“You did not ask. We offered.” Carl looked to Roald, who nodded.
“Well, then, we’d be obliged,” Agnes said as she laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “You know us Norwegians; we have a hard time accepting help.”
“Ja, we know.” Carl turned to flash his wife a grin. He jiggled Gunny on his hip and helped her chubby hand wave bye-bye.
“I will let you know when I am ready.” Baard slapped the reins on his horses’ backs. “Gidap, there. Mange takk for the party and congratulations on readying your soddy.” He lifted a hand in farewell and drove out of the yard.
“Bye, bye. Come see us,” the boys yelled out the back of the wagon.
The Bjorklunds stood watching until the dust settled and the rig was hidden by the tall grass beyond their property.
“Ja, well, that was a good visit.” Carl turned and headed for the sod barn. “Think I’ll work on the beams for the roof, here, so when we can find the time, they’ll be ready.”
“I will milk so you can return to busting sod.” Ingeborg blinked back the moisture that blurred the sight of the disappearing wagon.
When they woke in the morning, the little tree had perked up, and the rounded leaves sparkled with dew. Ingeborg couldn’t resist caressing one as she poured water into the well they’d created around the base. Like the Bjorklunds, the tree would make it. She wouldn’t let it die.
The next weeks passed in never-ending toil from before dawn until well into the night. They picked and dried plums from the bushes along the swamp and turned the chokecherries into preserves. What wouldn’t store fresh in the root cellar that was yet to be dug they dried. Beans, both as seeds and in the pods, corn, both on the cob and off—all lost their moisture quickly in the hot Dakota sun and incessant wind.
They harvested the wheat and oats, bundled and tied them, then hauled them to the barn to flail later when they could no longer work outside. The size of the crop astounded them. So much yield from such a small tract.
“If only we’d had twenty acres of this,” Roald was heard to mumble more than once.
When they dug the root cellar, they laid the sod off to the side to use for the roof. Since the land was so flat, they had no mound to dig into, so they had to go deeper. By throwing the dirt up for walls, they cut down on the depth somewhat. By the time they finished, they had a new bump on the prairie. With the sod house, the sod barn, and haystacks, their land was beginning to look like a real farm.
One day Thorliff came running into the soddy where Ingeborg and Kaaren were stuffing corn shucks in the casings they had sewn. “Mor, company’s coming.” He ran in place, waving a finger to the south. Both women dropped what they were doing and ran out the door to see. Sure enough, a wagon drawn by a team of oxen was approaching.
“Go get Far.” Ingeborg gave him a gentle push on his way.
As Thorliff scampered off, Ingeborg shaded her eyes. Her sunbonnet hung by its strings down her back, its normal place. “We better put the coffee on. Is there enough for supper?”
“I’ll add more vegetables and make dumplings. That should be a treat for travelers.”
Slowly the wagon drew nearer, and with each turn of the wheels, it became more evident that the travelers were at the end of their endurance. Or at least their equipment was.
Ingeborg was afraid they could see clear through the shaggy-faced man driving the squealing wagon. How he stood up to a good wind was beyond her.
“Good day, missus.” He stopped the oxen, which stood with lowered heads, their ribs sticking out like barrel staves.
Ingeborg replied in English but prayed he spoke Norwegian. “Good day.”
“Name’s Abel Polinski and my wife’s Caroline. Them’s my boys, Reuben and Esau in the back.” He gestured to each with a tired thumb. “We was hoping you could let us stay for the night.” He spoke slowly in German.
“Ja, you are welcome. This is Bjorklund land.” Ingeborg introduced the members of her family and pointed to the men driving the teams in from the field. “Coffee is ready if you would like to sit.” She reverted to Norwegian and pointed to the stump and log seats around the cook fire.
“Ya got water for my team here?”
“Down at the river.” She pointed to the trees.
“No well, huh?”
Ingeborg shook her head. Why did she feel like asking them to move on? What had happened to her sense of hospitality?
