*
Ingman Loken wheeled his brother Olaf from the cook shanty back to the main lodge. There, they found Tor putting logs on the fire for the night.
“Looks like we’ll have some snow by tomorrow morning, eh, Son?”
“I only hope this snow doesn’t make it hard for the chief out there in the pines.”
“Namakagon will do what needs to be done, snow or no snow,” said Ingman. “No thief is going to out-do that old rascal. No sir.”
“I hope to my soul you’re right, Uncle. Namakagon’s pretty dang old to be out there chasing outlaws on a night like this. You know how old he is?”
“Over sixty, I’d say,” said Tor’s father. “Maybe sixty-five?”
“Naw, he can’t be that old, maybe fifty-five,” said Ingman.
“Well, you’re both off the mark,” said Tor. “He told me on the train that he was born in seventeen seventy-nine. That makes him more than a hundred.”
“Boy, you are full of tall tales tonight,” said Ingman.
“Full of tales? You don’t believe me about the bandits? Why, Uncle, you think I made the whole thing up. Well, you are dead wrong. I am no liar. You should know that. You should know, too, that I would not leave my friend Junior Kavanaugh out in the cold. Maybe you should put up a bet against me. I’ll tell you what, Uncle Ingman, I’ll bet my deer rifle against yours. Now what do you say to that? We could have Sourdough write it on the wall.”
“Tor!” snapped his father. “You mind your sharp tongue, young man. You cannot fault your uncle for questioning your story. It does tend to bear the qualities of a detective magazine tale, you know.”
Tor was astonished. “Pa, you don’t believe me either? Neither of you believe my story? You think I made this whole thing up? You think I’m lying? Say it! Say you think I am just another gol dang liar sittin’ on the deacon’s bench in the sleep camp, making up tall tales to pass the long winter night.”
“Torvald Loken! I told you to watch your tongue.” warned his father.
“I apologize, Pa. I am sorry how I spoke to you and you, too, Uncle Ingman. More sorry you don’t believe me. Mr. Felsman did, you know. In fact, he said I could now call him Oscar because of my bravery. Chief was right there to hear it.”
“Oscar told you that?” asked Ingman.
“Yes, he did.”
Tor’s father and uncle were silent.
“Oh, I see. Now you think I made that up, too. Well, Oscar said he was coming out to the camp on Sunday to celebrate the capture of the crooks. Now, do you think I’m lying about that, too?”
His elders remained silent.
“All right, try this hat on for size: I had to stop at the store to replace the broken bottles of lemon extract and nutmeg. I can prove it broke. Just take a good whiff of my pack.”
His uncle and father still said nothing. Tor sighed. “Well then, if I’m just a low-down, no-good liar, then go ahead and bet the whole dang lumber camp against me. What have you got to lose? Go ahead.”
“Torvald!” shouted Olaf. “Now I told you to watch that sharp tongue of yours, boy!”
All three Lokens fell silent now. Tor stirred the fire with a poker. “I’m sorry, father. I don’t mean to show disrespect. It’s just that I’m giving you the story straight as an arrow. I don’t know what else would convince you that I’m on the level.”
“In a few days we’ll know, won’t we, Son. When Oscar Felsman rides into camp, he will either make an angel or a devil of you, now won’t he.”
“If he rides in at all,” mumbled Ingman.
Silence again. Tor was disturbed. “Say, Uncle Ingman, as long as we got our deer rifles on the table over this, let me try one more of my tall tales out on you. What do you say, Uncle?”
Ingman looked at Tor with an eyebrow raised. “Yust say what you’re gonna say, Nephew.”
“That dastardly hooligan you think I dreamed up … you know, the fella that I say got shot and stabbed?” Tor paused to consider his words, “Well, Uncle, he said he was collecting a debt. That’s what he said, Uncle, collecting—a—debt. Now, don’t you think those would be strange words to add to a fairy tale?” Tor paused again. Ingman said nothing. “And when the brakeman, Bert Ross, piped in,” continued Tor, “he said he saw the same bandit, Sam Rouschek, sitting at the Hotel Pion bar near someone named King Muldoon. Now, that name made no sense to me, except, when I came through the narrows today, I saw a new sign going up on the dam with the same name on it. Now, do you suppose I made that up, too? Do you think I am as clever a yarn spinner as ol’ Mark Twain, Uncle? Or Charlie Dickens? Well, if so, I guess I should be quite pleased to be so well-regarded.”
“Who did you say?” asked Ingman.
Tor sensed a change in his uncle’s tone. “Charlie Dickens.”
“No, no. Before that.”
“Mark Twain? Oh, no, you mean Bert. Bert Ross? Or Sam Rouschek?”
“No, no, the name you saw at the dam—on the sign,” persisted Ingman.
“King Muldoon,” replied Tor.
“Ingman, it was the Muldoon’s outfit that you bamboozled on the land deal in October,” said Olaf. “Maybe they figured it out.”
“Could be they are spiteful we bought those six sections out from under their noses,” said Ingman. “With all the land they own, I don’t see why they would care much about a small outfit like ours buyin’ up six sections.”
“I know Phineas Muldoon’s ways,” said Olaf. “He could own rights to every acre of land and stick of timber in the State of Wisconsin and he would still go lookin’ for more. Muldoon calls himself King for good reason.” Olaf looked at Tor. “What’s this you saw at the dam?”
“Two men on ladders were hanging a sign on the tender’s building. It said Muldoon and Company Dam, King Muldoon, proprietor.”
Again, the room fell silent.
“Tor,” said Ingman, “I believe I owe you an apology and my Winchester to boot. I should have believed you when you first spoke.”
Olaf leaned forward, reached out and grasped Tor’s arm. “Son, seems I should have held more faith in you, too. I swear I will never again doubt you. I do hope you can forgive us.”
“Of course I forgive you. It’s hard even for me to believe this day’s events and I was right there in the midst of it all.”
“What are we gonna do about this, Olaf?” said Ingman. The fire crackled in the stillness.
Olaf broke the silence. “Muldoon and Company Dam, King Muldoon, Proprietor,” he muttered. “Ingman, pay Phineas a visit. We need to find out exactly what the scalawag has in mind.