Part 17 (1/2)
It was for the foregoing reason that Roaring d.i.c.k had acquired his ascendancy. He possessed the temperament that fuses. When he fought, he fought with the ferocity and concentration of a wild beast. This concentration, this power of fusing to white heat all the powers of a man's being down to the uttermost, this instinctive ability to tap the extra-human stores of dynamics is what const.i.tutes the temperament of genius, whether it be applied to invention, to artistic creation, to ruling, to finance, or merely to beating down personal opposition by beating in the opponent's face. Unfortunately for him, Bob Orde happened also to possess the temperament of genius. The two foul blows aroused him. All at once he became blind to everything but an unreasoning desire to hurt this man who had tried to hurt him. On the side of dynamics the combat suddenly equalized. It became a question merely of relative power, and Bob was the bigger man.
Bob threw his man from him by main strength. Roaring d.i.c.k staggered back, only to carrom against a tree. A dozen swift, straight blows in the face drove him by the sheer force of them. He was smothered, overwhelmed, by the young man's superior size. Bob fell upon him savagely. In less than a minute the fight was over as far as Roaring d.i.c.k was concerned. Blinded, utterly winded, his whiskey-driven energies drained away, he fell like a log. Bob, still blazing, found himself without an opponent.
He glared about him. The rivermen were gathered in a silent ring. Just beyond stood a side-bar buggy in which a burly, sodden red-faced man stood up the better to see. Bob recognized him as one of the saloon keepers at Twin Falls, and his white-hot brain jumped to the correct conclusion that Roaring d.i.c.k, driven by some vague conscience-stirring in regard to his work, had insisted on going down river; and that this dive-keeper, loth to lose a profitable customer in the dull season, had offered transportation in the hopeful probability that he could induce the riverman to return with him. Bob stooped, lifted his unconscious opponent, strode to the side-bar buggy and unceremoniously dumped his burden therein.
”Now,” said he roughly, ”get out of here! When this man comes to, you tell him he's fired! He's not to show his face on this river again!”
The saloon-keeper demurred, bl.u.s.tering slightly after the time-tried manner of his sort.
”Look here, young fellow, you can't talk that way to me.”
”Can't I!” snapped Bob; ”well, you turn around and get out of here.”
The man met full the blaze of the extra-normal powers not yet fallen below the barrier in the young fellow's personality. He gathered up the reins and drove away.
Bob watched him out of sight, his chest rising and falling with the receding waves of his pa.s.sion. He was a strange young figure with his torn garments, his tossed hair, the streak of blood beneath his eye, and the inner fading glow of his face. At last he drew a long, shuddering breath, and turned to the expectant and silent group of rivermen.
”Boys,” said he pleasantly, ”I don't know one d.a.m.n thing about river-driving, but I do know when a man's doing his best work. I shall expect you fellows to get in and rustle down those logs. Any man who thinks he's going to soldier on me is going to get fooled, and he's going to get his time handed out to him on the spot. As near as I can make out, unless we get an everlasting wiggle on us--every one of us--this drive'll hang up; and I'd just as soon hang it by laying off those who try to s.h.i.+rk as by letting you hang it by not working your best. So get busy. If anybody wants to quit, let 'em step up right now.
Any remarks?” He looked from one to another.
”Nary remark,” said one man at last.
”All right. Now get your backs into this. It's _team work_ that counts.
You've each got your choice; either you can lie like the devil to hide the fact that you were a member of the Cedar Branch crew in 1899, or you can go away and brag about it. It's up to you. Get busy.”
XVII
Two days later Welton swung from the train at Twin Falls. His red, jolly face was as quizzical as ever, but one who knew him might have noticed that his usual leisurely movements had quickened. He walked rapidly to the livery stable where he ordered a rig.
”Where's the drive, Hank?” he asked the liveryman.
”Search me!” was his reply; ”somewhere down river. Old Murdock is up talkin' wild about damage suits, and there's evidently been one h.e.l.l of a row, but I just got back myself from drivin' a drummer over to Watsonville.”
”Know if Darrell is in town?”
”Oh, _he's_ in town; there ain't no manner of doubt as to that.”
”Drunk, eh?”
”Spifflicated, pie-eyed, loaded, soshed,” agreed the liveryman succinctly.
Welton shook his head humorously and ruefully.
”Say, Welton,” demanded the liveryman with the easy familiarity of his cla.s.s, ”why in blazes do you put a plain drunk like that in charge?”
”Darrell is a good man on a big job,” said Welton; ”you can't beat him, and you can't get him to take a drink. But it takes a big job to steady him.”
”Well, I'd fire him,” stated Hank positively.