March 1941 Blizzard Revisited

Coverage of 1941 Blizzard in Minnesota & North Dakota
[WILMINGTON MORNING STAR, North Carolina, March 17, 1941]

Last year I wrote about the 'Ides of March' blizzard of 1941, sharing a story that a reader of this blog sent me of his memories of that event.

Now, in the course of my new job, a patron shared with me that a book had been written about the blizzard.  In the book, there are several references to local/regional stories of people touched by that storm, including the following two stories...

Cemetery Project

I received a most welcome - and exciting - email two days ago, but was only able to post about it now since I've been out-of-town (yes, even I do get away from the computer once and awhile...) The email came from Marcy Johnson, and she had this to tell me...

I have been meaning to contact you ever since I found your web site. I am Marcy Dahl Johnson from Hallock and have been working with Perm Diamond on the Humboldt book. She asked me to do cemetery indexes for St. Vincent, Joe River and Humboldt/Clow Cemeteries. I have visited your web site several times and LOVE it! My interest is always the history.

I grew up in Marshall County (Eagle Point Township) and I enjoy genealogy. I have a data base with 45,600 names and information for Kittson and Marshall counties. I have been entering information in the data base for 6 years and it is from old newspapers, Kittson County atlas, maps, and history books from the area. This data base will be at the museum in Lake Bronson soon. They are in the process of setting up a new computer with Family Tree Maker software.

I also volunteered with the Minnesota Genealogical Society a few years ago and helped them create a data base of all cemeteries and private burials in Kittson and Marshall Counties. I visited all the cemeteries in both counties and gathered the following info which is now online:

Name; Alternate names; Cemetery Type (church, community, private); Oldest Burial; Active or Inactive; Location (City, Township, Street Address, County, State, Zip); Latitude; Longitude (I used a hand held GSP to determine latitude and longitude); Township Number; Range; Section Number; Sexton – Name, e-mail, Street Address, State, Zip, Phone; Driving Directions; Cemetery Notes; Location of any transcriptions of the cemeteries.

It would be great to put the cemetery indexes online after the Humboldt reunion so people can contact me with corrections or additions.

Someday I hope to complete cemetery indexes for all the cemeteries in Kittson County. I like to think big! I am now working on Teien Covenant, Saron Lutheran, Skjeberg Lutheran, and Eidsvold in Halma. I just finished Red River Lutheran for their 125th Anniversary last summer.

I could go on and on! I will send you a sample of St. Vincent. It is too huge (16 pages) to send it all as I just have dial-up at home. I also sent the page I did on the additional burials in St. Vincent Township. Since I finished the information on the cemeteries that went in the book, I have received copies of the early records covering the years 1881 to 1915 for Christ Episcopal Church from the Episcopal Diocese of Minnesota. I wish I would have had them before all the information went in the book. There is several additions to the Joe River and St. Vincent Cemeteries that we never had and the additions were not in the early cemetery record books. I am giving copies of the early records to the museum. They would be a neat thing to put on your web site as it also lists all the baptisms for the area for those years.

When completing this research I found out that there was a cemetery north of the Christ Episcopal Church in St. Vincent. I will have to contact the MN Genealogical Society and add that info to what is already online. When I received the early records from the Episcopal Diocese there is two burials listed as being in the church yard. We did mention this early cemetery in the Humboldt book but the names of the two burials in the church yard are not in the Humboldt book.

St. Vincent Cemetery
A list of burials with family information

The St. Vincent cemetery is located in St. Vincent Township, NE1/4 SW1/4 of section 2, Kittson County, MN. It was established in 1887. To locate the cemetery on the north side of St. Vincent (from the intersection of State Hwy 171 and Cty 35) - go south on Cty 35 for .2 miles - cemetery is on your left.

Information was obtained from Kittson County Historical Society, township and cemetery records, Kittson County history books, Red River Valley Web Site by Dennis L. Matthews, the online MN and ND birth and death index, Social Security death index, census records, obituaries and family members. On occasion the dates in the courthouse records are different then the dates on the gravestones. We have used the dates from the birth and death records at the Kittson County courthouse if available. Many of the French, English, Swedish, Norwegian, etc. names were spelled or pronounced differently in the US. If there is more then one spelling of a name, the old spelling was used first, followed by a / and the current spelling.

This cemetery list will be available at the Kittson County Museum and will be updated yearly. Contact the Kittson County Museum at history@wiktel.com or contact Marcy Johnson at marneil@wiktel.com to add your additions or corrections. No responsibility is taken for the accuracy of the information.

baby Ahles 7 Oct 1949 - 7 Oct 1949; dau. of Allen and Alice Swenson Ahles; Lot 35-A

Christie McDonald Ahles 25 May 1894 - 13 April 1967; wife of William 'Bill' George Ahles; dau. of John and Katherine McDonald; mother of Katherine (Fred) Harper, Allen (Alice Swenson); Lot 5-E

Phillip 'Phil' Christoph Ahles 31 Jan 1882 - 19 Oct 1967; 1^st hus. of Marie A. Seed; son of John and Louisa Younker Ahles; brother of William; Lot 69-A

Andrew E. Anderson Feb 1848 - 1901; hus. of Annie Donnelly; son of ?; father of John Harris, Mabel M.; Lot 65-D

Annie Donnelly Anderson Oct 1857 - 9 Jan 1937; wife of Andrew E. Anderson; dau. of ? Donnelly; mother of John Harris, Mabel M.; Lot 65-D

John Harris Anderson 8 July 1878 - 9 Sept 1949; son of Andrew E. and Annie Donnelly Anderson; Lot 65-D

Ruth Russel Cowan Armstrong 13 Aug 1913 - 25 Oct 1929; dau. of Fred and Margaret 'Maggie' Cowan Armstrong; Lot 46-D

Sarah Sophia Russell Armstrong 29 Aug 1861 - 19 June 1939; wife of William J. Armstrong; dau. of ? and Rebecca Russell; mother of Ann, Margaret (Joseph) Lang, Lillian, Albert, Edna, Stella, Fred (Margaret 'Maggie' Cowan), James, Olive (John Samuel) Easter; Lot 56-D

William J. Armstrong 31 Aug 1858 - 17 Nov 1900; hus. of Sarah Sophia Russell; son of James and Ann Armstrong; father of Ann, Margaret (Joseph) Lang, Lillian, Albert, Edna, Stella, Fred (Margaret 'Maggie' Cowan), James, Olive (John Samuel) Easter; Lot 56-D

Barbara Ash 2 Jan 1882 - 17 Feb 1970; dau.of George and Solomey Ash; Lot 33-A

Carrie Amanda Cederholm Ash 15 Dec 1872 - 24 Aug 1941; wife of William Ash; dau. of Samuel J. and Bengta 'Betsy' L. Cederholm ; mother of William S. (Vera Easter), Carl (Marjorie Sylvester), Laurence Edward, Marguerite (Alexander) Shaw, Robert (Dorothy Gardiner), Ida (Edwin 'George') Sylvester; Lot 32 A

Esther Alida Johnson Ash 5 Jan 1879 - 27 Aug 1946; wife of Thomas Ash; dau. of Adolph Fredrick and Anna Mary 'Marie' Miller Johnson; mother of Russell (Florence Johnson), Muriel (Clifford) Clow, Nora (Albert) Clow, Marjorie (David) Irvine, Roy (Marion Peto); Lot 44-A

George Ash Jr. 11 Aug 1870 - 28 Dec 1923; hus. of Nellie Sugden; son of George and Salomey Dunneral Ash; father of George J., Florence, David, Woodrow; Lot 11-A

George Ash Sr. 17 Nov 1843 - 5 Jan 1914; hus. of Salomey Dunneral; son of George and Barbara Ash/Esch; father of William (Carrie Cederholm), George Jr. (Nellie Sudgen), John (Mabel Horne), Thomas (Esther Johnson), Marguerite 'Mattie' (John) Horgan, Catherine (Thomas) Seed, Barbara, Lena (John 'Jack') Webster, Josepine (George) Webster; Lot 33-A

Joan Ash 12 Dec 1946 - 12 Dec 1946; dau. of Roy Frederick and Marion Alice Peto Ash; Lot 23-A

Jean Ash 12 Dec 1946 - 12 Dec 1946; dau. of Roy Frederick and Marion Alice Peto Ash; Lot 23-A

Laurence Edward Ash 18 Aug 1904 - 8 Oct 1921; son of William and Carrie Amanda Cederholm Ash; Lot 22-A

Salomey Donneral Ash 31 May 1849 - 5 Feb 1920; wife of George Ash Sr.; dau. of Nicholas and Margaret Donneral; mother of William (Carrie Cederholm), George Jr. (Nellie Sudgen), John (Mabel Horne), Thomas (Esther Johnson), Marguerite 'Mattie' (John) Horgan, Catherine (Thomas) Seed, Barbara, Lena (John 'Jack') Webster, Josephine (George) Webster; Lot 33-A

Thomas Ash 5 Jan 1874 - 2 Nov 1929; hus. of Esther Alida Johnson; son of George and Salomey Dunneral Ash; father of Russell (Florence Johnson), Muriel (Clifford) Clow, Nora (Albert) Clow, Marjorie (David) Irvine, Roy (Marion Peto); Lot 44-A

Vera Blanche Easter Ash 18 June 1900 - 25 Jan 1988; wife of William Samuel Ash; dau. of William H. and Hilda Monroe Easter; mother of William Herman (Audrey Joyner), Leo (Ann Botko), Harold (Barbara Saburn); Lot 32-B

William Ash 15 Jan 1869 - 24 Jan 1950; hus. of Carrie Amanda Cederholm; son of George and Salomey Dunneral Ash; father of William Samuel (Vera Easter), Carl (Marjorie Sylvester), Laurence Edward, Marguerite (Alexander) Shaw, Robert (Dorothy Gardiner), Ida (Edwin 'George') Sylvester; Lot 32-A

William Herman Ash 4 Jan 1930 - 6 Dec 1998; US ARMY; hus. of Audrey Marilyn Joyner; son of William S. and Vera Blanche Easter Ash; father of William G., Steven (Joy Johnson), Darryl (Candy Quarve), Mark (Kim Hatton); Lot 21-E

William Samuel Ash 12 Dec 1897 - 19 May 1981; hus. of Vera Blanche Easter; son of William and Carrie Amanda Cederholm Ash; father of William Herman (Audrey Joyner), Leo (Ann Botko), Harold (Barbara Saburn); Lot 32-A

Francis 'Bud' B. Bakken 13 June 1929 - 01 October 1982; US ARMY KOREA; hus. of Violet 'Vi' Johnson; son of Otto and Helen Juberg Bakken; father of Rodney (Shannon Seng Stenmark), Richard (Becky Gregorie Thorlacius), Rock (Deloros 'Dee Dee' Giffen), Robin (Chris) Brown, Randy, Lori (Tim) Gustafson; Lot 17-F

Blanche Marie Balderston 12 July 1909 - 29 Aug 1919; dau. of William 'Ernest' and Florence Marie Fitzgerald Balderston; Lot 59 D

Jane Balderston June 1864 - 19 Jan 1941; 2^nd wife of William Charles Balderston- dau. of ?; Lot 59-D

Mable Jane Balderston 23 April 1900 - 22 Aug 1900; dau. of William 'Ernest' and Florence Marie Fitzgerald Balderston; 4 months old; Lot 59-D

