The Indian and The Cowboy

By John Jamieson

Myrya Blackstone, an orphaned aboriginal, is a brilliant mathematical student who arrives at a First Nations Reserve.  Beaten up and driven off the reserve, she is rescued by a young construction worker and reluctantly takes a cook's helper job at a nearby pipeline company, hiding her academic background.

Myryra's work ethic transforms the construction workers' bigoted attitudes to 'Indians' and she gains support when young men from the reserve continue to attack her. She exacts revenge on her attackers using wasps with comical results. After more attacks on her, she sneaks back to the reserve and uses an improvised explosive and white phosphorous to destroy a car with humourous results. Her revenge escalates to using eggs of Ascaris summ, a pig nematode, to attempt a serious infection of her antagonists. But her best conceived plans show the unpredictable effects of revenge. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Jamieson
• Release date: Jul 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223561835

Book preview

Chapter 1 Seeking

The teepee, isolated on the edge of community, surrounded by tall trees, could not be seen from cabins in town. Two large wooden frames near the teepee held tightly stretched moose hides, drying in the bright sun. A pile of chopped wood sat at the side of the teepee. The conical frame of an uncovered teepee stood in the distance with the support poles tied at the top. A ring of rocks with a mound of ashes sat in front of the teepee. Beyond the teepee, a community cemetery, dominated by scattered white picket fences, sat surrounded by unmaintained tall grass.

Myrya cautiously approached the skin teepee. She reached out and touched a real teepee for the first time. It was sensuous. She ran her fingers down the hard leather covering. She took a deep breath and looked into the sky. A thin streak of smoke drifted from the top of the teepee. A hawk high above screeched. People advised her that this place was necessary for her. Toronto could never provide this. She cautiously pulled back the flap.

May I come in? She gently pulled a flap and peeked inside.

An elderly woman with long grey braids, wearing a leather vest with long fringes, poked a stick at a smoldering fire in the centre of the teepee. The flames jumped up and sparks crackled. Come in, girl.

Are you Mrs. Pellisier?

The elder sat cross-legged on a piece of caribou hide. She briefly glanced at the young arrival. I’ve been in the bush. Back yesterday. I heard that there was a city Indian who wanted to meet me. You call me Elisapee. And I call you?

Myrya pulled her black hair forward over her chest. She knelt down and put her knees onto a floor-bed of spruce branches. Myrya Blackstone. She stared at the small fire. I just got into town a few weeks ago.

Why me?

Myrya lifted her eyes to a moose skin stretched high above the smoldering fire that diverting smoke around it. Well, this is one reason. I never had a chance to live in a real First Nations’ community. And everyone says, go see Elisapee and learn from her. She paused. May I sit down with you?

Elisapee motioned with her hand to the ground. You Ojibwe?

Yes. Kind of Ojibwe. I was— Myrya was interrupted by the elder.

I’m not that smart. Elisapee pulled a bowl of dough closer. Why do you want to learn Indian stuff? You’re a city Indian. You know the white man’s life. Elisapee seized a handful of dough and rolled it in her hands. She grabbed a stick of green wood and shoved a cylinder of dough on the stick. You like bannock?

Yes. She moved closer to the fire. My parents were Ojibwe, but I was moved between foster parents. I ended up with a couple who really wanted to learn the ways of the past, but never could make it happen. Too busy.

Elisapee pulled on her long grey braids, shifted them back over her shoulders and placed the stick of raw dough on a stand over the fire. Our ways have gone. Young people don’t know the language, don’t hunt, and don’t sew. Even I don’t know things from my mother. My husband, Wilson, knows the land good. I know teepees. Together we survive. No money in being an Indian.

That’s why I came here. Something inside me is missing. A deep hole that I can’t fill.

A hole! The last hole I saw they were putting a body in it. A suicide hole. It is not easy being an Indian. Go to the cemetery and read the dates of birth—then death. Too many young people die early. She rotated the stick of bannock over the fire and grabbed another handful of dough. After a long pause, You have a job?

Well, yes and no. I go to school in Toronto. But I have a few months off. I’m staying with Ed. He’s my half brother, at least that’s what my research with social service and child adoption said.

You stay in that cabin with his brothers? Elisapee took her gaze off the fire and looked at Myrya. You be careful girl. Bad medicine in that cabin.

