The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  Frank Adams felt his own hackles rise. He imagined his fist in Pete Belton’s mush. Still, nothing about Davis seemed to change.

  “We’ll see in Africa,” he said, “which horse goes farther.”

  “My horse’s tail? You expect me to forget that?”

  Davis looked at the tail. “That’s not a bite.”

  “Course it’s a fucking bite! We all saw that bitch do it! Didn’t we, boys?”

  The others would not meet Pete’s eye. It had happened in an instant. The big horse kicking, the cayuse lunging, hitting the end of her rope. Callaghan left Frank and Eddy to hold Pete’s horse while he looked at the tail. He shrugged, unconvinced.

  “This is chickenshit!” said Pete Belton. “Goddamn Indian horse bites mine. Goddamn Indian says I didn’t see what I saw!”

  Even now, when it was personal, Davis did not rise.

  “You’re chickenshit, just like your uncle.”

  “What uncle?” asked Davis.

  “That Red Crow. My Pa says, when that murdering bastard Charcoal said he wanted to kill Red Crow, your old uncle never slept once in his own bed till Charcoal was jailed.”

  The motion that came was more smooth than violent. Suddenly, Davis’s fist was wrapped in Belton’s shirt and Belton was moving backwards toward the unblocked door. Belton flailed and grabbed but could not stop himself until his boot heels hit the shallow sill. Davis pushed a little more and most of Pete Belton was outside, the ice wind thrashing his clothes. With small effort, Davis had him at the point of balance where a little shove would shoot him off, a little pull would save him. When Pete saw his giant brother come up behind Jeff, he yelled in fright, “Eddy, no!”

  A few more seconds passed. Then Davis said, “You don’t know Red Crow or Charcoal. You better not talk about either one again.”

  Then came the little tug that brought Pete back indoors. When Davis let him go, there was a comical jerk backwards and Pete almost threw himself out the door. Davis knelt down, placed the repair board, and started pounding nails and crimping their ends.

  Callaghan went to the door and swung out of it to the ladder. He climbed to the next car and came back with a can of grease that he gave Pete Belton for his horse. Then, Davis threw his jacket over his blue cayuse’s head, and they all worked together backing Belton’s horse into its stall.

  Jeff Davis finished with his stall door and put his coat back on. When he was in the open doorway, about to climb the ladder, he said to them, “You should all check your horses’ tails.”

  Frank Adams stayed long enough to see Casey Callaghan be the first to do it. His horse was in the same front-facing four as Davis’s blue and the Beltons’ two. He climbed up and struck a match to see by.

  “By Christ,” he said, “my horse’s tail is raw too.”

  When Callaghan finished with the grease can and climbed back out, he pointed behind Jeff Davis’s blue. A bag hung behind the mare’s ass, half filled with hay. A pad.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “These horses facing backwards must be grinding themselves on the wall.”

  Frank didn’t stay for the rest. He swung to the outside ladder and began the frigid journey to his car. A few days earlier, he had seen Jeff Davis place that hay pad. Though Frank’s horse was facing front and was maybe not as likely to get hurt, he had half-filled a gunny sack with hay and stuck it behind Dunny’s ass anyway. Frank had not figured out all that backward-forward stuff, but if a smart person did a thing, Frank did it too. It saved time and energy.

  Winnipeg/Ottawa/Halifax

  At Winnipeg, the Mounted Rifles were celebrated with bands and speeches, and a large cheering crowd. Because a few of their men were from St. John’s College, other students from there showed up with a big farewell banner.

  But when Frank looked at the local newspaper during that stop, he got a shock. The Mounted Rifles were not the lead story. Front and centre, was the news that Lord Strathcona, a wealthy part-owner of the Canadian Pacific Railway, had decided to create a mounted infantry unit for the Boer War. It was called Lord Strathcona’s Horse, and the wealthy peer was outfitting and sending it at his own expense. The second shock, maybe bigger than the first, was that Maj. Sam Steele had been chosen to command Lord Strathcona’s Horse, having given up his second position with the Canadian Mounted Rifles to do so.

