Next door, Taffy Bowen stood at his kitchen sink, having a last sip of tea before turning in for the night. By the light of his kitchen lamp, he could see Wilfred and William heading across the backyard. Taffy set down his cup and walked the few steps to his bed, loosening his suspenders on the way and dropping his pants to the floor. Standing there in his one-piece Stanfield’s, he wound the Big Ben alarm clock. He climbed in between the stack of woollen coverings and pulled up the colourful Hudson’s Bay blanket on top.
William and Wilfred had barely begun to load wood when William casually asked, “Do you think we can trust these physicists not to turn atomic power into a weapon?” He’d just read in a scientific article about splitting the atom. Wilfred froze. His eyebrows arched and his ears tingled, not only from the cold but from the question. William realized in an instant what he had done—he had unthinkingly started to play the woodpile game with his friend and fellow sourdough, testing who could bear the cold longer—and looked horrified and apologetic.
But Wilfred’s pride and anger surfaced quickly and emerged in an answer dripping with sarcasm. “I’d expect someone with a scientific education to have a better opinion of his colleagues.”
William regained his composure and answered in an equally curt fashion. “Is that so! It was scientists who invented the mustard gas that killed thousands in the Great War. Why do you think I’d trust them not to blow us all up?”
And the battle—a battle that should never have been—was on.
It was about an hour after he went to bed that Taffy, having drunk too much tea, got up and by chance looked out his kitchen window. There stood Wilfred and William, two feet apart and shivering uncontrollably. Thick ice had formed from their breath and covered their moustaches. Each man had his arms clasped around his chest and was dancing foot to foot. Taffy knew in an instant what had happened. Throwing on his parka, hat, gloves and boots, he leaped over the fence, and without speaking to either of them, pushed the men back into Wilfred’s cabin. Neither resisted.
The men’s ward at the Dawson City General Hospital was a cavernous affair that smelled of antiseptic; beds were lined up on each side beneath its towering frost-covered windows. You could always tell when the janitor loaded the wood furnace, because a puff of smoke wafted genie-like from the basement and up through the floor grates and hung around the ceiling before disappearing. Catholic nursing sisters and a decent doctor attended to both Wilfred and William. They were alone in the ward except for a young man who had suffered a gunshot wound to the buttocks for becoming too familiar with another person’s belongings.
“I was only going to make myself a loan of his gold, for Lord’s sake. I would have paid him back. I did leave a signed IOU,” he said.
No one listened to him. They knew he’d stolen the gold and lost it all at blackjack.
“Let the magistrate decide if you were wrong or not. I’m sure you will get your due reward or punishment,” said the eldest nun as she scurried off to tend to more innocent patients.
Wilfred spent his days convalescing and playing cards with the young man. The tips of Wilfred’s ears turned black, as did the tips of two of his fingers. His toes were all right because he’d slipped on his boots to go out. William wasn’t so lucky. Having lost a fingertip to frostbite on a prior occasion, he would lose two more this time. The men ignored each other and suffered in silence. Their only visitor during their week-long stay was Dot, who stood over her prone brother William and tearfully scolded him so much that the nuns had to caution her.
“And you … an educated man! What will the neighbours think?” Dot sobbed, running her hands through her dark hair, then crossing her arms to hold onto her thin shoulders to stop them from shaking. Her husband Nat had come in with her but turned his lanky frame around and fled as the berating started. “I have to go feed my dog.”
“Education had nothing to do with it. You’re being too emotional,” William snapped back. Not wanting to rile her more, he rolled over, turning his back on her, and muttered, “Yeah, yeah, yeah … ” The last word faded to a long, weary sigh.
Winter passed, and spring arrived along with the first riverboat, the SS Casca, which brought fresh supplies and passengers. The hot sun melted the snow, which ran in rivulets down wheel ruts in the muddy streets, streaming toward the river where every drop would become part of the whole. Everything that was frozen—rocks, water, trees, metal and earth—thawed in response to the warmth.
