Timber Beasts Read online

  Timber Beasts

  1Timber Beasts

  This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise specifically noted, the events described are imaginary; the setting and characters are fictitious and nothing is intended to represent specific places, existing organizations or living persons.

  Timber Beasts

  A Yamhill Press Book

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2010 by S. L. Stoner

  Cover Design by Icky A. www.blackoutprint.com

  Interior Design by Josh MacPhee [email protected]

  For information address: Yamhill Press at [email protected]

  E-book978-0-9823184-1-6 – Smashwords Edition

  Publisher’s Cataloging in Publication

  Stoner, S.L., 1949 –

  Timber Beasts: A Sage Adair Historical Mystery/S.L. Stoner.

  p.cm. – (A Sage Adair historical mystery)

  1. Northwest, Pacific–History–20th century–Fiction. 2. Labor unions–Fiction. 3. Logging–Fiction. 4. Martial arts–Fiction. 5. Forest reserves–Law and legislation–Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories. 7. Historical fiction. 8. Adventure stories. I. Title. II. Series: Sage Adair historical mystery.

  PS3619.T6857T56 2010 813'.6QBI09-700003

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  Timber Beasts

  A Sage Adair Historical Mystery

  _____________________________________________________

  S. L. Stoner

  Yamhill Press

  P.O. Box 42348

  Portland, OR 97242

  For George R. Slanina, Jr.

  who never gives up on the struggle.

  CHAPTER 1

  June 1902, Roseburg, Oregon

  The burly man lurched out of billowing steam and smoke to grab at the ladder that was bolted to the locomotive’s side.

  “Howdy, Clancy,” the locomotive fireman above him called without pausing in his swivel between wood pile and fire box. “Thought we’d have to pull out without you!”

  “Nah, no way I’d miss this trip,” the railroad security bull called back, each word spoken with the careful enunciation of an experienced imbiber. He started pulling himself aboard, his heavy boots with their loosely tied red and black leather laces clanging as he stumbled up the worn steel rungs of the narrow ladder. Once aboard, Clancy busied himself retrieving a steel coupler pin from a storage compartment. With a grunt he stood erect, bracing himself on widespread legs, his big hands caressing the fourteen-inch-long metal bolt which was tied to a coiled hemp rope. Lifting the rope closer to his squinting eyes, he used a dirty fingernail to scrape at brown bits flecking the hemp strands before giving it a yank to make sure it was securely tied through the bolt’s eye. Satisfied, he stepped to the locomotive’s window and hawked phlegm into the sunlight before leaning back against the cab’s vibrating wall and closed his eyes. Next to his boot, the coupler pin jittered atop the steel plate like a young retriever on a tight leash.

  The fireman paused, his eyes on the ten-pound hunk of metal. His shoulders twitched and he looked toward the locomotive engineer who sent him a cautionary head shake. The fireman shrugged and returned to stoking the fire box. “She’s at full burn,” he shouted seconds later. “Let ‘er rip.” As the locomotive began rolling forward, the fireman slammed the iron door shut and rested his rump on the sand box. Lips compressed into a thin line, he turned his face away from Clancy and the railroad bull’s leashed companion.

  * * *

  Twenty miles to the north, the iron wheels of another train clickety-clacked into the distance. Two brothers remained behind, hunkered down in long summer grass south of a wooden water tower.

  The dark-haired younger boy threw a handful of torn stems toward the metal tracks. “Darn! That was the third train we couldn’t ride ‘cause there weren’t no open doors. Matthew, I’m so hungry every time I swallow, my stomach says, ‘Thanks.’”

  Red-haired Matthew made no answer. His clear blue eyes were surveying the jumble of a nearby collapsed shack. Getting up, he pulled two eight-foot planks loose and swept off the pill bugs clinging to the damp undersides. Planks in hand, Matthew waded back though the tall grass to where the dark-haired boy now lay motionless on his back, his eyes on the maple’s leafy hands fluttering against the intense blue sky.

