*
Olaf Loken, stared into the lively, crackling fire. Ingman sat in a wing chair near him. He stuffed a chunk of cut tobacco into his pipe, then put it to his lips. Leaning forward, he struck a wooden match on the hearth, and lit the pipe. “Good thing nobody got hurt worse, Olaf. Could have been real bad. We could have lost a man today.”
“We haven’t lost a man since we started up. Neither mill nor camp. Few outfits can make such a claim. Not one man. I want to keep it that way.
“And, Ingman, what the hell was Tor doing there? He has no business being around that kind of work. Lord’s sake! The boy is only sixteen years.”
“Well, you know your Tor. He saw they had some trouble and yust wanted to do his part to help out.”
“Ingman, I do not want him anywhere near the men when they’re out on the job. Plenty of work to be done in camp that won’t put him in danger.”
“Well, now, brother, I understand your concern. But, Tor needs to learn the business. He’s old enough to study the trade and he’s plenty bright. Tor needs to be out in the cuttings if you want him to learn how to stay out of peril.”
“Like today? Did he stay out of peril today? Ingman, look at me! I wouldn’t be in this gol dang chair if I had the good sense two years ago to stay clear and let the men do the work. Look what it got me. Look what I have done to myself.”
“You know as well as me that yours was a freak accident.”
“They are all freak accidents. Wasn’t today’s a freak accident?”
“I know you want to protect your boy. I do, too. But we both know the best way to protect him is to teach him all there is to know about the lumber business. And he can’t learn unless he’s out in the woods—out in the cuttings with the men. We yust have to drill safety into his head, day in, and day out.”
“I suppose you are right. I just can’t bear to think of him gettin’ hurt. I lost his mother. I lost my legs. I couldn’t bear losing my boy again.”
“How about I put him on one of our most experienced crews—say, Mike Fremont’s crew? Those men know the ropes. And I’m sure Mike would like the help. He’d see to it that the boy stays out of peril.”
“You will guarantee Tor will be safe with them?”
“Olaf, you know there is no guarantee when it comes to pinery work. What I can guarantee is that there is no finer crew chief than Mike Fremont in our camp, and nobody more responsible.” The fire crackled a bit louder, flamed up a bit, then settled back down.
“You arrange it with Mike, then,” said Olaf. “I’ll tell Tor he will be working with the Fremont crew in the morning. He can do half-days at first. At least that way he will be safe half the time,” he muttered to himself.
The snow settled during the night. Tor joined Mike Fremont’s team in the cuttings and helped swamp out twelve big white pines felled and bucked by the sawyers in the morning. Using a double-bit ax, he cut off the limbs and cleared any standing brush in the way of the teamster and his huge steeds.
Tor learned how to safely swing an ax and how one miss could put a razor-sharp blade into the frozen ground or, worse, your foot. One error would ruin the blade’s edge, making your work harder. The second error would likely result in no more work that season. The young woodsman was careful to avoid both errors. Still, the camp dentist did not have good words for him when, at noon, Tor dropped off his ax at the file shed before heading for the cook shanty.
“Where’s Junior?” he called.
“I sent him and one of the cookies up to the north forty with dinner for the men,” answered Sourdough, chopping a pile of rutabagas for the stewpot. “They’ll be back any time now. Have some stew and biscuits.”
“How’s Mason Fitch doing with that lame leg of his?”
“Fitch? Oh, he’s in a whole lotta pain. Leg swelled like a pine stump.”
“Sure was tough, getting stuck by that splinter,” Tor said, ladling steaming stew into a tin bowl.
“He’s damn lucky to work in your pa's camp,” said the cook. “Most outfits would send him out the door, probably without his pay.”
Junior opened the cook shanty door. “Tor! I thought you were swampin’ today. Mike Fremont kick your hindquarters off his crew already?”
“Nope. I put in a full day’s work by noon so I figured I’d enjoy the easy life that you and ol’ Sourdough have each day.” The camp cook turned from his rutabaga chore and scowled at Tor’s words.
Ingman entered the kitchen, kicking snow from his boots. “Another beautiful day in the pinery, ay?”
“You betcha, Uncle Ingman.”
The woods boss grabbed a tin bowl next to the cook stove and sniffed the hot stew in the big pot. “Any meat in this stew, Sourdough? Or is this yust the same ol’ everyday skin and gristle?”
“Gol dang it, Ingman, if you don’t like it, then you can just leave it for the shanty boys.”
Ingman winked at the boys. “Well, Sourdough, I’ll try my best to choke some down. If Yunior here can stand it, well, maybe so can I.”
No sooner were the words said than half a rutabaga zipped past Ingman, bounced off the table, and landed in Tor’s lap.
Everyone but Sourdough was laughing now.
“Oh, what I’d give to once more cook for civilized folks—folks who really appreciate good food—instead of a hundred scavenging wild dogs who's got no culture.”
“You want to cook for someone else, Sourdough? Looks like you’ll be doin’ yust that on Sunday,” said Ingman. “Oscar and the ol’ chieftain will be here.” Junior looked at Tor with a big grin.
“Like I don’t have enough gol dang ungrateful mouths to feed.”
“Tor, how about you and Yunior here take a telegram into Cable this afternoon. Your pa has it on his desk.”
“Sure! Junior, you hitch up the cutter. I’ll meet you outside.”
“You betcha!” said Junior, putting his bowl to his mouth and tipping his head back. “I get the reins.”
Junior was out of the room in a flash. Tor headed for the lodge a few minutes later. He picked up the message and a quarter for the telegrapher, then went to his room.
Tor pulled a green box from under his bed, placed it on the patchwork quilt and flipped open the lid. Inside was his watch, a tintype photo of his mother and father, and the nine dollars and eighty-six cents he had saved. He dropped three silver dollars into a pocket, and slid the box back under the bed.
Warm temperatures the day before, followed by a cold night, left an icy crust on the snow. The long-legged mare had them skimming lightly across the frozen lake. Tor noticed two more cutters, one quite fancy, tied near the tender’s building as they passed by the dam.
By mid-afternoon, the boys were at the Cable depot. Tor approached the ticket window with an envelope. Tearing it open, he read his father’s message before handing it and the quarter to the clerk.
Mrs. A. Ringstadt. Hayward, Wisc. Join us for Sunday dinner. Bring family. Olaf.
“Rosie!” Tor realized. “Rosie will be at the camp on Sunday.”
The clerk took the telegram and the coin, returning fourteen cents in change and a thank you. Tor left two pennies for a tip.
The boys jumped into the cutter, Junior Kavanaugh at the reins.