He stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing.
Dob spoke up. “This here is Gus Andersen’s boy, Sevy.”
Roget looked right at me and an odd look crossed his face, like he was seeing something downright unpleasant. “This is not a game for children.” He adjusted his toque, turned, and walked away from me without another word. I stood there staring after him, confused.
“Did you see that?” Bart grabbed my arm. “That Roget’s some jack.”
I didn’t say a thing.
After that, a few of the other fellas stepped up to throw axes. But with the real action was over, the rest of the fellas wandered off. There was still plenty of time before dinner. Some took naps. Others played cards. I wrote a letter home. It was tough to do ‘cause I didn’t want to sound whiny, but all I could think about was wanting to be home. I mean I knew I had to stick the winter out, but having time to think about being home, well, it made my stomach hurt.
That night, being that it was a Sunday, we had a fine supper. Then, some of the men pushed the tables to the sides of the room. A fella named Billy Whitacre took out his fiddle and played some tunes. Another jack on a squeezebox joined him. Then, fellas were up and dancing.
I wasn’t gonna dance. My belly was full and the room was warm from the fire and the bodies, leaving me half asleep. So, I closed my eyes and daydreamed that I was at a real dance, a Christmas one. Instead of fellas stompin’ around, there were ladies all done in up in pretty dresses and I was standing around with Hugh, the way fellas do. The fiddlers were playing a lively tune and then Adelaide came in. She looked right at me and she smiled. I smiled back. Then, feeling bold, I walked right across that dance floor. I nodded to her friends, but kept my eyes on her. I couldn’t get over how pretty she was in her blue dress with her blond hair braided up in a crown, the way those German girls do. Then I was standing in front of her, I reached out for her hand and...
A cloth landed on my face startling me from my daydream.
“Sevy, here, you wear the apron. I’m done dancing.” Bart’s voice pulled me back to the present. He collapsed on the bench beside me as I sat up. He was breathin’ hard.
“What?” I asked, confused and all out of sorts. I pulled the cloth off my face, held it up, looking at the apron.
“You be a girl now. I’m done dancing.
“No. I ain’t pretending to be a girl.” I didn’t want any part of it, even though the fellas looked like they were having a good time. I wanted to be back in my dream, in Eau Claire with Adelaide.
I headed out of the cookshack and back to the bunkhouse. I opened the door and found Dob O’Dwyer sitting in the amen corner with a group of men gathered around him. Dob was doing the talking, as usual. Wanting to be alone, I nearly groaned aloud. For a moment, I hesitated until Dob eyeballed me, one caterpillar-thick, white eyebrow arching over a blue eye.
“I’m just headed for my cootie cage,” I explained unnecessarily. I gestured at my bunk. He nodded, tapping his pipe on his hand.
I headed over to my own bunk, pulled off my boots and hung up my coat and socks to dry out. Laying down, I tried to get comfortable, smacking at a greyback that bit into my thigh.
“You all know most of my stories,” Dob protested. “I don’t have any new ones to tell.”
Jerry Smith, a young swamper who was in his second year in the Northwoods protested, “I ain’t heard ‘em all yet. Please Mr. O’Dwyer, tell us one.”
“Well, perhaps I can think of something. What kind of story do you want? Maybe a legend of these Northwoods? A Paul Bunyan tale or something about his grand ox, Babe?
Dob didn’t take much convincing, I thought as lay down staring up at the roof. He was a born storyteller, the sort who would like to never shut up.
“A true story,” another jack ventured.
There was a moment of silence, then Dob continued, “There is one story that I haven’t told before and, to the best of my knowledge, it’s true. I heard it from a man at a camp north of Hayward a few years back. He swore that what I’m about to tell you is the God’s own truth.
“There are mysteries in these northwoods. They’re old, ancient. The Indians tell that animals and spirits made these woods home long before us white folks came in.
