“You have accused me of dishonest dealings!” stuttered the settler.
At the sight of Karl Oskar’s changed face the trapper drew back a step and lowered his voice:
“No! No! Your dealings are honorable, all right — according to the laws of the whites — their own laws — after the theft. There isn’t an acre of land in America that hasn’t been stolen or cheated from the Indians.”
Kristina whispered to her husband: He mustn’t pay any heed to Samuel Nöjd’s talk. But their guest went on: What was the price promised to the Indians when they were forced to give up their land to Swedes and other whites? How much had the government paid for the whole Mississippi Valley? Ten dollars for twenty thousand acres! One two-hundredth of a cent per acre! Could one two-hundredth of a cent be called payment? For the most fertile land in the whole world? It was a thief’s price, that’s what it was! And that’s why they could sell cheap to him, Nilsson! And even this trifle hadn’t yet been paid to the Indians! The only thing left for them was starvation!
The trapper picked up his hat and hurried toward the door, spitting angrily: “Keep your sheepskins, Nilsson! Kiss my ass!” He stopped at the door and added that the whites had stolen all of America, yet they kept proclaiming in every church: Thou shalt not steal!
Their guest disappeared and Kristina said: “His eyes turned awful! He has lived so long among the wild ones we mustn’t pay any attention to him.”
Karl Oskar took a few deep breaths; his anger was soon over: “You’re right; it was silly of me to get excited.”
“And I thought of treating him to supper!”
She removed one plate from the table. But Karl Oskar could not forget what Samuel Nöjd had said: “He accused me of taking part in thievery!”
“Forget it! You know yourself you haven’t stolen anything in America!”
“Only weeds grew here when I came! What grows here now? Crops to nourish us as well as others! I didn’t get anything for nothing. I earned my land when I cleared it and broke it!”
Karl Oskar Nilsson mumbled the last sentence to himself several times as he sat down to supper. Kristina said nothing. After all, there was some truth in Samuel Nöjd’s words, and she realized that that truth remained with Karl Oskar and disturbed him; they were intruders in this country. Other people had been driven away to make room for their home.
— 3—
On the west shore of Lake Chisago rose the tall, red sand cliff which looked strikingly like an Indians head; forehead, eyes, mouth, chin were those of an Indian. The cliff rose like an immense fortress against the sky and threw a deep, broad shadow over the ground and water near it. The Indian head was brown in summer and white in winter, but at all seasons it remained the same good guidepost for those who were not familiar with the paths of this valley.
This winter the Indian’s head was covered with a deep layer of snow which glittered and sparkled in the sunlight; it sparkled as if covered with precious stones. But the sand-brown forehead was bared, and the Indian’s deep, black cave-eyes looked down on the white intruders’ houses along the shores.
When the Chisago people happened to look at the cliff formation they were apt to say: The Indian up there, he is looking at us! He’s watching us! Who knows when. .?
The sight of the Indian head caused them an indefinable apprehension. He had watched here when the lake was still known as Ki-Chi-Saga, he remained when the lake’s name was changed to Chisago. The Indian was made of stone. He could not be chased away. He remained rooted. He would not move — here he would for all time raise his head over the country.
It was the winter of the great Indian famine. At Chisago Lake no one knew what was happening out west where the numerous Sioux had their camp:
The tomahawks were taken out, the war axes were being sharpened. No tribe among the brown hunter people had such beautiful tomahawks as the Sioux. They were painted red and had a big black star on either side of the edge of the blade. The black star was an ancient sign, looked upon with reverence by each warrior who carried a tomahawk. It must always be present on a Sioux war ax. Warriors and hunters of the Sioux tribe had once been marked with this sign by the Great Father who had given them the land. They had kept it on their weapons through thousands of years. The sign was their belief in victory. The sign was a promise: The ax with this sign was sure death to the enemy.
This winter the Sioux axes were being sharpened on a grindstone that gave the sharpest edge to war weapons. Out west, beyond the tall sand cliff, behind the Indian’s powerful back, there it took place:
The tomahawks were being sharpened.
VI. KRISTINA DESERTS HER MILKING STOOL
— 1—
During the cold season, Kristina’s only chore outside her house was the milking. They now had eight cows, and this winter seven gave milk. She sat out in the stable one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening. Karl Oskar tried to help her but his fingers were clumsy and awkward in handling the cow teats. One must learn milking in childhood. Marta was now going on fifteen and had begun with the easy milking cows; the girl was both willing and handy.
The milking was more trying this winter because of the intense cold. Before Kristina walked out to the stable she bundled on all her woolen and heavy garments. In these she moved with difficulty, and she looked like a walking bundle of clothes. But however many garments she wore, she began to feel the chill after sitting for a while on the milking stool. Her limbs felt cold, her arms and legs grew stiff, the fingers around the udder rigid. She would cup her hands and blow in them to warm them with her own breath. And during the milking her cold body unconsciously sought the warmth in the animals; she pressed against the cow’s furred body, her head leaned against the belly as against a soft pillow. She sought protection against the winter’s bite in the warm closeness of living creatures; she felt safety in touching the animal. And the cow ate her mash in the bucket as she stood there calmly with her hind legs spread; she showed confidence in the milkmaid whose head leaned against her side.
Kristina had a good hand with animals and was friendly with her cows. As soon as she appeared in the stable door they would turn their heads toward her and low their welcome. They knew they would get corn mash in their buckets; they were accustomed to her closeness twice a day; twice a day they felt her hands as her fingers squeezed milk from their teats. And on her arrival they greeted her with the only sound they were able to utter. To the milker her cows were not soulless creatures; she felt their confidence in her as a helpless child to its mother. And she felt they wished to show her their gratefulness for looking after them. In the cows’ eyes she read a pained, sad consciousness of the muteness which was their lot. They wished to tell her something but they were unable to do so.
During their first winter in Minnesota a cow had saved the lives of the children with her milk; Kristina showed her gratitude for this to all members of their kind.
During this cold winter Kristina often felt an ache in her lower abdomen. And one evening, milking her cows in the stable, it came upon her. She had only one cow left to milk. She had been sitting so long on the milking stool that her legs were stiff and her fingers lame and awkward. If she could only have used her woolen mittens, she thought. Now only the Princess was left but the Princess was the most difficult of the seven, for she wouldn’t give her milk willingly. Kristina had to press as hard as she could and pull the teats with all her might before any milk ran into her pail. She always left the hard-milking Princess until the last.