Kankakee Valley Post, Volume 2, Number 44, DeMotte, Jasper County, 16 March 1933 — BELOW ZERO [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

BELOW ZERO

A Romance of the North Woods

By HAROLD TITUS

WNU Service

CHAPTER IV--Continued --5--nothin’! I tell you he looks right through a man! I lied my best and he sneered at me and threatened if I didn’t come to you and tell you what he’d said that he’d tell the crew what’d happened .... And I wasn’t going to squawk in the face of that! He’s got ’em with him; they’d . . . Why, they’d’ve mobbed me yesterday!” “What’s the word he sent?” “He said”--clearing his throat--“he said you was snakes in the grass and that he’d treat you like that, and he said to come on and do your worst, that he had his crew with him and wasn’t going to be put out of the running yet a while.” Gorbel leaned back and smiled. “And don’t think he’s out, either.” Tucker leaned forward suddenly, as if this were the most important thing he had to say. “Don’t you believe it, Gorbel! He’s a whirlwind, that lad! He’s a logging fool and he knows his stuff. He’ll keep that mill logged spite of h—l ’nd high water, ’nd you, Gorbel! He’s . . . he’s a logging fool!”--weakly, as though no words at his command could convey his respect for John Steele’s abilities. “Where’d he. come from?” Gorbel asked. “God knows. ’D had some job down below, I guess. Ain’t you seen him?” The other grimaced. “I think I did . . . once. But I didn’t get a good look.” CHAPTER V John had been in camp for two nights. The train rolled in on time the next morning and from the way-car emerged an unusual passenger. First, a travel-worn toboggan, shoved through the door by Way-Bill. Then packs, of various sizes and shapes. Finally, as odd a human being as John had observed for a long time. He was short and apparently emaciated, and yet from the spryness of his movements it was certain that muscles of steel cloaked the small frame. His beard was gray, streaked with brown, and covered his face almost to the small, bright eyes. His coat was of bearskin, hitting him at the hips. Great gauntlet gloves of fur were on his hands and moccasins covered his feet He was starting to stow the packs on the toboggan when John approached and, seeing him. the old man spat and nodded and exclaimed in his high-pitched voice: “Name’s Richards! Wolf Richards! Wolf Richards from Mad Woman! Uncle to Ellen on her pa’s side. . .

Name’s Steele! John Steele! Heerd ’bout you; know all ’bout you! Curious ’bout you, so come back this-a-way to take a look-see at John Steele much’s to save time gittin’ back to Mad Woman! “Wouldn’t come in ’f’d be’n able to pack out enough grub before snow come. Wrenched my back ’nd no could do much. Lucky couldn’t. Wouldn’t ’ve heerd ’bout Ellen’s trouble if I’d stayed in. Interestin’, trouble. Interestin’, seein’ men who ain’t scared from Tom Belknap’s shadder!” All this with scarcely a pause to draw breath, and when John stopped beside the man his eyes were twinkling. More like a figure in an extravaganza, this Wolf Richards seemed, than a regular, honest-to-goodness citizen. “Big feller!” he went on, not pausing for more than a fleeting glance upward as he shook out a tarpaulin to cover the packs. “Big feller! Handsome feller, too! No wonder a girl gets soft ’bout a big feller, handsome feller who’s a handy man to have in time o’ trouble. Can’t fool me, girls! Ellen ’special. Knowed her too well sence she was knee-high to a--” “Hello, Mr. Richards!” John said. “I’m glad to see you, too.” “Thought you would be. Ellen said so. Said I’d be welcome to stay long’s I like.” He stepped close and the metallic quality went from his voice. “She looks bad!” he said lowly, and in the queer little eyes John detected a genuine concern as a man will have when one deeply loved is in trouble. “She’s all I got now; I’m all she’s got.

