Grub was a chunk of bread and bone broth. Pork. In the cooling twilight, it was a treat to have warmth in the belly. Ott tucked into the meal, adjusting to his unusual surroundings.
The mess hall was off limits to the Sioux. Ott sat at the end of a line of constables who were little concerned by his presence. The recruit opposite him had thick black stubble and a robust build. He mentioned recent legislation that his wife had touched on in her last bit of correspondence. The purposes of the edict were obscure.
“…an extension of the injun treaties. A broad act, she explained, designed to regulate the lives of the heathens and transform them into sodbusters.”
“Sodbusters? That rabble?” A more senior officer jerked his fork in the direction of the Sioux lodges. “How in tarnation do the guv’ment intend to learn them to work a plow if’n they can’t unnerstand plain English? Honestly. Can you see them bow slingers operatin’ a seed drill? I’ll be a horse’s ass.”
“Where they meant to sell their grain? Where they plan on storin’ it?”
“I ain’t seen an injun build a fence let alone a storage bin, ‘n I been out here three summers. Hope the politicians ain’t ‘spectin’ them to raise hogs.”
There was no humour in their words. They referred to newsprints and communications they had seen out of Kingston and London. In the Ottawa Citizen. Not all of the Mounties were married. A pug-nosed constable mentioned letters from his father pointing to delays in the construction of the Pacific railway. The man’s father was critical of Prime Minister Mackenzie and stated flatly that the Mounties, of which his patriot son belonged, were being forsaken.
Ott’s bite wound pained him sorely as he listened. He discovered that the Mountie in charge of matters here at Wood Mountain was a Major James Walsh, and that the encroaching Indian clans figured largely in the minds of the young lawmen of the post.
“Harlin informed me that the powwow was held in the chief’s quarters last night. Y’ever hear of such rot?”
“I leaned on Lavallie for particulars, but he snubbed me. He said the major is forging a bond of trust with the chief. Said it’ll take time. Bastard wouldn’t share nothin’ no more.”
“Walsh best forget about smokin’ the peace pipe. Our orders is to press the injuns to make tracks. The longer Sitting Bull ‘n his braves is allowed to sit about ‘n strategize, the worse our chances o’ keepin’ our heads.”
The constables plunged into the discussion.
These lands is spoken for.
Once the railroad’s laid, Canada law will be absolute. Mark me on that.
The major will set the chief straight. There ain’t but one solution for the Sioux ‘n the Cree both…
Evening brought cooler air which began to seep inside the structure. Ott sipped the watery broth. He thought of Sir Lucien and the mastiff, wandering hungry on the infinite frontier.
* * *
The number of bodies congregated outside the fort walls was immense. There were villages upon villages of Sioux. Numbers greater than Ott could have imagined. He had awoken in a corner of the mess hall with his shin crying bloody murder, his head groggy. He’d no memory of retiring there and little knowledge of the evening’s events. The morning was fair, and with the support of his crutch he went among the Sioux in search of Sir Lucien. As earlier, there was an eeriness to the setting. A shiver went through the lonely wagoner’s core.
The Indians were a quiet breed. Gathering wood, they moved like deer. In silence, they shared leaves of clover from which they made tea. They ate petals of the hyssop flower. He saw two Lakota men singeing the pin feathers off a grouse. The womenfolk communicated in slight gestures; the males were stoic and seemed wholly averse to speaking.
Lodges and horses crowded the land. Grandmothers huddled, sliding bone needles through hides and pelts. Their hands darted swiftly. Ott saw that a few of the seamstresses balanced beads in the laps of their robes. Dogs lay at the openings of certain teepees. Tripods of boughs suspended iron chains and rawhide cordage. Few of the Indians marked Ott’s presence. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to whites—Ott had no idea how long the Sioux had been holed up at the fort. The primary noise to be heard was that of muffled coughing from within the conical lodges.
There were mules among the animals. A portion of these were as diminished as Sir Lucien and of the same grey hide. One had a tuft of black hair on its head identical to Lucien’s. None had been newly shod, though. In fact, the mules belonging to the Indians were not shod at all. Ott went from animal to animal, finding nothing but disappointment.
