Partners
By D.
M. McGowan
Copy
write © 2001
1
He wasn't sure,
but he believed it had been two months. It had been June first when he left
Pembina in Dakota Territory and a week later
he had been struck down by a fever. He laid in his tent for either two or three
days, but he thought it was two. If it had been indeed two days, then it was June 29, 1866, two months
to the day since he had rode away from his land, his home, and his life near Kingston.
While
swinging around in the saddle to check the loads on the two pack horses he
thought of that other life. Not only had he ridden away from a hundred acres of
farm land which he owned free and clear, but he had also left a steady and
rewarding job teaching his neighbor's children. He had turned his back on 35
years of life, and all the things he had worked toward during that time.
"Turning
my back on that life was nothing," Tom said aloud, something he found
himself doing more and more as the long days of sun, wind and rippling grass
ran one in to the other. "I turned my back on a way of life to make that
one, and perhaps this new one will last longer."
Tom
Brash had once been a husband and father. When he rode away to the west he left
behind the graves of his wife and two sons.
"We
should be close to those lakes," he said, attempting to turn his mind away
from painful thoughts of the past. He turned again to look at the gaunt horses
knowing that his mount looked no better. Except for the days he had lain in the
grip of a splitting headache they had traveled every day, and the pace was
taking its tole on the fine animals. "When we find those lakes we shall
rest for a few days. I'm sure you'll appreciate it."
In
his saddle bags he carried maps of the country through which he rode. Some of
these he had made from information to be found at Queens University.
Most notable were copies of the Palliser maps. Some of the information he had
collected had proven to be inaccurate, but not to the point that it had caused
him great difficulty. He had discovered most of the discrepancies by talking
with men who knew the land, but at this point had not found anything on the
ground that varied from his charts.
Two
days ride west of Pembina a Métis man had confirmed the existence of what he
called "Old Woman Lake" near the eastern edge of the Cypress Hills.
However their existence had been touched on earlier by a mountain man he met in
Fargo.
"Yer
maps is all which-a-way," the old trapper had declared. His finger touched
a point far to the west near the mountains. "Them two rivers don' meet.
One takes of south 'bout here," he touched a curve in the river as shown
on the map. "Turns in t' the Milk an' then in t' the Missouri. This un
here turns and goes in t' what they call the Saskatchewan." He appeared ready to say
more when something further east caught his attention. "This here shows
some swamp or marsh. That there's Cypress
Hills country. I ain't never bin there but that's 'bout where the Old Woman
Lakes should be."
He
thrust the paper at Tom. "You be sure t' take that with yuh when yuh head
out, 'cause if yuh depend on it, you're gonna die. An' if it disappears with
yuh we won't have to worry 'bout it leadin' somebody else off the track."
Though his face showed no expression the twinkle in the old trapper's eye took
the coldness from his statement.
Tom's
last contact with his fellow man had been at the Métis camp. They where two
days from Ft. Garry on their first big hunt of the new
season and had little to offer but hospitality, but of that they gave in
plenty. In return Tom gave them coffee and flour, sure that he had more than
enough on his two pack horses.
Turning
once again to glance at the horses, Brash thought about the supplies that
remained. He swung his eyes around, taking in the vast land through which he
rode. "Perhaps I was somewhat hasty in estimating my requirements."
Gently
he halted his mount and swung down. Pouring water into a large handkerchief he
wiped dust from the nose of his mount and then the two pack animals. After a
short drink he removed the bandana from around his neck, poured some water into
it, and then wiped his face and neck. Hanging the canteen from the saddle he
began to walk, leading the horses.
He was
slightly taller than average at five feet ten inches. Even though his legs were
slightly longer than his torso, many overestimated his weight for he was as
thick through as he was wide. He wore military style, knee high riding boots,
heavy cotton pants and shirt, and a leather vest. His long moustache was
streaked with grey, and the long sideburns under his flat crowned, flat brimmed
felt hat were almost white. June
29, 1866 was his thirty sixth birthday.
