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Updated: May 4, 2025
He told all he had seen that night." Kirby turned to the rancher from Dry Valley and had him tell his story. When he had finished, the cattleman made comment. "On the face of it Olson's story leaves in doubt the question of who actually killed my uncle. If he was tellin' the whole truth, his evidence points either to the Hulls or my cousin James.
But the others he saw only to eliminate them from suspicion. One glance at each of them was enough to give them a clean bill so far as the mystery went. They knew nothing whatever about it. Lane rode out to Olson's place and found him burning brush. The cattleman explained that he was from Wyoming and wanted to sell some registered Herefords.
This suggestion of Olson's was different from trade unionism, which might be a demoralising force, leading the workers from one demand to another, until they were seeking to "dominate industry." This would be merely an appeal to the law, a test of that honesty and fair dealing to which the company everywhere laid claim.
"And anyway," he concluded, "it was only a scheme of Mr. Olson's to get all the steaks for himself." We discussed the future and ventured opinions as to what lay before us; but we could only theorize at best, for none of us knew.
Sunday afternoon, when in Grand Forks, I went by invitation to Brother Lars Olson's home and there met the four leaders of the congregation: August Shave, Bertha Gaulke, Lars Olson and Sister Johnstone. They told me that they had been talking of sending for me; Bro. Shave had proposed sending me the money for carfare, but Bro.
Sure they would. I'd be tyin' a noose round my own neck." "Do you know who killed my uncle?" demanded Lane point-blank. "Did you see it done?" Olson's eyes narrowed. A crafty light shone through the slitted lids. "Hold yore hawsses. I ain't said I knew a thing. Not a thing. I was stringin' you." Kirby knew he had overshot the mark. He had been too eager and had alarmed the man.
It read as follows: DEAR MARTHA, The bearer of this note is a young Norwegian, I forgot to ascertain his name, a friend of Olson's. He wishes to teach music. If you can help the poor devil and give him something to do, you will oblige, Yours, H. V. K. Mrs. Van Kirk was evidently, by at least twelve years, her husband's junior, and apparently not very far advanced in the forties.
But it was not these things, not his face or size which drew me to him; it was his bearing. All of the chaps in Swede Olson's house were hard cases. They boasted of their hardness. But their hardness was the typical tough's hardness, nine parts bravado, a savagery not difficult to subdue with an oak belaying pin in the fist of a bucko mate.
But Jerry Minetti, the first person he told of Tom Olson's purpose in North Valley, was older in such thrills. The care-free look which Jerry was accustomed to wear vanished abruptly, and fear came into his eyes. "I know it come some day," he exclaimed "trouble for me and Rosa!" "How do you mean?" "We get into it get in sure. I say Rosa, 'Call yourself Socialist what good that do? No help any.
And so Olson's remark helped to clear the atmosphere for the Allies at least, and then our attention was once more directed toward the river, for around us there had sprung up a perfect bedlam of screams and hisses and a seething caldron of hideous reptiles, devoid of fear and filled only with hunger and with rage.
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