Lost on the Prairie Page 7

  After the sheriff and the others have left, I help Mr. Schmidt wrap the body in some blankets I fetch from the house. We tie rope round and round the blankets and then carefully place the body in the back of the wagon.

  In town, I help Mr. Schmidt unload the body at the undertaker’s and I wait in the churchyard while Mr. Schmidt talks with the pastor. At his brother Ben’s house, I sit silently around the table with Leander and Orrin and their mother as plans are made for the funeral service and burial. I notice Mr. Schmidt takes two one-dollar bills from his pocket and tucks them under the Bible on the table before we leave.

  It’s funny. I thought this day might seem long as can be. Thought I’d wear my patience thin waiting for Monday morning to meet that train agent from Minneapolis and start my journey home. But the day has gone by mighty fast with all that’s happened. Mr. Schmidt seems tuckered out after supper and suggests we go straight to bed. No Bible reading and prayers tonight.

  “Say goodbye to the women now,” he tells me. “You and I will head into town early. Don’t want to take a chance on you missing that train agent.”

  Ellie, Eudora, and Ettie each shake my hand solemnly as they say goodbye before heading on up to bed.

  Mrs. Schmidt shakes my hand too. “Thanks kindly for taking me in,” I say.

  She nods. “Wish your stay had been a little less exciting, Peter, but we are ever so grateful to you for saving all our stock last night.”

  I bed down again on the horsehair rug in the parlour. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep I’m so excited about what the coming day will bring. But the next thing I know, Violet is shaking my shoulder and saying, “Coffee’s ready and the potatoes are frying. Come on into the kitchen.”

  THE SKY IS JUST TURNING pink as Mr. Schmidt climbs up into the wagon and we head into town. I am riding Gypsy and Prince follows the wagon. I turn around and take one more gander at the burned barn, the animals in the corral, and the Schmidt house. I want to remember how things look so when I tell my family all about my adventures in South Dakota, it will seem real to them and help them understand everything that has happened to me.

  Chapter 14

  WE PULL UP TO THE train station, and sure enough that engine from Minneapolis is already there, black as the burned barn timbers, with smoke drifting out its stack. Attached to it is my very own train car, with the frayed end-piece of the rope I had tied to its door handle batting about in the morning breeze. It seems a lifetime ago that I left that car. Mr. Schmidt ties up his horses to the hitching post and hurries up to the engine. I think he is worried the train might leave without me. I am too.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Prince and Gypsy before hightailing it after him.

  Mr. Schmidt is talking to a man beside the tracks no taller than I am. His beard is white and scraggly. Round, steel-rimmed spectacles seem ready to slide off his nose. He’s wearing a faded blue uniform with a dented rusty badge on the lapel. His oil-stained hat looks like it could belong to a soldier.

  “This is Mr. Miller, Peter,” Mr. Schmidt says as I reach the two men. “He’s the train engineer, and I was just starting to tell him your story, but he seems to know all about you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Miller.”

  His hand when I shake it is greasy and gritty, but despite that, his grip is sure.

  “Had your breakfast, son?” he asks me first thing.

  “Yes.” I notice he’s had his. Bits of bread and egg yolk are stuck in his beard.

  “Well then, we should be off. Got word just before I left Minneapolis you’d be here. The company vice-president received a telegram from up there in Canada asking after your whereabouts. I’ve got orders to take you to Minneapolis with me and then hook up this car to the next train leaving for Humboldt, Saskatchewan. Appears that’s the closest station to where your folks got their homestead and it’s where your two brothers arrived some weeks back.”

  “Sounds just fine to me, sir,” I say to Mr. Miller.

  “I’ll help the boy load his horses into the train car,” Mr. Schmidt tells him.

  “I put in some fresh straw and water for your horses,” Mr. Miller reports. “Your father wired some funds for us to do that, but the company vice-president gave orders not to use your family’s money. He feels real bad about your car coming uncoupled out there near Dakota territory, and says taking care of you and your horses is the least we can do.”

