Chapter 21
The Desperado Percy Wilkins
Heavy snow fell across the Namakagon Valley through the night. By dawn more than two feet of new snow blanketed the ground. As the snow continued to fall, the wind turned from east to north and the temperature fell. Limbs of the tall white pines bent far down under the weight of the heavy snow and swayed in the wind.
The tracks of men there the night before had vanished from the ridges north and west of Hayward. The woods were silent, save for the occasional call of a raven searching for any scrap of food on the winter landscape.
Chief Namakagon lay motionless under the snow. As the morning light filtered through the tree limbs, the old Indian stirred. He slowly opened one eye, then the other, but, covered by his bearskin robe and buried by snow, he saw only blackness. He recalled the flickering firelight and the falling snow and the vision of the tree limb striking him again and again.
“Was this a dream?” thought Namakagon. “Was this a vision from Gitchee Manitou? Or did the trickster Wenebojo visit again?” He closed his eyes again and lay silent for a moment, then reached for his knife to find it still in its sheath. “My blade is secure,” he thought. “Yes. It must have been Wenebojo. I have been tricked into dreaming this dreadful nightmare.”
Namakagon gently pushed the corner of the fur robe aside. Snow and bright morning sunlight fell onto his face. Squinting, he saw the heavy layer of snow in the woods around him. He looked at his hand to see blood. He felt the back of his head finding a large lump where he had been struck the night before. He moved his left shoulder and grimaced, then groaned with pain.
“This was no dream,” he muttered. “This was not Wenebojo’s work. I was careless. I trusted that the darkness would keep me safe. I was a fool. The muskrat could have ended me here on this ridge.” The old man lay still again. “But, why is my knife still in its sheath? How is it I am covered with my robe?”
Still under the warm bearskin, the old man began to move, stretching, trying to determine the extent of his injuries. He found his walking staff there next to him. Keeping the robe over his head and shoulders, he slowly sat up.
Chief Namakagon stood, snow falling from his robe. Blood-painted pine needles lay where he had slept. Stretching and moving, the chief felt pain, but he knew this was pain he could endure. He rubbed a handful of snow onto his face and neck, cleaning off the blood there. Another bit of snow went into his mouth. He spit it onto the ground. He melted more snow in his mouth, this time swallowing it. He straightened his robe, reached down for his hat, taking care to not touch it to the tender, swollen lump on the back of his head. The chief looked at his left wrist. The silver band he had worn for more than five decades was gone. He reached for his leather poke. This too was gone, along with the few coins he carried in it.
Namakagon shook more snow from his robe, adjusted it, and walked toward the depression left in the snow where Wilkins slept the night before. He looked up the trail, then down. “No tracks,” he said. “Perhaps, Muskrat, you sprouted wings and flew to safety?”
Walking up the trail to a place where a large white pine protected the ground from deep snow, he saw moccasin tracks and knelt down for a closer look. “No,” Namakagon said. “These are not right. You did not go this way, Muskrat.” He turned, trudging through the deep snow down the back trail. There, under the protective limbs of another white pine, he saw the faint but recognizable track he wanted.
“Shoe-pacs,” he said to the trees around him. “Muskrat, I have you now. You head back for the railroad grade where the snow has been thrown to the side by the locomotives and where walking is easy. You think I do not follow, but you know not Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan.”
As the old chief followed the faint tracks, he wondered out loud. “Why did you not finish me with my own blade, Muskrat? Did you think about this deed? Did you stand there above me, looking down at my chest with my knife in your hand? Did you want to plunge the blade into my heart? Why did you not take my life? And why, Muskrat, did you cover me? Did you not know I might wake and come after you?”
Chief Namakagon flexed and stretched more as he followed the trail. His pain eased as he picked up the pace. He again wondered aloud about his quarry. “I was a fool to let you ambush me, Percy Wilkins. Are you a fool, too? Yes, you must be a fool. You were foolish to partner with Sam Rouschek. You were foolish to run. You were foolish to not surrender last night when you learned you had only newspapers, not money. And you are a fool now to think this old Indian will not hunt you down.”
