It was a morning for slaughter. Thea walked to the edge of the paddock to feed the dog. He did not come off the roof of his kennel for the slop bucket. His muzzle was still pink. The bitch Freya was gone.
She passed through the paddock on her way back to the mess but stopped at the trough. She could not imagine what had happened here. She did not want to. Only knew that the mess of bloodstained snow was in some way related to the awful pain she felt that morning. The memory of Smith lording over her, his brute strength, his rank breath, was with her like her prayers. She had not slept for fear.
Now she fell to her knees and started crying. Between sobs she heard men behind the barn, still twenty-five yards away. Their voices held no alarm. It was as if they were out for their evening smoke. Before she stood again she removed her mittens and plunged her hands in the snow. She left them there until they burned and then left them still another minute. When finally she stood she raised her hands before her. They were roseate and the gentle breeze strapped them like a leather belt. God forgive me, she thought. God protect me.
Instead of going back to the mess for the rest of her morning chores she walked to the barn. She’d never been inside, but she slid the door open and walked in, the smell of horses and hay thick in the closeness even though the Percherons were already toiling on the ice road. She walked to the opposite end of the barn, following the ray of light shining through the hayloft window behind her. She was surprised at how much colder it was inside the barn than out.
At the other end of the barn she opened the door to a horse hanging from the hayloft pulley, its brown belly split, its guts spilled on the snow. The bull cook stood in a white apron, his cap sprayed with blood, a knife heavy in his hand. Two of the teamsters held either flank of the horse, and the barn boss was reaching for a spade to shovel the guts into a waiting wheelbarrow.
Already in the early morning the snow was dripping from the barn’s roof — the splat, splat, splat the only sound above the men’s heavy breathing. Three wolf carcasses hung by their hind legs from the fence. Thea saw Freya lying under the wolves and for a moment felt a reprieve from the carnage. A second, closer look showed the bitch’s throat split from ear to ear. Bloody boot prints trailed all over the enclosure.
“Good Christ, lass, what are ya doin’?” the bull cook asked, stepping toward her, shooing her away with his bloody hand. “This is no sight for a lady. Go on, now.”
Thea had already turned. She hurried to the barn door and shut it behind her. She ran through the barn and across the yard to the mess, her hands still stinging.
At her bunk she folded her hands in prayer. Her knees ached against the dirt floor. She opened her Bible. By the light of a flickering candle she read, Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the lord thy God for any vow: for even these are abomination unto the land thy God. Her fear rose with each word. She closed the Bible. She hugged it to her breast and closed her eyes.
She could not stop thoughts of Smith. Of his dead tooth, of his grunting, of the slaver falling from his lips onto her face. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she begged.
Finally she rose and stepped into the kitchen. There were biscuits to make, and stew to warm, and apples to pare. Perhaps these tasks would distract her. She donned her apron and smoothed her hair and lifted the sack of flour from the cupboard beneath the block table. She cut the bag open and poured flour into the enormous mixing bowl. She fetched the keg of buttermilk and the salt. Remembering the stew, she went to the cellar and pulled the vat from its place and lugged it to the stove and set it to simmer. She fetched a barrel of apples and put them at her feet. She greased the baking sheets. In this way she moved forward, her fear and guilt always like a shadow. She could not raise her eyes because when she did she saw the spot across the room where Smith had forced her to the table.
It was after lunch when Trond and the bull cook met the constable. He walked into the mess hall, his hat and gloves already removed, his wool coat opened, a black belt and holster plain to see. She wondered, Was judgment so swift? But the men took seats on the other side of the mess, and except for asking for tea to be served, Trond and the constable and the old bull cook did not mind her at all.
At the midpoint of their meeting the bull cook left, returning minutes later with the barn boss, who was perhaps most aggrieved by the horse now strung from the pulley behind the barn. His name was Jacque and he’d come from Quebec. He spoke scant English when he spoke at all.
Jacque was asked: Why was the horse in the paddock at such an odd hour? Why was the horse hobbled? Was it his job to oversee the care and protection of his stable? Oblivious to the insinuation, Jacque answered the questions. He wanted to know himself why the horse was hobbled in the middle of the paddock. Of course it was his job to oversee his stable. Did the constable wish to see his well-kept barn? The horses worked six days each week, they hauled one hundred thousand board feet of white pine down a road of ice every day, and there wasn’t a cracked hoof among the dozen of them, not a single harness gall or skin sore to show for their labor.