  As Matthew dropped the planks, Billy stirred and raised up on one elbow. Matthew gestured toward the boards, saying, “I have us a back-up plan. I talked to some of the hobos back home and these here planks are just the trick. You still got that rope stuffed inside your bindle?”

  Billy sat up, a dubious scowl lowering his eyebrows. “What you got swimming about in your head now, Matthew? What can we do with them planks?”

  Matthew tugged two lengths of twisted hemp loose from inside a rolled-up blanket. “A rope is a mighty fine tool. In fact, this here rope is going to solve our problem. When the next train stops to pick up water, if there’s no open boxcar, we’ll crawl underneath and tie the planks to the cross pieces that run between the side rods. Then we’ll lay down and ride our planks all the way to Portland.”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “Underneath the train! You’re crazy. I’m not riding underneath any train.” Alarm cracked his fifteen-year-old voice.

  Matthew tossed the rope onto the planks. “All right, Billy, we won’t ride underneath the train, but there won’t be any open boxcars. The railroad bulls in Eugene lock ‘em before they ever reach us. You ain’t gonna try the plankskay. Then, I guess we’ll be staying here in this grass until it grows right over us.” He dropped down beside his brother.

  Billy rolled onto his hip. “Well, how about we walk to Portland?”

  Matthew sat up. “Just how can we walk almost a hundred miles on empty stomachs and no money? The way I see it, we either ride the rods or turn around and try to catch a train back to Marshfield and the cannery.”

  “The cannery? We can’t go back there. Folks’d laugh at us after all our talk. Besides, if I see one more dead fish, I’ll puke.”

  Matthew nodded vigorously and said, “That’s right, we can’t go back. Besides, you don’t belong in the cannery. You belong in a good school. The teacher says you got a ‘fine mathematical mind. When we get to Portland, I’m getting me a job so you can go to school.”

  “Aw Matthew, I’m not sure I want more schooling. I’m thinking it might be fun to be a printer’s devil. Help make books and magazines. Besides, you like schooling and reading lots more than I do.”

  “Don’t you try to back out now, Billy. You agreed that you’d be the one to go to school. You go back on that promise and I’m heading back to Marshfield.”

  Billy flopped down onto his back. “Well,” he began with a sigh, “I guess I don’t mind going back to school.” He voice took on an edge of excitement, “It’s going to be fun living in a big city. Aunt Ida living right downtown – can you imagine everything new we’re gonna see?”

  The two boys lay in silent contemplation until a whistle wailed from the south. It was the train coming up from Roseburg. Billy jumped up to scan the tracks. “Should be here in about five minutes,” he said.

  Matthew scrambled to his feet. “So what’s it to be, Billy? The rods or back home?”

  Billy sighed. “I guess the rods. Are you real sure its safe?”

  Matthew gathered up their bindles and the ropes. “Sure enough. The hobo said folks ride the rods all the t
ime. After we wedge the planks atop the cross pieces, we tie the rope around to make sure the planks don’t move sideways. Then we lay down and hold on tight. In no time at all we’ll be at Aunt Ida’s kitchen door.”

  The train chugged around the far curve, white smoke streaming down its back. The boys crouched behind the maple as the engine rolled past in its long screeching stop. There were no open doors in the line of boxcars.

  Matthew dashed toward a wooden-sided boxcar that rode higher above the rail bed than the other cars in the line. Matthew shouted over the screech of the braking train. “Hurry! The train’ll be pulling out in five minutes. We’ll tie yours first.”

  They worked quickly, tying Billy’s plank forward on the rods, about four feet ahead of his older brother’s because Matthew wanted to keep an eye on him. When the locomotive jerked forward, its thirst slaked, their stomachs were pressed into the planks, bindles tied so that the blanket rolls lay snug against their backs. Each brother held tight to the rod at the head of his plank. As the train picked up speed, fright closed their eyes and white-knuckled their fingers.

