Riding the Flume (10 page)

She looked to the north and with her eyes she followed the path that wound through the basin, the same path that yesterday had led her to Carrie's tree. How old was that one? Would they cut it down, too, with as little care as they had for this one? She knew they would, if they found out
about it. She closed her eyes and said a little prayer that Charlie would keep this secret. He was good at keeping secrets—hadn't Carrie said so in her diary?

The cotton shoulder bag was lying beside her in a puddle of soft gray fabric that outlined the shape of the diary inside it. She had been going to keep it in the hiding place, never take it out again. But somehow, she couldn't. “Not yet,” she whispered. She slid it out of the bag, and then searched around until she found the pencil she'd decided at the last moment to bring. She opened the book to Carrie's last entry, and then turned one page.

June 16, 1894.

Her hand was shaking; she put the pencil down and wiggled her fingers. Then she began again.

Dear Carrie

Today I finished counting the rings on the old sequoia stump, the first one they cut in Connor's Basin. It was three thousand two hundred and fifty-two years old. I shall write Mr. Court a letter telling him. I haven't seen any of his articles because Father takes the newspaper to work with him. I think he does it on purpose, so I can't read them. He's letting me count the rings on the stump, but he won't let me say anything against the logging.

• • •

She stopped, read the words she'd just written, and then smoothed the page with the side of her hand. If she were alive, Carrie would be furious to find her sister writing in her diary. But now . . . Francie bent her head and finished her first entry.

Someday soon I will climb Connor's Peak. Like you, Carrie.

She lifted her head again, an idea bubbling inside her. Suddenly she couldn't write fast enough.

In fact, I will go to all the places you went. I'll write about what I see. It won't be what you saw, because of the logging. But I'll try to imagine it the way you saw it.

That's all for now.

Love,

Francie

P.S. Please don't be mad at me for writing in your diary.

Francie closed the book, feeling a little silly. It wasn't as if Carrie could actually read when Francie wrote, could know what she was thinking. She sighed. “I wish she could read it and answer and tell me what to do.” The squirrel had been sitting on the top rung of the ladder, watching her. At the sound of her voice he dropped his acorn and
disappeared over the side of the stump. She leaned over the edge to watch him scamper down. “Why don't you tell me what to do,” she called after him.

She sat with her legs hanging over the edge of the stump and looked at the diary. She'd wanted to climb to the top of Connor's Peak to read Carrie's words, but according to the diary, it was an all-day climb. Carrie hadn't minded missing supper, but Francie didn't dare risk it. This would have to do. She opened the book again.

June 16, 1887.
Francie stared at the date. Carrie had written it exactly seven years earlier on this very day, when she'd decided to fill up Carrie's empty pages. The thought came with a shiver of goose bumps up her arms. She read on:

I saw Old Robert today—just a glimpse of his battered hat and torn coat through the trees as I was walking down Connor's Creek. That means he survived another winter. I'm glad. Someday I
will
find out where he goes. He told me once that he hibernates. He couldn't have been serious . . . but with Old Robert you never know. He's a strange creature—indeed, almost like a bear at times.

Francie closed the diary, keeping her finger between the pages to mark the place. It was a little like reading a novel. If she kept on, would she find the truth about the tree and Old Robert?

• • •

June 21, 1887. Today I visited Old Robert at his cabin. It was truly an honor—he saw me in the basin and invited me to teal His voice was cracked and gravely as if he hadn't used it much, but he has such a nice smile. I said yes, and then, without a word, he turned and marched off I followed him up Connor's Creek—his cabin is about an hour's walk from the basin, near the place where the creek forks. It's a beautiful place—surrounded with wildflowers. Dogwood grows all around and monkey flower and a stunning bunch of phlox in one place where the sun shines most of the day. You wouldn't expect to find that one in the woods—not enough light except in that one place. Old Robert boiled the water in an old kettle over a tiny iron stove and served the tea in two delicate china cups. Why do you suppose he has china cups in a rugged mountain cabin? When I asked him, he acted as if I had not spoken at all. But he did ask me to visit again. I think I will. He has two books on a corner shelf in his cabin—the Bible and Shakespeare's sonnets. He can recite both from memory. It was quite amazing, this old bear of a man quoting Shakespeare's love poetry.

