THIS holiday season, we’re going to celebrate it with Harold F. Cruickshank—creator of those great Aces of the Western Front’s Hell Skies—Red Eagle, Sky Wolf, and Sky Devil. But this holiday season it’s going to be a down home Christmas featuring Cruickshanks Pioneer Folk stories of young couple of homesteaders trying to establish a life and home for themselves in the wild west from the pages of Range Riders Western (1945-1952).

We’ll be pairing these with Cruickshank’s own recollections of his life as a homesteader in Barrhead, Canada before The Great War that appeared in the Edmonton Journal’s The Third Column feature during the ‘50. The Edmonton Journal regularly set aside the third column on its editorial page for submissions from freelance writers, of which Cruickshank was an occasional contributor over the years. His columns frequently focused on his life growing up as a homesteader with his father and brother who had all immigrated from Scotland in 1905 to Barrhead, Canada along the famed Klondike Trail, just to the northwest of Fort Edmonton.

Let’s get the ball rolling with one of Cruickshank’s Third Columns.

The Third Column

by Harold F. Cruickshank • Edmonton Journal, Edmonton, Canada • Tuesday, 8 September 1953

Of Homesteading Days

NOT all tales from the pioneer days were “tall” tales . . . Some extraordinary characters moved in to settle the wild land.

A good example was a lone newcomer who, after introducing himself, vanished into the heavy brush to the south of us. We saw nothing of him for several weeks; we were very busy: he waa very busy.

One night, a friend and I decided to visit some more distant newcomers and had to trek through the bushland of the “mystery” man’s homestead.

We were suddenly startled by weird, banshee-like shrieks or wails which seemed muted by some muffler. We were a bit afraid of the very ground we stood on. But we moved on and in time reached a small clearing and smelled wood-smoke, but there was no shack!

Finally, we came to a flat sod roof, close to the ground, a roof through which protruded a stovepipe and a split-pole ventilator shaft.

Part of the mystery was solved, the newcomer had constructed a dugout-type shack. Neatly cut clay steps led us down to a split-pole door. The caterwauling had ceased, but as we hesitated at the door it broke out again. However, this time it was recognizable as a series of skillfully-lipped scales on a cornet.

Our new neighbor was a professional musician. He made us welcome, and we admired his cosy little dugout. After much persuasion, he treated us to some very fine numbers on his cornet.

Some time later, he packed the instrument and the rest of his belongings and moved silently away. We never saw him again.

* * *

ONE of the earliest settlers to the north of us was a delightful, widely-traveled Irish bachelor I shall call “Doc.”

Doc had tired of circling the globe and decided to try his luck in our wild country. A great horseman, he brought in some excellent saddle stock, among which was a handsome Arabian gelding.

One evening, as he finished his lone supper at his shack, he heard human voices. Since he was about the first settler in his district, his interest was aroused; such sounds were a rarity. Moreover, these were of special interest because they included voices in the feminine register.

Outside, through a light drizzle of rain, he located the wagon outfit, bogged down. Doc could have walked, but he saddled up the Arab steed and galloped down to execute a swashbuckling rescue.

The party, of Scots, included a lovely, titian-haired girl, who at once sent Doc’s heart into a series of cartwheels. . . He commenced to plan.

Doc got the outfit bog-hauled to dry ground and whipped up a supper for them; then, mounting his horse, he piloted them on to their homestead area. He hustled the sons, getting up tents. When all were secure for the night, and Bessie, the cow, was safely tethered. Doc rode away.

He was back the next day. and the next, and the next, always eager to lend a hand. He was welcome, too, until the old skipper suspected that he was paying too much attention to his lovely daughter. Then, Doc got the cold shoulder.

* * *

DOC just stayed away, until one morning, bright and early, he happened to be riding the north line, past the Scottish camp and saw that the party was in despair. The womenfolk hailed him, but he rode on. . .

A “sudden change of heart,” however, halted him. He turned his horse and rode into camp.

Tearfully, the mother told of the disappearance of Bessie, the cow. Doc shook his head sympathetically. Cautioning them to remain in camp, lest they become lost, he promised to hunt through the entire township, and rode on into the bush.

At sunset, it was the lovely red-head who first spotted the weary rider coming up the survey-line. It was Doc, spent from the hunt, but successful. He led the slow-moving Bessie.

Doc was at once proclaimed a hero!

In due time, he and the titian-haired beauty were married.

For the conclusion of this tale, it would be best to quote what Doc said, in the presence of his wife, to my wife and me:

“What the old folks never did know,” he said with a sly chuckle, “was that, the night before all the excitement, I’d sneaked up, untethered Bessie, and trailed her to the bush near my place. There I kept her until the time was ripe for the big show, rescue and restoration and”—he smiled mischievously at his wife—”reward!”