Riding the Flume (18 page)

“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.

“Well,” Sheriff Bennett drawled, “I hate to admit this,” he said, “but this old man can't keep up with your pace. And since I'm the law around here, you might as well wait for me.”

Francie ground her teeth together, but she stopped and waited for him to catch up. She patted the front of the borrowed shirtwaist, and then remembered that Mr. Court had taken the will for safekeeping.
Please let it be safe,
she prayed.

They passed the dogwood that marked Old Robert's cabin, and shortly afterward they heard the donkey engine's chugging. “They've started,” Francie whispered. “They've already started!” She looked back to see Sheriff Bennett stop and lean against a tree to catch his breath. She felt like screaming.

When they reached the pass, Mr. Court and Francie were walking side by side, and as soon as they were on level ground, they both broke into a run. At the lip of the basin on the other side, Mr. Court stopped. Francie took a few steps down the path, but Mr. Court grabbed her arm and held her firmly. “Wait,” he commanded. “Wait for Bennett.”

The loggers had built a scaffolding around Carrie's tree about twenty feet high. This lifted the axmen above the enormous buttresses at the bottom of the trunk so they could start the undercut where the tree wasn't quite as thick. Even so, they had what seemed like a small army of men up on the platform. Two axmen were working on the undercut they'd begun chopping into the tree. The others were holding their axes as if waiting their turn.

Mr. Granger was up on the scaffolding beside the men, watching the axmen with his thumbs hooked into his suspenders. Francie thought the look on his face was smug and self-satisfied, like some kind of king overseeing his servants. He leaned over and said something to one of the axmen, and everyone laughed. Francie wished she could hear him. She didn't recognize any of the other men. So Charlie hadn't been chosen, she thought, wondering if he was glad or sorry.

She looked back as Sheriff Bennett came up behind them. “Well,” he panted, “let's see what these fellows have to say about who owns this land.” He turned to Francie.
“You stay here, Miss Francie. I want you safely out of any trouble.”

He settled his hat firmly on his head and strode down the path, with Mr. Court behind him. No one even noticed them—all the loggers were intent on the cutting of Carrie's tree.

Francie watched them for a few moments, clenching and unclenching her fists. “I've got to be where I can hear,” she mumbled. Nobody was looking in her direction. Silently she started down the path after them.

“Granger!” Sheriff Bennett shouted. “Lewis Granger! Call off your men for a moment.”

Lewis Granger's head snapped around, eyes searching for the speaker. When he saw Sheriff Bennett, his smile was replaced by an expression that reminded Francie of an old stray dog they'd once cornered in the garbage bin behind the hotel. He looked both fearful and dangerous. But that so quickly turned into an angry frown that she blinked, not sure of what she had seen. Was he afraid of the sheriff?

Francie looked up as she felt a hand on her arm.

“Where have you been?” Charlie stepped in front of her. “The whole town's been looking for you. They're saying you rode the flume!”

“I had to,” Francie told him. “I had to get to St. Joseph with Old Robert's will. To find out if it's real.”

“You found the will?” Charlie's eyes were wide. He glanced at Granger and then back to Francie. “Granger
says you broke into his cabin at the logging camp and stole something from him. He won't say what. He's saying you're no better than a street urchin. Your father is furious!”

Francie had to laugh. “At Granger or me?” She pushed on his arm. “You're blocking my way, Charlie. I've got to get down there.”

He stepped aside and walked beside her, stopping just outside the ring of loggers who had gathered around the tree.

The axmen had stopped when they heard the sheriff's voice. “Keep working,” Granger was shouting at them. “Or I'll dock your pay.” He turned to the sheriff. “I'm in charge of this operation. I'll say when the men stop.” He motioned to two of the axmen, who began again with their rhythmic chopping. Francie winced at each blow, as if the axes were chopping at her instead of the tree.

Sheriff Bennett began to climb up the scaffolding. Mr. Court stood at the bottom, his hand on the ladder as if he were deciding whether to go up or not. Then he stepped back and folded his arms to wait.

