High Rider Part 9

The following morning, the defence counsel did everything in his power to paint his client in a different light. A doctor testified that the murder was an act of insanity: Fisk, by dint of too much alcohol, was temporarily insane when he committed the crime and therefore he was not guilty. Two other witnesses testified as to his good character, as did the man who had accompanied Jumbo to the restaurant. When asked why he did not go to the police, he replied, "Because I knew that Jumbo would."

Taking the stand, Jumbo said that alcohol had fogged his brain and he did not remember much about that night. Nevertheless, he did recall that Rosalie had attacked him with a knife when he refused to pay after she demanded too much money. As he was trying to disarm her, he had lost his head. He had no recollection of harming anybody. Given the tone of his voice, he might as well have added, "And if I did, so what? She was only a redskin."

At the first opportunity, district counsel stood and asked Jumbo if he had received any knife wounds.

"No, sir."

"The deceased measured five feet two inches in height and weighed around one hundred pounds. What is your height and weight, sir?"

"I stand six feet four inches and weigh about two hundred and twenty pounds."

Another rap of the magistrate's gavel ended more rumbling from the crowd.

Counsel continued. "Now, Mr. Fisk, after you beat this young girl, after you disembowelled her, after you committed these vicious, b.l.o.o.d.y acts, you washed up and went out with a friend for something to eat. Do you remember that part?"

Jumbo bristled. "Yes, sir."

"So let me see if I have the sequence of events straight. Liquor causes you to lose your sense of reality, the loss of reality brings on violence, and the violence makes you hungry, which in turn revives your sense of reality. Is that how it works?"

"No, sir!" Jumbo looked ready to jump from the witness chair and throttle the lawyer.

"No further questioning." The prosecutor sat down.

During the afternoon session, both counsels summed up their cases for the members of the jury, after which a court official escorted the nine men to the magistrate's chambers and locked them in. n.o.body left the courtroom, expecting that it would not be a long wait for a verdict. However, the remainder of the afternoon pa.s.sed, as did the supper hour, and nothing came. Rouleau sent everybody home.

Early the following morning, John received a message that the jury had reached a decision and court would reconvene at 10:00 AM. He was at the courtroom well before ten, as were many others anxious to hear the outcome. John listened to those around him and the prevailing a.s.sumption was that a guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion. They wondered why it had taken so long to reach the verdict, and there was speculation that perhaps some jurors had bought the insanity defence and the others had needed time to convince them of Jumbo's guilt. The proceedings got under way precisely on time, and everyone rose as Rouleau took his seat on the bench. Jumbo was brought in, followed by the jury.

The Clerk of the Court stood and addressed the jury in a sonorous voice. "Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?"

The foreman, a man John had seen regularly about town and one who had always turned a cold shoulder to him, arose and said, "We are."

The clerk's voice boomed across the room. "How say you? Is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty."

A tidal bore of voices rose to fill the courtroom, interspersed with cries of protest and a few shouts of jubilation, until Rouleau beat the room into silence with his gavel. Jumbo was smiling, but the magistrate looked shocked. John's heart sank.

"Gentlemen," the judge said to the jury, unable to contain his anger, "you have failed in your duty to this court. As such, this court cannot and will not accept your verdict. I direct you back to my chambers to reconsider the evidence presented to you by counsel."

He rapped his gavel and the jury filed once more from the courtroom. One hour later, they returned. The judge addressed the foreman. "You have had time to reconsider the evidence. I will ask you now if you all still agree with the not guilty verdict."

The foreman looked sheepish. "No, Your Honour. Some disagree."

Rouleau was furious. "The constable will return the prisoner to his cell and this court will call for a new trial." He gave the jury a disdainful look. "You are dismissed!"

John waited for a new trial to testify again. He hoped this time for an outcome more favourable to the court's point of view, and he wasn't alone in his thinking. Now that the details of the murder were out, there was open talk around town of a lynching, and Jumbo was under constant guard. The verdict even angered the Tribune's editor, who wrote, "The idea which seems to possess the minds of some people that because a crime is committed against an Indian, therefore the crime is lessened, is inhumane in the extreme."