“I want you boys to think about how it feels to walk through the woods on a moonlit night. The way the snow reflects and the shadows dance in the moonlight. Think about walking into a virgin growth of pine, how the trees whisper to each other. These Northwoods are alive, and I feel it most of all by some of the lakes. At sunset, you sit on the shore and look out over the water and see a sturgeon leap out of the stillness, cleaning the sand out of its gills, and you feel the power all around you.”
Enchanted by his words, I propped myself up on my elbow and peered down at him. I’d felt echoes of what Dob was describing, but I sure wasn’t going to say so in front of the other fellas. So, I waited and listened.
“Now, boys, I’ve stood on the black rocks of Lake Superior and I’ve seen the white-tipped waves crashing on the shore. I’ve watched bald eagles soar and heard the cry of the loon at twilight. I tell you, this Northland is special, and if I were a religious man, I would say blessed.”
I looked around and saw all of the men were listening hard. They were men who lived close to nature and each understood the mystery and the majesty that Dob was describing.
“The Ojibwe Indians were here before us, but before them, another Indian tribe lived up in these lands. I don’t know who they were, and I don’t expect many can tell you. But they built huge mounds in the ground in the shapes of animals... Have any of you ever seen anything like that?”
“There were some near Rice Lake,” one of the men offered. “I used to visit a girl up there, but she went and married a farmer. I saw a couple of them shapes.”
“Now, I’ve travelled a good many places in my near fifty years,” Dob continued, “and I can tell honestly that you feel something in a place like that. You feel it down in your bones. Like it’s sacred. Do you know what I mean, boys?”
There were a few grunts of assent.
“Well, according to the fellow who told me this story, there was a land speculator and a lone wolf, one of those fellas who scout out trees to harvest. These two had teamed up. The land speculator sent the lone wolf out to some forties of prime timber up near Ashland.
“The lone wolf found some good parcels and planned on claiming them for the speculator as soon as he got to a government office. But then he heard about some real fine stands of trees by some Indian lands. These lands hadn’t been touched yet because the Indians believed that the land they were on was sacred.
“Still, the lone wolf headed out to check the land for himself. What he found was an untouched forest of giant white pine. The land was flat and the trees so huge that the ground was near bare under them. And it was quiet amongst those trees, like a living soul hadn’t been to those parts in a long time, even the birds were quiet. All he could hear was the sound of the wind whistling through the trees. In the center of these woods was a clearing, and there that lone wolf found the mounds. He walked around them one at a time. He recognized the first one as a white tail deer. The second one was bigger and he had to climb up a tree to make out the shape. Once he had a bird’s eye view, he saw it was a bear. He walked around for some time, but felt mighty peculiar, like someone or something was there with him the whole time, watching him. He recognized that he was somewhere special and felt like he was intruding, that he shouldn’t be there at all. So, he climbed back down, left those woods, and walked back to town.”
A couple of the men muttered and grumbled at this.
“Now.” Dob held up his hand. “I know that it sounds unlikely that a lumberjack would just walk away from some prime timber. But you all know that lone wolves can be an odd group. Too much time alone in the woods sometimes makes them peculiar. All I know is that this particular lone wolf felt there was something not right up in the forest near those I
ndian mounds, that it was a place that should be left alone. When he met with his boss, the speculator, the lone wolf told him about the other forties he’d scouted, so that the speculator could file the claims. But he held off on mentioning the forest near the mounds. He just didn’t feel it should be bothered.
“But, later that night, he ended up at a watering hole with some other fellas. They had a few drinks and started playing some cards. As the evening wore on, the lone wolf got to talking and he told the story of the mounds and the great pines surrounding them.
“Well, work got back to the speculator, who was a sharp fella. First thing the next morning, he registered for those lands and that fall he sent a lumberjack crew to work those forties. This is where the story gets strange. For, you see, bad luck plagued the crews. The first group set up camp. But even before the first snows began to fall, they all got sick. They never got well enough to work that winter, and they cleared out before Christmas. The speculator sent up a small crew the next winter. Now, I didn’t believe this when I first heard it, but the fella who told me this story swore it was true, none of those fellas ever went home. No one knows what happened to those men. Their camp was cleared out of all their gear. They just vanished. None of their families ever heard a thing.”
