"Jesus, John," Jimmy said on the street. "You don't have to take that s.h.i.t. You shoulda let me at him. I'd've taught the b.a.s.t.a.r.d a lesson he wouldn't soon forget."

"You let me fight my own battles, Jimmy. The man's too drunk or stupid to learn anythin' and you'd only end up in jail. Come on. Let's get somethin' to eat and head back to camp. We still got work to do come mornin'."

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned Yankee," burped Jimmy. "He's the one who oughta go back where he came from!"

He broke into a chorus of "The Maple Leaf Forever." The rest joined in, except John, who did not know the words and knew he was already making a spectacle of himself simply by being with a bunch of inebriated white cowboys. They walked up McTavish Street toward the cafe, their boots clattering noisily on the wooden boardwalk in front of the I.G. Baker store, the boys singing l.u.s.tily. People crossed to the other side of the street to avoid them. Suddenly, a policeman clutching a truncheon burst from the alley that ran along the north end of the store. Moments later, another policeman came running from across the street to join him.

"Okay, boys," one of them said, "you want to sing, we've got the perfect stage for you, and you won't be disturbing the peace like you are now. You're all under arrest."

"What? You gotta be jokin' us." Jimmy was ready to argue with the constable, but John interrupted.

"Hold on a minute, sir," he said diplomatically. "We're just gettin' somethin' to eat, then we're headin' out of town. I'll see that the boys go quietly. There ain't no need to arrest anybody."

"n.o.body's going anywhere, except with us. You're drunk and disorderly and disturbing the peace. Now let's move!"

"I ain't drunk," John said, indignant now. "And I wasn't singin'. I don't even know the words to the d.a.m.n song!"

"You can tell that to the magistrate. Meanwhile you'll haul your black a.s.s along with us and not give us any grief." Glaring at John, he slapped his truncheon onto the palm of his hand to emphasize his words.

John was outraged. It was one thing to be insulted by an ignorant drunk, yet another when it was a sober policeman. He felt like banging the two constables' heads together to knock some sense into them. But he knew it would be all over the front page of tomorrow's newspaper if he did.

"Lead the way," he said. "We won't give you any trouble." To his crew, he added, "C'mon, boys. We'll get this sorted out at the police station."

But there was nothing to sort out as far as the constables were concerned. They ushered their charges without ceremony straight into a large cell in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the station. Metal benches lined the walls, and the boys, after some complaining and giggling, stretched out on them and went to sleep. John spent a long, sleepless night, gripped once again by the frustration of powerlessness. He wondered why he bothered wasting his time in Calgary. His mind was in turmoil, but Jimmy and the others slept a deep, beer-soaked sleep and awoke before dawn feeling hungover and sheepish.

The first words out of their mouths were apologies to John for landing him in jail, but he did not blame them. In fact, they might very well have been there because of him, but he did not mention that. After a breakfast of weak tea and gruel, they were loaded into a wagon and taken over to the courthouse with a couple of other cowhands who had been jailed on similar charges. Their guard led them through a back door into a holding area in the bas.e.m.e.nt and a bailiff took them upstairs to the courtroom, one at time. John was last.

Magistrate Sidney Pritchard was about John's age and had a face perfect for playing poker or sitting in judgment of others; it was impossible to read. In the gallery with a dozen other spectators were Jimmy and the rest of the crew. Beside them sat Fred Stimson, and John felt a surge of hope that he would have someone to vouch for him if necessary. He reasoned that Jimmy and the others had been fined and released, otherwise they would have been taken back to the lock-up.

Standing before the magistrate, John felt more angry and persecuted than nervous. Pritchard looked down on him from the bench.

"The charge against you, Mr. Ware, is drunk and disorderly. I presume you have a story. Would you be so kind as to share it with the court?"

John struggled to keep his voice at an even pitch. "I wasn't drunk, sir. I only had a little more than two beers, and it takes a lot more than that to get this body drunk. I'd of taken those boys out of town quietly, too, if your constables had let me. That's the full truth of it, because I ain't much for lyin'. That's Mr. Fred Stimson sittin' back there," he said, looking over his shoulder at Stimson, "manager of the Bar U, and I'm sure he'd say a word in my favour if you asked."

