“I’m doing my best, Miss Bertha. If some of the other men would help out, things would get done a lot faster.” He held the tape measure to the window. “You might mention that to your husband. Haven’t seen him lend a hand since we started.”
Luke’s comment was enough to send the woman scampering back inside and provide peace and quiet while he completed the measurements on several houses and cut the roll of screen. He would have preferred making frames, but that would be a monumental task. If they were going to complete all the necessary repairs, they’d have to take a few shortcuts. Like Mr. Fredericks, the other men who lived on the ridge disappeared into their gardens or out to the woods on their time away from the mine, offering no apologies.
Then again, neither had Kirby. Luke figured most of the company men would starve to death if they truly had to work for a living.
The afternoon sun beat down on his back while Luke continued cutting and tacking screens. His fingers ached from the cutting shears and he’d nearly run out of tacks. Kirby should have returned long ago. He’d said he would be gone for only an hour. Luke trudged toward the path and blew out a long sigh. If he wanted those supplies, he’d have to get them himself.
Hope stood a few houses away with her hands cupped to her mouth. “Where you going, Luke?”
He stopped and turned around. “Down the hill to get the supplies. Looks like Kirby wasn’t as willing to help as you thought.”
CHAPTER
12
Kirby stared out the dirty window of the small room he’d claimed as his office in the old house owned by the mining operation. Every day for the past week, he’d crept into the woods trying to discover what Alvin Selznick and the other men were doing out there. He decided it must be some sort of gambling or other illegal activity. Otherwise there was no reason for the men to be so secretive. Kirby had remained unwavering in his decision to find out what they were doing and, more important, become involved in anything that might yield him some cash, enjoyment, and a little excitement.
After scouring the area for three days, he’d returned to the Selznick house and enticed Billy with the promise of another quarter for better directions. The boy had scratched out a rough map of where his pa supposedly spent his time in the woods, but the map hadn’t proved any more helpful than the boy’s earlier instructions. By now, Kirby was beginning to doubt Billy had ever been in the woods with his pa. Any attempts to befriend another child who might offer better information had proved futile. They’d all run off like frightened rabbits when he approached.
Kirby pulled his thoughts back to the present and read the letter he’d scratched out to his father. Hopefully, he’d given the older man just enough news to hold him at bay. If his father didn’t believe he was doing as instructed, the older man might make an unexpected appearance in Finch, and Kirby didn’t want that to happen. It would take his father only a short time to learn Kirby hadn’t been using his time to discover information about strikes or unions.
With a sigh, Kirby leaned back in his chair, viewed the coal tipple from his window, and curled his lip. Henry Daniels had mentioned they needed to talk about the mine, yet Kirby was tired of waiting on him. He pushed up from the chair and strode into the hallway. “I’ll be out the rest of the day, Mr. Farragut. Tell Mr. Daniels I have other matters that need my attention up on the hill.”
The bookkeeper looked up from his ledgers. “I believe Mr. Daniels wanted to have a meeting with you this morning.” He reached to his left and tapped a calendar. “Yes. It’s written down for nine o’clock.” Mr. Farragut glanced at the clock hanging on the far wall. “It’s only eight thirty.”
Kirby stiffened at the man’s patronizing tone. “I know the current time, Mr. Farragut.” He pinned the older man with a hard look. “Problem is, I need to be up on the ridge by nine o’clock. Besides, I thought when he said ‘first thing in the morning,’ he meant first thing. Not nine o’clock.”
The bookkeeper’s eyes flashed. “He never has meetings before nine. Mr. Daniels spends the early part of his day down at the mineshaft. He’s been here since six o’clock.”
Kirby shrugged his shoulders. “That’s good to know, but it doesn’t help me today.”
“Maybe if you spent more time around here, you’d know what his schedule is.” Bright red splotches colored Mr. Farragut’s cheeks.