Queer, they call me, but I ... I got feelin’s like anybody else, Steele. If anything happened to Ellen I dunno what I’d do.” Something pathetic in his earnestness. “Well, it will do her good to have you to visit her, Wolf,” John agreed. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ve a job to do, and I’ll see you at dinner.” He tore away, leaving the little man still spewing words, and walked over to the barn to join Jack Tait and Saunders. “Who’s Richards?” he asked, and they grinned. “He’s Ellen’s uncle,” Saunders chuckled. “Her dad’s only brother. ’Course, he’s cracked. D—n good trapper, too; would make well at it if he’d leave wolves alone, but when he hears of a wolf or thinks he knows where one might show up, he’ll stay by him until he gets him or drives him out of the country. Lives alone away down on the Mad Woman. Has for years. They all get that way, you know.” “Yup,” Jack Tait agreed. “A queer old duck. Harmless for the most part, but he’ll make trouble yet, I’m afraid. You’d think, to see him in town or here, that he was the friendliest codger alive, but he ain’t. Won’t take a traveler in at all when he’s alone. All but Ellen. She goes up to see him for a day or so now and then.” Until noon hour John thought no more of Wolf Richards. He and Saunders were busy trying to figure a way through the complications which confronted them. Burke had put on even more saws at the Belknap & Gorbel camps. The switches at the crossing were plugged with loaded cars bound for Kampfest; equipment breakdown on the branch had delayed movement, but when John had called this to Burke’s attention, arguing that it achieved his employers nothing to keep insisting that their logs were moved to the crossing as soon as loaded, the man only grinned. “Orders are orders; contracts are contracts. I’ve got mine; go read yours, Steele!” And so John buckled down in earnest to the uphill pull. Through supper and for a brief time in the office afterwards, the old trapper’s voice held to its sustained, shrill gabble. Then, abruptly, he rose, and, divesting himself of his outer clothing with rapid jerks, jumped into the bed assigned him, and within seconds was snoring. Jack Tait came in to talk to John who sat before the stove, smoking and going over plans with Saunders. He was there a few minutes and went out. Saunders yawned, rose and stretched. He rid himself of his chew and unbuttoned his shirt. The light was turned out, and superintendent and foreman lay in their beds, still talking lowly. “I feel like a fella at the edge of a big dropoff in the dark,” Mark said, and stirred in his blankets. “Everything’s rosy so long ’s we keep the ground under our feet, but any step ahead’s likely to send us tail over ears down to the rocks yonder. Somethin’ might happen here in the woods to slow us down; Tiny’s old coffee-pot may go all to h—l in a heap and then where are we?” “Over the edge,” said John morosely, and rolled over on his side. For a long time he lay sleepless. He dozed and suddenly saw his father pursuing someone who fled towards him, screaming for his help, and this other, suddenly revealed, was Ellen Richards. He woke with a start and rolled over, muttering to himself. He did not dream then that the time would come when the girl’s voice would be lifted in screams as shrill as those he heard in his dreams. . . . He dreamed of stamping his foot, stamping his foot on a resounding floor and demanding of Paul Gorbel that he come into the open and fight. . . . Of stamping, stamping . . . and when he stopped stamping the sound continued. He sat up. The sound continued, and he looked about for its source, bewildered by sleep. Sounds, yes; coming from outside. Heavy thuds. Horses kicking! A number of horses kicking, and a shrill nickering. His feet hit the cold floor and he lunged to a window. “Turn out!” he croaked, as he whirled back to grope for his pants. “Turn out; you! The barn’s afire!” Saunders was up; Jerry was rolling out, babbling as sleep added to his panic. Wolf Richards chattered shrilly. . . . “Fire!” John yelled, as he ran outside and buttoning his coat over his underwear made for the men’s shanty. . . . “Fire!”--as he burst in the door. “Out, you bullies! Fire!”

