Final Resting Places: Brown & Kabernagle

Sheriff Charley Brown's grave site is in the north section of the Pembina Cemetery;  his stone reads:

Charles J. Brown

Oct 4, 1884

Aged 39 years

Sgt. Co. I 20th U.S. Infantry

I took this photo when surveying for BillionGraves

Charley sadly had a short, yet amazing life...

Another smaller foot stone acknowledges his service 

as a soldier in the Civil War, but it doesn't attest to 

his time as a POW in Andersonville... 

Buried in the same section is Charley's business partner:

John Kabernagle
Born
Jan 8, 1853
Died
Dec 20, 1893
Aged
40 Yrs, 11 Mos,
& 17 Dys

It's sad that both John - friend and business partner to Charley
Brown - died young around the same age as Charley did...

Another old-timer that was well-known for his many services rendered the town - and his colorful character - is in the SW section of the cemetery:

William Moorhead

Who Settled in Dakota 1867

Died July 9, 1897

63 yr 10 mo 17 d

One of our area's true pioneers - Land Agent, Indian 

Trader, Trading Post Clerk, Buffalo Hunter, 

Undertaker, Farmer, and Flood Prognosticator... 

Charley's grave is also marked with a G.A.R. star,
signifying him as a Union veteran of the Civil War. 

News from the Past V: Brown & Moorhead

Pembina Pioneer Express masthead
[Courtesy:  Pembina County Historical Society]

Jim Benjaminson recently shared some excerpts from old local papers.  There is a reference to Sheriff Charley Brown in one story, and in another we even find out the likely reason for a well-known local man's nickname...

Northern Express – Drayton (R.H. Young, Editor; Weekly, published on Fridays - $2 per year)
December 9, 1881 Vol. 1 No. 1 is the first issue
(Becomes the Pioneer Express April 20, 1883 at Vol. 3 No. 38)
____________________ 

December 23, 1881 Vol. 1 No. 3 

The train loaded with some $2,000 worth of goods which Ricard Bros. sent out from here the 7th to Turtle Mountains was captured by Indians and half-breeds at or near Pembina mountains. The Indians claim the land as their own, and say that no one has the right to cross it, and therefore appropriated the goods to their own use. Sheriff Brown of Pembina was out there yesterday and found most of the goods, but could not get them as they refused to give them up. They were too many for him, so he returned for help. We understand he has gone out today with a squad of soldiers from Fort Pembina. We will give full particulars tomorrow. – Independent (Emerson, Manitoba) 

February 10, 1882 Vol. 1 No. 10 

Announcement – We announce this week our intention to remove the Northern Express to Pembina, at which place the next issue will be published. (page 1) 

February 24, 1882 Vol. 1 No. 12 

Amongst many drawbacks and inconveniences incidental to the removal of our business and the enlargement of our paper we lay before our readers this week as good a paper as we can under the circumstances.

Townsite Auction Bill

March 24, 1882 Vol. 1 No. 16 

[Indian Title to Dakota Lands – page 1]

The St. Vincent townsite company have sold their interest in that town to a Winnipeg syndicate. St. Vincent has invested $200 in a hook and ladder truck with other fire apparatus. This is a wise move which should be a reminder to this town of its duty in the promises. Of course when Pembina takes hold it will be on a larger scale. 

March 31, 1882 Vol. 1 No. 17 

Quite a number of our citizens went over to St. Vincent on Tuesday evening to attend the auction sale of town lots.

April 21, 1882 Vol 1. No. 20 

The unmistakable double-toned whistle of the steamer Selkirk was heard on Tuesday evening for the first time this season. Passengers from various points on the river improved the opportunity of making a business trip to Town and taking in interesting features of the flood along the way.

The Selkirk has had a lively business the last two days carrying freight across from St. Vincent.
The ice made a new door into the engine room of the St.Vincent elevator last Sunday. At St. Vincent the situation is becoming somewhat unpleasant. Several of the streets are covered with water. Around the Northern Hotel it is nearly a foot deep, but the higher portion of town is dry yet. 

April 28, 1882 Vol. 1 No. 21 

Moorhead has had several bets at stake including a town lot and a suit of clothes, that the water would not rise to the level of his saloon floor. He has won the bets with just a quarter of an inch to spare. 

Now we know how William Moorhead got his nickname, “High Water Bill”...!

Requiem for a Sheriff

There is a mystery surrounding
Sheriff Brown:  No known photo
has ever been found of him...yet

He has become an icon of our local history.  Much of that is thanks to his young cousin, Charles Walker.

Sheriff Charles J. Brown, popularly known as Charley Brown, came from a distinguished family.  He chose the life of a warrior.  First as a Union soldier in the Civil War, later as a soldier posted at Fort Pembina, and finally as Sheriff of Pembina.

He only lived to age 39, but he packed a lot of living into those years.  I, for one, am glad he shared 14 years of them with us.

NOTE:  What you read below, is thanks to new information shared by Jim Benjaminson...

Fern Valley

Catherine Harris (wife), Gladys Harris (daughter), &
 Dr. Charles B. Harris, posing in Fern Valley, circa 1898...
[Source:  Walker Family Collection]

When I was up in Pembina recently, Hetty Walker allowed me to borrow their old family photograph album.  Chuck Walker, Hetty's late husband (and a mentor of mine, regarding local history), had inherited it from his grandfather, Dr. Charles Harris.  I found the photograph above which features Dr. Harris and his young family at the time, enjoying an outing to Fern Valley, a popular spot for walks and picnics in the late 1800's and early 1900's near Pembina.

The old album that the photograph came from...
[Source:  Walker Family Collection]

Chuck, when explaining a reference to it in his book, Sheriff Charley Brown, once shared with me:  Fern Valley was later the Joe O’Hara farm. When I was a kid and before it became private property, it was solid ferns with no weed. (And a beautiful camping spot.) It was on the north side of the Pembina River along the road just two miles west of Pembina. Turn south off Highway 55 and as you approach the Pembina River it’s just to the left and follows the north side of the river to the east. To my knowledge there are no ferns left there. Many people in town transplanted from there to their personal yards.

Sheriff Charley Brown Revisited

Sheriff Brown's obituary
[Click to enlarge]
Source:  Grand Forks Herald Archives

It has been awhile since we talked about Sheriff Charley Brown.  The other day, my Bill was doing some research and came across two newspaper articles that mentioned him.

One of the articles was an obituary that appeared in the Grand Forks Herald.  As you can see, he led a very interesting life.  Sadly, he left this life far too soon.

The other article was about a county meeting wherein individuals were nominated for a ticket, for an upcoming election.

Source:  Grand Forks Herald (Oct 26, 1882)

Line of Fire

Back in the day, just as now, lawmen worked together between Canada and America.  There was less red tape then, although that was there, too.  The excerpt below is about one of the early lawmen of our area, this time on the Canadian side of the 49th parallel.  He has been mentioned in passing before, in the story of Sheriff Charley Brown.  You could say he was Charley's counterpart over the line.

It's fun to learn more of his story, and the context.  We're very lucky to have this recounting - I have read that "virtually no documentation was preserved for the MPP"...

The North-West Mounted Police were not the only officers who made life difficult for bad men in the Canadian West. Even before the Mounties arrived on the prairies, the newly formed province of Manitoba organized a small, but effective, police force. The Manitoba Provincial Police began in 1870 with nineteen men. It was operated out of an old Winnipeg post office that was converted to a police station and courthouse. A log house behind the building was used for a jail. The force was poorly funded, so the officers had to provide their own firearms. They had no standard uniform. Within a few years, the department dwindled to a mere eight men. Some constables were dismissed for inappropriate behavior, such as public drunkenness, others resigned to seek better paying employment! 

In 1874, Richard Power, a twenty-three-year-old who had become an original member of the force at the age of nineteen, was made Head Constable - the equivalent of Chief of Police. The rapid decline in the force's number was only a part of the reason for this young man's promotion to such a position. Even before joining the MPP, he had allegedly served as a scout for the United States Cavalry. He was also a lieutenant in the Winnipeg militia. Power's contemporaries described him as "a fine looking man, magnificently proportioned, every inch a soldier with the courage that nothing could daunt. Power wore a Colt .45 with a nine-inch barrel, and a gunbelt that was always full of cartridges. Local newspapers called Power "a terror to evildoers." In A few short years, Power had shown himself to be a courageous and enthusiastic policeman. Some thought he might have been too enthusiastic. He had once been sharply reprimanded for shooting a Native during an arrest. 

By the time Power took command of the Manitoba Provincial Police, Winnipeg had been incorporated as a city and had its own police department. That left the rest of Manitoba under the eyes of Power and his tiny department. Power strategically placed men in the more populous settlements outside Winnipeg; towns like Selkirk and Kildonan. He kept a few men with him at his headquarters in Winnipeg. Most Manitoba communities had to depend on special constables - civilian volunteers - to keep the peace. If there was any real trouble, Power could send one of his constables out to see to the matter. The policing situation in rural Manitoba was not unlike that of rural Ontario and other points east. 

