snow on one
side of the cabin to the roof. The thermometer went down rapidly, and
everybody was glad enough to hug the stove when not working.

"This winter is going to be a corker, mark my words," observed Owen.

"I know that," answered Dale. "I found a squirrel's nest yesterday and
it was simply loaded with nuts. That squirrel was laying up for a long
spell of cold."

Yet the lumbermen did not dress as warmly when working as one might
suppose. A heavy woolen shirt, heavy trousers, strong boots, and a
thick cap was the simple outfit of more than one, and even Dale and
Owen rarely wore their coats.

"Swinging an ax warms me, no matter how low the glass is," said Owen.
"And I haven't got to pile any liquor in me either."

Often, while deep in the woods, the two young lumbermen would catch
sight of a wolf or a fox, attracted to the neighborhood by the smell of
the camp cooking. But though the beasts were hungry they knew enough to
keep their distance.

"But I don't like them so close to me," said Owen. "After this I'm
going to take my gun to work with me," and he did, and Dale took with
him a double-barrelled pistol left to him by his father. Some of the
others also went armed, and one man brought in a small deer from up
the river, which gave all hands on the following Sunday a dinner of
venison--quite a relief from the rather wearisome pork and beans, or
corned beef, cabbage, and onions.

"To bring down a deer would just suit me," said Dale.

"Just wait, your chance may come yet," answered Owen, but he never
dreamed of what was really in store for them.

It was a bitter-cold day in November that found the pair working on
something of a ridge, where stood a dozen or more pines of extra-large
growth. Each worked at a tree by himself, while Andrews and Jean
Colette were some distance away, working in the spruces.

"Hark!" cried Dale presently. "Did you hear that?"

"It was a gun shot, wasn't it?" questioned Owen, as he stopped chopping.

"Yes. There goes another shot. Do you suppose one of the men are after
another deer?"

"Either that, or else there are some hunters on the mountain. If they
are hunters I hope they don't shoot this way."

"So do I, Owen. Only last year a hunter up here took one of the
choppers for a wild animal and put a ball through his shoulder."

"If they shoot this way and I see them I'll give 'em a piece of my
mind. They ought to be careful. A fellow----Hark!"

Both listened and from a distance made out a strange crashing through
the underbrush of the forest. Then came a thud and more crashing.

"It's a wild animal, coming this way!" sang out Dale. "Better get your
gun."

"Perhaps it's a bear!" ejaculated Owen, and lost no time in dropping
his ax and picking up his gun.

The crashing now ceased for a moment, and the only sound that reached
their ears was the moaning of the wind through the treetops far
overhead. The wind was blowing up the hillside, so that the wild beast,
if such it really was, could not scent them.

Another shot rang out, from the same direction as the first. This
appeared to rouse up whatever was in the wood, and the crashing was
resumed with increasing vigor.

"It's coming, whatever it is!" sang out Dale, and pointed out the
direction with his hand.

Hardly had the words left his lips when the underbrush and snow
beyond the ridge were pushed aside and into the opening staggered a
magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers and wild, terror-struck
eyes. The game limped because of a wound in the left flank, and there
was another wound in the side, from which the blood was flowing freely.

"A moose!" shouted Owen, and raising his gun he took hasty aim and
fired at the beast.

Now, although Owen was a good woodsman, he was only a fair shot, and
the charge in the gun merely grazed the moose's back. It caused the
animal to give an added snort of pain. It stopped short for an instant,
then its eyes lighted on Dale, and with another snort it leaped forward
with lowered antlers directly for the young lumberman!

[Illustration: It leaped forward with lowered antlers directly for the
young lumberman.]

Bang! went Dale's pistol, and the bullet struck the moose in the
forehead. But the rush of the animal was not lessened, and in a
twinkling the youth was struck and hurled over the ridge into the gully
below, and the moose disappeared after him!

                              CHAPTER VII

                      THE DANGERS OF LOG-ROLLING

The attack by this monarch of the Maine forest had been so sudden
that Dale had no time in which to leap out of the way or do anything
further to defend himself. Down he went, into a mass of rough rocks and
brushwood, and the moose came almost on top of him.

With bated breath, Owen saw youth and beast disappear. His heart leaped
into his throat, for he felt that his chum must surely be killed. Then
he gave a yell that speedily brought Andrews and Colette to the scene.

"What is it?" demanded Andrews.

"A wounded moose! He just knocked Dale over the bluff."

"Ees he killed?" screamed Colette.

"I hope not. Come, help me."

Owen had now recovered somewhat from his first scare and he picked up
his ax. Running to the edge of the ridge he looked over, and saw the
moose as the beast struggled to get up on the top of the rocks below.

In the meantime Dale was not idle. Fortunately his fall was not a
serious one, for he landed in a mass of thick brushwood, thus saving
himself one or more broken bones. From this point he slipped into a
hollow and the next instant felt the side of the moose pressing him on
the shoulder.

The animal was suffering from loss of blood, and its efforts to regain
its feet were wild and ineffectual. The sharp hoofs worked convulsively
and one, catching Dale on the shoulder, cut a gash several inches long.
Then the moose rolled in one direction, and the young lumberman lost no
time in rolling in another.

It was at this point in the conflict that Owen came down to Dale's
assistance, leaping from the bluff above, ax in hand. After him came
Andrews and Colette, the latter armed with both his ax and an old
French fowling-piece.

"Hit him, Owen!" panted Dale. "Hit him in the head!"

"I will--if I can," was the answer, and Owen advanced swiftly but
cautiously.

"Stop! I shoot heem!" screamed Jean Colette, and raised his
fowling-piece. Bang! went the weapon, and the moose received a dose of
bird-shot in his left flank, something which caused him to kick and
struggle worse than ever.

Owen now saw his opportunity, and, bending forward, he dealt the moose
a swift blow on the shoulder. The beast struck back, but Owen leaped
aside, and then the ax came down with renewed force. This time it hit
the moose directly between the eyes. There was a cracking of bone
and then a convulsive shudder. To make sure of his work, the young
lumberman struck out once more, and then the game lay still.

"Yo--you've finished him," said Dale, after a pause.

"Yes, he's dead," put in Andrews, as he gave the game a crack with his
own ax, "for luck," as he put it.

"Vat a magnificent creature!" exclaimed Colette. "_Bon!_ Ve vill haf de
fine dinnair now, _oui_?" And his eyes twinkled in anticipation.

"Did he hurt you?" asked Owen, turning from the game to his chum.

"He gave me a pretty bad dig with his hoof," was the reply. "I guess
I'll have to have that bound up before I do anything else. He came kind
of sudden, didn't he?"

"Those hunters up the mountain drove him down here. I suppose they'll
be after him soon."

"Doesn't he belong to us, Owen? You killed him."

"That's a question. They wounded him pretty badly--otherwise he would
never have stumbled this way."

"I'd claim the game," came from Andrews. "Somebody wounded him, it's
true, but they would never have gotten the moose."