He
was well into the Cypress Hills now, and climbing. Despite the heat and tired
horses he altered his course and angled up the hill. From up on top he might be
able to see something that would indicate the location of the lakes. Perhaps he
would cross the trail of some animal going to water. Seeing a grove of trees
might also help, for many trees could not grow without some water.
Pausing
for a moment he turned and looked back toward the south east. Although he had
been in this wide open land for more than a month he still was not used to the
vastness. Distance seemed to contract, and what appeared to be a hundred yards
would prove to be five hundred.
The
climb was much steeper and longer than he had anticipated, but he did finally
approach the top of the hill. Before he crested the ridge however, he heard a
murmur that he thought might be human voices.
His
mount stopped when he dropped the reins. He stepped back beside the animal and
drew a Colt revolving shotgun from the scabbard that hung down from the cantle.
With the scatter gun in his hands he continued up the slope, cautiously
scanning the country as he moved forward. He knew that he might meet full blood
Indians who would not be as friendly as the Métis' he had camped with. The Assiniboine, Cree and Blackfoot all claimed these Cypress
Hills as their own. None of them looked kindly on those who might trespass, but
those who met the Blackfoot seldom complained about poor treatment. If they did
object it was only to their captors just before they died.
The
voices grew more distinguishable as he advanced, though he could still not
understand any words.
A
shot rang out so close that Brash dropped to his knees thinking for an instant
that it had been aimed at him. A scream was cut short by the sound of a blow.
Tom dropped to his stomach and crawled to the top of the ridge where he could
look into the hollow beyond.
Old Wives' Lake Nature Area (Delta as it appears today)
Old Wives' Pasture
A
lake lay before him, perhaps the very one he sought, one arm of it disappearing
off to the left. Directly below him on the shore of that lake were the remains
of a camp that had been destroyed. A small teepee lay torn and scattered
through the remains of a cooking fire and utensils. The body of an Indian man
lay tied to the remains of a travois frame, a hole near the center of his bare
chest, and blood staining the earth beneath him. Another form from which Brash
thought he could hear moans - and guessed was a woman by what he could see of
her dress - lay near the bound corpse. The camp was bordered by the lake and
the hill, and by thick stands of aspen and willow which gave way near the water
to wide strips of cracked and drying mud.
Two
men also stood in the clearing. Each of them wore full, dark brown beards and
buckskins, the clothing showing as much grease and almost as dark as the face
hair. One wore a battered felt hat, his leggings tucked into high topped riding
boots. The other wore a fur cap, the ear lugs tied together on top, his feet in
moccasins which extended to just below his knee. The one with the felt hat held
a rifle in his left hand, and a coil of rope in his right. Fur Hat had just
finished loading his rifle and was removing the ramrod.
"Well,
I reckon we isn’t gonna have any more fun with the Injun," Felt Hat
commented.
Fur
Hat cursed. "Wasn't much fun in 'im, Seth. Got more out o’ watchin' his
chest blow up."
Seth
poked the moaning bundle with the toe of his mule-ear adorned boots.
"Well, mayhap Mrs. Injun'll be more entertainin'."
"Nope!"
a new voice announced.
Both
men spun to see a slight figure step from the trees. From his perch high above,
Brash saw a boy of perhaps fifteen in cloths that were little more than rags.
He wore no hat and his hair was a long, snarled mess. A piece of rope was tied
around his waist to hold his pants up, but just under it was a gun belt. The
right side of his too-large coat was hooked behind the butt of a large
holstered revolver. In his hands he held a rifle, thumb on the hammer and
finger on the trigger.
"What's
yer prob'em, boy?" Seth asked.
The
boy nodded at the moaning bundle. "No more hittin'," he announced.
Fur
Hat grinned. "Well, she ain't no use then, is she?" He cocked his
rifle and swung the muzzle.
The
boy cocked his rifle and swung it toward Fur Hat.
"Look
out, Hank," Seth called.
Before
Brash could even realize that what he had thought was a rope was actually a bull
whip, Seth flicked it toward the boy. The very end of the braided rawhide
snapped around the barrel of the boy’s rifle. Seth jerked and the rifle landed
in the dirt.
