Chapter 19
Tracking the Bandit
The Omaha arrived at the Cable depot twenty-two minutes behind schedule. Stationmaster Oscar Felsman was on the platform, pocket watch in hand. The train pulled to a stop with the familiar rush of steam, ringing of the bell, and squeal of the locomotive’s wheels against steel rails.
Conductor Clyde Williams swung down and stepped onto the platform to meet the stationmaster. He told the tale of the holdup with much arm waving and gesturing as the passengers disembarked. The bandit, Sam Rouschek, shot in the knee and stabbed through the hand, remained on the floor of the forward passenger car. There was no reason to guard him. He was in shock, in pain, unable to move. Percival Wilkins, his partner, had escaped into the forest with what he thought was the camp payroll.
Tor Loken and Chief Namakagon, each carrying their knapsacks, crossed the platform to meet Oscar.
“Well, now, sounds like you two had quite a trip home.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Felsman, we surely did,” replied Tor. “One villain is caught and now we’re going back to capture the other who bolted into the woods. He thinks he stole our money but we sent him on his way with only last week’s newspaper. Wait till Pa and Uncle Ingman hear.” Tor placed his knapsack on a nearby handcart to button his mackinaw. “We’ll surely have him captured by nightfall, Mr. Felsman.”
“I am certain your father would prefer you come home,” said Namakagon. “I know you’d like to be there to see this ruffian delivered to the sheriff, but, Tor, you must leave that to me. Your duty is to return to the camp.”
“But, Chief Nama …”
“You must complete your task. Your responsibility is to return to camp today. You must never stray from your responsibility, Tor, especially when others count on you.”
“Dang it all, you’re right,” muttered Tor. “I’ll deliver the goods to camp, then come back here to meet you.”
“No. Stay at the camp. I’ll be along in good time.”
“Listen to Chief Namakagon, Son,” said Oscar. “Let him deal with the bandit and the lawmen.”
“Then I wish you good luck on the tracking,” said Tor. “I look forward to soon seeing you in camp.”
As Tor slung his knapsack over his shoulder, the smell of fresh lemons filled the air. His pack and all its contents were soaked in lemon extract. It dripped onto his boots and the platform.
“Looks like Sam Rouschek owes you a bottle of lemon juice on top of everything else,” said the chief.
Tor held up the knapsack as the yellow liquid dripped out. “If Sourdough was the judge of him,” he said, “I’d bet he’d get another five years in prison for this.”
“I’d best check on the scoundrel,” said Williams. “I hope he don’t leave me with a big blood stain to clean up. Lemon juice is one thing. Blood is another. I don’t like to see blood stains on my cars.”
“Say, Tor,” said the stationmaster, “you tell your father I’m coming out on Sunday for a sampling of Sourdough’s dinner fare and a hand of pinochle. Tell him and your Uncle Ingman, too, that I’m bringing along some of my home brew. We can celebrate the capture of these dishonorable louts.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Felsman.”
“Call me Oscar, Son. Any man who takes part in the conquering of such ruffians is certainly man enough to call me by my first name.”
Tor tried hard not to show the pride he felt from hearing such words. “Why, thank you, Oscar. Well, I’d best be off, then.”
“Tor,” said the chief, reaching deep inside his bearskin robe.
“Oh!” “I dang near forgot.”
Namakagon pulled out the canvas bank wallet, handing it to Tor, who opened it and peeked inside.
“Tell me it is not last week’s newspaper,” said the chief.
Tor looked back into the bank wallet, then at Namakagon again. “You’ll just have to wait until you get back to camp to find out.”
Tor left with the canvas bank wallet tucked deep in the back of his mackinaw. He walked through the depot waiting room and out the east door, down the steps, across the siding. He followed the narrow concrete walk through the small park to the quiet street lined with stores, taverns, rooming houses, and homes. A horse drawn wagon filled with lumber turned up the street toward him. He crossed the snow-covered road and entered the general store on the corner.
Tor asked the clerk for two quart bottles of lemon extract and more nutmeg, knowing that Sourdough would have a fit if he did not get his supplies. As the clerk wrapped the order, Tor noticed a gold locket in a glass display case.
