Bear Creek

By

Larry Buege

Prologue

Summer 1898

Camp 13 was typical of the many squalid lumber camps scattered across what timber barons called the northern woodland paradise. Woodland it was—paradise it was not. Paradise was a figment of their ad agency’s perverted imagination and only found in the logging companies’ recruiting brochures. To be sure, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula did offer large tracts of virgin timber waiting to be cut, but they were garnished with cedar swamps and peat bogs teeming with carnivorous black flies and marauding squadrons of maladjusted mosquitoes. That alone was sufficient to repulse the more sagacious individuals. Consequently, Camp 13’s personnel roster flaunted some of the most despicable degenerates money could buy. Leaving their families in the dingy slums of Sweden and Finland, they came to America to pursue a better life in the New World. Despite their deprivation, the immigrants were a hard-working lot with an American dream of reuniting their families as soon as financial restraints would permit; after which, they would leave for the more subdued life of farming in lower Michigan or Wisconsin.

This squalor was not for lack of adequate opportunities for physical improvement, but due to the fact this was a man’s camp. Unfettered by the influence of female constraints, the men were free to mold their maleness into the highest levels of social degradation, achieving heights unseen in prior civilizations. It was this lack of feminine input that allowed the camp to survive without a formal name. Real men knew Camp 13 was a totally adequate designation and easily placed on any map or chart. A formal name would be superfluous and a wasteful use of human creativity. After 12 to 18 months, the trees would be reduced to stumps, and the men would move on to camp 14, leaving behind an unnamed barren tract of land the wilderness would slowly reclaim for its own. Women, on the other hand, were not biologically capable of withstanding the void left by an unnamed camp and would be compelled by uncontrollable outbursts of hormonal activity to create an appropriate appellation, no matter how brief the camp’s existence.

This masculine utopia was not without problems, which was the reason for Charles Farnsworth’s current existence at the camp. During the preceding three months, output had fallen precipitously, prompting Smith, Rice, and Homburg, partners in the Boston-based lumber company which owned Camp 13, to send their best trouble shooter to fix it. At least that was Farnsworth’s assessment of his transfer to this God forsaken land. Being caught naked in Mr. Homburg’s bedroom closet had nothing to do with the transfer. Farnsworth was optimistic that a timely reversal in camp productivity would free him from this barbaric bondage; he would gladly trade his soul for a ticket back to Boston.

Born to a wealthy Boston family, Farnsworth had become accustomed to the finer attributes of life, a life style he had no desire to relinquish, and a life style not offered in abundance at Camp 13. With the help of his influential father, Farnsworth had successfully avoided the draft as well as the unsavory inconveniences of service in the Civil War; but eventually, he had felt compelled to serve his country no matter what the consequence. He, therefore, accepted a commission as second lieutenant on April 13, 1865, four days after Lee surrendered at Appomattox—there was no sense joining the war before he was assured which side was winning. He resigned his commission six months later. Throughout the years following the Civil War, Farnsworth continued to promote himself until he had reached the rank of colonel. He would have gone for general, but the military exploits of generals are well defined in history books, whereas the military prowess of a colonel is limited only by one’s imagination, and Farnsworth could be quite creative.

Col. Farnsworth was now a widower of nineteen years, his wife having died during the birth of his only child, Abigail. Farnsworth never remarried, and since work allowed little time for domestic duties, Abigail was raised by committee with her Aunt Harriet as chairman of the board. She now attended a small, but prestigious, college for women in Boston.

Farnsworth hadn’t been in camp long before he identified the cause of the slow down. The large number of lumberjacks walking with short, timid steps as well as the long lines at the latrine could mean only one thing—the camp was suffering from dysentery. Local sentiment favored Porkchop, the one-eyed camp cook, as the source of this affliction, and several of his fellow employees were currently in the process of correcting the situation.

Farnsworth sat at his desk in his crudely constructed office. It was one of two such wooden structures in camp, the other being the latrine. Living quarters and the mess hall were constructed of canvas draped over wooden frames. Through his office window, he could see Porkchop, black patch over right eye, in a quasi-fetal position clinging to an overhanging branch of a tall white pine. Below, two Finlanders and a Swede were coaxing him down with their axes. They would’ve had more help had not the rest of the crew been queuing up at the latrine. Being only a two-holer, the line moved slowly. As one lumberjack came out, another went in. The lumberjack coming out immediately returned to the back of the line. The tree was two and a half feet in diameter. Farnsworth gave Porkchop a twenty-minute life expectancy. They would need a new cook, the fourth cook in six months.

Fortuitously, in front of him was one Maggie O’Tool applying for the position of cook, if one were to be available. At five-foot-ten, her muscular frame confirmed she was no stranger to hard work. Her red hair was non-provocatively tied in a bun, and her skin was too dark for pure Irish. Farnsworth speculated she might have some Indian blood. “So you want to be a cook?” Farnsworth inquired. Her crude appearance didn’t instill him with enthusiasm. “Got any experience?”

“Five years,” Maggie replied, chewing on a large wad of tobacco, her teeth stained. A small amount of red saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth. Several front teeth were missing, and Farnsworth could see large dental cavities bathed with red spittle. She spit the excess juices neatly into the spittoon on the floor near the corner of Farnsworth’s desk. Only a small dribble lingered along the rim of the spittoon before migrating south.