Yeah, I know what you mean. But Mary Ann—she’s my friend, said that I was to go to her place, right next door if the boys are drinking. I’ve been to her place for two nights already.

You have a medicine?

What?

A Spirit. A protector—your medicine. It protects you. You treat it with big respect. Indians must have a medicine. Wilson has a bear. I have a mountain goat. And you have, what?

I’ve heard of it before through books. But if I had one when I was adopted, I don’t know about it now. Can I get a medicine? Can you help me? I am Ojibwe so I must have a medicine. Is there a way?

Elisapee stood and touched the moose skin above her head. Wilson shot this moose last week. It was far in the forest. Hard to get out. I am getting old and my hands are difficult to work the hide. The smoke will make the hide nice to work. You work with hides?

No. I wish.

Elisapee pushed at the hide that hardened under the effect of the smoke. This hide has to be soften by working bone over it. I am only here for a few days. We’re getting supplies and going into the bush for maybe a week and then we’re coming back with skin and meat for the winter. You need a medicine. It keeps you safe.

Can I please work alongside you when you do the skin? Or anything you do. I work hard. I never quit.

Big hard work. Let me see your hands.

Myrya held both hands towards the elder, palms up.

Elisapee, her hands toughened with years of hard work, reached out with her thick wrists and held Myrya’s hands. She smiled. Your skin is like the belly of a snow geese after the feathers removed. Look how small your wrists are. You are like a small girl. Maybe you should go back to Toronto. Indians work hard. You might not like being with me. City is a safe place.

Myrya tightened her crossed legs and pushed her hands on her knees. Elisapee, you are my last hope. My life has not been nice. I have never lived with a real First Nations’ person. You don’t know me! She pointed to her head. My hands might be weak, but my head is strong and it will tell my hands to work hard to be a real Indian. She hesitated as to the correct expression to use, and corrected herself. First Nations’ woman. Believe me. People call me a city Indian but that is not my fault."

Elisapee gave a nod. Maybe you’re different. I think you are a stolen Indian. Like me.

What? Stolen?

When I was a child, a boat used to come along the lake and head up the rivers. They would come into the villages and steal children. She removed the stick of bannock from the fire and scrapped off a roasted cylinder. Another raw piece of dough was inserted and put over the fire.

Stolen—for school?

Yes. They just grabbed the children and put us on the boat. They gave us candies. Every time I see a candy I remember being on that boat.

How! Why did parents allow it to happen?

White men are devils. They brought us tools, guns, food, and promises. They said we’ll bring the children back and they will talk English. They will know how to make money and make life easy for you. You will be like us!

They basically bribed you? A smart theft.

Yes—evil. We only came home in June. Christmas at the school. Then they recaptured us in September. We would hear that the boat was coming—so hide—go into the bush. Some families needed guns, ammunition, tools, and boats. So they let their children go. But I went to English school for two years. That’s why my English is so good. Well, I also married a white man when I was sixteen.

What happened to this white man? You are with Wilson now.

He was a good man. I was happy. He didn’t need to work. He had money from a death in England. He worked hard to learn how to hunt and be like an Indian. I liked him very much.

A bird screeched over the teepee. Myrya looked up. She wanted to ask what bird made that sound, but didn’t want to interrupt Elisapee.

One day he went hunting. It was springtime and the ice was starting to break up. My mother told me to keep him home; she liked him. She knew that sometimes the lakes want a body.

Body?

When elders say the lake wants a body—you listen. It will happen. Don’t tempt it.

Your husband knew it?

He did. But like white men they don’t listen to our culture. Some things they believe are just crazy Indian belief. So he never returned. Body never found. I go to the lake where he disappeared. Nothing ever found. No gun, no backpack, no clothing—nothing. And the next day it turned cold and the lake froze solid. The lake was happy with a body—frozen and happy. My mother didn’t blame me. Some white men don’t believe. They are pretenders to Indian culture.

Myrya closed her eyes. Sorry for you. The lake got his body.

Elisapee stood up. When I come back I’ll tell Mary Ann. She’s my sister’s daughter. You come and see me then. But maybe you’ll be gone. You have no protection. I am worried about you. You are like stolen children taken away from Indian culture.

Thank you. I need to learn. I want a medicine.

Walter, wearing a Blue Jays baseball cap, leaned again a wall. He sat on a bed and tossed a full beer can across the cabin room. He yelled, bombs away.

