Dead Line Page 14

  That’s exactly what happened. Jones had spoken to a deputy, stressing Sage’s respectable connection to Van Ostrand and Thomas. Soon, Sage occupied a straight-back chair sitting in the narrow aisle between two iron-barred cells. Fromm occupied one cell, the other was empty. The homesteader sat on the end of an iron cot, facing Sage.

  Introductions over, Sage said, “Mr. Fromm, I promised your wife that I’d try to help you. I was hoping you would be able to tell me something of what happened the day before yesterday. The day you spent looking for Rayburn.”

  Worry had aged the homesteader’s face. He was no longer the happy man Sage had seen greeting his wife at the Willowdale station. But Fromm’s voice was calm as he answered, “Lisabet, the kids and me reached town about eleven that morning. I went to the sheriff ’s office to register a complaint against Rayburn but the office was closed. I decided to confront Rayburn myself. I had to know what we had done to make him try to destroy everything we’d worked so hard to build.” Fromm’s hands became fists, as anger washed across his face. After a second, he continued, “I wanted to know why he’d endangered my family. So I left Lisabet and the kids at Lippman’s Furniture Emporium. We planned to meet up later on at the Vienna Café and head back to the farm.”

  Fromm paused, apparently trying to remember the next sequence of events. “Folks said Rayburn was a drinker so I figured I’d find him in a saloon. I started looking. I don’t frequent those places so I wasn’t sure which one he’d visit. I first tried the Rimrock because I knew he’d had something to do with sheep. But Rayburn wasn’t there. After that, I just started at one end of Main Street and asked at every one until I reached the end.”

  A brief smile quirked Fromm’s lips. “I couldn’t find him anywhere. By the time I was done, I had walked off a lot of my mad.” Here his middle-aged face turned earnest again and he leaned toward Sage. “I started out ready to punch the fellow the minute I saw him. But, by the time I reached The Reception Room Saloon, I just wanted to know why. You understand?”

  Sage nodded and Fromm continued, “At the Reception, one of the fellows said Rayburn had talked about going fishing. So, I headed toward the river.” Fromm paused as he remembered the next events. He cleared his throat and continued, his voice tentative with worry, “I crossed the bridge and stumbled through the brush heading upstream. First, I saw a fishing pole, floating in the shallows. Then I saw his boots.”

  Fromm’s voice quieted as he remembered. “He wasn’t dead when I found him. I tried to help. I lifted his head but I knew he couldn’t make it. Someone had shot him clean through his chest and his whole chest was bloody. It was a god-awful big hole. He tried to tell me something but he was too far gone. Then he died.”

  “Did you hear the shot that killed him?”

  “I think I did. But I was by the river and it was making noise and I was making noise crashing through the brush. If I did, it was just a single shot.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Fromm looked shamefaced. “It’s funny how a mind works so fast when it’s scared. Once I saw that he was dead, I first thought of going to get the sheriff. But then, I realized everyone would think I’d killed him. I’d told everyone I was looking for him and I’d told them why. Now here he was, dead. So, I left him there.”

  “And where were you when they found you?”

  “I met Lisabet at the café. We sent the kids out to buy candy and I told her about finding Rayburn. Just as she noticed the blood on my sleeve, the sheriff comes in. He asked for my gun, smelled it and arrested me. Here I am.” Fromm gestured around the cell which was small, dark but clean. Still, the tin roof overhead radiated the morning sun’s gathering heat. By late afternoon, it would be unbearable.

  Fromm stepped closer to the bars. “Mr. Miner, God in heaven as my witness, I didn’t shoot Asa Rayburn. I might have slugged him a good one if I’d found him,” he raised his big fists, knuckles scarred from rough work, “But I sure the hell didn’t shoot him in the back. I’ve been sitting here, trying to think how to prove I didn’t kill Rayburn. But, I can think of nothing.”

  Sage studied Fromm. He was sweating, but so was Sage. Otherwise, the homesteader seemed to be forthright and honest. He could see why Dexter believed that Fromm was innocent. “Well, Mr. Fromm, you’re right. The facts look bad. The only chance we have of proving you didn’t kill Rayburn, is to figure out who had reason to want him dead.”

