Carpenters and masons feverishly built homes, offices, and stores as fast as the fickle spring weather permitted. Every hotel and rooming house sported a sign declaring, “no vacancy”. The restaurants, barbershops, bath houses, poker rooms, brothels, and saloons were crowded. Lumberjacks, flush with winter earnings, shared the boardwalks with shrewd businessmen, sharp-witted charlatans, willing women, gamblers, and others hoping to cash in on the new prosperity—prosperity made possible by the harvest of the great white pine forests. Business was booming. The young city of Hayward, Wisconsin, had the look and feel of a flourishing, modern lumber town. Everyone had plenty of money and wanted to spend it fast.
The two-fifteen from Cable rolled into the Hayward yard. A sudden rush of steam and the squeal of the iron wheels braking against the rails momentarily drowned out other sounds of the city.
One by one, a party of six stepped off the train. Tor, Ingman, and Olaf were first. Olaf carried a cane but did not use it. Chief Namakagon, Constable Bill Burns, and Sourdough followed. The county sheriff, the mayor of Hayward, and the local undertaker met them.
“The outlaw Percy Wilkins is three cars down, Sheriff,” said Burns. “I inspected the body. A bear surely killed him all right. No question about it.”
The undertaker walked down the platform toward the lone boxcar.
“You say, Mr. Burns, this is the same man who tried to rob the train last winter?” asked the mayor. “The shypoke we all took for being drowned?”
The undertaker slid open the boxcar door as the other men approached.
“One and the same, Your Honor. He so confessed those deeds to Chief Namakagon and young Loken here. And both got a good, long look at him during the train robbery. There is no doubt this fella is Percy Wilkins, the fugitive we dang-near nabbed last December.”
“You were the last to see him alive?” the sheriff asked Namakagon.
“We were,” replied the chief, placing his hand on Tor’s shoulder.
“So, you saw him, too, Son?”
“I’d say so! He held us at gunpoint. Before the bear got him, he explained how he foiled his capture by hiding under the ice near the railroad trestle. Then he lit out to a lumber camp over at Morse. Said he was bent on gettin’ even with the chief for all his troubles. That’s about all we learned before the bear got hold of him.”
“Seems odd that a bear would attack a man at all,” said the sheriff. “And odder still a bear would attack a man with two others right there.”
“There are many odd things that happen in the pinery, Sheriff,” said Chief Namakagon. “I suppose that is why your good service is so valuable and necessary in this country.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose you are right,” said the sheriff. “Well, let’s have a gander at this here dead fella.”
The undertaker slid the tarp-covered body from the floor of the boxcar. The corpse fell onto the brick platform, landing at their feet with a dull thud. The sheriff removed the tarp. The mayor gasped when he saw the crushed skull, twisted neck, and severe cuts across the dead man’s face.
“Looks like a bear done it all right,” said the undertaker with a grin. “Ain’t another critter in these parts that will leave a man lookin’ like this here, not even a wild cat.”
“Well, Clarence, you go ahead and get this fella fixed up for buryin’,” said the mayor to the mortician. “But do it on the cheap now. I don’t think the voters want to spend a dime on such a ne’er-do-well. I suppose this will cost the good people of Sawyer County two, maybe three dollars, all told.”
“Sheriff,” said Olaf, “unless you have more questions for us, we need to be off to Adeline Ringstadt’s Boarding House now. Oh, and Sheriff, this afternoon I plan to throw a small celebration at Johnny Pion’s Hotel. Would you and the mayor like to join us?”
“Why, sure, Loken,” replied the mayor. “On behalf of the citizens of the fine City of Hayward, I accept. The sheriff and I would be pleased to share in your celebration. I know folks ’round here are gol dang glad to see this matter put behind us. You tell old Johnny Pion I said to put the first five dollars of the bar bill on the city tab. I do declare it to be a sound investment. Yessiree.”
“Tor!” came a young woman’s voice from the street.
“Rosie?” He jumped from the platform, racing across the railroad tracks. Turning back, he shouted, “Pa, I’ll meet you later in the hotel.”
