CHILCOTIN

The word Chilcotin defines the river, the land, and its people. The land, a high plateau, has broad valleys covered in tall grass and aspen groves. At higher elevations are pine, spruce, and fir forests. Crowning the plateau on its south and west flanks are the coastal mountain ranges. Protected and cradled by this stony barrier, the spring-green and autumn-gold grassy hills unfold, undulating two hundred miles all the way to the eastern boundary, the brown silt–laden Fraser River. The Chilcotin, one of the Fraser River’s major tributaries, nourishes the plateau. Born in the coastal mountains and fed by a vast lake system, it enters the Fraser River from the west midway between the Rocky Mountains and the sea. Frozen for six months of the year, the Chilcotin wakes from its winter spell, then rushes to complete its annual life cycle in its allotted time. The land is the anvil on which nature’s blows shape the souls of the people, captivated by its harsh charms, who choose to live their lives in its unremitting grasp.

The Fraser River’s headwaters are the Rocky Mountains. Fed by melting snow and glaciers, the waterway heads northwest before turning at Prince George and then cutting a trench southward halfway between the Rocky Mountains and the Coast Range. It gathers strength from its tributaries until its surging waters break through the mountains at Hell’s Gate—farther south of the Chilcotin—and eventually empty into the Strait of Georgia near Vancouver.

Long before recorded time, the first people—Dene, an Athapascan tribe—migrated from the north, but not before the land was made habitable by their mythical hero, Lendix’tcux. The savage story of how Lendix’tcux transformed the beasts into animals, birds, and fish—thereby preparing the land for the Dene—was passed down from generation to generation. It was imbedded in the memory of old Antoine, a shaman—or in their language, a deyen— by his grandfather.

The people who settled on the plateau called themselves Tsihlqot’in, and their river and their land was named Tsihlqot’in. To the people of the blue Chilko River, all that they walked on and paddled over was sacred. Antoine spoke of his ancestors’ life on the land to all who would listen:

Before my time, before Reserves, our people survive on the land and waters. In summers, Tsihlqot’in fish salmon returning from sea to spawn in the streams and lakes: Chilko, Taseko, and Puntzi. They hunt deer, moose, and the caribou; pick sour berries and dig succulent roots on Potato Mountain. They travel in bands of big families throughout land depending on season and chance of fish and game. They live well when the salmon come up Great River from the sea. In the years salmon fail, people they starve. In the winters when land freeze, Tsihlqot’in survive in pit house on small game, dried salmon, and wild potatoes.

Beside fishing, hunting, and gathering, our people speak with same tongue, have same stories and customs, and defend our land. They beat off raids by other tribes and attack neighbours. On shadow side, where no mountains or big rivers, Carrier— another Dene tribe—speak with different tongue and have different customs and stories. Towards rising sun and Great River Plateau are Shuswap, and over mountains in midday sun Lillooet, neighbours of Salish coastal cousins at mouth of the Great River.

Yes. Two rivers flow from our land to the setting sun and coast. One slices through mountains at Waddington Canyon. It carved from rock by churning Homathko. Other past Anahim is swift Arnarko to Bella Coola. Tsihlqot’in trade with coast Natives of Bella Coola and Homathko. At times when winters on plateau too raw, number of bands and hunting parties move into coast valleys. Qiyus—you call them horses—come to Tsihlqot’in even before white man. Raiding party go to Nicola and steal ’em. Qiyus better than canoe, faster than dog.

Grandfather tell me first time Tsihlqot’in seen white man. He says to me, “As boy, I camp with family at mouth of Chilcotin River where meets Great River. I seen white man in canoes pass by on way to coast.”

That was in June 1808, when Simon Fraser—a Hudson’s Bay Company fur trader and explorer—discovered and named the Great River “the Fraser” on his journey south down it to the sea. Antoine’s grandfather’s stories of the beginning, of how the land was transformed by their mythical hero Lendix’tcux and his wife and sons, and how those Heroes were in turn transformed into mountains were as important to Antoine as the land itself. Life on the plateau was interwoven with the stories as closely as the berry-picking baskets fashioned by the women from plaited cedar roots. Antoine’s duty was to pass on these stories to the following generations of Chilcotins. His grandfather’s mythical stories were supplemented by the oral history his father told him of the Chilcotin Wars of 1864, and of how the whites said they were transforming the land, custom, and law for the benefit of the Chilcotins, but in the end introduced their form of justice, disease, and abuse of the land instead.

