The Mountie Quinn - The Last Best West

It was midmorning when Wasey woke to the smell of coffee. He rolled over and his arm hit his Winchester. Quickly looking about he saw Born With A Tooth asleep in his bedroll and Cade gone from his.

Wasey pulled his boots on and grabbed his rifle as Cade slid into the glade to Wasey's right. "There a problem?"

"Nope. . .everything's as right as rain. . .I was just havin' a look 'round while the coffee perked."

Cade walked over to the fire and took the bubbling pot from the coals and set it to the side to simmer down. "The boy woke me about an hour ago. . .there's a big bank of storm clouds to the north, sunken a couple hundred miles behind the mountains. If it's comin' this way, I reckon we got maybe six to eight hours before it's on us."

"Well, let's have some of that coffee and a smoke or two and then we'll git goin'."

Cade was the best Wasey ever saw at guessin' the weather. Most men have a knack for somethin' and for Cade it was judgin' the weather. Wasey quickly rolled two cigarettes and after lighting one, he stuck the other behind his ear. Pouring a coffee, he walked back to his bed roll and tied it together.

Walter Born With A Tooth slept blithely on, while Cade joined Wasey and the two men smoked and drank coffee as they methodically packed all the mules and horses. They had quite the herd to move, and after they tied Boucher onto his sad lookin' nag, they roused Walter Born With A Tooth.

"Come on Walt, there's a storm blowin' in and we want to get as far down the trail as we can." Wasey watched with amusement as the young Indian bounced out of his blankets and looked ready for flight. "Sorry boy, didn't mean ta startle you, but yer should've woke one of us earlier. Now throw some water on yer face, get yore gear together, and grab a coffee, 'cause we're movin' out in ten minutes.

"Hey Cade! Know what a double date in Australia is?"

"No mate, what's that?"

"Two cowboys on a horse!"

Cade spewed out a sip of coffee and sputtered, uncontrollably, for several moments. "Fair dinkum Wasey, I don't know where you get these jokes, but you can sure make me laugh."

"Great." Wasey deadpanned, "I live to make you laugh."

"As well you should," the Aussie agreed, "I am the hub of the wheel, I am the center of the universe, I am. . . ."

Wasey cut in dryly, "Full of shit."

"That may be," Cade laughed, "but it's my shit."

He walked over to Davey Otter and untied the prisoner. "Git over by your horse." Otter didn't move fast enough, so Cade gave the man a hearty kick in the ass. "Bloody oath! If you moved any slower, you'd have to hurry up to stop." He soon had the outlaw's feet tied under the belly of the horse. "Better stay alert, Davey. Lose yore balance and you'll roll right under the horse and get yore brains kicked in!"

They left the glade with Cade leading the way and Wasey bringing up the rear. The sun stood high above as they connected with the main path to the town site, and picked up the gait. They made good time until late in the afternoon when the first snow flakes of the storm stirred the breeze. Soon the wind picked up and the snow became thicker, making progress slicker and trickier.

Wasey reined in and looked behind. A fine dusting of snow lay upon the land, silhouetting two riders on the horizon north of them. He'd noticed them about an hour before, and every time he'd checked they were a little bit closer, doggedly pursuing them and not caring if they noticed.

With a small herd of mules, furs and dead bodies, this outfit wasn't goin' to set any speed records, and those men closin' on their heals were traveling light. He pulled out his collapsing telescope and sighted on their pursuers, who were pushing forward at a brisk pace. They'd be on them in less then half an hour.

"Ah ha," Wasey exhaled and handed the telescope to Cade. "Doesn't that look like a scarlet tunic under that rider's winter coat?"

The Aussie fixed an eye to the telescope. "I can't tell, it's too damn dark." Cade collapsed the instrument and handed it back. "We may as well pick out a camp and make a fire, let them catch us when we're ready."

Wasey grunted his approval, then nudged Socrates off the path and into a small clearing. He got Davey Otter tied up to a tree while Cade made a fire. The two riders would be getting close by now, so Wasey dissolved into the forest to await them. He found a good spot behind some deadfall and waited patiently while the snow got thicker.

Soon the clip-clop of hoofs filtered through the air, betraying the riders approach. Still beyond the fires glow, they dismounted and while one man held the reins the other strode into the camp, a carbine loose in his right hand. The man closed to within a few feet of Cade. His striped pants and scarlet tunic were unmistakable in the glow of the fire.

