Dixon

Thus far, we have wandered pellmell through several fabled lands, always within a snapshot of their lengthy histories. Always getting a sample of their people in the midst of events that have been brewing for ages, perhaps repeating endlessly but maybe not, we have explored what must seem like an alternative history. If we are to be of the utmost brevity, the people do not behave as one might expect them to, unless one is indeed a hostile cynic. And yet, although we intend to continue in this vein, there is another history begging to be heard; not for any need of its own, rather it begs to offer a scrap of background in the mosaic we have the honor to present. It does not need us to understand, but we need it, in order to make sense of our hero's admittedly unusual experience.

Unlike the history of Canadians and British Columbians, and even Americans, this history is so extensive that the principle actors have themselves forgotten most of it. Also unlike those other newer cultures, they no longer viewed themselves as a singular people, if they ever did. We speak of those whom we now call “First Nations” people because of the tiresome and ideologically moribund politics of land ownership. The people who lived here for ten thousand years, it seems, had the temerity to suggest that it must be illegal to claim ownership of things that were not yours to begin with. We would stop to examine this ugly trend of thought but, as historians, it is not our place to pass judgment on bizarre, idiosyncratic legal arguments, based on illegal, colonial-time ideals.

Again, the intrepid Reader is confronted by contrasting tales: There is the official history and common narratives, and then there are the bleak realities. The official history continues to portray an ‘us against them’ scenario in which the vicious savages who pretend to have been here first are attempting to “steal our way of life”.

Again, as Historians, it is not our place to heap scorn on such morally and intellectually bankrupt arguments, no matter how manipulative they must seem. Ours is to rise above such mockery of intelligence.

The stark reality is that Canadians and British Columbians are no more a singular people than the First Nations. That hailing from Prince George marks you as inherently different than someone hailing from Vancouver, needs no explanation for us. Nor are they as concerned with legalities as is pretended, or we might suspect that the streets of Kelowna would not be so littered with Tim Hortons and Starbucks; nor would the forests be so inflamed with human-caused fires each summer. In fact, if there is any real difference in this way to First Nations people, it is that the Canadians will subdivide along unpredictable lines, whereas the First Nations will align together in quite predictable ways.

Who then, are they? What role will they play in the impending drama that is BC History? It is worth a short digression to explore some of the available themes.

On a warm, spring day in 1885 Victoria, of the Province of British Columbia, the Right Honorable Chief Justice W.F. Crease solemnly entered the court room and took his place in front of the gathered people. The rich dark polish of the wooden walls and rails and boxed in seats, along with the lamp light and its attendant oil-reek, loaned gravity to what was already a serious occasion in the Capitol.

The case before him had garnered some attention, as it concerned two Tsimsyan men from the Skeena region, one of whom had apparently killed a white man. The Chief Justice settled his wig and his ceremonial cloak and picked up the document that he was about to read. And then he noticed something out of place.

“Counsel,” he said, “Where, pray tell, are the Defendants?”

“Your Honor, they stand directly beside me right here.”

Crease took a closer look. Indeed the Defendants did stand right there, it was just that they were dressed quite smartly in modern gentlemanly style, such that but for the dark pallor of their faces, one could not have told them apart from Englishmen.

Crease grunted and made to begin reading, but stopped,

“Wh- quite aside from our approval of their attire, Counsel- we should all hope to fit our dress so well- quite aside from that, we must inquire as to why they are dressed so smartly?”

“Your honor, if it pleases the Court, their own clothing was taken from them as they awaited today’s trial,” replied the Defense Attorney, Halstead Blaise Wright.

Crease scowled and directed his disapproval and the Prosecutor, Downing Veighan.

“We had this discussion, did we not, Mr. Veighan?”

“Your Honor, the people cannot be held responsible for misplaced items of convicted criminals.”

“ConVICTed-! Oh, you, Sir are quite an outrage, are you not? We also had that discussion previously. Bailiff! Take this Prosecutor into custody. Place him where he cannot be heard by anyone.”

“You!” he pointed at the young man next to Veighan, “Have you studied Law?”

“Yes, your Honor, at Eton.” Veighan, as he was hauled away roughly by three soldiers, screamed epithets at the Defendants,

“Murderers! Rapists! Burn them at the stake! Kill them! Kill all of them!”

The crowd murmured loudly with displeasure, but Crease thundered at the Gavel.

“I’m appointing you Prosecutor for this case. Do try to comport yourself with civility.”

“Now!” he continued, “The Court apologizes to Chief Geddum Cal Doe, and to Mr Ha’at for the base and dishonorable treatment they have endured. We further thank you, Mr. Wright, for taking such excellent care of the Defendants in the name of the Court. I will now proceed with the decision of the Court in the matter of the People versus Ha’at in the death of Amos Card Yeomans in July of 1884 in the Gitxan area of the Skeena Region.”

“Having reviewed the testimony and evidence made available to us, several items have become abundantly clear to the Court. Not Primarily, it appears that, as Chief Geddum Cal Doe has represented, Mr Ha’at did stab Amos Card Yeomans to death in a premeditated act of murder. Mr. Ha’at does not deny this, nor does the Chief or those of his peers locally.

“It is evident that Mr Yeomans contravened both Tsimsyan traditions as well as any human decency when he failed to report the untimely death of Mr Ha’at’s son, Billy Owen. It is apparent that some history existed between Yeomans and Billy Owen and Ha’at, since the accidental demise had such severe repercussions. Billy Owen was taken to be in the care of Yeomans, and that care was not exercised to the satisfaction of any reasonable authority. He further contravened expectations by failing to account for such a considerable loss. The Court, we assure everyone, finds itself shocked at the gross disrespect displayed by the deceased for Billy Owen’s family and for the Gitxan Band itself.

“Be that as it may,” said Crease, “It was agreed by all parties involved that the death of Billy Owen was not a homicide, but an accident. Therefore, regardless of the antisocial nature of Yeomans’ reaction, we find it reasonable to believe that Mr. Ha’at had been considering the murder prior to the loss of his son. It seems there is ample reason to suspect other possible motivations, as he was, we understand, quite nearly family.

“It is thus tenuous to argue that the extenuating circumstances are meritorious of leniency. We agree that members of this Court are not of the Tsimsyan People, but we are nonetheless well acquainted with personal losses of all kinds. However sympathetic we may be to your loss, Mr. Ha’at, we no longer accept murder and revenge as a reasonable response. Since your own people did not see fit to either defend or hide you, we take it as evident that they, too, agree with the Court on that point.

“The Defendant will Rise.”

Ha’at, along with Geddum Cal Doe and Wright, rose to hear the verdict.

“Mr. Ha’at, this Court finds you guilty of premeditated murder in the case of Amos Card Yeomans. The Court will now hear arguments for sentencing. Mr. Prosecutor, will you present your case.”

The young man stood with back straight and began,

“Thank you your Honor. The People are as shocked and dismayed by the indecency of the deceased’s behavior as the Court is, your Honor. We wish it known and recorded for posterity that we find some kinship with our friends the Gitxan in their balanced and fair appraisal of this most difficult situation, and we confess that we could hardly have handled it with more dignity and civility. However, Justice must be blind to the passions of individuals. The Law is not in disagreement with our Gitxan friends’ traditions, and so the People request that the Defendant be sentenced to death, according to necessity and all that is decent.” And then he sat down.

