High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  It was an unusual start to their courtship but it did not matter; his image in the Lewis family took on heroic proportions. And the courtship was smoothed because he wasn’t the only one doing the courting. More adept at it than he, Mildred steered the course of events along quite nicely. Even so, when it came time to make a proposal of marriage, John once more sought Barter’s advice.

  “Flowers and poems,” Barter said. “Ye can’t go wrong. Women are crazy for them.”

  But it was the dead of winter and there were no flowers, and John did not know any poems. Barter found him one by some love-stricken anonymous writer. The Irishman read it to him a few times until John had it memorized. He had a purse made from the calfskin he had saved when the big wolf had slaughtered its owner, and he gave it to Mildred as a Christmas present. Later in the day, he knelt before her and took her hand in his. He had never felt as awkward in his life as he recited the poem:

  Oh, when first I saw your lovely face,

  Laugh at me if you will,

  My heart jumped clean out of its place,

  I could not keep it still.

  He thought she might laugh, but her eyes misted over, and when he asked her to be his wife, she cried her acceptance. They were married two months later, on February 29, 1892. Mildred had just turned twenty and John would soon be forty-seven. Sidney Pritchard performed the ceremony, and his face, unreadable in the courtroom, never stopped smiling.

  They could not consummate their marriage that night because they stayed with the Lewises and feared being overheard. The next morning, they loaded a newly bought wagon with provisions and began the long, cold trek through the snow to their home on the Sheep River, stopping overnight at the Quorn as J.J. Barter’s guests, where again they had little privacy. They reached home late the following afternoon and John carried Mildred over the threshold. He could barely contain himself as he got a fire going and she made the bed. They did not bother to eat supper.

  In the bedroom, he took her in his arms and could feel her small frame trembling. He cupped her face tenderly in his hands. “You’re shakin’, Mildred. Are you scared?”

  “My dear John,” she breathed in his ear, “I am trembling with anticipation.”

  He fumbled his way through removing her layers of underclothing and could not have done it without her help, because it all seemed so complicated. When the petticoats had at last fallen to the floor, he removed his own clothes, bold in the weak lamplight, and they climbed into bed. When finally they slept and awoke in the morning, they felt something neither had felt before: completely and utterly together.

  Neighbours from adjacent ranches showed up that afternoon to welcome the newlyweds, with buckets of food and a party. They were all white, but like John, all were ranchers, and he felt a kinship with them. They had accepted him into their midst, and in fact admired him enough to seek his advice from time to time. They celebrated long into the night with drinks, songs, and fiddle music. After everyone left, Mildred told John, “I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of white folk throwing a party for black folk before. But I never knew John Ware before.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  He pulled her close and held her tightly. She had brought such unimaginable beauty into his life that it was never easy to let her go.

  That fall, after a visit with the doctor, Mildred announced that she was pregnant. John had suspected as much because he had sensed something different about her, from the glow in her cheeks to a new maturity. She began to look more beautiful than he had ever thought possible. One night in bed, she took his hand and placed it on her swollen belly.

  “Feel the baby, John. It’s kicking!” She giggled. “It must be a boy. A girl wouldn’t be so indelicate.”

  He hoped it would be a boy. He wanted a son to raise and he would make him feel proud of his father. If it was a girl, he and Mildred already knew what her name would be. He placed his ear to her belly and heard the baby’s heartbeat, marvelling at how one person could have two hearts beating inside.

  •

  It was not all good news that year. J.J. Barter died. He was healthy at John’s wedding but a short time later typhoid struck him down. It saddened John to lose someone he had known for so long and respected so much, but at least Barter no longer had to contend with the Quorn’s ongoing problems as the owners made one bad deal after another. Every year they sent relatives or friends over to holiday and learn about ranching, but all it did was drain the company’s reserves. It had nearly driven Barter mad, because few of them ever bothered to learn anything anyway. It was fortunate that the ranch had not collapsed completely under the weight of these poor decisions.

  Tom Lynch died too, another significant loss because had it not been for Tom taking a chance down in Pocatello, John might have returned to Texas. He knew that he would not have been able to create the life there that he had forged here.

  •

  In March of the following year, the Wares’ first child was born, not a son but a daughter. They named her Amanda Janet Ware but called her Nettie, in honour of John’s sister. This Nettie would never have to face the terrible ordeal her aunt had faced. A year and a half later, the son John had wanted was born and they named him Robert after his paternal grandfather.

  Family life was good for the Wares, but John wished he could say the same for the ranch. The year Robert was born was another exceptionally dry year. A deep frost in June killed much of the wheat in the region and the grass was shorter than usual. John was able to dig irrigation ditches to a lower meadow on his ranch and did not suffer as much as others did. Even so, wolves, seemingly on a vendetta for John’s killing of the King, slaughtered twenty-four of his cattle. He managed occasionally to shoot one but could have sworn that it only served to increase their numbers.

