The Incident At The Rupert Hotel (standard:westerns, 5123 words)
Author: G.H. Hadden	Added: Nov 12 2007	Views/Reads: 3563/2282	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
KYLE!!!! Behind the bar, Bolton is suddenly sick with guilt. The Yank has a clear shot; and in saving his headstrong boss he's left the boy exposed! If Kyle ends up taking a bullet in Gunderson's stead he will NEVER forgive himself.

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kids let their imaginations soar.  After today, it's the field 
overlooking Weyburn Road where The Yank shot Kyle and killed his prized 
Appaloosa gift horse.  Had he noticed Nellie and her brothers they 
might be dead too.  They might all be dead now. 

But all are hoping against hope for Kyle to pull through.  Father Moody
leads the congregation in prayer, while inside the two men in town most 
capable of field triage set to work with clean dishtowels over their 
mouths.  They do their best to create a germ-free environment for the 
hapless young Master Slocan. Thank heaven for small favors: Kyle had 
been found early that afternoon, and so there is plenty of natural 
light to see by.  Little Crest has much to offer the casual traveler, 
but alas, no electric lamps as yet. 

'It's a wonder the boy's alive at all', Bolton thinks; he has not seen
carnage on this scale since his days fighting the British and their 
Imperial allies in the lost Second War of Independence for the 
Transvaal.  What he learned under fire as a Boer Irregular galloping 
hard on the hot African veldt serves him well now, but let's face 
up-—this kid's lost a lot of blood.  Even so, Bolton reasons as he has 
done in many a crisis before—this kid WILL make it!  He's young and 
strong with a healthy farmer's tan, so his chances are about as fair as 
the tussle of blonde hair on his head.  He's lucky to have made it this 
far.  They are determined to see him through to his fifteenth birthday 
for his mother's sake. Thankfully, word has not yet reached the Slocan 
farm of this tragedy.   Like most farms off of the Weyburn Road, the 
Slocans' don't yet have a phone.  Certainly a rider from the posse 
chasing The Yank will inform them of the news.  For the moment at least 
they can safely work without the fretful interruption of the boy's 
parents. 

Yet despite today's extraordinary events, Little Crest is just a
peaceful stop of about eight hundred souls along the Canadian Pacific's 
southwest mainline to North Dakota, less than thirty-five miles north 
of Estevan. The inhabitants are homesteaders for the most part, living 
on cheap and productive prairie farms in the outlying environs. Many 
are newcomers to this country, and some are its' original masters.  The 
town site is quickly growing into a regional center for commerce; there 
are four Wheat Pool elevators full to the brim with crop throughout the 
summer, a steady clientele at the Rupert Hotel and tavern, a post 
office, a land office, lumber yard, constabulary, two church 
congregations, a two-room school, three full blocks of prosperous 
false-fronted stores and even a new brick and mortar branch of the 
Imperial Bank at the corner of Main Street and Railway Avenue.  There 
is a large livery with corals and chutes enough to unload three 
livestock cars at a time near the train depot. The hard-packed streets 
all have well maintained boardwalks laid out in a neat grid with lots 
ready to absorb new families as they trickle in.  Most establishments 
in town even have telephone service from the locally owned 
co-operative, as the cat's cradle of line poles outside the buildings 
would attest; and there is even talk of building a moving picture 
theatre here this fall. The lot's all staked out and ready to go. 

Yessir—-make no mistake about it; this is a prairie boomtown in its
prime, much more than just a railway siding settlement on a rolling 
horizon of wheat and sunflowers.  Little Crest bustled with buckboards 
and buggies and folk about their business on a sunny and pastel blue 
Thursday afternoon until the grave news of Master Slocan's brutal 
attack broke out and consumed all it touched.  Shock and awe and grief 
and outrage on the faces of men!  Womenfolk weep and hold their own 
sons and daughters tight.  Each can see the same question in each 
other's eyes.  WHY?  Why us?  Why here?  Why him?  It's all so 
senseless and cruel...so utterly UNFAIR!!! 

