‘I’ve done everything I ever wanted in life,’ thought Earnest, as he tended his beloved rose garden. At 83 he was remarkably fit, considering his significant waistline and all the cigar and pipe smoking he’d enjoyed over the years. The garden had always been a place of peace and contentment where he could lose himself, gardening was like a second religion to Earnest.
He’d had three wives, four children and ten grandchildren; there was nothing more he wanted to do, except meet his chums for the occasional round of golf, attend church on Sundays and minister to his garden.
It was mid-summer and Earnest was on parade inspecting the troops, his regiment of roses standing smartly in line, guarding the immaculate lawn in their brightly coloured uniforms. One poor conscript in the ranks was letting the side down and as Earnest marched into the garage, arming himself with secateurs to rectify the matter, something caught his eye. There, crouching in the corner, was the rusty old Winchester. He’d not thought about it for years but now he wanted to hold it again. They say the Winchester was the rifle that won the west. He’d bought the weapon in the wilds of Canada, back in the early 1900’s.
The Winchester triggered memories of those wild days on the range. As he cradled the rifle in his arms it all came flooding back.
Not one to dwell on things, Earnest never fully grieved. His instinct was to move on and not look back but now, rifle in hand, it all welled up like the rising tide and the loss threatened to overwhelm him. Unexpectedly, he was exhausted. Like the Winchester, he felt very old and neglected and wondered how much time he had left.
Having outlived his wives he now longed to be with them again, though wondered how they’d all get on in that heavenly garden that awaited him.
*
The year was 1908, I was preoccupied with resentment towards my father who’d sent me out to Southern Alberta to help manage my uncle Wilbur’s ranch. Wilbur was a tough old bird who’d survived many accidents but one morning his horse tripped in a hole, launching him into a stampeding tide of steers, to be flattened by countless murdering hooves.
I was nineteen and should have stood up to my father and said no but he was also a hard man, hard to refuse. I told myself it was short term, I’d find someone to take over and return home soon enough.
My mind drifted as I trailed Crowsnest Pass from Calgary to Pincher Creek. The wind moaned like a coyote, whipping up spirals of dust that rose like smoke from ghostly campfires. It stuck to my sweat stained face and left an earthy taste whenever I licked my parched lips. The reins cut into my hands as I bounced along, loose as a sack of bones. I’d bought the old hack for ten dollars from the livery stable. The first thing I noticed about him was the musky, fetid odour; but I’d missed the weekly stagecoach so my only option was to travel on horseback. My reluctant steed tossed his head in annoyance, no doubt aware his new owner wasn’t up to the job.
After five hours in the saddle I fell into a dreamlike state as if I was acting in a Western moving picture. The swirling landscape seemed unreal but I felt my objective couldn’t be far off. The trail began to rise steeply, my horse slowing with the effort, finally came to an abrupt halt, refusing to go further. I had no choice but to dismount and lead him up to the ridge, fearing I’d have to walk for the duration.
As I reached the summit I saw the land falling away to reveal a vast sunken plain. In the distance lay the Rio Alto, my final destination. It was a visceral experience; a great sense of wonder and elation washed through my being. My resentment left me, like a boulder rolling to the valley below and in that moment everything I knew to be true about myself was gone.
The first thing I set eyes on as I passed through the gates of Rio Alto was a simple wooden cross, planted in the broken earth. A sudden sense of dread ran through me; a bad omen, as if warning me that with such beauty there’s also danger. I just hoped it wasn’t a portent for my time out west.
Continuing along the track, I heard the bellowing of cattle and barking of dogs, echoing in the distance. I was sad at the loss of summer and the thought of winter’s icy blast just around the corner but there was something else, a sense I couldn’t quite grasp. It had been an arduous journey and I was exhausted, though I felt there was something heroic about travelling to the new world.
Aunt Bessie’s homely form appeared on the porch. Her face lit up like a lantern as she saw me approaching, meeting me with open arms and a warm embrace.
“Oh! it’s wonderful that you came! Come on in, there’s coffee on the stove. I expect you must be hungry?”
“I’m glad to be here, Aunt Bessie,” I said, feeling like a ship reaching safe harbour after a storm.
Bessie was a big-hearted woman who’d suffered many hard knocks in her life and had struggled since the passing of Jack. They’d run the ranch together for twenty years after emigrating from Wales, attracted by the opportunities out west. Bessie was a skilled rider herself and would accompany Jack out on the range, rounding up cattle and fixing fences.
They’d hoped to raise a family but it was not to be. Since Jack had died it had been a lonely existence, she’d had to manage with the help of ranch hands who could be a challenge, especially when one too many beers were involved.
The ranch house, a single-story pine log-cabin construction, consisted of one large living area, kitchen and three bedrooms. The hands accommodation was above the barn. When not working they would pass the time drinking, gambling and occasionally entering rodeo competitions.
