[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring

by Janette Oke

  There was the problem of stealing, as well. There wasn't much common thievery in the North. No one felt over-concerned about locking up what he owned. Houses were left open and belongings left about the yard. The cabins that were constructed by the trappers for protection while working the traplines were free to be used by others who were passing through. Most trappers even made sure there was an adequate wood supply and blankets, matches and rations for any guests who might drop in during their absence. Of course, they knew the other trappers would extend the same courtesy.

  So in an area where usual theft was not much of a problem, a very serious temptation and offense was stealing from another's trapline. Such a criminal was considered to be the lowest of the low, not only a thief of valuable animal pelts, but of a family's livelihood as well. Vengeance was often immediate and deadly, and few felt that the wronged man could be blamed for taking the law into his own hands. The Royal North West Policeman must be on guard all the time for this. Any suspected thieves must be spotted and the guilty party apprehended immediately before a brutal beating or even a murder might occur. Wynn watched the lines and kept his eyes and ears open for any complaints of offenses.

  Mostly it was the men who worked the traplines, but Crazy Mary also claimed a small territory as her own. So once the storm had blown itself out, she refused to stay at the Lavoies' and headed back, poorly clothed, to protect her interests. She hinted rather loudly that there might have been someone messing with some of her traps.

  Most people shrugged off the story as one of Crazy Mary's fancies, but Wynn could not dismiss it so easily. It must be checked and proven false to put everyone's mind at ease. When the storm ended, Wynn took snowshoes and dog team out to investigate.

  Wynn did not keep his team at our cabin but in an enclosure by the Hudson's Bay Store. One reason was that the food supply for the dogs was over there, and also their clamor would not keep us awake at night.

  Each dog had been carefully picked by the men of the Force who had preceded Wynn. The dogs were chosen for their endurance, dependability, and strength, not particularly for their good disposition. Many of them were scrappers and, for that reason, they had to be tied well out of range of one another. Some of them had ragged ears or ugly scars from past fights. I didn't care much for Wynn's sled dogs. Harnessing them to the sleigh was a tough job. Things could be going well; and suddenly one of the dogs would get mad at something another dog did, and a fight would break out. Before long the whole team would be in a scrap, tangling the harness and making a general mess of things. Yet the dog team was very necessary. Wynn used his dogs almost every day during the winter.

  He had been talking about choosing his own team and training them himself for harness. With different training, he thought the dogs might be better-tempered and make less problems on the trail. It sounded like a good idea to me. It was going to take time and work, but Wynn was watching for promising pups.

  When he went out after the storm to check on Crazy Mary's story, he informed me he also planned to swing around and see a litter of pups which a trapper by the name of Smith had for sale near the west branch of the river. I found myself wishing I could go with him, but I didn't even mention the thought to Wynn. It was still very cold and the snow was deep. The sled dogs were enough trouble on the trail. He certainly didn't need me along to complicate matters.

  Wynn didn't return until late that night. He had talked with Mary and gone over her trapline with her. She had shown him "signs" and ranted on about her suspicions. This was the trapline her late husband had managed, and Mary was steadfast in her belief that it now was her exclusive property. But someone was moving in, she maintained, infringing on her area. She hadn't found any evidence yet of stolen pelts, but the new traps were getting in too close. They found no traps that belonged to another trapper, but Mary was sure one or two had been there. She could see the marks on the ground; she dug around in the snow to prove her point. But Wynn could not accept her "evidence" as valid. He left her, promising to keep a sharp lookout and asking her to get in touch with him if she still suspected anything.

  Then, as planned, Wynn pulled his team around and went to see Smith. Smith was away from his cabin when Wynn arrived, so Wynn went in, started up a fire, and made himself a cup of tea. The pups were in a corner of the cabin, so he had a good chance to look them over well for potential sled dogs. There were some possibilities. Wynn watched them play and tussle, liking what he saw.

