Doc didn't have any customers at the moment. He was sitting in the chair himself with a newspaper spread open in front of him. He glanced up, looked over the paper, and said, "If you've come for a haircut, I think I can squeeze you in if you don't mind waiting."
Logan chuckled. "Actually, I just came by to say hello, but I suppose I could use a trim."
Doc folded the paper, set it aside, and got out of the chair. He picked up the cape folded over the arm of the chair and motioned for Logan to sit down. Logan did so after hanging up his hat.
"I won't even ask you to sweep up afterward," Doc said as he fastened the cape around Logan's neck. "How are you doing?"
"All right, I suppose."
"Still working for Marcus Baldwin?"
"Part of the time. Whenever he has something for me to do."
Doc grunted over the snick-snick of the scissors as he got to work. He said, "I noticed you weren't limping as bad when you came in just now."
"I've been going to Dr. Strittmatter's bathhouse for treatments," Logan said. "I thought they weren't really helping, but maybe they are and I just can't see the progress because I'm too close to it."
Doc snorted. "There's nothing wrong with a hot mineral bath," he said. "It'll make you feel better for a while. But the thing that's made your leg stronger and helped your limp is walking up and down these hills. All that exercise can't help but strengthen your muscles. I told you that the first time we met."
"I don't know, Doc . . ."
"Think about it," Doc said. "Your arm isn't any better, is it?"
"Not that I can tell," Logan admitted.
"That's because you never did those exercises I recommended to you. You're not using it enough. You got in the habit of favoring it after you were afflicted, and you've never gotten over that. You've got to make an effort to exercise it more."
Maybe Doc had a point, Logan mused. He thought back over the past few weeks. He hadn't thought that his leg was getting better because there hadn't been any dramatic changes in it. Yet Doc had noticed an improvement in his limp right away. Doc hadn't seen him in a while, so he could tell a difference. And now that Logan thought about it, he didn't think he was quite as tired and his leg didn't ache as badly whenever he got back to the hotel from walking around town.
If Doc was right, then paying Strittmatter to sit in a tub of hot, stinking water was sort of like throwing money away, other than the relaxation Logan got out of it. He wasn't sure that was worth what the doctor was charging him.
"What do you think I should do to help my arm, Doc?"
"Well . . ." Doc paused and grinned. "It might do some good if you were to grab that broom in the corner and sweep for a while."
Logan laughed. "I thought you weren't going to make me do that."
"Just giving you some friendly advice, that's all."
Doc finished with the haircut, untied the cape, powdered and brushed off the back of Logan's neck. While Doc was doing that, the shop door opened again, and Rusty Turner came in.
"I was hopin' I might find you here, Logan," he said. "I been by the hotel where you're stayin' now, and that little foreign fella's bathhouse. Howdy, Doc."
"Hello, Rusty," Doc said. "You seem a bit distracted."
"I'm all right. Logan, Mr. Baldwin sent me to find you."
"He's got something else for me to do?" Logan asked.
"I dunno. He don't confide in me. But he seemed upset about somethin'."
"Looks like I won't have a chance to sweep up after all, Doc," Logan said as he stood up.
"That's all right," Doc said. "Just remember what I told you about that arm. Start using it more, and you'll see a change in it. Just be prepared for it being sore, like I warned you about from the start."
Logan nodded, settled his hat on his head, and left the shop with Rusty.
As they walked through the blustery day toward Baldwin's office, Logan said, "Rusty, do you think I'm limping as bad as I used to?"
Rusty frowned in thought as he turned his head to watch Logan's gait for a moment before he replied. "Maybe not quite as much," he said.
"Doc noticed it right away because he hadn't seen me in a while. He says my leg is finally getting stronger because of all the walking I do up and down the hills here in Hot Springs."
"It's a hilly place, I'll give it that," Rusty agreed. "He still don't believe the mineral baths will cure what ails you?"
"He says they won't do anything except make the muscles feel better temporarily."
"Well, if you're hurtin' bad enough, that'd be worth somethin' by itself."