“It does appear we’ll need a cook,” Farnsworth said as he checked the progress on the tree outside his window. Only the two Finlanders were left; the Swede, having given in to his biological needs, was now waiting in line with the others. “We’ve been having some problems with dysentery in the camp, and it appears our current cook may be incapacitated in the near future.”

“Boiling water,” Maggie offered.

“Nope, it appears to be tar and feathers,” Farnsworth replied, still eyeing the situation outside.

“No, for the dysentery. Water from rivers and ponds has bad spirits that must be driven away. Boiling water makes the evil spirits unhappy. An Indian chant while circling the pot forces them up into the heavens.”

“You saying my men have dysentery because they’re filled with evil spirits?”

“Works every time. Learned it from an old Ojibwa medicine man.”

“When can you start?”

“I can start now, but I’ll need an assistant.”

The door to the office burst open revealing a frantic camp foreman. “The men are going to kill Porkchop,” Dutch said between gasps for air. Spying Maggie, Dutch tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss.” It had been six months since he had seen a woman. Somehow, he remembered women being more attractive. Dutch turned to Farnsworth. “The men have gone mad. They plan to kill Porkchop.”

“Tell them we have a new cook, and bring Porkchop in here.”

At six-foot-four and two hundred forty pounds, Dutch could crack heads with the best of lumberjacks, which was why he was foreman; but he had doubts about this assignment. His sentiments leaned toward tar and feathers.

“Job’s yours for ten days,” Farnsworth offered. “I’m not one for voodoo or Indian chants, but if the food’s edible and the dysentery’s gone in ten days, the job’s yours for good.”

A crashing noise confirmed the falling of the white pine, and Farnsworth could hear footsteps racing toward his door. The door opened wide. Dutch pushed the cowering Porkchop through the opening and slammed the door behind him. He applied the wooden cross bar, locking the door, just as the vigilantes arrived en masse.

Porkchop sat on the floor, mute, his left eye glassy, his right eye patched. Years before, Porkchop’s right eye had been punctured by the proverbial sharp stick from a falling tree. With poor peripheral vision on the right side, he was considered a danger in the woods. With no cooking experience, he was found to be dangerous in the kitchen as well.

“Porkchop, come over here and meet our new head cook,” Farnsworth said.

“I ain’t working for no woman,” Porkchop replied.

“She has cooking experience and may take some heat off you.”

“I ain’t working for no woman,” Porkchop repeated, assuming no one heard him the first time.

Farnsworth walked over to the corner of the room where Porkchop was organizing his defense should the vigilantes break through. “Listen,” Farnsworth whispered to Porkchop. “This will only be for ten days until the men cool down. All you have to do is let her think she’s the boss.”

“I ain’t taking no orders from no female,” Porkchop whimpered more to himself than to anyone else. Porkchop conceded that the tobacco-chewing, muscle-bound female might be less dangerous than the howling mob outside the door. He was soon to realize it was not by much.

_#

Camp 13 was bounded on three sides by a large creek that meandered lazily around the northern edge of the camp. About one-quarter mile north of camp, the land sloped downward toward the creek and into a large ravine. The surrounding trees had been harvested, leaving only stumps as a reminder of the their previous glory. At the nadir of the ravine, the creek widened into a three-acre beaver pond. This immaculate beaver pond was the engineering marvel of one overzealous beaver whose lodge protruded above the water near the far shore. The edge of the pond was sandy and the slope gradual, luring many a lumberjack into skinny-dipping on hot summer Sundays, their only day off.

It was also the source of camp water, which Porkchop now hauled in daily by buckboard wagon. Maggie boiled the water in fifty-gallon drums while extolling the gods with Indian chants. She was the object of ridicule, but in three days, the dysentery subsided.

With the conquering of the dysentery, life at Camp 13 returned to its normal mundane drudgery. The day started with breakfast at six, consisting of flapjacks, eggs, bacon strips, and fried potatoes. Meals were plentiful, as the work was hard and energy quickly consumed. The men begrudgingly had to admit Maggie could cook; and Porkchop learned to take orders from a woman. Porkchop stood three inches shorter than Maggie, and since he was no longer exposed to manual labor in the woods, had grown soft. Conventional wisdom was that Maggie could take him two out of three falls. The rest of the lumberjacks also knew better than to cross Maggie. Her Irish temper was soon legend, and several hapless individuals discovered a meat fork was a great equalizer.

Food and other staples arrived in camp daily by wagon. Since there was no adequate means of storage, salted meats such as sides of bacon and hams were the mainstay. The buckboards also provided mail, frequently in several languages. Tuesdays were laundry pickup days for those isolated few interested in personal hygiene, the laundry being returned the following Thursday. Every Friday saw the arrival of a stagecoach carrying the payroll and an occasional passenger or two. Thus was the routine at Camp 13.

Farnsworth had easily adjusted to this mundane routine. Yes, boring was good, he decided as he did his ambulatory camp inspection with his foreman, Dutch.

“Yo, boss man.”

Farnsworth turned toward an overly energetic, eight-year-old, Indian youth running in his direction.

“You got laundry?” Running Squirrel asked.

