The Widow's Demise by Don Gutteridge Page A

and curled up in the foetal position. She was a
long time going to sleep.
    ***
    “Finish your breakfast, love,” Marjorie Snow said to
her husband John. “You’re not in that much of a hurry to vote.”
    “The earlier the better,” Snow said. “I’d
like to avoid the goons, if I can.”
    “There hasn’t been any sign of them, has
there?”
    “Not that I’ve heard, but the poll has been
open only two days.”
    “You’re planin’ to take the buggy?”
    “I could walk it, but the buggy is faster and
safer.”
    “Do you really think the Reformers will
straighten out the banks, and help us out?” She poured John another
cup of tea.
    “It’s our only hope. Our mortgage is due in a
week, and I’ve got to get an extension.”
    “At least they can’t take the farm.”
    “But they can take my cattle and
equipment.”
    “Perhaps if we could give them a little
money.”
    “And where would we get it? I’ve got barely
enough crop for next year’s seed. Even five or six dollars would
likely satisfy the bank, but I’d have to sell a cow, and then how
would we replace it?”
    “I’ve got some sewing to take to the market
on Saturday. It’ll fetch a couple of dollars.”
    “Every bit will help. In the meantime we’ve
got to pin our hopes on Robert Baldwin.”
    “And he wants you to vote for that
Frenchman.”
    “I don’t care if he’s a Dutchman. If Baldwin
says he’s all right, I’m willin’ to go along with him.”
    “Well, then, finish your tea. I’ve packed you
a lunch. It’s fifteen miles to Danby’s Crossing.”
    Snow finished his tea and went outside to
hitch up the horse to the single-seater buggy. His route was south
to an east-west sideroad that would take him to Yonge Street just
north of Danby’s Crossing. The sideroad was barely a bush-path
hacked out of the forest, but it hadn’t rained for two weeks and
the way was passable, if not comfortable. He flicked the reins over
the horses’ ears, and horse and buggy eased out through the farm’s
gate. The sun was shining and the weather warm, a fine
Indian-summer day. There was a tinge of yellow on the maples that
inched inward on either side of the road. Several different kinds
of birds sang heartily. John Snow began to whistle.
    Just before he reached Yonge Street, he saw a
group of men standing in a clump of trees by the side of the road..
Could this be one of the Tory goon squads? He slowed his pace. He
felt all eyes upon him and his progress. He was twenty yards away
when he recognized one of the men as his near neighbour.
    “Hello, John,” the fellow said, hailing
him.
    “Am I glad to see you,” Snow said. “I thought
for a moment I was heading into trouble. What are you fellas doin’
out here?”
    The other faces were now familiar, though he
couldn’t put a name to any of them.
    “We’ve just come from the poll,” his
neighbour said. “We figured there was safety in numbers.”
    “You must’ve started at the crack of
dawn.”
    “That we did.”
    “Did you meet any goons on the way?”
    “We did see one bunch of ‘em, but we
outnumbered them and they let us pass.”
    “Whereabouts?”
    “Just at the corner of Yonge and the Danby
crossroad.”
    “I’d better step carefully then.”
    “You can always tell them you’re goin’ into
the harness-maker’s or the general store.”
    “I’ll try to avoid them if I can.”
    “Well, then, good luck.”
    The other men repeated the wish, and John
Snow moved on, apprehensive. In a few minutes he came within sight
of Murphy’s Tavern at the intersection with Yonge Street. He
decided it would be politic to stop there for a drink and a rest
before going on to Danby’s and the poll. Perhaps by then the goons
would have dispersed. He stepped into the taproom.
    It was a dark, smoky, low-ceilinged room with
a rough bar at one end and several tables and stools scattered
about. Snow was surprised to see close to a dozen men inside, three
at the bar and the rest seated. They