Authors: Dorothy Garlock
Dory stood, shoved the bowl of milk and bread into her brother’s hand and reached for her daughter.
“You scamp. We’ve got to get you dressed. You’ll have to help me take care of Odette today.”
“I kiss Odette. Make her better.”
“You’re sure throwing your kisses around this morning,” Dory said cheerfully. “Right now you’ve got to get dressed and have
your breakfast.”
Ben reached down and took Odette’s hand. “I need to talk to Wiley about making some clamps. I’ll be back.”
“Sis, she should eat the rest of this.” James stood holding the bowl.
“Then give it to her, if she’ll eat it.” Dory’s voice came from the hallway outside the door.
James looked helplessly at Ben. “I’ll feed her the rest of this if she wants it.”
Ben tried not to let the surprise show on his face as he turned to James.
“She’s usually shy of strangers, especially men.”
“Ask her.”
“Ask her yourself. Talk slow. She’s able to lip-read. She understands me and Dory.”
“Ma’am—”
“Call her Odette.”
“O… dette, do… you… want… any… more… of this?” James pointed to the bowl, to himself and then to her.
Odette looked at Ben with a glimmer of humor in her eyes. He smiled. She looked at James and nodded.
“You don’t have to drag out each word,” Ben said and edged toward the door. He looked back to see how Odette was taking his
leaving. Her eyes were on James. And she opened her mouth to accept the spoonful of bread and milk.
Again, a nagging uneasiness possessed Ben. He shrugged it off. Women must fall all over a man like James. He was being kind
to a deaf girl, that was all. To him she was something new.
He was just borrowing trouble.
Odette was getting steadily better. Dory was glad, but she also dreaded the day Odette would be completely well because then
she and Ben would be leaving. He had promised to stay a week or ten days. Dory was sure he would not stay a day after the
engine was in place.
The last two days had gone quickly. The surprise of it all was that James had spent so much time with Odette and seemed to
enjoy it. The evening of the first day he had found a tablet and had drawn a picture of a man cutting down a tree and one
of the same man riding the raft of logs on the river. He had written his name above the man.
Odette had taken the tablet and written,
Papa can do that.
Is he good?
I think so.
“Have you ever had a puppy?” James asked, speaking slowly.
Reading the puzzled look on her face, he wrote the words on the tablet.
She shook her head.
He tried speaking aloud again. “I have a dog at the cutting camp. She’ll have pups soon.”
“Big dog?”
James was so pleased that he’d made her understand that he pressed her hand lying on the bed.
“Yes, a big dog.”
“I like dogs… and cats… and horses.”
While James was with Odette, Ben sat in the kitchen and watched Dory clear the supper table. Jeanmarie crawled up into his
lap and nestled against him.
“Oh, honey, you shouldn’t—” Dory made an attempt to lift her down.
“It’s all right,” Ben said. “I don’t mind.”
“Children are like puppies. They seem to know when they are liked.” Dory carried a stack of plates to the dishpan. “Are you
from a large family, Mr. Waller?”
“Mr. Waller? It was Ben the other night.”
Dory grinned at him over her shoulder and repeated the question. “Ben, are you from a large family?”
“No, ma’am. I never knew my folks. There’s just me and Odette.”
“I’ve always thought it would be wonderful to be a part of a big family—where everyone got along and looked after one another.
When I was little, Mama tried to make things pleasant for me and James, but Milo and Louis were always at odds with her. She
could never please them. After a while she gave up and ignored them.”
“Did that help?”
“No. It just made matters worse.”
“Have you and James thought of selling your part of the company to Milo and Louis and starting up someplace else?”
“We thought about it, but this is our home. The homestead was a log shack when Mama came here. Papa built this house for her
and she loved it.”
“It’s still just a
place.
Couldn’t you make a home somewhere else?”
“I suppose I could.”
After the dishes were done, she took Jeanmarie up to bed. When she came back down, Ben was gone.
James guided his horse down the muddy street between the sparse buildings that made up the town of Spencer. Squatting at the
base of the mountain, it was no more than a swath cut through the thick forest of pines, its buildings clustered together
like a giant toadstool. Spencer and towns like it had sprung up all over the northwest to provide settlers, trappers, loggers
and mill operators with a place to spend their spare time—and lose their money.
