Shadow on the Land

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Bowerman, one of the lawyers for Twohy Brothers, argued that Monday would be the first day they could get their witnesses together. Later, he agreed that, if Wilson would put the farm owners on the stand, Friday would be all right for the hearing. Wilson answered that he did not know the farm owners personally, but it would be agreeable to him for Bowerman to get them and ask any questions he wished. Judge Butler set Friday for the case to be heard.

  “We’ll get it dissolved all right,” Wilson told Lee confidently that noon.

  The lawyer was proved to be a good prophet when Judge Butler did dissolve the injunction, holding that the evidence did not prove that the Twohys had secured any right to cross these ranches. The Harriman attorneys started proceedings to condemn a road, a fact that did not particularly worry Lee, but he rode back to the Girt place without the feeling of triumph the legal victory should have given him.

  “What’s been going on?” Lee asked as he reined up at the gate.

  “Never saw so much freighting in my life,” Highpockets answered. “Been some Porter stuff through here, too, but you ought to see what the Twohys have been doing. I don’t reckon they’ve had a wagon that’s stood still since Quinn brought that first bunch through.”

  “They’ll stand still now,” Lee said grimly, and locked the gate. “I don’t reckon Mike will give us any more trouble trying to get through here.”

  When Lee saw that the Twohys had accepted the court decision, he returned to Grass Valley with Highpockets, leaving Baldy at the gate.

  “You did a good job,” Johnson Porter told Lee. “It was a delaying action, and it worked. What’s more, we’ve got a road to use.” He laughed. “I’ll have to get out there someday, and watch them take hay down on mule back.”

  “What about our side of the thing?”

  “No complaints. Stuff is coming into The Dalles in fine shape. The Bailey Gatzert got in with fifteen tons of equipment . . . sledges, anvils, coal, axes, shovels, and what-not. We’re sending most of it to Dufur on the Great Southern, or part way to Boyd, and from there it isn’t so bad to freight it into the cañon. We’re sending some on to Sherars Bridge, and we’re shipping an outfit of heavy equipment we had stored at Vancouver . . . dump cars, steam shovels, rails, locomotives.”

  “How do we stack up with the Twohys on manpower?”

  “They’re a little ahead of us,” Porter admitted. “They’ve got about twelve hundred men at work. That’s more than we have, but we’re pulling them in fast, and we’ll be working all along the cañon.”

  “Horses?”

  “We’ve got about fifteen hundred, and we’re buying more.”

  “I was asking because I’d like to pull off another delaying action somewhere along the line,” Lee said thoughtfully. “If we could corner all the horse feed in the country, we’d worry them some more.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Porter agreed. “Go ahead. For the moment we can let the Girt place stand. I want to send you south again, anyway. Take Magoon with you.” He turned to a map on the wall. “Notice where Willow Creek comes into the Deschutes. Right there is three tenths of an acre next to the river that could block us. We’ve got to have it.”

  “I’ll get it,” Lee promised.

  Porter brought his finger down the black line that was the river. “We cross to the east side here. Between this point and the mouth of Trout Creek our surveys are in conflict. We’ve protested to the General Land Office, basing our argument on our priority of right at that point.”

  “Stacks up like trouble.”

  Porter nodded. “It is trouble. Right now we’re fighting in Portland in the courts. The Harriman legal forces claim we’ve filed old maps that have been bought, illegal surveys, and all that with the Interior Department.” He gestured angrily. “They won’t make it stick, but it’s one of those things that makes railroad building tough.”

  * * * * *

  Lee and Highpockets took the train to Shaniko, and Highpockets, securing the same team of bays that had taken Lee on his first trip into the interior, drove again across Shaniko Flat, down Cow Cañon, and into Madras.

  “I know this fellow on Willow Creek,” Highpockets said. “He’s been as balmy as the rest about the people’s railroad, but I’ve got a hunch he’ll deal.” He hesitated, pulling thoughtfully at a huge ear. “I’m thinking a lot of folks are going to change their minds when they see what’s happening in the cañon.”

