How pioneers survived – Partners

Cypress Hills

The pioneers who explored and settled North America were from a variety of backgrounds. Some were young, a few were old (middle-aged in the standards of today), some were educated and most were not.

Many ventured out alone and if they had some experience in protecting and feeding themselves they managed to survive. If they happened to be extremely fast learners they might survive. If they had neither skill or could not find someone who did they often perished.

Having company often helped. With two people or a group each will have different skills which will help and they can also watch each other’s back in a crisis. There where instances when a married couple managed to make a living on a western farm when neither was experienced or fitted for the life in the beginning but working together managed to prosper. There are also examples of such couples not surviving.

Most of those who trod the prairie and mountains in those early days were men. Groups would have been from a variety of backgrounds with a wide range of education, How did the young get along with the old or the illiterate with the professor?

That was my concept when I wrote “Partners” my second published novel, access to which has changed, mostly without my knowledge.

Amazon still has it listed as a Kindle (and as a book at a price no one in the world would pay) but the printed version can still be found through the SBP web site which is http://sbprabooks.com/davidmmcgowan or simply click on the book cover to the right.

I suspect to change this availability soon but not for a few months since I have other things on my plate.

The story begins near “Old Wives Lake” which is now a migratory bird sanctuary on the eastern edge of the Cypress Hills. Near the lake (which covers a fairly large area but is not that deep) there is just the beginning of a rise in elevation from the prairie to the east. This rolling landscape continues to rise to where the hills become much more extensive. It is there that two main characters come back to them later in the story, further west in the hills.

This central to western area of the Cypress Hills has been used in several stories the most famous of which is “The Englishman’s Boy” by Guy Vanderhaegue. The story (and the movie) climax is the historic Cypress Hills Massacre where a mixed group of whites (Americans and Canadians and Métis) attacked a village of peaceful Assiniboine resulting in the death of twenty and one of the Americans. This battle took place in 1873 and was the push the accelerated the establishment of the North West Mounted Police that the “great leaders” in Ottawa had been talking about for years (as politicians still do) but had done little to achieve. (And as they still do.)

Cypress Hills, where the story starts.

A beautiful area in south west Saskatchewan.

In 1866 the area which now includes Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta was called Rupert’s Land and was under the control of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Those in the east who where trying to form a country from the British Colonies hadn’t done much to change that since they were concentrating on Upper Canada (Ontario), Lower Canada (Quebec), New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. They like-wise had not opened communication with the Colony of British Columbia. Two years later (1868) Canadian Confederation was achieved for the east under the British America Act and Rupert’s Land became the North West Territories except for a small area around Winnipeg becoming and embryo Manitoba.

Wild Horse Creek

          One of many small gold rush towns in British Columbia that are either ghost towns, show traces of habitation or have ceased to exist. B.C. Colonial Police Constable Jack Lawton was stationed here when he was murdered.

Barkerville street scene

Barkerville

          At the time it was said to be the largest center west of Chicago and north of San Francisco. A gold rush town with people coming and going and many refusing to acknowledge their own presence it is hard to find accurate numbers but 8 thousand for 1867 is probably fairly close. There were several small communities in the Cariboo Country where gold was being extracted (Kellyville, Antler Creek, Van Winkle, Harvey Creek and Quesnel Forks) but Barkerville was the center and even during the winter would usually hold five hundred people.

It has been claimed that there were no serious battles between whites and aboriginals in Canada’s history. However there were two in B.C. (colonial days), several in the early days along what is now the St. Lawrence Seaway and two battles between whites and Métis. There were also innumerable confrontations between individuals and small groups.

The various governments and law enforcement agencies would like everyone to think that there where few violent confrontations between any individuals during the building of Canada. It is true that there were not many recorded or quelled by the authorities. However, people being people I’m sure there where as many confrontations as in any other land, a large portion of those being between different races. The one advantage in the Canadian west, after 1874 at least, was the existence of a Federal Police force (the NWMP) although they were half the size required and therefore sometimes a little more “abrupt” than should have been necessary.

There is a ‘Heritage Moment’ on Canadian television which depicts Inspector Sam Steele of the North West Mounted Police explaining to an American visitor to the Klondike Gold Fields that “Men don’t wear firearms in Canada”. It upsets me. Not many could afford handguns but those who could buy them did so and wore them though almost never within an established community or town. Our pioneers where no dumber than those from other countries; anyone who ventures into the wilds alone or who works and lives with wild animals and doesn’t have a personal means of protection or of attaining protein is a fool.

