In spite of the delay the swift up-river tide seemed to double the speed of their boat and they arrived at the waiting crummy still way ahead of schedule. The crummy started easily. The civet cat that boarded under the hood fled in his usual humpbacked fit of pique but for the first time since he’d moved in fired no parting volley at his tormentors. Uncle John arrived without a hangover and cheerfully offered a stick of Beeman’s to everyone; Andy played a gay tune on his mouth organ instead of his usual morning dirge as they drove; and just as they crested Breakleg Ridge a few miles from the show a big four-point sidled out onto the road and practically flagged them down. As they skidded to a stop, he sidled off the road to a leafy clearing, then waited politely for Hank to claw his little .22 Hi-Standard out of the toolbox and fit one of the half-dozen baby nipples he carried in the glove compartment over the barrel. The shot made a small spitting sound, shredding the nipple and nicking the buck’s spine just behind the neck where Hank had aimed; the deer dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Joe and Hank and Andy, working side by side with a speed that would have won respect at the gutting bench at the salmon cannery, bled the big deer, cleaned him, severed his head and hoofs, and had the evidence buried in less than five minutes. There was even a hollow stump next to the clearing the deer had chosen. “Mighty accommodating fellow,” Hank acknowledged as he heaved the carcass into the hollow and covered it with a spray of huckleberry. “Oh you dingdang right!” Joe Ben had said. “We’re in God’s pocket today. Ever’thing is gonna be milk an’ honey! Ever’thing is gonna be abundant! Ever’thing is gonna be with us today ’cause ain’t it obvious? Ain’t it? The Holy Signals are on the Stampers’ side today, you just watch if they ain’t.” Even the donkey, even that vengeful conglomeration of wire and noise and time-brittled cast iron seemed to have been affected by the Holy Signals. During the whole day dragging two-ton logs back to the spar tree, while Joe perched on its seat, singing against the shriek of the engine, jamming levers, tromping pedals with the beat of the song as he played the machine like some infernal organ, it had broken down only once. There was a screaming jolt; the gears had frozen in the cable drum. But even then the Signals were consistent, the luck held; instead of having to shut down to send for parts, Hank waded into the trouble with a pair of pliers and a ballpeen hammer and overcame it in such short order that he’d scarcely used any of the usual names he kept reserved for the malingering machine. All the rest of the day it ran like a clock. In fact, all that day the equipment—the chain saws, the cat, the yarder—had behaved in a manner as polite and accommodating as that of the buck. “Do you realize,” Hank said, “that we sent eight truckloads down to the river today. By God, eight. That’s the biggest cutting since—Lord, since I don’t even remember, probably since we were working that state park where it was all roaded and flat, and I feel pretty good if anybody wants to know, pretty motherin’ good!” He released the steering handle of the motor, and the boat rushed on straight as an arrow while he stretched and cracked his vertebrae. As he came out of the stretch he punched Lee playfully on the shoulder. “What about it, bub? How do you feel? You probably threw cable around more logs than ever before; you noticin’ any repercussions?” Lee rolled his shoulders against the pull of the suspenders. “It’s strange,” he reflected, half embarrassed. “I don’t know, but I’m not really so tired, now that you mention it. Do you suppose I’ve become immune?” Hank winked at Joe Ben. “You mean to tell me you don’t feel like you’ll ‘expire of exhaustion’ before you climb up to that room? Why, fancy that.” “To be perfectly honest, Hank, I feel halfway decent for the first time since I was sentenced to that cable.” Hank returned to his motor, ducking his chin and smiling into his fist. Lee saw the smile and added hurriedly, “But don’t think I’m being lulled into some false sense of optimism by my recovery. Everything just happened to go well today. Pure coincidence. And it may happen again once in the next month, though I don’t count on it. It may happen, another of Joe’s blessful days, but would either of you care to bet some money that we have anything but the usual hell tomorrow? Care to bet we get another eight truckloads? Huh? I didn’t think so.” Joe Ben aimed his finger at Lee. “But you got to admit this was a blessful day, don’t you? Oh yeah!” Joe beat his fist gleefully in his palm. “You got to admit I was right about today’s signals.” “Joby,” Hank said, “I ever find the tiniest proof that days like this comes from mystical signals I swear I’ll start goin’ to church with you and help you figure the signals myself.” Lee shaded his eyes against the sun behind Joe’s shoulder. “I will have to say, Joe, that the woods actually seemed more benevolent today. No vines reached to trip me. No branches tried to snatch my eyes out. And most of all, you know most of all what I noticed?—and I don’t know if this means anything to you dedicated lumberjacks—but I noticed that all day long there were holes under all the logs. Saints be praised, holes! There is nothing more maddening than throwing a cable over a log the size of a Queen Mary, only to find you have to tear a hole under the monster to get the cable around.” “Oh! Hey by golly.” Joe Ben laughed, pounding Hank on the knee. “You know what’s happening? You see what’s comin’ over this boy? He’s getting the call. He’s hearin’ the gospel of the woods. He’s forsakin’ all that college stuff and he’s finding a spiritual rediscovery of Mother Nature.” “Horse manure,” Hank disagreed softly. “Lee’s gettin’ in condition is all. This is making a man out of him. He’s toughening up.” Joe Ben barely paused. “Same thing, don’t you see? Sure. Now, I want you boys to think about all the signals—” “Horse manure,” Hank snorted, interrupting Joe’s expanding theory. “I still say all’s happening is he’s getting in shape. When he showed up here three weeks ago he was dying of diarrhea of the bra............