An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  “Maybe we should look into this one.” Carl turned around to get some heat on his backside.

  “Nei, too close to the neighbors. We couldn’t add enough land to our original section.”

  “Ja, you are right.” They boiled some of their dried meat in the coffeepot and drank the broth too. Along with the cornmeal mush they made, they both were filled. Exhausted from the long ride and warmed by the hot food, they rolled up in their quilts in front of the fire and, quickly drifting off, passed a peaceful night.

  Late the third night, cold clear through and wishing for some hot food and coffee, they crossed the bridge into Grand Forks.

  “We should have stopped back at that soddy,” Carl said as he slid off the horse in front of the livery stable. He clutched the horse’s mane to keep from crumbling to the ground. “My feet have no feeling whatsoever.”

  “Ja, perhaps we should have waited out the cold.” Roald tried moving his own toes but couldn’t even tell where his feet were. They should have gotten off their horses and walked more often. He shuffled his boots on the ice-packed snow. The horse snorted and stamped its feet.

  “Ja, you are hungry too. As soon as I can move, you will go inside and be fed.” Slowly the feeling came back, burning and piercing like miniature knives cutting his flesh. He ignored the pain, grateful he had the feeling back in his feet. Many men had lost their feet from frostbite, as well as other parts of their faces and hands. They would have to be more careful.

  Roald pounded on the stable door, waited, and pounded again. Surely the owner had at least a hired man sleeping on the premises.

  Finally the door slid open a crack, and a tousled young man eyed them balefully. “Yer out kinda late, ain’t ya, mister?”

  Understanding the tone but not the words, Roald answered, “Our horses need feed and hay.”

  “All right.” The boy switched to Norwegian and pulled the door back on its runners just far enough for the horses to come through.

  The warmth of the barn felt like a summer’s day compared to the frigid air outside. Roald inhaled both the heat and the smell of horses, hay, and manure, overlaid with the acrid odor of the now silent forge. He led his horse after the boy and tied the weary animal in the appointed stall.

  “That’ll be two bits for each horse. You can pay Jorgeson in the morning.”

  “Ja, that will be good. And might my brother and I sleep in your haymow?”

  The boy dumped a mound of oats in each feedbox and added a forkful of hay. “I guess, but don’t go lighting any lamps or smoking. Jorgeson has strict rules about smoking in the barn.”

  “We do not smoke,” Carl assured the boy, then turned and shook out the quilt he’d been sitting on and folded it over his arm. “Do you have hot coffee? Or food? We will be glad to pay.”

  “No, the fire went out hours ago.” He pointed to a ladder leading to a square hole in the ceiling. “You can sleep up there.”

  “Coffee would have been mighty good.” Carl pulled more hay over their quilt-padded bodies. His rumbling stomach said more than his words.

  “Ja, that it would,” Roald replied.

  Finally, with the combined warmth of their bodies, along with the quilts and the hay, they fell asleep.

  In the morning, they brushed the hay off their clothes, and after asking directions of the blacksmith who owned the livery, they headed for a small building up the street. When they had stuffed themselves full of pancakes, eggs, and ham, they continued on to the land office.

  To their frustration, no one in the office spoke Norwegian.

  Roald clenched his fists and jaw. The morning was wasting.

  “I’ll go get Jorgeson,” Carl said. “He can interpret for us.”

  Roald nodded and turned to study the map of Dakota Territory hanging on the wall. He located Fargo and traced their route up to what he knew was Grand Forks. Beyond that, few towns dotted the prairie land. At the northern border lay Pembina, too far north for his liking. He traced the rivers that flowed into the Red Valley. Land along the river with trees and good prairie to turn under for wheat; that was what he wanted. There looked to be plenty of it available.

  Time seemed to drag like a dull plowshare. When Carl and the blacksmith finally returned, Roald had reminded himself of the virtue of patience more times than he wanted to count.

  “He needed to finish shoeing the horse first,” Carl said by way of apology.

  “Mange takk. I’m grateful to you for coming.”

