Mornings in Two Pan Page 6

  “Thanks.” He held up the empty pan. “Are we working on the water tank and lines at Blank Map this morning?”

  “I need to make a quick dash to Enterprise first.”

  “For?”

  Jiggs stared at him. If there was something criminal about the skull, it would be better for Nap not to be involved. Besides, the more people who knew of it, the harder it was to control the ballyhoo. “Creech Walters. I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

  “You hang out with too many windbags.”

  *

  Jiggs hadn’t really intended to stop at Walters’ Sporting Goods, but after leaving the courthouse at Enterprise, he was spitting mad. He needed to talk to a sane person. The small wood-shingled shop was outfitted with walls of fishing rods, bins of arrows, and shelves of camouflage hunting accessories. A sign hung over the hand-tied flies “Guaranteed NOT to catch fish. But will look GREAT in your tackle box.”

  In the back room, a padded work table sat beneath spotlights as though it were an operating arena. Jiggs drew a deep breath as he walked through the door. The place always carried the musk of deer lure, gun oil, beef jerky and dust.

  “Woolsey!” The thick-bodied owner called. “What brings you ’round? I’m all out of money, so you can’t rob me today.”

  “Guess I’ll have to wait ’til you get a high roller to guide into the wilderness. How about we go to the Minam Cafe for a cup? I need to pick your brain about a problem.”

  “Got coffee here. Don’t have too much brain.”

  Jiggs poured himself a mugful and settled in a fat armchair covered with ranch brands. “It starts with Old Man Tower telling me that my great-granddaddy struck it rich.”

  “He once told me Kaiser Bill was his relative.”

  “In either case, the money is long gone for both of us, so don’t ask him or me for a loan. But it got me wondering where my great granddad ended up. So I went to the courthouse, looking for death records. The gal working the counter said Oregon didn’t hand out certificates for the accomplishment of dying in those days. She found his name listed in the town registry, but that was all. It doesn’t say where he was buried or how he went. So I’m back to the start-end of the rope, trying to figure out where to look.”

  Creech had stirred his coffee as he listened. He took a sip then raised his eyebrows as though sharing a secret. “You want help with places to look, huh, Woolsey? You think his gold is buried with him?”

  “No. No. I doubt if there’s any money. I’d simply like to know my great-granddad’s final resting place.”

  “I’d say there’re plenty of pioneer cemeteries around here. Some of them haven’t even been discovered yet.”

  “You’re almost as helpful as the clerk. We’d been looking through old registries for fifteen minutes when she said, ‘What was your name again?’ I wondered what name she’d been looking for. She could’ve overlooked Bruno, but when I told her ‘Woolsey,’ then she dropped the bombshell.” Jiggs paused to let his words gain a little weight.

  “She looked up, tapping her temple with a pencil and said, ‘That’s really interesting. There was a man in here last week, looking up property records on an O-A-C-H-S Woolsey.’ She spelled it out.”

  “I told her. ‘That’s my dad. ’Course, everybody calls him Ox.’ ”

  “Why’re they looking up your property?” Walters asked.

  “That’s what I wanted to know. When I posed the question, she told me, ‘They don’t have to give a reason to check documents.’ She was real snippy and not particularly helpful when I asked more questions. Wouldn’t even say what the fella looked like.”

  “So how do you need my help? Are you looking for your dead granddad or figuring out who’s checking up on your property?”

  “I’m pretty steamed someone’s digging through my records. You’re a successful business man. I thought you’d see things clearer than me right now. There’re too many weird events falling on top of each other. The stream dried up on Starvation Creek. Then I find out I had rich ancestors. Someone is snooping through my land files. And Ox thinks we might have a poaching prospector around our place, but we don’t.”

  “Look Woolsey, we may have to call in a few consultants, attorneys, and an expert on whale mating. Can you afford all that, or are you willing to accept my experienced opinion?”

  “I can always ignore anything you say, and your coffee’s free, so go ahead.”

  “Give up the search for Grandpa, unless you want to drive to every graveyard in the U.S. He may not even be buried with a headstone. Maybe his spot is marked with an old plank cross, and it’s already rotted away. Are you sure he’s not relaxing at God’s Hollow?”

