Red Jacket (17 page)

45

>Red Jacket

MONDAY, JULY 21, 1913

Dominick Vairo's partner, Frank Rousseau, knew of Jerko Skander.

“Some call him Rat Dog, but he don't come around towns so much,” Rousseau explained. “Works underground in Allouez Number Four, over to Ahmeek. Heard he's a trammer, but his real job is to kill rats down below. Some say he eats 'em.”

“How do we find him?”

“He's supposed to have a shack somewhere out Seneca way.”

“What's he look like?”

“Skander, or the shack?”

“Either, both,” Bapcat said.

“Never seen the shack, but the man you'll know by his nose.”

“As in?”

Rousseau laughed. “Don't need to paint no picture. You'll know, eh?”

“He ever come into Red Jacket?”

“Long time back. Not so much no more, and not that I seen,” Rousseau said. “People don't like to be around the man, and he don't like to be around no peoples either.”

Zakov said nothing until he was outside with Bapcat: “The longer I am in this place, the more I think of Babel and its tower to Heaven, and how God was displeased and intentionally damaged the speech of every working man. Unable to communicate, the building of the tower stopped.”

Bapcat wasn't certain of his companion's meaning. “Are you saying God isn't happy with this place?”

“There is no God,” Zakov said. “I am only pointing out that this stewpot of humanity makes if difficult to get anything done.”

“They seem to get copper out of the ground just fine.”

“
Da
, until the strike; then you will see.”

Bapcat had no idea exactly what the Russian was thinking, but it occurred to him that the Borzoi, given the circumstances and his behavior when they had first met after the theft from his camp, and the Russian lay injured and defiant in a hole, might very well be mentally unbalanced.

46

Seneca Location, Keweenaw County

MONDAY, JULY 21, 1913

Zakov found a drunken cripple in Ahmeek, a man who spoke to Zakov in Russian, and learned from him that Jerko Skander lived between Seneca Lake and the Gratiot River, a marshy area edged by hulking piles of poor rock dumped from nearby mining operations. Zakov did not tell Bapcat who his source was, which led the deputy to think it might be a blind alley.

Bapcat looked out at the soft terrain and told the Russian, “You'd better stay here.”

Zakov said, “Nonsense. An injury should be exercised, not rested.” He brandished his crutch.

“Meaning you're bored?”

“I'll allow that element.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Bapcat asked his companion.

“I've never found reason to inventory them.”

The only shack west of Seneca Lake was made of logs caulked with yellowing mosses and chinked with pale red mud. There was a small fire pit outside and a young blonde girl sitting on a split log, tending a metal grill, set on stones over a small fire. A pot of coffee was brewing, and several lumps of gray meat were on the metal grate over the fire.

“We're looking for Jerko Skander,” Bapcat told the girl, and thought he heard coughing inside the cabin. “Is he here?”

The little girl, whose age Bapcat couldn't guess, looked up. “There is no one here but me,” she said earnestly, her green eyes sparkling.

“I heard coughing in the shack,” Bapcat said, examining a small morsel of meat on the grill.

“Not coughing,” the girl said matter-of-factly. “You hear rats screaming for help from others of their kind.” A smile crept over her face. “Rats
never
help other rats.”

Bapcat leaned closer to the grill.
Not venison.
Several rats had been beheaded, skinned, split in half, spread flat like chicken breasts. “That's a lot of meat for a little girl.”

“It's not just for me. Father is fishing in the river and will return soon.”

As predicted, the man arrived with an unwieldy string of trout hanging down his back, suspended by a forked stick—so many fish that the man needed two hands to manage the load.

“Luck was with you,” Zakov greeted the man.

“Until now,” Skander said coolly, glaring at them.

Where his nose should be was a piece of copper hammered and folded to resemble a nose, held in place by strips of leather tied behind the man's head. Skander dropped the fish, nodded to the girl, and said in crude English, “Do work. Pour coffee.” Then, to Bapcat, “Who you?”

“Deputy State Game, Fish and Forestry Warden Bapcat, and my associate here is Zakov.”

The man waggled his finger at the child. “Talk for us, girl—not that Russian bastard.”

The little girl moved to stand next to the man with the copper nose, who said, “
Moja kcer ce govoriti za mere
.”

“My father, he says I will speak for him. My name is Draganu Tihan Skander. This means in English language, ‘beloved quiet one.' It is a beautiful name.”

“Why does your father speak so badly of Russians?” Zakov asked.

The girl looked past him to Bapcat. “I not talk to Russian, okay?”

Bapcat smiled at his colleague's ire. “Your father?” Copper Nose looked too old for a daughter so young.

“Yes, my father.”

“Where is your mother?”

“Gone to heaven. Consumption, doctor called it. She coughed blood and died.” The girl seemed unmoved by the death.

“How old are you, Draganu?”

“Eleven.”

She looked small for her age. “And where do you live?”