  “Us Norwegians, we must stick together.” Jorgeson brushed a clump of manure and straw off his leather apron. “Glad to be of some help. We need good farmers up here.”

  But when they asked about homesteading the land to the north, the clerk simply shrugged. “That land is not platted yet, so if you find a piece you like, you cannot file on it. You’ll have what’s called squatter’s rights.”

  Squatter’s rights? The question burned in Roald’s brain. Squatter’s rights wasn’t enough. “So, how do we make it legally ours?”

  “When the surveyors go through in the spring, you’ll have to come back here and file your claim. You’ll pay your fourteen dollar fee at that time, and we’ll draw up your documentation. You’ll get your final deed when you’ve proved it up.”

  “In seven years.”

  “Only if you do all the improvements you’re required by law to do.”

  “I know that I am to build a house, break ten acres, and live on the land.”

  “Yes, that is what the law says, but you must keep in mind that . . .”

  “I must do more than that to live.”

  Roald shot his brother a quick look and saw the small grin that indicated he recognized Roald’s heavy sarcasm. That mouse behind the window surely didn’t understand the Bjorklund brothers.

  “We each want a quarter section of prairie and the same amount for a tree claim. All that is permissible?” Roald’s eyebrows were dangerously close to meeting, a sure sign he was not pleased with the tone of the official. “And yes, I know we cannot have all of that at once.”

  “Yes, that is permissible . . .”

  “Mange takk. We will find our land.” Roald turned and headed out the door. He was glad he didn’t understand what the man sputtered after them. Officious little prig. From the look of his hands, he hadn’t done a decent day’s work in his entire life.

  The three men strode up the street to the smithy without a word, snow crackling beneath their boots and their breaths staining the crystal air for brief seconds. The sun turned the melting snow to flashing diamonds.

  “Mange takk for your assistance.” Roald thrust out his hand and shook that of Jorgeson’s. “I will not forget that you took time to help a newcomer.”

  “That is what the Good Book says—to befriend strangers. And anyone who comes from Norway is not a stranger, but a brother from the past. I will look forward to shoeing your horses in the future.”

  “Ja.” Roald nodded and dug in his pocket for the feed money.

  Jorgeson shook his head and waved the coins away. “You keep that. You will need it more than I do right now.”

  “But . . .”

  “No, you do something good for a stranger, and he does something good for someone else, and the cycle goes on. Go with God.” The smithy left them standing by the stalls of their horses and went to pump the bellows on his forge.

  “That is a good man.” Roald lifted down his bridle from the peg on the stall post and patted the big bay on the rump. “Easy, boy, now we must get back on the trail. Move yourself over like a good boy.”

  Within a few minutes, bits jingling and hoofs crackling the icy road bed, they headed northward out of town, following the stagecoach road to Manvell.

  Three days later, after having scouted the Turtle and the Forest Rivers, they still hadn’t found the perfect place. Some of the land they wanted was already taken, and other sections had too many settled farms already in the vicinity. Each night they found a soddy, or in a rare case, a log o
r frame house to beg shelter. And in the ways of the prairie, they were always made welcome. In some places they found fellow Norwegians and could talk and share the news they’d heard. In others, nods and smiles were the best form of communication, but the people freely shared what they had, proud to show off what they’d accomplished.

  Late one afternoon they could see black clouds building on the western horizon, and the wind no longer teased their horses’ manes but tried to tear the hair from their necks. While the men hadn’t planned to stop so soon, they turned their horses to the east. Off over the rolling snowdrifts, they could see a corral. As they drew closer, they knew the two largest drifts around the corral must be the sod house and the barn. The horses whinnied a welcome that was difficult to hear over the rising wind.

  A dog barked at their approach.

  Before they could dismount, a man who made Roald and Carl look like growing boys stepped from under the mound of snow connected to the corral.

  “God dag.” His voice rolled around in a barrel chest and came out like thunder, but the smile that stretched from earflap to earflap made them forget the clouds had eaten the sun.

