"Well," the man said, "it was your own fault; we told you to stop.

Anyhow, you had better keep still a bit. If you're here when we come back, we'll see what we can do."

Glancing quickly round, Clay saw the driver sitting by the wrecked car; and then the match went out. In the darkness the nearest men spoke softly to one another.

"What were you going to the mill for?" one man asked him.

"I had some business there," Clay answered readily. "I buy lumber now and then."

The men seemed satisfied.

"Leave them alone," one suggested; "they'll make no trouble and it's time we were getting on."

The others seemed to agree, for there was some shouting to those in front, and the men moved forward. Clay heard the patter of their feet grow fainter, and congratulated himself that he had obviously looked worse than he felt. Now that the shock was pa.s.sing, he did not think he was much injured, but he lay quiet a few minutes to recover before he spoke to the driver.

"How have you come off?" he asked.

"Wrenched my leg when she pitched me out; hurts when I move it, but I don't think there's anything out of joint."

"As soon as I'm able I'll have to get on. How far do you reckon it is to the mill?"

"About two miles."

Clay waited for some minutes and then got shakily up on his feet.

"You'll find me at the C.P.R. hotel to-morrow if I don't see you before," he said; and, pulling himself together with an effort, he limped away along the road.

For the first half-mile he had trouble in keeping on his feet; but as he went on his head grew clearer and his legs steadier, and after a while he was able to make a moderate pace. There was no sign of the strikers, who had obviously left him well behind, but he pushed on, hoping to arrive not very long after them, for it was plain that he would be wanted. He was now plodding through open country, but there was nothing to be seen except scattered clumps of trees and the rough fences along the road. No sound came out of the shadows and all was very still.

At last a dark line of standing timber rose against the sky, and when a light or two began to blink among the trees Clay knew he was nearer the mill. He quickened his speed, and when a hoa.r.s.e shouting reached him he broke into a run. It was long since he had indulged in much physical exercise, and he was still shaky from his fall, but he toiled on with labored breath. The lights got brighter, but there was not much to be heard now; though he knew that the trouble had begun. He had no plans; it would be time to make them when he saw how things were going, for if Aynsley could deal with the situation he meant to leave it to him. It was his part to be on hand if he were needed, which was his usual att.i.tude toward his son.

An uproar broke out as he ran through an open gate with the dark buildings and the lumber stacks looming in front. Making his way to one of the huge piles of lumber, he stopped in its shadow, breathing hard while he looked about.

The office was lighted, and the glow from its windows showed a crowd of men filling the s.p.a.ce between the small building and the long saw-sheds.

They were talking noisily and threatening somebody in the office, behind which, so far as Clay could make out, another body of men was gathered.

Then the door opened, and he felt a thrill as Aynsley came out alone and stood where the light fell on him. He looked cool and even good-natured as he confronted the hostile crowd; nothing in his easy pose suggested the strain Clay knew he must be bearing. As he fixed his eyes on the straight, handsome figure and the calm face, Clay felt that his son was a credit to him.

"I'd hate to see you get into trouble for nothing, boys," Aynsley said in a clear voice. "If you'll think it over, you'll see that you have nothing against the management of this mill. We pay standard wages and engaged foreigners only when we could get n.o.body else. They'll be replaced by white men when their work is done."

"We've come along to see you fire them out to-night!" cried one of the strikers.

"I'm sorry that's impossible," Aynsley replied firmly.

"See here!" shouted another. "We've no time for foolin', and this ain't a bluffin' match! The boys mean business, and if you're wise, you'll do what they ask. Now, answer straight off: Have we got your last word on the matter?"

"Yes," said Aynsley; "you can take it that you have."

"That's all right," said the spokesman. "Now we know how we stand." He raised his voice. "Boys, we've got to run the blasted j.a.ps off!"

There was a pause and a confused murmuring for nearly a minute. Clay, remaining in the shadow of the lumber, wondered whether it might not have been wiser had he struggled back to Vancouver in search of a.s.sistance; but, after all, the police had their hands full in the city, and he might not have been able to obtain it. Besides, he had been used to the primitive methods of settling a dispute in vogue on the Mexican frontier and in Arizona twenty years ago, and, shaken, bruised, and bleeding, as he was, his nerves tingled pleasantly at the prospect of a fight.

When the strikers began to close in on the office Clay slipped round the lumber stack, and was fortunate in finding Jevons, the manager.

"Mr. Clay!" exclaimed Jevons, glancing at his lacerated face.

"Sure," said Clay. "Don't mention that I'm here. My boy's in charge so long as he can handle the situation."

"It's ugly," declared Jevons. "Are you armed?"

"I have a pistol. Don't know that I can afford to use it. What's the program?"

