United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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The Kid had driven a swing the winter before. He was smart and he had nerve. He knew some of the dangers and some of the tricks now, and men are scarce in the north. But this was the first time he had bossed a swing himself. It belonged to his cousin at Big River a couple of hundred miles farther south. It was a good outfit, almost new, the best he had ever operated. He whistled above the rattling of the diesel. The snow ahead was clean and unbroken. There was no trail, only the endless, heaving drifts of blue-tinted snow and the shore line that dropped farther away by the hour. He pointed the cat at an island rising out of the whiteness far ahead and relaxed. The ice would be safe for the first few miles. He wished he didn’t have the ’Breed along. Still, he had to have someone, and he knew that Joe wasn’t much good any more. For one thing he was afraid of the ice. He took the job because he needed a little money to keep his squaw, the Cree he lived with now, from leaving him. She would likely leave him any¬ way, the Kid decided; they nearly always did. But still, he had to try. There was still that much white man left. He spat into the snow beside the slow- moving, bumping cat. At least Joe would be easy to handle. The caboose was six feet wide and ten feet long. There was a little oil stove in the middle and a bunk on one side. On the other side there was a table fixed to the wall, and a bench. The ’Breed was heating a can of beans on top of the stove. Joe was staring downward at the dirty wooden floor and the little pool of water which rolled back and forth with the swaying of the sleigh. “Long trip, eh Pierre?” “Uh-Huh.” He stirred the beans with a greasy spoon and started to eat. “You going to take the next shift, Pierre?” His voice was diffident. The ’Breed nodded and went on eating. Joe was a squaw man, a fool, a white man who got drunk on perfume and shaving lotion like an Indian. It was alright for a ’Breed or an Indian, but not for a white man. If white men did that, they were no good. And there were other things too. The ’Breed didn’t bother to answer any more of his questions and after a while he shut up. Towards noon they crossed a low, sandy point which stretched far out into the lake. The trail across it was good. The Kid geared the cat down and it pulled the full train across. The tracks slipped in the packed snow and kicked up bits of sand and drift¬ wood, but they made it. He laughed aloud. It was almost as though he, and not the cat, had done the job. “Making good time, Sandy point already,” Joe remarked. The ’Breed didn’t answer. “Yessir, making damn good time. Damn good time.” He subsided into silence once more and began to cough. After a while the train stopped abruptly. The ’Breed got out and walked to the front. “We’ll have to stop at four o’clock to fuel up. Keep her in fourth gear as much as you can and push the snow away with the dozer blade if the banks are more than a couple of feet deep. If you need any help call me.” The Kid turned to go, then paused. “And don’t take any chances on poor ice.” “I drove cat swing before.” He scowled. The Kid went back to the caboose, and the swing moved on again. “Do you think that ’Breed is any good Joe?” “Well, I don’t know.” He didn’t like the ’Breed either. He was a big shot in the village and he threw his weight around. “Now you take these ’Breeds around here, mostly Crees like him. Some of them is okay, but mostly not. You know what I mean.” He stabbed a tobacco-stained thumb in the direction of the cat. “He might be okay, he might not. You can’t tell about them. Like I say, you can’t tell about them. ” He didn’t often get a chance to talk to a white man like this any more. They disregarded him as though he too, were only a native. And to the Indians he was a white man who was of no more use. He was an outcast—a fact which he had long ago discovered but even now, refused to recognize. He wandered on aimlessly for a few more minutes before he surrendered to silence. The Kid was eating a cheese sandwich and a can of sardines. Already the caboose smelled of diesel fuel. “Did you ever see him get into many fights?” “Sometimes. Yeah, quite a few times. He’s a strong one, that’s for sure. Just like a moose. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him myself. Not me. He’s a strong one.” The Kid stared at the floor. He wasn’t surprised. Still, he was confident that he could keep the ’Breed in a position where he wouldn’t dare get ugly. After all, he was a lot smarter than a ’Breed. He stretched out on the bunk and made a cigarette. Joe cut a slice from his tobacco plug and watched the Kid. It started then. He tried but he couldn’t stop it. He had no choice but to remember. There had been other Kids like him, not the same one, but still the same type. Any one of those he had known could have been this one. And he had sneered at them. They had been beneath him, rough types, not stupid, but ignorant. He had been pleasant enough then, when he had been forced to meet them. They had even looked up to him, an engineer, a man with his papers. He earned a lot of money and that was what counted for them. But that had been a long time ago. A very long time. The Kid was the boss now. Darkness had fallen and the snow was beginning to drift down out of the night. It was four o’clock, the swing stopped abruptly. The Kid had been dozing on the bed. As he pulled his parka over his head and tied his moccassins he heard the cat pull along side of the caboose. The ’Breed was coming back for fuel. He went out on the platform. The cat was sitting idle at full throttle and the ’Breed was stand¬ ing beside it making a cigarette. “Idle it down!” he yelled over the uneven throb of the engine. The ’Breed apparently didn’t hear him; 11

