A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Giants in the Earth: A Saga of the Prairie
Author:     O. E. Rölvaag (1876-1931)

Translated from the Norwegian, "I de dage",
by Lincoln Colcord (1883-1947) and the Author, 1924 and 1925.

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Language:   English
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Date first posted:          August 2005
Date most recently updated: August 2005

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Title:      Giants in the Earth: A Saga of the Prairie
Author:     O. E. Rölvaag (1876-1931)

Translated from the Norwegian, "I de dage",
by Lincoln Colcord (1883-1947) and the Author, 1924 and 1925.


"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that,
when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they
bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of
old, men of renown."

Genesis vi:4





TO THOSE OF MY PEOPLE

WHO TOOK PART IN THE GREAT SETTLING,

TO THEM AND THEIR GENERATIONS

I DEDICATE THIS NARRATIVE





Contents

Foreword

Introduction by Lincoln Colcord

Book I--The Land-Taking

Toward the Sunset

Home-Founding

"Rosie!--Rosie!"

What the Waving Grass Revealed

Facing the Great Desolation

The Heart That Dared Not Let In the Sun


Book II--Founding the Kingdom

On the Border of Utter Darkness

The Power of Evil in High Places

The Glory of the Lord

The Great Plain Drinks the Blood of Christian Men and Is Satisfied




Foreword


In offering this novel to the English-reading public, I feel the
need of an explanation.  Book I of Giants in the Earth was
published in Norway (Aschehoug & Co.) as a separate volume in
October, 1924; Book II, one year later.

I am aware of the slight similarity existing between Johan Bojer's
The Emigrants and certain portions of the First Book of my novel;
and lest the reader should consider me guilty of having plagiarized
him, I find it necessary to offer the information that The Land-
Taking was in the hands of the Norwegian book dealers a little
better than one month before Bojer's book appeared.  In a letter to
me, dated January 11, 1925, Mr. Bojer writes:  "It certainly was
fortunate for me that I got my book finished when I did.  Had it
appeared much later, I should have been accused of having
plagiarized you."

The work of translating this novel has been a difficult task.  The
idiom of the characters offered serious problems.  These settlers
came from Nordland, Norway; and though the novel is written in the
literary language of Norway, the speech of the characters
themselves naturally had to be strongly colored by their native
dialect; otherwise their utterances would have sounded stilted and
untrue.  To get these people to reveal clearly and effectively
their psychology in English speech seemed at times impossible; for
the idioms of a dialect are well-nigh untranslatable.  A liberal
use of footnotes was unavoidable.

If the old saying, that many cooks spoil the broth, is true, then
surely the English text cannot be of much account; for many have
worked at it.  The following friends have helped with the
translation: Mr. Ansten Anstensen, Columbia University; Miss Ruth
Lima, Concordia College, Moorhead, Minnesota; Dr. Nils Flaten, Miss
Nora Solum, Prof. Olav Lee, Miss Esther Gulbrandsen--all four of
whom are fellow teachers in St. Olaf College; and Atty. John
Heitmann, Duluth, Minnesota.  I feel also greatly indebted to Dr.
and Mrs. Clarence Berdahl, University of Illinois, for their many
valuable suggestions and corrections.  What I asked of these
friends was a literal translation.  They complied so willingly and
so cheerfully.  I take this opportunity to thank them all!

But most of all do I owe gratitude to my friend Lincoln Colcord,
Minneapolis, Minnesota, who unified and literally rewrote the
English text.  As I got the translation from the others, I would
wrestle with it for a while, and then send it on to him.  When he
had finished a division he and I would come together to work it
over, he reading the manuscript aloud, I checking with the text of
the original.  How intensely we struggled with words and sentences!
It would happen frequently that several pages had to be rewritten.
But he never tired.  His has been a real labor amoris.  Were it not
for his constant encouragement and for his inimitable willingness
to help, this novel would most likely never have seen the light of
day in an English translation.

St. Olaf College,
Northfield, Minnesota,
July 15, 1927

O. E. Rölvaag



Introduction

I

It is a unique experience, all things considered, to have this
novel by O. E. Rölvaag, so palpably European in its art and
atmosphere, so distinctly American in everything it deals with.
Translations from European authors have always been received with
serious consideration in the United States; in Rölvaag we have a
European author of our own--one who writes in America, about
America, whose only aim is to tell of the contributions of his
people to American life; and who yet must be translated for us out
of a foreign tongue.  I think I am right in stating that this is
the first instance of the kind in the history of American letters.

There are certain points of technique and construction which show
at a glance that the author of this book is not a native American.
Rölvaag is primarily interested in psychology, in the unfolding of
character; the native American writer is primarily interested in
plot and incident.  Rölvaag is preoccupied with the human cost of
empire building, rather than with its glamour and romance.  His
chief character, Beret, is a failure in terms of pioneer life; he
aims to reveal a deeper side of the problem, by showing the
distress of one who could not take root in new soil.  Beret's
homesickness is the dominant motif of the tale.  Even Per Hansa,
the natural-born pioneer, must give his life before the spirit of
the prairie is appeased.  This treatment reflects something of the
gloomy fatalism of the Norse mind; but it also runs close to the
grim reality of pioneering, a place the bravest art would want to
occupy.  Giants in the Earth never turns aside from the march of
its sustained and inevitable tragedy.  The story is told almost
baldly at times, but with an unerring choice of simple human
detail.  When we lay it down we have gained a new insight into the
founding of America.


II


Ole Edvart Rölvaag was born April 22, 1876, in a small settlement
on the island of Dönna, in the district of Helgeland, just south of
where the Arctic Circle cuts the coast of Norway.  The place is far
up in the Nordland.  Strictly speaking, the settlement has no name;
the cove where it lies is called Rölvaag on the map, but it is
merely an outskirt of one of the voting precincts on the island.
Rölvaag, it will be seen, took his place name after coming to
America; he has explained this practice in a footnote in the
present work.  His father's Christian name was Peder, and in Norway
he would have been Pedersen; his own sons, in turn, would have been
Olsen.  The name is pronounced with umlauted ö rolled a little, as
in world; the last syllable, aag, is like the first syllable in
auger.

All the people in this settlement were fishermen.  In summer they
fished in small open boats, coming home every night; in winter they
went in larger boats, carrying crews of from four to six men, to
the historic fishing grounds off the Lofoten Islands, where the
Maelstrom runs and the coast stretches away to North Cape and
beyond.  It was a life full of hardship and danger, with sorrow and
poverty standing close at hand.  The midnight sun shone on them for
a season; during the winter they had the long darkness.  The island
of Dönna is a barren rock covered with gorse and heather--hardly a
tree in sight.  It looks like a bit of the coast of Labrador.  An
opening between low ledges of granite marks the cove named Rölvaag;
at the head of the cove the houses of the settlement stand out
stark and unprotected against the sky line.  Behind them loom the
iron mountains of the coast.  A gloomy, desolate scene--a perilous
stronghold on the fringe of the Arctic night.  There Rölvaag's
forebears had lived, going out to the fisheries, since time
immemorial.

His father, who is still alive, is the image of a New England sea
captain.  The family must have been a remarkable one.  An uncle,
his father's brother, had broken away from the fishing life and
made himself a teacher of prominence in a neighbouring locality.
An older brother had the mind of a scholar; but something happened--
he went on with the fishing, and died long ago.  There was a
brilliant sister, also, who died young.  These two evidently
overshadowed Rölvaag while he was growing up; his case as a child
seemed hopeless--he could not learn.  Nevertheless, he had a little
schooling, mostly of a semireligious nature.  The school lay seven
miles away, across the rocks and moors; that gave him a fourteen-
mile walk for his daily education.  He went to school nine weeks a
year, for seven years.  This ended at the age of fourteen, when his
father finally told him that he was not worth educating.  That was
all the schooling he had in Norway.

Once during the period of childhood he was walking in the dusk with
his mother; they had been gathering kelp on the rocks which they
boiled and fed to the cattle; and now they were on their way home.
His mother took him by the hand and asked him what he wanted to be
when he grew up.  "I want to be a poet," he told her.  This was the
only time he ever revealed himself to a member of his family.  He
remembers the quiet chuckle with which his mother received the
news; she did not take him to task, nor try to show him how absurd
it was, but she couldn't restrain a kindly chuckle as they went
along the rock path together.  That winter they had only potatoes
and salt herring to eat, three times a day; his mother divided the
potatoes carefully, for there were barely enough to go around.

In place of education was the reading--for this was a reading
family.  The precinct had a good library, furnished by the state.
Rölvaag had learned to read after a long struggle, and his head was
always in a book.  The first novel he ever read was Cooper's The
Last of the Mohicans in the Norwegian.  All of Cooper's novels
followed, and the novels of Dickens and Captain Marryat and Bulwer-
Lytton.  Then came the works of Ingemann, the Danish historical
novelist; the works of Zakarias Topelius, the great Swedish
romanticist; the works of the German, Paul Heyse; and the complete
works of their own great novelists, especially Björnson and Jonas
Lie.  For miscellaneous reading there were such things as the tales
of Jules Verne and H. Rider Haggard and Alexandra Dumas, Carlyle's
The French Revolution, and Stanley's Across the Dark Continent.
Neither did they lack the usual assortment of dime novels and
shilling-shockers, in paper covers.  The list could be extended
indefinitely; the parallel with the reading of the better-class
American boy of a generation ago is little short of astonishing.

This reading, promiscuous but intensive, lasted through the period
of his youth.  Once it was rumoured that at a certain village,
fourteen miles away, a copy of Ivanhoe could be obtained; Rölvaag
set out on foot to get it, and was gone two days on the journey.
There is another incident, slight but deeply revealing, which shows
the promise wrapped up in the husk of boyhood.  In a moment of
exaltation he decided to write a novel of his own.  He may have
been eleven or twelve when this creative impulse seized him.  All
one afternoon he spent in his bedroom writing; with infinite labour
he had completed as many as five pages of the novel.  Then his
elder brother, who shared the room with him, came in--the brilliant
brother of whom he stood in awe.  "What are you doing there?" asked
the brother.  "Nothing," Rölvaag answered, hastily trying to
conceal the fruits of his first literary effort.  "Let me see it!"--
the brother had quickly sensed what was going on.  "I won't!"  And
so the battle had started--a terrific struggle that nearly wrecked
the room, in the course of which the five pages were torn to
shreds.  But the brother had not seen a word of them.  Rölvaag
never attempted literary composition again until he was completing
his education in America, fifteen years afterward.

Awhile later we find him reading Cooper and Marryat aloud to the
fishermen at Lofoten, during the winter lay-up; there was a
splendid library at this remote station, too, maintained by the
state for the use of the fishing fleet.  By this time Rölvaag had
become a fisherman himself, like everyone else in the community.
He went on his first trip to the Lofoten fishing grounds at the age
of fifteen.  In all, he fished five years, until he had just passed
twenty.  Every year he was growing more discontented.  In the
winter of 1893 a terrible storm devastated the fishing fleet,
taking tragic toll among his friends and fellow fishermen.  The
boat he sailed in escaped only by a miracle.  This experience
killed his first romantic love of the fishing life; he sat down
then and wrote to an uncle in South Dakota, asking him for a ticket
to the United States.  Not that he felt any particular call to go
to America; he only thought of getting away.  He longed for the
unknown and untried--for something secret and inexpressible.
Vaguely, stubbornly, he wanted the chance to fulfil himself before
he died.  But the uncle, doubtless influenced by Rölvaag's family
reputation, refused to help him; and the fishing life went on.

Two more years passed, years of deepening revolt--when suddenly the
uncle in South Dakota changed his mind.  One day a ticket for
America arrived.  The way of escape was at hand.

Then a dramatic thing happened.  All the fishermen went to the
summer fair at the market town of Björn.  At this fair, boats were
exposed for sale, the finest fishing craft in all Norway.
Rölvaag's master sought him out and took him down among the boats.
His admiration for this master was extravagant; he speaks of him to-
day as a sea king, the greatest human being he has ever known.  The
man led him directly to the best boat hauled out on the beach.
They stood admiring her.  He led him aft, under her stern, where
they could see her beautiful lines.  He patted her side as he
spoke.  He said:  "If you will send back the ticket to your uncle,
I will buy this boat for you.  You shall command her; and when she
has paid for herself she shall be yours."

The offer swept him off his feet.  Never, he affirms, can he hope
to attain in life again a sensation of such complete and triumphant
success as came to him at that moment.  A new boat, the backing of
the man he admired and loved above all others, a place at the top
of his profession at the age of twenty, a chance to reign supreme
in his little world.  And yet, nothing beyond--it meant that this
was all.  To live and die a fisherman.  No other worlds--the vague,
beautiful worlds beyond the horizon.  "I will have to think it
over," was his answer.  He turned away, went up on a hillside above
the town, and sat there alone all the afternoon.

This young man of twenty sitting on a hillside on the coast of
Norway, wrestling with his immense problem, takes on the stature of
a figure from the sagas.  Which way will he make up his mind?  "It
was a fine, clear day in Nordland," he tells me, speaking of the
incident thirty years afterward.  A fine, clear day--he could see a
long way across the water.  But not the shape of his own destiny.
The life he knew was calling him with a thousand voices.  How could
he have heard the hail of things not yet seen?  Where did he get
the strength to make his momentous decision?  He came down from the
hillside at last, and found his master.  "I am sorry," he said,
"but I cannot accept your offer.  I am going to America."


III


Rölvaag himself has told about the journey in his first book,
Amerika-Breve (Letters from America), published in 1912, a work
which is largely autobiographical and which struck home in a
personal way to his Norwegian-American readers.  He landed in New
York in August of 1896.  He was not even aware that he would
require money for food during the railway trip; in his pocket were
an American dime and a copper piece from Norway.  For three days
and nights, from New York to South Dakota, he lived on a single
loaf of bread; the dime went for tobacco somewhere along the vast
stretches unfolding before him.  Through an error in calculation
his uncle failed to meet him at the country station where he
finally disembarked.  He had no word of English with which to ask
his way.  The prairie spread on every hand; the sun was going down.
He walked half the night, without food or water, until at last he
found Norwegians who could direct him, reached his uncle's farm,
and received a warm welcome.

Then began three years of farming.  At the end of that time he knew
that he did not like it; this was not the life for him.  He had
saved a little money, but had picked up only a smattering of
English.  A friend kept urging him to go to school.  But his
father's verdict, which so far had ruled his life, still had power
over him; he firmly believed that it would be of no use, that he
was not worth educating.  Instead he went to Sioux City, Iowa, and
tried to find work there--factory work, a chance to tend bar in a
saloon, a job of washing dishes in a restaurant.  But nothing
offered; he was forced to return to the farm.  He had now reached
another crossroads in his life; a flat alternative faced him--
farming or schooling.  As the lesser of two evils, he entered
Augustana College, a grammar or preparatory school in Canton, South
Dakota, in the fall of 1899.  At that time he was twenty-three
years old.

Once at school, the fierce desire for knowledge, so long
restrained, took him by storm.  In a short while he discovered the
cruel wrong that had been done him.  His mind was mature and
receptive; he was able to learn with amazing ease; in general
reading, in grasp of life and strength of purpose, he was far in
advance of his fellow students.  He graduated from Augustana in the
spring of 1901; that fall he entered St. Olaf College, with forty
dollars in his pocket.  In four years he had worked his way through
St. Olaf, graduating with honours in 1905, at the age of twenty-
eight.  On the promise of a faculty position at his alma mater, he
borrowed five hundred dollars and sent himself for a year to the
University of Oslo in Norway.  Returning from this post-graduate
work in 1906, he took up his teaching at St. Olaf College, where he
has been ever since.  Professor Rölvaag now occupies the chair of
Norwegian literature at that institution.


IV


I have mentioned the Amerika-Breve, published in 1912.  There is an
earlier work, still in manuscript--a novel written during his
senior year at St. Olaf College.  In all, Rölvaag has published six
novels, two readers for class use, a couple of handbooks on
Norwegian grammar and declamation, and one volume of essays.  In
1914 appeared his second book, Paa Glemte Veie (The Forgotten
Path), a relatively unimportant product.  Then came the war, which
threw consternation into all creative work.  Rölvaag walked the
hills of southern Minnesota, his mind a blank, facing the downfall
of civilization, seeing the death of those fine, things of life
which he had striven so hard to attain.  It was during the war
period that he compiled his readers and handbooks, for the
publishing board of the Norwegian-American Lutheran Church.

He had married in 1908.  In 1920 a tragedy occurred in his family--
one of his children was drowned under terrible circumstances.  This
seems to have shaken him out of the war inertia and stirred his
creative life again.  That year he wrote and published his first
strong novel, To Tullinger (Two Fools), the story of a rough,
uncultivated couple, incapable of refinement, who gain success in
America and develop the hoarding instinct to a fantastic degree.
This book, too, made a sensation among Norwegian-Americans.

Then, in 1922, came Laengselens Baat (The Ship of Longing), which
seems to have been Rölvaag's most introspective and poetical effort
up to the present time.  It is the study of a sensitive, artistic
youth who comes to America from Norway full of dreams and ideals,
expecting to find all that his soul longs for; he does not find it,
with the result that his life goes down in disaster.  Needless to
say, this book was not popular with his Norwegian-American
audience.  The truth-teller of To Tullinger was now going a little
too far.

All of these works were written and published in Norwegian.  They
were brought out under the imprint of the Augsburg Publishing
House, of Minneapolis, and circulated only among those Norwegian-
Americans who had retained the language of the old country.  The
reason why none of them had reached publication in Norway is
characteristic.  In 1912 the manuscript of Amerika-Breve had been
submitted to Norwegian publishers.  They had returned a favourable
and even enthusiastic opinion, but had insisted on certain changes
in the text.  These changes Rölvaag had refused to concede, feeling
that they marred the artistic unity of his work.  In anger and
disappointment, he had at once published with the local house; and
with each successive volume the feeling of artistic umbrage had
persisted--it had not seemed worth while to try to reach the larger
field.

But in the spring of 1923, an item appeared in the Norwegian press
to the effect that the great novelist Johan Bojer was about to
visit the United States, for the purpose of collecting material on
the Norwegian-American immigration.  He proposed to write an epic
novel on the movement.  This news excited Rölvaag tremendously; he
felt that the inner truth of the Norwegian-American immigration
could be written only by one who had experienced the transplanting
of life, who shared the psychology of the settlers.  His artistic
ambition was up in arms; this was his own field.

He immediately obtained a year's leave of absence from St. Olaf
College, and set to work.  The first few sections of Giants in the
Earth were written in a cabin in the north woods of Minnesota.
Then he felt the need of visiting South Dakota again, to gather
fresh material.  In midwinter of that year he went abroad, locating
temporarily in a cheap immigrant hotel in London, where he worked
on the novel steadily.  When spring opened in 1924, he went to
Norway.  There he met Bojer, visiting him at his country home.
Bojer was delighted to learn that Rölvaag, of whom he had heard a
great deal, was also working on a novel of the Norwegian-American
settlement; the two men exchanged ideas generously.  "How do you
see the problem?" Rölvaag asked.  The answer showed him that Bojer
saw it from the viewpoint of Norway, not of America; to him it was
mainly a problem of emigration.  This greatly relieved Rölvaag's
mind, for there was no real conflict; he set to work with renewed
energy, and soon finished the first book of Giants in the Earth.

In the meanwhile it had been placed with Norwegian publishers--the
same firm, by the way, which had lost Amerika-Breve twelve years
before.  It appeared in the latter part of 1924, under the title I
De Dage (In Those Days), a month in advance of Bojer's Vor Egen
Stamme (Our Own Tribe), better known to us by its English title of
The Emigrants.  A year later the second book of the present volume
was brought out, under the title Riket Grundlaegges (Founding the
Kingdom).

In Norway these two books have run through many editions; they have
been hailed on every hand as something new in Norwegian literature.
Swedish and Finnish editions will be published in 1927.
Arrangements are being made for a German translation, and the book
will probably be off the press in Germany soon after it has
appeared in the United States.  Rölvaag's vigorous, idiomatic style
(which, incidentally, has been the despair of those who have worked
over the English translation) is an outstanding topic of recent
Scandinavian criticism.  The eminent Danish critic, Jörgen Bukdahl,
for instance, in his latest work, Det Skjulte Norge (The Latent
Norway), devotes a whole chapter to Rölvaag and his novels of
pioneering in South Dakota.  A new name has been added to the
literary firmament of Norway.


V


Does Rölvaag's work belong legitimately to Norwegian or to American
literature?  The problem has unusual and interesting features.  The
volume before us deals with American life, and with one of the most
characteristically American episodes in our history.  It opens on
the western plains; its material is altogether American.  Yet it
was written in Norwegian, and gained its first recognition in
Norway.  Whatever we may decide, it has already become a part of
Norwegian literature.  Rölvaag's art seems mainly European; Rölvaag
himself, as I have said, is typically American.  His life and
future are bound up in the New World; yet he will continue to write
in a foreign language.  Had he been born in America, would his art
have been the same?  It seems unlikely.  On the other hand, had he
remained in Norway--had he accepted the boat that fine, clear day
in Nordland--how would his art have fared?

But such speculation, after all, is merely idle; these things do
not matter.  It has not yet been determined, even, what America is,
or whether she herself is strictly American.  And any sincere art
is international.  Given the artist, our chief interest lies in
trying to fathom the sources of his art, and to recognize its
sustaining impulses.  What were the forces which have now projected
into American letters a realist of the first quality writing in a
foreign language a new tale of the founding of America?  It is
obvious that these forces must have been highly complex and that
they will continue to be so throughout his working life; but beyond
that we cannot safely go.  The rest is a matter of opinion.  When I
have asked Rölvaag the simple question, Did Norway or America teach
you to write? he has invariably thrown up his hands.

The same speculation, in different measure, applies to a
considerable quantity of Norwegian-American literary production
which as yet our criticism knows nothing about.  The Norwegians are
a book-loving people; no set of adverse conditions can for long
restrain them from expressing themselves in literary form.  Here in
the Northwest, during the last thirty or forty years, they have
built up a distinctive literature, written and published in the
Norwegian language, but concerned wholly with American life.  Until
quite recently, in fact, the region supported a Norwegian fiction
magazine.

There are the five substantial novels of Simon Johnson, for
instance, with many short stories by the same author.  There are
the romantic novels of H. A. Foss; and the poetry, short stories,
novels, and travelogues of Peer Strömme.  There are the polemical
and poetical works of O. A. Buslett, obscure and fantastic.  There
are the three novels and four collections of short stories by the
able writer, Waldemar Ager.  There is the lyric poetry of Julius B.
Baumann and O. S. Sneve, the collected works of both of whom have
now been brought out.  There are the amazing Biblical dramas of the
farmer-poet Jon Norstog--huge tomes with the titles of Moses, and
Israel, and Saul, set up by his own hand and published from his own
printing press, in a shanty on the prairies of North Dakota--works
that reveal the flash of genius now and then, as I am told.  Do all
these serious efforts belong to Norwegian or to American
literature?  Their day is nearly done; the present generation of
Norse stock has another native language.  But it would be of value
to have some of this early Norwegian-American product translated
into English, to enrich our literature by a pure stream flowing out
of the American environment--a stream which, for the general
public, lies frozen in the ice of a foreign tongue.

                                                LINCOLN COLCORD

Minneapolis, Minnesota,
January, 1927




GIANTS IN THE EARTH



Book 1

THE LAND-TAKING



I

Toward the Sunset


I


Bright, clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens
cut down on it around the entire horizon. . . .  Bright, clear sky,
to-day, to-morrow, and for all time to come.

. . . And sun!  And still more sun!  It set the heavens afire every
morning; it grew with the day to quivering golden light--then
softened into all the shades of red and purple as evening fell. . . .
Pure colour everywhere.  A gust of wind, sweeping across the
plain, threw into life waves of yellow and blue and green.  Now and
then a dead black wave would race over the scene . . . a cloud's
gliding shadow . . . now and then. . . .

It was late afternoon.  A small caravan was pushing its way through
the tall grass.  The track that it left behind was like the wake of
a boat--except that instead of widening out astern it closed in
again.

"Tish-ah!" said the grass. . . .  "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . .  Never
had it said anything else--never would it say anything else.  It
bent resiliently under the trampling feet; it did not break, but it
complained aloud every time--for nothing like this had ever
happened to it before. . . .  "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" it cried, and
rose up in surprise to look at this rough, hard thing that had
crushed it to the ground so rudely, and then moved on.

A stocky, broad-shouldered man walked at the head of the caravan.
He seemed shorter than he really was, because of the tall grass
around him and the broad-brimmed hat of coarse straw which he wore.
A few steps behind him followed a boy of about nine years of age.
The boy's blond hair was clearly marked against his brown, sunburnt
neck; but the man's hair and neck were of exactly the same shade of
brown.  From the looks of these two, and still more from their
gait, it was easy to guess that here walked father and son.

Behind them a team of oxen jogged along; the oxen were drawing a
vehicle which once upon a time might have been a wagon, but which
now, on account of its many and grave infirmities, ought long since
to have been consigned to the scrap heap--exactly the place, in
point of fact, where the man had picked it up.  Over the wagon box
long willow saplings had been bent, in the form of arches in a
church chancel--six of them in all.  On these arches, and tied down
to the body on each side, were spread first of all two handwoven
blankets, that might well have adorned the walls of some manor
house in the olden times; on top of the blankets were thrown two
sheepskin robes, with the wool side down, which were used for bed-
coverings at night.  The rear of the wagon was stowed full of
numberless articles, all the way up to the top.  A large immigrant
chest at the bottom of the pile, very long and high, devoured a big
share of the space; around and above it were piled household
utensils, tools, implements, and all their clothing.

Hitched to this wagon and trailing behind was another vehicle,
homemade and very curious-looking, so solidly and quaintly
constructed that it might easily have won a place in any museum.
Indeed, it appeared strong enough to stand all the jolting from the
Atlantic to the Pacific. . . .  It, too, was a wagon, after a
fashion; at least, it had been intended for such.  The wheels were
made from pieces of plank fitting roughly together; the box,
considerably wider than that of the first wagon, was also loaded
full of provisions and household gear, covered over with canvas and
lashed down securely.  Both wagons creaked and groaned loudly every
time they bounced over a tussock or hove out of a hollow. . . .
"Squeak, squeak!" said the one. . . .  "Squeak, squeak!" answered
the other. . . .  The strident sound broke the silence of
centuries.

A short distance behind the wagons followed a brindle cow.  The
caravan moved so slowly that she occasionally had time to stop and
snatch a few mouthfuls, though there was never a chance for many at
a time.  But what little she got in this way she sorely needed.
She had been jogging along all day, swinging and switching her
tail, the rudder of the caravan.  Soon it would be night, and then
her part of the work would come--to furnish milk for the evening
porridge, for all the company up ahead.

Across the front end of the box of the first wagon lay a rough
piece of plank.  On the right side of this plank sat a woman with a
white kerchief over her head, driving the oxen.  Against her thigh
rested the blond head of a little girl, who was stretched out on
the plank and sleeping sweetly.  Now and then the hand of the
mother moved across the child's face to chase away the mosquitoes,
which had begun to gather as the sun lowered.  On the left side of
the plank, beyond the girl, sat a boy about seven years old--a well-
grown lad, his skin deeply tanned, a certain clever, watchful gleam
in his eyes.  With hands folded over one knee, he looked straight
ahead.

This was the caravan of Per Hansa, who with his family and all his
earthly possessions was moving west from Fillmore County,
Minnesota, to Dakota Territory.  There he intended to take up land
and build himself a home; he was going to do something remarkable
out there, which should become known far and wide.  No lack of
opportunity in that country, he had been told! . . .  Per Hansa
himself strode ahead and laid out the course; the boy Ole, or
Olamand, followed closely after, and explored it.  Beret, the wife,
drove the oxen and took care of little Anna Marie, pet-named And-
Ongen (which means "The Duckling"), who was usually bubbling over
with happiness.  Hans Kristian, whose everyday name was Store-Hans
(meaning "Big Hans," to distinguish him from his godfather, who was
also named Hans, but who, of course, was three times his size), sat
there on the wagon, and saw to it that everyone attended to
business. . . .  The cow Rosie trailed behind, swinging and
switching her tail, following the caravan farther and farther yet
into the endless vista of the plain.

"Tish-ah, tish-ah!" cried the grass. . . .  "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . .


II


The caravan seemed a miserably frail and Lilliputian thing as it
crept over the boundless prairie toward the sky line.  Of road or
trail there lay not a trace ahead; as soon as the grass had
straightened up again behind, no one could have told the direction
from which it had come or whither it was bound.  The whole train--
Per Hansa with his wife and children, the oxen, the wagons, the
cow, and all--might just as well have dropped down out of the sky.
Nor was it at all impossible to imagine that they were trying to
get back there again; their course was always the same--straight
toward the west, straight toward the sky line. . . .

Poverty-stricken, unspeakably forlorn, the caravan creaked along,
advancing at a snail's pace, deeper and deeper into a bluish-green
infinity--on and on, and always farther on. . . .  It steered for
Sunset Land! . . .

For more than three weeks now, and well into the fourth, this
caravan had been crawling across the plain. . . .  Early in the
journey it had passed through Blue Earth; it had left Chain Lakes
behind; and one fine day it had crept into Jackson, on the Des
Moines River.  But that seemed ages ago. . . .  From Jackson, after
a short lay-up, it had pushed on westward--always westward--to
Worthington, then to Rock River. . . .  A little west of Rock
River, Per Hansa had lost the trail completely.  Since then he had
not been able to find it again; at this moment he literally did not
know where he was, nor how to get to the place he had to reach.
But Split Rock Creek must lie out there somewhere in the sun; if he
could only find that landmark, he could pick his way still farther
without much trouble. . . .  Strange that he hadn't reached Split
Rock Creek before this time!  According to his directions, he
should have been there two or three days ago; but he hadn't seen
anything that even looked like the place. . . .  Oh, my God!  If
something didn't turn up soon! . . .  My God! . . .

The wagons creaked and groaned.  Per Hansa's eyes wandered over the
plain.  His bearded face swung constantly from side to side as he
examined every inch of ground from the northeast to the southwest.
At times he gave his whole attention to that part of the plain
lying between him and the western sky line; with head bent forward
and eyes fixed and searching, he would sniff the air, like an
animal trying to find the scent.  Every now and then he glanced at
an old silver watch which he carried in his left hand; but his gaze
would quickly wander off again, to take up its fruitless search of
the empty horizon.

It was now nearing six o'clock.  Since three in the afternoon he
had been certain of his course; at that time he had taken his
bearings by means of his watch and the sun. . . .  Out here one had
to get one's cross-bearings from the very day itself--then trust to
luck. . . .

For a long while the little company had been silent.  Per Hansa
turned halfway around, and without slackening his pace spoke to the
boy walking behind.

"Go back and drive for a while now, Ola.* . . . You must talk to
mother, too, so that it won't be so lonesome for her.  And be sure
to keep as sharp a lookout as you can."


* In most dialects of Norway the name Ole becomes Ola when spoken.


"I'm not tired yet!" said the boy, loath to leave the van.

"Go back, anyway!  Maybe you're not, but I can feel it beginning to
tell on me.  We'll have to start cooking the porridge pretty
soon. . . .  You go back, and hold her on the sun for a while
longer."

"Do you think we'll catch up with them to-night, Dad?"  The boy was
still undecided.

"Good Lord, no!  They've got too long a start on us. . . .  Look
sharp, now!  If you happen to see anything suspicious, sing
out!" . . .  Per Hansa glanced again at his watch, turned forward,
and strode steadily onward.

Ole said no more; he stepped out of the track and stood there
waiting till the train came up.  Then Store-Hans jumped down
nimbly, while the other climbed up and took his seat.

"Have you seen anything?" the mother asked in an anxious voice.

"Why, no . . . not yet," answered the boy, evasively.

"I wonder if we shall ever see them again," she said, as if
speaking to herself, and looked down at the ground.  "This seems to
be taking us to the end of the world . . . beyond the end of the
world!"

Store-Hans, who was still walking beside the wagon, heard what she
said and looked up at her.  The buoyancy of childhood shone in his
brown face. . . .  Too bad that mother should be so scared! . . .

"Yes, Mother, but when we're both steering for the sun, we'll both
land in the same place, won't we? . . .  The sun is a sure guide,
you know!"

These were the very words which he had heard his father use the
night before; now he repeated them.  To Store-Hans the truth of
them seemed as clear as the sun itself; in the first place, because
dad had said it, and then because it sounded so reasonable.

He hurried up alongside his father and laid his hand in his--he
always felt safer thus.

The two walked on side by side.  Now and then the boy stole a
glance at the face beside him, which was as stern and fixed as the
prairie on which they were walking.  He was anxious to talk, but
couldn't find anything to say that sounded grown-up enough; and so
he kept quiet.  At last, however, the silence grew too heavy for
him to bear.  He tried to say indifferently, just like his father:

"When I'm a man and have horses, I'm going to make a road over
these plains, and . . . and put up some posts for people to follow.
Don't you think that'll be a good idea?"

A slight chuckle came from the bearded face set toward the sun.

"Sure thing, Store-Hans--you'll manage that all right. . . .  I
might find time to help you an hour or two, now and then."

The boy knew by his father's voice that he was in a talkative mood.
This made him so glad, that he forgot himself and did something
that his mother always objected to; he began to whistle, and tried
to take just as long strides as his father.  But he could only make
the grass say:  "Swish-sh, swish-sh!"

On and on they went, farther out toward Sunset Land--farther into
the deep glow of the evening.

The mother had taken little Anna up in her lap and was now leaning
backward as much as she could; it gave such relief to her tired
muscles.  The caresses of the child and her lively chatter made her
forget for a moment care and anxiety, and that vague sense of the
unknown which bore in on them so strongly from all directions. . . .
Ole sat there and drove like a full-grown man; by some means or
other he managed to get more speed out of the oxen than the mother
had done--she noticed this herself.  His eyes were searching the
prairie far and near.

Out on the sky line the huge plain now began to swell and rise,
almost as if an abscess were forming under the skin of the earth.
Although this elevation lay somewhat out of his course, Per Hansa
swung over and held straight toward the highest part of it.

The afternoon breeze lulled, and finally dropped off altogether.
The sun, whose golden lustre had faded imperceptibly into a reddish
hue, shone now with a dull light, yet strong and clear; in a short
while, deeper tones of violet began to creep across the red.  The
great ball grew enormous; it retreated farther and farther into the
empty reaches of the western sky; then it sank suddenly. . . .  The
spell of evening quickly crowded in and laid hold of them all; the
oxen wagged their ears; Rosie lifted her voice in a long moo, which
died out slowly in the great stillness.  At the moment when the sun
closed his eye, the vastness of the plain seemed to rise up on
every hand--and suddenly the landscape had grown desolate;
something bleak and cold had come into the silence, filling it with
terror. . . .  Behind them, along the way they had come, the plain
lay dark green and lifeless, under the gathering shadow of the dim,
purple sky.

Ole sat motionless at his mother's side.  The falling of evening
had made such a deep impression on him that his throat felt dry; he
wanted to express some of the emotions that overwhelmed him, but
only choked when he tried.

"Did you ever see anything so beautiful!" he whispered at last, and
gave a heavy sigh. . . .  Low down in the northwest, above the
little hill, a few fleecy clouds hovered, betokening fair weather;
now they were fringed with shining gold, which glowed with a mellow
light.  As if they had no weight, they floated lightly there. . . .

The mother drew herself forward to an upright position.  She still
held the child in her lap.  Per Hansa and Store-Hans were walking
in the dusk far up ahead.  For the last two days Per had kept well
in advance of the caravan all the time; she thought she knew the
reason why.

"Per," she called out, wearily, "aren't we going to stop soon?"

"Pretty soon." . . .  He did not slacken his pace.

She shifted the child over into the other arm and began to weep
silently.  Ole saw it, but pretended not to notice, though he had
to swallow big lumps that were forcing themselves up in his throat;
he kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the scene ahead.

"Dad," he shouted after a while, "I see a wood over there to the
westward!"

"You do, do you?  A great fellow you are!  Store-Hans and I have
seen that for a long time now."

"Whereabouts is it?" whispered Store-Hans, eagerly.

"It begins down there on the slope to the left, and then goes
around on the other side," said his father.  "Anyway, it doesn't
seem to be much of a wood."

"D'you think they are there?"

"Not on your life!  But we're keeping the right course, anyhow."

"Have the others been this way?"

"Of course they have--somewhere near, at any rate.  There's
supposed to be a creek around here, by the name of Split Rock
Creek, or whatever they call it in English."

"Are there any people here, do you think?"

"People?  Good Lord, no!  There isn't a soul around these parts."

The sombre blue haze was now closing rapidly in on the caravan.
One sensed the night near at hand; it breathed a chill as it came.

At last Per Hansa halted.  "Well, I suppose we can't drive any
farther to-day.  We and the animals would both drop pretty soon."
With these words he faced the oxen, held his arms straight out like
the horizontal beam of a cross, shouted a long-drawn "Whoa!"--and
then the creaking stopped for that day.


III


The preparations for the night were soon made; each had his own
task and was now well used to it.  Store-Hans brought the wood; it
lay strapped under the hind wagon and consisted of small logs and
dry branches from the last thicket they had passed.

Ole got the fireplace ready.  From the last wagon he brought out
two iron rods, cleft in one end; these he drove into the ground and
then went back to the wagon for a third rod, which he laid across
the other two.  It was also his duty to see that there was water
enough in the keg, no matter where they happened to stop; for the
rest of it, he was on hand to help his mother.

The father tended to the cattle.  First he lifted the yoke off the
oxen and turned them loose; then he milked Rosie and let her go
also.  After that he made up a bed for the whole family under the
wagon.

While the mother waited for the pot to boil she set the table.  She
spread a home-woven blanket on the ground, laid a spoon for each
one on it, placed a couple of bowls for the milk, and fetched the
dishes for the porridge.  Meanwhile she had to keep an eye on And-
Ongen, who was toddling about in the grass near by.  The child
stumbled, laughed, lay there a moment chattering to herself, then
got up, only to trip on her skirt and tumble headlong again.  Her
prattling laughter rang on the evening air.  Now and then the voice
of the mother would mingle with it, warning the child not to stray
too far.

Store-Hans was the first to get through with his task; he stood
around awhile, but, finding nothing more to do, he strolled off
westward.  He was itching to know how far it was to the hill out
there; it would be great fun to see what things looked like on the
other side! . . .  Now he started off in that direction.  Perhaps
he might come across the others?  They surely must be somewhere.
Just think, if he could only find them!  He would yell and rush in
on them like an Indian--and then they would be scared out of their
senses! . . .  He had gone quite far before he paused to look back.
When he did so the sight sent a shiver over him; the wagons had
shrunk to two small specks, away off on the floor of a huge, dusky
room. . . .  I'd better hurry at once, he thought; mother will
surely have the porridge ready by this time!  His legs had already
adopted the idea of their own accord.  But thoughts of his mother
and the porridge didn't quite bring him all the feeling of safety
he needed; he hunted through his mind for a few strains of a hymn,
and sang them over and over in a high-pitched, breaking voice,
until he had no more breath left to sing with. . . .  He didn't
feel entirely safe until the wagons had begun to assume their
natural size once more.

The mother called to them that supper was ready.  On the blanket
stood two dishes of porridge--a large dish for the father and the
two boys, a smaller one for the mother and And-Ongen.  The evening
milk was divided between two bowls, and set before them; Rosie,
poor thing, was not giving much these days!  The father said that
he didn't care for milk this evening, either; it had a tangy taste,
he thought; and he drank water with his porridge.  But when Ole
also began to complain of the tangy taste and asked for water, the
father grew stern and ordered him to go ahead and get that drop of
milk down as quick as he could!  There was nothing else on the
table but milk and porridge.

Suddenly Ole and Store-Hans flared up in a quarrel; one blamed the
other for eating too close to the edge, where the porridge was
coolest.  The father paused in his meal, listening to them a
moment, then chuckled to himself.  Taking his spoon and cutting
three lines through the crust of the porridge, he quickly settled
the matter between them.

"There you are!  Here, Store-Hans, is your land; now take it and be
satisfied.  Ola, who is the biggest, gets another forty. . . .
Shut up your mouths, now, and eat!"  Per Hansa himself got the
smallest share that evening.

Aside from this outbreak it was quiet at the table.  A spell of
silence lay upon them and they were not able to throw it off. . . .
As soon as the father had eaten he licked his spoon carefully,
wiped it off on his shirt sleeve, and threw it on the blanket.  The
boys did likewise as they finished; but And-Ongen wanted to tuck
her spoon in her dress and keep it there till morning.

They sat around in the same silence after they were done.  Then she
who was the smallest of them repeated in a tiny voice:

"Thanks to Thee, Our Lord and Maker. . . .

"Now I want to go to sleep in your lap!" she said, after the Amen.
She climbed up into her mother's lap and threw her arms around her
neck.

"Oh, how quickly it grows dark out here!" the mother murmured.

Per Hansa gave a care-free shrug of his shoulders.  "Well," he
said, dryly, "the sooner the day's over, the sooner the next day
comes!"

But now something seemed to be brewing back there over the prairie
whence they had come.  Up from the horizon swelled a supernatural
light--a glow of pale yellow and transparent green, mingled with
strange touches of red and gold.  It spread upward as they watched;
the colors deepened; the glow grew stronger, like the witching
light of a fen fire.

All sat silently gazing.  It was And-Ongen, hanging around her
mother's neck, who first found her voice.

"Oh, look! . . .  She is coming up again!"

In solemn grandeur the moon swung up above the plain.  She had been
with them many nights now; but each time she seemed as wonderful a
sight as ever.  Tonight a hush fell on their spirits as they
watched her rise--just as the scene had hushed them the evening
before, far away to the eastward somewhere on the plain.  The
silvery beams grew stronger; the first pale fen fire began to
shimmer and spread; slowly the light mellowed into a mist of green
and yellow and blue.  And-Ongen exclaimed that the moon was much
bigger to-night; but it had seemed bigger the night before also.
Store-Hans again solemnly told her the reason for it--that the moon
had to grow, just as she did!  This seemed to her quite logical;
she turned to her mother and asked whether the moon had milk and
porridge every evening, too.

Per Hansa had been sitting on the tongue of the wagon, smoking his
pipe.  Now he got up, knocked out the ashes carefully, put his pipe
in his pocket, and wound up his watch.  These duties done, he gave
the order to turn in for the night.

A little while later they all lay under the quilts, gazing off into
the opalescent glow.  When the mother thought that the children had
gone to sleep she asked, soberly:

"Do you suppose we'll ever find the others again?"

"Oh yes--I'm sure of it . . . if they haven't sunk through the
ground!"

This was all Per Hansa said.  He yawned once or twice, long and
heavily, as if he were very sleepy, and turned away from her.

. . . And after that she said no more, either.


IV


Truth to tell, Per Hansa was not a bit sleepy.  For a long while he
lay wide awake, staring into the night.  Although the evening had
grown cool, sweat started out on his body from time to time, as
thoughts which he could not banish persisted in his mind.

He had good reason to sweat, at all the things he was forced to lie
there and remember.  Nor was it only tonight that these heavy
thoughts came to trouble him; it had been just the same all through
the day, and last night, too, and the night before.  And now, the
moment he had lain down, they had seized upon him with renewed
strength; he recalled keenly all the scruples and misgivings that
had obsessed his wife before they had started out on this long
journey--both those which had been spoken and those which had been
left unsaid.  The latter had been the worst; they had seemed to
grow deeper and more tragic as he had kept prying into them in his
clumsy way. . . .  But she wasn't a bit stupid, that wife of his!
As a matter of fact, she had more sense than most people.  Indeed
she had!

. . . No, it wasn't a pleasant situation for Per Hansa, by any
means.  He had not seen a happy moment, day or night, since the
mishap had struck them on the second afternoon this side of
Jackson.  There the first wagon had got stuck in a mud hole; in
pulling it out they had wrecked it so hopelessly that he had
been forced to put back to Jackson for repairs.  Under the
circumstances, it had seemed to him utterly senseless to hold up
all the rest of the company four days.  He simply wouldn't listen
to their waiting for him; for they had houses to build and fields
to break, if they were to get anything into the ground this season.
They must go on without him; he'd come along all right, in his own
good time. . . .  So they had given him full instructions about the
course he was to follow and the halting places where he was to stop
for the night; it had all seemed so simple to him at the time.
Then they had started on together--Tönseten, who knew the way, and
Hans Olsa, and the two Solum boys.  They all had horses and strong
new wagons.  They travelled fast, those fellows! . . .

If he only had paid some attention to Hans Olsa, who for a long
while had insisted on waiting for him.  But he had overruled all
their objections; it was entirely his own doing that Hans Olsa and
the others had gone on, leaving him behind.

But he soon had learned that it wasn't so easy.  Hadn't he lost his
way altogether the other day, in the midst of a fog and drizzling
rain?  Until late in the afternoon that day he hadn't had the
faintest idea what direction he was taking.  It had been after this
experience that he had formed the habit of keeping so far ahead of
the caravan.  He simply couldn't endure listening to her constant
questions--questions which he found himself unable to answer. . . .

The only thing he felt sure of was that he wasn't on the right
track; otherwise he would have come across the traces of their
camps.  It was getting to be a matter of life and death to him to
find the trail--and find it soon. . . .  A devil of a jaunt it
would be to the Pacific Ocean--the wagon would never hold out THAT
long! . . .  Oh yes, he realized it all too well--a matter of life
and death.  There weren't many supplies left in the wagon.  He had
depended on his old comrade and Lofot-man,* Hans Olsa, for
everything.


* A companion on the winter fishing grounds at the Lofoten Islands.


Per Hansa heaved a deep sigh; it came out before he could stop
it. . . .  Huh!--it was an easy matter enough for Hans Olsa!  He had
ample means, and could start out on a big scale from the beginning;
he had a wife in whose heart there wasn't a speck of fear! . . .
The Lord only knew where they were now--whether they were east or
west of him!  And they had Tönseten, too, and his wife Kjersti,*
both of them used to America.  Why, they could talk the language
and everything. . . .


* The combination kj in this name is pronounced like ch in church;
the final i has the sound of y in godly.


And then there were the Solum boys, who had actually been born in
this country. . . .  Indeed, east or west, it made no difference to
them where they lay that night.

But here was he, the newcomer, who owned nothing and knew nothing,
groping about with his dear ones in the endless wilderness! . . .
Beret had taken such a dislike to this journey, too--although in
many ways she was the more sensible of the two. . . .  Well, he
certainly had fixed up a nice mess for himself, and no mistake!

He wondered why he had ever left Fillmore County; as he lay there
thinking it over, he couldn't understand what had prompted him to
do such a thing.  He could easily have found a job there and stayed
until his wife got up from childbed; then he could have moved west
next spring.  This had been what she had wanted, though she had
never said it in so many words.

The quilt had grown oppressively heavy; he threw it aside. . . .
How long it took her to go to sleep to-night!  Why wouldn't she try
to get as much rest as possible?  Surely she knew that it would be
another tough day tomorrow? . . .

. . . Just so that confounded wagon didn't go to pieces again! . . .


V


The night wore on.  The children slept quietly and peacefully.  The
mother also seemed to have found rest at last.  Per Hansa thought
that she was sound asleep; he began to move slowly away from her.
He threw his hand over on the quilt between them as if making a
motion in his sleep. . . .  No, she didn't stir; he lay quiet for a
while, then moved again.  In so doing his hand happened to fall on
that of Store-Hans; it was so chubby and round, that hand, so
healthy and warm, and quite firm for the hand of only a child.  Per
Hansa lay still for a long time, holding the boy's hand with a
desperate earnestness. . . .  Slowly the troublesome thoughts
seemed to lighten and lift; his courage ebbed back again; surely
everything would come out all right in the end!

Little by little he slipped the quilt off, crept out of bed as
quietly as a mouse, got into his trousers, and pulled on his shoes.

Outside, the misty sheen of the moonlight shimmered so brightly
that it blinded him.  Near at hand, the prairie was bathed in a
flood of tarnished green; farther off the faint blue tones began to
appear, merging gradually into the purple dimness that shrouded all
the horizon.

Per Hansa looked for the North Star, found it, turned about until
he had it over his right shoulder; then he glanced at his watch,
took a few steps, hesitated, and looked back as if taking a bearing
of the wagons and the star.  The next moment he faced about
resolutely, and hurried off westward.

It felt good to be moving again; he almost broke into a trot.
There were the oxen, busily grazing; they needed to get their fill
all right, poor devils! . . .  Rosie lay closer to the wagons; his
eyes had passed over her at first, a dark spot in the vague,
deceptive light.  The cow must have noticed the shadow gliding
along so swiftly; she gave a long moo. . . .  This enraged Per
Hansa; he broke into a run and got out of her sight as quickly as
he could, for fear she would moo again. . . .  If she only hadn't
waked Beret!

He set his course toward the point where he thought the crest of
the ridge must lie.  Now and then he stopped and looked around, to
find out if he could still see the wagons.  When he had lost them
at last, and they were wholly swallowed up in the night, he gave an
involuntary gasp--but clenched his teeth and went on.

The ridge lay farther off than he had thought.  He had walked for a
solid hour before he finally reached what he felt to be the highest
point; he reckoned that he must be at least four miles from
camp. . . .  There he fell to examining the ground carefully; but
first of all he looked at his watch again, and then at the North
Star and the moon, trying to fix the bearings of the camp in his
mind.

On the other side of the ridge the lay of the land seemed to be
different; the slope was a little steeper; a thick underbrush
covered it; through the tall bushes the moonlight shimmered
strangely. . . .  Per Hansa felt no fear, but every sense within
him was alert.  First he searched the northerly slope of the hill,
beyond the edge of the thicket, stooping over as he went, his eyes
scanning every foot of the ground.  When he had found no trace of
what he was looking for, he came back to the same starting point
and searched an equal distance in the opposite direction; but he
discovered nothing on this tack, either.

Now he began to walk along the edge of the thicket, in and out,
crisscrossing the line in every direction; he pushed his way into
each little grassless opening, and kicked over the earth there,
before he went on.  Sweat was running off him in streams.  A
quarter of an hour went by; he was still searching frantically. . . .
All at once, right at the edge of the woods, he struck a piece
of level ground with a larger clearing on it; in the middle of this
clearing lay a wide, round patch in the grass.  Per Hansa threw
himself down on his knees, like a miser who has found a costly
treasure; he bent over and sniffed the ground.  His blood throbbed;
his hands shook as he dug. . . .  Yes, he was right--here there had
been a fire!  It couldn't have been many days ago, either; the
smell of the ashes was still fresh. . . .  His eyes had grown so
moist and dim that he had to wipe them. . . .  But he wasn't crying--
no, not yet! . . .

He began to crawl around on all fours, farther and farther down the
slope.  Suddenly he stopped, sat up on his haunches, and held
something in his hand that he was examining closely. . . .

"I'll be damned if it isn't fresh horse dung!" . . .  His voice
rang with a great joy.  He tried the stuff between his fingers--
crumbled it, sniffed at it . . . there was no doubting the fact any
longer.

Now he got up, walking erectly with a confident step, like a man
who has just made a lucky strike, and began to search along the
whole slope. . . .  He might as well go ahead and find the ford to-
night; then he wouldn't be delayed by hunting for it in the
morning.  The underbrush thickened as he made his way down the
slope. . . .  Here, then, was Split Rock Creek; and here they had
camped, as Tönseten had said they would! . . .

Once he had reached the edge of the creek, it did not take him long
to find the ford that the others had used; the ruts still stood
there plainly, as fresh and deep as if they had been made that very
day.  For a while he paused at the edge of the water, and looked
about him. . . .  Had they chosen the best crossing, after all?
The bank of the creek on the other side formed a bend; the brink
looked pretty steep.  At last he waded out into the water, with his
shoes still on. . . .  Oh, well, the grade wasn't so steep that the
oxen couldn't easily make it; there would be a bad jolt here at the
edge, but after that they would have an even slope up the bank. . . .
Stepping out on the opposite shore, he stood as if rooted to the
ground.

. . . "What in the devil . . . !"

Per Hansa bent over and picked up the object that lay before him;
he held it out in the moonlight, turned it over and over in his
hands, smelled of it . . . then took a bite.

. . . "By God! if it isn't one of Hans Olsa's dried mutton legs!"

He straightened himself up and gazed with deep thankfulness into
the quivering bluish-green haze that glowed all around him. . . .
"Yes, that's the way it goes, when people have more than they can
take care of!" . . .  He stuck the mutton leg under his arm;
whistling a love ballad of Nordland, which seemed to have come into
his mind unconsciously, he crossed the creek again.

On the way back he took his own time.  Nothing mattered now; the
night was fair and mild; his aching weariness was gone; he felt
refreshed and strengthened.  His wife and children were sleeping
safe and sound; of food they still had supplies for a couple of
weeks; and now he had found the trail again and could be certain of
it all the way to Sioux Falls. . . .  That wretched wagon was the
only difficulty; it would have to hang together for a few days
more! . . .

When he drew near enough to the wagons to make them out clearly in
the moonlight, he slackened his pace, and a shiver passed over him.

Wasn't some one sitting there on the wagon tongue?  Surely that was
a human form?

In growing apprehension he hurried on.

"Good Heavens, Beret!  What are you doing out here in the middle of
the night?"  His voice was full of alarm, yet softened by his great
concern for her.

"It felt so awful to lie there alone, after you had gone. . . .  I
could hardly breathe . . . so I got up."

The words came with difficulty; he realized that her voice was
hoarse with weeping; he had to pull himself sharply together in
order to keep his own tears back.

"Were you awake, Beret? . . .  You shouldn't lie awake that way in
the night!" he said, reproachfully.

"How can I sleep? . . .  You lie there tossing back and forth, and
say nothing! . . .  You might have told me.  I know very well
what's the matter!"

