High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  John left, stopping in his room only long enough to pull on a coat, and ran to get the police before they came to get him. He fretted the entire distance that he would be the chief suspect, no matter what he said. The police had come to the warehouse several times to question him about a theft or some other unsolved crime, and since they never spoke to Jack, he saw these visits as harassment, more than any belief on the part of the police that he was guilty of the crimes. Despite the prejudice he knew he would face, he was compelled to report the crime. But when he reached the police station, Fisk had just turned himself in, accompanied by a lawyer. The fear squeezing John’s chest loosened and breathing became easier. An officer took his story, told him not to leave town as he would be summoned as a witness, and allowed him to go.

  He did not want to return to the Turf Club, so he checked the two hotels that were affordable. It seemed neither had vacancies, but John wondered if it were true. With no other option, he went back to the Turf Club.

  During the three weeks it took to bring the case to trial, John felt unsettled. He wanted to leave Calgary and never return. Living mere steps down the hall from a grisly murder scene didn’t help. He felt badly for the girl, too. The night before the trial, he did not sleep a wink. He feared that Fisk was going to walk away from the crime unpunished. A surprising number of people in town supported the man and, according to Jack, who read the accounts to John, the Calgary Tribune reported that Fisk was “a good-natured citizen who wouldn’t hurt a feather.” On the other hand, the Indian girl, whose name was Rosalie New Grass, was “a dissolute young squaw.” What chance, John wondered, did an immoral Indian have against a harmless, upstanding white citizen? About the same, he supposed, as a coloured person.

  Half the town wanted to attend the trial, and since the courthouse was too small to accommodate everyone, there was talk of relocating to a larger hall a couple of blocks away. But the presiding judge, Charles Rouleau, decided against it, stating that he didn’t need that many people in his courtroom.

  The proceedings got under way promptly at 11:00 AM on a Thursday. As expected, the courtroom was packed. Once the jury was polled, Jumbo came in, escorted by a police constable. There was an attitude about him that bordered on arrogance, as if the court were wasting his time. While the clerk read the charges against him, he turned his head away, seemingly unconcerned. He pleaded not guilty.

  The first person to take the witness stand was the doctor who had examined Rosalie’s body. After going over the cause of death and the state of the body, the district counsel asked, “In your opinion, Doctor, did this young girl suffer before she found relief in death?”

  “She must have suffered greatly,” the doctor replied. “In fact, I would say that she suffered excruciating pain, enough to make her bite completely through her lower lip.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd.

  “Have you, in your experience, ever seen the likes of such a heinous crime?”

  “No, sir. The amount of fiendish brutality evident in the mutilation of the victim makes Jack the Ripper seem mild by comparison.”

  Neither the Tribune nor the Herald, Calgary’s other newspaper, had reported Rosalie’s mutilation, and the information set the crowd buzzing. Rouleau quelled it with his gavel.

  John took the stand next and told of hearing what he believed was a commotion coming from Fisk’s room, Fisk’s departure, and subsequent return with another man, the one who had said, “Let’s go get something to eat.” He explained his reasons for going to Fisk’s room, describing his discovery of the girl’s body and the handprint. As he spoke, the only sound in the stale air of the courtroom was the frantic scratching of reporters’ pencils on paper.

  “And was there anything unique about that handprint?” counsel asked.

  “Yes, sir. It was a left hand and it was missin’ the little finger.”

  Rouleau directed Jumbo to hold up his left hand. The missing finger drew murmurs from the crowd that the judge silenced with a stern look.

  After a short lunch break, the clerk swore in the investigating officer, John Ingram. He gave a detailed account of the crime scene, including the bloody handprint on the wall. Then the owner of the restaurant that Jumbo had gone to after the murder testified that he had served him a full course meal and that Jumbo had left nothing on his plate.

  The following morning, the defence counsel did everything in his power to paint his client in a different light. A doctor testified that the murder was an act of insanity: Fisk, by dint of too much alcohol, was temporarily insane when he committed the crime and therefore he was not guilty. Two other witnesses testified as to his good character, as did the man who had accompanied Jumbo to the restaurant. When asked why he did not go to the police, he replied, “Because I knew that Jumbo would.”

  Taking the stand, Jumbo said that alcohol had fogged his brain and he did not remember much about that night. Nevertheless, he did recall that Rosalie had attacked him with a knife when he refused to pay after she demanded too much money. As he was trying to disarm her, he had lost his head. He had no recollection of harming anybody. Given the tone of his voice, he might as well have added, “And if I did, so what? She was only a redskin.”

  At the first opportunity, district counsel stood and asked Jumbo if he had received any knife wounds.

  “No, sir.”

  “The deceased measured five feet two inches in height and weighed around one hundred pounds. What is your height and weight, sir?”

  “I stand six feet four inches and weigh about two hundred and twenty pounds.”

  Another rap of the magistrate’s gavel ended more rumbling from the crowd.

  Counsel continued. “Now, Mr. Fisk, after you beat this young girl, after you disembowelled her, after you committed these vicious, bloody acts, you washed up and went out with a friend for something to eat. Do you remember that part?”

