blades and the steam-powered engine that drove them.
He watched for a moment while the dogger, a man whose muscles bunched and strained, rode the sawdust-covered carriage and
levered the massive log to rest against the plank gauge. With wide shoulders, narrow hips and long powerful legs, the man
controlled the log from the instant the perfectly aligned steel teeth of the blades sank into the butt until a single four-inch
slab fell from the carriage. Grinning with satisfaction at the near-perfect cut, he waved at the sawyer at the controls, and
another log was levered into position while the saw blades continued to sing their hungry tune.
The sawyer, Tinker Buck, a swarthy, ragged little man with a round black beard and a New England twang in his speech, handled
the control levers of the huge engine. Considered to be one of the best sawyers in the Bitterroot Range, Tinker obviously
enjoyed working with the man riding the carriage. A wide grin split his dark face from ear to ear, showing the gleam of a
gold tooth. Through the deafening noise of the blades, he communicated with the “dogger”— the man positioning the log for
the next cut—by using hand signals. The dogger watched Tinker’s signals and strained every muscle of his big body to lever
the log an inch or two this way or that to position it on the carriage.
Two men usually worked the carriage. Ben’s eyes swept the scene for the dogger’s helper and found a short, stumpy-legged man
whose straw-colored hair hung beneath a leather hat. The brim was turned up in front and fastened with a feather. He stood
leaning on his pike, making no move to lever the end of the log into place. The corners of his thin lips were lifted in a
sneer. His eyes gleamed with hostility.
Ben returned the man’s hostile gaze with no show of emotion. Beneath his calm expression his mind was working quickly. He
had seen men of this caliber in every logging camp in the territory. The cruelty in the helper’s face seemed to spring from
some inner source of malice and hatred. Milling was dangerous work even if the team worked in unison and every man knew every
move his teammate would make. In this place there were two factions working against each other. Sooner or later a catastrophe
was bound to happen.
When Ben noticed that Steven had come out of his office and was trying to speak to him, he waved him toward the side door
and the two walked out into the cool mountain air toward the sheds. As soon as they were far enough away from the screaming
blades to hear each other, Steven spoke.
“It sets my teeth on edge to watch James work the carriage. He takes too many chances and Tinker eggs him on.”
“It was James Callahan handling the logs? I thought he was foreman up at the cutting camp.”
“Most of his men have been with him through six cutting seasons. They are a loyal bunch and can carry on without him. You
can never tell when James will show up. He came down with the names of the extra men he hired for the summer and the supply
list. When he found out Milo was gone today, he took a turn riding the carriage. There’s nothing James likes better than meddling
in Milo’s operation here at the mill.”
“It takes a powerful man to handle logs that size. He’s good, I’ll say that for him. I’ve never seen better. I take it he
and the dogger’s helper don’t see eye to eye.”
“You take it right. Sid Hanes is Milo’s man. They’re thicker than thieves and both are jealous of James because he can outdo
Milo or Sid in everything they attempt to do without even breaking a sweat. It sticks in their craws like a burr.” When Ben
failed to comment, Steven said, “How’s things going?”
“I’ve gone about as far as I can go before I make a trip to the smithy.” He paused and waited. Somehow he knew Steven had
something on his mind other than the new engine.
“Old Wiley is as good a smithy as you’ll find. He was a
He watched for a moment while the dogger, a man whose muscles bunched and strained, rode the sawdust-covered carriage and
levered the massive log to rest against the plank gauge. With wide shoulders, narrow hips and long powerful legs, the man
controlled the log from the instant the perfectly aligned steel teeth of the blades sank into the butt until a single four-inch
slab fell from the carriage. Grinning with satisfaction at the near-perfect cut, he waved at the sawyer at the controls, and
another log was levered into position while the saw blades continued to sing their hungry tune.
The sawyer, Tinker Buck, a swarthy, ragged little man with a round black beard and a New England twang in his speech, handled
the control levers of the huge engine. Considered to be one of the best sawyers in the Bitterroot Range, Tinker obviously
enjoyed working with the man riding the carriage. A wide grin split his dark face from ear to ear, showing the gleam of a
gold tooth. Through the deafening noise of the blades, he communicated with the “dogger”— the man positioning the log for
the next cut—by using hand signals. The dogger watched Tinker’s signals and strained every muscle of his big body to lever
the log an inch or two this way or that to position it on the carriage.
Two men usually worked the carriage. Ben’s eyes swept the scene for the dogger’s helper and found a short, stumpy-legged man
whose straw-colored hair hung beneath a leather hat. The brim was turned up in front and fastened with a feather. He stood
leaning on his pike, making no move to lever the end of the log into place. The corners of his thin lips were lifted in a
sneer. His eyes gleamed with hostility.
Ben returned the man’s hostile gaze with no show of emotion. Beneath his calm expression his mind was working quickly. He
had seen men of this caliber in every logging camp in the territory. The cruelty in the helper’s face seemed to spring from
some inner source of malice and hatred. Milling was dangerous work even if the team worked in unison and every man knew every
move his teammate would make. In this place there were two factions working against each other. Sooner or later a catastrophe
was bound to happen.
When Ben noticed that Steven had come out of his office and was trying to speak to him, he waved him toward the side door
and the two walked out into the cool mountain air toward the sheds. As soon as they were far enough away from the screaming
blades to hear each other, Steven spoke.
“It sets my teeth on edge to watch James work the carriage. He takes too many chances and Tinker eggs him on.”
“It was James Callahan handling the logs? I thought he was foreman up at the cutting camp.”
“Most of his men have been with him through six cutting seasons. They are a loyal bunch and can carry on without him. You
can never tell when James will show up. He came down with the names of the extra men he hired for the summer and the supply
list. When he found out Milo was gone today, he took a turn riding the carriage. There’s nothing James likes better than meddling
in Milo’s operation here at the mill.”
“It takes a powerful man to handle logs that size. He’s good, I’ll say that for him. I’ve never seen better. I take it he
and the dogger’s helper don’t see eye to eye.”
“You take it right. Sid Hanes is Milo’s man. They’re thicker than thieves and both are jealous of James because he can outdo
Milo or Sid in everything they attempt to do without even breaking a sweat. It sticks in their craws like a burr.” When Ben
failed to comment, Steven said, “How’s things going?”
“I’ve gone about as far as I can go before I make a trip to the smithy.” He paused and waited. Somehow he knew Steven had
something on his mind other than the new engine.
“Old Wiley is as good a smithy as you’ll find. He was a
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