Suddenly she could stand it no longer.  She ran over to him, flung
her arms around his neck, and leaned close against him.  The dam of
her pent-up tears broke in a flood of emotion; she wept long and
bitterly.

"Now calm yourself, dear. . . .  You MUST calm yourself, Beret-
girl!" . . .  He had put his arm lovingly around her, but found it
hard to speak. . . .  "Don't you see that I've got one of Hans
Olsa's dried mutton legs under my arm?" . . .

 . . . That night Per Hansa was good to his wife.



II

Home-founding


I


On the side of a hill, which sloped gently away toward the
southeast and followed with many windings a creek that wormed its
way across the prairie, stood Hans Olsa, laying turf.  He was
building a sod house.  The walls had now risen breast-high; in its
half-finished condition, the structure resembled more a bulwark
against some enemy than anything intended to be a human habitation.
And the great heaps of cut sod, piled up in each corner might well
have been the stores of ammunition for defence of the stronghold.

For a man of his strength and massive build, his motions were
unusually quick and agile; but he worked by fits and starts to-day.
At times he stopped altogether; in these pauses he would straighten
himself up and draw his sleeve with a quick stroke across his
troubled face; with each stroke the sleeve would come away damper;
and standing so, he would fix his gaze intently on the prairie to
the eastward.  His eyes had wandered so often now over the stretch
of land lying before them, that they were familiar with every
tussock and hollow. . . .  No--nothing in sight yet! . . .  He
would resume his task, as if to make up for lost time, and work
hard for a spell; only to forget himself once more, pause
involuntarily, and stand inert and abstracted, gazing off into the
distance.

Beyond the house a tent had been pitched; a wagon was drawn up
close beside it.  On the ground outside of the tent stood a stove,
a couple of chairs, and a few other rough articles of furniture.  A
stout, healthy-looking woman, whose face radiated an air of simple
wisdom and kindliness, was busy preparing the midday meal.  She
sang to herself as she worked.  A ten-year-old girl, addressed by
the woman as Sofie, was helping her.  Now and then the girl would
take up the tune and join in the singing.

Less than a quarter of a mile away, in a southeasterly direction, a
finished sod house rose on the slope of the hill.  Smoke was
winding up from it at this moment.  This house, which had been
built the previous fall, belonged to Syvert Tönseten.

Some distance north from the place where Hans Olsa had located, two
other sod houses were under construction; but a hillock lay
between, so that he could not see them from where he stood.  There
the two Solum boys had driven down their stakes and had begun
building.  Tönseten's completed house, and the other three half-
finished ones, marked the beginning of the settlement on Spring
Creek.

The woman who had been bustling about preparing the meal, now
called to her husband that dinner was ready--he must come at once!
He answered her, straightened up for the hundredth time, wiped
his hands on his trousers, and stood for a moment gazing off
eastward. . . .  No use to look--not a soul in sight yet! . . .  He
sighed heavily, and walked with slow steps toward the tent, his eyes
on the ground.

It was light and airy inside the tent, but stifling hot, because of
the unobstructed sunlight beating down upon it.  Two beds were
ranged along the wall, both of them homemade; a big emigrant chest
stood at the head of each.  Nails had been driven into the centre
pole of the tent, on which hung clothing; higher up a crosspiece,
securely fastened, was likewise hung with clothes.  Two of the
walls were lined with furniture; on these pieces the dishes were
displayed, all neatly arranged.

A large basin of water stood on a chair just inside the tent door.
Hans Olsa washed his face and hands; then he came out and sat down
on the ground, where his wife had spread the table.  It was so much
cooler outside.  The meal was all ready; both mother and daughter
had been waiting for him.

"I suppose you haven't seen any signs of them yet?" his wife asked
at last.

"No--nothing at all!"

"Can you imagine what has become of them?"

"The Lord forgive us--if I only knew!"

Her husband looked so anxious that she asked no more questions.
Out of her kind heart rose a hopeful, "Don't worry, they'll get
here all right!" . . .  But in spite of the cheerfulness of the
words, she could not give them that ring of buoyant confidence
which she would have liked to show.

. . . "Of course!" said the girl with a laugh.  "Store-Hans and Ola
have two good pairs of eyes.  Leave it to them--they'll find us!"

The father gave her a stern glance; he didn't tell her in words to
stop her foolish chatter--but she said no more.  Without speaking
once, he ate his dinner.  As soon as he had finished, he tossed his
spoon on the blanket, thanked them for the food, got up gloomily,
and went back to the half-completed wall.  There he sat down
awhile, as if lost in thought . . . gazing eastward.  His large,
rugged features were drawn and furrowed with anxiety. . . .  "God
Almighty!" he sighed, and folded his big hands.  "What can have
become of Per Hansa?"

His wife was watching him closely as he sat there on the wall.  By
and by she told her daughter to finish washing the dishes, and
started to go over where he was.  When he saw her coming, he tried
to begin working as if there were nothing on his mind.

"Hans," she said, quickly, when she had reached his side, "I think
you ought to go out and look for them!"

He waited until he had got a strip of sod in place before he
answered:  "Easier said than done . . . when we haven't the
faintest idea where to look . . . on such stretches of prairie!"

"Yes, I know; but it would make us all feel better, anyway . . . as
if we were doing something."

Hans Olsa laid another strip of turf; then he stopped, let his
hands fall to his sides, and began thinking aloud as he gazed off
into the distance. . . .

"I know this much--you don't often find a smarter fellow than Per
Hansa. . . .  That's what makes it so queer!  I don't suppose he's
able to get much speed out of his oxen; but one thing I'm certain
of--he has been hurrying as fast as he could.  And we surely didn't
come along very fast . . . but now it's the fifth day since we
arrived here!  If he made use of these bright moonlight nights, as
he probably did, I begin to be afraid that he's gone on west of us
somewhere, instead of being still to the eastward. . . .  It's
certainly no child's play to start looking for him!"

Hans Olsa slumped down on the wall, the picture of dejection.  His
wife quickly found a place beside him.  Together they sat there in
silence.  The same fear that she felt him struggling with, a fear
thrown into sharp relief by the things he had just been saying, had
long since gripped her heart also.

"I feel so sorry for Beret, poor thing . . . and the children.  You
must remember, though, that he couldn't go very fast on account of
her condition. . . .  I think she is with child again!"  She
paused.  "I dreamed about them last night . . . a bad dream. . . ."

Her husband glanced sidewise at her.  "We mustn't pay attention to
such things.  A bad dream is a good sign, anyway--that's what my
mother always said. . . .  But I suppose I'll never forgive myself
for not waiting for him."  He got up heavily and laid another strip
of turf.  "He's always been like that, Per Hansa; he never would
take help from any man.  But this time he's carried it a little too
far!"

His wife made no answer.  She was watching a short stout man with a
reddish beard who had started up the slope from the direction of
the house to the south of them.  He had cheeks like two rosy
apples, a quick step, and eyes that flitted all about; he was noted
among them for his glib tongue and the flood of his conversation.
With hands stuck into the waistband of his trousers, and elbows out
akimbo, the man looked half as broad again as he really was.

"Here comes Tönseten," said the woman.  "Why don't you talk it over
with him?  I really think you ought to go out and look for them."

"Seen anything of them yet, Hans Olsa?" asked the man, without
further greeting, as soon as he arrived. . . .  "Well, well! this
looks fine!  Ha, ha!  It's a warm house, you know, that's built by
the aid of a woman's hand."

Hans Olsa wheeled on him.  "You haven't caught sight of them
yourself, Syvert, have you?"

"Caught sight of them?  Why, man alive, that's just what I've come
up here to tell you!  I've had them in sight for over an hour now.
Seems to me you ought to be able to see them easy enough--you who
carry your eyes so high up in the air! . . .  Good Lord! it won't
be long before they arrive here, at the rate they're coming!"

"What's that you say?" the others burst out with one voice. . . .
"Where are they?" . . .

"I reckon Per Hansa must have got off his course a little.  Maybe
the oxen didn't steer well, or maybe he didn't figure the current
right. . . .  Look to the westward, neighbours!  Look over there
about west-northwest, and you'll see him plain enough. . . .  No
need to worry.  That fellow never would drown in such shallow water
as this! . . .  I wonder, now, how far west he's really been?"

Hans Olsa and his wife faced around in the direction that Tönseten
had indicated.  Sure enough, out of the west a little caravan was
crawling up toward them on the prairie.

"Can that be them? . . .  I really believe it is!" said Hans Olsa
in a half whisper, as if hardly daring yet to give vent to his joy.

"OF COURSE it is!" cried his wife, excitedly. . . .  "Thank God!"

"Not the least doubt of it," Tönseten assured them.  "You might as
well go and put your coffeepot on the stove, Mother Sörrina!*  That
Kjersti of mine is coming over pretty soon; she'll probably have
something good tucked under her apron. . . .  In half an hour we'll
have the lost sheep back in the fold!"


* The name properly is Sörine, with the accent on the second
syllable; but in the dialect of Helgeland it is pronounced Sörrina,
with the accent on the first.  These people all came from the
district of Helgeland, in Norway.


"Yes!  Heavens and earth, Sörrina!" cried Hans Olsa, "fetch out the
best you've got! . . .  Per, Per, is it really you, old boy? . . .
But why are you coming from the west, I'd like to know?"

Tönseten coughed, and gave the woman a sly wink.

"Look here, Mother Sörrina," he said with a twinkle in his eyes,
"won't you be good enough, please, to take a peek at Hans Olsa's
Sunday bottle? . . .  Not that I want anything to drink, you
understand--I should say not.  Good Lord, no!  But think of that
poor woman out there, who has been suffering all this time without
a drop!  And I'd be willing to bet that Per Hansa wouldn't object
to having his stomach warmed up a little, too!"

At that they burst out laughing, from mingled joy and relief; but
Tönseten's laughter at his own joke was the loudest of all. . . .
Work was resumed at once; Syvert began to carry the sods for Hans
Olsa to lay up, while Mother Sörrina went off in a happy frame of
mind, to make her preparations for the reception of the wanderers.


II


Before the half hour allotted by Tönseten had passed, the caravan
came slowly crawling up the slope.  Per Hansa still strode in the
van, with Store-Hans at his side; Ole walked abreast of the oxen,
driving them with the goad.  Beret and And-Ongen sat in the wagon.
Rosie came jogging along behind at her own gait; she gave a loud,
prolonged "moo-o-o-o" as she discovered the other animals across
the prairie.

Both families stood ready to receive them; Hans Olsa and Sörine,
Tönseten and his Kjersti, all watching intently the movements of
the approaching company; but the girl couldn't possess her patience
any longer, and ran down to meet the new arrivals.  She took Store-
Hans by the hand and fell in beside him; the first question she
asked was whether he hadn't been terribly scared at night? . . .

As the slope of the hill grew steeper, the oxen had to bend to the
yoke.

"Hey, there, folks!" shouted Per Hansa, boisterously.  "Don't be
standing around loafing, now!  It's only the middle of the
afternoon.  Haven't you got anything to do around here?"

"Coffee time, coffee time, Per Hansa . . . ha, ha, ha!"  Tönseten
was bubbling over with good spirits.  "We thought we might as well
wait a little while for you, you know."

. . . "You've found us at last!" said Hans Olsa, with a deep, happy
chuckle. . . .  He didn't seem able to let go of Per Hansa's hand.

"Found you?  Why, devil take it, it's no trick to follow a course
out here!  You just have to keep on steering straight ahead.  And
you had marked the trail pretty well, all the way along.  I found
plenty of traces of you. . . .  I guess we stood a little too far
to the westward, between Sioux Falls and here; that's how it
happened. . . .  So THIS is the place, is it? . . .  The pastures
of Goshen in the land of Egypt--eh?"

"Just so, just so!" cried Tönseten, nodding and laughing.
"Pastures of Goshen--right you are!  That's exactly what we are
going to call the place--GOSHEN--if only you haven't sailed in to
mix things up for us!" . . .

Beret and the child had now got down from the wagon; the other two
women hovered around her, drawing her toward the tent.  But she
hung back for a moment; she wanted to stop and look around.

. . . Was this the place? . . . HERE! . . . Could it be possible?
. . .  She stole a glance at the others, at the half-completed hut,
then turned to look more closely at the group standing around her;
and suddenly it struck her that HERE SOMETHING WAS ABOUT TO GO
WRONG. . . .  For several days she had sensed this same feeling;
she could not seem to tear herself loose from the grip of it. . . .
A great lump kept coming up in her throat; she swallowed hard to
keep it back, and forced herself to look calm.  Surely, surely,
she mustn't give way to her tears now, in the midst of all this
joy. . . .

Then she followed the other two women into the tent; seeing a
chair, she sank down in it, as if her strength had gone!

Sörine was patting her on the shoulder. . . .  "Come, get your
things off, Beret.  You ought to loosen up your clothes, you know.
Just throw this dress of mine around you. . . .  Here's the water
to wash yourself in.  Let down your hair, and take your time about
it. . . .  Don't mind Kjersti and me being around."

After they had bustled about for a little while the others left
her.  The moment they had gone she jumped up and crossed the tent,
to look out of the door. . . .  How will human beings be able to
endure this place? she thought.  Why, there isn't even a thing that
one can HIDE BEHIND! . . .  Her sensitive, rather beautiful face
was full of blank dismay; she turned away from the door and began
to loosen her dress; then her eyes fell on the centre pole with its
crosspiece, hung with clothes, and she stood a moment irresolute,
gazing at it in startled fright. . . .  It looked like the giants
she had read about as a child; for a long while she was unable to
banish the picture from her mind.

Outside the tent, Ole stood with his hand resting on one of the
oxen.  He was disgusted; the older people seemed to have clean
forgotten his existence.  They never would get done talking--when
he, too, might have had a word to put in! . . .

"Hadn't we better unhitch the oxen, Dad?"

"Yes, yes--that's right, Ola.  We might as well camp down here for
the night, since we've run across some folks we used to know. . . .
How about it, you fellows?"  He turned to the other two.  "I
suppose there's a little more land left around here, isn't there,
after you've got through?"

"LAND?  Good God!  Per Hansa, what are you talking about?  Take
whatever you please, from here to the Pacific Ocean!"  Tönseten's
enthusiasm got so far away with him that he had to pull one of his
hands out of his waistband and make a sweeping circle with it in
the air.  "You must take a look around as soon as you can," Hans
Olsa said, "and see if you find anything better that meets your
fancy.  In the meanwhile I've put down a stake for you on the
quarter section that lies north of mine.  We'll go over and have a
look at it pretty soon.  Sam Solum wanted it, but I told him he'd
better leave it till you came. . . .  You see, you would be next to
the creek there; and then you and I would be the nearest
neighbours, just as we've always planned.  It makes no particular
difference to Sam; he can take the quarter alongside his
brother's."

Per Hansa drew a deep breath, as if filling himself with life's
great goodness. . . .  Here Hans Olsa had been worrying about him,
and with kindly forethought had arranged everything to his
advantage! . . .  "Well, well, we'll have to settle all that later,
Hans Olsa.  For the present, I can only say that I'm deeply
thankful to you! . . .  Unhitch the beasts, there, Ola! . . .  And
now, if you folks have got anything handy, to either eat or drink,
I'll accept it with pleasure."

. . . "Or BOTH, Per Hansa!" put in Tönseten, excitedly.

"Yes, both, Syvert.  I won't refuse!"

Soon they were all gathered around a white cloth which Mother
Sörine had spread on the ground.  On one side of it lay a whole leg
of dried mutton; on the other a large heap of flatbröd, with
cheese, bread, and butter; in the centre of the cloth stood a large
bowl of sweet milk, and from the direction of the stove the breeze
wafted to them a pleasant odour of fried bacon and strong coffee.
Mother Sörine herself took charge of the ceremony, bringing the
food and urging them all to sit down.  The stocky figure of Per
Hansa rocked back and forth in blissful delight as he squatted
there with his legs crossed under him.

"Come, Sörrina, sit down!" he cried.  "I guess we've fallen in with
gentlefolks, by the looks of things around here. . . .  I suppose
you think you're old Pharaoh himself--eh, Hans Olsa?"

"Who do you call me, then?" inquired Tönseten.

"You, Syvert?  Well, now, I really don't know what to say.  Of
course you'd like to be His Majesty's butler, but you mustn't be
encouraged--remember what happened to that poor fellow! . . .  I
think we'd better make you the baker--it might be safer, all
around.  What's your idea, Hans Olsa?"

By this time they were all laughing together.

In the midst of the jollification came Sörine, carrying a plate
with a large bottle and a dram glass* on it . . .  "Here, take this
off my hands, Hans Olsa--you will know what to do with it!"


* This bottle and glass would have been old family pieces from
Norway, the bottle shaped something like an hourglass, with a
contraction in the middle to be grasped by the hand.


Tönseten fairly bubbled over in his admiration for her:

"Oh, you sweet Sörrina-girl!--you're dearer to my heart than a
hundred women! . . .  What a blessing it must be, to have a wife
like that!"

"Stop your foolishness!" said Kjersti, but her voice didn't sound
too severe.

For a long while they continued to sit around the cloth, chatting,
eating, and drinking, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.  Hans
Olsa seemed like a different man from the one who had eaten here at
noon.  His loud voice led the cheerful talk; his ponderous bulk was
always the centre of the merriment; it seemed as if he would never
tire of gazing into that bearded, roguish face of Per Hansa's.

Once, as Per Hansa was slicing off a piece of mutton, he regarded
the cut thoughtfully, and asked:

"I suppose you brought all your supplies through safe enough?"

"Oh, sure," answered Hans Olsa, innocently.  "We had no trouble at
all--didn't lose anything; that is, except for the leg that we left
behind somewhere, east on the prairie.  But that's hardly worth
mentioning."

Per Hansa paused with the piece of meat halfway to his mouth, and
looked at Sörine with an expression of deep concern:

"The devil you say!  Did you lose one of your legs . . . ?"

Mother Sörine laughed heartily at him.  "Oh no--not quite so bad as
that. . . .  But a leg of mutton might come in handy later on, I'll
tell you; there aren't too many of them to be had around here."

Per Hansa chewed away on the meat and looked very serious.  At last
he said:

"That's always the way with folks who have more of the world's
goods than they can take care. . . .  But I'll promise you one
thing, Sörrina: if I can get my old blunderbuss to work, you're
going to have your lost leg back again. . . .  How about it,
fellows?  Have you seen any game that's fit to eat out here?"


III


They sat on until the first blue haze of evening began to spread
eastward over the plain.  The talk had now drifted to questions of
a more serious nature, mostly concerned with how they should manage
things out here; of their immediate prospects; of what the future
might hold in store for them; of land and crops, and of the new
kingdom which they were about to found. . . .  No one put the
thought into words, but they all felt it strongly; now they had
gone back to the very beginning of things. . . .

As the evening shadows deepened the conversation gradually died
away into silence.  A peculiar mood came drifting in with the dusk.
It seemed to float on the evening breeze, to issue forth out of the
heart of the untamed nature round about them; it lurked in the very
vastness and endlessness surrounding them on every hand; it even
seemed to rise like an impalpable mist out of the ground on which
they sat.

This mood brought vague premonitions to them, difficult to
interpret. . . .  No telling what might happen out here . . . for
almost anything COULD happen! . . .

They were so far from the world . . . cut off from the haunts of
their fellow beings . . . so terribly far! . . .

The faces that gazed into one another were sober now, as silence
claimed the little company; but lines of strength and determination
on nearly every countenance told of an inward resolve to keep the
mood of depression from gaining full control.

Per Hansa was the first to rouse himself and throw off the spell.
He jumped up with nervous energy; a shiver passed over him, as if
he were having a chill.

"What is it--are you cold?" asked his wife.  She had instinctively
sensed his mood as she looked at him--and loved him better for it.
Until that moment, she had supposed that she herself was the only
one who felt this peculiar influence.

"Such crazy talk!" he burst out.  "I believe we've all lost our
senses, every last one of us!  Here we sit around celebrating in
broad daylight, in the middle of summer, as if it was the Christmas
holidays! . . .  Come on, woman, let's go over to our new home!"

Everyone got up.

"You must do exactly as you please about it, Per Hansa," spoke up
Hans Olsa with an apologetic air.  "Don't feel that you must take
this quarter if you don't like it.  But as far as I can see, it's
as good a piece of land as you could find anywhere around--every
square foot of it plowland, except the hill over there.  Plenty of
water for both man and beast. . . .  As for my part, if I can only
sit here between you and Syvert, I certainly won't be kicking about
my neighbours. . . .  But I don't want you to feel that you have to
take this quarter on my account, you understand. . . .  If you do
take it, though, we must get one of the Solum boys to go down to
Sioux Falls with you the first thing to-morrow, so that you can
file your claim.  You'll have to do that in any case, you know,
whichever quarter you take. . . .  There's likely to be a lot of
people moving into this region before the snow flies; we five
oughtn't to part company or let anyone get in between us. . . .
You've heard my best advice, anyway."

"Now, that's the talk!" Tönseten chimed in, briskly.  "And
considering the size of the head it comes from, it isn't half bad,
either.  You're damned well right, Hans Olsa.  Before the snow
flies you're going to see such a multitude swarming around these
parts, that the thundering place won't be fit to live in!  Remember
what I say, boys, in times to come--bear it in mind that those were
Syvert's very words! . . .  You've got to go straight to Sioux
Falls tomorrow morning, Per Hansa, and no two ways about it!  If
one of the Solum boys can't go along to do the talking for you,
why, I shall have to buckle down to the job myself."

Once more Per Hansa's heart filled with a deep sense of peace and
contentment as he realized how matters were being smoothed out for
him.  They seemed to move of their own accord but he knew
better. . . .  Was he really to own it?  Was it really to become
his possession, this big stretch of fine land that spread here
before him?  Was he really to have his friends for neighbours, both
to the north and to the south--folks who cared for him and wanted to
help him out in every way? . . .

He was still chuckling with the rare pleasure of it as he asked,
"You haven't discovered any signs of life since you came?"

"Devil, no!" Tönseten assured him.  "Neither Israelites nor
Canaanites!  I was the first one to find this place, you know. . . .
But there's no telling how soon the drift will loosen, the way
folks were talking back East last winter.  And now the land office
for this whole section of country has been moved to Sioux Falls,
too.  That means business; the government, you may be certain, has
good reason for doing such a thing."  Tönseten spoke with all the
importance of a man who has inside knowledge.

Per Hansa looked at him, and a bantering tone came into his voice:

"I see it clearly, Syvert--it would never do to keep you around
here as a mere baker!  We'll have to promote you to a higher
office, right away. . . .  Now, boys, I'm going over to see this
empire that you two have set aside for me.  Ola, you hitch up the
oxen again and bring the wagons along."

With these commands he walked rapidly away; the others had almost
to run in order to keep up with him.  Strong emotions surged
through him as he strode on. . . .

"It lies high," he observed after a while, when they had looked all
the plowland over. . . .  "There must be a fine view from the top
of that hill."

They were bending their steps in this direction, and soon had
reached the highest point.  It seemed so spacious and beautiful to
stand high above the prairie and look around, especially now, when
the shades of evening were falling. . . .  Suddenly Per Hansa began
to step more cautiously; he sniffed the air like an animal; in a
moment he stopped beside a small depression in the ground, and
stood gazing at it intently for quite a while; then he said,
quietly:

"There are people buried here. . . .  That is a grave!"

"Oh no, Per Hansa!  It can't be possible."

"No doubt about it," he said in the same subdued but positive tone.

Tönseten and Hans Olsa were so astonished that they could hardly
credit the fact; they came over at once to where Per Hansa stood,
and gazed down into the hollow.  Hans Olsa bent over and picked up
a small stone that his eyes had lighted on; he turned it around in
his hand several times. . . .  "That's a queer-looking piece of
stone!  I almost believe people have shaped it for some use. . . .
Here, see what you make of it, Syvert."

Tönseten's ruddy face grew sober and thoughtful as he examined the
object.

"By thunder!  It certainly looks as if the Indians had been
here! . . .  Now isn't that rotten luck?" . . .

"I'm afraid so," said Per Hansa, with a vigorous nod.  Then he
added, sharply, "But we needn't shout the fact from the house-tops,
you know! . . .  It takes so very little to scare some folks around
here."

He waited no longer but walked hastily down the hill; at the foot
he called to Ole, telling him not to drive any farther; but first
he turned to Hans Olsa to find out whether they were well across
the line between the two quarters.

"No use in building farther away from you than is absolutely
necessary," he said.  "It's going to be lonesome for the women-
folks at times." . . .

. . . Awhile later, Tönseten was dragging his way homeward.  For
reasons that he wouldn't admit even to himself, he walked a good
deal heavier now than when he had climbed the slope that afternoon.

Per Hansa returned with his other neighbour to the wagons, where
Beret and the children were waiting.  Again he inquired about
the line between the two quarters; then asked Beret and Hans Olsa to
help pick the best building place; his words, though few and soberly
spoken, had in them an unmistakable ring of determination. . . .
This vast stretch of beautiful land was to be his--yes, HIS--and no
ghost of a dead Indian would drive him away! . . .  His heart began
to expand with a mighty exaltation.  An emotion he had never felt
before filled him and made him walk erect. . . .  "Good God!" he
panted.  "This kingdom is going to be MINE!"


IV


Early the next morning Per Hansa and one of the Solum boys set out
on the fifty-two-mile journey to Sioux Falls, where Per Hansa filed
an application for the quarter-section of land which lay to the
north of Hans Olsa's.  To confirm the application, he received a
temporary deed to the land.  The deed was made out in the name of
Peder Benjamin Hansen; it contained a description of the land, the
conditions which he agreed to fulfil in order to become the owner,
and the date, June 6, 1873.

Sörine wanted Beret and the children to stay with her during the
two days that her husband would be away; but she refused the offer
with thanks.  If they were to get ready a home for the summer, she
said, she would have to take hold of matters right away.

. . . "For the summer?" exclaimed the other woman, showing her
astonishment.  "What about the winter, then?"

Beret saw that she had uttered a thought which she ought to have
kept to herself; she evaded the question as best she could.

During the first day, both she and the boys found so much to do
that they hardly took time to eat.  They unloaded both the wagons,
set up the stove, and carried out the table.  Then Beret arranged
their bedroom in the larger wagon.  With all the things taken out
it was quite roomy in there; it made a tidy bedroom when everything
had been put in order.  The boys thought this work great fun, and
she herself found some relief in it for her troubled mind.  But
something vague and intangible hovering in the air would not allow
her to be wholly at ease; she had to stop often and look about, or
stand erect and listen. . . .  Was that a sound she heard? . . .
All the while, the thought that had struck her yesterday when she
had first got down from the wagon, stood vividly before her mind:
here there was nothing even to hide behind! . . .  When the room
was finished, and a blanket had been hung up to serve as a door,
she seemed a little less conscious of this feeling.  But back in
the recesses of her mind it still was there. . . .

After they had milked the cow, eaten their evening porridge, and
talked awhile to the oxen, she took the boys and And-Ongen and
strolled away from camp.  With a common impulse, they went toward
the hill; when they had reached the summit, Beret sat down and let
her gaze wander aimlessly around. . . .  In a certain sense, she
had to admit to herself, it was lovely up here.  The broad expanse
stretching away endlessly in every direction, seemed almost like
the ocean--especially now, when darkness was falling.  It reminded
her strongly of the sea, and yet it was very different. . . .  This
formless prairie had no heart that beat, no waves that sang, no
soul that could be touched . . . or cared. . . .

The infinitude surrounding her on every hand might not have been so
oppressive, might even have brought her a measure of peace, if it
had not been for the deep silence, which lay heavier here than in a
church.  Indeed, what was there to break it?  She had passed beyond
the outposts of civilization; the nearest dwelling places of men
were far away.  Here no warbling of birds rose on the air, no
buzzing of insects sounded;* even the wind had died away; the
waving blades of grass that trembled to the faintest breath now
stood erect and quiet, as if listening, in the great hush of the
evening. . . .  All along the way, coming out, she had noticed this
strange thing: the stillness had grown deeper, the silence more
depressing, the farther west they journeyed; it must have been over
two weeks now since she had heard a bird sing!  Had they travelled
into some nameless, abandoned region?  Could no living thing exist
out here, in the empty, desolate, endless wastes of green and
blue? . . .  How COULD existence go on, she thought, desperately?
If life is to thrive and endure, it must at least have something to
hide behind! . . .


* Original settlers are agreed that there was neither bird nor
insect life on the prairie, with the exception of mosquitoes, the
first year that they came.


The children were playing boisterously a little way off.  What a
terrible noise they made!  But she had better let them keep on with
their play, as long as they were happy. . . .  She sat perfectly
quiet, thinking of the long, oh, so interminably long march that
they would have to make, back to the place where human beings
dwelt.  It would be small hardship for her, of course, sitting in
the wagon; but she pitied Per Hansa and the boys--and then the poor
oxen! . . .  He certainly would soon find out for himself that a
home for men and women and children could never be established in
this wilderness. . . .  And how could she bring new life into the
world out here! . . .

Slowly her thoughts began to centre on her husband; they grew warm
and tender as they dwelt on him.  She trembled as they came. . . .

But only for a brief while.  As her eyes darted nervously here and
there, flitting from object to object and trying to pierce the
purple dimness that was steadily closing in, a sense of desolation
so profound settled upon her that she seemed unable to think at
all.  It would not do to gaze any longer at the terror out there,
where everything was turning to grim and awful darkness. . . .  She
threw herself back in the grass and looked up into the heavens.
But darkness and infinitude lay there, also--the sense of utter
desolation still remained. . . .  Suddenly, for the first time, she
realized the full extent of her loneliness, the dreadful nature of
the fate that had overtaken her.  Lying there on her back, and
staring up into the quiet sky across which the shadows of night
were imperceptibly creeping, she went over in her mind every step
of their wanderings, every mile of the distance they had travelled
since they had left home. . . .

First they had boarded the boat at Sandnessjöen. . . .  This boat
had carried them southward along the coast. . . .  In Namsos there
had been a large ship with many white sails, that had taken her,
with her dear ones, and sailed away--that had carried them off
relentlessly, farther and farther from the land they knew.  In this
ship they had sailed for weeks; the weeks had even grown into
months; they had seemed to be crossing an ocean which had no
end. . . .  There had been something almost laughable in this blind
course, steadily fixed on the sunset!  When head winds came, they
beat up against them; before sweeping fair breezes they scudded
along; but always they were westering! . . .

. . . At last they had landed in Quebec.  There she had walked
about the streets, confused and bewildered by a jargon of
unintelligible sounds that did not seem like the speech of
people. . . .  Was this the Promised Land?  Ah no--it was only
the beginning of the real journey. . . .  Then something within
her had risen up in revolt: I will go no farther! . . .

. . . But they had kept on, just the same--had pushed steadily
westward, over plains, through deserts, into towns, and out of them
again. . . .  One fine day they had stood in Detroit, Michigan.
This wasn't the place, either, it seemed. . . .  Move on! . . .
Once more she had felt the spirit of revolt rising to shout aloud:
I will go no farther! . . .  But it had been as if a resistless
flood had torn them loose from their foundations and was carrying
them helplessly along on its current--flinging them here and there,
hurling them madly onward, with no known destination ahead.

Farther and farther onward . . . always west. . . .  For a brief
while there had been a chance to relax once more; they had
travelled on water again, and she could hear the familiar splash of
waves against the ship's side.  This language she knew of old, and
did not fear; it had lessened the torture of that section of the
journey for her, though they had been subjected to much ill-
treatment and there had been a great deal of bullying and brawling
on board.

At last the day had arrived when they had landed in Milwaukee.  But
here they were only to make a new start--to take another plunge
into the unknown. . . .  Farther, and always farther. . . .  The
relentless current kept whirling them along. . . .  Was it bound
nowhere, then? . . .  Did it have no end? . . .

In the course of time they had come jogging into a place called
Prairie du Chien. . . .  Had that been in Wisconsin, or some other
place named after savages? . . .  It made no difference--they had
gone on.  They had floundered along to Lansing, in Iowa. . . .
Onward again.  Finally they had reached Fillmore County, in
Minnesota. . . .  But even that wasn't the place, it seemed! . . .

. . . Now she was lying here on a little green hillock, surrounded
by the open, endless prairie, far off in a spot from which no road
led back! . . .  It seemed to her that she had lived many lives
already, in each one of which she had done nothing but wander and
wander, always straying farther way from the home that was dear to
her.

She sat up at last, heaved a deep sigh, and glanced around as if
waking from a dream. . . .  The unusual blending of the gentle and
forceful in her features seemed to be thrown into relief by the
scene in which she sat and the twilight hovering about her, as a
beautiful picture is enhanced by a well-chosen frame.

The two boys and their little sister were having great fun up here.
So many queer things were concealed under the tufts of grass.
Store-Hans came running, and brought a handful of little flat,
reddish chips of stone that looked as though they had been carved
out of the solid rock; they were pointed at one end and broadened
out evenly on both sides, like the head of a spear.  The edges were
quite sharp; in the broad end a deep groove had been filed.  Ole
brought more of them, and gave a couple to his little sister to
play with. . . .  The mother sat for a while with the stones in her
lap, where the children had placed them; at last she took them up,
one by one, and examined them closely. . . .  These must have been
formed by human hands, she thought.

Suddenly Ole made another rare discovery.  He brought her a larger
stone, that looked like a sledge hammer; in this the groove was
deep and broad.

The mother got up hastily.

"Where are you finding these things?"

The boys at once took her to the place; in a moment she, too, was
standing beside the little hollow at the brow of the hill, which
the men had discovered the night before; the queer stones that the
children had been bringing her lay scattered all around.

"Ola says that the Indians made them!" cried Store-Hans, excitedly.
"Is it true, mother? . . .  Do you suppose they'll ever come back?"

"Yes, maybe--if we stay here long enough. . . ."  She remained
standing awhile beside the hollow; the same thought possessed her
that had seized hold of her husband when he had first found the
spot--here a human being lay buried.  Strangely enough, it did not
frighten her; it only showed her more plainly, in a stronger,
harsher light, how unspeakably lonesome this place was.

The evening dusk had now almost deepened into night.  It seemed to
gather all its strength around her, to close in on every side, to
have its centre in the spot where she stood.  The wagons had become
only a dim speck in the darkness, far, far away; the tent at Hans
Olsa's looked like a tuft of grass that had whitened at the top;
Tönseten's sod house she was unable to make out at all. . . .  She
could not bring herself to call aloud to the boys; instead, she
walked around the hollow, spoke to them softly, and said that it
was time to go home. . . .  No, no, they mustn't take the stones
with them to-night!  But to-morrow they might come up here again to
play.

. . . Beret could not go to sleep for a long time that night.  At
last she grew thoroughly angry with herself; her nerves were taut
as bowstrings; her head kept rising up from the pillow to listen--
but there was nothing to hear . . . nothing except the night wind,
which now had begun to stir.

. . . It stirred with so many unknown things! . . .


V


Per Hansa came home late the following afternoon; he had so many
words of praise for what she and the boys had accomplished while he
had been gone, that he fairly bewildered her.  Now it had taken
possession of him again--that indomitable, conquering mood which
seemed to give him the right of way wherever he went, whatever he
did.  Outwardly, at such times, he showed only a buoyant
recklessness, as if wrapped in a cloak of gay, wanton levity; but
down beneath all this lay a stern determination of purpose, a
driving force, so strong that she shrank back from the least
contact with it.

To-day he was talking in a steady stream.

"Here is the deed to our kingdom, Beret-girl!  See to it that you
take good care of the papers. . . .  Isn't it stranger than a
fairy tale, that a man can have such things here, just for the
taking? . . .  Yes--and years after he won the princess, too!"  He
cocked his head on one side.  "I'll tell you what, it seems so
impossible and unheard of, that I can't quite swallow it all
yet. . . .  What do you say, my Beret-girl?"

Beret stood smiling at him, with tears in her eyes, beside the
improvised house that she had made; there was little for her to
say.  And what would be the use of speaking now?  He was so
completely wrapped up in his own plans that he would not listen nor
understand.  It would be wrong, too, to trouble him with her fears
and misgivings. . . .  When he felt like this he was so tender to
her, so cheerful, so loving and kind. . . .  How well she knew Per
Hansa! . . .

"What are you thinking about it all, my Beret-girl?"  He flung his
arm around her, whirled her off her feet, and drew her toward him.

"Oh, Per, it's only this--I'm so afraid out here!"  She snuggled up
against him, as if trying to hide herself.  "It's all so big and
open . . . so empty. . . .  Oh, Per!  Not another human being from
here to the end of the world!"

Per Hansa laughed loud and long, so that she winced under the force
and meaning of it.  "There'll soon be more people, girl . . . never
you fear. . . .  By God! there'll soon be more people here!"

But suddenly another idea took hold of him.  He led her over to the
large chest, made her sit down, and stood in front of her with a
swaggering air:

"Now let me tell you what came into my mind yesterday, after I had
got the papers.  I went right out and bought ten sacks of potatoes!
I felt so good, Beret--and you know how we men from Nordland like
potatoes!" he added with a laugh.  "This is the point of it: we're
not going to start right in with building a house.  The others are
just foolish to do it."  His voice grew low and eager.  "They're
beginning at the wrong end, you see.  For my part, I'm going over
to Hans Olsa's this very night and borrow his plow--and to-morrow
morning I shall start breaking my ground!  Yes, sir!  I tell you
those potatoes have got to go into the ground at once.  Do you hear
me, Beret-girl?  If the soil out here is half as good as it's
cracked up to be, we'll have a fine crop the very first fall! . . .
Then I can build later in the summer, you know, when I am able to
take my time about it. . . .  Just wait, my girl, just wait.  It's
going to be wonderful; you'll see how wonderful I can make it for
you, this kingdom of ours!"  He laughed until his eyes were drawn
out in two narrow slits.  "And no old worn-out, thin-shanked, pot-
bellied king is going to come around and tell me what I have to do
about it, either!"

He explained to her at great length how he intended to arrange
everything and how success would crown his efforts, she sitting
there silently on the chest, he standing in front of her, waving
his arms; while about them descended the grandeur of the evening.
But with all his strength and enthusiasm, and with all her love, he
didn't succeed in winning her heart over altogether--no, not
altogether.  She had heard with her own ears how no bird sang out
here; she had seen with her own eyes how, day after day as they
journeyed, they had left the abodes of men farther and farther
behind.  Wasn't she sitting here now, gazing off into an endless
blue-green solitude that had neither heart nor soul? . . .

"Do you know," she said, quietly, as she got up once more and
leaned close against him, "I believe there is a grave over there on
the hill?"

"Why, Beret!  Did you find it?  Have you been going around brooding
over that, too? . . .  Don't worry, girl.  He'll bring us nothing
but good luck, the fellow who lies up there."

"Perhaps. . . .  But it seems so strange that some one lies buried
in unconsecrated ground right at our very door.  How quiet it must
be there! . . .  The children found so many things to play with,
while we were up on the hill last night, that I let them go again
to-night.  Come, we had better begin to look for them. . . .  It is
beautiful up there."  She sighed, and moved away.

They climbed the hill together, holding each other's hands.  There
was something in that sad resignation of hers which he was
powerless against.  As he walked beside her and held her hand, he
felt as if he could laugh and cry in the same breath. . . .  She
was so dear, so dear to him.  Why could he never make her
understand it fully?  It was a strange, baffling thing!  But
perhaps the reason for it lay in this: she was not built to wrestle
with fortune--she was too fine-grained. . . .  Oh, well--he knew
one person, at any rate, who stood ready to do the fighting for
her!


Per Hansa had so much to think about that night that a long time
passed before he could get to sleep.  Now was a good chance to make
his plans, while Beret lay at his side, sleeping safe and sound; he
must utilize every moment now; he didn't feel very tired, either.

There seemed to be no end to the things he needed.  But thirty
dollars was all the money he had in the world; and when he thought
of what would have to be bought in the near future, and of
everything that waited to be done, the list grew as long as the
distance they had travelled. . . .  First of all, house and barn;
that would need doors and windows.  Then food and tobacco; shoes
and clothing; and implements--yes, farming implements!  If he only
had horses and the necessary implements, the whole quarter-section
would soon blossom like a garden. . . .  The horses he would have
to do without, to begin with.  But he ought to get at least one
more cow before fall came--no dodging that fact. . . .  And pigs--
he absolutely had to have some pigs for winter! . . .  If the
potatoes turned out well, there would be plenty to feed them
on. . . .  Then he would buy some chickens, as soon as he could run
across any folks who had chickens to sell.  Things like that would
only be pleasant diversions for Beret. . . .  There certainly
seemed to be no end to all that he needed.

. . . But now came the main hitch in his calculations: Beret was
going to have a baby again. . . .  Only a blessing, of course--but
what a lot of their time it would take up, just now! . . .  Oh,
well, she would have to bear the brunt of it herself, as the woman
usually did.  A remarkably brave and clever wife, that she was . . .
a woman of tender kindness, of deep, fine fancies--one whom you
could not treat like an ordinary clod.

. . . How hard he would strive to make life pleasant for her out
here!  Her image dominated all the visions which now seemed to come
to him of their own accord. . . .  The whole farm lay there before
him, broken and under cultivation, yielding its fruitful harvests;
there ran many horses and cows, both young and grown.  And over on
the location where to-day he was about to build the sod hut should
stand a large dwelling . . . a white house, it would be!  Then it
would gleam so beautifully in the sun, white all over--but the
cornices should be bright green! . . .

When, long ago, Per Hansa had had his first vision of the house, it
had been painted white, with green cornices; and these colours had
belonged to it in his mind ever since.  But the stable, the barn,
and all the rest of the outhouses should be painted red, with white
cornices--for that gave such a fine effect! . . .  Oh yes, that
Beret-girl of his should certainly have a royal mansion for herself
and her little princess! . . .


VI


As Per Hansa lay there dreaming of the future it seemed to him that
hidden springs of energy, hitherto unsuspected even by himself,
were welling up in his heart.  He felt as if his strength were
inexhaustible.  And so he commenced his labours with a fourteen-
hour day; but soon, as the plans grew clearer, he began to realize
how little could be accomplished in that short span of time, with
so much work always ahead of him; he accordingly lengthened the day
to sixteen hours, and threw in another hour for good measure; at
last he found himself wondering if a man couldn't get along with
only five hours of rest, in this fine summer weather.

His waking dreams passed unconsciously into those of sleep; all
that night a pleasant buoyancy seemed to be lifting him up and
carrying him along; at dawn, when he opened his eyelids, morning
was there to greet him--the morning of a glorious new day. . . .
He saw that it was already broad daylight; with a guilty start, he
came wide awake.  Heavens! he might have overslept himself--on THIS
morning! . . .  He jumped into his clothes, and found some cold
porridge to quiet his hunger for the time being; then he hurried
out, put the yoke on the oxen, and went across to Hans Olsa's to
fetch the plow. . . .  Over there no life was stirring yet.  Well,
maybe they could afford to sleep late in the morning; but he had
arrived five days behind the others, and had just been delayed for
two days more; they had a big start over him already.  His heart
sang as he thought how he would have to hurry! . . .  He led the
oxen carefully, trying to make as little noise around the tent as
possible.

Dragging the plow, he drove out for some distance toward the
hillock, then stopped and looked around.  This was as good a place
as anywhere to start breaking. . . .  He straightened up the plow,
planted the share firmly in the ground, and spoke to the oxen:
"Come now, move along, you lazy rascals!"  He had meant to speak
gruffly, but the thrill of joy that surged over him as he sank the
plow in his own land for the first time, threw such an unexpected
tone of gentleness into his voice that the oxen paid no attention
to it; he found that he would have to resort to more powerful
encouragement; but even with the goad it was hard to make them bend
to the yoke so early in the morning.  After a little, however, they
began to stretch their muscles.  Then they were off; the plow
moved . . . sank deeper . . . the first furrow was breaking. . . .

It would have gone much easier now if Ole had only been there to
drive the oxen, so that he could have given his whole attention to
the plow.  But never mind that! . . .  The boy ought to sleep for
at least another hour; the day would be plenty long enough for him,
before it was through. . . .  Young bulls have tender sinews--
though for one of his age, Ole was an exceptionally able youngster.

That first furrow turned out very crooked for Per Hansa; he made a
long one of it, too.  When he thought he had gone far enough and
halted the oxen, the furrow came winding up behind him like a
snake.  He turned around, drove the oxen back in the opposite
direction, and laid another furrow up against the one he had
already struck. . . .  At the starting point again, he surveyed his
work ruefully.  Well, the second furrow wasn't any CROOKEDER than
the first, at all events! . . .  When he had made another round he
let the oxen stand awhile; taking the spade which he had brought
out, he began to cut the sod on one side of the breaking into
strips, that could be handled.  This was to be his building
material. . . .  Field for planting on the one hand, sods for a
house on the other--that was the way to plow! . . .  Leave it to
Per Hansa--he was the fellow to have everything figured out
beforehand!

By breakfast time he had made a fine start.  No sooner had he
swallowed the last morsel than he ordered both the boys to turn to,
hitched the oxen to the old homemade wagon, and off they all went
together toward the field, Per Hansa leading the way. . . .  "You'd
better cook the kettles full to-day!" he shouted back, as they were
leaving.  "We're going to punish a lot of food when we come in!"

Now Per Hansa began working in real earnest.  He and Store-Hans,
with plow and oxen, broke up the land; Ole used the hoe, but the
poor fellow was having a hard time of it.  The sod, which had been
slumbering there undisturbed for countless ages, was tough of fibre
and would not give up its hold on the earth without a struggle.  It
almost had to be turned by main strength, piece by piece; it was a
dark brownish colour on the under side--a rich, black mould that
gave promise of wonderful fertility; it actually gleamed and
glistened under the rays of the morning sun, where the plow had
carved and polished its upturned face. . . .  Ole toiled on,
settling and straightening the furrows as best he could, now and
then cutting out the clods that fell unevenly.  When Per Hansa had
made a couple of rounds, he let the oxen stand awhile to catch
their breath, and came over to Ole to instruct him.  "This is the
way to do it!" he said, seizing the hoe.  "Watch me, now--LIKE
THIS!"  He hewed away till the clods were flying around him. . . .
When they quit work at noon a good many furrows lay stretched out
on the slope, smiling up at the sun; they were also able to bring
home with them a full wagonload of building material; at coffee
time they brought another; at supper another.  But when, arriving
home at the end of the day, they found that supper was not quite
ready, Per Hansa felt that he must go after still another load;
they had better make use of every minute of time!


VII


He began building the house that same evening.

"You ought to rest, Per Hansa!" Beret pleaded.  "Please use a
little common sense!"

"Rest--of course!  That's just what I propose to do! . . .  Come
along, now, all hands of you; you can't imagine what fun this is
going to be. . . .  Just think of it--a new house on our own
estate!  I don't mean that you've got to work, you know; but come
along and watch the royal mansion rise!"

They all joined in, nevertheless . . . couldn't have kept their
hands off.  It gave them such keen enjoyment that they worked away
until they could no longer see to place the strips of sod.  Then
Per Hansa called a halt--that was enough for one day.  They had
laboured hard and faithfully; well, they would get their wages in
due time, every last one of them--but he couldn't bother with such
trifles just now!

. . . That night sleep overpowered him at once; he was too tired
even to dream.

From now on Per Hansa worked on the house every morning before
breakfast, and every evening as soon as he had finished supper.
The whole family joined in the task when they had nothing else to
do; it seemed like a fascinating game.

To the eyes of Tönseten and Hans Olsa, it appeared as if nothing
short of witchcraft must be at work on Per Hansa's quarter section;
in spite of the fact that he and his entire family were breaking
ground in the fields the whole day long, a great sod house shot up
beside the wagon, like an enormous mushroom.

Per Hansa plowed and harrowed, delved and dug; he built away at the
house, and he planted the potatoes; he had such a zest for
everything and thought it all such fun that he could hardly bear to
waste a moment in stupid sleep.  It was Beret who finally put a
check on him.  One morning, as he threw off the blanket at dawn, on
the point of jumping up in his reckless way, she lay there awake,
waiting for him.  The moment he stirred, she put her arms lovingly
around him and told him that he must stay in bed awhile longer.
This would never do, she said; he ought to remember that he was
only a human being. . . .  She begged him so gently and soothingly
that he gave in at last and stayed in bed with her.  But he was ill
at ease over the loss of time.  It wouldn't take long to lay a
round of sod, and every round helped. . . .  This Beret-girl of his
meant well enough, but she didn't realize the multitude of things
that weighed on his mind--things that couldn't wait, that had to be
attended to immediately!

. . . Yes, she was an exceptional woman, this Beret of his; he
didn't believe that her like existed anywhere else under the sun.
During the last two days she had hurried through her housework, and
then, taking And-Ongen by the hand, had come out in the field with
them; she had let the child roam around and play in the grass while
she herself had joined in their labour; she had pitched in beside
them and taken her full term like any man.  It had all been done to
make things easier for him . . . and now she was lying awake here,
just to look after him!

. . . He thought of other things that she had done.  When they had
harrowed and hoed sufficient seed ground, Beret had looked over her
bundles and produced all kinds of seeds--he couldn't imagine how or
where she had got them--turnips, and carrots, and onions, and
tomatoes, and melons, even! . . .  What a wife she was! . . .
Well, he had better stay in bed and please her this time, when she
had been so clever and thoughtful about everything.

However it was accomplished, on Per Hansa's estate they had a field
all broken and harrowed and seeded down, and a large house ready
for thatching, by the time that Hans Olsa and the Solum boys had
barely finished thatching their houses and started the plowing.
Tönseten, though, was ahead of him with the breaking--Per Hansa had
to accept that--and was now busy planting his potatoes.  But Syvert
had every reason to be in the lead; his house had been all ready to
move into when they had arrived.  That little stable which he had
built wasn't more than a decent day's work for an able man.  And he
had horses, too. . . .  Of course, such things gave him a big
advantage!

They finished planting the big field at Per Hansa's late one
afternoon; all the potatoes that he had brought home from Sioux
Falls had been cut in small pieces and tucked away in the
ground. . . .  "Only one eye to each piece!" he had warned Beret as
she sat beside him, cutting them up.  "That's enough for such rich
soil." . . .  The other seed, which she had provided with such
splendid forethought, had also been planted.  The field looked
larger than it really was.  It stood out clearly against the fresh
verdure of the hillside; from a little distance it appeared as if
some one had sewn a dark brown patch on a huge green cloth. . . .
That patch looked mighty good to Per Hansa as he stood surveying the
scene, his whole being filled with the sense of completed effort.
Here he had barely arrived in a new country; yet already he had got
more seed into the ground than on any previous year since Beret and
he had started out for themselves. . . .  Just wait!  What couldn't
he do another year!

"Well, Beret-girl," he said, "we've cleaned up a busy spring
season, all right!  To-night we ought to have an extra-fine dish of
porridge, to bless what has been put into the ground."  He stood
there with sparkling eyes, admiring his wonderful field.

Beret was tired out with the labour she had undergone; her back
ached as if it would break.  She, too, was looking at the field,
but the joy he felt found no response in her.

. . . I'm glad that he is happy, she thought, sadly.  Perhaps in
time I will learn to like it, too. . . .  But she did not utter the
thought; she merely took the child by the hand, turned away, and
went back to their wagon-home.  There she measured out half of the
milk that Rosie had given that morning, dipped some grits from the
bag and prepared the porridge, adding water until it was thin
enough.  Before she served it up she put a small dab of butter in
each dish, like a tiny eye that would hardly keep open; then she
sprinkled over the porridge a small portion of sugar; this was all
the luxury she could afford.  Indeed, her heart began to reproach
her even for this extravagance.  But when she saw the joyful faces
of the boys, and heard Per Hansa's exclamations over her merits as
a housekeeper, she brightened up a little, cast her fears to the
wind, and sprinkled on more sugar from the bag. . . .  Then she sat
down among them, smiling and happy; she was glad that she hadn't
told them how her back was aching. . . .

. . . They all worked at the house building that night as long as
they could see.


VIII


Per Hansa's house certainly looked as if it were intended for a
royal mansion.  When Tönseten saw it close at hand for the first
time he exclaimed:

"Will you please inform me, Per Hansa, what the devil you think
you're building?  Is it just a house, or is it a church and
parsonage rolled in one? . . .  Have you lost your senses
altogether, man?  You won't be able to get a roof over this crazy
thing in a month of Sundays! . . .  Why, damn it all, there aren't
willows enough in this whole region to thatch a half of it!  You
might just as well tear it down again, for all the good it will
do."

"The hell you say!" cried Per Hansa, genially.  "But there it
stands, as big as Billy-be-damned, so what are you going to do
about it? . . .  The notion I had was this: I might as well build
for my sons, too, while I was about it.  Then when they got married
and needed more room they could thatch a new section any time. . . .
What ails you, Syvert?  Isn't there plenty of sod for roofing,
all the way from here to the Pacific coast?"

But Tönseten took a serious view of the affair:

"I tell you, Per Hansa, there's no sense in such a performance.  It
isn't the sod, it's the poles--you know it damned well! . . .
You'd better go right ahead and tear it down as fast as ever you
can!"

"Oh, well, I suppose I'll have to, then," said Per Hansa, dryly.

As a matter of fact, it was hardly to be wondered at that Tönseten
grew excited when he saw this structure; it differed radically from
the one he had built and from all the others that he had ever seen.
He wondered if such a silly house as this could be found anywhere
else in the whole country. . . .  His own hut measured fourteen by
sixteen feet; the one that the Solum boys were building was only
fourteen feet each way; Hans Olsa had been reckless and had laid
his out eighteen feet long and sixteen feet wide. . . .  But look
at this house of Per Hansa's--TWENTY-EIGHT feet long and EIGHTEEN
feet wide!  Moreover, it had two rooms, one of them eighteen by
eighteen, the other eighteen by ten.  The rooms were separated by a
wall; one had a door opening toward the south, the other a door
opening toward the east.  Two doors in a sod hut!  My God! what
folly!  In the smaller room the sod even had been taken up, so that
the floor level there was a foot below that of the larger room.
What was the sense of that? . . .  If we don't look out, thought
Tönseten, this crazy man will start building a tower on it, too!