Running Squirrel had arrived in camp unannounced three months earlier. Farnsworth, finding him to be a cheating, lying, and conniving capitalist, took an instant liking to the lad. Within two weeks of his arrival, Running Squirrel had launched a laundry business with himself as CEO. For two bits he would pick up the laundry, transport it to his crew of Indian women and have it returned clean and dry within three days.

“There’s a bag of dirty clothes inside my office. Help yourself.” Farnsworth flipped him a quarter. Running Squirrel insisted on advance payment.

“Does the big banker coming Friday have big money?” Running Squirrel asked, mentally calculating the various ways a rich banker could be separated from his money.

“There’s no banker coming Friday,” Farnsworth replied. “I’d certainly know if there were.”

“Ah, excuse me, Colonel,” Dutch interjected. “This telegraph message arrived a couple of hours ago. I’ve been meaning to give it to you.”

Farnsworth opened the telegram. It had been sent from the home office in Boston to Green Bay. From there, it had been transported by buckboard with the regular mail.

Dear Col. Farnsworth STOP John D. Bigsby III and his son-in-law, Albert Hodgman, representing the Chicago Bank and Trust, will be arriving Friday, June 17, STOP They will be evaluating camp operations in reference to pending bank financing STOP Please extend all camp courtesies STOP

“Damn,” Farnsworth muttered to himself. He preferred stronger language but didn’t wish to corrupt the young mind before him. He was unaware that Running Squirrel had already been corrupted in three languages. He didn’t have time to baby-sit VIPs nor was he in the mood to put up with their pompous demands.

Such visitors weren’t unusual, but they were a nuisance. They would take great pains to conduct a charade of inspecting the camp, asking questions that could have been answered by mail. After a day or two, they would give the camp their blessing and proceed to the real reason for the visit—hunting or fishing. During their forays into the wilderness in search of big game or bigger fish, they would invariably get lost. It would be Farnsworth’s responsibility to pay Chief Thunder Head and Chief Red Weasel to find them. Farnsworth had discovered all adult male Indians held the rank of chief, much like auctioneers held the honorary rank of colonel. The true meaning of chieftain had long since been lost.

Farnsworth hadn’t given much thought concerning his treatment of the arriving dignitaries, but indifference seemed as good as any. He would have Dutch erect a sleeping tent, but would go no further. He originally planned to pitch the tent downwind from the latrine; however, he later decided this would be vindictive and not within his current policy of indifference. The tent was moved to a more fragrant location. Farnsworth would flaunt his indifference by being preoccupied with more important matters and unable to greet the bankers when they disembarked from the stage. He would decide later what were the more important matters. Having them seek him out would establish the pecking order early in the game.

As fate would have it, Farnsworth was walking across the compound with Dutch when the stage arrived. The driver brought the coach to a halt at Farnsworth’s feet, making it appear he had come to greet the visitors. No sooner had the coach come to a stop than a balding male filled the doorway with his corpulent frame. His eyes were magnified by the thick, wire-rim glasses and his nose was turgid and wrinkled like a sun-dried prune. Farnsworth estimated him to be in his fifties. His three-piece suit and soft hands might be appropriate in the corporate boardroom, but definitely out of place in a lumber camp; trouble had arrived.

“Col. Farnsworth, I presume.” Bigsby offered in more of a statement than a question, his fat cigar bouncing with each syllable. Bigsby clumsily stepped down from the coach and would have fallen had it not been for Farnsworth’s quick reflexes. Had Farnsworth more time to assess the situation, Bigsby would have been picking himself off the ground.

“And you must be John D. Bigsby III.” Farnsworth hoped for the sake of humanity there wasn’t a Bigsby IV. “This is my foreman, Dutch. He handles our day-to-day operations.”

“And this is my able assistant and son-in-law, Albert Hodgman,” Bigsby said, completing the introductions as a frail, bespectacled individual stepped into the doorway of the coach. He tipped his hat but didn’t speak, having learned over the years to defer all conversation to his boss and father-in-law. His disembarkment from the coach was slow, but more elegant than his boss’s. He didn’t appear any more capable of coping with a wilderness environment than Bigsby, definitely a case of the blind leading the blind.

Farnsworth was unprepared for what came next. As Hodgman stepped down, a new figure filled the doorway. Her face had soft features that were perfectly symmetrical. Her long, dark hair rested quietly on her shoulders, and a snug dress augmented her generous chest. Forty-two and one-half pairs of eyes were immediately focused on this rare spectacle while testosterone levels surged to heights not seen in recent camp history.

“Shut your mouth, you're drooling,” Maggie told Porkchop. She punctuated the statement with a jab of her meat fork into Porkchop’s posterior. Porkchop’s posterior, however, was totally anesthetized by the high testosterone level, and he felt no pain.

The young lady appeared to float in slow motion as she climbed down the two steps to the ground. Her chest slowly rose and fell with each step. Forty-two and one-half pairs of eyes slowly rose and fell in unison. Her feet finally hit terra firma with the hemline of her dress provocatively well above her ankles.

“Hi, Daddy,” the teenage girl said as she gave Farnsworth a big hug.

“Abigail, what are you doing here?” Farnsworth stared at his daughter; his problems with the bankers now seemed trivial.

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Excuse me, Col. Farnsworth,” Dutch interjected. “I've been meaning to give you this telegram. It arrived yesterday.”

Dear Daddy STOP Will arrive at camp 13 on June 17 STOP Will stay for one week STOP Love Abigail STOP

“Your Aunt Harriet let you come?” Farnsworth asked.