Leaving Andrews and Colette to watch the game, Dale, accompanied by
Owen, walked back to camp, where he had his wound washed and dressed.
The cut was a clean one, for which the young lumberman was thankful.
Some salve was put on it; and in the course of a couple of weeks the
spot was almost as well as ever.

The shots had been heard by a number of the other lumbermen, and a
dozen gathered around and walked to the gully to look at the moose. It
was certainly a fine creature, with a noble pair of antlers.

"If nobody comes to claim that carcass you've got somethin' worth
having," was old Winthrop's comment. "But some hunter will be along
soon, don't ye worry."

Yet, strange to say, no one came to put in a claim, and a few hours
later the moose was placed on a drag and taken to camp. All the men had
a grand feast on the meat, and the antlers and pelt were sold at a fair
price to a trader who happened to come that way. The total amount was
put into the cigar box by Owen.

"For it belongs to Dale as much as myself," said Owen. Jean Colette
claimed nothing, for he knew that his bird-shot had had little effect
on the moose.

Dale was afraid that he would run behind the others in work because of
his wound. But such was not the case, for the day after the encounter
at the ridge it began to snow and blow at a furious rate, so that none
of the loggers could go out. The time was spent mostly indoors or at
the stables where the ten horses belonging to the camp were kept. The
men were never very idle, for they had their own mending to do and
often their own washing. The days, too, were short, and the majority of
the hands retired to their bunks as soon as it grew dark.

"This weather will bring out the sleds," observed Owen. "I guess Mr.
Paxton will give orders to carry logs as soon as it clears off."

The camp boasted of four long, low double-runner sleds. These were
driven by two Canadians and two Scotchmen, all expert at getting a load
of logs over the uneven ground without spilling them. The horses were
intelligent animals, used to logging, and would haul with all their
might and main when required.

Owen was right; the sleds were brought out on the first clear day, and
while the majority of the men continued to cut logs, some were set to
work to make a road down to the pond and others were set at the task of
loading the logs ready for transportation.

Dale had already put in a week or two at swamping, and now he and
Andrews were detailed to fix a bit of the road that ran around a
hilltop overlooking the stream far below. Near this spot was a long
sweep of fairly even ground, sloping gradually toward the watercourse,
and Joel Winthrop had an idea that many logs could be rolled to the
bottom without the trouble of loading and chaining them on the sleds.

"Such a method will certainly save a lot of trouble," said Andrews, as
he went out with Dale. "But the men below want to stand from under when
the logs come down."

The storm had given way to sunshine that made all the trees and bushes
glisten as if burnished with silver. From the hilltop an expanse of
country, many miles in extent, could be surveyed--a prospect that never
grew tiresome to Dale, for he was a true lover of nature, even though
occupied in destroying a part of her primeval beauty.

"Just think of the days when this country was full of Indians," he said
to Andrews. "It's not so very many years ago."

"Right you are; times change very quickly. Why, the first sawmill
wasn't built on the Penobscot until 1818, and in those days Bangor was
only a small town and many of the other places weren't even dreamed of.
The Indians had their own way in the backwoods, and they used to do
lots of trading with the white folks when they felt like it."

"Yes, and fought the white folks when they didn't feel like it,"
laughed Dale. "But then the red men weren't treated just right either,"
he added soberly.

"I can remember the time when these woods were simply alive with game
of all sorts," went on the older lumberman. "If you wanted a deer all
you had to do was to lay low for him down by his drinking place. But
now to get anything is by no means easy. That moose you and Webb got is
a haul not to be duplicated."

The work at the hilltop progressed slowly, but at the end of two weeks
all the small trees and brushwood in the vicinity were cut down and
disposed of, and then a road to the edge of the hill was leveled off
and packed down.

In the meantime one of the sleds had been at work among the trees
cut down just back of the edge, and these trees were now piled up in
several heaps.

"We'll try some of the logs this afternoon," said Gilroy, one Friday
morning, and the trial was made directly after dinner. Four logs were
pushed over the edge, one directly after the other, and down they went,
with a speed that increased rapidly and sent the loose snow flying in
all directions. At the bottom they struck several trees left standing
for that purpose and came to a stop with thuds that could be heard a
long distance off.

"Hurrah! That beats sledding all to pieces!" cried Dale. "We can roll
down a hundred logs while a sled is taking down a dozen."

"We can roll down all we have up here to-morrow," said Gilroy. "And the
sled can go to the cut below. The biggest logs are in the hollow and it
will take every team we have to get 'em out."

Yarding had already begun at the edge of the pond, and Saturday found
Owen at work among a number of small trees and thick brushwood which
Mr. Paxton had ordered cut away, for the head lumberman loved to see
everything around his camp in what he termed "apple-pie order." This is
nothing unusual among the better class of lumbermen in Maine, and they
often vie with each other as to which camp presents the best appearance
and whose cut of logs foots up the cleanest.

Among the logs at the hilltop was a giant tree, left standing for many
years and now cut for a special purpose by old Joel Winthrop himself.
A friend of his, an old sea captain, was building a schooner at
Belfast, and Winthrop had promised him a mast that should stand any
strain put on it.

"Aint no better stick nor thet in the whole State o' Maine," said Joel
Winthrop to Andrews and Dale. "An' I want ye to be careful how ye roll
it down the hill." And they promised to be as careful as they could.

It was no easy task to get the big log just where they wanted it, and
it was Monday afternoon before they were ready to let it start on its
short but swift journey to the edge of the pond. During the day the sky
had clouded over and now it looked snowy once more.

"I guess we are ready to bid her good-by," observed Dale, as he looked
the log over and measured the snowy slope with his eye.

"All ready!" sang out Andrews. "Now then, up with your stick and let
her drive!"

Each was using a long pole as a lever, and each now pressed down. This
started the log toward the edge, and in a second the stick began to
slide downward, slowly at first and then faster and faster.

"Hullo! hullo!" sang out a voice from far below. "Don't send any more
logs down just yet!"

"It's Owen calling!" gasped Dale, his face growing suddenly white.
"Owen, where are you?"

"There he is!" came from Andrews, holding up his hands in horror.
"There, right in the way of that log!" He raised his voice into a
shriek. "Run for your life! Run, or you'll be smashed into a jelly!"

                             CHAPTER VIII

                 CHRISTMAS, AND AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

Owen heard the shriek, and although he did not understand the exact
words uttered, he realized that it was meant for a warning.

He was about fifty feet up the side of the hill, ax in hand, preparing
to cut down a bunch of saplings which, so far, had not been touched.
The saplings had been knocked over by the other logs sent down, but the
young lumberman thought it would be better if they were out of the way
altogether.

Standing on something of a knob he looked up and saw the log coming
down upon him, rolling and sliding with ever-increasing rapidity. That
it was coming directly for him there could be no question, and for the
moment his heart seemed to stop beating and a great cold chill crept up
and down his backbone, while he had a mental vision of being crushed
into a shapeless mass by that ponderous weight.

"Jump!" screamed Dale. "Jump, for the love of Heaven, Owen!"

