Chapter 1Gunflint Creek, Minnesota
October 1920
“Hey, Olive Oyl, whiskey here!” the man demanded. He held up his mason jar, keeping his eyes on his poker hand.
The young woman wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed the whiskey jug. Her given name was Mist, but she didn’t argue with the nickname Olive Oyl. She knew that she was ugly and resembled the character in the comics. She had been reminded her whole life that she was underweight, gauche, and unattractive. The only difference was that Olive Oyl was a brunette. She was a blonde.
With hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, Mist refilled his jar. The men were playing cards in the kitchen of the family shack.
“Chicken Bone!” Mist’s brother called. “Refill here too.”
Chicken Bone was the family nickname for her. They had been calling her that since she was twelve because she was so thin and emaciated. Now she was twenty-three and still underweight.
The Windegaard family made whiskey, and making the best whiskey in the state was a lucrative operation. Then, with the enactment of Prohibition, demand increased beyond their wildest dreams. Word of their smooth, richly flavored whiskey spread to Minneapolis, St. Paul, and then to Chicago. Shortly after that, they began shipping all over the country in crates labeled as Bibles.
Making spirits had never been safe, but since Prohibition, it was even more dangerous. Predators multiplied like vermin. Thugs either wanted to steal their product or appropriate their business.
Ironically, law enforcement was the least of their worries. Sheriff Johnson and his deputies were their best customers. Opposed to Prohibition, they would always warn the family of raids.
“It’s time,” Axel announced, slapping his cards down and pushing his chair back.
Mumbling and nodding, the men rose, put on their flat caps, pushed pistols into their belts, and grabbed shotguns. The journey to and from the Midway rail yard hub in the Twin Cities took hours, so Mist handed lunch pails to each of her brothers.
Looking at Oscar, Axel said, “Don’t you go dozing off, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Watch that road. Word mighta gotten out we’re making a run.”
“Ja, I will,” Oscar replied in his thick accent. Oscar Mortenson was a first-generation immigrant from Norway. The Windegaards were also of Norwegian descent, but their people had been in Minnesota for over sixty years.
Mist followed them out the door into the rain. The path to the barn was muddy and slippery, and the driving rain soaked her baggy cotton housedress. The trailer was backed up to the pen, and she could hear the bull bawling and snorting. Luckily, Magnus had reinforced the sides of the trailer with steel sheeting because Týr could easily kick his way through the wooden slats. No matter how many times they had taken the creature to The Cities and back, he always struggled.
Mist’s brothers were lined up on either side of the pen. Axel, the oldest, was a gangly redhead with kinky hair and freckles. He fancied himself the brains of the operation, but he was far from level-headed. He was impulsive, hot-tempered, and liable to shoot anyone who crossed him. His brothers, Magnus, Nels, and Peer, were slow and sullen. Stocky with muscular frames, low foreheads, and greasy brown hair, they were well-suited for heavy work and an intimidating presence in a fight.
With cattle prods, they tried to coax Týr up the ramp and into the trailer. A huge, horned, black and gold Jersey, he bucked and paced, refusing to go inside. But Týr was worth the trouble. Because of him, they transported liquor to the rail yards virtually unchecked. The whiskey was stored in a large compartment under the cantankerous bull, so no one ever dared investigate.
“Hey, hey!” Nels barked at Týr. He whistled and swung his prod, but the bull continued to pace and buck.
“Goddamn it, Týr, get up! Get up!” Axel roared.
Mist approached the pen. Quiet by nature, she preferred observing. Her brothers had taught her early on that her contributions were not welcome, so she remained silent.
“Come! Come!” Peer snapped at the bull.
Magnus, who was standing on the split rails of the pen, poked Týr sharply with a prod. Enraged, the bull swung around and rammed the fence where Magnus was standing. The wood splintered, and Magnus was thrown back into the mud.
“Jesus!” Axel yelled.
“Oh my God!” Magnus roared, clutching his legs. “My knees, my knees!”
His brothers ignored his cries. It was more important they get Týr up the ramp and into the trailer before he burst through the hole and trampled them all.
