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| The Manitoulin - steamer ship featured in Chuck Walker's BORDER TOWNS |
Showing posts with label Bordertowns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bordertowns. Show all posts
Monday, October 11, 2010
BORDERTOWNS Update
Sunday, June 13, 2010
BORDERTOWNS: Epilogue
EPILOGUECharley Brown was sheriff of the Pembina area, Dakota Territory from 1875 until his death in 1884.
The hangings by the Fort Pembina military took place in the vicinity of what is now Lancaster, Minnesota.
Approximately three years after the disappearance of Pete, S. C. Cady visited the Vaughn homestead. After discussing the rumor as to the location of the Indian body, Vaughn and he searched for and found the corpse. Due to decomposition, the body could not be positively identified.
Manitoulin, the Collingwood boat that transported the McLaren family to Duluth, sank near Collingwood, Ontario, on May 20, 1882, with the loss of 25 lives.
In the early 1950's a shallow trench was dug just north of the present Pembina, ND schoolyard, for the purpose of planting a shelter-belt. Parts of two uniformed bodies were found and an argument ensued as to whether or not there were two complete bodies. It was decided to re-bury the remains in the public park in Pembina. A marker was placed there stating: "An unknown soldier from Hatch's Battalion."
Hatch's Battalion arrived in Pembina in November of 1863 and left on May 5, 1864, on the steamboat International, bound for Fort Abercrombie. There seem to be no existing records of any death or burial of his men while stationed in Pembina. All bodies interred at the Fort Pembina Cemetery during the fort's existence (1870-1895) were moved to Fort Lincoln when the fort was closed; thence again to a final resting place at the greasy-grass, the Custer Battlefield in Montana.This leads to conjecture that the men were probably listed as deserters at Fort Pembina, but in actuality were murder victims.
C.W.
Friday, June 04, 2010
BORDERTOWNS: The Final Chapter
With this chapter, Dear Readers, BORDERTOWNS comes to a close.1 This was the last [complete] book written by Chuck Walker, and once again I have been very proud and honored to share Chuck's work with you here. His encyclopedic knowledge of my local area was amazing, and we're lucky he was so willing to share it throughout his life in many ways. I wish I had had more time with him, but am thankful for the time I did have...
Now enjoy the last chapter of BORDERTOWNS!
That same morning Joseph discovered his bottle missing and accosted Annette. She disclaimed any knowledge of the bottle, doubting he even had one, for he had been drunk the night before. Joseph began to rage, blaming Pete, cursing him wildly.
Annette objected sharply. "He's never stolen anything in this house. He's your own brother. In fact, he gives us money to help keep us going. If it wasn't for what Marguerite and I bring in, and what Pete gives me, we'd starve." She said vehemently, "You don't bring in one cent!"
Her attempt to shield herself from the sudden blow came too late; the swinging fist knocked her to the floor. She thanked the Lord that Marguerite was at work and not at home to witness her degradation. She had been able to hide most of his abuse over the past years, since he had been careful never to strike her in the presence of Pete or the girls.
"Keep your mouth shut, woman. I bought and paid for you years ago. What I do is my business."
Afraid to rise from the floor, she watched helplessly as he plundered her grocery money in the cupboard. Casting her a malevolent glance, he slammed the kitchen door violently as he left. Regaining her feet, she went to the window to see him heading for Smith's saloon on the corner.
After eating dinner at Mrs. Fisk's boardinghouse, Charley rode to the fort. The wagon, carrying Murphy’s body, had apparently just arrived, for a medical orderly was arguing with the driver.
"Leave the corpse in the wagon! Doc will examine it out here. He won't want the infirmary messed up. Besides, the body goes back to town after he looks it over."
Dr. Appel stepped out of the door just as Charley dismounted. He nodded toward the corpse. "Your project, Charley?"
"How so?"
Charley explained his suspicions of the accident.
The doctor looked the corpse over briefly, and then turned to his assistant. "Remove the clothes from the man, Fred. We'll have a closer look."
The orderly had a distasteful look on his face as he attempted to remove the blood soaked shirt from the corpse. Struggling to remove both shirt and trousers he finally reached into his pocket, extracting a knife. Cutting the tangled suspenders free, he was finally able to strip the body.
The doctor inserted a rectal thermometer, and then he examined the body in detail. Finally, he checked the torso, musing aloud, "My God! Look at the massive scar tissue on the side of his shoulder. He must have been in a severe accident -- and not too long ago either." He turned to Charley. "A doctor's curiosity, you might say."
Dr. Appel continued to speculate, "You know, you may be right. If this man had his neck on the rail, he wouldn't have the back of his head crushed. Look here!" He pointed at the severe indentation in Murphy's skull. "'Course if a chain or something hung from the train, it could account for this damage." He removed the rectal thermometer; he seemed puzzled. "There's another possibility. What time did the accident occur?"
"About dawn this morning."
Appel snorted in disgust, "Hell, this man has been dead for almost ten hours! He's already loosening up and he's lost nearly all body heat. You'd better take him to the cemetery and plant him quick. He'll ripen fast in this heat. I think a blow to the back of his head killed him, but it's only speculation."
"I kind of figured he was moved to the tracks," Charley said grimly. "Now I'll have to snoop around to find out what actually happened. He's no loss to anyone but himself, no family that I know of. Still, I have to try and ferret out the guilty party."
As the sheriff rode back to town his mind was in turmoil. Could the murderer be Ian or another of the McLaren family? What will I do then? Lordy, I hope not.
That same morning when Joseph Grant entered Smith's saloon for a drink, he expressed his feelings to the bartender. "That damned Pete! He stole the bottle I had behind the stove."
The barman smiled to himself; he knew Pete to be a periodic drunk. Stealing a man's bottle was a joke, for whiskey was considered an essential of life at the time.
The sheriff arranged to have Murphy buried that same afternoon, then spent the remainder of the day checking the saloons of Pembina and St. Vincent. The bartender of the Ryan Hotel in St. Vincent remembered a large, pale-faced man leaving his bar around midnight.
"Was he drunk?"
"Drunk, and mean as hell. He tried to pick a fight but everyone backed down. He was a miserable dog." The bartender grew inquisitive. "I thought his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place him."
"Did he buy a bottle of Old Crow?"
"I don't remember him buying any bottle. Hell, we don't sell that brand. Their drummer is a sharper; I don't do business with him." He looked at Charley suspiciously.
“Why the interest in Old Crow?"
"Found an empty near Murphy's body."
The look of surprise on the barman's face was evident when the name Murphy was mentioned. "Jeez! Was that Murphy? He sure fooled me!"
Charley reflected over the bottle. Shucks, even John and I sell that brand in our place, other saloons do too. Still, he sensed something missing when he returned to the jail. He carefully stood the empty bottle on the rear of his desk.
_________________
It was noon when Ben McCune sobered up enough to realize he was stone-broke. Every penny he had realized from the sale of his farm was gone. Even the money gained from selling the yoke and harness of his oxen had been spent. The saloons in St. Vincent gave no credit so McCune determined to go to Pembina. He stayed in St. Vincent just long enough to hear the news of the dead man. The information that the accident took place only a short distance from where he had slept, troubled him.
While crossing on the ferry to Pembina, he attempted to steal Trudo's bottle while the ferryman cranked the drum. The ferryman had allowed McCune free passage when he was broke, provided the ferryman was crossing with a paying passenger.
"Ben, you damned thief, you'll swim or wade from now on." Grasping the cringing McCune by the collar and belt, he threw him off the ferry. McCune momentarily appeared, spluttering and cursing, standing chest deep in the water.
Depressed, soaked, but now sober, he walked the remaining quarter mile to Pembina and sat down, leaning back against the wall of Bradshaw's Pembina House. His daydreaming brought to mind the dead man. Could it have been murder? The more he pondered, the more he was sure the man with the mule had something to do with it. Yes, there was the possibility of a reward there. Struggling to his feet, he turned toward the jail. The door was padlocked and the sheriff or deputies nowhere in sight. Stiffly, Ben sat on the upper step with his back against the door. He finally dozed off.
It was nearing the supper hour when Charley returned to the office and found McCune blocking the door. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his mouth sagged open, exposing yellowed and crooked teeth. Nudging Ben with his foot and shaking his shoulder, Charley got the man awake and to his feet. McCune was crafty. "Know something about the murder, sheriff. Is there any reward?"
"Reward for what?"
"The murderer of the man found on the tracks."
"How do you know he was murdered?" Charley was amused, thinking, McCune's here to tap me for a drink or a bottle.
"Saw the man."
"What man?"
"The man hauling the body."
The sheriff looked at him grimly, then he thrust McCune roughly inside and onto a chair. "Tell me about it and don't leave out a single thing! You'd better not be lying!"
McCune's eyes scanned the room greedily. "Need a drink. Got any?"
Brown looked at him with disgust. Finally he slid open a drawer of his desk and produced a bottle and tin cup. Pouring an inch into the cup, he handed it to McCune. "Now tell me what you know, or I'll put you in jail and throw away the key."
McCune related what he could remember of the man leading the mule and the load on the mule's back. To make his story stronger, he insisted that the mule carried a body. He looked pleadingly at Charley as he placed the empty cup back on the desk.
Charley debated silently, there were few mules around St. Vincent and I can check the ferry to see if any were brought across the river. He knew mules to be poor swimmers so doubted any had been ridden across. That would almost eliminate anyone from Pembina being involved. Murphy had to have enemies, but Charley knew he also had friends, especially among the railroaders from Emerson. He remembered Brogan and Murphy and other workers had spent that past winter at Roseau Crossing where the girl was killed.
Pouring the remaining liquor from the bottle into the tin cup, Charley handed it back to McCune. "Drink that, and keep your mouth shut tight!"
McCune nodded as he gulped down the raw whiskey; it took both his hands to keep the cup from shaking.
"If you promise to keep this conversation to yourself, you can go to my store and tell John I said to give you a bottle of Old Crow. It's on me."
"Can't I have Scotch instead? It's better than Bourbon."
Charley felt a certain satisfaction. McCune sure wasn't a suspect.
The next morning the sheriff crossed to St. Vincent and began the search for mules. Stopping at each bar he inquired who owned the hybrid animals and who regularly bought Old Crow bourbon whiskey. From there he checked the stables at the hotels and the private liveries.
At Fri's Hotel the bartender mentioned that the only mules he knew of locally, outside of those kept at local livery stables, were those owned by the McLarens. "They have several," he said, "I believe old Pete keeps one of Ian's critters over in Grant's barn."
Charley knew Pete picked up spending money by doing odd jobs with the borrowed mule: water hauling, wood delivery and sundry chores. When the question of who favored Old Crow whiskey came up, the name of Joseph Grant was included. At Smith's saloon the bartender remembered the joke Pete had played on Joseph, by stealing his bottle.
"What day did Grant come in for another?"
"Yesterday."
Stepping from the hotel, Charley found his mind whirling. Things were beginning to fall into place. Oh hell! Damn it all! It's circumstantial, but I'll have to try a bluff.
Leading his horse he walked toward Grant's. As he approached the front of the house, he could hear the sounds of an axe being used. Behind the house he found Pete splitting wood blocks for the kitchen range. The fact that Pete at first glanced up to see him, then ignored his presence, convinced the sheriff of Pete's complicity.
"You know why I'm here, Pete?"
Pete looked at him long and hard, then slowly nodded.
"Why did you do it? Were you drunk?"
Pete resumed chopping.
"I'll have to put you in jail, you know."
The breed looked at him resignedly, and then forcefully buried the axe in the chopping block. Turning to Charley, he said, "I give no trouble." He extended his hands together in front of him, expecting irons.
Charley shook his head. "Don't need them. Come along with me and we'll talk it over."
While the sheriff rode, Pete walked alongside. He seemed morose and taciturn, refusing to discuss the matter, or even speak when Charley shot questions at him.
They crossed on the ferry, then on the piling bridge across the Pembina River. Charley noticed people glancing at them as he and Pete turned toward the jail. When inside the log building, Charley asked, "Why did you do it Pete? You must have had a good reason."
Pete's mind seemed miles away and Charley could get no answer. Finally he opened the cell door and stood to the side. Pete arose and walked in without a word. As the sheriff watched, he lay on the bunk and covered his eyes with his arm.
__________________
News of the murder and the capture of the suspect spread like wildfire after the sheriff went to the barbershop. He was forced to notify his part-time jailer, Captain Bob, that his services were required to guard the jail that evening. Charley knew Bob to be a nondescript person, a part-time barber who drank up every cent as fast as it came in. But to Charley's thinking, a jailer needed only two qualifications: he must work for one dollar a day, and he must be immediately available.
"Did Pete really kill Murphy, sheriff?"
"Yup, sure looks like it. He doesn't deny it but he won't tell me why he did it. There's probably a good reason. Maybe Murphy picked a fight with him. I've been told Murphy was looking for a fight in Ryan's saloon the night he was killed. It seems no one was anxious to take him on." He shook his head. "No loss to the community, but the case may cost the county some money. I want you to take the eight to six a.m. shift at the jail, tonight. I'll be there in the morning to relieve you."
Captain Bob was an important man that afternoon. He spread the news that the sheriff had Pete locked up for the murder of Murphy. Most people were complacent about the capture, but a few looked up the sheriff to congratulate him. The kudos left Charley with a feeling of guilt, knowing of Murphy's crime against Mary. He also knew the McLaren family would not like those facts brought to light. Few people of Pembina actually knew Pete as an individual; to most, he was just another no-account half-breed.
__________________
Pembina was quiet that Monday evening and the jailer, in an effort to avoid the stifling heat inside the jail, moved his chair just outside the door of the lockup.
It was past midnight when a man walked out of the darkness. He appeared to have been drinking heavily and carried a bottle of whiskey carelessly by the neck. After striking up a conversation with Bob, the man offered to share his bottle. At first Bob refused, knowing well he shouldn't drink on duty. After some conversation and further coaxing, the jailer succumbed to temptation. Within a half hour his head fell forward; he lost consciousness.
His visitor disappeared for a few moments, and then reappeared, accompanied by three other men. Picking up the sleeping jailer, they carried him into the jail and closed the door.
When the sheriff arrived the next morning, he found the outside door padlocked. Applying his key to the lock, he removed it and pushed open the heavy oak door. His jailer lay on the floor as if dead. The cell door was open and Pete was gone. The only apparent damage inside the cell was to the small window; the glass was shattered. When Charley attempted to awaken his assistant, he became concerned. The man acted as if drugged. Touching his carotid artery, he found that Bob's heartbeat was steady, but abnormally slow. His breathing was labored and he seemed to be in a deep sleep.
Leaving the jailer on the floor, Charley checked every detail of the cell. There was blood on several of the larger pieces of glass, an indication of possible foul play. He picked the few shards from the floor and disposed of them in the alley trash barrel. Although he had no evidence to support his theory, he knew instinctively that Pete had been taken from the jail by Murphy's cronies and was by now, probably dead.
It was noon before he could get a coherent word out of his jailer. It took threats of bodily harm to finally elicit the information from Captain Bob that he had yielded to temptation and had shared drinks with a stranger.
Charley felt frustrated. Now he had two suspected murders and only one corpse. He knew instinctively that the guilty ones had to be the railroad friends of Murphy and Brogan. He also knew they would have covered up any trace of their guilt. They certainly wouldn't have crossed the river on the Pembina or Emerson ferries. That would have been too obvious. They more than likely used a local rowboat. He would check the two ferries first though, just to be sure.
