Sins of Summer

by Dorothy Garlock

  Louis paced the room and swore. “Ya dumb head. If ya hadn’t a took Sid down there, this wouldn’t a happened.”

  “Ya was the one that hired Waller. Ya was so crazy to get that damn donkey.” Milo’s words were slurred. He kept running his tongue into the hole where his big front tooth had been.

  “And ya was crazy to get in his girl’s bloomers. Now, damn you, Steven’ll go to old Kenton—”

  “—Steven ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ll put the word out. He steps a foot outta this camp, I’ll know it, and I’ll break his scrawny neck.”

  “I can’t be lollygaggin’ ‘round here all day. I got to get up to the cuttin’ range.”

  “Go on. I ain’t keepin’ ya.” Milo was sitting on the side of his bunk in a clean union suit. He had shed his soiled clothes as soon as he had come into the room. The humiliation of wetting and messing his drawers sat harder on him than the beating he’d taken from Waller. His ears still rang and his stomach was in a constant state of upheaval.

  If he never did another thing in his life, he would get even with Ben Waller. It didn’t take Milo long to figure out how he was going to do it.

  Long before Norm Kraus reached the mill, he could hear the singing of the massive steel saw blades as they cut into the logs on the carriage. As he rode up to the mill, he saw smoke, thick and black against the blue sky, belching from the smokestack atop the building.

  The machinery suddenly ground to a screeching halt and the quiet was absolute. The marshal removed his duster and flung it across his saddle. Then he tied his horse to a sapling at the edge of the clearing and walked to the sprawling sheds that were the mill.

  A crew of men with pikes were working a log down the chute toward the carriage that would carry it to the blades. A short man with a heavy black beard, using a wrench, was turning a pipe on the steam engine that drove the spinning steel disks.

  All eyes turned to the marshal. The big shiny star on his chest never failed to catch a man’s attention. The men with the pikes stopped working. The black-bearded man straightened and wiped his hands on a greasy rag. He called a greeting.

  “Howdy.”

  “Howdy.” The marshal walked toward him. “You Milo Callahan?”

  “No. Tinker Buck, head sawyer. You lookin’ for Milo?’

  “Him or the other Callahan.”

  “Louis went up to the high country this mornin’. I ain’t seen Milo about. Must be back in his room.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Ya can go through that shed to get to it”—he flung an arm to his right—“or there’s an outside door on the north.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Norm Kraus retraced his steps to the outside, rounded the sheds and knocked on the only door that faced the north. He heard no answer and rapped again. After a decent time had elapsed, he opened the door.

  His eyes swept the room. The first thing he noticed, after discovering that the room was vacant, was the stench. The room smelled like someone had used the chamberpot and left the lid off. One side of the room was fairly neat, clothes were hung on a peg above the bunk, the bedcovers were on the bed. The other side of the room looked like a boar’s nest. Empty liquor bottles, spit cans and foul-smelling clothes littered the bed and the floor around it. On the wall facing the foot of the bed was a picture of a naked woman lying on a couch in a lewd position.

  Kraus backed out of the room, closed the door and went back to the main building. As soon as he stepped through the door, the sawyer came to him.

  “Wasn’t Milo in any shape to talk?”

  “There was no one there.”

  “The hell ya say.” Tinker scratched his beard with a greasy finger. “I’d swear he was there. I’d swear he’d not move from that bunk of his for a day or two after the beatin’ he took this mornin’.”

  “You’d a lost if you’d a bet on it. He probably went off somewhere to lick his wounds. Where’ll I find Marz?”

  “Steve’s usually in that little cubbyhole yonder where he keeps his ledger books. I noticed them gone this morning. I suspect he’s working on them down at his place. He does that sometimes.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Tinker went to the door and pointed to the far side of the clearing. “That’s Steve’s place.”

  Kraus nodded his thanks, stepped out the door and walked toward the neat log cabin that was set back against a thick grove of Ponderosa pine. He rapped on the door, and rapped again when there was no answer. He waited a minute more, then looked into one of the two glass windows.

