High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  Since their first names were not forthcoming, John let it go. He had horses and dogs to think about. He and Leechman put the luggage in the buckboard, everyone climbed on, and they drove to the unloading ramps for stock.

  The stallions were magnificent beasts, seventeen hands if they were an inch, and all as black as anthracite. They were blue bloods who strutted with their heads high and their tails off their rumps, equine royalty who seemed to view the rest of the animal kingdom as mere filler. John had never felt so good about life as he did at that instant. He knew fine horseflesh when he saw it, and these were the very best. To be responsible for them was no less than a privilege. He said to them, as he tied them in two strings behind the wagon, “Ah, the ladies are goin’ to love you boys!”

  The dogs were fine animals, too, large hounds that whimpered and barked and wagged their tails, and recognized a pack leader when they saw one. The men and the small menagerie set out for the ranch, John and Leechman on the front seat, the Woottons behind on an extra bench seat that had been installed for the occasion. The dogs had stretched out on top of the luggage and the horses trailed behind.

  Back at the ranch, John told Barter that the Englishmen had not spoken a word to him on the way down from Calgary, other than to ask where all the buffalo were. “If I was them, I woulda asked a heap more questions, bein’ in a new country and all.”

  Barter laughed. “They didn’t know what to make of ye, John. They thought ye were lyin’ about not bein’ a servant and insisted that I dismiss ye for yer impertinence. I told them I’d do that when those mountains over yonder crumble into dust. They didn’t like it, but I think they’ll come around. They really don’t have much choice. If they don’t come to terms with it, their stay’ll seem a lot longer than planned.”

  He put John in charge of selecting horses for the guests. “Gentle is the watchword. Inasmuch as it could be good fun, we don’t want to send our guests home with any fractured bones. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  John culled three mares for the guests, sweet-tempered animals that were unlikely to embarrass their riders. At Barter’s request, he saddled and bridled the animals. He also tended to the horses when the men returned from their ride, which was bewildering to John. A rider’s responsibility was more than just sitting in the saddle; he ought to look after the horse himself. If he did not know how, he should have someone teach him. John was prepared to be that teacher, but the visitors were not interested in learning. Even more perplexing were the English flat saddles that they insisted on using. John called these “sweat pads” and considered them an insult to any horse worth riding.

  The hounds had been brought to the ranch so that the English visitors, as well as a few neighbours of English stock, could partake in something akin to a traditional fox hunt. The obvious lack of foxes in the area was no deterrent, for there were plenty of coyotes. That their host considered them prey surprised the Englishmen, who held a rather romantic view of the animal sitting on a hilltop howling at the moon. But to ranchers, coyotes were vermin and fair game for any man with a gun. Hunting them down with dogs, if not efficient, might at least prove to be fun.

  Barter arranged a hunt for the forthcoming Sunday and invited John along, in case anything went wrong. A dozen men and the five hounds, with Fred Stimson taking the lead, rode out in the morning, heading west into the foothills. The sun radiated intense heat and there was not a breath of wind. Stopping even for a few seconds was enough to bring swarms of mosquitoes down upon the group. The Woottons, whose first names John had learned were Harold and Alfred, seemed bothered the most by them and were not shy about complaining. The rest of the group offered no sympathy.

  The visitors sat their horses well enough, when they were not pumping up and down, which struck John as a strange way to ride. The small bit of arrogance that he had knocked out of them the day they arrived had crept back, and they kept trying to take the lead. Stimson told them clearly to stay behind, that he was the leader. The order did not sit well with either of the Woottons, but they grudgingly complied.

  Then Stimson spotted a coyote along a creek bank about the same time as the animal heard the group’s approach. The dogs saw it and let loose a cacophony of baying and barking. They tore off in pursuit, with the riders on their tails. Harold, ignoring Stimson’s order, quirted his horse in an effort to gain the lead. John, with less enthusiasm for this kind of sport, was bringing up the rear. The coyote veered to the left and the dogs and horses followed, as if they were on a line connected to it. The hunting party traversed a rough patch of ground and Harold’s horse stumbled. One second he was in the saddle and the next he was tumbling to the ground. Focused on the hunt, the rest of the group did not bother stopping, but John rode over to Harold, who had risen to his feet, and, reaching down, scooped up the Englishman under one arm, like a sack of flour at the I.G. Baker warehouse. John spurred his horse forward, with Harold lying crossways on his lap yelling, “I say! ”

  John grabbed Harold’s mount, which had stopped fifty yards ahead, and rode on to rejoin the group. The dogs had brought the coyote down. There were shouts of, “Good sport, good sport!” Harold, whom John deposited on the ground, was happy to be there for the kill, even considering his ignominious arrival. Stimson, who had witnessed the rescue, grinned. “That was the neatest trick I’ve ever seen, boys. You two ought to be working for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. Old Bill’d be turning customers away at the gate!”

  Everyone laughed, including Harold, although he reddened and looked embarrassed.

