As though the giant white pine was defending itself from this attack on its clear heartwood, the tree pressed its enormous weight down, closing the saw cut just slightly, and stopping the blade. But it was not enough.
Leroy jammed his sharp, steel wedge into the kerf. He gave it a smack with the side of the hammer that hung from his belt. This opened the cut just enough to allow the saw to move freely again. Back and forth, back and forth again went the saw in rhythm. Suddenly, from deep within the tree, came a loud, solid crack. The white pine was losing to this assault on its life. And the men kept sawing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Watch her now, fellas.”
Tor noticed the kerf was getting wider. The tree now leaned away from the cut slightly. Leroy’s steel wedge, no longer pinched in place, fell to the snow below. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and another solid ca—rack came from deep within. Leroy stopped, pulling the saw free from the kerf and from Tor’s hands. He carried it away from the tree. Tor, seeing his partner move back, did the same. They watched in silence for a moment.
Leroy cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Tim—berrrrrrrrr.”
Tor looked up. The tree didn’t seem to move. Leroy and Charlie quickly stepped farther back. Tor followed, still looking up.
“Keep yer eye on the kerf, Tor,” said Charlie.
Tor watched as the saw-cut widened ever so slowly. Another loud crack came from deep inside the stump, then crack————crack——ca-rack—crack, crack, crack and the tree was on its way down.
The top moved slowly at first, then gathered speed, soon plummeting earthward, faster and faster, snapping limbs off nearby trees. Snow fell from the upper branches, creating a cloud of white above the men. The huge tree plunged down and down and then smashed to the ground with a thunderous crash. Snow and pine needles billowed high into the air. Twigs and small branches flew in every direction .
Recoiling from its impact with the frozen ground, the great white pine gave a final shudder and then lay silent, motionless, dead. Never again would it sway in the wind.
The blue jays that had been scolding the lumberjacks took to the sky, piercing the cold morning air with high-pitched screams. They disappeared into what remained of the pine forest as the sound of the fall echoed off the nearby hills. Then—all was silent.
The stately, three-hundred year old pine now lay before the lumberjacks. Its seed had sprouted before the pilgrims gathered for their first Thanksgiving. Full grown when the American colonies declared independence from English rule, it withstood many fierce summer windstorms and winter blizzards. It survived forest fires, droughts, attacks by insects. But, like all the others, this grand white pine was no match for the sharp crosscut saws of these modern day lumberjacks. No longer a tree, it was now just more timber bound for the mill.
The forest was still until Charlie Martin broke the silence with a belly laugh, saying, “Sorry ’bout yer hat, Tor.”
“Dang it all, Charlie Martin. I better get that hat back!”
“You might find it after you and Leroy buck up this pine. I will mark your cuts for you and swamp her out.”
Leroy pulled a brown glass whisky flask from his back pocket, removed the cork, and poured some on the long crosscut saw, then flipped the saw and sprinkled on more. He stood the corked bottle in the snow and, pulling a rag from his pocket, wiped down the saw.
“You gotta buy this good ol’ girl a drink now and then, just to keep her happy,” Leroy said straight-faced. “It is a lumber camp tradition to give your saw a shot of good rye whisky now and again.” He put the rag back in his pocket, then grabbed the bottle from the snow and held it out before Tor. “Here you go, Tor. High time to celebrate your first felled pine. Have a snort!”
Tor Loken was no fan of straight whisky. Still, he did not hesitate. Here he was, working alongside members of one of the best cutting crews in the camp and they were welcoming him into their group. By making this offer they were telling him he was a man, not a boy, and that he was a lumberjack now. No, he didn’t want a drink of whisky, but how could he turn them down? He had to take a drink just to show them he was one of them, one of the crew. Tor snatched the whiskey flask from Leroy’s hand, pulled the cork with a soft pop and, as all the others watched with wide grins, Tor took a big swallow.
“Yechhh!” he rasped, spitting what he could onto the ground. “Achhh—kaach-kaachhh!” he coughed, trying to spit and clear his throat at the same time. The men around him were already doubling over with laughter. Tor fell to his knees, coughed and coughed, spitting and gagging, then spitting more.
“What the heck is that?” Tor tried to say, his throat not cooperating. “Achhh! Tastes like … like boot polish.” he gasped.
“Kero … kerosene!” said Leroy, trying to catch his breath. “We use it to keep the pitch off the saw so it don’t slow us down.” He began to laugh again.
“I ain’t seen nobody fall for that in a coon’s age,” Charlie said.
Tor was on his hands and knees in the snow now, trying to retch up what he’d swallowed. Leroy fell to the ground, overtaken by laughter.
“Dang it all, Leroy Phipps, you are not going to get away with this, I swear.” He gasped, retching again. “I’ll get even, Leroy!”