Pushing his cap back from his forehead, the man glowered at Cade from underneath his bushy eyebrows. "Well Cade McCord this be funny company yer keepin'!" The Mounties Scottish brogue rumbled from his throat. "An Indian tied up, one runnin' free and a corpse over by that tree, if I don't miss my guess." He motioned to Walter Born With A Tooth. "Step over here, lad, so I can keep a wee eye on you."

The Indian walked closer to the fire, while Cade stayed where he was, his finger on the trigger of the pistol inside his coat pocket. "Damn good to see you too, Quinn. Must be a hell of an emergency ta pull you away from yore soft life in Fort Saint John."

"I see the years haven't made you any more charmin', McCord. Aye, if yer here, then that scalawag, Wasey Bruce, must be skulkin' 'round close by."

"I'm right here, Gordon." Wasey answered. Quinn was the Mountie who replaced him in Fort Saint John, when Wasey was transferred to Calgary. He uncocked his rifle and made his way through the trees to the fire. Quinn walked to greet him and they gladly shook hands.

"Well Gordon, you've filled out." Wasey laughed, "Maybe yer spendin' too much time at the Fort, like Cade said!"

"Aye. And maybe if the two of yee had been born Scottish yee'd have turned out smarter!" Quinn's tired laugh was no less sincere. "This man here is my tracker and scout, Joe Evason."

Wasey shook the man's hand while Quinn continued, "Call it a feeling; but I think what we've been chasing, you've got tied up over there." The Scotsman motioned toward the corpse. "Who's that wrapped in the tarp?"

"Pig Face Boucher, and we've got Davey Otter tied up over there."

"So Pig Face Boucher has finally been purged! Aye, that's a good bit of news, and next is Davey Otter." Gordon Quinn yelled at Otter, disgust and anger edging his voice. "One of those trappers you shot two weeks ago lived. I dinna ken what makes a man murder another in cold blood. Davey Otter, you'll swing for sure."

Wasey was hardly surprised to hear this bit of news. "So Walt, you and yer partner weren't the first trappers these buggers waylaid."

"Ache, not on your life," Quinn agreed, "these murdering buggers have been at it for a while now." Wasey listened to his friend, all the while scrounging in his pack for last nights bottle. With a final tug he pulled it free and after a quick swig he handed it to Quinn.

The Mountie received the bottle gladly, "Aye, a stories always better with a wee bit of inspiration. . . ." He had a quick gulp and then with a bleak laugh he handed the bottle to McCord, "Let's get some supper. . .I'm hungry enough to eat the fur off a grizzly bear!"

"Gordon, yer in for a treat." Wasey informed the Mountie, "Young Walt here is quite a cook. Pig Face liked his cookin'so much, he kept the lad alive just ta do it. I'm sure Mister Born With A Tooth can have us a nice supper goin' in no time."

Before Wasey even finished, Walter was pulling pots and containers out of his pack. "If dis is da last night on da trail let me see what you men have fer food and I will make da best dat I am able."

"That's a deal, Walt," Wasey replied. "Come on Gordon and you too Cade give up yer grub and let Walter make us a feast. Then I reckon we should throw up a wind break."

The snow was falling fat and thick by this time so the men pitched in and strung a couple of ropes between two trees. Then they stood a whack of freshly cut spruce and cedar against the ropes to form a shelter from the howling wind. The night was cool, but not cold and now that the fire could burn unabated the glade was nice and warm.

Walter had a pot of coffee made in no time; keeping the men happily sipping away as they waited for supper. The young Indian produced another fine stew and instead of biscuits he made some Welsh cakes, which all the men agreed were just about the tastiest morsel they'd digested in many a month.

"Welsh cakes, I canna believe it," Quinn asserted. "They're likely Scottish cakes, yer just have the name wrong, lad."

"All I know is my friend, Bill Anderson, taught me about cookin' and Welsh cakes were da first ding he showed me. Bill said dere weren't a person born could eat only one Welsh cake. It's what was cookin' da morning dey came. . . ."

"Tell us how it happened, lad."

"It was like, maybe a dozen times before. A couple of men walk into camp, friendly as can be. Even gave me some salted ham ta fry up with breakfast. Ol' Bill and dem just talk about nuthin special and den after breakfast Pig Face asked me if I did all da cookin'. I said yes and dat man pulled out a gun and shot Bill in de ear and kilt him."

"Aye, it's the same thing that happened to those other two trappers." Quinn poured himself some more coffee. "I'm sorry for your loss Walter, sounds like Anderson was a good friend to you."

"Yes sir he were."

