by S. L. Stoner
“Anyway, just before I left, we penned the ewes. That way, it was easier for Felan to watch over the rest of the flock and Timothy could get some sleep. Usually we took turns staying out with the sheep but that night, the bosses wanted me in town.”
Twill swallowed more whiskey, his Adam’s apple jumping. “Whoever he was, he just rode along the side of the corral and shot our penned woolies. Maybe when he got there, he didn’t see Felan or maybe he didn’t care. The dog must have charged the bastard’s horse. There was blood on his muzzle. Poor Felan’s leg was broke, like he’d been horse-kicked. And there was a bullet in his bonny brave chest.”
Twill’s eyes filled and he looked away. When he signaled for another shot, the bartender ignored him. Twill took no offense, just shrugged and picked up with his story. “I’m thinking that when Felan yelped, Timothy just grabbed his rifle and ran out. I found his rifle lying right beside his hand, just as if he’d dropped it when he fell. He never got off a shot. Must have been killed right as he came out of the door. Then something must have scared the bastard, because only a few of the penned sheep were shot and he didn’t open the gate to scatter the rest. None of the un-penned sheep were hurt although some of them wandered off.”
Sage let the silence stretch out a bit before changing the subject. “I heard that dead fellow, somebody ‘Rayburn,’ was a wrong one. Do you think it could have been him?”
Twill was nodding, even while Sage was still asking. “Asa Rayburn. Aye. He’s the sort my sainted mother would not want her second-born son befriending. He’d jolly you up just to pick your pocket. Not that Asa’d do such a low-class crime. He considered himself an elite gentleman of sorts, ‘swelling like a turkey-cock’ at every opportunity.”
The Irishman’s genial face turned mulish. “I intend to learn the name of Timothy’s killer. Asa Rayburn had it in him to do something like that. He was one of those fellows where the best that can be said about them is, ‘when they are not drunk, they are sober’.
“But, no, it wasn’t Asa who murdered Timothy. I know it wasn’t because he helped us celebrate that night. For all Asa’s strutting, he was no match for an Irishman when it came to drinking. He couldn’t have stood up, let alone mount a horse and found his way to Gray Prairie in the dark.”
Twill looked at Sage, raising one dark eyebrow. “That’s two you missed,” he observed.
“Henry V, Gower talking about Pistol. But I can’t name the source of the second quote,” admitted Sage though his mind was really elsewhere. A single man, not a posse of sheepshooters, killed Timothy O’Dea. What the hell did that mean?
“None but the master W.B. Yeats himself, ye ignorant laddie,” Twill teased for the first time that night.
The Irishman’s lightheartedness was short-lived. Twill raised the empty shot glass and shouted, “From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or they be without worth.”
“Hear, hear,” came answering shouts from around the room.
“You look tired,” said Lucinda from where she waited beside the shrub. Shadows hid her face so he couldn’t tell if the kindness in her voice also softened her eyes. “What’s been happening in town?”
Sage told her about the federal district attorney being in the restaurant, the argument in the dentist’s office, the courthouse research, Otto Fromm’ arrest, the shepherds’ dangerous mood and he ended with Twill’s story.
She tilted her head to one side, sympathy in her face. Then she seemed to switch to another thought because she said, “I suspect I’m getting fanciful with having only three people and four walls to talk to. But, it sounds like the whole countryside’s busy as an angry anthill. Sheepshooters, homesteaders up in arms, arsonists, murderers. Lordy, it almost makes me glad I’m cooped up in a pest house.”
He laughed, just as she’d intended. Whenever his worry threatened to boil over, she was the next best thing to his own mother when it came to adding a calming dose of salts.
FOURTEEN
“Mr. miner! Mr. Miner!” Vigorous knocks accompanied the man’s calls. Sage opened one eye as he fumbled for his pocket watch. Six in the morning. He yanked on his pants and opened the door.
Dr. Rosenberg stood in the hallway flashing Sage a wide-awake display of teeth. “Good morning there, sir! Thought I’d catch you before you left for your new job.”
