“Look,” said Tor. “What happened there?”
“That, Nephew, is the handiwork of the Muldoon Lumber Company. It’s one of biggest timber outfits in these parts. They don’t leave a pretty sight.”
“Most camps don’t,” added Tor’s father. “Most outfits take every stick of wood and leave the land in a shambles. Their only goal is to make the most money they can. Then, to steer clear of taxes, they let the cutover land go back to the government. They make so much profit off the timber that they don’t care what happens to the land. There’s even a name for it—cut and get out. It’s a gol dang, dreadful thing to do to these beautiful woodlands and waters.”
“Waters, Pa? How is it bad for the waters?”
“With no forest cover left at all, the rains wash the soil into the creeks. The muddy water ends up in the lakes and rivers, usually killing the plants and animals that have thrived there for thousands and thousands of years. Son, if I could walk, I’d take you to creeks and ponds that, just two years ago, were teaming with big, beautiful brook trout. Now those waters are all but dead. Muddied up and dead.”
“We do not work that way,” said Ingman. “The Namakagon Timber Company takes only the big pines and leaves most of the small pines and hardwoods to grow. The only time we clear-cut is when we need to build a road, a landing, or a new camp. We get plenty of profit from the big pines without wasting the land. In twenty or thirty years, when the virgin pine is all gone from this country, we will be able to come back and cut our woods again. That clear-cut land you see out there, well, it’ll take a hundred years, maybe two, for those pines to recover.”
“It’s a shameful way to treat these magnificent woodlands, Son. Most of the big outfits have no interest in the future of the north country. They don’t care about tomorrow, just the money they can reap today. It is a sorrowful way to treat Mother Earth.”
Tor watched as they passed mile after mile of cutover. The Omaha crossed another iron trestle and made the last bend before Cable. The engineer opened the throttle to make the uphill climb and thick, black, coal smoke spewed from the stack.
“We’re almost there, Son,” Olaf said, patting Tor on the shoulder.
The engineer eased off on the throttle. The train slowed and soon pulled into the Cable yard. With the fireman ringing the bell, the engineer released the pressure, locking the air brakes. A long, piercing whoosh sounded as the steam shot out below the locomotive. One long whistle blast gave the all clear to disembark. Conductor Clyde Williams stepped from the passenger car, ready to assist departing passengers. Tor and Ingman helped Olaf out of the car and onto the platform just as the stationmaster stepped from the depot.
“Oscar!” shouted Olaf. “Oscar, you old pine knot!”
“Well, I’ll be. Look what the damn cat dragged in!” replied Oscar Felsman, rushing to meet his friend. “Good to see you back in town, Olaf.”
“It's a marvelous day to be here. Say, Oscar, this strappin’ young man here is my son. Tor, meet the gol dang stubbornest, most irritable, and ornery pinochle player betwixt Chippeway and Hudson’s Bay. But he keeps the trains on time and always has another four bits for the card table.”
“Well, well, Tor Loken. I wondered if ever I would meet you. Welcome to Cable, Son. It is a pleasure.”
“Pleased to be here, sir, and pleased to meet you, too.”
“Found him in Chicago,” said Ingman, “workin’ in a big downtown coal yard, he was. His boss was not all that willin’ to set the boy loose. I had to sort'a pry young Tor from his grip, you might say. But we showed those coal peddlers not to come between us pinery boys, right, Nephew?”
“They found out Uncle Ingman can be very persuasive.”
“Tor, Olaf, you catch up on the news with Oscar,” said Ingman. “I’ll ready the wagons and meet you at the general store. We need to be on the trail before noon if we hope to make it to the camp by dark.”
Wheeling his father across the platform into the crowded depot, Tor sensed the freshly painted walls and spotless waiting room were the pride of the stationmaster walking with them. Oscar’s blue-gray uniform was neatly pressed and its brass buttons brightly polished.
Tor also noticed an Indian among the others in the waiting room. He sat on a bench near the south window reading a book. His buckskin clothes were clean and neat. A diamond-shaped silver medallion was neatly stitched onto his shirt. A dark belt around his waist supported a sheathed knife and two buckskin pouches. His moccasins were tied above his calves. Next to him was a canvas pack. Leaning against the wall near him was an ornately carved walking stick. Two large dogs, one black and one white, lay at his feet.