[Illustration: "Jump! Don't wait! Jump!" yelled Owen.]

And then Owen jumped, far from the knob to the portion of the slide
below him. It was a flying leap of over a rod, and when he landed he
struck partly on his feet and partly on his left hand. Then from this
crouched-up position he took another leap, very much as might a huge
frog, and landing this time on his side, rolled over and over to the
bottom of the slide.

The log was following swiftly and the swish of the flying snow and ice
reached his ears plainly. It had scraped a bit at the knob, placing a
fraction of a second of time in his favor. But now it came on, bound
for the bank of the pond, straight for the young lumberman, as before!

It is said that in moments of extreme peril persons will sometimes do
by instinct that which they might not have done at all had they stopped
to reason the matter out. So it was with Owen in the present case.

A short while before, a boy belonging to one of the cooks of the camp
had been fishing through a hole in the ice at the edge of the pond.
The boy had made for himself a hole two feet in diameter, possibly
reasoning that the larger the hole the bigger the fish he might catch.
The hole was still there, although covered with a thin skim of ice.

As Owen reached the bottom of the slide, the force of gravitation
carried him out on the pond, close to the hole. Directly behind him
was the heavy log. To escape being struck a blow he knew would be a
tremendous one, he dove directly into the hole and out of sight. Like
a flash the log slid over the opening, went on across the pond, and
brought up against the shore opposite with a crash to be heard a long
distance beyond.

"Owen is killed!" cried Dale. "The log has smashed him flat!" And for
the moment he felt so weak he could scarcely stand.

"I--I don't see him," faltered Andrews nervously. He felt that if the
young lumberman had really been taken off thus suddenly he would be in
a measure responsible.

"We should have made certain that the slide was clear before we let the
log down," groaned Dale. "Oh, this is dreadful!"

"What's the yelling about?" asked another lumberman, rushing up, and
soon a dozen or more were assembled at the top of the slide.

They could see but little in the gathering darkness, and burning with
anxiety to know the exact truth of the catastrophe, Dale began to let
himself down the hillside by means of a pair of sharp-pointed sticks.
Andrews and two others followed.

"There he is, on the ice!" cried Andrews, just before the bottom was
reached.

"Sure enough!" burst out Dale. "Why, if he isn't crawling from a hole
in the ice!"

"The log must have knocked him into that hole," said one of the others.
"But he doesn't seem to be much hurt."

A little lighter in heart, now that he knew his chum was alive, Dale
continued on his way to the pond, and reached the edge just as Owen
came ashore. The latter limped a little and was dripping from head to
feet with icy water.

"Owen!" For the moment Dale could say no more. "Did--did----"

"I escaped by the sk--skin of mu--mu--my teeth," was the chattered-out
answer. "Help me get to wha--wha--where it's wa--wa--warm!"

"That I will!" answered Dale, and took one of Owen's arms while Andrews
took the other. Between them they ran the young lumberman into the camp
and up to the cabin, where they stood him close to the stove while they
took off his water-filled boots and his soaked garments.

"I don't know how I got into the hole, exactly," said Owen, when the
chill had passed. "I saw the hole, and the log behind me, and the next
minute I was in over my head. It was a close shave, and phew! but
wasn't that water icy!"

"Why didn't you jump over the log?" asked one of the men.

"It's a good t'ing he didn't dun try dat," put in Jeff, the cook. "Yeah
befo' las' poor Ike Madden dun try jumpin' ober a log wot was a-rollin'
down hill an' he dun got bof laigs broke an' his nose in de bargain!"

"I didn't stop to think of jumping," answered Owen. "All I knew was to
get out of the way, and that at once."

"After this we'd better have a signal when we start to roll logs,"
said Dale, and Joel Winthrop agreed that this would be a good thing.
Fortunately Owen did not suffer in the least from his unexpected bath.

The end of the year was now approaching and soon came Christmas, a
cold, clear day, with the thermometer down close to zero.

"Merry Christmas!" shouted Dale to Owen, on rising, and "Merry
Christmas!" rang out all over the camp.

Of course there was no work that day, and the men did what they could
to amuse themselves, while Jeff was given orders to serve the best
dinner the larder of the camp could afford. Several of the men had gone
hunting the day before and brought in some partridges and other game,
including two wild turkeys, and fish from the pond and river were
not wanting. For dessert the men had a big plum-pudding, and pie was
served, as on many other festal occasions, morning, noon, and night.

"It's a good variation from the everlasting beans," observed Owen. "I
must say, since I've lived in and around the cities, I've got rather
tired of beans four or five times a week."

"Gilroy tells me we ought not to complain," said Dale. "He says that
in old times the loggers got pork and beans and salt fish and precious
little else. We are better off than that."

Early on Christmas morning a handful of the lumbermen held a church
service, one reading a chapter from the Bible, another reciting the
ten commandments, and a third offering a short prayer. These men asked
Owen and Dale to sing and play for them, and the pair complied and
rendered several hymns from a tattered book one of the men owned. Then
all joined in singing one or two other familiar hymns and wound up the
meeting by singing "America."

"That's something like," said Dale, after the meeting was over. "It
makes a fellow feel less heathenish to have some sort of a service now
and then."

"Well, I always go to church when I get a chance," answered Owen.
"But a lumberman doesn't get the chance very often, or a mill hand
either--unless the mill is close to some settlement."

The new year found the young lumbermen again in the woods, this time
a good mile from the bank of the river. Here a shack had been built,
and to this place Jeff sent meals for all hands three times a day, for
the men could not spend the necessary time going back and forth to the
cabin.

The shack was a poor dwelling-place, and both Dale and Owen were glad
when, early in February, they were ordered back to the main camp. In
the meantime they heard that Mr. Paxton had taken on six new hands, for
the cutting was not progressing as rapidly as the owner of the claim
had anticipated.

"Well, I never!" cried Dale, on catching sight of several of the new
workmen. "There is Baptiste Ducrot!"

"So it is!" declared Owen. "I thought old Winthrop said he wouldn't
engage the man."

"Winthrop is away, Owen. He went last week to visit a sick relative in
Lilybay."

"Then Mr. Paxton must have hired him himself."

"It's more than likely."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Make Ducrot toe the mark if I can. He took that horse, and----"

"Hold on, Dale. If you want to make him pay for the horse you had
better go slow about it. Probably he hasn't any money now. Supposing
you let him earn some before you let down on him."

Dale stared at his chum for a moment.

"I never thought of that before!" he cried. "Do you suppose Mr. Paxton
will keep his money for him until the end of the season?"

"I shouldn't wonder. You can ask and make sure."

"I will, and I'll tell him just how matters stand," answered Dale.

Without letting Baptiste Ducrot see him he sought out the owner of
the camp and told his story. Mr. Paxton listened to him patiently,
whittling a stick the while with his big jack-knife.

"That's a pretty straight tale, Bradford," he said, when the youth
had finished. "But can you prove positively that this Ducrot took the
horse?"

"No, I can't say that I can," answered Dale bluntly. "But I'm
reasonably certain that he did."