“You're all trespassing here,” Sheriff Bennett roared at the men over the noise of the chopping and the donkey engine. “Any more damage to this property here and you'll all land in jail.”

That stopped them. The axmen stepped back and looked at Granger.

“He's bluffing!” Granger shouted. “The Sierra Lumber Company owns this land, and everyone knows it.”

“Turn that thing off!” Bennett motioned to the donkey engine, still chugging away, and a logger ran over to cut the motor. In the sudden silence, birds could be heard calling to one another.

Sheriff Bennett reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a paper, which he handed to Granger. “This is a copy of the deed to the 160 acres we are presently standing on. It runs from the other side of Connor's Pass to this side, and it includes this little valley and the trees you're in the process of cutting down. The owner is Robert Granger.”

“Robert Granger's dead,” Lewis Granger snorted. “I'm his brother. And as his only living relative, I'm his heir. So the land's mine.”

“You'll agree, then, that Robert Granger owns this land?”

“He owned it. But on his death it reverted to me.” He pulled himself up and stuck his thumbs into his suspender straps. “I sold it to the lumber company.”

“How do you know he's dead?” Sheriff Bennett asked him. “He was a hermit and a roamer. The way I've heard it, he sometimes disappeared for months at a time. How do you know he hasn't shown up in St. Joseph this very day?”

Granger laughed. “He's dead. Take it from me.”

Sheriff Bennett took a step closer to Granger. Francie held her breath—the platform wasn't very big. With one shove Granger could knock the sheriff off the edge—and it was a twenty-foot drop. She saw Mr. Court put his hand on the ladder and begin to climb up.

“Have you seen the body, Granger?” Sheriff Bennett kept his voice low, but everyone could hear him clearly.

Francie saw Granger's eyes flicker away from the sheriff. He licked his lips as if they were parched and dry. He has seen it! Francie's thoughts were spinning. He knows his brother is dead because he's seen the body. An image of the charred cabin timbers flashed into her mind. How could he know his brother was dead—how could he have seen the body, unless he'd been up there when the cabin burned? And why wouldn't he have said anything—brought his brother's body back for burial?

“What are you trying to say, Bennett?” Granger growled, but there was hesitation there, and fear. He looked like he was going to slug the sheriff. More than ever now he reminded Francie of that cornered dog.

“I'm just trying to get the facts straight,” Sheriff Bennett said. Mr. Court had reached the top of the platform. Sheriff Bennett held out his hand and Mr. Court slapped a paper into it—it was the will.

But instead of opening it to show Lewis Granger, Sheriff Bennett reached into his other shirt pocket and pulled out a thin creamy piece of paper. “Before I left St. Joseph,”
he said, unfolding it, “I telegraphed to Thomas Connor, asking him about this parcel of land. He confirms your statement. He even saw Robert Granger's will, dated September 16, 1885, leaving his land to you. He says you sold the land to Connor for five hundred dollars.”

Granger's hands slipped back into the thumbs of his suspenders. He smiled. “So,” he sneered, “how come you're here? Seems like everything's all correct and legal-like to me.

Now Sheriff Bennett unfolded the will. “I have here a will dated July 5, 1887—a later will than the one you showed Connor—leaving the land to a young lady, Mary Carolyn Cavanaugh.”

Granger's face turned brick red. “Give me that,” he croaked, grabbing the paper out of Bennett's hands. “You got this from the Cavanaugh brat. It's a forgery.” He held it up and ripped it in two in front of the sheriff. “What do you think of your will now?” He opened his hands and let the two pieces of paper flutter to the platform.

Francie cried out, and then slapped her hands over her mouth. She saw Mr. Court turn around, and when he caught sight of her so close to the loggers, he raised his eyebrows. But nobody else even stirred. She felt Charlie's hand rest on her shoulder. “He tore it up!” she whispered.

“It must be on record,” he whispered back. “Don't worry.”