William Charles Balderston 14 June 1849 - 3 Jan 1919; hus. of Matilda Ann Hinton and Jane ?; parents unknown; father of Artemas Sandford (Mary Hannah Sylvester), William Ernest (Florance Fitzgerald), Benjamin Foster (Lillie Fitzpatrick); Lot 59 D

Annie Rose Ross Ball Sept 1874 - 6 July 1901; wife of Guy H. Ball; dau. of Wellington and Mary Graham Ross; mother of Orma, Almira; Lot 59-D

Guy H. Ball 9 July 1873 - 5 Nov 1931; hus. of Annie Rose Ross; son of John and Eliza Orr Ball; father of Orma, Almira; Lot 57-D

Marie/Mary Berthelet/Bartlette 1861 - June 1939; dau. of Pierre and Louise Bracer/Brayeau
Berthelet/Bartlette; Lot 37-C

Arlo Orsen Bergh 6 June 1918 - 21 Sept 2002; hus. of Dorothy Hazel Goldstrand; son of John O. and Olga Hoven Bergh; father of Arlene (Ronald) Curtis, baby girl, John (Deborah Gatheridge and Sharon ?), Orlin (Sherry ?), Loann (Pat) Misson; Lot 21-B

Dorothy Hazel Goldstrand Bergh 24 Oct 1921 - 7 Aug 2002; wife of Arlo Orsen Bergh; dau. of Ambrose and Mary Coffield Goldstrand; mother of Arlene (Ronald) Curtis, baby girl, John (Deborah Gatheridge and Sharon ?), Orlin (Sherry ?), Loann (Pat) Misson; Lot 21-B

Catherine Donneral Bernath 24 June 1842 - 16 July 1914; wife of George Bernath Sr.; dau. of Nicholas and Margaret Catherine Donneral; mother of John (Sarah Nolte and Jessie A. Doig), Salome (John 'Jack') Adams, Margaret (James A.) Thompson, George Jr. (Ellen Raynard), Julie Ann (Charles Henry) Hart, Albertina (Charles) Oakes, Daniel T., Barbara Ellen (James) Brown, Mary (Arthur) Hart, Jacob 'J.J.' (Nellie Elizabeth Brown); Lot 31-A

NOTE from author: deleted about 12 pages here for example purposes

Florence Ryan Sherman 31 Dec 1889 - 13 Sept 1970; wife of Carl Sherman; dau. of Joseph 'Joe' Richard and Sarah Jenkins Ryan; mother of Florence Sarah; Lot ?

Florence Sarah Charlotte Sherman 19 Nov 1911 - 20 Nov 1911; dau. of Carl and Florence Ryan Sherman; Lot 18-D

Gail S. Short 1 Aug 1895 - 23 March 1958; 1^st hus. of Liza A. Stranger; son of James William and
Caroline Foster Springer Short; father of Jeanne; Lot 50-C

Gordon Leo Short 14 March 1919 - 8 Aug 2001; hus. of Harriet Fitzpatrick; son of Homer Lyle and Bertha 'Bergit' Vera Sannes Short; father of Sharon (Bill) Hannaford, Betty (Bill) Thorsvig, Patricia 'Trish' (Thomas) Lewis; Lot 16-F

baby boy Skjold 30 Dec 1943 - 30 Dec 1943; son of John and Hazel Bernice Gradwell Skjold; Lot 37-A

baby girl Smidt June 1898 - 11 Aug 1898; dau. of Henry Smidt

Margaret Sorem 1872 - Sept 1943; wife of ? Sorem; Lot ?

Eva Sorgenfay 1905 - 23 July 1941; wife of Fred Sorgenfay; Lot 67-A

Evelyn 'Ellen' Mary Cridland Stacy 7 Dec 1875 - 9 April 1904; wife of James. W. Stacey; d. of ? Cridland; Lot 36-D

Percival 'Percy' Bernard Stacy 16 Sept 1901 - 29 June 1917; son of James W. and Evelyn Mary Cridland Stacey; Lot 36-D

Stanley Edward Stacy 22 July 1903 - 23 June 1904; son of James W. and Evelin Mary Cridland Stacey; Lot 36-D

Lottie May Matthew Stoltz 1875 - May 1938; wife of Ralph Henry Stoltz; dau. of Lousiea Matthew; mother of Wilfred Ralph; Lot 65 A

Ralph Henry Stoltz 1885 - Nov 1962; hus. of Lottie M. Matthew; son of ?; father of Wilfred Ralph; Lot 65-A

baby boy Stranger 29 Dec 1906 - 31 Dec 1906; son of Joseph and Della LaRoque Stranger; Lot 2-C

Charles Clarence Stranger 1908 - 14 Nov 1941; son of Joseph 'Joe' and Delma 'Della' LaRoque Stranger; Lot 49-C

Delma 'Della' LaRoque Stranger 10 Dec 1884 - 20 July 1979; wife of Joseph 'Joe' Stranger; dau. of Charles Alexander and Julia LaDouceur LaRoque; mother of Eliza 'Liza' (Gail) Short and (Fred) Kupcho, Christine (?) Schaefer, Charles Clarence, Fred J.; Lot 49-C

Eliza B. Stranger ? - 20 Jan 1901; is she the dau. of Joseph 'Joe' and Delma 'Della' LaRoque Stranger?; Lot ?

Frank Stranger 24 March 1913 - 25 March 1913; son of Joseph and Della LaRoque Stranger; Lot 1-C

James Stranger 1840 - 30 Nov 1921; is he the hus. of Rose and the father of Joseph, Peter Stranger?; Lot 1-C

Joseph 'Joe' Stranger 17 May 1877 - 20 Dec 1950; hus. of Delma 'Della' LaRoque; son of ?; father of Eliza 'Liza' (Gail) Short and (Fred) Kupcho, Christine (?) Schaefer, Charles Clarence, Fred J.; Lot 2-C

Peter Stranger 1877 - 8 March 1902; Lot 2-C

Rose Stranger 1857 - 28 Feb 1931; Lot 2-C

Dorothy E. Easter Surface 1 Oct 1925 - 7 Oct 2004; wife of Wilmer E. Surface; dau. of William Garfield and Florence Muriel Clinton Easter; mother of Charles (Danna Gayer), Peggy (Willis) Roberts, Pamela (Duane) Giffen; Lot 6-B

Wilmer E. Surface 6 May 1920 - 30 Jan 1998; TEC 5 US ARMY WW II; hus. of Dorothy Easter; son of ?; father of Charles (Danna Gayer), Peggy (Willis) Roberts, Pamela (Duane) Giffen; Lot 6-B

Edwin 'George' Sylvester 3 Jan 1909 - 24 March 1994; hus. of Ida Dorothy Ash; son of Richard T. and Hannah E. Thomson Sylvester; father of Jean, James, Jeffrey; Lot 11-F

Ida Dorothy Ash Sylvester 16 Feb 1915 - 9 May 1968; wife of Edwin 'Geroge' Sylvester; dau. of William and Carrie Amanda Cederholm Ash; mother of Jean, James, Jeffrey; Lot 11-F

baby Symington 1966 - 1966; child of William and Betty Symington; Lot 6-F

baby boy Symington 21 Oct 1967 - 21 Oct 1967; son of William and Betty Symington; Lot 6-F

Donna Belle Jensen Symington 27 May 1924 - 12 Feb 1960; 1st wife of Garth Hughes Symington; dau. of Carl H. Jensen; mother of Garth Jr., Joan Lee, Linda, Tom, Edward; Lot 3-F

Garth Hughes Symington 2 Sept 1919 - 6 Jan 1978; hus. of Donna Belle Jensen and Hazel Isabel Langrell; son of Lyle and Ida Hughes Symington; father of Garth Jr., Joan Lee, Linda, Tom, Edward, Elaine, Mark, Ruth Ann, Esther; Lot 3-F

Joan Lee Symington 3 June 1947 - 12 Dec 1949; dau. of Garth Hughes and Donna Belle Jensen Symington; Lot 3-F

Herb Synder May 1887 - Aug 1900; Lot 62-D

baby girl Thedorf 23 Oct 1904 - 23 Oct 1904; dau. of William and Dorothy Matilda Cridland Thedorf; Lot 63-D

Christopher 'Chris' Thedorf 1843 - 9 Feb 1934; hus. of Sophia Kinse; son of ?; father of William (Dorothy Cridland), Mary, Mathilda, Christopher; Lot 63-D

Dorothy Matilda Cridland Thedorf 1883 - Sept 1965; wife of William Thedorf; dau. of William and Elizabeth Ann Cridland; mother of Doris May, baby girl, Blanch, baby boy, Howard Ross, Marjorie Ann, Flodie Sophia; Lot 63-D

Mathilda Thedorf Sept 1880 - 10 May 1897; dau. of Christopher and Sophie Kinse Thedorf; Lot 63-D

Sophie Kinse Thedorf 1846 - 9 Sept 1931; wife of Christopher 'Christ' Theodorf; dau. of ? Kinse; mother of William (Dorothy Cridland), Mary E., Mathilda, Christopher; Lot 63/64-D

William Thedorf 1873 - 25 Oct 1922; hus. of Dorothy Matilda Cridland; son of ?; father of Doris May, baby girl, Blanch, baby boy, Howard Ross, Marjorie Ann, Flodie Sophia; Lot 63-D

James 'Jimmy' Erick Towner 23 April 1944 - 11 July 1947; son of William and Cecelia Gosselin/Gooselaw Towner; Lot ?

Gordon Charles Turner 14 July 1922 - 3 June 1998; US NAVY WW II; hus. of Elva Ruth Fraley; son of Robert 'Jack' J. and Anne Kothe Turner; father of Jerry, John, Linda; Lot 5-B

Leslie James Turner 25 Nov 1943 - 9 Jan 1944 ; son of Lester John and Marie Anne Parenteau Turner; Lot 62-A

Lester John Turner 24 Aug 1914 - 13 April 1966; hus. of Marie Anne Parenteau - son of Robert 'Jack' J. and Anne Kothe Turner - father of Vaughn, Larry, Robert, Leslie James, Richard, Faye Ann, Judith, Diane Marie, twin girls who died at birth; Lot 62-A

Robert 'Dale' Turner 8 June 1927 - 25 July 1987; PFC US ARMY KOREA; son of Robert 'Jack' J. and Anne Kothe Turner; Lot 5-B

Robert Stanley Turner Aug 1899 - 8 Oct 1899; son of ?

