An Untamed Land (14 page)

“Nei, you hold still. You want the gangrene to set in, near as we are to our land?” Her smile showed her concern, in spite of the sharpness of her words. She scrubbed away with a second handful of snow.

The tingle soon turned to piercing pain, but Roald held himself still. He’d had frostbite worse than this on the fishing boat last year, but then he’d nearly lost a toe.

It took two shoveling shifts before the train broke free again. While the drifts slowed the struggling engine, the engineer pushed on through. An hour later, they slammed to a halt again. Once again, the cold air and a swirl of snowflakes rushed in as the conductor opened the door a few moments later.

“I hate to do this, but we need you poor fellows again.”

Roald and Carl looked at each other and shook their heads. Would this night never end? When the next crew relieved them and they staggered back into the safety and warmth of the car after what seemed like hours, defeat stung as hard as the snow that had pelted their shivering bodies. When the storm seemed to gather more strength, the engineer decreed they’d have to wait it out and ordered the rest of the men to return to their cars and get some hot coffee to warm up and then some rest.

“Pray God they’ve put in plenty of coal,” Carl muttered when the shrieking wind had been dulled by the slamming door.

“Pray that this storm blows itself out before we run out of food. We didn’t buy that much in St. Paul because we were supposed to be in Moorhead by now.”

“I’ve heard the storms can last for days,” Carl said.

“I know. I’ve heard the same.” Roald held snow to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Right now, I’ve got to have some of that coffee to warm up my insides. Never have I been so cold as this.”

The two men made their way to the back of the car where a smiling woman poured them up two tin mugs from the large coffeepot on the stove.

“Be careful, it’s hot,” she warned them.

Roald attempted to close his hand over the cup handle, but his stiff fingers refused to obey his command. The cup clanged on the rim of the stove, throwing scalding coffee over Roald and the man standing beside him.

A curse split the air as the cup hit the floor. Roald threw the man a withering glance, while at the same time he pulled his own wool clothing away from his body. The extra sweater Ingeborg had forced upon him earlier now stood him in good stead. Instead of being burned, he just had wet clothing. At least they wouldn’t have to go back out into the blizzard again. He picked up the cup with his left hand, stretching and clenching the fingers on his right at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his neighbor. “Are you all right?” When the fellow muttered an agreement, Roald held out his cup again. “Mange takk. I think this time I can be trusted to hold my cup.”

The men stood around the stove until they’d all warmed up, both inside and out, some accepting whiskey added to the steaming cups by one of the immigrants. Carl and Roald declined the liquor booster. Soon the noise around them grew in direct proportion to the amount of drink consumed.

“Uff da,” Roald muttered when one of the men bumped into the two brothers. He apologized by lifting his mug with a bleary grin. “If we have to go out and dig again,” Roald said, “they’ll all freeze to death.”

“They’ll fall in the snowbank because they can’t tell up from down.” Carl turned from the fire and headed back to the seats where their families still slept in spite of the racket.

Hours later, the train hadn’t moved. A fistfight finally ran out of steam when the two men couldn’t see each other well enough to land their punches. Now all the revelers snored instead of shouting and singing. The women and children huddled quietly to keep from disturbing them.

“Come.” Roald signaled Carl with a brief nod. “We will return soon,” he whispered to Ingeborg, who sat knitting while telling Thorliff the story of Daniel in the lions’ den.

“Me too?” Thorliff asked hopefully.

Roald shook his head, which brought a frown to his son’s face.
The two brothers made their way the length of the car and pushed open the door leading to the front of the train.

“Where are we going?” asked Carl.

“There is a man named Probstfield riding in the first-class car who’s supposed to know all about farming in the Red River Valley. I think we should ask him some questions and learn all we can from him.”

“Can he speak Norwegian?”

“I don’t know, but maybe someone around him will. This could be our one opportunity to talk with someone who’s been farming in the valley for some time.”

The brothers passed two cars full of stoney-faced passengers before pushing open the door to a car filled with the rich odor of cigar smoke and a soothing quiet made possible from the absence of noisy children and drunken men. Instead, four men, dressed in suits, were sitting at a table playing a quiet hand of poker by the stove. Another gentleman sat reading by the light of the kerosene lamp, while two elderly women napped in the rear seat. Lamplight disappeared into the red plush furnishings but reflected off the windows dulled by the approaching evening. On the north side a drift covered part of the car.

“I am looking for Mr. Probstfield.” Roald stopped at the seat where a full-bearded man sat reading. He had a pad of paper beside him on which he’d been writing.

“I am he.”

“You speak Norwegian?”

“Only a bit. I speak fluent German though. We shall be able to converse if we both talk slowly.” He spoke in German, doing as he suggested. “Can you understand me?”

Roald nodded, a frown of concentration wrinkling his forehead. “Ja, mange takk. I have heard that you know much about farming in the Red River Valley. Men say you have tried many things and that you are willing to share your knowledge with immigrants such as my brother Carl and me. I am Roald Bjorklund from Valdres, Norway. We want to homestead in this valley we hear so many good things about.” Roald found himself watching Probstfield’s face, seeking the smile of comprehension.

