by S. L. Stoner
Sage stood in the dirt street, staring at the door until Harbin cleared his throat to say, “Mighty fine looking woman there. She’s done Prineville an awful good turn, especially seeing as how she doesn’t know but one of us.”
Slapping his hat back onto his head, Sage looked at Harbin. “Yes,” was all he could think to say to both comments.
The restaurant attached to the Poindexter Hotel lobby was nearly full when Sage decided he’d seen all there was to see in Prineville and that it was time to stop the stomach growls. On his tour he’d passed a few window signs that declared, “We Promise to Have White Cooks Only.”
Sage puzzled over the sign until he remembered. Many restaurants in the West had Chinese cooks. Evidently the owners of the establishments displaying that proclamation, thought that open prejudice would attract more customers. For Sage, that sign meant he’d take his business elsewhere.
His town tour hadn’t taken long. Its few commercial streets mostly sported clapboard false fronts. But, here and there were newer, stone and brick buildings. Elsewhere, streets were lined by wood-framed houses. Plenty of buildings, commercial and residential, were under construction. That explained the brick works and the sawmill at the edge of town.
Prineville was a cow town. There were cowboy outfitters, harness makers and hitching rails for cow ponies outside most businesses. Still, few ponies were tied up and few people were walking or riding along the town’s wide dirt streets. Undoubtedly the epidemic was keeping folks away. People living in the outlying areas were likely traveling to Farewell Bend, thirty-five miles south, when they wanted to frolic or make purchases. The epidemic had to be a hard hit to Prineville’s commercial interests.
The Poindexter’s food was decent, though not quite as good as Ida’s. It seemed that only Ida knew how to butter fry potatoes so they weren’t greasy. He had his fork to his lips when two men in suits appeared in the lobby archway. The head waiter bustled over to seat them, his manner declaring these were important guests, Congressman Thomas and Dr. Van Ostrand, how are you gentlemen today?” he queried as he ushered them to a table at the room’s center. His subsequent banter indicated the two were regular customers. Once the waiter departed, though, the two quickly sobered. They leaned across the table toward one another as if fearful of being overheard.
When the waiter came to refill his coffee cup, Sage asked, “Did I hear you say ‘Congressman’?”
The energetic fellow puffed up a bit as he answered, “Why yes, that’s our local Congressman, Newt Thomas—the fellow wearing the red bow tie. He lives here in Prineville when he’s not back in Washington D.C. The other fellow with him is Dr. Van Ostrand. He’s our local dentist.”
“Looks like they are discussing important business.” Sage said, hoping to trigger more revelations. It worked.
“Well, I guess that would be right. They’re in the stock business together.”
“Cattlemen?”
The waiter shook his head. “Nope, they’re sheep ranchers. They have a big flock, out on the range east of town. They used to lease sections from the toll road company but this year, the road company pulled those leases.”
“Here I was thinking Prineville was a cattle town,” Sage said.
“Oh it sure enough is,” the waiter assured him.“But, there’s a passel of sheep hereabouts, some say up to a quarter million. Lots more than there are cattle.”
“That’s got to cause hard feelings, when the cows and the sheep try to eat the same grass. From what I saw on my trip down, there’s not a lot to eat out there.”
For the first time, the waiter’s features seemed to close down and his brown eyes squinted as he looked at Sage “I am new in town” he said. “Still, I’ve seen some fights and heard some pretty rough words exchanged between the cowboys and the herders. Best thing to do mister, is keep your nose to yourself and not ask too many questions. Stick to your gold panning.” With that, he walked away leaving Sage staring into a full coffee cup.
Forthright advice. He realized Prineville was not Portland. There’d be no cruising its saloons and shops asking questions unless he wanted to trigger speculation. He’d said nothing to anyone at the Poindexter about gold panning—yet the waiter was clearly informed about Sage’s business. The best plan would be to keep his mouth shut and his ears wide open if he wanted to learn more about the budding range war.
