Dakota Dusk (12 page)

“Go ahead.” Rebekka answered the question before it could be asked. “The address was for Willowford School. Just save me the return address so we know who we must thank.”

As the children peeled back the carton flaps, a letter lay right on top. Emily handed it to her teacher. “Thith ith for you.”

Rebekka read the perfect script. It was addressed to Jude Weinlander. She tucked it into her pocket to deliver tonight.

“More books. Look.
Tom Sawyer; Huckleberry Finn
. A whole set of encyclopedias,
McGuffey’s Readers
. . . ten of them.” The children piled them out on the floor.

“Who sent them, Miss Stenesrude?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I’ll find out.”

“Chalk, pencils, paper, even glue.” The children sat back in delight. “And colored paper.” Down in the bottom of the third box lay three sets of watercolor paints. One of the older girls picked one up reverently.

“I’ve always wanted to paint,” she whispered as she traced a gentle finger over the brightly colored squares.

“And now you shall,” Rebekka said, rising to her feet. “Why don’t you pack all that back in the boxes for now? As soon as we have shelves, we can put them out.”

That evening, when Jude saw the letter, a shutter closed across his face. Rebekka watched it happen. One moment he looked at her with interest, the next he was gone. He stuffed the letter into his shirt pocket and continued with his meal.

Rebekka left it alone until they’d finished supper. When he asked to be excused, she followed him to the base of the stairs. “To whom shall I send the thank you letters? The children are so thrilled with the supplies and would like to thank the sender.”

“I’ll give you the address in the morning,” Jude said then climbed the stairs without another look back. The curve of his shoulders, though, spoke volumes to the woman watching him. She put her hand to her heart; the ache there pulsed for the pain of the man for whom she cared so deeply. Was it the love one has for the wounded or some kind of deeper love? Rebekka wished she knew.

Up in his room, Jude read the entire letter for the third time. While Mrs. Norgaard penned most of it, there were personally written messages from Dag and Clara, pleading for him to come home to Soldahl. They missed him, prayed for him, and were thankful he’d finally written.

Mrs. Norgaard asked if there was anything else the school needed. She volunteered to collect more books and send them on, but Jude would have to let her know.

Jude put the paper down on his desk. She was a sly one, that Mrs. Norgaard. Here she made it impossible for him not to respond. The school needed so much and the thought of a piano flitted through his mind. No, that was a want, not a need. The children sang like larks anyway, with or without a musical instrument to lead them.

He walked to the window and peered out. Much of the snow had already melted. When they finished up out at the Jamesons, he could go home. Mr. Larson hadn’t mentioned any other jobs. He listened to the music float up from the sitting room.

“Come home, come home, all who are weary, come ho-o-ome.” The words of the age-old hymn, sung in harmony by the three women downstairs, tugged at his heart. Home, where was home anymore?

In the morning he left the address for Rebekka and told Mrs. Sampson he would be gone for a while. They would be staying at the Jamesons to finish up as quickly as possible.

When he mounted his horse in the early dawn and rode down the street, he felt a compulsion to look over his shoulder at the two-storied, slightly Victorian house, smoke rising straight up from the chimney in the still air. If anywhere was home at this time in his life, that was it. Was Rebekka up yet? Was this home because Rebekka lived and played and sang there? He already missed the evenings at the boardinghouse and he wasn’t even out of town yet.

The week seemed to drag its feet, like those who plowed through the mud that followed the snow. Early mornings the ground crackled beneath their feet as John and Rebekka broke through the frost cover. But by afternoon, the mud clung to their feet—gumbo they called it. Usually North Dakota soil turned to gumbo only in the spring.

At school one afternoon Rebekka opened the
Old Farmer’s Almanac
and read the prediction. This was to be an unusually cold winter, with plenty of snow and blizzards, and an early spring with an excess of rain.
Wonderful,
Rebekka thought. Her pupils would go stir-crazy for sure. Could be this would be a winter when they had to close down during the worst weather. Last year had been mild, so they only missed a week in January.

She rapped on her desk for attention. “Children, finish what you are working on and we’ll take time to talk about the Christmas pageant. We’ll plan it together, so come up with good ideas.”

When she dismissed them that Friday, the pageant’s planning was well underway. But she still hadn’t answered her letter. Would she go to Minneapolis for Christmas?

