An excerpt from "The Making of Jake McTavish"

 Historical Notes

During the novel “The Making of Jake McTavish” there is a part where Jake visits what is now called by the locals the “Old Fort” and speaks with a young man I actually knew 60 years later. Here is a picture of the old Roman Catholic Church at that site roughly 20 years after the time depicted in the story.

Roman Catholic Mission at "Old Fort"

The "Old Fort" - Fort St. John about 1875

showing factor's residence and trade and storage

Jake also talks to a young North West Mounted Police officer who was the single remainder of a large troupe who went through the Peace Country that year, details of which are covered in the “Author’s Notes” at the end of the novel. However, one of the things the troupe did before continuing on was to build the NWMP post and jail on the south side of the river which still existed there (although it had been turned over the the BC Provincial Police about 1909) when I worked on the ranch which surrounded it. It was however in better shape when I worked there in 1963 and has since been moved and restored at the Fort St. John museum.

The second picture is how it appeared in 1929

An Excerpt from "The Making of Jake McTavish"

 

1

 

Omineca Country, British Columbia, 1898

 

Jake McTavish came out of the winter twenty pounds lighter and a whole lot meaner. Perhaps not meaner than he had been the fall before but definitely more than he had been before his wife had been murdered. That had been slightly more than four years in the past but he had not forgotten anything about it. The more he brooded here in the wilderness the more he detested the company of his fellow man.

That meant it was his fourth year taking furs from theFinlay River country, and the fourth year he wasn’t going to have any cash money once he re-supplied for the coming season. He had collected fur, but not much more than it would take to pay for supplies and repair equipment.

He was leaning against the door frame of his cabin, morning coffee in hand, gazing down toward the river, when he said, “Maybe I’ll just have t’ shoot somebody. That way the government will have t’ feed us ‘til they punch my ticket and bury me.”

Jake wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying. The words were just noise to fill the empty cabin; and his only companion, the blue tick hound on the floor by the stove, always agreed with him.

After four years of talking to few but the hound Jake was beginning to think the animal understood. Having experienced the intelligence of the animal he had also begun believing he knew what the dog was thinking.

“Yeah, I know, problem with that is we’d have t’ find somebody to shoot,” Jake continued, and then added, “Chester, we gotta take them furs t’ the fort. Maybe there’ll be somebody there that’s worth a five-cent bullet.”

If Jake had been serious about shooting someone, perhaps he would have paid more attention to his surroundings. Had he done so, he might have saved himself from an attack on his life. However he did notice the hound briefly lift one eyelid and quickly let it close. Another person viewing his always serious expression probably wouldn’t have believed it but Jake foundChester’s reaction humorous. They had been out before dawn checking the few trap sets still near the cabin. The mornings were still cold and Jake was sure Chester was enjoying the heat of the fire. He also thought that over the course of the past few years Chester had heard enough of his master’s growling that he was extremely comfortable ignoring it.

Jake spent the rest of the day closing up camp. He had already tripped any open traps that morning and only had four fresh hides - three beaver and a martin - to set out on drying frames. The few supplies that had managed to make it through the winter he put up in his cache cabin - a solid tree house built high between two pine trees. He gave his canoe a very careful check for damage and placed it in the water, tied securely to the log dock.

He decided to take the fresh hides laced in their drying frames by setting them on the three small bales of furs he would load in the canoe. It was precarious, considering some of the white water he would have to shoot, but he could tie them in place. The alternative was to leave them to be included in next years take, but he thought he needed everything he could get this year. Besides, if he left them he would probably find them ripped up by coyotes or wolves when he returned. Leaving them in the cabin or cache would fill those structures with enough stink to attract a grizzly. Given enough incentive a silver tip would break into anything.

The first part of the trip went as Jake had planned; and since it was his fourth trip down to Ft. St. John this was not a particular surprise. It had been a short, mild winter and he was late enough in the season that he saw very little ice, except for a few small pieces melting away from their perches on driftwood where they had been forced by the earlier heavy run off. The water was still high enough that he could avoid portaging, but low enough that he managed to keep the canoe upright with his cargo inside the craft.