Tor found it hard not to stare. This was the closest he’d ever been to an Indian. He had seen photos in books and he saw several at a distance in Hayward, but they were clad in loggers’ clothes, not in buckskin. This man seemed to carry something special with him—something from nature—from the past—something mysterious.
The Ojibwe looked up from his book. He gave a friendly nod, acknowledging Tor’s presence in the room. Tor nodded in reply.
“That fellow is Chief Namakagon,” said Oscar. “Come. I know him well. You must meet him.” They crossed the waiting room. Namakagon stood. He was broad-shouldered and a half-foot taller than anyone in the room. With a snap of his fingers, his dogs jumped to attention.
“Chief Namakagon,” said Oscar, “this is Olaf Loken and his son, Tor. They are headed for their lumber camp, not far from your lodge. Olaf, here, is the proprietor of the outfit.
“Ah, yes, the Namakagon Timber Company. A good camp. One of few.”
“I have heard of you,” said Olaf, shaking the chief’s hand. “My men often tell of the adventures and perils of the great Chief Namakagon.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir” said Tor as they shook hands.
“Your father treats the forests and waters with respect.” He turned to Olaf. “The men in the lumber camps tell many tales on long, winter nights. I hope words spoken about me offer a hint of truth. I am but a man of the woods, no more and no less.”
“Ha! You, sir, are far more than just a man of the woods,” exclaimed Oscar. “You, sir, are known to all in the north as a great and noble man who respects both Mother Nature and the people who have come here to work and live. True, you are a man of the woods, but you are also a man of the people.”
Namakagon was quick to reply, “First I am a man of the woods, Oscar. The forests, the lakes, the streams have given us many gifts. Perhaps they will continue to grace us with beauty and bounty, but only if the people who come here show respect for nature. Our woodlands and waters are first in my heart.”
Outside, the southbound train pulled up to the platform. The bell rang and a single blast from the locomotive’s whistle let everyone know it was time to board. Tor spoke to his father as the Ojibwe man prepared to leave, then said, “Mr. Namakagon …”
The chief interrupted. “I am known as Namakagon and I am known as Chief Namakagon. I will call you Tor. No need to call me Mister. Mister is what Oscar cries out when he shoots at a doe.” The stationmaster scowled, but in jest.
“Yes, sir,” said Tor. “Chief Namakagon, if you are able to join us at the camp … well, ah, sir … we’d like you to come to our lumber camp. Maybe you could join us for supper someday?”
“I would be pleased to break bread with you. Today, I am off to see friends in Lac Courte Oreilles. When I return I will come to your camp.”
“That’s mighty fine, sir! We’ll watch for you.”
“And I second that,” said Olaf, “as long as you don’t bring this old curmudgeon of a pinochle-playing stationmaster with you!” He laughed as he tugged at the blue-gray sleeve of Oscar’s uniform.
“Now Olaf, why in the world would I take that long, miserable ride across that moose path you call your tote road? Why in tarnation would I give up a clean, comfortable home in town for a crooked, old shack in the woods filled with mosquitoes, woodticks, graybacks, b
ears, wildcats, wolves, and who knows what other critters who all crave to feast on me?” Tor’s eyes widened. “No, sir,” he continued, straight-faced, “you won’t get me out to your camp anytime soon, unless there’s cards on the table and whisky in the jar!”
Oscar turned, handing a small box to Tor. “Young fella, I have a welcome home gift for you. You will want one of these to make sure you don’t miss dinner, unless your pa’s doing the cooking.”
Tor opened the box to find a silver pocket watch. The cover was missing. The crystal was scratched. Dents, scuffs, and worn plating showed hard use. Still, holding it to his ear, Tor heard ticking. No boys at the orphanage ever had such a treasure.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Felsman. This is the only watch I’ve ever had!” Delighted, he again held it to his ear.
“Well, Son, it isn’t much. But it served me well for eleven years. And it keeps good time, if you remember to wind it, that is.”
