Slocum 428

by Jake Logan

  The old rock hounds had been all too eager to sell for pennies on the dollar and he had turned around and sold each to fresh rubes from back East. But at a substantial profit. By the time the new arrivals realized they’d been had, he was miles away, repeating the simple but effective process.

  And that had led him to larger and larger ventures, which had nearly gotten him what he’d wanted—a fortune—but then someone he’d had dealings with years before had come around again, recognized him, and that, as they say, had been that. He’d been hauled off to spend four years making big rocks into smaller rocks out in a hellish place in the desert.

  So when he got out, he vowed never again to sweat, and certainly not to do it while working. No sir, he’d head north, toward some place that offered snow in the winters, and temperatures in the summers that were at least cool and shady enough that he might duck out of the sunlight when the hottest months came. And that was how he came to find Timber Hills—so named by that damnable Jigger.

  As he’d hoped, the place had offered all he wanted and more, in addition to a plethora of business opportunities that the locals—sheep all—had not yet (nor would they ever, if left to their own devices) recognized. But he, Torrance Whitaker, had. And now here he was, a scant two years later, poised to become the richest man in all the Northwest region, a Territorial Titan!

  Whitaker chuckled, then the chuckle unspooled into a full-blown laugh, a belly shaker that rocked the chair . . . too hard. Too late he felt the wheeled feet slip, scoot forward, then back he went, slamming his head into the plank wall before flopping onto his back on the cold plank floor, his cigar and arms and legs crabbing and wagging upward as if he were an overturned turtle. Still, he chuckled at how very well, despite a few logs across the road, his life was turning out.

  10

  “Say, Ned.” Slocum shifted the axe on his shoulder.

  “Mm?” said the pipe-smoking man as they trudged side by side down the long slope to the sledge road that could take them back to the Tamarack Camp.

  “Have you had any dealings with a, well, a trapper who’s a woman?” Slocum asked.

  The man’s face broke into a smile for the first time since Slocum had met him the day before. Without breaking stride, he said, “So you’ve met the Crazy Trapper Lady, eh?”

  “She said that’s what people call her. I didn’t think she was all that crazy myself.”

  Ned came to a sudden halt, faced Slocum. “You spoke with her?”

  A couple of the other men who’d been within earshot also stopped and stepped close.

  “Sure I did,” said Slocum. “I didn’t have much choice. She came right up to me.”

  “Huh,” said one of the other men. “You mean to say she can talk?”

  “Of course she can talk. And walk, and laugh, and carry a rifle like she knows what she can do with it, too.”

  Ned chuckled, shaking his head. “I haven’t known you for long, Slocum, but I’d say that it doesn’t surprise me that of all the men from the Tamarack who’ve seen her, you’d be the one she approaches. Now why is that, you reckon?”

  It was Slocum’s turn to smile. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the big gun I carry.”

  “Oh boy, will you listen to this fella?” Ned shook his head. “All I know or care about, Slocum, is that you’re the best limber I’ve had on the crew in many a moon. So you might get a chance to see your crazy lady again tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” said Slocum, eyebrows raised. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation is headed.”

  “Like it or not, I’m the foreman, least until Jigger gets back, so you’ll just have to put up with it.”

  “You got it,” said Slocum. “Might I ask what Jigger’s story is?”

  “Story?” said Ned.

  “Yeah, you know. How’d he come to own this mountain valley, and this logging outfit, anyway?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t own the mountain, at least not anymore. He just leases the timber rights. And that’s what galls Whitaker the most, I’d guess.” Ned drew on his pipe, frowned when he found it had gone out.

  “Whitaker?” Hella mentioned that name, too, thought Slocum.

  “Yep, a newcomer of sorts, much like yourself, but he’s been around these parts for a couple of years now. Fancies himself a big money man, but all he’s done so far around here is win the Bluebird Saloon in a card game, then poke his sniffer into everybody’s business. I reckon it’s been effective, as he’s gotten a whole lot of folks beholden to him for money and favors and whatnot. Fool and his money are soon parted, or something like that.” Ned puffed hard on the pipe and sent fragrant smoke twisting upward.

