Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2)

by Vikki Kestell

  The angry conductor shouted something to the men, pointing from the prostrate form on the floor of the car to Jan. Some of the men reached up to drag Jan down. He let go of Elli, fearful that she would be hurt.

  “Well, now. What’s goin’ on here?” a cool voice drawled. Everyone heard the distinctive “click” of a rifle being cocked.

  The laborers jumped aside as a tall, wiry-built man looked around, sizing up the situation. He rested the buttstock of his rifle on his thigh, pointing the barrel toward the sky, but his eyes conveyed a challenge.

  Then he glanced down. “What is this? What in tarnation do you boys think yer doin’ tramplin’ these folks’ food?” His eyes narrowed and he stared at the conductor. “Mister, did you toss these things out in the dirt?”

  The conductor, drawing himself up, sputtered a reply. “We have a timetable to keep here, Bailey. This is none o’ your concern.”

  “Weeell,” the man drew the word out, “I’m sure they paid their fare. ’Sides, you ain’t got no right t’ be treatin’ newcomers like this, so I guess I’m makin’ it my concern.”

  “You men there,” he gestured at a knot of laborers to the right. “You think it right t’ throw a man’s food and things in the dirt? And then walk on them?”

  The workers, getting a better picture of the situation, began to mutter and shoot dark glances at the conductor. One of the mob piped up, “No sir! Didn’t think that was what was happening.” He cleared his throat and said to Jan and Elli, “Mighty sorry, sir, ma’am.”

  “Well, since Mr. Chance is so concerned with keeping his ‘timetable,’ how ’bout you men give these newcomers a hand unloading their things? Respectful like. And pick up their food here.”

  The men did as Bailey directed. The conductor and another man dragged their unconscious friend from the boxcar and laid him out on the prairie grass. Others began to unload and carefully stack the Thoresens’ belongings alongside the tracks.

  While some of the men were unloading the first car, several others helped Jan and Karl drag a crude ramp to their second boxcar, unload the oxen, and hobble them. A few more handed down wagon parts. Jan and Karl set to work assembling the wagons. When the men saw what they were doing, they pitched in to help.

  In the meantime, Amalie looked for and found her sewing kit. She stitched a neat seam up the split in the sack of wheat. Elli and the girls picked through the dirt, salvaging every kernel they could find. They placed the dusty wheat in Elli’s apron.

  After she and the girls had retrieved all the wheat, Elli asked for the sack in which Jan and Karl had kept the pegs and pins for the wagons. She had Kristen hold the sack open while she poured the wheat into it.

  Within an hour the three wagons were assembled and the men had loaded the lumber onto one wagon. Atop the lumber, Karl strapped the new stove and piping and stacked the bales of hay.

  The conductor, not willing to wait any longer, signaled the engineer to blow the whistle.

  “Guess we gotta go,” one of the workers said.

  Jan made a point of shaking hands with each man. “Tanks you,” he said tentatively. He felt silly, but his efforts earned him a proud smile from Søren. Some of the men clapped him on the shoulder.

  All the while, Bailey watched, his face noncommittal, rifle held casually at his side.

  When the train pulled away, the Thoresens stared across the tracks. They saw a small clearing and a tiny cabin built into the side of a low hillock.

  Beyond that spread the open prairie as far as they could see.

  The ground undulated over swells and mounds; the prairie grasses shimmered in the midday sun. Jan’s breath left him as he stared.

  “You folks all right?” It was the man with the rifle.

  Jan and Karl walked over to him. “Tanks you,” Jan said, hoping his firm handshake and solemn face expressed how grateful they were.

  “Tusen Takk,” echoed Karl. He pointed to himself. “Karl Thoresen.” He pointed at Jan. “Jan Thoresen.”

  “Robert Bailey. Pleased t’ meetcha.” Bailey was a little younger than both Jan and Karl. He pointed. “I keep th’ water tower filled.”

  Jan called to Søren. When the boy stepped to his side, Jan put his hand on Søren’s shoulder. “Jeg sønn, Søren.”

  Bailey shook the boy’s hand. “You-all have a lot to do still.” He pointed at their things spread along the track. “Would you like some help?”