"If you have him hauled up you'll have to prove your charge. If you
can't he may be able to make trouble for you for having him arrested."

"Well, what do you advise me to do, Mr. Paxton? I know I can depend on
what you say."

This frankness pleased the owner of the camp, and he nodded slowly.

"My advice is that you say nothing at present. Go on working as usual
and keep your eyes and ears open. Sooner or later every criminal
exposes himself, if not in one way, then in another. I don't look on
Ducrot as a smart customer, and if he is really guilty you'll corner
him some day when he least expects it."

"Are you keeping his money for him?"

"All but two dollars a week--and I'm paying him seven and board, for
men are scarce just now, and he can work well when he is put to it and
kept from drink. Yes, you watch him, and I won't give him his money
until I notify you first."

And so it was arranged that Dale should watch Baptiste Ducrot and
do what he could to expose the fellow and bring him to book for his
misdeeds.

                              CHAPTER IX

                    DALE AND OWEN SPEAK THEIR MIND

Dale and Baptiste Ducrot did not meet until two hours later, when the
young lumberman was sent to a tool house to get a new ax.

They came face to face, and each stared hardly at the other. Ducrot
seemed on the point of passing on, but then changed his mind.

"Hah! so you work dis place?" he said, his eyes searching Dale's
features keenly.

"Yes, I work here," was the cold answer. "What is that to you?"

At this Baptiste Ducrot shrugged his lean shoulders.

"I not care, no, so long you not take my job."

"I don't want your job!" exclaimed Dale angrily. "You keep your
distance and leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone."

At this the French-Canadian muttered something under his breath in his
own tongue. "I not afraid of you," he added, in English.

"And I'm not afraid of you. If you try any of your dirty work again
you'll be sorry for it," went on Dale, and then passed into the tool
house on his errand.

At first Baptiste Ducrot was on the point of arguing further. But then
he saw Owen approaching, and he slouched away through the snow, his
head bent low and a wicked look on his face.

"I see you've met him," said Owen, on coming up. "What did he say?"

"Not much, Owen. What can he say?"

"Did you mention the horse?"

"No; I am going to follow Mr. Paxton's advice and lie low."

"You be careful that he doesn't play you foul, Dale. When I get the
chance I'll warn him to keep his distance."

"Oh, Owen; I don't want you to get into trouble on my account," cried
Dale impulsively.

"Isn't this difficulty mine as well as yours?" came quickly from the
older of the pair. "Haven't we sworn to be chums through thick and
thin?"

"Yes, I know, but----"

"If he knows there are two of us watching him he'll be more careful,
Dale. I really think he's a coward at heart."

Several days went by before Owen got the chance he wanted. Late one
afternoon he found Ducrot working in a bunch of spruces and was
directed to cut down a tree near by. As he worked the French-Canadian
shifted the swing of his ax in such a manner that the chips flew close
to Owen, one hitting him in the neck.

"You go slow there, Ducrot!" cried Owen, stopping work at once.

"I no do not'ing," muttered the man. "I no like you holler at me."

"Stop sending your chips this way. If you don't there will be trouble,
and you'll get the worst of it."

"Hah!"

"I mean what I say, and now I want you to listen to me." Owen come
closer, ax in hand. "I haven't forgotten the way you treated Dale
Bradford."

"I not care for dat boy."

"I know you don't. What I want to say is, after this keep your hands
off of him. If you don't, I'll have you run out of this camp in jig
time."

"You fight me?" demanded the French-Canadian, clutching his ax
nervously.

"I can fight if it comes to it," answered the young lumberman grimly.

"Bah! I not bodder wid you," snapped Ducrot, and turned again to his
work. Owen did the same. But he kept his eye on the French-Canadian,
and Ducrot took care not to send any more chips flying in his
direction.

In the camp there were, all told, five French-Canadians: four loggers
and a cook. The cook, it may be mentioned, in passing, had charge
of one-half of the cooking, while Jeff had charge of the other. The
French-Canadian would have nothing to do with the colored man, and
thought he could not cook at all, while the negro looked with equal
disdain upon the culinary efforts of the other.

Baptiste Ducrot was on fairly good terms with one of the loggers, a
wild fellow named Passamont, but he tried in vain to get into the good
graces of Jean Colette.

"I not like dat feller," said Colette to Dale. "He drink, he swear, he
make von beast of himself."

"You are right about that," answered the young lumberman. And then he
went on: "Do you ever hear him talking about his doings before he came
here?"

"Some time, _oui_. He make de big boast. Say he make much money an'
spend him. Bah! Why not he safe somet'ing fo' de day when he rains,
like you say him?"

"I know I can trust you, Colette. Will you do me a favor?"

"Favair? Sure. What shall I do?"

"If you ever hear him talking about a horse he had and sold, let me
know. But don't say anything to him about it."

"A hoss? He sell a hoss an' you want to know 'bout dat? Verra good! I
keep a big ear fo' dat." And then Jean Colette shut one eye tightly and
gazed knowingly at Dale with the other, as if he suspected what was in
the young lumberman's mind.

After this many days passed without special importance. Following the
holidays the lumbermen began to look forward to the time when the ice
in the rivers should break and the task of getting the winter's cut to
market should begin. Cutters, swampers, sled tenders, and drivers were
all equally busy, while big logs were being rolled down the hillside
nearly every day. Down by the pond and the river were four yards,
where the piles of logs, big and little, grew continually. Two extra
sleds had come in, and six horses, besides a team of oxen, and having
returned to camp from his visit to a sick relative, Joel Winthrop was
dispatched to Oldtown and Bangor to employ the best river drivers money
could get for the spring rafting.

"The best drivers in the world aint none too good for this work," said
one old cutter to Dale. "A poor driver can do more harm than a billy
goat in a dynamite shed. If he lets the drive get away from him and
jam up where it hadn't ought to, every lumberman on the river will feel
like kicking him full o' holes for it."

Down at the yards work had already begun on the logs, so that when
the lower end of the river was reached, Mr. Paxton could identify his
property from the property of scores of other lumbermen. In order to
know their own logs each lumberman or firm has a private mark, which
is cut in deeply on every log sent down the stream. The marks are
numerous, consisting of figures, letters, crosses, stars, daggers, and
numerous combinations of these. Mr. Paxton's mark was two I's, an X,
and two I's--II X II--and not a log was made ready for shipment until
the yard foreman was assured that this mark was cut in it in such a
fashion that the rough passage down the various waterways to the mills
or booms should not efface it.

"We are going to have a corking cut this year," said Owen, one day,
after looking over the lumber piles. "Old Foley says he can count up
eighty thousand feet more of timber than he had last year at this time."

"Well, that ought to please Mr. Paxton," answered Dale. "But what was
he saying to you just before I came up? You mentioned a ride on a
sled."

"He wanted to know if I'd drive over to the Gannett camp for him. He
wants some things from there."

"Of course you said you'd go. It will be a fine drive over the hills."

"Yes, I said I'd go, and he said I could take you if I wished."

