OE KENT tore himself away from his new happiness, visited Tobin's and Deever's camps, spent a few days at each, and wound up at Wind River. The banking grounds were full—great piles of timber stretching along the water's edge waiting the going of the ice. The winter roads were failing fast and the last logs were coming out the woods in half loads. Most of the hauling was done by night, for then the roads hardened with frost. By day the air was mild and the depth of snow sank sensibly. Then came the first rain of the season, destroying the roads utterly.
All the men, save the driving crew, were paid off. Since a lumber camp is a self-contained community including a store or “van” at which the hands purchase most of their simple necessaries, paying off involves an adjustment of accounts, A lumber jack seldom keeps a record of his purchases, and is thus dependent upon the honesty of his employer's bookkeeping. The custom is to run rapidly over the account of each man in his presence. If he remembers the purchases and is satisfied, as he is in the majority of cases, well and good. If he does not remember or is not satisfied after reasonable explanation he is tendered a check and told to see a lawyer. But there have been logging firms who have robbed their men shamelessly.
“Jack,” one employer is alleged to have said, “you remember that pair of socks you got in December?”
Jack, after an effort, remembered.
“That's one pair,” said the employer, and went on rapidly. “And you remember the pair you didn't get in January—that's two pairs.” And Jack agreed. Keener men have been flimflammed by much the same formula.
But, on the whole, the men get a square deal, few employers being small enough to charge excessive prices for supplies, much less to make fictitious entries against them. There was no dissatisfaction among Kent's men. Differences of opinion never reached the point of absolute assertion.
“Well, Billy,” MacNutt would say, “there's the entry in our books made at the time. If you say flat you didn't get the goods we'll let it go, because we know you're a straight man, and think you're right. But if you just say you don't remember, why, then, our books show we do.”
This unusual but effective system had been installed by William Kent and worked like a charm. Seldom did a man, having it put up to him in that way, flatly contradict the books. And then it prevented all friction.
After the surplus men had been paid off, the weather hardened. A bitter wind held in the north by day; the nights were still, clear, and cold. Ice actually made and thickened in the river.
It was unheard-of. Each morning the rivermen rose, cocked wise eyes at the sky, and cursed the weather. Each night they sat around the stove, for the cold was penetrating.
“It's the qualified adjective moon,” said Cooley. “The weather will break when she changes.”
“She'll break when she gets ready,” said Jackson. “This will make a late drive.”
“But high water when it does come,” said another.
Joe Kent took to looking into the sleeping camp for an hour or so each night. He had brought a banjo with him, and he exhausted his song repertory. The men enjoyed it thoroughly. It was, perhaps, bad for discipline, but it developed a feeling of comradeship. His authority was not in danger, for they had seen him hold his own against the redoubtable Mike Callahan, who was a dangerous fighter; and he had also bested big Finn Clancy, who had whipped many a good man in his day.
Suddenly the weather changed. One morning a southerly wind and a cloudy sky greeted them; by noon there was a warm rain slashing against the earth; at night mists and fog hung everywhere.
“She breaks up this time,” said Cooley, who was engaged in saturating his driving boots with oil and hot tallow, not with intent to keep his feet dry, but to preserve the leather.
“An' time it is,” said Regan, busy with a file at the inch spikes which studded the soles of his footgear. “She's a fortnight later nor she should be.”
This was so, but it had caused Joe little uneasiness, for his margin seemed ample. His plan was to drive the Wind River cut down the Wind to the Mattawagan. Tobin and Deever would drive down the Missabini to the latter stream. The drives would unite at McColl's Sney, where the main drive would be formed. Thence it would proceed down that great water artery past Falls City to Wismer & Holden's booms. It was all very simple—on paper.