  “God dag to you.” Roald stumbled a bit on his nearly wooden feet but met the man in between the house and the barn. The giant looked so familiar that Roald took a moment to study the roughhewn face. “Do I know you?”

  “The name’s Ole Haugrud, and I left Oslo just two years ago. My brother, Swen, is planning on emigrating this summer. Where are you from?”

  “Valdres. Did your brother work on a fishing boat in the North Sea?”

  Ole chuckled deep in his chest. “He did and still does. You knew him, then?”

  “We met.” Roald shook his head. “Who’d think in all this space we’d meet someone from so close to home.”

  “Grace of God, my friend. How do you think my sea-loving brother is going to like this flat land of ours?” The three men studied the horizon now smothered in black clouds. The restless wind blew shards of ice and jerked on their coats as if seeking warmth itself. “Here, let me take your horses, and you go on up to the soddy. Marte will be so glad to see a new face. She’s probably already set the table. The coffee’s always hot.”

  “Can I help you?” Carl asked.

  “Nei, nei, I did the chores early when I saw that cloud begin to swell. I’ll feed your horses while you get warmed. We might be snowed under for a couple days again.”

  “I thought spring was here.” Carl handed the reins to the giant. “Could have fooled me.”

  “It’ll come, but winter has to battle back a few times yet. The first year we was here, we had snow flurries on the first of May. But by mid-May the garden was up. You’ll find that when the sun shines and the ground thaws, things grow so fast you can see it, just like they do at home.”

  The biting wind whistled through the bars of the corral and moaned at the eaves of the sod barn. “You two go on now. Marte and the little ones will skin me alive for keeping you out here.” He turned and clucked the horses to follow.

  Carl and Roald, quilts and bags bundled under their arms, made their way to the solid wood door, the slabs obviously having been cut by a hand that knew wood and knew how to form it. One knock and the door flew open as if by itself.

  “Company!” A little girl, with braids so white they nearly matched the snow and a grin that showed one front tooth missing, danced in place, one arm waving them in while the other tried to keep the door from banging all the way open.

  A woman’s voice from the dim interior ordered with a laughing tone, “Don’t just stand there letting the storm freeze them and us, invite them in.” A tall woman, still tying a clean white apron in place, met them as they ducked under the doorframe and stepped into the soddy. Two candles on the table and the flickering flames from the fireplace lit the dark room. As Carl and Roald had already learned, the black windowless walls deepened the gloom, making one feel as if they were closed in a box.

  “God dag. We are Roald and Carl Bjorklund, recently of Valdres, Norway, and we know your brother-in-law. We worked on the same fishing boat.”

  “Well, imagine that.” Even before the introductions were finished, she had poured two cups of steaming coffee and set them on the table. “Here, let me take your coats, and you make yourselves to home. Supper will be ready as soon as Ole finishes with the stock.”

  The two brothers took places at a plank table lined by benches on both sides. The little girl who greeted them drew her younger brother from behind his mother’s skirts and plopped him down beside her on the bench next to Carl.

  “Do you have children?” Her blue eyes crinkled at the corner exactly like her mother’s.

  “A baby girl born on the boat over, and my brother has a five-year-old boy named Thorliff. How old are you?”

  “I’m six, and when we get a school closer to home, I will go to it.”

  Roald looked at his brother over the rim of his cup. Children were always drawn to Carl, and not only children, but adults as well. He looked around the sparsely furnished room. A rope bed covered with quilts and a buffalo robe sat in one corner, and the narrow bed in the other was obviously for the children. A spinning wheel sat next to a bag of wool with carding paddles on top of it. Looped and tied skeins of yarn hung from the rafters, as did bunches of dried herbs and bags of food, to keep them away from the varmints. Shelves lined one wall above a trunk decorated with the rosemaling of the Valdres region. Every inch of space showed the hard work and ingenuity of the couple.

  Our house will look like this next winter, Roald promised himself. And we will hang a bed from the wall, like we do on the ships. Between us, Carl and I will accomplish much.

  Discussion over the delicious deer stew and thick bread Marte served ranged from life on the prairie to what they had heard from home. When Carl asked about land to be homesteaded, Ole nodded around the wreath of smoke from the pipe he clenched in his teeth.