The Polinski family climbed down from the wagon, their clothes as ragged and dirty as the canvas that flapped in the wind. Mrs. Polinski only nodded in their general direction, otherwise she cuddled the babe wrapped in a blanket with more holes than threads. The boys hid behind her.
By the time Roald and Carl had unhitched and staked out the horses and oxen, the Polinskis had devoured two loaves of bread and half a pail of milk. The cheese disappeared like ground fog in the sun.
“How long do you suppose it has been since they had something to eat?” Kaaren asked when she and Ingeborg returned to the soddy for more food. “Should we send them to the river to wash before supper?”
Ingeborg shook her head. “How will they make it through the winter when they are coming so late in the season?”
“I do not know.” Kaaren dug in the trunk for a blanket Gunny had grown too big to use. “This would protect the baby more than that rag she has. Do you think I dare offer it?”
After two days, they learned that the Polinskis didn’t mind taking whatever was offered. In fact, it seemed they had come to expect the Bjorklunds to help them out.
Instead of wishing the company could stay longer, Ingeborg prayed they would leave. She felt guilty for the supply of food in their root cellar, the grain for their animals, and the roof over their heads. But when she had suggested the traveling family might use the soap to bathe and wash their tattered garments, Abel insisted his wife was too weak to do even that. And never once did he offer himself.
Roald had quit suggesting that there was possible land available in the area.
Carl made sure one of them was in the yard all the time. “I just don’t trust anyone who will not look me in the eye,” he said under his breath to Kaaren.
She gave him a secret smile. “Looking you in the eye is difficult when one of your own goes off to the side.”
Carl slapped her on the bottom. “Do not get fresh with me, woman.”
A throat being cleared made them both turn to the doorway. Polinski stood there, the familiar hang-dog look on his face.
“If’n you wouldn’t mind, might I have another cup of coffee?” He held out his mug.
“Help yourself, the pot is out on the fire.” Carl’s voice had an edge.
Ingeborg swallowed a smile. The man was wearing out his welcome, for certain, if even Carl, who made friends with everyone, was tired of him.
When the newly greased wheels of the mended wagon finally carried the Polinskis north on the prairie, Ingeborg clutched her elbows with her hands. She had a funny feeling about that family. God, please make them move on, far on, like across the Little Salt River. She didn’t wave back when Abel shouted a goodbye.
Thoughts of the Polinskis continued to nag at Ingeborg. Abel—what a name for a man who acted unable to do anything. The day they arrived, he didn’t even lead his oxen down to water until Carl made a remark about the animals needing a drink. Was he bone lazy or just incompetent? And the poor children. How would they ever make it through a harsh winter?
The thought she had resolutely locked in a box and stuffed in the back of her mind kept unlocking the box and popping up. Why did God let people like that have children, and she still hadn’t conceived? Guilt made her feel worse. She felt guilty for coveting someone else’s children and guilty for judging people she hardly knew. She knew the verse—it had been drilled into her since childhood: “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”
“I’m going fishing.” She called loud enough for Thorliff to hear. He left the slate he’d been drawing on and charged out the door.
“Me too?”
“Ja, you too. You seen any good worms lately?”
“I picked some yesterday from the sod when I was out with Onkel Carl.” He dashed behind the house and returned with a woven grass basket full of worms.
“You are lucky they didn’t crawl away.”
He looked up at her, blue eyes perfectly serious. “But I gave them dirt and kept them damp like you told me.”
“You did fine.” She reached up and took down the fishing poles they kept on pegs pounded into the sod wall. Off they trudged through the garden that now only had a few cornstalks, several pumpkins, and some squash left in it. The root vegetables were still to be dug, but she wanted to wait until the nights turned cold, near to freezing.
Ingeborg stared up at the trees ahead. Some of the leaves were turning yellow, and a few were tinged with rust and vermillion, especially the oaks and the brush. Fall was drawing near, that was for certain. One day soon they would have to build in the fireplace so they would have heat.
