The young teamster brought the load along the shore and nearer the camp than usual. With a whoa boys, they came to a stop. The men jumped down. Tor unhitched the team, leaving the sleigh load of timber on the ice. Following the others, he brought his team up the bank and into the lumber camp yard. The men entered the cook shanty for the midday dinner. Swede Carlson, a Loken camp teamster, followed them in.
Ingman stood by the stove warming his hands. He joined the other lumberjacks. “How’s them logs a-haulin’ today, fellas,” asked Ingman.
“Plenty cold out there,” answered Tor. “The ice roads are slicker than glass, Uncle Ingman. A star load floats down the trail like a dry leaf on a pond.”
“Ya,” said Swede, “youse can hear da sleighs a-comin’ from vay up in da voods. Dat ice she squeals plenty loud under dem runners, ya.”
“How cold do you figure it might be, Ingman?” asked Mason.
“Must be ten below zero or better,” said Blackie, grabbing a piece of bread and smearing it with bacon grease.
Swede dipped a piece of blackjack into the pork gravy on his plate. “I yust for da life a me can’t understand vy youse camp bosses don’t have a dang termometer ’round, yust to check now and den.”
“There’s good reason for it, Swede,” said Ingman. “If you lumberyacks knew how cold it really was out there, you’d all be crowdin’ ‘round the cook stove all day and you’d get no work done at all. The trees don’t care how dang cold it is, Swede. Neither should you.”
“Vell, I’m yust sayin’,” groused Swede.
“Uncle Ingman, I saw two eagles workin’ on that nest on the north shore. They were carryin’ some pretty big sticks up to it.”
“First sign of spring,” said Blackie. “Speakin’ of spring, how’s that towboat comin’ along?”
“Good,” said Ingman. “Dang good, in fact. Louie Thorp has her built and ready to paint. Louie and Gust have been puttin’ in some long days. Gust has the second steam enyun yust about ready for a test run. He tells me that as soon as he finishes the paddlewheel, we’ll be in business. Ol’ Gust seems to know his stuff, all right. Good blacksmith, he is. Knows them dang contraptions inside and out. The boat should be done by the end of February, I’d say.”
Swede laughed. “Lotta good dat is ven da ice she don’t leave da lake till April or May, en so? I tink a good ox team iss da best vay to move timber. Don’t need no dang boat.”
“Swede, you cantankerous old farmer,” said Ingman, “you show me how them two oxen of yours can push a million board foot of pine across this here lake and I’ll wash your socks for a year.” Ingman gave Swede a stout pat on the back.
“Vell, Boss, I’m yust sayin’ …”
“You best catch up with the times, Swede,” said Mason. “Machines are replacing animals. We now have steam power from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The days of horse teams and ox teams will soon come to a close. Steam engines will do all the work. Mark my words. Steam power is the way of the future. You best start thinkin’ about that. This is eighteen and eighty-four!”
“Young vippersnappers like youse, Mason, ain’t never gonna see da day ven ox teams don’t do farm verk an’ loggin’.” Swede snapped. “Ain’t no machine dat can hold a candle to ox. No sir! Dem ox, dey go anyvair. Dey move mountains. If yer modern times means no ox, Mason Fitch, den youse can yust count me out.”
Blackie changed the subject: “Any more talk about Muldoon’s claim that he can charge us to float our pine across the dam, Boss?”
“Not since the letter we got from Governor Rusk sayin' we have free right to use the water. That letter will save us if we end up in court. Problem is, by the time it gets to court, there won’t be enough water level to drive our timber. We need the runoff from the spring rains and snow melt to get our pine to the mills.”
“So, what’s the worst Muldoon could do?” said Tor, plopping a large scoop of beans onto his plate.
“Here’s how I figure it,” said Blackie. “Spring comes, the ice goes out and the Loken boat pushes our pine into the bay near the dam. Muldoon brings all his men down from his East Lake camp and they hol’ up at the dam waitin’ for us. We show up with our jacks, each man at the ready for a brawl. Them and us scuffle a bit, we push them aside and take control of the dam. Two days later, our timber is headin’ downriver and we’re whistlin’ Oh Susannah in Johnny Pion’s hotel bar.”
“Better off usin’ ox team dan boat,” mumbled Swede.
“I don’t figure Muldoon will give up that easy, Blackie,” said Ingman. “You heard what he said about being in charge of the law in the pinery. He will probably hire some lawmen to guard the dam.”
“Then why not bring in a couple lawmen of our own?” said Tor. “Uncle Ingman, if Muldoon’s lawmen are face to face with our lawmen, and our lawmen show off the letter from Governor Rusk, well, don’t you think it would turn the table?”