Franklin 'Frank' Thomas Twamley 3 March 1888 - 26 Aug 1957; hus. of Mary Ellen Munro; son of Peter and Mary E. Gillas Twamley; father of Eileen (Harold) Rolsch, Doreen (Howard) Hughes, Mary Ellen (Elmer) Umland, Ivan Peter (Avis Hennisson); Lot 33-D

Ivan Peter Twamley 16 March 1920 - 15 Oct 1958; MN TECH US ARMY WW II; hus. of Avis Marie Hennisson; son of Franklin 'Frank' Thomas and Mary Ellen Munro Twamley; father of David; Lot 2-E

Mary Ellen Munro Twamley 28 Feb 1887 - 31 July 1958; wife of Franklin 'Frank' Thomas Twamley; dau. of Peter and Lucetta Clow Munro; mother of Eileen (Harold) Rolsch, Doreen (Howard) Hughes, Mary Ellen (Elmer) Umland, Ivan Peter (Avis Hennisson); Lot 33 D

Faith Peterson Waldrop 17 Oct 1939 - 18 Nov 1996; wife of Garnet Waldrop; dau. of Carl B. II and Geneva Howe Peterson; mother of Jennifer (Brian) Hanson, Daniel, Gabrielle (Rico) Boursaw; Lot 32 C

Garnet Waldrop 20 May 1929 - 1 March 1993; hus. of Faith Pederson; son of Ernest and Melissa Woods Waldrop; father of Jennifer (Brian) Hanson, Daniel, Gabrielle (Rico) Boursaw; Lot 32 C

Henrietta Franks Walker 21 April 1863 - 21 Jan 1938; wife of James Walker; d. of unknown Franks; mother of Milton, Elva, Beatrice, Vivian; Lot 27-A

James Walker June 1857 - 11 Oct 1933; hus. of Henrietta Franks; son of ?; father of Milton, Elva, Beatrice, Vivian; Lot 27-A

unknown Walker 1862 - Jan 1938; wife of Kenneth Frank Walker; Lot 27-A

Vivian M. Walker 31 March 1887 - 14 July 1969; son of James and Henrietta Franks Walker; Lot 27-A

Calvin John Webster 6 March 1919 - 25 Dec 1962; MN PVT CO K 4 INFANTRY WW II; son of John 'Jack' and Lena Ash Webster; Lot 32-A

Catherine Webster 13 Jan 1874 - 29 Feb 1960; wife of James Webster; dau. of Gilbert McDougall; Lot 54-A

Lena Ash Webster 7 Dec 1887 - 8 May 1974; wife of John 'Jack' Webster; dau. of George and Salomey Dunneral Ash; mother of Iona (Alfred) Schultz, Vernon 'Roy' (?), Calvin John; Lot 21-A

James Webster 7 Oct 1855 - 13 March 1918; hus. of Catherine; son of ?; Lot 54-A

Jean Yvonne Anderson Webster 11 July 1933 - 2 Feb 2002; wife of Rodney Walter Webster; dau. of Harry and Viola Allen Anderson; mother of Gary, Julie, Lori (Mark) Ellison; Lot 20-E

John 'Jack' Webster 15 June 1882 - 20 Dec 1946; hus. of Lena Ash; son of ?; father of Iona (Alfred) Schultz, Vernon 'Roy' (?), Calvin John; Lot 21-A

Peter Young Webster 15 Dec1885 - June 1966; hus. of Mabel ?; Lot 43-A

Vernon 'Roy' Webster 2 July 1928 - 19 Feb 2001; hus. of Vera Greer; son of John 'Jack' and Lena Ash Webster; father of Rob (Carolyn) Webster Guyot, Scott Webster Guyot; Lot 21-A

Bessie Jane McIlraith Wilkie 1 Jan 1923 - 3 May 1993; wife of William H. Wilkie; dau. of Fredrick 'Fred' and Lillian Christina Hokanson/Hawkins McIlraith; father of William 'Bill' Fredrick, James Scott, John Thomas (Susan Christensen), Gary Alan (Kathy Easter); Lot 19-E

William Henry Wilkie 13 Oct 1921 - 18 June 1989; PFC US ARMY WW II; hus. of Bessie Jane McIlraith; son of William and Hattie White Wilkie; father of William 'Bill' Fredrick, James Scott, John Thomas (Susan Christensen), Gary Alan (Kathy Easter); Lot 19-E

baby Wold 30 Sept 1943 - 30 Sept 1943; child of Lester Kermit and Eva Elizabeth Parenteau Wold; Lot 38-C

baby boy Wold 1 May 1937 - 1 May 1937; son of Lester Kermit and Eva Elizabeth Parenteau Wold; Lot 38-C

Eva Elizabeth Parenteau Wold 17 Sept 1907 - 16 May 1985; wife of Lester Kermit Wold; dau. of Moser and Angeline Jerome Parenteau; mother of Patricia 'Patsy' Ann, Rita (George) Arin, baby boy, Lester James, Angela, baby Wold, Henry Mark (Diane Applin), Elizabeth (Darrel) Dahlberg, Michael, Robert 'Bob' (Heidi Kruger); Lot 38-C

Henry Mark Wold 26 July 1942 - 14 Nov 1997; hus. of Diane Joyce Applin; son of Lester Kermit and Eva Elizabeth Parenteau Wold; father of Michelle (?) Walton; Lot ?

Lester Kermit Wold 13 June 1910 - 18 July 1970; hus. of Eva Elizabeth Parenteau; son of Olaf and Mary Iverson Wold; father of Patricia 'Patsy' Ann, Rita (George) Arin, baby boy, Lester James, Angela, baby Wold, Henry Mark (Diane Applin), Elizabeth (Darrel) Dahlberg, Michael, Robert 'Bob' (Heidi Kruger); Lot 38-C

Patricia 'Patsy' Ann Wold 15 June 1935 - 19 Oct 1936; dau. of Lester Kermit and Eva Elizabeth Parenteau Wold; Lot 38-C

Bordertowns: Chapter 3

I dare you, dear readers, to read just the first paragraph below, and not tell me that Chuck Walker is a master storyteller. He knows his subject, and his descriptions bring the time period, places, and people of our region alive. Chuck can write a mean love scene, too...*wink*

I proudly present Chapter 3 of Chuck Walker's Bordertowns...

The distance from Fisher's Landing to the Red River across country was only twelve miles, but by the twisty river the distance was nearly forty. As the river was sinuous, the International seemed to crash from one bank to the other, pausing for minutes to reverse engines, and then proceeding forward. Trees grew to the edge of the bank, scraping stanchions along the deck, leaving broken branches and leaves lying everywhere. Never did the boat go forward for more than a few minutes before contacting the bank, swinging crossways, and sometimes sticking fast. Maggy expressed her feeling pointedly.

"Pat! The captain must have the patience of a saint to absorb this punishment. Will traveling on the Red River be as bad?"

"Naw! We should be out of this river and into the other late this afternoon. The Red's supposed to be a good-sized river, wide enough for a boat with barges."

Long before dark they reached the much larger Red River and proceeded a short distance downstream before tying up. They secured alongside barges loaded with steel rails destined for the new Canadian Pacific Railroad to run between Emerson and Selkirk, in Canada. The barges had been loaded at the rail-end in Moorhead, and then floated downriver over the rapids to Grand Forks. The remainder of that day was spent securing a barge to each side of the boat and loading a supply of cordwood for the boat's boilers.

Ian struck up a conversation with one of the Norwegian crewmen to find they were paid $35 per month. They numbered twenty-two deck hands: The captain, the pilot and other officers. In addition to their work of loading and unloading cargo, each man was required to carry aboard one cord of wood each day, for the boat burned twenty-two cords in the two boilers every working day. Upon a casual inspection of the cargo at the bow of the boat, he noted consignments for the soldiers' fort at Pembina. Stacked high behind this were barrels, boxes and crates of machinery for Emerson, Manitoba. Even further back were massive piles of freight destined for the Hudson's Bay Company and other trade stores at Fort Garry. All had been arranged in convenient groups to facilitate easy unloading at succeeding ports of call. Being a deck hand is not the job for me, Ian thought. Too boring, and what do the men do when winter comes?

Supper that evening was served in the narrow central passageway that ran through the center of the hurricane deck. Maggy deemed it more of a hallway, but it was carpeted and along each wall stood several ornately decorated chairs for the patrons. These were interspaced so that beside each chair was the door to a stateroom. After the meal the dining tables were removed and the long corridor again became a sitting room. The ceiling was high, bridged across with slightly curved beams. A row of narrow skylights extended on either side for the full length of the long corridor. Decorative ropes with huge tassels hung below the coal oil lamps spaced along the ceiling. Here and there were small tables that could be moved at the passengers' convenience.

Their first-class tickets entitled them to three staterooms, which Maggy scorned as broom closets. "Pat, there's barely room to stand, let alone dress. You'll have to take the upper bunk. Two could never fit in these narrow beds."

"Not to worry, Maggy. At least they're nearly three feet wide." Running his hand over the upper bunk, he suddenly laughed. "Wonder how Ian will make out. These beds are not even six feet long." He turned to Maggy; she was smiling too, thinking of Ian's well over six-foot height.

Near midnight ominous claps of thunder became audible, gradually growing closer. Pulsing breezes that rapidly turned to a gale accompanied the sound. The slow sound of raindrops pit-patting on the small window rapidly changed to a steady drumming. Finally a tumult assaulted the roof above.

"What's happening?" Pat awoke with a start.

"It's pouring outside . . . nothing to worry about."

As he dozed off, Patrick thought of his earlier conversation with the captain, of the man's mention that the river was getting mighty low for navigation. He thought of the old saying: "It's an ill wind that blows no good."

The next morning it was still raining and the river had risen appreciably. At 5:30 a.m. they cast off for the Canadian border. Although it continued to drizzle, the wind subsided and the passengers could walk on the covered, exterior hurricane deck without getting wet.

The interior salon, which ran the entire length of the hurricane deck, remained crowded because of the inclement weather. Time played upon Maggy's mind as she noted and chafed at Mary's absence. She brought it to Pat's attention. "She's spending too much time with that boy. I don't want her getting involved at her age."

"Not to worry! The lad is going on to Fort Garry. They'll probably never see each other again."

"I wish I was as sure as you." Maggy was not mollified.

Mary was confused, for golden dreams were invading her mind. The strange feeling of response to Robert had begun in Duluth. Now, standing at the rail, she felt a tingling sensation, for he had put his arm around her waist and was holding her gently. Her sensation was a feeling of bliss and peace. She wanted to be loved and felt that her life was just now beginning. Unwanted warning thoughts came, perhaps orchestrated by her mother over the past years: Let your mind be superior to what your body says! Be strong! Men are weak but won't admit it! Casting unwanted advice from her mind, she raised her face to his. He drew her body tightly to him and kissed her tenderly. For seconds she was captivated, then she pulled away, almost breathless. But wasn't this what she wanted? Hadn't she wondered when this would happen? He was still holding her in a close embrace. Why was she pulling away?

Slowly she thrust loose, her sanity returning. "Oh, Robert, I'm only sixteen. You mustn't even think of loving me." Warning bells rang in her mind and she knew she must fight the feeling in her heart.

As Robert released her, he realized he was committing himself to this young girl. She appealed to his protective instinct and aroused his sense of responsibility. Now he believed he had pushed too hard and frightened her.

Grasping her shoulders gently, he said tersely, "Someday in the future you'll be my wife. I'll wait for you to grow up and mature. We'll be happy together, you'll see! Now, I've got to make my way in the world and build a future for us, but I'll be back. It may take some time, but I will be back." Pulling her warm body close, he kissed her again. She found herself clinging to him fiercely, returning his kiss with fervor.

Late in the afternoon as they approached Fort Pembina, three long echoing blasts of the ship's whistle brought nearly everyone to the outside deck. As they cleared the last bend, the passengers could see a group of soldiers walking down the hill on the west side of the river. When the boat nudged into the shore, wagons from the fort arrived to carry the cargo up the hill. Little could be seen of the fort itself except rooftops of stables on the high bank. The actual unloading at the fort took less than thirty minutes. Then the whistle sounded twice and the boat backed away amid a hissing and puffing of its engines. Minutes later they barely cleared under a telegraph wire that extended across the Red River near the settlement of Pembina.

On the west side of the river a ferry hugged the shore. It was apparent they had just lowered the cable crossing the river, enabling the International to proceed. Passing the mouth of the Pembina River, they swung into the west bank to unload goods at Pembina.