The house could be stiflingly hot in summer and freezing cold in winter. It was a spartan existence but in spite of initial reservations the freedom of working outdoors and exploring the vast prairie empire appealed to me.
Working days were long, rising at 5am, Bessie having already lit the fire, busying herself milking the dairy cows and feeding the farmyard animals, before making pancakes and eggs for breakfast.
The Rio Alto had three hundred head of cattle and fifty horses covering around 1600 acres. There was no easing into the saddle, it would soon become home to me, though I often had to eat dirt when my horse tricked me into a false sense of security.
My baptism into Canadian ranch life had been swift and brutal, fired from the sleepy home town in Wales like a bullet from a gun. At first I felt myself reliving the past which was no more than the history of another person, namely my father who’d spent time with his brother Wilbur, in the wilds of Southern Alberta.
My resistance to the mission soon began to melt away once the open plains and rugged outdoors started working their magic; though still a greenhorn, having little inkling of the demands and dangers of fronter life. I dressed as if I belonged in the city and people thought my accent strange. The hands were suspicious of me and the lead hand Jed, took an instant dislike, no doubt feeling threatened. He’d been overseeing things since Jack died and probably felt resentful about losing status. One day it came to a head when he tried to make a fool of me, heading me off on a wild goose chase for supplies. He thought he had the advantage, having experience I didn’t, but I wasn’t intimidated. He could toe the line or find another position. In time we came to respect one another.
I was determined now to make a life of my own and began to ease into ranch life like shells loaded into the Winchester, knowing the new frontier heralded great change. The rifle had found me at the Guns & Ammo store up in Milk River. Standing proud alongside other hopeful contenders, the repeater seemed to say, “you and me belong together.”
The Winchester soon became a trusty companion, snug in its scabbard as I rode the dusty trails, like a badge confirming myself as a rancher. It was employed mainly for hunting caribou and antelope but occasionally we had trouble with wolves and mountain lion.
Some months after my arrival at the Rio Alto I woke in the dead of night to high-pitched bellowing coming from the corral; a lion having taken a new-borne calf. I considered giving chase but lion and calf had been swallowed by the starless night. I’d have to wait till the next day.
At first light I rode into the pale glimmer of morning with Jed. We set off to track down the lion which I thought was probably not far off, jealously guarding his kill. Climbing the winding trail from the hollow plain, a gentle wind murmured and the sun rose above the purple hills in the distance.
Jed, having experience of tracking lions took the lead. After an hour we slowed, entering a narrow pass, when without warning the lion shot out from the brush. Leaping twenty feet in the air, tearing Jed from his mount, sending the two of them tumbling in the dirt. I froze, not knowing how to respond. The Winchester knew what to do but I couldn’t risk a shot for fear of hitting Jed who was yelling and desperately lashing out with his arms. The lion was trying to get a grip on the back of Jed’s neck which was fortunately protected by his high collared jacket.
He then turned his attentions to Jed’s face, teeth sinking into soft flesh and I had to do something urgently. I fired the rifle three times in the air, at which point the lion leapt up, giving a piercing shriek. Now able to take a clear shot the Winchester did its duty, catching the lion between the shoulder blades, the attack ending as swiftly as it began.
Jed suffered multiple lacerations and had to be stitched up by the doc in Pincher. While his wounds soon healed and he’d survived to ride another day, recovering his confidence would take longer. I too had been unnerved by the incident but never thought of giving up ranch life.
I could have never imagined my father and I living similar lives, me continuing where he left off, but that was OK. I was now content to live out my days on the whispering plains and boundless savannas, Winchester at my side.
*
Not long after this, having acquainted myself with the highs and lows of the Rio Alto, I was introduced to Kit, a comely young woman, at the chapel in Airdrie. She wore a blue dress reflecting the colour of her eyes; there was something about her, maybe an expression that reminded me of my mother, who I both loved and admired. Kit worked on her family’s ranch five miles south of Pincher. She was straight talking and stronger than she appeared. Those intense eyes and shock of fair hair entranced me, being somewhat in contrast to myself, having dark hair and a swarthy complexion.
Finally plucking up the courage, I invited Kit to the church hall dance.
“Well I do like a dance but I might have to smarten you up first,” she teased.
“Perhaps that might not be such a bad thing,” I said, returning a wry smile.
While some chippings from the old man may have settled into me, I also assumed a measure of my mother’s affection and warmed to an inner vulnerability I sensed in Kit. She brought out my protective instincts, in spite of our differences we fitted together like a dovetail joint. Soon we were inseparable, snatching whatever free time we could, taking rides together and sitting on the porch in the evening, under the tear speckled heavens; me telling stories about life back in Wales, Kit with a faraway look, yet listening intently.
After a six-month courtship, I decided there was no time to waste. If I failed to make my feelings clear and ask for her hand in marriage, I sensed I would lose her. When it came to it, there was a brief hesitation to my proposal and echoes of the dread I felt on arriving at the Rio Alto washed through me again.
