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Updated: May 23, 2025
One of Hollister's men was a lean, saturnine logger, past fifty, whose life had been spent in the woods of the Pacific Coast. There was no trick of the axe Hayes had not mastered, and he could perform miracles of shaping raw wood with neat joints and smooth surfaces.
"Yes, he'll be back," Mills commented with ironic emphasis. "He'll be broke in a week and the first camp that pays his fare out will get him. There's no fool like a logger. Strong in the back and weak in the head the best of us." But Mills himself stayed on. What kept him, Hollister wondered? Did he have some objective that centered about Myra Bland?
"A man changes by his presence," he says in his unpublished diary, "the very nature of the trees. The poet's is not a logger's path, but a woodman's, the logger and pioneer have preceded him, and banished decaying wood and the spongy mosses which feed on it, and built hearths and humanized nature for him. For a permanent residence, there can be no comparison between this and the wilderness.
She recognized him as the man who had thrown the logger down the slip that day at noon, presumably Jack Fyfe. A sturdily built man about thirty, of Saxon fairness, with a tinge of red in his hair and a liberal display of freckles across nose and cheek bones. He was no beauty, she decided, albeit he displayed a frank and pleasing countenance.
He is exceedingly dear to us all; no one knows how good he is until they have lived with him a long while." "Oh, I am sure he is good; I like him much better now than I did at first; but if he runs away to Norminster and leaves us a helpless prey to Mr. Logger, that is not delightful," rejoined Bessie winsomely.
Out there you raise yourself on tiptoe, and you see the world rolling away for miles and miles, and it seems to have no ending." "I suppose you will not be able to endure your imprisonment. Some day you will go back to Kansas." "Some day perhaps," she laughed. "But now I am a true Black Logger. Look at my gown." It was the gray Dunkard dress the concession to her uncle's beliefs on worldliness.
This time Benton snarled a curse and kicked him as he lay. "Charlie, Charlie!" Stella screamed. If he heard her, he gave no heed. "Hit the trail, you," he shouted at the logger. "Hit it quick before I tramp your damned face into the ground. I told you once not to come around here feeding booze to my cook. I do all the whisky-drinking that's done in this camp, and don't you forget it.
'Do I really? she answered with that haughty, stiff half-turn of her throat: 'then I must be more exquisite. But, thank Heaven, it is only a jest. Women are no longer admired for doing such things. 'Ha! ha! ha! no no logger admired, Clodagh! Oh, my good Lord! let us change this talk.... But now she could talk of nothing else.
Through my half-opened eyelids, I fancied I recognised the leader of the crowd as a black-haired, beady-eyed, surly dog of a logger who had come in several times from Camp No. 2 to help with the taking up of their supplies, but of his identity I was not quite certain.
To wrap his coat about it, to run to his cabin with it, to start out again with the appalling conviction that nothing could be done for it there, occupied some moments. His nearest neighbor was Trinidad Joe, a "logger," three miles up the river. He remembered to have heard vaguely that he was a man of family.
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