“The Court will now hear from the Defense.”

Wright stood up,

“A pretty speech, your Honor, from my friend the Prosecutor. We find it prudent to simply disagree. We will offer no floral literary flourish, however, and simply point out that the Defendant has, by any decent civilized standard, already paid for his crime. Indeed, it would seem as though he paid for it in advance, with the loss of his son’s life. We suggest that clemency is the civilized answer to this predicament, and call upon the Court to sentence Mr Ha’at to three years imprisonment for this act of passion.

“And may it please the Court, we would like to hear from Chief Geddum Cal Doe in this matter.”

“Thank you, Mr Wright. The Court will hear the Chief.”

Geddum Cal Doe stood up and surveyed the room briefly.

“On behalf of the Gitxan people, I would like to thank the Chief Justice for giving me the chance to speak here today. In our traditions, the Elders speak of a moment in the life of a hunter- it can be applied to every person’s life but this is the way we speak of it- called ‘ha’li tguyeltk’ or ‘pivotal moment’. It is that one time and place after which nothing will be the same. At home, everybody said I should just stay, because they thought I would probably not come back alive. I came, and gave up being the Chief to someone else because I knew that today would be a pivotal moment for both of our peoples.

“Our friend, the Prosecutor, was right when he said that the Tsimsyen People see this incident in much the same way as you do. And he was right when he said that there was more going on there than was clear at first. This is a hard conversation for two proud peoples to have, and we respect that you have made others act according to rules for everyone. We did not try to hide Ha’at from you because we agreed that killing Yeomans was wrong, even though Yeomans was also in the wrong. Life is hard where we live, and killing people like that is not very useful.

“This is a ha’li tguyeltk for both of us. It is a problem that we could have over and over again if we handle it wrong, and it is, a camp fire that could become a forest fire, if we are not responsible. Our worry is that the Queen’s Law, as you call it, will not be applied equally to everyone. I think the Chief Justice can see how that would create more problems than solutions. I have come to say that the Tsimsyan People will be pleased to submit to the Queen’s Law, if there are assurances that it will be applied as it is meant to be. Thank you.”

The Chief Geddum Cal Doe sat back down.

Chief Justice Crease actually smiled, though only just enough for a few of the closest people to see.

“Thank you, Chief Geddum Cal Doe, for your fair and balanced comments. You may not be a Chief anymore, but it would please the Court to continue to honor you so. Any objections, gentlemen?”

“None, your Honor.”

“No, your Honor.”

“Good then. First, the Court is pleased to offer the Tsimsyan People the assurances it seeks. It is our precise intent to carry out the Queen’s Law evenly, and without interference from passion or politics.

“Secondly, the Court finds itself in agreement that the extenuating circumstances must influence considerations of justice in this case. We find ourselves in agreement with Chief Geddum Cal Doe that more death will not serve the Queen’s Law, or justice or decency or civilization. Therefore it is the Court’s judgement that Mr. Ha’at be sentenced to ten years imprisonment, with the request for a death sentence to be commuted indefinitely. These proceedings are hereby adjourned.”

The Gavel came down, signalling the end to a very long and arduous case. Chief Justice Crease stood up and left the brightly lit court room.

Geddum Cal Doe said goodbye to Ha’at. The Lawyers on both sides all insisted on shaking hands with him over and over again. He could not help but think what an odd behavior it was. And then, everyone was leaving. It was finally over, and his mind turned to the next most pressing problem as he stepped out into the street: Getting back to the Skeena.

“I should probably find better clothes,” he muttered to himself.

Then he was grabbed by several men in other suits. Not soldiers, but similar.

“What? I just-”

“Best not to talk, Laddie,” said one of them, “Yer under arrest.”

“For what?” but they wouldn’t respond.

Geddum Cal Doe was shoved roughly back in a cell, but didn’t stay long. An actual Lawyer came to speak to him as more soldier-types took him out of the cell and put him back in a Court Room.

He looked at his Lawyer, “I don’t know what I am doing here.”

“You’ve been charged with impersonating a Lawyer,” and the man pointed at the clothes he had on.

“These were given to my by my Lawyer because the other lawyer stole mine,”

“Goodness! You speak excellent English. You know what? You look familiar.”

“I was just representing my people in that other Court Room!”

“Ah ya! Now I remember. You were very persuasive.”

The Judge entered and everybody stood up. This Judge was in a hurry it seemed and waved everyone to sit.

“What are the charges?”

“Impersonating a Lawyer, you Honor,” cried the Prosecutor.

“Blasphemy!” cursed the Judge, “What is the Plea?”

“Guilty, your Honor,” said Geddum’s Lawyer, “The Defendant allocuted to me just now.”

“Guilty, then, as charged. Sentencing?”

“Death!” screamed the Prosecutor.

“I think hard labor is more civilized,” said Geddum’s Lawyer.

“Death it is,” said the Judge, “To be carried out immediately.”

“Your Honor, the Headsman has gone home for the day,” said the Bailliff.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s lunch time.”

“Well what if he’s just having a bite to eat?”

“His day ends by noon, you honor.”

“Ah, well I guess then. It’s just that the gaol is full, you see. It’s chaos down there. He takes ten heads a day and still can’t keep up.”

“Wait!” cried a voice from the next room, “I’m done. I finished eating. I do have an appointment with the financial advisor at two, but I can fit in a couple more heads.”

“Oh, well that’s lucky,” said the Judge, signaling the guards to take Geddum away, “What did you have, by the way?”

“Mutton soup, you Honor,” said the Headsman.

“Meh. I have that like, every other day. Was it good?”

“It was excellent, your Honor. Spiced delicately with ginger and mint. Not too much salt.”

“Mm. Who made it?”

“Gretchen, across the street at ‘Brotney’s’.”

The Judge and the Lawyers all agreed,

“Aw, no kidding.”

“Doesn’t she make great soup?”

“Tell you what,” said the Judge, “Gretchen makes great mutton soup.”

“Excuse me!” Geddum nearly shrieked, “Uhm, I just had a conversation with Chief Justice Crease, and-”

The looked at the Guards, silently appealing to them. One of them acquiesced and struck Geddum on the head. Then they were gone.

“You know he did seem familiar,” said the Prosecutor.

“The ‘Queen’s Law’ Case,” said the Attorney, “He was just arguing for the rights of the Tsimsyan people’s rights to the same laws as white people. Very eloquent, I thought. Moving. I actually felt good about being in law afterward.”

“Hm,” said the Judge, “Too bad he dressed like a Lawyer.”

Sechelt, in the time of which we have the honour to speak, had maybe 2000 ppl. A reasonable person might think that a couple of pubs might do for a population that small, but they would be wrong. It had nineteen places to get a drink, including a pool hall that unwisely got a liquor license. That is nearly a one hundred percent saturation, when you consider that you could almost fit the entire town into its drinking establishments. If the kids all stayed at home, well then you could do that.