  “Hanna maybe?”

  “Well now, I wouldn’t be sure about her. She ain’t a filly you can hold back once she takes the bit into her teeth.”

  Highpockets was right about the Willow Creek property. The farmer said frankly that a Harriman agent named Quinn had offered him $3,000 for the vital piece of land, but he hadn’t sold.

  “I just don’t like the idea of playing dog-in-the-manger, mister. We’ve been looking for a railroad into this country for a long time. Now that we’re gonna have two, I ain’t a man to try to stop one of ’em. If you want that piece of land and a right of way across my ranch, you can have ’em both for three thousand.”

  “It’s a deal,” Lee said quickly, drawing checkbook and pen from his pocket.

  Lee and Highpockets returned to Madras that night, and spent several days in the northern part of Crook County determining the practicality of cornering the hay and grain supplies. The last day they swung south to Crooked River, and stopped at Hanna’s place on their way back to Madras.

  “I suppose you stopped here because Highpockets got hungry,” Hanna said.

  “He’s got hold of the lines.” Lee grinned as he stepped down and patted Willie. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a hole in my stomach, too.”

  “Come in. We’ll see what we can do about filling it. I’ve got some newspapers to show you. Or have you kept up on the developments?”

  “No. I’ve been traveling too much. Seems like the reporters know more about my railroad than I do.”

  “Don’t you get her to talking and hold up supper,” Highpockets warned as he unhitched and led the horses to the water trough.

  Lee followed Hanna into the kitchen, and grinned when she said: “At last the big secret is out. The Bend Bulletin reports that Jim Hill is backing the Oregon Trunk.”

  “It was time to tell it. I hear that a Bend newspaperman was chasing up and down the cañon trying to find out who was backing the Trunk, and just when he did find out and thought he had a scoop, Stevens gave out his statement.”

  Hanna laughed. “Well, it just goes to prove that there is a strange element called luck that plays a big part in our lives.” She picked up a newspaper from the table. “This Madras Pioneer just came today. It quotes from The Dalles Chronicle to the effect that central Oregon’s sympathies are with Hill, because Harriman has a record of broken promises.”

  Lee reached for the paper, eyes scanning the editorial. He muttered: “The Columbia Southern would have been extended south if Harriman hadn’t bought it. The Corvallis and Eastern would have come in, but Harriman got that. The passes from the south are controlled by Harriman. Central Oregon is bottled up. All but the Deschutes route.” He tossed the paper back on the table. “More Harriman Fence which we’re going to break down. Hanna, I could talk a week, and I couldn’t give you any stronger reasons why you should sell us a right of way.”

  She gestured wearily. “Some of my neighbors are going to see it that way.”

  “She’s weakening, son!” Highpockets called from the doorway.

  Lee, watching her, was not sure. There was a firmness of moral fiber, a strength of character in her, that would not let her change a decision this easily. “I hope you are weakening,” Lee said gravely. “A lot depends on you.”

  “I know.” She turned into the pantry, calling back briskly as if putting the railroad question out of her mind: “I’m out of wood! No wood, no eat. A couple of tramps like you ought to work for your meal, anyhow.”

  “Sure,” Lee said. “Where’s the woodpile?”

  * *
* * *

  They returned to Shaniko the next day, Lee riding most of the way in silence, thinking of the possibilities that control of the local supply of hay and grain would give the Oregon Trunk, and seeing the difficulties involved in securing such a monopoly.

  That evening, as Lee and Highpockets crossed the lobby of the Columbia Southern Hotel and entered the dining room, they met Cyrus Jepson.

  “’Evening, Dawes,” Jepson said pleasantly.

  “Howdy. What’s going on in Jepson City?”

  “Development, Dawes. Nothing can hold that country back. We’ll have the biggest irrigation project in Oregon around Jepson City.”

  “I thought it was desert.”

  “Desert today, Dawes. A Garden of Eden tomorrow.”

  “You reckon Eve got that apple off a clump of sagebrush, Jepson?”