Wilfred sat in his cabin with the door wide open, enjoying the sun that streamed in, bringing with it heat and light and chasing out the winter memories and the cold. A robin ran along the top of the fence, snatching insects off the weathered, unpainted wood. He watched it intently. It cheered his heart. Then there were footsteps on the porch … then a shadow … then a light knock.
“Can I come in?” It was William. He had a load of papers under his arm.
Wilfred didn’t hesitate. “Sure, I’ll put the coffee on.”
Without a word both settled in, just like old times, as if nothing had happened between them. The papers were up once more, and fresh coffee steamed in the cups. Smoke wafted from their pipes, curled above their heads and was drawn out the door. After about an hour of silence, William spoke from behind his paper. “I didn’t mean to do that … ”
“I know,” Wilfred replied without looking up.
William folded the newspaper, placing it on the table. Then, standing up to leave, he approached Wilfred and offered his hand. Wilfred reached out and shook it.
“You have a bit of anger in you, Wilfred.” William’s voice held a touch of annoyance, but he looked the other man straight in the eye.
“And you, a bit of pride,” Wilfred responded with a tinge of sadness.
And with that they nodded agreement and unclasped their hands.
William saw himself out the door. On the porch he adjusted his scarf and breathed a long sigh of relief. It wasn’t easy settling this, but now it was done. A misunderstanding had gotten out of hand. That’s all it had been. He was just thankful Wilfred wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. Their friendship was still intact, maybe even better than before. He drew in a large breath of cool air and headed home.
Taffy was washing dishes in his kitchen and saw William leave. He was glad the two of them had made friends; the town didn’t need another feud. And Taffy understood cold. It was like a crisis: you had to accept it, manage it; otherwise it would overwhelm you. At that moment the glass Taffy was washing slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor.
He leaned over to pick up the pieces, and cursed the missing fingers on his right hand.
Yukon Justice
Wilfred Durant would never have expected his well-stocked, neatly stacked woodpile to become the target of a thief. He took pride in his home. The small log cabin was clean and in good repair. The snow hardly had time to settle on the boardwalk that led to the street and the back lane before he had it shovelled and swept clean. Thievery was an affront to his pride and his property.
“How could anyone do this?” Wilfred asked his neighbour Taffy over their common fence. “And to an old-timer like me? There’s no respect.”
“They’re idiots!” said Taffy, who always waxed philosophical. “How did you find out?”
“After that heavy snowfall I noticed an area at the back of the pile near the fence had been disturbed. I thought it was my imagination—I must have taken the wood and forgotten about it,” Wilfred said. “But a week later I noticed more wood was missing from the same spot. I knew then someone was stealing my wood.”
Wilfred decided not to do anything about it. After all, what could he do? He’d tried to stay awake and keep an eye on things, but being quick to fall asleep, it simply didn’t work. Besides, falling asleep in a high-backed kitchen chair and waking up when your head smacked the table was uncomfortable and tiring. After spilling the sugar bowl twice, he decided enough was enough and quit his watch.
The stealing continued.
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One Friday mid-afternoon Wilfred joined the crowd in the post office lobby. Most of the town turned out on mail days, Monday and Friday. He checked his box, then herded William, Nat and Taffy into a corner to ask their advice.
“Call the cops,” Taffy said.
“The cops are busy.”
“I’ve got a beaver trap,” William said.
“Too dangerous. I could catch a kid.”
“Move your wood closer to the house,” Nat said.
“Too much work.”
The suggestions ran dry, and the men left one at a time, wishing Wilfred good luck.
Wilfred made one more attempt to catch the thief. He borrowed Nat and Dot’s dog Piedoe and tied him to an old doghouse at the back of the yard. The temperature was sub-zero, Arctic cold, so Wilfred strung an extension cord out to Piedoe’s new house and fixed a sixty-watt bulb inside for heat. Nat came over with a bale of hay for the dog to bed on and asked Wilfred, “What’s up with the light?”
“Piedoe’s reading,” Wilfred said.
He fed Piedoe pancakes in the morning, and whatever he ate for dinner, he fed the dog the same.
“A dog that size will eat you out of house and home,” Nat said.
