Dead Line Read online

  DEAD LINE

  Also by S.L. Stoner

  in the

  Sage Adair Historical Mysteries of the Pacific Northwest

  Timber Beasts

  Land Sharks

  Dry Rot

  Black Drop

  The Mangle

  Slow Burn

  S. L. Stoner

  Yamhill Press

  www.yamhillpress.net

  Dead Line published by Smashwords

  A Sage Adair Historical Mystery of the Pacific Northwest

  Dead Line is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental unless specifically noted otherwise.

  A Yamhill Press Book All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2015 by S. L. Stoner

  Cover Design by Alec Icky Dunn/Blackoutprint.com

  Interior Design by Josh MacPhee/AntumbraDesign.org

  Printed in the United States. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without permission. For information contact Yamhill Press at www.yamhillpress.net.

  Edition ISBNs

  Softcover ISBN 978-0-9907509-0-1

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9823184-3-0

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Dead Line / S.L. Stoner

  pages cm. -(A Sage Adair historical mystery of the Pacific Northwest) 1. Northwest, Pacific--History--20th century--Fiction. 2. Sheep ranching--Fiction. 3. Land fraud--Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories. 5. Martial arts fiction. 6. Historical fiction.

  7. Adventure stories. I. Title. II. Series: Stoner, S. L. Sage Adair historical mystery.

  PS3619.T6857D43 2015 813’.6 QBI15-600021

  This Story is Dedicated to Denise L. Collins,

  A Beautiful Soul

  Who Keeps Her Moral Compass Well-Polished

  and in Fine Working Order

  and to

  Labor Union Attorneys Everywhere,

  Especially Those Who Practice in the Pacific Northwest.

  It Has Been An Honor to Know You

  “Only perform those acts which your soul approves.”

  —Buddha

  ONE

  Sage grabbed at the Seat rail when a hoof slipped and the horse’s rear end dipped. A raspy guffaw rang out, riding breath laced with stale booze.

  “Least you’re of a mind to get flattened like a Johnny Cake, you’d do a mite better leaping off ’n the top instead of holding on for dear life. If this rig decides to turn bottom up, you don’t want to ride her over,” the stagecoach driver advised. He guffawed again before spitting a brown arc of tobacco juice over the side where it disappeared in the dust churned up by the wheels.

  Bone dry, barren land as far as Sage could see. Something out there would, no doubt, welcome the moisture in that vile stuff. Not for the first time, he studied the parched landscape with distaste. He was a mountain man at heart. Give him trees and ferns and even dripping rain. This bleak rolling plain threatened death by thirst, snakebite or boredom.

  “Besides, it won’t do us any good you grabbing hold of that rail if things turn a mite tricky,” continued the driver. His name was Dexter Higgenbottom. He’d been, he’d said,“whelped in the Ozark Mountains of the fine State of Missouri.”

  Sage pulled out a kerchief and raised his hat to wipe the sweat off his forehead. That blasted sun made him feel like he was being skewered to the seat. “Tricky?” he repeated, turning to look at the man. And, what did Dexter mean, “do us any good?”

  Keen blue eyes, nesting deep in sun-burnt wrinkles, studied him. If the furrow between the man’s brows was any indication, ‘ole Dexter was having some doubts. Like maybe he’d invited the wrong man to ride atop his stagecoach.

  Dexter answered the unspoken question as if Sage had asked it aloud. “I figured, from the look of you, that maybe there was a bit more weathering under your hat brim than the others. Them other passengers ain’t suitable. The fellow’s a citified sales drummer. That mother gal is coming back from nursing relatives in Portland. She’d likely do but she’s tuckered out from taking care of sick folks. I wouldn’t mind sharing my seat with that back-east school marm. She’s a looker but she’s got no experience. Says she’s planning on teaching and homesteading so she’ll be learning prairie ways. But right now, she’s greener than a spring tomader. You know how to shoot that rifle you got shoved down in your pack?”