BORDY

It was July in the record-hot summer of 1937. The crowd at the Anahim Lake stampede grounds was betting that Dean Hanlon couldn’t stay on Tornado, a black bronco that was red of eye and mean of spirit. Dean’s son, Bordy, was minding the gate for his father, and in the stands whites and Natives from the full reach of the Plateau watched Dean adjust his stirrups, settle on the horse, and grip and re-grip his leathered right hand under the rope around the horse’s withers. The bronco pawed and fidgeted in the chute, testing its muscle, anxious to buck the annoyance from its back.

In the ring, Antoine stood next to the fence, waiting for his boss to charge out of the chute. Stan Hewitt, in the stands near the chutes, sipped on a mickey of Walker’s Special Old and thought that his client, who owned a good part of the Tatlayoko Valley, shouldn’t be risking his neck riding broncos when there were pressing legal matters to deal with; matters that had brought Stan to the far corner of the Chilcotin from his law office in Williams Lake.

In this country where men were judged by how they handled horses or were handled by them, it meant something to wear the champion’s silver buckle. Between father and son, who competed against each other in everything, it meant bragging rights for the next year. Now they were going at it like always.

Bordy laughed at his old man. “Careful, Dean! He has a double-kick that’ll knock the breath out of your miserable hide.”

A rodeo veteran, Dean spat chaw juice on the ground trampled by the bronco’s hooves and snarled at Bordy. “This horse is going to win me the title. Just mind the gate and keep your trap shut!”

When Dean was ready, he signalled the timekeeper with his left hand. The bell rang. The gate swung open. Tornado sprang out of the chute. Dean’s head was thrown back as he shouted to Bordy, “I’ll beat you this time, you son of a bitch!”

Tornado crow-hopped across the ring, shaking the cowboy with each jackhammer jump. Dean dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and batted it on its head with his Stetson. Tornado’s next move was the double-kick, but Dean came out on top. Again the bronco tried the double-kick, and again the veteran rider bested the animal. But Tornado was just warming up for his signature move, a fast clockwise spin that made even the judges feel dizzy, but still Dean Hanlon hung on. No rider had lasted this long on the bronco, and the crowd knew it. They shouted their encouragement; everyone except Bordy, who was cheering for the horse. If Dean could hang on until the bell, Bordy would lose, and Bordy could tell by the set of Dean’s jaw that no horse would unseat him today.

The mounted pickup man moved closer as the seconds wound down. When the bell sounded to end the ride, he moved in and wrapped his free arm around Dean’s waist and hauled him off the horse. But Dean made no attempt to grab onto the pickup’s saddle, as would be expected. Tornado had a few more kicks left, and as he bucked riderless, Dean’s dead weight slipped from the pickup’s grasp and slowly slid to the ground. Stan, who had had too many sips from his mickey, rose unsteadily from his seat. Bordy and Antoine ran into the ring and knelt beside Dean. They both heard Dean’s last words to his only son—“Don’t piss away the ranch”—as the judges’ decision crackled over the loudspeaker:

“The winner and grand champion of the Bucking Bronco contest is Dean Hanlon!”

Antoine shook his head, unknotted the red bandana around his neck and placed it over Dean’s face. Bordy looked up from his father and swore at the sun beating down on the arena. It was then that the crowd realized Dean was dead. It was shocked into silence by witnessing a man’s death and at his son’s apparent public grief. Stan saw it differently. He saw Bordy’s expression not as grief, but as frustration that his father had beaten him for the last time with no chance of a rematch.

Stan wouldn’t be talking about those legal matters to the owner of the Bar 5 Ranch after all: Dr. Hay pronounced Dean officially dead-on-arrival at the Williams Lake Hospital. The cause of death was a massive heart attack.

The funeral was held on the shores of Tatlayoko Lake. It was a sparse gathering, partly because Dean had bought out many of the neighbouring ranchers who couldn’t survive the Depression and partly because of old grudges and range disputes. Besides Bordy and Stan, there was Dean’s daughter, Clara, a few remaining ranching families who hoped that a miracle would happen before the bank foreclosed on their places, and a handful of ranch hands—both whites and Natives—including the Paul family, headed by Antoine. The only ranch worker who appeared sad about Dean’s passing was Lady. The blue heeler cattle dog couldn’t understand why Dean wasn’t saddled up and punching cows; her barking could be heard from the locked barn.

