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TALL PINES
by
Bill Bottoms
Synopsis
RACE (Radford Arthur Cornice Ennis) was the second son of
an Irish Chief of Clan. Race's older brother would inherit the
entire estate. To give Race a chance to make it on his own, his
father gave him a 25,00 acre tract of unimproved land in the new
world. To keep a large lumber company logging crews from "clear
cutting" the timber from his land, Race allied himself with a
small Indian tribe, a group of "River Rats" and a wizened little
attorney. Their defense of his property was anything but legal.
CHAPTER ONE
Big Sal only managed to crack open the front door of Sal's
Good Time Emporium before her ample, well-displayed bosom was
liberally sprinkled with dirt and sawdust. The blowing sawdust
was almost an everyday occurrence during autumn in Clearwater.
The whine of the Shawtown mill's saws could be heard as they
contributed additional sawdust to that already vexing Sal.
Nobody swept the wooden slat sidewalks or shoveled the streets
free of this annoying by-product of the sawmills because nobody
gave a damn. Now she would have to go back to her room and wash
each of her mammoth mounds or they would itch all day. Even the
mill workers, who produced this aggravating nuisance, would take
their business elsewhere if, when they slipped their hands down
her cleavage and found, like everything else in this town, it was
full of sawdust.
Flipping the sign attached to the outside of the door to
OPEN, Sal slammed the big entry door shut. Where was that damn
bartender? Sal wondered. Probably upstairs trying to inject a
pregnancy into another of her girls. Not only, she concluded in
her angry state of mind, did he take them out of service for a
while, but unlike the customers he didn't pay for that privilege.
"Jake," she bellowed in the direction of the upstairs
rooms, "git your lazy ass down here. If I come up there, and
find you laying on top of Martha, I'll cut the damn thing off."
That's what you get for hiring white trash, her conscience
told her, even if he is your nephew. The clatter of cast iron
stove lids told Sal that Mady, the cook, was starting her
cooking fire for the day. As soon as the fire was hot enough to
heat the tub full of water, Mady would begin washing the glasses
and dishes dirtied during previous evening. Sal walked from
table to table picking up glasses and carrying them to the end of
the bar nearest the kitchen.
"Jake, this is the last time I"m callin' you. The next time
I'm comin' up there." She stuck her right index finger down in
her cleavage and scratched the inside of her right breast. "Damn
him," she muttered, heading for the kitchen. "Just as soon as I
talk to Mady about what, we're servin' today, I'll go up and yank
him out of whatever bed he's in."
When Sal sat down at the table in the kitchen, Maddy brought
over two blue enameled cups filled with coffee. Taking a chair
across from Sal, she said, "Roast venison or deer steaks, taters
and gravy, fresh bread and apple pie."
Sal nodded, "Tomorrow?"
"Either chicken or deer stew, depending on how much deer we
got left."
"Whatta ya got for breakfast?" Jake asked as he entered the
kitchen, tucking his shirt into his pants.
"Same as yesterday and the day before," Mady snapped, rising
and walking toward the stove. "Either eggs and taters or taters
and eggs."
"The way you cook 'em, they taste like steak with all the
trimmin's," Jake told her, patting her oversized rear as she
walked by him. "If you weren't married to that rail roader, I'd
marry you myself."
"So she could sit and wait for you to get through fiddlin'
around upstairs before you came home?" Sal asked, still
displeased with him.
"Is that how you think I spend my nights?" he asked, winking
at Mady. "Shame on you Aunt Sal. I'm a growing boy and need my
sleep. That's why you have a hard time gettin' me up in the
mornin'."
"Huh," Sal snorted. "Tomorrow mornin' I won't holler, I'll
just come up and see if you're sleepin'."
Knowing Big Sal's aversion to forcing her overly plump body
up a set of stairs, he boasted, "Come on up and you'll see I'm
tellin' ya the truth."
Their morning ritual was broken up by a voice calling from
the bar, "Anyone here?"
Motioning Jake to continue eating, Sal, cup of coffee in her
hand, went to answer the summons. Standing at the bar was a
well-dressed, but covered with trail dust, handsome man she had
never seen before. As she approached, he doffed his hat.
