The logger glanced to a table in the corner. “I’ll look over your maps, then be gone.” Haslett offered his hand to Rubal. “Good meetin’ you, Jarrett.”
“We’ll likely meet again. I’m scouting a rail line for L&M, so I’ll be talking to all the loggers.”
Haslett nodded and turned to the maps.
The list Cleatus handed Rubal was broken down into two parts: sawmills and loggers. Rubal scanned the list, then called to Haslett. “Don’t see you listed here.”
“Haslett’s new to the area,” Cleatus explained. “You’ll probably want to talk to the older guys first.”
One look at the list confirmed Rubal’s initial interpretation of Cleatus’s intentions: to get rid of Molly’s new boarder as fast as he could. The list was lengthy and contained detailed maps to each place listed.
“Thanks, Farrington. This’ll likely cut days off my search.” Rubal shook Cleatus’s offered hand. Out of the blue, he wondered how intimately that hand had known Molly. “See you at supper.” The crestfallen expression on Cleatus’s face relieved some of Rubal’s own distress.
Outside Rubal mulled over the list, attempting to bring his full attention back to the chore of smoking out timber thieves. Anything less, and he’d likely get his cover blown. First time one of those crusty ol’ sawyers suspected he didn’t know his way around a sawmill, it’d more than likely be “Good-bye Ol’ Paint.”
Taking the road south along the river, Rubal had traveled no more than three miles when he noticed thick black smoke curling into the sky, announcing the Merchant Mill, even before the two-story building and acres of yard came into view.
He rode past the millpond, a couple of acres in size, he judged. The muddy water was corded with row upon row of pine logs. Only a fraction of their surface showed above the water, giving the appearance of a pond full of listless alligators. Which wasn’t a bad analogy, he knew, considering the hazards of the sawmill business.
The pond reached right up to the building itself. Stretching into the clearing on the other three sides were stacks of boards, piles of sawdust and wood chips, and in the distance a second building he figured for the smoke kiln.
Merchant’s was a medium-size mill, which Rubal and the powers-that-be down in Orange decided would be the best bet for finding thieves: large enough in volume—somewhere around forty thousand board feet per day—that the management wasn’t likely to know every logger by name and reputation; small enough that the records might be less efficiently kept.
Either a medium-size mill or a portable one, which the logger could rig up himself and which would be extremely hard for a newcomer like Rubal to locate. Here today and gone tomorrow, portable mills were known in the business as peckerwood mills. They chewed up more of the log than they cut. Not that all portable-mills owners ran fly-by-night operations. Most were owned by farmers and other landowners, who used them to bring in a little cash in the off season.
The mill yard was a hive of activity. Rubal hitched Coyote and stepped to the main floor of the building. His approach was drowned out by the noise of machinery, human voices, and clashing logs.
He stood unobserved, watching the scaler stop the jack ladder, measure each log, and record the estimated board feet in a ledger. Moving quickly along, the scaler pulled down a cutoff saw, sliced the log into lengths, and sent it down one of two chutes toward the circular saws. The whole process took no more than a matter of seconds. Somewhere along the way Rubal had been told that a good scaler could make or break a sawmill operation. Seeing this man in action, he believed it.
When the scaler finally noticed Rubal, he stopped the jack ladder and shouted something above the racket of machinery.
Rubal mouthed, “L&M,” the scaler shrugged, and a second man materialized.
The man who came forward wore the familiar bibbed overalls and a frown. Through the noise he seemed to understand that Rubal was from L&M. That was enough for him to take Rubal by an arm and guide him outside, where they could hear each other, if they raised their voices.
“You Ed Merchant?” Rubal inquired.
“Depends on who’s askin’ an’ what they want.” The man spat tobacco off to the side, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wiped his hand on his overalls, then extended it to Rubal.
Rubal tried not to show his hesitation. “Name’s Jarrett. Jubal Jarrett. L&M sent me to scout a line for a railroad through here.”
The foreman’s face brightened.
“Seemed the best way to go about that, was to talk to the men who would use it.”
