An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  Roald stared at all the bounty surrounding him—clear out here in the wilds of Dakota Territory. His heart beat faster; people must be wresting a good living from this rich black loam if a store could manage to carry the necessities and all these luxuries, too. He looked around for the proprietor and heard a voice from behind a length of shelves that divided the chockfull room. He followed the sound.

  The storekeeper, round as he was tall, nodded vigorously while pointing out the finer qualities of a pair of boots to a customer who looked as out of place as Roald felt. He waited until the man shook his head and the clerk shrugged, then put the boots back in their place.

  “God dag.” Roald hoped that someone spoke or understood Norwegian. He was certain the two men had been speaking English.

  “God dag.” The farmer stepped back and nodded, letting the aproned man take over.

  “I am looking for a yoke of oxen and could not help admire the pair outside. Do you know who owns them?”

  “He does.” The man translated for the other customer.

  “Please ask him if he is willing to sell or has others to sell.”

  The proprietor nodded. “You are new here.”

  Roald nodded in return and looked toward the waiting customer. When the man shook his head, Roald asked, “Do either of you know someone with oxen?”

  After a brief murmuring, the other farmer shook his head, while the shopkeeper scratched a red spot on his chin. “You might try up in Pembina. Those Red River oxcart drivers get their stock somewhere. If anybody would know about a team, they would.”

  Roald nodded. “Mange takk.” He started to leave but turned back. “When does the riverboat go north?”

  “Sometime before nightfall. They don’t keep much to a schedule; the one to Grand Forks left some hours ago.”

  Roald thanked him again and turned to leave.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  He stopped. “Roald Bjorklund.”

  “Wal, I’m Ross MacDonald from Ohio. This here’s Abe Jeffries. He’s homesteading out west a’here.” He waited, but when Roald didn’t volunteer any more information, asked, “You homesteading, too?”

  Roald nodded. “Most of a day’s walk south. We arrived a few days ago—my brother and I.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  This time Roald answered with a shake of his head. “We have wives and children. You know anyone with an extra plow or wagon?”

  “You can order them from Grand Forks, if you like. I take orders right here. They’ll get here in a couple of days on the riverboat if they’re in stock. We can get most anything here.”

  “Except for oxen?”

  Ross grinned, showing a blackened right front tooth. “Yep, that’s about right. Livestock’s hard to come by, what with so many settlers wanting ’em. You wouldn’t do half bad going into the breeding business, if’n you had a mind to.”

  “Mange takk,” Roald said again and tipped his hat. Why was everyone pushing him to raise livestock to sell instead of wheat? Granted, they needed horses and oxen, but the world needed bread. When he stepped out into the bright sunshine, he let his eyes adjust and looked to the east. The dirt street ran right to the river’s edge, where a wooden dock continued out into the river. Pembina it was, instead of Grand Forks.

  He turned and headed up the street, his boots kicking up dust puffs as he walked. Past the Riverfront Hotel where the aroma of roasting beef and apple pies with cinnamon wafting out made his mouth water, past the livery with the ringing of the anvil, past the saloon, until finally he reached the river.

  Deep shadows cast by trees overhanging the shallow western bank turned the mud-brown river to black. He sat on a piling and, after checking both directions, let his gaze wander the opposite bank. A point of land stabbed into the river’s belly, causing the slow-moving current to swing to the west. A flash of action caught his eye, and he turned to see an eagle beating huge and powerful wings against the air and lifting from the surface with a fish clutched in its talons. The eagle turned and headed for a broad stick nest in the top of a dead snag directly across from him. The eagle dropped to the edge of the nest. Roald pictured the eaglets eager for food, beaks wide and with shrieks demanding a turn.

  As a young man, Roald had climbed the mountains of Norway and watched an eagle’s nest below him on a ledge. He’d never forgotten either the sight or the thrill of a creature so wild and free in a continuous fight for survival. He’d never told anyone, as if keeping this secret gave him a kinship with the creature.

