• Chapter 25 •

A funeral like Cameron’s can be unsettling for the likes of the men from coffee row, but a display of mounted stags can go a long way to restore their confidence. The horned heads are lined up along the foot of the stage. As an added attraction, Geoffrey McFadden from the Canadian Shooting Sports Association stands at a podium to speak on behalf of the movement to revoke the Gun Registration Bill.

“Stick to your guns,” he says. “Who was it in the first place wanted to stick it to us with this bill? Bleeding-heart liberals, that’s who. Animal-rights activists hollering ‘murder’ if you as much as shoot a gopher.” He wears a ball cap with his shooting-club logo, blue jeans, boots and an NRA T-shirt that he must have picked up somewhere in the States.

“I am one of the top ten rapid shooters in the country,” he says. “I’ve fired over forty thousand rounds of ammunition grooming for international competition. Paid $6,000 for a firearm modified to shoot twenty-six rounds, and now I can’t use it. All because of fem-type politicians in Ottawa looking for votes in Toronto and Montreal. All I say is, ‘stick to your guns,’ and don’t register them. They’re not enforcing it. Talk to your MLA. Email Harper to scrap the bill. He’s on our side.”

Out on the steps at the hall entry, Jane Smythe-Crothers is interviewing John Popoff. “He talking about pistols?” she asks.

“But not six-guns,” Johnny says. “He’s talking about a twenty-six shot revolver. I’ve never seen one of those.”

“But they don’t shoot deer with pistols, do they?”

“No, no. Of course not. The big issue here is the long-gun registration. Rifles.”

“You shoot deer with rifles. Right? In my travels out here I’ve noticed a lot of deer in the countryside, to the point where it can be dangerous to drive, especially just before dark.”

“A lot of deer,” Johnny says.

“Are they on the increase?”

“We’ve been having mild winters, and continuous cropping provides lots of stubble for grazing. Besides, there are fewer and fewer people out on the farms. Conditions like that, the does are having twins every year, some years triplets.”

“Do you hunt?”

“Usually get one every year. I like the meat. A lot healthier than the meat from factory feedlots that pump the animals full of growth hormones and antibiotics. That’s why I raise my own pork, beef and chicken.”

“I take it you’re not a vegetarian.”

“I could cut down on red meat, but don’t quote me. That’s not a popular thing to say in cattle country.”

“The event here this evening with all these antlers, and what are they called? Trophies? Is that what you do? Hunt for trophies?”

“I wouldn’t pass one up if I saw something really big, but I hunt for the meat, not the horns.”

“Thank you, NDP candidate John Popoff,” Jane says. “I’ll let you get back to your campaigning.”

As soon as the speech to scap the gun bill is over, everyone mills about sampling venison jerky, sipping beer and trading hunting stories. Many wear camouflage: the boots, caps, quilted pants and fringed jackets make them look like trees. Others wear the style of cap that’s so common to the country that to be without one could be perceived as eccentric. There’s not a farmer who doesn’t have a box full of caps in his porch closet: Western Sales, Dusyk Enterprizes, Silverthorn Seeds, Cargill….

Both Mac and Lee follow Garth along the foot of the stage. Mac would have thought the boy too proud to drag his dad and grandfather out to show them his trophy. It’s not that they haven’t seen it before. In fact it was Mac who went along with Garth when he took the head to the taxidermist in Bad Hills. And it’s the first thing you see when you walk into the porch out at the farm. But maybe it’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things that, pride or no pride, you can’t help wanting to share it with the whole world.

“Here’s mine,” Garth says. He reads off the tag attached to the antlers. “187 Typical! I’m going to enter it in Boone and Crockett.”

“Almost as big as the one hanging in my basement,” Mac says.

“Bigger,” Garth says.

“I think your grandson might have something,” Eddy Huff says. “It just might make Boone and Crockett.”

Both candidates made sure to come to the banquet. They steered clear of election issues and simply praised the conservation work done by the Wildlife Federation. Both said they’d bought their licences, and were taking the day off from campaigning for the opening day of hunting season next Monday.

Eddy grips one of the antlers of Garth’s trophy. “Just look at that,” he says. “How thick. I can hardly close my fist.”

“Five and three-quarter inches around,” Garth says. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

“Boone and Crockett for sure,” Garth’s father says. “Here, I’ve got a tape measure.”

“Eight and a half,” Lee says for the length of the tine. He extends his tape across the space between the tops of the antlers. “Two feet, seven inches.”

