Canadian Red

by R. W. Stone

  “Appears these boys were correct,” Davidson said smugly. “Now all that remains is to see who was working with Joe here besides Hancock.” The constable turned to face Hancock again. “So you still claim that you paid La Pierre and he gave you that bill of sale just before he rode out from his place that day?”

  “Not a claim … fact. You already got the proof,” he said, indicating the paper Jeff Blake was holding.

  “Well, sir … that’s real interesting. Mister Blake wasn’t the only one concerned about the goings-on around here. You see, Henry La Pierre also notified the force about the trouble with land grabbers in this area. Did so by mail. Then Blake got in contact with us. So, when I heard La Pierre had been murdered, I rode over to his place and had myself a look around,” the Mountie explained.

  “There wasn’t much out of the ordinary at his house … no signs of a struggle or anything of the sort. But while I was looking around inside, I stepped on a creaking board in the bedroom. When I pried that board up, I found a small metal box hidden underneath the floor boards.”

  By now the rest of the men in the crowd were listening intently to the constable’s story.

  “Inside the box was La Pierre’s will. Seems that Henry left all his property, including his ranch and the mining operation that’s on it, to his niece who is living back in Ottawa.” The constable turned toward Hancock. “Now, why do you suppose he’d sell his land when he intended his niece to have it?”

  Hancock’s discomfort became obvious and he tugged nervously on his mustache. “How the hell do I know? Maybe he didn’t have a chance to change his will. Or … or maybe once he saw all that cash, he simply forgot about the will? Or maybe he just didn’t care?”

  The locals who had known Henry began to shake their heads as if disappointed in themselves for having been duped by the Yank, who was always talking big and throwing his money around.

  The Mountie said: “Plausible.”

  Hancock seemed to relax slightly.

  “Of course, since we now have your bill of sale, it’s no problem whatsoever to compare the handwriting on it with the writing on Henry’s last will and testament,” Davidson pointed out. “And we have his letter to the force,” he added as he handed La Pierre’s will over to Blake. “Take a good look, Mister Blake.” The Mountie crossed his arms as the owner of the trading post compared the two documents.

  When Jeff Blake dropped his hand with the papers in it, Davidson said: “What do you say, Mister Blake, does the writing on the bill of sale match the writing on Henry’s will?”

  Before the trader could even reply, the other Americans who had ridden onto the Donovan ranch along with Hancock and Joe tried to make a run for it. At the same time, Hancock tried to bowl the Mountie over, but Davidson pivoted to his right and squatted down. The American was thrown over his back as the Mountie executed a classic hip throw.

  The other three were grabbed by a number of the men—both locals and a handful of newcomers to the area, who had all become even more sheepish as the story unfolded—and were quickly hustled back in front of the constable and thrown down to the ground next to Joe. They were ordered to sit with their backs to each other.

  As far as the Donovan twins could tell, the Mountie didn’t appear to be ruffled even slightly.

  With the Yanks in custody, Frank Davidson turned to face Jamie and Lucas. “You boys showed real courage and loyalty to your friend. The force will need lads like you someday. In the meantime, would you two mind getting the handcuffs I carry in my saddlebags?”

  The twins raced each other over to his horse.

  “Mister Blake, may I use your trading post’s back room as a temporary jail,” Davidson asked.

  “Yes, sir, Constable Davidson,” Blake answered, keeping his eyes downcast, afraid to meet the eyes of Charlie Two Knives or the twins.

  * * * * *

  Throughout their teens, the Donovan twins would often talk about their first encounter with a tall heroic man in a bright scarlet Norfolk jacket who saved Charlie’s life and helped the folks protect and keep their land, for no telling what lengths Hancock and his men would have gone to take over the area. So it wasn’t surprising to anyone, especially Charlie Two Knives, that the two brothers joined the North-West Mounted Police once they reached their majority. Charlie’s proudest day was when he saw the two young men in their NWMP uniforms.

