Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  He cupped the side of his head, his tongue forgetting for a moment the man of the cloth standing five yards away.

  Fiddlesticks laughed out loud from his perch near the building. “Got any more sermons up yer sleeve, preacher? I think Doc, there, could use another.”

  Squeaky, however, said nothing. He just stared down at the dab of blood on the scissors and then, dropping the tool into the snow, loped for the bunkhouse.

  “What in tarnation got into him?” Doc wondered. “Wrong Hand, think you can even out this lopside?”

  The preacher pretended not to hear the rough language. Instead, he rubbed the cat beneath the chin. “This is a fine, big fellow. He reminds me of a kitten I had growing up.”

  Jefferson fished the scissors out of the snow. “I never had a cat,” he volunteered, “but I had me a pair of hunting dogs when I was a kid. Spent half my childhood chasing ’coon and ’possum across Allegan County.”

  “I had a dog once that was so smart,” Doc said, “if I said I was hunting birds, he’d bring me my shotgun. If I said I wanted deer, he’d fetch my rifle.”

  “Shoot, ain’t nothing, Doc. My old coon hound, Benedict, when he saw me get out my fishing pole, used to run behind the shed and dig me up a mess of worms!” Fiddlesticks slapped at his knee and grinned at Silas, who was glaring at him from the woodpile. “What’s the matter, boy?” he grinned. “Don’t believe me?”

  Silas answered low, “Never do. But I knew a man once with a coon hound named Benedict.”

  “Did it dig worms?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been one and the same, could it?” Fiddlesticks asked.

  “Reckon not.” Silas spit a wad of tobacco into the snow at the barn boss’s feet and stalked off to the bunkhouse.

  “Not much humor, that boy,” Fiddlesticks shrugged.

  “Boss, I’m clean out of writing paper. Got any in stock?”

  “I believe I do, Johansen. Why don’t you follow me on out to the van and we’ll dig some up?”

  Grace, who had just finished reading the last page of Alice and was migrating to her own room to catch up on her studies, followed closely on their heels.

  “You know,” Pa stated, “I was watching Silas in there. Either my daughter is a captivating reader, or Silas dropped his grudge with Jefferson. I was keeping my eye on him, and he never threw one hateful look Jeff’s way.”

  Johansen glanced back to wink at Grace. “I’d certainly agree with the former, but I’ve noticed a drop in trouble myself. Silas still sulks something fierce, but he hasn’t thrown a punch in weeks.”

  Pa opened the door and let Grace scoot past them to her own room. “Coffee?” he asked the blacksmith.

  Grace heard the big man yawn. “You know, I think I will. I have to stay awake long enough to write a letter to my wife this afternoon.”

  Pa laughed. “You heading home in the spring?”

  “Sure. My kids will probably be three inches taller. Gotta check in or they’ll forget who I am.”

  “You coming back again next fall?”

  “One more year and I ought to have enough put aside to set up shop in town. What about you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. There’s something about the north woods that gets into my blood.” Pa was quiet a moment, then he asked, “Johansen, do you ever have qualms about razing the whole forest?”

  “Ain’t for me to think about such things.”

  “Sometimes I do. It don’t quite settle.” Pa sounded thoughtful. “I suppose my fears are of little account. The soil’s still there. Besides, it will take ten lifetimes to clear all there is to cut.”

  “True enough. And the dirt sells cheap when the trees are gone. Homesteaders will gobble it up. Got that paper for me?”

  The weather was so fine Grace took her schoolwork outside, settling on the stump close up against the side of the van. The sun pouring down on her was almost warm. She had finished a whole page of equivalent fractions when another visitor arrived.

  “Bossman?”

  Grace couldn’t see the door, but only one person called Pa that.

  “What can I do for you, Squeaky?”

  “Can I, what you say, borrow your ears a moment?” The Frenchman’s voice held none of its usual cheer.

  “They’re all yours. What’s the problem?”

  Squeaky stepped inside and closed the door, but Grace could hear every word through the unchinked walls.

  “Zee preacher is zee problem. He is not a priest.”