"I have been on the trail since dawn, and I'm in need of
something to cut the dust from my throat. Is it possible that I
could purchase a little dust cutting libation?" the stranger said
in a slightly accented, but precise manner.
From his appearance Sal decided he would be asking for the
good stuff, not the rotgut. She reached for the best and most
expensive bottle she had in the house. After setting the bottle
of Jamison Irish whiskey and a glass in front of him, she asked,
"Come far?" Sal set her coffee on the bar and waited for his
answer, her mind continuing her silent appraisal of him.
He poured and tossed down the first shot and refilled his
glass before he said, "New Orleans."
While he sipped the second one, Sal scrutinized him more
carefully. He had, she believed, the bearing of a gentleman.
Though covered with trail dust, his clothing was well tailored
and cut in a more fashionable style than was normally seen here
in the north woods. Broad shouldered and above average height,
he was handsome in a rugged, square jawed sort of way. His was a
face, she concluded, a person would trust. When he spoke, he did
so with a trace of an accent. One that Sal could not place.
"What brings you to these parts?"
"I saw all that lumber that keeps arriving in New Orleans,"
he grinned, shoving the bottle and glass back to her. "With all
the trees, which are standing around here just waiting to be cut,
seems like a good place for a man to make his fortune."
Big Sal felt it was not her place to tell him that those now
engaged in that business had a nasty way of snuffing out what
they considered any encroachment into their domain. That, he'd
find out soon enough. Besides, he didn't say he was going into
the lumbering business. From the cut of his clothing and silk
shirt, she believed, he plied a different trade. More likely,
she concluded, he's a card sharp and the Lord knows I've seen
enough of 'em to tell.
"Had any experience in the lumber business?"
"No. But there isn't anything I can't learn if I set my
mind to it,"
As she turned to set the bottle on the back bar and the
glass on the end of it, toward the kitchen end of it, he asked,
"Where can I get a room in this town?"
"You've got a choice between Ma Eller's Boardin' House and
the Clearwater Hotel. Both of them rent rooms by the day or by
the week."
"So you're the latest one coming here to make his fortune,"
Jake offered in a caustic voice from where he stood leaning
against the kitchen door frame. "Seem's like we got more fortune
hunters around here than we got trees."
It became evident the newcomer had handled brash young men
before. He simply ignored Jake. Turning back to Sal he nodded
his head toward Jake and asks, "He work for you?"
"When I can get him started, he does."
"My condolences. Tell him to bring me some coffee and
breakfast. In that order please."
Jake started to protest, but Sal cut him off. "You heard
him. Get him some coffee and tell Mady to make him some
breakfast." Muttering to himself, Jake disappeared back into the
kitchen.
"As you've figured out by now, I'm Big Sal. I don't believe
I caught your name."
"Probably because I didn't mention it. My apologies." He
held eye contact with her for what seemed to be a long time
before he smiled and said, "Radford Arthur Cearnach Ennis. My
friends call me Race."
CHAPTER TWO
Race's horse was tied to the hitching rail outside of
Big Sal's. It resembled a one man traveling circus. With
the bedroll, two carpet bags, and a rifle scabbard attached
to the saddle, it required someone nimble as an acrobat to
take his place atop it.
Following breakfast and performing the contortions
necessary to get into the saddle, Race walked the horse down
the two block long main street. First, he decided, I'll
find the general store and buy some clothing more suited to
the area, then check into the hotel. Next I'll find a
barber and a bath.
Even before he sighted Callahan's General Store, Race
located it by the sound issuing from that emporium's open
door. The sound consisted of loud, angry words, and given
their higher pitch, Race decided, they belonged to a woman.
The words were followed out the door by a hurtling male
body, which landed face down in the street. Reining in his
horse, Race stopped to watch the action.
Later, when he recalled the incident, he was unsure of
whether it was her looks or her wrath which impressed him
most. Her shoulder length blond hair, pulled back into a
pony tail, revealed the most startling pair of blue eyes
that Race had ever seen. From her lips, issued a torrent of
words. She was beautiful, Race concluded, even when she was
angry.