Here many a lumberjack had spent his entire winter’s pay in one day of wenching and boozing. Boozing led to brawling—the most
ferocious kind of brawling. It was not unusual for a man to crawl away minus an ear or the tip of his nose, or with a hunk
chewed from his hide. As long as he was on his feet, he was fair game. Cheers were for the victor regardless of which fighter
was right. But when a man was down, the fight was over. Only the most vicious of men would try to cripple a fellow lumberjack.
In the middle of the day Spencer looked like a lazy little town. Dogs and chickens roamed the muddy street between the two
rows of buildings—eight on one side of the street, seven on the other, with the Idaho Palace saloon at the end facing a street
so narrow a man could spit from one side of it to the other.
The hooves of the big black that James was riding made a sucking sound as they pulled at the mud, and he wondered why he had
come here. He hated mud.
He had left the homestead early this morning to check out a stand of new growth on the eastern slope. He liked the solitude
of being a timber-cruiser. It was like prospecting for gold, except that his gold was a stand of timber that would produce
thousands of board feet of lumber. He had looked, made a few notes on the card in his pocket, then turned his horse on down
the mountain.
Until a few days ago he had been content at the camp, working his crew, testing his skills by facing some reckless dare, competing
in contests where he had gained a reputation of best all-around lumberjack. He made an occasional visit to town to drink and
brawl and relieve himself with the good-time girls.
For the first time in years he had caught a glimpse of something more. His thoughts for the last few days had been taken up
with a small, blond slip of a girl. The protective longing he had for her was a new feeling. He needed time alone to think,
to try to understand if it was that he felt pity for her because she was deaf, or that he hadn’t been in the company of a
pretty young woman for a long, long time.
James passed the harness shop and the smithy, where the blacksmith, a huge Negro, was hammering forcefully on a red-hot piece
of iron. The smell of fish came from Bessie’s restaurant when he passed it. She was standing in the doorway and waved. James
wondered how a woman so thin she looked as if the wind would blow her away could run an eatery.
He stopped behind a wagon in front of the mercantile, tipped his hat to the woman on the seat and grinned at the two children
sitting on feed sacks in the back. Their eyes were round with the excitement of being in town. The boy smiled and waved. The
little girl clapped her hand over her mouth and ducked behind her brother.
Amos McHenry had been the first to come to Spencer. He had built his store on land given to him by Silas Spencer, a trapper
and woodsman long laid to rest, and had honored the old man by naming the town after him. McHenry was a Scotsman who looked
as if he could swing a bull by the tail and not work up a sweat. His massive, stooped shoulders were crossed with wide suspenders
over a faded flannel shirt. His walrus mustache was thick, but his sandy hair, parted in the middle and slicked down, was
sparse. Even though he spoke in a soft voice, he was ready to face down any man who gave him trouble.
“Howdy, James. ‘Tis a pleasant day we be havin’.”
“It is that, McHenry.”
“How be Miss Dory an’ that sweet lass of hers?”
“Doing all right. You got any more young’uns since I was here last?”
McHenry laughed heartily. “Got one on the way. ’Twas a long winter, laddie.”
“You’re going to overpopulate the territory, McHenry. Will this be nine or ten?”
“Ye be losin’ count, mon. ’Twill be one more’n a dozen. ‘Tis a laddie I be lookin’ for. Eight lovely lassies is ’nuff for
any mon.”
James removed his hat when Mag McHenry came in from the living quarters that adjoined the store. She was big like her husband,
a tall, broad-shouldered, wide-hipped woman with coal-black hair which she wore in a single braid. Her dress hung straight
from those broad shoulders to the tops of her shoes. Dark eyes, bright as shoe buttons, honed in on James.
“Is that the Callahan I be hearin’?”
“You have an ear for voices, Mrs. McHenry.”
“How be Dory and the bairn?”
“They’re fine.”
“Glad to be hearin’ she has the donkey mon’s lassie to keep her company. It’s hearin’ I am that the poor little mite’s deafer
than a doornail.” She clicked her tongue sadly.
It irritated James for Odette to be referred to as “poor little mite.” But he reasoned silently that Mrs. McHenry was just
repeating what she had heard.