Things surely looked serious to Tönseten.  In the first place, Per
Hansa plainly was getting big-headed; heavens and earth, it was
nothing but an ordinary sod hut that he was building!  In the
second place, it wasn't a practical scheme.  If he were to search
till doomsday, he wouldn't be able to find enough willows for the
thatching.  Why, he might just as well thatch the whole firmament,
and be done with it! . . .  As soon as he had looked his fill,
Tönseten trotted right over to Hans Olsa's, told him all about it,
and asked him to go and reason with the man. . . .  But, no, Hans
Olsa didn't care to meddle in that affair.  Per Hansa had a
considerable family already, it might grow in the next few years;
at any rate, he needed a fairly large house.  Above all, he wasn't
the man to bite off more than he could chew.

"But that's just it--he doesn't know what he's bitten off!  He
doesn't know anything at all about building a house!"  With these
drastic words, Tönseten went directly to the Solum boys; they had
been born and brought up in America, and knew what was what.  Now
they must go, right away, and talk to Per Hansa about this crazy
building that he was putting up!  The only way out of it that he
could think of was for them and himself and maybe Hans Olsa--to go
in a body and show him what to do, and help him to build a house
then and there.  The thing that he had put up was frankly
impossible; the poor man would ruin himself before he got a decent
start! . . .

To his great disappointment, the Solum boys wouldn't go, either.
It was Per Hansa's own business, they said, what sort of a house he
wanted to build for himself.  So Tönseten had to give it up as a
bad job.  He shook his head solemnly. . . .  A damned shame, that a
perfectly good man had to go to ruin through sheer folly!

Per Hansa had put a great deal of thought into this matter of
building a house; ever since he had first seen a sod hut he had
pondered the problem.  On the day that he was coming home from
Sioux Falls a brilliant idea had struck him--an idea which had
seemed perhaps a little queer, but which had grown more attractive
the longer he turned it over in his mind.  How would it do to build
house and barn under one roof?  It was to be only a temporary
shelter, anyway--just a sort of makeshift, until he could begin on
his real mansion.  This plan would save time and labour, and both
the house and the barn would be warmer for being together. . . .
He had a vague recollection of having heard how people in the olden
days used to build their houses in that way--rich people, even!  It
might not be fashionable any longer; but it was far from foolish,
just the same.

It will go hard with Beret, he thought; she won't like it.  But
after a while he picked up courage to mention his plan to her.

. . . House and barn under the same roof? . . .  She said no more,
but fell into deep and troubled thought. . . .  Man and beast in
one building?  How could one live that way? . . .  At first it
seemed utterly impossible to her; but then she thought of how
desolate and lonesome everything was here and of what a comfortable
companion Rosie might be on dark evenings and during the long
winter nights.  She shuddered, and answered her husband that it
made no difference to her whichever way he built, so long as it was
snug and warm; but she said nothing about the real reason that had
changed her mind.

This answer made Per Hansa very happy.

"Beret-girl, you are the most sensible woman that I know! . . .  Of
course it's better all around, for us to build that way!"

He, too, had reasons that he kept to himself. . . .  Now he would
get ahead of both Hans Olsa and the Solum boys!  None of them had
even begun to think of building a barn yet; while according to his
plan, his barn would be finished when his house was done.


IX


One evening Per Hansa came over with his oxen to Hans Olsa's to
borrow his new wagon; the time had come to get his poles for the
thatching.  The others had been able to gather what they needed
along the banks of a creek some ten miles to the southward, where a
fringe of scattering willows grew; but it was small stock and a
scanty supply at that; their roofs were certainly none too strong,
and might not hold up through the next winter. . . .  Per Hansa had
a bigger and more original scheme in mind.  If conditions were
really as bad as Tönseten had made out, he'd have to find something
besides willow poles for rafters on that house of his.  The busy
season of spring was over; now he proposed to rest on his oars
awhile . . . take a little time to nose around the prairie at his
leisure.  He had been told that the Sioux River was only twenty-
five or thirty miles away; big stands of timber were reported to
lie in that direction, and several settlements of Trönders,* who
had lived there for a number of years; many other interesting
things would turn up, of course--things that he hadn't heard about;
he wanted to see it all and get a running idea of the whole
locality.  He confided to Hans Olsa where he was going, but asked
him not to mention it to anyone else. . . .  "We might as well keep
this matter to ourselves, you know.  Besides, something has got to
be done about getting fuel for the winter."


* People from the district of Trondhjem, Norway.


He brought the wagon home that evening, merely explaining that he
and Store-Hans were going out to gather wood.  Ole would have to
look after the farm while they were away, and take the full
responsibility on his shoulders.  Store-Hans, who had been chosen
to go on the trip, was overjoyed at the news; but his brother was
reduced to the verge of tears at such an outrageous injustice.  The
idea of taking that BOY along, and letting a grown man loaf around
the house with nothing to do!  For the first time his faith in his
father's judgment was shattered. . . .  And the situation grew
worse and worse as Ole watched the extensive preparations for the
trip; it looked for all the world as if they intended to move out
West!  The father was taking along a kettle, and was measuring out
supplies of flour, and salt, and coffee, and milk, besides a big
heap of flatbröd and plenty of other food.  But, heaviest blow of
all, the rifle--Old Maria--was brought out from the big chest!  Ole
wept at that in sheer anger.  Ax, rope, and sacks, too--everything
was going! . . .  And on top of it all, this youngster who wasn't
dry behind the ears yet had grown so conceited that he wouldn't
deign to talk to his brother; he kept fussing and smirking around
his father all the time, speaking to him in low, confidential
tones, and pushing himself to the front on every occasion!  He
seemed to be bubbling over with foolish questions.  Shouldn't they
take this along, and THIS, and THIS? . . .  But when at last he
came dragging a piece of chain, even Per Hansa had to laugh
outright.  "That's the boy, now!  I might have forgotten the chain.
And how could we go to the woods without a chain, I'd like to
know?"

Beret got the food ready for the journey.  Her face wore a sad,
sober expression. . . .  Yes, of course, the house must have a
roof; she knew that perfectly well.  How could they live in a house
without a roof? . . .  But now he was going to be away for another
two-day stretch--two whole days and a night! . . .  It wasn't so
bad in the daytime . . . but at night . . . !

"You'd better take the children with you and go over to Mother
Sörrina's to-morrow evening," Per Hansa advised her, cheerfully.
"You can spend the whole evening there, you know, visiting and
talking.  It'll make the time pass quicker, and you won't be so
lonesome. . . .  You do that, Beret!"

To this suggestion she answered neither yes nor no.  In her heart
she knew very well that she wouldn't follow his advice.  She never
could forget that evening of his trip to Sioux Falls, when she and
the children had come down the hill toward the wagons; the air of
the place had suddenly filled with terror and mystery.  The wagons
had floated like grey specks in the dusk; and all at once it had
seemed as if the whole desolation of a vast continent were centring
there and drawing a magic circle about their home.  She had even
seen the intangible barrier with her own eyes . . . had seen it
clearly . . . had had to force herself to step across it. . . .
Now she went on getting the food ready for them as well as she
could; but from her sad lips there came not a word.

This was destined to be a memorable journey, both for those who
went and for those who stayed at home. . . .  Before it was over
the latter were in a panic of apprehension and fear.  The second
day passed as the first had done; the second night, too; the third
day came . . . noon, but no one in sight.

Beret had not really begun to expect them until sometime during the
second day; Per Hansa had told her not to begin looking before they
came in sight.  Nevertheless, she had found herself unconsciously
doing it shortly after dinner on the very first day.  She knew that
it was foolish--they hadn't even got there yet; but she couldn't
refrain from scanning the sky line in the quarter where they had
disappeared. . . .  She went to bed with the children early that
evening.

The following evening she took them up on the hill; they sat there
silently, gazing eastward over the plain.  From this elevation her
sight seemed to take flight and carry a long, long distance. . . .
In the eastern sky the evening haze was gathering; it merged slowly
into the purple dusk, out of which an intangible, mysterious
presence seemed to be creeping closer and closer upon them.  They
sat trying to pierce it with their gaze; but neither wagon nor oxen
crossed the line of their vision. . . .  Ole took no interest in
keeping watch; it was more fun for him to look for queer stones
around the grave. . . .  When the day was well-nigh dead and
nothing had appeared, Beret suddenly felt that she must talk to
some one to-night . . . hear some human voice other than those of
the two children.  Almost in spite of herself, she directed her
steps toward Hans Olsa's.

--Hadn't Per Hansa returned yet?

--No.  She couldn't imagine what had become of him.  He surely
ought to have been home by this time.

--Oh, well, she mustn't worry; he had probably travelled a long way
on this trip; no doubt he had made use of the opportunity to look
around for winter fuel.

--Winter fuel? . . .  She had never given a thought to that before;
but of course they would need wood if they were going to stay
through the winter.  It suddenly occurred to her how much there was
for Per Hansa to plan about and worry over; but she also felt a
twinge of jealousy because he had not confided in her. . . .
Winter fuel?  Of course; it was the thing they needed most of all!

Mother Sörine was well aware that her neighbour did not have any
courage to spare.  She realized, too, how lonesome it must be for
Beret, to sleep over there in the wagon with only the children.  As
the visitors were leaving she got up, called her daughter, and
insisted on accompanying them back to the wagon.  They chatted
gaily and freely all the way . . . and that night there was no
magic circle to step across!

Some time after noon on the third day Per Hansa and Store-Hans came
home with a load so big that the oxen were just barely able to sag
up the slope with it.  It was like an incident out of a fairy tale,
that famous load.  There was a stout timber for the ridgepole,
there were crossbeams and scantlings, and rafters for the roof; but
Ole only sneered at such prosaic things.  Was THAT all they had
gone for, he'd like to know?  Farther down in the load, however,
lay six bundles of young trees; their tops had been trimmed off,
and the soil had been carefully wrapped around their roots with
strips of bark. . . .  "Those are to be planted around the house!"
Store-Hans explained.  "Would you believe it, Mother--in this
bundle there are twelve plum trees!  They grow great big plums!  We
met a man who told us all about them."  Store-Hans caught his
breath from sheer excitement. . . .  There were still stranger
things in that load.  In the back of the wagon, as the father
unloaded, an opening almost like a small room was gradually
revealed.  Here lay two great bags--two bags brimful of curious
articles.  One of them evidently contained fish; the other seemed
to hold the flayed carcass of a calf; at least, Ole thought so, and
wanted to know where it had come from.

"CALF!" exclaimed Store-Hans.  "What makes you think it's a
calf?" . . .

Per Hansa winked slyly at his travelling companion; the wink warned
him that he'd better say no more--for a little while! . . .  Store-
Hans assumed a knowing silence; but it could be seen with half an
eye that he was bursting with important secrets.  At last he was no
longer able to contain himself.

. . . "ANTELOPE!" he burst out, ecstatically.

Beret watched with speechless admiration the unloading of all the
wonderful things that they had brought; she was so overjoyed to
have her dear ones with her again that she could have burst into
hysterical tears; as she stood beside the oxen she stroked their
necks fondly, murmuring in a low voice that they were nice fellows
to have hauled home such a heavy load.

. . . "Well, there!" said Per Hansa at last, when he had cleared
the wagon.  "Now, this is the idea: Store-Hans and I have figured
on having fresh fish to-day, cooked in regular Nordland fashion,
with soup and everything.  We nearly killed ourselves, and the
beasts, too, to get here in time. . . .  Beret, what the devil have
we got to put all this meat and fish into?"

Store-Hans ate that day as if he could never get enough; there
seemed to be no bottom to the boy. . . .  When he had finished the
father chased him off to bed at once; and strange to say, he wasn't
at all unwilling though it was only the latter part of the
afternoon.  When evening came the mother tried to shake life into
him again, but without success; once he roused enough to sit up in
bed, but couldn't get so far as to take off his clothes; the next
moment he had thrown himself flat once more and was sleeping like a
log.

As time went on this first expedition of Per Hansa's came to be of
great consequence to the new settlement on Spring Creek. . . .  In
the first place, there were all the trees that he had brought home
and planted.  This alone excited Tönseten's enthusiasm to such a
pitch that he was for leaving at once to get a supply of his own;
but Hans Olsa and the Solum boys advised him to wait until the
coming fall, so Tönseten reluctantly had to give up still another
plan.

. . . But there were other things to do when fall came, and several
years went by before the others had followed Per Hansa's lead.
This is the reason why, in the course of time, a stout grove of
trees began to grow up around Per Hansa's house before anything
larger than a bush was to be seen elsewhere in the whole
neighbourhood.

But the most important result of all, perhaps, was the acquaintance
with the Trönders eastward on the Sioux River, which sprang out of
this journey.  Amid these strange surroundings, confronted by new
problems, the two tribes, Trönder and Helgelander, met in a quite
different relationship than on the Lofoten fishing grounds.  Here
they were glad enough to join forces in their common fight against
the unknown wilderness. . . .

. . . The Great Plain watched them breathlessly . . .



III

"Rosie!--Rosie!"


I


The food supply was steadily vanishing.  Bags and sacks yawned
empty and had nothing to yield.  The settlers shared freely with
one another as long as they had anything left; but even at Hans
Olsa's, where plenty usually reigned, the food at last began to
give out.  Among the menfolk a crumb of tobacco was as rare as
gold. . . .  High time that they took the situation in hand and did
something about it!  Besides, the season was getting so far
advanced that they would soon have to start in haying.  No two ways
about it--they must make a trip to town.

All the men, accordingly--Per Hansa, and Tönseten, and Hans Olsa,
and the two Solum boys--met together one Sunday to discuss the
matter.  A trip to town in those days was a serious affair, which
had to be planned carefully from beginning to end.  The seventy or
eighty miles through desolate country was in itself no trifle; one
couldn't expect to be back in less than four days, even with
horses.  And under pressure of time, it was hard to accomplish
everything that one wanted to do.  Provisions of all sorts must be
replenished for the next season; first of all came food, and after
that clothing; then tools and farming implements, as far as their
money would go.  If it wouldn't go far enough they would have to
find some other way out of the fix, but they must hold down to
essentials in order to keep alive. . . .  As yet, no one in the
Spring Creek settlement was in a position to carry any produce
along, to be sold for cash or given in exchange for wares.  But
they all looked forward to the time when this would be possible; it
would be harder work to haul a load both ways, of course; but what
a help it would be--and what a satisfaction--to have their own
products to barter!

They at once agreed that some of the menfolk would have to stay at
home, in case anything untoward happened. . . .  It was a singular
thing, not a soul in this little colony ever felt wholly at ease,
though no one referred to the fact or cared to frame the thought in
words.  All of a sudden, apparently without any cause, a vague,
nameless dread would seize hold of them; it would shake them for a
while like an attack of nerves; or again, it might fill them with
restless apprehension, making them quiet and cautious in everything
they did.  They seemed to sense an unseen force around them. . . .
The men grew taciturn under the strain; they would cast about for
some task or other on which they could work off the spell.
With the women it found an outlet in talk; they often became
extravagantly loud and boisterous over nothing at all.  Few
realized what this strange feeling was; none of them would have
admitted that he was afraid.

. . . Yes, God defend them!  Man's strength availed but little
out here.  They had already experienced it more than once.
Terrible storms would come up--so suddenly, with such appalling
violence! . . .  Mother Sörine had reason to be frightened of these
storms. Less than a week ago their tent had been carried away in one
of them; Sörine, trapped inside and half choked, had been swept
along with the canvas.  Hans Olsa had laid the tent rope across his
shoulder, planted his feet solidly in the ground, and summoned all
his giant strength; but he had been whirled away like a tuft of
wool.  It had turned out all right, however; no one was seriously
hurt . . . this time.

And then, the Indians! . . .  "INJUNS," as the red children of the
great plain were called in common speech.  Kjersti, Tönseten's
wife, didn't mind the storms so much; they never committed inhuman
outrages . . . weren't out for your scalp, at any rate!  But fear
of the Indians was ever vividly present in her mind.  Not a day
passed that she didn't search the sky line many times. . . .  Why,
one of the savages actually lay buried over on Per Hansa's land!
And where the dead had their abode, the living were sure to
come. . . .  Since she had learned of the grave she was always on
the lookout. . . .

Truth to tell, her fear of the Indians was very natural.  She and
Syvert had heard the tale of the terrors of '62 so often that they
could have repeated it word for word, as if from an open book.
When they were living in Fillmore County, Minnesota, two refugees
from the Norway Lake massacre had drifted into the place; the story
of the horrors they had undergone had taken on new and gruesome
details as it passed from mouth to mouth; out here now on the open
prairie, where no hiding place could be found, the form in which
Kjersti remembered it had assumed the fantastic proportions of a
myth.

Tönseten, however, wasn't a bit afraid of the Indians--not he!  Who
ever heard of such nonsense?  Why should he or anyone else fear
them, now that they had become peaceful and civilized?  He tried
his best to instill this idea into the others. . . .  Per Hansa
would sit listening to Tönseten with a quizzical smile on his face.
"That's right, Syvert--go on," he would agree.  "All the Indians
have turned into honest-to-God gentlemen these last ten years, with
red skull-caps, and wooden shoes, and long pipes, and everything
else they need.  It's no trick at all, you know, for a savage to
learn fine manners, as crowded with folks to teach him as it is out
here!" . . .  From the Trönders on the Sioux River, Per Hansa had
learned a great deal of valuable information about the Indians; he
had heard of a place, not very far away, called Flandreau or some
such outlandish name, where they had a permanent colony; west from
this place an Indian trail ran all the way through to Nebraska, and
along this route the red man was said to make his yearly journeys.
More than likely, Per Hansa thought, his own quarter-section lay
directly in their path; he inferred this from the grave on the hill
and from what he had heard. . . .  If it were true, the fact would
be certain to come to light before the summer was over.  In the
meanwhile--well, no use to cross a bridge until you came to it.

The men never spoke of the Indians while the womenfolk were around.
But at other times, whenever the subject came up for discussion,
Ole and Store-Hans stood listening with open mouths. . . .  The
grave where they found the stones had now begun to strike a chill
into their hearts; but it also exerted a strange and irresistible
fascination.

. . . So here they all were, afraid of something or other.  But the
women were the worst off; Kjersti feared the Indians, Sörine the
storms; and Beret, poor thing, feared both--and feared the very
air.

The outcome of their deliberations that Sunday was only what might
have been expected; it seemed the logical thing for Hans Olsa and
Tönseten and Henry Solum, each of whom owned horses and wagon, to
make up the party for the journey.  That would give three men and
three separate teams; such a caravan ought to be able to haul home
on one trip whatever the settlement could afford to buy.

Per Hansa was badly out of sorts that day; every word that he let
fall had a bitter sting to it; he said little and sat morose and
silent most of the time.  In his eyes, the whole affair had the
appearance of having been settled beforehand.  He and the other
Solum boy were to stay at home and look after the settlement; that
was the plan, though it hadn't been stated in outright terms.  It
looked to Per Hansa like a pretty mean piece of business. . . .
For his part, he took it as a matter of course that he was a better
man for the trip to town than Syvert Tönseten or Henry Solum--
neither of whom, God knows, had any more wits than he could get
along with! . . .  In all their talk, no one had even hinted at
that side of the question.  And certainly Per Hansa wasn't the sort
of man to force himself down anybody's throat. . . .  But, by God!
it was disgusting to have to lie around the house with the
womenfolk while the others were off on such a fine expedition! . . .
The thirst for adventure was burning in his blood.

When the party left on Monday morning Per Hansa was in a towering
ill humour; he rose with the others at dawn, woke Ole, and hitched
the oxen to the plow.  On that day he broke up an acre and a half
of prairie, with only the crude implements at hand--a record that
stood for many years in that part of the country.

But at quitting time that night, when he paced around the field and
discovered what an enormous day's work he had done, he felt so
elated that he began to whistle the tune of an old ballad. . . .
Just look at that!  If they didn't hurry back, he'd have the whole
farm broken up before they arrived. . . .  By God! he'd show them!
He'd give them a chance to see for themselves who was the better
man!


II


The next day he did not drive himself so hard; but he turned off a
good day's work, just the same.

Per Hansa was again in a good humour that afternoon as he and Ole
sauntered home from the field; he felt that during this interval he
would easily get ahead of Tönseten.  Ole's tired feet dragged at
every step; his voice was hoarse from steadily shouting at the
oxen.

They had not got far on their way home when Store-Hans came running
out to meet them; he began shouting as soon as he caught sight of
them, and arrived all out of breath.

"Dad . . . quick . . . people are coming!" . . .

The news sounded so incredible that Ole stopped short in his tracks
and stared at his brother with his mouth wide open, but the father
only laughed as he looked indulgently at the boy.

"Of course people are coming!" he said with a chuckle. . . .  "And
you'll grow up to be a man, too, some day--at about the same rate,
I guess!  You've both got a long distance yet to travel."

But Store-Hans was too excited to be thrown off the track by his
father's kindly sarcasm.

"Look! . . . LOOK THERE!" he cried, pointing toward the southwest.
. . .  "Mother thinks they may be Indians!" . . .

Per Hansa took in the whole western horizon in one swift glance . . .
"Huh!" he grunted . . . and immediately began to walk faster.
The longer he looked, the more haste he made.  At last he was
taking such mighty strides that the boys had to run in order to
keep up with him.

Beret was standing just beyond the wagon, holding And-Ongen in her
arms.

"They have come," she said in a calm voice; but her sad, resigned
face was pale and drawn.

"Well, don't stand there! . . .  Go and look after the cooking as
if nothing had happened!" . . .  He spoke rapidly, with a metallic
ring in his voice.

In an instant he was over at the new house, which as yet was only
half thatched.  The boys followed close at his heels; he spoke to
them in quick, low tones; all his words had the same hard, metallic
ring.

"Hans, run over to Sam's and tell him what's up. . . .  Hurry,
now!"

"Yes." . . .  The boy hesitated.

"HURRY, I said!"

"Yes, sir!" . . .  Store-Hans found his legs and was off like
lightning.

Per Hansa turned to Ole.  "You go and get Old Maria.  You'll find
her in the big chest--and something to load her with in the till.
Stand the gun and everything just inside the door here. . . .  And
listen"--his face was hard set--"when I WHISTLE, I want her--but
not before! . . .  Are you afraid?"

"N-n-no." . . .  Ole ran to execute the order.

Per Hansa began to work away at the thatching as if nothing unusual
were going on; but his eyes were steadily fixed on the approaching
train.  Little by little, as he watched, he grew calmer; the look
of anxiety slowly faded away from his features, to be replaced by
the half-sly, half-roguish expression of his lighter moods. . . .
No war party, this--nothing but harmless families roaming over the
plain!

Just then Ole arrived with the rifle.

"Never mind," said Per Hansa.  He was laughing now.  "Go back and
hide those things where you found them. . . .  That fellow Store-
Hans is a regular little rascal--the way he nearly scared us out of
our wits!"

"But don't you want the gun, Father?"

"No, I guess not. . . .  Go and put her back--then come and run an
errand for me."

The boy ran inside, and returned in a moment empty-handed.  Per
Hansa was sitting on the edge of the roof; he kept looking off to
the westward as he gave his orders:

"Run over and tell Sörrina that the Indians are coming, but don't
frighten the life out of her.  Tell her it's only a wandering tribe--
just peaceful people like ourselves. . . .  And tell her they are
likely to camp for the night over here on the hill; if she is
afraid, she can stay with us. . . .  Don't get off a lot of wild
talk, now.  Be sensible!"

Almost before he had heard the words, Ole was gone. . . .  Per
Hansa came down to the ground, heaved an armful of sod up on the
roof, and then climbed back unconcernedly to his work.

The band of Indians crawled slowly toward them out of the west.
Per Hansa counted the teams--fourteen in all, he made it--but he
couldn't be certain of the exact number; they drove close together
and were headed straight in the direction of the settlement. . . .
No doubt about it any longer--here lay an old Indian trail!

He was kneeling on the roof awhile later, trying to fit a strip of
sod in place, when suddenly a figure stood below him; it had
appeared so swiftly and silently that Per Hansa was startled in
spite of himself. . . .  The next moment he saw that it was Sam
Solum, frightened and excited, gun in hand.  He had run so fast
that Store-Hans had been left far behind.

"You must be going hunting to-night," Per Hansa observed, dryly.

"Haven't you seen 'em? . . .  Don't you know . . . ?"  Sam had to
stop to catch his breath.

"Seen who?"

"The Indians! . . .  They're right on top of us!"

"I see you look like the scared fool you are, all right! . . .
What are you ramming around with that rattletrap of a gun of yours
for?  Put it out of sight as quick as you can!  Then come here and
help me with the thatching. . . .  Store-Hans, you'd better go and
stay with mother."

Sam did as he was bid, without half understanding; he took his gun
inside the house, stood it against the wall, and came out again; in
front of the door he paused, staring open-mouthed at the
approaching train. . . .  Seated above him on the roof, Per Hansa
glanced alternately westward and down at the puzzled youth.

"I supposed we ought to warn Kjersti--she's always so skittish," he
said with a grin.  "Why don't you go down and tell her that our red
neighbours are coming? . . .  But don't scare the wits out of the
poor woman!"

Sam hesitated; the task obviously wasn't to his liking.

. . . "Or should we wait, and let the Indians take her scalp?"

At these words Sam jumped, then suddenly broke into a run.

Per Hansa laughed heartily as he watched him go.

"Hey, there!  Don't tear off as if your pants had caught fire!" he
shouted.  "You needn't be in such an awful sweat about Kjersti,
either!"

But Kjersti herself had seen the enemy; she must have been on the
lookout, as usual. . . .  At that moment she hove in sight on the
slope of the hill, leading her cow.

At the same time Ole arrived, with Sörine and the girl close behind
him; but Sörine, unfortunately, hadn't thought of her cow, which
was grazing off on the prairie to the westward, some distance from
Hans Olsa's house.

Soon they were all gathered in a little knot--the three women, Ole,
and the Solum boy; but Store-Hans felt that it would be safer
with his father, and had gone over to where Per Hansa was still
working. . . .  Kjersti was moaning and wailing because her Syvert
was away at a time when the Lord sent such tribulations upon her;
Mother Sörine was comforting her as best she could, saying that,
after all, Indians were only people--human beings . . . just human
beings! . . .  Beret listened in stony silence to it all.

At last Per Hansa took a quick slide down from the roof and went
over to the agitated group.

"What have we here--a sewing circle? . . .  By George!  It seems to
me that three nice modest girls like you oughtn't to be standing
around and making eyes at strange menfolk!  They've got their own
women with 'em, too. . . .  Maybe the squaws would have a word or
two to say about that!"

Per Hansa's sally broke the tension; Beret immediately resumed her
preparations for supper, and Mother Sörine began to help her,
Kjersti found a pail and milked her cow; and Per Hansa himself went
back to his roof and laid a few more strips of sod before supper
was ready.


III


. . . While they sat waiting for the porridge to cool, they watched
with anxious attention the Indian band as it crept up the slope of
the hill toward the crest.  The foremost team reached the summit,
passed some distance beyond it on the other side, and came to a
halt; at that they all drew up, the whole train forming a crescent
around the brow of the hill, facing the house of Per Hansa.  One by
one the horses were unhitched from the rickety wagons and turned
loose on the prairie. . . .  Per Hansa's face brightened still more
as he noticed this move.  People who did a thing like that could
have no evil intentions!

Just then, however, Sörine's cow, which was still grazing some
distance off on the prairie, suddenly seemed to go crazy.  She
bellowed loud and long, lifted her head and tail high in the air,
and galloped away toward the wagons of the newcomers.  All watched
her in amazement.  Sörine burst out crying, blaming herself for
being so shortsighted as to forget all about her precious cow. . . .
As he saw the beast gallop away, Per Hansa cursed it from the
bottom of his heart.

In an instant, before the little company sitting there had found
time to gather their scattered wits, all the rest of their cattle
were smitten by the same craze.  At the first bellow of Sörine's
cow they had looked up inquiringly, had caught sight of the new
arrivals, and at once had started off behind their leader--Rosie
first, then Kjersti's Brindlesides--both rearing their tails on
high and galloping straight toward the camp of the Indians.

. . . "Damn the luck!" muttered Per Hansa between his teeth.
"There goes the milk for our porridge! . . .  The devil salt and
burn their blasted tails!"

A far-away "moo-o-o" drifted in from the north, and there the Solum
boys' Daisy came running at full speed, to join the deserters!*


* The cattle of the first settlers, from the wandering habits they
had formed during the outward journey, had to be watched, for they
wanted to join every caravan that came along.


At that Per Hansa burst into a loud laugh. . . .  "You'd better go
after your cow," he said to Sam, "unless you want to munch dry
porridge all winter!"

The women took the matter each in her own way, according to her
feeling for her particular cow.  Kjersti wept and took on, vowing
that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to her--it was
just awful; Sörine's eyes were moist, but she believed that her cow
would come back, just the same; she had never seen a better cow
than Dolly and had tended her like a mother. . . .  But Beret
remained quite calm; she seemed more annoyed than frightened.  Why
didn't one of the men go after the cows? . . .  When they remained
sitting and made no move, she rose and laid her spoon aside.

"We must get them at once," she announced, firmly.  "If the Indians
were to leave to-night, the cows would follow--that is perfectly
plain!" . . .  She took And-Ongen in her arms and started for the
hill.

"Good Heavens, Beret," cried Kjersti in despair.  "You must be
crazy!"

Per Hansa gazed fondly at his wife; across his face came a light
that almost made him handsome. . . .  THERE was a woman for
you! . . .  He got up before she had gone many steps, and ran to
her side.

"Go back and eat, Beret-girl!  There isn't anything to worry about,
really and truly. . . .  Leave the cows to me.  It can just as well
wait till after we have eaten. . . .  We must behave like well-
mannered folk, you know."

As they sat over the last of their porridge Per Hansa drew such
ghastly pictures to Sam of the cruelty with which the Indians would
probably treat the cows, that the women shuddered at his words. . . .
"I've often heard--have read it in books, too--that Indians would
rather take the scalp of a cow any day, than of a man. . . .
Haven't you ever read about it?  Huh! that's strange! . . .  Well,
they're just crazy, you see, for the scalp of a cow.  They dry them
out and use them for winter caps!" . . .

Beret looked at him reproachfully.  It seemed to her that it ill
behooved him to talk in this fashion; if they were all afraid, they
couldn't help it; the words sounded coarse in his mouth, and seemed
to coarsen him also. . . .  "Can't you shut up with that talk!" she
said in her quiet, cutting way, without looking up.  "It isn't such
a brave and manly thing, to terrorize poor womenfolk who are
frightened already."

Per Hansa fell suddenly silent; his face grew burning red.  In all
the years that they had lived together it had never happened till
now that she had shamed him before others.  And she had spoken so
quietly--hadn't even looked up! . . .  He ate his porridge slowly
and thoughtfully.  What she had said kept repeating itself in his
mind, and cut deeper each time.

At last he laid his spoon aside and got to his feet; he stuck his
pipe in his mouth--the pipe that had been empty and cold so long
now, for lack of fuel--and began sucking the stem.

"I suppose in all fairness, Sam, you ought to go chasing your own
damned beast--you who are such a sharper in both the American and
Indian languages!" he snapped out. . . .  "But--oh, well, there
might be some women over there who were worth having a look at!" he
muttered with plain insinuation.  "I guess I'd better go myself and
make it a good JOB!"

Store-Hans jumped up like a flash and put his hand in his
father's. . . .  Per Hansa glanced down into the beaming, ruddy
face that smiled up at him and begged so earnestly. . . .  But
the boy uttered never a word.

"Come along, then," said the father.  Still holding the outstretched
hand, he began to walk away.

"Hans, come here!" his mother cried out, sharply.  A wild anxiety
had come into her voice--a note of desperate pleading.

"No," said Per Hansa, shortly.  "Hans is going with me." . . .  He
waited for no answer, but grasped the boy's hand firmly and started
off.


IV


Store-Hans had been too absorbed in what was going on to notice the
clash between his parents.  As they went along, his whole being was
athrill with excitement; he took long, manly strides, and chattered
on in a low, rapid voice, but always returned to the same question:

--What was his father going to do to the Indians?

--Do? . . .  Per Hansa's mind refused to act any further.  The
biting words of his wife, spoken in the plain hearing of all, kept
ringing in his ears.

"Yes, Dad, what are you going to do?"

"We'll see about that later." . . .  He tried to wrench himself out
of his abstraction, repeating in a loud tone:  "We'll see later--
when the time comes!"

"Are you . . . are you going to fight them, Dad?"

Per Hansa gave the boy's hand a good squeeze.  "I guess we'll have
to be satisfied with a scalp or two!"

The only thing Store-Hans knew about scalping was that it was the
most dreadful thing in the world; as to the actual process, he had
only a hazy idea.  Now he asked, fearfully, what did it mean,
anyway--to scalp some one?

--Oh, nothing much. . . .  Didn't he know how it was done?

"No. . . .  Please tell me, Dad?"

Per Hansa shifted the empty pipe to the other corner of his mouth;
he laughed as he said:

"You see, Store-Hans, when the hide begins to get good and dry on
the heads of some people, then the Indians peel it off."

"Does it grow out new again?"  Store-Hans gave a sidewise glance at
the top of his father's head; before he realized it, his hand had
gone up under his own cap.

"Oh, I suppose so."

"But . . . but doesn't it hurt awfully?"

"No, not at all . . . that is, when the skin is good and dry."

That seemed quite logical; Store-Hans grasped it immediately.

"But what do they do with the scalp?"

"What do they do with the scalp?"  Per Hansa spoke slowly, as if
his mind were elsewhere. . . .  "They use it, I guess . . . for
mittens, and things like that. . . .  They turn the hair side in,
you see." . . .

"Oh, you're only fooling!" cried Store-Hans, lengthening his stride
in order not to fall behind.

"Maybe I am fooling. . . .  I thought you knew all about it,
though."

The boy was dying to ask about other things; but he was getting
afraid to raise his voice now--his throat, too, seemed very
dry. . . .  And, besides, they were drawing so near to the Indian
camp now, that his eyes kept him fully occupied.

There was a good deal to see, up there on the hill. . . .  A big
tent, or wigwam, had been pitched in the centre of the crescent,
with four smaller ones on each side.  A troop of brown, half-naked
children were running around among the tents. . . .  They seemed to
be playing games, thought Store-Hans; and immediately he picked up
courage.  He saw women moving about, too. . . .  There couldn't be
any real danger here!

The rough tents, constructed of poles and hides, stood some
distance back of the semicircle of oddly-assorted vehicles.
Halfway between, a group of dusky squaws were busy at a fire,
carrying wood from the wagons and throwing it on; around the fire
several bronzed men were sitting motionless, with their legs
crossed under them. . . .  These men were smoking--that was the
first thing that caught Per Hansa's eye.  The flames of the camp
fire threw a lurid glare over the figures sitting around it,
turning their copper-coloured faces to a still deeper hue, their
raven hair to a more intense and glistening black.  They smoked on
in silence.

When the two visitors had arrived within the illuminated circle,
one of the Indians pointed to them with his pipe; a few words were
spoken among them in a guttural tongue; beyond this the coming of
Per Hansa and his son created not a ripple of excitement.

Per Hansa stepped forward and greeted them in English--he had
picked up enough words for that.  The greeting was returned in the
same language. . . .  One of the braves put something that sounded
like a question; two of the others, sitting beside him, added to
it. . . .  Per Hansa stood helpless for a moment; he could not
understand a word.

But in this crisis Store-Hans, who had been half hiding behind his
father, came to his aid; he whispered, rapidly:

"They want to know if we live here."

"How the devil could you tell that? . . .  By God!  I guess we do!"
Per Hansa nodded emphatically toward the Indians.  "Tell them there
isn't any doubt of it--not the least doubt in the world--but say it
NICELY, now!"

Store-Hans stepped out in front, facing the seated redskins; he
tried his best to make them understand, using what little English
he had learned during the past winter.


The visit was soon over; after that strange, impassive meeting
there seemed to be nothing else for Per Hansa to say or do.  The
stray cows, all four of them, had finally lain down beside the
Indian wagons; he would only need to round them up and drive them
home. . . .  Yet there was something that made it almost impossible
for him to tear himself away.  The odour from the pipes wafted to
him so enchantingly on the evening breeze, enthralled and held him
captive.  He hadn't had a decent smoke for over two weeks, and he
could smell that this was good strong tobacco.

At last the temptation grew altogether too powerful; he simply
couldn't resist it any longer.  He glanced around the circle,
picked out the face that looked to him the most approachable, then
took the empty pipe from his mouth and indicated by signs that he
needed something to fill it with.

The man he had chosen understood him perfectly.  He gave a laugh,
remarked something to the others, pulled a large leather pouch from
his shirt, and held it out with a dignified gesture.  Per Hansa
grasped the pouch with an eager hand, took a deep dive into it, and
gave his pipe a good fill. . . .  "Many thanks, good friend!  If
Hans Olsa happens to get back before you're gone, I'll see that you
are well repaid! . . .  Hans, translate that to him the best way
you know how. . . .  What a thundering shame that we can't talk
with such good folks!" . . .  Per Hansa went over to the fire,
raked out a glowing ember, lit his pipe, and pulled at it long and
deeply, while an expression of rare contentment passed over his
face.


V


Turning away from the fire, as he stood there enjoying his smoke,
he noticed a face on the ground at his side--a face that peered out
of the folds of a gaudily coloured blanket, so close to the fire
that it startled him. . . .  Good Lord! was the man trying to singe
himself?

Per Hansa stared down into the face incredulously; the form in the
blanket gazed up as fixedly at him in return.  It struck him at
once that the Indian must be suffering terrible pain; his features
were distorted in agony.

"Store-Hans!" he called, hastily.  "Come here and ask this fellow
what's the matter with him.  It looks to me as if he were fighting
death itself!"

Again Store-Hans had to try out his meagre stock of newcomer
English on the Indians.  The face moaned; in a moment it gave
answer.  The boy repeated his question; a second answer came, and
then another long moan.

"He says his hand is hurt," Store-Hans reported.

"Is that it?  Too bad! . . .  Tell him I'd like to take a look at
that hand of his."

But Store-Hans didn't have to repeat the request.  The man had been
lying there watching them as they spoke together, looking closely
and intently at Per Hansa.  Now he got up beside him without a
word; first he removed the blanket from his arm, and then unwound a
bundle of dirty coloured rags that were wrapped around his hand.

When this was done, he held out an ugly-looking claw, swollen to
the size of a log; not only the hand, but the wrist and a large
part of the arm as well were badly swollen and infected.  The evil
seemed to have its source in a festering wound in the palm of the
hand. . . .  Per Hansa examined the hand, felt of it, squeezed it,
and turned it over, as if he had done nothing else all the days of
his life but tend to such cases.  The flesh was as hard to the
touch as a block of wood; but the wound itself didn't look serious.

"Sure enough!" he observed, wisely.  "If this doesn't end up with
blood poisoning my name isn't Per!  Maybe it's come to that
already. . . .  Tell him"--he turned to Store-Hans--"tell him we've
got to have some warm water at once--and more rags.  But they must
be clean--CLEAN WHITE rags, tell him! . . .  See what a good job of
talking you can do, now!"  With these words, he went back to his
examination.

The job of talking, however, was more than Store-Hans could handle--
he stuck in it halfway.  That his father wanted warm water he
could make them understand; but the other request for clean white
rags was either beyond his English or a little too much for their
comprehension.

The sick Indian had kept his eyes intently fixed on the man who was
examining his hand with all the assurance of an expert.  Others had
now risen and come up to them, one by one.  A close circle had
formed about the little group.  The women were also joining it; the
children stopped playing and slipped in among their elders; at last
the whole camp had gathered in a silent ring around the three. . . .
Per Hansa's face wore a sober expression, but all the while he
kept drawing long, deep puffs from his pipe.

"Seventeen devils of a claw you've got, man!" he exclaimed at last,
when he had finished his diagnosis. . . .  "I can't see any way out
of it, Store-Hans.  You'll have to run home and get mother.  Tell
her an old chief is lying over here almost ready to die--tell her
it's blood poisoning.  She must bring the small kettle, and all
the clean rags she can spare.  Can you remember to say WHITE
rags? . . .  And she must bring a pinch of salt, too. . . .  The
man has got to have help this very night, tell her. . . .  Now run
along.  You aren't afraid, are you?"

Certainly Store-Hans wasn't frightened any longer; this was the
greatest experience he had ever had or ever expected to have. . . .
He had already pressed his way through the throng when his father
thought of something which he had forgotten, and called him back.

. . . "Tell Sörrina to go home and see if there isn't a drop left
in Hans Olsa's bottle.  Even if it isn't more than a thimbleful, we
ought to have it; it's a matter of life or death here. . . .  And
mother must bring some pepper. . . .  Let's see, now, how well you
can remember everything!"

The boy was off like a flash.  As soon as he had gone, Per Hansa
began treating the hand.  First of all, he made them understand
that he needed water to wash his own hands. . . .  "Yes, water,
WATER!" he said, going through the motion of dipping his hands and
rubbing them.  They caught his meaning at once; the word was passed
among them, and a woman immediately brought some water in a tin
bucket.

Per Hansa washed his hands very carefully; then he poured out the
water and motioned for more. . . .  "Yes, yes--more, more!" . . .
He got it at once and began to wash the wound--first the hand, and
then the wrist and the arm, but particularly the hand, and the
wound itself most of all. . . .  Brown it had been in the
beginning, that skin--and brown it remained; Per Hansa couldn't be
certain whether he had got it clean.  But now he led the man as
close to the fire as the heat would allow; there he sat down with
him, and began to draw on the great store of experience he had
gathered as a fisherman on the Lofoten seas.  First he massaged the
flesh around the wound for a long time; then he moved upward to the
wrist, and afterward to the arm.  He rubbed with the palm of his
hand, making circular motions, gently for a while, then stronger
and firmer; from time to time he bent over the hand, breathed
heavily on the wound, and continued the rubbing.

At last Store-Hans returned, bringing his mother, who carried all
the articles his father had sent for.  Per Hansa noticed that she
had put on her Sunday clothes; for some reason, this pleased him.
When she stepped within the circle of the camp fire, she paused,
greeted the strangers quietly, and dropped a curtsy.

"What do you think you are doing here?" she asked in a low voice;
the words seemed to carry more of reproach than fear. . . .  He
suddenly remembered the incident at supper awhile ago; the wave of
bitterness rose again in his heart. . . .  What a silly question
for a grown woman to ask!

When she received no answer, she continued:

"Kjersti is crying her eyes out--and the rest aren't much better
off. . . .  These people have got to look after themselves!  You
must come home at once!"

Per Hansa still remained silent. . . .  This speech was so unlike
the Beret that he knew, that he glanced up at her quickly.

"Give me that kettle! . . .  Yes--water, WATER?" he shouted
at them, pointing to the kettle.  But then he remembered
Store-Hans. . . .  "Tell them that I want CLEAN water--yes,
clean, that's it!  And it must be hot, too!"

Now he found time to turn to his wife. . . .  "Oh, well, Kjersti
isn't going to miscarry to-night! . . .  But if you don't want to
stay here, to help save a human life in dire distress, you'd better
go home. . . .  Here, give me the rest of the things!"  Her words
of an hour before were again ringing loud in his ears; his own
voice had taken on an added harshness; he knew it and felt glad.

Beret said no more; she stood looking silently at him, flushed and
confused.

The kettle had now been placed on the fire.

"Where is the salt? . . .  We need salt in the water."

He took the antique whisky bottle that Sörine had sent; it was
still a good half full.  The pepper, done up in a little package,
had been brought over in a cup.  Per Hansa looked at it for a
moment in grave doubt. . . .  "No, it's too much--never in the
world can he stand all that! . . .  Hold out your apron, Beret, to
catch this. . . .  There's too much pepper."

"Now, don't be so hasty!" she said.  She took the pepper from him,
made a funnel of the bag, and held it out for him to pour in as
much as he wanted.

Then Per Hansa concocted for the sick Indian that "horse cure"
which is famous among all the inhabitants of Nordland.  A goodly
tablespoonful of pepper lay in the cup; he filled it up with
whisky, stirred it around, put the bottle down on the ground, and
motioned to the Indian to drink.

The man took the cup, sniffed at it, and smiled; then he put it to
his mouth and took a draught, smacking his lips and making a
fearful grimace.

"Tell him to drain it off at once, Store-Hans! . . .  He'll live
through it--though it does kick powerfully to begin with!"

The Indian downed the rest of the mixture without wincing.

As Per Hansa was pouring the whisky from the bottle a couple of the
others had suddenly grown restless; as soon as he set it down, one
of these rose to his feet with a jerk and sauntered in their
direction; the other followed close at his heels.

"They're taking the bottle!" whispered Beret, frightened at their
manner.

Per Hansa whirled like a flash and caught hold of a brown arm; he
grasped it firmly and gave it a violent twist.  A howl of pain
echoed through the camp. . . .  "What the hell are you doing!"
cried Per Hansa, wrenching loose the bottle with his other hand.
"That bottle belongs to Hans Olsa.  Don't you dare to touch it!"
He looked so fiercely at the pair that they slunk off, afraid.

"Now come here and help me, woman! . . .  Hold this bottle, and let
the liquor drip down on his hand while I rub it in. . . .  Right on
the wound--only a drop at a time . . . God! did you ever see a
nastier-looking hand?"

Beret did as he told her, but her own hand was shaking violently.
He looked at her closely.  Her face was flushed; tears hung in her
eyes. . . .  And all at once the loud ringing of bitter words died
away in his ears.

He massaged the hand of the Indian for a long while, pouring the
whisky on freely.  Then he asked for the rags which she had
brought.  These he dipped in the kettle, where the water was now
boiling; he wrung them out slightly and began swathing them around
the hand--one rag over the other.  The man gasped and moaned in his
great agony.

"Now, Beret, we ought to have a clean, dry cloth to wrap around the
whole business. . . .  But probably you didn't bring anything like
that?"

She hesitated for an instant, then untied her apron and handed it
over to him.  He knew that it was her very best apron.  He could
not bear to take it, but he did not say so.

"That's just it, Beret-girl--the very thing!  If that doesn't help
him, I don't know anything in the wide world that would cure his
hand! . . .  Now, take mother with you and go home, Store-Hans.
You can see for yourselves, there's nothing to be afraid of here.
I'll bring the cows back with me when I come."

"But when will you come?" she asked with a tremor in her voice.

"Oh, I shall have to stay here part of the night, at least.  If we
can't make the swelling go down, and that right quick, there's
nothing under God's heaven that can save him!  I'll have to change
the rags every half hour. . . .  But you go right along, now, and
don't worry!"

Beret paused a moment; she gazed at him, saying not a word, but her
mouth quivered.  Then she took Store-Hans by the hand and walked
away.


VI


During the first part of the night Per Hansa kept constant vigil
over the sick man, frequently looking at his watch and changing the
bandages; every time the hand was exposed he rubbed in a few more
drops from Hans Olsa's bottle.  It was evident from the man's face
that the pain was growing no worse; he even slept at intervals.

Midnight passed.  The whole camp was now asleep; the men lay around
like mummies, wrapped in their gaudy blankets, their feet towards
the fire.  Occasionally one of them would rise and throw on more
wood; Per Hansa noticed that it was always the same man. . . .  The
night was vast and still; the glow of the fire spread a strange
light a little way around . . . beyond hovered impenetrable
darkness.

Per Hansa felt tired and drowsy; he realized that he would have to
pull himself together in order to keep going through the middle
watch. . . .  Suddenly he pricked up his ears; in an instant he was
wide awake.  He had heard a sound like steps in the grass, off on
one side--steps that seemed to be hesitating as if in fear.  They
trod cautiously, drawing closer and closer, then they stopped, as
if the person were listening. . . .  He glanced around; the sick
man slept at his side; all the others seemed to be sleeping.  Who
could it be, reconnoitring so quietly out there? . . .  He got up
abruptly, stepped closer to the fire, and stood fully revealed
against the glare.  Now the steps were heard again, firmly
approaching. . . .  The next moment Beret stood within the circle
of the camp fire, silently looking at him.

Per Hansa's eyes leaped out and embraced his wife's form: a great
glow of love and tenderness surged through him. . . .  "Beret-girl,
come here!" he called in a low voice.  "Don't be frightened; the
whole crew is asleep!"

She advanced slowly to the side of the fire where he stood; but she
did not look at him.  Her face was flushed and swollen with
weeping. . . .  "How she must have been crying!" he thought; and
the memory of his harsh words filled him with deep remorse.  He
went up to her timidly, took her by the hand, and led her nearer
the fire . . .  "Beret, you ought to be sleeping at this hour of
the night! . . .  Have you been frightened again?"

Her body shook with sobs; they tore her so convulsively that she
could not speak a word.  Like a crushed thing she sank inertly to
the ground.  He threw himself down beside her, put one arm around
her waist, and sought her hand. . . .  Then she began to weep
softly; he heard it, and stroked the hand he had found.  After a
while he had tried to say, lightly:  "I guess the old fellow is
going to pull through, all right." . . .  But the moment the words
were out of his mouth he felt that he hadn't said the right thing;
in his confusion, he asked her how all the others were at home.

She made no response to either of his attempts; then he heard the
sick Indian stir, and looked around at him.  The man lay wide
awake, staring at them fixedly with his black, beady eyes.

For a while Per Hansa busied himself once more with the injured
hand; the man sat up as the treatment went on; Beret rose and stood
close by, watching the operation.

"If you had a string to tie around the rags, so that they wouldn't
loosen when they got dry, they would keep the heat longer," she
said in a low voice, but calm and clear.

"Oh yes! . . .  If I only had it!"

She turned away for a moment and began fumbling at her clothes;
then, with a bashful but determined air, she handed him one of her
home-braided garters. . . .  "Will this do?" she asked.

"Do? . . .  My God!  Beret, that's exactly what we need!" . . .  He
bound up the sick hand tightly, and tied the garter around the
bandage. . . .  "The fellow's better already!" he cried.  "I can
see it in his eyes--and his hand feels softer. . . .  But it's
still bad enough; he isn't over it yet, by any means!"

When the bandage had been firmly fastened the Indian got up, went
to one of the wagons, and fetched three heavy blankets; these he
gave to Per Hansa, motioning that they should cover themselves and
lie down.

"Now, doesn't that show, Beret, what decent people they are? . . .
I think the fellow will be able to take care of himself for a
while.  We might as well turn in!" . . .  He wrapped one blanket
around her, another around himself; then they both lay down with
their feet to the fire, and pulled the third blanket over the two
of them.  Per Hansa put his arm around his wife and held her close
in a fond, protecting embrace.  "Now try to sleep, my dear Beret-
girl!" he whispered, reassuringly . . .  She dropped off almost at
once, and slept until the crimson dawn fell on the eastern prairie.


The Indians remained for another day and night.  During their stay
Per Hansa spent more time with them than he did at home.  Store-
Hans practically lived on the hill, keeping an eye on things.  And
Ole, too, strolled over to the Indian camp at odd times. . . .  But
Sam Solum let the savages severely alone; and the women, though
they were curious to see the camp, felt too timid to venture near.

The Indians, for their part, kept strictly to themselves.  They did
not once approach the houses of the settlement; neither, strange to
say, did they allow their women to come over.

It was noon of the third day before they broke camp, to continue
the journey northward.  The hand of the sick man still looked very
bad, but the immediate danger seemed to be over.  Per Hansa had
made a sling for him, in which he carried his arm.  When the long
train of queer-looking teams had got well under way, they saw the
sick Indian coming down the hill toward the house, leading a fully
saddled pony by the bridle; one of the wagons stood waiting for him
farther along the hill.

The fellow is probably coming to say good-bye, thought Per Hansa;
he got up and went to meet him.  Beret and the children followed
slowly a little way behind.  The man walked straight up to Per
Hansa and uttered a few unintelligible words; he laid in Per
Hansa's hand the bridle by which he was leading the pony; then he
said a few more words, made a short, stiff bow, turned on his heel
and stalked away. . . .  He was a tall, broad-shouldered savage,
well built and handsome.

"Has the old boy gone stark crazy?" exclaimed Per Hansa.  "Can you
imagine what he means?"

"He wants to give you the pony!" shouted Store-Hans, his eyes round
with wonder.

Per Hansa roared out an emphatic protest, and started after the
stranger. . . .  "No, no!" he cried.  "That will never do!" . . .

But the Indian only strode to the waiting wagon, climbed in, and
rode away.

"I've never seen the beat of it in all my born days!" said Per
Hansa, solemnly.  He stood as if dumfounded, holding the bridle
over his arm. . . .  "Saddle and everything!" . . .

Store-Hans gave a leap into the air, turned a somersault, which
immediately had to be repeated.  Never in his life had he felt so
supremely happy. . . .  Then he and his brother ran over to claim
the prize.


VII


In the evening of the following day the loaded wagons arrived from
town; they brought great stores of curiosities, and the men who
drove them had many remarkable tales to tell.

Hans Olsa, who had carried fifteen dollars in cash from Per Hansa
to buy merchandise with besides going surety for him for a plow and
a horse rake, came first to their house to unload, before going
home.  There was a great mountain of bags and packages, sacks and
boxes; but best of all were the plow and the rake.  The latter,
especially,--it was painted in such beautiful, rich colours, red,
blue, and green; it looked so impressive standing there in the
yard, with its seat reared high in the air . . . like a veritable
throne!  Nothing would do but Store-Hans must climb up and try it
at once; he was wondering if they couldn't hitch their new pony to
this wonderful rig! . . .  Still more marvellous things than this
had come from town; but Store-Hans was fully occupied for a while
and did not see them till later.  Over at Tönseten's stood a mowing
machine, which could cut both hay and wheat; this also had a seat
high up in the air; and at the Solum boys' the sights were equally
remarkable.