  Frank was far from the only one who read about the Strathconas and Steele’s rebuff. It was in all the papers as they went along. By the time they were approaching Ottawa, the Mounted Rifles had worked up a considerable resentment for the Lord Strathconas, to whom they seemed doomed to play second fiddle. They also had a grudge against Sam Steele. His painful riding lesson at Regina had gone from a tough but proud baptism to an abuse they gravely resented.

  Rolling into Ottawa’s station, they were greeted by cheering crowds, brass bands, and politicians waiting with speeches. The Mounted Rifles faced them with a collective frown, knowing how much more tickled and bombastic it would have been if they were Lord Strathcona’s Horse.

  When they entered Quebec, and no crowds showed up at all, the Mounted Rifles did not complain. To ignore them seemed more honest than to celebrate them falsely. Frank was sitting beside Ovide Smith when they rolled past the silent station at St. Flavie, Quebec. Ovide watched out the window as his birthplace passed. Like his townsmen, he had nothing to say.

  The train pulled into Halifax, bucking an ice-cold wind. It was blowing knives as they disembarked and looked upon the frozen crowd huddled in coats, and the brass band risking their lips on their instruments. It struck them that these far-from-home strangers owed them nothing, and yet here they were. The Mounted Rifles were touched and waved heartily to everyone. The crowd hustled them along the icy streets to the armouries where they would sleep.

  The first day and night were solid work. They unloaded their train, got their horses into barns—fed, watered, and brushed. They themselves were turned in among great stacks of clothing and kit, and told to pick out two uniforms: one khaki for work and fighting; one dark green for parade and walking out. Tunics, trousers, shirts, greatcoats, underwear, socks, boots. They were hurried through, and hours of negotiation followed as men tried to trade their way to an acceptable fit.

  As the second day tended toward evening, something like a volatile liquid flowed among them. The night would be their last in Canada, and a chafing expectancy grew more shrill the longer they were kept at work. Finally, a leave was announced, along with a list of cautions and conditions. They hit the streets in a crowd, bound for pleasure and excess. Horse cabbies drove alongside offering to take them faster for a terrible price, and the eager and the well-heeled climbed on.

  In better weather, the Haligonians had helped Canada’s infantrymen celebrate their final night. It was a point of pride to do the same for the Canadian Mounted Rifles, despite the cold and wind. The first priority was to get everyone indoors. Before the soldiers got their courage up to ask the local women to join them for a drink, their arms were hooked and they were dragged off to favourite taverns.

  You could tell a soldier’s intentions by how he dressed. If he had chosen his dress greens, it was likely a show for the ladies. If it was khaki, it suggested heavy drinking and possible fighting. No sense wearing your parade clothes if your destination was the gutter.

  Ovide, Jeff, and Frank were a threesome in khaki. While others crawled the pubs, seeing how many they could drink in—or imagining prettier or less discerning women ahead—these three found a bar with a dark rear table and stayed put.

  They bought beer, and in a bag under the table was a bottle of whisky that had been given to Frank in Winnipeg. A Scotsman with wild white side whiskers had thrust it through the train window, yelling, “Give those Dutchmen hell, sonny!”

  It was Scotch whisky, supposedly superior to Canadian rye. It tasted like swamp water but was excellently strong. They were pleased to have it rollicking in their heads.

  As for women, they were content to leave that to ot
hers. Ovide was extremely shy of women and, if truth be known, Frank only pretended to be bolder. Jeff kept his thoughts on the subject to himself.

  The tavern started out empty, but eventually filled with Mounted Rifles and their women friends—and local men happy to tie one on for the Empire. Old soldiers tried to find an ear in which to pour their stories.

  Then, as if it weren’t loud enough, an Irish band started up: tin flute, fiddle, spoons, a drum. Some women got up to dance, and soldiers hoping to find their way under their skirts blundered around opposite.

  At the table occupied by Smith, Davis, and Adams, there was little conversation. They had hardly spoken when the room was empty. Now that it was full, the din forgave them of any obligation to try. They watched the surge and flow of people until they were mesmerized, each man going somewhere deep in his head.

  This quiet group of three was together for no better reason than that they were the ones who had camped along the boundary line in the Regina barracks. That had somehow led to their horses being in the same end of the same palace car. But, even if all of that was more or less happenstance, Frank wondered whether some actual friendship might result.