Hank
laughed. Seth grinned and brought the whip back, swinging it over his head for
another strike at the boy. A shot rang out and the whip flew from his hand.
The
boy stood with a smoking pistol in his hands.
Brash
knew his eyes had been on Seth and the whip, but the appearance of the weapon
was a shock. Apparently it was also a shock for Seth and Hank. Seth was doubled
over holding his ringing right hand between his legs, eyes large and round, and
fixed on the smoking muzzle. Hank's eyes were similarly fixed, his thumb still
holding the hammer of his rifle at half cock.
"Hammer
down," the boy instructed.
Hank
gently released the hammer.
Seth
took his hand from between his thighs and shook it violently. "He ain't
fast enough to shoot us both," he concluded. He still held his rifle in
his left hand.
On
the ridge above, Brash realized that at least twenty feet separated Seth and
Hank. Even for someone as fast and accurate as the boy appeared to be it would
be difficult to stop both men before he was himself hit by someone's return
fire. Brash also suspected that there was a great deal of luck involved in the
shot that took the whip from Seth's hand.
"You
first," the boy announced, his revolver pointed at Seth.
Hank
smiled. "Then you second," he said swinging the muzzle around toward
the boy.
"I
believe you may be second." Brash did not know what made him call out. One
of the things that had forced him from his home was well meaning people who,
after the death of his family, constantly demanded that he communicate with
them, and here he was getting involved with people he didn't even know. What he
had just witnessed, however, was brutal, and the boy needed help. He shoved the
muzzle of his shotgun over the hill and into view.
In
the clearing, Hank had stopped the swing of his rifle. Seth had started to
raise his own weapon and the weight of it against his left wrist was starting
to make his arm tremble.
"Put
'em down," the boy said.
Seth
and Hank leaned over and carefully placed their weapons on the ground.
"Short
guns an' knives," the boy said.
Two
large Bowie knives, a Colt, and a Smith and Wesson revolver hit the ground.
The
boy pointed with his chin. "Over by the Injun," he commanded.
Both
men walked backward until they stood near the corpse.
Still
holding his pistol, the boy retrieved the weapons. The knives he left on the
ground. One pistol he put in his own holster, the other behind his rope belt.
The rifles he picked up with one finger looped through their trigger guards.
His eyes never leaving the two men he returned to the edge of the clearing,
leaning the rifles against a tree.
The
pistol at his waist was a Smith and Wesson. He broke it open, dumped the
cartridges on the ground, and then threw it to land near the knives.
"Stand," he ordered, then exchanged his own weapon for the one that
had been in his holster. It too was a Colt, so he used the tool from his gun
belt to pull the caps from the nipples, then threw the weapon to land by the
Smith.
Still
facing Hank and Seth so he could keep an eye on them while he worked, the boy
turned to work on the rifles. The first was a Springfield .58, muzzle loader so he simply
pointed it over the lake, cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Throwing
the empty weapon to land near the pistols and knives, he raised the other
rifle. It was a Spencer similar to his own so he opened the loading tube in the
stock and dumped the rim fire cartridges on the ground, then worked the action
to eject the one in the chamber. He threw the Spencer to land by the Springfield.
With
his chin the boy indicated the pile of weapons, then the horses. "Mount
up," he advised. The heel of his hand rested on his holstered Colt.
Hank
and Seth looked at each other then slowly and carefully picked up their rifles.
As he
picked up the Smith and Wesson, Seth eyed the cartridges that lay on the ground
at the boy's feet. "Them car’ ridges is hard t' get," he complained.
"Rough,"
the boy replied
Keeping
an eye on the boy the two men moved quickly toward their horses. In turn the
boy didn't fall too far behind them, watching to ensure they took only their
own mounts and pack horse.
On
the ridge above, Tom Brash rose and returned to his own animals. With reins in
hand he led his mount over the hill and down into the campsite, the pack
animals following readily.
Having
just watched the two men ride away the boy returned to the camp site, but did
not acknowledge Brash's existence. Instead he went to the Indian woman and
rolled her over on her back. Her left eye flew open and her arm came up over
her face.
The
boy squeezed her shoulder gently. "Won't hurt yuh," the boy said.