"I suppose so," Logan agreed. "I won't deny that the baths feel good. But Doc claims only exercise will make my muscles stronger."
Rusty shook his head and said, "When it comes to doctorin', I don't know a blessed thing. But I know Doc Reese is a smart man. I'd be tempted to follow his advice, if I was you."
Logan nodded. "That's exactly what I'm thinking about doing. But right now I guess I need to find out what Mr. Baldwin wants before I do anything else."
Upon their arrival, they were shown immediately into Marcus Baldwin's office. This time Rusty was allowed in, too. He said, "I brung him just like you said to, Mr. Baldwin."
"Yes, thank you, Turner," Baldwin said, clearly distracted by something. He waved Logan into the well-padded chair in front of the desk. Rusty fidgeted for a couple of seconds, then said goodbye to Logan and left the office. If he had hoped for a more concrete expression of Baldwin's gratitude, he would just have to be disappointed.
"I've gotten some disturbing reports from my logging camps in the past couple of days, Logan," Baldwin went on. "There's been some sabotage – supplies destroyed, mysterious fires, my men shot at – and I want you to look into it. You've handled jobs like that in the past, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir, I have," Logan admitted, "but that was when I was able-bodied and could stay in the saddle all day when I was following a trail, if I needed to."
"The roads are good enough that a buggy can manage on most of them. You can handle a buggy, can't you?"
"Not and do any shooting at the same time, if it comes to that," Logan replied bluntly. An idea came to him. "But I might be able to look into the situation if you send Rusty with me to drive."
"Turner?" Baldwin frowned. "I suppose I could do that. He's a good man, but certainly not indispensible to my freight operation down here. I'll call him back in here."
"First, why don't you tell me exactly what's happened?"
"I'll do better than that. I'll let you read the reports for yourself."
Baldwin pushed several sheets of paper across the desk. Logan picked them up and started to read. He saw that the problems were just as Baldwin had described them.
"Seems like most of the trouble is centered around the Devil's Gorge camp," he said. "That's where I'd start looking."
"Handle things however you see fit," Baldwin said. "Just put a stop to Nash's mischief."
"You think Aaron Nash is behind this?"
Baldwin snorted in disgust and said, "Who else could it be? No one else has any reason to want to cause trouble for me. Nash thinks his hired guns will undermine my operation until I quit and leave all the timber for him. He should know better. That's never going to happen."
Baldwin's mention of hired guns made Logan think of Jim Meadows. He hadn't seen Meadows since that night in Little Rock. Obviously the scar-faced gunman wasn't trying to track him down after all, or else Meadows would have shown up in Hot Springs by now.
But it was possible that Meadows might be working for Aaron Nash without even knowing that Logan was anywhere in the area. The sort of sabotage described in the reports was just the sort of thing Meadows would be involved in. At its heart, this conflict between Baldwin and Nash was no different than all the range wars in which Meadows had been hired by one side or the other . . . and Logan, too.
Logan knew it would take several hours to reach the Devil's Gorge camp, but it was still early enough in the
day to make it by nightfall. He got to his feet and said, "I'll go find Rusty. We'll leave as soon as possible."
"Good." Baldwin still seemed worried and distracted, and Logan wondered suddenly if the man's financial situation was more precarious than he let on. Baldwin certainly appeared to have plenty of money, but Logan had seen in the past that such businessmen usually put up that façade even when they were having trouble. Especially when they were having trouble, he thought, because they didn't want any of their enemies sensing a potential weakness.
Logan started to leave the office, but then he paused and asked, "How's Miss Baldwin?"
"Gillian? She's fine. I don't really see much of her these days. She has a new beau, and as usual, she's all caught up in that."
"First I've heard of it," Logan said, then immediately felt a little foolish. There was no reason for him to keep up with Gillian Baldwin's social life.
"It won't last," Baldwin said with a dismissive wave. "None of Gillian's little flirtations do."
