by Ray Argyle
Andrew Onderdonk harnessed his own team of oxen to haul in rail ties and remove stones and bush.
It was nearly evening when the train met up with the construction workers, who were still laying track at a rate of a mile on a good day or only a few hundred feet on a bad one. The train shunted to a stop not far beyond where Edward had boarded a different train just the day before. Building a railway was slow going in these mountains.
Edward jumped down from the flatcar when a gang of men approached to unload the rails. He heard them say that they’d been held up by lack of track. Another group of workers was putting wooden ties into place to hold the rails and horses and oxen were hauling supplies to tents around the campsite. Edward noticed the two cartage men he’d travelled with from Farwell; he was surprised that they hadn’t yet gone back.
“Well lookee, lookee,” the unfriendly one said when he saw Edward. “So yer back?
Thought you were goin’ to fight the Redskins!”
Edward answered as coolly as he dared. “The Rebellion’s over, Riel’s surrendered, didn’t you know?”
The pair continued to chide him for not getting to the Prairies in time to see any action.
This was the very sort of thing Edward was afraid he’d have to face at home if he went back to Victoria now.
They grew tired of teasing Edward soon enough, and asked him if he’d like to return with them to Farwell. They were heading back in the morning and Edward was glad to accept their offer.
Although he’d only been away from Farwell for a week, Edward was excited by the changes he saw in the town when the cartage men led their ponies to the Farwell Stables the next day. Buildings that were but bare frames when he’d left now had walls and roofs; and new ones were being started. There weren’t as many men living in tents, either. But the biggest change was a freshly painted brown building standing by itself at the end of Front Street. Hanging from it was a sign, Post Office.
Edward suddenly felt homesick and decided to write a letter to his parents. He had paper in his satchel, so he withdrew a sheet, propped his satchel on a flat stone, and began to write:
Dear Mother and Father,
The news here is all about Riel giving up and the Rebellion being put down. I am in Farwell. It is about halfway between the two ends of the railway. As I did not get to fight, I am not ready to come home. I will see what I can find here. I am well, and send my love to everyone.
Your loving son,
Edward
Through the open post office door Edward could see a tall, balding man wearing thick glasses standing behind a counter. He must be the postmaster, Edward thought.
“I’ve written a letter to my folks but I don’t have anything to put it in. Can you send it for me?”
The man shoved an envelope at him and extracted a stamp from a box on the counter.
Edward paid a penny for the stamp and two pennies for the envelope, which he carefully addressed to his home on Simcoe Street in Victoria. When Edward asked when it would be sent, the man simply looked at him.
“Well, that depends on when I can get someone to carry the mail,” he finally answered, after a long pause. “Nobody wants to do it. Not enough in it for them. The railway’s paying too much money, or there’s always the gold mines up the Columbia. Just can’t get any help to make this town into something.”
This launched the man into a long tirade against the CPR, the saloonkeepers who were extracting the wages of the railway workers, and the high prices being asked for the remaining empty lots on Front Street.
Edward asked the man what had brought him there.
“Well, I’m the postmaster in charge of this office. Name’s Tom Gordon. Not sure what I’m doing here. Guess I’m just another of the old fools who thought they’d find gold in the Columbia.”
Mr. Gordon told Edward that he’d worked for the Post Office Department at Lake Louise — “Prettiest place in the Rockies.” He’d been told to follow the railway into British Columbia, and to run a post office wherever the track ended. With the railway approaching Farwell, he had come here to open up a sub-Post Office. But he didn’t have anyone to carry mail back through Eagle Pass to Eagle Landing. So he couldn’t tell Edward when his letter might be on its way.
“I’m sorry about that,” Mr. Gordon said. “Your letter will just have to wait.”
Wherever the trains ran, a mail car like this CPR Car No. 1 followed. Carrying the Royal Mail was an essential part of the CPR’s business.
Edward listened with mounting excitement. He quickly realized this might be the chance he was looking for.
“I’ve come up from Eagle Landing,” He didn’t mention that he’d also gone as far east as Golden. “I made it all the way by horseback. I know the route. I could carry the mail for you.”
“How old are you, lad?”
“I’m eighteen. I was going to join the militia but the Rebellion’s been put down, so I’m available. I could help you out, at least until the railway’s finished.”
Edward could tell he’d caught Mr. Gordon’s interest.
“The Rebellion, eh? Good for you, lad. Too bad it all ended so soon.” He warned Edward that the job would only last a couple of months. And while he could supply him with a horse, he couldn’t pay him anything. “It would be like being in business for yourself. See what else you can carry, make it pay the best way you can.”
Edward knew Mr. Gordon was taking advantage of him. He’d have to pay wages to an adult. And he’d seen railway workers pay the cartage men to carry stuff for them.
Edward had heard about the famous Pony Express riders in the United States, who, before the railway was built down there, carried mail three thousand kilometres from Missouri to California. The Pony Express riders changed horses every few hours as they rode madly across the Prairie. Edward could imagine himself in this romantic image. It would be really exciting, and give him plenty to talk about when he got home. But he’d have to take his time going back and forth between Farwell and Eagle Landing, since he’d only have one horse and the trip would take two or three days each way.
