Riding the Flume

by Patricia Curtis Pfitsch

  “Why were you in town today, then?” she asked Charlie. “Surely you’ll be trying to get on the team.” She knew her tone was bitter, but she couldn’t help it any more than Charlie could help his own excitement.

  Charlie glanced quickly at her father and then at her. “I had some errands in town,” he said. “Cook needed some . . . supplies and stuff.” His answer was vague to the point of being odd. It was unusual for the loggers to come to town at all during the week, let alone in the middle of the day, but the furious look he gave Francie stopped her from asking any more questions.

  She didn’t want to ask any more questions. She didn’t want to know anything more about what was happening to Carrie’s tree. It was going to be cut down—the oldest thing on earth. She kept her eyes on her plate, hoping that the others could not see her tears, and put one bite after another into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, but everything tasted like sawdust.

  As soon as everyone was finished eating she stood up. “May I be excused?” she said. Her mother looked at her with pleading in her brown eyes, as if she were asking for something that Francie couldn’t give, and finally nodded.

  “I have to be going, too.” Charlie quickly pushed his chair back and stood up. “Walk me to the door, Francie?”

  Francie had turned to go upstairs, but his words stopped her. She looked over at him, feeling the hope rise in her chest. “Of course,” she said. Maybe he did have some news after all.

  “That was a delicious meal, as usual, Aunt Mary.” Charlie gave Francie’s mother a kiss on the cheek and shook hands with Francie’s father. He nodded to Francie and she led the way out of the dining room.

  Charlie walked behind her in silence, but when they were at the front door Francie couldn’t wait any longer. “Did Mr. Court come to the logging camp today?”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Not that I know of. Was he supposed to?”

  Francie’s heart suddenly felt as if it were made of lead. “I wrote him a letter,” she began in a small voice. “I was hoping he’d make it here in time to stop them cutting Carrie’s tree. I thought that was why you came to town.”

  Charlie shook his head. He opened the door, motioned her to go ahead of him, and they both went out on the front porch. “I wanted to let you know what was happening—how close we were.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If there’s anything you can do,” he said, not looking at her, “you’ll have to do it soon.”

  Francie studied him. “Whose side are you on?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to bring it down.”

  “I don’t know.” He looked up when she didn’t say anything. “That’s the honest truth. If I was on the team that cut the biggest tree in the world it would be . . . well, at least then I would have done something big in my life, something everyone would remember. And people like your father are saying that all the extra lumber would save the company and help lift this depression. That’d be a good thing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “But when I think about you and Carrie . . .” He sighed. “I’m not sure that’s how I want to be remembered after all.” He scuffed his boot back and forth, drawing an invisible line on the porch floor. “But I guess you didn’t come up with anything.” He looked at her. “Besides writing Mr. Court.”

  Francie shook her head. “If only I could prove somehow that the tree really did belong to Carrie they couldn’t cut it, could they?” She shrugged. “But to prove that I’d need the will. And who knows where that is.”

  “Probably burned up in the cabin,” Charlie agreed. “If there really was a will.”

  Francie closed her hands into fists. “There was a will. I know there was. Why would Carrie write in her diary that she’d seen it if she hadn’t?”

  Charlie shrugged. “But who knows if it was a legal will.”

  “She said it looked official. ‘He showed me the will and it looks very official.’ That’s what she wrote.”

  “How would Carrie know what looked official or not?”

  Francie knew he was right—Carrie wouldn’t know what a legal will looked like. But an idea was beginning to grow in her mind.

  “If Old Robert did have a will, where would he have put it, do you think?”

  Charlie sat down on the porch swing, and Francie sat beside him. “In a box? On a shelf? Did Carrie mention anything about a box?”

  Francie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “She said he kept two books on a corner shelf—the Bible and Shakespeare’s sonnets. Nothing about a box. But she said one day he showed up in a suit that she thought he must have had put away somewhere. There was probably a chest for his clothes.”

  “That sounds right,” Charlie agreed. “He would have kept anything valuable there, too.”