  Part II

  Chapter Four

  The long barrel of a Remington rolling-block rifle protruded through the thick brush sticking up through the snow. A tall, heavyset, bearded man sighted down the rifle’s bore as he lay in wait. The man was positioned high up on a hill that overlooked a small but well-defined sled dog trail. It was seldom used anymore, but, even so, the man behind the gun was expecting company.

  There was a word for what this rifleman was about to do—bushwhack. The sniper grinned to himself as he lipped the word, since he was in fact hiding in the bushes. While the man knew the word could describe a scythe, or the cutting of underbrush, or maneuvering a boat through water by pulling on bushes, he preferred its darker definitions which included a brigand, a guerrilla fighter, or an ambusher, which is what he was. And what this ambusher had in mind was murder, plain and simple.

  He figured that the two men trailing him had to be following his tracks with the purpose of doing him harm. It mattered little to him that the law might rightfully be on their side. In fact, it mattered to him nothing at all. He had always felt that way. In fact, when a boy, he used to torture small animals whenever he got the chance, and he enjoyed the activity. He didn’t give a damn about what other people might think about him or about what he did. All he cared for was his own personal pleasure and, as he grew older, his survival.

  As evil as he might be, the bushwhacker was, nonetheless, an experienced backwoodsman. He knew how to track and stalk and how to prepare a blind. He had spent the last several years in the Canadian wilderness, wandering the back country, causing chaos and upheaval in the lives of others, taking lives without a second thought. He had gotten away with it because his crimes usually involved lone individuals who would not be missed, at least not for a very long time. He derived his greatest pleasure when he came across an isolated cabin with a small family that he could torture and kill.

  Recently, the man-killer had shifted his hunting grounds from northern Alberta to the southern area of the province, which was more populated. And while he had found more targets, he also understood the presence of more people meant he was taking greater risks. He ignored those risks when he entered the small isolated trading post—home to a family of three—after observing them for several days. He had overwhelmed the proprietor, and then tied him up. He had been in no hurry, so while normally he would have shot the proprietor first, he decided he would let the trader watch while he had his way with his wife and his grown daughter. The very thought had heightened his feelings of arousal and pleasure.

  Unfortunately for him, a pair of sled teams arrived before he had finished his work there. At the sound of the dogs, he had glanced out the window, and that had told him the two men on the sleds were both experienced woodsmen, and well-armed ones at that. He did not want to alert the two of his presence, so he dove out the rear window of the cabin and hurried off into the woods, to the sled he had hidden earlier. He had stolen it, along with its dog team—from a lone, unsuspecting, and now dead fur trapper—about a month back.

  He wasn’t surprised when the two men on their sleds had followed him from the trading post. He had known that there was always the chance of making enemies along the path he followed. He did not know who this pair was, but what surprised him was how they continued to doggedly pursue him. Even with all his experience and skill at covering his tracks, this pair seemed able to follow his trail. Each time he thought he had eluded them, they would appear close on his heels, hounding him.

  This man was not accustomed to bei
ng preyed upon by hunters—it was usually the other way around—and his frustration was mounting. He simply could not understand why these two cared about the trader and his family so much that they would not give up. Their persistence bothered him to such a degree that he had made up his mind to stop trying to get away from them, and instead to end their pursuit once and for all.

  For a bushwhacker to be successful, he must be able to remain motionless and patient for long periods of time. This man never wearied of the wait. Nothing could interrupt or break his single-minded concentration and anticipation.

  The plan he had laid out to end the two dog sledders pursuit began with laying down a false trail. He was confident that, unless this pair was capable of some sort of magic, there was no way to avoid his trap.

  The man was sure the two sled dog teams would follow the path right below his current location. It was a narrow path that ran parallel to a steep gully. That would put them directly below his position, and so the outcome was certain no matter how long it took for them to appear.

