Bagley, Desmond - Landslide

by Landslide

  Three more times I was rammed from behind and I hated to think what was happening to my gear. And once I was nipped, caught between the heavy steel fenders of the two trucks for a fraction of a second. I felt the compression on the chassis and I swear the Land-Rover was momentarily lifted from the ground. There was a log rubbing on the windshield and the glass starred and smashed into a misty opacity and I couldn't see a damned thing ahead.

  Fortunately the pressure released and I was running free again with my head stuck out of the side and I saw we were at the end of the cutting. One of the logs on the left side of the front truck seemed to be loaded a little higher than the others, and I judged it was high enough to clear the cab. I had to get out of this squeeze. There was very little room to manoeuvre and those sadistic bastards could hold me there until we got to the sawmill if I couldn't figure a way out.

  So I spun the wheel and chanced it and found I was wrong. The log didn't clear the top of the cab—not by a quarter of an inch—and I heard the rending tear of sheet metal. But I couldn't stop then; I fed gas to the engine frantically and tore free to find myself bucketing over the rough ground and heading straight for a big Douglas fir. I hauled on the wheel and swerved again and again, weaving among the trees and driving roughly parallel with the road.

  I passed the front truck and saw my chance, so I rammed down hard on the gas pedal and shot ahead of it and fled down the road with that e ighteen-wheel monster pounding after me, blaring its horn. I knew better than to stop and fight it out with those guys; they wouldn't stop on the road just because I did and me and the Land-Rover would be a total loss. I had the legs of them and scooted away in front, passing the turn-off to the sawmill and not stopping until I was a full mile the other side.

  Then I stopped and held up my hands. They were shaking uncontrollably and, when I moved, my shirt was clammy against my skin because it was soaked in sweat. I lit a cigarette and waited until the shakes went away before I climbed out to survey the damage. The front wasn't too bad, although a steady drip of water indicated a busted radiator. The windshield was a total write-off and the top of the cab looked as though someone had used a blunt can-opener on it. The rear end was smashed up pretty badly—it looked like the front end of any normal auto crash. I looked in the back and saw the shattered wooden case and a clutter of broken bottles from my field testing kit. There was the acrid stink of chemicals from the reagents swimming about on the bottom and I hastily lifted the geiger counter out of the liquid—free acids don't do delicate instruments any good.

  I stepped back and estimated the cost of the damage. Two bloody noses for two truckers; maybe a broken back for Jimmy Waystrand; and a brand-new Land-Rover from Mr. Howard Matter son. I was inclined to be a bit lenient on Howard; I didn't mink he'd given any orders to squeeze me like that. But Jimmy Waystrand certainly had, and he was going to pay the hard way.

  After a while I drove into Fort Farrell, eliciting curious glances from passers-by in King Street. I pulled into Summer-skill's used car lot and he looked up and said in alarm, "Hey, I'm not responsible for that—it happened after you bought the crate."

  I climbed out. "I know," I said soothingly. "Just get me thing going again. I think she'll want a new radiator—and get a rear lamp working somehow."

  He walked round the Land-Rover in a full circle, then came back and stared at me hard. "What did you do—get into a fight with a tank?"

  "Something like that," I agreed.

  He waved. "That rear fender is twisted like a pretzel. How did that happen to a rear fender?"

  "Maybe it got hot and melted into mat shape," I suggested. "Cut the wonder. How long will it take?"

  "You just want to get the thing moving again? A jury-rig job?"

  "That'll do."

  He scratched his head. "I have an old Land-Rover radiator back of the shed, so you're lucky there. Say a couple of hours."

  "Okay," I said. "I'll be back in an hour and give you a hand." I left him and walked up the street to the Matter son Building. Maybe I just might have the beginnings of a quarrel with Howard.

  I breezed into his outer office and said, without breaking stride, "I'm going to see Matterson."

  "But—but he's busy," his secretary said agitatedly.

  "Sure," I said, not stopping. "Howard is a busy, busy man." I threw open the door of his office and walked inside to find Howard in conference with Dormer. "Hello, Howard," I said. "Don't you want to see me?"

