Darker, Page 2

  When they descend, run far beyond the crown.

  For, should you fall,

  Your handsome face I’ll see no more.

  They seek revenge on those who cut them down.

  Oh, shanty boy,

  You don’t know how I fear for thee

  Out in the cold

  And snowy pinery.

  From dawn to dark

  You risk your very life for me.

  Oh, shanty boy, I pledge your love I’ll always be.

  Now what’s this news?

  You ne’er returned to shanty door.

  A falling pine

  Seems was the death of thee.

  And now I learn

  The comp’ny boss had pushed for more.

  And a widowmaker stole my man from me.

  So here we are,

  Your son and wife now wearing black.

  Awaiting you

  But no more to embrace.

  The lumber train

  Will bring you down the railroad track.

  One more man the comp’ny must replace.

  Oh, shanty boy,

  I weep for thee. I weep for thee,

  Out in the cold

  And snowy pinery.

  It breaks my heart

  You gave the pine your life for me.

  Oh, shanty boy, I pledge your love I’ll always be.

  The boss man says

  You failed to work the winter through.

  And now I learn, we shall not get your pay.

  The bank’s foreclosed.

  Now leave this farm is what we’ll do.

  No coin in hand and nowhere else to stay.

  And so we, too

  Will venture to the pinery.

  A sporting house

  Is where I’ll earn my keep.

  And your sweet son

  Will soon become a shanty boy,

  While in the dreary graveyard you do sleep.

  Oh, shanty boy,

  I weep for thee. I weep for thee,

  Out in the cold

  And snowy pinery.

  It breaks my heart,

  You gave the pine your life for me.

  I pledge to you,

  Your love I’ll ever be.

  Oh, shanty boy, know that your love I’ll always be.

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  That’s One

  From their wedding they did ride,

  A logger and his bride,

  Dreaming of a life of wedded bliss.

  The buggy that they rode,

  Soon stopped along the road.

  The mare, it seems, felt something was amiss.

  “That’s one!” the man exclaimed.

  Tugging on the reins,

  The buggy soon resumed its bumpy ride.

  The mare did clip and clop

  But then again did stop

  Munching on some tender leaves ’longside.

  “That’s two,” the logger screeched,

  As for his whip he reached.

  And, on the buggy flew as he cursed.

  But as the sun got hot,

  The horse soon slowed her trot

  Stopping at a stream to quench her thirst.

  He shouted “Horse, that’s three!

  Now you’ve angered me,

  Testing me for third and final time.”

  With a bullet to the head,

  He shot the poor mare dead.

  To his young bride this seemed an awful crime.

  “Why, that, my husband, dear,

  Was clearly very near

  The dumbest thing any man has done!

  You shot our only horse!

  We’re stranded here, of course.”

  That’s when the logger turned and said, “My dear, that’s one!”

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  Beneath the Clay

  I quarreled with my love one day.

  What set us off, I cannot say.

  And now she lays in Central Park,

  Her cold and moldy grave so dark.

  And there she’ll stay,

  Beneath the clay,

  Forever and a day.

  She’s not alone, this child so fair,

  My other loves are also there.

  Each one dear to my heart yet,

  Oh, their fate so early met.

  Oh, how I do so regret

  How they must stay

  Beneath that clay,

  Forever and a day.

  Another love I soon did charm,

  Another child, so soft and warm.

  This one I pledged would see no harm.

  I swore to her I would be loyal.

  Never ending blissful joy’ll

  Be hers and mine, this princess royal.

  She’ll never lay

  Beneath that clay

  Forever and a day.

  I cherished her, this child so dear.

  Ev’ry night I held her near,

  Until another day’d begun,

  Until we saw the rising sun.

  How could she know what I had done?

  Had she been told, this fair one?

  My crimes were known to only one

  And those who lay

  Beneath that clay

  Forever and a day.

  My murd’rous, evil past, it seems

  Did come to her between dark dreams.

