FOURTEEN

Mostly, you just felt powerless.

Despite job offers from other ranchers, as well as from Fred Stimson at the Bar U, John stayed on at the Quorn. He now had more than two dozen of his own cattle, growing fat with the Bar U herds, which would be the genesis of his own ranch one day, but he did not want to leave what he considered to be the best job in the world. Besides, the horses were like family to him.

As the winter of 1886 approached, there were more than a hundred thousand head of cattle on the ranges south of Calgary. The summer had been hot and dry, with less rain as usual, and grass wasn’t plentiful. Some of the ranges were suffering from overgrazing, and many ranchers were unable to stock up on feed for the winter. Any hay for sale was going for the outrageous sum of twenty dollars a load. Winter came on, relentless as a tsunami, and shut the door on any chance of a chinook arriving to warm things up. The price of hay rose precipitously to thirty dollars a wagonload. By the time spring rolled around, many thousands of cattle had died, as well as hundreds of deer, antelope, and rabbits, and the animals that survived were starving. The coyotes, wolves, and Indians had a bountiful season, the frozen prairie a larder full of meat for them.

The Quorn’s losses were staggering, particularly among its calves, and John lost more than half of his cattle. Most of the ranchers were beginning to have second thoughts about maintaining large herds and were considering diversifying. A man could also make money with horses, which handled the winters much better, as they had the sense to paw down through the snow to find food. Cattle, on the other hand, would stand there and starve to death.

To compound matters, more and more settlers were moving into the area and fencing off good rangeland for their own use. Ranchers were having to drive their cattle around these properties during roundup and were not happy about it. And it didn’t help that thousands of sheep had been brought into the area as well, occupying good cattle-grazing land. The air in the district crackled with tension.

Despite the catastrophic winter and tumultuous changes, John was still determined to have a cattle ranch, but now he reasoned that he should supplement it with horses. He also knew that there was not enough grass for hay on his homestead and that he would have to find another place, possibly farther up the Sheep River.

The good news was that he had done his job uniting the thoroughbred stallions with the mares, and in the spring of 1887, the Quorn was fat with foals. Ironically, it sold many of its horses to settlers, the very people encroaching on its grazing land. Barter brought in a hundred good-quality mares from Ireland and a few English thoroughbred stallions to breed them, and the work kept John busy.

That summer Barter asked John if he would help the Bar U out by taking a few hundred of their four-year-old cattle to Calgary for shipment. Barter had several dry cows that he wanted to include, and he and Fred Stimson felt John was the best man to take charge of the drive. John was not keen to return to the town that had pulled its welcome mat out from under him twice, but there was a nice bonus in it for him, which meant an opportunity to increase his stock. Besides, his father had said that a man might try something twice and fail, but the third time was always lucky.

He held the drive to a leisurely pace so that the cattle could eat and not lose weight; even so, the time passed faster than he would have liked because he was not looking forward to the destination. But Stimson had given him a fine crew of five likable young men with good cattle sense and no fear of hard work, and he was pleased with how smoothly the drive went. They arrived on the outskirts of Calgary around noon on the fourth day and set up camp. The next day, they got half of the herd on the train and penned the other half for shipment the following day. Once the work was complete, John asked the crew, “What’ll it be, boys, food first or beer?”

Jimmy Vernam, a tough, sinewy youth who had ridden on point with John, spoke for the group. “Food’s plenty enough at the ranch. Beer isn’t.”

They liveried their horses, and the town lay before the young cowboys like a beckoning oasis. For John, it was akin to entering a corral with an unknown bronco. He did not know how it would react, but he was determined to ride it anyway.

Downtown Calgary had changed since his last visit, as several sandstone buildings now stood in places once occupied by wooden structures. These included the Royal Hotel, which had a bar and was the first one they came to.

“This seems as good a place as any to wash out the trail dust,” John said, and they went in.

He bought the first two rounds; it was the least he could do for their good work since they were not getting the extra pay that he was. Then he told them, “You’re spending your own money now, boys. This well’s run dry.”

He did not bother trying to keep up with them. He was at least twenty years their senior and knew well how too much beer can make a man feel in the morning when there was still work to do. What’s more, like most young men, they talked about and among themselves, and did not include John much in the conversation. He refused to think it had anything to do with his colour, more the difference in their ages. It was fine by him, as he found much of what they were saying nonsensical chatter anyway. He sipped his beer and drifted off into pleasant daydreams of his own cattle ranch, a lovely wife, and several beautiful, energetic children running around the place.

Loud voices interrupted his reverie. At first, he thought they came from his imagined sons, but it was only his crew getting noisy from too many drinks and trying to talk over the general din of the bar. He sensed trouble and suggested that they take a break to eat, and since the Bar U was paying for it, there was a chorus of agreement. The boys downed their beers and went off unsteadily to the piss troughs in a backroom. John waited at the table and when he saw them coming out, joined them at the main door. Sitting nearby, a drunk with an American Southern accent said in a loud, abrasive voice, “Next time you boys oughta leave your nigger servant at home! He don’t belong here!”

Jimmy Vernam sneered. “He isn’t our servant, mac. He’s our boss.”

“The boss of what? Didn’t know we had a Nigger Town here.”

“You mean-mouthed son of a bitch!” Jimmy was about to go for the man when John grabbed him by the arm.

“Whoa, Jimmy, we don’t need none of that. Let’s go.”

John’s ire was up too, but he kept it out of his voice, knowing that trouble here would only lead to more trouble later. He motioned with his head for the rest of the crew to follow and steered Jimmy out the door before a melee erupted. He heard the drunk call, “Go back where you come from, nigger boy!”

“Jesus, John,” Jimmy said on the street. “You don’t have to take that shit. You shoulda let me at him. I’d’ve taught the bastard a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.”

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

“Goddamned Yankee,” burped Jimmy. “He’s the one who oughta go back where he came from!”

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

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

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

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

“Nobody’s going anywhere, except with us. You’re drunk and disorderly and disturbing the peace. Now let’s move!”

“I ain’t drunk,” John said, indignant now. “And I wasn’t singin’. I don’t even know the words to the damn song!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“South Carolina.”

“You were a slave, I take it.”

John nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You escaped on the underground railway?”

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

“What brought you to this part of the world?”

John shrugged. “Mostly luck, I reckon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir. I like the real ornery ones best.”

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

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

Pritchard reached across the desk with his hand outstretched.

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

•

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

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

“Don’t be shy. You look like a man who can eat more than most.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John shrugged noncommittally. “I reckon time’s got to tell that story.”

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

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