Mr. Gordon arranged with Mrs. Clarke for Edward to have a room at the Columbia Hotel. It would cost three dollars a week, and was just big enough to hold a mattress, a table, and a chair.
The next morning, Edward went to the stables where Mr. Gordon said there would be a horse for him. He found Blackie in the paddock behind the stable. Edward had never seen an animal quite like this one. True to his name, Blackie had such a dark brown coat that it was almost black, fitted over a short and stocky body. He had short, thick legs with very large hooves, and a long, pointed nose. Edward soon found out that Blackie put his nose to good use by snuffling into his coat pocket to retrieve whatever treats might be there.
“Take good care of that animal,” the stable master told Edward. “He’s descended from a long line of wild horses. That’s why he’s built the way he is. To paw through the snow for grass and work his way through muskeg and over deadfalls. But he’s strong, and he’ll get you to Eagle Landing without breaking a sweat.”
Edward was hired to carry mail by horseback from Farwell, on the Columbia River, to Eagle Landing.
Mr. Gordon gave Edward a saddlebag of mail for delivery, complete with his letter home. Before leaving town, Edward went in and out of stores and saloons offering to take out parcels or bring back newspapers. He collected cash in advance, and set out from Farwell with more than three dollars. This is going to be a good business.
By the time he got to Eagle Pass, Edward wasn’t so sure he had made the right decision. He had trouble keeping Blackie on the trail, and the mosquitoes and horse flies buzzed around him without mercy. That night, he listened to the howls of wolves and wondered whether bears might be lurking near where he slept.
He cheered up when he rode into the railway camp at Griffin Lake the next afternoon. A long line of low huts had been put up for the workers. The huts had no windows and no ventilation. Men from every country
in Europe slept side-by-side like bees in a hive — except when they were arguing, fighting, or getting drunk, which was most of the time.
Edward had just finished his supper when a brawl broke out. A big Swede hit an Italian man, and all the other men quickly went to the aid of their countrymen. Pretty soon all the Swedes were fighting all the Italians, while the few English workers just hung back, laughed, and urged them on.
The railway bosses must have known there would be fights like this. They’d taken care to post a doctor to the camp, and what with attending to men injured in construction accidents and those hurt in brawls, the doctor was left with very little spare time. The only people he didn’t tend to were the Chinese, who lived off by themselves in tents some distance from the White camp. The doctor never went there.
The work of building the railway went on day and night, and Edward was amazed at the speed of the construction. He decided to rest the next day and spent hours watching workers build a one-hundred-foot-long truss bridge across a deep chasm. Edward watched the men drag timber to the edge of the chasm and thrust the beams out into empty space, supported by vertical iron rods that connected with overhead struts, which provided the tension to hold the deck in place. The bridge was an engineering marvel. Edward had heard the workers talk about tension and compression and somebody said it was a Howe truss bridge that was being built. It was all finished by supper time, and it wouldn’t be long before the first train would pass over it.
When Edward arrived at Eagle Landing, it looked no different than it had on his first visit, and he had no desire to stay there any longer than necessary. He delivered his mail to the post office, picked up a supply of newspapers from New Westminster and Victoria from the Peerless, which had just docked, fed his horse, and left town.
Edward found himself back in Farwell on payday; the railway workers were paid in cash. Most headed for the closest saloon or gambling hall, where they played games like Faro or Stud Horse Poker. Others made visits to a type of place Edward had never known existed, places like Irish Nell’s. He’d heard them referred to as “hostess houses,” but wasn’t sure what went on in there. Over the next few days, though, he noticed pretty girls going in and out, and started to get the picture.
One night, Edward was lying on his bed in his tiny room when he heard shots in the street. Looking out the small window, he saw North-West Mounted Police galloping up and down the street. He hurried downstairs.
“What’s happening?” Edward asked the hotel night clerk.
“Two men got themselves shot in the gambling hall. Whoever picked them off escaped out the back door. Probably off down the river by now.”
The police were riding around trying to find the gunman. This is too good to miss, Edward thought, and went out onto the wooden sidewalk in front of the hotel. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows and grabbed him.
“Drop your gun,” a voice ordered, while the arm holding him tightened its grip.
“I haven’t got no gun! It’s just me, Edward the dispatch rider.”
“What are you doing out here? We’ve got enough trouble without looking after you.” It was big Ed Ruddick of the North-West Mounted Police. “If it’s not those damn gamblers shooting each other, we’ve got those Provincials to worry about. You’re not helping any.”
Edward knew Constable Ruddick was referring to the troubles between the Mounties and the British Columbia Provincial Police assigned to Farwell. Instead of working together, they were trying to outdo each other in controlling the liquor trade.
Whisky Traders and Rebellion
The North-West Mounted Police rode to the Prairies in 1874 with orders to keep the peace among Indians, Métis, and the Whites flooding into the region. Because of the work of the NWMP, the Canadian West never experienced the lawlessness that became so common in the American West. Their early activity covered everything from stopping whisky traders to putting down a rebellion.
