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  “Ah, now we shall travel in style,” Zakov said.

  “Think there’s room for a coffin in that thing?” Bapcat asked Harju.

  “Sure. Just chop him in half and put one half on top the other,” replied the officer.

  “You are silly, mindless children unworthy of serious attention,” Zakov carped, going into a pout.

  “What is this thing?” Bapcat asked his colleague.

  “Model T Touring Car chassis. Mr. Ford tried to sell this as a delivery truck last year, but without much success. Now he sells the frame and the buyer arranges to have a top installed. This one is a gift to the department from President Roosevelt. Oates and Jones decided that, given your connection to the president, you should be the one to use it—at least initially. Most roads up here are far better and newer than in almost any other location in the state.”

  Bapcat struggled with his thoughts and finally admitted, “I don’t know how to operate one of these things. Do better in your hands than mine.”

  Harju laughed. “I’m new to it as well, and if I can drive one, so can you.”

  “And I shall serve as his mentor,” Zakov declared.

  The two game wardens ignored him.

  Later in the afternoon they loaded Zakov in the rear and drove to a stretch of the Gratiot River, a mile from the hill cabin, and caught enough brook trout for dinner.

  Bapcat boiled potatoes over the fire and fried the trout in a new black iron skillet Harju had brought with some other equipment, all from President Roosevelt.

  “Judge O’Brien of the circuit court visited me,” Bapcat told Harju. “He knew my job and where I live.”

  “Not from me,” Harju said.

  “He claims Jones is a chum.”

  “Take the man at his word, Lute.”

  “I don’t like surprises,” Bapcat said.

  Harju changed directions. “You’ve not yet announced yourself and your appointment?”

  “The judge knows, Nayback knows, my friend Dominick knows, and I have a feeling so do plenty of others, but for now I don’t want to just put it out there for everyone.”

  “What’s to know?” Zakov inquired, and again the two men ignored him.

  “Have you patrolled any?” Harju asked.

  “Bootjack, mainly,” Bapcat said, and he explained what he had seen to the Russian and the other warden, adding that the judge had also suggested he visit the same area. “Not much to see at present.”

  “Market hunters won’t get serious until after Independence Day,” Harju said.

  Bapcat knew venison tasted best July through September, when the animals’ coats gleamed red instead of winter gray.

  “You should get to know the railroad people,” Harju said, “get a sense of meat and fish shipments in past years, unusual cargo requests, things that are out of the ordinary.”

  “Suggesting the railroad people are in cahoots with market hunters?”

  “No, I’m only suggesting your prospects for information have to be carefully nurtured and developed, and railroads are a good starting place. If your investigations point toward railroad men, so be it. Tell me about Mr. Cornelius Nayback.”

  “He denies receiving money from Bestemand.”

  “Evidence contradicts him.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Bapcat said. “The checks were made out to Bestemand, who cashed them. There’s nothing to show the money got into Nayback’s pockets.”

  “You believe the man?”

  “No, but without some access to Nayback’s finances, I don’t see a future for this.”

  “What of our local scouts?”

  “I doubt any exist.”

  “Will you pursue establishing a chapter?”

  “Not with a lot of enthusiasm; I’ve already got enough to deal with.”

  “And your dear acquaintance, Cap’n Hedyn?”

  “I saw Nayback with him at the Cornish wrestling matches.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m guessing Hedyn’s having me watched.”

  Harju nodded. “What of your newest acquisition?” he asked, with a nod toward the Russian.

  “He has skills, and knows the land around here.”

  “Your call,” Harju said. “Jones and Oates have a target on Hedyn’s back; any idea why?”

  “The department’s new. It needs big marks?”

  “Lufda, you’re a sharp one.”

  “Why? Hedyn’s hundreds of miles away from Jones or Oates.”

  “There are telephones, telegraphs, letters, messengers,” Harju said.

  “The judge?”

  “Somebody far away has no love for Hedyn is all I know,” Harju said.

  “Are we returning to our Kremlin tonight,” Zakov asked, “or do we plan to live rough to provide the carnivorous insects their nourishment? I am an ailing man.”

  “You sound more like a pain in the extremes,” Harju said. “What in dickens is a Kremlin?”

  “A fortress.”

  Harju laughed. “That’s a good one.” He turned to Bapcat. “Want your first driving lesson?”

  “Will there be more than one?”

  “Two. You can drive me to Red Jacket tomorrow. That should suffice.”

  They stood beside the vehicle. “The motor runs on gasoline. There is a transmission, which has two speeds forward, and one in reverse. There are three pedals on the floor. The throttle is this lever here.” He pointed at the steering column. “The starter crank is in front. It can break your arm. You turn the crank until you have ignition. The hand lever goes in to release the parking brake and engage the gears. You step on the pedal and use the throttle to move. What could be more simple?”

  “Walking,” Bapcat said.

  “Walking wears out boots. Leave walking to the Indians.”

  Passing through Allouez, Bapcat was shaky on the gears, making the truck buck, jerk, and convulse, and causing Zakov to cry out in fear as much as pain.