Even though the three women didn’t overwork themselves, that Saturday equaled three normal ones in the amount of things they had accomplished. Rebekka had just gone to bed when she heard shots ring out. She threw on her wrapper and ran down the stairs.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the saloon,” Mrs. Sampson said as she opened the front door so they could hear better. Shouts, another gunshot. “That one was the sheriff’s shotgun.” Mrs. Sampson clutched her wrapper more tightly around her.

The sound of running feet announced the emissary before he arrived at the boardinghouse. “Doc says come quick,” he panted. “He needs a nurse.”

Mrs. Sampson whirled back into the house to grab her boots and coat. “What happened?” she asked as she shoved her feet into the ice cold rubber.

“Two men down. There was a fight, somethin’ awful.” He grabbed her arm and hustled her down the walk.

Rebekka closed the door and leaned her forehead against the stained wood. The booze won again.

Mrs. Sampson dragged herself in the door at seven o’clock the next morning.

“What happened?” Rebekka leaped up from the table where she and Mrs. Knutson had gathered for coffee. Neither claimed to have slept a wink. She poured Mrs. Sampson a cup of coffee, while Mrs. Knutson took her friend’s coat and hat and hung them up.

With the three of them around the table, Mrs. Sampson took a sip of her coffee and rubbed her tired, red eyes. “It was terrible. One man I didn’t know was already dead. Shot through the heart. Two more were injured. One we patched up and sent home. The other, Ole Johnson, Doc worked over all night. But it wasn’t enough. He died an hour ago.”

“But Ole Johnson has four children at home. Two of them are in my school.” Rebekka swallowed the tears that already burned the back of her throat. Those poor babies. What would Ethel, their mother, do now? The family was dirt-poor already.

“I know. We did the best we could. He was shot in the gut. Couldn’t stop the bleeding.” Mrs. Sampson spoke in the monotone of weariness and despair. “Two men died tonight because two others got in a fight. Ole wasn’t fighting. He caught a stray bullet.”

“But he was drinking at the saloon when he should have been home with his family. They don’t have enough money for food and clothes, but he can spend the night drinking at the saloon.” Rebekka felt the fury burn out her tears. “When will they learn?”

“Never,” Mrs. Knutson said quietly. “Some men never learn.”

Rebekka looked up at her. “You, too?”

The other woman sat straighter in her chair. “My Claude froze one night in a snowbank coming back from the saloon. He said he had a right to have some fun once in awhile, and drinking and playing cards with the men was his idea of the best time.”

Rebekka reached across the table and clasped the widow’s hand. “For me, it was my father.”

“Well, something should be done. More and more I think that closing down the saloons and stills is a good idea. Make booze illegal, that’s what.” Mrs. Sampson rubbed her upper arms with work-worn hands. “I hate the stuff.”

“I hate what it does to people.” Rebekka rose to her feet to begin making breakfast. She fetched the frying pan and the eggs from the pantry and the side pork from the safe out on the porch.

“You don’t have to do that. Give me a minute to rest and I’ll be fine.” Mrs. Sampson started to rise, but Mrs. Knutson laid her hands on her friend’s shoulders, gently pushing her back in her chair.

“Let us. You’ve already done your share for today.”

“Thank you, both. Thought I’d go out to see Ethel this morning and help with washing the body and readying him for burying.” Mrs. Sampson shook her head. “What kind of a Christmas are those poor folks goin’ to have now?”

“The funeral will be tomorrow?” Mrs. Knutson sliced the bread and set two slices in the rack over the coals.

“I’m sure, since that’s when the reverend will be here. Otherwise he’d have to make another trip.” She yawned fit to crack her jaw. “Think I’ll take a little lie down before I go.”

The three went about the duties of women everywhere who reach out to their sisters in grief. Rebekka fried sausage for scalloped potatoes while Mrs. Knutson baked a cake. When the food was ready, Mrs. Sampson got out a bar of her special soap and several towels. Her box of mercy complete, she walked out to the horse and buggy Rebekka had fetched from the livery.

“We’ll take care of things here, don’t you worry.” Rebekka helped tuck a rug around the widow’s knees. “Give her our thoughts and prayers and hug the children for us.”

“Will do.” Mrs. Sampson flapped the reins and the horse trotted down the street.

The next day after church, the congregation remained for the funeral service. Reverend Haugen said all the proper words but Rebekka had a difficult time sitting still and listening. During the prayers she gripped the back of the pew in front of her to keep from leaping to her feet. This man’s death wasn’t God’s will. If he’d stayed home where he belonged he’d still be singing with the rest of them, rather than leaving his wife to weep and his children to sob for their father. She bit her tongue to keep from shouting the words aloud.

