Carson of Red River

by Harold Bindloss

The wind and the sunshine banished moody thought. The sky was blue and to look across the spacious plain was bracing. One saw it melt in the distance, and the distance called. If he did not get a job, he must fiddle for his supper, and in the morning he would push on again. Sometimes in England he had pictured humorously a minstrel’s life, and now it looked as if the life might be his.

A gopher stole from the grass and plunged into a hole. A flock of birds flew along the edge of the bluff. They were like English blackbirds, but their wings were marked by golden bars. Splendid red lilies dotted the plain, the tossing branches made a soothing noise and the wind blew away the flies.

Kit opened the fruit can. He had meant to be frugal, but he was hungry, and the acid currants helped the cheese and crackers. When he had satisfied his appetite all was gone and he lighted his pipe. He was not bothered by luggage and when one travelled light one went farthest. To start with a fiddle and two or three small bills was something of an adventure. Lying in the grass he smoked and mused.

He pictured Evelyn under the big oaks at Netherhall. Her white dress cut the shadows and her voice harmonized with the river’s languid splash. She was serene and graceful, and she carried herself proudly. One felt the sweep of smooth grass, the flower borders, and the dignified old house were proper. To see her at the tarn was harder, and the picture got indistinct. On the bleak moor Evelyn was somehow exotic, and Kit admitted he could not see her on board the emigrant ship. When he thought about it, he smiled. To picture Evelyn’s singing in the third-class saloon was ridiculous.

Kit let it go and pondered tranquilly. On the whole, he thought temperament rather than circumstances accounted for one’s adventures. In a sense he was not forced to start for Canada; were he another he might have taken another line. He was resting by the Manitoba bluff because he was Christopher Carson and had inherited qualities that persuaded him to go; he did not see Evelyn in the third-class saloon because she was Evelyn. Anyhow, it was something like that, but he was not a philosopher, and he began to muse about Alison.

Although he knew her fastidious, when she cooked supper on the train and occupied the bench at Winnipeg station, her surroundings did not jar. One felt shabbiness and dreariness vanished when she was about. It looked as if she had power to transmute the ugly things she touched to something fine. Kit wondered whether he was romantic, but he did not think he exaggerated much.

Yet Alison, so to speak, was not at all remarkable, and when one speculated where her charm was one did not know. All the same, she had charm; perhaps it was her frank, thoughtful look, her obvious sincerity. Kit saw her, tired and forlorn but smiling, on the bench at the marble waiting-hall; and the emigrants lying drearily about the flags. Then the train rolled into the station and the passion of the crowd was roused. Alison clung to him and they fought to reach the gate. The rails went down, they sped across the platform and he pushed her up the steps.

Perhaps it was strange, but Kit did not remember all he said. Something about bracing up and looking in front. Well, he was a fool, for now he thought about it, Alison had braced him. Anyhow, he kissed her and the cars began to roll ahead. He wanted to jump on board, but the train went faster and the lights got faint.... The dim reflections melted ... and Kit was asleep.

When he looked up, the shadows had moved across the grass and he pulled out his watch. If he wanted to reach the bridge for supper, he must start, and picking up his violin case, he set off. The trail dipped to hollows where the grass was tall, and curved round shady bluffs. Gophers ran about, and a flock of prairie chickens sprang noisily from the brush. Sometimes Kit saw a homestead and a belt of dark green wheat; sometimes he labored across sandhills where stable litter bound the road. In front the wheel-marks went across the horizon.

At length a belt of trees began to get distinct and Kit saw smoke. The smoke trailed far across the grass, and when he got nearer, was pierced by a shining plume of steam. Hammers beat like chiming bells, and he heard the musical clash of steel. Kit unconsciously went faster. Where men hammered iron was the place for him.