"Hurrah, just the thing!" shouted Dale. "I've been wanting a holiday.
Working in the woods every day in this splendid weather is rather
tiresome."

The matter was talked over, and it was decided that the pair should
start early the following morning. They had a good stout sleigh
belonging to Mr. Paxton, and one of the best teams the camp afforded.
As the Gannett camp was thirty miles away, and the snow in some spots
was unusually deep, they were to take some provisions with them, and
make the trip a two-days' one.

"I don't want you young fellows to starbe on de way," said old Jeff.
"So I dun cooked you a fust-class dinnah an' put it in de basket." And
he brought it out to them and saw it stowed away safely in the back of
the sleigh.

Some of the men had relatives working at the other camp, and the young
lumbermen carried a number of letters in addition to the order Mr.
Paxton gave them. There were also two saws to carry and two iron camp
kettles; so the sleigh was well loaded when they started off.

"This is going to be just the finest ride that ever was," said Dale
enthusiastically, as he cracked the whip. "I couldn't think of anything
better."

"If we don't get stuck in a snowdrift," returned Owen. "The drifts must
be pretty deep between the hills."

"We'll have to stick to high ground then."

"That isn't always so easy."

"Barton said the road was open."

"He was over it ten days ago. Since that time we have had some pretty
heavy winds, and a light fall of snow in the bargain."

"Well, we'll pull through somehow," said Dale confidently.

"Of course we will!"

Away they went, to the westward of the camp proper, and then along
a road leading up the first of the series of hills. The sun shone
brightly and not a cloud showed itself in the sky. On each side of
them were the long stretches of pine and spruce, many of the trees
heavily laden with snow, their bottom branches hidden in the shroud
that covered the ground. Not a sound broke the stillness outside of the
muffled hoof-beats of the team as they moved along as swiftly as the
condition of the trail permitted.

At the top of the first hill was a small clearing, and here they pulled
up to take a look around. Nothing but the trees, brushwood, and snow
and ice met their gaze, and when the horses stopped moving the silence
became even more impressive.

"It's grand, isn't it?" was Owen's comment. "How a fellow can give this
up for a stuffy life in the city is more than I can understand."

"And yet they do do it, Owen, and some of those same fellows couldn't
be dragged back to this after once they are away from it."

"Well, everybody to his own fancy, Dale. But outdoor life suits me.
I'd die boxed up in a big city like Boston or New York. I was down in
Boston once, and when I walked through one of the narrow streets, with
its big buildings, I felt just as if a hand was on my chest, squeezing
the breath out of me."

"I know it, Owen. And yet, what do you think? Last year, when I was up
to 'Suncook Lake, there was a machinist from Bridgeport there, and the
second morning after he landed he told me he hadn't slept a wink the
night before because it was too quiet! Of course, he was piling it on,
but, just the same, he left for a livelier place that night."

                               CHAPTER X

                      WHAT HAPPENED IN THE WOODS

Noon found them more than halfway on their journey. The pull up one of
the hills had been a tough one and the horses were perfectly content to
rest in the shelter of a clump of trees and munch up the oats brought
along for them.

Finding another sheltered nook the two young lumbermen chopped down
some brushwood and a few dry branches and soon had a roaring fire
started. Over this they made themselves a pot of coffee and warmed up
some of the eating brought along. It was a good meal and thoroughly
enjoyed.

"What fun a fellow could have on a hunting trip for a week or two!"
observed Dale. "I saw half a dozen partridges on the road and some
tracks that looked like those of a deer."

"Yes, indeed, Dale. But we have got to attend to work, or our savings
account won't be near as large as you want it when we reckon up in the
spring." Owen said this dryly, for saving was still a sore subject
with him, although for every dollar put in the box by his chum he
faithfully placed another beside it.

They had brought a gun along, and kept their eyes open for the possible
appearance of some big game--not wishing to waste their limited
ammunition on anything small. But nothing larger than a fox appeared,
and this animal lost no time in seeking cover as soon as discovered by
Owen.

The end of the trip was down into a broad valley bordering a long,
narrow lake. Here the road was narrow and uneven and more than once
they had all they could do to keep the turnout from going over and
spilling them and the contents into the snow.

"I'll get out and make sure of the path," said Owen at last, and went
on ahead, with a long, sharp stick, which he stuck into the snow at
every place that looked doubtful. Thus they avoided more than one
dangerous hollow and reached ground as safe as it was level.

The coming of the two young lumbermen was something of an event in the
Gannett camp, and those who were looking for letters crowded around
eagerly. Gannett himself, a tall, thin logger, all of six feet four
inches in height, greeted them cordially as he gave the hand of each a
tight squeeze.

"Deownright glad to see ye," he drawled. "Guess ye had a kind of
bumpin' ride a-gittin' over, didn't ye?"

"It wasn't as smooth as it might be," answered Owen.

"Well, hardly. I hain't forgot the last time I druv over, not by er
jugful! Got spilt out twict, an' the second time I went into er holler
headfust, clar to my boots! Ye done uncommon well not to spill over."

"The road at our end is good enough; it's your end that needs looking
after," put in Dale, and told how Owen had got out and walked.

"Yes, I know the road is putty bad in my camp," said Philander Gannett.
"But, ye see, I hain't calkerlatin' ter stay here another season.
I'm going to t'other end o' the lake. The timber here aint fit fer
telegraph poles, much less boards,--an' I aint a-workin' fer them pulp
mills an' a-spilin' my timber a-doin' of it."

The camp, in many respects, was similar to that run by Luke Paxton,
so there was nothing of novelty to interest the two young lumbermen.
Yet, after the team was cared for, they took a look around the various
buildings and around the yard at the lake front. At supper time they
ate with Philander Gannett and several of his foremen.

"How long have you been cutting in this neighborhood?" asked Owen,
during the meal.

"This aint but the second season," was Gannett's reply. "Ye see, I
bought this tract from a Boston man, named Jefferson Wilbur--him as
owns thet fancy lodge over to Pine Tree Lake. Wilbur used to run two
camps up here in Maine, but he got sick o' it, an' now I understand
he's a-puttin' his money in timber lands in the Far West, Oregon and
Washington."

"Oregon!" repeated Dale, and his mind went back to the mining venture
in Oregon, in which his father had invested so much money.

"Exactly. He says thet place is the only one to get rich in, an' I
reckon he's right--leas'wise, I don't think I'm a-goin' to git rich
here."

"What part of Oregon is his lumber claim located in?"

"His money is in a company thet has miles and miles o' timber land
along the big rivers. He told me the names, but I've forgotten 'em."

"I've seen his lodge on Pine Tree Lake," said Owen. "It's a handsome
place and must have cost a neat sum to build."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars, so he told me. An' him an' his family
aint there more'n two months out of twelve. Does beat all how some
folks kin throw away money," concluded Philander Gannett, with a sigh.

"I wish I could meet this Jefferson Wilbur," said Dale to Owen, when
they were retiring to the bunk to which they had been assigned. "I'd
like to ask him if he knows anything about that mine my father lost his
money in."