It had taken just three hours for the jailer's midnight visitors to dispose of Pete. Tired, but elated with their easy success, they walked the rest of the way to the border. Borrowing one of the many boats tied along the shore, they crossed to Emerson, and feeling safe, reviewed the night's work in quiet tones with a bottle of whisky. The laudanum-laced whiskey with which they had baited Captain Bob had done the job on the careless jailer. One of the men laughed, and said, "Murphy was a miserable bastard, but he was our bastard. No breed is getting away with killing a white man. No one will ever find the body either." He sneered, "They'll never be sure what happened to him."
That afternoon Annette had seen Pete and the sheriff conversing by the barn and wondered what they were discussing. She felt no alarm as Pete accompanied Charley toward the ferry, since there were no signs of hostility between them.
When Pete failed to appear after supper, she walked to Susan's house. While mentioning seeing Pete and the sheriff together, Susan's face contorted with fear. Early that afternoon a neighbor had brought the news of Murphy's corpse being found on the railroad tracks. At the time her whole body had seemed to freeze, and she felt a shortness of breath. Now she knew who her attacker was, and what Pete had done with the body. Did the sheriff suspect Pete? Should she see Charley and explain what had happened? What could she do? What should she do? Her first thought had been to tell Ian and her mother; yet, it might create more problems. Perhaps Pete had other business with Charley, as there were many nights he failed to come home. He had also impressed the need of secrecy upon her.
Ian was still in the field when her mother left for home. Susan knew from the look on the face of her mother that she sensed something was wrong.
Word of Pete's arrest for the murder of Murphy made the rounds of the saloons in St. Vincent late that afternoon, but the information never reached the Grant or McLaren families.
The sheriff's afternoon investigation at the two Emerson ferries was fruitless. The operators disclaimed any knowledge of railroad men crossing the river. Charley knew that both ferries closed down at dusk so the men must have used a rowboat as he had suspected. He doubted anyone from Pembina or the fort being involved as few outsiders were in town that weekend. It was on every other weekend when the railroaders were paid, that he deemed he was underpaid as a law officer.
When he returned to the jail late that afternoon, Charley found Ian's gelding tied to the iron hitch post. Since Ian was nowhere in sight, Charley rode to the livery, removed the saddle from his horse, then raised it to the crossbar. He was leading the animal to the corral just as Ian rode into view. While he removed the bridle, Ian said, "I hear you've got my hired man locked up for killing that bastard Murphy."
"Not any more." Charley shook his head dourly.
"What's that mean?"
"Come over to the office and let's talk. What I have to tell you won't set well, but damned if I know what to do about it."
It took only ten minutes for the sheriff to explain the events since Murphy's death. Ian was shocked. "You mean Pete actually killed Eck Murphy? That's hard to believe."
"Believe it! But for what reason?" Charley's shoulders rose questioningly. Looking Ian in the eye, he said, "I've other news for you. Murphy bore that scar you guessed at. He was the man who attacked your sister. I think he recognized her, too. Why else the attacks upon your family?"
Ian was momentarily speechless, and then exclaimed, "Thank God the S.O.B. is dead! Between he and Brogan they caused us a lot of grief." He shook his head. "I'll speak to Annette and the girls; someone must know what happened between Pete and Murphy. I'll say this, if Pete did kill Murphy as you say, he had a darned good reason."
"That's the heck of it! If we knew what happened, and it went to court, Pete would probably go free. Now, thanks to that stupid-ass Bob, he's more than likely dead."
"But why would Pete kill Murphy? Oh, I know he had no use for the man, but who did? As far as I know, there was no personal animosity between them." Ian shook his head in frustration.
"It's for sure something happened between them. It might take some time to find out what is, but eventually it'll come out. Murphy no doubt had it coming, but murder is still murder, regardless."
"You really think a group of men took Pete from the jail and killed him?"
"Ian, I'm almost positive that's what happened, and he's now dead. Ten to one it was those cronies of Murphy and Brogan. Do you remember any of the men that came into my bar that noon of the fight?"
"Not names, but I remember faces, at least two of them. We worked on the same crew when the roadbed was graded north of Emerson. That was in the fall of '77, just after we arrived here.
"By the way, some time back you mentioned that Jack Bell was going to get their names for you. Did he?"
"No. He's never mentioned it. Evidently he's been distracted by other work. Guess he's got enough trouble keeping those C.P.R. workers in line. 'Spose it's up to me to find them. With so many crews working north of Emerson, those men will never be around town in the daytime. But at night, that's when they'll gravitate to the saloons. Can you spare the time to go across the border after supper tonight?"
"Sure, if it will help find Pete. Why don't you meet me at my house after supper? Better yet, come and eat with us. You haven't seen the interior of our new house. After eating, we can ride over to Emerson and check the bars."
Rising from behind his desk, Charley said, "I’m ready for something to eat, then the trip to Canada tonight. I'll have to turn down your invitation to supper, though, 'cause I've got to see Bill Moorhead. I'll be at your place about seven. Somehow, I'm going to get to the bottom of this." He had a grim look on his face.
When Ian returned to St. Vincent, he was surprised to find the house quiet. Entering their bedroom he found Susan lying on the bed. She was fully clothed and had a damp cloth covering her forehead and eyes. She appeared to be asleep. Immediately concerned, he bent over her and called, "Susan . . . Susan!"
She suddenly sat up, wild-eyed, the damp cloth rolling to the bedspread. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Anxiously Ian gathered her into his arms in an attempt to comfort her.
"Susan, calm down. Tell me what's wrong."
During the next minutes, amid a vale of tears and nervous shaking, she divulged the details of the attack upon her. "Pete saved me. Oh, Ian, he's my Father! He said so."
It took a few moments for her almost incoherent words to make sense; then Ian remembered her tenseness when she visited him that last night of his shift. "My God! Why didn't you tell me then? We could have straightened this out."
She sat back at arm length, imploring, "Please don't be angry with me." Her cheeks were ashen as she attempted to compose herself.
"I'm not angry, but I'll have to tell Charley." Realization came to him that this was not the time to tell her that her father was in all probability, dead. He smoothed back the long hair from her face. "Charley and I are leaving for Emerson after I have something to eat. I'll explain the happenings to him; I may be late in getting home." To ease her mind he added, "Pete's action was justified. I only wish the opportunity had been mine. Don't worry about a thing sweetheart. It will all straighten out." It was mind-boggling when he thought of the consequences that resulted from hiding the truth. Still, he couldn't second-guess Pete's decision to conceal the act. All that remained now was to find Pete, if alive. Or, if dead, find the men who murdered him.
When Charley arrived, Ian asked him to step into the kitchen. Susan, still sick in mind, had gone to her bed. Relating Susan's story, Ian grimly asked, "What do we do now?"
Charley shook his head disgustedly. "Damn that Pete! This is entirely his fault. If he had reported killing Murphy, it could have been settled."
Ian brooded, "Not necessarily. You know how some of the whites hate the breeds. They'd have found some way to punish or do away with him."
The sheriff pushed away from the table and stood his face taut with anger. "Let's go to Emerson and find out who took Pete from the jail."
Two of the saloons in Emerson were nearly devoid of patrons, but the final stop at the Gateway Hotel, yielded dividends. The bartender looked up briefly as they entered, then resumed washing glassware. Ian immediately nudged Charley. "There are two of Murphy and Brogan's friends seated with others at that far table."
At first the men at the table exchanged furtive glances as they recognized Ian and the sheriff. They pretended indifference, keeping their heads down and conferring in low tones. Ian caught the exchange of cagey smiles as one of them spoke up. "Out late on the wrong side of the line, sheriff?"
"Just looking for people who stay up late and wander to my side of the line," Charley challenged.
The tough turned to his friends at the table. "We wouldn't know anyone who would want to do that, do we, men?"
The hostility of the men at the table was obvious. One of the seated men remarked insinuatingly, "Hell no, sheriff. We're good little boys and stay home at night."
The derision on their faces was obvious. Ian realized his was a no-win situation that could turn ugly, seeing he and Charley were outnumbered. He thought it prudent to withdraw. Evidently Charley felt the same, for, turning away from the men, he ordered two beers from the bartender. Obviously ignored, the men at the table exchanged satisfied smirks.
Sipping his beer, Charley said in an undertone, "We've come to a dead end. We've found our men, I'm sure of it. Now it'll take some thinking and planning to bring them to justice."
On the way back to St. Vincent, Charley seemed optimistic. "I'll speak with some friends and we'll wait it out. Some evidence may turn up."
When Ian offered Charley a bed for the night, the sheriff shook his head. "I'll walk the river with my horse. It's so shallow now that the ferry is having problems. The operator has had to hire a shovel gang to keep the cross-channel open. If we don't get rain soon, the steamboats may have to tie up for the remainder of the season."
The next morning when Charley left his room to breakfast at Mrs. Fisk's, he met Ned Cavalier on the street. Ned had a whimsical look on his face. "Cripes, Charley, you're popular. You've got the whole Indian tribe from the north camp waiting at your jail."
"What for?"
"Reckon they want to know what you did with Pete."
"I'd like to know myself. Oh, well, I'll have to face them."
He judged that over fifty Indians turned to watch his approach. Recognizing their chief, Matawin, he asked. "What's this meeting about?"
"Where Pete?"
Beckoning Matawin to follow him inside, Charley thrust out a chair to him. He explained that Pete had been in the cell and had disappeared. Pointing out the broken window in which a few small shards remained, he said disgustedly, "I've got to fix that." He failed to mention that Captain Bob had been drugged and that the cell door was open when he arrived the next morning. Matawin stood, and then walked into the cell to appraise the window. The aperture was too small for a human to crawl through. Apparently satisfied, the Indian chief walked past the sheriff and out the door, joining the group standing outside. The Indians gathered around him while he spoke; then they began drifting back north toward their encampment.
Puzzled, the sheriff locked the outside jail door and began walking back to his store. Meeting Bill Moorhead, he asked, "What do you suppose those Indians wanted?" He explained that he had shown Matawin the cell with the broken window.
Moorhead looked serious. "Didn't you know Pete was a Midewewan? Matawin probably figured Pete changed himself into a bird and flew out the window. I know it sounds crazy, but it's a part of their beliefs."
"You're kidding me!"
"Nope. Go to their camp and ask them if you don't believe me."
Charley could see Bill was serious and not joking. "Oh, I believe you. You've lived with these Indians a lot longer than me. Still, it's hard to believe." He shook his head, realizing how little he knew of the Indian dogma.
_________________
Susan seemed unable to recover from the shock of losing her father. Day after day she moped, as if in a dream world. Ian was frantic to find something to bring her back to reality. Finally Maggy's visit brought some semblance of order to their household. She determined to disclose the secret of Mary's attack. After Susan heard the story, she sat transfixed, as if unbelieving.
"What a horrible experience to have undergone at her age! Oh, Maggy, it happened to me, too, and it would have been worse. I'm glad he's dead, but it won't bring back my Father. Ian tries to keep my hope up by saying he may still be alive, but in my heart I know those men who took him from the jail murdered him. Is there no justice for Indians and we mixed bloods? I've asked my Mother time and time again why they kept their secret from us, but she just looks at me silently and shakes her head. I know she misses Pete, for she sits alone in the kitchen, hour after hour, saying nothing."
"Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that the man your mother married couldn't give her children. You know, you should be thankful to have enjoyed your true father as long as you did. As you have said, he was always the one you girls looked up to as a father. You've said he was always kind to you through the years. He must have loved you both as well as your mother."
"Yes, looking back I remember how he helped with the cooking and work around the house. He was the one who cut and split the stove wood, hauled the ice, and kept us going. He was the one who took us on his lap when we were young. I know he had an occasional drinking problem, but now I realize the tension he must have been under, taking orders from his older brother. He must have constantly worried about being cast out of the house." She looked at Maggy questioningly, "What will mother do without my father to hold things together?"
"We'll take that as it comes. I suspect Ian will take up the slack. Your mother is Ian's responsibility now, and you'll both see her provided for. It's always a problem for older folks when they can no longer work. Someday, I hope things will be different. At least she has her job at the fort and Marguerite is still unmarried and working."
__________________
Almost a month after Pete's disappearance, a Mennonite farmer who lived west of Emerson sought out the sheriff. He had walked across the border from the north, in his quest for supplies. Reaching the jail late in the afternoon, he had difficulty in stating his purpose due to the language barrier.
"I find foot of dead man, dead Indian."
"Where?" asked the sheriff.
"Where I walk from." The farmer pointed north.
"When do you go home?"
"I buy, maybe some time."
"Come back to me then. I'll go with you to see."
Charley waited impatiently until the farmer returned an hour and a half later with his knapsack bulging with supplies. Hurriedly Charley tied the man's bag behind his saddle, and mounted his horse, trying to hasten the stolid Mennonite. Moving north toward the border they approached an uprooted tree where the man stopped and pointed at the ground. Charley knew they stood on the Vaughn homestead land. Slipping from the saddle he immediately saw part of a moccasin clad foot protruding from the ground. As no grass or weeds grew on the spot it was obvious the dirt fill was of recent origin. Charley surmised the recent rains had settled the fill, exposing the foot. A darn poor internment he thought; those railroaders were careless. Breaking part of a branch from the downed tree, he dug away enough dirt to satisfy himself that the body was truly Pete.
Returning to his horse, Charley untied the farmer's pack, and handed it to him. Thanking the Mennonite for leading him to the location of the dead man, he mounted his horse and returned to Pembina.
Just before dark that same evening, he returned with a shovel and completed the burial. All the way home he debated whether or not to divulge this recent turn of events, then decided it would serve no useful purpose. He realized that unless at least one of the guilty parties confessed to the murder of Pete, the culprits would in all probability never be punished.
_________________
It was Mike who finally brought Susan back to full reality. He appeared at the back door early on a Saturday morning carrying two wrapped fish lines and a small sack. Ian looked up from the breakfast table as the boy entered. "Plan on fishing today, Mike?"
"I want to, but can't unless you come with me. Mother won't let me go to the river alone 'cause I can't swim."
Ian looked to Susan. "I can't go with him today. I promised to help the boys move the teams and plows out east. Can you go with him? You like to fish."
She looked interested. "Have you dug up some worms for bait, Mike?"
His face lit up. "I'm after catfish -- got a bunch of frogs here." He held up the small sack. They could see the movement inside as the frogs struggled.
A smile came to Susan's face, the first Ian had seen in nearly a week. His hopes rose when he saw her perk up.
"Susan, you've been working too hard, almost from dawn until dusk. It's either been the house or garden. Take a break and go fishing with Mike."
A flash of color came to her face. "You know, you may be right. I thought hard work would make me forget, but it's just ground my troubles more into me." She turned to Mike.
"Sure, we'll go down to the Red River and I'll show you my favorite spot. How come you don't go swimming with Jerold and Knute?"
"Ah, they're always over at Olanders now, gawking at those two girls."
"Ian, why don't you take Mike swimming sometime?"
"Remember, you're the swimming champion." He smiled knowingly.
Susan almost blushed when she remembered the Sunday afternoon they spent south of the fort, the week before they were married. "It would be unseemly for me to teach him," she said softly, and then she turned to Mike. "Give me a few minutes to put on some old clothes."
_________________
Mary was as regular as a clock about writing home. A letter arrived nearly every week, telling about Army life and their new friends. She often enclosed letters she and Kirby received from the Ralstons. In June the letter that Maggy had fervently hoped for, arrived. Her wishes had been fulfilled. "Oh, Pat! Mary is expecting!"
