Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection)

by Michelle Isenhoff

“A poodle! Hee, hee, hee!” the old man cackled, slapping his knee. “Son, the last time I shaved, I found a squirrel, two ’coons, and a ’possum!”

  Before anyone could respond, a distant rumbling shook the camp. Jefferson started from his seat, and Gideon’s face turned white. Grace felt the sharp point of apprehension trace her neck. “What was that?”

  Chapter 13

  “Log pile shifted down by the river.” Wrong Hand jumped up and made long strides for the door.

  Grace followed the men, half-afraid of what she might find.

  Outside, another five men came pouring from the bunkhouse. “Anyone missing?” Jefferson called out.

  “Yeah. Judge and Shorty are out with their guns.” It was Doc. “Haven’t seen Red, either.”

  “He’s back,” Needles offered. “How about Johansen?”

  “I’m here,” the blacksmith said, joining the group.

  “Everyone else accounted for?”

  “Most of ’em are sleeping like babies in their beds.”

  “What about zee bossman?”

  There was only the sound of many hasty, crunching footsteps.

  “Anyone seen Nickerson?” Needles asked.

  After a moment, Doc answered, “I saw him and Bigg headed into the woods with a log rule.”

  One of the men swore, and Grace felt panic building in her chest.

  “I’ve seen men crushed by rolling logs.” Happy Charlie trotted along at Grace’s side, his face the most cheerful she had ever seen it. “You can bury them in a tin can. Nothing left but pulp.”

  “Shut your trap, Charlie,” Doc hissed.

  Grace glanced around frantically for Sam and found him on her other side. His face looked as strained as hers felt.

  They were nearing the river. Grace’s lungs burned from trying to keep pace with the men; her breath came in gulping pants.

  “There!” Someone pointed around a bend in the river. Across the cleared land, they could see one of the log pyramids toppled like a game of pick-up sticks. Several had upended and plunged through the thick ice of the river. Others lay scattered in an untidy heap. And there, showing plainly against the white snow, were the colorful figures of two lumberjacks.

  “Pa!” Sam yelled, racing ahead of the others.

  “Sam! Get back!” Pa shouted.

  The boy froze mid-step.

  The pack of lumbermen approached cautiously. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No,” Pa answered. “We saw it go from down the river a pace. Wasn’t anyone nearby.”

  “No funeral today, boys,” Bigg answered with a twisted smirk.

  The tension left the group like an uncoiled spring. Doc grinned, “Thank the good Lord for the Sabbath.”

  “We’ll double check the chains on these other piles. We don’t want it happening again.” Pa turned to the children. “You kids get on back to camp. You don’t belong out here.”

  “We just wanted to see that you were safe,” Sam protested.

  “And I want to make sure you don’t get pressed like cider apples,” Pa retorted, brusquely turning his back on them. “Go on now. Jefferson, Needles, check this pile. Doc, Charlie, over there.”

  “How do you like that?” Grace asked as they walked back. The icy terror she had felt for her father melted to a trickle of disdain.

  “He’s just concerned for us,” Sam answered, but Grace could see he was embarrassed by the way Pa had spoken to him in front of the men.

  “What’s happened to him, Sam?”

  “He has a camp to run, I guess,” her brother shrugged, “but I sure miss him.”

  That evening, instead of lounging in the warmth of the kitchen with her studies, Grace sneaked a quick visit to the barn. Sam had called lights out at nine thirty as usual, so Fiddlesticks would be tucked into his shelf in the bunkhouse, but Johansen often worked well into the night, maintaining the camp’s equipment while others slept. Tonight, the noise issuing from his forge covered the sound of her entrance.

  Grace slipped like a shadow into the stall of her favorite gray mare. Annabelle’s injured leg had completely healed. The beast stood resting in its stall with eyes half-closed.

  Grace ran a hand over the powerful neck, breathing in the sweet mixture of hay, manure, and animal. The teamsters had left no trace of dirt or sweat on the horse’s silky coat. The powerful teams were the backbone of the lumber industry. Replacing them would be costly and time-consuming, especially after the war had so devastated their numbers. Their royal treatment caused not a little grumbling from the men, who were considered far more dispensable.

