“So that’s why you bark them all—­so they’ll slide.  I wondered.”

But now the ponies, who had often made this same trip, pricked up their ears and accelerated their pace.  In a moment they had rounded a hill and brought their masters into full view of the mill itself.

The site was in a wide, natural clearing occupied originally by a green meadow perhaps a dozen acres in extent.  From the borders of this park the forest had drawn back to a dark fringe.  Now among the trees at the upper end gleamed the yellow of new, unpainted shanties.  Square against the prospect was the mill, a huge structure, built of axe-hewn timbers, rough boards, and the hand-rived shingles known as shakes.  Piece by piece the machinery had been hauled up the mountain road until enough had been assembled on the space provided for it by the axe men to begin sawing.  Then, like some strange monster, it had eaten out for itself at once a space in the forest and the materials for its shell and for the construction of its lesser dependents, the shanties, the cook-houses, the offices and the shops.  Welton pointed out with pride the various arrangements; here the flats and the trestles for the yards where the new-sawn lumber was to be stacked; there the dump for the sawdust and slabs; yonder the banking ground constructed of great logs laid close together, wherein the timber-logs would be deposited to await the saw.

From the lower end of the yard a trestle supporting a V-shaped trough disappeared over the edge of a hill.  Near its head a clear stream cascaded down the slope.

“That’s the flume,” explained the lumberman.  “Brought the stream around from the head of the meadow in a ditch.  We’ll flume the sawn lumber down the mountain.  For the present we’ll have to team it out to the railroad.  Your friend Baker’s figuring on an electric road to meet us, though, and I guess we’ll fix it up with him inside a few years, anyway.”

“Where’s Stone Creek from here?” asked Bob.

“Over the farther ridge.  The mountain drops off again there to Stone Creek three or four thousand feet.”

“We ought to hear from the fire, soon.”

“If we don’t, we’ll ride over that way and take a look down,” replied Welton.

They drove down the empty yards to a stable where already was established their old barn-boss of the Michigan woods.  Four or five big freight wagons stood outside, and a score of powerful mules rolled and sunned themselves in the largest corral.  Welton nodded toward several horses in another enclosure.

“Pick your saddle horse, Bob,” said he.  “Straw boss has to ride in this country.”

“Make it the oldest, then,” said Bob.

At the cookhouse they were just in time for the noon meal.  The long, narrow room, fresh with new wood, new tables and new benches in preparation for the crew to come, looked bare and empty with its handful of guests huddled at one end.  These were the teamsters, the stablemen, the caretakers and a few early arrivals.  The remainder of the crew was expected two days later.