by S. L. Stoner
With that, Dexter headed back toward the coach saying, “No need to hurry. Folks need some time to visit the necessary.” He gestured toward a large boulder that stood a few paces back from the road. Sure enough, the older woman was making her way behind it, gripping a stout stick like she knew what she was doing. A rattler strike while doing the necessary would be a very bad thing. Sage returned to staring down into the desolate canyon.
Why the hell was he here in this god forsaken place anyway? The answer rode on the sage tangy breeze that had suddenly sprung up, “Because I got no choice. No choice a‘tall,” he said aloud, mimicking Dexter’s Missourian accent and turn of phrase.
TWO
Portland, Oregon, three days earlier.
It began an hour after the noontime dinner ended. The dining room was empty at Mozart’s Table. Shortly, the city’s wealthiest women would arrive to engage in their daily ritual of tea, cakes and gossip. It was a ritual Sage studiously encouraged by flattering them with heavy doses of charm. Usually he enjoyed the game. It was a good opportunity to obtain useful tidbits of information concerning their husbands’ business activities. Though, on rare occasions, he’d also felt ashamed of his deception.
Boredom weighed heavily as Sage totaled up the restaurant’s midday receipts. It had been three weeks since President Roosevelt’s train pulled out of Union Station heading north. Roosevelt’s fourteen-thousand-mile train trek had been an unqualified success. The president returned to Washington astride a tidal wave of popular support. People liked his trust-busting, square-deal speeches. They were grateful he thought them important enough to warrant whistle-stops in their small western towns and cities.
Few knew how close Roosevelt had come to being assassinated in Portland. Sage doubted the President himself knew the whole story. Certainly no newspaper printed the tale of how a ragtag group of hobos, Chinese tong members and labor union activists had thwarted the attempt. Instead, the press simply parroted the official downplayed version of a lone crazy. No one wanted Portland to have Buffalo, New York’s reputation as the scene of a sitting president’s assassination.
Sage stood, stretched and refilled his coffee cup from the carafe sitting on the nearby sideboard. God, he missed action. It wasn’t always like this. Working as an operative for labor union leader, Vincent St. Alban, could be downright exciting. There were times when he did more than play the wealthy restaurant proprietor gleaning helpful information from society matrons. Sometimes he was scared. Sometimes he got hurt. But still, he also felt most alive when in the midst of a dangerous mission.
Sighing, he sat again just as the front door opened, letting in the rattle and creak of the freight wagons that endlessly rolled down the street’s wood block pavers.
At first glance, the man seemed a typical, prosperous customer. His gabardine suit and the gold watch chain draping across an embroidered silk vest looked expensive. Yet, those were cowboy boots. Polished, yes. But nevertheless, pointy-toed, high-heeled, cowboy boots. Sage’s gaze sharpened. This was neither a salesman nor a businessman. That hawkish face wore the bronze weathering of an outdoors man. Narrowed eyes coolly took Sage’s measure and catapulted Sage from idle boredom into sharp unease.
Sage rose, wearing his genial host smile. “The cook’s taking a break but I can get you some coffee and pie,” he offered, though sure the man wasn’t there to eat or drink.
The stranger nodded pleasantly but said nothing. Instead, he grabbed the chair across from Sage, slid it back and sat. His quick smile failed to soften the pale blue eyes.“You’re a hard man to corral, Mr. Adair. It’s taken a few days to catch you alone.” The words were spoken in an unmistakable Texas Panhandle twang. Sage knew it well. Briefly, he’d slowly passed through that part of Texas, vowing never to travel such barren land again unless aboard a train or some other fast moving conveyance.
Sage tensed but resumed his seat, keeping his legs uncrossed and both feet planted firmly on the floor. Fong always said, “Keep two feet on ground when danger threatens.” Sage usually followed Fong’s advice. The Chinese man was amazingly skilled in an oriental fighting art he called the ‘snake and crane’.
He studied the man across from him who looked nearly fifty, eighteen or so years older than Sage. The expensive suit didn’t conceal the wide shoulders and strong wrists that told of intense physicality. And, the controlled ease of the man’s movements signaled an ability to move fast.
