--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Backman, Gailard collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 25 number: 11 published: 1922-09 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Gailard Backman, "The Lumber-Jack Boy", *Improvement Era* 25, no. 11 (September 1922): 978–988.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera25011unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera25011unse start_page: 978 end_page: 988 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1922-09) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera25011unse publication_year: 1922 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1922, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Lumber-Jack Boy The Lumber- Jack Boy By Gailard Backman On payday, in the Buck Creek logging camp, three things could be depended upon — the departure of one or two hands; a few sprees; and a week-end game of stud poker. For three years Ghost Morgan had chosen the second of these by-avenues of recreation. There were only two consistent characteristics about Ghost Morgan. The first, the regularity and dependa- bility of his sprees; the second, his unquestionable mastership with a cross-cut saw. Had he been less accomplished in this latter thing, Teddy McGarvey, the boss, would never have tol- erated these monthly reversions to the realm of debauchery. But Morgan could do more work in his three weeks of sober- ness than most could accomplish in five, and Teddy had an im- mense amount of respect for this attribute. The Buck Creek camp was small, employing only from seventeen to twenty-five men. But the system of logging em- ployed and the proximity of Austin with its three saloons and promiscuous women kept Teddy everlastingly on the lookout for men. One thing about Ghost Morgan, he always came back to work after his money was gone. The logging train — eight short, four-wheeled trucks, drawn by a geared engine — crawled up beside the cook car just as Spareribs began his evening tattoo on the steel triangle. The train crew piled out of the cab and hustled to the bunk house to scrub up. Logging camp etiquette, especially at meal time, is roughly simplified to the natural formula — every man for himself. The clanging of the triangle brought a torrentuous outpouring from the bunk house door, and the train crew splashed into their tin wash basins with well warranted haste and inproficiency. Plenty of time to get clean when their stomachs were filled. "That Ghost?" asked McGarvey of the brakeman, twisting his hand in the direction of one of the trucks. "Yea — drunk as a hoot owl. Slept all the way up." "He's not in the habit of comin' back till he sobers up. Who's the kid with him?" "Don't know. He didn't want to come, but Ghost was kind a nasty insistent, so he piled on." THE LUMBERJACK BOY 979 "It's a cinch he won't stay if he didn't even want to come." McGarvey went into the cook car. "Better save out a little for Ghost and that youngster with him. He'll wake up hungry after while." "He'd better wake up right sudden now. I'm not runnin' this dump nights for the charity sake a feedin' drunks," Spare- ribs grumbled. Teddy laughed. "Sometime he'll have to do it for you, Spareribs, and you won't feel that way about it." After supper McGarvey went over to the truck. Ghost had come to and was! sitting on the edge of the car running his hand through his hair and squinting through blood shot eyes at the cook car. "Better go in and eat, Ghost. Spareribs'll find something for you." McGarvey looked at the stranger, a mere lad of sixteen or seventeen. "Howdy," he grunted, appraising him with that keen eye for judging men, which years before had won for him the foremanship of Buck Creek camp. "How do you do?" the lad answered with a bewildered look, as if uncertain that he should have answered at all. "Looking for work?" "Yea, he's lookin' for work," interjected Morgan shooting a quick glance at the boy. "Name's somethin' or other — Growl or Howl or somethin' like — " "Rowle — Gordon Rowle," interrupted the boy. "I'd like to work, if you'll let me. He looked with a bit of apprehension at the bunk house and the great forest spreading out toward the setting sun. "I haven't any more money, and — and I'll have to find work somewhere." "WTiere'd you come from?" McGarvey was wondering what the boy was doing there, he was so manifestly out of place. His every action and appearance betrayed that he had never roughed it before in his life. If he had run away from home — but he didn't look like that kind. Something about him spelled trouble. He looked frightened when this question was asked him. A sudden suspicion crept into McGarvey's mind and caused him to do