And to
master these men's respect there needed either superlative strength,
superlative recklessness, or superlative skill.
"Who's your boss?" asked Orde.
"The Rough Red," growled one of the men without moving.
Orde had heard of this man, of his personality and his deeds. Like
Silver Jack of the Muskegon, his exploits had been celebrated in
song. A big, broad-faced man, with a red beard, they had told him,
with little, flickering eyes, a huge voice that bellowed through the
woods in a torrent of commands and imprecations, strong as a bull,
and savage as a wild beast. A hint of his quality will suffice from
the many stories circulated about him. It was said that while
jobbing for Morrison and Daly, in some of that firm's Saginaw Valley
holdings, the Rough Red had discovered that a horse had gone lame.
He called the driver of that team before him, seized an iron
starting bar, and with it broke the man's leg. "Try th' lameness
yourself, Barney Mallan," said he. To appeal to the charity of such
a man would be utterly useless. Orde saw this point. He picked up
his reins and spoke to his team.
But before the horses had taken three steps, a huge riverman had
planted himself squarely in the way.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282