An Untamed Land (22 page)

In the few places where the track was dry, Ingeborg climbed down from the wagon and walked beside it, sometimes playing tag with Thorliff and other times just watching the cloud patterns on the prairie or lifting her face to the warm sun. As the snow continued to melt, the rich, fecund aroma of dirt and plants burgeoning to life made inhaling a pure pleasure.

During the long hours of riding, Ingeborg and Kaaren knitted and taught each other English words and phrases they had learned. Thanks to the little boy Thorliff had played with at the boardinghouse, he could add words, too. It became a game for all of them, learning this new language. The only problem was, they weren’t sure what was right and if they were pronouncing the words correctly.

Carl had bought a language book, and they took turns puzzling out the words. On the slate, Kaaren wrote the alphabet, and they went over it until they could all recognize the English letters and numbers.

“You are a good teacher,” Ingeborg said to Kaaren after one of their lessons.

“I always wanted to be a teacher, but my father said educating women was a waste of time. We just get married, after all.”

“Ja, and who would teach the little ones if it wasn’t for the mothers?” Ingeborg had never believed such a silly statement.

“I know. Maybe sometime in this new land I’ll be able to teach at a school.” Kaaren leaned her head back to let the sun warm her face.

“Starting with our own children.” Ingeborg put a hand protectively over her middle. The ache in her back from working the long hours at the hotel had disappeared, as did the morning sickness, and she felt better than she had for weeks.

Roald asked about oxen and a wagon as they passed through the stage stops of Grandin, Caledonia, and Buxton. Thanks to the riverboat traffic, all were growing towns. At each stop they received the same answer: Sorry, no oxen available.

“I’m beginning to think we’re making a mistake in wanting only to farm the land. We should buy up breeding mares and cows and raise draft horses and oxen. We could break just enough land to prove up our claims,” Carl muttered after one more turndown. “There is such a need that we could set our own prices.”

Roald stared at his brother. “But that would take more money than we have.”

“Farming will, too. You know we plan to borrow from a bank just like everyone else.”

“I hate the thought of borrowing money.”

“I hate not having the things we need even more—like another team.” Carl shifted on the hard wooden bench of the wagon.

“You’ve never trained oxen.”

“Ja, but I’ve never come to America before either, and here we are.”

“I suppose you think we should build the wagons too.” Roald slapped the reins when the horses slowed. At the moment they were driving a fairly dry stretch and could make better time.

Carl stroked his whiskers. “That’s not a bad idea. We could . . .”

“Carl, we are farmers, and we will farm.”

“I am not saying we would not farm. I think we could add raising livestock to sell and make a better return sooner.”

Roald’s voice carried like a whiplash. “I will not talk about this anymore. We are farmers who till the soil. And that is that.”

“Remember, brother. We are in this together,” Carl spoke softly, but his words carried all the weight of his determination.

Ingeborg listened to the discussion, her hands busily knitting the sock on her needles, but her mind racing beyond the men’s discussion. Talk about two hardheaded Norwegians. Couldn’t they see they were both right? They needed to have some income the first year, before the prairie sod could be broken and the crops planted. She had heard about the breaking of sod, how it could break both a man’s back and his spirit. She had also heard that when you stuck a seed in the ground, it sprouted and grew before you could finish the end of the row.

Even Ingeborg could recognize a tall story when she heard one, but she thought there must be some basis for the tale. She shivered in spite of her coat as the clouds above grew blacker. Without the sun, the temperature dropped in pace with the plodding horses.

T
he storm began with a chilling mist that soon turned to pounding rain and finally to snow. By the time they’d unhitched the horses and made camp for the night, Ingeborg felt chilled clear to her bones. How had the weather changed so quickly? Just a short time ago, the sun’s warm rays had felt like summer, and now winter had returned. Cold coffee and leftover mush filled their stomachs but did little for their spirits.

By morning, six inches of snow had fallen, making land and trees sparkle as the sun rose. But with a south wind and warm sun, it soon turned to slush and melted off by midafternoon.

“I guess winter wanted to get in one last lick,” Carl said, swinging his feet as he sat on the endgate of the wagon.

“Let’s just pray that was the last one. All the men are saying spring came too early, and winter’ll be back in time to freeze everything.” Roald flicked the reins over the horses’ backs. “Come on, you lazy bags of bones, let’s pick up the pace. We have land awaiting us.”

They spent the day sinking in potholes and wrenching the wagon out again. When evening fell, they had covered a grand distance of two miles. Both Carl and Roald wore frowns that looked to permanently crease their foreheads.

Before she fell asleep that night, Ingeborg prayed for a drier journey on the morrow. It couldn’t get much worse.

Worse didn’t happen, but more of the same brought shortness of temper, and only their wisdom and care for their team kept them from using the whip. After being yelled at several times, Thorliff huddled in the back of the wagon. He leaned his head against Kaaren and finally fell asleep. With only a cold evening meal again,
no one had much to say before falling into bed like trees felled by an ax.

By the time they finally reached Grand Forks, they felt as though they’d been on the trail for half a lifetime.

They unhitched the team and set up camp along the riverbank. There were few trees left; others who’d come before them had stripped the banks bare.

Ingeborg and Kaaren looked at each other and shook their heads. “How will we cook?” Kaaren asked.