His head lifted from the newspaper and he nodded sagely, "Guess it was bound to happen. How's Kirby doing? Does she say?"
Maggy's gaze appeared to be on the lamp flame, despite a flying miller that had somehow slipped into the house and was repeatedly attacking the hot chimney. For long moments she was silent, and then said dreamily, "At last our troubles seem to be over. Lordy, it's strange! Mary's troubles began with the railroad; then both of those horrible men met their fate due to the railroad."
"Yes, and this fall after harvest time, Ian and I are quitting the St. Paul and Pacific. We're going to be full time farmers."
Maggy marveled, "Just think, we've two grandchildren on the way, and soon it will be Jerold and Knute thinking of marriage. She turned to gaze at him fondly, "How many grandchildren do you suppose we'll have?"
He smiled as he reached for his pipe. "I hope many, and we're going to spoil every one of them!"
1 - Actually, there will be one further posting related to this book...Chuck wrote an epilogue, which I will be sharing soon...
Now enjoy the last chapter of BORDERTOWNS!
That same morning Joseph discovered his bottle missing and accosted Annette. She disclaimed any knowledge of the bottle, doubting he even had one, for he had been drunk the night before. Joseph began to rage, blaming Pete, cursing him wildly.
Annette objected sharply. "He's never stolen anything in this house. He's your own brother. In fact, he gives us money to help keep us going. If it wasn't for what Marguerite and I bring in, and what Pete gives me, we'd starve." She said vehemently, "You don't bring in one cent!"
Her attempt to shield herself from the sudden blow came too late; the swinging fist knocked her to the floor. She thanked the Lord that Marguerite was at work and not at home to witness her degradation. She had been able to hide most of his abuse over the past years, since he had been careful never to strike her in the presence of Pete or the girls.
"Keep your mouth shut, woman. I bought and paid for you years ago. What I do is my business."
Afraid to rise from the floor, she watched helplessly as he plundered her grocery money in the cupboard. Casting her a malevolent glance, he slammed the kitchen door violently as he left. Regaining her feet, she went to the window to see him heading for Smith's saloon on the corner.
After eating dinner at Mrs. Fisk's boardinghouse, Charley rode to the fort. The wagon, carrying Murphy’s body, had apparently just arrived, for a medical orderly was arguing with the driver.
"Leave the corpse in the wagon! Doc will examine it out here. He won't want the infirmary messed up. Besides, the body goes back to town after he looks it over."
Dr. Appel stepped out of the door just as Charley dismounted. He nodded toward the corpse. "Your project, Charley?"
The image above, an excerpt from the Medical Times & Register [18799-1880], shows how Chuck Walker got the little details down right in his historical novels...Appel was the post surgeon during the time period this story is set in..."Yes. I'm pretty sure it's a man named Murphy – got himself run over by the early morning train. 'Sposed to have been sleeping on the tracks, but it looks more like murder to me."
"How so?"
Charley explained his suspicions of the accident.
The doctor looked the corpse over briefly, and then turned to his assistant. "Remove the clothes from the man, Fred. We'll have a closer look."
The orderly had a distasteful look on his face as he attempted to remove the blood soaked shirt from the corpse. Struggling to remove both shirt and trousers he finally reached into his pocket, extracting a knife. Cutting the tangled suspenders free, he was finally able to strip the body.
The doctor inserted a rectal thermometer, and then he examined the body in detail. Finally, he checked the torso, musing aloud, "My God! Look at the massive scar tissue on the side of his shoulder. He must have been in a severe accident -- and not too long ago either." He turned to Charley. "A doctor's curiosity, you might say."
Dr. Appel continued to speculate, "You know, you may be right. If this man had his neck on the rail, he wouldn't have the back of his head crushed. Look here!" He pointed at the severe indentation in Murphy's skull. "'Course if a chain or something hung from the train, it could account for this damage." He removed the rectal thermometer; he seemed puzzled. "There's another possibility. What time did the accident occur?"
"About dawn this morning."
Appel snorted in disgust, "Hell, this man has been dead for almost ten hours! He's already loosening up and he's lost nearly all body heat. You'd better take him to the cemetery and plant him quick. He'll ripen fast in this heat. I think a blow to the back of his head killed him, but it's only speculation."
"I kind of figured he was moved to the tracks," Charley said grimly. "Now I'll have to snoop around to find out what actually happened. He's no loss to anyone but himself, no family that I know of. Still, I have to try and ferret out the guilty party."
As the sheriff rode back to town his mind was in turmoil. Could the murderer be Ian or another of the McLaren family? What will I do then? Lordy, I hope not.
That same morning when Joseph Grant entered Smith's saloon for a drink, he expressed his feelings to the bartender. "That damned Pete! He stole the bottle I had behind the stove."
The barman smiled to himself; he knew Pete to be a periodic drunk. Stealing a man's bottle was a joke, for whiskey was considered an essential of life at the time.
The sheriff arranged to have Murphy buried that same afternoon, then spent the remainder of the day checking the saloons of Pembina and St. Vincent. The bartender of the Ryan Hotel in St. Vincent remembered a large, pale-faced man leaving his bar around midnight.
"Was he drunk?"
"Drunk, and mean as hell. He tried to pick a fight but everyone backed down. He was a miserable dog." The bartender grew inquisitive. "I thought his voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place him."
"Did he buy a bottle of Old Crow?"
"I don't remember him buying any bottle. Hell, we don't sell that brand. Their drummer is a sharper; I don't do business with him." He looked at Charley suspiciously.
“Why the interest in Old Crow?"
"Found an empty near Murphy's body."
The look of surprise on the barman's face was evident when the name Murphy was mentioned. "Jeez! Was that Murphy? He sure fooled me!"
Charley reflected over the bottle. Shucks, even John and I sell that brand in our place, other saloons do too. Still, he sensed something missing when he returned to the jail. He carefully stood the empty bottle on the rear of his desk.
_________________
It was noon when Ben McCune sobered up enough to realize he was stone-broke. Every penny he had realized from the sale of his farm was gone. Even the money gained from selling the yoke and harness of his oxen had been spent. The saloons in St. Vincent gave no credit so McCune determined to go to Pembina. He stayed in St. Vincent just long enough to hear the news of the dead man. The information that the accident took place only a short distance from where he had slept, troubled him.
While crossing on the ferry to Pembina, he attempted to steal Trudo's bottle while the ferryman cranked the drum. The ferryman had allowed McCune free passage when he was broke, provided the ferryman was crossing with a paying passenger.
"Ben, you damned thief, you'll swim or wade from now on." Grasping the cringing McCune by the collar and belt, he threw him off the ferry. McCune momentarily appeared, spluttering and cursing, standing chest deep in the water.
Depressed, soaked, but now sober, he walked the remaining quarter mile to Pembina and sat down, leaning back against the wall of Bradshaw's Pembina House. His daydreaming brought to mind the dead man. Could it have been murder? The more he pondered, the more he was sure the man with the mule had something to do with it. Yes, there was the possibility of a reward there. Struggling to his feet, he turned toward the jail. The door was padlocked and the sheriff or deputies nowhere in sight. Stiffly, Ben sat on the upper step with his back against the door. He finally dozed off.
It was nearing the supper hour when Charley returned to the office and found McCune blocking the door. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his mouth sagged open, exposing yellowed and crooked teeth. Nudging Ben with his foot and shaking his shoulder, Charley got the man awake and to his feet. McCune was crafty. "Know something about the murder, sheriff. Is there any reward?"
"Reward for what?"
"The murderer of the man found on the tracks."
"How do you know he was murdered?" Charley was amused, thinking, McCune's here to tap me for a drink or a bottle.
"Saw the man."
"What man?"
"The man hauling the body."
The sheriff looked at him grimly, then he thrust McCune roughly inside and onto a chair. "Tell me about it and don't leave out a single thing! You'd better not be lying!"
McCune's eyes scanned the room greedily. "Need a drink. Got any?"
Brown looked at him with disgust. Finally he slid open a drawer of his desk and produced a bottle and tin cup. Pouring an inch into the cup, he handed it to McCune. "Now tell me what you know, or I'll put you in jail and throw away the key."
McCune related what he could remember of the man leading the mule and the load on the mule's back. To make his story stronger, he insisted that the mule carried a body. He looked pleadingly at Charley as he placed the empty cup back on the desk.
Charley debated silently, there were few mules around St. Vincent and I can check the ferry to see if any were brought across the river. He knew mules to be poor swimmers so doubted any had been ridden across. That would almost eliminate anyone from Pembina being involved. Murphy had to have enemies, but Charley knew he also had friends, especially among the railroaders from Emerson. He remembered Brogan and Murphy and other workers had spent that past winter at Roseau Crossing where the girl was killed.
Pouring the remaining liquor from the bottle into the tin cup, Charley handed it back to McCune. "Drink that, and keep your mouth shut tight!"
McCune nodded as he gulped down the raw whiskey; it took both his hands to keep the cup from shaking.
"If you promise to keep this conversation to yourself, you can go to my store and tell John I said to give you a bottle of Old Crow. It's on me."
"Can't I have Scotch instead? It's better than Bourbon."
Charley felt a certain satisfaction. McCune sure wasn't a suspect.
The next morning the sheriff crossed to St. Vincent and began the search for mules. Stopping at each bar he inquired who owned the hybrid animals and who regularly bought Old Crow bourbon whiskey. From there he checked the stables at the hotels and the private liveries.
At Fri's Hotel the bartender mentioned that the only mules he knew of locally, outside of those kept at local livery stables, were those owned by the McLarens. "They have several," he said, "I believe old Pete keeps one of Ian's critters over in Grant's barn."
Charley knew Pete picked up spending money by doing odd jobs with the borrowed mule: water hauling, wood delivery and sundry chores. When the question of who favored Old Crow whiskey came up, the name of Joseph Grant was included. At Smith's saloon the bartender remembered the joke Pete had played on Joseph, by stealing his bottle.
"What day did Grant come in for another?"
"Yesterday."
Stepping from the hotel, Charley found his mind whirling. Things were beginning to fall into place. Oh hell! Damn it all! It's circumstantial, but I'll have to try a bluff.
Leading his horse he walked toward Grant's. As he approached the front of the house, he could hear the sounds of an axe being used. Behind the house he found Pete splitting wood blocks for the kitchen range. The fact that Pete at first glanced up to see him, then ignored his presence, convinced the sheriff of Pete's complicity.
"You know why I'm here, Pete?"
Pete looked at him long and hard, then slowly nodded.
"Why did you do it? Were you drunk?"
Pete resumed chopping.
"I'll have to put you in jail, you know."
The breed looked at him resignedly, and then forcefully buried the axe in the chopping block. Turning to Charley, he said, "I give no trouble." He extended his hands together in front of him, expecting irons.
Charley shook his head. "Don't need them. Come along with me and we'll talk it over."
While the sheriff rode, Pete walked alongside. He seemed morose and taciturn, refusing to discuss the matter, or even speak when Charley shot questions at him.
They crossed on the ferry, then on the piling bridge across the Pembina River. Charley noticed people glancing at them as he and Pete turned toward the jail. When inside the log building, Charley asked, "Why did you do it Pete? You must have had a good reason."
Pete's mind seemed miles away and Charley could get no answer. Finally he opened the cell door and stood to the side. Pete arose and walked in without a word. As the sheriff watched, he lay on the bunk and covered his eyes with his arm.
__________________
News of the murder and the capture of the suspect spread like wildfire after the sheriff went to the barbershop. He was forced to notify his part-time jailer, Captain Bob, that his services were required to guard the jail that evening. Charley knew Bob to be a nondescript person, a part-time barber who drank up every cent as fast as it came in. But to Charley's thinking, a jailer needed only two qualifications: he must work for one dollar a day, and he must be immediately available.
"Did Pete really kill Murphy, sheriff?"
"Yup, sure looks like it. He doesn't deny it but he won't tell me why he did it. There's probably a good reason. Maybe Murphy picked a fight with him. I've been told Murphy was looking for a fight in Ryan's saloon the night he was killed. It seems no one was anxious to take him on." He shook his head. "No loss to the community, but the case may cost the county some money. I want you to take the eight to six a.m. shift at the jail, tonight. I'll be there in the morning to relieve you."
Captain Bob was an important man that afternoon. He spread the news that the sheriff had Pete locked up for the murder of Murphy. Most people were complacent about the capture, but a few looked up the sheriff to congratulate him. The kudos left Charley with a feeling of guilt, knowing of Murphy's crime against Mary. He also knew the McLaren family would not like those facts brought to light. Few people of Pembina actually knew Pete as an individual; to most, he was just another no-account half-breed.
__________________
Pembina was quiet that Monday evening and the jailer, in an effort to avoid the stifling heat inside the jail, moved his chair just outside the door of the lockup.
It was past midnight when a man walked out of the darkness. He appeared to have been drinking heavily and carried a bottle of whiskey carelessly by the neck. After striking up a conversation with Bob, the man offered to share his bottle. At first Bob refused, knowing well he shouldn't drink on duty. After some conversation and further coaxing, the jailer succumbed to temptation. Within a half hour his head fell forward; he lost consciousness.
His visitor disappeared for a few moments, and then reappeared, accompanied by three other men. Picking up the sleeping jailer, they carried him into the jail and closed the door.
When the sheriff arrived the next morning, he found the outside door padlocked. Applying his key to the lock, he removed it and pushed open the heavy oak door. His jailer lay on the floor as if dead. The cell door was open and Pete was gone. The only apparent damage inside the cell was to the small window; the glass was shattered. When Charley attempted to awaken his assistant, he became concerned. The man acted as if drugged. Touching his carotid artery, he found that Bob's heartbeat was steady, but abnormally slow. His breathing was labored and he seemed to be in a deep sleep.
Leaving the jailer on the floor, Charley checked every detail of the cell. There was blood on several of the larger pieces of glass, an indication of possible foul play. He picked the few shards from the floor and disposed of them in the alley trash barrel. Although he had no evidence to support his theory, he knew instinctively that Pete had been taken from the jail by Murphy's cronies and was by now, probably dead.
It was noon before he could get a coherent word out of his jailer. It took threats of bodily harm to finally elicit the information from Captain Bob that he had yielded to temptation and had shared drinks with a stranger.
Charley felt frustrated. Now he had two suspected murders and only one corpse. He knew instinctively that the guilty ones had to be the railroad friends of Murphy and Brogan. He also knew they would have covered up any trace of their guilt. They certainly wouldn't have crossed the river on the Pembina or Emerson ferries. That would have been too obvious. They more than likely used a local rowboat. He would check the two ferries first though, just to be sure.
It had taken just three hours for the jailer's midnight visitors to dispose of Pete. Tired, but elated with their easy success, they walked the rest of the way to the border. Borrowing one of the many boats tied along the shore, they crossed to Emerson, and feeling safe, reviewed the night's work in quiet tones with a bottle of whisky. The laudanum-laced whiskey with which they had baited Captain Bob had done the job on the careless jailer. One of the men laughed, and said, "Murphy was a miserable bastard, but he was our bastard. No breed is getting away with killing a white man. No one will ever find the body either." He sneered, "They'll never be sure what happened to him."
That afternoon Annette had seen Pete and the sheriff conversing by the barn and wondered what they were discussing. She felt no alarm as Pete accompanied Charley toward the ferry, since there were no signs of hostility between them.