  The Remington rolling-block was only a single-shot rifle, but it was one of the most reliable buffalo guns on the frontier and could be reloaded very quickly. This particular one was a military model that had since been fitted with a new, long-range telescopic sight.

  After several hours of waiting, he could hear the dogs in the distance. He watched as they appeared as specks, far out yet, but the gap was getting smaller and smaller. As they came closer, the features of the man in the first sled came into better view in the scope of his rifle. But the man in the second sled had a scarf wrapped around his face that made it impossible to make him out. The shooter did not recognize the man in the lead, not that it would have made any difference. Now all that was left for him to do was decide which man to shoot first, the one in the lead or the one in the back.

  There were pros and cons to either choice, but he finally decided on the lead musher. It stood to reason the one in front was likely the more aggressive of the two, and, besides, once the driver in front was dead, his sled would jam up the team following behind, thus allowing for a clear shot at the second man.

  The Remington was already cocked before the two sleds passed near his hidden position, and another shell lay ready on the ground next to his rifle for a quick reload. The bushwhacker quickly calculated the distance and the downhill trajectory, and he aimed. When the lead team’s driver glanced up again, the shooter saw the man’s face clearly magnified through his rifle’s telescopic sight. He adjusted his aim slightly and fired.

  Coldly and without a trace of remorse, he had sent a bullet right into the chest of the lead driver, who, upon impact, was thrown off to the left of his sled and then rolled down into the gully below. The shooter quickly reloaded and sighted his rifle on the second man. As the second dog team slowed, he watched its driver jump off his sled, rifle in hand.

  He ran toward the edge of the gully where his partner had fallen. As he passed the front of his team, he reached down in a quick and natural movement, unhitching the enormous sled dog that was in the lead. He paused at the edge of the gully and looked down. He then turned and raised his own rifle as he searched the ridge for some sign of the shooter.

  From that particular angle, the man’s raised rifle blocked the larger and therefore easier chest target of the shooter, so, taking aim from hiding and without further hesitation, the bushwhacker fired off a head shot at his second target. His heart began to beat in excitement when his prey was hit and fell backward. His body, just like that of the other man, rolled down the steep slope and into the ravine below.

  The sniper didn’t even bother to check on the condition of the two men, so certain was he of his own skill. One man shot dead center in the chest and the second downed by a head shot at this range. He shook his head. They were both dead. Of that he was sure.

  Chapter Five

  The bright white snowflakes swirled around in ever increasing intensity. At the bottom of the deep gorge two bodies lay, belly down, on a mound of snow. The blood from their wounds had already begun to freeze.

  The arms of the two men appeared to be intertwined. After a while, one of the men began to stir. He felt a presence and gradually began to recognize the sound of a beast panting. He felt its cold wet nose sniffing all around his face. The animal’s nose blew warm air into his face and his wet tongue repeatedly licked and slobbered on him. He heard whimpering. Moving his body required an immense effort and could only be done in small increments, but eventually he managed to sit up.

  The wounded man’s forehead had a longitudinal gash up under the hairline, but the winter cold had already caused the blood to clot. Head wounds often look worse than they actually are, and this was fortunately the case for this man. After wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve and using handfuls of the surrounding snow to jolt himself wide awake, the man found himself looking into the eyes of his big red-and-white Alaskan malamute.

  Even though the man’s head hurt, he still managed a small smile. “Good boy, Red. Good dog, but get back now.”

  The big dog took a few steps backward as instructed, but, for some unknown reason, he didn’t stop his whimpering. Then the malamute started to paw the ground around him.

  The man struggled to his feet as the wind blew his unbuttoned buffalo-skin coat open to reveal the scarlet-red tunic of a North-West Mounted Policeman.

  “Jamie … Jamie, get up,” Lucas said, reaching down to shake his brother who lay crumpled on the snow-laden earth. The limp form did not stir or respond in any way.

