Will strode back to the river. The livery stable owner had promised him every horse he could hire. Will knew the men who had helped cut logs for him this winter and then gone back to their farms would return as soon as word spread about the logjam. Experienced men would be coming to help soon. But would it be soon enough? Every minute’s delay brought more logs downriver, packing the jam tighter and tighter.
Will had gone up to the train depot and sent a telegram to Stillwater ordering supplies. They’d need ropes, chains, dynamite and engines. He’d asked for help from the other log owners who weren’t still here and knew it would come soon. Even so, he felt small and helpless. The job of breaking this huge jam was already enormous and was growing by the hour. It would be dark soon and much more dangerous on the logs. He’d ordered some of those big, new electric lights to shine out over the river. They’d be here on the morning train. But for this critical first night, they’d have to make do with the poor substitute of bonfires on the riverbanks.
Will knew help would arrive, but so would trouble. There would be more crowds of gawkers to interfere with their work. There would probably be more lawsuits from the tour boat owners who were angry because logs would be blocking the river for much longer than usual this spring. Each time a logjam happened, they filed lawsuits. They’d want recompense for their lost touring business. And the judges usually gave them some, making the log owners pay each summer for every day the river was full of their logs.
Anxiety knotted in Will’s gut at the thought. Would he be able to cover all those expenses? Or would this be the summer his business went under, as many others had before him? His father had died trying to build it and he’d vowed to make it a success.
He thought of his mother, back in Stillwater, counting on him to keep the family business afloat. Since his father’s death, his mother and his siblings depended on him. Claustrophobia made his chest tighten. He wanted to go back to the peaceful woods to get away from it all—to the peace and quiet of God’s green trees and clear streams.
But of course, he couldn’t. Winter was over and he had to come back to Stillwater and his responsibilities.
Looking upstream, Will sighed. The logs filled the river as far as he could see.
Nearing the river, Will saw Cookie bending over a campfire on the bank, making supper for his crew beside their supply wagon. The wiry man’s blue eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke, but as Will approached, Cookie smiled and poured him a tin cup full of tea.
“Eyes bothering you again?” Will asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Working over a campfire’s a lot smokier than the cook stove back in the logging camp, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, Boss.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get the Wannigan down here ahead of the jam for you to use.”
“Yeah, me too. At least on the boat, I’d have had a decent cook stove instead of this hellish smoky campfire. But it can’t be helped.”
“I know. The Wannigan is stuck behind the jam upriver now, and that’s too far for the men to go for their meals.”
Will drank the tea gratefully. He told Cookie about the plans to hire extra men and then added, “Take a couple of the guys to help you with the cooking. Make sure there’s plenty of good food. Men can’t work on an empty stomach.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll need more supplies, too.”
Will nodded with an inward groan. More expenses. But it couldn’t be helped. Food was part of the men’s wages and kept the men in good spirits besides. “Get whatever you need at the General Store on Bench Street. I have an account set up there.”
Nodding, Cookie turned back to his campfire.
Will changed into his spiked shoes and picked up his peavey to join his men.
The well-dressed, pesky reporter who’d followed him out of the ice cream shop appeared beside him.
“Mr. Tellers, can you tell me if there are any new developments?”
Will frowned at him. Didn’t the man know he had work to do? What ailed him? “No,” he growled. “We’re working on the problem as hard as we know how.”
“But I hear that crews up-river are still shoving more logs into the water. Why are they doing that? Doesn’t that make matters worse?”
“Yeah, more logs make the jam bigger and harder to break, all right.” Will shook the man’s hand off his arm. “But how do you think I could stop them?” Shaking his head in disgust, he strode out onto the logs to resume his work.
The reporter turned to Cookie. “Touchy, isn’t he?”
Cookie shrugged. “I reckon all the men’s tempers are getting a mite short.”
“Do you know why the loggers upriver are making it worse by sending more logs down?”
“Well, I can’t blame them, really.” Cookie sighed. “The weather was too dry this spring. I reckon they’re afraid if they miss this chance, there might not be enough water to float their logs down later. They’d rather have them in the jam than left behind on the riverbanks, even if it means twice as much work for all of us breaking up this mess.”
“You mean it might not rain again?”
Cookie stared at the man. Had he lost his mind? “’Course it’ll rain again, sure as you’re standing there, jawing. But maybe not right away, and not enough all at once to fill up the river with water. Takes a lot of water to move those big ones.” Cookie waved a hand at the huge logs. He spat tobacco juice into the fire and turned his back on the city fellow. The man didn’t have the brains God gave a goose.