Following his quarry through the deep snow proved difficult for Namakagon. Still, he pressed forward and, soon, the trail told him he was nearing Wilkins. Unknowingly, the bandit was breaking trail for his pursuer. Far in the distance, Namakagon heard the whistle of a train.
“Ah, this is a welcome sound to your ears, Muskrat. You believe that train to be your salvation. You do not know I am behind you. Soon you will learn of your mistake. Muskrat, soon you will know more about old Mikwam-migwan, the man you left in the woods.”
Namakagon shed his bearskin robe, hanging it on the limb of a white pine along the trail. He walked faster now. Through the trees ahead, he caught a glimpse of the fugitive, now trudging, plowing through the deep snow.
Percy Wilkins was much shorter than the tall Indian behind him. Wilkins had been breaking trail through the deep, wet snow since first light. Now, with the sun high, he had to stop to catch his breath after every third or fourth step. Namakagon closed in.
“You should imitate the whitetail and watch your back trail, Muskrat,” whispered the chief. “You will not escape. You are tired, weak, not accustomed to such work. Soon, Muskrat, you will be at my feet.”
The trail took them into a stand of snow-clad balsams. Leaving his walking stick behind, Namakagon drew nearer. Ahead, he heard Wilkins gasping for breath as he trudged through the deep snow. The chief stepped when his quarry stepped and rested when he rested.
When less than eight feet behind the weary man, Namakagon drew his hunting knife from its sheath. Silently, he shed his hat, letting it fall into the snow behind him. The fugitive, gasping for air, took two more steps, then leaned against a small birch.
Without a sound, Namakagon stepped within two feet of the thief. Slowly reaching out with both hands, he pulled back on a hank of hair as he placed his knife across the throat of the tired man. His head snapped back. Wide eyes looked up into those of the old Indian who held the blade to his throat.
“Percy Wilkins,” said Chief Namakagon, “surrender or you will be food for the wolves.”
The exhausted outlaw collapsed into the snow, Namakagon’s knife still at his throat. Filled with terror, he stared up at his captor. The chief saw a mix of fear, surprise, and relief on his face. The man tried to speak.
“Don’t,” he gasped, “don’t kill me. Please … don’t kill me,” he gasped again.
Bending forward to keep his blade tight to the thug’s throat, Namakagon said, “I will take my poke and my silver band now, Muskrat.”
The thief fumbled with his belt, then delivered the Indian’s buckskin pouch. Next he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the silver wristband and handed it to his captor.
“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded, gasping again. “Please! I spared … I spared your life last night,” he said, gasping again. “Please, I’m beggin’ you … don’t kill me.”
“Why did you return my knife and cover me?” asked the chief, still holding the blade tight to Wilkins’ throat.
“’cause I ain’t no killer. I never would’ve give you such a beatin’ if I thought I could make a good getaway. I was hopin’ you weren’t hurt bad. I figured before you froze, you’d come to. Please, please don’t kill me. I could see you was old. I never figured you’d trail me after the beatin’ I give you.
“I never imagined we’d get mixed up in no train robbery, neither. Sam and me was out of work. We couldn’t find no outfit to hire us on. All the camps are full and the mines
are cuttin’ back. We got this here job collectin’ a debt and was told just to get the money back, that’s all. I never knowd Sam had a gun. I ain’t no criminal and I ain’t no killer. I just want to get back home to Iowa. Oh, I beg you, don’t leave my dead body here for the wolves. Don’t kill me. Please!”
Chief Namakagon stood, hunting knife clutched in his right hand. “Get up.” The outlaw slowly stood. “Turn your pockets out.” The man complied. A six-inch folding pocketknife fell into the snow along with some stick matches. “Take off your coat,” demanded the chief. The man complied again. Namakagon searched through the coat pockets, finding only two cans of snuff and the empty canvas wallet. He returned the coat.
“Muskrat, put your arms around the birch tree.” Again he did as ordered. Namakagon pulled a length of quarter-inch rawhide from his belt and tied the thief’s hands together, binding him to the tree.