Manitoba, especially the country along the American border, was woefully under-policed, but the situation was same on the other side of the international line in the Dakota Territory. There was a sheriff in Pembina, just over the border, and another many miles away in Fargo. For those lawmen, just looking after their towns was a full-time job. They didn't have the resources, or manpower, to go chasing after the desperadoes who roamed the plains and hills of the Dakota country. Rustlers, gunmen, and other men on the dodge had only to keep out of the Sheriff's way to avoid arrest. With so much open country, that was not a hard thing to do. Moreover, American lawmen were often unwilling to apprehend fugitives wanted in Canada, unless there was a reward involved.

BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 14

July 4, 1902 Parade down main street in Pembina, ND (courtesy of State Archives of North Dakota collection)

When the steamer Cheyenne arrived at Fort Pembina on July l, Army paymaster Reese and his accompanying guards disembarked. Since the troops had not been paid for three months, they were anxiously awaiting money to celebrate the approaching Fourth of July. Expectations were high, since a gala parade was planned, sponsored by the three border towns of Pembina, Emerson and St. Vincent. The parade of bands and floats was to make an entire circle of the three villages. Lieutenant Reese, assisted by Sergeant Heidelberg, completed paying the men by noon the following day.

That evening, after the retreat formation, many of the troops headed for the saloons and fleshpots of Pembina and Emerson. Only essential personnel were to be left on the post for the coming Independence Day.

Late that evening Privates Eberhard and Close, after imbibing at several of the saloons, decided to visit Rosie's house. The nefarious brothel was located in a double-storied cabin only four blocks west of the Pembina River crossing. When near the house, Close paused to relieve himself. The inebriated Eberhard continued along the trail alone. A stealthy figure carrying a club stepped from behind a bush and dealt Eberhard a smashing blow to the head. The robber then knelt over the unconscious man and began going through his pockets.

Approaching in the semi-darkness, Close saw a large man kneeling over a man on the ground. Confused, but apprehensive, he shouted and broke into a run, charging the thief. Well aware of his approach, the robber drew a long knife from his boot and stood to meet the attack. When Close reached the thief, he felt a sharp blow in his lower abdomen, and then the fiery burning as the knife was ripped upward. He dropped in instant shock and was dead within seconds.

The murderer calmly wiped his knife on Close's uniform and reinserted it into the top of his boot. Retrieving his club, he ruthlessly crushed Eberhard's skull with well- directed blows. Lifting Eberhard to his shoulder, he carried the body to the nearby blacksmith's corral. Returning to the scene, he picked up Close's body and dropped it alongside Eberhard. Entering McCarvel's forge shop by the open rear door, he lit matches until he found a shovel. Returning with a short-handled spade, he slipped between the lower bars of the pole fence. At the far side of the corral he began digging a hole to hide the bodies. The several horses in the enclosure snorted and danced nervously, standing well away as he dug. The digging was comparatively easy; the deep layer of decaying horse manure having kept the ground moist.

Time dictated the necessity of a shallow grave, and it was only minutes before the murderer considered it adequate. After searching the bodies thoroughly, he dragged them beneath the lower fence rail and rolled them into the hole. As he covered over the grave, he carefully packed the earth solidly with his boots. Briefly studying the remaining pile of dirt, he carefully spread it thinly around the interior of the corral, just a few feet inside the fence line. He then scraped manure over the freshly covered grave. Finally satisfied, he wiped the blade of the shovel with his boot, and then returned it to its original location. Returning to the inside of the circular corral, he proceeded to herd the horses silently around and around for several minutes, obliterating all signs of the digging. His headache was now easing as it always did when his brother's orders were fulfilled. Disjointed thoughts came to him. I should have stopped him from doing this, but I like to watch.

His work completed, the murderer began the walk back to St. Vincent. He planned to wash his clothes when he waded the river. If anyone asked, he would tell them he was drunk and fell while crossing the river. It had been a profitable night; neither of the soldiers had spent much of their pay.

Common practice dictated that after the ferry closed down for the night, the men returning to St. Vincent waded the Red River, holding their clothing over their heads. The river was only chest deep that July.

Reveille formation at Fort Pembina the following morning disclosed Privates Eberhard and Close, from Company I, AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave). Their friends exchanged worried queries, for although many had accompanied the two men to town, no one could remember seeing them after midnight. One soldier remembered seeing Close in the Ragged Edge Saloon earlier in the evening. He also remembered Close remarking that he might visit Rosie's establishment.

That afternoon Captain Collins sent Lieutenants Ralston and Kirkpatrick to search for the missing men. Both enlisted men were well thought of and it was considered unlikely that they would desert. Their friends were adamant; Eberhard and Close were not defectors.

Kirkpatrick was optimistic. "They probably went to Emerson and found some girls. More than likely they got drunk and are sleeping it off."

"You may be right, Shawn, but they've never done anything like this before. I know Close was going to enlist for another five years, he told me so. His enlistment will be up this fall. Let's look up Charley Brown and ask his help. He'd be our best bet."

They found the sheriff in front of the Pioneer Hotel, near the steamboat landing. He was in a discussion with Mrs. Fisk, the hotel owner. The woman's final petulant words came to their ears as she turned away from Charley. "I want you to find the thief who is stealing my chickens!"

Charley smiled at the officers as the door closed behind the woman. After Kirby and Shawn dismounted, he explained the situation. "I looked at her damned chicken house and fence. It's plain to me that a skunk is taking an occasional bird. She blames the kids or bums, but there's a hole at the end of the fence where the critter has dug under it. I even showed her the black hairs sticking to the wire and told her to fill the hole with broken glass." He shrugged, "What the hell, the polecat has to live too!"

Noting the sober faces, Charley added, "Must be something mighty important to drag you two into town in this heat." He removed a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

"It is darned hot, isn't it?" Kirby said agreeably. "We're actually in town to look for Eberhard and Close. They both missed muster this morning; it's not like them."

"Well, I've been prowling the town and haven't seen either of them, and I know them well. Matter of fact, I don't remember seeing them last night. The town was pretty wild. It must have been payday; there was a lot of money floating around."

Kirby nodded. "The gang'll be in town again tonight, and all day on the fourth. That is, all those who haven't already blown their pay."

Shawn interjected, "Close was seen at the Ragged Edge Saloon last night, sometime before midnight. He told one of the men he might stop at Rosie's."

The sheriff looked across the street. "C'mon!" He angled across to the north side of the street toward the Ragged Edge. Kirby and Shawn exchanged puzzled glances, then followed, leading their horses.

Stopping momentarily at the hitch rack, the officers tied their mounts, and then the three stepped up to the open door of the saloon. A swamper was sweeping the rough plank floor, chasing a cloud of dust. The foul odor that greeted them was overpowering, compounded by myriads of buzzing, clinging flies.

"Where's Johnson?" Charley was curt.

The swamper eyed him casually and raised a hand limply over his shoulder. "He's asleep, back of the kitchen."

"Get him out here!"

"He ain't going to like to be awoken."

"Just get him out here! Now!"

The man disappeared momentarily. Then a loud belligerent voice was heard.

A squat, fat man appeared; he was barefoot, and was stretching suspenders over bare, hairy shoulders. When he saw the sheriff and the two officers, he seemed unconcerned. "Well?" he grunted.

"We're looking for two soldiers, Eberhard and Close. Were they here last night?"

"Close was in here about 10 o'clock, but he didn't stay long. The place was so packed I didn't notice Eberhard."

"That's all you know of them?"

"Hell, yes! Check Rosie's, or maybe that whorehouse in West Lynne. They might have gone over there and got loaded."

"Thanks, Ole. Sorry we disturbed your nap." Charley winked to Kirby and Shawn. It was obvious that Charley cared little about waking up the saloon owner.

Leading the way out of the bar, he stopped briefly by the horses. "We should split up. Kirby, why don't you and Shawn check the business places? I'll take the saloons and Rosie's house. We can meet at my store in an hour or so to compare notes."

When they met later that afternoon, they found little news to share. All felt frustrated. Finally Charley rounded the end of the bar to draw them three beers. Turning, he said, "If those men don't make reveille tomorrow, let me know. I'll go to Emerson and check with Jack Bell. He's the constable over there and a good friend. I agree that something's wrong; I just hope it isn't serious. With so many railroad workers about, anything could happen; but if they've met with foul play, we should eventually find them. Even bodies tossed in the river rise to the surface after a few days."

The morning of July 4 the two men were again listed as AWOL, and Captain Collins sent Kirby to accompany the sheriff to Emerson. Kirby welcomed the order, for it presented an opportunity to visit Mary. He suggested to Charley, "Mind stopping at McLaren's on the way home from Emerson? We can return on the east side of the river -- might have luck on dinner there."

