C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Increasing vehicular traffic in the area offered the first signs that construction had begun.
After many years of lobbying by the folks who lived on the southern side, the provincial and federal governments begrudgingly coughed up sufficient funding to build a bridge spanning the broad and deceptively swift Western River. Dubbed “The Western River Bridge Project,” an extravagance of four-by-eight foot, conspicuous billboards along the highway broadcast the joint effort and included propaganda for the political parties involved. An estimated two years with one hundred and fifty labourers would be required to complete the mammoth construction. The sudden influx of a hoard of workers, many of whom brought their wives and children, delivered considerable impact to the normally quiet district. Mobile homes by the score came to park in the riverside camping area near the site. Housing in neighbouring towns became impossible to find; the few travellers and peddlers normally passing through the area were unable to obtain accommodation in the local hotels. Urban economy enjoyed a definite upswing while rural folk were embittered by the intrusion.
Except for local spring run off in April, followed by the June flood from the arrival of Rocky Mountain break-up, the Western flowed at a moderate level, which in dry years could be reduced to a mere stream. Steamships had navigated this river system before the arrival of the Canadian Pacific Railway. People who lived anywhere along the Western's great length seldom referred to the watercourse by its geographical moniker. Because it is the only water of any significance for a very long distance, locals simply referred to the stream as 'The River'.
On the occasional 'flats' adjacent to the water, irrigation projects facilitated the production of alfalfa. However, the great majority of the rugged terrain along the south border of the Western had been fenced for cattle grazing as the imposing 'River Hills' were far too steep to permit cultivation.
Although the Miltos lived more than ten miles away from the route which led to the “Western River Bridge Project,” traffic in their vicinity also increased noticeably. The bulk of the vehicles appearing in the neighbourhood had a definite destination: Leonard Yeast's farm yard. Leonard's pretty daughter had caught the attention of the young men who toiled on the bridge, and though the lads worked hard on the project, they always had reserve energy for playtime at the end of the shift. Brenda Yeast enjoyed the energy and loved the attention. Robert Milto commented that the dust never settled on his neighbour's road.
However, not all of the traffic went to Leonard Yeast's farm. Many passers-by were simply out for a drive in their leisure time. They enjoyed touring down the numerous back roads and trails interconnecting the widespread agricultural community. Before construction, “foreign” vehicles had been very rare in the area, now the rural residents were inundated with strangers and sightseers.
As Milt trotted her horse home along the sand road one evening, an unfamiliar automobile topped a rise and bore down the narrow trail toward the young girl. With no room to avoid the vehicle, Milt hauled on the reins and dug in her heels in an effort to make Whiskey leap the steep bank bordering the trail. The big gelding quickly responded with a huge lunge that placed both horse and rider atop the ridge. Unfortunately, Milt did not have time to snatch a firm grip on the long, black mane of her bare-back mount. She slid off and tumbled into the sand, barking her head on a stout sage brush. The horse had barely cleared the bank when the truck whizzed by, swerving and skidding in the soft sand. As soon as the vehicle braked to a stop, two young men leaped from the cab and ran to the assistance of the girl now sitting up dazedly, half hidden in the sage brush. Her face had a few scratches and her nose dripped blood. She gently massaged a sore spot on her forehead that already promised to be a goose egg.
“Are you OK?” the driver asked anxiously. The stranger offered a hand to help Milt to her feet, but as he reached for the injured girl, a snarling, white and black streak of fury leaped over the sage, viciously clamping its teeth into the offending hand. Before the man could shake free, or even cry out in pain, the dog had released its grip and turned on the second intruder. “Chase!” Milt screamed as the angry collie drove the fellows back to their vehicle. Gaping holes in pants and blood stains appeared on the calves of both men as they fled the four-legged terror.
“Chase! Chase! Stop it!” Milt cried as the men scrambled into the truck, slammed the doors and sped off.
Whiskey trailed loose bridle reins as he returned to nuzzle his injured friend. Milt dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. The collie came trotting back after assuring himself that the vehicle had no intentions of returning. Milt felt too sore to scold the faithful dog and he sat down beside her, his tongue lolling out, a satisfied grin on his blood-flecked face. At the sound of another approaching vehicle, Milt looked up and spat, “More traffic.”
This automobile, however, was the familiar, navy blue '52 Chev of Benny Collins. The blond haired youth stared in astonishment as he coasted past. Rapidly turning the vehicle around at a pasture gate, Benny returned and parked as far to the right as the sand allowed. Bolting from the truck, he scrambled up the bank to join Milt. The girl noted that he had found his Stetson. “Did Ol' Whiskey pile you?” he asked. “I haven't seen you in the dirt for three years!”
