“Now,” said he roughly, “get out of here!  When this man comes to, you tell him he’s fired!  He’s not to show his face on this river again!”

The saloon-keeper demurred, blustering slightly after the time-tried manner of his sort.

“Look here, young fellow, you can’t talk that way to me.”

“Can’t I!” snapped Bob; “well, you turn around and get out of here.”

The man met full the blaze of the extra-normal powers not yet fallen below the barrier in the young fellow’s personality.  He gathered up the reins and drove away.

Bob watched him out of sight, his chest rising and falling with the receding waves of his passion.  He was a strange young figure with his torn garments, his tossed hair, the streak of blood beneath his eye, and the inner fading glow of his face.  At last he drew a long, shuddering breath, and turned to the expectant and silent group of rivermen.

“Boys,” said he pleasantly, “I don’t know one damn thing about river-driving, but I do know when a man’s doing his best work.  I shall expect you fellows to get in and rustle down those logs.  Any man who thinks he’s going to soldier on me is going to get fooled, and he’s going to get his time handed out to him on the spot.  As near as I can make out, unless we get an everlasting wiggle on us—­every one of us—­this drive’ll hang up; and I’d just as soon hang it by laying off those who try to shirk as by letting you hang it by not working your best.  So get busy.  If anybody wants to quit, let ’em step up right now.  Any remarks?” He looked from one to another.

“Nary remark,” said one man at last.

“All right.  Now get your backs into this.  It’s team work that counts.  You’ve each got your choice; either you can lie like the devil to hide the fact that you were a member of the Cedar Branch crew in 1899, or you can go away and brag about it.  It’s up to you.  Get busy.”

XVII

Two days later Welton swung from the train at Twin Falls.  His red, jolly face was as quizzical as ever, but one who knew him might have noticed that his usual leisurely movements had quickened.  He walked rapidly to the livery stable where he ordered a rig.

“Where’s the drive, Hank?” he asked the liveryman.

“Search me!” was his reply; “somewhere down river.  Old Murdock is up talkin’ wild about damage suits, and there’s evidently been one hell of a row, but I just got back myself from drivin’ a drummer over to Watsonville.”

“Know if Darrell is in town?”

“Oh, he’s in town; there ain’t no manner of doubt as to that.”

“Drunk, eh?”

“Spifflicated, pie-eyed, loaded, soshed,” agreed the liveryman succinctly.

Welton shook his head humorously and ruefully.

“Say, Welton,” demanded the liveryman with the easy familiarity of his class, “why in blazes do you put a plain drunk like that in charge?”