Blackie and Ingman each grasped a side of Olaf’s wheel chair and lifted Olaf, chair and all, onto the center table. The camp boss spoke to the lumberjacks in his booming voice.
“Men, I do not need to tell you we have some trouble brewing with King Muldoon. You all know he bought the dam and is threatening to stop us from driving our pine to the mills come spring. Now today, he sent that fella who dang near killed both Elmer and Tor on the north ice road. This is the same scalawag who ambushed Ole. We know he did all this as a diversion just so he could wreck the donkey engine. Chief Namakagon tells me he tried to break into the dynamite shack, to boot. Lord knows what he was plannin’ there. Then there is the fire in the horse barn—his handiwork, too.”
The lumberjacks grumbled at Olaf's words. Ingman nodded to Junior who banged on the pot again.
“Men,” Olaf continued, “Chief and Tor captured the culprit out on the ice just before sunset. He is now hogtied in the filing shed." A cheer went up from the men.
“Give me three minutes with him, Boss,” shouted Red Olson over the noise. “I will learn him not to mess with the Namakagon Timber Camp.”
“There’ll be none of that, Red,” said Ingman. “We are going to let the law deal with him.”
Olaf continued. “Tomorrow we will deliver him to the law. This rascal will not be bothering us anymore, but, fellas, he is not likely the only hoodlum in Muldoon’s employ. We have to be watching our backs from here on out.”
Lester Moore stood. “Boss, just what are you plannin’ on doin’ if King Muldoon don’t give way and don’t let us drive our pine over his dam? Are we gonna get our winter’s pay?” The room became silent.
“Lester, that is a fair question. We know Muldoon would like to see us all go bust. He would like nothing better than to take over the Namakagon Timber Company and add it to his string of camps. I want you to know right here and right now we are not going to let that happen.”
“Men,” shouted Ingman, “we have near to eight million board feet laying out on that ice and we’re not done cuttin’. Every man-jack in this camp has an interest in that timber and, by God, we are gonna see to it every stick gets to the mill come hell or high water. If Muldoon tries to stop us, then we plan on taking the dam by force. That is, if you’re with us. Each man in this camp will then be sure to draw his full pay, maybe then some.”
Leonard Lewten stood. “We Lewtens are behind you full steam, Boss.”
“Goes for me and my boy, too, Olaf,” John Kavanaugh shouted.
“Me, too,” yelled Elmer Schmidt. “I got a score to settle.”
“Ya, ya!” added Swede Carlson. “Count me in.”
“Same here, Olaf,” yelled Sourdough from the kitchen.
Within seconds every employee in camp was on his feet, shouting his pledge. The Namakagon Timber Company would not go down without a fight.
By the end of March, the short days of early winter gave way to much more daylight and warmer temperatures. February’s knee-deep snow dropped to less than a foot in the woods now. Keeping the sleighs moving along proved difficult, especially in the afternoons when the ice on the roads melted and the runners dragged in the mud. Ingman put several men on road monkey duty, throwing shovels of snow onto the ice road as the sleighs moved by. Without a good late March snowstorm, the sleighs would have only a few more days in the woods before being put up for the season. All through the cuttings on this pleasant March day, mackinaw coats hung on low branches in the afternoon sun.
Clementine, Junior Kavanaugh’s donkey engine, had been drained for the last time this season and covered with an oiled, canvas tarp. She served her purpose well and would be put into service again in December. Junior was put to work with three other lumberjacks building log booms far out in the bay.
Although Junior’s steam engine had been secured in the horse barn for the season, another was being readied for a maiden run. The lumberjacks had mounted the machine on the new, flat-bottomed boat housed in the fire-scarred horse barn. The craft was twelve feet wide and twenty-six feet long with an eight-foot-wide oak paddlewheel.
Tor had almost finished the third coat of paint when the camp blacksmith entered the barn. “Tor, how long you gonna be at that paintin’?”
“Ten minutes should do, Gust,” he answered, using a rag to wipe a drip of white off the red deck. “Why?”
“I’m thinkin’ about firin’ up the engine to make sure everything’s workin’ right.”
“Don’t you mess up my paint job.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Loken,” Gust said with a salute. “Tor, I’ll finish up there. You go give Junior a holler. He is still out on the ice, working on the booms. He should be here to see this.”
Tor left the barn, crossed the muddy yard, and followed the path past the cook shanty. When he neared the lake, he put his cupped hands to his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Jun—yer!”
Junior looked up from far out on the ice.
“We’re—firin’—up—the—en—gine.”
Junior dropped his tools and broke into a run.
Gust was cleaning the paint brushes as Tor and Junior walked in, followed by Ingman.
“How’s the boom work coming, Junior?” said Ingman.