July 1, 1887. Today I took Old Robert a packet of black tea—his favorite kind, as he told me. He was in a foul mood—shaking his fists and shouting out about robbery and the sheriff and “hanging the devil.” He was so angry I was almost afraid of him. He growled and grumbled and paced
up and down from one side of the small cabin to the other His speech is hampered by his lack of teeth, and I couldn't understand all he said, but it seemed he was upset by the idea that the lumber company was going to start logging the sequoia trees. It's curious how surprised he was . . . as if he didn't know it would happen eventually. Wasn't that the whole reason Connor had purchased the land? I tried to point it out to him, but he turned on me and called me a murderer! “Sequoias aren't killed by disease and they don't burn,” he yelled at me. “Don't you know that if men didn't cut them down they'd live forever?” I said I'd stop the logging if I could. At least he quieted then, and stroked my head with his hand. As if I were the one who needed calming. What a strange old man. He said something odd then, odder even than his usual mumblings. “I'm the one can stop it, Missy,” he said. “And I will, too. You just wait and see.” I wish it were true. There's something terrible about logging the sequoias. Robert is right about them living forever—I read about that in a book. There's something in the bark that protects them against fire and disease, and insects don't bother them the way they do other trees. They're almost immortal—like the angels. Does that mean when someone cuts one down, it's like killing an angel?

July 3, 1887. Robert came to the hotel today! What a change! His hair was washed and brushed, and he was wearing a suit! It was old and out of fashion, but it was clean—he
must have put it away somewhere in his cabin waiting for a special occasion. He asked Papa if he could speak to me for a moment, and Papa agreed, though the look he gave me was very suspicious. Old Robert told me he was going to St. Joseph to see to that problem we talked about. He must have meant the logging, but he wouldn't say it outright, and he wouldn't let me say it, either. It was just like a dime novel—very exciting and mysterious! Father asked me many questions about him at supper, but I didn't give anything away.

July 4, 1887. The entire town picnicked in Connor's Basin today to celebrate Independence Day. Thomas Connor made a speech, long and boring. He is the most pompous man I've ever seen. And Lewis Granger always stands beside him like some kind of bodyguard. “A man can smile and smile and be a villain.” Doesn't that come from
Hamlet?
Shakespeare would have recognized Granger in a moment. That man gives me the shivers.

“Me, too,” Francie said, nodding. It felt good to find she and Carrie agreed about something. She skipped Carrie's description of the people at the picnic and turned the pages, looking for another entry about Old Robert. But her eye was caught by the mention of her own name again.

September 14, 1887.1 WISH Papa would stop worrying so much. He knows I can take care of myself in the mountains.
And Francie can do the same. She's as surefooted as a little mountain goat and has the balance of one as well. Papa keeps saying, “It's not proper for a young woman.” If he'd wanted us to be proper, why didn't he take us all back East and open a hotel in Philadelphia! Please don't let him think about that—I would die in Philadelphia!

The words on the page blurred as Francie's eyes filled with tears. Carrie had thought she was as surefooted as a mountain goat! “I wish you'd have said that to me, Carrie,” Francie said aloud. “Why did you always have to tease?”

“Because that was her way. She teased everyone.”

Francie jerked violently and bit off a scream as she saw Charlie standing just below her, leaning up against the ladder. “Charlie! You scared me almost to death.” Then she realized the significance of his presence. “It's after six o'clock?” She closed the diary, grabbed the shoulder bag, and scrambled down the ladder almost as fast as the squirrel. “I'm going to be late again.”

“Aunt Mary sent me to find you. She said you'd be out here.” He tapped the diary. “Find anything else interesting in there?”

“Lots. Listen to this.” She opened the book.