  Lucas had a terrible sinking feeling. “God, no! Jamie, no!” he cried out, dropping to his knees, understanding dawning on him. After taking in a few deep breaths, he gently rolled Jamie’s body over and stared into his own face, the eyes open but unseeing. The full realization of what had happened and what it meant was almost too overwhelming to take in.

  When the Mountie began yelling at the top of his lungs, the malamute, Red, and the nearby sled dogs all began to howl along with him in an eerie symphony of pain and despair. All the while the man hugged his brother’s body, rocking back and forth, crying alone in the white wilderness at the bottom of the gorge. The tears began to freeze on his cheeks.

  When he felt physically able, Lucas Donovan lifted his brother, a fellow Mountie, up over his shoulder. But it proved to be too much weight and he quickly became light-headed and dizzy. He set Jamie down, picked up his Enfield rifle, and called out to Red. “I need your help, boy,” he told the malamute. As he grabbed one of Jamie’s arms and started dragging him, Red understood, and bit down on Jamie’s coat and started pulling him up the hill along with Lucas.

  Lucas was a large man—most of the men in his family had been—but in spite of his size and strength, the trek up the frozen side of the gorge seemed nearly impossible. Blood loss, the cold, and grief played a role in his weakened state, and several times Lucas almost gave up.

  If Joshua Donovan had taught his two sons anything, however, it was that family meant everything—and that no son of his should ever consider giving up once he was committed to a righteous course of action. Lucas might die trying, but he would not leave his brother lying at the bottom of a lousy ditch out here, alone in the middle of the Canadian wilderness.

  After an exhaustive struggle, Lucas and Red finally reached the top of the ravine. There he found the two dog sleds right where they had been forced to stop earlier in the day. The two teams of dogs were resting in the snow, but they perked up when Lucas appeared over the edge of the gully. Lucas placed Jamie’s body in the basket of his own sled, covered it in a thick brown tarp, and then tied it down securely.

  He tied the two sleds together and hitched his and Jamie’s dog team together, his team in the lead. He located a canteen and drank his fill. Starting with his big red-and-white malamute, Lucas then examined all the dogs. They seemed fine, even though his brother’s dogs seemed agitated by Jamie’s absence.
Since the sled teams had been well fed earlier in the day, the Mountie only had to water them before beginning the long trek back to the fort.

  It had been Lucas’ long-standing habit to release his lead dog, Red, whenever he left the sled. Red was powerfully built, and in Donovan’s expert opinion there was no better lead dog in the Canadian Rockies than his big malamute.

  The Donovan twins had begun training sled dogs when they were in their teens, building doghouses and a dog run they could use in the summer months. Lucas had raised this particular dog from a pup as his personal pet. Since then, they had never been separated, the force allowing him to use Red as part of his sled team. In all his years, Lucas had never seen a dog as devoted or as strong-willed as Red. Lucas often wondered if maybe it had something to do with his coloring. Around these parts most malamutes, like their Siberian husky counterparts, had coats that were primarily black and white. His dog, however, had the less common reddish-brown-and-white colored coat.

  If there was one thing for sure, it was that wherever Lucas went, Red went. Donovan had learned years back that if he left Red alone, tethered to the sled or a rope, even if he was leaving just for a few minutes, the dog would literally tear apart his tether, harness, and leathers, and then run after him. After losing too much equipment and unable to train it out of him, Lucas automatically unhitched the big dog whenever he left the sled. Today it turned out to be a God-sent gift, as it was Red who had helped bring Lucas back to consciousness—as well as getting Jamie up the hill.

  The wounded Mountie found a strip of cloth from his pack, which he wrapped around his head wound—about which he had been unaware until he was back at the sleds—and then painfully readjusted the big fur cap he was wearing. He winced as he pulled the cap down over the bandaged gash. Lucas adjusted his gloves, checked the buttons on his coat, and tied a scarf around his face, as the wind was picking up. He then took Red over to his position at the front of the lead team and attached his harness.