Tom
could see a bad cut on the right side of her forehead that was already causing
that eye to swell and close. The left side of her mouth and left cheek were
also swollen and discolored.
"I
have some medical supplies," Brash announced.
The
boy looked up at him and nodded.
Tom
removed his bandanna and held it out to the boy. "Perhaps you could take
this to the lake and get it wet? We will need to wash her off before we bandage
her."
The
boy nodded again, took the bandanna and rose. Tom turned to his horses to
retrieve bandages.
As he
reached into the pack about where he knew his medical supplies to be, a scream
came from behind him that made the horse jump. He turned to see the woman
sitting up and looking at the dead man, her hands over her mouth. The boy was
running back from the shore.
The
woman jerked sideways and fell over the body of the man just before Brash heard
the sound of a shot. Both he and the boy looked to Seth and Hank, who were in
the relatively open area along the lake perhaps two hundred yards away. Hank
held his Springfield
over the limb of a tree, smoke still rising from the barrel. In the silence
following the shot they could hear the two men laugh.
The
boy cursed, threw the wet bandana on the ground and picked up his Spencer. Hank
and Seth sprinted for their horses.
Tom
put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Does there need to be more killing?
You will become an animal like them."
The
moment was gone. The two men disappeared behind the finger of hill that pushed
out toward the lake. The boy lowered his weapon.
Pointing
with his chin toward the dust cloud that remained, the boy said, "Hunt us
now. Should a shot 'em."
"You
think they will come back?" Tom asked.
The
boy nodded, and then indicated Tom's horses.
"For
my horses?" He was aware his horses would be highly valued. They were not
yet used to the food or climate, and had been worked hard, but they were both
taller and heavier than the local mounts.
The
boy nodded again and added, "An' packs."
"Well,
I would think your shooting skill would be enough to keep them away unless they
are completely stupid," Tom observed.
The
boy shrugged. "Ambush."
Ambush
was not new to Brash. His early training had been full of the honor of
addressing an adversary in a gentlemanly manner, but his experience had
included attacks from cover. Those attacks, however, had come from people of a
different culture on the other side of the world, and not from white men with
Christian backgrounds.
"I
suppose it takes all kinds," Tom said. “And one’s proclivity for fast and
accurate marksmanship is certainly curtailed when one is dead.”
The
boy indicated the shotgun in Tom's hand. "Only weapon?" he asked.
"I
have a rifle."
"Best
get it," the boy responded, almost sneering at the shotgun.
Tom
felt his anger rising. "This is the finest of shotguns. It is a Colt 10
gauge revolver. I have four shots available and another cylinder in my saddle
bags."
The boy
turned and looked at the dead woman, then at the trees from where Hank had
fired. "Two hundred yards?" he asked.
Tom's
irritation increased another notch, for the boy was right. Loaded with heavy
ball the shotgun might be good for half that distance but not with him shooting
it.
He
also realized that annoyance was rapidly becoming the strongest of his
feelings. As he stowed his shotgun in the scabbard and removed his Colt
revolving rifle from its place in one of the packs he considered the source of
this irritation. In a country in which he had come to expect no fellow humans
he had suddenly found five, two of them torturing and killing two others. He
had just witnessed acts of barbarism of a type that he thought only happened at
the end of a long battle. In an earlier life he had heard of such actions, but
had never actually witnessed them. The sudden appearance of the fifth person -
that one a boy - and the subsequent confrontation had been an additional shock.
He
had also been a teacher. He was used to acceptance and obedience from his
pupils, not ridicule and orders. True, now that he was closer he could see the
boy was older than his original estimate, but he was still quite young.
Behind
Tom the boy cursed, then asked, "That a rifle?"
"A
Colt revolving carbine, actually," Tom replied his pride in the weapon
obvious. "Six shots, forty four caliber."
The
boy shook his head and cursed again. Tom marked another reason for irritation -
the young man's constant foul language.
"Better
go with yuh," the boy concluded, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder
toward where Hank and Seth had disappeared. "Yuh got no range, an' them
boys’ll kill yuh."