Before Jevons could answer, there was a rush of dark figures toward the office, and a hoa.r.s.e shout.

"The j.a.ps first! Into the river with them!"

"Steady, boys!" Aynsley's voice rang out. "Hold them, saw gang A!"

A confused struggle began in the darkness and raged among the lumber stacks. Groups of shadowy figures grappled, coalesced into a fighting ma.s.s, broke apart, surged forward, and were violently thrust back. There was not much shouting and no shots were fired yet, but Clay was keenly watchful as he made his way from place to place, where resistance seemed weakest, and encouraged the defenders, who did not know him. With rude generalship he brought up men from the less threatened flank and threw them into action where help was needed; but he realized that the garrison was outnumbered and was being steadily pushed back.

They were, however, making a stubborn fight, and the conflict grew fiercer. Yells of rage and pain now broke through the sound of scuffling feet, stertorous breathing, and shock of blows; orders and threats were shouted, and Clay's face grew stern when one or two pistols flashed. He had found a big iron bar and was satisfied with it, but if forced to shoot he would not miss, as he thought the rioters did.

A red glow leaped up from the end of a shed. The blaze spread quickly; there was a sharp crackling, louder than the turmoil it broke in upon, and a cloud of pungent smoke hung above the struggling men. Clay could see their faces now: j.a.ps and white men bunched together, but slowly giving ground, with his son in the midst of the surging, swaying cl.u.s.ter that bore the brunt of the attack.

It struck Clay, as he paused for a moment, that the little, sallow-faced aliens were remarkably cool, though it must be obvious to them that they were not holding their own. He wondered whether they had some plan in reserve. There was, however, no time to ponder this, for a pistol flashed among the rioters. The group that Aynsley led gave back and then drove forward again with a savage rush, while hoa.r.s.e shouts went up.

"Stand them off while we take him out! Sock the fellow with the pistol; he's plugged the boss!"

Clay suddenly was filled with murderous fury. There was a good deal of the barbarian in him and he had led a hard, adventurous life. His son was shot. The brutes who had brought him down would suffer!

"I'm his father, boys!" he cried. "Follow me and drive the d.a.m.ned hogs into the river!"

The boldest closed in about him, a knot of determined men, small ranchers and prospectors who had long fought with flood and frost in the lonely hills. They were of sterner stuff than the city millhands, and, led by one who would go on until he dropped, they cleft the front of the mob like a wedge. The man with the pistol fired almost in their leader's face, and missed; but Clay did not miss with the bar, and he trod on the fellow's body as he urged on the furious charge.

It was a forlorn hope. Though for a time the men could not be stopped, the rioters closed in behind them, cutting off support. They could not keep up the rush, and presently they gained only a foot or two by desperate struggling. Clay knew their position was now dangerous. The strikers' pa.s.sions were unloosed and no mercy would be shown; but this did not matter so long as he could leave his mark on some of his foes before they got him down. He fought with a cold fury that helped him to place his blows, and the long bar made havoc among the strikers; but soon he was hemmed in, with his back to a lumber pile, and he knew the end was near. Bruised, dazed, and bleeding, he stood wielding his weapon and sternly watching for a chance to strike.

Suddenly the crowd which pressed upon him gave back and he heard a rush of feet and alarmed shouts. There was a yell that was not made by white men; short, active figures, lithe and fierce as cats, fell with resistless fury upon the retreating foe. The retreat turned into a rout: the strikers were running for their lives, with a swarm of aliens in savage pursuit.

Clay saw that they outnumbered all the j.a.panese at the mill; but where they came from was not a matter of much consequence. He must rouse himself to take part in the chase, and exact full vengeance from the fugitives. The rioters fled along the bank, scrambled across the log booms, and took to the water; and Clay laughed harshly as he drove some of the laggards in. Whether they could swim or not was their own affair.

He went back to the office with an anxious heart, and a few minutes later he stood beside a camp bed in his son's quarters. He had lost his hat, his city coat was torn to rags, and his white shirt was stained with blood from the gash in his cheek; but he was unconscious of all this. Aynsley lay there, breathing feebly, with a drawn, white face and a small blue mark on his uncovered breast, while an ominous red froth gathered about his lips.

Clay placed his hand on the damp forehead, and the boy half opened his eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" his father asked.

"Sure!" Aynsley smiled feebly. "You said you wouldn't fail me. I suppose you whipped them?"

He turned his head and coughed, and Clay beckoned Jevons.

"Help me raise his shoulders a bit, and then I guess we'd better put some wet bandages on him. As they've cut the 'phone wires, send somebody to the nearest ranch for a horse to bring a doctor from Vancouver."