"Most likely he doesn't, Dale. Oregon is a big State, and the lumber
people don't come much in contact with the miners, I guess. And,
besides, this Wilbur is a Boston man, not a Westerner."

The business that had brought Dale and Owen to the camp had been
concluded before retiring, so there was nothing to keep the young
lumbermen from starting on the return as soon as they arose on the
morning following. They were given a hearty breakfast of pancakes,
fried potatoes, salt fish, and coffee, and another lunch was stowed
away in the basket they carried. Then came some letters for those at
the Paxton camp, and away they went, with a crack of the whip, and a
dozen men giving them a parting wave of the hand as they disappeared
among the trees.

The day was not as clear as they had anticipated. The sun was hidden by
a number of dark clouds, and there was a damp feeling in the air, as of
snow.

"We'll be lucky if we get back before the storm lets down on us,"
observed Owen, with an anxious look at the sky. "And I shouldn't be
surprised if the storm proved a heavy one."

"Well, the team ought to make as good time getting back as they did
in coming, Owen. And we needn't stop so long for dinner as we did
yesterday."

Dale walked ahead this time, and soon what they considered the most
dangerous part of the road was passed. Then Dale hopped in beside his
chum, and away they went, at the best speed the team could command.

It lacked still an hour of noon when the first flakes of the coming
storm fell upon them. They were large flakes, and floated down as
lightly as so many feathers. Then they grew thicker and thicker, until
the landscape on all sides was obscured by them.

"We are going to have our hands full keeping to the road now," said
Owen, shading his eyes with his palm. "I must say I can't see much."

"The horses ought to know their own tracks."

"That is true."

Fifteen minutes went by, and the snow kept growing thicker and thicker.
Owen was on the point of pulling up, when of a sudden one of the horses
gave a snort and reared up violently.

The act was so unexpected that Dale and Owen were completely
astonished. Both clutched the lines and held on while the sleigh began
to go backwards in a semicircle.

"Whoa, Billy!" roared Owen. "Whoa! What in the world is the matter with
you?"

"A bear!" cried Dale, and stared ahead. He was right; a bear had
appeared in the road, directly in front of the team. Now the second
horse began to rear and snort, and the sleigh moved back faster than
ever.

[Illustration: "A bear!" cried Dale.]

"Get the gun!" cried Owen. "I'll hold the lines!"

The weapon was behind the seat, under a patch of oilskin cloth, and
it took Dale several seconds to secure it. By that time the bear had
crossed the road, and they could hear the beast crashing along in the
timber beyond.

"Where is he?"

"Gone, over there!" Owen gripped the lines tighter than ever. "Whoa,
Billy! Whoa, Daisy! Whoa, I tell you, or we'll have a smash-up sure.
Whoa!"

But the team was thoroughly scared, and continued to snort and plunge.
Snap! went one strap and then another, and a sharp crack told that one
of the runners of the sleigh was broken likewise.

The young lumbermen had been rounding a bend of the hill trail. Just
ahead the road was level enough, but to the rear it sloped away to
a hollow, filled with scrub pine, brushwood, and drifted snow. Owen
was afraid that they would go into this hollow, and they did, with a
suddenness that left them no time in which to leap to a point of safety.

Down went the sleigh, turning completely over and burying Dale and
Owen beneath it. The horses came down too, and began to flounder at a
furious rate in the snow and the bushes.

It looked as if both Dale and Owen might be killed as the result of
the accident, but the soft snow at the bottom of the hollow saved them
from all harm but a few scratches. Both sank between two rather stout
bushes, while the sleigh landed on the top of the undergrowth and stuck
there, just over their heads. Then the horses, by some miraculous
means, gained their feet once more, and dashed down the remainder of
the slope, until a line of scrub pines barred their further progress.
Here they stood still, panting, but evidently satisfied that their
present danger was over.

"Dale!" It was nearly a minute later when Owen crawled forth and freed
his mouth from snow sufficiently to speak. "Dale, are you alive?"

"I--I guess I am--I don't know for sure," was the spluttered-out
answer. "What a tumble that was!"

"There are the horses, down by the trees. I'm glad they didn't run any
farther."

"The sleigh is a wreck!" said Dale, gazing sorrowfully at the upturned
outfit. Then he looked at the gun which was still in his grasp. "It's
lucky this didn't go off and hit one of us. Where is that bear?"

Both gazed around, but the beast was not in sight. Then they looked at
the wrecked sleigh, at the horses, and then at each other.

"We're in a pickle, Owen!"

"It's a pretty snowy one, Dale. See what you can do with this sleigh,
while I go and secure those horses. If they get away we shall be in a
fix."

Securing the animals was easy, and a few gentle words soon quieted them
down. Then Owen tied them fast and returned to where he had left Dale.

On examination they found that one of the runners of the sleigh was
cracked, but not broken completely off, and around the cracked portion
they wound some stout cord, making it almost as strong as before. Then
they turned the outfit right side up and searched about for the load,
which had been spilled in all directions.

"It's snowing harder than ever," said Dale. "And some of the things I
can't see anywhere."

"I've got to mend that harness," came from his chum.

Owen went down to patch up the broken straps, while Dale continued to
hunt for the missing things. As the younger of the two had said, the
storm was increasing, and both felt that the troubles of the trip were
by no means at an end.

                              CHAPTER XI

                        SPRINGTIME IN THE CAMP

When Owen returned with the horses, Dale had found everything but a bag
of shot that had been resting in the back end of the sleigh when the
catastrophe occurred.

"I can't find the shot anywhere," he said. "It was so heavy that it has
sunk clear out of sight."

"Well, we can't waste time here," was Owen's reply. "Come, help me
hitch up the team and we'll be on our way."

They were soon ready to move, and then came the task of getting the
turnout back to the road at the top of the hollow. Before making the
start Owen tested the ground and the snow in several directions with a
stick.

"We'll try it this way," he said, pointing out the course. "You take
hold of Billy and I'll try to handle Daisy."

With some misgivings, the start was made. The horses lurched and
plunged, and the sleigh creaked and groaned as if ready to go to pieces
then and there.

"One more pull and we'll be up!" cried Owen. "Now then, get up, Daisy!
get up, Billy!"

The team did its best, and now the sleigh was at the very edge of the
trail above. Here was a steep incline of several yards. Billy slipped
and Dale came close to going under the animal's hoofs. But horse and
youth regained their positions, and with a final jerk the horses
reached a firm footing, and the turnout and the young lumbermen came
after them.

"Phew! That's a good job done!" panted Owen, coming to a halt for
breath.

"You're right, Owen. I was afraid we'd have to give it up," panted Dale
in return.

"Here is the bag of shot. It must have fallen out of the sleigh when
the horses first took fright."

"Do you think that bear will bother us any more?"

"I hope not. But you had better keep the shot-gun handy. I'll take the
reins and try to keep them under control, no matter what happens."

The sky had grown darker, and the snow was now coming down in smaller
flakes. These appeared to grow harder, and presently the wind came up,
driving the flakes into their faces like so much salt.