  “And that means it would have been burned up in the fire,” Francie said. She brought her fist down hard on the swing’s wide armrest. “If I were going to hide something, I’d put it where it wouldn’t burn.”

  “Now you would,” Charlie added. “Maybe he buried it.”

  Francie looked at him. The light from inside the house shone out and lit his face dimly. “If he buried it, it might still be there,” she said slowly.

  Charlie shook his head. “He could have buried it anywhere! You’d have to dig up half an acre and even then you might not find it.”

  But Francie refused to be discouraged. “It’s worth a try. If I could find the will, I could save the tree. I know it!” She stood up. “I’ll go tomorrow. Early. I’ll look until I find it.”

  Charlie put a hand on her arm. “Your parents will never let you go there. It’s too close to where we’re logging.”

  “They won’t know where I’ve gone. I’ll figure out something. I don’t care if I get in trouble, if they never let me go to the woods again in my life. If I can save Carrie’s tree, I don’t care what happens afterward.”

  “Well,” he said, giving her shoulders a little shake. “Just be careful. Don’t do anything dangerous. Promise me?”

  Francie bit her lip and didn’t answer him.

  Charlie dropped his hands. “If you don’t promise, I’ll have to tell Uncle James.” His face looked white and strained.

  Finally Francie nodded. “I promise,” she said. “Nothing dangerous.”

  Charlie nodded, satisfied. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then clomped down the steps and out into the dark street.

  Francie watched him go. She’d promised, but if she had to break this promise, she would. Carrie’s promise came first. I am the knight, sworn to protect my Emperor or die in the attempt. Carrie had sworn. She wasn’t here to keep that promise, but Francie was. She would keep Carrie’s promise. No matter what.

  • Chapter Fifteen •

  Stars were still gleaming in a navy blue sky when Francie slipped out of the house the next morning. She shivered in the damp predawn air. Her old wool sweater wasn’t really warm enough now, but more outer clothing would only slow her down. She knew that she’d warm up as soon as she started walking. As silent as a shadow, she tiptoed around back to the shed where her father kept his tools. It was too dark to see inside the shed, but the long-handled shovel was always kept hanging on two nails by the door. Francie felt along the wall, and in a moment, her fingers wrapped around the smooth wood. Without a sound, she lifted it down. Hopefully, she thought, she’d have returned it before her father even missed it. The shed door creaked as she closed it, but her parents’ room was on the other side of the house. They’d never hear such a small sound.

  The street was deserted—not even the mill workers were up this early. She swung the shovel over her shoulder, crossed the street, and climbed the slope of the hill behind the hotel to the road. She figured it would take more than an hour to walk to Old Robert’s cabin and she wasn’t taking any chances of meeting loggers, or anyone else, on the path. By the time she got to the cabin, there would be enough light to search. If she were very lucky, she might find the will and be back to town before her mother missed her.

 
; Francie had been in Connor’s Basin alone many times, but the combination of dark and quiet she found there so early in the morning felt threatening, as if she had no business in this wild place. The sequoia stumps loomed above her like unfriendly giants, and Francie found herself wondering about bears. “I’ve never seen one here before,” she said aloud, knowing that if he heard her voice, a bear would move off in another direction. Bears didn’t want to meet up with humans any more than humans wanted to meet up with bears. She began reciting the Declaration of Independence and then the Preamble to the Constitution as she walked. “I wonder,” she said, giggling suddenly, “how often the bears have to listen to the Preamble to the Constitution.”

  By the time she’d recited it ten times slowly, she had crossed Connor’s Basin. In the four days since she’d found Carrie’s tree, the almost invisible path that she and Charlie had followed into the woods at the north end of the basin had become a mud-slicked highway. “They must have brought the machinery up this way,” she said, and then bit her lip at the loudness of her voice in the still forest. She didn’t know exactly where the logging camp was, probably over on the other side of Connor’s Pass, but it was time to start being quieter. Hopefully, the bears would be foraging somewhere else.