"I know Mr. Stimson." Pritchard looked toward the gallery. "Do you know this man, Mr. Stimson?"

The manager stood up and spoke. "I do, sir. He worked for me and he definitely does not have a reputation for drinking or telling lies. He now works at the Quorn for J.J. Barter, who, I'm certain, would vouch for him too. He also has a homestead along the Highwood with a small cattle herd, and there isn't a rancher between here and the Milk River who wouldn't hire him as top hand. And I'd wager that the horse isn't born yet that could throw him." Stimson sat down.

The magistrate looked at John. "Why do you think you were arrested, Mr. Ware?"

John pulled up his sleeves as far as they would go and held his arms out. "Don't know what else it could be but this old black skin."

Pritchard's face remained pa.s.sive, but John saw something flicker in his eyes. The magistrate banged his gavel and said to the courtroom, "This case is dismissed." To John he added, "I'd like to see you in chambers, Mr. Ware. Would you join me, please?"

Surprised at the request, John went through a door a few paces to the side of the bench, which the magistrate held open for him and shut after he pa.s.sed through.

Pritchard sat behind a desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. He smiled. "Have a seat." He stroked the neatly trimmed, grey-flecked black beard that framed his angular face, and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. Light from a side window reflected from his Maca.s.sar-oiled hair. "What are your origins, Mr. Ware? Where are you from?"

"South Carolina."

"You were a slave, I take it."

John nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You escaped on the underground railway?"

"No, sir. I left a freedman after the war. Abe Lincoln might of looked kindly on coloured folk, but most of South Carolina didn't care what he thought. None too pleased with it either."

"What brought you to this part of the world?"

John shrugged. "Mostly luck, I reckon."

"You weren't so lucky last night, although I should add that you did the right thing by co-operating. Any other course would have been disastrous for you and quite possibly every other person of colour in town. In any case, you seem certain that it was the colour of your skin that brought you before me."

"Well, as I said, I wasn't drunk and I wasn't disturbin' the peace. I had as much right to be on the street as anybody. And when a man refers to my rear end as a 'black a.s.s,' I figger he don't like my kind too much and would rather haul me off to jail than listen to reason. So I don't know what else it could be." John had to force himself to be polite. "Maybe you got an idea, sir."

Pritchard interlaced his fingers and poked his thumbs into his chin. He puffed his cheeks and blew out some air. "It's patently clear that a white skin has many advantages over a black one here. That's a shameful thing to admit in a place that is so far from what you most likely believed you'd left behind, but there you have it."

John pulled at his nose to ease the dryness in it from the close air in the room. He felt more than a little odd about where he was and who he was talking to, but he refused to speak anything less than his mind. "It's funny. When I first come here, people referred to me as n.i.g.g.e.r John Ware. I didn't like it because it made me feel different and less than the white men around me. I knew the only way to change that wasn't by complainin'-it was by hard work. Now all you need to say is John Ware and folks know who you're talkin' about, from the Highwood to Fort McLeod. I don't feel my colour nowhere else except here in Calgary."

Pritchard looked at John as if he were measuring him for a new Prince Albert coat. "You know, I've been doing this job for a few years and I've grown to be a pretty good judge of character. Not only do I recall seeing you unloading supplies at the Baker warehouse, which must be one of the hardest jobs in town, but I know of you from the Fisk trial. My sense is that you are a responsible, hard-working man who started life in the worst possible circ.u.mstances but made every effort to rise above them and did. I find that admirable, Mr. Ware. And by the way, you may rest a.s.sured that I will speak to the chief of police about the disgraceful behaviour of his officers.

"So for whatever it's worth, please accept my apologies on behalf of the townsfolk. Most particularly for their inability to see past the colour of your skin, when all it indicates is that you had parents of colour, and not what kind of people they were. Nor, for that matter, the kind of son they raised."

"I can't say that I ain't known that all my life," John reflected. "It's somethin' every coloured man knows. Life don't care how he plays his hand. It usually finds a way of stackin' the cards against him and he ain't got the power to do anythin' about it."

