Red Jacket

by Joseph Heywood

  Sankaset? What the blazes is she on about? She made more turns than a snowshoe hare, and there was no sense fighting or trying to resist her. Once she got a notion into her mind, it would not be dislodged by logic or emotional appeal. She knew what she wanted, and what you wanted was a distant second, if it was a factor at all.

  “All right, but I have to see to Big Louie first,” he said.

  “That’s the difference betwixt us,” she said. “When the wantons overcome yours truly, when that lovely twitching commences in her netherings, such urgencies override all else—but I suppose a soldier must learn to contain his emotions and not give in to bestial impetuosity.” She did not sound at all happy about the syllogistic conclusion she had constructed.

  •••

  As predicted, he found the rotund deputy Valo at Sigmund’s Tavern. “Almo, when are you going back to Eagle River?”

  “I guess mebbe I ain’t yet decided,” the surly deputy crowed defiantly.

  “Could you escort Justice of the Peace Moilanen down that way, and make sure he gets on south on the electric toward Hancock?”

  “Tallest man in the damn world ought to be able to look after himself,” the deputy said with a snarl.

  Sheriff John Hepting of Keweenaw County was one of the finest individuals Bapcat knew, but many of his deputies, especially this one, were lacking in many ways. “Justice Moilanen’s feeling a little poorly.”

  “Well, boo-hoo for the damn giant. How poorly?”

  “You recently get you a doctor’s license, did you?” Bapcat asked sharply, leaning into the man.

  Valo, a devout coward, caved under the sharp question. “No cause to pull your tongue-gun.”

  “Shorty like you got something against a man bein’ tall?”

  “ ’Course not, and I ain’t short. I’m average.”

  “Then act like an average lawman and see that he gets down the line. In fact, finish your beer and get over to the train station now. I’ll send him over.”

  Valo looked pained, but obeyed, belching once he’d swallowed his remaining beer in two gulps.

  When Bapcat got back to the widow’s place, he asked her, “Has Zakov been around?”

  “The Borzoi?” She shook her head. “I daresay that one’s even less social than you. And why are you changing the subject? I got intimate notions fluxerpating my mind, and other anatomical reaches that shan’t be mentioned by a proper lady in public.”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I suppose he might have been around, which is to say most emphatically, not with me—here, I’d say late February, early March, and he wouldn’t say why, only grinned like a simpleton when people spoke to him. Ask me, Russians are odd as two-tine forks on their best days.”

  “He have pelts?”

  “None I seen, but wouldn’t wolves be took down to the sheriff in Eagle River? I thought that’s where bounties get settled, or am I misinformed?” She made a sour face and cringed dramatically. “Who’d want a nasty old wolf pelt?”

  “Fur’s real warm,” Bapcat said.

  “Don’t tell me you trap them?”

  “I do not, madam, and I don’t agree with the bounty neither. Wolves ain’t no threat to people, Jaquelle.”

  The widow smiled. “I reckon our famous and legendary Little Miss Red Riding Hood might assert a diametrically opposed viewpoint.” Jaquelle Frei suddenly loosed an amazingly accurate imitation of a howling wolf, smacked his behind, took his belt and pulled him up the stairs to her living quarters as she ascended backwards, tugging relentlessly at his trousers.

  “Guess I’m gonna find out why you fellas were called Rough Riders,” she said, a leer in her husky voice. “Treat me like I’m the enemy, Lute. Give me the real what-for, and don’t you spare me any rough stuff. I can take it just fine. God’s honest fact is, he seems to have made me especially for rough stuff, though I can’t imagine why.”

  5

  Montreal River

  FRIDAY, MAY 16, 1913

  It had been both a long and a short night in the widow’s soft bed. The strange summons to the lawyer in Marquette was unsettling on too many levels to deal with. On principle, Bapcat took umbrage at being ordered anywhere by anyone. It was not like he was without pressing chores to get done, as the Keweenaw’s short spring plowed unceremoniously into an equally short summer. And there was the mystery of the Russian’s wolfer’s snooping; this needed to be addressed when he had time to sit and think about it. On the other hand, Roosevelt was a truly great man, and if the colonel needed help, it was Bapcat’s duty to render it.

