CHAPTER XXXI
Pancake does not figure largely in the schedule of passenger trains, but the next morning the five o'clock north-bound stopped at the station, let off a pair of sleepy passengers, moved slowly ahead, stopped and backed into the switch, where the last car with "Private" lettered on its doors was uncoupled.
A curtain went up behind a screen and the thin face of Luke Taylor peered out from his stateroom. His lips moved and his old eyes roved the visible portion of the little town eagerly.
The chef and porter were astir, very busy, very quiet.
Luke's arrival had been watched. Phil Rowe, hastening into his clothes, stopped long enough to peer out anxiously and then went on, arriving at the precise adjustment of his cravat with dispatch.
Jim Harris rolled over, half hung out of bed, saw the car at the station and lolled back on his pillow, stretching and grinning.
John Taylor, in a stinking cell of the jail, pressed his face against the steel bars of his small window to see. He had not slept, but had paced the floor all night. His hair was rumpled, face drawn and his blue eyes blazed with helpless fury as he watched Phil Rowe hasten down the street and mount the brass railed platform of his father's private car.
Rowe spoke quietly to the porter who replied in a cautious whisper, but before the caller could sit down a muffled voice reached them.
"You, Rowe?"
"Yes, Mr. Taylor," he replied outside the stateroom door.
"Well, come in! Don't stand there palaverin'!"
From his rumpled bed Luke stared hard at his secretary, the chronic irritability which had been in his eyes yielding to amazement. For a long moment he studied the broken lips, the purple patch below one eye, the lump on a cheek bone.
"Who the devil did that?"
Rowe made a grimace.
"Your son," he said simply. A gleam of something like satisfaction leaped into the half closed eye and its normal mate. "We had a slight argument as to the advisability of your going ahead and buying this pine. It ended—this way."
For a moment Luke said nothing and Rowe thought the thin lips moved in a half smile of sardonic pride. But a flush came into the face and anger showed in the old eyes.
"He went that far? You're sure that was the trouble? He fought you to stop this deal?"
"And that's only part of it, sir. He has raised—quite a disturbance."
"Where is he now?"
"In jail."
Luke set his feet on the floor and stood up, night-shirt dangling about his shrunken calves. He was a stooped gaunt, scare-crow of a figure.
"In jail, eh? For what?"
"Assault."
For a moment the other stared at him, lips open.
"You're not lyin' to me, Rowe?" Impulses were in conflict within him; he breathed faster. "It was that, was it? It wasn't anything else? He did that because of me?"
"Yes, sir."
Rowe maintained his composure by effort. He saw the strange admiration in the old man's face, mingling with paternal instinct, with rage.
"No. You wouldn't lie—" a sharp hiss of impatience slipped from Luke and rage alone remained in his face. "Jail, eh? Lucky for him—th'cub. Lucky he don't have to face me this mornin'—after puttin' that face on you—for trying to carry out my orders!"
It was nine o'clock when young Wilcox, flattered and flustered, drove his automobile down to the station and backed it in beside the Taylor car. He cleared his throat nervously as Rowe helped the great Luke down the steps and got out of his seat to remove his hat and self-consciously acknowledge the introduction.
Luke merely grunted at Wilcox and settled into the seat. He had nothing to say as the car rolled out of town and took up the twisting trail to the northward. He had on a linen duster, his hat was drawn low, amber glasses protected his eyes, and as soon as they were settled Rowe tucked a robe about his ankles. Within a mile, however, Luke kicked this protection irritably aside and glared at his secretary as though the accustomed precaution against chill were an affront.
They topped a high ridge, made bald by repeated fires, and away before them spread the country, like a tinted carpet. Dried grass gave to lavender in the distance; the wilted foliage of the brush and small trees took on a counterfeit vividness; far to the north and westward a veil of smoke hazed the horizon. But it was not the expanse of devastation, not the ominous smoke veil, that caused Luke to sit forward sharply. It was the long, blue-green line of the pine trees, Foraker's Folly, standing there in the middle distance.
"Pine?" he asked tersely and Rowe answered and talked volubly. But Luke did not listen. He sank back when they dipped into the valley, straightened again when they could see the forest, this time with the crowns of dominant trees distinct against the sky.
