An Untamed Land (15 page)

“Yes, all the bonanza farmers are using them. I have ten myself.”

“Ten? And ten teams?”

Probstfield nodded, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I am not a bonanza farmer by any means, but I plant around two hundred acres in wheat.”

“Two hundred acres.” Carl shook his head. “I have a hard time imagining such a large farm.”

“Between the two of you, you’ll be able to homestead an entire section, that’s three hundred sixty acres. And from what I can see of you, that won’t be enough in a few years.” Probstfield dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a cigar. “See this? I raised the tobacco myself, cured it, and hired a man to roll ’em. I’ve tasted better, but this just goes to show you can grow about anything in the Red River Valley.” He dug out two more and handed them to the brothers. “Here, try them. You smoke, don’t you?”

Carl and Roald shook their heads but lifted the cigars to their
faces to inhale the pungent aroma. Roald looked up. “What else do you grow?”

“I have what you might call a diversified operation. I grow hay and oats to feed my beef and milk cows. I have chickens and hogs, and I raise corn to feed them. I plant barley, an acre or two of garden, and I have a small orchard with some fruit trees. Everybody teases me about my hothouse, but we had tomatoes in December last year.”

“Hothouse?”

“You know, a glass-covered building to keep plants growing in the cold season.”

Will wonders never cease?
Roald thought.
As Carl always says, “only in America.”
He fingered the cigar he still held. The smooth texture felt good and fit right between his first two fingers. Maybe he would take up smoking. He’d quit chewing tobacco when Ingeborg made such a fuss about it. That had been a nasty habit, anyway. Someday he’d have such a hothouse for Ingeborg as well as a grand home with glass windows to let in the sun, a huge black cookstove where she could bake to her heart’s content. There would be beds all around for her beloved flowers. Someday he’d have plenty of things they both needed and even wanted.

“Anything else I can tell you?”

“Would you mind if I come to you for advice sometime?” Carl asked.

“Not at all. Either one of you a blacksmith?”

“Ja, our father made sure all his sons could handle a forge and make furniture, as well as farm. He said that way we would never go hungry. There will always be horses to shoe and plows to mend, and every woman wants a fine cabinet for her kitchen.” Carl looked over his shoulder at Roald. “We learned well.”

Roald nodded in agreement. “If we can locate a forge and some scrap iron, we would be assured of hand tools and sharp scythes.”

“Your father is a wise man, and taught you well, I see. But mark my words; it won’t be too long before steam engines take over the work of the horse.”

Roald kept the surprise from showing on his face. Surely the day would not come when horses did not plow and pull wagons. Surely a matched team for the buggy would always be something a wealthy man would enjoy. Of course, he’d never told anyone of his secret dreams of prosperity. In Norway, dreams were an idle indulgence in the fight for living; dreams were only for the wealthy. Now, in America,
he would have as good a chance as anybody to make his dreams a reality.

In New York, he’d seen the telephone and telegraph lines, the gas lights in the houses and on the streets—was there no end to American inventiveness?

“Mange takk for all your time and information.” Roald rose to his feet and reached out to shake the hand Probstfield extended.

“Let me know how things go; my address is on that paper I gave you. Pay attention to what’s happening with the railroads. They’re going to change the face of commerce in this part of the country, just as they have back east. James J. Hill with the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway might run a line right through your land—if you should be so fortunate.”

Roald dipped his head in acknowledgment. So much to think about.

“Alexandria coming up,” the conductor called out as he slid open the door. “All you folks going into Moorhead and Fargo must change to the Northern Pacific in Glyndon.”

Roald and Carl shared a look of anticipation. Only two more stops, and they would be there. Dakota Territory—their new home. Carl clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder and nodded to Probstfield. “We thank you again for your time and advice, sir. You have taught us much.” He led the way out of the car and battled the wind to hold the door open for his brother. “That was good. Only we better learn the American language quickly.”

“Ja, my mind feels like it has wrinkles in it from trying so hard to understand him.” They made their way through the next two cars, excusing themselves as they brushed past passengers taking their belongings out of the overhead rack and bundling things together. How many of them planned to homestead in Dakota Territory? The brothers knew that time was of the essence.

By the time they’d unloaded, changed trains, and gotten settled again, Roald was so keyed up he couldn’t sit still. He paced the aisle and let his mind run with all he had learned from Mr. Probstfield. With weather like this, how could they continue north to find their homestead? Buying supplies would take time too. Probstfield had suggested they take the train and purchase their goods in Grand Forks, but they were fast running out of money.

He fingered the small card with embossed letters in his pocket. Should he use it and contact Mr. Gould for work for himself and Carl on the rail line? He rubbed the cleft in his chin and continued
to pace. Where would they live in the meantime? And on what? How would they save to buy horses and wagons, let alone a plow and seeds for planting? How? How? How? The pounding questions kept rhythm with the clacking wheels of the train.

R
oald felt like kissing the ground when they stepped out on snow-covered Dakota land. He looked up and down the street that ran next to the train station. While this wasn’t New York, there were thriving businesses, both horse and foot traffic on the street, and buildings as far as he could see. This was Fargo, the largest town in Dakota Territory.

