“Now you’ll want those clean clothes,” Miss Jordan said when she’d finished. “If you’ll wait here, I think I can find some for you.”
Too tired now for more conversation, Francie only nodded. Miss Jordan patted her shoulder and left the room.
She was back in less than fifteen minutes with some clothes draped over her arm. “These belong to my niece—she’s not quite as tall as you are, but she lives just two blocks away,” she said, handing Francie a soft skirt of a dark green wool and a crisp white shirtwaist, along with lace-trimmed drawers, a camisole, and a white petticoat decorated with little pink ribbons. She looked down at Francie’s feet doubtfully. “But I don’t think I can find shoes in your size.”
Francie lifted up one foot. “My boots are almost dry,” she said. “And so are my stockings.”
Miss Jordan smiled, and led her into Mr. Court’s private office. “Do you need any help dressing?”
Francie shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said. And Miss Jordan left, closing the door behind her.
Francie stood in the middle of the room, clutching the clothes. The office was paneled in a dark wood, and the library table that Mr. Court must use for a desk matched it. On the table was a huge dictionary and some other books, flanked with brass bookends in the shape of books. A pile of blank sheets of paper, a number of pens, a big bottle of ink and a blotter were all neatly arranged in the center. This must be where Mr. Court wrote his articles. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, and on another wall there was one window overlooking the street.
Francie stood as far from the window as she could get. She took off her sweater and unbuttoned her shirtwaist and skirt. It felt wonderful to step out of her dirty clothes, still damp from the flume ride. She slipped on the drawers and camisole and adjusted the petticoat. She pulled the white shirtwaist over her head without unbuttoning it, and slipped into the wool skirt. It was a bit too short, but it fit in the waist. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wondering what her mother would think if she knew her daughter was changing clothes in the newspaper office. She didn’t have to wonder what her father would think—she shuddered and hoped he would never learn of it. She smoothed her skirt and went back to the waiting area.
“Could I borrow some pins for my hair?” she asked Miss Jordan.
“Certainly,” she said. She opened a drawer in her desk and picked out a comb and some pins, handing them to Francie with a smile.
“Thank you,” Francie said. She sat down and quickly twisted her hair up the way Carrie had worn hers. Nobody in St. Joseph would mind—they didn’t even know Carrie here.
• • •
It must not have been very difficult to find out what Mr. Court wanted to know—he was back shortly after Francie settled herself in her chair. This time he came in quietly. He nodded to Francie but, without a word, he went into his office and shut the door. Francie looked at Miss Jordan, who shrugged. “He’s often like that,” she said. “He’s figuring something out.”
Soon he called through the door. “Send Miss Cavanaugh in here.”
Francie went in. Mr. Court was sitting in the big wooden armchair by the table, staring at the will, which he’d smoothed out flat on the table. But he rose when Francie entered the room. He motioned for her to sit down in one of the large stuffed chairs by the fireplace. He picked up the will and sat down across from her.
“Well, I found the answer,” Mr. Court said. “Or part of it, anyway.” He nodded. “The deed is genuine. Though most of the land around Connorsville wasn’t put up for sale until it was surveyed, a few people, like Robert Granger, staked out claims before that. So this land apparently does belong to Robert Granger and not the Sierra Lumber Company.” He raised his eyebrows and tapped at the paper with his finger. “Quite an error on their part,” he said, “though if the man’s dead, and the documents hadn’t come to light, who would have known the difference?” He shook his head.
Francie rubbed her fingers back and forth on the thick velvet pile of the chair. “Is the will . . . could you check?”
Mr. Court nodded. “The will is perfectly genuine. William Butler has left the law firm—it’s simply Ferry and Sons now. But Thomas Ferry remembers old Robert Granger clearly. It was the only time he’d come to the office and the will was straightforward enough.” He rubbed his chin with his hand. “At the time Ferry didn’t realize the land Granger was willing to your sister was supposedly lumber company land, or he’d have put in an inquiry.” He looked at Francie. “But your sister . . .” he paused, a frown creasing his forehead. He was obviously wondering how to put it delicately.