For a minute, Sage wondered how the doctor knew of the job but then he remembered. He was in Prineville. Standing back, he gestured for the doctor to enter.
“You missed your appointment yesterday,” Rosenberg said, putting his doctor satchel on the pine dresser and digging through it. “We need to make sure that inoculation is taking.” He turned toward Sage, a small ruler in his hand. “Oh good, your shirt is off. So, if you’ll just roll up your undershirt sleeve, I’ll take a quick measurement to see how we’re doing.”
Sage complied, seeing a swollen red patch with two small yellow centers. No wonder it felt uncomfortable. But still, not too bad.
The doctor was smiling and nodding. “Good, good. It’s looking very good. But it is important to track it a few more days just to make sure it develops all the way.” He laid the ruler alongside the blotch, studied its markings and then stepped back.“Exactly, right. One-half centimeter,” he said turning to replace the ruler in the satchel.
“I’m sorry I forgot to check in with you yesterday,” Sage said, finally fully awake.
“No problem. What with your new job and all the doings around town it must have been easy to forget. Besides, I was out all afternoon. You heard about the shooting?”
“Asa Rayburn you mean?” asked Sage.
“Good Lord, I hope there weren’t two shootings. I’m the only doctor in town because Belknap’s off chasing critters through the trees. The sheriff had me examine the body and declare death.”
“I heard he was shot.”
“He certainly was. Clean through the heart. From the back. I’m a bit surprised at that. Otto Fromm always struck me as a man who’d look a fellow straight in the eye and tell him to go to hell. Maybe he’d shoot a man who’d wronged him but only in an even fight. But a back shot?” The doctor shook his head, “Just doesn’t seem like something Otto would do, no matter what the provocation.”
“You know Fromm, then?”
“Yes, better than some, not as well as others. I’ve seen his family here in town and drove my buggy out to his place a few times. Like I said, he’s always seemed an upright man—one of those old-school Germans, sober and straight-laced. Only thing I can figure is that almost losing his family’s animal and feed unhinged the man. If their hay had burned or if wolves or cougars had killed their milk cow, that could have ended their homesteading. They live that close to the bone. They depend on the milk cow’s butter to trade with their neighbors for things they need and don’t have.”
“What about Asa Rayburn? Was he the kind of man who made enemies?”
“He was a scoundrel through and through. It’s probably better for the town that someone shot him. Just wish it had been one of his wastrel friends, instead of Otto Fromm.”
“Where was Rayburn staying?” Sage asked.
The doctor cocked an eyebrow.“For a stranger in town, you seem awfully interested in folks’ business. That just curiosity?”
Sage looked at this man who’d been nothing but kind to him since the minute he’d stepped foot in Prineville. He found he couldn’t lie.“Nope more than curiosity. I met Mrs. Fromm on the stagecoach riding down from Shaniko. I thought her a real nice woman. She says her husband didn’t do it. She’s asked me to help prove him innocent. I told her I would try.”
“Well, Rayburn had been in town just a few months. Got into trouble up north in Wasco County. Some say it related to the sheep business. He high-tailed it down here and wasn’t indicted. I’m told he was a small fry and the federal prosecutor is aiming higher. Going after the boss man himself—Bellingham. Some speculate about where Rayburn stood in the mess. But that’s all it is—speculation.
“Here i
n Prineville, he seemed to have ways of making money. Even invested a bit in the Rimrock, something Daggett, the owner, now regrets. And, I hear Rayburn worked for the road company—evicting and hounding homesteaders for rent.”
Why drive them out? Who’d want that land in the middle of nowhere? Sage wondered. Not the sheepmen. They could lease grazing land from the homesteaders.
“Timber. Doug firs aren’t the only money trees. There’s demand for our yellow ponderosa pine as well. The Fromm’s have a big stand of timber on their land.”
Sage switched to another possible motive for the Rayburn murder. “So, maybe the Rimrock’s owner might have cause for celebration?”
