Shadow on the Land by Wayne D. Overholser

Bend.”
    â€œI’ve wondered.”
    â€œAnd another thing. Jepson’s been on one of his three-day toots in Shaniko.”
    â€œJepson’s a drinking man?” Lee asked in surprise.
    â€œOne of them funny ones. He goes for months and don’t touch it. Then he goes on a tear that’s a lollapalooza. Stays in his room and sleeps, and, when he wakes up, he takes another snort and passes out again. I sure hate to see a man drink thataway. A crutch is all it is, and it lets a man down in the end.”
    â€œIs he still in Shaniko?”
    â€œNope. Went back to Bend.”
    â€œWhere did he come from?”
    â€œFrisco. Came in with enough money to jingle loud.”
    â€œHow did Deborah Haig get tied up with him?”
    â€œDunno, except that she came from Frisco, too. Some claim she was his woman. Just gossip. I never believed it, but she has done a lot of work for him. You know how a good-looking woman like that can get information out of men who wouldn’t talk no other way. And I heard she had some of her own money sunk into that town site of his.”
    â€œYou think that’s straight?”
    Highpockets spat into space. “Likely. Everybody’s trying to get rich off the other feller, especially the new ones.” He grinned. “I’ll bet she’s taking that Irishman Quinn for a ride that’s gonna pinch him before he’s done.”
    They lapsed into silence, Lee filling his pipe and smoking thoughtfully. It made sense that Deborah Haig had a bigger stake in this game than the small spying she would be able to do for Mike Quinn. If she had money invested in the Jepson City town site, the pattern was clearer and far stronger than he had guessed.
    The day cooled, and Lee, shivering, drew his coat collar together. He said: “Hell of a spring in this country.”
    Highpockets chuckled. “Son, don’t you know we don’t have no spring in this country? Two seasons, winter and August. That’s all.”
    It was Lee’s first trip south of Crooked River. They wheeled past rugged Smith Rocks, down the long, steep grade to the river at Trail Crossing, clattered across the bridge, and pulled up on the other side.
    â€œDon’t look like a railroad ever will cross this cañon,” Highpockets said, “but downriver a piece is a spot where the rims are so dadburned close a grasshopper can spit across. I hear that’s where the survey runs.” He shot a sideways glance at Lee. “And it’s why Hanna’s place is the key that unlocks this here whole business.”
    They rolled into Redmond and beyond, and coming to the Deschutes, crossed it, and presently came to Laidlaw. The road twisted among the junipers and past shacks set in the newly irrigated fields. It was the first time Lee had seen any of the widely advertised irrigation work—private, state-regulated projects coming under the Carey Act—and he realized that only a beginning had been made. They crossed the Deschutes again, still as cold and clear and violent in its hurry to reach the Columbia as it had been where Lee had seen it near the mouth of Trout Creek, wheeled into the picturesque town of Bend, and drew up beside the Pilot Butte Inn, a long, two-story structure set between the road and the river.
    Registering, Lee asked for his mail, and went to his room. His mail consisted of a single letter from John Stevens, sharply questioning the delay over the Racine property. There was also a detail map showing the missing parts of the Oregon Trunk right of way—a document, Lee realized, that would be extremely valuable to his opponents.

Chapter Eight
    L ee wrote to Stevens before he went down to supper, a letter that contained more optimism about the Racine property than he actually felt. He mailed it, and went into the dining room for supper. Within a matter of minutes, Cyrus Jepson came in, saw Lee, and sat down at his table.
    â€œHow are