Some stretches of river did create heart pounding moments. Jake was not one to admit it, even to himself, but adrenaline flowed and he worked hard to avoid rocks and whirlpools. Chester, in his assigned space at the front of the canoe, put his chin on the ribbing and his paws over his nose.

There was just enough light for Jake to shoot the last rapids on the Finlay, and enough dark that he could steer wide around the settlement of Finlay Forks without attracting attention. Everyone stopped at the landing. After a winter in the bush most men wanted company and conversation. Jake wanted neither. He also didn’t want to put up with fur traders trying to deal him out of his pelts for less than top price.

 

***

 

Two men did see him from the dock as he turned into the Peace River. One was known as Sam Twice. He had been born into the Beaver Nation but was accepted at no lodge, including that of his own family. The other was Martin Prentice, a man who definitely was wanted. He was wanted by the law in both the State of New York and theProvince of Ontario. The town police in Winnipeg andCalgary would have also liked to talk to him, but they were not aware he was the one who had committed the crimes.

In the twilight Sam Twice made a flicking motion with one finger toward the silhouette out on the water. “Him maybe got fur,” he said.

“I expect he does,” Martin agreed. He took a swig from the jug he held and passed it to Sam. “Perhaps he also has a small poke of gold he’s panned out of streams.”

“Why him not come in?” Sam asked. He flicked a finger toward the large cabin that served as store, saloon, and hotel as long as one wasn’t too particular about prices, liquor quality, or sleeping on the floor. He took a swig from the jug which the two had purchased at the store. Sam didn’t care about the quality of the refreshment since he had never had anything better.

“I expect he wants more than half price for his pelts,” Martin replied. “He’ll take them down to Ft. St. John where he’ll get as much as he can get in this country.”

“Don’ like that man boss that Fort John place,” Sam said. “He marry Beaver girl. She nice girl, one time.”

Martin looked at Sam a moment. He knew there was much about Sam’s past that he didn’t know, but he didn’t really care. Sam was useful from time to time, and that was all the mattered. “I heard his wife was Cree, but what do I know? I’ve never even seen the woman.”

Sam grunted, giving Martin no idea what he meant.

Martin waved toward the silhouette of man and canoe fading into the gathering darkness. “Now, that pilgrim will undoubtedly stop for the night. Tomorrow he’ll go on to Portage Mountain. If we were to float down the river right now we could be at Portage to meet him.”

“I like maybe stay here an’ drink,” Sam objected. He wasn’t one to hasten toward any effort that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

“How would you like to have a nice canoe?” Martin asked.

Sam looked at Martin with hard, cold eyes. “I get canoe an’ you get fur?”

“No, no,” Martin objected. “We split the furs and you get the canoe. After all, I already have a canoe.”

Sam nodded several times, then placed the cork in the jug and hit it with the heel of his hand. “We go.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

 

Peace River, Portage Mountain, British Columbia, 1898

 

There was no question about pulling out of the water upriver from Portage Mountain. Even in late August, when the water flow may have dropped several feet, no one in their right mind would try to shoot the Peace Canyon.

It was mid afternoon of their second day of travel when Jake pulled in to the river bank. Chester jumped out onto dry ground and ran to the nearest aspen where he lifted his leg.

Pulling the canoe up so the current couldn’t take it, Jake said, “Mighty fine idea, Chester. You’re a smart dog.”

Jake unloaded his canoe and dragged the craft up onto dry ground. Chester sat on his haunches, looked at the bales of furs and supplies, swung his gaze up the trail, and then looked back at the cargo.

“We ain’t in a hurry, Chester. We’ll spend the night here. Go see if yuh can find a rabbit.”

Chester headed off into the bush and Jake collected firewood.

