Chapter 18
Hoodlums
Early the next morning, Tor and Chief Namakagon met the other boarders around the breakfast table. The table was well set with eggs and sausage, fried potatoes, coffee, and fresh corn biscuits with butter and honey. As the guests seated themselves, Adeline Ringstadt came from the kitchen.
“Good morning all,” exclaimed their cheery hostess. “Fill up your plates. There’s more coming soon.”
Rose carried in a large glass of milk. “Good morning,” she said to the breakfast party. She walked around the large table to Tor and placed the milk before him. “Tor, I’m dreadfully sorry about the disaster last night.”
“Don’t go fretting about it, Rosie,” he said with a laugh. “Better cold milk than hot coffee when it’s in your lap.”
“Tor, you’ll have to come back soon,” she replied. “And when you do, I’ll have another song to play, just for you.”
Embarrassed, Tor replied, “I’ll return when I can, but we have plenty of work to do in the camp.”
“Oh, please do hurry back, Tor,” pleaded Rose. “You need a break from all that hard work from time to time, don’t you?”
“I suspect,” said Namakagon, “Tor’s journeys here will be frequent.”
Rose beamed.
After the meal was finished, Tor and the chief said their farewells.
As they were leaving, Rose approached Tor. “Tor,” she said quietly, “it was so nice to see you again. Please do try to visit us soon, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “Maybe I can put some of the other men to work on my duties and get away.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” She smiled and then pressed a light blue ribbon into Tor’s hand. “Here,” she whispered, “take this and keep it with you until you return. It’s the ribbon I wore in my hair last night. Maybe it will bring you good luck and keep you safe in the woods.”
“Ah, er, thank you, Rosie. I … I don’t know what to say. I will keep it with me, always, Rosie.”
As Tor and Namakagon left the boarding house, Rose’s mother smiled at her daughter and whispered, “Rose, I used the same ploy on your father nearly twenty years ago—only my ribbon was red.”
“I know, Mama. You told me that story a half-dozen times. I just had to try it out for myself.”
They smiled at each other as they watched the departing guests through the parlor window.
“He is such a nice boy, Mama.”
“I agree. He will be a fine, fine beau for some lucky girl.”
“Oh, Mama, I do hope we can soon visit their camp. Please Mama?”
“Now, now, Rose, it is not proper to rush things so. Like I’ve always said, ‘time spent apart will win a young man’s heart, dear. Be patient, young lady. We shall see what we shall see.”
“Well, I'm going to speak with Reverend Spooner this morning, Mama. I am going to let him know there are a hundred lost sheep up on Lake Namakagon, all waiting for a fine shepherd to bring them to salvation.”
“Oh, I don’t see a need to rush, dear. I have a feeling your new friend is just as smitten as you.”
“But, Mama,” Rose sighed, “I simply must see Tor again soon.”
“All right, you may speak with the preacher when you see him. I see no harm in it.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama, thank you!” Rose cried out as she gave her mother a big hug. They peered through the frosty parlor window, watching Chief Namakagon and Tor cross the street and walk from view.
Two inches of light snow made the small city look bright and clean in the morning sun. Tor and the chief passed the courthouse and turned down Iowa Avenue. They crossed at the corner, dodged a fast moving, horse-drawn cutter, and headed straight for the Lumberman’s Bank.
“That young girl is quite interested in singing songs for you,” said Namakagon.
“She sure can whip up a tune,” replied Tor. Then, eager to change the subject, “Here’s the bank.” They entered.
“Mr. Dearborne,” said Tor. “Please tell Mr. Forbert that we’re here.”
“Certainly, Mr. Loken.”
Dearborne disappeared from behind his barred cashier’s window, returning a moment later. “Mr. Forbert will see you now, Mr. Loken.”
Curbing pride felt from being called Mister, Tor entered Forbert’s office.
“Here you are, young man,” said the banker. “Five hundred, all in five-dollar bills, just as your father directed.” He flopped a neat stack of bills onto his desk along with a yellow-green, canvas bank wallet. Tor counted the bills and placed them in the wallet. He tied it tightly and signed the receipt.
“Mr. Forbert, could I ask you for another canvas poke?”
“Certainly.” He pulled a second bank wallet from a desk drawer.
“Sir, are you done with that newspaper?” Tor pointed to a copy of the North Country News.