“She had no problems with it after I told her it was all right with you.”

“Well, it’s not OK with me. I’m sending you back.” A multitude of complex situations flashed though Farnsworth’s mind, none of them good.

“It’s part of a school project. I need to interview some of the men. I have to write a report for my sociology class on how different ethnic groups adjust to life in America. If I have time left over, I can help you here in camp. Won’t that be fun?”

“No, that won’t be fun. The men aren’t used to having women around. You won’t be safe.”

“But Aunt Harriet said you have a woman cook.”

“Unless you’re good with a meat fork, you’re hardly in the same league. Besides, this is a man’s camp. The men won’t like having a woman around.” He really had no choice, Farnsworth decided, but he would send her back on the next stage.

Farnsworth couldn’t have been more wrong about the camp’s acceptance of Abigail. After three days of interviews, she had been propositioned in four languages, five if you count sign language. She also had all the information she needed for her class, allowing her to devote her energy toward camp improvement. It was obviously in need of a woman’s touch.

Bigsby and Hodgman, by comparison, were less of a problem. They asked a few intelligent questions and observed the camp operations for several days before moving on to their prime objectives. Farnsworth, hoping they would opt for fishing, was disappointed when they uncased a couple of expensive, European-made, hunting rifles—not a good choice.

“You run a taut ship, Farnsworth, my boy. A very taut ship,” Bigsby reiterated. “I see no problems with the financing. We finished our evaluation earlier than expected; so I thought I’d take the boy hunting. He’s never been in the north woods, you know,” Bigsby said, pointing to his twenty-nine year old son-in-law. Hodgman, looking pathetic, offered no rebuttal.

“Have you considered fishing? We have some fine fishing streams, and there’s less chance of getting lost following a stream,” Farnsworth suggested.

“I’ve got my compass,” Bigsby replied. “No way we’re getting lost.”

How many times had he heard that before? Farnsworth wondered. “Don’t shoot any Indians. They’re friendly in these parts. Might even be of some help.”

“I won’t shoot them first; but if they give me any trouble, they’ll be in for a surprise.”

Farnsworth conceded defeat as the bankers headed out the door and into the morning sunshine. If they were to be lost in the woods, at least they would have a nice day.

Farnsworth hadn’t finished musing over problem #1 when problem #2 walked through the door in the form of one exasperated foreman. Farnsworth was beginning to wonder if he would ever see Boston again.

“You’ve got to do something about that daughter of yours,” Dutch demanded. “She’s taking over the camp. Yesterday she had men hang a sign over the camp entrance. Camp 13 is now officially Camp Sunshine. She told the men you approved it. This morning at breakfast, there were flowers on the tables. Flowers on the tables! If this gets out, we’ll be the laughing stock of the lumber camps.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Farnsworth replied, although he had no plan in mind. “I’ll talk to her.” He could see Dutch wasn’t reassured. “We have another problem. Bigsby and Hodgman left on a hunting expedition.”

“They’ll be lost by noon.” Dutch had no sympathy for bankers, feeling they should be part of the food chain—the lower end of it. He could see Farnsworth didn’t share his views.

“We’ll need a search party. If you see Running Squirrel, tell him I need to talk to him.”

“That won’t be hard. I hear he’s looking for you with dollar signs in his head. He says he has a proposition for you. Beware of that kid. When he has dollar signs in his head, they’re usually your dollars.”

Dutch walked out the door as the eight-year-old capitalist walked in. Farnsworth could see it was one of those revolving-door mornings. He was already getting a headache.

“Morning Boss,” Running Squirrel announced with way too much enthusiasm. “I understand your daughter’s leaving soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Give her a break…She’s a positive influence on your men. Some of them are washing laundry twice a month now. Laundry business is up forty percent. You talk her into staying longer and ten percent is yours. I think white man call it ‘kickback.’”

“Not a chance. I’ve got another problem, which may provide some financial reward.” Farnsworth had the young capitalist's undivided attention.

“You mean the lost bankers?”

“They aren't lost yet.”

“But they will be.”

“Find Thunder Head and Red Weasel. Have them round up the hunters at the end of the day. There’s five bucks in it for you guys.”

“It’s seven bucks for hunters,” Running Squirrel replied.

“What do you mean seven dollars? You only charge five dollars for lost fishermen.”

“Fishermen don’t shoot,” Running Squirrel explained. “Chief Thunder Head won’t do it for five…not after what happened last time.”

“That was an accident.”

“That may be so, but it took an hour to remove the bird shot from his rear when he rescued that quail hunter.”

“What did he expect? He was hiding behind that bush with only his partridge feathers protruding above the branches. What was he doing anyway?”

“Hey, bears aren’t the only ones who do it in the woods. Seven bucks for hunters; that’s the best I can do.”

“OK, seven bucks,” Farnsworth grudgingly agreed. It would be money well spend if he could get them out of the woods and back to Chicago without further complications.

“Times two hunters, that’ll be fourteen dollars in advance.”

“Fourteen! It’s the same amount of work for two as for one.”

“Yes, but there’re two guns. Won’t be able to talk them into it for less.”