  That observation brought a nod from Fromm. “I’ve been thinking on that. Rayburn had no call to burn us out unless he was working for someone. It could be the military road owners. They’ve been trying to chase the homesteaders out but I’m not homesteading in one of their sections. My place has a spring and those are short in supply. But, if the military road owners plan on selling their sections to the timber companies, maybe they want to be able to say there were more sections available. I’ve been going round and round in my head and that’s the only reason I can come up with. Otherwise, I just can’t figure why Rayburn was at our place that day. That was going to be my first question to him.”

  There was no faulting the man’s logic. He was right. Sage considered what he’d learned about Rayburn. The man had been in the sheep business up north and associated with the herders at the Rimrock. The owner had given Rayburn a partial interest in the Rimrock only to regret it. The military road owners had been using Rayburn to bully the homesteaders into abandoning their claims. Sage cast his mind over all he’d learned in the six days he’d been in Prineville.

  “Tell me,” he asked Fromm, “do you know anything about Bellingham’s, that Morrow County sheep rancher, trouble with the federal district attorney?”

  Fromm looked puzzled then his face cleared as understanding dawned. “Why I know they indicted Bellingham for having his workers file sham homestead claims so that he could tie up open range for his sheep.” The homesteader jumped to his feet. “Why, that Rayburn fellow used to work for Bellingham. And, when I was asking after Rayburn at one saloon, a fellow told me that the federal prosecutor was asking after him too. Do you think Rayburn was going to testify against Bellingham? That maybe Bellingham wanted Rayburn dead?” For the first time, eagerness enlivened the homesteader.

  Sage raised a cautionary hand. “From what I’ve heard, Rayburn would do anything for money. Maybe he’d throw his old boss on the fire if given the choice between himself or Bellingham. But, right now, we have no proof that Rayburn is going to betray his former boss. Besides, we still don’t know why Rayburn tried to burn you out. That doesn’t tie to Bellingham at all.”

  Fromm dropped down on the bunk and put his face in his hands. After a moment he looked at Sage. “If I’d just held on to my temper. If we’d just stayed home, none of this would have happened. Lisabet can’t keep the homestead going all by herself. Whoever sent Rayburn out to burn down our place has won.”

  Sage left the jail without any clear direction but lots of questions. He’d returned to his records search for Van Ostrand. His list of names complied, he headed back to the dentist’s office. As he climbed the stairs an attractive woman, with two children in tow, was descending. There was a worry crease between two fine dark eyes. Just as they were about to exit, she told her children, “It looks like we won’t be visiting grandma and grandpa this summer. Your father says we can’t afford it. We’ll find something else fun to do. Maybe go camping in the mountains. ” The door closed on the children’s whines of disappointment.

  Heat lay heavy in the upstairs hallway. Sage first looked through the open door of the treatment room. It was empty of both patient and dentist. The office door knob turned under his hand and he pushed it open. Inside, Van Ostrand sat at his desk, head in hands, shoulders hunched.

  Sage clearing his throat caused the dentist to turn around. “Oh, it’s you,” he said without enthusiasm or interest. He took Sage’s list but didn’t look at it before he tossed it onto the desk. Instead he asked, “Do you have any children, Miner?”

  Oddly, the a
nswering “no” stuck in Sage’s throat, snagging on the memory of a fantasy he’d once had . . . one of Lucinda and their daughter carrying lunch to where Sage and their son worked clearing an orchard. Those two children had never existed and never would now that Charlie Siringo had staked his claim on Lucinda’s heart. Sage cleared his throat.“No. Though, I wouldn’t mind having a couple,” he answered truthfully.

  “Well, the most awful thing a man can do is disappoint his children,” the dentist said.

  Dr. Van Ostrand abruptly stood and charged into his treatment room where he began cleaning his various instruments. Sage trailed behind to say, “The list I gave you identifies the springs in each section and shows the homesteaders who own the land around those springs.”