  “No.” Jiggs stared into his cup. “I go out there every other month. I know all the Woolsey headstones.”

  “Sorry, Jiggs, I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds. I’m afraid you’ve hit a dead end with great-granddad. The prospector, on the other hand is easier. I’ve got deer cameras you could rig up to prove to Ox there’s no claim jumper. Even if you had one, he’s not getting much. The only people who’re getting gold are using big dredges over by Joseph. And I think I can shed a little light on the land records.” Walters pushed out of his chair, got the coffee pot, and warmed up their drinks.

  “Last fall, I guided a group of doctors on an elk-hunting trip. Big spenders. They’d been to eastern Oregon before. Loved the high desert, the remoteness, and the pace. One of them was champing at the bit to buy a ranch.”

  “Tell them nothing’s for sale. We’ve got enough valley people here.”

  “One fella told a story about hunting here two years ago before they started hiring me. He didn’t bother to get an elk tag. So when a guy in his group yelled, ‘Game ranger coming,’ this numb-nut threw a two thousand dollar rifle over the cliff at Creek View so he wouldn’t get fined or barred from hunting. Bragged about it to the whole group.”

  “Maybe I should have a look around the base of Creek View.”

  “Don’t bother.” Walters nodded toward his workroom. “It was rusty, but cleaned up fine. I think your courthouse snoop was a realtor scrabbling to put together a real estate deal. Did they look at other properties?”

  “The clerk was sparse with information.”

  “Well, there you go. You’re not rich. Nobody’s gonna get rich mining your land. If your forefathers did strike it rich—they and the money are both long gone. And if someone wants to buy those acres your daddy’s collected, then maybe you’d be rich again. That’s it. Glad to be of service. I’ll send you my bill.” Walters sat back and took a drink of coffee.

  “That only leaves one more problem.” He set his cup on a barrel, buying time to frame his words. “You ever find anything…out of place…in the woods? Something that shouldn’t have been there?”

  “Hah! Ran across a marijuana patch once. Hightailed it right back out. Why? What did you find?”

  Jiggs looked at him, weighing his words. It seemed wrong to ask a guy for advice and not tell him what it was actually about. But what if the skull was something that should’ve never surfaced? A family secret. Or what if he was making a big fuss and winding up the rumor mill over dead family? “I found an…old timepiece. Gold. No initials or identifying marks,” he said. “It doesn’t work.”

  Walters gave Jiggs knowing look. “Sure. You looking to sell it?” When Jiggs shook his head, he continued, “I’ve got a jeweler here in Minam. He might be able to get it cleaned up. Tell you more about it.”

  “That’s good to know. I doubt if I’ll ever find the owner, but it makes me want to know its story.” Jiggs looked at his watch. He’d learned possible information about who was snooping into his land records, but he was still where he started with the skull.

  “Now, Woolsey, tell me more about your family striking it rich.”

  “Tower said my great-grandmother was a hooker.”

  Walters put his feet on an ottoman and settled deeper into his chair. “He’s crazier than a run-over dog.
You can’t believe a word he says.”

  Jiggs agreed and drained his coffee, but in the back of his mind he was sure there was a thread of truth haunting the story. Why else would Ox do a stomp dance on the skull?

  “Nobody Ever Drowned In His Own Sweat”

  —Ann Landers

  JIGGS DROVE SLOWLY to avoid the dust Nap’s Dodge kicked up as they traveled down the driveway. They’d spent the afternoon working on pipes and the water tank. Jiggs had carefully avoided the subject of family. Ox was the only one who could give him the explanation he wanted.

  Because the old man was avoiding him, Jiggs had come up with a new plan. Unfortunately, it required more time and patience. It was like approaching a wild horse, he’d have to keep the old guy calm but distracted before he could catch some answers.

  From halfway down the drive, he could see sawhorses and lumber in front of the small house. Ox’s tall, stoop-shouldered frame was bent over a project, his hand pumping a hammer. As they parked, the old man looked at Jiggs with a warning scowl then went back to work.

  “What’cha doin?” Nap asked as he slammed his truck door.