At the start and end of any portage there are well-used camp areas; and if the trail to more water is long enough, more stopping places along the way. The PortageMountain trail - a long walk without carrying a pack - was no exception. There were several sites that had been used on the upriver end. Jake chose one of the spots as far back as possible from the trail end and riverbank and started his fire. If there were other travellers, he wanted to avoid company if possible. He didn’t mind carrying a little water.

While the fire burned down to coals he moved his freight and canoe up to the camp site. Gathering firewood, he noticed a small aspen sapling and cut it with his knife. Back at the fire he skewered a piece of moose meat with the green stick and drove the butt end of the stick into the ground so the meat was suspended over the coals.

As the meat was heating up to a sizzle he mixed up some bannock batter, wound it around another piece of green stick and propped that over the fire.

Chester sauntered into camp and dropped to the ground at the edge of firelight.

“You’re getting lazy, old man,” Jake said. “First smell o’ cookin’ meat an’ you come back.”

He turned his gaze to the hound and saw the relaxed, satisfied look and the long tongue licking lips.

“I apologise, old man. I don’t know what you mighta found t’ eat on this pile o’ rocks, but you’ve found somethin’.”

When he finished eating and washing up, Jake threw a couple of sticks on the fire and propped the canoe up so it would collect and hold the heat for his bed. He propped himself up against a dry log, loaded his pipe and leaned back puffing contentedly.

“Nothin’ wrong with this, Ches. Nice warm night.”

Surprised at his master’s good mood, Chestergrunted.

During breakfast the next morning Jake decided to continue taking it easy. Even though the two bundles of furs were not very large he would pack them around the mountain one at a time. The four fresh plews had not been properly treated, but they were dry so he decided to tie them on to one of the bundles. He pulled a bag full of string and sinew from his possibles pack and wrapped the hides in place, cutting the ends of sinew off and putting them back in the bag.

He was already on the trail when he realized he hadn’t put his knife back in the sheath. He hesitated, decided he would pick it up on the next trip, and started off again.

He had only taken a few steps when he heardChester off the trail to his right. There was the beginning of a bark followed by a howl that was abruptly cut off. Jake swung the pack of furs from his shoulders, dropped it to the trail, and stepped into the brush.

There was blinding pain from the back of his skull. He saw a light as bright as the sun. Then he fell into blackness.

 

Movie Depictions of the Canadian West

Renfrew of the Royal Mounted - The Royal Mounted Patrol - Rose Marie - Sergeant Preston of the Yukon - Steele of the Royal Mounted - Saskatchewan 

What do these early films have to do with the North West Mounted Police or history? Absolutely nothing! Members of the NWMP (and the RCMP) are people, not the supermen projected by Hollywood. Other representations of NWMP officers would make you think they never did anything immoral and stepped out of the pages of the Bible. For “people” take a look at “Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen” at https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B004V9WZVI

Within the story, actually the second chapter, two of the characters, a Mountie and a cattleman discus the attempts to find and arrest a man listed as Jean Baptiste on reservation rolls but known by his own people as Almighty Voice. This is actually an historical event and demonstrates the attitudes, both white and indigenous of the day and the racism that existed on both sides.

Almighty Voice 

No, I’m not saying that mistaken ideas or racism do not exist today but just that they are different than those ideas of 1897. I believe both sides have mistaken ideas of each other today and both are wrong.  I also believe both have racist attitudes concerning the other today and both are in error. At least now each is doing some study of the other but in 1897 there was no study, just guesswork that suddenly became "fact".

Both the initial event that led to Almighty Voice becoming a fugitive and the eventual conclusion of the case did not display exemplary police work. The very best that can be said is that actions by members of the North West Mounted Police during the two year chase were less than laudatory. 

That is one of the reasons I write stories about the opening and settlement of the Canadian West. I like to see at least a smidgen of truth appear about the time.