  Within a mile, terror gave way to the realization the planks were secure, swaying rhythmically as the train rolled along the rail bed. They grinned at each other across the four-foot space.Once the flash of railroad ties turned commonplace, the boys looked toward the summer fields rolling past, framed by wooden boxcar, flashing metal wheels and glinting steel track.

  Two hours later, the train began jerking to a halt. Green pastures stretched out on either side of the track. Likely another water stop at one of the big wooden water tanks the railroad planted at intervals alongside the track. They stayed put. No sense running the risk of being spotted by a railroad bull.

  Above the tick of cooling steel, they heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on the gravel roadbed. The footsteps stopped and started, moving ever closer as a railroad bull rattled boxcar doors, checking for hobos.

  When the footsteps stopped at their car, Matthew twisted to look past his own feet at a pair of black boots standing on the roadbed gravel. Red and black braided laces crosshatched their way up the boot tongues. The bull grunted as he tugged at the locked door. Yet the boots didn’t step off toward the rear of the train. Matthew’s heartbeat began thudding in his ears. He stared at the boots, waiting for a sneering ugly face to appear beneath the car. As his terror intensified, Matthew closed his eyes and pressed his nose into the plank. He willed the boots to crunch away. A few seconds later, they did.

  Matthew opened his eyes and he exchanged a relieved look with Billy as the boots moved toward the locomotive. They paused for a few seconds near the front coupling of their boxcar. At the train whistle’s toot, the boots hurried away. Seconds later the steel wheels began turning and Matthew whooped with relief.

  They’d made it! He’d missed them. The train wouldn’t be stopping before it reached the Portland railyard. Soon they’d be surprising Aunt Ida on her doorstep. Matthew could almost taste her cherry pie.

  The train jerked forward. As it picked up speed, a shriek rose above the rail clack. Matthew looked toward Billy and saw a heavy metal bolt bounce up from the roadbed and slam into Billy’s back. The boy was writhing on his plank but couldn’t escape the reach of the bouncing hunk of metal. How come it didn’t drop away? Then Matthew saw. The bolt was tied to the end of a rope stretching from the front of the boxcar. That’s what that son-of-a-bitch bull had been doing up there at the coupling.

  Something wet hit Matthew’s face. He loosened his hand to feel the wet, crying out as he recognized bright red blood. “Billy . . . Billy!” Matthew shouted louder than the rattling train and the rushing wind. “Billy, get your knife. Cut it loose! Billy, Billy!”

  His brother twisted his head toward Matthew, his mouth open, his eyes wide and rolling, frantically searching for escape, terror deafening his ears. As Matthew screamed instructions at his brother, he saw the demon bar leapt up from behind to slam into Billy’s head. Billy’s eyes closed. His fingers released their grip on the rod.

  “Noooo . . . “ Matthew screamed, panic sending his hands scrabbling along the rod toward his brother’s plank until his body stretched across the open space between them. One hand clutching the rod, his other hand grabbed at his unconscious brother. The train banked into a curve. He snatched his hand back, nearly falling as the plank under his knees tilted. Billy’s body slid down the plank until his feet hit the rod and he rolled off.

  Matthew screamed again. “Billy . . . noooo . . . Billy!” For an instant, Billy’s body lay across the track. The boxcar bumped. Rushing air shoved streamers of bright red across the underside of the car. Matthew hung transfixed, stretched across open space between the planks. Then his arm muscles quivered in fatigue and began to give way. Even as his mind went numb, the instinct for survival took over. Inch by painful inch, Matthew moved his hands back down the rod until his body was squarely atop his plank. Gasping, he lay there, a mewing whimper coming from his throat. Four feet away his brother’s empty plank jostled whenever the killer bolt slammed into it. At last, the plank fractured and fell, leaving the bolt bouncing up from the railroad ties to gash the boxcar’s wooden bottom. Then its tether snapped and it, too, was gone. Matthew ground his face into the rough wood plank and sobbed, his heart torn open, his mind flailing.