  But a trip all the way to Marquette? It was inconvenient at best.

  Worse, he’d have to pass through Copper Harbor again, which would bring another rutting with the sweaty, screaming widow. After some thought he had concluded that it was more than merely possible her insatiable lust had contributed to her late husband’s demise. A reputedly frail man, he had surely been subjected to her massive demands, which had surely depleted his life fluids. Intimacy too often—like baths, by some accounts—was a risky proposition in terms of a man’s longevity.

  Despite all of these considerations, Bapcat could not get his mind off Big Louie’s unusual and disturbing behavior.

  Reaching his hillside refuge, he saw that someone had been in the cabin since yesterday. Hair and porcupine quill telltales had been dislodged and reset differently than he had left them. Four boxes of Winchester .30 caliber cartridges were gone. His Model 94 was still there, but not his full ammo supply. The intruder had tried to be careful and appeared to have moved cautiously, but Bapcat could track a shadow, and having seen he’d been burgled, he easily interdicted the trail and overtook his interloper some three miles southwest, finding the man on his back at the bottom of a crude copper pit, hammered out by Indian miners hundreds or thousands of years ago. This part of the peninsula contained many such pits, which could be extreme walking hazards.

  “Zakov,” he said to the man, who looked to be in some pain, “I would have shared bullets if you’d asked.”

  “Na lovtsa I zver’beshit. Here I’ve broken my leg and arm, and your sole concern is such a bourgeois pittance as ammunition.”

  Pinkhus Sergeyevich Zakov was a small, lean man with black hair and a neatly trimmed black mustache that swept past the corners of his severe mouth. He always wore a black hat that sat on his head like a pot, and carried a sword. The shoulders of his coat bore red and gold epaulets.

  “I want it all back—what’s mine is mine. Comes down to it, I could shoot you where you lay and take back what’s mine.”

  “You would murder a man for mere bullets?”

  “Out here, ammunition is life. You stole and ran.”

  “Your future as a social philosopher, my friend, seems bleak. Bullets are solely and irretrievably about death. One needs to know war to truly grasp this truth.”

  “I ain’t your friend, Zakov. You have been to war?”

  “Ninth Royal Cavalry, the Czar’s Own Golden Regiment, we were called, though we seemed his only when ceremonial duties called. When fighting erupted, our fearless emperor was of course nowhere to be found. His Majesty got the gold; the rest of us got the war. We were in the great debacle in Manchuria, the battle for Darien, in China.”

  “What war you talking about?”

  “Russo-Japanese, 1905. Your own President Roosevelt with the legendary Big Stick played peacemaker.”

  “And brought you to America?”

  “Nyet, though this certainly might be construed. I brought myself. In my country, one invariably must see to oneself. The government is the enemy and the beast, not the domesticated pet of citizens as it sometimes seems to be here, at least on the paper you Americans seem to worship so much. To the rest of the world you seem rich beyond words, which is a very misleading perception.”
>
  “Your accent doesn’t seem Russian.”

  “I doubt you are a linguistic expert on accents and patois. My father was a diplomat. I was born and raised in England. My unit repaired from Manchuria back to Piter, but I went east alone through Siberia, crossing eventually into Alaska, and made my way from there to America across Canada.”

  “You are a bounty hunter,” Bapcat said.

  “You are as obvious as Newton’s apple.”

  What? “There are more wolves in Alaska than here.”

  Zakov grunted. “Russia, too, but I prefer these milder southern climes.”

  The man was clearly demented. “You’re sure your leg is broken?”

  “Yes, but there is little pain. My arm is at an angle I doubt the creator intended—if one clings to such baseless superstitions and fantasies such as deities.”

  “You do not believe in God?”

