CHAPTER XVIII
FACE TO FACE
For the few remaining hours of night Dave took no leisure. He pressedforward the work of repairing the damage, with a zest that set JoelDawson herding his men on to almost superhuman feats. There was no resttaken, no rest asked. And it said something for the devotion of theselumber-jacks to their employer that no "grouse" or murmur was heard.
The rest which the doctor had ordered Dave to take did not come untillong after his breakfast hour, and then only it came through sheerphysical inability to return to his work. His breakfast was brought tothe office, and he made a weak pretense of eating. Then, as he rosefrom his seat, for the first time in his life he nearly fainted. Hesaved himself, however, by promptly sitting down again, and in a fewseconds his head fell forward on his chest and he was sound asleep,lost in the dreamless slumber of exhaustion.
Two hours later Dawson put his head in through the office doorway. Hesaw the sleeping man and retreated at once. He understood. For himself,he had not yet come to the end of his tether. Besides, Simon Odd wouldrelieve him presently. Then, too, there were others upon whom he coulddepend for help.
It was noon when a quiet tap came at the office door. Dave's old motherpeeped in. She had heard of the smash and was fearful for her boy.Seeing him asleep she tiptoed across the room to him. She had met thepostmaster on her way, and brought the mail with her. Now she depositedit on his desk and stood looking down at the great recumbent figurewith eyes of the deepest love and anxiety. All signs of his laceratedchest were concealed and she was spared what would have been to her aheartbreaking sight. Her gentle heart only took in the unutterablyweary attitude of the sleeper. That was sufficient to set her shakingher gray head and sighing heavily. The work, she told herself sadly,was killing him. Nor did she know at the moment how near to the truthshe was.
For a moment she bent over him, and her aged lips lightly touched hismass of wiry hair. To the world he might be unsightly, he might beungainly, he might be--well, all he believed himself to be; to her hepossessed every beauty, every virtue a doting mother can bestow uponher offspring.
She passed out of the office as silently as she came, and the man'sstertorous breathing rose and fell steadily, the only sound in thatroom of death.
Two hours later he awoke with a start. A serving girl blundered intothe room with a basket of food. His mother had sent over his dinner.
The girl's apologies were profuse.
"I jest didn't know, Mr. Dave. I'm sure sorry. Your ma sent me overwith these things, an' she said as I was to set 'em right out for you.Y' see she didn't just say you was sleepin', she----"
"All right, Maggie," Dave said kindly. Then he looked at his watch, andto his horror found it was two o'clock. He had slept the entire morningthrough.
He swiftly rose from his seat and stretched himself. He was stiff andsore, and that stretch reminded him painfully of his wounded chest.Then his eyes fell upon the ominous pile of furs in the corner. Ah,there was that to see to.
He watched the girl set out his dinner and remembered he was hungry.And the moment she left the room he fell upon the food with avidity.Yes, he felt better--much better, and he was glad. He could return tohis work, and see that everything possible was done, and then therewas--that other matter.
He had just finished his food when Dr. Symons came in with an apologyon his lips.
"A bit late," he exclaimed. "Sorry I couldn't make it before. Ah," hisquick eyes fell upon the pile of furs. "Dead?" he inquired.
Dave nodded.
"Sure," the other rattled on. "Had to be. Knew it. Well, there are moregood sawyers to be had. Let's look at your chest."
Dave submitted, and then the doctor, at the lumberman's request, wentoff with a rush to see about the arrangements for the sawyer's burial.
He had hardly left the place, and Dave was just thinking of goingacross to the mill again, when there was another call. He was standingat the window. He wanted to return at once to his work, but for some,to him, unaccountable reason he was a prey to a curious reluctance; itwas a form of inertia he had never before experienced, and it halfannoyed him, yet was irresistibly fascinating. He stood there more orless dreamily, watching the buzzing flies as they hurled themselvesagainst the dirty glass panes. He idly tried to count them. He was notin the least interested, but at that moment, as a result of his woundand his weariness, his brain felt that it needed the rest of suchtrivialities.
It was while occupied in this way that he saw Jim Truscott approaching,and the sight startled him into a mental activity that just then hisbest interests in the mills failed to stir him to.
Then Mansell had told the truth. Jim had not gone east as he hadassured Tom Chepstow it was his intention to do. Why was he coming tohim now? A grim thought passed through his mind. Was it the fascinationwhich the scene of a crime always has for the criminal? He sat down athis desk, and, when his visitor's knock came, appeared to be busy withhis mail.
Truscott came in. Dave did not look up, but the tail of his eye warnedhim of a peculiarly furtive manner in his visitor.