"Kirby, Kirby." Charley chastened, "Sure we'll stop so you can visit with your future bride." He began to chuckle.

"I wish!" Kirby had a gloomy look on his face. "She's evasive."

"Give her time, man. She's pretty young."

"Seventeen now. Anyway, I'm working on it."

Charley glanced at Kirby and saw the gloomy look slowly turn to one of complacency.

Heading north out of town, they approached Huron City at the International Boundary. In spite of land speculators' wild claims as to the town's grand future, only a few cabins and a small hotel were in existence. Charley knew that the hotel held the reputation of being the local brothel. Crossing the boundary line, they came to the road between West Lynne and Emerson. The hot, humid afternoon seemed to wrap the two men closely.

Not a word was shared until they reached the ferry, when Charley said, "We'd better help pull on the rope. It'll save time." Kirby complied silently, grasping the manila line and working it hand over hand to assist in propelling the heavy barge to the east shore. When he remounted his horse, he could feel the perspiration running down his back and under his arms. He particularly disliked the sticky sensation and the dark stains that formed under his armpits. Still it was far worse when they wore winter uniforms of wool. He hated the itch!

Charley and Kirby found constable Jack Bell at Kenneth McRae's blacksmith shop, a building often used as the town jail. Bell was a big man with a paunch that sagged over his belt; dewlaps were forming on his cheeks. He looked content as he sat in the shade of an elm tree while watching McRae work at his outdoor forge. A dribble of brown juice ran down one cheek as his chaw leaked. Rubbing his wet chin with the back of his hand, he remarked, "Kenny, we've got company."

McRae ceased pounding the weld on the tire rim and turned to face the approaching men.

"Hello, Charley! Hello, Lieutenant! What honor do you bring us today? You after someone?" Bell smiled ingratiatingly.

"Yup," Charley answered as he and Kirby dismounted. "Looking for two of Kirby's men from Company I. Wondered if they came over here a couple of nights ago?"

Bell shook his head slowly. "You've wasted a ride unless you've come to join our parade." He winked to Kirby. "They're forming the band and floats at the school right now, and are to leave for Pembina at eleven o'clock. It’s going to take some time to get everyone across on the ferry though. What's the fort military doing for the occasion?"

"The band and both companies are parading, but I'm not involved in the parade. I understand it's to start in Pembina, then move to St. Vincent, then circle back over here to Emerson."

"Jack, is it true you're getting a new jail? I heard a rumor." Charley was curious.

"Not until next year. The town fathers are planning for a new jail; it's to be of solid oak logs with steel barred windows." Bell looked toward the blacksmith. "Kenny's shed is too easy to break out of, but it's served its purpose from time to time."

"We need a new lock-up in Pembina too. There's talk of building a new brick courthouse and jail soon. We could sure use it."

"Then you haven't seen any soldiers over here?" Kirby was anxious to move on.

"Like I said, Lieutenant. I haven't seen a soldier from the fort for days. 'Course they could have been over to Miss Stone's house on the other side of the river." He winked suggestively, "its good business for me to stay clear of there unless there's trouble. Kind of figured the troopers were all broke." He looked at Kirby shrewdly, "Are the men you're looking for deserters? If so, they're safe over here."

"Sure, I know I can't touch them in Canada, but that's not the problem. They've disappeared and I'm beginning to suspect foul play."

"Well, as long as you're here, how about a snort?" Bell stood up to rub his rump, then sat down again.

Charley was agreeable, but with reservations. "One wouldn't be remiss, but it won't cool us any. Can't stay long, though; have another stop to make." He smiled at Kirby.

McRae disappeared momentarily, returning with a gallon jug. "Have a lick," he said, as he passed it to Kirby. Kirby smiled apologetically as he passed the flask to Charley. "No, thanks, I'm still on duty. Too early for me anyway."

Running a forefinger through the handle, the sheriff questioned Bell. "Anything further on that young Indian girl who was strangled last winter?"

"Nothing. It had to be one of those railroad men though. I questioned them all and got nothing. They all claimed they were drinking and that no one left the shack except to piss." He spit out his chew as he accepted the jug from Charley. "It sure as hell wasn't the breeds at the Crossing that killed her."

Leaving the blacksmith shop, the two men rode to the C.P.R. roadbed east of town. Charley rolled a cigarette while they stopped to watch the bustle of men laying ties for the sidetracks. It seemed the tie crew was barely keeping ahead of the crew laying and anchoring the steel. Following the tie layers a man on horseback pulled forward a four-wheeled, short flat car loaded with rails. Men working from each side of the car seized rails to lay them on the ties. After four rails were in place, the car was rolled forward and the process repeated. Gaugers and bolters then set the rails, and gandy dancers spiked the steel to the ties. When the car was empty of rails, it was tipped from the tracks and another loaded car was pulled forward to take its place. The tipped car was again placed on the tracks and moved to the rear to be reloaded. The work went on with methodical precision, prompting Kirby to say to a bystander, "Looks like they'll have the line done soon."

"Naw." The man shook his head. "The crews north of here are having trouble. The ground is swampy and saturated. Wouldn't be surprised if they have to wait until freeze-up to finish. It's said Jim Hill is sending up an engine and some bridging to help as soon as they get this part of the line hooked up to his."

Drawing rein, they turned south and dismounted at McLaren's. While Charley stood by the horses, Kirby approached the door. He noted the new screen door, not yet painted. A slotted strip of oilcloth had been tacked to the upper edge to discourage the entrance of flies. The inner door stood open.

"Hello there!"

Maggy appeared at the door, hastily buttoning the upper part of her dress. Kirby guessed that she had been nursing the baby.

"Come in, Kirby." Then she saw Charley standing by the horses. "Oh, you've brought a friend. Invite him in." She stepped back as Kirby beckoned to Charley. The screen door made a protesting screech and slap as Kirby entered the house. He noted that Maggy appeared to be alone. "Is Mary around?"

"She's with Jerold and Knute. They are picking saskatoons just east of the railroad grade, the place the town has picked to be the future cemetery. We'll be moving to St. Vincent as soon as our new house is completed.

Charley entered at that moment and Kirby made the introduction. "Charley, I'd like you to meet Mrs. McLaren. You'd better call her Maggy or she'll be angry."

Maggy looked questioningly at Charley. "So you're the sheriff Ian talks about."

"All good, I hope." Charley smiled.

"Well, he seems to set store by you." She began to smile as she turned to the stove. "What will it be, tea or coffee? There are oatmeal cookies, too. Mary made a batch yesterday. It's a wonder there are any left, though; she must have hidden them from the boys. There'll be rhubarb pie, also, if you care to wait. I'm just starting to put dinner on the stove."

Kirby noted that Maggy had a particular grace and beauty even though her hands appeared rough and chapped. Instinctively, he knew that Mary's beauty would hold up as had her mother's.

When they settled for tea, Maggy was voluble, obviously glad to see Kirby. She was impressed by the clean-cut appearance of the sheriff, immediately judging him too old for her daughter. She shook her head in frustration, thinking, I'm getting to be an old, greedy matchmaker. But Kirby is just right, he's the one.

After a few minutes of conversation, it was apparent to both Maggy and Charley that Kirby was becoming restless. He finally turned to his friend. "If you don't mind riding back to Pembina alone, I think I'll look up Mary." He turned to Maggy. "What time is the parade scheduled to reach here this afternoon?"

"Not until three o'clock. Why don't you run along? The sheriff and I can visit a bit longer."

Maggy and Charley exchanged amused glances as Kirby hastily left the house. Their discussion turned to Charley's mission to Emerson and of the missing men.

Kirby crossed the railroad grading and caught a glimpse of Mary's white bonnet bobbing along the edge of the trees. She turned to smile as he approached. Holding her basket toward him, she teased, "You're almost too late to help me pick berries. We've already filled three big pails, and the boys and I are just finishing our baskets."

Kirby slipped from the saddle just as Jerold and Knute appeared from behind some bushes. "Hello, Kirby!" greeted Jerold, "Come over to view the parade with Mary?"

Seeing Jerold standing beside his sister was an eye opener. Kirby had never seen a boy grow as fast and mature so quickly. He would not like to see this boy angered. He knew this brother of Mary's, although young and inexperienced, would be a tough contender someday. What a man he'll be by the time he's twenty-one! His eyes turned to Knute. The boy was smiling, but silent. Knowing Knute's lack of English, Kirby attempted to draw him out. "Lots of berries, Knute?"

The boy answered seriously, "Yah, lots of berries to pick."

Jerold's liking and approval of Kirby was obvious. He volunteered, "Knute and I'll take the pails home. You two can finish filling Mary's basket." He winked at Mary; she responded with a gay smile.

