by S. L. Stoner
“So that means that the Ochoco Mountains will be off limits as grazing lands, just like the Cascade Mountains are now?” Sage thought he finally got it. “Jesus, the ranchers around here have already lost the Cascades to the Reserve and some of the high desert to homesteaders. Loss of the Ochoco range lands would be a disaster.”
“Yes, that is exactly what it will mean,” Thomas said morosely. “As it stands now, there’ll be no Ochoco grazing land for sheep or for cattle if they create that reserve. You might not realize it from looking at them,” here Thomas swept a hand at the room, “but these men are terrified of losing everything they’ve worked for. Large ranches like my family’s or Hay Creek, have enough acreage to survive, but most of these ranchers, be they into sheep or cattle, won’t be able to.
“Some of these men were lifelong friends before this all happened. Now they’ve divided up—believing, without question, every self-serving lie they’re told or that they tell themselves. Those damn dead lines are running right through decades-long friendships.” Thomas sighed, adding, “Sometimes I think my brother has the right idea. It would be comforting just to stay out on the ranch faraway from everyone else and let them tear each other to pieces.”
“What happens to the homesteaders, like the Fromm’s, who’ve already proved up their Ochoco claims?” Sage asked.
“Mostly, but not always, they get moved out. Sometimes they are offered other lands in exchange but that won’t help this town. Those exchange lands will likely be anywhere but near Prineville. They’ll have to start over, losing their neighbors and all the good will they’ve built up over the years.”
“Geez, all this just so some huge corporation in Minnesota can chop down Oregon trees?”
“Yup. And it looks like there’s nothing we can do to stop that stupid president of ours from signing away our birthright and wrecking havoc on our community. Havoc not just on sheepmen but on the cattle ranchers and homesteaders as well. And, the fool thinks he’s doing the people a favor.” Bitterness crackled in Thomas’s words.
Sage mulled over the impact faraway Washington D.C. decisions might have on the lives of so many Central Oregonians. “It seems Roosevelt’s idea of keeping forests for future generations is a good one. Seems like the problem is that it’s being exploited by greedy men who have no moral compasses,” he said.
“That’s always the way, Miner. Good intentions create a law. At the same time greedy men and their sharpie lawyers figure
out how insert and use legal loopholes in the law. I see it every time I’m in Congress. As long as greed is acceptable and obscene wealth laudable, I don’t see things changing.”
“Is there any possible solution to this grazing mess?” Sage asked.
“Well, there’s some talk of loosening the grazing restrictions so that folks can graze their animals in the reserves. But, there’s no sign that’s going to happen,” Thomas answered.
Suddenly the congressman straightened and peered at the street outside. A genuine smile curved his lips for the first time that day. “I do believe it’s the Gable brothers,” he said. “Right on schedule.”
Sage twisted in his chair so he could peer out the window. Coming down the street was a high-sided freight wagon being pulled by two plodding mules. Dingy canvas, stretched over hoops, covered the wagon bed. The contraption looked much like the covered wagons of old. Atop the high wagon seat rode two men, both sporting long gray beards and dusty black suits.
Sage turned back to Thomas, “Gable brothers?” he asked.
Thomas chuckled and then explained, “Those two Jewish traders have been coming to Central Oregon for years. Why, I remember them coming to our ranch when I was just starting to read. ‘Course, they were a lot younger then, too.”
He leaned forward, seeming happy for the distraction and eager to tell the story. “Early every summer they’d turn up. That wagon they’re pulling is loaded with trinkets, candy and all sorts of things that folks out on ranches and homesteads need and want. Back then, lots of folks would raise a few sheep but it was never worth the time for them to drive the sheep all the way to The Dalles. Instead, the Gables would come with their trinkets and trade ‘em for fleece. Even today, there’s lots of folks who run a few sheep so they can trade the wool for the Gable brother’s bits and pieces.” Thomas smiled again, clearly taking pleasure in reliving those early days.
“I have to tell you, it was an exciting day when that old wagon rumbled down the hill. All work stopped. Us boys looked forward to the hard candy, books and toys in that wagon.”