  “Yes, yes,” the man responded, with irritation. “Wait a moment, I have to finish cleaning these instruments before the blood dries. Just stand over there by the window and be quiet,” he said, then added sharply, “And, don’t block the light!”

  Sage stood against the wall and studied the room. It was well appointed for a dentist’s office located so far from a big city. He gazed about, noting the patients’ black leather reclining chair, the white ceramic spit bowl and a drill arm arching over the chair. Following its lines, he saw the well-worn foot peddle Van Ostrand pumped to turn the drill at the end of the apparatus. Ether’s pungent smell hung in the room. Sage stepped closer to the open window. The smell was nauseating, maybe because Sage retained a vivid memory of when a killer shoved an ethersoaked rag against his face. He’d come close to a grisly end.

  Shaking off that memory, Sage realized that Van Ostrand was muttering to himself as he dried his alcohol-soaked instruments. The dentist seemed to be lecturing himself: “There are three components. Scaling to keep the teeth clean, regulating to avoid crowding and most delicate of all, filling.” He put down the instrument and picked up another one, only to repeat the same litany.

  Sage shifted uncomfortably. Was the man going barmy? His movement caught the dentist’s eye because the man stopped muttering to issue an order.“Go next door, and wait for me in the office.”

  As Sage left the room, Van Ostrand’s muttering resumed. Once in the office, Sage sliced open the sealed correspondence lying on his assigned desk, finding more bills and a handwritten letter from the partners’ prior accountant. Sage scanned that last missive, dismayed to read that the man intended to remain in Portland. He’d apparently found himself a job and would not be returning to Prineville. Given Van Ostrand’s agitated state of mind, Sage decided to keep that bit of news to himself. He returned the letter to its envelope and lay it on the dentist’s desk for him to find.

  Van Ostrand had apparently recovered his equilibrium because he was strangely cheerful when he entered the room. “Mr. Miner. I am most pleased with your work. I had lunch with the court clerk, Mr. Jones, and he informed me that you are most diligent in your perusal of the files and maps.”

  Narrowing his eyes, the dentist continued, “Mr. Jones also told me of your visit to that Fromm fellow. A word of friendly caution, Mr. Miner. You are new to this country. You don’t know how things are. It would be far safer for you if you minded your own business and stayed out of other people’s.”

  Without giving Sage a chance to respond, Van Ostrand said, “The workday is essentially over so I suggest we call it a day. You may return tomorrow and we’ll discuss your next task.” With that, the dentist exited the room, leaving Sage staring at the empty doorway.

  NINETEEN

  Mid afternoon, the sun blazed in a near-white sky. Inside, the dim light gave the illusion that the Rimrock was cooler. Sage was hoping Twill or someone else in the saloon would have more specific information about Rayburn and his activities.

  The saloon was nearly empty. Only a few older fellows sat here and there, nursing beers in the afternoon heat. Their solitariness reminded him that these were shepherds—men used to, and probably preferring, their own company.

  “Where is everyone?” Sage asked the bartender.

  The man grimaced.“I expect the ones in town are snoozing somewhere under a shade tree. That damn pox means most of our regular customers are avoiding town. There’s just a few that have the pox scar so that they can come and go. It’s about killed our business. Barney hasn’t paid me in over a month. It ain’t his fault, neither.”

  “Is that why the owner took Rayburn’s money?”

  The bartender nodded. “I suppose. I know Barney didn’t much care for Rayburn. ‘Course now, I suppose, he doesn’t even have to worry about paying the man’s investment back.” As if suddenly realizing the implications of that statement, the bartender rushed to add, “Barney was here all that day they found Asa dead, so he had nothing to do with Asa getting shot.”

  “I guess you know I am trying to help that homesteader, Fromm,” said Sage.

  “Oh sure, the whole town knew that within an hour of you saying you would. Ain’t no way something like that could stay secret. Especially if Mr. Jones is in the know,” the man confirmed.

  “What do folks think about Fromm shooting Rayburn?”

  “I guess they’re of different minds. Most folks think Fromm’s a hard-working honest fellow—salt of the earth. And lots of them think Rayburn deserved to be shot for trying to burn Fromm out. If Rayburn had succeeded, the Fromm family couldn’t have lasted through next winter. They would have died or had to walk away from their homestead.”