Francie helped him out. “She’s dead. She died in an accident in the mountains six years ago.”
Mr. Court nodded. “So that means, I suppose, that the land passes to your father. Unless your sister made a will.”
Francie shook her head. “I don’t think she did.”
Mr. Court folded the will and handed it to Francie. “From what you said in your letter, I assume you’d like to try to use this information to stop Granger from cutting down that tree.”
Francie nodded. “It’s possible isn’t it? He can’t cut the tree if it doesn’t belong to him, can he?”
“Not legally,” he said. “Unless he were given permission from the owner. Or the company could offer to buy the land or the timber rights.” He paused, as if he were again thinking about how to express his thought. “When I was visiting last spring, I got the feeling that your father would not be against cutting this tree. Am I right? He would likely give his permission?”
Francie nodded, feeling the tears fill her eyes. She blinked and looked away from Mr. Court’s gentle gaze. “I guess it’s not worth trying,” she whispered.
Mr. Court cleared his throat. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” He leaned forward. “I’m against the logging. You know that already.” He looked up at Francie and smiled when she nodded. “I’m ready to give those folks just as much trouble as I can. If we can’t stop them, we can at least embarrass them, and maybe hold them up a little. Time is money for these fellows. Do you understand?”
Francie nodded. She ran her fingers under her eyes, wiping away the tears, and tried to calm the sudden leap of hope in her chest. “But they’re going to start cutting tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” He whistled. “That doesn’t give us much time, does it.” He looked at her with new respect in his eyes. “No wonder you chose to ride the flume here. I must admit, Miss Cavanaugh, when you appeared here at my office I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “Well, I thought you were just a kid out on a lark. Or one of those newshounds, looking for publicity.” He looked at her again. “But now I think I understand.”
He jumped up, reminding Francie again of a jack-in-the-box. “We’ve got to get going. It’s a long ride back to Connorsville. I’d prefer not to travel that route at night, but it seems we’ve no other choice.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at her. “I’ll need some supper before we leave, and I’ll wager you will, too.”
• Chapter Nineteen •
On the way out of town, they stopped at the jail. Sheriff Bennett must have been watching for them out his office window—no sooner did Mr. Court pull the horses to a stop than the sheriff was out the door and climbing into the backseat of the buggy beside Francie.
“This is Miss Frances Cavanaugh,” said Mr. Court. “She’s the girl who . . .”
But no explanations were needed. “So you’re the girl who caused me so much trouble this afternoon,” he said, looking her up and down as if he were figuring out what size cell to put her in. He was a big man with wild gray hair that stuck out from under his wide-brimmed hat. He was dressed all in black: black pants, black vest—even his shirt was black.
Mr. Court snapped the lines, and the horses started off at a trot.
“Yes, sir,” Francie said. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”
Sheriff Bennett put his head back and roared with laughter.
“Inconvenience,” he spluttered when he could get his breath. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Eight men on the payroll for four hours . . . to say nothing of the worry. We thought you’d broken your neck and the coyotes had dragged off your body.” He looked at her over the tops of his glasses.
“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked him in a small voice. What would her father say to that, she wondered, realizing she had already gone way beyond any trouble Carrie had ever caused.
“Well,” Sheriff Bennett drawled. “That depends. I thought you’d done it for a lark.” He tapped his finger on his thigh.
“No, sir,” Francie broke in. “I wasn’t. I . . .”
He held up his hand. “Court advised me of the real situation. And under the circumstances, I don’t see how you could have done any different.” He raised one finger. “Mind, I don’t say you shouldn’t have talked this over with your parents.”
“But they never would have let me try it,” Francie blurted out.
“A simple telegram could have started the process in motion,” Sheriff Bennett said.
