FullReads

The woods were empty. No ring of the axe, no shout of the driver, no fall of the tree broke the silence. FitzPatrick comprehended. He knew that at the next skidway the men were gathered, waiting to see what he would do; gathered openly at last in that final hostility which had been maturing all winter. He knew, besides, that most of them were partly drunk and wholly reckless, and that he was alone. Nevertheless, after finishing conscientiously skidway number one, he moved on to skidway number two.

There, as he had expected, the men were waiting in ominous silence, their eyes red with debauch and hate. FitzPatrick paid them no heed, but set about his business.

Methodically, deliberately, he did the work. Then, when the last pencil-mark had been made, and the tablets had been closed with a snap of finality, the Rough Red stepped forward.

“Ye have finished with this skidway?” asked the foreman in soft cat-tones.

“I have,” answered FitzPatrick, briefly.

“Yo’ have forgot to scale one stick.”

“No.”

“There is a stick still not marked.”

“I culled it.”

“Why?”

“It was not sawed straight.”

FitzPatrick threw his head back proudly, answering his man at ease, as an accomplished swordsman. The Rough Red shifted his feet, almost awed in spite of himself. One after another the men dropped their eyes and stood ill at ease. The scaler turned away; his heel caught a root; he stumbled; instantly the pack was on him, for the power of his eye was broken.

Mad with rage they kicked and beat and tore at FitzPatrick’s huddled form long after consciousness had left it. Then an owl hooted from the shadow of the wood, or a puff of wind swept by, or a fox barked, or some other little thing happened, so that in blind unreasoning panic they fled. The place was deserted, save for the dark figure against the red-and-white snow.

FitzPatrick regained his wits in pain, and so knew he was still on earth. Every movement cost him a moan, and some agency outside himself inflicted added torture. After a long time he knew it was the cook, who was kindly kneading his limbs and knuckling his hair. The man proved to be in a maze of wonderment over his patient’s tenacity of life.

“I watched ye,” he murmured soothingly, “I did not dare interfere. But I kem to yo’ ‘s soon as I could. See, here’s a fire that I built for ye, and some tea. Take a little. And no bones broke! True for ye, ye’re a hearty man, and strong with th’ big muscles on ye fit to fight th’ Rough Red man to man. Get th’ use of yere legs, darlint, an’ I’ll tak’ ye to camp, for its fair drunk they are by now. Sure an’ I tole ye they’d kill ye!”

“But they didn’t,” muttered FitzPatrick with a gleam of humour.

“Sure ’twas not their fault–nor yer own!”

Hours later, as it seemed, they moved slowly in the direction of camp. The cold had stiffened FitzPatrick’s cuts and bruises. Every step shot a red wave of torture through his arteries to his brain. They came in sight of camp. It was silent. Both knew that the men had drunk themselves into a stupor.

“I’d like t’ kill th’ whole lay-out as she sleeps,” snarled the cook, shaking his fist.

“So would I,” replied FitzPatrick.

Then as they looked, a thin wreath of smoke curled from under the open doorway and spread lazily in the frosty air. Another followed; another; still another. The cabin was afire.

“They’ve kicked over th’ stove again,” said FitzPatrick, seating himself on a stump. His eyes blazed with wrath and bitterness.

“What yo’ goin’ to do?” asked the cook.

“Sit here,” replied FitzPatrick, grimly.

The cook started forward.

“Stop!” shouted the scaler, fiercely; “if you move a step, I’ll break your back!”

The cook stared at him through saucer eyes.

“But they’d be burnt alive!” he objected, wildly.

“They ought to be,” snarled the scaler; “it ain’t their fault I’m here to help them. ‘Tis their own deed that I’m now lyin’ beyant there in th’ forest, unable to help myself. Do you understand? I’m yet out there in th’ woods!”

“Ah, wirra, wirra!” wailed the cook, wringing his hands. “Th’ poor lads!” He began to weep.

FitzPatrick stared straight in front of him for a moment. Then he struck his forehead, and with wonderful agility, considering the injuries he had but just received, tore down the hill in the direction of the smouldering cabin. The cook followed him joyfully. Together they put out the fire. The men snored like beasts, undisturbed by all the tumult.

“‘Tis th’ soft heart ye have after all, Fitz,” said the cook, delightedly, as the two washed their hands in preparation for a lunch. “Ye could not bear t’ see th’ lads burn.”

FitzPatrick glowered at him for an instant from beneath his square brows.

“They can go to hell for all of me,” he answered, finally, “but my people want these logs put in this winter, an’ there’s nobody else to put them in.”