'Bad medicine this is—-for certain.' Bolton thinks, as he removes yet
another blood soaked rag from the boy's wounds in preparation to wrap 
it all up.  'And bad for business too.' 

"That god-damned Yankee in his black Stetson hat!" He grumbled to no one
in particular, but the doc couldn't help overhearing and agree.  "Cause 
of this Beatrice Witherspoon'll have the whole Daughters of the Empire 
and the bloody Temperance Movement would up again."  Worst of all, 
she'd have Kyle to use as her case in point.  "She'll have a dry town 
for sure." 

Doc Abrams nods ascent to this too—-because after all he was there when
it happened, and if it weren't for Kyle's quick thinking when it 
counted then perhaps it would have been him flat on his back in a pool 
of his own hot blood and shit a few nights ago instead of this boy now. 
He owes the kid nothing less than his own life.  They all do. 

* * * 

It began just as all such spats usually do (the gospel according to
Beatrice Witherspoon), in the tavern of the Rupert Hotel (so named for 
Prince Rupert's Land; what the whole region was called once when the 
entire Canadian Northwest was controlled by the Hudson's Bay Company).  
Known by most simply as Bolton: he's the peaceable barkeep that could 
always be counted on for a friendly pint and a great story.  He was in 
no small part responsible for the tavern's décor.  With the tacit 
permission of his boss and hotel proprietor Mr. Gunderson he set out to 
adorn the place with historic memorabilia so chronicling the progress 
of the Territory--from its humble beginnings to modern times.  Flags on 
the rich hardwood trimmed walls include the ubiquitous Union Jack and 
Red Ensign of Canada (his adopted homeland), along with the dark blue 
Metis flag of Infinity—-and all the proud symbols of the newly crowned 
Province of Saskatchewan.  Pictures and framed newspaper articles and 
trophy buffalo and beaver pelts and Indian headdresses and even a 
native Cree wedding dress—-all prominently displayed to add to the 
rustic flavor of the town's most famous watering hole. 

Most patrons speak English (even the Scandinavians and Ukrainians try
their best) but as is apt to happen from time to time in the spring and 
summer, a party of visiting Metis traders from the great untamed north 
would while away a few hours at Rupert's Tavern, chattering away loudly 
in their hybrid French-Michif tongue over a table full of cheerful 
pints.  Their stories are for all, and so Bolton, who is blessed with 
the knowledge of many tongues, translates for Doc Abrams and his party 
of town councilmen at the bar.  This Gentleman's Club is light with 
mirth and laughter and low lamplight, awash in the high adventure of 
trap line life. The stories are addictive to young Kyle, who, as Bolton 
has much observed, is somewhat of a natural storyteller in his own 
rite.  He often repeats the trappers' tales to friends, his teacher 
Miss Spencer, the other schoolchildren—-in fact to just about anyone 
who'll listen during morning recess.  Now, with school out for the 
summer he will have to wait for the Sunday afternoon church picnic to 
tell this one.  He wishes to get the details just right, and in so 
doing he gives their conversation just a little too much attention. 

"Boy!" 

The stranger's voice cut through the tension of old trapper Pierre's
folktale of the Voyageurs' pact with the Devil to bring them back to 
The Sault on the wings of a flying canoe. "Maudit!!" they all agreed, 
goddamned, every last one of them! 

"You there—-tenderfoot!  Quit yer lollygagging an' clear my dishes!" 

This stranger had been quiet enough all evening, content to keep to
himself with only a forty-ounce bottle of the barkeep's finest Kentucky 
mash spirits for company.  This stranger's coughing caught Kyle's 
attention most.  But Kyle noted that the more he drank the more sour he 
became. 