And then they were in the protecting cool of its shade, crossing the outside fire line, leaving the fringe of oak brush behind, driving into the clear stand of white pine.
From afar their progress had been watched. Black Joe, perched in Watch Pine, had caught a reflected flash of light. He followed the progress with his glass, dividing his attention between it and the fire to the northward. He called down to Helen:
"Big car makin' in toward Snipe Meadow."
He offered to go over himself and watch, but the girl shook her head. In a moment she shoved her canoe into the river, paddled down stream, rounded two bends, beached and went ashore, stopping to listen, but hearing at first only the sough of wind in the tops.
Wilcox looked around to smile into Luke's face.
"It isn't the kind of pine you know, Mr. Taylor, but—"
The slight gesture of a bony hand cut him off. Luke was leaning forward, goggles off, staring down the fire line which cleft the forest for half a mile before it disappeared over a low swell. His lips were parted, his breath fast.
"Tolman says this is probably the best of it," volunteered Rowe. "This was where the first photographs were taken and—"
The old man did not care what Rowe had to say. He reached for the door of the car, shoved it open and stepped to the ground. He stood there, looking up and about, leaning on his gold headed stick.
"Pine!" he muttered and cocked his head to listen to the talk of a thousand trees. He moved a few steps.
"White Pine," under his breath. "Michigan Pine—babies—baby pine!"
No, it was not he pine he had known, not the massive poles, not the clean timber, not the ragged, high tops. It was brushy, with trunks still retaining dead branches. There were no four or five-log trees; there were few that his men would have respected. It was baby pine, but it was uniform. There were trees that would yield two good logs, as saw-logs go today; there were a few that would make three. And it was thick! It was solid, without a Norway, without a hardwood tree in sight. It was straight, like straight, slim children, and it talked as the pine he had known and loved and mastered had talked!
Oh, that whispering! It quickened his heart; it refreshed memories that had been dormant for years; it tapped wells of emotion that he had forgotten; it sent a flush to his cheeks, a bright light of greed to his old eyes. He panted.
Rowe was beside him and Wilcox was leaving the car.
"There's ten thousand acres like this," Phil began, but again that arresting gesture silenced him.
At Luke's feet was a section stake. He half stumbled on it as he took a step and looked down. He lifted his face high, then, that he might see the sun. Impatiently he handed Rowe his stick and moved to the north edge of the line. He brought his heels together and looked ahead and began to pace. Ten lengthy steps he took and came to a halt, looking to his left, counting with soundless movements of his lips; to the right, and counting again, checking each enumeration with fingers that trembled. Another ten yards; more counting. Another ten, and again the checking of trees that stood to right and left.
Rowe and Wilcox stood in the fire line watching him, waiting, for Philip knew that this was no moment to interrupt. He watched his master disappear in the forest going toward the river ten yards at a time, now and then putting out a hand against a solid trunk for support because his limbs, though stronger than they had been in years, trembled with excitement.
Fifty-five yards Luke went, and he had estimated the timber on a quarter of an acre. Tolman was right; Tolman had been conservative! His heart rapped his ribs as it had not done in years. There was no distress in its measure; joy only, joy such as he had not known in years, joy, the taste of which was sweet in his mouth; joy which gave him strength.
Another ten—twenty—fifty-five—
"Pine!" he whispered; and then aloud, "Michigan Pine!"
He ceased his counting. He tilted his head to the talk in the tops above him.
Another sound was manifest; the murmur of the Blueberry, and he moved on, emerging suddenly from the thick forest to the high bank of the river and there he stopped. It ran below him, crystal clear, emerald water over golden sand, swirling into a violet pool at his right. Across the way was a fringe of reeds, freshness itself caught in color and behind them was a stretch of swamp, dead cedar and vivid tamarack against the background of more pine on the high land.
He did not see the canoe beached above him, did not notice the figure just starting into the forest, which stopped dead still behind trees to watch him. For a moment the wind abated and the talk of the trees ran into the faintest breath while across the way a white throated sparrow broke into his sweet, sweet song, as clear as the waters of the river themselves.
