Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

They Found Between Them And Fortune.

The Sweep Of Spring's Progress Across The Land Found Them West Of The

Coast Range By May,  In A Wild And Forbidding Region Where Three Major

Streams--The Skeena,  The Stikine,  And The Naas--Take Their Rise. For

Many Days Their Advance Was Through Grim Canyons,  Over Precipitous

Slopes,  Across Glaciers,  Bearing Always Westward,  Until The Maps With

Which Tommy Ashe Was Equipped Showed Them They Were Descending The

Stikine. Here They Rested In A Country Full Of Game Animals And Birds

And Fish,  Until The Height Of The Spring Torrents Had Passed. During

This Time They Fashioned A Canoe Out Of A Cedar Tree,  Big Enough To

Carry Them And The Dogs Which Had Served So Faithfully As Pack Animals

Over That Last Mountainous Stretch. The Stikine Was Swift And

Forbidding,  But Navigable. Thus At Last,  In The First Days Of The Salmon

Run,  They Came Out Upon Tidewater,  Down To Wrangel By The Sea.

There Was In Thompson's Mind No More Thought Of Burned Bridges,  No

Heartache And Empty Longing,  Only An Eagerness Of Anticipation. He Had

Come A Long Way,  In A Double Sense. He Had Learned Something Of The

Essential Satisfaction Of Striving. A Tough Trail Had Served To Toughen

The Mental And Moral As Well As The Physical Fiber Of Him. He Did Not

Know What Lay Ahead,  But Whatever Did So Lie Would Never Dismay Him

Again As Things Had Done In The Past,  In That Too-Recent Vivid Past.

He Was Quite Sure Of This. His Mood Was Tinctured With Recklessness When

He Summed It Up In Words. A Man Must Stand On His Own Feet!

He Would Never Forget That Sentence. It Was Burned Into His Memory. He

Was Beginning To Understand What Sophie Carr Meant By It. Looking

Backward He Could See That He Never Had Stood On His Own Feet Like A

Man. Always He Had Required Props. And They Had Been Forthcoming From

The Time The Prim Spinster Aunts Took His Training In Hand Until He Came

To Lone Moose Self-Consciously,  Rather Flauntingly,  Waving The Banner Of

Righteousness. Thompson Could Smile Wryly At Himself Now. He Could See

The Unreckonable Element Of Chance Functioning Largely In A Man's Life.

And In The Meantime He Went About Wrangel Looking For A Job!

Being In A Town That Was At Once A Frontier Camp And A Minor Seaport,

And Being There At A Season When The Major Industry Of Salmon-Packing

Was At Its Height,  The Search Of Tommy Ashe And Thompson For A Job Was

Soon Ended. They Were Taken On As Cannery Hands--A "Hand" Being The Term

For Unskilled Laborers As Distinguished From Fishermen,  Can Machine

Experts,  Engineers And The Like. As Such They Were Put To All Sorts Of

Tasks,  Work That Usually Found Them At The Day's End Weary,  Dirty With

Fish Scales And Gurry,  And More Than A Little Disgusted. But They Were

Getting Three Dollars And A Half A Day,  And It Was Practically Clear,

Which Furnished A Strong Incentive To Stick It Out As Long As The Season

Lasted--A Matter Of Two More Months.

"By That Time," Said Tommy Ashe,  "We'll Have Enough Coin To Venture Into

Fresh Fields. My Word,  But We Do Earn This Money. It's The Nastiness I

Object To,  Not The Work. I Shan't Forget This First Hundred Dollars I've

Earned By The Sweat Of My Manly Brow."

In The Fullness Of Time The Salmon Run Came To An End. The Pack Being

Finished The Hands Were Paid Off. In Company With Half A Hundred Others,

Ashe And Thompson Were Shipped From The Suchoi Bay Canneries Back To

Wrangel Again.

In Wrangel,  Before They Had Been There Four Hours,  Thompson Got The

Offer Of Work In A Pile Camp. He Took His Prospective Job Under

Advisement And Hunted Up Tommy Ashe. Tommy Dangled His Legs Over The

Edge Of The Bed In Their Room,  And Considered The Matter.

"No," He Said Finally. "I Don't Believe I'll Take It On. I Think I'll Go

Down To Vancouver. I'm About Two Hundred Dollars Strong,  And I Don't

Really See Anything But A Poor Sort Of Living In This Laboring-Man

Stuff. I'm Going To Try Some Business Proposition. I've Got A Pretty

Fair Acquaintance With Motor Cars. I Might Be Able To Get In On The

Selling End Of The Game,  And There Is Good Money In That In The Way Of

Commissions. I Know Some People There Who Should Be Able To Show Me The

Ropes. In A Big Live Seaport Like That There Must Be Chances. Yes,  I

Think I'll Try Vancouver. You'd Better Come Too,  Wes."

Thompson Shook His Head. He Knew Nothing Of Business. He Had No Trade.

For A Time--Until He Came Face To Face With An Opportunity He Could

Recognize As Such--He Shrank From Tackling A City. He Had Not Quite

Tommy's Confidence In Himself.