  "What do you mean by busting in like that?" he demanded. "Can't you see I'm busy." He thumbed a switch. "Miss Kerr, what do you mean by letting people into--"

  I reached over and lifted his hand away from the intercom, breaking the connection. "She didn't let me," I said softly. "She couldn't stop me -- so don't blame her. Now, I'll ask you a like-minded question. What do you mean by having Way-strand throw me out?"

  "That's a silly question," he snarled. He looked at Donner. 'Tell him."

  Donner cracked his knuckles and said precisely, "Any geological exploration of Matterson land we'll organize for ourselves. We don't need you to do it for us, Boyd. You'll stay clear in future, I trust."

  "You bet he'll stay clear," said Matterson.

  I said, "Howard, you've held tree-farm licences for so long that you think you own the goddam land. Give you another few years and you'll think you own the whole province of British Columbia. Your head's getting swelled, Howard."

  "Don't call me Howard," he snapped. "Come to the point."

  "All right," I said. "I wasn't on Matterson land -- I was on Crown land. Anyone with a prospector's licence can fossick on Crown land. Just because you have a licence to grow and cut lumber doesn't mean you can stop me. And if you think you can, I'll slap a court order on you so fast that it'll make your ears spin."

  It took some time to sink in but it finally did and he looked at Donner in a helpless way. I grinned at Donner and mimicked Matterson. 'Tell him."

  Donner said, "If you were on Crown land -- and that is a matter of question -- then perhaps you are right."

  I said, "There's no perhaps about it; you know I'm right."

  Matterson said suddenly, "I don't think you were on Crown land."

  "Check your maps," I said helpfully. "I bet you haven't looked at them for years. You're too accustomed to regarding the whole goddam country as your own."

  Matterson twitched a finger at Donner, who left the room. He looked at me with hard eyes. "What are you up to, Boyd?"

  "Just trying to make a living," I said easily. "There's a lot of good prospecting country round here -- it's just as good a place to explore as up north, and a lot warmer, too."

  "You might find it too warm," he said acidly. "You're not going about things in a friendly way."

  I raised my eyebrows. "I'm not! You ought to have been out on the road to Kinoxi this morning. I'd sooner be friendly with a grizzly bear than with some of your truckers. Anyway, I didn't come here to enter a popularity contest."

  "Why did you come here?"

  "Maybe you'll find out one day -- if you're smart enough, Howard."

  "I told you not to call me Howard," he said irritatedly.

  Dormer came in with a map, and I saw it was a copy of the one I had inspected in Tanner's office. Howard spread it on his desk and I said, "You'll find that the Kinoxi Valley is split between you and Clare Trinavant -- she in the north and you in the south with the lion's share. But Matter son land stops just short of the escarpment -- everything south of that is Crown land. And that means that the dam at the top of the escarpment and the power-house at the bottom is on Crown land, and I can go fossicking round there any time I like. Any comment?"

  Matterson looked up at Dormer, who nodded his head slightly. "It seems mat Mr. Boyd is correct," he said.

  "You're damn' right I'm correct." I pointed at Matterson. "Now there's something else I want to bring up -- a matter of a wrecked Land-Rover."

  He glared at me. "I'm not responsible for me way you drive."

  The
way he said it I was certain he knew what had happened. "All right," I said. "I'll be using the Kinoxi road pretty often in the near future. Tell your truckers to keep away from me, or someone will get killed in a road accident -- and it won't be me."

  He just showed me his teeth, and said, "I understand you were staying at the Matterson House." He leaned so heavily on the past tense that the sentence nearly busted in the middle.

  "I get the message," I said. "Enemies to the death, eh, Howard?" I walked out without saying another word and went down to the Matterson House Hotel.

  The desk clerk moved fast but I got in first. "I understand I've checked out," I said sourly.

  "Er . . . yes, Mr. Boyd. I've prepared your bill."

  I paid it, then went up and packed my case and lugged it across the road to Summerskill's car lot. He climbed out from under the Land-Rover and looked at me in a puzzled manner. "Not ready yet, Mr. Boyd."