  Puzzled, Sage glanced around the countryside and saw only rock-strewn prairie, tufts of sparse grass and gray clumps of sagebrush. Unless they came upon a stone outcrop close to the road, there was little chance of any holdup men. The more likely calamity was snapping an axle in one of the deep ruts they bounced into and out of with some regularity. Though mystified he answered, “Yup, learned how to use it in the Yukon. Up there, plenty of critters think a fellow’s just grub on two legs,” Sage said before clamping his lips shut. No sense in saying anything more until he got a notion of where Dexter was headed.

  “Hoped that was the case. You take a look-see at my shotgun down there.” He tipped his head in the direction of a scabbard tied between his right foot and Sage’s left foot so that the gun stock was ready to hand.

  “She’s loaded with double-ought buckshot. Won’t be too long before we head down into Cow Canyon. That’s a darn rough road, narrow and steep as all get out. More than one team,” he nodded toward the horses, “has run off the edge.” Dexter’s sent another brown squirt over the side, giving Sage time to set the image in his mind.

  “Fact is, friend of mine by the name of Hector Stubbs, was driving his coach down the canyon a few days ago. Something scared the horses. He tried getting them under control. Instead, the coach hit a rock and he got his self tossed off.” Dexter fell silent.

  Sage cleared his throat. “Did Mister Stubbs make it?”

  “Nope. Wheels rolled right over him. Squashed his skull flat. Right there in the middle of the canyon.”

  Sage glanced at the driver’s face. It was all hard lines and pale eyes staring westward toward the distant Cascade range.

  “Sorry to hear that,” was all Sage could think to say. He looked down at the twin triggers of the double-barreled shotgun, still wondering why he might need to pull them.

  Dexter glanced at Sage. “Heck was a damn fine man with the reins. He was my counter driver. I’d be heading south same time he’d be heading north and vice-versa. We liked to meet up at the Willowdale station. Have a smoke, nip a bit from the flask and do a spot of jawing. I figure something made his horses bolt. Something about halfway down the canyon bottom.”

  “You thinking it was a rattler?” If so, Sage thought, we are definitely in trouble. Shooting a coiled snake from up here atop this bouncing seat would be a challenge. Way harder than dropping a charging moose in his tracks.

  “Nah, snakes ain’t the problem. Sure, there’s plenty of rattlers in this country but the horses are used to them. Besides, this rig makes so much noise I think every snake within a mile hears us a’comin and skedaddles. Nah,” he said again, “I’m thinking coyote.”

  “Coyote?” Sage repeated, skepticism in his voice. That rangy critter was famous for being man-shy. They disappeared whenever they sensed humans. Working in the woods, he’d heard them howling most every night but never saw them except at a distance.

  Again, Dexter interpreted Sage’s reaction exactly. “Yup, normally, coyotes ain’t no danger. They’ll bring down a rancher’s sheep or calves but they stay away from humans. But lately, rabies has gotten into the animals hereabouts. And, a rabid coyote turns mighty different. They’ll charge anything and everything that’s a’moving. Best rule of thumb out here on the prairie is ‘if a coyote heads your way, shoot ‘
em dead. If you can’t do that, you better get your feet a-flying in the opposite direction.”

  Dexter switched the reins to his left hand so he could reach inside his capacious vest and extract a metal flask. In a practiced, one-handed move, he unscrewed the top and tilted his head back. Sage watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob between his grizzled chin and the red kerchief around his neck. Dexter’s eyes never left the road during this maneuver.

  “Want a swallow?” he asked, holding the flask out to Sage. “Don’t mind if I do,” Sage responded. Why not? He asked himself. It’s not like I have anything to do other than keep my seat and shoot a rabid coyote or two. The whiskey burned its way down his throat and into his belly. He grimaced. The stuff was no kin to the smooth heat of Kentucky bourbon.

  “I don’t go with that fancy stuff,” Dexter declared. “Rot gut whiskey has carried me over many a rough road. It’s cheap. Everybody sells it. And, the best thing is, it don’t never spoil you for nothing worse, ‘cause there ain’t no such thing,” Dexter finished, before taking one final gulp and tucking the flask away.