“Well, that’s a good thought, Tor. Let me hash it over with your pa.”
“Lot less trouble if you yust use good ox team instead of boat,” said Swede as he stuffed a square of johnnycake into his mouth.
Mason shook his head in amazement. The others laughed as the cookee took their empty plates. Ingman headed for the lodge, Tor crossed the yard to the horse barn, and the others left for the cuttings again.
In the barn, Gust and Louie were finishing the large oak braces which secured the engine to the boat’s hull. Gust flipped open his wooden rule, took some measurements, and made some notes on a slip of paper. “I’m gonna need those four roller bearings for the paddlewheel,” he said. “Here,” he said as he handed the slip of paper to Tor, “you get this to your pa or Ingman, and get me these parts.”
“Need anything else?”
“No … well, tell them we will need a bottle of champagne to smack against her hull when we launch her.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Gust. You know my uncle.”
Tor crossed the yard again. He climbed the lodge steps, stamped the snow off his boots, and walked in, closing the big door behind him.
“Pa,” he said, handing his father the slip of paper, “Gust says we need some parts for the boat. I’d be willin’ to take a run to Hayward to pick them up.”
“Sounds to me, Olaf, like someone is eager to see his gal, ya,?” said Ingman.”
“I’m not keen on the idea, Son. It might not be safe. I won’t risk sendin’ you into town right now.”
“But, Pa …”
“No. You’re not going, Tor. And that’s that.”
“I can send Blackie,” said Ingman. “Ya, he’d go for a night in town.”
“How about Gust?” said Olaf. “He knows what he’s lookin’ for. Maybe we should just send him on this trip.”
“I could go with Gust or Blackie if you want,” said Tor.
“I must say, Olaf, that boy of yours is a stubborn one,” said Ingman. “Wonder where he gets that?”
“Must be from his mother,” said Olaf.
“Then I can go, Pa?”
“No. Tor, you are not going. Don’t ask again.”
Tor went back to the horse barn feeling dejected. “Drat that dang King Muldoon!” he shouted across the yard. Two draft horses tied to a post near the filing shed turned their heads to look at him. They watched Tor open the small door at the corner of the horse barn and step inside.
“Gust,” shouted Tor, “Pa and Uncle Ingman are workin’ on gettin’ those bearings for you.” He hung up his coat, grabbed a plane, and spent a few minutes touching up some rough spots on the boat. He could not get his Rosie off his mind now, knowing he came close to seeing her again. He put down the plane, grabbed his coat again, and left the barn.
The bright sunlight reflecting off the white landscape made Tor squint as he stepped out into the still air. He walked past the filing shed and out the gate, following the north trail up to the cuttings. Within minutes he could hear the chug, chug, chug of the donkey engine through the cold, still air. He followed the sound back
into the woods and up the hill. Bright yellow letters on the side of the steam engine spelled out CLEMENTINE.
“So, how are you and your best girl, Clementine, gettin’ on, Junior?” Tor teased, slapping the engine’s hot boiler with his chopper.
“Clementine? Why, she sings sweet as bluebirds in springtime and she don’t ask me for no money or free beers.”
Junior waved, hailing Elmer Schmidt, the teamster waiting at the bottom of the grade. Elmer motioned and Junior threw the big oak lever. The long chain tightened and the donkey engine labored as the log sleigh began to inch toward them. Once on its way, it climbed the hill at a steady pace. A column of smoke from the boiler stretched straight up into the cold, blue sky.
“Here comes one hell of a big load of pine, Tor,” shouted Junior. “Biggest one yet. Elmer’s toploader wouldn’t stack ’em so high if not for ol’ Clementine, here.”
They watched as the load crested the hill. Junior eased off the steam.
“The sleigh track is plenty slick today, Elmer,” shouted Junior. “We got a sand man waitin’ for you near the bottom of the grade if you get goin’ too fast. Just give Ole a wave if you want him to slow you down some.”
“Slow down my sweet Aunt Fanny,” shouted the teamster as he hitched his team and climbed to the top of the load. Tor jumped onto the sleigh, climbed to the top, and stood next to Elmer for the ride down the hill.
Elmer gave a whistle and off they went, slowly at first. The huge load picked up speed as they descended the slight grade. Ahead was the sand man, leaning on his scoop shovel.
“Gimme some sand, Ole,” shouted the teamster with a wave.
The man with the shovel didn’t move.
Faster and faster they descended until the two-horse team was no longer pulling the load.
Tor could see the horses would be crushed if they couldn’t keep up. “Sand! Sand! Sand!” he cried out.