“Ah, maybe a bit. But Rayburn was more an irritant than a real problem for Daggett. Once Rayburn invested, he thought it gave him right to order Daggett about. That was short lived. Daggett set him straight with the support of all his customers. I hear tell that of late, Rayburn’s been avoiding the Rimrock. Besides, Barney Daggett’s a decent fellow. Plays in the town band with me. I like him.”
“I bet Daggett still owes on Rayburn’s investment,” Sage mused.
The doctor’s glance sharpened as he said thoughtfully, “I’m sure you’re right on that account. Between the sheepshooter nonsense and the quarantine, the Rimrock’s business has dropped in half. Rayburn took advantage of Daggett’s troubles.” Rosenberg shook his head. “No, I can’t believe Daggett would go to such lengths. He’d walk away first.”
As Sage closed the door behind the doctor, he thought it likely that Rosenberg would tell others about Sage investigating the Rayburn murder. Not that it would matter. Hereabouts, gossip flew faster than tumbleweeds in a wind storm. He chuckled at his attempt to come up with a western metaphor. The sun and sage brush must be getting to him.
Still, the doctor’s good opinion of Otto Fromm counted. It set Sage’s mind more at ease. He’d made the right choice. His promise to Mrs. Fromm hadn’t been reckless. Despite Mae Clemens saying too often, “Son, you must have been bent over tying your shoelaces when the good Lord doled out caution.”
The horses slowly picked their way southward along a rocky streambed. Only a trickle of water pooled here and there. Soon even that water would disappear in summer’s heat. Only the creak of saddle leather, iron shoes ringing on rock and the horses’ occasional blowing marked their passage.
Charlie Siringo studied the straight backs of the men before him. Despite failing in their primary objective, they were not disappointed. Just the opposite. His had been a rough ride last night. Dawn was near breaking when he’d finally reached the cowboy’s camp. They’d all been wide awake—too fired up to sleep, telling stories, laughing softly, all to stiffen their courage.
He’d offered to join them on their foray. After brief hesitation, during which looks were exchanged, Gary Blue had said, “I guess you might as well, seeing as how there’s no way we can hide that we’re all heading out at first light. We didn’t expect you back until tonight. But if you ride along, you must swear to secrecy under pain of death. You willing to do that?”
Siringo responded, with appropriate solemnity, that he was willing to take the secrecy oath. And there was, indeed, an oath. He’d raised his hand just like he had in various courts of law across the West. The deception lay heavily on him. He understood their desperation, He’d grown up on a hardscrabble, Texas Panhandle ranch where a single instance of bad luck meant permanent failure. Here, their livelihood, their way of life was threatened. Like the sheepmen, they were being victimized by men they’d never meet. Men who’d profit from their misery.
Siringo filled a cheek with chaw. “Saving forests for future generations.” Hah! Another good idea exploited by greedy, powerful, amoral men and the fawning politicians who did their bidding.
His mental rambling ceased when Gary Blue began laying out the morning’s plan. As he learned from earlier eavesdropping, their target was the shepherd and his flock at Little Summit Prairie. Cattle had always grazed there in the summer. Now a band of sheep were stripping it bald. The cowmen figured there’d be nothing left for the cattle. They hoped killing the sheep would cause such financial damage that the sheep rancher would keep the rest of his sheep away. As for the shepherd, well, he’d be tied up, a flour sack covering his head, guarded by two cowboys. He’d come to no harm so long as he cooperated.
Their scheming had come to nothing. Topping the low ridge above Little Summit Prairie they found only an empty meadow, a creek meandering across its expanse. They rode down onto the flat. Tracks and droppings indicated the sheep and their herder had left hours before, heading northwest.
If anything, the sight lightened the men’s spirits. To a man, their faces immediately relaxed and soft laughter sounded for the first time. Their relief was a contrast to the forced bravado they’d spouted around the campfire. As they sat atop their horses, they shook their heads and congratulated themselves for having scared the shepherd away.
Their work wasn’t over. They intended to encircle Little Summit Prairie with a dead line to keep the sheep out. Spurring their horses northward, they rode into the foothills of Bear Mountain. There they set to work hacking blazes into tree trunks. Some hours later they finished.