  Mr. Miller crawls up into the engine, and to my surprise, a man in blue overalls and a cap like Mr. Miller’s pokes his head out the window. “This here’s my fireman. Name’s Denver.”

  Denver points a quivering jaw in my direction and nods without looking me in the eye. “Denver don’t say much, but he’s a mighty fine fireman. He and I are going to get the boiler hot as we can while you square those horses of yours away.”

  Mr. Schmidt helps me lead Prince and Gypsy into the boxcar, and together we lift the slanted board that makes a walkway between the tracks and the train for them. We shove the heavy board up and into the boxcar. I remember it took me near to a whole morning to drag that board in place when I was all alone and hurt and needed to get Prince and Gypsy out into the fresh air. What a difference now with Mr. Schmidt’s strong arms to help, and me all sturdy and healed up thanks to the Little Thunders’ doctoring and Violet’s cooking.

  Mr. Schmidt shakes my hand hard and sure just the way Papa did when I left Newton, like I’m a real man. Sometimes I think about what a little boy I was the day I left home all excited but with no idea about what was to happen to me. But now I feel a heap more grown up.

  After all, I’ve killed a copperhead and climbed down a roller coaster. I crawled back up after a terrible fall down a ravine and survived a near drowning. I rescued my friend from quicksand and saved a barn full of animals from a fire. What with all my adventures, I’m becoming more and more brave and grown up, like Harvey was at the end of Captains Courageous. Will Mama and Papa and my brothers even recognize me?

  “It’s not a long trip, Peter,” Mr. Schmidt says, bringing my head back from its meanderings. “You should be in Minneapolis this afternoon. Greet your folks for me and tell them someday I just might come for a visit. Never been to Canada. Might be I want to see another country in this world before I die.”

  Mr. Schmidt begins to slide the door in place. “Goodbye,” I say trying to sound manly and sure of myself.

  “Gruss Gott, Peter,” I hear Mr. Schmidt say just before the door clangs shut. The familiar phrase almost brings a tear to my eye. I stand between Prince and Gypsy and put one hand on each horse. “We’re going home,” I say.

  I’m all at sixes and sevens as the train speeds down the tracks to Minneapolis. I find the puzzle from Grandpa that I’ve left behind in the boxcar, but after only ten minutes—according to my brother Herman’s pocket watch—I figure it out and the four sections of the puzzle slide apart. I tried to solve that puzzle all the way from Newton to Omaha without any luck, and now for some reason I can see the way to untwist the metal pieces clear as can be.

  To make the time go by, I sing a few of Mama’s favourite songs—“Let Me Call You Sweetheart” and “Down by the Old Mill Stream”—and even some of the hymns Grandpa takes a shine to, like “A Mighty Fortress” and “Bringing in the Sheaves.” Gypsy and Prince don’t seem to like my singing much; they paw and snort a bunch, so I stop after a time. I eat the lunch Violet sent along with me and I drop off for a snooze with a piece of her juicy quince pie sticky in my hand.

  I’m awake, though, when the train screeches to a stop and Denver the fireman comes to open the door. I peer out and Denver jerks his head and his thumb towards the train station.

  Some men are already helping Mr. Miller unhook my boxcar, and the engineer looks up and says, “Welcome to Minneapolis, Peter. We’re going to get your car coupled up with the train heading to Humboldt, Saskatchewan, in the morning. Don’t you worry a mite about your horses here. I’ll look to them. You go on into the station and find the
ticket agent. Name’s Harold Larsen. He’s going to get you taken care of for the night.”

  I give Prince and Gypsy a pat and whisper that I’ll be back, and then I walk into the station and just stand there staring. I don’t think I have ever been in a building so big. I could skate across the shiny marble floors. I look way up at the arching pale-blue ceiling.