  “You take what you can get out here, Squeaky. You know that.”

  “Oui, zis is true. But I do not need a priest for preaching but for confession.”

  “I’m no priest, either, Squeaky.”

  “But I must tell someone. I have done somezing terrible.”

  Grace squirmed on her perch. She shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she couldn’t move away. Was Squeaky behind all the sabotage in camp?

  Pa was quiet a long time. “All right. Go ahead.”

  “I—” the Frenchman’s voice broke. “I killed Joe McCready.”

  Grace fumbled her book and nearly gave away her presence. Clutching her schoolwork to her chest, she strained her ears to catch every word.

  Pa spoke softly, “Tell me what happened.”

  Squeaky sounded on the verge of tears. “Joe and I always hunted on Sunday afternoons. I didn’t leave with him zee day he died. I was fighting a cold in my head and chose to sleep, but I followed him later. No one knew I left.

  “It was a terrible accident. We were walking home on zee tote road and I slipped on zee ice. My gun went off and shot Joe in zee chest.” Squeaky paused, his breathing grown ragged. “I tried to stop zee bleeding. I—I would have gone for help, but Joe, he knew. He begged me not to leave him. So I stayed with him until h-he died.”

  The Frenchman was sobbing now, and Grace’s heart ached for him. The rest of his story emerged slowly, in broken segments.

  “Afterwards, I was very frightened. No one knew I had gone with him, so I made it look like Joe shot himself. I—I buttoned his shirt and turned him over. His gun I fired and I dropped it on zee road. Zen I hid my gun and m-my bloody shirt in zee woods. I pretended I was only coming in from—from zee outhouse.”

  Squeaky stopped speaking, and for a long time, the only sound coming through the wall was his muffled weeping.

  “I’m so sorry, Squeaky.” Pa’s voice was sober, and Grace could imagine him resting his hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. “I have lost friends. It is never an easy thing.”

  “But you did not—did not kill your friends,” Squeaky mourned.

  When the man’s sobs began to subside, Pa spoke again. “You said it was an accident, and I believe you. You’re no killer. There’s a world of difference between plotting a man’s death and causing an accident. Everyone makes mistakes. Unfortunately, some of them are more tragic than others.”

  Squeaky blew his nose loudly.

  “But zis guilt I have lived with for a long time. I—I need a priest to help me get rid of it.”

  “Squeaky, did McCready forgive you before he died?”

  This started the Frenchman on another round of tears. “H-he saw me fall. He told me he did not blame me.”

  “Then why do you need a priest to forgive you?”

  “So God will not hold me accountable for his death.”

  “Son, I’ve read the Good Book, and it has an awful lot to say about forgiveness. Seems to me the only one holding on to your guilt is you.”

  Squeaky sniffed. “D-do you think so, bossman?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I didn’t know McCready, but everything I’ve heard tells me he wasn’t the kind of man who’d wish you to go on like this the rest of your life.”

  “Y-you’re right. He wouldn’t.”

  It was quiet in the van so long, Grace considered peeking in the window to see what was happening inside. Finally Squeaky spoke. His voice had resumed some measure of calmness
. “Are you going to tell the sheriff?”

  “No, Squeaky, I’m not. I don’t see what good it would do now. Accidents happen sometimes and can’t be helped. I think it’s better to just let this bygone be a bygone.”

  It was another half hour before Squeaky composed himself enough to return to the bunkhouse. Fortunately, no one else visited while he lingered. During that time, Grace stayed as still as the forest.

  Squeaky obviously wasn’t the one booby-trapping the camp, and his confession now shed doubt on her number-one suspect. If Mr. Bigg hadn’t killed Mr. McCready, then he probably wasn’t trying to kill Pa. And if he wasn’t trying to kill Pa, why would he saw through the chain, or loosen axe heads, or slice through a harness?

  And if Mr. Bigg hadn’t done those things, who had?