“No need to get yourself agitated over a missed meeting. Mr. Daniels won’t be angry with you. He can look at your calendar and see you had it properly scheduled. Feel free to tell him it’s all my fault. Put it down for another day and let me know.”
The older man slid the calendar to the center of his desk and picked up his pen. “Would you care to tell me what would fit into your busy schedule, Mr. Finch? I wouldn’t want Mr. Daniels to encounter this problem again.”
Kirby glared at the man. How dare he act in such a brazen manner! “Let’s remember who owns this company, Mr. Farragut. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to find yourself looking for another job in the near future.”
Mr. Farragut jerked back in his chair. “I’m only trying to make certain I perform the job I was hired to do, Mr. Finch. I apologize if I offended you in any way.”
The bookkeeper’s apology created an unexpected rush of satisfaction, and Kirby straightened his shoulders, giving the man a tempered smile. “Your apology is accepted. I’ll meet with Mr. Daniels on Friday morning at eight o’clock.”
“But . . .”
Kirby waved his hat at the bookkeeper. “Tell him he can go to the mine either before or after we talk, his preference. I don’t want to meet at nine.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door, enjoying a momentary sense of power.
He drove the company truck to the path leading up the ridge. For a moment he stared at the woods flanking the jumble of houses that clung to the hillside. Maybe he shouldn’t go up to the ridge at all. Maybe Billy had given him incorrect directions on purpose. Maybe he should try a new passage into the woods. Yes, that was it. He’d ascend the trail for a short distance, then enter the woods at an entirely different level.
He trudged up the dirt path until he neared the stump where Hope had left the box of supplies last week. That was the first day he’d gone into the woods. Kirby had become so set on locating Alvin or any other man who might be in the woods, he’d wandered around until he came to the frightening realization he was lost. When he finally returned to the footpath, it was nearly dusk, the box of supplies gone. He’d returned to his boardinghouse and that night attended the late church service at the chapel car. After the meeting, Hope expressed disappointment that he hadn’t proved to be a man of his word.
Fortunately, his quick thinking and prognostication skills changed her mind. She’d become apologetic when he lied and said he’d become violently ill after he departed. Tears had formed in her eyes when he said he’d forced himself out of his sickbed to attend the service and request prayer for healing. He’d momentarily felt guilty for lying to her, but the feeling soon passed—especially when she asked him to remain so she could brew him some tea.
A smile tugged at Kirby’s lips when he remembered her ministrations that evening. A squirrel scampered across the path and pulled him back to the present. He cast a glance at the wooded expanse. There didn’t appear to be any sort of path, but maybe that was the secret. The men knew how to hide themselves out here without leaving any clue of their whereabouts. Of course, he hadn’t seen any clues when he’d gone in the direction Billy gave him, either. He pushed aside the hanging pine branches and stepped into the thicket. He’d need to keep his bearings or he would never find his way out of here. He pulled a knife from his pocket and made a V on the side of a tree. If he marked trees as he moved deeper into the woods, he’d surely get out just fine.
Hours later, Kirby wiped the perspiration from his forehead and dropped to the ground. He hadn’t seen or heard anything except for the occasional squirrel or rabbit scurrying through the brush. He should have brought food and water with him
. Then again he hadn’t expected to be here so long. He blew out a sigh and pushed to his feet. At first he’d done his best to move silently through the thicket, but after aimlessly wandering with no sign of another human, he’d quit worrying about each footstep.
Now all he cared about was locating the chinks he’d cut into tree bark and finding his way back to the path. He slapped a mosquito that circled in front of him, then landed on his forehead. “Confound it! This place is swarming with insects.”
A second later, an earsplitting report was followed by a whizzing rush of sound. Buckshot tore through Kirby’s shirtsleeve, and blood trickled from his upper arm. He clasped his right hand across the wound and dropped to his knees. When he opened his eyes, a pair of worn work boots and the metal barrel of a shotgun were all he could see. Sticky blood glazed his hand, and he forced his gaze upward. He was met with Alvin Selznick’s angry scowl. Kirby mustered his resolve. He didn’t want to pass out. If so, Alvin might finish what he’d started and bury him out here in the woods. No one knew he’d come out here. No one would even look for him out in these woods. Pain shot through him. He stared down at his bleeding arm. “You shot me!”