  The little man jabbed a slender finger at Lee. “We won’t have sagebrush around Jepson City. We have a lake to turn into the desert, Dawes, and with an unlimited water supply, the desert will grow anything. Anything. If you’re looking for an investment that will return you tenfold, don’t pass up Jepson City.”

  “Save your promotion talk for the boomers, Jepson,” Lee said.

  “I have plenty for them.” Jepson drew a cigar from his pocket, round eyes on Lee. “I’ve liked you, Dawes, from the moment I first talked to you at Biggs. I’d like to see you come in on something that’s good.”

  “If you’ve liked me,” Lee said with biting irony, “you have a strange way of showing it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lee saw he had made a mistake. There was no way to prove what he suspected, and the only way to get the proof he needed was to let Jepson extend himself so far that he had to come into the open. So now Lee shrugged and said—“You haven’t been very friendly to the Oregon Trunk, Jepson.”—and moved on to where Highpockets had taken his seat at a table.

  “Opportunity don’t knock more’n once, son,” Highpockets said, and winked. He whittled on his steak, and then added: “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw Jepson and that black-haired Haig filly in the parlor upstairs. They were sure talking a blue streak. I’ll just bet she’s fixing to slit Quinn’s throat.”

  Lee had not seen Deborah for weeks, but the fire that the first sight of her had lighted in him had not died. His thoughts turned to her, and he felt the poignant stab of desire as the image of her dark, exotic beauty filled his mind.

  “You see that picture of a submarine called Snapper?” Highpockets asked. “In Popular Mechanics, I think it was.”

  “No.”

  “Dad-burned funny thing. Going under water. Going up in the air like them Wright brothers. Going on land in autos thirty, forty miles an hour. Sometimes it plumb scares me what’ll happen next.”

  “I know. I’m going to get me some earplugs.”

  Highpockets sobered as Lee’s meaning reached him. He said—“Oh.”—in a hurt tone, and lapsed into silence.

  Lee asked at the desk for Deborah’s room number, and tapped on her door. There was no answer, nor did he hear any sound in her room. She did not want to see him. Her actions had made that plain, but he did not understand it. He walked the streets for a time, had a drink, and, returning to the hotel, tried her door again. Still there was no answer, and he went along the hall to his room. He lay awake a long time staring into the darkness, while the raucous street rackets of the brawling boom town slowly died.

  Lee and Highpockets took the train to Grass Valley the next morning, Lee going immediately to Porter Brothers’ office, but, before he made the turn into the building, he heard Mike Quinn call: “Dawes!”

  Waiting for Quinn to come up, Lee saw that the big Irishman was angry. Lee smiled a little, thinking that Quinn had been angry most of the time lately. “How are you coming with the Racine property, Mike?” he asked.

  Quinn made no answer to the question. He cuffed back his hat, stopping a pace from Lee, his meaty shoulders hunched forward in the menacing posture that was characteristic of him when he was thoroughly angry. “Dawes, you’ve pulled some sneaky tricks, but this one is the lowest,” he said. “The Porters ought to put you to digging wells.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You never heard of labor agitators, did you? You never sent ’em into our Horseshoe Bend camps, did you?”

  “No!” Lee shouted indignantly. “That isn’t our way any more than it is yours.”

  “For all your cussedness, Dawes, you didn’t used to be a liar.” Quinn’s craggy face reflected the violence of his feelings. “You’re sure lying now. Those fellows have raised hell. Got the men worked up about their grub. Told ’em we’ll starve ’em, because you’ve blocked off our road. They keep harping about how dangerous the work is, and they aren’t getting enough pay. Then somebody rolls some rocks down to make what the damned wobblies say look good.”

  “We’ve had no hand in it, Mike,” Lee said. “That sort of business could kick back on us.”

  Quinn shook a hard-knuckled fist under Lee’s nose. “Then if you didn’t have no hand in it, why are our men going over to your camp?”

