Riding the Flume Read online

  She sat with her legs hanging over the edge of the stump and looked at the diary. She’d wanted to climb to the top of Connor’s Peak to read Carrie’s words, but according to the diary, it was an all-day climb. Carrie hadn’t minded missing supper, but Francie didn’t dare risk it. This would have to do. She opened the book again.

  June 16, 1887. Francie stared at the date. Carrie had written it exactly seven years earlier on this very day, when she’d decided to fill up Carrie’s empty pages. The thought came with a shiver of goose bumps up her arms. She read on:

  I saw Old Robert today—just a glimpse of his battered hat and torn coat through the trees as I was walking down Connor’s Creek. That means he survived another winter. I’m glad. Someday I will find out where he goes. He told me once that he hibernates. He couldn’t have been serious . . . but with Old Robert you never know. He’s a strange creature—indeed, almost like a bear at times.

  Francie closed the diary, keeping her finger between the pages to mark the place. It was a little like reading a novel. If she kept on, would she find the truth about the tree and Old Robert?

  • • •

  June 21, 1887. Today I visited Old Robert at his cabin. It was truly an honor—he saw me in the basin and invited me to teal His voice was cracked and gravely as if he hadn’t used it much, but he has such a nice smile. I said yes, and then, without a word, he turned and marched off I followed him up Connor’s Creek—his cabin is about an hour’s walk from the basin, near the place where the creek forks. It’s a beautiful place—surrounded with wildflowers. Dogwood grows all around and monkey flower and a stunning bunch of phlox in one place where the sun shines most of the day. You wouldn’t expect to find that one in the woods—not enough light except in that one place. Old Robert boiled the water in an old kettle over a tiny iron stove and served the tea in two delicate china cups. Why do you suppose he has china cups in a rugged mountain cabin? When I asked him, he acted as if I had not spoken at all. But he did ask me to visit again. I think I will. He has two books on a corner shelf in his cabin—the Bible and Shakespeare’s sonnets. He can recite both from memory. It was quite amazing, this old bear of a man quoting Shakespeare’s love poetry.

  July 1, 1887. Today I took Old Robert a packet of black tea—his favorite kind, as he told me. He was in a foul mood—shaking his fists and shouting out about robbery and the sheriff and “hanging the devil.” He was so angry I was almost afraid of him. He growled and grumbled and paced up and down from one side of the small cabin to the other His speech is hampered by his lack of teeth, and I couldn’t understand all he said, but it seemed he was upset by the idea that the lumber company was going to start logging the sequoia trees. It’s curious how surprised he was . . . as if he didn’t know it would happen eventually. Wasn’t that the whole reason Connor had purchased the land? I tried to point it out to him, but he turned on me and called me a murderer! “Sequoias aren’t killed by disease and they don’t burn,” he yelled at me. “Don’t you know that if men didn’t cut them down they’d live forever?” I said I’d stop the logging if I could. At least he quieted then, and stroked my head with his hand. As if I were the one who needed calming. What a strange old man. He said something odd then, odder even than his usual mumblings. “I’m the one can stop it, Missy,” he said. “And I will, too. You just wait and see.” I wish it were true. There’s something terrible about logging the sequoias. Robert is right about them living forever—I read about that in a book. There’s something in the bark that protects them against fire and disease, and insects don’t bother them the way they do other trees. They’re almost immortal—like the angels. Does that mean when someone cuts one down, it’s like killing an angel?

  July 3, 1887. Robert came to the hotel today! What a change! His hair was washed and brushed, and he was wearing a suit! It was old and out of fashion, but it was clean—he must have put it away somewhere in his cabin waiting for a special occasion. He asked Papa if he could speak to me for a moment, and Papa agreed, though the look he gave me was very suspicious. Old Robert told me he was going to St. Joseph to see to that problem we talked about. He must have meant the logging, but he wouldn’t say it outright, and he wouldn’t let me say it, either. It was just like a dime novel—very exciting and mysterious! Father asked me many questions about him at supper, but I didn’t give anything away.