  The room was well furnished, with heavy tables, a desk, a bookcase, and lamps with fancy painted shades. He went to the other window, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked in. This was the bedroom. The furnishings were equally fine. The poster bed was high off the floor: the wardrobe was rich walnut. A handsome dark-emerald-green carpet was on the floor.

  “Verdammen!” Kraus muttered to himself. “You can tell a lot about a man by seeing the way he lives. This one’s lived high on the hog for most of his life.”

  The marshal went back and tried the door. It was locked. He paused for a few minutes, carefully removed the pleased smile from his face, and went back to the mill. Tinker Buck was waiting for him outside the door.

  “Wasn’t Steven there?”

  “No. His place is locked up tighter than a drum.”

  Tinker cocked his head to one side. “That’s funny. Steven seldom leaves the mill; and if he does, he lets me or cook know it. I’ll go ask cook.”

  “I’ll go along.” On the way to the cookshack, he asked, “How long has Marz been here?”

  “He was here when I hired on ten, twelve years ago.”

  “He’s got a nice place down there.”

  “Yeah, he’s a quiet one. Keeps to hisself, but that don’t mean he ain’t friendly.”

  “Big man, is he?”

  “Naw. Doubt he could lick a pussycat.”

  Neither the cook nor his helper had seen Milo or Steven since shortly after sunrise. After the fight Milo had been helped to his room and Steven had gone back to his cabin. At the barn the wrangler said one of Milo’s friends, a man named Rink, had come for Milo’s horse, saddled it and led it around the corrals to the back of the mill.

  When asked about Steven, the wrangler, a gray-haired man of undetermined age, refused to talk.

  “I ain’t seen him.” The old man’s eyes went to Tinker and away.

  “You sure, Billy?”

  Billy stuck his hand into his pocket and felt the silver dollar Steven had given him. Even without the dollar he would have turned a blind eye to Steve’s leaving just because the man asked him to. Hell, there wasn’t a man in this camp that had been more decent to him than Steven Marz.

  “Is his horse here?” Kraus asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Go look.”

  “Verdammen! How’d I know which horse was his?”

  “Dang-bustit, Billy, tell the marshal what he wants ta know,” Tinker said impatiently. “That sonofabitchin’ Milo has left camp. You know that he hates Steve’s guts an’ there ain’t no tellin’ what’s on the bastard’s mind.”

  “Ya think Milo’d lay fer him? Hell an’ damnation, Tinker, Steve’d not have a chance, even with Milo all busted up like he is.”

  “Every man in this here camp knows Milo’s been actin’ crazy. He started up the donkey and pert nigh blowed it up. He messed with the engine in the mill an’ buggered it. There ain’t no tellin’ what he’ll do next.”

  “Well—” Billy stalled for a minute or two. Then his fear for Steven overcame his promise not to tell that Steven had left the mill site. “He came ‘round through the woods an’ in the back. He asked me to saddle his horse and not say nothin’ to nobody ‘bout his leavin’ camp. He tied a satchel on his saddle and left.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe half an hour ago. Everybody was in the cookhouse, but me. I was aiming ta go after I went to the privy.”

  “W
hich way did he go?”

  “Trail that goes west a ways, then branches up toward the cuttin’ camp or down the mountain toward Spencer.”

  “That the only way to Spencer?”

  “There’s a way along the upper shelf, but Steven wouldn’t go thataway. He’d have to cut back to cross the river.”

  “He’ll be back in a day or two,” Tinker said. “He never stays away long durin’ the season.”

  “Was he on good terms with the Callahans?”

  “It’s accordin’ to what ya mean by good terms. He puts up with ’em. Steve’s a good man. There’s not a man here, less’n it’s Milo an’ Louis, that don’t like him even if he is a prissy, city-type feller,” Tinker said. “He stays out of any trouble beween the Callahans. Got good business sense, an’ Louis listens—sometimes. If not for him the mill would’a shut down a year after the old man died.”

  “Why don’t the Callahans like him?”

  “They don’t like anybody that I know of. Not even each other.”

