Dead Line Read online

  “That’s for sure,” the driver agreed. “Many a time we’ve all had to give a shove. The mud grabs like wet cement. Turns this here stretch into a very long eight miles. It’s a fine thing to round the corner and see Morrow’s place. ‘Course when its dry like this, a fellow could pretty near take a nap and let the wheels follow the ruts.”

  Reaching the Morrow’s farmhouse, they dropped off mail and boxed goods before continuing south. A few miles farther and they were rolling into Grizzly, a few stores sitting at the base of a tree-dotted mountain Dexter called “Grizzly Butte.” Its few buildings faced north toward rolling grasslands. Far in the distance stood the snow-capped Cascade Range, with Mt. Hood looming highest. Dexter unloaded the deadly plow at the small general store. “Can’t say I am sorry to see that farm implement gone,” he commented as he fingered the lump on the back of his head. “If that blade had hit my noggin instead of the handle, I might of lost what little I have left of my marbles.”

  No passengers boarded at Grizzly. “Folks are still steering clear of Prineville because of the pox. There’s plenty sickness hereabouts as it is—diphtheria, typhoid, scarlet fever and the like. If that pox took hold, these folks would be in a heap of trouble,” Dexter explained as the coach started rolling south, skirting Grizzly Butte.

  In deepening dusk, they rolled out of sweet-scented pine woods into an area of low hills and along a small bluff overlooking a large, flat valley. Scored rimrock, its vertical walls black against the darkening sky, bounded the valley’s northern and western edges. At the base of the rimrocks, sage covered slopes dropped to the valley floor. Green clad hills rose in the distant east. Dexter told him those were the Ochoco Mountains. To the southeast, a hill and a golden plateau formed an opening for a river to flow northward in a twisting silver ribbon. By now, the late-June snow melt would be winding down and with it, the river’s water level. The deep green grass on either side meant the river had overflowed its banks earlier in the year.

  Below, the town stood on the valley’s western edge. It was the first real town they’d seen since Shaniko. On its west side, the town was reachable only by a wooden bridge across the river. From there it spread east into the valley with plenty of flat land for expansion. The streets were laid out in a grid pattern with structures on every block. The road crossing the bridge intersected a commercial main street lined by two-story wood-frame and brick buildings. He could see cross-topped power poles. Someone must have hauled an electric generator down Cow Canyon. He shook his head at the thought.

  “There they be, Prineville and the Crooked River,” Dexter said, letting the reins go slack so he could fish for the flask he’d left untouched since the canyon. He offered Sage the first swig and Sage took it, hoping the fiery liquid would calm his nerves.

  Dexter took his gulp, sighed with satisfaction and stowed the flask. “Fine little town,” he told Sage. “There’s timber in the Ochoco’s. Grass and water for the livestock. It’s the busiest little town in Central Oregon. Cowpokes ride in from as far away as the French Glen ranch, just to wet their whistles, pick up ranch supplies and enjoy a bit of civilization. Don’t know what’ll happen if Sam Hill builds his railroad to Farewell Bend instead. But, I expect the Prineville folks will think of something.”

  “What’s the best place to stay in Prineville?” Sage asked. “Well, the two fanciest hotels are the Poindexter and the Prineville. That last’s where they say the pox got started. A Pennsylvania timber cruiser carried it in. Like I said, they haven’t had a new case now for a couple of weeks. All the hotels have been disinfected top to bottom. I’ve hauled enough of sulfur powder in the last month to dust the whole town twice over.”

  Dexter glanced sideways at Sage, “You ever been in a town that’s got smallpox or been vaccinated for it?” he asked.

  Sage shook his head. “Nope, that is one experience I’ve managed to miss,” he said.

  “Hmm, you certain sure you want to go into town? I could find you somewheres out here to stay and tomorrow you could catch me running back up to Shaniko. Wouldn’t even charge you none,” Dexter offered.

  Sage wondered at the man’s hesitation. Surely the town had taken measures and it seemed that those efforts had been successful if the problem was dying down. “Naw, I want to see Prineville, collect a mule and supplies. I’ve come too far to turn back now,” Sage said.