Another reason and the reason I use “historical fiction” is there doesn’t seem to be any real people, a shortage of effort and little entertainment in Canadian history. Our railroads, for example seem to have been built by forceful businessmen, magnates if you will, and somewhat questionable deals made between them and the Federal Government. The actual 'builders' those doing the work are often conspicuous by their absence. Mention can easily be found about miss-treated Chinese on the Rocky Mountain to West Coast section (which will be up-coming in a novel I’m working on) but little has been written about those who worked 12 and 16 hour days laying ballast, cross-ties and rails across the prairies. It isn’t hard to find some information about the companies who built the railroads receiving every second quarter section of land along the right-of-way but little is written about how that interfered with those who tried to homestead the land or buy it out-right for cereal crops and livestock.

Entertainment itself that includes mention of Canada’s history is not particularly hard to find. The American film industry (movies and TV) have a few dozen offerings but it is difficult to find anything in them that is not entertainment – or anything similar to what it was actually like. Canadian offerings, though very few exist have been somewhat better but there is nothing that I am aware of that might be called “factual”.

One notable exception is a made for TV series I remember from the 1960s (?) called “Chilcotin” (I think) much of which was filmed on location (Central BC west of the Fraser River). It was very entertaining, the beginning of the careers of some (such as Chief Dan George) and gave the viewer some idea of what happened during the cattle business work day in that area. Sadly none of the film exists today but it was based on the work of Paul St. Pier and his short story collection, Smith and Other Events: Tales of the Chilcotin which can be found at https://www.alibris.com/booksearch?mtype=B&title=smith+and+other+events

                    

                                             

However, if all one wants is entertainment, some “Hollywood” offerings are certainly that. “Dan Candy’s Law” (aka “Alien Thunder” from 1974) starring Donald Sutherland is one such and is an attempt to relate the story of “Almighty Voice” mentioned above. The writing was done by W.O. Mitchell and when the producers strayed too far from history and created their own story, Mitchell demanded that his name be removed from the production. It can be viewed on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=alien+thunder+1974  but be advised that my representation in “Gunfighters, Thieves and Lawmen” is probably closer to history.

Another piece of Canadian entertainment is “Saskatchewan” (1954) which I like even though it has very little if anything to do with history. It has Alan Ladd, Shelley Winters, Hugh O’Brian, Jay Silverheels, Robert Douglas …a great cast. I also knew one of those who worked with horses off screen and had a few stories to tell in the bunkhouse.

Alan Ladd, Shelley Winters, Jay Silverheels

Here are links to a slideshow and the actual movie

 Saskatchewan slideshow - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnvd3X12dok

Saskatchewan movie - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6bPMRVE5Ew

 

 

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."

 

An excerpt from "The Great Liquor War"

 The Great Liquor War

Here is an excerpt from “The Great Liquor War”. My story here is wound around an historical incident during which the North West Mounted Police (here represented by my fictional, Sergeant Rawn) and the BC Provincial Police (Represented by Constable Kirkup).

Though Constable Jack Kirkup is an historical character my representation probably has little to do with the real person other than his being (apparently) a very big man.  

The first part of this piece is the first private meeting of the main protagonist, Hank James and Sharon Dalton who becomes the focus of Hank’s search at the beginning of “Homesteader: Finding Sharon”  a sequel to “The Great Liquor War.”

The last part contains a formal report by Constable Kirkup for his superiors. (Totally my manufacture) which is meant as a lead into what is happening with the local “outlaw” element.

“The Great Liquor War” was originally published in 1998 and all copies quickly disappeared. I eventually had it re-published as a POD in 2015. Yes, there are probably errors in the new version as well, but I tried to ensure there wasn’t … but that’s life.

The first cover above is from the first edition and the second is the latest which is available in digital and print versions.

