High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

On a Saturday near the end of May, with a cool breeze tumbling out of the mountains, he hitched up the buckboard to a pair of horses he had trained for the task and headed for town with a long shopping list. Calgary was busy and there was no place in front of the store to leave the wagon, so he turned around and left it across the street.

  A bell tinkled as he entered the store, and the smell of spices—cloves seemed to predominate—and floor wax mixed with leather and tobacco smoke flooded his senses. He was awaiting his turn when the doorbell tinkled again and another customer walked in. To John’s surprise, he was black. The man saw John waiting and joined him. Wearing workman’s clothes, he appeared to be in his mid-forties and was of medium height with a round face and a pleasant smile that stayed in his eyes even after it left his mouth. He nodded to John. “Busy place.”

  “Always is this time of year.” After they exchanged a few pleasantries, John put out his hand. “John Ware.”

  “Dan Lewis. Pleased to know you.”

  Lewis was a cabinetmaker from Ontario who had brought his family west two years ago for the same reason nearly everyone else had come—to have a better life. He lived in Shepard, a tiny community about ten miles southeast of Calgary, where he had a business building high-quality furniture. The two men chatted until a clerk became available for John, and Lewis did what John hoped he would: invited him to supper.

  “A week this coming Sunday. Come around three o’clock. We’ll eat around five or five-thirty.”

  John wished it could have been sooner than Sunday; even so, the invitation felt akin to winning a valuable prize. “I’ll be there. You can count on it.”

  On the way back to the ranch, he thought of the questions he should have asked Lewis. How large was his family? Did he have any daughters? Given his age, it was possible Lewis had daughters old enough for marriage. But Lewis might have been suspicious about any such probing, thinking that John had other motives for accepting the invitation besides a good supper and a visit with a fellow black. Whatever the case, Lewis seemed like a decent, interesting man with whom to spend an evening, and if he happened to have daughters, so much the better. John would have to dig out his Prince Albert coat from the box under his bunk and polish his boots. He had attended several social events during his time in the district, but he had never looked forward to any of them as much as this one.

  He was clattering along the road, lost in his rambling thoughts, when he encountered J.J. Barter on his way to Calgary. It had been a while since they had seen each other, so they stopped their wagons side by side to trade news.

  “Good to see you, J.J. How’s things at the Quorn?”

  “Well, I’m glad I ran into ye, John. One of the boys at the High River Ranch was out this marnin’ and came across that damned wolf tearin’ up one of yer foals. He took a shot at it but missed. The beast ran off into the woods quick as a cat. But it sounds as if it could be the same animal that killed a couple of our foals over the last year or so.”

  Every rancher and settler on the southern range knew of the wolf and called it “the King.” Those who had caught a glimpse of it said it was the biggest grey they had ever seen, big enough to take down a man. It hunted by itself, its prey the easy food supply of foals and calves.

  Barter continued, “Anyway, the lad tracked it for a while but lost it up along the Sheep River. If I were ye, I’d get up to that claim of yers as soon as ye can and check out yer herd. That foal may not be its only victim today. Seems to have a likin’ for calves, too. There’s a fifty dollar reward for the man who gets him.”

  By the time the two men went their separate ways, John had forgotten all about his supper date with the Lewis family. He had been lucky so far, his herd untouched, but now all kinds of horrible images stormed through his mind. He knew he had best do as Barter suggested and get to his claim without a moment’s delay. But first, he had to deliver the wagonload of goods to the ranch. He slapped the reins down hard on the team’s rumps and rattled and shook with speed along the bumpy road.

  •

  John ate a hurried supper and packed a bedroll and some food, knowing he would be gone overnight. He climbed on Molly and left for his claim, with Bismarck trailing behind. Clouds obscured the upper slopes of the peaks in the west but the sky above was clear and the air warm. He rode quickly, without being reckless, along the Highwood and onto the trail up the Sheep that he had practically worn himself. His mind was on the King, and the closer he got to his property, the more worried he became.

