On the way out of town, they stopped at the jail. Sheriff Bennett must have been watching for them out his office window—no sooner did Mr. Court pull the horses to a stop than the sheriff was out the door and climbing into the backseat of the buggy beside Francie.
“This is Miss Frances Cavanaugh,” said Mr. Court. “She’s the girl who . . .”
But no explanations were needed. “So you’re the girl who caused me so much trouble this afternoon,” he said, looking her up and down as if he were figuring out what size cell to put her in. He was a big man with wild gray hair that stuck out from under his wide-brimmed hat. He was dressed all in black: black pants, black vest—even his shirt was black.
Mr. Court snapped the lines, and the horses started off at a trot.
“Yes, sir,” Francie said. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”
Sheriff Bennett put his head back and roared with laughter. “Inconvenience,” he spluttered when he could get his breath. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Eight men on the payroll for four hours . . . to say nothing of the worry. We thought you’d broken your neck and the coyotes had dragged off your body.” He looked at her over the tops of his glasses.
“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked him in a small voice. What would her father say to that, she wondered, realizing she had already gone way beyond any trouble Carrie had ever caused.
“Well,” Sheriff Bennett drawled. “That depends. I thought you’d done it for a lark.” He tapped his finger on his thigh.
“No, sir,” Francie broke in. “I wasn’t. I . . .”
He held up his hand. “Court advised me of the real situation. And under the circumstances, I don’t see how you could have done any different.” He raised one finger. “Mind, I don’t say you shouldn’t have talked this over with your parents.”
“But they never would have let me try it,” Francie blurted out.
“A simple telegram could have started the process in motion,” Sheriff Bennett said.
Francie fell silent, listening to the clop-clopping of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road. It was true. If her father had sent a telegram to Mr. Court or Sheriff Bennett, they could have checked on the will and the deed. If . . .
“My father would not do anything to stop the logging,” Francie’s voice was low. “He disagrees with Mr. Court.”
Sheriff Bennett nodded. “So Court tells me,” he said. “So, as I said, under the circumstances, I don’t think you’ll be spending any time in jail. This time.” He gave her a stern look, but Francie thought she could see the corners of his lips quivering, as if they wanted to turn up in a smile. “It’s going to be a long night, Court. I’ll sleep now if you don’t mind.”
The mountains in front of them were purple in the sunset, and the sky was streaked with orange and scarlet. Mr. Court kept the horses to a trot. They would make good time on the flat ground and even after they entered the rolling foothills, but before too long they would have to slow down—no horse could trot all the way to Connorsville over the narrow, rocky trail they’d be following, especially at night.
Mr. Court looked over his shoulder at Francie. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep as well,” he suggested.
The rocking motion of the buggy made Francie think of a cradle, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her mind was filled with questions. What would happen when they got to Connorsville? Would Sheriff Bennett and Mr. Court be able to stop Lewis Granger from cutting down the tree? But the biggest question of all was what her father would say when they asked him what he wanted to do with the tree since it really belonged to him. And she already knew the answer to that one.
She closed her eyes, anyway, thinking she would be wise to do whatever Mr. Court and Sheriff Bennett told her to do. It would be hard enough to face her father with their support. If they saw her as a troublemaker, it would be even worse. She wrapped herself in the musty-smelling carriage blanket Mr. Court had handed her before they left, huddled in a corner of the buggy, and tried to sleep.
• • •
She awoke with a jolt as the buggy swayed violently, throwing her against Sheriff Bennett. She could hear Mr. Court swearing at the horses; his shape was a darker shadow against a dark sky as he leaned back, pulling on the lines to slow the horses to a stop.
“What the hell is going on?” shouted Sheriff Bennett as he and Francie struggled to untangle themselves. One side of the buggy seat seemed to be dragging on the ground.
“Lost a wheel,” Mr. Court said, and then, “Easy, Sam, easy, Jim,” to the horses. He climbed down from the buggy and turned to help Francie and then the sheriff out as well.
The three of them stood in the darkness and surveyed the damage. “Doesn’t look too bad,” Sheriff Bennett commented. “The shaft’s still whole, at any rate.” He looked around him and whistled. “We’re lucky we didn’t go off the cliff, though.”
The wheels of the buggy were less than a yard from the side of the road, a narrow track, which seemed to have been carved out of the solid rock of the mountain—it skirted the edge of a precipitous drop straight into the valley far below. This trail wound its way to a pass almost at the top of the first range, and then descended in the same kind of shelf road into Connorsville. Francie’s heart seemed to drop into her stomach as she looked down into the darkness of the valley. If they’d gone off, they’d all have been killed.
Slowly she backed away from the edge. Sheriff Bennett and Mr. Court were unhitching the horses. “Miss Cavanaugh,” Mr. Court called to her. “Can you walk down the trail a bit and see if you can find the wheel? If it’s not busted, I think Sheriff Bennett and I could get it back on.”
Francie nodded. The moon was half full and gave enough light to see by. Francie followed the trail, staying as far away from the edge as she could. About a quarter mile down she found the wheel, leaning up against a large rock that was half buried in the middle of the path. She stood the wheel on end and tested each spoke—they all seemed sound. “I’ve got it,” she called back to the men, and then, with both hands, she rolled the wheel back up the hill to the buggy.
“Good girl,” Sheriff Bennett said, taking the wheel from her. “Now, can you hold the horses while Court and I see if we can repair this thing?”
The horses, Sam and Jim, had calmed and were watching the proceedings with eyes big and almost liquid in the moonlight. “Hey, fellow,” Francie whispered, rubbing her hand down Sam’s forehead and then over his soft, soft nose. He blew a gentle breath out into her palm and nibbled on her fingers. Jim stamped his foot and gave a prodigious sigh.
“I hope they get it fixed, too.” Francie kept her voice low so as not to startle them. She kept hold of the hitching straps Mr. Court had attached to the horses’ bridles but moved off a few paces to sit on a large boulder. Sam and Jim lowered their heads, sniffing for what little green there might be on the rocky hillside.
The repair took two hours, but finally the horses were hitched up, the three travelers were settled into the buggy again, and they started off.
“I was hoping we’d get to Connorsville with a little time to spare for a few hours sleep,” Mr. Court said. “But I doubt if that’ll be possible, now.”
Sheriff Bennett grunted. “This wild ride was your idea, Court,” he reminded the newspaperman. “I was willing to telegraph to Granger to delay cutting for a day.”
Mr. Court shook his head. “From what I know of Granger, a little thing like a telegram won’t stop him. He can always claim they didn’t send it out to the logging camp in time.” He clucked to the horses, but when they broke into a trot he slowed them again. “Let’s not take any chances,” he said. “Better late than never.”
It was true, thought Francie as she wrapped the carriage blanket around her against the chill of the night air. But late would be just the same as never for Carrie’s tree. If they didn’t make it to the logging camp before the cutting started everything would be for nothing. Carrie’s beautiful tree, the oldest thing on earth, would be gone.