  He shook his head at the fanciful thinking. Glancing at the sky, he wondered how soon the boat would arrive. Roald did not think they traveled at night.

  He heard the boat approaching long before it nosed around the western bend in the river. The whistle cut the air, causing a flurry of activity in the town. People hurried from the hotel, general store, and from their houses, quickly congregating on the shore and dock. Between the noisy shpluck, shpluck of the approaching paddles and the babble of townsfolk, a little boy jumped up and down on the edge of the dock. His vigilant mama snatched him back from a certain dunking.

  Roald could tell the boy was getting a tongue-lashing by the tone of his mother’s voice and the hangdog look on the child’s face. Thorliff would look like that, Roald thought, and Ingeborg would pull him back just as this mother had. Thorliff and Ingeborg would have enjoyed the sights of this town so much, if only he would have brought them. Surprised at the thought, he watched the paddles reverse and bring the boat to a stop precisely where the gangplank would be lowered at the end of the pier.

  “Mail!” one of the deckhands shouted, and Mr. MacDonald of the general store excused himself past the onlookers and took the leather pouch.

  “I’ll have this laid out at the store in just a jiffy,” he promised, making his way back up the street.

  “Your crates’ll be right here, waitin’ yer return.” Two deckhands trundled boxes, crates, and sacks labeled flour, sugar, beans, and coffee down to the dock and stacked them off to the side. Sacks of seed wheat, oats, and corn followed. At the same time, two other hands loaded the stack of wood from the end of the pier onto the steamer.

  A young man with a trunk on his shoulder, his wife and children at his side, threaded his way between the commotion and onto the land. He left his wife on the side of the street and returned to the boat for more of their baggage.

  When all the supplies were unloaded, Roald and another passenger made their way up the gangplank and, after paying the man at the railing, strolled past the kegs and crates to the bow. The timbre of the engine changed, the boat shuddered as the paddle wheels began a sluggish rotation again and, with a farewell blast of the whistle, moved out into the middle of the river and proceeded downstream on its way to Winnipeg.

  Roald leaned his elbows on the mahogany railing, feeling the vibrations of the engine up through his boot soles. He watched as ducks dipped for their dinner along the banks, tails pointing toward the sky. A great gray heron looked like a tree branch until his beak stabbed the water at the river’s edge, then, before his neck straightened to its full length, he’d swallowed the fish. A swimming muskrat created a V-ripple behind him as he breasted the current.

  Dusk slipped over the land, softening the angles and shadows until Roald nearly missed the sight of a doe and her fawns coming to the water’s edge for a drink. Feeling hungry, he dug in his sack for a piece of dried venison and, after biting off a chunk, chewed thoughtfully. Traveling by riverboat put the land route to shame. As the boat swung around each of the winding bends in the river, he waited for new sights. A spiral of smoke told of a cabin off to the Minnesota side, and a young boy hallooing and waving on the west bank let him know of another family turning the prairie into a home.

  Roald waved back.

  Night had almost blackened out the dusk by the time they docked at Pembina. Deckhands secured the steamer for the night as Roald threaded his way back to the gangplank and down to shore. Where shoul
d he start his search for oxen?

  Lamplight fell in a square from the saloon door, and Roald peered into the smoky room before pushing through the swinging doors. Off to the left, a man tended the polished walnut bar, while another plunked out a tune on the piano. Men in the black pants and jackets of farmers rubbed shoulders with others dressed in the bright red shirts and black suspenders of a darker-skinned group who sang in a language Roald recognized as French, even though he had no idea what they said.

  “Good evening,” he said to a man leaning against the bar. The fellow shook his head and pointed to the bartender.

  “So you’re a Norwegian. What can I get you?” Bald as the glasses he polished with a stained dish towel, the man smiled around a gold tooth.

  Roald raised a hand to forestall the pouring of whiskey into a glass. “I’m looking for someone who might have a yoke of oxen for sale. Can you help me?”

