Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  Slade was unworthy of being singled out thus by fortune, in Bruno’s opinion, but there was nothing he could do to upset the divine balance Slade seemed to enjoy. It irked Bruno that Slade somehow knew of the animosity directed at him by the cook. What else could have explained the morning ritual of finding the big man waiting by the triangle every time Bruno went out with his iron bar to bash and jangle the camp to wakefulness. It was a stupid act, without meaning, and the faint smirk that accompanied it occupied much of Bruno’s thoughts for the rest of the day, every day.

  There had been a time when he considered murdering Slade. When everyone else went down to the town to get drunk and fight and fornicate with whores, Slade always remained behind, as did Bruno. For the cook, Ukiah represented Sodom and Gomorrah, and probably a few other cities of iniquity besides; his mother had warned him of the dangers, moral, spiritual and physical, attendant upon consorting with loose women. She had given him many pamphlets, with such titles as “Carnality’s Poisonous Secret” and “A Rake’s Descent” and “A Doctor’s Earnest Advice to Christian Men.” Bruno understood from an early age that the body is the temple of the soul, sacrosanct in the eyes of the Lord. He couldn’t abide to see so many temples sullied by unworthy tenants who insisted on visiting the pustulant harlots of the lower valley. Bruno intended to remain pure all his days, despite the ribbing this earned him from the fallers whose food he served.

  His celibacy was his pride, the thing that had granted him uniqueness in the camp, until Slade came. It quickly became apparent Slade also shunned the fleshpots, but Bruno saw no evidence of piety influencing Slade’s choice. It was irritating to have to share the camp on Sundays with this silent unbeliever. His presence was an intrusion, a distraction; Bruno couldn’t concentrate on his Bible studies with the dedication that had come easily from being surrounded by nothing but the greatest of God’s trees. Slade tended to prowl restlessly, like a caged brute suddenly freed, but directionless in his freedom. They saw each other often each Sunday, always at a distance, and never spoke, didn’t so much as nod. The morning ritual by the triangle had been their most intimate contact for several years, and seemed likely to continue.

  Three days after the whisper arrived, its subject came to the camp after quitting time, brought up from Ukiah in the fancy surrey of Mr. Hubert Louther himself. Such a thing had never happened before. Even Slade had been hauled from Ukiah on an oxcart filled with supplies. From a distance it was obvious who was who, the new man having caused the near collapse of the vehicle’s springs on the right-hand side. Mr. Louther went straight inside the cabin of the camp boss, leaving his passenger to disengage himself from the tiny seat that had withstood his bulk up the narrow pathway from the mill.

  As he stood clear, it was with a practiced slowness calculated to draw attention. The giant stretched his arms as if to embrace the world, then placed both ham-sized fists on his corduroyed hips and smiled at the gathering he faced.

  “Been expecting me, boys?” he asked. “Or maybe you was expecting the circus, huh?”

  He laughed when no one responded. His audience felt Slade should have been there with them to witness the new man’s arrival. The two could have strutted around each other like prize roosters, each sizing up his opponent, but Slade was nowhere around.

  “Name’s Chason, but mostly they call me Chase. You men here, you do that, call me Chase. That’s the way I prefer it, friendly like.”

  His smile was made ugly by tobacco stains. Chason was taunting them with a false display of openness, every man could see it. Chason knew very well why he was there, and felt he had already scored against his opponent through the latter’s nonappearance.

  “This all of you, right here?” he said.

  “Except for Slade,” someone offered.

  “Slade? I heard of someone called that. Little man, plays with his pud, that the one?”

  “I don’t reckon.”

  “Sure, that’ll be him. You see him hiding out, you tell him there’s a new man here to work alongside of him.”

  “Slade, he don’t work with no one.”

  “Well, he does now, orders of the big man in there.”

