Riding the Flume (12 page)

Francie gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered. She picked up the tray and went out to the lobby.

“Here you are,” she said to Mrs. Mansfield, sliding the tray onto the low table in the middle of the group of women. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

“Yes, please, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield picked up a cup and held it out. “I understand you're the one who found that huge tree,” she said, looking up. Was it Francie's imagination that she didn't look entirely happy about it?

“Yes, ma'am,” Francie said. “Though my sister found it first, years ago,” she added.

“Your sister?” One of the young women sitting by Mrs. Mansfield raised her eyebrows. “I didn't know you had a sister. Where is she?”

Francie couldn't remember the woman's name, Mrs. Lockridge, or something like that. “My sister was killed in a landslide six years ago,” she answered, feeling as if her face had turned to wood. Six years and still she never knew what to say when people asked her that. She turned away.

The three other women murmured soft words of comfort too quietly for Francie to really hear what they'd said. “Mary,” Mrs. Mansfield's voice was gently scolding, “I told you that when you arrived. Don't you remember?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mary's face flush slightly. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Please don't be offended. I'm so silly about things like that.” She was speaking too fast and Francie felt sorry for her. She turned back to fill her cup with tea.

“But aren't you excited about that enormous tree?” The woman was rattling on. “It even looks ancient, don't you think? People are saying it's the oldest thing on earth. Think of that.” She took a sip of tea. “Gerald,” she looked at Mrs. Mansfield, “that's my husband, Gerald.” She turned back to Francie and the other women. “Gerald has agreed to buy some of the lumber. We're planning to build a house in St. Joseph next year. I think it would be so romantic if the whole house were built from that one tree. Imagine. We'd be surrounded by three-thousand-year-old wood.” She raised her head. “Much older than any English castle.” She took another sip of her tea.

Mrs. Mansfield shook her head. “Well, I think it's a shame,” she said. She glanced at her husband, still speech making in the center of the room. “Glen doesn't agree with me, of course. He thinks cutting the tree will liven up the economy in this area.” She looked up at Francie. “But I'm almost sorry you discovered it.”

Francie's heart seemed to take a giant leap; she thought she might lean down and kiss Mrs. Mansfield, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined the woman's surprised face if she actually did it. “I am, too,” Francie said, trying to speak calmly. “I wish I could do something to stop them from cutting it down.” She gripped the teapot hard with both her trembling hands.

Mrs. Mansfield looked at the women around her. “Someone should write to Frank Court, the editor of the
St. Joseph Herald.
He's violently opposed to logging in this area, especially the sequoias. I'm sure that if he knew about it, he'd certainly try to do something.” She put her empty teacup down on the tray beside the pot. “I can't do it myself, because of my husband's position, of course.” She shook her head. “He'd be absolutely furious if I did something like that.”

The women all nodded wisely, even Mary, now looking even more embarrassed about her dream of a house built of sequoia wood than she did about her tactless words to Francie. “Of course you can't do that,” she said. “But someone should.”

They seemed to have forgotten Francie, who placed the teapot carefully on the tray and moved away as unobtrusively as she could. “Mr. Court,” she mumbled. “Of course! And I have to write him, anyway.” She rubbed her hands down the sides of her apron. It was going to work! She was going to save the tree.

T
he letter had been easy to write. More difficult was the problem of getting it to St. Joseph. The stage, which took the mail and passengers to St. Joseph, had already left and wouldn't be back again until Friday. Francie considered the creamy white envelope lying flat on her vanity. When was her father next going to St. Joseph? Perhaps he would take it with him.

“I
was
going tomorrow morning,” he told her when she found him in his office at the hotel. “But I lent the mare to Hopkinson yesterday, and she went lame. It'll be two weeks before she's sound enough to ride.” He sounded disgusted. “I should know better than to lend my horse away. Even to Hopkinson.” He grunted, and then looked up at Francie. “Why do you ask?”

Francie held up the letter. “I want to get this to Mr. Court.” She saw her father's eyebrows begin to draw
together in a frown, but she went on. She'd already decided what to say—she might as well get it over with. “I finished counting the rings of that tree and I feel it's important he get the information as soon as possible.” It wasn't a lie, she told herself. She did write about the 3,252 rings. But she also told him what was happening with Carrie's tree.

Francie met her father's eyes with what she hoped looked like confidence, but inwardly she was shaking. Would he refuse to let her send the letter?

Her father drummed his fingers on the desktop, and then sighed. “I suppose I did give you permission to do this. So we might as well finish the job.” He held out his hand for the letter. “I'm sure I can find someone who's going to St. Joseph in the next few days.”

Francie clutched the letter. “It's important that the letter get there tomorrow.”

Her father raised one eyebrow. “Why the hurry? Those articles of his come out every week like clockwork. What's the difference between one week and another?”

Francie sighed. She'd anticipated this question, as well. “It took me longer than he'd expected to count the rings,” she explained. “When he was here he told me he needed the information by the beginning of June, and it's the middle of June already.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I'll see if I can find someone else who's going tomorrow.”

“Frances.” The stern tone in her father's voice stopped her. “I will find someone to take the letter tomorrow,” he said. “And if I can't I will let you know.” He put his hand out for the letter again. “I am just as honest as you are, Daughter, and just as eager to keep my promises.”

He didn't smile, but as Francie put the letter into his hand she felt that his face had softened, that he might smile any moment. “Yes, Papa,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I trust you.”

He grunted again. “But this does not mean that I've changed my mind about the logging.”

“No, Papa,” Francie answered again. She bobbed a little curtsy, which made her father almost snort. He waved his hand, dismissing her, and she practically skipped out of the hotel. Her letter would get to Mr. Court tomorrow. As soon as he heard what was happening he would come as fast as he could. He'd get here on Wednesday. She closed her eyes. “Please let that be soon enough,” she prayed in a whisper.