“Here,” she said, in a tone that blended pride with defiance.

“This is a hunting camp.”

“This our home, Mr. Sir. There are few houses for Croats, and those they would give cost much and need fix. Here we are warm. Father built this house for Mother and me. It is a good house.”

“You go to school?”

“Ahmeek. I walk road. Not far, only two miles.”

“Long walk in winter,” Bapcat said.

“I have snowshoes,” the girl said. “I have never missed school except when Mother died.”

The older man grunted and whispered something to her.

“Father wishes me to clean the trout and asks what do you want. We have work.”

“How many fish does he have?” Bapcat asked.

When asked, the man scratched his head and mumbled and the girl reported, “He doesn't keep count. He says only that today was a good day.”

Zakov stood over the dead fish. “I count at least one hundred,” he said to Bapcat.

“Does your father know he can keep only thirty fish each day?”

The girl talked to her father and turned back to Bapcat. “What fool says this?”

“It's the law.”

The girl translated for her father, who let loose with angry gibberish.

She said, “Father says there is no damn law on our river.”

“Tell your father we are going to take his fish,” Bapcat told her.

Before the girl could translate, Bapcat found a revolver pointed at his belly—not by the man, but by the child.

“
Our
fish,” she said ferociously. “You go, they stay.”

“Point the gun away from me, please. The fish belong to the people of the state. Does your father have a rod license?”

The pistol didn't waver in her small hand. “No license here, no law here—our fish,” she insisted.

“May I address you as Draganu?” Zakov asked.

“You even
smell
Russian. We do not like Russians. Remain your mouth shut.”

“Brat,” Zakov mumbled.

Bapcat remained calm. “If your father talks to us about deer-killing, we may let him keep the trout.”

She translated and listened to the man's reply. “Father says we already have the fish, and if you try to take them, he says I should shoot you in guts.”

Decision time.
“Please put the gun away,” Bapcat said. “Keep the fish. We just want to talk.”

Hearing this, the man pushed the girl's pistol aside, nodded, and indicated the two visitors should find a place to sit. The girl brought tin cups for coffee, and wooden plates. The man nodded at the rats and Bapcat speared one with his knife and put it on the plate. Zakov began to reach, and Skander put a knife to the Russian's throat. “
Nyet!
”

Zakov glared, but sat back. Skander gestured for Bapcat to eat. “
Covjek mara jesti
,” he said.

“All men must eat,” the girl translated. “Father is a great
lovac
—hunter,” she added. “We eat much.”

“Rats are not proper food,” Zakov criticized.

Skander mumbled and the girl said, “What would a Russian know about food? You are all savages. We eat everything that crawls, swims, runs, or flies,” the girl announced proudly. “As God provides.”

“
Ovo je moj kamp Nemate dop ustenje,
” Skander said forcefully.

“This is our camp. You are not allowed here,” the girl said.

Bapcat nibbled the rat meat and found the flavor bland, the texture stringy. “A bit like pork,” he told Zakov, who rolled his eyes.

The girl looked at Zakov. “You may eat now, Russian.”

Zakov speared the meat, took a bite, chewed, smiled. “Not pork—partridge. My compliments to the chef,” he said grandiosely.

The girl ignored him.

Bapcat told her, “Tell your father thank you for the food.”

Before she could translate, Skander said, “
Sam ubiti stakar au tarai zenlje. Mina ce ubiti sue nas.
”

“Father says he kills rats in the darkness of the earth, but the mines will kill everyone and everything.”

“Ask him why he is killing deer, whose meat he doesn't eat.”

The girl asked the question.

Skander said, “
Kapetani su poput boja. Marams napraviti ono sto smo rekli da ne.
”

“Captains are like gods. We must do what we are told,” the girl translated.

“The captains ordered him to kill deer?”

She relayed the question and her father replied slowly, almost cautiously. The girl said, “He does not kill these deer you talk of.”

“But he knows who does,” Bapcat said. “He pays them to kill the deer and bring him their heads or antlers.”

“Who tells this lie?” Skander demanded to know, his English suddenly improved, understanding more than he had been letting on.

“You pay hunters three bits, turn the heads and antlers in for two dollars, maybe three.”

“
Zvijer tereta
,” Skander said.

“Father says he is a beast of burden, a rat dog among beasts and men.”

Skander spouted a stream of words and his daughter nodded as he spoke. “Father says to tell you that a man who would be a true man first takes care of his family.”

Bapcat responded. “Tell your father we agree with him. Which captain pays him?”

The girl translated, and the man mumbled and turned his head away.

“He does not know. It is a different person each time, never a captain, though only captains would have so much money.”

“How does he know if he is talking to the right person?”

The girl nudged her father, who pointed at his eyes.

“Their eyes tell,” the girl said.

“Are these men from a captain he knows?”

She asked her father and he said, “
Tuje kapetan kapetani, cudo viste, ug lavni.
”

“He says, ‘There is a captain of captains, the big boss of bosses,' ” she said.