* * * *
Miles away at a large sawmill at Shell Lake, Lars stood in the thick woods, carefully keeping out of sight. It was just dusk and he didn’t want to be seen. He heard the call for “quitting time” ring out and watched the workers leave for the night.
When it was full dark and all had been quiet for a long time, Lars slipped through the trees with his can of kerosene. He broke the lock on the sawmill door and went inside, then splashed the kerosene all around on the lumber and sawdust. Tossing the can aside, he moved back toward the door. He lit a match, threw it into the dry sawdust inside and watched it flare up, then dashed for the cover of darkness and the trees.
Lars smiled as he watched the flames rise and quickly spread through the whole sawmill. “Serves you right, Will Tellers,” he said aloud. “You should have taken better care of my baby sister. She and her baby shouldn’t be dead.” His last words broke on a hoarse sob and he brushed away tears with his sleeve.
When he was sure the fire had a very good start and would be unstoppable, he disappeared through the woods as silently as he’d come. When he reached the spot where he’d tethered his horse, he mounted and rode quietly away through the night.
Besides revenging his sister’s death, the fire would take care of his competition for this year at least. It would take considerably more money than the Tellers family had to rebuild that mill.
* * * *
Will Tellers stood on the shore overlooking the logjam talking to a half dozen other log owners. He took another sip of Cookie’s hot and potent tea and eyed the others.
Their physical appearance varied considerably, in age and size and social status. But all of them had a considerable financial stake in the outcome of this dilemma as he did. Although some of the men now spent most of their time in their offices, most were seasoned loggers who’d personally worked in the woods and on the river and fully understood the problems they faced.
The topic of discussion today was the best way to break up this particular logjam. They’d all faced this problem before, of course, but never on such a large scale as this one. They’d already agreed on various methods, such as the need for extra men, horses and ropes.
“Dynamite sometimes works, too,” Abe was saying.
“But it’s dangerous. You have to find someone who knows how to work with the stuff.”
“I think we’ll need the boats with the pile drivers,” Gus put in. “The boats can pull out logs from the river easier than we can from shore.”
“Yeah, get the Arcola. Marvin’s boat is the best,” Abe said with a nod.
Will bit his lip to keep himself from objecting to that proposal. He knew his dislike of Marvin Burns was illogical and personal. Illogical because it was Marvin’s brother who’d been his wife’s incompetent doctor. That wasn’t Marvin’s fault, yet Will knew he was transferring his anger to Marvin. He couldn’t allow his feelings to interfere with his business decisions.
“I’ll send Marvin a wire asking him to bring the Arcola,” Will said, doing his best to keep his voice civil.
“This is going to cost us a bundle,” Abe said morosely.
“Yes, it will. But we’ll share the cost through the Logger’s Association, as usual,” Will said impatiently.
“True. We have no choice. It’ll cost us a lot more if we don’t get these logs to market. I, for one, don’t want to face bankruptcy this year,” Abe agreed.
Gus nodded and set his tin cup on the plank table. “That’s for sure. Let’s plan on that then and get back to work. Thanks for the tea, Cookie.”
* * * *
When Carrie returned to the boarding house, Aunt Louise was already making pies in their large kitchen. She had spread flour on the red checked oilcloth covering the table where she was rolling out piecrusts.
“We have lots of extra people tonight,” Aunt Louise said, greeting Carrie with a harried look, but a cheerful lilt in her voice. She reached into the wooden cupboard behind her for a tin of cinnamon. “I’ve asked Jane and Sue to help us. They’ll do the rooms and wash the linens.”
“Good,” Carrie said, slipping her apron over her head and reaching behind herself to tie the strings. “You work too hard, Auntie.”
“Nonsense. Work never hurt a body.”
“Sitting and rocking never hurt a body, either, Auntie. You might try it sometime.”
“Pfft,” Aunt Louise snorted and opened the oven door a crack. The delicious aroma of apple pies spiced with cinnamon filled the kitchen.
Tom came in through the back door. “Mmm, it smells good in here.” He took the water pail and started off to the spring. “The wood box needs filling, too, Tom,” Aunt Louise called after him.
“Yes’m. I’ll get to it directly.”
The kitchen door slammed behind him and a couple of flies buzzed past Carrie. She grabbed the fly swatter and took care of that problem.
Then she hurried to wash up and help her aunt.
Later, when Carrie took the fried chicken into the dining room, a larger than usual crowd of boarders sat at the tables. Some were loggers still in their work clothes, obviously planning to go back to work on the river after their meal.
She noticed with dismay that both Will Tellers and the young man she’d seen in the ice cream parlor were there.
Will’s face was clean and his hair and beard neatly brushed, but he hadn’t changed clothes and he looked tired. No doubt he hadn’t had time for much sleep, she thought, feeling a wave of sympathy.