The second trial for Jumbo began three weeks later. Charles Rouleau presided again, and counsel had not changed, but a new jury of nine men was sworn in. The proceedings were a mirror image of what had gone before. This time, after the summations, Rouleau instructed the jury members that if they found the prisoner guilty, they must also decide whether it was murder or manslaughter. John reckoned it was a way of providing an option for those jury members who did not want to see Jumbo hanged. They left to deliberate and were back two hours later with a verdict of manslaughter.

John was not at all happy. Jumbo was still getting away with murder as far as he was concerned. The man had always wanted to kill an Indian and he had found an easy victim: a defenceless, intoxicated girl. John sensed that Rouleau was not happy either and had no doubt accepted the verdict because it was the best he could hope for. However, one thing within his power was to impose on Fisk the maximum sentence: fourteen years of hard labour in Stony Mountain Penitentiary, which, according to Jack, was the prison that held Big Bear and other rebellious Indians. That Fisk would have to spend those years within the walls that also confined a race of people he despised offered no small degree of solace.

John was at the train station unloading goods on the day Fisk left for the prison in Manitoba. It was raining and a cold wind gusted out of the north as a democrat wagon carrying Jumbo and his escort splashed up the muddy street. Both sat in the back beneath an awning, Jumbo securely trussed for the journey. A short chain with fetters bound his ankles and a thick leather strap extended up to join manacles on his wrists. The escort, a burly constable, had to help him down from the wagon and he shuffled onto the platform and onto the train. It was one of the few welcome scenes John would remember from his stay in Calgary, thanks to a colour-blind judge who did not let a bigoted jury compromise his sense of justice.

Newspaper stories of the trial had raised John's profile in town-in a positive light, he hoped. He had believed that it would put an end to visits by the police every time they had an unsolved crime, but they came once more, this time about the theft of a horse. He could only shake his head. He ached to be sarcastic and say, "Yes, of course, I stole the horse. It's in my room at the Turf Club. I left the door open for you 'cause I knew you'd be askin'." But such humour was futile and so was arguing, so he answered their questions with a politeness he did not feel. To add another blow, the reception he received during his walks around town had not improved much, although he sometimes elicited a smile and a nod of h.e.l.lo among the baleful stares and the heads turned away. He would have been pleased if the store manager had invited him inside to work, but that never happened. Spring arrived and it was time to say goodbye to Jack and the I.G. Baker Company, and to Calgary. He wondered when he would be able to walk its streets without feeling the strong undercurrent of intolerance for any person whose skin colour was not white. Probably not any time soon.

THIRTEEN.

Never heard tell of any servants around here.

Early on a May morning, John was back in a saddle again and well into the rolling hills south of Calgary. Spring had come to the foothills as it does to no other place in the world. The smell of earth free from snow cloaked the breeze spilling out of the west, and colourful wildflowers daubed the slopes. The gra.s.s was the very definition of green, and adding to the spectacle was the backdrop of snowcapped peaks. He had decided not to return to the Bar U and to go instead to the Quorn Ranch. In his mind, he had laid Duffy to rest, along with Emmett, and could get on with his life. The Quorn would provide a fresh start.

When he arrived at the ranch, there was not an idle hand as everyone prepared for the roundup, readying wagons and horses and mending harnesses and tack. Many of the buildings were still under construction, predominantly barns, of which Barter had said there would ultimately be five.

"I've plenty of work for ye," the manager said, stroking his grey goatee. "I could use ye on the roundup, but I've got a far better job to offer if ye're interested. Why don't ye stow your bedroll in the bunkhouse and we'll talk about it after supper. Ye won't be disappointed. The bunkhouse is over there." Barter pointed to a long, low building across from the barns. "Grab yerself any free bunk. The washhouse is in behind. Ye'll hear the bell when supper's ready, then follow the stampeding men."

