The Magpie’s Tales - Origins

The West is a legend populated by those who did not fit in elsewhere, wandering

around the empty plain, ending their journeys bumped up against the Rockies.

Those inconvenient surplus sons and daughters with unconventional faith, social

outcasts, and displaced original people—in many ways, that legend holds true.

When the settlers came into this immense landscape, there were only two actual

boundaries—the Rockies in the West and Lake Winnipeg in the East—and the

ambiguous frontiers of up-north and down-south. All the territory in between was

called the North-West –and it is where the Magpie reigns.brand as a thought leader in your industry.

A short, stout, dignified gentleman, Farmer Davis followed his man

into the stable. It was true; half-buried in the hay, wrapped in an old horse

blanket, sleeping deeply, black hair sticking to a sweaty little face, lay a dirty,

ragged child.

Farmer Davis took his pipe out of his mouth and bent down for a closer

look. He peered at the little boy’s face and announced the obvious, “Ah well,

Matthew, right you are, there he be.” He stood up, put one hand to his chin,

rubbed it, frowned thoughtfully, and pointed the long stem of his white clay

pipe at the boy and asked, “Weren’t this boy with them drovers?”

“Oh aye, Mister Davis. Mind, they’d be long gone. What do you want to

be done with ‘em?”

Farmer Davis took a deep, full, contemplative breath, put his pipe back

into his mouth and paused to consider, but before he could decide on a course

of action, in bustled Mrs. Farmer Davis. Pushing aside the stable boy, Billy, and her husband for a better look,  she commanded, “For the love of God,

pick that child up and take him into the house—this instant! And fetch the

Doctor!”  Matthew quickly did as he was told. Scooping up the boy, he trotted

after his tiny, fierce mistress, and Arthur Davis demanded his horse.

William Davis looked every bit the prosperous gentleman farmer he aspired

to be, dressed as he was in an expensive brocade waistcoat, long duster coat,

and slouch-brimmed felt hat. Despite his fifty years of hard graft, William

was still a powerful man, ruggedly handsome, with thick, wavy black hair

that was only peppered with silver. His skin was fair, seemingly impervious to

the sun or wind; it neither burned nor tanned but remained constant. What

was unique about William was his eyes, the colour of which changed with his

mood, from grey to violet.

William frowned and squinted anxiously in the bright afternoon sun. He

fiddled with the talisman nestled in his waistcoat pocket that he relied on to

guide his fate. He took out the gold coin, caressed it, studied it, and flipped it

high into the bright blue sky, willing it to do right by him. Snatching it out of

the air, he slapped it into his open palm; he stared at it, frowning at the result.

Undeterred, William flipped the coin harder and higher, grabbing it from

the dusty air and smashing it into his palm; he covered it with his other hand.

He waited for a single long breath and several heartbeats before peering at it

again. “Mmmph,” he grunted and shrugged. What did it matter now? Putting

the coin back into his waistcoat pocket, he chose to disregard the outcome;

after all, he reasoned it was not infallible. Anyway, it was too late now; the coin

was tossed on today’s undertaking months ago.

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At the top of the embankment, the infinite landscape was domed by a brilliant

blue sky and hemmed with a cloud of swirling brown dust. The ground

throbbed with the weight of cattle and horses being pushed toward the stockyard.

The air vibrated with the heavy drumbeat of hooves and the deep lowing

of cattle, punctuated by high-pitched whistles, snapping whips, and the sound

of dogs yapping.

Charlie anxiously clung to his mother’s skirt; Walter stood apart, enthralled.

Jennie’s laboured breathing slowed; she covered her nose and mouth with her

handkerchief, her other hand shielding her eyes against the bright sun.

A heavy grey ceiling covered the landscape; light snow was falling, and

icy mounds of snow and frozen ponds peppered the cold plains. The railway

track, which would soon extend from Winnipeg to Fort Qu’Appelle, ended

abruptly with a pile of ties lying across the track to prevent a train engine

from sliding off the end. Beyond, a few hundred yards of railroad bed waited

for the spring thaw and construction to restart. The unfinished railroad was

an unfortunate obstacle for the Canadian Army moving to engage the rebels.

Stretched out along the rail line was a train of wagons in various stages of

readiness; most were pulled by slow-moving oxen, driven by teamsters, hard

local men dressed for the weather. Military equipment, crates of weapons,

tents, and sleighs were being unloaded from rail cars and loaded onto the

wagons. Heavy horses, mules, and officers’ mounts were pulled out of the

warmth of rail cars and into the cold spring mud. Soldiers formed up,

attempting to make ready to march, slipping and sliding in the muck.