by S. L. Stoner
After that exchange, they walked in silence up Prineville’s main street. Twill apparently decided he wanted no part of Sage’s provisioning activities because he abruptly said, “I best head out. I’ve got me some unfinished business to attend to that I just remembered.”
Sage doubted that Twill had any “unfinished business” but he made no protest. After the morning he’d had, the last thing he needed was a down-hearted Irishman piling gloom onto his afternoon.
TWENTY TWO
Sage returned to the Poindexter with prospecting provisions tucked under his arm. He hoped that was the only ruse he’d need. He didn’t want to squat in Scissors Creek, to dig and sluice bed sand. Not only was it backbreaking work, but it was also guaranteed to be fruitless. He’d find no gold in Scissors Creek. Maybe only Manny, the old Mexican prospector, knew where to find it. Once again, Sage questioned whether Prineville folks were being fooled by Manny’s apparent poverty. Safety lay in keeping gold discoveries secret. Sage had figured that out early on. It was the reason he’d left the Klondike a very rich man with no one the wiser.
‘Anyways,’ as his Ma would say, creek panning was usually a bust. In the Klondike, the gold lay beneath abandoned stream beds. Winter months, it meant setting a fire atop the permafrost to melt it. That was followed by hand digging down to bedrock. Each pail of dirt and rock had to be winched up and dumped. Come spring, that same dirt went into a rocker where shaking separated out the gold. His muscles still twitched with remembered cold and pain. Though prospecting had made him wealthy, he’d vowed to never lift another spade of dirt in search of glitter. Yet, here he was, readying to make a show of doing it again.
Not for the first time, he wondered why he always ended up doing the very thing he’d vowed never to do. That was the last question in his mind as the heat sent him down into a late afternoon nap.
Sometime later, his eyes snapped open. Every sinew of his body was on alert and his heart pounded like he’d just raced up a mountain. What had startled him awake? Through the window came the rich, fluting warbles and chirps of the western meadowlark. It sounded like a whole flock of them were having a party. Maybe that was what woke him.
Then an insistent knock sounded on his door. Sage rolled off the bed, remembering that he had planned to meet Herman. He grabbed for his pocket watch. He was an hour late.
Sure enough, Portland’s ragpicker poet stood in the hallway looking pleased and relieved all at the same time. “I see you decided to slumber away this fine afternoon,” he said.
“Aw, Mr. Eich. I’m sorry. I just lay down for a minute and, the next thing I know, you’re waking me up.”
“No matter, my boy,” Eich said as he stepped inside so Sage could close the door. “I’m rather tardy for our appointment myself.”
That piqued Sage’s interest. Had Eich learned something? The ragpicker raised a hand as if reading Sage’s mind, “I uncovered little bits and pieces of information but nothing solid. Of necessity, I must travel south toward Farewell Bend right away.”
“Why? What’s down there that can help us?”
Eich’s dark brown eyes twinkled and he smoothed his beard before leaning forward to say in a conspiratorial tone, “A band of Gypsies.”
Then he laughed at the astonishment on Sage’s face. “No, really,” Eich said, his face turning serious. “A band of Gypsies passed by Prineville this week. Some of the town’s leading ladies, all of them vaccinated of course, met them at the west end of the bridge.”
Seeing Sage’s incredulous look, he laughed again. “No, it was not a social occasion. The Gypsy women make intricate lace and the Gypsy men are masters when it comes to creating and fixing tin pots and such. I’ve encountered such bands elsewhere in the West.”
Sage had seen Gypsies in the East. Even one or two in Portland. But it had never occurred to him that they’d also roamed the western prairies, far from any city.
Eich continued with his explanation. “My friends, the Gable brothers, tell me the group had planned to stay longer but something happened to make them pack up and leave. The brothers encountered them over west, on the road heading to Farewell Bend.”
“When did the Gypsies leave?”
“That is what I find interesting. They left in the night, on the very day Asa Rayburn was murdered. When they encountered the Gables on the road, they warned them that it wasn’t safe to stay around Prineville. Said the Virgin Mary told them so in a vision.”