The stop here was brief, and after pulling back into the channel, the crew was kept busy moving cargo forward to the bow of the boat. Soon, just as the ship's whistle again sounded three deep blasts, Ian overheard one of the crew members remark, "We're just crossing into Canada. Emerson is around the next bend." Hearing the comment, he hurried to harness their team of horses.

Emerson had no dock, but the east bank was corduroyed with logs. A road angled down from the crest, leading to a widened, leveled-off space. As the boat swung in to tie-up, spectators came down the hill. With the giant paddle wheel still churning slowly under power to hold the bow of the boat firmly to the shore, the crew began to cast off lines to the barges. The downriver barge was tied ashore and the current swung it snugly to the bank. A team of horses was required to swing the other barge upstream, clear of the boat. These steel rails were to be unloaded for the Emerson end of the new railroad.

Simultaneously with the removal of the barges, the boarding ramp was lowered to the shore and the passengers began to disembark. Maggy and Mike watched apprehensively from shore as preparations were made aboard to move the team and wagon. Robert Douglas had come ashore and was standing to the side, conversing with Mary. For moments it seemed the horses were too frightened to cross the hurriedly placed plank ramp. Their terror forced Ian to jump from the wagon to grasp the bridle of one horse. Patrick reached the opposite horse quickly, and with soothing words the animals were coaxed step by step across the hazardous ramp to the shore.

"Judas! I'm glad that's over!" Ian sounded relieved. "Good thing there were two of us. One man couldn't have done it alone. Lordy, the horses were nervous."

Patrick wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Let's get the family together and hunt up a place for the night."

Just as Ian climbed to the wagon seat, a well-dressed man approached Patrick. "Sir, my name is Thomas Carney. I watched you two manage that wild team. That was bully work!"

"They weren't wild, just nervous. They're young horses." Ian was quick to defend the team.

"Just so. May I ask if you are here as businessmen, or as settlers?"

Patrick noted the man's grey whiskers and balding head before answering. "I'm Patrick McLaren, and this is my son Ian. We're from Orillia, Ontario; we're looking for farmland."

Carney looked pleased. "We've plenty of land. Why don't you camp on the edge of town tonight? The campground is just up the hill and to the south. You can look up the government land agent in the morning; his name is Newcombe. It's too late to do anything tonight." Then he suggested, "Or would you rather stay at Hutchison's Hotel? It's not much, but they have food."

"No, I think we'll camp out. We have plenty of grub and can graze the horses. We'll probably see you again." Patrick was anxious to get his camp set for the night.

"See you later!" Carney raised his hand, and then turned to join other passengers.

It was evident to Maggy that many of the townspeople met the steamboats for the novelty. They apparently judged the financial status of each arrival by their clothes, equipment and furniture. She overheard comments to that effect made by the townspeople, especially the women.

While Ian drove the wagon slowly up the hill, his father and Mike followed on foot. Mary had tarried behind with Robert Douglas. Maggy turned impatiently, just in time to catch the two in an emotional embrace. Pretending not to notice, she turned her head. Moments later she heard Mary's hurried steps as she endeavored to catch up. Casting a quick glance at her daughter, she saw the tears and stricken look on her face.

Upon reaching the crest of the embankment, they noted several tents pitched on the open prairie to the south. "We'll camp there for tonight." Patrick pointed to the field. Ian nodded, and turning the team, selected an area far removed from the nearest tent. Unloading, they made hurried preparations for their camp.

Nightfall settled soon after they completed supper, and darkness found them all seated comfortably around their small campfire. All seemed too excited to seek their beds. "I wish Gramps was here with his fiddle. It'd seem a lot more like home." Mary sounded wistful and a bit homesick.

"Perhaps they'll come in another year or two. This is our home now." Maggy seemed unshakable. Then, turning to Patrick, she asked, "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I'll see the Canadian land agent first thing, and then check with the man representing the Minnesota land. We'll have to find out about a school, also about a church."

"Mary and I can see to the school and church. You and Ian look to the land." Pausing, Maggy looked up at the stars. "It's such a beautiful evening; it's cleared so perfectly that the Big Dipper stands out. Suddenly Patrick heard a distinct slap, then her voice again, "Darned mosquitoes!"

After an early breakfast Patrick took his family on a walking tour through the streets of Emerson. They were amazed to find the town, founded only three years ago, almost as large as Orillia. Every desirable type of store was available: a land titles office, a registry office, even a Masonic and an Orange Lodge. Most of the families lived in tents, but here and there were houses of log or frame construction. Several homes were in various stages of building.

Leaving the men, Maggy and Mary looked for, and found four active churches: a Methodist, Anglican, Baptist and Presbyterian. The latter, they were told, was still in the process of being formed. They also found the schoolhouse, and Maggy introduced herself. The schoolmaster, George Baldwin, was ecstatic to learn of Mary's advanced schooling and of her interest in mathematics. He questioned her at length to determine her qualifications, and then said, "You'll be a welcome addition to our one-man school staff, as I need an assistant. In fact, it's quite possible you may be able to teach in a school of your own in the near future. We're crowded, but will make room for you and your brother." Turning to Maggy, he said, "Alas, your youngest is just too young. Perhaps next year."

Patrick and Ian entered the Registry Office and were greeted by a jovial, florid faced man. "Come in! Come in! What's your pleasure?" The man seemed overeager. "My name is Bill Nash. If you're looking for a place to build, I'm your man!"

Patrick cast a wary glance at the man, suspecting chicanery. Finally he said, "We're looking for information about farm land. Can you help us?"

"That's no problem. First of all you are entitled to a free lot, courtesy of Mr. Carney and Mr. Fairbanks; they founded this town. If you're looking for work, the railroad is hiring anyone and everyone for grading, no questions asked." Then he said optimistically, "I guess you can find work anywhere. There's a dearth of labor."

"I'd be interested in that free lot, but all we have at present is a tent."

"It's all most of the newcomers have. Some don't even have that." Nash broke into a smile.

"We're farmers; we're looking for land."

"Then you need to see the titles agent, George Newcombe. His office is next door. He sold over 150,000 acres of government land last year, and is having a great run this season."

"What's land going for?"

"Well, the Hudson's Bay Company is asking twelve dollars per acre for their land, but the government wants only eight. I believe you can get terms from either."

Both father and son looked disappointed.

Ian spoke up. "I understood two quarter sections of land were available just for the filing fee, and homesteading."

"That's true, but that's land across the border in Minnesota. We can't match those prices."

"Then that's where we'll have to go; our finances are limited." Patrick turned to leave.

Nash looked crestfallen. "We'll hate to lose you; but before you leave, pick a lot from this plat sheet. I'll assign it to you free of charge. Perhaps you'll change your mind. You say you have a tent for your family, so you'll need a temporary spot. Also, we have a school for any children you may have."

"Sounds good," said Patrick. "A place along the border would suit us best, somewhere near our camping spot."

"There's lots of room. How about here, just east of the camp?" Nash slid his finger along the map. "I'll put you down for this one, just north of the boundary. It's #7, and staked on all four corners."

"Thanks! We'll find it."

Turning to leave, they heard Nash's final words. "Ask for Alexander Turner -- he's the land agent in St. Vincent."

Returning to their camp, they spent the remaining time until noon striking their tent and moving to the new lot assigned to them.

After a brief lunch, Patrick, Ian and Jerold drove south on the trail to enter the state of Minnesota. The grass along the dirt trail to St. Vincent was alive with prairie chickens and grouse. Interspersed between trees and brush were occasional patches of grass. At times birds ran along the path ahead of the horses before breaking into flight.

"Pa, we'll never starve here. Why, just look at the deer tracks." Ian marveled aloud.

"Look at those big tracks in the dried mud," Jerold added. They can't be made by cattle."

"Those are moose tracks, son," Patrick observed. "This land once belonged to the Indians. No wonder they didn't want to give it up."

Jerold interjected, "But Pa wasn't it bought from them in '63, by treaty?"

"Yup, and that's why they had to establish Fort Pembina. The Indians and Métis sold out and each got scrip for 160 acres. Trouble was, they sold the scrip for little or nothing to the traders, and then they wouldn't leave the land. In fact, they caused so much trouble with the settlers that the military had to be called to boot them out. I've heard they're still raising a ruckus with settlers in the Pembina hills, west of here. Oh, there were other reasons to bring in the soldiers: the Sioux began raiding close by in '68, and then Riel aroused the half-breeds in '70."

"Pa, why do they call the breeds Métis at times?" Jerold was puzzled.

Patrick mused thoughtfully. "Son, Métis is the French word for breeds of French-Indian mix. The English still call them half-breeds or breeds. Reflectively, he added, "Come to think of it, the word Métis sounds better."

Angling onto St. Vincent's main thoroughfare, they observed a narrow lake to the south. Scores of ducks could be seen. The lake seemed to extend far out of sight behind huge trees.

On the right side of the road men were clearing brush and cutting timber, making way for the future railroad yard of the Saint Paul and Pacific. The road from Crookston to Emerson was to be completed by the year-end of '78 to connect with the Canadian Pacific Railway, now under construction between Emerson and Selkirk.

Nearing the river, they by-passed a tent camp, and then approached several buildings along the west side of the load.

"Look, Pa! There's a lumber yard," Jerold observed. Patrick was gazing in contemplation at two men setting fence posts on one side of the road. "Ian, stop and we'll speak with them."

The rumbling of the wagon drew the men's attention, and they both looked up expectantly.

"Beg pardon! Can you tell us where to find the land agent, Turner?"

The nearer man was lanky, clean-shaven, with a weathered face covered with wrinkles. He studied Patrick for moments before pointing toward his companion. "He's Turner, I'm Joe McCaffery.

Turner thrust back his hat and approached the wagon. He was tall and thin¹, with a long goatee. "What's up?"

"I'm Patrick McLaren and these are my sons, Ian and Jerold. I hear tell you can put us onto some homestead land."

The land agent hesitated, as if in thought. Turning to his companion, he said, "Joe, we both need a rest. Hook up the horse. Damned if I'm going to ride in that wagon with them."

Turning back to Patrick, he smiled. "No insult intended, but you've only got one spring seat on that wagon. My buggy fits my rear end a lot better." Then he said reflectively, "The railroad is supposed to get all the odd-numbered sections for six miles on each side of the track, so that cuts the choice of land. Up to now they aren't selling -- guess they can't until they get the railroad in operation. What land I represent is all prime, with plenty of black loam. The quarters are scattered though, due to what has already been taken up. Do you understand the requirements? You get a quarter section by homesteading and a quarter by preemption."

As Patrick nodded, Turner added, "It'll take a few moments to get my map."

Upon his return he removed a pencil from a pocket to point out details on the sketch. "Now this section is nearby; these two are about two miles away; the rest are along the border." He glanced at Ian, "How old are you, son?"

Ian sensed disaster. "I'm nineteen."

"Too bad. You won't be eligible until you're twenty-one." Turning back to Patrick, he asked, "I assume you'll want land close to town."

Patrick nodded seriously, "Within reason."

Just then McCaffery returned with a single-seated Democrat, pulled by a large bay. Turner advised, "You and your boys follow us. We'll take a shortcut around the slough to section 12, then cut across to the other land. All of the quarters are well marked -- just surveyed this spring. If you can't find land to suit you by four o'clock, we'll try again tomorrow."

He tugged on the gold chain that hung across his vest, releasing his pocket watch. Glancing at it, he smiled. "I promised Johnny Kabernagle to meet him at his place in Pembina for supper and a game of billiards." Grinning, he added, "He fancies himself a pool shark, but I'll take his coin!" Then his manner changed, "We'll have to push hard this afternoon."