Running Squirrel was just learning to read and write, thanks to the influence of Jesuit Priests; but his math skills were superb, and his brain worked like a cash register. He had no difficulty calculating percent profit and cost overruns. Damn those Jesuits, Farnsworth thought to himself. “OK, it’s a deal.”

“Can they spend the night in the woods?”

“Won’t hurt them any,” Farnsworth judged. The thought of the bankers spending a cold, miserable night in the woods raised his spirits. Maybe it will even rain.

_#

Chief Thunder Head stood quietly at the edge of the stream, fishing pole in hand. This was his favorite pool, which always produced impressive brook trout, a fact confirmed by the stringer of trout by his side. This was his pool. He hadn’t even told his best friend, Chief Red Weasel. Some things in life aren’t to be shared, and this was one of those personal secrets. The pool, which was two miles downstream from camp 13 (now Camp Sunshine), had steep banks making accessibility difficult. That was why no one had found it, Thunder Head mused.

Thunder Head crouched low to reduce his silhouette; movement was minimal. He made no sound, lest he scare the fish. There was one large brook trout he had been after for days. Today would be the day. Today he would add that trophy fish to his stringer. Even Red Weasel would be envious. He could see the fish inspecting his bait. Victory was his.

“HI, UNCLE THUNDER HEAD,” Running Squirrel yelled from the top of the embankment.

“Damn,” Thunder Head muttered as he watched the fish take off with a splash. “What are you doing here?” He tried to give his nephew his best evil-eye look, but it was countered by a childish grin.

“I was hoping I would find you here, oh great warrior and mighty chief of the Ojibwa.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere; I’m broke.”

“I’m not here for your money. I have a lucrative proposition for you,” Running Squirrel said with a hurt look.

“How come every time you have a lucrative proposition, my wallet gets thinner?”

“Col. Farnsworth has a couple of bankers who’ll be lost in the woods by nightfall. He wants you and Chief Red Weasel to round them up and bring them back. It’s worth five bucks.”

“They hunters or fisherman?”

“Well…they might be fishermen,” Running Squirrel said without much conviction.

“I knew it. They're hunters. I don’t do hunters, not after last time.”

“These are deer hunters with rifles. White men are poor shots. They wouldn't have gotten you last time without a scatter-gun,” Running Squirrel cheerfully pointed out. “Tell you what; I’ll give you the whole seven dollars, and won’t even make a profit, just because of the risk involved.”

“Would that be fourteen dollars for the two of them?”

“No, Col. Farnsworth was adamant about that. He says it’s the same amount of work since they’ll be together. They’re wealthy bankers,” Running Squirrel continued, “with big money. You and Red Weasel should be able to get big tips.”

“That’s Chief Red Weasel to you. You need to pay more respect to your elders.”

“When do I get to be a Chief?” Running Squirrel asked. “And I want to change my name to something more masculine, something with some bite like Snake Eyes. Running Squirrel sounds like a kid’s name.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, kid; but you are a kid.”

“But I’m almost nine.”

Thunder Head wasn’t listening. He was mentally counting the possible tips. “Can we let them spend the night in the woods?” A cold, damp night in the woods always increased the tips.

“No problem, Col. Farnsworth thinks it’ll be good for them.”

I could use some folding money, Thunder Head thought to himself. Maybe I could get that new fly rod I’ve been wanting.

“Chief Red Weasel and I will have them back by morning.”

_#

Thunder Head quietly slipped into the deerskin lodge and waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His wife, White Dove, was folding laundry. The lodge squatted on the north shore of Moose Lake. Some day he would build a log cabin; White Dove had always wanted a cabin overlooking the lake.

“Chief Thunder Head bring home many fish,” Thunder Head proclaimed.

“How come you never bring home a turkey? I’m getting tired of fish every night,” White Dove moaned without looking up from her work.

“Turkeys aren't indigenous to the area. By the way, I won’t be home for supper.”

“What do you mean, you won’t be home for supper. Who’s going to eat those fish?” White dove glared at the smelly fish with disgust. She would’ve preferred a turkey.

“Smoke ‘em. They’ll keep. I’m going hunting with Chief Red Weasel.”

“That’ll be three times this week.”

“What can I say? We’re hunter/gatherers. I hunt—you gather.”

“I wish you wouldn’t hang out with Weasel so much.”

“That’s Chief Red Weasel to you. He’s a noble Ojibwa warrior chief.”

“Don’t give me that. You all think you’re noble warrior chiefs. Your nephew came by this morning. He’s talking about becoming a chief. He wants to change his name to Snake Eyes. Says it’s more masculine. I’ve seen some snakes, but I could never tell a masculine snake from a feminine snake. By the way,” White Dove continued, “he’s looking for you. I’d hide your wallet.”

“Already talked to him. He wants me and Chief Red Weasel to find some lost bankers.”

“You got a gig to find two bankers? We can use an extra ten spot. They are fishermen, aren’t they?”

“Well…sort of,” Thunder Head mumbled.

“They’re hunters. Don’t you ever learn? I’m not plucking any more bird shot out of your behind.”

“That was an accident. Running Squirrel says both bankers have thick glasses, and everyone knows white men can’t shoot.”

“That last one had a pretty good shot pattern,” White Dove pointed out. “But fourteen bucks will come in handy.”

“Seven bucks,” Thunder Head said. “Running Squirrel says Farnsworth will only pay for one, since they’ll be together.”

“You’re being conned by your nephew again.”

