Scattered Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

1755.”
    Arthur had already sensed that he was in trouble, so he wasn’t surprised when he was summoned to the boss’s office. Private detectives had followed the young clerk to some of the finest hotels in London where he was regularly met by one or other of Debenham & Freebody’s important customers.
    “We’re not running a depot for rent boys,” thundered Mr. Peabody.
    “Screw off,” Arthur yelled, and ran out of the office before he could be fired.
    When a grudge-bearing co-worker of Arthur’s informed his parents, they were horrified. With five brothers just making their way in the world, a steamy sex scandal was the last thing they needed. How to get rid of the depraved thorn in their side? The propaganda pamphlets put out by the Dominion of Canada depicting golden wheat fields provided the answer. Arthur’s father gave him ₤50 pounds and a third class ticket on the Pannonia, a steamship owned by the Cunard Lines. “See you don’t disgrace yourself. Well, in that vast, cold country maybe it doesn’t matter,” were the pater’s parting words.
    Arthur arrived in Montreal in June, 1908, age twenty-two, cocky as a bantam rooster, ready to make his fortune. In an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, he chose the place with the most exotic name, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and boarded the next train heading west. He carefully selected his homestead – a quarter section of black/brown, supposedly fecund soil situated north of the infant city. But he quickly discovered that he loathed farming. Cutting down trees, clearing the land, seeding, harvesting – he detested it all. But what really got to him was the monotony, the tediousness of the same work performed over and over again like some dance from hell. On top of that was the unbearable loneliness. What did a former sales clerk of fancy men’s goods have in common with a hardened wheat farmer? Even their daughters, longing for a good-looking young man with fine manners, felt uncomfortable when he chatted them up. Always, in the end, they rejected his advances.
    Arthur hung on for three long years, built a shack on his land, and broke the required thirty acres. The very day he picked up his deed at the land office, he sold his farm to an American. For a handsome profit, thank you very much.
    The one thing he did like about his new home was the boreal forest with its dark, foreboding spruce trees and many sparkling lakes. He wrote home, “The largest lake trout I caught was fifty-two pounds, but I heard of others to top that.”
    When the Paris-based trading company, Revillon Frères, offered him a job loading the scows that travelled the northern lakes, he enthusiastically accepted. By this time the effete Brit had developed into a man of sinewy muscle with a remarkable imperviousness to physical discomfort. “I’m no longer the skinny, little runt whose ears you used to box every day,” he wrote to one of his brothers.
    That first winter, Arthur met Bibiane Ratt at the La Ronge poker game and the two decided to team up. They naturally headed north into uncharted territory.
    Reindeer Lake, 140 miles long with deep, clear water, dotted with thousands of islands, was still virgin territory for white trappers, and there weren’t many natives there either. That first season, Arthur’s and Bibiane’s haul included beaver, mink, marten, lynx, red and silver fox. A lot of money came in, but it was dangerous work.
    By midspring the ice was clear of snow, but overnight a storm had dumped another couple of feet on the lake. Arthur was mushing his dogs hard, trying to get back to the trading post before nightfall. Suddenly he spotted a couple of ducks swimming in open water just ahead of him. The dogs took after them. Arthur hollered at the team, but the lead wouldn’t listen. He jumped off the sled and grabbed the reins, running alongside, pulling, pulling, praying the dogs would turn. Finally they did, making a sharp left, but although the sled turned too, its