Within three days, the Bjorklunds had settled into their new life. Without being forced to contact Gould, Roald and Carl had asked around and managed to find work on the bridge the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railroad was building across the Red River between Fargo and Moorhead. Ingeborg found immediate employment in the kitchen of the Headquarters Hotel, the largest hotel in Fargo. And Kaaren cared for the children in their two rented rooms in one of the boardinghouses on Broadway Street. The proprietor promised board and room in exchange for labor as soon as Kaaren felt strong enough.

Every morning at dark, Roald and Carl left to begin working on the trestle for the bridge. The huge round piers, formed of curved sandstone blocks, had been set the previous summer and fall, along with the wooden pier posts of the trestle. The billowing steam engine had pounded the round timbers into the mud before the ground and river had frozen. Carl and Roald worked as a team with the whipsaw to trim the tops of the timbers that had been splayed by the pounding, so another team could come behind later and lay the roadbed.

The chug of the steam engine, thudding hammers, and the commands hollered on the frigid air, combined with the ring of pounded metal, made it difficult to hear their soft grunts as each pulled the
saw toward himself. Frost formed on Carl’s beard and Roald’s eyebrows from their puffing exertion. It was hard work, but they were both glad to be earning money for their needed supplies.

A curse rang out behind them from one of the other workers. Carl and Roald stopped for a moment and straightened to stretch their tiring muscles.

“Another broken handle?” Carl tipped his hat back and rubbed a gloved hand across his brow, causing ice to break free.

“Ja, when spring comes there will be quite a harvest of hammer heads down between these piers. No one seems to care much, for the railroad just provides new ones. They say it’s a waste of time to stop and fix them.”

“If no one cares, why don’t we go dig them out? We can carve our own handles.”

“And trade the extras,” Roald said, picking up on his brother’s idea.

“Or pound them out and use the iron for scythes and plowshares.”

The two brothers finished each other’s sentences in their excitement.

That night, lit only by the full moon overhead, they kicked the loose snow in the forest of wooden piers and uncovered ten large hammer heads and several small ones. Loaded with their treasures, they made their way back to the boardinghouse.

In the kitchen of the Headquarters Hotel, Ingeborg wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. Scrubbing pots in steamy water in a room already hot and stuffy from the two cast-iron ranges that were always kept hot to provide the food for the dining room would make anyone sweat.

“Are you all right?” asked Mrs. Johnson, head cook and commander of the kitchen, as she stopped on her way back from the pantry.

“Ja, I will be done in a bit. Then I will get to the bread like you asked.” Ingeborg kneaded her aching back with her fists and rolled her shoulders forward. She put the last dirty kettle in the water and set to scrubbing it. She’d never known there were so many pots and dishes in the world. Her hands were red and sore from the hot water. By the time she finished, they would be ready to prepare another
meal, and she would have to start all over again.

“I forgot to tell you, I hired a young boy to scrub and clean. You are much more valuable as a cook.”

Ingeborg raised her head and looked over her shoulder. “Mange takk.” She hadn’t realized the cook was still standing beside her. “I am glad to hear that.”

“Ja, well, just see you continue like you have been. A good day’s work is all I ask.” The aging blonde trundled off toward the dining room, and Ingeborg returned to her labors with renewed energy. She would rather bake breads and make stews any day. And she’d only been working here for a little over a week. She paused when she heard the now familiar train whistle. Since the track lay directly alongside the hotel, everything shook when the train chugged by, and no one could hear themselves think for a few moments.

Ingeborg was not afraid of hard work. She’d helped on the farm back home since she was a child. But the continual ache in her lower back was beginning to worry her a bit. She thanked God daily there had been no more telltale spots of blood to signal trouble, and, besides, anyone would be tired after the long days she’d worked, slaving over the steamy sinks. She left for work early in the morning, even before the men did, and when she returned, all of the others were sound asleep.

That night she crawled under the covers nearly frozen after walking the six blocks home. The heat radiating from Roald’s slumbering body made her feel as though she were lying next to the stove.

“Uff da,” he muttered when she accidentally touched one icy foot to his wool-covered leg. He rolled over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You are a chunk of ice. Come here and let me warm you.” He turned her over and pulled her into the warmth of his body, carefully tucking the quilts around them again. “Are things going well at the hotel?”

“Ja.” She started to tell him about her change in status, but a gentle snore told her he’d already fallen back to sleep. She fit her body, spoon fashion, against him. Morning would be here long before she was ready for it.

By the end of three weeks, Ingeborg had tackled and accomplished every task in the hotel kitchen, much to the surprise and delight of her employer. The two women worked well together and kept mounds of delicious food flowing out the door on the trays of two hustling waitresses, neither of whom spoke Norwegian.

“No, I said we was wanting the fried chicken, not the steak.” Pearl, the elder of the two waitresses, planted her hands on her hips. “Ingeborg, you said you understood.”

Mrs. Johnson translated from across the kitchen and finished with, “You know you have to be more careful. It’s your fault as much as hers, Pearl.”