  "That's all right. I have to get something to eat."

  He scrambled to his feet. "Hey, Mr. Boyd; you know, something funny has happened. I just checked the chassis and it has bulged."

  "What do you mean -- bulged?"

  Summerskill held his hands about a foot apart with curled fingers like a man holding a short length of four-by-two, and brought them together slowly. "This damn' chassis has been squoze." He wore a baffled look.

  "Will that make any difference to its running?"

  He shrugged. "Not much -- if you don't expect much."

  'Then leave well alone," I advised. "I'll be back as soon as I've had a bite to eat."

  I ate at the Hellenic Cafe, expecting to see McDougall but he didn't show up. I didn't want to see him at the Recorder office so I drifted round town for a while, keeping my eyes open. When after nearly an hour I hadn't seen him, I went back to Summerskill to find that he'd nearly finished the job.

  "That'll be forty-five dollars, Mr. Boyd," he said. "And I'm letting it go cheap."

  I dumped some groceries I had bought into the back of the Land-Rover and took out my wallet, mentally adding it to the account that Matterson was going to pay some day. As I counted out the bills, Summerskill said, "I wasn't able to do much with the top of the cab. I bashed the metal back into place and put some canvas on top; that'll keep the rain out."

  "Thanks," I said. "If I have another accident -- and that's not unlikely -- you shall have my trade."

  He pulled a sour face. "You have another accident like that and there'll be nothing left to repair."

  I drove out of town to McDougall's cabin and parked the Land-Rover out of sight after I had unloaded everything. I stripped and changed and heated some water. A little went to make coffee and I washed my shirt and pants in the rest. I stacked the groceries in the pantry and began to get my gear in order, checking to see exactly what was mined. I was grieving over a busted scintillometer when I heard the noise of a car, and when I ducked my head to look out of the window I saw a battered old Chewy pulling up outside. McDougall got out.

  "I thought I'd find you here," he said. "They told me at the hotel you'd checked out."

  "Howard arranged it," I said.

  "I had a telephone call from God not half an hour ago," said Mac. "The old Bull is getting stirred up. He wants to know who you are, where you're from, what your intentions are and how long you're going to stay around Fort Farrell." He smiled. "He gave me the job of finding out, naturally enough."

  "No comment," I said.

  Mac raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that I'm exercising my God-given right to keep my mouth shut. You tell old Matterson that I refuse to speak to the Press. I want to keep him guessing -- I want him to come to me."

  "Good enough," said Mac. "But he's lost you. No one knows you're here."

  "We can't keep that a secret for long," I said. "Not in a town as small as Fort Farrell." I smiled. "So we finally goosed the old boy into moving. I wonder what did it."

  "It could have been anything, from the talk I've heard round town," said Mac. "Ben Parker, for instance, thinks you're crazy."

  "Who is Ben Parker?"

  "The guy at the bus depot. Clarry Summerskill, on the other hand, holds you in great respect."

  'What kind of Summerskill?"

  Mac gave me a twisted grin. "His name is Clarence, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't think it's a suitable moniker for a used car dealer. He once asked me how in hell he could put up a sign saying, 'Honest Clarence', and not get laughed at. Anyway, he told me that any man who could do in three short hours what you did to a Land-Rover must be the toughest guy in Canada. He based that on the fact that you didn't have a scratch on you. What did happen, anyway?"

  "I'll put some water on for coffee," I said. "The Land-Rover's out back. Take a look at it."

  Mac went out to look at the damage and came back wearing a wry face, "Drop over a cuff?" he asked.

  I told him and he grew grave. "The boys play rough," he said.

  "That's nothing. Just clean fun and games, that's all. It was a private idea of Jimmy Waystrand's; I don't think the Mattersons had anything to do with it. They haven't started yet."

  The kettle boiled. "I'd rather have tea," said Mac. 'Too much coffee makes me feel nervous and strung up, and we don't want that to happen, do we?" So he made strong black tea which tasted like stewed pennies. He said, "Why did you go up to the dam, anyway?"

  "I wanted to get Howard stirred up," I said. "I wanted to get noticed."