“Here you are,” said Forbert.
Tor folded the paper and folded it again and again, before stuffing it into the second wallet. He tied the leather thong and shoved the wallet into his left coat pocket. The other went in his right pocket.
“Chief Namakagon told me to do this,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I was just looking for a free newspaper.”
Tor stepped back into the bank lobby, pulled one of the wallets from his coat and slipped it to Chief Namakagon who dropped it into an inside pocket of his bearskin robe. They left the bank.
Heading toward the depot, they passed two lumberjacks conversing on the wooden walkway. On his face, the taller man wore the telltale scars from being kicked with calked boots. The other man was short and muscular. Neither made any effort to move aside as Tor and Namakagon passed.
Tor purchased the return tickets, along with a copy of Harper’s Weekly and the latest edition of the St. Paul Pioneer Press. He slid the magazine and newspaper into his knapsack next to the nutmeg and bottles of lemon extract. He and the chief sat down to wait for the next northbound train.
The depot door opened and the two lumberjacks they had passed on the boardwalk entered, bought tickets, and sat nearby.
The northbound train pulled into the station with a rush of steam and the bell ringing. A long whistle blast signaled time to disembark.
The conductor assisted four women passengers from one car while several men got off another. Mail and freight were unloaded from a third. The brakeman swung off the corner ladder of the caboose and onto the platform.
When they heard the conductor’s call, Tor and Namakagon boarded, finding no other passengers sharing their car. The locomotive’s whistle announced its departure. As the train began to move, the two lumberjacks crossed the platform and stepped into the same car, taking the seat behind Tor and the chief.
The Omaha rumbled up the track. Tor scraped frost from the window with his fingernails and watched the rail yard, blanketed with snow, pass by.
The big man behind Tor spoke. “You there! We don’t want any trouble. Give us the money and you won’t be hurt.”
Tor and Chief Namakagon turned.
The man behind brandished a large caliber revolver in his gloved hand. “Do as I say. I want the money. Now!”
“Sam! What are you doing with that gun?” said his partner. “You didn’t say nothin’ about no gun.”
“Shut up, you fool!”
Conductor Clyde Williams entered the car calling, “Tickets—tickets, please.”
The thief hid the gun under his coat and offered his ticket, as did his partner. The conductor inspected both, smiled, nodded, then canceled the tickets with four clicks of his punch.
Tor reached for his ticket. Namakagon stopped him.
“We have no tickets,” said the chief.
“No tickets?” replied the conductor.
“None whatsoever.”
Conductor Williams scowled. The thieves remained silent. Namakagon, still wearing his bearskin robe stood up, pulling Tor with him.
“We had no money.”
&n
bsp; “Not true,” said the shorter thug. “They got plenty of money, all right.”
“Quiet!” said his partner.
“But, Sam…”
“I said quiet, Percy.” repeated the man with the boot-scarred face.
“Take us to the station,” said the chief. “I’ll square up with Oscar.”
“You know Oscar?” said the conductor.
“We both know Oscar Felsman,” said Tor. “He’s a close friend of ours and my father and my uncle, too.”
“And just who are you?”
“Tor Loken. My father is Olaf Loken and Ingman is my uncle.”
“Well, I’ll be! I know Ingman. I know him well. Skinned him for three dollars and sixty cents at the poker table last time I saw him. I know your pa, too. Good fellow. Well, young man, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re good for the ticket price. Just square up with Oscar when you reach Cable. How is your pa, anyway?”
“No!” Namakagon demanded. “You must take us there—straight to Oscar Felsman.”
“And just who are you?” asked the conductor.
“I am Namakagon.”
“Namakagon?” said the shorter bandit. “Sam, he's that Indian with the silver mine! You know …”
“Seal your damn lips, you fool!” snapped the other thief.
“Sam, I’m tellin’ you, this here is the old Indian they talk about—the one with the treasure. He has a secret silver mine. We could be rich, Sam, rich!”
“And I said seal your damn lips, Wilkins. We are here to collect a debt.”
The conductor looked puzzled. Namakagon stepped into the aisle. Tor remained standing, his knuckles white from clutching the straps of his knapsack.
“Enough talk,” said the larger thug as he brandished his pistol again. “Sit down, the both of yous. And give me that money!”