"I've
handled things quiet well up to this point," Tom protested. He had no wish
to be accompanied by this foul-mouthed youth. He had been enjoying his solitary
travel.
"More
'n likely ain't had to face up to nothin' like them two," the boy pointed
out. He nodded at Tom's pack animals. "Them two's carryin' light. Double
up the load. I'll ride the other un."
"My
horses need rest," Tom protested, "not a greater load." He waved
his hand toward the three Indian ponies. "What is wrong with those
animals?"
The
boy cursed. "Nothin' 'sept they's Blackfoot." He indicated the two
bodies. "They'll have folks. Any young buck's got three horses an’ all
this truck layin’ around is pretty well off. Young buck that's well off’s gonna
have friends. Them folks find yuh with them horses, you'll be wishin' yuh got
shot by Hank an' Seth."
Again
Tom fought down his anger, forcing himself to admit that, in this land in which
he was a newcomer the boy might be right. He had certainly heard stories of the
Blackfoot and their dislike of white men. There was also no doubt that the
youngster had managed to handle the two killers. True, the Indians were dead,
but he and the boy still drew breath. He began to loosen the packs for
redistribution.
"Perhaps
we should bury these unfortunate victims?" he asked.
The
boy cursed, shrugged, then added, "Don't know as they dig holes fer the
dead. Might put 'em up on platforms. Best just leave 'em lie."
Having
set one of the pack bundles on the ground, Tom turned and looked at the two
bodies. As he did so he realized he had been avoiding looking at them.
"Perhaps we could take a moment to lay them out in a more - uhm - seemly
position?"
The
boy turned, looked at the bodies for a moment, shrugged, and then cursed.
"Reckon."
When
Tom had loaded all the freight on one pack saddle he led the animals into the
remains of the camp. The boy had rolled the bodies around until they lay side
by side, one right hand clasping the left hand of the other. Seeing the
arrangement, Brash found it suddenly difficult to swallow. He had to clear his
throat before he spoke.
"I
do believe we should be moving on," Tom noted. "We still must find a
suitable spot and make camp. The day is quickly disappearing."
The
boy was down on one knee and resting his forearm on the other, his gaze on the
bodies. He turned his head to look at Tom who was surprised by the complete
lack of expression on the boy's face. His deep blue eyes where neither cold nor
hot, full of love or hate, but rather as blank as a deep pool.
There
was a pause while the boy came back to the present, then he responded.
"Reckon," he nodded. He pointed with his chin toward the east.
"We'll light a shuck that a way."
"But
that's east," Tom protested.
The
boy cursed. "Yuh don't say?" He pointed with his thumb toward the
west. "Them two went west." He stood, rifle in one hand, and walked
to the edge of the trees where he picked up a small bundle. Returning to the
now unburdened pack horse he grasped the forward sawbuck and swung astride.
"We'll go 'round the east end o' the lakes and turn back 'long the north
side. It'll keep them away from us fer a few days." He jammed the small
pack down in front of himself and against the forward sawbuck. The rifle he
carried in his right hand.
Tom
realized that once again the boy was right. "That would seem to be
prudent," he agreed and mounted his own animal.
"Be
a spell 'for we camp," the boy added. "Tomorrow 'for them two realize
we ain't on their trail. Get a lead while we got the chance."
They
rode in silence for some time while Tom thought about the expression he had
seen on the boys face when he turned from the bodies. It dawned on him that he
knew nothing about this boy except that he was particularly adept with a
firearm, had attempted to protect a stranger, and had an especially wild
appearance. True, much of this appearance could be attributed to the rags he
wore, but his long, slightly bent nose also added to the perception.
"I'm
afraid I have been severely remiss in not observing the normal social
graces," Tom observed. Leaning over in the saddle he extended his hand
toward the boy. "Thomas Brash, late of Kingston, Canada West, and now of
where you see me."
The
boy looked at the extended hand for a moment, then took his Spencer in his rein
hand and grasped Tom's. "Frank Clement," he responded.
Tom
noted there was no mention of his origin.
Later in the story Tom and Frank travel through the Alberta Badlands pictured here.
Still later in the novel they go through this kind of country.