When Pete failed to appear after supper, she walked to Susan's house. While mentioning seeing Pete and the sheriff together, Susan's face contorted with fear. Early that afternoon a neighbor had brought the news of Murphy's corpse being found on the railroad tracks. At the time her whole body had seemed to freeze, and she felt a shortness of breath. Now she knew who her attacker was, and what Pete had done with the body. Did the sheriff suspect Pete? Should she see Charley and explain what had happened? What could she do? What should she do? Her first thought had been to tell Ian and her mother; yet, it might create more problems. Perhaps Pete had other business with Charley, as there were many nights he failed to come home. He had also impressed the need of secrecy upon her.
Ian was still in the field when her mother left for home. Susan knew from the look on the face of her mother that she sensed something was wrong.
Word of Pete's arrest for the murder of Murphy made the rounds of the saloons in St. Vincent late that afternoon, but the information never reached the Grant or McLaren families.
The sheriff's afternoon investigation at the two Emerson ferries was fruitless. The operators disclaimed any knowledge of railroad men crossing the river. Charley knew that both ferries closed down at dusk so the men must have used a rowboat as he had suspected. He doubted anyone from Pembina or the fort being involved as few outsiders were in town that weekend. It was on every other weekend when the railroaders were paid, that he deemed he was underpaid as a law officer.
When he returned to the jail late that afternoon, Charley found Ian's gelding tied to the iron hitch post. Since Ian was nowhere in sight, Charley rode to the livery, removed the saddle from his horse, then raised it to the crossbar. He was leading the animal to the corral just as Ian rode into view. While he removed the bridle, Ian said, "I hear you've got my hired man locked up for killing that bastard Murphy."
"Not any more." Charley shook his head dourly.
"What's that mean?"
"Come over to the office and let's talk. What I have to tell you won't set well, but damned if I know what to do about it."
It took only ten minutes for the sheriff to explain the events since Murphy's death. Ian was shocked. "You mean Pete actually killed Eck Murphy? That's hard to believe."
"Believe it! But for what reason?" Charley's shoulders rose questioningly. Looking Ian in the eye, he said, "I've other news for you. Murphy bore that scar you guessed at. He was the man who attacked your sister. I think he recognized her, too. Why else the attacks upon your family?"
Ian was momentarily speechless, and then exclaimed, "Thank God the S.O.B. is dead! Between he and Brogan they caused us a lot of grief." He shook his head. "I'll speak to Annette and the girls; someone must know what happened between Pete and Murphy. I'll say this, if Pete did kill Murphy as you say, he had a darned good reason."
"That's the heck of it! If we knew what happened, and it went to court, Pete would probably go free. Now, thanks to that stupid-ass Bob, he's more than likely dead."
"But why would Pete kill Murphy? Oh, I know he had no use for the man, but who did? As far as I know, there was no personal animosity between them." Ian shook his head in frustration.
"It's for sure something happened between them. It might take some time to find out what is, but eventually it'll come out. Murphy no doubt had it coming, but murder is still murder, regardless."
"You really think a group of men took Pete from the jail and killed him?"
"Ian, I'm almost positive that's what happened, and he's now dead. Ten to one it was those cronies of Murphy and Brogan. Do you remember any of the men that came into my bar that noon of the fight?"
"Not names, but I remember faces, at least two of them. We worked on the same crew when the roadbed was graded north of Emerson. That was in the fall of '77, just after we arrived here.
"By the way, some time back you mentioned that Jack Bell was going to get their names for you. Did he?"
"No. He's never mentioned it. Evidently he's been distracted by other work. Guess he's got enough trouble keeping those C.P.R. workers in line. 'Spose it's up to me to find them. With so many crews working north of Emerson, those men will never be around town in the daytime. But at night, that's when they'll gravitate to the saloons. Can you spare the time to go across the border after supper tonight?"
"Sure, if it will help find Pete. Why don't you meet me at my house after supper? Better yet, come and eat with us. You haven't seen the interior of our new house. After eating, we can ride over to Emerson and check the bars."
Rising from behind his desk, Charley said, "I’m ready for something to eat, then the trip to Canada tonight. I'll have to turn down your invitation to supper, though, 'cause I've got to see Bill Moorhead. I'll be at your place about seven. Somehow, I'm going to get to the bottom of this." He had a grim look on his face.
When Ian returned to St. Vincent, he was surprised to find the house quiet. Entering their bedroom he found Susan lying on the bed. She was fully clothed and had a damp cloth covering her forehead and eyes. She appeared to be asleep. Immediately concerned, he bent over her and called, "Susan . . . Susan!"
She suddenly sat up, wild-eyed, the damp cloth rolling to the bedspread. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Anxiously Ian gathered her into his arms in an attempt to comfort her.
"Susan, calm down. Tell me what's wrong."
During the next minutes, amid a vale of tears and nervous shaking, she divulged the details of the attack upon her. "Pete saved me. Oh, Ian, he's my Father! He said so."
It took a few moments for her almost incoherent words to make sense; then Ian remembered her tenseness when she visited him that last night of his shift. "My God! Why didn't you tell me then? We could have straightened this out."
She sat back at arm length, imploring, "Please don't be angry with me." Her cheeks were ashen as she attempted to compose herself.
"I'm not angry, but I'll have to tell Charley." Realization came to him that this was not the time to tell her that her father was in all probability, dead. He smoothed back the long hair from her face. "Charley and I are leaving for Emerson after I have something to eat. I'll explain the happenings to him; I may be late in getting home." To ease her mind he added, "Pete's action was justified. I only wish the opportunity had been mine. Don't worry about a thing sweetheart. It will all straighten out." It was mind-boggling when he thought of the consequences that resulted from hiding the truth. Still, he couldn't second-guess Pete's decision to conceal the act. All that remained now was to find Pete, if alive. Or, if dead, find the men who murdered him.
When Charley arrived, Ian asked him to step into the kitchen. Susan, still sick in mind, had gone to her bed. Relating Susan's story, Ian grimly asked, "What do we do now?"
Charley shook his head disgustedly. "Damn that Pete! This is entirely his fault. If he had reported killing Murphy, it could have been settled."
Ian brooded, "Not necessarily. You know how some of the whites hate the breeds. They'd have found some way to punish or do away with him."
The sheriff pushed away from the table and stood his face taut with anger. "Let's go to Emerson and find out who took Pete from the jail."
Two of the saloons in Emerson were nearly devoid of patrons, but the final stop at the Gateway Hotel, yielded dividends. The bartender looked up briefly as they entered, then resumed washing glassware. Ian immediately nudged Charley. "There are two of Murphy and Brogan's friends seated with others at that far table."
At first the men at the table exchanged furtive glances as they recognized Ian and the sheriff. They pretended indifference, keeping their heads down and conferring in low tones. Ian caught the exchange of cagey smiles as one of them spoke up. "Out late on the wrong side of the line, sheriff?"
"Just looking for people who stay up late and wander to my side of the line," Charley challenged.
The tough turned to his friends at the table. "We wouldn't know anyone who would want to do that, do we, men?"
The hostility of the men at the table was obvious. One of the seated men remarked insinuatingly, "Hell no, sheriff. We're good little boys and stay home at night."
The derision on their faces was obvious. Ian realized his was a no-win situation that could turn ugly, seeing he and Charley were outnumbered. He thought it prudent to withdraw. Evidently Charley felt the same, for, turning away from the men, he ordered two beers from the bartender. Obviously ignored, the men at the table exchanged satisfied smirks.
Sipping his beer, Charley said in an undertone, "We've come to a dead end. We've found our men, I'm sure of it. Now it'll take some thinking and planning to bring them to justice."
On the way back to St. Vincent, Charley seemed optimistic. "I'll speak with some friends and we'll wait it out. Some evidence may turn up."
When Ian offered Charley a bed for the night, the sheriff shook his head. "I'll walk the river with my horse. It's so shallow now that the ferry is having problems. The operator has had to hire a shovel gang to keep the cross-channel open. If we don't get rain soon, the steamboats may have to tie up for the remainder of the season."
The next morning when Charley left his room to breakfast at Mrs. Fisk's, he met Ned Cavalier on the street. Ned had a whimsical look on his face. "Cripes, Charley, you're popular. You've got the whole Indian tribe from the north camp waiting at your jail."
"What for?"
"Reckon they want to know what you did with Pete."
"I'd like to know myself. Oh, well, I'll have to face them."
He judged that over fifty Indians turned to watch his approach. Recognizing their chief, Matawin, he asked. "What's this meeting about?"
"Where Pete?"
Beckoning Matawin to follow him inside, Charley thrust out a chair to him. He explained that Pete had been in the cell and had disappeared. Pointing out the broken window in which a few small shards remained, he said disgustedly, "I've got to fix that." He failed to mention that Captain Bob had been drugged and that the cell door was open when he arrived the next morning. Matawin stood, and then walked into the cell to appraise the window. The aperture was too small for a human to crawl through. Apparently satisfied, the Indian chief walked past the sheriff and out the door, joining the group standing outside. The Indians gathered around him while he spoke; then they began drifting back north toward their encampment.
Puzzled, the sheriff locked the outside jail door and began walking back to his store. Meeting Bill Moorhead, he asked, "What do you suppose those Indians wanted?" He explained that he had shown Matawin the cell with the broken window.
Moorhead looked serious. "Didn't you know Pete was a Midewewan? Matawin probably figured Pete changed himself into a bird and flew out the window. I know it sounds crazy, but it's a part of their beliefs."
"You're kidding me!"
"Nope. Go to their camp and ask them if you don't believe me."
Charley could see Bill was serious and not joking. "Oh, I believe you. You've lived with these Indians a lot longer than me. Still, it's hard to believe." He shook his head, realizing how little he knew of the Indian dogma.
_________________
Susan seemed unable to recover from the shock of losing her father. Day after day she moped, as if in a dream world. Ian was frantic to find something to bring her back to reality. Finally Maggy's visit brought some semblance of order to their household. She determined to disclose the secret of Mary's attack. After Susan heard the story, she sat transfixed, as if unbelieving.
"What a horrible experience to have undergone at her age! Oh, Maggy, it happened to me, too, and it would have been worse. I'm glad he's dead, but it won't bring back my Father. Ian tries to keep my hope up by saying he may still be alive, but in my heart I know those men who took him from the jail murdered him. Is there no justice for Indians and we mixed bloods? I've asked my Mother time and time again why they kept their secret from us, but she just looks at me silently and shakes her head. I know she misses Pete, for she sits alone in the kitchen, hour after hour, saying nothing."
"Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that the man your mother married couldn't give her children. You know, you should be thankful to have enjoyed your true father as long as you did. As you have said, he was always the one you girls looked up to as a father. You've said he was always kind to you through the years. He must have loved you both as well as your mother."
"Yes, looking back I remember how he helped with the cooking and work around the house. He was the one who cut and split the stove wood, hauled the ice, and kept us going. He was the one who took us on his lap when we were young. I know he had an occasional drinking problem, but now I realize the tension he must have been under, taking orders from his older brother. He must have constantly worried about being cast out of the house." She looked at Maggy questioningly, "What will mother do without my father to hold things together?"
"We'll take that as it comes. I suspect Ian will take up the slack. Your mother is Ian's responsibility now, and you'll both see her provided for. It's always a problem for older folks when they can no longer work. Someday, I hope things will be different. At least she has her job at the fort and Marguerite is still unmarried and working."
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Almost a month after Pete's disappearance, a Mennonite farmer who lived west of Emerson sought out the sheriff. He had walked across the border from the north, in his quest for supplies. Reaching the jail late in the afternoon, he had difficulty in stating his purpose due to the language barrier.
"I find foot of dead man, dead Indian."
"Where?" asked the sheriff.
"Where I walk from." The farmer pointed north.
"When do you go home?"
"I buy, maybe some time."
"Come back to me then. I'll go with you to see."
Charley waited impatiently until the farmer returned an hour and a half later with his knapsack bulging with supplies. Hurriedly Charley tied the man's bag behind his saddle, and mounted his horse, trying to hasten the stolid Mennonite. Moving north toward the border they approached an uprooted tree where the man stopped and pointed at the ground. Charley knew they stood on the Vaughn homestead land. Slipping from the saddle he immediately saw part of a moccasin clad foot protruding from the ground. As no grass or weeds grew on the spot it was obvious the dirt fill was of recent origin. Charley surmised the recent rains had settled the fill, exposing the foot. A darn poor internment he thought; those railroaders were careless. Breaking part of a branch from the downed tree, he dug away enough dirt to satisfy himself that the body was truly Pete.
Returning to his horse, Charley untied the farmer's pack, and handed it to him. Thanking the Mennonite for leading him to the location of the dead man, he mounted his horse and returned to Pembina.
Just before dark that same evening, he returned with a shovel and completed the burial. All the way home he debated whether or not to divulge this recent turn of events, then decided it would serve no useful purpose. He realized that unless at least one of the guilty parties confessed to the murder of Pete, the culprits would in all probability never be punished.
_________________
It was Mike who finally brought Susan back to full reality. He appeared at the back door early on a Saturday morning carrying two wrapped fish lines and a small sack. Ian looked up from the breakfast table as the boy entered. "Plan on fishing today, Mike?"
"I want to, but can't unless you come with me. Mother won't let me go to the river alone 'cause I can't swim."
Ian looked to Susan. "I can't go with him today. I promised to help the boys move the teams and plows out east. Can you go with him? You like to fish."
She looked interested. "Have you dug up some worms for bait, Mike?"
His face lit up. "I'm after catfish -- got a bunch of frogs here." He held up the small sack. They could see the movement inside as the frogs struggled.
A smile came to Susan's face, the first Ian had seen in nearly a week. His hopes rose when he saw her perk up.
"Susan, you've been working too hard, almost from dawn until dusk. It's either been the house or garden. Take a break and go fishing with Mike."
A flash of color came to her face. "You know, you may be right. I thought hard work would make me forget, but it's just ground my troubles more into me." She turned to Mike.
"Sure, we'll go down to the Red River and I'll show you my favorite spot. How come you don't go swimming with Jerold and Knute?"
"Ah, they're always over at Olanders now, gawking at those two girls."
"Ian, why don't you take Mike swimming sometime?"
"Remember, you're the swimming champion." He smiled knowingly.
Susan almost blushed when she remembered the Sunday afternoon they spent south of the fort, the week before they were married. "It would be unseemly for me to teach him," she said softly, and then she turned to Mike. "Give me a few minutes to put on some old clothes."
_________________
Mary was as regular as a clock about writing home. A letter arrived nearly every week, telling about Army life and their new friends. She often enclosed letters she and Kirby received from the Ralstons. In June the letter that Maggy had fervently hoped for, arrived. Her wishes had been fulfilled. "Oh, Pat! Mary is expecting!"
His head lifted from the newspaper and he nodded sagely, "Guess it was bound to happen. How's Kirby doing? Does she say?"
Maggy's gaze appeared to be on the lamp flame, despite a flying miller that had somehow slipped into the house and was repeatedly attacking the hot chimney. For long moments she was silent, and then said dreamily, "At last our troubles seem to be over. Lordy, it's strange! Mary's troubles began with the railroad; then both of those horrible men met their fate due to the railroad."
"Yes, and this fall after harvest time, Ian and I are quitting the St. Paul and Pacific. We're going to be full time farmers."