Here is one of the reviews, this one from On Line Book Club …

The Great Liquor War is action-packed and entertaining. Hank (main protagonist) is quite likeable … easygoing and has an amusing dry humour which is edged with sarcasm, making his narrative hilarious!
There was not a single dull moment in this book. This is largely due to its colourful characters, from tough, no-nonsense police officers to pompous judges.
There was not a single dull moment in this book. This is largely due to its colourful characters, from tough, no-nonsense police officers to pompous judges.
Because of the engaging plot, I found that my enthusiasm for the book remained high all the way to the end and did not wane.
I rate it 4 out of 4 stars. It deserves nothing less.
And here is a posting from Global Network …

“I’m real sorry I give you that impression, ma’am. Matter o’ fact, I’m downright embarrassed anybody’d think I’d blackmail somebody. I take pride in doin’ the right thing, an’ spend a lot o’ my time tryin’ to figure out what that is. Forcin’ somebody to do somethin’ they don’t wanta do just ain’t right.

          “Now, I also figure you must have a good reason for not talkin’ about your past, an’ I sure don’t wanta say somethin’ to somebody that might embarrass you. That’s why I mentioned it the other night. No other reason.

          “I think I mentioned that I thought I knew you, but I didn’t know from where ‘till Jack Kirkup told me your name was Dalton. It come back to me then. You were a little tom-boy playin’ with us on my cousin’s place. Your name was Sweeney, or some such ...”

          “Swanell,” she said.

          At that point the waiter returned with the fresh tea. I thanked him and waited until he left the table.

          “Okay, Swanell,” I echoed with a nod. “I ‘spect you married one of that bunch that was related somehow to Frank an’ Jesse. Related by their momma’s second marriage, as I recollect. Now, you didn’t go back to your maiden name, so you can’t be workin’ all that hard to hide. On the other hand, you haven’t mentioned that you knew some of the more notorious people of the last few years. I reckon you must have a reason for that, so the only reason I mentioned it was I didn’t wanta do somethin’ might put you in a bad spot.”

          “And that is the only reason you asked for,” she gestured toward the room, “this?” Her tone wasn’t exactly disbelieving, but more flat and reserved.

          I shook my head. “Had nothin’ to do with why I wanted,” I mimicked her gesture toward the room, “this. I was taken with your appearance. Mostly, I guess, with the way you handled the poor way Sproat treated you that day out in front of my barn. Then, when I figured out who you where I got to thinkin’ we had some things in common. When we were kids we knew the same country. Maybe even had some of the same things happen to us. Mostly I was interested in you and wanted to get to know you better.”

          She remained quiet, her hands still clasped on the edge of the table in front of her and eyes on me as I poured tea. After a long silence I asked, “What would you like for desert?”

          She cleared her throat, and then asked what was offered. I called the waiter over. When he left with the order she reached across and put her hand on mine as it rested on my tea cup. “I’m sorry, Henry,” she said.

          Now, food is one of the things that makes life worth living for me. Most of my life it’s been nothing special, but I take great pleasure in it when it is. I don’t even mind it when it’s not too good, just filling. Except for the tea, I don’t remember anything about what we ate that night. But I still remember what Sharon looked like.

 

                             ************************************

 

          Later that evening, something happened that served as an additional embarrassment for the Mounties. It became another reason for the Federal Police to insist they were right in confiscating Hill’s goods. Because of their rule about keeping booze away from the railroad construction there was some support for their view of the Hill matter, but there was no doubt the new event put egg on their face.

          Sergeant Rawn of the Mounties had been spending far too much time in one of the gin mills in Farwell. The establishment in question was probably not completely legal, if at all, and not the place for a police officer to be seeking refreshment. It was certainly out of the question for Rawn to be there in uniform. However, he had reasoned that it was outside the ten mile border from the rail line - and would be for a few more days - therefore not within his area of responsibility.

          Many animals show great displeasure with those who smell of spirits, and horses are no exception. When Rawn attempted to leave town that night his mount took exception to the strong alcohol fumes emanating from him. When he tried for the third time to put his foot in the stirrup the horse swung around hard against the policeman. Sergeant Rawn was propelled violently through the front window of the Chinese laundry.