  The bartender rolled his eyes upward in thought, but after a moment shook his head. “Not sure that I do, but you could check with Pierre St. James. He has a farm ’bout four miles west of town. He was in here earlier today, but he’s prob’ly home by now. I’d wait ’til mornin’ meself, then take the road west about two miles, go north on the cross road, and you’ll see his place off to the left ’bout a half mile up. You could miss it in the dark.”

  “Mange takk.” Roald tipped his hat and turned to leave.

  “Sure you won’t have a bit to clear the dust from yer pipes?” The barman raised the amber-filled bottle and reached for a glass.

  Roald shook his head. While a drink might set the fire burning in his belly and drive the worries away for the moment, he needed the money too badly for other things. Once outside, he headed west out the road, guided by a full moon just creeping up its arc. Sleeping in the open wasn’t a hazard at this time of year, especially since the red sunset had promised a fine day on the morrow. Unless one counted the mosquitoes. He swatted one off his neck and kept on walking. He’d get as close to the turn this night as possible without going by it.

  When he grew too tired to continue, he slept with a blanket covering his head rather than his feet, making sure that every bit of skin was hidden from the bloodthirsty stingers. The birds heralded the dawn and woke him the following morning. He ate while he walked, reaching the farm before the dew had entirely left the prairie grass.

  Two friendly dogs barked at his heels as he strode to the yard between the sod house and a barn surrounded by corrals. Cattle grazed in a pasture fenced with barbed wire strung between crooked fence posts, while pigs grunted from a pen next to the sod-roofed barn.

  A woman stepped from the door of the soddy and yelled at the dogs, which slunk away.

  Roald tipped his hat. “God dag. Is your husband here?”

  The woman shrugged and pointed to the man plowing the field to the west.

  Roald thanked her and set out across a five-acre seeded field. Green shoots were already defining the rows, so he walked carefully to keep from stepping on grain. The man waved, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Off to the north, Roald could see a second team, and beyond that, a third. Was that another farm, or had this man broken this much land already?

  “I am looking for a yoke of oxen to buy, and in town they told me to talk with you.” He spoke slowly, praying the man could understand Norwegian. If only he had spent more time on the boat learning the language. He eyed the two oxen, one brindle, the other white with red spattered throughout its coat, placidly waiting instructions.

  Roald sucked in a deep breath and tried again. “Mr. St. James?”

  The dark-haired man with tired eyes nodded. “Sprechen zie Deutsch?”

  Roald breathed in a sigh of relief and offered a silent prayer of gratitude. The man spoke German. “Nei, Norwegian, but we can understand each other. I am looking for a team of oxen.” He pointed to the team. “Do you have any for sale?”

  At the man’s head shake, Roald felt his heart sink in his chest. “Do you know who might?”

  Roald forced himself to stand still as St. James studied him. He wanted to walk away and vent his frustration in private. There had been no oxen for sale in Grand Forks when he was there less than a month ago. Why hadn’t he started looking earlier in Fargo?

  “There is . . .” St. James paused and shook his head again.

  “Ja?”

  “I have a team that I have just begun to break. They are not fully trained yet, and I do not like to let a team go until I know I can depend on them. I have a reputation, you see?”

  Roald only heard the words “have” and “team.” His heart soared with renewed hope.

  “You have a team?” Roald said the words reverently and with relief. Now, if the man would accept his limited cash, everything would work out.

  “Yes, a young pair, they are not yet strong enough for a full day’s labor.”

  “Please say again.”

  St. James did as asked and nodded. “Have you worked with oxen before?”

  “Some.” Roald flinched inwardly. His “some” was an exaggeration at best. He had driven a yoke around the railroad yard once. He kept his gaze steady, looking at the man with as much honesty as he could. Please, God, we must have this pair.

  St. James nodded. “I have carved a yoke for them, but you will need a larger one within a few months. Have you one?”