  Chason jerked his thumb at the door Hubert Louther had disappeared behind. Raised voices could be heard from within the camp boss’s cabin. Looks were exchanged among the men. Hubert must be sick and tired of his big brother’s man ruling the roost, and had brought the new contender up from town himself, so everyone understood exactly how matters stood. It was an unthinkable violation of the camp boss’s authority to instruct him, as Hubert clearly was doing, that Slade and Chason were to work together. Nothing could better have been calculated to antagonize the champion than this invasion of his professional domain. Slade’s work practices had until that day been of his own devising. The men were anxious to see if he would submit to working with a partner.

  Hubert Louther came outside, climbed into his surrey and departed without even a glance at the man he had brought. The camp boss came out a moment later, and indicated that Chason should accompany him. The entire team fell in behind as Chason was led to a cabin and told to find a vacant bunk. It was not the cabin Slade used, Bruno was disappointed to note. The boss obviously wasn’t wanting to cooperate in Hubert’s plan to thrust Slade and Chason up against each other as soon as could be arranged. Bruno happened to know there was a vacant bunk in Slade’s cabin the new man could have used, but it didn’t really matter; Slade and Chason would confront each other soon enough, over Bruno’s cookhouse tables.

  The evening meal of mutton was served in an air of muted apprehension. Neither of the two men had arrived to eat, and heads that usually were lowered to their plates were constantly twisting toward the door in expectation. When Chason entered, a hush fell. What happened next was foreseen by a prescient few; Chason went directly to the one available space left at the table—Slade’s. As he lowered himself to the split-log bench, a collective sigh could be heard. Now there would be hell to pay when Slade came in. No one ever sat where Slade wanted to; one man had tried it a year or two back, and been thrown across the room.

  “How’s the grub in this hole?” Chason asked. “You men all look healthy enough.” He examined the heaped plate awaiting Slade. “Sheep,” he said. “I like sheep.” His first mouthful provoked another sigh. The confrontation to come as a result of this would be savage. Chason was bigger than Slade, much bigger, and seemed already in the mood for confrontation.

  Where was Slade? Was he going to let the camp down by not showing up for dinner? No one capable of walking had ever not shown up for dinner, so his absence, if it continued, would be construed as cowardice. Slade a coward! It was inconceivable that this should be so, but the occupation of Slade’s place by the usurper was a powerful blow already to those who, even if they had no personal liking for Slade, supported him in the challenges that periodically were mounted to bring him down to the level of other men. He belonged to them all, even if he never had a word to say, a story to trade, even if he never accompanied the rest down to the dens of Ukiah every Saturday night.

  The men ate more than their usual share, drawing out the dinner in hopes of witnessing some kind of development, but Slade disappointed them all by staying away. It was established that he had returned to the camp along with everyone else but had not been seen since. No one could say for sure if Slade was even aware of Chason’s arrival, but the two things, seen in relation to one another, seemed inescapably linked. Slade’s behavior was mystifying, even when he was discovered fast asleep on his bunk. He had never missed a meal through exhaustion before, and it did not bode well for his ability to compete with the newcomer, but at least it put to rest the notion that he had avoided the cookhouse out of fear. The good news was spread to every cabin before the lamps were turned out.

  Approaching the triangle next morning, Bruno half expected that Slade would not be there with his usual smirk, his inexplicable look of triumph at having beaten Bruno to the place once again. Bruno had ne
ver fathomed the meaning of Slade’s morning ritual, and was unsure if it conveyed a personal hatred of himself, or some general, abstract motive beyond understanding. It could even be that Slade was a mild kind of madman; it was impossible to tell with someone as silent as him.

  He was there, but the expected smirk was not. Slade appeared angry, or possibly confused. He was staring at the ground when Bruno approached the triangle with his iron bar, only looking up as Bruno raised his hand to strike metal upon metal. The movement of the raised arm triggered in Slade a primitive reaction. He came suddenly to life and shoved Bruno hard in the chest, causing him to fall back onto the ground, the bar flying from his hand, the breath knocked from his lungs. Slade glowered at him for several seconds, then strode away.