"No," He Said. "I'd Like To--But I Don't Believe I'd Make Good. And I

Don't Want To Get In A Position Where I'd Have To Be Looking For

Somebody To Throw Me A Life Line. I Don't Seem To Mind Common Hard Work

So Much. I Don't Imagine I Could Jump Right Into A Town And Be Any

Better Off Than I Would Be Here. When I Get A Little More Money Ahead

I'll Be Tempted To Take A Chance On A City. But Not Yet."

From This Position Tommy's Persuasion Failed To Move Him. Tommy Was

Earnest Enough,  And Perfectly Sincere In Promising To See Him Through.

But That Was Not What Thompson Wanted. He Was Determined That In So Far

As He Was Able He Would Make His Own Way Unaided. He Wanted To Be

Through With Props Forever. That Had Become A Matter Of Pride With Him.

He Went Back And Told The Pile-Camp Boss That He Would Report In Two

Days.

A Southbound Steamer Sailed Forty-Eight Hours Later. She Backed Away

From The Wrangel Wharf With Tommy Waving His Hand To His Partner On The

Pierhead. Thompson Went Back To Their Room Feeling A Trifle Blue,  As One

Does At Parting From A Friend. But It Was Not The Moodiness Of

Uncertainty. He Knew What He Was Going To Do. He Had Simply Got Used To

Tommy Being At His Elbow,  To Chatting With Him,  To Knowing That Some One

Was Near With Whom He Could Try To Unravel A Knotty Problem Or Hold His

Peace As He Chose. He Missed Tommy. But He Knew That Although They Had

Been Partners Over A Hard Country,  Had Bucked A Hard Trail Like Men And

Grown Nearer To Each Other In The Stress Of It,  They Could Not Be

Siamese Twins. His Road And Tommy's Road Was Bound To Fork. A Man Had To

Follow His Individual Inclination,  To Live His Own Life According To His

Lights. And Tommy's Was For Town And The Business World,  While His--As

Yet--Was Not.

So For The Next Four Months Thompson Lived And Worked On A Wooded

Promontory A Few Miles North Of Wrangel,  Very Near The Mouth Of The

River Down Which He And Tommy Ashe Had Come To The Sea. He Was Housed

With Thirty Other Men In A Bunkhouse Of Hand-Split Cedar; He Labored

Every Day Felling And Trimming Tall Slender Poles For Piling That Would

Ultimately Hold Up Bridges And Wharves. The Crew Was A Cosmopolitan Lot

So Far As Nationality Went. In Addition They Were A Tougher Lot Than

Thompson Had Ever Encountered. He Never Quite Fitted In. They Knew Him

For Something Of A Tenderfoot,  And They Had Not The Least Respect For

His Size--Until He Took On And Soundly Whipped Two Of Them In Turn

Before The Bunkhouse Door,  With The Rest Of The Thirty,  The Boss And The

Cook For Spectators. Thompson Did Not Come Off Scathless,  But He Did

Come Off Victor,  Although He Was A Bloody Sight At The Finish. But He

Fought In Sheer Desperation,  Because Otherwise He Could Not Live In The

Camp. And He Smiled To Himself More Than Once After That Fracas,  When He

Noted The Different Attitude They Took Toward Him. Might Was Perhaps Not

Right,  But Unless A Man Was Both Willing And Able To Fight For His

Rights In The Workaday World That Was Opening Up To Him,  He Could Never

Be Very Sure That His Rights Would Be Respected.

Along With This Incidental Light Upon The Ways Of His Fellow Working-Men

He Learned Properly How To Swing An Axe; He Grew Accustomed To Dragging

All Day On The End Of A Seven-Foot Crosscut Saw,  To Lift And Strain With

A Cant Hook. The Hardening Process,  Begun At Lone Moose,  Continued

Unceasingly. If Mere Physical Hardihood Had Been His End,  He Could

Easily Have Passed For A Finished Product. He Could Hold His Own With

Those Broad-Shouldered Swedes And Michigan Loggers At Any Turn Of The

Road. And That Was A Long Way For A Man Like Thompson To Come In The

Course Of Twelve Months. If He Could Have Been As Sure Of A Sound,

Working Philosophy Of Life As He Was Of The Fitness Of His Muscles He

Would Have Been Well Satisfied. Sometimes It Was A Puzzle To Him Why Men

Existed,  Why The Will To Live Was Such A Profound Force,  When Living Was

A Struggle,  A Vexation,  An Aimless Eating And Sleeping And Working Like

A Carthorse. Where Was There Any Plan,  Any Universal Purpose At All?

Having Never Learned Dissipation As A Form Of Amusement,  Nor Having Yet

Been Driven To It By The Sheer Deadliness Of Incessant,  Monotonous

Labor,  Thompson Was Able To Save His Money. When He Went To Wrangel Once

A Month He Got A Bath,  A Hair-Cut,  And Some Magazines To Read,  Perhaps

An Article Or Two Of Necessary Clothing. That Was All His Financial

Outlay. He Came Back As Clear-Eyed As When He Left,  With The Bulk Of His

Wages In His Pocket,  Where Some Of His Fellows Returned With Empty

Pockets And Aching Heads.

Wherefore,  When The Winter Snows At Last Closed Down The Pile Camp

Thompson Had