May 15,1887. Charlie comes tomorrow. I can hardly wait a moment longer. There is so much to show him. First the fox
pups. And then the cave. He'll love it—we can camp there after it gets warmer. Elizabeth Jordan thinks I'm silly to be best friends with a boy, and one who is two years younger. But I think Elizabeth Jordan is a fool. Charlie's the best, best cousin and the best, best friend in the world.

“I was twelve,” Charlie said after a moment. His eyes looked sad. He reached over Francie's shoulder and began picking pieces of bark off the old stump with his fingernail. “I lived for summers back then.”

“And now Elizabeth Jordan would do just about anything for a smile from you,” Francie said, sorry she'd read him the entry.

Charlie gave Francie the smile Elizabeth Jordan would die for. “Carrie was right. Elizabeth Jordan is a fool.” He dusted off his hands. “Anything about Old Robert?”

“I was just looking.” She read him the entries she'd found so far, and then thumbed through the remaining pages. “Here's one.”

December 15, 1887. The blizzard is over and I went to the woods this afternoon. I was tempted to go all the way to Old Robert's cabin. (Does he stay in that little cabin all winter? He couldn't. He wouldn't have enough food, would he?) But in the end, there wasn't time. I'll have to go visit the old man another day.

• • •

“That's the only thing I can find—just little comments about unimportant things.” She shut the book and gave it a little shake. “Nothing more about why he was dressed up so fine or what happened in St. Joseph.” She looked up at Charlie. “Maybe that's when he had the will made.”

Charlie gave her an almost pitying look. “He was a crazy old man.”

“Even crazy old men make wills,” she retorted.

Charlie squinted up at the sky. “You ready to head back home? I'm staying for supper, in case you didn't know, and I'm getting hungry.”

Francie grinned at him. “Shall we run back?”

He laughed and, tipping his hat, offered her his arm. “Not a chance. Will you
walk
with me back to town?”

“With pleasure, sir,” Francie answered, curtsying.

“I
wanted to be absolutely certain I gave you correct information last night,” said Francie's father, “so I asked Lewis about individuals owning sequoia trees.” He took a sip of his after-dinner coffee and looked at Francie. “I assume Charlie is familiar with the subject as well?”

Francie stared at her father. In honor of Charlie's visit she'd also been allowed to have coffee, well laced with thick cream. Now she clattered the cup back onto its saucer with trembling fingers. “You didn't tell Mr. Granger about Carrie's tree, did you?” She felt as if the floor had suddenly given way beneath her chair.

Her father frowned. “Of course. I asked about the trees and the land on the north side of the basin. I told him my daughter had discovered an especially big tree up by Connor's Pass where the old hermit used to live and
had the strange idea that Old Robert owned the land rather than the lumber company. I asked if that was even possible.”

Charlie cleared his throat. “What did he say, Uncle James?” He glanced at Francie and then away again.

Francie's father stroked his mustache with his finger. “He took me into the lumber company office and asked me to show him on the map where the tree was.” He shrugged. “I didn't know exactly, but from the entry in the diary—”

“You read Carrie's diary?” Charlie's eyebrows went up.

“Frances read me the one entry,” Francie's father said stiffly. “I assume the tree must be up by Connor's Pass, since that's all unexplored land. But,” and he tapped his finger on the white tablecloth, “my answer to you yesterday was correct. The lumber company owns all that land. Old Robert may have wished to deed the tree to Carrie, but it wasn't his to give away.”

“But what about the will?” Francie gripped the tabletop so hard her fingers turned white. “Carrie saw the will!”

Francie's father reached out and touched Francie's hand. “He may not have understood the law, Frances,” he said. “Everyone said he wasn't always right in his head. He may have thought since he lived on the land, he owned it. But Mr. Granger assured me that wasn't the case here.”

Francie held her breath, trying not to cry. She looked at her father's hand covering her own. A question was
buzzing in her brain, one she didn't want to know the answer to, but she had to ask it anyway. “Papa,” she began in a small voice, “did Mr. Granger seem interested in the tree?”