“Whatever you dish up I will accept with pure pleasure, Tor Loken,” shouted Leroy, clutching his belly. “Ain’t nothin’ … ain’t nothin’ you can do to me that measures up to this one.”
“Say, how ’bout’ we get back to work, boys,” barked Mike Fremont. “Here it is, almost seven-thirty and the sun’s already comin’ through the tree tops. In no time we’ll be eatin’ our noon dinner and then already the day’s half shot. ’Fore ya know, it’s quittin’ time and look here, we only got us one dang tree on the ground. At this rate, by the end of the week we will all be in the poor house. We got a reputation to protect, fellas, and we ain’t gonna do that by sittin’ on a stump and howlin’ at the moon.”
In spite of Mike Fremont’s prodding, it took a while for the crew to settle down and get back to their work. Still coughing and gagging, and still drawing bursts of laughter from the others, Tor teamed with Leroy to buck the tree into four, sixteen-foot logs.
Using his ax, Charlie cut off the branches and top. The sawyers bucked two more eight-foot logs from high on the fallen pine. The teamster chained and dragged the logs out to the sleigh trail to be loaded onto one of the timber sleighs. Tor found his hat as the horse team pulled out the last log. He brushed the snow and pine needles from it, and then tried, without success, to shake it back into shape. He pulled the tired, old hat on his head.
Preparing for the next tree, Leroy reached into his back pocket and pulled out the flask of kerosene. “More whisky, Tor?”
The men broke into laughter again. “Drink ’er up! I hear there’s a fifty-five gallon drum full of this delicious brew back at the camp.”
Tor laughed along with the others now, even though the putrid taste of the oily fuel was still in his mouth. “Dang it all, Leroy, I’m tellin’ you, I’ll get even up. You just wait. Some day you will find a pine snake in your union suit or worse. Three months till the spring drive. I have plenty of time so don’t plan on gettin’ any sleep betwixt now and then, mister.”
By ten forty-five, the Fremont crew caught up to their usual daily quota. The two-man crosscut had exhausted Tor. His back ached. His arms were sore. He was happy to see Junior bringing out the flaggins sled at eleven o’clock.
“Come—and—get it!” shouted Junior. “Best eatin’s in the pinery. And, fellas, those words come straight from Sourdough. Get it while it’s hot!”
The Fremont crew stopped their work. Another crew, working nearby, joined them. Junior dished up bowls of venison and baked beans and gave each man a large slab of bread slathered with bacon grease. They sat on the huge pine logs, eating their dinner as Junior brought around the coffee. Next he brought each man a pie.
“What kind of pie you peddlin’ today, J
unior?” asked Charlie.
“Apple, I think.”
“This real apple or another one of Sourdough’s counterfeits?”
“Danged if I know, Charlie Martin.”
Charlie sniffed his pie. “Junior, when you get back to the cook shanty, you tell ol’ Sourdough that peaches make far better apple pies than do prunes.”
“Best remember what Sourdough says, ‘first to complain is tomorrow’s cook’, Charlie Martin.”
“Complain? Not me, Junior. I’ll eat whatever that ol’ hash-slinger sets out. He’s a sight better than most other camp cooks, he is.”
“What’s this prattle I hear about kerosene?” asked Junior.
“Ain’t you heard?” said Leroy. “Tor here ain’t satisfied with regular corn whisky. No! He drinks straight kerosene to warm his belly. Ain’t no other man in the pinery what can say that.” The crew broke into laughter again.
“Takes a gol dang tough lumberjack to drink kerosene for a mornin’ eye-opener,” added Charlie. “Gol dang tough.”
Tor, overcoming his embarrassment, doffed his hat at the men and laughed along with them.
After dinner, Tor and Junior took the flaggins sled to the other crews where Junior was certain to repeat the story.
By one-thirty, the two boys were back in camp helping with some kitchen chores. Tor, still tasting the kerosene from earlier in the morning, went straight to the water pail near the door, grabbed the long handle of the dipper, scooped up and gulped down a full dipper of water.
“You’re goin’ to town tonight, right Tor?” asked Junior as he rinsed a stack of tin plates.
“Going to town? No, sir. I’m content to stay here and save my money.”
“Really? You gonna pass up a Saturday night in town?”
“I can do without. Besides, I want to be rested up for Sunday’s dinner.”
“Well, I’m sure goin’. Pa said I could. I’m gonna go have me a real good time. I’m headin’ straight for Merrill’s Hotel. Gonna find Miss Mabel Durst and we are gonna drink beer and dance the polka. You should go, too!”
“Naw, I’ll stick around here. Besides, Pa wouldn’t let me.”
Sourdough entered through the kitchen door, carrying half a hog. He dropped it on the worktable with a thud. “Junior, when you’re done there, how about you fetch me three more hog sides, will you?”
