“I have a wagon over here. Come along!” said Larsson.
They turned a corner and found Larsson’s horse, harnessed to a kind of gig, a two-wheeler with a double seat and the driver’s seat behind. The vehicle reminded Karl Oskar of similar contraptions in Småland, called “coffee roasters.” Larsson untied the horse and asked Karl Oskar to climb in while he himself mounted the driver’s seat.
“Is it a long way?”
“Only five minutes.”
“I don’t want to miss the boat.”
“The steamer loads here for several hours,” Larsson told him. “You’ll have plenty of time.”
His new acquaintance kept addressing Karl Oskar with the intimate Swedish thou, something a stranger in Sweden never would have done, and Karl Oskar found it difficult to be equally familiar.
The gig turned onto the rutty road. The horse was a black, powerful, ragged animal, with dried-up dung clinging to his flanks and legs and a long, uncombed tail. Karl Oskar asked if he were young, and the driver confirmed it: “He’s just been broken in; hard to handle.”
The two-wheeler hopped about and shook on the rough road, though they drove quite slowly. They left the row of houses and, as the road turned away from the river, passed the small huts so much resembling woodsheds. Heavy logs were piled high on either side of the road, the ruts became deeper, the stumps more numerous, and as they passed the last shed, the thick forest lay only a few hundred yards ahead of them.
“Is the store in the wood?” asked Karl Oskar, puzzled.
“Just inside; only three minutes more.”
Then Karl Oskar began to be suspicious. Why would they build a shop in a wild forest, far away from the other houses? How much did he know about the stranger who had offered to take him to the store? Landberg, their honest guide, had warned the immigrants particularly to beware of their own countrymen, who could cheat and rob them the more easily because they spoke the same language. “Never confide in the first stranger you meet just because he speaks your language!” Landberg had said that more than once. Yet Karl Oskar had confided in this man he had just met and had climbed into his carriage. He had been careless enough to say that he had money; in the sheepskin belt next to his body he carried all he had left in cash.
A robber wouldn’t commit his crime near houses. He would wait until they were in the forest where no one could see them; in the forest Karl Oskar would be alone with the stranger.
He glanced back at the unknown man sitting behind him on the driver’s seat. In America he had seen many men with guns, pistols, or knives, but Larsson had no weapon in sight. Karl Oskar would have felt more comfortable had a weapon been carried openly. As it was, he didn’t know what kind of arms the man might have hidden on him. He himself had only an old pocketknife in his hip pocket.
He looked about — perhaps it would be best to jump off the gig while he still could see the houses back there by the river.
The vehicle rolled along, the driver tightened the reins and squirted tobacco juice quite calmly into the wheel tracks: “Where do you intend to settle, countryman of mine?”
“In Minnesota, we had thought.”
“Don’t know that country. Why don’t you stay here — you can make two dollars a day in the forest.”
Larsson went on: He had helped many Swedes find good jobs. But not all of them had been reliable, he had been cheated and robbed by Swedish crooks when he himself had first arrived in America. As a good friend he wanted to warn Karl Oskar: he must never rely on or confide in anyone; he must be careful.
Karl Oskar felt slightly embarrassed: his new acquaintance seemed to guess his thoughts.
But Larsson seemed as friendly as before, he laughed and talked with the same geniality that he had shown earlier. Judging by his looks and speech, he must be an honest man. And why should Karl Oskar think he was a bandit? Nothing indicated he had evil intentions. One shouldn’t think ill of a stranger only because he seemed anxious to help. He felt a little ashamed of his suspicions; he was here for his children’s sake, to get them food which might save their lives. Yet he was full of fear and suspicion when he met a helpful countryman. It wasn’t like him to be so timid. His father used to say, if you weren’t afraid within yourself there was nothing to be afraid of in the whole world. Of course he dared drive a short distance into the forest with this man!
They had reached a stream and were about to cross it over a newly laid bridge of wooden planks, when the driver reined in his horse; on the bridge stood a man holding up one hand and saying something in English. The driver greeted him with a broad grin and a stream of English words. It seemed that the man wanted to ride along with them, and he climbed in and sat next to Karl Oskar.
“Max is an American friend of mine; he is coming to pay me a visit. I have not seen him for a long time,” Larsson said and again showed his thin, sharp teeth in a broad grin.
The two-wheeler drove on across the bridge, and now three men were riding in it, two in the low seat and one on the driver’s box.
The newcomer was a thickset man with a round face and curly, black hair. He spoke English rapidly and smiled broadly at his neighbor on the seat, as though in Karl Oskar he had met a close relative after long separation.
And the fact was that Karl Oskar did recognize the man who had just jumped up beside him. He had noticed him in the saloon, in the company of Larsson.
Larsson had said that he had not seen Max for a long time, and the two now acted like long-lost friends. Karl Oskar did not need to know English to understand that this play was put on for his benefit. After all, it was not more than minutes since he had seen them stand side by side in the saloon.
Apparently they considered him more simple than he was; now he knew for sure that two robbers were driving him into the forest. Larsson had followed him outside in order to get him into the gig, and meanwhile Max had sneaked away to meet them at the bridge. Now Karl Oskar had two men to handle, one beside him and one behind. The gig kept rolling closer to the edge of the forest; ahead of them the road swung in among the heavy close-standing trees; within two or three minutes he would be alone with two robbers in a thick forest.
He carried his money next to his body when asleep or awake; without it, he and his family would be destitute in this country. No one was going to take it away from him, without first killing him.
He had fallen into a trap. He had been led to believe there would be a store in the wilderness where he could buy milk and bread; he had ridden along like a meek beast to slaughter. But he was not going to ride another step with these robbers.
They had left habitations behind, and not a soul was in sight. He must use cunning, he must pretend he had to get off on an urgent matter, “to call on the sheriff,” as the authority-hating farmers at home used to say, when they had to go behind a bush.
But it wouldn’t be wise to mention the sheriff now, it might arouse suspicion. With forced calm, he turned to the man on the driver’s seat: “Would you mind stopping for a minute, Larsson? I’ve got to relieve myself.”
“All right. Whoa! Whoa!”
The Swede calling himself Larsson spit on the road and reined in his horse. The gig came to a stop. On the right were some bushes, on the left a tall pile of logs. Karl Oskar had been sitting on the left side of the gig, and he jumped off in that direction.
The driver had believed Karl Oskar’s excuse valid and had not objected when he wanted to get off; now he became suspicious. Karl Oskar had been in too much of a hurry to get off the gig, he had lost his feigned calmness; and he could see the two men exchange quick glances. They saw through his ruse.
Larsson rose from the driver’s seat, and his genial look disappeared; his pointed yellow-gray teeth showed in a sarcastic, malicious grin: “You almost dirtied your pants, I believe. Perhaps I’d better help you unbutton them.”