There used to be (perhaps 20 years ago?) a show on Canadian TV called ‘Bordertown.’ Good actors, good directing but the concept upset me. The Mounted Policeman (for the north side of the town) was a law abiding, caring, thoughtful figure. Had he been indicative of policemen of the time they would have all been beaten or murdered by the not so nice people evident in any place or time including this one.

The town Marshal (for the south side of the town) was rough, tough, uncaring and a shoot-first-ask-questions-later sort. He too would have been eliminated by the people of the time, but in this case the law abiding element.

Below are the historical notes from the last pages of ‘Partners’.

Old Woman Lake

Located in what is now south-central Saskatchewan. Aboriginal legend claims that a group of Assiniboine (or Cree or Blackfoot or Crow, depending on the storyteller) were surrounded here by a group of Blackfoot (or Cree or Crow, again depending on the narrator). An old woman in the group volunteered to keep the fires burning while the rest slipped away in the night. The end of the legend, again depending on the narrator, has the old woman killed by the attackers, adopted, or the campsite vacant with no sign of the old woman.

Probably in an effort at political correctness it has been renamed and now appears on Saskatchewan maps as ‘Old Wives Lake’.

Blackfoot

Actually a confederacy of three Algonquin nations, the Kainai, Sitsika, and Peigan, the name “Blackfoot” supposedly placed on them by the Lakota or Sioux. Outnumbered by everyone except the whites, (and by the mid-1800s them too) they made up in ferocity what they lacked in population. The fear they engendered in other peoples was only equaled by the Kiowa and later the Apache far to the south.

Colonel Coleman

It is true that Colonel Coleman is a figment of my imagination. However, during the time period depicted and because there was nothing to stop them, there were several individuals who attempted to create their own kingdom in what is now Southern Alberta and Saskatchewan. According to the Hudson Bay Company’s charter (and the British Crown) the entire area was part of that company’s area of operation and thus under their protection until 1869. However, practically speaking, this area was buffalo country with a white population consisting of about 500 whiskey traders and a few trappers. Thus the company held very little interest in the area and had no force capable of stopping or even slowing incursions.

As mentioned above, the North West Mounted Police, formed to prevent incursions, eliminate whiskey, and protect the population, did not arrive in the area until 1874.

Captain McDougal

Like Colonel Coleman, Captain McDougal is a completely fictional character. However, the U.S. Army of the day was populated with officers (and troopers) who took demotions following the end of the Civil War in order that they might have a home. A few of these officers and their men were of less than stellar character, but many, such as the fictional Captain McDougal, completed almost impossible tasks despite being virtually ignored by Washington.

Bear Child

He was known by the white man as Jerry Potts, but his Kainai name was Bear Child. He was the son of a Scott, Andrew Potts, an American Fur Company clerk at Fort McKenzie and Namo-pisi (Crooked Back) a member of Black Elk’s band.

Jerry Potts has been called the greatest scout and guide of the old west, which, considering the competition may or may not be completely true. There is no doubt that the two people most responsible for the early survival of the North West Mounted Police, and thus the continuing longevity of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are Colonel J.F. Macleod and Jerry Potts.

British Columbia

Actually, the ‘Colony of British Columbia’ was very short lived and for much of the time before joining Canada was “The Colony of Vancouver Island” and “The Colony of New Caledonia”. At the time these two colonies joined confederation another “New Caledonia” (a French territory in the South Pacific) existed so the “Province of British Columbia” came into existence. I chose to use the British Columbia name in an attempt to avoid confusion.

Constable Jack Lawson

Constable Lawson, a rookie with the British Columbia Police force was the second police officer to be killed in the line of duty in what is now Western Canada. A few days before his death on July 18, 1867, Canadian Confederation had been achieved, but British Columbia had not joined at that point and was still a British colony. While investigating the theft of horses from Oregon Territory, Lawson was shot by ‘One Ear Charlie’.

Charles H. (One Ear Charlie) Brown

One Ear Charlie was a totally despicable thug with a long criminal career that covered the Western United States and the Colony of British Columbia. During one of his many incarcerations he attempted to overpower a prison guard at Victoria who shot off his ear.