She set the hot platter of fragrant chicken in front of him, avoiding his gaze, and then hurried back to the kitchen for more food. By the time she’d brought back the mashed potatoes, brown gravy and peas, the platter of chicken was empty.
“Good chicken,” Will said, taking the bowl of potatoes from her. He heaped a large spoonful on his plate, then passed the bowl on.
“Thank you,” she managed as she handed him the gravy boat. “Be careful, it’s hot.”
He looked up and sent her a smile, but whether the smile was for the warning or to say he’d forgiven her for her earlier remarks, she didn’t know. Before she could decide, he’d served himself gravy, passed it on, and bent his head. He scooped up a forkful of potatoes, ignoring her.
Feeling snubbed and unreasonably disappointed at his lack of interest in her, she went back to the kitchen for more chicken. She needed to concentrate on her work, not on that logger, even if he was handsome.
My word, but those men could put away food. Setting the platter on the table, she picked up the teapot and began refilling cups around the table.
One of the men further down the table raised his voice. “Mr. Tellers, I’m George Mann, a reporter from the Minneapolis paper.”
“I remember,” Will grunted, barely sparing him a glance. He continued eating as though the man’s occupation was no concern of his.
Carrie noted the man trying to get his attention was the one she’d seen earlier in the ice cream parlor. So, he was a reporter, was he? Nice looking fellow, if a little on the heavy side. Well dressed, too, in a stiff white collar and black vest and waistcoat. Those clothes must be uncomfortable in this heat, she thought.
“Can you tell me when you think you’ll break up the jam?” Mr. Mann asked, his voice a little louder, as though he wondered if Mr. Tellers was a little hard of hearing.
“Not anytime soon, or I wouldn’t be in here eating,” Will said.
“How are you going to break it?” the man persisted.
Will snorted, giving him an impatient look and helping himself to another crispy chicken thigh. “We’re trying everything that we know how to try,” he said. “Men, ropes and horses, pile drivers, dynamite...”
“Dynamite! Isn’t that dangerous?”
“So is falling in the river, city fella. It goes with the job. We clear tree stumps with dynamite all the time.”
“Oh. But it’ll be dark, soon. Why are the men still out there working? Why have you lit so many campfires along the river?”
Will glared at him. “We take turns at eating and sleeping. As soon as the gas engines get here on the train, maybe tomorrow, we’ll have electric lights to see by. Until then, campfires will have to do.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?”
“Yes, Sir. That it is.” Will gulped the last bite of his food and pushed back his chair. He stood and headed for the door.
Carrie, still holding the hot teapot, stepped back just in time to avoid a disastrous collision.
“Sorry,” he said, reaching out a big hand to steady her.
A gasp of surprise slipped from her lips. The warmth of his hand on her arm through her gingham sleeve sent a tremor of awareness running through her. Their eyes met and held for a long moment.
His frown gave way to a little smile. “Thanks for the good supper.” He lifted his hand from her arm, nodded and strode back out toward the river, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.
Carrie stood gazing after him. She couldn’t figure the man out. One minute he ignored her and the next he smiled at her.
“Humph. There’s a man in a hurry, I’d say,” Mr. Mann said. “Maybe some of the rest of you could explain what those men are doing out there?” He looked around the table.
Biting back a reply which she knew wouldn’t be welcomed by the men, Carrie set the teapot on the table. She picked up the empty roll baskets and went back to the kitchen, leaving the men’s chatter behind.
Most of the boarders today were city folks who’d come to watch the excitement, the same as that reporter had. They certainly knew less about logging than the local people did, though each had a theory they were expounding to Mr. Mann now.
Carrie hid a smile. She could probably tell the reporter more than those tourists could, if she had a mind to. At least she had watched the process of breaking jams year after year as she was growing up, so she had a fairly good grasp of what they were doing out there.
And she knew breaking a logjam was hard and dangerous work. These city folk seemed to think it was all a lark put on for their entertainment.
She went back to the kitchen where her aunt was scraping leftover food from plates into the dog’s dish.
Aunt Louise looked up and said, “Did you see the new boarder, Mr. Mann? He came out on the train today. He writes for the Minneapolis newspaper. He said he’ll be staying until the jam’s broken.”
“Yes, I noticed him,” Carrie said.
Aunt Louise eyed her sharply. “He asked about you. Seems he saw you in the ice cream parlor and admired you enough to ask the waitress who you were.”
“Oh, really?” Carrie pretended she hadn’t already suspected this. Martha had been right.