  July 4, 1887. The entire town picnicked in Connor’s Basin today to celebrate Independence Day. Thomas Connor made a speech, long and boring. He is the most pompous man I’ve ever seen. And Lewis Granger always stands beside him like some kind of bodyguard. “A man can smile and smile and be a villain.” Doesn’t that come from Hamlet? Shakespeare would have recognized Granger in a moment. That man gives me the shivers.

  “Me, too,” Francie said, nodding. It felt good to find she and Carrie agreed about something. She skipped Carrie’s description of the people at the picnic and turned the pages, looking for another entry about Old Robert. But her eye was caught by the mention of her own name again.

  September 14, 1887.1 WISH Papa would stop worrying so much. He knows I can take care of myself in the mountains. And Francie can do the same. She’s as surefooted as a little mountain goat and has the balance of one as well. Papa keeps saying, “It’s not proper for a young woman.” If he’d wanted us to be proper, why didn’t he take us all back East and open a hotel in Philadelphia! Please don’t let him think about that—I would die in Philadelphia!

  The words on the page blurred as Francie’s eyes filled with tears. Carrie had thought she was as surefooted as a mountain goat! “I wish you’d have said that to me, Carrie,” Francie said aloud. “Why did you always have to tease?”

  “Because that was her way. She teased everyone.”

  Francie jerked violently and bit off a scream as she saw Charlie standing just below her, leaning up against the ladder. “Charlie! You scared me almost to death.” Then she realized the significance of his presence. “It’s after six o’clock?” She closed the diary, grabbed the shoulder bag, and scrambled down the ladder almost as fast as the squirrel. “I’m going to be late again.”

  “Aunt Mary sent me to find you. She said you’d be out here.” He tapped the diary. “Find anything else interesting in there?”

  “Lots. Listen to this.” She opened the book.

  May 15,1887. Charlie comes tomorrow. I can hardly wait a moment longer. There is so much to show him. First the fox pups. And then the cave. He’ll love it—we can camp there after it gets warmer. Elizabeth Jordan thinks I’m silly to be best friends with a boy, and one who is two years younger. But I think Elizabeth Jordan is a fool. Charlie’s the best, best cousin and the best, best friend in the world.

  “I was twelve,” Charlie said after a moment. His eyes looked sad. He reached over Francie’s shoulder and began picking pieces of bark off the old stump with his fingernail. “I lived for summers back then.”

  “And now Elizabeth Jordan would do just about anything for a smile from you,” Francie said, sorry she’d read him the entry.

  Charlie gave Francie the smile Elizabeth Jordan would die for. “Carrie was right. Elizabeth Jordan is a fool.” He dusted off his hands. “Anything about Old Robert?”

  “I was just looking.” She read him the entries she’d found so far, and then thumbed through the remaining pages. “Here’s one.”

  December 15, 1887. The blizzard is over and I went to the woods this afternoon. I was tempted to go all the way to Old Robert’s cabin. (Does he stay in that little cabin all winter? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t have enough food, would he?) But in the end, there wasn’t time. I’ll have to go visit the old man another day.

  • • •

  “That’s the only thing I can find—just little comments about unimportant things.” She shut the book and gave it a little shake. “Nothing more about why he was dressed up so fine or what happened in St. Joseph.” She looked up at Charlie. “Maybe that’s when he had the will made.”

  Charlie g
ave her an almost pitying look. “He was a crazy old man.”

  “Even crazy old men make wills,” she retorted.

  Charlie squinted up at the sky. “You ready to head back home? I’m staying for supper, in case you didn’t know, and I’m getting hungry.”

  Francie grinned at him. “Shall we run back?”

  He laughed and, tipping his hat, offered her his arm. “Not a chance. Will you walk with me back to town?”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Francie answered, curtsying.

  • Chapter Twelve •

  “I wanted to be absolutely certain I gave you correct information last night,” said Francie’s father, “so I asked Lewis about individuals owning sequoia trees.” He took a sip of his after-dinner coffee and looked at Francie. “I assume Charlie is familiar with the subject as well?”