Mist dashed over, reached under Magnus’s arms, and tried to drag him away, but he was too heavy.
At last, the confused and frightened animal loped up into the trailer, and they swung the door shut. Panting and soaked, the men rushed over to Magnus. He was on his side in the mud, moaning and clutching his knees, but when they bent down to pick him up, he roared, “Don’t touch my legs!”
“All right, all right,” Axel replied, and turning to Peer, he ordered, “Get a tarp.”
Peer ran into the barn. When he returned, they dragged Magnus onto the canvas and lugged him inside the house. Mist pulled the straw mattress from Magnus’s bed onto the kitchen floor, and they rested him on it.
“Goddamn, it hurts,” Magnus moaned. He was covered in mud, and his round face was crunched up in a grimace.
Nels uncorked a jug and handed it to him. “Here, take a belt.”
Magnus sat up and gulped down the whiskey.
“Leave the jug by him,” Axel demanded and signaled for his brothers to follow. “He’s not driving tonight.”
They nodded.
Looking at Mist, Axel announced, “You’ll drive.”
“Me?” she said with surprise.
“Yes, you. Unless you wanna ride shotgun,” he said sarcastically.
Dropping her head, she mumbled, “No.”
“Peer, you’re on shotgun, and Nels guards the house. Let’s go.”
“But what about Magnus?” Mist asked.
Axel looked down at his brother sprawled on the mattress, raising his head up and down guzzling whiskey. “He’ll be all right. Let’s go.”
Mist fetched her remedy basket with bandages and salves and set it on the table. “Here, Nels,” she said, removing her apron.
Ignoring her, Nels lumbered over, sat down by the window, and started cleaning his shotgun.
“Mist now!” Axel roared from the door.
Mist dashed out the door and down the steps into the downpour, climbing behind the wheel of the new Ford Model T pickup that was hitched to the trailer. The siblings were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the bench seat, their shotguns in an overhead rack.
Axel, who was next to Mist, said, “Now take it slow like. You don’t want to get stuck in this mud.”
The wipers slapped loudly on the windshield as she eased out the clutch. Mist was used to driving. She drove the truck frequently making her “dairy runs” where she delivered liquor to customers in milk bottles. They pulled away from the shack.
The Windegaards were not short on money, although their home did not show it. Originally an old log cabin, their father had covered it in wood siding years earlier, but now it was gray and weathered. Comfortable lodgings and fine clothes were not important to the brothers. They spent their money on other things. A brand new Ford sedan sat in the shed alongside a new Ford coup. They had copper stills of the highest quality, and they always carried state-of-the-art firearms.
The three rode in silence, the rain hammering on the roof of the pickup. It was stuffy and close inside the cab. Mist smelled the wet clothes, her brothers’ body odor, and the lingering scent of manure on their boots.
At last, Peer said, “Týr’s sure got his balls in a vise tonight. I’m not looking forward to offloading him at the rail yard.”
“Hell,” muttered Axel. “He ain’t no worse ‘an usual. We’ll offload him all right. We’ve done it a dozen times.”
They bumped down the muddy road past the family grist mill, a ramshackle, outdated structure with a water wheel on the river. It was still operational though. Nels picked up extra money grinding grain for local farmers. But more importantly, he ground the Minnesota 13 corn that came down from Stearns County. Although the family had their own crop of the exceptional strain, it was not enough to support their business.
“What the blue blazes is this?” Axel said, squinting at the headlights in front of them. Three motorcars were blocking the road.
“Feds?” Peer said, leaning forward.
“Charlie never said nuthin’ about no raid,” Axel muttered.
Five men in trench coats and flat caps were standing across the road. Three were holding shotguns.
When Mist stopped the pickup, one of the men approached the driver’s side of the truck. She rolled down the window.
The tall, long-faced man held up a badge and stated, “Agent Ramsey, Federal Government.”
She glanced at him and then looked down at her hands on the steering wheel.
Axel leaned over. “What can we do ya for, Agent Ramsey?” he said in a jolly voice.