  Nearing the homestead, he saw a raven fly into the air and begin circling. The sight made his gut heave. The trail rose and from his new vantage point he could see past the house to the broad meadow above it. A dozen ravens were tearing at a bloody carcass, while beyond, his small herd of cattle, bunched together, looked on. He nudged Molly and galloped down into the hollow, past the house, and up the far side. As soon as he appeared on the meadow, the ravens flew off to nearby trees, their raucous croaks protesting the interruption of their feast.

  The carcass was one of John’s calves, and he cursed his luck. Its neck and belly were ripped apart so severely that it had to have been done by a wolf, and recently, too. Probably this morning, as near as John could determine. He could see that it had eaten most of the animal’s organs except the stomach, and it looked as if the ravens had been taking their fill of that. John dismounted, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, and called Bismarck, who was sniffing around the carcass. He looked for tracks but the ground was rough and churned up by the cattle. He walked the perimeter of the open space, peering into the woods, but saw nothing. He thought he might be wasting his time, because the wolf could have crossed the river and disappeared into the wilderness beyond the hay meadow. But as he was about to return to Molly, Bismarck shot ahead to a puddle, a remnant of the last rainfall, and began whining. He stood at the edge of the forest, staring in, his tail high and wagging. John glanced down and noticed paw prints beside the water, where it appeared the wolf had stopped to drink. The prints were huge, big enough that John had no doubt that they belonged to the King. They indicated that the wolf had entered the forest, and Bismarck’s stance reinforced it.

  It was too close to nightfall to go traipsing through the woods after a savage beast, and Bismarck would still be able to pick up the scent in the morning. John did not think the wolf would return for the uneaten carrion, because it had not in other cases, seeming to prefer a fresh kill. He had an idea as to how he could take advantage of that, but first he had to get rid of the carcass. He dragged it by its hind legs out of the meadow and a couple of hundred yards up the river, with Bismarck following. Then he took out his knife and skinned the animal, thinking that the hide would make a nice carpet for his new home. He left the remains, certain that the ravens and other scavengers would have them gobbled up in no time.

  John and Bismarck returned to the meadow and retrieved Molly, and the three walked down to the house, where John had a firepit and some stacked firewood. He got a blaze going, fetched water from the river, and put coffee on to boil. While waiting, he tended to Molly, removing the saddle and bridle and letting her graze. He took a couple of biscuits out of his saddlebags and once the coffee boiled, he poured a cup and dipped the hard biscuits into it to soften them and add flavour. When he had finished, he freshened his coffee and rolled a smoke. Sipping the hot brew and pulling the smoke into his lungs, he contemplated his surroundings.

  Some of the walls were up on the house, built with lumber delivered from Calgary. In his mind’s eye, he saw the finished result. It would have a steeply pitched shingled roof to shed the snow, and a porch, with a fancy cast-iron railing along the front. The door would be in the centre with windows on either side, and there would be windows in each end. He would leave the rear of the house plain so that he could easily knock out the wall in case he needed to add more rooms—no reason why a man could not remain optimistic. He had already begun to gather stones from the river for the chimney; he would start it once the wal
ls were up and before the roof went on. Then, to make it really stand out in this wilderness, he would whitewash it.

  It was a very satisfying thing to think about, this house, this land, and his small herd. And despite the death of the calf, and no prospects of a bride, he felt quite content with life and with himself. He had come such a long way from South Carolina and the Chambers plantation that he rarely recalled those places anymore. The itches on his back from the whipping scars now needed only scratching, and not reflection. He rolled another cigarette to accompany a second cup of coffee and listened to the crackle of the flames and the rushing of the river. When he finished, he doused the fire, grabbed his bedroll, rifle, and rope, and said, “Come on, Bismarck. We’re sleepin’ on high ground tonight in case that old King comes to pay us another call.”

  In the dusk, the pair walked up to the meadow, where the cattle were beginning to bed down for the night. John roped a protesting calf and tied it to a stump near the river side of the meadow. On the opposite side was a rocky bluff, about thirty feet high, which offered a commanding view of his property, and that was where he and Bismarck settled in for the night.

