In which you will hear of a picturesque race meet in Canada and of the grit of a young Englishman who, whatever he may have been back home, proved himself a real man in “the colonies”
THE best way to do, when you ain’t goin’ nowhere in particular,” said Curly, “is to travel when you feel like it, an’ stop when you blame please. Here’s grass an’ water. What do you say?”
I said nothing, but dismounted. In a few minutes we had offsaddled and unlashed the packs, although the day’s march was still young. Our stopping point was at a little stream of sweet water somewhere between the Sweet Grass Hills and the mountains of the St. Mary’s country. A wide, gray landscape lay all about, the mountains on the west starting up sharply from the level floor of the plains.
Our horses occupied themselves variously, some wandering down to the little stream to drink, others standing, their sides still wet from the blankets. One or two, State’s horses, lay down and rolled, moaning in comfort. There being no shade against the brilliant sun, Curly took the two rifles and a wiping stick, and manufactured a short tripod, over which he hung his coat. He motioned me to lie down, with my face, at least, in the shade. Perhaps I slept. At any rate, after a time I realized that Curly was lying on his back, his head propped up on his arms, and his gaze turned toward the west. In default of anything better in his state of laziness, he gestured with his foot.
“There’s the ole St. Marys, Sir Algernon,” said he. “Ain’t they fine?”
I followed his gaze, taking in the splendid panorama.
“ ’Most everything starts right here in the St. Marys,” said Curly, after a time. “Down there, across the Cut Bank, is the old Kootenai Trail, where the Western Injuns used to come across to fight the Blackfeet. Over the range must be Lake McDonald. Off here to the right there comes down the Bow River, an’ the Belly an’ the Milk River, an’ a lot o’ others. Any way you look, she slopes downhill from the ole St. Marys. Over here, back of us, is Whisky Gap; and north of us is Europe.”
“You mean Canada, I suppose, Curly?” said I.
“It’s the same thing. I oughter know, because I was there onct. O’ course, there’s a few Americans in there, an’ some Mormons, but mostly they are English an’ Scotch an’ Galicians an Russians—it’s all Europe, I tell you.”
“How came you to be up there, Curly?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You know, fellers will keep on movin’ where they ain’t no place particular to go. I used to talk with fellers that run whisky through the gap, yonder, to the Injuns in the old days, an’ I allers thought I’d like to see that country up there. I rid along with a bunch of farmers that was leavin’ this country to go up there an’ raise wheat, not havin’ anything else to do they could think of.
“The country looked a good deal like this in here for a ways. Rockies on the left, an’ plains on the right, all the way as you went north. There wasn’t no cows to speak of. Everybody seemed to be crazy to see how much sod they could plow under, passin’ a given point.”
“Why didn’t you take the train, Curly?” I asked lazily.
“That ain’t no way to travel,” he answered. “My experience is, when a cow-puncher goes on a railroad car he has to soak his saddle to pay the fare. I kep’ right on settin’ in my saddle an’ headin’ north, till I got plumb up to that place they call Calgary. Nice town enough; though, of course, it bein’ right in the middle of Europe, there wasn’t nobody there that could talk human speech. By that time, bein’ on the trail quite a time, an’ mostly broke, both me an’ Pinto was somewhat ga’nt, but we was right happy seein’ the sights of Europe, this bein’ our first voyage away from home.
“I don’t reckon you ever been to Calgary, Sir Algernon? Well, you’d oughter go there onct, just for to see the sights. It’s a right thirsty town—they got a couple of breweries an’ a siphon or so that runs whisky into the town from the place where whisky is made in car lots. I rather enjoyed myself, goin’ down the street. Looked like a sort of county fair to me, with nobody workin’ very much.