An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  “You want first shift or afternoon?” Roald asked Carl, his mouth full of mush, flavored with roast goose.

  “You start, and I will clear a trail down to the river. That will make it easier to get water. Then I’ll work on the garden if I have time,” Carl responded.

  Roald nodded. “Perhaps by next week I can go to St. Andrew and see if anyone there has a team of oxen to sell, or knows of one. If not there, we’ll have to go back to Grand Forks.”

  “That’s a three-day walk.”

  “I know.”

  “How far is St. Andrew?” Ingeborg took her usual place on the log.

  “Depends on how high the Little Salt River is running.”

  “Is there a ford?”

  Roald shrugged. “We didn’t go there when we were scouting. Just heard about it.” He rose to his feet and, after handing Ingeborg his empty bowl, headed for the horses.

  Walking in the opposite direction, Carl shouldered the ax and took one of the buckets for water. Ingeborg carried a bucket for water and one to put the strips of venison in. With the longer drying rack, all the venison would be dry in a day or two.

  “When do you think you could give me a lesson on the rifle?”

  “Tonight. You know Roald’s not too pleased with the idea of you using the rifle. We didn’t do things that way in Norway.” Carl flashed her a smile.

  “I know.” Ingeborg heaved a sigh. There were many things that would have to be different here. If she could do some of the men’s chores, then they could both be breaking sod, or plowing the garden, or cutting sod for the house.

  “Look at the size of those tracks.” Carl knelt on one knee, his hand gripping the ax handle. “That has to be a wolf.” He traced the large paw print with one finger. “He’s missing a toe. Must have been in a fight.”

  Ingeborg forced herself to watch what Carl was doing. By ignoring the pounding of her heart, she could nod and look up to make sure the wolf hadn’t taken their deer. The cloth-wrapped carcass still hung about eight feet high, held in place by the rope knotted around the trunk.

  “Look, he even tried getting at the rope.” Carl studied the scene. “With all the rodents and such available, you wouldn’t think he’d be after our meat.”

  Ingeborg followed his finger. Sure enough, toenails had scraped the tree trunk. “You say ‘he.’ What if it’s a female needing to feed her pups?”

  “Too big. But you never know.” Carl lowered the carcass to where Ingeborg could easily reach to slice off strips. “I’ll get a bucket of water and bring it back. Tomorrow will be easier with a trail cleared.”

  “Mange takk, Carl. I nearly slipped on a log yesterday.” She grabbed her knife out of the bucket and began slicing the haunch, dropping the strips in the bucket. She hummed a tune under her breath, trying to ignore the fact that the wolf could be watching her right now. She’d learned since childhood to make noise in the woods to scare the animals away. But the wolf had crept this close to their camp. If only they had a dog to bark and warn them. They must all have slept so deeply that the horses’ snorting didn’t wake them. She shook her head. She hadn’t slept that soundly. All the while slicing and dropping the meat, she let her thoughts continue their path. The wind must have blown in the other direction, and the horses were hobbled west of the wagons.

  “I will not look around. I will not.”

  “You can if you want, Inge.” Carl pushed through the bushes with a teasing grin. “Don’t worry about feeling afraid. Pay attention to everything around you—it’s safer that way.” He set the bucket down and made a face at it. “We better collect all the water we can next time it rains. This water doesn’t look clean enough to wash in, let alone drink.”

  “We’ve been letting it set before straining it through a couple layers of cloth. Comes clean that way. I’ll get these strips drying and come back for more.”

  “Send Thorliff down for wood as soon as he’s eaten. He can haul the short pieces up. Later, we’ll drag the trees with the horses.” He looked out across the prairie. “See that hawk? He’s probably grateful for all the mice we scared up.” Just then the hawk dove, snatched a small animal with its talons, and beat its way back into the clear sky. “See, I told you. I saw him do that yesterday, too.”

  Ingeborg felt a burning in her chest. So free and so powerful. What a magnificent sight. She picked up the buckets and headed back to camp. Watching birds wouldn’t get her work done. She heard the trill of a meadowlark, lifting its song on the morning breeze. At least she could listen to the music of God’s world and walk at the same time.

