Tamarack River Ghost (2 page)

The men used long pike poles with metal spikes on the ends to nudge the logs along. Occasionally, when several logs were hung up in a rapids or in a sharp turn in the river, the men climbed out of their boats and rode
them, often falling into the bone-chilling water. The work was not only uncomfortable, it was also exceedingly dangerous. Every river had its “dead-man bends” where a log driver had lost his footing, drowned, and was buried on a little knoll overlooking the water.

But this day was going well. The logs moved straight and true, with few hang-ups. So far no one had to leave his bateau to dislodge a log stuck on the river bank or caught on a rock.

Mortimer saw the floating cook shack, the “wanigan,” coming down the river a half mile behind them. It was a barge made of logs chained together with a small, unpainted, rustic wooden building riding on it. In addition to being a floating kitchen, it also carried supplies such as axes and extra pike poles.

From the pocket in his thick red-and-white-checkered wool shirt, Mortimer retrieved his ever-present pipe and tobacco. He filled the pipe’s bowl, struck a match to the tamped-down tobacco, and tasted the sweet-smelling stuff.

The sun had come up and quickly melted the white frost on the river bank with a promise of making it a warm day—perhaps the warmest the crew had experienced this spring. Long
V
s of Canada geese flew over, winging their way north, and calling loudly. A sure sign of spring. Mortimer heard the log drivers singing, something they did when things were going well and they were enjoying being on the river.

Mortimer joined in the song as his big dog looked up at him. He felt good, much better than yesterday, when he and the crew had gotten soaked trying to dislodge a minor logjam. It took them more than two hours to loosen up the logs and get things moving again.

Mortimer thought of his wife, Amelia, and their five children who spent the winter on their farm in Ames County, in the Tamarack River Valley some forty miles south of where he was now. In November, when the farm work was completed, he traveled to the Northwoods and the logging camps where he had worked for the last several winters. His sandy Ames County farm did not produce enough for him to pay his taxes and otherwise make ends meet with his large family. The lumberjack income, and especially the extra money he made as a log driver, made all the difference. Mortimer missed his wife and family and thought of them every day.

A few days ago, he’d written his wife a letter and mailed it at one of the trading posts along the river.

Dunn heard the singing abruptly stop, a sign of trouble ahead. Most of the crew had moved around a bend in the river, so Mortimer could
not see what happened. He poled his bateau into the main current so he could catch up with the rest of the log drivers. As he rounded the bend, he saw the problem, another logjam. It didn’t look as serious as the one the previous day.

“Over here, Mort,” one of the drivers yelled. “The problem is over here.” Mortimer poled his bateau close to the jam and climbed out, the calks on his boots digging into the soft pine as he jumped from log to floating log, with pike pole in hand. Prince stayed behind, watching his master’s every move.

Mortimer bent over to see if he could spot the key log. When he did so, the entire jam broke loose of its own accord, with several huge logs falling on him and tossing him into the deep and treacherous Tamarack. The other drivers heard a scream like none they had ever heard before as they saw Mortimer Dunn disappear into the mass of logs that once more hurried down the river.

Prince heard the scream as well and jumped into the churning water, leaping over logs, the little bell on his collar ringing. The dog disappeared into the river, and neither Mortimer nor his dog was ever seen again.

Heartbroken when she got word of her husband’s death several days later, Amelia Dunn erected a tombstone in the family cemetery on the far corner of their farm, within sight of the Tamarack River. The words on the tombstone said:

Mortimer Dunn’s tombstone stood next to that of his son, Albert, their firstborn, who had died on his third birthday.

On foggy nights in spring, just after the river ice goes out, people say they’ve seen Mortimer’s ghost on the river, rising above the water. Others say they’ve heard the tinkle of the little bell his dog always wore and smelled his tobacco smoke. And still others claim to have heard the song of the log
drivers on still nights in spring, when the night is dark and there is no moon:

Josh Wittmore wondered how long his charade would last, how long he could continue until they found him out. He was reclining on his lumpy bed in front of the flickering TV in his dreary motel room in Crumpet, Missouri, when his question was answered.

The Sleepy Rest Motel’s sign on the highway proudly proclaimed, “American-owned, clean, restful, all on one level.” When Josh parked in front of the motel a few days ago, he followed the little path to the door that was marked “Office.” Inside, a deeply tanned man with a Missouri accent greeted him. When he got to the room, it was one of the smallest he’d ever seen, maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. It included one hard-backed chair; a narrow desk; a tiny TV perched precariously on a metal shelf in the corner, its power cord stretched across the window air-conditioner to an outlet shared with an underpowered table light; and a bed with a reasonable mattress. The bathroom, not to be outdone by the rest of the accommodation, was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a shower made for those tall and skinny and not prone to turning around when showering. But the room was clean, as advertised.

The motel, like so many built in the late 1940s, allowed a motorist to drive right up to the door, as if the room was to be shared by a vehicle. Josh was in room 18, his truck parked so close he could nearly reach it by stretching an arm out the room’s tiny window, which faced the highway.

It was Friday night, and Josh was bone tired. He wondered why he should be exhausted; he was only thirty-two years old and in reasonably good shape. He was thin and tall, a little over six feet. Soon he was dozing, thinking about what he had been doing the past few weeks and at the same time trying to drive the job from his mind.

