Monday, December 13, 2021

Video of "Knowing What Matters"

Knowing What Matters

I’ve put a collection of ten of my poems on a CD and should have them available in a week or so. The titles of those items on it are as follows;

Education, A real Man, Inclusion, The Road That Couldn’t Be Done, Hiking Mountain Ranges, Your Peace River Home, Native Sons in WWI (posted here a few weeks ago), Knowing What Matters, Just Feelin’ Good and An Old Rancher’s Christmas.

Here is “Knowing What Matters” along with a few pictures of Western Canada.

I’ve also been recording a collection of short stories for an audio book, but since it is about 50 thousand words and I’m also recording voiceover work, it might be awhile before I have that available.

Enjoy!



Sunday, December 5, 2021

What I've Been Writing

 Research and Writing

I’ve been working on a story that has a “crime baron” operating in New Westminster, BC in 1881. I’ve found the research interesting, due to the great changes that were taking place at the time. However, more about that in a later post.

For now, I was just looking through some of the material I collected for “The Making of Jake McTavish” (or Jake) and “Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen” (GTL) and thought I would post some of those items.


The building of this Fort St. John jail and barracks by the NWMP is mentioned in “The Making of Jake McTavish”.

The top picture is how it appeared in 1927 and the bottom, how it appeared when I worked on the surrounding ranch in 1964.

In 1909 it was maned by the British Columbia Provincial Police (who actually had jurisdiction) and then abandoned in the late 1920s when the Hudson’s Bay Company moved about 2 miles north and up out of the Peace River Valley to what was called the “Fish Creek” area and is the present site of Fort St. John.

The "new" Hudson Bay Post at the "new" site of Fort St. John, 1928

GTL takes place west of Edmonton in the early 1890s and has to do with some of the unlikely people who, despite their lack of a proper background, eventually became the developers of Canadian Agriculture.

It also introduces an aboriginal policeman. According to a couple of sources I discovered the BC Provincial Police appointed “Special Constables” (a policeman’s responsibility but with little training and no pay) very early on in their history when they were still “Colonial” police (prior to 1872). They also had “Assistant Constables” who were paid but could be laid off at any time. As a result and despite the general low opinion of aboriginals throughout the European immigrant community, the BC Colonial Police and later the BC Provincial Police included the first aboriginal officers – even if they were usually “Special” constables and seldom “Assistant”. This policy was carried over into the RCMP (but not without some years of kicking and screaming) when they took over provincial policing from the BC Provincial Police in 1950 --- for no apparent reason that anyone can discover other than political-behind-closed-doors chicanery.

This is not to say that bigotry did not exist in BC for, as was/is the case anywhere in the world, it certainly did. That of the most visible nature was, of course, toward the aboriginals by the “whites” but also by the aboriginals toward the “whites” --- and the Chinese and the Blacks. And the Chinese toward other Asians, Europeans, blacks, natives, and all those toward all the others.

Silly?

Damn right, as is bigotry of any … color.

Sorting furs in the 1890s

However, the first whites in the BC Interior were trappers who learned their trade from and/or worked with the natives. Following those immigrants where Hawaiians who landed near to the same time as the onrush of gold seekers. Since the gold-rushers where from all over the world they spent their first years in BC hating each other before they found time to work up some bigotry for the natives or Chinese. As a result of this history and the relatively few years it took for the population to explode, more crews were of mixed race and thus each was forced to learn more tolerance than in some other areas of the world.

This familiarity, along with very poor pay and a need to understand the workings of diverse societies resulted in the acceptance of a wide variety of races in the BC Police.

But back to the prairies on the other side of the mountains – to “Jake” and “GTL”.

The stories also touch on the development of coal mining and the structure of the North West Mounted Police, their barracks and district prison at Ft. Saskatchewan.

Much of “Jake” or perhaps the ‘heart of the story’ takes place in 1898 in the same area as “GTL”. However we also learn something of Jake’s early life as an Ontario farm boy, a Great Lakes deck-hand, a fresh water fisherman, a cattle ‘tender’, and a ‘wolfer’ attempting to help clear the Canadian Prairies of predators after the devastating blizzards (yes, plural; one after the other) winter of 1886. Following the rape and murder of his wife he also spends time trapping on the upper reaches of the Peace River system.

Peace Country Lake and Cariboo
The first sternwheeler on the Peace River was the St. Charles, launched in 1909.
This is the D.A. Thomas going upriver (probably to Hudson's Hope) about 1920 with Fort St. John Hudson's Bay Post on the opposite bank and just behind her drive-wheel.

 Within “GTL” there is mention of the development of agriculture machinery and at least one of the railroad “connector lines” to be found in the country.




Sawyer-Massey traction engine made in Hamilton, Ontario about1895
Case traction engine, 50 HP, from about 1915

Within “GTL” there is a look at some of the disruptions within the NWMP that could have led to its demise and the steps taken to avoid destruction. There is also mention of early development of telephone communication within the North West Territories.

Yes, I do enjoy writing these stories and winding facts through them, but I almost enjoy the research as much.