His leg soon weakened. There was a hefty log laid out at the camp periphery, and he reached it without stumbling. It was good to have the weight off his poisoned limb. Hiking his pantleg, he found the bandage was clean. A rumble came from his stomach, and he considered whether to ask the Mounties for another block of bread.
The young Lakota mother was hauling water out of a low area of speckled alder brush. Her hair was long and lush, her figure lean. The woman was strong. Without exertion, she carried two buckets plus a babe upon her back. Ott watched. He’d assumed she was unaware of his presence until the woman glanced deliberately at his location.
The village intruder looked down to his appalling boots. He felt himself flush. When he lifted again, the Lakota had disappeared behind a harras of undernourished mares. The stomach rumbling came louder in Ott’s stomach.
The morning remained tranquil. More of the Sioux emerged, some of them Brule Sioux, some Minneconjou. The Indians rode off bareback or returned from the woods to tether their mounts and pad into this or that lodge. Half of the horses were too weak to stand.
At a distance between two dwellings, Ott saw a family taking breakfast from a spit. The meat they peeled appeared hot to the touch. The teenaged children blew on the pieces before handing them to the infants. Ott had gotten to his feet to see what animal the hunter of the family had harvested. He saw a man of thirty or thereabouts cutting a slab from the carcass to place onto the skewer. As the man sliced, Ott saw the head of the carcass. It was one of the feeble mares minus its tongue.
Ott rose on his staff and resumed his search.
The encampment smelled of burned pine needles and cedar. None of the natives attempted to converse with Ott, though there was a severe-looking brave who collided shoulder-to-shoulder with him roughly. Ott kept his sights on the mules and dogs. Sir Lucien and the mastiff were not in the Sioux village.
“Excuse me, sir. Pardon.”
A ruddy-cheeked figure was marching around a cluster of lean-tos. He had an arm extended as if he would ring a bell. Ott would have guessed the fellow to be a juvenile if he hadn’t worn the scarlet tunic of the NWMP.
“Excuse me. You’re the one who suffered the rattlesnake bite, yes? I need a word if you don’t object.”
The constable had fine diction. He had put in time at a schoolhouse. With narrow brows and an absence of side whiskers, he had the image of an adolescent. Ott began to follow his lead through the maze of Indians and their lodges. The constable soon noticed Ott’s slow pace.
“Are you in need of assistance?”
“No, no. It’s tolerable after what mischief there were back at the chalk slab. That som’bitch, he meant to put the spurs to me.”
The Mountie frowned, uncomprehending. They continued past the remaining shelters and headed for the stockade gate, which was guarded by a pair of grim-faced men in the uniform of Ott’s escort. Inside the barrier, a shaggy sheepdog stood at the knees of two other officers. The officers’ talk appeared to be stringent. Heated. The larger of the two brandished an index finger at the nose of his friend. Ott caught the name Légaré among the jawing. And the words They ain’t our cause.
“What uh, what they call you, if’n ye don’t mind me askin’?”
“Constable Sheary.”
They overtook the building Ott recognized as the post’s hospital and briefly caught whiffs of iodine and sulfur. Human sweat. At the door of the subsequent edifice, the constable held open the door and Ott passed through.
“There. Shall we sit?”
Ott’s crutch toppled to the floor. He reached to retrieve it, then abandoned the idea. Sheary asked Ott’s name and began massaging his hands.
“How are you feeling then?”
“I feel good. These ol’ mudpipes o’ mine need replacin’. Other’n that, I feel a’right.”
The constable examined the crumbling boots. “I believe you’re right about that.” Poking about in a pocket, Sheary produced a bag of makins and commenced to rolling a cigarette. “The thing is, Mr. Otto, well, has anyone explained to you our circumstances here? The fort’s supplies at present are sorely depleted. Border fires—have you heard of this mischief—well, they are bound to impede herds from entering the area. Deer and bison will be hard to come by this season.”
Ott’s concentration was on an eroded flap in his boot, which he had begun to pick at.
“The fort is awaiting its next shipment of supplies. There is a possibility that the Sioux that you so bravely approached just now will seize these food stores, or future shipments of supplies. Barring that, or any large-scale insurgence by the Indians, the amount of provisions will be sufficient for members of the NWMP but not for thousands of, uh, guests. Every extra mouth to feed here at the fort becomes problematic. Do you understand my meaning?”
