The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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The men were talking earnestly in the low, slow tones which the silence
of the forests seems to inspire. Three pairs of bare hands were outheld
to the welcome blaze of the fire. Three pairs of clear gazing eyes
searched the heart of it. None were smoking. It would have been a burden
to keep the pipe stem from freezing even in the vicinity of the fire,
and none of them were in any mood to accept any added burden.

A blue-eyed, beardless youth shifted his gaze to the dark face directly
opposite him beyond the fire.

"Oh, we got that guy--good," he said. There was laughter in his eyes but
not in his tone. "We got him plumb at the game. He was chock full of
kerosene and tinder, and he'd fired the patch in several places. We were
on it quick. We beat the fire in seconds. As for him, why, I guess his
Ma's going to forget him right away. Leastways I hope so. He went out
like the snuff of a lucifer, and his body's likely handed plenty feed to
any wolf straying around."

The dark man across the fire nodded.

"Did he hand a squeal before--he went?"

"Not a word. Hadn't time. Peter here didn't ast a thing either."

The youth laughed softly, and the man called Peter took up the story.

"Tain't no use arguin' with a feller loaded with kerosene in these
forests," he said, in a low grumbling way. Then he reached down and
snatched a brand from the fire and flung it out on the snow. His action
was followed swiftly by a wolfish howl of dismay. Then he again turned
his grizzled, whiskered face to the dark man beyond the fire. "You see,
Father, it's our job keeping these forests from fire, an' it ain't easy.
It don't much concern us who's out to fire 'em. That's for other folks.
The feller with kerosene in these forests is goin' to get the stuff we
ken hand him. That's all. Bob an' me got our own way fer actin'."

Bob laughed

"We sure have," he said. "But we don't allers pull it off. No. We've had
ten fires on our range in two weeks. We've beat the fires, but we ain't
smashed the 'bugs' that set 'em."

"Would they be all one feller? The feller that got it?" The dark man's
eyes were serious. His tone was troubled.

Peter shook his head.

"No, sir. There's more'n one, sure. An' from the things I've heerd tell
from the boys on the neighbourin' ranges it's happening all along
through our limits. They tell me there's queer things doin' an' no one
seems to locate the meaning right."

"What sort of things?"

The dark man spoke sharply. Peter's reply came after profound
deliberation.

"Oh, things," he said. Then he thrust a gnarled brown hand up under his
fur hood, and scratched his head. "There's our forest 'phones. They're
bein' cut. It's the same everywhere. There's most always things to break
'em happenin', but a break aint a cut. No. They're cut. Who's cuttin'
'em, and why? Fire-bugs. It ain't grouchy jacks. No. I've heerd the
jacks are on the buck in parts, but that ain't their play. There ain't a
jack who'd see these forests afire, or do a thing to help that way. You
see, it's their living, it's their whole life. We got so we can't depend
a thing on the 'phones. An' cut our forests 'phones and we're gropin'
like blind men."

"Yes."

The leaping flames were dropping, and Bob moved out to the store of
fuel. He returned laden, and packed the wood carefully to give the
maximum blaze. Then he squatted again, and again his hands were thrust
out to the warmth which meant luxury.

Peter had no more to add. His grey eyes searched the heart of the fire
as he reflected on the things which were agitating his mind.

"I want to get word down, but I can't depend on the 'phones," he said
presently. "If they ain't cut I can't tell who's gettin' the message
anyway. Maybe the wires are bein' tapped."

The man across the fire nodded.

"I'm going down," he said.

"I'm glad." Peter's acknowledgment came with an air of relief. "I'll
hand you a written report before you pull out."

"It's best that way."

The fire was leaping again. Its beneficent warmth was very pleasant. Bob
turned his eyes skyward.

"You'll get a good trip, Father," he said. "That snow's cleared out of
the sky. It 'ud ha' been hell if it had caught you out on the lake."

"Yes. I wouldn't have made here. I wouldn't have made anywhere if that
had happened." The dark man laughed.

Peter shook his head.

"No. You took a big chance."

"I had to."

"So?"

"Yes. I had to get through. There's a big piece of trouble coming."

"To do with these fires?"

"I guess so."

"I see."

Peter's comment was full of understanding. After awhile the other looked
up.

"Guess I need a big sleep," he said. "I've got to pull out with
daylight. Anything you want besides that written report passed on down?"

Peter shook his head and sat on awhile blinking silently at the
firelight. Then the dark man scrambled to his feet. He stood for a
moment, very tall, very bulky in his fur clothing, and nodded down at
the others.

