Authors: Dorothy Garlock
“If I told James that you pinch and slap me, he’d tear your blasted head off.”
“Go right ahead and tell him if you want to see him laid out on a slab. I might take him for a deer when I’m hunting. Better
yet, I might lose control of a plank and knock him into the saw blade.”
“Mistake him for a deer like you did Mick Malone?”
“Mick Malone? Let’s see. Wasn’t he the little bastard’s pa? I might of took him for a red-headed woodpecker, but not a deer.”
With her back to Milo, Odette touched Dory’s arm and mouthed, “Upstairs.”
Dory shook her head. “Stay with me,” she replied, making her mouth work slowly.
Odette nodded her understanding.
“What’er you saying to her?” Milo demanded.
“I’m telling her that you’re a mule’s ass and not to let you catch her alone.”
“Well, now, if you’d a called me a horny billy goat, I wouldn’t have cared, but mule’s ass—that’s going to get you another
pinch,” he said good-naturedly.
The mill camp, set in a scarred clearing of tree stumps, was larger than Ben expected. Besides the mill building, there were
two large three-sided sheds, the bunkhouse, the cook shack, a sturdy barn and a network of pole corrals. Beyond the camp,
surrounded by dense undergrowth and young saplings, was a neat log cabin with real glass windows.
One of the buildings was a partial dugout—thirty feet long with walls scarcely four feet above the ground. A slanting ramp
led down to a door on the south side of the structure. Logs reared up out of the ground to support a roof of shakes covered
with evergreen boughs. From the squat stone smokestack in the center of the roof, heavy black smoke, the result of burning
wood that was too green, billowed upward and hung over the camp.
Ben had spent more years of his life than he cared to remember in such a building. This was where the crew lived and slept
in a field bed that extended the full length of the building. The fifteen or more men slept in the communal bed with their
heads toward the wall. At the foot of the bed, between the loggers’ feet and the fire, was a long flat beam called the “deacon’s
seat.” The loggers sat on it before the blazing fire, joked and told stories to while away the long winter evenings. At bedtime
each man mounted the deacon’s seat to get in and out of the neighborly bed that stood two or three feet above the hard-packed
dirt floor. His belongings, wrapped in a tarp or in a canvas bag, were stashed underneath.
The other fully enclosed building was the cook shack. A good cook was well paid in a lumber camp. He fed his men exceedingly
well on what was the usual allowance of thirty cents a day per man. He baked, stewed, fried and roasted great quantities of
meat and vegetables to assuage the appetites of men who worked hard all day in subzero weather and generated unbelievable
appetites. The cook’s helper, known as “bull cook,” tended fire, carried water, peeled potatoes, and washed the dishes. It
was also his duty to call the men to eat, which he did with gusto on cold frosty mornings.
On the morning Ben arrived at the camp, a small bookish-type man named Steven Marz was having an argument with Milo Callahan.
Milo was against paying the cook’s helper the wage owed him because the man needed to leave the camp without notice, having
just received word that one of his children was seriously ill. Marz and Milo were not matched physically, but verbally Marz
was far superior. His reasoning persuaded Milo, and the grateful bull cook left with his wages in his pocket. Marz then teamed
up with the cook to prepare hot meals for the rest of the crew until another bull cook could be hired.
Steven Marz lived in the cabin. Ben liked him the moment he met him. He was a serious-faced man; slightly built, with a head
of thick brown hair streaked with gray, a V-shaped mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles. It was difficult for Ben to believe
the soft-spoken, highly intelligent man who kept the company accounts in a cubbyhole of an office would stay and work for
such a disagreeable employer. It didn’t take long for Ben to realize that the mill hands also liked and respected Steven.
Late one afternoon several days later, Ben went into the mill. The steam-driven engine had been fired up and circular saws
were eating into the peeled log that sat on the carriage that carried it to the blades. The howl of the machinery, like the
cry of a banshee—which was merely noise to the average woodsman—was familiar music to Ben’s ears. He loved everything that
had anything to do with milling lumber: the smell of the freshly cut wood, the challenge of handling the huge logs, the song
of the 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 hell of a man before he got crippled up.”
“Logging is a dangerous business. It’s crippled many a good man.”
“That it has. If you leave for the homestead now, you can make it down before dark. Milo went down this afternoon.” Steven’s
eyes looked directly into Ben’s as he spoke.
Ben stared at the other man for a long moment, then interjected in a deadly tone, “Are you telling me something, Steven?”
“Only that Milo left the mill just as we were starting a two-hour run, which is unusual unless he’s got something urgent on
his mind. I doubt it was Dory he was anxious to see.”
