by Don Gillmor
When the train shunted forward, they broke from their cover and sprinted across the open ground. Stanford ran to the open door and got hold of the steel handle and swung himself up, a sudden fear, his head filling with stories of legs cut off as men swung under the wheels, stewbums that missed their jump and were cut in half, men with stumps named Shorty. He got his body horizontal and his legs fought for purchase and found the floor. He rolled inside and then scrambled back to the door.
Michael was running alongside. There was a gully coming up in less than a hundred yards. The train would be moving too fast by then anyway. Michael’s face was a frozen mask of fear, adventure, and trust in his older brother, some powerful algorithm of adolescence. Stanford leaned out and pointed to the handle. “Grab here, then throw yourself up.” Stanford had a new fear: his brother cut in half, his death Stanford’s fault, their mother silent for two years. Michael missed the handle but Stanford grabbed him and pulled him roughly and as Michael’s legs swung up Stanford half expected to see bloody, footless ankles. Michael sat up, whole and thrilled. They sprawled on the scarred wood and watched the Bow Valley go by through the open door, the erratic stands of pine, the deepening of the valley, parched hills the colour of wheat.
“Have you done this before?” Michael asked his brother.
“A few times.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Along the tracks.”
“How are we going to get off ?”
“The train slows coming into Calgary.”
“Will we go to jail if we’re caught, Stanford?”
“We’re not going to jail.”
“What if Mother finds out?”
“She won’t find out if you don’t tell her.”
“I won’t tell her but she’ll find out.”
Michael believed his mother had a connection to the spiritual world that gave her constant updates on the benign treacheries of her children. He felt calm in her presence, the same calm he had felt as a child sitting in front of the wood stove in their kitchen, his mother in the rocking chair peeling an apple. He played with small lead soldiers, a present from their father. He had meticulously painted wounds on some of them with tiny drops of his own blood applied with a splinter. The wood stove had a distinctive smell, and Michael could sit there for hours. As a child he had been quiet to the point where it worried his mother, despite her own gift for it. She took him to a country doctor, a heavy-set man with a thick moustache and blue watery eyes. He sat across from Michael in his collarless shirt and black suspenders, staring at him, and then asked him questions: What day is it? What is your best friend’s name? Have you ever been to the moon? And so on. His brother was his best friend, everyone knew that. Most of the questions were obvious or absurd. He stared back at the doctor in silence. A moon child, the doctor finally said authoritatively. They live in their heads. They make good caretakers. His mother led him out of the doctor’s office, past a girl whose hand was wrapped in red-stained gauze, her face empty of blood. Her mother sat beside her, holding a doll.
The train slowed through the city, staring onto backyards, clothes hanging, a jumble of smokehouses and weeds and outhouses and vacant lots, the town’s hind end. A few black cars moved hesitantly along Ninth Avenue. The city lurched, a tangle of machinery and traffic.
“I don’t know that I could live here,” Michael said.
“No one is asking you to.”
“Could you live here?”
“I could live anywhere if I had to, I suppose.”
“Why do people come to the city, Stanford?”
“So they can disappear.”
“Do you ever want to disappear?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do?”
“There’s different ways of disappearing.”
Stanford had a scar on his chin that he said he got breaking horses at Dunstan O’Connell’s ranch though Michael knew this wasn’t true. Stanford’s hands were sometimes scabbed. He came in a few mornings looking haunted and rough, getting in just as Michael was waking up.
Stanford grabbed Michael’s hand and they jumped together. They rolled, got up, and instinctively ran though no one was chasing them.
At the fairgrounds there were a few hundred Indians listening to John MacDougall, a Methodist missionary who had been paid $390 by the Calgary Stampede Board to deliver two thousand savages for the parade. “There are Indians, and there are Indians,” he said, thinking, as he looked over his crowd, that he should have asked for $500, a round number. “Now I’ll be honest,” he said, taking off his straw hat and delicately sponging his forehead with a handkerchief. “People don’t come to a show to look at prize-winning wheat, or polled Herefords or Shorthorns or Clydesdales. They come to a show to see a show. And that, gentlemen, is what you are. You may not know it, you look around, maybe two hundred men standing here in your everyday clothes. But imagine two thousand of you. Imagine two thousand Indians wearing the same skins and paint your ancestors wore. Imagine the sight of all that colourful history parading down Eighth Avenue on horseback. Now that, gentlemen, is a show.” MacDougall took off his hat and dabbed his forehead again. There would be dozens of these speeches to give, he realized heavily, out at the Sarcee reservation, the Blood, the Blackfoot, Peigan, the Stoneys.
