It was strenuous work to keep all the logs in motion. Those at the sides were forever catching along the bank of the river and must be pried loose, and there was always the likelihood of a jam resulting should any of the front logs catch on an obstruction in the river. Then the logs behind, urged on by the irresistible force of the current, would pile up in a tangled mass, often many deep. It was at such times that seconds counted. Could the key log be located and be pried out in time the mass would begin to move again, but often this would be impossible and dynamite would have to be used. Big Jean Larue was in charge of the crew and, as Tom Bean often declared, a better river driver never handled a peavey. A few miles from the lake the river makes a sharp bend. Here the current is very swift and it is a place dreaded by the drivers as it requires quick and hard work to avoid a jam. Shallow water and large rocks, many of which are only a short distance beneath the rapidly swirling water, add to the difficulties. But at this time of year the melting snow makes the river higher than usual, and all hoped that they would be able to get past the bend without trouble. It was about the middle of the afternoon when the head of the drive reached the rapids. “Now for some fun and a fast ride,” Jack shouted, as the speed of the log he was riding increased. “You be mighty careful,” yelled Bob, who was on a big log some forty feet to the right. “This is a nasty place for a spill.” The boys were within a few logs of the head of the drive, Jack being near the center of the river and Bob well over toward the right bank. Four of the men, including Jean, were near the left bank where they were having all they could do in keeping the logs from jamming up on the shore. “They’re running mighty close,” Jack declared to himself, as he saw the head of the drive start to take the curve. The river at this point was not more than a hundred feet wide and the words had hardly left his lips when the thing which they had all dreaded happened. The logs were crowded too closely together and as they reached the sharp bend they suddenly jammed. “Back for your life,” Bob shouted; and Jack, quick to see what had happened, turned and ran from log to log diagonally back toward the right bank. He reached the shore in safety, and as he stopped beside Bob he gasped: “Just look at them pile up.” “Some mess, I’ll say,” Bob returned, as he watched the huge logs, urged on by the rapid current, pile one on top of the other, until many of them were several feet above the level of the river. It was all over in a few minutes, and where a short time before had been a scene of swiftly moving logs, now there was no motion visible, only a confused mass reaching from shore to shore, hiding the water, and stationary.