  Francie stared at her father. In honor of Charlie’s visit she’d also been allowed to have coffee, well laced with thick cream. Now she clattered the cup back onto its saucer with trembling fingers. “You didn’t tell Mr. Granger about Carrie’s tree, did you?” She felt as if the floor had suddenly given way beneath her chair.

  Her father frowned. “Of course. I asked about the trees and the land on the north side of the basin. I told him my daughter had discovered an especially big tree up by Connor’s Pass where the old hermit used to live and had the strange idea that Old Robert owned the land rather than the lumber company. I asked if that was even possible.”

  Charlie cleared his throat. “What did he say, Uncle James?” He glanced at Francie and then away again.

  Francie’s father stroked his mustache with his finger. “He took me into the lumber company office and asked me to show him on the map where the tree was.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know exactly, but from the entry in the diary—”

  “You read Carrie’s diary?” Charlie’s eyebrows went up.

  “Frances read me the one entry,” Francie’s father said stiffly. “I assume the tree must be up by Connor’s Pass, since that’s all unexplored land. But,” and he tapped his finger on the white tablecloth, “my answer to you yesterday was correct. The lumber company owns all that land. Old Robert may have wished to deed the tree to Carrie, but it wasn’t his to give away.”

  “But what about the will?” Francie gripped the tabletop so hard her fingers turned white. “Carrie saw the will!”

  Francie’s father reached out and touched Francie’s hand. “He may not have understood the law, Frances,” he said. “Everyone said he wasn’t always right in his head. He may have thought since he lived on the land, he owned it. But Mr. Granger assured me that wasn’t the case here.”

  Francie held her breath, trying not to cry. She looked at her father’s hand covering her own. A question was buzzing in her brain, one she didn’t want to know the answer to, but she had to ask it anyway. “Papa,” she began in a small voice, “did Mr. Granger seem interested in the tree?”

  “The discovery of a tree that big is always of interest to the lumber company, Frances,” her father said. “Because of the depression, Connor isn’t as solid as he’d like to be. The more wood he cuts, the more he’ll sell, and the stronger the company will become. Any new stands are of help.” He patted her hand and then began folding up his napkin.

  Francie stood up. “He can’t cut that tree, Father.” She was surprised to find her voice almost steady. “That’s Carrie’s tree. She promised to protect it.”

  Her father sighed. “Frances, I know you love the trees, and I know Carrie did. But we can’t let our personal preference stand in the way of human progress. The decision to cut the tree will be made by Granger.”

  “James, is there no possibility they’ll leave it alone?” Francie’s mother put her hand to her mouth, and Francie knew it was to hide the quivering of her lips. “If Carrie loved it . . .”

  “Now don’t you start, Mary.” Francie’s father stood up. “It’s enough to drive a man mad, all these softhearted women. What do you think, Charlie?”

  Charlie looked at him and swallowed nervously. “I guess I just don’t know, sir. It would be a great challenge to bring it down in one piece, and I think we’ve got the manpower to do it.” Then his eyes met Francie’s. “But it would be a shame, too, in a way. It’s so old.”

  “Think of how many years it’s been growing, Papa.” Francie rushed around the table and grabbed his arm. “That stump had more than three thousand rings. This one is probably even older than that. Can’t you stop them? Can’t you do this for Carrie? So we have something to remember her by?”

  Francie’s father closed his eyes and his face looked suddenly gray and old. “I don’t want to remember,” he mumbled. He tried to pull away, but Francie was holding onto his arm. He looked down, but instead of brushing her hand away as she’d expected, he covered it with his own. They stood there in silence for a moment. Then, gently, he lifted her hand, touched it to his cheek, and then let go and walked out of the room. Francie waited, looking at her mother’s stricken face and Charlie’s sad eyes. In a moment the front door opened and then closed again.

