Shadow on the Land (17 page)

Whiskey!
Lee wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. A bootlegger could do a tremendous business in the cañon now. If Jepson was behind the move seeking to make trouble, he would achieve that end. A wagonload of whiskey could create more disorder in a camp of men whose tempers were already frayed thin by heat and danger than anything else Lee could think of.

Lee stepped back from the fence, drew gun, and waited, and it was then that a rifle shot stabbed the night silence. Somewhere to the north. Just about at the gate, Lee guessed, and instinctively he started toward it, and immediately stopped, knowing it was the wrong thing to do. If this was the wagon they wanted to slip through, it would be the one to stop, and he had neither time to get into the fight at the gate nor seek help.

Presently the dark bulk of a freight wagon lumbered into view, and stopped close to the fence. A man said something in a low tone; a second answered and climbed down. The firing at the gate had increased, and from the sound of it, Lee judged that both Baldy and Highpockets were in it, and that three or four men were in the other wagon.

The man who was working on the fence in front of Lee said: “Ain't far to the rim. The boys'll keep the guard busy long enough to dump this.”

Lee lifted his gun and fired, putting his bullet close to the man at the fence. “Stand still and toss your guns over here!” he called. “Let me hear them.”

Expecting this to be a finish fight, Lee moved as he spoke, anticipating an answering fire, but none came. The man at the fence gave a scared yell and ran. The one in the seat cursed, the sound of his voice so shrill that it was close to a squeak. He hit the ground, tripped in a snarl of wire, cursed again in a frenzied panic of fear, and, getting loose, raced away into the darkness.

Lee slipped his gun into his holster, and, finding the lines that the man had dropped, stepped up into the wagon seat. The horses, evidently trained to stand at gunfire, had not bolted. They moved now at Lee's command, the wagon rumbling over the rough ground.

Presently the firing at the gate stopped. Lee, following the fence, came to Baldy's camp. “This is Dawes!” he called.

He heard Highpockets's yeasty sigh, Baldy's soft oath of relief as he stepped to the gate to open it.

“Get a lantern!” Lee called. “I haven't looked into the wagon, but I made a bet with myself that the cargo's whiskey. If it is, we'll break open a case. Might be a bottle of pop for you, Highpockets.”

“If it's whiskey, we'll unload it right here,” Baldy said.

Highpockets brought the lantern from the tent. Lee, throwing the canvas aside, took one look, and felt fear creep along his spine, his nerves tying hot little knots under his skin. He stepped back, and sleeved the sweat from his face.

“Well, crack open a case,” Baldy said impatiently. “I'm so dry that every time I spit it turns out to be dust.”

“Then you're going to keep on spitting dust,” Lee said hoarsely, “because you won't be drinking anything on this wagon. It's loaded with dynamite, and there's a quart of nitroglycerine to give it a boost.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Baldy yelled—“Dynamite!”—and scrambled back.

Highpockets didn't stir. He stood pulling at his beard, his face grave and thoughtful. “What do you reckon the game was?” he asked.

“The way I read it,” Lee answered, “the wagon that came here and the shooting ruckus they started was to get Baldy's attention, so he wouldn't know anything about this outfit. Probably they aimed to take it down the road a piece and let it go over the edge, so it would wind up in one of the camps. There's enough powder on them four wheels to blow a camp out of the cañon and set it on top.”

“And whichever side got it would think the other bunch did the job.”

“That's right,” Lee agreed. “Baldy, I don't think you'll have any more trouble tonight. I'll tell Porter to send a couple of men out here. We'll tie our horses behind this wagon, and head for town.”

“You want me to ride this rig into town?” Highpockets asked sourly.

“Sure. I'll drive, and you can hold the nitro.”

“Handle it like a baby,” Baldy said.

Highpockets swallowed. “I never did hold no baby, but guess I'll know how by the time I get to Grass Valley.”

* * * * *

They rolled into Grass Valley before dawn, got the deputy sheriff out of bed, and left the load of dynamite in his reluctant hands. Taking a room in the Vinton Hotel, they slept well into the morning. It was nearly noon when they walked into Porter Brothers' office.

