Read The Treasure of Namakagon Page 25


  Back in the Loken camp, supper ended, the kitchen was cleaned up, and the men hung their socks to dry. Pipes were lit. One man played Oh, Susannah on his fiddle. Olaf and Ingman sat at a table near one of the kitchen ranges.

  Word quickly spread through the camp that Tor had a story to tell. Uncle Ingman was eager to hear the tale. He grabbed one of Sourdough’s empty stew pots and a wooden spoon. His clang, clang, clang, clang, brought the whole camp to attention.

  “Listen up, men!” shouted Ingman. “If you are like me, then you’re champin’ at the bit to hear Tor tell us of his adventure. So light your pipes, open your ears, and shut your yaps so the boy doesn’t have to holler.”

  Ingman sat down on a stack of flour sacks and wiggled in for a comfortable seat. A mouse scurried out from underneath. Sourdough rushed to stomp on it without luck. Several jacks moved in closer from the back end of the line of bunks, and the whole camp became unusually quiet as Tor Loken climbed atop one of the oilcloth-covered tables to tell his story.

  A half-hour later, Tor finished his tale by telling the men Chief Namakagon was now out in the pines tracking down the escaped bandit. Tor stepped down. The camp remained silent as the men considered the boy’s tale. Then, from the back, came a hearty laugh.

  “That, young fella, is as grand a tale as any I ever heard this season! Even better than any ol’ Paul Bunyan story, I’d say.”

  Laughter rolled through the room. Sourdough stepped forward and banged the spoon against the bottom of the soup pot again.

  “You fellas can hoot an’ holler all you want,” he shouted above the laughter. “As for me, I believe that this ain’t no tall tale.”

  “Who are you to say it ain’t, Sourdough?” came a voice from the back. “The boy’s got himself a good yarn there, that’s all.”

  Tor jumped up on the table again. “This is not a yarn,” he shouted. “I told you, I was there right in the middle of the whole ruckus. So was the chief. He’d tell you so if he wasn’t chasing down that other pole cat.”

  “I ain’t one to believe no wet-behind-the-ears cub!” shouted a man in back. “I’ll lay two-to-one odds that the whole story is counterfeit.”

  Junior Kavanaugh jumped up onto the table next to Tor. The men watched as Junior said something to Tor. Tor replied, then Junior turned to the men, shouting, “I’ll take those two-to-one odds, Elmer.” The camp grew silent again. “I’ll put seventy five dollars from my spring paycheck against it at your odds, and I’ll lay the same bet for any man willin’.” More silence. “Where’s your courage, fellas? My money’s good as yours, ain’t it?”

  “You’re on for a double-sawbuck, young fella,” replied Elmer, grinning.

  “I’ll take dat bet, too, Yunior—for ten bucks!” shouted Swede Carlson. “Yust so ve’re talkin’ likevise on dis, you’re a-bettin’ dat two crooks tried robbin’ Tor on da train today und I’m bettin’ dat it iss all yust a big fairy tale. Und you iss puttin’ up you five dolla agin my ten-spot?”

  “That’s right, Swede,” replied Junior. “Two to one odds. That’s what I heard Elmer say. Payment guaranteed out of my earnin’s come spring when we all get paid off.”

  “Okay, den. I’m in.”

  “I’m in for a sawbuck, too, Junior.” “I’m in for twenty.” “Me, too!” came shouts from the men. “I’m good for five.” “Put me down for a sawbuck, too, Junior.”

  “Just a minute, fellas. I need someone to write this all down.”

  “I’ll do just that, Junior,” said Sourdough. “I’ll mark it right here on the kitchen wall where everyone can see. Fair and square, boys.”

  Within minutes twenty-three bets ranging anywhere from two to twenty dollars were recorded on the wall, and Sourdough was still writing.

  “Hold your horses, boys,” shouted Blackie. “The way I figure, Junior can’t pay off that much money unless he works here for three years or more.”

  Sourdough whispered something in Junior’s ear. Junior nodded in return. “I’ll back Junior up,” shouted Sourdough. “I know young Loken here ain’t no liar and I’m willin’ to wager on it.”

  “Now wait just a dang minute there, Sourdough,” shouted one of the men. “We ain’t sayin’ nobody’s tellin’ lies here. We’re sayin’ this is just a good ol’ fashioned lumber camp tale—sort of like sayin’ your bean soup is safe to eat.” The whole camp broke into laughter.

  Sourdough stopped writing bets on the wall long enough to scowl at the roomful of lumberjacks. He shouted above the laughing men, “I’m puttin’ my money behind Junior! Place your bets if you have the gumption, shanty boys.”

  More bets came in. Sourdough kept writing until the betting stopped. “What’s the matter, boys?” he shouted, “do you think your camp cook don’t have the money?”

  “Sourdough,” called out one of the men, “if I had your money, I’d throw all mine in the cook stove just to help dry me socks.”

  Sourdough added up the tally. “We have thirty-seven bets in for a total of two-hundred and fifty-eight dollars. That’s what Junior and me stands to make if we win the bet. If we lose, we’ll be out, let’s see, that’s one hundred and, uh, twenty-eight, no, nine—one hundred and twenty-nine dollars. That’s quite a pot.”

  Junior had a big grin on his face as he and Tor stepped down from the table. He turned to Tor. “I surely hope you’re on the level, Tor,” said Junior. “You are, ain’tcha?”

  “Junior, if I made this whole story up, then wouldn’t I have also laid down a bet against you?”

  Junior thought for a couple of seconds, then grinned a much wider grin.