While the wind moaned through the stove pipe, Dixon, Nathaniel, Barty, and Pastor Perkins waited in silence. An uncomfortable silence, like that found in a graveyard—mournful, lonely, sullen.
Dixon crouched beside Joab while the dark passed like a spirit released to walk the earth until the sun rose. And when morning came, it hid in the corners of the sod house, fawning over the ill feelings that spread among friends.
How many more nights could they stay in this hovel, begging the night to leave, only to find it remained in their souls? Dixon averted his thoughts. No good dwelling on it.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. Why has God done this to me?” Joab’s feeble cry crashed through silence’s hold.
Pastor Perkins’ face remained unmarred by the night’s vigilance. Yet, he made no move to comfort Joab. Could he not see the man’s inner turmoil?
Dixon couldn’t stand by and let Joab suffer any longer. Weren’t ministers supposed to have the ear of God? Why hadn’t the pastor prayed for God to heal Joab?
A moan rose from his friend, rolling through the soddy like storm clouds, then falling away to a whisper. “I’ve done nothing …”
Tension whipped across Dixon’s shoulders. “Listen, I’ve always thought you a good man, Joab.” Truth be told, Joab almost made him a believer.
Dixon tugged on his mustache and stretched up to his full height. His joints complained as he did. Had he any right to speak to Joab? “I know I am nothing but dirt.” The words slipped past Dixon’s lips, catching him unawares. He swallowed.
Feet shuffled in the corner as Nathaniel and Barty moved closer.
Truth was, in comparison to Joab, Dixon was dirt. He knew it and had kept it a secret all these years. He tried to ignore his mistakes, his horrible mistakes. But those errors of judgment, they were catching up to him now.
He ran his fingers past the corners of his mouth. In all his life as a NWMP Officer, he’d never known a man without some fault. “I don’t want to say anything to hurt you, but can you truly be guiltless?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean …” Had he not seen the hateful looks exchanged between Abbadon and Joab? Something went on between them, something so malicious that they could easily kill each other. He’d seen that look before between a murderer and his intended victim—between the rebel Riel and Major Crozier, his own former superior at Fort Carlton, Saskatchewan, about twenty years ago.
The night his mother’s house burned, Dixon had worn that look.
But Joab—a man of God. … Malice corroded his face as plainly as it did others. Joab would have killed Abbadon with his own hands had he been able to stand.
The fact hit Dixon’s gut like a ton of lead. Joab was as capable of wrongdoing as any of them. If such a man as this righteous person could plot evil, then who could ever be right with God—then who could ever change God’s mind once it was bent on destruction? Truly, God was untouchable.
“Didn’t you tell me God is greater than man?” Dixon shrugged his shoulders, rattled by his own outburst.
Pastor Perkins didn’t move. He stood between the other two men and Joab. Only Dixon faced the pastor, and the man unnerved Dixon. Such penetrating eyes, cutting through to a person’s soul.
Dixon turned and shook off the feeling. Who was he to judge Joab? Wasn’t he also guilty? Guilty of betraying his comrades.
The wind that night, long ago, had gone right through his serge when he had sneaked past the guard and out of Fort Carlton. Major Crozier had refused to listen to him. The Métis, those murderous half-breeds, occupied the Village of Duck Lake, and Dixon had to get to his mother. Once the Métis learned she was the mother of a NWMP Officer, they’d murder her.
The snow crunched beneath his feet. So much for alert guards on duty. Perhaps they thought him a deer or some other wild animal.
He glanced at the sky. The cloud cover made it easy to slip through the trees. On the North Saskatchewan River, the ice cracked as the rising water shoved it aside. Shoved it aside like the major had Dixon.
For more than twenty miles, he ran in the dark. A foolhardy trip what with the unrest between the Indians, the Métis, and the whites. But Mother’s life was in danger. He had no choice.
Past midnight, he rounded the corner of his mother’s home, a plank-sided shanty with oiled parchment for windows. Smoke rose from the chimney. A dull light shone from the house, and he could hear voices.
Men’s voices.
His jaw locked. What were men doing in Mother’s house?
He squatted below the window to listen.
“Zee fort, it is not well guarded.”
Dixon grunted. That was an understatement.
“We should move quickly.” The second voice sounded like Riel’s, but Dixon couldn’t say for sure. He’d only heard him once, and that from a distance
“It’s too soon. Zee people, they need to become comfortable with zee new government.”
That voice was decidedly Pierre Parenteau’s, his mother’s neighbor, and a powerful man.
Dixon swallowed. Pierre knew Dixon. That explained their presence.
God, if there were ever a time Mother needed you …
Dixon needed to get in there. He reached for his sidearm. Nothing. He slapped his thigh and groaned. Desperate to sneak away undetected, he’d left it in his lock box by his bunk. Now what?
“Zee North West Mounted Police are too strong. Undefeated.”
“Zen we will defeat them while zey are weak.”
Enough. He needed to know where Mother was, if she was safe or not. He crept along the side of the house, careful not to make noise in the snow. If he found Mother in the lean-to, he’d smuggle her out. That was a big if.
He should report his knowledge of Riel’s planned attack to the major. A knot formed in his chest. If he let the major know, then he for certain would be punished for desertion. If he didn’t inform, he could be responsible for the death and injury of many good men.
A hand landed on his shoulder, jolting him back to the present. Pastor Perkins lifted the corner of his mouth in a partial smile. The corner of his eyes, though, remained turned down. Did he know what Dixon had done that night, years ago?
Dixon ground his teeth. How could he possibly stand in judgment of Joab, a much more righteous man than himself, when he, afraid of punishment, decided not to inform the major of Riel’s plot years ago? If more troops had been sent, Fort Carlton wouldn’t have been lost. But that would not have changed what happened to Mother. His stomach rolled over in regret.
“God is greater than man.” Nathaniel’s voice cracked. “He won’t hear any vain words. The Almighty just ain’t going to listen. That’s why we’ve got to ‘fess up when we’ve done wrong.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Joab winced. His lips bled.
“Give him some water, Nate.” Barty pointed to the bucket and held his stomach. His face looked paler than birch bark.
Dixon stepped toward him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Think I’ll step out for fresh air.”
As Barty opened the door, the draft pulled a whiff of smoke through the soddy. Smoke, just like that night nearly twenty years ago.
Dixon coughed. Running around the Duck Lake countryside that night had brought on a bad cold. It had clung to him for weeks. He sweated beneath his serge despite the frigid weather.
Many men died when they were ambushed by the Métis a few weeks after the Métis burned Dixon’s mother’s house with her in it. He could have prevented the ambush if he had ‘fessed up and told the major what he knew of Riel’s plans. Instead the NWMP scrambled to save lives and retreat to Prince Albert.
He leaned against the post supporting the fort’s catwalk and heaved, expelling his last meal.
Men scuttled to bring gun powder barrels to wagons. Horses stomped their feet, sensing the urgency. Shouts ricocheted across the barracks, and horsemen galloped out the gate to fall into formation. Fort Carlton would be Riel’s, and the NWMP would face their first humiliating retreat.
All because of Dixon.
He staggered to the lampposts. His orders were to empty the oil into the last barrel and extinguish each lamp left burning after the troops left the fort.
He lifted the last lamp off a hook in the back storeroom. His knees gave out, and he succumbed to a fit of coughing. The lamp fell from this hand, crashing to the floor. Kerosene splashed everywhere. Flames lapped it up and raced.
He ran from the building.
“Who is this that darkens the counsel by words without knowledge?” Pastor Perkins’s soft voice resonated with power. “Be a man, Joab.”