  The mare nuzzled the pocket in which she’d secreted a carrot. “You’re beginning to expect these offerings, aren’t you?” Grace whispered, rubbing the velvety muzzle. “Here you go then. You better hope Ivan never catches me.”

  Grace fetched a soft brush and ran it in long strokes over the horse’s back. The animal shifted its weight heavily and closed its eyes. Grace found her strokes marking time with the beat of Johansen’s hammer upon the anvil. She could see the blacksmith clearly across the room, but his back was turned to her, and she was certain he remained unaware of her presence.

  As she watched, however, the door to the forge opened and her father walked in. Grace ceased her grooming, standing motionless in the shadows on the far side of the horse.

  The fire illuminated her father’s face, throwing it into sharp planes of light and dark. He did not smile as he tossed something small onto the blacksmith’s table. “Tell me what you think of that.”

  Johansen picked up the object that glinted dully in the firelight and inspected it for a full two minutes. Then he replaced it gently. “It was deliberate. I can see the file marks.”

  Pa swore, kicking the forge’s brick base. “I was hoping you’d tell me my suspicions were wrong, that it was just a weak link.” He paced several steps into the stable and spun back toward the smith. “That means one of two things. It could be another company is trying to sabotage us. I’ve seen it happen before. The competition for timber and market share can drive—”

  Johansen shook his head. “No, boss. It wasn’t sabotage. It was someone within the camp.”

  Pa stopped his pacing and stared hard at the big man. “Why do you say that?”

  “The file that made those cuts was of a very fine grade. One just like it disappeared from my worktable a fortnight ago.”

  Grace could hear the hiss of the forge fire between the two men. Pa swore again and ran a hand through his hair. “Why would anyone do such a thing? Someone could have been killed.”

  “That was obviously his intention. Some men don’t need much of an excuse for murder.”

  “But bringing down a log pile isn’t like pointing a gun. You can’t single out your victim. It could have killed a dozen men, and horses too. Who would do it?”

  “Probably the same person who sliced through the harness a few weeks ago.”

  Pa looked up sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Wasn’t sure of it till now.”

  “Do you have any suspicions?”

  “You already know them.”

  Pa nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, we’ve got no proof.”

  The foreman stared into the forge fire for several long minutes. Finally, he reached for the chain link and pocketed it. “Thank you, Johansen. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between you and me. If word leaked out, it would only cause division, and we still have a quota to meet.”

  Pa made to leave, but before the door closed behind him he added, “Be watchful.” And then he was gone.

  Johansen returned immediately to his work, looking as calm as if the conversation never happened, but Grace’s insides had turned to oatmeal. There was a murderer loose in camp!

  She returned the brush to the shelf and with a final pat on the horse’s nose, left the barn as quietly as she entered it. The camp seemed darker somehow, more sinister, as if all its friendliness had been swallowed by the forest. In its place, a b
rooding suspicion lay over the buildings like a heavy blanket.

  Grace recalled Johansen’s distrust of Silas and guessed it was he the blacksmith suspected, but she disagreed with his logic. That log pile could have had a very specific target. Once the logs were stacked, only two people had any need to revisit them before spring: the scaler—and the foreman. And, if her memory served her correctly, that was the very pile Mr. Bigg had been poking around the day he threatened her.

  Something brushed against Grace’s legs. She bit back a shriek. “Bertie!” she scolded in whisper. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that!”

  The cat meowed and pressed itself against her boots. She lifted the animal and rubbed its fur against her cheek. It smelled of pine and the warm scent of life. Its presence would be very comforting in her room tonight.

  As she tucked the cat into her coat, she could see Pa ahead of her. She hung back, hoping to avoid a confrontation, and was rewarded to see him turn down the path to the outhouse. A quick scamper brought her to the van door, but she wasn’t the first one inside the building. At her entrance, Mr. Bigg looked up from his desk with an unfriendly glare.