  Chapter 19

  The smell of roasting pork trickled through camp like melting snow. Temperatures had dipped into the single digits shortly after that warm Sunday, but winter wasn’t fooling anyone. Only a handful of weeks remained before the spring log drive. So Ivan had slaughtered his last sow and skewered it above the fire outside.

  “Sam, go turn that pig then mix another batch of dumplings. Hard your Pa has been driving the men and hungry they vill be. Grace, ve will make extra potatoes.”

  “We needn’t bother,” she countered. “They’ll be stuffing themselves on pork.” But she pulled another score from the bag anyway.

  “Hey, Ivan, I found your lemon extract,” Sam called from a corner in which he was rummaging.

  “Vhat! Vhere?”

  “In this empty coffee crate. I tipped it over and heard the bottles rattle.”

  Ivan stomped over to look for himself. “How, I vonder, did they get in there?”

  Grace sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Weeks ago, she had placed the missing bottles in the crate, hoping Ivan might stumble onto them. Then she had forgotten all about them. “Uh, I think I may have done that.”

  “Vhat! You think you hid these from me? Vhy?”

  “Well, the crate wasn’t in that corner at the time, and I thought it might be a safe place to store them so the glass didn’t break.”

  Ivan’s face was a picture of warring emotions.

  Sam grinned. “Maybe if you cleaned this place out now and then you’d find more surprises, Ivan.”

  The cook turned on the boy. “For that, you vill clean the room vhen you are done vith the pig and the dumplings.” Ivan marched back to his place by the stove, muttering the whole way, “My own help tries to lose me my job.” Suddenly, he brightened. “Now I haff ingredients, I vill make lemon pork tomorrow!”

  “Sounds pretty fancy for this crew, don’t you think?” Sam asked.

  “You, get to your vork!”

  After dinner that evening, when the men were rubbing well-satisfied bellies and wiping grease from their faces, Pa stood up and addressed them. “I think we all appreciated Ivan’s accomplishments this evening.”

  A hearty cheer broke out among the men. When it subsided, Pa continued. “It was well deserved. I know I’ve been pushing you hard the last few weeks. Bigg and I went over the numbers last night. If the weather holds, we should still be able to scrape out our quota for the season.”

  Another cheer.

  “We cannot afford to let up at all. But to celebrate catching up after January’s bout of illness and to provide you all with a little motivation, I have a surprise for you. Saturday afternoon we’ll hold a felling competition. Judging will be done by myself and Johansen.”

  “You can leave off the judging,” Doc grinned good-naturedly. “The Frenchie has it, hands down. The boy teethed on a tree stump and eats sawdust for breakfast. Rest of you jacks don’t stand a chance.”

  This brought forth a slew of protests and the naming of favorites. Even Silas called out, “What you got for my prize, boss? A bottle of red-eye?”

  There was laughter at this comment, with Fiddlesticks’ high-pitched cackle sounding shrilly over all the others. “You’re all wrong,” he said. “My money says Wrong Hand takes the lot of you.”

  An uneasy silence followed his words, with several scores of eyes flicking toward Silas. Grace watched the smile slide from his face and his eyes grow hard. Jefferson stood nearby with muscular arms crossed against his chest. In the whole room, only he looked at ease. He and Fiddlesticks, who still sat chuckling.

  Pa held up his hand and continued. “I’ve already chosen the trees. Friday evening we’ll assign them. Each man can look over his tree and pound his own stake at sixty feet. The one who comes closest to hitting it will be awarded a prize. The first tree to fall will also win a prize.”

  “You have not told us zee reward yet, bossman,” Squeaky yelled, draining some of the tension from the room.

  Pa grinned. “I’ve made arrangements with Ivan and placed a special order through Mr. Jarvis. The winners will each be awarded an entire chocolate cake.”

  As one, each man sucked in his breath.

  “Sounds almost as good as red-eye, boss!”

  “Gunna bring in a milk cow to wash it down?”

  When the hubbub died away, Gideon called out, “But boss, what about us who ain’t axe men?”

  “I saved the best news for last, Gid,” Pa chuckled. “Tomorrow’s tote will include enough ingredients for eight chocolate cakes.”