  “So they figure Fromm shot Rayburn?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Some do because they say they would have shot Rayburn if they’d been Fromm. Others, the ones that seem to know Fromm best, say he’s big and strong and would have thrashed Asa, not shot him. And then, there’s the third group who think that while Fromm might have shot Rayburn, he would never back-shoot any man.”

  “What about Rayburn? What are folks saying about Rayburn?” Sage figured he might as well hear all the gossip since the bartender seemed willing to talk.

  The man raised his eyes and looked straight at Sage. “Asa Rayburn was a big-mouth bully who’d do anything for money. That’s what people are saying. Nobody much cares that someone decided to relieve the town of his presence. But, no one can figure out who had reason to kill him besides Fromm and maybe Barney. And, Barney’s got an iron-clad alibi. That afternoon, me and a dozen shepherds were right here with him.”

  Sage waited a couple hours, but Twill never turned up at the Rimrock. The bartender said Twill’s bedroll was upstairs so the shepherd was somewhere in town. Sage finally left, figuring he’d return later that night to meet up with his new friend and ask more questions about Rayburn. As he exited the Rimrock, Sage surveyed those on the street. Thanks to Mr. “Yes Indeedy” Jones the whole town knew Sage was hunting Rayburn’s killer. That meant the killer knew it as well.

  Sage was to meet Eich near sundown in a thicket of willows and scrub brush, upriver from the bridge—very near the spot where Rayburn was murdered. Sage wanted to examine the area just in case the killer had left some trace of his presence.

  That decision to examine the scene of Rayburn’s murder had nearly cost Sage his life. Standing in the dark, waiting for Lucinda, Sage fingered his chin again, wincing at the pain. He’d gone searching for a torn scrap of clothing, a cigarette end or something he could use to track the killer. He’d found nothing. Instead, the killer had found him.

  Lucinda was late. As he stood in the dark, Sage replayed the afternoon’s events. After seeing no suspicious characters loitering outside the Rimrock, Sage’d headed toward the river. A tingle had kept wriggling up his spine. But, whipping around more than once, he’d seen no cause for his unease. No one had seemed to be following him.

  Five blocks later he crossed the wooden bridge to follow the dirt path along the river’s western bank. Walking around a willow cluster, he saw trampled wild grass. This was probably where they’d discovered Rayburn’s body. He searched the ground in ever-widening circles but found nothing.

  Further ups
tream a man stepped out of the brush to the river’s edge. He carried a net in his hands. The dark-skinned fellow had black braids and wore a loose calico shirt over old-fashioned deerskin breeches. Up to that moment Sage had seen no Indians in Prineville, other than the garish wooden one standing guard outside the mercantile store on Main Street.

  His searching done, Sage decided to practice his snake and crane movements. He stepped back around the clump of willows so that he was out of the fisherman’s sight. Hard packed sand provided a firm footing. Breathing deep, relaxing his shoulders and waist, he raised his hands as Fong’s quiet voice in his head murmured, “Raise hands to greet the day.”

  One hundred and four movements later, Sage felt invigorated by the calm, steady energy Fong called “chi.” Standing by the river’s edge, he watched its moving surface, realizing that every molecule of water passing him by was new. Like the moments in a life. Would remembering that each moment was unique and unrepeatable change how a man lived? What if he always knew that wasted moments could never be recaptured? What if he always realized that bad choices and put off decisions could never be revisited? Would he act differently?

  Sage raised his eyes to gaze at the spare landscape, trying to escape from his regrets. A breeze traveled through, rustling grass stems. Above the river, a trail of slanting sunlight crossed the rimrock, burnishing its ridges and blackening its grooves. Further south, a yellow, grass-covered hill stood bright against a dark and distant, pine-clad ridge.

  Sage closed his eyes to concentrate on the sounds. Life was abundant here if one listened. So many birds. Did Central Oregon have more birds? Or, did the noises of the heavily populated Willamette Valley drown them out? As he considered that question, the bird song abruptly stilled. Why?