Canadian Red

by R. W. Stone

  “I will pay you well,” Lucas said in English. He emphasized what he said by using hand signs.

  The Indian thought for a moment and grunted: “No have pony.”

  “I will buy you a pony and pay for your help,” Lucas told him. “Both. Are you willing?”

  White Bear looked at the man and his big red and white dog. The he shrugged and nodded. “White Bear take, but no go into town. Not that one.”

  Donovan considered that for a moment and agreed. “Just get me there, and I’ll do the rest. It is a deal?”

  “Pay before go. Not after.” Obviously, the man had learned long ago to distrust white men. Probably with good reason, Lucas thought.

  “All right, before we leave, I will pay you. But remember, White Bear, I too have been fooled by others before.”

  The Indian grunted. “By white eyes, not by Lakota.”

  Lucas chuckled. “Well, you got me there.”

  “When we go?” White Bear asked. He was a man of few words.

  “I would like to leave tomorrow,” Lucas replied. “After we get you a horse and we get all the supplies loaded up. I’ll meet you at the livery stable early, and we’ll see about getting that pony.” He extended his arm and White Bear shook his hand. Then without another word, the man picked up the ax and went back to chopping wood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Donovan went back to the livery stable to purchase another horse for White Bear, but this time it was the liveryman who got the best of the deal. After all, it was harder to convince the stableman that he was so hard up when Lucas was wanting to buy a third horse.

  The two men finally settled on a blue roan that seemed reasonably sound. The gelding had a white star and stripe on its forehead and, from what Lucas could make out from the horse’s teeth, was around twelve years old.

  The stable owner agreed to have the roan shod by the time they were ready to leave. Since Lucas had just bought three horses from him, the man agreed to stable the horses overnight at no extra charge.

  The Mountie finally headed over to what the liveryman described as “the best hotel in town, especially if you consider we only got one.”

  As was pretty common, when he entered the hotel, the clerk was taken aback by the presence of an enormous red-and-white malamute.

  “We don’t allow no dogs in our place,” he said firmly.

  “He’s house broke. Won’t be any problem,” Lucas assured him.

  The clerk, a tall thin middle-aged man with a balding hairline thought a moment, but then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Donovan pushed the brim of his hat back a little, took some extra coins out of his pocket, and leaned in. “This ought to cover any inconvenience. Besides,” he whispered, “if Red thinks you don’t like him, he might eat you like he did the last clerk who gave me a hard time.”

  The big dog looked up and began to yawn. The hotel clerk felt as though he were peering into the open mouth of a fully grown timber wolf. The man reassessed the extra coins on the counter and gave in. “Fine, but keep him in your room. And you gotta pay for any damage he causes,” he told Donovan. The clerk tried to sound tough, but failed miserably.

  “Don’t worry,” Lucas said quietly. “He’s as gentle as a kitten. When he’s not hungry, that is.”

  “No doubt,” the clerk replied nervously. “Have a nice stay.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  The clerk clearly seemed relieved at that bit of information.

  “One thing, however,” Lucas added, “he doesn’t do well when I’m not around, so, unless you want to feed him in the restaurant, could you arrange to have three large steaks, some potatoes, and a beer sent up to my room?”

  As if right on cue, at the mention of steak, Red let out a loud bark. The dog was merely being playful, but a malamute as big as Red was imposing. Donovan watched the color drain from the face of the clerk and suppressed a smile.

  Trembling, the clerk placed his hand over his heart, stuttering: “T-two … um … three steaks and potatoes to the room. Coming right up.”

  As he turned to leave, Lucas reminded the clerk: “And a cold beer for me.”

  “I’m surprised it’s not for him, too,” the clerk mumbled to himself.

  Once settled in his room, Lucas evaluated the progress he was making while Red ate one of the steaks. Donovan ate half a steak and the potatoes. When they were both done eating, the two drifted into a deep sleep—Lucas on the bed and Red right next to the bed, on the floor.