  Jan asked Søren what he said. “I think he would like to help, Pappa,” Søren replied.

  “Ja, tanks you!”

  A woman emerged from the tiny shack. She walked swiftly toward them, wiping her hands on her apron as she hustled over. “Land sakes, Mr. Bailey! You shoulda tol’ me we had comp’ny!”

  He grinned at her. “They jest got off th’ train, missus. Name o’ Thoresen. I think they’re brothers. Come meet ’em.”

  Mrs. Bailey, weatherworn and feisty, was as plainspoken as her husband. She shook hands all around. They were all a little awkward with the language barrier. “Would ya like sumpthin’ t’ eat? Got some soup on th’ back o’ th’ stove and some biscuits.”

  “My woman do make good biscuits,” Bailey said proudly.

  Søren looked at his father. “They said ‘eat,’ Pappa.” His stomach growled.

  “Ja, tanks you!” Jan accepted. He was getting more comfortable with the two words he’d learned. He and Karl unhobbled the oxen and led them to a trough under the water tower. Jan hobbled them again. Karl spread a tarpaulin over their food supplies before turning to the Bailey’s cabin.

  On the shaded side of the Bailey’s cabin, in a small pen, the Thoresens spotted two cows and a calf. “Karl,” Amalie whispered, “Look! They have cows!” Karl looked speculatively at the cows and calf. He nudged Jan, who nodded.

  Inside, the Thoresens exchanged many comments on the cabin’s construction. They were especially impressed after they went inside and found that the back six feet of it was dug into the low hillside.

  They enjoyed the soup and quick breads offered to them, but conversation was stilted. Mrs. Bailey chatted on to the women who listened attentively and nodded politely, not understanding a word.

  Jan asked Søren to thank the Baileys again, and to say they needed to load their wagons and move on. They likely had four hours of daylight ahead of them but it would take an hour or two just to load the wagons.

  Søren did the best he could. “Tanks you, food. We go wagons.” He pointed to the northwest.

  “Gotcha a claim over there, eh?”

  “Claim—ja!” Søren nodded vigorously. “Yes.”

  Søren aided conversation among the men when he suggested that his father show Mr. Bailey his claim paper. Jan and Karl both did so.

  “Why, I’m pretty sure thet’s Han Gloeckner’s old claim,” Bailey announced, pointing to Karl’s paper. “Ain’t seed it m’self, but he described it t’ me.”

  He looked at Karl and Søren and tried to communicate. “Mr. Gloeckner. Mr. Gloeckner’s claim,” he said, pointing at the paper.

  When Bailey spotted a bit of alarm in Karl’s eyes he added quickly, “Gloeckner, no.” He shot a look for help to Søren. “Gloeckner, gone. Good-bye.”

  “Herr Gloeckner?” Søren asked.

  “Yes,” Bailey answered but quickly added, “He is gone. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye? Go?” Søren was struggling.

  “Yes! He go, er, went.”

  “I think he means what the land office man told us, Onkel,” Søren told his uncle. “A Herr Gloeckner had this claim but did not stay long enough to prove it up.”

  Bailey insisted on helping Karl and Jan to load the remaining two wagons. The men covered the three wagons with tarpaulins and roped them securely.

  “Say,” Bailey said when they were ready to go. “You goin’ t’ need all them oxen when ya get to’ yer claim?”

  The only words Søren caught were “oxen” and “claim.” He shook his head and looked at his father. Bailey placed his hand
on one of the oxen. He held up a finger. “One.” He pointed at the other ox and held up a second finger. “Two.”

  He pointed down the line and held up a total of six fingers. “Six,” he said, pointing again at the oxen. Jan and Søren both nodded, and Jan suddenly smiled.

  He pointed to Bailey’s two milk cows and the calf and held up one finger and then pointed at one ox.

  “An ox fer a milk cow, eh?” Bailey scratched his chin and muttered to himself. “Could use an ox, maybe lease him out. Could sell him, too. Fer cash money.”

  Bailey held up his hand and strode quickly toward his cabin. Jan and Karl looked at each other.

