Riding the Flume Read online

  “But trees grow back, Francie.”

  Francie gave a short laugh. “Yes, they grow back. In three thousand years. I counted the rings on that stump, remember? And besides,” she said sadly, “Granger isn’t cutting only this one tree. He’s cutting all the trees.” She turned, but not before Charlie saw her tears.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s too bad. But it’s not your fault. It’s not you cutting the tree.”

  “But it is my fault.” She looked over at him. “If I hadn’t found that note or the diary, if I hadn’t been so sure we had to find this secret of Carrie’s,” she kicked the bedstead hard enough to make her foot ache, “if I hadn’t asked my father about it. Then nobody would even know about the tree. It would be safe.”

  Charlie shook his head. “You’re wrong. Maybe it would be safe for this year, but what about next year or the year after? Someday, Granger would have found that tree. Depend upon it.”

  Francie didn’t listen to him. “I had a thousand chances to stop. But I didn’t. I had to keep on poking around until I found it. And then I had to ask my father.” She picked up a pillow, punched it hard, and then put it back on the bed.

  “You already did that,” Charlie said.

  She turned on him, almost snarling. “Already did what?”

  Charlie grinned. “You already plumped up that pillow.” He pointed to it.

  “Oh.” Francie pulled on a corner of the pillow to straighten it. “Don’t think you can make me laugh and forget about this because you can’t.” She picked up the empty wicker basket she’d carried the clean sheets in. “I’m finished here. Are you coming?” And without looking to see if he was following her, she left the room.

  The lobby was full of guests drinking tea and eating the vanilla shortbread her mother baked every Tuesday morning. The words “biggest tree in the world” and “oldest thing on earth” drifted in the air, and Francie walked through the crowd as fast as she could. She didn’t want to hear anything more about Carrie’s tree.

  “You’d think with all those people so excited about that tree,” she grumbled, hanging the basket on its hook in the linen room, “that someone might think about whether or not it ought to be cut down!”

  Charlie jumped out of her way as she swept out of the linen room and into the kitchen. “Maybe you should talk to them, try to get them to stop the lumber company.”

  She turned around and stared at him. “Now that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say in a long time.”

  “Francie . . .” Her mother, who was stirring something in an enormous kettle at the back of the stove, frowned at her. “I’m sure your father wouldn’t appreciate you badgering the guests.”

  “I won’t badger them. I’ll just talk to them.” She grabbed up an extra plate of vanilla shortbread, took a deep breath, and marched into the lobby.

  “Good afternoon, Francie.” Old Mrs. Evans was perched on a straight-backed chair by the refreshment table.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans.” Francie picked up the half full plate of shortbread and placed her own full plate in its place. “Did you go out to see the big tree?”

  Mrs. Evans gave a raspy chuckle and reached for a fresh piece of shortbread. “Not on these old legs,” she said, patting her lap. “I’m satisfied to walk from the lobby to my room each evening.” Mrs. Evans and her husband had been coming to the hotel each summer as long as Francie could remember. “I used to be able to ramble over the mountains,” she said, “but now I’m content to just breathe in the good mountain air.” She took a deep breath as if to prove her words true.

  “Don’t you think it’s a shame the lumber company is planning to cut down that tree?” Francie said. “It’s so old and all.” She looked at Mrs. Evans’s wrinkled face and suddenly realized she might take offense. “I mean . . .” she began again, stuttering.

  Mrs. Evans looked up at her; her faded blue eyes were amused and sad at the same time. “The old must give way to the new,” she said. “You young ones will build us an entirely new world.” She nodded and looked away. “It’s the same with trees as it is with men.” She chewed a bite of shortbread. “You tell your ma she’s the best shortbread baker in the state of California.” Her eyes twinkled and she took another bite.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Francie answered. She sighed and turned away. If everyone agreed with Mrs. Evans, her plan was doomed to failure from the start.

