Then he left, banging noisily out of the house, leaving Eric and Kristin to apologize for the ruckus, while the guests, angry and embarrassed, tried to assure Sperry that Granger was certainly not representative of Minnesota’s best. Soon Granger’s invasion was dismissed, if not forgotten, and the guests settled in the music room to hear a string ensemble that had come all the way from Dubuque. Soft, beguiling strains of violins filled the room, passed out the open windows into the sweet spring air. And there for an hour, at the edge of the frontier, it might have been Paris or Prague or Vienna, not a rude new town on the Mississippi, in a land as wild as young earth.
Made peaceful by music, the guests departed with soft farewells, and hopes for the future endearingly expressed. Not even Indian Ned’s attendance upon their horses and carriages broke the mood.
“I’m just glad,” Eric told Kristin, after the guests had left, “that J.J. wasn’t here to take in what Professor Sperry had to say about iron in the Mesabi Range. I’m afraid he knows too much about it already.”
“How does one go about acquiring the land?” Kristin asked. “Assuming that the minerals beneath it are valuable?”
“It’s wild country. Insofar as I’ve been informed, one goes there and stakes a claim.”
“That doesn’t seem too difficult.”
“The trick is that one must stake a claim on land that holds iron instead of pine trees. Otherwise I might as well plan to go into the lumber business. I think I’ll leave that to J. J. Granger.”
“Now, if J.J. would only leave the iron to you,” Kristin said.
She meant it as a joke, but neither of them laughed.
III
Minnesota was kind to the Gunnarsons. They were readily accepted into the society of the new state, and Eric’s enterprise and intelligence saw a constant accumulation of his holdings in the Hudson Bay Company, the railroad, and land acquisitions along the Mississippi and Lake Hennepin. Each summer, too, for three or four months, he would go north with Professor Sperry and a small party of surveyors into the wild woods of the Mesabi Range in northeastern Minnesota. And each summer he would come closer—he was sure—to pinning down the location of ore he had come to call the “mother lode.” By the summer of 1871, nearing the sixth anniversary of Eric and Kristin’s arrival in St. Paul, he felt confident that the time was nigh. “When I return in the fall,” he told her, setting out once again, “I feel sure I’ll be ready to nail down the claim and go into business.”
“Don’t rush, darling. You don’t have to. There’s plenty of time.”
“No, there isn’t,” he answered. “For the last two years Sperry and I have seen other parties up there. They are hunting, and they are not hunting for elk or moose.”
“Granger?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen him up there, anyway. At least not yet.”
“That’s because he’s everywhere else.”
Kristin spoke the truth. If there was an area of business endeavor in Minnesota that had not felt the grasp of the indefatigable, one-eyed entrepreneur, it would have been difficult to name. He had his hands in everything. “Maybe it would have been better,” Sylvester Till suggested one day over lunch at the St. Paul Club, “if J.J. had two eyes and only one hand.”
Little laughter met this observation. J. J. Granger was no laughing matter, not at all.
Granger was not the only individual on the minds of the Gunnarsons as Eric prepared to leave Windward for the trek north. Professor Sperry was still at breakfast, Indian Ned was readying the packhorses, and Haakon, now seven, frolicked with six-year-old Elizabeth on the wide, sloping lawn. But Kristin and Eric sat on the porch overlooking the lawn and the Mississippi beyond it, in sober conversation.
“I wish Sperry had not brought that Chicago newspaper with him,” Kristin said.
But he had, and—after two painful readings—Kristin knew it by heart.
NORDIC BUSINESSMAN VISITS CHICAGO
The great city of Chicago was fortunate this week to play host to Mr. Gustav Rolfson, of Oslo, Norway. Head of Rolfson Worldwide, Ltd., the distinguished foreign visitor charmed many with his story of the fencing duel that left him with a romantic scar. He also excited mercantile enthusiasts with firsthand information regarding his acquaintances in American business, notably Mr. John D. Rockefeller, who recently established Standard Oil of Ohio, thereby becoming America’s foremost oilman. “I gave Rockefeller his start, you might say,” Rolfson stated. After several years in New York Mr. Rolfson returned to his native country five years ago to mount the financing of what he termed “a new venture into American business. Earlier, I was supported by a British banker,” he said. “But you know the British. You Americans have fought them enough! Now I am backed by the Krupps of Germany. I think you shall hear of my adventures in your midst. Naturally, too, there are ties I made during my first sojourn here. And these I will, of course, pursue…”
“It’s almost as if he’s thinking of us.” Kristin shivered.