Olaf watched his son cross the railroad yard to the young, dark-haired girl. “She reminds me of Karina when we were their age.”
“Tor,” Rosie said, “When I heard you were on the afternoon train, I came right away. Do you know what day this is?”
“Sure, Rosie, Thursday.”
“No, silly, it’s the first of May! It’s May Day, Tor. May Day! School has been dismissed for summer, it’s a beautiful day, and all my friends are planning to meet in the park. We’ll have a grand party with ice cream and fruit punch and even a Maypole. We have a fiddler coming. And a fellow with a concertina. It’s May Day! Oh, Tor, you must come.”
“You know what else this day is?” Tor said, reaching into his pocket. She watched as he unwrapped a ring crafted from a shard of silver. He placed the ring on her finger. “Rosie, this is the day when I ask if you will officially be my sweetheart.”
Astonished, Rosie stared at the ring. Tor, overcoming his shyness, leaned forward, kissing her on the cheek. She looked up into his eyes, said nothing for a moment, then, wrapping her arms around him, gave him a kiss they would always remember.
Olaf, Ingman, Chief Namakagon, and Sourdough looked on from the platform. The engineer gave two blasts from the locomotive's whistle.
“Yust look at those two,” Ingman said. “Ain’t young love grand today?”
“Yesterday, today, tomorrow,” offered Namakagon, “young love always has been, is now, and forever will be grand.”
“Oh, but time seems to move so fast nowadays,” Sourdough said. “I often wonder if love will be as magnificent in years to come.”
“Sourdough,” replied the chief, “I will stop by and let you know—the next time I go ’round.”
With a rush of steam and the loud chugging of the engine, the Omaha pulled away from the station under a bright sun. The train thundered south, pulling two passenger cars, one empty box car, and sixty-eight flat cars, each piled high with prime, white pine lumber.
The End
Epilogue
May 18, 1966
Late evening
I closed the last theme book, returning it to the stack. “Well, Grandpa Tor, it’s high time I took a closer look at that map of yours.”
Untying the first stack of theme books, I opened chapter one. The faded, crumbling, grocer’s bill was not there. I flipped through the book. Finding no map, I looked through the second, then the third book. Nothing. I flipped through every book in the stack. Still, nothing. I checked my pockets. I looked on the floor. No map.
Behind the cushions of the old chair, I found only a few tarnished pennies, a fistful of acorns, and a buffalo nickel. Staring at the image of the Indian on the coin, I muttered, “Wenebojo, is this your doing?”
The only reply—the only sounds I heard coming from the old lodge now were the ticking of the big clock and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.
“The kitchen!” I heard myself speaking louder, now. “Yes! It’s on the kitchen table! “I rushed into the kitchen, flipping on the light switch. There, right where I left it, on the table, was the photo of young Olaf Loken, his pretty wife, Karina, and their baby, Tor. Next to the photograph was the old, green, wooden box. I snatched it off the table. Inside was the knife with the broken blade, the worn pocket watch, the blue ribbon from Grandma Rosie’s hair, the medal with the broken clasp, the odd, tarnished, silver ring. No grocer’s receipt. No map.
I dropped to my knees, hoping to find it on the floor. I searched under the refrigerator and under the stove. Nothing. I checked my pockets again. Still no map. I searched and I searched and I shou
ted to the rafters, “Wenebojo, is this one of your pranks?”
At first, silence. Then, far out on the moonlit lake, there came a ghostly wail from a loon.
That lonesome, eerie call prompted me to glance out the window into the yard. A thin wisp of smoke ascended above the workshop chimney. I stared at the rising smoke and it came to me. I realized what had happened to the map.
I looked again at the child in the old tintype photograph. “Oh, Grandpa Tor,” I whispered, “those nice ladies from the church, with help from ol’ Wenebojo, did a very good job cleaning today. You and Chief Namakagon can rest easy now, Grandpa. Your secret is safe—safe forever.”
# # #
Now in print: Autographed copies may be ordered from TheTreasureofNamakagon.com
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