Maggy marveled, "Just think, we've two grandchildren on the way, and soon it will be Jerold and Knute thinking of marriage. She turned to gaze at him fondly, "How many grandchildren do you suppose we'll have?"
He smiled as he reached for his pipe. "I hope many, and we're going to spoil every one of them!"
1 - Actually, there will be one further posting related to this book...Chuck wrote an epilogue, which I will be sharing soon...
Friday, May 07, 2010
BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 21
January turned cold and blustery, with nagging winds and a heavy depth of snow. Drifts to the south created rail delays and often a day or two went by without the arrival of a train. When the trains did get through, the clanking and rumbling as cars were coupled or uncoupled became commonplace. On the calm, frigid, below-zero nights, the mournful whistle of engines carried for miles.Patrick realized the firewood was going fast and was thankful for the huge pile remaining near the barn. The railroad had recently begun to haul in coal from Duluth, selling it for six dollars a ton. In Duluth it cost only two dollars.
Bob Wilson, the sutler at the fort, visited the McLarens occasionally. He reported that many soldiers at the fort were suffering from frozen fingers, toes and ears, an indication that the wool uniforms provided by the military were inadequate for the frigid Dakota winters. Most soldiers bought toques and sheep-lined mittens from the merchants in town and covered their winter boots with layers of oversize socks. The officers disregarded the strange uniforms that appeared whenever the men worked out-of-doors. Every effort was made by Captain Collins to purchase potatoes, cabbages, onions and other vegetables to prevent an outbreak of scurvy.
Jerold and Knute formed a partnership and purchased a half-section of land a few miles to the east, adjoining the railroad. The previous owner had become drunk in St. Vincent, and lost his way home. He was found the next day, frozen to death. His wife, left with three children to support, was glad to sell and return to Minneapolis.
In addition to his employment with the railroad, Ian again began to purchase furs. Long buying trips were out of the question, greatly reducing his profit. Even so, when he finally turned the furs over to the Abram's representative from St. Paul, he found he had realized three times more than his original investment.
With the many cattle on hand, most of the short winter days were spent feeding, milking and cleaning the barn. The coats on the horses and mules were heavy, nature's way of protecting them from the cold. When mild weather came during the first days of February, Patrick, Jerold and Knute began cutting oak timber for their next winter's firewood.
It became obvious to Patrick that Maggy missed Mary's company, for she often took baby Kate and visited Susan, sometimes spending the entire afternoon. When he teased her about it, Maggy excused herself. "I've been helping Susan paint the interior of the house. The carpenter left all the decorating for her to do."
Toward the end of February Susan realized she was finally pregnant. She laughingly conspired with Maggy. "I think I've beaten Mary to it. Our new addition should arrive about the end of October, give or take a few days."
"Oh, my gosh! Have you told Ian yet?" Maggy was instantly excited.
"No, but I think he suspects something is wrong. He looked at me strangely when I had to leave the breakfast table this morning." She looked sheepish. "I darn near threw up the oatmeal on the table.” Rising to get the kettle from the stove, she added, "I've felt squeamish this past week, but I’m sure now. I'll tell him tonight. He wants a boy, and so do I. Still, a girl would be nice." She laughed lightly, "Guess we'll settle for whatever we get."
The evenings were quiet and lonely, for the boys were often out, visiting neighbors or at house parties. Ice-skating became popular, as clamp-on skates were cheap and could be mounted on any shoe or boot. Patrick often sat near the parlor stove while he carved wood duck decoys. Maggy spent her evenings in her rocking chair, either crocheting or knitting for Susan's baby. Frequently she tutored Mike in his first book. He was having trouble memorizing his multiplication tables. Light from the lone kerosene lamp was augmented somewhat by the parlor stove, which had isinglass windows in the door. The flickering flame seemed to add a warm, cozy glow to the room.
It was in late February when Patrick and Maggy received a surprise visit from Charley Brown. They were about to eat dinner when they heard a knock on the back door. When Jerold arose to open the door, he was surprised to see the sheriff. "Just in time for dinner, Sheriff! What are you doing out on this cold day?"
Charley stepped by Jerold and began taking off his heavy coat. Turning to Patrick, he dropped his bombshell. "I bring good news in a way, if you can call Brogan good news. He won't bother anyone any more. He's dead!"
Excited questions flew until Charley held up his hand. "He and another man showed up in Pembina last night and got pretty well oiled. Somehow they got to St. Vincent, and then decided to go to Emerson. Not having a ride, they stole a section hand car from the yard. Nearing Emerson, they were struck by a C.P.R. engine backing from the St. Vincent junction to Emerson. As you know, the C.P.R. locomotives don't have a light on the rear of their engines as ours do. I guess that with the noise of the north wind they were bucking, they never heard the engine approaching them from behind. Charley added wryly, "Booze probably had something to do with it, too. At any rate, the man facing south on the handcar saw the engine in time to jump clear, but Brogan didn't. He was badly mangled1 and the handcar was destroyed. I just came from Emerson where I viewed the body. It's Brogan, without a doubt. Incidentally, I stopped to tell Ian about it. He's going over to see the corpse -- just why, I don't know -- said he could hardly believe the man is dead."
Maggy murmured aloud, "I disliked the man, but I wouldn't wish death on anyone. The Lord does work in mysterious ways though."
Ian had one purpose in mind when he rode to Emerson. He wanted peace of mind -- to know if the crooked-necked Brogan was really the man who attempted to rape his sister. Brogan had been on his mind ever since Mary had told of being accosted by a heavily bearded man after leaving Mrs. Traynor’s store the previous winter.
Entering the warming room of the Emerson Railroad Depot, he found the stationmaster engaged in a card game with three other men. Because the huge waiting room was difficult to heat, the players were huddled near the potbelly stove. Ian spoke to the stationmaster. "Frank, where did they put Brogan's body?"
He looked up. "Come to pick it up?"
"No, just wanted to see if it's really him."
"It's him all right, we all know the bastard. He finally got what was coming to him." He nodded, "He's in cold storage -- in the north freight room. If you want to see the body I'll have to come with you -- railroad rules. I hope you're the last to ask for a glimpse. Hell, I've already had to open up for Jack Bell and that sheriff from Pembina."
It was obvious to Ian that Frank was reluctant to accompany him to the freight room, seeing the great to-do he made of putting on his heavy coat and overboots. Ian waited patiently while the stationmaster unlocked the storage room, then he stepped forward to assist him in sliding the heavy door open. The inside of the huge room was stacked with crates and barrels, but a lone four-wheeled baggage cart stood near the door. Moving to the cart, the depot agent grasped the edge of a tarp and flung it back.
Even in the dim light Ian's stomach nearly revolted. The body was in pieces, but the head was still connected to a remaining portion of chest. Forcing himself, he examined Brogan's neck, but could see no sign of any external damage or scar. The head still held the same unnatural angle that it had when the man was alive. Ian decided it must have been a congenital deformity. One of the severed legs had a dangling shoe still attached. It was a huge shoe, easily a size 12 or larger, but it was old, with rounded edges and a run down heel. Ian realized it would not match the boot prints Pete had found in his wheat field. Satisfied, he tugged the tarp back over the corpse and faced the agent. "I've seen enough, Frank. Thanks for allowing me to look him over."
Both men grasped the door to slide it shut, the stationmaster quickly affixing the padlock. He abruptly turned without another word and hurried back to his card game. When Ian mounted his horse, he was momentarily confused. Although he had examined Brogan closely, he had no positive way of knowing whether or not he was the man who had attacked Mary at the bridge. Perhaps the man's neck had healed without leaving a scar. While tightening the scarf around his coat collar, he decided to see Charley in Pembina. Perhaps the sheriff could cast more light on the situation. He might even be able to get the Canadian authorities to do an autopsy on the body. Then he realized the unlikelihood of this, since it was an accident, cut and dried.
Entering Kabernagle and Brown's saloon an hour later, he found Charley the only occupant. He was behind the bar washing the previous night's glassware. As Ian removed his cap and coat, the sheriff tossed him a towel. "You wipe, and when we're done, I'll beat you in a game of pool."
While Ian wiped beer glasses, he related his problem. His evasiveness in skirting Mary's involvement drew Charley's suspicion.
"Level with me, Ian; it'll go no farther."
Ian went so far as to tell Charley that Mary had been attacked near their home in Orillia, and that he had struck the guilty man with a track splice-plate, thinking he had killed him. "When Dad and I returned the next morning, we found a pool of blood, but no body. The thing that has bothered me this past year is that Brogan's head was canted to the left, and he might have been the man I struck. Then, too, I had heard he arrived here from Eastern Canada shortly after we did. I examined his neck but could see no scar. Also, although his one remaining boot was large, it was badly worn. It wouldn't have matched the prints we found in my wheat field last fall."
For moments Charley seemed lost in thought, and then he said, "We know that he and Murphy were close, as were those other three men. Incidentally, Bell is attempting to find the names of the three. When I saw Mike Ryan last fall, he mentioned making a new pair of boots for Murphy -- even said Murphy still owed on them." He mused, "New boots would have left sharp outlines like the ones we found in your field. Murphy's boots were practically new at the time. There are a couple of other things that also fit. Murphy was at Roseau Crossing when that Indian child was abused and strangled. Also, Rosie informed me that Murphy mistreated one of her girls. I've heard that he acts weird at times and often talks to himself. He could be demented."
Ian suddenly recalled the day he and Susan had dropped Marguerite off on the hill leading down to the ferry and he had seen the heavily bearded, fully dressed man washing in the river. He mentioned it to Charley.
"It could have been Murphy. You say he was a big man with a full beard? Maybe he's the man with the scar and is hiding it. Yet, why would he hide it unless he suspects someone from the Orillia area would put two and two together?" Charley suddenly stared at Ian. "You suppose he knows or suspects your sister is the one he attacked and that she might recognize him, and that either you or your father might have been the one who struck him? If so, you and your family are in danger."
Ian's mind began to race. "Last year, in December, Mary was stopped at dusk on the Emerson sidewalk by a huge, bearded man. He said to her, "I know you from somewhere." Do you suppose it could have been Murphy?"
"I'll just bet it was; now to find him! The problem still remains; we have no firm evidence. We’ve a lot of guesses, but all are circumstantial. Still, it's beginning to fit together. I'll get telegrams out and see if we can locate him. He's probably somewhere along the railroad line in Minnesota, or maybe in St. Paul or Minneapolis. The problem as I see it is that the demand for labor is such that he could be working anywhere.
"Ian, the more I think of it, the more I believe he's the man who attacked your sister. Why my horse was damaged and finally destroyed in the fire, I can't justify. No doubt it is related to the whipping I gave Brogan. They were probably helping each other. Then, there are the missing two soldiers. I believe they're dead, probably murdered for their pay. I've been told Murphy didn't have employment at the time. He might have needed money badly, and those soldiers had just signed the Army payroll. You be watchful and tell your family to be on guard. That man might be vengeful enough to return."
Mary made it a policy to write her father, mother and the boys each Sunday. It was the letter that arrived in mid-April that really excited the family.
Easter Sunday.1 - My great grandfather died in a similar fashion, i.e., drunk and run over by a train. The details, as given by the newspapers of the time in 1913, went like this: Mr. Fitzgerald was known to be a man of intemperate means. Having visited Emerson, it was assumed when coming back across the border on foot, he stumbled into or lay down unto the tracks, whereupon the next train ran him over. The accounts were vivid (or gruesome, depending on how you read it) in their descriptions, stating that his body was decapitated, and his remains had to gathered up in a bag. An American coroner that was called stated he had no jurisdiction because in his opinion the accident took place on the Canadian side of the border. Searches made by the author years later in all possible provinces and states has yet to yield a death certificate...
Dear Father, Mother and all,
Two days ago I heard a knock on our door and found a well-dressed couple smiling at me. I was puzzled until the woman said, "You've got to be Mary. Kirby has described you in every detail."
I felt like a fool, for the few moments it took me to realize these folks were Kirby's father and mother. Although our house is small, thank goodness it was clean. At first, after inviting them in, I was tongue-tied, but after a short while I realized they were down to earth people like you and father. They were charming and instantly made me feel that I was one of them. They told me they were staying in the railroad yard, and it wasn't until a few minutes later that I realized they had arrived at Leavenworth in a private railroad car. Kirby had said his parents were well off, but he had never been explicit. To put it mildly, I felt like an idiot.
They are lovely, sincere people, and seem to like me. When I suggested tea, Kirby's mother countered by asking me to accompany them back to their railroad car. "We can have tea there," she said, "and what is more important, our daughter Laura is anxious to meet you." I knew Kirby wouldn't be home until suppertime so I left a note telling where I would be, and then Kirby's father added a postscript to my message.
Laura, an attractive brown-haired girl, met us just outside the car. She is Kirby's younger sister and I liked her from the moment we met. She is single and two years older than me.
I had been apprehensive about Easter, knowing Kirby's folks were coming to visit us. I no longer have any qualms; they have accepted me as Kirby's wife. Mr. Ralston seems much interested in our life in Minnesota, and in Jim Hill's railroad. It seems he is the director or manager of a railroad operating out of Washington.
Kirby's older sister, Marlene, is married and has two children, a boy and girl. They live in Richmond, Virginia.
The Ralston's railroad car has a living room with a rear, outdoor vestibule. Then to the front, what they call a dinette, then several small cubicles for bedrooms. It seems like a magnificent hotel suite outfitted with crystal lamps, polished brass fittings and several lovely paintings, which Mrs. Ralston said she purchased in Paris. They have an elderly couple that prepare meals and serve the family needs. They are treated more like members of the family, than servants. Kirby made a special fuss over them when he arrived just before the supper hour.
The Ralston’s have been here the past two days and will leave for home the day after tomorrow. They have invited me to accompany them to their home for a visit, but I won't leave Kirby alone. Poor little me -- a farm girl -- mixing with the wealthy! At any rate, we will continue to live on Kirby's pay -- he insists upon that! His father's pride in him is evident. They have been so kind to me. Now I really feel accepted!
That first night after their arrival, when Kirby and I went to bed, he remarked, "They've taken to you like a duck takes to water! I knew they'd love you!"
I am so happy!
Love to all, Mary Ralston.
P.S. I like my new name!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 20
It was dark when Knute's mind began to function. A sickening, sweet, cloying odor seemed to be invading his senses. It seemed he was having a bad dream from which he could not awaken. His throat felt dry and raspy. He wanted water, yet his throat refused to function and he could utter no sound. Fantasies of his childhood and memories of his Stepmother came. He remembered having been told of his mother's murder at Lake Shetek by the Indians and of his being found as a baby, hidden in reeds along the lake. His mother, prior to her murder had evidently concealed him. He had no personal memories until reaching nearly four years of age, having been passed from one family to another, always grudgingly accepted. Then his father remarried. His new mother was the widow of a man killed by Indians during the attack upon New Ulm. She had three sons, all older than him. They spoke no Norwegian, for his stepmother was of German extraction. Arguments became frequent between his father and stepmother. To make matters worse, he was teased and bullied by the older boys, forced to do most of the demeaning work. Last spring he had left home with an itinerant peddler and worked his way to St. Vincent.Aware of a light somewhere in the room, he willed his eyes to move. Someone was seated at the foot of the bed, and he realized it was Jerold. Attempting to gain attention, he was finally able to force a guttural sound from his throat. Jerold was instantly alert, rising and moving to bend over him. Further attempts to tell Jerold his need for water were futile, but his pathetic facial expressions told of his suffering. Jerold sensed his plight, and, dipping a washcloth in the pitcher by the washbasin, applied it to Knute's lips. Knute immediately sipped desperately at the wet cloth.