Stacking the white crockery plates beside her dishpan, her aunt continued, “You might encourage him a bit. You could do worse than a man with a nice, indoor city job. Mr. Mann is one with good prospects.”
Shrugging, Carrie said, “He probably has a girlfriend back in the city. He wouldn’t be interested in a woman with a brother to raise.”
“How do you know unless you encourage him a little? You’re not getting any younger.”
Carrie flushed at the familiar rebuke and bent to pour more hot water from the teakettle into her dishpan. Aunt Louise seemed always on the lookout for a good husband for her. Carrie didn’t even want to think about the possibility of moving to the big city. Crowds scared her and she wanted no part of the hordes of strangers on city streets. Her little village might be small, but it was busy, comfortable and familiar. Chewing her lip, she scrubbed furiously at the roaster in her hand. “Twenty-one is not old.”
“Well, it’s no longer young either. Most girls are married by your age.”
“You’d be all alone if I married,” Carrie countered, trying to turn the conversation away from herself. Her aunt flushed in embarrassment and Carrie cringed. She shouldn’t have mentioned her aunt’s unmarried status.
“Humph. I can take care of myself. I’ve been living alone most of my life, haven’t I? Besides, Joe and Esther live just down the street. We look out for each other. I’ll be fine. It’s you who needs a husband and a father for Tom.”
“I haven’t found anyone I want who wants a ready-made family,” she reminded her aunt.
She’d had a couple of offers, and they had been quick to suggest she leave Tom with her aunt to raise.
But Tom was her responsibility. She’d promised her father on his deathbed that she’d take care of her brother. She was not leaving him alone in the world. Any man interested in her would have to take both, or she’d manage on her own.
“What about that nice farmer who came calling for a while a couple of months ago? He didn’t seem to mind the idea of a boy.”
“No, he didn’t,” Carrie said bitterly. “He wanted Tom as an unpaid, extra farm hand. I won’t have my brother taken advantage of.”
She felt her face heat at the memory of her last evening with that farmer. They’d gone for a walk along the river in the cool of the evening when the spring rain had left everything smelling fresh. Plum blossoms had sweetened the air, adding to the romantic atmosphere.
She hadn’t been in love with the man, but he seemed pleasant enough and, as Aunt Louise had often pointed out to her, he was a good marriage prospect in a small town where her choices were limited. So she’d encouraged his interest in her.
They’d stopped under a tree that night, and he’d taken her hand and proposed, very politely and properly, as a gentleman should. After he’d asked her to marry him, he’d kissed her for the first time, and she’d felt nothing.
In fact, she’d gone cold at the idea of taking such a big step in her life. And more than a little repulsed at the idea of sleeping with this man, of letting him touch her naked body.
Those niggling doubts had made her ask for details of his plans before she said yes. “What about my brother? Would you allow him to live with us, too?”
“Of course,” he’d said. “He’ll be a big help to us. He’s a fine, strapping boy and a good worker like you are. I’ve seen how he helps you and your aunt around the boarding house. He’ll make a good farmhand and a fine farmer one day.”
“I doubt Tom would want to farm for a living. He’s mentioned going to the seminary like his father. He’s already an avid reader.”
“Go to Seminary? But that costs a lot of money. And reading books is for sissies. No, he’s old enough now to quit school. He can learn to be a farmer from me for free. I’ll talk to the boy about it. I’m sure he’ll change his mind.”
His enthusiastic plans for Tom—without consulting the boy—had irritated her. She couldn’t picture herself as a farmer’s wife anyway. He’d said, ‘a good worker, like you are.’ That sounded like he wanted farm workers more than wanting her for herself. He’d said nothing about love or even being attracted to her personally. Was she a fool to want someone who truly cared for her, like her parents had loved each other? She sighed at the memory. Instinct had made her refuse the man’s proposal and he’d left angrily.
She wasn’t sorry she’d refused him, she thought now as she scrubbed the potato kettle. Maybe she’d remain an old maid like her aunt. Louise seemed happy enough alone. Surely no marriage was better than a bad marriage?
Perhaps remembering her parents’ love for each other had given her an unrealistic picture of what a marriage should be like. They had had such a loving relationship. Certainly not everyone she knew was as happy with their choice of a partner as her parents had been. But some were, she reasoned. So it was possible.
When the last of the kitchen work was done, she went outside to the porch. The shadows already stretched long across the valley. Although she knew the sun was still high above the horizon up on the level ground a few miles away, it was no longer visible here in the valley. Glancing down the street, she saw the lamplighter moving toward her, lighting the gas street lamps.
Along the bank near the new iron toll bridge, the loggers had built fires to aid in their work. She could see more fires high on the cliffs, which rose above the river to the south.