Someone snorted.
“You can doubt all you want, but this is the story that I was told. The third winter that speculator had just about had it. All of his other lands were producing. There was money to be made from those pines by the mounds and he decided that he was going to keep a close eye on things. To make sure that the job got done, he personally visited that camp. One night, he was sleeping in the bunkhouse on a top bunk near the door, in a spot not unlike where young Sevy is sleeping. In the dead of the night, he heard a scratching at the door. He ignored it. A few minutes later, he felt something cold and wet touching his hand. He thought that there was snow blowing in through the cracks, so he tucked his hands under his blanket. Then, he felt that same cold touch on his feet. He thought some dog was licking or sniffing at them. This got his attention. He sat bolt up right, ready to tear into the fool dog that was keeping him up, but rather than a dog, he found himself staring right into the red eyes of the biggest black bear that he’d ever seen.”
Dob growled low and deep, a sound that sent shivers down my back.
“That bear dragged the speculator right off his bunk and out of the cabin and into the woods before any of the fellas in that bunkhouse could do anything about it. Even though they were spooked, that crew searched the woods for their boss that night and the next, but there wasn’t a sign of him, not even a scrap of clothing. It spooked them all something fierce. A few days later, those men lit out and never returned. Story travelled the camps, you know how they do, that those forties were haunted and I believe that to this day, those pines still stand.”
For a few minutes after Dob finished telling his story, the other men were silent, digesting the words.
“Tell us another one,” one of the jacks asked.
“Come on, Mr. O’Dwyer,” Jerry Smith begged.
“No, I’m done for tonight, boys. We all have to get some shut eye. We gotta work tomorrow.”
There were a few more complaints, but most of the fellas took the next few minutes to settle in for the night.
When the lamp was shut off, I lay flat on my back up in my bunk, staring up at the roof, and thinking about that bear and the speculator. Even though I knew Dob’s story was nonsense, I made sure to tuck my feet and hands more securely under the blanket, not that a blanket was going to stop a bear. Still, I fell right asleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night because I had to take a piss. I slipped on my boots and a blanket over my shoulders and headed outside. I’d unbuttoned and was peeing when I heard a growling, low and deep, behind me. Half awake, I knew it was the bear coming to get me. I turned to run, tripped over the laces of my undone boots, and fell face down, ass up into a snow drift.
The snow was miserably cold, but not as miserable as I felt when a group of jacks stood over me laughing down at me. They were still laughing as I pulled myself out of the snow, shivering and wet. I didn’t even bother changing my wet long johns when I climbed back into bed. I just pulled my blankets over my head, hunkered down and tried to ignore the chuckles and the ribbing.
“Boy better watch out for that bear.”
“I don’t know if I’d go to sleep, Sevy. That bear may come for you again.”
“Did you see the look on his face?”
If I could have died of shame right then and there, I would have.
Chapter Five
~ Bad Decision ~
I was still working as a road monkey when the Push put out the word that I was to learn how to be a real barkeater. So the fellas started teaching me. Even though I think I got in the way more often than not, I was starting to feel like a woodsman. I could remove a brush with a grub hoe, work a cross cut saw, and fell a tree as well as anyone. I was earning my keep.
I should of felt better, and I did mostly. But the nights were still tough, especially those nights when I pulled double duty and helped Mr. Walker ice log roads. On the trails at night, the loneliness would sink into my stomach ‘til I could barely breathe or swallow. It was worse then, because I had time to think. Time to feel sorry for myself. I often wondered how Pa could do it year after year, the being alone part, I meant. Sure, at camp there were fellas all around you, but they weren’t your kin. And Pa had left us each year for as long as I could remember to go to the Northwoods. Then again, I knew what drove Pa. He’d told me himself many times. It was that fool dream he had of having a farm of his own. He wanted it so bad for all of us that he could taste it. And only now, when I was so far from home, living with strangers and working like a dog, could I really understand the price of that dream, because now I was paying it.
