Rory Duce ~ Canada


      Ridin' Through

      Come gather around compadres, this story will unfold
      of horse thief moons and rifle fire and blood that was spilt cold.
      Ride back through windswept coulees and the hoodoos of my mind
      to that ol' Milk River Ridge and the year of '69.

      Just north of the border, once you get past the Sweet Grass Hills,
      the prairies level off to where the Milky water spills.
      That ridge belonged to the Blackfoot, the coyotes and the Sioux
      and though it was a stately place I was simply ridin' through.

      I bought supplies at Fort Benton, then rode north of Forty Nine
      to trap for beaver and for mink across the Medicine Line.
      From Montana into the Queen's Land the whisky trade prevailed;
      the law was yours to make or break along the Whoop Up Trail.

      Ol' Blue and I would read the sky and ride on through the night;
      come morning's sun we'd sit by gun, well hidden out of sight.
      For the Blackfoot were stirring and fuelled with firewater,
      out to revenge the recent death of White Crow's lovely daughter.

      The girl was just a youngun, how awful she must have felt
      when the whisky trader bought her for just a few wolf pelts.
      Word is he gave her liquor, triple laced with turpentine,
      then forced himself upon her like some evil heartless swine.

      Her body violated, then the poison took its toll,
      the heavens cried for mercy as they gathered in her soul.
      White Crow soon went on the warpath now lusting for the death
      of any fool that ventured there and breathed a white man's breath.

      I had hid out in the hoodoos, amongst the rattler dens
      with ancient paintings on the walls that spoke of ancient men.
      The sun was high above me as I looked down at the post
      when suddenly I heard the screams from fifty feathered ghosts.

      The Trader Harris was shot down first, bullet to the eye,
      then several others at the post were shot and left to die.
      I saw their lifeblood stain the grass exactly where they fell,
      I tell you boys, from where I hid, I felt the fires of hell.

      Then from the door I saw him run, a lad of maybe ten
      and from his lips I heard a shout and then he yelled again.
      He held a Sharps to his shoulder then sighted on the chief;
      White Crow fell, left forty-nine ghosts standing in disbelief.

      The boy pressed on, his rifle fire caught a few more unaware.
      Was then I quickly signed the cross; said myself a prayer.
      I hopped on Blue and down we flew into the devil's maw,
      where painted warriors sat their horses silently in awe.

      Strike me up a match, amigo, I'll try to set the scene.
      His eyes were full as silver coins and bore a silver sheen.
      I was young as you then, friend, a lit stick of dynamite,
      but my God, to tell this story now chills my heart with fright.

      That boy was blind, he could not see, yet he aimed unerring.
      The Bloods could not conceive this so they just sat there staring.
      I reached the lad, but things turned bad as Blue stepped in a hole;
      down I went, my luck all spent as I fell beside my goal.

      In all my days I can't recall anything quite so queer.
      Those Blackfoot were a hard-boiled lot, but I sensed their fear.
      I told the boy to keep on firin', myself, I did the same;
      it wasn't long before them Bloods had given up the game!

      There's a moral to this story, though subtle, it holds true.
      If you're heading into trouble, boys, just keep on ridin' through.
      But if you stop to poke the bear be sure to light out quick;
      or else be sure you shout thunder and hold lightning in your stick!

      �2009, Rory Duce
      This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

      Notes:

      In the late 1860's and early 1870's, the whiskey trade was decimating the Native American culture in what was to become Western Canada (Particularly southern Saskatchewan and Alberta). There was no law north of the border and Montana traders would bring whiskey north past the Sweet Grass Hills (through Whiskey Gap) into Canada near Milk River. The trail from Montana's Fort Benton to Fort Whoop Up (present day Lethbridge, Alberta) was known as the Whoop Up Trail.

      This caused a lot of unrest with the Native Americans, especially the Blackfoot Nation (The Bloods or Kainai make up one band of the Blackfoot Confederation). Partly in response to this, the Canadian Government in Eastern Canada formed the North West Mounted Police (later to become the Royal Canadian Mounted Police - RCMP, our federal police force) and in 1873 they came west and eradicated the whiskey trade and brought mostly peace to the western frontiers of Canada.

