For a time, the logs went screaming and grinding down the skids, but darkness made launching them dangerous, and they could not light the lumber road on the hill.  They worked in the dark, rolling out the sawn trunks from among the brush and melting snow until there was room to hook on the team.  Then the driver, walking by his horses’ heads, felt with his feet for the hollowed track, and losing it now and then embedded his load in snow.  Then he called for help, and men with cantpoles laboriously hove the ponderous mass back to the road.

The work was worse on the inclines, where the logs ran smoothly and there was a risk of their overtaking the horses.  Rain had begun to fall and one could not see the obstacles, but there were pitches where one must go fast in order to keep in front of the dangerous loads.  But risks must be run in lumbering, and Festing felt that rashness was justified.  Speed was the thing that counted most.

When supper time drew near, men and horses were worn out, and Festing knew that if he urged the former to continue he could not do much without the teams.  There were, however, a few logs he meant to haul to the skidway before he stopped, and he had some misgivings when he started with the last.  It was an unusually large trunk, and the tired horses floundered as they tightened the chain.  Thawing snow when beaten hard is as slippery as ice, but the animals kept their feet and the mass began to move.  Festing got a firm grip on the near horse’s bridle and plodded forward cautiously, with the rain in his face when he crossed the openings in the wood.  The snow reflected a puzzling glimmer, but the darkness was thick among the trees, and drops from the shaking branches fell into his eyes.  Turning his hat-brim down, he felt for the edge of the trail.

By and by he stopped at the top of a descent.  The gray snow looked all the same, and the hollow track vanished a few yards in front; the rows of trunks had faded into a vague dark mass, and the branches met overhead in a thick canopy.  The horses were big, valuable Percherons, but they were exhausted and stood slackly, with steam rising from their foam-flecked coats.  Festing did not like the look of the dip, and knew the trees grew close upon the track at the bottom, but he must go down, and shouted to the hesitating animals.

They moved faster; the log grinding heavily across the snow behind.  Then the strain on the chain slackened, and he dragged at the bridle as he began to run.  The log could not be stopped now; it was moving faster than he had thought, and all that he could do was to keep the team in front.  His feet slipped on the icy trail, and the horses floundered, but they knew the danger and broke into a clumsy trot.  It was hard to keep up, but Festing must hold them to the track and steer them round a bend ahead.