Pritchard nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. But you have my word that what happens in the town at large will never happen in any proceeding over which I preside. Insofar as the town is concerned, I believe men of your calibre will bring the necessary change and I will do my utmost to enhance it." He paused. "Now, to move on. I must confess that besides a need to clear the air, I had other motives for inviting you in here. I believe Fred Stimson is also a good judge of character and he seemed convinced that you're among the best hors.e.m.e.n in the district. What makes you so special?"

John gave the question due consideration. "I guess I don't make the mistake that a lot of people make, thinkin' that horses think like men. They don't. They think like horses, and if they can't be boss, they want to know who is. I just let 'em know who's boss, that's all, without bein' mean about it. They respect that."

Pritchard smiled. "Have you ever sat any real ornery ones?"

"Yes, sir. I like the real ornery ones best."

"Tell you what. Perhaps your arrest last night was fortuitous. I've got a real mean one, a gelding with good breeding that could be a moneymaker at the track if I could only get a saddle on him. A few men have tried but all have failed, and breaking horses isn't one of my strengths. There's twenty dollars in it for you if you can let him know his place in the grand scheme of things. Are you interested? What do you say?"

John grinned, pleased with how the meeting had gone and the sudden turn it had taken. "I say I think you better have twenty dollars ready, sir. But I got some cattle to get on a train first."

Pritchard reached across the desk with his hand outstretched.

"We have a deal then." He gave John directions to his home southeast of the city, across the Elbow River, adding, "Come along when you've finished. It's a short ride and not too far out of your way back to the Quorn. We'll even feed you. Mrs. Pritchard sets a fine table."

Dragon, the gelding, lived up to his name, for he had fire in his eyes and his breath was as hot as a smithy's forge. Even so, he gave John little trouble. Later, Pritchard rode him, and afterwards the two men talked about horses in general before Pritchard said, "You must be hungry."

John waited while Pritchard tended to Dragon, and the two men went into the house, a large, whitewashed, gable-fronted structure with dormers and a bay window looking out onto a wraparound porch. Margaret, the magistrate's wife, was tall and thin with fair hair. To John, her face looked like a feminine version of her husband's. The angles were softened somewhat but the resemblance was quite remarkable. She seemed a serious woman, not very friendly, but keen enough to have company for supper and intrigued that it was a black man. She set the table with beefsteaks and gravy, potatoes mixed with carrots, homemade biscuits, and a pot of coffee. She bade John help himself.

"Don't be shy. You look like a man who can eat more than most."

It had been years since John had sat at a supper table in the presence of a white woman. He had found it an easy thing to do with Ellie Cole, but Mrs. Pritchard was a different matter. She was much more formal and proper, and during the meal she peppered John with many questions about his background, mostly about slavery. He answered the questions as politely as he could, hoping she would soon grow tired of the topic. All it did was dredge up memories that he had long ago deemed unworthy of bringing to the surface, thoughts better forgotten, or at least kept tucked away in a part of his mind where they weren't readily accessible. He had made a good life for himself in Alberta; so far it was lacking only a good woman. It went without saying that he knew how the past moulded and shaped a man, but that did not mean he had to dwell on it.

Pritchard sensed John's discomfort. "Give the poor fellow a rest from the interrogation, Margaret, or he'll never come within ten miles of our place again!"

"Oh, I am so sorry," Margaret apologized. She added earnestly, "But I find the subject of bondage quite fascinating. May I be so bold as to impose on you one last question?" Without waiting for an answer, she asked, "What did it feel like being a slave?"

No one had ever asked John that before and he had never given it much thought. He knew he could say much about it if pressed, but he wanted an end to the discussion and gave the shortest answer he could think of. "Some days it didn't feel like nothin' more than a heavy weight on your shoulders, and other days it felt like someone was chokin' the life outta you and didn't have the decency to let you die. Mostly, you just felt powerless."

Margaret glanced at her husband, then at John, and nodded slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Ware."

She served an apple cobbler for dessert while John and the magistrate chatted.

"Do you have any children?" John asked. He wondered why he had not seen any, when the house was clearly large enough for a family.

Pritchard replied, "We have two boys, twelve and fourteen, at school in Toronto. They'll be home for their holidays next week."