Alvin spit a stream of tobacco juice near Kirby’s crouched figure. “Yep.” He hoisted the gun and rested the barrel against his shoulder. “Guess I better check the sights on this thing. Looks like I only grazed ya. Don’t appear you’re bleeding much.”
Kirby looked up with angry eyes. “You could have killed me!”
Alvin gave a slight nod. “Still could, if I’m a mind to.” His brow furrowed, and he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s signs posted all over warnin’ folks to stay outta here. Them that choose to ignore ’em get shot.”
Kirby couldn’t deny he’d been warned, but he’d managed to ignore such admonitions all his life. Of course, his father and college friends had never carried guns. This place was different.
He shifted to a sitting position and leaned his back against the tree. “Signs or not, a person doesn’t expect to get shot.”
“What did ya think it meant when it said ‘enter at your own risk’?” Alvin reached into his pocket, pulled out a dirty cotton square, and tossed it at Kirby. “You can tie this around your arm. You ain’t got nothin’ more than a scratch. It’ll stop bleeding soon.”
Kirby glowered at him. “If this is a scratch, I’d hate to see what a direct hit would have done.”
“Mighta kilt the likes of someone that ain’t got no more starch in him than you.”
Kirby wasn’t certain what Alvin had meant about “starch,” but he did understand he’d been ridiculed by the miner. Using the tree trunk to steady himself, Kirby pushed to a standing position and looked in the direction where Alvin must have been only a short time ago. He caught sight of a lean-to that had been constructed into the hillside, partially hidden with vines and branches. A tarp strung between wood stakes hung above several wood casks, a couple of washtubs, and a variety of metal coils and receptacles. A low fire smoldered in a makeshift fire pit.
Realization hit like a bolt of lightning and his mouth dropped open. “You’re making moonshine out here.” Prohibition had been legislated by most counties in West Virginia. The miners weren’t gambling; they were making and selling bootleg liquor.
“Unless you want more than a grazed arm, you’ll keep your mouth shut.” Alvin tapped the barrel of his gun against his shoulder.
Alvin’s menacing words created a seething indignation that quickly replaced Kirby’s earlier fears. How dare this lowly miner stand there and threaten him! He was Alvin’s employer, his landlord, his superior in every possible way. Yet Alvin stood there thinking he had a right to threaten Kirby for walking through property that belonged to his family.
“For your information, Alvin, this land is owned by my family. In truth, I own that still and all the moonshine in those casks over there. And before you aim that gun at me again, you ought to know that I didn’t come out here without telling someone where I’d be. If anything happens to me, you won’t get away with it.”
Alvin laughed. “All I gotta say is that I was out in my garden working when you went missing. My old lady will vouch for me.”
“Trouble is, other than Luke Hughes, you’re the only man who isn’t working at the mine today. I looked at the schedule this morning before I came up here. Won’t take the sheriff long to figure out who shot me, especially since most of the women on the ridge will vouch that Luke was there all morning repairing their houses.” Kirby’s voice hadn’t wavered, and his steely gaze had held Alvin’s attention. He hoped his skill at fabricating half-truths and lies would prove good enough to get him out of this jam.
Alvin narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits. “I ain’t sure I believe anything you said, but I admire a man willing to argue against a shotgun with nothing more than a few words.” He lowered the weapon and aimed it at Kirby’s belly.
The tree bark bit into Kirby’s shoulders as he shrunk back and gasped.
Alvin swung the barrel toward his still. “C’mon. I ain’t gonna shoot ya. Least not right now.”
Kirby remained pressed against the tree and watched Alvin stomp away toward the still. The miner stopped and looked over his shoulder. “C’mon afore I change my mind.”