It may be wondered, 'So what? Every place in BC has places to drink.' Yet although that is true, it reduces these places to little more than troughs, at which wild animals come to feed periodically. We would do them the honor of suggesting that they mean much more to the locations they serve, because each drinking establishment was like a separate, spotlighted section of the big stage that the town’s drama occurred on. The contrast to larger towns and cities, in this sense, was made all the more poignant by the limited number of such mini-stages available. The plays enacted in each one were all the more impactful and important, whereas in Kelowna or Vancouver, because there were so many, each drama was far less significant. In the time we speak of here, this could not have been more true.

I don’t recall what I had said that got her on the topic, but I gather it was something less than sensitive about the Sechelts. Jimmy’s girlfriend Marina and I sat at the bar in the Wakefield on a Sunday afternoon, waiting for him to finish work and join us. She began correcting me on the history of the Sechelts.

“Uh, yeah no,” she said, irritated, “Actually, the Sechelts were a part of a large federation of Salish people that stretched as far as Seattle, the Okanagan and up past Powell River. There were agreements in place as far as trade and fisheries and hunting were concerned. The four main nations were in the process of creating a form of currency just like we use now because there was too much trade going on for bartering to be practical.”

“Oh. Well I confess I didn’t know that.”

“No, I could see that you didn’t. I mean sure, we didn’t have science and technology, but at the same time, we knew things about the environment that could only have been learned through the same process as science. We had medicines and compounds that required the same kind of investigation. We had laws that everybody agreed to and customs that enforced common rules. Point of fact, your laws seem kind of primitive when compared to our traditions. Our wars were limited and not total.”

“Well I can’t argue, since I don’t know enough, but I suspect it wasn’t the paradise you are hinting at right now.”

“Certainly not,” she agreed, “I just wanted to point out that you reduced us to ignorant savages in under ten syllables.”

I couldn’t disagree with that point.

“So then what is happening now,” I asked, “It feels like the nation has kind of reached a weird stasis point.”

Barry, the bartender, had come over and listened for a bit. In addition to his many years of experience in bars, Barry was also from a Nation in northern BC, and possessed no small insights based on his travels here.

“It’s a transition,” he offered, “After the Wars, and the 1950’s, everyone was in a stasis, as you called it. More of a ‘funk’ if you ask me, one involving alcohol, but that’s what it is. Nobody knew what to do or where to go after all that fighting and destruction. Everybody just wanted to work and drink and not shoot at people anymore.”

Marina, not more than twenty years old herself, nodded at the assessment.

“Seems to me I’ve heard a similar evaluation from Wally at the Legion,” I said. Wally was a senior member of the Legion in Sechelt since back when it was just somebody’s house in the middle of town. A World War II vet, he had led the local group in raising money to build the Legion that is there now, where I first worked as a bartender. He told me the tale of how it all came together, adding that,

“Everyone was so shell-shocked from the wars that this building was literally as much as we could accomplish.”

I thought a building where veterans could all meet up was quite something, but Wally knew different.

“Oh,” he said patiently, “You just don’t know, lad. Look at those fellas over there,” he pointed with a nod of his chin. Over by the fire exit were several Sechelt guys, who were veterans of the Vietnam war, and one had been in Korea.

“Those are men, real men,” Wally said, “If you had just a couple of them you could move mountains. Those women in the Ladies Auxiliary? You went to them if you wanted something done with the mountain that the men moved. Now? Fuck. We can’t even decide who’s going to order the liquor.” He was referring to the fractious nature of their ‘democratic’ decision process. The general meetings and the Executive meetings were a mockery of collective efforts, often descending into rancid name-calling and bitter fighting.

“We’re done, my lad, and we’re all gone soon. Not sure what you and your generation are going to do.”

Well don’t ask me, I thought. I wasn’t sure what I was doing with myself.

“It is a weird situation,” Marina added, “Because it’s like we are trapped here, but we belong here. Some of us leave, but we always come back. And the white people have lived here now for generations. They don’t belong here, but they do own their properties, so you can’t just boot them off, and many of them grew up here, so they feel like they belong, too. It makes for conflict right off the bat.”

“And a river of alcohol runs through it,” Doug said.

“What are you guys talking about?” Ronald, ‘Skinny’ Benson had come and joined us at the bar. Quite frequently drunk, today he was sober as hell, “You talking about that fight at the Lighthouse?”

“Talking around it,” I said, “But hey. You’ve been around a while. I heard a story about an old man on a bicycle? Apparently it was where all the animosity comes from around here.”

He nodded, “Most people don’t want to talk about it. It was like ten or fifteen years ago or something. Harold Joe was riding his bike home after the bar down Porpoise Bay rd. Swerved in front of a young white guy in a truck. Killed instantly. Some people said he even did it on purpose, but how would anyone know? Anyway, the young white guy was pretty devastated. Wasn’t his fault at all, and everyone knows it, but you know what it’s like. People want to fight, any reason will do. All the young guys don’t even know about Harold Joe. They just think it’s cool to be fighting.”

“I’m still not clear how that started the brawl last week,” Marina said.

“Nah, me either,” said Ronald, “But as I heard it, Willy Hahn and his fellas were unloading their Sea Truck beside the pub and some of the younger guys were on the bar patio. They said that at first the talking was all in fun, but then Darren John- who is an asshole by anyone’s reckoning- said something to one of Hahn’s guys about Harold Joe, and it all went downhill.”

That account conformed well to what I already knew. I had been stocking the cooler that afternoon when the event began. When I got to the patio there was five very big white guys and fifteen or so Sechelt guys all beating the shit out of each other. The RCMP showed up and did nothing about it. Afterwards, we heard much the same story as what Ronald had just told us, except that it was Hahn’s guys who made the comment that broke the camel’s back.

Ronald collected his beer from Barry, waved goodbye and went to sit with others. A lull in the conversation came up.

Marina asked, “So what is this about a Scavenger Hunt?”

“Tomorrow,” I said, “I planned a staff function for those that wanted. It’s basically a pub crawl, but I’ll go ahead of everyone and leave the clues behind. They all start at the Back Eddy Pub and make their way back to the Lighthouse.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I hope so. They have to stop at each place and make fools of themselves to get the next clue, and the clues aren’t easy.”

Then Jimmy showed up, and I moved on to other things. The next morning, I left the instructions for the Scavenger Hunt at the bar and drove out to the Back Eddy, where it would all begin for them.

In the meantime, other matters were afoot. Unlike Shakespearean Scotland, Sechelt needed no trio of witches to stir up trouble in a large cauldron. Trouble, like a failed prototype of the spectre of death, needs no prompting, but wanders aimlessly through small towns stealing beers, shoving people needlessly and lobbing insults at random. That the environment was rich with opportunity, that the people were already on edge for a myriad of reasons, is nearly irrelevant next to the activity of that boorish poltergeist. Let us then look in on some other heroes who, both hearty and pure of nature, found themselves grappling with the effects of the nefarious spirit.