It took less than two hours for Patrick to pick two quarters of land, two adjoining quarters lying just southeast of town. Using a shovel from his wagon, he had tested the depth of the loam in several places. Nowhere could he find the depth of the rich, black topsoil less than 12 inches.

Turner sat quietly in his buggy as he watched his client dig. He seemed amused at Patrick's diligence. Finally he commented, "Mighty fine land, isn't it?"

Patrick grinned at Ian and Jerold. "Sure suits me." Turning to the agent he questioned, "That bush along the river -- is it included in this quarter?"

"Yup. Reckon there's about 25 acres of woodland. Plenty of trees to build a cabin, and for your firewood."

"No log cabin for us. We'll build a frame house when the time comes."

Ian felt depressed, almost wishing he had lied his age. Turner's final remarks brought expectations.

"Half of the settlers won't keep their land after proving up. They'll sell their improvements for a small amount, and then move on." He looked to Ian. "It'll be legal to pick it up by paying their price. Also, the railroad will be selling their grant land as soon as they get title. They don't care how old you are. Money talks! Further south of us, the St. Paul & Pacific² has been selling on yearly payments, making it easier to buy. I don't expect they'll change that policy." He concluded, "I'll register these quarters and submit your application and fee of $15. You can pay me now and move onto the land at your convenience."

After accepting Patrick's registration fee, he laboriously made out a receipt, wetting the lead of his stub pencil repeatedly with his tongue. "Good thing you're paying the filing fee in hard coin. Most paper money is worthless around here." Tearing the receipt from the pad, he handed it to Patrick. "Don't lose the slip. It's your only proof of purchase until I can get it recorded. You'll have to come to the office soon to sign the papers."

"Can we cut our winter's wood from the river quarter?" asked Patrick.

"Sure, it's your land now. So long." He stepped up into his buggy, turning the horse back toward town.

It was late in the afternoon when they returned to Emerson. The return trip was enlivened by rapid and enthusiastic conversation. Jerold was the silent listener. The older men could hardly contain their jubilation at the ease with which the quarters had been acquired. They knew that the preemption quarter required a payment of $1.25 per acre, but they had thirty-three months to comply with that payment.

"We should break your ten acres as soon as possible," Ian suggested eagerly.

"Yup, but first we need to buy a plow, maybe even another team of horses or mules."

"Why don't we work for the railroad the rest of the summer?" Ian replied. "I heard mention that they need horses for grading the right-of-way. Why not buy another team and let the railroad pay for them? I've saved over 100 pounds sterling from the smithing; that's over $500 out here. I'll pay for the plow and team."

"Pa," Jerold broke in. "I can do the plowing if you'll get me a team. Then you can both start working right off."

Patrick and Ian exchanged amused glances for a moment; then both realized the wisdom of his offer. "You think you can handle it, son? It's no easy job." Patrick was thinking it just might work.

"Sure, Pa. I saw several plows at that Ashdown's Hardware, and one is a dandy. It's a St. Paul Star, a riding sulky, with a cutting coulter and a 12-inch breaking bottom. I think it has a three-horse evener, but maybe our team can handle it."

Patrick put his arm around Jerold's shoulder and smiled. "O. K., son, in for a penny, in for a pound." At that moment they arrived at the open gate at the border and turned to their corner lot. "We'll think it over and decide tomorrow." Patrick seemed complacent.

Mary approached the slowing wagon excitedly. "Oh, Pa, I have a job!" She seemed overjoyed and was dancing from one foot to the other. "Mr Baldwin, the schoolmaster, was here this afternoon. He said the school board will pay me eight dollars a month to help teach. I'm to instruct in arithmetic." She smiled proudly, "Why, I don't even have a certificate to teach yet!"

Maggy approached with a well-pleased look, "What do you think of your daughter now, Pat? Is she too young?"

He stepped down to the wagon hub, then dropped to the ground to clasp Mary in a hug. "Colleen, it's proud of you I am." Turning to Maggy, he exclaimed, "We'll all be working soon; we've finally gotten our land."

She looked at him incredulously.

"It's true! We came here to seek land and a new life. Now we've got the land and can move onto it whenever we want!"

Maggy stepped forward and grasped him in a joint hug with Mary. Ian and Jerold exchanged amused glances. Young Mike seemed puzzled by their enthusiasm.

______________

¹ - NOTE from Trish: Knowing the Turner family as anyone from my area does, I can vouch for this description of a Turner...tall AND thin!

² - The earliest predecessor railroad to the GN was the St. Paul & Pacific Railroad, which Hill purchased in the late 19th century. He formed the Great Northern Railroad in 1889 merging the StP&P with the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway and Montana Central Railroad. - FROM Great Northern Railway (U.S.) history

Smalltown Baseball in the Deadball Era

St. Vincent vs. Oslo (at Oslo)

 [Photo provided from Maurice Godon collection]

St. Vincent baseball team (on right), from left to right are:

Scott Mathews
Gertz Rondeau
Dick Cleem
Lewis Gooselaw
Naz Gooselaw
Eppo Gooselaw
Wilfe Bouleau (sp?)
Art Clinton
Billy Maxwell
Harve Cleem
Lester Turner
Jack Turner (Coach) - "He was the manager of the St.Vincent baseball team. His team played teams from within a 100 mile radius, even up into Canada. His team was undefeated in the twelve years he managed this team. Their toughest opponent was Oslo, Minnesota." - From historical essay John Turner, Pioneer Farmer And Mail Carrier by Owen Symington (1975)

I plan to nominate Eli Gooselaw for the Minnesota Amateur Baseball Hall of Fame. The only problem I can see is having complete accurate information on his career. I will continue to look for it myself, but if anyone reading this either knows specifically about Eli's career, or where to look for such information, please leave a comment here on this post (and many thanks in advance!)

Mike's Memories: Town Ball

After the First World War, Manitoba became a preferred destination for barnstorming  ball teams from the United States. All professionals, these American teams would roll through towns and villages throughout the province playing local amateur and semi-pro squads and often, the barnstormers got themselves whupped.

From:  Home Run

My earliest memories were going to baseball games on hot summer evenings. My home town of Humboldt, Minnesota had first rate baseball teams in the 1920s and 1930s. The entire town would follow the town ball team.

The early teams featured the Diamond brothers: Levi, Herb, and Ikey. Lomas Matthews was another legendary track star and baseball player who hailed from Humboldt. Happy Chandler, later to become the baseball commissioner and Senator from Kentucky played one summer for Humboldt.

Another early legendary player from the Humboldt team was Cal Farley who, like most of the other ball players on the 1910 team, was also interested in track and wrestling and went on to form Cal Farley's Boys Ranch in Texas. The U.S. Government honored him by printing a U.S. stamp named for him. The 1920 team also shows many of the players.

During the late 1940s and early 1950s, Humboldt had an excellent travelling team.

My Dad played first base and my Uncle Burton Turner was a pitcher. Burton's father, Ernest Turner, was a legendary pitcher. Many of the stories of early Humboldt baseball are well documented on this web site.

Who was the greatest player in Kittson County History? Some might say Ernie Turner, Happy Chandler, the Diamond boys, or Clarence Beck. [Note from Trish:  And don't forget Eli Gooselaw...] We don't have videos and it is impossible to compare players across generations. My candidate for player of the Millennium for the County is Humboldt's own native son, Scott Matthew.

Bordertowns: Chapter 4

Dear Readers:

The chapter you are about to read, is very special. Once you read it, you'll understand. It is full of details of what life would have been like in our area 130+ years ago. But it gets better. Not only does the author draw a vivid picture of what life was like, but he brings it alive with amazing characterizations of the very kind of individuals that created our communities. They could be our grandparents, or great grandparents. Read on, and lose yourself in the next chapter of Bordertowns, by the one and only Charles Walker... ____________________
The next morning Patrick and Ian applied for work at the railroad contractor's shanty, and were hired to start work at seven o'clock the following morning. The job called for a ten-hour day and a six-day week, scraping dirt from either side of the survey stakes to build up the right-of-way for the rails. Each man was to receive $1.50 per day, but as Patrick furnished his own team, he was to receive an extra $2.00 each day.

That same afternoon Ian and Patrick purchased a sulky plow at the Ashdown Hardware and successfully dickered for three mules and their harness at Vance's Livery in Emerson. Ian's selection of a riding horse took more time, seeing they had to attend the corral at West Lynne to make that purchase. With his father's guidance, Ian selected a nearly coal-black gelding, a bit over four years of age, standing nearly fifteen hands.

At first, both Patrick and Maggy felt like strangers while attending the Presbyterian Church service. Reverend John Scott put them at ease with his comment after the service. "It seems strange we Presbyterians have to hold our service in the Baptist Church, but it's only temporary, until we can build. Why, the younger members are already planning a concert to raise money for an organ." He leaned to Maggy's ear and whispered, "Some of the elders don't approve, but I do like music."

Maggy grinned conspiratively, "More power to them. Pastor, and I like music too!"

That Sunday afternoon Patrick and Ian assisted Jerold in striking off furrows on the new land in Minnesota. One week later, Jerold completed plowing slightly more than the required ten acres. He also plowed a good-sized garden by their tent, which Maggy and Mary hoed fine and seeded to vegetables.

Inexperienced at letter writing, Maggy determined to write Patrick's father and mother, outlining their present situation. When she finished the letter she was dissatisfied, for it seemed dull and commonplace.

Emerson
June 22, l877

Dear Father and Mother,

We made the trip in only eight days and had no trouble. All people we contacted were helpful. People are different here! Our total cost was $105 for the boat. $70 was for our passage and $35 for the team and wagons. We were four days and nights until arriving in Duluth and were fortunate in getting a small cabin. The boys slept outside for the weather was good.

We are living in Canada along the line fence that separates us from the state of Minnesota. It is only a short walk to the Red River where the steamboats run every day, and the fishing is good, if you have the time. We see the United States soldiers from the fort for they often ride along their side of the fence. They are friendly, and wave to us, especially to Mary!

Pat got two quarters of land in Minnesota and Jerold broke ten acres on it this past week. We wouldn't have had to do anything to it this year, but we are hurrying.

Everyone gets a town lot in Emerson for free. It is to encourage people to build here. There are settlers here from Orillia and Beaverton, Irishers and lots of Scots. You have never seen such soil! Anything will grow!

Mary is well thought of and boys and men come by often. She is to begin teaching at the school. The people here are different, and you are treated nasty like in dirty Orillia. We hope to build a house before fall, and then, when we move to the land in the States, sell it.

The nearest post office is at the Hudson Bay post at West Lynne, just across the river, to the west.

Hope this finds you in the best of health. Write soon.

Maggy

Maggy and Mary had little idle time. They were up at dawn to feed the men, then after tending to household chores, worked in their two huge gardens. Their vegetable plots required constant weeding for the native grasses were difficult to eradicate. They had acquired the second garden, planted mostly to potatoes, when Patrick found a house for rent. When a month passed and no word came from Patrick's father and mother, Maggy began to worry. With Mary's help she composed a second letter:

Emerson
July the 26, l877

Dear Father and Mother,

Why haven't you answered the letter I wrote to you a few days after our arrival here? We have been expecting a letter every day, and are worried. We are all well, but uneasy about you.

Nothing could induce us to leave this area. This is the best country we've ever seen! We rented a house for the remainder of the summer and for the winter. (Instead of building) The owner left a large garden, mostly planted to potatoes. The rent is $25 for each three months.