  Her father was standing in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat. He was surrounded by a group of guests, and Mr. Mansfield was gesturing with the stem of his pipe. “You mark my words,” he was proclaiming, “Connor isn’t going to let this depression beat him. He’ll make thousands on that tree. It’s the best thing that’s happened to this area in a long time.” Mr. Mansfield always sounded as if he were speech making. Father said he was thinking of running for Congress.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Father answered him.

  Francie didn’t stay to hear more. It was clear she wouldn’t make any headway with that group. She scanned the room. Gloria Mansfield, wife of the would-be congressman, was ensconced on the medallion-back sofa Father had had shipped from New York two years ago. Its pale rose material nicely complemented Mrs. Mansfield’s burgundy shirt-waist, and Francie suspected she’d chosen the seat for that very reason. Three young and admiring women were sitting on chairs around her listening to her words as if she were a queen.

  What did Mrs. Mansfield think, Francie wondered. She might be a powerful ally. She gripped the plate with both hands and walked over to the group. “More shortbread?” she asked, offering each woman in turn.

  “Thank you, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield took a small piece. “Could we have some more tea as well?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Francie left the shortbread on the small table beside the sofa, picked up the tray full of empty teacups, and returned to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Mansfield’s group wants more tea,” she told her mother, who was pouring boiling water over the tea leaves in one of their large porcelain teapots. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Went out the back door,” her mother answered. “He said something about work waiting.”

  “Pooh,” Francie said. She filled the sink with dirty dishes and placed clean cups and their saucers on the tray. “He just doesn’t want to make small talk in the lobby.” She leaned against the counter while she waited for the tea to steep.

  “You’re not talking about that tree, are you?” her mother asked. She bit her lip and looked at Francie. “Your father will be so distressed if you upset the guests.”

  “Mama, nobody talks of anything but the tree,” Francie said. “How big it is, if they’ll be able to cut it down, how many houses it will build . . .” She sighed. “It’s hopeless. I wish I’d never found it.”

  The sad expression on Francie’s mother’s face told her that her mother wished it, as well. “This is ready, now,” was all she said as she placed the teapot in the exact middle of the tray among the teacups.

  Francie gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered. She picked up the tray and went out to the lobby.

  “Here you are,” she said to Mrs. Mansfield, sliding the tray onto the low table in the middle of the group of women. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

  “Yes, please, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield picked up a cup and held it out. “I understand you’re the one who found that huge tree,” she said, looking up. Was it Francie’s imagination that she didn’t look entirely happy about it?

  “Yes, ma’am,” Francie said. “Though my sister found it first, years ago,” she added.

  “Your sister?” One of the young women sitting by Mrs. Mansfield raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had a sister. Where is she?”

  Francie couldn’t remember the woman’s name, Mrs. Lockridge, or something like that. “My sister was killed in a landslide six years ago,” she answered, feeling as if her face had turned to wood. Six y
ears and still she never knew what to say when people asked her that. She turned away.

  The three other women murmured soft words of comfort too quietly for Francie to really hear what they’d said. “Mary,” Mrs. Mansfield’s voice was gently scolding, “I told you that when you arrived. Don’t you remember?”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mary’s face flush slightly. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Please don’t be offended. I’m so silly about things like that.” She was speaking too fast and Francie felt sorry for her. She turned back to fill her cup with tea.

  “But aren’t you excited about that enormous tree?” The woman was rattling on. “It even looks ancient, don’t you think? People are saying it’s the oldest thing on earth. Think of that.” She took a sip of tea. “Gerald,” she looked at Mrs. Mansfield, “that’s my husband, Gerald.” She turned back to Francie and the other women. “Gerald has agreed to buy some of the lumber. We’re planning to build a house in St. Joseph next year. I think it would be so romantic if the whole house were built from that one tree. Imagine. We’d be surrounded by three-thousand-year-old wood.” She raised her head. “Much older than any English castle.” She took another sip of her tea.