"I'll raise your head and give you a small sip. The doctor warned me not to give you too much water -- said you'll get sick. I'll get a glass and be right back." Moments later he returned and raised Knute's head, enabling him to get a bit. Lowering Knute's head, he said, "You can have more water after you are fully awake. Try to relax and sleep. I'll be here with you all night and Susan will come over in the morning."
When Susan arrived at the hotel the following morning, it was already past 9 o'clock. Even before she knocked on the door of the doctor's room, she noted the strong smell of chemicals. One glance inside told her that Knute was fully awake; his head turned to her as she entered. She smiled brightly. "Awake and bushy-tailed this morning?"
The look on his face expressed his feelings. He croaked, "I feel sore all over, but mostly sore about losing my foot. Cripes! My toes are itching and they're not even there!"
Susan was grateful for his levity. She had worried during the night about his reaction and frame of mind. "Has the doctor been in to see you this morning?"
"Here and gone," Jerold answered as he groggily eased himself from a chair. "He said we can take Knute home tomorrow. Said there was no sign of infection. He actually seemed proud of his work -- said he would drive to St. Vincent this afternoon to see Mary." He snorted, "I think he's more interested in getting his room back. I'm going to the cafe and grab some breakfast." He looked down at Knute. "What do you want me to bring back?"
Moving to the side of the bed Susan sat carefully on the edge. Reaching over, she smoothed the hair from Knute's forehead. The surface skin felt warn and she detected a fever.
When Knute failed to answer, she coaxed, "How about it? You must still have an appetite."
"Coffee would be fine. Can you prop me up so I won't spill? Say, how is Mary?"
"She's sore, stiff, and angry, but otherwise fine. It'll be a few days before she's up and about; she has some cracked ribs. Now, lets get you raised up," She noted that his bandaged leg was propped up on a pillow. Carefully sliding the folded blanket at the foot of the bed from under the pillow, she raised his shoulders, using the tightly folded blanket for support. "I brought you a book to read, Gulliver's Travels, by Swift. Have you read it?
"No, but I'm not much in the mood to read just now."
"Then I'll read to you. You rest easy until Jerold returns with the coffee."
Jerold had just ordered breakfast when the Emerson constable entered the cafe. Jerold noted the grim, tired look on Bell's face as he approached the table and eased himself into a chair.
"You're not going to believe this, son. I had to turn those two scoundrels loose a few minutes ago. Somehow, their friends got a lawyer and they're out. They both deny any involvement in the incident, and I couldn't find the youngster Ian saw across from the saloon, the one who saw them throw the explosive." He looked frustrated. "The boy must have come into town with some of the railroaders or with a visiting family. I checked from door to door but no one seems to know the lad."
"You mean you turned them both loose?" Jerold was flabbergasted.
"I had no choice. Their lawyer pointed that out. There's no firm evidence against them and no witnesses, even though I’m sure they're guilty."
Although angry and frustrated, Jerold considered the ramifications. Suddenly he blurted, "They better make themselves scarce. We'll get to them somehow."
Bell looked glum. "If you do, find them in St. Vincent or Pembina. I'm stuck to uphold the law here. Charley Brown will probably be a little more forgiving." He lifted his ponderous weight from the chair. "Tell Ian I'm sorry about the outcome. Personally, if it were my choice, I'd use a horsewhip on them. Incidentally, I told both of them to get out of Emerson and not come back -- told them I'd hound the hell out of them if they did." He offered objectively, "They'll probably cross the line to the States or move to Winnipeg. It's good riddance, but watch out for them. They're real trouble!"
His breakfast over, Jerold headed back to the room with coffee and toast for Knute and Susan. Entering, he found Susan reading to her patient. She took the tray from Jerold and, leveling it on her lap, and then poured coffee for Knute.
Jerold studied them for moments, then said, "I'll ride Ian's horse home and leave the buggy. I'll be back tonight after chores."
Susan looked up; "Ian and I did your chores this morning. I actually milked six of the fourteen cows." She flexed her fingers. "My fingers are stiff. Gosh, I haven't milked a cow since Ian and I got married."
"Pretty good for a greenhorn," Knute muttered.
"Sure is! Thanks!" Jerold was smiling. He turned to Knute. "When I come back tonight, is there anything you need?"
"Not if you take me home tomorrow. I'll feel better there, but I'll need crutches to get about, also a pair of trousers.”
"No problem. We'll face things as they come."
Susan glanced over the edge of the book she was reading and realized Knute had fallen asleep. She had expected it, knowing of his fever. The few associations she had had with Knute had been fleeting, but she realized the McLaren family had practically adopted him, and with good reason. He was a handsome boy, about sixteen years of age, she guessed. He was not overly talkative, but through Ian and Jerold she had gathered bits of his childhood.
She knew much about the Minnesota River and the Indian uprising of l862, for her mother had lived at the Yellow Medicine Agency when the trouble began. In fact, she, herself, had been born at the agency the previous summer.
Gazing at the bandaged leg gave her a sudden idea. Could Mike Ryan, the boot maker, make a boot to replace Knute's missing foot? Knute still had most of his calf left below the knee. The more she thought of it the more likely it seemed. Slipping quietly out the door, she walked the block to Ryan's Bootery. She knew Mike well because he often fished in the Red River just below their house in St. Vincent. Only last year he had caught a huge sturgeon at the mouth of the Pembina River, and often on Sundays he stopped by on his way to the river. He was still eager to catch another of the huge, shovel-nosed fish.
The odor of freshly tanned hides and the earthy smell of oils permeated the small shop as she entered. The short, hunch-backed cobbler was busy trimming a new sole he had just attached to a boot. His eyes lit up in anticipation as he turned. A sly grin came to his face and he bowed repeatedly, "The newest and latest Mrs. McLaren, I do believe!""Yes, Mike, it's me." Susan could hardly contain her excitement. "You've heard that Knute had his foot amputated yesterday, haven't you?"
"Yup, by gor, a terrible thing!" The shoemaker was sincere. "Tar and featherins' too good for those two. They're no good, nothing but trouble."
"Can you come over to the hotel to see Knute? He's asleep, but I think you can make a boot to fit his missing limb. It's mainly the foot that's gone."
Mike gazed out the front window in thought, then said, "It can be done; they do it in the cities." He hesitated momentarily, and then he said, "No! No sense seeing him now. Let the leg heal first. It shouldn't be difficult to make a pair of matching high lace boots. I can stiffen the one and even hinge the ankle for movement. Let me think on it. I'll make an excuse to visit Patrick and Maggy in a couple of weeks. Then I can talk with the boy."
Upon Knute's return back from Emerson, Patrick hurriedly made a pair of crutches, for after his second day at home, Knute flatly refused to stay in bed. The fourth morning he was in the barn helping with the milking. As promised, Mike Ryan visited with the family and suggested that Knute allow him to measure his leg for a boot. The boy was skeptical, but Maggy was determined. "You're shaking the house to pieces with all that hopping about. Let Mike help you."
"Laddie, I can make a boot that you can lace to the calf of your leg. It will take some weeks for your stub to toughen for everyday walking, but it can be padded with sheep's wool. It might take some adjusting, because the muscles in the calf may shrink a bit. Still, I think you'll be back on both feet before you expect."
"Anything is better than this," Knute said hopefully, "If you can make a boot that will allow me to climb into the loft to throw down hay, or even carry a feed bucket, I'll be ever grateful."
Two weeks later Mike reappeared with the newly made boots. From appearances, they were identical; except that the right boot was of stiffer leather and had a cup-like interior to support Knute's stub leg. At first the boy was ecstatic, for although he was a bit nervous and wobbly, he could walk quite well. Frustration came within minutes when the stump quickly became tender from the chafing and pressure. It was another two weeks before his stump toughened enough to allow him an hour or two on his feet.
By mid-December Mary had nearly recovered, but she felt occasional twinges when she stretched or reached out. Kirby had been an attentive suitor, obviously worried about her condition. He appeared whenever he could get off duty, usually soon after the sound of the fort evening retreat cannon.
When Mary finally could be propped up in bed they played whist together, usually against Knute and Jerold.
Two weekends in late December were special. Kirby arrived with horse and sleigh to take her on long rides.
Once they went to Pembina, and the following Sunday to Emerson. Each time he solicitously assisted her into the sleigh, carefully tucking the buffalo robes around her. Patrick and Maggy were amused as they watched from a window. "Pat, you were never that gallant to me."
Patrick grinned, "You never gave me a chance. You were too aggressive. You never waited to be helped. You just jumped into the rig . . . even wanted to drive the horse."
At first Mary was flattered with all the attention Kirby showered upon her. Then it became too much. She scolded, "For heaven's sake, Kirby, ease up! I'm not made of glass. I won't break!"
"That's why I'm tucking you in. You've already been broken enough." He was smiling.
Their relationship grew intense as his remaining days at the fort dwindled. They began making plans for their wedding.
"Why don't we get married at Fort Leavenworth at Easter time? You'll be of age by then, and I'm sure of two or three days off. Hopefully I can arrange to have Father and Mother meet us there for the wedding." He smiled as he raised her chin and added, "Unless you'll change your mind and marry me now."
"Easter time will be soon enough, and it will be a wonderful time for our wedding." Her voice was firm, but loving.
"I'm scheduled to leave on Wednesday, the first day of January. School starts the following Monday. I'll arrive at the fort on Saturday, but it'll probably take me a couple of days to settle down in quarters."
"I'll ask Mom if she and Dad will take me there on the train cars. If they can't get away, I'll just have to manage by myself."
When Christmas arrived, Mary and Kirby decided against attending the fort ball, deciding instead, to attend the Presbyterian Church's special Christmas Eve Service. The entire family participated. The next day Patrick and Maggy hosted a lavish dinner for the family, with gifts and favors for all. During the morning everyone exchanged presents; that evening Jerold accompanied the singing of carols with his violin.
At bedtime Maggy expressed her thoughts to Patrick, "Remember the hard times back in Orillia? We've much to be thankful for. Knute has almost forgotten his accident and he hasn't had an epileptic attack for months. It's marvelous how he has recovered in such a short time. Ian and Susan are well matched and happy. Perhaps we'll be grandparents before we know it. Soon Mary and Kirby will be wedded. We'll have to make plans to accompany her to Kansas in late March.
"Yes, we've a lot to be thankful for. Thank the Lord we searched for, and found this wonderful country that has allowed us a future. We owe a lot for our prosperity and freedom."
Maggy looked at her husband quizzically as he bent slowly to remove his shoes. "Pat, are we growing old?"
He leaned down to plant a kiss. "Yup! And wiser!"
Two days before Kirby's train was scheduled to leave for Minneapolis, Mary approached her father and mother in the kitchen. She had spent a sleepless night, beset by worries and recriminations. A sense of loneliness came that was too compelling to be denied. "Dad, will you go to the depot and get me a railroad ticket to Fort Leavenworth? A ticket the same as Kirby's?"
Maggy's face lit up. "You mean you've decided to go with Kirby." Then a look of chagrin came. "Why didn't you two get married at Christmas time?"
"I can't explain, Mother, but I've decided to go with him. We can get married in Minneapolis, or after we arrive in Leavenworth, Kansas. I just can't bear to wait another four months. Something could happen to spoil our happiness."
"I'll get you the ticket, but does Kirby know of your decision?" Patrick was apprehensive.
"No, and I don't want him to know. I'm going to surprise him. When he boards the train on Wednesday, I'll go into the car to say goodbye. Then I'll sit down and hand him my ticket."
"What about your baggage? How will you get it aboard?" Maggy apparently approved the prank.
"I'll have Ian or Jerold slip it into the baggage car," Mary answered. "Most of the heavy trunks go there anyway."
Patrick began to grin. "It'll sure knock him for a loop. Suppose he blows up?"
Mary smiled, "He won't. He's been after me every evening to marry him."
"It will start your life with a bang, but I don't know." Maggy was suddenly skeptical.
When the secret was passed to the boys, they endorsed the idea wholeheartedly. Ian and Susan were to see that her packed trunk and carpetbag would be placed with the baggage on the Wednesday train.
Kirby arrived for breakfast with the McLaren family early on the morning of his departure. His gelding was left in Mary's charge and for her use. At 8:45 A.M. the entire family walked the few blocks to the depot to see him off. When Kirby boarded the train, Mary accompanied him into the car for a supposed last kiss and talk. As Kirby remained standing by a seat, Mary pushed by and sat down next to the window. "Let's sit down and talk. It's much easier than standing."
Kirby seemed confused. "Mary, you'll have to get off soon. The conductor is standing in the vestibule scowling at us."
"Well, then, show him this." Smiling, she stood up and removed her coat. Tossing it over the back of the seat, she took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Kirby.
Puzzled, he quickly opened the envelope to find Mary's ticket through to Leavenworth, Kansas. Glancing at the destination a second time, he suddenly realized her mischievous prank. "You minx! Do you really mean it? You're coming with me?" Elated, he grasped her shoulders.
She beamed and nodded. "I wanted it to be a surprise. I changed my mind two days ago."
"It is a surprise, and what a surprise! My darling, we can stop over a day in Minneapolis and get married."
The conductor approached. "The young lady must leave now. We have a schedule to keep."
Kirby displayed Mary's ticket. "This young lady will accompany me. We're getting married as soon as we arrive in Minneapolis."
A broad smile appeared on the conductor's face. "Congratulations to you both. Now we can finally pull out." He stepped out to the vestibule to signal the engineer.
While the train backed out of the station toward the Y, Mary and Kirby waved to her family. The smiles on their faces told Kirby that they were all involved in the mischief. Mary saw her mother holding a handkerchief to her face; her father had his arm around her waist. He was smiling.
Slowly clearing the switch at the Y, the train headed south and soon reached the track speed limit.
"We won't be in the Twin Cities until around 9 o'clock tomorrow morning." Kirby murmured. "This won't be any comfort trip. It's too bad that Jim Hill hasn't put on any of the new sleeping cars built by George Pullman."
Mary reached for her coat to cover them; the stove in the end of the car was providing minimal heat. "Then we'll make the best of it. Your shoulder seems a good pillow." She burrowed closely to his chest, smiling with contentment.
Kirby moved his legs diagonally across the facing seat and shifted his body to snug her to him. "I'm perfectly satisfied with things as they are." He ran one hand alongside her neck, running his fingers through her heavy fall of hair.
Mary sighed, "I am, too." Under her coat, which covered them both, she unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and inserted her hand.
Kirby glanced around at the other passengers guiltily. All were dozing, watching the snowy countryside pass by, or they were reading. He pressed the seeking hand tightly to his chest. Nuzzling his face into her hair, he whispered, "It'll be a long time until tomorrow night."
She smiled as she turned to bury her face into his neck. "Only a few hours."
It was nearly noon on Friday morning, January 10, when Mike entered the back door excitedly waving a letter. "It's from Mary, Ma. She's written us a letter!"
Thrilled, Maggy sat at the kitchen table and read the message aloud to Mike.
Monday, January 6
Leavenworth, Kansas.
Dear Father, Mother and Boys,
Kirby and I were married last Thursday afternoon in Minneapolis. We hurriedly shopped for a wedding ring and found only one problem. May the Lord forgive me; I had to fib and say I was eighteen years of age.
