Chapter 15 - The Timber Cruiser's Mark
We returned to the Pigeon River parcel by midday. As soon as the truck crossed the bridge, Ellis slowed to an idle.
"Look at the trees," he said, nodding toward the northern fence line.
My stomach dropped. Every twenty feet along the ridge, the thick bark of our prime white oaks and towering century pines had been slashed with broad, violent swaths of bright orange spray paint. These were timber cruiser marks—the tags used by commercial clear-cutting crews to mark trees for immediate felling.
A battered red flatbed truck was parked three hundred yards deep into our property line. Two men with chainsaws slung over their shoulders were walking back toward their cab, carrying surveyor ribbons.
Ellis stepped out of our truck before the engine had even died. He didn't run. He walked with long, heavy strides straight toward the flatbed, his hands empty at his sides.
"Who told you to mark this timber?" Ellis demanded, his voice ringing like an axe strike through the quiet woods.
The older of the two men, a rough-faced logger in a soiled canvas coat, spat tobacco onto the pine needles. "We're contracted by Vance Logging & Lumber. Starting the cut on the north ridge tomorrow morning at six."
"You're standing on private property," I said, coming up beside Ellis, holding the certified deed we had picked up from the recorder's office that morning. "This is Miller land. If one saw touches a tree on this eighty, you'll be charged with criminal trespass and commercial timber theft."
The logger looked at the deed, then looked at Ellis’s massive frame. He hesitated. "Look, lady. Raymond Vance showed us the county injunction paper signed by Pendelton. Said the court gave him harvest authority to clear the estate debt."
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"Raymond Vance showed you a lie," Ellis said, his voice dropping into a tone that was terrifying in its absolute calm. "If your saws come back past that gate tomorrow, you won't be talking to the sheriff. You'll be explaining to your insurance company why your flatbed is sitting in the bottom of the Pigeon River."
The logger glanced between the paper and Ellis's unyielding eyes, swore under his breath, and climbed into the cab. Within two minutes, the red truck sputtered to life and sped back toward the main road, throwing dirt into the trees.