  Jumbo bristled. “Yes, sir.”

  “So let me see if I have the sequence of events straight. Liquor causes you to lose your sense of reality, the loss of reality brings on violence, and the violence makes you hungry, which in turn revives your sense of reality. Is that how it works?”

  “No, sir!” Jumbo looked ready to jump from the witness chair and throttle the lawyer.

  “No further questioning.” The prosecutor sat down.

  During the afternoon session, both counsels summed up their cases for the members of the jury, after which a court official escorted the nine men to the magistrate’s chambers and locked them in. Nobody left the courtroom, expecting that it would not be a long wait for a verdict. However, the remainder of the afternoon passed, as did the supper hour, and nothing came. Rouleau sent everybody home.

  Early the following morning, John received a message that the jury had reached a decision and court would reconvene at 10:00 AM. He was at the courtroom well before ten, as were many others anxious to hear the outcome. John listened to those around him and the prevailing assumption was that a guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion. They wondered why it had taken so long to reach the verdict, and there was speculation that perhaps some jurors had bought the insanity defence and the others had needed time to convince them of Jumbo’s guilt. The proceedings got under way precisely on time, and everyone rose as Rouleau took his seat on the bench. Jumbo was brought in, followed by the jury.

  The Clerk of the Court stood and addressed the jury in a sonorous voice. “Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?”

  The foreman, a man John had seen regularly about town and one who had always turned a cold shoulder to him, arose and said, “We are.”

  The clerk’s voice boomed across the room. “How say you? Is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.”

  A tidal bore of voices rose to fill the courtroom, interspersed with cries of protest and a few shouts of jubilation, until Rouleau beat the room into silence with his gavel. Jumbo was smiling, but the magistrate looked shocked. John’s heart
sank.

  “Gentlemen,” the judge said to the jury, unable to contain his anger, “you have failed in your duty to this court. As such, this court cannot and will not accept your verdict. I direct you back to my chambers to reconsider the evidence presented to you by counsel.”

  He rapped his gavel and the jury filed once more from the courtroom. One hour later, they returned. The judge addressed the foreman. “You have had time to reconsider the evidence. I will ask you now if you all still agree with the not guilty verdict.”

  The foreman looked sheepish. “No, Your Honour. Some disagree.”

  Rouleau was furious. “The constable will return the prisoner to his cell and this court will call for a new trial.” He gave the jury a disdainful look. “You are dismissed!”

  John waited for a new trial to testify again. He hoped this time for an outcome more favourable to the court’s point of view, and he wasn’t alone in his thinking. Now that the details of the murder were out, there was open talk around town of a lynching, and Jumbo was under constant guard. The verdict even angered the Tribune’s editor, who wrote, “The idea which seems to possess the minds of some people that because a crime is committed against an Indian, therefore the crime is lessened, is inhumane in the extreme.”

  The second trial for Jumbo began three weeks later. Charles Rouleau presided again, and counsel had not changed, but a new jury of nine men was sworn in. The proceedings were a mirror image of what had gone before. This time, after the summations, Rouleau instructed the jury members that if they found the prisoner guilty, they must also decide whether it was murder or manslaughter. John reckoned it was a way of providing an option for those jury members who did not want to see Jumbo hanged. They left to deliberate and were back two hours later with a verdict of manslaughter.

  John was not at all happy. Jumbo was still getting away with murder as far as he was concerned. The man had always wanted to kill an Indian and he had found an easy victim: a defenceless, intoxicated girl. John sensed that Rouleau was not happy either and had no doubt accepted the verdict because it was the best he could hope for. However, one thing within his power was to impose on Fisk the maximum sentence: fourteen years of hard labour in Stony Mountain Penitentiary, which, according to Jack, was the prison that held Big Bear and other rebellious Indians. That Fisk would have to spend those years within the walls that also confined a race of people he despised offered no small degree of solace.

  John was at the train station unloading goods on the day Fisk left for the prison in Manitoba. It was raining and a cold wind gusted out of the north as a democrat wagon carrying Jumbo and his escort splashed up the muddy street. Both sat in the back beneath an awning, Jumbo securely trussed for the journey. A short chain with fetters bound his ankles and a thick leather strap extended up to join manacles on his wrists. The escort, a burly constable, had to help him down from the wagon and he shuffled onto the platform and onto the train. It was one of the few welcome scenes John would remember from his stay in Calgary, thanks to a colour-blind judge who did not let a bigoted jury compromise his sense of justice.

  •

  Newspaper stories of the trial had raised John’s profile in town—in a positive light, he hoped. He had believed that it would put an end to visits by the police every time they had an unsolved crime, but they came once more, this time about the theft of a horse. He could only shake his head. He ached to be sarcastic and say, “Yes, of course, I stole the horse. It’s in my room at the Turf Club. I left the door open for you ’cause I knew you’d be askin’.” But such humour was futile and so was arguing, so he answered their questions with a politeness he did not feel. To add another blow, the reception he received during his walks around town had not improved much, although he sometimes elicited a smile and a nod of hello among the baleful stares and the heads turned away. He would have been pleased if the store manager had invited him inside to work, but that never happened. Spring arrived and it was time to say goodbye to Jack and the I.G. Baker Company, and to Calgary. He wondered when he would be able to walk its streets without feeling the strong undercurrent of intolerance for any person whose skin colour was not white. Probably not any time soon.