• • •

But Wednesday came, and Mr. Court didn't. It had taken Francie all day to make up the beds on the street side of the hotel because she spent most of the time watching out the window. But the only buggies she saw belonged to people who lived in Connorsville or guests at the hotel.

“What's taking you so long?” her mother said when she finally came to find Francie. “Josie finished ages ago and you still have two rooms to do!”

Francie had been staring at the street, trying to will Mr. Court's buggy into view; she jumped when she heard her mother's voice and dropped the pile of sheets she'd been holding. “I'm sorry, Mama,” she answered. “I'm almost finished.” She picked up the sheets, piled them into her basket, and sank down into a chair. Then she popped up again and glanced out the window when she heard the
clop-clop
of horses' hooves approaching the hotel. “It's only old Mrs. Winters,” she mumbled, turning back to her mother.

Her mother came into the room, looked out the window herself, and then turned back to Francie. “Are you expecting someone? Is that why you told Josie you'd do all the rooms on this side of the hotel today? Who did you think would be coming?”

Francie's mind went blank. “Nobody,” she answered too quickly. “Who would be coming?” She stared at her mother as if daring her to ask more questions.

Her mother looked at her curiously, but then she shrugged. “The new guests will want to get into their rooms soon, so let Herbert know as soon as you're finished.” Her mother's trust made Francie almost break down and confide everything. But she couldn't. If her father found out what she'd done, he'd tell Mr. Granger. And somehow she knew that if Lewis Granger thought someone was trying to stop him cutting that tree, he'd bring it down even sooner. She couldn't take the chance.

Francie's mother was almost out the door when she turned around. “Charlie is coming for supper this evening. He was in town earlier, and your father invited him.”

“Why wasn't he working?” Francie wondered aloud.

Her mother shook her head. “You can ask him yourself when he comes,” she said. “Now I have some chores to do in the kitchen.”

Francie frowned. Maybe they'd stopped work at the big tree. Maybe Mr. Court had come and she'd missed seeing him. Her heart lifted a bit and she finished making the bed in a rush.

Even though she was hurrying now, it took her almost until supper time to finish her chores. In fact, her mother was putting supper on the table when she arrived. Charlie was already sitting at his place at the table, talking with her father.

“We're clearing the area in record speed,” Charlie was saying as Francie brought in a bowl full of boiled potatoes. “All the smaller trees around the big one have to come down—we're making a ‘featherbed' of all the branches to cushion the big one's fall. It's on a downhill slope, but Granger is determined to bring it down in one piece.” He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice, but at least the look he gave Francie as she sat down was tinged with guilt.

“How much longer?” she asked, feeling as if she were sitting at the bedside of a dying patient.

Charlie shook his head. “Couple of days at least.”

Francie's mother came into the room carrying a platter of sliced roast beef. “I carved it in the kitchen,” she said, looking at Francie's father. “I hope you don't mind—it makes such a mess on the tablecloth when you carve it at the table.” She placed the platter in front of him and sat down in her place.

“Have they started the undercut?” Francie's father asked as he began to spoon meat and potatoes on each plate. “I'd think it would take quite a while, seeing how massive the tree is.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, taking the plate Francie's father handed to him. “We'll start tomorrow afternoon or Friday. Granger was shooting for tomorrow morning, but the team hasn't even been chosen yet.”

The food suddenly turned dry as dust in Francie's mouth. Tomorrow! Unless Mr. Court showed up early in the morning, Carrie's tree would be cut and nothing Francie could do would stop them.

“Why were you in town today, then?” she asked Charlie. “Surely you'll be trying to get on the team.” She knew her tone was bitter, but she couldn't help it any more than Charlie could help his own excitement.

Charlie glanced quickly at her father and then at her. “I had some errands in town,” he said. “Cook needed some . . . supplies and stuff.” His answer was vague to the point of being odd. It was unusual for the loggers to come to town at all during the week, let alone in the middle of
the day, but the furious look he gave Francie stopped her from asking any more questions.

She didn't want to ask any more questions. She didn't want to know anything more about what was happening to Carrie's tree. It was going to be cut down—the oldest thing on earth. She kept her eyes on her plate, hoping that the others could not see her tears, and put one bite after another into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, but everything tasted like sawdust.

As soon as everyone was finished eating she stood up. “May I be excused?” she said. Her mother looked at her with pleading in her brown eyes, as if she were asking for something that Francie couldn't give, and finally nodded.

“I have to be going, too.” Charlie quickly pushed his chair back and stood up. “Walk me to the door, Francie?”

Francie had turned to go upstairs, but his words stopped her. She looked over at him, feeling the hope rise in her chest. “Of course,” she said. Maybe he did have some news after all.

“That was a delicious meal, as usual, Aunt Mary.” Charlie gave Francie's mother a kiss on the cheek and shook hands with Francie's father. He nodded to Francie and she led the way out of the dining room.

Charlie walked behind her in silence, but when they were at the front door Francie couldn't wait any longer. “Did Mr. Court come to the logging camp today?”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Not that I know of. Was he supposed to?”

Francie's heart suddenly felt as if it were made of lead. “I wrote him a letter,” she began in a small voice. “I was hoping he'd make it here in time to stop them cutting Carrie's tree. I thought that was why you came to town.”

Charlie shook his head. He opened the door, motioned her to go ahead of him, and they both went out on the front porch. “I wanted to let you know what was happening—how close we were.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If there's anything you can do,” he said, not looking at her, “you'll have to do it soon.”

Francie studied him. “Whose side are you on?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to bring it down.”