Stanford pulled Michael through the crowd and brought him up to MacDougall, who stepped off the box he was standing on.
“We want to be in the parade,” Stanford said evenly.
MacDougall looked at them. His first question, unspoken because he didn’t want to know the answer—in ignorance lies innocence—was: How old are you boys? Instead he asked, “Can you boys ride?”
“Yes sir,” Stanford said. “And shoot as well.”
“Well I hope there isn’t going to be any shooting,” MacDougall said, smiling. He told them to be at the fairgrounds on Labour Day at daybreak, in full regalia, war paint, and on their own horses.
It was just after three in the morning when Stanford gently shook Michael, chasing away the dream of Flores in her red shirt and blue scarf.
“Wake up,” he whispered. “We have to get moving.”
Michael put on a cotton shirt and a heavy wool shirt on top of it. Stanford carefully opened the window, and they stepped onto the porch roof, dropped softly to the hard ground, and then walked out to the barn. Stanford had hidden two sets of ceremonial Peigan buckskins even though neither of them was Peigan. He knew there was a set of beaded buckskins in a trunk in the attic that might fit Michael, but he felt uneasy about drawing their mother into this in any form, even something as remote as using those skins. He packed the buckskins into two saddlebags along with some beef and bread, and they led their horses out of the barn.
Grey clouds staggered against a pale sky. The moon was three-quarters full, a bleached disk hovering over the mountains. They led their horses along the path, out the gate, walking a quarter mile before getting on them, and picking their way east, following the valley by the Bow River. A coyote skittered ahead of them and was gone. They rode silently toward the arcing dawn, a paleness that spread under the clouds against the horizon.
“You think Tom’s going to take it?” Michael asked. Tom Three Persons out of Cardston was widely considered the finest cowboy in the area. Michael had seen a photograph of him, lean with big hands and a face that revealed nothing.
“A lot depends on the draw.”
“But even with a bad draw.”
“I figure he’ll cope.”
“You think we can get to see that?”
“Maybe.”
“Because that’s something I’d like to see. I’d pay to see it.”
“Pay with what?”
“I’ve got money.”
“How much did Dunstan give you?” Stanford broke horses for a local rancher, Dunstan O’Connell, and Michael had tried his hand at it, without much luck.
“I’ve got money,” Michael said.
Michael felt some warmth from th
e sun on his face as they approached the city, moving south to come up through town along the banks of the Elbow. Even at its edges the city was starting to stir, wagons rolling along the ruts, delivering ice or milk, picking up rags or workers. The brothers rode to the fairgrounds and saw that there were already eight or nine hundred Indians there. Tents were set up, and some of the men had slept in teepees and were now making coffee over small fires. Stanford and Michael sat down and ate the sandwiches and a man who said his name was Jimmy Blind Weasel gave them each a tin cup filled with bitter coffee.
MacDougall arrived at nine and by that time there were probably fifteen hundred of them, some already in costume. MacDougall gave directions that couldn’t be heard and were passed backward through the men who were applying paint to their faces, holding up small mirrors. They would mass at the end of the fairground behind Jimmy Blind Weasel and wait for the signal, then ride two abreast down Eighth Avenue.
Michael and Stanford were well back in the line, their horses dancing nervously. It was a pleasant day, warm, with a little cloud cover. The flies were on them, and everyone twitched. At eleven o’clock they began to move.
It took a few blocks to find their rhythm and they trotted north in a ragged line. When they turned onto Eighth, Michael could see the beginnings of a crowd, kids wanting the first glimpse, running alongside, doing imitations of war dances and laughing. Pointing their fingers like guns and then blowing imaginary smoke and holstering them. Eighth Avenue was lined with people four deep—eighty thousand, more than the city’s population. They came from Cardston, Cochrane, Airdrie, Olds, from Red Deer and Medicine Hat, from Montana, Wyoming, and Oklahoma, men in dark suits and straw hats, women in long skirts, children on shoulders or looking down from the rooftops. The Indians had headdresses made of eagle feathers and carried spears, faces streaked with vermillion, blue, yellow, ochre, a narrow line of colour that ran along the trolley tracks.