  “The question is, does God believe in me? The only jury which might answer that query, I believe, remains sequestered until the very moment of our demise. Why should I invest in an imaginary creature which by all worldly evidence does not appear to reciprocate by investing in me, or you, for that matter?”

  Bapcat had harbored similar thoughts since childhood. He turned away from the pit.

  “Wait!” a clearly alarmed Zakov squawked.

  Bapcat stopped. “I am going to cut aspen poles, make a travois, splint what can be splinted, and pull you out of there.”

  “Are you always so cold-bloodedly logical?” the Russian wanted to know.

  “Are you always so damn dramatic?”

  “Lez hoc hevo ne b’yut,” Zakov said with a grunt.

  “What?”

  “Don’t beat the one who falls. It is widely known in these parts that Citizen Bapcat is a difficult man, a near hermit. In my country, hermits are revered and tend toward holiness. I detect none of that in this instance.”

  “I don’t much care what’s widely known or what you detect.”

  “I rest the case. Na chuzhoy karavay rot ne razevay.”

  “You spout nonsense. I speak no Russian.”

  “It is convenient, then, that you have Zakov to translate.”

  “As I said, nonsense.”

  “You see, you do understand some Russian after all, my friend.”

  Bapcat cut aspen saplings and used vines to fashion a hammocky mesh and climbed down to the Russian. A leg bone was bulging against the flesh, and one of the man’s arms was useless. Bapcat asked, “How long have you been down here?”

  “Hours.”

  “I can splint the leg, but a doctor needs to see it. A break of this kind can go bad fast.”

  “There are no doctors near here,” Zakov said.

  “Not here—Red Jacket.”

  “Forty miles on your crude contraption?”

  “No, nine or ten to Mandan, and from there we’ll go south by rail.” By going direct they could avoid going back down the hill to Copper Harbor, and Bapcat could thereby avoid the Widow Frei.

  “I am going to immobilize your leg, but the pain will increase until I’m done.”

  “Vodka would be most welcome.”

  That would be an even greater luxury than a physician. “What you get is a stick, Zakov. You want me to do this, or not? It’s your choice. Either way I get my ammo back.”

  “Do what you must; my point is made,” the Russian said.

  Bapcat nodded, put a stick in the man’s mouth, and began to immobilize his limbs, cleaning the open wound with water from a freezing seep in the rock.

  The man winces, but doesn’t squirm. Doesn’t cry out. This Russian is tough. “Why did you want the cartridges?”

  “My supply is low.”

  “You could buy more.”

  “That, alas, requires rubles.”

  “There is credit for men such as us. Or you could employ poison in your wolf killing, as more sensible wolfers do.”

  “Credit is an entrepreneurial trap, and poison is without honor. This train will cost, da?”

  “I’ll make arrangements for us when we get there, and you will pay me back.”

  “I have no money, and few prospects for earning any.”

  Bapcat said, “It will work out. We’ll see how philosophical you feel when the pain settles in.”

  “Some trapped wolves will chew off a leg rather than submit. Pain is a state of mind, nothing more.”

  “We shall see,” Bapcat said.

  “Your skepticism shows you know nothing of a Russian’s heart.”

  “The same heart that teaches thievery?”

  The Russian sulked.

  In Mandan, Bapcat made his patient comfortable in the train station, but decided the breaks were too serious to haul him another forty miles down the line. Better he get him back to Copper Harbor and take him to Frei Dry Goods until he could get a doctor over there to tend to the man’s injuries.

  Once Bapcat had gotten the Russian settled upstairs, the widow began eyeing him with lust.

  “I want you to keep Zakov here until a doctor can come and take a look at him. Only after that can he be moved. I will pay.”

  She leered. “I mean this from the deepest and kindest reaches of my heart,” she said, “but it is customary to make some payment on account before running up such impulse expenses—said payment expected today, before you run off to only the dear Lord knows where.”

  “But the Russian is upstairs in your bed, and there’s no time. Make the call for me. Please.”