  “Even Jigger?” said Slocum.

  Ned regarded him, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. You see, Jigger has a child, his only one, a girl name of Ermaline. Well, you know how tough Jigger is?”

  Slocum nodded, only guessing at the man’s level of toughness, but not wanting to slow the story once he’d finally gotten Ned, or anyone for that matter, to talk with him about Jigger.

  “Well, sir, Ermaline used to be part of the crew up here at the Tamarack. Her mama died years back and Jigger just kept right on logging, taking that girl all over the mountains in these parts. She grew up salty, tough as a boot, and not inclined to take anything untoward from anyone.”

  He drew on the pipe, then continued. “But a stranger come in one day when the girl was still a young thing in most ways, except for how she looked. You see, Ermaline had begun filling out her longhandles in a few different directions than most loggers do. Well, Jigger caught this randy young log hand cornering Ermaline in the cook shack. He needn’t have worried, though. Ermaline is part wolverine, part bobcat, and all devil. She about clawed that young man’s eyes out and his head off. He limped on out of here aching all over once she and Jigger got through with him.”

  “Where’s this Ermaline at now?”

  “That’s where the story gets interesting.” Ned pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Now, you’ll stop me if this gets too boring for you, won’t you?” He winked. “Shortly after the incident with the young logger, Jigger shunted Ermaline off to live with her aunt, Jigger’s dead wife’s sister, back in Saint Louis. But that didn’t go over too well with the girl, who ran off at once. They found her again, and eventually, after what I imagine was a whole lot of hard work, she settled down and even took to wearing dresses. Now that she’s graduated from what they call a ‘finishing school,’ she come back to Timber Hills to see her pappy.”

  “Why do I feel that something odd happened, that the story’s about to take a turn that no one wanted?”

  Ned touched a finger to the side of his nose and nodded. “That’s because something like that did happen. Wasn’t but a couple of days after she got here she met a man.”

  “And not just any man, I’ll bet,” said Slocum.

  “No sir, you got that right. It’s a double smack to the chops the way Jigger sees it. And rightly so, for the man she became smitten with is none other than Torrance Whitaker’s own son, Jordan. My word, but he’s as dumb as he is big. I’ll say this for the lad, though—he doesn’t seem to have a single bone in his body that’s half as mean as his father. But that don’t mean a thing to Jigger. Oh, it’s a rum mess, it is, it is.”

  They walked on in silence a few strides, then Slocum spoke.

  “Why did Jigger end up selling this plentiful valley when he could have held on to it and made a fortune later?”

  “He needed to pay for his daughter’s fancy schooling. He got scared and took the first offer that come along.”

  “Let me guess—from this Torrance Whitaker fellow.”

  “The very one. Jigger at least had the presence of mind to keep the logging rights as a lease. But only if he keeps up with his lease payments on it to the bank.”

  “And he has?”

&nbs
p; “It’s been hairy, and he’s been late a few times, but this crew’s dedicated to him. He’s a surly little man, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, but once you’ve proved yourself to Jigger, he’ll fight to the death for you.”

  “I got that impression from him, even in the short amount of time I met him on the trail.”

  “Yep, he was headed off to the broker’s spread downcountry to negotiate on the last few loads of logs, as well as the ones we’re working on now. And hopefully he got paid for them. Then he was going to head to town, make it to the bank, buy supplies. And head back.”

  “He had to see his daughter, too, I suppose.”

  Ned nodded. “Yep, if they’re speaking again. Jigger loves her with a fierceness that’s unstoppable, but that girl did the ultimate in betrayal when she took up with that dimwitted spawn of Torrance Whitaker. In her defense, she had no idea what sort of man Whitaker was when she come back to these parts. He’d sneaked in well after she left.”

  “The man at the bar in town, he told me that there’s a renewed market for logs. A demand from the Orient.”