  Streaming in came ghoulish screams,

  Visions clear as moonlight beams.

  My other loves did beg that she,

  Even the score and set them free.

  Poison was the tool she chose,

  A clever choice, I suppose.

  Now ’tis I who lay

  Beneath this clay

  Forever and a day.

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  The Widowmaker

  (Excerpts from Chapters 22 & 23 of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON

  Copyright 2012 James A. Brakken & BadgerValley.com)

  Tor and his ox team were eight miles from his pa’s camp when the sun came out and the wind shifted. Now a warm, south breeze combined with the sun’s rays to melt the snow. Tor’s ox team dragged a three hundred pound v-shaped plow made from oak timbers. When he reached the timber landing at the end of the trail, sixteen-year-old Tor turned the oxen homeward. His return trip was faster, a pleasant ride through the snowy woods on this sunny, mid-December day in 1883.

  Near the camp, Tor met up with one of the saw teams. The two sawyers felled a big pine that missed its mark and now leaned into another tree. The top of this leaning tree was hung up in a tangle of limbs and branches. The cutting crew’s attempts to free it were not working. They chained the butt of the log to their horse team but the horses could not budge the giant white pine.

  “Looks like you got a good ol’ widowmaker, fellas,” called out Tor. “You’re welcome to use my ox team if need be.”

  The swamper threw a chain over the oak plow pulled by Tor’s team and hooked the other end onto the stubborn tree. Tor and the teamster slowly coaxed the beasts forward. The five-foot-diameter butt of the tree began to move, then stopped again. They urged the oxen and the horses ahead once more. The animals strained, digging their calked, iron shoes into the frozen, snowy turf beneath and placing enormous strain on the chains.

  High above them came a deafening ca—rack! A large limb sixty feet up in the other tree snapped violently and the gigantic pine plummeted toward the earth. As it fell, the thirty-foot broken limb sprung through the air and fell not three feet from Tor, missing his oxen but striking the horse beside him.

  The huge workhorse reared up, snapping the harness. Both horses, crying out in fear, fell to the ground, hooves flailing as the tree slammed to the ground nearby. The oxen lurched forward. Both Tor and the teamster dove away from the animals, covering their heads. In seconds, the acc
ident was over and the horses and men getting back up.

  “You fellas all right?” shouted the teamster. “Anybody hurt?”

  “I’m fit,” called out one of the sawyers.

  “Me, too,” piped in the swamper.

  “I’m all right,” yelled Tor. One man did not answer.

  “Where’s Mason?” shouted the teamster. “Mason!”

  “Here—over here,” called out the second sawyer.

  Mason Fitch lay in the snow face up. A three-foot-long splinter, part of a larger pine branch, stuck out of his thigh. Tor and the other teamster plowed their way through the deep snow to the fallen man. Mason groaned as Tor slowly lifted his leg to find the splinter went all the way through. The swamper brought over his double-bit ax, and with a swift swing, separated the splinter from the branch. The injured lumberjack screamed in pain. Bleeding badly, he began slipping into shock.

  “Tourniquet!” shouted teamster Henry Tilden. Immediately the swamper ran to the horse team. Using his razor-sharp ax as a knife, he cut a six-foot length of rawhide strap from the reins. The teamster tied a loop around the leg above the wound, inserted a two-inch thick pine branch and twisted it tightly. The bleeding stopped as Tor looked on, puzzled.

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “I worked in a hospital back east during the war,” Henry replied. “Virginny. I saw plenty of soldiers with their arms and legs dang-near blowed off from Yankee mini balls. The soldiers who came in with tourniquets usually lived. The poor fellas who didn’t have ’em, well, they just bled to death where they fell.” He checked over his knot. Looking up at the injured logger he said, “Mason, let’s get you back to camp so Sourdough can have a look at you.”