  Widow Frei went to her telephone and cranked it several times, made the call, and hung up.

  She turned to Bapcat: “No answer. Doctors are such busy men. We’ll have to keep trying. Why do you repeatedly insist on such lame logic, my dear Mr. Bapcat?”

  She flipped the front window sign from open to closed and pulled him into a storeroom where she had assembled a cot. She peeled her dress over her head and lay down, smiling. “Let us be about our business anon, Trapper Bapcat. There are paying customers to look after.”

  6

  Eagle River, Keweenaw County

  SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1913

  Sheriff John Hepting did not seem surprised to see Bapcat. “Valo was out of sorts when he got back,” the sheriff said, hiding a smile. “You two have words?”

  “I just said things plainly to your man. Did Big Louie Moilanen get on safely to the south?”

  “He did,” Hepting said, “though Valo seems unable or unwilling to explain your concern.”

  “Moilanen showed up at my shack naked as Eden and looking for his duds and his Bible.”

  Sheriff Hepting’s left eyebrow arched slightly. “Any idea what the problem was? Tippling?”

  “I don’t think so, John. He seemed confused but mostly rational by the time I saw him, but I have to say what I saw disturbs me.”

  “I called down to Doc Kochendorfer to let him know you wanted him to have a look at the giant. Can’t say he did or didn’t. You here for the night?”

  “Got to catch the next train to Red Jacket.”

  “Nothing to do back at camp?”

  “Plenty, but some things take priority.”

  “The Roosevelt trial?”

  “Hard to keep secrets up here,” Bapcat complained.

  “I won’t argue the veracity of that statement. How long you think you’ll be gone?”

  “John, how’d Valo know I was a Rough Rider?”

  “Saw it in a list in the Houghton paper. Only four of you fellas in the whole state. You come out of the woods once in a while, you’d know.”

  Bapcat grunted. “I don’t even know why I’ve been summoned, but I have to get a doctor up to Copper Harbor to look at Zakov.”

  “What happened to
the Russian?”

  “Fell in a hole. Broke his leg real bad. An arm, too.”

  Hepting said, “Chaz Frinkois left for Houghton this morning for some sort of meeting. Your best bet is to find Doc Kochendorfer in Red Jacket and see if he can get up the line. Bad breaks?”

  “One on the leg looks bad.”

  “Best hurry,” the sheriff said. “Good seeing you, Lute. Don’t be a stranger.”

  Bapcat laughed. “I’ll always be a stranger in towns.”

  “The widow up your way still ruling the roost?”

  Bapcat blinked and cringed.

  7

  Red Jacket, Houghton County

  SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1913

  It was well into dark when Bapcat walked from the station down a street lit with electric lights, and made his way to Dominick Vairo’s saloon under the Italian Hall. Thick, choking smoke from mine operations hung over Seventh Street. Mine operations more or less surrounded Red Jacket and kept it clogged with smoke. Wagons clattered and echoed, dogs barked, and automobile motors crackled and popped. The electric lights brought a yellowish brightness the trapper found eerie.

  Bapcat had known Vairo since his return to the Keweenaw, and enjoyed the man’s company. Vairo sent a kid named Gipp to find Dr. Kochendorfer, who came over to the saloon immediately to have a beer with the men.

  Vairo poured one for the messenger, too. The boy was tall and muscled, a handsome, seemingly good-natured lad, and obviously accustomed to tippling.

  Bapcat extended his hand. “Lute Bapcat, trapper.”

  “George Gipp, ball player.”

  Bapcat liked the kid, a boy with a man’s confidence.

  “How’s Louie?” the trapper asked the doctor.

  “I wanted to do some tests, but the big man refused. In some ways he has the emotional stability of a child. Some sort of spell, I’d say, but that’s a catchall bogus term we doctors use when we don’t know what the hell’s happening, and in this case, I don’t, and won’t unless he lets me try to figure it out. Why do I have the honor of being summoned to meet with you esteemed gentlemen?”