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pocket, gathered up his luggage, and hurried after his wife. Lee, Willie’s leash in his hand, watched them go. Hanna Racine had disappeared. Still Lee waited, seeing a way to regain lost ground with Hanna, and wanting to talk to Deborah again before she went ashore.
    Then Lee’s eyes fixed on a man standing on the wharf boat, his gaze pinned on the gangplank. A big man, only a little shorter than Lee and even wider of shoulder. The craggy Irish face, the sandy hair, the sprinkling of freckles—all familiar to Lee Dawes. So, too, were the big hands familiar, knuckles that Lee had felt on more than one occasion. Lee drew back slightly, knowing that Mike Quinn had not seen him and not wanting him to. And he thought swiftly of what this meant.
    Lee, his attention on Quinn, did not see Deborah until she had hurried past. She turned down the gangplank, her body tall and perfectly molded. Then Quinn left his station, elbowing eagerly through the crowd. They met at the foot of the gangplank, and the girl went into his arms, her lips lifted to his. Lee Dawes stooped to pick up his luggage, anger pouring a wicked stream through him.

Chapter Three
    T he eastbound transcontinental of the OR&N moved swiftly out of The Dalles shortly before noon the next day, and, watching through the coach window, Lee Dawes received a jumbled impression of this land that was to be the northern terminus of the new railroad. The eastbound slid quickly around the swinging curves, passed the narrows in the river between Big Eddy and Celilo, and clicked on by the Indian fishing grounds at Celilo, the falls where in season the Warm Springs, Umatilla, and Yakima tribes came for salmon.
    The train crossed the bridge over the Deschutes so swiftly that Lee caught only a glimpse of the water tumbling out of the great defile and broadening quietly into the fork of the Columbia drifting south of Miller’s Island. It was this cañon that was to become a railroad battleground, and Lee stared at it until the train had sped on eastward through a brown, barren land.
    A boiling tumult was in Lee’s mind when he stepped down from the train at wind-swept Biggs and waited for the Shaniko train to come in on the Columbia Southern line. He took a quick turn around the big depot, the eternal sand shifting against his ankles and making a strange, hissing sound as it moved with ceaseless energy. Across the street from the depot were some weathered shacks, one of them with a tall false front bearing the words Wolfard’s Lunchroom. A man in an apron came out and began beating a steel triangle to attract the attention of the travelers. Lee moved toward the lunchroom, impelled less by hunger than restlessness.
    He bought a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee and, since the room was filled, stepped outside to eat. He considered the twenty-odd people waiting around the depot. Here were the uneasy ones always to be found on the cutting edge of the frontier, 20th century counterparts of the covered wagon settlers who had first seen the Columbia from the ridge south of the river. Beyond that ridge lay America’s last great empire, the high plateau with its sheepmen, cattle ranchers, and farmers returning to their homes. Here, too, were the newcomers: timber cruisers, drummers, speculators, real estate dealers, town site promoters, homestead locators, and the nondescript vagrants drawn by railroad talk and the promise of easy gain.
    Lee returned the empty cup, noting that Hanna Racine was in the crowd. It was the first time he had seen her since they had left the Inland Belle , and still she ignored him. Prodded by Stevens’s inference that he had been picked for this job because of his way with women, he stepped up to Hanna, and asked: “Can I get you something to eat?”
    Her “No” was quick and hung with icicles. Turning from the lunchroom, she crossed the street quickly and disappeared into the depot. A flush of defeat washed over