their centre legs so they had to move together. “It takes practice to be able to pace your strides to those of your partner.”
“So each person has one and a half legs to run with, right?”
“Yes,” I said, though I had never thought of it exactly that way. But half of three was one and a half, so perhaps Peter was right. “I sincerely wish I hadn’t agreed to enter, not with someone I don’t even know. I’ll have no chance to practise before the race.”
“I will practise with you,” Peter said. “I run very quickly, but I have never tried to run this way, with only half a leg on one side.”
“You?” I looked at him closely. “You are almost Jenny’s height, and she said that Joseph isn’t much taller than she is. You’ll do very well as a practice partner, Peter. Thank you.”
Who would help Joseph Morrison practise? I wondered. No matter. It would be obvious to everyone watching the race, even to Jenny, that I had worked hard to improve my skill. Everyone would know who was the better runner. Jenny would see who was the better man.
Or, as Peter said, the better one-and-a-half-legged man.
Nine
Peter and I practised almost every day during the next few weeks. After work we headed for a quiet street near the upper end of Chinatown where we could run without worrying about bumping into other people. The two of us soon became used to each other’s running style. We were a good team, moving quickly, our bound legs working as one.
“We are not bad,” Peter said one day, laughing.
“We’re doing very well,” I said, panting. “I only wish I could practise with Joseph, as well.” We had finished for the day. Soon I would head up the Richfield road toward home and dinner, but I stood with Peter for a while, resting and talking. “How are things?” I asked.
He knew what I meant. “Good. The Frenchman stays away. Maybe in Quesnel Mouth, maybe at Mosquito Creek. Not here. So no one worries.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. I’ve heard the judge will come in July. The trial will be soon, and then it will be over.”
“For Ah Mow, yes, it is over,” Peter said. “Very much over. But for Henri Tremblay, well, perhaps his time in jail is beginning.”
“Unless he is sentenced to death. There was another murder here, Peter. The man found guilty of that crime was hanged.”
“I know. My uncle told me. You helped the law then. You made sure that man was punished.”
“I didn’t do much,” I said, hoping he would change the subject.
“That man’s name was James Barry. I learn that, sir...Ted. I know you will make sure that Henri Tremblay is punished also, same as James Barry was. It is fate.”
“I will do what I can, Peter.”
“I know.”
“However, I don’t think of James Barry anymore,” I added, then said goodbye and began the long walk home.
That was true. At least I tried not to think of James Barry. The nightmares were gone now, but I had heard his laughter in my dreams long after he was buried. Then, on the day of the great fire when so much of Barkerville was destroyed, I had thought I had seen his ghost.
I had told no one except Bridget that I thought it was James Barry’s voice that had awakened me from a deep sleep that day, his voice that had told me to run from the deadly fumes of the fire. I had told no one but Bridget that, for a while, I believed a ghost had saved my life.
It wasn’t true, of course. There were no ghosts. Something else must have awakened me, and then I imagined the rest. I hadn’t seen a ghost. I was absolutely positive of that. I did not believe in ghosts!
As if it sensed the blackness of my thoughts, the sky also was growing dark. A thunderstorm was coming. It had been on a day much like this—the sky grey, rain threatening, thunder growling in the distance—that it had begun. A stranger had stepped out from behind a tree just around the curve in the road ahead and spoken to me. “We’ll have to see what we can do about you,” James Barry had said.
That was the first time I had heard him laugh. Later he would say he had a score to settle with me, and then my nightmares would begin. Much later I would be at his trial, would hear the judge sentence him to death. The next day he died on the gallows, and I heard the sounds of his dying.
I shook my head, trying to scatter those memories, and quickened my steps. That time of my life was over. Finished. James Barry was part of my childhood, as were my nightmares of him. There were no ghosts and I no longer had nightmares. I was almost a grown man, and I would not let myself think about James Barry anymore.
Walking faster now, I glanced behind me, sure that someone was watching. But there was no one on the road.
“Be not so glaikit,” I told myself sternly, using Jenny’s favourite word for foolish. However, the feeling that someone was staring, that unseen eyes were peering at me, wouldn’t go away.
Again I checked behind me, but the road, often so busy, was deserted. The stagecoach had passed by hours ago, and it seemed everyone else had fled, running to shelter before the approaching storm. The trees were still, not a breath of wind stirring their branches or rustling their leaves. It was as quiet as I had ever known this road to be, except for the thunder that rumbled as the sky grew darker.
When I rounded the curve, I heard a voice. “Who is it?” I called, trying hard to keep my voice from quavering. “Who’s there?”
A low croak answered me. A raven was perched at the top of the tree. It cocked its head and stared down at me with beady eyes. That was why I felt as if I were being watched! I was being watched, but only by a raven, a corbie as Jenny called them.
“Hello, Mr. Corbie,” I said, my voice stronger.
“Croak,” the bird said again, as if it were answering me. The sound was low, drawn out, as if the bird were human and were speaking from the back of its throat. It almost seemed as if the raven were complaining about something.
I laughed. “Good day to you.”
“Bonjour,” the raven replied. From behind the tree stepped Henri Tremblay.
I swallowed hard. “Good afternoon,” I said politely, the words thick in my mouth.
“I wish to speak to you. It is good that we are alone.”
“But I don’t wish to speak to you, sir. Good day.” I began walking faster, ignoring him.
“Pas si vite! Not so fast!” He stepped into the road, directly in front of me. “You have been playing with one of your Chinese friends. Running. Laughing. Beaucoup d’ amusement.”
“I don’t see how it is any concern of yours, Mr. Tremblay. Now if you’ll let me pass...”
He made no move to stand aside so I could continue up the road. “I think, boy, perhaps that you will run away from town before
