High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  Truth to tell, John did not care for them either. He knew that rattlesnakes made their home among them as well as in the coulees that cut their way a hundred feet to the valley bottom.

  With Adam’s help, he set to work finding trees along the river suitable for a house and falling them. When they had gathered enough, the Englishman took his leave. He said that once he got his affairs squared away, he planned to join the war in South Africa. John had seen the call for volunteers when they passed through Calgary and would have gone himself if he didn’t have a family. He wished his friend well and as Adam rode off, John hoped he would see him return.

  John began building the house on his own, on the bottomland, where the soil would be good for a garden. It was a rough structure compared to the house on the Sheep River, but it would at least keep them warm in winter and would do until he could build something more permanent.

  Mildred was nearing her due date, and since there were no doctors or midwives in the immediate vicinity, John took her and the children into Brooks, about twenty miles south, where her parents were living. He had to get back to the homestead and told Mildred that he would return in a couple of weeks to collect her and their four children. But bad news awaited him when he did: the baby, a boy, had died shortly after it was born. The doctor could only say that it had arrived in a weak condition and never strengthened, that it was sometimes the way of the world. Mildred was saddened but not completely surprised. Something had not felt right during the last few months of her pregnancy; however, she had kept it to herself, sure that John had many other things to fret about.

  She fell into a depression, made worse by surroundings she was not happy with. But Nettie, Bobby, and Billy, and endless chores, kept her busy and in time she was able to leave the sadness behind. The remainder of the year flew by and the new century began with Mildred announcing that she was pregnant once again. A baby girl was born in the fall and they named her Mildred. It had been a good year for the Wares, and with another healthy child in the household, they were content. A New Year was in the offing, and they looked forward to it, but it would not bring the good tidings they hoped for.

  •

  One April morning, John rose as usual at dawn to milk the cow. He sat up, swung his legs around, and lowered his feet to the floor; they settled in two inches of water. He had only been half-awake until that moment, but he knew instantly what was happening. He leaped up, grabbing his clothes from the chair beside the bed. “Mildred!” he said loudly to awaken her, but she was already stirring. “The river’s floodin’! Get the children up and ready to leave. I’ll hitch up the wagon.”

  He donned his clothes, pulled on his boots, and splashed outside. In the grey light he could see that the entire valley bottom was under water and the level was rising. He rushed to the corral, got Molly and the other horse he kept there, and hitched them to the wagon, then led them to the front of the house. Both animals were edgy and restless. Mildred had the children dressed and assisted them into the wagon, instructing Nettie to hold the baby. She and John saved whatever household goods and tools they could. The first thing John got was the axe, Mildred the pictures of their wedding and family, some pots and pans and food. Meanwhile, the water continued to rise and was soon swirling around John’s boot tops.

  “We gotta get outta here,” he urged Mildred. “We can make do with what we got.” He steered the team through the water to a nearby coulee that led out of the valley to the prairie above.

  As the sun rose over the horizon, they sat at the rim of the valley and watched in awe as the river rose high enough around their house to dislodge it, break it into individual logs, and carry it away. The corral and privy went too. Mildred wept and so did the children, as much because their mother was crying as anything else. John felt like weeping too. He had overcome so many obstacles in his life, particularly those associated with his colour, and now here were two major setbacks—having to leave his beautiful home on the Sheep River and losing this one. He wondered when it would end, wondered if God was trying to discover his breaking point.

  Mildred leaned against him and he put his arm around her. She collected herself and dried her tears on her dress sleeve. Sniffing, she said without a hint of rancour, “Well it looks as if we’re sitting on what’s going to be the roof over our heads for the next while.”

  John hugged her tighter for a moment, then got busy gathering wood. They needed a fire to cook breakfast and to dry their clothes. And its warmth would probably go a long way toward improving their outlook on life.