Wilkins watched as Namakagon headed back down the trail. “Wait! Where you goin’? You can’t leave me here to freeze to death! Please, friend. Wait. Wait! Oh, God, no. Please don’t leave me here to die.”
Namakagon did not reply. A short time later he returned with his bearskin robe, walking stick, and hat. He untied his sobbing, shivering captive. They headed for the railroad grade, Namakagon behind and his captive again breaking trail and gasping for air. The wind picked up. Branches were shedding their thick cover of snow as the north wind rocked them back and forth.
An hour later the two men stood near the iron trestle north of Hayward, not two hundred yards from where the previous day’s hold-up took place. They sat down on the rails facing each other. Drenched with perspiration, both men quickly chilled as the north wind whisked down the open railroad track.
Namakagon reached into an inside pocket and pulled out some pemmican. He took a bite, then gave a piece to Wilkins who devoured it. Hearing a distant whistle again, the men stood to face the oncoming southbound train.
When the Omaha came into sight, the chief climbed onto the snow bank waving his arms. The locomotive did not slow down. Seeing this, Wilkins joined his captor. Together, high on the bank above the track, they waved and waved, but the train maintained its speed.
When the engineer finally saw them, he threw the brake and sounded the whistle. The screech of braking wheels against cold steel rails pierced the air. The men would have their ride, but the train would be well past them by the time it came to a full stop.
Just as the locomotive was about to pass by, Wilkins dove down the bank toward the tracks shouting, “I’m goin’ back to Iowa!” He bounded onto the railroad grade right in front of the moving engine, bounced off the cowcatcher, and landed on the other side of the track as the engine passed by. Now, with the train between the bandit and his captor, Wilkins would again try to make his escape.
Both the engineer and brakeman saw him jump. But, by the time they looked out the other side of the cab, Wilkins was gone.
The Omaha came to a full stop. Namakagon crossed the track but found no sign of his muskrat. Within seconds, the engineer, brakeman, switchman, fireman, flagman and conductor were in on the search. They looked inside and under every car from coal tender to caboose. A deputy, bound for Hayward, helped search for Wilkins, as did three other passengers. One man climbed to inspect the tops of the boxcars. Each hoped to spot the fugitive who seemed to have vanished.
Namakagon returned to where he saw Wilkins last. He found signs in the snow along the track where the fugitive landed after jumping the track. He followed the faint footprints to the trestle. The chief looked down. Far below the wooden ties, on a steel beam, was a single footprint in the snow. He slid down the bank at the near end of the trestle, swung under the upper beam and looked up at the underside of the iron bridge. There, hiding far up in the shadows of the understructure, with his back, shoulders, and head tucked in tightly against the bottom of the ties, was the muskrat.
“You are not going to Iowa, Percy Wilkins.” shouted Chief Namakagon. “You are going to the Sawyer County jail.”
The other men heard this and soon covered both ends of the trestle in case the thief would try again to run.
Realizing he had no escape, the fugitive began to climb out. But he was tired, weak, and his hands numb from grasping the cold, steel I-beams. When he tried to find a handhold, he lost his grip. His feet slipped out and he flipped back, slamming his head sharply on a steel beam that rang out as Wilkins tumbled toward the river below. He landed headfirst, punching a hole through the ice and plunging into the moving water, instantly disappearing.
Namakagon stared at the hole in the ice, waiting for the man to surface. Only the slow, deep, rhythmic chug—chug—chug of the steam locomotive interrupted the winter silence. Chief Namakagon soon understood Percy Wilkins would neither go to jail nor to his Iowa home. If the authorities could find his body after spring break-up, his corpse would likely be buried somewhere along the river, just as they did with the remains of ill-fortuned river pigs who drowned on many Wisconsin log drives.
The old Indian sang a sad, eerie chant to the waters below, to the surrounding trees, to the sky above. He climbed back up to the grade, gazed again at the hole in the ice below the trestle, and then boarded the train.