Bordy was acting strangely. It occurred to Stan that Bordy had lost his sparring partner. He was subdued and had nothing to say about the loss of his father. When the procession walked up to the graveyard from the house, his limp from an old hip injury seemed more pronounced.

Even though the older Hanlon was a lapsed Catholic, Father Dumont—the Oblate missionary whose parish was the Chilcotin—read his last rites before he was buried in the family plot, which was circled by a white picket fence on a knoll overlooking the lake. Stan was called on to pay a tribute to Dean when the mourners gathered in the parlour of the ranch house for refreshments. He remembered not to drink anything before speaking, and kept his words short so he could get to his first drink of the day as soon as possible. He cleared his dry throat, grasped a glass of whisky in his right hand and began.

“Dean was a Chilcotin pioneer who had a stump ranch on the shores of this windy lake. He learned early on from his Indian neighbours”—and here Stan nodded to Antoine—“that this land gave a man nothing for free. He worked himself and his family hard to wrest a living from the dirt”—and here Stan turned to Bordy and Clara—“and with their help he built the Bar 5 to an eight hundred–head cattle operation. He was a good client and a man of his word. We will remember him with respect. Raise your glasses and drink a toast to his memory.”

As the mourners raised their glasses, a half-dozen cars pulled into the ranch yard and people piled out, whooping it up and bringing their party into the house. They were Bordy’s friends from Williams Lake, bolstered by strays they had picked up on the road. They were late for the funeral but in time for the free food and drink, and they partied all night.

Two days after the funeral, Bordy was in Stan’s office. For the first time, Stan sized up the son as a man separate from his father. Here was the tree itself, he thought, and not the branch. He saw a swarthy, powerful, handsome man in his thirties. His curly black hair glowed with grease and he smelled of cheap aftershave. He was wearing a grey Western-styled suit and a matching grey Stetson, which drew attention to his luminous hazel eyes. Bordy had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and Stan had heard the stories about husbands firing shotguns in the night at Bordy’s retreating behind. There was never a dance in the Chilcotin that didn’t feature his fun-loving smile. Bordy had worked on the ranch for his father since he was a child and knew how to raise cattle and ready them for market, but Dean had done all the business with the bankers, with the advice of Stan Hewitt.

In legal circles, Stan—when he was sober—was known as a careful man who could have had a brilliant career in Vancouver as a criminal lawyer, but for the double-martini lunches that sometimes affected his afternoon judgement. His firm had fired him and he had decided to take his talents to Williams Lake, where they would be better appreciated. His wife had taken one look at her new surroundings and sued for divorce on the grounds of cruelty. Stan was now in his forties, and his continuing attempts to go dry often ended up with him in the drunk tank. Between bouts, however, he proved his early promise as a barrister and was eagerly sought after by clients throughout the interior plateau.

It appeared that Bordy had got over his grieving for his father—his only parent, since his Scottish mother Jean Somerville had died when he was in his teens. Many had asked why Bordy had put up with the older Hanlon, who was a tough, one-syllable rancher. Stan knew the real answer: it was lying on his desk, and here was Bordy, dressed up like a businessman to hear the news.

“Have a seat, Bordy.” Stan motioned to the client’s chair. “That was one hell of a way to go.”

“He was a performer,” Bordy said, pushing his Stetson to the back of his head and smiling.

“You’re taking his death well.”

Bordy tilted back in his chair. “I’ve got over it. The important thing now is that will lying on your desk. You know I worked like three ranch hands at the Bar 5 because I was promised the ranch.”

“I figured that.”

“So? What’s the answer?”

Stan took his time opening the will, enjoying the impatient anticipation of the young rancher. Finally, he cleared his throat. “This will says—as clearly as I could draft it— that you inherit everything from the ploughshares to the two thousand deeded acres and miles of Crown Leased Land.”

Bordy took off his hat and wiped the August sweat off his brow and face with a blue polka-dot handkerchief. “Damn,

he kept his word.”

“There is, however, one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You must look after your sister Clara.”

Bordy waved that aside and settled down. “What’s the next step?”

“It’ll take a month to probate the will. Your father had no money. All he had was the land in the Tatlayoko Valley.”

“Land is all I need.”