"We're up against a regular snowstorm, and no mistake," remarked Owen.
"We'll be lucky if we reach camp to-night."

"We'll have to reach camp," answered Dale hastily. The prospect of
spending a night among the hills, with no shelter, and with a big bear
in that vicinity, did not appeal to him.

"We'll do the best we can, Dale. I can't see the road, can you?"

"Not more than a yard or two ahead of the horses. But they ought to be
able to keep the trail. They know they are going home."

"If they don't get scared again."

On they went, the sleigh making scarcely a sound, excepting where it
scraped over some wind-swept rock or an exposed tree root. Both of
the young lumbermen kept on guard for a possible encounter with wild
animals, but not so much as a rabbit appeared to disturb them.

"Well, we've got to trust to luck," came from Owen, at last. "I can't
see a thing now."

"Nor I, Owen. Shall we get out and walk?"

"No. Let us make ourselves comfortable in the sleigh, and the horses
can take their own time about covering the ground."

They settled back, expecting the team to slow down. Instead both Billy
and Daisy showed a strong inclination to increase their speed. Then, a
few minutes later, they shot past a clump of trees that looked strongly
familiar to Owen.

"Whoop!" he shouted, straightening up. "I know where we are now, Dale.
Five minutes more and we'll be in sight of camp."

"Good enough," responded Dale, and he too began to watch through the
heavy snow. On and on they went, the team kicking up the snow briskly,
as if aware that the toilsome journey would soon be at an end. Then
they made a turn or two, came down under some wide-arching pines, and
Dale gave a shout:

"The camp! I see the lights!"

He was right, and soon they were coming up to the doorway of the big
cabin. A loud shout brought out several of the lumbermen, including Mr.
Paxton.

"You did well to get home in this storm," said the camp owner. "I
thought sure I wouldn't see you until to-morrow."

"We came pretty close to getting left on the road," answered Owen.
"I'll tell you about it after the turnout is put away."

It was only a short while after this that they were seated at the long
deal table, close to the red-hot stove, eating a generous supper and
relating their tale, to which the men listened with keen interest.

"A bear!" cried Mr. Paxton. "It's a good thing he wasn't real hungry.
If he had been he'd most likely have chewed one of you up."

"I not like the bear," came from Jean Colette. "I meet heem vonce--in
de woods. He come up an' want to hug me. _Bon!_ I run one, two miles to
geet avay. He come after me. I climb de tree. He climb too. Den I drop
down an' run some more. He run too. I swim de pond, an' run an' run,
till I 'most drop dead. Den I am safe. No, Jean Colette, he not like de
bear, only when he is dead an' in de pot!"

At this honest speech many laughed, which did not hurt Colette's
feelings as might have been expected. The only one who showed his
disdain was Baptiste Ducrot.

"Huh! I not run from de bear," he sniffed. "I keel two bear vonce--one
wid a gun an' de udder wid a knife," and then he related the story to
such of the crowd as cared to listen. It was a hair-raising tale and
some enjoyed it, but it is doubtful if anybody believed Ducrot.

"He's a blower," was Gilroy's comment. "He loves to make us believe
he's a wonderful fellow, but I don't see it."

The young lumbermen were afraid that their employer might find fault
with them over the broken sleigh and harness, but Mr. Paxton said that
he thought they had done very well, all things considered.

"I had a little mare get scared over a bear once," he said. "She ran
away with me and threw me into the river and smashed the chaise to
flinders. A horse has no love for a bear, and even a bobcat makes them
uneasy sometimes."

The fall of snow lasted for several days. But after that the weather
changed greatly, and soon the old lumbermen announced that the first
of the spring thaws was at hand. The sun grew warmer, and during the
middle of the day the snow melted rapidly in the nooks that were
sheltered from the north wind and exposed to the sunlight.

Old Joel Winthrop had already reached camp with two expert log drivers,
and the work along the pond and the river went on unceasingly. Every
log brought down to the yards had been marked, and now began the task
of forming the rafts or drives that would be started on their long
journey to boom or mill as soon as the river got to running freely.

"I'd like to go down with one of the drivers," said Dale.

"So would I, Dale," answered Owen. "But I guess we had better stay here
as long as the work holds out. There is no telling what employment
we'll be able to get after we leave the camp."

"I know that, although I am sure John Larson or Peter Odell will give
us work if they want men."

A week later came the announcement that the ice in the river was
breaking up. The whole camp was now a mass of slush and mud, and nobody
thought of wearing anything but boots when he moved about. The last of
the logs from the hills were coming down, and these were yarded at the
extreme end of the pond, for Mr. Paxton was going to hold them back
until the driving on the river was nearly over.

"May get an extra order at the last minute," he explained. "Then the
new cut can go in with the hold-overs."

One fine spring day found Owen and Dale bound for the extreme northwest
limit of the Paxton claim. Mr. Paxton had heard something about the man
on the next claim cutting some of his lumber, and he wanted to find out
if it was so.

"You know my line," he said to Owen. "It's a cut like this." He showed
them with a pencil. "All the timber this side of that line is mine."

The two young lumbermen went on horseback, each carrying a shot-gun,
hoping to bag some game on the trip. The mud and the water running
along every tiny watercourse did not daunt them, and each was in the
best of spirits.

"Our ride will take us close to Pine Tree Lake," said Dale, as they
pushed on. "If we find everything O.K., let us go to the lake and take
a look at the fine lodge belonging to Mr. Jefferson Wilbur."

"I'm willing, if it doesn't take too long, Dale."

"Of course the lodge is locked up now, but perhaps there is a caretaker
there who will show us through. Or, if there isn't, we can look around
the outside and through the stables anyway."

The young lumbermen kept their eyes wide open for game, and succeeded
in getting half a dozen birds of good size. But nothing else appeared,
much to their disappointment.

It lacked an hour of noon when they reached the row of firs marking
the boundary of the Paxton claim. The blazes on the trees were plainly
to be seen, and they followed the line from end to end without much
trouble.

"Nobody has cut any timber here," was Owen's comment. "Some hunters
have cut down some firewood, but that is all. It's a false alarm."

"And we've had the journey for nothing," added Dale. "But I've enjoyed
the trip, haven't you?"

"I should enjoy it more if we could spot some good game."

"Well, the day isn't over yet."

From the northwest corner of the claim was a narrow trail leading to
the south shore of Pine Tree Lake, a body of water quarter of a mile
wide by three-quarters of a mile long. In the middle of the lake was a
long narrow island, on which grew a magnificent pine tree, which gave
to the lake its name.

"Looks almost good enough to take a swim in," remarked Dale, as they
came out on the lake shore.

"I dare you to take a plunge," said Owen.

"Done!" was the reply. "I don't take a dare from anybody."

"Let us take a look at the lodge first," went on Owen.

They could see the place, but a short distance away, standing on
something of a bluff. At the edge of the bluff was a set of steps
running to a tiny wharf, on which was built a boathouse. The lodge
was a low, rambling structure, built of logs and stone, with quaint
carvings and curious casements.