“I’ll take Belle and return to where I saw some trees,” Carl said. “We’ll drag something back.” He quickly added some rope and a chain to the harness and leaped on the mare’s back.

Roald handed him an ax. “We might be here a couple of days, so bring in a good one.” He tied the whinnying Bob to one of the wagon wheels. “I’m going into town to see if anyone has a team of oxen to sell.”

“Can I go?” Thorliff looked up at his father, every line of his face and body a plea.

Roald shook his head, then changed his mind. “Ja, if you think you can behave yourself.”

“I can, I can. I’ll be the goodest.” The little boy spun around, his arms flung wide as if his father had just given him the sun, moon, and stars rolled into one.

Ingeborg felt her throat tighten. It took so little to make the boy happy. A shame it was that his father didn’t do such things more often. But then, she was trying to learn to be grateful for each little gift they received. This was such a one.

She and Kaaren shook out the beds and set Bob on a long line to graze the harsh grass that hid the tender green shoots springing up everywhere. After getting the coffee ready, they mixed cornmeal and water together for mush. What a treat it would be to have warm food with some of their precious dried meat for supper.

Ingeborg stared across the land, her eyes squinted against the setting sun. Even so, she could see the haze of green. In another week or two, the horses would have real grazing.

“God surely paints the most glorious sunsets here, doesn’t He?” Kaaren came to stand beside her.

“Maybe He’s trying to make up for the lack of mountains and evergreen trees.”

“Inge, we must be grateful for what we have. Surely we will come to love this land as we do Norway. It is our home now, after all.”

“Ja, after all.” Ingeborg sometimes wondered what might be included in that “after all.”

At least one wish came true that night. Carl returned with a tree for firewood and two rabbits. After he’d skinned them out, Ingeborg dusted the meat with flour and laid the pieces in a pan over hot coals. The wonderful smell of frying meat set all their juices flowing.

“I think you should teach me how to shoot the rifle and hunt. Then we wouldn’t have to wait for you to find the time.” Ingeborg made the surprising statement as she poured the last cups of coffee for the night.

Kaaren groaned, and Roald shook his head. But Carl gazed at her, speculation in his blue eyes. “Have you ever shot a gun?”

Ingeborg nodded. “My brother taught me when I was young. But when my father found out about the shooting lessons, he put a stop to them—quick. Who knew at that time I’d be moving to Dakota Territory where game would be so plentiful.” She paused, readying herself for the arguments she could sense coming. “You heard the ducks and geese flying north. They have to set down somewhere in the evening. Maybe they even nest around here.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Carl stated flatly and glared at his brother to quell any argument.

Roald looked startled, as if a favorite dog had suddenly turned and snapped at him.

Ingeborg sat without moving, sensing the discussion could go either direction at that moment. Would Roald let Carl make a decision? She glanced at Kaaren out of the corner of her eye. Her opinion could be read off her face like a page in a book. Women did not shoot guns and hunt game. Women cleaned and cooked game when it was brought home.

Roald shook his head.

Ingeborg held her breath, then let it out in a whoosh. She rose to her feet, squared her jaw, and looked her husband directly in the eye. “I will go hunting with the rifle and so give the two of you more time in the fields. All I need is some practice and a bit of advice.” She swallowed and straightened her back further, as if preparing for an onslaught.

The silence stretched, broken only by the snap of a log in the fire.

Roald rubbed the side of his nose with one finger, a gesture he’d copied from his father. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” He turned and looked directly at her. “But if you waste too many shells . . .” His
unfinished sentence threatened louder than if he’d said the words.

Ingeborg looked at him as if afraid her hearing had gone bad. Had she heard him right? She ran the words through her mind again. She could learn to hunt—with the gun. She repeated them for good measure, then tucking her smile carefully out of sight, thanked him in a prim and gentle voice.

There were no oxen available in Grand Forks, much to Carl and Roald’s dismay. They questioned everyone they met but to no avail. They left the town with the suggestion that they might try up in Pembina, which was the last stop of the Red River carts before they entered Canada.

“That’s who’s buying up all the oxen from around here,” Carl said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“And also the bonanza farmers, though most of them are using horses.” Roald took his hat off, rubbed his head, and secured the brimmed homburg back in place. “So the question is still the same. Besides which, we need another wagon and a plow.” Why was nothing going the way they’d planned? Returning to the camp empty-handed each night was beginning to weigh on him.

On top of that, the weather turned cold again. For the next two days it didn’t rise above freezing, and the cold wind came from the north.

“We’re going on,” Roald announced the morning of the third day. “At least on our homestead we’ll have the protection of trees rather than being at the mercy of the wind out in the open like this.” Since they’d run out of wood again, they had to do without their coffee, so Roald and Carl harnessed up the team and headed on up the road.

Carl walked ahead of them, sounding the swamp and creek ice for strength. In spite of their care, the rear wheels cracked through the ice in a thin spot, but the horses managed to dig in and pulled the wagon out and up the shallow incline.

A short time later, the horses stepped onto the ice again, dragging their load across the winding creek once more. With a mighty snap that reverberated like the crack of doom, the heavy wagon sank into icy water deep enough for the pitch-tarred wagon bed to float. It pulled the horses backward as the ice split in all directions. The horses screamed and flailed, trying to regain their footing. The wagon tipped precariously to the right. Ingeborg clutched the seat
with both hands, trying to lean to the left to help stabilize the teetering wagon.