  In the silence that followed, Sage asked, “Where’s that quarantine house? On the outskirts of town?” The first thing he intended to do was to figure out if Lucinda was in that whorehouse-turned-hospital.

  “Naw, Miz Brown’s ‘boarding house’ as she calls it, sits smack in the middle of town. She’s always been a kind woman. Treats her girls right and proper. Even gives them a trousseau and a party when they decide to leave the sporting life for a cowboy or a homesteader. I’m hoping that once the plague passes, folks will treat her better. But, you know how they are, specially the women folk. They tend to forget they pull their drawers on, one leg at a time, just like the rest of us,” he said. Twitching the reins, he clucked at the tired horses. They moved forward smartly, eager for their well-earned rest.

  Sage knew exactly what Dexter was talking about. Strolling with Lucinda, he couldn’t miss the glares Portland’s high society matrons had sent in her direction. She’d never commented but the tightening of her fingers on his forearm meant she’d noticed. As the prosperous, bachelor owner of an exclusive restaurant, Sage was excused for such social transgressions. Lucinda, however, remained a social “untouchable.” Ironically, the women doing the shunning were the real beneficiaries of prostitution. Their husbands owned the very buildings in which Portland’s five hundred brothels thrived. Noses in the air, they paraded around town wearing gowns bought by prostitution’s profits.

  The horses’ manes fluttered in the breeze as they trotted eagerly toward the livery stable. Sage studied the town as the same questions cycled through his head. “Why was Lucinda out here in the middle of Central Oregon? What is she doing here? Would he find her? Did she have smallpox? Was she still alive?”

  Though his eyes stared down at the town, the image in his mind was of Lucinda’s laughing face the last time they’d been together. She’d been wearing the latest fashions, each hair strand in place. Still that wasn’t his most treasured image in his mind’s eye. Instead, it was the day he’d come upon her as she scrubbed a cook stove top. She’d been wearing faded gingham, a smudge of coal black on her cheek, wisps of hair, loosened by her vigorous scrubbing, framing her soft, private smile.

  SIX

  The stagecoach rattled over the planks spanning a wide creek Dexter called the “Ochoco.” The town’s electric power plant sat on the far side. Cords of bark-covered slab wood filled the plant’s yard on all sides. Black wires webbed the air between the building’s rooftop and street poles.

  Dexter noted Sage’s interest in the electrical plant. “‘Ole Steve Yancy hauled in Mr. Gates’ two generators and a steam boiler. Brung it down in bits and pieces. Made seven hair-raising round trips from the railhead through Cow Canyon. Folks hereabouts are mighty proud because Prineville’s the first Central Oregon town to have electricity. Got it back in May of 1900. ‘Course the power only runs from dusk to dawn. But, still, folks figure it’s a start.”

  They turned onto Main Street, rolling to a stop at the Hamilton Stables on the corner of Fourth. Sage dismounted, his body stiff. Dexter also clambered down after snatching a canvas mailbag from beneath the seat. He tossed it over to a postal clerk waiting on the boardwalk. The clerk strode away up the street.

  A well-dressed, smiling man approached Sage and said, “Howdy Mister, you plan on staying long?”

  The man’s smile reached his eyes and Sage answered easily, “Why I figure to stay for a few days. I have to collect a few things for a trip into the gold country over east, near Scissors Creek.”

  This wasn’t the exact truth. He hoped to stay in town much longer once he invented an excuse to do so.

  “W
ell, I suppose you know that we’ve had a little problem with the smallpox here in Prineville, of late,” the stranger commented.

  Sage glanced at Dexter, catching an expression of shame, flitting across the stagecoach driver’s face. “Yes, I only learned of it on the trip down here from Shaniko,” Sage answered truthfully. “And yet, you chose to come anyway,” the smiling stranger said. “Tell me, have they vaccinated you for smallpox in the past?”

  That question gave Sage what his mother called the “crawlies.” For the first time he wondered if this little Prineville trip was more complicated than he’d been led to believe. “Why, no, they sure haven’t,” he answered truthfully.

