Slocum 428 (6 page)

“You said ‘they.' You think there was more than one?”

“I do. I didn't get a clear look, but the calls and howls definitely overlapped enough that it was easy to tell there was more than one.”

“You might want to check the bunkhouse before you start blaming the poor skoocoom for everything bad that happens at the Tamarack.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Gotta go now, John Slocum!” She saluted him with a mittened hand and swung around in the trail, strode back the way she had come, rifle still slung over her shoulder, long, purposeful strides leading her away from him.

He forgot his concerns over skoocooms and the riled-up, irritated, and thoroughly confusing situation at the Tamarack Logging Camp while he watched Hella Bridger's promising feminine form, swathed as it was in bulky trapper's garb, retreat way back up the mountainside, cutting long strides in the deep snow without rest, traversing the switchbacks and gaining high ground.

As he watched her move gracefully up the slope, he wondered what she meant by that last remark—the one she'd not bothered to explain. It sounded to him as if she knew something about some of the men in the bunkhouse, maybe that they were up to something no good. That would verify what he suspected. That while the skoocoom might or might not exist, there sure as hell were bad elements in the bunkhouse, men who might be working to sabotage Jigger's operation from within. But why was everyone so closemouthed about it all?

As if she knew he'd still be watching her, just before she disappeared from sight by elevation, she turned and waved—a big, wide-armed wave. He smiled and waved back. What a mysterious woman, he thought. She spoke alternately like a mountain woman and like someone well educated.

Hefting the axe, Slocum turned back to the next tree that needed limbing. And why shouldn't he find a curious creature like that up here in Oregon's Cascades? It was not like this trip hadn't yielded any number of odd characters and situations, and perhaps even creatures, so far. He hoped he'd run into her again. She was one curiosity he'd like to see more of.

In his office at the rear of the Bluebird Saloon, Dance Hall, and Eatery, the nexus of what he liked to think of as his expanding business empire, Torrance Whitaker leaned back in his desk chair, his ample girth testing the durability of the thick spring mechanism allowing it to rock. Problem was, when he kicked all the way back, his legs dangled, and unless he was close enough to the desk's edge to grasp it with a pudgy hand, Torrance found the chair too unpredictable, not at all trustworthy, and the damnable thing would upend him, ass over teakettle. The last time, he'd gotten wedged somehow between the wall, the chair, and the desk. He'd had to yelp for his boy, Jordan, the young fool who worked for him—and also happened to be his long-lost son—to come and free him from the embarrassing spot.

But he did so like to lean back, waggle in the chair a bit, suck on a cigar, and plan his next moves. And that was exactly what he found himself doing on that evening, minutes after he'd left the throng in the street, wondering if he'd won the volley of threats and insults he'd exchanged with that cursed Jigger McGee, or if the foul little lumberman had gotten the upper hand.

Whitaker finally shrugged, nudged the chair into a weak rocking motion, and plumed blue smoke toward the hazy ceiling. In the end, he would win, as he always did. Because brains and money would win the day, not anger and brute force. And those last two were the things Jigger possessed. At least that was what Whitaker chose to believe. At least for the night—he didn't have the strength to begin second-guessing himself.

No matter. He had no intention of allowing McGee to sell his logs to anyone for a profit. Oh, the wood was desirable all right, but Whitaker wanted it all for himself. And preferably without paying for it. If he could just prevent Jigger McGee from keeping up with his lease payments on that tree-studded mountain valley.

“Papa?”

Curse that little man anyway. If he thought Torrance Whitaker was going to let a little thing like one man's livelihood stand in the way of his putting a lock on the entire region's rich resources—wood, water, and minerals—he'd better do some hard thinking.

“Hey, Papa?”

“Huh?” Whitaker spun around—or attempted to. The chair squawked and bobbed, but stayed tipped back. Whitaker could barely see over his left shoulder toward the cracked door. “What? Who is it? Jordan, that you?”

“Yeah, Papa. I was wonderin'—”

“Yeah, yeah—your wondering doesn't concern me at present. What does, however, is the fact that those two morons you suggested to send to work for Jigger up at the Tamarack apparently haven't yet succeeded in putting an end to that little fool's operations.”