When the constable pressed him, and when Jacque finally understood the tone of incrimination, he wasted no time indicting the watch salesman Smith, whose own horse was footsore and frostbit and readier for a pistol shot than another step through these woods. Where the hell was Smith? He’d shoot the bastard himself, shoot him right in the knees before finishing him with a bullet in the ear.
The bull cook ushered Jacque from the mess hall. Trond and the constable stood and stretched their backs and poured more hot water into their teacups. They scratched their beards and consulted the list of loggers in camp. The morning passed with a slow parade of men being led into the mess for interrogation. It was a dispirited investigation. The men were simply spent.
After dinner, after the mess hall had emptied, Rolf, the Norwegian, approached the kitchen. He told Thea that the constable and Trond wished to speak with her. He said they would return from their smokes in a moment, and that he would translate for her. He told her not to worry, that they only wanted to know if she’d seen anything suspicious the previous night. He must also have judged some look on her face because he proceeded to elaborate on what had happened: The wolves had come, one of the dogs put down, one of the horses, a crime indeed. They suspected the watch salesman Smith. Thea asked if she could have a moment, she motioned to her room back of the kitchen.
In her hovel she washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, checked her dress in the reflection of the candle sconce. She took her Bible and kissed the cover and opened it to Deuteronomy. That scripture would be her testimony.
These were three beggared men. Each wore a face as drawn and long as the winter had been. Their hands were cracked and folded in front of them. Their lips behind their mustaches and beards were white and bled dry. Rolf’s face was mapped with frostbitten scars. The constable licked his pencil tip and turned to Rolf.
“Ask her to tell me her name.”
Rolf did, and the constable wrote it down in his notebook.
“Ask her why the Bible.”
Rolf turned to Thea, he pointed to the Bible. “He wishes to know why you’ve brought your Bible.”
Thea looked down at the open book. Her pulse was galloping. Trond had withdrawn a pocketknife from his vest and pulled open the blade, the mother-of-pearl handle glinted in the lantern light as he trimmed his fingernails. She whispered to Rolf, “I am a fearful child of the Lord.”
Rolf sat back. He looked at her as though he’d never heard a word of Norwegian spoken before. “Says she’s feared. Says she’s a child.”
The constable put the pencil tip to his notebook and began to write but stopped. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and wrung his hands. He turned to Trond, who was still tending his fingernails. “Christ, Trond, what can this girl tell us? She’s a child. She don’t know about dead horses nor misdeeds.”
Trond turned to Rolf, “Ask the lass if she saw anything suspicious last night.”
The constable was already closing his notebook. He’d already put his pencil in his sleeve pocket and was buttoning his vest when Rolf asked Trond’s question.
When Thea began to weep the constable stopped readying to leave. He looked at Trond, then Rolf, then Thea in turn. “What’s she cryin’ for?” he asked.
Thea took the Bible from the tabletop and opened it and found her passage. She handed it to Rolf, who withdrew his glasses from his shirt pocket and held the good book to the lantern light.
He read the verses to himself. When he looked at Thea her face was in her hands.
“What’s this nonsense?” the constable asked.
Trond addressed Thea. “What’s the meaning of this?” He turned to the Norwegian. “Rolf, ask her what’s the meaning of this.”
Rolf read the verses again, this time out loud in Norwegian. “If a man find a betrothed damsel in the field, and the man force her, and lie with her: then the man only that lay with her shall die…. For he found her in the field, and the betrothed damsel cried, and there was none to save her.”
“Good God almighty, let’s speak our common language,” the constable said.
But Rolf raised a hand as if to ask for silence. He touched Thea’s arm and said, “What do you mean to tell us, child?”
Thea looked up at his kind words, at the gentle tenor of his voice. She whispered, “That man. Last night, he came. When the horse was out.”
Rolf closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at Trond. He shook his head.
“What is it, old man?”
“If I understand her, we’ve got a heap of trouble. Sounds like maybe Smith paid her a visit last night.”
“What does that mean?” the constable hissed. “Plain English. Tell me in plain English what happened.”
Rolf looked disgusted with the constable. He turned again to Thea, who had startled at the constable’s sharp words. “Do you mean to say the watch salesman Smith came here last night? When? Why?”