Sitting on the bank with her line in the water, she let her thoughts drift back home. It had been so long since they had received a letter. Maybe there would be one waiting in St. Andrew when Roald went in to purchase supplies before winter set in. She had several pages written that she’d been adding to throughout the summer. If only she could tell them she was in the family way again.
“A fish.” Thorliff jerked the line and a fat perch flopped at his feet. He stuck a finger in one gill to hold it, picked up a stick, and knocked the wriggling fish on the head. Then he shoved a forked stick through the gills and rammed the opposite end of the stick in the mud so the fish remained in the water. When he had the hook baited again, he tossed it out and looked up at his mother.
“Your turn.”
“You don’t need me to fish with you anymore; you do just fine yourself.” Ingeborg swatted a mosquito on her neck and brushed another away from her face.
“I like it better when you are here. Do you think Metis will come back?”
“Ja, when the cold comes. What made you ask?”
“Far said she might try to take our land. He said he would run her off.”
Ingeborg laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You let Far and Mor take care of those things. You play with Gunny, take care of Lamb, and catch lots of fish. And when winter comes, we will have school right there in our soddy—the Baards and us. We will all learn English, and you will learn to read and write and do sums. How does that sound?”
“I know my ABCs.” He jerked his line again. “Fish.”
He caught eight to Ingeborg’s two. The grin on his face told the family at the table later that day how proud he was.
“Thorly, you’re turning into a great fisherman like your great-uncle Hamre,” Carl said.
Fried fish fresh from the river always put everyone in a good mood.
They had just finished supper when they heard a halloo from the south. Roald stood on a block of wood to see over the dried prairie grass. “There’s a drover with sheep coming.” He stepped back down, and he and Carl walked out to meet the traveler.
“You mind if I camp near here for the night?” the man asked after introducing himself as Benjamin Wald. “I’m taking these sheep out to my brother in the northwestern part of Dakota Territory.”
“Of course you may camp here. The coffee is still hot, and we have cleared a good trail to the river where you can water your flock.”
Thorliff stood right beside his father. “We have Lamb. She will like your sheep.”
“Good for you, son.” The drover whistled for his dog and waved it toward the river. “We will care for the animals first, and then I look forward to a hot cup of coffee. Three days I been without.” He shifted the pack on his back and set it on the ground. “You don’t mind if we graze that green patch, do you? Everything’s so dry, the critters will appreciate green grass for a change. I can see you hayed it earlier.”
Roald watched him walk off, not sure if he was driving or leading the sheep, but the dog certainly knew his job.
“You think he might have a young ram to sell?” Carl stroked his beard. “A ewe would be good, too. Then we’d have lambs in the spring.”
“Might be.” Roald slapped his brother on the back. “You feeling wealthy or some such?”
“I seem to recall it is your wife who loves the sheep. Mine likes knitting the wool, and I like wearing it.”
“Spekekjøtt, cured mutton, would be a taste of home next winter, eh?”
That night they sat around the campfire listening to Benjamin’s stories until Thorliff fell off the log in his sleep. Roald picked up his son and carried him to the pallet by the rope-strung beds, then returned to hear more. Wald told of the settlements of Norwegians in Minnesota, the groups of Germans who also homesteaded there, as well as the Swedes and even a few Russians. Sometimes the settlements didn’t get along too well with the other nationalities, but “that is the way of folks, I guess,” he said.
“I thought we all became Americans when we came here,” Roald said. “I am Norwegian by birth but American by choice.” Grateful the drover spoke a combination of German, English, and Norwegian, they all spoke slowly so as to understand one another.
“Ja, me too. My father came from the old country when he was a young man. He farms in Wisconsin, but my brother and I, we want the free land to build for ourselves.”
“We too,” Carl added. “It is good when brothers can help each other.”
“Ja, for being here such a short time, you have done much. Others are not so fortunate.”
When the man left two days later, a ram and two ewes remained. “They should lamb in February. God’s blessing on your house for taking in a stranger like you did.” He patted the pack that now held bread and cheese and dried venison.