  "You did," Mac said drily.

  "How much is that dam costing?" I asked.

  Mac pondered. "Taking everything in -- the dam, the power-house and the transmission lines -- it'll run to six million dollars. Not as big as the Peace River Project, but not small potatoes."

  "I've been doing some figuring," I said. "I reckon that Matter son is taking over ten million dollars' worth of lumber out of the Kinoxi Valley. He's taking everything out, remember, not the less-than-one-per-cent cut that the Forestry Service usually allows. That leaves him with four million bucks."

  "Nice going," said Mac.

  "It gets better. He doesn't really want that four million dollars -- he'd only have to pay tax on it; but the electricity plant does need maintenance and there's depreciation to take into account, so he invests three million dollars and that takes care of it. He makes one million bucks net, and he has free power for the Matterson enterprises for as far into the future as I can see."

  "Not to mention the dough he makes on the power he sells," said Mac. "That's pure cream."

  "It's like having a private entrance to Fort Knox," I said.

  Mac grunted. "This smells of Donner. I've never known such a guy for seeing money where no one else can see it. And it's legal, too."

  I said, "I mink Clare Trinavant is a sentimental fool. She's letting emotion take the place of thinking. The Kinoxi Valley is going to be flooded and there is nothing she can do to stop it."

  "So?"

  "So she has five square miles of woodland up there that's going to be wasted, and she's passing up three million dollars just because she has a grudge against the Mattersons. Isn't she aware of mat?"

  Mac shook his head. "She's not a businesswoman -- takes no interest in it. Her financial affairs are managed by a bank in Vancouver. I doubt if she's given it a thought."

  I said, "Doesn't the Forestry Service have anything to say about it? It seems silly to waste all that lumber."

  "The Forestry Service has never been known to prosecute anyone for not cutting," he pointed out. "The problem has never come up before."

  "With three million bucks coming in for sure she could build her own sawmill," I said forcefully. "If she doesn't want the Mattersons in on it."

  "Bit late for that, isn't it?" Mac asked.

  "That's the pity of it." I brooded over it. "She's more like Howard Matterson than she thinks; he is also an emotional type, although a bit more predictable." I smiled. "I reckon I can make Howard jump through hoops."

  "Don't think yo
u can treat the old man like that," said Mac warningly. "He's tougher and more devious. Hell save up his Sunday punch and sneak it in from an unexpected direction." He switched the subject. "What's the next move?"

  "More of the same. Old Matterson reacted fast so we must have hit a sore spot. I stir up talk about the Trinavants and I root about up near the dam."

  "Why go near the dam? What's that got to do with it?"

  I scratched my head. "I don't really know, I just have a hunch that there's an answer up there somewhere. We're not really sure that it wasn't my prowling around there that attracted Bull Matterson's interest. Another thing -- I'd like to go up to Clare's cabin. How do I get there without crossing Matterson land? That might be a bit unwise now."

  "There's a road in from the back," said Mac. He didn't ask me why I wanted to go up there, but instead dug out a tattered old map. I studied it and sighed. It was a hell of a long way round and I'd have given my soul for the Matterson Corporation helicopter.

  Chapter 2

  The next day I spent in Fort Farrell, spreading the good word and really laying it on thick. Up to then I'd mentioned the name of Trinavant to only two people, but this time I covered a good cross-section of the Fort Farrell population, feeling something like a cross between a private detective and a Gallup pollster. That evening, in the cabin, I trotted up the results in approved pollster fashion and sorted out my findings.

  One of the things that stood out was the incredible ease with which a man's name could be erased from the public memory. Of the people who had moved into Fort Farrell in the last ten years fully eighty-five per cent of them had never heard of John Trinavant; and the same applied to those young people who had grown to maturity since his death.

  The other, older people remembered him with a bit of nudging, and, almost always, with kindness. I came to the conclusion that Shakespeare was dead right: "The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones." Still, the same analogy applies throughout our world. Any murderer can get his name in the newspapers, but if a decent man wishes to announce to the world that he's lived happily with his wife for twenty-five or fifty years he has to pay for it, by God!