what at first he had determined not to do. "Well, we'll find something for you. Better go in with Ghost and eat." "Naw, I don' wan ta eat," growled Morgan with a sick, dis- gusted expression on his face. "Howl can go, maybe he's hungry." McGarvey showed the boy to the cook car, and then left him to the mercy of the camp. He hadn't a thing in the world with him except the clothes he wore, — a thread-bare suit of brown, a dusty black hat, dilapidated shoes, and a book of poems in 980 IMPPROVEMENT ERA his pocket. Spareribs fed him well, and Rowle did ample justice to his generosity. When he went back to the train, Morgan had disappeared. Gordon Rowle had stepped off the train in Austin, hungry, penniless and in a strange world. Shortly afterward the swing- ing doors of the Title-de-dum, had spread open to vomit forth on the sidewalk a staggering and sullen member of the human family. That had been Ghost Morgan. The boy had followed him down the street, hoping to engender sufficient courage to ask the unfortunate fellow where he — Gordon Rowle — could find work. From the first Morgan had experienced a, dislike for this pale faced, timid youngster, whose pleading, bewildered eyes seemed to mock his own uncouth bravado and careless aban- don. With drunken ugliness he had snapped an ill natured "No" at the boy's question. Then ten minutes later, possessed with a cruel idea which boded no good for Rowle, he had hunted the stranger up, and from that moment forth had never for an instant let the lad out of his sight until now. Rowle was glad to find him gone. Morgan had tormented him not a little with his insistent presence. He looked at the bunk house with uncertainty. It had grown dark, and a dull light shown through the windows. He started toward it — stopped — changed his mind and walked off toward the timber line. Loud laughter issued from the bunk house. The lad shuddered a little and hurried on. In the timber he groped about for a comfortable place to lie down. He was wary of men and the gruffness and profaneness of these burned his heart with a strange distastefumess, he could neither understand nor wholly reconcile himself to. He slept lightly and the coming daylight found him awake and cold. He slapped his arms and legs and pranced around to get the blood circulating. No one seemed to be up, so he wandered about the camp awhile and then walked off up the track. Suddenly the triangle sounded, and he hurried back. But he had walked some distance and before he reached the camp again, the triangle rang out on the crisp air a second time. He could hear loud talking for a few minutes and then all grew silent. He hesitated outside the cook-car door. The men where already eating. Then making up his mind he must get used to this — the sooner the better — he entered. The men looked up ; Morgan was the only one to speak. "Where the deuce you been?" he demanded. The boy looked so startled and bewildered that everybody laughed. That was what Morgan had expected — what he had wanted. "Sit THE LUMBER-JACK BOY 981 up all night?" he pursued. "Didn't like the looks o' our hunks, eh? — no white sheets and soft springs nor mama to tuck ye in." Again the bunch laughed. All but McGarvey, he was thinking. "There's a place." The foreman pointed to an unused plate at a far end of the table. Rowle slipped over to it and sat down. "In this 'ere camp," said Morgan, "we abide by regular dist-a-pline, like so much machineiy all connected up together. When Spareribs 'its the bell we rolls out. When he 'its it again we files in and eats. When he 'its it again," winking at Spare- ribs who was standing in the doorway, "we all gets up and marches out." Most of the men were through eating by the time Rowle was nicely started. Spareribs, appreciating Morgan's little joke, stalled around for a few minutes and hit the triangle. With one accord all the men dropped their knives and forks and rose to their feet. All but Rowle. He had seen Morgan wink, and with unexpected composure that was a surprise even to himself, retained his seat and kept on eating. "I — I'm not fully mustered in yet," he smiled, and with that; smile was born a love for him by every man in the camp — every man, except Ghost Morgan, in whose heart there arose a subtle fury that this despised molly-coddle of a kid should have turned the morning joke on him. "Joke's on you, Morgan," laughed McGarvey, and when the men were gone walked up to the lad and laying! a friendly hand on his shoulder sat down beside him. "Don't let 'em kid you," he said. "The boys must have their little fun. It's mostly work and darned little play up here. Come over to the com- missary after you're done and we'll fit you out with some duds and some