"Tell Mother we'll be home for dinner in a few minutes. We'll have plenty of time to watch the parade this afternoon."

Picking berries was the furthest thing from Kirby's mind when the boys left. Removing the basket from her arm he took both of Mary's hands in his, and then drew her close. She offered no objection, but studied his face with a rapt expression.

"Now, no interruptions. I'm going to say my piece and you're going to listen. I love you and want you to marry me. I know the Army isn't any bed of roses for a woman, but it's the life I've chosen."

A flood of raw emotion overcame Mary as sudden realization came. Her prior fears vanished and she knew she truly loved this man, and only this man. She uttered a sharp cry, "Oh, Kirby," as she threw her arms about his neck, accepting with relish his mouth as it covered hers. It was a hunger she had never anticipated, born of months of emptiness since Robert's betrayal. Their embrace was almost savage and she could feel Kirby's hands roaming over her intimately; then her hands began to do the same to him. A reckless feeling of sheer joy came over her and unbidden sensations seemed to float through her body as his lips closed with hers again and again, soft at first, then hard. She felt her bonnet being slid back and the pins being removed from her hair. As the glossy hair fell loose to spread down over his hand Kirby lifted the folds and buried his face into them. She could feel his intensity matching hers, and her worries about responding to his touch vanished at that instant. As his hand cupped her breast, she felt her limbs seemed to turn to water. Then she realized a sudden embarrassment and pulled away from him to regain control.

Gathering her composure, she teasingly scolded him. "Enough is enough for now. I'll marry you the day I turn eighteen, on March 31, next spring." She hesitated, "Will you wait that long?"

Smiling, he said, "I'll respect your wishes, but you just wait. I'll be there the day you turn eighteen."

She touched his lips with her fingers. "Don't say more now. You'll make me feel guilty."

Although it was not yet noon, the sun burned on her cheeks and she pulled her bonnet back into place. Taking the draw ribbons from her hands, Kirby attempted to tie them under her chin. He dropped them without completing his task, for kissing her suddenly became more important. Again the overwhelming feeling of desire swept over her and she felt almost unable to resist. She knew she was vulnerable; the sensations she was experiencing in his arms were overwhelming. However, she also knew that a successful marriage must be based upon a knowledge of each other, and not just a biological feeling or impressive looks or beauty.

Gently breaking their embrace, she looked into his eyes, knowing she must never let him know how much she suddenly wanted him. Her eyes sparkled as she said softly, "I take it we're formally betrothed now."

His arms tightened around her again. "You bet we are, and don't you forget it! You'll have the ring tomorrow." He sought her mouth again.

Laughingly she pushed him away. "Kirby, we've got to be sensible. It's nearly noon and I've got to get back. At least you can stay for dinner, can't you?" Then with a puzzled look, she asked, "Just what are you doing over here on a workday? I didn't know they gave soldiers the day off." She shook her head. "Oh, what's the matter with me? You've got me so excited and confused. Of course! It's the fourth of July!"

He released her and walked to his horse to gather up the reins. Returning, he said, "It's a long story, too long for now. Sweetheart, do you want to ride, or shall we walk?"

Slipping her arm through his, she pressed tightly against him. "Let's walk. This long skirt isn't made for riding."

As they walked hand in hand, they became aware of the fragrances emerging from the bushes and wild flowers. They watched two blackbirds pursue a crow that had ventured too close to their nest. A soaring hawk provided more enticement to the birds and they took turns harassing it, chasing it nearly a half mile before returning to the thicket. Their only interest was each other and they stopped frequently to grasp, hug and kiss.

Somehow it all seemed strange and new to Mary. She had put Kirby off for a year, feeling no desire. Now, strangely, she found she could hardly keep her hands from him.

Nearing the back door of the house, she asked, "Should we tell them now?"

"Why not?" He dropped the reins of his horse and smiled. "Unless you want to change your mind."

She grasped his upper arms and buried her face in his chest. "Never!"

"Then let's do it!"

Maggy immediately detected the aura of happiness that emanated from the two as they entered. She instinctively knew her fondest wish had been fulfilled.

"We're engaged, Mother!" Mary's arm was around Kirby's waist as they entered the kitchen, her excitement obvious.

Congratulations, Kirby!" Charley stood and reached across the table to take his friend's hand. "I envy your happiness."

Jerold rose to congratulate Kirby as Maggy hugged Mary excitedly. Knute remained sitting at the table, an embarrassed smile on his face. He had hidden his feelings for Mary, and felt a sudden dismay.

Mike stood nonplused, not knowing what to do or say. Finally he caught Kirby's attention. "Are you taking Mary away from us?"

Kirby immediately perceived the boy's concern. "No, Mike. It's more like I'm joining up with you all. I'd never take Mary from her family."

Mike looked relieved. "Then I guess it's all right."

The group smiled at his answer.

In Memoriam: Charles Walker

Son. Husband. Father. World War II Veteran. Bush Pilot. Politician. Author. Local Historian (and descendant of some of the area's earliest pioneers...) An icon of my home town area has passed from us. I received word today from a reader of this blog that a good friend of mine had died. Charles Harris Walker lived a long and fascinating life. I got to know him towards the end of it, and wish I had known him much longer, but cherished the time I did have. We communicated mostly by email, but also in person during visits back home. We shared a passion for local history, one he had had long before I even existed, but I only learned of in recent years. He was there in the background of my life for many years and I didn't realize we shared this love of history. I was younger, and so was he, and we were at different stages of our lives. It's funny how you can be around people, even know them to a limited degree, but not REALLY know them, and then suddenly at some point it's like you finally open your eyes and see them for who they really are...or rather who they were all the time but you were too blind or ignorant to see it before. 

I've been serializing his books - Sheriff Charley Brown, and Bordertowns here on this blog, in fact Bordertowns is still in-progress. Bordertowns has just been published. I shall sorely miss his knowledge, his sense of humor, and just who he was as a person. He was a special man.

BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 11

Although there was only a slight breeze that morning, the previous days storm had cast several large drifts across the road to the fort. Ian’s horse disliked the deep drifts and instinctively began leaping into them, the plunging almost dislodging him. The extreme cold brought tears to his eyes and he could feel the skin on his face tighten. Once again he found himself knotting his scarf tightly around his high collar. He could feel the warmth and strength of his horse under him, causing him to tighten his legs against the animal. Entering the fort gate, he turned toward the headquarters building.

Concerned about leaving his gelding in the wind, he was agreeably surprised to find the entrance side of the building in the lee, sheltered from the now increasing northern gusts. After wrapping the reins around the tie rack, he stopped momentarily to examine the mercury thermometer mounted outside the door. It confirmed his estimate of the extreme cold, for it indicated -36 degrees. He felt a personal satisfaction, for he had guessed it to be nearly -40 degrees below zero.

Opening the heavy door, he found Kirby conversing with an officer seated at a desk. A corporal, evidently the Charge of Quarters, sat by a heavy sheet-iron stove. He cast a brief glance at Ian, then he turned back to his book. The seated lieutenant arose hastily and greeted him with a smile. “So you’re Mary McLaren’s brother. Kirby tells me you witnessed the hangings yesterday. I’m Shawn Kirkpatrick.” He advanced to shake Ian’s hand.

“He’s her brother, that’s for sure.” Kirby was smiling. “He was an unwilling spectator at the action yesterday, so I wanted Captain Collins to hear his version. It’s my mess. I should have left some of my troopers with that bunch.”

Kirkpatrick sympathized, “I’d probably have done just as you. There was no way you could have anticipated the result.”

“I still blame myself,” Kirby said, and then he turned to Ian. “Might as well get it over with.” Beckoning with his finger, he advanced to the captain’s door. Ian followed. A brief knock brought the response, “Come in!”

Captain Collins was gazing out of a partially frosted window as they entered; he was leaning forward almost to the glass, evidently watching something of interest outside. He finally broke away and faced the two men. As Kirby introduced Ian, the captain began to smile.

“I met your parents and your sister at the Christmas Ball. They seem determined to settle in our country.”

“Yes, my father has filed on a homestead in Minnesota across the river from the fort. I couldn’t file; I’ve another year to go. I’m hoping to buy two quarters from the Saint Paul and Pacific Railroad when they put their acreage on the block.”

“I’m told they will begin selling soon, possibly when the road reaches the border. Please take a seat and tell me just what transpired yesterday. I understand you accompanied the men who hung those horse thieves.” He moved to his desk and sat down, indicating to Ian to sit opposite. Kirby was left standing on tenterhooks.

Ian related how he and Pete had met the posse, and then backtracked to show Kirby where they had seen the fugitives. He described the actions of the fort teamsters and the town men. “I don’t want to be the cause of trouble. Back in Ontario a horse thief would face the whipping post or a jail sentence, but not be hung.”