  THIRTEEN

  Never heard tell of any servants around here.

  Early on a May morning, John was back in a saddle again and well into the rolling hills south of Calgary. Spring had come to the foothills as it does to no other place in the world. The smell of earth free from snow cloaked the breeze spilling out of the west, and colourful wildflowers daubed the slopes. The grass was the very definition of green, and adding to the spectacle was the backdrop of snowcapped peaks. He had decided not to return to the Bar U and to go instead to the Quorn Ranch. In his mind, he had laid Duffy to rest, along with Emmett, and could get on with his life. The Quorn would provide a fresh start.

  When he arrived at the ranch, there was not an idle hand as everyone prepared for the roundup, readying wagons and horses and mending harnesses and tack. Many of the buildings were still under construction, predominantly barns, of which Barter had said there would ultimately be five.

  “I’ve plenty of work for ye,” the manager said, stroking his grey goatee. “I could use ye on the roundup, but I’ve got a far better job to offer if ye’re interested. Why don’t ye stow your bedroll in the bunkhouse and we’ll talk about it after supper. Ye won’t be disappointed. The bunkhouse is over there.” Barter pointed to a long, low building across from the barns. “Grab yerself any free bunk. The washhouse is in behind. Ye’ll hear the bell when supper’s ready, then follow the stampeding men.”

  The details that Barter laid out after supper excited John. Five hundred broncos would be arriving soon from the south, all mares. Coming from the east by train to Calgary were a dozen thoroughbred stallions to service them. John’s responsibilities were to ensure the stallions had their way with the mares, break those of both genders needed for riding or working, and tend to the animals’ needs. In two days, he would return to Calgary to pick up the stallions, along with five hunting dogs that were to be shipped with them. On the same train, straight out from England, would be three relatives of the Quorn’s owners, who were coming to experience ranch life in the Canadian west. Barter made a face at the idea of it.

  “As if there isn’t enough to do around here without catering to a bunch of English noblemen. Probably prigs—arrogant arses if ye catch me drift. I can think of better ways to spend our money, too.” He sighed in resignation. “Well, in the meantime, ye can make yerself useful and lend a hand building the barns. Forty a month for ye, John. All I want is yer word that ye’ll stick around for a while and not be gone in the mornin’ like some Limerick gypsy.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Leastways, not just yet.”

  They sealed the agreement with a handshake.

  Two days later, as the roosters crowed in the dawn, John was trundling in a buckboard into Calgary to pick up the Quorn’s guests, the horses, and the dogs. He was curious about the noblemen but the horses and dogs thrilled him most. As the train pulled into the station, he was not pleased that he had to greet the Englishmen first.

  Barter had been right in his sight-unseen assessment of his guests. They were standoffish, their noses as high in the air as a fine stallion’s but with less of a reason to be there, John thought. All three wore derby hats above pallid faces, their clothes cut from fine cloth. They looked out of place, but their attitude seemed to indicate it was the place’s problem and not theirs. One, a short, stocky man with a square jaw, languid eyes, red-veined cheekbones, and an officious attitude introduced himself as Mister Leechman.

  “May I present Lord and Earl Wootton,” he said.

  It was not a question and he emphasized the titles. Both men were as thin as hitching posts, of medium height, with fair hair and aquiline facial features. John presumed they were brothers, in their early twenties, and saw nothing noble about them. They might have been born into privilege but that did not mean they were men o
f substance. That was true of plantation owners and he suspected that it was also true of British noblemen. Neither of them offered to shake hands with him, but he stuck his out anyway.

  “John Ware.” He smiled. “Which of you is Lloyd and which is Earl?”

  Leechman blanched. “That’s Lord Wootton and Earl Wootton. Lord and Earl. They are peerage titles, you must understand, not names.”

  John’s smile widened. “It might be better all the way around to forget those fancy titles here. At least with me, ’cause I ain’t ever gonna use ’em anyway. Not likely anyone else will either, so best you tell me your names.”

  The men looked at John’s outstretched hand as if it carried some deadly disease. He could see their discomfort and figured no one had ever spoken to them like that before, particularly a coloured man in wrinkled, dusty clothes, dirty boots, and a Stetson hat. They seemed both aghast and flustered. Leechman puffed himself up.

  “You are a servant?”

  It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

  John shook his head. “Never heard tell of any servants around here, and there sure ain’t none where you’re goin’. Might as well get used to it.”

  It might have been John’s size that intimidated them, and that he didn’t cast his eyes downward; he had not done that for any man since he had been a slave. Or perhaps it was the gun he carried on his belt. Whatever the case, Leechman said nothing further and the brothers remained silent. John wondered if Barter had purposely sent him to greet them as a way of reducing their expectations before they even got to the ranch.