Merchant nodded vigorously. “Glad to be of help. What’d you want from me?”
“Your views, suggestions, and if it isn’t too much of an invasion, a looksee at your receipts.”
Merchant frowned.
“Your receipts, and those of your competitors, will help me piece together a map of where the logs come from and who the loggers are. That way maybe I can come to some sort of decision before the entire virgin forest is depleted.”
Merchant laughed. “I can see how it’d shorten your task. Follow me.”
While he led Rubal into a small office, Merchant gave his views—“Right along the river and up to my front door.” Inside the small, cluttered office, he introduced Rubal to an elderly man who appeared to be in charge. “Give him all the help he needs, Tom. Can’t get a railroad through here quick enough to suit me.”
Rubal spent the next several hours going over ledgers, matching names to the list Cleatus had furnished, making notes, indicating places on his various maps, in short, trying to consolidate, isolate, and separate any activity that might eventually lead him to illegal timber sales. He finished with just enough time to make it back to the Blake House for supper. And he had a notion that if Molly had to face the Taylors with only Cleatus and Travis as a buffer, she’d likely serve his hide for breakfast tomorrow.
Studying the maps again, Rubal decided on a shortcut back to Apple Springs, and set out. Thing was, the road wasn’t as straight, nor anywhere near as easy to follow as the main road that ran along the river from the Merchant operation. Stumps in the roadbed ranged from a few inches in some places to two or three feet in others, reminding Rubal of stories about the old days on the frontier, when a road was graded according to the number and size of stumps left in the bed. For a logging road, this one appeared downright hazardous.
Twice he lost his way, found it by the direction of the sun, and continued. Trees towered on either side, creating an isolated world. The forest seemed endless; he began to wonder whether the road he traveled led anywhere, or whether it just wound around through the magnificent forest. He was reminded of some vast park, where animals could roam unmolested and lovers could stroll. He patted Coyote’s neck. Danged if he didn’t have lovers on the brain lately.
Coming to a T in the road, he consulted his map again and headed east. Surely Apple Springs lay to the east. He passed several logging outfits that were busy felling trees and preparing them for transport. He studied each one, jotting down the name of the logger when it was painted on the wagon.
A half mile or so from the T, he came to yet another logging operation; work here, like at the other sites, was in full progress. Drawing rein he studied the group, then was surprised to be hailed by someone he knew. Or at least, had met. Lifting a hand, the logger Cleatus had introduced him to at the bank this morning rushed forward, extending his hand in greeting. “Jarrett, we meet again.”
Taking a moment to recall the man’s name, Rubal finally responded, “Haslett, isn’t it?”
“Victor Haslett. How’d you work your way ’round to these backwoods?”
Rubal removed his Stetson, ran spread fingers through his hair, and replaced the hat. “Danged if I know. Thought I was taking a shortcut back to Apple Springs.” He shrugged. “Am I on the right road.”
“This’ll take you there,” Haslett agreed amicably, adding, “by and by. Get down and let me show you my operation.”
Rubal c
ast a glance around the area. Trees lay crisscrossed one over another, covering a large portion of cleared property. Men were busy chopping limbs off the felled trees with axes; others worked in pairs with crosscut saws, cutting trunks into the desired lengths.
“We’re about ready to load up a wagon. Care to watch?”
Knowing it would put him late, Rubal nevertheless figured it would be to his benefit to watch.
Haslett indicated where he could tie his horse. “We’ll go in on foot.” He led Rubal toward an eight-wheeled wagon, where half a dozen men prepared to load the day’s work. Skidding each log up a couple of slanted poles, the men on the ground turned the operation over to another man who stood on top of the wagon. Rubal watched the top loader guide each successive log into just the right position, gradually forming a pyramid of rough logs. While other men rushed to bundle the stack with a couple of chains, Rubal thanked the Man Upstairs he’d been born to cattle country.
“Back-breaking work,” he commented. “Wouldn’t a slip-tongued cart be easier to load?”
“A slip-tongue can’t carry the number of logs a wagon can,” Haslett replied.
