by Larry Stuart
the horizon, but as time passed, an occasional irregular smudge would appear, which as they drew nearer became an area of brush or small copse of trees.
The poles marking the previously surveyed roadbed soon ran out, but when George did not stop as expected, Cameron said nothing, having already learned not to question the actions of his guide.
As the sun climbed overhead, the day’s first lesson was absorbed. The reflected glare from the sun would probably have blinded Cameron, had it not been for George’s strange glasses. Four hours later, they finally stopped at the edge of a partly-frozen stream bordered by sheltering trees; and by the time they had applied the finishing touches to their campsite it was nearly dark.
The day had really been just one big lesson, thought Cameron, as his mind went over the last ten hours. Making camp had reminded him of his first few minutes with George, when he had stood in the warehouse not knowing where to start. On arrival at the campsite, they had positioned the wagons to provide two sides to their shelter, with the copse of trees making up a third. Then, the horses had been fed and watered, before being led into a temporary corral constructed with poles cut from the trees. Only then did they start to organize their own accommodation.
To Cameron’s surprise, the two tents were not meant as separate accommodation – one tent being placed inside the other to provide a degree of thermal protection from the weather. The stove was then positioned onto a granite slab in the centre of the floor, followed by its chimney being fed through a specially lined collar sewn into the roof of both tents. Conifer branches were laid against the outsides of the tent to provide more insulation, and lastly, smaller boughs were put on the floor of their two sleeping areas – primarily as insulation from the cold ground, but also to provide some degree of comfort beneath their sleeping bags.
What had at seemed to Cameron like an awful lot of work for just one night finally made sense when, on questioning George, he discovered that these encampments were to be much more than just an overnight resting place.
The intermittent beat of flapping canvass broke into Cameron’s dream, wrenching him from his sleep. At the same time, a freezing gust of air struck him in the face, when George, half covered in snow, re-entered the tent with an armful of wood. Rummaging about in one of the boxes stacked against the rear wall, George finally grunted with success, when his hand emerged with a worn, deer-skin bag. Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air; and Cameron sprang out of bed, quickly donning his clothes and boots.
For the next thirty minutes, he and his companion sat drinking coffee. To Cameron’s ear, the wind seemed to be increasing in strength, and now, along with the continuous beat of the tent’s walls, he could hear the swishing sounds of the boughs on the nearby pines swaying back and forth in the stiffening breeze.
Swallowing the last of his coffee, Cameron got up, readying himself to go out and get on with their job.
‘No work today! Too much wind…snow come.’
‘Oh. Well…If we have to stay around here all day, it might be a good time for you to teach me how to use those new guns we’ve been given.’
Two cups of coffee later, the men were sufficiently motivated to go outside. Cameron headed towards his cart, and after digging around below the seat and carefully moving aside his instruments, he retrieved the rifles and ammo. Meanwhile, George headed into the nearby woods to find suitable trees on which to carve out some targets.
The two of them met at a fallen trunk, in a clearing about two hundred yards into the trees. Cameron opened the catches on the face of the long wooden case and, as he lifted the hinged top, two gleaming rifles were revealed. Hefting one out, George placed the stock against his right shoulder, sighting down the barrel. This was the first breech-loading gun either man had ever seen, but within a few minutes, George had worked out the difference between these and the old muzzle-loading guns like the Snider-Enfield.
The Martini-Henry was fitted with a modified rear sight, which George soon got to grips with, hitting the centre of the targets on nearly all of his shots. Cameron, on the other hand, was another story. He’d never fired a rifle in his life.
Three times that day, they ventured out onto their improvised firing range, where Cameron continued to practice until the cold made his hands useless. By the time the light began to fade, the student was not exactly what one would call a crack shot, but he could confidently handle the firearm and was regularly hitting the medium distance targets. George reckoned his ‘eye…not bad’ and arm ‘almost steady’ and ‘maybe with much practice become hunter’, which, coming from an Indian, was probably as good a compliment as he could expect.
The following morning at daybreak, an insistent push on his shoulder woke Cameron. The coffee pot was already on the stove belching its tainted cloud; and moments later, a metal cup arced its way through the air towards Cameron from the other side of the tent, awakening him fully as he was forced to dodge out of its path.
‘Come…wagon ready. Lost much time.’
‘Since when did you become so talkative in the morning?’ yawned Cameron.
‘Since I know…only way…get you out of bed.’
For the first time, the Indian’s eyes appeared warmer, and Cameron thought he may even have detected a slight glimmer of a smile, before George quickly turned away and busied himself tidying up his sleeping space.
Over the next two weeks, a routine was established which saw good progress towards the west. Each day they would ride out to the survey line at daybreak, returning to camp just before sunset. Then after a meal, usually prepared by George, they would retire to the tent, where Cameron would complete the task of updating his survey map before crawling into bed.