“Yes,” agreed Eric. “But Haakon is on his mind, too. Whatever one might say of the Rolfsons, they are not quick to give up.”
Now Kristin felt true fear. Chicago was but a rail journey from St. Paul. Transportation had made most parts of the country accessible, and the telegraph had speeded communications immensely. The world, as Eric and Kristin had known it only eleven years before in Lesja, was as dead as the brontosaurus. Still, even as they rode the crest of a new age of industrialization, dark entanglements from their past lives would not release them.
“Your family is fine, though,” Eric pointed out, “so Gustav did not take revenge when he was back in Norway.”
“True,” Kristin admitted. She had had a letter from her younger brother, Piet, dining the previous month. Mama had passed on. Papa was aging, but still fit. Rolfson had been to the mountains with many Germans. That was all of his news. Except that the family was thinking of emigrating.
“Rolfson sold the minerals in the Rauma Range to the Krupps,” Eric explained angrily. “And they used it to build fortifications and forge cannon for war against the French.”
“Where Rolfson is concerned,” she said bitterly, “everything good is turned either to aggrandizement or destruction.”
They were quiet for a moment watching the children gambol on the lawn.
“Father!” cried Haakon, his blond hair flying. “May I take Liz down to the riverbank?”
“No son. Not without myself or your mother or Ned.”
The children had grown attached to the Chippewa, and he to them. When he was not engaged in his duties, he would play with them down in the trees along the river, play all manner of hunting games, stalking games, tracking games. The one they enjoyed most—even though it scared them—was the bear hunt. Haakon, Ned, and Elizabeth would begin in search of the bear. Then Ned would disappear, to become the bear himself. Whether the children found Ned first, or he them, which was usually the case, they loved the excitement.
“Gustav must know we are here,” Kristin said. “Do you think he would…?”
“Bring up the divorce again? If he is attempting to set up business in the Middle West, what good would it do for people to know he has been cast aside? Especially by you, who are highly regarded here. But I think he might try to get Haakon back, in some way.”
“Never!” cried Kristin, and grabbed Eric’s hand.
“Never,” he replied, more quietly, but with equal fervor.
Then Professor Sperry, having finished breakfast, joined them on the porch. “Well, well, are you ready, Gunnarson? Let us be on the trail north. I think 1871 will prove to be most fortuitous for us. I feel sure the bulk of the iron lies on the south slope of the Mesabi Range.”
After Eric and the professor departed for their long journey north, accompanied by a dozen outriders, hired hinds, and a former French trapper called Pesqué, who knew the woods well, time hung heavy on Kristin’s hands. The Mississippi Valley, so cold and majestic in winter, became unbearably humid no
w, the river moving sluggishly, and the green leaves thick and drooping on the trees along the banks. Sweltering days became tossing, sheet-sopping nights. Dispirited residents of St. Paul sat about sipping lemonade, and trying to remember just how it had felt last September when the first wintry blast of Arctic air had howled in the eaves at night.
River traffic was heavy however. So much in the way of supplies had to be moved during the summer months, to make up for the virtual immobility that imposed itself Upon the land in winter. Daily, barges and steamers and boats and canoes went up and down the Mississippi. From the porch of Windward there was always something to see. Many times a boat or canoe would pull to the bank, its occupants to take respite briefly in the shade of Windward trees, before rowing or paddling on upriver.
Indian Ned did not like this. He considered himself the preeminent man present when Eric was gone, and he did not care for the idea of strangers on Windward riverbank.
“It’s all right,” Kristin assured him, “don’t worry about it.”