Charlie’s last crime was the killing of Constable Lawson who was widely liked by the miners of Wild Horse Creek. Since no other officers were immediately available, four miners trailed Brown south into Oregon where they shot him out of the saddle on July 20, 1867.

Despite diligent research, I could find no mention of the names of the four vigilantes and so I have given them names.

From the back cover of “Partners”

Thomas Brash is trying to escape but knows he never will. Pursuing him is the memory of the family he lost to cholera. Perhaps he believes that traveling alone in a wild, dangerous land will end all his memories; there is no doubt he wishes to be alone.

Whatever his intentions the appearance of Frank Clement and the circumstances of that meeting upset those plans. Brash views Clement as an uneducated child who requires fatherly protection and guidance. Clement views Brash as a tenderfoot and cannot understand how anyone who knows so little could live so long. These two loners are joined by others and they all become partners.

Having achieved relative sanctuary and surrounded by civilization

their wilderness past comes back to haunt them.

Once again ... leave a comment.

Immigration and the proliferation of crime.

     And to go along with this post, "Inclusion" from the last posting; https://youtu.be/zmKI6dr5g70

      

     It has been five years since I shared this letter. I thought it was important at the time, captured and saved it. Following further actions demonstrating serious stupidity by those incapable of logical thought and a complete disregard for the security of Canadians I believe it is time to share it again.

     That sounds like it only applies to those claiming to be Canada's "leaders" but it is directed at all those who believe in the "global" systems. We need national borders so we can slow travelers down long enough to determine if they are terrorists (or criminals of any stripe) and therefore need to be stopped.

            The Canada that exists today is the result of immigration. However that growth and development is due to certain established standards and those standards MUST be maintained if it is to continue to grow.

            So here is the excellent letter from six years ago …

                  Congratulations to our fellow Canadians in Quebec who
had the courage and conviction to exhibit their common
sense in officially banning the hijab for certain
transactions where identity is mandatory. It's a start.
It's a privilege to be allowed to immigrate and to live
in this country - Not a right. When this hit the e-news
a few weeks ago, there was overwhelming support by the
readers who AGREED with Quebec's action.
                  The letter below says it all. Keep it going....
 
                  A Letter to the Editor (excellent letter)
 
                  So many letter writers have explained how this land is
made up of immigrants. Maybe we should turn to our
history books and point out to people why today's
Canadian is not willing to accept the new kind of
immigrant any longer.
 
                  Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of
Europe to come to Canada , people had to get off a ship
and stand in a long line in Halifax and be documented.
Some would even get down on their hands and knees and
kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws
and support their new country in good and bad times.
                  They made learning English a primary rule in their new
Canadian households and some even changed their names to
blend in with their new home. They had waved good bye to
their birth place to give their children a new and
better life and did everything in their power to help
their children assimilate into one culture.
 
                  Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare,
no labour laws to protect them. All they had were the
skills, craftsmanship and desire they had brought with
them to trade for a future of prosperity.
 
                  Most of their children came of age when World War II
broke out. Canadians fought along side men whose parents
had come straight over from Germany, Italy, France,
Japan, China, Czechoslovakia, Russia, Sweden, Poland and
so many other places. None of these first generation
Canadians ever gave any thought about what country their
parents had come from. They were Canadians fighting
Hitler, Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan. They were
defending the Freedom as one people. When we liberated
France, no one in those villages was looking for the
Ukrainian-Canadian or the German-Canadian or the
Irish-Canadian. The people of France saw only Canadians.
 
                  And we carried one flag that represented our country.
Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about
picking up another country's flag and waving it to
represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace
to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here.
These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be a
Canadian. They stirred the melting pot into one red and
white bowl.
 
                  And here we are in 2013 with a new kind of immigrant who
wants the same rights and privileges, only they want to
achieve it by playing with a different set of rules -
one that includes a Canadian passport and a guarantee of
being faithful to their mother country. I'm sorry,
that's not what being a Canadian is all about. Canadians
have been very open-hearted and open-minded regarding
immigrants, whether they were fleeing poverty,
dictatorship, persecution, or what ever else makes us
think of those aforementioned immigrants who truly did
ADOPT our country, our flag, our morals and our customs,
and left their wars, hatred, and divisions behind. I
believe that the immigrants who landed in Canada in the
early 1900s deserve better than that for the toil, hard
work and sacrifice of those legally searching for a
better life. I think they would be appalled that they
are being used as an example by those waving foreign
country flags, fighting foreign battles on our soil,
making Canadians change to suit their religions and
cultures, and wanting to change our country's fabric by
claiming discrimination when we do not give in to their
demands!
 