Kirby drew a shallow breath and followed, still unsure he’d exit these woods alive.
When he neared the still, Alvin pointed to a piece of lumber balanced between two tree stumps. “Sit down.” He immediately shook his head. “In the middle. That piece of wood ain’t nailed down. If you sit close to one end, you’re gonna wind up on the ground.”
Kirby did as he was instructed. He didn’t ask any questions, but while Alvin put out the low-burning fire, Kirby attempted to memorize his surroundings.
He startled when Alvin tossed a pebble that landed near his shoe. “I know what you’re doing, but you ain’t gonna find this place on your own.”
“I found it today, so that means I could likely find it again.” Kirby met Alvin’s lopsided smile.
“Ha! You didn’t find it—you was as lost as a bear cub separated from its mama.” Alvin finished dousing the fire, then moved to the bench and dropped down beside Kirby. “I think what’s best for both of us is if we come to a meetin’ of the minds.”
“Such as?” Kirby asked.
“Such as, I don’t shoot you, and you keep yer trap shut.”
“I can offer a better idea, one that will give us both some financial gain and provide protection for you and your operation.”
Alvin snorted. “You’re gonna protect me. Now, that’s downright funny.”
“You won’t think it’s so funny once you hear what I have in mind.”
“I’m listening.” Alvin didn’t appear convinced, but at least he hadn’t picked up his gun.
“I like your operation. I want to become a partner. I think—”
“I don’t need no partner.”
“Let me finish, Alvin. I think you’ll soon change your mind.” Kirby knew he’d need to talk fast and keep it simple or Alvin wouldn’t hear him out. “If we join together, you can double your income. I can make sure you’re off work whenever you want, and you can be out here making more liquor.” He sucked in a quick breath. “The best part is you’ll have more time because I’ll take over delivering the moonshine. I can use the company truck. I don’t know how or where you’re selling your liquor, but I can make that part of the operation a lot faster and easier for you. I won’t be suspected by the sheriff or revenuers, and if I use the company truck, we can figure how to raise the truck bed and hide it in a compartment underneath.” He drew in another breath. “What do you think?”
Alvin rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I don’t know. You could be working for the revenuers right now. I’m not sure I trust you enough to be your partner.”
“That makes us even. I’m not sure I can trust you, either.” Kirby forced a smile. “This could make us both a lot of money.”
Alvin sta
red at him for a long minute. “Hard to decide if I’d be better off shootin’ you right now or waitin’ until I catch ya in a lie.”
CHAPTER
13
Hope dipped the bristles of her brush into a can of thick pea-green paint. Little wonder Kirby had been able to secure a special price on the outlandish shade. Given a choice, nobody in his right mind would have chosen such an ugly color. When they’d first seen it, the women had complained the shade reminded them of many things—all of them vile—and that they didn’t want such reminders every time they looked out the window.
Eventually, Luke’s uncle exclaimed, the color would darken once it was covered with a layer or two of coal dust. “The houses will turn the shade of the hillside in spring and summer,” he’d told them. “The houses will blend into the woods and look like part of the landscape.”
The women soon agreed, and the painting had begun. Right now, the hills more closely resembled a kettle of split-pea soup. At least Hope had been able to convince Kirby to purchase enough beige paint to cover the trim.
“Want me to paint around the door?” Luke stepped to her side, holding a can of the tan paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.
She glanced toward the path. “That would be wonderful. My father said he’d be up to paint the trim this afternoon, but I don’t know what’s happened to him.”
Luke stepped onto the front porch. “He probably got busy preparing his sermon or went to help someone in need. Then again, he may have gone to work on the church building.”
She nodded. “You’re probably right. He’s been excited about the building project, but I’d rather he took some time to rest. I fear he’s working too hard.”
“I should ask Uncle Frank to lend him a hand when he’s not down at the mine. He’s pretty good with a hammer.”
The Chapel Car Bride Page 13