  Bruno picked himself up, panting with anger. He was not a large man, and considered Slade’s unprovoked assault an outrage. He would not complain to the camp boss, however, since that would make him appear a weakling. Any man in the camp who could not take care of his own affairs was not fit company for loggers, even if he occupied the lowly position of cook. He would get his revenge in his own way, his own time. Bruno was not completely upset by the incident, since it revealed, as yesterday’s nonappearance and early slumbers had not, that Slade was cognizant of, and severely rattled by, the arrival of Chason. Events from that morning on would definitely be of an interesting nature, and Bruno felt himself a part of it all, since Slade paid more attention to him than to anyone else.

  Slade was already waiting in his usual place at the breakfast table when the rest of the men began trickling in from the water bucket and the latrine. They looked at him without talking, knowing that to ask questions would be futile, possibly dangerous. Chason drifted in with the rest, noted the individual seated where he had sat for dinner, and found another place for himself by nudging one of the smaller men aside with a broad hand and broader smile. “Mornings, I need to set right down and commence to eat,” he said, “not waste time looking for no seat.”

  The displaced man went elsewhere. Slade was eating by then, his back to Chason’s seat, but the silence was such that he could not have helped but overhear the intimidation occurring behind himself. He gave no sign, offered no reaction, another disappointing letdown for the men. The game between Slade and Chason was a long time getting up and started, they thought, but at least life was being made more interesting by the rivalry, which already had extended beyond mere competition concerning who could bring down the biggest trees in the shortest time. This was some other kind of confrontation, more serious than any of them could have foreseen.

  Shouldering his ax and springboards, Slade began walking into the woods. He would start work on a new tree today, always a satisfying task, but as he walked ahead of the rest, Slade was aware of a vague disquiet within himself. The evening before, he had gone for a stroll before dinner, just a short walk off among the redwoods, far enough to isolate himself from the sounds of the camp, but not so far he wouldn’t hear the dinner bell. Slade often did this, having no need of companionship. He expected his stroll to be uneventful, and was surprised, therefore, when he found himself lying on the ground in darkness, when his last thought before finding himself there was of being upright in the pleasant light of day. What had happened? His head had throbbed wildly as he retraced his steps to the camp. He avoided crossing anyone’s path, went straight to his bunk in the empty cabin and threw himself down, hoping to stop the pain in his skull by remaining still.

  Sleep had followed with merciful swiftness, but he had awoken that day with an inexplicable anger in his heart. He had knocked the cook to the ground for no reason other than that the sight of the little man had intensified his anger beyond endurance. Even now, after a full breakfast, with anticipation of a rewarding day’s labor ahead of him, Slade felt a lurking darkness within him. It did not help his mood at all when he realized he had forgotten to pick up his lunch pail before leaving the cookhouse.

  More confusion followed when a large man Slade had never seen before approached him. Slade was at the base of a redwood of his choosing, carefully chopping out a gash to insert his springboard into, when the man said to him, “I’ll take this side, you go on around to the other and start again.”

  Slade stared. The words had reached him, but their meaning had not. He turned away from the man, whose face he was unfamiliar with, and resumed cutting.

  “You hear me?”

  Slade looked at him again. Why was this person annoying him? Didn’t the whole camp know he wasn’t to be approached while working, unless he indicated he wished for a gathering of witnesses, as he had yesterday? This tree was barely begun; he had work to do, and didn’t want to be bothered by some new man who had not been told that Slade must be left strictly alone. He turned away again.

  “I said, you go work on the other side, you deaf son of a bitch.” Slade faced Chason, suddenly hating him. He didn’t like the face before him, or the voice spitting words at him. This new man’s arrogance at telling Slade what to do was beyond belief. Slade decided it was beneath him to answer such a fool, but he would allow the fool to withdraw from his company before any more insulting words came out. He pointed to the fool, then pointed off into the woods, a clear indication he wanted the fool to quit his company immediately.

