His history was one of daring and survival. He was part of the wild west legend and during his life his exploits were discussed around campfires. One such adventure was the time he and he cousin were riding along a river when suddenly a shot rang out and his cousin fell to the ground, dead. When three Crow fighters came out of the bush, Potts threw down his rifle. They told him to leave but he knew they would shoot him in the back when he did. So as he turned his horse he jumped off it, drew his revolver and while rolling on the ground shot all three of them.
He led the NWMP troops under Col. Macleod to the original island site of Fort Macleod, and spent many years acting as a guide and interpreter for the force and educating them on survival in the west. According to the stories he never got lost, not even in a blizzard. His death in 1896 of tuberculosis is said to have marked the end of the North American wild west.
Elizabeth took her pictures and then looked for Chevy. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move, a jackrabbit hopping towards the picket fence. Chevy, who was beside the gate, saw the rabbit at about the same time it saw him. They stared for a few seconds as if trying to identify each other until, suddenly, the rabbit took off across the cemetery grounds in the direction the vehicles. Chevy immediately followed in hot pursuit, his ears flapping and his pompom tail straight out. Elizabeth yelled after him, but his selective hearing had kicked in.
Some bushes blocked her view for a few moments but the jackrabbit came out with Chevy the same distance behind. They were getting further and further away, and as they neared the barbed wire fence that surrounded the cemetery she began to worry about Chevy finding his way back. The rabbit timed its hop so that it went cleanly under the wire. Chevy slowed and ducked slightly then speeded up again.
Finally, they were out of sight. Elizabeth wasn’t sure if she should wait where she was, or go to the Tracker. Would he come back the same way or by a different route? She walked slowly towards the entrance keeping her eyes peeled. The bearded man was still in the cemetery. He had looked up when she was yelling after Chevy, but returned to his gravestone reading when she went by. She was almost to the gate when Chevy came trotting towards her. His head was erect, his eyes gleamed, and his tail was high. Maybe he hadn’t caught the rabbit but he was certainly proud of the chase.
Elizabeth thought about scolding him for running off but she doubted he would understand what he had done wrong. So she just patted him on the head and left the cemetery. She noticed that the girl in the car had gone to sleep.
Back on Jerry Potts Boulevard, Elizabeth continued through town to the replica of Fort Macleod. She parked in the lot across the road. Fort Macleod was first constructed on an island in the Oldman River in 1874. The present day fort was a reproduction, but some of the log buildings inside the Fort Museum were original and housed numerous historical native and NWMP RCMP artifacts.
A Musical Ride was presented four times a day, and the eleven-thirty performance was just beginning. She watched, impressed, as the young men and women dressed in replica NWMP uniforms guided their horses through the paces, riding in circles, passing through the lines and galloping. The exhibition of horsemanship and precision was an adaptation of the world-famous RCMP Musical Ride, which toured Canada and parts of the US between May and October.
“Good afternoon, Elizabeth.”
She turned to see Corrine Duncan at her side again. If she was the paranoid type she would almost think the woman was following her. “Hello, Corrine.”
“How is Peggy holding up under this terrible situation?” she asked.
Elizabeth doubted that Corrine really cared. “She’s doing fine,” Elizabeth replied.
“Quite a puzzle we’ve got going in town, isn’t it?” Corrine said with a malicious gleam in her eye. “Peggy is on the news just about every night.”
“Do you still think it was Shirley’s old boyfriend in the tank?” Elizabeth asked to change the subject.
Corinne laughed. “There are so many rumours going around I’m not sure what to think any more. The last I heard is that Peggy killed Julia when she found out Harry was having an affair with her.”
“But why her and not you or one of the other women?” she asked.
“Maybe because we weren’t taking Harry away from her like Julia was.”
That made sense if Peggy really loved him, Elizabeth thought, remembering the picture she’d seen on her bureau. But she wanted to try another idea on Corrine. “What if Julia’s husband murdered Harry like he said he was going to?”
“Well, if a minister’s wife can run off with another man, than I guess a minister could kill that man,” Corrine replied thoughtfully.
“Did he strike you as that type of person?”
“Not really. But you never know what people will do when they are pushed.”
Elizabeth nodded.
Corrine looked at her camera. “Are you going to mention the Ride in your article?”
“Maybe.”
“I used to volunteer here. I have a whole memorized spiel about them if you’d like to hear it.”
“That would be marvelous,” said Elizabeth, turning on her recorder and holding it up as Corrine rather surprisingly recited:
“The first members of the NWMP amused themselves by practicing and demonstrating their riding skills in the isolated posts of Western Canada and that was the basis of the ride. The actual Musical Ride was formed in 1887. It is made up of thirty-two RCMP volunteers. They must have a minimum of two years on the force and they go through a tough training procedure. The ride was featured on the Canadian television show `Due South’ that was titled ‘All the Queen’s Horses.’“
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, as she put the recorder away.
“While we are speaking about history, have you been able to learn much about Fort Macleod’s history?” Corrine asked.
“Some.”
“If you want to find out more you should talk to Elvina Thomas and Martha Davidson,” Corrine said.
