Shadow on the Land (3 page)

“So we'll have railroad exploding all over the cañon.” Lee shook his head. “Doesn't seem to be much sense in having a ruckus like this over a patch of sagebrush, if that's all this is.”

Stevens glanced at him sharply. “You have the same mistaken idea a lot of people have, Dawes. Even if we go no farther than Bend, the resources in central Oregon are so staggering that a railroad would be worthwhile. It's a cattle and sheep range. The desert east of Bend may become a wheat country. A number of irrigation projects are being developed around Bend. And”—Stevens tapped his finger on the map where the slope of the Cascades broke eastward toward the desert—“there is the largest stand of virgin pine in the United States.”

Lee showed his surprise. “Sounds like a treasure chest.”

“That's what it is.” Stevens folded the map and slipped it into his pocket. “Now about your job. You have two major assignments. First, find out who this third party is, and do what needs to be done to checkmate him. Meanwhile, you'll be a sort of general chore boy to cover your real business. You'll buy some right of way between Madras and Bend, so that people will know who you are. It's possible that as soon as your identity is established, our third party will make himself known. I have an idea what it is, but not who. If you've followed the papers, you've read of the state-owned railroad movement.”

“That's a hell of an idea,” Lee said.

Stevens nodded. “It is from a railroad man's standpoint. The thing that started it is the fact that large areas of Oregon, such as this Deschutes country, have no railroads. Harriman has made promises, and a dozen rumors have flooded the country. Harriman has even talked about extending his Columbia Southern south from Shaniko. Well”—Stevens spread his hands—“the people in the interior have seen no steel being laid. All the rumors have turned out to be hot air.”

“Harriman never did anything on the North Bank until Jim Hill moved in,” Lee said.

“And it's Hill who's starting him up the Deschutes.” Stevens tapped the map thoughtfully against a knee. “Not long ago I made a fishing trip into the Bend country and on down the Deschutes. I landed some rainbows.” He smiled. “I told one man I was going to start a fish hatchery at the mouth of Trout Creek. What's more to the point is that I got a right of way. It's a real trip down that river, Dawes . . . wild water, two thousand foot cliffs, rattlesnakes, and some stubborn ranchers who don't think much of a railroad. The Oregon Trunk has a survey up the cañon, but it has done very little besides that. The controlling interest belonged to Billy Nelson, and I bought him out.”

“For Hill?”

Stevens's eyes twinkled. “Keep guessing, Dawes. It's just as well you don't know everything right now. When the Oregon Trunk got serious about a railroad, it ran into trouble with the Bureau of Reclamation, which had an idea about building a power dam on the Deschutes. So we were hung up, and central Oregon still didn't have a railroad.”

“Then that's what is behind the state-owned railroad?”

Stevens nodded. “That's part of it. We got the trouble with the Bureau of Reclamation straightened out, but the state-owned railroad proposal will be on the ballot at the next general election. Now Harriman has promised the governor they'll get started, but he's abandoned the Columbia Southern. The grade to the top of the plateau is too tough. They've formed the Deschutes Railroad Company, which will come up the cañon. When Porter Brothers moved a couple of barge loads of grading machinery for us across the Columbia to the mouth of the Deschutes, it was like setting off a charge of dynamite under Ed Harriman's chair.”

Lee laughed. “It'll be a case of who gets there fastest with the mostest railroad.”

“That's it. Don't underestimate the importance of getting our missing pieces of right of way. What we've got now is like a checkerboard. Some of the leases and entry rights the Oregon Trunk had have lapsed, and we've got to beat Harriman to them.”

Lee's grin was quick and confident. “I'll beat them.”

Stevens raised a hand. “Don't be too sure. That brings me to your second assignment. There's one piece of property between Madras and Crooked River that's going to be hard to get a right of way through, and it's vital. Crooked River gorge is about four hundred feet deep, but there's one narrow place where we can bridge it. This property I mentioned belongs to a girl named Hanna Racine, and it's strategic because it controls the approach to this crossing.” Stevens paused, eyes on Lee. “What's the matter?”

“Did you say Hanna Racine?” Lee asked weakly.

“Yes. Do you know the girl?”