Sage looked at Thomas and saw the once innocent boy inside the jaded, worried man. He felt pity. Thomas was like the man chained to railroad tracks, watching the locomotive’s headlight growing bigger.
Outside, the Gable’s wagon came to a halt, the mules softly nickering. Across from him, Thomas straightened. He was again peering out the window. “Hmm. Looks like the Gables brought another of their own kind with them this time,” he observed. “Wonder what that means? He’s an older fellow, too.”
Sage twisted back around to see a man clambering over the wagon’s backboard. He’d started to turn back toward Thomas when realization hit. Twisting back around for a second look, he felt his chin drop.
He’d never seen Herman Eich wearing a short, neatly trimmed beard. But there was no doubt about it. The man who’d crawled down from the peddlers’ wagon bed was none other than Portland’s ragpicker poet.
SEVENTEEN
Thomas noted Sage’s start of surprise because the congressman’s eyebrows rose in inquiry.
Sage spoke quickly, hoping to distract the man, “I know about the Kepler brother’s barn burning and Twill told me about the murder of Timothy O’Dea but have there been any other moves against sheepmen around here, other than the dead line blazings?”
That question did the trick. “Ahh,” Thomas began, then said, “Well, there’s that old sheepherder and his dog. They just vanished from a high meadow to the northeast. That was over a month ago. When the rancher took the shepherd supplies, he found the flock scattered, some shot through but most missing. There was no sign of either the shepherd or his dog. Folks figure the missing sheep are dead—prey for bear, coyote, cougar or wolf.
“That missing sheepherder gave rise to quite a bit of speculation. Some folks think he just got tired of being alone and headed out, taking his dog with him. Others, those who knew him better, say the old fellow either got hurt and died somewhere on the range or else there was foul play.”
This information focused Sage’s mind because a connection suddenly clicked into place. Lucinda said the dead man had felt shame as he raved on about an old man. Was that old man the missing shepherd? Was he the first victim of Oregon’s range war? If so, Siringo was right. Lucinda was in danger. Someone could think the dying man had told her about the murder and who was involved.
Thomas tossed his napkin onto the table and rose from his chair saying, “I best be getting on my way. And, I know Dr. Van Ostrand is expecting you about now.” The congressman’s departing smile and words twinkled with the calculated warmth of a born politician.
Sage tarried a bit longer over his coffee, waiting until he saw Herman Eich enter the hotel and walk up to the front desk. His ragpicker friend went through the registration process like a well-heeled sophisticate. Maybe he once was, Sage mused. He knew little about Eich’s origins. Ever since Sage had known him, the ragpicker had lived in a tiny lean-to beside one of Portland’s deepest ravines. His meager livelihood came from reselling usable dustbin items and from repairing delicate porcelains. Twice he’d joined Sage, Mae, Fong and others in an effort to carry out one of St. Alban’s missions. Eich’s presence in Central Oregon could only mean he was here to help.
Eich received his room key and began climbing the stairs to the second story. Sage stood, slapped coins on the table, crossed the lobby and followed his friend up the stairs.
The buckskin reared, its front hooves paddling the air. Between the b
lack pointed ears, Siringo saw a dun-colored hill flash against the blue sky before those hooves crashed down. He loosened the reins and fought to stay centered in the saddle. As the horse’s front hooves hit the ground, his rear legs flew skyward giving Siringo a close look at hard-packed earth. Still, the cowboy stayed mounted, hauling on the reins to pull the horse’s head toward his knee. Unable to buck, the stallion circled first one way and then the other, his turns made in spine-jarring hops.
Siringo heard cheering, saw hats waving and money changing hands—all behind the safely of the corral fence. He’d make money for those few who’d bet he’d stay atop the horse they’d named “Dust Devil.” No question, the ride was testing his skills. It was only now, ten minutes into the contest, that the stallion began to tire. Siringo relaxed, his body signaling that the horse was done fighting. He leaned forward to stroke the animal’s golden neck, murmuring quiet words into the ear now aimed his direction. After a sedate victory lap around the corral, Siringo dismounted. He stepped slowly to the front of the buckskin, pulled an apple from his pocket and fed the animal, all the while stroking its nose and murmuring words that only the horse could hear.