He went on, Saunders hard after him. Horses were squealing now, and kicking more furiously. He heard wood splintered under a hoof and could see, through the partially opened doorway, the low cavern of the barn lighted by angry flames. He was into it, throwing an arm over his face to strain smoke from the air he breathed. He caught a distant odor, though, and through his mind went one word: Gasoline! A windrow of hay along the center of the building burned. Flakes of the bales, half torn apart, were strewn there, it seemed, and they blazed brightly, orange fronds of flame leaping upward to find hold on cobwebbed rafters as the draft of the ventilators sucked the gases through the roof. Smoke swirled about the floor and he stumbled as he ran on, striving to gain the rear stalls first. He choked as he entered the stall, but grasped the horse’s mane over and over, putting a hand, on the rump. “Come on, boy!” he said, trying to speak without excitement. “Steady, now!” The horse sidled, banged into a stall stanchion, leaped the other way, kicked as flame touched his belly. He broke, tried to run and John went with him, strangling from the smoke, bumping into another led horse, out into the night. Men were running; others were back in there, shouting at horses. “How many in there?” John yelled, grabbing Tait’s arm as the barn boss, crying now, ran past him. “All out but two. Prince won’t come!” John saw men struggling with a horse inside and turned to their aid. He found a pitchfork and got behind the horse, striking it without mercy, prodding with the tines. They got the animal out and Jack Tait reeled, gagging with nausea. John backed from the building, shielding his face with an upraised arm. Flames were through the roof now, licking at the cornices, melting holes in the walls. “All out, Jack?” he croaked. “Look out!" The warning shout made John whirl. He threw himself forward to grab at the rope as the horse shook off the last restraining hand, throwing a man end over end, and broke for the stable, screaming shrilly. John could see him, outlines distorted by wriggling heat, waves. He crouched low and rushed in. He heard the horse scream again and kick. The terror of the creature's cry gave him strength. It screamed the third time, and John dropped to his hands and knees for relief. He stopped crawling. He had almost gone on, across that thing. It felt like a bag of oats, a sack of inert material, until his hands brushed flesh. He had come upon a man, lying there, when he sought to save a horse! John grasped the limp arm and pulled the figure about. He got to his feet and, bent double, ran three steps. The heat and the burden beat him down. An eddy brought in a gulp of fresh air. He rose again and made a stride or two . . . and went down, cowering from the terrific punishment of standing. Another man was crawling towards John from the doorway. He found a hold and they went for the open with a rush. It was Jack Tait who had come in to help. “Who . . . who’s this?” John choked, rolling the man over. Firelight fell on the face as a score of men pressed about. “Never saw him!” panted the barn boss. Someone began to fan the face with a cap and Jack Tait plucked at John’s arm. The old veteran was holding up a hand, blood-stained. That hand had just turned the unconscious man’s head over, had been pressed against the side of the skull. “Get over with Mark!” John ordered those about him. “Jack and I’ll tend to this lad.” The group scattered. The burden that the two carried was not heavy. They went across the trampled snow towards the office, walking the faster as they neared their objective. John lighted the hanging lamp and they stood looking down into that set face. “Never seen him!” the barn boss said. “Nor did I.” Gingerly John examined the great mark on the skull, tracing it out with his fingers through the thick hair. “What’s it shaped like?” he asked, looking up.

“Horseshoe. There’s where the calk went in”--pointing. Tait stared hard at John. “ ’D you notice anything special in the barn?” “Smell, you mean?” The other nodded grimly. “I smelt gasoline,” he said. “So did I!” “Where was he?” Tait asked. “Right behind your pile of baled hay.” “Prince got him!” he muttered. “He’s the only horse in the lot that’s light behind. He”--gesturing--“touched the place off, the--! Old Prince got him!” Saunders came in, breathless, slamming the door. “Got her soused down,” he said. "Worst’s over. Who’s that?” “Ever see him?” John asked. A pause, while the foreman stared hard at the face. “Never.” “And what did you smell?” John demanded. Mark looked from one to the other. “ ’D you both get it?” “Both of us. . . .” “A bug fire! G—d d —n ’em, they’ll--” John held up a warning hand. “It’s between the three of us, for now. Keep it from the men. This

fellow was suffocated, as far as they know. Stranger; drunk; got in, tried to smoke. . . . And here we are! “But the three of us smelt gasoline. This man’s hair isn’t even singed. See? He didn’t die from fire. It was the kick of a horse. We find out who he island where he came from and why--if we can--and we make things as hot for other parties as they made them for us tonight!” Hot for other parties! And even as he swore that this thing would not go unpunished if he could track it down a sort of terror seized him. Old Tom, his father, behind this? The thought made his middle go weak. Oh, a man’s temper can stir him to bitterness against those for whom he has had affection. But old loyalold respects are hard to down. For nearly a month now John Belknap had thought of his father as an enemy, but this night’s work killed his temper, replaced it with a profound fear. Old Tom in a rough-and-tumble fight? Yes, that was imaginable! But old Tom resorting to the torch? That was unthinkable, did not square with anything in experience. A hard old bird, men had said of his father; a relentless fighter when driven to it. . . when driven to it! But a fair fighter, it was agreed, and even beaten enemies had admitted that. He looked at the others and sent them out to see that the guard against the last chance of spreading fire was safe. He needed to be alone. Old Tom in this mess? It could not be; simply was beyond all reason! That the responsibility for all Ellen Richards’ trouble should rest on his father’s shoulders seemed to be reasonable . . . seemed to be. But it could not he. His father was no incendiary; his father was no wrecker; his father, gruff and bluff as he was, unjust as he may have been to his own son, would not hire bullies to maim the men of other employers, would not take unfair advantage of a weaker competitor! He drew his palms over his face and shuddered. The whole thing was a nightmare, some wild, impossible bit of fancy! ******* The barn was gone; one horse was gone; some harness burned, and the rest in a sorry tangle. Not a pound of feed was left in camp. John ordered the stranger’s body placed in a box car on the siding, shut the door and told the men to keep away. The belief that an unknown