The details that Barter laid out after supper excited John. Five hundred broncos would be arriving soon from the south, all mares. Coming from the east by train to Calgary were a dozen thoroughbred stallions to service them. John's responsibilities were to ensure the stallions had their way with the mares, break those of both genders needed for riding or working, and tend to the animals' needs. In two days, he would return to Calgary to pick up the stallions, along with five hunting dogs that were to be s.h.i.+pped with them. On the same train, straight out from England, would be three relatives of the Quorn's owners, who were coming to experience ranch life in the Canadian west. Barter made a face at the idea of it.

"As if there isn't enough to do around here without catering to a bunch of English n.o.blemen. Probably prigs-arrogant a.r.s.es if ye catch me drift. I can think of better ways to spend our money, too." He sighed in resignation. "Well, in the meantime, ye can make yerself useful and lend a hand building the barns. Forty a month for ye, John. All I want is yer word that ye'll stick around for a while and not be gone in the mornin' like some Limerick gypsy."

"I ain't goin' nowhere. Leastways, not just yet."

They sealed the agreement with a handshake.

Two days later, as the roosters crowed in the dawn, John was trundling in a buckboard into Calgary to pick up the Quorn's guests, the horses, and the dogs. He was curious about the n.o.blemen but the horses and dogs thrilled him most. As the train pulled into the station, he was not pleased that he had to greet the Englishmen first.

Barter had been right in his sight-unseen a.s.sessment of his guests. They were standoffish, their noses as high in the air as a fine stallion's but with less of a reason to be there, John thought. All three wore derby hats above pallid faces, their clothes cut from fine cloth. They looked out of place, but their att.i.tude seemed to indicate it was the place's problem and not theirs. One, a short, stocky man with a square jaw, languid eyes, red-veined cheekbones, and an officious att.i.tude introduced himself as Mister Leechman.

"May I present Lord and Earl Wootton," he said.

It was not a question and he emphasized the t.i.tles. Both men were as thin as. .h.i.tching posts, of medium height, with fair hair and aquiline facial features. John presumed they were brothers, in their early twenties, and saw nothing n.o.ble about them. They might have been born into privilege but that did not mean they were men of substance. That was true of plantation owners and he suspected that it was also true of British n.o.blemen. Neither of them offered to shake hands with him, but he stuck his out anyway.

"John Ware." He smiled. "Which of you is Lloyd and which is Earl?"

Leechman blanched. "That's Lord Wootton and Earl Wootton. Lord and Earl. They are peerage t.i.tles, you must understand, not names."

John's smile widened. "It might be better all the way around to forget those fancy t.i.tles here. At least with me, 'cause I ain't ever gonna use 'em anyway. Not likely anyone else will either, so best you tell me your names."

The men looked at John's outstretched hand as if it carried some deadly disease. He could see their discomfort and figured no one had ever spoken to them like that before, particularly a coloured man in wrinkled, dusty clothes, dirty boots, and a Stetson hat. They seemed both aghast and fl.u.s.tered. Leechman puffed himself up.

"You are a servant?"

It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

John shook his head. "Never heard tell of any servants around here, and there sure ain't none where you're goin'. Might as well get used to it."

It might have been John's size that intimidated them, and that he didn't cast his eyes downward; he had not done that for any man since he had been a slave. Or perhaps it was the gun he carried on his belt. Whatever the case, Leechman said nothing further and the brothers remained silent. John wondered if Barter had purposely sent him to greet them as a way of reducing their expectations before they even got to the ranch.

Since their first names were not forthcoming, John let it go. He had horses and dogs to think about. He and Leechman put the luggage in the buckboard, everyone climbed on, and they drove to the unloading ramps for stock.

The stallions were magnificent beasts, seventeen hands if they were an inch, and all as black as anthracite. They were blue bloods who strutted with their heads high and their tails off their rumps, equine royalty who seemed to view the rest of the animal kingdom as mere filler. John had never felt so good about life as he did at that instant. He knew fine horseflesh when he saw it, and these were the very best. To be responsible for them was no less than a privilege. He said to them, as he tied them in two strings behind the wagon, "Ah, the ladies are goin' to love you boys!"