"So long," he said. And he moved off to his sleeping bag which was laid
out to receive his tired body.

* * * * *

The man stood just within the shelter of the twilit forests. He was a
powerful creature of sturdy build, hall-marked with the forest craft
which was his life. He was clad in tough buckskin from head to foot.
Even his hands, which he frequently beat in a desire for warmth, were
similarly clad. His weatherbeaten face was hard set, and his eyes were
narrowed to confront the merciless snow fog which the rage of the
blizzard outside hurled at him.

The cold was almost unendurable even here in the wooded shelter.
Outside, where the storm raged unrestrainedly over its fierce
playground, only blind hopelessness prevailed.

There was nothing to be done. He could only wait.

He could only wait, and hope, or abandon his vigil, and return to his
camp which was far back in the heart of the forests. Away out there,
somewhere lost in the blinding fog of the blizzard, which had only
sprung up within the last hour, a lonely fellow creature was making for
the shelter in which he stood. He was driving headlong towards him. Oh,
yes. He knew that. He had seen the moving outfit far off, several miles
away, over the snowy plains, before the storm had arisen. Now--where was
he? He could not tell. He could not even guess at what might have
happened. Blinded, freezing, weary, how long could the lonely traveller
endure and retain any sense of direction?

To the forest man the position was well-nigh tragic. Had he not
experience of the terror of a northern blizzard? Had he not many a time
had to grope his way along a life-line lest the slightest deviation in
direction should carry him out into the storm to perish of cold, blinded
and lost? Oh, yes. This understanding was the alphabet of his life.

As he stood there watching and wiping the snow from his eyes, he
reminded himself not only of his own experience but of every story of
disaster in a blizzard he had ever listened to. And so he saw no hope
for the poor wretch he had seen struggling to make the shelter.

But he could not bring himself to abandon his post. How could he with a
fellow creature out there in peril? Besides, there was other reason,
although it needed none. He had urgent news for this man, news which
must be imparted without delay, news which his employers must hear at
the earliest possible moment.

His trouble grew as he waited. He searched his mind for anything
calculated to aid the doomed traveller. He could find nothing. He
thought to call out, to burst his lungs in a series of shouts on the
chance of being heard in the chaos of the storm. But he realised the
uselessness of it all, and abandoned the impulse. No puny human voice
could hope to make impression on the din of the elemental battle being
fought out on the plain. No. His only service must be to stand there
beating life into his numbing hands, ready to act on the instant should
opportunity serve.

He was eaten up by anxiety, and so took no cognisance of time. He had
forgotten the passing of daylight. Therefore sudden realisation flung
him into headlong panic. The forest about him was growing dark. The snow
fog outside had changed to a deeper hue. Night was coming on. The man in
the storm was beyond all aid, human or otherwise.

The impulse of the moment was irresistible. He moved. He passed out from
behind the long limbs of his leafless shelter. He went at a run shouting
with all the power of his lungs. Again and again his prolonged cry went
up. And with each effort he waited listening, listening, only to receive
the mocking reply of the howling storm. But he persisted. He persisted
for the simple human reason that his desire outran his power to serve.
And in the end exhaustion forced him to abandon his hopeless task.

It was then the miracle happened. Far away, it seemed, a sound like the
faintest echo of his own voice came back to him, but it came from a
direction all utterly unexpected. For a moment he hesitated, bewildered,
uncertain. Then he sent up another shout, and waited listening. Yes.
There it was. Again came the faintly echoing cry through the trees. It
came not from the open battle ground of the storm, but from the shelter
of the forests somewhere away to the north of him.

* * * * *

A tall, fur-clad figure stood nearby to the sled which was already
partly unloaded. A yard or two away a fire had been kindled, and it
blazed comfortingly in the growing dusk of the forest. It was the moment
when the forest man came up somewhat breathlessly and flung out a mitted
hand in greeting.

"I guessed you were makin' your last run for shelter, Father," he cried.
"I just hadn't a hope you'd make through that storm. You beat it--fine."

The tall man nodded. His dark eyes were smiling a cordiality no less
than the other's.

"I guessed that way, too," he said quietly. "Then I didn't." He shrugged
his fur-clad shoulders. "No. It's not a northern trail that's going to
see the end of me. But it's your yarn I need to hear. How is it?"

"Bad."

