By the time Ingman finished dinner, sunshine flooded the bay. He spent the rest of the day overseeing his crews as they turned in their equipment for storage until the next logging season. The tool shed was soon stuffed with crosscut saws, double-bit axes, and cant hooks, all protected by a coat of linseed oil. The peaveys and pike poles were leaned against the outside wall, waiting for the drive to begin.
In the blacksmith shop, Gust had three men cutting and bending steel links to build logging chain for the next season. He joined the links by heating and hammer-welding each red-hot link.
Junior and Tor spent the afternoon on the Karina, checking every valve and gauge, polishing her brass, and preparing for her first day of work.
The boys secured the bow of the Karina to an oak tree near shore. The stern was fastened to the dock. Tor put two pike poles, a peavey and several coils of rope on board while Junior covered the engine and boiler with an oiled tarp. Beyond, the ice turned darker and darker in the warm April sunshine.
By the time the sun met the tops of the trees on the western shore, the Karina was ready, the Namakagon Timber Company camp was in order, and the men were all hungry. Sourdough rang the supper bell. They gathered for another good meal.
After supper, like so many evenings before, Kelly Thompson reached for his banjo and Whistlin’ Jim his concertina. Most of the men joined in tonight, knowing this would be one of the last times they would all be together at the camp. Tall tales and lively songs filled the air, as did thick, blue smoke from the lumberjacks’ pipes. Ingman’s four guests sat with him at the end table.
“Tor,” said Junior, “that fella sittin’ next to your Uncle Ingman down there, isn't he the constable we met in the hotel bar last December?”
“Shush your mouth, Junior. I do not want that story to get spread all over camp. I don’t need the razzin’.” He looked at the stranger across the room. “Ya, maybe you’re right. He does sort'a look like the same fella.”
“I’m pretty dang sure that’s him, Tor. I’d even put a dollar on it.”
“Junior Kavanaugh, you ain’t pinchin’ me for another gol dang buck. I am not interested in any more of your wagering.”
Tor and Junior each grabbed a molasses cookie and left the cook shanty. They headed straight for the Karina for another inspection, then sat on the dock listening to a loon calling in the distant twilight. The wind picked up.
“Junior, do you hear something?”
Junior pointed across the bay. “Look at the ice! There, just off the point.”
They watched as, far out on the lake, driven by the breeze, a large section of ice separated from the rest, slowly colliding with the logs in the bay. As it broke into millions of tiny crystals, it gave off a strange hissing sound.
“Go find my uncle. Tell him he should come and look at this.”
Junior sprinted up to the cook shanty and disappeared inside. Almost one hundred curious loggers soon poured out. Chief Namakagon and Olaf looked down from the lodge windows.
Ingman made his way through the mob of men, stepping onto the dock. He felt the wind on his face and saw a large section of the lake now open.
“Sourdough,” he shouted, “I want breakfast at four. Not a minute later. Men, you show up at the table with your calks on. Tomorrow we drive logs!”
Tor had trouble getting to sleep that night. In the dark, his thoughts drifted back to the time when he lived in New York with his mother. His mind then wandered to the train derailment and the horrific crashing of passenger cars, one after another. Next, the orphanage, followed by his time in the coal yard. He remembered the thrill of meeting his Uncle Ingman and, after so many years, seeing his father again. He tossed and turned. Tor’s thoughts roamed to the train robbery, to Rosie, to his experiences working in the woods, to the train ride with the Governor, and to Rosie again. He was finally drifting off when it happened.
The sudden blast from a shotgun shattered the stillness of night.
Tor jumped at the shotgun’s report.
Then, from out on the lake—another shot—and another!
Tor recognized them as rifle shots. He threw off the quilt and, in his long, white, wool underwear, ran to the window. A flash of light near the dock illuminated the Karina, immediately followed by another shotgun report.
“The boat!” he shouted. “Pa, Ingman, the boat!” Tor pulled on his shoe-pacs, grabbed his hat and his deer rifle. He opened a drawer, pawed around, then pulled out a box of shells.
Another rifle report tore through the night air—this one from the lake.
He frantically ripped open the box. Cartridges flew across the floor. Tor fell to his knees and, in the darkness, found one shell, then a second. He slid them into the rifle’s magazine, levered one into the chamber, and lowered the hammer. Down the stairs he flew in the darkness, two steps at a time. In the dim light from the fireplace he saw his father coming from his bedroom in his wheelchair. Ingman was putting on his coat.
“What is it?” shouted Tor.
“Trouble!” answered Ingman. “You stay inside, Nephew.” Ingman rushed out into the yard, shotgun in hand.
“Stay inside? Uncle, if somebody’s tryin’ to wreck the Karina, then I’m gonna try and stop ’em!”
“Tor,” snapped his father, “if there is someone out there with a rifle and you step outside wearin’ that white union suit of yours, you’ll be a fine target. Now you get upstairs, put on your britches and a shirt, and then stay put until we know what the shootin’s all about.”
“Pa, I gotta protect the boat!”
