Chapter 13
Rogues and Scoundrels
The antlers of Tor’s first buck were hung high in the gable end of the Namakagon Timber Company office. Olaf proudly pointed the trophy out to anyone who entered the lumber camp headquarters.
“My son took that nine-point,” he’d say. “One shot, clean and quick.”
Tor was proud as well. In just four days, the party of four hunters brought in a total of nine bucks, one doe, and a bear. The chief took three of the deer and the bear with his bow. Two lumberjacks who came into camp a few weeks early were put to work helping Sourdough and Tor butcher, salt, and smoke the meat. Chief Namakagon traded the hides for a hundred pounds of sugar and a barrel of molasses for the camp kitchen. Sourdough would have extra sweets for the shanty boys this season.
Winter was coming. In the barn, the sleighs, harnesses, and chains were being inspected and repaired. The haymow was stacked to the roof. The oat bin was full. Every stall for more than forty head of oxen and horses was lined with fresh straw for the animals soon to arrive with their teamsters. The skid trails from the new cuttings were brushed out. Wilbur Johnson, the camp dentist, had every saw and ax sharp and ready.
The camp blacksmith, Gust Finstead, and Louie Thorpe, carpenter, were finishing three new sleighs to haul logs from the cuttings to the lake. In their skilled hands, wood and iron became the runners, beams, bunks, sway bars, whiffletrees, and tongues making up each sleigh.
The cook shanty had plenty of pork, venison, onions, apples, squash, and pumpkins put up. Gunnysacks of potatoes and beans were stacked to the storeroom ceiling next to fifty-pound muslin sacks of flour, sugar, and salt.
Sourdough rendered three drums of lard for frying, baking, and for making soap. The last of the turnips, carrots, and rutabagas were being harvested from the garden and put up in the large root cellar dug into the hill behind the cook shanty.
Olaf had his ledgers ready, pencils sharpened, and the ink well filled. The Namakagon Timber Company was primed for another winter’s cut. The only things lacking now was a foot of snow and a full company of lumberjacks. Although most of the men who worked at the Namakagon Timber Company the previous year would be returning, room could be found for more.
Olaf knew it wouldn’t be hard to find good workers. Hayward was crowded now with men looking for pinery work and the Loken camp was one of the best outfits around. Olaf was known as a good head push, Ingman, a good woods boss, Sourdough’s food was the best to be found, and, although some camps failed to pay up at the end of the season, the Lokens were known to be honest and reliable.
Working for the Namakagon Timber Company was one of the best bets in this part of the pinery in 1883, in spite of the nation’s poor economy. Sawyers and swampers could count on good wages—thirty dollars a month and a bonus if the timber sold high. Teamsters made the same wages, unless they brought their own teams. If they did, their pay was almost doubled.
The weather turned cold now, and the first good snow couldn’t be far behind. A few farmers trickled into camp during the next few days. Back home the crops were in, and the families were set for winter, allowing the men to find pinery work. With most sawmills now closed for lack of timber, many mill hands were also looking for work in the lumber camps.
Men first in camp got the best bunks. The ones too close to the door might shiver all night when the outside temperature fell to forty below zero. The bunks nearest the stove at the end of the shanty were often too hot for sleeping, especially in the milder months. The veteran lumberjacks prized the middle bunks so much that they were often won and lost at the poker table.
Tor’s uncle left camp right after breakfast one early November morning. That afternoon he boarded the southbound train. He was on his way to Hayward to recruit more lumberjacks.
Ingman had another task to tend to while in town. He and Olaf were hoping to expand. His first stop was the state land office where he placed bids on several sections of land near the camp. From there he checked in at Johnny Pion’s hotel across the street. At dusk, he returned to the land office to learn he had been outbid. He shared the disappointing news with his friend, Pete Foster, owner of Foster’s Saloon, next door to the land office.
“The Muldoon outfit beat us out by four dollars an acre, Pete. Four dollars! I don’t see how they expect to make a profit. Must be plannin’ to scalp the land clear.”
“They are crooks, Ingman. King Muldoon has made a fortune by shavin’ the whiskers off thousands upon thousands of acres southwest of here. He cheats the government when he buys the land and then he cheats his men when it comes time to square up in the spring. Muldoon is buyin’ up more and more. Somebody needs to put a stop to it.” Pete poured him another beer.
“Not much I can do about it, Pete. Small outfits like ours yust don’t have the capital to swing the big timber sales. Ya, I guess Phineas Muldoon calls himself King for good reason.”
“Ingman, you and I have been acquainted for a long while, and I don’t mean to butt into your business, but, well, I think there is a way to get the land you want. And it’s all on the up and up, at least as far as the law is concerned. At the same time you might teach old King Muldoon a lesson about makin’ his fortune on the backs of hard-workin’ folks.”
Twenty minutes and two beers later, Ingman left Foster’s Saloon with a plan. At six o’clock when the land office closed, Ingman was there. The clerk stepped out, thrust a skeleton key into the keyhole, and locked the office door.
“Say, now, Mr. Thompson,” Ingman said as the clerk pocketed the key, “yoin me for a beer at the hotel?”
“Oh, Loken. A beer? Well, I don’t know, now. I … I think I should really be on my …”
“Now, Mr. Thompson, surely you have time for a friendly glass or two. You put in a full day for the government today. My treat!”