  In the meantime, he rode as captain for the Bar U and the Quorn on the great spring roundups, and no one objected to a black man holding this exalted position. Everyone knew he was the right man for the job. One of his main rules was no practical jokes against the new, young riders. He remembered how such pranks had affected him and he would have none of that while he was in charge.

  His reputation was such that he no longer needed to prove himself to other people, but proving himself to himself would always remain part of his character. Despite having been on the planet for nearly a half century, he still performed work generally done by younger men. He broke horses for the North West Mounted Police and several ranches, and bought horses for himself as well, most of them too unruly for other ranchers to keep. Mildred’s heart was in her throat the first time she watched him break a mean one. She told him later that it worried her. “Don’t you go breaking that neck of yours. I’d hate to lose something I only recently found, and your children need a father.”

  How had he ever managed without her? As slight as she was, she did not shirk the hard work required to stay on top of the distaff side of ranching. She usually started each day by picking the bedbugs from the mattresses, and in the summertime, she washed the sheets daily. She fought a losing battle, but it was a battle everyone fought and lost. She kept the house and the children clean and tidy, and everyone’s clothes in good repair. She even found time to churn butter, which she sold to their neighbours. In the evenings, after Nettie and Robert were asleep, she read the newspaper to John and, when necessary, did the accounts. Ironically, despite the years she’d been at the ranch, she still did not care much for horses and cattle, and would have preferred city life. She had always attended church regularly, too, and missed the important part it had once played in her life. But John had no love for either the city or the church, and Mildred learned to live with that.

  •

  It was the fall of 1896. John had finished repairing a stall in the barn and was nailing eight coyote paws above the entrance to form the number 4 (he had numbered all of the stalls with coyote paws) when the dogs began yapping and he heard Mildred call to them. He looked out and saw Adam Newby riding up on
a roan mare. He seemed in a hurry. Newby, a nervous young man and confirmed bachelor, owned the next ranch down the river and had been among those who’d organized the welcoming party for John and Mildred. A drooping moustache and dark pockets beneath his eyes added years to a youthful face. He was one of several Englishmen in Alberta who were trying to turn themselves into successful cattlemen.

  After exchanging greetings, John asked, “What brings you up this way, Adam?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, John. There’s been a murder on the Blood reserve and the farming instructor’s been severely wounded.”

  The Bloods were part of the Blackfoot Confederacy, which also included the Peigans. Their reserve was to the south, between the St. Mary and Belly Rivers.

  “What?” John was surprised. “Who was killed? Anybody I know?”

  “I doubt it,” Newby answered. “It was a Blood named Medicine Pipe Stem. Another Blood by the name of Charcoal did it. No one knows why, but they say he’s gone crazy and is thirsting for more blood. He doesn’t care if it’s Indian or white.” He paused for a moment before realizing he had not included everybody in the killer’s purview. “Or black. There’s a chance he could be heading this way, so it might be best to lock your doors at night and keep a gun handy.”

  John thanked Newby, who turned his mount and rode off. Being on the run, Charcoal would probably be riding hard and would have to change horses often, and a Blood was better at stealing horses than most Indians. He might also decide to slaughter a heifer if he was hungry. John figured the first thing to do was try to determine if Charcoal was actually in the vicinity, and a good start would be to check on his stock. As for the doors, he did not have locks on them, but Bismarck and the other dogs would let him know if anyone came around. And he had a gun. As he walked up to the house to let Mildred know what he was up to, his breath steamed out as fog in the cold air.

  He passed through the gate in the fence he had built to keep Nettie from wandering off and drowning in the river. Inside the house, she was playing on the floor; she arose and ran to him, crying, “Poppa!” He scooped her up in his arms, kissed her forehead, and put her down.

  Mildred was fixing lunch. “What did Adam want?”

  John explained. “I’ll have somethin’ to eat, then I’d best ride out and check the stock.”

  Mildred shook her head. “If it isn’t one thing it’s another. You be careful out there.”

  John found nothing to lead him to believe that Charcoal had been anywhere in the vicinity. However, the grass looked sparser than ever, and with fences sprouting up everywhere, he wondered how long he could hold out here. He might have to move to some place where the animals could graze properly.

  •

  In November, Charcoal killed a North West Mounted Police officer who was pursuing him. His own people turned him in, and in March, the authorities hanged him. The ranchers on the southern range, John included, were relieved of one worry, but the winter was long and bitter.

  When spring finally arrived and brought the annual thaw, it also brought torrential rainstorms. The Sheep River rose higher than John had ever seen it and he worried about his house. He prepared to evacuate Mildred and the children, but after flooding his lower meadow and seeping into his barn and other outbuildings, all on slightly lower ground than the house, the river finally crested.

  John wondered about Adam Newby, fearing that his neighbour would not have fared as well. Newby had built on lowland right next to the river, and John would have bet his last penny that his place had flooded. He saddled Molly and rode down to see if his neighbour needed help. When he arrived, Newby was on horseback at the edge of the water. The young Englishman was disconsolate, yet glad and surprised to see John.

  “Surely you have your own property to worry about, John.”

