Free Texas Timber War by Jon Sharpe

anymore. The thunk! of the ax blades and the shouts of the loggers as they worked drowned out any other sounds. Fargo proceeded with great care, and a minute later he came in sight of the crew.
    They were all big, powerful men with broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms, made that way by swinging an ax hour after hour, day after day, week after week. They wore overalls, flannel or homespun shirts, shapeless hats, and work boots with metal calks on the soles to give them better purchase. Some had climbed high in the pines, ‘‘topping’’ the trees or cutting off the upper section where most of the branches were. Others used axes or long, crosscut handsaws to cut through the base and do the actual felling. On a few occasions in the past, Fargo had found himself temporarily working as a logger, so he knew how the various jobs were done.
    From the concealment of the trees, he studied the men, looking for familiar faces. He didn’t spot Nick Dirkson or any of the other men who had jumped him in Jefferson the day before, so he didn’t know if this crew worked for Jonas Baxter or Lawrence Kiley or maybe even one of the smaller timber outfits. Nor did he see Linus McShane or Linus’s two companions, Wilcox and Patton.
    Fargo watched the loggers for a few minutes and had begun to think that maybe he’d made a mistake by assuming that the river pirates were coming here. Then he heard a distinctive bird call, the cry of the bobwhite, and knew he had been right after all. The bird call was a good one, almost indistinguishable from the real thing, but Fargo knew it had been made by a man.
    That had to be a signal of some sort, and sure enough, after a few more minutes one of the loggers pulled a bright red bandanna from his pocket, took off his hat and mopped sweat off his forehead, and then walked off into the trees after leaning his ax against a stump. He could have been going off to relieve himself, but Fargo believed it was more than that.
    He slipped through the woods, angling in the same general direction as the logger. Calling on all the stealth at his command, he closed in on the man, who wasn’t taking any great pains to be quiet as he tramped through the woods.
    The man stopped, and Fargo heard the low mutter of voices. One of them sounded like the rumbling tones of Linus McShane. A moment later, as Fargo crouched and carefully moved some brush aside, he spotted the logger, who was engaged in quiet, earnest conversation with Linus and the other two river pirates.
    â€˜â€˜â€”nobody in camp right now,’’ the logger was saying. ‘‘You can slip in and raid the cookshack without anybody bein’ the wiser.’’
    â€˜â€˜The cook’ll know when he gets back from Jefferson,’’ Linus pointed out.
    â€˜â€˜Yeah, but he’ll blame the men. They’re always tryin’ to sneak food. He’ll think that some of ’em came back in and stole the supplies while he was gone.’’
    Linus nodded. ‘‘All right, if you’re sure. This better not be a trick, though. If we get caught, Mike’ll have your hide.’’
    â€˜â€˜I’ve cooperated just fine so far, haven’t I?’’ the logger snapped. ‘‘I’ve tipped you boys off about the shipments down the bayou, so you’ll know which ones to hit and which ones to leave alone. Your brother’s been glad to get my help so far.’’
    â€˜â€˜Yeah, but don’t push your luck,’’ Linus said with a scowl. ‘‘If you’ll double-cross one fella, you’ll double-cross another, I always say.’’
    â€˜â€˜Don’t you worry about that. The share I’m getting is enough to make sure I don’t double-cross you and Red Mike.’’
    Linus nodded. He raised a hand in farewell, then he and his companions turned and slipped off through the woods. Fargo watched the logger for a moment