Dead Line Page 8

A squirt of malicious anticipation made Sage smile. “‘Charlie’ did it,” he said.

  That day’s late afternoon had been sweltering. Sage had sat on the hotel’s veranda, hoping for a breeze. His head felt muddled by the heat and by the beer he’d drunk in Twill’s company. Woozily he perused the columns of the Crook County Journal. His eyelids drooped. Just as he decided that a nap might be the best way to beat the heat, a commotion broke out about a block away. A group of men, their boots and dress declaring them to be members of the cowboy tribe, encircled another man. Their drunken shouts and laughter sounded threatening.

  Sage rose and began ambling in their direction. As he did so, he chastised himself for getting involved in something that would surely be gossiped about. He also reminded himself not to use any of Fong’s fighting techniques. People didn’t need to know that the would-be prospector, John Miner, was trained in an exotic fighting art. That’d really get their tongues wagging.

  The cowboys were shoving someone from one side of the group to the other. For a brief second, Sage saw that they were picking on a tall, black-haired man. He quickened his pace. When he was within twenty feet, he heard the familiar Irish lilt.

  “I’m seeing that you Missouri boyo’s are cowards. Can’t take on a wee Irishman unless there’s a crowd of you!”

  No doubt about it. Twill McGinnis was taunting the cowboys. Sage increased his pace only to nearly miss a step when he recognized Charlie Siringo standing on the far side of the cowboy circle.

  “Which one of you cowardly cowpokes killed my friend, Timothy O’Dea? You think you want a fight, then? I’m ready to knock your pans in! I haven’t had me the pleasure of busting craniums in a while.” Twill was in full-throated Irish rage. Doubtless he’d continued his wake for his dead friend and was far from his clear-headed best.

  Sage had no choice. Besides, a calculating voice inside his head also murmured, “And this might be just the way to earn a place among the sheepmen.”

  Reaching the circle, Sage raised his voice. “Well, now, is this the way to cool off on a hot summer day, my friends?” As one, the cowboys turned to look at him and even Twill ceased his taunting. Then, realizing help had arrived, Twill sprang into action. He took a swing at a cowboy who promptly returned the favor. Sage hadn’t done any bare-knuckle fighting since meeting Fong, so his first swing was somewhat clumsy. Then he got into the rhythm and landed quite a few punches. Fong’s endless lessons in how to sense an attack and stand firmly rooted paid off. Soon he and Twill were back-to-back and holding their own. That all changed when Charlie Siringo stepped forward and unexpectedly slammed a fist into Sage’s mouth.

  Sage hit the street’s hard-packed dirt, his lips forming a questioning “what?”Before he could regain his feet and go after Siringo to return the favor, the fight was over.

  “Break it up, I said! Or you’ll all end up spending the night in the calaboose! It’s too damn hot for this nonsense,” shouted a man looming over Sage. Sunlight glinted on a silver star pinned to the man’s lapel. Prineville’s sheriff had arrived. Slowly rising to his feet, Sage turned to help Twill up as well. The cowboys were already slinking off, heading toward the nearby White and Combs Saloon.

  It was only then that Sage noticed that the sheriff was holding a pistol by the barrel. Once the sheriff holstered his gun, he said, “You two get off Main Street, now. If, you need to wet your whistles after this dust up, head over to the Rimrock. I don’t’ want to see either of you in the White’s.”

  “But, those cowboys . . .”

  The sheriff didn’t let Sage finish. “Those cowboys . . . .” he interrupted, “just rode 180 dusty miles up from the French Glenn Ranch. They got in this morning and have been drinking ever since. You stay out of their way until they’ve got the trail out of their system. They don’t like sheepmen and they’re spoiling for a fight.” With that, he turned his back and walked away.

  Twill stuck out a hand. “I am more than grateful for your assistance, Mister John Miner,” he said. “I was putting up a brave front but preparing for the worst. You helped even things up a bit. I do believe we held our own and then some.”

  Sage laughed, only to feel the smarting of a torn lip.

  “Let’s go over to the Rimrock, like the sheriff suggested,” said Twill, as he slapped his dusty hat against his leg.

  “Tell you what,” Sage replied, “I’ll just go get some ice from the hotel and maybe put on a clean shirt and meet you over there.”