  It was getting late in the day and Smith had still not arrived at the cabin; so Wynn banked the fire to try to keep the cabin warm for the trapper's return, carried in a further wood supply, and turned his team back on the trail for home.

  Wynn had learned to appreciate one thing about his sled dogs. While on the trail they usually laid aside all grudges and pulled together. They were considered to be one of the fastest teams in the area. Speed could, at times, be important to a policeman. A few minutes might mean the difference between life and death.

  The team was in a hurry to get back to the settlement, so Wynn was hard pushed to keep up with his dogs. On the smoother terrain, he rode the runners; when the way was rough, he snowshoed behind it, guiding it over the crusted snow.

  When Wynn told me about his day as we sat in front of our fireplace that night, I found myself almost envying him. It sounded exciting and almost fun to be swinging along the snow-crisp trail behind the sled dogs. Wynn must have seen the wistful look in my eyes, for he surprised me a few days. later.

  "Want to take a little ride?"

  I looked out the window. The day was filled with sunshine, the wind was no longer blowing, and the snow lying across the countryside made a Currier and Ives Christmas card of the scene.

  "I'm going back out to check on Crazy Mary."

  "Do we have to call her Crazy Mary?" I objected.

  Wynn smiled. "There are four Marys in the area-Little Mary, Old Mary, Joe's Mary, and Crazy Mary. All the people refer to them in this way."

  "Well, I don't like it. It's-it's degrading."

  "You're right. But, from what I've been hearing, her neighbors are probably right. I think she does have mental problems. It sounds like it started when she lost her children in a smallpox epidemic. Her husband was away at the time and Mary was all alone. She watched all five of them die, one at a time. She hasn't been quite the same since. If she were in one of our civilized areas, she would have been institutionalized and cared for. Here, she is still on her own. She doesn't care about people and won't take help when it is offered. Now and then, if the weather really gets bad, one or another of the men leaves a quarter of meat on her doorstep. They have never been thanked for it, but it does disappear; so they assume she does make use of it."

  I felt sorry for Mary. What an awful way to live! What an awful way to be known, I mourned. I had never seen her, but I was sure that if people really tried, something could be done.

  "You haven't answered my question," Wynn's voice broke into my thoughts.

  "The ride? I'd love to, though I have no idea what you have in mind."

  "I want to keep a close eye on Mary and her problem. I also plan to stop and see if Smith is home. I'd like to get two or three of those pups.

  My face lit up then. "I'd love to go," I said again.

  "I'll go get the team. Wear the warmest clothes you have. Those old pants are a must."

  I hurried to get ready. I didn't want to keep Wynn waiting. I borrowed a pair of Wynn's long drawers and pulled the old pants over them. The combination of the two meant I could hardly move. I also borrowed Wynn's wool socks and pulled on my own heavy sweater. The footwear had me concerned. All I had were the old hiking boots, and common sense told me they would not keep my feet warm.

  Wynn soon' returned, leaving the team lying fan-style on the ground when he came in for me. I was still trying to struggle into the heavy boots.

  "Here," he said, "I think these will be much warmer."

  He handed me a pair of beautiful, fur-lined Ind
ian moccasins. They had elaborate designs in bead and quill work, and I exclaimed as I reached for them.

  "They are wonderful! Where did you get them?"

  "I had Mrs. Sam make them. I knew you would be needing something warmer for your feet. Fortunately, they were ready this morning."

  "They are so pretty," I continued.

  "They are pretty," agreed Wynn. "They are also warm."

  I caught his hint that they were for'wearing rather than for admiring, and I hastened to put them on. Then, donning my heavy mittens, I followed Wynn out to the sleigh.

  Since I could not maneuver showshoes, I was privileged to ride. Wynn ran along beside or behind me, calling out orders to the dogs. They obeyed immediately. Maybe Wynn's "secondhand" team wasn't so bad after all. They certainly behaved themselves better in harness than out. I was gaining respect for them as we glided over the crisp winter snow.

  "This is fun!" I shouted to Wynn as the sled flew over a slight rise in the trail. He laughed at my little-girl exuberance.