This assessment occurred in the few seconds between the end of the man’s statement and Sage’s adoption of a quizzical expression as he said, “Don’t know why you didn’t just come in and introduce yourself. This isn’t a private club.” He reached across the table, “Name’s John Adair. I own this restaurant.” The other man’s shake was firm, his palm slightly rough. No doubt about it. This stranger knew hard labor.
“Yup, I know who you are. But I figure it’s best if other folks don’t see us together. City this big, there’s a lot of folks about and no guarantee they won’t turn up somewhere else and remember who they saw. And, human critters sure do like to jabber.”
Although instinct told him it’d be futile, Sage tried denial, saying, “Well, sir, I don’t believe you’ve informed me of your name but I am sure you have me confused with someone else. I cannot imagine why you would need a secret meeting with me. As you can see,” here he waved an airy hand at the empty room, “I merely operate this eating establishment. No need to act all ‘cloak and dagger’ I am sure.”
The other man studied him, then grinned. “Pretty good show,” he said before leaning forward, “Now, Mr. Adair, you best stop with the silly palaver. We both know that rings true as a church bell without its clapper.”
That pithy observation stopped Sage. What did this stranger know about him? Had he seen him in his undercover labor operative persona, John Miner? Only to later recognize him in his role as John Adair, proprietor of Portland’s fanciest restaurant?
No. Because the stranger’s next words were, “I had me a long chin wag with Otis Welker. Just before he got himself killed down there in ‘Frisco. So, I know you are a hell of a lot more than some soft-shoed restaurant owner. You work for the unions. You’ve got a Chinese sidekick who can take down ten men twice his size. And maybe your ma works alongside you as well. Welker wasn’t too sure about that last but he suspected. Said the two of you have the same eyes. I haven’t studied her up close so I don’t have an opinion. Truth be told, I don’t rightly care.”
The air around Sage thickened the instant the stranger spoke the name “Otis Welker.” Memory hit him like a bucket of cold water so that every word the stranger spoke after that seemed to enter Sage’s ears muted, as if from a far distance. Once again, Sage was back a year ago, when Welker’s icy eyes had stared into his—right after he’d arranged for Sage’s murder. But Sage hadn’t been thrown from the train bridge in the middle of the Willamette River. Fong rescued him in the nick of time. Instead, it was Welker who’d died just days later. Newspaper reports said someone deliberately shoved the timber company agent beneath a San Francisco carriage.
Sage dropped all pretense and openly studied the man sitting across from him. It was then that the man’s easy grin finally reached his eyes.“Nope, it wasn’t me that shoved Welker. I didn’t like him. I’ll admit to that. Sometimes worked with him, at the Dickensen Agency, until he decided to hire out on his own to the timber companies. Never cottoned to his methods, before or after he left the agency. So don’t be thinking I’m like him. I mean you no harm. I plan no trickery.”
“You’re a . . . ,” Sage started to say but the other man interrupted.
“Yup, I’m still with the agency.” He pulled a solid silver badge out of his vest pocket. Sage leaned forward to read “Dickensen Detective” engraved across the star. The man replaced the badge and continued talking, “Don’t know how much longer I’ll be working for them since I’m getting more than a little disgusted by their shenanigans. Name’s Charles Lloyd Siringo, Mr. Adair. Friends call
me ‘Charlie.’ And, I’ve got me a big problem. I’m thinking you’re the only man who can help me find a way out of it.”
“It’ll be a damn cold day in hell before I help any Dickensen agent,” Sage said, anger turning his face hot. The detective agency was responsible for the death of his grandfather, uncle and a whole slew of other Appalachian coal miners. Good men murdered because they tried to ease their families’ poverty.
“Yup, I figured being a union man, you’d consider the Dickensen agency your worst enemy. Can’t blame you for that. But, I ain’t asking for the agency. In fact, the last thing I want is for them to know we’re even talking. That’s why it’s taken me so gol’ darn long to meet up with you.”
Sage searched the man’s face, trying to grasp what Siringo meant and intended. Siringo’s return gaze remained steady in his calm face. There was no liar’s sideways glance.