The man stood motionless as the sleigh picked up more speed. Tor heard the horses’ hooves striking the front bunk of the sleigh.
“Sand! Sand!” screamed Tor and Elmer.
The man dropped his shovel and stepped back into the thick grove of spruce trees behind as the sleigh raced past.
The grade flattened out now, but Tor could see the turn in the ice road coming up fast. Nothing could slow the huge load as it skimmed across the slick, frozen trail. The horses raced to keep from going under.
“She won’t make da bend!” screamed the teamster. “Yump for yer life, Tor!”
Tor looked at Elmer, realized he could do nothing to help, and jumped with all his strength, but slammed into balsam limbs that bounced him back into the logs on the runaway sleigh. He landed at the side of the track. The rear bunk brushed by his shoulder, tearing his mackinaw. The steel runner missed his left hand by less than an inch.
“Giddup! Giddup! Gee!” screamed the teamster trying to keep the team ahead of the sleigh. Into the curve they flew, a storm of hooves, snow, and ice flying in all directions. “Heeyaa. Giddup. Giddup! Giddup! Giddup!”
The sleigh groaned as the huge load leaned far to the left. The right runners lifted a foot off the trail, then two, then three. Just as the load was about to tip, the steel safety chains snapped, each with a rifle-like crack! The thousand pound logs thundered off the sleigh and into the brush along the trail. The teamster deftly sprang from log to log as they dashed out from under his feet. The sleigh shook violently as the timber flew off, then slammed back onto the sleigh track with a crash. Elmer calmly brought his team to a stop. He jumped down and ran to the horses, reassuring them with his gentle hand and soft words. Looking back, he saw his boss’ son lying motionless along the ice road. Beyond, running down the sleigh trail toward them, came Junior Kavanaugh.
“Tor! Tor!” screamed Junior as he raced down the hill. Elmer reached him first. He pushed some of the snow off Tor’s face and neck.
Tor looked up. “You all right, Elmer?”
“Me? God almighty, Tor, iss you hurt?”
The boy slowly sat up, wiping more snow from his face. “Find my hat,” was all he said.
Junior ran up to them, sliding to a stop on the slick ice road. “Tor, what the hell you doin’ sittin’ in a snow bank when there’s work to be done?”
Unamused, Tor slowly stood. Elmer kicked around in the snow finding Tor’s hat, a piece of the brim cleanly sliced through by a steel runner. He shook it off and handed it to Tor who was now standing.
Tor slapped snow from his britches and coat. He tried to dig the snow out of his collar, then looked down the trail at the pile of logs scattered into the woods. “Elmer, your horses, they get busted up?”
“Horses all right, tanks be to God an’ good luck. Ya know I gotta have dat team to put crops in, come spring.”
“What the hell happened, Elmer?” shouted Junior. “I ain’t never seen you drop no load of pine before. You fall asleep?”
“You best you shut yer mouth, Yunior, or I shut it for ya. Dis iss no fault of mine. Goddang Ole Hanson didn’t do his yob. A shovel of sand, and I’d been fine all da vay to da lake.”
“Where did he go?” yelled Junior, looking back up the grade. They walked up the hill to the shovel and sand barrel. The sand man’s boot tracks led them back into the thick, short spruces. There, lying in the snow, head bleeding, was Ole Hanson. A three-foot pine limb lay next to him.
“Someone must've bushwhacked Ole,” shouted Junior.
The boot tracks led farther into the pines before changing to those left by a man on skis.
“Junior,” ordered Tor, “you get back up to the donkey, fast. This fella might have bigger plans than upsetting just one sleigh.”
Junior raced up the grade, grabbed a shovel and stood watch.
Below, Elmer and Tor looked at the tracks in the snow. Unable to follow a man on skis in the deep snow, Tor and Elmer helped Ole down the trail to the empty log sleigh.
Elmer used the horses to clear the trail of logs. The skilled teamster then hitched the team to the sleigh again and took Tor and Ole down the ice road toward camp. As the horse team pulled the empty sleigh onto the frozen lake, the men saw the plume of black smoke coming up from the yard.
“Fire!” shouted Tor, pointing toward the barn.
Elmer snapped the reins, gave a shrill whistle, and yelled, “Heeyaa! Giddup!” The horses galloped across the ice and up the bank to the camp.
Sourdough was already in the yard blowing on the gabreel. Tex Ketchum pounded on the dinner bell with a hammer. A dozen men had already assembled to fight the blaze.