Probstfield nodded. “I am glad to hear that more strong Norwegian farmers are coming into the valley. Where did you hope to find land?”

“That is what we wanted to ask you.” Roald looked at Carl, who
nodded. “That and for any other advice you think we might need.”

Probstfield began gathering his papers and stuffing them in a carpetbag at his feet. “Here, sit down so we can talk without giving me a crick in my neck.” At the puzzled look on Roald’s face, Probstfield rubbed and stretched his neck in pantomime.

Carl chuckled as he took the proffered seat. He rubbed his neck too. “Ja, a sore in the neck.” When the two men were settled, Probstfield leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You’re aware, of course, that the bonanza farms have taken all the acreage around Fargo, although some was homesteaded also?” He repeated his comment when he received no response from the two brothers.

“How far north?” Roald finally asked. He’d been afraid of that when it took them so long to prepare for the trip. All the good land was probably already taken.

W
hat if there were no land left? The thought left Roald with a rock in his belly.

“You mean the Red River Valley is all taken up?” Carl leaned forward, his consternation evident in his furrowed brow.

“No, no. Just the area around Fargo and up toward Grand Forks. There’s still plenty of land in Pembina and Grand Forks Counties. If you’re fortunate, you might even be able to get a stake of land with river frontage there. And if you want, there are thousands of acres available to the west. You know, we have steamboats shipping up and down the river, and they need wood for fuel. Many farmers along the river cut wood in the winter to sell to the steamships and to haul to the grain elevators.”

“What are elevators?” Carl asked.

“That’s where the farmers take their grain to sell.”

“And the elevators need firewood?” Roald wondered at the strange habits in this new land.

“No, no. After they deliver their grain, they pick up wood for the trek home. There aren’t any trees for firewood away from the rivers and creeks.”

“How do they heat their houses, then?” Carl asked.

“Oh, cow chips, grass twists, corncobs, some coal, when they can get it. You’ll see more and more coal brought in, mark my words. Used to be buffalo chips aplenty. . .”

“Cow chips, buffalo chips?”

“Dried manure, burns long and hot. We use what we have out here. Your son, he could look for that. Children learn to make hay twists too.”

“Ja, my Thorliff, he will be a hard worker. He will guard the sheep and the cow.”

“You have to guard young children out here. They get lost in the prairie grass real easy.” At the look of doubt on the two brothers’ faces, the portly man chuckled. “You might have grass on your land that grows taller than your head. Some parts of the valley grow like that, others only up to your chest. You must be able to tell direction by the sun, or not only the children will lose their way. I heard of a man who set out for town, got turned around, and they found his pack miles from home a few days later. By then the wolves had pretty well taken care of the body, but there was enough left to tell what had happened.”

Roald had a hard time imagining grass that grew taller than his head. Knee-high grass had been a good harvest back in Norway. He caught Carl’s look of consternation. It was a good thing they both knew plenty about navigating by the sun or stars. Their time on Uncle Hamre’s fishing boat had been good for more than just the money earned.
I will guard my family well
, he promised himself.
From the tall grass and the wolves
.

The train lurched, and Roald glanced out the window. Dawn had come and with it an ending of the blinding blizzard. The conductor stuck his head in the rear door of the car. “We’ll be moving out fairly soon, Mr. Probstfield. A good crew is out front shoveling the track free.”

“We should go help.” Carl started to get to his feet.

“No, no. If he’d needed you, he would have asked. What other kinds of questions can I answer for you?”

“We are in need of many supplies: a team of horses, a span of oxen, wagons, a plow. Do you know where we can buy these with as little money as possible?” Carl clasped his hands between his knees.

Probstfield dug a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his tailored woolen jacket. “Here’s the name of a man I am acquainted with. You might ask him if he’s aware of any homesteader who has decided he can’t take the hard life out here and wants to leave. That’s one of the best ways to get supplies cheap. There’s some who just can’t stand the loneliness of the prairie or the hard labor required the first couple of years to break the sod and wrest a living from the
land. One thing though, you take good care of your land here, and it will take care of you. Richer soil you won’t find anywhere on God’s good earth.” He finished writing and handed Roald the paper. “Tell Henry I sent you and said for him to give you a good deal.”

“Ja, that I will do.” Roald carefully folded the paper and placed it in his inner coat pocket. “Does this Henry sell oxen also?”

The train lurched again, and this time it started to move slowly forward.

“No, but he will know someone who does. You ever driven a team of oxen before?”

Roald and Carl both shook their heads. “But our book says they are better than horses.”

“We really need a team of horses and one of oxen, too,” Carl added. “If only we can pay for them.”

“Are you aware that banks are loaning money to homesteaders? Loans are not too hard to get, once you have proved up your land. Until then, it is up to the local banker, but many are pretty good about it.”

“Ja.” Roald nodded. “I know, but we don’t want any more debt than is necessary.”

“Good idea, but keep in mind you need to get that sod broke so you can get a cash crop as soon as possible.”

“True.” Carl nodded also. “I saw a picture of a plow that you can ride on—no more walking behind the horse and pushing the plow. That would make breaking sod much easier. And faster.”