Fury swept across what I could see of his face behind his red beard. By deliberately placing before him an entire bowl of the objects of his detestation, I had committed an assault up his reputation as a bad man that could not be ignored.
Each man at the table continued to shovel grub into their mouths while looking sideways at the drama. This kettle of fish was sure to come to a boil quick
Bad Sam whirled and stalked to where his bean-cooking tormentor, me, leaned against the rough doorway to the kitchen. “Listen, you blasted belly-robber . . .” he began, just warming up as he reached deep into his well-known collection of curses and threats.
Well, I used to think I was pretty rugged too, but I didn't know if I could stand up against this enraged moose of a man who was intent on saving face. Stories around camp told how mean Sam was in a fight, how in other camps he goaded loggers into fights and then crippled them so bad they were through logging for months. It was said that cooks fled in the night rather than face his fists. I was pretty sure I'd come out second best by plenty.
Bad Sam Malone's reputation as a bad man was on the line. After all his blustering, he knew well that if he didn't handle this situation to the satisfaction of the loggers he would be the object of fun and ridicule for weeks. This kind of disgraceful story could ruin a man's dignity. A humiliating defeat would force him out of camp, instead of me.
But I was in the same spot Sam was. Loggers have a code of how a man ought to act, and are contemptuous of a man who can't stand his ground, no matter who he is -- even if he gets whipped.
Standing next to me, Bad Sam was the only one who could see the razor sharp boning knife I was holding against my leg, and he simmered down. But still keeping up a front, he planted his fists on his hips and bawled a final threat: “Don't let me see no more beans around here, you pitiful danged belly robber. You get that?”
I said, “Yessir, Sam. I got it. You've seen your last bean in this camp.”
He turned triumphantly back to the table to finish his breakfast, growling, “That's how you got to handle these uppity danged grease burners. They'll bean ya to death if ya don't”
But I noticed he didn't try to dump the beans over my head either. Just kind of pushed them to one side -- probably out of respect for my blade, which I really had no idea of using on him.
Well, you can believe I got a few disgusted looks from the beaners in the crew. I hadn't handled it right. I'd taken water,. Considering Sam's dangerous reputation I might have been forgiven that, but I had practically crawled by God! Unforgivable.
There were no beans on the table at the noon meal, and the gravy wasn't very good either. It was evident from the ordinary fare on the table that I had probably been beaten and would have to skulk out of camp that night. A bad mood had descended on the crew. Instead of showing my usual smiling face and hurrying proudly out of the kitchen with my bean pots, I made a show of hiding in the kitchen and baking pies for dinner. The loggers didn't even throw out their usual good natured gripes about my iron biscuits. I knew the food must really be ordinary if they couldn't even complain about it.
“Hey,” yelled Bad Sam, “how come they's no beans on the table? Hay haw! I'll learn that blasted bean jockey to cross me!” He turned to look into the kitchen. Hey Cookeee, what's the matter? Did I hurt your feelings?”
There were a few half-hearted chuckles from the crew, but not the general merriment that Sam was expecting. It looked like the crew figured their happy days of good biscuits and gravy, and especially those good old beans, were over. They must have felt sure that another good cook was being driven out of camp.
That afternoon they carried old Ollie Erickson into camp and laid him in his bunk. I went over to the bunkhouse and tried to feed him some chicken gumbo, but he couldn't eat, his face was so banged up, looked like his jaw was broken, and his mouth all bloody.
What happened, Ollie?” I asked him. “A tree fall on you? The old legs don't move so fast anymore, huh?” I patted him on the shoulder. “Stick it out, you old codger. We'll have you back on your feet in no time.”
