The Haweaters Read online

  Surely Bryan can’t. He snaps the reins and the oxen start to trudge past Boyd. “How much did that cost Amer?”

  Boyd contemplates the sky. It is truly mystifying where all of this animosity is coming from. Amer is, so far as Boyd knows, an upright citizen. He is generous and community-minded and a born leader of men. It’s Bryan, if anyone, who’s the villain here and one that Boyd sees wisdom in containing. “You’re seeing this all wrong, Bill. The change in the law benefits every last one of the bush families. We can all now sell our timber for a decent profit. That alone will make the difference between survival and starvation for most everyone around here.”

  Bryan leads his team a good twenty feet past Boyd before clucking and pulling up on the reins. His back is to the lawman until, abruptly, it isn’t. “Don’t recall seeing you at the lumbering camps this past winter.”

  Boyd is momentarily tongue-tied. It’s not like Bryan to bring up a topic such as this unless he intends to use it as a weapon. Boyd reckons the best response is likely a cautious one. “The harvest saw me through. Consequently, I didn’t need to hire myself out to Lyon or any other man. Hopefully that’s the start of a positive trend.”

  Not cautious enough. Bryan’s eyes betray his heart and it’s a small, cold, dead one so far as Boyd can tell.

  “Didn’t see Amer neither. Rumour has it he was lining his pockets in Owen Sound. Suspect you know what I’m talking about, seeing as how you two came here from the Corkscrew City together.”

  Well, now, doesn’t that beat all. So it’s going to be guilt by association with a man who has not been proven to have committed any offence except in the mind of a bitter old man? No sir, not if Boyd has anything to say about it. “Curse you, Bill. I came to this island on my own for the betterment of my family. I’m no different from you in that respect. I only ever set foot in Owen Sound but once and that was to load all my earthly possessions on the ship that brought me here. You had best watch your words.”

  “Best we all watch our words. Doesn’t change the fact Amer fled Owen Sound one step ahead of the law.”

  Boyd isn’t totally sure what that means, but it’s clear an insinuation is being made about Amer’s character and he can’t allow that to stand. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I do know that Amer was the law in Owen Sound. If you weren’t such an infernal wretch, you’d know that too.”

  Bryan’s laugh cracks the air. “Amer thought he was the law. Government thought otherwise. Swooped in to clean out the crooks. Word is Amer snuck up here before he could be made to pay for his crimes. Now he only sneaks back when he thinks no one is looking. Someone is always looking.”

  Boyd raises his hand. “Enough. There’s too much gossip in these backwoods and it serves no purpose other than to drive a wedge between neighbours. You shouldn’t be listening to any of it and you certainly shouldn’t be repeating it as factual unless you want to sound a fool.”

  Bryan clips Boyd’s final words. “Always defending your man. I suppose that could be considered noble. But I’m betting it isn’t. Amer’s got something on you. Something that makes you blind in his direction.”

  Boyd says nothing.

  Bryan, true to form, takes the lawman’s silence as confirmation that his accusation has hit home. “No need to tell me I’m right. Know already in which direction your loyalties lie. So don’t ever claim to be dealing fair where Amer’s concerned.”

  That’s it. Boyd has had more than enough. “So now I’m the villain here?”

  Bryan shrugs and turns away. He snaps the reins and resumes his journey to the corral with the chains once again jangling against the rough ground. When he turns back, his voice is raised to the heavens. “Moved to this island to get away from tyrants like Amer. Tolerated him for a while. Not no more. We’re all worth the same in the bush. Only one who doesn’t know that is Amer himself.”

  Bryan turns away for the last time and Boyd watches his stubborn retreat. He briefly considers throwing a rock at the old man just to see if he can hit him from this distance. Probably not. He couldn’t even hit a stump from ten feet, so he shouts after him instead. “You best remember what I said about Charlie needing to lose that handgun before it dooms him. This is the only warning you’re going to get from me.”

  Boyd isn’t totally sure Bryan has heard him above the chains and the distance and the set of his mind. No matter. The lawman turns and stomps through the back pasture. He no longer feels the formality of his office requires him to avoid trudging through his neighbour’s fields. He no longer feels anything but complete and utter contempt.

