The horse did not belong to Pender. Ott would have recognized Pender’s lopsided gelding, and this was not it. The animal’s enormous teeth gnawed at the wood contentedly. It bore a leather Vaquero saddle and a blanket with Indian markings. It was a chestnut quarter horse. Ott scoped the lengths of his surroundings. There was no sign of the Métis, but at Ott’s moccasined feet there was a clear tread leading into the dark fields.
He began.
Years before, when the Métis had arrived on his parcel, Granpappy delivered iron wrought hinges and hooks to assist with his outbuilding. The Métis, on occasion, rode to Granpappy’s spread to share venison he had taken on hunts. Flint pieces, foundations stones, horsepower—the neighbours offered each other what was of use, collaborating to forge a living on the harsh land. Ott had done little talking on those occasions. He was young, and conversation always came so easily to Granpappy. Often, it seemed, the discourse between the two homesteaders was too sophisticated for Ott’s understanding.
He spotted the neighbour in a thoroughly plowed acre. The smell of the soil was pleasing. Long, pliant earthworms squirmed their way into hiding. Moist pebbles were exposed to the light. The Métis was intent on his task. When he saw Ott’s approach, he tugged the reins and craned to gauge the remaining sun. The grunting of Granpappy’s grandson grew louder.
Ott touched heads with the mule. Eyes shut tight, he caressed its neck. The mastiff too was there. It bandied about from Ott to the Indian to the hind legs of the mule, hardy and frolicsome. The Métis had been feeding it well.
“Hey, partner,” Ott spoke into Sir Lucien’s ear, his voice breaking. “Ye ol’ three-legged camel humper, you.”
The mule leaned in on its master. Its tail swung as Ott stroked its mane.
* * *
The Métis was reluctant to accept payment, but Ott’s gratitude was effusive. He pressed a quantity of the medallions into the Indian’s palm and folded his fingers over them.
“Part o’ that there is owin’ to yer missus. Fetch her a nice fat hog or a billy goat, if you can git one fer that. She done a right dandy job on these moccasins. My weary heels never knowed such comfort.”
There, at the barn door, he performed a rhythmless waltz to show off the footwear. He’d forgotten for the moment that he had an injured leg. Ott’s glee was a sight for the Métis to behold. The industrious man parted his lips and closed them as a way of saying his thank you for the coins. Ott crouched to embrace the dog and scratch it behind the ears.
“I never did think I would see them mismatched eyeballs agin. No, I didn’t. That’s a fact.”
The mastiff licked its owner. It reached up with its paws and slid them off Ott’s triangular shoulders. It did not occur to Ott then or thereafter how it must have been the Métis who had hung the saddlebags inside the small barn—that the goodly neighbour had already had knowledge of the fortune sitting vulnerable on a vacant homestead and had not touched a single medallion. The Métis had chosen to believe in the white man. To believe in the success of his mission. His only surprise, upon seeing the bumbling grandson’s return, was how little damaged he appeared to be from his journey alone out on the plains.
The anxious Métis quietly interrupted the merrymaking. There was work to be done.
“Have started on new wagon. Not ready now. It must need wait for seeding to be done.”
Ott stood. A replacement wagon. His appreciation was great, and he struggled to express it. The Métis sidestepped: the time for embraces and handshakes had passed. Plus, the grandson’s odour was worse than that of a muskrat carcass. Tomorrow, the Métis would bring a cake of soap and leave it in the white man’s cabin.
“Chimney must wait also, but wise to build before summer heat goes to south country.”
Ott saw the poor condition of the chimney. He flashed on the bitter winter winds he couldn’t stave off for Pappy. He flashed on weak, hacking lungs. The prospect of a sturdy chimney pleased him.
The Métis led Sir Lucien again into the field, determined to prepare the soil. The mastiff followed naturally, for it had formed a firm bond with its second owner. Ott skipped and hopped to get alongside the group. He asked if the Métis had noticed the mule’s tiptop hooves and explained how that was his doing. Fondly, he spoke of the man’s wife, reiterating her handiwork with the stockings and moccasins. He asked what seed they would be planting, what chores would be required in the weeks ahead. Had there been rain during his hard pilgrimage? Did the Métis advise him to raise his own poultry? What, precisely, did the raising of hens entail for a man? Were chickens ornery creatures to have about?
Sir Lucien pulled the plow through new land, tearing up grass roots and stones. The task was not burdensome for the animal. Ott hefted the larger rocks clear of the path. He sawed and hacked at roots and stumps, as he was told.
“I bin thinkin’. I’m agoin’ to git me a spankin’ new hat. One o’ them smart-lookin’ bowler hats. I was ever fond o’ them. Say, does yer missus craft any variety of hat? I’d like me to see what style she could fashion if she were to put ‘er mind to it. I’ll be needin’ a seat fer the wagon. Somes got them what’s called a cushioned seat so’s to save aggravation on their heinies. I believe I’d like to have me a cushioned seat. Soft ‘n fine. I do indeed…”
They came on a grand specimen of elk antler. A loopy ten-pointer. More loaves of rock, which the Métis recommended for use on the chimney’s base. Ott’s moccasins filled with dirt. He noticed that his friend wore boots of tanned hide, fastened snugly to his mitasses. The prairie air began to cool. Ott was glad of it. He was powerful hungry, and the thought of a crackling fire was inviting.
“Say,” said the wagoner, amicably, “I plumb fergot me yer name. I been tryin’ to recollect what it was Granpappy used to call ye, but I swear I’d ferget m’own fingers if they wasn’t attached. What is it they calls ye anyhow?”
And the good neighbour replied.
The End
Fountaineville