man had wandered into the barn and inadvertently set it off was well established. But in the office a small group waited while John repeatedly made unavailing efforts to rouse central. It was four o’clock before his persistent ringing brought an answering sleepy voice. He called Roberts, the mill foreman, at his house, not wanting to disturb Ellen. Rapidly he told what had happened. “We’ll need a car of lumber,” he said, “and saws and hammers and nails. The fire was set by a drunk who wandered in. He suffocated. Send the sheriff out with the train to take charge of that angle. Guess I’ve told you everything. Don’t forget the grain and hay.” While the crew was still at breakfast the shrill, familiar scream of the locomotive’s whistle came echoing down the forest. A car of lumber and the caboose made up the train. Ellen was the first off. Her mouth was set. Old Wolf ran towards her as she dropped from the way-car and John could see the paternal light in his face, the protecting posture in his whole body as he reached out for the girl. Their meeting was so obviously an affair for the two that John did not approach until Ellen, who had been looking at him an interval while she listened to her uncle, raised her chin in a beckoning movement. “One more body blow,” she said as he came up. Her tone made him wince, and the fragment of a smile which she sought to summon wrenched at his heart. It was unfair for a girl to be forced to mix in a man’s fight! “No getting around that,” he agreed. “But it might be a lot worse. Suppose the whole set of camps had gone? Where’d we be then? I went right ahead without consulting you and I guess we’ll have a new barn, of a sort, up by night.” He took her over the ruins, outlining his plan for reconstruction. He did not go into his theory of the fire’s origin. “There’s loss, of course,” he said finally. “One horse gone; some harness ruined and some lost; several hundred dollars’ worth of feed gone up in smoke. But they haven’t got us licked yet!” “Haven’t they?” she asked, and in the tone was a cynicism, a suggestion of surrender. “Come into the office,” he muttered, and turned to lead the way. Alone, there, she stood before him, wearily drawing off her gloves. “Don’t quit now!” he said. “It’s a body blow, yes; but we’re not licked, Ellen! We’re not through yet! We’ve only commenced to fight!” She looked up at him, studying his face with her large eyes, and smiled a trifle, with her lips, not with those eyes. “You’re fine!” she said. “You . . . Without you doing just what you’ve done I’d have given up weeks ago, I’m afraid. You’ve done so much for me, you’ve fought so well and so hard to make a showing. . . . But it seems a little unfair, doesn’t it? A little as though the cards were stacked against us? To have a thing like this happen on top of all the things that are planned and executed against us?” She turned away suddenly, as though fearful of breaking down before him. “I wish I were a man!” she said tensely. “I’m tired playing a man’s part; worn out wilth trying not to show what I think and feel and . . . fear!” John stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “I’m glad you’re not a man,” he said gently. “I’m glad you’re just . . . who you are.” He felt her tremble as his fingers pressed the firm flesh beneath her Mackinaw. “Oh,” she said weakly. “Oh . . . that!” “That!” he repeated with a vehement nod. “And the reason I haven’t said it before, the reason I haven’t said a lot of things that there are to be said, is because trouble has been coming too fast! In a pinch, survival comes first; living afterwards. “That’s one thing I want to say. The other is that you’ll have to keep up your courage. I don’t want you ever again to say to yourself, even, what you said to me out there. I want you to keep on saying and thinking and believing what you said to Gorbel that night when I stood outside your office door: that we may lose, but we’ll go down fighting! . . . And I don’t think we’re going to lose!” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

“Big Feller! Handsome Feller, Too!”

“Steady, Now!”