“Aye, it’s terrible what’s goin’ on. ’Tain’t safe fer mon, woman nor beast now days. I be thinkin’ ’bout Dory all by her ownself
wid jist ol’ Wiley thar ta stand ‘tween her an’ that devil what’s murderin’ those poor souls.”
“What do you mean?” James looked from McHenry to his wife.
“Ain’t ye heared ’bout the women bein’ murdered?”
“I heard about an Indian girl found in the woods a month or two ago.”
“Been two since then that we know of, mon. One in Pitzer, one down on the Saint Joe River. All since Christmas. Strangled
with bare hands they were an’ heads bashed in. ‘Tis tryin’ times we be havin’, laddie.”
Mrs. McHenry clicked her tongue again. “Could be more under the snow. They be harlots all but human bein’s jist the same.
For a fact ’tis a devil what’s doin’ it.”
James reached into a jar, took out a handful of stick candies and placed them on the counter. McHenry rolled the candies in
a paper and tied them with a string, talking all the while.
“I wrote ta the territorial governor, I did. Asked fer a marshal ta come. Ain’t heared a word.”
“Give me some of that chewing tobacco Wiley likes and a couple cans of peaches.”
James paid for his purchases.
“Be keepin’ yer eyes on Dory and the bairn till this devil what be doin’ this terrible thing be caught.” Mrs. McHenry spoke
as James settled his hat back on his head.
“I’ll do that, and I’ll tell Dory you asked about her.”
The wagon with the woman and two kids was still in front of the store. James stopped, unwrapped the candy and handed each
of the children a stick. The woman turned and smiled her thanks.
“Thank the man,” she urged.
Each of the children murmured something. James tipped his hat to the woman, stashed his purchases in his saddlebag, and mounted
his horse.
He rode on down the street to the Idaho Palace, dismounted, and stepped down onto a walkway of split logs that was slowly
sinking into the mud. He wrapped the horse’s reins around a post and crossed the porch to the door.
There were a half-dozen people in the saloon: the bartender, two men at the bar and a woman sitting with two men at a table
in the corner. All except the woman and the bartender were strangers to James.
“Howdy, Callahan. What’ll ya have?”
“Beer.” James tilted his hat to the back of his head and propped his foot on the footrail. “How’s things, Mel?”
“Slow. Ever’thin’s mudded in. Damn! I hate mud. Ever’ spring it’s muddier and deeper,” he grumbled.
Mel was a fat man with freckles and a fringe of sandy hair around a bald spot. For years he had driven a mule train. He was
rough and he ruled the goings-on in his saloon with an iron hand. He set the glass on the counter and wiped away the foam
that spilled over the top.
The men at the end of the bar had turned sideways and were looking at James. One was a short, barrel-chested man with arms
that reached almost to his knees. His friend was younger, slighter, and taller, with sideburns that reached the straggly beard
on his jawbone.
“Air ya the Callahan?” The man’s voice was unusually loud in the quiet room.
“One of ’em.” James turned his head slightly and glanced at the men. The one that had spoken had a mean look on his face;
the other had watery eyes that shifted uneasily.
“Well… which one?” The man’s voice rose belligerently. His friend put a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him down.
“Why do you want to know?” James answered testily, watching the man in the mirror over the bar.
“’Cause if yo’re the one I think ya are, I’m goin’ to beat yore brains out.”
“You mean you’re going to try.”
“Don’t ya be pissin’ ’round with me, boy.”
James turned, faced the man, and looked at him with careful eyes. “Who put a burr under your tail, mister?” he asked quietly,
but coldly.
“Ya did. Name’s Lyle Kirkham, brother to a gal down in Scottsworth. She said it was a Callahan what… forced her. A Callahan
strong as a bull with plenty a brag. Beat ’er up good.”
James turned back to face the mirror. “I haven’t been to Scottsworth in a couple of years.”
Boot heels sounded on the wooden porch and two men came into the saloon. One was a big red-headed man with heavy shoulders,
slim hips and long legs. James saw him in the mirror and wariness tightened his nerves. This was a hell of a time for Malone
to show up.
“Don’t ya turn yore back on me, ya pisser!” Kirkham’s voice rang harshly. “I ain’t done with ya yet… I ain’t even got started.
Fer all I know ya can be the one a killin’ them…”