He was polite enough around suppertime when he came in off the street
looking dusty and saddle-sore.  He took to a seat facing the window so 
he could watch the goings on of the town as he ate his belly full of 
the finest roast beef; greens, potatoes and gravy Mrs. Dunhill could 
skillfully cook for hotel proprietor Walt Gunderson (staunch Tory, 
proud Canadian) and his mighty grateful guests that evening.  He 
especially liked the "light biscuits", which he praised as "a wonder to 
any man's taste buds."  They were, of course, the lightest and 
fluffiest Yorkshire puddings west of Winnipeg.  He even had a good 
helping of seconds, followed by two whopping wedges of hot apple pie, 
washed down with homebrewed ales on tap.  Through it all he mostly 
smiled and kept himself to himself, but after finishing most of that 
forty-ouncer by the stroke of eight PM, his spirits darkened with the 
hour to that of a dried up drunkard beginning to soak in a hard-earned 
bender. 

Gunderson shot him a hard look and motioned for Kyle to do as he was
bid.  Kyle was not afraid of the man exactly—-but rather wary of him; 
careful to make no sudden or threatening gestures around him—-and 
better safe than sorry, he avoided eye contact altogether.  Of all the 
newcomers to find their way to the Rupert in the short time he'd been 
working the supper shift he had never seen the likes of anyone such as 
this. 

This stranger was in definite need of a bath, and not at all ashamed of
it—-which is mostly why Kyle delayed bussing his table until the last.  
No doubt he was a rough looking customer—-not the usual North Dakota 
cowboy come north for work.  He; with that black Stetson hat on the 
rack by the door and long gray overcoat draped over the back of his 
seat—-it seemed too thick for summer travel.  His denim pants and 
wrangler's shirt looked poorly and threadbare. He had a strong back and 
muscles in his arms that looked like full-bellied pythons. He had the 
air of a mountain man, or perhaps some long gone Klondike prospector 
who's come out of a long winter hibernated away from civilization for 
some time.   His skin was leathery and pale as the undead, his face 
toughened by cold and heat like a great callous.  Those teeth smiled 
like fangs, stained tobacco brown with the miasmic breath of an 
unrepentant drunk.  His salt and pepper hair hinted a true age of fifty 
or so, but in Kyle's mind he looked more like Grampa dead in his coffin 
at seventy-five some six years before. 

That last thought chilled Kyle, for it recalled to him all those
nightmares of feverish death that only an eight-year-old boy can 
conjure at night.  That fever had taken his baby brother Keigan--God 
rest his soul, but best not to think of that now.  So instead he 
pictured his cherub brother in Heaven smiling down upon him, and he did 
as he was told, much to the stranger's satisfaction. 

"Thank yuh son." 

His gratitude seemed genuine to Kyle as he cleared away the last of the
man's dishes and wiped his table to a sparkling shine around his whisky 
bottle.  The stranger meant no hard feelings, and no umbrage taken. 

"You're welcome Sir," Kyle reciprocated, "If you need anything, please
ask."  In truth, he wished the man would simply retire to his room and 
not show himself till dawn.  It would surely be best for all. 

All the while Bolton kept a watchful eye on the outlander from his place
at the bar, not missing a beat, even as he went on translating Pierre's 
tale for Doc Abrams and friends.  Bolton has seen far too many of his 
kind for his liking. Greedy trolls who (in another place and time) were 
the catalysts for the downfall of the Transvaal Republic.  But his kind 
had come up here before too—-tin-pans turned deep mine moles turned 
ranch hands turned drifters.  Here's a guy who's accent was hard to pin 
down—-like a mish-mash of all American regions he'd visited from Boston 
to the Bozeman trail. 

Yet, all was forgiven—-until the Yank interrupted the story again for
another forty-ouncer.  Gunderson politely turned him down.  The 
impertinent outlander objected, and once again, Gunderson flashed him 
another look, and that's when it all unraveled. 

"Sir, I believe you've had enough spirits for one night." 

"You sayin' I ain't got the sack to handle my drink?"  He slurred his
speech.  He looked like another drink would be the death of him. 

Gunderson shook his head.  "I'm not lookin' for an argument with you
Sir, but I can't sell you another drop.  Town ordinance you know."  He 
glanced over to Bolton and Doc Abrams' party, and then to the men at 
the back of the room. 