“Dang it, Tor, three of those friends of Ingman’s are Pinkerton detectives. The other is Constable Bill Burns. We hired them to keep an eye on things. Let them do their jobs and, for St. Peter’s sake, boy, do not get in the way! Now go get your dang britches on.”
Tor raced back up the stairs, rifle in hand. He laid the Winchester on the bed, put on his shirt, and kicked off his shoe-pacs. He pulled on his wool britches, whipping the suspenders up over his shoulders before peering out the window. In the dim starlight stood the Karina, boiler and engine still covered. He saw a flash near the dock and heard another shotgun blast, quickly answered by two more rifle reports from the log booms.
Fifty yards to the left he saw another flash, followed by another report!
Tor raised the window, shouting, “Uncle, is the boat alright?”
“She’s fine, Tor. Stay inside. We got two culprits out on the log booms and one more most likely shot or drowned off the dock.”
Tor reached over to his dresser and fumbled for his father’s binoculars. He scanned the log boom. In the dim light he made out the shape of a man in a rowboat. In a forced whisper he spoke to his uncle again.
“Uncle, is anyone from our camp out there on the lake?”
“No. Why?”
“I think I can see one of your culprits in a rowboat.”
“Can you get your sights on him?”
“I think so.”
“Then take a potshot at his boat, but get away from the window in case he shoots back.”
“Uncle Ingman, what if I hit him?”
“Aim low and to the side, Tor.”
“All right, but I surely hope I don’t hit him.”
“I’ll take the responsibility, Nephew.”
Tor knelt, resting the Winchester on the windowsill. He looked through the field glasses again, set them down, then squinted, peering across the iron sights of his rifle. He pulled the hammer back with a soft click—click. He squinted, adjusting the aim of the rifle, hoping to place the bullet through the boat. Carefully steadying his rifle on the sill of the window, Tor Loken slowly squeezed the trigger.
The stock pounded against his shoulder and the report echoed through the trees. Tor pulled his Winchester and the field glasses from the sill and rushed to the other window.
A voice came from the middle of the log booms. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot no more, I surrender. I ain’t gonna die for no lumber tycoon.”
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“Pipe down, you fool,” came another voice through the darkness.
“I’m givin’ up, Horace,” the first man said. “‘Tain’t worth dyin’ for.”
Lumberjacks were pouring out of the bunkhouse now. Ingman stopped them. “You men sit tight. We don’t know how many there are and they got deer rifles.”
Through the binoculars, Tor could see the other man now. He raised the window, knelt down and took aim.
“Uncle, I got the other fella in my sights. He’s hunkered down on one of the log booms. Should I fire?”
“Ya, Tor. Shoot. Shoot!” answered Ingman.
Tor squeezed the trigger and another rifle blast cut the night air. He rushed back to the first window and peered through the field glasses.
“Horace?” shouted the first outlaw.
Silence.
“Horace!”
More silence.
“My God, my God! You sent Horace to his grave! Now don’t shoot no more. I ain’t gonna shoot and don’t you neither.”
“Boss, look at this,” shouted Gust Finstead from the dock, holding something in the air. “Dynamite. They were tryin’ to blow up our boat.”
“You on the lake,” came a new voice from near the boat, “I am an officer with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and I hereby place you under arrest. Now, I want to hear each and every cartridge come out of your rifle, mister. If I don’t hear your gun empty out, I will order my sharpshooter to put his next round straight through your gizzard.”
“For Almighty’s sake, don’t shoot no more,” came the voice through the darkness. “I surrender! I am unloadin’ right now.”
From the lake came a series of click-clack, click-clacks. “There, it’s empty. I couldn’t shoot now if I wanted to. I am layin’ my rifle down and I’m comin’ in. Don’t you go shootin’ me. I ain’t gonna be no more trouble.”
A leaking rowboat soon approached the dock. The man rowing was pale and shaking. The instant his boat reached the dock, two Pinkerton men yanked him from the boat by his collar, dragged him to shore and slammed him face-first into the wet, muddy ground
The third Pinkerton put one knee on the middle of the captured man’s back. “How many are you?”
“Three. Just the three of us.”
“Where are the others?”
“Others? There ain’t no others. Just me and Horace and Smiley, I told you. You must’ve shot Horace ’cause he ain’t out there no more, and I seen Smiley go down off the dock there. Must’ve shot him, too. My God in heaven. It weren’t s'posed to turn out like this.”
“Where’s the fourth man?” said the detective, putting all of his weight on the knee that dug into the outlaw’s back.
“I’m tellin’ ya, there ain’t nobody else.”
“Four men got off the train. You and the two we shot make three. Where’s the fourth?” shouted the Pinkerton, now bouncing on his knee.
“Stop! Stop!” cried the bandit. The detective eased off. “Four of us hired on all right. But only three of us came to lay wreck to the boat.”
“Where’s the fourth man?”
Ingman didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and raced up to the lodge.
“Olaf, Tor, watch yourselves. There is one more on the loose!”
Tor moved from the window to his bedroom door and peeked onto the floor below. The light from coals glowing in the fireplace barely illuminated the room. Tor saw the silhouette of his father, pistol at the ready, peering out the window.