Oh well, Sage thought, it was pointless to pretend any longer. He was now well and truly curious. He raised a cautionary finger, saying, “I warn you, I can’t imagine agreeing to help a Dickensen man under any circumstance. That said, go ahead. Tell me your story.” Sage sat back and crossed his arms. He’d listen but he had no intention of being roped in by this cowboy. Siringo scooted his chair closer, confident now that he knew
Sage would listen. “Dickensen’s sent me here to assist Governor Chamberlain. There’s a deadly situation brewing east of the Cascade range.”
Sage shook his head. He wanted nothing to do with events in eastern Oregon.
This time it was Siringo who raised a warning finger. “Please, Adair, hear me out. The cattlemen don’t have enough grazing land. They’ve started blaming the sheep ranchers.”
Siringo sighed, removed his derby and dropped it on the table. “Silly, useless citified thing don’t deserve to be called a ‘hat.’ Keeps neither sun nor rain off a man’s face,” he grumbled before continuing, “The reason they’re short grazing land is far more complicated than sheep. But, they see the grass disappearing and their cattle dying in fields stripped by the woolies. So, they’ve started killing sheep and they’re talking about killing sheepherders as well. One old shepherd, a fellow who worked for the Kepler brothers, has gone missing. I’m surmising he’s been murdered. And, someone’s burned the Kepler’s barn and feed out in the Ochocos.
“Now the cattlemen have started blazing dead lines all over. They say they’ll shoot any sheep or shepherd that crosses the line. I hear the sheepmen, both shepherds and ranchers, are thinking to retaliate. My job is to identify who’s stirring folks up on both sides, find the missing shepherd and report to the Governor so he can deal with the situation. That might sound simple but it’s not.”
Sage remained silent. This was interesting but why the hell did Siringo think Sage would help? He let his skepticism suffuse his face as he waited for Siringo to come to the point.
The Dickensen agent seemed not to notice Sage’s expression, because he continued his tale. “I’ve been out there, horse trading, all around Prineville. That’s Central Oregon’s biggest town. Horse trading’s my cover because I’ve been a cowboy and know horses better than most. Once they saw I could break a horse with the best of them, there’s been no trouble getting accepted by the cattlemen. But that’s just half the problem. Every day that passes, the situation is getting more dangerous for the shepherds and their animals.
“The governor swears he’s doing everything possible to get Roosevelt and the Secretary of the Interior to intervene and straighten things out. He says the federal government made the darn mess, so they should fix it. As of yesterday, the governor still hadn’t heard back from Washington D.C.”
Siringo’s forehead wrinkled in the effort to make Sage understand. “My problem, in the meantime, is that I sure can’t straddle two horses going in different directions. If the cattlemen accept me, the sheepmen sure won’t. Despite plenty of provoking, they’ve kept their anger reined in. One reason for that is the shepherds often work alone with only a herd dog for company. The only protection they pack is a varmint rifle. They can’t move fast because all they have is a bulky camp wagon, a mule and a flock of slow moving sheep. So, there isn’t much they can do when attacked by armed men on horseback. They sure can’t outrun them. Still, the sheep ranchers’ patience is wearing thin. From where they sit, Governor Chamberlain isn’t doing anything and neither is the federal government.”
Siringo tapped his fingernail against the edge of Sage’s saucer—the sound musical in the silence. “It’s mighty complicated, Adair. So many parts to it. The sheepmen also haven’t retaliated because there’s a division amongst them. Some are local fellows. They want to get along with their cattlemen neighbors. Other sheepmen are strangers just passing through, herding their sheep to and from the shearing sheds at Shaniko. Some of them come from as far east as Idaho and as far south as Klamath Falls. The men killing the sheep don’t seem to be making any distinction between the two groups.”
Sage nodded. He’d heard about immense flocks of sheep crossing Central Oregon. He could see why that might upset the cattlemen. Still, it was open range—federal land. “I understand. The newspapers report that a range war’s starting up over there,” he said.
The other man plucked a ready-made cigarette from a metal pocket tin. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Sage shook his head. Lifting his cup he pushed the saucer forward. “Go ahead. But you better get moving with your story. The teatime ladies will be arriving and once they do, I can’t give you any more attention.”