  He lay for a long time reading the night sky that he understood so well because of Amos and Emmett, and fell asleep thinking of the Coles, that he should have had someone help him compose a letter to let them know how well he was doing. They would have been proud. But good intentions were thwarted by a busy life and now it was probably too late.

  He awakened before dawn and waited for the sky to lighten. If the wolf was going to come for another feast, this would be the time. Bismarck, ever alert to John’s movements, awoke with him, and he scratched the dog’s neck for a while. The starry sky turned slowly to grey as the earth turned toward the sun. Suddenly, Bismarck tensed and let out the beginning of a whine. John clamped the dog’s mouth shut with his right hand and reached for the rifle lying beside him with his left.

  “We got us a visitor here,” he whispered under his breath.

  Bismarck seemed to understand, for he remained quiet, watching for some kind of signal that John needed his services.

  A few moments later, the cattle began to rumble and rise to their feet. The tethered calf bawled. Scanning the meadow, John saw the wolf slinking out of the forest, large and menacing. Talk of its size had not been exaggerated. It paused, lifted its great head, and looked around, sniffing the air. Sensing no threat, it focused on its target and broke into a lope, heading straight for the calf, which was now frantic, choking itself trying to escape, its eyes bulging with terror. Its mother, standing nearby, began bellowing her alarm. John raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired as the wolf lunged. The bullet ploughed into the side of its chest. The thud was audible as the beast hit the ground, air exploding from its lungs. Its legs twitched for a moment, and then it lay still. John hurried down the slope and across the meadow, Bismarck racing before him. He levered another shell into the rifle’s chamber in case he needed it, but the wolf was dead.

  John was elated. He freed the calf, which ran, still bawling, to its mother’s side. He heaved the corpse over his shoulder, thinking that he’d done the same with many a hundred-pound sack of flour when he worked for the I.G. Baker Company, and this animal had to weigh half again as much. He carried it down to the house, where he could cover it with a tarp and keep the ravens away from it. Bismarck, leaping, whining, and sniffing, followed.

  After breakfast, John spent the remainder of the morning adding boards to the walls of the house and making the first cuts for the windows, whistling and humming as he worked. He finished up around noon and whistled for Molly.

  Most horses would want no part of a wolf on their back, not even a dead one, but Molly seemed to trust John implicitly. Even so, as he prepared her for the trip back to the ranch, she showed her dislike by shivering when he threw the carcass across her rump and secured it behind the cantle. He mounted and pointed Molly down the trail toward home, Bismarck needing no encouragement to tag along. He would stop at the Quorn first, keen to see Barter’s face when he showed him his prize. One happy man was about to make another man equally happy.

  •

  Word of the wolf’s death spread, and ranchers along the foothills went to bed with less worry. Barter collected the reward money and brought it to John a couple of days later. He also brought the pelt, which measured eight feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail.

  “Somethin’ to hang on the wall of yer new house, with my and everyone else’s gratitude,” said a beaming Barter. “Yer the talk of the southern range, John, and I heard the Herald ’s runnin’ another story on ye.” He chuckled. “Keep that up and they’ll be askin’ ye to run for mayor!”

  John reckoned that such publicity could only be a good thing; he would find out the next time he went to town if he was right. He wondered if the Lewises read the Herald. If they did, and if they had marriageable daughters, it might stand him in good stead. In the meantime, he had a wolf skin for a rug and fifty dollars to buy windows and doors for the house.

  The rest of the week dragged by, even though the mares were still foaling and John had plenty to do. He dug out his Prince Albert coat the day before his visit and hung it outside to freshen and to get rid of the wrinkles. When Sunday morning finally arrived, he arose early and polished his boots. There was an unpleasant odour about them, so he cadged some baking soda from the cook and sprinkled it inside. Satisfied, he pulled them on. After breakfast, he combed and brushed Molly, saddled her, and told Bismarck to stay put, that he would be back late in the evening.

  •

  Shepard was not much as far as communities went, consisting of a small cluster of houses on the bald prairie. Among them, he found the Lewis residence, a smaller version of the Pritchard home. He dismounted at the front porch just as his host came out through the door.