“What name?”

The Croat shrugged and nodded. The girl waggled the gun at them. “It is time for you to go and leave us alone.”

“Tell your father if he remembers a name to get in touch with the game wardens on Bumbletown Hill.”

“Go away,” the girl said wearily.

“She should have been born an aristocrat,” Zakov complained as they walked away. “Her heart is already black and her tongue sharp.”

“She's just a little girl.”

“I saw a tail on her.”

“Wait!” the girl called out, her father talking to her with his hand on her small shoulder. “
Kapetani su poput boga. Maramo napraviti ono sto smo nekli da ne
,” the man said.

“The captains are like gods,” the girl said.

“He is repeating himself,” Zakov said, cutting her off.

“
On ce me staviti u rure stakara I da nece biti poratka,
” Skander said.

The girl translated, “They will push him into the hole of rats and there will be no return,” she said with a flat voice.

“This has happened to others?” Bapcat asked.

“
Previse
. . . too many,” Skander said quietly. “
Volim moja kcer. Shvacate li sto to zrace?
”

“Father tells you he loves me. Do you understand what this means?”

“
Ako umrem, one ce umrijeti,
” the man added.

“He says if he dies, I die.”

Cold-eyed, emotionless voice. This child is tough beyond her age,
Bapcat thought.

“I understand,” Bapcat said, knowing that he really did not. This bond of child and parent had never been his, and while he could pretend to imagine it, he could not know the feelings involved. What was clear was that the man was desperate and feeling threatened.

“Tell your father the next time he is called, to let me know so I can watch.”

The girl translated and the man stared up at the sky, saying nothing, betraying nothing.

47

Pike River, Houghton County

TUESDAY, JULY 22, 1913

They had made their way south to Chassell the day before and had slept under the truck last night, hearing sporadic rifle reports throughout the night.

In the morning at first light they made their way to the farm of Elena Ongin, the Ontonagon County sheriff's sister, and her husband Olaf, who met them outside their small log house. Olaf had fresh blood on his hands and boots.

“Bapcat, Deputy State Game, Fish and Forestry Warden. He's Zakov,” he added. “We heard about the letters to your brother.”

“It's terrible,” the woman said. “A bloodbath.”

Bapcat looked at Olaf. “You're bleeding?”

“Dey shooting our milk cow,” Olaf said. “Bastid.”

“Where?”

“Behind barn,” the woman said. “Look south pasture.”

What they saw when they got into the field were ten deer and two cow carcasses.

“You see the shooters?” Bapcat asked the couple when he got back to the farmhouse.

“We go root cellar,” Elena Ongin said. “Too dangerous above the ground at night.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“May,” the husband said. “Late May.”

“Every night?”

“Not every. Sometimes, then nothing,” Elena said. “Last night was worst. It is getting worse, we think, because of strike. We heard last night, neighbor come over, say strike start today.”

“Where?” Bapcat asked.

“Everywhere, all copper,” Olaf said. “Will be bad for all dis.”

“You need to file a report on your cows with Sheriff Cruse,” Bapcat said.

“Da mine owners' lackey? He don't care,” Olaf said.

“He's the sheriff.”

“Only for certain people in this county. Not for the likes of us,” the woman said. “All these deer, you think everybody suddenly go crazy?”

Olaf laughed. “I tell you, mine operators, dey hire boys shoot dose deer so strikers can't eat.”

“How do you know this?” Bapcat asked.

“I got eyes,” Olaf said.

“Me, too,” his wife added. “I mebbe can't to vote, but I damn sure got a brain and the ability to reason and think. It's not landowners and sportsmen do this. Thugs for pay, and you need to stop this, Mr. Deputy,” she concluded, brandishing her forefinger like a rapier.

“Did you know the last game warden?” Bapcat asked the couple.

Olaf spat. “Wort'less, dat one.”

“He got hurt down this way,” Bapcat said.

“Takes no brain know you don't t'reaten t'ugs. Got big fellas hire dose t'ugs,” Olaf said.

“Care to proffer a name?” Zakov asked.

“Dead cow iss one t'ing,” Olaf said. “Dead me or dead Elena is whole nudder t'ing, eh.”

“Is there anyone down this way who might be willing to help us?” Bapcat asked.

“Matti Karki, timberman over Champion Mine, Painesdale,” the wife said. “Brings his wife and kids down here to fish, hunt—told Olaf he knows captain paying men to kill deer, seen where they throw heads and horns.”

“Karki?” Bapcat said.

“Nice man,” Olaf said. “He all fed up, says lots of da men wit' families feel same way as him,” Olaf said. “But don't go tell him we tell you his name.” The man's wariness was as palpable as his frustration.

“Thanks for your help,” Bapcat said.

“This Karki fellow won't talk,” Zakov said as they got into the Ford.

“Won't know unless we ask,” Bapcat said, thinking the Russian was probably right.