Dixon Joe, of whom it may be recalled from a previous tale, was a home-grown Sechelt guy in his thirties, smiled a lot, and always offered the sense that he was genuine about it. There was also a calm sensibility about him that you could suspect came partially from parenting his eight or nine children. Beyond that, he was the very soul of Sechelt sense of humour: You could find Dixon laughing at himself, just as quickly as at anyone else.

On the morning that I had left the Lighthouse Pub in advance of my ‘scavengers’, Dixon had decided to pop in to Dan’s place, on the Res. Dan was a veteran of the Vietnam War- a picture on the wall of the gym he operated showed him as a younger man with a troop of soldiers in dress uniforms. He was also twice formerly the elected Chief of the Band. Now older, his six foot frame was still fit and trim. He now sported rectangular reading glasses, but not fancy ones, just plain style.

Dixon, a mere five foot ten, and sporting a rounded aspect, owing to his many years of parental duties, walked into the well-used gym, and headed up the stairs, but paused briefly to overhear some young guys talking in a conspiratorial tone. They did not realize he was there.

“We can’t let it sit like this, brother,” one was saying.

“No, but really,” said another, “You know Darren was skwakwell. He gets others hurt when he’s like that.”

“You can’t say that about a brother,” said a different one. Dixon couldn’t place who the young men were, but in a band the size of Sechelt’s there weren’t many possibilities. One of his own boys would probably know.

“We’re going to a meeting,” said the first, “You have to represent.”

It could mean anything, thought Dixon. All the same, he would mention it to Dan. He continued up the stairs with the young men unaware of him.

“A meeting, eh?” Dan said, scratching his chin, “I heard Albert Joe and Dale Marteen talking about a meeting, but it was one of their private meetings.”

“It sounded like they were talking about that dust-up at the Lighthouse,” Dixon said.

Dan swore in Salish, “Darren John. The gift that keeps on giving.”

“Do you think anything will come of it?”

“Dollars to donuts, one of your boys knows about the meeting,” Dan said, “It might be useful to find out what goes on at Albert and Dale’s meetings too. You go to the meeting, and I’ll go see Skinny, see if he knows anything.”

It was still early by the time I had made my way back to the Garden Bay pub, one of the stops on the Scavenger Hunt. It was not as posh as you might expect, since the most exclusive yacht club in BC was within sight of it. As with many places on the Sunshine Coast, the Garden Bay pub was home to a rich history of activity, from piracy to simple local drunkenness, to violent coke-heads tearing up the place and hurting people. For my part, I would walk here from my place in Lee Bay and get drunk while writing in my diaries. On this day, not long after it opened, the only customers were a small group of rich folks nearby.

So far ahead of schedule, it felt safe to have a beer, and as I imbibed I couldn’t help but overhear the folks talking about the incident at the Lighthouse. They noticed me noticing them.

“I apologize,” I said, “You were talking about the brawl at the Lighthouse?”

“We were, yes,” said one of the two men. They were in their sixties, maybe seventies, dressed in white for leisure and lunch, while the two ladies were in peach and rose colours, with attractive hats. They looked almost out of place in a pub, like they belonged in the Yacht club.

“Did you happen to be there at the time?” asked the other man.

“I did. I was working at the time.”

“Ooh! Tell us what happened,” said the ladies.

“Yes, indeed,” said the first man, “All we have are rumours.”

I pulled up to their table and, after polite introductions, I told them what had transpired.

“Heaven’s Sake!” said the lady in the peach blouse, Lucy, “Grown men and all.”

“Grown beasts, you mean,” said Juanita.

“Now, now, dear. Good people get into fights for good reasons all the time. Been in a few ourselves, eh, Gerald?”

“Quite!” said Gerald, “Might have even won a few if you had fought harder.” They laughed.

“My understanding is that there is some history to the brawl,” I inquired.

“Indeed there is,” said Bernie, “And to Juanita’s point, it’s not over with.”

“Oh?”

“No. In fact a certain person, who is related to the Hahn family, has taken it upon himself to hold a meeting in Roberts Creek tonight to discuss action of some kind.”

“Heaven’s sake,” said the ladies.

“Huh. Do you think anything will come of it?” I asked.

“Mmm, why yes, as a matter of fact, I believe something will.”

“Well I should hope not!” said Lucy, “Been quite enough fighting in the last fifty years. A little peace and quiet would do everyone some good.”

“Well said, my love. Here! A toast to peace and our continued health.”

I toasted with them, and then took my leave.

The thought of something else unfortunate happening nagged at me all the way past Lord Jim’s Resort. I placed a clue at Pirate’s Cove, and then headed for the Wakefield.

Barry was on duty when I got there, bartending, cooking and serving until Cherise arrived to work the kitchen for lunch. There was often only one person to do everything at the Wakefield. On that day I was the only customer. I pulled up a stool in my usual spot and told him about my conversation at the Garden Bay pub.

“Huh,” he said, “There’s some pretty stupid people around. Bad business that thing about Harold Joe. The thing is that Tory went and made peace with the Joe family years ago.”

“Oh really,” I said, “Well that is the mark of sensible people if I ever heard it.”

“Yeah, they had a Shaman come from Quesnel and everything. A ceremony and the whole thing. It wouldn’t be good if someone was stirring that up again.”

“Looks like someone is doing just that,” I said, “But I am falling behind. I better go before my scavengers get here.”

“What was it you wanted them to do again?”

“They have to buy a beer, and ask for it by saying, ‘Captain, my Captain!’”

Barry smirked.

“Make them say it really loud,” I said, and then I left.

In the time that it took for me to get to the Wakefield and talk to Barry, Dan had found Skinny, and had a conversation with him about what was going on. He then went to the Wakefield, where Dixon would eventually come and meet him. Dixon, for his part, had tracked down his second-oldest son, the quiet thoughtful one, and found that he too had been following the trail of unwise gum-flapping gossips. They both arrived a bit late for the meeting that was taking place- at the Band Council Hall.

“I heard some of them talking,” said the fifteen year old Samuel, “I thought I would come see what was up and then tell you.”

“Good thinking,” Dixon said, “Let’s go see.”

So they entered the Band Hall and walked to the Council Chamber, which should have been empty, since it was not a Council day. The doors were closed and in front of them stood another young man, Rupert Joe Jr.

“This is a private meeting, brothers. You can’t go in,” said the young man.

“Shut up, Rupert,” said Samuel, “And get out of the way or I’ll tell everyone who your real father is.”

“Hey,” said Dixon, “Go easy now. Besides, he may actually be your brother. Out of the way, Rupert. Right now.” Rupert moved aside, and the two fairly burst into the Chamber. Only half of the seats of the semi-circle were occupied, and Garnet John had taken his spot in the Chief’s position. In the middle of the Chamber, between Dixon and the the Council seats, were a number of men, at least a few of which were involved in the brawl at the Lighthouse.

“Dixon Joe, this is a private meeting,” said Garnet John.

“Then where is the rest of the Council,” Dixon countered, “Why are you having a private meeting in here? Are you recording the meeting like you’re supposed to?”