  “Yep, that’s been a lifesaver. Oh, there’s always need of good, quality logs from these hills, but the prices those boys are paying are far beyond anything we’ve been paid for our logs in the past. Jigger’s doing his best to keep his old friend, Deke Tiffins, the log broker, supplied. He’s been a true friend to Jigger, but rumor has it he’s been feeling the squeeze by Whitaker, too.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know what the weasel has on him, but that can only mean bad things for Jigger. So that’s why we’re working as fast and hard as we can to fell these trees and make logs. That’s why Jigger’s put the word out that he’s hiring, even though he really doesn’t have the money to go out paying for a whole lot of new men.”

  Worry must have flashed across Slocum’s face, because Ned smiled. “Don’t you worry. Ol’ Jigger never backed off on a promise, nor ever not paid a man, nor for that matter, he never ever let a man go hungry on Tamarack time.”

  “Good to know,” said Slocum. And as he walked along the rest of the trip down the valley in silence, he wondered more and more about the skoocoom and about the Crazy Trapper Lady, aka Hella Bridger, and less and less about Jigger McGee and his money woes. He’d heard such stories before.

  In Slocum’s experience, good intentions such as Jigger’s eventually led to situations people never expected. He hoped they were good ones.

  11

  Jigger’s spirits rose with each step until his brief, sour-tasting encounter with Torrance Whitaker dissipated. By the time he reached the steps of the bank, he was nearly back to feeling his excitement about getting paid for his logs. But not quite all the way. And it was only because Whitaker had to get that dig in about his own dear Ermaline being betrothed to Jordan, that dimwitted offspring of Whitaker.

  “How could she?” he said aloud as his gnarled work-hardened hand closed on the brass door handle of the bank’s front door. It opened wide, with no answer to his question, but with a low squawk and a loud, brassy bell’s ring that indicated he was about to conduct business.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. McGee?” said Burke, the banker. “I thought this little meeting of ours was surely due to be postponed.”

  “And why did you think that might happen, eh, Burke?” Jigger hoisted his big leather satchel onto the counter with a thud. “As it happens, I have my payment right here.”

  The banker’s confident smile drooped. “Well . . . ah, good. That’s good. Yessiree.”

  Jigger stood by smiling, eyes narrowed a bit. Finally he said, “How’s that feel, eh? Ha! It’s good to watch you squirm, Burke. I been the one pinned by your gaze for far too long. I’m enjoying this, sure as shootin’, I’m enjoying myself.”

  Jigger rubbed his hands together, then said, “All right, enough of old home week. I got things to do and people to see. Ain’t often a loggin’ man gets into town. Let’s get this all counted up nice and fair and square, and I can get goin’ about my business.”

  Jigger watched the banker’s eyes widen as he took out the money, set it on the counter, in nice, even stacks. “Now, you count and I’ll count, and we’ll either agree or go back and count it all over again. And I know neither of us wants to be in here late, especially as it’s a fine cold evening and there’s lots to do. And lest I forget, I’m going to need a signed receipt for all that money, Burke.”

  “Why, of course you’ll get one. Same as all my customers.” The man tried to look as if he’d been slapped, but it was a weak attempt, Jigger knew.

  “I wasn’t so sure, now that you’re lorded over by his holiness, Torrance Whitaker.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” said Burke, pausing in mid-count.

  “Oh, don’t give me that hill of beans, Burke! You know as well as me that Whitaker bought his way onto the board. Heck, unless he’s lying to me—which now that I think on it is entirely possible—he’s the new ramrod of this bankin’ outfit. Shameless, I tell you. I never in all my days seen a town as scrimy and whiny and shameless. Used to be we all had a backbone. But since that tub of bear grease rolled on into our midst, why, we’ve been nothing but backside-kissing fools!” Jigger pounded a fist hand on the counter. A stack of coins shook and slid to the side.

  “Please, Mr. McGee,” said the red-faced banker. “I’m trying to keep a straight tally.”