  An only child on a ranch full of bachelor cowboys, Frank had known few people who were not adults. As he grew, he was so used to adult company he found children, well, childish. His mother was concerned about this standoffishness and forced him out to play with other children if any were on offer (community picnics; visitors to the Cochranes). A few minutes of their games and their infuriating demands, and Frank would walk off to his own pastimes: diverting a stream into a gopher hole; scooping minnows with his hat; teaching his horse to count.

  When Frank thought friend, he thought of his parents and of Uncle Doc Windham. Doc was not his uncle but a Texan friend of his father’s from their younger years. Doc was also Frank’s godfather, a subject that made Frank’s father laugh and his mother angry whenever it came up. Frank’s mother, Madeleine, was still religious when Frank was born and had insisted there be godparents. She wanted the Billy Cochranes, but, as Doc was visiting at the time, Jim convinced her that ignoring him would be rude. Madeleine had asked Jim if Doc was religious, and Jim had said absolutely. So Doc was asked and accepted. Later, when Madeleine quizzed Doc on religion, she got an earful about theosophy, which was Doc’s brand—whereby rocks and trees had spirits and men and animals used to have a common language. It had been a sore point with his mother ever since.

  If Frank’s father supplied history and cold analysis to Frank’s life, and his mother supplied passion and ferocity, Doc had always been in charge of humour. He taught a view that life was not worth worrying about most of the time. For Frank, this was welcome news, since his father had a penchant for worry and his mother was serious to the point of fury much of the time.

  Besides Doc, there had been the company of other cowboys: some permanent at the ranch, most transient. Frank would have liked their friendship but learned over and over again that cowboys were indifferent to real boys. Uncle Doc, who had been a cowboy since his own childhood, explained it to him. Cowboys were too stuck on themselves to need many other friends, he said. This also explained why their life with women was so fraught. When a cowboy seemed to love a woman (enough to make the woman think of marriage and family), the cowboy was really loving himself and the woman as a kind of reflection of his own splendour. That made the cowboy able to leave without any particular pain. He would find his girlfriend’s histrionics strange and would claim not to understand her. This much was true.

  Doc seldom made any allowances for Frank’s being a child. Frank was ten when Doc explained about cowboys and women. He told him how cowboys tended to prefer the kinds of girls who would please them for money—because they could leave when it was over with no offence given.

  Frank paused in these thoughts and again considered his table-mates. Like most people in Franks life, Ovide was older. Pestered with the question, Ovide had divulged that he was thirty-nine, ancient for a working cowboy and maybe too old for this army. What recommended Ovide was that he was not vain like most cowboys. In fact, he seemed to lack any self at all. You had to glean what he liked from what he did, and that mainly involved horses. After Frank first engaged Ovide in conversation on recruiting day at Ft. Calgary, Ovide had welcomed him whenever they met. Frank was touched, because he imagined this was not Ovide’s way with most people. Tonight’s roar of noise and sea of humanity must have been unpleasant for the old cowboy but Ovide was doing his best to be a good sport.

  The story was wholly different with Jeff Davis. Frank had met Jeff on the Blood Reserve years ago when an old Indian named Badger Claw had insisted on it. Frank was looking for a missing Cochrane Ranch cow when Badger Claw dragged him all the way to Red Crow’s camp, where Jeff was visiting his uncle. Jeff was probably over twenty by then and Frank maybe fifteen. Davis’s response to Frank was cold and almost hostile.

  Bear Claw was horrified at Jeff’s reaction. He scolded Jeff in Blackfoot and apologized to Frank as they rode away. But Frank was not offended, for he thought he understood. From his parents, Frank had heard the story about Davis the whisky trader-politician having an Indian wife and then parting with her to marry a white schoolteacher. Frank also knew that Jeff had left Macleod to live with his Indian mother, and sometimes with his uncle, Red Crow. What he saw in it was a fellow trying to become Indian, and having a hard time. When Badger Claw dragged Frank miles to introduce him to Jeff, it meant Badger Claw saw them both as whites who spoke some Blackfoot.