  “Mor, I was missing you.” Thorliff leaped from the sitting log and darted across the camp, dodging the drying rack as he ran. “Can I go to Far and help him plow?”

  “No, Onkel Carl needs you to bring up firewood. He’s clearing a trail to the river for us.” At the stubborn set of her son’s chin, Ingeborg continued. “He needs your help. You can take a jug of coffee out to Far later.”

  Thorliff’s face brightened. “Then I can ride the horses.”

  Ingeborg laid the strips of meat over the drying rack. “Hurry now.”

  Kaaren finished tying the baby into the shawl sling. “She’s fussy today, crying whenever I put her down. Do you think there’s something wrong?”

  “Nei, babies need to fuss sometimes. She doesn’t have a runny nose or anything, does she?” At Kaaren’s shake of the head, Ingeborg continued. “And you have plenty of milk for her?” A nod. “Then not to worry. At least that’s what my mor would say, along with ‘let the day’s own troubles be sufficient for the day.’ She had a Bible verse for everything.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t worry, but it’s not easy. She’s so small, and we’re so far away from any help.”

  To that there was no answer.

  “Mor, Mor, come! Come quick!” Thorliff ran shouting from the woods a short time later.

  Ingeborg and Kaaren looked at each other and, gathering up their skirts, ran toward the river. Is Carl hurt? What can be wrong? Dear God, please help us. Her thoughts and fears kept pace with her feet as she ran. But the look on Thorliff’s face wasn’t fear as she’d supposed. A grin that split his face in two and a finger pointing to the river let her stop to catch her breath. Kaaren did the same, almost bumping into her.

  “Why did you frighten us so?”

  “Onkel Carl said to hurry. There’s a big boat in the river.” He grabbed her hand. “Come and see.”

  A piercing whistle, followed by another, rent the air. Kaaren and Ingeborg shared looks of delight and hurried down the trail Carl had cleared. They found him standing on the bank, waving to the passengers lining the rail of the paddle boat as it beat its way up the swollen river. The whistle blew again.

  The boat glistened with a new coat of white paint, trimmed in bright red. Smoke rose from the stack and drifted behind them. The sloshing beat of the paddle wheel nearly drowned out the halloos of the passengers standing on deck and waving.

  People, real people. There were others alive in the rest of the world after all. Ingeborg blinked repeatedly, the sheer joy of it bringing tears to her eyes. She waved along with the others, calling “god dag, god dag” until finally remembering “hello, hello.” So much had happened since she’d tried her English, she’d nearly forgotten it all.

  Thorliff danced beside her, waving both arms and shouting his delight. As the boat cruised around the river bend, the boy looked up at his mother. “Someday, Mor, I will ride on the steamboat.” His arms dropped to his side. “Someday.”

  Ingeborg rested her hands on his shoulders. “Me too, son, me too.” She listened for the fading slosh and thump. “Would the captain stop here if we needed them?” she asked Carl.

  “Not sure. I know they put in at St. Andrew. Roald and I plan to cut wood this winter for their fireboxes, if we can find the time. Then when spring comes, they’ll stop for sure. As the river drops, you will see more traffic here.”

  Ingeborg sighed and turned back to h
er work, picking up pieces of wood as she went until she had an armload. “Thorliff, you bring back a sack and gather all these chips. They’re good and green for smoking the meat.” She glanced up to check the position of the sun. “Far needs his coffee jug, too.”

  Thorliff dashed ahead.

  “Pick up some wood as you go.” Her call stopped his running feet and brought out a frown that disappeared almost before it reached his face. He obediently picked up an armload and carried it to the stack under the wagon.

  “Hurry, Mor. Far is thirsty.” As soon as she poured the hot coffee in the metal container, he charged off toward the field.

  “Oh, for that energy.” Ingeborg turned the drying meat. Her back ached again, and she’d noticed that her shoes were getting tight from her swelling feet. “Uff da,” she muttered under her breath.

  That afternoon, Carl relieved Roald at the plow, turning row after row of sod. Certainly none of the fieldwork they had done in Norway had prepared them for this backbreaking job. But it would be worth it all next year when they could plant their precious grain. Even now he could picture the wheat bending and rippling like waves as gentle winds blew across the fields. Ja, this hard work will eventually pay off for us, Carl thought.