          The laundry was a busy place in those days. Work was still going on within and would continue until well into early morning. Mrs. Cora Emery was near the front of the building wrapping finished work for pickup the following day. Now Mrs. Emery was a strong supporter of temperance. Her late husband had died due to the poor judgment and slowed reflexes brought on by strong drink, forcing her to work long hours in a place operated by what she thought of as Asian heathens. It was suggested by some, perhaps unkindly, that Mr. Emery’s penchant for drink was his only means of expressing independence in the face of Mrs Emery’s great strength and strong stand against alcohol. Within a few seconds of their first volatile meeting, Sergeant Rawn was to agree that Mrs. Emery would drive anyone to drink. When he, and the offending odor which accompanied him, entered the laundry in such an explosive manner, she turned from her work to the broom leaning against the wall.

          Mrs. Emery’s strength was not confined to her over-zealous fight against the consumption of alcohol. Some of the kinder souls who knew her described her as being substantial. That night she used this substance to swing the broom repeatedly against the Mounted Police Sergeant while she described his lowly character in a firm, loud voice. She was accompanied by the Chinese owner; yelling in excited, high-pitched Cantonese.

          The sound of broken glass, bellowing English and screeching Cantonese to the beat of a broom filled the early morning. Naturally, such a fuss was bound to attract attention. At such a late hour there were few to respond except the patrolling policeman. Constable Kirkup was present to help Sergeant Rawn as he attempted to escape over the window sill and onto the boardwalk. Relieving Rawn of his pistol, Jack marched him down the street and threw him into the lock-up.

          At the time, Sergeant Rawn was grateful for the help.

 

          Following the incident, several interrogations were conducted by members of the Provincial Police. It should be noted that very little of this information is suitable for presentation to the court, but has been recorded strictly as a source of information for future investigation.

 

Constable J. Kirkup

 

          There was a meeting in the Montana Saloon witnessed by the bartender, Shorty Leaman, or Short Shot as some called him behind his back. Bulldog Kelley, Jack Myers, and Frank Spencer sat at the plank table at the back of the tent. Kelley was the man behind most illegal operations in the area. Frank Spencer was his second in command and Myers was one of their gunmen. They didn’t commit all the local crimes, but they did demand a percentage of the take from those who did.

          “We got us a gold mine here, boys,” Kelley said. “With these clowns fightin’ between themselves there’s nobody ‘round to stop us.”

          Spencer shrugged. “Maybe an’ maybe not. They might just take a notion they’re too busy to follow the finer points o’ law. Them Mounties got a reputation fer bein’ somewhat sudden when they feel the need.”

          Myers grinned. “Ain’t no reason we can’t be just as sudden,” he said.

          “That’s the idea,” Kelley said, dropping the heel of his hand on the table. “‘Sides, they’ll be too busy to even be around. I wanta see another tent set up closer to the railroad so we can get more money from them gandy dancers. Two tents. One full o’ women an’ the other full o’ booze an games.”

          “That’s chicken feed, Bull,” Spencer interjected. “If we set quiet an’ let them work on each other they’ll forget about us. Then we can step in an’ take some o’ the big ones. Maybe a payroll or two. Hit the banks an’ the railroad all to once. Then we just drift outta the country.”

          Kelley rubbed his unshaven face with his large hand. “Yeah, that’d work, too. You work on that Frank, but while you’re doin’ it, work on the other. Find a place to set up them two tents. And send some boys up into the Big Bend country. There’s some o’ them dirt washers up there got gold in their cabins. And a few of us best work on makin’ sure this disagreement doesn’t end too soon. Yeah, we might just drift outta here all right, but while them lawmen is squabblin’ we’ll strip the country.”

          Spencer’s face retained it’s usual lack of expression as he looked at Kelley’s scowl and Myer’s devilish grin. He shrugged his resignation and said, “Whatever you want, Bull.”

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