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The sun was cold and beautiful on the snow and the red roofs of the buildings. It’s always more beautiful back north when it’s cold, especially in the mornings. The trading post and the outbuildings had low, flattish gables and white walls. They huddled together in the sparkling sunshine, back a little from the edge of the lake and behind them the trees were dark green, almost black. Smoke curled up from the rusty stove pipes of the native shacks into the blue, frosty air. Even the snow was blue from the shadows of the low sun. Here and there a native padded from one shack to another over the twisting trails of the village. A tractor train was pulled up in front of one of the buildings. Smoke puffed lazily from its exhaust. There were three sleighs loaded with freight and a caboose behind. They seemed far too big and bulky for the chunky little diesel in front of them. It stood hardly higher than the shoulders of the men beside it. There were two of them, and another came out from the building and joined them. There was the Kid. He was a big kid, about twenty maybe, with thick blond hair which needed cutting, and when he talked he had a Swedish accent. He was a strong boy with happy little wrinkles around his eyes. He was the boss; for the first time he was in charge of his cat-swing. He was a very big kid, almost a man. And then there was Joe. He wasn’t so big. He swore a filthy, grease-stained parka with a ragged sleeve and moccassins with the beads coming off. He was second man on the swing and he didn’t like it. The Kid was too young to be boss, and the ice was inore than likely poor. Besides, it was too cold. It was alnjost always too cold. And a hundred and eighty miles is a long, long way when the weather is cold and you have to ride a tractor. He coughed half¬ heartedly and spat into the snow. It left a little yellow patch with red dots. He tramped on it with his moccassin and looked to see if either of the others had noticed. He had been a white man once. And there was the ’Breed too, but he didn’t matter. They were taking him because they couldn’t find any¬ body else for third driver. He was big too, bigger than the Kid because he was fatter. He had a dull, sullen face split by a scar which traced itself down an oily, half-bearded cheek and lost itself under his collar. His parka hood was down, flapping around his shoulders. “Put the fire on in the caboose,” the Kid said. The ’Breed nodded his head at the smoke which rose from the chimney. He said nothing. The Kid shrugged. He didn’t like the ’Breed and he was a little afraid of him. He didn’t understand him. One year of living with them wasn’t enough. “Is everything ready to go, Joe?” “Yeah, everything’s ready. I guess everything’s ready to go.” He always repeated everything now. “Let’s go then.” He hoped that Joe and the ’Breed couldn’t see that he was nervous. The ’Breed watched, his face was expressionless. The Kid climbed into the swingbox, the little open- topped canvas cab on the cat. He would have liked to take the swingbox himself when they left the village. It isn’t often that a halfbreed rides the swing- box. But he said nothing and followed Joe back to the caboose. Before they were inside, the last sleigh lurched into motion, the diesel stink of the cat drifted back, and the runners squealed and creaked in the frosty snow. They moved out onto the lake where the drifted snow was blue and marked with black patches and streaks of bare ice. A cat is an ugly machine. This one was small, small enough to travel on the ice and big enough to pull the sleighs through the snow on the lake or a river. It wasn’t quite big enough to pull them when they had to leave the lakes and cross by way of rough portages to another water shed or go around rapids and poor ice. There was never quite enough power then. Even its movements were ugly. When it turned, it turned abruptly with its steel tracks squealing in the snow. It started with a jerk and a heave, and when it stopped, it stopped fast. Grease-stained canvas shielded it from the radiator to the drawbar to hold a little of the heat of the engine around the driver. The cab was open at the top. When a cat breaks through the ice it breaks through quickly, not like a truck or a snowmobile, and the driver has no time to open any doors. And sometimes there isn’t even time to jump. 10

