Benton worked one falling gang.  The falling gang raced to keep ahead of the buckers and swampers, and they in turn raced to keep ahead of the hook tender, rigging slinger, and donkey, which last trio moved the logs from woods to water, once they were down and trimmed.  Terrible, devastating forces of destruction they seemed to Stella Benton, wholly unused as she was to any woodland save the well-kept parks and little areas of groomed forest in her native State.  All about in the ravaged woods lay the big logs, scores of them.  They had only begun to pull with the donkey a week earlier, Benton explained to her.  With his size gang he could not keep a donkey engine working steadily.  So they had felled and trimmed to a good start, and now the falling crew and the swampers and buckers were in a dingdong contest to see how long they could keep ahead of the puffing Seattle yarder.

Stella sat on a stump, watching.  Over an area of many acres the ground was a litter of broken limbs, ragged tops, crushed and bent and broken younger growth, twisted awry by the big trees in their fall.  Huge stumps upthrust like beacons in a ruffled harbor, grim, massive butts.  From all the ravaged wood rose a pungent smell of pitch and sap, a resinous, pleasant smell.  Radiating like the spokes of a wheel from the head of the chute ran deep, raw gashes in the earth, where the donkey had hauled up the Brobdingnagian logs on the end of an inch cable.

“This is no small boy’s play, is it, Stell?” Charlie said to her once in passing.

And she agreed that it was not.  Agreed more emphatically and with half-awed wonder when she saw the donkey puff and quiver on its anchor cable, as the hauling line spooled up on the drum.  On the outer end of that line snaked a sixty-foot stick, five feet across the butt, but it came down to the chute head, brushing earth and brush and small trees aside as if they were naught.  Once the big log caromed against a stump.  The rearward end flipped ten feet in the air and thirty feet sidewise.  But it came clear and slid with incredible swiftness to the head of the chute, flinging aside showers of dirt and small stones, and leaving one more deep furrow in the forest floor.  Benton trotted behind it.  Once it came to rest well in the chute, he unhooked the line, freed the choker (the short noosed loop of cable that slips over the log’s end), and the haul-back cable hurried the main line back to another log.  Benton followed, and again the donkey shuddered on its foundation skids till another log laid in the chute, with its end butted against that which lay before.  One log after another was hauled down till half a dozen rested there, elongated peas in a wooden pod.

Then a last big stick came with a rush, bunted these others powerfully so that they began to slide with the momentum thus imparted, slowly at first then, gathering way and speed, they shot down to the lake and plunged to the water over the ten-foot jump-off like a school of breaching whales.