bedding. Tomorrow we'll start you swamping. You can help Spareribs a little today. Toughen up on the wood pile and so forth." McGarvey went out, and the boy's heart bounded with the pleasurable sensation that he had found a friend. The days which followed were not altogether pleasant for Rowle. The men would have their jokes at his expense, and the crudeness of their fun, the coarseness of their laughter, their profanity and uncouth sense of humor, beat in tumultuous discord with the gentility of his soul. This was endurable though, and his heart warmed to them in the knowledge that all was done in the name of good fellowship. What he could never seem to accustom himself to was the nights in the bunk house, the dirty beds, the foul air, the coarse and lewd conversation, the smoking and spitting and foul stories. His heart sank with shame and sickening disgust with each coming of the night. 982 IMPPROVEMENT ERA He loathed those nights, and racked his brain to find some manner of means to raise this evening revelry within the higher scope of his own nature. One night he listened until he could stand it no longer. His heart cried out in rebellion. He sprang to his feet and his voice rose tremulously above the laughter in the room — laughter at a sordid story which told of the shame of womanhood. "Men," he cried, "that story reminds me of a bit of poetry I once read." Never before had Rowle ventured to amuse the bunk house inhabitants. All, eyes turned toward him. In some hearts came a feeling of disappointment. They had learned to like this lad because he was clean. Had their sordid ways at last polluted his finer nature, and dragged him down to the lower level of their own dissolute ways? The story could not have reminded him of anything very uplifting. "A little poem by Service. Perhaps you have read it be- fore," and he began to recite "The Harpy." His words rang clear and vibrating with emotion, touched the real manhood of those rough sons of the forest land. The room fell into musing silence. How the boy could read those lines — the very inflec- tions of his voice, the deep soulfulness of his expression, the bright light shining in his eyes, all combined to place an in- terpretation on the poem that the author would have praised him to hear. When he finished, his audience roused themselves, and led by McGarvey, united in hearty applause. Rowle sprang at once to the lighter frivolity of "The Crema- tion of Sam McGee," and left his audience in a burst of tumultu- ous laughter. Then came other poems from Service, from Kip- ling, from Burns, with a wonderful interpretation of the old Scotch brogue, and when at last he wound up with "A man's a man for a' that and a' that," late in the night and long past the usual hour for retiring, those men, soulfully hungry for a touch of higher things, cried aloud for more. The boy gazed at them thoughtfully and then, once more raising his voice, he filled them with the beautiful sentiment of Riley's "That old sweetheart of mine." And then he found, and his heart overwhelmed with the knowledge, that these men had not lost their souls — their sober silence, and the far-away, longing expression in their eyes, bespoke the overflow of souls long pent and barricaded by the rough-hewn timbers of unmerciful life. Ghost Morgan, lying on his bunk engendered a sullen hate for this boy — this delicate, refined shadow from a world of better things — this lad he had brought to ridicule and sport over, but whom others were learning to love. THE LUMBER-JACK BOY 983 Weeks followed. The boy grew into his own. His muscles toughened with the rythmic swing of the ax, substantiated by the wholesome nourishment of Spareribs' daily menus. Night after night the crew gathered with high expectations to listen for hours to his poems and stories. True, many of them were told over and over again. Yet there seemed no limit to his resources for entertaining them. Even his conversation about Italy — Venice, Naples and the Vatican, — enunciated with the familiarity of a native, was fascinating. One might easily have been persuaded that he was Italian, but for his perfect Eng- lish. He never said. His propensity for memorizing, his great talent for interpre- tation, his keen sense of humor, his gripping style of delivery, and appealing personality and fineness of character, made him a genius and an actor of the highest type. They marveled at his skill, and wondered more and more why he was there; what hidden circumstances kept him satisfied to remain among them? A boy — only a boy, but with a mind and talent far beyond their grasp. He was the wonder of Buck Creek camp, but his fame spread slowly, for men who wandered in from time to time, if given work