  Several hours later Carl stopped to rest a bit, wiping his brow with his shirt-sleeve. Though the work was tedious and exhausting, the rows of laid-over sod that lay behind him showed the harvest of his labor. Turning and looking toward their camp, he could see Ingeborg and Kaaren bending over the fires, preparing the evening meal. Just thinking of food made his stomach rumble in anticipation. Soon he could quit for the day.

  After cleaning up the supper dishes, Ingeborg sat near the fire and scraped the remaining fat and tissue off the deer hide. Periodically the rising stench reminded her stomach of the days of morning, afternoon, and evening sickness. Usually she could control the reaction, but once she had to leave the fire and heave into the growing prairie grass. When she finished this side, she planned to rub a mixture of brains and watered wood ashes on the outside, and then leave it set to loosen the hair.

  “You all right, Mor?” Thorliff appeared at her side as she wiped her mouth with a cloth.

  “Ja, I will be. You can help me scrape if you want. Then we will be finished more quickly.” She stood for a moment and looked heavenward. The great swath of stars that made up the Milky Way lightened the skies above them. She could hear the wind sighing over the grass that seemed to grow a foot a day. Carl’s laughter swung her gaze back to the camp where the men were working on the plow, one sharpening the share, the other smoothing the handles they had carved. Sparks shot skyward when Kaaren stirred the fire and added wood.

  Ingeborg cupped the back of Thorliff’s head with her hand. “Come, den lille, let us be back to the deerskin.”

  Two mornings later, Roald slung a sack of food over his shoulder and set out for St. Andrew. If he didn’t find a team there, he would take the paddle boat to Grand Forks. While he hated to spend the money for passage on the boat, he knew he was needed back at the homestead as soon as possible.

  Carl drove the team out to the plow, taking Thorliff with him.

  Since Kaaren was busy nursing the baby, Ingeborg picked up the buckets and trudged toward the river to get the day’s supply of water. She checked her pocket. The hook and line were still there where she’d secreted them the night before. The thought of fresh fish for supper made her mouth water—she’d roll the fish in cornmeal and fry it in venison fat. But she’d have to catch them first; surely they’d be biting by now. Cutting a sapling, she stripped off the small branches and leaves, then tied the line at the narrow tip.

  She stared out across the muddy water. How would any fish see the worm, let alone smell it? She’d caught many a trout and salmon at home, but there the creeks ran sparkling clear with deep pools for the fish to lie in. What a surprise fresh fish would be for supper.

  She worked her way upstream from where they usually dipped their water until she found a log to sit on at the water’s edge. Tucking her skirts under her legs, she took the prairie grass nest she’d made for the bait and removed one wriggling worm. Baiting a hook had never been her favorite part of fishing, but if fish didn’t like them so well, God wouldn’t have led man to use them—or so her reasoning went. She tied the string around a small rock and tossed the line out as far as it would go.

  Her brother would say no self-respecting fisherman sits on a log, but instead walks the bank, the better to jerk the line when one felt a fish nibbling at the bait. She smiled to herself. But then she’d always caught more fish than he did. She batted away a pesky fly and smoothed a strand of hair up into her braids. How heavenly to sit here and fish all by herself in the quiet.

  When she felt the bump of fish against the bait, she paused and jerked the pole. A fish broke the surface of the river, and with another jerk she landed it flopping on the muddy bank. She removed the hook from its mouth and stuck a stick through the mouth and a gill to hold it while she took another stick and knocked it on the head. “Sorry, fish, but I can’t stand to see anything suffer.” Her voice sounded strange against the stillness.

  The stillness. There was not a sound in the air. Even the birds had quit their singing. The hair rose on the back of her neck. She felt eyes watching her. Slowly she turned. Not far away a gaunt gray wolf sat watching. He lifted one side of his lip, baring a fierce incisor.

  Ingeborg slung the fish at him and turned to run, but her skirt caught on a branch. She slipped, fell backward, and slammed into a log. Pain arched through her back. At the same moment, her head crashed against another log.