  2

  NOT ALL STORIES ARE TRUE

  Andrew Porter slits open the sack of wheat and heaves it onto his shoulder. Grain slides out, first as a trickle, then as an avalanche. His son John is two-handing the grinder’s crank. He pulls hard in an effort to start the stone spinning. Good boy. The sooner he gets it up to speed, the sooner they can get out of here. Within reason, that is. There’s only so hard a boy that young can crank and only so fast a stone that heavy can turn while still producing a decent grind. These two things together mean that it’s also only so soon Porter can realistically expect to depart Amer’s barn and that’s weighing down his mind like an anvil.

  Amer won’t stay gone forever. He’ll show his face soon enough and Porter would rather not be here when he does. He wouldn’t be here now except Amer has made himself indispensable by acquiring the only grinding stone this side of Michael’s Bay and allowing the bush families to use it for the price of a sack of grain. As strategies go, it’s brilliant and generous and most assuredly deceptive.

  The truth is, if Michael’s Bay wasn’t such a long walk, Porter would take it regularly, but there are chores to be done and crops to be tended and not a moment to spare between sunrise and sunset. So he’s here, now, at the mercy of a man who has proven time and again that he knows no mercy.

  This is the anvil weighing down Porter’s mind. It keeps him up at night and makes him wish he were anywhere but here. He’s tried to live a God-fearing life. Now maybe there are some on the island who don’t see it that way, who brand him a gossipmonger, a chinwag, a tattletale for doing no more than passing news around, but someone has to do it. There’s no newspaper on this island and no way for news to travel efficiently except by mouth. What does it matter if it’s Porter’s mouth that carries the news from one homestead to the next? Is that reason enough to malign his character? Some say yes. He says no.

  Porter returns his thoughts to the task at hand. He pours slowly now that the grain has risen to the rim of the hopper and he counts. It typically takes six full revolutions for the stone’s weight to kick in and assist the grind and today is no exception. His son settles into the steady rhythm he’ll maintain until the very last kernel scurries from the hopper. That won’t be anytime soon. This is the second of a dozen sacks they’ll be grinding today and Porter surveys them with a frown. Why has he brought so blessed many sacks? Has he never heard of moderation? Does he secretly want a confrontation with that ruffian Amer? Not so far as he knows, but sometimes Porter’s thinking mind and his unthinking one don’t communicate as well as they should, leading to exactly the kind of calamity he’s just now trying to avoid.

  Porter stops his thoughts and listens. He hears something and at first he’s not certain what. Then he is. It’s low talk and it’s coming from outside the barn. Worse, it’s growing louder as the speakers draw nearer and one of the speakers is without a doubt George Amer. He’d know that voice anywhere. Porter’s heart sinks. He’ll not be getting out of here as quickly as he hoped. No sir, it’s becoming increasingly clear he’s going to be forced to have the conversation he’d been hoping to avoid and it’s his own fault. Why hadn’t he come here sooner or gone to Michael’s Bay instead? Why, in short, must he always be working against his own interests?

  Why indeed. Porter pretends not to notice George
Amer striding into the barn. Instead he makes like he’s fascinated by each individual kernel raining from the sack to such a degree that he doesn’t hear the greeting extended to him by Amer’s faithful farmhand Sam, who’s trailing behind his master like a tethered pony. But pretending can only take him so far.

  Amer stops abruptly, his back to Porter. “Been looking for you.”

  Porter knows this statement is directed at him even though Amer is facing towards a pegged harness on the opposite wall when he says it. Porter shrugs as if this isn’t news. “Nothing new in you looking for me or anyone else around here, I should think. You sussing out the locality of people whose locality you have no right to know is surely what you do best or so I’ve heard it told.”

  Amer grunts and speaks as if to himself. “Should’ve known I’d find you here on my very own property speaking your tiresome riddles.”