  “Missus! Missus!” Bailey called. “I’m thinkin’ on tradin’ Molly fer one o’ these folks’ oxen. Whatcha think o’ that?”

  “I’m thinkin’ we ain’t got no use fer two milk cows, thet’s what,” she called back, “an’ they got little ones what need milk. It’s all right with me.”

  It took some time and imaginative communication, but another thirty minutes later, Mr. Bailey hopped aboard one of the wagons and took the reins. Søren rode with Mr. Bailey; his horse and the Thoresens’ new cow, Molly, walked along behind them, tied to the back of the wagon.

  Bailey had offered to go with them to their claims and then return on his horse, leading one of the oxen. Since he knew best how to reach their homestead claims, Jan and Karl asked him to lead the way.

  The sojourners had made five miles when Mr. Bailey stopped atop a knoll and gestured to the river below them. Then his finger tracked far up the river and pointed to where a creek could just be seen joining the river.

  Jan and Karl knew immediately that this was “their” creek. It would guide them the rest of the way to their land.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 7

  Jan stood on a low rise and surveyed the land before him. My land, his heart sang. His and Karl’s two claims ran side-by-side, the plot Karl had chosen just to the north and mine right here under my feet, Jan wanted to shout to the sky. From the small creek west of them to the low, rounded hills in the east, this was their land.

  In every direction the prairie grasses danced, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of pale green and silver. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun and waited. He waited in utter stillness for the land to speak to him.

  He could hear the morning breeze run its fingers over the grasses, rising and falling, rising and falling. A meadowlark warbled. In the distance the children laughed and called to each other. But right here, in this moment, with his eyes squeezed shut, Jan listened only to the sound of the prairie wind—gentle, undulating, soothing, eternal.

  Eyes still tightly closed, Jan inhaled deeply. He smelled sage and cedar mixed with the earthy scent of moist soil. It had rained last night, a late spring shower. A perfect, soaking rain.

  He reached down and, grasping a clump of grass with both hands, pulled free a chunk of soil. He examined the soil thick with the roots of prairie grasses. Sod they called it. He knew that six inches under the prairie sod ran a layer of dark, rich, fertile earth.

  Lord, I thank you, his heart rejoiced. He struggled to contain his emotions, and Jan knew he would remember this moment until he died.

  He turned and gazed to the west. Their nearest neighbors were on the claim across the creek. Anderson, their new friend Herr Bailey had said. Jan studied the low bluff, a few hundred yards beyond the creek. The bluff curved gently, creating a wide hollow between it and the creek.

  From this distance Jan could see a plowed field atop the bluff already glowing with the green of newly sprouted corn. A green garden was marked out in the hollow below. He saw a woman going in and out of a door built into the bluff. A small child played close by.

  They dug into the bluff, Jan realized. Something like what the Baileys had. Jan and Karl had read of dugouts and soddies back in Norway. He glanced again at the thick clump of sod in his hand.

  They had read how homesteaders cut thick, root-filled sod blocks, a foot wide and two feet long, to build prairie homes. From what he could see at this distance, his neighbors had burrowed into the hillside and used sod bricks for the outside wall.

  He watched for a few minutes, his imagination captured by the picturesque curve of the bluff. He easily envisioned a house built there someday, nestled in that hollow and facing the creek. For an instant he wished he had arrived a year or two earlier and filed claim on the acreage across the creek before his neighbor had.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods, the Holy Spirit reminded him.

  Yes, Lord!

  He looked again across their land and his heart swelled. He turned east and saw his family and their wagons. He and Karl had many decisions to make and much work to do—and soon, as quickly as they could manage.

  “Fader, I am so grateful,” he whispered. “I want to build our home right here, on this spot where we have talked this day.” Jan looked around him, in his mind seeing the foundations of the house on this gentle rise.

  The oxen had been slow and the wagons heavily laden. Because they had left so late in the afternoon their first day on the trail, they had arrived at their claims midmorning on their third day—yesterday, the first day of June.