The flap of leather ripped off. Ott rubbed the piece like it was a talisman.
“Mr. Otto, what I’m trying to say is that the fort is unable to accommodate visitors long term. If you can hold weight with that injured leg and your fever does not return, I will be escorting you from the fort at first light.”
Constable Sheary let the news sink in.
“What do you say to that? Have you a place—a home—not too distant from where we sit?”
An absence of shoulders made Ott appear the junior of the two. Sheary’s erect posture put him a head higher. He finished his tobacco roll and proffered it to the visitor. Ott did not see: he was contemplating the question.
“I’m ready,” he said. “I been away from home fer too long.”
* * *
The final morning broke clear and brisk. Hues of honey and coral spread into the deep prairie blue. The young Mountie was carrying tack toward the horses when Ott emerged from the mess hall.
“There you are. It appears we’ll have us some fine weather for our trek, Mr. Otto.”
Ott humped along on his staff. The pain of the bite wound had decreased. He scanned the broad horizon for the shape of a worn old mule.
“I trust that you ate. If I toss this saddle onto the sorrel, will you help me to strap it?”
They readied their mounts, packed provisions, and set out. Guards nodded formally at the gate and Constable Sheary touched his hat in response.
The Indians occupied themselves by shaping lacing pins and carrying bundles of long grass. Many sat at birch log fires, fashioning apparel from hides and pelts. A Lakota man missing a portion of his ear was carving a buck antler, his gaze locked on the duo departing from the camp. Sneering. Neither Ott nor Sheary uttered a word.
Granpappy had visited the government post not long after its construction. He’d been impressed with the Mounties’ level of organization, their dignity. The members’ conviction to mould the West into a place of order was admirable. Granpappy had said the eager Mounties inspected his saddlebags for illegal whiskey. They asked about his homestead and what insight he had in the way of buffalo trails.
The constable was comfortable in the saddle. He rode a long-necked bay and affected snickering noises in its ear. At intervals, he brought a spyglass to his face and made a perusal of the horizon. Ott studied the officer’s issue gloves, which went nearly to his elbows. Shiny bullets were fastened to the Mountie’s belt in a perfect row. The man’s feet rested lightly in the stirrups. By comparison, Ott’s truncated legs did not allow him to put both feet into the stirrups at the same time.
“I notice you ride without a molocher, sir.”
Ott put a hand to his unwashed scalp. “No I, I mislaid it in a violent wind. Need to git me a new one.”
A ladybug landed on the sorrel’s headpiece. It sprouted its wings and spun around to face the rider. Ott fell into a semi-trance, gazing upon the symmetry of the beetle’s spots. The dark, glistening red.
“And your mount? Did you lose your mount in violent winds also?”
If there was a hint of jest in the constable’s words, it was lost on the little man. “I ain’t had me no horse. Sir Lucien were a mule. He still is, I think. I expect he hotfooted it into open land when I was bit by that rattler. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em since.”
Sheary noted a tinge of sadness in the fellow’s commentary. The constable was young, but he had known men to grow more attached to their horses than they had to any woman. He began to search for a stray mule through the lens of his magnifying glass. Unintelligible mutterings came from underneath the beard of the enigmatic Mr. Otto.
On the brow of a hillock, the Mountie spotted the holy man. Dark was the figure he cut, like stone amid the vertical grass. The man sat sideways to the duo, his back to the breeze. He did not turn to acknowledge the riders but was surely aware of their presence. The Lakota was aware of the nuthatch twisting and hopping near his shoulder and of the cloud strips conjoining silently overhead.
Chief Sitting Bull. Sheary observed the leader closely. During his stay at the post, the Lakota seer had been a gentle, compatible presence. Sheary had seen him among his people, ducking into teepees and conversing at their fires. He’d seen the chief entering the office quarters of Major Walsh. The constable had held no discourse with the Lakota chief himself and couldn’t recall having heard his voice. It was above Sheary’s station to negotiate terms on behalf of the nation.
The holy man’s eyes were penetrating and alert. His chest was deep, his body hard like a stump of oak. The corners of his mouth dipped slightly, as though he’d not smiled since childhood. It was difficult to guess his age. His forehead was deeply lined, his nose broad.