“It's not a forgery,” Sheriff Bennett said, bending down
to pick up the torn will. “Mr. Court checked with the law firm you see listed here.” He gestured to the paper. “By the way, no one seems to have heard of the law firm listed on the will you showed Connor. But for now I'll accept that it's a real will. And I'll accept, for the moment, that for some innocent reason known only to yourself, you know that your brother is dead and that you did nothing to hurry that death along.” He tipped his hat back on his head. “But you're still trespassing. This land belongs to Mary Carolyn Cavanaugh or, rather, to her father, since she passed away shortly after this will was made. By the authority of the United States government, I order you off this land.”

“We won't leave!” Lewis Granger almost jumped up and down on the platform. “I'll get permission from Cavanaugh. He'll sell me the land. He won't stand in my way. Send for Cavanaugh. Get him out here right now!”

Sheriff Bennett nodded to Mr. Court, who climbed down off the scaffolding and pushed his way through the crowd.

“I think he's already coming, boss,” one of the loggers on the ground shouted. “Somebody went to get him when his daughter showed up here.” The man nodded in Francie's direction and suddenly all eyes were turned on her.

“Hey, Francie,” someone in the crowd called. “Did you really ride the flume to St. Joseph?” The question was greeted with cheers and whistles.

Francie's face burned. She wanted to turn and run, but Charlie's hand was tight on her shoulder. She stared straight ahead, trying not to look at anyone.

“They don't mean anything by it,” Charlie whispered. “A lot of them bet on you to make it.”

Francie closed her eyes. That made it even worse. Men betting on her! She would never live down the shame of it. Her parents would never forgive her. And it was all for nothing. Her father would sell the land to the lumber company. Carrie's tree was as good as down right now.

F
rancie perched on the edge of an old wagon bed. The oxen were hitched to the wagon, waiting patiently for their next instruction. She watched their tails twitching away flies.

Her eyes strayed to the pass—any moment her father would appear at the top of the path. He would stop, looking for her. And when he saw her sitting here with Charlie . . . her mind couldn't even imagine what he would do. Would he tell her she was no longer his daughter? That she had disappointed him too often? Would he say out loud what she knew he must wish in his heart, that she had been the one to die six years ago and that Carrie had lived instead? Carrie, who with all her wild ways, had never done anything like this. Carrie was trustworthy. Carrie . . . she slammed the heel of her boot on the side of the wagon. Carrie would have figured out a way to save the tree.

The wagon where they were sitting had been drawn halfway up the path to the pass. From here Francie could see the giant sequoia from top to bottom without even craning her neck. Without all the other trees around it, it seemed even bigger than it had on Sunday. The scaffolding around the bottom looked like something from a doll's house—so tiny was it in comparison with the tree's great size. The undercut the axmen had made was only a small notch, but it exposed the dark red heartwood of the tree and she could imagine the sap seeping into the wound, bleeding around the edges of the cut. Carrie was dead, and soon her tree would be dead, too. There would be nothing left of either of them.

“I wish we'd found it earlier,” she said, hardly able to push the words out around the painful lump in her throat. “I wish I'd gotten to see it hundreds of times, to really appreciate it before it's gone.” And she knew her wish was for Carrie, too. The diary was all she had left of her sister. It wasn't nearly enough.

Charlie put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. But there was nothing he could say to take away the sadness, and he didn't even try. Francie closed her eyes and leaned against him.

After a while she felt him straighten up. “He's coming,” he whispered. He patted her shoulder once more and let his arm drop.

Francie looked up. Her father stood at the place where the path began to descend into the valley. He looked
behind him, then walked back a few paces. And then her mother came into view. Her father took her mother's arm. They waited a moment, as if Francie's mother were catching her breath.

“Aunt Mary came!” Charlie sounded surprised, but somehow Francie was not. She slid off the wagon bed and watched them follow Mr. Court slowly down the path. For the first time she saw the gray streaks in her father's hair, and his shoulders were stooped in a way she hadn't noticed before. Her mother moved carefully, watching her feet, as if she were in pain. Francie bit her lip, wondering if they were hiding some illness from her. Or had she done this to them herself?