  Loggers had chopped down trees and torn up the brambles—the path was now a ten-foot-wide track with the wood trash piled on either side. “At least I won’t lose my way,” she muttered, “even in the dark.” But the incline was steep and even more slippery than it had been on Sunday. Francie moved off the path and walked beside it on the soft pine needles.

  The light was growing, and sooner than she expected, she saw the dogwood still blooming off to her left where Old Robert’s cabin had been. And just as she glimpsed the white blossoms, the chug, chug of the steam-powered donkey engine echoed faintly in the still air, getting ready to lower the cut logs down the skidroad to the mill. Work had begun at Carrie’s tree. The logging camp must be farther up the mountain, Francie thought, for if it were anywhere around here, she would surely have seen some of the men on the path.

  All the flowers were still blooming at the cabin site—the contrast between the fragile pink phlox and the burned and blackened logs made Francie’s throat close up. Had Old Robert died here? Had he known what was happening? She felt a shiver up her spine. “Of course not,” she said aloud, trying to banish the sense of “not right” she felt around the cabin.

  It didn’t help, but she forced herself to ignore the feelings. “I’m looking for your will,” she informed any ghost who happened to be lurking around. “This is something you would want!”

  But instead of stepping into the perimeter of logs that marked the cabin, she sat on an old stump and looked around. “Where did you hide your will?” she asked the ghost. Then she laughed. Charlie would think she’d gone crazy—talking to the air and thinking about ghosts. She wished he were here with her. Or Carrie. Carrie would know where Old Robert had hidden his will.

  “The chimney was there,” she said, pointing to the pile of vine-covered rocks, “and the cabin door was probably opposite it, here.” She stood in front of the spot, trying to see a fully built cabin in her mind, imagining bunk beds against the wall, a table in the corner, and a trunk. “There might have been a front stoop, here.” She pointed. “Would he bury a box by the front stoop?”

  Not likely. She walked around the burned logs to the fallen chimney. This would have been the most likely place to bury a strongbox of valuables, Francie thought. The chimney would be the most durable part of the cabin. When nothing else was left of a cabin site, the chimney usually survived as a visible marker.

  “In fact,” she said aloud, her excitement climbing, “if I were going to bury something, I’d bury it inside the cabin. After all, it had a dirt floor.” She took a breath, stepped over the timbers, and stood in the middle of the cabin facing the chimney. “Right or left?” she asked herself.

  “Right,” she answered immediately. She placed the point of her shovel in the ground to the right of the pile of stones and began digging. But twenty minutes later she’d dug a hole a foot deep and a yard square without finding so much as a metal nail for her troubles, much less a box. She sighed and began on the left side.

  But the result was the same. No box. She leaned her shovel against the pile of stones and straightened her stiff back. Maybe she wasn’t digging deep enough, or maybe it was buried in a different place altogether. She glanced around. Charlie had been right—it would take weeks to dig up the whole cabin site. And what if Old Robert hadn’t buried the will?

  She tried to gauge the time from the sky. The sun was still hidden by trees, but the sky was lightening. If it had taken an hour to walk to the cabin and an hour to dig those holes—she glared down at them—then it might be as late as six thirty. “Mama is up by now,” she said, but knew her mother wouldn’t be concerned at her absence. It wasn’t that unusual for Francie to go out early in the morning. Her mother wouldn’t be happy about it, but she wouldn’t worry. Not yet.

  Francie pulled away a few of the vines and sat down on the edge of the pile of fallen chimney stones. “If he didn’t bury the will,” she said aloud, “where would he have hidden it?” Charlie had thought it would be in the trunk, but that must have burned up in the fire. And if the will had been burned up, then there was no point in looking for it now.

  “But,” Francie reasoned slowly, “if it’s still here somewhere . . . if it didn’t get burned up in the fire . . .” She let her glance roam around the cabin site. “It would be in some place that didn’t burn.”

  “But the whole thing burned to the ground,” she wailed, looking at all the blackened timbers. “There’s nothing left.”

