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of revealing their profits by declaring them in dividends that they spend millions in expansion to cover them up. That might well be the very reason James J. Hill is now interested in building a railroad up the Deschutes. If he is.”
    Quinn was grinning broadly. “That’s right, Miss Racine. That’s exactly right.”
    She whirled on him. “You have no room to talk, Quinn. Your Ed Harriman is cut from the same cloth. What about the public lands investigation now on? Land grants that went to the Oregon and California Railroad, and were never opened for settlement as was specified in the grants. When Harriman took it over, he withdrew it all from public sale. The idea behind those grants was to bring settlers into the country, but much of what was sold went to vested interests at high prices and in large tracts.” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t spring the public benefactor argument on me, gentlemen.”
    Lee winked at Quinn, amused that he and Quinn had been maneuvered into an alliance. Quinn winked back as he said: “Miss Racine, you talk like a wobbly.”
    â€œIt was not my intention.” She rose. “Come along. I have another barrel to fire.”
    She led them through the living room to her office. There was a desk in one corner, without the litter typical of a ranch office, a bookcase set against the wall, a framed photograph of Benham Falls on the Deshutes hanging between two windows. Lee’s eyes paused on a framed diploma from the University of Oregon, and he saw that it bore the name of Hanna Rose Racine. There was reason, then, for the sharp argument, the quick mind.
    Hanna had stepped around the desk to a large map of the United States tacked to the wall. “Have you heard of the Harriman Fence, Quinn?”
    â€œI’ve heard the term,” Quinn said sourly.
    â€œDawes, take a look.” Placing a finger on Portland, she brought it south along a red line that ran through Salem, Eugene, Ashland, across the state line and on to Roseville, California, a few miles east of Sacramento. “The Southern Pacific, one panel of Harriman’s Fence. Seven hundred miles of it.” She ran her finger eastward across the Sierras, across Nevada, Utah, and on to Granger, Wyoming. “The second panel, Southern Pacific and Union Pacific. Eight hundred miles or more.” She traced the red line westward across Idaho, following the Oregon Short Line and then the OR&N that ran most of the length of Oregon through Baker City, The Dalles, and Hood River. “There it is, back to Portland. Harriman’s twenty-five hundred mile fence that very successfully keeps other roads out. You’ll notice it forms a triangle, and half of the enclosure that is without railroads is our own Oregon.”
    Lee dismissed the argument with a wave of the hand. “I wouldn’t argue on this point, but the fact remains that you want a railroad. What other sensible means have you got of getting one if the Oregon Trunk doesn’t build it?”
    Hanna smiled wearily. “I suppose you’re taking a backhanded slap at the people’s railroad. It’s natural that you’d share the industrial giant’s contempt for a people’s movement, but don’t forget these common people are the ones who support the roads you’ve built.”
    â€œSupporting a railroad isn’t building it,” Lee said, “and, if they did build it, they couldn’t run it.”
    â€œYou underestimate the people, my friend. How do you suppose they did what they’ve already done here? Your Jim Hill never had to worry about Indians lifting his scalp. Dad did. Paulina and his renegades went through here time after time. Hill never had to join the vigilantes or hang an outlaw, so that Crook County could have law and order. I don’t suppose you ever heard of the Crook County Sheep Shooters’ Association, or the cattle-sheep war that keeps breaking out. The