Here is an excerpt from “Homesteader”, my third published
novel and the second with SBPRA. This is the piece very near the first where
Hank and Harry meet the man who will prove a problem for them, Portis Martin.
It is also one of the reasons that Hank decides to apply for land under the
Homestead Act … to prove a thorn in Martin’s side.
I'm not sure where these pictures were taken but this is the type of country they would have been riding through on their approach to Calgary, first on the train and then mounted and trailing down the eastern slope.
Homesteader
By D. M. McGowan
Copyright © 2000
It was close to noon
before we met the first discouraging thing although it took us several minutes
to realize it. It was a man of perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds riding a
sixteen hundred pound horse. He came out of the bush on the north side of the
draw that ran down hill off to our left, followed by two average size men on
two average size horses. We didn't know he was a sorry cuss at that moment, but
it didn't take us long to find out.
They sat
and watched us approach for a few moments.
Our pack
horses were free and followed well, but just in case I dropped back and pulled
the halter shank out from under a pack rope. Passing the lead behind my back to
my left hand I flipped it over Blackie's rump and looped it around the saddle
horn. When Harry saw that he dropped back and did the same with the other pack
animal.
The three
strangers rode down into the draw and up our side to meet us. The way they
jerked their mounts to a halt justified my leading the pack horse. I put a half
hitch slip in the lead rope so I wouldn't have to hold it.
All three
of them wore the tall crowned, big brimmed hat of the time over hair too long
and dirty. Their high healed boots too narrow for their feet branded them as
cattlemen. They all wore handlebar mustaches, usual for the time, but were
otherwise clean shaven which was not always usual for men riding the range. The
two average size men wore stove-pipe chaps over canvas pants, cotton shirts -
one blue and one red - cow hide vests and red neckerchiefs. The big man wore
wool pants, a plaid, flannel shirt, tweed vest fully buttoned with a watch
chain stretching across his ample middle and a blue bandana. They all wore Colt
pistols, the younger and smallest man carrying two, hung with butts forward.
They drew up abreast, no more than two feet
between each of their mounts. The youngster, who, by the appearance of his
weapons and how he wore them seemed to think he was a gunfighter, was in the
center.
This
young fellow and his appearance drew my attention more than he should have.
Riding alone in the wilderness or working with wild cattle and horses it always
makes sense to wear a hand gun. But in those days many people couldn’t afford a
hand gun, let alone two. And wearing them butt forward as this young man did
meant they would be catching on things like his rope and the brush as he was
trying to do the work of a cow hand. Therefore I suspected he was probably a
poor range rider and a good trouble maker. I should have ignored him and paid
more attention to his riding partners.
The way
the three of them charged right up to us and stopped so close didn’t add to my
feeling of comfort. They were crowding us and had an arrogant manner about
them. I didn’t like the look in their eyes and I was glad I had taken the pack
horse lead shank.
Even
though he was a few years older than me, Harry Gilmore always followed my lead.
Part of the reason was that, up until the fall before, I had been his boss for
about a year. Mostly, though, it was because he was part Sioux - although few
ever knew that - and several years of folks tramping on him and his people
meant that he generally followed and kept his mouth shut. What that meant for
me at the time was that I knew I would be handling the conversation with the
fat man, and I could depend on Henry to back me up, whatever happened.
“Where do
you think you’re going?” the fat man asked.
Maybe my
confidence in Henry's loyalty and ability made me a little too mouthy in my
response to the big man's arrogant manner. And, as I said, I was paying too
much attention to the gun man and not enough to the fat man. "East,"
I replied.
He tried
to stare me down. I smiled and he shifted his gaze to Henry, rolling his chew
around in his mouth.
He forced
his big horse forward a few steps so that its head was on Blackie's off side,
its nose about a foot from my right knee. "Where did you come from?"
he asked, bringing his gaze back to me.
"West,"
I replied.
He spit
tobacco juice at Blackie's cheek.
Blackie
was a good horse but he wouldn't put up with very much foolishness even from
me. He was also one of the fastest animals I ever rode. It seemed that stream
of tobacco juice was still in the air when he turned and bit the fat man's
horse on the shoulder.