Elizabeth knew Martha Davidson had lived on the acreage before Peggy bought it, but the other name wasn’t familiar. “Who is Elvina Thomas?” she asked.
“Elvina’s the daughter of one of the first settlers. She’s in her eighties and has so many stories to tell about growing up here during the Dirty Thirties. She’s really quite a character. She also remembers a lot of the tales her parents told her about first coming out west.”
“And Martha Davidson?” Elizabeth asked. She’d been wondering how she could wangle a meeting with her and Warren. This might be a good opening.
“A few years ago Martha and her mother wrote a local book based on her mother’s experiences when she moved here as a young woman.”
“Is her mother still alive?”
“No.”
“Do you know if Martha has any copies of the book left?” Elizabeth always liked to buy those types of books. There was often more interesting detail in them than there was in professionally written ones.
“You’ll have to ask her. That’s her and Warren over there.” She nodded towards two couples standing by the entrance to the Fort. “They’re the ones on the right.”
Warren seemed to be in his late sixties and was tall with stooped shoulders. He wore blue jeans, a cowboy hat and boots. Beside him, Martha appeared to be a few years younger and was also in a denim outfit. She was slim and tall and carried her years well.
“Would you mind introducing me to her?”
“Sure.” Corrine started in their direction. Elizabeth scribbled Elvina Thomas’ name on a piece of paper as she hurried after her.
Corrine introduced Elizabeth, telling them about her article and how she would like some historical background for it.
“I’m going to Lethbridge in the next couple of days. Would I be able to visit you there?”
Martha started to agree but Warren seemed hesitant. Elizabeth could understand his not wanting a stranger coming into his home. “Corrine told me about the book you and your mother wrot
e,” she said quickly. “I’d like to buy a copy if possible.”
Martha looked up expectantly at Warren, who relented. “When can you come?”
“Tomorrow, if the weather is nice.”
“We want to show our friends the Nikka Yuko Japanese Gardens tomorrow before they leave. Could you be there before one o’clock?”
“Yes.”
They gave Elizabeth their address, with a brief set of directions and a phone number in case she had to change her plans. She thanked them and watched as they walked away.
She said goodbye to Corrine, thanking her for the introduction, and picked up some brochures before returning to the parking lot. She read the first few lines of one of them and laughed out loud. She looked around self-consciously, to see if anyone had noticed—and, finding herself in the clear, leaned against her vehicle to finish reading the brochure.
Apparently, some of the men who had operated whiskey forts before the arrival of the NWMP founded legitimate businesses afterwards. One of them was H. ‘Kanouse’ Taylor, who set up a hotel in Fort Macleod. According to the brochure, these were the rules of his establishment.
1. Guests will be provided with breakfast and dinner, but must rustle their own lunch.
2. Spiked boots and spurs must be removed at night before retiring.
3. Dogs are not allowed in bunks, but may sleep underneath.
4. Towels are changed weekly; insect powder is for sale at the bar.
5. Special rates for Gospel Grinders and the gambling profession.
6. The bar will be open day and night. Every known fluid, except water, for sale. No mixed drinks will be served except in case of a death in the family. Only registered guests allowed the privileges of sleeping on the barroom floor.
7. No kicking regarding the food. Those who do not like the provender will be put out. When guests find themselves or their baggage thrown over the fence, they may consider they have received notice to leave.
8. Baths furnished free down at the river, but bathers must provide their own soap and towels.
9. Valuables will not be locked in the hotel safe, as the hotel possesses no such ornament.
10. Guests are expected to rise at 6:00 a.m., as the sheets are needed for tablecloths.
11. To attract the attention of waiters, shoot through the door panel. Two shots for ice water, three for a new deck of cards.
No Jawbone. In God We Trust; All Others Pay Cash.
Elizabeth was laughing so hard she had to wipe the tears from her eyes. She just had to include at least some of these in her article! She was sure glad that they weren’t the rules of the B&B where she was staying.
She checked on Chevy, then stepped through an archway onto the sidewalk of 24th Street. She stopped and looked up and down at the historic buildings. She’d read that the buildings on this street dated back to the 1890’s and early 1900s.
The Queen’s Hotel, constructed in 1903, was the first sandstone building in the town. After a fire in 1906, the town passed a bylaw stating that all new structures had to be made of sandstone or brick.
The red sandstone Empress Theatre, constructed in 1912, was immediately to her right. She walked up to the door and tried it. It opened. She peeked inside then entered. It was so very quiet. The lobby had a hushed, expectant feel to it. No one was there so she continued, almost on tiptoe, through it into the auditorium, stopping under the balcony in awe. The room was gorgeous with its red plush seats and stage with a piano sitting on it. She felt a tingle as she stood in the oldest theatre in Alberta, which was also Western Canada’s oldest continually operated theatre.
Elizabeth left the building and returned to the street. She walked along 24th Street, admiring the workmanship of the ornaments and sculptures on the various buildings. At the Leather Block (1910), she noticed a sign for Ace Developers.