  When Sage reached his room, he noticed the door slightly ajar. Cautiously, he pushed it open. Charles Siringo sat in the chair, staring out the window. He showed no surprise at seeing Sage. Instead he said, “Sorry about the punch. Looks like it will hurt for a bit.”

  Sage pressed an ice-filled cloth against his lip. “Yes, remind me to thank you for that,” he said. “Maybe I can return the favor sometime.”

  Siringo held up a hand. “Now, don’t be getting mad. It was either my fist on your mouth or the sheriff ’s gun butt on the back of your skull. I didn’t have time to ask you which you’d prefer.”

  “He was going to brain me? Why would he do that?” Sage asked.

  “Darn tootin’ he was going to brain you. For two reasons. First, he’s a cattleman, through and through. And second, he wanted to stop the fight. It was either take on you and the Irishman or all them cowboys. The sheriff knows how to add and subtract. Two’s a much smaller number. Besides,” he added with a slow smile, “I’ve now become somewhat of a hero with my new friends since I’m the only one who was able to knock you on your butt.”

  Lucinda’s spurt of laughter sounded louder than it should have. Even as he shushed her, his spirits rose. He could still make her laugh. He’d missed laughing with her and so much more. He reached out.

  Maybe it was his reaching hand or maybe she sensed his thoughts because she sadly shook her head and then she was gone. He was again alone behind the privy. He stared up into a mess of clouds backlit by the moon. “Yah Ma, I know. That’s what I get for being an idjit,” he admitted.

  TEN

  Frying bacon woke his stomach and set it to growling. Sage lay atop a thin pad of blankets. Overhead, the arches of exposed rafters ran the loft’s length. Unglazed window openings at each gable end offered the only outlet for the rising heat. He was sweating. Definitely not the Poindexter Hotel, he told himself. He sat up, groaning as frozen joints shifted. It had been an uncomfortable night with the wooden floorboards growing harder each passing hour. Looking around he saw that the loft was empty. Everyone else was already gone.

  The Rimrock Saloon’s sleeping accommodations were Spartan. Twenty-five cents bought the right to spread your own bedding on the floor. For the wealthier customers, seven-foot high partitions with blankets over the partition openings, created two rooms on one side. These cost seventy-five cents a night, which bought you one-half of a double bed to share with a stranger. He should have spent the seventy-five cents, but, he’d wanted to appear poor as the shepherds he hoped to befriend— someone “short on cash and long on making do” as his mother would say.

  His nose led him down the outside stairs and back into the Rimrock Saloon. Tables and chairs now crowded the floor. In the kitchen corner, a Chinese cook bustled, his movements quick and sure. Sage’s loft mates were shoveling in fried potatoes, eggs, bacon and slightly burnt toast.

  At a nearby table, Twill was leaning back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach, an empty plate before him. Seeing Sage, he grinned, shouting, “Hey now, John, I’m thinking that your belly is ready to converse with the best the Rimrock has to offer! Have a seat and I’ll keep you company. Praise be the saints, they’ve lifted the ban on tables and chairs.”

  The Irishman’s exuberance was less than pleasurable. Sage’s head throbbed above his eyebrows. Too many beers last night. The frustration he felt after his brief meeting with Lucinda had made him drink too much. Sage carefully slid onto a chair.

  Twill was nothing if not insightful. “Ah ha! I
can see I best be quieting my cheerful patter this morning, boyo. You aren’t looking so good. No wonder, I’m thinking. You were full drunk and blootered when you stumbled off to bed.”

  The Chinese cook reached Sage’s side.“You like bacon, eggs, toast?” he asked, with that familiar accent so welcome to Sage’s ears. Damn, he sure missed Fong. How about that? In his mind, he saw his best friend smile at the thought.

  “Yes, please,” Sage said, as Twill rose and walked over to the bar to speak to the bartender. He returned with a mug of coffee. “Drink this up, it’s got a wee hair of the dog that bit you,” he instructed.

  The coffee contained more “dog” than “wee hair.” After choking a bit, Sage said, “Thanks, this might actually help.”

  Twill nodded sagely, quoting, “It seems that you have ‘very poor and unhappy brains for drinking’ and should seek ‘some other custom of entertainment.”