  “Hello, John! So glad you could make it. You had a pleasant journey, I trust.” Lewis stepped off the porch and shook John’s hand. “There’s water for your horse around back.”

  The two men traded generalities as Lewis led John and Molly to the rear of the house, where there was a watering trough and a small stable. As John removed the saddle and bridle, Lewis said, “She’ll find the hay in the stable once she’s had a drink. Come in and meet the family. They’ve been excited to meet you, especially after reading all about you in the newspaper. You’re famous in our household!” He motioned back the way they had come. “We’ll go around to the front door. Esther would be mortified if I brought you in through the kitchen.”

  John placed the tack on a nearby hitching rail and followed Lewis around to the front again. They entered the house and John could scarcely believe his eyes. Standing there were a boy and three women. The oldest was undoubtedly Esther and flanking her were two girls, one of them the most beautiful he had ever seen.

  SIXTEEN

  A girl wouldn’t be so indelicate.

  John had never read a book in his life, but he thought that if a book existed about angels, it would contain long passages about Mildred. She wore a white dress that showed off a perfect figure, and her black hair, tied back with a white ribbon, framed a lovely face. Her brown skin was lighter than John’s and looked as soft and as smooth as a child’s. A sparkle in her eyes reflected a reverence and passion for life. She was nineteen years old, as fresh as a breeze spilling down from the mountains, and appeared so delicate that for the first time in a long while John became conscious of his size and felt too big for the room. His tongue forsook him, at least for anything sensible to say, but he managed a “Hello.”

  The supper and evening passed far too quickly for his liking. It took every ounce of his will to tear his eyes from Mildred, and he figured the Lewises must surely think him rude. When it came time to leave, he managed to blurt out a request to come calling on her the following Sunday. When both the Lewises and Mildred agreed—with some enthusiasm, John noticed—he felt as if he’d been living in winter all his life and a chinook had suddenly
washed over him.

  He stewed the entire week, wondering how to conduct himself around Mildred. He even sought advice from J.J. Barter, who told him he had to make sure not to overstay his welcome on that first visit. Fifteen minutes of being alone with her would suffice. Any longer and his intentions might be considered less than honourable.

  John decided that parlours were not a comfortable setting for him, so he approached his boss and borrowed a democrat wagon and a team of horses for the weekend, intending to take Mildred for a ride. That was something he understood, and he could show her how to handle the reins and direct the team if she wanted to. He set out for the Lewises’ on the Saturday, knowing that the journey would take much longer in the wagon. He slept beneath it on the side of the road that night and reached Shepard with plenty of time for a short jaunt before supper.

  He was not surprised when Dan and Esther Lewis said they would love to go along too—as chaperones, John knew, although they did not say that. At least they sat in the back and allowed Mildred to sit beside him on the front seat. She was so close that their arms touched with every bump and turn of the wagon, which was far better than sitting at opposite ends of a settee in a stuffy parlour. And with the Lewises along, the fifteen-minute rule, if indeed there was such a thing, was no longer a consideration.

  Thunderclouds had been building for much of the afternoon, and they had gone only a short distance when an electrical storm fell upon them. Soon a torrential downpour pelted the awning of the democrat, flowing over the sides like a waterfall. John decided to turn back. He had just reversed direction when a bolt of lightning exploded around them. A strong smell of burning flesh brought back memories of the cattle drive from Texas. The bolt had struck the horses and both lay dead and smoking on the ground. Dan Lewis was stunned into silence and Esther and Mildred were terrified. Instinctively, John put his arm around Mildred to comfort her. He told her not to worry, that he would get her home safely. He leaped down from the seat and with some difficulty freed the tongue of the wagon from the dead animals. He threw the tack that was worth keeping into the democrat beside Mildred, as the Lewises watched, dumbfounded. Then he picked up the tongue of the wagon and began pulling the Lewis family down the muddy road to the safety of their home. He was soaked to the skin and exhausted by the time they arrived, but the Lewises stayed reasonably dry beneath the awning.