“Loken,” replied the clerk, “I believe I will join you. It has been a long day, and a beer would taste good. And call me Bob.”
The two men crossed to the hotel. Ingman put a silver dollar on the bar and ordered two glasses of beer. Two women were talking to three men at the far end of the bar. Other than Ingman, the clerk, and the bartender, the only other person in the bar was a man with his head on a corner table, apparently fast asleep. The bartender placed a plate heaped with fresh pork rinds and a small bowl of salt before Ingman and Bob. The clerk sprinkled a pinch of salt into his beer, then grabbed a pork rind, dipped it into the salt, and bit into it.
“That was some bid King Muldoon put in on the land up by Lake Namakagon, eh Bob? They must think those pines are pure gold!”
“Oh, yes. You know, Ingman, that weren’t no honest bid.”
“No?”
“No, Muldoon has figured out a system for swindling the state and beatin’ out the competition. It’s a clever, slippery thing he does.”
“If he’s cheatin’ the state, well, shouldn’t something be done?”
“Something should be done, alright” said Bob. “I wish to hell I could stop him, but what can I do? Some shyster must have told him how to get away with it. Why, I’ll bet Muldoon cheats the government enough to pay a hundred shysters. It’s not right when the big outfits cheat the public in order to make their fortunes. If they were caught cheatin’ at poker, they could get shot, but when they cheat the State of Wisconsin on these land deals, all they get is rich.”
“Ya, you’re right, Bob. Wish someone had the nerve to step in.”
“Scoundrels!” said Thompson. “Rogues and scoundrels, that’s all they are. If only we had a way to stop them.” He tipped up his second glass of beer.
Ingman noticed one of the women down the bar looking their way. Placing his arm around the clerk’s shoulder and leaning in, Ingman said quietly, “Bob, a fella once said, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Ever hear of that one? Where there’s a will, there’s a way?”
“Yeah, I heard of it,” the clerk replied. “What good does it do? Gol dang scoundrels.” He dipped ano
ther pork rind in the salt and bit into it with a loud crunch. “I told the state inspector about this last spring. You know what he told me? You know what he said, Loken? He said his hands are tied. He said if we complain we could lose our jobs. Lose our jobs, Ingman! There must be somebody upstairs gettin’ paid off. It sure ain’t me. I can tell you that much. I can’t even afford decent Sunday clothes for my wife and little ones.”
“Let’s you and me put our heads together. I’ll bet we can figure a way to put a stop to this. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Bob. Whadaya say? Let’s you and me show ’em that cheatin’ the public does not pay after all.”
“You got cards up your sleeve, Ingman?”
“If I don’t, I’ll figure a way to put them there. Now tell me how their scheme works, start to finish. Maybe then we’ll find a hole in their plan big enough to drive a sleigh full of logs through, Bob.”
The clerk finished his fourth beer. “Well, it’s pretty simple. First they come in with a low bid just like everyone else. Then, right before bidding closes, they enter a second bid, four, maybe five dollars more than the land is worth. At the same time they put down the ten dollars needed to guarantee the bid. That gets them the sale. Then, next thing you know, they come in and cancel their damn bid, giving up their sawbuck. Ten bucks means nothin’ to these scoundrels anyway. Hell, Ingman, they can get three to six bucks at the mill for a good pine saw log! What’s a dang sawbuck to a crook like Muldoon?
“Keep goin’, Bob. What happens next?”
“Well, now, with their bid off the table, the land parcel goes up for sale again. But now, Ingman, nobody but Muldoon and his men know about it, see? Nobody. You followin’ me on this, Ingman? There is no one out there to bid against him!” He took another drink of beer. “Well! Next day Muldoon’s man sends a telegram to the state land office in Madison offering the bare minimum that the State of Wisconsin will accept. That’s a dollar and a quarter an acre, Ingman. A lousy ten bits for each acre of land including every stick of timber and even the mining rights! King Muldoon gets the whole damn she-bang, Ingman! Gol dang pot-lickin’ scoundrel, that’s what he is, by gum!” He took another long draw from his mug.
“Yeah, looks like they have a good swindle goin’ on, all right. A very good land swindle. Tell me, this telegram, who does it go to?”
“The state land office. That’s all I know.”
“I’d sure like to know who they contact there.”
“They telegraph someone in Madison. I don’t know who. I get word back the next day that the deal is done—signed, sealed and delivered.”
The two women and three jacks down the bar were quieter now. Ingman grew concerned they might overhear his conversation with the clerk.
“Bob,” said Ingman in a whisper, “I have an idea. I think we might be able to turn the tables on Phineas Muldoon. Maybe we can beat him at his own game, if we work together.”
“You’ll keep me out of it?”
“Don’t you worry, Bob. Nobody will know.”
“All right then. What can I do, Ingman?”
“I’ll be here in the hotel tomorrow. I will sit at the table next to the window so I can keep an eye on your office. You yust give me a wave when Muldoon’s man cancels their bid on that land up by Namakagon. That’s all you have to do. Yust get word to me that the deal’s off. I will do the rest.”
“Nobody can know I played a part. We’re clear on that, right, Ingman?”
“Clear as gin, Bob. Clear-as-gin.”