  Roald shook his head. “I will by the time it is needed.” He walked to the front of the two animals and studied the size and shape of their yoke. It would require a big tree. Had one that size been blown down on his land? Where would he get seasoned oak? He looked up in time to catch a flash of doubt on St. James’s face.

  “What do you want for them?”

  The farmer named a figure half again as much as Roald carried. “That’s because they are not fully trained. In a few months they will be worth twice that.”

  “Can I see them?”

  St. James looked at the land he had yet to plow, looked up at the sun standing in the ten o’clock position, and then back at the land. “Well, I guess we can use a break.” He unhitched his team, turned them, and headed for the barn. “I don’t see no wagon. How’d you get here?”

  Roald pointed to his feet.

  “You have breakfast this morning?”

  Roald nodded.

  “Coffee?”

  Roald shook his head.

  “Well, let’s see if we can remedy that. I’ll water these boys here while you look over the young’uns. Then we’ll discuss the deal over coffee.”

  Roald watched everything the man did with his oxen, from the voice commands of “gee” and “haw” to “whoa” and “easy now” to the way he checked under the yoke for hot spots that could lead to sores.

  “You got to make sure the yoke fits right with no rough places. You can ruin a good animal by rough spots. Remember that oxen need rest, just like a man does. In fact, from the look of you, I’d guess your animals need more rest than you.” By the time they reached the corral, Roald’s mind was reeling with all the oxen lore St. James had shared with him.

  Roald listened so hard he stumbled over a dirt clod. At the well, Roald cranked the rope up so St. James could water the animals, and then cranked it again. What a luxury, this clear, clean water. He drank as deeply as the oxen had. In the shade of the sod barn, he helped St. James remove the yoke, taking those moments to study the heavy wooden piece more closely. He ran his hands over the curves, imprinting their shape in his mind so he would remember for his own carving.

  Together they leaned on the fence, watching two young steers graze. They were both white with red patches. One looked as if someone had flicked a red paint-filled brush over him.

  “So.” Roald forced his fingers to lie relaxed on the fence post. “You said you wanted ninety dollars. All I have is sixty.”

  When St. James started to shake his head, Roald added, “For now.”

  “Come on, young man, let’s go have that cup of coffee.” St. James turned from the fence.<
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  Roald started to add something, then thought better of it. Right now he could hope. The man hadn’t said no. Roald glanced over his shoulder at the two oxen. How long would it be before they could work the way he needed? Maybe he should look elsewhere.

  Besides the coffee, Mrs. St. James set a plate with corn bread smothered in syrup in front of him. Roald nodded his appreciation. “Mange takk.”

  After a few bites and another swig of coffee, he could feel life returning to his tired body. Would the man never speak? Roald looked around the room of the soddy. Whitewashed walls, bright red curtains, a braided rug upon the polished dirt floor, even a cast-iron stove for cooking. Soon Roald would have such a house. A log one built from the trees on their own land. Maybe next year. A noise caught his attention. A child in a long dress with bare feet played with a kitten near the doorway.

  “More coffee?”

  Roald didn’t need to understand the language to recognize the gesture. He nodded and held up his cup. “Mange takk.”

  “Well, son, you said you only have sixty dollars. I just can’t let ’em go for that, since they’ll be worth so much more and all.” St. James smashed a crumb of corn bread beneath one finger and lifted it to his mouth.

  Roald swallowed. Well, that is that.

  “But, I will hold a note, due in two parts, if you agree to pay five dollars for the yoke. Or you can take a loan at the bank and pay me as soon as you can. You can mail it to me by way of the general store in Pembina. What do you say?”

  “I say thank you, and I will pay in two parts. You can trust me.”

  “I know that, or I wouldn’t have offered.” St. James extended his hand, and Roald met it with a handclasp full of gratitude. He now had a team of oxen, but he still needed a plow. Maybe he and Carl could make one by the—he shook off the idea. They needed one now. But how and where would they find one?