An Untamed Land (28 page)

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.

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 should 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?”