"Half a minute," he said, in a preoccupied tone. "Just sit down."
The other silently obeyed, while Dave tore open a telegram athaphazard, and immediately became really absorbed in its contents.
It was a wire from his agent in Winnipeg, and announced that therailroad strike had been settled, and the news would be public propertyin twenty-four hours. It further told him that he hoped in future hewould have no further hitch to report in the transportation of theMalkern timber, and that now he could cope with practically anyquantity Dave might ship down. The news was very satisfactory, exceptfor the reminder it gave him of the disquieting knowledge that hismills were temporarily wrecked, and he could not produce the quantitiesthe agent hoped to ship. At least he could not produce them for somedays, and--yes, there was that shortage from the hills to cope with,too.
This brought him to the recollection that the author of half histrouble was in the office, and awaiting his pleasure. He turned at onceto his visitor, and surveyed him closely from head to foot.
Truscott was sitting with his back to the pile of rugs concealing thedead sawyer. Presently their eyes met, and in the space of that glancethe lumberman's thought flowed swiftly. Nor, when he spoke, did histone suggest either anger or resentment, merely a cool inquiry.
"You--changed your mind?" he said.
"What about?" Truscott was on the defensive at once.
"You didn't go east, then?"
The other's gaze shifted at once, and his manner suggested annoyancewith himself for his display.
"Oh, yes. I went as far as Winnipeg. Guess I got hung up by the strike,so--so I came back again. Who told you?"
"Tom Chepstow."
Truscott nodded. It was some moments before either spoke again. Therewas an awkwardness between them which seemed to increase every second.Truscott was thinking of their last meeting, and--something else. Davewas estimating the purpose of this visit. He understood that the manhad a purpose, and probably a very definite one.
Suddenly the lumberman rose from his seat as though about to terminatethe interview, and his movement promptly had the effect he desired.Truscott detained him at once.
"You had a bad smash, last night. That's why I came over."
Dave smiled. It was just the glimmer of a smile, and frigid as a polarsunbeam. As he made no answer, the other was forced to go on.
"I'm sorry, Dave," he continued, with a wonderful display of sincerity.Then he hesitated, but finally plunged into a labored apology. "I daresay Parson Tom has told you something of what I said to him the nighthe went away. He went up to clear out the fever for you, didn't he?He's a good chap. I hoped he'd tell you anyway. I just--hadn't the faceto come to you myself after what had happened between us. Look here,Dave, you've treated me 'white' since then--I mean about that mill ofmine. You see--well, I can't just forget old days and old friendships.They're on my conscience bad. I want to straighten up. I want to t
ellyou how sorry I am for what I've done and said in the past. You'd havedone right if you'd broken my neck for me. I went east as I said, andall these things hung on my conscience like--like cobwebs, and I'mdetermined to clear 'em away. Dave, I want to shake hands before I gofor good. I want you to try and forget. The strike's over now, and I'mgoing away to-day. I----"
He broke off. It seemed as though he had suddenly realized thefrigidity of Dave's silence and the hollow ring of his own professions.It is doubtful if he were shamed into silence. It was simply that therewas no encouragement to go on, and, in spite of his effrontery, he wasleft confused.
"You're going to-day?" Dave's calmness gave no indication of hisfeelings. Nor did he offer to shake hands.
Truscott nodded. Then--
"The smash--was it a very bad one?"
"Pretty bad."
"It--it won't interfere with your work--I hope?"
"Some."
Dave's eyes were fixed steadily upon his visitor, who let his gazewander. There was something painfully disconcerting in the lumberman'scold regard, and in the brevity of his replies.
"Doc Symons told me about it," the other went on presently. "He wasfetched here in the night. He said you were hurt. But you seem allright."
Dave made it very hard for him. There were thoughts in the back of hishead, questions that must be answered. For an instant a doubt sweptover him, and his restless eyes came to a standstill on the rugged faceof the master of the mills. But he saw nothing there to reassure him,or to give him cause for alarm. It was the same as he had always knownit, only perhaps the honest gray eyes lacked their kindly twinkle.
"Yes, I'm all right. Doc talks a heap."
"Did he lie?"
Dave shrugged.
"It depends what he calls hurt. Some of the boys were hurt."
"Ah. He didn't mention them."
Again the conversation languished.
"I didn't hear how the smash happened," Truscott went on presently.
Dave's eyes suddenly became steely.
"It was Mansell's saw. Something broke. Then we got afire. I just gotout--a miracle. I was in the tally room."
The lumberman's brevity had in it the clip of snapping teeth. IfTruscott noticed it, it suited him to ignore it. He went on quickly.His interest was rising and sweeping him on.