Francie fell silent, listening to the clop-clopping of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road. It was true. If her father had sent a telegram to Mr. Court or Sheriff Bennett, they could have checked on the will and the deed. If . . .
“My father would not do anything to stop the logging,” Francie’s voice was low. “He disagrees with Mr. Court.”
Sheriff Bennett nodded. “So Court tells me,” he said. “So, as I said, under the circumstances, I don’t think you’ll be spending any time in jail. This time.” He gave her a stern look, but Francie thought she could see the corners of his lips quivering, as if they wanted to turn up in a smile. “It’s going to be a long night, Court. I’ll sleep now if you don’t mind.”
The mountains in front of them were purple in the sunset, and the sky was streaked with orange and scarlet. Mr. Court kept the horses to a trot. They would make good time on the flat ground and even after they entered the rolling foothills, but before too long they would have to slow down—no horse could trot all the way to Connorsville over the narrow, rocky trail they’d be following, especially at night.
Mr. Court looked over his shoulder at Francie. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep as well,” he suggested.
The rocking motion of the buggy made Francie think of a cradle, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her mind was filled with questions. What would happen when they got to Connorsville? Would Sheriff Bennett and Mr. Court be able to stop Lewis Granger from cutting down the tree? But the biggest question of all was what her father would say when they asked him what he wanted to do with the tree since it really belonged to him. And she already knew the answer to that one.
She closed her eyes, anyway, thinking she would be wise to do whatever Mr. Court and Sheriff Bennett told her to do. It would be hard enough to face her father with their support. If they saw her as a troublemaker, it would be even worse. She wrapped herself in the musty-smelling carriage blanket Mr. Court had handed her before they left, huddled in a corner of the buggy, and tried to sleep.
• • •
She awoke with a jolt as the buggy swayed violently, throwing her against Sheriff Bennett. She could hear Mr. Court swearing at the horses; his shape was a darker shadow against a dark sky as he leaned back, pulling on the lines to slow the horses to a stop.
“What the hell is going on?” shouted Sheriff Bennett as he and Francie struggled to untangle themselves. One side of the buggy seat seemed to be dragging on the ground.
“Lost a wheel,” Mr. Court said, and then, “Easy, Sam, easy, Jim,” to the horses. He climbed down from the buggy and turned to help Francie and then the sheriff out as well.
The three of them stood in the darkness and surveyed the damage. “Doesn’t look too bad,” Sheriff Bennett commented. “The shaft’s still whole, at any rate.” He looked around him and whistled. “We’re lucky we didn’t go off the cliff, though.”
The wheels of the buggy were less than a yard from the side of the road, a narrow track, which seemed to have been carved out of the solid rock of the mountain—it skirted the edge of a precipitous drop straight into the valley far below. This trail wound its way to a pass almost at the top of the first range, and then descended in the same kind of shelf road into Connorsville. Francie’s heart seemed to drop into her stomach as she looked down into the darkness of the valley. If they’d gone off, they’d all have been killed.
Slowly she backed away from the edge. Sheriff Bennett and Mr. Court were unhitching the horses. “Miss Cavanaugh,” Mr. Court called to her. “Can you walk down the trail a bit and see if you can find the wheel? If it’s not busted, I think Sheriff Bennett and I could get it back on.”
Francie nodded. The moon was half full and gave enough light to see by. Francie followed the trail, staying as far away from the edge as she could. About a quarter mile down she found the wheel, leaning up against a large rock that was half buried in the middle of the path. She stood the wheel on end and tested each spoke—they all seemed sound. “I’ve got it,” she called back to the men, and then, with both hands, she rolled the wheel back up the hill to the buggy.
“Good girl,” Sheriff Bennett said, taking the wheel from her. “Now, can you hold the horses while Court and I see if we can repair this thing?”
The horses, Sam and Jim, had calmed and were watching the proceedings with eyes big and almost liquid in the moonlight. “Hey, fellow,” Francie whispered, rubbing her hand down Sam’s forehead and then over his soft, soft nose. He blew a gentle breath out into her palm and nibbled on her fingers. Jim stamped his foot and gave a prodigious sigh.