“Hey now, Papa, they're my friends.”

“And that is precisely why nothing useful has happened. And for that, I blame your mother, God rest her. She had fine points, to be sure, but she unfortunately saddled your brain with a lot to be desired.” All the while Whitaker spoke, he pumped his legs as if he were urging a horse to gallop faster. It didn't seem to help. In fact, the chair wagged and bucked and spun him ever closer toward the back wall.

“You want help, Papa?” Jordan moved into the room, but his boss held up an arm.

“No! I certainly don't need your assistance to sit in my chair. That is a task I can do alone, thank you very much. What I do need is someone or something more effective up at the Tamarack! Since I'm stuck with you, get the hell out of here and figure out a plan to infiltrate that foul camp and bring it to its knees. I want to make McGee scream in agony. I want him to beg me to take his business from him.”

“But Papa, Jigger McGee isn't a bad man. He's a hardworking man with a whole lot of people depending on him for their week's wages. He's a businessman, just like you.” The big, thick-featured young man stared at his father with a mix of pity and blank numbness.

Whitaker's cigar drooped in his mouth, and he returned the stare. “What in the name of all that is holy did I saddle myself with, taking you on after your mother, God rest her, up and died while I was incarcerated?”

“But I'm your boy, your own son, Papa.”

“More's the pity. And now you've gone and gotten not only softheaded on me about that dolt Jigger, but you've fallen for his scrappy little daughter. A more ornery creature you'll not find.”

“Papa, don't say that about Ermaline. She's my sweetheart and you yourself gave us your blessing, isn't that right?”

Torrance chewed the cigar and nodded slowly, a smile working its way back onto his face. Yes, I did, he thought. And while I merely guessed before how I might work this foolish dalliance to my advantage, now I know exactly how I'm going to do that.

“Now I would like you to do me a favor, Jordan.”

The boy leaned toward his father. “Yes, Papa? Anything.”

“I'd like for you to leave me alone for a while. I have important thinking to do. But so do you.”

“Oh, okay, Papa. Call me if you need me.” With that the big boy left, clunking the door too hard once again, as Whitaker always told him not to.

What I need, thought Torrance Whitaker to himself, is someone who will remove this headache from me so I can concentrate my copious mental abilities on larger, more pressing concerns—such as preparing for the imminent arrival of the mining consortium's representatives. As soon as I can convince them I have something to offer them, that is . . .

If he could impress them, convince them that they were about to invest in a property worth, well, worth its weight—and then some—in gold, perhaps they would cement the deal with a cash deposit, a payment that would put Whitaker right where he wanted to be, had longed to be for so much of his life. Rubbing elbows with the richest of the rich.

He envied the Silver Barons, the Copper Kings, the Gold Gods. And he had vowed years ago to become one of them, by hook or by crook. Unfortunately it had been a long, rocky road from there to here. Many years had passed and many more business dealings, but none of them, for one reason or another, had gotten him as close to fulfilling his dream as this one.

When he'd arrived in the timber-rich valley, only two years before, there was something about it—a raw, vast wild place that had the look of being pregnant with promise. He knew there was something extra special about it, something that set his inner bells pealing with a fervor he'd not felt since his first youthful days as a gold claims speculator. That was his fancy way of justifying his all-but-outright theft of nearly played-out claims from equally played-out prospectors.

The old rock hounds had been all too eager to sell for pennies on the dollar and he had turned around and sold each to fresh rubes from back East. But at a substantial profit. By the time the new arrivals realized they'd been had, he was miles away, repeating the simple but effective process.

And that had led him to larger and larger ventures, which had nearly gotten him what he'd wanted—a fortune—but then someone he'd had dealings with years before had come around again, recognized him, and that, as they say, had been that. He'd been hauled off to spend four years making big rocks into smaller rocks out in a hellish place in the desert.

So when he got out, he vowed never again to sweat, and certainly not to do it while working. No sir, he'd head north, toward some place that offered snow in the winters, and temperatures in the summers that were at least cool and shady enough that he might duck out of the sunlight when the hottest months came. And that was how he came to find Timber Hills—so named by that damnable Jigger.