“I don’t answer to you, Dixon! This is the Band Council Chamber. You can’t just barge in here and-”

“The Band Council Chamber is for Band matters only,” he gestured to Samuel, “Go turn on the recording shit.” Then he pointed firmly at the other men on the floor,

“I notice you have young Darren John here, flapping his gums again. You had best not be talking about that brawl at the Lighthouse again, Darren, unless you are owning up to your part in it.”

The men all raised their voices to protest Dixon. He noted that Darren John had fresh bruises on his face.

That could be what this is about, he thought.

Garnet John silenced the group,

“Things have progressed farther than you think, Dixon. As you can see, the attacks have continued, and there is more at stake here than wounded pride.” The look on Garnet's face, however, said the exact opposite to Dixon. Garnet John had that predatory face that he made when he was lying. Dixon had gotten well used to it over the years.

“Is there?” he countered, “You still can’t decide or do anything without Dan or Jackson or the others. End of story.”

Then he turned and motioned for Samuel to follow, calling out behind him,

“You better leave that recording shit on!”

As they walked out of the Band Hall, Samuel asked him,

“Do you think the white guys beat up Darren again?”

“Well we don’t know, son. I can tell you that Willy Hahn’s boys didn’t do it. They already thumped a bunch of our guys with odds of 3 to 1. They aren’t the ones feeling sore about it. No this is about something else. Let’s consider.”

“Well,” Samuel began, “Garnet John doesn’t give a rat’s ass for Darren, or anyone else, so people say. So I guess we want to know first who beat up Darren again. It’s probably just one of our own.”

Dixon grinned, “I think you are probably right. You go find out what happened. I’ll go check in with Dan again. Meet me at home in a few hours.”

Dixon met up with Dan at the Wakefield. He related the results of the meeting with them. Dan nearly spit when the name came up.

“Garnet John,” said Barrry, “He’s not like you guys, eh? One time, Steph caught him trying to pinch our tip jar. Tried to blame it on Nancy Walter, of all people. Another time Hughie caught him stealing beers from the guys he was drinking with. Blamed the server. I won’t serve him here at all anymore.”

“Yeah,” said Dan, “He’s always had a bug up his ass, if you take my meaning. Always at the center of trouble, but somehow never responsible for anything. For sure he is up to something.”

“Like what?” Dixon asked, “The Treaty?”

“Hard to say. He can’t do anything without the rest of us.”

“Could he use bad publicity against the Province’s negotiators?” Barry asked.

“Ah, not really. It would have to be more than a bar brawl, I can tell you that.”

“Well like what?” Dixon asked, “You mean like if Hazel Humchitt got locked in the Legion and drank herself silly all night?”

“No,” Dan chuckled.

“Or if Don Marchand’s kid took a sea plane for a joy ride?”

“No, and anyway, they hired him for that stunt on account he was so good at it.”

“What about those guys that blew up Phil Pardner’s house?” Barry asked.

Dan laughed, “No, but that SHOULD have made the papers. Garnet would need something that made the evil Kwalaten look really bad. Like, you’d have to have convictions of slave-owning our people, or something crazy like that. Even then it wouldn’t have much impact.”

“So maybe it’s not the Treaty then, but something private,” said Dixon.

“That would make more sense,” replied Dan.

“Hm. Well what would a sleazy white guy do?”

Both Barry and Dan shrugged at that.

“Have to ask someone who knows,” replied Dan.

So off to the Lighthouse Pub they went and asked Janitor John, who was only two sheets to the wind by then.

John chuckled hard enough at their suggestion that it set him into a truly awful coughing spasm. When finished, he took a long pull of his unfiltered cigarette, chugged some beer, and wheezed a reply.

“A good call, gentlemen. I’ll spare you my personal history and merely confirm that I do indeed have a singular grasp of the sleazy-minded Kwalaten.”

“First,” he slurred, then pausing to smoke heavily and then drink, “The true sleazebag would stumble across a property or a resource, being too thick-witted themselves to develop anything of value on their own. You must understand that such vermin are generally witless opportunists.” He pulled heavily on his death stick, then exhaling.

“Witless, and opportunistic, and, and smelly, with beady eyes, they can only stumble across the work of others and plot to steal it somehow. Hang on.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it from the first, smoking both for a minute.

“And make no mistake my fine friends, they will unabashedly pretend that their behavior is, in fact the soul of wit. You’ve undoubtedly seen the expression on their face before. Anyway, upon said discovery, the sleazebag will seek out unwitting confederates, giving them a story to get them riled up about something, to cause an incident, that is supposed to distract people from what they are doing.”

“Then,” he pontificated with one finger in the air, “They will make a side deal with another witless wonder, and betray everybody in the end. Quite often the entire plan blows up in a mess of scandal, with nobody profiting, people getting hurt, and everybody angry at each other. Sometimes though, the sleazebag wins possession of the thing in question. From there he, or she, will swindle their own people with it.”

“Wow,” said Dixon, “You’ve seen this before.”

“Yeah I have to say it is a bit disturbing how knowledgeable you are about sleazy behavior, John,” Dan said.

“Edgmont and I dealt with far more than our fair share before he bought this place- and during the whole affair. I wrote everything down, years ago, but misplaced it all during that thing at the American Hotel.”

“You know more than you’re saying, John,” Dixon said, “Or did you just say it and I didn’t know?”

John chuckled, “As you may be aware, gentlemen, there are more resources lying around than meet the eyes.”

“Oh, that old grind again,” said Dan, “Should’ve known. Some of the Band Council wanted me to press this issue before, but the lawyers said it would open the door to other lawsuits and claims that we couldn’t win. We’d be selling our land at a discount within a decade.”

“I don’t follow,” said Dixon.

“It’s complicated,” said Dan, now moving his heavy frame off of the bar stool.

“So let me follow this through,” he continued, “This second sleazebag, probably a white guy, still thinks he can cash in on the resources lying underneath the band lands.”

“Very likely,” agreed John.

“Seen any new people around?”

“None that fit the bill.”

“Well then it’s probably one of the usual suspects. Seems to me that Len ran afoul of them before, too.”

“He did,” said John, “I can’t profess to know which one it is. Your guess would be better than mine.”

“Thanks John.”

“Seeya Dan.”

They left and, as they stood outside the pub next to their cars, Dixon scratched his head.

“Okay, so what just happened?”

“Suppose you and I have houses beside each other and we both own our properties,” Dan said, “But then you discover that underneath my house I have a gold deposit. You want to mine that gold, but the general intent of the law is that it’s mine, because it’s under my house. What do you do then?”

“Well,” said Dixon, “I put on my pirate hat, get some scurvy dogs together and take over your house.”

“Funny, but not far off the mark. Your scurvy dogs, in this case, are specialized lawyers who claim that you only own the top of the land, not what’s under it, and that means you can dig from your yard into mine legally and claim my gold. Then there wouldn’t be anything I can do about it.”

“Not legally.”

“No. In truth I’d just sit on you until you gave up.” Dan was almost twice as big as Dixon.

“It sounds like a real can of worms, though.”

