“Listen, boys,” said Mr. Allen, one night in November, as he looked up from a letter which a passing tote-teamster had left at the farm. “Here is a letter from my old friend Taylor, out in Minnesota, and he wants me to send him a ‘likely boy’ to work during the winter.”
Mr. Taylor was a miller whose old-fashioned grist mill, run by its large waterwheel, situated where the Des Moines river flows out of Lake Cheteck, its source, was flour-headquarters for the hardy pioneers of a large section of that country.
Sturdy Ed begged so earnestly to be permitted to take the place with their father’s old friend for the winter, that, after much hesitancy, and no little planning, the consent of Mr. and Mrs. Allen was given.
It was a serious journey for a boy at that time. The country, just emerging from the awful paralysis of the civil war, was but entering upon that era of railroad building which was to cover the west with a network of shining steel. As yet there were few railroads in that state which in a short time was to take front rank in grain raising and milling. Saint Paul was scarcely more than a big village, and the now magnificent
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 metropolis at the falls of St. Anthony had not yet emerged from its swaddling clothes.
From the town of New Ulm Ed would have a long, cold ride by stage to the little mill out at the edge of civilization.
The few years’ experience he had had on the new farm in Wisconsin, had hardened his muscles, and, as he was not at all afraid of work, Ed soon found and fitted into his place at the mill. It was a little lonesome so far from home, and the work was somewhat monotonous, but the coming of the farmers with their loads of grain to be made into or exchanged for flour, gave opportunity for some sociability, and their stories of the great Indian uprisings, known to history as the New Ulm Massacre, were of thrilling interest.
As the winter came on it proved to be one of unusual severity, although there was little snow. The canal, or “race” by which the water of the lake was fed to the big millwheel, and from it to be tumbled foaming into the river at the foot of the rapids, usually maintained an even height, winter and summer, so, the supply of power being steady, it was possible for the millers to make preparation late in the evening, and leave the wheels to take care of the grist until early morning.
This winter, however, the ice in the river and race froze to the depth of three feet, and the power of the old mill was diminished to that extent. One night, not far from midnight, in the latter part of January,
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 Ed found himself suddenly awake, sitting up in bed. Something had happened. What could be the matter? Oh, yes, he had been awakened by silence—not a noise, but the stopping of the noise of the mill had disturbed him. The hum of the burrs had ceased, the old wheel was still—the mill had shut down. He groped about and got his clothes, and hastened down-stairs into the wheel pit. Sure enough, there stood the old wheel at rest, for perhaps the first time in many years. In the runway there was a small stream of water falling, but nothing like enough to turn the wheel with the machinery of the mill geared on. Ed threw over the gear lever, and the released wheel slowly began to revolve again. Then he went up-stairs where he found Mr. Taylor, who had also been wakened as the accustomed hum of the stones ceased, and had come over from the house to investigate the cause.
“There has been some stoppage at the intake,” said he. “Either the lake has lowered, and the ice frozen nearly to the bottom of the channel at the mouth of the race, or there has some trash floated in. When you have had your breakfast, take an axe and the hook and go up and see what the trouble is.”
As soon as daylight came Ed was ready for the trip. He buckled on a pair of skates, as the ice was in prime condition, and taking the tools across his shoulder, was soon skimming up the river.
As he came to the canal mouth, he struck with the axe upon the ice, and it gave forth a hollow sound. Evidently the decrease in the flow was not caused by
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 the water freezing to the bottom. There must be some obstruction at the intake.
It was no small work to cut through thirty-six inches of ice and locate the exact spot of the obstruction, but before ten o’clock Ed had discovered it. Some wood choppers, during the summer had been clearing on an island half a mile out into the lake, and small branches thrown into the water had, by the slow-moving current, been carried along finally to the mouth of the canal. One branch lodging and freezing, became the occasion for the stoppage of others, and then the mass had swung around and across the mouth of the canal, almost cutting off its supply.
It was no job for a weakling to cut and hook out those limbs and brush from the icy water, but finally Ed had the satisfaction of seeing the race fill again, and knowing that the old wheel would be at its work of preparing the farmers’ grist once more.
Ed had never explored the little lake, and the stories the settlers had told him of the Indian uprising had made him anxious to visit some of the scenes of that tragedy so near by. From the intake, past the island, he could see, jutting out into the lake, Massacre Point, where was still standing the log house in which thirteen whites had met their death at the hands of the savages. While it would mean the loss of his dinner, the lad thought that as he was so near, he would skate over to that point, which appeared to be not over a mile away, and take a closer look at the tragic place.
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As he was passing the island, there appeared at the edge of a clump of low box-elders the largest dog he had ever seen. It was nearly white and not only tall, but long in body, and gaunt. It started as if it would come to the boy, and he whistled to it. However, as it sprang upon the smooth ice, Ed saw it slip and slide, and then, as it regained its footing, slowly make its way back to the island.
Little had been changed about the old log house since that fearful day when the family, with the few neighbors who had gathered with them for protection, had at last succumbed to the rifle and tomahawk of the red foes. A rusty kettle was standing in the fireplace. Rude benches were still around the table where the victims had eaten their last meal. In one corner a cradle, hollowed out of a log, told of a baby’s share in that day of horror.
As Ed turned away full of sad thoughts and questionings, he scarcely noticed his approach to the island upon the return journey. As he rounded the point of timber, there sprang upon the ice not only one big white “dog,” but three, with lolling tongues, making straight for him. Then he realized what these animals were; not dogs, but the big, fierce, dreaded timber wolves. However, Ed was not much frightened. He rather enjoyed the thought of a race with them. There seemed to............