“Yes, but in the past it’s been considered a capital offense, especially in the Southwest. Now, it’s a penitentiary offense if convicted by a court. I’m responsible for bringing law and order to this section of the Dakotas, with the assistance of the sheriff and federal marshals of course. This business of men taking the law into their own hands has to be stopped.” Turning to Kirby, he chided, “At least now you’ve learned not to put too much trust in civilians. Sad, too, for now I’ll have to fire that man, Murphy. He’s only been on the job a few days; still, I’ll not have my officer’s orders disregarded.”

He suddenly arose, facing Kirby, his expression hardening. “Mr! Have Kirkpatrick bring the fort teamsters to my office at eleven o’clock this morning. I want you to see Sheriff Brown at Pembina immediately and give him an account of yesterday. I can do nothing about those town ruffians; I have no authority over them. In fact, I doubt Brown can take any action against them either. There were just too many men involved. However, if any of our teamsters are ever involved in anything as dastardly in the future, I’ll replace them all.” He stepped forward and opened the door of his office, effectively dismissing them.

Kirkpatrick looked up apprehensively as they approached his desk. Kirby shook his head negatively. “Status quo. Guess I’m off the hook. The captain wants you to have the teamsters in his office by eleven this morning. They’ll get a chewing! I’m ordered to go to town and inform the sheriff of the affair.”

“I’ll bet Sheriff Brown has already heard all of the gory details. Exciting news travels fast.” Kirkpatrick seemed positive.

Kirby turned to Ian with a wry smile. “Thanks to you, I’ve gotten off pretty easy. The captain is not always this generous. Want some company on your ride back to town? It’ll just take a few minutes to have my horse brought around.” He motioned to the Charge of Quarters, who reluctantly arose, put on his coat and slipped out the door.

“Sure! I’ve never been to the Brown and Kabernagle store, but I’ve met Charley. He seems a solid sort.”

“Yup, he soldiered for years, finally resigning from the Army two years ago to run for the office of sheriff. He enlisted in the war at the age of sixteen.” Reflectively he added, “It was quite common for youngsters to enlist in those days; there was so much poverty. Then, too, of course, youngsters joined for the excitement.”

The main street of Pembina seemed bleak when they reached the west riverbank. Two teams with bobsleighs were parked just ahead, on the right, and two saddle horses stood at the rack in front of the saloon.

Kirby joked, “Cripes, you could shoot a cannon down Cavalier Street and hardly hit a thing.”

Ian agreed, “It’s mighty cold for a Tuesday – guess everyone is staying where it’s warm.”

Just inside the door two men were playing billiards. Ian recognized one of the men as Turner, the land agent from St. Vincent. His pool opponent was a stranger. Further back, at another table, Brown was casually practicing pool by himself. Ian immediately became aware of the strong odor of tobacco smoke and sour beer in the room.

Seeing Kirby and Ian, Charley laid his cue on the table. Turning to his partner behind the bar, he remarked, “Mighty easy life in the Army these days, John. Looks like Kirby sets his own hours.”

Kirby smiled resignedly at Ian. “He’s just jealous of West-Pointers. He thinks we have it too easy.”

“’Spose you’ve come to tell me all about your exciting chase of yesterday.” Charley sprawled into a worn chair, indicating to the others to take a seat. “So those bastards from town pulled a sandy on you. I’ve heard most of the story. It’s a sorry mess, but not a total loss. It’s saved me a cold trip to Detroit with two prisoners.” A lazy smile appeared on his face.

Kirby spoke up. “Ian and his man were along with the bunch but didn’t participate. He can give you the details.”

“Don’t really need any,” Charley said morosely. “It was those two damn troublemakers, Murphy and Brogan. Hell, I guessed that when I heard the news. Murphy is an unknown. He has been around for months and was just hired at the fort lately, or so I’ve been told. Brogan, on the other hand has a depraved streak in him. He’s a congenital liar and a thief, the type to put the boots to a man when he’s down. Someone will kill him someday and I’ll have to make an arrest.” He laughed aloud and shook his head. “I’d hate to have to do that!”

“Speak of the devil!” Turner exclaimed, as he glanced out the large front window. “Here he comes now -- and with some of his bully boys.” He casually turned back to the table and took up his stance to shoot, pretending to be unaware of the men approaching the door.

A sudden cold draft rolled into the room as the door opened long seconds to admit several men, led by Brogan. It was evident from their loose swagger that all had been carousing elsewhere in the town. The devil-may-care looks on their faces indicated they were trouble.

“Set up whiskey, Kabernagle! I’m buying!” The loud, harsh voice was Brogan’s.

Kabernagle cast a warning glance at Brown as the men bellied up to the bar. Placing a glass in front of each, he began pouring generous measures. The unruly, unbridled remarks made by the men as they picked up their drinks confirmed Ian’s belief that their entry into the bar was planned.

Brogan finally turned his back to the bar and studied Kirby. “What are you doing here, soldier boy? Crying to the sheriff about your failure yesterday?” He smirked. “I see you’ve got that gutless McLaren with you, too.”

Ian tensed at the words and he could see Kirby’s sudden anger. Both Kirby and he jumped to their feet at the challenge.

Charley knew that Kirby, as an Army officer, could not be embroiled in fisticuffs with a civilian. He spoke up sarcastically from his chair, “Brogan, why don’t you take your friends to some other saloon? You know damn well you’re not welcome here.”

Brogan snorted, “It’s a public place and we’ll drink wherever we please.”

“True, But keep your mouth off of my customers or get out!”

“You’re just a civilian in here. If you’ll take off the badge, I’ll show you who’s the best man!”

“That ties it!” Charley glanced toward Ian and Kirby.

He stood slowly, removing his vest; then, unhooking the badge from his shirt pocket, tossed it to Kabernagle.

“John,” he addressed his partner without taking his eyes off Brogan, “See that we’re not disturbed.” Walking around the pool table, he faced Brogan squarely.

Kabernagle leaned down behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. The two large side hammers made ominous clicks as he thumbed them back. He smiled grimly as he said, “You won’t be, Charley!”

Before Brogan could react to the bartender’s surprise move, Charley slapped his face resoundingly, twice, forehand and backhand. They were hard, slamming slaps, making Ian almost wince.

For a short second Brogan stood in shock. Then, with a wild roar of rage, the huge man charged Charley. Ian was amazed to see the sheriff step nimbly aside, and then land a punishing blow to Brogan’s kidneys. The blow had sufficient force to swing his opponent off balance. He spun sideways into the wall, facing toward Ian and Kirby. Recovering his balance, he turned to charge Charley again, his huge arms and ball-like fists swinging wildly. It was then Ian gained an insight into Brown’s boxing ability, as he administered further punishment to Brogan with ease. What blows the sheriff received seemed to roll off his shoulders. Although he was a powerful man, Brogan seemed clumsy and uncoordinated. Seeing his awkwardness, Ian felt that even he might hold his own with Brogan.

Slowly Charley backed his opponent around the billiard table, forcing Turner and his friend who were standing between the window and the pool table, to give ground. Finally Brogan’s back was to the low-cased front window, the sill only knee high. When Brogan felt the sill against the back of his left leg he momentarily glanced down. It was then the sledge hammer blow caught him square on the chin, the driving force throwing him off balance and back through the wide front window. The cross frame supporting the four large glass panes bulged outward, then collapsed, the glass shattering into large shards, most falling outside.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Charley stared out the window at the unconscious Brogan lying in the snow. Two of the horses outside had pulled back on tied reins and were acting up.
The men at the bar stood in shock at Brogan’s total collapse. One man, his leg cocked on the brass rail, had unconsciously tilted his glass of whiskey and the liquid was dribbling onto the floor.

Turner walked questioningly to the glassless opening to observe the unconscious Brogan. Then he turned to the men at the bar. “Begad! You’d better get your friend over to the hotel. He’s bleeding badly. He’ll need some patching up.”

Brogan’s friends silently filed out of the bar to gather around him. With sullen glances toward Brown, who watched from the broken window, they lifted the unconscious man and carried him past the corner, headed north.

Charley turned to Kabernagel, who had already disposed of the shotgun. “Your turn to fix the window, John. I fixed the last one.”

Kabernagle looked at him accusingly. “Like hell you did. You hired Sam to do it and I had to pay half the bill.” He filled a shot glass with whiskey. Reaching out, he offered it to his partner. “Here! You’ve earned it! That’s the quickest I’ve ever seen you put a man away.”

Both Ian and Kirby had remained speechless during the brief altercation. Finally Ian volunteered, “I’ll pay for the window; that show was worth it.”

“No, you won’t!” Kabernagle was smiling. “Charley broke it fair and square. We’ll foot the bill.” He turned to his partner. “Cripes, Charley! Get the tarp from the back room, and don’t forget the hammer and nails. Judas, we’ll freeze before we get that damn hole plugged.”