“The dynamite news is all over town,” Johnson Porter said the minute he saw Lee. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing yet.” Lee sat down and tipped back in his chair. “I'm still looking for proof. I could go after the man I think is responsible, but I don't think Stevens would want that.”

“No, he wouldn't,” Porter agreed.

“So I'll have to let them keep running out rope until they've got enough for us to hang 'em. I'm hoping this is the time.”

Porter began walking the floor, his long face tight with worry. “It would have been mass murder. Nobody but a maniac would have tried it.”

“Maniac or not, it was a smart play for the sort of job they were driving at. We're going to Shaniko today.” He motioned toward Highpockets. “I think my partner can uncover something. He knows the right people, and they'll talk to him.”

“I was sending you to Shaniko, anyway,” Porter said. “We've bought the Central Oregon Railroad.”

“What's that?” Lee asked curiously. “Haven't we got enough railroads?”

“No, we needed one more. It seems that a bunch of Portland men who have a good deal of money invested around Bend didn't see any sense in waiting for Harriman, so they cooked up their own railroad. They did quite a bit of surveying between Madras and Bend a little over a year ago.”

“So we've got a survey south of Madras.”

“That's it, but there are two spots down there that are as important as they ever were . . . Trail Crossing on Crooked River and the Davidson Ranch. We've got to get around a hill there, or climb four hundred feet higher than we should.”

Lee, rubbing fingers over a stubbly cheek, grinned a little, and nodded. “Sure, I know. The Racine property is in there, too.”

Porter began pacing again. “That isn't worrying us at the moment, because the Harriman bunch won't grab anything there. They can grab at Trail Crossing if we don't grab first, so we've got to beat them to it. We have material and horses at Shaniko. The men will go from here on the train this afternoon. They'll leave Shaniko tomorrow morning, and keep going until they get there. You and Magoon will go along, partly because you know the country, and partly because this business last night scared me to death. I'm beginning to expect anything.” He leveled a finger at Lee. “Be sure you're armed.”

“We will be, and don't worry about your outfit getting lost. Highpockets knows that road better than he knows the way between a steak and his mouth.”

Coming into Shaniko that afternoon, Lee wished he didn't have to go on to Trail Crossing. The evidence he sought should be here in Shaniko. It was not likely that the dynamiting expedition would leave Moro or Grass Valley, both of which were flooded with Harriman and Hill men. Shaniko was a more likely point of departure, because it was from here that the outfits freighting into the interior departed on their regular runs. Boston Bull could have left with a load of dynamite without attracting attention, swung west and then north, and, traveling by night, could have reached the Girt place without being seen.

After supper, Highpockets talked with several people in the hotel, the saloons, and the warehouse from which Boston Bull regularly departed. He returned to Lee's room, his bearded face showing puzzlement. “Don't make much sense like we figgered it would, son. Jepson's been in his room on a three-day toot. Drunker'n old Nick. That's the way he does. I've knowed it to happen before.”

“Three days would have given him time to sneak out and get back.”

“Nope.” Highpockets shook his head. “He was in his room. Had his meals regular when he wasn't so drunk he couldn't stand. Empty bottles all over the place. No sir, Lee, I'm just dad-burned sure Cyrus P. Jepson didn't attend no dynamite party.”

“What about Bull?”

“He hadn't been seen for a long time till tonight. Pulled in from the south a while ago with his freight outfit.”

“Jepson wouldn't go on a drunk when he was pulling off a shindig like this one.”

They stared at each other, uncertainty a nebulous thing between them, and Lee muttered: “I'll have a talk with a couple of sheriffs when I get back from Trail Crossing.”

“No good,” the tall man said quickly. “You ain't got nothing but a bunch of notions that don't make real good sense any way you look at 'em.”