There was a grand celebration at Hans Olsa's house that night.
Tönseten and Per Hansa arrived long before the others to have a
talk together.  They found much to do, and many important matters
to discuss and settle.  Everything that had been borrowed during
the past season must now be paid back, and that was a complicated
affair; for at one time one kind of measure had been used, at
another time another; they were all in the same boat.  Everyone
owed everyone else--and now it was time to square the accounts.
Hans Olsa, who during the shortage had had the most to lend, was
now left with enough supplies to stock a good-sized store.

But the goods were what interested Per Hansa least of all just now;
he was eaten up with curiosity, and only wanted to ask questions;
he had to hear every detail of their difficulties and adventures on
the way. . . .  Had they run across many people?  What news had
they picked up?  Did there seem to be many settlers moving west?
How did the prospects look where they had been? . . .  Was he a
fair-minded man, this fellow they had bargained with--the one who
had trusted them for the plow and the rake?  Did he look like a
chap who would extend still further credit to a poor devil who had
an honest face and came to him in a straightforward way? . . .  God
knows, Per Hansa needed such a blessed lot of things!

--Yes, Hans Olsa would say that the man seemed to be a pretty
decent sort of fellow; he spoke only English, however, so one
couldn't get far with him in the way of talk; this was a bad piece
of news for Per Hansa.  His goods were fairly expensive, too; but
one couldn't expect anything better out here. . . .  On second
thought, Hans Olsa seriously doubted whether it would be possible
to get further credit from him.  At the start of their dickering,
the man wouldn't listen to a word of extending credit; but Syvert
had argued with him so long and sensibly that he had finally
yielded, on condition that they both sign their names as security
for the plow and the rake. . . .  By this time, anyway, he knew
they were going to buy so much from him that it wouldn't have paid
him to be unreasonable.

The returned voyagers, however, thought that the folks at home had
stranger tales than their own to tell.  It seemed nothing short of
a miracle that Per Hansa had been able to bring back to life an
Indian chief with one foot in the grave--those were the very words
Kjersti had used to her husband.  Tönseten swore that he had never
heard anything so strange; by George! it was more exciting than any
storybook ever written!

. . . "I declare, Per Hansa," said Hans Olsa, looking at him in
open admiration, "it's a queer thing about you!  No matter how hard
you're put to it, you always give a good account of yourself! . . .
I was dead set on having you go along with us this trip; we could
have arranged it somehow, you know.  Syvert and I were speaking
about it only the night before we left; but then we both decided
that we could feel so much more comfortable about going away,
knowing that you were here. . . .  It was an act of Providence, I
say, to leave you home this time!" . . .  Tönseten nodded yes-and-
amen to all that Hans Olsa had said.

Per Hansa accepted their homage very modestly; he drew a deep
breath and started to reply; but words failed him, and he had to
begin all over again.

. . . "Oh, well--so much for that, boys.  Forget it, now!  I didn't
do anything out of the ordinary.  But I might as well own up that
when I told Ole to get Old Maria I didn't have any courage to
spare! . . .  There came the band of Indians, thirty strong or more--
and here I stood, alone with three crazy women! . . .  It looked
like far from plain sailing, I can tell you!" . . .

"I don't doubt it a bit!" agreed Hans Olsa.  "It's a wonder to me
that you didn't take the women and try to run away!"

"Yes, but where could I run to?  Besides, they had horses. . . .
The women were crying and carrying on, you know. . . .  And just
then it crossed my mind, Hans Olsa, that if you were only near
enough to sing out to--and you, too, Syvert--I'd gladly have given
my right hand, or both of them!"

"Sam wasn't much use to you, eh?" asked Tönseten.

"No, Syvert, Sam isn't quite equal to such a job."  But then Per
Hansa felt that he had been too harsh; he quickly added:  "Let's
hope that he, too, will have guts some day. . . .  The boy has
plenty of good qualities. . . ."

Meanwhile Beret and Kjersti had arrived; the Solum boys turned up
at last, and then they were all gathered.  The women had gone with
Sörine into her new house; they were curious to see what her
husband had brought; she had to give both of them a taste from this
bag and that.  The menfolk remained sitting behind the barn; they
had many weighty matters to discuss, and didn't want to be
interrupted; just now the hay cutting seemed to be the all-
absorbing topic. . . .  Per Hansa's boys and Hans Olsa's girl were
chasing one another around the sod hut, playing "Indian."

It was a strange thing, however, the number of trips the men had to
make into the barn to look at the window and door which Hans Olsa
had brought.  There must indeed be something very odd about that
window and that door.  The men never seemed to be done looking at
them; they went in and came out--came out only to go in again; each
time they reappeared they were laughing and talking more glibly.
The children sneaked close to the walls whenever the men were
inside. . . .  It must be some very secret business they were
about!  Their voices sank so low--most of the time nothing but
whispering could be heard. . . .  And such a volley of hawking and
coughing and clearing of throats came from the interior of the
barn, such a smacking of lips, such a steady gurgling--like water
running out of a bottle--that the children pressed against the wall
outside couldn't help laughing. . . .  There, one of them had given
a tremendous sneeze! . . .  "Hush!" whispered Sofie.  "That was
Syvert--he must have swallowed wrong!"

. . . Something very strange, indeed, whatever it was. . . .  Now
they heard Tönseten swear that it was his turn.  He had forgotten
himself and spoken out loud:  "Can't I treat Per Hansa to an honest
drink, when he has saved both my wife and my cow from dire death
and scalping! . . .  Toss it off, Per, old boy, and let the rest of
us get a chance!"

Then more jolly laughter and smacking of lips.

"What do you suppose they're doing?" whispered Sofie, making a wry
face.

"Drinking, of course!" said Ole, curtly, furious because he was not
allowed to be in on this. . . .  Surely he was grown-up enough to
take a drink or two!  He could drive the oxen fully as well as his
father.

Then Sörine appeared in the doorway, shouting to them that now they
must all come in.  In one of the boxes which her husband had
brought she had found two bottles.  As far as she could make out,
it was neither kerosene nor liniment; she felt pretty sure that it
wasn't syrup! . . .  It would do no harm to find out exactly what
the stuff was--to-night they had good reason for rejoicing.  She
brought a glass, treated both of the neighbour women, took a wee
drop herself, and then called in the men.

All five of the menfolk entered in a body and drew up in a close
group at the door; at sight of the whisky they had suddenly become
bashful and cautious.

"You shouldn't be handing around costly Christmas treats in the
middle of the haying season!" said Tönseten, craftily. . . .  "What
sort of a housekeeper is this that you've got, Hans Olsa?"

"Oh, come on, Syvert!" laughed Sörine.

--What, HE?  Good gracious! NO--he wouldn't have anything!  He
couldn't stand liquor right after supper, anyway. . . .  She ought
not to lead a weak brother into temptation!

But he was chuckling, and his four companions were chuckling with
him.

Per Hansa pushed Hans Olsa forward.

"Here, Hans Olsa, you are the boss of this house.  Show us how the
thing ought to be done. . . .  Syvert, you see, isn't feeling well,
poor devil!"

--Now, it would never do for him to be first--this was Hans Olsa's
ruling.  Where he had been brought up, that wasn't considered
proper.

"If you don't come at once and take this glass," said Sörine with
mock severity, "I'll pour it back into the bottle. . . .  Then you
can stand there wishing for it as much as you please!"

. . . "Hold on, there, Sörrina--not so hasty, not so hasty!  Be
careful with the blessings of the Lord! . . .  Of course I'll
sample it for you, if you've got to have it done!" . . .  It was
Tönseten, after all, who had first spoken and come forward.  But it
seemed to take him an awful while to swallow that dram; he hawked
and grinned over every little sip, and said the liquor burnt his
throat so unmercifully that he could hardly get it down. . . .
"Tell me, Hans Olsa, where did you find this stuff?"

"Now, heave it in, Syvert, so that the rest of us can have a whack
before it gets too cold!" laughed Hans Olsa.  "You've got to help
me with that window, you know, before you leave to-night."

"Right you are! . . .  Yes, right you are!" agreed Tönseten,
solemnly, and emptied the glass without more ado.

Sörine treated them all. . . .  And now the menfolk were sorry, but
they really had no time to stay indoors; Hans Olsa needed all their
help to get that window in before it came dark; and out they
trooped in a body again, as soon as they had emptied their glasses.
When the celebration was over and they finally set out for home
that night, it seemed to Kjersti that Syvert walked very queerly.
No matter how she adjusted her own steps, he would either range
ahead of her or lag behind; when the latter took place, he would
suddenly discover it and lurch forward, struggling hard to keep his
balance; once he had caught up with her again, he would come to a
stop and stand there babbling.

"What in the name of common sense are you mumbling about?  What
ails you, Syvert dear? . . .  You act as if you were walking and
talking in your sleep on the open prairie!"

"Hie! . . .  Don't know!" he sighed. . . .  "Feel aw-right . . .
Maybe li'l' queer. . . .  Sort o' diz' . . . sort o' dizzy, y'
know. . . .  Feet don't work proply!"  He lurched ahead like a boat
scudding down the slope of a wave. . . .  "You know, I think . . .
abs'lutely I do . . . must be that stuff . . . that damned stuff of
Sörrina's!"

"Oh, well," said Kjersti, consolingly, laughing to herself, "if it
isn't anything worse than that, you'll soon be all right again."


VIII


It was two days later that the great misfortune befell them.  And
according to the manner of such events, it came while everything
seemed safe and serene and even the thought of ill luck was far
away.

They had finished their afternoon lunch.  Hans Olsa was cutting
hay; his new machine hummed lustily over the prairie, shearing the
grass so evenly and so close to the ground that his heart leaped
with joy to behold the sight. . . .  What a difference, this, from
pounding away with an old scythe, on steep, stony hillsides! . . .
All the men had gathered around to see him start; Per Hansa had
returned home from that send-off firmly determined to get another
cow for the winter, even if he had to steal one; for with such a
machine it would be nothing to cut the hay.

Per Hansa was finishing his thatching that afternoon.  Ole and
Store-Hans were helping; even Beret came out from time to time to
lend a hand.  The father was chatting with the boys, who answered
him gayly; now and then they became so boisterous and laughed so
heartily together that little And-Ongen wanted to get up on the
roof with them.  Some distance away the pony was tethered; the boys
petted him constantly, and already he seemed so tame that in a
short while it would be safe to turn him loose.

Tönseten was breaking some new land, with Sam as helper, from his
high lookout, Per Hansa had just noticed how well Syvert was
getting along with his field.  But wait a bit, my good Syvert, wait
a bit! . . .  Per Hansa simply didn't feel like hurrying to-day.
He shouted down once more to Beret, asking her to see whether the
roof would hold water, that was one of his little jokes.  The point
was this: it had sounded so pleasant to hear her voice in the room
below while he had been working on the roof; but now that the
thatch was on, the low tone in which she naturally spoke didn't
carry through the thickness of the sod; he missed hearing her, and
liked to make her shout now and then. . . .  He seemed to notice
that she was growing better satisfied with things as they were out
here.

Henry Solum was digging a well down by the creek.  Everyone was
busy with his own particular task; the little frontier settlement
hummed with the keen joy of labour.

. . . Then the blow fell upon them--suddenly!

Kjersti noticed it first.  At lunch time she had brought out a bite
to eat and a drop of coffee for the men.  Plenty reigned just now,
after the trip to town.  As she was about to enter her own house
again it occurred to her that she hadn't seen Brindlesides, either
on the way over or on the way back. . . .  The cow must have been
in sight, somewhere around.  She turned and walked a little way
beyond the corner of the house, then stopped and surveyed the
scene. . . .  Kjersti kept on looking until her eyes watered--until
she could hear the heavy pounding of her heart; but her cow was not
to be seen on the whole wide prairie . . . and not a single one of
the other critters, either!

In her wild excitement she ran straight to Sörine's and rushed into
the house, crying:

"Have you any idea where your cow is?"

"My cow . . . ?"  Sörine noticed her agitated face, and could not
say another word.

"That's just what I said, Sörrina! . . .  Where is she--where is
she? . . .  Oh, merciful Heaven!" . . .

"You are scaring the life out of me, Kjersti!  The cow must be
right around here." . . .  But she didn't wait for an answer; the
women rushed out of the house together.

. . . Sure enough, no cows in sight anywhere!

"I can't understand it!" exclaimed Sörine. . . .  "Can you?"

"They've run away!" cried Kjersti is despair.

"Of course they couldn't have sunk through the earth!" Sörine was
always a sensible woman in a crisis.

"Oh, where are they?" wailed Kjersti.  "Where have they gone?"

"We must tell the men this minute!" declared Sörine, firmly.  She
saw that it was no use to waste time in waiting for her neighbour,
leaving Kjersti to look after herself, she hastened over to where
her husband was working.

Hans Olsa pulled up the horses abruptly when he saw the two women
straggling across the field.

. . . The cows?  Oh, nothing worse than that! . . .  Well, he
hadn't seen hide nor hair of the cows; but they must be around
somewhere. . . .  He was in such spirits because of the smooth way
the new machine was running, and of the ease with which they would
now be able to get all the hay they needed, that he felt as if
nothing could worry him to-day. . . .  It was a sin how nervous
these women were.  Good Lord! the cows would show up all right at
milking time!

"We must begin to search for them at once!" . . .  Sörine was so
earnest and determined about it, that almost unconsciously he found
himself looking around. . . .  Strange, not a beast to be seen! . . .
Then he, too, became serious; he unhitched the horses, tied one
of them to the mowing machine, mounted the other, and rode up the
hill.

"We must go and tell Per Hansa!" said Sörine, briskly.

"Oh, what's the use!" wailed Kjersti, wringing her hands.  "You can
see for yourself that they are gone! . . .  Yes, gone--and if
anyone is to find them, we'll have to do it!"

Sörine was now both angry and frightened--angry with Kjersti,
frightened over the cows.  She hurried on ahead, the other trailing
after.

But there was no information to be had at Per Hansa's either.  None
of them there had thought of keeping an eye on the cows; the
animals had gone around loose every day, and had invariably come
home at milking time in the evening; they never had been in the
habit of straying so far away that they couldn't be seen. . . .
Ole could distinctly remember having noticed them over by the
creek, that very forenoon.

Per Hansa took the matter calmly and made a comforting suggestion;
the cows were probably lying down in the tall grass, somewhere
along the creek; they'd turn up safe and sound when it came milking
time. . . .  But just then Hans Olsa rode up with a very sober face
and related that he hadn't seen a sign of life stirring on the
whole prairie!

When Hans Olsa took it that way, and spoke so seriously, Per Hansa,
too, began to get worried; he and the boys at once came down from
the roof.

"Take the pony, Ola, and ride down to the creek.  Search upstream
first, then turn and go south.  If you don't see anything, you'd
better notify the Solum boys and Tönseten." . . .  Per Hansa still
believed that the cows would come back all right of their own
accord; but he proposed that they all should quit work fairly
early; then if the cows hadn't shown up they could get together and
decide what was best to be done.  For surely the gnomes hadn't
taken them underground! . . .


IX


The evening wore on; outside of every hut the settlers stood
watching, but no cows appeared.  The uneasiness deepened, and that
sneaking dread which comes to all when life about them has suddenly
and mysteriously disappeared. . . .  The wind blew from the
southwest, driving heavy rain clouds; they hung so low that the
grass seemed to bend as they swept over it where the plain swelled
up to meet the sky.

A depressing gloom hovered over each of the four families sitting
around the supper table.  At Per Hansa's, little And-Ongen wept
bitterly and inconsolably because she hadn't been taken along to
pet Rosie while her mother milked.  As they were sitting down to
supper, the child had asked if they weren't going to milk the cow
to-night; Beret didn't have the heart to tell her what had
happened, and said hastily that she had milked already.  The child
felt that a great injustice had been done her--that she had been
defrauded of something which was hers by right.  She had burst out
crying and had wanted to go to Rosie at once; but the mother had
said:  No, Rosie had gone away as soon as she had given her milk,
and would not come back till to-morrow.  And-Ongen had hung
tearfully around her mother's neck, trying to make her promise
never to go milking again unless she took her along.  The mother
had comforted her as best she could; although she had not said
much, it had been more affecting to look at her than at the child.

Store-Hans listened to them until, all at once, he had to lay his
spoon aside.  He couldn't have swallowed another mouthful of his
porridge.  He got up quietly, his eyes on the floor, slipped
outside, and ran behind the house. . . .  The very thought of
eating was horrible; every spoonful had threatened to choke him.
It had seemed as if he were dipping the spoon in Rosie's very
blood. . . .  And dear Rosie, around whose neck he had put his arms
so many times, resting his cheek against her soft skin. . . .  He
felt now that he loved her almost more than any living being in the
world!

The elder brother, who considered himself a full-grown man, had
remained at the table, gulping down large mouthfuls of milk and
porridge with an indifferent air.  He noticed his brother go out;
then he said in a loud voice, just let the cows wait till he got
hold of them!  He'd lash their hides so thoroughly that they
wouldn't ever dare to play that trick again! . . .  His father shot
a glance at the boy, which silenced him immediately.  The next
moment he, too, had lost his appetite and laid his spoon aside.
After a while he went out; though he could hear where his brother
was, by certain unmistakable sounds, he did not try to find him;
instead he climbed up on the roof and sat there alone.

A little later the whole colony gathered on top of the Indian hill
near Per Hansa's.  Per Hansa himself, with Beret and the child,
came last of all, although they had the shortest distance to walk.
Away behind them Ole sauntered along; but Store-Hans was nowhere to
be seen.  The evening lay heavily on the plain.  Toward the south,
where the clouds were massing together, it was already deepening
into night.  No life, no sound--only the wind moaning under a
lowering sky. . . .  The evening brought memories to them--memories
of half-forgotten tales which people had heard and repeated long,
long ago, about happenings away off in a far country.  There it had
been known to have actually taken place, that both man and beast
would be spirited away by trolls. . . .  So many strange things
were hovering between heaven and earth, if one stopped to think . . .
and remember! . . .  But that anything of the sort could happen
out here on the open prairie, where not so much as a single jutting
cliff or wooded ridge appeared, that was the strangest of all!

The folk stood around in gloomy silence; each was thinking the same
thoughts.

. . . "They MUST be down by the creek!" repeated Tönseten for the
hundredth time.

The hopelessness in his voice struck the same chord of desolation
that possessed them all; no one had courage to ask Tönseten what he
supposed could have happened to the cows down there.  When he got
no answer, he added with an even deeper note of melancholy:

. . . "Talk about mystery!"

The wind swept over them with a chilly breath, now and then
flicking a drop of rain from the dense clouds.  Sam Solum rose from
where he had been sitting on the ground, and began to walk up and
down as if he had made up his mind.

"In my opinion," he announced, firmly, "it's the doings of the red
man! . . .  He's at his work again!"

All turned to look at him.

"You saw how crazy mad the cows acted that night when the Indians
came?  Well, most likely they noticed it, too, and have come back
here after them.  That's where we'll have to look for our cows, my
friends!" . . .  Sam spoke in a bold, convincing voice; now he had
solved the riddle for them and felt very superior.

His idea at once gained general acceptance; it was at least a
natural explanation.  To the women it sounded very reasonable; they
wondered why they hadn't thought of it themselves; for they had all
seen how crazy the cattle acted that night. . . .  Hans Olsa and
Tönseten pondered deeply over the problem for a while; they said
nothing at first; this explanation had at least dispersed the
feeling of weirdness that had gripped the colony; but the longer
they thought, the more they realized that scant consolation lay in
the theory that the Indians had enticed the cattle away; for where
could they find the Indians, or how could they recover the cattle
after they had been found?  If they had stolen them, they meant to
keep them--and keep them they could.

Tönseten marched straight up to Per Hansa; he spoke rapidly, in a
voice of great determination:

"If that's the case, by God! you've got to go and get the cows the
first thing in the morning--you who are so friendly with the
Indians. . . .  We must have our cows right away!"

"Yes, good Heavens!" Kjersti put it.  "How can we get along if that
drop of milk is taken away from us? . . .  You ought to go this
very minute!"

Per Hansa sat gazing steadily off into the distance; but he said
never a word.  At Kjersti's remark, however, it seemed as if
something had suddenly stung him; he bounded up from the ground
like a rubber ball.

"That's just the job for you and Sam! . . .  Come on, wife, let's
go home and get to bed."

With these words he stalked away; everyone could see that now Per
Hansa was thoroughly angry.


X


Rest was a long time in coming to them at Per Hansa's that night; a
strange uneasiness had entered there and would not leave the house.

Store-Hans had not accompanied them to the hill; his brother found
him sitting outside when he came home, and told him what Sam had
said; he added it as his own opinion that undoubtedly the Indians
had been there and stolen all the cows! . . .  Ole had then left
his brother and gone in to bed; the father and mother were inside
already, getting ready for the night; but time went on and the
other boy did not come. . . .  After a while the mother had gone
out to look for him; she had called several times and had walked
around the house; finally she had received a gruff answer from the
gable of the roof.  There sat the boy, staring out into the
darkness.  He refused to come down until she spoke to him harshly,
saying that she would call his father if he did not mind her at
once. . . .  Then he slid down quickly and silently, ran into the
house, slipped off his clothes, and flung himself into bed.

Quiet gradually settled on the room; the father and mother had at
last retired.  As they were on the point of falling asleep, a
violent sob came from the boys' bed; silence immediately followed--
breathless silence; then came another sob, more violent than the
first--a strangled gasp of anguish. . . .  The mother called across
the room, asking what was the matter--was Store-Hans sick?  At that
he broke down in earnest, with long heaves and gasps, with sobs so
violent that they threatened to choke him.  Beret spoke to him
gently and soothingly; little by little the storm over there in
the dark abated, lulled away, and finally seemed to die out
altogether . . . except for a flutter or two. . . .  Suddenly there
arose a hoarse sound like that of bellows inhaling the air, which
ended in a tear-choked gasp:  "Rosie! . . .  RO-O-SIE!"

"Stay where you are, Beret," said Per Hansa.  "I'll get up and tend
to the little fellow!"  He pulled on his trousers, and went over in
the dark to the boys' bed; his voice was so low that it could
hardly be heard.

. . . "Come, Hansy-boy, I'll tell you a secret!"

He put his arm around the youngster, lifted him out of bed, took a
coat from the wall and wrapped it around him, then carried him
outside.  Over by the woodpile, which they had hauled home together
from the Sioux River, he sat down with the boy in his lap. . . .
They began to talk.  At first only the father did the speaking; but
after a while, between sobs, Store-Hans began to join in.  The
wind, driving warm raindrops full in their faces, seemed to ask if
they had gone crazy, sitting out here at this hour of the night;
but they paid not the slightest attention. . . .

Store-Hans was finding consolation in his father's wise and kindly
chat.

. . . "It's a burning shame," Per Hansa was saying, "that we
haven't got two ponies!  Then you could go with me to-morrow when I
ride out to fetch those pesky cows!"

--Oh! . . .  Did he know where they were, then?--slipped out
between two sobs.

"Of course I do!"

Store-Hans snuggled deeper into his father's lap at this assurance,
feeling an infinite, blissful safety there.

--Was it the Indians who had taken them?

"Certainly not!  Those were honest Indians. . . .  You could see
that for yourself."

--But where were the cows, then?

"Oh, they've just strayed off so far that they can't find their way
home again. . . .  But don't worry, boy.  Tomorrow morning I'm
going to ride out and get them, never fear!"

A long silence followed this promise; Store-Hans felt a blissful
happiness settling upon him; the sobs gradually ceased.

"The Indians don't scalp cows, do they?"

"No, indeed! . . .  They aren't such barbarians!"

"They are good people, aren't they, Dad?"

"Yes, just ordinary folks."

"Cows wouldn't be anything for Indian braves to fight for, would
they?"

"I should say not! . . .  And much less for CHIEFS!"

It was growing very late; the raindrops were still falling
steadily; the father said that they ought to be getting back to
bed.  But Store-Hans seemed well contented where he was.

"Are you going to start early to-morrow?"

"I suppose so."

"How long will you be gone?"

"That depends on how far I have to go."

"There won't be any danger if the Indians come back while you are
away. . . .  I can talk to them, you know!"

"Right you are, son! . . .  Nothing to worry about as long as I
have you here at home!"

Then Per Hansa got up and carried the boy back to bed.

Store-Hans fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the
pillow.  But some time later in the night he suddenly rose to his
knees.

"Here I come, Rosie!" he cried out, clearly--then sank back in a
heap on the pillow, and slept on.


XI


At the first faint streaks of day Per Hansa slipped out of bed,
made a fire, and put on the coffeepot.  His wife, he noticed, was
already awake.  He told her to stay in bed; to this she made no
reply in words, but she got up immediately, dressed herself, and
began to prepare him a meal.  A small lamp burned in the room; the
day was yet too young to give much light.

Per Hansa sat down at the table and began to eat; the coffee wasn't
quite ready; his wife stood over by the stove, waiting for it to
boil.  An air of fixed determination hung about her; although she
had not spoken, he felt it just the same.

All night long Beret had been lying there with her eyes wide open,
staring up at a picture that would not go away; a picture of a
nameless, blue-green solitude, flat, endless, still, with nothing
to hide behind. . .  Some cows were grazing on it. . . .  Yes,
animals of flesh and blood were there . . . and in the next moment
they were not there! . . .

The picture had been full of unearthly, awful suggestions.  She had
lain awake in terror, lost in her own imaginings, wrestling with
fearsome thoughts that only increased the dread in her soul. . . .
And now he was leaving her--now he would probably stay away for
a long time and she would have no knowledge of where he was
faring. . . .  It must have been the Indians who had taken the cows.
Could it have been anything else--could it have been? . . .  She
knew too well how hasty and fearless her husband was, plunging
headlong into whatever lay before him! . . .  The thought made her
tremble.

. . . It seemed plain to her now that human life could not endure
in this country.  She had lived here for six weeks and more without
seeing another civilized face than those of their own company.  Not
a settled habitation of man lay nearer than several days' journey;
if any visitor came, it was a savage, a wild man, whom one must
fear! . . .  To get what supplies they needed they must journey
four whole days, and make preparations as if for a voyage to
Lofoten! . . .  What would happen if something sudden should befall
them . . . attack, or sickness, or fire . . . yes, WHAT WOULD THEY
DO?

. . . Ah no, this wasn't a place for human beings to dwell
in. . . .  And then, what of the children?  Suppose they were to
grow up here, would they not come to be exactly like the red
children of the wilderness--or perhaps something worse? . . .
It was uncivilized; they would not learn the ways of man; no
civilization would ever come. . . .  Never, never, would it be
otherwise!

. . . Perhaps, then, it was an act of Providence that the cattle
had been lost. . . .  It ought to show them how things stood out
here--that man could not exist in this savage, desolate wilderness;
they ought to be able to see that much, at any rate. . . .  Even he
might see it, too! . . .

She could not tell whether she had slept at all that night; it did
not seem so; she had heard her husband's first move when he began
to stir.  She remembered, too, the last thought she had been
struggling with in bed; she shuddered at it, now that there was a
light in the house.  There in the darkness she had felt that it
would be a blessing if the cows never turned up. . . .  How could
she ever have thought it?  That, too, was only a part of the
hideous evil out here! . . .

"You aren't going alone?" she asked, from over by the stove.

He had not mentioned going yet; he gave her a quick look.

"We'll see."

"Will you be gone long?"

"You'd better not look for me till you see me. . . .  I may be gone
overnight."

She asked no more for a time; in a few moments she came and poured
out his coffee.

"Which way are you going?"

"I don't exactly know yet. . . .  Eastward, I suppose."

"You are doing a wrong thing, and I must tell you so!" she said,
decisively, putting the coffeepot back on the stove. . . .  "A
wrong thing!" she repeated with even more emphasis.

The vehemence of her tone took hold of him.

"Perhaps it is," he answered, rather meekly. . . .  "But we must
try to get the cows back somehow, just the same."

"No more than the others!" she exclaimed, her agitation suddenly
flaring up. . . .  "If they can do without them, we can too!"

"But look here, Beret," he reasoned, trying to calm her, "you know
that it's necessary for some one to go and look for the cattle.
Hans Olsa hasn't time to do it, because of the haying; and as for
the others, I haven't much faith in them. . . .  There aren't many
to choose from here, you know."

"Does it seem right to you, then," she burst out, wildly, "that I
should be left alone here with the children while you are chasing
around in the wilderness? . . .  You may be gone for a day or a
week--how can I know? . . .  Why can't Sam or Henry go?  They have
no one sitting at home waiting for them!"  She did not look up from
the floor while she was speaking; deep passion burned in her words.

. . . Now she has fallen into one of her unreasonable moods,
thought Per Hansa; but perhaps she couldn't help it, poor
thing! . . .  "It's this way, Beret, you see: I don't believe
it would be any use for those fellows to go."

"Then Tönseten will have to do it!" . . .  Now she was going to cry--
he heard it in her voice.

"Oh, God Almighty! . . . then the cows would surely come home!" he
groaned, not far from tears himself.

She did not answer; her rigid form remained standing over by the
window, staring out into the drab, dismal dawn.

Per Hansa said no more, either; he gulped down his coffee
hurriedly, found his hat and put it on; then he went to the door,
paused an instant, opened it quietly, and stepped outside.  There
he stood still for a moment. . . .  No, no--he couldn't leave Beret
this way! . . .  But what had struck her?  It was beyond his
comprehension!  She had more common sense than any other person he
knew; yet here she was, talking more unreasonably than a cross
child.  What strange influence had come over her since they had
arrived out here? . . .  He oughtn't to leave her this way--but
what could he do? . . .  In a deep quandary, he walked over to the
woodpile, saddled and bridled the pony, which was tethered close
by . . . then paused again.


XII


Before he could make up his mind to jump into the saddle he heard
footfalls behind him, and turned toward the house.  It had flashed
through his mind: here she is coming now; everything will be all
right and I can be off at once. . . .  I need to hurry!

But in the same flash he had realized that it wasn't from the
direction of the door that the sound had come. . . .  He turned to
find Hans Olsa rounding the corner of the house.  Did Hans Olsa
think of going?  Well, that was another matter; that man was equal
to any task.  But who would drive the mowing machine while he was
gone?  And it looked like fine weather for making hay--it seemed to
be clearing. . . .  All these thoughts passed through Per Hansa's
head as he watched his neighbour draw near; he wished that Hans
Olsa hadn't come just now . . . no, not just now!  His usual
frankness was lacking in his greeting:

"You seem to be out early, Hans Olsa."

"And so are you, I see.  I sort of expected it; I wanted to talk to
you before you went. . . .  You're going, aren't you?"

Per Hansa glanced aside and did not answer immediately; at last
he said, after a long pause:  "Some one will have to go, I
suppose. . . .  It seems best for you to keep on with the haying,
so that we can get the job done. . . .  I am no hand at machinery,
you know."

"I know that you can ride faster than I can--that is the better
reason. . . .  Guess what Sörrina told me last night?"

Per Hansa made no attempt at it; he wasn't in a mood to solve
riddles just now.  His eyes were on his neighbour, but his thoughts
were in the house. . . .  She must have heard their voices by this
time. . . .  Would she come out?

. . . "Well," said Hans Olsa, raising his eyebrows significantly,
"yesterday morning Sörrina suspected that cow of ours of wanting
male company!"

Per Hansa came back to reality with a violent jolt.

"What's that you say, Hans Olsa?"

"Those were her very words--'male company'! . . .  Do you suppose
that old cow of mine could have taken it into her head to ramble
all the way back to Fillmore County, just for THAT--and the others
followed her? . . .  The idea occurred to me, anyway; and I thought
it best to tell you at once, before you got away."

"Ha-ha! . . .  Ha-ha! . . .  She had to have a man, that old dame
of yours--and led the others with her into temptation!"

. . . "Well, who knows?"

"Good enough!" . . .  Per Hansa leaned forward and untied the
horse; he sprang quickly into the saddle. . . .  "I was thinking of
the Trönders all last night; now I'm going over and make them a
visit.  There's no telling when you'll see me back.  Perhaps you'll
keep an eye on things for me here, while I am gone?" . . .  He
paused, glanced toward the house, and added in a low voice:  "Be
sure and send Sörrina over here to-night. . . .  And you keep on
with the haying as hard as you can; it looks to me as if it were
going to clear up soon!"

He headed the pony past the house and around it to the side where
the door lay; there he drew up, coughed loudly, listened a moment--
then rode away.

. . . In the window looking toward the east a woman's face, tear-
stained and swollen with weeping, watched his figure grow less and
less in the dim grey light of the breaking day, until at last it
had disappeared altogether. . . .  To her it seemed as though he
were sinking deeper and deeper into an unknown, lifeless sea; the
sombre greyness rose and covered him.


Soon the word was passed around that Per Hansa had set out eastward
to the Sioux River, to look for the cattle; everyone was willing to
let the matter rest at that.  His pony was fleet-footed; there was
no need for any of the others to take up the search; they had
better wait to see what luck he had. . . .  Not that Tönseten had
any faith or hope in the trip.  He had kept turning the matter over
in his mind all night; he had got from Kjersti a detailed account
of how the cattle had behaved when the Indians came, and when he
had risen that morning he had been fully convinced that Sam's
solution of the riddle was the right and only one.  To Tönseten's
mind, all that remained of the problem was how to get hold of the
beasts again without causing bloodshed and war--how to wrest them
from the possession of the redskins before they had gobbled them
all up. . . .  When he heard of Per Hansa's intended visit to the
Trönders, he spluttered with anger; he was disgusted, too, with
Hans Olsa because he had not dissuaded him from such a brainless
move. . . .  But his anger at Per Hansa simply knew no bounds.  So--
he was not the courageous fellow, then, that he posed as being!
Didn't he know that the responsibility for getting the cattle back
rested solely on him?  For he had been the one who was so friendly
with that robber brood.  He hadn't chased them back where they had
come from, as he should have done.  Oh no, he had taken gifts from
them instead--and been gloriously fooled into the bargain!  And why
did he waste his time now, in revelling with the Trönders on the
Sioux River?  The man had better be made to understand that they
needed their cows at once! . . .  Tönseten went about breathing
fire and brimstone, and didn't care who heard him.

The gloom of this loss lay heavy upon the others as well; they went
about their work as usual, but their eyes strayed elsewhere.

Evening came, but neither Per Hansa nor the cattle.  Folks did not
care to go to bed; they sat about staring and waiting.  All of Hans
Olsa's family went over to Beret's; Tönseten and Kjersti, having
first stopped at Hans Olsa's and found them out, went there, too.
The Solum boys could see no reason for moping around their hut
alone; they soon joined the others. . . .  But none of them found
cheer in this place, either.  Beret seemed distant and strangely
calm, as if the whole affair didn't in the least concern her.  They
wondered at her manner, it was so unnatural.

When they were leaving, however, she said, quietly, as if musing to
herself:

"Somehow, I can't figure this out. . . .  Night has come now; Per
Hansa is wandering off there alone in this endless wilderness.  And
four grown men are sitting here talking the time away. . . .  But
aren't the cattle just as much theirs as his? . . .  No, I can't
seem to figure it out at all. . . ."

Over in the bed little And-Ongen began to cry for her father; the
mother went and sat down beside her; she kept her eyes on the
floor.  Her words still lingered in the air; not a voice cared to
answer.  There seemed to be nothing to say, and the silence only
made the gloom deeper. . . .

When the others had gone and the children were asleep, Beret rose
and hung some heavy clothes up over the windows--the thickest
clothes she could find--to shut out the night.  She felt that she
could never go to bed, with all the eyes out there staring in upon
her. . . .

. . . Last of all, she pulled the big chest in front of the door.


XIII


The following day there was no getting the boys down from the roof;
they climbed up immediately after breakfast and sat there hour
after hour.  The forenoon passed; noon came.  Ole jumped down to
eat, but Store-Hans remained at his post; the mother let him stay.
Coffee time finally went by, yet no one in sight. . . .

Then, all of a sudden, eager shouts rang out from the roof; Store-
Hans was screaming in an excited voice that now . . . right over
there . . . dad was coming! . . .  Yes, now he was coming!  Ole's
voice joined in. . . .  And he has the cattle with him, too!

"Come on--let's run and tell the others!" cried Ole. . . .  "Mother
first!" shrieked Store-Hans, forgetting that they had both been
shouting the news.  They jumped down from the roof together, jerked
open the door, and announced in one breath that their father was
coming; the next instant they were gone.  The word was first
carried to Hans Olsa, then to Tönseten, last of all to the Solum
boys.  In each place the same message:  "Dad is coming!"--that from
Ole. . . .  "And he's got the cows!"--this from Store-Hans.

Sure enough, here came Per Hansa riding the pony, and driving
before him a small herd of cows.  As the caravan came in sight from
the several huts, each family proceeded to count the animals. . . .
What was the meaning of this?  Were they seeing double? . . .  They
counted over again with the same result; every person who tried his
hand got one cow too many!  There should be only four--now there
were five.  No getting away from it: FIVE THERE WERE!  They were
easy enough to count; they straggled over the prairie one by one,
like beads on a string. . . .  Per Hansa on the pony brought up the
rear.

As the people stood outside, looking at the approaching train, they
instinctively set out for Per Hansa's.  Each had to get his own
cow; all were eager to learn where Per Hansa had been these last
two days, and to find out about that fifth cow!

The last question had already been answered in part; before the
train had arrived they had made out that the fifth animal wasn't a
cow at all!  No cow, indeed--but a yearling bull! . . .  Per Hansa
himself was barely recognizable; his face was grimy and streaked
with sweat, which had been running down it in streams, and still
ran as freely as ever.  But what they first noticed about the man
was that he carried something strapped to his chest--some sort of a
box, it looked like. . . .  No--wonder of wonders!--it was a bird
cage, made of thin slats; and inside lay a rooster and two hens!

Beret had stepped outside the house at last; she came forward
without paying any attention to the others; they felt embarrassed
now, and did not dare to approach her; some of them even shrank
back as she came near.

. . . "Per, what have you brought?" she asked in a low, tender
voice, as if she were shy of him.

Per Hansa was unfastening the cage; he seemed wearied to the point
of stupor.

"Oh, well," he said with an effort, "since I had to go so far, I
thought I might as well do something worth while." . . .  He handed
her the cage. . . .  "Here are your chickens, Beret. . . .  I don't
know whether there's any life left in them yet, or not."

Beret took the cage, turned slowly away, and walked toward the
house.  The others all thronged about him, eager to hear what
adventures he had met with.

Tönseten pushed in ahead:

"I say, Per Hansa, who is that fellow you brought with the rest of
the cattle?"

The shadow of a grin brightened the grimy face:

"That fellow? . . .  Oh, just a Trönder."

"Oh-ho! . . . then he must be a good one!  Trönders, they say. . . .
But where did you pick him up?"

Per Hansa pretended not to hear; he dismounted and threw the bridle
to Store-Hans. . . .  "Water him now, and feed him well! . . .
Where did I pick that fellow up?  Oh, I beguiled a kind Trönder
woman into letting me take him for a year.  I promised her ten
dollars into the bargain; that makes exactly two dollars and a half
for your share, Syvert.  But that'll be cheaper for you in the long
run, you see, than to chase up and down the whole of Dakota
Territory looking for your cow!"

Sörine and Kjersti were both very outspoken in their gratitude to
Per Hansa; they plainly meant every word that they said.  But it
seemed to Per Hansa that the deepest word of wisdom on this
occasion was offered by Kjersti.  She stood listening patiently
until the story of his long ride had come to an end; then she
remarked, as if quietly musing:

"When lust can be so strong in a dumb brute, what mustn't it be in
a human being! . . .  I shall never forget this trick you have
turned, Per Hansa!"

. . . At that they all laughed heartily.



IV

What the Waving Grass Revealed



I


That summer Per Hansa was transported, was carried farther and ever
farther away on the wings of a wondrous fairy tale--a romance in
which he was both prince and king, the sole possessor of countless
treasures.  In this, as in all other fairy tales, the story grew
ever more fascinating and dear to the heart, the farther it
advanced.  Per Hansa drank it in; he was like the child who
constantly cries:  "More--more!"

These days he was never at rest, except when fatigue had overcome
him and sleep had taken him away from toil and care.  But this was
seldom, however; he found his tasks too interesting to be a burden;
nothing tired him, out here.  Ever more beautiful grew the tale;
ever more dazzlingly shone the sunlight over the fairy castle.

How could he steal the time to rest, these days?  Was he not owner
of a hundred and sixty acres of the best land in the world?  Wasn't
his title to it becoming more firmly established with every day
that passed and every new-broken furrow that turned? . . .  He
gazed at his estate and laughed happily, as if at some pleasant
and amusing spectacle. . . .  Such soil!  Only to sink the plow
into it, to turn over the sod--and there was a field ready for
seeding. . . .  And this was not just ordinary soil, fit for barley,
and oats, and potatoes, and hay, and that sort of thing; indeed,
it had been meant for much finer and daintier uses; it was the soil
for WHEAT, the king of all grains!  Such soil had been especially
created by the good Lord to bear this noble seed; and here was Per
Hansa, walking around on a hundred and sixty acres of it, all his
very own!

A beautiful, alluring thought had begun to beckon him.  His first
quarter-section was rightly only tillage land; the quarter next to
it to the east would be about what he needed for hay and pasture
for the cattle; yes, he could even use the one to the west of it,
too, if his plans worked out; but he wanted the one to the east
first, for it had open water on the creek.  These two quarter-
sections would make an estate more magnificent than that of many a
king of old. . . .  He never mentioned this dream to anyone; he
could see no way at present of getting hold of another quarter; but
his boys were growing bigger day by day; in time they would be able
to earn the wherewithal. . . .  No hurry yet . . . this was just
the beginning!

And there were many other tantalizing, delectable thoughts, of
things that would have to come first, before the fine estate was
won.  The live stock, for instance; in the course of time he would
have great numbers--horses and pigs and cattle, chickens and ducks
and geese--animals both big and small, of every kind.  There would
be quacking and grunting, mooing and neighing, from every nook and
corner of the farm. . . .  The place would need plenty of life, for
his Beret to mother!

But dearest to him of all, and most delectable, was the thought of
the royal mansion which he had already erected in his mind.  There
would be houses for both chickens and pigs, roomy stables, a
magnificent storehouse and barn . . . and then the splendid palace
itself!  The royal mansion would shine in the sun--it would stand
out far and wide!  The palace itself would be white, with green
cornices; but the big barn would be as red as blood, with cornices
of driven snow.  Wouldn't it be beautiful--wasn't it going to be
great fun! . . .  And he and his boys would build it all!

And stranger things than this transpired in fancy--just as in the
fairy tale: they seemed to lie enchanted under the most prosaic and
deceptive semblances, invisible to the eye of man; but then he came
and touched them, pouring on a few drops from the magic horn; the
charm was instantly broken, and behold, treasures sprang forth,
shining in all their newborn freshness and beauty! . . .  Just now,
for instance, he beheld a vision so fair that his face shone with a
glowing light that transfigured his coarse features; he had
suddenly discovered a new object outside the palace of his
dreams. . . .  Yes, sir--there it was!  Nothing less than a snow-
white picket fence around a big, big garden!  And many trees grew
there, both within and without; some bore apples, others various
kinds of fruit: and some . . . SOME HAD CONES . . . yes, trees with
PINE CONES on them! . . .  Per Hansa's eyes swam and shone; a sudden
moisture dimmed his sight; dear God, there really were pine cones
hanging from some of the trees! . . .  He didn't know where they
waited for him, those trees . . . but they would come! . . .

And so Per Hansa could not be still for a moment.  A divine
restlessness ran in his blood; he strode forward with outstretched
arms toward the wonders of the future, already partly realized.  He
seemed to have the elfin, playful spirit of a boy; at times he was
irresistible; he had to caress everything that he came near. . . .
But he never could be still.  To remain inactive over the Sabbath
would drive him into a fit of ill humour; by noon he had to go
outdoors and stir around.  If nothing else turned up, he took a
long jaunt over the prairies; on these trips he selected many a
pretty spot that would be a fine site for a home. . . .  Some day a
settler will locate here, he thought; I'll remember this, and show
him where to build! . . .  Wherever he went, no matter how far, he
found the same kind of soil.

. . . Endless it was, and wonderful! . . .


II


One Sunday evening the boys had come home wild with excitement.
They had made a long trip westward on the prairie to some big
swamps which lay out there, with tall grass growing from them, and
long stretches of open water in between.  They told of thousands
upon thousands of ducks, so tame that you could almost take them in
your hand.  Store-Hans vowed that never in his life had he seen
anything like it.  He described the ducks, how many and how tame
they were, until the words stuck in his throat, and his whole body
trembled; his brother raged on even worse.

From then on the boys were always talking about the ducks.  Was
there no way to get them? . . .  But they had no shotgun, the
father said, and Old Maria had not been built for that purpose; as
it was, they had only a small supply of "feed" for her, which must
be kept in case . . . well, no one could tell.  Just what it was
that "no one could tell," he didn't say; but they understood this
much that no ducks would ever be shot with that gun.  So the ducks
continued to live there, swimming leisurely about in countless
numbers, and flying from one pond to the next whenever the boys
came too close.  And not even a good-sized pebble to be found . . .
plague take it all!

Ever since the boys had first discovered the ducks they had made a
practice of going out to look at them every Sunday.  Each time the
birds seemed to have multiplied in numbers.  Soon the boys never
pretended to speak of anything else between themselves; they
thought only of the ducks, and of how to get hold of them. . . .
Their father had not yet found time to go with them and behold this
wonder.

Then one Sunday afternoon, in the early part of August, Per Hansa
went for a stroll westward with Store-Hans.  Ole was told to stay
at home; it would never do to let mother sit there alone, the
father said, when she had three grown men in the family; Ole, the
older of the two boys, would have to take his turn first.  The boy
raised such a commotion over this disappointment that his mother
said they had better take him along.  The father was firm, however;
next Sunday he himself would stay at home, and then Ole could go;
but to-day the boy must do as he had been told.

So it fell to Per Hansa and Store-Hans to make the trip alone.
Plenty of ducks there were, no doubt about that.  When he first saw
the place Per Hansa was reminded of the great bird cliffs in
Finmarken.  Store-Hans pointed at the birds, whispering hoarsely to
his father, until he choked, and tears came in his eyes.

--Wasn't there any possible way to get a few of 'em?

--Well--the father seemed quite serious--one might try salt on
their tails.

--Salt on their tails?  Was that any good?

--Oh yes--they often did it in the olden days.

But then the father had to laugh, and that spoiled it all.  As he
stood there gazing longingly at the birds no boy could have been
more thrilled by the wonderful spectacle.  By George! there would
HAVE to be some way out of this fix; he'd have to MAKE a way when
he got time to cast about! . . .  Maybe the fairy tale had nothing
to say about the king's having a shotgun; but he ate plenty of
ducks, just the same! . . .  What had been done once could be done
again!

Store-Hans didn't exactly approve of his father's jocular air; this
was no fooling matter.  If he only wanted to, he could easily rig
up some sort of a contrivance for catching them; he could work
miracles when he tried. . . .  Well then, why didn't he begin to
get busy.  He certainly saw how thick they were! . . .

But Store-Hans had to possess his soul in patience awhile longer;
no birds were captured on their first trip to the swamps.

It was on the way home from this trip that Per Hansa made his
startling discovery.  Store-Hans had taken a short cut home; he had
to hurry back and tell his brother what they had seen.  But the
father never liked to follow an old path while there was still
unexplored land left around him; accordingly, he made a long detour
to the westward.  He had often wondered how far west his land
extended, but had never taken the time to pace it off.  Since he
was headed in that direction now, he might as well pace down the
western border line of his and his neighbours' new kingdom.

He had a pretty good idea of the location of Tönseten's south line,
as well as of the corners on it where his east and west lines
began; the southeast corner, in fact, was near Tönseten's house.
He cut across country until he judged himself to be about on this
south line, and walked east for some distance; then he decided that
it would be too far to go all the way in, just to pick up the
corner; so he turned west again.  He would have to be satisfied
with an approximate position of Tönseten's southwest corner
to-day. . . .  About HERE, it ought to be, he thought; he stopped,
gazed around, and took his bearings for the walk north.  He had been
following this course for perhaps a hundred paces when the toe of
his boot suddenly struck against a small stake--a little fellow who
stood hiding there, nodding in drowsy lonesomeness, just at the
edge of a thick tuft of grass.  Per Hansa looked down, saw the
stake, and brought up with a violent start. . . .  Here was
Tönseten's southwest corner!  What, had Syvert been so cautious as
to put down stakes here, too?  A very careful man was Syvert,
indeed!

Per Hansa bent down closer to examine the stake.  Yes, he was right--
it was a corner stake; there stood the description, indicating
both section and quarter.  But the name below . . . THE NAME . . .
good God! what was this?  He dropped to his knees and peered at it
until the letters danced before his eyes; he wondered if he were
dreaming.  The name on the stake wasn't S. H. TÖNSETEN at all, as
it should have been; if was just O'HARA . . . nothing else but
O'HARA!  The letters had been carved on the stake with a knife, and
the arrow pointed east, to Tönseten's quarter! . . .  When Per
Hansa finally rose, he smoothed the grass carefully over with his
hand, where his knees had bent it to the ground; the action was
quite involuntary.

. . . "Well!" he exclaimed, and walked hastily away.  But presently
he stopped, turned around, and went back to the stake, to read the
name once more.  In order to be sure that his eyes hadn't deceived
him, he spelled it out letter by letter, tracing the carving with
his forefinger. . . .  No doubt about it--the thing was true!

And now he laid his course to the northward, walking slowly.  The
radiant, happy look had vanished from his face; it looked old and
worn.  All at once, as if struck by a new thought, he quickened his
pace.  He hurried on until he had reached the vicinity of Hans
Olsa's south line, dividing his land from Tönseten's; here he began
to search the ground, first to the eastward, then to the westward,
working slowly forward into the next quarter-section.

At last he found it--another stake, Hans Olsa's southwest
corner! . . .  He looked carefully around; no one was in sight.
Then he fell on his knees and examined the stake; he didn't bother
to glance at the description this time; but the name--the name!
Tears suddenly came to his eyes as he stooped over; for an instant
he found it hard to see. . . .  But there it was, exactly as he had
feared; this stake had JOE GILL carved on it . . . JOE GILL, when it
should have been H. P. OLSEN! . . .  He got up at last; his round,
jovial face now looked drawn and sinister.

Moving mechanically, he strode toward the north until he had
reached the line between Hans Olsa's quarter and his own; there he
repeated his tactics of a while before, zigzagging back and forth
over a broad space; but though he kept tacking around for a long
time, he was unable to locate any stake.  That a stake was there,
however, he felt very certain; it was unthinkable that this
misfortune should have befallen both Tönseten and Hans Olsa, and
not have run him down at the same time. . . .  He searched until he
had to give it up in despair; then he went north to the line
between himself and Henry Solum, and fell to searching in this
locality; but no, he couldn't find any stake here, either.  It was
now growing so late that he had to quit and go home. . . .  A short
while before, he had been as happy and light-hearted as a child; he
came home full of a weariness greater than he had ever known. . . .


III


. . . By God! the trolls must be after him!  It was only natural
that he should meet them somewhere out here; but to think of their
coming in just this dirty fashion! . . .  Ah, well, trolls were
trolls, no matter how they came! . . .

Per Hansa didn't know what to do with himself that evening; he felt
that the only thing that would relieve him just now would be to
hitch the oxen to the plow and break a stretch of new land.  He
looked longingly at the oxen, and at the plow over yonder. . . .
No, it was the Sabbath--and evening already.

His discovery had been so utterly disheartening that he could not
have mentioned it to anyone for the price of his soul.  He would
have liked to tell his wife about it, and hear her opinion;
but that was out of the question; she was disturbed enough
already. . . .  But Per Hansa had to do something, or he would go
mad; he walked across the yard and sat down on the woodpile; there
he remained a long while, staring listlessly at the ground.

. . . These trolls would not be easy to cope with--not if he knew
them! . . .  But why hadn't he been able to discover their tracks
on his own quarter?  That was the strangest thing of all!

The boys were only waiting for a chance to talk with their father,
now he had been west to the swamps and had seen how thick the birds
were there.  They came up and spoke to him, but got no response;
first one of them tried, and then the other; soon they both were
talking at him together; a little later their mother came out and
asked him something, but he paid no attention.  He sat there in a
silence like a stone wall. . . .

He's probably thinking of the ducks, Store-Hans decided; the
knowledge made him very happy.  Of course he was thinking of the
ducks, and would soon hit upon some fine way to capture them! . . .
At last Store-Hans could no longer restrain himself; he edged over
to his father's side, laid his hand on the stout thigh, and said in
a deep joy:

. . . "Weren't there a lot of 'em, Dad?" . . .

"WHAT?"

"Did you ever see so many ducks in all your life?"

"Ducks? . . .  No."

"You think we can get some of them, don't you?" asked the boy, in a
hushed, confidential tone.

But the father made no answer; he was already far away and did not
hear.  Just then the mother came out with the milk pail on her arm
and called loudly to Rosie.  This reached Per Hansa's ears; he got
up and took the pail from her. . . .  "I might as well do the
milking, since I'm only sitting here idling away my time." . . .
He seemed so absent-minded that she looked hard at him; as he
walked away his head drooped forward, his shoulders were slouched
down, his whole body seemed strangely shrunken. . . .

The next morning he was up earlier than usual; he left the house
without saying a word.  As soon as he was gone, Beret got up and
went to the window to see what became of him.  The early dawn was
still in the sky; she saw him stride off westward; soon the slope
of the hill hid him from view. . . .  It's only the ducks, she
thought; I'm glad that he and the boys have found some diversion;
but just the same, he ought not to wear himself out over such
trifling things. . . .  Beret turned away from the window, her face
heavy with sadness.