  The afternoon sun is streaming in through huge, high windows and warming the hundreds of people in the station who are rushing around like an army of ants, but not as organized as ants, who always march in straight lines. These folks dart about criss-crossing and dodging and sometimes bumping into each other. The noisy crowd reminds me of the Omaha amusement park where I had my first roller coaster ride with Annie. I spy a barred window with the word “tickets” in big letters above it. I wait in the long line in front of it until it is finally my turn. “I’m Peter Schmidt,” I say, introducing myself to a man in a white shirt and checkered vest behind the window. “Are you Mr. Larsen?”

  “Yes, I am,” says Mr. Larsen, smiling so big and wide that all his square white teeth show and the ends of his curling moustache almost touch his cheeks.

  “I know all about you, Peter Schmidt, and I’ve been expecting you. Mr. James Olsen himself, the Great Western Railway vice-president here in Minneapolis, wishes me to convey his deepest regrets about your train car being left behind near Sisseton. In order to make it up to you, he has personally arranged for you to spend the night in the West Hotel at his expense.”

  Mr. Larsen hollers, “Samson!” and a boy about my age pokes his head round a door behind the ticket agent.

  “Samson, this is Peter Schmidt. I want you to walk over to the West Hotel with him and make sure he gets checked in at the front desk. Just tell them he’s Mr. Olsen’s guest. They will know what to do.”

  I follow Samson out of the station and he finds a path through the maze of carriages and horses standing in front of the grand brick building’s front entrance.

  As we walk down the street side by side, Samson begins to whistle. “I don’t know that song,” I say.

  “It’s called ‘Come Take a Trip in My Airship.’”

  “My family likes music, but I’ve never heard that one,” I tell him.

  “It’s pretty new. Miss Ginger, one of the entertainers in the dining room at the West Hotel, has been singing it lately. I often have to take passengers to and from the hotel and sometimes when I’m waiting in the lobby for folks I can hear Miss Ginger singing. She’s got a voice can make your worries fly away.”

  “Why would she be singing about an airship? What’s that?”

  “You haven’t heard of them?”

  “Can’t say that I have. I saw some hot-air balloons at an amusement park in Omaha. Is that the same thing?”

  “I guess in a way, but these are real airships that carry lots of passengers. They’ve been experimenting with them over in Europe—France, mostly. This one fella earned a whole pile of money for flying his airship around the Eiffel Tower.”

  “And how do you know about airships, Samson?”

  “I read newspapers. Passengers leave them in the station all the time. I had to quit school after my pa died to help provide for my ma and three little sisters, but I can still learn stuff from reading the papers.”

  I shake my head. The world is a bigger place with more stuff going on than I ever imagined. I wonder if maybe I will have a chance to go to Europe someday and see things like the Eiffel Tower and maybe even fly in an airship.

  Chapter 15

  ''WELL, HERE WE ARE,'' SAYS Samson stopping in front of a towering building with pillars like the ones on ancient temples.

  “This is the West Hotel. It is here on the corner of Fifth Street and Hennepin Avenue. And if you walk down Hennepin you get back to the train station.”

  I wait in the lobby while Samson goes up to the front desk. I stare at all the people in their fine clothes. There are ladies in long silk dresses with flowing skirts and tight jackets closed up with dozens of little pearl buttons. Many are carrying umbrellas and wearing huge hats with feathers and fruit and flowers on them. Why are they carrying umbrellas when it’s not even close to looking like rain, and how do they keep those hats balanced on their heads? How would Mama look in a hat like that?

  Many of the men have tall, shiny black hats that look like the pipe on Mama’s stove. They are dressed in black suits with long jackets that have tails flying out the back. Some of the men are carrying canes like the one Grandpa uses, but they are way too young to need a cane to walk.

  Samson comes over with a boy dressed in an outfit that looks a mite like a Union Army uniform. There are dozens of shiny buttons down the front and a funny hat that brings to mind a round cake. It looks like it would slide off the boy’s head if it weren’t held in place by an elastic band that goes round his chin.

  “Meet Danny,” says Samson. “He’s the bellhop and will take you to your room. Good luck, Peter. Nice to meet you.”