“He wouldn't do that. I’m his favorite uncle.”

“Running Squirrel would send you to the cleaners, leaving you with nothing but a belt buckle if he could make a quarter.”

“Running Squirrel says the bankers have big money, and Farnsworth’s letting us leave them out over night. We’ll get a big tip. And there’s a trophy buck that’s been eating at my apple pile I can sell them for another ten spot. They don’t like to go back empty handed.

_#

Thunderhead crawled toward his bait pile from down wind. When he was within one hundred yards, he could see the twelve-point buck, as he had expected. He could’ve gotten closer, but that would have taken the pleasure out of using his new Sears and Roebuck four-power scope. When he retold the quest to Red Weasel, the distance would be three hundred yards. He could see the buck easily through his gun sights. Carefully, he placed the cross hairs over the chest. He had learned to avoid headshots, since white men place deer heads on walls as part of their worship activities. Thunder Head squeezed the trigger, and the animal immediately fell to the ground. Retrieving an arrow from his pack, Thunder Head stuck the point deep into the wound. White men expect deer to be shot by bow and arrow. If he had to hunt with a bow and arrow, he would have starved years ago.

When Thunder Head returned to the lodge, White Dove was still folding clothes. The laundry business had picked up since Abigail’s arrival.

“What are you doing here? I thought you went after the hunters,” White Dove asked.

“You don’t expect me to go in these duds, do you?” Thunder Head replied, referring to his red flannel shirt, Levi pants, and leather boots. “White men give bigger tip if I go ‘Injun.’ Have you seen my buckskin pants?”

“If you’d hang them up, they wouldn’t get lost.”

After a thorough search of the lodge, Thunder Head found his pants hidden in a pile of clothes by the corner.

“I hate wearing these buckskin pants. I don’t know how our ancestors survived in these. They always chaff me in the crotch,” Thunder Head muttered mostly to himself.

“If you’d wear underwear like white men, it wouldn’t happen.”

“How do you know what white men wear under their pants?”

“I do their laundry, don’t I?”

“Next time you do Farnsworth’s laundry, save me a pair of his underwear. He’s my size. White man have saying, ‘You don’t know a man until you walk a mile in his underwear.’”

“Shoes, you idiot. Walk a mile in his shoes.”

Thunder Head slipped on his moccasins and adjusted his headband. He debated the merits of one feather verses two. He decided on two.

“And don’t think you’re using my lipstick. Last time you and Weasel used it for war paint, you made a mess.”

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” Thunder Head slipped out the door on his way to meet Weasel.

_#

Thunder Head and Weasel had no trouble finding the bankers’ trail. Being the better tracker, Thunder Head took point and let Weasel carry the twelve-point buck. Weasel wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he did make a good pack animal.

The trail weaved through the woods in a pretzel-type pattern with the trail frequently overlapping itself. Thunder Head took the fresher path at each junction and by dusk had overtaken the two bankers. They were sitting in a clearing attempting to start a fire. Hodgman was striking two sandstones together in a vain attempt to make a spark. Bigsby, being more sophisticated, had constructed a bow and spindle. The spindle was made of green wood.

“We have to get between them and their guns and establish rapport before they have a chance to blast us,” Thunder Head whispered to Weasel. Weasel wasn’t fond of the “we” stuff. Both guns were leaning against a tree ten feet from the hunters.

“Go for it,” Weasel whispered back. “I’ll keep you covered.”

“What do you mean, you’ll keep me covered? We don’t have guns.”

“You make the introductions, and I’ll simulate the guns,” Weasel replied, holding his hand out with index finger pointing and thumb up in a simulated pistol.

“You’re totally useless, Weasel, you know that.” Thunder Head crept to a point half way between the hunters and their guns before he stood up in front of two startled hunters and raised his right hand. “How, we come in peace.” Thunder Head had no idea what “how” meant, but white men expected Indians to say that. He did his best to speak in broken English; white men expected that also.

“We hunt long time. Much tired. We share fire?” Thunder Head asked in his worst English.

“We hunt long time also. We chase big buck deep into woods,” Bigsby replied in broken English—Indians only understand broken English.

“You lost?” Thunder Head asked, knowing full well the answer.

“No lost. Camp six miles to the south,” Bigsby replied, pointing to the east. Thunder Head figured the camp was a quarter mile to the west. “Daylight too short. Spend night in woods and return to camp in morning,” Bigsby continued. “Me show son-in-law how to start fire without matches.”

“Me help,” Thunder Head said as he plucked two rifle cartridges from Bigsby’s vest. Thunder Head extracted the bullet from the first cartridge with his teeth and poured the gunpowder over the kindling wood. He likewise removed the bullet from the second cartridge and poured a small trail of gunpowder from the kindling wood to the cartridge. A pointed stone was placed against the primer cap at the rear of the cartridge. Placing his left moccasin over the shell and stone to immobilize the two, he tapped the stone with a second stone. With a soft poof and a large flash, the kindling wood became an instant campfire. Thunder Head estimated a week for the flash burn on his foot to heal. He knew there was a reason he hated moccasins.

It took a moment for Bigsby and Hodgman to recover muscular control of their drooping mandibles. Bigsby was the first to gain enough control of his jawbone to put it to use. “I always liked that trick,” Bigsby said. “I was planning to show Hodgman that trick next if he were unable to start the fire with the stones.”