  He had to go even further afield for suitable logs to build a new home, which did little to improve his disposition. Nevertheless, his mood brightened considerably two days later, when he heard from another rancher that a large boom of spruce logs had broken away from a sawmill at Red Deer, a hundred and fifty miles or so upstream. They now belonged to anyone with the skill and fortitude to retrieve them from the river.

  He had Mildred and Nettie keep an eye on the river and watch for the logs. They had not been looking long before Nettie called excitedly, “I think one’s coming, Poppa!”

  John got a rope from the wagon and rode Molly to where the river narrowed slightly. Dismounting as the log approached, he cast the rope and managed to snag the stub of a sawed-off limb. He pulled it to shore where he could get a better hold on it, hoping the rope would not slip off. It held. Wading into the water, he placed the loop around the whole log, pulling it tight, and wrapped the other end of the rope around his waist. He climbed on Molly and heeled her forward. The big log came sliding up onto land as slick as a newborn baby enters the world. It improved his mood markedly.

  He retrieved a dozen more logs in the same fashion and, using a team of horses, dragged them all up the coulee to high ground, where he would build the new house, near a small stream that posed no threat if it flooded. T-shaped, the house would be permanent, with three good-sized rooms. The kitchen would be at the bottom of the T, separated from the main part of the house by a storage room and entrance. That way, if a fire started where they usually start—in the kitchen—he might be able to save the living area of the house. He did not need another major disaster in his life.

  He had begun to level the land to lay the first logs when he saw a mounted figure coming from the south. It was Adam Newby, home from the war in South Africa. He had got off the train at Brooks and rented a horse at the local livery, curious to know how the Wares were doing. They welcomed their friend and John thought that Adam had changed considerably. He looked older by more than the two years that he had been gone. He did not mention his involvement in the war, and John sensed that he should ask about it only if Adam broached the subject. Mildred made tea and afterwards Adam said, “We’d better get your house built so this family of yours has a real roof over its head.”

  Adam stayed to help dig a well and when he did go, seemed to do so only because John was heading off for the spring roundup. During his entire stay, Adam never spoke a single word about his experience in South Africa, but John understood it had affected him profoundly. He was not the same man John had known at the Sheep River, and he wondered if Adam had stayed with them as long as he had because he did not want to face the loneliness of his own ranch. John vowed that the next time he was in Calgary, he would rent a horse and ride down for a visit.

  June and July passed uninterrupted by trouble, and John was pleased with the improvement in their lives. With the logs and Adam’s help, he thought that perhaps God was not out to test him after all. That is, until the day he rode out to check on his stock and noticed lesions on the rump of one of the animals. At first he dismissed them, thinking that they were self-inflicted, caused by some casual rubbing against something. But then he noticed lesions on a few of the other animals, on different parts of their bodies—shoulders, legs, and necks—and knew he had a huge problem on his hands.

  He galloped back to the house and Mildred saw the look of concern on his face.

  “There’s something
troubling you, John. I could feel it before you even rode up. You never thunder in here like that.”

  “The mange,” he said, disgusted. “It’s come. Our herd’s got it.”

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “I’m headin’ into Brooks. Better make a late supper for me.”

  He took no time to add anything, simply pointed Molly toward Brooks and spurred her into an easy lope.

  Mange had ravaged herds south of the border some time ago and more recently along the Little Bow River. A mite burrowing beneath an animal’s skin, which became itchy, caused it. In serious cases, rubbed areas turned into scabs and looked like elephant skin. The disease was ugly, but worse, the affected cattle usually didn’t feed properly and did not gain weight, which was bad news for a cattleman. The Stock Growers Association had expressed concern that the mite would spread even farther north, and it looked as if their concern had become a reality.

  In Brooks, John went straight to an association rep and reported his findings. Within a few days, a handful of men with a wagonload of materials arrived on the ranch to build a dipping vat. They dug a trench thirty feet long and lined it with concrete and boards. Once it was completed, they filled it with a soupy sulphur solution that would kill the parasites.