  “You could get out and walk,” Harju carped at the Russian.

  “My leg is broken,” Zakov said, glowering.

  “Just like a wife,” Harju told Bapcat.

  20

  Laurium

  SUNDAY, JUNE 15, 1913

  Bapcat’s operation of the Model T continued to be so erratic that Harju had decided to remain another day to help Bapcat polish his driving skills. The day before they’d driven up to Eagle River to visit Sheriff John Hepting, who admired the unusual vehicle and proclaimed, “Someday I can see every policeman in America in one of these contraptions.” They all laughed at him, but he said, “I’m not joking.”

  Hepting looked at Bapcat’s new badge, smirked, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Something amuse you, Sheriff?” Harju asked.

  “I’m just thinking that after that weasel Bestemand, there’s a large adjustment ahead for Deputy Bapcat. When did this become official?”

  “Three weeks ago,” Bapcat said. “I took the oath in Marquette.”

  “Why has it been kept quiet?”

  “Biding his time,” Harju said. “Eventually, people will know.”

  Hepting nodded once and asked no further questions.

  At noon on Sunday, Harju loaded his bags. Bapcat left Zakov with the rats and drove the other officer south six or so miles down to Laurium, less than a mile from Red Jacket proper. The other deputy obviously wanted to talk.

  “Are you certain you want that crazy Russian wolfer with you?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Bapcat said.

  “He’s no physical help until he heals. You need someone to help you until the Russian’s healthy. And it takes two men to operate the Ford.”

  Bapcat said, “I know.” He pulled up to the Red Ball Pool
Hall in Laurium, parked, left Harju alone, and went inside. It was dark with a single light suspended over each table. “George Gipp live around here?”

  A man with a bushy mustache and a cigar stuck to his lower lip stood with a pool cue in hand. “If he’s not here or playing ball, he’ll be fast asleep at home. Hecla Street, number 432. Don’t rub his old lady the wrong way; her tongue’s sharp enough to skin a trout.”

  Hecla Street was a block south of the business district, and the house at 432 Hecla Street was one and a half stories, with a gabled front, narrow lot, closed-in porch, shingled sides. It was painted, nice, but basically a lowly miner’s house given some attention. There was a girl on the front porch, blonde, young, blue-eyed, ten or so. Bapcat was uncomfortable around children.

  “George Gipp here?”

  “Do I look like a boy?” the girl shot back.

  “Does he live here?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Bapcat held out his badge and let her look at it. “Is Georgie in trouble?” she asked.

  “Should he be?”

  “He’s sleeping. My brother’s always asleep, or he’s not here,” she added.

  “Wake him up.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “But I will,” he said.

  The girl shrugged, slid inside.

  Gipp shuffled onto the porch a few minutes later, barefoot and shirtless, suspenders over muscled shoulders, yawning. “Deputy?” he said.

  “You find a job yet?”

  “Like I said, I’m a ball player.”

  “A real job.”

  “Not yet.”

  “How’d you like to drive for the State, for me?”

  Gipp looked at the truck. “You mean that contraption?”

  “Yep. You’ll have to bunk with us up near Allouez. Your schedule will be erratic.”

  “Nothing new,” Gipp said. “My life’s always that way. What’s this so-called job pay?”

  “Dollar a day, and you can use the Ford to get to your practices and ball games.”

  Gipp grinned and nodded. “You got yourself a driver, boss.”

  “Pack a bag for a couple of days,” Bapcat told the boy. “You can come back later for more.”

  Harju showed Gipp how to drive, and the eighteen-year-old took to it immediately, his superior coordination letting him master all the skills effortlessly.

  The Marquette deputy warden had some final words for Bapcat. “Squeeze Nayback and stay on that Bootjack business. The judge wouldn’t have pointed you in that direction without a reason.”

  “I’m taking orders from you now?” Bapcat challenged.

  “For a few months. Jones says he’s too far away, but I can get over here pretty quick. You need anything, wire me. The phones at my end are unreliable—too many ears.” The two men shook hands. “The kid there, you think he’s up to this?” Harju asked.

  Bapcat nodded. “Pretty sure.”

  “Don’t let your wife order him around,” Harju said. “And leave the wolfer out of the reports for now.”

  “Yes, sir.” What reports?

  Bapcat and Harju shook hands and Gipp helped the deputy carry his bags into the station to await a trolley going south.

  En route to Bumbletown Hill, Bapcat asked Gipp if he could write.

  Gipp smiled. “How much extra does that pay?”

  Bapcat liked the boy, sensed toughness mixed with playfulness, a lot of self-confidence. In some ways Bapcat envied the young man who just wanted to be a ball player.

  21

  Bumbletown Hill

  TUESDAY, JUNE 17, 1913

  “I am telling you he’s out there again,” Zakov said, looking down the hill behind the cabin.

  “Who is out there?” Bapcat asked.

  “A little man, a troll perhaps, or an Arab djinn, a real American manitou—­any of these creatures, all of them. I saw him loitering several times on Sunday.”