      This particular spot in Southern Alberta is now Writing On Stone Provincial Park, a wonderful place where one can still see ancient pictographs on many of the hoodoos and cliff walls along the Milk River.

      This is a work of fiction, though this type of activity certainly occurred here during this time period. While the blind boy sensationalizes what might have happened, the Native Americans had a sincere reverence for "special" people. It is quite conceivable that they would have fled the scene regardless of their overwhelming numbers.



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      Avenging Jack

      A ruthless wind stirred the aspens,
      the August moon rose, cloaked in clouds.
      I stood in its dim light at his grave that night
      reflecting on what I had just vowed.

      �The job ain�t finished�, I muttered,
      �We started this outfit as two.�
      �But the Devil�s seed who have done this deed
      will be buried before I�m through!�

      We had hoped to market our cattle
      after a few more weeks out on grass,
      to the miner moles who quarried the coal
      on the far side of Crowsnest Pass.

      We had rounded up some brush bred
      and branded them with the 2 R Bar.
      Then pushed them west, towards Crowsnest
      and the men being fed coal tar.

      But the foothills range was sought after
      by outfits much bigger than ours,
      and bank notes of the dead were signed off with lead
      as men succumbed to their powers.

      They rode in with carbines blazing;
      these cowards, well mounted and masked.
      Enforcing their will, they shot to kill,
      no demands or questions asked.

      We rode for the trees on Linx Creek,
      desperate to save our hides,
      though when I glanced back, they had shot poor Jack
      and there on the ridge he died.

      They wolfed me through bush and muskeg,
      relentless, they pressed on the chase.
      Then the sun sunk low behind a plateau
      and I vanished without a trace.

      They buried Jack where they found him,
      on a marker they scratched �A Thief!�
      �Shot from his saddle while rustling cattle�
      He went to hell without a beef.�

      A month passed by before I ventured
      to visit my friend on that hill.
      I placed some stones upon his bones
      then promised I would avenge him still.

      In Crowsnest, the men were drinking
      at the Cosmopolitan Hotel.
      The cattle long sold for the miner�s gold
      and the whiskey the bar man sells.

      I entered with my Stetson pulled down low
      shading my face from their eyes.
      Then as I came close, it was as if a ghost
      had caught them by surprise!

      As one they reached for their handguns,
      but my shotgun fired at close range
      cut short their attempt as I smiled with contempt,
      a man bent on revenge and deranged.

      Four blasts were fired, seven men fell
      before I was shot in the back.
      I went to my knees, satisfied and pleased
      that I died avenging Jack.

      �2009, Rory Duce
      This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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      Beauty Over Substance

      Sarah was a looker, she was long legged and fine
      Belle had her beauty flaws, but alas she was mine
      And though I should have fought those crazy thoughts inside
      I just had to have Sarah, to quell my cowboy pride

      I asked her man politely, could I have a turn?
      Laughing, he scoffed at the money I said he�d earn
      Four thousand dollars later he gave her up to me
      And we went home together, all happy as can be

      Now, looking back upon those days of long ago
      I should have stayed with Belle and not have wandered so
      Without me she became the queen of rodeo
      Sarah, she�s plain lazy and even kind of slow

      She gets so hot headed, that she isn�t much use
      Heavy, dimwitted and awkward as a moose
      It�s my fault; I turned her into something that she ain�t
      Still, I wish I rode Belle, my old bay, and not this paint!

      �2009, Rory Duce
      This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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      Passed On

      These hands have held their treasures,
      two daughters I have raised,
      but wealth of man is measured
      by times you've been amazed.

      Like that day we stood together
      around my father's cross.
      My heart, though tough as leather
      was broke from such a loss.

      Yet in my hands my daughter placed
      her grandpa's cowboy hat
      and in that moment I was graced
      to know where dad was at.

      His love was deep within me,
      his ways were in my hands.
      Strength of will shall be the key
      if I'm to carry on his brand.

      These hands must never falter,
      be strong and also true.
      They'll be judged upon the altar
      when life on earth is through.

      �2009, Rory Duce
      This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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