If the weather held, every fourth day would be spent moving camp another twenty miles or so. However, after the third such move, it was becoming obvious to Cameron
that problems lay ahead. As if reading his mind, George interrupted Cameron’s thoughts, late one afternoon while they were bedding down the horses for the night.
‘We need…take break. Now, no meat… almost no wood. Tomorrow we shoot deer…then cut more poles.’
The glimmer of light in the awakening sky was just enough to change the blackness of night into a dark shade of grey, allowing the top of the bank on the other side of the stream to become visible.
The two men lay motionless under a hide of branches and conifer boughs. Cameron slowly traversed his rifle from left to right and back again, willing a target to show itself over his sights. They had been in this position for over two hours to ensure they were well hidden before the deer came down for their early morning drink. Most of the snow had melted the week before, but the mornings were still frosty and the ground cold and wet. Cameron was sure his toes must be frostbitten as they no longer felt attached to his feet. His hands and fingers were still warm, thanks to his fur-lined mittens, but they wouldn’t remain so for long because George had just signalled it was time to prepare for the shot, forcing both men to discard their hands protectors.
A few minutes later, George’s finger pushed against the breech of Cameron’s gun, forcing him to traverse towards the right. At first Cameron saw nothing. But then, a subtle change in the shade of grey on the far bank drew his attention. While he concentrated on that spot, the almost imperceptible slurp of a hoof sinking into the mud at the water’s edge gave away the position of their prey.
‘Get ready,’ George whispered.
Cameron lined-up his rear sight over the small post at the front of the barrel.
‘Three…two…one…fire!’
When the two guns fired, the noise was tremendous. At the same time, the birds who only seconds before had begun their early morning chorus, screeched, rising into the air as one and madly flapping their wings to get as much height and distance as possible from the danger lurking below. The thunder of galloping hooves then became the dominant sound, as the resounding crack of the rifles drifted away down the valley.
T
he two men rose from their hide, hurrying down the bank as fast as their stiff legs and numb feet would allow.
‘Well…somebody missed.’
George said nothing while the two of them stepped carefully from stone to stone across the stream. Lying on its side, obviously dead, was a white-spotted buck bearing a large set of antlers.
‘Ten points,’ George remarked. ‘Buck five years old …so make good food. I skin and prepare meat…you take axe… and cut trees for poles. Plenty small tree in wood…there,’ he said pointing back across the stream. ‘I shout when need help to carry meat.’
Cameron knew he was not the most experienced of hunters, but when he bent over to
look at the wound in the deer’s side, it was blatantly obvious that two bullets had penetrated the animal behind its shoulder.
‘Want to make sure buck not run…then die bad. Not do next time…you make good shot.’
By the end of the day, the survey wagon was again refilled with stakes and the wood supply for their little stove had been fully replenished. The antlers had been cut off the head of the buck, and the hide rolled and tied into a large bundle to be dealt with at a later date. Their large, leather meat bag was once again full and was back in its usual position suspended ten feet in the air by a rope attached to a stout branch. Cameron still found it hard to believe that bears might be around way out here; and in hindsight, really should have known better than to express those doubts to George.
That night, the two men gorged themselves on venison. At the same time, strips of meat were being smoked outside in George’s special oven made from branches and conifer boughs. According to him, the resulting dried meat would then be beaten together with fat and berries to form a leathery food called pemmican, which would provide a nourishing emergency food supply.
The following morning, as Cameron was finishing off his morning cup of coffee, George stuck his head in the tent.
‘Come!’
Returning to the site of the previous days kill, George pointed to the mud at the side of the stream. Cameron didn’t need to be told what animal had footprints almost a foot in length, with five large pads and claws to match.
The rest of the weeks leading up to Cameron’s Christmas deadline followed their established routine, and in what seemed like no time at all the day had arrived to head back to Brandon.
They had reached the eastern edge of a wide valley, and as far as the eye could see there was nothing but the endless plain. By his calculations, he and George had staked out the route for a further one hundred and thirty miles, which hopefully, would prove to be more than enough to keep the General Manager happy.
The following day, Cameron and George packed up their camp and headed for home. On the first night of their return journey, after quickly setting up just one tent, neither seemed ready to go to sleep after crawling into their beds. This was the beginning of eight days of talking long into the night, and by the time they reached Brandon, Cameron’s partner and guide had become a good friend.
One night, they talked about families: Cameron discovering that George’s wife was called Lomasi, which in English meant pretty flower, and that he had two young boys called Running Deer and Swift Antelope; while in return, Cameron told George about Catherine, and his first wife Mary, but for the time being, did not mention he also had a son, whose name was Alex.