“What is this?” exclaimed Williams. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m collecting a debt,” replied the thief. “This ain’t your concern. The Loken camp owes my boss and we’re here to collect, that’s all. None of your business.” He turned toward the chief and Tor. “Now hand over the damn money.” He thrust the revolver forward toward Namakagon’s chest.
“There will be none of this on my train!” shouted Williams. “Resolve your differences when you reach the station. Now put away that pistol, sir!”
“The money!” shouted the thief, ignoring the conductor.
The other thug stood up with a look of disbelief. “Sam, Sam!” he said in a forced whisper, “We were just supposed to get the money back. You didn’t say nothin’ about no gun. This is more than I bargained for, Sam!”
“Shut your dang mouth, Percy.”
“I ain’t takin’ no part in no train robbery. This is the Omaha line, Sam. They’ll have the gol dang Pinkertons after us!”
“Hush up, you fool,” Sam said, now pointing the pistol at Tor. “Give me the money now or I’ll shoot the boy.”
“Not on my train!” shouted the conductor. The train whistle blew twice as they approached the trestle north of Hayward.
“Wait!” said Namakagon. “Tor, give this fellow the money.”
Tor reached into the pocket of his mackinaw and pulled out the canvas bank wallet. He saw Sam’s eyes get big and a grin spread across his face. Tor looked at Namakagon, then, with a sudden snap, threw the wallet to the far end of the car. As it bounced off the last seat, Sam turned, his pistol moving aside. Tor whipped his knapsack up and around, hitting Sam in the head, breaking both bottles of lemon extract. The knapsack then struck the henchman’s gun hand and the revolver discharged with a deafening pow!
The bullet hit the gunman in his own left knee. He collapsed to the floor, holding fast to the pistol.
Namakagon stepped onto his forearm to stop him from raising the gun again. Percy Wilkins, the shorter of the two thugs, scrambled across the seat back, pushing Tor out of his way. Wilkins bounded from seat to seat, then into the aisle, running to the end of the car. He dove to the floor and grabbed the wallet, then sprang to his feet and reached for the train’s emergency chain above the doorway. The air brakes on the train locked, slamming Namakagon and the conductor to the floor. Wilkins kept his balance by hanging onto a seat back, then scrambled out the door.
His arm now free, Sam brought the pistol up again. Both the conductor and the chief lay in the aisle before him. Instinctively, Tor whipped the knapsack up and around once more, hearing a click as the robber pulled back the hammer. But the flying knapsack knocked the pistol down again, just as the bandit’s gun went off.
Pow! The second bullet struck the wooden floorboards next to Conductor Williams’ head and ricocheted up and through the backs of two empty seats, lodging in a third. The gunman tried again to raise the revolver but, instantly, Namakagon’s hunting knife flashed through the air. The sharp, steel blade cut through the back of the thief’s gun hand, crunching bone and pinning it securely to the oak floor. The gun flew free, the thief screaming.
Conductor Williams scrambled to his knees and grabbed the gun. Tor jumped over two seats into the aisle and ran to the end of the car. He threw open the door and watched the escaping bandit disappear into a grove of cedars along the river, downstream from the railroad trestle. The door leading into the next car opened. Two lumberjacks, a man in a business suit, and two Ojibwe men stepped in looking for the source of the commotion. Both the brakeman and the switchman were right behind, trying to crowd through the narrow portal. They all followed Tor to where the fallen thug lay, still pinned to the floor and writhing from pain.
The engineer burst into the car, the air strong with the smell of spent gunpowder. “Who the hell pulled that dang emergency chain?” he shouted. “Clyde, for Pete’s sake, what in tarnation is going on here?”
“It’s alright, folks,” cried Conductor Williams, waving the revolver recklessly. “I have this all under control.”
Namakagon snapped the pistol from the careless hand of the conductor and pointed it upward. In one, smooth motion he flipped open the cylinder and dropped the four remaining cartridges and two empty forty-four caliber casings onto the floor, some falling onto the defeated thief.
“Here, this is safe for you to wave around now,” the chief said as he handed the revolver back to Williams, “as long as you don’t reload it.”
“Why, Sam Rouschek,” exclaimed Albert Ross, the brakeman. “Sam, what the hell is going on here?”
