A Killer Drops In For The Night

False face must hide what the false heart doth know
Macbeth I:7

People come into our lives with a reputation or a persona (the aspect of someones character that is presented to or perceived by others) that may be earned and accurate or a complete fabrication. When an armed killer drops in on you during the darkness of night in the middle of nowhere, for a meal and a cup of tea, his persona is all around you and your senses are on high alert.

There were usually four to six cabins out on a trap line. They would be spaced 20 to 40 miles apart depending on the terrain, snowfall, and elevation. You cut your logs in the winter, peeled them in the early spring, and built the cabins before the opening day of moose season, August 15. Windows would often be car windows, (very durable) or used windows from the scrap yard in town. The roof and floor were plywood with roll roofing or metal if you happened to catch a barn being torn down, in other words the cabins were done on a shoe string budget, but they actually made pretty nice homes when you are out in the bush. Your furniture was made by hand and the guys took pride in their ingenuity, if you had old hinges you used them, in the mean time, leather hinges would ‘do’ until you found an old pair. They almost all had running water (run to the creek and run back).

Some of the fondest days of my early life were spent waiting out a storm on the trap line while reading the classics: it was best not to read the ones that were primarily based on murder and mayhem, a vivid imagination will put you at a disadvantage with 20 hours of darkness and the winds howling through your cabin walls.

In Canada, up until the eighties, trappers were the only ones permitted to carry pistols, apparently a high level RCMP officer read about the Mad Trapper of Rat River and said “no more pistols for trappers” maybe he was worried about my vivid imagination on those stormy nights. The idea was protection against the odd Grizzly that will awaken on a warm winter’s day and walk about to find an old moose or elk that has succumbed to the starvation of winter; however, a human will suffice, pound for pound, they are the slowest and the weakest of all creatures that inhabit the high country.

A rifle is a pain to carry and you hate to place it in the snow every time you freshen a set; so a pistol is at least a psychological source of protection from a hungry bruin. I carried two, a 44 magnum revolver was for the dire emergency that never happened and a 22 LR Revolver was just right for finishing a coyote or securing the odd grouse for dinner with a head shot. I never shot the 44 except for target practice, it was comforting to have it none the less. It worked for me and usually, I was more than content not to pack a rifle, I missed taking a few shots at wolves and that cost me hundreds of dollars; however, we must remember that every decision has trade offs. The fur traders seemed to offer more money when you were packing a sidearm, that was a big advantage.

On one of those long nights, while reading of Macbeth, his wife Lady Macbeth and their-inflicted problems with murder and mayhem, there was a hail from outside the door, “Hullo, in the cabin”.

Now this is standard procedure and correct etiquette among the semi-civilized men who inhabit the wild country; only a fool would bang on the door or barge in on a man who is alone, armed to the teeth, and whose only fear is the possibility of a Grizzly bursting into the cabin for dinner. You usually have an average of one visitor a year, so company is almost always appreciated, especially if they have manners.

“Come on in, the cabin’s warm and there’s hot grub”, my reply was also pretty well standard. The latch was turned and a tall gray bearded man walked in, after leaving his snowshoes on the porch: he was encased in ice and snow, he un-shouldered a huge pack to reveal a Lynx, several Marten, and a Fisher.

“The Lynx and one of the Marten is yours, the rest is mine” he had followed my line to the cabin and had checked my traps. A common practice among friends, but I had no idea who this man was; at least he was honest, but then he knew I could read the sign around the traps and figure out what had transpired.

“Hang them over the beam with that sisal twine and we’ll skin them in the morning.” The man moved with difficulty from age and arthritis, so I helped him hang the fur to thaw. He didn’t want to carry more weight than necessary, wherever he was headed, and the hides weigh almost nothing without the carcase.

“Skook, I’m glad you’re here; I don’t much talk to no one and I watched you grow up from afar over the years.”

Bingo! I knew who he was. His name was Bill McCabe: he was a murderer from the states. A phantom who talked to no one and sold his furs to the odd fur buyer who was sworn to secrecy. In my mind I checked the location of my two pistols; how fast could I get to one, aim and pull the trigger, sadly enough, that was what was going through my mind.

I was speechless, but he spoke up and carried the conversation. I’m headed South; I’m cold, cold to the bone, and I can’t get warm. Thought, I’d try Texas or California; some place where a guy can get warm, I can’t take it anymore.

He had lived by himself for at least sixty years in these mountains, I guess everyone has their limits.

“You don’t need to be afraid Skook, I wouldn’t harm you; actually, I’m here to help you.”

Was this a ruse? I listened with trepidation, most rumors in the mountains have a basis in truth and the rumors about this man were that he was a hardened killer of over 20 men.

He took off several layers of clothing and revealed a thin body that was obviously still hard and fit after at least 75 years.