Chief Namakagon left to board the southbound train. Tor wheeled his father down the freight ram onto the walkway that took them through a small, town park surrounded by a neatly trimmed, cedar hedge. They passed a new, white gazebo and stepped out to the main street. Tor looked up and down the dusty road.
“This is Cable, Son, your new home town. Two hotels, one general store, one dry goods store, a livery over there, a park right here in the middle of town, a feed store, a blacksmith around the corner there, and eleven taverns, not counting the ones in the poker rooms and the hotels. The taverns and poker rooms are here for the lumberjacks, miners, and railroad workers. Son, you ought to see this town on a twenty-below-zero Saturday night in January. You would wonder how, in the stone-cold dead of winter, a town can be so alive!”
A horse-drawn buggy rounded the corner down the street and passed the two Lokens. The horse was as white as snow. The driver wore a tall top hat and black coat and tie. The lady next to him was dressed in a long, navy blue dress. She wore a white, wide brimmed hat adorned with blue ostrich feathers and tied under her chin with a blue silk scarf. The driver pulled up to a large, white building across the street. He was greeted by a boy who took the reins, tying them securely to the deck railing.
“Land speculator,” said Olaf. “Here to buy up the cutover so he can sell it back in the old country. Livin’ awful high on the hog, I’d say.”
The driver of the buggy stepped down, tossed the boy a coin and escorted his companion up the wide steps of the large hotel. A dozen others enjoyed the midday sunshine from their chairs on the second story porch.
“See that fancy building, Son? That’s the Merrill Hotel. It sits where the Cable House stood before it caught fire two years back. Now that was a hotel. Twice the size of Joe Merrill’s place. The Cable House surely was the finest hotel between Chippeway Falls and Ashland. Our own Namakagon Timber Company provided all the white pine and oak in that building. That was my first big sale and the one that really set your uncle and me up in business.”
“It looks like brand new, Pa.”
“Everything in Cable is new. Three years ago, this town didn’t exist. They started building in 1880 when the railroad got here. A year later the streets were lined with new homes and businesses. That’s when the Cable House burnt to the ground. Most of the town went up in flames with it. What you see here today is all new.
“The railroad only got here three years ago?”
“Ya, the Omaha-Northwestern line built the depot, put in a siding, a water tower, and, because this was the end of the line back then, they built a turntable for the locomotives. Then it came time to name the town. Some folks called it Gunderson, after the new postmaster. But the railroad company figured since they provided the lumber for the new depot, they had the naming rights. Named it after one of the big shots in the Chicago head office—a fella by the name of Ransom Reed Cable. They put a sign on the depot reading Cable and that was that. The name stuck. Good thing, too, ‘cause ol’ Gunderson turned out to be a crook. Walked off with the whole works and ended up in prison, or so they say.
"I have heard that Ransom Reed Cable has not even bothered to come up to see the town that bears his name. And, mind you, he rides the train for free. His brother came once. That’s what they tell me. Came to town, got off the train, walked through the park, looked up the street, looked down the street. He turned right around, walked back to the depot, and boarded the train again. Apparently he didn’t appreciate small towns tucked away in the wilderness. You know, Son, some people have no appreciation for the beauty and solitude of the great north woods. Thank the good Lord for cities so folks like that have someplace to hang their hats!”
“Pa, which way is the store where we’re meeting Uncle Ingman?”
“Down there past the hotel—the big, whitewashed building with the large window panes.”
They started across the street. The wheel chair was hard to maneuver in the rutted, sand. Next to the huge store, Tor saw two loaded wagons covered with tarps. Each wagon had a two-horse team. A man sat at the reins of one.
“That fella is Buck Taylor, Son. He’ll help us get these supplies out to the camp.”
Tor and Olaf entered the store to find Ingman paying for the supplies. He saw them come in and made one more request of the clerk.
“Hand me one of those Winchesters, Roy.”
“What caliber?”
“Forty-four-forty.”
The clerk studied a rack of twelve rifles, taking down the third lever action rifle from the left. With the muzzle pointed upward, he pulled the lever forward to open the action, looked inside the chamber, then closed it again with a solid click-snap. He eased the hammer down and handed it to Ingman.