The city was looking for a spectacle that expressed its tingling momentum, the accumulated heroism of its existence, a boomtown. Not far behind Michael there were Booster Clubs in open cars singing the praise of western skies. Tommy Burns lived here, the last great white heavyweight champion. Broke three of Jack Johnson’s ribs but the negro cut him so bad they couldn’t stop the bleeding: Burns yelling from his corner, unable to see Johnson through the blood, yelling that it wasn’t over when the referee stopped it, but it was over, it was over for the whole race. The parade went by Tommy Burns’s clothing store and there was Burns himself standing outside, his arms folded, head thrust outward slightly, a pug still, soft though, and shorter than you’d expect.
Michael sat on his horse and for the first hundred yards he hardly looked at the crowd. He was afraid to meet its alien gaze, but he finally stole a few glances, and then stared into the faces. There were children with their mouths open, watching a fairy tale. Cowboys and Indians. In those faces Michael saw meanness, mercy, awe, and boredom. By the time they hit Seventh Avenue he was uneasy. The line of eagle headdresses bobbed ahead of him, and he felt as if he was floating, no longer anchored to the rows of Indians almost a mile long, a grand, dignified line that whispered defeat. He looked at Stanford, who was staring straight ahead. His face was set like that day they’d killed all those catfish.
The procession turned south on Ninth Street and the crowd thinned out, down to kids once more, running alongside, whooping.
It took another half-hour to get back to the fairgrounds, the lines starting to fray. Stanford took off his buckskins and threw them onto one of the cook fires. Michael stared at him.
“You wish you hadn’t come, Stanford?”
Stanford was silent.
“I guess it wasn’t what I thought it would be,” Michael said.
“I expect that’s true of most things.”
“It was a mistake, though, wasn’t it?” Michael wanted some kind of confirmation.
“I’ll probably make another one before I’m through.” Stanford watched the buckskins blacken in the fire. “I don’t know it was worth the trouble,” he said. “But maybe we can find something that is.”
“We can go see Tom ride?”
“Maybe.”
Around them the Indian nation was deconstructing; sacred eagle feathers, buckskins, headdresses packed up, paint removed, hair unknotted to take out bones and shells. They sat and ate beans and drank coffee.
Stanford paid for two tickets to the grandstand. All that was left was standing room at the end of the field, but Michael was thrilled to be in the crowd. Cowboys roped calves and wrestled them down, and a group of kids chased greased pigs as the crowd screamed. The Americans were winning the prizes and it came down to the bronc riding. Tom Three Persons was standing near the chute, lean, short haired, with a black wide-brimmed hat he was slapping against his buffalo chaps. He had a long yellow scarf around his neck and deerskin gloves so tight Michael thought they were just his hands. He drew Cyclone, a black horse rank as a drunken wolverine that hadn’t been ridden in 128 tries. Michael watched Three Persons ease onto Cyclone, tying his hand then nodding almost imperceptibly to the man at the door to open her up. Cyclone launched out of the chute, rose up and twisted in the air, landed, bucked, did another twist. Three Persons anticipated each move and went with him, as if they had practised this together, moving as one thing, a dance. Small angry clouds rose where they landed. Cyclone twisted again and for a second Michael thought he might flip onto his back. After the eight-second bell, Three Persons stayed on for three more seconds, then swung one leg over as Cyclone rose again and eased off, moving gracefully upward with the buck before landing on his feet. He picked up his hat, waved it, and allowed the smallest smile, his lips barely moving, his eyes showing a brief light. The crowd was on its feet, cheering madly, chanting his name, and waving their own hats in response.
After Three Persons was presented with his $1,000 cheque, a fancy saddle, and the gold-championship belt, the crowd cheered again and began spilling out of the grandstand and off the fairgrounds.
“Maybe we should we go home now,” Michael said.
“I know what’s waiting for us at home. We may as well stay in town and see a few things.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t seen them yet.”
“There’s bad people in the city, Stanford?”
“No worse than anywhere, there’s just more of them.”