Emphasizing her words by shaking the broom, she
continued berating the fallen man. "The next time you come
in here reeking like a saloon, 'twill be an iron skillet
I'll be taking to your sodden head."
Race sat quietly astride his horse, enjoying the scene
and his continuing appraisal of her.
"If you got that silly grin you're wearing down at the
saloon, sure and' you'll get the same treatment."
Race suddenly realized that this final salvo was aimed
at him. His grin vanished. Before he could offer an
explanation, she disappeared back into the store. Afraid
that she would believe his grin was the product of
overindulgence, and for some reason he could not understand
it was important to him that she knew it wasn't, he
dismounted and followed her into the store. But, not
without some apprehension.
When he entered, Race was aware that her anger had not
abated, but was now directed at a different person. This
one was older, smaller, and by his apparent lack of concern,
more accustomed to it.
Seated in the middle of the room, alongside a pot
bellied stove was the new target of her wrath. His
diminutive stature was even smaller than that of hers.
Except for the suspenders that held up his trousers and the
dark bowler hat perched atop his head, his clothing was of
the style that Race wanted to purchase for himself.
With the hand that was holding the briar pipe raised
above his head, its stem pointing toward her, the man
managed to curb the flow of her irate words. "May the good
Saint Patrick preserve me. Sure and' with each passing day
you not only look more like your mither--may the Lord keep
her in his loving hands--but you sound more like her."
To Race, the speaker's words sounded more like a long-
suffering complaint than anger. Evidently the man was used
to her venomous tirades. Although Race enjoyed the humor of
the situation, he was careful to keep a smile from his lips.
"Now don't be blaming Mother," was the vixen's parting
shot as she continued toward the rear of the room, broom
still clutched in her hand. "If you weren't my da, wouldn't
you be laying in the street next to your drunken friend?"
Following her departure upstairs, the pipe waving man
turned his attention to Race. "And what can I be doin' for
you, me foine spalpeen?" he said to Race, giving him an
exaggerated wink. "Please ignore me daughter. She's having
one o' her days."
"Perhaps it's a bit safer to give you my order," Race
answered with a grin. It was hard not to smile at the good-
natured gnome. " Even though I've only been in town just a
little over an hour, she's already decided that I've spent
more time in the saloon than is permissible."
Rising from his chair, but still having to crane his
neck back to look Race in the face, the diminutive man held
out his hand. "Name's Callahan. That was O'Reilly me
daughter delivered the sermon to."
With the assistance of the amiable little Irishman,
Race picked out the items he had come to buy. Exiting the
general store, Race saw the hotel sign four doors down the
street.
After securing a hotel room, where he stashed his gear,
and made arrangements for the care of his horse, he headed
for the barber shop. With a complete set of new clothes
tucked under his arm, a bath and a haircut were in order.
Laying back in the large wooden tub, that on occasion
was occupied by three bathers at the same time, Race
recalled his entry into this, the new world. Race and his
brother, like many brothers, disagreed more than they
agreed. Their continuing disagreement cconcerned the older
brother's "nose to the grindstone" approach to life vs.
Race's more carefree one. Because of that disagreement and
the older brother inheriting all of the rights that
accompanied being named the Chief of Clan, their father
issued what was to be his last official act. He gave to Race
an outright gift of the 25,000 acres. Without Race's
knowledge his father had also passed a measure of control
over grant to the shrewd, old attorney who had long been his
representative in St. Louis.
Race wasn't sure just what his father had believed him
capable of doing, but realized it was his final chance. He
believed, aware of his limited knowledge of the business
world, it would be as an apprentice in some local shipping
line. With due respect to his father, if it was an
apprenticeship, he would turn it down. He had not traveled
to this new world to work for another man.
Chauncey Fitzhugh, the Ennis' attorney, was small and
pinch faced. He reminded Race of his father's chief
bookkeeper. The pale face, high starched collar and pince-
nez fit the man's character, but seemed out of place in the
bawdy river town of St. Louis.