  CHAPTER 2

  Same day, Portland, Oregon

  Sage Adair’s ankle twisted, sending his foot in a different direction than the rest of him. Sage lurched, cursed but kept running. Only two blocks covered and he was already slowing down, sucking air, getting clumsy. “‘Panic overthrows mind and kills body.’ Now who’d said that?’” he wondered. “Fong, had to be Fong.”

  “Faster, pick up your feet.” Sage huffed the words. Wasted breath. Should have kept my trap shut, he thought. Sweat streaked the face of the fellow running alongside, his shorter legs moving him as fast as they could pump. Still, his speed was no match for Sage’s six-footer stride. Sage slowed. Can’t leave the stranger, “Bob” he’d called himself, in this kind of fix.

  The field ahead, lying between the cobbled street and train tracks, was their only hope. Its leggy grass concealed a clutter of rusted metal, broken glass, wood scraps and the sucking bogs of early summer potholes. Maybe those men chasing them wouldn’t realize the danger. Could slow them down.

  “Careful . . . now, lots of . . . crap lying up ahead in them weeds,” Sage managed to squeeze out as he sucked in more air. “Watch where you go.” His companion merely grunted.

  Sage gauged the distance to the south end of the railway yard. That hobo camp was over a block away. If they could get into those scrubby alder woods, they could lose the men who were chasing them. The trails there were as familiar as the back of his hand. And, he might find comrades–enough to outnumber their would-be attackers.

  The shriek of steel wheels killed that hopeful thought. A freight train was rolling in from the south, its brakes grabbing hold as it slowed rounding the curve. Its length cut off access to the hobo camp. Ditch that plan. Sage tamped down another surge of panic. Find another option.

  Another locomotive’s whistle hooted. Sage’s eyes landed on a second train that was readying to roll north out of the yard, its exhaust chuffs starting up. Risking a misstep, he looked over his shoulder. All five of the heavy-footed louts were matching Sage and his running partner, stride for stride. Strangers, every one of them. But their intent was clear. Mean and mad they were. Angry pursuit equaled a bad outcome–no doubt about that.

  “Who are those guys anyway?” Sage huffed, his head still swivelled to look behind. Three of them six feet tall, the trailing two, inches shorter. All in good wind. Not a one slowing. All five thudding down the boardwalk like a herd of crazed buffalo.

  “God awful . . . bad . . . men,” his companion wheezed out.

  Sage’s work boot snagged on a rusty tin strap, snapping his attention forward. Balance recovered, he considered the two trains. In seconds the incoming train would block their
path, trapping them. That departing freight train would be pulling out about the same time since smoke was billowing out its stack as if it were about to explode.

  So, if they could cross the tracks in front of the incoming train, they could hop the departing train. The incoming train should block their pursuers. That’s the plan then. He heard his mother’s voice in his head, “It’s a case of chicken or feathers, my boy, chicken or feathers.” “Damn bloody feathers at that,” Sage muttered.

  If we don’t beat that incoming train, we’ll have to fight. No other place to run. Sage grabbed hold of the other man’s arm and increased their speed, nearly jerking the smaller man off his feet. “We got . . . only one chance,” Sage said through teeth gritted with effort. “They’re too close on our tails . . . for us to angle off.”

  Sage’s chest ached for lack of air. His throat was burning. They might not make it. What chance did they have if they turned and fought? He glanced at the Bob fella. About twenty-five years old. No brawn to him. Wiry, though. Ropey muscles. Two to five odds. Not for-certain sure they’d get trounced but certain sure they’d get hurt.

  A gunshot cracked, sending dust spurting skyward a mere two feet to their left. That sight poured strength into their legs. Both picked up their pace. Fisticuffs maybe, but not fists against bullets. Any fool knew better. Even one stumbling through a railyard, a stranger at his side, with no idea why five men seemed intent on thumping the two of them.