at all, falling under the spell of his en- chantment scarcely ever sought the sordid amusements of Austin again. All but Ghost Morgan, whose monthly sprees kept on with the) regularity of observatory time. Then Rowle received through the mail a little box from an Eastern mail-order house. It contained some tools: chisels, knives and other devices for fine work in wood. With the ar- rival of these he produced from under his bunk some boards which he had been carefully seasoning. Thereafter his eve- nings were occupied in a two-fold fashion. As he talked he worked, carving, chiseling, sandpapering — and gradually the pieces of seasoned pine and maple assumed the shape of a violin. "Why don't you buy one and be done with it?" MeGarvey had asked, when finally he saw what the boy was making. "None satisfy so well as when I make them," the lad an- swered. "What I make I know, and knowing, love and under- stand. You shall see." And on he worked, with a patience and ardor at which all marveled. Even as the violin grew from fragmentary pieces of board into the artful lines and curves of a besouled instrument of mu- sic; so Ghost Morgan's subtile hate developed into a merciless scheme. Carefully he laid his plans, for there was more than the boy to injure; there was a crew of muscular and reckless jhimber-jacks who must be won completely to his own side simultaneously with the culmination of his evil designs, or all 984 IMPPROVEMENT ERA would not go well with Ghost Morgan. At last came the op- portune time. Morgan returned to Buck Creek after an unusually pro- longed spree — a spree that had been not all spree. He had traced this youngster genius hack to his very origin — and he knew, at last, why the lad was there, hidden in the heart of the forests, secure in the fast solitude of the logging frontier. And what he knew caused a malicious grin to spread slowly across his lips. But he dared not tell too abruptly what he had learned. The camp would rather believe him a liar than the boy. He must shatter their faith, disort their affections, brand Rowle with a brand of low cunning and hypocrisy. In the Jogging camp, most all things are tolerated, — drunkenness, de- bauchery, adultery, shame of divers natures. But one thing is not tolerated, unfairness and mean pretension. These should be his weapons, and when the wound was made with these, he would deal the death blow. He would reveal why Rowle had sought the mountains as a haven from the past. A month slipped by. This payday Morgan would digress from his customary week of drunkenness. Another should en- joy the spree instead, and with ample funds to make it a good one. Buck Creek paid its men with cash. The currency ar- rived on the last of every month and was locked overnight in the commissary safe. Morgan had long since learned the com- bination of that safe — rather by accident than by intention. But he had found it profitable to know many things in his checkered career, and information no matter how easily obtained was not cast thoughtlessly aside. It took very little ingenuity to possess himself with the monthly pay-roll. Other things also were to his advantage. Young Rowle had long ago formed the habit of walking up the track always before rolling into his bunk — the men thought because he didn't like to undress before them, and laughed at the idea. But in reality it was to clear his lungs of the foul air of the bunk-house before attempting to sleep with it all night. Morgan saw an opportunity in this to make his scheme even more plausible, and for several weeks had been leaving the bunk house also, about the time the lad began entertaining the men. He loathed the boy's popularity and the camp was well aware why he would not stay. Little did they care. He always came in long after even Rowle had retired. This night he followed the boy, overtaking him a quarter of a mile from the camp. Omitting preliminaries, Morgan sprang upon the youngster, overpowered him and poured a pint of bitter whiskey down his throat. Jerking him to his feet, Morgan half dragged the poor, dazed Rowle out through THE LUMBER-JACK BOY 985 i the timber, skirted around the sleeping camp, and marched him a weary five miles to Austin, taking care the while that they were not seen. Rowle was not long getting under the influence of the whiskey. Just outside Austin, Morgan threw the boy on the ground under a scraggly tree, slipped the Buck Creek pay-roll in his coat pocket and trudged back to camp. It was still dark, but nearly morning, when he arrived. The men in the bunk house were all sleeping soundly. He rolled in, and waited for the shrill clanging of the triangle. The men were always paid at the breakfast table. Rowle's absence would