Alphonse, sloughed on a broken back chair, caught it with one hand and flipped the clip with his thumb in one motion. He tipped his head back and gulped the beer. This is living, eh? Walter.

Walter walked over to the box of beer on the floor, grabbed two cans of beer, and returned to the bed. It’s Ed’s fault and his problem with that woman, Myrya. He peeled off an old, worn running shoe and kicked it off the bed. That stupid broad should never have come here. She should stay in Toronto. She’s a dog. She just bugs me. The way she looks at me, like I’m some Indian idiot. Just because she goes to university. Big damn deal. He ran a hand down his matted and greasy shoulder length hair. And all her clothes have to be clean. I think she spends more time doing laundry than doing anything else."

Alphonse finished his beer, crushed the can with his hand, and threw it out an open window. Outgoing! Hit me again, bro. Walter tossed a can. Alphonse seized another airborne can and swiftly opened it. Well, she’s giving Ed a hundred and fifty dollars a week and paying for her food, but we don’t get any of it. Just him. I don’t think they’re related, eh?

Walter wiggled his toes sticking out of the holes in his socks. You think she might be a cop? RCMP undercover? They use bitches to look around, sniff out dope and bring the cops down. Walter walked over for another can of beer from the box on the floor. But I doubt it. Cops don’t hire Indians, even educated ones. Maybe she’s Chinese, or a Paki or something like that.

Walt, it’s that damn scar. That guy really sliced her up. I think she wants sympathy from us. You ever see her feeling it? It’s like, be nice to me, can’t you see I have this big scar’. I hate her guts.

Look, as long as she pays Ed, she’s staying. Unless we can find a way of driving her out and not irritate Ed. But how? He needs that money. We just want space.

The cabin door opened out and Myrya stood in the doorway. The young men looked at her. She saw the box of beer on the floor and gave a frown; she saw drinking every day in the cabin. Usually more drinking after social support cheques arrived at the end of the month. She wondered how they received money for the entire month; but understood that it would aggravate them if she asked.

I just noticed that the door opens out and not in. What if there is a heavy snowfall and you can’t push the door open? She asked, moving the door back and forth.

Walter shook his head and laughed. You learned that in books? They make you smart, eh? You learn about doors at school?

That’s what windows are for, eh? Alphonse pulled his arm back holding a beer can. Like this? He tossed the half-empty can across the room with liquid spraying the floor. The heavy can missed the opening and hit the glass in the window, showering splinters onto the floor. The can fell to the floor. He put his hand over his mouth. Oops. Hey, you’re the woman—clean it up. Use your books to help you.

Myrya turned and walked away, leaving the door open. You’re sad.

Alphonse yelled after her. Stupid bitch, come and clean it up, eh! You stay here and it’s your job. I got duct tape to fix the window. He laughed. How come I’m the funny one in the family?

Walter struggled to get off the bed, picked up a ketchup bottle from the crowded kitchen table and walked to a stack of books near Myrya’s bed. Al, like this book, ‘Advanced Diffe—ere—tial Equations’? What the hell is that? We know that everything goes better with ketchup. He opened the book and started singing, anticipation, anticipation and held the bottle upside down and shook it. A gob of ketchup splattered on the page and he gently closed the book. Really, I have no idea what happened, girl. He placed the book at the bottom of the stack. Take that, bitch. He pointed at Alphonse. I’m funny too, ‘cause now she can eat her words eh? He gave Alphonse a high five.

On Saturdays the band council office was closed and Myrya knew that Mary Ann, living in the cabin next to Ed’s cabin, would probably be home. Mary Ann had told her to always walk in without knocking, but Myrya felt uncomfortable. She knocked at the door and held onto the door handle.

Oh Myrya, I told you just come in, girl.

Myrya pushed the door open. Hi Mary Ann. The guys are drinking again and I think that the case was still half full. They’ll be loaded tonight. Can I stay here again?

Sure My. I know it’s hard on you over there. Good thing we’re next door. Also, I should tell you, that you probably shouldn’t sleep in your sleeping bag over there, anyways. I heard that Alphonse had shook Crud’s sleeping cushion inside your sleeping bag. He’s got fleas, eh? Those guys are rats and don’t like you!

Bastards, she blurted.

Ah, it’s a common trick. Kids do it to each other. You have to air out the bag in bright sunlight. The fleas leave. But those things bite, eh? I think some of them have Lyme disease. Hear of that?