They went with the crowd, walking north on Fourth Street up to Tenth Avenue. They stopped in front of a place where the door was open and inside there were men drinking and the sound of a woman singing. Some of the men were out on the sidewalk, raising their glasses to Tom Three Persons, the hometown boy, the noble red man, the blunt pleasure of victory elevating everyone.
Stanford was over six feet tall and had a man’s body and hands, the gawky teenager in him already gone. He could have been twenty-five. Michael was still unformed, growing into himself, a more elegant version of his brother, more vulnerable.
A man beckoned them into the saloon. “You boys look like you could use…. Charlie,” he called over his shoulder, “a couple shots of Four Feathers for these boys.” He was holding a half-filled pint glass.
Stanford said thank you but they had to be somewhere.
“It ain’t going to kill you, son.”
Stanford thanked him again.
“I’ll give you some advice, boys. Don’t refuse a kindness. You don’t know how many they going to be. I’m just trying to show my appreciation.”
“I don’t need your appreciation,” Stanford said.
Charlie came out with two shots and held them out. They hovered in the space between the two men, something between an offering and a threat. Finally, Stanford took both of them and downed them, one after the other.
Michael stood mute beside him.
“Jesus, this boy can drink,” the man said. “Charlie, two more shots.”
“We have to be gone,” Stanford said.
�
�Well your round is coming up, son. It ain’t polite. We’re drinking to your man Tom.”
“I just drank to Tom. I reckon he’ll settle for that.”
“You ain’t going to drink with us,” the man said dully, registering this as an affront.
Michael saw in that rhetorical question the thrum of violence, a sudden tensing, a barometric seizure that changes the air.
Stanford backed away, pushing Michael behind him. Charlie came out with two more shots and held them out obediently.
“Come here,” the man said.
Stanford moved slowly backward, one arm gently nudging Michael.
The man made a quick bull rush, a bluff maybe, but Stanford held his ground and stepped into him and the man fell awkwardly down on one knee, and got up quickly.
“You saw that,” the man said, and Charlie nodded, still holding the shot glasses. There was a split second when Stanford could have grabbed Michael’s arm and lit out, dodging the slow-moving Fords on the street. They could easily outrun these men. But that moment ticked by.
Stanford warded off the first blow, which was unfocused and tentative. The men hadn’t manufactured any genuine anger and their violence lacked purpose. Stanford fended off two more weak shots. Michael was scared. He rushed up and hit one of the men on the jaw, blindsiding him, the unprotected bone giving way with a sideways crack. This gave the mob the purpose they lacked and they went in hard, none of them natural fighters, not knowing whether to kick, punch, gouge, or grab and working on all of them at once. The brothers backed down the street, but Stanford caught his foot and went down; they were on him with their heavy shoes. Michael jumped onto the back of one of them, a big man who came in late to this. He threw Michael off into a car at the curb and he slumped against the warm coalblack door. The man rushed over and jammed his arm against Michael’s neck, and said, not unkindly, “Stay down.” Michael had both hands on the man’s large forearm but couldn’t budge it. Each breath was laboured, a separate twisting journey along his bent windpipe. Stanford lay on the sidewalk, covering up, being worked on. Michael kept one hand uselessly on the man’s forearm, and with the other he found the leather snap clasp of his knife sheath. He unsnapped it, grabbed the smooth bone handle and brought it out quickly and hacked once into the man’s arm, who pulled it away immediately. The man was watching Stanford and hadn’t seen the knife, but he saw it now and scraped backwards with one palm up in defence. Michael scrambled up against the car and moved toward Stanford, slashing like he was clearing brush. The men yelped and move away. Stanford lay with his back against the storefront covering his head and Michael helped him stand up uncertainly. His face was wet with blood and one eye was closed. They stood in the doorway of E. H. Wentworth’s butcher shop and Wentworth himself was out there standing in a bloodstreaked apron, checking to see what the commotion was. Stanford looked around. The men backed up two steps and gathered in a semicircle around the brothers. The agonizing lull was filled with hard breathing and suspended intent. Stanford grabbed Michael’s knife and stood there, breathing heavily. When the man circled near them, the first man, the one who had offered them the drinks, Stanford lunged at him and the man fell trying to get out of the way. Stanford was on him and he made a quick sickening movement with the knife and came away with the man’s ear. The man screamed and grabbed his head, and the men danced around Stanford and Michael, looking for an opening, not wanting to be the first.