“It is,” Dan said, “The Province would be stupid to open it because then any First Nations could just dig wherever they wanted. And we wouldn't want to open it for the same reasons. Never mind the government, it's the big corporates who have the money to really hurt things. There would be profiteering from all quarters. The whole thing would be a mess for generations.”

“So nobody wants to see this happen, but Baptiste thinks he can get something from threatening to do it.”

“How would he, or this other gweeznatch, benefit, though?” Dixon asked?”

“Not sure yet.”

While Dan and Dixon pondered the nature of the gweeznatch, I was finishing up my scavenger hunt, and getting ready in case the scavengers arrived early. It wasn’t likely because the clues were harder for them than I anticipated. Not that it mattered, because all they really had to do was a pub crawl from Egmont to Sechelt. I pulled into the Lighthouse maybe a half hour after Dan and Dixon left.

John was hacking and wheezing as usual, a pint in one hand and two burning cigarettes in the other. Roxy was on the bar. John made a grunting, half-growl indicating he knew I had sat nearby.

“May I take this to mean your absurd game is coming to an end?”

“If it compels you to jump off the pier, John, you may take it as you wish.”

“Hugh!” Roxy said, “Be nice!”

“That was fairly nice,” I protested.

“But now this game of yours,” John continued. He puffed away on his cancerous baton of death, “One wonders if you have enough clues and places on it. You are planning to have them all arrive here are you not?”

“That’s the plan. You have a suggestion?”

“I do. You should have them head up to Glen Mills place in Robert’s Creek. He is playing there today.”

“Well I admit that is not a terrible idea,” I said.

“I was once noted for my lack of terrible ideas.”

“What prompts the altruism all of a sudden?”

“You’re annoying and I want you to go away.”

“Ah,” I said, “Even so, it’s a compelling idea, and I plan to follow through with it. I’d better get on with it though. The scavengers are hard on my heels.”

“Oh,” said John, “If the clues aren’t blunt enough to say ‘Go here, now’, I wouldn’t plan on those idiots showing up at all.”

I hadn’t heard him say it though.

“Just tell them to go to Glen’s when they get here,” I said to Roxy.

John began to laugh, but it started another coughing fit. I frowned at him and left.

Roxy waited for John to catch his breath, and then, pointing a finger at him asked,

“What are you up to, John?”

“Trust me, young lady, boys as dumb as he is need to be led by the nose for their own good.” Then he got out of his bar stool, wandered over to the phone and made two calls.

As a result of those calls, other calls took place, which prompted other calls and those calls eventually reached the Del Arne family and the Joe family. Tory Del Arne, whose truck had fatally struck Harold Joe on Porpoise Bay rd years before, had long before made a sincere effort to make peace with the Joe family over the tragedy, efforts that had created a strong bond between them. News that the accident was once again being used to stir people up was not received well by either family.

When Tory got the news, he immediately called Harold Joe’s grandson, Matt, a man his own age, to discuss it.

“Hi Matt. It’s Tory.”

“Hey! Been awhile. The golf tournament wasn’t it?”

“Think so. Listen, there’s some trouble brewing in town. Jim Donaldson got a hold of me just now.” He related what he had heard from his former employer.

“Again? For heaven’s sake!” Matt sighed, “Honestly, I’m not sure how else to tell people to let it go. Ya think a ceremony and a fucking Shaman would do the trick.”

“No kidding. Jim seems to think there is more going on than meets the eye. But I have an idea.” He told Matt what he was thinking.

“Sounds like fun,” Matt agreed, “Say around 6?”

“See you then.”

I had made it to Glen Mills’ place in Robert’s Creek. Glen was an older guy with sandy hair and a beard, straight out of the seventies, along with most of his crew. They were playing Allman Brothers tunes on their stage when I got there, and Max Webster. Spontaneously launching into The Crosby Still and Nash version of “Woodstock”, they did it more than fair justice. When it was done, the local neighborhood crowd applauded loudly. The band decided to take a break on that high note, and Glen came up to chat.

I told him about the scavenger hunt and that they were all coming.

“Oh! That’s great, man. But listen: Apparently there is some trouble brewing in Sechelt. It’s probably best that you are all coming here, because it promises to be bad business.”

“Huh,” I said, “Funny you should mention.” I told him about my conversation at the Garden Bay Pub.

“Really,” he drawled, “There’s a couple of people who might be up to something around here, but it’s probably Notley Shilling.”

“THAT fucking guy,” said one of the band mates.

Glen chuckled, “A thoroughly charming fellow, we can all assure you. The richest guy around, he’s also the most miserly pain in the ass around. Always complaining about Bylaw infractions. Like we are all ripping him off or something.”

“Well it can only be one thing with him,” said another local, “It’s that property around the Lafarge Gravel Pit. He’s been trying to buy it for years, claiming there are reserves of magnetite and uranium under it.”

“But that doesn’t sound like something he would tell anyone,” Glen said.

“No, and it it’s BS anyway. My brother’s wife works at Lafarge, and they would know if there was anything like that around. It’s all just sand and rock.”

“So what do you think they are doing by raising all of this ruckus?” I asked.

“Ah,” said the local fella, who introduced himself as Larry, “Just politics. If you want to influence the Band and get them to sell property, you have to have someone on the Band Council who will play ball, and that person has to stay in the spotlight.”

“Garnet John,” said several others.

“Probably,” said Larry, “He would need Shilling to put up money, and so might make promises, but then he would need the Band Council distracted in order to keep those promises. Dan and the others aren’t stupid, so he will have to talk fast- really fast- to make anything happen.”

“It’s probably just about the land up there,” said a local woman, Joan, “They will be building houses and roads up past there eventually. Garnet just can’t afford to buy any of it right now, so wants to use his position to get some.”

There was agreement around the circle, as well as protests about how ridiculous it all was. And then my scavengers were arriving, and the band decided to get back on stage for them.

“It still feels like it doesn’t quite fit together,” I said to the couple. Larry, it turned out, lived right next to Shilling on the beach-front, and knew him well. Joan was a local hairdresser, “It feels like a big show intended to impress someone, but like you said, the other Band Council members aren’t the types to fall for it.”

“Who else owns property up that way,” the woman asked.

“Just Wilson Sampbell, I think,” said Larry, “Come to think of it, if they were going to build a road up that way, it would probably have to cross his land.”

“Hm. What’s he like?” I asked.

“Oh he’s a pleasant fella. Likes to dabble in politics, but doesn’t really have the stomach for it. He leaves all the important decisions up to his cousin Norton.”

“Norton Sampbell, the Mayor of Vancouver?”

“The very same,” Larry said.

“I wonder if Norton is aware of this ensemble of stupidity,” said Joan.

“I think Mark knows him,” I said.

“Do you think we should get involved?” Larry asked.

“Oh probably not,” I said. And then a lull in the conversation grew, which stretched nearly unto discomfort. The band rang out with a lively version “Stuck in the Middle With You” by Steeler’s Wheel, and the first few lyrics broke the lull.

“I’m just not comfortable watching those guys get away with this,” said Joan, “Call this person you know and get them to call Norton Sampbell.”