  The following morning, Donovan was up with the sunrise. He poured Red some water and gave him the remaining steak he had saved for him, while he ate the other half of his steak he hadn’t finished. He washed up in a small bowl provided in the corner and dried himself with a towel—embroidered with a rose pattern—that was draped over the stand that held the ceramic bowl and pitcher. He looked into the mirror and considered shaving, but, wanting to save time, decided he would let it go.

  Lucas buckled on his wide leather belt with its cross-draw flapped holster. After checking his pistol, he adjusted his hat and picked up the Sharps rifle that was leaning against the door. Lucas let out a small whistle and the big dog jumped up and followed him out the door.

  The pair arrived at the stable just as it was opening. Off to the left of the entrance White Bear was sitting, cross-legged, with his back up against the wall.

  “What did you do … sleep here?” Lucas asked, looking up at the sun. “And I thought I was an early riser,” he muttered to himself.

  White Bear merely grunted and stood up. “We go now?”

  Donovan shook his head. “Got to pick up our saddles and tack and other supplies over at the general store first.”

  The liveryman led the three horses out of the barn and handed the lead ropes to Lucas. He in turn handed the rope for the blue roan to White Bear. “He okay with you?”

  The Indian checked the horse’s feet and hoofs, studied him all around. For the first time since they had met, White Bear actually cracked a small smile. “Good.”

  “Thought you’d like him,” Lucas said. “Just don’t go all mushy on me with gratitude or anything.”

  Turning to the liveryman, he asked: “You want the ropes and halters back.”

  “Naw, keep ’em. They’s old ropes, anyhow. Besides, I appreciate a man who knows how to horse trade. Have a safe trip … wherever you’re goin’.”

  Lucas touched the brim of his hat and thanked the man as he and White Bear led the horses down the street to the store where he had left his supplies. As always, Red trotted along happily, stopping only long enough to relieve himself on a nearby post.

  “How long you expect this trip will take?” Lucas asked.

  White Bear thought a moment before answering. “If no problems, should be there in ten, eleven days.”

  Donovan considered the answer and grinned. “You expecting trouble, my friend?”

  “Things always go right for you?” White Bear asked.

  Remembering his brother Jamie, Lucas shook his head. “No, I guess they don’t. Leastwise, not lately.”

  Planning for a trip on horseback, even one expected to last ten days or so, still required forethought. And although it would be prudent not to overburden the animals, Lucas knew he would have to stock up for any number of eventualities, as well as add provisions to accommodate White Bear’s needs.

  His purchase included tack, saddle blankets, canteens, canned goods, and bedrolls, as well as feedbags and grain for the horses, ammunition for the weapons, a spare set of clothing and extra gloves and socks. Life in the Canadian north had taught Lucas the importance of having warm dry socks on more than one occasion, and he had no reason to believe Montana would be any different, even though there wasn’t much snow except in the mountains.

  The last things
Lucas and White Bear packed away into their pack and saddle bags were a medicine kit, a set of extra horseshoes and nails, a pair of pliers, a rasp, a sharpening stone, a small hand ax, and a box of strike-on-anything matches.

  Once the horses were saddled and the pack horse had been fitted with a long lead rope, the men rode out of town, west toward the town of Bannack.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That first day, the pair made good time. The weather was cool and dry, and the horses seemed to enjoy being out and away from that crowded corral.

  The pair made about twenty miles before stopping for the night. On the trail, horses can travel twice that distance per day, but faster speeds tend to wear them out sooner and can quickly ruin a good animal. Lucas knew Pony Express riders averaged ten miles per hour, but they switched horses every twenty-five miles or so. Only by changing horses frequently could riders routinely cover eighty to one hundred miles per day.

  When they stopped to make camp for the night, White Bear set about gathering wood and making a fire. Lucas broke out the tins and utensils and cooked up a sort of prairie stew, using some beans, a potato, and a plump squirrel that White Bear had shot just as they were riding into camp. Considering he was using an old Starr carbine, Lucas was impressed with the Lakota’s shooting ability.