  Sage groaned. At evening’s end, they’d taken to testing each other on old Willie Shakespeare’s plays upon discovering they shared a liking for the English bard’s various works. This was despite Twill’s increasingly adamant opinion that Shakespeare was only second best, “No one can beat our own William Yeats when it comes to words that sing,” said Twill, repeatedly.

  Now Twill laughed, chiding, “Ah! So, your inability to joust over the great Bard’s words this morn is but an admission that, you did, indeed, ‘out sport discretion last night’.”

  Those were fighting words. Sage had his Princeton training to defend. He straightened, took a huge swallow of the enriched coffee and said confidently, “The play is Othello for both quotes. Cassio is the speaker both times. He’s explaining his hangover.”

  Twill roared delightedly and slapped Sage’s shoulder, nearly knocking him from the chair.

  Sage winced and raised both hands. “Alright. Stop. I give up. Enough of Shakespeare. I admit it. I need peace and quiet or my head’s going to split like a dropped watermelon,” he was saying as his plate arrived. It looked unappetizing and though his stomach shrunk with revulsion, he forced himself to eat.

  Looking up from his plate, he saw Twill eyeing two men just entering the saloon. He looked alert and expectant. It was the two men Sage’d seen dining at the Poindexter, that dentist Van Ostrand and the congressman, Newt Thomas.

  For a minute he was puzzled, and then he remembered and straightened. They were sheep ranchers. The bartender hurried over to serve them. Important sheep ranchers, if the bartender’s hustle meant anything, Sage concluded.

  “Hey, Twill, how come there’s so many shepherds hanging about town?”

  “Shearing work up to the Shaniko sheds is mostly done,” Twill answered absently. “Some of them are shearing hands, passing through on their way back home. They got trapped by the quarantine and are waiting to see if their vaccination has took. Besides, nobody is hurrying to get out into the back of beyond. There’s plans a’brewing.” The chair scraped as the Irishman rose to his feet. “Excuse me a moment, boyo. I need to talk to my bosses.”

  Twill ambled across the room and pulled out a chair to sit at the sheep ranchers’ table. As Sage ate, he eyed the three of them, but looked away when he saw Twill gesturing in his direction. Sage was evidently the topic of conversation. While he ate, Sage strained to hear what they were saying. No luck. They kept their voices too low. He wondered if their discussion had anything to do with the “plans.” Maybe Siringo was wrong. Maybe O’Dea’s death had snapped the sheepmens’ restraint and they were going to retaliate. How could he find out? More important, what could he do to stop them?

  Across the room, Twill stood up and headed back toward Sage. “Say, boyo, my bosses might be interested in hiring you for a bit o’work,” Twill told him.

  “But the doctor says I can’t leave town. I’m willing to learn sheep herding but I’m thinking there aren’t many sheep grazing Prineville’s streets.”

  Twill chuckled.“True be, though a few backyard sheep have been known to go for a wander, same with the milk cows.” Then he got back to business. “It’s not herding they’re wanting. They need someone who’s smart enough to do a bit of book work and letter writing.”

  “But, Twill, that’s surely a job you can do,” Sage said. Why didn’t the shepherd jump at the opportunity to stay in town and make money, he wondered.

  Twill sighed and sat down. “That’s just it, boyo. I can’t do the job because I never learned my letters. When it comes to reading and writing, my head is thick as a fieldstone wall. Every time I try, the words look like squiggling black worms and my head aches worse than the morning after a night of bad whiskey.”

  Astounded, all Sage could think to say was, “But you quote William Shakespeare verbatim. Better and more accurately than any Shakespearean scholar.”

  That observation made Twill shrug.“Well it’s a blessing and curse that every darn thing I hear gets ‘screwed to my memory’,” he said. At Sage’s arched eyebrow, Twill added, “Cymbeline, that evil Jachimo. Not surprising you wouldn’t remember it. Not one of our bard’s best plays.”

  Twill leaned closer, ready to confide. “Truth be, when I worked in Morrow County, I tended the woolies with an Englishman whose only book was Shakespeare’s Collected Works. Fancied himself a theater player, he did. Always read aloud. I must have heard every play at least three times.”

  “Now, that could be a kind of torture.”