  Once the flask was secure and another hunk of tobacco chaw settled in his cheek, Dexter rein-snapped the horses into a slightly faster pace. He continued his explanation. “Reason I’m thinking it was a rabid coyote is that I seen signs of one in the canyon. A rabid coyote will go after wood if he can’t find nothing warm-blooded to bite. My last run, I seen that some critter had gnawed on the wood post holding up the toll station sign. Those gnaw marks was down low on the post. That’s what made me think ‘coyote’.

  “Which means, once we’re down in that canyon, you’ll need to keep a sharp eye out. If I was by my own self, I’d lay that shotgun across my lap and pray like hell I could hold the horses and hit the coyote at the same time. You sitting up here makes everybody safer. Once we reach the bottom of the canyon, you pull that ole shotgun out and keep it ready. You see a coyote heading our direction, just shoot him dead. Don’t be wondering about whether he’s sick or not.‘Cause, I got to tell you, them horses get a good look at him, it’ll be hard to hold ‘em. That gol’ durn trail’s steep, narrow and rocky—they take it in their heads to bolt, we could lose our seats. More’n one runaway team’s smashed its wagon to bits.”

  Sage shifted on his seat, eyeing the gun butt. At least, the shotgun’s scatter pattern didn’t require a sharpshooter’s aim.

  “You know much about teamstering?” Dexter asked Sage some minutes later.

  “Can’t say that I do,” Sage answered honestly. “Course I’ve ridden on stagecoaches and wagons but never driven more than a single horse buggy. I’m more used to riding the rails, sledding, canoeing—though mostly I’ve traveled by shanks’ mare,” he said, thinking of the hundreds of miles he’d trudged through the Yukon’s stunted forests.

  “Them rails is exactly what’s killing my profession,” Dexter said glumly. “Once they laid track to Shaniko, in 1900, the stage route from The Dalles went dead. Next line we lose will be this here piece, between Shaniko and Prineville. They’re even talking about laying the rails from the Columbia River clear south to Farewell Bend.”

  Dexter sighed and squinted at the distant mountains as if contemplating his doomed profession. Then he straightened, glanced at Sage and said, “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just give you the teamster basics. Just in case.”

  Sage nodded his assent. Dexter had done a fine job of making the descent down Cow Canyon sound as perilous as a spring thaw run down the Yukon River.

  Gesturing at the horses, Dexter said, “First you need to know the horses’ jobs. The two up front are the leads, these two back here, are called wheelers. That’s on account of them being closest to the coach wheels. The front ones are the smartest. These wheelers are the strongest. Them bells on the leads are not for show. With these narrow roads we need to warn folks that we’re a’coming. ‘Specially since we travel a mite faster than the freighters. Up to seven miles an hour on the flat stretches.” That last sentence held pride.

  Sage studied the muscled haunches of the four horses. Their shiny manes stirred in the breeze of their movement. They looked well-cared for, unlike the coach they pulled. That contraption rocked, squeaked and groaned at every bump. It was a miserable, road-worn affair. Grimy twine tied up stained canvas window shades. The narrow bench seats sported a few worn velvet buttons anchored to thin cushions. The canvas pad Sage sat upon was twice as thick.

  Dexter’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Now each horse has a rein. But, if you can only keep hold of two, you want them to be the lead reins. That’s ‘cause these wheeler horses are attached to each other and to the lead horses. That keeps them in place. Whatever them lead animals take it into their heads to do, the wheelers will more’n likely follow right along.

  “If you look down beside the box there, you’ll see a long handle. There’s one on each side. Them’s brake levers. If I holler ‘brake’ I expect you to grab that lever on your side and pull back with every bit of strength you got. It likely won’t stop the coach or a bolting team, but it might slow us down a bit until I can get things under control.”

  Sage mulled over the instructions. Grab and pull if Dexter yelled “brake” and dive for the lead reins if, God forbid, Dexter dropped them.

  They jostled along, with only the coach’s rattles and distant bird calls breaking the silence. Sage glumly surveyed the landscape as sweat streamed down his back and sides. The crystalline air and cloudless sky offered no protection from the sun’s heat. Only the breeze stirred by their passing, dried his sweaty brow whenever he lifted his hat for relief. Even without the discomforting heat, the dry prairie desolation would have lowered his spirits. Given a choice, he wouldn’t be here.