  Samson strides off before I get a chance to even say goodbye. I hear him whistling that airship song as he hurries out of the hotel.

  I follow Danny up to a pair of wooden doors with fancy iron grating across the front. He pushes apart the grating first and then slides open the doors before stepping inside a huge box with beautiful carvings all over walls.

  “Come on,” he says, beckoning me into the box.

  “What is that?” I ask, staying right where I am.

  “It’s an elevator,” Danny replies. “Haven’t you ever been on one before?”

  “No sirree,” I reply. “I haven’t even ever heard of an elevator.”

  “Well, it’s a kind of moving box,” says Danny, “that will take us up to the fourth floor of the hotel where your room is.”

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “Not everyone thinks so,” Danny replies. “But I’ve been on it hundreds of times and nothing has ever happened to me.”

  I walk inside with careful steps.

  “Hold up there!” A man in a white suit who has a white bushy moustache and plenty of white curly hair slips into the elevator.

  “What floor, sir?” Danny asks him politely.

  “Third, please.”

  Danny closes the doors and turns a shiny brass handle on the wall. The elevator begins to move up. It feels funny. My stomach seems to drop as the elevator rises.

  I must look uncomfortable because the man in the white suit asks, “First time on an elevator, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  Just then the elevator makes a groaning sound, gives a lurch, and comes to a stop. The man in the white suit topples over and lands on the floor with a thud. I reach out a hand to help him up.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Danny asks as the man brushes some dirt off the arms of his jacket.

  “No harm done, son. Let’s see if you can get this contraption started again.”

  Danny tries turning the handle. Nothing happens.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  “Just wait,” Danny says with a sigh. “This happens at least once a week. Someone will soon realize the elevator has stopped and will get Mr. Harmer, the engineer. He’s friends with every little moving part in this elevator and he can always get it going again.”

  Danny starts to whistle. I tap my foot, and the man in the white suit combs his moustache with his fingers.

  After a time, he says kindly, “I’m from Connecticut, son. Where are you from?”

  “Now that’s sort of hard to say, sir,” I reply. “You see I was from Newton, Kansas, but my family is moving up to Canada to a place called Drake, Saskatchewan.”

  “Yet I find you without your family in a stuck elevator in the finest hotel in Minneapolis. Why’s that?”

  “Well, sir,” I say. “That’s a long story.”

  “Stories are my specialty and it seems we need to pass some time,” the man remarks. “I’d be obliged if you would tell me yours.”

  The man looks
so interested I begin telling him about the morning Papa and Mama said goodbye to me at the train station in Kansas. By the time I have finished describing how I killed the copperhead and saved the gophers, Danny has turned around and I can tell he is listening real careful to everything I’m saying. The older gentleman keeps saying “ah” in a short humming sort of way whenever I finish a sentence or two.

  I am just at the part where Annie and I are being rescued from the roller coaster in Omaha when the elevator groans and lurches and starts moving.

  Danny turns around to put his hand back on the handle that moves the elevator up and down.

  “I’m right sorry this thing started,” he says. “Your story is awful exciting. Did you get off that roller coaster safe and sound?”

  “Well, he’s here, isn’t he?” the man in the white suit says with a chuckle. “Guess you made it. But I still want to know how you got from Omaha to Minneapolis.”

  The elevator stops and Danny opens the door. “Third floor, sir.”

  The man starts walking forward and then turns around. “Are you spending the night here at the West Hotel?” he asks me.

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “And who are you eating dinner with, young man?”

  Danny speaks up. “Arrangements have been made for him to eat in the dining room, sir.”

  “And will he be eating alone?”

  “As far as I know, sir,” says Danny.

  “What’s your name, son?” the man demands, looking me right in the eye.

  “Peter Schmidt, sir.”

  “Well, Peter Schmidt, I’d be obliged if you joined me in the dining room for supper tonight. Shall we say around 6:30? If I’m not there just ask the waiter to seat you at Samuel Clemens’s table.”