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he went on making his cigarette. The Kid jumped off the sleigh, climbed quickly into the cat and cut the throttle back. The diesel slowed to a steady rattle. “Don’t you know enough to slow it down when you get off?” The ’Breed looked at him and said nothing. He was beginning to dislike the Kid. He had too much to say, and he gave too many stupid orders. Likely didn’t know much either. He fished in his pocket for a match. He had driven cat-swing before, three times now, maybe as much as the Kid. “Get the funnel.” He brought the funnel which sat between two of the fuel barrels. He was banging the snow out of it with the palm of his hand as he walked back to the cat. “And clean the snow out of it. We don’t want any fuel trouble. Especially with the kind of drivers I’ve got.” He finished in a tone just loud enough for the ’Breed to overhear him. Joe came out of the shack. He was coughing in the cold air. He called it asthma. He watched the snow sifting down through the headlights of the cat. He didn’t want to know that he had T.B. Nothing could be done for it anyway. And he didn’t want to leave and go to a hospital. He shivered in the light breeze. “It’s a bad night.” No one paid any attention. “It’s not a good night for travelling.” He was standing on the sheltered side of the cat. His voice was rough when he raised it over the noise of the motor. “It’s a bad night,” he repeated. “Yeah,” the Kid said. Actually it was a pretty good night. “I drive all night for you Joe, you pay me your wages.” The ’Breeds voice conveyed nothing. Joe cursed inwardly. Even the ’Breed knew that he was frightened. And it would go on for maybe ten days yet. Maybe even more if they had trouble. He closed his eyes a moment and forgot about it. Maybe something would happen. “I’ll drive it,” he said. “Just kind of cold, that’s ■all. And my asthma bothering me.” The ’Breed and the Kid paid no attention to him. “Damn miserable thing.” Still they paid no attention. He coughed again, self-consciously. The cat was fueled and greased and back ahead of the train. The Kid and the ’Breed disappeared toward the caboose. The cat bumped into gear and moved out into the snow and the night. Its lights faded out a few yards ahead. There was no trail, only the lake, and somewhere ahead a couple of islands to go between and then a portage. He knew the road well; he had been across it often. The tracks rattled monotonously and the engine drummed and throbbed under the canvas. The little tractor heaved itself over the hard-packed drifts and ridges of the ice and fell heavily on the front of its tracks, jolting and jarring its way along. The cold and the darkness and the snow were everywhere, a blue-black, white- flecked emptiness that moved backward past the lights. The cat seemed not to move ahead at all, but to rest like a cork bobbing on the ripples of snow. He began to count the hours and minutes until his shift was through. He had long since learned not to live from day to day; it was not enough. He lived now from bellyfull to bellyempty, the same as the natives. Only they weren’t alone as he was. And the feeble hatred that had once been so strong and which had grown weaker year by year was directed tonight at the cold, the snow, the cat, and at the ’Breed who knew that he was afraid. The sleighs swayed through the snow and the miles fell behind. He wished he was back in his cabin with his squaw. She probably despised him the same as the others and she smelled of fish and stale sweat and dirty clothing; he had never been able to get used to that, the smell of her. But at least she was there. The wind shifted until it was almost directly on his face. He sank lower in the seat. He couldn’t see so well slouched down. He wondered if the others were asleep in the caboose. For more than two days they crept along with a steady persistence that ate away at the monotonous distance. It snowed almost continually, and the portages grew heavier and heavier. Cracks and pressure ridges in the ice were covered with a thick shroud so that every hour the chance of breaking through was greater. As Joe faced the endless, meaningless white that spread away on all sides, he could feel only the black, gurgling water underneath. He grew sullen and spoke only when the Kid or the ’Breed asked him a question. The Kid was afraid of losing the swing. And he was never confident with either of the others driving. His sharp words only fanned the growing hatred of the ’Breed. The Kid chewed him out for letting snow get into the fuel even when it was unavoidable. And if there was nothing to be found for which to blame him, he would invent something. He grew more accustomed to him and at the same time to picking on him. And even then, after so many warnings, the ’Breed refused to slow the motor when he stopped. When the Kid stopped the cat the throttle and the clutch moved together, and the motor died from a throaty roar to an easy rattle even as the tracks stopped moving. It grated on him to hear the uneven roar of an engine running empty at full throttle. It was a small thing to the ’Breed but not to him. And Joe stuck with the Kid and looked down on the ’Breed, even made a fool of him when the Kid was around. But he was afraid of him. It was on the evening of the third day that the real trouble began. There was a long portage, twelve or thirteen miles through the bush from the end of a chain of lakes across the gravel ridges and the rocks and down into a valley to a river which would eventually lead them to their destination. It had been snowing for two days and with what had fallen earlier more than three feet of it lay soft and loose along the portage, hiding the rocks and stumps. They reached the shoreline of the lake just as the sun set. The Kid took the cat himself and started across to clear the way with the dozer. He left the sleighs and the caboose behind. There was a little snow falling, small flakes no bigger than a pinhead 12