Wasey munched on his last Welsh cake and thought ahead to all the things he needed to do when they got back to Peace River Town. It would be a very busy spring and summer and he was anxious to get started. The faster things were put in motion, the better it'd be.

"Canna ask yee a question?" Gordon Quinn sat a few feet away filling his pipe for his after supper puff.

"Of course, pard." Wasey looked at how the young Mountie moved and held his head. The brown eyes were deep and intent. The four years of policing the wilderness had drawn their measure of Gordon Quinn.

"I'd like it if you would accept your old rank back."

Wasey shook his head, adamantly. "Not a chance Gordon, I've been out of the force for mor'n a year. I have other plans."

"Now just a minute Wasey, let me finish." Quinn took a puff from his smoldering pipe and continued. "I want you and me to form a quorum and pass judgement on Davey Otter. There would be no second guessin' our decision. Yer a good damn man Wasey, respected by all, and the Northwest Mounted Police were lessened when you left.

"Yee know as do these other men, that Otter is a dirty, thieving, murderer and not worth the effort to try him. Yee'd be a Mountie for only as long as it took to render a reasonable decision, then we'd hang him."

Wasey looked at the set lines of Quinn's face. The law said that two Mounties could form a quorum to speed justice along, but he wasn't interested. "Yer makin' me squirm, Gordon." Wasey smiled, graciously. "It's comfortin' to know that I'm so well thought of, but, I have no interest in this rough justice yer proposin'."

"What about me you blokes?"

Wasey laughed like hell at the comical figure of Cade, with his stomach pushed out, one shirt tail hanging out, and his pants hanging so low you could see the crack in his ass.

"I've already been a scout, yer can both see I'd make a damn good Mountie! I'm with you Gordon, string Otter up and let God sort it out!"

Quinn laughed along with the parody. "Aye, you be a funny man Mister McCord. Now, if only yee were Scottish."

"Well mate," Cade laughed derisively, "then I'd be half as tall."

Quinn winked at the Aussie, "Aye, but you'd be twice as clever!"

Wasey lit his freshly rolled cigarette and roared, "Listen, you pair of coyotes, we're half a day from town. Let the magistrate deal with Davey."

"It'll take weeks to render justice on that ," Quinn argued, "only to hang him, regardless. . . ."

"That may be," Wasey agreed, "but at least it'll be handled by a judge. . .come on Gord, put those vengeful thoughts away."

"All right Wasey," Quinn sighed, "I guess yore right, but if yee'd seen those dead trappers, yee'd not be so compassionate. . . ."

"I never said two words about compassion," Wasey answered. "Davey Otter's bought a ticket on the necktie express, but a court'll pass sentence, not us."

He stood up and got some more coffee. "There's one thing I don't understand Gordon. Otter said somethin' last night about him and Boucher headin' off fer the Yukon. Why the blazes would two lazy mecs like them undertake such a long, dangerous journey to the high north?"

"Gold." Gordon Quinn tapped his pipe on his palm. "Word trickled out in January that back last August a big gold strike was made on the Klondike River, in the Yukon. They say the wee nuggets are so thick you can scoop them right out of the stream bed with yore hands."

"Fair dinkum," Cade laughed, "you don't really believe that do you mate?"

"Listen laddie, it's likely a damn sight more profitable then being a Mountie - isn't that right Wasey?"

"Yer right Gordon, the pay of a Queen's Mountie is not very much." Wasey agreed, "But it's better than punchin' cows and a damn sight more steady then pannin' fer gold in some unknown stream. Besides, yer get to wear them snappy red tunics!"

The men kept amusing themselves as they set up their bed rolls and cleaned up the camp. Not much later they all settled into their beds and the talking petered out.

The moon was a little fuller in the night sky as Wasey listened to the rhythmic breathing of the men. He closed his eyes and absorbed the sounds of the night, at peace with himself. He wanted to forget winter's hand and after tonight it would be much easier. No more trapping. No more cold beds, without his wife beside him. Wasey yawned and rolled onto his stomach.

Sleep was being elusive as his thoughts kept returning to Quinn's words about the gold strike in the Yukon. Three years ago his old friend, Jim O'Day, had left with a group to do a survey of the Yukon River. . .he yawned sleepily. . .if Jim was still in that wild territory, his old scout would be in the thick of the gold strike for sure. His thoughts became jumbled as he fell asleep, a picture of Jim O'Day, knee deep in a stream, the last thing drifting through his mind.

This is an excerpt from Chapter Two of The Last Best West by Longfellow Deeds. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means. Please contact us at for further information or assistance.

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