“We need to search your vehicle.”
Axel chuckled cynically. “You’re welcome to, but all you’ll find is one ornery bull goin’ to market.”
The agent ignored Axel and nodded to his men. One walked to the passenger side of the truck, and the other three went to the back of the trailer.
“Get out, all of ya,” Agent Ramsey said.
They climbed out.
“Now, pull that bull out of the trailer,” he demanded.
Axel’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind!” he shouted over the downpour.
The agent reached into to his breast pocket, pulled out a pistol, and put it up to Axel’s forehead. “Do it,” he snarled.
Axel blinked in disbelief then lifted the ramp off the side of the trailer. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Jerseys are vicious.”
Mist’s heart was hammering, and she swallowed hard. She usually kept her eyes lowered, but tonight her attention was riveted to the men and the trailer. She must be ready for anything. Peer was standing next to her, tense and motionless. The three federal agents with shotguns had encircled them.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain spattered loudly in the mud.
Placing the ramp on the back of the trailer, Axel said, “You don’t wanna do this.”
Ramsey strode up to him and raised his pistol again. “We know you’re hiding liquor in there. A lot of liquor. Now open that trailer.”
Axel reached for the latch, swung the door open, and jumped to the side, pressing himself against the trailer. Mist instinctively stepped back. Everyone else scattered. The road was bordered by a fence, and the agents backed up against it. When Mist started to scramble over the rails, an agent pointed a gun at her and barked, “You move, sister, and I kill ya.”
She stepped down, eyes wide, panting and watching the door of the trailer.
There was a clatter of hooves, a loud snort, and Týr stumbled down into the mud. Swinging his head around, he looked at the men. No one moved. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do. Then with a bellow, he put his head down and dashed toward the agent standing next to Peer. The agent brought his pistol up, but it misfired, and Týr hooked the man in the torso with his horns and tossed him into the air. The man tumbled head over heels and slammed to the ground. With lightning speed, Týr drove a horn deep into his belly.
Suddenly, there were flashing lights and a deafening roar as the agents opened fire on the bull. Terrified, Mist launched herself over the fence and hit the ground, covering her head. When the firing stopped, she looked up. Týr staggered and dropped with a thud.
The agent who’d been gored was dead, and next to him was Peer, riddled with bullets, killed in the frenzy of crossfire.
A figure loomed up out of the darkness and yanked Mist to her feet. It was Axel. “Come on!” he roared, and they ran across the field into the woods. Following a path along the river toward home, they cut across a cornfield to the road again where they found Oscar. After a quick explanation, Oscar swung his lantern at the shack so Nels would not shoot, and they ran to the house. Bursting through the door, Axel roared, “Feds on the road. Peer’s dead. They shot the bull too. They’re probably on their way now.”
Nels turned back to the window and looked out. “Not yet,” he said.
Axel pulled a cork from the whiskey jug, took three deep gulps then picked up a shotgun.
Mist stood panting and watching her brothers. Her hair clung to her scalp, and her dress was dripping. Trembling from fear and cold, she hugged herself and walked over to Magnus. The dim light from the stove shed enough light so she could see that he was sleeping. She pulled back his blanket. Nels had done a hasty job of bandaging his knees, but thankfully the dressings were dry; the bleeding had stopped. Her chest tightened. Magnus would live. Peer would not. She thought of her youngest brother out there alone in the rain.
Taut as bowstrings, they waited in the dark. Just before sunrise, Nels announced, “Oscar’s swinging his lantern. Someone safe is here.”
Grabbing his shotgun, Axel jumped up and rushed to the window. “We’ll see about that,” he said.
Mist stood behind him. Headlights from a motorcar came down the road, and whoever it was parked in front of the house. The dogs crawled out from under the shed and started barking. Mist could feel her brothers’ tension increase as the men stepped from the motorcar.
Axel lowered his shotgun. “It’s Johnson and Schultz.”
Nels lowered his weapon too. It was the sheriff and his deputy.