Larry agreed, and so that’s what I did. Within a half hour, Mark had called back. Sampbell, it seemed, had been lounging at the Gibsons Yacht club, and was happy to pop by the Wakefield for a beer and a chat about this piece of land. I reported back to the others, and we patted ourselves on the back for our cleverness at foiling such an insignificant and virtually meaningless plot. My scavengers and I decided to enjoy the music for a bit and then head back to the Wakefield.

Meantime, Dixon and Dan had caught up with Samuel at home.

“What did you find out, son?”

“It was Aldon Joe. He beat up Darren again. He was mad that Sabrina got hurt in that brawl, and said something to Darren a couple of days ago, but Darren,” he shrugged, “Just mouthed off, so Aldon beat him up. Sabrina pulled him off, but Darren mouthed off some more, and she punched him hard in the eye. Broke her knuckle, they said.”

Dan swore, “That kid!”

Dixon’s phone rang, and one of his kids answered it, handing the bulky hand-held unit with an antennae over to him, once the intros had been made. Dixon hung it back up on the wall after a minute and reported back.

“That was my kid, down at the Legion,” he said, with some confusion on his face, “He said Tory Del Arne just got rowdy with a bunch of the People there.”

“I thought he was all good with everyone,” said Samuel.

“Huh,” said Dan, “Yeah he is. That’s weird. Anybody hurt?”

“No, he just knocked over a table or two, and said he was going to the Wakefield.”

The phone rang. Dixon reached out, and one of his girls brought the phone to him. Again, he hung up with a perplexed look on his face.

“That was Skinny, over at Gilligan’s Pub. Apparently Matt Joe just showed up and roughed up some white guys. They cut him off and threw him out, and he said he was going over to the Wakefield. I guess people are following him there.”

“What’s going on around here today?” said Samuel.

Dan looked at Dixon, “I reckon we’ll find out down at the Wakefield. Barry may need some back up.”

Dixon looked at Samuel, “Call Barry at the Wakefield and tell him to put his tip jar away. He’ll know what you mean.” They got up and headed to the car.

As one walked into the Wakefield Pub, there was a foyer, and to your immediate left the bathrooms. A few paces further and the Pub itself opened to the right. Once turning so, one would find the tiny kitchen straight ahead, while the main seating area was immediately left on a raised floor encircled with log-cabin-style rails, all burnished with dark stain and gloss. As one continued walking, you would turn left around this square seating area, and then the bar itself would be on your right. The glass washer protruded from the bar and demarcated the two serving stations, one for servers and one for customers.

If you kept walking, you would find stairs leading down to an enclosed room that used to be a smoking room, and from there you could have accessed the patio but, if you stopped at the end of the bar, you’d have been confronted by four bar stools on the right, while on the left beckoned a row of wooden booths under the big windows. Beyond the square dining floor was a tiny dance floor in front of the stage. Behind the stage was the door to the stairs which led to four rooms above.

On this day, the Purple Gang were set up and practising quietly, as a few couples dined. I grabbed a spot at the bar where I usually sat.

Barry put a pint of Rickard's Red in front of me quietly. Dixon and Dan arrived just ahead of my Scavengers, and so Barry was busy getting drinks for a bit.

Garnet John arrived with a couple of cronies in tow, nodded suspiciously at Dan but ignored Dixon. They took a seat in a booth. Shortly after that, a thin white man with rectangle glasses came in, looked for Garnet and went to sit with him. Not ten minutes later another white guy came in, older and more grey carrying an air of richesse and perversion about him, I could only suspect that this was Notly Shilling. He sat with Garnet John and, who I assumed to be Wilson Sampbell.

I took a seat with my Scavengers, who by now were suspicious that something was happening. In fact the room was thick with a mix of dread and anticipation. It became so bad that Barry looked up from where he poured beer, frowned and nodded at the band.

The Purple Gang, who were well acquainted with the Wakefield Inn, also sensed that something was going on, and began to play, “How Will the Wolf Survive” by Los Lobos. Everyone in the room turned to give them a queer look, but they just smiled and played on.

Tory walked in. No swagger or sway, no haughty defensiveness or false bravado marked him. He was just a guy in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, maybe six feet tall, apparently happy to be in a familiar place. Barry had a pint on the bar for him when he walked up, and he nodded in thanks. Then he sat at one of the bar stools quietly.

“Good song,” he remarked to no one.

Then, the posses from the Legion and Gilligan's Pub arrived in small groups of three or four, and the main area became crowded. Wanda, my ex-girlfriend at this time, showed up to begin serving. Being more mature than I was, she offered me a smile instead of a scowl. With the band playing and so many people shoulder to shoulder all talking, it was very loud. Wanda patiently put a tray full of beers over her head and gently pushed her way through all of the taller people.

Glen and some of his crew arrived and I think it was that point when Barry’s infallible nose for trouble tipped him off. He looked at the crowd. It was too loud to hear anything well enough to make a decision on, but the signs were sub-audible, and available on an unconscious channel. He could tell by the tone of general conversations, and the expressions on people’s faces, by the way they stood and by the way they held their drinks. It was the way particular guys squinted as they took a swig off of their Budweiser, and it was the way some girls looked to the side as they spoke to each other. Finally he looked over at Tory, who held a strict poker face, and then he picked up the tip jar off the bar and put it away. Then he got on the phone and called for backup.

Wanda had made it back to the bar and said, “What’s going on?” and when Barry put the tip jar away I could see her say,

“Aw Come On!”

Matt Joe walked in, and the talking, so immediately muted, made the band sound much much louder suddenly. Tory got off of his bar stool and called out,

“Matt Joe! It’s high time you and I settled up, Matt!”

Matt Joe, dressed almost the same as Tory, was about the same age, but a Sechelt with thick black hair much like Barry’s. Matt’s face was perhaps more engraven with life experience, such that he could have passed for any of the iconic First Nations People we have pictures of.

He walked seriously up to Tory and said,

“Pretty sure I paid last time.”

“Is that true?” Tory looked at Barry, who nodded.

“Well then I guess it IS my turn to pay,” Tory said, “You having a pint?”

“A pint would be great, thanks.”

Tory threw a twenty on the bar and after Matt collected his reward, they both turned to face the all-too-interested crowd.

“Oh!” cried Matt, “You thought we were going to scrap it out did you? You all need to give your heads a shake. Harold Joe was an accident. Tory here, manned up as soon as it happened, and he grieved with our family. He IS, our family now.”

“We will NOT have any you people blaming your hostility and violence on Tory! Now get a life!” Then they took their beers down to the sun room and awaited the ‘festivities’.

The crowd was dumbfounded. Having been called out, in an embarrassing fashion, it struggled to find a way to blame someone at first, but there was nobody else. A tense moment of silence arrived, at which it seemed people might just begin fighting for no reason at all. Garnet John looked sour. Wilson Sampbell looked confused. Dixon, just then, took up laughing at something and the moment broke in peace. The chatting began in earnest.

My scavengers were saying, ‘Whew! It looked like it was going to get nasty for a second,’ and, ‘I know right?’ I looked over to see Dan and Dixon begin to relax, although both were scanning the crowd intently.