Yeah, I studied parasitology.

Parapsychology? What?

No, study of parasites. You know, worms and that stuff.

Yuk. You learn cool things. Trade our lives? Mary Ann asked.

Myrya felt sorry as she listened to Mary Ann’s stories. Mar, as her friends called her, became pregnant at age fifteen, trapping her into raising a child for the last fifteen years and nailing her future to a single house on the Reserve, probably for the rest of her life. Mary Ann bragged to Myrya that she had been an extremely beautiful teenager before giving birth to a son. Soon she became despondent about her lack of freedom and her personal appearance deteriorated as her weight increased. Mary Ann said she used to have great times at dances, wearing tight fitting dresses, showing her wasp-like waist, calves pushed high with five inch heels, bright red lipstick and heavily coated eyelids with mascara.

Myrya was envious of Mary Ann’s good looks. Mary Ann said she would gladly switch it for Myrya’s freedom and intelligence.

Myrya, I have to be true with you. The guys, except Ed, don’t want you in this town. But you already know that. I heard that they are now moving into buying and selling weed. But, they don’t have enough money right now. This guy in a sports car came in from the Soo and laid out a strategy for them. I don’t know much, but I know they are desperate for money. I saw him in his car and he is up to no good. They’re worried that you are going to cause them problems.

My money is hidden, Myrya said.

Anyways, be careful or you’ll get pulled into this. They could get violent.

Ed also involved?

I doubt it. I think it is Walter and Alphonse and probably Dolfus and Kevin. All dropouts. Never finished school. Never try to get a job off the Reserve. Even girls don’t want to have anything to do with them.

Hey, let’s go see my aunt and have tea. I heard you met her already."

Mary Ann, do you have a medicine?

Mary Ann laughed. That’s Elisapee, for sure. She asked you, eh?

Do you?

I have.

And?

It’s a rabbit. Jackrabbit is my medicine. I never kill a rabbit and I never eat rabbit. It’s my spirit. It protects me and tells me of danger. Helps me through my life. When I see a rabbit, it is sending me a message. Sometimes a warning. I have to read the message. Believe me?

Sure. Got any stories about the rabbit helping you?

Last year I was going to go to town for shopping with my uncle. As I left the house, there was a dark brown rabbit on the path from the cabin. I walked towards it. It should have run away. They always run away. I walked up to about 3 feet from it. It looked at me. I reached down and touched it and it slowly hopped away. In front of me. It didn’t run—only slowly hopped. I told my uncle. He said the rabbit was blocking my path—telling me to stop—turn around. He refused to take me to town. I begged. I wanted to get some ice cream. Mary Ann wiped a tear from an eye. And on the way to town a lumber-truck blew a tire, crashed into my uncle’s car, killed him and set it on fire. He was burned beyond recognition! My uncle saved my life because he was able to read the medicine from my rabbit. That night lots of elders came to my cabin and thanked my uncle for keeping me safe. They told me that he understood the rabbit.

Myrya put her arms around her friend. Mary Ann, I am so sorry for you. I don’t know any stories about medicine—but it was powerful for you.

It’s true. Don’t listen to others who make fun of it. Promise!

You know I will promise. Any other stories?

Lots. We had one last summer. In our culture you never, ever, shoot at songbirds. They have to be protected. They are small angels of the forest. But one boy, 15 years old, an Indian, my second cousin, never listened to his family—broke the rule. He wanted to sight his gun, so he used a small bird, a woodpecker as a target. He shot it. It was so pretty. He brought it home. The family was devastated. They warned him in the past. The next day his mother died when a tree fell on her in the forest. He was blamed. It’s so sad."

And the boy?

Suicide. Mary Ann sat down on a chair. He was cursed. My, always believe our culture. There are rules that you follow. Don’t break them. If you break them you have no protection. And people hate you. 

How do I get one?

A medicine? You get it when you are born. Adults let you know. Maybe you got one since your mummy was an Indian. Or maybe you just dream one. You got a dream catcher over your bed?

Sure. Maybe it comes in a dream?

"Dreams are

Reviews for The Indian and The Cowboy

[Frank Piccolotto · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Highly entertaining and humorous. Having worked in a pipeline crew as a student, I can attest that there were characters not unlike those described in the novel. A very good read!

[Harry Ahrms · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An excellent Canadian novel that captures the experience of Indigenous women!