  “He’s going back to the hotel,” Francie’s mother said. She sighed and began clearing away the dishes. She looked up at Francie. “Don’t be angry with him. You don’t understand how he feels.”

  Francie shook her head. “You’re right. I don’t. I miss Carrie, too, but how can he just—”

  Charlie stood up, interrupting her. “I’ve got to go, Francie. Walk me to the door?”

  Francie looked at him and then at her mother, standing with bowed head and a pot in her hand. She bit her lip. “Of course,” she said.

  When they were out in the hall, he turned to her. “Let it be, Francie. You can’t change them. Only time will do that.”

  “It’s been six years!” Francie whispered, but it felt as if she were shouting. “How much longer will it take?” Tears that had been burning in her eyes since her father’s announcement spilled over. “And now he won’t even fight to save Carrie’s tree.”

  “We don’t know if it’s Carrie’s tree,” Charlie murmured. He touched her shoulder. “And maybe Granger won’t bother with it. There’s plenty of logging still left to do on the east side.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether Carrie owns it.” Francie almost shouted, and Charlie put his finger on her lips. “It doesn’t matter,” she began again more softly. “Why can’t he fight anyway? For me! Why can’t he fight for what I want?”

  She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hands. “And you think Granger won’t bother with that tree? Ha! The chances of that are about the same as me riding the flume. You said it yourself when we found it. You just wait, Charlie Spencer. Granger will want that tree. He’ll be angling to cut it down as soon as possible. And then there won’t be anything of Carrie left in the entire world.” She put her hands over her face and sobbed.

  “Francie?” Charlie’s voice was hesitant. She felt his hand on her shoulder tighten, and then he sighed. He put his arms around her, holding her as if she were made out of glass and might break at the least movement. “Just cry it out, cuz,” he said, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.”

  • Chapter Thirteen •

  By the next afternoon, Connorsville was buzzing with the news. A giant sequoia—the biggest on earth—had been found just over the top of Connor’s Pass. Francie was changing the sheets in room 30 when Charlie stuck his head around the doorjamb.

  “Don’t say a word about it,” she said quickly, taking in his raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes. She bent to tuck the ends of the bottom sheet neatly around the end of the feather bed. “I’ve heard more than I want to already. I think every single guest in the hotel ordered a box lunch to take up to Connor’s Pass.”

  Charlie came into the room, dusted off his pants, and sat down on the chair. “The photographer’s shop is doing a whopping business. John’s set up his camera by the tree and is charging seventy-five cents a photo.” He shook his head. “He’s getting it, too. They all want a p
icture of themselves beside the oldest living thing in the world.”

  “Why aren’t you working?” Francie spread the blanket over the sheets and plumped up the pillows.

  “Got the day off.”

  Francie gave him a sharp look, and he nodded, answering her unspoken question. “We’re moving to the north end of the basin tomorrow. Gonna start logging around the big one, Granger says. Clear everything out around it, and then see if we can bring it down.”

  Francie plopped down on the newly made bed. “You can’t. It’ll shatter. It’s too big.”

  Charlie stroked his chin and shrugged. “Some think that,” he agreed. “But Granger says it’s worth the risk. If we can bring it down whole, think of how much lumber we’ll have.” He closed his eyes. “Not quite a city’s worth—but close. Think of it, Francie, an entire city built from one tree. It’ll put California on the map for certain.” He stood up. “Nobody will be able to argue that we don’t grow things bigger and better than anywhere else in the whole United States of America.”

  Francie watched him, feeling numb. “Is that what you think?”

  He looked at her. “Truth?”

  She nodded.

  He scratched his head. “Truth is . . .” He paused, took a breath, and began again. “Truth is, I don’t know what to think. Think of a whole city built from one tree.” He thumped his chest. “One I could help bring down. It’s a chance in a lifetime. And it’s only one tree. There are hundreds more.”

  Francie sprang to her feet. “But such a tree!” she cried. “It isn’t only one tree. There is only one tree as big or as old as that one. How can you even think to cut it down?”