Sixteen
hundred pounds of horse squealed and jumped to the left, blood flowing down its
leg from a three inch gash. The horse ridden by the young gunfighter, at least
six hundred pounds lighter than the fat man's horse, was too close and no match
for the bigger animal. Rider and horse hit the ground hard.
The
mustang grunted, squealed, and jumped to its feet. The rider's left foot was
caught in the stirrup as the horse lunged away from another collision.
The fat
man put his hand on his pistol and turned his gaze from the donnybrook back to
me. His hand froze when he found my Colt was already in my hand. I didn't point
it at him, just let it hang there, muzzle down, my forearm resting on the horn.
Very slowly he put his right hand back on top of his left which rested on his
own saddle horn.
At the
same time the third rider shook out a loop and turned his mount toward the
bucking mustang and dragging rider. Within a hundred feet he had the animal
roped. It stood on the end of the lariat with legs spread wide and vibrated.
The bundle attached to the stirrup didn't move.
"I'm
Portis Martin," the fat man said.
I was
doing my best to maintain a calm, this-is-an-everyday-thing appearance, but was
in fact having a tough time with that. Not only had I been approached poorly in
a generally friendly land, but one of my best friends had just been spit on.
"Henry
James," I responded. "Some folks call me Hank, but you can call me
Mr. James." Without taking my eyes from him I inclined my head to indicate
my saddle partner. "This here is Mr. Gilmore."
The roper
dismounted on the off side and, speaking slowly and calmly, worked his way up
the rope to the frightened horse.
Martin
made a sweeping motion with his arm. "This is all my land an' the cattle
on it are mine," he said. "Them horses you're ridin' are a whole lot
better than any drifter'd be usin'. Or cow punchers, fer that matter."
The other
rider took a grip on the headstall on the shaky animal. Very slowly he reached
for the stirrup and released his partner's foot. He led the horse off a few
steps, and then returned a knelt by the motionless body.
I had to
give Martin high marks for guts. Like I said, I wasn't pointing it at him, but
I had a loaded Colt in my hand and he was calling me a thief. At the same time
I had to give him fairly low marks for smart. "You callin' me a
rustler?" I asked.
He
smiled. "Well I don' see no cows with yuh, but its bin a while since I
seen drifters with 'nough truck they gotta have 'em a pack horse. An', like I
said, you're on my land."
"Thought
this was the Cochrane Ranch," I said.
"Yuh
rode off it a ways back," he said. "This land here, an' the land
north o' Cochrane right t' the mountains is my problem."
"Looks
t' me like a railroad track over there," I noted. I didn't turn to look at
it, but kept my eyes on Martin.
"Right
smart fer a Yankee," Martin responded.
I ignored
the attempted insult. During my years in the country I had tried to lose my
American way of speech, but it appeared I had not been completely successful.
"Be about fifty yards?" I asked.
"I
reckon," he nodded, his expression somewhat puzzled.
"Railroad
claims a hun'red yards each side o' the roadbed," I informed him.
"That means we ain't on your land. They also claim alternatin' sections on
each side of the rails, so a lot of what you're claimin' ain't yours."
Martin
worked his chaws for a moment, and then sent another stream of tobacco juice
into the dust. He made a point of missing Black. "Ain't no
nevermind," he said. "Ain't no railroad men out here. Me that runs
this country."
"Too
bad," I said, putting my pistol back in the leather.
"What's
that supposed to mean?" he fired back.
"Country's
likely to go to hell," I replied. "One of your men just got himself
squished an' dragged. If he's lucky, he won't have more than a broken leg. For
ten minutes you been arguin’ with me and you ain't even looked at him. You look
after the country same way you look after your hands, why, I reckon we're all
in trouble."
I turned
Black and we started away.
"Don't
make no nevermind fer you," Martin said. I looked over my shoulder at him
and he continued. "You'll be leavin'."
"Don't
reckon," I said, then added before he could threaten me if I stayed.
"You claimin' all this land that ain't yours, makes me wonder if maybe we
should ask the Mounties to see if you're claimin' cows ain't yours."
Martin
smiled. "Rode intu this country in '73 with them boys. Got me two stripes
'for I took t' raisin' beef."
This was
not news that I found comforting. However, I didn't let it show and just
smiled. "Then they won't likely be too su'prised when I describe our
meetin' here today." We rode on, being sure to stay within' the railroad
right of way.