                  Its about time we get real and stand up for our
forefathers rights.
                  We are CANADIAN.  I am a Native of this Country and
proud of it!
 
                  NO MORE POLITICAL CORRECTNESS!!!
 
                  And while we're on the subject - Allow CHRISTMAS back in
stores and our schools!
                  I want back the country of my birth!
 
 
                  P.S. -- Please pass this on to everyone you know!!!
                  KEEP THIS LETTER MOVING!!
 
                  Hope this letter is read by millions of people all
across Canada !!
                  We are letting people live here that HATE our way of
life!!!!!!!!
                   W-H-Y??????????????????

Rhymes, Songs and Videos

Well, truly it's about learning to make videos and post them on YouTube.

          I’ve been experimenting with a video camera and attempted to save some of the rhymes and songs I’ve written in the digital world. Apparently I need to practice a bit more, not only on posting but on my presentation.

          “Cattle Business” seems to be doing all right over at Amazon; you can take a look and even read a sample by clicking on the book cover over to the right. I’ve also put together some of my short stories in a collection I’m calling (for now anyway) “People of the West: A Timeline”. It includes several stories from 1798 to 1967. I just sent it off to a good friend/editor/reader for his perusal and comments.

          But back to the videos;

          One of my rhymes entitled “Inclusion”. I wrote this in the spring of 2018 when I was asked to perform at a multi-cultural festival in Dawson Creek and recited it in between a couple of songs.

Inclusion by D.M. McGowan 2018

https://youtu.be/zmKI6dr5g70

          The next rhyme was a result of someone commenting on the types of characters I create as the main protagonists in my stories. Yes, there are “black hats” but I like to create a situation where morality and integrity triumph thereby creating some hope for readers in their own future.

A Real Man by D.M. McGowan 2018

https://youtu.be/wfIMS9Fd60k

          This third one is a song I took 17 years to write. On June 20^th 1972 I was driving a Mack truck from Cassiar BC to Watson Lake, Yukon Territory. I was having trouble seeing the road since the sun was shining in my eyes. I looked at my watch and it was 11:30 pm. Within a few miles I had the course in my head and for some reason it stayed there – most of the time I have to check my license to get my name but somehow I remembered those few lines.

          In 1989 Karen and I put together a tape which we sold at the many venues where we performed. Karen had dozens of songs but I didn’t have many so I sat down with the course and added a couple of verses.

          Speaking of memory, I wish I could remember the lines to “Come See the Willow Weep”!

To Compare With You by D.M. McGowan 1989

https://youtu.be/zdmlVHp6zcM

Are we all happy destroying ourselves?

For several years now I’ve been listening to reports that paint the petroleum production industry as being evil or at the least a “bad boy.” Since there is no evidence to support this attitude, only words from those looking to increase their own importance I have tended to be only saddened or sometimes disgusted by such rhetoric. However, listening to a CBC interview with an NDP person (perhaps he was in Bella Bella?) I found myself getting extremely angry.

There seems to be a belief in some circles that global warming has been accepted by all.

It hasn’t been!

I believe that perhaps 40% of Canadians have accepted the apocalyptic idea that is being presented. Another 30% do not believe there is ANY global warming but do believe it is all a scam to increase the importance of undeserving people and a method of extracting more money from over taxed citizens. The remaining 30%, including myself, believe that there may be some truth to a problem with our atmosphere created by those on the planet but it has been blown way out of proportion.

Do we need to make changes in our methods of creating power and production? I believe so and we have been doing a great job of that with the improvements in alternative power for automobiles and in the efficiency of solar panels. I believe we should have tens of thousands more wind farms and tide power generation and we will.

However, to transport goods across this extensive land mass we call North America we WILL be using petroleum products for the next 30 years and in a somewhat reduced capacity for the next 30 years after that. It can not be avoided.

If we are going to manufacture these alternative power sources we will be manufacturing parts made from man made materials – almost all of which are created from petroleum products

We have nothing that is both more economical and cleaner burning than natural gas. Why have we not already started piping it to customers and loading facilities? It is the best if not at this point the ONLY solution for world improvement.

Yes, the prices of crude oil have been too high. However that is the product of world demand and stock markets and even 100 million electric cars will have little effect on that price.