Sage studied the two sheep ranchers. Their faces looked somber. No wonder. They’d lost their grazing land just when sheep shootings, barn burnings, shepherd killings and dead lines were on the rise. Definitely a rough time for sheepmen. Studying their tense faces out of the corner of his eye, Sage wondered whether those two were plotting the retaliation Siringo feared.
Groggy after an early afternoon nap in his hot hotel room, Sage ordered coffee from the saloon’s morose barkeep. Despite the open door and windows, it was stifling inside the Rimrock Saloon. He stood at the bar, as did the few other subdued patrons. The saloon was strictly complying with the ban on tables and chairs.
His coffee cup empty, Sage waved off a refill. Instead he ordered a sarsparilla, its cool sweetness proof that the barkeep had managed to ice it down. A man stood a few feet further along the bar. He wore the low heeled boots and leather vest of a sheepherder. From the sag of his shoulders it was clear that troubling thoughts weighed heavy on him. Sage cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. “Say, mister, it looks like you’re having a hard day of it. Can I buy you a beer or a sarsparilla? Don’t know about the beer but this soda’s mighty cool on the throat.”
The man lifted his head, his face uncomprehending. Then his thoughts seemed to travel back from a far distance and his gaze sharpened. “Why, I guess that would be all right,” he told Sage in an accent straight from Ireland’s green pastures. “I’m drinking birch beer since I don’t care much for the rooty taste of the sarsparilla.”
He moved closer and thrust out his hand. “My name’s Twilleran Parnell McGinnis. ‘Parnell’ for that great Irish nationalist, too soon departed. Call me ‘Twill’ for short. Mayhaps I will switch to straight beer. I plan to get blootered this day and night. In memory of a lost friend, don’cha know? So it’s gratitude I have for your offer. Would you care to partake in the imbibing of sociable drinks?”
McGinnis was a tall man, standing maybe two inches above Sage’s six feet. He was black-haired and blue-eyed like Sage. He had a square jaw, wide mouth, and smooth brow above sweeping dark eyebrows. Though he was broody about his dead friend, his face showed good humor and kindness.
Sage soon learned that Twill had indeed traveled to Oregon from County Cork in the old country. His story was simple. “There’s a band of us who came to Oregon to herd sheep. John G. Doherty, has the big spread, up in Morrow County. He sent us a special invite to Oregon—paid our way. He knew us Irish boys are well and truly trained in the fine art of shepherding. He traveled his own self from the Emerald Isle. Only other men who know sheep as well, are the Basques. They’re the small brown fellows from the Spanish mountains. But the Basques work further east, over toward Baker City and beyond. Of course, they walk through here when they deliver their sheep to Shaniko for shearing. Got to know a few.”
Sage signaled for a beer, saying to Twill, “People’s spirits here in the Rimrock seem a little low today. Is that because of your friend?” At Twill’s nod, Sage said, “I’ve heard that you shepherds are a quiet bunch compared to cowpokes riding off the range. You’re not planning on taking revenge are you?”
Twill looked at Sage, his face suddenly watchful. “Well, I can see from looking at you that you’re no cowboy. What might you be doing in Prineville?” he asked, ignoring Sage’s question.
Apparently, the Prineville gossip telegraph did not extend into the Rimrock. So, Sage told Twill about his intention to pan for gold in Scissors Creek.
Twill looked doubtful. “I’ve heard that trout’s the only thing to be found in that creek. They might be having a bit of gold color on their scales but I’m t
hinking it’s not the mineral kind.” Sage laughed, “Yes, that’s what I’ve been hearing. But I’m here now and my poke is getting low. I need to find something to do.”
“Well, don’t contemplate sheep herding,” Twill said. “You’re right about us feeling sorrow. Two days ago someone shot ewes and lambs over at Gray’s Meadow. Shot them when they were penned up and couldn’t get away. The bastard also killed the herding dog. And he murdered the herder, my friend.”
Twill raised his glass and shouted, “Here’s to Timothy O’Dea, a grander son of Ireland was never before seen upon this godforsaken plain!”