The two men looked squarely into each others eyes, and the gravity of
the forest man was intense. The man who had just come out of the storm
was no less serious, but presently he turned away, and for a second his
gaze rested on the group of sprawling dogs. The beasts looked utterly
spent as they blinked at the fire which they were never permitted to
approach. He indicated the fire.

"Let's sit," he said. "It's cold--damnably cold."

The other needed no second invitation. They both moved back to the fire
and squatted over it, and the forest man pointed at the dogs.

"Beat?" he said.

"Yes. But they hauled me through. They're a great outfit. I fed 'em
right away and now they need rest. They'll be ready for the trail again
by morning. Anyway I can't delay."

"No. You've got to get through quick."

Both were holding outspread hands to the fire. Both were luxuriating in
the friendly warmth.

"Well?" The tall man turned his head so that his dark eyes searched the
other's face again. "You'd best tell it me, Jean. If the storm lets up I
pull out with daylight. I've come through every camp, and this is the
last. Maybe I know the stuff you've got to tell. It's been the same most
all the way."

Jean looked up from the heart of the fire.

"Trouble?" he enquired.

"Every sort." The tall man's eyes were smiling. "There's jacks quitting
and pulling out, and nobody seems to know how they're getting, seeing
it's winter. Others are going slow. There's others grumbling for things
you never heard tell of before. There's fire-bugs at work, and the
forest 'phones are being cut or otherwise tampered with all the time.
We've lost hundreds of acres by fire already."

"My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned back to the fire. "Say," he
went on, "have you heard of the things going on? The thing that's
happening?"

"You mean the outfit working it?"

"Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that's the talk of 'em.
They call 'em 'Bolshies,' whatever that means. They're chasing these
forests through. They make the camps by night, and get hold of the boys
right away. They throw a hurricane of hot air at them, preachin' the
sort of dope that sets those darn fools lyin' around when they need to
be makin' the winter cut. And when they're through, and started the bug
the way they want it, they pull out right away before the daylight
comes. We never get a chance at 'em. Our boys are all plumb on the buck.
I was just crazy for you to come along, Father. Guess you're the one man
to fix the boys right. An' when I see you caught up in that darn
storm--"

"I'll do the thing I know," the dark man replied. "I've been doing it
right along. But it's not enough. That's why I'm chasing down to the
coast. We've got to lay this spook that worries the boys at night. It's
no Bolshie outfit." He shook his head. "Anyway if it is it's got another
thing behind it. It's the Skandinavia."

He sat on for a few minutes in silence. He squatted there, hugging his
knees. He was weary. He was weary almost to death with the incessant
travel that had already occupied him weeks.

Quite abruptly his hands parted and he stood up. Jean followed his
movements with anxious eyes.

"You goin' down to talk to the boys?" he asked at last.

The man nodded.

"Yes. Right away. I'll do all I know."

"They'll listen to you."

The other smiled.

"Yes. Till the spook comes back."

Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes.

"That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut's right plumb down. If
this thing don't quit the mill's going to starve when the ice breaks.
I've lost nigh three weeks' full cut already. It's--it's hell!"

"Yes."

The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on over the fire. But his troubled
eyes watched the curious figure as it passed over to its outfit. He saw
the man stoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentangle some
garment from the rest. When he came back the furs he had been clad in
were either abandoned or hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered an
awesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in black from head to foot,
and his garment possessed the flowing skirts of a priest.

"I'm going right down to the boys now," he said. "You best stop around
here. Just have an eye to the dogs. It's best you not being with me."

Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by the camp boss this man's
influence with the boys would have been seriously affected. Alone he was
well-nigh all powerful.

"Good," he said. "For God's sake do what you can, Father," he cried.
"I'll stop right here till you get back. So long."

CHAPTER XVIII

BULL STERNFORD'S VISION OF SUCCESS

"I'd say it's best story I've listened to since--since--Say, those
fellers are pretty big. They surely are."

Bat Harker stirred. He shifted his feet on the rail of the stove, where
the heavy leather soles of his boots were beginning to burn.

Bull's shining eyes were raised to his.

"Big?" he echoed. "I tell you that feller, Leader, has the widest vision
of any man I know."

He leant back in his chair and imitated his companion's luxurious
attitude. And so they sat silent, each regarding the thing between them
from his own angle.

It was the night of Bull's return from his journey to England. He had
completed the final stage only that afternoon. He had travelled overland
from the south headland, where he had been forced to disembark from the
_Myra_ under stress of weather. It was storming outside now, one of
those fierce wind storms of Labrador's winter, liable to blow for days
or only for a few hours.