Nat’s boys Iggy and Ziggy were excited about the prospect of their dog apprehending a thief. “Is Piedoe a detective dog, Dad?”
“If Sherlock Holmes had a dog, it would be Piedoe,” their father said.
“Wow, wait until the guys at school hear about this,” Ziggy said, but Nat cautioned them not to say anything unless Wilfred caught the thief.
After four days at Wilfred’s house, Piedoe was becoming attached to the extra rations of food from both Wilfred and Ziggy. Since he spent more time in the house than in the yard, he also throve on the attention Wilfred gave him. On the fifth night, there was a loud commotion by the woodpile. Piedoe had surprised someone and was baying like a whistle blast on a riverboat. The air was thick with yells and curses from someone obviously surprised out of his wits.
Wilfred had been prepared, like a fireman, and quickly jumped into his clothes and slippers. He grabbed his whacking stick from beside the kitchen door and sailed out into the yard. In the moonlight, Piedoe was leaping in the air on his tether as a shadowy figure pushed a sleigh loaded with wood down the lane.
Wilfred ran down the back boardwalk, but halfway to the lane he stubbed his foot on a loose board. It brought him to a limping halt. Back in the cabin he examined the bloody nail on his big toe; it was torn and bent back.
There was a knock at the door, and Nat and Dot came in wearing parkas over their nightclothes.
“What’s the commotion? Did you see him?” Nat asked.
“No, no, I saw nothing at all,” Wilfred groaned, holding his foot across his knee and rocking back and forth. He didn’t want to look at the wound again.
Dot took one look at his toe and reached for the first-aid kit by the sink.
“This is war, Nat.” Wilfred spat the words between his teeth.
The following day William came over, and Wilfred hobbled around the kitchen on the heel of his foot to make the coffee. The dressing on his toe seemed bigger than necessary.
“Looks like my sister wrapped that toe to save you from ever bumping it, Wilf,” William said with a laugh.
“I’m in no mood for jokes, William,” Wilfred snapped.
“Well, you’re going to have to find your own solution to this problem. You have a good imagination, so I’m sure you can catch the rat.”
“You’re right about that, William. I’ve got this guy in my sights and I never miss.”
That evening Wilfred took his toolbox from the shed and set up in the warmth of his kitchen. He spread newspapers on his table to protect the oilcloth. Then he broke open the tops of eight 12-gauge shotgun shells with a pair of pliers. Discarding the shot, he formed four equal conical piles of gunpowder. He then cut neat squares from an old plaid shirt, wrapped each pile in a tidy bundle and tied it with grocer’s string.
Selecting the correct size of log was important; it had to be small enough to fit into a stove without being split. If it were split, the bundles would fall out and ruin the surprise.
He clamped a two-foot log onto the table and drilled a hole almost down its length with a brace and auger bit. He tamped in each package between plugs of sawdust. There was no reason to have them all go off at once. A carved dowel stopper made an invisible finish. Wilfred marked the surprise with an axe, so he wouldn’t accidentally burn it himself. Then he set the log back on the pile in a convenient place for the thief to steal.
For the next week Wilfred checked the woodpile every morning to see if the thief had come back. No such luck. He was beginning to give up hope, thinking that Piedoe had scared him off forever. Then, on a quiet Sunday morning, wood was missing—including the bomb.
Wilfred wrote a note to William and sealed it in an envelope. It read, “Wait and see.” His toe was still sore, so he called over Ziggy and had him deliver it for a nickel.
It was now a waiting game. No one knew the time or the place. If it had been legal, Wilfred would have sold tickets as people did for the annual Yukon River ice breakup contest.
A few days later, up on the hillside at the far end of town, Neil O’Neill’s well-stoked stove leaped six inches off the worn linoleum of his crowded one-room cabin. With the first deafening roar, the force snapped the stovepipe midway between stove and ceiling.
O’Neill awoke with his short ginger hair standing on end, screaming, “Armageddon!”