“Dust to dust,” the reverend intoned the words at the cemetery. But after Ethel Johnson and her oldest son each tossed a handful of dirt on the pine box, she straightened her shoulders and turned to the other mourners.

“Please, do something about this evil in our town. Good men can’t be safe when the booze takes over. Do something before other tragedies happen.” She wiped her eyes. “Please. Do something.”

Rebekka clamped her hands together. The idea that planted itself in her mind after the fight at the box social had matured. Like wheat nodding in the field, the plan was ready for harvest.

“Tell every woman in town that we will be meeting at the church tonight at six o’clock. If we hurry, we can catch some of the farm wives also.”

Quickly, the word spread. When anyone asked a question, the answer rang the same—just be there.

That night Rebekka stood at the front of the pews watching as the women filed in. She closed the doors when it looked like every woman in town and the surrounding area had arrived. After taking her place again at the front of the room, she raised her hands for silence.

“I know you are all wondering why we called this meeting, but after the sad afternoon and Ethel’s, Mrs. Johnson’s, plea, I think you can guess what we are about.”

Gaining courage from all the nods and assents, Rebekka continued. “Many of us have suffered because our men drink. If I polled the room, I’m sure you all have stories to tell. My father was the drinker that ruined my young life. My mother died, I think, of a broken heart. He died because his body couldn’t handle any more liquor.” She continued with her story and finished with, “I never told anyone this before because I was too ashamed. I thought other people would look down on me because my father had been the town drunk, one of them anyway. And wherever we went.” Rebekka looked out over the heads of the women gathered. “Now is the time to do something about this problem in Willowford.”

Silence lasted but for a moment when a woman in the back rose to her feet and started clapping. Others joined her, and soon all of the women were on their feet, clapping. The applause soon became as one pair of hands, the steady beat from the heart of each woman.

Rebekka nodded and smiled. When she raised her hands again, the women fell still. “I have a plan. You want to hear it?”

The answer came as one voice. “Yes!” The women took their seats.

“We start with the legal process by talking with Sheriff Jordan. We’ll ask him to close the saloon.”

“He won’t do nothin’. He’s a man.” The comment came from the back of the room; laughter greeted the sally.

Rebekka went on to outline steps two, three, and four of her plan. The women applauded again. “Now remember, this plan is our secret. The good Lord sees in secret, but the men won’t.”

“Unless someone blabs,” a woman off to the right called out.

Mrs. Sampson rose to her feet, stretched herself as tall as she could, and ordered, “No one will blab.” She stared around the room, daring someone to argue.

Nobody said a word.

“Now, who will call on the sheriff with me?” Rebekka asked after the silence stretched to give anyone a chance to comment.

Three hands went up. Mrs. Johnson from the mercantile, Mrs. Sampson, and, Rebekka caught her breath in surprise, Mrs. Larson.

“Good. We will let you all know what happens. And if that fails—”

“Like we know it will,” another voice interrupted.

“We’ll see you all on Friday night. You know where.” The women stood as one and filed out into the night.

The next afternoon after school, the four women met at the boardinghouse. “Ready?” Mrs. Sampson looked at each of them directly. For a change Mrs. Larson didn’t have much to say.

“Who wants to do the talking?” Rebekka asked.

“Let me start.” Mrs. Sampson pulled her red knitted hat down over her ears. “I have plenty I want to say to him—and all the men.”

As they entered the sheriff’s office, Sheriff Jordan pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “Well, hello, ladies.” Steam rose from the coffee cup at his left. “What can I do for you?”

Rebekka clamped her lips together at the syrup dripping from his voice. He surely wouldn’t be so sweet when they finished with him.

The women took up their places as if assigned. One on each side of the desk and Mrs. Sampson in front.

“Sorry I don’t have enough chairs to go around. I wasn’t expecting company,” he said, his smile faltering slightly at the corners.

“We want to talk about the shooting on Saturday night.”

“Now you know I can’t discuss a case like that. I have the two men in lockup who accidentally did the shooting. Or rather who are accused of the crime.”

“And when their lawyers post bail, they’ll be out on the road again.” Mrs. Sampson leaned her arms on the desk.