  “I don’t know.” Automatically Lee lifted his pipe from his pocket and filled it, his mind reaching back over the last few days. “Mike, some things have been happening to us that don’t jibe with your kind of fighting, and I’ve held back till I found out who it was. Now suppose you do the same.”

  Lee wheeled into the building, leaving Quinn staring after him.

  Johnson Porter, watching the scene through the window, chuckled. “What’s biting your Irish friend?”

  Lee told him. Porter shrugged, and dismissed it with a wave of the hand.

  “Any good come of your trip?”

  “We’ve got the right of way through that Willow Creek property, but it doesn’t look like we’ll have any luck cornering the horse feed. Too much of it.”

  “I’ve got a letter for you.” Porter moved back to his desk and, thumbing through some envelopes, found the right one and handed it to Lee.

  Lee tore it open, and read the brief note.

  Portland, Oregon

  August 20, 1909

  Dear Dawes:

  You did a fine job with the Girt homestead, and Johnson’s reports on your work are satisfactory. On the other hand, you have not yet secured the right of way across the Racine property. You’ve had the time you asked, and it should not be necessary to remind you that we will not build into Bend if we cannot bridge Crooked River.

  Sincerely yours,

  John F. Stevens

  Lee raised his eyes to Porter, and grinned wryly. “Guess I’m not doing so well.”

  “Woman trouble?” Porter asked.

  Lee nodded. “I wish John Stevens would argue with Hanna Racine. Just once. Then he’d know why I haven’t got the right of way.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late in August, the Oregon Trunk won the first round of the bitter legal battle that was being waged in the Portland federal courts—an injunction restraining the Deschutes Railroad Company from molesting the Oregon Trunk at any point where the two roads had been disputing for equal right on the upper sixty miles of the survey. This decision, handed down by Judge Bean, gave the Oregon Trunk undisputed right to that section of the cañon, and it was a bitter blow to the Harriman forces.

  The immediate effect of Judge Bean’s decision was to bring about a cutting down of the Harriman crews. Sixty-four men were laid off by the Twohys, and given free passage on the OR&N to Portland, so that the Porters would not hire them. Johnson Porter, hearing of the incident, contacted his Portland agent, and announced that the men would return to work for Porter Brothers.

  “From the reports I’ve received since I returned here Tuesday night, the Harriman camps appear like a Quaker meeting on a Sunday morning, all quiet,” Johnson Porter told a representative of The Dalles Chronicle. “I am hiring all the men they discharge as fast as I can, and am getting as many more as can be obtained. We hav
e a standing order in Portland for one hundred and fifty men to be sent out every day.”

  Lee Dawes left Grass Valley for the Girt place the morning the news of Judge Bean’s decision reached Porter Brothers’ office. Leaning back in his seat, and puffing steadily on his pipe, he felt optimism boil to a new height in him. Highpockets watched him for a time. Then he said: “You’re feeling so dad-burned good you’re about to sprout wings and take off. Strikes me you’re laughing a mite soon.”

  “Hell, they can’t build a railroad without a right of way.”

  “Which they’ll get, one way or the other. I heard about a Hill big gun saying that, if the Harriman bunch would stay on the east side of the river, they’d stay on the west side, and both of ’em could build all the road they wanted to.”

  “That was said all right,” Lee admitted, “but even if we relocate on the other side here at Horseshoe Bend instead of tunneling, they’ll run into trouble down there below U’Rens’s ranch where we swing over to the east side. Looks to me like we’ve got ’em licked if they don’t pull a rabbit out of their hat.”

  “What are we coming out here for?”

  “To see if Baldy’s having any trouble at the gate.” Lee knocked his pipe against the side of the buggy. “I figured I’d go on down into the cañon just to see if they’re getting ready to quit.”

  Baldy had the gate open for them, and shook his head in answer to Lee’s question. “No trouble here. I mean nothing that amounted to anything. A wagon rolled in last night about midnight, and somebody shot at me a couple of times. When I shot back, they vamoosed. Guess they wanted to play tag.”

  “Didn’t say anything?”

  “Nary a word.”

  “Cut any wire?”