Weasel set the twelve-point buck on the ground, making sure the head and antlers were in full view of the bankers and the arrow in the chest wound clearly visible. He then stood motionless with arms crossed in his best imitation of a cigar store Indian. Weasel spoke excellent English, but remained mute during these negotiations—something about a political statement. Thunder Head never did understand. He had learned long ago not to try to understand Weasel. Weasel’s logic was far too shallow for understanding.

“Nice buck,” Bigsby said. “Not as big as that fourteen pointer we were chasing.”

“Feed many woman and children,” Thunder Head replied. Let the negotiations begin.

Thunder Head and Weasel cut off two large venison steaks, placed them on wooden roasting sticks, and began heating them over the campfire, making sure the bankers were down wind from the aroma. It was obvious they hadn’t brought food or overnight equipment.

“That venison sure smells good. I’ll give you a dollar apiece for those steaks,” Bigsby offered. Thunder Head and Weasel pretended to think about it for a moment before passing over the roasting sticks in exchange for the folding money. They cut another two steaks for themselves.

“Trouble with those big bucks is the meat can be pretty tough,” Bigsby said while chewing a mouthful of venison. “Not as tender as a young doe or fawn.”

Thunder Head nodded in agreement, his mouth also full.

“I suppose a good hunter like you could easily replace that buck with a couple of tender does.”

Thunder Head reckoned he could.

“Those men back in camp don’t get much fresh meat. They’d appreciate some venison, even if it were tough,” Bigsby speculated. “Tell you what; you seem to be a nice guy. I’ll give you eight dollars for that buck, and you can replace it with a couple of tender does.”

“How about you give me ten dollars, and I not be nice guy,” Thunder Head countered.

“Deal,” Bigsby said as more folding money was exchanged. Thunder Head began to pull the arrow from the wound. “Why don’t you leave the arrow there?” Bigsby asked. “I want the men back at camp to give you credit for the kill.”

With the meal over, Thunder Head and Weasel opened their bedrolls and prepared for sleep. Both had pads to protect them from the hard ground. Thunder Head detested sleeping on the ground. It was so uncivilized.

Bigsby and Hodgman, without bedrolls of any type, elected to stay up a bit longer and keep the fire going. Thunder Head and Weasel made sure they didn’t sleep too close to the fire, knowing a white man’s fire would be too hot to get near.

“The fire should keep away the timber wolves,” Thunder Head said as he winked at Weasel. Hodgman immediately began collecting more firewood.

The sky was clear. Thunder Head expected a cool night with heavy dew. The bankers were already huddling around the fire with one side of their bodies too hot and the other side too cold. A miserable night made for better negotiations.

The night went quickly for Thunder Head and Weasel—too quickly for Weasel who would have preferred to sleep-in. The sky in the east was a brilliant red as the sun began to rise. The bankers didn’t notice. They were semi comatose and staring at the glowing embers with bloodshot eyes. Time for final negotiations.

“Ah, it’s a good day to be alive,” Thunder Head said as he stretched out. Bigsby and Hodgman weren’t so sure. “I guess it’s time we get back to our village.” Thunder Head began rolling up his bedding in preparation for leaving. Panic stricken, Hodgman began to hyperventilate. The thought of being stranded in the forest was more than he could handle. Bigsby was more confident, knowing money solved all problems.

“I wrenched my shoulder chasing that fourteen point buck,” Bigsby said, “and Hodgman, here, isn’t the athletic type. Think you could carry the buck back to our camp for another ten dollars?” Bigsby asked in a euphemism for “show us the way home.”

“Our wives are expecting us home early this morning.”

“Twelve bucks”

“Weasel’s wife can get ugly if he isn’t home on time.”

“Fifteen bucks”

“Deal,” Thunder Head agreed as money was exchanged.

The campsite was a quarter mile from Camp 13. Thunder Head could have gotten them back in fifteen minutes, but decided to take a circuitous route to give the bankers their money’s worth. After two hours of walking, the foursome arrived at the beaver pond north of camp. The bankers became more invigorated upon finding familiar territory.

“We can carry the deer from here,” Bigsby said, not wanting to be seen led back to camp by Indians. He had his pride.

Weasel dropped the buck on the ground. Even pack animals get tired. The two Indians shook hands with the bankers before leaving them—with thinner wallets.

Once the Indians were out of sight, Bigsby removed the arrow from the deer and tied the deer's front legs and hind legs together. Then, using a long pole, the two triumphant hunters carried the deer into camp safari style.

Farnsworth could see the arrival of the great white hunters from his office window. He estimated ten minutes before Bigsby would burst through the door to brag about his exploits. That would give him time to deal with his hysterical foreman. Farnsworth hadn’t yet elucidated the current problem confronting Dutch, but he assumed it had something to do with his daughter—these days it usually did.

“We have a total work stoppage,” Dutch was saying.

“So why aren’t the men working?”

“Because your daughter told them they needed a bath and that you had approved it.”

“I see,” Farnsworth replied even though he didn’t.

“They’re heating water in fifty-gallon drums for men to bathe in. Now the men are expecting Abigail to take her turn.” Dutch didn’t add that he wouldn’t mind watching that spectacle himself.

