But the churchman was not listening. Again his thought had reverted to the presence of Jim Truscott at that meeting.

"What on earth is young Truscott doing in there?" he asked. "He went away east the night I set out for these hills. What's he got to do with that--that rascally agitator? Why--he must be one of the--leaders of this thing. It's--it's most puzzling!"

Chepstow's puzzlement did not communicate itself to Mason. The camp "boss" was less interested in the ident.i.ty of these people than in the strike itself. It was his work to see that so much lumber was sent down the river every day. That was his responsibility. Dave looked to him.

And he was face to face with a situation which threatened the complete annihilation of all his employer's schemes. A strike effectually carried out might be prolonged indefinitely, and then--

"Look here, parson," he said coolly, "I want you to stay right here for a minute or so. They aren't likely to be finished for a while inside there. I want to 'prospect.' I want to find that buckboard. That d.a.m.ned agitator--'scuse the language--must have come up in it, so I guess it's near handy. The fog's good and thick, so there's not a heap of chance of anybody locating us, still----" he paused and glanced into the churchman's alert eyes. "Have a look to your gun," he went on with a quiet smile, "and--well, you are a parson, but if anybody comes along and attempts to molest you I'd use it if I were in your place."

Chepstow made no reply, but there was something in his look that satisfied the other.

Mason hurried away and the parson, left alone, leant against the wall, prepared to wait for his return. In spite of the plot he had listened to, the presence of Jim Truscott in that room occupied most of his thoughts. It was most perplexing. He tried every channel of supposition and argument, but none gave him any satisfactory explanation. One thing alone impressed its importance on his mind. That was the necessity of conveying a warning to Dave. But he remembered they--these conspirators--had cut communications. Mason and probably he were to be made prisoners.

His ire roused. He blazed into a sudden fury. These rascals were to make them prisoners. Almost unconsciously he drew his gun from his pocket and turned to the window. As he did so the sound of approaching footsteps set him alert and defensive. He swung his back to the wall again, and, gun in hand, stood ready. The next moment he hurriedly returned the weapon to his pocket, but not before Mason had seen the att.i.tude and the fighting expression of his face, and it set him smiling.

"I've found the buckboard," he said in a whisper. Then he paused and looked straight into the churchman's eyes. "We're up against it," he went on. "Maybe you as well as myself. You can't tell where these fellows'll draw the line. And there's Miss Betty to think of, too. Are you ready to buck? Are you game? You're a parson, I know, and these things----"

"Get to it, boy," Chepstow interrupted him sharply. "I am of necessity a man of peace, but there are things that become a man's duty. And it seems to me to hit hard will better serve G.o.d and man just now than to preach peace. What's your plan?"

Mason smiled. He knew he had read the parson aright. He knew he had in him a staunch and loyal support. He liked, too, the phrase by which he excused his weakness for combat.

"Well, I mean to do this sponge-faced crawler down, or break my neck in the attempt. I don't intend to be made a prisoner by any d.a.m.ned strikers. This thing means ruin to Dave, and it's up to me to help him out. I'm going to get word through to him. I understand now how our letters have been intercepted, and no doubt his have been stopped too.

I'm going to have a flutter in this game. It's a big one, and makes me feel good. What say? Are you game?"

"For anything!" exclaimed the parson with eyes sparkling.

"Well, there's not a heap of time to waste in talk. I'll just get you to slip back to the dugout. Gather some food and truck into a sack, and a couple of guns or so, and some ammunition. Then get Miss Betty and slip out. Hike on down the trail a hundred yards or so and wait for me.

Can you make it?"

Chepstow nodded.

"And you?" he asked.

"I'm going to get possession of that buckboard, and--come right along.

The scheme's rotten, I know. But it's the best I can think of at the moment. It's our only chance of warning Dave. There's not a second to spare now, so cut along. You've got to prepare for a two days' journey."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing. Miss Betty's good grit--in case----?"

Chepstow nodded.

"Game all through. How long can you give me?"

"Maybe a half hour."

"Good. I can make it in that."

"Right. S'long."

"S'long."

CHAPTER XXI

AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOG

Tom Chepstow set out for the dugout. Churchman as he was his blood was stirred to fighting heat, his lean, hard muscles were tingling with a nervous desire for action. Nor did he attempt to check his feelings, or compose them into a condition compatible with his holy calling.

Possibly, when the time had pa.s.sed for action, and the mantle of peace and good-will toward all men had once more fallen upon him, he would bitterly regret his outbreak, but, for the moment, he was a man, human, pa.s.sionate, unreasoning, thrilling with the joy of life, and the delight of a moral truancy from all his accepted principles. No schoolboy could have broken the bonds of discipline with a greater joy, and his own subconscious knowledge of wrong-doing was no mar to his pleasure.

The fog was thick, but it did not cause him great inconvenience. He took to the woods for his course, and, keeping close to the edge which encircled the camp clearing, he had little difficulty in striking the path to the dugout. This achieved he had but to follow it carefully.

The one possibility that caused him any anxiety was lest he should overshoot the hut in the fog.

But he need have had no fear of this. Dense as the fog was, the lights of the dugout were plainly visible when he came to it. Betty, with careful forethought, had set the oil lamps in the two windows. She quite understood the difficulties of that forest land, and she had no desire for the men-folk to spend the night roaming the wilderness.

The parson found her calmly alert. She did not fly at him with a rush of questions. She was far more composed than he, yet there was a sparkling brilliancy in her brown eyes which told of feelings strongly controlled; her eyelids were well parted, and there was a shade of quickening in the dilation of her nostrils as she breathed. She looked up into his face as he turned after closing the door, and his tongue answered the mute challenge.

"There's to be a great game to-night," he said, rubbing the palms of his hands together. The tone, the action, both served to point the state of his mind.

Knowing him as she did Betty needed no words to tell her that the "game" was to be no sort of play.

"It's a 'strike,'" he went on. "A strike, and a bad one. They intend to make a prisoner of Mason, and, maybe, of us. We've got to outwit them.

Now, help me get some things together, and I'll tell you while we get ready. We've got to quit to-night."

He picked up a gunny sack while he was speaking and gave it to Betty to hold open. Then he immediately began to deplete the lumberman's larder of any eatables that could be easily carried.

Ever since the men had left her this strike had been in Betty's mind, so his announcement in no way startled her.

"What of Dave?" she asked composedly. "Has he any--idea of it?"

"That's just it. We've got to let him know. He's quite in the dark.

Communications cut. Mason must get away at once to let him know. He intends to 'jump' their buckboard and team--I mean these strikers'

buckboard." He laughed. He felt ready to laugh at most things. It was not that he did not care. His desire was inspired by the thought that he was to play a part in the "game."

"The one that came in to-night?" Betty asked, taking up a fresh sack to receive some pots and blankets.

"Yes."

"And we are to bolt with him?" she went on in a peculiar manner.

Her uncle paused in the act of putting firearms and ammunition into the sack. Her tone checked his enthusiasm. Then he laughed.

"We're not 'bolting' Betty, we're escaping so that Dave may get the news. His fortune depends on our success. Remember our communications are cut."

But his arguments fell upon deaf ears. Betty smiled and shook her brown head.

"We're bolting, uncle. Listen. There's no need for us to go. In fact, we can't go. Think for a moment. Things depend on the speed with which Dave learns of the trouble. We should make two more in the buckboard of which the horses are already tired. Mason, by himself, will travel light. Besides, a girl is a deterrent when it comes to--fighting. No, wait." She held up a warning finger as he was about to interrupt. "Then there are the sick here. We cannot leave them. They--are our duty.