“There is something you don’t know.” Stan paused. “You recall that I came out to see Dean to speak to him about legal matters. The rodeo interfered with that. I was going to tell him that the bank has started foreclosure proceedings on his land.”

“I’ll sell some cows at the Williams Lake auction.”

“The bank has put a lien on the cows.”

“Dean was a good friend of Frank Walsh, the bank manager. I can buy some time,” Bordy said confidently.

Stan shook his head. “Frank was fired last month for extending credit to Dean so he could buy up many of the smaller ranches in the valley that were being foreclosed on. The new manager has started the foreclosure action, and nothing but repayment of the mortgage in full will satisfy him.”

Bordy jumped out of his chair and began to pace up and down. “That old bastard! He told me he had everything under control and that we would soon own the whole bloody valley. I should have paid more attention to the business. And why didn’t you stop him from getting in too deep in the middle of a depression?”

“It would have been easier to stop a charging grizzly with a BB gun.”

“He outrode me, and now he’s left me with nothing after working me like a draft horse for the last twenty years.” He stopped pacing and pointed his finger at Stan. “You’re my lawyer. Now, where the hell am I going to get enough money to pay off the bank when the whole country is broke?”

Stan thought a bit before answering. “Do you have any rich friends that you could partner up with?”

“The only friends I got are penniless girls who want to marry me for my money.”

“What about relatives?”

“Yeah, I got my ma’s cousins in Scotland, the Somervilles from around Lanark. They came out to visit us when Ma was alive.”

“Give it some thought,” Stan said as Bordy put his Stetson back on and left the office.

Stan held little hope that the party boy might salvage something from the tangled affairs of his father, but a week later Bordy dropped by to sign some papers and said, “I’ve given it some thought. I’m going to Scotland. The relatives are expecting me; I wired them and told them I’m looking for a wife. They are going to put me up and introduce me to the local girls. I’m leaving within the month. If I find what I’m looking for, there will be a few broken hearts in the Chilcotin. Oh, by the way: I’m changing the name of my ranch from ‘Bar 5’ to ‘Empire.’ Look after the paperwork, will you?”

BELLE

Stan was the first person Bordy saw on his return from Europe in February of 1938, a time when the world was about to erupt in war—a war that Bordy couldn’t personally wage because of his hip injury. Fortunately, Bordy phoned from Vancouver to make an appointment, so Stan was relatively sober when Bordy came into his office with his bride, Isobel. Bordy called her Belle. Stan thought to himself that Belle wasn’t a pretty woman. Her features were too strong for that, and her build was slight and wiry. Stan thought her expression seemed dour, and he hoped she had money. He did admire her soft, wavy, auburn hair, which she wore off her face. And then she smiled. It was a dazzling smile that wiped out the defects of her slightly freckled face and squared jaw. When she spoke in a lilting brogue he felt young again.

“Mr. Hewitt. Bordy has told me so much about you and the good legal advice you’ve given him. My father gave me the money to pay off the mortgage on Empire Ranch, and against my wishes, insisted that I be made a co-owner. And Bordy—isn’t he wonderful?—said that now that we are married, everything he has is mine.”

All Stan could manage to say was, “Call me Stan. I hope you like our country.”

She continued on as if she were an impressionable twenty-year-old, although Stan guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.

“I couldn’t believe the Fraser Canyon. It made our Scottish glens seem so small. And the road twisted and turned so that if Bordy hadn’t been driving I would have been in fear for my life. Last night we stayed at the 122 Mile House at Lac La Hache, where Molly and Gilbert Forbes treated us like family. Bordy tells me the hospitality and the scenery just get better when we get to the Chilcotin.”

Bordy shook his head at her enthusiasm. “Now, darling! All I said was that the bench-lands along the Chilcotin River are made for grazing cattle and to me that’s the best scenery around.”

Belle left the two men to go shopping for Western gear at McKenzie’s Store. After she had gone, Stan asked, “How did you meet such a charming woman?”

“At a dance, where I showed off my talent dancing Scottish reels. It’s like square dancing without a caller. I even sang in a good baritone and held my liquor. I could tell she was impressed. When I invited her out, I told her all about Canada and the Chilcotin. Believe it or not, I was homesick. I told her that the Chilcotin is not just a place; it’s a state of mind, where everything appears to move in slow motion until nature surprises you, and then only the quick survive. Energy is not generated from greed or machines, but from a delicate balance of survival in paradise.”