  “I don’t want to lose my leg, Henry Tilden,” cried Mason. “I ain’t gonna spend the rest of my years with a dang stump fer a leg. Promise me, Henry. Promise me that you will not let Sourdough take my leg!”

  “Calm down, Mason. You ain’t got such a bad leg here, just a good ol’ pine sticker through it. Ol’ Sourdough ain’t gettin’ no soup bone off you this time ’round.” No siree. You’ll be dancin’ Irish jigs by Christmas Day, Fitch.”

  ~

  Mason Fitch lay on a table in the cook shanty, a thick, pine splinter protruding from both sides of his left thigh. Once again the head cook was drafted to patch up a lumberjack after a logging accident. Interrupted while butchering a hog, this appointed doctor wiped his hands on his apron before sliding his butcher knife up Mason’s pant leg, slitting it to the crotch. He cut through the man’s long johns, wet with melted snow and blood, and pulled back the layer of red wool.

  “Best loosen that tourniquet for a time, Henry,” he said.

  “Don’t take my leg, Sourdough,” begged the pale, weak lumberjack.

  Sourdough peered at him over his round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Don’t you worry now, Mason. Your leg will be good as new in no time.” He stepped away for a moment, returning with a quart bottle of yellow liquid and a tin cup. He filled the cup and, with help from the others, pulled the wounded worker up to a half-sitting position. “Drink this.”

  Mason Fitch obeyed, choking down the medicine. “Dear God in Heaven! Sourdough, you tryin’ to poison me? What in tarnation was that?”

  “Lemon extract,” replied the cook, pouring another half-cup. “Here you go, Fitch. Have another.”

  Mason choked down the second drink. “Why you fillin’ me up with lemons, Sourdough? Ain’t I suffered enough?”

  “Stop your gol-dang complainin’, Fitch. There’s more spirits than lemons in this stuff. Most shanty boys in camp would give a half-day’s pay for a pull on this bottle. Stronger than that rotgut whisky they serve in town. Mason, I confess that I take a nip myself now and then—just to clear my sinuses, you understand.”

  After a third drink, the men helped Mason lay down again.

  “Hank, Will, Tor, you fellas hold him tight now. Mason, we’re gonna pull out that there splinter. It’s bound to hurt some so bite down on this rag,” he said, plugging a dishrag in the man’s mouth. “Now grab the edges of the table and hold on, boy.”

  Mason did. With a quick jerk, the head cook yanked out the long, blood-soaked, pine splinter. Mason bit down hard and did not utter a sound.

  “Good, good,” said Sourdough. “Henry, grab that empty sauce pan off the counter and fill ’er up with snow. Tor, hand me my sewing kit—that green box on the shelf over the sink.” Henry and Tor complied. Sourdough took a handful of snow, packed it into a ball and placed it on the open wound.

  “Henry, you hold this tight for a minute. Push hard,” he ordered. The amateur doctor then pawed through the green box until he found a large, curved sewing needle. He pulled three feet of cotton thread from a wooden spool and snipped it off with a small scissors. Tipping his head back and squinting through his glasses, he threaded the needle. The backwoods surgeon removed the bloodied snow, pitching it across the room, straight into the slop bucket.

  “All right, Fitch,” said Sourdough. “I am gonna stitch up this side, first. Might pinch a bit.” He poked the needle through Mason’s chilled hide. The others watched as the camp cook sewed the wound closed, tying each stitch securely. Mason grimaced with each push and pull on the needle.

  “Thirteen stitches, Mason,” said Tor. “Not so lucky.”

  “Lucky?” said Sourdough. “I’ll tell you about luck. Mason, if you had been standin’ a bit to the left, you’d be soon singin’ in the Vienna Boys Choir. That’s how lucky you are, boy.” Then, to his assistants, “All right, turn him face down so we can stitch up the other side.”

  With help from his co-workers, Mason Fitch rolled over clumsily, now with a grin on his face. “I think the lemons are wearin’ off, Sourdough. How about another swig?”