  Their eyes held, and every word of the conversation she had overheard replayed itself in Grace’s head. With an effort, she twisted away and slammed the door of her room, glad for the thick slabs between them.

  “Keep that cat quiet!” They were the first words the man had spoken to her in weeks.

  Grace sank onto her bed, clutching Bertie close. Her breath, she found, was pent up inside her chest like a pressure chamber. She let it out slowly, rolling onto her mattress.

  Something jabbed the side of her leg. Something hard, like a branch from a tree. Fishing beneath her covers, Grace pulled out something cold and rough and straight. Unable to make any sense of the object in the room’s pitch blackness, she held it against the meager light of her window.

  It had the unmistakable silhouette of a file.

  Chapter 14

  Christmas stole upon the camp before anyone paused to look for it. Work and routine went on as they ever did, until the day Ivan began a full campaign in pie creation. Custard, apple raisin, prune, pumpkin, even pecan—the cook managed to round up an assortment of ingredients, as well as yams and sugar, all ready for a special holiday preparation. He had even procured cinnamon and tins of milk for gingerbread. The work kept Grace and Sam busy from morning till black night for two full days.

  The evening before Christmas, after supper had been served and cleaned up, Ivan hung up his apron with a mysterious smile. “Christmas Eve is a night for children, yah? Let us take some tea into the mess hall. Ve have been much busy.”

  Sam and Grace exchanged questioning glances, but the prospect of relaxation was too good to pass up.

  Grace’s body applauded as she sank onto the hard, wooden bench. The tea spread tentacles of warmth to all the areas accustomed to constant chill, and she felt immediately sleepy. Then singing pierced her groggy brain.

  She had become almost immune to the sound. The men sang on their way to the woods; they sang on their way in from the woods. They sang to amuse themselves or to pass the time. And they sang to remember home. On Saturday nights they sang loud and boisterously. But right now, Grace heard the refrain of a Christmas carol growing ever louder.

  The door opened, and Squeaky popped in, the tip of an evergreen tree blossoming under his arms. “Miss Grace, we’ve brought you some Christmas cheer!”

  Jefferson carried the foot of the tree, and Gideon, Doc, Needles, Johansen, Fiddlesticks, and a handful of others followed the tree inside.

  Gideon was beaming. “We thought we’d bring the party in here instead of in the bunkhouse.”

  “It’s our way of saying thanks for reading to us each week,” Doc explained. “We know it makes you uncomfortable, but it’s the best entertainment in camp.”

  It was true her audience had grown each Sunday, and they wouldn’t let Grace quit until a full hour had passed.

  “Just be sure your messes you clean up,” Ivan grunted, but his eyes sparkled merrily above his huge mustache so he looked like a big Russian Santa Claus.

  Grace watched through wide eyes. Turning to her brother, she asked, “Did you know about this?”

  He grinned. “Sure! Everybody knew. Sticks, you brought your fiddle, didn’t you?”

  The old man cackled, “Do politicians lie?” And with a flourish, he strummed out the first strains of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  The mess hall soon rocked with the sound of a dozen male voices singing at full volume. Grace sounded high and thin by comparison, but she joined whole-heartedly into “Here We Come a Wassailing” and then “Joy to the World.”

  Others in the camp heard the music and began to trickle in so by the time they rolled through “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” and finished with “Silent Night,” nearly every seat in the hall was filled. Even Silas and his friend Pokey did a little singing. But Grace reserved her suspicions and stealthy glances for Mr. Bigg, who sat in a back corner with his arms crossed, looking aloof and detached.

  It was true the camp had remained free of trouble for several weeks, apart from the occasional, soon-mended fist fight, but Grace always kept herself fully aware of Mr. Bigg’s movements. In this way, she had learned to put Fear on a tether so it couldn’t quite reach her during the busy daylight hours. The file she had quietly returned to Johansen’s worktable.

  But this evening, Grace’s heart felt as light as the snowflakes falling outside the window. She had almost forgotten that she wasn’t at home but in a lumber camp filled with strangers. No, not so strange anymore, she thought as she looked around her. These men had become individuals with names and families and histories and personalities. Some had even become friends.