The bandit, still twisting from the pain, made no reply. Namakagon reached down and pulled out his knife, causing the bandit to scream again. The brakeman grasped the chief’s arm with one hand and drew back a clenched fist with the other.
Clyde Williams grabbed the brakeman’s wrist. “Hold off, Bert. The Indian is not the cause of the trouble here. Him and the boy were on their way to Cable when they got stuck up by this here villain and the other fella.”
Williams turned to the engineer. “It was that other scoundrel, his partner, who stopped the train. He made off into the woods with the money.”
“Nothing but newspapers in that wallet he took,” said Tor with a smile.
“But …” began Williams.
“Not a penny,” added the chief.
“Well, don’t that take all,” said the engineer. “A gol dang robbery right here on my train! And we upset their plans, right Clyde? We foiled a dang train robbery! Wait till the Chicago office hears about this. Good work, Williams,” he said slapping the conductor on the back. “Folks, I have a telegram to send to the home office and a schedule to meet. Clyde, Bert, you take care of things here.”
The engineer walked back toward the locomotive muttering, “Wait till Chicago hears about this.”
Bert grinned. “Well, Sam, looks like you got yourself stuck neck-deep in the pickle barrel this time.” Sam made no reply as he cradled his bleeding right hand.
Conductor Williams turned to the brakeman. “Just how do you know this fellow, Bert?”
“You mean Sam, here? W
ell, Sam was the only fella who ever had enough gumption to ask my sister to marry. She turned him down flat. Imagine that. Not much goin’ for her, my sister, that is.”
“What about the other bandit?” asked Tor. “He’ll get away!”
“He won’t move fast in the snow,” said Namakagon. “I will find him. He will soon be in the Sawyer County jailhouse next to his friend, here.”
“Mikwam-migwan,” said one of the Ojibwes, “you go to Cable with the boy. We will track the thief. Meet us tonight. We will leave you a good trail.”
“Thank you, my friends,” said the chief. “Without snowshoes he will not move fast. Good hunting,” he said, patting the shoulders of the other two Indians. The two Ojibwe men jumped onto the shoulder of the railroad grade.
Namakagon turned to the captured bandit. “Now, what is this about collecting a debt? For whom?” Rouschek pulled himself up to a sitting position. He grimaced with pain as he tried to move his leg. “I ain’t workin’ for nobody.”
“How did you know … Who told you we had that money?”
“We just figured it out, that’s all.”
“I repeat, for—whom—are—you—working?”
“I already told you, I ain’t workin’ for nobody but myself!”
The brakeman interrupted, “I saw Ned Dearborne, the bank teller, talking to you in the hotel bar last night, Sam.”
“The teller at the Lumberman’s Bank?” demanded the chief.
“I told you,” Rouschek insisted, “I don’t work for nobody and I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Nobody told me nothin’.”
Namakagon turned to the brakeman. “Who else was at the bar?”
“Only other person at that end of the bar was Phineas Muldoon.”
“King Muldoon?” asked Clyde.
“Yep, King Muldoon.”
“Is that what this is about?” Namakagon demanded of the thief. “Did you do this because King Muldoon doesn’t like the Loken family working near their holdings?” Then, louder, “Sam Rouschek, did you threaten our lives and try to steal our money because of that timber sale last month? Is that it?”
“So what if it is!” snapped Sam, still suffering pain. “I was offered a job and told to collect a debt, that’s all. Muldoon said he’d give us each twenty-five dollars and steady work till breakup. I was just doin’ my job, that’s all.”
“Well, sir,” said the conductor, “You may have been sent to collect a debt. I don’t know anything about that. But I do not believe your job extends to train robbery. No, sir. Society frowns on train robbery and so does the law.”
“I ain’t no train robber,” muttered the thug. “We just needed work and came to collect what’s owed.”
“The circuit judge will have his own opinion on that,” said Namakagon. “Mr. Williams, can you deliver this man to the Sawyer County Sheriff?”
“With pleasure, Chief. I will have him back in Hayward in an hour and ten. And I will see to it that Oscar telegraphs ahead to let the sheriff know to meet us at the station—with shackles.”
Sam Rouschek groaned from pain as he cradled his bloody right hand.
“Just one more thing,” said Conductor Williams, pointing to Tor and Namakagon with his ticket punch. “What about those tickets?”