Ian and Kirby held the tarp over the opening while Charley nailed it into place. Even so, the room had cooled almost to the outside temperature. After the last nail had been driven, Kirby remarked, “You haven’t lot your touch, Charley.” He pondered aloud, “It’s funny that Brogan hasn’t heard about your boxing prowess from the old timers at the fort.” Turning to Ian, he added, “I’ve had men out there tell me that Charley was hell on wheels with his fists. Why, he held the bare knuckles championship of the regiment back when he was a sergeant.”

Charley looked at Kirby soberly. “Flattery won’t get you a free drink in here, Kirby.”

The lieutenant smiled as he reached for his coat. “Can’t drink anyway. I’m still on duty.” He turned to Ian. “I’ve got to get back to the fort; I’m Officer of the Day until midnight.”

Ian approached the bar as Kirby left. Holding out his hand to Kabernagel, he said, “Charley didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Ian McLaren from Emerson —- soon to be from St. Vincent, I hope.”

Kabernagle switched the bar rag to his left hand to shake. He smiled. “Just call me John.” He nodded toward the tarp. “Don’t think this happens every day. Why, it’s been nearly a year since Charley threw the last bum out.”

“Were you really prepared to use that shotgun?” Ian was curious.

“Hell! It hasn’t been loaded for years. Good convincer, though.” Kabernagle winked, “Don’t tell on me.”

Charley grimaced. “He lies a little bit, too. That gun is loaded for bear.” He began racking the pool balls on a table. “Come on, Ian. I’ll play you a game of rotation, we’d better light some lamps though.”

“I’ve watched, but I’ve never played pool. You’ll have to show me how.”

Charley looked at him suspiciously, then he finally shrugged. “Your education is sadly lacking; but nothing’s for free. It’s going to cost you five cents for every game you lose. He pinned on his badge and shrugged into his vest, pausing momentarily to check his watch. “We’ll play until noon. By that time John should have the bar set up for lunch.” Slyly he looked toward his partner. “Hopefully, that is.”

Kabernagel shook his head dourly at the remark.

Late that evening a dejected Eck Murphy walked into the bar of Smith’s Hotel in St. Vincent. The stale, beer-charged atmosphere did nothing to reduce the pain behind his eyes. A loud voice came from the back of the room. “What in hell are you doing over here, Murphy?”

The words snapped him out of his trance and he grinned foolishly as he advanced toward Brogan and his companions.

Wouldn’t you like to know? Why, hell, I’m a man of leisure now.” His attempt at a light bravado failed; it was obvious he was bitter.

“I take it, then, that you’ve been canned,” Brogan questioned.

“That pious son-of-a-bitch Collins fired me —- told me I had no respect for military discipline.”

“Should have slugged him,” Brogan grunted.

“Yah, and spend a month in the fort guardhouse, probably get the hell beat out of me too. I’m not that much of a fool.”

“Well, now that you’ve got time on your hands, you can buy us all a drink. You can still come back to the Crossing and bunk down with us for the remainder of the winter. That is, if you can grubstake yourself and helps out with the booze supply. ‘Course you’ll have to take your usual turn with an axe, getting firewood.” He turned to smile at his cronies seated at the table.

Murphy’s eyes suddenly seized upon Brogan’s face and neck. “Lordy, what happened to you? Your face looks like hell! Where did’ja get all those bandages on your neck and cheek?”

Brogan looked sheepish and evasive. “Fell through a window in Pembina this morning. Had a run-in with the sheriff."

Murphy, although a powerful man, knew of Brogan’s uncontrollable temper. He deemed it prudent not to ask more. Finally, he said reluctantly, “I’ve enough coin to carry me most of the winter. I should be able to get back on with the C.P.R. in the spring.” He looked toward the bartender. “Give us a bottle of your best whisky. Mind now, none of that rotgut you peddle.”

Smith, the hotel owner, gave Murphy a hard look. “All the booze I sell is good booze. Keep it peaceful and you can continue your drinking until you leave.”

Brogan became hostile. “And what if we aren’t peaceful?”

“If it comes to that, someone is going to get hurt, maybe killed.” Smith seemed unperturbed.

Murphy snorted. “There are six of us.”

The bartender’s right hand lifted from behind the bar; he leveled a long-barreled revolver at Murphy. “Yes, and there are six in this Colt. Even if you are lucky enough to kill me, you’ll end up dancing at the end of a rope, same as those breeds you hung.”

The two men sobered when they realized the barman wouldn’t back down. Looking at the faces of other bar patrons around the room they saw nothing but hostility. Brogan finally turned to Murphy, pointing to an empty chair. “Come on; sit down.” Casting a side glance toward the hotel owner, who was still pointing the gun, he said, “Hell, we was only funnin’. We’re not looking for trouble.”

Smith gave him a disgusted look. “Sure, I knew you were joking.” Under his breath, he said, “Like hell!”

Immediately after the bartender brought the bottle to their table, the group began to exchange talk in a furtive manner. Brogan said threateningly, “I’m going to get even with Brown, McLaren and that damned lieutenant from the fort. We’ve got to find out more about them.” He puzzled, “Wonder where McLaren came from?”

One of the men spoke up. “He’s from some farm just east of Orillia, along the railroad line. I heard him and his pa talking about it last fall when we graded that stretch north of Emerson.” He looked at Brogan, “You ought to know, you were our crew foreman.” He laughed. “You rode that young fellow pretty hard.”

Murphy leaned forward, suddenly interested. “So, he’s from the Orillia area, eh? Just east?” He looked thoughtful; memories were coming back of the bridge and the young black-haired girl he had caught there. Then he had been struck from behind by someone. Sudden confusion came; something exists here that I don’t understand. Then he slipped out of his near trance.

He teased Brogan, “You might need help with that young McLaren, he’ll be tough to handle. Not hard to find him, though. You just have to pick the time and place.”

“I’ll get him,” promised Brogan. “That Ralston fellow from the fort, he’ll be hard to corral. He’s always with others, hardly ever alone.”

Another of the men spoke up. “He’s chasing that good-looking, black-haired sister of McLaren’s. You should be able to come up with something on that. How about the sheriff? He’s damned dangerous.”

At the mention of the black-haired girl, the voice began again, flowing through Murphy’s head. Remember! Remember! Then suddenly he did remember, but it was of the girl he saw in front of the saloon last winter, the one he stopped, the one who looked familiar. Shaking his head, he pushed away the pulsing memory and said to Brogan, “Brown checks the downtown streets of Pembina nearly every night around midnight. Lots of opportunity to knock him off then.”

Brogan looked startled. “Hell, I just want to beat the hell out of him, not kill him. I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

“You have to take your chances—never know how it’ll turn out.” Murphy grinned as he exchanged looks with the others sitting at the table. Then, there it was! The pain began to throb behind his eyes again. The torment seemed to be of something missing, a vital link. He rubbed his temples in an effort to assuage the pain.

Brogan spoke up. “Got a headache? Hell, you need another shot, that’s all.”

BORDERTOWNS: Chapter 8

As he approached Joseph Grant's house that Christmas afternoon, Ian puzzled over the blanket-covered bay horse tied by the front gate. Cutting across to the rear of the house, he slipped from the saddle and led his horse into the barn, then returned to the house. Even as he extended his hand to rap at the back door, it suddenly opened. There stood a smiling Susan; she stepped outside, stealthily closing the door behind her. Turning, she flung herself at Ian, encircling his neck tightly. His arms closed around her waist. He swung her off her feet as they kissed.

Finally, lowering her, he reached into his pocket for a small package. "It's for you. Merry Christmas darling!"

Excitedly, she opened one end of the wrapping and a portion of gold chain fell out, followed by a small gold locket. "Oh,My! Ian, it's lovely." Turning it over, she noticed her initials. She looked up affectionately at him and stroked his cheek with her free hand. Then she turned to point toward the door. "Charley Brown is visiting Marguerite. Have you met him?"

"Not yet, but I've heard a lot about him. He's reputed to be quite a man." He noted gooseflesh forming on her arms and reached for the doorknob. "You'll catch a cold in that thin blouse. Let's get inside."

Opening the door, he stepped aside to allow her to enter first. Ian could hear voices from the front room as he removed his coat. Taking him by the hand, Susan led him in to meet the others.

She smiled as she proudly said, "Look who's here. It's Ian."

Pete, Joseph Grant and his wife Annette were sitting by the double front windows. Ian could see the two men had been celebrating, for each held an enameled cup in his hand. A gallon jug stood beside them on the floor. Susan's mother smiled. "Merry Christmas,Ian." Her smile broadened. "These two have a head start. They'll probably be asleep in another hour."

Pete's words came out in a slur. "Happy Christmas!" He grinned foolishly, and then waved to Susan. "Ne tah nish [daughter]. He comes to see you -- not us." He slapped his knees gleefully.

"Not your daughter . . . mine!" Grant looked to Pete angrily.

