The Trail Of The Axe Part 32

"What about?" Truscott was on the defensive at once.

"You didn't go east, then?"

The other's gaze s.h.i.+fted at once, and his manner suggested annoyance with himself for his display.

"Oh, yes. I went as far as Winnipeg. Guess I got hung up by the strike, so--so I came back again. Who told you?"

"Tom Chepstow."

Truscott nodded. It was some moments before either spoke again. There was an awkwardness between them which seemed to increase every second.

Truscott was thinking of their last meeting, and--something else. Dave was estimating the purpose of this visit. He understood that the man had a purpose, and probably a very definite one.

Suddenly the lumberman rose from his seat as though about to terminate the interview, and his movement promptly had the effect he desired.

Truscott detained him at once.

"You had a bad smash, last night. That's why I came over."

Dave smiled. It was just the glimmer of a smile, and frigid as a polar sunbeam. As he made no answer, the other was forced to go on.

"I'm sorry, Dave," he continued, with a wonderful display of sincerity.

Then he hesitated, but finally plunged into a labored apology. "I dare say Parson Tom has told you something of what I said to him the night he went away. He went up to clear out the fever for you, didn't he?

He's a good chap. I hoped he'd tell you anyway. I just--hadn't the face to come to you myself after what had happened between us. Look here, Dave, you've treated me 'white' since then--I mean about that mill of mine. You see--well, I can't just forget old days and old friends.h.i.+ps.

They're on my conscience bad. I want to straighten up. I want to tell you how sorry I am for what I've done and said in the past. You'd have done right if you'd broken my neck for me. I went east as I said, and all these things hung on my conscience like--like cobwebs, and I'm determined to clear 'em away. Dave, I want to shake hands before I go for good. I want you to try and forget. The strike's over now, and I'm going away to-day. I----"

He broke off. It seemed as though he had suddenly realized the frigidity of Dave's silence and the hollow ring of his own professions.

It is doubtful if he were shamed into silence. It was simply that there was no encouragement to go on, and, in spite of his effrontery, he was left confused.

"You're going to-day?" Dave's calmness gave no indication of his feelings. Nor did he offer to shake hands.

Truscott nodded. Then--

"The smash--was it a very bad one?"

"Pretty bad."

"It--it won't interfere with your work--I hope?"

"Some."

Dave's eyes were fixed steadily upon his visitor, who let his gaze wander. There was something painfully disconcerting in the lumberman's cold regard, and in the brevity of his replies.

"Doc Symons told me about it," the other went on presently. "He was fetched here in the night. He said you were hurt. But you seem all right."

Dave made it very hard for him. There were thoughts in the back of his head, questions that must be answered. For an instant a doubt swept over him, and his restless eyes came to a standstill on the rugged face of the master of the mills. But he saw nothing there to rea.s.sure him, or to give him cause for alarm. It was the same as he had always known it, only perhaps the honest gray eyes lacked their kindly twinkle.

"Yes, I'm all right. Doc talks a heap."

"Did he lie?"

Dave shrugged.

"It depends what he calls hurt. Some of the boys were hurt."

"Ah. He didn't mention them."

Again the conversation languished.

"I didn't hear how the smash happened," Truscott went on presently.

Dave's eyes suddenly became steely.

"It was Mansell's saw. Something broke. Then we got afire. I just got out--a miracle. I was in the tally room."

The lumberman's brevity had in it the clip of snapping teeth. If Truscott noticed it, it suited him to ignore it. He went on quickly.

His interest was rising and sweeping him on.

"On Mansell's saw!" he said. "When I heard you'd got him working I wondered. He's bad for drink. Was he drunk?"

Dave's frigidity was no less for the smile that accompanied his next words.

"Maybe he'd been drinking."

But Truscott was not listening. He was thinking ahead, and his next question came with almost painful sharpness.

"Did he get--smashed?"

"A bit."

"Ah. Was he able to account for the--accident?"

The man was leaning forward in his anxiety, and his question was literally hurled at the other. There was a look, too, in his bleared eyes which was a mixture of devilishness and fear. All these things Dave saw. But he displayed no feeling of any sort.

"Accidents don't need explaining," he said slowly. "But I didn't say this was an accident. Here, get your eye on that."

He drew a piece of saw-blade from his pocket. It was the piece he had picked up in the mill.

"Guess it's the bit where it's 'collared' by the driving arm."

Truscott examined the steel closely.

"Well?"

"It's--just smashed?" Truscott replied questioningly.

Dave shook his head.

"You can see where it's been filed."

Truscott reexamined it and nodded.