Legacy (19 page)

Overhead I could hear the cry of a jay, and there came the intermittent drumming of a woodpecker somewhere behind me. The other sounds of the forest were stilled as the horse, a big brown dray that must have been half again as heavy as my riding horse, strained to haul the sledge with its ten thick logs into position for the long drop.

I shivered, even though there was no wind. As if reading my thoughts, Vince remarked, 'I think this one's gonna go just as smooth as silk. Whole camp knows you come here to look. Nobody'll try nothin' until you're gone again.'

'So we'll all keep a sharp watch while the sledge goes down,' said Father. 'I want us to look for every possible thing that could go wrong, whether it's with the rope or with the sledge. Then we'll be in a position to warn the other drivers of what to expect.'

'Where did the ropes break?' asked Justin. 'Near the sledge?'

Vince said no, that it was up here at the stump. They had all snapped somewhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty feet out, when the sledge still had more than half its run to make down the skid. Vince explained to me how the rope, a stout hemp braided two inches thick, was tied firmly to the back frame of the sledge, and then coiled six or seven times around a large tree stump that had been shaped with an axe into a smooth cylinder of wood that was rooted in the ground. These coils served as a brake, checking the downward plunge of the sledge as the driver or his mate at the top paid out the hundreds of feet of rope, foot by foot, as slowly as he could so as never to gain too much speed for the rope to handle. If the sledge went too fast, the friction on the rope as it spun around the stump would grow so intense that the heat would make the rope catch fire and break. Or if a stump had been cut unevenly, a hot spot could develop that would scrape the rope and weaken it so that it would snap later on.

' 'Course, sometimes a man just loses his hold. His gloves might wear through and the rope would tear his skin off to where his hands were too bloody to hang on. Or he might lose his footing, if he's on the rope from up here, and get dragged into the stump, where he'd have to let go. Or, if he didn't like the fella on the sledge, he might lose his hold - accidentally on purpose. That's what some of the fellas claim happened here the first time.'

'How can you tell?'

'You can't. So a lot of men like to do it themselves, like you're goin' to see now. Just one driver takes the rope, coils it around the stump, and then climbs back on the sledge with it, so you've got a double length going down. It's a little harder, 'cause you've got to look where you're goin' and handle the rope at the same time. But you don't have to trust nobody but yourself.'

Justin spoke again. 'But you've lost two sledges here that way. How many men checked the ropes?'

Vince was slow to reply, brushing one side of his short black hair with the stiff fingers of one hand as he spoke. 'Three men check the rope. Supply boss, me, personally, and the driver, of course. Nothing wrong with a one of those ropes. All five hundred feet are good, sound, two-inch hemp.'

Father looked unimpressed, and Justin bent down again to examine the smooth surface of the stump where the moving rope had polished it to a pale yellow sheen. After a moment or so, Father spoke again. 'Of course, all it would take is a little nick with a knife or an axe or a pike that you might have missed. Any little weak spot is going to break up when it's put under this kind of strain. When did the driver check the rope?'

'The ones that die, I can't say. Others, they say they check just before they go down. And they look at the rope all the time it's passing through their hands. Nothing wrong. Then all of a sudden up at the stump something happens and the rope starts to come fast and then smoke, and then they're flyin' down the skid, tryin' to jump clear. Nobody knows what does it.'

'It doesn't happen every time on this stump, then?' I asked.

Vince shrugged, turning down the corners of his mouth. 'It's three times this week. We been down safe twenty times this week, even twice this morning. Nobody knows what happened the three times we crashed.'

'That's more than we had all last year. Isn't that right?' asked Father.

'You betcha. And the men, they're startin' to worry.'

The driver of the sledge, a husky, grey-haired man in denim overalls and a worn shirt of red wool, was going about his business slowly and carefully. Vince had already explained to him why we were there, and he told him that we would be keeping watch to warn him if there was any sign of trouble. The sledge was now poised with its front end facing the edge of the road. It seemed like just a slight push would tilt it over the edge and send it hurtling down the slope. Actually, we knew this was not true: it would take several good strong heaves from the big dray horse to drag it completely down off the road. This horse waited quietly at the front of the sledge, now and then blinking away an insect from one of its bulging round brown eyes. The horse's sides still heaved from the exertion of its last pull. There was foam around the padded leather harness collar that fitted over its neck and across its chest.

To our left, the driver was crouched beside the smooth white stump, carefully straightening each turn of the thick yellow rope as he coiled it, from top to bottom, tightly around the polished wood. He turned the rope in his hands as he worked, looking for weak spots. 'New rope,' he said to Father, as if he were explaining why he had gone so slowly, 'but you don't like to take no chances.'

We waited, scarcely hearing the chatter of a squirrel overhead. The moist earth and the brown pine needles clung to our leather boots and to the broad hooves of the horse as it shifted uneasily in the harness.

'Why don't some of us watch from down the hill at the other end?' I asked.

Father reflected a moment. 'No reason why not, as long as you're careful. Just make certain you're down on the road, where you can get out of the way if anything happens.'

