The Prairie Comrade

By Troy D Gunderson

Uri Mokovich, a young Russian lad, is raised by his immigrant parents in rural south-central North Dakota during the 1930s and 40s. Hard living and schoolhouse bullies ignite a dream of escaping into the prairie and living off the land like native inhabitants once lived. Tragic circumstances prematurely force him into his adventure. Uri's many skills learned from his parents and his fascination about Indian ways help him survive the prairie for a while. But self-sufficiency, instilled by his father, comes into direct conflict when offered the help he so desperately requires. A gift from a caring librarian and the wisdom from an unexpected visitor helps Uri find the faith he never knew he needed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887517438

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The Prairie Comrade

Troy D Gunderson

Copyright © 2023 by Troy D Gunderson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

I’m grateful for the many wonderful people in my life with the skills and willingness to help me. My twin brother, Todd R. Gunderson, an accomplished author that has already been down the path of publishing and marketing, aided me much in avoiding the pitfalls of a budding writer. Thanks bro.

My dear friend, Mary Berntson, is a voracious reader and always ready to give me no-nonsense advice on how to improve my story telling. Her encouragement and delight in my writing spurred me on. However, no one is more a blessing to me than my wife, Sheri. Her patience and willingness to listen to countless hours of my various renderings is nothing short of angelic.

Beta readers, too, were very important to me in this first endeavor. Thank you to all who read and gave me honest opinions. Whether I took your advice or not, the time you spent was greatly appreciated.

Then there is my illustrator, Jodie M. Venter. There are people in this world with such courage and fortitude that the only title to bestow upon them is, hero, and Jodie is one of them. For more than half of her life she has been in a raging battle with multiple sclerosis and severe migraines, yet God continues to use this faith-filled artist to glorify Him. Days on end of incapacity only drives her determination to press on. The difficult and unforgiving nature of watercolor paintings, as in this book, only proves her skills and tenacity. Well done, Jodie.

Above all, I thank God for the inspiration of this story. His Word has a way of reaching into our lives and giving us hope.

In the late 19th century and early 20th century people from every walk of life had settled in North Dakota looking for freedom and a place to call home. With little money these hard working and industrious peoples constructed their homes on the prairie with whatever they could find. Homes were built of logs, stone, and sod, and in some cases, even caves dug into a hillside. By the 1920’s the U.S. government had granted most of the land claims it had available, but a handful of claims remained in less productive or inaccessible areas, including North Dakota.

In the first half of the 20th century a great dichotomy existed among those who lived in the cities and those who lived in rural settings. Even small cities in North Dakota enjoyed modern conveniences like electricity and indoor plumbing. But rural folks continued to live much like the early settlers: using outhouses, cooking and heating their homes with a wood stove, pumping water, and using kerosene lanterns. It was only after WWII and well into the 1960’s that electric companies reached most rural farms with this modern convenience.

Large gardens remained a necessary aspect of rural life until advances in transportation allowed for much easier access to groceries. While strides in personal transportation had been made, difficult economic times and rationing for WWII added to the contrast of the have and have nots. Horse drawn wagons and automobiles competed for the roadways well into the 1950’s.

My great grandmother, Emma Clark, 1889-1986, lived with our family while I was in high school. She related many facts, some reflected in this story, of what life was like living in a sod house, farming the prairie, enduring the cold and heat and living off the land. My father, Howard, also grew up on a farm without the modern conveniences of today. From childhood I have been intrigued with these stories and always begged for more. It’s a fascinating time in the American experience. I have endeavored to capture this dichotomy in the story you are about to read.

Chapter 1

Fear and panic struck his heart! They’re coming this way, Uri thought. There’s no escape! What do I do?

There was a chance he could remain undetected crouching in the cattails. But he worried about the deer hunter’s tactics of walking in zigzag patterns through the cattails that aroused the deer from the hiding places. Three hunters were heading in his direction. Another two, whom Uri had seen earlier, were posting about a half mile to the west. The other option was even worse for Uri. If I run up the draw on either side, they’ll see me, maybe even mistake me for a deer! The coloration of the cowhide cape he wore resembled that of a deer. How did I not see this coming? I gotta be more careful this time of year.

Uri Mokovich had been on the run for almost a year, and life was extremely hard surviving all alone on the prairie. He hadn’t realized the added difficulty of hunters in their quest for big game. During the fall, hunters scoured the land, even in the vast rural area of south-central North Dakota. Uri was usually safe in the lonely miles of rolling prairie, but not during deer hunting season. There’s nowhere safe, he thought. I gotta stay more aware so I don’t get trapped like this again.

Crouched and walking like a duck, Uri quietly made his way into the water among the dense cattails growing along the bank of the slough. Hunters won’t get their feet wet, he thought. I’ll be safe here.

