Tamarack River Ghost by Jerry Apps Read Free Book Online Page A

meet someone,” said Ben. “This is Josh Wittmore, a writer for Farm Country News who just moved back here and is working out of the head office. Josh grew up here in Ames County, on a farm just out of Link Lake.”
    “Good to meet you,” said the warden. “I know your boss, Bert Schmid, well. Good newspaperman. Good guy. Good farm paper too.” She shook Josh’s hand. He noticed she had big brown eyes and a nice smile. Could this be the person Dan Burman was talking about? The dreaded, overly snoopy DNR game warden?
    “Josh is writing about the Tamarack River Valley and all the changes going on out there,” said Ben.
    “Just getting started,” said Josh. “I was talking with Daniel Burman this afternoon. He was butchering a couple of goats.”
    “Goats?” asked Natalie.
    “Yup, that’s what he said.” The warden’s expression changed to that of someone who looked like she’d figured something out—had put some pieces of a puzzle together.
    “Got to be going,” said Warden Karlsen rather abruptly.
    “Nice meeting you,” said Josh.
    “Same here,” she said, smiling. “See you around.”
    “Wonder how she takes all the guff,” Josh said after Natalie left.
    “Yeah, she gets a lot of it. Especially from the folks over in the Tamarack River Valley.”
    “So I noticed.”
    Josh and Ben talked for a few more minutes about poor farmers in Ames County, and about other people Josh might interview to flesh out his story. Then he drove to the Farm Country News office, south of Willow River on Highway 22. He arrived a few minutes after five. The clerical staff had left, but Josh noticed that the lights were still on in Bert’s office.
    Bert looked up when Josh walked by.
    “Josh, you got a minute?”
    “Been doing an interview out in the Tamarack River Valley. Thought I’d check my e-mail and see if I had any phone calls.”
    “Have a chair,” said Bert, a rather rotund man in his mid-sixties with nearly white hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, which he removed when Josh entered the cluttered office. Papers and books were piled everywhere on the floor and overflowed from the old wooden desk where Bert sat, staring at sheets of numbers spread out before him. Several plaques hung on the wall: “Best Agricultural News Editor—1990,” “Friend of 4-H Award—1992,” “Service to Agriculture Award—Farm Bureau—1985.”
    “Drop those papers on the floor,” he said, motioning to a chair by the desk. “Take a load off.”
    Josh expected him to ask about his story and what he’d been learning,how the interviews were going, and how he might help Josh as he put it all together. He didn’t expect what he heard.
    “Not a good year for Farm Country News , Josh. Not a good year at all,” said Bert. He put on his glasses and pointed to some numbers on the page in front of him.
    “I thought we’d run some pretty good stories. Maybe as good as we’ve ever done,” said Josh. “That stuff we did on the Lazy Z got a lot of attention.”
    “Yes, it did, but I’m not talking about the stories, Josh. The stories have been great. We’re just not making enough money. Can’t run a paper without money.” Bert stabbed his finger at a number on the page.
    “How bad is it?” asked Josh.
    “It’s bad, Josh. Worse than I thought. This year, for the first time in our history, we’re probably going to lose money. We’ve been in the black every year since Farm Country News came out, and that was 1868. Wasn’t long ago we scarcely had room for all the advertising that came our way; now we’re lucky to keep some of the oldest accounts.”
    “What’s going on? People seem to be reading our paper.”
    “Not like they used to. First off, we’ve got only a fraction of the farmers in this country that we once had and we’re losing more every year. Farmers are our best customers. Our subscriptions have been dropping every year since the 1960s—not a lot in any one year, but enough so that it adds