Food prices seem high at present. Flour is from $2.50 to $3.00 a hundred, eight pounds of sugar for $1.00, tea the same as there, butter 16 cents a pound, eggs 15 cents a dozen, and cordwood $3.00 a cord. The wood comes in four-foot lengths, either oak or ash.

Patrick and Ian are working for the C.P.R. contractors, grading roadbed. The people here call the Canadian Pacific Railway the C.P.R. Jerold is now working in the brickyard, getting a dollar and a quarter a day. Mary is teaching at the school and I am holding everything together.

Mr. Nash, the lawyer at the Canadian Registry office, says I am eligible, the same as the men, for a land grant in Minnesota. He seems to know much about the land on the States' side. There is a quarter near the border not spoken for. Patrick will see to it, but says it is quite far away, to the east. I will have to go with him to sign the papers. Jerold says he will plow the necessary five acres, but it's too late to crop it this year.

We bought a new stove for $20; it holds enough wood to last all night. Furniture is high here, so much so that we do without. We have not even a chair, but have made benches.

The land is so rich. Why people in Orillia with their big gardens would get l00 bushels of potatoes if here. Most families have only two cows and a garden, yet they live well. Our cabbage plants are growing fast and strawberries and raspberries are plentiful. Small Mike made himself four dollars picking raspberries and selling them for 25 cents a quart. We stayed too long in Orillia!

Already we have four churches, two taverns, four stores, a Masonic Lodge and an Orange Lodge. There is nothing we want that we can't get in this town. We are getting two railways next year, the C.P.R. from Winnipeg and the St. Paul and Pacific that Jim Hill is building from Crookston. They are to connect here. It is told a big railway yard is to be built in St. Vincent, just two miles south of us. They have already cleared the land for it.

Steamboats plying between Winnipeg and Fisher's landing stop here, usually four boats each day. We could have driven our team and wagon overland from Crookston, but the riverboat was quicker. Fishing is good in the river and the Indians and breeds are anxious to sell us fish.

The oats Jerold planted on the acres he plowed are already showing well. We will cut it for winter hay as Patrick plans on buying two or three cows before the winter sets...

After completing her second letter to Patrick's father and mother, Maggy's days seemed to fly by. The land agent, Alex Turner¹, helped her secure 160 acres of Minnesota land in her name, although the quarter was several miles to the east. At the time Patrick remarked that it was too far away, but the agent suggested, "Hang onto it, and prove up each year. Eventually someone will come along and offer you a good price."

It took her only a few weeks to realize that heritage seemed to enter into the world of success. Although the Irish outnumbered the Scots in Emerson, Maggy noted the Scots worked and saved. The Irish, on the other hand, seemed content to hang around the local taverns, singing and brawling, constantly arguing about religion.

Maggy rightly guessed Mary's growing listlessness was due to her lack of a letter from Robert; each day her daughter asked about the mail. Gradually her expectations faded and she seemed to withdraw within herself, seldom speaking unless spoken to. Then, in her obvious loneliness, whenever possible she began to meet the steamboats traveling south.

Her days had been full until mid-July when school was dismissed for the summer. Now she was worrying herself sick because of Robert's lack of communication. He had made her feel so special and she had enjoyed feelings she'd never felt before. As each day passed, another small doubt entered her mind and her imagination ran wild. Had he been sincere in what he said, or was it his manner with every girl? Certainly he had met many other attractive women in Ottawa, Montreal and Quebec. Also, he apparently came from a moneyed and well-placed family. Had she been just another conquest? Was she to have her hopes dashed? She pondered, 'Why can't I just forget him and get on with my life?'

It was the last day of July when Mary chanced to meet the Ashdown wagon returning from West Lynne. The driver pulled his rig over and called, "You're Mary McLaren, aren't you? I've a letter addressed to you; it's from Winnipeg."

Sorting through a box beside him, he added, "Mr. Winkler of our store asked me to pick up the Emerson mail while on my delivery. It's foolishness to continue this driving across the river to the Hudson's Bay Post to get the mail. We need a post office in Emerson."

She felt a wild surge of excitement as he handed her the letter. Then, as the man drove on, she hastily tore open the missive. Strange sensations overwhelmed her, almost to the point of breathlessness as she withdrew the several pages. Nagging doubts that had accumulated miraculously vanished as she opened the folds.

Cross Lake, Manitoba,
July 18, l877

Dearest Mary,

I was hired by the C.P.R. contractor the day of my arrival in Winnipeg and left the next morning for the east. Surveys were run here years ago but no one really considered the difficulty of the swamps and muskeg. As fast as we build a roadbed it disappears, literally sinking out of sight. It is there at nightfall, but gone the next morning, as if swallowed by magic. Everyone is frustrated to see thousands upon thousands of tons of gravel and rock sink out of sight into an apparently bottomless swamp. We are working between Cross Lake and Rat Portage now, plagued by mosquitoes. Fortunately, the black flies are dwindling, their season nearly past.

The corruption, nepotism and favoritism of the contractors and their political friends are beyond belief. I believe much of the money appropriated for the railway is pocketed. (Please do not mention it further, for my opinion could cost me my job.) Best I not complain, for the final surveying is not difficult. Oh, I take my turn at cutting brush as do the rodmen and chainmen, but I don't have to do really heavy labor. Yet, I have a problem leveling a transit while standing chest deep in water. My hands and feet look like prunes at night. It's no wonder the workers take to drink. Keeping the men sober is a monumental task.

Our men are Irish, Scots, French-Canadians, Americans, Icelanders, Swedes, Norwegians, English, Mennonites, Breeds and other races, all struggling to put through the roadbed. I fear it will be three or four years before the final steel will be laid.

My pay is now $60 a month; I've proven myself. My supervisor is named Armstrong; he is a fellow surveyor, an exceptional man.

Darling, I will see you sometime this winter when work slows down. Just now there are no other qualified surveyors available. We are all working long hours; night finds me too exhausted to do else..."

She was impatient to get to their personal relationship. She gasped when she came upon the first part:

"I wrote my parents about meeting you, and of your gentleness and beauty. Oh yes, and of my plans for you. They support me, even though I disappointed them by moving west."

Deeper into the letter, she felt her face warming and found herself actually blushing at his exciting prose. After reading the letter a second time, she carefully refolded the pages into the envelope, and then tucked it into her dress, tight against her breast. Walking back home, she felt a wondrous sensation. Hers was a kingdom of dreams and bliss. Most of the first portion of the letter she would disclose to her folks, but the latter pages would remain her delicious secret.

Finally a letter arrived from Patrick's father and mother. Maggy's mind was eased. The pages passed from hand to hand until they were limp and wrinkled. After a long morning spent working in the garden, she sat down to answer.

Emerson
July 30, 1877

Dear Father and Mother,

We received your letter today and were glad to hear of your being well, as this leaves us enjoying the same blessing. It has been so long that we had nearly given up on you.

Emerson is still our home and we will winter here. Pat plans to build on our farm in Minnesota next summer, that is, if he can find the time. Both he and Ian are working long hours for the C.P.R. Next summer they will lay the sleepers and steel rails. (The wood cross ties under the rails are called sleepers by the crews here.) Hopefully the trains will run by late fall of '78. Work on the other side of the line from Warren, Minnesota, to St. Vincent seems slow. Still it is said that end of the line will be completed first. Of course it was already graded to Warren, Minnesota in '72, so they haven't as far to go. When the road is finished to Winnipeg, it's expected that hordes of settlers will come from the east and Europe. Most of the land hereabouts in Minnesota is taken, except for what the St. Paul and Pacific Railroad owns, and is to sell in the future. And that is a great amount of land!

Jerold works for McRae and Ferguson, who own the brick factory. He has just turned 14 years. We depend upon him as much as we do Pat and Ian. He is almost as tall as Pat and still growing, very muscular and strong. I believe he will outstrip both Pat and Ian.

I am proud of our family and especially proud of Ian. He helped keep the wolf away while we were in Orillia, and now he is his own man. He plans on buying land when the railroad sells, for he does not qualify for a grant due to his age. Pat will help Jerold get land at the same time. Both of our older boys have grown to be courteous and kind men, no drinkers. Yet, neither will accept any abuse. The town girls are after Ian, but he seems to have no favorite.

Pat purchased three fine cows just yesterday; two are milking and one is to calf in September. This is free-range country, meaning cattle can roam anywhere, but if they get into someone's garden or crops, they can be seized until damages are paid. Mike is now our herder, with Mary to assist. Jerold will cut the oats on our acreage as soon as it gets high enough for hay. It was seeded very late. Oh, you can get thousands of tons of prairie hay if you wish. All you have to do is cut and stack it. Hay is everywhere.

There is a great demand for milk, butter and vegetables. We plan on more cattle when we move to the farm. The half-breeds are the only ones selling garden stock; nobody else has time. Of course most families have small gardens for the table.

The climate here in summer is the same as back home. Our garden is flourishing, as the Lord has been generous with rain. You've never seen better potatoes or cabbages. There are fine cows here, brought up from the south. Food prices are dropping, flour $2.50 per hundred, sugar 10 pounds for a dollar and the best beef steak only 10 cents a pound. We have a new gristmill, another tavern, three blacksmith shops and six new stores. Most of our wash water comes from the Red River, hauled by cart. Mary and I save the soft rain water from the roof to wash our hair.

Mike has a pet baby badger that Jerold found in the field. It follows Mike everywhere like a puppy dog and does not bite. In fact, except for its waddling action, it acts almost like a dog.

Now is my sad, or rather good news. You are the first to know. I am three months along with a baby. Foolish me, thinking there would be no more. I haven't had the courage to tell Pat yet, but perhaps tonight. He is working such long hours and so hard I dread breaking the news. I know he didn't plan on any more children.

Don't throw away your spare looms. If you come here I might make some rag carpets.

Maggy

Patrick found the first few days of walking behind his team and handling the heavy horse scraper trying. Glancing toward Ian, he saw no slackness there. Although his body glistened with sweat, his son handled his team and scraper with ease. Ian's long, muscular legs and effortless stride made the work look easy.

Lordy, Patrick thought, it's simple for a young man! I ache in every joint. Still, I'm glad we left Orillia. Why, Maggy took to this move without a complaint, and not a murmur from either Jerold or Mary. Even small Mike thought the trip was a lark. He twisted his shoulders to slip his sweat-soaked shirt from under his armpits where it was binding.

Though he longed for a smoke, the two horses demanded his full attention. Slapping the reins on the rumps of his team, he encouraged them to climb the embankment. Suddenly the scent of his own perspiration reached his nostrils and he realized how rank he smelled. A little like a polecat, he thought. Yet, two more years of picking up extra work and we'll be independent -- then to hell with the railroad!

Already he could vision golden wheat, chest high, each head holding sixty kernels. And now the railroad was being built just in time to haul future wheat crops to the mills in St. Paul.

At noon he joined Ian for their sandwiches and cold tea. Many of the men carried only large pails of beer made at the West Lynne Brewery. It was strong and cheap, costing only fifteen cents for a six-quart pail.

"Long morning," he commented to Ian.

"A longer afternoon coming." Ian's face bore a wry grin. "Trouble is, this long day leaves us little time to work on the land."

"Jerold is keeping up."

"Pa, we can't push too much on him. He's just turned fourteen." Then he said morosely, "I hope the foreman will give me another team soon. The horses I'm driving are old and played out. I hate to force these old plugs beyond their strength."