If you have billions of dollars to work the various stock market prices of crude oil perhaps you can bring the price of a barrel of crude down to under $40. However, that won’t have more than a few cents effect on the price of a liter of gasoline. It will also put some production companies out of business.

Besides, those with billions usually want more billions and thus reducing the price of crude is counter-productive for them.

Is it better to support that high price by buying crude from the middle east (which we do) or would it be better to supply Canada (and North America) with our own oil, which we can do for decades to come?

Crude is dirty? Compared to what? True, the refinement of crude creates more air quality questions than the development of natural gas but it is far cleaner, both for production and use than is coal. The production of an automobile creates more environmental problems than does the extraction, refinement and use of the gas that car will burn during the next 5 years.

We don’t want oil tankers on the west coast? Who doesn’t? Approximately 1500 super-tankers a year traverse the west coast from Alaska to Washington State and have been doing so for decades. It would be nice for Canada and ALL her citizens if some of those tankers carried product that will pay for Canadian development instead of US and Saudi development.

It upsets me when Eastern Canada is spending millions per day for Middle-East oil to pay for the mis-treatment of women, non-Arabs, prisoners of all types, and the assassination of those you disagree with. This foreign oil is purchased for much more per unit than a far superior product with a far cleaner back-ground in the home country.

Yes there are sources out there condemning the Canadian crude oil products but those critics are either competitors (the US and OPEC members) or they make those statements with absolutely no information in support.

There are competitors tankers on our seas – sometimes within the three mile limit – hauling competitors crude to those who should be our customers. Many times they deliver to us – who should be delivering to ourselves.

Of course everyone has heard the voices condemning pipelines - I have no idea why, but they do. There doesn't seem to be any room for discussion and no time to give reasons for being against pipelines. They work and their safe.

This is the first Trans Mountain Pipeline (built in 1953)

which has been in use for decades.

Of course, crude oil can also be sent by train.

As can be seen here, they do a great job with people.

It is time to start BUILDING this country instead of doing our best to destroy it.

If you disagree with my opinion, leave a comment.

If you agree, let me know – and you might as well buy one of my stories since you’ll probably enjoy it.

A Trapper's "Cache" or store house

Securing Supplies or “Possibles”

I posted something similar to this back in September of 2014

            Today we call them necessary supplies. Soldiers might call them “rations”. More than just food, “possibles” would also include needles, thread, first aid supplies, perhaps extra ammunition or a knife. In the early days of the mountain man they were “possibles” because there was a good possibility you would need them to survive and if you didn’t have any there was a good possibility you wouldn’t --- survive that is.

            Some time ago an agent, commenting on one of my stories, wrote that he had “never heard of a log cabin built high in the trees.” He was commenting on a stores cache I had described. I couldn’t believe that anyone who had read historical fiction, history, or any story depicting mountain men and homesteaders had not heard of a permanent storage cache or understood a description of same.

            But then, once I had given it some thought I realized that there are very few such structures described in either fiction or non-fiction. Any pictures of such that I now hold in my imagination are not from description but from an actual structure I’ve seen; perhaps a half dozen of them.

            I also had trouble finding pictures of one. There is a copy of one displayed at the Walter Wright Pioneer Village in Dawson Creek and although it is only on posts about  4 feet high it does present the idea quiet well. I should have taken a picture of it this summer. Here is a period picture I did find:

Charlie MacDonald’s cabin near Toad River

The "cache" or "stores" is the building on stilts on the left.

            Without a method of storing supplies in the wilderness and particularly in mountainous country those supplies will not last long. Wolves, bears, wolverines, lynx, and many other animals eat and enjoy the same items humans eat. If efforts are not made to keep those items away from wildlife then the human will not have the supplies he thought he had.

            And sometimes even the best of efforts fail.

            There are several descriptions of temporary caches such as one Lloyd Cushway describes in one of his stories. He has several collections of short stories, “Trail Smoke” being one but I think this particular story appears in “Crosswind to the Fire.”

            Lloyd and a partner had heard of a mineral find in the upper reaches of the Cameron River in North-East British Columbia. Since they had some experience with the area they decided that they would attempt to stake claims before the “big outfits” (primarily Gulf Minerals) could take it all. They put together supplies for two weeks and flew up near the area. They landed and with each carrying a heavy pack, hiked for an hour to a good camp.