Colonel Samuel Steele, born in Orillia, Ontario, became one of the most celebrated North-West Mounted Police officers. He led expeditions across the Prairies, fought in the North-West Rebellion, kept order along the Canadian Pacific Railway in British Columbia, and saw duty in the Yukon after the gold rush of 1898. His name is preserved in Fort Steele which was an NWMP outpost and is today a heritage town near Cranbrook, British Columbia.
While on the March West in 1874, Sam Steele wrote in his diary about the Métis, mixed blood people who would later be key figures in the North-West Rebellion:
“The Métis here made a living by hunting buffalo, fishing and freighting. They sowed their crops in the spring, and never saw them again until harvest. If the crops failed it did not matter, for the distance to the herds of buffalo was not far, and the numerous lakes of white fish were near at hand.”
Little did he realize that the buffalo herds would soon be wiped out and it would no longer be possible to survive without growing crops.
The North-West Mounted Police got their Royal designation in 1904 and the force merged with the Dominion Police in 1920 to become the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
Constable Ruddick was in the middle of it all. One of his men had seized sixteen dozen bottles of beer from a liquor dealer; the dealer happened to be friendly with the Provincial Police. A Provincial Police constable took back the beer and arrested the Mountie who had nabbed him. In retaliation, the Mounties jailed the Provincial man. Then the Provincials captured the chief of the North-West Mounted Police post along with two of his constables. A few days later, they were let out of jail and left town.
Not long after that incident, a new squad of North-West Mounted Police arrived in Farwell, commanded by Colonel Sam Steele. Word of his exploits in the capture of Big Bear’s men, the feat that ended the North-West Rebellion, had preceded him. The first lot of Mounties was sent away, except for Constable Ruddick, and Colonel Steele ordered his men to restrict themselves to protecting railway property and leave control of the liquor trade to the Provincial police.
The Mounties had their hands full bringing justice to outlaws who lurked along the railway waiting for men to pass by, their pockets filled with money from their summer’s labour.
Edward heard tales of many men being held up and relieved of everything they’d earned; some were even killed. A few of the outlaws were hanged, on orders of the fearsome Judge Matthew Begbie. He had brought peace to the gold mining camps, and returned now and then from Victoria, where he now lived.
“Go up before Begbie,” the outlaws agreed, “and you’ll hang.”
Edward worried that he might someday encounter a gang of robbers on his ride through Eagle Pass. He lay awake at night trying to figure out what he’d do.
CHAPTER 7
EDWARD MEETS THE
HANGING JUDGE
Edward’s fear of encountering a gang of robbers began to melt away as the days passed without incident. Until, that is, the day when something extraordinary happened to him as he rode along an especially lonely section of the trail.
He suddenly found his way blocked by three gnarled men with guns at their hips.
“Get down offen that horse, boy,” one of them commanded. He was a coarse looking brute.
Edward slid off the horse. One of the man’s partners ordered Edward to hold Blackie’s reins. The bandits made him empty his pockets. He held out the bits of change he had, which amounted to less than two dollars.
Edward knew that wouldn’t satisfy the thieves. They’d want to loot the saddle bags strapped to Blackie, which contained the mail and other packages he was carrying. He decided he couldn’t let that happen and used the plan he’d come up with when he’d been worrying about what to do if he was ever held up.
Judge Matthew Begbie imposed the death penalty so often he became known as “the Hanging Judge.”
Edward gave Blackie a good slap on the rump. Whump!
Off Blackie took, carrying the mail with him. The three highwaymen soon forgot about Edward. They leapt back on their hor
ses and took off after Blackie. But as Edward would find out when he finally got back to Farwell, they never caught up to him. Blackie had casually found his way back to the stable, unconcerned about his romp in the forest. The saddlebags were untouched.
Edward reported the hold up to Constable Ruddick.
“Damn ruffians,” the policeman muttered. “Trying to rob the Royal Mail — that’s a hanging offence.”
That night, while wandering past the swinging doors of the Columbia Hotel saloon, Edward heard his name being called. It was Constable Ruddick.
“Come in here. There’s somebody who wants to meet you.”
Before Edward knew it, he was looking up into the face of Judge Matthew Begbie who happened to be in Farwell, having taken a break from his duties in Victoria as chief of the British Columbia Supreme Court.
“They tell me you’re a brave young man,” Judge Begbie said to Edward. “If those ruffians who held you up had gotten away with the mail, we’d have put the Mounties, as well as the Provincials onto them. And I bet they’d have got them, too. I’ve not the slightest doubt. Three more I would have had to hang.”
Judge Begbie congratulated Edward on his quick thinking in sending his horse off before the bandits could get the mail.
“A smart young fellow like you is going to make out all right in this country.”
Judge Begbie made Edward feel proud. But he frightened him, too. A man with so much power, a man who could put an end to a person’s life for just about any reason, was a man to stay away from. As soon as he could politely make his departure from the judge’s presence, Edward did so.