  The incident turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. Harold’s attitude changed the instant John lifted him off the ground. Barter would later say, with his tongue stuck only partially in his cheek, that it was because Harold had a bit of the damsel in him and any damsel in distress appreciated being rescued by a big, strong man. No matter the reason, it transformed the British lord’s stuffiness into respect and freed him to start asking questions of John. He even sought John’s advice in matters concerning horses, and asked about the long drives from Texas and Idaho. John showed the brothers how to sit a western saddle and even gave them lessons in roping. With Barter’s permission, he took them on a tour of the area and showed them an Indian encampment. By the time the brothers had to return to England, they and John had become companions.

  On the eve of their departure, Barter held a small soiree in his visitors’ honour. People came from the surrounding ranches to join the fun on one of those perfect prairie nights that made people forget the man-eating insects and harsh winters. John even polished his boots with some soot from the bunkhouse stove. Only the noblemen dressed in near-formal attire. Harold wore a Prince Albert coat, a long, well-tailored, doubled-breasted garment that John couldn’t tear his eyes from, deeming it the finest article of clothing he had ever seen. He told Harold so.

  Harold said, “If I thought for one moment this coat would fit, John, I would give it to you this very instant. But you have my word that upon my arrival in England I shall have my tailor do one up for you.” He eyed John up and down. “The largest size, I expect. God knows what use you’ll find for it in this amazing country, but you can wear it hunting coyotes if you wish. Whatever the case, you shall own one!”

  The gesture caught John off guard and he did not quite know how to respond. When he had gathered his wits, he protested Harold’s generosity.

  “Not at all,” demurred Harold. “If the coat helps atone in some small way for my reprehensible behaviour upon my arrival here, it will make me very happy.”

  •

  The summer passed and John continued working with the horses. In the fall, more Englishmen arrived for a visit, much to Barter’s consternation, and, given their amicable response to John, he reckoned that they had received some coaching from the Woottons. And Harold was as good as his word, for the visitors brought a package. John opened it to find the Prince Albert coat he had been promised. Accompanying it was a note that read, “With appre
ciation and best wishes, from Harold.”

  FOURTEEN

  Mostly, you just felt powerless.

  Despite job offers from other ranchers, as well as from Fred Stimson at the Bar U, John stayed on at the Quorn. He now had more than two dozen of his own cattle, growing fat with the Bar U herds, which would be the genesis of his own ranch one day, but he did not want to leave what he considered to be the best job in the world. Besides, the horses were like family to him.

  As the winter of 1886 approached, there were more than a hundred thousand head of cattle on the ranges south of Calgary. The summer had been hot and dry, with less rain as usual, and grass wasn’t plentiful. Some of the ranges were suffering from overgrazing, and many ranchers were unable to stock up on feed for the winter. Any hay for sale was going for the outrageous sum of twenty dollars a load. Winter came on, relentless as a tsunami, and shut the door on any chance of a chinook arriving to warm things up. The price of hay rose precipitously to thirty dollars a wagonload. By the time spring rolled around, many thousands of cattle had died, as well as hundreds of deer, antelope, and rabbits, and the animals that survived were starving. The coyotes, wolves, and Indians had a bountiful season, the frozen prairie a larder full of meat for them.

  The Quorn’s losses were staggering, particularly among its calves, and John lost more than half of his cattle. Most of the ranchers were beginning to have second thoughts about maintaining large herds and were considering diversifying. A man could also make money with horses, which handled the winters much better, as they had the sense to paw down through the snow to find food. Cattle, on the other hand, would stand there and starve to death.

  To compound matters, more and more settlers were moving into the area and fencing off good rangeland for their own use. Ranchers were having to drive their cattle around these properties during roundup and were not happy about it. And it didn’t help that thousands of sheep had been brought into the area as well, occupying good cattle-grazing land. The air in the district crackled with tension.

  Despite the catastrophic winter and tumultuous changes, John was still determined to have a cattle ranch, but now he reasoned that he should supplement it with horses. He also knew that there was not enough grass for hay on his homestead and that he would have to find another place, possibly farther up the Sheep River.

  The good news was that he had done his job uniting the thoroughbred stallions with the mares, and in the spring of 1887, the Quorn was fat with foals. Ironically, it sold many of its horses to settlers, the very people encroaching on its grazing land. Barter brought in a hundred good-quality mares from Ireland and a few English thoroughbred stallions to breed them, and the work kept John busy.

  That summer Barter asked John if he would help the Bar U out by taking a few hundred of their four-year-old cattle to Calgary for shipment. Barter had several dry cows that he wanted to include, and he and Fred Stimson felt John was the best man to take charge of the drive. John was not keen to return to the town that had pulled its welcome mat out from under him twice, but there was a nice bonus in it for him, which meant an opportunity to increase his stock. Besides, his father had said that a man might try something twice and fail, but the third time was always lucky.

  He held the drive to a leisurely pace so that the cattle could eat and not lose weight; even so, the time passed faster than he would have liked because he was not looking forward to the destination. But Stimson had given him a fine crew of five likable young men with good cattle sense and no fear of hard work, and he was pleased with how smoothly the drive went. They arrived on the outskirts of Calgary around noon on the fourth day and set up camp. The next day, they got half of the herd on the train and penned the other half for shipment the following day. Once the work was complete, John asked the crew, “What’ll it be, boys, food first or beer?”

