Chapter 2

TUESDAY, MAY 10, 1904—KALISPELL, MONTANA

Carter Brunswick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, hat in hand, and listened as one of Kalispell’s leading citizens voiced his opinion. The topic—one that was enough to stop his heart for a moment—the Great Northern Railway’s plan to pull out of Kalispell in favor of making Whitefish, Montana, their divisional headquarters.

Carter had owned the mill for over eight years now. In three months, it would be nine. But if the railroad moved? He might not make it there.

Panic wasn’t going to solve anything. Hopefully the Judge and mayor would have some new information regarding a decision from the owner. He prayed they would. Because the way the discussion was going, it seemed they would need a hefty dose of heavenly intervention for things to not get out of hand.

Jerod McVey had been chosen to speak on behalf of some twenty local sawmills. “First, I’ve been commissioned to address the fact that Great Northern Railway lied to us. Initially, we were told that the railroad wasn’t rerouting. They were just looking for a route north to coalfields. In Canada. Now that the truth has come out, we don’t appreciate what is happening. We ship a lot of lumber out of Kalispell. It’s imperative we have a railroad for our business.

“We can’t afford to freight our goods by wagon to Whitefish to catch the train. Our prices will double, perhaps triple, and that will ruin us. The railroad brought the town here and we all established businesses based on that. Whoever is in charge should probably understand that we’ve conferred with legal representation and are not opposed to suing the railroad if they continue down this road.”

Several of the other mill owners agreed. With loud voices. And with more abrasive language than Jerod.

Judge Milton Ashbury stood and motioned for everyone to quiet down. The Judge—as most called him—was a fair man who had no problem letting each man speak his piece, but he did require it be done in an orderly fashion.

“I believe we all understand how important the railroad is to Kalispell.” Judge Ashbury’s words brought instant silence. “Jerod, it might help our cause with the railroad’s owner, Mr. Hill, if you were to put together all the facts and figures related to the timber business.”

“We’ve already done it, Judge.” McVey held up some papers. “It clearly shows our usage and need for continued service. And how much money the railroad makes off us. Lumber and grain, not to mention cattle, are shipped out of here on a regular basis. Lumber is by far and away the most productive since the other two are more relegated to certain times of the year. But lumber is shipped daily. It’s the heart of our town. We need to be able to freight our goods out of here in an easy manner and the railroad is the only means to provide that.”

The man made a good point.

Carter’s family came to Kalispell in 1885, along with his dad’s best friend, Fred Owens. The two men immediately went to work buying up as much farm ground as they could afford, and little by little the acreage grew from several hundred acres to over twenty thousand. A lot of work had gone in to clearing that land and preparing it for growing wheat. As a result, his father now co-owned the largest wheat farm in the area.

Carter remembered those days with a mix of fondness and disdain. It had been the hardest work he’d ever done. His father always reminded him that one day he’d inherit the lion’s share, so in many ways he was working his own land. But he hadn’t had pride in it like Dad. How he would smile at the fields full of ripened grain. The land was everything to Jacob Brunswick. Well, that and the crops it produced.

Even now, as Carter approached his thirtieth birthday, his father planned to gift him with two hundred acres, reminding him of the importance of land management. Carter had just built a small house in town near the mill with the hopes of building a larger home for a family on his own land one day. He wanted to expand the mill ... but now those ideas needed to be rethought. Having two hundred acres seemed unnecessary when the town could possibly die.

The more he allowed the thought to tumble around his mind, the more troubled he became.

No. Doubt and fear were not from the Lord. He shook his head and watched the crowd.

Drooping shoulders, sullen faces, and disgruntled murmuring filled the room.

Losing the railroad would hurt him. He had a great many customers to whom he shipped flour, and like the sawmills, he would have to raise his prices if he lost the ability to move his wares by train. But would the town die? If it did, he’d have to move the whole mill. But where?

A ruckus started down near the front, drawing Carter’s attention back to the meeting. Several men protested to the judge that there had to be some way to stop the Great Northern from making Kalispell nothing more than a stop near the end of a spur line.