Mist stepped over and lit the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table, the golden light throwing everything into shadows as Axel opened the door. The lawmen shook the rain from their hats and stepped inside. Sheriff Johnson was a stocky, bald man with a care-worn face, and his deputy a pimply-faced youth.
After nodding a greeting to Mist and Nels, Sheriff Johnson said, “Glad to see you’re okay.” Running his eyes over the room, he asked, “Where’s Magnus?”
“Sleeping,” Axel said. “He had an accident, but he’ll mend.”
“We just came from the road. It is a goddamn mess.”
“Did you find Peer?” Nels asked.
“We did and transported him to the undertaker. You wanna tell me what happened?”
“Come in and sit down,” Axel said. “Mist, get ‘em a whiskey.”
The men sat down at the kitchen table as Mist distributed mason jars full of whiskey. Stepping back from the lantern light, she hugged herself and listened from the corner.
Axel told the story, leaving nothing out.
Sheriff Johnson nodded and said, “Tierney was on his way to open the feed store and found everything. We headed out right away, and the first thing we saw was your pickup and trailer abandoned. Then we found Peer on the ground full of bullet holes, next to him, an unknown man who looked like he bled out from a ripped belly, and the bull, who was peppered with shot. The doors on the floor of your trailer were open. The storage area had been emptied.”
“Smashed bottles?” Axel asked.
“No, there was nothing.”
“Those bastards,” Nels mumbled. “The Feds took it for themselves.”
“What Feds?” Sheriff Johnson asked.
“The Federal agents who did this.”
Johnson and Schultz exchanged looks. “There weren’t no Feds in the area last night,” Deputy Schultz said.
“You know they have to notify local law before a raid,” the sheriff added. “We heard nothing.”
Axel straightened up wide-eyed. “So they were road pirates pretending to be Feds?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Apparently.”
Jumping up, Axel started to pace. “When we find those bastards, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Now Axel, calm down. I won’t tolerate a blood feud,” Johnson said.
Quick as lightning, he turned and barked, “Like hell, you won’t! I pay you good money, and I expect you to find out who did this. My little brother is dead, and my whiskey is gone. I am going to rip some hearts out!”
October 1920
“Hey, Olive Oyl, whiskey here!” the man demanded. He held up his mason jar, keeping his eyes on his poker hand.
The young woman wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed the whiskey jug. Her given name was Mist, but she didn’t argue with the nickname Olive Oyl. She knew that she was ugly and resembled the character in the comics. She had been reminded her whole life that she was underweight, gauche, and unattractive. The only difference was that Olive Oyl was a brunette. She was a blonde.
With hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, Mist refilled his jar. The men were playing cards in the kitchen of the family shack.
“Chicken Bone!” Mist’s brother called. “Refill here too.”
Chicken Bone was the family nickname for her. They had been calling her that since she was twelve because she was so thin and emaciated. Now she was twenty-three and still underweight.
The Windegaard family made whiskey, and making the best whiskey in the state was a lucrative operation. Then, with the enactment of Prohibition, demand increased beyond their wildest dreams. Word of their smooth, richly flavored whiskey spread to Minneapolis, St. Paul, and then to Chicago. Shortly after that, they began shipping all over the country in crates labeled as Bibles.
Making spirits had never been safe, but since Prohibition, it was even more dangerous. Predators multiplied like vermin. Thugs either wanted to steal their product or appropriate their business.
Ironically, law enforcement was the least of their worries. Sheriff Johnson and his deputies were their best customers. Opposed to Prohibition, they would always warn the family of raids.
“It’s time,” Axel announced, slapping his cards down and pushing his chair back.
Mumbling and nodding, the men rose, put on their flat caps, pushed pistols into their belts, and grabbed shotguns. The journey to and from the Midway rail yard hub in the Twin Cities took hours, so Mist handed lunch pails to each of her brothers.
Looking at Oscar, Axel said, “Don’t you go dozing off, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. Watch that road. Word mighta gotten out we’re making a run.”
“Ja, I will,” Oscar replied in his thick accent. Oscar Mortenson was a first-generation immigrant from Norway. The Windegaards were also of Norwegian descent, but their people had been in Minnesota for over sixty years.