Stan was surprised by Bordy’s romantic description of his home. Of course, he thought, what Bordy had told Belle to win her over had no doubt been an act of necessity born of desperation. Perhaps a life charming women and competing with his father hadn’t been wasted.

“Her fortune comes from her father’s bottling business in Paisley. She’s been married before: to a pilot in the RAF. He died, and she was just getting over his loss when we met. I proposed after a month of courtship and she accepted.

“She plays the piano and is a graduate of the London Conservatory of Music. She was a local prodigy—played for the King of England at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh.”

“Will she have much time for that on the ranch?” Stan asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“I promised she would. I even promised to have her Bechstein grand piano shipped to the ranch.”

It was Belle’s father who had set the terms of her dowry. Stan received the money and his instructions by wire. Mr. Stevenson insisted that Belle, his only child, own the ranch jointly with Bordy. Mr. Stevenson, Stan thought, was a canny man.

NOAH

Stan was invited to the homecoming. He followed Bordy’s Buick in his old Ford on the four-hour journey to the ranch over rough roads. As the two cars approached the ranch house, Bordy and Stan honked their car horns. The plumes of Chilcotin dust were like clouds of white confetti. Clara came onto the porch. She removed her apron and called the hired hands out from the barn.

Father Dumont was standing by the Paul family’s cabin, set well back from the ranch house. Maria Paul was holding two babies, one in each arm. Standing beside her were her husband, Alec Paul, and his father, Antoine. The priest held out his arms to Maria to accept one of the babies she was holding. She hesitated and looked at Antoine as if to say, “Shall I give this baby to the father?” Antoine nodded, and she allowed the father to take him. Clasping the remaining baby in her arms, she turned away. Father Dumont proceeded to the porch with the baby just as the newlyweds pulled up to the front door.

Bordy was a non-practising Catholic, but Belle was a practising one. Bordy had told her there was a church in Redstone, an easy drive from the ranch. He had pointed it out to her on the way.

Clara was excited to see another woman on the ranch and rushed over to embrace Belle.

“It’s wonderful to meet you too,” Belle replied warmly. “I’ve heard many good things about you from Bordy.”

The cowhands each formally greeted her, then Father Dumont stepped forward. “Welcome home, Bordy. I am anxious to meet your bride.” Still holding the baby, he took Belle’s hand. “Glad to meet you, Belle.”

She smiled and said, “I look forward to seeing more of you, Father, but who is this adorable baby?”

“This is Mary’s child.”

“Well, Mary’s child,” she said, touching the baby’s cheek, “I would like to see more of you too.” The baby beamed at her.

At dinner that night, Belle turned to the priest. “Will you tell me about Mary’s child?”

“Mary was a young girl from the people of the near mountains west of Tatlayoko. The Chilcotins call them Stonys. She died in childbirth. The father is unknown, and since Mary’s mother couldn’t look after the child, she came to Antoine to ask what to do. Antoine came to me to find a good home for him.”

Belle looked at Bordy with tears in her eyes, and Stan could see the tenderness of this remarkable woman reaching out for the helpless baby.

“He is such a beautiful boy. Surely, Bordy, we can care for this child.”

Stan could see that Bordy wanted to say “No.” Instead he said, “I don’t know, dear. We don’t know about his health,” as if he were considering a calf at auction. “For all we know, he could . . .”

Father Dumont interrupted. “Dr. Hay examined him and pronounced him a robust, healthy baby. Maria, the wife of one of your ranch hands, is wet-nursing him now. And his spiritual health is excellent. I baptized him myself yesterday.”

In the silence that followed the priest’s words, Bordy— who sat at the head of the table—mentally went over his narrowing options. The homecoming had gone so well. The pleasure of getting back to his ranch, the relief of paying off the bank, and the desire not to disappoint his bride were beginning to wear down his self-interest and his natural caution against complicating his domestic life.

“Very well,” he finally said. “Let’s give the little fellow a good start in life. At least we can care for him. What’s his name, Father?”

“He was baptized Noah.”

When Father Dumont took Noah from the wet nurse and brought him to the dining room, the child began to cry. When Belle took him and put him on her shoulder and patted him on his back, he stopped crying. Then he burped, drooled onto the back of Belle’s dress—and grinned. Belle laughed, and Stan Hewitt—stiff lawyer with a drinking problem—felt there was hope for the Hanlons.