Enjoy --- or click on a book cover to the right and go to my author page.





Friday, October 29, 2021

Let's Not Do This Again!

 Remembrance Day

Canadians, Courseulles Beach 6-6-44

Once again it is the time of year when we are admonished to remember the past and to not repeat it.

In other words, “Don’t do something stupid!”

But apparently we aren’t paying attention, or not placing enough emphasis on Remembrance Day.

However, the ongoing denial of the scientific and technical developments of mankind, developments already proven by the experience of the developers, further testing and the obvious produce of that denial is subject for a future post.

Right now, it’s to try and remember the cost of war.

The cost of wishing for a specific goal but not considering all the costs of realizing that goal.

The cost of supporting a “stand-up guy”, “my type of person” or “a real strong-man” without studying that person right to the core.

The cost of believing such a person’s lies at face value.

Canadians on Juno Beach 6-6-44

 Here is a video I made to go along with my poem, “Native Sons in World War I” with which Karen helped to smooth out a couple of rough spots.

This has appeared here in years past as has “Deacon”, but never as a video

It has appeared in several publications and is part of the collection, or anthology “Deacon” --- which is a World War II story.

Includeds “Marker of Stone” ,“Deacon” and the rhymes, “Native Sons in WWI”, “Inclusion” and “Education”.

You can follow this link - https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B004V9WZVI 

but clicking on one of the book covers to the right will get you to the same place.


Native Sons in World War One

By D.M. McGowan and K.L. McGowan

© 2018

 

Seventeen native boys left the Upper Peace

The only land they’d known, all in their teens.

They’d all grown up wild out among the trees.

Knew where to find pelts, beaver ponds or streams.

They hunted for their supper, trap or single shot

And only their mothers gave safety a fleeting thought

 

After two hundred years of Scott and Fleur de Lis

They knew some other talk, sometimes two or three,

English, French and German were spoken in the land,

And whatever tongue was spoken by their particular band

Some of them could read and write more than just their name

But the army didn’t care, green privates all the same

 

An amazing great adventure for young trapper men

From freedom of the wild to a Canadian Army pen

Across the land in trains, something never seen.

Mistreated by a Sergeant, but still bright and keen.

Dropped off in camps and marched around a square

“Dig some dirt from here and put it over there.”

 

On the trains again east to Canada’s Maritimes

March down to the docks in perfect double lines

Then up a gangplank to a big steel canoe

Then told to put their kit where you couldn’t fit a shoe

A dozen ships in convoy from the Bedford shore

But count on German U boats sinking two or more.

 

More camp time in England, weeks without the sun

Then finally sent to France to show them how it’s done

Trenches that collapse from rains that never end

Bodies on the wire or sprawled out in no man’s land.

All caked in mud, “Are they ours? Are they theirs?”

Days and weeks of boredom, then terror and despair.

 

 

Vimy Ridge, the Somme or maybe Regina Trench

Maybe English on the left other times the French

High Wood or Kitchener’s, Avion as well

With the Aussies at Gallipoli, some lived to tell

Passchendaele, Arras, knowing each the end

If not for the war, surely for the men

 

Métis, Cree and Dane a total of Seventeen

On a great adventure, young, naive and keen

But the Great War wasn’t a great place to learn

For seventeen go but only two returned.

 


Thursday, August 26, 2021

Democrats target Keystone pipeline

The safety and environmental protection offered by transport from Russia, or by truck and rail should be obvious. Compared to pipelines? Absolutely no comparison! 


I-76 Dec. 6, 2014


Quebec, July 2013


From Misinformation Watch

Democrats target Keystone pipeline 

A group of U.S. Democratic representatives is attempting to use the findings ofnew technical report on the Keystone pipeline to justify President Joe Biden’s decision to revoke permits for the Keystone XL expansion project.   

Why is this important? 

This is misleading and does not reflect what the report by the U.S. Government Accountability Office actually says about the existing pipeline. 

Here’s the facts: 

The Keystone XL cancellation order was not tied to pipeline safety concerns 

·  President Biden’s January 2021 executive order cancelling the border crossing permit for Keystone XL makes no mention of any concerns about pipeline safety.   

Keystone is safe  

·  Keystone has consistently performed better than the U.S. nationwide average in terms of number of incidents impacting people or the environment. 

·  Keystone has delivered more than three billion barrels of oil since 2010, operating safely 99.9% of the time.   

·  TC Energy has introduced new inspection technology; there have been no serious incidents in the last 18 months.   

·  Regulators in the U.S. have also strengthened safety requirements.  

The U.S. needs more oil from Canada 

·  The Biden administration is saying NO to more oil supply from Canada, but it is saying YES to more oil from the less responsible and environmentally conscious OPEC+ cartel (which includes Russia).  

·  The U.S. is importing 844,000 barrels of oil per day from Russia. Keystone XL would have satisfied much of this demand by delivering roughly 830,000 barrels per day of responsibly produced oil from Canada.  

See our direct response to these claims at https://twitter.com/CDNEnergyCentre/status/1430300722776715267

Wednesday, August 11, 2021

Misinformation from those you MAY trust!