Mist followed them out the door into the rain. The path to the barn was muddy and slippery, and the driving rain soaked her baggy cotton housedress. The trailer was backed up to the pen, and she could hear the bull bawling and snorting. Luckily, Magnus had reinforced the sides of the trailer with steel sheeting because Týr could easily kick his way through the wooden slats. No matter how many times they had taken the creature to The Cities and back, he always struggled.
Mist’s brothers were lined up on either side of the pen. Axel, the oldest, was a gangly redhead with kinky hair and freckles. He fancied himself the brains of the operation, but he was far from level-headed. He was impulsive, hot-tempered, and liable to shoot anyone who crossed him. His brothers, Magnus, Nels, and Peer, were slow and sullen. Stocky with muscular frames, low foreheads, and greasy brown hair, they were well-suited for heavy work and an intimidating presence in a fight.
With cattle prods, they tried to coax Týr up the ramp and into the trailer. A huge, horned, black and gold Jersey, he bucked and paced, refusing to go inside. But Týr was worth the trouble. Because of him, they transported liquor to the rail yards virtually unchecked. The whiskey was stored in a large compartment under the cantankerous bull, so no one ever dared investigate.
“Hey, hey!” Nels barked at Týr. He whistled and swung his prod, but the bull continued to pace and buck.
“Goddamn it, Týr, get up! Get up!” Axel roared.
Mist approached the pen. Quiet by nature, she preferred observing. Her brothers had taught her early on that her contributions were not welcome, so she remained silent.
“Come! Come!” Peer snapped at the bull.
Magnus, who was standing on the split rails of the pen, poked Týr sharply with a prod. Enraged, the bull swung around and rammed the fence where Magnus was standing. The wood splintered, and Magnus was thrown back into the mud.
“Jesus!” Axel yelled.
“Oh my God!” Magnus roared, clutching his legs. “My knees, my knees!”
His brothers ignored his cries. It was more important they get Týr up the ramp and into the trailer before he burst through the hole and trampled them all.
Mist dashed over, reached under Magnus’s arms, and tried to drag him away, but he was too heavy.
At last, the confused and frightened animal loped up into the trailer, and they swung the door shut. Panting and soaked, the men rushed over to Magnus. He was on his side in the mud, moaning and clutching his knees, but when they bent down to pick him up, he roared, “Don’t touch my legs!”
“All right, all right,” Axel replied, and turning to Peer, he ordered, “Get a tarp.”
Peer ran into the barn. When he returned, they dragged Magnus onto the canvas and lugged him inside the house. Mist pulled the straw mattress from Magnus’s bed onto the kitchen floor, and they rested him on it.
“Goddamn, it hurts,” Magnus moaned. He was covered in mud, and his round face was crunched up in a grimace.
Nels uncorked a jug and handed it to him. “Here, take a belt.”
Magnus sat up and gulped down the whiskey.
“Leave the jug by him,” Axel demanded and signaled for his brothers to follow. “He’s not driving tonight.”
They nodded.
Looking at Mist, Axel announced, “You’ll drive.”
“Me?” she said with surprise.
“Yes, you. Unless you wanna ride shotgun,” he said sarcastically.
Dropping her head, she mumbled, “No.”
“Peer, you’re on shotgun, and Nels guards the house. Let’s go.”
“But what about Magnus?” Mist asked.
Axel looked down at his brother sprawled on the mattress, raising his head up and down guzzling whiskey. “He’ll be all right. Let’s go.”
Mist fetched her remedy basket with bandages and salves and set it on the table. “Here, Nels,” she said, removing her apron.
Ignoring her, Nels lumbered over, sat down by the window, and started cleaning his shotgun.
“Mist now!” Axel roared from the door.
Mist dashed out the door and down the steps into the downpour, climbing behind the wheel of the new Ford Model T pickup that was hitched to the trailer. The siblings were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the bench seat, their shotguns in an overhead rack.
Axel, who was next to Mist, said, “Now take it slow like. You don’t want to get stuck in this mud.”