Cigarette lit, Siringo leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Last month, I was passing through town after giving my preliminary report to the Governor. My train east to Shaniko got delayed so I decided to drink a beer at Slap Jack’s, down near the rail yard. I was sitting back in a corner when an hombre I know too darn well ambled in. Name of Pat Barry. He’s an operative for Dickensen’s but we aren’t friends. Far from it. While back, I caught him beating an innocent man. He wanted the fellow to confess to a crime Barry himself had committed. I knew that cause I’d watched Barry do the crime. Anyway, I broke up the beating and reported Barry to the Dickensen superintendent. Not a gol’ durn thing happened to Barry. I had to keep my hand on old Colts 45 the whole time I stayed in Denver ‘cause Barry’s sworn to get even.” Siringo sat back, drew deeply on his cigarette, exhaled and watched the smoke drift upward before leaning forward again.
“Anyway, not wanting any trouble in Slap Jacks, I pulled my hat brim low and pushed my chair further back into the corner. Few minutes later, a skinny young fellow came in. He dressed like a cowpoke—boots, hat, shiny buckle and all. I had a vague recollection of his face but couldn’t place him. Anyway, this cowboy straightaway sat down across from Barry. At the end of their jawing, I saw Barry shake the fellow’s hand and give him some money. That was a sure sign they were up to no good. Barry only gives away other people’s money.
“I studied the fellow’s face so I’d remember it. Still, I figured Barry had something going here in the city with that young fellow. For certain it was something sneaky but I didn’t think no more on it. I boarded the train and headed back to the Prineville area.” Siringo pulled on his cigarette, letting the smoke slowly trickle out his nose.
“You saw Barry or the young fellow again, I expect,” Sage said, trying to nudge the story along.
“Not Barry. The young fellow. Darned if he didn’t ride the same train back to Central Oregon. So, I made his acquaintance. Turns out his name is Tom Meglit. Fact is, since then, I’ve been hearing too darn much about him. Not here but across the mountains in Prineville. That’s where he’s from and that’s where he’s stirring up sheepshooter trouble.”
“Trouble? Sheepshooters?” Sage echoed, caught up in the story despite harboring a strong resistance against Siringo’s purpose in telling it.
“‘Sheepshooters’ is how some of the cattlemen have named themselves. With Meglit hanging around the cowboys and cattle ranchers, I decided to learn a bit more about him. I figu
red, if he was up to something, maybe I could find out what.”
“And did you?”
“That boy ain’t any more than 21 years old. But I’ve got to tell you Mr. Adair, what people have to say about him scares the holy bejesus right out of me. I ain’t proud of everything I’ve done in this life but I’m thinking there’s something real bad about that kid. He carries a mean streak that runs a mile wide and a mile deep. Folks say he’s right fond of words like ‘dry gulch’ and ‘ambush.’ Likes to brag, he does.”
“Dry gulch?” Sage’d heard the term but wasn’t sure what it meant except that its victims died.
Siringo’s lips twisted. “It’s means tying a man up behind a horse and dragging him until he expires from being hauled across the rocks and bushes.”
Imagining that painful death, Sage shuddered. “Well, I can see you got a problem with Meglit, the sheepshooters and the sheepmen but I don’t see why I should get involved,” he said. He began stacking his paperwork into a neat pile, readying to stand. Siringo reached across the small table and grabbed Sage’s forearm with just enough force to arrest its motion. “Look Mr. Adair, Dickensen’s has me acting the honest front man. I’m doing my best to stop trouble. Keep people safe. Meantime, Dickensen’s has Pat Barry and this young Tom Meglit, working behind the scenes. They’re making sure it’s all going to turn worse. I figure the Dickensen Agency is stirring up trouble just so they can keep collecting from the Governor. The situation is a cow they plan to keep milking. I’ve seen them do it before.”
There was no mistaking the desperate plea in Siringo’s face as he said, “I need someone I can trust out there in Central Oregon. Someone who can get next to the sheepmen. Otherwise, some decent folks will get themselves into a passel of trouble. And, I sure the heck can’t ask Dickensens for help. Fact is, I suspect that if the agency figures out I’ve discovered their game, they’ll give that Meglit kid a chance to practice his dry gulching on yours truly.”