On another night, Cameron learned some of the history of the Blackfoot tribe: how, in
the beginning they had welcomed the arrival of Europeans and their horses, but had been made to pay dearly when thirty years ago their population had been decimated by a white man’s disease called smallpox.
George listened with interest, as Cameron explained how he and his countrymen had lost their land to invaders from the south. And how he had left his home to try and find a better life for himself in Canada. Strangely similar, thought George, to what had happened to the Blackfoot nation, when their lands had been taken from them in the U.S.A. and most had fled to Canada.
Four days into their return journey, they were overwhelmed by another blizzard and were forced to seek shelter on the edge of a forest. When the weather had still not improved by the end of the following day, George decided it was time to catch some small game, as once again, they were running short of food.
‘Maybe we should bring some traps with us when we come back next year. My father used them all the time, and he had no trouble catching rabbits, grouse and even geese.’
George fixed Cameron with a stony eye, signalling his disdain at such a suggestion.
‘No need metal trap. Tomorrow…I show.’
The following day, while the blizzard continued to blow, Cameron learned the Indian method of snaring rabbits; how to turn them into a tasty supper, and how to prepare their fur for their main use, as linings for mittens and boots.
Three days later, they finally arrived back at the depot. Their carts were battered and worn and were now being pulled by two tired-looking horses. All the next day was spent in the yard disposing of what few supplies were left, returning serviceable equipment to storage and filling out work orders for the company carpenters and blacksmiths. While in the office, copies of the survey maps were made, and then stored for future use.
Late that afternoon, the two men left the office.
‘In spring…we use ox to pull cart…ox much stronger…pull more weight. Still take horses…we need to ride out to work…and for hunting.’
‘Okay...sounds fine to me. Well, it’s too late to go anywhere now so we may as well go down and check in at the hotel for the night.’
‘No, me sleep warehouse…then go when sun rise.’
‘But that’s stupid, George. The railway will pay for your room.’
‘Indian no can go in white man’s hotel.’
George turned away, walking towards the warehouse, while Cameron remained rooted to the spot. He was dumfounded, and felt ashamed and saddened by his friend’s sudden revelation. He couldn’t believe that, now they were back in what was supposed to be civilisation, their ethnic differences would impose limits on their friendship. They had just spent nearly two months working together and sleeping in the same tent. And yet now, he was supposed to treat George like some lower form of human being, not deserving of a place in the white man’s world. Shaking his head, Cameron slowly wandered back to the office, for the first time realising that maybe he hadn’t left the class
system behind after all.
Late the following morning, Cameron walked up the main street in Brandon killing time while he waited the arrival of the train taking him back to Winnipeg. Even though the weather was miserably cold, the town was bustling. Since the day that he and Catherine had been here, two new hotels had opened, along with a hardware store, two saloons, a butcher’s, post office, grocery store and of course, four new real estate offices. And according to the Brandon Daily newspaper, the McKendry brothers were in the process of building a new lumber yard on the eastern edge of town and a new blacksmith’s had already opened for business.
Within just a few months, Brandon had changed from a tent city to a proper town. Already, workmen were putting the finishing touches to wooden sidewalks on the main street, while other teams followed along behind installing gas street lamps.
Although passenger traffic between Brandon and Winnipeg was not yet reaching the Company’s target, the freight loads more than justified the C.P.R.’s enthusiastic forecast of profits. Every train arriving in Brandon was made up of fourteen to fifteen cars. Normally, three of these were for passengers, while the rest were freight wagons carrying bulk goods and flatcars hauling materials for the railway’s expansion.
Cameron reached the station, and after standing on the platform for half an hour watching the yard engine shunting freight and flatcars onto various sidings, his train steamed in from Winnipeg.
The grey, overcast sky foretold of bad weather to come, and as the cold, gusty wind increased, the grit from the loco’s funnel scattered in all
directions. Cameron rubbed at the irritant in his eyes with the back of his sleeve, before turning up his collar and wandering back towards the waiting room. As he did, the first flakes of snow began to swirl about the yard; and looking westwards, there was no longer a divide between the earth and the sky, as a white wall of snow approached flattening everything in its path.
By the time his train approached Winnipeg it was late afternoon. For the last hour, they had been paralleling the Assiniboine River, but as the river began to slowly ease its way towards the south, the outskirts of the city came into sight.
Cameron stared intently out the window, willing Catherine to be waiting for him on the platform. A few moments later, a grin broke out over his face, as standing beside one of the green metal pillars supporting the platform’s canopy was Catherine, anxiously searching each of the carriage’s windows.
With a loud, snake-like hiss, and the screech of metal on metal, the train drew to a halt. Cameron reached into the overhead rack to retrieve his bag; after which, unseen to her, he almost fell flat on his face as he tripped over his own feet in his haste to exit the train. Jumping down from the car, Cameron dropped his bag onto the platform and opened his arms.