  John wasted no time running his cattle through, and ranchers from miles around brought their herds for treatment. Knowing of John’s reputation for breaking horses, they also brought wild ones for him to tame. For a month or more, the ranch seemed to play host to a giant rodeo and he cherished every minute of it. Mildred loved to watch him ride in spite of the fact that it still scared her nearly half to death. The horses jerked him around so much, she wondered how he managed to stay in the saddle, yet she could have sworn he looked ten years younger every time he got on one of those whirling devils. His contentment, though, did nothing to alleviate her fears. She said to him, after a ride on a particularly nasty horse, words she had uttered before, “If you break your darned fool neck, where does that leave us?”

  John considered that an impossibility. “That ain’t gonna happen, Mildred. And that’s a God-given fact.”

  “I’ll pray that it is so. But it seems to me God deals more in ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’ than He does in facts.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Ain’t never considered myself a fool.

  Near the end of April the following year, John went by train to Calgary to get some medicine for Mildred, who was pregnant again and not feeling well. This would be their fifth child and that would have to be enough. Mildred wanted a dozen, but she was thirty-one now, an advanced age for having babies, and this was the second time she had not been well during a pregnancy. The doctor offered no guarantees that the child would survive, and it was getting equally dangerous for her.

  John hated leaving her and the children alone, especially when she was ailing, but he could not get what she needed in Brooks. He enjoyed coming to Calgary now. The days when he was no better than a pariah dog were long gone. Calgary was a cow town and the people there admired his skills as a cowboy. They smiled and said hello. Merchants called him Mr. Ware and said it with respect.

  However, he was unprepared for the grim mood that gripped the town when he arrived this time. There had been a huge rockslide in southwestern Alberta, in the Crowsnest Pass. An entire mountainside had broken away and buried the town of Frank and the seventy-five people living there. Several volunteers were heading to the area to see if anyone had survived. Few held out much hope.

  John would have gone himself, but getting Mildred’s medicine was his first priority. He also wanted to see Adam Newby, and since the train back to Brooks did not leave until the next morning, he rented a horse and rode down to the Sheep River. The weather was cold, the sky dark, and John thought it might snow, even though May was only a day away. He hoped Adam had not gone off to the Frank slide—it would be like him to do that—and that his friend was faring better. The last time John had been down this way, Adam had still not escaped from the doldrums that he had grappled with since his return from the war.

  Badger, Adam’s hound, heard John coming, his throaty bark sounding a warning. But he soon recognized John, wagging his tail and whimpering. At the house, John dismounted and scratched the dog behind the ear, wondering where his master was. Badger might have been wondering too, because he was fidgety, and John was concerned. He was certain that if Adam were around, he would have acknowledged his visitor’s presence by now, and if he had gone to Frank, he definitely would not have left the dog on its own. John knocked on the door. Maybe his friend was ill or sleeping. When there was no answer, he opened the door and called, “Hello, Adam! It’s John.” The house remained quiet. There were only two rooms, the main living and kitchen area, and a bedroom. John checked the bedroom. It was empty, the bed made. That was also like Adam, everything in its place and everything in the place tidy.

  He went outside and walked over to the stable to see if Adam’s horse was gone. He opened the door and nearly choked. Adam was hanging by the neck from one of the roof beams. John was stunned, his brain not comprehending what his eyes were seeing. He ran to Adam, pulling out his pocketknife. He righted the box that Adam had used to stand on, climbed up, and cut the body down. His friend’s bowels had evacuated and the odour was foul.

  John laid him on the floor. “Ah, Adam,” he said aloud, “what have you done?” He folded Adam’s arms across his chest and uttered a short prayer, then covered him with a horse blanket. He could do little else. He barred the barn door to keep out scavenging animals and led Badger into High River to let the authorities know of the tragedy; they would deal with the body and he could get back to Mildred.