Pete rolled his head sorrowfully, "No matter."

During the drunken interchange Ian felt Susan's grip on his hand tighten appreciably.

Easing his grasp, Ian stepped toward the man seated opposite Marguerite. Offering his hand, he said, "I'm Ian McLaren, from Emerson."

The lawman stood to grasp Ian's hand. "Charley Brown, from Pembina."

Ian eyed the older man critically and judged him to be about thirty years of age. He had the size to be a sheriff -- about one hundred and ninety pounds, broad shoulders and a good six feet in height. He had a firm, square jaw, dark blue eyes and wisps of sandy, curly hair at his temples. His appearance was that of a placid, gentle man, but Ian had heard of his prowess when it came to breaking up fights with force.

"I've never been in your store. You're in partnership with Kabernagle, aren't you?"

"Yup. The sheriff's job came after I got out of the Army. It's an occasional job, but the pay is fair." He turned to smile at Marguerite. "Why don't the four of us play whist?"

Marguerite smiled at Ian, pretending to pout. "See, Charley is tired of me already. He wants a change."

Ian had intended to spend his time with Susan, but there seemed no alternative. He looked to Susan, who nodded her acceptance of the situation.

"Sure, why not?"

While Susan brought two chairs, Charley stage-whispered to Ian, "I brought the jug of cheer." He turned his head conspiratorially toward the two drinkers, "Gives us a little privacy." Both Susan and Marguerite smiled at his remark, apparently aware of his stratagem.

Drawing for partners, Ian was paired with Marguerite. The cut for the deal fell to him. The last card dealt was a diamond, making diamonds trump. Ian soon found Marguerite not only an excellent whist player, but also witty and knowledgeable.

As dusk approached, Annette brought a lamp to their table, and then went to the kitchen to prepare supper. When the girls arose to help their mother, Charley pulled two cigars from his vest pocket, offering one to Ian. Biting off the end, he questioned, "You're buying furs aren't you?"

"Yes. Thanks to Pete I'm having pretty good luck." As Charley leaned forward to light Ian's cigar, Ian attempted a nonchalant pose, never having smoked a stogy before.

"Watch out for McMurtrie at the customs house," warned Charley. "He knows a lot of furs are being smuggled across the line from Canada." He sat back, eyeing Ian dispassionately. "No skin off my back. It's not my bailiwick, but if he can prove you're buying Canadian furs, he'll make trouble, probably even try to seize them."

Ian took an instant liking to Charley, realizing his advice was sound. From what rumors he'd heard, the sheriff was scrupulously honest.

"I can't tell where the furs come from, I can only guess. I can't speak Cree; Pete does that for me. I expect some of the furs are from across the line, but I don't go out of my way to buy them. And I buy only on the American side of the border.

Changing the subject, he asked, "Have they found out who murdered that girl at Roseau?"

"No, but Constable Bell, of Emerson, suspects the transients living at Roseau Crossing. They all worked for the C.P.R. last year and one of them was a foreman named Brogan. They're all hard cases. Lordy! The sad part is that there are plenty of women out there glad to mix with them for money. But some cruel bastard had to grab a young girl, and then strangle her! Hell!" He shook his head. "The man must be deranged. If the Indians out there find the guilty one, they'll kill him sure. Then there'll be real trouble!"

Ian nodded, "I worked under that crooked-necked Brogan last summer. He's a cruel, sadistic man, always filthy dirty, with a mouth to match. I'll never work under him again. No man should have to take his abuse." He pondered, "I wonder how he got that crooked neck."

Charley nodded grimly, "I know the man too. He's caused me plenty of trouble in Pembina. It beats all why the railroad contractors hire men of his ilk. I'll never understand. Maybe they figure a bully gets more work out of the men. You know, I fought through nearly four years of the late war," He grinned, "even got me captured when I tried to steal some Confederate horses. I learned that you can push men only so far; you've got to lead them to get results."

He went on to tell Ian how he was transferred to Fort Pembina in 1870, quitting the Army in '75. He explained how he and Kabernagle had teamed up to build their store for the sale of liquors, tobacco and luxury food items.

Susan called them to supper, interrupting their conversation. There were only five to eat, since Pete and Joseph had both fallen asleep in their chairs.

While Annette carved the remaining meat from the well-picked carcasses of two geese, Marguerite set the table and Susan made coffee.

Seating himself, Brown studied Ian. It was plain to him that this boy intended to marry Susan. Perhaps not in the spring, but soon. The thought both revolted and shamed him, for although he was involved with Marguerite and felt comfortable with her, he could never marry her. Miscegenation was a horror to him. His boyhood training in West Virginia made a mixed marriage abhorrent, a hell, leading to genocide. He remembered the lecture his father had given him after catching him in a compromising situation with a young slave girl. "Birds do not mix! Animals do not mix! Human beings do not mix!" Those statements had been repeated over and over by his father as he thrashed young Charley with a heavy strap.

Knowing that he was being unfair to Marguerite left him with a feeling of guilt and regret, but somehow he could not cast her aside. Also, she seemed more than agreeable to continue their liaison.

When Annette questioned about the tragedy at Roseau Crossing, Charley explained, "We have to put up with the good and bad in these small towns. Each starts with one or two small shacks, finally building into a settlement. The trouble starts when the toughs show up. Up to now we've had little trouble in Pembina. It's been mostly petty thievery or the theft of a horse. Of course, this coming summer hoards of men will show up to work on the railroad. I expect there will be plenty of fighting and a few broken heads. Why, between the C.P.R. and Jim Hill's railroad, they're expecting nearly 2000 workers to show up.”

"It hardly seems possible," Ian mused. "Where will they find that many men?"

"Heck," said Charley, "they'll come from St. Paul, Minneapolis, Mankato and all over. It's said Hill is to build an engine house and track for 400 boxcars on that clearing just north of town. They plan on driving piling to cross the slough on the north end of the lake, and make a Y track further east to turn the trains around."

When supper was over, Ian volunteered to help Susan with the dishes while Charley and Marguerite moved quietly back to the card table. Annette discretely vanished into another room, leaving the couples alone.

Susan smiled at Ian mischievously as she turned the wick of the kitchen lamp down so that it emitted only a feeble light. Doing the dishes took an abnormally long time; their hands mingled together in the warm dishwater, then upon each other. They were careful to avoid the open doorway to the living room, but on one occasion Susan peeked into the room and grasped Ian's hand, pointing. Charley and Marguerite were tightly embraced across the small table.

It was late when Susan accompanied Ian to the barn for his horse. After tightening the girth on his saddle, he turned to hold her in his arms. She thrust her body firmly to his, burrowing her face into his neck. For long moments they held each other without speaking. Both were experiencing the same feelings of desire.

"I never believed I could love anyone as much as I love you," Ian spoke softly.

"I feel the same." Raising her head, she looked into his eyes. "Why do we have to wait?"

He kissed her gently. "I've got to find security for us. The railroad will be selling land this coming spring and I know the two quarters I want. When I get a house built for us, then it will be time."

She raised herself on her toes and pressed her mouth against his. Her arms tightened around him fiercely and she arched her body tightly against him.

"Golly, Susan. Don't do that! It's all I can do to keep from tearing your clothes off. You nearly drive me wild. We've got to wait."

She was still thrust against him, her abandonment involuntary. Then she murmured, "Let's not wait too long."

Groaning in his frustration, he released her and reached for the bridle of his horse. Leading the animal out of the barn, he stepped into the saddle and gazed down at her. Presently she turned and walked back to the house. It wasn't until he heard the door close that he nudged his horse into motion toward home.

Sheriff Charley Brown: The Final Chapter

Well here we are, dear readers, at the final chapter of our tale. And a great tale it has been, about a real place, a real time, and real people. About our own history, told by a local man - a descendent of the main character. While it has a sad ending, there is joy and healing, too. But that is getting ahead of ourselves. It's better if you read it for yourselves...

After the dinner party on Tuesday evening, hosted by Ian and Susan, Marguerite was exhausted. She had been on the go since early morning. She had approached Susan late that evening about another trip to Pembina on Wednesday afternoon, but Susan had questioned. "Do you think it wise?"

"Look, I'm not in love with Charley any longer, but we have had our feelings. And many of them have not gone away. Perhaps it's fortunate we didn't marry, but you don't evade someone because they are sick. Charley has little time left, I just hope I can ease his mind a bit."

Susan conceded, "Then let's go over shortly after lunch. Most of the fieldwork is done, the men are now plowing and hauling grain. Ian's mother and I should be done feeding the crew and cleaning up by two o'clock. Are you going to take Paula along?"

Marguerite knew Susan had no suspicion of Paula's birth; her mother would never disclose that secret. "Perhaps I should, I'd like John Kabernagle and some of my friends in Pembina to see her. After all, I'm mighty proud of Paula!"