  “Makin' something to sit on, so’s I can watch for coyotes.”

  “Why don’t you use a patio chair?”

  Ox straightened, looked at his grandson, and waited for him to figure out the answer. When the young man didn’t say anything, Ox picked up an electric saw. “Maybe those fat-cushioned chairs are bothersome to lift out of. Maybe I don’t wanna drag a hard chair from the kitchen every time I wanna sit. Or maybe I feel like making something with my hands. Pick any one you want.”

  Nap’s eyebrows arched as he said, “Okaaay.”

  “You want some cheap help?” Jiggs asked.

  “I know how to make a damn bench.” He revved the saw, its pitch singing higher as he pushed it through a pencil line on a treated 2x4.

  Jiggs and Nap exchanged glances. When the whirring squeal of the saw died down, Jiggs said, “You taught me about woodwork. I thought you could teach Nap a thing or two.” Ox grunted. Jiggs took that as a good sign. He hadn’t commented how Jiggs couldn’t cut a straight corner with a handsaw.

  “That’s okay, Gramps. I took shop in school.”

  “Whad’ya make?” Ox looked up.

  “A storage case for DVDs.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like a foot-long project. Pick up a hammer. I’ll show you how to make something man size that requires more than two tools.”

  Jiggs held up a white paper sack. “I picked up fried chicken at Slat’s GasNGo. You want some?”

  “Yeah,” Ox mumbled.

  In a half hour, the men were sitting on the patio behind the big house, raking potato salad out of containers. For Jiggs, the meal had the same tense feeling as sitting at school, waiting for the bell to ring. He picked his topics carefully. He and Nap discussed working on the waterlines at Blank Map. Ox ate and listened, giving one word comments, when he spoke at all.

  “Hey, I never told you why the water dried up at Starvation Creek.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ox stiffen with a drumstick paused halfway to his mouth. “It was an uprooted tree.” Jiggs went on to tell what he’d discovered, never mentioning the skull or that Ox had been nearby.

  It was a technique he’d learned from his mom. She was a tall woman, but Ox was taller. Yet at times, she seemed towering and more powerful. She wouldn’t out-cuss Ox, but she could out talk him. There was no way she could push him over, so she had the cleverest ways of mining the argument around him, and he’d cave in. If they were arguing, she’d circle the topic like a wolf, coming near it, but not quite touching upon it. It wore Ox down. He’d become as wary as a rabbit, never knowing if she was going to leap into the quarrel or let it slide until another day.

  Jiggs ignored his father’s guarded looks. By the time the Woolsey men were discussing how to fix the dried up stream, Ox had become talkative. He and Nap had teamed up behind the idea of dynamiting the channel back into place.

  “Who knows what problems that’ll cause? The whole ridge might come sliding down. You just want to see something blow up.” Jiggs was surprised to find himself on the side of reason, arguing with two people who were grinning like kids waiting for a fireworks show.

  “If we’re not demolishing the hillside, then I’ve got other plans.” Nap stood and picked up his plate. “It was a good dinner.” The tone of his words made it an evaluation of their time together rather than about the food.

  “It was,” Jiggs agreed. Ox nodded.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon. Darkness collected in the corners around the ranch. The breeze had quieted. Not a leaf stirred. A few birds called from the roost they’d found for the night. Black silhouettes of trees stood against a bruised sky. No one spoke through the “still moment” as light and time seemed to slow to a near stop. Then Venus glowed, nudging the world to roll on, pick up speed as more heavenly bodies made their appearance.

  The aroma of lilacs floated in the air. Ox closed his eyes. The floral scent reminded him of other years when the boys were little and they worked late and ate on the patio, watching the stars. It was easier to tell them things back then. They listened.

  “Well…” he sighed, opening his eyes, He hadn’t had such a pleasant evening in a long time. Usually, he ate alone or arguing with Jiggs. It wasn’t clear why that happened, besides the fact that Jiggs had always been a hardheaded kid. Ox pushed leg bones to the center of his plate and wadded his napkin into a ball. Time to leave before the conversation turned sour.

  “Hey, I learned something yesterday,” Jiggs said, patting his belly and leaning back as though he were settling in.