He and Harker were closeted together in the warm comfort of the office
on the hill. Here, without fear of interruption, in the soft lamplight,
lounging at their ease, they were free to talk of those things so dear
to them, and upon which hung the destiny of their enterprise.

Winter was more than half spent. Christmas and New Year were already
seasons which only helped to swell the store of memory. Labrador was
frozen to the bone, and would remain so. But there were still two months
and more of snow and ice, and storm, to be endured before the flies and
mosquitoes did their best to make life unendurable.

Bull's return home had been a time of great looking forward. Life to him
had become full of every alluring possibility. He saw the approaching
fulfilment of his hopes and aims. The contemplation of the pending war
with the Skandinavia only afforded his fighting instincts satisfaction.
Then there was that other. That great, new sensation which stirred him
so deeply--Nancy McDonald. So he had returned home full of enthusiasm
and ready to tackle any and every problem that presented itself.

He had just completed the telling of the story he had brought back with
him. It was a story of success that had stirred even the cast-iron
emotions of Bat Harker. Nor had it lost anything in the telling, for
Bull was more deeply moved than he knew.

The recounting of his dealings in London with the man, Sir Frank Leader,
had been coloured by the enthusiasm with which the Englishman had
inspired him. Sir Frank Leader was known as the uncrowned king of the
world's pulp-wood trade. But Bull felt, and declared, that the
appellation did not come within measurable distance of expressing the
man's real genius. Then there were those others: Stanton Brothers, and
Lord Downtree, and the virile, youthful creature, Ray Birchall. All of
them were strong pillars of support for the ruling genius of the house
of Leader & Company. But it was the man himself, the head of it, who
claimed all Bull's admiration for his intensity of national spirit, and
the wide generosity of his enterprise.

The story he had had to tell was simple in its completeness. Before
setting out on his journey he had spent months in preparation of the
ground by means of voluminous correspondence and documentary evidence.
It was a preparation that left it only necessary to convince through
personal appeal on his arrival in London. This had been achieved in the
broad fashion that appealed to the men he encountered. His "hand" had
been laid down. Every card of it was offered for their closest scrutiny,
even to the baring of the last reservation which his intimate knowledge
of the merciless climate of Labrador might have inspired.

The appeal of this method had been instant to Sir Frank Leader. And the
appeal had been as much the man himself as the thing he offered. The
result of it all was Bull's early return home with the man's whole
organisation fathering his enterprise, and with a guarantee of his
incomparable fleet of freighters being flung into the pool. Leader had
swept up the whole proposition into his widely embracing arms, and taken
it to himself. Subject to Ray Birchall's ultimate report, after personal
inspection on the spot of the properties involved, the flotation was to
be launched for some seventy million dollars, and thus the consummation
of Sachigo's original inspiration would be achieved.

Bat had listened to the story almost without comment. He had missed
nothing of it. Neither had he failed to observe the man telling it. The
story itself was all so tremendous, so far removed from the work that
pre-occupied him that he had little desire to probe deeper into it. But
the success of it all stirred him. Oh, yes. It had stirred him deeply,
and his mind had immediately flown to that other who had laboured for
just this achievement and had staggered under the burden of it all.

Bull removed his pipe and gazed across the stove.

"And now for your news, Bat," he said, like a man anticipating a
pleasant continuation of his own good news.

Bat shook his head decidedly.

"No," he said, in his brusque fashion. "Not to-night, boy. Guess I ain't
got a thing to tell to match your stuff. We just carried on, and we've
worked big. We're in good shape for the darn scrap with the Skandinavia
you told me about. Guess I'll hand you my stuff to-morrow, when I'm
goin' to show you things. This night's your night--sure."

His twinkling eyes were full of kindly regard, for all the brusqueness
of his denial. And Bull smiled back his content.

"Well, it's your 'hand' Bat," he said easily. "You'll play it your way."

His eyes turned to the comforting stove again, as the howl of the storm
outside shook the framing of the house.

Presently the other raised a pair of smiling eyes.

"You know, boy," the lumberman said, ejecting a worn-out chew of
tobacco, "all this means one mighty big thing your way. You see, you got
life before you. Maybe I've years to run, too. But it ain't the same.
No," he shook his grizzled head, "you can't never make nuthin' of me but
a lumber-boss. You'll never be a thing but a college-bred fighter all
your life. There's a third share in this thing for both of us. Well,
that's goin' to be one a' mighty pile. I was wonderin'. Shall you quit?
Shall you cut right out with the boodle? What'll you do?"