  “Ja, there is good land to the north and to the east of us. The Little Salt River is about eight miles to the north, and we are about four miles from the Red. The town of St. Andrew is located on the north side of the mouth of the Little Salt. There aren’t very many settlers in the area yet. This part of the country was a no-man’s-land between the warring Indians.

  “Indians? I thought they were all on reservations.” Roald propped his elbows on the table.

  “They are, but folks have been slow to settle here, anyway. We see some Metis and a wandering brave or two.”

  “Metis?”

  “They’re neither Indian nor French but a combination of the two from the days of the fur traders.”

  “Half-breeds.”

  “Yes, but you don’t want to call them that. I don’t see no harm in them. I heard tell that the Metis shot all the buffalo around here, but I don’t always believe everything I hear. I traded wheat for that buffalo robe you see over there. Robes like that help keep out the cold better’n any quilt or blanket I’ve seen.”

  In the pause of the conversation, Roald could hear the wind howling at the door and the chimney. The cold outside made him appreciate both the warmth of the stove and the warmth of the family that welcomed strangers.

  “We do appreciate your taking us in like this. I’d hate to be caught out on the prairie in weather like that.” He nodded toward the door.

  “Ja, I learned early to string a rope from the house to the barn when a blizzard blows up. Men have been known to wander off and not be seen or heard from again. If the wind don’t get you, the wolves will.”

  Roald felt Carl shudder beside him. As a young boy, Carl had had a run-in with a wolf. The wolf had taken the lamb they fought over, but Carl had saved the remainder of the flock.

  Later, when he and Carl were bedded down on a pallet in front of the fireplace, visions of home blew through his mind. He could see it as if he were standing right in front of it—the two-story log house built securely into the hillside, grass growing from the roof, and the lower level held up by
a solid rock foundation. Here the wind would blow away a house like that. The mountains of Norway stood tall and white, and the fjords were deep and blue, reflecting the white clouds passing overhead and the pines and aspen in the high pasture. He tucked the quilt more firmly around his shoulders. This was home now, this windblown prairie, and here he would stake out his land.

  Two days later, after the storm had blown itself out and the sun returned to melt the snow, they found their land.

  Mrs. Bjorklund, is it really you?”

  Ingeborg felt the tray shake in her hands at the same moment she heard the dishes rattle. She watched the man stand and, with a very private smile, remove the heavy tray from her hands and set it on an empty table.

  “I am glad to see you again, Mr. Gould.” She stopped her hands from twisting in her apron. “Welcome to Headquarters Hotel. I hope your business is going well.” Only through a supreme act of will did she keep her voice steady. That same act of will kept her from reaching up to tuck a wayward strand of hair under her coronet of braids.

  “Yes, it is. But if you are still in Fargo, you must not have found land to homestead yet?”

  “My husband and his brother Carl are out looking for land now.” Ingeborg heard mutterings from the waitress and guests at other tables. “Excuse me, I have work to do.” She whirled around, took up her tray, and headed for the door to the kitchen.

  “My land, child, what’s gotten into you?” Mrs. Johnson looked up from stirring more batter. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, just a friend. No, I mean an acquaintance, a . . .” Ingeborg could feel herself making the situation worse. She picked up two plates and hustled back out to the dining room. No one liked to have cold food, not for the handsome prices they paid at Headquarters Hotel.

  While placing the plates in front of two men, she scolded herself for acting like such a ninny. With a smile she pointed to their empty coffee cups and went to get the pitcher to refill them. She kept her gaze away from the table where David Jonathan Gould sat with three other men.

  Now, straighten yourself up and go fill their coffee cups. That is your job today, so do it. She went from table to table, pouring coffee, nodding when someone said something to her in English. They could have been talking Russian for all she knew. All the English she had so laboriously learned had suddenly flown right out of her head. What was Gould doing here? Had he been here for sometime, and she didn’t know it? This kind of gentleman did not look in the kitchen for his friends.