  •

  When he left Calgary, the weather had turned; snow was falling heavily, and it got worse during the train ride. The wind had picked up and he could see it swirling in eddies across the prairie. He arrived in Brooks during the worst snowstorm of the year. Walking from the train station to the livery where he had stabled Molly, he could see barely ten yards in front of him.

  The livery owner looked grim. “I hope you’re not planning to ride home in this, John.”

  “Not plannin’, Walter,” John replied. “Doin’. And to be doin’ it I need my tack. I’d be obliged if you fetched it for me.”

  “But you can’t see the buildings across the street, and the snow’s piled so deep now the trail will be covered!”

  “The wife needs somethin’ I got and she’s waited long enough for it.”

  “I’ve never called a customer a fool before, but if you go out there, John, you’re as good as lost, maybe dead. You won’t be found until the thaw, and how will that help Mildred?”

  Reluctantly, he retrieved John’s tack and John paid him. He saddled Molly, Walter opened the door, and John rode out. “Good luck!” the owner cried.

  John pointed Molly north, into the teeth of the wind that bit at him like a sandstorm. Molly had her head down and was reluctant to face into the storm. Her instincts told her to turn around and put her rump to the wind. John used the end of the reins against her and talked to her, “Come on, girl! Come on! We got people that need us.” Despite his urgings, she stopped after a quarter of a mile and would go no further. No amount of coaxing would change her mind. John did not have the heart to force her forward, so he turned her around. Already the trail she had left was disappearing in the snow.

  “We’ll go back to the barn, old girl,” he said, patting her neck.

  He gave Molly her head and she did not need any more incentive. Before long, they were back in Brooks at the livery stable.

  “I knew you wouldn’t make it!” Walter said self-righteously. “You can sleep in the loft if you like. Maybe the storm will have blown itself out by morning.”

  “I ain’t stayin’ nowhere but at home. I’ll thank you to look after Molly until I can get back to fetch her.”

  “You’re going on foot?” The stableman was incredulous. “Surely you’re not that big a fool.”

&
nbsp; “Ain’t never considered myself a fool, Walter. I see somethin’ that needs doin’ and do it.”

  He borrowed some binder twine from Walter to tie around his pant legs to keep the snow out of his boots, pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat up around his face, and left the liveryman shaking his head. He had twenty miles in front of him to the ranch, which lay directly north of the town. If he stayed heading into the wind, he had no doubt that he would reach his destination. If the wind shifted and he did not detect it, well, that was a different story.

  The wind and snow beat at him and felt like where it probably came from—the Arctic. He sank his chin even further into his collar so that only his eyes showed. Luckily, the land was flat and there were no hills to scale. He kicked his way through the snow, mile after mile after mile, until he eventually had to stop and rest. He managed to get his watch out of its pocket and saw that he had been walking for four hours. In good weather, four hours would have been almost enough to see him at home, but right now he had no idea where he was along the imaginary string that he felt connecting himself to Mildred. He found his mind drifting off and that he was enjoying sitting down a little too much. He could easily have stretched out in the snow and gone to sleep, but he forced himself to his feet and trudged on. He thought he heard on the wind cattle bellowing but could not be sure. He knew that his herd, as well as others in the area, would be in distress, but he could do nothing until the storm blew itself out.

  Yet instead of abating, the wind seemed to grow fiercer and required most of John’s strength to lean into it and advance. On a wrong step, it sometimes knocked him off-balance and he would stumble. He was breathing heavily and sweating, and from time to time had to brush away the ice that formed on his eyebrows. He must have been walking with his eyes shut, or maybe he was sleepwalking or daydreaming, because he ran into a barbed-wire fence without seeing it. It jolted him back to reality. A sense of relief shot through him. The fence belonged to a homesteader, and he knew that the man’s cabin was somewhere in the vicinity. But that was not where he wanted to go. Home was his destination and he was now within four miles of it.