  But here in the army, it was different. Frank was not certain why it had changed, but he would put his bet on when: the moment he and Davis had stared at each other after Herchmer’s telegram said Jeff was in. Jeff’s look had said, You’re part Indian, and I know it. Franks look had said, Thanks for keeping quiet. Glad we both made it.

  Ovide had set a fresh jug of foamy beer on the cloth when Fred Morden and his Pincher Creek crew entered the bar. Morden was still wearing the sling on his left arm, and his Mounted Rifles Stetson was tipped back. Robert Kerr and the older of the two Miles brothers had found girlfriends and looked very pleased with themselves. The younger Miles, Henry, looked befuddled. The Belton brothers came last in the line.

  Close to the entrance, a table had vacated and the Pincher boys grabbed it. Half sat down while the rest mined the room for chairs. Morden was the exception. He wandered around shaking hands. Frank checked and saw that Ovide and Jeff were watching Morden too.

  Finally, Morden saw the three of them in their corner. His look became even brighter and pinker. He pushed through the crowd, and when he arrived he asked if they were having a good time and could he buy them a drink? Davis pointed at the jug of beer. Morden had done the polite thing and was free to leave, but before he could, Pete Belton came up behind and pushed past him. He shoved his angry face at Jeff Davis.

  “I hope yer goddamn satisfied.” The look slid off. His eyes were like two children trying to stay on a rolling log.

  “Satisfied with what?” asked Jeff.

  “My goddamn horse is dog-sick with fever. Vet might not let him on the ship. All cause-a yer goddamn cayuse.”

  No one spoke or looked at Pete. The three at the table knew it was untrue. Since Morden did not know, and because he was the one with the corporal’s stripes, Frank decided to explain.

  “Jeff’s horse did nothing to Pete’s.”

  “You shut up!” yelled Pete. “This ain’t your fight!”

  “This isn’t a fight,” said Jeff, in a mild way that made Belton worse.

  “It goddamn should be and it goddamn will be!”

  Pete lunged. A comical surprise loomed on his face when his hands did not reach Jeff Davis. Morden had shoved an arm in between and held him up. Now Morden got in front of Belton and gave him a square shove. Belton glanced off Ovide’s chair and hit the wall. An old print of one ship blasting another fell to the floor.

  “You’re a soldier now,” said Morden. “Act like one
.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you” was Belton’s answer.

  Morden was a corporal, and Pete did have to listen, but Morden let the chance to make this point go by. Belton pushed past and wrestled through to where his brother Eddy sat. Pete hauled him to his feet and pushed him outside.

  Adams was feeling the Scotch like a tide of sleep rolling at him and could not bear the idea that Morden might say more, some apology or lesson. But, when Frank looked up again, Morden was gone.

  Frank remembered no more than this, including how he found his way back to the armouries.

  Next morning, half of Halifax was gathered at the pier. They yelled and waved handkerchiefs and the odd British flag. A line of soldiers, each leading two horses, threaded its way past the crowd and up the gangplank to be swallowed man and animal into the bowels of the ship.

  It went along like the workings of a machine. Even the waving looked mechanical. The bands and cheering, the knocking sound of the unshod hooves on the pier: the sound fused into something solid, something every motion must push through.

  When the marching suddenly stopped, it took a moment to see why. Then all heads turned to a commotion on the gangplank. A heavy horse rose on its hind legs and twisted in the air. It came down with such clumsy weight that the whole plank shuddered and all the other horses danced to regain their footing. One hoof on the wild horse slid sideways, stabbed through the rope sides, and pawed the air before it was jerked back. When the horse found its footing again, it kicked and struck the horse behind. It kicked again and hit a man so hard he keeled over the rope and had to be grabbed by the shirt to keep from falling. All down the plank, horses were fighting to get away, men struggling not to be trampled.

  The horse at the top went up again, its back legs braced and quivering. Then came a double report from a revolver. On the third shot, the big horse bent in the air until its big head led the way down. The brown body toppled over the rope and flipped slowly upside down as it fell. The view was suddenly cut off by the pier’s grey line. Hundreds waited for a splash they could not hear. Like some awkward angel, Pete Belton’s horse had ceased to be in silence.