"O-o-o-oh, dear, dear, d-d-dear, d-d-dear, dear—"
Again his hand went out to the trunk of a tree, fingers gripping the bark this time with the tensity of a strange emotion. His face lifted to the clean sky and his heart opened to the song of the bird.
"O-o-o-oh, dear, dear, d-d-dear, d-d-dear, dear—"
He looked up at the crowns above him, the whispering tops of the pine trees; he turned to see the ranks of trees through which he had come, the trees he had counted. Something broke within him and light went from his eyes. Board feet! Always, he had looked at forests in the terms of board feet; today it was something else. There was more to this stand of baby pine than lumber, more than wealth.
A breath caught in his throat and his eyes dimmed. He listened again and heard that time in the whispers of the tops an echo of his lost youth; the trees, the river, the wind, the birds—it was a symphony of all that he had ever held dearest, of all that he had been denied, but even then he did not know that sentiment had broken down the wall that long years of effort, that great material triumphs, that final disillusionment had built as its prison. He moved toward the nearest tree and put out his hand as though for support; but he did not need help to stand. His palms pressed the bark on either side the trunk; then stroked, gently, as a man will stroke some dear possession.
"Pine!" he muttered—"Michigan Pine! Oh, God—I thank you—thank you!—"
He stood a moment watching, listening, feeling, smelling, letting his senses play with this great blessing which was within his grasp. Then he turned and started back into the forest, stride feeble but with returning strength, the strength of hope, of satisfaction—He went faster, with the haste of greed.
Once again the forest was so many board feet—
Helen Foraker watched him go. Then she sat down on the bank, legs dangling over the brink and slowly broke dead needles into bits as she stared abstractedly before her. There was in her eyes, behind the trouble, something like hope—a vision of an incredible opportunity.
"Where's the girl?" Luke asked as he emerged from the forest.
"At her home, likely," Rowe responded, startled by the eagerness of the query and by the light in the old man's face.
"Let's see her now. By God, Rowe, Tolman was right!"
"If you think it best, Mr. Taylor. There are things—"
"What things?"
He paused, with a foot on the running board, but as he turned Rowe saw that this was no rebuke, that it was all interest and caution.
"It might be best to have you go over the local situation, let me explain what we have done, call in Harris and perhaps some others. It—it's likely to be quite difficult."
Seated in the car Luke said:
"Maybe you're right, Rowe. We won't take any chances. Let's go at it—
"Mr.—Mr., whatever your name is, you don't have to go so damned slow for me. I can stand a bump or two!"
Upon the edge of Seven Mile Swamp Jim Harris stood in Charley Stump's cabin. He had the old man by the wrist and Charley had sunk whimpering to one knee.
"Afraid are you?" Harris snarled. "Afraid of what?"
"I tell you, he's been watchin' me, Jim! He follered me."
"There's nothing for you to be afraid of but me. He's safe. We've got him locked up. I can lock you up, too, for the rest of your life, you blackmailer! You do as I say—if you throw me down, by God, you'll do time!"
He released his grip on the withered wrist and the old recluse rose, rubbing the flesh where that clutch had been—
"All right, Jim—I'll do as you say—Don't send me to jail, Jim! Don't send me to jail!—I'll do it tomorrow—at dawn, Jim, unless it rains—
"An' Jim—you mean that, about tires for my safety?"
"You'll get your tires, all right—unless you go to jail. And you'll go to jail if you don't make good, or if you get caught!"
That afternoon Rowe and Luke Taylor sat for long in the car on the siding at Pancake, shades drawn tight to keep out the sun, electric fans doing their best with the air. Rowe talked rapidly, careful of sequence and the other followed him closely.
Later Jim Harris came in and the three talked. Before Jim rose to go, he said:
"This feeling against her works for you. I've never seen so much resentment. Public opinion sure is playing into your hands, Mr. Taylor!"
"Public opinion, hell!" snapped Luke. "I knew public opinion before you were born, Harris. Business is business. Sometimes it has to get a little rough, but don't try to fool me, Harris; don't try to pull any wool over my eyes."
With a close approach to confusion Jim made his exit while Phil Rowe covered his embarrassment, for his employer's scornful gaze had included him, by fussing with a broken cigar.