“You’re the great legal mind, Judge,” one of the men yelled out. “Why can’t you think of a way to stop them?”

“We’re gonna lose over three hundred jobs when the railroad goes!”

“We’ll end up a ghost town!”

Even more men joined the fray. They’d seen what had happened to Demersville, a once lively town about three miles to the southeast of Kalispell. Once there had been more than a thousand people with a post office, town hall, saloons, and a weekly newspaper. Not to mention soldiers temporarily assigned from Fort Missoula. It was the place to go if you wanted supplies or a good time, and now it was all but dead. And why? Because the railroad didn’t build into it. They skirted it altogether and Demersville died as Kalispell thrived. Would the same hold true for Kalispell when the railroad moved the main line to Whitefish?

Judge Ashbury motioned for the crowd to calm down as the mayor took the stage.

“Now folks, I know you’re worked up and worried. Believe me when I say we are doing our best to get the correct information to you in a timely manner.” The older man pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped his brow. His voice was barely audible over the angry crowd.

Someone in the back of the room let out a shrill whistle, and a hush fell over the crowd.

“Thank you.” The mayor cleared his throat. “Now, we haven’t settled on an exact date, but Mr. Louis Hill will be coming to Kalispell in the next few weeks. That gives us plenty of time to put your questions and concerns together. Submit them to my office and I will make sure they get to Mr. Hill. Let him know what this railroad means to you, to Kalispell.”

“He says it like that railroad man actually cares about what happens to this town.”

At the muttered comment behind them, Carter exchanged a glance with his dad. It was true. The trail of railroad ghost towns through the Midwest showed what happened when railroads up and left. He appreciated what the mayor was trying to do, but there was little comfort—or import—in writing a letter. The railroad people were unlikely to change their minds.

Irritation rippled through the mass of people again, voices getting louder and louder. The cacophony was giving Carter a headache.

Someone shouted and shoved another man close to where Carter and his dad were standing. The shoved man started poking the other man in the shoulder.

“Watch where yer goin’,” he growled, pushing his hat back on his forehead.

The taller man glared at his opponent. “Get outta my way, and maybe I wouldn’t have to watch anything.”

Growing anger and fear were palpable. Livelihoods were on the line and the men in the room knew it. It was a perfect recipe for violence. Carter had no desire to be in the middle of a fight, nor to have to help stop one. He had his own problems to pray over with the news from this evening. He moved toward the door.

Dad stopped him. “Moving out before the rabble can riot?”

Carter gave him a grim nod. “Something like that.”

His father always seemed to know what he was thinking.

“Me too.” He motioned his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Not that coffee could fix the anvil-sized weight that had landed on their shoulders. Was Dad just covering up his own worry over the matter?

They headed out from the meeting and made their way to a small café at the end of the block. Carter’s father ordered not only coffee but two pieces of apple pie.

“We might as well enjoy something sweet with our coffee.”

Of course. Carter had never known his father to pass up a chance for dessert. The man had a terrible sweet tooth and was even known to walk around with candy in his pockets. It made him very popular with the children.

Apple pie wasn’t an answer to their dilemma either, but Carter slapped on a smile and played along. “So long as it doesn’t spoil your dinner. Mother wouldn’t be happy if that happened.”

His father grinned. “Have you ever known me to miss a meal?” The robust man patted his stomach. “I do just fine. Now, what do you think about our situation?”

There it was. Carter placed his hat on the chair beside him. “It’s bad news to be sure. A lot of folks are reliant upon that railroad.”

“There’s not a businessman in the area who doesn’t need it. Remember when we first got here? Getting up here was a peril at best. Bless your poor mother’s heart, she was a brave soul to be sure. Coming by train from Kansas was hard enough, but then to have to take wagons and that long steamboat trip across the lake and then more wagons ... well, she earned my deepest respect on that trip.”

Carter shook his head. “Like she didn’t already have it.”