A man resting nearby spoke up. "That boss is a miserable bastard. He won't give you anything. Seems all he wants is to work us from can see, to can't see. Hell, if his head was full of gunpowder and he had a match, he couldn't even blow his nose."

Another man broke in, "That crooked-necked whore's son hates himself!"

Patrick made no comment because their foreman was new on the job, having come down from Winnipeg. The man was huge, with a dour look that brooked no sass. He walked with a swagger, was curt with the crew and did no work himself. His only effort was to shout and curse at the men as he sat on an unused scraper, his jaw busy with a cud of tobacco. His neck deformity added to his formidable appearance.

"Time! Time! Back to work!" The cry came along the line.

As Ian stood and turned toward his team, he said, "Pa, I'll be late to supper tonight. Look at this," he added ruefully. As he held up one boot, the sole dropped limply. "Have to get new boots. Can't use these any longer."

"Stay away from the girls!" Patrick joshed as he arose.

Looking back over his shoulder, Ian grinned.

Ian was absent when they sat to the table that evening. When the last platter of food was placed and Maggy and Mary sat down, Patrick offered a short grace. Maggy glanced around, and then said nervously, "Before we eat, I have an announcement to make. I'm going to have a young one this winter."

For seconds there was a total silence. Then Patrick broke into loud laughter. Mary and the two boys were stunned and looked at their Father as if he had gone mad. Shocked at his action, Maggy stormed, "And what are you laughing at, you bloody clown?"

"Faith now!" He began to wipe his eyes. "I wondered how long it would take you to tell me. My gosh, Maggy, did you think you could hide that from me when we sleep together every night?"

Relief soared through her like a cooling breeze. "Then you're not disappointed?"

He smiled as he looked around at the others. "Why no, 'Course you're getting a bit long in the tooth to have another, but we'll manage." Suddenly he was serious. "We'll have to take mighty good care of you."

She protested, "I'm as strong as a horse. There's naught wrong with me."

As Jerold and Mike began to smile, Mary broke in, "Oh, Mother, a sister I hope!"

"Naw, I want a brother!" Mike spoke up forcefully. Jerold stood, walked over to his nother, and bent to kiss her cheek. Then he said quietly, "Congratulations are in order, Mother. We'll be happy, boy or girl."

¹ - Alexander Turner (as the majority of the characters in Chuck's stories are) was a very real person who settled, lived, and died in St. Vincent. Alex was born February 14, 1832 in Tweed, Berwickshire, Scotland4, and died September 21, 1917 in St. Vincent, Kittson Co., Minnesota. He married Margaret Purvis February 23, 1849 in Bunkle & Preston, Berwickshire, Scotland. She was born July 16, 1827 in Berwickshire,Scotland, and died July 18, 1905 in Kittson Co., Minnesota.

An article in the St. Vincent New Era on October 5, 1917 reads:

Mr. Alexander Turner died at his home in this village and 5 o'clock, on Friday, Sept. 21st, 1917, age 85 years, 7 months, and 7 days. Deceased was born in Berwickshire, Scotland. He immigrated the Eastern Canada in 1851 and came to the
United States in 1867. He lived in Goodhue County, Minnesota, for several years prior to his coming to this section in 1876. Deceased was one of the first settlers in this part of Kittson County. What is now the Blair farm was his homestead. In the seventies and early eighties, Mr. Turner acted as homestead locator for those seeking government land in this section. In 1909, he moved into this village to enjoy the fruits of his many years of hard labor. He was a man of strong convictions, candid, outspoken, fearless and honorable. He was a big factor in the development of this section in the early days, being closely identified by public affairs and a hard worker in securing homesteads for any who were seeking land homes. He was the father of seven children, six of whom are living, viz: Robert John, William and James Turner of St. Vincent and Alexander and David Turner of Emerson, and Mrs. C.E. Johnson of Ellsworth. Wisconsin. One daughter Jessie, died while yet a child. The funeral service was held at the residence in this village, at 2 P.M. Sunday. The Rev. Avlward of the Emerson Presbyterian church, in charge. The remains were interred in the Emerson cemetery beside those of his wife, who preceded him several years.

More About Alexander Turner:
Burial: September 25, 1917, Emerson, Manitoba, Canada
Cause of Death: General Exhaustion
Occupation: Farmer, land assessor
Politics: Republican
Religion: Presbyterian
Residence: 1910, St. Vincent Twp, Kittson, Minnesota

BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 11

Although there was only a slight breeze that morning, the previous days storm had cast several large drifts across the road to the fort. Ian’s horse disliked the deep drifts and instinctively began leaping into them, the plunging almost dislodging him. The extreme cold brought tears to his eyes and he could feel the skin on his face tighten. Once again he found himself knotting his scarf tightly around his high collar. He could feel the warmth and strength of his horse under him, causing him to tighten his legs against the animal. Entering the fort gate, he turned toward the headquarters building.

Concerned about leaving his gelding in the wind, he was agreeably surprised to find the entrance side of the building in the lee, sheltered from the now increasing northern gusts. After wrapping the reins around the tie rack, he stopped momentarily to examine the mercury thermometer mounted outside the door. It confirmed his estimate of the extreme cold, for it indicated -36 degrees. He felt a personal satisfaction, for he had guessed it to be nearly -40 degrees below zero.

Opening the heavy door, he found Kirby conversing with an officer seated at a desk. A corporal, evidently the Charge of Quarters, sat by a heavy sheet-iron stove. He cast a brief glance at Ian, then he turned back to his book. The seated lieutenant arose hastily and greeted him with a smile. “So you’re Mary McLaren’s brother. Kirby tells me you witnessed the hangings yesterday. I’m Shawn Kirkpatrick.” He advanced to shake Ian’s hand.

“He’s her brother, that’s for sure.” Kirby was smiling. “He was an unwilling spectator at the action yesterday, so I wanted Captain Collins to hear his version. It’s my mess. I should have left some of my troopers with that bunch.”

Kirkpatrick sympathized, “I’d probably have done just as you. There was no way you could have anticipated the result.”

“I still blame myself,” Kirby said, and then he turned to Ian. “Might as well get it over with.” Beckoning with his finger, he advanced to the captain’s door. Ian followed. A brief knock brought the response, “Come in!”

Captain Collins was gazing out of a partially frosted window as they entered; he was leaning forward almost to the glass, evidently watching something of interest outside. He finally broke away and faced the two men. As Kirby introduced Ian, the captain began to smile.

“I met your parents and your sister at the Christmas Ball. They seem determined to settle in our country.”

“Yes, my father has filed on a homestead in Minnesota across the river from the fort. I couldn’t file; I’ve another year to go. I’m hoping to buy two quarters from the Saint Paul and Pacific Railroad when they put their acreage on the block.”

“I’m told they will begin selling soon, possibly when the road reaches the border. Please take a seat and tell me just what transpired yesterday. I understand you accompanied the men who hung those horse thieves.” He moved to his desk and sat down, indicating to Ian to sit opposite. Kirby was left standing on tenterhooks.

Ian related how he and Pete had met the posse, and then backtracked to show Kirby where they had seen the fugitives. He described the actions of the fort teamsters and the town men. “I don’t want to be the cause of trouble. Back in Ontario a horse thief would face the whipping post or a jail sentence, but not be hung.”

“Yes, but in the past it’s been considered a capital offense, especially in the Southwest. Now, it’s a penitentiary offense if convicted by a court. I’m responsible for bringing law and order to this section of the Dakotas, with the assistance of the sheriff and federal marshals of course. This business of men taking the law into their own hands has to be stopped.” Turning to Kirby, he chided, “At least now you’ve learned not to put too much trust in civilians. Sad, too, for now I’ll have to fire that man, Murphy. He’s only been on the job a few days; still, I’ll not have my officer’s orders disregarded.”

He suddenly arose, facing Kirby, his expression hardening. “Mr! Have Kirkpatrick bring the fort teamsters to my office at eleven o’clock this morning. I want you to see Sheriff Brown at Pembina immediately and give him an account of yesterday. I can do nothing about those town ruffians; I have no authority over them. In fact, I doubt Brown can take any action against them either. There were just too many men involved. However, if any of our teamsters are ever involved in anything as dastardly in the future, I’ll replace them all.” He stepped forward and opened the door of his office, effectively dismissing them.

Kirkpatrick looked up apprehensively as they approached his desk. Kirby shook his head negatively. “Status quo. Guess I’m off the hook. The captain wants you to have the teamsters in his office by eleven this morning. They’ll get a chewing! I’m ordered to go to town and inform the sheriff of the affair.”

“I’ll bet Sheriff Brown has already heard all of the gory details. Exciting news travels fast.” Kirkpatrick seemed positive.

Kirby turned to Ian with a wry smile. “Thanks to you, I’ve gotten off pretty easy. The captain is not always this generous. Want some company on your ride back to town? It’ll just take a few minutes to have my horse brought around.” He motioned to the Charge of Quarters, who reluctantly arose, put on his coat and slipped out the door.

“Sure! I’ve never been to the Brown and Kabernagle store, but I’ve met Charley. He seems a solid sort.”

“Yup, he soldiered for years, finally resigning from the Army two years ago to run for the office of sheriff. He enlisted in the war at the age of sixteen.” Reflectively he added, “It was quite common for youngsters to enlist in those days; there was so much poverty. Then, too, of course, youngsters joined for the excitement.”

The main street of Pembina seemed bleak when they reached the west riverbank. Two teams with bobsleighs were parked just ahead, on the right, and two saddle horses stood at the rack in front of the saloon.

Kirby joked, “Cripes, you could shoot a cannon down Cavalier Street and hardly hit a thing.”

Ian agreed, “It’s mighty cold for a Tuesday – guess everyone is staying where it’s warm.”

Just inside the door two men were playing billiards. Ian recognized one of the men as Turner, the land agent from St. Vincent. His pool opponent was a stranger. Further back, at another table, Brown was casually practicing pool by himself. Ian immediately became aware of the strong odor of tobacco smoke and sour beer in the room.

Seeing Kirby and Ian, Charley laid his cue on the table. Turning to his partner behind the bar, he remarked, “Mighty easy life in the Army these days, John. Looks like Kirby sets his own hours.”

Kirby smiled resignedly at Ian. “He’s just jealous of West-Pointers. He thinks we have it too easy.”

“’Spose you’ve come to tell me all about your exciting chase of yesterday.” Charley sprawled into a worn chair, indicating to the others to take a seat. “So those bastards from town pulled a sandy on you. I’ve heard most of the story. It’s a sorry mess, but not a total loss. It’s saved me a cold trip to Detroit with two prisoners.” A lazy smile appeared on his face.

Kirby spoke up. “Ian and his man were along with the bunch but didn’t participate. He can give you the details.”

“Don’t really need any,” Charley said morosely. “It was those two damn troublemakers, Murphy and Brogan. Hell, I guessed that when I heard the news. Murphy is an unknown. He has been around for months and was just hired at the fort lately, or so I’ve been told. Brogan, on the other hand has a depraved streak in him. He’s a congenital liar and a thief, the type to put the boots to a man when he’s down. Someone will kill him someday and I’ll have to make an arrest.” He laughed aloud and shook his head. “I’d hate to have to do that!”

“Speak of the devil!” Turner exclaimed, as he glanced out the large front window. “Here he comes now -- and with some of his bully boys.” He casually turned back to the table and took up his stance to shoot, pretending to be unaware of the men approaching the door.