“How late of an evening do you work?” Rubal was thinking more about being late for supper than about the work Haslett had left to do. “Ed Merchant’ll likely be closed down by the time you get there.”
“I’m not using Merchant’s.” Haslett pointed off to the north. “Feller has a portable mill set up beyond that rise, five or so miles. We’ll load ’em up tonight, then come morning, we’ll haul ’em in.”
Rubal noticed the stack of canvas off to the right. “You sleep on the premises?”
“Not usually. Farrington mentioned that we’re new to the area. Couple, three, of the boys haven’t found lodging yet. So they’ll pitch a tent. Most of us will go into Trimble.”
“Trimble? That’s a company town, isn’t it? Trimble Lumber Mill?”
“Several of us are on Trimble’s payroll. I do some work for them, in addition to cutting for private parties. I’m an independent.”
“But the men who aren’t on Trimble’s payroll aren’t allowed to lodge there?”
“Right,” Haslett agreed.
Of a sudden, an idea struck Rubal. It would be a chance, but—“How many of your loggers need lodging?”
Haslett glanced over his crew. “Three,” he said at length, pointing. “Waldo and Calder, a pair of flat-heads, and that young skidder over yonder, the one with red hair, Jeff Harmon.”
It was taking a chance, Rubal thought again. Molly could turn them away, cold. But she needed the money. He hadn’t gotten around to inquiring why she didn’t rent to loggers, but with him there to keep them in line, maybe he could persuade her.
“What kind of men are they?” he asked Haslett.
“Good men, all three. I’ve known ’em several years. They’ve worked for me off an’ on. Never had a moment’s trouble. Course you know loggin’s such almighty hard work, when the day’s over all a logger wants is a belly full of food and a bed. Hell, he don’t even care if it’s soft.”
“Do they have transportation?”
“Depends on where from.”
“Apple Springs.”
“From Apple Springs they could likely hitch a ride on the L&M wagon mornings and evenings. But what’s in Apple Springs?”
“If you’ll vouch for their decency, I think I’ve got just the place. Food’s good and there are several vacancies. The Blake House.”
“That run-down old mansion on the outskirts of town? I asked Farrington about that. He claimed they don’t take in boarders.”
“Shows how little he knows. I’m boardin’ there. An’ I’ll be frank about it. I haven’t eaten such good meals in a coon’s age.”
“Let me call the boys over.”
In the long run they made a deal. Four dollars a week, room and board, including breakfast, supper, and a lunch to bring to the field. In exchange, rainy days when they couldn’t work in the forest, they were to help out with odd jobs, as defined by Rubal or the owner, Miss Durant.
“Figure that’ll include patching fences, repairs to barn and house, painting, such like.”
The three men huddled to discuss it, no one willing to make the first move.
“And a dance on Saturday night,” Rubal threw in.
Jeff, a red-headed young man somewhere in his early twenties and muscled from work in the forest, jumped at that. “Since you put it that way, how could a red-blooded logger refuse?”
The others agreed, and Rubal waited until they finished loading the wagon. Since they didn’t have horses, Haslett loaned them his wagon for the night.
“All right if I use your name to arrange for the L&M wagon?” Rubal asked Haslett.
“Sure thing.”
On the way to Apple Springs the men attempted to quiz Rubal about the food, the comfort of the dilapidated old house, and the work that would be required of them. Rubal had other things on his mind. “First time one of you heathens gets out of line, all three are out of lodging,” he warned.
Even that likely wouldn’t satisfy Molly. But dang it, if he intended to pull out on her, he ought to see her back in business, first.
Why she didn’t rent to loggers, he couldn’t figure, unless she’d had a bad experience with one. Well, she’d had a bad experience with a Jarrett, too, and she let him back in.
Rubal’s uneasiness grew, however, as they neared Apple Springs. “When we get there, we’ll put the horses and wagon away, wash up at the outdoor pump, and go through the front door, like gentlemen.”
