Unto a Good Land (22 page)

“Is the store in the wood?” asked Karl Oskar, puzzled.

“Just inside; only three minutes more.”

Then Karl Oskar began to be suspicious. Why would they build a shop in a wild forest, far away from the other houses? How much did he know about the stranger who had offered to take him to the store? Landberg, their honest guide, had warned the immigrants particularly to beware of their own countrymen, who could cheat and rob them the more easily because they spoke the same language. “Never confide in the first stranger you meet just because he speaks your language!” Landberg had said that more than once. Yet Karl Oskar had confided in this man he had just met and had climbed into his carriage. He had been careless enough to say that he had money; in the sheepskin belt next to his body he carried all he had left in cash.

A robber wouldn’t commit his crime near houses. He would wait until they were in the forest where no one could see them; in the forest Karl Oskar would be alone with the stranger.

He glanced back at the unknown man sitting behind him on the driver’s seat. In America he had seen many men with guns, pistols, or knives, but Larsson had no weapon in sight. Karl Oskar would have felt more comfortable had a weapon been carried openly. As it was, he didn’t know what kind of arms the man might have hidden on him. He himself had only an old pocketknife in his hip pocket.

He looked about—perhaps it would be best to jump off the gig while he still could see the houses back there by the river.

The vehicle rolled along, the driver tightened the reins and squirted tobacco juice quite calmly into the wheel tracks: “Where do you intend to settle, countryman of mine?”

“In Minnesota, we had thought.”

“Don’t know that country. Why don’t you stay here—you can make two dollars a day in the forest.”

Larsson went on: He had helped many Swedes find good jobs. But not all of them had been reliable, he had been cheated and robbed by Swedish crooks when he himself had first arrived in America. As a good friend he wanted to warn Karl Oskar: he must never rely on or confide in anyone; he must be careful.

Karl Oskar felt slightly embarrassed: his new acquaintance seemed to guess his thoughts.

But Larsson seemed as friendly as before, he laughed and talked with the same geniality that he had shown earlier. Judging by his looks and speech, he must be an honest man. And why should Karl Oskar think he was a bandit? Nothing indicated he had evil intentions. One shouldn’t think ill of a stranger only because he seemed anxious to help. He felt a little ashamed of his suspicions; he was here for his children’s sake, to get them food which might save their lives. Yet he was full of fear and suspicion when he met a helpful countryman. It wasn’t like him to be so timid. His father used to say, if you weren’t afraid within yourself there was nothing to be afraid of in the whole world. Of course he dared drive a short distance into the forest with this man!

They had reached a stream and were about to cross it over a newly laid bridge of wooden planks, when the driver reined in his horse; on the bridge stood a man holding up one hand and saying something in English. The driver greeted him with a broad grin and a stream of English words. It seemed that the man wanted to ride along with them, and he climbed in and sat next to Karl Oskar.

“Max is an American friend of mine; he is coming to pay me a visit. I have not seen him for a long time,” Larsson said and again showed his thin, sharp teeth in a broad grin.

The two-wheeler drove on across the bridge, and now three men were riding in it, two in the low seat and one on the driver’s box.

The newcomer was a thickset man with a round face and curly, black hair. He spoke English rapidly and smiled broadly at his neighbor on the seat, as though in Karl Oskar he had met a close relative after long separation.

And the fact was that Karl Oskar did recognize the man who had just jumped up beside him. He had noticed him in the saloon, in the company of Larsson.

Larsson had said that he had not seen Max for a long time, and the two now acted like long-lost friends. Karl Oskar did not need to know English to understand that this play was put on for his benefit. After all, it was not more than minutes since he had seen them stand side by side in the saloon.

Apparently they considered him more simple than he was; now he knew for sure that two robbers were driving him into the forest. Larsson had followed him outside in order to get him into the gig, and meanwhile Max had sneaked away to meet them at the bridge. Now Karl Oskar had two men to handle, one beside him and one behind. The gig kept rolling closer to the edge of the forest; ahead of them the road swung in among the heavy close-standing trees; within two or three minutes he would be alone with two robbers in a thick forest.