John said reflectively, "A man needs a wife and children in his life." He added with a wry grin, "Who knows, maybe a pretty coloured girl'll come my way sometime soon."

No sooner had the words left his tongue than he regretted them. They were heartfelt, but he wondered if the Pritchards might deem them silly and maudlin. However, the magistrate responded with encouragement. "Calgary's growing so rapidly that there's recently been a large influx of stonemasons and carpenters, a few of them coloured and with families. It seems logical that at least one of them would have a nubile daughter." He smiled. "Maybe you ought to think about taking some time to find out, and then go introduce yourself."

A good idea, John reckoned, but he needed to figure out how to go about doing it in a town he had little use for, and which did not seem to have much use for him. He could only hope that the situation would improve because of men like Pritchard.

John declined the Pritchards' invitation to stay the night, saying he had to get back to the Quorn. He would be making some of the journey in the dark anyway, so he thanked them and promised not to be a stranger. Margaret filled his canteen with fresh water and gave him biscuits for the trip. Pritchard shook his hand. "You spoke earlier about a coloured man's lack of power. That may be true in some cases but I don't believe it to be true in yours. The power you have comes from just being yourself. I believe thinking people will eventually open their eyes and see what lies beneath the skin. As for those whose minds have never been blessed with rational thought-well, you'll always have to deal with them, but with any luck they'll be a small minority."

John shrugged noncommittally. "I reckon time's got to tell that story."

He thanked the Pritchards again for their hospitality, mounted his horse, and loped off, thinking about the magistrate's comments. Being "himself" wasn't as easy as it sounded. When he was living in Calgary and working at the I.G. Baker warehouse, his "self" had wanted very much to visit a brothel or perhaps take one of the Indian prost.i.tutes back to his room. He had carnal needs like every man. But he hadn't, because he deemed it contrary to the kind of image he felt obliged to project, which was not that of a whoring black man. Was that his real self? Or was it the other one? Both, he decided, but the one that really mattered was the one other people saw.

He skirted Calgary, and the idea crossed his mind like a bad joke that he ought to thank the two constables who had arrested him. They had unwittingly put an extra twenty dollars in his pocket, half a month's pay for less than an hour's work. Then again, he did not think it likely that they would find much humour in it.

FIFTEEN.

We got us a visitor.

John's herd grew, and by the spring of 1890, he owned seventy- five head, including several calves. It could only continue to grow, which meant he needed better grazing land than he had along the Highwood, so he went in search of a new property higher up the Sheep River, west of the Quorn and closer to the mountains. He remembered the land from his brief foray looking for gold, and knew it to be rich with gra.s.s in some areas. All he needed was a good building site, which he found in short order-two flat acres in a hollow, well above the meandering stream and surrounded by lovely, low-lying hills that rose in the west into the Rockies. There would be plenty of sun for a garden, and there were meadows above and below the site, and another one, suitable for hay, across the river. He returned to Calgary and made a claim but did not dally there. He moved his cattle to the new property and sold the other claim to an eager settler.

Meanwhile, the High River Horse Ranch, with more than nine hundred horses, offered John a better-paying job as foreman, which he accepted. J.J. Barter let him have his choice of horses as a parting gift, and he chose Molly, a two-year-old chestnut filly with a white blaze that he had trained himself. Barter also let him have Bismarck, a young boarhound that had attached itself to John.

The new job had come along at the right time. John had been wanting a change for a while, as well as more money to invest in his future; it seemed to fit in with the change the district was experiencing. There were more settlers and more fences, and railroads were under construction south to Fort McLeod and north to Edmonton. Even the Indians seemed to have settled into their own niche and no longer posed a threat to the livelihoods of ranchers and farmers. About the only thing that had not changed was the shortage of women in the district and the total absence of them in John's life. Since it took a strong woman to handle the hardships of ranch and farm life, most of the men outside the cities and towns were bachelors. But that too was about to change.

The Canadian Pacific Railroad was offering inexpensive trips to Ontario where matchmaking organizations had been set up. A few men took advantage of the arrangement and returned with wives. John considered it, because some of the cowboys from the east had mentioned the sizable black populations there, many of whom had arrived via the Underground Railroad. But in the end, he didn't go. He believed that it would be an exercise in frustration, if not a waste of time and money. He had pretty well resigned himself to the dreary prospect of bachelorhood for at least the foreseeable future, and perhaps the rest of his life.

