Blake had made the trip to Oregon, signed the contracts, and paid the money for the timber and the transport. The first couple of shipments had arrived without a problem. But the third shipment was days overdue.
It was too late in the day for a visit to the telegraph office in Miles City. He would go there first thing tomorrow, send one wire to the rail shipping agency, with a demand that they account for the missing logs, and another to place an order for two more wagonloads of the regular white pine logs.
Between the cost, the delays, and the challenge of dragging the heavy logs from the rail to the mill, using a device called a big wheel—a pair of giant wheels on an axle supporting a platform and drawn by horses—his latest idea was proving to be more bother than it was worth. Maybe after tracking down this last shipment, he’d give up hauling big logs and stick to the ones that could be brought right to the mill by wagon.
Feeling as irascible as a grizzly with mange, he mounted his horse and rode down the street to the saloon. Blake had never been much of a drinker, but right now the thought of cheap whiskey burning its way down his throat had some appeal. He’d take time for a quick drink, then head home and spend the rest of the day riding fences.
Dismounting, he glanced at his pocket watch. Sheriff Potter, a cocky little bantam rooster of a man, had made drinking against the law before 3:00 in the afternoon. But it was just past 3:00, and several horses were already tied at the rail out front. Blake left his horse next to them and went inside through the swinging doors.
Three men were seated around a table, talking and drinking. Blake’s nerves prickled as he recognized them, but he ignored them and ambled to the bar. They’d paid him no attention when he walked in; but sooner or later they’d be likely to notice him. When they did, he would need to be ready for whatever they had in mind.
He paid for three fingers of whiskey and sipped it slowly, every nerve and muscle tensed and waiting. Without turning to look, he pictured them at the table—Hobie Evans and the two Carmody brothers—triple trouble. He’d bet good money they were up to no good.
From where he stood, Blake could make out only fragments of their conversation—the mention of honyockers and something about the fire. No surprise there. But then he heard something else from one of the Carmodys—something that caused the hair to bristle on the back of his neck.
“. . . Say, Hobie, Sig and Lem want to know when we’ll be seein’ some money for this work.”
Hobie’s reply was drowned out by a gang of noisy cowboys who’d chosen that moment to burst into the saloon and crowd up to the bar. Blake took advantage of the commotion to blend in with the newcomers and slip out the door.
As he swung into the saddle, his mind grappled to make sense of what he’d just heard. It appeared that Sig and Lem, who’d almost raped Hanna, were in league with Hobie and the Carmodys, and that somebody was paying them to harass the drylanders, probably with the aim of driving them away.
But who would pay those men to commit crimes like rape, arson, and God knows what else?
Could it be the Calders?
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER LUNCH THE NEXT DAY, HANNA AND ALVAR RODE ONE OF THE draft horses across the prairie to the Reisner homestead. They traveled bareback, Hanna behind with one arm clutching her brother’s waist and the other cradling the towel-wrapped loaf of bread she’d baked that morning. Alvar had brought their father’s single-barreled shotgun, which he balanced across his knees. While Hanna was visiting Lillian, he planned to hunt some birds for the pot.
The day was overcast but still simmering with July heat. In the wheat fields that spread on both sides of the wagon trail, green stalks rippled like the waves of an emerald sea, beautiful in their promise of the money that would come with the harvest and the sale of the wheat. But the parched ground cried out for water. If rain didn’t come soon, the shallow roots would wither, leaving nothing in the fields but dead yellow sticks. It was a worry for everyone. But Hanna’s mind was on more personal matters.
The distance to the Reisner homestead wasn’t that far. Ordinarily, Hanna and Alvar would have walked. But Hanna’s sprained ankle was still swollen and sore. She couldn’t take more than a few steps without pain. So her parents had let Alvar take her on the horse. Hanna knew they were eager for her to go, probably hoping that Lillian could talk some sense into their daughter. But it wasn’t sense that Hanna wanted. It was the truth.
They rode into the yard to find Lillian hanging laundry on the clothesline. To Hanna’s relief, there was no sign of Stefan. She had never felt at ease around Lillian’s grim, taciturn husband, who made her feel as if she were being judged.
Without dismounting, Alvar lent an arm to help her slide down the horse to the ground. After giving Lillian a soft-spoken greeting, he tipped his hat and rode off toward the open grassland that lay beyond the wheat fields. He’d agreed to come back for Hanna in an hour.
“What are you doing, Lillian?” Hanna limped toward her friend. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I suppose I should. The burns on my legs still hurt. But Stefan has no clean underclothes, and the dirty ones won’t wash themselves. So I do what I must.”
Hanna’s gaze traveled from the copper washtub sitting on an iron stand over a fire to the wicker basket at Lillian’s feet and the lanky, worn, one-piece cotton union suits dripping over the line, along with socks, trousers, and shirts. “Let me help you,” she said.
“I’m almost finished. This is the last one.” Wincing with pain, Lillian lifted the final garment out of the basket and hung it over the sagging line. “At least they will dry fast in the heat. But look at you. You can barely walk. Stefan told me what happened. Come and sit down. I’ll get us both some cool water, and we can talk.”
“You can save this for supper.” Hanna passed her the loaf of bread, which Lillian accepted with thanks.
“I made it myself,” Hanna said. “My mother is teaching me to be a capable wife—at least she’s trying.”
“Oh, Hanna.”
The sympathy in Lillian’s voice did nothing to ease Hanna’s misgivings. As Lillian disappeared into the house, she took a seat on a crude wooden bench that had been placed next to the stoop. A moment later, Lillian came outside, sat down beside her, and handed her a tin cup. The water would have come from a barrel which had to be filled in town. The settlers, including the Reisners and Hanna’s family, had sunk wells, but the water in them had proven too alkaline to be of any use.
Hanna sipped the water, knowing how precious every drop was. As it cooled her dry throat, she summoned her courage and spoke.
“So you already know that my parents want me to marry Ulli Swenson?”
Lillian nodded. “There are very few secrets in our little community. People know, or at least they’ve guessed. And they wish you happiness—as I do, whatever you decide.” Her work-roughened hand moved to rest on Hanna’s. At moments like this, it was hard to believe that Lillian was barely a year older than she was.
“What’s it like being married, Lillian?” she asked.
“It’s about the way you’d expect. You work to take care of your husband and your home. He works to provide, and what he tells you to do, you do. Times can be hard. Sometimes you wish you could be someone else, somewhere else. But in the end you go on because you are building something important together—a family.”