Ollie shook his head and whispered through broken teeth. “No. It was Sam. He's ruined me for these lumber camps. He said I sassed him. I did, too. He was riding that new college kid, Billie HIggins, giving him a bad time. I told him to leave the kid along. That started it . . . He hurt me bad, Cookie. I'm busted up. Got me down and wouldn't quit pounding me. Time was I coulda faced up to him, but no more. Too old, I guess.” He turned his face to the wall.
At dinner that night when Sam Malone barged into the mess hall laughing loudly, I was ready for him. With him was the usual group of three or four fawning toadies who liked to bask in his aura of bravado. Small timers, disgusting coyotes in the eyes of the rest of the crew, they yearned to gain some of the fearful respect commanded by Bad Sam, the Bull of the Woods.
Laughing at some new joke of Sam's, his followers hastened to claim seats on the same bench as their leader. The brutal logger laughed again in great good humor. “Can you imagine that old fool puttin' up his dukes against me? I like it when they're dumb enough to get up again after I give "em a taste of this,” and he held up a massive fist.
“Why lookit there, Sam,” said one of the fawning group in mock concern. “That old geezer went and skinned up your knuckles with his face,” He giggled with nervousness, unsure whether Sam would accept this familiarity. Sam sniggered at the joke and beamed at his dinner partner, who looked around to see if the other loggers had noticed his high status in Sam"s group of admirers.
Sam looked over at the new kid, Billie Higgins, sitting at the end of the long table. Sam pointed a fork at him. “And you! If I was you I'd get outta camp. We don't want any prissy Miss Britches punks like you in this camp. You wanta learn? Out here you'll learn what they don't teach you in your fancy college. And Bad Sam's gonna teach it to you. You got that, smart guy?”
Billie blushed and dropped his eyes to his plate. Sam speared a pound of roast beef from a serving dish and contentedly crammed it in his mouth. Between swallows he sang out in a falsetto voice, “Hey, Cookeee, how come they's no beans on the table, huh? Har, har, har!”
While our little drama played out I was fussing around back in the kitchen. I walked out to the table carrying two big pies, with golden brown, highly decorated crusts. I mean, they looked beautiful. With an air of humble respect I set the biggest, prettiest one right in front of Sam.
“Pie,” he said, chuckling with great good humor. “Now we're gettin' someplace. Boy! Smell that cinnamon! I may let this pitiful excuse for a cook hang around after all.” He laughed along with his cronies. “Every camp's got a boss logger, and I guess I'm it. Right, fellas?
“What is it, apple?” he crowed. “I love apple pie.” He scooped out half of the big pie and slid it onto his plate. He whacked off a big chunk and shoveled it into his mouth, At first he chewed happily. Then a puzzled look came over his face and he let out a roar.
“Beans!” he howled. “Bean pie! I been poisoned!”
Bad Sam didn't hang around long after that humiliating defeat. The guffaws, general merriment and ridicule from the delighted loggers dogged him for days. Finally, the shame and disgrace of that bean pie drove him out of camp. The word spread to other camps like wildfire. The story followed Sam everywhere. We heard his name got changed to Beans Malone and he was laughed out of logging camps clear to Canada.
Willie Higgins, free of his tormentor continued working through that summer, than went back to college and came back the next summer as a seasoned, savvy logger.
And old Oliver Erickson recovered t o eat many more of those good old beans I proudly served at every meal.