The constable understood the position of the Indians. Privately, he believed that the chief’s reasons for abandoning the Montana and Dakota Territories were valid. What leader would not trade persecution for liberty?
Still, the constable was wary as he beheld the dangerous man.
Behind the meditative façade was the warrior who’d slain scores of American soldiers and murdered homesteaders across the frontier. Women and children. Sitting Bull and his army were scalpers and thieves. These facts were not in dispute. As Sheary led the bay into an earthy plateau, he contemplated how it would play out between the Sioux and the handful of Mounties. Visions of war, bloody and final, pervaded his head. He looked to his charge. Escorting the odd hayseed for the day was a welcome reprieve from the powder keg situation unfolding at the Wood Mountain post.
Ott followed the bay’s lead. The constable’s frame was twisted toward something concealed in the wild grass. Ott turned to glimpse the head of a seated Lakota. The Indian’s hair was adorned with a feather. He was concentrating on something before him—something in the distance. Ott realized he would have passed right by the solitary Indian had it not been for the Mountie’s watchfulness. In seconds, the Lakota went from view and Ott’s concerns returned to a weary mule and a mastiff with eyes like quartz.
The day began to warm the men’s skin. Sheary inquired whether Ott’s wound pained him. Ott then let loose a series of questions regarding the constable’s training, his uniform, what trouble he’d run up against in his year of service, and numerous other topics. The Mountie described his mother’s poundcake, which she served with cream back home in a village called Dawn Mills. He asked Ott if black bears were known to inhabit the southern regions of Rupert’s Land. He informed him that the untamed prairies now belonged to the dominion. The sale had been completed some years ago. The prairies were the queen's territory no longer. Soon, homesteaders would be coming in droves. The fields of Ott and his Granpappy would be seeded to feed citizens coast to coast.
When the duo tethered the horses and sat to eat, Sheary spoke. “Your place. It’s not too distant, I hope.”
“I ain’t so sure. If’n we come on the Killdeer Trail, I’ll get me my bearings.”
They left behind them the patches of hackberry and white cedar. Ott recognized nothing but was confident they were close. The constable had brought a bladder of cool tea and they drank from it near a clump of uprooted timothy.
“I’ve instructions to turn about before nightfall. The post, it can’t afford members being unduly absent under present circumstances. You understand.”
Ott nodded but Sheary was unconvinced.
“I won’t be permitted to lend you the services of the mare. You’d be left to proceed on your own devices. On foot, that is.”
“Oh. I see.”
They devoured pickled eggs and washed them down with the tea. Sheary prompted Ott to hasten and they covered new ground.
“Them injuns you got,” Ott began, watching a crow pecking at topsoil. “They fixin’ to scalp y’all one o’ these mornin’s?”
Sheary had been anticipating the question. He regarded his temporary companion, half expecting him to shimmy off his saddle and crash to the ground. The little man was not a graceful rider.
“The situation is unstable. I don’t hesitate to say it. We are badly outnumbered and, frankly, the post’s defenses would not withstand an attack. It would be days before Ottawa got word of it, should the Sioux decide to massacre us. Our superintendent, Major Walsh, is working to circumvent any violence. The Americans are determined to see the Sioux returned, where they would be allocated to reserved lands.”
The constable drew comparisons with a Cree chief in the western regions. The Mounties had received reports through winter that the chief was refusing to consent to a government treaty offer. Treaty number six. Big Bear was flying in the faces of his fellow chiefs, insisting that lands were not to be parceled out at the whims of the queen—at the capricious discretion of men in suits who never left their offices and knew nothing of buffalo. The territory had belonged to the Cree for generations. It had fed their young and taken their dead. Before the whites, the game had been plentiful. Before the whites, sickness was rare and isolated. Treaties, Big Bear insisted, offered only scraps from Ottawa’s everlasting banquet. The reservations were an insult.