The boys were up and the food was on the table when Per Hansa
returned. . . .  He was heated as if from a brisk walk, his wife
noticed.  She had to look at him a second time; there was something
queer about his face this morning; it seemed so hard set and
forbidding; although it glowed with the heat of his body, it lacked
any warmth of expression.  Instinctively she asked:

"Is anything wrong with you, Per?"

"No." . . .  But he did not look up.

As soon as he had eaten he left the table, telling the boys to come
along and help him; now was a good time to pace out the west line
of their land; it had to be done soon, anyway; perhaps they would
break a stretch of ground out there. . . .  His words sounded cold
and distant; he went out, and said no more.

Beret watched him narrowly. . . .  There's certainly something the
matter with him, she thought.

Striking west from the house, Per Hansa paralleled his own south
line, between his land and Hans Olsa's; he knew exactly how far in
from this line the house had been built; so he merely kept along
with it, counting the paces.  When he had reached the western limit
of his quarter, he stood still; the grass had been trampled down
all over the place. . . .  "This is where it ought to be; the line
should run straight north from here." . . .  He walked a few paces
north to show them the direction. . . .  "There ought to be a small
black stake driven down in the grass here somewhere, but I can't
seem to find it.  Let's go south first; look sharp and see if you
can't pick it up.  If we don't find it there, we'll go the other
way.  Keep your eyes open, now, every step!"

"When did you put a stake down here?" asked Ole.

His father apparently didn't hear him. . . .  "It ought to be right
here; funny, that we can't find it! . . .  The cattle must have
tramped it into the ground."

All three of them kept searching steadily the whole forenoon; the
father seemed so excited, and walked so fast, that the boys could
hardly keep up with him.  They made tack after tack, north until
they stood on Henry's land, south to Hans Olsa's; they did not go
in single file, but walked abreast, four or five paces apart.

. . . "Look in the grass, boys--look carefully in the grass!" the
father repeated a thousand times.

Whenever they reached the end of the line they zig-zagged east and
west; they looked everywhere, and combed the ground; but with all
their labour and painstaking care, no stake could be found.  The
boys noticed something very odd about their father's manner: the
longer their search went on unsuccessfully, the less impenetrable
became that wall of isolation around him.  When they finally
stopped on the last tack, looked around, and saw that they
had covered every possible place, his voice sounded almost
joyful. . . .  "It must be that the cows have tramped it down! . . .
Well, no harm done . . . it was nothing but an old stick, anyway."


IV


Beret soon came to realize that he was absorbed in things of which
she was not to know.  Whenever she happened to speak to him
unexpectedly he seemed to be present and yet absent; even when he
made an effort to converse naturally, he kept her at a distance;
all his ardour seemed to have disappeared, and with it the
childlike joyousness that she had loved so much in him, though she
had been unable to respond to it. . . .  No more did she hear his
cheerful, fairy-tale banter about the royal mansion, and the king
and queen; she was aware how often he lay awake at night, or tossed
restlessly about in his sleep. . . .  In a short while she became
fully convinced that something had happened at last which he had to
conceal from her; but she could not imagine what it might be.  The
whole affair was so unlike him, that it worried her night and
day. . . .  What, in Heaven's name, could there be to conceal
out here?

This mood lasted with him throughout the week.  On the morning of
the next Monday he was up early. . . .  Beret had been lying awake
the latter part of the night, feeling keenly that he was wrestling
beside her with a monster which would not leave him in peace; but
after a while she had fallen asleep again.  When she finally opened
her eyes the dim grey of dawn was creeping through the window; her
husband was up and gone.  The room somehow gave her the sensation
that he must have left a long time ago; not a sound could be heard
anywhere. . . .  Beret got up, dressed herself hurriedly, and went
outdoors.  The plow was still there, she noticed, and the oxen lay
a short distance from the house; but Per Hansa was nowhere in
sight. . . .  She felt so forlorn, so helpless, filled as she was
with gnawing loneliness.  Here she stood, abandoned in the great
solitude, not knowing where he had gone nor what the trouble
was. . . .  What had happened to him?  What was he struggling with,
that had to be kept from her? . . .  She called his name aloud a
couple of times; but her voice trembled so strangely that she did
not dare to call again.  The sound died away unheeded. . . .  It
seemed to Beret that she had never felt the awful desolation of the
place weigh so heavily upon her as on this morning.

In the meantime Per Hansa was engaged in a very curious task west
on the prairie.  He had risen before daylight; had gone out and
hunted up the spade, which he had stuck under his arm; then he had
started off in a general westerly direction.  He made a longer
detour than necessary around Hans Olsa's house, watching closely as
he went by to see if anyone there was up and stirring; once safely
past, he quickened his gait. . . .  So he came to a place at the
southwest corner of Hans Olsa's land, where a black imp stood
nodding sleepily in the grass; there he came to a halt and looked
about in all directions. . . .  Not a soul to be seen.  His eyes
were snapping now; his mouth was tight and drawn; all his features
seemed hardened into solid rock. . . .  "God!" he muttered, "Hans
Olsa has got himself into a nice mess!" . . .  He grasped the thing
firmly, pulled it slowly out of the ground, and laid it aside with
great care.  Then he examined the hole, planning what he had better
do; when he was finished, it was going to be hard to see that HERE
a stake had ever been standing!  He worked now with deep
forethought and cunning; first he brought some loose soil from a
distance in the spade, and filled the hole almost to the top; next
he stopped it up with a sod plug; the grass of the plug grew as
stout and green as that around it; he also took good care not to
tramp down the grass near the hole, placing his feet lightly, as if
he were afraid to rest his full weight on them.

At last he had finished and stood regarding his handiwork. . . .
"If they only give the grass time to grow a little.  I'll be damned
if they can chase Hans Olsa away on account of that stick of
wood!" . . .  Then Per Hansa went on to the place when he had found
the stake of Tönseten's land; here he repeated the performance, but
was even more careful not to trample down the grass.

When he returned home that morning he did not arrive from the west,
but from the north.  The boys were eating breakfast; the mother was
busy, but she kept a watch through the window; she saw him come
into the yard, stop by the woodpile and throw down the spade--then
pause and glance hastily toward the house; but she went on with her
work as if she had noticed nothing.  Soon after she heard his
footfall outside, passing along the wall. . . .  He had gone into
the stable! . . .  He stayed there for some time before he came
into the house.

As he entered the room Beret glanced at him from the corner of her
eye. . . .  Yes, there he stood, the man she knew . . . but in his
face shone something hard and menacing. . . .  To-day they were
going to plow, he told the boys--yes, PLOW!  Both they and the oxen
would get their bellyful. . . .  His voice had the same unnatural,
metallic hardness as his face; it seemed as if sparks flew when he
spoke.

The stable was unoccupied as yet; at present it served as tool
room, carpenter shop, and storehouse combined; Beret also used it
for hanging spare clothes. . . .  After they were gone, she
happened to go into the stable looking for some garments that
needed mending.  There, quite by chance, she found the stakes; Per
Hansa had hidden them behind the clothes.  Burnt black to withstand
the moisture, they hardly differed in colour from the walls; she
would not have seen them at all, except for the carved letters;
these stood out in the natural colour of the wood and looked like
large worms in the black sod; they startled her--she had to see
what they were.  She picked the two stakes up and stood turning
them over in her hands. . . .  Here were some figures and
letters . . . more letters, that joined together and made something
like names. . . .  "Joe Gill," said one; the other, "O'Hara." . . .

. . . What strange names, she thought. . . .  Did people really
have such names?  If so, they must be Indians! . . .  She kept
turning the stakes over and over.  The ends tapered down to a sharp
point; they must have been made to stand in the ground; in fact,
little particles of soil were clinging to them now.  Where could
Per Hansa have found them? . . .  She put them back, found the
garments she was looking for, returned to the house, and sat down
to mend. . . .

But she could not dismiss those mysterious stakes from her
mind. . . .  What did the numbers mean . . . the numbers and letters
. . . and then, the names? . . .  They must be landmarks.  And they
had been standing in the ground, too. . . .  It suddenly occurred to
her that he must have put them in there recently; it was only last
week that she had hung up those clothes. . . .  Perhaps . . . could
he have done it this very morning? . . .  She laid her work aside
and went out to the stable to examine them once more. . . .  Yes,
certainly they had been in the ground--just so far down they had
been!

Back at her sewing again, her hands moved more and more slowly as
she thought . . . He had been struggling with something which must
be kept from her. . . .  His voice was sharper to-day, his face
more determined. . . .  It MUST be that he had brought them back
with him this morning. . . .

. . . Her thoughts slowly began to spin; the longer they spun, the
less she liked the web; after a while she became so frightened that
her hand shook and she had to drop her sewing. . . .

When he came home for dinner, she told herself, she would ask him
for an explanation of this matter; her fear was somewhat appeased
by this resolution. . . .  But then he came, still in a rigid,
forbidding mood; and her thoughts grew so unspeakably dark and ugly
that she could not utter them.  At the same time, he seemed
relieved in a measure, and more like himself.

After supper that night she heard him go into the stable and
rummage around; then he came out and went across the yard.  She
stole to her post at the window; there he stood by the block,
chopping up a stick of wood; it was burnt black, and tapered at one
end; it had stood in the ground.  He picked up every piece that he
had split and cut them into short kindling wood! . . .  He took
another black stick and did the same with it. . . .  Then he went
down on his knees and began to gather the kindling, piece by piece,
on his arm. . . .  Now, what in the world. . . .  Here he came,
bringing it all into the house! . . .

Beret had timidly withdrawn to the corner by the stove; he saw her
standing there but did not look at her directly; then he took off
the lid of the stove and dumped in the armful of kindling.

. . . "Are you making a fire now?"

"Just some rubbish I picked up around the chopping block."

She wanted to run around the stove and stop him, but could not; she
felt that her knees would not carry her even those few steps.  A
question trembled on her lips; she MUST ask him now . . . but the
words would not come . . . her tongue refused to obey.

. . . No, she could not ask such a question! . . .  It was so
hideous, so utterly appalling, the thought which she harboured; God
forgive him, he was meddling with other folks' landmarks! . . .
How often she had heard it said, both here and in the old country:
a blacker sin than this a man could hardly commit against his
fellows!*


* In the light of Norwegian peasant psychology, Beret's fear is
easily understandable; for a more heinous crime than meddling with
other people's landmarks could hardly be imagined.  In fact, the
crime was so dark that a special punishment after death was meted
out to it.  The visionary literature of the Middle Ages gives many
examples.


She stood motionless in the corner beyond the stove, watching her
husband burn the proofs of his guilt; the terror that possessed her
now was immeasurably greater than that which she had felt in the
morning, when she had called his name and got no answer. . . .

. . . That night Per Hansa slept the sleep of the righteous in
spite of what he had done; now it was Beret who had a monster to
wrestle with. . . .


V


During the weeks that followed, Per Hansa's temper made him hard
of approach; the man seemed driven by a restless energy, an
indomitable will that knew but one course--to break as much new
land as possible each day. . . .  "Do you intend to break the whole
quarter-section this fall?" Hans Olsa asked him more than once.  He
had broken a large part of it already; a new piece was added every
day; but still he found no rest, nor would the joyous peace of the
early summer return to him. . . .  His face now always wore that
forbidding, menacing look, which often would flare up into a flame,
and his voice would suddenly be hard as flint.

Before his thoughts stood ever the same problem:  How would it turn
out when the trolls came?  Would he be able to hack off their heads
and wrest the kingdom from their power? . . .  It might happen that
he would be going about with some object in his hand, and would
suddenly grip it hard; all his strength would be needed to wield
the enchanted sword. . . .  For these would be archtrolls, no less.
Here they had come and, disregarding all law and justice, had taken
land in an unlawful manner.

There was another chain of thought which frequently led him on:
Perhaps these men would never come back?  They might just have
happened along here the previous fall, before Tönseten arrived;
have taken a liking to the place, and put down their stakes; and
then have failed to go to the land office until AFTER Tönseten's
visit there, at which time they would have found their claims taken
up and recorded by another; or still more likely, for some reason
or other they had never gone to the land office at all, but had
allowed their claims to go by default . . . that MIGHT have
happened.

. . . But no, the explanation didn't sound reasonable; those stakes
hadn't stood in the ground all winter--they didn't look that
way. . . .  By God! the trolls had arrived AFTER Tönseten's sod
house had been built; they had "beheld the land, and seen that it
was good"! . . .  So, there was nothing to do but wait for them to
come back. . . .  Not by a breath or a syllable did Per Hansa betray
the secret of what he had done.  At one time he had strongly
considered telling Hans Olsa, but had finally given up the idea;
better to keep him out of this for the time being! . . .  In all
this trouble, it never once occurred to him that had there been a
prior claim on these quarters, Tönseten and Hans Olsa couldn't have
filed on them, and that the act of putting down claim stakes made no
difference at all.

Beret's thoughts continued to spin; the web had grown so dreadful
to look at that she longed to cast it aside; but lacked the
power. . . .  He has done it, he has done it!--the thoughts spun
on. . . .  Here we are sitting on another man's land, and Per
Hansa intends to stay! . . .  He has destroyed another man's
landmarks. . . .  Oh, my God! . . .

In a certain sense, however, his guilt began to appear less fatal
in her eyes as she continued to look at it; surely there was enough
land out here for everyone; whether they got this quarter or
another made no difference.  She could not understand why one
should make a fuss over a thing like that. . . .  But the
dishonourableness of the act made her shrink back in disgust. . . .
And now a new terror--the terror of consequences!  Per Hansa, poor
fellow, could not even speak the language.  How would he ever
defend himself, when the case came up? . . .  The stories that she
had heard, both in Norway and east in Fillmore, of how people in
this wild country would ruthlessly take the matters of law and
justice into their own hands, also crept into the web of her
thoughts.  Here he was, unable to give a satisfactory explanation,
guilty before the law of one of the blackest crimes that it was
possible for man to commit. . . .  He was so hasty and quick-
tempered, too, whenever things went wrong; and now he was in a mood
which made people afraid to approach him. . . .

. . . Beret would look at her web until her whole body trembled and
she had to reach out and grasp something to steady herself.


VI


Beret had now formed the habit of constantly watching the prairie;
out in the open, she would fix her eyes on one point of the sky
line--and then, before she knew it, her gaze would have swung
around the whole compass; but it was ever, ever the same. . . .
Life it held not; a magic ring lay on the horizon, extending upward
into the sky; within this circle no living form could enter; it was
like the chain inclosing the king's garden, that prevented it from
bearing fruit. . . .  How could human beings continue to live here
while that magic ring encompassed them?  And those who were strong
enough to break through were only being enticed still farther to
their destruction! . . .

They had been here four months now; to her it seemed like so many
generations; in all this time they had seen no strangers except the
Indians--nor would they be likely to see any others. . . .  Almost
imperceptibly, her terror because of the stakes which her husband
had burned had faded away and disappeared. . . .  They had probably
belonged to the Indians, so it did not matter; he had become fast
friends with them. . . .

People had never dwelt here, people would never come; never could
they find home in this vast, wind-swept void. . . .  Yes, THEY were
the only ones who had been bewitched into straying out here! . . .
Thus it was with the erring sons of men; they were lost before they
knew it; they went astray without being aware; only others could
see them as they were.  Some were saved, and returned from their
wanderings, changed into different people; others never came
back. . . .  God pity them: others never came back! . . .

At these times, a hopeless depression would take hold of her; she
would look around at the circle of the sky line; although it lay so
far distant, it seemed threatening to draw in and choke her. . . .

. . . So she grew more taciturn, given to brooding thoughts.

But then the unthinkable took place: some one from outside broke
through the magic circle. . . .

It happened one evening.  Ole had ridden the pony west to the
swamps; on the way home he noticed a large white speck moving along
through the haze on the eastern horizon.  It did not seem so very
far away; as he watched it came creeping closer; the boy was so
startled that he could hear the beating of his own heart; he had to
investigate this thing.  The pony was fleet-footed; he had plenty
of time to make a turn to the eastward; he rode directly toward the
speck.  When he had satisfied himself that west-movers were coming--
the wagons indicated that--he turned toward home and urged the
pony till his body lay flat to the ground.  On the way in he
stopped at Tönseten's with the news, then at Hans Olsa's; hastening
on to his own house, he shouted loudly for them to come out and
look . . . come out in a hurry!

. . . What a strange feeling it gave them! . . .  Two horses in
front of a wagon; the wagon covered, just like their own! . . .
And like their own, it came slowly creeping out of the eastern
haze; like them, these folks were steering for Sunset Land. . . .
Alas! thought Beret, some one else has been led astray!

The wagon held on toward Tönseten's; it reached his place and
halted.  The incident was so unusual and startling that all in the
little settlement forgot their good manners and rushed pell-mell
over to Tönseten's.  Even Beret could not keep away; she put on a
clean apron, took And-Ongen by the hand, and joined the others. . . .
The whole colony, young and old, were gathered there when she
arrived--everyone except Per Hansa. . . .  He came up silently at
last, carrying a heavy stick.

The company consisted of four men; they were from Iowa. . . .  No,
they didn't intend to stop here; they were bound for a place about
seventy miles to the southwest; the land was nearly all taken up
around here, they had been told. . . .  Tönseten and the Solum boys
were convening with them in English; Hans Olsa, together with the
women and children, stood respectfully listening; as for Per Hansa,
he was all eyes and ears, scrutinizing the four visitors from head
to foot, trying to make out what they were saying. . . .  His grip
on the stick relaxed; hadn't he understood that they were going
seventy miles farther? . . .

At last he grew impatient, because he was unable to follow the
conversation as well as he wished; he grasped Tönseten by the arm
and pinched it so hard that he turned around angrily; but the next
second he was talking again.

"What sort of people are they?"

"Germans. . . .  Don't bother me now!"

"You must tell them not to stop. . . .  We want only NORWEGIANS
here, you know!"

But Tönseten had no time now to waste words on Per Hansa; that
could be attended to in due season; he was deep in a long
discussion with the strangers, all about the prospects for the
future out here.

These four unexpected evening arrivals stayed with them overnight,
and went on their way the next morning; the Spring Creek settlers
had never seen them before; they would perhaps never see them
again; but they all felt that this was the greatest event which had
yet happened in the settlement. . . .  Seventy miles farther into
the evening glow these fellows were going--seventy long miles!
Then this place would no longer be life's last outpost! . . .
Folks were coming, were passing on . . . folks who intended to
build homes! . . .

. . . A living bulwark was springing up between them and the
endless desolation! . . .

Before the Germans left in the morning they came to examine Per
Hansa's house; Tönseten had told them of one of his neighbours who
had built a dwelling and stable under one roof; they thought it
would be well worth the trouble to go and look at a structure of
that kind; they themselves were just beginning, and needed ideas.
While they were there Per Hansa got a chance to sell them some
potatoes and vegetables, to the amount of two dollars and seventy-
five cents; this was the first produce to be sold out of the
settlement on Spring Creek. . . .  Tönseten didn't take it kindly
at all; he could have done as much himself; but who would ever have
thought of such a thing? . . .  He certainly watches his chances,
that fellow Per Hansa!


VII


The strangers finally managed to make a start late that forenoon;
the Spring Creek folks stood watching the wagon as it grew smaller
and smaller, until it was only a dot on the horizon, receding
farther and farther under the brow of the heavens; at last it
disappeared--but whether into the earth or into the sky, no one
could tell. . . .

This visit affected each one differently, according to his own
traits and peculiarities; but with all it was a new incentive to
let their eyes scan the prairie.  They had always done this, of
course; but more often it had been with the object of straightening
their tired backs for a moment, than to seek for actual traces of
wandering fellow beings. . . .  This visit had encouraged them all,
but Tönseten and his wife were especially firm and optimistic in
their faith; from now on Syvert always spoke of the future with
fervent conviction, and Kjersti went about listening to him in a
glow of silent but none the less ardent devotion.  The Solum boys
also had little doubt of the omen--this wagon was only the
forerunner of more to come!  The next in order of enthusiasm was
Sörine, to whom faith imparted a glad calmness.  Hans Olsa let
every day be sufficient unto itself, enjoyed the confident spirits
of the others, and set himself every day to accomplish something
needful; he was not a fast worker, but got things done with a
peculiar sureness of purpose and steadiness of gait; it did not
seem of great importance to him how many new people came; the
important thing was how they got along--the folks who were here
already.

Per Hansa was even louder in his optimism than Tönseten.  Now there
were settlers to both the east and the southwest of them; far away
to the northeast, too, folks were known to have taken up land; the
time wasn't far distant when they would have near neighbours all
around.  There were moments, even, when he felt confident that he
would live to see the day when most of the land of the prairie
would be taken up; in such moods, there was something fascinating
about him; bright emanations of creative force seemed to issue out
of his square, stocky figure; his whole form became beautiful, the
lines of his face soft and delicate; whenever he spoke a tone of
deep joy rang in his words. . . .  But these moods did not last;
when there came a pause in the fairy tale, Per Hansa fell silent
about the future, worked intensely and grew cross and irritable; at
such times he was a hard man to deal with.

To Beret the visit had seemed nothing but a brief interruption to
the endless solitude.  The facts were unchangeable--it was useless
to juggle with them, or delude oneself; nothing but an eternal,
unbroken wilderness encompassed them round about, extending
boundlessly in every direction; that these vast plains, so like
infinity, should ever be peopled and settled, would be a greater
miracle than for dead men to rise up and walk! . . .

It happened about a week later, that another caravan came creeping
slowly out of the evening.  This was a great procession--six teams
of horses, with the same number of wagons. . . .  Darkness was
already falling when they were sighted.  Per Hansa's boys wanted to
start out at once, and were quarrelling over who should ride to
meet the strangers; but the father suddenly came and told them both
to stay at home; he spoke in such a determined voice that they
understood it would be useless to mention the matter again. . . .
They shouldn't be running out to meet every stranger, he went on,
as though they had never seen people before!  Time enough to speak
with these newcomers to-morrow.  He was going over now to find out
if they needed any potatoes. . . .  He suited the action to the
word.

At Hans Olsa's house the caravan had not yet been sighted; Per
Hansa saw a light in the window as he passed.  Tönseten was
standing outside when he arrived there; the caravan lay some
distance off to the southward, steering too far west to fetch the
settlement.

"You're going to have visitors," Per Hansa greeted his neighbour.

"It looks that way!" chuckled Tönseten. . . .  "Though I'm afraid
they're heading a little too far west."

They stood gazing at the train of wagons, now less than a hundred
yards away; through the dusk they could just make out the forms of
the men driving.  Kjersti stood behind them in the door, laughing
to herself and wondering how she could put them all up for the
night. . . .  Oh, well, if it couldn't be arranged here, Per Hansa
would have to take some of them home to his place.

. . . "I wonder what kind of people they are?" Tönseten mused. . . .
"Are they going to pass right by an open door?"

"That's just what they're doing!" said Per Hansa, curtly, fearing
that now the trolls were upon them.

"But surely they can see us?"

"They ought to, if they have eyes!"

The caravan had now drawn abreast of them to the southwest; it was
so near that they could hear the panting of the horses; then the
foremost wagon swung off a trifle and took a more westerly course;
they evidently had no intention of camping here for the night.

"You'd better go over and talk to them, Syvert," said Kjersti. . . .
"We'll make room for them somehow."

Tönseten gazed at them open-mouthed; tears of disappointment stood
in his eyes. . . .  "That's a fine way to act!" he spluttered. . . .
"Hadn't we better go over and invite them?"

Per Hansa's eyes flashed daggers; his face lighted up with
irresistible forcefulness. . . .  "We won't bother about that just
yet. . . .  They might be high-toned, you know--heading for Hans
Olsa's place, or mine!"

The train moved slowly on toward the northwest, until it was on the
line between Hans Olsa's and Tönseten's; there the wagons stopped
and the horses were unhitched; the newcomers had evidently decided
to pitch their camp for the night.

. . . "It's the strangest thing I ever saw!" said Tönseten, as if
speaking to himself.  "Can you imagine anyone coming into a
neighbourhood where the houses are standing around as thick as
fleas on a dog's back, and not even wanting to talk to the folks
who live in 'em? . . .  I call it a damned outrage!  What's the
matter--are they afraid of us?"

"It doesn't seem as if they can really be civilized people!" put in
Kjersti.

"Most likely they've got some nice-looking girls aboard, and are
afraid the place is full of knock-about single men!" Per Hansa
explained, calmly.

The three puzzled folks stood there watching and wondering; through
the deepening dusk they couldn't make out clearly what the
strangers were doing. . . .  Apparently they were building a fire
down on the slope; a glare of flames intermittently rose and
spread, waned and reappeared; it seemed to flit back and forth on
the ground.

"Do you know what, Syvert?" Per Hansa suggested, mischievously. . . .
"Since those fellows won't come and talk to us, we'd better take
a trip over and visit them.  We might even talk them into buying
some potatoes--eh?  We must watch our chances, you know." . . .  He
was anxious to get a look at them.

Tönseten could see no particular objection, especially since Per
Hansa had an errand with them; but it did seem rather humiliating
to go and shake hands with folks who had refused to say "hullo" to
them. . . .  But after a moment they started on their way.

They had walked only a few steps, however, when he drew up with a
jerk.  "Let's go over to Hans Olsa's and take him along; he'd like
to shake hands with them too, you know."

--Not at all--certainly not!--was Per Hansa's decisive reply.  Hans
Olsa knew no more English than he did; and it was devilish awkward
to stand around and stare strangers in the face, without knowing a
word they said; he himself would never have thought of going if it
hadn't been that they ought to make use of the opportunity to sell
some potatoes! . . .

They went on a few steps farther, and then Tönseten stopped again;
his courage was dripping away. . . .  Suppose they were
Scandinavians?

--What nonsense! . . .  Per Hansa kept right on walking.  Neither
Swedes nor Danes behaved in that boorish fashion; anyway, they
probably had all gone to bed at Hans Olsa's; they always turned in
early there.

The fire burned lustily over on the prairie; four women went to and
fro placing dishes of food on a big green cloth spread on the
ground; some of the men had already gathered around it; others were
occupied with the wagons. . . .  As they drew near, Per Hansa
counted ten men in all; he scrutinized their faces closely, one by
one; but he found none that he liked. . . .  Tönseten went briskly
up to the fire and greeted those who were sitting around; Per Hansa
did likewise.  The strangers plainly sneered at their greeting;
they said something among themselves which Per Hansa did not
understand. . . .

--Where did these men come from? Tönseten asked, boldly.

--From down in Iowa.

--Were they going far west?

--No!

This much Per Hansa was able to follow; but here he began to lose
the meaning; the men spoke English too fast, and Tönseten wasn't
much better; not that it made any difference, however; Per Hansa
knew all that he needed to know. . . .  THEY HAD COME AT LAST! . . .
Of the conversation that followed he only understood that it was
about land and that the men were making sport with Tönseten, who
had grown angry and now spoke still faster. . . .  It was
unbelievable how fast Syvert could rattle off the English! . . .
The strangers' mockery was getting rather ugly now; he could tell
it by the sound of their laughter. . . .  Damn it all, to think
that he couldn't talk to them!

"Huh!" exclaimed Tönseten, turning suddenly to his neighbour . . .
"Can you imagine what they are saying? . . .  They . . . they
insist that both my quarter and Hans Olsa's belong to them!"

"You don't say! . . .  What about MINE?"

But Tönseten paid no further attention to him; he was off again in
his squabble with the Irishmen, and growing more and more excited
with every word. . . .  It struck Per Hansa that if Syvert didn't
stop a moment to catch his breath, he was either going to explode,
or else he would burst into tears; he grasped his arm firmly.

"What do they say, Syvert?"

"They say they've taken up all the land between the creek and the
swamps over to the westward, a strip two quarter-sections wide. . . .
And they talk rougher and wilder than anything I ever heard;
they're threatening murder, and fire, and state's prison!"

"Do they say when they were here?"

"Last summer, and late in the fall, and early this spring, too!"

"What cultivation have they done to meet the law?" . . .  Per Hansa
spoke calmly and thoughtfully.

"They claim that they've been granted exemption from the government
because they were soldiers in the Civil War! . . .  Isn't that the
devil's own luck?"

"Ask to see their papers."

"They say they've got the papers.  They'll produce them in the
morning, all right!"

"Then we might as well go home and get to bed!" said Per Hansa,
calmly. . . .  "But be sure to ask whether they need any POTATOES!"
he added with a flash of roguishness.

But Tönseten had not heard; he was once more absorbed in wrangling.
The men about the fire had now all risen; those who were working at
the wagons had joined them; a close circle had formed around the
pair.  Per Hansa watched in silence, his pipe hanging unlighted
from one corner of his mouth; when his eyes caught those of one of
the strangers he held on some time before letting go.

"Well," he put in, dryly, as Tönseten stopped to catch his breath,
"don't they want to buy any potatoes?" . . .

"POTATOES!" cried Tönseten. . . .  "You ought to hear how savagely
they talk!  They say they don't need to show any papers to thieves
and claim jumpers like us!"

"All right. . . .  Have they got their stakes down here, too?"

"On both quarters, they say!"

Per Hansa saw that if Tönseten kept on much longer, he would go to
pieces entirely; that would be rather embarrassing for both of
them.

"Come on, Syvert, let's go home to bed. . . .  It looks as though
we couldn't make a deal in potatoes, anyway!"

At that he calmly began to elbow his way out of the circle;
Tönseten saw him going, grew alarmed, and hurried after.  Some one
of the Irish must have tripped him; he stumbled and nearly lost his
balance; this made them all laugh--but one man in particular roared
with glee; his jeering voice had an offensive, deliberately
insulting tone.

. . . Per Hansa wheeled suddenly and stood glaring at them;
Tönseten glanced at him and grew frightened in earnest.

. . . "Come on!" he cried with chattering teeth, and took to his
heels.

. . . "Hell, Syvert--wait a minute!"

Per Hansa kept searching the crowd until he found the face from
which that insolent jeering came; a grim, cold sneer had spread
over his own.  At last he located the fellow, close at hand; he
held his clenched fist under the man's nose, drew his head well
down between his shoulders in order to get more power, and said in
a dry, rasping voice, in the broadest Nordland dialect:

"Now, by God! you'd better shut up your mouth or I'll wipe that
grin off your face for you!"

His eyes actually seemed to scorch the man; then he let up,
straightened his shoulders, and glanced around at the crowd.

. . . Apparently no one was anxious to have anything to do with
him; the jeering laughter died away.  Then he let his gaze travel
slowly back to the first man; the fellow had sense enough not to
laugh any more. . . .  And so, since he couldn't talk to them,
there was nothing left for Per Hansa to do but go away. . . .

Off in the dark he could hear a faint calling; by the sound of
Tönseten's voice he was not far from tears now.

"I'll take all our papers along to-morrow and show them--they'll
see what's what!" he blubbered, as Per Hansa came up. . . .  "You
shouldn't be so hasty!  Suppose they had all fallen upon us! . . .
Good heavens!  . . ."

"Well, you can try your papers on them, if you want to. . . .  But
let me tell you this, my good Syvert: with these people you can't
use either the 'Catechism' or the 'Epitome'; they don't live
according to the Scriptures!" . . .

Tönseten drew a long and heavy sigh. . . .  "My God! what troubles
a man may fall into! . . .  It makes me shudder to think how wild
they talked!"

When they parted it was agreed that all the menfolk should meet
early next morning, to counsel together as to what must be done.
Per Hansa was to notify Hans Olsa and the Solum boys, and bring all
three over to Tonseten's.

"Don't breathe a word to Kjersti about how things are!" Per Hansa
warned him. . . .  "If the women ever get hold of this, they'll die
of fright! . . .  We'll find a way out somehow--I tell you we
will!"


VIII


As he walked homeward Per Hansa was a totally different man from
the one who had gone over to Tönseten's a couple of hours before.
Then he had carried a heavy burden of worry and care; but now he
walked with a lightsome, buoyant step, very well pleased with the
turn events had taken.  His mood lightened and brightened as he
figured things out and added up the total.  The problem came out
just right. . . .  These fellows were nothing but a pack of
scoundrels; the thought was so comforting to him that he felt like
thanking the Lord.  They had not filed their claims at all; he
doubted very much if they were soldiers; if they had had a clear
case, they would have produced their papers at once. . . .  Why,
one only needed to look at their faces!  Next moment he began to
whistle, striking up the merry tune of an old polka.  It wasn't so
much because they would not be able to chase him away that he was
glad; but because now he was once more a guiltless man!  He felt so
lighthearted and free again that he could have leaped up and soared
through the air. . . .  How fine life was, after all!  He didn't
know, just at present, exactly how he was to snatch his neighbours
out of the grip of the trolls; but matters would straighten
themselves out somehow; the magic sword would be there when he
needed it! . . .

When he got home the boys were sitting up in bed, undressed and
waiting for him; Beret stood by the stove, roasting a substitute
for coffee which she made from potatoes; the room was filled with
smoke and the door stood open.  She looked at him in the faint
glimmer from the lamp; his face bore nothing but signs of good, she
saw; then no danger hung over them!  Perhaps a few more settlers
would arrive as the years passed. . . .  The boys were asking
questions both together in a steady stream; now and then she
quietly slipped in a question of her own; but the flood of talk
from the bed was so torrential that she could scarcely be heard.
The father had to go over and give them a box or two on the ears,
to quiet them down; but it turned into skylarking instead of
chastising, with screams of laughter and a new flood of questions;
they had forgotten their anger at not being allowed to go with
him! . . .  The wife asked, and the boys asked over and over again:
what nationality the newcomers belonged to, how many they were, and
whether they were going to settle here; how many horses they had,
how many cattle; whether they had any women; what they had brought
in their wagons; if they had bargained for many potatoes; and
the like.  It seemed as if their curiosity could never be
satisfied. . . .  But the father was in such a good humour that he
had a bantering answer for everything, no matter what silly questions
they asked; he entered wholeheartedly into the hilarity of the
boys, till he too was talking only nonsense. . . .  These folks
were all Irish, he explained; their women were terrible trolls,
with noses as long as rake handles. . . .  Settle here?  Not they!
No, they were going on to the end of the world, and a long way
farther.  They were much, much uglier than the Indians, and spoke
so terribly fast that it sounded like THIS. . . .  He hardly
thought there would be a chance to sell any potatoes; troll women
ate the flesh of Christian men, instead of potatoes--didn't they
know that?  Just the same, he was going to take a couple of sacks
along to-morrow, to see whether he couldn't tempt them away from
their regular fare. . . .  His banter grew so boisterous at last
that Beret was half-frightened; but his voice sounded so bright and
cheerful, and had such a warm, infectious gladness running through
it, that she could not find it in her heart to reprove him.  When
they went to bed later in the evening he put his arm lovingly
around her and fell asleep almost immediately. . . .  She felt sure
there could be no danger this time.

But before she was awake, and long before the faintest light of day
shone into the room, Per Hansa was up again; he ate some cold
porridge left from the night before, put the deed into his pocket,
and went over to the Solum boys' place; there he roused them, and
waited till they had eaten a mouthful or two; then all three
continued on to Hans Olsa's.

As they walked along Per Hansa reviewed the situation for them;
with the help of their questions, he gradually explained his plan:

"It's this way, boys: there's no danger for any of us three; our
neighbours are the ones who are in trouble and stand in need of
help; but as for that, you realize as well as I do that we wouldn't
have a very pleasant future ahead of us, either, if they were
chased away from here. . . .  Now, you're a pretty good talker,
Henry, and had better be spokesman for the rest of us; Tönseten
gets excited so easily you know; then you, Sam, must translate for
Hans Olsa and me, in order that we may follow what's going on.
Those fellows must be made to show their papers; be sure to look
closely at dates and signatures and that sort of thing, to satisfy
yourself that they haven't been tampered with. . . .  After that,
we want to know if they have planted STAKES here, and where they
are!  Just tell them straight from the shoulder, in good plain
English, that here we are, and here we intend to stay until some
one kicks us out. . . .  Put all the guts into it that you can!"

The Solum boys took a sensible view of the whole matter; to Henry
it seemed just an amusing interruption to their loneliness; the
idea of chasing people away from a place that was nearly destitute
of human beings already, seemed comical. . . .  Even Sam was brave
to-day; these were WHITE folks, with whom one could talk and
reason; that wasn't SO dangerous! . . .

Per Hansa told them to keep on to Tönseten's; he and Hans Olsa
would come as soon as they could.


IX


Everything about Hans Olsa was of unusual dimensions; his great
body made strangers stop and look; it loomed up like a mountain
when he rose to his full height; his strength was in proportion to
his bulk; things that he took hold of often got crushed in his
grip.  New ideas found their way behind that big forehead with
great difficulty; he had to look at a thought for some time before
he could comprehend it; on the other hand, it invariably held true
that when an idea had once become well lodged in there, it would
remain clear and unchanged forever.  His mind worked in the same
way as his body; he was slow to grasp, but rarely dropped anything
after he had picked it up; on this account he always found it
difficult to turn back, once he had chosen his path.  Right and
wrong were eternal verities with him, which could not be changed
and must not be tampered with; right was right, and wrong was
wrong; thus it had always been, and thus it must remain as long as
the world should stand.

When Per Hansa entered his neighbour's house that morning, he found
himself immediately embarrassed; both husband and wife were up, and
he did not care to speak of their predicament while Sörine was
listening; the women ought to be kept out of this!  Time was
pressing, however, and he couldn't waste it in lengthy explanations;
besides, Hans Olsa and his wife had already discovered the camp to
the westward and were planning to go over and visit the strangers,
with Tönseten as an interpreter. . . . Per Hansa hardly knew which
way to turn; he looked at Sörine's face, and again, as so often
before, was impressed by the goodness and intelligence in it; then
he made up his mind and related frankly the whole experience which
had befallen him and Tönseten the night before.

. . . "Now, Sörrina, I know you are a sensible woman and will keep
your mouth shut," he added, quickly, when he was through.  "Beret
doesn't know anything about this, neither does Kjersti; there's no
need of alarming folks who are in a bad way already. . . .  Not
that we need to worry over this business; I'm sure they'll take it
peaceably when we show them our papers. . . .  Now we must hurry.
Get your deed, Hans Olsa!"

But it was a sheer impossibility for Hans Olsa to hurry in a matter
of this kind; he had to ask about it over and over again.  Facts
were facts, which in this case were clear beyond questioning:  He
himself had gone to the land office in person; Tönseten had put his
finger on precisely this quarter-section on the map, and had asked
in Hans Olsa's name if it could be taken up; there had been nothing
in the way, not the slightest claim; it was so stated in the
document; and he had moved directly on to his land and had done
everything that the law prescribed.  If anything was wrong, the
government would have to clear it up; but how could anything
possibly be wrong? . . .

"Why, certainly," said Per Hansa, with shrewd common sense. . . .
"The government is all right in its place--no one questions that!
But out here this morning, the government is a little too far
away . . . that's where the trouble comes in."

"You don't mean that they actually intend to KICK US OUT?" demanded
Hans Olsa in an astonished voice, unconsciously stretching his huge
frame.

"That's just what they intend to do, as I understand them. . . .
We'll have to show them where we stand, in black and white!" . . .
Per Hansa looked at the woman.

"You don't say, Per Hansa!  Are there . . . are there many of
them?"

"I counted ten men and four women; I believe that's all there
are." . . .  The ghost of a smile passed over Per Hansa's face.

Hans Olsa sat in silence for a while, with the deed folded up in
his hand: then he smoothed it out again and looked at it closely.
The greater part of it was unintelligible to him, but he understood
all the essentials: the date, the description of the land, the
signature of the government, and his own.  All this was correct in
every way; and up to this very minute he had kept his part of the
contract to the letter of the law.  He handed the paper to Per
Hansa, and said in a ponderous voice:

"Do you see anything wrong there?"

Per Hansa was growing impatient; here they sat, wasting precious
time; his laugh had a hard, short ring:

"No!  It isn't you who are wrong in this case, you see; it's those
devils who have squatted here on your land!"

"Do they look like peaceable folks?" asked Sörine, calmly.

"One would suppose so . . . they have their women along!"

Hans Olsa spoke slowly:  "We'd better go over and talk to them."

"That's the idea! . . .  Just put the deed in your pocket, and
let's get started!"


X


Tönseten and the Solum boys were waiting impatiently when the
others arrived.  Later on, Tönseten let it out that he had told his
wife the whole story as soon as he had come home the night before;
neither of them had slept a wink all night.  He was nervous and
jumpy this morning, and wanted to start out immediately.

"No, this won't do," said Per Hansa, firmly.  "We mustn't go
without a plan.  How are we going to tackle the business when we
get there?"

"We've got to drive them away from here!" cried Tönseten,
excitedly.

"Fine! . . .  But the question is:  How are we going about it?"

"We've got to convince them that we are here with the full sanction
of law and justice," said Hans Olsa, solemnly.

"You're damned right we must!" flashed Per Hansa. . . .  "Have you
got your paper, Syvert?"

--No, Tönseten had thought of bringing the deed with him, but he
feared it would be too risky. . . .  "They might take it away from
me, and then I'd be in a devil of a hole!"  Tönseten's face was so
agitated that it was a pity to look at.

But Per Hansa now took charge in a determined manner. . . .  "Go
in and get that deed immediately, Syvert, so that we can get
going! . . .  Don't worry--we'll see to it that no one molests you!"

And so they started.  On the way over, Per Hansa explained the
tactics they were to follow; Henry Solum and Tönseten should be the
spokesmen, Sam the interpreter; Per Hansa took pains to impress
upon Sam how important it was that he translate correctly and
rapidly, so that he and Hans Olsa could keep abreast of
proceedings. . . .  "I think it will be best for you, Henry, to cut
loose; then you, Syvert, can put in your oar when you think it's
needed.  But don't say much; and for Heaven's sake, be careful not
to talk too fast; you know how quickly you get short-winded.
Remember we have the whole day ahead of us!"

Tönseten was highly displeased with this plan of Per Hansa's, but
he lacked the strength to protest; matters had reached such a bad
pass already that they could hardly get worse. . . .

It was plainly evident that the strangers had not overslept
themselves that morning; although the hour was still very early--
full daylight had barely come--all hands were busily at work when
the five settlers reached the camp.  Two of the wagons had already
been unloaded; a few of the men were beginning to open up the
others, while the rest of the crew were putting up a large tent.

Per Hansa and Henry Solum walked ahead; then came Hans Olsa and
Sam; Tönseten, who at first had trotted along with the van, had now
quietly dropped back to the rear.

"Ah-ha!" observed Per Hansa to his companions.  "They're planning
to settle here, it seems! . . .  Now, first you must ask to see
their papers; and then the stakes--insist on the STAKES!  Talk
pleasantly to begin with . . . but it won't do any harm to have a
little sport with them, you know.  If they get ugly, just tease
them on awhile."

Their friendly greetings were returned in a churlish fashion; the
strangers didn't seem anxious for company; each man went about his
task without paying the slightest attention to the visitors.

--What were they doing here?  Henry demanded.--This quarter had
been taken up long ago.

--Indeed?  Two of the men stopped their work and entered the
conversation.

--Yes, the man who owned the land was standing right there--Henry
pointed to Hans Olsa.--That fellow; he had his papers along, too;
and now they must show their papers!  If the land office had
granted the same quarter-section to two different men, a bad
mistake had been made, but it could easily be cleared up.

--Well, so they wanted to see the papers--was that the idea?  Had
they brought their SPECTACLES?  A roar of laughter from the others
greeted this sally; but the man who had spoken wasn't exactly
laughing--he held his head tilted on one side, his whole face
screwed into an ugly leer. . . .  Sam translated as accurately as
he could.

--Yes, Henry continued in a firmer and more imperative tone, they
had come to see both their papers and their stakes!  Furthermore,
there was a court in Sioux Falls to settle such matters.  They had
been living here all summer, breaking and planting, and hadn't the
least thought of moving away. . . .  Per Hansa sensed by the tone
of Henry's voice that he was speaking well.  "That's right,
Henry. . . .  Give 'em hell!"  The man who had spoken with such
an evil look a moment before, now threw down his sledge hammer
and came up to them.

--All right, boys!  Since they wouldn't take his word for it, he'd
soon show them in black and white!  The papers had been packed away
somewhere and couldn't be found just now.  They would have to wait
awhile to look at them; but he would show them the stakes!  They'd
better come right along with him now; he was in a devil of a hurry;
he had both plowing and building to do before the snow flew.

The stranger began to walk rapidly westward; Per Hansa was right at
his heels; as they hurried on, he breathed a prayer that the grass
might have sprung up freshly where he had done that little piece of
work! . . .

The man seemed very certain about his direction.  As they
approached Hans Olsa's southwest corner, he slackened his pace and
began pushing the grass aside with his foot; Per Hansa had in the
meanwhile discovered with his eyes the exact spot where the stake
had stood.  He all but laughed aloud; indeed, the rain and the sun
of the good Lord had done their work well; not a blade of grass
seemed displaced, not a broken stalk could be seen! . . .  Besides,
the man was mistaken about the location of the spot; he had gone
too far to the north and west before he got down on his knees to
scan the ground.  He did a thorough job, however; walked a few
steps, knelt and examined the ground round about; rose, went
forward a little distance, got down on his knees again; but all
the while he was moving farther and farther away from the right
spot. . . .  Per Hansa could hardly restrain himself; quiet chuckles
were beginning to rise in his throat; but he realized the danger in
time, and coughed them away.

The man searched and searched, back and forth, around and around;
at first he went at it hastily, as if finding that stake were the
easiest thing in the world; after a while he looked more slowly and
cautiously. . . .  He was swearing like a trooper now; Per Hansa
knew enough English to understand most of it; he didn't wonder that
the fellow felt moved to say a little something, under the
circumstances. . . .

At last the searcher got up and called loudly to the others. . . .
A man came over from the camp--a small man with reddish hair and a
face as freckled as a moor dotted with heather.  They began to talk
together in low tones, from time to time casting angry glances at
Hans Olsa; they searched the whole region again, but found no trace
of what they were looking for.

Hans Olsa made strenuous efforts to take in what was happening; his
big, rough-hewn face, with the rugged features that ordinarily were
the picture of trust and honesty, had become strange to behold.  He
gazed at these two men, hurrying here and there, trying to prove
that he was a scoundrel; he heard what Sam managed to translate of
their complimentary remarks about him; and it all seemed to awaken
a new and ominous force behind that impassive countenance; his big
childlike eyes blazed with astonishment, occasionally emitting
sharp flashes; he trembled slightly all over, though he was not
aware of it.

Suddenly the two men abandoned the search, exchanged a few heated
remarks, turned away, and went back to the camp without saying
another word. . . .  The five settlers followed.

"If they have no better luck with the papers," said Per Hansa,
"things don't look very bright for them!"

When the five reached the camp all ten of the strangers stood in a
group, talking angrily together.  The women were nowhere in sight;
as the Nordlanders came up a burly, red-faced man stepped out from
the group, evidently their leader. . . .  "God be with you,
Henry. . . .  Stand right up to him and talk him down!" Per Hansa
whispered to the Solum boy. . . .  It was clearly evident from the
man's face that a storm was brewing; the fact that the big Irishman
carried a sledge hammer in his hand also attracted Per Hansa's
attention.

"Where are the men who claim to have taken up this land?" he
snapped at them.

--Right there, those two!--Henry pointed to Tönseten and Hans Olsa.--
That one--Tönseten--owned the quarter to the south; this one--Hans
Olsa--the one they now stood on.

The Irishman singled out Hans Olsa and looked him up and down.

--What was the matter with that fellow--was he deaf and dumb?  He
couldn't seem to get his mouth open!  The man fingered his sledge
hammer, and glared around at Henry as if he would swallow him up.

--Oh no, Hans Olsa had his faculties, all right!  He just couldn't
talk English.

Sam was translating all this as best he could.

--Well, he could tell this dirty son-of-a- ---- that he was a thief
and a blackguard who had destroyed another man's landmarks!

Sam translated rapidly, trembling with fear.

The Irishman came closer.

--If the whole damned gang of sneaking swine didn't get off their
land right away, he'd give them something to start with!--Perhaps
they'd understand that language better!--The man swung his sledge
hammer.

"Look out, now!" shouted Per Hansa.  "Here the trouble starts!" . . .

And so it did, only much faster than he or any of the others had
anticipated.  When Hans Olsa saw the Irishman loom up before him in
that threatening attitude, he stared at him blankly, and stood for
a moment as if rooted to the ground.  Then, all of a sudden, the
upper part of his body seemed to stretch; he stepped aside to evade
the onslaught . . . his left fist shot out and struck the man below
the ear.  There was a crashing sound; with a loud groan the man
sank in a heap and lay perfectly still.

"Look out there, Henry!" cried Per Hansa. . . .  "See that you get
your man, and I'll get mine! . . .  Wait a minute!"

The crowd had drawn back in front of one of the empty wagons; they
stood as if dazed.  Hans Olsa stared at them wildly, took a step
forward, and stumbled over the heap on the ground.  Regaining his
balance, he stopped, bent over, and plunged both hands into the
inert heap of flesh; the next instant he lifted it high in the air
and flung it bodily over the heads of the crowd, where it crashed
into the wagon standing behind.  The wagon shook violently at the
impact. . . .  At the same moment the group scattered and took to
their heels southward across the prairie.  From one of the wagons,
still covered by its canvas, sounded a scream of terror; four women
came tumbling out and followed after the men.

Hans Olsa stood motionless, quivering in every muscle; he seemed
like a man half stunned.

Per Hansa jumped to his side and slapped him on the shoulder:

"Goodness!  Hans Olsa, that was beautiful!  I don't believe there's
another man in the whole country who could do such a thing! . . .
Now I think we can safely go home; those folks aren't likely to
start any more arguments about land!"

Hans Olsa was slowly regaining his natural poise; he stroked his
face and sighed deeply, like one recovering from an attack of
delirium.

"I'm afraid I handled him pretty roughly; you'd better go and look
at him, Per Hansa."

Per Hansa laughed confidently. . . .  "No, leave him alone; just do
as I say, now!  We're going straight home, the whole lot of us. . . .
Later in the day I'll take a little trip of my own out westward!"

They did as he bade them--though Tönseten could not be found
anywhere; he had vanished from the scene long before.  In the
latter part of the afternoon Per Hansa returned to the camp of the
Irish, to find out what they were doing and how they were getting
along; he took Store-Hans with him as interpreter. . . .  He found
the whole camp moved to one of the two quarter-sections lying west
of Tönseten's and Hans Olsa's land.

Per Hansa made frequent visits to them during the next few days;
before the third day was over, he had sold them more than ten
dollars' worth of potatoes; he felt that he had struck up a
profitable business.


The Irish finally settled on these two quarters west of them.  They
returned east to Iowa just before the snow fell in the fall; but
early the following spring they came back with a large company, and
started their permanent settlement.


XI


On the morning when the men had gone out to parley with the Irish,
Kjersti was left all alone in the house.  She felt gloomy and
depressed; there had been little or no sleep for either of them
during the night; Syvert had tossed to and fro in bed, telling and
retelling the same unhappy story--of the terrible folks who had
come, of what they proposed to do, and of the dreary future that
awaited him and Hans Olsa, who would now be forced to start
everything anew. . . .  Perhaps they had better just move east
again, and be done with it!  He had lain twisting and turning as he
bemoaned their fate, his mood steadily growing gloomier and
gloomier. . . .  This had kept up so long that it had driven her
nearly distracted; at last she had grown tired of his everlasting
whimpering and had told him so in plain words.  As yet, she pointed
out, no one in the settlement had lost either life or limb; their
papers were all correct, law and justice ruled the land, and five
strong men were here on hand to look after things . . . FOUR, at
any rate!  And at the worst, these were white people, thank the
Lord! . . .

All this and more she had said to Syvert; every word of it had been
well meant and fully considered.  But he had grown angry and had
accused her of not having a particle of common sense; then one word
had led to another.  When the quarrel had finally worn itself out
they had found themselves at opposite ends of the earth, though
lying side by side in the same bed.

It was lonesome after the men had left that morning; Kjersti kept
the coffeepot on the stove, and laid on a couple of fresh sticks
of wood; he would be sure to look in for a drop when he came
back! . . .  Then she put on Syvert's old hat and went over to see
Beret; she wanted to find out what Per Hansa had told her when he
came home the night before.

She got little information or comfort there, however. . . .  First
she recounted most of what Tönseten had let out to her--that people
had arrived who claimed to own Hans Olsa's land, as well as his
own; that these people wouldn't listen to reason, so in all
probability they would have to seek the aid of the law. . . .
Hadn't Per Hansa told her what had happened?

The boys were eating their breakfast; Beret sat over by the stove,
dressing the child; she made no answer to Kjersti; her face flushed
but she did not look up.

Ole, however, laughingly began to repeat some of the crazy stories
his father had told them the night before; Store-Hans remembered
more of them, and helped his brother out when his memory failed;
the boys were still highly excited, and kept on making such a noise
and chatter that Kjersti threw up her hands, begging them for the
Lord's sake to be quiet! . . .

Beret listened in a rigid, frozen silence; she let the boys say
anything they wanted to, as if she lacked the strength to make them
stop. . . .  One thought seemed to possess her whole being: he had
destroyed the stakes on other people's land--and now he was going
to drive them away! . . .  Good God! could this be possible? . . .

But at last the boys went so far that she had to interfere; they
had begun to laugh together in a coarse, bold way, and use evil
words. . . .  How truly it is said, she thought, that the seed
which is sown in secret bears fruit openly! . . .  With the child
in her arms, she got up decisively, crossed the room, and flashed
out at the boys; she was very stern now, and scolded them harshly.

All the while Kjersti had been growing more disturbed; she had to
find consolation somewhere, and said, as if trying to bolster
herself up:

"This can't be anything to worry about!  Why, we have been given
this quarter, and were the first to arrive here!"

"What about Per Hansa's land?" asked Beret.

"It seems they don't intend to claim that, according to what Syvert
says. . . .  I don't know why!"

"Probably nothing can be done about it," said Beret, quietly.
"There is no telling who may have been wandering around out here
before we came. . . .  Many may have been here."

