Larsen took charge. In almost unbroken series the logs shot
through the sluiceways into the river below, where they were received by
the jam crew and started on the next stage of their long journey to the
mills. In a day the dam was passed. One of the younger men rode the last
log through the sluiceway, standing upright as it darted down the chute
into the eddy below. The crowd of townspeople cheered. The boy waved his
hat and birled the log until the spray flew.
But hardly was camp pitched two miles below town when one of the jam
crew came upstream to report a difficulty. Larsen at once made ready to
accompany him down the river trail, and Bob, out of curiosity, went
along, too.
"It's mossbacks," the messenger explained, "and them deadheads we been
carrying along. They've rigged up a little sawmill down there, where
they're cutting what the farmers haul in to 'em. And then, besides,
they've planted a bunch of piles right out in the middle of the stream
and boomed in their side, and they're out there with pike-poles, nailin'
onto every stick of deadhead that comes along."
"Well, that's all right," said Larsen.
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