tell its own story. "Boys," MeGarvey stood in the doorway of the cook car, his face wrinkled with an ugly scowl. Rapidly he checked up on the men present. A bitter twang jerked at his heart when he saw who it was that was missing. "Somebody stole the pay-roll last night. There is only one who is not here this morning. I'm sorry. I can't believe it. But my eyes tell me it's true." The men cast hasty glances from one to the other. Spare- ribs stood beside the foreman. "Well," ventured the cook, looking doubtfully at the empty plate. "It won't hurt nobody much but Morgan." A nervous chuckle spread around the table. "Can't stop for that," scowled Morgan. "Got to have my little feed of booze, just the same." Then men rose from the table without further comment and boarding the logging train, went to their respective duties in the woods. As usual Morgan laid off, and when, two hours later, the train passed the camp loaded with logs, he swung on and went to Austin. He found Rowle where he had left him, lying in drunken stupor beneath the tree. Morgan waited and watched. At last the boy woke up, staggered to his feet, and after gazing dazedly about, stumbled on to the main street of the village, sick and crazy headed. M]organ had been waiting for this. Now was his chance. He hurried into the saloon and called Buck Creek by phone. "Tell MeGarvey, young Rowle is in Austin, drunk as a stewed pigeon," he shouted over the wire. Two hours later McGaryey sped into Austin on a bicycle. The Buck Creek foreman was a man who looked farther than his nose. He found Rowle, and escorting him out of the village, searched him. He found the payroll, where Morgan had placed it, in the boy's coat pocket. All was there except twenty dol- lars. Morgan had done his work thoroughly. MeGarvey loaded the lad on the logging train and brought him back to camp. Morgan had not looked for this. He de- 986 IMPROVEMENT ERA cided to remain in town until the following night, and at least pretend to have his spree. "Why don't you turn 'im over and let the city jail have a cultured patron fer one night?" he queried suggestively, hop- ing McGarvey would reconsider. "Because I'm going to take care of this myself." The fore- man was gruff and untalkative. Morgan thought a moment, then the shadow of a smile flitted across his mouth. "So much the better," he thought and walked off. McGarvey tumbled the boy on his bunk and left him to sleep off his intoxication. That night the men received their pay — all but Rowle. For two days the youngster was sick in bed. The stolen money was not so much as mentioned to him. The loggers were silent and sullen. For the life of him, the boy could not remember what had happened — what had made him so sick; Why was everybody so silent and angry looking? Why did no one come and talk with him? Morgan returned as he had planned, and while the boy still lay sick and stupid in his bunk, he proceeded with his plot. Pro- ducing an old Portland newspaper, he passed it round to the men. They stared with speechless surprise at a large photo- graph, unquestionably Rowle's. Beneath it ran the glaring headlines: Youthful Musician Deals Mortal Blow to Young Girl Then followed the story: "Late last night Sebastian Rosandi, well known in Portland musical circles, struck with a chair and fatally wounded Mildy Gross, his girl sweetheart. The young people were alone in the Gross parlor when the accident took place. The girl's parents sitting in another part of the house, were suddenly attracted by loud talking followed by a crashing sound. Immediately the girl screamed and they rushed into the parlor to find her lying on the floor beside a broken chair. Her skull was crushed and she was in an unconscious condition. The boy fled through a window just as Mr. Gross entered the room. His violin, which he had been playing a short time before, was found lying in a corner with the neck broken off. Police have not yet overtaken Rosanidi. Physicians say the girl can not live." McGarvey was the last to read this. He tossed the paper on the table, and tilting his chair against the wall scrutinized Morgan intently. "Huh!" he grunted and walked out. A| couple of days later the boy was able to roam around the camp and take his meals at the cook car. The men never talked to him. He was completely ostracized, and he felt keenly the stigma of this silent reproach. But why? What had he done? THE LUMBER-JACK BOY 987 One night McGarvey saw him lying across a log some distance back of the camp, weeping. He controlled his impulse to go to him and comfort the youngster. Instead he walked silently away and entered the bunk house. "Why let this go on? Better have it over with. Maybe the kid did swipe the money, most