_ CHAPTER XIV. THE FIGHT IN THE SHACK
Big Jim Torrance was thrilling with incipient twinges of a great triumph, though the superstitions of his kind struggled against their display. For two weeks his eager, hopeful eyes had been fixed on those twin lines of steel above the trestle, and not an atom of bend could he detect.
What if at last he had choked that insatiable maw on the river bottom! What if his great task was nearing its end!
A timetable, against his inclination, began to form in his mind. Another week of foraging for those omniverous jaws, of bolstering up the structure of the trestle. If by that time its appetite had not revived, only the new foundations and the light task of filling in. Perhaps then he would relieve himself of half his staff; he was suddenly aware of the strain of such a lawless crew. Unexpectedly and without precedent he found himself anticipating the six months' winter rest.
His excited joy had been assuming peculiar expression. Sitting down for more than a few minutes at a time became a strain. He insisted on helping Tressa with the housework, and his interest in the books they were reading was so perfunctory that Conrad and Tressa went on to the end without bothering about his attention. Not infrequently he strolled down to the river bottom and paced up and down beneath the trestle. Again he would walk out on the sleepers above the quicksands and glory in the solidity beneath his feet.
One evening when Conrad had gone to the Police barracks to make a report on recent trifling but significant occurrences, and to complete plans for a more systematic protection of the trestle now that it was nearing completion, Torrance moved his chair to the open doorway and sat dreaming.
"You haven't locked the stable yet," Tressa reminded him, breaking a long silence.
He laughed recklessly. "What's the need? We'll be away in a month. Big Chief gets 'em then. Funny if they were stolen. You bet the Indian would find them."
"Don't be too sure of things, daddy. Adrian doesn't feel as comfortable as you do--or want to make yourself think you do."
He whirled about in his chair, scowling. "What do you mean--'make myself think I do'?"
She looked him steadily in the eye. "I don't believe you're as easy as you make out. The trees are thick ahead yet."
"It's you, saying things like that, makes me moody," he returned sulkily.
Tressa rose to find something in her room, and her father turned back to the out-of-doors with an impatient exclamation.
In reality he was no more easy about things than Adrian. It was the gripping anxiety of it made him struggle to convince himself. But it was not the quicksands he feared, as Tressa supposed, but the bohunks. Things were going too smoothly in bulk--the disturbing incidents were so trifling and ineffectual. Accustomed to difficulties, the absence of friction since the tragedy of the falling log was oppressive to him. It was unnatural. Koppy was too tractable, the camp too peaceful. In the idleness of those days he had time to brood over that.
But he set his face stubbornly against the fears her words aroused. He could see the trestle sound and solid as a rock. The camp lay beneath him, as quiet as a country village. Only a week or two and everything would be settled. He scoffed at his fears. As he looked out over the tumble of log and canvas, he vowed that when it was all over he would provide a bang-up feed that would send the bohunks away with one pleasant memory at least. Murphy and his engine would scurry off to Saskatoon and fetch such grub as bohunk never before tasted. It would be a finale befitting--
And just then three men topped the grade a score of yards away.
Torrance's sky suddenly darkened--Lefty Werner, Chico Morani, and Heppel, Koppy's special cronies. But he hid his concern beneath a grunt.
He had no intention of making his grunt an invitation, but the three came on without pausing, and Werner greeted him with an embarrassed "good-evening, boss." Torrance rose and stepped back into the sitting room. Some instinct made him wish to move things beyond the eyes of the camp. For a moment the men hesitated, then, pushed into the lead, Werner led the way inside.
"Now," snapped the contractor, "get it off your chests. Where's Satan himself--Koppy, I mean?"
The most intelligent of the visitors, the most capable of estimating the underlying significance of tone and inflection, was Lefty Werner. The other two, maintaining their usual expression of phlegmatic and stubborn sullenness, left the delivery of their message to him, the glibbest talker. And plainly he had taken a dislike to it. A wild and fleeting wish that civilisation were nearer, wherein to hide himself, struggled with a goading appreciation of the comforts in Torrance's shack; for Werner often of late was oppressed with the futility of his present sphere as malcontent.
His aberrant reflections were interrupted by Torrance's rising impatience.
"Here, Werner, what is it? Speak up!"
Werner removed his hat and twirled it in his hand. Twice he cleared his throat before he could bring himself to speak.