  “You can’t tell about these quiet types. He might be running off with the money.”

  “Hell,” Tinker snorted. “There ain’t no money here. The mill just squeaks by.”

  “How are the men paid?”

  “By the season. Season’s just started.”

  “Guess that leaves you to tell me about the killing last night.”

  “I can do that an’ tell ya ‘bout the fight this mornin’ too.”

  “I don’t need to know about that. Ain’t no law against fighting; just killing. Was it fair, or was it not?”

  “It was fair.”

  “Good enough for me.” Kraus turned to the wrangler. “One more thing. Did the man come for Milo Callahan’s horse before Steven Marz left or afterwards?”

  “After. Right after.”

  Deep in thought, the marshal went back to where he had tethered his horse and mounted deftly. He walked the horse a distance down the trail, then kicked him into a gallop.

  CHAPTER

  * 20 *

  Steven had been called on to read a scripture over Sid Hanes before he was put in the ground. Out of respect for the dead, even a man as disliked as Sid, the crew with the exception of Milo and Louis had gathered at the gravesite.

  Louis had left the camp shortly after Milo had been taken to his room. When Steven had seen him ride out, he had gone to his office and carried a couple of ledgers back to his cabin lest anyone wonder about his absence from the mill.

  Now, Steven was reasonably sure he hadn’t been seen leaving the camp by anyone other than Billy. After eighteen years it was hard to believe that he was finally leaving this place. He had become fond of Dory and James, and he was proud of the fact that he had not allowed that fondness to shade his judgment.

  He wondered what had prompted him to sew the important documents into the lining of his coat. Was it a gut feeling that something could happen to him on the way to Coeur d’Alene? The company ledger sheets, his personal papers and a few treasures he couldn’t part with, along with a change of clothing, were in the satchel tied to his saddle.

  As Steven rode down the narrow trail he thought that George and Jean Callahan would have been sick to their very souls if they had known what Milo had done to Dory; and if they had known the extent of Louis’s hatred for anything related to Malone, even to despising Dory’s child. More than likely one of the brothers had killed Mick Malone. Steven had known that he was standing at the center of a gathering storm since that day. Looking back, he knew he shouldn’t have tarried. But how was he to know it would progress this far this fast?

  The trail wound downward. These hills and the valley, Steven knew, comprised a vast listening gallery that most men never noticed. It was a place where a man might be closely watched by a dozen pairs of eyes. A tingling feeling came over him. Unease caused him to turn and scan his backtrail. He was unable to see very far because of the turns and twists of the trail in that heavily wooded area. At times he passed beneath locked branches that made a canopy overhead. There was a restlessness here in this shadowy place—an unnatural quiet that pervaded the very air.

  Steven moved the horse a little faster and tried to shake off the jumpy feeling. The trail wound down for a mile or more beneath a shelf that hung over a basin thick with wildflowers. A scattering of spruce and foxtail had crept up to line the slope and trail.

  It all happened so fast. A fox darted out from the brush and spooked his horse. As the shying animal sidestepped, Steven was struck a wicked blow on his back, then one on his arm. Only a second passed before he realized someone was shooting at him from the ledge above. He threw himself flat along the horse’s neck just as another shot went through his thigh and along the shoulder of his mount. The animal squealed with fright, wheeled, almost throwing Steven off, and raced down the trail.

  Searing pain tore through Steven. He grabbed wildly for the saddlehorn, clutching it with a desperate grip. As he heard the fourth shot, his hat was torn from his head. He slumped in the saddle, knowing he had to hold on or be thrown to the ground. The scent of blood set the roan wild. Steven twisted both hands in the horse’s mane and held on through the roaring in his head and the threatening darkness.

  There was silence except for the sound of the roan’s hooves on the pine needles and the mount’s labored breathing. He glimpsed the river and something moving on it. His befuddled mind heard a shout that faded, or was it an echo in his head? It seemed an eternity before the horse slowed, then stopped, its foam-covered sides heaving. Steven raised his head. He could see the river off to his left. Fighting to stay conscious, he relaxed his death grip on the horse’s mane, kicked his feet from the stirrups, and slid to the ground. He crawled into the underbrush and collapsed.