“Why did they say that? Did the Gable brothers ask why?”
“Seems the band traveled up through the Ochocos on the military road about the time that young shepherd and his dog were killed. When they reached Prineville they found that it was still under quarantine. So, they circled their wagons outside of town and did a bit of selling to the local housewives. Next day, they learned of O’Dea’s murder out in the Ochocos. Next they apparently heard the shot that killed Rayburn. Historically, whenever there’s trouble, the Gypsies tend to get blamed. I suspect that was really why they decided to leave.”
“So you doubt it was a religious vision?” Sage asked.
Eich chuckled. “Saying it’s the Virgin Mary who told them to leave serves two purposes. It lets everyone know they’re Christian and that they can keep secrets close to themselves. I plan to locate their little band and learn whether they know anything about the shepherd’s or Rayburn’s murders.”
Eich departed, hoping to find a horse for his journey to Farewell Bend. His information left Sage too keyed up to stay in his room. Besides, the bird twitters and the warm air streaming through the window made him want to be outside. He ambled downstairs and ordered a coffee. Taking it in hand, he climbed back up the stairs and went down the hallway to where an outside door opened onto the veranda roof. This time of day, it was shaded by the building’s high false front. Finding a wooden table and chairs, he sat with outstretched legs. From this vantage point, he could gaze up and down Main Street while a breeze dried his sweat.
He wondered whether Lucinda was in her room just steps away. Or, maybe, Siringo was showing her the town. She probably hadn’t had any chance to see it before she went into the pest house. A pang hit his chest followed by a dark emptiness. “Stop,” he chided himself. “You have Otto Fromm to save and a range war to stop. Mooning about like one of Shakespeare’s lovesick swains is ridiculous.”
He gazed over the town. Prineville was nothing like he’d expected. Sure he’d envisioned the ranchers and cowboys, herders, and homesteaders—all sun-baked and hard-muscled. Unexpected, though, were the Gypsy lace makers, renegade Indians, a prospecting Mexican, traveling Jewish traders, homesteading Germans and shepherding Irishmen.
Noise filled the air. Below him, two overloaded freight wagons rumbled slowly down the street, hitched one behind the other. Eight horses were tiredly pulling the entire train. Dexter had said such wagons took three days to reach Prineville from the Shaniko railhead. Looking at those heavy wagons, he could believe it.
In the distance, hammers pounded nails into lumber. Nearby, voices drifted upward, some from open shop doors, others from folks on the veranda below.
Sage looked toward the intersection of Main and Third just as Ed Harbin trudged past. The piled bits of his little stand filled a rickety hand cart. The hero of Prineville had fulfilled his mission and dismantled his station.
Sage raised his coffee cup in silent salute to the oblivious Harbin. Then he raised his eyes to gaze at the shimmering Crooked River, surrounding bluffs and far distant piney wood hills. It was a sweet location—protected and watched over by the rimrock’s grandeur. If only it wasn’t so hot.
Enough idleness, he chastised himself. The important thing was to save Fromm from the noose and stop the budding range war. Fromm first. Tracing the homesteader’s activity in Prineville had yielded a dead end. All he’d discovered was that Fromm could have been Rayburn’s murderer. There was no one who could say different.
Maybe he needed to work backwards. Why did Rayburn set fire t
o the homesteader’s hay and let his cow loose? From what he’d learned of Rayburn, the man was not given to idle mischief. Nor could it have been a personal vendetta. Fromm said that he’d never talked to Rayburn. Didn’t even know him. The first Fromm learned of him was when the neighbor had named him as the arsonist.
That meant Rayburn was at Fromm’s homestead not to make mischief but, instead, for a purpose that was neither idle nor personal. Surely, Rayburn himself had absolutely nothing to gain from harming Fromm. So, Rayburn had to be acting on someone else’s instructions. Whose? Who would gain if the Fromm family died or fled? He’d have to visit Fromm in jail again. Maybe the homesteader could answer that question.