Antoine’s daughter-in-law, Maria, cried when the priest came to say that the Hanlons would care for Noah. Alec, her husband, calmed her.

“We have our son Peter, and Noah will be close by. We will make other babies.”

Antoine was pleased to hear that they were trying. They would continue to try, but their daughter Justine would not be born for three more years.

*****

In the following years, Stan was a constant at the ranch, making himself as agreeable as it is possible for a divorced, alcoholic lawyer to be. What attracted him was Belle Hanlon. Her ready wit and talent enchanted him. He saw that she was becoming a doting mother to Noah, and as the next few years passed with no hope of having her own children, her attachment to Noah strengthened. Belle had been barren throughout her first marriage, and she and Bordy were concerned because she hadn’t become pregnant since their marriage. She convinced Bordy that they should adopt Noah. She was determined to raise him with books like the children’s classics Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, and Wind in the Willows.

Noah played with Peter, who was the same age and the only other boy on the ranch, but Belle encouraged him to consider himself as white and therefore different. The white boys—the Johnstons at Tatla Lake and the Keiths near Eagle Lake—were regular visitors at the ranch, but it was Noah and Peter who shared secrets. They didn’t consider Justine, Peter’s little sister, a proper playmate until she was six and could stand up for herself.

Time was not a precious commodity among the Natives on the plateau. They moved with the seasons, not by seconds, minutes, or hours, which for a child growing up in the country was fine. But time meant something to a large ranch like Empire, connected as it was to the cattle markets of the world. This wasn’t brought home to Noah immediately. He learned that lesson one day when he was six.

Stan was at the ranch for the weekend to fish and listen to Belle play her Bechstein. He was having dinner in the new ranch house, with company including the local MLA and Father Dumont, when Noah arrived late to the table in tears. He had been riding bareback with Peter on an old Clydesdale plough horse, Dobbin. He was supposed to be home for supper at five-thirty. It was six when he said goodbye to Peter at the Pauls’ cabin. Antoine saw his grandson jump off the horse from his doorway and said nothing. Peter was never scolded for misdemeanours. Noah was full of fun from the ride as he came into the barn. He began rubbing down the horse like he’d been taught. He was standing on a stool, his little arms scrubbing down Dobbin, when his father came into the stall.

“Noah, you know your mother is worried about you. What time were you supposed to be in the house?”

“Five-thirty, Papa.”

“Well, it’s quarter after six. Where were you?”

“I was riding Dobbin with Peter and I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough, son. Finish what you are doing and then come see me in the den.”

Noah was puzzled, but he did what his father told him. He finished brushing down the horse and went to find his father. “It was wrong of you to disobey your mother. Next time you will remember to obey her. It is important to be punctual.”

“What does punctual mean, Papa?”

“It means to be on time,” Bordy said, and went to the desk where he kept his important documents, where Noah was never allowed. He grasped a piece of leather from an old harness and said, “Hold out your hand.”

“Why, Papa?”

“Because you disobeyed your mother by being late.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t, son, and this will help you remember.”

Bordy brought the strap down hard on Noah’s little hand. The boy cried but stayed there in shock.

“Now the other hand.”

Noah hesitantly held out his other trembling hand and received another blow. And then there were real tears.

“I don’t want to have to do this again, so remember to be on time. Now go to the dinner table.”

Life wasn’t all heartache and tension for Noah. He had Belle to comfort him and show him another side of life from strengthening himself for the tests ahead.

That night when Belle read to Noah, he asked her, “Why is Papa so mean when there is no hurt in Alice in Wonderland?”

“Alice isn’t in the real word, dear. But I will speak to your father about his striking you.”

The next night she read to him from Grimm’s Fairy Tales and Noah got to know more about the other side of the world, both the imaginary and the real. When she read Hansel and Gretel, Noah’s eyes went wide with terror and he asked, “Mother, you know that woman who travels around by herself and doesn’t have a home?”

“You mean Ta Chi, dear?”

“Yes. Is she a witch?

“No, dear, witches are evil. Ta Chi is a nomad. She prefers to live on the land by herself. That’s not evil.”

Noah was not so sure. Whenever he saw Ta Chi—and that was two or three times a year when he was out by himself—she would suddenly appear on a rise or at a corner on the path. She would just stand there watching him without saying a word. He wondered why she wandered about the Chilcotin by herself, and the thought occurred to him that maybe she had lost something.