He carried his money next to his body when asleep or awake; without it, he and his family would be destitute in this country. No one was going to take it away from him, without first killing him.

He had fallen into a trap. He had been led to believe there would be a store in the wilderness where he could buy milk and bread; he had ridden along like a meek beast to slaughter. But he was not going to ride another step with these robbers.

They had left habitations behind, and not a soul was in sight. He must use cunning, he must pretend he had to get off on an urgent matter, “to call on the sheriff,” as the authority-hating farmers at home used to say, when they had to go behind a bush.

But it wouldn’t be wise to mention the sheriff now, it might arouse suspicion. With forced calm, he turned to the man on the driver’s seat: “Would you mind stopping for a minute, Larsson? I’ve got to relieve myself.”

“All right. Whoa! Whoa!”

The Swede calling himself Larsson spit on the road and reined in his horse. The gig came to a stop. On the right were some bushes, on the left a tall pile of logs. Karl Oskar had been sitting on the left side of the gig, and he jumped off in that direction.

The driver had believed Karl Oskar’s excuse valid and had not objected when he wanted to get off; now he became suspicious. Karl Oskar had been in too much of a hurry to get off the gig, he had lost his feigned calmness; and he could see the two men exchange quick glances. They saw through his ruse.

Larsson rose from the driver’s seat, and his genial look disappeared; his pointed yellow-gray teeth showed in a sarcastic, malicious grin: “You almost dirtied your pants, I believe. Perhaps I’d better help you unbutton them.”

For a fraction of a second Karl Oskar stood paralyzed, his tin pitcher in his hand. Now he could not sneak away from behind the bushes as he had intended to do; now they would not let him go, and there would not be a single person to witness what they might do to him in the forest.

He glanced at the pile of logs beside the road; one log was sticking out toward the hindquarters of the horse. This gave him an inspiration: the logs and the horse must save him. The horse was young, barely broken in; the horse must run away with the robbers, since Karl Oskar couldn’t run away from them.

Larsson said something in English to his fellow bandit and handed him the reins. A sarcastic grin was still on his face as he said to Karl Oskar: “You can stay right there and use your pitcher! Don’t move, countryman, I’ll be right down to help you.”

But in the split second before the man jumped from the wagon, Karl Oskar gave the outjutting log a kick with his iron-shod heel; he kicked with all the strength in his body, and the added strength of a man fighting for his life.

The pile of logs started rolling onto the road. The young horse tossed his head, his whole body trembled, he snorted excitedly, jumped side-wise, and then bolted off in a wild gallop, pulling the light vehicle with the two men behind him, barely missing being crushed by the rolling logs.

Karl Oskar saw the gig disappearing with the two men clinging to the seats for their very lives; they were still hanging on as the vehicle disappeared among the trees. Karl Oskar felt pleased—the kick had been sufficiently hard, they made good boots in Småland.

But in his excitement he forgot all about the rolling logs behind him. Suddenly one of them hit his left leg with such force that he fell face forward over a small stump. He had the sensation of a sharp knife blade being stuck into his chest, and he heard himself cry out. He was in such intense pain that a wreath of red-hot sparks flashed before his eyes.

He ground his teeth together and managed to rise. He had fallen over the stump of a small tree which had been felled by an ax, leaving large sharp splinters sticking up, and these had cut him like knife points. He pulled out one splinter sticking through his shirt: blood oozed out. He was aware of pain in his left leg, it felt stiff and useless. A shudder of terror ran down his spine—suppose his leg were broken?

But he was able to stand on it. Slowly he moved the leg; he was able to walk. He noticed the milk pitcher which he had dropped in the fall, and he stooped to pick it up; then he limped along the rutty road, back toward the village; every step was painful.

