Well, he had lost her friendship, but a still small voice
whispered to him that the loss was not irreparable--whereat he swung
his axe as a bandmaster swings his baton; he was glad that he had
started the war and was now free to fight it out unhampered.
Up hill and down dale he went. Because of the tremendous trees he
could not see the sun; yet with the instinct of the woodsman, an
instinct as infallible as that of a homing pigeon, he was not puzzled
as to direction. Within two hours his long, tireless stride brought
him out into a clearing in the valley where his own logging-camp
stood. He went directly to the log-landing, where in a listless and
half-hearted manner the loading crew were piling logs on Pennington's
logging-trucks.
Bryce looked at his watch. It was two o'clock; at two-fifteen
Pennington's locomotive would appear, to back in and couple to the
long line of trucks. And the train was only half loaded.
"Where's McTavish?" Bryce demanded of the donkey-driver.
The man mouthed his quid, spat copiously, wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand, and pointed. "Up at his shanty," he made answer,
and grinned at Bryce knowingly.
Up through the camp's single short street, flanked on each side with
the woodsmen's shanties, Bryce went. Dogs barked at him, for he was a
stranger in his own camp; children, playing in the dust, gazed upon
him owlishly.
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