On the night I wish I could forget or at least do over, Mr. Walker wasn’t doing too well either. He was sick, coughing nonstop and with a runny nose. After an hour or so of icing, I could see that he was barely able to stay upright in his seat. The problem was, with the temperature well below freezing, it was prime icing weather.
I yawned and, taking off a mitten, rubbed at my eyes. I was plumb worn out myself.
“Sevy,” Mr. Walked said. “I just ain’t up for more tonight. I’m likely burning up with fever. Could you finish the last few trails alone? And then tend to Bob and Sammy?”
Bob and Sammy, Walker’s Perchies, were his livelihood and his family. As a hay pounder, or horse teamster, his livelihood depended on them. So I knew that it meant something that he was entrusting them to me. But I was so tired I could barely see straight. Still, I answered, “Yes sir, Mr. Walker. I’ll take care of the boys. I’ll finish up those last few trails.”
Mr. Walker smiled weakly. “Thanks, boy. And don’t forget to scatter hay on the downslopes. Tomorrow morning, you sleep in. I’ll explain to the Push.”
Numbly, I nodded. I drove the team back to the camp and dropped Mr. Walker off at the bunkhouse. Then, I continued on with icing the logging trails. Being out there alone, in the darkness, with only Bob and Sammy for company, it was different, scarier. It was likely there were all sorts of wild animals around, wolves, badgers, and maybe even an angry bear roused from his winter’s sleep. Still, I worked diligently. It was near the middle of the night when I finished icing all of the trails. There were a few smaller log trails where I hadn’t spread any straw on the downslopes, but I figured I’d done more than my share for a fella working alone. In the morning, I’d tell Mr. Walker about those trails.
Back at camp, I tended to Bob and Sammy, just as I’d promised Mr. Walker I would.
Chapter Six
~ The Accident ~
The next morning, I ignored the call of “Daylight in the Swamp.” It felt like heaven to pull the blankets up to my ears while all the other men were trooping out. I slept until near dinner time when Bart was sent in to wake me up. Once I was geared up,
I joined him on the wide, flat seat of the sled which was loaded up with hot food for the jacks who were dinnering out since they worked a forty far from the camp. Bart clucked to the old gelding, Cy, and we were on our way.
For the first time in a long time, I felt good. It was a beautiful, bright, winter day. Sunlight glanced off of the snow and ice sickles hung from some of the bigger trees. Christmas was fast approaching, so Bart had put sleigh bells on the rig. They tinkled cheerfully with our gentle movement down the trails.
It may sound peculiar, but I felt like singing again. Things were finally beginning to work out for me. I was managing to do my job and help my family out. Pa and Ma would be proud of me. For a few minutes, my world was fine.
Bart turned old, swaybacked Cy down a narrow logging trail where the ground was a little sloped. We were in the thick of the woods where hundred-foot-tall pine reached for the sky. There wasn’t much but snow on the ground between the trees. It was shady and cold amongst the giant trees, which blocked out the warming sunlight. The trail dipped slightly and just beyond it, I could see Mr. Walker’s flea bitten pair, Bob and Sammy, hitched up to a load that a crew was piling high with logs. Another teamster worked a pair of logging horses to cross-haul logs up the skid poles and onto the load using a single chain. They were working on a third row of logs and the bottom two rows of logs had already been secured with the chain wrappers. Fabien Roget worked as the top loader, using his peavey to adjust the logs as they came up.
It all happened right before my eyes. First thing, the sled they were loading sorta eased a little sideways. I saw Sammy shift a little and then Bob snorted. I watched Fabien raise his arms up, as if balancing himself. Next, I heard the scraping of the runners slipping on the iced trail, a trail that had no straw on it.
Mr. Walker shouted as the sled began a sideways slide down the slope. “Haw!” he yelled at his team. “Haw, boys! Haw!”
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