“Twelve dollars and two bits, Mr. Loken. Our best seller. Shoots straight right off the rack. Buckhorn sights. Company claims it’ll never jam up.”
“Twelve dollars and twenty-five cents? Roy! Twelve dollars for a deer rifle? Pretty gol dang steep, ain’t it?”
“That’s the goin’ price, Ingman. Nothin’s cheap in these modern times no more. Cartridges went up, too. Thirty-five cents per box.”
“Awful gol dang steep price for a deer rifle.”
“Well, you could wait until you get back to Chicago,” said the clerk. “I’m sure you could save a dollar or two down there.”
“Chicago? I dare say I won’t be going to Chicago any time soon. There is a big Irishman in Chicago who curses my name every time he takes a breath of that foul air! No, I would yust as soon not see him or his city for a time.”
“I watched him take a swing at my uncle with a billy club,” said Tor. “Uncle Ingman gave him a fist in the side. I could hear the bones snap, I swear!”
“Busted a couple of his slats, did you, Ingman?” said the clerk. “Maybe he’ll know better than to cross a pinery boy next time around.”
“Tor,” Ingman said, “how much money you got?”
Tor reached into his pocket, pulled out a blue kerchief, set it on the glass display case near the cash register and unfolded it, revealing his savings.
“Six dollars and seven cents, Uncle Ingman.”
“Olaf,” said Ingman, “deer season’s ‘round the corner and we’re going to need to put up plenty of venison for the camp this winter. The boy need’s a good rifle. What do you say we give him an advance on his pay?”
“Really, Uncle Ingman?” Tor said, looking up at his uncle.
“I think that’s a great idea, Ingman! Put it on the bill along with four, no, six boxes of shells. Tor, you wrap up that silver of yours and keep it in your pocket. You can draw the full amount on your first month’s pay. Son, I would buy the rifle for you outright, but a man needs to pay for his first deer rifle with his own earnings. It’s the way it’s done. Roy, hand that rifle to its new owner.”
“Gol dang!” said Tor. “My own gun?”
“Rifle,” said his father, “your own rifle. Or, if you want, your own Winchester. And mind your language, Son.”
“Yes, sir! My own Winchester! Pa, I can’
t wait until you show me how to shoot it!”
“All in good time, Tor,” said Ingman. “Believe me, by this time next month you’ll be a crackshot and we’ll have venison in the salt barrels to show for it. Roy, you did load the salt I ordered, ya?”
“On the second wagon, Ingman, nearby the sacks of beans.”
“My own Winchester! Pa, Uncle Ingman, thank you!”
“No need for thanks, Son,” said Olaf. “You will earn it fair and square.”
The three Lokens left the store. Olaf rode with Buck. Tor and Ingman helped him to his seat and tied his wheelchair to the back of the wagon. They climbed onto the lead rig and Ingman gave a snap on the reins and a soft giddup.
“Uncle, what did Mr. Felsman mean when he said we had something called woodticks in our house?”
“Woodticks? Oh ya, I suppose you don’t know about woodticks. Well, you see, they’re these big blood-sucking bugs that bite clear through your hide when you’re not payin’ attention. They’re about the size of apples. We don’t have many at our camp, though.”
“We don’t?”
“No, sir. Lucky for us the mosquitoes are big as crows. They carry the woodticks off and fry ’em up for breakfast.” Tor’s eyes widened again.
“Naw. You’re joshin’ me, Uncle.”
“Yust you wait and see, Nephew. Yust you wait and see.”
“Pa!” Tor shouted to the next wagon, “How big are the mosquitoes around here?”
“Four, maybe five pounds apiece,” Olaf shouted back, straight-faced, “’cept for the big ones.”
The horses pulled the wagons down the sandy street past small tar paper shacks, a horse barn, and the blacksmith’s shop. Soon they were on the east trail under a clear, blue sky and warm, October sun. The party forded the Namekagon River and Five Mile Creek, named, like other area streams, for its distance from the Cable station. The Lokens were bound for their lumber camp on the east shore of Lake Namakagon.