  And then she jumped up and stared at the fallen chimney. “Except the chimney,” she whispered. And people did sometimes have hidey-holes in chimneys, didn’t they? She grabbed at the vines that had overgrown the pile and in a short time had cleared them all away. Most of the stones were only about the size of a baby’s head. She knelt in the dirt and began moving them, one at a time, piling them at her side. When her back felt as if it were burning with the effort to lift each stone, she stood up, stretched her hands up over her head, and then got back to work.

  The stones got bigger as she got closer to the bottom of the chimney. She had to use the shovel to pry them off the pile, watching each one clatter down and land in the dirt with a thump. She surveyed her work. She’d moved more than half the stones away from the site, but no hidey-hole was to be found.

  “How far down will I have to go?” She had lost track of time entirely; all her attention was focused on the stones. Pry one up. Push it off the pile. Move it away. Pry another one up. Push it off. Move it away. Pry, push, move. She felt as if she’d been moving stones all her life.

  And then, just when she was about to give up, she found it. She had stuck her shovel tip between two of the biggest stones so far, and using all her strength, she pushed the front one off the pile. And there, under the other big stone, she saw a corner of something—a piece of yellowed oilskin. She maneuvered the shovel tip under the stone, pried it up, and there it was, a square oilskin packet tied with a leather thong. She stared at it, not quite believing her eyes. She knelt, and with shaking fingers, picked up the packet. The leather thong, old and dried, broke into pieces as she picked at the knot. “Please let this be it,” she prayed, and lifted the flap.

  There were two folded papers inside. Francie sat on the ground and withdrew them carefully, placing them in her lap. Then, holding her breath, she slowly unfolded the one on top. The ink was faded and the paper was stained brown in places. The crease marks made some of the writing impossible to read. But Francie could see that it was a deed to a parcel of land, made out in the name of Robert Lloyd Granger. The date on the deed was July 14, 1866, just a year after the end of the Civil War.

  The other piece of paper was the will. The ink on this paper, too, was faded, and although some of the letters were now illeg
ible, Francie could see that Robert Lloyd Granger had left his land, the same parcel listed in the deed, and all the timber and minerals on that land, to Mary Carolyn Cavanaugh on July 5, 1887. Two other men had signed the will: Thomas Ferry and William Butler. Francie touched her sister’s name with the tip of her finger. “I forgot she was named after Mama,” she whispered, blinking back tears. She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and scrubbed them dry on her dress. Even a few drops of water might disintegrate this ancient paper. She folded the will and the deed back into their original shapes and slipped them into the oilskin pouch.

  It wasn’t until she was standing up that she realized that Old Robert’s full name was Robert Lloyd Granger. Granger! Was he a relative of Lewis Granger, the manager of the lumber company? Francie looked north as if she might be able to see the logging going on around Carrie’s tree. Was Robert Granger the father of Lewis Granger? Or his brother?

  Without conscious thought, Francie found herself walking. It was getting late, she argued with herself. Mama will be worried. Father will be furious. She walked back to the path, but instead of turning south toward town, she turned north toward Carrie’s tree. If Lewis Granger were the son or brother of Old Robert, then he would know about the will. He would know if it were legal. She had to talk to Lewis Granger, no matter what the consequences.

  • Chapter Sixteen •

  As she walked north, the sounds got louder: the chugging donkey engine, the whacks of the axes as they bit into the tree trunks, the shouts of the loggers. She let the noise of the logging drown out the warning voice in her head. If Granger knows about the will, then he knows the lumber company is cutting illegally on Old Robert’s land—on Carrie’s land. And he won’t want anyone reminding him of that—especially not Carrie’s sister.

  She remembered when she’d met him in Connor’s Basin that day and how strange he had acted. “He’s a mean one,” Charlie had said. But she shook that voice away as well. “If I show him the will,” she told herself, “surely he’ll stop the logging. He won’t have a choice. Will he?” She didn’t answer the question.