Sheary asked Ott if he had heard tell of Chief Big Bear and his defiance, but Ott was distracted by the foraging crow. The bird plunged its beak into the earth, coming up with a shaft of stalk. Sheary doubted the man understood all that he heard. He had the sense that the fellow’s well did not run deep. Here was a homesteader of no standing, whose life mission would be to survive each approaching winter. To sustain his horse, or mule rather. Perhaps a few hogs. A railroad trip to Toronto or Montreal would be beyond his radius—the prospect of boarding a steamship to see his motherland a fantasy on the level of travelling to the moon. A man such as Mr. Otto, not unlike the scores of settlers soon to arrive to seed and sow their acres, would be defenseless if the Sioux and their allies launched war along the frontier.
The constable considered whether the solitary man was aware of his vulnerability. If he was, did it frighten him to know it? They distanced themselves from the hills and entered flat land.
* * *
Ott was almost certain of his direction when the gendarme took his hand and shook it firmly. Showing generosity, the Mountie relinquished his tea bladder. He extended an invitation to call on him at the post, should Ott find himself in dire straits.
“We are here to serve. It is our mandate.”
The constable looped the reins of the sorrel through the bridle of the bay and resumed his place in the saddle. He touched his hat to Ott and asked if he was confident of his location.
“I’ll make my way. There’s a Métis lives up yonder. Got hisself a mess o’ fowl. From there, I could spit on m’own property. Obliged to ye.”
Ott turned and began on wooden legs. Sheary scratched his head, wondering if he’d see the rare fellow again. When the Mountie set off, the sound of the horses barely registered in Ott’s ears. He took in the sights of home.
All about were open fields and tiers of arching grasses. Ott relied on the broomstick staff he had found. His progress was slow. Thankfully, his approximation of the area proved correct. He came on the Métis’s land within the hour. The loss of Sir Lucien and the mastiff was another stone to bear, and it was much needed relief to see a familiar place.
Ott could hear the cluck and wing flap of hens. No smoke string wafted from the building but there was little in that. In spring temperatures there was no need of a house fire till nightfall. Ott thought back to when he had departed and remembered two impressive quarter horses. Now, there stood only one. He humped his way closer on to the home before calling out his presence.
“Hallo! Anyone about?”
Other than the hens, the property was quiet. A pile of logs lay inside the Métis’s woodshed. A tarped mound of hay sat nearer the coop. There was a pair of sawhorses balancing planks which had been planed to a smoothness. A plow and hitch could be seen, ready for use. The Métis wasn’t one to squander his time. Ott hobbled a couple more steps before realizing there was someone standing in the door frame.
The Métis’s bride.
She hadn’t been there before. Ott lost grip of his staff and, fumbling with it, was forced into elaborate hopping. The woman’s focus was directed squarely on him, and he couldn’t help but avert his eyes. Inside the fence, the hens clucked on madly. The thwack of the quarter horse’s tail cut the air. Ott thought if he waited long enough the woman would speak, but no words came from her lips.
“Howdy, missus. Uh, ma’am. I made er back, as you can see. Barely, heh. That ain’t no lie. There was times I weren’t so sure I would ride it out. I mean, I was ridin’ when I had me my mule. That is to say…”
He broke off, feeling tangled. The Métis’s wife was silent. Her hair, dark and abundant, lifted and fell with the wind puffs. Ott felt himself a child though the two were comparable in age.
“No doubt yer wonderin’ where I mislaid m’wagon,” he bit his lower lip. “Damnedest thing it was. The whole contraption up ‘n crumpled afore my eyes. It done give out like the ghost. I guess Pappy, he was too much cargo for her to manage. But she held out long enough to get ‘em where he was bound fer. Yes, ma’am.”
He screwed together courage to amble closer. He tried to remove his hat and realized he wasn’t wearing one.
“Least ways, I am returned. Got m’self a wicked souvenir on m’leg here, ye see. Nasty rattler got me. Side o’ my head don’t feel so rosy either, truth be told. But them Mounties, they treated me fine ‘n set me on my feet agin.”
Ott retracted his leg and emboldened himself to gaze at the woman’s feet. She wore a buckskin robe that was frilled at the hem. Pants or stockings underneath the robe. Moccasins with involved beadwork. Ott started to ask the whereabouts of her man when he saw that she was proffering objects in her palms. A pair of moccasins resembling her own, with wool stockings folded overtop.
