CHAPTER 49
Roughly fourteen hundred miles north of Cimarron, New Mexico, a town in Canada called Winnipeg experienced a sudden boom. Only their development occurred in 1811. It was propelled forward by a man named Thomas Douglas, a proud Scotsman and the fifth Earl of Selkirk. He had received a land grant of a hundred and sixteen thousand square miles just off the Red River basin. His intent was to refine a decades-old trading post, where two rushing rivers met. Douglas thought it to be "the perfect location for an agricultural settlement for retired Hudson's Bay Company employees."
Now in that fair town sits a young man at a bar in a very old pub. King's Pub, to be exact. Then and now, it is the oldest pub in town. He holds his beer mug up to his lips and mumbles something like, "Leave her alone. That's all I ask."
Though he sits at an empty bar, with no women in sight, he mumbles the phrase repeatedly, allowing the beer foam to tickle his mustache before he presses the cold brew to his lips and lets the sour ale swell in his cheeks before pushing it down. The glass empties, and so too do his scruffy cheeks. His pointy Scottish nose and rosy cheekbones echo the genetic mix of French and Scottish ancestry.
He adjusts his round glasses and squints his sapphire eyes. With one last swallow, he uses his black cotton sleeve to wipe beer foam off his mustache, and then holds up one finger.
"Hit me, Alfred," he says to a bald bartender polishing a stack of gleaming shot glasses. The fiftysomething man smiles, lifting the dark corners of a short, trim black mustache that matches the rim of his gleaming head. His white shirt, apron, and black tie identify his profession.
"Last one, W.H. I don't let my customers wobble out of here. It's bad for business," the bartender sternly warns, pulling a silver tap forward until the yellow liquid fills the glass to the rim. Foam spills over and empties onto the floor.
The glass liquor bottles behind the bartender vary in color, size, and shape, but they all seem to sparkle in the candlelight, enticing consumers with a hint of pixie power.
The only other patron at the bar is a large man in a red and black checkered flannel shirt. He turns so that he's facing W.H. "He's been callin' you 'W.H.' all night. What gives?" When the man looks back at his mug, scruff from his jawline catches on his shirt and leaves fibers in the bristle.
"That's his name," Alfred answers, picking up another glass and polishing it, even though it's clean.
The lumberjack adjusts his brown suspenders, which pull tightly on his khaki cotton trousers. He glances back at the scrawny fellow dubbed W.H. and shakes his head, obviously becoming more agitated at the sight of the scrawny man. A man who is on the cusp of being a handsome "pretty boy."
"What doncha get aboot it?" W.H. asks with a smile as his head wobbles back and forth.
"He's Alfred. I'm Little John. Doesn't seem fittin' to be usin' letters fer a name."
W.H. turns and stares at the man. For a long, uncomfortable moment, neither says anything to the other.
"He's known around these parts as 'Wolf Hunter,'" Alfred answers, mediating the tension between both men. He glances back and forth, keeping one eye on each, and lowers his hand for a short club.
"SWEET BISCUITS AND GRAVY, HA! HA! HA!" Little John, who is not at all little, laughs boisterously, slapping his bear-like paw to his bulging knee. Clouds of dust plume between each breath and mocking laugh.
"You…you're a wolf hunter? I'll be…What next, Injuns?"
W.H. gets up, exposing his Colt 1851 Navy six-shooter. It's a revolving, black powder pistol.
"Injuns run on up the river to trade. Everyone knows they slip right by Winnipeg," the bartender says, moving from the billy club to a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun.
The lumberjack sits upright, then manages a few more laughs at W.H.'s expense. He lifts his mighty mug and prepares to throw the contents in W.H.'s face if he reaches for his gun.
"I ain't afraid of a man with a gun. I've always been a fair fight kinda fella," Little John says, keeping his eyes on W.H. through the bartender's mirror.
W.H. looks down. "Ain't no fair fightin' with wolves, fella. There's only dead and alive."
W.H. reaches in his pockets and pulls out some crumbled bills.
"I'll be at the east end of the maple forest, where the rivers meet, tomorrow morning. Why don't you come see for yourself?" W.H. says as he turns and stumbles for the door.
"I might just do that. We'll be cuttin' some hard blond in that area. Usually start pretty early in the mornin'. Ain't heard no wolves, though. Shouldn't be hard to see you catch a snipe."
"He ain't goin' on a wild-goose chase. If W.H. is there, you better believe wolves are in the area," Alfred says, with a respected brow raised.
"Sure, sure, ol' man. Wolves as big as polar bears! Can't wait to see 'em!"
Author's note: Wasn't that wedding beautiful? Funny thing about the living, for everything created, there seems to exist a predator. Except for man of course, man preys upon man. I learned this here in Reggio Calabria. I'm here working on a film. At the National musuem, I learned that Greece had expanded to a point where resources became scarce. In order to preserve their nation, colonizers sailed across the ocen and landed on the heel of Italy's boot. Here the Greeks erected temples. Mined resources. Built walls. Eventually, they bump into Rome. Why am I telling you this? America's story is very similar. Pilgrams colonized East coast America. Greeks prey on Romans, or mayber vice versa. Indians prey on Pilgrams, or maybe vice versa. All men prey on animals. But what if a man becomes an animal. What happens when men and men who are animals meet? Read on to find out.