Jane Smythe-Crothers approaches with her microphone. “Have you got a minute, Mr. Huff?”

“Sure,” Eddy says.

“I’d like to get your opinion on tourism in Saskatchewan as it relates to hunting. Mac Chorniak tells me that most of the goose hunters who come here every fall are Americans. This benefits farmers who might have crops lying out in the field, and it benefits local business, which welcomes American dollars. On the other hand, Americans aren’t allowed to hunt deer below the treeline. Only in the north can they go after big game, and only with an outfitter. Here’s my question: What is the Sask Party’s position on changing legislation to allow Americans to hunt deer on farmland?”

“You don’t have it entirely right,” Eddy says. “Currently, Americans do hunt below the treeline, but only on Indian land, and only if they hire a First Nations outfitter. Who knows what they are paid. Eight thousand? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?”

“And your position?”

“Personally?”

“Okay, if you don’t want to commit the party.”

“We don’t as yet have an official position, but personally I’d say there are too many deer, and the farmers could use the extra eight thousand, ten thousand.”

Glen, Angela and their mother pull into the Holt farm driveway that leads up to the abandoned yard.

“I haven’t tasted moose meat in years,” Roseanna says.

“Last year,” Glen says. “You don’t remember the one I shot at Meadow Lake?”

“A long time ago, anyway,” Roseanna says.

“This will be a lot easier than Meadow Lake,” Glen says. “The moose aren’t hunted down here.”

“Easy for me, eh?” says Roseanna.

“You want to shoot it, Mother?” Angela asks.

“When will I ever get another chance to shoot a moose?”

“By the time we got you out of the car, the moose would have run away,” Glen says.

“I don’t have to get out of the car,” Roseanna says. “I can shoot out the window.”

“There they are,” Glen says. Three moose are up in the yard, nibbling on the lilac bushes. They are upwind from the car, so they can’t smell or hear.

“We’re in luck,” Glen says. “Moose don’t see too good. In the bush it makes no sense for them to rely on their eyes. But see their big ears and noses?” He turns off the car engine.

“You sure, Mother? You want to shoot?” he asks.

“Yes!”

Glen leans over the seat and loads the rifle, then props it out Roseanna’s open window. “Shoot the calf if you want the best meat. Bring the scope closer, until you can see the calf’s shoulder in the crosshairs.”

“You think I haven’t shot with a rifle before?”

“Gophers, maybe. Open your window, Angela. This could be hard on the eardrums.”

“Boom!” The calf steps once, stumbles and collapses on the ground.

“Hey, you got it, Mother,” Glen says.

“Ahh, I got it!”

“Someone is watching us,” Angela says.

A car is parked at the lane entry. It backs up to turn, and then it drives away.

“Whoever it was didn’t stick around to ask questions,” Glen says. “We’d better be quick with the butchering. We’ve got to get out of here before they send a posse.”

Angela and Glen set to work, and Roseanna watches from her open window.

“I’ll cut, you pack,” Glen says to Angela. “The plastic bags are on the seat beside you, Mother. Toss them here.”

Glen rolls the moose onto its back, then twists its head to the side, bracing it against the animal’s shoulder. Angela holds the back legs apart. Glen cuts the hide open from neck to pelvis. He skins with the tip of his knife and lays the hide flesh side up, spread out on the ground. Soon the calf is a carcass, lying bare on its own skinned hide. Glen cuts off chunks of flesh, and Angela stuffs the meat into the plastic bags.

Night sets in, and they use the car lights in order to see what they are doing. Glen draws out the entrails, giving the heart, liver and kidneys to Angela. Roseanna calls from her window:

“Save the bible!”

“You’ll clean it?”

“Angela will clean it. We can’t throw away traditional food.”

Glen punctures the paunch, its foul air escaping as he fishes out the moose’s third stomach. It has layers and layers of membranes, like the pages of a book. The English call the third stomach tripe, but Indian people have called it the bible ever since the days of the missionaries.

“How would I know how to clean it?” Angela says.

“Take it to the laundromat,” Roseanna says.

“What?”

“I did with Glen’s Meadow Lake moose. Swish, swish, swish, and it comes so clean.”

“Duncan doesn’t have a laundromat.”

“Then use the bathtub.”

A long row of headlights fills the driveway, all the way from the road to the lights coming into the yard. Not only headlights, but lights flashing blue and red. Car and truck doors slam.

