Curiously, yet--impassively, he watched the latter approach. There was a devil-may-care impudence in the very swing of his lithe, muscular body. When he came to a stop before the lumberman, hat stuck rakishly on one side of that yellow thatch, and hands resting lightly on his slim hips, his whole manner was one of such cool arrogance that Bob’s eyes narrowed, and the angry blood began to tingle again through his veins. “Look here,” said the fellow insolently, “that was one dirty trick you played on Pete, and you’re goin’ to pay for it. Do you know what we’re goin’ to do?” “Yes!” flamed Bainbridge, in a voice which made more than one husky river hog start nervously. “I do! You’re going down to that jam on the jump--and _work_! Get me? I mean real work, too, and not an imitation of kids playing. Thanks to a crooked drive boss the logs are hung up where no drive ever hung before. If you’d been half-way men you’d never have let such a thing happen.” “By cripes!” roared the blond furiously, leaping at Bob, “there ain’t a man livin’ as can talk like that to me an’ git away with it. Why, you city dude, I’m going to show you that you can’t----” “Cut that!” Bainbridge suddenly loosened his grip on the Indian’s shoulder, and thrust his face squarely into the young fellow’s, until scarcely six inches separated them. He said not another word, but something blazed in his black eyes which presently sent the lids fluttering down over the blue ones, and brought a touch of dull scarlet flaming dully beneath the deeply tanned skin. It was simply the force of a stronger nature, a nature untroubled by brag and bluster which imposes its will on others by sheer strength of character. The instant the silent duel had ended, Bob flung back his head and glanced again at the puzzled, waiting throng of men. “I’m Bob Bainbridge,” he said, in a crisp, unemotional tone, which was in odd contrast to the sense of tension just passed. “We’ve wasted entirely too much time jawing, and it’s up to you boys to get a move on. That jam’s got to be started before sundown. Understand? Now, where’s the jam boss, Jack Peters?” “Laid up,” explained one of the men, after a moment’s hesitation. “He got his foot near cut off with an ax.” Bainbridge’s eves narrowed. This would be termed an accident, of course, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was simply another score to the credit of Schaeffer and the men who had bribed him to do his dirty work. “Humph!” he shrugged. “Where’s your dynamite, then? Oh, you’re the one, are you? Well, get your stuff down to the jam in a hurry. How many charges have been fired already?” With downcast eyes the riverman explained that dynamite had not yet been used. Bob’s lips curled. “I might have guessed it,” he said scornfully. “Well, hustle along the canned thunder! The rest of you get ready to follow down the drive.”