Her flirtation with him hadn't lasted, Logan thought, but that was because he had never allowed it to get out of hand. Even if he had, he was sure Gillian would have tired of him in a hurry.
The novelty of romancing a cripple had to be pretty short-lived.
Without saying anything else, he left the office and went next door to the barn to look for Rusty. He would need to go back to the hotel and get his shotgun, too, and it might be a good idea for Rusty to bring along a rifle or a handgun. Or both.
If they found the men who were causing the trouble, they were liable to wind up needing all the firepower they could muster.
22.
The city of Hot Springs and the area around it were a federal reservation, having been made so years earlier by a declaration from President Andrew Jackson, a believer in the healing properties of the water from the springs. But the heavily forested Ouachita Mountains, west and northwest of the town, were not federal property, and in recent years the thick growth of loblolly pines had attracted the burgeoning timber industry, represented primarily by Marcus Baldwin and Aaron Nash.
Devil's Gorge Camp was located some twenty miles northwest of Hot Springs and took its name from a deep, steep-sided, brush-choked ravine that ran nearby. Baldwin kept a full crew of loggers there, and they stayed busy trimming and felling pines that were then cut up into manageable sections, loaded onto big wagons pulled by mule teams made up of a dozen or more of the beasts, and hauled to Little Rock to be milled into lumber and paper. Baldwin's long-range plans called for building a mill closer to the mountains and the timber supply, but that was still in the future.
Logan already knew some of this and learned the rest from listening to the talkative Rusty Turner during the drive to Devil's Gorge Camp. As they neared there late that afternoon, Rusty was still talking. Logan suddenly leaned forward in the buggy seat, held up a hand to stop him, and said, "Hold on a minute. Stop the buggy."
Rusty hauled back on the reins. As the buggy halted, the rattle of its wheels died away. The thick forest that pressed in on both sides of the trail swallowed up any echoes. Silence hung over the mountains.
"That ain't right," Rusty said. "There should be some noise from the animals – "
A sudden burst of gunfire shattered the quiet. That explained why the inhabitants of the forest had all fallen silent. Logan had thought a moment earlier that he heard shots. That was why he had spoken up. At first when everything was still after Rusty stopped the buggy, he had wondered if he was mistaken.
Now he knew there had just been a lull in the shooting. Now it had started up again, the reports coming furiously.
Rusty let out a startled curse. "Sounds like somebody's goin' to war!" he said.
"You've been up here before," Logan said. "Are those shots coming from the direction of Baldwin's camp?"
"They sure as blazes are!"
"Get us there as fast as you can," Logan ordered, his voice grim. He reached down to the floorboard where the wooden case containing the scattergun was resting between his feet and picked it up.
Rusty slapped the reins against the backs of the two horses pulling the buggy and called out to them. The horses broke into a trot. The faster pace meant the vehicle bounced and rocked more, but that didn't matter. Logan wanted to reach the logging camp as quickly as possible. He hung on to one of the struts that supported the buggy's canvas top.
Rusty wheeled the buggy around a bend in the trail. Several buildings came into view. Logan had been up here before and recognized the long bunkhouse, the mess hall, and its attached cook shack. Across the big clearing where the camp was located loomed the large, open-sided, covered shed where logs were stored until they could be hauled off to the mills. Next to it was the tool shed where the axes, saws, climbing gear, and other equipment were kept.
Spurts of powdersmoke came from the sheds. Answering shots roared from the windows of the bunkhouse as Rusty reined in. If he'd kept going, he and Logan would have wound up directly between the two forces, in the middle of that furious, lethal crossfire.
The buggy skidded to a halt. Logan and Rusty piled out of the vehicle. Logan had the scattergun in his right hand by now. Rusty grabbed the Henry rifle he had brought with him. They took cover behind the buggy as a bullet whined over their heads.
"How can we tell which side is ours?" Rusty asked. "We can't see any of 'em. They're all behind cover!"
"Did you see which direction that shot came from? I think we can assume that anybody trying to ventilate us isn't our friend!"