Thea offered the Bible again. She trembled, her fear was stupendous.
“Are you trying to tell me what happened?” He pointed to a word — skrek, cried out — and read to her the verse, “Han traff den trolovede pike ute på marken, hun skrek, men der var ingen til å hjelpe henne.” And the betrothed damsel cried, and there was none to save her. “Do you mean to say that man Smith lay with you?”
Thea put her hands over her face again.
“Child, did that man hurt you?” He took her arm and shook her. “Did Smith hurt you?”
Now she burst into tears and laid her head on the table. Rolf looked up, first at the constable and then at Trond. “We’ve got ourselves a hell of a mess,” he said.
“What’s wrong with the girl?” the constable asked. “What kind of a mess?”
“I gather Smith took what weren’t his. Her Bible talks about a girl in a field and nobody to help her. I think she’s meaning to tell me she were that girl, and Smith laid with her.”
The three men sat in dumb silence, each of them looking blankly ahead. Thea sobbed silently, her head still on the table.
It was Trond who spoke first. “What does that have to do with the horse, though? How did the horse get into the paddock?”
They were rhetorical questions. He was thinking out loud. But Rolf misunderstood, and asked Thea if she knew of anything about the horse.
She looked up and said, “I saw a tall man leading a horse last night.” She pointed outside. “Before the wolves.”
Rolf translated.
“A tall man?” the constable repeated. “Leading a horse, she says?”
“Smith is a damn sight taller than six foot,” Trond said.
The constable had taken his notebook back out and was scribbling furiously. “Ask her what time,” he said.
Rolf asked her and Thea considered, she told Rolf.
“She says it was late, after ten or eleven. She was done with her chores and readying for bed.”
“It makes no sense,” Trond said.
“Ask her was it Smith leading the horse.”
She couldn’t say who it was, she only saw from a distance and through the darkness. She repeated that it was a tall man, that he led the horse by the bridle past the trough, where the horse was left.
There was a moment of confused silence before Rolf said, “He was looking to stir up a commotion. That horse was bait for the wolves.”
The constable looked at Trond, “By God, the old man’s right. Why else would he do it?”
Trond stood and walked to the door and looked out the window. He’d been in the woods for a long time, he’d solved his share of problems. More than a few of his crewmembers had been sent off the parcel for one misdeed or another, some of those had ended up in the hoosegow. But this was a full-fledged crime if Thea told true. There was a goddamn lawman in his mess hall to attest to it. He had a dead horse butchered; he had a young lady defiled. Things were entirely beyond his experience now. He turned back to the group. “What do we do?”
The constable rose. “I’ll bring Jacque and the girl before the magistrate first thing in the morning. They’ll give their testimony. We’ll put a warrant on the watch salesman Smith. He’ll be charged and sought. We’ll offer a reward for his capture.”
Trond walked back to the table. “If Smith is smart he’ll be gone, to Canada or Chicago or goddamn Mexico.”
“Then we’ll find him in Mexico, Trond.”
“What about my horse?”
Rolf said, “Your horse ain’t quite as important as it was a few minutes ago, chief.” He turned his attention to Thea. “The constable is going to bring you before Curtis Mayfair in the morning. You’ll have to travel to town and make a testimony. You can’t use your Bible to tell the story. You’ll need to tell them what happened in your own words. I’ll go with you.”
“Tell her to get some rest,” the constable said. “Tell her we’ll leave with the light.”
They rode the foreman’s sleigh up the ice road: Thea, the barn boss, and Rolf on the wooden bench, Trond himself at the reins, one of the Percherons harnessed and stepping lively. The morning was warm even before the light, and the horse proved it with his gait. Before they began the long descent into Gunflint, going over the ice road’s last rise, the sun broke over Lake Superior. The trees on either side of the road sagged under the dripping snow and the winter birds were out, their song more evidence of the thaw.
When they were still a mile outside town they passed a farmer mending his fence a stone’s throw off the road. A sorry herd of six gaunt Holsteins stood behind him in a small pasture cut from the woods and still pocked with pine stumps. The farmer looked up and waved as if to hurry them along. He had a long beard and hair and like many of the men Thea saw, he bore the scars of frostbite. The farmer took a step toward them and waved his hammer at them and shouted, “Trespassers!” and pounded the packed snow with his sorry boot.