“How nice that would look on Rosie,” he said.
“Young fella?” said the apron-clad clerk.
“Sir?”
“Did you have a question about the locket?”
“No. Well, not really—well, how much is it?
“Dollar-eighty-five,” said the clerk, “but it’s ten karat gold. So is the chain. Shall I put it on the Loken account with the lemon extract and nutmeg?
“No, sir! Don’t you dare do any such thing! Can you imagine the razzin’ I’d get? Why the whole camp would know of it and I’d never hear the last word from the fellas. No, I’ll just have the lemon extract and the nutmeg, thank you.”
Tor left the store with his order and hitched the horse to the cutter. An hour later he was at the dam on the west end of Lake Namakagon.
As the horse trotted out onto the ice across from the dam, Tor noticed two men on ladders hanging a new sign on the dam tender’s building. He pulled back on the reins. The cutter came to a stop. Tor looked back at the tender’s building to be sure he had read the sign correctly. MULDOON & COMPANY DAM, King Muldoon, Proprietor. With a snap of the reins and a giddup, he was off again, heading down the narrows toward the main body of the lake. The cutter rounded the point and crossed the lake, then turned north and followed the shore. The horse held a quick and steady trot. Tor looked back to see black storm clouds rolling in from the west. The December light was fading quickly but, soon he saw the glow from the oil lamps in the Namakagon Timber Company lodge. His horse followed the trail from the lake up the bank, across the yard, and straight into the horse barn. Harry Green was there to take the reins. Tor jumped from the cutter, grabbed his pack and ran to the main lodge.
“Pa, Pa!” he yelled. “Pa, you won’t believe what happened!”
Olaf turned his wheelchair away from the large roll-top desk.
“Pa! We dang near got ambushed by two train robbers! They wanted the money from the bank.” As he spoke Tor pulled the canvas wallet from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table with a grin. “Oh, Pa, you should’ve seen us. We gave them what for and sent one to the calaboose with a bullet in his knee and his hand cut clear through by the chief’s hunting knife. Why old Namakagon is chasin’ the other bandit through the pines right now. Pa, it surely was something to see!”
“Slow down, Son. Slow down. You all right? Didn’t get hurt, did you?”
“No, Pa. Not a nick or a scratch. Nobody got hurt but the one bandit. Name’s Sam Rouschek. Big man with a waffled face! He was tryin’ to rob us of the men’s pay when I knocked his revolver down with my pack. Pa, it went off and he shot right into his own knee! Dang it all! I wish you could have seen it.”
“Revolver?”
“Ya, Pa, forty-four. Shot himself right in the knee. Then when he tried to get another crack at us, the chief pinned his gun hand to the floor with his hunting knife. Stabbed clean though his hand and into the floor. Pa, you should’ve seen it!”
“You sure you’re not hurt? I never should have sent you.”
“Fine, Pa.”
“Chief Namakagon is all right? Didn’t get hurt?”
“Just fine, too, Pa.”
“Anybody else hurt?”
“Nobody else harmed a bit. It all happened on the Omaha run back to Cable this morning. Down by the Hayward trestle. Oscar Felsman said he was dang proud of me for helping to spoil the plans of the hooligans. Oh, Pa, I wish you c
ould have been there to see it all!
“Oh, ya, Oscar told me he’s coming out Sunday to celebrate and that he’s bringing out a batch of his home brew. Can I tell Sourdough to fix up a special Sunday dinner, Pa?”
“Ya, you better let him know,” said the elder Loken. He wheeled his chair around the table and across to the stone fireplace. “First you take off your coat and have a seat by the fire. I want to hear the whole story, front to back.”
Tor walked to the windowsill where the water bucket stood. He plunged the dipper into the cold water, took a long drink and dropped the dipper back into the pail. He tossed another log onto the fire, hung his coat on a peg and sat in one of the big wing chairs as Olaf pulled his wheelchair close. As Tor neared the end of his tale, he heard Harry Green blow the gabreel, calling the men into the cook shanty for supper.
“Tor,” said Olaf, “your Uncle Ingman and the men will all want to hear your story. After the supper chores are done, you can fill them in.”