“Sure will, Boss.” Junior answered. “Sourdough, did you know I was goin’ to town tonight with the other men?”
The camp cook tipped his head down and peered at the sixteen-year-old over his glasses. “Junior Kavanaugh, what in the devil are you goin’ to town for? There ain’t nothin’ for a whippersnapper like you in Cable on a Saturday night. You mark my words, young man, you will just lose all your money and get your skinny butt caught in a bear trap.”
“Well my pa says it’s all right and I plan on havin’ me a good ol’ time with the boys.”
“Is your pa goin’ along, too?” Sourdough said, dumping fifteen pounds of flour into a large bowl.
“Yeah, Pa’s goin’,” said Junior with less enthusiasm. He put a large stack of rinsed tin plates in a clean flour sack then shook the sack vigorously before dumping the plates onto a table.
Tor put the spoons and forks in a second flour sack, shaking them.
The camp cook poured a large saucepan of melted lard into the mixing bowl, added salt, sugar, and water and gave it to one of the cookees to mix. “Junior, if you have any sense at all, you’ll stick close to your old man, ’specially since this is your first time out on the town.”
“Well, Sourdough, this ain’t my first time. Me and Tor was …”
Tor kicked Junior in the shin.
“Ow! Dang it!”
Sourdough looked at them over his glasses. “You and Tor was what?”
“We were in town just yesterday to send a telegram, Sourdough,” said Tor, staring at Junior.
“Well, Junior, you do what you want,” said the cook, now dumping a large pile of dough onto the table, “but, if you have a lick of sense at all, you will take my advice and stay out of them pinery taverns on a Saturday night, … least till you’re older. I’ve seen many a man lose all his pay and come back too hung over or too beat up to work. Ain’t much to gain. Plenty to lose. Your pa should’ve told you that much.”
“Well, I’m goin’ anyway. You and Tor and the other wallflowers can stay in camp and play checkers and dance man-to-man. I’ll be pinchin’ the gals and kickin’ up my heels in town tonight.”
Sourdough began rolling out his pie dough, one ball at a time. Zeke and Zach greased a large stack of pie tins with lard and laid Sourdough’s pie crusts into each tin. The head cook then put eight large scoops of brown sugar and some spices into a pot of boiled pumpkin and stirred it well. Junior took the dipper from the water pail and, with Tor carrying the hot pot of pumpkin filling, he put one large scoop in each of thirty of the pans.
The empty pot went into the washtub. Sourdough soon had it rinsed and filled with a mixture of raisins, stew meat, apples, sugar, and spices—his own mincemeat pie filling recipe. He added some water and put it on the stove. Dried apple slices, boiled with sugar and spices until thick, then filled many of the remaining pie shells. When Sourdough and the cookees finished, they had more than one hundred pies ready for the ovens. Each man in camp would have his own pie at tomorrow’s special Sunday dinner. Sourdough was soon baking eighteen of the pies in the big cook stoves on special racks built by Gust Finstead, the camp blacksmith.
Junior worked in the cook shanty until shortly after three o’clock when some of the men started to come in from the cuttings. Many changed into their Sunday clothes which, in most cases, looked no different than their work clothes. Several of the men wore dark wool suits and could have been mistaken for businessmen, except their suits were badly wrinkled from being rolled up and used as pillows for the past month. Their boots also betrayed them. Some wore their shoe-pacs, hoping to keep their feet warm on the long trip to and from town. Others wore their driving boots, knowing the steel calks might come in handy in a fight.
A few of the men lathered up at the camp washbowl where several shaving mugs, brushes, and a bar of lye soap were set out for their use. Using their straight razors, they shaved off a month or more of beard growth. Most of the men preferred to keep their beards for insulation against the cold.
At a quarter past three, Junior was first in line to draw his five-dollar advance pay. He buttoned the bill into a pocket and took a seat on the pine bench near the door of the camp office, waiting to collect money owed him. As soon as he had twenty dollars, he left the lodge and ran straight to the horse barn. Blackie Jackson and one of the teamsters hitched up two teams of four Clydesdales each to the largest two sleighs in camp. A wooden nail keg served as a seat for the teamster on each rig.
Junior grabbed a hay fork and pitched a good foot of straw onto each sleigh, both to soften and warm the ride to and from town. He then jumped up on the bed of one of the sleighs, grabbed the reins, and guided the horses as they pulled the sleigh into the yard and up to the sleep shanty. “All aboard for Cable!” shouted Junior in his high-pitched voice. “C’mon, pinery boys. Daylight’s a-wastin’!”