“Oh, uh…sake’s alive. I plumb fergot about them.” Ott approached her, lifting his brow. “For me? I thank ye. I can’t tell ye how my feet have suffered. These pig shit boots o’ mine, they’s about ready to be pitched in a fire. I got blisters growin’ on my blisters. That’s most kind of ye, ma’am. Uh, missus.”
He took the handcrafted items and retreated. It was a test of his abilities to manage the staff while holding the stockings and shoes. When he got to a comfortable distance, Ott realized that he had no means with which to pay. Unwittingly, he began a stream of quiet profanities and laments.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Deplorable sorry. I will find course to settle with ye as I can. That’s a pledge I won’t ferget. I swear.”
The artisan was unconcerned. The contours of her Swampy Cree cheekbones were becoming. Her throat was elongated and smooth. Ott could not imagine the woman being anything other than what she was then: staid, patient, at ease. He felt naked and timid, as he was prone to feel in the company of women. Turning toward the scuttling fowl, he took his slow leave.
Out on the broad plain, he did not think to look back: so fine were the moccasins to his eyes and to the touch.
* * *
Limitless was the sky, with scarcely a blemish on the cerulean blue. Sparrows and black-capped chickadees made a contest of chasing one another, then were lost to secret hiding places. Ott had exchanged his boots for the moccasins. He welcomed the cushiony feeling on his tender soles.
“I’m about wore out,” he muttered. “God ‘n Moses, this is a overlong hike.”
Already, the moccasins were dirty. The ankle flaps were bordered in corn yellow. The tops were decorated in geometric patterns which, upon closer inspection, contained symbols. A tiny bear track. An arrow. A hogan. The colours popped. The beadwork had demanded a steady hand and a keen eye.
“Bone tired,” he breathed. The tendency to finish his sentences with the name Lucien was hard to quit.
He followed the trail that had been carved into the grass before he was born. Often, he wiped perspiration from his forehead. The sting in his shin was tolerable with the assurance that the cabin was near. He smacked at flies with the unworn stockings but took care to keep the new possessions free of the dirt.
The cabin appeared on the horizon just where he had left it, and the sight of it stopped him cold. A piece of him wasn’t convinced he could do it. Enter the house. Take up a bucket and go to the well. Lie in the bed, where Granpappy had moaned and shit himself and coughed blood and wasted away into a mere shell. The reality of life alone struck. Having none to converse with, none to rely on. Sir Lucien and the affectionate mastiff—even they were gone now.
Canada geese honked in their flight. Ott contacted the earth with his staff and went forward.
What was noticeable on the property was the air. It was clean. Gone was the putrid odour of sickness. The rot of the pig corpse, which still haunted Ott vaguely. The returned man lifted the latch of the door and stepped into the house.
Quiet.
Emptiness.
A full minute passed. Ott’s back was lit by the spring sun. Dust motes drifted in the brightness, settling slowly on the wood floor. The kettle was there. Pots and skillets. The hearth was bare, and cobwebs had formed in the corners of the stone. On a shelf were Granpappy’s knives and a soiled kerchief. Granpappy’s hat hung on the knob below the shelf. Two chairs faced the small table, ready to be occupied.
Ott’s eyes hadn’t left the mattress. A lump rose in his throat as the bed held him in a trance. He saw his grandfather there, in a devilish state of suffering. He saw him transformed from a pillar of strength and wisdom to a helpless being. A child. Pleading for mercy. For a moment’s succour. Reaching out feebly.
Come, Otto. Please. Closer. Please, just like I told you. I’m askin’ you to do it. It would be a kindness. A charity. Please. I’m beggin’ ye…
He heard the weary whispers. He saw the thin veins through Granpappy’s translucent skin, the outline of his orbital bones. He saw the cushion underneath Pappy’s head and a pheasant chick, defenseless and starving inside a nide tucked into undergrowth.
Panic began to set in. Ott felt captive where, before, he had felt at home. His breathing had stopped. Why? Why had he bothered to return? The future was this. Days and nights alone. Haunted. He glared at the vacant bed. Shafts of sunlight pierced the cracks in the log house chinking, striking the mattress. The tremendous loss consumed Ott. His eyes stung. His knees weakened.
The silence was not broken until the horse in back of the cabin shifted its weight and began chewing on its post.