An excerpt from “Homesteader: Finding Sharon”

 At the end of "The Great Liquor War" (excerpt below) the woman that Hank thought would be his partner disappears. In "Homesteader" he and a part Sioux freind travel east across the Rockies to see if they can find her. They do, but then Hank wonders if that was the right thing to do. While he decides how his life will develop, they choose to take advantage of the Homestead Act and develop their own cattle business. Of course, that doesn't sit well with an established big rancher who is also a bully and something of a sociopath. 

This is a view of Calgary at about the time depicted in "Homesteader" looking north from the river about 1885

This is a view of Calgary looking west toward the Rockies in 2013

Following a breakfast at the Stockman's Kitchen, Harry rode south and west looking for some of his distant relatives. I had explained what I thought were the requirements for a successful ranch, and he was to see if anyone knew of places that filled those needs. I also wanted him to look around for horses. With the smoking of pipes his inquiries would cause, coupled with the need to show hospitality, and the need to show deep appreciation of that hospitality, we agreed he would probably be gone for a week.

          I spent the morning repairing equipment. One of the pack saddles was getting loose, so I tightened some of the bolts, and then bound it up with new strips of rawhide. After that I re-shod the one pack horse that hadn't been done before we left the west slope of the mountains. I bought the bar stock from the livery operator and used his forge whenever I could do so without getting in his way.

          "You done that a time er two before," he noted when I had finished.

          I had been making and mounting horse shoes for almost ten years, even though I was only twenty three at the time, so I didn't think it was such a big thing, but I agreed with him.

          "Yuh could make ye some money, was ye a mind," he said. "I got me more 'n I c'n handle here, but help's hard t' come by. Oh, there's cowboys think they c'n mount a shoe, but I seen some o' their work. Ain't no wonder their horses is always kickin' 'em. Some feller put such a fit on me own stompers, reckon I'd be puttin' up a fuss, an' it'd be more 'n a kick. There's a few good smiths in the country, but they's workin' fer the big spreads. Hell, up t' the headwater o' the Red Deer River there's one o' them big English outfits got them three smiths. Anyhow, I'd like t' hire ye t' work 'roun here."

          I shrugged. "Well, no reason why I couldn't, for a while. My friend an' I have a few irons in the fire, but I have t' wait for him t' get back, an' I expect he'll be a week. Up 'till then I'm not doin' much else."

          The smith nodded and extended his hand. "Name's Cooper, Billy Cooper. Most folks call me Smithy, but that's what I do."

          I shook his hand and gave him my name.

          "Hank James," he repeated, then gestured for me to follow him as he walked back to the corrals. "Ye'd be the feller what was runnin' freight over the mountain."

          I nodded. "How would you hear of that?" I asked.

          "One o' them bosses built the railroad mentioned ye a time 'r two." He leaned on the corral where six draft horses were held.

          "Ross, the engineer," I responded. "Not with much pleasure I'd say."

          Cooper grinned. "Oh, a time 'r two he said ye was a hard worker an' honest, but mostly he said ye was upitty." He gestured toward the horses. "These six need t' be shod. That'll keep ye goin' fer the day."

 

          Four days later I was wore out. My timing was about right, for by then Cooper's work was caught up. I went up to the Stockman's Kitchen for an early supper.

          That was also the afternoon I made one of the many big mistakes I've made over the years. After a hot day over the forge I decided to have a cold beer.

          The saloon in the Victoria House was much like many others to be found in that day. A wood floor covered with sawdust to absorb the spilled drinks, a few round tables, and a bar. However, rather than being planks held up by whatever was handy to support them, this bar was all of twenty feet long, highly polished and with a brass foot rail. The back bar held several bottles, mugs, and glasses, all of them glistening like the mirror that doubled their number. The mirror itself was a notable feature, even considering the advent of the railroad, but, as usual, the place didn't have enough windows.

          "You're starting early," the bartender commented as he set the beer in front of me.

          I placed a nickel on the bar and took a sip. It was cold and very good. "It's been a hot day. I'm surprised you’re this quiet."

          He shrugged and took a swipe at the bar. "Usual for this time of the day, particularly a Friday." He glanced behind him at the wall clock. "There'll be a train through in about an hour, and after that there'll be farmers in for tomorrow's market. By six she'll be roarin' and stay that way until closing. And it'll be roarin' all day tomorrow until closing." He gestured at the tables and chairs. "Lotta deals 'll be made in here tonight and tomorrow."

          I nodded. It would be the same with every saloon in town. Livestock would be sold, labor hired, and services contracted. Men who hadn't seen each other for years or miles, some of them family members, would visit for a few hours at these tables.

