Bone Coulee by Larry Warwaruk Read Free Book Online Page A

all certain where his vote lies, though Mac suspects that he might even be a closet socialist.
    Pete remains seated.
    “John has his diploma from the school of agriculture,” Abner says.
    “Organic farmer?” Nick asks. “They’re teaching that at the university?”
    “Not when the chemical companies fund the research,” Abner butts in. “What did Tommy Douglas say? ‘He who pays the piper call the tune?’”
    As much as he is tolerated by his coffee-row cohorts, even loved because of their lifelong friendships, his politics is something else. They mark Abner in the camp of organic, NDP, anti-nuke, pro- choice, supporter of gun-registration, vegetarianism, gay marriage, communism, and to some extent anything that reeks of anything government, anything beyond the municipal level, seeing that the Sask Party has been careful to choose its candidates from the rural culture.
    Pete looks at his watch. “Almost noon,” he says. “The wife will have soup on.”
    “Yeah, and I should be going,” Jeepers says. “Pleased to meet you, Johnny.” Sid follows them out.
    “Enough coffee for me,” Nick tells Tung Yee, and he covers his cup with his hand. Abner holds his cup out, and his hand shakes. “A cup for Johnny, too,” he says, his head shaking with a bounce not in rhythm with his coffee cup.
    “Abner taking you around this afternoon?” Mac asks Johnny.
    “No, I’m heading back to Fiske. Spending the afternoon in Bad Hills.”
    “Jen’s making him lunch,” Abner says.
    “After lunch, do you want to drive out to Bone Coulee with me, Abner?”
    “I could.”
    “Gotta find the right spot for the cairn, so I can tell the stonemason. It has to be finished in time for the fair.”
    “You go to that Indian place?” Tung Yee asks.
    “Why do you keep saying that? ‘Indian place’?”
    “Place for bones. Indian tents. Wagon ruts.” She picks up the coffee can and shakes it. “Place for your tower.”
    “I suppose it is an Indian place,” Mac says. With the NDP candidate sitting across the table, Mac wonders if he has heard any gossip about what happened in Duncan fifty-seven years ago. He’s no doubt after the Indian vote and would likely want to see Bone Coulee declared a heritage site. That might not even be a bad idea if it would lighten Mac’s guilt.
    What happened still tugs at him like a rope around his neck. Who even cared about Indians back then? They certainly wouldn’t have been hiring an Indian to teach art courses in Bad Hills. Back then it was a time of growth on the family farms. Farmyards were filled with young families crowding the one-room country schools. Now there’s talk of closing the school in Duncan because there are no kids. Duncan still has a fair, but it’s in the fall. It’s not the big baseball tournament, harness racing, Casey Shows midway on the fourth Saturday in June, like it was in 1950, a date that Mac would rather forget.
    After lunch, Abner joins Mac on the drive out to Bone Coulee. Mac appreciates the company, though it’s not a matter of a favour either way. They have kind of grown on each other over time. They know what to expect from one another. Each thinks in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way that the other is a fool, which somehow seems to strengthen the bond between them.
    “Ever see so many geese? Abner says. The fields are covered with snows and Canadas; thousands and thousands of geese. “It used to be ducks when we were young, and now it’s geese. What makes the change?”
    Mac wonders whether the same can be said for farming. The land’s the same land. Same air, same sun, same water, but the farming’s not the same. It’s getting so big that it doesn’t seem natural. Just as all these geese don’t seem natural.
    Sitting upright and slightly forward on the seat, with the bounce of Mac’s truck on the washboard road, Abner takes on the appearance of a goose. He’s got a long and skinny neck, and his head twitches. All Mac has to do is praise the