  At this news, the mess hall filled with noise enough to rival any Saturday night shindig.

  “Where’d you get those?” Sam exclaimed as Grace entered the kitchen wearing her new moccasins for the very first time. Perhaps it was shyness that prompted her to wait until almost lunchtime before slipping them on. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that her secret friendship with Loon would soon be coming to an end. Already the woman had begun preparations for her last journey to the Indian village.

  Sam’s eyes were bugging out of his head. He didn’t seem to notice the slight asymmetry of the boots or how the stitching wasn’t quite perfect. “Come on, Grace. Tell me!”

  “I made them,” she mumbled, pulling the toe of one foot along the dirt floor. They were shorter than Loon’s. Though Squeaky brought in two more rabbits, Grace still hadn’t had as many pelts to work with.

  “You did not!”

  “I did,” she protested. “You saw the skins when they were drying by the stove.”

  “Those were yours? I thought one of the jacks sweet-talked Ivan into allowing them in here. Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  Ivan seemed less impressed. He continued to load the lunch sled as he commented, “Now ve know to vhere you have been running on days you do not vork.”

  “Ve do?” Sam asked. “I mean, we do? Where?”

  Ivan glanced at him as if he were an idiot. “Who vears moccasins?”

  “Indians,” Sam replied.

  Ivan lifted his eyebrows pointedly and wedged another crate onto the sled.

  Sam’s mouth went round. “You know Indians?”

  “Just one,” Grace answered. “There is an old Ottawa woman who lives about six miles from here. I visit her sometimes.”

  Sam was looking at her as if he had never seen her before. His mouth snapped shut. “Can you make me some of those?”

  “No time,” Ivan interrupted. “The men, they vill vant their lunch. Then there is a competition to vatch.”

  “Are you coming with us, Ivan?” she asked.

  The cook frowned. “And who vould bake cakes for the vinners?” He shooed them out the door with the loaded sled. “Do not spill,” he warned, and shut the door behind them.

  “I’ve hauled lunch every day for five months and he still reminds me to be careful,” Sam grumbled.

  Grace giggled and scampered ahead of him, testing out her new footwear. The moccasins were so light she could have been running in stockings, but the sturdy skins kept her feet warm and dry. She almost wished spring would postpone itself a few weeks just so she could have the pleasure of wearing them longer.

  Sam watched her enviously. “I’m de
finitely going rabbit hunting Sunday.”

  They reached the site of the contest before the food cooled completely. The lumberjacks already had a fire burning. Grace helped herself to a biscuit and stood close to the blaze as she waited for the men to wolf down their food. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved that none of them noticed her new moccasins.

  Grace was always amazed at how food that took hours to prepare could disappear so quickly, but today lunch took even less time than usual. The air held a general feeling of holiday. The men joked among themselves and laughed easily.

  Fifteen minutes later Pa called out, “All right, gentlemen. Our contest is about to begin. Twelve men have entered. You will see them spread out over the surrounding area. You will also see their stakes. Do not stand near the stakes.”

  More laughter bounced among the men like popping corn.

  Pa continued. “This fire is central. If you stay in this vicinity, you should have a fair view of the action. If you leave the area, take care and keep your eyes open. Gentlemen, you have fifteen minutes till I fire the gun.”

  At these words, hurrahs and a good deal of back-slapping broke out among the men. Edges were honed and checked with a calloused thumb, last drags of tea were thrown back, and contestants began making their way to their assigned trees. Grace recognized Squeaky, Jefferson, Silas, Doc and Hungry Al among them. Even Gideon decided to try his luck. “Nothing to lose but a cake,” he had quipped after dinner the night before.

  “Or a limb,” she had thrown back at him, a little harsher than she intended. “You’re a teamster, Gid.”

  But he was determined. She watched him walking away with Wrong Hand, laughing at some comment the black man had made.

  “He’ll be fine, sis,” Sam told her.

  She jerked her gaze away and hoped the cold camouflaged the pink rising in her cheeks. “Who will be fine?” she asked innocently.