  “Nope. No more for you. Your damage ain’t bad enough to warrant me givin’ up any more of my bottled goods. Next time you taste my lemon extract will be in one of my Christmas pies.”

  “Don’t make my leg look too ugly, Doc.”

  “Mason, I’ll make it look so gol-dang pretty that every sportin’ gal in town will pay a dollar just to steal a peek at my fancy needlework. Fitch, you’ll make more a night than they do.”

  Beastly Feastings

  “Trolls are such a bother!”

  My father shouted out.

  “They’ve routed out my garden, row by row.

  Our hens no longer lay.

  Our cow has run away.

  There’s only one solution that I know.

  The ogre I will summon.

  From yonder hill he’ll come

  And kill those pesky trolls, one by one.

  And when he’s done, we’ll nay

  See those trolls another day.

  He’ll roast them in his oven till well-done.

  Or, for his sausage, grind them.

  No more, ’round here, we’ll find them.

  Trollish Polish sausage, his delight!

  Their feet this beast will pickle.

  His tongue those trolls will tickle.

  They’ll all, by nightfall, be well out of sight.

  Oh, how this beastly ogre

  Will feast upon those trolls.

  He’ll roll their eyeballs in his sugar bowl.

  Their entrails he will take,

  Making innards into cake,

  And, from troll belly, bake a jelly roll.

  The brisket he will broil,

  Braise, or boil in oil.

  With wine he’ll dine by shining candlelight.

  When finished with his deed,

  A midnight snack he’ll need.

  He’ll suck their salty bones in soft starlight.”

  “But tell me, Daddy dear,”

  This laddie cried, in fear,

  “When trolls have died, what will the ogre eat?”

  My father slowly said,

  “When all the trolls are dead,

  Children are his favorite beastly treat.”

  Copyright2012 James A.
Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  The Zombie Apocalypse

  Part III, Six Hours Later

  SFPD Detectives Terrence Hampton and Logan Quimby watched from their car as the blue BMW pulled into the ally. Both driver and passenger got out. They were young and dressed rather well for San Francisco’s Tenderloin District. They stepped between the nearby dumpsters and entered the back door of a three-story brick building on the east side of the alley, about thirty yards from the unmarked squad. Quimby called in the plate number as he and Hampton waited and watched.

  Minutes later, the well-dressed men stepped back into the alley, each with a cardboard box. The trunk of the BMW popped open. The boxes went in.

  The BMW left the alley and turned west, followed by the unmarked squad car. Both vehicles caught the lights just right and soon the BMW turned onto Fillmore Street. Three blocks later it double-parked in front of Moxie’s, one of several clubs in the Fillmore District known to stretch the rules. Detectives Hampton and Quimby passed the BMW and headed north. There was no point in stopping. Too many in this part of town could spot a cop on the prowl. A phone call to an informer would have to take the place of police surveillance. Quimby knew a perp in the neighborhood who needed to stay on the good side of the SFPD. He made the call.

  Twenty minutes passed before Quimby’s phone rang. The BMW was on the move again. It headed north, then turned west onto Geary Boulevard. Detective Hampton was on its bumper well into the Richmond District when the driver of the BMW pushed his luck on a yellow light. The instant it turned red, Hampton flipped on his siren. The BMW pulled over. Quimby called it in. Hampton stepped out, approaching the driver as the window slowly descended.

  “Know what law you broke back there?” he said to the driver.

  “You mean the light?”

  “What other law do you think I mean?”

  “I guess I sorta ran that light, but just a little, Officer.”

  Quimby, now approached, hand on his weapon, nodding to his partner who spoke again. “I’ll need you both to step out of the car, hands where I can see ‘em.”

  “What? Why! What for?”

  “Step out now, both of you.” Hampton pulled his sidearm from its shoulder holster.

  “Okay, okay. Jesus! All I did was push a yellow light. What’s the big deal?” he said as he and his passenger stepped out.