“Try to hold on for one more day. Abigail will be leaving on the morning stage. Then we’ll get back to our normal routine.” Dutch didn’t seem convinced but did leave to make the best of a bad day.

The office door had hardly slammed shut when Bigsby reopened it. “Boy, did we have an adventure.” Bigsby waved the arrow in the air. “Those Indians aren’t as friendly as you would make one believe. Five of them attacked us and tried to steal our trophy buck. They shot several of these arrows at us. None of them came close. I knew you wanted to keep peace in the area, so we didn’t shoot them. I did shoot the feather off the chief’s head. The rest ran in terror.”

Farnsworth hoped Bigsby was exaggerating about shooting the feather. If it were true, he’d never get Thunder Head’s help again.

“You sure no one was injured?”

“We only fired one shot, and that was cleanly through the feather. The Indian was only a hundred yards away. It was hard to miss.”

“We returned late because we saw this large buck. The sun was setting, so we had to track it in the dark. About midnight we found the deer and broke off for the night. Unfortunately, we didn’t have any matches with us. Did I ever show you how to start a fire with two rifle shells?”

Farnsworth wished he had a quarter for every time he heard the rifle shell story.

“I understand you’ll be leaving tomorrow morning?” Farnsworth asked, trying to shorten the banker’s oration.

“Yes, got to get back to work. Can’t spend the entire summer shooting Indians and hunting deer. But now, I think I’ll catch a quick nap.”

_#

It was Abigail’s last night in camp. Tomorrow she would be leaving for Boston. It had been an exciting week. Still, she was glad it was almost over. It was approaching July, and even Michigan’s Upper Peninsula can get hot in the summer. She hadn’t had a bath since her arrival. The basin and washcloth only rearranged the sweat and grime. With the days muggy and the nights hot and sweaty, sleeping was difficult. Tonight was no exception. A short walk in the cooler air outside her tent might be therapeutic, she decided.

The air outside the tent wasn’t much cooler; but it was a clear night, and the stars were breathtaking. No lanterns were visible in any of the tents; apparently, everyone was asleep. Abigail walked north, as if pulled by some unseen force. Maybe she would have one last look at the beaver pond. During her stay, she often sat on a stump overlooking the pond and watched the beaver ply his trade. He never rested and continuously worked on his dam.

Visibility was less than twenty feet, but the path created by the buckboard wagons were easy to follow. Within minutes, she had reached her favorite stump, but the beaver pond was obscured by darkness. She would have to be content counting stars. To the north, the bright trail of a shooting star caught her eye. Would it bring her luck? She felt lucky tonight.

As Abigail watched for more shooting stars, the blackness lifted like a veil and a sudden increase in light illuminated her surroundings. To the east, a full moon was rising, bathing the entire ravine in the moonlight. She could now see the pond clearly. At the far side, the beaver lodge protruded above the surface of the pond like a giant turtle. She could see white ripples from the beaver’s wake at the west end of the pond where he was diligently at work.

Abigail walked to the edge of the pond. Taking off her shoes, she placed her right foot into the water, finding the water warm and refreshing. With reduced flow, the water had quickly warmed up in the summer sun. She walked along the edge of the pond, allowing her feet to play in the water. The water was enticing. Abigail returned to where she had left her shoes on the sandy shore. One by one, articles of clothing fell to the sand until she stood naked in the moonlight.

The water beckoned her. Abigail waded out until the water was up to her hips. Leaning forward, she let the ground beneath her feet drift away, and she quietly breaststroked into deeper water. It felt like a great cathedral where only whispering was allowed.

Abigail decided to explore the beaver lodge while the beaver was at the far end of the pond. After a minute of swimming, Abigail reached the lodge. She grabbed one of the protruding sticks and pulled herself up. The stick held, confirming the sturdiness of the structure.

The lodge was a disappointment, nothing more than a pile of sticks and mud. The opening had to be hidden below the water’s surface. Standing at the top of the lodge, Abigail let the water drip from her nakedness. It felt good, and she savored the moment. From the top of the lodge, the entire pond could be seen. It was like an amphitheater and she was on center stage. The stump-covered hill in front of her was her audience. Due to her present nakedness, she preferred the stumps to a live audience. Not wishing to further annoy the beaver, Abigail dived into the depths of the water. She would swim under water for as long as her breath would last.

The beaver had been ignoring his human visitor—he had better things to do. Having seen her sitting on her stump many times during the day, he considered her harmless. She was hardly a great swimmer by beaver standards, but more graceful than the occasional lumberjack who came to swim. Her swimming was unproductive and wasteful of time and energy, very unbeaver like. To each his own, he decided.

Neither Abigail nor the beaver observed the arrival of another visitor to the beaver pond. A large grizzly bear had come to quench his thirst. The bear drank his fill, but his curiosity was piqued by the smell of Abigail's perfume. He never encountered that smell with lumberjacks. He walked toward the smell until he came to the pile of clothes. Sniffing them a few times, he decided they were, indeed, the source of the strange odor.

The large predator at the water edge caught the beaver’s eye. Well protected by his watery domain, the beaver had no concern for his own safety. At this point, he was more concerned for the safety of his human visitor. The bear appeared to have a special interest in her removable pelt. Unable to shout a warning, the beaver sounded the alarm in the only way it knew. He lifted his tail high above the water and slapped down forcefully against the water as he swam for the cover of his lodge.

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