“We’re dang near done with the last one. None too soon, neither. The ice is getting’ a pretty good sag in her under all that timber. Must be a foot of water out there in spots. She won’t last long if this weather holds out.”
“We got a good three weeks until ice out, Junior,” said Gust.
“I’ll go you a sawbuck the ice will be out in two weeks, Gust ol’ pal.”
“You’re on,” Gust replied immediately. He stretched his big hand out to Junior who shook it with a grin. “Maybe I can win back some of what I owe you on the snookerin’ you gave us last December.”
“Gol dang it, Gust, that was fair and square and you dang-well know it. ‘Sides, nobody ordered you to lay any money on that bet.”
“Take it easy, Junior. Take it easy. I don’t mean nothin’ by it. You won fair and square all right. Don’t mean I gotta like it, though.”
“Let’s get this contraption fired up, Yunior,” said Ingman, slapping the boiler. Tor’s pa is waitin’ to hear it run.”
“She’s gonna get plenty smoky in here,” warned Tor, climbing a nearby ladder. “I’ll open the door to the loft. Junior, you get the barn door. Wide as she goes.” Tor jumped down again. “We’ll need water for the boiler.”
“I beat you to it,” said Gust. “Boiler’s full. Firebox is ready to light.”
Junior opened the firebox and saw a mix of kindling and birch bark. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a match, struck it on the side of the boiler, shouted, “Here goes, boys,” and tossed the match into the boiler.
He slammed the firebox door and adjusted the door vent and damper. A thin wisp of smoke came from the stack. It soon turned into a black column of thick smoke as the birch bark caught fire. Gust and Tor stood next to Junior watching the gauge on the side of the boiler creep up.
“If she runs like Clementine, we’ll need ninety or ninety-five pounds when she’s towin’ a load,” said Junior, “but fifty should be fine for a dry run.”
“Fifty pounds it is, Admiral Kavanaugh,” said Gust.
They watched the needle on the pressure gauge climb. The smoke turned from black to white as birch gave way to maple in the firebox. Junior closed the damper and firebox door vent.
“Fifty pounds. Right on the money. Send her some steam, Admiral.”
Grinning, Junior threw a brass lever from left to right and gave the heavy flywheel a spin. The piston, responding to the steam pressure, pushed the long rod that connected it to the flywheel. The flywheel began to turn on its own, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
“Ready, Gust?” asked Junior.
“Let ’er go, Admiral!”
Junior pulled back on the oak clutch handle. The white paddlewheel behind the boat began to spin to the cheers of the woods bo
ss and his three self-taught engineers. The small amount of kindling in the firebox had done its job and was already burning out. The pressure began to drop. Junior disengaged the clutch and the paddlewheel slowed to a stop.
“One more test,” said Tor, reaching for a brass knob. A deafening screeeeet, came from the brass whistle Gust had built for the boiler.
“Dang!” said Ingman, “That whistle’s bound to wake the dead, Gust.”
Junior released what remained of the head of steam and locked the release lever open. The fire was out now. Gust reached under the boiler and turned the petcock. Boiling water streamed onto the dirt floor, and a final cloud of steam rose to the rafters.
“So what are we going to call this rig?” asked Gust.
“How about Mabel?” suggested Junior. “Mabel of Cable. Ya, Mabel—of—Cable. I think that’s a good name for a boat. Mabel of Cable.”
“Dang it all, Junior,” snapped Tor, “don’t you start carrying on again about that gal who cleaned out your pocketbook. We’ve heard your crowin’ too many times already.”
“No, Tor, I mean it. Let’s call her Mabel of Cable.”
Gust and Ingman laughed at the discussion.
“Junior, we are not going to name our Namakagon Timber Company boat after some sportin’ house woman and that’s the end of that.”
Junior glared at Tor.
“How about we name her the Namakagon Queen, Tor?” offered Gust.
“See, Junior,” said Tor, “now that’s a good name for a boat.”
“I’ve been givin’ this some thought, Tor,” said Ingman. “I think your pa would be honored to have this boat named after your mother.”
“Karina?” Tor smiled. “Uncle Ingman, that is a gol dang good idea. Let’s call her the Empress Karina.”
The next morning, Ingman laid two dimes on the counter below the iron-barred ticket window at the Cable depot.
“Here’s for the telegram and a three-penny tip for you, Sonny,” he said. “And here’s another six bits for passage to Hayward.”
“Well, Ingman Loken!” came a loud voice from the back of the office. The stationmaster walked into the waiting room. Polished brass buttons stood out sharply against the dark blue wool fabric.
“What brings you to town on such a fine spring day?”
“ Oscar, good to see you. I’m here on business, but that does not mean we can’t find time for a couple of hands of pinochle before I leave for camp. I’d love to take home some more of your Omaha Railroad Line money.”
“What would a high roller like you want with my meager earnings?”