A sudden cold draft rolled into the room as the door opened long seconds to admit several men, led by Brogan. It was evident from their loose swagger that all had been carousing elsewhere in the town. The devil-may-care looks on their faces indicated they were trouble.

“Set up whiskey, Kabernagle! I’m buying!” The loud, harsh voice was Brogan’s.

Kabernagle cast a warning glance at Brown as the men bellied up to the bar. Placing a glass in front of each, he began pouring generous measures. The unruly, unbridled remarks made by the men as they picked up their drinks confirmed Ian’s belief that their entry into the bar was planned.

Brogan finally turned his back to the bar and studied Kirby. “What are you doing here, soldier boy? Crying to the sheriff about your failure yesterday?” He smirked. “I see you’ve got that gutless McLaren with you, too.”

Ian tensed at the words and he could see Kirby’s sudden anger. Both Kirby and he jumped to their feet at the challenge.

Charley knew that Kirby, as an Army officer, could not be embroiled in fisticuffs with a civilian. He spoke up sarcastically from his chair, “Brogan, why don’t you take your friends to some other saloon? You know damn well you’re not welcome here.”

Brogan snorted, “It’s a public place and we’ll drink wherever we please.”

“True, But keep your mouth off of my customers or get out!”

“You’re just a civilian in here. If you’ll take off the badge, I’ll show you who’s the best man!”

“That ties it!” Charley glanced toward Ian and Kirby.

He stood slowly, removing his vest; then, unhooking the badge from his shirt pocket, tossed it to Kabernagle.

“John,” he addressed his partner without taking his eyes off Brogan, “See that we’re not disturbed.” Walking around the pool table, he faced Brogan squarely.

Kabernagle leaned down behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. The two large side hammers made ominous clicks as he thumbed them back. He smiled grimly as he said, “You won’t be, Charley!”

Before Brogan could react to the bartender’s surprise move, Charley slapped his face resoundingly, twice, forehand and backhand. They were hard, slamming slaps, making Ian almost wince.

For a short second Brogan stood in shock. Then, with a wild roar of rage, the huge man charged Charley. Ian was amazed to see the sheriff step nimbly aside, and then land a punishing blow to Brogan’s kidneys. The blow had sufficient force to swing his opponent off balance. He spun sideways into the wall, facing toward Ian and Kirby. Recovering his balance, he turned to charge Charley again, his huge arms and ball-like fists swinging wildly. It was then Ian gained an insight into Brown’s boxing ability, as he administered further punishment to Brogan with ease. What blows the sheriff received seemed to roll off his shoulders. Although he was a powerful man, Brogan seemed clumsy and uncoordinated. Seeing his awkwardness, Ian felt that even he might hold his own with Brogan.

Slowly Charley backed his opponent around the billiard table, forcing Turner and his friend who were standing between the window and the pool table, to give ground. Finally Brogan’s back was to the low-cased front window, the sill only knee high. When Brogan felt the sill against the back of his left leg he momentarily glanced down. It was then the sledge hammer blow caught him square on the chin, the driving force throwing him off balance and back through the wide front window. The cross frame supporting the four large glass panes bulged outward, then collapsed, the glass shattering into large shards, most falling outside.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Charley stared out the window at the unconscious Brogan lying in the snow. Two of the horses outside had pulled back on tied reins and were acting up.
The men at the bar stood in shock at Brogan’s total collapse. One man, his leg cocked on the brass rail, had unconsciously tilted his glass of whiskey and the liquid was dribbling onto the floor.

Turner walked questioningly to the glassless opening to observe the unconscious Brogan. Then he turned to the men at the bar. “Begad! You’d better get your friend over to the hotel. He’s bleeding badly. He’ll need some patching up.”

Brogan’s friends silently filed out of the bar to gather around him. With sullen glances toward Brown, who watched from the broken window, they lifted the unconscious man and carried him past the corner, headed north.

Charley turned to Kabernagel, who had already disposed of the shotgun. “Your turn to fix the window, John. I fixed the last one.”

Kabernagle looked at him accusingly. “Like hell you did. You hired Sam to do it and I had to pay half the bill.” He filled a shot glass with whiskey. Reaching out, he offered it to his partner. “Here! You’ve earned it! That’s the quickest I’ve ever seen you put a man away.”

Both Ian and Kirby had remained speechless during the brief altercation. Finally Ian volunteered, “I’ll pay for the window; that show was worth it.”

“No, you won’t!” Kabernagle was smiling. “Charley broke it fair and square. We’ll foot the bill.” He turned to his partner. “Cripes, Charley! Get the tarp from the back room, and don’t forget the hammer and nails. Judas, we’ll freeze before we get that damn hole plugged.”

Ian and Kirby held the tarp over the opening while Charley nailed it into place. Even so, the room had cooled almost to the outside temperature. After the last nail had been driven, Kirby remarked, “You haven’t lot your touch, Charley.” He pondered aloud, “It’s funny that Brogan hasn’t heard about your boxing prowess from the old timers at the fort.” Turning to Ian, he added, “I’ve had men out there tell me that Charley was hell on wheels with his fists. Why, he held the bare knuckles championship of the regiment back when he was a sergeant.”

Charley looked at Kirby soberly. “Flattery won’t get you a free drink in here, Kirby.”

The lieutenant smiled as he reached for his coat. “Can’t drink anyway. I’m still on duty.” He turned to Ian. “I’ve got to get back to the fort; I’m Officer of the Day until midnight.”

Ian approached the bar as Kirby left. Holding out his hand to Kabernagel, he said, “Charley didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Ian McLaren from Emerson —- soon to be from St. Vincent, I hope.”

Kabernagle switched the bar rag to his left hand to shake. He smiled. “Just call me John.” He nodded toward the tarp. “Don’t think this happens every day. Why, it’s been nearly a year since Charley threw the last bum out.”

“Were you really prepared to use that shotgun?” Ian was curious.

“Hell! It hasn’t been loaded for years. Good convincer, though.” Kabernagle winked, “Don’t tell on me.”

Charley grimaced. “He lies a little bit, too. That gun is loaded for bear.” He began racking the pool balls on a table. “Come on, Ian. I’ll play you a game of rotation, we’d better light some lamps though.”

“I’ve watched, but I’ve never played pool. You’ll have to show me how.”

Charley looked at him suspiciously, then he finally shrugged. “Your education is sadly lacking; but nothing’s for free. It’s going to cost you five cents for every game you lose. He pinned on his badge and shrugged into his vest, pausing momentarily to check his watch. “We’ll play until noon. By that time John should have the bar set up for lunch.” Slyly he looked toward his partner. “Hopefully, that is.”

Kabernagel shook his head dourly at the remark.

Late that evening a dejected Eck Murphy walked into the bar of Smith’s Hotel in St. Vincent. The stale, beer-charged atmosphere did nothing to reduce the pain behind his eyes. A loud voice came from the back of the room. “What in hell are you doing over here, Murphy?”

The words snapped him out of his trance and he grinned foolishly as he advanced toward Brogan and his companions.

Wouldn’t you like to know? Why, hell, I’m a man of leisure now.” His attempt at a light bravado failed; it was obvious he was bitter.

“I take it, then, that you’ve been canned,” Brogan questioned.

“That pious son-of-a-bitch Collins fired me —- told me I had no respect for military discipline.”

“Should have slugged him,” Brogan grunted.

“Yah, and spend a month in the fort guardhouse, probably get the hell beat out of me too. I’m not that much of a fool.”

“Well, now that you’ve got time on your hands, you can buy us all a drink. You can still come back to the Crossing and bunk down with us for the remainder of the winter. That is, if you can grubstake yourself and helps out with the booze supply. ‘Course you’ll have to take your usual turn with an axe, getting firewood.” He turned to smile at his cronies seated at the table.

Murphy’s eyes suddenly seized upon Brogan’s face and neck. “Lordy, what happened to you? Your face looks like hell! Where did’ja get all those bandages on your neck and cheek?”

Brogan looked sheepish and evasive. “Fell through a window in Pembina this morning. Had a run-in with the sheriff."

Murphy, although a powerful man, knew of Brogan’s uncontrollable temper. He deemed it prudent not to ask more. Finally, he said reluctantly, “I’ve enough coin to carry me most of the winter. I should be able to get back on with the C.P.R. in the spring.” He looked toward the bartender. “Give us a bottle of your best whisky. Mind now, none of that rotgut you peddle.”

Smith, the hotel owner, gave Murphy a hard look. “All the booze I sell is good booze. Keep it peaceful and you can continue your drinking until you leave.”

Brogan became hostile. “And what if we aren’t peaceful?”

“If it comes to that, someone is going to get hurt, maybe killed.” Smith seemed unperturbed.

Murphy snorted. “There are six of us.”

The bartender’s right hand lifted from behind the bar; he leveled a long-barreled revolver at Murphy. “Yes, and there are six in this Colt. Even if you are lucky enough to kill me, you’ll end up dancing at the end of a rope, same as those breeds you hung.”

The two men sobered when they realized the barman wouldn’t back down. Looking at the faces of other bar patrons around the room they saw nothing but hostility. Brogan finally turned to Murphy, pointing to an empty chair. “Come on; sit down.” Casting a side glance toward the hotel owner, who was still pointing the gun, he said, “Hell, we was only funnin’. We’re not looking for trouble.”

Smith gave him a disgusted look. “Sure, I knew you were joking.” Under his breath, he said, “Like hell!”

Immediately after the bartender brought the bottle to their table, the group began to exchange talk in a furtive manner. Brogan said threateningly, “I’m going to get even with Brown, McLaren and that damned lieutenant from the fort. We’ve got to find out more about them.” He puzzled, “Wonder where McLaren came from?”

One of the men spoke up. “He’s from some farm just east of Orillia, along the railroad line. I heard him and his pa talking about it last fall when we graded that stretch north of Emerson.” He looked at Brogan, “You ought to know, you were our crew foreman.” He laughed. “You rode that young fellow pretty hard.”

Murphy leaned forward, suddenly interested. “So, he’s from the Orillia area, eh? Just east?” He looked thoughtful; memories were coming back of the bridge and the young black-haired girl he had caught there. Then he had been struck from behind by someone. Sudden confusion came; something exists here that I don’t understand. Then he slipped out of his near trance.

He teased Brogan, “You might need help with that young McLaren, he’ll be tough to handle. Not hard to find him, though. You just have to pick the time and place.”

“I’ll get him,” promised Brogan. “That Ralston fellow from the fort, he’ll be hard to corral. He’s always with others, hardly ever alone.”

Another of the men spoke up. “He’s chasing that good-looking, black-haired sister of McLaren’s. You should be able to come up with something on that. How about the sheriff? He’s damned dangerous.”

At the mention of the black-haired girl, the voice began again, flowing through Murphy’s head. Remember! Remember! Then suddenly he did remember, but it was of the girl he saw in front of the saloon last winter, the one he stopped, the one who looked familiar. Shaking his head, he pushed away the pulsing memory and said to Brogan, “Brown checks the downtown streets of Pembina nearly every night around midnight. Lots of opportunity to knock him off then.”

Brogan looked startled. “Hell, I just want to beat the hell out of him, not kill him. I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

“You have to take your chances—never know how it’ll turn out.” Murphy grinned as he exchanged looks with the others sitting at the table. Then, there it was! The pain began to throb behind his eyes again. The torment seemed to be of something missing, a vital link. He rubbed his temples in an effort to assuage the pain.

Brogan spoke up. “Got a headache? Hell, you need another shot, that’s all.”