The dogs were fine animals, too, large hounds that whimpered and barked and wagged their tails, and recognized a pack leader when they saw one. The men and the small menagerie set out for the ranch, John and Leechman on the front seat, the Woottons behind on an extra bench seat that had been installed for the occasion. The dogs had stretched out on top of the luggage and the horses trailed behind.

Back at the ranch, John told Barter that the Englishmen had not spoken a word to him on the way down from Calgary, other than to ask where all the buffalo were. "If I was them, I woulda asked a heap more questions, bein' in a new country and all."

Barter laughed. "They didn't know what to make of ye, John. They thought ye were lyin' about not bein' a servant and insisted that I dismiss ye for yer impertinence. I told them I'd do that when those mountains over yonder crumble into dust. They didn't like it, but I think they'll come around. They really don't have much choice. If they don't come to terms with it, their stay'll seem a lot longer than planned."

He put John in charge of selecting horses for the guests. "Gentle is the watchword. Inasmuch as it could be good fun, we don't want to send our guests home with any fractured bones. We'll never hear the end of it."

John culled three mares for the guests, sweet-tempered animals that were unlikely to embarra.s.s their riders. At Barter's request, he saddled and bridled the animals. He also tended to the horses when the men returned from their ride, which was bewildering to John. A rider's responsibility was more than just sitting in the saddle; he ought to look after the horse himself. If he did not know how, he should have someone teach him. John was prepared to be that teacher, but the visitors were not interested in learning. Even more perplexing were the English flat saddles that they insisted on using. John called these "sweat pads" and considered them an insult to any horse worth riding.

The hounds had been brought to the ranch so that the English visitors, as well as a few neighbours of English stock, could partake in something akin to a traditional fox hunt. The obvious lack of foxes in the area was no deterrent, for there were plenty of coyotes. That their host considered them prey surprised the Englishmen, who held a rather romantic view of the animal sitting on a hilltop howling at the moon. But to ranchers, coyotes were vermin and fair game for any man with a gun. Hunting them down with dogs, if not efficient, might at least prove to be fun.

Barter arranged a hunt for the forthcoming Sunday and invited John along, in case anything went wrong. A dozen men and the five hounds, with Fred Stimson taking the lead, rode out in the morning, heading west into the foothills. The sun radiated intense heat and there was not a breath of wind. Stopping even for a few seconds was enough to bring swarms of mosquitoes down upon the group. The Woottons, whose first names John had learned were Harold and Alfred, seemed bothered the most by them and were not shy about complaining. The rest of the group offered no sympathy.

The visitors sat their horses well enough, when they were not pumping up and down, which struck John as a strange way to ride. The small bit of arrogance that he had knocked out of them the day they arrived had crept back, and they kept trying to take the lead. Stimson told them clearly to stay behind, that he was the leader. The order did not sit well with either of the Woottons, but they grudgingly complied.

Then Stimson spotted a coyote along a creek bank about the same time as the animal heard the group's approach. The dogs saw it and let loose a cacophony of baying and barking. They tore off in pursuit, with the riders on their tails. Harold, ignoring Stimson's order, quirted his horse in an effort to gain the lead. John, with less enthusiasm for this kind of sport, was bringing up the rear. The coyote veered to the left and the dogs and horses followed, as if they were on a line connected to it. The hunting party traversed a rough patch of ground and Harold's horse stumbled. One second he was in the saddle and the next he was tumbling to the ground. Focused on the hunt, the rest of the group did not bother stopping, but John rode over to Harold, who had risen to his feet, and, reaching down, scooped up the Englishman under one arm, like a sack of flour at the I.G. Baker warehouse. John spurred his horse forward, with Harold lying crossways on his lap yelling, "I say! "

John grabbed Harold's mount, which had stopped fifty yards ahead, and rode on to rejoin the group. The dogs had brought the coyote down. There were shouts of, "Good sport, good sport!" Harold, whom John deposited on the ground, was happy to be there for the kill, even considering his ignominious arrival. Stimson, who had witnessed the rescue, grinned. "That was the neatest trick I've ever seen, boys. You two ought to be working for Buffalo Bill's Wild West show. Old Bill'd be turning customers away at the gate!"

