Two days passed before news reached Bridges of the death of Reuben Pierce. He hadn’t known the man well, though he had signed off on his hiring; he had seemed vulgar and indifferent to work, but they needed hands. They’d lost a couple of men in rockfalls underground, but this one seemed strange, and he questioned Mason, who had shown up at the sawmill with the news.
“He fell off the dam?”
“Possibly,” Mason said. “Nobody saw it happen. He was in the water on the downstream side, anyway.”
“But what would he have been doing on the dam in the first place? If the man was walking to Daybreak he wouldn’t have been out there.”
“Can’t say. He might have fallen into the water from the hill on the west side. It’s rough terrain.”
Bridges tried to picture it in his mind, having walked that path himself. Not hard to imagine falling off the hill, as rocky and uneven as that slope was. A mountain goat could lose its footing up there, particular on the granite, which became impossibly slick when it was wet. But to end up in the deep hole below the turbine? He couldn’t work that out. “Did he have any family? We should send them his pay.”
Mason laughed. “You would think of such a thing, soft-hearted soul. I’ll check his records.”
They stood at the window of the headquarters overlooking the town. Mason gazed out to the mill, the railroad, and the valley beyond. “Won’t be long till Mr. Crecelius visits,” he said. “Last thing we want is controversy dogging us.”
“Why? Is there some controversy?”
“That deputy, Pettibone, hung around half a day trying to get something out of the miners. He seemed to think that somebody might have put Pierce into the river.”
“What do you think?”
Mason snorted. “Every time somebody dies, somebody else throws out a theory. The world is full of unfortunate incidents as it is, without us adding to them.”
Bridges let the subject pass. He didn’t expect to get a straight yes or no from Mason anyway. “We’ll be ready for Mr. Crecelius, I’m sure.” Through quiet inquiries, he had learned that Mr. Crecelius’ intended was named Lucinda, and after a couple of days of rumination, he’d discarded “Lucindaville,” “Lucindopolis,” and all other variations for the simple town name of “Lucinda.” He hoped a reply to his letter to the Postmaster General would arrive in time for the visit. But if Charley Pettibone thought something was amiss about this man’s death, then it could very well be true, and there would be no celebration at all. But no sense in borrowing trouble. He’d worry about that if it ever happened. “So did Pettibone say why he thought Pierce didn’t die by accident?”
“No. But he spent a couple of hours trying to get something out of those Bohemians.”
“Good luck with that. The only thing I ever understood from them was ‘That no right, boss. That weight short.’”
Mason laughed. “You’ve got that right. Their English improves remarkably when you’re counting up their tonnage.”
The thought of troublesome people jogged Bridges’ memory. “What did you think of that letter I sent over to you? The one from Ambrose Gardner?”
“He’ll sell,” Mason said with a shrug. “He’s just playing tough. I’ll send Yancey over one last time to talk to him. I bet they’ll strike a deal.”
“But he said he had spiked his trees.”
Mason sniffed. “Not a chance. Old birds like him are too smart to kick out their nest egg.”
“Where is your man Yancey, anyway?”
“No idea,” Mason murmured. “Haven’t seen him in a while. He’ll turn up, though. Always does.” He turned from the window and settled himself at his desk, flipping through the account books from the past week. “We’re averaging better than a hundred thousand board feet a day. Damn fine.”
Bridges could have told him that, if he’d asked, but by now he’d learned that Mason was not the asking sort. No matter. For now, he was content to run his side of affairs and let Mason tend his own.
The southbound train, right on time, whistled to a stop on the siding. Two cars of supplies and eight empty flatbeds to be loaded for the return, just as they’d specified. He watched as they unloaded the boxcars. “Think I’ll walk down and supervise,” he said. “Ackhurst seems trustworthy enough, but another pair of eyes never hurts.” Perhaps this was the day his letter from Washington would arrive.
Mason stood up and put on his coat, a bit of a surprise. He didn’t usually engage with the workmen day to day, preferring instead to keep to the office and mind the books. “You may be right about Ackhurst,” he said. “But even the best man will steal when handed the opportunity. I’ll check the bill of lading against his inventory.” They walked down the hill together.