Kyle was collecting the Metis' empty glasses, heading back with a tray
full for the washtub behind the bar.  Bolton translated: "Pas plus 
d'alcool mes amis; c'est l'heure sec—-huit heure!.  No booze after 
Eight, Sir, for anyone. "  Someone in Pierre's party cursed, 
"Tabarnac", and they howled laughter like wolves. 

There's no clock on the wall of the Gentleman's Club, but not ten
minutes ago the civilized Westminster chimes of Gunderson's prized 
family grandfather clock in the hotel lobby had struck the hour firmly 
enough.  Dusk was coming on fast outside, with an ominously black 
thunderhead building in the west.  The rains would be heavy tonight.  
And inside, the Yank's false courage got the better of him.  Bolton 
could see it coming, however, and was thus prepared for a fight. 

"Ha! I ain't never heard-uh half-breeds speakin' froggy-talk beh-fore!" 
Yuh jus' sent them savages over a couple a' frosties!  I demand my last 
call!" 

"Americans are always so demanding!" Gunderson said flatly, finally
loosing his patience.   "And what right do you have to insult these 
men?  Do you see them causing a fuss?" 

"I assure yuh Sir, haj-yuh seen what I've seen, that is, the death of my
dearest wife Bonnie and my precious young 'uns—-My only son Nathan, but 
five—and, and my girls Darla and Sarah, who were only seven and two 
years of age!"  He paused, underscoring this last with an another swig 
of whisky, then poured himself the last of the bottle as naturally as a 
baby goes to breast milk—-with automatic dexterity.   "My precious 
young 'uns!"   His voice trailed off in a hitch and a sob, but he 
forced himself to finish.  "Left for dead in the smoldering remains of 
my home.  They took my herd too, forty head of cattle.  They burned my 
kin all alive in the house at night, those scalp-takin' savages!  Not a 
one spared, and not far from here mind-yuh, for as the North Dakota 
Territory is but a stone's throw away!" 

"Quite sorry for your loss." Gunderson said with genuine pity in his
voice.  Now the room is so quiet all anyone can hear is this man's 
heavy breathing.  Tension hangs like the dark cloud brewing in the 
night sky. 

"You gave Sitting Bull and his murderous band safe haven in Canada!  All
of you nuttin' but a nation uh molly-coddling injunluvers!" 

For his part, Bolton might have said much of personal experience to stir
the debate—-or that these Metis had suffered at least equal hardship at 
the battle of Batoche during the second Northwest Rebellion.  And they 
(like he) had had their dreams of nationhood quashed, their lands 
seized and their divine president Louis Riel hanged by the neck until 
dead...but such arguments will always fall upon the deaf ears of one 
such as he in his condition...so Bolton kept his eyes open and his 
mouth shut.  Gunderson spoke for him, meaning to educate this 
misinformed ten-day grubber that Sitting Bull's party were in fact 
expelled from Canada and died in a hail of American gunfire back in '86 
or so, but the words came out much differently: 

"Sir," Gunderson growled with ire such that no one in Little Crest had
ever heard before:  "You are no longer welcome at the Inn!  Take up 
your bedroll and your belongings from your room and off to the trail 
with ya!   These Indians here are peaceful Metis—-those whom I count 
among my friends and my paying customers—-whom, unlike you, know how to 
keep the King's peace.  Now get out before I forget my manors!"  His 
cobalt blue eyes stared coldly, perhaps daring the Yank to try his 
luck. 

Looking back now, Bolton thinks that if the situation were ever to arise
again, Gunderson would do things much differently—-with greater tact 
and less gunboat diplomacy. 

"Be damned with your King then!  And to hell with the whole of the
British Commonwealth as well!" 

What happens next happens fast.  Don't look away or you'll miss it, just
as Doc Abrams did! 

* * * 

With all men's eyes in the room set upon him, the Yank reacted with the
violent instinct of a wild animal cornered, outnumbered in a room full 
of enemies, with no way out but to fight. 