We arrived here late Saturday evening and are staying at this plush hotel. Kirby reported to the fort on Sunday and had no problems. He is at school now and this afternoon I will house-hunt for us. Not having furniture, we hope to find something already furnished. Kirby was informed at the fort that there should be no problem finding at least furnished rooms, with kitchen privileges.
It's actually like spring here, with only occasional patches of snow on the ground. In fact the sun is out and I'm anxious to get outdoors. I'll get a newspaper and scan the ads. Kirby is to check the vacancy listings at the fort.
This hotel is quite new and has modern plumbing with a bathroom adjoining each room. Kirby says there is no hurry to leave here, but I'd feel better in our own place.
The boys are to use his horse for riding. Perhaps Mike can use it while herding the cows this summer.
I really have no other news at present, but after all, we've only been here two days. We are newlyweds, and Kirby is my love! I'm very happy!
Love, Your Mary.
Monday, April 12, 2010
BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 19
The entire countryside was anxious to be at the Emerson depot to greet the first train arriving from St. Paul on the morning of November 11. Shortly after daylight on the auspicious day, Susan left home and after walking down the alley, rapped lightly on the McLaren back door. When she entered the kitchen a brief spate of cold air followed. She felt the sudden warmth of the room and the mouth-watering smell of frying bacon. Dancing flickers of light leaked from the damper on the left side of the cast iron range.
Mary glanced up from where she was turning the bacon. "You're just in time for breakfast: bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and toast." She reached to the cupboard and handed a cup to Susan, then began turning the bread toasting on the hot top of the stove.
Maggy was sitting quietly at the table, nursing Kate at her breast. Reaching for the coffee pot, Susan said, "I've had breakfast. I came over to see what time we're leaving for Emerson." Seating herself opposite Maggy, she asked, "Will Patrick be able to get off work to come along with us?"
Baby Kate stopped nursing and turned upon hearing Susan's voice. Susan smiled at her. "Gosh, every time I see her she's grown." She marveled, "She'll be walking soon, I bet."
Maggy looked down at Kate fondly. "She's on solid foods, too, but she's still a glutton for breast milk. She says "Mama" and "Dada," and I do believe she'll start walking in another month or two. That is, if someone holds her hand. She can already pull herself up and stand." She looked to Mary. "You were walking by yourself when you reached your first birthday."
Mary smiled and reached behind her head to pat her back in jest. "Yes, and you've told me a hundred times how I got into everything." She looked toward Susan. "Pa can't get off work, but Jerold and Knute will take us over in the buggies. There's not much snow, and with the five of us and Mike, we'll need your buggy too."
"Ian got off work at six this morning. I fed him breakfast and he's fast asleep by now. He'll join us in Emerson around noontime. It's a pity we all can't go to Roseau Crossing1 to see the spike-driving ceremony, but Ian says it's too far and too cold a ride."
Knute entered the kitchen and wiggled a silent hello to Susan with his fingers as he sat down at the table. He had evidently overheard Susan's remark, and he added, "Nearly a three-hour ride each way and a chilly one too."Mary scooped the fried bacon and potatoes onto a platter and placed it on the table. Grasping the covered dish of scrambled eggs from the warming side of the stove, she removed the cover and inserted a serving spoon. Placing the bowl in the center of the table, she remarked, "The toast will be ready in a jiffy."
"It sure will," Knute was smiling. "It's already burning!"
"Oh, my gosh!" Mary hastily stabbed into the offending slice of bread with a fork, and then examined it closely. "It's all right, just burned a little on the edges."
Baby Kate pulled away from Maggy and endeavored to stand in her lap. When Susan held out her arms coaxingly, the baby smiled and attempted to crawl across the table to her. Sliding back her chair, Susan stood and lifted the child from Maggy's lap, saying, "I want two just like her, and two like Ian."
"And are you trying?" Maggy teased.
"You bet!" Susan broke into a merry laugh.
While the women smiled, Knute sat back silently; he was obviously embarrassed.
"We should leave by 10 o'clock." Maggy said. "I want to look around the stores this afternoon, for I've heard they have good print on sale for 12 cents a yard. Kate needs new dresses; she's nearly outgrown everything. We can eat dinner at one of the hotels. We're not packing any lunches today; it'll be my treat."
Sounds from the back porch indicated Jerold was back from the barn. They could hear the thumping of the milk pails on the porch floor. Moments later he entered the kitchen. "Smells like heaven in here. Anything left for me?"
"Not if you'd stayed out there much longer," Mary teased.
"Well, it was my turn to milk this morning." He grinned. "Knute's turn to milk tonight, then I'll be the one to have it easy." He sat at the table and began helping himself.
Susan stood and lowered Kate into her high chair. "I'll be back with the buggy at ten."
"No, you won't!" Jerold was smiling. "I will be the one. If you'll wait a moment until I finish eating, I'll walk back with you and be your chore boy while my big brother is busy sawing logs."
Susan looked up at the ceiling musingly. "Let's see. I need kindling split for the stove, the ashes must be cleaned from both the kitchen and parlor stoves, the barn needs cleaning, and, oh yes..."
"Whoa there! Have pity! Leave something for Ian to do."
"If you want it so." Susan looked at her brother-in-law fondly. She knew she had joined a wonderful, loving family.
It was nearly noon before the two buggies crossed the international boundary and proceeded north along Emerson's Main Street. It seemed a few tents were pitched helter-skelter here and there. Before they turned east on Church Street, they noticed each hitch rail in sight was occupied by riding horses or teams. The saloons were evidently doing a booming business, due to the crowd. It seemed every man who had ever worked on the railroad was in town for the celebration. Turning east toward the Depot, they were finally forced to stop; they were still two blocks short of their destination. Further travel was impossible for sleighs and buggies blocked the entire street.
Jerold turned to his mother. "What time is the train supposed to arrive?"
"Pat said sometime shortly after the noon hour. We might as well step down and visit a bit. I hope we don't have to stand in the cold too long." She handed Kate to Mike while she stepped from the buggy, and then reached to take the baby back. Walking to Knute and the girls, whose buggy had stopped behind theirs, she said, "Let's mingle a bit with the crowd until train time. No doubt some of our old neighbors will be about."
They had barely approached the crowd at the tracks when the shrill whistle of the northbound train was heard. Within a minute the highly decorated 4-4-0 engine slowed for the depot. Crowds momentarily panicked to clear the track and the train stopped, steam jetting out from the cylinders. From where the McLaren family stood, they could not hear the welcoming speech, but they could see the arms of the speaker gesturing vigorously. Flags decorated the engine and bunting hung from the cars. To Maggy, it seemed there were few passengers. She later found there were only 24, mostly executives of the St.P.&P.
The stop in Emerson was brief; with a sudden surge of power, the high driving wheels of the engine slipped momentarily, then slowed to seize the rails. People were waving from the car windows as the train finally moved north to the ceremony planned at Roseau. Mary turned to her mother. "Let's meet at the Gillis' restaurant. It'll fill quickly, so we'll hurry. We'll save seats for you."
Knute smiled, confident they would get to the café in plenty of time since they were on the outer fringe of the crowd. He remarked, "We'll beat everyone downtown. There aren't any rigs parked behind us."
They were two blocks from Main Street when Knute noticed a small group of men standing at the next corner. He became apprehensive when he saw they were watching the approaching buggy with obvious interest. The men were smiling and exchanging smirks, as if in anticipation. Just as their buggy passed by, one of the heavily bearded men threw something just ahead of the horse.
Susan clutched Knute's arm tightly. "Watch out! He threw a firecracker."
The explosion that followed was no firecracker. It was tremendous. For a second the girls and Knute were in shock. Then the horse began bucking. Twisting wildly, it forced the buggy nearly over on its right side. Mary was toppled out onto the ground. Kicking and rearing, the horse broke into a wild gallop, the right rear wheel of the buggy passing over Mary's chest. Out of control, the horse then left the road, bolting between two buildings. The two right wheels were torn from the axles as they scraped through to the alley. When the horse turned suddenly at the alley, Susan lost her balance. She was thrown clear of the buggy and landed heavily on the slushy ground.
All of the force Knute could exert on the reins by bracing his feet on the dash of the buggy failed to stop the horse. When a large water trough blocked the way, the animal attempted to jump it and failed. As the buggy struck the trough, it was totally demolished; Knute was thrown forward, his body striking heavily against a board fence.
Jerold, Maggy and Mike, who had been following a half-block behind Knute, witnessed the explosion and runaway. They noted that the men responsible for throwing the explosive charge cast furtive glances among themselves, and then hastily left en masse, in the direction of the Russell House. Not one man went to the aid of Mary, who was lying as if dead on the snow-laden street.
Maggy hastily pushed Kate into Mike's lap, crying, "Hold her!" Even before Jerold could bring the buggy to a complete stop, she leaped from the side and ran to Mary. Pushing back Mary's long hair, she saw the scraped, bloody face. Her daughter was moaning with pain, attempting to straighten from a fetal position.
"Hold still, darling. Everything will be all right."
Mary's eyes began to flicker as she became conscious. Her face was colorless. It was obvious she was in shock.
Maggy drew in a deep breath as she placed her fur muff under her daughter's head. From business establishments along the street, faces appeared, alarmed by the loud blast. Several men, seeing Maggy crouched down alongside Mary, approached at a run.
Jerold shouted to Maggy, "I'll follow Knute's buggy. He and Susan are in trouble." Driving hurriedly around the end of the block, he entered the alley in time to see Susan rising groggily from the ground. She looked dazed and was futilely attempting to wipe mud from the front of her coat.
Further along the alley was the smashed buggy. The horse was straddled across the water trough, flailing wildly with its front legs and emitting pitiful screams of agony. Drawing the buggy to a quick halt, Jerold thrust the reins into Mike's hand, commanding, "Hold the animal! Stay in the buggy with the baby!"
Knute was crumpled against the board fence motionless, yet apparently conscious. His eyes were open, but his extended right leg was strangely bent below his right knee. Moving cautiously to avoid the threshing legs of the horse, Jerold endeavored to pull Knute from the danger. A sick feeling came over him as he drew Knute's body back and saw what looked like a jagged stick protruding from the torn trouser leg. Although dazed, Knute recognized Jerold. He burst out, "I hurt like hell! My leg is on fire."
Susan, although badly shaken, joined Jerold in tugging Knute clear of the threshing hooves.
"Lay still, Knute," she ordered, while cradling his head in her hands. Motioning to Jerold with a jerk of her head, she said, "Give me your coat!" Jerold quickly complied and she gently tucked it under Knute's head.
Jerold cast a glance down the alley to the west. "Stay with him, Susan. I'll get help and find someone to dispose of the horse -- it's done for."
Before he could rise to his feet, they heard excited voices. The first two men to appear were clerks from Ashdown's store, located just on the corner. Realizing the situation of the maimed and crippled horse, one of the men cried, "I'll get a gun." Turning, he ran back to the store. The other clerk knelt by Susan and Jerold anxiously as Susan carefully wiped Knute's face with her scarf.
The man volunteered, "I'll get help to carry him into the store. We've got to get him off this cold ground." He headed toward the store.
Jerold urged, "Susan, why don't you see to Mike and little Kate? Take them into the store where it's warm. I'll stay with Knute until they return with more men."
Returning to the carriage, Susan reached to take Kate from Mike's arms. Mike jumped from the buggy and looked at up at her apprehensively. "Knute's going to be all right, isn't he?"
Susan looked as him reassuringly and put her arm around his shoulder. "He'll be fine, Mike. We'll have him home in no time."
Within a few moments one of the clerks returned with three men. As they carried Knute into the mercantile store, they heard the sharp crack of a pistol.
The shock from the impact with the ground was leaving Mary and she groaned, "It hurts to breath, Ma."
The merchant who was kneeling by her side looked up at Maggy. "She probably has some cracked ribs. It happened to me years ago; that's how I felt."
Maggy was somewhat relieved when she wiped the blood from Mary's face to find it oozing from a cut lip. She looked up at the men gathered around her. "Can you help me get her into a warm building?"
One of the men took charge. While he and two others carefully lifted Mary, another man assisted Maggy to her feet. "We'll take her into Ashdown's and call the doctor."
Luckily, the doctor was found at his hotel by one of the Ashdown clerks. After examining Mary briefly, he said, "She possibly has some cracked ribs in addition to her bruises; also, she has bitten her lip -- that's not serious. However, I can't tell if she has internal injuries, I'll have to look closer. He turned to the nearby watchers and said pointedly, "I need privacy to conduct a more detailed examination."
As the men turned away, another group of men entered through the rear door of the store. They were carrying Knute. The doctor looked startled and Maggy heard him mutter, "It never rains, but it pours!" Opening Mary's blouse, he slid the straps of her chemise down over her arms. Dark blue and red discolorations were on each side of her chest. One well-marked hemorrhaging streak had evidently been made by one of the buggy wheels.
"Like I thought, she has damaged ribs. I'll have to bind her chest. It will hurt to breath for a few days, but they'll mend and the pain will go away." He turned to Maggy, "Find a glass of water and I'll give her some laudanum before I wrap her chest. That will kill nearly all of the pain. Buy a pillow case from the store and I'll bind her chest with that. Oh, yes, get some large pins also. She'll need to be moved gently if you intend to take her home. I'll give you additional medication for her before you leave." After watching Maggy coax Mary into drinking the sedative, he said, "Now I'd better look at that other chap."
The men carrying Knute had laid him on a section of the store counter. Someone had placed a rolled blanket under his head. Susan, holding Kate in her arms, moved hastily over to join Maggy and Mary.
The doctor noted Knute's pasty, grim countenance. "What hurts the most, son?"
"My leg! My damn leg!"
The doctor briefly ran his hand down Knute's blood-soaked pantleg, then looked to Jerold. "Borrow some scissors from the store and slit the leg of that trouser carefully."
After the fabric had been cut open, Jerold noted the sudden grim look on the doctor's face. Moving away from the counter, the doctor beckoned to Jerold. "You'll have to get him over to my hotel room. Thank goodness, he's lost little blood. I hate to say it, but the lower part of the leg will have to be amputated. Both the tibia and fibula are broken and it's a compound fracture. Morever, just above the ankle, the two bones are mangled beyond repair. There's no way I can splint them. If it's not done immediately, there's almost a 100% chance of infection and then he will have little chance. He appears to be a strong, healthy boy. He should pull through satisfactorily."
The doctor turned to Enoch Winkler, the proprietor of the store. "Have you a mattress available for use to convey the boy to my hotel? His leg will need support while he is being moved."
Without answering, Winkler nodded and turned to the rear stockroom.
With Maggy's and Susan's help, the doctor deftly wrapped Mary to prevent the shifting of her ribs. By this time the laudanum had taken effect and she appeared to be sleepy and in little pain.
The doctor turned to Maggy. "Do you live in town, madam?"
"No, I'm Maggy McLaren, from St. Vincent. This girl is my daughter.
"I'd suggest a hotel room for her, but I'm afraid with the huge crowd in town, you'll look in vain."
Maggy reached out to smooth back the hair of her nearly sleeping daughter. "We'll see she gets home safely. Can you call over at our house in St. Vincent tomorrow, Doctor?"
"Yes, perhaps in the early afternoon. I must see to the lad now. He will need my room for a few days. I'll make the necessary arrangements."
When Knute was finally secure in the doctor's room at International Hotel, he appealed to Jerold. "My leg is shot, isn't it?"