On Wednesday afternoon, after the chores were done, Susan put the light harness on their buggy horse. Paula was allowed to help Marguerite lift the shafts as Susan backed the horse to the two-seater.

Crossing on the ferry took only a short while, and Marguerite enjoyed the few minutes speaking with Trudo, the ferryman. When Susan swung the buggy around in front of Charley and John's saloon, John stepped from the door.

"I see there are three lovely ladies to see my partner today. Hello Susan! I hardly see you anymore."

"It's the harvest, John, I've been tied down feeding the threshers. How are Hannah and the girls?"

"Same as ever, Hannah is teaching, and the girls are looking forward to going away for more schooling." John bent to reach out his hand to Paula. "And who is this beautiful young lady who is chaperoning you two?"

Paula spoke up boldly, "My name is Paula Evans, and I'm two and a half years old!" She reached up to take John's hand.

John smiled, "My-my! Nearly three years already; you are growing up mighty fast."

Marguerite spoke up, "I want to show her off to Charley. Is the way clear, upstairs?"

John laughed, "I believe Doc Harris is up there with Charley, but go ahead anyway."

Entering Charley's rooms they heard voices from the bedroom. Marguerite spoke up forcefully, "Can we enter?"

Charley's raspy voice came, "Come in! Come in!"

As they entered the room the doctor was just folding his stethoscope. Charley spoke weakly, "Charles, this is Marguerite Evans and Susan McLaren. If I were to guess, I suspect this lovely little girl is Marguerite's daughter - they look alike. The ladies are old friends who have come to visit this old wreck. Girls, this is my cousin, Doctor Charles Harris."

After greetings were exchanged Paula looked at the doctor quizzically, "Are you a real doctor? I've never seen a real doctor. What is that thing in your hand?"

"Sit on the edge of this bed and I'll show you." Removing a handkerchief from his pocket he carefully wiped the earplugs. "Now I'll put this on your head and you can hear your heart beat." As he carefully put the plugs to her ears and the device to her chest, the expression on her face changed to wonderment.

She said, "It goes lip-tup, lip-tup."

Removing the stethoscope, the doctor said, "That is what your heart sounds like inside you. You can't hear it, but it's working all the time."

After a further minute or two of conversation the doctor left. Marguerite went into the kitchen to get a second chair. After a few minutes of conversation Susan felt unwanted, she finally stood and said, "I've got to stop at the druggist for mother. I'll see you outside when you're done visiting." Smiling at Charley, she added, "You three have a good visit."

Charley made a fuss over Paula; he was obviously surprised at her vocabulary and grasp of words. He bantered back and forth with her while Marguerite watched anxiously. She remembered only too well Charley's remark on Monday, when he had said; I wish she were my child. She had held her breath for moments after his utterance, afraid now that he might be as intuitive as her Mother. Thank the Lord, he was not.

After a half hour Marguerite mentioned that Susan was undoubtedly waiting for them. Paula seemed reluctant to leave, but finally she and Charley shook hands. The serious expression on their faces caused Marguerite concern.

As they were about to leave, he said to Paula, "Are you coming to see me again?'

Margurite spoke up, "I'll try again on Friday or Saturday, as we’re leaving on Monday. I want to see the Geroux's and some others here in town. I don't know when we'll ever get back to St. Vincent again, probably not for a year or more."

When she mentioned her meeting with Charley to her mother, her mother said nothing, just gazed at her without a word. Eventually another subject came up, and the moment passed. Marguerite had promised herself she would never disclose her secret, but was it fair to Charley? Would it make him any happier? If she did tell him, would he keep her secret?

After a half hour of reminiscing, she decided to visit him again on Friday afternoon.

On Thursday Marguerite and Susan visited on the St. Vincent side of the river. They also took a late afternoon lunch out to the men who were plowing. Ian teased Susan, "I suppose you'll expect us to plow late tonight." He turned to Marguerite, "She's a slave driver, but she keeps me honest."

Marguerite had mentioned to all that she would be going to make a last visit to see Charley on Friday afternoon. Her mother had responded, saying, "I would like to go along with you if you don't mind. I'll take the day off from work at the fort and spend a few moments with Charley, then I'll leave you two to mull things over."

Puzzled over her mother's sudden interest, Marguerite hoped her mother had no plans to interfere. As it turned out, Annette did make her excuses after a short visit, leaving the three deep in conversation. Paula on the edge of his bed was avidly studying Charley’s collection of miniature horses while he explained the detailing. Both Charley and Marguerite carefully sidestepped any mention of intimate moments they had shared, discussing the good times, and associations with friends. Charley confided some of his business interests, intimating his cousin Charles was to wind them up after he was gone.

When they parted, Charley insisted Paula take the two small wooden horses she admired the most. Clutching them to her chest she bent to give him a fleeting hug, then kissed him on the cheek. Marguerite, tears showing, bent over to smooth back his hair. Grasping his shoulders, she kissed him on the lips.

As they stood to leave, he murmured, "Those are the two best kisses I've ever had!”

All Friday night and Saturday Marguerite's conscience bothered her. It wasn't until Sunday, after church service, that she made her decision. She borrowed Ian and Susan's buggy and drove back over to see Charley. He was awake when she walked up to his rooms shortly after the noon hour. "I've come to see you a final time. I want to tell you something, but you've got to promise me to keep it a secret. You must swear to me never to divulge what I tell you."

He spoke jestingly, "I'll promise! I'll carry it to my grave. It must be important for you to see me again."

Marguerite's mind was in turmoil, tears began to show as she sat on the edge of his bed. She bent over to clutch him.

Confused, he asked, "What is it, dearest?"

She blurted out, "Paula is your daughter! After that picnic south of the fort, and that same night in this room, I became pregnant. I didn't know it until after I was in Chicago and was married. I've been at wit's end, whether or not to tell you."

For long seconds he was silent, absorbing it all, then he said, "So that's why she and I took to each other instantly, we're so much alike." He twisted his body to face her fully, "I'm proud of you both, and you are right. This must remain a secret. You have a successful marriage and a career to consider."

"Yes, my life with Paul has been a happy one, and as I told you, I am pregnant again."

He attempted to squeeze her hand. "I'm glad you told me, at least I'll be leaving a bit of me." He lay back weakly, musing, as if to himself, his voice hardly audible, "What a stupid man I was, not marrying this fine girl."

Marguerite could see he was drifting into sleep. When he was obviously asleep, she slipped away.

By Monday noon Marguerite and Paula were on their way to Chicago. That afternoon a large bouquet of wild flowers was delivered to Charley. The printing was crude, printed in large block letters. It simply read, “Paula” ...

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PEMBINA PIONEER EXPRESS, October 18, l884 Obituary Notice - Charles J. Brown. Although for weeks the demise of C.J.Brown was looked for almost hourly, yet the news of his death last Saturday evening cast a gloom over the town and county. Looking back a few short months it seems but yesterday when we saw him in full health and vigor, attending to the duties of his office as Sheriff of Pembina County, but the place which knew him once shall no more. The subject of the sketch was born at Berlinsburg, West Virginia, August 14, l845. His father, Thomas Brown was sheriff of Berkley County, W. Virginia, for twelve years, and his grandfather on his mother's side was Admiral Boarman of the U.S. Navy. In l861 he enlisted as a soldier and served till the end of the war, and although he fought in many bloody battles, was captured and imprisoned, he escaped without a wound. At the close of the war he engaged in mercantile pursuits in his native state, but only for a year, when he again enlisted as soldier at Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His regiment was transferred to Fort Pembina in the year l870. In l875 he left the Army and his subsequent life in Pembina County is too well known to require further detail. The funeral last Monday was very largely attended, people assembling from all parts of the county to show their respect for the deceased. The body was interred with Masonic honors, and a company of soldiers from Fort Pembina also joined the procession. Of Chas J. Brown it may be said, he had many friends and few enemies. In his official capacity he never showed a disposition to render any harsher the decrees of the law which it was his duty to execute. With pronounced criminals he was decided and prompt in his treatment, but an element of misfortune always awakened his sympathy and consideration.

Card of thanks: I desire to thank the many kind friends who assisted me in my hour of trouble, the Masonic fraternity, the military and others, who so kindly performed the last sad rites in honor of my deceased son. Mrs. E. R. Brown.

POSTSCRIPT

During my high school years I was raised by my Grandfather, Doctor Charles Boarman Harris, and my Grandmother, Katherine. They were very secretive about Charley's daughter, due to their strict, moral standards. However, I did discover that Charley, just prior to his passing, had charged my Grandfather with the final disposition of his assets, the proceeds to be sent to the young girl for her education and use. That was many years ago. At the time of my teens, she would have been nearly 48 years of age.

Although my grandparents had lost track of her over the years, they often spoke kindly of both she and her Mother. I often heard them express concern over her life, and possible children she may have had.

Charles H. Walker, author of Sheriff Charley Brown