November weather had come turning the water frigid, but not yet frozen. Uri was wearing his handmade, lace-up moccasin boots that he learned to fashion under his father’s tutelage. Less than a year previous, it was these kinds of deer-hide and coyote-lined boots that helped Uri escape into the wide-open prairie. He still wore the hand-me-down overalls given to him by the pastor, now not much more than rags held together by seams. A gray wool coat displayed a kaleidoscope of prairie debris that had affixed itself into the tightly woven fibers of his mother’s work. Covering his body was a full-length cowhide cape with an attached hood that he had painstakingly made the previous winter. The fur-lined moccasin boots kept his feet very warm, but not when they were wet.

As Uri got deeper and deeper into the slough, the cold water poured over the upper collars of his boots, taking away his breath. Uri squatted as low as possible trying to keep his bottom out of the water. He gingerly pulled the dense, dried cattails around him to camouflage his position then pulled the hood of his cape up over his head. Keeping his face down, he hoped the hunters wouldn’t spot him.

Closer and closer came the sound of crunching cattails—then, for no apparent reason, it stopped. Uri’s heart thumped rapidly and loudly. Every muscle wanted to bolt, but he sat still. Crunch, crunch, it started up again. The hunters repeated this pattern several times before they eventually passed his position.

Suddenly, a massive sound of rhythmic thrashing, about a hundred yards from Uri, broke the silence. A voice rang out, Buck! and guns began to blaze. The hunters ran off to the west until Uri could no longer sense their whereabouts.

Freezing cold feet forced Uri’s decision to move. With heavy, wet moccasins, he cautiously wove his way through the thick cattails. The tight stitching of the moccasins held like a bladder, refusing to let the water drain. Finally, on dry ground, Uri traversed the last fifty yards on all fours crawling north through the thick undergrowth and tall grass. Once out of the low area and among a few small trees, he waited.

Safe for the moment, Uri unlaced his moccasin boots and poured out the remaining water. He rubbed his feet to warm them a bit before slipping them back into the cold, wet moccasins. Oh! That’s cold! Uri complained in a breathless whisper. Higher ground gave Uri a little better vantage point. He could no longer see or hear hunters, but his heightened senses kept him in an observational posture. His saucer-like eyes searched for more options should he need another way of escape. If he could get to one of his hideouts, which was only a half mile away, he’d be safe for the time being.

Over the months, Uri had created a few hideouts or shelters in a variety of places. One was a favorite: a rockpile he had recently found in the middle of a farmer’s field. Among the rocks was a large, flat boulder that had somehow been pushed or pulled up onto the stack. Uri spent several days carefully excavating the smaller stones from the underside of the rock, eventually creating a small cave-like structure. Other stones were methodically stacked to obscure what had been created. Adding some dead brush and debris concealed a small tunnel-like entrance.

Lined with grasses and reeds, the space was small but large enough to lie curled up and sit almost fully upright. A small cavity toward the back of the shelter provided a space to keep a small fire. Removing a well-placed stone from atop the pile revealed a kind of chimney that allowed the smoke from a small fire to escape. But fires were made only at night to avoid attracting attention. Weeds and grasses encompassed the rockpile, which concealed his little shelter even better.

Uri was anxious to get to that shelter so he could make a fire and warm his feet. He reasoned, Deer hunters won’t bother with a rockpile, especially one so far out in the middle of nowhere. Dusk was now descending, so Uri scooped up a few branches for firewood and skulked off toward the rockpile with his cowhide cape floating just above the ground behind him. He adjusted a few rocks into a comfortable seat and thought about what had just taken place. It was the closest he’d been to another human since his visit with Poor Bird and the family picking his Juneberries. Quivering from the cold and adrenaline, Uri reassured himself with a quake in his voice, That was close. I think I’ll be safe here for a while. At least I can get these boots off.

Uri had so wanted to live off the land like the Indians and be self-sufficient the way his father had always preached. He was only sixteen years of age but was confident and proficient in all he had learned from his parents, not to mention the many books he had read on the subject. Living off the land was one thing, but surviving on the run was becoming much more difficult than Uri could have ever imagined. The lack of a permanent home robbed him of the ability to grow food, keep livestock, or even feel safe. He was miserable, filthy, and lonely.

As he sat tucked in among the rocks waiting for nightfall, Uri’s stomach began to ache for something to eat. He thought about his mother’s cooking and longed for one of her tasty stews. But his father’s self-sufficient ways would first demand work to earn such a meal. The close call with the hunters caused his mind to replay the events of that terrible day less than a year ago that forged the path he now traveled. The trauma of seeing his parents dead and the unguarded words of the doctor mingled with his false sense of guilt. The wound was once again laid fresh, and the pain nagged at his heart. Why didn’t I put wood on the fire? Why did I leave them when they needed me so much? How could I let myself fall asleep?

His thoughts consumed him and tortured him until darkness covered the sky like a pall, and the prairie became free of invaders. Uri removed the chimney rock, crawled into his little rock cave, and built a small fire. He once again removed his boots and set them to dry beside the fire. Now, in the stillness of nightfall, feeling the loneliness, tears that he had managed to keep at bay for so long broke forth and rolled down Uri’s face.

Many years earlier, tears of another kind rolled down the