Jerold tried to keep lightness in his voice. "It's just bad above the ankle."
"He's going to take it off, isn't he?"
"It won't make any difference, Knute."
Knute exploded, "What the hell will I do with one leg? Can't farm, can't do anything. Where are those sons-of-bitches who threw that bomb in front of the horse? They're responsible!"
"We'll find out who they are and get them!"
"You damn right! I'll spend the rest of my life getting even with them."
Ian arrived in Emerson too late to see the train pass through. A townsman recognized him and apprised him of the accident and of the location of his family. He immediately went to the Ashdown store to find his mother already making arrangements to have Mary returned to their home in St. Vincent. Mike was sitting quietly on a window seat by the door holding Kate on his lap. Concerned about his wife, he asked anxiously, "Just what happened? Where is Susan? Has she been hurt? Where are Jerold and Knute?"
Maggy hastily explained, "Susan is fine. She and Jerold took Knute to the International Hotel. He's in the doctor's room. His leg is badly broken and I don't know what the doctor plans." She looked at the sleeping Mary. "Mr. Winkler is out locating a spring wagon to carry Mary home. Mike, Kate and I will return with her; you see to Susan and Jerold. They're with Knute and know more what's going on than I." She added, "They've got our buggy; yours is shot. Also they've had to destroy your horse."
Ian hurried to the hotel and found Susan by the desk. Grasping her arms gently as she arose from a chair, he asked, "Have you been hurt, darling?" He noted her ashen look.
"No, just a bit shook up. But the doctor said Knute's right lower leg will have to be amputated."
"Oh, God! Poor kid! He'll need a lot of cheering up.”
Susan noted the grim look on his face and hugged him close. "We'll all see to that!"
"Can I see him?"
Susan shook her head. "The doctor is operating on him now. Jerold and another man are helping."
"Then I guess there's not much I can do except see Jack Bell and find the scum who did this. Sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine. Just find those men. They've got a lot to answer for."
Ian found Bell at the corner of Main and Church. The constable had already been informed of the accident and turned as Ian called to him. He smiled grimly and held out his open hand as Ian approached. Ian immediately identified the two objects Bell held in his hand as partial sticks of dynamite. "What are you doing with those, Jack?"
"I found them at the scene of the explosion." He fingered the greasy, oily paper.
"The bastards who caused the runaway stole this from the railroad, then cut it into three pieces. When they saw the damage they caused, they dropped the remaining portions on the ground to get rid of them. I checked your horse, too. No wonder he went wild. The explosion blew a chunk of hide from one of his front legs. I've been told those same men were seen walking toward the Russell House. I'm just heading for a look-see. Want to come along?"
"You bet!" Ian was grim. "They're going to pay the piper! I'm told Knute will lose a leg. What a hell of a thing to happen at a celebration!"
Bell whistled softly as he exhaled. "That should get them a few years in jail when we find them."
At the door of the saloon they hesitated momentarily to make plans. "We'll stick together and see who we can recognize," Bell advised. "Sometimes you can spot the guilty by their evasive actions and the looks on their faces."
The large barroom of the Russell House was packed with railroaders and civilians. Ian estimated the room held at least sixty men. All appeared boisterous, apparently oblivious to the heavy, blue haze of tobacco smoke that filled the room. Four harassed bartenders moved hurriedly behind the long mahogany bar. The chairs at every table were fully occupied and men stood two-deep along the bar.
"It's not going to be easy," Bell murmured.
Stepping ahead of Ian, he beckoned to the nearest bartender, who finally noticed him and turned. "I'm looking for four or five men who came in here recently, maybe a half hour ago, maybe a bit longer."
"Hell, Jack! I haven't had a chance to even look at the door. Look at this mob!" He waved his arm around. "Help yourself!"
Ian overheard the words and touched Bell's arm. "I'm going to look around."
While Bell remained in position to size up men he knew, men who would possibly have information, Ian went back outside. He realized that there were no saloons within a block and hoped the men they sought were inside. Then he saw a boy of about ten years of age playing just across the road. He had a hoop and stick and was chasing the hoop up and down the wood sidewalk. Crossing the street, Ian blocked the boy's path. The youngster stopped, looking puzzled.
"Son, did you see a group of men come over from Church Street some time ago? Maybe they entered that side door to the saloon across the street."
"You mean the ones that lit that big firecracker?" The small freckled face lit up.
"They're the ones," Ian said expectantly.
"Yup! They went into that side door. There were five of them and two were big buggers. They all had beards and one of them grabbed my hoop and threw it into Tennant's back yard."
"Were they drunk?"
"They were all laughing." He pointed at the hotel. "They haven't come out of there either."
Ian picked up the hoop and handed it to the boy. "Thanks! You've helped a lot."
Re-crossing the street, Ian realized he was in luck. He joined Bell and related his conversation with the boy, saying, “They’re still in here, according to the lad. I'm going back along the bar and see who's here."
Men blocking his way made movement difficult; they were intent in their conversations and reticent to move aside. He forced himself to be patient while worming between them, not wanting to irritate anyone. He knew that in a bar, with many drinking, anything deemed an insult could result in a massive brawl. At the far end of the crowded room, he suddenly stopped in surprise. Standing by the wall, nearly hidden from sight, were Brogan and Murphy with three other men. Wending his way back to Bell, he briefly related his past troubles with them and told of his suspicions.
"I know both of them. Come on!" Bell led the way forcefully, pushing through men, raising bitter looks as he shoved through the crowd. When he and Ian reached the end of the bar, sudden, apprehensive looks appeared on the faces of the five men as they were spotted. Their quick exchange of glances was obvious. Brogan and Murphy pretended a nonchalant conversation as their companions began to drift away.
Bell reached out and grasped Brogan's shoulder. "You and Murphy come outside with me. I want to talk to you." Murphy casually turned his back. "Yes, you too, Murphy."
"What the hell you want, Bell? We're drinking and minding our own business." A troubled look came to Murphy's face.
Bell thundered, "Either you two come with me or I'll drag you out!"
At first Ian though Murphy intended to start a fight, but then perhaps he thought better of it. Obviously reluctant, he followed Brogan and Bell to the door. Outside the bar, Bell turned on them. "How long have you two been in the saloon?"
Brogan exchanged glances with Murphy. "Hell, since early this morning."
"Turn out your pockets. I want to see what's in them." Bell demanded.
"What's this all about?" demanded Murphy.
"Never mind, just do it!" Bell ordered.
Slowly they emptied their pockets, displaying loose change, tobacco, jackknives, matches and sundry items, even a few buttons.
"What, no dynamite caps?" Bell looked at the two shrewdly.
Even Ian detected the startled looks on the men's faces. Murphy snorted. "What the hell are you trying to pin on us?"
"Pin what on you?" Bell had a nasty smile on his face.
Ian lost his temper. "You bastards set off that dynamite. Knute is going to lose a leg over your meanness, and both my wife and sister have been hurt. In addition a good horse is dead and my buggy destroyed." He surged in anger toward Murphy.
"Hold, Ian, hold!" Bell moved his huge bulk between them. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a revolver. Pointing it at the suspects, he exclaimed, "You are both going to jail. Now march, and you know where. Down to McRae's blacksmith shop. You'll stay locked up until we sort this out." He looked at them grimly, "In my book you're a pair of skunks!"
He called to Ian as he started the prisoners toward the jail. "Find Kenny McRae and tell him I need him at his shop. I'll arrange a hearing for tomorrow; then I can transfer them to Winnipeg."
Ian lost half an hour hunting up McRae, then he hurried to the hotel to check on Knute. He found Jerold and Susan conversing in the lobby.
"How's Knute?"
Both arose to greet him. "The doctor removed his foot just above the ankle," Jerold said. "I helped a bit to hold him while the ether was applied, but I never want to go through that again. I'm not cut out for doctoring."
Susan sounded hopeful. "The doctor said that he'll be able to walk again. He said they make what is called prosthesis, a kind of artificial foot that can be attached to Knute's leg. He's asleep now, but we want to stay until he wakes up. He'll need a lot of looking after and bolstering up."
"He'll get it too!" Ian reached to put his arm around her shoulders. "It was railroaders who threw the explosive. Bell has Brogan and Murphy in custody. We think they were the ringleaders. That wasn't a firecracker they threw under the horse; it was part of a stick of dynamite."
A puzzled look appeared on Jerold's face. "Did they single out Knute and the girls, or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
"I guess we'll never know the answer to that unless they confess," Ian retorted.
"There have been too many coincidences lately: the attempted burning of my crop, the harming of Charley's horse, and the burning of Mason's livery. Now this! What's next?"
"Surely they'll get jail sentences over this. That should end any more trouble." Susan looked hopeful. "It could have been by chance they picked us. We might have returned downtown on another street."
Jerold glanced at his watch. "It's almost suppertime. When Knute wakes up, someone should be with him." He turned to Susan. "Why don't you go home with Ian? I'll stay with Knute tonight."
Casting a wry look down at her long skirt, Susan shrugged, and then turned to Ian.
"It's impossible to ride double in this dress. Why don't you leave your horse for Jerold and we can take your Father's buggy home?
"Jerold, if it's agreeable with you, I'll come over in the morning and spend the day with Knute. Perhaps I can divert his mind a bit by reading to him. He likes that."
Bell was tired and disgusted when he went home after locking up the prisoners. He and McRae had difficulty putting leg irons on the two men, because of their vociferous objections. It had taken a firm threat of shooting them both before the suspects backed down. Locked in the small building and limited in movement, Brogan and Murphy were forced to feed the small jail stove during the night to keep warm. It was only after Bell and McRae left that they began to discuss their plight.
Murphy sneered, "That damn fool Bell never found the other two capped dynamite fuses. I'll scrape out some chinking between the logs and hide them."
"Where'ja have them hid?"
"Got a secret pocket in the inside of my vest. If he had searched me good, our goose would have been cooked. Why, that dumb blacksmith never even found my knife. He put the irons on tight around my ankles but he never lifted either of my pant legs. Don't guess they have anything to hold us on -- they've got no proof."
"You suppose he'll corner Arnie and the boys and maybe work on them?"
"No chance. They won't spill any beans. They're just as guilty as we are."
Murphy began shaking his head. His headache was coming back and the voice was saying: You damn fool! Damn fool! Get that McLaren bunch, especially the girl!
He had tried and got one of them, but the wrong one. He judged himself lucky that they had come along Church Street when they had. The others had wanted to throw the explosive under the first buggy or sleigh that came along, but he had waited.
"What you got against the McLaren family, Eck? Do you know them from somewhere?"
"None of your damn business!" Murphy rolled into one of the dusty buffalo robes on the wall bunk, pulling it tightly to him. He cursed aloud, for McRae had tightened the ankle irons before riveting them shut. They were pinching and uncomfortable.
Brogan studied Murphy's form in the dim light. Why in hell did I ever get mixed up with him? He's peculiar at best and dangerous too. He talks to himself -- even shouts out in his sleep. Moody as hell -- guess he's a crazy. I should have known better. If I get out of this we're splitting company for sure, else he'll get me in serious trouble someday. His mouth was becoming dry and the effects of the day’s drinking were wearing thin. Geez! Wish I had a bottle now. It's going to be a long night and that dinky stove throws little heat!
Shortly after Maggy, Mike and the baby arrived home with Mary, Kirby rode into the yard. Hurriedly tossing the reins to the ground, he burst into the back door of the house. Mike was alone in the kitchen, making a sandwich.
"Where's Mary? I just got word at the fort that she's been in an accident."
Mike glanced up briefly. "Mother is upstairs with her. We just got back from Emerson. The doctor says she has broken ribs. I think she's asleep now, but you can go up and see."
Kirby took the steps two at a time, meeting Maggy just as she stepped from Mary's bedroom. She held a finger up to her lips and said softly, "She's asleep now. I've just tucked her in. You can go in and sit with her if you like, but don't wake her."
"How was she hurt?" Kirby's query came as a hoarse whisper.
"A buggy accident. It's a long story. When you come downstairs, I'll explain. Pat should be home from work soon; it's nearly suppertime."
Patrick, Ian and Susan arrived nearly simultaneously at the house. When Susan stepped from the buggy, Patrick said amiably, "You must have had a full day, just getting home now. Where is the rest of our family?" A puzzled look came to his face.
"How come you're driving my rig?"
"We've had trouble, Pa." Ian jumped down and turned to Susan. "Why don't you go into the house, I'll put up the horse." Then he saw Kirby's shivering animal. "Looks like Kirby is here; I'll put up his horse too." He looked puzzled, "It's not like Kirby to neglect his animal."
When all had gathered in the kitchen, Kirby heard the voices and came downstairs. As Maggy and Susan related the happenings in Emerson, Patrick became livid with rage.
"Those no-good rotters! So Bell has them in custody, eh? What's he going to do with them?"
Ian attempted to calm his father. "He said he'll try to schedule a hearing for tomorrow, then he’ll take them to Winnipeg for trial. He has them locked in the shed adjoining McRae's blacksmith shop."
"Perhaps I should go to Emerson to stay the night with Knute." Patrick looked questioningly at Maggy.
Ian interrupted, "No, Pa. It wouldn't do any good. He was still under the effect of the anesthesia when Susan and I left. Jerold is staying the night with him and Susan will take his place in the morning. Meanwhile, I'll do the chores tonight and again in the morning after I get off work."
Susan placed her hand on Patrick's arm in a further effort to placate him. "Knute will have to stay in Emerson for at least two or three days. The doctor seemed concerned about the possibility of an infection."
Glancing at Kirby, Ian could see the cold, calculating look on his face. Instinctively, he knew that it was just as well that Brogan and Murphy were locked up in Emerson. When word of what they had done became widespread, their lives would be in danger.
Maggy arose from the table and turned to Susan. "Help me get supper on the table for the men. You and Ian eat with us tonight. It'll save you cooking at home." She turned to the men. "Now that we know that everything is under control, and there's nothing further we can do tonight, let's relax."
1 - In this same book is a very cool story about how the last spike, although driven by several VIP's (all men) and even some women from the crowd, was driven home by Mary Sullivan, the section crew boss' daughter. The passage, written by the daughter whose parents were witnesses to the event, says:
Standing among the group of ladies who had been too shy and modest to come forward and take a tap at the spike was a stalwart looking young girl, Mary Sullivan. She was the daughter of the section boss Sullivan, the referee. She was eighteen years old and had been closely watching and enjoying the last spike driving. Like some of the other ladies, however, including my mother, she had been too shy to come forward before the huge gathering and take a whack at the spike. SHe loved section work and used to help her dad pump the hand car, drive spikes, tamp ties, and do any track work she could.
The spike had still over an inch more to go and the ladies were about ready to give up and let the men finish the job when Charlie Lynne, who had worked on the section and knowing Mary quite well, also knew of her ability at railway work, notced her among the ladies and shouted out, "Hey Mary, come on over and show them how to drive a spike."
Mary, blushing from head to toe, quickly ran over. Her dad very proudly handed her the spike hammer and the crowd roared approvingly. She stepped back the proper distance, spit on her hands (like her dad always did) and with a mighty over hand swing drover the spike home and right down to the rail. At her mighty feat, the crowd set up a tremendous roar! The trains blew their whistles making a din that was heard for miles around. Mary, of course, had stolen the show!
The drinks were passed around again, but this time the toast was to Mary Sullivan, "The Hero of the Day." The crowd ignored the bigshots and everyone huddled around to congratulate Mary and shake her hand.
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