  On the trail to their land Bailey had built their first fire. He showed Elli and Amalie how to gather dry weeds and roots for starter and something else for fuel in place of wood—a dry, flat, gray patty. It had been an interesting moment when he managed to convey to the women that they were collecting buffalo “chips” for firewood.

  Bailey had told them it would take him less than a day to return home on horseback, and had headed back immediately. “Got t’ keep thet water tank filled,” he grinned. “I’ll be home ‘bout nightfall.” He held his new ox on a lead.

  Jan and Karl had again thanked him. Amalie was especially appreciative for the trade, and they were already enjoying their fill of milk.

  Their new friend started his return home shortly after reaching Thoresen land. Before he left Bailey had warned them of snakes. “You be trampin’ or cuttin’ th’ grass down, b’fore y’all lay down t’ sleep,” he said, demonstrating with a stick and with vigorous stomping. They hadn’t followed his words, but they had clearly understood his pantomime.

  As soon as Bailey was out of sight, Jan and Karl had rigged their families a temporary shelter while the women watered the chicks and pigs. First, Jan and Karl cut the grass and stomped out the ground around them. With Søren’s help, they maneuvered two of the wagons until they were side-by-side with some room between them. Then they unhitched the oxen and hobbled them nearby.

  They unloaded the lumber wagon and sorted and stacked the wood. They did not unload the other wagons; many of the things still packed in them would remain crated up until they were under a roof.

  With some of the lumber the men hammered together two benches and a serviceable table that they placed between the wagons. They strung tarpaulins over the table and benches and secured the sides and corners of the canvas sheets to the outside edges of the wagons.

  Karl and Jan nailed two tall, upright boards to the ends of the table. They nailed a third board across the tops of the two. The boards lifted up the center of the tenting over the tables.

  The families now had a dry shelter under which to eat. They would continue to make their beds on the ground under the wagons as they had done on the journey from the train to their homestead.

  Amalie’s reaction to the tent had concerned Elli. “I knew we would not have a house for a while,” she whispered to her sister-in-law, “but I have never been without a roof over my head . . . and the sky here is so vast and, and this place they call the prairie so . . .” Her voice caught at the end. “I am sorry. I am being silly.”

  She swallowed. “I could hardly sleep the nights we were coming from the train. The grass is so high and we heard so many strange sounds.”

  “Maybe you are a little low because of the baby, ja?” Elli suggested. “You know how our emotions ac
t when we are pregnant!”

  Amalie nodded her agreement, but her eyes were already shadowed from lack of sleep. Elli observed new worry lines around Amalie’s eyes.

  Elli told Jan about their conversation. “I do think it is the baby, but perhaps not just the baby. I worry that she is taking all these changes too hard.”

  Jan snatched a covert look at Amalie and thought about what Elli had told him.

  The tent and wagons provide shelter in fine weather but . . . but perhaps we should think about something better soon, Lord, he prayed as he pondered all they must do on this new day.

  After rigging the tent, Jan, Karl, and Søren built a temporary chicken coop and pen for the pigs. The chicks raced around their coop and gobbled their feed, and the two piglets, allowed to run free within the pen, seemed healthy enough.

  As for the hobbled oxen, they would be content to stay near as long as they had grass and water. The men would remove the hobbles and move them to fresh grass each day; Søren would water them twice a day.

  The wellbeing of their livestock was a great concern to Jan and Karl, especially the animals’ safety from predators. Leaving the oxen in the open at night was not what they wanted, but until they built a barn, it would have to do. They kept the two guns loaded and hanging upon one of the wagon walls—within easy reach.

  Jan’s reverie was interrupted by Søren’s appearance. “Pappa! Come see what I have found!”

  Søren led the men a distance from their camp, crossing over onto Karl’s property, to a slough nestled behind a low hillock. They explored the low, marshy bog, finally locating where water seeped from the ground and pooled. Reeds and a few saplings grew along its edges. A snake slithered away as they cautiously pushed through the rushes.

  Jan and Karl were delighted to find a natural source of water on their properties. Eventually they could dig down to the spring, build a dam, and divert the water to a holding pond for their stock. Until then they could bring the ox and their cow to the slough each day to water them. It was closer than the creek.