  It was still daylight when Steven fought his way back to consciousness. He lay in a nest of dried grass and pine needles. He was flat on his back. The sky overhead was blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds. Memory returned. Someone had tried to kill him. Four shots had been fired. Were they out there looking for him now? Afraid to move, he turned his head cautiously. He was lying half under a bush. His horse was cropping grass nearby.

  Had someone watched him leave the mill and taken the rocky, treacherous shortcut down the mountain to overtake him. someone who had wanted to kill him? It could only be Milo. He was the more vicious of the two brothers. He might be worried that Steven was going to Judge Kenton to inquire about dividing the property. Other than Milo, he didn’t know of anyone who disliked him enough to kill him.

  Steven drifted in and out of consciousness. When he became alert, excruciating pain knifed through him. The best he could figure was that the bullet that had hit him in the back had gone in under his left shoulder blade. One had torn away the fleshy part of his upper right arm, one had skidded along his thigh bone. Luck had been with him. An inch or two either way and any one of the bullets would have killed him.

  When he awoke again, it was twilight and a few stars were out. As the air cooled, he began to shiver. He rolled over carefully and pushed himself to a sitting position. The pain in his back and thigh was agonizing. With great effort he managed to focus his eyes. Blood soaked his clothes. His thoughts were hazy, but his mind told him that he had to leave this place or he would die here.

  Because his throat was so dry, he had to try several times before he could whistle for his horse. Sound finally came. He whistled and waited. He whistled again. He could have cried with relief when he heard a soft nicker and the sound of the horse coming to him.

  “Good girl. Good girl. You’re the best damn horse in the world,” he muttered when the horse loomed over him.

  He held onto the stirrup and pulled himself to his knees. Then slowly and painfully he got to his feet. Pain like white fire shot through him; the world tilted and swayed. He hung his left arm around the horse’s neck and leaned on him while his heart pounded and his mind accepted what he had to do. It seemed almost forever before he felt he had enough strength to try to get
into the saddle.

  Having to stand on his injured leg while he put his foot in the stirrup was so painful that he cried out. Clenching his teeth and using both hands on the saddlehorn, he pulled himself up, swung his leg over and eased himself onto the saddle. Exhausted, sick to his stomach from the effort and the pain, he sat there with his chin on his chest. His head felt as if it weighed a ton.

  Where was he? Since instinct told him to follow the river, he urged the horse out onto an animal path that ran alongside. Small grunting sounds came from him as he rocked with the motion of the horse. What seemed like hours later, he waded the horse across a shallow creek that flowed into the river, and he knew he was not far from Spencer. He was shaking with pain, no longer conscious of the cool night air because fever burned through him. He hung limply in the saddle.

  I’m dying and no one knows or cares.

  When next he opened his eyes, the stars overhead were dancing and swaying. A serpent of fire surrounded his back, his chest and his arm. Blood had run down his leg and into his shoe.

  His horse was walking slowly into Spencer.

  Steven’s head cleared momentarily. The town was dark except for the saloon at the end of the street. He turned the horse to walk behind the stores. Fighting to stay conscious, he pulled the horse to a stop behind the mercantile and sat there. He tried to move, and when he did, a haunting cry of agony tore from his throat.

  The door opened and McHenry, carrying a lantern, stepped outside.

  “Who be ye?”

  Steven looked at him with tears rolling down his cheeks. “Help me,” he whispered.

  “Steve! Ah… mon. Whatever has happened to ye?” McHenry stuck his head in the door and called, “Mag, here.” He set the lantern on the ground and was beside Steven in two strides. “Aye, ye’re bleedin’. Air ye hurt bad?”

  “I may be dying.”

  “Nay, nay. Can ye get off, mon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “’Tis no never mind. I be strong as a ox. Lean to me, mon.”

  “Wait,” Steven whispered. “Papers in my coat lining. Hide them.”