  The other man stuck out his hand, “Well, sir. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Dr. Rosenberg and my job is to vaccinate and fumigate your person.”

  Sage took an involuntary step backward. “Wait a minute, I’m not sure . . .”

  The doctor shook his head, “I’m afraid you have no choice. Since you are now in an area of official pestilence quarantine, I am required to vaccinate and fumigate your person. Don’t worry. It won’t take long and then you’ll be free to go wet your whistle at the saloon.

  The doctor gently took hold of Sage’s elbow and began guiding him away, saying. “You come with me alongside the stable here. We’ve got the fumigating station all set up and I can vaccinate you at the same time.”

  Dazed by the sudden turn of events, Sage allowed the doctor to lead him around the edge of the building. There stood a large wooden shipping crate stamped “Piano” in big black letters. The doctor whipped off his suit coat and quickly donned a white one. “Got to look official,” he said grinning, as he gestured for Sage to enter the crate.

  Once Sage was inside, the doctor followed, flipping a blanket down over the entrance. The doctor picked up a vacuum can and told Sage to cover his eyes. Once Sage obeyed, Rosenberg pumped dusty clouds that landed on Sage’s face, hands and clothes. The dust stank and Sage held his breath, hoping the ordeal would end before he lost consciousness. He felt a tug.

  “You can uncover your eyes and exit the crate,” he heard the doctor say. Sure enough, Sage dropped his hands to find that the blanket had been flipped back atop the crate. The doctor already stood outside gulping fresh air.

  Sage charged through the opening. As he inhaled, he felt a burning sensation in his nose and smelled a mix of vinegar and glue. The doctor was grinning at him. “I’ve learned the less time you have to think about it, the better it goes,” he said, leading Sage to a nearby wooden bench. Sage sat.

  The doctor opened a metal box while saying cheerfully, “Now that you’ve had the formaldehyde dusting, we’ll have the smallpox inoculation. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a tough fellow like yourself.”

  The doctor’s hand emerged holding a syringe. “You’ll have to take off that coat and loosen your shirt,” he said, pointing the sharp needle skyward.

  Sage shrugged off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it aside, exposing his bicep. The doctor swiftly stabbed him with the needle, depressed the plunger and removed it. It stung but not bad.

  As Sage buttoned up his shirt, the doctor gave him the last bit of information. “Now, you are free to walk about town. Since we haven’t had any new cases, we’ve stopped isolating newcomers. But, you also can’t leave town until we know for sure that the vaccination took. That means you’ll be staying around Prineville for more than a “couple” of days. Eight at least. More, if it doesn’t take. Once it takes, you can come and go as you please. Sorry. I know you were hoping to leave sooner. But only those who’ve had the pox or been inoculated successfully are permitted to leave or enter town.”

  Sage smiled. This was the first good news he’d heard since rolling into town.

  Dexter Higgenbottom stood in the White & Combs’ Saloon, anchoring one end of a long bar. The stage driver had no choice but to stand. There wasn’t a stick of furniture in the whole place. Sage walked up beside him, signaled the bartender for a beer and asked, “What kind of watering hole is this? Where’s the furniture?”

  “Wahl . . . ” Dexter’s Missouri drawl was more pronounced and slurred. Evidently, he’d tucked away a few whiskey shots while Sage was getting fumigated and punctured. “‘Cause of the pox, they didn’t want folks congregating too long,” he answered. “So they ordered all the saloons to remove their furniture. Don’t worry, the bartender here told me they’ll be bringing it back soon ‘cause the pox outbreak is about over.”

  Sage swallowed his beer and nodded to the bartender. Pretty good beer. They’d passed a large building sporting a “Prineville Brewery” sign. Locally brewed beer tended to be better, he realized. Maybe because the brewer himself had to hear the complaints if it wasn’t. He turned to Dexter, “So, Dexter, why didn’t you warn me about the piano crate, the shot and having to stay around?”

  Dexter’s watery blue eyes stared into Sage’s. “Wahl now Mr. Miner, I used to do that for passengers. Then they’d fret and stew the whole trip. Ask me question after question I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to have to tell you to ride inside. I liked your company up there on the box.”