likely did — but — " His thoughts were interrupted by Rowles entrance. The boy went direct to his bunk and tossed himself upon it. McGarvey went over to him. "Son," his voice was relentlessly stern, "it's about time you was making some explanations about a few things. The boys are mighty curious to know why you stole the pay-roll the other night." Rowle sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bunk. "The pay-roll? — me — steal the pay-roll?" He looked thor- oughly puzzled. "Yjea. What made you steal the pay-roll?" The boy shook his head with bewilderment. "Why I — I didn't steal the pay-roll. Why — I don't know what you mean?" "No-o, you didn't get drunk as a soused rat either, did you?" interjected Morgan. "I'm doin' this," snapped McGarvey. But Morgan was run- ning no chances. He knew McGarvey would do everything to shield the youngster. "You didn't kill Mildy Gross neither. Oh, no, you didn't do nothin'," he pursued "you sweet little angel-faced son of the devil. We admits you sure slipped it over on us, with your perty poems and high felutin' pertendin' to be so good." McGarvey sprang to his feet and whirled on Morgan, "Shut your mouth, will ye. You — " Rowle had been sitting wide-eyed with amazement through these stinging rebukes. Suddenly a picture loomed before his vision — Morgan, oh, he knew! "You — you," pointing at Ghost, "he made me drunk. He caught me that night and poured whiskey down me. He — " The boy sank back on his bunk. A gruff laughter gurgled about the room. "Ho, ho," growled Kelly Richter, one of the skinners, "Morgan poured it down, eh? Don't lie, kid. We've stood a- plenty already. What about the girl ye murdered, ye wanton. Why don't ye lay that on to Morgan, too?" "The girl?" a wild, bewildered look crept into his eyes. "The girl," he whispered. "Poor little Mildy— oh— " His eyes fell upon his violin hanging on the wall. He reached for it, and took it in his arms — pressed it to his breast. He swayed a bit and gripped the table. The men stared. The wild look in his eyes gave way to a pleading, far away expression. He 988 IMPROVEMENT ERA raised the instrument to his neck and ran the bow gently across the strings. The instrument gave forth a sweet, plaintive note like the weeping of a child. The very silence in the room seemed to hush. The men had never heard him play. The music crept upon them with the stealth and charm of a siren. On and on he played, the violin sobbing and laughing in his hands giving vent to the hysteria in his heart — breaking into exultant outpourings of song and mirth — the gurgling of brooks — the shouting and laughter of happy children ! And then again the moaning of soft breezes through the trees, something like an anguished mother's prayer. Suddenly it cried out and wept in sheer agony of spirit, and hot tears darted from the boy's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Then it fell to sobbing, softer, softer, until it died away with a little tremulous wail of despair. The lad sank to a bench, throwing the instrument on the table, and buried his face in his arms. "Oh, I didn't mean to," he sobbed. "She broke my violin — I was crazy for a minute — God knows I wouldn't have done it.'* McGarvey sat down beside him, slipping his great arm about the lad's shoulders. "Poor kid," he growled hoarsely, "I knew it all along. The papers say your Mildy didn't die." The boy raised his eyes and fixed them on McGarvey's face. "Mildy didn't die?" His face lighted with a sudden joy and forming into a tender, happy smile shone lustrously through his tears, while rough-hewed men in dirty overalls and mack- inaws brushed their eyes with dust soaked handkerchiefs — and far down the track toward Austin, Ghost Morgan hurried away. This time he would not come back. Alton, Utah ' Songs for the Toilers' From the Stratford Company, Publishers, No. 12 Pearl Street, Boston, Massachusetts, the Improvement Era has received Songs for^ the Toilers, by Ezra J. Poulsen of Nephi, Utah, a book of poems containing messages of good fellowship to cheerful work-a-day folks who move down the highway of life. The author is not unknown to our readers, several of his poems and other writings having appeared from time to time in the Improvement Era. In the advertisement for the book, on the cover page, we are told that throughout the volume there runs the idea that useful labor, sus- tained by faith, is one of the most fundamental joys of life, and that close in kin to it are the joys of home, kindred and wholesome recreation. The message of the book is one of hope and good cheer, and one might well spend a profitable evening with Songs for the Toilers, and their genial author, Ezra J. Poulsen, Price, postpaid, $1.