The brick that crashed through the motel window landed at his feet with a thud, missing him by a few inches. Broken glass scattered throughout the room—a rush of warm September night air poured through the jagged hole. The red brick had a grimy piece of white paper held around it with a thick rubber band. Fully awake, Josh jumped out of his chair and picked up the brick, removed the rubber band, and unfolded the paper:

The words were written in bold, black strokes. Josh put the brick and the paper on the only table in the room. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Were the culprits who tossed the brick still in the parking lot? Would they next be pounding on his door? He began to perspire. He ran his hands through his thick hair, which he had dyed from its natural brown to blond to help with his disguise. He also wore dark-rimmed glasses to complete his makeover—the glasses, all dusty and dirty, sat on the little desk.

A few weeks earlier, Josh’s boss, Bert Schmid, the editor of the Midwest’s
Farm Country News
, had phoned him from the paper’s main office in Willow River, Wisconsin. Josh, a reporter for this popular agricultural weekly newspaper, worked out of the paper’s regional office in Springfield, Illinois. He’d been there since Bert hired him in 2000, when Josh graduated from the University of Wisconsin’s agricultural journalism program.

“I’ve got an assignment for you, Josh,” Bert said when he called.

“What have you got?”

“You ever hear of the Lazy Z operation? They’ve got huge cattle feedlots scattered in three states. Got a big one over in Crumpet, Missouri.”

“Yeah, who hasn’t heard of the Lazy Z?”

“Some rumors flying around that they’re cutting a few corners, fudging some of the environmental rules, and lots more.”

“I heard about that,” said Josh.

“It’s more than a rumor. I was wondering if you could do a little digging around. Find out what’s going on there.”

“Think I could. Should be kind of interesting.”

“There’s a little more to it—might as well tell you right up front. A reporter from St. Louis spent some time out there trying to put a story together. She spent a couple of weeks working on a story that she never wrote. Shortly afterward she quit the paper and moved to Maine. Some said the reporter had been threatened—never any proof of it though. She did file a complaint.”

“Really?”

“The police stopped out at the feedlot. They talked to the manager, some guy named Tex Rampart, or Rapport, something like that—anyway this Tex guy said the reporter had been out there a couple of times, nosing around. He said he’d never threatened any reporter, male or female.

“So you want me to just sashay on over there and ask a few questions and snap a couple pictures?”

“Hardly,” said Bert. “The woman didn’t get the story; I have a better idea for you.”

“And that would be?”

“I want you to go undercover. It’s a helluva place to work, I’m told. Cow manure everywhere. Mud when it rains. Dirty dust when it doesn’t. Somebody is always quitting—or getting hurt or sick. Nearby stream is polluted.”

“And you want me to find a job there, to go undercover?”

“Seems like one way to get the story. Get an inside look at what goes on. You know how to ride a horse, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Josh. “We had horses on the home farm—but I haven’t done much riding in the ten years I’ve been working for the paper.”

“Here’s what I want you to do,” said Bert. “You figure out some kind of disguise, then you go over there and see if they’ll hire you. A cold beer says they will. You rent yourself a room at a motel in town—we’ll pay for it—and you are on your way.”

Josh called the Lazy Z the next morning and asked if they had any job openings. He talked to a Tex Ramport, who said he was the feedlot manager.

“Yeah, we always need help. You come on over here tomorrow, and we’ll have a little chat,” Ramport said. “See if we got anything that’d interest you. Be here around 1:30 or so.”

Josh made a trip to the local Wal-Mart, where he bought hair dye and some dark-rimmed sunglasses. He checked the Maps Online website and learned that Crumpet, Missouri, was a little more than a three-hour drive from Springfield. He didn’t sleep well that night, wondering what he was getting into. This would be his first undercover reporting job.
How dangerous could it be?
he thought. He went to sleep with visions of being paid for riding a horse.

The next morning, he pulled on his blue jeans, a faded yellow shirt, and a cowboy hat he bought when he visited Texas a couple of years ago. He fired up his Ford Ranger pickup and was soon headed south on Interstate 55. He tuned his radio to a country western station to get in the mood for his interview. He listened to Willie Nelson belt out “On the Road Again.” Next he headed west on Interstate 70, rolling into Missouri just north of St. Louis. Waylon Jennings was singing “Good Hearted Woman.”

When he found State Highway 940, he turned toward Crumpet, some twenty miles south of the interstate, but even before he reached the town he could smell cow manure; the stench of a large feedlot told of its presence long before it came into sight. He drove through the town; Crumpet was but a couple thousand people. He spotted the Sleepy Rest Motel on the south side of town and tucked the information away in his memory. About a mile out of town, as he topped a little ridge, he spotted the feedlot stretching out in the valley in front of him on both sides of the highway. A cloud of brown dust hung over its many pens, all filled with cattle. The stench had become more intense; the ammonia burned his eyes. He spotted the entrance to the Lazy Z feedlot and a sign pointing to the office in a double-wide trailer. He glanced at his watch; he was right on time. When he climbed out of his pickup, he saw men on horseback, working the alleys between the pens, driving cattle and stirring up even more dust. Sounds of cattle bellowing and men yelling filled the air along with the yellow dust.

“Hi-yah!” he heard a man yell as he pushed his horse alongside a steer that moved too slowly. “Hi-yah!” he yelled again. He poked the steer with a metal prod; it jumped and quickly moved on.

Josh pushed open the door to the office and saw three women working at computers.

“Can I help you?” an attractive young blonde asked as she looked up from her work.