"We've been sent--sent by the general body of workmen--"
"The bohunks, you mean," drawled Torrance with deliberate insult. "Drop the gush, Lefty. What do you want? . . . And you won't get it."
Werner turned anxious eyes on his two stolid friends for moral support. He noted Morani's hand slide to the waistband of his trousers, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"They appointed us to tell you--to tell you that the time has come"--he was stammering, his eyes fastened on the Italian's supple hand--"the time has come when we, the workers, have decided--have decided that--"
Torrance lounged round the corner of the table that separated them, but Werner had eyes only for Morani's hidden hand.
"--have decided that we must be freed from the yoke of bondage. We demand the right to control ourselves, under our own leaders--"
He saw the wall of the room rush toward him--felt it strike him dizzy; and he lay wondering what had happened. Gradually he became aware of a great tumult about him, and he knew he was vitally concerned. His idea of fighting happened to centre in a knuckle-duster with an ugly dagger on the end of it. He drew it mechanically before his scattered wits told him where to direct it.
The tumult increased. With the roar of a bull Torrance had turned his attention to the other two. But they had taken surprisingly swift measures for self-protection, and Torrance was momentarily baffled. Morani glided behind the table, and Heppel, roused to unheard-of activity, kicked a chair before the impending peril.
Torrance stumbled over the chair and crashed into the table, smashing it flat, fortunately carrying Morani down with it. He was on his feet before Heppel's slow wits realised the opportunity. Always the contractor had handled these men with his big fists; other weapons only dignified their resistance. These two fists of his, these great muscles--they were made for a game like this.
From her room Tressa heard the entrance of the delegation but not their message. At the first blow she ran to the door and peeped through. Was it vengeance for the devastation her father had wrought in the big camp riot? But she had faith in him almost equal to his own, and she knew she would only be in the way out there. But as the fight progressed, Torrance's bull voice rising with the fury of the fray, she lifted a small automatic from a drawer and hastily examined it.
As she turned, her window was raised from the outside and some one leaped through. Instantly the pistol was covering the intruder.
"No shoot! Indian come to help."
"Father don't require it," she returned stiffly. And she did not lower the gun.
"I come by window," explained the Indian. "Camp watching. White girl stay here. Indian help--maybe kill."
A loud crash from the sitting room drove the blood from the girl's face.
"Go then--go!"
In the room beyond, Torrance was enjoying himself, though not without painful reminders that it was a real fight. Heppel had secured a table leg and was wielding it as never sledge or axe. Werner, having recovered his senses, had joined Morani and was circling the room for a chance to strike at the boss's back, in the meantime throwing chairs, books, loose parts of the stove, anything that came to his hand. A flower pot on the elbow brought a howl from Torrance, and for a moment he pulled himself together.
Bringing himself up short in the centre of the room he started out relentlessly to corner Werner, ignoring the others. The threatened man fled shrieking before him.
"Knife him, Morani! For God's sake, give it to him on the head, Heppel!"
A bright line slid down the Italian's hand and flashed like a gleam of lightning. Torrance drew up with a shooting pain in his left arm. Heppel leaped in behind and swung the table leg with all his cruel strength.
Morani and Heppel saw a figure launch itself through the bedroom door. It swept them crashing together and shot them through the outer door before they could use their weapons. Werner leaped after them.
Torrance started to give chase, mouthing great curses. But a pair of arms encircled and held him as if he were a child. Shifting bloodshot eyes to the new foe, he looked into the face of the Indian.
"You damned redskin! You're at the bottom of this, eh?"
The Indian tightened his grip. "White man a fool. Indian save him. You chase--whole camp come. Two no fight five hundred--almost killed once trying it. The girl in there."
The last four words brought Torrance to his senses. He ceased to struggle. The Indian's hands fell away. Tressa lifted her father's left arm; blood was dripping from it.
"Sit still, daddy. Hold your arm like that till I get the water and bandages--there's still hot water, I think. It's only a scratch. Grip your arm there."
Torrance, suddenly weak at the sight of his own blood, sank into a chair, staring at the stained sleeve.
"Say, Big Chief, you're a good sport. I guess you came in time--Say! Where's he gone?"
The window in Tressa's room rattled.
"By hickory! If that fellow don't owe me something I don't know about, he's running up a big bill against me." _