"No, dadgum it, I didn't. With everybody blazin' away, it's hard to tell."
Rusty was right about that. Logan hadn't been able to tell which side had fired the shot, either. That left him with no choice but to try to draw another one.
"Watch the shed," he told Rusty. "I'll keep an eye on the bunkhouse."
"What're you gonna – Damn it, Logan, be careful!"
Too late for that, Logan thought as he stepped out into the open where the men in the shed and those in the bunkhouse could see him.
Almost instantly, another jet of gunsmoke came from one of the bunkhouse windows. Logan felt the wind-rip of the bullet as it passed close to his ear. He dived back behind the buggy.
"You nearly got your dang fool head blowed off!" Rusty exclaimed.
"Yeah, but now we know it's probably not Mr. Baldwin's men holed up in the bunkhouse."
"You can't be sure about that. They maybe mistook us for some more of whoever they're shootin' at."
Unfortunately, Rusty was right, Logan realized. Still, the odds favored the men in the shed being Baldwin's loggers. This was just about the right time for them to return to the camp after putting in a day's work. Maybe they had found somebody skulking around the bunkhouse. Logan recalled reading in some of the reports that there had been some mysterious fires.
Anybody who would start a fire in a forest like this was risking incredible destruction. The blaze could spread and engulf many square miles of trees. The fact that none of the fires had done much damage so far was a combination of quick action by the loggers in putting them out and sheer luck.
But someone taking the long view might be willing to risk it. Nature would repair the devastation. The trees would grow back. Aaron Nash might be willing to pay such a price to put Marcus Baldwin out of business.
Those thoughts flashed through Logan's mind. He knew it was all sheer speculation at this point, and he didn't really have the time to spend on it. He pointed and said to Rusty, "If we can get into the woods over there, we can circle through them and make it to the sheds."
"I can make a run for it," Rusty said, "but you can't, Logan. The way the buggy's parked, it'd shield you a little from the bunkhouse, but you'd still be out in the open too long. They'd be liable to drill you."
"It's a chance I've got to take," Logan said.
Rusty couldn't talk him out of it. The older man said, "If you're gonna do it, at least let me cover you. I'll spray the front of that bunkhouse w
ith so much lead, nobody'll have a chance to draw a bead on you."
Logan thought about it and nodded. "All right, and I'll cover you from the trees once I've made it over there."
"That's long range for a handgun."
"I don't care if I hit anything. I just want to make them keep their heads down."
Rusty grinned and said, "That sounds like a pretty good plan, if you're bound and determined to do it."
"I am. Let's go."
Rusty worked the Henry's lever. "Whenever you're ready."
Logan had grabbed the cane with his left hand when he got out of the buggy, but he was going to need it in his right hand while he tried to hurry into the trees. He switched hands with the cane and the shotgun. The weapon was heavier and put more of a strain on his weakened muscles, but he closed his hand around the stock as tightly as he could and willed himself to hang on.
At that moment he wished he had paid more attention to Doc Reese's advice a long time ago. If he had, maybe his arm would be stronger by now.
But it was too late for that. As Rusty's rifle began to crack, Logan lurched into motion, using the cane for support as he hobbled toward the trees.
Rusty slammed shot after shot at the bunkhouse as fast as he could work the Henry's lever. Logan glanced over his shoulder and saw a couple of puffs of powdersmoke from the windows, but the shots must not have come anywhere close. He didn't hear the bullets as they passed by.
Of course, people said you never heard the bullet that killed you, either, but Logan had never seen how anybody could possibly know that.
The buggy had stopped right where the woods began to widen out into the broad clearing where the camp was located. The closest trees were about fifty feet away. That distance seemed more like fifty miles to Logan as he tried to cover it. He kept moving, expecting to feel the shock of a bullet at any second, but he didn't. He drew closer to the trees, and suddenly he was among them. He lurched behind a thick-trunked pine and rested his back against it for a moment, heedless of any sap he might get on his coat. His heart slugged heavily in his chest, and he couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs.
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