“Well, ja. That’s the way our legal system works. Everyone is innocent until proved guilty. We’ll have a trial and—”

“And the most they’ll get is manslaughter because, after all, it was only a fight and no one meant to do any harm.”

“Well, now, Alma—”

“Mrs. Sampson.”

He looked at her for a moment and tightened his jaw. “Mrs. Sampson, that’s for the judge and jury to decide.”

“A jury of all men.”

“Now you know the laws, Al . . . Mrs. Sampson.” The sheriff leaned on his straight arms, towering above the woman across the desk. “Now, what can I do for you ladies?” He cut the end of each word like a sharp cleaver through chicken bones.

“You can close down the saloon so there won’t be any more such ‘accidents.’”

“Now you know I can’t do that. The Willowford Saloon is a reputable business. Nels pays his taxes just like everyone else. Why, he even loaned out his piano for the school party . . . out of the goodness of his heart. You know that, Miss Stenesrude.” He shook his head. “What you’re asking, I just can’t do that.”

“In spite of all the fightings and killings caused by the liquor served there?”

“Now, that was an accident, I told you—”

“That leaves us no alternative but to deal with this ourselves. Good day, Sheriff. Ladies?” Mrs. Sampson turned and strode out the door, the three other women following like soldiers behind their general.

Evenings, the three women at the boardinghouse plotted and planned. During the day, other women were seen coming and going. While all their errands looked legitimate, the boardinghouse hadn’t seen such activity in years.

It’s a good thing Jude isn’t here,
Rebekka thought one night as she finished her prayers and crawled between the icy cold sheets.
He’d have tried to stop us for sure.
But oh, when she thought of it, how she missed him. They hadn’t had a musical night since he had left.

Friday night at eight o’clock the women gathered at the church. Whispers sounded loud in the dark, as they huddled together both to keep warm and to receive their instructions one last time. Axes, hatchets, and a buggy whip or two were drawn from satchels and from under coats.

“Now, remember,” Rebekka spoke in a low, but carrying voice. “Be careful you don’t hurt yourself and do not do the men harm. Just the saloon.”

“All right. May God be with us.” She raised her voice in the old marching hymn. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war . . .” Fifty women, young and old, marched out of the dark church and formed a line, four abreast, to sing their way down the street.

They sang their way the three blocks to the saloon, up the wide wooden stairs with their feet in perfect rhythm, stomped across the wooden porch and through the double doors, now closed against the winter’s cold.

They sang as they laid the whips about, driving the men from their gaming tables like cattle in a drive. They sang while they smashed all the bottles lining the glass shelves behind the bar and chased the few diehards with their axes. The third verse swelled while they made kindling of the tables and chairs. “Forward into battle . . .” The words sung from fifty throats could be heard above the crashing, the smashing, and the yelps as men ran out the door.

The shotgun roared as Sheriff Jordan slammed the doors open.

Rebekka and her platoon of ten lined up behind the carved walnut bar with a marble top and, on “Three,” they all shoved, tipping the entire bar over on its side. The front was already splintered by the swinging axes.

“That’s enough!” Sheriff Jordan roared, loud as his gun.

“Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war . . .” The women swung into the chorus and, shouldering their axes, marched out the door.

“Just keep on marching right to the jail,” the sheriff boomed his order. He stood to the side as the marchers left, eyes straight ahead like good soldiers. “Oh, no. Ann, Mary, what are you doing here?” His wife and seventeen-year-old daughter faced forward and marched with their sisters.

The singing women turned right into the jail and marched in. Those who couldn’t force their way through the door marched in place and sang in time on the porch and in the street. Their marching and singing kept them warm, in spite of the night wind that growled across the plains, promising snow and cold to freeze one’s bones.

“Let me through. Excuse me. Sheriff!” Nels pushed his way into the packed jail. When he finally made it to the sheriff’s desk, he leaned on his arms, panting and glaring like a mean hound who’d just been whupped.

“I . . . want . . . to file charges. These women destroyed—” His voice rose to a shriek. He took a deep breath and started again in a lower key. “These women destroyed my saloon. The only thing left in one piece is the piano.” His voice rose again. He heaved and puffed, trying to get his breath again.

“I know, Nels. I was there, remember?” Sheriff Jordan stood at his desk.

“Well, you didn’t come quick enough. They broke everything—”

“I know, except the piano.” The sheriff raised his voice to be heard over the singing. “Cut it out. Quiet!”

The women sang on, their faces forward, looking neither to the right nor the left.