Siringo exited the corral to the backslaps of the usually taciturn cowboys. One of those doing the congratulating was young Tom Meglit.
“Hey Tony, you rode that bronc right into the ground,” the young cowboy crowed. “I knew you’d do it!”
Siringo, who was using the name “Tony Lloyd,” flashed Meglit a grin. He’d finally found the young cowpoke. He needed to befriend him quickly.
Despite, their current pleasure in his horse-breaking demonstration, this was an uncomfortable group of cowboys. Unease among them manifested itself in sideways glances and laughs that were cynical rather than easy. He’d been here the whole day, still posing as a horse buyer from down Arizona way. They’d been suspicious and remote. In desperation, Siringo had mounted Dust Devil, promising to be the first to break the dangerous horse. He figured that only a display of superior horsemanship would open their circle to him.
They’d waited until the day’s work was done and the heat lessened. Now it was early evening. Golden light washed the land, turning pine needles glistening green against the yellow bark of ancient ponderosa pines. He sat on a stump to roll a cigarette. As he’d hoped, the chattering Tom Meglit followed, his glances skittish, his movements choppy. Meglit was one of those lean, twitchy men who made other men uneasy. Siringo offered the cowpoke a tight, hand-rolled cigarette.
Meglit’s followers clustered behind him. They were of little note. Just two men, so uncertain of their own worth, so needful of belonging, that they easily became unthinking disciples of anyone who acted confident. For such men, someone like Meglit was both a beacon and a magnet. Siringo had seen it too many times. Sheep weren’t the only critters who followed blindly. Sometimes he wondered if unthinking followers weren’t mankind’s greatest curse.
“Well, that sure was a pretty sight. You brought Dust Devil to his knees,” Meglit said, interrupting Siringo’s thoughts.
“Nah. We just reached an understanding. Don’t underestimate that horse,” Siringo cautioned. “He’s still full of fight. You get on his bad side and there’s no telling where you’ll end up.”
“I can’t argue with that Lloyd, because you’re a man who surely knows horses. Brave, too. We need more men like you in this country,” Meglit enthused. The other two chimed in like a Greek chorus to underscore their leader’s opinion.
“Yup, we need more men like you who ain’t afraid and who are willing to stand up and show their bravery. This range is being destroyed and those lily-livered cowboys,” here Meglit nodded toward the others who were sitting around a nearby cook fire, “ain’t doing nothing.” Meglit’s words sunk into a momentary silence that had paused all other conversation. The cowboys had heard him.
If Meglit noticed, he gave no outward sign other than his knee started a nervy bouncing. Meglit kept turning the screw, “We’ve got plenty of problems and not enough brave men to tackle them. Harry Perkins, now, he had the guts but he’s dead and gone,” he told Siringo. His two buddies nodded eagerly.
Siringo kept his attention fixed on Meglit, even as he felt the other cowboys’ anger begin to stir. “What are you talking about, Meglit?” Siringo made a show of looking around, “What problems?” he asked.
“All them damn woolies, they’re ruining our grazing land. Not enough real men,” he sarcastically emphasized the last two words before continuing, “are around here to take the situation in hand. If you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean, take in hand?” Siringo prodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the foreman straighten and stare in their direction. Meglit’s entourage grinned encouragement even as the other cowboys glowered.
Meglit acted as if he was unaware of the hostility his words were creating. But his smug look betrayed him. He was deliberately goading the men who were within earshot.“Why, I’m saying, the only way we’re going to be able to save this here cattle range is to make it damn inhospitable to the sheep and their herders. But, most folks are too chicken-shit to do anything about it.”
“That’s enough!” The foreman’s voice was sharp. He stood and pointed a finger at Meglit. “You either shut up or you pack up. Your choice, Meglit.”
The young cowboy smirked but said nothing more. He merely tipped his hat toward Siringo before wandering off, trailed by his two followers. Siringo watched him go, regretting the foreman’s intervention.
