Free Red Jacket by Joseph Heywood Page B

well.”
    â€œOkay, I bought four log shacks from one of the mines. Not too good shape, but solid, okay? Top of Bumbletown Hill. Can almost see both sides Keweenaw on clear day, eh. No cellar, though.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œGot cabin, not justa one room, but quattro rooms, storage shack; call it all a hundred and it’s yours. You want me to show you?”
    â€œNo need for you to go along.”
    â€œOkay, I got Mass, the wife and bambino, yes?” Vairo drew a rough map. “Heard there was dump where this place she got built. Mebbe some rats. You mind rats?”
    â€œNot as long as they mind their own business.”
    Bapcat took the electric trolley to Allouez and traipsed west out of town a half-mile up a long hill until he found the log shack. There was a hard-rock outcrop nearby, and he could see where loggers had cleared forests for underground shoring. In the distance he could see mine structures and towns: Allouez, Ahmeek, Copper City. At night he guessed he’d see Red Jacket with all its electric lights. A couple small rats watched him as he studied the building. Opening the door to the snow room sent more rats scuttling. Four rooms, no cellar, but a privy and a small storage shack to the north. This will do. The woods are close and thick, and it will be easy enough to walk up the hill from the electric .
    Back in Red Jacket he sent a telegram to Harju in Marquette and Chief Oates with details of the place, including the cost, and promised to send a contract at first opportunity.
    He was back in the rented room by midafternoon. Zakov was still on the bed. “Did I mention Widow Frei requests your presence?” he said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMy deepest apologies. I meant to, but all this anxiety over a domicile to inhabit has caused my thinking to become somewhat distended.”
    â€œI can imagine,” Bapcat said, suspecting the scheming Russian did little by accident. “You can relax now.”
    â€œYou are accepting our living arrangement?”
    â€œUntil I can dispose of you.”
    â€œ Dispose. There are many layers of meaning in that one small word.”
    â€œPick the one you like,” Bapcat said. “Where, east of Bootjack?”
    Zakov explained in a way only another outdoorsman could understand.
    Bapcat got out a crude map Harju had given him. The electric trolley would take him from Laurium to Lake Linden, and he could hike south from there.
    â€œAre you abandoning me again?” the Russian inquired.
    â€œMrs. DiSilvestro is around.”
    The Russian sighed heavily. “Clearly this woman does not like me and is not sympatico .”
    Bapcat said. “You should be used to it.”

17
    East of Bootjack, Houghton County
    MONDAY, JUNE 9, 1913
    Bapcat knew the upper Keweenaw well, but Houghton County was relatively unfamiliar. Wondering why the Russian got run off, he wanted to look over the lay of the land, see what was there. A good two hours remained until summer sundown. Zakov’s shack was along the creek, whose clear moving waters were tinted orange. Mostly woods, first growth, little sunlight penetrating. Deer would be on the edges near fields . He pasted his exposed skin with creek mud to ward off mosquitoes and other insects.
    Despite a careful search he found little sign—virtually no pellets, few tracks. The does should be throwing fawns by now. Where are they? There was a small hill just north of the shack, and beyond that, a much larger one. Impossible to guess distance. Mainly he wanted to find the edges of hardwoods and look for sign. He crossed a trail showing heavy wagon use, about a half-mile north of McCallum Creek. Just east of there a less-used trail pointed north, eventually leading him across a brushy, muddy creek, a half-mile from the hill. Here he stopped to reapply mud. He half expected to find deer sign on the new trail, but it seemed barren. Strange . He’d always heard that deer were