Would this lead to something we might both regret? But then, her face beaming, she said, “of course I’ll marry you,” planting a kiss on my grateful lips.
Three months later we were married at the Chapel in Pincher, in front of a small congregation of family and friends. I felt so proud when I saw her, the white silky gown shimmering as she walked up the isle with her father. Jed, having now become a good friend, agreed to be my best man. I think he was more nervous than me, almost dropping the rings during the ceremony. At the reception afterwards there was a hog roast and apple pie, followed by line dancing. Music and drink flowed freely and a good time was had by all.
When Kit moved in to the ranch I felt complete, as if a missing piece of the jigsaw had finally slotted into place. That first year of marriage we spent every minute we could together in a whirl of activity, making improvements to the ranch house, which had fallen into disrepair since uncle Wilmer passed. Aunt Bessie was happy for the company and kept herself busy as the prairie wind; we loved her famous Hodge-podge stew and split pea soup.
One crisp morning as winter visited the plains once more, wind rattling the door on its latch and frost clinging to the shivering panes; Kit announced that she was pregnant. Completely stuck for words, I wrapped my arms around her, hardly able to breath. I loved the idea of fatherhood but it frightened me, knowing nothing about how to be a good father and not wanting to follow the old man’s lead.
I had originally imagined the stay in Canada would be temporary, just until my aunt had found someone to manage the farm but it had become home. I loved the thought of raising a family on the vast tumbling pains, beneath limitless acres of sky.
The pregnancy progressed well and Kit was content enough, carrying on working and riding until the seventh month and she always had Bessie to keep her company while I was out catering to the endless demands of the Rio Alto. As was the way, she would give birth at home. There was a midwife covering the area, but most had no recognised training; more, gathered experience along the way. Kit had the usual expectant mother’s fears but otherwise all seemed normal. To me she was more beautiful than ever and people calling by would say how well she looked and that pregnancy suited her.
As the heat of summer passed, one day while working in the kitchen, Kit’s waters broke. A panic came over her, for a moment unsure what was happening, though with Bessie’s reassurance soon realised it was perfectly normal and the midwife was called for.
Waiting outside the room, the old feeling surfaced once more, that chilling dread must have been waiting as if determined to crush my hopes. I tried to reassure myself but it would not release its grip on me. It was a long, painful labour; not uncommon with a first child but when the baby finally came, all seemed fine. I was finally allowed in the room to find Kit sitting up, holding our baby boy. A river of pride and relief flowed through me as I held my son. We named him James.
For two days, things appeared normal enough but on the morning of the third day, Kit complained of severe pain. She was doubled over, letting out an ungodly sound. The doctor was called and by the time he arrived it was clear Kit was in a bad way; internal bleeding was suspected. The doctor didn’t need to say anything, I knew by the look on his face.
Transporting Kit to hospital was not an option, she would not survive a five-hour trip along the rough track. There was little that the doctor could do other than make her as comfortable as possible and by evening, Kit had lost consciousness, her blanched face distant as the pale moon. The life slowly drained out of her and by the following evening she was gone.
I was distraught; not normally a man to show my feelings, I howled. Everything that seemed perfect now lay in ruins. How could I possibly bring up the child without Kit, I was not up to the task. Aunt Bessie offered to help but she already had her work cut out with daily chores and was getting no younger. Unable to see a way forward without Kit, I stayed on until I’d found someone to manage the ranch and then took my leave to be with my family in Wales again.
It was almost more than I could bare, leaving Kit behind, laid away in the dark earth, buried next to Jack, but I had no choice. Autumn had arrived once more, leaves turned colour and sadness turned to grief. As I left the ranch with James for the last time I thought, it’s been two years; now there are two simple wooden crosses to mark my departure.
*
Leaning on the porch, I watch as Earnest steps up to the wagon, leaving his trusty companion behind. Then, as if remembering something, he turns and comes back, hands grasping my stock, lifting me above his head in a final farewell gesture.
Arriving back home in Wales, Earnest felt adrift without Kit and struggled to adjust to the confines of small-town life. Yet to his relief, while no one could replace a mother, James took to Earnest’s sisters, Alice and Eleanor, who were both eager to help.
Adrift or not, he found new moorings, lashing himself to what was familiar. Once again the Church came to his assistance where he met Florrie, an outgoing and kindly, young nurse who instinctively knew what he needed, gathering him up in her generous arms. Now, looking back down the barrel of a lifetime, both of us changed by the vanishing years, Earnest with his extra poundage, me with my coat of rust, but I believe he feels he’s led a full and satisfying life.
Sitting in the garden, having regained his composure, it comes to him in a flash.
‘I’ll restore the Winchester and place it above the dresser to remind me of our times out west.’
Somehow, releasing feelings locked away for so many years and bringing me close to my former glory, seemed to put a spring back in his heels.
Saying a silent prayer, Earnest renewed his commitment to whatever time was left.