“Give white man inch he take mile,” Ned grumbled. “Give him finger, he take hand. Give him…”
“Ned!”
And the Indian went off to the stable, or to amuse the children.
Perhaps because his own childhood with his tribe had been so short, or because the mission had failed to succor him, Ned seemed to take real delight in Haakon and Elizabeth. Oh, he would never admit it, and one might not even have been able to tell by the doleful countenance he used in his exchanges with them. But one had only to look at the faces of the two children when he spent time with them. They knew he loved them. They were not fooled by his fearsome visage, his abrupt cryptic growls.
One afternoon in late July, when Eric had been gone over six weeks, Kristin sat on the hot porch, trying to pretend she’d felt a breeze, and watching the children play with Ned. They were down by the trees along the riverbank, and she was happy to see them there in the shade, rather than out on the baking grass of the lawn. The bear game was imminent, she could tell. Ned had removed the buckskin vest he always wore, had painted his face and torso almost black with the juice of chokeberries, which grew in abundance dong the river. Kristin was not terribly enthusiastic about them playing this game now, because it was so hot, and in summer the trees and bushes were so thick she could see neither Ned nor the children for great stretches of time. But what else was there for them to do today? Besides, he took very good care of them. His English was rudimentary, he could neither write nor read, he much preferred the stable to the house. But his soul was good, and Kristin trusted him.
During times like these, watching the children at play and thinking of the years that had passed, Kristin often said a prayer of thanksgiving to Elaine Nesterling, the sweet farm girl who had given birth to Elizabeth. If there was a heaven, Kristin was sure, Elaine must be in one of the best rooms, or the biggest mansions, or whatever it was that they had there. Her sacrifice, her love, had saved Eric’s life, at the expense of her own, and from her to little Elizabeth had gone a gentle, loving nature. While Haakon was verbal, expressive, volatile in his judgments and moods—how like Kristin herself when she had been young!—Elizabeth was a waiter and a watcher. From her earliest years Elizabeth studied her surroundings and the people who occupied them, as if resolutely withholding judgment until satisfied that she knew enough to decide—almost always in their favor. Haakon was mercurial, Elizebeth even-tempered. They were destined to be Starbanes.
“When I make the land claim in the Mesabi Range,” Eric had promised, “then I shall take back my ancient name.”
Now Indian Ned, dyed to a fearsome hue by chokeberry juice, was ready to play bear. With a long, ululating growl, he shepherded the children into the riverbank trees. Kristin, on the porch, lost sight of them, but she heard the delighted yelps of Haakon and Elizabeth. Those cries meant that Ned had disappeared to play the part of the great bear, at once stalker and stalked. Then for a long time there was silence. Boats and canoes passed up and downriver, their occupants now and then shouting greetings to one another. One of the canoes darted in close, seeking the cool shade of the trees. The sun was beginning to drop now, a hot heavy ball falling in the heat-dazzled sky. Kristin moved her chair slightly, getting into the full shade of a porch pillar. She fought the urge to drop into a doze.
Down among the trees Haakon cried out, and then Elizabeth. There was something about the cries…
Then Kristin heard another voice or voices, harsh notes of threat or command. How could that be? She snapped fully awake, staring toward the trees.
Now she heard Ned’s voice and fear flooded her being. Because what Ned said was, “Run! Run!” with an urgency totally uncharacteristic of him. Sounds of struggle followed, with cries of pain, grunts of effort, and the brittle snapping of broken branches.
Kristin was on her feet now, standing on the porch, undecided as to whether it would be best to go into the house and seek the aid of servants, or to rush down into the trees by herself.
She never had a chance to make the decision. Haakon, his little face a mask of fright tod disbelief, came crashing up out of the underbrush, screaming unintelligibly.
Kristin’s heart almost stopped in sheer terror. There was blood on his face, and more blood where his little shirt had been slashed. He came running up across the lawn as fast as his legs would carry him, screaming for help. Simultaneously Kristin heard Ned cry “Noooooooo!” in a long wail that ended strangely with an abrupt gargle of despair.
Elizabeth was shrieking, crying, but then fell silent, her voice not so much terminated as merely muffled.