Piper Cub

            The partner had to hike back to the plane and fly out to a meeting in Ft. St. John, so they quickly put together a meal consisting primarily of fried bacon and bannock. Before he left the partner helped Lloyd cut and limb a tree creating a pole which was then hauled up into two trees and tied in place between them.

            When the partner had left Lloyd threw a length of rope over the suspended pole. He tied one end of the rope to the extra pack and hauled it high then tied off the other end of the rope to one of the supporting trees. This is a temporary method of creating a cache safe from marauders that has been used by thousands if not millions --- and several times by Lloyd.

            A week later, having staked several claims in the pouring rain and crossing a rain-swollen river Lloyd discovered that his oft used method for a temporary cache had this time failed. In his hurry he had forgotten to wash his hands after creating lunch and the rope he had used was therefore covered with bacon grease. Perhaps not enough to be noticed by a human but Mr. Black Bear found it very tasty. After chewing on the tasty rope for a while the rope broke and Mr. Bear --- perhaps became a convert to the Jewish faith for like those who followed Moses he suddenly found himself gifted with manna from heaven; a bag full of all manner of tasty treats.

Black Bear near Tumbler Ridge

            When Lloyd returned to his cache there was nothing left to make a meal. What had not been eaten by Mr. Bear had been destroyed.

            The native population of North America had several methods for creating caches but didn’t have the same problem as the solitary mountain man. A village by its very existence serves to keep foraging wildlife at bay although stories of unwelcome visitors during particularly rough periods do exist.

Beaver (Dane-zaa ) family near Peace River town 1911

another Dane-zaa camp on the west end of Moberly Lake

At the east end of the lake is a corridor used by Grizzly traveling north and south.

            The lone trapper or the small holding, whether miner, farmer or trapper did not however have sufficient numbers to scare away wolves, bears, coyotes or wild cats. Therefore, if the human in question intends to remain in one place for any length of time it is worth his while to build a permanent cache that can be used year after year and will protect supplies and, in the case of the trapper, the product of his efforts, the pelts.

Ursus arctos horribilis

            Of course there are certain limitation in almost anything. For example, in the case of Ursus arctos horribilis better known as the Grizzly bear they go anywhere and eat anything they want. If your cache is high enough that he can’t tell where that marvelous smell is coming from perhaps he’ll wander off and attack an ant hill. If your cabin is strong enough and the marvelous smells not strong enough to drive him into a  frenzy perhaps he’ll tear up some roots down by the lake. If your cabin or cache is in an area he or she fequents and tempts to destroy, perhaps a move is in order.

            That’s a move on your part. Mrs. Grizzly will not be moving.

Ursus arctos horribilis

            Permanent caches or storage houses were and are built in the trees sometimes as high as fifteen feet. Such a height may not be necessary in summer but may not be enough once there is several feet of snow on the ground. It will appear, should you happen to look up and notice it blending in with the trees, to be a small log cabin tree-house. It will not have any windows and the door will be very strong. On the end where that door is there is a good possibility that the floor will extend beyond the front of the building forming a “porch” to offer a place to load and unload supplies. The roof may be of several materials such as shakes split from local trees, a tarpauline changed every few years or even some material hauled in from “outside”. Access is likely to be via the ladder leaning against the main cabin, but there may be a rope ladder attached to the “porch” or a few cross-pieces attached to one of the supporting trees.

            By the way, Lloyd did make it out to civilization and food. He was exhausted, wet, cold, and tired. He had pushed himself in many ways he should have known to avoid, but he made it to a ranch and then back to town. I see one of his collection of stories on Amazon and others can be found at Bill’s News, 250-782-2933. There are also many great treasures at the Dawson Creek Art Gallery, 250-782-2601.

            Another one of the places where you can find my novels but you can also click on the book covers to the right or go to Amazon.com/books where you can "look inside the book."

Dangerous days for travelers

Here is an excerpt from page 6 to page 14 of my novel “Partners”.  The reader has just ‘met’ the ‘old’ (he’s 36) educated one, Tom Brash and he, along with the reader is about to meet the young, boorish, impulsive one, Frank Clement.

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.

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.

From this point on Tom and Frank have to avoid being silenced by Hank and Seth, relatives of the victims (Blackfoot) who want to issue penalties for the deaths, and a sociopath looking to build his own kingdom in Western Canada. At the same time they still have to deal with the same things that all other travelers deal with every day such as the weather and attacks that are not specifically targeted at anyone in particular.

