THE MEN WERE QUIET AS THEY RODE from The Crossing, following the Whatcom Trail as it became Nooksack Avenue, the main street of the town, then continuing north and east to the outskirts of the homesteaders’ farms and beyond. By then we were surrounded by untamed forest. All I could hear ahead of us was the soft thud of hooves on the trail and the odd twig snapping. After a while, the stars came out and the wilderness seemed less black. Still, we made slow progress, for not even the most eager of the men was willing to risk breaking his horse’s leg by pushing him past a quick walk in the dark. I dared not say a word to Pete even in a whisper, knowing how my voice would carry. We rode this way for well over an hour, until suddenly we heard talking ahead.
Pete and I jumped down from the horse and led it by the reins up closer to the posse. We saw in a clearing ahead that many of the men had dismounted. Their lanterns formed a ring of light as they gathered around someone or something. I signaled for Pete to stay put with the horse, and I crept ahead through the trees so I could hear what was going on without being detected. I recognized Sheriff Leckie’s voice coming from the middle of the circle of men and I realized our posse must have met up with him on the trail on his way back from Canada. He was telling the others what had happened since Mr. Breckenridge left him and the Canadian justice of the peace, William Campbell, two days earlier.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” the sheriff was saying, “they got a different way of handling the Indian problem up there. Got them all convinced that the bloody Queen of England is their Great Mother.”
Sheriff Leckie relayed how he had gone with Justice Campbell to the Sumas Indian village, where Louie Sam came from. According to the sheriff, Justice Campbell entered into considerable discussions with the Sumas chiefs—more discussion than was necessary, in the sheriff’s opinion. At last they agreed to hand the renegade over. When they laid eyes on Louie Sam, he appeared not even a little bit remorseful for what he did to Mr. Bell. The sheriff recounted how Justice Campbell explained to him in simple English that he was accused of murder, just like his father, Mesatche Jack Sam, had been before him. He explained there would be a trial with witnesses, just like his old man had, but that in the meantime Louie Sam would have to come with him to jail. Sheriff Leckie said that Louie Sam was peaceable enough, not kicking up a fuss when Justice Campbell put the handcuffs on him.
Dave Harkness said, “You mean to say you left that Indian there, warming himself inside a Canadian jail?”
“If letting a heathen murderer sit in jail with three squares a day is the Canadian idea of justice served, then we got a problem,” stated Mr. Osterman.
There was a good deal of agreement among the men. Then my father spoke up, raising his voice above the others so that he would be sure to be heard.
“Justice Campbell promised there would be a trial,” he said. “That’s justice served.”
A hush fell over the men. Nobody was rushing to agree with Father, the way they had with Mr. Osterman.
“If I’m hearing you right, Mr. Gillies,” replied Mr. Osterman, “you recommend that the Indian deserves some kind of leniency.”
“Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a yard!” spat Mr. Harkness.
The other men took up the call for action. But Father wouldn’t quit talking. In fact, the more they shouted him down, the more he seemed determined to have his say.
“We set out to make sure Louie Sam paid for what he did according to the law,” Father shouted above them. “We should let him stand trial.”
It’s just like my father to speak his mind like that. Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to hold an opinion that’s contrary to what most people hold to be true. What made him think he was right and everybody else was wrong? Why couldn’t he just go along? For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed for him—embarrassed by him.
“Would you have us leave the job half done?” asked Mr. Breckenridge. “Maybe that’s how you do things in the Old Country, Mr. Gillies, but it isn’t how we do things around here.”
“Louie Sam can not be allowed to spread lies in a court of law,” declared Mr. Osterman. “Are we agreed?”
There was loud accord. I could see Father looking around as though expecting to find at least one man in the posse who wasn’t set against him. But it seemed there was none. Father said no more.
Sheriff Leckie spoke: “I want to be clear. I have no authority on the Canadian side, nor can I allow you men to act on my authority. But this much I can tell you. Justice Campbell left the Indian in the hands of two constables, Jim Steele and Thomas York.”
“Thomas York,” said Mr. Moultray. “I’ve had dealings with him. He’s a wily old Scot.”
Someone called out, “One of your countrymen, is he not, Mr. Gillies?”
“Let’s hope he’s not as soft-hearted as you!” shouted someone else.
“Or soft-headed!” came another jibe from the crowd.
There was great laughter at that, from everyone but my father.
“How comes Thomas York to be a constable?” asked Mr. Moultray.
“He was deputized this afternoon for the purpose, by his son-in-law—Justice Campbell—along with the other fella, Steele. They’re to bring the accused to the town of New Westminster in the morning, to the nearest courthouse.”
I noticed a look passing between Mr. Harkness and Mr. Osterman.
“Over our dead bodies,” said Dave Harkness.
Mr. Osterman asked, “Where might Louie Sam be now?”
“He’s being held in Mr. York’s farmhouse for the night.”
“Where would we find this farmhouse?” Mr. Harkness asked.
“At Sumas Prairie, no more than six miles from here.”
SHERIFF LECKIE RODE ON back to Nooksack shortly thereafter, leaving the leaders of the posse to chew over the news he’d brought them. Our prospects had changed considerably. No longer were the men facing the frightening possibility of fighting the Sumas Indians in order to seize Louie Sam. Now their task was much simpler, there being only two constables at a farmhouse to be dealt with, one of them an old man. The mood lightened among the men, some of them joking that the Indian would soon be guest of honour at his own necktie party. But Mr. Hopkins pointed out that while Mr. York was old and feeble, they knew nothing about the second constable, Steele. And both men would be armed.
“There’s a hundred of us against two of them,” shouted Mr. Harkness. “Let them try and stop us!”
That started another round of cheering. Mr. Moultray, who hadn’t said much up until now, quieted everybody down.
“Our purpose is to take Louie Sam,” he declared in his speech-giving voice. “I will not be party to spilling the blood of Thomas York, nor of the other constable. Let no other white man be harmed in this sorry business.”
At that, the posse calmed down. The five leaders—Mr. Moultray, Mr. Osterman, Mr. Harkness, Mr. Hopkins, and Mr. Breckenridge—went off to confer by themselves for a little while, and when they returned to the group they announced they had a plan. They proposed that one of our number be sent ahead to the York farm as a scout. Dave Harkness put forward his friend Jack Simpson, a coach driver for Mr. Moultray’s livery stable, as the best candidate for the job, since Jack is an amiable sort and might do well at winning Mr. York’s trust. Also, Jack was easily made to look like an ordinary traveler, having not blackened his face like many of the men had done, and changing his costume was only a matter of taking his inside-out coat and putting it to rights. Jack was dispatched with instructions to tell Mr. York he was in need of a bed for the night, and to that way gain entrance to the farmhouse. The posse would follow within two hours.
That left the rest of the men to cool their heels and rest their horses. Some lit campfires. Others took the chance to claim a few winks of sleep. I was about to go back to Pete and fill him in on all I’d heard when, wouldn’t you know it, a whinny comes from out of the darkness, and there’s Pete—riding up on Mr. Bell’s horse. The men were instantly on alert for trouble.
“Who goes there?” shouted Dave Harkness.
He took aim with his rifle in the general direction of Pete, his finger twitching over the trigger.