“Hear, hears” echoed and Twill raised his glass again, “And here’s to his loyal dog, Felan. No herding dog was ever finer!” Another chorus of “hear, hear” rolled along the bar.
Twill wasn’t done mourning his friend. He ordered a round for himself and Sage before saying, “The real heart ringer is that Tim was planning to give up herding. He and Felan were going to leave the flocks. Settle down and farm. Tim was excited about it. He’d managed to lay claim to some land up there in the Ochoco’s and was going to start proving it up.”
“I thought it cost money to file a claim.”
The Irishman was nodding, “Tim didn’t spend much money. He was such a fine fellow. Do anything for you. Liked to laugh, he did. But shy, you know? Especially with the ladies. Ah, What for? I ask you, what was it for? Timothy and Felan are gone, dead and gone. My glory is I had such friends.” Twill didn’t seem to notice the tears coursing down his cheeks, onto the bar and into his beer.
After a few moments of silence, Sage turned to the barkeep. “Say, I notice that sign on the wall says there’s bunking space for rent upstairs. I’m staying at the Poindexter but that’s more than I can afford. You got any space left?” After making the arrangements, he ordered another round. Might as well keep the Irishman company for a while longer. It was the least he could do.
Miles from town, far out on the rolling vastness of dry prairie, Charlie Siringo carefully slid out of his saddle. He’d stripped off his spurs, knowing that he’d have to step stealthily once the man he trailed reached his destination. Putting a calming hand on the horse’s velvet nose, he tied its reins to a scrub bush. To the south, straight ahead, the crown of a solitary juniper tree stood beneath moonlight dulled by a thin cloud layer. The yellow flicker at the tree’s base meant this was the meeting place.
He dropped into a crouch, freezing as the sound of a horse blowing nearby broke the quiet. Another horse and rider were approaching from the west. The dull moonlight meant the meeting tree was easy to spot, but it also meant any hombre trying to sneak closer could also be seen—especially by those traveling in from the dark. He’d have to wait until they’d all arrived. Wait until their attention was focused on each other, the fire blinding their night vision. Only then could he creep close enough to hear what they were planning.
Siringo carefully pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket before lowering himself down. He stretched out on his belly, his narrow hips squeezed between two rocks. He breathed in the tang of sage and sun dried bunch grass, jammed a wad of chew into his cheek and watched the distant fire flicker as he waited for the Crook County sheepshooters’ meeting to begin.
NINE
Shortly after ten o’clock, Sage wandered out the Poindexter’s front door. He left behind a snoozing desk clerk and the quiet snores of a cowboy who hadn’t made it past the lobby. Country folk were early risers. He moved north, along the front of the hotel, until he reached a break in the storefronts. After looking carefully around, he slipped into the gap. Stepping over rusted tin cans and garbage that had found a final resting place, he reached the back of the buildings. Once there, he moved cautiously until he was between the pest house privy and the hotel’s rear porch. He hoped that someone in the rooms above wasn’t gazing out his window.
He didn’t have long to wait. Loose glass in the penthouse’s back door rattled as it was softy opened and shut. Ears straining, he could hear the scuff of shoes and squeak of the privy door. As if he would have waited in there!
Her voice softly called, “Sage?”
“Here, behind the privy,” he whispered loudly. Then she was there, her face a pale oval in the cloudy moonlight. He wished the clouds would drift away so that he could see better. He squinted and slowly her features resolved. She looked tired, thin, lovely. He took a deep breath and let it out. At last they could talk. It had been a long time. He was so full of unspoken words that all he could manage was “Hi. Nice night.”
Her response was to squint her eyes, her brow creasing, before she stepped closer. “Good heavens,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
Involuntarily, he reached up to gently finger his mouth. Siringo had planted him a good one. “I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sage said.“First, I want to make sure we can meet this same time and place every night. Then I want hear what you have to say about what’s been going on around here.”
She nodded and said, “All right. We can meet here every night you are in town. If you have to leave, tie a rag on that bush.” She pointed to the stubby shrub.