Can they put up with each other long enough to keep each other alive?

Penalty Ranch

An integral part of who I am.

 On the left a wild cow milking after the branding and on the right an iron horse collar used to ensure an exact fit when the horse shows signs of "galling" due to an inexact fit. Harness collars are usually made in "standard" sizes and not made to fit an individual horse. All those who have bought "Small" "Medium" or "Large" coat will understand that their coat fit just as well as the horse collar fit the horse.
These are the only Penalty pics I have but there are many more in the collection below.

            I’ve mentioned in several places that I spent some time repairing fence, putting up hay, herding cattle, stooking (grain) bundles, riding the range and other work associated with agriculture in Western Canada. The most memorable of those jobs was four months during the summer of 1964 on the Penalty Ranch. I herded 21 Hereford bulls the summer before on a neighboring ranch and have helped out in other places but that summer (and a few visits the following year) became and integral part of who I am.

            The name “Penalty” was from the owner and boss, René Dhenin who informed all, visitor or employee, that doing something lazy, thoughtless, or dumb would gain one a penalty such as cleaning out a stable, hoeing the garden or some other unpleasant but necessary task that he might create. Those actions which might warrant a penalty included miss-treating animals, leaving a gate open or dropping paper/trash on the ground.

            I was never found guilty of a penalty offence but I did have to shovel out the horse barn. Sometimes it isn’t possible to convince someone to perform poorly but the work still has to be done.

            That summer I did work that I (usually) wanted to do, ate more than my weight on most days, and made less money than I’ve ever made. But it was the best job I ever had. It put me into great physical shape, I was able to work with and ride horses and I met and talked to some of the Peace Country’s early pioneers.

            Many young men and women spent time at the Penalty. Brian Clarke of Fort St. John was one. Ron Yipp of the same city was another. All have gone on to other lives, other work and other places. Truck drivers, business owners, accountants, advertising – pick something and there is probably someone in that business who once worked on the Penalty or some other ranch.

            One of those is Ron Yipp mentioned above. I believe his brother introduced me to Ron sometime during the ‘60s but we didn’t actually “know” each other. However Ron spent far more time than I on the Penalty and also rode and camped with René on several occasions. I have recently connected with Ron on the digital air-ways and he has forwarded something to me that is a great treasure.

            Over the years I’ve managed to keep many of the Penalty memories but most of the pictures I took have been lost. Every move from the Peace Country, to Vancouver, Haggersville, Jarvis, Oshawa, Windsor, Calgary, Fort Saskatchewan and back to the Peace Country has cost me some physical piece of the past.

            Here is a collection of Ron’s pictures from the Penalty showing some great times and some great scenery. I’ve taken some stops from the assembly to allow explanation for the viewer.

            Ignore the request for a free account, (X it out) and click play.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/pg86cib6ewea5v8/Ranch%3ABranding%2065%3A67.m4v?dl=0

At the beginning a picture of the boat coming to the ranch from the landing at “Old” Fort St. John.  (North side of the river to the South side)

A picture of the ranch buildings taken from the boat.

At 0:12 the river and North Peace bank from the buildings

The tractors and fuel tanks (filled in those days in the winter by crossing the ice.) Beside those are two wagons/sleighs used to feed the cattle in winter with one of the teams of horses.

At 0:33 a picture of the Peace River from one of the upper flats … probably the “Breeding Pasture”

At 0:36 George McLaughlin (seated) and René Dhenin (note the canvas hat; he and it will appear throughout)

The only truck on the place except for those few times someone drove north from Chetwynd on the Jackfish Lake Rd. On more than one occasion that included a stock trailer or stock rack which absconded with Penalty Ranch beef. A few rustlers were caught.

0:43 Ron Yipp, immediately recognized as one of the good guys. He has a white hat after all.

0:44 Ron and René

1:17 The railroad bridge across the Peace just downriver from the ranch buildings and viewed from the edge of the “Breeding Pasture”

Several pictures of the branding including images of the “Genuine Chinese Cowboy”, Ron Yipp.

After the branding, a wild cow milking competition.

The “medical treatment” of a horse. Undoubtedly being “fixed”

Followed by great grub prepared while the branding was in progress.

At about 2:27 Ron’s father, George Yipp.

There is also a pic of Ron’s brother (Ken) and sister (Sheila) in there toward the end.