Billowing black smoke soon made it impossible to see even inches in front of his pale, freckled face. The second blast opened the firebox door, spewing firebrands and driving the stove into the middle of the floor. O’Neill gathered his wits, and ignoring the spreading fire, ran across the dark room toward the door, only to ram both bony knees into the displaced stove. Staggering away, he ran flat into the wall, driving a dowel coat hanger squarely between his eyes. Stunned, he fell backward and sat down hard, and numerous burning coals adhered to his bottom. Instantly he wished he’d kept the back hatch of his pure-wool long johns buttoned up.
O’Neill made it to the door just as a third blast propelled his tall, skinny frame—with arms flailing like windmills—into a snow bank. The snow soothed his cinder burns, and he groaned in relief. He was covered in soot, his hair a haystack. He half realized what had happened and wished it weren’t true. At that very moment, the final charge went off, blowing out the only window and causing flames to shoot ten feet out of the disconnected stovepipe.
When the first blast echoed across the river valley, it caught the attention of Dawson City residents. By the second blast, they were on their porches looking up at the hillside. Wilfred watched, amused, and thought maybe one shell per package would have done it. By the third blast, the Dawson City Fire Department was mobilized, and as the fourth package detonated, they were well on their way.
But it was all too little too late. Flames shot thirty feet into the air, and the whole cabin went up in a blaze and a roar. A few .22-calibre shells went off, causing firemen to duck behind their truck. Apart from unhitching O’Neill’s dogs from their backyard tethers, there was nothing anyone could do. The firemen stood downing mugs of hot tea and eating biscuits—these always seemed to turn up on such occasions—while watching the log walls cave in upon themselves, sending a cloud of sparks and ash flying skyward. When it was over, firemen sprayed down the embers, loaded the truck and, with sirens blaring, headed back victorious to the fire hall.
The crowd dispersed shortly thereafter. O’Neill’s dogs wandered around, not understanding what had happened. O’Neill, with a blanket draped over his shoulders, made his way to a friend’s house for the night.
“Whoever did this is going to pay,” he said. “You just can’t go around blowing a man’s home up. I’m talking to the RCMP first thing I get settled. There will be hell to pay.”
Three days later a most unusual conversation took place
at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment near Saint Mary’s Hospital.
“I want to report a bombing and destruction of my property.” O’Neill sat confidently with his knees crossed and his hat in hand.
Sitting across the table from him taking his statement was Sergeant Selnes, who had seen everything from cannibalism to murder, thievery and kidnapping in his thirty years in the Klondike. He didn’t tolerate nonsense.
The sergeant wet the end of his pencil stub. “Is that so, Mr. O’Neill? And just how did this explosion come about?” He had a bit of an accent, having been born in Saskatchewan of immigrant Norwegian parents.
Over the last few days he’d heard the story many times and couldn’t imagine how O’Neill had the nerve to show up on the detachment’s porch with this cockamamie tale. But in the interest of justice, he was willing to listen to all sides.
“I borrowed firewood from a Mr. Wilfred Durant, whose address we all know, and he had secretly and deviously disagreed with my borrowing that wood and hid dynamite in it.”
The sergeant didn’t look up but continued to take notes. “And why would Mr. Durant do such a thing, Mr. O’Neill?”
“Because I borrowed the wood late at night, disturbing his sleep, and he greatly resented his sleep being disturbed. And I heard that he did a personal injury to himself, which he blamed on me.”
“And what might that injury be?”
“He stubbed his toe.”
The sergeant involuntarily jerked his shoulders at this answer. “And how many times did you borrow wood from Mr. Durant?”
“Three or four times, and one time he set his dog on me.”
“And what did you pay Mr. Durant for this wood?”
“We have yet to discuss that end of the bargain.”
At that moment Sergeant Selnes lost his temper and thrust his meaty hand across the table, grabbing O’Neill by his shirt collar, and demonstrated why he had the complete respect of every miner in the Yukon.
Bringing their faces together, he snarled between clenched teeth, “Listen here, you thieving runt, I wish enough powder had been packed in that firewood so the only question was what landed first on the other side of the river, you or the stove!”
Talking at the Woodpile Page 4