This aimless talk only irritated Kjersti.

"I should think they would keep all that straightened out--the
people whose business it is to look after such things!  If Syvert
weren't such a milksop of a man, he would have gone after the
sheriff at once. . . .  Folks are put in prison for such deeds in
America!"

Beret was silent for a moment; she bent over the child, while a
deep flush slowly covered her face; then she said in a low voice:

"The guilty will receive their punishment in the end!" . . .  As
soon as she had spoken, she got up and left the house abruptly;
outside, she put down the child, and stood like a stone image
looking westward; there she remained standing until Kjersti came
out.

"I see them coming now," she said, as the other appeared.

At that, Kjersti had to hurry off home, to get the breakfast for
Syvert.

But Tönseten had returned long before the others; he was in bed
when she came in; though the fall day was mild, he had covered
himself up with the heavy blanket.  At first she couldn't get a
word out of him; she thought he must be ill, especially as he
refused the coffee which she poured out for him. . . .  They can't
possibly have done him an injury? she thought.  She began plying
him with questions, and kept on until he finally admitted that they
had come to blows out there on the prairie.  His words were thickly
interspersed with moans and groans; she began to fear in earnest
that they had maltreated him; she felt him all over, and demanded
to know where he had been hit.

. . . "Where did they hit me? . . .  Why talk!"  He would say no
more on the subject.  Then he gave a heavy sigh, adding:  "It's
terrible!" . . .

It was impossible for him to lie there long, however, without
seeking an outlet; he had to confide in some one, or he would
burst; so he finally told her his version of everything that had
taken place that morning.  Some of the things he had seen; the rest
were phantoms of his own terror; he enlarged on certain points in
his narrative very fully--especially the awful language which the
Irish had used, and the effective replies which he had made to
them.  The general impression given by his story was that in all
probability he would have brought the Irish around all right, if
Per Hansa and Henry Solum hadn't stirred them up to fight; they had
done just exactly the wrong things.  And so a big ruffian had
rushed forward with a sledge hammer; and Hans Olsa had gone into a
mad rage and killed the man!  From now on there would be nothing
but war and bloodshed; so they might as well pack up and move right
away!  What a tragedy it was! . . .

Tönseten stayed safely in bed until late in the afternoon; then
Kjersti came and told him that the strangers had gone.  He got up
immediately to see if it was true. . . .  After that he seemed
quite like himself again.

For a long time the Irish were the standing topic of discussion in
the little settlement.

But whenever they were mentioned, Beret kept silent; she took no
part in the joy and relief of the others, for there were certain
circumstances connected with the affair which she couldn't get out
of her mind; the longer she looked at them the uglier they
appeared.

. . . He had destroyed the stakes; and worse than that, he had kept
it secret from everyone . . . even from her!

. . . Shame had probably made him do that. . . .  To be sure, she
knew now that the stakes had been put down unlawfully.  But suppose
it had been otherwise--would he have done any different? . . .  Was
this the person in whom she had believed no evil could dwell? . . .
Had it always been thus with him?

. . . Lives might have been lost; that, too, would have been his
fault. . . .  Nevertheless, he seemed to feel nothing but joy over
the thing that he had done! . . .

. . . The explanation was plain; this desolation out here called
forth all that was evil in human nature.  Land fully as good as
theirs extended round about them for thousands of miles; but then
these people had come, and had immediately wanted to seize what had
already been taken, thinking that it would be an easy matter, since
they were the stronger, then her own husband had used deceit and
force to drive them away; and now all was well! . . .

What would become of children who had to grow up in such an
atmosphere? . . .  Their own children! . . .  She listened to her
boys gloating over the incidents of the recent encounter--and her
soul shuddered.

. . . No, she knew ONE who could not endure it forever out here!

One afternoon a few days later the Irish came over to Per Hansa's
to buy more potatoes; they stayed for some time and asked for
information on various matters; the boys translated the questions
to their father as well as they could; Per Hansa thought the Irish
were excellent folk!

At both Tönseten's and Hans Olsa's they had noticed the strangers
come and go; in the evening they all went to Per Hansa's to learn
how the Irish had behaved.

. . . "Finest people in the world!" Per Hansa assured them, pacing
the floor, uplifted by a surge of high spirits that somehow had to
find an outlet.  No sooner did he sit down than he was up again;
his sallies of humour had a dashing quality that made them
positively contagious.  Tönseten was in a continual gale of
hilarity; Kjersti and Sörine, who sat on the big bed with their
knitting, had to let their work drop at intervals to laugh at
Syvert's and Per Hansa's extravagances.  Beret had just laid the
child in the other bed, and was sitting beside her on the edge;
both boys were listening eagerly to the talk of their elders.

That evening Per Hansa told them all about the stakes; of how he
had found them, of what he had thought, and of the way he had
finally disposed of them.  He related the story in a loud voice,
with boisterous, care-free zest; he made it sound exactly like a
fairy tale. . . .  Many words of praise were bestowed on his wise
action; Tönseten was especially effusive--there was a neighbour for
you!  As for Kjersti, she was moved almost to tears over such a
man.  What a difference from that spineless jellyfish of a husband
of hers!

"I'll have to admit," said Hans Olsa, soberly, "that you played a
risky game; and it was the hand of the Lord that kept you from
telling.  For if they had been able to show that their stakes had
ever been on my land, we'd probably be building a new house now,
somewhere out to the westward.  All our work this summer would have
been for others. . . .  My thanks to you, Per Hansa!"

As Beret listened to the tale, she had to examine the narrator
closely; surely this couldn't be Per Hansa!  She remembered the
morning when he had brought the stakes home; how he had chopped
them up and put them furtively into the stove; and how his temper
had taken hold of him at that time. . . .  This was an entirely
different person!

. . . So it had come to this, that he no longer felt ashamed of his
sinful deed . . . and that respectable folks sat around, rejoicing
with him over it! . . .  She got up quickly, overcome by a sudden
feeling of suffocation; involuntarily, without stopping to think,
she said in a level, biting tone:

"Where I come from, it was always considered a shameful sin to
destroy another man's landmarks. . . .  But here, I see, people are
proud of such doings!"

Her outburst shocked the others into silence--all but Per Hansa.
With a loud laugh he reached out clownishly, trying to catch her in
his arms.

"Oh, Beret, come on, now! . . .  Just kick the dog that bites you--
that's always the easiest way out, and the simplest, too!"

"I understand that perfectly well--though it makes poor
Christianity. . . .  But you were anything but confident, I
noticed, that night when you stood over by the block, chopping up
the stakes."  She turned away from him and seemed to speak to them
all. . . .  "Remember what the Book says:  'Cursed be he that
removeth his neighbour's landmarks!  And all the people shall say,
Amen.' . . . words like these we used to heed. . . .  In my
opinion, we'd better take care lest we all turn into beasts and
savages out here!" . . .

Per Hansa laughed again with unnecessary loudness; but in the midst
of the laugh he stopped, a wave of anger suddenly surging over him:

"We need a preacher, I hear. . . .  Well, now we've got one!"

To this Beret made no reply; instead, she left the room abruptly.
Outside, it was pitch dark; she knew not where to turn nor what she
did; then she stumbled over the plow standing in the yard, and sank
inertly on the plow beam. . . .  As she sat there the storm within
her slowly died away; deep melancholy came instead. . . .  Long
after the others had gone she remained in the same position.  Per
Hansa had not come out to look for her. . . .  When she went in at
last he had gone to bed; she could not make out if he was sleeping,
but she did not speak to him.  The boys also had gone to bed. . . .

During the days that followed, words were few and distant between
Per Hansa and his wife.



V

Facing the Great Desolation


I


In the beginning of October a memorable event stirred the little
Spring Creek settlement.  This, the greatest happening of the year,
chose an opportune moment for its arrival.

It was shortly after dinner.  In the early morning Per Hansa, Hans
Olsa, and Henry Solum had gone east to the Sioux River after wood;
Tönseten was so sorely troubled by rheumatism that he hadn't been
able to go along; anyway, he had wood enough on hand to last until
after Christmas, and hauling would be easier on the snow.  He did
want some trees for planting; but as it was getting so late in the
fall, with little likelihood of their taking root, he had given up
the project.

Beret sat by the window at home; she was knitting some sort of a
round affair--something so tiny that Store-Hans had asked her
whether it was a new thumb for one of dad's mittens? . . .  His
mother had given him a queer smile, and answered, maybe it
was. . . .

Beret had grown more sober as the autumn came, more locked up
within herself; a heavy heart lay all the time in her bosom, but
she tried her best to hide it from her husband. . . .  Her knitting
needles worked rapidly, with an involuntary rhythm; but her mind
was not on her task; she barely glanced at the knitting as she
emptied a needle; her gaze constantly wandered out-of-doors,
flitting back and forth over the section of the plain that lay in
her view.  Her face wore that weary, abandoned expression which had
now become habitual to it whenever she was left alone; a sense of
such deep melancholy lay upon her, that her whole appearance seemed
to reflect a never-ending struggle with unreality. . . .  Round
after round was added to the knitting; her gaze continued to
wander. . . .

. . . Without volition, it fastened on an object somewhere out
there--and stayed.  The knitting sank to her lap; she sat and gazed
for a long time, motionless, self-absorbed.  Deep compassion was
mingled with her melancholy, as in the heart of one who would
gladly give up life to save another from destruction.

. . . There must be many in that caravan! . . .  She leaned
forward, trying to count the wagons. . . .  No, she could not make
them out; the wagon train had already crossed the sky line and had
come some distance toward her, settling into the blue-green
stillness that lay over the intervening prairies.

. . . Some one else has gone astray! . . .  Poor folks--poor folks!

Suddenly a strong impulse took hold of her to do something to save
these people; she felt as if she ought to go and tell them to turn
back; yes, turn back--turn back--before they had strayed any
farther into destruction! . . .

She laid her knitting on the table, went outside, and stood at the
door to look at them more clearly. . . .  Were there five wagons in
the caravan? . . .  That meant a good many people.

. . . "Almighty God!" she sighed, "show mercy now to the children
of men!  Let not these folks be altogether lost in the trackless
wilderness. . . .  For it is only I who have sinned so sorely
against Thee!"

Ole had gone to the woods with his father; Store-Hans at that
moment came riding up from the creek, where he had been to water
the pony; he saw his mother standing outside the door in an
attitude of constrained attention, and rode rapidly toward her.

"What do you want, Mother? . . .  What are you looking at?"

His words brought her out of her deep abstraction; she took a few
steps forward, then halted again. . . .  What was the use of
trying?  She couldn't even speak the language of these people! . . .
A feeling of unfathomable loneliness settled upon her; the
cruelty of her fate suddenly took on fanciful proportions. . . .
Here she was, an exile in an unknown desert; even when human beings
passed, her own kind, she could not talk with them!  How could the
Lord have found it in His heart to smite a soul so heavily? . . .
Beret put her hand up under her breast, where her own heart was
beating, and pressed convulsively. . . .

"What is it, Mother--what is it?"

"Ride . . . ride over to them and see if you can't do something . . .
help them out!"

The boy was suddenly all aglow with life; he wheeled the pony
around, followed the direction of his mother's gaze, and
immediately discovered the caravan.

"We must tell Syvert at once!" . . .  Store-Hans turned his head,
waiting for his mother's opinion.

. . . "Syvert?" . . .  A shadow spread over her face. . . .  What
possible help could Syvert be to these poor people in their
grievous need?  She sighed in hopeless impotence. . . .  "No, just
ride over and ask them if you can do anything. . . .  Tell them
your father isn't at home."

Store-Hans couldn't remember when he had ever heard his mother talk
so sensibly; he straightened himself in the saddle, sitting like a
grown man; then he spoke to the pony, gave it a slap with the flat
of his hand, and shouted to his mother:  "Now I'm off! . . .  You
had better go and tell Syvert!"

But other eyes than hers had wandered across the prairie to the
eastern sky line that day.  All at once Sam came running to tell
the news; he stopped only an instant, then continued on toward
Tönseten's.  Beret went into the house, roused And-Ongen, who was
asleep on the bed, and took her along to tell Sörine; she, too,
would be glad over a bit of news. . . .  On the way over she prayed
fervently to the Lord for these people, that they should not be
lost in the blue-green endlessness. . . .  She felt secretly glad
because her husband was away from home.


II


Soon they were all gathered in front of Tönseten's house, gazing
with absorbed curiosity at the approaching train; it had drawn so
close now that each wagon could be clearly distinguished; Store-
Hans was riding abreast of the foremost team.

Tönseten fussed about excitedly, constantly thrusting his hands in
and out of the waistband of his trousers; he was here, there, and
everywhere, muttering incoherently all the while. . . .  Good Lord!
he thought, were these more Irish--as tough a gang as their last
visitors?  And Hans Olsa far away at the Sioux River! . . .  Here
was a fine mess, indeed!

Then Store-Hans came galloping in, and told a story so strange that
all were lost in amazement.

"They are NORSKIES!" he shouted as he pulled up.

"What's that you say?" exclaimed Tönseten.

"Yes, Norskies, every single one, I tell you!  A whole shoal of
them--and they are coming right here!  They talk Norwegian, too."

"Are you crazy!" shouted Tönseten. . . .  At once he began to
assume a great dignity and authority; he ordered Kjersti indoors to
put on the coffeepot, and sent the other women to help her. . . .
"Don't you hear Hans say that they are Norskies!  Decent folks must
get a decent reception!"

And now he took Sam with him, and did like the patriarch of old: he
went out to meet the strangers, entreating them to enter in under
his humble roof.

A great event, indeed!  The company consisted of five wagons and
the same number of horse teams; they were good horses, too--
Tönseten could see that they were in fine condition.  There were
twenty men in the company, all Sognings and Vossings*--but mostly
Sognings; the majority of them were married men; some had large
families back east in Minnesota; all were out seeking new
homesteads; they intended to go back east in the fall, but would
move west permanently as soon as spring came next year.  They had
passed through Sioux Falls and had been told at the land office of
a settlement out here somewhere; so they had thought they'd better
look the place over; but they were heading farther southwest,
making for the James River or thereabouts. . . .  Still, it was no
small joy to these west-movers, to come across a cluster of sod
huts inhabited by Norwegians out here on the endless prairie, and
to find this hospitable, talkative man who was everywhere bustling
about, trying to be of service to them.


* People from the districts of Sogn and Voss, in Norway.


They camped in the yard in front of Tönseten's house.  When he
discovered how many they were he said no more about coffee; but he
brought them potatoes and other vegetables, and generously shared
the evening milk with them.  He would not hear of their sleeping in
the open that night . . . Stay outside, he shouted, when they had
come to Norwegians who owned a new-built house?  That would never,
never do! . . .  At turning-in time, he and Kjersti crawled into
bed first; then the floor space was packed with as many of the
strangers as it would accommodate, the rest seeking shelter in the
barn.

Tönseten didn't get much rest that night; the worst of it was that
he couldn't talk to Kjersti, at a time when he so sorely needed her
counsel. . . .  Good God! how could he sleep, with this tremendous
responsibility suddenly thrust upon him?  A whole settlement of
Norwegians snoring right in front of his bed! . . .  Fine people,
excellent people, every one!  And there would be still more in the
company when they moved west next spring. . . .  Hang the luck!--
that Per Hansa should be far away on the Sioux River at this
important moment! . . .  If he could only persuade them to settle
here, the future would be secure for both himself and his
neighbours. . . .  Yes, let him bring that about, and things would
look so bright that he could turn over in bed and drop asleep every
night with a thankful heart!

. . . He ought to start out right now, and get Per Hansa, who had
such a wonderfully persuasive gift of tongue.  But he couldn't
discuss it with Kjersti; neither could he see any way to get out of
the house; men lay snoring side by side, from the edge of the bed
clear over to the door! . . .

When all the strangers finally left the room in the morning, so
that he and Kjersti could get out of bed, Tönseten felt as if he
hadn't slept a wink all night; he realized full well that now he
rose to confront his day of days.

He had no time to eat breakfast--he hardly noticed Kjersti when she
called him; already he was deep in conversation with the west-
movers, telling them all about the land around Spring Creek. . . .
Surely they wouldn't leave without first looking at it? . . .
What? . . .  No, that would be a great mistake, he'd better go
along with them and show them around; he was just the man for the
job, he dared to say, for here he was thoroughly at home.  Hadn't
he been the original discoverer of the place, the first to select
it, and the first to build here and move in?  He ought to have
known what he was about when he chose THIS particular spot--he who
had been to Fox River, had visited Muskego and Koshkonong, had
travelled all over Minnesota, and even through large parts of the
Dakota Territory!* . . . Tönseten gave them a full account of his
expedition last fall to the western region where they were bound;
the land around Vermilion was quite familiar to him; Yankton he had
seen with his own eyes.  At this point he spun into the narrative a
little yarn which he had fabricated last night in bed; it wasn't
exactly gospel truth, but--well, it might have happened!  It was
all about a man whom he had met in Yankton, an impoverished
Scotchman, who had tried homesteading for two whole years up in the
James River country; but the Indians and the fleas had been so
annoying that they had finally driven him out of the place; his
wife had died, and his cow had been stolen by the Indians! . . .
Tönseten related the incident with a great show of sympathy.


* These are the first three Norwegian settlements in the Northwest.


The Sognings and Vossings were an inquiring people; they had many
questions to ask; of course they would consider the Spring Creek
locality before leaving it--that was their business on this trip.

Immediately after breakfast they started out to survey the place.
Sam Solum went with them, talking and explaining volubly; Store-
Hans also tagged along, and with him was Sofie; but by noontime she
was so tired from scurrying around with Store-Hans, looking for
badger holes, and still more from listening to the ceaseless talk
of Tönseten, that she could endure it no longer and ran home.
After she left Store-Hans joined the rest of the group; now and
then he would put in a word that sounded grown-up when he thought
the occasion called for it.

The prospective settlers kept asking and looking, and were still
undecided about the matter; they liked the place, and yet they
didn't; the land seemed good; it lay nicely enough, and was easily
tillable; but how bare and endless the scene was for the eye to
rest upon! . . .  Nothing but naked sky line all the way around! . . .
It must be a desolate place in winter, without even a bramble
bush for shelter. . . .  And what were people to use for fuel?
What for building material?  Surely they couldn't live in sod huts
all their lives! . . .  These were a few of the objections; and
many more were added as the survey went on.

Tönseten fully realized what was at stake; he trembled with
excitement; that day he argued and chattered until the small of his
back ached and he had to sit down in sheer exhaustion. . . .  But
they were not able to advance a single objection that he couldn't
meet and do away with.

. . . "Wood for fuel and shelter?" . . .  His voice lowered with
fervent zeal; his hands fought the air. . . .  Wood?  Man alive,
this was exactly one of their most valuable assets!  Here folks
could have just as much woodland as they wanted--no more, and no
less!  One of his neighbours had planted half an acre of trees this
summer, and had now gone for more seedlings; he would probably
bring enough to plant another half acre when he returned--more than
he and his descendants could ever use. . . .  "I'll just tell you,
fellows, if it's only wood, you can go east to the Sioux River as
soon as you've unloaded your wagons, and get enough trees planted
this very fall to last you for a thousand generations!  I'll go
along and help you, and it won't cost you a cent! . . .  You see,
folks, it's really a matter to be thankful for, that there aren't
any woods already standing here; in these few months since we
arrived, we've broken more land than one could break in ten years
in a cut-over country; in two years I'll have my whole quarter-
section under the plow! . . .  For Heaven's sake, fellows, don't
talk to me about WOOD!"

In this fashion Tönseten talked against time; he pictured the
future to them with a fervour that was prophetic; his reddish beard
glowed as if with a living fire; his eyes beamed; his voice shook
with emotion; his body trembled; his arms made magnificent sweeping
gestures in the air. . . .  He told about the schools which they
would found, and the church which they would build together; about
the thriving town which would spring up on the spot where they
stood, and the railroads that would crisscross the prairie in every
direction; for the railroad had already reached Worthington--soon
it would be at Sioux Falls!  Then they would have only a twenty-
five-mile journey to town--did they realize that?  ONLY TWEN-TY-
FIVE MI-LES! . . . Tönseten chopped the words up into syllables,
and showed them each piece. . . .  And just look at Sioux Falls!
Why, only a year ago he had been obliged to go all the way down to
Vermilion--not a sign of a land office in Sioux Falls at that time!
But you could just bet that the government knew what it was about
in coming so far north--just wait and see! . . .  Tönseten
apparently had the future all charted and laid out in detail before
him; he never stumbled, never made a mistake; the man burned with
an unquenchable fire.

. . . If they would settle here now, more would be sure to follow
next spring; then they would all be Norskies here--a settlement
made to order for all of them! . . .  But suppose they went to a
place where no one had come yet?  Couldn't they understand that all
of Dakota Territory would never be peopled?  Why, there weren't
enough folks in the whole world for that, and never would be,
either! . . .  Or if they should be so unfortunate as to choose a
location where no one followed after? . . .  What then? . . .

The strangers listened seriously to him; they were forced to admit
that there was a good deal of common sense in what he said.

The party did not get back to camp until late in the afternoon.
Then they cooked a substantial meal from the potatoes which
Tönseten had given them; after that they held council; the majority
were for settling down right here.

When Tönseten heard the decision, he gave an excited laugh; he ran
hurriedly into the house and told Kjersti, who wept over the news;
the next instant he had bounced out again.  He felt now that
Destiny had used him as her tool.  He had only reached out his
hand, and, lo! he had brought in twenty neighbours with a single
stroke--Norwegians, every last mother's son of them! . . .  This
good fortune seemed so overwhelming, it had befallen him so
suddenly, that he wasn't willing to trust it too far. . . .  When
the strangers hitched up their horses and crossed the creek--they
had decided to settle on the east side, with a chance to expand
southward--he felt obliged to go along with them; but after night
had fallen and they had pitched their tents, and he was forced to
leave them--then he was full of alarms.

. . . Many things might happen during the night!


III


They would soon have to make another trip to town.  Beret looked
forward to it with dread; it meant that Per Hansa would be gone for
a whole week's time.  The evenings were long and the nights hung
heavy over the hut; she had to struggle with so many fearful
fancies--fancies that multiplied as time went on; though she felt
unable to speak to him about it--though he would be unable to help
her if she did--yet it was a great relief to have him near, for
then it seemed as if the horror dared not touch her.  She dreaded
each occasion which took him away from home, even if it was only
for half a day's work with one of the neighbours. . . .  And now he
would be gone for a whole week's time!

. . . She realized, too, that they would have to have provisions
for the winter; the children were sadly in need of clothes, and Per
Hansa himself needed many things.  But in her condition, these
material affairs became more and more unreal to her; it seemed as
if she stood apart from them--they did not concern her. . . .  All
this she kept to herself, however; ah, what was the use of speaking
where no one could hear! . . .  She helped him get ready for the
journey as if nothing were wrong; whenever he begged to know what
he could buy for her and for the house, she would stop to ponder
the question with a distant look in her eyes, as if trying to think
of many things which she couldn't for the moment remember.  At that
he would joke her, saying she mustn't be backward about it, for now
they had plenty of money; what was she standing there thinking
of? . . .  To this question he either would receive no answer at all,
or else he would hear her repeat what she had just been saying; or
perhaps she would make some absent-minded, irrelevant remark, as if
she had not heard him. . . .  At such times Per Hansa would look at
his wife and sigh; then he would take hold of her and swing her
around, trying to cheer her. . . .

But beyond that he was too busy to pay much attention to her.  On
this trip to town he was going himself; Tönseten had offered to
lend him his horses and wagon, and had promised to stay home and
look after things.  The Sognings and Vossings were still here; they
needed advice and help in so many ways; and he, Tönseten, was just
the man for that; he held himself like a father to them--yes, like
Providence itself! . . .  Per Hansa had a lot of plans to make
before starring out; he wasn't so short of money now; the Irish
were fond of potatoes and had been good customers; as for the
Sognings, they seemed even fonder of potatoes than the Irish; he
had managed to sell them more than ten dollars' worth; however it
had happened, his cash supply was a good deal larger to-day than
when he had first arrived in the early summer.

On the other hand, there was no end to all the things he needed; he
had jotted down a long list of articles that simply had to be
bought, and a still longer list that he ought to get if the money
only held out.

When the mother wasn't listening he talked earnestly to the boys of
how they must look after the place during his absence.  Ole, who
was the bigger, would have to assume responsibility for everything
out-of-doors; Injun, and Rosie, and the two oxen must be well taken
care of; and then the wood--he must promise to chop up stacks of
wood! . . .  Store-Hans should serve as handy man to mother
indoors; that was no easy job, even for a clever fellow like him--
he understood that, of course? . . .  The boys were far from
enthusiastic over this arrangement; Ole had been hoping that his
father would let him go along this time; he had taken pains to make
himself useful on every occasion, ever since the trip had first
been mentioned.  Store-Hans, for his part, had harboured a secret
hope that his father would bear in mind how exceedingly practical
it was to have him along--he was so quick and handy about
everything; he, too, had watched for every opportunity to please
his father; he and his brother had often fought for the chance to
run an errand.  The disappointment hit Store-Hans the harder; here
he would have to go pottering around like a hired girl--just like
another woman!  He fell to nagging, sulking, and fighting with his
brother, all of which did not help in the least.

The father pitied him more than his older brother; he called him
into the stable and talked to him long and confidentially, as
though he were an old man with a long beard on his chin. . . .
"You see, mother isn't in such condition that we can both leave
her," he explained in a tone of open comradeship.  "So if you go,
I'll have to stay at home!" . . .

This was more than Store-Hans could understand; there wasn't
anything the matter with mother, was there?  She looked well
enough, except for her face; but wasn't that probably because cold
weather was coming on?

. . . "Oh, she's healthy enough, Store-Hans--it isn't that, you
know.  But"--the father's voice grew low and queer--"You'd better
not tell this to your brother--but there may be another little
Store-Hans coming around here, say about Christmas time; and mother
will have to bear the brunt of that business! . . .  You
understand, now, we mustn't both leave her."

My, but this was strange!  Deep wonderment rose in the eyes of
Store-Hans.  How could another come here--another boy? . . .  He
didn't dare to ask; he turned his head away from his father; a
glowing blush covered his face. . . .  Now he saw what the dream
had meant that he had had the other night; he had seen both Joseph
and Benjamin playing just beyond the house; and with them had been
a tiny little fellow, who wasn't mentioned in the Bible story!

. . . Oh yes . . . of course he would take care of mother!

But, here was another thing: couldn't father get hold of a shotgun
when he went to town?  The last time Store-Hans had been to the
swamps the ducks had been thicker than ever. . . .  And the Irish
had settled awfully close to them!

. . . Well, the father didn't know; he would see what he could do;
he had thought of another way to catch those ducks, but what it was
he wouldn't let out now.

Indeed, Per Hansa's mind was full of busy thoughts. . . .  In the
cellar were many more potatoes than they could consume during the
winter or use as seed next spring; and now he was going to town
with horses and wagon; it would be strange enough if he couldn't
find people who needed food.  Alas! however, it was now already the
twelfth of October; some nights it froze--and potatoes were
sensitive to cold!  But ever since the world was made the people of
Nordland had known how to bring potatoes safely all the way up to
Lofoten, even in the middle of January. . . .  It could certainly
be done again, with a little care!

Per Hansa pondered, looked at the weather, sniffed and tried the
air.  On the afternoon before their departure he came to a
decision: there were more potatoes than they could use; if they
froze, they froze.  Yes, sir! he would give it a try!  And so he
went over to Tönseten's and brought the wagon; he padded it
thickly, bottom and sides, with soft hay; then he loaded it with
potatoes in bulk.  On top of the load he placed two sacks of
rutabagas, and one of carrots; finally he picked out some of the
nicest melons that were left in the cellar; these he tucked in
between the sacks, covering everything with hay, and spreading some
old clothes over the load.

Early the next morning they started off; Henry Solum and Hans Olsa
went with him.


IV


The wagons drifted slowly through the outspread day, creeping on
through indolent, drowsy fall sunshine and blue-green haze, toward
a distant sky line from which hung a quivering yellow veil.  For
all they drove, the sky line came no closer; but when the purple
shadows of evening fell, there seemed to be a chance, at least,
that they might reach it.

This was a great day for Per Hansa.  Now he was travelling the very
trail he should have followed on his way out last summer; but in
one day's march he traversed a stretch that then took him four
times as long. . . .  All day the landscape was the same, yet its
details seemed ever changing and ever new; prairies that extended
to the end of the world; prairies that billowed into slopes, rose
in low hills, then flattened out again and sank away into an
endless plain.

The caravan headed for the sky; it steered straight onward.  Now,
at last, Per Hansa had time to look about him and rejoice in what
he saw. . . .  And all he saw was beautiful!  Even the others, who
had gone this way before, found many strange new things to look at,
the farther they advanced into the bluish-yellow haze. . . .  Here
and there a sod hut peeped up from the ground, where last summer
there was nothing but gopher hills.

Their goal that first day's journey was Split Rock Creek, where
they intended to camp for the night.  They took turns with three
teams at hauling Per Hansa's load, in order to ease up on his
horses and so make faster progress; thirty-eight miles they had
come that day when they finally reached Split Rock Creek, on the
other side of the Sioux River; there they found a ford over the
creek, and pitched their camp on the eastern shore. . . .  When
they had been crossing the Sioux River earlier in the day--it
seemed an almost unbelievably long while ago--they had stopped long
enough to catch three big pickerel.  Now Per Hansa slung a kettle
over the fire and cooked the fresh fish for supper, he buried some
potatoes in the ashes next to the kettle.  Soon they were all
seated on the bank, partaking of a lordly feast for them, even
though it was only of fish and potatoes. . . .  The water purled by
below, murmuring gently, reminding them of much that was dear and
half forgotten. . . .  Conversation flowed freely while they ate,
but after they had finished it began to lull away.  They laid more
wood on the fire and got out their pipes; then they could better
hear what the crooning waters told.  Deep silence fell. . . .  A
big star stood in the western sky, looking into their faces.

When the pipes had been emptied a second time they rose, tended to
the horses for the night and crawled under the wagons; there they
slept dreamlessly until the day began once more to gild the blue
wall of the east.  The coffee was boiled; enough cold fish and
potatoes were left from supper to make a meal; very soon each one
was seated in his wagon again, jogging still farther away from a
place they knew . . . a place they seemed to remember . . . a place
far off under the western skies, where a group of sod huts ought to
be lying! . . .  Wasn't there such a place out there somewhere?
But it seemed strangely vague and distant now! . . .  Per Hansa
braced up in his seat, put his mind intently on Beret and Store-
Hans--and then the sod huts stood out more vividly. . . .

. . . Poor Beret-girl!  If only she wouldn't be too lonesome while
he was away!

This day's journey also turned out to be full of interesting
things.  As they went along, sod huts stood here and there moping
dejectedly, where, according to Hans Olsa and the Solum boy, no
house should have been. . . .  Good Heavens! where had they all
come from?  Settlers must be swarming out of the ground like ants
in summertime! . . .  Well, no--not so terribly many; it was only
this, that there shouldn't have been any at all! . . .  Too bad!
Why hadn't these folks crossed a few more sky lines to the westward
before they settled down for good!

Late in the forenoon they came upon two sod houses which must have
sprung up since they were last here; neither Hans Olsa nor the
Solum boy could remember a trace of them.  Low and forlorn they lay
there on the face of the prairie--only two sod huts, but situated
so directly in their course that they couldn't resist stopping to
learn what kind of folks lived here. . . .  Beyond the huts a man
and his wife were hard at work, breaking prairie; here, too, the
sod must be tough of fibre, for the job didn't seem to be going
very fast.  What first arrested the eyes of the travellers was the
team that pulled the plow; an ox with shining brass sockets on the
ends of his huge horns had been yoked together with a skinny poll-
cow.  The woman walked alongside the team, driving; the man, whose
patriarchal beard swept his chest, steered the plow, pushing from
behind with all his might.

These folks were Hallings;* Per Hansa and Hans Olsa were very glad
to hear it.  A Halling is usually easy of approach; they at once
struck up a conversation with these people. . . .  Only another
incredible fairy tale!  With nothing but this team, the man
related, he had brought his family and all his earthly possessions
the whole distance from Iowa, a matter of over four-hundred miles--
"a long, laborious journey," as he quaintly expressed it.


* People from Hallingdal, in Norway.


--They surely hadn't made the whole trip with those horses? asked
Per Hansa.

--Why, certainly they had! . . .  The Halling laughed.

--How long had it taken?

--Oh, not so very long--seven weeks and two days, to be exact.
They hadn't been able to hurry, because of the cow; she was the one
who supplied most of their food, and so they had to be reasonable
with her.

"Do tell me!" said Per Hansa, flabbergasted.  "You don't mean to
say that she's milking, that cow of yours?"

"Certainly she's milking! . . .  That is, when we don't drive her
too hard."

"By God! that must be a wonderful cow! . . .  But say, now: don't
you need some potatoes with the milk?  I've got a whole load of 'em
here that I'm trying to sell."

The Halling looked at him, his jaw dropping, and evidently wanted
to say something; but no sound came.  A force was working there
under the long beard which gave his whole face a comical
expression; it seemed for a moment as if the man might be
chuckling; but when Per Hansa looked at him more closely, he
discovered a film of moisture in the man's blinking eyes.

. . . "POTATOES, you say? . . .  Well, now!" . . .

The man wiped his eyes and regarded Per Hansa dumbly.  His wife
stood beside him; her face was long and drawn. . . .  Suddenly she
wept. . . .

"Have you got any food in the house?" demanded Per Hansa.

"Er--yes . . . as long as the cow gives milk!" . . .  It was the
woman who supplied this information.

Then Per Hansa burst out laughing. . . .  "Listen here, woman--you
run in after a pail, and we'll treat you to a decent meal . . .
since we're the visitors!"

And this is sure: it didn't take the woman long to produce the
pail!  Per Hansa grabbed it from her, filled it with potatoes, and
gave her a quick look--then looked again; at that, he poured the
potatoes out on the ground, filled the measure once more, and gave
her a second pailful.

. . . "There you are--one for each of you; don't kill yourselves
eating, now!"

The man gazed at Per Hansa, blinked his eyes, coughed emphatically,
and said:  "So far, so good. . . .  But give me four more pailfuls,
and I'll pay you a whole dollar when I get the money; you'll
probably be passing here again. . . .  If you should happen to die
before that time, the potatoes wouldn't do you any good."

"No, but I might need the dollar!" laughed Per Hansa.  "But never
mind--thanks for your offer, just the same! . . .  What do you say
to eight pailfuls and two dollars--when you get the money?"

Then the Halling laughed so that his big beard shook. . . .
"Listen here, man; why not sixteen pailfuls and four dollars?
You'll get your money sometime. . . .  To tell the truth, there's
very little to eat in our house." . . .

The woman had already taken one pailful inside; now she was down on
her knees, gathering the loose potatoes in her skirt; she worked
with feverish haste, using both her hands, and eying Per Hansa
askance from time to time.

Per Hansa laughed good-naturedly at the Halling. . . .  "Now I'll
just tell you how we'll do this: you have enough here for the time
being; you can wait till I get back home--and then I'll bring you a
whole load. . . .  You need food, man! . . .  I'll take the money
when I get it."

So the agreement was made; before they went on, however, Per Hansa
gave them one of the left-over fishes, half a pailful of carrots
from the sack; and the nicest melon he could find on the load. . . .
"Don't kill yourselves eating, now!" were his parting words to
the Hallings.

. . . Again he sat on the wagon, creaking along toward a yellowish-
blue horizon; he couldn't remember when life had been so much fun!


V


Around noon of the day after their visit with the Hallings, the
three wagons entered Worthington.  There was nothing much of an
urban air about the place; as yet, the town consisted merely of a
couple of dozen houses scattered all about, some just rough
shanties, others only sod huts; all bore the earmarks of having
been hurriedly constructed, and intended only for temporary
shelter.  The place had much the appearance of a camp, that to-day
would be here, but to-morrow might have moved miles away.  However,
it contained a couple of stores; and most important item of all--
the railroad, the main artery of life in this far region, had made
its way thither.

Per Hansa drove from house to house, greeting the people with a
cheerful grin and asking in his broadest Nordland dialect if they
didn't want any potatoes; he said nothing of the other wares which
he had brought.  Luck wasn't sitting in every doorway waiting for
him, however; the peddling proved to be a slow business.  Not until
he reached a sod hut at the other end of the town did he make a
bargain worth mentioning; here he happened on a widow with two half-
grown boys; the widow was Danish and ran a small poultry farm.

. . . Yes, indeed, she needed potatoes, for both herself and the
boys, and for the birds as well; she hadn't any money in the house,
but she had the chickens. . . .  Wouldn't he trade some potatoes
for a fowl or two?

--Of course he would!  Per Hansa was more than willing; after
dickering awhile, he bartered nine pails of potatoes for three
young chickens.

--This is a mighty profitable deal!--he thought--The Hallings are
good people, but the Danes are even better. . . .  "Listen, Mother,
perhaps you'd just as soon take three pailfuls more and give me the
fourth hen?" . . .  The widow agreed to that at once and Per Hansa
felt that now he had made a fine bargain indeed.

The widow, too, seemed very well satisfied; they beamed in mutual
gratitude, filled with generous thoughts.  Their eyes looked into
each other's. . . .

. . . Per Hansa started to leave.  But the widow wouldn't hear of
such a thing; of course he mustn't leave yet awhile!  She had an
old rooster cooking on the stove; it had been boiling since early
in the forenoon and ought to be tender pretty soon; he must unhitch
his horses and tie them to the wagon, and then come inside; where
there was enough for three, there would always be something left
over for a fourth. . . .  Now he must go and do as she said, and
then come right in! . . .  Per Hansa wasn't refusing!

But when he saw the inside of the hut he grew more enthusiastic
over it than he had been over the widow; if her face had been
bright and cheerful, the face of the room in which he now found
himself was even more attractive; it seemed that he had never seen
anything so cozy as this room!  It was only a sod hut, smaller than
his own, with three tiny chambers; but a homely feeling pervaded
every nook and corner of it.  But best of all, the walls were not a
dirty black like those in his house; they were a dazzling white--a
white so pure and gleaming that it caught up and reflected the gold
of the sun! . . .  A real fairy house, that's what it was!

Per Hansa looked and looked--and forgot to sit down.

. . . "No, never mind the food, Mother," he said.  "I'd rather you
would tell me how you've gone about it to make things so extra fine
in here!  Is this PAINT, I'd like to know? . . .  It must be
terribly expensive!" . . .  His face showed nothing but sheer good
nature and open admiration as he stood there looking into her eyes;
she gave him a merry laugh, as though she had known him for many a
year.

--Oh no, it wasn't paint at all--far from it!  Just ordinary lime
and water!

--LIME? . . .  What did they call that in English? . . .  Lime,
lime. . . .  He said the word over to himself a number of times. . . .
My, how strange everything was! . . .  How did they mix it?
Could it be bought in town?  Was it very expensive?

The widow gave him all the desired information while she prepared
the meal; she rattled on in a steady stream as she went about her
work.  He needn't worry about remembering the name; there was a
Norwegian lumberman in town who sold the stuff; perhaps he might be
able to barter potatoes for it! . . .  THUS and THUS he must mix
it.

"You're crazy, Mother!" interrupted Per Hansa; he stood in the
middle of the floor, overcome by a wild impulse to hug the cheery
widow. . . .  "Do you actually think he might take potatoes?  I've
got some carrots and melons, too! . . .  I swear, Mother, that if I
had met you in time, I would have courted you!"

The man's happiness was so rollicking and genuine that the widow
suddenly burst out laughing. . . .  He might have done a worse
thing than that for himself! she answered.  No telling how that
courting might have turned out! . . .

But now dinner was ready.  In came two little boys, with ruddy,
beaming faces, just like their mother's; it seemed to Per Hansa as
if he would never tire of looking at them; then he remembered the
melons, and went out for the best one he could find; he brought it
in and placed it on the floor. . . .  He sat there eating the
rooster with the widow and her boys--and it all seemed exactly like
a fairy tale.  As clear as daylight, luck was with him now! . . .
Before he took his leave, he gave the boys another melon, and half
a pailful of carrots to the mother.

. . . "It's a sin to ruin good-hearted people!" he said.

Indeed, luck followed Per Hansa that day.  From the widow's he
drove straight to the lumberman's, and asked if he would barter
some building materials for a load of potatoes and other such
delicacies; the man came over to look at his load. . . .  Yes, that
wasn't at all impossible.  What did he want, and how much of it,
for his load?

Per Hansa gave a loud laugh at this question:  "I really should
have everything you've got in the place! . . .  But I'll be
reasonable and take a few sacks of lime and a few pieces of boards.
You carry lime, don't you?"

The dicker finally resulted in Per Hansa's getting all the lime he
needed, more lumber than he expected, and even some nails thrown
into the bargain.  The boards were planed smooth; Per Hansa handled
them as if they had been the fine leaves of some costly book.

. . . "A dandy boat this is going to make for the little fellow to
rock in! . . .  Now he can come along any time!" . . .  He turned
to the lumberman:  "Next fall I'll show up here and buy out your
whole shebang; I need all you've got, and lots more too, let me
tell you!"

After that he had to chat a little while with this man; it seemed
so pleasant to meet a Norwegian here; Per Hansa felt as if a part
of the town belonged to him.  He found so many questions to ask, so
many matters that he wanted to be posted on; the lumberman, who
wasn't very busy just then, seemed more than willing to talk and to
hear how things were getting on, out to the westward where they
lived.  Per Hansa sat chatting with him a long time.

In the meanwhile his companions had finished their trading and had
eaten their dinner; when he finally drove up to the general store
they were loading their wagons with the merchandise they had
bought.  As soon as this was done all three entered the store
again.

The moment he got in there among the many different kinds of
merchandise, Per Hansa began to grow uneasy.  Pleasant odours from
all the wares mingled in the air; a strong scent of whisky
permeated the whole place; he went sniffing about and stamping on
the floor, moving restlessly from one thing to another.

. . . "Oh, the devil!  If I wasn't so short of money! . . .  But it
won't do any harm to know where they keep things, when once we get
the cash--eh, boys?"

Before he started trading, Per Hansa had to make an agreement about
the plow and the rake, which stood on the books against him; the
Solum boy acted as interpreter.

--He could pay the whole amount, of course?--the trader asked, as
if taking it for granted.

--Is the fellow plumb crazy! Per Hansa shouted.

--Huh! how much could he pay, then?

"Tell him fifteen dollars, Henry--and that's the last cent, too!"

The trader's voice grew hard as he asked:  Was THAT all?

--Yes, that was all!--said Per Hansa; a hard note had come into his
voice, too.--He hadn't anything more, unless the fellow wanted to
take his hide.  But as for that--here he laughed and looked the man
in the eye--the hide was so old and wrinkled that it wasn't good
for much.

--We-ell--drawled the merchant--this was pretty poor business; but
he would let it pass this time.  He'd be ashamed to take such a
weather-beaten hide. . . .  Did Per Hansa have anything at home?

--You bet he had!--laughed Per Hansa.--A wife and three youngsters,
and one cow! . . .  And something more coming! . . .

--Huh!--said the other, his face hardening again.--He could keep
his wife and youngsters; but the cow he would have to forfeit
eventually, if he couldn't raise other means. . . .  Business was
business!

The matter was finally arranged, however, in the way that Per Hansa
wanted it; the balance of the amount should stand until next fall,
at fifteen per cent interest.

Then Per Hansa started to trade.  The first thing he called for was
NET TWINE! . . .  The Solum boy and Hans Olsa burst out laughing;
was he planning to knit a net out here on the open prairie? . . .
Never mind; he needed TWINE--twine first and foremost!  When he
finally had found a kind that he thought might do, he bought
several balls; and then he called for rope--he had to have rope for
the sheeting--how could he get along without THAT? . . .  It seemed
to his companions that he was wasting good money; it was a long way
to the Sioux River and few trips could be made during the year!
This they pointed out to him emphatically.  But it did not affect
him at all. . . .  "Just order that rope for me, Henry!" commanded
Per Hansa.

Now the real provisioning, for which he had come all this distance,
was ready to begin; he ordered a few trifles, in such a low,
bashful voice, that Henry had to ask him a second time before he
understood; just some calico of a gaudy pattern, a few bits of
ribbon and thread, and some soft, dainty white cotton goods.  And,
listen here--this was very important--some Hoffman's drops, and a
small bottle of sweet oil! . . .  It was awfully awkward to have to
use the Solum boy as interpreter in such matters--he was only a
bachelor and had tried so few things in this world!  Per Hansa
managed to get what he wanted, however. . . .  Next, the real needs
of the household had to be met; flour was the most important item,
and came first on the list; then cloth, and tobacco, and matches,
and kerosene; after that coffee, and molasses, and SALT.  This item
of salt again threw his companions into consternation; Per Hansa
ordered such an unreasonable quantity of it, and still he wondered
if it wouldn't be too little! . . .  Lord! there was no limit to
all the things Per Hansa thought he must have; but his money soon
ran out and that put an end to the trading.

At last they were ready to leave.

"Aren't we going to have a single drop on this trip?" Hans Olsa
mused aloud.

"There you said something!" exclaimed Per Hansa.  "That reminds me--
I was to get three bottles for Syvert!  But not a word about it to
Kjersti--bear that in mind when we get home. . . .  He's going to
use it as liniment for his rheumatism, you know!"

The trader treated them all around before he filled the bottles.
Henry got two bottles for himself, and one for his brother; Hans
Olsa had brought along his Sunday bottle to be filled; as that
would hardly be enough he bought a smaller one, which he put in his
pocket; Per Hansa got two for himself, and three for Tönseten. . . .
When the trader had filled all their orders he felt that he had
had such good business with these fellows that he could well afford
to stand another round of treats--they seemed to be such decent
folk, too!  And before they left they felt obliged to follow the
good old custom of sampling one another's bottles.  Good Lord! it
wasn't every day that they came to town. . . .  Hans Olsa was
stepping very cautiously when he climbed into his wagon; he planked
himself down upon the seat with slow and ponderous movements; but
once down, there his big bulk sat secure.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally set out for home.
Ninety long miles lay ahead of them, but no one thought of that;
they had plenty of food, the vaulted heavens for a roof wherever
they chose to camp, and fair weather to send them on. . . .

Per Hansa drove in the van; he was continually clucking to his
horses.  His eyes were fixed on the western sky, already tinted by
the strong glow of evening. . . .  God! how beautiful these
prairies were! . . .  Why couldn't they keep on driving all night
long? . . .

When they at last pitched camp at the end of the day, and Hans Olsa
had made the fire and hung the porridge pot over it, Per Hansa sat
down by the firelight and began to whittle some shuttles for net
knitting; he made two shuttles, and then a reel.

His companions laughed at him and told him he must be crazy; first
he had thrown away good money on a lot of twine, and now he was
wasting his time over such nonsense!

. . . "Never mind," said Per Hansa with his merry laugh.  "One only
talks according to his sense!" . . .  He kept on working till he
had finished the reel.


VI


The days were long for the boys during their father's absence.  Ole
soon tired of standing at the chopping block without the company of
his brother, he idled aimlessly about, and made frequent errands
into the house to see whether he couldn't hatch up something to
break the monotony.  Store-Hans wasn't much better off; the secret
which his father had entrusted to him was certainly interesting;
but it wasn't quite fascinating enough to hold its own with the
vision of the ducks out there in the swamps.  The father would
surely bring something home from town to solve this problem; he and
his brother ought to be over west reconnoitering every spare minute
of the time.  And now the Irish had all gone away, too; their sod
huts were standing empty; there would be many curious things to
look at and pry into! . . .  Besides, their mother said so little
these days; it was no fun to be with her any longer.  Often when he
spoke to her she was not there; she neither saw nor heard him, said
only yes and no, which seemed to come from far away. . . .
Probably she was brooding over the strange thing about to happen,
Store-Hans told himself; he often looked wonderingly at her,
thinking many thoughts beyond his years. . . .  He remembered his
father's words, and never left her for long, although it was very
lonesome for him in the house.

A couple of days after the men's departure, she sent the boy over
to Kjersti to borrow a darning needle; she had hidden her own away
so carefully that she could not find it.  Such things occurred
commonly now; she would put something away, she could not remember
where, and would potter around looking for it without really
searching; at last, she would forget altogether what she was about,
and would sit down with a peculiarly vacant look on her face; at
such times she seemed like a stranger. . . .  Ole was sitting in
the house that morning, finishing a sling-shot which he had just
made.

Suddenly Store-Hans came darting back with the needle; he had run
until he was all out of breath.  He burst out with the strangest
news, of Tönseten's having killed a big animal; it was awfully big--
almost like a bear! . . .  Tönseten said it WAS a bear, so it must
be true!  Tönseten and Kjersti were skinning him right now; Kjersti
had told him that if he would bring a pail, they could have fresh
meat for supper.  Both boys immediately began pleading for
permission to go and see the animal; their mother scarcely
answered; she gave them a pail and asked them not to stay long.

The boys came running down the hill just as Kjersti was cutting up
the carcass; Tönseten was struggling with the hide, trying to
stretch it on the barn door; his mouth bristled with nails, his
hands were bloody--he was a frightful spectacle!

"What's that you've got?" asked Ole.

"Bear, my boy--bear!" . . .  Tönseten wagged his head, took the
nails out of his mouth, and spat a gob of tobacco juice.

"Bear!" snorted Ole, scornfully.

"That's no bear!" put in Store-Hans, though less doubtingly.

"By George! boys, to-day he had to bite the dust!" . . .

"But there aren't any bears out here, I tell you!" Ole protested.

"Is that so--huh? . . .  There isn't an animal living that you
can't find out here!"  Tönseten spoke with such certainty that it
was difficult for the boys to gainsay him.

"Where did you get him?" Store-Hans asked.

"Out west of the Irish a little way. . . .  There were two of 'em;
they had gone into the ground for the winter; this is the young
one, you see--the old mammy got away from me!"

"But you didn't have any gun!" was Ole's next objection.

"Better than that, my boy! . . .  I went for him with the crowbar!"
Tönseten spat fiercely and looked at the boys. . . .  "I smashed in
his skull! . . .  With that old bar I'd tackle either a tiger or a
rhinoceros!"

"What became of the old she-bear?" Ole asked, falling under the
spell of Tönseten's enthusiasm.

"She went north across the prairie, lickety-split! . . .  Come
here, now--take some of these chunks of meat home with you. . . .
This will make delicious stew, let me tell you!"

"Is it fit to eat?" asked Store-Hans, still doubting.

"Fit to eat?  No finer meat to be found than bear meat--don't you
know that?"

The boys followed him over to where Kjersti was still cutting up
the animal; it must have been a large carcass, for the cut meat
made a sizable heap.

"Is it . . . is it really bear?" asked Ole, in a more humble tone.

"He's meaty enough for it! . . .  Here, give me the pail; Beret
needs some good, strengthening food. . . .  Maybe you'll take a
little to Sörrina, too; you can stop in with it on the way. . . .
Careful--don't spill it, now!"

The boys loitered along on the way home; from time to time they
had to put down the pail, in order to discuss this extraordinary
event. . . .  So there actually were bears slinking about this
country! . . .  If bears, there must be lions and tigers and other
such wild beasts; this was worth while! . . .  Suppose they were
to go home and get Old Maria, hunt up the she-bear herself, and
put a big bullet clear through her head?  They thrilled with
excitement. . . .  "Do you dare to shoot her off?" Store-Hans
demanded of his brother; Ole scowled ominously and clenched his
fists. . . .  "_I_! . . .  I'd aim straight for her temple, and
she'd drop deader than a herring!" . . .  "Yes, aim at her TEMPLE!"
Store-Hans advised, soberly.  "And if it's close range, you must
draw the bead very fine!" . . . "Fine as a hair!" said Ole,
excitedly.

They picked up the pail at last, and finally succeeded in reaching
Sörine's, where there was another long delay; a detailed account
had to be given of the marvellous feat which Tönseten had
performed.

When they were about to leave Sofie came out and wanted to know if
they weren't frightened; maybe the old mother bear was slinking
about the prairie right now, looking for her cub!  The boys
lingered to talk with her; they drew a glowing picture for the girl
of how they were going home this minute to get Old Maria, and then
go hunting for the she-bear herself . . . just watch them bring
home a real roast pretty soon! . . .  But weren't they scared? she
asked. . . .  "Scared?" exclaimed Store-Hans. . . .  "Oh,
fiddlesticks!" cried Ole.  "Only girls and old women get scared!"

Sofie only laughed; at which they affected a swaggering gruffness
and tried to spit like Tönseten--but theirs wouldn't come
brown. . . .

They were gone such a long time that their mother grew anxious;
when they came over from Sörine's at last she stood outside the
door watching for them.  She had dressed And-Ongen, and was almost
on the point of starting out to search; the boys were too
preoccupied to notice this; Store-Hans spoke first:

"Just think, there's a big she-bear over there to the westward!" . . .

"We're going to take the gun and shoot her!" exclaimed Ole,
gleefully.

"We'll aim straight for her temple!" Store-Hans assured his mother.

"Now we'll have plenty of bear meat!" continued Ole in the next
breath, with absolute confidence.

The boys were all raging excitement; their mood frightened Beret
still more; she grasped them frantically, one hand on the shoulder
of each, and gave them a hard shake. . . .  They were to go inside
this very minute, and take their books!  They weren't going out of
this house to-day! . . .  "Go in, don't you hear me! . . .  Go
in!" . . .

. . . But this wasn't fair!  Ole began reasoning with his mother;
he used strong words, his eyes flaming. . . .  Didn't she realize
that there was a real BEAR over to the westward--a real full-grown
GRIZZLY bear! . . .  Mother . . . please . . . PLEASE! . . .  Dad
wasn't home, but the gun was all loaded and ready; they could
easily manage the rest of it!  In an hour's time they would have
that bear's hide!  Store-Hans even thought that he could go
straight to the lair. . . .  RIGHT THROUGH THE TEMPLE they would
put the bullet! . . .  The boys carried on like a raging hurricane.