“True enough. She’s always been a brave soul. She wanted to settle in Demersville, but never said a word. And I pretended not to know, which worked to our benefit in the long run.” Dad took a sip of his coffee, his eyes distant for a moment, as if back on that difficult ride out west. He shook his head and set down his mug. “My point is, however, the route wasn’t easy. You were eleven, and it was hard enough on you.”

“I remember it well.” He swirled the coffee in his cup and stared at him. “Truth is, I doubt we can change the minds of anyone based on how hard it is to get in and out of here. Usually by the time the lowest folks hear about changes, plans are already set in motion. I would imagine James Hill has already signed our fate and has his new route completely planned out. I don’t know what good a visit from his son is going to do. Except maybe create more trouble.”

The chipper demeanor his father had worn faded. “I’m afraid that’s probably true. He’s probably none too pleased with the judgment against him handed down by the Supreme Court regarding his monopoly.” Dad shook his head. “If anything, it has probably motivated him to take control of whatever he can.”

The waitress arrived and put two pieces of pie in front of them. “It’s fresh from the oven, so it should still be warm.” She refilled their coffee before heading off to take care of other customers.

Dad picked up a fork and offered a blessing before digging in.

Taking up his own utensil, Carter cut into the dessert. “I’ve tried to figure out how we’ll move forward at the flour mill once the trains aren’t running. Granted, I haven’t had much time to think about it, so my math could be wrong, but”—he shoved a bite into his mouth and chewed, not really wanting to say it aloud—“it doesn’t bode well. The roads north are barely passable so there will have to be a great deal of improvement to them before they are reliable. The roads south to Ravalli and the rails there are better but take longer.”

Carter chased the pie down with coffee while his father did the same.

“I know. It’ll be the same for grain shipments. Unless I leave it all with you to turn to flour. But that doesn’t make sense for our customers far away. Their mills need the business too.”

Dad finished his pie and leaned back in his chair. He stroked his chin with one hand, the frown on his face deepening. Then his eyebrows lifted and he raised a finger. “Maybe ... maybe we need to go into the freighting business.”

“Or road buildin—” Carter stopped himself. Sarcasm wasn’t going to help. “We don’t know the first thing about either and would need a great deal of capital to get started.”

“True.” Dad grimaced. “Wheat has been my whole life. There has to be a way to keep Hill from doing this.” Dad lifted his cup to his lips. “Jerod McVey suggested we all file a lawsuit against them, but that won’t do any good until well after the fact. We’d have to show the damages they did us and by that time a lot of businesses will have folded. People will be gone. And is that honoring to God? Even though the railroad might kill the town, it feels like too much of a nasty attack for us to sue.”

Carter wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, the lingering warmth seeping into his skin. “I know.” He twisted the cup back and forth between his hands. “There are a couple of questions that still need answered, though. Will we still have the spur line to Somers?”

Dad arched an eyebrow. “Hmm. Good point. What are you thinking?”

“If we still have that spur, we could use the steamboats—at least for everything going south. Then we’d have to figure out something once it’s across Flathead Lake.” Carter rubbed his face, exhaustion starting to weigh his mind down. There was so much to consider. “I also wonder if we will have a spur or branch line here off the main line? If so ... how often will it come to Kalispell? You heard the men—the biggest fear is that we’ll end up like Demersville.” Anxiety burned in his chest, but he took a deep breath. Lord, help me stay calm. “God brought us this far, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what He has in mind.”

“I know, son.” Dad scraped the last bits of pie from his plate. “It’s hard to believe they’d cut us off. With more people moving into the Flathead Valley and the battle cry to make a national park near here, you’d think the railroad would be expanding rather than cutting lines.” He tipped back the last of his coffee. “Not to mention the Czar just created his Whipps Block. He’ll be needing to ship in all sorts of goods. So let’s presume that we’ll still have the spur lines.”

Ah yes. William Whipps. The man actually seemed to like being called the Czar. True, he’d served as mayor several times. And he founded The First National Bank in Kalispell. Of late, he’d formed a mercantile business with his son and built one of the largest and most modern buildings in the area to house it. And then there was his Kalispell Liquor and Tobacco Company. Neither of which the Brunswicks had any use for. But there were plenty in town who did.