  We came to an area where the wind had swept across the path, leaving the snow only a few inches deep.

  "Would you like to walk for a while?" Wynn asked me. I did, so I scrambled from the sleigh and set out to follow him and the team.

  ,The team would have left me far behind if I had just walked along behind. I had to run. I could tell Wynn was holding the team back with his commands. Still they seemed to gain ground. I hurried faster, but it was hard to keep at it with all the clothing I was wearing. Wynn soon stopped the team, and I laughingly tumbled back onto the sled. I was out of breath and panting, but it had been good for me.

  Wynn found Crazy Mary out working her traps. She was a little woman. Too small to be handling this man-sized job, I reasoned, and my concern for her deepened.

  She had straight, black hair which had been chopped off at the jawline. In the morning sunshine, she wore her parka hood back, and her hair kept flopping forward, covering her face. She peeped out from between strands of it, her eyes black and flashing. There were some scars on her face, and I realized that somehow she alone had survived the smallpox epidemic. Over her back she wore a skin sack of some kind, and I could see fur pieces sticking out of it. Apparently, Crazy Mary skinned the animals just where she found them, then threw aside the carcasses and stuffed the fur into her sack. Wynn had told me that as soon as the trapper got back to his cabin, he cleaned and stretched the pelts onto a wooden frame for drying. Crazy Mary would still have work to do when she got home at the end of the day.

  I stayed near the sleigh while Wynn talked to her. I could not hear their conversation. But I could tell she was still agitated. She waved her arms and pounded her fists together and then gave little shrieks like a wounded animal. I didn't know if she was giving Wynn a demonstration of something that had happened or just expressing her feelings.

  After some minutes Wynn came back to the sled.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "She still says someone is pushing back her boundary lines."

  "Do you think they are?"

  "I don't know. It's hard to tell when there really aren't any actual, visible lines in the first place."

  I waved to Crazy Mary as we moved away. There she stood, one little woman alone, fighting against the elements and an unseen; unknown enemy. I felt very sorry for her. I refused to refer to her as "crazy." If she had to be identified, they could call her Brave Mary or Trapline Mary. There was no need to call her Crazy Mary at all.

  At Smith's cabin, his dog team was tethered in the yard and began howling and barking as our team swung around to the front. Smith himself came to the door. Seeing Wynn's uniform under his parka, he waved an arm to us, beckoning us to come in. I didn't suppose that he got many visitors.

  He wasn't much for conversation, but he grinned and went about making up a tin pot of very strong, hot tea.

  We sipped slowly. I was given the honor of the only chair in the room, the men half crouched, supported by the wall of the cabin.

  They talked about lines, furs, and the economy. I didn't join in. I was too busy watching the litter of puppies that ignored us and went about their play. What fluffy round balls they were, with sparkling eyes and curly tails. It was hard to believe they could grow up into snarling, fighting, mean-spirited dogs. They were good-sized already, and I knew that they were well past the weaning stage.

  After a few minutes, Smith seemed to feel there had been enough small talk.

  "So what brings you out this way, Sarge?" he asked Wynn.

  Part of Wynn's job was to gather information where he could, and another part of his job was to scatter a little information, too.

  "Mary has reported that someone is getting a little too close with their traps," Wynn said, carefully studying the man's reaction.

  "That crazy woman! She's the one broadening her boundary. She's been mismanaging her traps for years; and now that she can't find the animals, she's moving her lines. Did you see where she's got her traps?"

  Wynn agreed that he had.

  The trapper pulled a hand-drawn map from the shelf in the corner and spread it out on the table.

  "Looky here," he said, agitated. "This here is my trapline. I've had it for years. Goes right along the river here, swings to the north by that stand of jackpine, follows up the draw, dips down to that little beaver dam, turns around west here, and comes back along this chain of hills. Every trapper in the territory knows those are my boundaries. So what does she do? She's sneaking traps in here and a few over in here." His finger stabbed at the map, punctuating each statement. "And the last time I was out, she even had a couple in here."