  He should’ve, but he didn’t, and that’s down to Porter swearing his kids and his wife to secrecy before he left his homestead because he knew if Amer were to come across him while his ire was still higher than the clouds there’d be demands, threats, or worse. So Porter devised a plan to outsmart his adversary by taking the back way to Amer’s barn and grinding his grain while Amer was out on the road looking for him. And it’d almost worked. If only he’d brought less wheat.

  Porter looks at Amer square. “There’s surely a lot of things you should’ve known, sir, but only a portion of which you actually do. I’m not at liberty to tell you what the rest of them are – nor am I inclined to tell you anything on any subject, if the truth be told – but keep poking around and you’ll surely find a few of them out on your own, I should think.”

  He looks down. Amer’s boots are so new the leather hasn’t yet been soiled or creased or scuffed and he can guess why. He’s heard the tales. Amer picked those boots up in Manitowaning this past week when he hiked up that way on some business no one seems able to name, but the rumours are thick. Some say he owns land up there under someone else’s signature. That’s likely true. There’s no lower creature on this island than a land speculator and there’s no lower creature on the island than Amer. It’s a perfect match if ever there was one, everyone says so, and yet no one can rightly say that Amer is the speculator he appears to be. If they could – if they were absolutely sure – the local men would’ve dealt with him in a way the law doesn’t allow for and Porter would’ve helped them. But actions such as that need irrefutable proof and they have none of that just yet.

  So Amer lives. And Porter must once again face him. “Well, sir, it shouldn’t be a surprise for me to be here in your barn when there’s no reason for me to believe I wouldn’t be welcome. You yourself have made it known to all and sundry that the liberty to use your grinder is open to every bush family regardless of standing. Unless, of course, you’ve had your fill of me. If that’s the case, sir, then say it straight and I’ll take my grain elsewhere middling fast.”

  There’s a little too much steel in Porter’s voice. He was going for confidence, but overshot his mark like a child on his first hunt. He knows it and so does his son, who visibly stiffens. “Keep your eyes on the grind like you know they should be. It’s best we not botch the flour this go ’round or your mother will surely entertain us both with one of her conniptions when we get home, mark my words.”

  John reluctantly complies. Porter attempts to pat the boy on the shoulder but misses. His mind is clearly elsewhere and that’s down to Amer, who has plucked a hammer from his workbench and is inspecting its hitting end. He raises the tool to his shoulder. “Got no issue with you grinding your grain. Makes no sense for one family to hoard resources that can best serve the entire community.”

  Porter digests what Amer has said. On the surface, it’s a noble thought. More noble than the man it came out of, but Porter senses there’s another shoe and it’s about to drop. He need not wait long. “You’re welcome to be doing what you’re doing so long as we can come to an agreement on the other thing.”

  John glances up from the wheel, his face awash in alarm. For pity’s sake, the boy need not worry so. Porter has everything under control, he’s certain of it, and if he’s wrong, well, he’ll get it that way. It’s a simple matter of manoeuvring. He shoots his son a look and the boy rightly averts his eyes. That’s more like it. Porter needs space to think. He hasn’t quite worked out how he’s going to handle Amer. He considers pretending he has no idea what his neighbour is talking about, but that would be like waving a red flag in front of a charging bull and, halfwit though he may very well be sometimes, he’s not halfwitted enough to do that. His best move is undoubtedly to deflect. “That reminds me, sir, I’ve been hearing talk that doesn’t spark a good mood. Eliza herself tells me you stormed up to my place this morning while I was out in the fields and made something of a nuisance of yourself. That’s not the sort of thing a man likes to hear when the sweat’s still on his back, so I’ll say this once and you’d best heed me: If you’ve got business with me then you take it up with me and not go bothering my wife with none of your nonsense. Eliza surely has enough on her plate without you coming around demanding answers she’s not likely to have on subjects she’s not likely to be thinking about, unlike some wives around here who spout opinions when none are needed.”

  That’s how you deal with a man like Amer. You stand up to him, showing him your spine and your teeth and then you pray he sees wisdom in backing down. Most of the time that’s exactly what happens. Most of the time.

  Porter has his doubts that’s how it will play out today, largely because Amer is gripping and re-gripping his hammer like a carpenter wondering which nail to hit first. Porter is guessing he’s the most convenient nail. He can almost feel the hammer smashing into his skull repeatedly and enthusiastically. First the thud, then the pain, then the everlasting blackness.