“I've heard the name,” Lee admitted, thinking of how he had abruptly left her at the rail when he'd gone looking for Deborah Haig.

“Her father was a big rancher and a very well known man in Crook County,” Stevens went on. “And I'll say that Herb Racine was just about the toughest old codger I ever ran into. Hated both Hill and Harriman. He did a lot of work getting this people's railroad movement started. When he was killed about a year ago, his daughter inherited the ranch, and I'm sorry to say she inherited his prejudices and economic theories.” Stevens smiled. “That's the story, son. You have a reputation for making women like you, so I don't think you'll fail.”

Lee rose and reached for his hat, thinking sourly that he hadn't lived up to his reputation with Hanna Racine. “Do I have a free hand?” he asked.

“The sky's the limit.” Stevens glanced through the window. “We seem to be getting in.” Rising, he handed Lee a checkbook, a power of attorney, and a handful of forms. “Any of our agents could buy most of the missing pieces, but the Racine property will take all of your special talents.”

“I'll try to make use of those talents.”

Stevens offered his hand. “Good luck, Dawes. I want regular reports. Send them to the OTL in Portland. Within a week or so, go on to Bend and stay at the Pilot Butte Inn. I'll send you detailed instructions there. Later, you'll be working with Porter Brothers, who are doing our construction for us. They'll put in a camp at Horseshoe Bend, which is in the lower cañon and a trouble spot. Another camp will go in at Charley U'Rens's place above White Horse rapids. One of our main problems is getting materials into the cañon. Some will go out over the Great Southern to Dufur on the west side and then be freighted down to the Deschutes, but the bulk of it will go over Harriman's Columbia Southern on the east side and be ferried across the river. Later, you'll be working on some of those access problems. They'll be tough nuts to crack.” He shook his head, and then, eyes twinkling, he added: “And don't get too distracted by the beauties you'll find along the Deschutes.”

“I'll remember that, sir,” Lee said, sobered by the magnitude of this race, and by the error he had already unwittingly made. Lee stepped out of the stateroom, thinking again of a certain skirt that flicked so fetchingly above a certain pair of pretty ankles, and, as he turned along the deck, he noted that they were rounding Crates Point, which meant they would soon be in.

Then he saw Deborah Haig. She disappeared from sight forward, and he followed in long, quick strides. She vanished into her cabin as he rounded the bow, hurrying as if she realized he was following. Lee found the door shut when he reached her cabin. Without knocking, he turned the knob and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

The girl whirled, anger sparking brightly in her eyes. “What right . . . ?”

“You ran, but you knew I'd follow, so you didn't lock the door. Wasn't it Eve who started this game with Adam?”

“I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Gentleman?” Lee laughed. “Not any. We'll be landing in ten minutes. Let me take you to supper tonight.”

Deborah looked at him thoughtfully, with the cool judgment of an experienced and mature woman. “You have a way with you, Dawes.”

“What's that got to do with supper?”

“I was thinking of another time. The answer is no. I'm meeting somebody.”

“A man?”

“Perhaps.”

“Deborah, we've got to meet again. We couldn't be thrown together like this and do nothing about it. Lady Luck wouldn't give us another chance.” He came closer, eyes utterly serious. “If I've offended you, I'm sorry.”

“A persuasive speech, Mister Dawes. I'll make you a trade. Tell me where you're heading, and I'll tell you if we'll meet again.”

He was instantly on the defensive, feeling the prying quality of her offer. The girl sensed his thought, and the friendliness abruptly left her eyes. There was a short moment of inner debate in him. Then he said, against his better judgment: “Shaniko.”

Deborah's smile came quickly. “Why, so am I.”

“Supper there?”

“Why not just wait and ask me there.” There was more promise in her eyes than he had expected. “Will your friend be with you?”

His eyes narrowed. “What friend?”

“Oh, the steward said some man wanted to see you.”

“It wasn't important. Not like seeing you in Shaniko.”

He drew her into his arms, and, when there was no resistance, fire crept into his lips as he pressed them against hers. She was limp and clinging, and a flame touched them, and he sensed that she, too, felt it. Then she pulled from him as abruptly as she had submitted.

“It was easy, wasn't it, Dawes? I wonder if you have ever kissed a woman seriously.”

