stream and interfered with shipping, and there was talk of replacing it with a drawbridge that could also be used for pedestrian and wagon traffic. But nothing was likely to be done about that for a good long while, if ever, the railroad being what it was and the county politicians being what they were.
The ferry landing was on the near side of the bridge, be-tween it and the Bridgeman’s shanty. It was not much as ferries go—just a small barge large enough for a wagon and horse or a handful of people, drawn back and forth by means of a pair of underwater cables that you had to work by hand. Ranchers and farmers over east used it enough to warrant its upkeep. The boatmen didn't like it, especially the steamer captains, because they were concerned about those under-water cables. There had never been any problem, though. The weight of the cables kept them sunk into the bottom mud except when they were being used. The steamers could not go upstream except at high tide anyhow, on account of the danger of their stern wheels foundering in the mud.
When I neared the shanty I spied Pop Baker standing on the creekbank at the rear. I rode on up to the building and dismounted there and walked down to where he was. The mist was heavy here; it had an eerie look under the sun, like living things writhing in pain and clinging desperately to the bridge, dying in the day's gathering warmth. The tide was at flood and the salt and tule-grass smells were sharp.
Pop had been bridgeman here from the day the first train crossed after the bridge was finished in 1880. He was tall and gangly, all arms and legs, with a nose like a beak and white hair that had the look of feather-down on a newborn chick; he reminded you of a big shorebird, the kind that poke around through the tules on their long, spindly legs. He was bundled in coat and gloves and cap, and he had a fishing pole in one hand and a second stuck in the mud nearby, both lines trailing out into the creek.
"Morning, Pop. Catch breakfast yet?"
"Not yet. What brings you out here so early?"
He hadn't seen the smoke or fireglow last night, nor had anybody been by yet to bring him news of the fire; elsewise he would have started clamoring right away for a full report. Just as well, because I had no time to waste.
I said, "Looking for somebody who might have ridden this way between three and four this morning. You hear anyone use the ferry around that time?"
"Sure did. Not one man, though. Two."
That took me aback. " Two men on horseback?"
"You said it."
"Together?"
"Nope. Few minutes apart."
"Both crossing from this side?"
"Yep."
"You happen to see either of them?"
"First one woke me up but I didn't get out of bed," Pop said. "Did get up for a look when the second one showed; hardly anybody ever uses the ferry that late and I wondered what was goin' on. But it was too dark to get a clear squint at him. Just a fellow on horseback."
"Thanks, Pop."
I went and got Rowdy and led him down to the ferry landing. The barge was over on the far bank. I made sure there was no creek traffic in sight before I hauled the barge back across. Then I put the chalk-eye and myself on board, closed the gate, and pulled us the seventy-five yards to the east shore.
The road that led away from the landing on this side was a narrow levee track though waist-high tangles of tules and cattails and salt grass. In the winter, when the rains were heavy, it was impassable. Even now it was so full of pocks and ruts that I had to let Rowdy pick his way along at not much more than a walk.
As I rode I thought over what Pop had told me. Two men, a few minutes apart. One following the other? That seemed the likeliest explanation. One of them figured to be Emmett Bodeen; but then who was the other? Was Bodeen the follower or the one being followed? And if one of them had killed Jacob Pike, as also seemed likely, which one was it?
I counted myself lucky that they had come this way, instead of continuing south on
The ferry landing was on the near side of the bridge, be-tween it and the Bridgeman’s shanty. It was not much as ferries go—just a small barge large enough for a wagon and horse or a handful of people, drawn back and forth by means of a pair of underwater cables that you had to work by hand. Ranchers and farmers over east used it enough to warrant its upkeep. The boatmen didn't like it, especially the steamer captains, because they were concerned about those under-water cables. There had never been any problem, though. The weight of the cables kept them sunk into the bottom mud except when they were being used. The steamers could not go upstream except at high tide anyhow, on account of the danger of their stern wheels foundering in the mud.
When I neared the shanty I spied Pop Baker standing on the creekbank at the rear. I rode on up to the building and dismounted there and walked down to where he was. The mist was heavy here; it had an eerie look under the sun, like living things writhing in pain and clinging desperately to the bridge, dying in the day's gathering warmth. The tide was at flood and the salt and tule-grass smells were sharp.
Pop had been bridgeman here from the day the first train crossed after the bridge was finished in 1880. He was tall and gangly, all arms and legs, with a nose like a beak and white hair that had the look of feather-down on a newborn chick; he reminded you of a big shorebird, the kind that poke around through the tules on their long, spindly legs. He was bundled in coat and gloves and cap, and he had a fishing pole in one hand and a second stuck in the mud nearby, both lines trailing out into the creek.
"Morning, Pop. Catch breakfast yet?"
"Not yet. What brings you out here so early?"
He hadn't seen the smoke or fireglow last night, nor had anybody been by yet to bring him news of the fire; elsewise he would have started clamoring right away for a full report. Just as well, because I had no time to waste.
I said, "Looking for somebody who might have ridden this way between three and four this morning. You hear anyone use the ferry around that time?"
"Sure did. Not one man, though. Two."
That took me aback. " Two men on horseback?"
"You said it."
"Together?"
"Nope. Few minutes apart."
"Both crossing from this side?"
"Yep."
"You happen to see either of them?"
"First one woke me up but I didn't get out of bed," Pop said. "Did get up for a look when the second one showed; hardly anybody ever uses the ferry that late and I wondered what was goin' on. But it was too dark to get a clear squint at him. Just a fellow on horseback."
"Thanks, Pop."
I went and got Rowdy and led him down to the ferry landing. The barge was over on the far bank. I made sure there was no creek traffic in sight before I hauled the barge back across. Then I put the chalk-eye and myself on board, closed the gate, and pulled us the seventy-five yards to the east shore.
The road that led away from the landing on this side was a narrow levee track though waist-high tangles of tules and cattails and salt grass. In the winter, when the rains were heavy, it was impassable. Even now it was so full of pocks and ruts that I had to let Rowdy pick his way along at not much more than a walk.
As I rode I thought over what Pop had told me. Two men, a few minutes apart. One following the other? That seemed the likeliest explanation. One of them figured to be Emmett Bodeen; but then who was the other? Was Bodeen the follower or the one being followed? And if one of them had killed Jacob Pike, as also seemed likely, which one was it?
I counted myself lucky that they had come this way, instead of continuing south on
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