  Porter makes a quick calculation. He’ll stand his ground. So, inevitably, will Amer, who is staring at his hammer as if he too is making a calculation about the thickness of Porter’s skull or the reliability of the witnesses. Whichever it is, his adversary abruptly turns and nods. “Couldn’t have known Eliza was innocent of recent goings-on without seeking what she knows from her own mouth. Meant her no grief. Will be sure to apologize next time I see her.”

  There won’t be a next time, but Porter refrains from saying this. It’s best not to turn things too sour unless absolutely necessary. For one, the hammer is still locked in Amer’s hand. For another, it’s a mighty long walk down to the mill at Michael’s Bay. For the love of God, he hates that Amer has made himself so indispensable.

  Porter cusses softly as he shakes the last of the wheat from the sack and presses the limp burlap to John’s chest. The boy grabs it, shakes it, then slings it over his shoulder while Porter looks hard at the knife he’s about to use to slit open a fresh sack. It would be easy enough to put it to another use. Porter smiles to himself, wickedly, then points the tip at Amer’s chest. “There’s surely no decency in a man who sets about bullying a woman when he should be having words with her husband. We need to be clear on this, sir, or we’ll end up speaking opposites. Eliza herself knows nothing about the business of men and if I know my wife like a husband surely should, I’ve no doubt she herself told you as much when she backed you out the door.”

  Eliza most definitely did not. As his wife tells it, she’d just finished churning butter when Amer unceremoniously pushed through the kitchen door and started in with a barrage of questions. Eliza calmly pulled the plunger from the churn, pushed it dripping into Amer’s bloated belly, and marched him straight back outside, slamming the door behind him without saying so much as a single word.

  Eliza had laughed at her nerve.

  Porter’s reaction had been starkly different. What made Amer think he could storm into a neighbour’s home like that and start in on another man’s wife like she’s some common servant? Does he think he’s Porter’s master? Because he’s
no such thing. Porter owns his land, free and clear. He’s no tenant and he’s not subject to Amer’s rules or control. Does Porter really have to tell him as much to his face?

  Amer is closing in on Porter, the hammer locked in his fist. “She did make that clear in her own way. But you’re familiar with the subject of which I speak. Don’t tell me you’re not.”

  Porter looks down at his knife and scowls. As if it’s betrayed him by acting alone and unwisely. He lowers the weapon to his side and wills the steel back into his voice. “I’m no fool so far as I know. I surely did hear what you were inquiring about from Eliza herself and from my boys who were nearest to home when you came calling. So it’s to be rails this time, is it? Well, so be it. You, sir, can hear it from my own lips: I know nothing of your rails and as sure as the sun rises on this blessed island, I don’t want to know nothing about them neither. In future, you’ll be talking to me direct about that sort of thing and not dragging everyone in your path into the conversation.”

  Strong, confident and marginally threatening. Porter is pleased with himself and not in the least bit surprised when Amer responds with an attempt to stare him down. Porter stares back, knowing full well that could be bad for his health, but he couldn’t rightly call himself a man if he didn’t stand his ground against a tyrant. So he braces for a blow, but after bouncing the hammer in his hand a few times, Amer hurls it at the workbench. It smashes into the barn-board above the bench, then clatters to the floor.

  Porter doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. Neither does John nor faithful, dutiful Sam. They all stand stiff and silent and breathless. Then Porter grabs a sack of wheat and hoists it up onto his shoulder. He’s man enough to put an end to the tension if no one else is. Admittedly, that could mean taking a fist to the gut, but he’s primed. He slits open the sack and lets loose a torrent of grain. Stray kernels flicker through the air as John glances up, a question on his face, but he does not ask it and Porter mimes his assurance that everything remains under his control, although he himself is not so sure. He feels reckless. Somehow he’s managed to get himself locked in a battle of wills with a man for whom control is as vital as his heartbeat. That isn’t good. It may not even be survivable. Christ, how is he going to get himself out this mess?