Kyle stands frozen in his tracks with both hands full of empty pint
glasses between Pierre's table and the bar, closer to Doc Abrams' party 
of gentlemen than to the Yank, but still the closest, and therefore in 
the best position to foil attempted murder.  It may have been Gunderson 
the Yank intended to hit, but Doc Abrams and his friends were in the 
way.  Pierre and his band of trappers look like a formidable pack of 
rugged brawlers, but they are late to react, and too far away in their 
corner at the back of the tavern to have any effect on the outcome 
other than shouts of angry French and Michif curses.  As for Bolton 
(who when all is said and done will be the first to admit that time and 
civilization have made him soft), he found himself least prepared of 
them all for the outcome, even with one hand on his Mauser under the 
bar, ready to keep the so called "King's Peace." 

The Yank stood up on wobbly feet, but found the sudden strength and
agility of a wounded grizzly in a blind rage.  He snatched up the 
whisky bottle by the neck and shot it past Kyle's head to meet the 
gentlemen at the bar.  Doc Abrams ducked and his party threw themselves 
from their seats down to he floor like soldiers diving from incoming 
artillery. Only now that it's too late did Kyle flinch. 

Gunderson stood his ground, but threw his arms up to block the bottle
away from his face.  In so doing, he redirected it against the back 
wall where it shattered into a million little shards of shrapnel, 
taking several other bottles down from the shelves with it.  He came 
away from it all with only a few cuts and a badly swollen bruise on his 
wrist where the bottle had hit him, but nothing more.  And the sour 
sweet smell of spilled liquor raises up—-spirits unleashed to fill the 
room with an air of sticky malevolence. 

Pierre and his group rose to their feet, drawing their long hunting
knives, ready to join the fray..."TA GUEULE !!!" 

Bolton abandoned his game plan completely when he saw what was coming.
Goddamned if that bottle wasn't to clear away the riff-raff!    His had 
left the Mauser and his only thought now was to get that fool Gunderson 
down!   He lunged at his boss, and tackled him to the floor before he 
even knew what hit him. 

"Fucking-Hell!!" Gunderson managed to choke out (such words seldom used
by anyone in Little Crest) as he sprawled out of harm's way onto the 
slippery glass soaked floor behind the bar; with the bone crunching 
weight of Bolton atop him before the Yank could draw his peace and 
shoot. 

Everyone forgot about Kyle. 

All the Yank had to do was reach into an inside pocket of his overcoat
draped over the high chair back, and out it came: a black Colt 
Peacemaker such that made Kyle piss his pants with fright.  He could 
smell gun oil.  He knew it was loaded.  He acted without thinking 

He threw the empty pint glasses at the Yank. One landed on the floor
with a loud THWING and rolled around his feet, another hit him like a 
fist squarely on his bristly cheek—-throwing his balance; and still 
another bounced off his shoulder to the floor. 

"SHIT!" groaned The Yank. 

"KYLE!!!!"  Behind the bar, Bolton is suddenly sick with guilt.  In
saving his headstrong boss he's left the boy exposed!  If Kyle ends up 
taking a bullet in Gunderson's stead he will NEVER forgive himself!  He 
scrambles for his riffle with forlorn hope, almost certain that the 
Yank will squeeze off at least one vengeful shot before he dies. 

The Yank looked stunned by the blow, as if he were just sucker punched
by a choirboy.  And in the ensuing confusion he let slip the weapon 
from his hand. The other two glasses fell short of their mark to the 
floor without shattering.  The gun fell without discharging—-but landed 
with a heavy metal rattle—-and Kyle took a running start before The 
Yank could think to bend down and reach for it...kicking it away to the 
door like he were punting a football! 

Now both he and The Yank would be in a footrace for the door.  The Yank
had sense enough to give Kyle a mighty shove as he ran past, throwing 
the kid down heavily against the wall.  The Yank unsheathed a blade 
from inside his shirt, and Kyle made a final crawl to where the gun 
lay.  He had time to pick it up, but it felt heavy and awkward in his 
hands, and The Yank moved fast for someone so inebriated... 