He did not look back for the bolting horse, the gig, and the two strangers. He had no further interest in his countryman who had promised to show him the way to a store where he could buy as much milk and bread as his children could eat; he was in a hurry to get back, back to the houses and the steamer, and to his own family. Slowly he hobbled along; the return took him a long time. He could still see sparks before his eyes, but his head was clear, and his injured leg was good enough to help carry him back.

The steamer was still at the pier loading firewood. One passenger—gone ashore to buy milk and bread—returned, limping on his left leg.

—5—

Karl Oskar made his way toward the steerage. He walked slowly to hide his limp. Lill-Märta came running toward him, crying out jubilantly: “Here comes Father with milk!” For he still carried the tin pitcher in his hand. Kristina and Johan also ran to him expectantly. “Father has brought us milk! Come!”

Silent and embarrassed, Karl Oskar stood with the empty pitcher in his hand.

“You took your time,” said Kristina.

He dropped his hand with the pitcher so they could see for themselves; it was empty.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Kristina was saying; then she broke off as she looked into the pitcher. “You haven’t any milk?”

“Not a drop.”

“Not a single drop?”

“No. No bread, either.”

Kristina’s lower lip quivered in disappointment. “No luck?”

“No, this time I had—no luck.”

Johan pointed to his father’s chest: “There’s blood on Father!”

“What are you saying, boy?” Kristina exclaimed.

Karl Oskar’s shirt was of a reddish color, and the blood didn’t show much. But she touched his chest, and her fingers became sticky with blood. “God in Heaven! You’re bleeding! What happened?”

“I fell over a tree stump, got a small splinter in my chest. Nothing to bother about.”

“Mother, I was right!” Johan cried triumphantly. “There’s blood on Father!”

“Only a very little blood,” corrected Karl Oskar. “Just a scratch from a splinter.”

“I must bandage it! Go to your bed and lie down,” Kristina ordered Karl Oskar.

Karl Oskar went over to their bunk and removed his shirt. Lill-Märta ran after him: “I want milk. Mother promised!”

“Be quiet, child,” admonished Kristina. “I must bandage Father.”

“But you promised us milk, Mother!” the child insisted.

“Father fell down. Go away, children.”

“Did you lose the milk when you fell?” Johan asked.

“Did you lose every drop?” Lill-Märta echoed.

Kristina took the children by the hand, led them to Robert, and asked him to look after them while she took care o£ Karl Oskar. She was relieved about Johan, who had improved during the day, having vomited up all the poison of the pestilence—if the sickness had been that. But now that her son was better her husband was hurt.

Karl Oskar had a deep wound just below his right nipple, blood had coagulated around the hole. The left side of his chest hurt when he breathed; he thought perhaps a rib was cracked.

“How did it happen?” Kristina asked.

“I told you, I fell on a stump. Accidents will happen.”

Karl Oskar had not told a lie; that was how he had hurt himself. But how much more he should tell her, he didn’t as yet know.

After her long sickness at sea Kristina had gradually regained her strength, but at the sight of coagulated blood like a wreath of fat leeches on her husband’s chest, she felt wobbly in the knees. Nevertheless, she had learned as a girl to look after wounds, when she had stayed with Berta, the Idemo woman, to have a gangrenous knee treated, and now she soaked a piece of linen cloth in camphor-brännvin and washed the wound clean. Then she applied a healing plaster which Jonas Petter had brought along. She tore up one of her old linen shifts into bandages which she tied around her husband’s chest. Berta had said that bandages must be tied as hard as though horses had helped pull them, in order to stanch the blood. Kristina tied the bandage as hard as her fingers were able to, but she thought regretfully she had not the strength of even half a horse.

“I’ll change the rags if it bleeds through,” she said.

Resting on his bunk, Karl Oskar reflected that he now had two bandages around his body, one of sheepskin and one of linen, one for his money and one for his wound. He had got the second because he must defend the first; the security belt for himself and his loved ones was still intact around his waist. But how near he had been to losing it—he had gone in a cart with a stranger, and this alone had been sufficient to endanger the lives of himself and his family. Yet who would have refused to go with the friendly Swede who offered to find as much healthy food as he and his family could eat?