Dessert and coffee had just been served to a table bulging with twenty-four diners, counting family and Cleatus, who, Rubal noticed upon entering the foyer, sat in his usual place at the head of Molly’s table. A pang of jealousy stabbed Rubal in the gut. He rebuked it. Hell, Cleatus had sat in that place before he arrived, and would sit there after he left—
Then he caught Molly’s blue eyes. She had worried about him. He could see that in an instant.
And in the next instant, her blue eyes turned cold and he could tell she was no longer worried. She was mad as an old settin’ hen who’d been robbed by a coyote.
Molly endured the meal only because she spent the entire time rehearsing the words she would use to send Jubal Jarrett packing—if and when he returned.
Master Taylor and Cleatus monopolized the conversation with plans for Travis to go off to San Augustine to school. A wonderful idea. But feasible only if she agreed to adoption.
Fortunately, neither the Petersens nor the Raus had come for supper tonight, she thought uncharitably. Perhaps she would be unlucky enough to entertain them tomorrow. But Miz Inez had come, and the Widow Grimes, who brought along two old maid friends—Selma Owens and Mabel Joiner.
Anna Taylor, the schoolmaster’s wife, was all ears when Miss Selma quizzed Molly about the new boarder—the married man who had attended church with her—the one who slept under her roof. That drew Cleatus’s attention away from San Augustine Academy.
“He isn’t married,” Cleatus informed the table, correcting the misconception Rubal had engendered about his marital status.
Miss Mabel’s frail hands flew to her mouth. “Oooh, a bachelor, dear? Is that safe?”
“Perfectly, Miss Mabel. As you can see, he seldom burdens us with his presence.”
Lindy, however, to Molly’s despair, entertained Betty Sparks, Cynthia Newman, and Jimmie Sue Baker with a recitation of their new and only boarder’s every attribute.
“He washes dishes?”
“He dresses the little boys?”
“Well, we haven’t gotten him to weed the garden—yet,” Lindy acknowledged.
Molly lifted a hand to her cheek. Thank heavens, Lindy hadn’t witnessed Jubal’s show of affection this morning.
“He baby-sits,” Cleatus offered.
Then the front screen squawked and in walked the object of their discussion—an insufferable two hours late.
Three men followed h
im into the foyer.
Molly caught her breath, only now aware of how worried she’d been. He beckoned her with a nod.
“Keep your seat, Molly.” Cleatus was already rising, his face a mutinous shade of red. “I’ll handle this.”
Too late to stop Cleatus, Molly rose, anyway. Excusing herself, she crossed to the foyer, followed by gasps and titters from the girls who had come to see the handsome new boarder. By the time Molly reached the foyer, she was steaming.
“What’s the meaning of this, Jarrett?” Cleatus demanded.
Ignoring Cleatus, Rubal reached for Molly’s arm. “I can explain,” he told her. He drew her toward the three brawny men. Their faces were clean, their hair combed, but their clothes reeked of a day’s work outdoors.
“Molly, meet Waldo, Calder, and Jeff. They’re loggers, working for a new feller in the area. They need a place to board.”
Chapter Seven
“Molly doesn’t rent to loggers,” Cleatus hissed in a low voice.
“I don’t—”
“Molly, I don’t know what your reasons are, but I’ll vouch for these men. They work hard. They’ll stay out of your way, won’t even get back to town in time for supper in the dining room. They’ll have to eat in the kitchen afterwards. They promised to be on their best behavior, if you’d rescind your policy…” he motioned aimlessly with his Stetson, “…until they can find another place.”
Molly stared at his innocent expression. He had her and he knew it. How could she turn men out on the street? The idea infuriated her. “You know my rules—”
“Don’t do it, Molly,” Cleatus argued. “You don’t know these men…and you don’t know him.”
Rubal spoke earnestly. “You can trust me, Molly. You know that. They’ve agreed to four dollars a week, three meals a day, including a lunch to take with them in the mornings.” He glanced into the dining room, scanned the gathering for Oscar Petersen, then addressed Cleatus as though the banker weren’t standing poised for a fight. “Haslett let them use his wagon tonight, but they’ll need to ride the L&M wagon tomorrow evening and afterwards. Could you arrange things with Petersen?”
Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four Page 12