Lee grunted, knowing Highpockets was right. He moved about the room, prodded into restlessness by the knowledge that he was no nearer identifying the third party than he was to securing the right of way through the Racine place. He thought of Deborah, of her association with Jepson, and anger built in him. She had tried to pump him in one way or another, and, if he could see her and talk to her, he might be able to reverse the procedure and ferret out the clue he was seeking.

Slouched on the bed, Highpockets watched Lee prowl about the room. “I reckon that Haig girl could help you out,” he said.

Lee wheeled on him. “Hell, she won't even talk to me. She must have somebody bring her word when I'm in town, because she locks the door and doesn't even poke her head out.”

“Another voice might work,” Highpockets said. “She don't know mine so well.”

Lee nodded a slow agreement. “We'll bring her a telegram.”

They moved along the hall to Deborah's room, neither speaking, and Highpockets drummed urgency into his knock. He said shrilly: “Telegram for Mister Jepson, ma'am. He don't answer when I knock on his door. It's real important. Something about Boston Bull.”

There was a moment of silence while Highpockets faded down the hall, then Lee heard light, quick steps cross the room, and the door opened.

“You,” Deborah said in quick panic, and tried to close the door, but Lee, putting his weight against it, shoved past her.

Deborah retreated across the room.

Lee shut the door, and stood watching her, a small and mocking grin on his lips. “You must have a peephole so you can see who's out here.”

“I've learned to keep a door locked when you're in town.”

“You want it that way?”

She stood motionlessly at the window, eyes on the far reach of Shaniko Flats.

“Or were you acting on orders?” He paused, and, when she neither spoke nor moved, he went on: “Quinn's? Or maybe Jepson's?” Still she said nothing. “We're playing a different game from the one I thought we were, Deborah. I'm not just sure about the rules or the stake the winner pulls in. What are they?”

Outside, a step sounded in the hall, and knuckles beat a sharp tattoo on the door. Deborah turned, holding up a hand to silence Lee. “Who is it?” she called.

“Cyrus. I'd like to talk to you, Deborah.”

“In the morning. I'm going to bed now.”

“It's important.” Anxiety and anger honed a keen edge to his voice.

“In the morning, Cyrus.”

Silence, then, for a long moment, and Lee heard the little man's heels sound in quick, angry taps as he moved away.

“I heard he's been drunk for three days in his room,” Lee said. “He didn't sound drunk to me.”

“It wasn't so,” Deborah cried, and caught herself as if she regretted the words. “I mean he's been sick.”

“I see,” Lee said, and came across the room to her. “The stakes are high in the big game everybody in central Oregon is playing and they're high in this little side bet you and I made when we first talked on the
Inland Belle
. The smart thing now is to show our cards.”

Her face was a heart-shaped oval in the dusk, her eyes black dots against the lightness of her skin, her mouth a dark line holding both an invitation and a promise. “What do you mean?'

He laughed softly. “As if you didn't know. I'm talking about the outfit that tried to run a wagon loaded with dynamite through the Girt place last night. Who was it?”

“I don't know.”

“Jepson just wanted to talk to you, and you opened the door to me because you thought there was a telegram about Boston Bull. I think they're the ones who pulled off this dynamite party.”

“It's a good thing you can't hang a man because of another's thoughts, isn't it, Mister Dawes? You may close the door on your way out.”

He would accomplish nothing more against the curtain she had drawn, but he was not ready to leave. He murmured: “There is the little matter of our side bet.”

He had that naked sense again as if she were exploring the secret places of his mind, measuring him, searching out and weighing the losses and gains that might come to her from this side bet.

Her voice came low and husky, and without conviction: “I don't think this is the night, Lee.”

She said nothing about propriety. It was an old game, and one that Lee Dawes played exceedingly well. He took her hands, warm and long-fingered and magnetic with the urge of life. “I told you in Madras that we were the same kind of people, and you knew it as well as I did. I've played the cat-and-mouse game because that was the way you liked it.”

“And now you're done playing.” She laughed softly. “I warned you, Lee. I'm bad for you.”

“It would be a hard life without some of the things that are bad for us,” he said.

“That night in Madras you said something about a fair trade. What do you have to offer?”