Everyone laughed, including Harold, although he reddened and looked embarra.s.sed.

The incident turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. Harold's att.i.tude changed the instant John lifted him off the ground. Barter would later say, with his tongue stuck only partially in his cheek, that it was because Harold had a bit of the damsel in him and any damsel in distress appreciated being rescued by a big, strong man. No matter the reason, it transformed the British lord's stuffiness into respect and freed him to start asking questions of John. He even sought John's advice in matters concerning horses, and asked about the long drives from Texas and Idaho. John showed the brothers how to sit a western saddle and even gave them lessons in roping. With Barter's permission, he took them on a tour of the area and showed them an Indian encampment. By the time the brothers had to return to England, they and John had become companions.

On the eve of their departure, Barter held a small soiree in his visitors' honour. People came from the surrounding ranches to join the fun on one of those perfect prairie nights that made people forget the man-eating insects and harsh winters. John even polished his boots with some soot from the bunkhouse stove. Only the n.o.blemen dressed in near-formal attire. Harold wore a Prince Albert coat, a long, well-tailored, doubled-breasted garment that John couldn't tear his eyes from, deeming it the finest article of clothing he had ever seen. He told Harold so.

Harold said, "If I thought for one moment this coat would fit, John, I would give it to you this very instant. But you have my word that upon my arrival in England I shall have my tailor do one up for you." He eyed John up and down. "The largest size, I expect. G.o.d knows what use you'll find for it in this amazing country, but you can wear it hunting coyotes if you wish. Whatever the case, you shall own one!"

The gesture caught John off guard and he did not quite know how to respond. When he had gathered his wits, he protested Harold's generosity.

"Not at all," demurred Harold. "If the coat helps atone in some small way for my reprehensible behaviour upon my arrival here, it will make me very happy."

The summer pa.s.sed and John continued working with the horses. In the fall, more Englishmen arrived for a visit, much to Barter's consternation, and, given their amicable response to John, he reckoned that they had received some coaching from the Woottons. And Harold was as good as his word, for the visitors brought a package. John opened it to find the Prince Albert coat he had been promised. Accompanying it was a note that read, "With appreciation and best wishes, from Harold."

FOURTEEN.

Mostly, you just felt powerless.

Despite job offers from other ranchers, as well as from Fred Stimson at the Bar U, John stayed on at the Quorn. He now had more than two dozen of his own cattle, growing fat with the Bar U herds, which would be the genesis of his own ranch one day, but he did not want to leave what he considered to be the best job in the world. Besides, the horses were like family to him.

As the winter of 1886 approached, there were more than a hundred thousand head of cattle on the ranges south of Calgary. The summer had been hot and dry, with less rain as usual, and gra.s.s wasn't plentiful. Some of the ranges were suffering from overgrazing, and many ranchers were unable to stock up on feed for the winter. Any hay for sale was going for the outrageous sum of twenty dollars a load. Winter came on, relentless as a tsunami, and shut the door on any chance of a chinook arriving to warm things up. The price of hay rose precipitously to thirty dollars a wagonload. By the time spring rolled around, many thousands of cattle had died, as well as hundreds of deer, antelope, and rabbits, and the animals that survived were starving. The coyotes, wolves, and Indians had a bountiful season, the frozen prairie a larder full of meat for them.

The Quorn's losses were staggering, particularly among its calves, and John lost more than half of his cattle. Most of the ranchers were beginning to have second thoughts about maintaining large herds and were considering diversifying. A man could also make money with horses, which handled the winters much better, as they had the sense to paw down through the snow to find food. Cattle, on the other hand, would stand there and starve to death.

To compound matters, more and more settlers were moving into the area and fencing off good rangeland for their own use. Ranchers were having to drive their cattle around these properties during roundup and were not happy about it. And it didn't help that thousands of sheep had been brought into the area as well, occupying good cattle-grazing land. The air in the district crackled with tension.