He turned to the problem of the range war on the brink of igniting. Of course, now that Lucinda was safe and could leave, he really didn’t have to help Siringo. But “gosh-nabbit” as Dexter would say, he’d promised Siringo and a promise was a promise. Sage heaved a sigh. Cattlemen and cowboys, sheep ranchers and herders, homesteaders and fences, forest reserves and timber barons. It was a complicated situation with way too many players.
He reviewed what he’d been told. Thomas was right. That Forest Reserve Act was at the heart of the problems. It was driving sheep and cattle out of the mountains to crowd the same scarce prairie land. The new Shaniko railroad head was attracting sheep by the thousands—some from as far away as Idaho and Klamath Falls. Those animals grazed the land down to dirt, leaving the range cattle to starve. Cattlemen, trying to recover from a slew of cattle-killing winters, were seeing once-lush meadows destroyed.
Adding to the volatility were homesteaders, like the Fromms, desperately trying to “prove up” their land by plowing and fencing. Mixed into the whole mess were Indian allotments and military road land that the cattle and sheep ranchers were eager to lease. These might look like wide open, empty spaces but, to Sage’s way of thinking, the forces at work were just as brutal as any he might find in Portland. And, what was U.S. District Attorney Heney doing in Prineville? He was already prosecuting timber frauds committed under the Forest Reserve Act. Were the same kind of frauds happening in Central Oregon’s Ochoco Mountains?
A dry chuckle tickled his throat. In his teen years, he’d devoured the penny dreadfuls with their heroic tales of cowboys and Indians in the wide open West. Those thrilling tales had spurred his trek to the Klondike after his Princeton graduation. That Klondike experience had set him straight. Up there, he found the same mix of good and bad people. Hard-working, hopeful humanity existing side-by-side with those who lacked moral compasses—driven only a burning desire to get rich quick and easy. And always, there were the already wealthy, relentlessly twisting the law and politicians, as they plotted to keep and expand their wealth. It differed little from what happened in the dense urban cities of the East. The same dynamic at play. Ravenous greed running amok and resisting all attempts at restraint.
So this place would have that same mix. Many decent folk for the most part and most times. But these weren’t most times. People were taking sides and letting hatred build. Still, he’d met no one who seemed like a killer.
Maybe if he considered the sequence of events he could discern a motive. First, threatening dead lines were blazed across the open range. Next the Kepler brother’s old shepherd and his dog disappear. Then their barn is burned. Then someone murders the young shepherd, Timothy O’Dea, killing his dog and sheep. After that, Rayburn tries to burn homesteader Fromm’s hay only to be murdered himself a few days later. Finally, the U.S. District Attorney arrives in Prineville. All these things were related, he was certain of it. But how?
TWENTY THREE
“How you doing there, partner?” Siringo called over his shoulder. His chuckle, when he faced forward again, was loud enough to be heard over horse clop and leather creak.
Sage didn’t bother to answer. Instead he imagined how things would have been different if only he hadn’t opened his hotel room door.
He’d been lying wide-eyed on his bed, wishing for sleep, when three soft knocks sounded. “Lucinda!” had been his first thought. Jumping up, he’d hurried to the door and flung it open. Siringo stood there, taking in Sage’s expression as it transformed from expectant to disappointed. The Dickensen man didn’t comment, but his sardonic smile said he’d noticed.
Sage heaved a sigh and gestured the man into the room. Sitting in the chair by the window, Siringo gazed out toward Xenobia Brown’s house. He looked lost in thought. When he turned toward Sage, his face was grim.
“Sorry to knock on your door so late, but I need your help. I found the body of the old shepherd. I need you to bring him into town.”
Sage stiffened at the thought of what Siringo wanted him to do. “How long ago was he killed?”
“I’m thinking three to four weeks. He’s buried in a shallow grave with rocks piled on top so the animals haven’t gotten to him yet.” Siringo’s tone was matter-of-fact but sadness filled his face.
“I’m sorry you had to find him,” was all Sage could think to say.
Siringo turned to gaze again out the window. “Everyone says he was a friendly old fellow. Never bothered anyone. Always had a kind word and a smile.”