  The fool seemed not to understand. “You dumb as well as deaf?” he asked, thrusting his face closer to Slade’s. Chason was a master of intimidation; usually his physical presence alone allowed him to get his way in all things. He had been told by Hubert Louther to make himself as obnoxious as possible to Slade, in order to rattle Slade’s confidence in himself as king of the woods. He was not impressed at all with Slade’s lethargic reaction to his goading. The man appeared to be simpleminded, which might complicate Chason’s assignment to bring him to his knees.

  “You hear me, huh? Get around the other side there.”

  He saw Slade’s ax lifted, saw the blade arcing with surprising speed, saw it begin its descent toward him without understanding that he was about to die for his words. The blade edge, honed to hairsplitting sharpness, sliced into the thin layer of skin and flesh across his forehead and continued on through Chason’s skull and brain until the haft met resistance from the nasal bone and lost momentum. Chason sank to the ground with Slade’s ax standing from his head like a peculiar growth. He toppled silently sideways, eyes still opened. The ax handle’s end tapped lightly against earth.

  Slade looked at what he had done. He was very angry that he had been obliged to silence the fool. Someone should have informed him that Slade was nobody to order around, but no one had, and this was the result. It was maddening to think of the trouble that would result from the fool’s pestering. Slade might even be blamed for what had happened, and be obliged to explain why he had done it. They would want him to talk and talk and talk, which wouldn’t be fair, since none of what happened had been his fault.

  No other faller was working sufficiently close to have seen or heard anything. This cheered Slade a little. He picked up the fool’s ax and flung it far away into the woods, then he lifted the dead man by the belt at the rear of his pants and carried him some distance away and dumped the body in a tangle of brush, extracting his ax before he scattered some loose twigs over the dead man to conceal him even more. Then he went back to his tree. There were a few drops of blood en route, and he took care to scuff these over with his boots. At the spot where the new man had fallen there was a small pool of red that had leaked from his cranium, and Slade similarly disposed of this, then wiped off his ax and resumed work.

  He was well advanced with the undercut when the camp boss approached him and began looking around. Slade ignored him until the camp boss asked, “Seen the new man?”

  Slade shook his head and kept on working. The camp boss went away, but came back several times through the morning. Slade didn’t stop to eat at noon, since he had forgotten to bring along his lunch, and the sounds of his ax brought other fallers, most munching on their beef sand
wiches, to see why he was not taking advantage of the break. Some asked him the same question the camp boss had, and Slade shook his head for them. Eventually work resumed and he was left alone.

  It became apparent he was not working to full capacity when the undercut did not proceed at the pace Slade was accustomed to. He was unable to concentrate fully, kept seeing before him the body of the new man as it collapsed, kept wondering why he had lost several hours of memory during the previous evening, kept asking himself why it was that he had struck the cook that morning for no reason. It was all extremely bothersome to Slade. His ability to empty his mind completely while chopping had been impaired by these sudden events. He hadn’t asked to be involved in any of it, and felt his anger of that morning return, now compounded by stirrings of alarm over what would happen if the body should be discovered.

  At the end of the day he waited until he was sure everyone else was headed for the camp, then checked on the body. It was as he had left it, well hidden, so he was probably safe unless people kept on asking about the fool. It puzzled Slade why anyone would want to know the whereabouts of someone so ignorant and downright rude. The woods were a better place for Slade having got rid of him, whoever he was. He left the springboard in place for an early start next morning, picked up his ax and began tramping toward the camp, hungry for the food he had not enjoyed at noon.

  Bruno saw him coming, and knew what he was looking for. The one lunch pail left behind that morning had been emptied by Bruno and his assistants after it became clear its owner was not going to return for it. The pail was now only one among many ranked along the wall where the logging teams deposited them at the end of every working day.