The cloud of smoke coming from the barn grew larger. Tor ran through the open barn doors and led the last of the horses out before dashing off to the filing shed where he grabbed a mall. He raced back to the barn where he broke enough fence rails out of the hog pen to let the pigs escape from the fire.
Tor then joined the others who were carrying water from a hole cut in the ice. Lacking enough men to form a bucket brigade, they ran up from the lake with water sloshing from their buckets. Each man threw what water remained onto the fire, now growing too fast for the small crew.
Then, racing down the trail, fishtailing through the gate, came Blackie Jackson on a timber sleigh filled with men. Behind him was Swede Carlson with the tanker. A dozen more men soon showed up. Within minutes the fire was out and the men began rounding up the animals, repairing the hog pen, and cleaning up the wet, black mess.
Tor ran to the lodge where his father had watched the events unfold through the window. “Pa,” he shouted as he entered the lodge, “we got bushwhacked up on the trail!”
Olaf Loken looked at him, puzzled.
“Somebody tried to wreck us, Pa. He took off on skis. Whoever it was, he must've set the barn afire, too!”
“Somebody tried to wreck you? What? What do you mean?”
“Ole Hanson got beat over the head and wasn’t there to sand the ice road. Elmer’s sleigh got goin’ so fast it couldn’t hold the track. We lost the whole dang load. W
e could have lost the whole rig, horses, Elmer and all.”
“And you say this fella was on skis?”
“Yes, Pa, skis. There was no catchin’ him. We were on our way back here when we saw the smoke. He probably stopped here to set fire to the barn before he skedaddled.”
Olaf looked at his son, considering what had transpired. “Tor, saddle your mare. Get over to Chief Namakagon’s camp. Tell him what happened. Tell him about the man on skis. He’ll know what to do. Go, make haste!”
Minutes later Tor raced across the lake to the nearby island. Chief Namakagon was already hitching his dogs to his sled. Tor rode up to the dogsled and told the story.
Namakagon said a few words to Tor, pointed toward the dam, and grabbed the handrails of his sled, shouting “Mush!”
Waabishki and Makade raced down the hill and onto the ice with the sled and their master behind. Tor jumped from his horse and entered the chief’s lodge. He emerged in seconds, carrying Namakagon’s long, blackpowder rifle.
The black mare took Tor across the lake. Following the chief’s instructions, he headed for the cattail marsh upstream from King Muldoon’s dam. There, he waited.
Namakagon’s dogsled sped through the Namakagon Timber Company yard. As he passed by the cook shanty, he saw men hauling out wet, smoke-blackened hay through the large, open doors of the horse barn. Rounding the barn, the chief quickly found the tracks of a single skier. He followed.
The trail took Namakagon and his dogs southward along the lake shore where the skier’s tracks crossed the narrow bay and disappeared into the woods.
With a whistle and a “mush,” his dogs pulled the sled up the bank. The track wound back behind the cuttings, far from where the loggers worked.
Chief Namakagon continued through a stand of uncut pines. They towered above, blocking most of the light. With far less snow cover here, Makade and Waabishki had better traction, picked up speed, and closed in on the culprit.
The skier’s tracks turned back onto the lake. Across the ice raced Namakagon in pursuit. He followed the sign as it edged along the west shore, heading toward the narrows. With the sun now nearing the treetops, he spotted the lone skier ahead.
“Mush!” shouted Chief to his eager team.
Seeing the man ahead, the dogs picked up the pace. They rounded the point near the narrows with their quarry before them, unaware he was being pursued.
Suddenly, out from the brush a hundred yards away, stepped Tor Loken, brandishing the long rifle.
The man looked up, stopped, and turned toward shore, hoping to escape into the woods. Seeing the dogsled racing toward him from behind, he kicked off his skis, tried to climb the bank, but the drifted snow gave him no footing. He slipped and slid back onto the ice just as Chief Namakagon reached him. He fell under the dogs, screaming and swinging his arms.
Makade and Waabishki tore into him before their master could call them off. By the time he did, the man wanted only to surrender. The sleeves of his mackinaw were shredded. He had deep bites on his face, wrists, and hands. His boots, britches, and coat concealed more. Bright red blood was spattered across the snow under the cold, blue, late afternoon sky.
Namakagon jerked the man’s knife from its sheath, pitching it far into the woods. He was shaking from fear and gasping for breath when Tor approached.
“Who sent you?” shouted Tor with authority.
“I don’t … I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sonny,” gasped the fallen man. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I am Tor Loken and I am about to release those dogs on you again unless you give me the truth. Now I will ask you only once more—who sent you? Who!”
The man looked up at Tor, then at Namakagon, then the dogs. “Muldoon. King Muldoon.”