Trond turned to Jacque and Rolf and smiled. “That’s Rune Evensen,” he said. “Poor fellow’s been touched by more than this cold season, I’m afraid.”
Thea had been watching the farmer, and when she heard him shout in Norwegian and then Trond announce his name, she turned quickly to look again. Evensen was her uncle’s name.
Thea kept watching him as the road curved and began its last plunge into Gunflint. The morning and their errand had been confounding enough without the revelation of a man named Evensen. Now she was as distraught as she’d been during her first hour in this place. Unable to help herself, she turned to Rolf and said, “Sir, I beg your pardon, but did the foreman say that farmer’s name was Evensen?”
Rolf only nodded affirmatively.
“Sir, my uncle’s name is Evensen.”
“Your uncle?” Rolf asked. He was of course not privy to any knowledge of Thea’s situation. Nor did he much care. He was sympathetic about what had happened to her, he felt some pride in his role in helping to uncover the extent of the watch salesman’s crime, he may have even felt a moment’s relief in being spared a day on one end of a double-bitted saw. Even still, he was already dreading the prospect of a day in the magistrate’s chambers. He’d spent too much time in courthouses for his liking. “What about your uncle?”
The tone of his voice was stern and suggestive of silence, so Thea said no more, only rode the rest of the way to Gunflint more befuddled than ever.
The constable had left an hour ahead of them, and they met him now outside the livery stable. He looked harried. He carried his saddlebag over his shoulder.
“Mayfair will see us in his chambers straightaway,” he told Trond as the two men shook hands. “Stable your horse, then meet us at the courthouse. I’ll bring your charge with me.”
Trond leaned toward the constable. “Go gently with the lass,” he said.
“We’ve business, Trond.”
“She’s scared, that’s all I mean to say.”
The constable looked at her climbing from the sleigh. “It’ll be Mayfair’s inquest, but I’ll vouch for her nerves.” He shook hands with Rolf and Jacque and motioned for the group to follow him.
Mayfair’s office was on the Lighthouse Road. Though only eight years old, the building was already growing shabby. The dirt road was funneling snowmelt down to the lake, and their boots sucked at the mud with each step.
Mayfair sat behind his desk. He wore a flannel shirt and wool scarf. When he stood to greet them, he had a viola in one hand and a polishing rag in the other. There was a spittoon next to his high-backed chair, and he spit a mouthful of tobacco juice into it. His pants, Thea now saw, had enormous pockets on the knees. The camp clerk in the wanigan had a greater air of respectability than the magistrate did. Except for the dozen calfskin-bound books on the shelf behind him, these chambers looked a lot like the company store.
There were five captain’s chairs arranged before his desk, and he motioned for them to sit down. He sat down himself, but not before adding to the spittoon.
The constable spoke first. “Your honor, these are the witnesses in the case of Arrowhead County versus the watch salesman Joshua Smith.” He consulted his notebook. “Jacque Chadel, the barn boss up on the Burnt Wood River Camp.” He motioned at Jacque, who doffed his cap but said nothing. “This here’s Thea Eide. And this here’s Rolf Johnson. He’ll be helping us translate the girl’s testimony.” The constable flipped the pages of his notebook as he stepped behind the witnesses.
“Your honor, the night before last one of the horses up on the Burnt Wood River Camp was led into the paddock for no apparent reason. We surmise it was to lure the wolves and cause a commotion. The horse had to be put down yesterday morn. During my investigation, it came to light that Joshua Smith molested the girl here. The suspect fled sometime the night before last.
“Jacque here will testify as to the horse crime. Your honor, Jacque Chadel.”
Mayfair had yet to say a word. He looked at Jacque, who looked back. There passed a moment of awkward silence.
“Well, boy?” Mayfair finally asked. “What about this horse?”
“The horse was shot,” Jacque said.
The magistrate looked at the constable and shook his head. “You’d think these fellas live in the woods might enjoy a little conversation. Not so.” He turned his attention to Jacque. “Would you mind elaborating? I’d like to hear the story of the horse from your perspective.”
So Jacque told him in plainspoken English. When he was finished with his one-minute testimony, he concluded with a question: “When will we get another horse? We’re going to need us one.”
The magistrate was finishing his transcription in a gilt-edged log. When he finished he looked sternly at Jacque. “Do I look like a horse salesman? Did you see a sign above my door that said horses for sale?”