It was two hours later, after all the papers had been
scanned and all the letters read, when Race left the
attorney's office. By then he had a different opinion of
the stiff, little attorney. Race was also aware that his
father had placed great faith in his growing up. Under his
arm he carried a copy of a map of the Carter Grant. It was
several thousand acres in the west-central part of some
place called Wisconsin. Land that his father had purchased
from English Captain Henry Carter five years before.
Race left the original map, the transfer of ownership
papers, a letter of credit drawn on an eastern bank, and his
power of attorney with Fitzhugh. In return he had been
given additional funds and the name of a wagon master who
was preparing to depart for that country.
Before Race left St. Louis he purchased a horse, a
rifle, a Bowie knife, and paid the required fee allowing him
to travel with the wagon train.
The train, with its heavy load of freight made slow
progress. While the sluggish pace of the train was a
vexation to Race's eagerness to get there, it would be to
his advantage. Part of the agreement he had made with the
wagon master was that he would eat with the train's crew.
Breakdowns and the need to unload and reload the wagons with
the heaviest cargoes at river crossings, made their progress
even slower. When their supplies ran low, it was necessary
to rely more heavily on fresh game.
Seated by the fire, drinking his morning coffee, Race
watched as Wagon Master Meyers and the train's hunter, an
Indian named Charley Quiet Walker, approached. They stopped
in front of him.
"I know our agreement included your meals," Meyers
said, "but these breakdowns are causin' us to run behind
schedule. It also means our food supplies are getting low.
If we don't get more game, we'll all go hungry. I'd like
for you and your horse to go with Charley and help bring in
additional game."
Charley Quiet Walker was about the same age as Race.
The product of a cold winter, an Indian maiden and a French
trapper who disappeared down the river the following spring,
Charley had learned the ways of self preservation at an
early age. By the age of eight, he was the sole procurer of
game for himself and his mother. It was to see her again
that he had hired on with the train.
Although Race was a quick learner, and needed no
instructions in the use of a gun or knife, it was his horse
that was his major contribution to their expeditions. It
was far easier to carry the carcasses to camp across the
rump of a horse than to drag it, slung from a pole over your
shoulder. In the days that followed, Race and Charley
became friends.
Race had been born and raised in a seacoast town.
His version of self care was, just as it was in all sailors'
towns, handiness with your fists and a knife. It was from
Charley he learned the rudiments of cooking, camping,
hunting and tracking. By the time the train reached
Clearwater he was, he believed, fairly self-sufficient in
these skills. The night before the train reached its
destination, Race and Charley were the last two remaining
seated by the fire. "Charley," Race asked, "how long do you
intend to visit with your mother?"
"Until the moon is full again. To you, 'White Boy,'
that's four weeks from now."
Race knew that if you discounted an occasional lapse
into French or Ojibwa, Charley's English was just as good as
his own. Charley, Race had learned, had attended a Jesuit
School near the reservation and later two years at a Jesuit
College in St. Louis. The comment about the full moon was
not intended as a slur, but a continuance of Race's
education.
"What will you do then?"
"Look for another job."
"Would you work for me?"
Charley eyed him skeptically. "Doin' what? Teaching
you how to track muskrats under water?"
Race pulled an oilskin packet from his saddle bags. As
he opened it he asked, "Have you ever heard of some land
called the Carter Grant?"
"Yes. It's owned by some English Lord, or was. I
heard somewhere he sold it and it's now owned by an
Irishman. Part of it adjoins the reservation where my
mother lives. Why?"
Laying the copy of the map on the ground between them
Race answered, "I'm that Irishman."
"You? You don't talk like an Irishman."
Race nodded. "My father sent me to a college run by an
English Headmaster who believed that his main mission in
life was to prevent us from sounding like Irishmen. But, as
I said, I'm the Irishman who owns it. I've never seen it.
I don't know how to find it, and I don't know what I'm going
to do with it. Want to help me?"
"Sounds like you need help," Charley replied. Picking
up the map, he examined it closely. After several minutes
he said, "There isn't a foot of that ground I haven't
traveled. While it's been three years since I was there, I
could still find any part of it in the dark."
The moon had started to wane before their discussion
ended. It was agreed they would meet in Clearwater after
Charley's visit with his mother.
The knowledge each man gained in the interim would
place a different outlook on their proposed venture.
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