  Bapcat looked down the hill. “It’s Nayback,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “Must I report every individual I observe?”

  Bapcat picked up his Krag, loaded it, put extra cartridges in his pocket, slung the rifle, and went out the front door. He ducked into the high grasses near the boulder field and worked his way down the hill through cover, to just north of where he had seen Nayback.

  He came up behind the man. “Is there a reason you’re hiding in our woods?” The rifle was un-slung, but at his side in one hand.

  Nayback was startled, jumped, and clutched at his chest. “Where in blazes did you come from?”

  “From the very place you’ve been spying on for the past two days.”

  “I’ve been waiting to see you,” Nayback said.

  “We have doors.”

  “I can’t be seen with you, but I need to talk.”

  “Talk,” Bapcat said, wondering what all the mystery was about and guessing Hedyn was somewhere in the mix.

  Nayback held out an envelope. “One hundred dollars.”

  “The hundred Bestemand gave you?”

  “Yes,” the man said, looking down.

  “Your eyes suggest differently. Whose money is this?”

  “I just told you.”

  “No, you haven’t. Why did Bestemand give you the money?”

  “To establish a local Forest Scouts group.”

  “Which you failed to do, then lied about.”

  “He promised to help and then he disappeared. After that, there seemed no point, so I kept the money.”

  “Which you denied having.”

  “I know; I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know what happened to Bestemand?”

  “Put his nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “Unless you are expressly invited, one must avoid a certain captain’s swamp.”

  Bapcat didn’t understand and didn’t press. The man was shaking.

  “Earlier you told me you never got the money.”

  Nayback’s twitch began to intensify.

  “An error in judgment, a lapse I cannot adequately explain. You said the State wants its money back, and now you and the State have it. I’m sorry for what I said about your birth status. I would like to put this thing behind us and get on with educating youngsters.”

  Bapcat weighed his choices, best as he could figure them. “You can’t commit a crime, say I’m sorry, and escape justice. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Justice . . . here?” the man sputtered. “We’re all slaves to the barons of copper. I just want done with all this,” Nayback insisted, his voice reedy.

  “I’ll have to talk to my superiors and give you a receipt for the cash.”

  Nayback’s face was flushed, flashing panic. His hands came up and he backpedaled away. “No receipt, no record; I know nothing of that money.”

  Which suggested to Bapcat the hundred was not the same that had been given to the man by Bestemand. It wasn’t hard to figure out where it had come from, or why. Hedyn wants me to back off Nayback. Why?

  Gipp and Zakov were waiting on the porch. “It was Nayback,” Bapcat said. “How well do you know Captain Hedyn?” he asked Gipp.

  “Only of him. I guess everybody in Copper Country knows who he is.”

  “Nayback was with the captain at the wrestling match.”

  “Hedyn likes to keep track of things . . . personally.”

  “You ever hear of Hedyn and Bestemand being tight?”

  “Everybody said Bestemand was Cruse’s boy, but Hedyn keeps track—and score, I hear.”

  “Score?”

  “Anybody crosses him gets paid back.”

  “A per
fectly understandable and advisable trait in a toy czar,” Zakov announced.

  22

  Upper Black Creek Canyon, Houghton County

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18, 1913

  John Hepting appeared without warning at Bapcat’s cabin. “I’ve got a situation that might interest you,” the Keweenaw county sheriff told Bapcat.

  Bapcat gathered his equipment and climbed into Hepting’s Model A Ford. “Where we going?” He rode with the butt-end of his Krag on the floor between his legs.

  “Upper end of Black Creek Canyon, camp of a fella named Enock Hannula. I’ve got a warrant.”

  “Stumper Hannula,” Bapcat said with a sigh.

  “You know him?”

  “He used to trap beavers south of Copper Harbor, over in the Breakfast Lake area.”

  “Used to?”

  “I had to teach him about stealing my traps.”

  “Have a little talk?”

  “Not many words, and no conversation, but he got the point. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “I’ve dealt with him a time or two myself.”

  “What’s the warrant for?”

  “Secreting property. Hannula ran up substantial debts, the court convicted him of same, and sentenced him to sell his belongings to settle the debt, but the booger moved all his belongings out of the county.”

  “Big debts for what?”

  “Supplies and so forth—from your own Widow Frei. We arrested him for constructive larceny, and he was released on bail.”

  Bapcat shrugged. The widow wasn’t his.

  Hepting said, “The widow waited a year with Hannula promising he’d pay. Finally she swore charges, we made the arrest, and he was found guilty. That’s when we learned he’d cleaned out his house at Copper Falls.”

  “And moved them up the Black River?”

  “We don’t know exactly where he took them, but his wife sent me a note saying he’s got a shack up the canyon, barely into Houghton County.”

  “His wife turned him in?”

  “Unhappy wives help us make a lot of cases. Hannula’s a Church Finn and partial to the Book.”

  “Book believer or not, Hannula isn’t the kind to come along peacefully,” Bapcat offered.