“What did you think that was?”

“A trial, I'd say.” Her breath made a little sigh. “I guess you'd better go. We're landing.”

Lee paused at the door, his eyes on her speculatively. “Shaniko,” he said, and left the cabin.

He found himself directly in the path of Hanna Racine. She went past him, her eyes showing no sign of recognition. Lee, turning toward his own cabin for his luggage, felt a sudden uneasiness grip him. He had no way of determining whether Hanna knew whose cabin he had been leaving, but, judging by the way she had hurried by, he was afraid she did. A fine start he had made in this gigantic chess game John Stevens was playing.

The
Inland Belle
was cutting in slowly to the landing, the big stern wheel seeming to walk across the water. Lee stood at the rail on the shore side, his grips at his feet. The Dalles spread before his eyes on a flat beneath the huge, brown hills. This was the entrance to much of central Oregon—a romantic town that had seen settlers pouring in from the East and miners heading eastward to the gold-bearing streams. He had been here during the North Bank fight, crossing on the ferryboat from Grand Dalles, where the Hill line had its station. But there was little here now to attract him. One word kept ringing in his ears: “Shaniko!”

Hanna Racine hurried past, and waited with a studied soberness for the gangplank to be run out. The passengers crowded by, and with some amusement he saw the fat owner of the dog, Willie, come down the passage. His wife was with him, but it was the man who was having the trouble. His arms were piled with luggage that teetered uncertainly, and somewhere in that tangle of arms and hands and bags he found a finger to grip Willie's leash.

“Get a move on,” his wife was saying ominously.

It was then Willie saw Lee, and he promptly raced across the passage, pulling his leash across the fat man's legs. The man stumbled, and a valise bounced to the deck. Willie, disconcerted at finding himself unable to reach the tall man who had become the object of his affections, lunged again, and the fat one, legs tangled, went crashing down in a scattering of luggage. He swore and came to his knees, eyes blazing. He cuffed the dog savagely, and cursed again.

“Don't do that!” Lee bent threateningly. “Dog beaters come right down at the bottom of the pile.”

“You saw him trip me.”

“Don't you want him?”

“Want him? Hell, I'd like to drown him.”

Lee dangled a $10 bill in front of him. “I want him.”

“Horace, don't let him have Willie!” the woman screamed.

The fat man grinned at her as he reached for the money. “Maybe I should take up the matter of you drinking gin slings all day with Pete Royce. I'm tired of walking this dog. I'm tired of dog biscuits on the floor. I'm tired of having dog hair on my pants. You say he's yours, but I'm the dog maid.”

The woman sighed, and turned away. The fat man stuffed the money into his pocket, gathered up his luggage, and hurried after his wife. Lee, Willie's leash in his hand, watched them go. Hanna Racine had disappeared. Still Lee waited, seeing a way to regain lost ground with Hanna, and wanting to talk to Deborah again before she went ashore.

Then Lee's eyes fixed on a man standing on the wharf boat, his gaze pinned on the gangplank. A big man, only a little shorter than Lee and even wider of shoulder. The craggy Irish face, the sandy hair, the sprinkling of freckles—all familiar to Lee Dawes. So, too, were the big hands familiar, knuckles that Lee had felt on more than one occasion. Lee drew back slightly, knowing that Mike Quinn had not seen him and not wanting him to. And he thought swiftly of what this meant.

Lee, his attention on Quinn, did not see Deborah until she had hurried past. She turned down the gangplank, her body tall and perfectly molded. Then Quinn left his station, elbowing eagerly through the crowd. They met at the foot of the gangplank, and the girl went into his arms, her lips lifted to his. Lee Dawes stooped to pick up his luggage, anger pouring a wicked stream through him.

Chapter Three

T
he eastbound transcontinental of the OR&N moved swiftly out of The Dalles shortly before noon the next day, and, watching through the coach window, Lee Dawes received a jumbled impression of this land that was to be the northern terminus of the new railroad. The eastbound slid quickly around the swinging curves, passed the narrows in the river between Big Eddy and Celilo, and
clicked
on by the Indian fishing grounds at Celilo, the falls where in season the Warm Springs, Umatilla, and Yakima tribes came for salmon.