Justin said something quietly to Father, who nodded. Then he joined me for the long walk down the steep skid. We kept to the edge of the open stretch, grabbing at trees to keep our footing balanced. It was nearly like descending a cliff. My skirts dragged on the dirt, and more than once I fell and had to stop myself from sliding away by clutching the cool earth with my fingers. When we reached the bottom, my dress was torn in several places and my hands were covered with a layer of the soil, as if I had been sculpting a statue out of clay. But we were safe on the road, Justin still trim in his black suit and his Western-style black boots, since he had proved a better climber than I had and not fallen once.

It was the first time the two of us had been alone since yesterday in his office. I looked away from him, back to the top of the hill.

Nearly two hundred feet above us the horse and the sledge had already started to come down.

'What did you say to Father up there?'

He was looking at his pistol, turning the cylinder to be sure each chamber was loaded. 'I told him to stay away from that coil of rope.'

'Why?'

'I'll tell you later.' His blue eyes glittered, intent on the slope above us. The sledge was now moving faster, about a hundred and fifty feet from where we stood. The horse was walking faster. If it fell it would be crushed under the sledge, for there was no way the driver could bring the load to a halt. His rope acted as a brake, but only to slow, not to stop. As the sledge went on, in fact, a gain in its speed was inevitable from the tremendous forces that built up steadily each moment the load was moving.

We could see dirt and round rocks now rumbling down on to the road from high above, where the runners of the sledge had dug them loose from the earth. They clattered and bounced off tree roots and other rocks, and at first I thought the crackling noises from up above us were part of the din raised by the stones, or perhaps the rattle of a woodpecker drumming on a dry, dead branch.

But then, halfway up the hill and about fifty yards off to the left of the trail, I saw a little tiny flash of light, and then another. Someone was firing a gun up there!

Justin saw it, too. He cupped his free hand to his mouth and called loudly, 'driver! Jump clear and take cover!' Then he was running up the slope, his pistol at the ready, through the trees in the direction of the shots.

Alone on the road, I watched the driver, waiting for him to jump clear. But he did not change his position, as though he had not heard the warning. Then at the end of the two swaying lines of ropes high above him, I saw a white puff of smoke, and then with a frightening swiftness the sledge seemed to leap forward.

Trapped in its collar and harness, the horse must have sensed what had happened, for, before the sledge and its logs were upon it, it began to run, the big front hooves reaching far out and downward, the eyes wide and rolling white with terror as it tried to maintain its balance ahead of the great weight. It took huge, galloping strides, seeming to fly through the air in gigantic bounds. On the back of the sledge I could see the driver's grey hair whipped up by the wind as he tried to climb up over the back railing, where he could jump away from the sledge and its trailing rope to safety. Time seemed to hang suspended as they came on, ever faster, and I remember thinking that I had never known a horse could move at such great speed.

And then they loomed up large, no more than thirty feet away, and I realized with horror that they were coming straight for the spot where I was standing on the road.

My legs felt paralyzed with fear. Above the roar of the sledge there was a sharp metallic snap as the log chain burst. The huge black logs seemed to fly apart.

I found my strength at last and ran up the road to my left, heading for the cover of the trees as I prayed that the sledge would not veer off in my direction. Behind me came a grinding, splintering crash as the sledge hit the road bottom, and then came the hideous cry of the horse as it tried to turn away from the trees on the other side. The noise seemed so close that I flung myself forward instinctively. I heard the scream of the driver just before I lost my footing and fell, barely missing the thick trunk of a big pine tree. Just in back of me then came the terrible impact as the sledge collided with the doomed horse and bore it crashing against the trees.

And then there was a stillness, broken only by the noise of individual logs as each rolled to a stop on the hillside. From the far edge of the road I heard a moan, and I knew the driver must have jumped clear. From the sledge behind me there was only silence.

I got to my feet, not daring to look back to where I knew the poor horse lay crushed. I had to try to help the driver, even though I was dazed and badly shaken. I stumbled across the road, my head spinning as I forced myself to move. We would have help soon, I told myself. Justin and Father were just up the slope. They would come down. I heard the gunshots then, but I hardly noticed them. I tried to clear my head, tried to summon up the courage for what I knew awaited me behind the tree ahead, where I could see the driver twisting himself in pain.

The log that had crushed his arm against the rock seemed so huge, so solidly permanent, as he writhed beneath it. His uplifted face bathed in an agonized sweat, he struggled feebly with his other hand to push at the log, but he could scarcely reach it. Barely conscious, he moved with a pitiful weakness that frightened me.

I forced myself to look away from his face and that pathetic arm. I knew I had to get the log away from him. I heard gunshots again, closer, and a crashing in the woods not far above me, but I paid it little mind. The trunk was too big for me to get my arms around it, but I tried, anyway. Bending over it and grasping it with both arms, I tried to straighten up, but I could not budge its rough, weighty mass. I tried again, without success. Finally, I went around to where the upper end of the log jutted up into the air about two feet from the ground. Bending beneath it, I was able to get the log on to my back and shoulder, and then I pushed up with my legs to lift it slightly. My right ankle had started to hurt. I trembled under the weight, but I knew I had to try. I prayed the log would come down clear of the man's arm and put all my strength into a single upward push that lifted the log clear and sent it crashing to the ground a few feet away. For a moment I stood trembling. My shoulder ached where the bark had cut into it, and every joint in my body seemed to throb in reaction to the strain. But the driver was free now.