  Ox froze. Warning bells went off in his head. He either needed to duck incoming bricks or start hurling his own stony accusations. “What’s that?” he mumbled.

  “I stopped by Old Man Tower’s. Picked up a part for the baler.”

  “Yeah?” He turned and stared into the sunset that had disappeared. Something else was coming.

  “He told me Bruno Woolsey struck gold in these parts.”

  Ox closed his eyes, pushing Jiggs’ voice away. He remembered when Tower had dark hair, a pencil neck, and big ears sticking off the sides of his head. Unconsciously, he reached up and pulled at what was left of his own ear. Tower was older than him by ten years and still trying to rub spit in his hair after all this time.

  “You know any stories about him?” Jiggs interrupted his thoughts. It must’ve been the second time he’d said it, because he’d clicked up his voice a notch.

  “I remember one occasion,” Ox said, “when I was driving a team and wagon down Main Street. We’d—”

  “Here in town?”

  “Hell, yes, here in town. Where else do you think I’d be? New York City?” He stared Jiggs into silence. “We’d used horses to pull a danky stump from in front of the Lutheran church. I was hauling it off in the wagon. Tower was sitting in front of their establishment. Back then it was an automotive-mechanic shop. Now it’s a dump. Anyway, he was propped on the back legs of his chair, gawkin’ and doing nothing, as usual. Big McGinty drove by in his new Hudson Commodore and honked. My horses startled, jerking one way then the other. I fell off the wagon still hangin’ onto the reins. It was a tangled mess, but I didn’t let ’em run.

  “Tower thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. The lazy cuss was still laughing when I picked him up by the collar and told him, ‘A man who’s workin’ can expect to get scrapes and scars. If you sit on your butt all the time, you’ll never get hurt.’”

  Jiggs nodded. “That’s what you said whenever we got maimed. Even when the tractor rolled over my foot. So, what did Tower do?”

  “Bled. I punched him in the face.”

  “That explains a lot. I guess you didn’t hear me, but what I actually asked for was stories about Bruno Woolsey, who, according to Old Man Tower, was my rich great granddaddy.”

  “I can’t believe the bastard is still tryi
ng to goad a Woolsey about that.” Ox’s stare hardened. “Tower tried to taunt me with the same thing a couple of times. He liked to sneer about losing all that money, as though it made him better. I’ve had to sock him more than once over the years.”

  “Is the gold story true?”

  “Does it matter? Are you any better off today because some relative had money? I didn’t see any of it. There was land. That’s a fact. It’s also true that everything my dad touched turned to shit. He never talked about family when he was sober. I didn’t believe anything he said when he was drunk.”

  “So you don’t know if Bruno Woolsey was your grandfather or where he’s buried?”

  “Oh, your mama went over to Flora to see a grave. She’d heard there was marker with a Woolsey under it.”

  “Was he there? Was it him?”

  “Maybe. Who cares? He never left me anything to thank him for.”

  “Was his wife buried there, too? Tower says your grandma was a hooker.”

  “That old sonuvabitch.” Ox’s shoulders and spine straightened. His voice lowered. “You knocked his teeth in, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You gotta teach ’em to respect you. That ain’t respect.”

  “By hammering them? Yeah.” Jiggs gave a sarcastic laugh. “Because that worked so well with me.”

  “If your life is so damn miserable, get on down the road.”

  “I have my accounts, you have yours. We live separate. The address just happens to be the same. If you’d keep your nose to your business, like you promised, then my affairs wouldn’t bother you.”

  “My business is cattle, and our herds run together. What affects them, affects me.”

  “As I’ve said before, anytime you want to split off a section, we can run different ranches. I won’t darken your door anymore.”

  “The only way this land will split is over my dead body.” Ox stared.

  “Good to know.” Jiggs locked eyes with his dad.

  Once every few months, they had a similar fight, different words, same reminders of the boundaries they’d cobbled together in earlier arguments. They both knew how it would turn out. Ox was stuck with Jiggs. He needed help and didn’t trust hired hands. Jiggs had tried to leave once. Then Pax had died. Now guilt chained him to his older brother’s place in the Woolsey family.