The mother had to use force to get them indoors. . . .  "Go in, I
say, and take your books!  Can't you hear what I'm saying?" . . .

This was hard on them; they burst into the house like two mad bull
calves; she had to repeat the order several times more before they
finally submitted and began to hunt for their books.  At last Ole
snatched up the "Epitome," his brother the "Bible History."  They
sat down to read by the table in front of the window, in a state of
mutinous rebellion.

Trouble soon arose.  Each wanted the seat immediately in front of
the window, where the most light fell; and neither would give up
the position.  A terrible battle broke out; Ole was the stronger,
but his brother the quicker.  On account of his age and size Ole
considered himself the legitimate master of the house in the
absence of his father, and therefore had the right to do anything;
he now burst out with words which he had heard in the mouths of the
men when something went wrong with their work.  As soon as Store-
Hans heard this he too began to use vile language; if Ole dared, he
certainly did; he knew those words, and plenty more! . . .  The
boys kept up their scrimmage until they almost upset the table;
their books suffered bad treatment and lay scattered about on the
floor.  And-Ongen watched them open-mouthed until she suddenly grew
frightened and set up a howl.

Over by the stove the mother was washing the meat, putting it into
a kettle which she had placed on the fire. . . .  Although she
heard every word, she kept on working in silence; but her face
turned ashen grey.

When she had finished the task she went out hurriedly; in a moment
she came back with a willow switch in her hand.  Going straight
over to the table, she began to lay about her with the switch; she
seemed beside herself, struck out blindly, hit whatever she
happened to aim at, and kept it up without saying a word.  The
switch whizzed and struck; shrieks of pain arose.  The boys at
once stopped fighting and gazed horror-stricken at their mother;
they could not remember that she had ever laid a hand on them
before. . . .  And now there was such a strange, unnatural look in
her eyes! . . .

They flew out on the floor to gather up their books, while the
blows continued to rain down upon them; And-Ongen stood in the
middle of the floor, screaming with terror. . . .

Not until the mother struck amiss, breaking the switch against the
edge of the table, did she stop. . . .  Suddenly she seemed to come
to her senses; she left the child screaming in the middle of the
floor, went out of the house, and was gone a long time.  When she
came back, she carried an armful of wood; she went over to the
stove and fed the fire; then she picked up And-Ongen, and lay down
on the bed with her. . . .  The boys sat quietly at the table
reading; neither of them had the courage to look up. . . .

The house seemed strangely still after the passage of the storm.
Ole put his fingers into his ears to shut out the terrible silence;
his brother began to read aloud.  It was bad enough for Ole, but
worse for Store-Hans; he now recalled clearly what his father had
confided in him; he thought of his own solemn promise; here he had
been away from the house nearly the whole day!  He felt burning hot
all over his body. . . .  He had opened the book where it told
about the choosing of the twelve disciples, and now he tried to
read; but THAT wasn't the stuff for him just now! . . .  He turned
the pages forward to the story of Samson, and read it diligently;
then to David and Goliath; then to the story about Joseph and his
brethren.  The last eased his heart somewhat. . . .  Joseph was
just the sort of boy that he longed to be!

Ole had felt ashamed at the sight of his mother bringing in the
wood, though that was not his task; his brother was to be the hired
girl! . . .  Suddenly anger seized him; this time it certainly was
the fault of Store-Hans--he should have given him the place! . . .
He dragged himself through the Third Article, which he knew
perfectly well already; when the tumult within him had somewhat
subsided he sat there thinking of how shamefully Tönseten must have
deceived them. . . .  He kill a bear!  It was nothing but a measly
old badger!  And now this nasty stuff was cooking on the stove--
they were going to have it for supper!  And mother was so angry
that one would never dare to explain it to her! . . .  There sat
his younger brother, snuffling and reading his brains out; plain to
be seen that he would never amount to anything! . . .  Ole closed
his book with a bang, got up, and went outdoors to chop more wood;
but he did not dare to look at the bed as he passed. . . .

Store-Hans sat over his book until it grew so dark that he could no
longer distinguish the letters. . . .  From time to time he looked
up; his mother lay on the bed perfectly still; he could not see her
face; And-Ongen was fast asleep with her head high on the pillow.
The boy rose quietly, looked around--then took an empty pail and
went out for water.  He left the pailful of water outside the door;
then he brought Rosie and Injun and the two oxen into the stable,
and tied them up for the night.  He spoke loudly and gruffly to the
animals; mother should hear that he was tending to business! . . .
When he finally brought in the water his mother was up again; he
could see nothing unusual about her.

. . . No, she hadn't been crying this time!  The thought made Store-
Hans so happy that he went straight to his brother, who was toiling
over the chopping block as if possessed, and made friends with him
again.  The boys stayed outside until it was pitch dark; they
talked fast and nervously, about a multitude of things; but that
which weighed most heavily on their hearts--the way their mother's
face had looked when she whipped them--they could not mention.

Inside the house the lamp had been lit.  And-Ongen toddled about
the floor, busy over her own little affairs; the boys came in
quietly and sat down to their books again; but very little reading
was done now. . . .  At last the kettle of meat that had been
boiling on the stove was ready; the mother put the food on the
table; the boys drew up, Ole somewhat reluctantly. . . .  "You get
that troll stuff down!" he whispered to his brother, making a wry
face.  To this command Store-Hans made no answer; he had stuck his
spoon into a crack between the boards of the table; they were
large, those cracks--he could see a broad section of floor when he
laid his eye down close.  The earthen floor had such a rich brown
colour in the dim sheen of the lamp; the cracks in the table made
stripes across the shadow down there; it looked pretty, too--and
just then it had occurred to Store-Hans how nice it would be if
they could only have the floor looking like that by daylight.

The mother filled the big bowl from the kettle and put it on the
table; she had made a thick stew, with potatoes, carrots, and
pieces of the meat; it looked appetizing enough but somehow the
boys felt in no hurry to start.  The mother came and sat down,
bringing And-Ongen with her, the child was so delighted over the
holiday fare they had tonight that she hurried to say grace.

She and the mother immediately began to eat; the boys no longer had
an excuse to sit watching.  Store-Hans dipped up a spoonful of the
stew, blew on it, closed his eyes, and gulped it down.  Ole did the
same, but coughed as if he had swallowed the wrong way; then he
leaned under the table and spat it out. . . .

The mother asked quietly how they liked the supper. . . .  At that,
Ole could no longer restrain himself; he looked at his mother
imploringly, and said in a tear-choked voice as he laid his spoon
aside:

"It tastes like dog to me!"

To Store-Hans it seemed a shameful thing for Ole to speak that way
of food which their mother had prepared for them; he swallowed
spoonful after spoonful, while sweat poured from him.

"I have heard it said many times," the mother went on, quietly,
"that bear meat is all right. . . .  The stew has a tangy taste, I
notice, but not so bad that it can't be eaten. . . .  You'd better
leave the meat if you don't like it."

"It isn't bear at all!" Ole blurted out.

"What?" cried the mother in alarm, lowering her spoon.

"It's only a lousy old badger! . . .  I've heard dad say often that
they aren't fit to eat!" . . .

"It's true, every word of it!" cried Store-Hans, suddenly feeling
frightened and jamming his spoon farther down into the crack. . . .
"I could tell it by his tail--Syvert had forgotten to cut it
off! . . .  Oh, I'm going to be sick--I can feel it coming!"

Beret got up, trembling in every limb; she took the bowl and
carried it out into the darkness; a long way from the house she
emptied it on the ground; And-Ongen cried and toddled after
her. . . .  The boys sat on at the table, glaring reproachfully at
each other; in the eyes of both blazed the same accusation:

"A nice mess you've made of things!  Why didn't you keep your mouth
shut?"

The mother came in again; she set the empty kettle on the stove and
scoured it out carefully. . . .  Then she cooked porridge for them,
but when it was ready she could eat nothing herself. . . .

. . . That night she hung still more clothes over the window than
she had the evening before.  She sat up very late; it seemed as if
she was unable to go to bed.


VII


She had been lying awake a long time; sleep would not come.  Her
thoughts drifted. . . .

. . . So it had come to this; they were no longer ashamed to eat
troll food; they even sent it from house to house, as lordly fare!

All night long as she tossed in bed, bitter revolt raged within
her.  THEY SHOULD NOT STAY HERE THROUGH THE WINTER! . . .  As soon
as Per Hansa came home they must start on the journey back east;
he, too, ought to be able to see by this time that they would all
become wild beasts if they remained here much longer.  Everything
human in them would gradually be blotted out. . . .  They saw
nothing, learned nothing. . . .  It would be even worse for their
children--and what of their children's children? . . .  Couldn't he
understand that if the Lord God had intended these infinities to be
peopled, He would not have left them desolate down through all the
ages . . . until now, when the end was nearing? . . .

After a while the bitterness of her revolt began to subside; her
thoughts became clear and shrewd, she tried to reason out the best
way of getting back to civilization.  That night she did not sleep
at all.

The next morning she got up earlier than usual, kindled the fire,
got the breakfast and waked the children.  The food was soon
prepared; first she poured some water into the pot, put in a
spoonful or two of molasses, and added a few pieces of cinnamon;
then she cut into bits the cold porridge from last night, and put
them into the big bowl; when the sweetened water was hot she poured
it over the porridge. . . .  This was all they had--and no one
asked for more.

While she ate she looked repeatedly at the big chest, trying to
recall how everything had been packed when they came out last
summer.  Where did she keep all the things now?  She had better get
the packing done at once--then that job would be out of the way
when he came home. . . .

The greatest difficulty would be to obtain wagons. . . .  Alas!
those old wagons!  The smaller one he had taken apart and used in
making the very table around which they were now seated; as for the
larger wagon, she knew only too well that it would never hang
together through the long journey back; only the other day she had
heard Per Hansa mention that he intended to break it up, and see if
he couldn't make something or other out of it. . . .  Well--how to
get the wagons would be his business!  They certainly couldn't
perish out here for want of a wagon or two!  Was there not One who
once upon a time had had mercy on a great city full of wicked
people, only because one just human being interceded?

. . . One just human being. . . .  Alas! . . .  Beret sighed
heavily and put her hand up under her breast.

When there was no more porridge left in the bowl she rose, washed
the dish, and put it away on the shelf.  Ole had nothing to do in
the house that morning; he walked toward the door, motioning to his
brother to follow; but Store-Hans shook his head.  Then Ole went
out; the other boy sat there looking at his mother, not knowing
what to do, unhappy and heavy-hearted; he felt a sudden impulse to
throw himself down on the floor and weep aloud.

The mother was pottering about at some trifles, her thoughts
constantly occupied with the idea of returning to civilization.
Into her serious, grey-pale face, still soft and beautiful, had
crept an expression of firmness and defiance; soon this aspect grew
so marked that her face appeared to simulate anger, like that of
one playing at being ferocious with a child.

As soon as she had finished her housework she went over to the big
chest, opened the lid, sank down on her knees beside it, and began
to rearrange the contents.  The task was quickly done; then she
took the clothes from the last washing, folded them up, and laid
them carefully in the chest; there weren't many clothes left now!
He ought to realize that they would soon be naked if they stayed
here much longer!  And where were they to get money for everything
they needed out here? . . .  Beret stood up and looked around the
room, trying to decide what to pack first.  On the shelf above the
window lay an old Bible, a gift to her from her grandfather; it was
so old that it was hard to read now, because of the many changes
the language had undergone since then; but it was the only one they
had.  This book had been in her family many generations; her great-
grandfather had owned it before her grandfather; from her it should
pass on to Store-Hans; thus she had always determined when she
thought of the matter.  On top of the Bible lay the hymn book, in
which she had read a little every Sunday since their arrival
here. . . .

She put both books in the chest.

Again Beret rose and glanced around the room.  Perhaps she had
better take the school books, too; the boys were none too eager to
use them; they might as well be excused for the rest of the day;
either that day or the next the father would surely come. . . .
She asked Store-Hans to bring the books to her so that she could
pack them.

Not until then did the boy fully take in what his mother was doing;
it startled him so that for a moment he could not get up.

"Mother, what are you doing?" . . .

"We must begin to get ready!" . . .  She sighed, and pressed her
hands tightly under her burden; it was painful to her, stooping
over so long at a time.

"Get ready?  Are . . . are we going AWAY?" . . .  Store-Hans's
throat contracted; his eyes stared big and terror-stricken at his
mother.

"Why, yes, Hansy-boy--we had better be going back where people live
before the winter is upon us," she told him, sadly.

The boy had risen, and now stood at the end of the table; he wanted
to go to his mother but fear chained him to the spot; he stared at
her with his mouth wide open.  At last he got out:

"What will dad say?" . . .  The words came accusingly but there
were tears in them.

She looked at him like one in a dream; again she looked, but could
not utter a word. . . .  The sheer impossibility of what she was
about to do was written as if in fire on the face and whole body of
the boy--as if in rays that struck her, lighted everything up with
an awful radiance, and revealed the utter futility of it all. . . .
She turned slowly toward the chest, let down the lid, and sank on
it in untold weariness. . . .  Again the child stirred within her,
kicking and twisting, so that she had to press her hand hard
against it.

. . . O God! . . . now HE was protesting, too!  Was it only by
ruthless sacrifice of life that this endless desolation could ever
be peopled?

. . . "Thou canst not be so cruel!" she moaned. . . .  "Demand not
this awful sacrifice of a frail human being!" . . .

She rose slowly from the chest; as she walked across the floor
and opened the door she felt as if she were dragging leaden
weights. . . .  Her gaze flitted fearfully toward the sky line--
reached it, but dared not travel upward. . . .

Store-Hans remained at the end of the table, staring after her; he
wanted to scream, but could not utter a sound.  Then he ran to her,
put his arms around her, and whispered hoarsely between sobs:

"Mother, are you . . . are you . . . getting sick now?"

Beret stroked the head that was pressed so hard against her side;
it had such a vigorous, healthy warmth; the hair was soft and
pleasant to the touch; she had to run her fingers through it
repeatedly. . . .  Then she stooped over and put her arm around the
boy; his response to her embrace was so violent that it almost
choked her . . .  O God! how sorely she needed some one to be kind
to her now! . . .  She was weeping; Store-Hans, too, was struggling
with wild, tearing sobs.  Little And-Ongen, who could not imagine
what the two were doing over there by the door, came toddling to
them and gazed up into their faces; then she opened her mouth wide,
brought her hand up to it, and shrieked aloud. . . .  At that
moment Ole came running down the hill, his feet flying against the
sky, and shouted out to them:

"They are coming! . . .  Get the coffee on!"

. . . Gone was the boy like a gust of wind; he threw himself on the
pony and galloped away to meet the returning caravan.

Beret and Store-Hans had both sprung to their feet and stood
looking across the prairie. . . .  Yes, there they were, away off
to the southeast! . . .  And now Store-Hans, also, forgot himself;
he glanced imploringly into his mother's face, his eyes eagerly
questioning:

"Would it be safe to leave you while I run to meet dad?"

She smiled down into the eager face--a benign, spreading smile.

"Don't worry about me. . . .  Just run along." . . .


VIII


The father sat at the table eating, with And-Ongen on his knee; the
boys stood opposite him, listening enthusiastically to the story of
his adventures along the way; the mother went to and fro between
the stove and the table.  There was an enchanting joyousness about
Per Hansa to-day which coloured all he said; no matter how much he
told, it always sounded as if he were keeping back the best till
later on.  This had a positively intoxicating effect on the boys;
it made them impatient and eager for more, and caused a steady
flood of fresh questions.

Even Beret was smiling, though her hand trembled.

At last the boys had to give an account of how they had managed
affairs at home.  When, after much teasing and banter, Per Hansa
had finally heard the whole absurd story--it came little by little,
in disjointed outbursts--of Tönseten and the bear, and their ill-
starred badger stew of the night before, he laughed until the tears
came and he had to stop eating.  His mirth was so free and hearty
that the boys, too, began to see the real fun of the incident, and
joined in boisterously.  Beret stood over by the stove, listening
to it all; their infectious merriment carried her away, but at the
same time she had to wipe her eyes. . . .  She was glad that she
had remembered to take out of the chest the things that she had
begun to pack awhile before!

"Come here, Store-Hans," said the father, still laughing.  "What's
that across the back of your neck?"

The question caught the boy unawares; he ran over and stood beside
his father.

"Why, it's a big red welt! . . .  Have you been trying to hang
yourself, boy?"

Store-Hans turned crimson; he suddenly remembered the fearful blows
of last night.

Ole glanced quickly at his mother. . . .  "Oh, pshaw!" he said with
a manly air. . . .  "That was only Hans and me fighting!"

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed the father, with another laugh.  "So that's the
way you two have been acting while I was away?  Mother couldn't
manage you, eh? . . .  Well, now you'll soon be dancing to a
different tune; we've got so much work on our hands that there
won't be any peace here day or night. . . .  Thanks for good food,
Beret-girl!"

He got up, took the boys with him, and began to carry things in
from the wagon.  Most of the load they stored away in the house;
some extra things, however, had to find a temporary place in the
stable.

At length Per Hansa brought in a small armful of bottles and set
them on the table.

"Come here, Beret-girl of mine!  You have earned a good drink, and
a good drink you shall have!" . . .  He went over to the water pail
with the coffee cup from which he had just been drinking, rinsed it
out with a little water, and emptied it on the floor; then he
poured out a good half cupful of whisky and offered it to her.  She
put out her hands as if to push him away. . . .  Yes, indeed, she
would have to take it, he told her, putting his arm around her
waist and lifting the cup to her lips.  She took the cup and
emptied it in one draught. . . .  "There, that's a good little
wife! . . .  You're going to have just another little drop!"  He
went to the table again and poured out a second drink, but not so
much this time.  "Two legs, and one for each!  Just drink it
down! . . .  And now you take care of the bottles!"

That was a busy day in the humble dwelling of Per Hansa.  First of
all, he had promised a load of potatoes to the Hallings, who waited
back east somewhere under a bleak sky, without even a potato
peeling to put in their pot; he must carry food to them.  When
Beret heard how poorly things were in that hut--about the woman
with the drawn cheeks and the starved look in her eyes--she
straightway began to hurry him up; he must go while he had the
horses and wagon here.  Couldn't he get started to-day?

"Not so hasty there, my girl, not so hasty!" laughed Per Hansa, his
face beaming. . . .  "I'm not going to sleep with any HALLING WOMAN
to-night--that I can tell you!"

Now he was his old irresistible self again.  How strong, how
precious to her, he seemed! . . .  She felt a loving impulse to
grasp his hair and shake him. . . .

Ole was immediately put to work knitting the net.  The father had
already knitted four fathoms of it, by the light of the camp fire
the night before; he had sat up working over the net long after the
others had turned in. . . .  The boys grew wild with enthusiasm at
the sight of the net; were they going fishing in the Sioux River?
Both of them immediately began begging to be taken along. . . .
"Just keep your fingers moving, Olamand--hurry them up, I tell
you!" . . .  The father made a great mystery of it, and refused to
give any further explanation.

As for himself and Store-Hans, they busied themselves over the
lime; it was all carried inside and placed in a corner where no
moisture could reach it.  The preparations for the mixing required
a good deal of work; the first thing was to make a wooden box
sufficiently tight to hold water.  Well, there was plenty of lumber
now, at any rate!  Per Hansa built the box and carried it down to
the creek; there he placed it under water, hoping that it would
swell enough to be tight by the time he needed it.

Evening fell all too soon on a wonderfully busy and joyful day.
The boys were at last in bed, fast asleep.

But Per Hansa had no time for rest; to-night that net simply had to
be finished.  He finally made Beret go to bed, but she wasn't a bit
sleepy; she lay there talking to him and filling the shuttles
whenever they were empty.  He explained fully to her how he
intended to use the net; first he would set it in the Sioux River
as he passed by there tomorrow; he knew of just the place; he would
leave it there until he came back from the Hallings'.  Unless the
cards were stacked against him he would bring back a nice mess of
fish. . . .  That, however, wasn't his great plan with the net, he
told her; but she mustn't say a word about this to the boys.  It
was to be a big surprise for them; they were such brave fellows!
The fact of the matter was, he planned to catch DUCKS with that
net; that had been the real reason for his buying the twine; there
would be other fare than badger stew in this hut, he would just let
her know, if the weather only held a few days more!

All at once it occurred to Beret that she had forgotten to cover up
the windows to-night; she smiled to herself at the discovery. . . .
What was the need of it, anyway?  Cover the windows . . . what
nonsense! . . .  She smiled again, feeling a languorous drowsiness
creep over her.

Per Hansa knit away on the net, chatting happily with her as he
worked; a confident ring of joy sounded in all he said.  He had
fastened the net to the bedpost, just as her father always had
done.  She listened peacefully to his warm, cheerful voice, which
after a while began to sound more distant, like the indolent swish
and gurgle of lapping ocean waves on a fair summer's night.
Gradually she was borne away on this sound, and slept the whole
night through without stirring.

When she awoke next morning Per Hansa, still fully dressed, lay
beside her, over against the wall; he evidently had thrown himself
down to rest only a little while before.  Light was creeping into
the room; directly in front of the bed lay a big white heap of
something. . . .  Those careless boys--had they thrown their
clothes on the floor again? . . .  She stooped over to pick the
clothes up and put them on the bench; she grasped hold of the heap--
and it was a new net, sheeted and fully rigged, as a new net ought
to be!

. . . Poor man!--he must have sat up all night! . . .  She spread
the quilt carefully over him.

That morning Beret took some of the precious white flour and made a
batch of pancakes.  He deserved to have one good meal before he
went away again!

He left right after breakfast.  Beret worked industriously
throughout the day, while many thoughts came and went. . . .
It must be her destiny, this!  There was One who governed all
things. . . .  He knew what was best, and against His will it was
useless to struggle! . . .

. . . Often that day she went to the window to look eastward.
Every time she looked, it seemed to be growing darker over
there. . . .

. . . That evening she again covered the window. . . .



VI

The Heart That Dared Not Let In the Sun


I


During the first days of October a few white, downy snowflakes hung
quivering in the air . . . floated about . . . fell in great
oscillating circles.  They seemed headed for nowhere; they followed
no common course; but finally they reached the ground and
disappeared.

The air cleared again.  There came a drowsy, sun-filled interval
. . . nothing but golden haze . . . quiet bereft of all life. . . .

The sun had no strength these days.  It peeped out in the morning,
glided across the sky as before, yet life it had not until toward
evening, as it was nearing the western rim of the prairie.  Then it
awoke, grew big and blushing, took on a splendour which forced
everyone to stop and look; the western sky foamed and flooded with
a wanton richness of colour, which ran up in streams to meet the
coming night.  Folks would walk about in the evenings speaking
in low tones. . . .  Never in their lives had they seen such
sunsets! . . .

. . . Day after day the same . . . evening after evening.
Strangely still the days . . . the evenings more mysteriously
quiet.  How could one lift one's voice against such silence! . . .

Then one morning--October was nearly passed--the sun could not get
his eye open at all; the heavens rested close above the plain,
grey, dense, and still.  The chill of this greyness drove through
the air though no wind stirred.  People went indoors to put on more
clothes, came out again, but froze worse than ever. . . .  Bleak,
grey, God-forsaken, the empty desolation stretched on every
hand. . . .

Sometime in the afternoon snowflakes began to fall.  They came
sailing down from the north until the air was a close-packed swarm
of greyish-white specks, all bound in the same direction.  The
evening was short-lived that day, and died in a pitch-black night
that weighed down the heart. . . .

. . . Again day came, and brought no other light than that which
the greyish-white specks gave. . . .  All that day the snow fell--
all the next night. . . .

At last it grew light once more--but the day had no sun.  A cold
wind howled about the huts--left them, and tore down into the white
snow blanket, shaking out of it blinding swirls. . . .  The swirls
vanished and reappeared--died down, flared up again and tore
on. . . .  New ones constantly rose . . . many. . . .


II


Per Hansa and his boys worked like firebrands during the last days
before winter set in.  Every task that came to their hands
delighted them; they went from one fairy tale into the next--came
out again, and there was a new one at hand; they gave themselves no
peace, either by night or by day. . . .  But Beret could not share
their mood; she would watch them absently as they left the house;
or when they were due to return, she would wander about with And-
Ongen on her arm, looking for them through the window, and keeping
a hot dish in readiness on the stove.  They were sure to be cold,
poor fellows! . . .  Then when they were seated around the table,
wrapped up in all their remarkable experiences, the talk would jump
from one incident to another, and she would find herself unable to
follow it.  Their liveliness and loud laughter only drove her heavy
thoughts into a still deeper darkness.

She had to admit, however, that Per Hansa could accomplish the most
marvellous things; she could not imagine where he had learned it
all. . . .  There were the walls, for example, of which he himself
was especially proud, and which Store-Hans never tired of admiring.
He had begun work on these walls immediately after he had returned
from the trip east to the Hallings' with the potatoes.  The lime
had been mixed according to directions, and spread over the walls--
three coats of it, no less; now the sod hut shone so brightly
inside that it dazzled the eyes. . . .  Before the snow came, Beret
thought it delightful to have such walls; but after there was
nothing but whiteness outside--pure whiteness as far as the eye
could see and the thought could reach--she regretted that he had
touched them.  Her eyes were blinded wherever she looked, either
outdoors or indoors; the black-brown earthen floor was the only
object on which she could rest them comfortably; and so she always
looked down now, as she sat in the house.  But hint at it, and thus
ruin his pleasure, she could not. . . .  And it really didn't
matter much to her, she would endure it for the brief time that
remained! . . .

She was thankful enough, though, for all the fine fish that he had
brought home.  Per Hansa had taken both boys with him on the great
expedition east to the Sioux River; there they had made a
tremendous catch with the help of the net, and Per Hansa had talked
with the Trönders about many extraordinary things, and had gained
much valuable information. . . .  Heaps of frozen fish now lay
outside all along the wall; Per Hansa explained to her what a God-
send it was that the snow finally had come.  Hm!  Good Heavens!  If
it hadn't come soon he would have been obliged to go out and get
it!  Now he was spared that trouble; with the aid of the snowdrifts
they could have fresh fish through the whole winter. . . .  "Hey,
woman!" he said with a laugh, whenever she complained of how
desolate it was since the snow had come.  "Can't you understand
that we could never manage things without the snow? . . .  Hey,
wife--white and fine, both outdoors and indoors! . . .  Wonder if
something couldn't be done to the floor, too?" . . .

Now it came to light what had been working in Per Hansa's mind when
he had bought all that salt; he salted down quantities of the fish,
and packed them away in all the vessels they could spare.

But in the opinion of the boys, the duck hunt with the net was the
crowning adventure.  Never had there been such an enthusiastic
party; the father was almost the worst of the three!  Now the great
secret of his planning and scheming over the ducks was revealed.
While Store-Hans and his brother had only talked about capturing
them and wondered what could be done, Per Hansa had figured out
every detail in his mind; if the ducks got the best of him on one
tack, he would fool them on another; into the net somehow they must
go! . . .  For three nights they had all stayed out in the swamps
to the westward, toiling and fighting among the myriads of birds;
in the morning they would come home after daylight, wet as crows,
numb all over, and blue in the face with cold.  But they always
brought a catch! . . .  As soon as the evening came they would be
off again.

Each time Beret pleaded sadly, both by word and glance, for them to
stay at home. . . .  They would wear themselves out this way.  What
could they possibly do with all these fowl?  Just wait and see;
they might not need so much food--something might happen. . . .
The boys only laughed at these objections; their mother sounded
just like Sofie; probably all women were alike--they had no sense.
Just imagine such a ridiculous idea--catch no more birds! . . .
The father joined in with them and poked mild fun at the mother.
How silly it would be not to grab good food when it lay right at
their door!  Suppose the swamps were to freeze up to-night?  And
after they had picked the ducks, there would be fine feather
beds for both herself and Little Per! . . .  Per Hansa's voice
softened. . . .  And besides, there was no more delicate fare
than those ducks on any king's table! . . .

But she would not be carried along. . . .  "We won't need them!"
she said, dispiritedly . . . and fell into silence.

Dusk settled, the menfolk left--and she was alone with the child
again.

But at last winter shut down in earnest; the swamps froze up and
duck hunting came to an end for that year.

"I think we ought to carry some soup meat to our neighbours," said
Per Hansa. . . .  "This time it'll be something better than badger
stew!" . . .

Every person in the little settlement had been rushed with work
during the last days before Father Winter came.  They all had a
feeling that he wasn't very far away, that old fellow, and thought
it best to be well prepared to receive him.  Hans Olsa, Tönseten,
and the Solum boys had been east to the Sioux River again for wood;
they had made two trips, and home had seen very little of them
lately.  Few visits had been made; everyone had been busy with his
own affairs. . . .  For other reasons than this, visitors came but
seldom to Per Hansa's now; there was something queer about the
woman in that place; she said so little; at times people felt that
they were unwelcome there.  She was apt to break out suddenly with
some remark that they could only wonder at; they hardly knew
whether to be surprised or offended.

But on the day when the boys carried a gift of ducks to all the
houses in the neighbourhood, proud of the dainty food they brought,
and relating what sounded like a fairy tale, everyone went over to
Per Hansa's to learn how he had gone about catching these birds.
For Ole and Store-Hans wouldn't tell, though they plied them with
questions. . . .  The Solum boys came first, with Tönseten and
Kjersti hard upon their heels; last of all came Hans Olsa and
Sörine.

Once inside, they completely forgot their curiosity about the duck
hunting; they stood with their mouths open, looking up one wall and
down the next.

. . . Why . . . why . . . what in the wide world was this?  Had
they plastered SNOW on the walls?  Sam thought it really was snow,
and touched it gingerly with his finger. . . .  What WAS it,
anyway?  Could it possibly be paint? . . .  My stars, how fine it
looked! . . .  Per Hansa sat there, sucking his pipe and enjoying
his little triumph; it seemed to him that he had never liked his
neighbours so well as at this moment. . . .  Beret went about
listening quietly; in her face was a troubled expression.  Not for
all the world would she have had the work on the walls undone! . . .

Amazement was universal. . . .  Sörine smiled in her pleasant,
kindly way; she went over to Beret and said with warm sympathy:

"Now you certainly have got a fine house! . . .  You'll thrive all
the better for it." . . .  At that, she began to help her with the
work.  But Kjersti, with an emphatic slap on her thigh, voiced it
as her opinion that it was a dirty shame that she and Sörrina had
picked up such poor sticks for husbands!  Why couldn't THEY ever
hatch up some nice scheme?  Why was Per Hansa the only man among
them with his head on the right end?  Yes, they certainly ought to
feel ashamed of themselves, sitting there! . . .  Tönseten took
offence at this; he felt constrained to remind her that he was the
fellow who had risen to the occasion and captured the Sognings!
She'd better remember that; for what would have become of them all
in the long run if the Sognings hadn't joined them? . . .  "And I
don't exactly see what this new notion of Per Hansa's is really
good for," he spluttered on.  "It's getting to be so damned swell
in here that pretty soon a fellow can't even SPIT!" . . .  Tönseten
looked accusingly at Beret; it was from her that Per Hansa got
these stuck-up airs.  She was never willing to be like plain folks,
that woman! . . .  The Solum boys took great delight in the white
walls; this was really beautiful.  When they got married they would
do the very same thing!

Hans Olsa sucked his pipe and said but little.  This seemed very
queer to him; he turned it over and over in his mind, but couldn't
solve the problem.  Was this like Per Hansa, who had always
confided everything to him? . . .  But here he was going about
doing everything alone!  When he had learned how a black earthen
wall could be made shining white at so small a cost, why hadn't he
told the others?  There was so little cheer out here; they all
sorely needed to share whatever they found. . . .  The big, rugged
features were very sober; he had to look hard at Per Hansa.  No, it
was the same good-natured face that one liked so well to have near
by!  This affair was just one of his many pranks; the longer Hans
Olsa gazed at his neighbour, the more plausible grew this solution
inside that big head of his.

Awhile later, as the two men stood together outside the door,
watching the falling snow, he said, quietly:

"You have made it pretty fine inside, Per Hansa; but He Who is now
whitening the outside of your walls does fully as well. . . .  You
shouldn't be vain in your own strength, you know!"

"Oh, nonsense, Hans Olsa!" laughed Per Hansa.  "What are you
prating about? . . .  Here, take along a couple more ducks for
Sörrina!" . . .


III


It was well enough that winter had come at last, thought Per Hansa;
he really needed to lay off and rest awhile.  After a good square
meal of ducks or fresh fish, he would light his pipe and stretch
himself, saying:

"Ha!--now we're really as well off here, my Beret-girl, as anybody
could ever wish to be!" . . .  He did not always expect an answer,
and seldom got one.  Then he would throw himself on the bed and
take a good after-dinner nap, often sleeping continuously on into
the night. . . .  Life seemed very pleasant now!

In this fashion he spent quite a number of days; the bad weather
still held out.  Per Hansa continued to do full justice to the
fare.  When he had eaten his fill he would point out again to Beret
how well off they were, and go to his couch to sleep the sleep of
the righteous.  It was almost uncanny--he could never seem to get
sleep enough!  He slept both day and night; and still he felt the
need of more rest. . . .  Now and then he would go to the door to
look out at the weather, and glance across toward the neighbours.
No . . . nothing to do outside--the weather was too beastly!  He
would come in again, and stretch himself, and yawn. . . .

The days wore on.

Yes, they wore on. . . .  One exactly like the other. . . .  Per
Hansa couldn't grasp the strange contradiction that had begun to
impress him; he knew that the days were actually growing shorter--
were being shorn more closely by every passing night; but--weren't
they growing longer?

Indeed they were--no question about it!  They finally grew so long
that he was at a dead loss to find something to do with which to
end them.  He assured himself that all this leisure was very fine;
that he needed to ease up a bit; during the fall he hadn't spared
himself; now it felt like a blessing to sit around and play the
gentleman.  Times would be strenuous enough for him once more, when
spring came with fair weather and his great estate needed to be
planted; he would just lay off and rest for a while yet! . . .

The days only grew longer and longer.

In the end, this enforced idleness began to gall him.  The
landscape showed a monotonous sameness . . . never the slightest
change. . . .  Grey sky--damp, icy cold. . . .  Snow fell . . .
snow flew. . . .  He could only guess now where the huts of Hans
Olsa lay.  There wasn't a thing to do outdoors; plenty of wood lay
chopped and ready for use; it took but a little while to do the
chores. . . .  Beyond this, everything took care of itself outside.

Per Hansa sat by the table, or lay down on the bed when he got
tired of sitting up; tried to sleep as long as possible; woke up
with a start; turned over and tried to sleep again; rose and sat by
the table once more, when he grew weary of lying down.

The days wore on, and yet got nowhere. . . .  Time had simply come
to a standstill!  He had never seen the like; this was worse than
the deadest lay-up in Lofoten!

The boys were almost as badly off; they too sat restless and idle;
and because they had nothing at all to occupy their minds they
often came to blows, so that the father had to interfere. . . .
But he was never very rough with them, poor boys, what else could
they find for amusement? . . .  The mother always reminded him of
their books. . . .  Yes, of course--certainly they must learn to
read, the father said; no heathen were going to grow up in his
house!  He tried to be stern with them over this matter; but then
. . . after all, boys were boys, he remembered!

At length he realized that this sort of life could not go on.  He
didn't give a hang for the weather--put on his coat and bade the
boys do the same; then they went out and attacked the woodpile.
They sawed and they chopped; they lugged in wood and piled it up;
first they stacked up as much chopped wood as they could stow in
the odd corners of the house; then they built a curious little fort
of chopped wood out in the yard--very neatly and craftily
constructed--and piled it full, too; this work cheered them up and
kept their minds occupied, though the weather was bitterly cold and
inclement.  They toiled at it from early morning until late at
night, and hardly took time off to eat their dinner; the boys began
to get sick of the job and complained of being tired.  The woodpile
lasted exactly four days; when they had chopped up the last stick
there was nothing left for them to do outside.

Then they sat idle again.

The bad spell of weather held out interminably.  A cold, piercing
wind from the northeast blew the livelong day, and moaned about the
corners at night. . . .  Snow flew . . . more snow fell.

No sun. . . .  No sky. . . .  The air was a grey, ashen mist which
breathed a deathly chill; it hung around and above them thick and
frozen. . . .  In the course of time there was a full moon at
night, somewhere behind the veil.  Then the mist grew luminous and
alive--strange to behold. . . .  Night after night the ghostly
spectacle would return.

Per Hansa would gaze at it and think:  Now the trolls are surely
abroad! . . .


One evening Tönseten and Kjersti came over.  They sat and talked
until it grew very late.  One could readily see that Syvert was out
of sorts about something; he puffed at his pipe in glum, ill humor,
glared at Per Hansa's walls, and didn't have much to say.  When he
did speak his voice was unnecessarily loud.

Kjersti and Beret sat together on the bed; they seemed to be
finding a good deal to chat about.

Kjersti was in an unusually neighbourly mood; she had come over to
ask if . . . well, if she couldn't do something for Beret?  She had
some woollen yarn at home in her chest, very soft and very fine.
Would Beret be offended if she knitted a pair of socks for the
little newcomer they were all awaiting? . . .  It was fine yarn,
the very finest!  Beret must just try to imagine how lonesome she
was, sitting at home all alone with that useless husband of hers--
and no little newcomer to wait for! . . .  She had plenty of yarn;
she could easily make the socks long enough to serve as leggings,
too.  The work would really bring joy to her--and to Syvert, too,
poor fellow, to whom no little newcomer would ever arrive!

. . . Ah, well! . . .  God pity us, Syvert wasn't so bad, after all--
far be it from her to complain! . . .  At that, Kjersti happened
to think of a story she had heard, about a couple who couldn't seem
to get a child though they wanted one very badly.  Here the story
was, since they happened to be talking about such matters. . . .
This wife had so little sense that she sought the aid of a witch
woman, who gave her both DEVIL'S DRINK and BEAVER-GELD; she rubbed
herself with the stuff and drank some of it, too, but no change
came; that is, not until one summer when a shoal of herring came
into the fjord and with it a fleet of strange fishermen. . . .
Alas! desire makes a hot fire, once it has been kindled!  But what
do you suppose?--her husband became just as fond of that child as
if he had been the father of it! . . .  Wasn't that a queer
thing? . . .  But when the boy was a year old and was on the point
of being christened--well, on that very Sunday it happened, as they
were sailing across the fjord, that the boat capsized and the Lord
took both mother and child, right there and then!  He had taken
away what he had refused to give in honour, and more besides. . . .
There was something mysterious about such things, didn't Beret
think so?  And wasn't it strange that the father should have been
so fond of THAT child? . . .  Kjersti had known them both very
well.

Beret listened attentively to this tale, putting in a word here and
there.

Over at the table, the men had pricked up their ears as the story
began; they heard it all.  Per Hansa looked at Syvert and laughed;
Syvert, in turn, glared at the wall and said, angrily:

"I should think you'd be able to find something American to talk
about! . . .  We're through now with all that troll business over
in Norway!" . . .  He got up and started to go. . . .

But Per Hansa wouldn't listen to their leaving just yet; since they
had braved the weather to make a call they might as well sit awhile
longer. . . .  "You'll have the wind astern, Syvert, going
home! . . .  Come on, sit down and behave yourself!"


On another afternoon all of Hans Olsa's household came over.  They
stayed till dark; then they began to say that perhaps they'd better
be going now--but they made no move to leave. . . .  Sörine had
brought a gift for Beret.  There had been a few bits of cloth lying
around the house, for which she could find no use; it had been
rather lonesome these days and she had needed something to do, so
she had made a little article for this newcomer whom everyone was
waiting for! . . .  At that, Sörine drew out from her ample bosom a
child's cap, of red, white, and blue stripes, with long silk
ribbons, all sewed with the greatest care.  It was a beautiful cap;
all had to see it; there were many warm words of praise.  Beret
received it in silence; her eyes were wet as she took the cap and
laid it carefully in the big chest. . . .

To-night it was Beret who refused to let the visitors leave.  She
absolutely insisted.  Such quantities of food lay outside around
the house--far more than they would ever need--that they might as
well stay for supper and help to eat it! . . .  This proposal
overjoyed Per Hansa.  It was the plain truth, as Beret said, they
had more than they needed--and there was plenty left in the Sioux
River, for that matter; to-night they were going to celebrate with
fresh fish for supper! . . .  He went outside and brought in a
generous supply of the frozen fish, which he scaled and cut up; he
was in the finest of spirits--it seemed just like the good old days
in Lofoten.

. . . That evening was a happy interlude for them all.


IV


. . . No, the days would not pass! . . .  Why, here it was, only
the middle of November!  It seemed to Per Hansa, as he sat by the
table puffing his pipe and following Beret around with his eyes,
that many winters must have gone by already.

He found himself watching Beret very often; during the last two
weeks he had discovered many things about her which he had never
noticed before.  Just trifles, they were, but so many of them--one
thing after another.  Sitting here now with nothing else to occupy
his mind, he began slowly and carefully to piece together what he
had observed; the result pleased him less and less as he went on
adding.  He tried to wave the truth aside--to deny the plain facts;
he even succeeded for a while--in the beginning. . . .  Goodness!
nothing but trifles--things that were always likely to happen under
such circumstances! . . .  Oh no!  There was no danger that Beret
couldn't stand her watch; things would right themselves when the
time came; for it was only the law of nature, which man must
obey. . . .  Of course she couldn't help dreading it, poor thing!

. . . Did her face seem a good deal more wasted this time--or was
he mistaken?  She didn't look well at all. . . .  No. . . .  Then
why didn't she eat more?  Good Heavens! she wasn't trying to save
on the food?  Here was everything--quantities of it: meat aplenty,
and any amount of flour! . . .  She should help herself, this Beret-
girl of his, or he would make her dance to another tune!

One day at table he burst out with it, telling her that she mustn't
act the stranger in her own house!  He made his voice sound gruff
and commanding:  Now she must sit up and eat like a grown
woman. . . .  "Here, help yourself!" . . .  He took a big piece
of fish from the platter and put it on her plate; but she merely
picked at it, and left most of it lying there.

"It is hard when you have to force every mouthful down," she
complained.

"But look here, you've got to eat, both for yourself and--Of course
you must eat!"

"Oh, well," she said, wearily, as she got up and left the
table. . . .  "It doesn't matter much about the food." . . .

Lately he had also begun to notice that she lay awake the greater
part of the night; he always dropped off to sleep before she did;
yet she would be wide awake in the morning when he first stirred,
although he was by habit an early riser.  And if by chance he woke
up in the night, he would be almost certain to find her lying awake
beside him. . . .  One night she had called him; she had been
sitting up in bed, and must have been crying--her voice sounded
like it.  And she had only wanted him to get up and see what ailed
Store-Hans; he had been moaning in his sleep all night, she said.
Per Hansa had risen to look after the boy, and had found nothing
the matter, as he had expected. . . .  That night he had been
seriously frightened.  When he had come back to lie down she had
started crying so despairingly; he hadn't been able to make any
sense of the few words he got out of her. . . .  From that time on,
he had been scared to show her any tenderness; he had noticed that
when he did so, the tears were sure to come.  And that, certainly,
was not good for her!

As he sat through the long, long day observing his wife, he grew
more and more worried about Beret, poor thing.  Every day there
were new trifles to be noticed.

She, who had always been so neat and could make whatever clothes
she put on look becoming, was now going about shabby and unkempt;
she didn't even bother to wash herself.  He realized that he had
noticed it subconsciously for a long time. . . .  But now he seldom
saw her even wash her face.  And her hair, her beautiful hair which
he admired so greatly and loved to fondle when she was in good
spirits, now hung down in frowsy coils. . . .  Wasn't it two days
since she had touched her hair?  Well--THAT he didn't dare to
mention! . . .  How could he ever speak of cleanliness at all to
his Beret--his Beret who was always so prim and often nagged him
for being slovenly and careless about his own appearance? . . .
Not that she wasn't pretty enough, just as she was, his Beret-girl;
this Per Hansa told himself many times.  But one day as he sat
looking at her, he suddenly got up, went over to the window, and
stood there gazing out; and then he said:

"I really think you ought to go and fix up your hair, Beret-girl.
. . .  I kind of feel that we're going to have company to-day."

She gave him a quick glance, blushed deeply, rose, and left the
room.  He heard her go into the stable, where she stayed a long
time; he couldn't imagine what she was doing in there at that hour
of the day.  Her actions made him feel worried and uncertain.  When
she came in again he did not dare to look at her. . . .  Then she
began to tidy herself; she took some water and washed, loosened up
her braids and combed her hair, and afterward coiled it very
prettily.  She gave herself plenty of time, and took careful pains.
. . .  At last he HAD to look at her; his whole self was in the
gaze that he fixed upon her; he would have liked to say something
kind and loving to her now.  But she did not glance at him, and so
he dared not speak. . . .  In a little while he found an excuse to
go out; passing close to her, he said in a tender, admiring voice:

"Now we've got a fine-looking lady!"

All the rest of that day he felt happier than he had been for a
long while. . . .  Of course his Beret-girl would be all right. . . .
Indeed, she WAS all right, as far as that went! . . .

But . . . other days followed.  Per Hansa remained idle and had
nothing to do but look at his wife.  He looked and looked, until he
had to face the hard fact that something was wrong.

. . . Had she ever been so brooding and taciturn when she was with
child before?  He could talk to the boys about the future until
they would be completely carried away by his visions; but whenever
he tried to draw her into the conversation he failed completely--
failed, no matter which tack he took nor how hard he tried.  He
understood it clearly: it wasn't because she did not want to
respond--she COULDN'T! . . .  The pain of it surged through him
like a wave.  God in Heaven, had she grown so weak and helpless!
. . .  She wasn't even able to take nourishment. . . .  There Beret
sat in the room with them, within four paces--yet she was far, far
away.  He spoke to her now, to her alone, but could not make her
come out of the enchanted ring that lay about her. . . .  When he
discovered this, it hurt him so that he could have shrieked. . . .

. . . Another queer thing, she was always losing the commonest
objects--completely losing them, though they were right at hand.
He had seen it happen several times without taking much notice; but
by and by it began to occur so frequently that he was forced to pay
attention.  She would put a thing down, merely turn around, and
then go about searching for it in vain; and the thing would lie
exactly where she had placed it, all the time. . . .  This happened
again and again; sometimes it struck them all as very funny. . . .
"It looks as if your eyes were in your way, Mother!" Store-Hans
once exclaimed, laughing so heartily that the others had to join
in; but Per Hansa soon noticed that she was hurt when they made fun
of her.

One day she was looking for the scissors.  She had been sitting by
the stove, mending a garment; had risen to put on more fuel; and
when she sat down again had been unable to find her scissors, which
she held all the while in her hand.  She searched diligently, and
asked the others to help her.  Suddenly Ole discovered the scissors
in his mother's hand; he ran up to her and jerked them away; the
boy was roaring with laughter. . . .  Then she burst into violent
tears, laid her work aside, threw herself down on the bed, and
buried her face in the pillow.  All three menfolk felt painfully
embarrassed.

And sometimes she had moments of unusual tenderness toward them all--
particularly toward Per Hansa.  Her concern would grow touchingly
childlike; it was as if she could not do enough for him and the
children.  But it was a tenderness so delicate that he dared not
respond to it.  Nevertheless, he felt very happy when these moods
came; they gave him renewed courage.

. . . Of course she would be all right again as soon as it was
over! . . .  And now the event could not be far away! . . .


V


Winter was ever tightening its grip.  The drifting snow flew wildly
under a low sky, and stirred up the whole universe into a whirling
mass; it swept the plain like the giant broom of a witch, churning
up a flurry so thick that people could scarcely open their eyes.

As soon as the weather cleared icy gusts drove through every chink
and cranny, leaving white frost behind; people's breaths hung
frozen in the air the moment it was out of the mouth; if one
touched iron, a piece of skin would be torn away.

At intervals a day of bright sunshine came.  Then the whole vast
plain glittered with the flashing brilliance of diamonds; the glare
was so strong that it burnt the sight; the eyes saw blackness where
there was nothing but shining white. . . .

. . . Evenings . . . magic, still evenings, surpassing in beauty
the most fantastic dreams of childhood! . . .  Out to the westward--
so surprisingly near--a blazing countenance sank to rest on a
white couch . . . set it afire . . . kindled a radiance . . . a
golden flame that flowed in many streams from horizon to horizon;
the light played on the hundreds and thousands and millions of
diamonds, and turned them into glittering points of yellow and red,
green and blue fire.

. . . Such evenings were dangerous for all life.  To the strong
they brought reckless laughter--for who had ever seen such moon-
nights? . . .  To the weak they brought tears, hopeless tears.
This was not life, but eternity itself. . . .

Per Hansa sat in his hut, ate, drank, puffed at his pipe, and
followed his wife with his eyes in vague alarm; for the life of him
he didn't know what to do.  Where could he betake himself?  It
wouldn't do for him to go from house to house, when things were in
such a bad way at home. . . .  No, here he was condemned to sit!
. . .  His temper was growing steadily worse; he found it more and
more difficult to keep his hands off things.

He would be seized by a sudden, almost irresistible desire to take
Beret, his own blessed Beret, hold her on his knee like a naughty
child--just MAKE her sit there--and reason with her . . . talk some
sense into her!

For this wasn't altogether fair play on her part!  Of course it was
hard for her these days; but after all, the time would soon come to
an end; and THAT was something real to struggle with--something to
glory in!  Besides, she had her wonted round of duties to perform.
. . .  But he! . . .  Here he was forced to sit in idleness, and
just let his eyes wander! . . .

. . . And it wasn't right for him to feel this way, either; but
the endless waiting had at last got on his nerves. . . .  Strange,
how long it took!  Hadn't the time ought to be drawing near pretty
soon? . . .  During these days he often thought about the matter of
a name.  He immediately decided that if it turned out to be a girl,
she should be named BERET; that part of it was settled.  But
suppose she bore him a boy?  In that case he wasn't so certain.
Two boy's names were running in his mind, but--well, time would
tell. . . .  If she would only hurry up and bring forth the child,
he would guarantee to find a suitable name for it!

He began to feel weak and miserable as he dragged himself about the
house. . . .  Then, one day, came a fascinating thought: if he
could only make a short trip east to the Sioux River, to visit the
Trönders!  This spell of cold weather was nothing to mind; it was a
long way, to be sure, but he felt that he could easily manage it.
Hadn't he sailed a cockleshell of an eight-oared boat all the way
from Helgeland to West Lofoten in the dark of winter?  This would
be mere child's play compared to that journey. . . .  What great
sport it would be to fish with a net through the ice!  From the
Trönders, who were old settlers in this region, he could get a lot
more valuable information; it was really remarkable, what they had
told him last time, about the fur trade with the Indians north at
Flandreau. . . .  Whenever the thought of this journey came to him
he could hardly push it aside.

. . . Useless even to dream of such a thing!  Here was poor Beret,
pottering helplessly about--he must think only of her.

And Per Hansa tried his best to think of her to some effect.  He
had noticed that she minded the cold; she never complained, but he
was well aware of it; from now on he tended the fire himself and
kept the stove red hot most of the day.  In spite of that he
couldn't get the house properly warm when the cold was at its
worst; the earthen floor was always cold and Beret's feet seemed
particularly sensitive.

One day Per Hansa got an idea which gave him much diversion.  While
they had been busy chopping the wood he had selected a few of the
largest and straightest-grained sticks, trimmed them out square,
and stood them behind the stove to dry; he had promised himself
that he would make something out of them during the winter.  Now he
chose the best piece he could pick out; he had decided to make a
pair of clogs for Beret; he knew by experience that such shoes were
very warm while they were new.  For a long while he couldn't think
of any material to use for the vamps; then he resolutely cut off a
corner of the old sheepskin robe which they used on their bed; he
sheared the wool snug, and made the vamps of that. . . .  He did a
neat, attractive job and felt rather proud when the job was
finished.

He brought the clogs to Beret and put them on her feet.

It was plain to be seen that she was touched by the gift; but then
she said something that he wished she had left unspoken:

"You might have thought of this before, it seems to me.  Here I
have gone with cold feet all winter." . . .  The words were uttered
quietly; she meant no reproach by them, but merely said what came
into her mind.

He turned away and went out of the house; outside the door he
paused, and stood for a long time gazing off into the evening. . . .
Somewhere out there life was still happy. . . .  There was no
solitude. . . .  Didn't it seem to call to him?

Per Hansa felt that now he needed to cry. . . .


VI


A day came when Per Hansa flared up in a rage that frightened even
himself; he struck out blindly and smashed whatever happened to lie
within his reach.  It was one of the Solum boys that brought it
about.  One forenoon Henry came over and sat chatting for a long
while, as if he had nothing in particular on his mind; Per Hansa
was glad of the visit, and urged Henry to stay.  When the lad
finally rose to go he asked if Per Hansa would be willing to keep
their cow until the time of the spring planting; he could HAVE the
calf she would drop in January, so he would be nothing out; and
there was plenty of hay left in their barn, which could be hauled
over . . . Henry spoke slowly, without looking up; he seemed almost
ashamed to explain his errand.

Per Hansa's eyes blinked fast. . . .  This was indeed handsome of
Henry; imagine his thinking more of Beret and the children than of
himself!  In fact, it was so generous, and handsomely done, that
Per Hansa felt quite overcome; his eyes blinked till they watered.
. . .  But he mustn't take an offer like this!  True enough, Rosie
was drying up and milk wasn't very plentiful in their house; but
they had learned to get along without it; they made plenty of soup,
and that filled the same need.  No, it would never do to take the
milk away from the Solum boys. . . .  "I don't very well see how I
can take your cow," Per Hansa answered.

Henry seemed perplexed, looked down at the floor, and apparently
did not know how to go on.

--Well, that wasn't exactly the idea, he said. . . .  He and his
brother had made a sleigh, and now they wanted to try it out.  The
cow couldn't be left alone after they were gone.