Jacque only clenched his jaw.
“Your boss man’s in charge of new horses.” Again he turned to the constable. “Show this fella the door.” To Jacque he said, “I thank you for the fine storytelling.” He spit again, then pulled the wad of snoose from his cheek and dumped it into the spittoon.
The constable led Jacque to the door and shook his hand and thanked him properly. He told Jacque that the testimony of the girl might take longer and suggested that Jacque walk up to the Traveler’s Hotel and get himself a cup of coffee for the wait. He even offered him a nickel from his own pocket.
When the constable returned, Trond came with him. He wiped his muddy boots vigorously on a rug for such purpose and crossed over to the magistrate’s desk. “Curtis,” he said, offering his hand.
“Trond. How goes it?”
“Well,” he said, looking back at Rolf and Thea, “I can honestly say I’ve been better. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts on this mess. I saw Jacque on the way in.”
“He wants another horse,” Mayfair said.
“So do I. But that’s a conversation for a different time, with a different man. About this Smith.”
“Yes, about this Smith.”
The constable repeated for the magistrate the story he’d told earlier that morning, the story of Thea and her strange testimony culled from Deuteronomy. He admitted that they’d not actually heard her say Smith had assaulted her. He concluded by adding, “I trust your interrogation might get it out of her.”
Before the magistrate could commence his questioning, Trond quickly added, “She’s scared, Curtis, if you’d bear that in mind. And she don’t speak our language. But she’s a good lass.”
Mayfair nodded, then offered his first question. “Did you see the watch salesman Smith on the night before last?”
Rolf translated.
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did you see him?”
“In the mess hall.”
The magistrate was chronicling her responses in his log. “Why was he in the mess hall?”
At this Thea looked down. “For me. He came for me.”
Rolf translated slowly.
Mayfair stopped writing, looked up at her. “What did he do when he got there?”
When Rolf was finished translating Thea put her face in her hands and started to cry.
Mayfair took a deep breath. “My wife and I, we go to church every Sunday.” He waited for Rolf to finish translating. “The constable tells me you’re an ardent believer yourself. Is that true?”
Thea could not imagine what he meant to ask. “Beg your pardon?” she said.
“Am I wrong that you came to your meeting with the constable here with the good book last night?”
Thea paged through her old testament and offered the judge the same scripture she had offered the constable twelve hours before.
Mayfair listened patiently and when she was finished, he took another deep breath. An uneasy silence came over the room. Finally the magistrate said, “Have you known this girl to be a liar, Trond?”
“I don’t know the girl well, but no, I haven’t known her to lie. And cookee would have her a saint. She does the work of three.”
“Does anyone here object to the statement regarding this girl’s integrity?” He went from face to face and watched them shake their heads no.
“Trond, what do you make of Smith’s character?”
“I don’t have much of an opinion. He’s a souse. He was easy pickings at our stud game the other night. He had nice wares in his haversacks. I can’t say much beyond that.”
“What about you, old man?” the judge asked Rolf. “Do you have any opinion about Smith, accusations notwithstanding?”
“I don’t know him from Adam.”
Curtis dutifully copied their responses. Now he addressed Thea again. “Is there any reason I should doubt your story?”
Rolf translated. Thea shook her head and looked into her hands on her lap.
Now Mayfair took the viola from the table and held it as though it were a banjo, plucking a few folksy chords. “Good Lord almighty,” he said. “That means there’s a certified felon running free. I can’t see any reason not to put a warrant out on him. I’ll offer a reward.” Again he sighed. “And I suppose I ought to let them know over at the newspaper. They might want a statement from you, Trond. You mind having lunch in town today?”
By the time they finished lunch at the Traveler’s Hotel, the first broadside advertising the reward for Smith’s capture hung in the window of the Gunflint Ax & Beacon. Trond stood at the window, his hands folded behind his back, bent slightly at the waist, reading the sign aloud:
When he finished reading Trond commented on the swiftness of the court. It was warm enough in the midafternoon sun to remove his coat, which Trond did and then stood with his face raised toward the sun. “Now, if only they’ll be as swift replacing the horse.” The thaw meant he’d have only another three or four weeks to get the rest of the lumber down from the parcel. Three weeks, most likely. With temperatures like this, the ice road would be gone in three weeks. It would not be enough time to finish the cut.