His legs were stiff and were obviously painful from arthritis. “I’m going to tell you flat out, so you will relax,” and he looked me straight in the eye. I won’t trust a man who doesn’t look you straight in the eye, yet I also knew that this was the same technique I used just before I sucker punched someone and turned their lights out.

“My trap line is now in your name, you own the traps and all the equipment; just pay me half for two winters.” In BC, trap lines are registered and represent a considerable amount of money. “In the Balsam meadows just South of the lake, I have a herd of about twenty head, you can keep this year’s foals, the yearlings and two year olds; if you will sell the rest after getting on them in the spring and riding the buck out of them, they should bring a pretty penny, some of them are excellent mounts. You will ship me two thirds of the money and we’ll be square.”

The man’s horses had an excellent reputation in the Peace River Country: he was a bona fide horseman there was no discounting that fact. However, I was confused and feeling like Kip in Great Expectations; this was truly a great amount of money he was offering. “Why are you doing this I asked?”

“I got no one else and I know I can trust you. You see, I knowed your dad and Barb Wire Johnny since they were kids.”

“How come you never introduced yourself to me?” I asked with sincerity.

“I didn’t figure you needed to know a murderer in your formative years.”

It was true, he was a murderer. I did a quick inventory of all my weapons, pistols, rifle, and knives; there was nothing close by and I was nervous.

“Skook, during the first war, when I was a lad of 14, I cowboyed on a ranch in Arizona. I loved the work, but there was an older feller there, in his mid-thirties, that couldn’t resist picking on me all the time. He was short, very strong, and mean. He pestered me relentlessly; when I ignored him he would push me and laugh at me. Some of the guys asked him to leave me alone, but he took pleasure in tormenting me: until one day, I reached under my bunk and pulled out this 44,” I scooted my chair back several inches when the old pistol appeared, “I put it against his chest and pulled the trigger. He was dead before he hit the floor. Four guys saw me shoot an unarmed man. I gathered up my belongings and started to leave when the cook handed me a canvas sack with biscuits, bacon, and beans. I thanked him and rode North out of camp. It took me two years to get this far and I’ve been here nigh on 60 years. I love this country, but it’s time to leave.” He put the pistol away and I breathed a sigh of relief. “I figure to have three to ten years left and as much as I love this country, I don’t ever want to be cold during the time I have left. You know the states pretty well, working down there during the summers and all, I figure to ask you where to head. I got enough cached away, I don’t have to work, but if I started a few horses each year and kept busy; I could maintain my dignity.”

“Sounds like you have a pretty good plan,” I offered to rustle up some grub, but the main thing I wanted to do was to get a knife in my hand without being obvious. I started making a moose roast with onions and turnips with mashed yams as a side dish. We talked continuously as most men do when they spend a major portion of their time in isolation. He told me he read the sign and knew what had happened to Barbwire Johnny, said it was a shame, but it could happen to any of us who spent so much of their life on a horse. I didn’t know exactly what he knew about Johnny’s death and I kept my cards close to my chest.

Finally, he said, “It’s for sure the RCMP don’t know how to read sign, those guys couldn’t find a ham in a smoke house.”

I started laughing when I heard those words and turned from the cook stove to look him in the eye. “Yea Skook, I came through a few days after you laid Johnny to rest and watched from afar while the RCMP conducted their two hour investigation in the forty below. It was nice of you to make that stainless steel marker for Johnny. I hope someone does something nice like that for me.”

Bill McCabe and I talked late into the night and had a couple shots of Irish Whiskey; the next day, we skinned the fur and I helped Bill stock his pack with supplies for his trek South. He ended up near Fort Worth and I visited him several times in the years he had left. I sold the trap lines a few years after that night and with the money from the fur and the horses I had the capital to buy property in the US. My horse business took off and I was flying to Europe and the East Coast every other month; if I’d had more business sense like Bill, I’d have squirreled my money away and been in better shape for my old age.

Bill’s persona preceded him and I expected trouble: I ended up with a major stake in life. Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances to a man’s persona and I think Bill certainly had peculiar circumstances surrounding his life. He lived out in the open in Texas and was a respected member of the horse community. The Texans considered him a Canuck and neither one of us ever told anyone differently.

In the 2008 Presidential election, we witnessed a man with a persona that was manufactured by PR men and the media; he was elected to the highest office in the land. He is a good speaker, at least with a teleprompter he has a certain flair for speeches, but America was conned into believing they were getting more than an orator with a teleprompter. That is where the persona gave him the edge to get elected; yet, eventually a public figure must live up to that persona. This has become the undoing of the president, he can’t live up to his press and the expectations America has placed upon him.

Bill didn’t live up to his persona either; no, he was a vast improvement over his persona.