  But I don’t want to borrow more money!” The words burst forth, shocking him with their intensity. Roald shifted the sack of supplies he carried on his back and shook his head. Was he going crazy, talking to the wind?

  He strode through the calf-high prairie grass like a ship’s prow breaking the waves. While aware of the rising sun gilding the dewladen blades of grass, his thoughts continued to wrestle with the problem ahead. He needed to find a team of oxen, but he didn’t have sufficient money to pay market price. The thought of going back to Grand Forks if he failed here burned like the stings of a hundred bees. He should have talked with Probstfield again. He should have made more of an effort in Fargo. He should have, he should have, he should have. The thoughts beat time with his striding feet.

  “Uff da!” He reached up and wiped his brow, frustrated that he hadn’t planned better. Breaking sod now meant the possibility of a crop next year, so they couldn’t put off buying another team. Yet, if they waited, they might have more money. They could earn extra by cutting wood for the steamships paddling the length of the Red between Grand Forks and Winnipeg. Back and forth went the internal argument and carried him closer to the small port town of St. Andrew.

  He heard a rifle shot somewhere to the north. The sound made him think of Ingeborg and her determination to hunt. A wedge of ducks quacked their way northward. If she had her way, she’d be bringing them down with that rifle. Who would think that behind that gentle smile—he shook his head. Ingeborg, the woman who had brought light back into his life and dumfounded him so often. He fingered the coins in his pocket. Was there some little thing she would like from the store? Something that would bring the laughter to her eyes. He jingled them again. Something he could afford. With a snort he picked up his pace.

  When the sun reached its zenith, Roald sat cross-legged in the prairie grass and dug in his sack for a flask of water, bread, and strips of dried venison. Hat pushed back on his head, he studied the sky while he chewed on the dry meat. Ducks and geese still beat their way north almost daily, long V-formations etched against the cloudless sky. The music of the prairie settled around him: the sighing of the wind rippling and bending the prairie grass like waves on a lake, the wild cry of geese overhead, a cricket sawing away on a grass stem, and a meadowlark adding the melody. Roald let his gaze wander the horizon. To the east, the woods bound the river; in the
west a cloud pile climbed into the sky; northward, he could now see the trees of the Little Salt River; to the south, a man could get lost in the limitless expanse.

  In a rare moment of ease, he crossed his hands behind his head and lay back, cushioned by the thick grass. The sun felt blessedly warm on his face and painted circles on the backs of his closed eyelids. He stretched his legs out flat and sighed, letting his body mold itself to the earth. Opening one eye, he watched a butterfly flit above him, dipping and fluttering from a stalk of grass to sip at the golden heart of a flower, yellow as butter churned from cows fed on fresh spring grass.

  Off in the distance, he heard the cutting whistle of the riverboat. St. Andrew must be closer than he thought. He leaped to his feet, a twinge of guilt making him brush the seeds and grass off his pants with more vigor than necessary. It was a waste of time lying in the grass watching the geese fly north. They, at least, were going somewhere, while he drowsed the afternoon away. He slung his sack over his shoulder again and started out at a dogtrot to make up for lost time.

  Before the sun had dipped halfway down the sky, he strode down Levee Street in the river port town of St. Andrew. Wagons lining the street in front of the general store reminded him that this must be Saturday, the day the farmers came to town. That was good—more people to ask about a yoke of oxen. He eyed a fine pair standing patiently in the sun, white tails swatting flies. If they were his, they would not be standing here wasting time in the sun. They would be home in front of the plow, turning up the rich black soil.

  Boot heels ringing on the wooden stairs, he mounted the entry to the general store. He blinked in the dimness and inhaled the mingled fragrances of kerosene, pickles, harness, and boot leather. Barrels, tubs, bins, and boxes lined every shelf, while the ceiling was festooned with hanging harnesses and hay rakes. Pitchforks and shovels dangled from the rafters, while housewares covered the walls. Bolts of bright calico and blue dimity draped beside needles and thread, with a variety of lace to please any woman’s heart. If that weren’t enough, a straw hat with a cabbage rose nodding on its brim perched next to a man’s straw hat. Behind the counter, spices lined the shelves, along with nostrums and cans, coffee beans, the grinder and pot, plus barrels of sugar and flour.