With all those accomplishments, perhaps the moniker was appropriate.

Carter leaned back in his chair. “All right, we can be hopeful about the spur lines and that the railroad tracks will still be in place. Maybe we can encourage them to find a way to make the tracks safer—especially headed west. Hill’s protest hasn’t been about lack of usage, but rather the dangers of the grades and what it takes to keep the tracks in good working order. Anything coming from the east is still going to have to go over Marias Pass to get to Whitefish rather than here. The pass to the west is even worse and what they’re trying to avoid. Maybe the folks in Kalispell could hire someone to survey the situation to the west and make it safer? At least help the Hills see why it’s necessary for us to keep a train coming into Kalispell?”

“Now that has some merit.” His father leaned forward. “I’ll mention that to the Judge. Could be he’s got some friends who could figure out the particulars and make a presentation to Hill’s son when he gets here.”

Carter exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The anxious energy in his chest lessened. His shoulders relaxed. Amazing how much better he always felt after talking things over with Dad. “So we have some options. We need to help the railroad see how important it is to still come into Kalispell. But we should probably be ready for any outcome. Even if they can figure a way to make the route in and out of Kalispell less dangerous and convince Mr. Hill, it’ll take time.” Carter grabbed his hat. “Speaking of time ... I’d best get on over to the depot. I have a much-needed repair piece for the mill coming in on the train and”—he checked his pocket watch—“it’s due in any minute.”

He said a quick good-bye to his father and hurried out the door, then drew back a step.

Just as he’d feared, pandemonium had broken loose.

Men from the town meeting had brought the discussion out into the street. Only, no one was listening and everyone was yelling. Men were nose to nose, arguing about anything and everything.

Carter made it halfway through the crowd when the pushing and shoving began.

Great. Just what he needed. A brawl.

Not that he could blame the guys for getting up in arms over their livelihood being threatened, but he didn’t need to be in the middle of this mess. He moved as quick as he could to get out of the crowd.

Smack!

A punch from his left landed square in his eye. He ducked and suppressed a grunt just in time to catch a punch from the other side, directly in the mouth.

It knocked him sideways, and he crashed into another brawler, who turned and rallied to return what he perceived as a push.

Carter ducked again from his crouched position and ended up falling on his chin. Pebbles and rock bit into his face. He touched his bottom lip, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

Wonderful.

Growls, grunts, and the sound of flesh smacking flesh filled his ears. He pushed to his feet, shoving men away as they barreled toward him. He was in no mood to put up with this ridiculous and senseless act of aggression.

He dusted himself off as he walked, noticing a tear in his favorite shirt. He narrowed his eyes and released his own growl to the crowd as he pushed through, careful to not get blindsided again. Once he was free from the crowd, he glanced over his shoulder. The fighting men looked like one big, confused ant hill.

Carter turned and made his way to the depot, his heart heavy. Lord, this town needs Your help. Desperately.

He placed his kerchief to his mouth and sopped up the blood. This was no way to walk through town in the middle of the day. Disheveled and bloody. Good thing the people around here knew him well. He ran a hand through his hair before plopping his hat back down. He must be a sight. But there was no time to go home and clean up. He had to get that part today.

Wiggling his jaw from side to side, he cringed. At least it didn’t feel broken. But he was sure to have a shiner. He swiped at his face again with his kerchief. That would have to do. Hopefully he sopped up all the blood and dirt.

As he walked, his head just didn’t feel right. He didn’t have time for this! Those fool men! What had they thought they’d accomplish? Other than blackening each other’s eyes and dishing out bruises.

Whipping his hat off, he rubbed at his forehead and ran a hand through his hair again. No sign of blood. But when he glanced down at his hat, his heart sank.

He gritted his teeth. This was the last straw.

Not only had they ripped his favorite shirt, but now his favorite hat was ruined.

It had taken three years to break in that hat and get it to where it molded perfectly to his head.

He eyed the misshapen head covering and released a sigh. This day couldn’t get any worse.