Bull sat up and laughed. And his answer came on the instant.

"Why, marry," he said.

Bat nodded.

"That's queer," he said. "I guessed you'd answer that way."

"Why?"

Bat folded his arms across his broad chest.

"You're young," he replied.

Bull laughed again.

"Better say it," he cried. "An' darn foolish."

"No, I hadn't that in mind. No, Bull. If I had your years I guess I'd
feel that way, too. I wonder--"

"You're guessing to know who I'd marry, eh?" Bull's pipe was knocked out
into the cuspidore. Then he sat up again and his eyes were full of
reckless delight. "Here," he cried, "I guess it's mostly school-kids who
shout the things they reckon to do--or a fool man. It doesn't matter.
Maybe I'm both. Anyway, I'm just crazy for--for--"

"Red hair, an'--an' a pair of mighty pretty eyes?"

"Sure."

Bat nodded. A deep satisfaction stirred him.

"I reckoned that way, ever since--Say, I'm glad."

But Bull's mood had sobered.

"She's in the enemy camp though," he demurred.

"It'll hand you another scrap--haulin' her out."

"Yes."

Bat rose from his chair and stretched his trunk-like body.

"Well," he said, "it's me for the blankets." Then he emitted a
deep-throated chuckle. "You get at it, boy," he went on. "An' if you're
needin' any help I can pass, why, count on it. If you mean marryin' I'd
sooner see you hook up team with that red-haired gal than anything in
the world I ever set two eyes on. Guess I'll hand you my stuff in the
morning if the storm quits."

* * * * *

The dynamos were revolving at terrific speed. There were some eighteen
in all, and their dull roar was racking upon ears unused. Bat was
regarding them without enthusiasm. All he knew was the thing they
represented. Skert Lawton had told him. They represented the harnessing
of five hundred thousand horse power of the Beaver River water. The
engineer had assured him, in his unsmiling fashion, that he had secured
enough power to supply the whole Province of Quebec with electricity.
All of which, in Bat's estimation, seemed to be an unnecessary feat.

Bull was gazing in frank wonder on the engineer's completed work. It was
his first sight of it. The place had been long in building. But the
sight of it in full running, the sense of enormous power, the thought
and labour this new power-house represented, filled him with nothing but
admiration for the author of it all.

Bat hailed one of the electricians serving the machines.

"Where's Mr. Lawton?" he shouted.

"He went out. He ain't here," the man shouted back.

Bat regarded the man for a moment without favour. Then he turned away.
He beckoned Bull to follow, and moved over to the sound-proof door which
shut off the engineer's office. They passed to the quiet beyond it.

It was quite a small room without any elaborate pretensions. There was a
desk supporting a drawing board, with a chair set before it. There was
also a rocker-chair which accommodated the lean body of Skert Lawton at
such infrequent moments as it desired repose. Beyond that there was
little enough furniture. The place was mainly bare boards and bare
walls. Bat sat himself at the desk and left Bull the rocker-chair.

"I'd fixed it so Skert was to meet us here," he said. "All this is his
stuff. I couldn't tell you an' amp from a buck louse."

Bull nodded.

"That's all right," he said. "Maybe he's held up down at the mill. He'll
get--"

"Held up--nuthin'!"

The lumberman was angry. But his anger was not at the failure of his
arrangements. Back of his head he was wondering at the thing that
claimed the engineer. He felt that only real urgency would have kept him
from his appointment. And he knew that urgency just now had a more or
less ugly meaning.

"Lawton's a pretty bright boy--" Bull began. But the other caught him up
roughly.

"Bright? That don't say a thing," Bat cried. "Guess he's a whole darn
engineering college rolled into the worst shape of the ghost of a man
it's been my misfortune ever to locate. He's a highbrow of an elegant
natur'. He calls this thing 'co-ordination,' which is another way of
sayin' he's beat nigh a hundred thousand dollars out of our bank roll to
hand us more power than we could use if we took in Broadway, New York,
at night. But it's elegant plannin' and looks good to me. Your folks
over the water'll maybe see things in it, too. It's them blast furnaces
we set up for him last year made this play possible. Them, and the swell
outfit of machine shops he squeezed us for. He figgers to raise all
sorts of hell around. An' his latest notion's to build every darn
machine from rough-castin' to a shackle pin, so we don't have to worry
with the world outside. He's got a long view of things. But--"

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