Behind their harnessed teams, Carl and Roald walked with him as far as the edge of the field they were backsetting. They hooked the horses and oxen to their plows and set to turning the sod as they did every day.
“You will have to herd the sheep now,” Ingeborg told Thorliff when she let the small flock out of the barn after milking Boss. “They need to get to know your voice, so when you call, they will come.”
“Lamb comes.”
“I know. And the others will too. Soon we will need to fence off pasture, but for now, make sure you keep in sight of the soddy. You know you can always find your way back by following the line of the trees too.”
“Mor.” Thorliff looked at her as if she’d lost her memory. “I know that.”
“I know you do, but it never hurts to be reminded.” She walked with him as far as the garden and pulled a couple of carrots. “Break these up and keep the pieces in your pocket. If you give the sheep dessert once in a while, they will like you sooner.”
“Tante Kaaren gave me bread and cheese. I have full pockets.”
Ingeborg helped him break the carrots and waved at him when he looked back. Such a little boy for such a big responsibility. But he had cared well for Lamb, and Roald insisted his son do his part with the family chores.
When the morning chores were finished and the noon meal was cooking, Ingeborg took the rifle and headed for the target she and Carl had fashioned. With all the rush of summer, he hadn’t taken time to show her how to shoot their rifle until a short time earlier. The new gun Roald bought made shooting her brother-in-law’s old rifle seem like digging in the ground with a stick instead of a plow. No more muzzle loading and black powder. Here they used real bullets and could load six shells at a time.
She could hear Roald’s words ringing in her ears. “Do not waste shells.”
She lay on the ground and sighted carefully. With the weight of the gun and her inexperience, Ingeborg had learned she could be far more accurate in this position. Carl had also suggested using a branch or tree trunk as a brace. How she looked forward to bringing in her first deer. Or even a rabbit or two. She resettled the stock against her shoulder, lined up the sights on t
he target, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The resulting bang made her flinch. The gun barrel flew up, her shoulder felt as though she’d been kicked by a horse, and the powder burned her eyes. But she hit within the circle.
Six shots later, she stopped to rub her shoulder and walked up to the circle cut in the tree bark. Four out of six. Not bad. But Roald would say it was not good enough. She had wasted two shells. She fingered the brass casings she had put in her pocket and glanced up when she heard ducks calling each other. They were flying high, the V-formation etched against the rich blue of the autumn sky.
That night around the supper fire, Roald said more with his eyes than his mouth. Ingeborg knew he was not happy with the idea of her, a woman, hunting. With Carl it was a different story.
“I will take you hunting late tomorrow afternoon so we are ready for the deer when they leave their bedding places and go to the river for a drink.”
“Can I go?” Thorliff looked up from his supper plate.
Carl shook his head. “Not this time, but soon I will teach you to snare rabbits. If you know how to snare rabbits, you never have to worry about going hungry. There are always rabbits in the country.”
Thorliff’s shoulders slumped.
“You can help me with Gunny when you get back from herding your sheep.” Kaaren patted his shoulder as she walked by on the way to put the baby to bed.
“My new sheep followed Lamb. Even down the trail to water. Sure wish I had a dog like Mr. Wald.”
“Ja, we will have to think about either a dog to herd the cattle or fences to keep them from wandering too far. Hobbles work fine for a small number like we have now, but soon . . .” Roald paused as dreams lit up his eyes. “But not until next spring. We have hay enough for our stock now but not for many new ones.”
Besides, no money to buy more. Ingeborg kept the thoughts to herself. But if Roald saw a cow or other stock when he went to St. Andrew for winter supplies, he would buy it. What happened to that man who vowed he wouldn’t go into debt?
The next afternoon Ingeborg and Carl set out for the woods. He showed her where the game trails ran and where he had shot many of his deer. A tumble of brush made a good hiding spot, and after they made themselves comfortable behind a log, he reminded her where to shoot.
An Untamed Land Page 26