Per Hansa's eyes fairly danced; he leaned across the table,
speaking fast and eagerly:  The devil you say--going east to the
Sioux River, perhaps? . . .  What? . . .  He wished to the Lord he
could go along with them!  Couldn't they hold up for just a little
white--until he got ready? . . .  He threw a swift glance at his
wife.

--No, that wasn't exactly the idea, either, Henry confessed, still
more embarrassed.  Their parents were sitting alone, back there in
Minnesota; he and Sam had agreed that they had better go east and
celebrate Christmas with the old folks.  They had been getting
pretty lonesome here, anyway; there seemed to be nothing to do in
the dead of winter; but they fully intended to come back in the
spring, as soon as the prairie was open. . . .  Couldn't he do them
the favour of keeping the cow?

For an instant all the light seemed to die out of Per Hansa's face:
then it suddenly flared up again in a flame of rage that positively
snapped and crackled.

"Take your damned old cow along with you, Henry!  We want none of
your milk!" . . .  His lips trembled like those of one on the point
of bursting into tears.

--Well--said Henry, calmly--if that was the way Per Hansa felt
about it, he would have to ask some of the others; he certainly
didn't want to force the cow on anyone!  If they could find no
other way out of it, they would have to slaughter the beast; they
couldn't possibly take her with them. . . .  Without further words
he left the house.

It was then that the storm broke loose in earnest. . . .  The boys
were sitting at the table, each with a piece of charcoal, drawing
ponies and Indians on top; those of Store-Hans's were waging war
against Ole's; the boys were so taken up with their play that they
hardly noticed what was going on in the room.  Beret sat by the
stove, mending a garment; the child had also been given needle and
thread, and was industriously sewing away at a piece of rag. . . .
Per Hansa stood at the window, glaring out.

All at once Beret remarked in her quiet manner, without looking up,
that it didn't seem a bit strange to her that the Solum boys wanted
to leave the place.  Why should they lie exiled out here in the
wilderness?

It was as if something had suddenly stung Per Hansa; he wheeled
quickly and looked at his wife, his eyes hard and glazed.

"Hell!" he snapped . . . "If they were MEN, instead of such god-
damned lousy WORMS, they would find something to do!" . . .  Quiet
fell on the room after this outburst; Per Hansa sank down heavily
on the edge of the bench. . . .  All of a sudden he burst out
again:

--Ha--do! . . .  Two strong men!  Here lay the finest sleighing
that one could wish for!  If they had been grownup men, and not a
couple of babies, they would now be hauling home logs for their new
house! . . .  If HE didn't have to sit there like a sick woman, HE
would have had enough lumber on hand for the finest farmstead, long
ago--perhaps would have started to build by now!  Did she actually
believe there was nothing to do around here? . . .

His words cut through the little room like the harsh grating of a
file on a saw blade.

Again there was silence.  He got up savagely and stuck his pipe in
his mouth, but did not light it; he did not know what he was doing
now. . . .

It was Beret who broke the silence; although her question was
uttered very calmly, it seemed to cut deeper than his violent
outburst:

--Well, why didn't he go to work and do it, then?

Go to work?--he snarled.--Did SHE need to ask why he wasn't doing
anything?  Was she in such a condition that he could ever leave the
house? . . .

--Oh, she was in the condition he had brought her to--no worse and
no better--she said.  Now her words, too, vibrated with passion.--
No, indeed, he didn't need to sit at home on her account! she added
sharply.

Per Hansa drove his fist into the table with a terrible crash.  The
boys jumped up in fright and shrank away--never had they seen their
father like this; he looked as if he would strike their mother the
next instant.  Little And-Ongen threw the rag in her mother's lap,
put her hand into her mouth, and screamed in terror.

"You talk like a fool! . . .  That only shows how much sense you've
got!"

He saw a cap over on a wall somewhere, seized it, found the door,
and was gone. . . .

Per Hansa stayed outside nearly all of the day.  Before evening had
come, however, he had made a pair of skis for each of the boys:
they were rather heavy and clumsy affairs, but would serve the
purpose; the boys stood looking at them wide-eyed and happy--but
still they hardly dared to come near their father. . . .  When he
finally entered the house that evening the supper stood ready on
the table. . . .  Beret had gone to bed.

As soon as he had eaten he told the boys that he would have to go
on an errand over to Hans Olsa's; he wasn't sure when he would be
back; if he stayed late, they must go to bed. . . .  No, they
couldn't go with him! . . .  He gave a glance toward the bed as he
went out. . . .

When he reached Hans Olsa's house he asked at once if he might
speak to Sörine alone; he seemed bashful and embarrassed--tried to
assume a bantering air, but didn't quite succeed.  When Sörine had
stepped outside with him he asked beseechingly if she would be kind
enough to go over and look after Beret--the sooner the better!

--Was there anything going on? Sörine asked.

--No, not exactly THAT--though it must be nearly time now.  But
Sörine ought to remember that it was pretty lonesome for her,
sitting there alone, unable even to go outside the door.  Day after
day Beret neither saw nor heard another person, outside of the
family!

--Yes, certainly--she would be glad to run over!

--Could she go right away?

--Was there such an awful hurry?--Sörine still suspected Per
Hansa's denial.  If that was the case, he had better go and get
Kjersti at once; she didn't care to tackle this job alone!

--No, no--it wasn't that!

Sörine went in for a moment to put on her coat; soon she came out
again, ready to start.  He went with her for some distance. . . .

--Wasn't he coming along?--she asked, stopping to look inquiringly
at him.

--No, he guessed he wouldn't; he needed to have a little talk with
Hans Olsa to-night.  He only wanted to say this: that she who
understood all such things so capably, must look well to Beret now;
she mustn't come away and leave her too soon!

Sörine's kind, intelligent face looked straight into his.

"I can see that you're worried about your wife to-night, Per Hansa.
. . .  That's fine of you, I say!"

"God richly bless you for those words, Sörrina!"

Per Hansa suddenly felt like a new person; and yet he lacked the
courage to look up.

"But let me tell you one thing, Sörrina: I'm not half so worried
about my wife as I am about myself!  To-day I nearly laid hands on
her--that's how fine I am, and now you know it! . . .  Hurry
along!"

"You ought to have a whaling for that, Per Hansa!" she said with a
laugh, but immediately grew serious. . . .  "Alas! life lays a hard
hand on all of us! . . .  Well, now I'm off.  You don't need to
hurry to-night--if we need you, I'll send Ola."

Per Hansa stood there in the darkness of the winter night, looking
after the disappearing figure. . . .  No, her equal was not to be
found!  She could be both minister and father confessor, that
woman!


VII


He had barely entered Hans Olsa's house, found a seat, and lighted
his pipe, when another visitor arrived.  Tonseten came in,
apparently in a bad humour; no, he didn't want to sit down; he was
going farther on in a minute or two.  Did they know that the Solum
boys were about to leave?

"I guess we know as much as you do," said Per Hansa, dryly. . . .
"There's such a lot going on around here these days!"

"But this won't do, folks, I tell you--it simply won't do!  As
Kjersti says, soon we'll have nothing but the snow left!"

"And I hope that'll go in time, too," laughed Per Hansa.

"It probably will!" Tönseten snapped, irritably.  "But what I don't
understand is, why have you folks let things come to such a pass?"

"WE . . . ?" Per Hansa asked.

"Yes, YOU! . . .  The two of you!"

"We can't very well TIE UP the boys, when they are bent on going,"
said Hans Olsa.

"I didn't say we could!" . . .  Tönseten stood in front of him,
waving his arms excitedly.  "But we can use common sense, can't
we?"

"Very well, Syvert, let's hear your common sense," spoke up Per
Hansa.

"You talk like a fool, Per Hansa!  Here you both sit around and
twiddle your thumbs, doing nothing; but you've got cubs, and will
soon have more!  Why don't you join forces and hire Henry Solum to
teach school for your brats this winter?  There's a good enough
head on Henry's shoulders, let me tell you; he hasn't had much
schooling, to be sure; but the boy was born and raised in this
country, and can sling the English like a native--that much _I_
know. . . .  I haven't any brats of my own to send; but I'll gladly
chip in a few dollars, when my wheat is threshed next fall!" . . .
Tönseten seemed to have the details fully laid out, as usual.

The other two listened in silence.  The eyes of Per Hansa began to
shoot rapid, sparkling glances, which always betrayed the fact that
he was in good humour; but it was some time before he opened his
mouth.  Hans Olsa sat pondering over the new idea that had just
been proposed; it was perfectly true that the children needed
schooling; but how did this bear on the case, when the Solum boys
were ready and determined to go?

"I see you're still hesitating!" Tönseten exclaimed, snappishly.
"Listen here, now: we're all going straight over to the Solum boys
and talk them into it right away!"

"It strikes me this way," said Hans Olsa, slowly.  "If they have
made up their minds, it isn't right for us to interfere."

"Made up their minds!" snorted Tönseten, contemptuously.  "What
nonsense you're talking, Hans Olsa!  How many times have you made
up your mind, I'd like to know, and then unmade it again? . . .  I
can assure you of one thing, fellows: if we let Sam and Henry slip
away from us NOW, it's certainly doubtful if we ever see them again--
single and unhitched as they are!  That's just Kjersti's opinion,
too.  Then won't we be left in a fine mess, I ask you--for what
chance would we stand of ever getting such good neighbours again?"

"We might try it," Hans Olsa conceded.  "What do you think, Per
Hansa?"

Per Hansa jumped up from his chair.  "I'll do whatever you say,
friends.  We can get no worse than a refusal." . . .  But then he
remembered something, and hesitated for a moment. . . .  "I really
oughtn't to be going over there; but--oh, well! who cares!"  He
grabbed up his cap impulsively. . . .  "I might as well give Henry
a chance to tell me what he thinks of me! . . .  The sooner, the
better!"

They held a lengthy conference with the Solum boys that night.
Outside of their hut the sleigh waited in readiness; inside the
door the chest stood packed; the boys were on the point of going to
bed when the three men entered, and were evidently annoyed to see
them. . . .  The newcomers seemed unaccountably bashful.

Hans Olsa announced their errand.

At this Henry burst out laughing. . . .  No, a schoolteacher he
could never be, he said; he had other things to think of; back east
in Minnesota somewhere, a girl was straying about looking for him;
if he could only find her, he too would be needing a teacher by and
by! . . .

Then Tönseten began to talk; there was a note in his voice that put
all joking aside, even though they had to laugh at him now and
then:

"If you leave this place, you'll have to take Kjersti and me along
with you, though I don't know what we would do with ourselves back
in Minnesota!  She and I crossed the Red Sea, as it were, when we
left last spring. . . .  For her and me there is no road leading
back! . . .  What do you think we're going to do, I'd like to know,
when you are gone?  At Hans Olsa's they don't play cards; and Per
Hansa, poor devil--well, he has a sick woman on his hands. . . .
God alone knows how that business is going to come off.  That's
just what Kjersti says, too!"

Per Hansa had been silent ever since he came in; now he knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, rose from the chest, and turned to Henry:

"I'll tell you exactly how we stand--and this is gospel truth.  If
you and Sam leave us now, it'll be so dull and dreary for the rest
of us that we might as well hang ourselves.  You saw how I went to
pieces to-day?  You came and made me the finest kind of an offer,
and in return I flew right in your face; you know blamed well,
Henry, that such is not my way." . . .  Here he paused for a
moment, and then went on:  "What sort of a school-teacher you'll
make I haven't the faintest idea; I only know this, that you and
your brother are both fine fellows and that none of us can afford
to lose you. . . .  Now, go ahead and do as your heart bids!"

Per Hansa had spoken with forced calmness; the seriousness of the
situation bore in upon them all.  Everyone in the room had the same
thought: this strong man was likely at any minute to burst into
tears.

. . . A long silence fell.  Tönseten blew his nose violently
between his fingers, after which he wiped them off on his trousers.

At last Henry spoke--his voice was husky and subdued:

"It's harder on us than it is on you.  We have only each other; but
you have wives and children to squabble with!"

"Children!" cried Tönseten, wiping his eyes. . . .  "Good God! what
are you saying, Henry?" . . .

"Well, all the same," Henry continued, earnestly, "if you will
undertake to give us supper, one week with each of you, and have
our clothes mended, we'll try to hang on a little while. . . .
What do you say, Sam?"


VIII


The days wore on . . . sunny days . . . bleak, gloomy days, with
cold that congealed all life.

There was one who heeded not the light of the day, whether it might
be grey or golden.  Beret stared at the earthen floor of the hut
and saw only night round about her.

Yes . . . she faced only darkness.  She tried hard, but she could
not let in the sun.

Ever since she had come out here a grim conviction had been taking
stronger and stronger hold on her.

This was her retribution!

Now had fallen the punishment which the Lord God had meted out to
her; at last His visitation had found her out and she must drink
the cup of his wrath.  Far away she had fled, from the rising of
the sun to the going down thereof . . . so it had seemed to her
. . . but the arm of His might had reached farther still.  No, she
could not escape--this was her retribution!

The stillness out here had given her full opportunity for
reflection; all the fall she had done nothing but brood and
remember. . . .  Alas! she had much to remember!

She had accepted the hand of Per Hansa because she must--although
no law had compelled her; she and he were the only people who had
willed it thus.  She had been gotten with child by him out of
wedlock; nevertheless, no one had compelled her to marry him--
neither father, nor mother, nor anyone in authority.  It had been
wholly her own doing.  Her parents, in fact, had set themselves
against the marriage with all their might, even after the child,
Ole, had come.

. . . It had mattered nothing at all what they had said, nor what
anyone else had said; for her there had been no other person in the
world but Per Hansa!  Whenever she had been with him she had
forgotten the admonitions and prayers of her father and mother. . . .
He had been life itself to her; without him there had been
nothing. . . .  Therefore she had given herself to him, although
she had known it was a sin--had continued to give herself freely,
in a spirit of abandoned joy.

Now she found plenty of time to remember how her parents had
begged and threatened her to break with him; she recalled all that
they had said, turning it over in her mind and examining it
minutely. . . .  Per Hansa was a shiftless fellow, they had told
her, he drank; he fought; he was wild and reckless; he got himself
tangled up in all sorts of brawls; no honourable woman could be
happy with such a man.  He probably had affairs with other women,
too, whenever he had a chance. . . .  All the other accusations she
knew to be true; but not the last--no, not the last!  She alone
among women held his heart.  The certainty of this fact had been the
very sweetness of life to her. . . .  What did she care for the rest
of it!  All was as nothing compared with this great certainty. . . .
Ah, no--she knew it well enough: for him she was the only princess!

But now she understood clearly all that her parents had done to end
it between them, and all the sacrifices they had been willing to
make; she had not realized it at the time. . . .  Oh, those kind-
hearted parents on whom she had turned her back in order that she
might cleave to him: how they must have suffered!  The life which
she and he had begotten in common guilt they had offered to take as
their own, give it their name and their inheritance, and bring it
up as their very child.  They had freely offered to use their hard-
earned savings to send her away from the scene of her shame . . .
SO precious had she been to them!  But she had only said no, and
no, and NO, to all their offers of sacrifice and love! . . .  Had
there ever been a transgression so grievous as hers!

. . . Yet how could she ever have broken with him?  Where Per Hansa
was, there dwelt high summer and there it bloomed for her.  How can
a human forsake his very life? . . .  Whenever she heard of one of
his desperately reckless cruises through rough and stormy seas, on
which he had played with the lives of his comrades as well as his
own, her cheeks would glow and her heart would flame.  This was the
man her heart had chosen--this was he, and he alone! a voice would
sing within her.  Or when she sat among the heather on the mountain
side in the fair summer night, and he came to her and laid his head
in her lap--the tousled head that only she could lull to sleep--
then she felt that now she was crossing the very threshold of
paradise! . . .  Though she had had a thousand lives, she would
have thrown them all away for one such moment--and would have been
glad of the bargain! . . .

. . . Yes, she remembered all that had happened in those days; it
was so still out here . . . so easy to remember!

No one had ever told her, but she knew full well who it was that
had persuaded Hans Olsa to leave the land and the ancient farm that
had been in his family for generations, and go to America.  There
had been only one other person in the world whom Per Hansa loved,
and that was Hans Olsa.  She had been jealous of Hans Olsa because
of this; it had seemed to her that he took something that
rightfully belonged to her.  She had even felt the same way toward
Sörine, who was kindness itself; on this account she had not been
able to hold her friendship as fully as she needed to, either in
Norway or here. . . .

. . . But when Per Hansa had come home from Lofoten that spring and
announced in his reckless, masterful way, that he was off for
America: would Beret come now, or wait until later? . . .  Well,
there hadn't been a "no" in her mouth then!  There she had sat,
with three children in a nice little home which, after the manner
of simple folk, they had managed to build. . . .  But she had risen
up, taken the children with her, and left it all as if nothing
mattered but him!

. . . How her mother had wept at that time! . . .  How her father
had grieved when they had left!  Time after time he had come
begging to Per Hansa, offering him all that he had--boat and
fishing outfit, house and farm--if only he would settle down in
Norway and not take their daughter from them forever. . . .  But
Per Hansa had laughed it all aside!  There had been a power in his
unflinching determination which had sent hot waves through her.
She must have led a double life at that time; she had been sad with
her parents but had rejoiced with Per Hansa.  He had raged like a
storm through those days, wild and reckless--and sometimes
ruthless, too. . . .  No!--he had cried--they would just make that
little trip across the ocean!  America--that's the country where a
poor devil can get ahead!  Besides, it was only a little way; if
they didn't like it, they could drift back on the first fair
western breeze! . . .  So they had sold off everything that they
had won with so much toil, had left it all like a pair of worn-out
shoes--parents, home, fatherland, and people. . . .  And she had
done it gladly, even rejoicingly! . . .  Was there ever a sin like
hers?


IX


. . . Then she had arrived in America.  The country did not at all
come up to her expectations; here, too, she saw enough of poverty
and grinding toil.  What did it avail, that the rich soil lay in
endless stretches?  More than ever did she realize that "man liveth
not by bread alone!" . . .  Even the bread was none too plentiful
at times. . . .

Beyond a doubt, it was Destiny that had brought her thither. . . .
Destiny, the inexorable law of life, which the Lord God from
eternity had laid down for every human being, according to the path
He knew would be taken. . . .  Now punishment stood here awaiting
her--the punishment for having broken God's Commandment of filial
obedience. . . .  Throughout the fall she had been reckoning up her
score, and it came out exactly thus:  Destiny had so arranged
everything that the punishment should strike her all the more
inevitably.  Destiny had cast her into the arms of Per Hansa--and
she did not regret it!  Destiny had held up America as an enticing
will-o'-the-wisp--and they had followed! . . .

But no sooner had they reached America than the west-fever had
smitten the old settlements like a plague.  Such a thing had never
happened before in the history of mankind; people were intoxicated
by bewildering visions; they spoke dazedly, as though under the
force of a spell. . . .  "Go west! . . .  Go west, folks! . . .
The farther west, the better the land!" . . .  Men beheld in
feverish dreams the endless plains, teeming with fruitfulness,
glowing, out there where day sank into night--a Beulah Land of corn
and wine! . . .  She had never dreamed that the good Lord would let
such folly loose among men.  Were it only the young people who had
been caught by the plague, she would not have wondered; but the old
had been taken even worse. . . .  "Now we're bound west!" said the
young. . . .  "Wait a minute--we're going along with you!" cried
the old, and followed after. . . .  Human beings gathered together,
in small companies and large--took whatever was movable along, and
left the old homestead without as much as a sigh!  Ever westward
led the course, to where the sun glowed in matchless glory as it
sank at night; people drifted about in a sort of delirium, like sea
birds in mating time; then they flew toward the sunset, in small
flocks and large--always toward Sunset Land. . . .  Now she saw it
clearly: here on the trackless plains, the thousand-year-old hunger
of the poor after human happiness had been unloosed!

Into this feverish atmosphere they had come.  Could Destiny have
spun his web more cunningly?  She remembered well how the eyes of
Per Hansa had immediately begun to gleam and glow! . . .  And the
strange thing about this spell had been that he had become so very
kind under it.  How playfully affectionate he had grown toward her
during the last winter and spring!  It had been even more
deliriously sweet to give herself to him then, than back in those
days when she had first won him.  Was it not worth all the care and
sorrow in the world to taste such bliss, she had often asked
herself--but had been unable to answer.  But--then it had happened:
this spring she had been gotten with child again. . . .  Let no one
tell her that this was not Destiny!

She had urged against this last journey; she had argued that they
must tarry where they were until she had borne the child.  One year
more or less would make no difference, considering all the land
there was in the west . . . Hans Olsa, however, had been ready to
start; and so there had been no use in trying to hold back Per
Hansa.  All her misgiving he had turned to sport and laughter, or
playful love; he had embraced her, danced around with her, and
become so roguish that she had been forced to laugh with him. . . .
"Come here, Litagod--now we're gone!" . . .  She well recalled how
lovely this endearing term had sounded in her ears, the first night
he had used it. . . .

But this was clear to her beyond a doubt: Per Hansa was without
blame in what had happened--all the blame was hers. . . .  He had
never been so tender toward her as in the days since they had come
out here; she could not have thought it possible for one human
being to have such strong desire for another as he held. . . .  Who
could match him--who dared follow where he led?  She remembered all
that he had wrought since they had set out on their journey last
spring, and felt that no one else could do it after him.  He was
like the north wind that sweeps the cloud banks from the heavens!
. . .  At these thoughts, something unspeakably soft and loving came
into Beret's eyes. . . .  No, not like the north wind: like the
gentle breeze of a summer's night--that's how he was! . . .  And
this, too, was only retribution!  She had bound herself inseparably
to this man; now she was but a hindrance to him, like chains around
his feet; him, whom she loved unto madness, she burdened and
impeded . . . she was only in his way!

. . . But that he could not understand it--that he could not fathom
the source of her trouble; that seemed wholly incomprehensible to
her.  Didn't he realize that she could never be like him? . . .  No
one in all the world was like him!  How could she be? . . .


X


Beret struggled with many thoughts these days.

. . . Wasn't it remarkable how ingeniously Destiny had arranged it
all?  For ten long years he had cast her about like a chip on the
current, and then had finally washed her ashore here.  HERE, far
off in the great stillness, where there was nothing to hide behind--
here the punishment would fall! . . .  Could a better place have
been found in which to lay her low?

. . . Life was drawing to a close.  One fact stood before her
constantly: she would never rise again from the bed in which she
was soon to lie down. . . .  This was the end.

. . . Often, now, she found herself thinking of the churchyard at
home. . . .  It would have been so pleasant to lie down there. . . .
The churchyard was enclosed by a massive stone wall, broad and
heavy; one couldn't imagine anything more reliable than that wall.
She had sat on it often in the years when she was still her
father's little girl. . . .  In the midst of the churchyard lay the
church, securely protecting everything round about.  No fear had
ever dwelt in that place; she could well remember how the boys used
to jump over the graves; it had been great fun, too--at times she
had joined the game. . . .  Within that wall many of her dear ones
slumbered: two brothers whom she had never seen, and a little
sister that she remembered quite clearly, though she had died long,
long ago; her grandparents, on both her father's and her mother's
side, also rested here, and one of her great-grandfathers.  She
knew where all these graves lay.  Her whole family, generation
after generation, rested there--many more than she had any
knowledge of. . . .  Around the churchyard stood a row of venerable
trees, looking silently down on the peace and the stillness within.
. . .  They gave such good shelter, those old trees!

. . . She could not imagine where he would bury her out here. . . .
NOW, in the dead of winter--the ground frozen hard! . . .  How
would he go about it? . . .  If he would only dig deep down . . .
the wolves gave such unearthly howls at night!  No matter what he
thought of it, she would have to speak to him about the grave. . . .
Well, no need to mention it just now.

One day when Beret had to go out she stayed longer than usual.
Before she finally came back to the house she went to the spot
where the woodpile had stood, visited the curious little fort which
they had built of chopped wood, and then entered the stable. . . .
It worried her to know where he would find material for a coffin.
She had looked everywhere outside, but had discovered only a few
bits of plank and the box in which he had mixed the lime. . . .
Hadn't she better remind him of this at once?  Then perhaps he
could go to the Trönders, east on the Sioux River, and get some
lumber from them. . . .  Never mind, she wouldn't do anything about
it for a few days yet.

. . . If he could only spare her the big chest! . . .  Beret fell
to looking at it, and grew easier in her mind. . . .  That chest
had belonged to her great-grandfather, but it must have been in
the family long before his day; on it she could make out only the
words "Anno 16--" . . . the rest was completely worn away.  Along
the edges and running twice around the middle were heavy iron
bands. . . .  Beret would go about looking at the chest--would lift
the lid and gaze down inside. . . .  Plenty of room in there, if
they would only put something under her head and back!  She felt as
if she could sleep safely in that bed.  She would have to talk to
Sörine about all these matters. . . .  One day Beret began to empty
the chest; she got Per Hansa to make a small cupboard out of the
mortar box, and put all the things in there; but she took great
care not to do this while he was around.

She realized now the great forethought he had shown last summer in
building the house and stable under one roof.  They undoubtedly had
the warmest house in the neighbourhood; and then she enjoyed the
company of the animals as she lay awake at night; it felt so cosy
and secure to lie there and listen to them. . . .  She could easily
distinguish each animal by its particular manner of breathing and
lying down.  The oxen were always the last to finish munching;
Rosie was the first to go to sleep; Injun's habits were entirely
different from those of the others; he moved softly, almost without
noise, as if engaged in some secret business.  She never could hear
him, except when the howl of a wolf sounded near by; then he would
snort and stamp his feet.  It was probably the wild blood in him
that made him so different! . . .  Beret had learned to love the
pony.

When she was not listening to the animals she had other things to
occupy her mind. . . .  As a little girl, she had often been taken
into bed by her grandmother.  This grandmother had been a kindly
woman, sunny and always happy, in spite of her great age; each
night before going to sleep she would repeat to herself pious
little verses from memory.  Beret could not remember them all now;
but she managed to patch them together little by little, inserting
new lines of her own, and repeating them over and over to herself.
This she would do for hours at a time, occasionally sitting up in
bed to say the verses aloud:


     "Thy heavy wrath avert
     From me, a wretched sinner;
     Thy blissful mercy grant,
     Father of love eternal!

     "My sins are as many
     As dust in the rays of the sun,
     And as sands on the shore of the sea--
     If by Thee requited,
     I must sink benighted.

     "Look with pity,
     Tender Saviour,
     At my wretched state!
     Wounds of sin are burning;
     May Thy hands, in love returning,
     Heal my stinging stripes!

     "Weighed by guilt I weary wander
     In the desert here below;
     When I measure
     My transgressions,
     Breaches of Thy holy law,
     I must ponder
     Oft, and wonder;
     Canst Thou grace on me bestow?

     "Gentle Saviour,
     Cast my burden
     Deep into the mercy-sea!
     Blessed Jesus,
     Mild Redeemer,
     Thou Who gav'st Thy life for me!"


XI


The day before Christmas Eve snow fell.  It fell all that night and
the following forenoon. . . .  Still weather, and dry, powdery
snow. . . .  Murk without, and leaden dusk in the huts.  People sat
oppressed in the sombre gloom.

. . . Things were in a bad way over at Per Hansa's now; everyone
knew it and feared what might befall both Beret and him. . . .  No
one could help; all that could be done was to bide the time; for
soon a change must come!

"Listen, folks," said Tönseten, trying to comfort them as best he
could.  "Beret can't keep this up forever!  I think you had better
go over to her again, Kjersti!"

Both neighbour women were now taking turns at staying with her,
each one a day at a time.  They saw clearly that Per Hansa was more
in need of help than Beret; there was no helping her now, while
something, at least, could be done for him and the children.
Christmas would soon be here, too, and the house ought to be made
comfortable and cosy!

They all felt very sorry for Per Hansa.  He walked about like a
ragged stray dog; his eyes burned with a hunted look.  Each day,
the children were sent over to Hans Olsa's to stay for a while; if
they remained longer than they had been told, he made no protest;
at last they formed the habit of staying the whole day.  He did not
realize that it was bad for Beret to be without them so much; he
tried to keep the talk going himself, but she had little to say;
she answered in monosyllables and had grown peculiarly quiet and
distant.  In the shadow of a faint smile which she occasionally
gave him there lay a melancholy deeper than the dusk of the Arctic
Sea on a rainy, grey fall evening.

About noon of Christmas Eve the air suddenly cleared.  An invisible
fan was pushed in under the thick, heavy curtain that hung
trembling between earth and heaven--made a giant sweep, and
revealed the open, blue sky overhead.  The sun shone down with
powerful beams, and started a slight trickling from the eaves.
Toward evening, it built a golden fairy castle for itself out
yonder, just beyond Indian Hill.

The children were at Hans Olsa's; And-Ongen wanted to stay outside
and watch the sunset.  Sofie had told her that to-day was Christmas
Eve, and that on every Christmas Jesus came down from heaven.  The
child asked many questions. . . .  Would he come driving?  Couldn't
they lend him the pony? . . .  Sofie hardly thought so--he probably
would be driving an angel-pony!

Store-Hans, who was listening to them, thought this very silly and
just like girls.  He knew better! . . .  Toward evening he suddenly
wanted to go home, and was almost beside himself when his godfather
said that he couldn't: all the children were to stay with Sofie to-
night.  They had to hold him back by force. . . .  This was
CHRISTMAS EVE. . . .  He understood very well that something was
about to go wrong at home.  Why had his mother looked so wan and
worn of late, and his father acted so queer that one couldn't talk
to him?

That afternoon Beret was in childbed. . . .  The grim struggle
marked Per Hansa for life; he had fought his way through many a
hard fight, but they had all been as nothing compared with this.
He had ridden the frail keel of a capsized boat on the Lofoten
seas, had seen the huge, combing waves snatch away his comrades one
by one, and had rejoiced in the thought that the end would soon
come for him also; but things of that sort had been mere child's
play. . . .  THIS was the uttermost darkness.  Here was neither
beginning nor end--only an awful void in which he groped alone. . . .

Sörine and Kjersti had both arrived a long time since.  When they
had come he had put on his coat and gone outside; but he hadn't
been able to tear himself many steps away from the house.

Now it was evening; he had wandered into the stable to milk Rosie,
forgetting that she had gone dry long ago; he had tended to Injun
and the oxen, without knowing what he was about. . . .  He listened
to Beret wailing in the other room, and his heart shrivelled; thus
a weak human being could not continue to suffer, and yet live. . . .
And this was his own Beret!

He stood in the door of the stable, completely undone.  Just then
Kjersti ran out to find him; he must come in at once; Beret was
asking for him! . . .  Kjersti was gone in a flash. . . .  He
entered the house, took off his outdoor clothes, and washed his
hands. . . .

. . . Beret sat half dressed on the edge of the bed.  He looked
at her, and thought that he had never seen such terror on any
face. . . .  God in heaven--this was beyond human endurance!

She was fully rational, and asked the neighbour women to leave the
room for a moment, as she had something to say to her husband.  She
spoke with great composure; they obeyed immediately.  When the door
closed behind them Beret rose and came over to him, her face
distorted.  She laid a hand on each of his shoulders, and looked
deep into his eyes, then clasped her hands behind his neck and
pulled him violently toward her.  Putting his arms firmly around
her, he lifted her up gently and carried her to the bed; there he
laid her down.  He started to pull the covers over her. . . .  But
she held on to him; his solicitous care she heeded not at all.

When he had freed himself, she spoke brokenly, between gasps:

. . . "To-night I am leaving you. . . .  Yes, I must leave you. . . .
I know this is the end!  The Lord has found me out because of my
sins. . . .  It is written, 'To fall into the hands of the living
God!' . . .  Oh!--it is terrible! . . .  I can't see how you will
get along when you are left alone . . . though I have only been a
burden to you lately. . . .  You had better give And-Ongen to
Kjersti . . . she wants a child so badly--she is a kind woman. . . .
You must take the boys with you--and GO AWAY FROM HERE! . . .
How lonesome it will be for me . . . to lie here all alone!"

Tears came to her eyes, but she did not weep; between moans she
went on strongly and collectedly:

"But promise me one thing: put me away in the big chest! . . .  I
have emptied it and made it ready. . . .  Promise to lay me away in
the big chest, Per Hansa! . . .  And you must be sure to dig the
grave deep! . . .  You haven't heard how terribly the wolves howl
at night! . . .  Promise to take plenty of time and dig deep down--
do you hear!"

His wife's request cut Per Hansa's heart like sharp ice; he threw
himself on his knees beside the bed and wiped the cold perspiration
from her face with a shaking hand.

. . . "There now, blessed Beret-girl of mine!" . . .  His words
sounded far off--a note of frenzy in them. . . .  "Can't you
understand that this will soon be over? . . .  To-morrow you'll be
as chipper as a lark again!"

Her terror tore her only the worse.  Without heeding his words, she
spoke with great force out of the clearness of her vision:

"I shall die to-night. . . .  Take the big chest! . . .  At first I
thought of asking you not to go away when spring came . . . and
leave me here alone. . . .  But that would be a sin! . . .  I tell
you, you MUST go! . . .  Leave as soon as spring comes!  Human
beings cannot exist here! . . .  They grow into beasts. . . ."

The throes were tearing her so violently now that she could say no
more.  But when she saw him rise she made a great effort and sat up
in bed.

. . . "Oh!--don't leave me!--don't go away! . . .  Can't you see
how sorely I need you? . . .  And now I shall die! . . .  Love me--
oh, do love me once more, Per Hansa!" . . .  She leaned her body
toward him. . . .  "You must go back to Norway. . . .  Take the
children with you . . . let them grow up there.  Ask father and
mother to forgive me! . . .  Tell father that I am lying in the big
chest! . . .  Can't you stay with me to-night . . . stay with me
and love me? . . .  Oh!--THERE THEY COME FOR ME!"

Beret gave a long shriek that rent the night.  Then she sobbed
violently, praying that they should not take her away from Per
Hansa. . . .

Per Hansa leaped to his feet, and found his voice.

"Satan--now you shall leave her alone!" he shouted, flinging the
door open and calling loudly to the women outside.  Then he
vanished into the darkness.

No one thought of seeking rest that night.  All the evening, lights
shone from the four huts; later they were extinguished in two of
them; but in the house of Hans Olsa four men sat on, grieving over
the way things were going at Per Hansa's.  When they could bear the
suspense no longer some one proposed going over to get news.

Tönseten offered to go first. . . .  When he came back little sense
could be gathered from what he said.  He had not been allowed
inside; the women were in a frenzy; the house was completely upset;
Beret was wailing so loud that it was dreadful to hear.  And Per
Hansa himself was nowhere to be found. . . .  "We must go and look
for him, boys! . . .  Haven't you got a Bible or something to read
from, Hans Olsa?  This is an awful thing!"

. . . There they sat, each occupied with his own thoughts--but all
their thoughts were of the same trend.  If Beret died to-night, it
would go hard with Per Hansa--indeed it would.  In that case he
probably wouldn't stay out here very long. . . .  But if he went
away, the rest of them might as well pack up and go, too!

Sam ran over to inquire; then Henry; at last it was Hans Olsa's
turn.  He managed to get a couple of words with his wife, who said
that Beret would hardly stand it.  No one had seen Per Hansa.

"Can you imagine where the man can be keeping himself?" asked
Tönseten, giving voice to the fear that oppressed them all. . . .
"May the Lord preserve his wits, even if He chooses to take his
wife away!" . . .

Per Hansa walked to and fro outside the hut all night long; when he
heard some one coming he would run away into the darkness.  He
could not speak to a living soul to-night.  As soon as the visitor
had gone he would approach the hut again, circle around it, stop,
and listen.  Tears were streaming down his face, though he was not
aware of it. . . .  Every shriek that pierced the walk of the hut
drove him off as if a whip had struck him; but as soon as it had
died out, something would draw him back again.  At intervals he
went to the door and held it ajar. . . .  What did Per Hansa care
for custom and decency, now that his Beret lay struggling with
death! . . .  Each time Sörine came to the door, each time she
shook her head sadly, and told him there was no change yet; it was
doubtful if Beret would be able to pull through; no person could
endure this much longer; God have mercy on all of them!

That was all the comfort Sörine could give him. . . .  Then he
would rush off into the darkness again, to continue his endless
pacing; when daylight came they found a hard path tramped into the
snow around the hut.

The night was well-nigh spent when the wails in there began to
weaken--then died out completely, and did not come again.  Per
Hansa crept up to the door, laid his ear close to it, and listened.
. . .  So now the end had come!  His breath seemed to leave him in
a great sob.  The whole prairie began to whirl around with him; he
staggered forward a few steps and threw himself face downward on
the snow.

. . . But then suddenly things didn't seem so bad to him . . .
really not so bad. . . .  He saw a rope . . . a rope. . . .  It was
a good, strong rope that would hold anything. . . .  It hung just
inside the barn door--and the crossbeam ran just THERE! . . .  No
trick at all to find these things.  Per Hansa felt almost happy at
the thought; that piece of rope was good and strong--and the
crossbeam ran just THERE!

. . . A door opened somewhere; a gleam of light flashed across the
snow, and vanished.  Some one came out of the hut quietly--then
stopped, as if searching.

"Per Hansa!" a low voice called. . . .  "Per Hansa, where are
you?" . . .  He rose and staggered toward Kjersti like a drunken man.

"You must come in at once!" she whispered, and hurried in before
him.

The light was dim in there; nevertheless it blinded him so strongly
that he could not see a thing.  He stood a moment leaning against
the door until his eyes had grown accustomed to it. . . .  A snug,
cosy warmth enveloped him; it carried with it an odd, pleasant
odour.  The light, the warmth, and the pleasant smell overcame him
like sweet sleep that holds a person who has been roused, but who
does not care to awaken just yet.

"How is it?" he heard a man's voice ask.  Then he came back to his
senses. . . .  Was that he himself speaking? . . .

"You'll have to ask Sörrina," Kjersti answered.

Sörine was tending something on the bed; not until now did he
discover her--and wake up completely. . . .  What was this? . . .
the expression on her face?  Wasn't it beaming with motherly
goodness and kindliness?

"Yes, here's your little fellow!  I have done all I know how.  Come
and look at him. . . .  It's the greatest miracle I ever saw, Per
Hansa, that you didn't lose your wife to-night, and the child
too! . . .  I pray the Lord I never have to suffer so!"

"Is there any hope?" was all Per Hansa could gasp--and then he
clenched his teeth.

"It looks so, now--but you had better christen him at once. . . .
We had to handle him roughly, let me tell you."

"CHRISTEN HIM?" Per Hansa repeated, unable to comprehend the words.

"Why, yes, of course.  I wouldn't wait, if he were mine."

Per Hansa heard no more--for now Beret turned her head and a wave
of such warm joy welled up in him that all the ice melted.  He
found himself crying softly, sobbing like a child. . . .  He
approached the bed on tiptoe, bent over it, and gazed down into the
weary, pale face.  It lay there so white and still; her hair,
braided in two thick plaits, flowed over the pillow.  All the
dread, all the tormenting fear that had so long disfigured her
features, had vanished completely. . . .  She turned her head a
little, barely opened her eyes, and said, wearily:

"Oh, leave me in peace, Per Hansa. . . .  Now I was sleeping so
well."

. . . The eyelids immediately closed.


XII


Per Hansa stood for a long time looking at his wife, hardly daring
to believe what he saw.  She slept peacefully; a small bundle lay
beside her, from which peeped out a tiny, red, wrinkled face. . . .
As he continued to gaze at her he sensed clearly that this moment
was making him a better man!

At last he gathered his wits sufficiently to turn to Sörine and
ask:

"Tell me, what sort of a fellow is this you have brought me--a boy
or a girl?"

"Heavens!  Per Hansa, how silly you talk!" . . .  Kjersti and
Sörine both had to laugh as they looked at Per Hansa; such a
foolish, simple expression they had never seen on the face of a
living man! . . .  But Sörine immediately grew serious once more,
and said that this was no time for joking; the way they had tugged
and pulled at him during the night, you couldn't tell what might
happen; Per Hansa must get the child christened right away; if he
put if off, she refused to be responsible.

A puzzled expression came over the grinning face.

"You'd better do that christening yourself, Sörrina!"

--No!--she shook her head emphatically.  That wasn't a woman's job--
he must understand! . . .  "And you ought to have it done with
proper decorum, and thank the Lord for doing so well by you!"

Without another word Per Hansa found his cap and went to the door;
but there he paused a moment to say:

"I know only one person around here who is worthy to perform such
an act; since you are unwilling, I must go and get him. . . .  In
the meanwhile, you make ready what we will need; the hymn book
you'll find on the shelf over by the window. . . .  I won't be
long!"

The kindly eyes of Sörine beamed with joy and pride; she knew very
well the one he intended to get; this was really handsome of Per
Hansa! . . .  But then another thought crossed her mind; she
followed him out, and closed the door after her.

"Wait a minute," she said.  "I must tell you that your boy had the
helmet* on when he came! . . .  I think you ought to find a very
beautiful name for him!"


* The English equivalent is, "to be born with the caul."
Considerable superstition has always been attached to this
phenomenon and in Norway especially so; a person born with the
helmet on had been singled out by Destiny for something
extraordinary.


"What are you saying, Sörrina!"

"Yes, sir--that he had! . . .  And you know what THAT means!"

Per Hansa drew his sleeve across his face--then turned and walked
away.  A moisture dimmed his eyes--he could not see. . . .

Outside it was now broad daylight; the sun stood some distance up
in the sky, looking down on a desolate earth.  It was going to be
cold to-day, Per Hansa noticed; clouds of frosty mist like huge
writhing serpents curled over the surface of the purplish-yellow
plain.  The sunbeams plunging into them kindled a weird light.  He
tingled with the cold; his eyelashes froze together so that he had
to rub them with his mittens to keep them free.

. . . How remarkable--the child had been born with the helmet
on! . . .  He quickened his pace; in a moment he was running. . . .

"Peace be upon this house, and a merry Christmas, folks!" he
greeted them as he entered Hans Olsa's door. . . .  The room was
cold; the Solum boys lay in one bed, fully dressed; both were so
sound asleep that they did not wake up at his coming.  His own
children and Sofie lay in the other bed, Ole by himself down at the
foot, the other three on the pillow; Store-Hans held And-Ongen
close, as if trying to protect her.  Hans Olsa and Tönseten had
moved their chairs up to the stove, and sat hunched over on either
side; Tönseten was nodding, the other was wide awake; both men
jumped up when Per Hansa came in, and stood staring at him.

Per Hansa had to laugh outright at them; they were looking at him
as if they had seen a ghost.  But to the two men his laugh sounded
pleasanter than anything they had heard in many a year.

"How are things coming?" asked Tönseten, excitedly, working his
shoulders.

"Oh, it might have been worse!"

Hans Olsa grasped his hand:  "Will she pull through?"

"It looks that way."

Then Tönseten suddenly seemed to realize that it was cold in the
room; he began to walk around, beating goose with his arms. . . .
"I'm ready to bet both my horses that it's a boy!  I can see it in
your face!" he exclaimed, still beating.

"All signs point that way, Syvert!  But he's in pretty poor
condition, Sörrina tells me. . . .  Now look here, Hans Olsa: it's
up to you to come over and christen the boy for me!"

Hans Olsa looked terror-stricken at his neighbour. . . .  "You must
be crazy, Per Hansa!"

"Nothing of the kind, Hans Olsa. . . .  You just get yourself
ready. . . .  It's all written down in the hymn book--what to say,
and how to go about it."

"No, no--I couldn't think of such a thing!" protested Hans Olsa,
all of a tremble with the feeling of awe that had suddenly taken
possession of him. . . .  "A sinner like me!" . . .

Then Per Hansa made a remark that Tönseten thought was extremely
well put:

"How you stand with the Lord I don't know.  But this I do know:
that a better man either on land or sea, He will have to look a
long way to find. . . .  And it seems to me that He has got to take
that, too, into His reckoning!"

But Hans Olsa only stood there in terror. . . .  "You'd better ask
Syvert to do it!"

Then Tönseten grew alarmed:

"Don't stand there talking like a fool! . . .  We all know that if
one of us two is to tackle this job, it must be you, Hans Olsa. . . .
There is nothing for you to do but go at once; this business
won't stand any dillydallying, let me tell you!"

Hans Olsa gazed straight ahead; his helplessness grew so great that
he was funny to look at; but no one thought of laughing, just the
same. . . .  "If it only won't be blasphemy!" . . .  He finally
straggled into his big coat and put on his mittens.  Then he turned
to Tönseten. . . .  "The book says:  'In an extreme emergency a
layman may perform this act'--isn't that so?"

"Yes, yes--just so! . . .  Whatever else you'll need, is written
there too!"

Through the frosty morning the two men walked silently across the
prairie, Per Hansa in the lead.  When they had covered half the
distance he stopped short and said to his neighbour:

"If it had been a girl, you see, she should have been named Beret--
I decided that a long while ago. . . .  But seeing that it's a boy,
we'll have to name him Per, you must say Peder, of course! . . .
I've thought a good deal about Joseph--he was a pretty fine lad, no
doubt. . . .  But grandfather's name was Per, and there wasn't a
braver, worthier man on that part of the coast; so it'll just have
to be Per again this time. . . .  But say, now--"  Per Hansa paused
a moment, pondering; then he looked up at his neighbour, and his
eyes began to gleam. . . .  "The boy must have a second name--so
you'd better christen him Peder Seier!* . . . The last is after
your Sörrina. . . .  She has done me a greater service this night
than I can ever repay!  And now the boy is to be named after her!"


* The name Seier, which means Victorious, was altogether unusual to
Norwegian ears.  The English equivalent will be used from now on.
As this name plays such an important part in the psychology of Book
II the reader would do well to remember the Norwegian form.


Hans Olsa could think of nothing to say in answer to all this.
They walked on in silence. . . .

When they came into the room, they stepped across the threshold
reverently.  An air of Sabbath had descended on the room.  The sun
shone brightly through the window, spreading a golden lustre over
the white walls; only along the north wall, where the bed stood, a
half shadow lingered. . . .  The fire crackled in the stove; the
coffeepot was boiling.  The table had been spread with a white
cover; upon it lay the open hymn book, with the page turned down.
Beside the hymn book stood a bowl of water; beside that lay a piece
of white cloth. . . .  Kjersti was tending the stove, piling the
wood in diligently. . . .  Sörine sat in the corner, crooning over
a tiny bundle; out of the bundle at intervals came faint, wheezy
chirrups, like the sounds that rise from a nest of young birds.

An irresistible force drew Per Hansa to the bed. . . .  She lay
sound asleep. . . .  Thank God, that awful look of dread had not
come back!  He straightened himself up and glanced around the room;
never before had he seen anything that looked so beautiful. . . .

Sörine got up, went to the table, and bared a little rosy human
head.

"If you are going to be the minister here," she said, turning to
her husband, who had remained standing motionless at the door,
"then you must hurry up and get ready. . . .  First of all you must
wash your hands."

The next moment they had all gathered around the table.

"Here's the book. . . .  Just read it out as well as you can, and
we'll do whatever the book says," Sörine encouraged her husband.
She seemed to have taken charge of the ceremony, and spoke in low,
reassuring tones, as if she had done nothing else all her life but
attend to such duties; and it was her confidence that gave Hans
Olsa the courage he needed. . . .  He went up to the table, took
the book, and read the ritual in a trembling voice, slowly, with
many pauses.  And so he christened the child Peder Victorious,
pronouncing the name clearly.  Whereupon he said the Lord's Prayer
so beautifully, that Kjersti exclaimed she had never heard the
like.

"There, now!" said Kjersti with great emphasis.  "I don't believe
there is a thing lacking to make this christening perfectly
correct! . . .  Now the coffee is ready and we're all going to have
a cup."

But Per Hansa was searching over in the corner; at last he produced
a bottle.  First he treated Sörine; then Kjersti. . . .  "If ever
two people have earned something good, you two are it! . . .  Come
on, now, have another little drop! . . .  And hurry up about it,
please!  Hans Olsa and I feel pretty weak in the knees ourselves!"

. . . After a while both food and drink were served. . . .  "It
looks as if we were going to have a REAL Christmas, after all!"
said Per Hansa with a laugh, as they sat around the table enjoying
their coffee.




Book II

FOUNDING THE KINGDOM





I

On the Border of Utter Darkness



I


An endless plain.  From Kansas--Illinois, it stretched, far into
the Canadian north, God alone knows how far; from the Mississippi
River to the western Rockies, miles without number. . . .  Endless
. . . beginningless.

A grey waste . . . an empty silence . . . a boundless cold.  Snow
fell; snow flew; a universe of nothing but dead whiteness.
Blizzards from out of the northwest raged, swooped down and stirred
up a greyish-white fury, impenetrable to human eyes.  As soon as
these monsters tired, storms from the northeast were sure to come,
bringing more snow. . . .  "The Lord have mercy!  This is awful!"
said the folk, for lack of anything else to say.

Monsterlike the Plain lay there--sucked in her breath one week, and
the next week blew it out again.  Man she scorned; his works she
would not brook. . . .  She would know, when the time came, how to
guard herself and her own against him!

But there was something she did not know.  Had it not been for the
tiny newcomer, who by mysterious paths had found his way into the
settlement on Christmas morning, the monster might have had her
way; but the newcomer made a breach in her plans--a vital breach!

Most marvellous it was, a sort of witchery.  A thing so pitifully
small and birdlike. . . .  There was no substance to him, really
nothing.  Only a bit of tender flesh wrapped in pink silk. . . .
But life dwelt in every fibre of it.  Yet hardly life--rather the
promise of it.  Only a twitching and pulling; something that
stretched itself out and curled up again--so fine and delicate that
one was afraid to touch it with rude hands.

Beret lay in bed with the newcomer beside her. . . .  She should
have been stiff and cold long ago; she should be lying in another
place, a place where those fellows who howled at night could find
fresh joints to lick and gnaw. . . .  But here she was, still in
bed.  The button-sized, red-tipped nose dug itself into her breast,
pushed in to find a good hold, and then lay still with satisfied
little gruntings.  The movement hurt her, but it gladdened her
heart, too; for all the world she would not have had it otherwise.
Life was returning; instead of that stiff, cold horror, Beret's
body grew warmer and stronger with every day that passed.  And the
grunts at her side became more and more insistent. . . .  Ah, well,
she would have to shift him over, then, so that there might be
peace for a moment!

. . . "Thank God, you have food enough for him!" said Per
Hansa. . . .  "I never saw a youngster with such an appetite!" . . .

When Beret had finally awakened on that Christmas day, she had
acted exactly like the old woman in the fairy tale.  She lay still,
peeping out at her surroundings and asking herself:  "Am I still
here?  Is this me?" . . .  She could not believe it, and she would
not believe it, either. . . .  Hadn't she finished with this place
some time ago?

But here she was, after all.  Daylight shone broadly through the
window and lit up the room; wood crackled in the stove; the very
walls Per Hansa had whitewashed--so different they were from other
walls--rose before her.  She saw spots that she recognized; she had
had endless trouble with the spots on these white walls, and the
boys always so careless. . . .  Clothes hung beside the stove, and
above it stretched diapers on a line.  The smell of wet clothes
drying was familiar, but she could not understand where the diapers
had come from. . . .  Neither Per Hansa nor the children were in
sight. . . .  Where could they be?  A quick thought crossed her
mind: surely Per Hansa would not have let And-Ongen go out without
bundling her up? . . .  There was a woman working about the stove,
but Beret could not see her face.  Perhaps it was Kjersti.  Wasn't
she wearing Kjersti's plaid Sunday skirt? . . .  No, no, Beret
could not understand it at all.  Had Kjersti gone with her, then,
when she had departed--Kjersti, who was such a good woman? . . .

. . . Beret quickly grew tired from puzzling over this unsolvable
riddle.  Through the haze of half-consciousness a word and a number
caught her eye . . . "Anno 16--" . . .  He had not used the big
chest for her, then!  Ah no! he probably had felt that he could not
do without it.  But it hurt her deeply to know it; she had so much
wanted to lie in the old chest that she loved.

At last she sank into a doze, hovering gently on the borderline
between sleep and waking. . . .  For an instant she dropped off
into unconsciousness; then she awoke with a start and felt that
things were growing clearer.  Everything in the house seemed to be
in order.  But she felt a vague, troubled curiosity to know where
Per Hansa was, with And-Ongen and the boys. . . .  Probably they
had all gone over to Hans Olsa's? . . .  Slowly the fragments of
thought were finding one another in her mind, meeting and coming
together, and taking on natural shape and form.  A sense of well-
being swept over her, so strong and healthy that it gradually
calmed her senses and carried her off into a sound sleep.

She was awakened awhile later by dreaming that she had been borne
upward in the midst of something soft and warm . . . in an
infinitely large room. . . .  "This cannot go on any longer," she
thought.  "If I rise any farther I cannot possibly reach home by
evening time.  I must get back immediately.  Olamand's pants are
almost worn out at the knees; I must mend them to-night or the boy
will freeze to death." . . .  Making a sudden exertion, Beret was
instantly wide awake. . . .

And there stood And-Ongen leaning over the bed, stroking her
mother's cheek with a cool hand and stretching up on tiptoe to get
a better view of the little wrinkled red face in Beret's arms.
Store-Hans was hanging over the foot of the bed, looking at them,
while his father was coming in with an armful of wood.

"What have you done with Olamand?" she asked in a natural voice,
turning her head and looking about the room.

"He's off with Henry and Sam, hunting wolf tracks," Store-Hans
hastened to answer, happy because his mother was awake again. . . .
"Won't you let us see Permand?"*


* Per, contracted from Peder;--mand, diminutive ending like the
German kin; hence, Permand is equivalent to Pederkin.  Olamand is
formed in the same manner.


"Please let us see Permand," begged And-Ongen; she left off
stroking her mother's face and beamed down at her.

As soon as Per Hansa had brushed the bark and splinters from