Tom had disappeared and she hoped he was only out playing with his friends and not down near the loggers again. She decided to walk the short block to the river to watch what was happening.
“May I walk with you?” a man asked beside her.
Carrie jumped and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream as she turned to see who had spoken to her. “Oh! Mr. Mann, isn’t it? You surprised me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It will be dark, soon. I thought you might like an escort.”
Taking a deep breath to slow her pounding heart, she said, “Of course. I was just going down to the river to get a better look at what they are doing.”
He nodded, smiling. “Call me George, please. I’ll be seeing a lot of you since I’m staying at your boarding house.”
“Yes, of course...ah, George. It is a nice night, isn’t it?”
As they left the sidewalk, he took her arm and guided her down the uneven graveled road to the river.
“Be careful to avoid the horse droppings,” he said, stepping around a dark mound on the road and wrinkling his nose. “Why don’t they clean those up?”
She laughed at the idea of someone trying to follow and clean up after all the teams of horses now pulling ropes in the attempt to get the logs untangled. “I’m afraid they have more important things to worry about at the moment.”
“Very untidy,” George said.
Glancing at him to see if he was serious, she hid a smile and nodded in agreement. They stopped under a tree near the riverbank and watched the dozens of men and horses at work. They seemed to be everywhere at once. Wherever she looked, men were busy with their peavies, pushing at this log or pulling at that one. Some logs were standing on end or sticking out of the logjam at an angle. The water’s current had forced many of the logs into odd positions.
“What’s that odd noise?” he asked. Dull crashing sounds reached them from upriver.
“Many more logs are rushing downriver and bumping into the log pile as they get to it,” she explained.
Carrie scanned the river, finding herself searching for Will. Yes, there he was, in the middle of the river, tying a long rope to a log in a top position in the jam. She could easily pick him out from the others, since he was the tallest. His black hair shone almost blue in the flickering firelight.
As they watched, Will signaled for the team to pull out the log. The long rope rubbed against another log as the horses strained to pull it.
Suddenly the rope snapped, allowing the log to drop back. It started rolling across several of the other logs. Carrie screamed a warning along with the men yelling at those in the way. Her hand flew to her mouth as Will and the other men scrambled for safety. Her heart pounding, she held her breath, then released it in relief when she saw he was in the clear.
“What a dangerous job,” George exclaimed beside her. “Why don’t they just quit and leave the mess there until it rains enough to wash the logs down the river?”
“More rain by itself won’t help,” Carrie replied. “The logs are tangled up. Some are laying crosswise and caught on the rock walls of the Dalles. They have to be straightened out so they can float on down the river. They aren’t going to un-tangle themselves.”
“I see,” George said doubtfully, staring at the huge blue-gray cliffs surrounding the mountains of logs. “It looks like an impossible mess.”
“Yes, it does. But none of the owners get paid for the logs until they’re delivered to the booms at the sawmills,” Carrie explained, her patience growing a bit thin at George’s ignorance. “Some will go broke if they can’t collect, since they’ve already had to pay the men who cut them down. Some loggers don’t even get paid until the owner collects.”
“I don’t think I’d want to work at a job like that,” George said, wrinkling his nose. “It looks far too risky for me, for both the workers and the log owners.”
Carrie nodded, her gaze roaming over the men working on the logs. It stopped on Will, who was again pushing a big log with his peavey, only minutes after almost being crushed by the huge log. He didn’t seem to mind, or pay any attention to the risks of his job.
He looked up and seemed to lock eyes with her. But that was impossible from this distance, wasn’t it? Her heart fluttered at the possibility.
She stood silently, feeling as though she could watch him work for hours. One by one, they freed the logs and sent each floating on down the river. But there were literally millions of logs. One at a time was an impossible way to break the jam. She wondered how they would ever do it.
Soon Mr. Mann said irritably, “This is boring and it’s getting dark. May I escort you back to the boarding house?”
Carrie reluctantly pulled her attention back to the man beside her and agreed. “I suppose I should be getting back.” There was nothing boring to her about watching such exciting work. Each moment held danger and the possibility of more movement in the creaking, noisy logs. They seemed almost alive, turning and grinding against each other and groaning their objection to being caught between the rock walls and held back from their destination downriver.
She glanced nervously at the men still at work, balancing in their spiked shoes on those unsteady logs. Would Will and the others be all right out there in the dark? What foolish male pride made them do such dangerous work at night, doubling the danger? Why couldn’t they let it go until daylight?
Resolutely, she turned her back on the river and smiled at George, taking the arm he offered. Aunt Louise was right. She should pay more attention to him and encourage him as a suitor. But her stomach churned sourly at the thought.