 

Ignoring progress,

United Nations pushes apocalyptic rhetoric



Much of the discussion and reporting on the new report from the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) is overblown and exaggerated, painting an apocalyptic future that the report itself fails to endorse.

Canadian energy is part of the solution, not the problem.

The oil and gas sector is an easy target for critics who don’t or won’t evaluate facts or engage in a pragmatic, realistic discussion.

IPCC scientists acknowledge the worst-case scenario presented “is considered low in light of recent developments in the energy sector,” but the rhetoric accompanying the report does little to stake out a pathway to a lower carbon future, in which Canada’s energy sector can and should play a key role.

Here’s how:

·  China alone produces 27% of the planet’s GHG emissions, more than the entire developed world combined. Canada is responsible for 1.6%.

·  Natural gas from Canada can significantly reduce GHG emissions if used to replace coal power.

o    As of July 2021, there were 195 coal plants under construction around the world including 95 in China, 28 in India and 23 in Indonesia.

·  Oil and gas companies in Canada spend more than any other sector on cleantech R&D to help reduce energy emissions and improve environmental performance.

·  Oil sands emissions intensity, down 27% since 2013, is expected to decrease by another 20-30% over the next decade.

·  It will be virtually impossible for the world to achieve net zero greenhouse gas emissions without carbon capture utilization and storage (CCUS).

o    Canada is already recognized as a global leader in CCUS development. Projects have safely stored more than 41 million tonnes of CO2 deep underground, or the equivalent of taking 8 million cars off the road.


A seaborn mega tanker ---perhaps carrying crude oil to Canada which could be supplied by Canada for Canadians. Perhaps this tanker is powered by solar? Or wind? 

No, probably not.

Saturday, July 10, 2021

Reviews of "Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen" from Goodreads


These reviews are from Goodreads but there are more at Amazon/books.




Sep 28, 2020 Sharon 4 starsally liked it

This book, Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen by David Milton McGown, begins with Sully Wheeler, a former gunfighter, looking to stop the rustling of his cattle. He is “retired” and hoping to stay quietly settled. Then comes the arrival of Constable Edward Theason, with unclear intent in his assistance in helping Sully. There are a few other characters that also infuse this story with interest. Most important to me as a reader, I found both Sully and the Mountie Theason highly likeable characters. ...more


Jun 06, 2021Linda Fast 5 stars  4.5 amazing  

Shelves: canadian-mystery

A good Canadian story written by a Canadian author. It took me quite awhile to read this book as there were so many other things going on in my life. I picked up the book and then laid it down and so it continued. The book was not thrilling but it was very interesting and I plan on reading it over again in the winter and devote the time to which the book deserves.
The characters were believable as well as the events that happened.


Sep 13, 2020 Rebel  4 stars really liked it

Shelves: arc-books-reviewed

I really enjoy westerns even if they are based out of Canada ;-) This was just as good as William Johnstone, Louis L'Amour, Zane Grey. I'm looking forward to other stories by Mr. McGowan.

I received a free copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review. ...more

 

Destiny Brown 5 stars was amazing
Aug 26, 2020

      Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen

By David M. McGowan

Sully Wheeler doesn’t care why his cattle are disappearing. He doesn’t care why but it has to stop. Perhaps it’s the cost of hiding from his past, but who would steal from a one-time gunfighter?

The NW Mounted Policeman that Sully contacted appeared more intent on stopping vigilante action than in stopping theft. If that proves to be the case, Sully will recover his own property, even if it takes gunfire to do it.

Who is this Mountie, anyway? Is he a cop or something else entirely? Is he working to support the crown, leave the crown or actually do something for the settlers?

And while we’re talking about that Mountie, isn’t he spending too much time with that newspaper lady?

$5.10 / $14.95

#ambush #lawmen of the west

Click on the link below or click on the book cover image off to the right.


Sunday, May 23, 2021

A very quick video of Dawson Creek.

 Please excuse the videography – I’ve never done this before.


00:00 Due North – Holiday Inn Suites and BCLC Casino

00:11 Walmart – 8th Street Right – Bypass to the West with Co-Op Petroleum on the corner.

00:19 on the ridge directly past the walkway is the ridge upon which 30+ wind turbines sit although they can’t be seen at this distance. (Approx. 8 miles)

Bear Mountain – Ski Hill

 00:47 Main grain elevator (several more on the North West corner of Dawson Creek) in the distance and the East end of the Encana Event Centre. This section contains the horse barns and riding arena and behind it is the Dawson Creek Rodeo Grounds.

 1:01 Freight access to Events Centre with Equestrian Centre on the right and main arena on the left.

1:05 Main access to Events

1:06 Ken Borek Aquatic Centre – pool, climbing wall, etc.

1:08 BC Highway #2

Video taken May, 20, 2021 @ 1300 hrs


Sunday, March 7, 2021

An Excerpt from "Partners"

 The First Two in the Cypress Hills


Some of the varied landscape in the Cypress Hills of Southern Saskatchewan

 

 

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.