Garth runs to Angela. “Who shot it?” he says.

“Mother did. Can you believe it?”

Lee steps forward. “Out of the way, Garth. This is a matter for the police.”

“No,” Garth says. “Angela didn’t do anything. Grandpa, tell Dad that Angela didn’t do anything.”

“I said, out of the way! Stay out of this! And it’s none of Grandpa’s business either.”

“Better listen to him,” Angela says. “Glen will handle this.”

“Better listen to your father,” the policeman says. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Glen says. “Our rights.”

“That’s enough out of you,” the policeman says. “Hold out your arms.”

“Handcuffs?” Garth says. “You’re not going to…?”

“Can’t we explain?” Angela asks.

“We won’t have to handcuff you,” the policeman says. “Only your husband.”

“He’s my brother,” Angela says.

“Hold the pose,” Jane Smythe-Crothers says as the policeman clasps the handcuffs on Glen’s wrists.

“It’s our right to hunt,” Glen says.

Pete yells from outside the circle of blinding half-ton headlights. “Your right to hunt with a spotlight at midnight, like your kind does?”

“You treaty Indian?” the policeman asks. “Or Métis?”

“We have an issue,” Jane Smythe-Crothers says. “One week before the election. In an abandoned Saskatchewan farmyard, First Nations hunters are apprehended for shooting a moose without a licence, at night, in an area of the province where moose are not normally hunted. We’re fortunate to have on hand NDP candidate for the riding of Bad Hills, John Popoff, and Saskatchewan Party candidate, Eddy Huff. Your opinion, Mr. Popoff.”

“Treaty rights!” Roseanna shouts.

Mac stands in close, not wanting to miss what the politicians are going to say.

“I’ve seen a lot worse than this done to the natural environment,” Johnny says.

“Should the hunters be charged?”

“I’m not at all clear about First Nations hunting rights off-reserve, and stuff like that, but my personal feelings are that they should not be charged.”

“Mr. Huff?”

“On the one hand, I agree with John, but….”

“You think they should be charged?”

“Rural folks respect nature, and they respect the laws of the land, even if they might not agree with all of them. They expect that the same laws should apply to everybody. These people have just now rushed out here from the Wildlife Federation banquet in Duncan. The Wildlife Federation is very particular when it comes to hunting regulations.”

“But should these hunters be charged?”

“As the bible says, Render unto Caesar…. But,” he pauses to look down at the handcuffs on Glen’s wrists. “I know this man. We should get his side of the story before jumping to conclusions.”

“I shot the moose,” Roseanna yells from the car. “Put the cuffs on me, not Glen!”

“I don’t know what to think,” Abner says to Mac. You get attached to them moose. Jen and I were just saying about the old place how it offered protection for the animals, our place. The place of our productive years. Then to see a car parked up the lane with a rifle out the window. I don’t know, Mac.”

“Grandpa,” Garth pleads, “can’t you do something?”

“This is all wrong!” Mac shouts as he steps forward, surprising himself as much as anybody else. “Do you know who owns this land?” He speaks to the policeman and out to the crowd. “This yard?” He jabs Abner on the shoulder. “Tell them, Abner. Go ahead. Tell them! You sold this land!”

Abner stares at Mac, raising his hand without a trace of a shake. He points a finger, but then his eyelids flinch, and his hand drops as he turns his head away.

“Dad,” Lee says in a hushed voice. “This is none of your business.”

“As much mine as yours,” Mac says.

Pete’s voice calls out a second time. “Who’s side are you on anyway, Mac? Your grandson’s bad enough.”

“Mind your own business, all of you!” Mac says as he strikes out, hitting Lee on the shoulder. Lee grabs his arm, pulling Mac forward to stumble and fall, face-down, in the muck of the moose calf’s guts. Everyone steps back as Mac slithers in the shit, attempting to get back on his feet. He raises his head to address the policeman.

“We’re on Indian land,” he says as he struggles to rise up on his knees. Angela reaches down to clutch Mac by the arm.

“Here,” Roseanna says, as she takes her flannel blanket from her knees and hands it out the window. “Wipe him with this.”

Angela passes the blanket to Mac. Still on his knees, he wipes his face and hands and the smears on his jacket front. Garth helps him to his feet.

“Maybe all you people should head back to town,” the policeman says as he unlocks the handcuffs on Glen’s wrists. “Indian land,” he tells Glen. “Maybe you should have told me.”