“I hope they get it fixed, too.” Francie kept her voice low so as not to startle them. She kept hold of the hitching straps Mr. Court had attached to the horses’ bridles but moved off a few paces to sit on a large boulder. Sam and Jim lowered their heads, sniffing for what little green there might be on the rocky hillside.
The repair took two hours, but finally the horses were hitched up, the three travelers were settled into the buggy again, and they started off.
“I was hoping we’d get to Connorsville with a little time to spare for a few hours sleep,” Mr. Court said. “But I doubt if that’ll be possible, now.”
Sheriff Bennett grunted. “This wild ride was your idea, Court,” he reminded the newspaperman. “I was willing to telegraph to Granger to delay cutting for a day.”
Mr. Court shook his head. “From what I know of Granger, a little thing like a telegram won’t stop him. He can always claim they didn’t send it out to the logging camp in time.” He clucked to the horses, but when they broke into a trot he slowed them again. “Let’s not take any chances,” he said. “Better late than never.”
It was true, thought Francie as she wrapped the carriage blanket around her against the chill of the night air. But late would be just the same as never for Carrie’s tree. If they didn’t make it to the logging camp before the cutting started everything would be for nothing. Carrie’s beautiful tree, the oldest thing on earth, would be gone.
• Chapter Twenty •
Dawn was breaking as they trotted the tired horses through Connorsville. The loggers would be leaving camp by now, on their way to begin cutting Carrie’s tree. “If I had not telegraphed to your parents,” Court said to Francie, “I couldn’t pass through town without notifying them. I told them we’d stop before we went up to the logging show, but there’s not time, now.” He looked back at Francie. “Sure you don’t want us to let you off? You could just give us directions to the tree.”
Francie was leaning forward in her seat, her hands pressed together in her lap. She kept her teeth clenched together to stop herself from shouting for Mr. Court to hurry. There wasn’t a moment to spare. “Please,” she said, swallowing her impatience. “I really want to be there.”
Mr. Court nodded. “I guess you’ve got the right, since you found the will. However, I want you to stay in the bu
ggy.”
Francie caught her breath. In the buggy? “But I don’t see how the buggy will be able to make it to Carrie’s tree,” she said. “The road’s nothing but a slippery mountain track.”
Sheriff Bennett held up his hand. “I say she can come with us, Court. I might need her as a witness.” He turned to Francie. “But if you don’t stay where I put you—then I will arrest you!” He drew his brows together in an awful frown.
“I promise,” Francie answered, wondering if he was serious or not. She scooted a few inches away from him on the buggy seat. What a strange man.
Mr. Court drove the buggy up the road and through Connor’s Basin. “You’ll have to point out the way from here,” he told Francie.
“It’s not too far.” Francie leaned out of the buggy window, watching for the beginning of the track leading up to Connor’s Pass. “There.” She pointed, and Mr. Court pulled the horses to a stop.
He got out and walked a few paces up the track. Then he came hurrying back. “You’re right,” he said to Francie. “The buggy would never make it.” He tied the team to a nearby tree while Francie and Sheriff Bennett climbed out of the buggy.
“This way,” Francie said, heading up the path. Her skirts kept wrapping around her legs, slowing her down. She kicked them out of her way and walked faster.
“Slow down, Miss Francie,” Sheriff Bennett called to her. “It’s not a race.”
But it was a race, Francie wanted to argue. It was a race for the life of Carrie’s tree. “It’s still quite a way,” she said instead, looking back at the men over her shoulder. “They’ll be starting to work any moment.”
Sheriff Bennett grunted. “They can’t cut down the tree all in one day,” he said.
“But they could make a big enough notch to kill it,” Mr. Court pointed out. “Then they could argue they might as well cut it down.” He had been charging up the hill only slightly behind Francie.
Riding the Flume Page 13