Minutes later, two horse-drawn timber sleighs, carrying fifty-four of the Loken camp’s lumberjacks, slid smoothly across frozen Lake Namakagon. Blackie Jackson drove the lead rig and Swede Carlson the other. Three latecomers ran behind trying to catch up. When they did, the men riding toward the back of Swede’s sleigh gave them a hand up.
“They gonna give us a hard time when we cross King Muldoon’s land by the dam, Blackie?” asked Junior.
“Muldoon knows better than to try to stop a gang like this from goin’ to town on a Saturday night. He’d surely have a hornets’ nest to deal with. No, I don’t ’spect we’ll see no problems till spring, Junior. That’s when we might get into a real row. Gives a fella like me somethin’ to look forward to.”
The two sleighs passed by the d
am without event and ambled through the woods toward town, the men singing songs to pass the time. To Junior, it seemed to take forever to make the trip. They crossed over Five Mile Creek and the Namekagon River and finally pulled into town, well after dark.
As they neared First Street, Junior sprang from his seat and jumped off the moving sleigh. “Join you boys later,” he shouted. He ran across the street, jumped onto the plank sidewalk and disappeared into the general store.
Minutes later he came out wearing a new, wool suit, shirt, and a brown derby hat. He still wore his shoe-pacs, knowing the trip back to camp would be too cold for Sunday shoes. Junior ran down the street with his old britches, shirt, and hat rolled up in his red and black mackinaw coat. He saw four other sleighs tied up along First Street. When Junior got to the first Loken sleigh and team, he threw his bundle onto the bed and ran straight to the biggest building in town, the Merrill Hotel. He sprang up onto the boardwalk, pulled open the door, crossed the lobby, and entered the busy saloon.
A thick, blue haze of pipe smoke filled the room. Lively piano music came from the back corner. The bar stools were all filled, as were the tables. Ten or twelve Loken camp lumberjacks crowded the bar, waiting to be served. The others had drifted off to explore other taverns, poker rooms, stores, and sporting houses.
Looking for Mabel, Junior stretched, trying to see over the big men,. He pushed his way through the crowd and shouted to the bartender, “Where’s Mabel?”
“Who?”
“Mabel. Mabel Durst. Don’t she work here?”
The bartender studied the crowd. “She must be upstairs, Sonny,” he said, pointing to the staircase. “You here to order a drink or just ask questions?”
“Here’s a silver dollar. I’ll take a mug of beer and you give each of them Loken men over there a drink on me. Keep the change for yourself.”
“Yessir, young fella. You betcha!” The bartender slid a mug of beer to Junior. He gulped it down, slamming the empty mug on the bar for a refill.
Junior was jammed between two large men wearing dirty blue denim coats and overalls. “You fellas rails?” he said.
They continued their conversation, ignoring the skinny barn boy between them. Then one looked down at him.
“You some kind of a peddler?”
“Nope, lumberjack.”
This brought a big belly laugh from the railroad man. “You? A lumberjack?” He laughed again. “Why, you look more like a choir boy than a shanty boy!” Both men were laughing now.
“I hail from the Namakagon Timber Company, out east of here. It’s run by the Lokens. How ’bout you fellas?”
“Us? We are deadheaded up here with ten flat cars of steel rail for King Muldoon. He’s gonna lay tracks out to his camps next summer. Seems he got tired of drivin’ logs down the river. Plans to haul ’em out by rail.”
“That’ll take all the fun out of it.” shouted Mike Fremont, who pushed his way over to thank Junior. “Ain’t no challenge or sport in it if you just toss them pine logs onto flatcars. The river’s got some life in it—some adventure!”
“You call it adventure?” said the other rail. “I call it plum foolish. Why, last spring there was ten log drivers what drowned down by Chippeway.”
“That’s the risk,” shouted Mike in reply, “but the pay is double, the food is good, you’re in a different town with different women every night. If you’re good on your feet and the Grim Reaper ain’t got it in for you, hell, you might even live to get your pay at the end of the drive.”
“Plum foolish,” shouted the rail again. “Friend, them jacks what run the pine out by rail, they are the smart ones. The only risk they have is from getting poisoned by the camp cook or shot by a jealous husband.”
Junior looked up to see Mabel Durst descending the stairway with a drunken miner on her arm. Slugging down his beer he rushed over to her.
“Good evening, Mabel.”
“Well, Junior, look at you! All dressed up like you was goin’ to church. You goin’ to church, Junior?” She leaned the woozy miner against the wall.
“Nope! I’m not even thinkin’ about goin’ to church. Remember them three silver dollars from yesterday? Well, I got a whole pocketful. How about me treatin’ you to a good supper in the hotel restaurant? What’a ya say, Mabel? Will ya have supper with me?”
With those few words, Junior Kavanaugh and Mabel Durst began one of the most remarkable evenings of Junior’s young life.