Cowboy. Louis Hamelin

and the predictability of its outcome rewarded him each time. All Legris required was a little attention. Besides, seeking intimate conversations with the police really wasn’t to his advantage. The Indians acted as foils to him; in fact, they allowed him to think he was superior, a kind of heretical Christ offering to suffer for their salvation.

      But, to ensure everyone was happy, the Old Man still had to trot out his bugbear, infused with biblical wrath. “You son of a bitch! You wasted my time again! I’ve always told you: don’t make them drink, don’t make them drink! Never, do you hear?”

      Fingers in his ears, Legris walked away sniggering, regaling in the commotion he discovered he was still able to cause. His bruises already began hurting less and he mused about other happenings.

      “Never make them drink!” barked the Old Man, plunking himself before me, though I hadn’t caused him any problems.

      Passing near me, Legris repeated, fire deep in his eyes, “Without us, they’d still wear animal hides over their asses.”

      The Old Man often looked outside worriedly, vigorously scratching his groin.

      “Still, fat Lili will have to show up, one of these days...”

      When asked who Lili was, he shrugged compliantly. “You’ll get to know her, don’t worry....”

      I believe I caught a knowing smile across Benoît’s lips.

      My progress with the cash register was hopelessly slow. My calculating knowledge was practically non-existent, and my preferred customers were Indians. With them, commercial relations were surrounded by a pleasant simplicity. Thrift had no hold on their imagination and they were completely oblivious to the most widely accepted notions of economy. One day, Cowboy came in to buy instant coffee along with Karate Kid. He went down the aisle, then returned with a tiny container he placed on the counter between us.

      I nodded.

      “You know, Cowboy, it’s much cheaper when you buy a large container.”

      “Yeah, but a small ones easier to carry.”

      And he shoved it into the pocket of his jacket, while I stumbled on his logic. I heard him pronounce the ritual formula, “Put it on my tab.”

      I pulled a yellow card with overcrowded columns from a folder.

      Cowboy and the Kid lingered for a while. We spoke about this and that, about the Incident, Salomé, Flamand, and the hotel. Salomé had dropped out of sight for some time, and they told me she was back on the reserve, participating in a family celebration. Cowboy frowned when I queried him.

      “Don’t know.”

      “Has she returned to her mother?”

      Cowboy and the Kid exchanged glances.

      “Gisèle must be in Sans-Terre....”

      “In the bars...”

      “Sleeps with the guys...”

      “When she’s able...”

      “Lots of bars in Sans-Terre...”

      “Bars filled with miners...”

      “Miners?”

      “Yeah, ‘cause of the mines.... Gold, copper...”

      “Lots of fights in Sans-Terre bars....”

      “She sleeps with miners...”

      They left. Barely had the door closed, when I gave a violent start: the Old Mans inquisitive head was perched over the cash register.

      “That’s how they are,” he began in a spiteful tone. “They don’t know the value of money! You could tell them a hundred times and it wouldn’t change a thing.... Moreover, it means profit for us,” he said, ending on an angelic note.

      I understood he was referring to the tinned coffee.

      He watched the two young people walk away.

      “I overheard what you were saying.... Indians never forget an incident like that”

      “What incident?”

      He smacked his tongue, then continued, “The hotel incident! The young Boisvert fellas a dead man if he comes back here! A goner! Hell never set foot in Grande-Ourse again! Barred for life!”

      He looked at me, speaking in a low voice.

      “Eleven bullets! Eleven bullets in the back. I personally placed my fingers in the holes, young fella. I picked up the pieces...”

      The Old Man said he’d been warned that night by the Muppet, who was taking a bath at his place to sober up, and who’d just picked up a whistling bullet in his water.

      “A bath!” the Old Man exclaimed, staring at me. “At that hour, what a ridiculous idea!”

      Night was about to fall over Grande-Ourse. In the congealing of the setting sun, through the fly specks, the low building could be seen, spanning its sinister mass of planks along the lake shore.

      “Damned Boisvert!” whistled the Old Man between his teeth.

      He scraped the dust with the tip of his shoe.

      “What saved us the morning of the funeral is that everyone was there. Everyone! Whites and Indians! Spared us a civil war, that’s for sure! Seeing everyone at the church impressed the Indians....”

      “Even Boisvert?”

      He shook his head, chin in the air.

      “No sir! Naturally.... The police had already taken the son away.... As a principal witness. As for the father, no one saw him for a long time.”

      “Was he found guilty? The son, I mean....”

      “Two years less a day in jail for the murder of a man, pal. It also didn’t hurt that he was a minor, obviously....”

      “What about the father?”

      The Old Man shook his filthy mop of hair. A fine halo emanated from it, which a nearly horizontal sunray coloured purple. He remained quiet, but finally admitted reluctantly, “He was cleared. It seems he was away the night it happened...”

      I coughed slightly. “What happened to the young fella?”

      Big Ben quietly crossed the room.

      “Oh Ummm Don’t know Uh Hmmm. No one around here knows, no one.”

      “And then,” the Old Man went on, “everything started happening to Jacques Boisvert. His wife drowned on a fishing trip that very summer.... And he raised a lot of eyebrows, afterwards, when he started hanging around with Giséle,...”

      “Where does this Jacques Boisvert live now?”

      I got the feeling the Old Man was peering deep into my soul

      “Don’t be in too great a hurry, son.... You’ll see him soon enough, as well....”

      The general store could no longer count on a watch-dog worthy of the name. His decline accelerated as a result of his spending the whole night tangled in his chain tied to a creaking clothesline sliding over the small yard. He’d bark at anything, at the least stroller who was already at the other end of the village. The tiniest quarter moon was now enough to prompt his wailings. In the morning he’d be found totally crestfallen, twisted in the inextricable tangle of his tether. He became the principal disturbance of the nights he was supposed to guard. The Old Man referred to his rifle, the dump. Benoît suggested we wait.

      The Old Man acquired a kitten from the gutter to thwart a tiny group of mice that had the nasty habit of using spoons as lavatories. The newcomer displayed a great aptitude