  “And see that you do . . . ” Jigger was in high dudgeon, could feel the familiar sensation. Why, since he had to spend the night in Timber Hills, he might just make a quick tour of the various establishments, make sure these people knew exactly what they were doing in groveling to ol’ Whitaker, that sidewinding rascal.

  Start out at the Plug Nickel, head on down to Rollo’s House of Sport, then end the tour with a visit to Whitaker’s own dump, the Bluebird. Maybe by then he’d have thought of something to say to the fat man.

  It didn’t take Burke long to come to a figure that they both agreed was the correct amount of the cash from Jigger’s satchel. He made out a formal receipt, signed it before Jigger, pointed a tapping finger to where he wanted Jigger to countersign, then folded it in thirds, sealed it with a glob of hot wax, which impressed Jigger somewhat, and slid the paper across the counter to McGee.

  “Thank you kindly, Burke. Pleasure doing business with you.” Jigger doffed his wool stocking cap, stuffed the letter into his satchel, and headed on out the door and back into the bitter cold evening. He pulled in a deep lungful of air, still wearing his smile—for he knew where he was headed and what he was going to get up to. Stir up some coals under the asses of these cushy-bottomed town dwellers! But first he had to tend to family matters. Had to see if Ermaline was in—where else would she be? Sparking with that useless lunk, Jordan Whitaker?

  “Oh, what is she thinking?” he muttered again, crossing the street to Mrs. Tigg’s boardinghouse. He stood before the front door, dim lamp glow from inside the sitting room barely lighting the entry. He gave himself a once-over look-see, banged his knee-high leather boots together at the heel, readjusted his knitted hat, smoothing it and pulling its ribbed rim down to just above his bushy eyebrows. He ran a knobby hand down his mustache and beard, smoothing them, combing lightly with his fingers to make sure there wasn’t any leftover jerky or piecrust stuck in there, then cleared his throat and rapped hard on the white-painted door with his big knuckles.

  Within moments he heard footsteps—boot heels, fast, quick, sure, had to be a woman’s—on the floor inside, drawing closer. He cleared his throat again and pulled a wide smile. The door handle turned, the door swung inward, and there was his little girl, Ermaline, looking so pretty.

  It had been two weeks since he’d seen her, and she looked as lovely as he ever remembered her looking—from when she was a swaddled bairn in her mother’s arms through her little girly years, and later, when it was just the two of them—and
now here she was, a lovely, grown-up woman. And wearing a pretty dress and all. She even had long hair. She’d been back for some months, but he still couldn’t quite get over the changes in his little girl.

  “Daddy!”

  12

  Their hug lasted longer than Jigger would have liked, given as they were still on the doorstep of the boardinghouse. He didn’t mind that his daughter liked to hug, always had been a hugger, for that matter. He always liked it, made him feel like he was special, but in the public eye, it made him feel weak, queasy. Even if it was his own daughter. But he also knew this wouldn’t last, this happy feeling. Because as much as he wanted to spend time with his daughter—and he didn’t care what it was they did, share a pot of tea, maybe some buttered biscuits, take a walk in the cold night air—he had to get to the point of his stopping to see her.

  “Ermaline, my girly,” said Jigger.

  She smiled and led him into the front sitting room of the boardinghouse. No one else was in the room, and a small fire crackled in the woodstove in the center of the south wall.

  “I was reading when you knocked.”

  “Sorry ’bout that,” said Jigger, turning the rolled cuff of his knitted hat in his gnarled hands. It felt right odd, being inside a real building, especially a fancy house in town. But she seemed to like it and that was what mattered. Though maybe she’d gotten too much of a taste for town and the suspicious ways of its dwellers.

  “Don’t be silly, Daddy. I’d rather visit with you anytime than read some old book.”

  “I thought you liked readin’ them things.”

  “I do, but I like spending time with you even more.”

  “Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I do like the sound of that. But how about town living? That suit you more than being out at the Tamarack?”