"On Mansell's saw!" he said. "When I heard you'd got him working Iwondered. He's bad for drink. Was he drunk?"
Dave's frigidity was no less for the smile that accompanied his nextwords.
"Maybe he'd been drinking."
But Truscott was not listening. He was thinking ahead, and his nextquestion came with almost painful sharpness.
"Did he get--smashed?"
"A bit."
"Ah. Was he able to account for the--accident?"
The man was leaning forward in his anxiety, and his question wasliterally hurled at the other. There was a look, too, in his blearedeyes which was a mixture of devilishness and fear. All these thingsDave saw. But he displayed no feeling of any sort.
"Accidents don't need explaining," he said slowly. "But I didn't saythis was an accident. Here, get your eye on that."
He drew a piece of saw-blade from his pocket. It was the piece he hadpicked up in the mill.
"Guess it's the bit where it's 'collared' by the driving arm."
Truscott examined the steel closely.
"Well?"
"It's--just smashed?" Truscott replied questioningly.
Dave shook his head.
"You can see where it's been filed."
Truscott reexamined it and nodded.
"I see now. God!"
The exclamation was involuntary. It came at the sudden realization ofhow well his work had been carried out, and what that work meant. Dave,watching, grasped something of its meaning. There was that within himwhich guided him surely in the mental workings of his fellow man. Hewas looking into the very heart of this man who had so desperatelytried to injure him. And what he saw, though he was angered, stirredhim to a strange pity.
"It's pretty mean when you think of it," he said slowly. "Makes youthink some, doesn't it? Makes you wonder what folks are made of. If youhated, could you have done it? Could you have deliberately set out toruin a fellow--to take his life? The man that did this thing figured onjust that."
"Did he say so?"
Truscott's face had paled, and a haunting fear looked out of his eyes.It was the thought of discovery that troubled him.
Dave ignored the interruption, and went on with his half-stern,half-pitying regard fixed upon the other.
"Had things gone right with him, and had the fire got a fair hold,nothing could have saved us." He shook his head. "That's a mean hatefor a man I've never harmed. For a man I've always helped. You couldn'thate like that, Truscott? You couldn't turn on the man that had sohelped you? It's a mean spirit; so mean that I can't hate him for it.I'm sorry--that's all."
"He must be a devil."
The fear had gone out of Truscott's eyes. All his cool assurance hadreturned. Dave was blaming the sawyer, and he was satisfied.
The lumberman shrugged his great shoulders.
"Maybe he is. I don't know. Maybe he's only a poor weak foolish fellowwhose wits are all mussed up with brandy, and so he just doesn't knowwhat he's doing."
"The man who filed that steel knew what he was doing," cried Truscott.
"Don't blame him," replied Dave--his deep voice full and resonant likean organ note.
But Truscott had achieved his object, and he felt like expanding. Daveknew nothing. Suspected nothing. Mansell had played the game forhim--or perhaps----
"I tell you it was a diabolical piece of villainy on the part of a curwho----"
"Don't raise your voice, lad," said Dave, with a sudden solemnity thatpromptly silenced the other. "Reach round behind you and lift that furrobe."
He had risen from his seat and stood pointing one knotty finger at thecorner where the dead man was lying. His great figure was full ofdignity, his manner had a command in it that was irresistible to theweaker man.
Truscott turned, not knowing what to expect. For a second a shudderpassed over him. It spent itself as he beheld nothing but the pile offurs. But he made no attempt to reach the robe until Dave's voice,sternly commanding, urged him again.
"Lift it," he cried.
And the other obeyed even against his will. He reached out, while agreat unaccountable fear took hold of him and shook him. His handtouched the robe. He paused. Then his fingers closed upon its furryedge. He lifted it, and lifting it, beheld the face of the dead sawyer.Strangely enough, the glazed eyes were open, and the head was turned,so that they looked straight into the eyes of the living.
The hand that held the robe shook. The nerveless fingers relinquishedtheir hold, and it fell back to its place and shut out the sight. Butit was some moments before the man recovered himself. When he did so herose from his chair and moved as far from the dead man as possible.This brought him near the door, and Dave followed him up.
"He's dead!"
Truscott whispered the words half unconsciously, and the tone of hisvoice was almost unrecognizable. It sounded like inquiry, yet he had noneed to ask the question.
"Yes, he's dead--poor fellow," said Dave solemnly.
Then, after a long pause, the other dragged his courage together. Helooked up into the face above him.
"Did--did he say why he did it--or was he----"
It was a stumbling question, which Dave did not let him complete.
"Yes, he told me all--the whole story of it. That's the door, lad. Youwon't need to shake hands--now."