“Oscar, you old mudpuppy, if I had your money, I’d burn mine!”
Ingman took the stationmaster by the arm and moved away from the window. “Say, Oscar, you may have heard the scuttlebutt about some trouble we expect with King Muldoon. Olaf sent me to talk with your watchman, Bill Burns. He seems to be a straight shooter and is doin’ a good yob keepin’ a lid on things in Cable. Tell me, if I were to ask him for some advice, do you figure he could be trusted to not give up our intentions to Muldoon?”
“Completely. Bill has no patience for King Muldoon and the low-down way he finagles his way around the pinery, not to mention the way he treats his men. Why just last month two of his workers were killed on the job. They say it was due to Muldoon’s orders to increase the camp’s daily cut. Happened up near the White River. Terrible shame, it was. Two men dead and Muldoon refused to send their pay home with their remains. He said they violated their contracts by not finishing out the season. The crooked old skinflint wouldn’t as much as pay the railroad freight to get the poor fellas back home for burial. I covered it myself. No, you needn’t fret about Bill. He’s your man, all right. Right now he should be over at the hotel reading his mornin’ paper, I’d say.”
Knowing the southbound train wouldn’t pull out for a half-hour, Ingman crossed to the hotel. As Oscar guessed, Bill Burns sat at a table with a copy of the Pioneer Press in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other.
“Why, sure I’ll help out,” said the constable, “but if you want to go one more step and show Muldoon you really mean business, well, I have a suggestion.” He pulled a pencil out of his coat pocket. “You send a telegram to this fella,” he said as he scratched a name and address on the corner of the newspaper. He tore the corner off and handed it to Ingman.
“So, Bill, who is this fella, Earl Morrison?”
“Well, he started out as a bouncer for a tavern in Racine. From there he was hired away to head up as a watchman for a small shipping company in Chicago. That was a few years back. Now Ned’s a Captain in the dang Pinkerton Detective Agency. I met Ned when he and two of his men came up here trout fishing. I took them out to Cap’s Creek. Olaf, they caught over eighty brook trout in just two days. Nice ones, too. I think I made a friend for life that day. You let Earl Morrison know you talked with me, Ingman. He’s your man. Not even King Muldoon will go up against a Pinkerton badge.”
“I appreciate this, Bill.”
“Ingman, I’ll ride out to the camp tomorrow to look things over. Anyway I’d like to see that bay full of logs I hear your outfit put up this winter.”
“Best take the south road. No need to tip our hand to Muldoon. ’Sides, the ice ain’t safe for both a man and a horse these days. There ain’t been a drownin’ in the lake for two years now. I don’t suppose you want to be the one to spoil the record, ay, Constable?”
Minutes later, Ingman sent another telegram. This one went to the Pinkerton captain, Earl Morrison, in downtown Chicago. Ingman paid the telegrapher, then dashed out the door, across the platform, and jumped onto the train just as it started to pull out from the station.
A half-hour later he walked down the pine-plank walkway in Hayward and through the doors of the Lumberman’s Bank. The lobby was empty. He walked up to the teller’s window. “Dearborne,” Ingman said quietly, “time for me to make a withdrawal, and I am not talkin’ about money.”
“I – I don’t follow you, Mr. Loken,” the teller said in a whisper, looking over his shoulder at the open office door behind.
“The hell you say. You and I both know the only reason you still have your yob here is because I didn’t turn you in to the sheriff. You agreed, Ned, and now I’m here to collect.”
“All right, all right. Just pipe down some. I could still get the sack, you know. What is it you want?”
“What’s Muldoon plannin’ out east of Cable?”
“I don’t know anything about any of his plans, Mr. Loken, but I do know Muldoon withdrew a thousand dollars. All in five-dollar bills. Just last week. Two hundred five-dollar bills. The only other camp that ever did this is yours. Made me think those five-spots were for his men.”
“Anything else?”
“No … well, only that Muldoon’s walkin’ boss took the train to Chicago three days ago,” Dearborne whispered. “I didn’t think nothin’ of it at first, but then I got to wonderin’ why, when all of Muldoon’s camps need to be buttoned up for the season, why would the walkin’ boss of those big camps be goin’ on a holiday? It just don’t make sense, Mr. Loken. It just don’t.”
Ingman left the bank and caught the midday train back to Cable. He rode into camp just before Sourdough rang the bell for supper. The air was warm now, and the snow gone around camp. He walked his horse to the barn and crossed to the cook shanty. The setting sun peeked out from behind the clouds. A beam of orange sunlight flooded the western horizon. In the distant twilight he heard the call of a loon—the first loon call he had heard since fall. He stopped to listen, then watched it fly over the frozen lake, looking for the first open water of the season.
“Yust be patient, Mr. Loon. It won’t be long now.”
Chapter 36
The Empress Karina