          The doors flew open and Portis Martin swaggered in with two other men. The young man who thought he was a gunfighter was not one of them. I expected he was still nursing a broken leg. Martin's mouth flashed a big smile that looked all wrong under his cold, sneaky eyes.

          The one man that had been there at our first meeting was speaking as they came through the door. "I think you're floggin' a dead horse there, Port," he said. "Far as I bin able t' find out, ain't nobody gets a tickle from that boss lady. She runs the herd, but she ain't part of it."

          Martin laughed. "Hell Tom, she runs a whore house don't she? That makes her a whore. You just haven't been talking to the right people."

          It wasn't hard for me to figure out who they were talking about. And it didn't do anything to make me like Martin.

          The three of them stepped up to the bar. "What the hell's keepin' you, barkeep," Martin bellowed. "Let's have a bottle here. Good sippin' whiskey. Not that coal oil you sell to the farmers."

          What Martin had just done was not something you did out loud in that country at that time. The North West Mounted Police had eliminated the sale of hard liquor in the country they controlled. If you had a bottle of liquor in your possession you where supposed to have a permit. If you came into a saloon and wanted liquor you asked for it quietly and the saloon would give you a bottle and a permit so that if anyone asked, it was your whiskey and you where supplying a few drinks for your friends. It had not been sold to you by the establishment. By being loud and obnoxious Martin had just put the saloon in peril of being shut down.

          He turned his attention to his companions. "I tell you, men, I'm gonna get me that whore, an' I'm thinkin' tonight's the....." He broke off when his eyes fell on me.

          "Well, would you take a look at that Tom. There's one of them drifters from last week." He poured three shot glasses full of whiskey, and then swung the bottle to indicate me. "Jack, that's the fellow that was ridin' the black horse that bit Jumper." He raised his voice, even though he could probably be heard down by the railway tracks. "Come on over here, drifter," he called. "Portis Martin's buying the drinks."

          I held up my beer mug. "Thanks, but I'm doin' fine with this," I responded.

          His phony grin slipped from his mouth leaving only the coldness in his eyes. "You think you're too good to drink with us?"

          I planned to settle in the area, and didn't want to cause trouble, so that's when I made my mistake. "Settle down, Martin," I responded. "If it's all that important t' you, I'll have a drink o' your whiskey."

          As I moved down the bar, the bartender set up another glass which Martin filled.

          "You'd best have a couple," he said. "Young Rusty's got himself a broken leg, and it's you he blames. He's pretty good with that Colt he carries ain't he boys?" The other two men nodded. "Yes, sir, he's liable to shoot your buttons off when he gets to walking again." He put his hand over the shot glass and slid it toward me.

          "Might be a little tough doin' that 'round here," I observed. "Mounties take a dim view of folks packin' iron." I downed the whiskey. It was obvious to me that Martin didn't know what good whiskey tasted like. The stuff was awful.

          "Only here in town," Martin responded, and then started to refill my glass. "You don't figure to spend the rest of your life here in town, do you?" He finished pouring, and then looked up at his companions before turning his gaze to me. "Then again, Rusty finds you after you've left town, I guess you will have spent the rest of your life in town." He roared with laughter as the other two men chuckled and nodded.

          I smiled in response, took a drink of beer to get rid of the taste of the whiskey, and then set the mug on the bar. "Rusty do anythin' besides shoot that Colt?" I asked.

          "Damn good cowboy," Tom responded.

          Martin nodded. "He can pick out a hurt cow better than anybody. Have the critter down and doctored before most men got their rope shook out."

          I took another drink of beer, replaced the mug and stepped away from the bar. "Well, if he's important t' you, be a good idea to keep him from chasin' after men he don't know. Lot easier t' look after cows from up on a horse than it is from a grave."

          I turned and started to walk past them. Martin reached out and grasped my arm. I just looked at him, then at his hand.

          He pointed with his other hand at the bar, and said, "You haven't finished your drink," he noted.

          I kept my eyes locked on his until he let go, then reached for the shot glass and downed the whiskey. I walked out.

          I only made it to the edge of the Victoria House when I realized something was wrong. I had first felt it hit me in the saloon, but thought it was just because I needed to eat. By the time I made the boardwalk I was having trouble staying upright. True, I wasn't much of a whiskey drinker, but two shots and half a beer should not have had the effect they were having. I went down the alley along side the building, leaning on the wall, but the wall kept moving away from me.

          I found myself laying in the dirt and thinking, "He drugged the whiskey."