A crew of men loading goods onto wagons paused as they approached. Bridges waved at them to continue as Mason climbed into the railcars to inspect. He spied Ackhurst with the mail pouch and strolled over. Until he had a positive answer from the government, he wanted to keep this business private.
“What have we got today?” he said.
Ackhurst riffled through the letters. “Not much. A few letters to the men. I’ll sort those out at the store. Here’s something addressed to you.”
Bridges reached eagerly for the letter, but was dismayed to see that it didn’t come from the Postmaster General, but instead had a local address: Newton Turner from the Daybreak community.
Now why would this man Turner write him? He passed through Daybreak a couple of times a week. Bridges turned his back for some privacy and broke the seal.
He should have guessed. “Here’s news,” he said as Mason stepped down from the train. “Daybreak’s not selling.”
“Let me see that,” Mason said. He studied the letter with a frown. “Damnation. Think they can be made to change their minds?”
“I doubt it. Those people are all about the democratic process. You’ve seen them at work.”
“Yes, and I told this son of a bitch that there’d be a fine bonus in it for him if he led them to the right decision. So what is it, he doesn’t need money?”
“You’ll have to ask him. Obviously I’m not as keen on the scent of what goes on with them as I thought.”
“Damn it, man, you’re the one who’s supposed to be charming these villagers and smoothing our path! How could you let a fish this size get away!”
His haughty tone irritated Bridges, who was already feeling sensitive. He knew he had no right to expect a tip from Josephine that the community’s vote was not going his way, but it would have been nice to receive one as a courtesy. Mason’s words stung because they mirrored his own thoughts. “Those ‘fish’ you are talking about are people with the right to vote however they please. I hope you remember that.”
Mason snorted. “Keep that precious right to vote in mind when it comes layoff time. That land could keep eighty men working for four or five months.”
The thought pained Bridges. He had buried the realization that someday, maybe someday soon, they would run out of nearby timber and would have to relocate the mill. Maybe farther south, deeper toward Arkansas, maybe west, leapfrogging the big operations at Grandin and Mountain View. What would that mean for his men? Would they be brought along? Not likely—there were always local boys hungry for work. So it would be back to the farm for them, or scratching out a living somehow else. And for him? Just when he had begun to soften the armor of Josephine Mercadier, to be drawn off to a new location far away, too far to make his drop-by visits, anyway. To traipse off now, having fallen this much in love with her, felt monumentally unfair, although he wasn’t sure if it was him being unfair to her or the gods being unfair to them both. “Nothing to do about that now,” he said to Mason, and his sigh was more for himself than for the workers.
“Maybe not. I’ve got a second line of attack with these people.”
“Let’s hope it’s not a line of attack like the one used on Reuben Pierce.”
Mason stared at him. “Sarcasm is unbecoming to you, Mr. Bridges,” he said at last. “I didn’t know this Pierce, but I’m not going to make snide comments about his dying in order to distract from my own deficiencies. If somebody shows me proof of wrongdoing, then I’ll buy it. But till then, I’d leave the lawmen to their business and mind my own. It’s plain to us that you’ve become too personally involved with the Daybreak deal, so we’re taking matters into our own hands from now on.”
He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Bridges stung. He knew he had no better claim to knowledge than Mason or anyone else. Mason’s indignation felt disingenuous to him, but maybe he was right. Speculation only fed discontent. And this second line of attack to buy the Daybreak land? Surely Mason wouldn’t be fool enough to send Yancey, not with a deputy sheriff living among them. And that “us” and “we” made one thing clear—he had lost New York’s trust.
But still—a dead man, one of their own, and on their land. This hardly seemed the time to draw back and wait for the good offices of others, lawmen or not. He watched, distracted, as the men rushed to stack the rough lumber onto the railcars while the engine chuffed, the engineer eager to get on to Piedmont, Leeper, Poplar Bluff, and points south. The tyranny of the timetable overrode them all.