  Jimmy Vernam, a tough, sinewy youth who had ridden on point with John, spoke for the group. “Food’s plenty enough at the ranch. Beer isn’t.”

  They liveried their horses, and the town lay before the young cowboys like a beckoning oasis. For John, it was akin to entering a corral with an unknown bronco. He did not know how it would react, but he was determined to ride it anyway.

  Downtown Calgary had changed since his last visit, as several sandstone buildings now stood in places once occupied by wooden structures. These included the Royal Hotel, which had a bar and was the first one they came to.

  “This seems as good a place as any to wash out the trail dust,” John said, and they went in.

  He bought the first two rounds; it was the least he could do for their good work since they were not getting the extra pay that he was. Then he told them, “You’re spending your own money now, boys. This well’s run dry.”

  He did not bother trying to keep up with them. He was at least twenty years their senior and knew well how too much beer can make a man feel in the morning when there was still work to do. What’s more, like most young men, they talked about and among themselves, and did not include John much in the conversation. He refused to think it had anything to do with his colour, more the difference in their ages. It was fine by him, as he found much of what they were saying nonsensical chatter anyway. He sipped his beer and drifted off into pleasant daydreams of his own cattle ranch, a lovely wife, and several beautiful, energetic children running around the place.

  Loud voices interrupted his reverie. At first, he thought they came from his imagined sons, but it was only his crew getting noisy from too many drinks and trying to talk over the general din of the bar. He sensed trouble and suggested that they take a break to eat, and since the Bar U was paying for it, there was a chorus of agreement. The boys downed their beers and went off unsteadily to the piss troughs in a backroom. John waited at the table and when he saw them coming out, joined them at the main door. Sitting nearby, a drunk with an American Southern accent said in a loud, abrasive voice, “Next time you boys oughta leave your nigger servant at home! He don’t belong here!”

  Jimmy Vernam sneered. “He isn’t our servant, mac. He’s our boss.”

  “The boss of what? Didn’t know we had a Nigger Town here.”

  “You mean-mouthed son of a bitch!” Jimmy was about to go for the man when John grabbed him by the arm.

  “Whoa, Jimmy, we don’t need none of that. Let’s go.”

  John’s ire was up too, but he kept it out of his voice, knowing that trouble here would only lead to more trouble later. He motioned with his head for the rest of the crew to follow and steered Jimmy out the door before a melee erupted. He heard the drunk call, “Go back where you come from, nigger boy!”

  “Jesus, John,” Jimmy said on the street. “You don’t have to take that shit. You shoulda let me at him. I’d’ve taught the bastard a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.”

  “You let me fight my own battles, Jimmy. The man’s too drunk or stupid to learn anythin’ and you’d only end up in jail. Come on. Let’s get somethin’ to eat and head back to camp. We still got work to do come mornin’.”

  “Goddamned Yankee,” burped Jimmy. “He’s the one who oughta go back where he came from!”

  He broke into a chorus of “The Maple Leaf Forever.” The rest joined in, except John, who did not know the words and knew he was already making a spectacle of himself simply by being with a bunch of inebriated white cowboys. They walked up McTavish Street toward the café, their boots clattering noisily on the wooden boardwalk in front of the I.G. Baker store, the boys singing lustily. People crossed to the other side of the street to avoid them. Suddenly, a policeman clutching a truncheon burst from the alley that ran along the north end of the store. Moments later, another policeman came running from across the street to join him.

  “Okay, boys,” one of them said, “you want to sing, we’ve got the perfect stage for you, and you won’t be disturbing the peace like you are now. You’re all under arrest.”

  “What? You gotta be jokin’ us.” Jimmy was ready to argue with the constable, but John
interrupted.

  “Hold on a minute, sir,” he said diplomatically. “We’re just gettin’ somethin’ to eat, then we’re headin’ out of town. I’ll see that the boys go quietly. There ain’t no need to arrest anybody.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere, except with us. You’re drunk and disorderly and disturbing the peace. Now let’s move!”

  “I ain’t drunk,” John said, indignant now. “And I wasn’t singin’. I don’t even know the words to the damn song!”

  “You can tell that to the magistrate. Meanwhile you’ll haul your black ass along with us and not give us any grief.” Glaring at John, he slapped his truncheon onto the palm of his hand to emphasize his words.

  John was outraged. It was one thing to be insulted by an ignorant drunk, yet another when it was a sober policeman. He felt like banging the two constables’ heads together to knock some sense into them. But he knew it would be all over the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper if he did.

  “Lead the way,” he said. “We won’t give you any trouble.” To his crew, he added, “C’mon, boys. We’ll get this sorted out at the police station.”

  But there was nothing to sort out as far as the constables were concerned. They ushered their charges without ceremony straight into a large cell in the basement of the station. Metal benches lined the walls, and the boys, after some complaining and giggling, stretched out on them and went to sleep. John spent a long, sleepless night, gripped once again by the frustration of powerlessness. He wondered why he bothered wasting his time in Calgary. His mind was in turmoil, but Jimmy and the others slept a deep, beer-soaked sleep and awoke before dawn feeling hungover and sheepish.