  Sage knew an honest answer when he heard it. He slapped Dexter on the back, signaled the bartender to refill the stagecoach driver’s glass and said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I would have come anyway and you did save me hours of fretting.

  A few drinks later, Dexter staggered off to bed. He said his return trip to Shaniko started “mighty early” the next morning. Before he left, he told Sage how to find the whorehouse turned hospital. “A fella can step off the Poindexter Hotel’s back porch, right into the back yard of Miz Xenobia Brown’s boarding house,” he said. “But you can’t go in, of course. Nobody but the doctor and them with pox can go in nowadays. There’s a fellow name of Ed Harbin who carries messages to and from the house. He sits right outside, in front.”

  Dexter eyed Sage suspiciously for the first time. “You sure are awful interested in a place most folks won’t even talk about,” he said.

  Sage shrugged. “I was talking to the doctor. Something he said made me think maybe someone I know is in that pest house, that’s all,” he lied.

  “I surely hope not. I’d rather be chased down Cow Canyon by a pack of rabid coyotes than step into that house.” For a minute, Dexter’s rheumy eyes clouded. He drained his glass and set it down hard on the counter. “A partner of mine died from the smallpox. It’s a god awful way to go. That pox-carrying easterner wrapped up in a blanket when he rode in the coach. My friend was the driver. That night, he rolled up in that blanket to sleep. He didn’t know the back East fellow was sick.”

  Sage laid a hand on the driver’s shoulder but said nothing. The man had lost two friends in short order. No words could close those wounds.

  After a rueful smile, Dexter headed toward the door only to turn back. He put a strong hand on Sage’s shoulder. “See here, Miner. I won’t never forget that you saved my life. You ever need any help, any help at all, you know where to find me. I’m driving either to or from Shaniko every day except Sunday.” With that, the driver staggered across the unfurnished floor and out onto the boardwalk.

  He could tell The Poindexter Hotel was short on guests since most of the room keys were still in their slots. Mr. Poindexter repeatedly assured Sage that, without fail, the hotel was disinfected every single day from top to bottom. Sage hadn’t asked and didn’t care. Tired from the long trip, he just wanted to sleep. Still, he did want the answer to one question. “Who is this Ed Harbin fellow folks are talking about?” he asked.

  “Oh my, oh my.” The hotel keeper’s round face glowed with pride. “Our Mr. Harbin is quite the hero in these parts,” he said. “Why, he’s built a little visitors’ stand that sits in the street next over. Right smack dab in front of the pest house. You can’t miss him. There’s a white flag with a red cross hanging above a little crate. Folks want to get a message, food or any old thing to a pox victim, they just take it to Ed and off he goes
. Delivers messages and medicine to the pest house but also bicycles things out to folks quarantined on farms and ranches. Harbin says he’s already had the pox, so there’s no worry he’ll catch it again. The man’s neglecting his shingle-making business something awful. He tells everybody that he’s just doing his duty. The Poindexter, the Prineville and the town’s other restaurants, we take our turns at keeping him fed.”

  When Sage asked for a room at the back of the hotel, Poindexter gave him the key to one on the second floor. It was typical—iron bedstead, tall wardrobe, porcelain wash bowl and cushioned chair. A narrow window overlooked the house behind the hotel. Sage pulled the chair next to the window. Moonlight glinted dimly on the house’s tin roof. The yard was deep and narrow. He could see a covered porch, squat bush, leaf tree and privy outbuilding. He wished he could see through walls. He wished he could hear the voices that must be speaking inside the house.

  Tomorrow, he would make the acquaintance of Prineville’s newest hero. “Tomorrow,” he promised himself, “Tomorrow, I will know if Lucinda’s inside.”

  SEVEN

  Sage jerked awake, every joint in his body protesting as he struggled up from the chair. Peering at his pocket watch, he could just make out that it was four in the morning. Too early to go looking for Lucinda. He untied and removed his boots before staggering to the bed. Falling on it, he yanked the coverlet over his shoulders as his head hit the pillow.