Despite the catastrophic winter and tumultuous changes, John was still determined to have a cattle ranch, but now he reasoned that he should supplement it with horses. He also knew that there was not enough gra.s.s for hay on his homestead and that he would have to find another place, possibly farther up the Sheep River.

The good news was that he had done his job uniting the thoroughbred stallions with the mares, and in the spring of 1887, the Quorn was fat with foals. Ironically, it sold many of its horses to settlers, the very people encroaching on its grazing land. Barter brought in a hundred good-quality mares from Ireland and a few English thoroughbred stallions to breed them, and the work kept John busy.

That summer Barter asked John if he would help the Bar U out by taking a few hundred of their four-year-old cattle to Calgary for s.h.i.+pment. Barter had several dry cows that he wanted to include, and he and Fred Stimson felt John was the best man to take charge of the drive. John was not keen to return to the town that had pulled its welcome mat out from under him twice, but there was a nice bonus in it for him, which meant an opportunity to increase his stock. Besides, his father had said that a man might try something twice and fail, but the third time was always lucky.

He held the drive to a leisurely pace so that the cattle could eat and not lose weight; even so, the time pa.s.sed faster than he would have liked because he was not looking forward to the destination. But Stimson had given him a fine crew of five likable young men with good cattle sense and no fear of hard work, and he was pleased with how smoothly the drive went. They arrived on the outskirts of Calgary around noon on the fourth day and set up camp. The next day, they got half of the herd on the train and penned the other half for s.h.i.+pment the following day. Once the work was complete, John asked the crew, "What'll it be, boys, food first or beer?"

Jimmy Vernam, a tough, sinewy youth who had ridden on point with John, spoke for the group. "Food's plenty enough at the ranch. Beer isn't."

They liveried their horses, and the town lay before the young cowboys like a beckoning oasis. For John, it was akin to entering a corral with an unknown bronco. He did not know how it would react, but he was determined to ride it anyway.

Downtown Calgary had changed since his last visit, as several sandstone buildings now stood in places once occupied by wooden structures. These included the Royal Hotel, which had a bar and was the first one they came to.

"This seems as good a place as any to wash out the trail dust," John said, and they went in.

He bought the first two rounds; it was the least he could do for their good work since they were not getting the extra pay that he was. Then he told them, "You're spending your own money now, boys. This well's run dry."

He did not bother trying to keep up with them. He was at least twenty years their senior and knew well how too much beer can make a man feel in the morning when there was still work to do. What's more, like most young men, they talked about and among themselves, and did not include John much in the conversation. He refused to think it had anything to do with his colour, more the difference in their ages. It was fine by him, as he found much of what they were saying nonsensical chatter anyway. He sipped his beer and drifted off into pleasant daydreams of his own cattle ranch, a lovely wife, and several beautiful, energetic children running around the place.

Loud voices interrupted his reverie. At first, he thought they came from his imagined sons, but it was only his crew getting noisy from too many drinks and trying to talk over the general din of the bar. He sensed trouble and suggested that they take a break to eat, and since the Bar U was paying for it, there was a chorus of agreement. The boys downed their beers and went off unsteadily to the p.i.s.s troughs in a backroom. John waited at the table and when he saw them coming out, joined them at the main door. Sitting nearby, a drunk with an American Southern accent said in a loud, abrasive voice, "Next time you boys oughta leave your n.i.g.g.e.r servant at home! He don't belong here!"

Jimmy Vernam sneered. "He isn't our servant, mac. He's our boss."

"The boss of what? Didn't know we had a n.i.g.g.e.r Town here."

"You mean-mouthed son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Jimmy was about to go for the man when John grabbed him by the arm.

"Whoa, Jimmy, we don't need none of that. Let's go."

John's ire was up too, but he kept it out of his voice, knowing that trouble here would only lead to more trouble later. He motioned with his head for the rest of the crew to follow and steered Jimmy out the door before a melee erupted. He heard the drunk call, "Go back where you come from, n.i.g.g.e.r boy!"