  Mrs. Mansfield shook her head. “Well, I think it’s a shame,” she said. She glanced at her husband, still speech making in the center of the room. “Glen doesn’t agree with me, of course. He thinks cutting the tree will liven up the economy in this area.” She looked up at Francie. “But I’m almost sorry you discovered it.”

  Francie’s heart seemed to take a giant leap; she thought she might lean down and kiss Mrs. Mansfield, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined the woman’s surprised face if she actually did it. “I am, too,” Francie said, trying to speak calmly. “I wish I could do something to stop them from cutting it down.” She gripped the teapot hard with both her trembling hands.

  Mrs. Mansfield looked at the women around her. “Someone should write to Frank Court, the editor of the St. Joseph Herald. He’s violently opposed to logging in this area, especially the sequoias. I’m sure that if he knew about it, he’d certainly try to do something.” She put her empty teacup down on the tray beside the pot. “I can’t do it myself, because of my husband’s position, of course.” She shook her head. “He’d be absolutely furious if I did something like that.”

  The women all nodded wisely, even Mary, now looking even more embarrassed about her dream of a house built of sequoia wood than she did about her tactless words to Francie. “Of course you can’t do that,” she said. “But someone should.”

  They seemed to have forgotten Francie, who placed the teapot carefully on the tray and moved away as unobtrusively as she could. “Mr. Court,” she mumbled. “Of course! And I have to write him, anyway.” She rubbed her hands down the sides of her apron. It was going to work! She was going to save the tree.

  • Chapter Fourteen •

  The letter had been easy to write. More difficult was the problem of getting it to St. Joseph. The stage, which took the mail and passengers to St. Joseph, had already left and wouldn’t be back again until Friday. Francie considered the creamy white envelope lying flat on her vanity. When was her father next going to St. Joseph? Perhaps he would take it with him.

  “I was going tomorrow morning,” he told her when she found him in his office at the hotel. “But I lent the mare to Hopkinson yesterday, and she went lame. It’ll be two weeks before she’s sound enough to ride.” He sounded disgusted. “I should know better than to lend my horse away. Even to Hopkinson.” He grunted, and then looked up at Francie. “Why do you ask?”

  Francie held up the letter. “I want to get this to Mr. Court.” She saw her father’s eyebrows begin to draw together in a frown, but she went on. She’d already decided what to say—she might as well get it over with. “I finished counting the rings of that tree and I feel it’s important he get the information as soon as possible.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself. She did write about the 3,252 rings. But she also told him what was happening with Carrie’s tree.

  Francie met her father’s eyes with what she hoped looked like confidence, but inwardly she was shaking. Would he refuse to let her send the letter?

  Her father drummed his fingers on the desktop, and then sighed. “I suppose I did give you permission to do this. So we might as well finish the job.” He held out his hand for the letter. “I’m sure I can find someone who’s going to St. Joseph in the next few days.”

  Francie clutched the letter. “It’s important that the letter get there tomorrow.”

  Her father raised one eyebrow. “Why the hurry? Those articles of his come out every week like clockwork. What’s the difference between one week and another?”

  Francie sighed. She’d anticipated this question, as well. “It took me longer than he’d expected to count the rings,” she explained. “When he was here he told me he needed the information by the beginning of June, and it’s the middle of June already.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see if I can find someone else who’s going tomorrow.”

  “Frances.” The stern tone in her father’s voice stopped her. “I will find someone to take the letter tomorrow,” he said. “And if I can’t I will let you know.” He put his hand out for the letter again. “I am just as honest as you are, Daughter, and just as eager to keep my promises.”

  He didn’t smile, but as Francie put the letter into his hand she felt that his face had softened, that he might smile any moment. “Yes, Papa,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I trust you.”

  He grunted again. “But this does not mean that I’ve changed my mind about the logging.”