Milt smiled through her pain, recalling the incident to which Benny referred:
One of the Collins' Hereford bulls had broken through the neighbour's fence to spend time with the Miltos' purebred Charolais heifers. Whiskey, still on the green side, wasn't proficient with handling docile cows, much less a determined bull. Milt wore out herself, her horse and the Hereford before the eighteen hundred pound bovine finally decided he'd had enough.
Unfortunately, when the bull had had enough he grew testy along with his stubbornness. Benny was just topping a rise, coming at a full gallop on his own horse, when the Hereford broadsided Whiskey, sending the young gelding to his knees and throwing the girl into the sage. The veteran mount that Benny rode bowled the bull over before it could do further damage. When the Hereford regained his feet, most of the fight had been knocked out of him. Benny pointed the bull homeward then returned to extract his young neighbour from the bushes.
Today the damage appeared more severe as the lad studied the bloody, scratched face and the darkening bruise on the girl's forehead.
“You hurt bad, Milt?”
“I'll be okay as soon as my nose stops bleeding,” Milt assured him in a non-too assuring voice.
“Can you stand up, er… or do you… er, want me to carry you? I think we better get you home right away, could be you got a concession.”
“I don't have a concussion, Benny, but I do have a headache. Could you help me on my horse?”
“Nope. You ain't ridin' that pony no more today. If you're able, we'll put you in my truck and I'll drive you home.”
“What about Whiskey?”
Without answer, Benny grasped the gelding's reins and led him to the parked truck. Securing the horse to the mirror bracket, he returned to assist his neighbour to her feet. Milt leaned on Benny's shoulder as he helped her to the truck and then seated her in the cab. Benny walked around to the driver's side of the pickup stopping at the rear to drop the tail-gate. He slapped his palm on the truck bed and said, “Hop in, Chase.” The collie needed no second invitation and bounded into the truck box.
Benny squeezed past the tied horse and, after unhitching, passed the reins through the open window of his truck, opened the door far enough to climb in and seated himself behind the wheel. He drew the door closed and, holding the reins loosely in his hand in case the horse should struggle, started the engine. The truck eased ahead and Whiskey followed along as the slack came out of reins.
“Well broke horse,” Benny said as the four companions moved slowly up the trail and over the rise en route to the Milto headquarters.
As the entourage emerged from the arched lane of Manitoba Maples, Constance Milto, Milt's pretty and youthful mother, espied the group from the garden where she had been pruning a huge rose bush. Upon seeing the riderless horse she dropped her shears and rushed over to the pickup, at the same time calling to her husband who was working on a piece of machinery across the yard.
The Milto's only child argued that she felt just fine but Mrs. Milto insisted that the girl be taken to town to be checked over by Dr. O'Brien. Robert Milto intervened saying, “Connie, we can't be running to the doctor every time someone has a scratch or a bump. Remember, Doc is a very busy man. Things aren't the same…” he checked himself. “We'll keep a close eye on her and make sure she stays awake just in case that goose egg is more than a bump.”
As Mrs. Milto led the girl to the house, Chase leaped over the side of the truck box and followed along. Robert Milto and Benny led the horse over to the corral where he was turned loose.
“Thanks for bringing her home, Benny.”
Benny shrugged, “That's what neighbours is for Mr. Milto.”
The young man could not accept Robert Milto's invitation for a cool drink, excusing himself that he had to check a windmill on their lease; his destination before discovering the battered Milt. “Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow to see how she's doing.”
Benny Collins did stop by the next afternoon. Except for scratch marks and a dark swelling on her forehead, the girl had recovered completely; it was Benny who had suffered a setback. The bridge crew had found Brenda Yeast and Brenda Yeast had forgotten Benny Collins.
Milt had never seen her perpetually happy neighbour in such a dejected mood and nothing she said would cheer the heartbroken lad. He blamed all his woes on the bridge. She was amazed that Benny had been the last to find out about Brenda's interest in the young men on the bridge gang. It seemed to Milt that everyone in the county had been talking about the busy road to Leonard Yeast's farm. Last evening, when Milt had told her parents about her spill and the subsequent heroic deed Chase believed he had performed, Robert Milto laughed and suggested that Milt lend her dog to Leonard Yeast for the duration of the bridge project
Milt gazed into the sad, blue eyes of her friend, “Don't worry Benny, everything will work out in the end. You and Brenda will be married someday and you'll have a whole bunch of babies.”
Benny shook his head miserably. “That danged old bridge, I wish it had never been started. I'd like to blow the whole thing up.”
…My Dad ran the ferry before they built the bridge across the Western River. We had a healthy respect for that stream as it has taken a lot of lives over the years, but it provided many an adventure for a lad growing up along the shore, living in the ferryman's house. I learned to fish, hunt ducks and paddle a canoe along that old river…
Submitted by Robert Harper Jr.
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