Whenever the opportunity arose, he loaded tools onto one of the ranch's wagons and drove up to his property to work on the new house he had begun. Sometimes one or two of the ranch hands would join him to help, but usually he toiled alone. He was careful and meticulous, because this would be his home on the ranch that he had dreamed of for so long and he wanted it to be something a man could be proud of. Unlike the rough log structure beside the Highwood River, this would be a home he could bring a wife into without embarra.s.sment. He figured that by the end of the following summer he would have it finished, and a stable and corral built as well.

One of John's tasks as foreman was to drive to the I.G. Baker store once a month for supplies. He customarily did his business as quickly as possible and left, although he found it interesting how the att.i.tudes of the clerks had changed. They now treated him with the same businesslike respect they treated most of their other customers. This was partly due to his regular appearance in the store; however, before he left the Quorn, the Calgary Herald had published an article about him and his riding prowess, and that, more than anything, had served to change many minds, inside the store and on the street as well. He was no longer a strange black man in town and he was grateful for the progress.

On a Sat.u.r.day near the end of May, with a cool breeze tumbling out of the mountains, he hitched up the buckboard to a pair of horses he had trained for the task and headed for town with a long shopping list. Calgary was busy and there was no place in front of the store to leave the wagon, so he turned around and left it across the street.

A bell tinkled as he entered the store, and the smell of spices-cloves seemed to predominate-and floor wax mixed with leather and tobacco smoke flooded his senses. He was awaiting his turn when the doorbell tinkled again and another customer walked in. To John's surprise, he was black. The man saw John waiting and joined him. Wearing workman's clothes, he appeared to be in his mid-forties and was of medium height with a round face and a pleasant smile that stayed in his eyes even after it left his mouth. He nodded to John. "Busy place."

"Always is this time of year." After they exchanged a few pleasantries, John put out his hand. "John Ware."

"Dan Lewis. Pleased to know you."

Lewis was a cabinetmaker from Ontario who had brought his family west two years ago for the same reason nearly everyone else had come-to have a better life. He lived in Shepard, a tiny community about ten miles southeast of Calgary, where he had a business building high-quality furniture. The two men chatted until a clerk became available for John, and Lewis did what John hoped he would: invited him to supper.

"A week this coming Sunday. Come around three o'clock. We'll eat around five or five-thirty."

John wished it could have been sooner than Sunday; even so, the invitation felt akin to winning a valuable prize. "I'll be there. You can count on it."

On the way back to the ranch, he thought of the questions he should have asked Lewis. How large was his family? Did he have any daughters? Given his age, it was possible Lewis had daughters old enough for marriage. But Lewis might have been suspicious about any such probing, thinking that John had other motives for accepting the invitation besides a good supper and a visit with a fellow black. Whatever the case, Lewis seemed like a decent, interesting man with whom to spend an evening, and if he happened to have daughters, so much the better. John would have to dig out his Prince Albert coat from the box under his bunk and polish his boots. He had attended several social events during his time in the district, but he had never looked forward to any of them as much as this one.

He was clattering along the road, lost in his rambling thoughts, when he encountered J.J. Barter on his way to Calgary. It had been a while since they had seen each other, so they stopped their wagons side by side to trade news.

"Good to see you, J.J. How's things at the Quorn?"

"Well, I'm glad I ran into ye, John. One of the boys at the High River Ranch was out this marnin' and came across that d.a.m.ned wolf tearin' up one of yer foals. He took a shot at it but missed. The beast ran off into the woods quick as a cat. But it sounds as if it could be the same animal that killed a couple of our foals over the last year or so."

Every rancher and settler on the southern range knew of the wolf and called it "the King." Those who had caught a glimpse of it said it was the biggest grey they had ever seen, big enough to take down a man. It hunted by itself, its prey the easy food supply of foals and calves.