  “No, Papa,” Francie answered again. She bobbed a little curtsy, which made her father almost snort. He waved his hand, dismissing her, and she practically skipped out of the hotel. Her letter would get to Mr. Court tomorrow. As soon as he heard what was happening he would come as fast as he could. He’d get here on Wednesday. She closed her eyes. “Please let that be soon enough,” she prayed in a whisper.

  • • •

  But Wednesday came, and Mr. Court didn’t. It had taken Francie all day to make up the beds on the street side of the hotel because she spent most of the time watching out the window. But the only buggies she saw belonged to people who lived in Connorsville or guests at the hotel.

  “What’s taking you so long?” her mother said when she finally came to find Francie. “Josie finished ages ago and you still have two rooms to do!”

  Francie had been staring at the street, trying to will Mr. Court’s buggy into view; she jumped when she heard her mother’s voice and dropped the pile of sheets she’d been holding. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she answered. “I’m almost finished.” She picked up the sheets, piled them into her basket, and sank down into a chair. Then she popped up again and glanced out the window when she heard the clop-clop of horses’ hooves approaching the hotel. “It’s only old Mrs. Winters,” she mumbled, turning back to her mother.

  Her mother came into the room, looked out the window herself, and then turned back to Francie. “Are you expecting someone? Is that why you told Josie you’d do all the rooms on this side of the hotel today? Who did you think would be coming?”

  Francie’s mind went blank. “Nobody,” she answered too quickly. “Who would be coming?” She stared at her mother as if daring her to ask more questions.

  Her mother looked at her curiously, but then she shrugged. “The new guests will want to get into their rooms soon, so let Herbert know as soon as you’re finished.” Her mother’s trust made Francie almost break down and confide everything. But she couldn’t. If her father found out what she’d done, he’d tell Mr. Granger. And somehow she knew that if Lewis Granger thought someone was trying to stop him cutting that tree, he’d bring it down even sooner. She couldn’t take the chance.

  Francie’s mother was almost out the door when she turned around. “Charlie is coming for supper this evening. He was in town earlier, and your father invited h
im.”

  “Why wasn’t he working?” Francie wondered aloud.

  Her mother shook her head. “You can ask him yourself when he comes,” she said. “Now I have some chores to do in the kitchen.”

  Francie frowned. Maybe they’d stopped work at the big tree. Maybe Mr. Court had come and she’d missed seeing him. Her heart lifted a bit and she finished making the bed in a rush.

  Even though she was hurrying now, it took her almost until supper time to finish her chores. In fact, her mother was putting supper on the table when she arrived. Charlie was already sitting at his place at the table, talking with her father.

  “We’re clearing the area in record speed,” Charlie was saying as Francie brought in a bowl full of boiled potatoes. “All the smaller trees around the big one have to come down—we’re making a ‘featherbed’ of all the branches to cushion the big one’s fall. It’s on a downhill slope, but Granger is determined to bring it down in one piece.” He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice, but at least the look he gave Francie as she sat down was tinged with guilt.

  “How much longer?” she asked, feeling as if she were sitting at the bedside of a dying patient.

  Charlie shook his head. “Couple of days at least.”

  Francie’s mother came into the room carrying a platter of sliced roast beef. “I carved it in the kitchen,” she said, looking at Francie’s father. “I hope you don’t mind—it makes such a mess on the tablecloth when you carve it at the table.” She placed the platter in front of him and sat down in her place.

  “Have they started the undercut?” Francie’s father asked as he began to spoon meat and potatoes on each plate. “I’d think it would take quite a while, seeing how massive the tree is.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said, taking the plate Francie’s father handed to him. “We’ll start tomorrow afternoon or Friday. Granger was shooting for tomorrow morning, but the team hasn’t even been chosen yet.”

  The food suddenly turned dry as dust in Francie’s mouth. Tomorrow! Unless Mr. Court showed up early in the morning, Carrie’s tree would be cut and nothing Francie could do would stop them.