P. D.’s name was a household word. His cattle, his grain, so ran the legend, had made this part of the country famous throughout the civilized world. And as for chess: The country people knew but vaguely the meaning of the word; but they did know at least that it was associated in some illustrious way with their distinguished neighbour, P. D. McPherson. He was a Chess Champion. “Champion” was a name to conjure with. It put P. D.’s name upon several occasions into the newspapers; in obscure parts where they printed riddles and conundrums and funny stuff for children, but also whenever P. D.’s exploits at the cattle fairs were summed up in the local press, and his picture appeared on the front page and he gave out interviews predicting the ruin of the country or its ascendancy above all other countries in the world, there was always a line included about P. D. being the Chess Champion of Western Canada and potential champion of all of Canada.
Even the riders on the range and the crews at the road and lumber camps stopped each other to gossip about the incredulous news.
“Did you hear about P. D.?” one would inquire.
“No, what about him?”
“He got beat. Beat at chess.”
“G’wan!”
“Sure did.”
“You don’t say. Who done it? Betchu some Yank come on over from the States, huh?”
“Not on your life. One of his own men done it.”
“G’wan! Who?”