Barter continued, "Anyway, the lad tracked it for a while but lost it up along the Sheep River. If I were ye, I'd get up to that claim of yers as soon as ye can and check out yer herd. That foal may not be its only victim today. Seems to have a likin' for calves, too. There's a fifty dollar reward for the man who gets him."

By the time the two men went their separate ways, John had forgotten all about his supper date with the Lewis family. He had been lucky so far, his herd untouched, but now all kinds of horrible images stormed through his mind. He knew he had best do as Barter suggested and get to his claim without a moment's delay. But first, he had to deliver the wagonload of goods to the ranch. He slapped the reins down hard on the team's rumps and rattled and shook with speed along the b.u.mpy road.

John ate a hurried supper and packed a bedroll and some food, knowing he would be gone overnight. He climbed on Molly and left for his claim, with Bismarck trailing behind. Clouds obscured the upper slopes of the peaks in the west but the sky above was clear and the air warm. He rode quickly, without being reckless, along the Highwood and onto the trail up the Sheep that he had practically worn himself. His mind was on the King, and the closer he got to his property, the more worried he became.

Nearing the homestead, he saw a raven fly into the air and begin circling. The sight made his gut heave. The trail rose and from his new vantage point he could see past the house to the broad meadow above it. A dozen ravens were tearing at a b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s, while beyond, his small herd of cattle, bunched together, looked on. He nudged Molly and galloped down into the hollow, past the house, and up the far side. As soon as he appeared on the meadow, the ravens flew off to nearby trees, their raucous croaks protesting the interruption of their feast.

The carca.s.s was one of John's calves, and he cursed his luck. Its neck and belly were ripped apart so severely that it had to have been done by a wolf, and recently, too. Probably this morning, as near as John could determine. He could see that it had eaten most of the animal's organs except the stomach, and it looked as if the ravens had been taking their fill of that. John dismounted, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, and called Bismarck, who was sniffing around the carca.s.s. He looked for tracks but the ground was rough and churned up by the cattle. He walked the perimeter of the open s.p.a.ce, peering into the woods, but saw nothing. He thought he might be wasting his time, because the wolf could have crossed the river and disappeared into the wilderness beyond the hay meadow. But as he was about to return to Molly, Bismarck shot ahead to a puddle, a remnant of the last rainfall, and began whining. He stood at the edge of the forest, staring in, his tail high and wagging. John glanced down and noticed paw prints beside the water, where it appeared the wolf had stopped to drink. The prints were huge, big enough that John had no doubt that they belonged to the King. They indicated that the wolf had entered the forest, and Bismarck's stance reinforced it.

It was too close to nightfall to go traipsing through the woods after a savage beast, and Bismarck would still be able to pick up the scent in the morning. John did not think the wolf would return for the uneaten carrion, because it had not in other cases, seeming to prefer a fresh kill. He had an idea as to how he could take advantage of that, but first he had to get rid of the carca.s.s. He dragged it by its hind legs out of the meadow and a couple of hundred yards up the river, with Bismarck following. Then he took out his knife and skinned the animal, thinking that the hide would make a nice carpet for his new home. He left the remains, certain that the ravens and other scavengers would have them gobbled up in no time.

John and Bismarck returned to the meadow and retrieved Molly, and the three walked down to the house, where John had a firepit and some stacked firewood. He got a blaze going, fetched water from the river, and put coffee on to boil. While waiting, he tended to Molly, removing the saddle and bridle and letting her graze. He took a couple of biscuits out of his saddlebags and once the coffee boiled, he poured a cup and dipped the hard biscuits into it to soften them and add flavour. When he had finished, he freshened his coffee and rolled a smoke. Sipping the hot brew and pulling the smoke into his lungs, he contemplated his surroundings.

Some of the walls were up on the house, built with lumber delivered from Calgary. In his mind's eye, he saw the finished result. It would have a steeply pitched shingled roof to shed the snow, and a porch, with a fancy cast-iron railing along the front. The door would be in the centre with windows on either side, and there would be windows in each end. He would leave the rear of the house plain so that he could easily knock out the wall in case he needed to add more rooms-no reason why a man could not remain optimistic. He had already begun to gather stones from the river for the chimney; he would start it once the walls were up and before the roof went on. Then, to make it really stand out in this wilderness, he would whitewash it.