All of us looked at Barry to see that he too was beginning to relax, but then disaster struck. A strained disappointment washed over Barry’s face as Darren John sidled up to the bar and took a bottle of beer. He turned, saw someone he knew and yelled,

“Don’t even!”

Garnet John grinned from ear to ear as a pint mug bounced off of Darren’s head, and fighting erupted from all sides. Having little else to do, and having played through this before at the Wakefield, the band just kept going. They finished droning “Louis Louis” and proceeded to kill “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin.

Tory and Matt sipped their beers without taking notice of the brawl.

Then Mark and Norton Sampbell walked in. Bob and Dixon took a break from pulling people apart to usher them over to where Garnet and Wilson were trying to broker a deal with Shilling.

Garnet John was not prepared for Norton to show up.

“Norton!” said Wilson, “I was about to call you when all of this broke out.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Garnet wants me to sell that old property by Lafarge.”

“Oh. I don’t remember why we wanted to keep it,” he said.

“Old rumours about uranium and such.”

“Oh yeah. Well, how much would you like to pay for it, Mr John?”

Everyone looked at Garnet John. His plan did not include Dixon or Dan, or Mark or Norton Sampbell the Mayor of Vancouver, but he could still play.

“I had an offer in mind initially, but in light of all this racial hostility, I’m not sure I can consent to a deal without amending some of the sanctions in place in the present Treaty.”

Sampbell smirked at him in a kind of ‘anyone with eyes could see what you’re up to’ way,

“There is no uranium under that land, Garnet, and the Province is not going to let anyone dig under other people’s property anyway, racial tensions or not. I’ll tell you what: Let’s sweeten the pot this way. I know people at Lafarge. I’ll talk concessions in the Treaty, and have them offer another adjacent property to you at a very good price, and my family will throw in our property as a token of good will. How does that sound? Eh? Mr Shilling? Can we make a deal?”

Garnet John’s eyes nearly bugged out. It was a much bigger opportunity than he had hoped for, especially because neither Shilling nor Sampbell knew what he was really after.

Wilson was much cooler, though just as surprised. He cast a very quick glance at his cousin, but stifled it. Norton was as cool as ice. Shilling, with no more than a nod, indicated he was game. And so the game proceeded.

“It sounds like we can make a deal then, Mr Sampbell,” said Garnet, “What do you propose as terms?”

Bear in mind that the rest of the pub, except for Wanda and my Scavengers, were beating the shit out of each other while the band played “Hell’s Bells”.

“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Sampbell said.

“Hwut?! I can’t agree to that! I’m the Chief! The band would crucify me!”

“Well Dan, here, would crush me like a grape,” said Norton. Dan was now smiling broadly, since he was well familiar with Sampbell, and knew very well that he was just playing with Garnet, “How about Dixon here?”

“Hey? What?” said Dixon. The others were equally confused, but for other reasons, such as ‘How does Norton Sampbell know Dixon? How do they know each other?’

Dan worked past that, being familiar with all of that and not wanting to divert anyone’s attention from what was going on,

“Are you up to this?” he asked Dixon, “There’s a lot at stake.”

“Well I can’t say no, can I?” he replied, and gestured for Baptiste and Shilling to get out of the way. He and Norton sat down and made ready to throw down.

“Well hang on!” protested Garnet, “I’m not agreeing to this! You can’t settle a Treaty by arm wrestling!”

“That’s only because Dan would always win,” said Sampbell, “Now the odds are more even. You ready, Dee?” Dixon nodded. Dan forcibly adjusted their elbows and fists, holding them momentarily, and then yelling,

“GO!”

I had seen Dixon arm wrestle a few times at the Lighthouse. I generally didn’t allow arm wrestling because it so often ended up in fighting for real. Dixon, I could say, had some skill, and won more often than he lost, but he was not a particularly strong guy. Sampbell on the other hand had wiry arms that are often far stronger than people suspect. Both men now were straining heavily to gain an advantage; a semi-burly man who was not so strong against a string-bean pencil-neck who was stronger than he looked. It would have been heroic, had there been any heroism in them, or in the event, but they both poured their hearts into it.

Sampbell took an early lead so that it looked like Dixon was done right off the bat, but he fought back slowly, such that Sampbell showed some concern. Dixon fought Sampbell back to the tipping point. He should have twisted his wrist and pulled, but he didn’t, and Sampbell took the momentum back.

Again, it looked like Sampbell would take the win, but again Dixon fought back slowly. Both of them were sweating now, and heaving their breathes into the pub. Dixon again brought it back to the tipping point, and this time got it right. With a quick twist of his arm, he broke Sampbell’s control and slammed his fist to the table.

The crowd that had gathered roared with delight. Dan clapped him on the shoulder hard and laughed.

Dixon was confused, “What does this mean?”

Sampbell laughed as well and clapped him on the shoulder too.

“Dan and Jackson are going to hold on to some concessions we had talked about before, and I’ll press for a few myself, but don’t let yourself doubt: You won. No taking it back now.”

“What about Garnet?”

“Oh,” said Norton, “You leave him to Dan and Jackson. They know what to do.”

In the wake of that positive outcome, Dixon looked up to find that the band was still playing, but only a couple of guys were still fighting. They all fell quickly, leaving Wanda and the Lighthouse staff laughing at everyone and drinking on the dance floor. The room was strewn rudely with moaning and staggering bodies. Quite a few were now attempting to get up. A couple were bleeding a little bit.

The RCMP showed up, scratched their heads and, when they saw Dan, they made their way over to talk with him. After they got the low down from him, they dragged Garnet John out to speak with Bo James, the Senior cop at the time.

Then Dan and Dixon, without mercy, got their people up and forced them to help clean up the mess they had helped to make. Quite a few of the white guys helped out as well, as Tory stood at the exit staring them into submission. Nobody was brave enough to complain to the police about anyone, so it all resolved itself by everyone going away.

And that, courageous literacons of British Columbia, is how Dixon Joe negotiated one of the first major Treaties between the First Nations people and the Province of BC. We are certain that one could hear, at any time, all about how grim and contentious- not to mention highly professional- lawyers spent months around a negotiating table going back and forth to wring concessions from an implacable foe. We can only adjure the fair and judicious Reader to pay no mind to them. They are lawyers after all, and aggrandizing their role in society is how they get paid so well. The true historians of BC would not- COULD not- so primly steal the victory from those who fought, so hard, to arm wrestle it. Nor could they in the process dismiss the ever so historical context of the Wakefield Pub.

The sands of time have marched on since then, however. Changes have come and gone. While we are not aware of any other First Nations Treaties concluded so fairly by arm wrestling, we know with certainty that the Wakefield Inn no longer exists. It seems that ownership of the Lighthouse Pub has passed to others who, in their druthers, chose not to comment on the veracity of this account, or respond at all. John the Janitor, due to his apostasy in Hell, lives on in a preserved state at Gilligan's Pub, where he protects the ether from the complaints of superficial ninnies. Not finally, our protagonist moved on in a pretense of responsibility.

Rest easy, fair readers, for he could not for long evade our ever omniscient gaze. Let us pause and await his next adventure.