  “My property’s doin’ fine. Bit of water in the barn but nothin’ worse than that. Don’t look so good here, though.”

  Not only had Newby’s land flooded, but the river had taken away his house and outbuildings, which were now in pieces somewhere downstream. His horses had gone to high ground and so had the few cattle he owned, but unfortunately they had chosen a small rise of land that was now surrounded by the flood, the water streaming at a good pace around it. They were bellowing in distress.

  “Don’t know what I’m going to do about them,” Newby moaned. “I’ve been trying to decide whether I should go get them off, but it looks bloody dangerous. The water’s moving too fast and it gets deep a short distance out. I don’t know how to swim either, if something goes wrong.”

  “Well, they’re gonna lose a lot a weight if they stay there too long,” John observed. “Let me see what I can do.”

  Without waiting for a response, he urged Molly into the water. It was only knee deep at first, but then it rose over his boots, cold and murky, and soon Molly was swimming. He felt the current pulling at them and slid off her back, hanging on to the saddle horn, wondering why he was doing this, because he still did not know how to swim himself. And the water was as frigid as the high reaches it came from. But he reached shallower water safely and reined Molly around behind the herd. Grabbing his rope, he urged her up the slope, yelling and slapping any rump he could reach. The animals soon got the message. They plunged into the river and swam to where they could walk to safety, far away from the water.

  “Good grief, John!” Newby exclaimed. “I hadn’t expected you to do that!”

  John shivered from the cold and shrugged. “I didn’t expect it myself. It just sorta happened. Maybe we could get a fire goin’ so’s I can heat up these old bones.”

  •

  John returned every now and then to help Newby re-establish his claim on higher ground, and it made him realize how lucky he was that he had not suffered the same fate. He could not imagine everything he owned floating off down the river, not after the hard work and money that had gone into it. But Mildred was right. It seemed to be one damned thing after another.

  She became pregnant again and gave birth to another boy in the fall. They named him William and called him Billy. They passed another winter and while there were early concerns about flooding in the spring, the Sheep River behaved itself. But the wolves were back and had already killed two more calves, and the grass was short and sparse again. John figured he’d played out all the rope he had, and one night, after the children had gone to bed and he and Mildred were enjoying a final cup of tea by the fire before retiring, he broached the subject of moving.

  “I heard there’s still lots of good grass over by the Red Deer River. I think it’s about time I went and took a look at it. If I find somethin’, maybe you and the children could stay with your parents while I get the stock moved and build us a house.”

  She admonished him. “Don’t think for a single moment, John Ware, that you’ll be leaving the children and me behind with my parents. I’ll not hear of it. You’ll need all the help you can get and that includes me. Now, with that settled, if you think moving is what we have to do, we’ll do it. There isn’t any sense in beating our heads against the wall here if we can live peacefully somewhere else. But I don’t see you getting any younger, so I think you’d best find a place where our roots aren’t going to be torn up again soon.”

  The next day, John rode into Calgary to see what land was available by the Red Deer and to put the ranch up for sale.

  SEVENTEEN

  Where does that leave us?

  The Wares stayed on the ranch for another two years, hoping for a buyer, before reaching the conclusion that, buyer or not, they had to move. The land here was no longer suitable for their herd of three hundred, but there was plenty of it that was along the Red Deer River valley and John had already scouted it out. The horizon in every direction was as flat as a playing card, the valley with its hoodoos and coulees invisible until you were almost upon it. The land was not anywhere near as pretty as the foothills, but it would keep his business going and that was vital, not only for the sake of his pocket
book but for his soul as well.

  After the roundup in the spring of 1900, the Wares were preparing for the move when a buyer finally came along. The sale removed some of the financial pressure and they headed east with lighter hearts. Adam Newby, still appreciative of John’s help during the flood, offered his services for the drive. The Wares loaded their belongings onto a wagon that Mildred drove, the three children in the seat beside her and a fourth growing in her belly. With the wheels creaking and moaning, the cattle bellowing and bawling, and several dogs following, they set out on the hundred-and-fifty-mile journey to a new life. Just as when he had left Georgetown and the Flint Springs ranch, John didn’t look back. He saw no advantage in it and preferred to fix his eyes on the road that stretched into the future.

  He felt the old excitement of a trail drive during the first day or two, but it soon wore off. They had to take a long route, up through Calgary where there were bridges spanning the Bow River, in order to get the wagon across. Ignoring the warnings from the police that the bridges were designed for people and wagons, not for cattle, he sneaked his herd across in the early hours of the morning. Their journey took two weeks through almost every kind of weather imaginable, so that by the time they reached their homestead, they were glad to be there.

  Mildred was not impressed. “You could strain your eyes blind trying to find something to look at out here.”

  John laughed. “Maybe so, but if you were a cow you’d find the grass real fetchin’.”

  Mildred observed that the Red Deer ran muddy, unlike the Sheep River, which was clear. John would have to dig a well. She also did not like the hoodoos that had formed here and there along the river, saying they reminded her of something she had once seen in a nightmare.