“Thank you for coming, Sage,” she said without a smile. “Did you think there was any chance I wouldn’t?”
This time her smile seemed sadly wistful. Maybe it was the lack of light? He stepped forward, trying to see better.
She didn’t seem to notice. “I really didn’t know. I hoped you’d come, if for nothing more than for old time’s sake,” was all she said as she also stepped forward—stopping close enough that he could smell her perfume but still far enough away that he could not touch her. He moved forward. She jumped back and held up a hand. “No Sage, you’re too close. This meeting is dangerous enough. You don’t want to catch smallpox. I would never forgive myself. And neither would your mother,” she added.
He smiled and stepped back. “She misses you. She’d blame me, not you. Besides, I am sure you would nurse me back to health in no time,” he said.
This time she shook her head slowly. “I wish that were true but people have died in this epidemic. One of them in this very house. We did everything we could and nothing we did saved him. He was young, healthy and dead within a few days.” For a moment she stood silent. In that pause a faint breeze flowed through, rustling the leaves of the back yard’s lone tree.
She seemed to tuck away the sadness because her face transformed from pensive to alert. “He’s the reason I thought Charlie needed your help,” she said.
“Charlie? You mean Siringo?” How had the Dickensen man gained her confidence so quickly? When had they even had a chance to talk?
This time, her lips twisted sideways in that rueful quirk of hers. “Charlie’s a longtime friend of Xenobia’s. He always visits her whenever he’s in Oregon. I had already planned to see her on my way back to Portland. When the epidemic broke out, she had him hustle up to The Dalles to meet my train from Chicago. She didn’t want me exposed to smallpox. She already had the hospital up and running.”
“And so, of course, you immediately insisted on traveling back to Prineville with Siringo to help your friend in her hospital,” Sage finished for her.
Her face tightened but all she said was, “Well, of course. Charlie said it was a big outbreak and Xenobia had no one helping her. Frank came along to help after I did. ‘Anyways,’ as your mother would say, I’d had smallpox as a child so it made sense. Later, during an outbreak in Spokane, I learned how to nurse people with the pox. And,” she added, “I was in no hurry to reach Portland.”
That last statement hit like a blow. So, Lucinda had not been planning a grand reunion with him. Sage swallowed his hurt and asked, “So tell me about the fellow who died.”
“He was a young man up from Missouri in the last year or so. He worked as a ranch hand for a while but then tried to find work here in town. That’s when he came down with the pox. We took him in, but at the last he became delirious. Most of what he said made no sense at all. He keep askin
g me for forgiveness. He thought I was a nun or something because he kept calling me ‘sister’.” She paused and turned her face up to the clouds, the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes.
When she looked at him again, she said, “It sounded like he’d had a hand in some really bad business and was carrying a lot of guilt about it. He talked about dying sheep. And, he mumbled something about an old guy. Whenever he talked about him, he’d start crying. He never said directly, but I think someone must have died.”
“Siringo told me there’s been sheepshootings and an old shepherd is missing,” Sage said slowly, as he tried to work out the timing.
“Yes, I thought of that old shepherd too. But, that’s the thing. That’s why Charlie needs your help. The young man, his name was Harry Perkins, also kept saying that it wasn’t over. He begged me to stop it but he never said what ‘it’ was. And over and over, he said he should have made up his own mind, not followed. He kept saying he’d broke the moral compass his mama gave him. Sometimes he swore that he’d just given his compass ‘away’.” Her voice had thickened with unshed tears, making it difficult for her to speak. She drew in a shaky breath. “He was so ravaged by guilt, Sage. I think that’s why he died. He just couldn’t bear to live with whatever it was that he had done.”
Sage wondered whether the dead man had been a sheepshooter. Next he caught himself wishing Lucinda wouldn’t call Siringo “Charlie” with such easy familiarity. He quickly shut down that last thought. Now was not the time to add jealousy to the already complex state of affairs.
Lucinda sighed. “That’s about all I know. Now suppose you tell me how Mr. Fong’s number one student managed to get that fat lip?”