“Are the tales Milo tells about his consorting with women a mere brag, or are they true?” Ben stood motionless, his gaze locked
on the other man, the muscles working in his jaw.
“I don’t know what all you’ve heard,” Steven said evenly. “But if I had a girl within fifty miles of Milo, I’d keep a close
watch on her.”
“Thanks.” Ben made a guttural sound of fury and picked up a rag to wipe his hands. The anger on his whiskered face was ice-cold.
“I’ll tell you now”—he threw down the rag— “that if that bastard dishonors my girl, I’ll kill him quicker than I would a rattler
coiled and ready to strike.”
“Dory will see that it doesn’t go that far. She’ll do everything in her power to protect her, but she can’t stop him from
pestering her.”
Ben went to the barn and quickly saddled his horse. His dislike for Milo Callahan exceeded even his dislike for his brother,
Louis. In the short time he had been in their employ he had learned that the majority of the men disliked and distrusted both
brothers, but the younger of the two was held in especially low regard. The attitude of the lumberjacks more than their spoken
words had led Ben to that conclusion. Still, a few of the men laughed with Milo when he bragged about the number of women
he’d had after a day in town or about his staying power in bed, or when he took credit for a dozen or more Indian half-breeds
living in the area.
The man sickened Ben. He avoided him when possible and rarely answered him even when he asked a question about the engine.
It was dusk as Ben made his way down the mountain to the homestead. His stomach muscles knotted up at the thought of Odette
being scared half out of her wits by a man old enough to be her father. He’d had a gut feeling that Dory Callahan, even if
she were the sort of woman Louis and Milo portrayed her to be, would look out for the girl or he wouldn’t have left her there.
Now, he wasn’t so sure. He had heard a few offhand remarks about Dory. Once, to his friends, Milo had referred to his half-sister
as “Whory Dory” and the men had laughed.
As shy as Odette was, it was hard for Ben to believe she had been raised in a whorehouse. Her mother had protected her well.
Now that he had met Milo and Louis, the thought of one of them being the natural father of Odette was like salt in an open
wound.
Light shone from the kitchen windows as he approached the house. He rode his horse to within a few feet of the back porch
and dismounted. As he looped the reins over a bush, he heard a woman’s shrill screech. His booted feet hit the porch and he
flung open the door.
Milo sat astride a chair with his fist wrapped in Odette’s skirt. Dory stood over him, hitting him with a large spoon. He
was laughing and dodging the blows. Odette, a look of terror on her face, was holding onto the table in an attempt to keep
from being drawn closer to her tormentor.
“Leave her alone! Damn, damn you!” Dory tried to wedge herself between her brother and Odette.
“Come ’ere, girl. Give me a kiss.”
“Let her go!” Ben was across the room in three long strides and lifted Milo off the chair by the nape of his neck. Milo was
a strong stocky man, but surprise rendered him helpless. “I ought to break every bone in your miserable body… you sorry piece
of cow dung!” Ben flung Milo from him. The man staggered back against the open door, causing it to bang against the wall.
“Pa… pa!” Odette wailed.
As Ben turned to her, she ran to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his coat. With his hands
on her shoulders, he held her away from him so that he could look into her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked slowly.
Odette nodded her head, her eyes going to Dory.
“Are you crazy?” Milo shouted, his face red with anger. “I was only funnin’. I didn’t hurt her.”
“If you had, you’d have had a bullet between your eyes before she got the words out of her mouth to tell me about it,” Ben
snarled, his eyes blazing with fury.
“You’re crazy,” Milo said again. “Get out… and take that dummy with you!”
“No!” Dory’s voice was shrill with panic.
“Get out! Get out! You’re fired!” Milo shouted in a cry of raw rage.
“Gladly,” Ben replied. His eyes were steel-gray frost, his face like hard stone.
“No!” Dory said again. “Please…”
Ben’s eyes flicked to her and back to Milo. “I’ll go and I’ll take the pay for a complete job.”
“Like hell you will!”
Ben met Milo’s hostile look and sent back his own challenge. “That’s right, like hell I
will.”
He looked down at Odette and tilted her chin so she would look at him. “Get your things, honey.” Then to Dory, “I’ll take
her with me up to the camp to get my gear.”
Dory’s face turned pale, then red as she turned the full force of her anger on Milo.
“You low-life, fornicating weasel. I hope Louis horsewhips you for messing up his plans. You’ll pay this man for a complete
job or James and I will go to Judge Kenton. We have an equal vote.”