Now Kristin was racing toward the trees, and several of the servants, alerted by Haakon’s cries, were out on the porch, then running, too. Kristin reached her son, dropped to her knees, and looked at him. His eyes were clouded with fear, and he seemed confused. The blood on his face was minor, thank God, and seemed to be the result of a scratch. But his shirt had been cut cleanly, not by branch but by knife.
In the trees Indian Ned groaned eerily. There was no sound from Elizabeth. Kristin thought she saw a canoe dart away from the shore, but the moving water and the dappled shadows prevented her from seeing clearly. Giving no thought to her own safety, she plunged into the trees. Light was dim there, the air hot and damp. Never, they should never have played today. “Elizabeth?” she called, trying to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice. Oh, what shall I do if something has happened? “Ned? Ned?”
She heard a groan of helpless agony down toward the water.
“Ned!”
Scrambling through underbrush, she tripped over a vine, falling headlong into the damp musk of rotting leaves. Their smell was sickly and sweet, like death. A branch snapped back into her face when she got up, and stung like fire. She cried out.
Again, Ned groaned, as if calling out to her.
Something terrible had happened to him, but he was still alive. What scared Kristin most was that there was no sound from or sign of Elizabeth.
“Elizzie!” she cried, using Haakon’s old babytalk name.
Still no answer.
But then she reached the water, and there was Indian Ned. His feet and legs were on the riverbank, but his torso stretched into the current. She saw the butt of a knife protruding from his back, and the blood pouring out of the wound, bright red against his darker red skin, against the blue-black chokeberry stain. He was dipping his head rhythmically into the river, gulping water and spitting it out. The sight mystified Kristin, the more so when she saw that each expectoration of water was colored red like blood.
It was mostly blood.
“Ned!” she cried, and he turned to her. He opened his mouth, and blood pooled behind his lips. Blood from the stub of his tongue, which had been cut out.
“Elizabeth. Where is Elizabeth?” she asked him, aware that he was losing strength rapidly.
Ned could not talk, but he pointed upriver, and made a paddling motion.
Frantically Kristin scanned the river
. “Is that it?” she asked, pointing toward a canoe almost around the bend north of Windward.
Ned nodded, and spit more blood. Then he collapsed.
Kristin saw the canoe glide around the bend out of sight. She called for help, and pulled Ned from the river, so that he did not drown. He must have seen the people who took Elizabeth But he could not talk now. And, she remembered with a sinking heart even as servants came down into the trees to help her with Ned, he could not write either. Something had to be done. But what? She didn’t know. She did know one thing, however. Whatever was to be done, she would have to do it. Eric was in the north woods. It would take a month to get a message to him, assuming he could be found at all.
The kidnappers had chosen their moment with diabolical precision.
“That’s just it, Mrs. Gunnarson,” observed Ramsey County Sheriff Wayne Bonwit “I’m not convinced it was an honest-to-God kidnapping.”
“What do you mean?” cried Kristin. “Here is the ransom note!”
A week had passed since Elizabeth’s abduction, an act surrounded increasingly by mystery. Kristin and the sheriff were seated in the front parlor. Coffee cooled in cups on the small serving tray between them. Neither wanted coffee.
“I want what you want,” Bonwit assured her, “the safe return of your daughter. But I didn’t like the sound of the note from the beginning. Something about it just didn’t jibe with my gut feeling.
“Perhaps if I might see your son again?” he asked.
“Oh, please. He’s so tired He’s having nightmares about this.”
“But Mrs. Gunnarson, believe me, it may be the only way. Your Indian is dead. He left us nothing but some strange lines on a piece of paper. And I know from experience that as time goes by, the victim of a crime begins to remember more and more.”
Sheriff Bonwit was a sturdy frontiersman, wide, rugged, and hard as nails. But he was also shrewd Ned was gone forever; Eric not yet returned from the Mesabi. Kristin herself had seen nothing on the afternoon of the crime except the shadow of a canoe on the sun-dappled river. Haakon was the only witness.
Wild Wind Westward Page 42