"It's queer he didn't build more of a city-looking house while he was
spending his money," said Owen, as they came closer.

"Oh, I guess he wanted something that looked like the backwoods, Owen.
No doubt he gets tired of city life and city houses."

There was no fence around the lodge, and they rode up the broad
pathway, and then around the corner of the building. As they did this
they saw a man disappear into the building through a window opening on
a low porch.

"Hullo!" cried Dale. "Who was that?"

"It's queer he went through the window," returned Owen.

"It was queer. Let us see who it was," went on Dale, and dismounted
at the side of the porch. Then he went to the open window and peered
inside, never dreaming of the surprise in store for him.

                              CHAPTER XII

                      THE LODGE AT PINE TREE LAKE

"You had better go slow, Dale," whispered Owen, who was close behind
his chum. "That man may not belong here and may be a desperate
character."

"Do you mean he may be a thief?" whispered Dale, in return.

"Why not? There must be a good many things of value in this lodge."

"I guess they take most of the things away during the winter."

"Not everything. Do you see anybody?"

"No. But I--hark!"

Dale raised his hand, and both became silent. From a room on the other
side of the lodge came a murmur of voices.

"Did you see anybody around, Ducrot?"

"Nobody is near de place," was the answer. "I look around verra good."

"It is Baptiste Ducrot!" exclaimed Dale, in a low voice. "I am sure he
is here for no good."

"Who is with him?"

"I don't know, but he isn't a Frenchman."

Both young lumbermen left the window and took their way with the horses
to a summer-house standing a short distance away. Here their steeds
were tied up, out of sight of the lodge.

"I am going to investigate this," said Dale. "Did you know Ducrot had
left the camp?"

"He got leave of absence yesterday," answered Owen. "He was to be back
by next Tuesday. I heard him speaking to Mr. Paxton about it."

"I'm going to carry my shot-gun," went on Dale, as they moved forward
once again in the direction of the lodge.

On the opposite side of the building was a mass of shrubbery growing
close to several windows. Although there were no leaves on the bushes,
the branches were numerous and afforded a fairly good place of
concealment.

"There is an open window," whispered Owen. "We can hear something from
under that."

They crawled to the spot he indicated, and listened intently. Two men
were in the room beyond--Ducrot and the stranger, a good-for-nothing
hunter and trapper named Link Axton, who had been under arrest more
than once for killing game out of season.

"The caretaker is taken care of," Link Axton was saying. "He won't be
back here for two days," and he gave a self-satisfied chuckle.

"We take de t'ings away to-morrow mornin' at seex o'clock," came from
Baptiste Ducrot. "I haf de boat waitin' at de river an' you geet de
wagon. Den we make de big money." And he rubbed his hands together in
anticipation.

"You're a good one, Bap!" laughed Link Axton. "And the folks over to
the camp think you are as honest as the day is long, too!" He uttered
another chuckle. "Are you going back after this little job is over?"

"I go back to geet my money," answered the French-Canadian. "Den I tell
Paxton I have de udder job, ha! ha!"

"And we'll have a good time over to Sandybay," went on Link Axton. "Is
that where you sold that hoss of Larson's?"

"Dat de place, Link. But you not say anyt'ing 'bout him some more,"
said Ducrot, with a warning shake of his finger.

The talk went on for half an hour, and Dale and Owen learned that the
unscrupulous pair had sent the caretaker of the lodge a decoy letter
summoning him to Milo, on supposed business for his employer. They had
packed up many articles of value in the lodge, and intended to take
them away by wagon to the river at daybreak the next day. The stolen
goods were afterwards to be placed on a boat, but where they were to be
taken after that was not mentioned.

"I guess we have heard enough," whispered Owen to his chum. "Come," and
he led the way from the lodge to where the horses had been left.

"What do you think is best to do?" demanded Dale. "Of course we are not
going to let those fellows run off with the stuff."

"To be sure not," answered Owen. "To my mind it will be best to
catch them red-handed at the work. Then there will be no trouble in
convicting them."

"Do you mean we had best go back and let Mr. Paxton know what is up?"

"Yes, either him or the sheriff of the county."

"Did you hear them talk about John Larson's horse?"

"Yes, Dale. Ducrot took the horse beyond a doubt, and he was sold
somewhere around Sandybay."

It was decided that they get back to camp with all speed. They left the
vicinity of the summer-house by a back path, keeping well out of sight
of the lodge. As soon as they felt free to do so, they set off at a
gallop, and reached the camp long before sundown.

Mr. Paxton was glad to learn that his timber had not been touched.
He was amazed at the story they had to tell concerning Ducrot and
Link Axton, and agreed with Owen that the sheriff of the county must
be notified at once. This was not easy, and while Dale went off with
Gilroy to hunt up that official, who lived a good many miles away, Mr.
Paxton, Owen, Andrews, and three others who could be trusted, made
their plans to leave the camp at midnight.

"That will bring us to the lodge in time to stop this game," said the
owner of the claim. "And if the sheriff isn't on hand we'll hold the
rascals till he puts in an appearance."

Owen was sure that Jean Colette could be counted on for aid, and he was
taken into the confidence of the others. His eyes snapped when he was
told what was wanted of him.

"_Bon!_ I do dat willingly!" he cried. "Ducrot is von verra bad man,
_oui_! I not count him my countryman, no!" And he shook his head to
show his earnestness.

It was not a pleasant ride back to Pine Tree Lake, for the slush on the
ground made the air damp and penetrating; and the ride for Dale and
Gilroy was equally disagreeable.

It lacked an hour of daybreak, when the party under Mr. Paxton gained
the lake shore, and came to a halt in a cedar grove. Here the horses
were tied up, and then Owen led the way forward toward the lodge.

"I see some men approaching on horseback!" called out Andrews presently.

"Dale is with them," put in Owen, after a long look. "It must be the
sheriff's posse."

So it proved, and soon Sheriff Folsom reached them, followed by Dale,
Gilroy, and two men who proved to be deputies.

"Just in time, I see," said the sheriff. "Seen anything of our quarry?"

"Not yet," answered Mr. Paxton.

After a brief conference the two parties separated again, one to come
up at the rear of the lodge, and the other close to the boat landing.
At the latter place rested a skiff, and among the shrubbery near by
were a horse and a large lumber wagon.

"They must be in the house," whispered Owen to Mr. Paxton.

"Don't make a noise," was the answer. "Let the sheriff make the first
move."

A few minutes later Baptiste Ducrot appeared at the side door of the
lodge. He looked anxiously around, and seeing nobody disappeared again.
Then he and Link Axton came from the building carrying a trunk between
them, and in their outer hands several bundles. Trunk and bundles were
dumped into the wagon, and the two evil-doers went back into the lodge
for more of their booty.

"Now is our time," said the sheriff to his men. "Don't parley with
them, but make 'em surrender at once."

He and his men moved close to the lodge door and waited, pistols in
hand. Soon Ducrot and Axton came forth again, with more bundles.