  It was clear that Smith was upset.

  "If she wasn't a woman," the man exploded, "an' a crazy one at that, I'd-" But he didn't finish the statement.

  Wynn continued to study the map. "I'll do some checking," he said quietly. "It's clear that we've got to find out who's crowding who."

  Then Wynn turned his attention to the pups snapping and fighting playfully on the dirt floor.

  "I'm looking for some new sled dogs," he said. "Hear that you raise good animals. They look pretty good to me. Planning to sell these, are you?"

  It was the first time Smith smiled. He reached down and scooped up a fluffy pup. It rewarded him by chewing on his thumb. He roughed its woolly back and clipped its ears playfully.

  "Hate to, but I gotta. Got all of the team dogs now that I need. Another litter due in a couple of weeks. Which one you got your eye on?"

  I knew which one I had my eye on. It was a little fellow with a full fluffy tail that curled over his back. He was a silver grey in color with shining black eyes and a sticky red tongue. He had been licking the snow off my boots.

  I waited breathlessly for Wynn to name his dog.

  "What do you think, Elizabeth?" he surprised me. "Which ones would you pick?"

  "How many do you need?"

  "I thought I'd start with two."

  "For sled dogs?"

  "What else would we need them for?"

  I reached down and picked up the cute pup. He turned from licking at my boots and began to lick at my hands. I think he likes me, I exulted.

  "Well, I was just thinking that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a dog at the house. I mean, it would be company and-"

  "You want a dog?"

  I did not hesitate but answered him with the same intensity with which he had asked his incredulous question.

  "Yes.,,

  He laughed then, softly. "I thought you were afraid of dogs."

  "The ones in the village, yes. They snarl and growl and snap when you go by. But I like dogs, generally. Really. A dog of my own, there at the cabin, might make me feel-well, less lonely-and more secure when you are away."

  Wynn could see that I really wanted the pup.

  "Okay," he smiled. "You go first."

  "Go first?"

  "You take your pick first."

  That was no problem for me. I held up the pup already in my ar
ms.

  "This one," I said without a moment's hesitation.

  Smith and Wynn were both grinning at me when I looked up.

  "What do you think, Smith?" asked Wynn in a teasing way.

  "I think the little lady got you," grinned Smith.

  I must have looked puzzled.

  "I think she did, too. Picked the best one in the bunch. I had my eye on that one for lead dog." Wynn reached over and tussled the pup's fur. It growled playfully and pawed at his hand.

  I felt very happy with myself. I had picked a winner. Still, if Wynn had wanted this one for the lead dog, perhaps I should- "You can have him if you like," I said, offering the pup. "You need him. I just want him."

  Wynn lifted his hand from the pup and touched my cheek. "You keep him. I think he'll be just right for you. There are plenty of others for me to choose from. They look like the makings of good sled dogs, too.

  Wynn made his two selections. They were pretty little dogs as well, but I was glad I'd had first choice. Wynn paid Smith and we bundled up our armload of pups and headed for home.

  The pups were not easy to transport. Wynn fared better with his. He put them in a knapsack with only their furry heads protruding and secured them on his back. They watched, wide-eyed, as we hurried over the trail.

  My little fellow was more difficult. I insisted on carrying him on my lap. He didn't like being confined, and wiggled and squirmed and whined and yapped. I was about to give up on him when he decided that he had had enough, curled up and went to sleep.

  I kept my hand on him, gently stroking the soft fur. I was so happy to finally have a dog of my very own. Being raised in the city, my folks thought our house and yard were too confining for pets. I guess I had secretly always wanted one. Maybe that was why I had enjoyed the small mouse, Napoleon, for the short while he had been with me in the teacherage. And now I had a dog! And a beautiful dog it would be. I would name it myself. I began to go over names in my mind. A dog like this should have a name that is rather majestic, like King or Prince or Duke. But I rejected each of those as too common.