Sage said nothing. Someone needed to mourn the old sheepherder and, evidently, Siringo was shouldering that task for now.
“If he was buried, how did you find him?” Sage asked. “His name was Paddy Campbell,” Siringo said. Then he
sighed heavily. “I was up breaking and buying horses south of Steins Pillar. Remember, I told you about that young fellow I suspected of causing trouble, name of Tom Meglit?”
He waited for Sage to nod and then continued. “The trail boss runs a dry camp but I snuck in a couple bottles of liquor. From what I’d heard of Meglit, his tongue loosens when he gets drunk. So’s after everyone bedded down, I took him aside and we went off into the trees to drink. By the time I opened the second bottle, he’d told me about him and another fellow killing the old man. Told me where they’d buried the body. I managed to get him to be pretty specific. It took all of today, but I finally located the remains.”
“So, you brought the body to town?”
Siringo shook his head. “Nope, couldn’t do that. I’m here gathering information the Governor needs to prevent a range war. If I brought that body in, Meglit would know right away I’m no horse trader. He was drunk, but not so drunk he wouldn’t remember telling me where to find Campbell’s body. He gets to talking, every cowboy in the area will distrust me. I’ve spent months building that trust. They’d never suspect that you and I are in cahoots since you’ve been working for the sheepmen and I planted that facer on you.”
“I guess that means that I’ll be hauling Paddy Campbell’s dead body into town.” Sage said.
“Well, unless you can think of a better idea, it seems the logical thing to do.”
“I don’t suppose that we could just leave him where he lies?” asked Sage, only to feel shame at his words.
“He’s got a sister back East. She’s been writing about him,” Siringo responded.
“Won’t folks think it odd that a stranger in these parts just happens to stumble on a buried body?” Sage asked, though he knew Siringo’s answer would not change the course of events. He was going to do it. He was going to bring the poor old shepherd’s body back to town.
“That’s the beauty of it,” Siringo said, a faint smile lifting the corners of his razor straight lips. “You been telling everyone who’d listen that you plan to prospect on Scissors Creek. Just so happens, that’s where the body’s buried. You can just say you stumbled upon the body. You weren’t around when Campbell disappeared so no one will suspect you of being involved.”
Siringo’s plan made perfect sense. People would believe that story. Sage ran a hand through his hair before saying, “Okay, I’ll set out first thing in the morning. How am I going to find the old fellow?”
Siringo stood, clapping his hat back on, invigorated now that he’d convinced Sage to help. “I�
�m heading out now. Make your way eastward on the military road that runs along Ochoco Creek. Once you start climbing into the mountains, out of the ranch valley, I’ll be waiting. I’ll lead you right to him.”
The cowboy nodded at Sage. “Thank you for doing this, Adair. You don’t have to. It isn’t part of our deal.” He stretched out his hand and they shook. Siringo strolled toward the door. Just before he opened it, he turned and said the words Sage didn’t want to hear.
“You’ll need to rent two horses. One to ride and one to carry.” That said, the Dickensen agent opened the door and was gone.
Dawn’s red radiance brightened the eastern range just as Sage reached the livery stable. A grizzled old man moved about inside, tobacco chaw bulging his cheek as he murmured to the animals he was feeding. Nickering from one of the animals made the fellow turn.
“Why, howdy there, mister. Can I help you this fine morning?” He sounded full of good cheer despite the early hour.
“I want to rent two horses for a few weeks of prospecting up around Scissors Creek. I need one to ride and one to carry,” Sage answered.
“Oh, you must be that fellow I’ve been hearing about,” the man said, his voice still friendly. “I’d be happy to provide you with two fine animals.” He paused, clearly debating whether to say his next words. Compassion won. “But, much as I’d like to take your money, there ain’t no gold in Scissors Creek. It’s been all panned out. Only that old Mexican packer, Manuel Berdugo, believes there’s gold. Everybody thinks he’s a bit tetched in the head.”
Sage grinned, appreciating the fellow’s honesty. “Yah, I know,” he admitted. “That’s what folks keep telling me. But, I’m a guy who needs to prove it to himself.”