The wipers slapped loudly on the windshield as she eased out the clutch. Mist was used to driving. She drove the truck frequently making her “dairy runs” where she delivered liquor to customers in milk bottles. They pulled away from the shack.
The Windegaards were not short on money, although their home did not show it. Originally an old log cabin, their father had covered it in wood siding years earlier, but now it was gray and weathered. Comfortable lodgings and fine clothes were not important to the brothers. They spent their money on other things. A brand new Ford sedan sat in the shed alongside a new Ford coup. They had copper stills of the highest quality, and they always carried state-of-the-art firearms.
The three rode in silence, the rain hammering on the roof of the pickup. It was stuffy and close inside the cab. Mist smelled the wet clothes, her brothers’ body odor, and the lingering scent of manure on their boots.
At last, Peer said, “Týr’s sure got his balls in a vise tonight. I’m not looking forward to offloading him at the rail yard.”
“Hell,” muttered Axel. “He ain’t no worse ‘an usual. We’ll offload him all right. We’ve done it a dozen times.”
They bumped down the muddy road past the family grist mill, a ramshackle, outdated structure with a water wheel on the river. It was still operational though. Nels picked up extra money grinding grain for local farmers. But more importantly, he ground the Minnesota 13 corn that came down from Stearns County. Although the family had their own crop of the exceptional strain, it was not enough to support their business.
“What the blue blazes is this?” Axel said, squinting at the headlights in front of them. Three motorcars were blocking the road.
“Feds?” Peer said, leaning forward.
“Charlie never said nuthin’ about no raid,” Axel muttered.
Five men in trench coats and flat caps were standing across the road. Three were holding shotguns.
When Mist stopped the pickup, one of the men approached the driver’s side of the truck. She rolled down the window.
The tall, long-faced man held up a badge and stated, “Agent Ramsey, Federal Government.”
She glanced at him and then looked down at her hands on the steering wheel.
Axel leaned over. “What can we do ya for, Agent Ramsey?” he said in a jolly voice.
“We need to search your vehicle.”
Axel chuckled cynically. “You’re welcome to, but all you’ll find is one ornery bull goin’ to market.”
The agent ignored Axel and nodded to his men. One walked to the passenger side of the truck, and the other three went to the back of the trailer.
“Get out, all of ya,” Agent Ramsey said.
They climbed out.
“Now, pull that bull out of the trailer,” he demanded.
Axel’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind!” he shouted over the downpour.
The agent reached into to his breast pocket, pulled out a pistol, and put it up to Axel’s forehead. “Do it,” he snarled.
Axel blinked in disbelief then lifted the ramp off the side of the trailer. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Jerseys are vicious.”
Mist’s heart was hammering, and she swallowed hard. She usually kept her eyes lowered, but tonight her attention was riveted to the men and the trailer. She must be ready for anything. Peer was standing next to her, tense and motionless. The three federal agents with shotguns had encircled them.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain spattered loudly in the mud.
Placing the ramp on the back of the trailer, Axel said, “You don’t wanna do this.”
Ramsey strode up to him and raised his pistol again. “We know you’re hiding liquor in there. A lot of liquor. Now open that trailer.”
Axel reached for the latch, swung the door open, and jumped to the side, pressing himself against the trailer. Mist instinctively stepped back. Everyone else scattered. The road was bordered by a fence, and the agents backed up against it. When Mist started to scramble over the rails, an agent pointed a gun at her and barked, “You move, sister, and I kill ya.”
She stepped down, eyes wide, panting and watching the door of the trailer.
There was a clatter of hooves, a loud snort, and Týr stumbled down into the mud. Swinging his head around, he looked at the men. No one moved. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do. Then with a bellow, he put his head down and dashed toward the agent standing next to Peer. The agent brought his pistol up, but it misfired, and Týr hooked the man in the torso with his horns and tossed him into the air. The man tumbled head over heels and slammed to the ground. With lightning speed, Týr drove a horn deep into his belly.