“Another dead line laid in the Ochocos,” Siringo grumbled to himself. “Every new dead line is a poke in the sheepman’s eye.”
Siringo mulled over the origins of the dead lines. Before meeting with the governor, he’d read every newspaper article he could find about the expanding range war. It had been declared by a published announcement of the first dead line. He’d read it more than once, until he had it memorized:
Notice
To whom it may concern: The Crook County Cattlemen’s Protective Association have located for its exclusive use the territory bounded on the north by the summit of Maury Mountain, on the south by the desert, and extending from the north fork of Bear Creek on the west to Camp Creek on the east.
By order of the Executive Committee
Tree trunk blazes and posted signs soon marked the cattlemen’s declared boundaries in other parts of the Ochocos. The crudely fashioned signs marked numerous dead lines that crisscrossed the range. Siringo rode over the Santiam Pass from Salem, determined to find and join the Executive Committee. He’d promised the governor that the threats would stop and no men or sheep would be killed. He’d failed. That young Irish sheepherder, his dog, and his sheep had been murdered on Gray’s Prairie, not far from where he’d spied on the sheepshooter meeting.
Now, he was one of them, riding from pine tree to pine tree. Overhead, eagles soared. In the meadow, grass glistened gold in the sun. It was beautiful land. Leaning down from the saddle, Siringo spent hours marking “X’s” into each trunk with his hatchet. Task done, they’d headed south toward the Maury Mountains with Siringo bringing up the rear.
He again studied the men riding trail ahead of him. They were part of a so-called “sheepshooter committee.” Their particular little committee lacked organization and seemed to stick close to home. There had to be more than one such group operating in the Ochocos.
If only the shepherds would honor the dead line warnings. Not because the cattlemen were right but because financial adversity was sharpening them into bitter, dangerously determined men. The governor needed more time to find a solution at the state and national level.
Ironically, most of cattle ranchers raised sheep themselves. Fleece profits are what kept their cattle ranches on an even keel. Small flocks weren’t the problem. For years, even large bands of local sheep weren’t a problem. It was the federal government closing the mountain reserves to grazing that created the problem.
“Doggone it,” he muttered softly to himself. “These fellows’ lives are tough enough.” And there was a new worry. They’d be quicker to ride down on the next sheep flock. When that happened, there might not be time to give the herder advance warning. If so, then Charlie Siringo would have no choice but to have them arrested, bringing even greater hardship to thes
e men and their families.
Since the governor had hired him to stop the range war, at least one man, maybe two, had been murdered and hundreds of sheep killed. If these men were responsible, he’d do his duty as an honorable Dickensen detective. Siringo pulled off his cowboy hat, wiped the sweat from his brow and slammed it back onto his head. Yup, he’d do his duty by God—no matter how much he hated doing it.
FIFTEEN
“Howdy, greenhorn,” came the friendly voice. Sage started and then felt a flush of irritation. Siringo was again horning in on Sage’s nightly visit with Lucinda.
“You try spending a couple of winters in the Klondike before you call me a ‘greenhorn’.” Sage snapped back. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
Siringo’s voice was mild as he responded, “My cover lets me get around a bit.”
“What cover is that?” even to his own ears, Sage sounded cranky as an arthritic old man.
“I’m a horse buyer who’s also willing to break horses. Once I broke a few horses that nobody else could break, they accepted my story. Gives me a lot of freedom to move about. Right now, I am supposed to be heading up north toward Wildcat Mountain. Thought I’d better check in with you first. Did you get a chance to talk to Rayburn?”
That question reminded Sage of the other reason he was standing behind Xenobia Brown’s privy in the dark of night. “Can’t talk to Rayburn,” he told Siringo. “The man’s dead.”
Siringo swore softly before asking, “What the hell happened?”
“Someone shot him in the back this afternoon. They’ve arrested a homesteader by the name of Otto Fromm,” Sage said, adding, “Rayburn had enemies, bunches of them. I don’t think Fromm did it.”
“Why do folks think a homesteader would shoot a sheepman?”