  The Irishman shook his head. “Ah, nay. He was pretty good at reading. Dramatic, don’t you know? Lots of different voices. Besides, the best thing about shepherding is that there is always call to wander off to check on the flock. That time with Jack was the best herding job I ever worked. Made me think on things I’d never considered before.”

  Congressman Thomas’s jovial call from across the room interrupted their conversation. “Mr. McGinnis, are you making any progress there?”

  Twill looked at Sage and asked, “Will ye be talking to them?” The two sheep ranchers were all smiles and handshakes when Twill and Sage joined them. “Mr. McGinnis tells us that you are a man of many talents and might be just the fellow we need to help us out,” said the congressman with a warm, ready smile.

  “I am certainly willing to try. What is it you need?” asked Sage, scooting closer and thinking this might be a way right into the middle of the sheepmen.

  “We run a sheep ranch as well as our other businesses,” said the dentist without warmth or smile. Impatience laced his words and gestures. “Our bookkeeper took his family to Portland for a visit. While he was absent, this damnable smallpox outbreak happened. Now he refuses to return until they lift the quarantine. Meanwhile, we’ve business to conduct and neither one of us has the time to straighten out the finances and get us back on track. Do you know anything about keeping books?”

  The question wasn’t unusual. The West was full of men possessing various skills and levels of education, hunting adventure, wealth or escape from a sticky situation back East.

  Truthfulness gave Sage’s voice confidence. “Matter of fact, I have extensive experience in the art of keeping books. Can’t say that I like the work, but I can do it fairly well.”

  “Twill told us how you stepped in and saved him from those cowboys,” said the congressman. “A man with your skills and courage is the kind of man we need in Prineville and in Central Oregon. Are you thinking of settling down here?”

  That question brought a rueful smile to Sage’s lips but before he could find an appropriate answer, Dr. Van Ostrand interrupted, “Yea gods, Newt. Stop trying to butter his bacon. The man’s quarantined here in Prineville. He was staying at the Poindexter. Now he’s sleeping on the floor upstairs—his funds are obviously low.” Van Ostrand waved a dismissive hand at the interior of the Rimrock and said, “Why on earth would he turn down temporary work that pays well?”

  Because he didn’t like his new boss, was Sage’s silent response.

  The dentist turned to Sage, bluntly saying, “Miner, if you’re interested, we’ll pay you ten
dollars for a five-day week and buy you a decent suit of clothes. We can’t have you looking disreputable if you’re handling our finances. We’re in a pickle because Oliver’s been gone over two months. And, we also have research that needs to be done at the country courthouse—something that you can probably do. You want the job?”

  “Well, I can’t promise you that I’ll stay for longer than it takes Dr. Rosenberg to release me from the quarantine,” Sage answered.“He said it’d be about eight days. After that, I planned on heading out to Scissors Creek to do some placer mining.”

  That statement spurred a snort of derision from Van Ostrand. “I can see you need to talk to that dim-witted Mexican packer, Manny Berdugo. He’s been sluicing that creek bed for three years and he’s still wearing shoes stuffed with newsprint.”

  Sage figured Van Ostrand was wrong but he wasn’t going to argue. Having fought off more than one Yukon claim jumper, Sage was willing to bet Berdugo was about as dim-witted as a wolverine. A smart prospector didn’t advertise success—not if he wanted to make it out of the woods alive. And, he wouldn’t stay three years along a creek unless it showed yield.

  The two sheep ranchers exchanged looks. Thomas reached across the table and said, “Looks like you’re hired, Mr. Miner. Can you start today? We’ve got a passel of bills that need paying.” Sage shook the congressman’s hand as he accepted their offer. This was an unexpected chance. Hanging around the Rimrock might bring him information from the herders but working for the sheep ranchers was another way to find out whether they had retaliation plans in the works. If there was going to be a two-sided range war, he’d be more apt to get advance warning if he associated with both groups of sheepmen. ‘Ole “Charlie” would like that.

  Pocketing the men’s advance for the new suit of acceptable clothes, Sage returned to his table where he continued to mull over the idea that these two were part of a “plan” to take on the cattlemen. After all, they’d lost a shepherd and a flock of sheep. And the Ochoco dead lines were shrinking what little grazing land they had left.