C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The explosion could be felt for two miles and the blast was heard for five.
The explosives expert from the bridge construction project exaggerated a little when saying enough dynamite had been used to knock out a dozen bridges. However, the person or persons involved were obviously amateurs. They had succeeded in completely vaporizing only the first pillar of the partially completed structure. On the other hand, the ferryman who lived a quarter mile downstream lost two windows on the blast side of his house.
The local population for twenty miles knew who “blew up the bridge”; everyone except Constable Stein. The young officer who represented the entirety of the Stockton area’s law enforcement possessed an ego easily identifiable by his pigeon chest and matching strut. He vaunted his abilities to any audience he could capture, but when faced with a challenge more puzzling than catching high school boys drinking beer on a country road, he came up short. Country folk have an uncanny ability to see or not see some incidents as they deem fit. Naturally, no one had seen or heard any vehicles on the River Project Road around four AM on the night of the blast, and no one could even guess as to a possible suspect. Tire tracks and the felon's footprints were completely erased; most of the neighbourhood had visited the scene before the officer had been notified. Many locals figured the damage needn't be reported at all. However, when the manager of the project arrived on the site he called in the 'Queen's Cowboys'.
Constable Stein inspected the crime scene, belligerently ordering the people to stand back. While the stuffed uniform strutted about searching for clues, the crowd continued to swell; this was free entertainment. A burly farmer in dusty overalls said, “He must have stood on a soap box to be tall enough to join the Mounties.”
The evidence that remained consisted of a very large hole blasted into the earth and flooded by the muddied waters of the Western River. Credit must be given to the officer for locating the source of the explosives used to disintegrate the pillar: someone had broken the lock on the Project tool shed and stolen a crate of dynamite, several caps and a roll of fuse. Beyond the tool shed, the trail turned cold and there were no witnesses to provide additional evidence. Stymied and embarrassed, Constable Stein could not pursue the culprit further.
Though the destruction of the new bridge caused no bodily harm and there were no reported injuries resulting from the blast, Stockton's only doctor did have many patients who were members of the construction crew; these patients had an indirect link to the explosion itself.
For a couple of weeks a number of the young men employed by the Western River Bridge Project were to be seen making trips to the local physician. The lads all shared a common approach when entering Doctor O'Brien's office. They would invariably park a few blocks from the clinic, skulk down the back alley and eventually emerge on the side walk nearest the entrance. Following a brief pause and furtive glance around to see if the street was empty, the young men would dash up the steps to quickly disappear into the cool confines of the doctor's office. After a tight-lipped registration with the receptionist, they would slip into a chair in the waiting room, hiding their faces behind a newspaper or magazine until the doctor admitted them to his examination room.
The physician was a tall, spare man with a full head of sandy, yielding to grey, hair. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles which, more often than not, he looked over rather than through. These were supported at a point about halfway down a longish nose. The doctor had a robust, healthy look as evidenced by a ruddy outdoor complexion and a well-tuned physique. Possessing a wealth of medical experience, Doctor O'Brien had truly been a godsend for the community. He had arrived in Canada soon after earning a medical degree in his homeland of Ireland and the physician had practised medicine for three decades in several large Canadian cities. Now, in his declining years, Doctor O'Brien and the bride he had taken more than thirty years previously had settled in the small town of Stockton. The population were exceedingly pleased and proud to have such an accomplished medical practitioner. The good doctor enjoyed Stockton too; here he could pursue his two loves outside the practice: golfing and fishing. Stockton boasted a fine golf course with real 'sand' greens, while the man-made reservoir near town and the Western River both provided excellent fishing.
After the first few lads from the bridge project visited Stockton's doctor he was able to diagnose the remainder without close examination. It seems the young men had contracted a sexually transmitted disease with Leonard Yeast's pretty daughter being the common denominator. Dr. O'Brien gave the boys a shot of penicillin and warned them to be more discreet in the future. The physician advised them to practice abstinence for a few weeks as well, explaining that though they had taken the cure the disease may possibly continue to be transmitted. When one chap pleaded that his betrothed may not understand his inactivity when he returned home, Dr. O'Brien, who refused to bend the truth under any circumstance, said, “You might tell your Marla-May that you have a 'Yeast' infection.”
Benny Collins heard the horse snort before he saw the trio approaching. Milt had purposely placed herself directly between Benny and the setting sun as she rode up to the neighbour she had espied engrossed in barbwire fence repairs. The girl, the collie and the buckskin gelding were only a few yards away when Benny peered out from under the brim of his battered hat and squinted into the reddened haze of the western sky.
“Doggone it, Milt, you oughtn't sneak up on a guy like that!”
She slipped off the gelding and led him nearer to where Benny stood mopping a sleeve across his sweat dampened forehead. Chase ran up to the boy and danced around, wagging his tail in anticipation of a kind word and a scratch behind the ears.
“You should pay more attention to what is going on around you. A whole herd of cows could have walked right through this hole in the fence and wandered on down the trail without you even noticing.”
Cuffing the dog playfully, Benny grinned at Milto. “Nice to see those scratches you got when you fell off your horse didn't leave any scars. You greenhorns should ought to be more careful where you ride.”
Milt didn't take the bait. “You appear somewhat more cheerful than the last time I saw you. Tell me, what is the cure for the broken heart? Perhaps a little dynamite shakes everything back into place?”
Benny's face turned red. “H-how did you know about the dynamite?” he stuttered.
The girl broke into a peal of laughter, causing the buckskin to toss his head and pull back on the reins. “Everybody in the country knows who blasted the bridge!” Milt giggled. “Except for the cops. It seems nobody around has ever seen a navy '52 Chevy pickup on that river road. Especially at four in the morning the day of the explosion.”
Benny sighed, “I was that obvious, eh?”
“Well, you told me that you wanted to 'blow up that danged old bridge'. I sure didn't repeat your words but it came as such a matter of course that everybody had a big, big hunch who the culprit might be and it doesn't take long for rumour to become fact in this neighbourhood.”
The grin returned to the young man's face. “Well, it worked! Brenda is my girl again. She's been doctoring lately ‘cause she has some woman problem, but we're going to the dance that's comin' up”
“I told you everything would work out.”
A thoughtful expression flitted across Benny Collins' face. “You did tell me that Milt. Sometimes it seems like you can per-dict the future.”
…Our oldest daughter, Brenda, married Benny Collins in August, 1970. They have five daughters…
Submitted by Myrna Yeast
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