As he'd hoped, the place had offered all he wanted and more, in addition to a plethora of business opportunities that the locals—sheep all—had not yet (nor would they ever, if left to their own devices) recognized. But he, Torrance Whitaker, had. And now here he was, a scant two years later, poised to become the richest man in all the Northwest region, a Territorial Titan!

Whitaker chuckled, then the chuckle unspooled into a full-blown laugh, a belly shaker that rocked the chair . . . too hard. Too late he felt the wheeled feet slip, scoot forward, then back he went, slamming his head into the plank wall before flopping onto his back on the cold plank floor, his cigar and arms and legs crabbing and wagging upward as if he were an overturned turtle. Still, he chuckled at how very well, despite a few logs across the road, his life was turning out.

“Say, Ned.” Slocum shifted the axe on his shoulder.

“Mm?” said the pipe-smoking man as they trudged side by side down the long slope to the sledge road that could take them back to the Tamarack Camp.

“Have you had any dealings with a, well, a trapper who's a woman?” Slocum asked.

The man's face broke into a smile for the first time since Slocum had met him the day before. Without breaking stride, he said, “So you've met the Crazy Trapper Lady, eh?”

“She said that's what people call her. I didn't think she was all that crazy myself.”

Ned came to a sudden halt, faced Slocum. “You spoke with her?”

A couple of the other men who'd been within earshot also stopped and stepped close.

“Sure I did,” said Slocum. “I didn't have much choice. She came right up to me.”

“Huh,” said one of the other men. “You mean to say she can talk?”

“Of course she can talk. And walk, and laugh, and carry a rifle like she knows what she can do with it, too.”

Ned chuckled, shaking his head. “I haven't known you for long, Slocum, but I'd say that it doesn't surprise me that of all the men from the Tamarack who've seen her, you'd be the one she approaches. Now why is that, you reckon?”

It was Slocum's turn to smile. “If I had to guess, I'd say it's the big gun I carry.”

“Oh boy, will you listen to this fella?” Ned shook his head. “All I know or care about, Slocum, is that you're the best limber I've had on the crew in many a moon. So you might get a chance to see your crazy lady again tomorrow.”

“Oh?” said Slocum, eyebrows raised. “I'm not sure I like where this conversation is headed.”

“Like it or not, I'm the foreman, least until Jigger gets back, so you'll just have to put up with it.”

“You got it,” said Slocum. “Might I ask what Jigger's story is?”

“Story?” said Ned.

“Yeah, you know. How'd he come to own this mountain valley, and this logging outfit, anyway?”

“Oh, he doesn't own the mountain, at least not anymore. He just leases the timber rights. And that's what galls Whitaker the most, I'd guess.” Ned drew on his pipe, frowned when he found it had gone out.

“Whitaker?” Hella mentioned that name, too, thought Slocum.

“Yep, a newcomer of sorts, much like yourself, but he's been around these parts for a couple of years now. Fancies himself a big money man, but all he's done so far around here is win the Bluebird Saloon in a card game, then poke his sniffer into everybody's business. I reckon it's been effective, as he's gotten a whole lot of folks beholden to him for money and favors and whatnot. Fool and his money are soon parted, or something like that.” Ned puffed hard on the pipe and sent fragrant smoke twisting upward.

“Even Jigger?” said Slocum.

Ned regarded him, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. You see, Jigger has a child, his only one, a girl name of Ermaline. Well, you know how tough Jigger is?”

Slocum nodded, only guessing at the man's level of toughness, but not wanting to slow the story once he'd finally gotten Ned, or anyone for that matter, to talk with him about Jigger.

“Well, sir, Ermaline used to be part of the crew up here at the Tamarack. Her mama died years back and Jigger just kept right on logging, taking that girl all over the mountains in these parts. She grew up salty, tough as a boot, and not inclined to take anything untoward from anyone.”

