An Untamed Land (29 page)

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.

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?

“If’n you drive them home, by the time you get there, you and them’ll pretty well understand one another.” St. James pushed away from the table. “Let’s get ’em yoked. I got ta get back to the field.”

“Ja.”

Roald counted out the bills. All he had left were a few coins to jingle in his pocket. But that didn’t matter. He and Carl now owned both horses and oxen.

A short time later, Roald walked down the lane behind his team, holding the lines snapped to the ring in each animal’s nose. One day they would be voice trained and he wouldn’t need reins.

He carried two sets of hobbles and a renewed supply of food for his trip home.

Two days later he walked into the empty Bjorklund camp. Where was everyone?

W
hat was all the hollering about?

Kaaren looked up from stirring the stew set for dinner. She could see the old woman running from the woods and waving. She yelled something, stopped, beckoned Kaaren to come, and ran forward again.

Kaaren listened carefully. Yes, it was the French word for help. What could be wrong? At the same moment, Ingeborg’s name flashed through her mind. Something had happened to Ingeborg.
Oh, dear God, don’t let her die. Please, please, whatever is wrong, be with her and us
.

She started toward the woods at a run, but the old woman waved her back. Kaaren stopped. She listened for all she was worth, and suddenly she knew what to do. “I’ll get Carl. My man.” She shouted the French for man and spun around. Gathering her skirts up around her knees, she headed for the field.

“Carl! Carl!” She waved her arms as she shouted.

Carl lifted the plow from the furrow and clucked the horses toward home. Kaaren met him halfway.

“Ingeborg is down at the river. Metis said to call you. Please hurry.”

“You bring in the horses.” Carl handed her the reins. “If I’m not right back, unhitch them and drive to the river, in case we need them.”

“Ja, I will. Hurry.”

Carl headed for the river at a dead run.

“Mor, what is the matter with Mor?” Thorliff started to slide off the back of Belle.

“Stay there,” Kaaren ordered. She grasped the plow handles and
clucked the team forward. All the while her
please God, please help us
silently pounded the doors of heaven.

Carl ran as if his life depended on speed. Leaping logs and brush, he slipped and slid his way to the riverbank. He looked downriver but spun the other way when he heard a halloo to his right. Moving as quickly as he could through the trees and brush, he found Metis bending over a figure on the ground.

“Ingeborg.” He dropped to his knees beside the unconscious woman. With one hand he reached to touch the woman’s head. A square of cloth seemed to have stopped the bleeding, but blood stained the ground under her.

Metis continued to hold the material in place, at the same time motioning Carl to lift Ingeborg and carry her back to camp.

A shudder racked Ingeborg’s body, but it wasn’t sufficient to force her to regain consciousness.

If only I could understand the woman
, Carl thought as he lifted Ingeborg in his arms.
Does she know what happened here?
How he wished he had brought the horses. Carrying Ingeborg’s dead weight through the trees and underbrush set his muscles straining, and he could hardly get his breath.

Ingeborg’s body spasmed again.

Carl leaned against a tree. Metis checked the head wound, now dripping blood down Carl’s arm. Warm water gushed from Ingeborg’s skirt and down his pant leg.

He looked to Metis, who stood shaking her head. She muttered a few more words and shook her head again.

“Go . . . Kaaren . . . horses.” Carl spoke slowly and distinctly, using the little English he knew.

Metis nodded. She motioned him to keep the cloth on the wound and set off at a run.

Kaaren unhitched the horses with shaking fingers. “You go watch Gunny, Thorliff. I have to hurry.” She hooked the traces up on the harnesses. “Here, tie Bob to the wagon wheel.” She handed Thorliff the halter shank.

“But Mor is hurt. I want to see Mor.” Thorliff stood in place, the lead shank clutched in his hand.

“You will see her later. Please, Thorly, do what I say right now.” Kaaren jerked on Belle’s rope. “Come on, girl, let’s go.” The mare
rolled her eyes and jerked back on the rope.
Please, God, help me
. Kaaren took a deep breath to calm herself and clucked again. This time Belle followed her, trotting more quickly as the woman ran faster.

She met Metis at the edge of the woods. Together they wound their way back to where Carl stood leaning against a tree somewhat closer to the camp.

“Thank God you are here.” He closed his eyes, still fighting to get his breath. Ingeborg was a solidly built woman, of that he was certain after trying to carry her so far.

“Oh, Ingeborg.” Kaaren laid a hand on her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “How should we do this?”

“Metis, here, can give you a boost on the horse, and then we’ll hand Ingeborg up to you so you can hold her upright. With one of us on either side, we should make it back all right.”