"STOP RIGHT THERE!!!"  Bolton's booming voice, and the telltale
rattle-snap of his loaded Mauser Model '98 trained on the Yank's back. 
"DROP THE KNIFE, BROTHER! Or I'll drop YOU!!!" 

The Yank froze, dropped the knife and lifted his hands in surrender.  He
let out a deep deflated sigh and his shoulders slumped.  He's beat now, 
and he knows it. Courage is gone, but seething anger remains, and those 
dark steely eyes stare down upon Kyle like they know something... like 
something Kyle himself should know too, but doesn't.  Those staring 
eyes aren't looking at him or past him, they see right THROUGH 
him...all the way through!  They're cat's eyes in the dark, big and 
wide, all seeing and all knowing. 

The room is silent, except for Kyle's rapid breathing.   He never
realized how scared he was until just now.  His hands are shaking, in 
fact, so is his whole body.  It's like the time he had the fever when 
he was eight, with cold chills and hot flashes alternating so fast he 
wished his body would make up its mind. 

"Kyle...KYLE!!!" Bolton was yelling, and everyone staring down at him
now with one single expression—-stark raving disbelief.  Can they see 
the humiliating stain on his good work trousers?  'Oh no, you DIDN'T!' 
they seemed to be thinking 'NOT POSSILE!  You did NOT just take his gun 
away that easily!' 

"FOCUS, boy!!!  Listen to me.  Just get up, and walk over and get the
constable.  Just leave the gun.  He'll not touch it.  You're safe now, 
humh.  OK?  Just put it down, and calmly walk to the Mounties' Office." 


Kyle did as he was told; he gently placed the gun back down on the floor
and got shakily to his feet, as if he'd had more to drink than The 
Yank. 

The Yank made a sneer face at him. 

Kyle wonders if HE can smell the piss dribbling down his leg.  Maybe
they all can!  Did his face betray embarrassment?  Fear?   Now as then, 
he avoided any eye contact with the stranger and did the prudent 
thing... 

"Got the hell out outa' there fast as I could!  I sure DIDN'T feel much
like a hero just then." Kyle later confided to a circle of his closest 
friends over a cool glass of lemonade at the church picnic, all of them 
sitting cross-legged on the grass in the shade of a windbreak of 
planted pines.  "I left there nearly trippin' over my own two feet down 
the steps...and I felt like a whupped dog, like a shivering coward in 
that Mounties' Office.  They gave me hot cups of coffee just to calm me 
down!" 

Bolton overheard this, and not wanting to interrupt the magic of the
sacred storyteller's circle, simply made a mental note to later assure 
Kyle that he was indeed no coward.  "Drawing a rifle bead on a wild 
turkey at a hundred yards in the bush is one thing..." he would say, 
"But killing a man is something else altogether."  And oh yes...he 
knows.  Bitter experience is life's best teacher. 

In later retrospect, as Kyle lay unconscious upon the very same tables
pushed together to make their improvised operating theatre-—as Doc 
Abrams was removing the fragments from his torn left breast with bloody 
tweezers sterilized by the flame of a candle and shouting at Bolton to 
keep the fitful boy still as he poured more alcohol over the wounds 
before dressing them...And Kyle began to stir and groan like a banshee 
at the window—-he remembered the singular phrase that crossed his mind 
as he saw this kid, so pale and shivering, had managed to disarm a man 
so big and mean with drink.  'Too courageous to be rightly called a 
fool, yet too foolish to be truly courageous.'  He knew many such kids 
in the Boer War.  Far too few of them survived neither guerrilla combat 
nor the torturous food rationing and disease of the British 
concentration camps. 

"Tin-pans, BE DAMNED!" 

END OF SEGMENT 

--Author's note 

This story is part of a work in progress entitled "The Yank In The Black
Stetson Hat"  COPYWRIGHT 2007  All Rights Reserved. 

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