He looked toward the foreman who was studying him with watchful eyes.“I’d steer clear of that youngster,” the man advised. “There’s something missing in him. He’s more reptile than human. Once we get the cattle moved up to the high pasture, I’m sending him down the trail. This was a tight bunch before he came along.”
Siringo merely nodded and the foreman turned away. He happened to agree with the beleaguered foreman but didn’t dare let him know it. He had to find out if Meglit had anything to do with the barn burning, the missing shepherd or O’Dea’s murder. To do that, Meglit had to believe Siringo was his new best friend.
As night fell, Meglit and his two sidekicks moved away from the others to build a separate fire that sent sparks soaring into a starlit sky. Siringo left the bigger campfire to stand among the trees. Central Oregon’s clear night skies brought the stars so close that they lit the trails like a full moon. He wandered over toward Meglit’s group, a bottle of cheap whiskey tucked under his arm. “Pull up a chunk, pardner,” Meglit said, gesturing toward a log round. Soon they were telling stories, with Siringo adding his share. The whiskey was passed around, each man turning away from the firelight to drink straight from the bottle. It was supposed to be a dry camp.
After an initial burst of exchanges, the group fell silent. Into the silence Meglit asked, “So, where might you stand on our sheep problem?” Then he and his two friends waited, their intent stares belying the casual tone of Meglit’s question.
“I don’t like sheep,” Siringo said. “I don’t like to look at them, hear them, smell them or eat them.”
The other three looked at each other then laughed heartily as they slapped their knees.
Siringo picked up a stick and poked the coals.“Why do you ask? Are you fixing to turn to shepherding?”
Meglit shook his head.“Nope, I intend to do me some sheep shooting,” he answered. That brought a stir of protest from one of the others but Meglit raised a hand to shush him. “Tony here is one of us. He don’t like the sheep no more than we do. Ain’t that right, Tony?”
Siringo looked each one in the eyes before he said. “This country would be a lot better off if those sheep stayed in Idaho. I know the locals with only one or two of the woolies are no bother. But if you get a thousand, two thousand head moving through and there won’t be a lick of grass left.”
Meglit looked pleased. “See, I told you he thinks like us.”
“‘Course,” Siringo continued, “it’s easy to talk big. T
alking is nothing more than lips flapping.”
Meglit bristled and rose to the bait. “Listen here Lloyd, You don’t have no call to insult me. I ain’t just a talker. I bet I’ve done more than you have about our little sheep problem.”
Siringo arched an eyebrow, “Yah, sure, Meglit. So what if you kill yourself a few dozen sheep. That’s saved what? An acre of grass?”
That chiding tone gave Meglit the poke he needed because his chest puffed and he said, “That’s what you know. There’s one less herder and sheepdog in these parts, thanks to me and Harry Perkins. And a whole herd is dead. Maybe a thousand head.”
Siringo leaned forward, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows to show he was impressed. “Tell me about it,” he encouraged.
EIGHTEEN
Standing between the branches of the backyard bush, Sage’s eyes searched the hotel’s dark windows and shadowed rear porch. This time, he’d been careful reaching his place of waiting. He’d slipped out the hotel’s rear door hoping that, if someone wanted to shoot him, that person would believe he was still in his room. If nothing else, the day’s events had lessened his worry. He knew now that he was the person someone was trying to shoot, not Lucinda. He fingered the new ache on his chin. It was a painful memento of the day’s odd events.
First it was Eich, stepping down from the peddler’s wagon. Next it was Van Ostrand’s disinterest in Sage’s report on the springs he’d located, saying only, “That’s fine Miner. Go ahead and finish locating the rest. After that, get me a list of the homestead claimants in each of the sections that have springs.”
The order was a welcome one. Sage wanted to talk to the imprisoned Otto Fromm so the courthouse was just the right place to be. The jail cell was a solid, one-story masonry addition attached to the building’s side. Sage figured the sheriff might let him talk to Fromm, especially if the county clerk, Mr. ‘Yes Indeedy’ Jones, vouched for him.