“Hey, you’re the one who is writing that article, aren’t you?” she heard a voice behind her. “Elizabeth Oliver, right?”
Elizabeth let her camera dangle on its chain around her neck as two men walked towards her. She recognized Buddy Turner, the guy she had met at the convenience store the day after the bones were discovered, and Arnie Trebell, who had been at the septic tank. She nodded.
“Has Peggy said anything to you about who she thinks was found in her septic tank?” Buddy asked, bluntly.
She shook her head. It wasn’t up to her to repeat what Peggy or anyone else had told her. It was up to her to ask questions.
“I read that it could be Mike or Harry himself,” Arnie said. “What do you think?”
Instead of answering Elizabeth asked. “Besides being Shirley’s boyfriend, who was this Mike?”
“Mike Altman,” Buddy answered. “He lived here for a few months. He told everyone he was from back east. He was dating Shirley at the time and worked at a service station.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He was a nice guy,” Arnie put in. “And I think it’s awful that Harry might have killed him. Are you going to write a story about the murder?”
“I’m thinking of it,” she admitted, smelling the possibility of some more juicy secrets.
Arnie rubbed his hands together. “That is so cool.”
“What is?”
“That a murder was committed here and we’re on the news all the time and I know someone who is writing a story about it.”
“If you’ve been living in the area, maybe you could help me out with some background information.” Elizabeth held up her recorder. “May I turn this on?”
“Sure,” they both answered, smiling widely.
“I’ve lived here all my life.” Buddy was wound up. “You can ask me anything.”
“Me, too,” Arnie said, quickly.
Elizabeth looked around. People were walking by them as they were talking. She would have liked a more private place to have this conversation but there wasn’t one close by. And she didn’t want to interrupt their willingness.
“Has anyone else besides Harry, Julia, and Mike disappeared over the past ten years or so?”
“Not that I can remember,” Buddy said, after a few moments thought.
Elizabeth looked at Arnie who shook his head.
“What did you think about the hog barn operation coming in?”
Arnie scowled. “I didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Too many problems with pollution.”
“Did you two belong to CRAP?”
They looked at each other. “Yes,” Buddy answered.
“Did you put manure on Peggy’s lawn?”
“Someone from CRAP did that?” Arnie grinned.
“Peggy is still getting phone calls from someone saying ‘Oink. Oink.’ Do you know why?”
“There are some people who are still mad about her selling the acreage.”
“Did someone from CRAP put that skeleton in the septic tank?”
Again they looked at each other. “That’s for the police to find out, isn’t it?” Arnie said.
Elizabeth could see this wasn’t going anywhere, but thanked them politely anyway before excusing herself.
“If we learn anything new we’ll let you know,” Arnie said over his shoulder as they walked away.
On her way back to her vehicle she bought another special edition of the Gazette. Today its headlines read ’WOMAN QUESTIONED IN DISAPPEARANCE OF HUSBAND’.
She didn’t have to read further to know who they were talking about. She quickly scanned it, anxious for Peggy’s sake, but all it said was that Peggy had been questioned about when Harry left and whether she’d seen him since. Nothing new.
Chapter 12
Brian Sinclair slowed the car when he saw the news vans on the road in front of the bed and breakfast where he had booked rooms for himself and Cindy. What were they doing here? Did it have something to do with the skeleton murder investigation? He was forced to stop when the two cameramen stood in the driveway aiming their cameras at his car, but he didn�
�t roll down his window, even when the reporters bent over and started yelling questions at him.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Cindy asked, looking apprehensively at a woman who was squinting in her side of the car.
“I don’t know, but don’t say anything to them.” He honked his horn and gently pushed the gas pedal. The car inched forward. The reporters hollered questions as they followed the vehicle.
“What do they want?” Cindy’s voice had a mixture of fear and curiosity in it. “Are we going to be on TV?”
“I don’t know,” Brian said again. He stared straight into the lens of one of the cameras as he continued his forward movement. Finally the cameramen stepped aside and let them into the yard.
Once they were parked Cindy asked. “Is this where we are staying?” She looked up at the large, old house.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t you have found a more modern place, like a hotel with a swimming pool?”
“This was all there was left. It seems there is a fair going on this weekend.”
They climbed out and retrieved their bags from the trunk. Brian led the way up the steps and across the verandah. He opened the door and called out a hello.
Across the room a swinging door opened and a woman came out. He knew her instantly and stared at her, paralyzed. He’d expected to see her eventually but not this soon. What was she doing here?
“May I help you?”
Didn’t she recognize him? Brian swallowed twice before being able to talk. “I’m Brian Sinclair and this is my daughter Cindy. We’re booked here for a few days.” They stepped into the house.
The woman hesitated. “Oh yes,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Shirley McNealy. You talked to my husband, Al, on the phone.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Shirley McNealy now. She was married, and either she didn’t recognize him or if she did, she was a better actor then he was.
“Come. I’ll show you to your rooms.” Shirley climbed the stairs, Brian and Cindy behind. Brian’s mind was in turmoil. If he’d known she owned this B&B he never would have booked here. He wanted to cancel, but there was no other place to stay.
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