Suddenly, there were flashing lights and a deafening roar as the agents opened fire on the bull. Terrified, Mist launched herself over the fence and hit the ground, covering her head. When the firing stopped, she looked up. Týr staggered and dropped with a thud.
The agent who’d been gored was dead, and next to him was Peer, riddled with bullets, killed in the frenzy of crossfire.
A figure loomed up out of the darkness and yanked Mist to her feet. It was Axel. “Come on!” he roared, and they ran across the field into the woods. Following a path along the river toward home, they cut across a cornfield to the road again where they found Oscar. After a quick explanation, Oscar swung his lantern at the shack so Nels would not shoot, and they ran to the house. Bursting through the door, Axel roared, “Feds on the road. Peer’s dead. They shot the bull too. They’re probably on their way now.”
Nels turned back to the window and looked out. “Not yet,” he said.
Axel pulled a cork from the whiskey jug, took three deep gulps then picked up a shotgun.
Mist stood panting and watching her brothers. Her hair clung to her scalp, and her dress was dripping. Trembling from fear and cold, she hugged herself and walked over to Magnus. The dim light from the stove shed enough light so she could see that he was sleeping. She pulled back his blanket. Nels had done a hasty job of bandaging his knees, but thankfully the dressings were dry; the bleeding had stopped. Her chest tightened. Magnus would live. Peer would not. She thought of her youngest brother out there alone in the rain.
Taut as bowstrings, they waited in the dark. Just before sunrise, Nels announced, “Oscar’s swinging his lantern. Someone safe is here.”
Grabbing his shotgun, Axel jumped up and rushed to the window. “We’ll see about that,” he said.
Mist stood behind him. Headlights from a motorcar came down the road, and whoever it was parked in front of the house. The dogs crawled out from under the shed and started barking. Mist could feel her brothers’ tension increase as the men stepped from the motorcar.
Axel lowered his shotgun. “It’s Johnson and Schultz.”
Nels lowered his weapon too. It was the sheriff and his deputy.
Mist stepped over and lit the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table, the golden light throwing everything into shadows as Axel opened the door. The lawmen shook the rain from their hats and stepped inside. Sheriff Johnson was a stocky, bald man with a care-worn face, and his deputy a pimply-faced youth.
After nodding a greeting to Mist and Nels, Sheriff Johnson said, “Glad to see you’re okay.” Running his eyes over the room, he asked, “Where’s Magnus?”
“Sleeping,” Axel said. “He had an accident, but he’ll mend.”
“We just came from the road. It is a goddamn mess.”
“Did you find Peer?” Nels asked.
“We did and transported him to the undertaker. You wanna tell me what happened?”
“Come in and sit down,” Axel said. “Mist, get ‘em a whiskey.”
The men sat down at the kitchen table as Mist distributed mason jars full of whiskey. Stepping back from the lantern light, she hugged herself and listened from the corner.
Axel told the story, leaving nothing out.
Sheriff Johnson nodded and said, “Tierney was on his way to open the feed store and found everything. We headed out right away, and the first thing we saw was your pickup and trailer abandoned. Then we found Peer on the ground full of bullet holes, next to him, an unknown man who looked like he bled out from a ripped belly, and the bull, who was peppered with shot. The doors on the floor of your trailer were open. The storage area had been emptied.”
“Smashed bottles?” Axel asked.
“No, there was nothing.”
“Those bastards,” Nels mumbled. “The Feds took it for themselves.”
“What Feds?” Sheriff Johnson asked.
“The Federal agents who did this.”
Johnson and Schultz exchanged looks. “There weren’t no Feds in the area last night,” Deputy Schultz said.
“You know they have to notify local law before a raid,” the sheriff added. “We heard nothing.”
Axel straightened up wide-eyed. “So they were road pirates pretending to be Feds?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Apparently.”
Jumping up, Axel started to pace. “When we find those bastards, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Now Axel, calm down. I won’t tolerate a blood feud,” Johnson said.
Quick as lightning, he turned and barked, “Like hell, you won’t! I pay you good money, and I expect you to find out who did this. My little brother is dead, and my whiskey is gone. I am going to rip some hearts out!”