He drew on the pipe, then continued. “But a stranger come in one day when the girl was still a young thing in most ways, except for how she looked. You see, Ermaline had begun filling out her longhandles in a few different directions than most loggers do. Well, Jigger caught this randy young log hand cornering Ermaline in the cook shack. He needn't have worried, though. Ermaline is part wolverine, part bobcat, and all devil. She about clawed that young man's eyes out and his head off. He limped on out of here aching all over once she and Jigger got through with him.”

“Where's this Ermaline at now?”

“That's where the story gets interesting.” Ned pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Now, you'll stop me if this gets too boring for you, won't you?” He winked. “Shortly after the incident with the young logger, Jigger shunted Ermaline off to live with her aunt, Jigger's dead wife's sister, back in Saint Louis. But that didn't go over too well with the girl, who ran off at once. They found her again, and eventually, after what I imagine was a whole lot of hard work, she settled down and even took to wearing dresses. Now that she's graduated from what they call a ‘finishing school,' she come back to Timber Hills to see her pappy.”

“Why do I feel that something odd happened, that the story's about to take a turn that no one wanted?”

Ned touched a finger to the side of his nose and nodded. “That's because something like that did happen. Wasn't but a couple of days after she got here she met a man.”

“And not just any man, I'll bet,” said Slocum.

“No sir, you got that right. It's a double smack to the chops the way Jigger sees it. And rightly so, for the man she became smitten with is none other than Torrance Whitaker's own son, Jordan. My word, but he's as dumb as he is big. I'll say this for the lad, though—he doesn't seem to have a single bone in his body that's half as mean as his father. But that don't mean a thing to Jigger. Oh, it's a rum mess, it is, it is.”

They walked on in silence a few strides, then Slocum spoke.

“Why did Jigger end up selling this plentiful valley when he could have held on to it and made a fortune later?”

“He needed to pay for his daughter's fancy schooling. He got scared and took the first offer that come along.”

“Let me guess—from this Torrance Whitaker fellow.”

“The very one. Jigger at least had the presence of mind to keep the logging rights as a lease. But only if he keeps up with his lease payments on it to the bank.”

“And he has?”

“It's been hairy, and he's been late a few times, but this crew's dedicated to him. He's a surly little man, and you don't want to get on the wrong side of him, but once you've proved yourself to Jigger, he'll fight to the death for you.”

“I got that impression from him, even in the short amount of time I met him on the trail.”

“Yep, he was headed off to the broker's spread downcountry to negotiate on the last few loads of logs, as well as the ones we're working on now. And hopefully he got paid for them. Then he was going to head to town, make it to the bank, buy supplies. And head back.”

“He had to see his daughter, too, I suppose.”

Ned nodded. “Yep, if they're speaking again. Jigger loves her with a fierceness that's unstoppable, but that girl did the ultimate in betrayal when she took up with that dimwitted spawn of Torrance Whitaker. In her defense, she had no idea what sort of man Whitaker was when she come back to these parts. He'd sneaked in well after she left.”

“The man at the bar in town, he told me that there's a renewed market for logs. A demand from the Orient.”

“Yep, that's been a lifesaver. Oh, there's always need of good, quality logs from these hills, but the prices those boys are paying are far beyond anything we've been paid for our logs in the past. Jigger's doing his best to keep his old friend, Deke Tiffins, the log broker, supplied. He's been a true friend to Jigger, but rumor has it he's been feeling the squeeze by Whitaker, too.”

He shook his head. “Don't know what the weasel has on him, but that can only mean bad things for Jigger. So that's why we're working as fast and hard as we can to fell these trees and make logs. That's why Jigger's put the word out that he's hiring, even though he really doesn't have the money to go out paying for a whole lot of new men.”

Worry must have flashed across Slocum's face, because Ned smiled. “Don't you worry. Ol' Jigger never backed off on a promise, nor ever not paid a man, nor for that matter, he never ever let a man go hungry on Tamarack time.”

“Good to know,” said Slocum. And as he walked along the rest of the trip down the valley in silence, he wondered more and more about the skoocoom and about the Crazy Trapper Lady, aka Hella Bridger, and less and less about Jigger McGee and his money woes. He'd heard such stories before.

In Slocum's experience, good intentions such as Jigger's eventually led to situations people never expected. He hoped they were good ones.