  The last song had sobered the men. Memories stirred on each face. And near the door, leaning against the wall and watching Grace with the most wistful expression, stood Pa.

  “Grace,” he asked gently, “would you sing the song your mother always liked? You remember the one.”

  She did remember, and his request conjured up an image of Mama sitting beside the Christmas tree. Her hair was swept up and she wore her favorite dress, the one with ivory lace edging and bone buttons. The image squeezed off her throat.

  “I don’t know if I can, Pa.”

  “Please, Grace?” It was Sam, and she knew he was thinking of the same Christmas, the last one they had shared with Mama.

  “I’d like to hear it, too,” Johansen said at her elbow. The sentiment was repeated by a few others.

  “All right, I’ll try.” Grace took a deep breath, held it a moment then let it out in a clear soprano voice:

  “I wonder as I wander out under the sky

  How Jesus the Savior did come for to die

  For poor on'ry people like you and like I;

  I wonder as I wander out under the sky.”

  Fiddlesticks picked up the strain, and the haunting melody twisted among the rafters like a sparrow released from a cage. Every ear fixed upon her, and more than one eye blinked rapidly before a calloused thumb swiped at it.

  Grace sang all three verses, the words coming to her as easily as the vision of Mama. Halfway through, she saw Pa pull out a white handkerchief and wipe at his face. At that moment, she felt warmer toward him than she had since they left Saginaw.

  The song faded, and silence flowed off its tail.

  “Golly, Grace, you make me homesick,” Doc ventured in a none-too-steady voice. “I’m going to miss the look on my kids’ faces tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t know nothing about any kids, but I’ll sure be missing roasted turkey and plum pudding,” Happy Charlie replied with a look so mournful Grace began to chuckle.

  Charlie gave her an offended look. “You wouldn’t laugh if you’d ever tasted Ma’s cooking.”

  “Did you forget Ivan’s going to slaughter one of his hogs tomorrow?” she asked. “About mid-morning the smell of roasting pork is goi
ng to wipe that memory right out of your head. Not to mention a pile of treats in there knee deep,” she finished, jerking her thumb at the kitchen door. Her words prompted a round of cheering.

  Doc grinned. “Got any previews of this feast you’re promising?”

  “Sorry, Doc. You’ll have to use your imagination till tomorrow.”

  Fiddlesticks broke in, “Say, Ivan, all this sucking on imaginary vittles is drying out my whistle. Think you could at least boil us up a nice pot of slush?”

  The cook waved him off. “I haff just finished cleaning dishes from your supper. Am I a mule you vish to vork to death?”

  “What if we promise to leave our cups at our seats and use them again in the morning?”

  Ivan heaved a long-suffering sigh and stood up, but Fiddlesticks waved him back into his seat. “Reckon I can throw tea leaves in a pot as good as any hash slinger.”

  The cook settled happily back into his seat. “I alvays like that man.”

  Fiddlesticks’ cackle disappeared into the kitchen.

  Squeaky called out then, “Ma chérie will you not read to us zee Christmas story, just like my maman used to do?”

  The suggestion was met with a chorus of agreement, and a tattered Bible was soon produced. Afterwards, several men collaborated on a rather horrible recitation of “The Night Before Christmas.”

  When the laughter faded, Jefferson stood up. “Grace, we brought in this big, beautiful tree. It’s a shame we’ve nothing to decorate it with.”

  Grace felt a surge of gratitude for the kindness of the men. “It looks lovely just the way it is. And it smells heavenly.”

  “I bet my kids are stringing popcorn and singing carols right now,” Doc muttered. “I’d wager my wife has new scarves and mittens ready to hang on the tree when they go to bed. And probably an orange and a new penny for each stocking.”

  Gideon slapped a table. “That’s it, Jeff! We can hang a stocking or two on the tree!” And he leaned down to untie his boot.”

  Grace laughed. “But what will you wear under your boot?”

  “I have two more pairs in my turkey,” Gideon pronounced and held aloft a stocking with holes in the toe and the heel.