  Dexter interrupted Sage’s dark musings by clearing his throat to ask, “So, Mr. Miner, what’s brought you into this country?” For the first time, Sage wished he’d picked a different alias. Feeling a little silly at the coincidence of his false name and his pretend occupation he said, “Thought I’d try a little panning up on Scissors Creek, outside Prineville. I heard tell color’s been found there. And, I figured I might like the ponderosa pine and empty spaces thereabouts.”

  Dexter nodded. “Yup, some years’ back folks found a few nuggets up that way all right. ‘Course Ashwood’s the place where most folks prospect these days.”

  Sage had heard of the big mining operations outside Ashwood. But, Ashwood wouldn’t do. It was too distant from the place and people he needed to investigate. Unable to share that reason with Dexter, he said, “Naw, too many people up around Ashwood. I’m used to panning in the back of beyond. I don’t like bumping into another man every few feet.”

  Dexter laughed.“That for sure is Ashwood. I drove stage into there for awhile. These days, it’s got more bustle than Prineville. Gold, silver, copper and now they’re saying, mercury. They’ve been finding all of it. Hard to believe there’s treasure in those hills. ‘Course thinking there’s ways to get rich quick, brings out some pretty bad fellows. Hope you know how to handle yerself?” Sage gave the stagecoach driver a mirthless smile. The other man’s gaze sharpened.“Why, I ‘spect you do, Mr. Miner,” he said, answering his own self as he nodded.“I rightly ’spect you do,” he repeated under his breath.

  Ahead, the road seemed to disappear into the sky. Dexter pulled back on the reins, bringing the stage to a gentle stop. In the sudden quiet, a breeze jostled dry roadside grasses and the horses blew and snorted, their hooves softly thudding in the dust. The coach rocked and creaked as the three passengers clambered out, exclaiming as they moved cramped muscles. No doubt they were glad to walk out aches and the nausea caused by the coach’s pitching from side to side.

  Sage climbed down off his perch, as did Dexter who said, “I’m going to check the harnesses and straps. Make sure everything is right ‘n tight,” He turned away and began tugging the nearest harness buckles.

  Sage wandered ahead of the coach. He’d be more a hindrance than a help where the horses we
re concerned. He’d met few horses he liked. Most tried to throw or knock him off. Thirty paces farther on and the Cow Canyon abyss lay at his feet. Far below a dry streambed twisted through a narrow ravine. Ahead, tumbled rock cluttered the high ground between two parallel ruts that plunged downward toward a sharp, hairpin turn. Now he saw the reason for the coach’s tall wheels. They were needed to clear the road’s high center and its scattering of stray rocks.

  Brush and grass dotted the ravine. How did they find sufficient moisture to survive on a hillside of rock scree and parched gravel? He listened and heard only the muted voices of the passengers and the faint buzz of insects. Mostly, the silence felt like a physical weight pressing against his ears. A shadow raced across the road at his feet. He looked up. Two huge birds wheeled soundlessly overhead. Turkey vultures, those harbingers of death. Despite the heat, he shuddered. Runaway horses, coiled rattlers, rabid coyotes. Who knows what other dangers lay ahead? Maybe those circling birds would get lucky.

  “There she is, Cow Canyon, worst dang stretch on the whole route.” Sage jumped at the sound of Dexter’s voice. The driver didn’t seem to notice. “She drops 1,400 hundred feet in less than five miles,” he continued. “Every single foot of it bone-jarring rock. Few places, the rocks are so bad that if you hit ‘em wrong, our whole kit-and-caboodle will tump over and roll downhill like an empty milk can.”

  “I sure hope we don’t meet any wagons coming the other way,” Sage commented.

  “Ain’t much danger of that,” Dexter assured him.“That down there is just too steep for the horses to pull uphill, even with a light load. Most every wagon heading north, including the other stage, takes the Antelope cutoff and comes at Shaniko the long way. ”