Noah did not go to school that fall. Belle taught him at home through the provincial government correspondence courses. He spent the next six years excelling at his lessons and therefore pleasing his mother. He tried to understand his father, who was always on the move and talking about cows, grass and water, and when he wasn’t cursing the hired hands he was talking about expanding the ranch.

Most days Noah spent time in the saddle, out riding with his father. He was expected to do his part on the ranch, along with his closest friend, Peter. Noah’s chores started with bringing the haying crews fresh water and food, and if he was late his father called him out and punished him in front of the men. When he was given responsibility for the livestock, they came first, and no excuse was tolerated. A cow went missing in midwinter the year Noah was eleven. He was sent to find it and was told not to come back unless he did. Bordy, whose whole thought was on the ranch, was treating his son as he had been treated by Dean. In doing so, he was passing on to Noah how to raise a child who would hate his father and use that hate to beat the world.

The markets after the war were good for cattle, and Bordy wasn’t satisfied with his eight hundred head. Some Americans had bought a couple of ranches by Big Bar and named their ranch the “Gang Ranch.” It was reputed to be the biggest ranch in North America. They boasted three thousand head of cattle. The only way Bordy could get more was to work harder.

Belle kept the books and signed the cheques and kept track of their money. She supported the expansion up to a point. With it came a new ranch house, which she designed and furnished, but the cost of the continuous expansion was wearing her down. Underlying this struggle was Bordy’s wandering eye. The tension between husband and wife was building. Belle warned him many times that she would not accept his being unfaithful, and every time he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

In July when Noah was twelve, they went to the Anahim Lake stampede to watch Bordy bronco-riding. Bordy was showing off, got thrown, and when he lost he came up to Belle—who was with Noah—and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“But Noah is competing in the roping contest.”

“Have it your own way, then. I’ll take the car and you can come later with the truck and horse trailer.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but heard her say as he walked away, “We probably won’t be back till tomorrow. Noah may win and be in the finals, and it will be too late to start home tonight.”

Noah did win the trophy, and wanted to get back that night to show Bordy. They arrived after midnight, put the horses in the barn and walked to the house.

Noah said to his mother, “I’m going right up and telling Pa.”

Together they went upstairs to the master bedroom. Belle opened the door. Noah rushed in and said, “Guess what, Pa?”

Bordy didn’t guess. Instead he shouted, “What the hell!” and sat upright in bed with his arm around a naked strawberry-blonde.

Belle said in a chilled voice, “Sorry to interrupt. Come along, Noah! Your father is busy,” and slammed the door on the bedmates.

Clara arrived from Vancouver on a visit the next morning.

When Belle told her what had happened, Clara shrugged. “I have no influence over Bordy. The reason I left the ranch and the Chilcotin was to get as far away from him as I could. All I care is that he sends me an allowance every month.”

The Hanlons didn’t share the same bedroom again.

The final dispute, which broke the cycle of a driven man and a stubborn woman, was over Noah’s education. He was twelve and had finished his elementary schooling at the ranch. To proceed further, his parents would have to send him to boarding school in Williams Lake, which to Belle was out of the question. Noah overheard them talking in the great hall one night.

“To be properly educated, Noah will have to go to a private school in Victoria,” Belle stated flatly.

Bordy disagreed. “I went to school in Williams Lake and suffered no ill effects.”

Belle, her voice rising replied, “Noah deserves a better chance.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“You paid two thousand dollars for a prizewinning Black Angus bull from England last year. If we can afford that, we can afford to send him to a good school.”

“Don’t bring Sir Lancelot into this. He’ll pay his way. Why teach Noah all that extra stuff, when all he’ll do is raise cattle like me?”

“There’s more to life than raising cattle.”

“Not in the Chilcotin there isn’t.”

“Don’t you see that when you were courting me, when you said that the Chilcotin was a wonder of the world, I believed you. Then I saw it, and saw that you hadn’t deceived me. Now you spend your waking hours trying to figure out how much money you can make out of it.

Then you said you loved me, and now you have deceived me. You don’t love me; you only love the latest floozy that you’ve bedded. I’m taking Noah to Victoria and will provide a home for him there. We’ll be back for Christmas, Easter and summer vacation.”

ON POTATO MOUNTAIN

A CHILCOTIN MYSTERY

Acknowledgements

Contents

PART 1

CHILCOTIN

BORDY

BELLE

NOAH