Shadow on the Land by Wayne D. Overholser Page B

beyond, filling in the missing pieces of Oregon Trunk right of way. Twice he saw Quinn at a distance, and one morning in Bend he saw Jepson spin past in a buggy, Deborah beside him. Lee called, but Jepson did not look at him; his only response was to lean forward and whip the team to a faster pace. If Deborah saw him, she gave no indication of it, and a sick fear was in Lee that she had not wanted to see him. Standing on a Bond Street corner, Lee watched them take the desert road, and he was remembering that Jepson City lay off somewhere in that direction.
    * * * * *
    The weeks clipped quickly past. Late in May the town buzzed with the talk that the Oregon Trunk had been given sixty days in which to show it meant business, if approval of its survey maps by the Interior Department was not to be withdrawn. Knowing the mobilizing problems facing both roads, Lee was annoyed by this and the jeering talk it caused. Late in June, Secretary Ballinger abruptly approved the entire surveys of both roads, irrespective of the conflicts between them—leaving the adjustment of such matters to the federal courts.
    In a stray copy of the Madras Pioneer he found in the hotel, Lee read an account of the railroad story that said that the Harriman line had secured the right of way for seventy percent of the one hundred and twenty miles it proposed to traverse. Lee tipped his hat to Mike Quinn and redoubled his own efforts.
    It was on the last Saturday night in June that Lee had a shave and bath in Tripplet’s barbershop. When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Mike Quinn waiting his turn.
    Quinn raised a hand in salute, and said mockingly: “I suppose the Oregon Trunk has a right of way from here to The Dalles.”
    â€œNot quite,” Lee said. It was the first time he had talked to Quinn since Quinn had given him the warning in Madras. He waited now, not sure how Quinn would react to his presence.
    â€œLet’s get a drink, Lee,” Quinn said.
    â€œA drink in this town?” Lee spread his hands in disgust. “Hell, alongside Bend the Sahara Desert is plumb wet.”
    â€œIt’s not that bad. Blind pigs all over the place.”
    Five minutes later Lee had had his drink. “Looks to me like they might as well open the town as run it this way,” he said.
    â€œYou know how the Puritans are.” Quinn shrugged. “From what I hear the town’s half and half.”
    â€œWhat do you mean . . . half and half?”
    Quinn grinned. “You can see for yourself, son. Half Bond and half Wall Street.”
    â€œThen Bond Street’s going to be crowded when the Oregon Trunk gets here. There’ll be ten thousand men wanting to drink every Saturday night.”
    â€œYou think it’ll get here?” Quinn lifted a skeptical brow. “I’d say you were doing more wishing than thinking.”
    Lee smiled. “We’ll see,” he said laconically, and left the room.
    * * * * *
    Early in July the Bend Bulletin was popping with railroad news. A man returning to town said that he had seen about a hundred and fifty Italian laborers, and a considerable number of mules, in the vicinity of Grass Valley. He had been told they were to build a wagon road from Grass Valley, on the Columbia Southern, to the river, to provide supplies for the construction crew to come. This piece of concrete action was tonic to the impatient plateau.
    Harriman was to seize the strategic points along the line, it was said, without waiting for the conflicts to be decided in the courts. This meant war. Chief Engineer Boschke, of the Harriman lines, equipped and dispatched a record crew of engineers, which reached Grass Valley and left immediately for the Deschutes.
    Lee Dawes heard and watched, his own excitement being sharpened by each new piece of news. He was glad to see action breaking into the open at last. It would ease his own labors against the widespread doubt. Too, Grass Valley would be the first