  Over dinner, White Bear was his usual closed-mouth self. On the trail Lucas could have counted all the words the man had spoken on two hands and still have a finger or two to spare.

  “A lady likes to be appreciated for her cooking, you know?” the Mountie joked as they were finishing up.

  “I am eating it, no? Good enough,” White Bear replied.

  After a minute or so, he looked up from his plate. “Not my business, but wonder why white man want go to Bannack?” he asked.

  Lucas picked up the coffee pot, using a doubled-over glove to keep from getting burned, and poured himself and his companion a cup. He hesitated before answering.

  “I am a Canadian Mounted Policeman. Do you know what that is?”

  White Bear nodded, but remained expressionless as he answered: “Pony soldier. Wear red coat.”

  “That’s right. Don’t have mine on now, but I am a Mountie. So you know of us?”

  “When the Lakota fought and killed Yellow Hair …,” White Bear started to say.

  “Yellow Hair? You mean General Custer?” Lucas interrupted.

  White Bear just grunted. “After battle our people had hard time. Army chase and kill many. After a year, Sitting Bull finally led our people across the white man’s border to the north.”

  “I remember that,” Donovan commented.

  “Sioux and Blackfeet end up in same land. Latoka and Blackfeet dogs not friends. Big problem about to happen when a pony soldier, named Walsh, rode into our camp.”

  “James Morrow Walsh. I know the name. That was near the Wood Mountain area, wasn’t it?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes. Pony Soldier Walsh come into camp of many Lakota with just a guide. Sitting Bull see bravery in this man right off.”

  Donovan nodded and smiled. “James Walsh is a legend among his own people.”

  “Walsh stop trouble between Blackfeet and my people. Later, when an Assiniboine start trouble in camp, Pony Soldier Walsh stop him and fix trouble all by himself. Sitting Bull so happy, he make friends with Walsh and told our people to obey the Queen Mother’s laws. Walsh good man.”

  “My brother was a … pony soldier, too,” Lucas explained. “He was killed a while back. He was bushwhacked … you understand? … Shot by an outlaw from hiding. Bushwhacker shot at me, too. I am looking for that man.”

  The Indian sipped his coffee and seemed to contemplate what Donovan had told him before saying anything. Finally, looking Lucas straight in the eye, he said: “You good man, and White Bear understand blood oath, but I still no go into Bannack.”

  “I know … you’ve told me,” Lucas said. “Why is that exactly?”

  White Bear nodded. “I will make sure you get there. Made promise to you. But no go into town. Is bad place for White Bear. After Sitting Bull took tribe back south to raise white flag, we thought peace made. But not so. White men still see us as enemy. One day when White Bear took wife and child to white man’s town, he was hit on head, hard. The men who did it thought White Bear dead, but was wrong. When I come awake, my woman and son dead. He was only small, small boy.”

  “I am truly sorry,” Lucas said, feeling like he swallowed a rock.

  “No one want to help Sioux, so I took my family away. Buried them in hills. I have fought the white eyes and won, but lost my family. No more. No go into that town. White Bear will keep promise and take you there, but I no go in that Bannack.”

  “I understand, my friend,” Donovan reassured White Bear. “I have no intention of making you a part of my troubles. Just get me to Bannack as fast as possible, and I will always consider that my friend did his job well.”

  “White Bear not afraid.”

  “Never entered my mind that you were,” Lucas said in all sincerity.

  “No want other peoples’ troubles. Just want to live life. What left of it,” the Sioux explained.

  “And for that, I don’t blame you. Your life, your rules,” Lucas replied. “Like I said, just get me to Bannack and we’re square.”

  White Bear simply nodded and set down his tin cup. “Good food. Good company. Bad coffee.”

  * * * * *

  Over the next several days the men rode along, putting more miles behind them. Donovan took in the country, appreciating the openness and beauty. The mountains, rolling hills, wooded areas, and the wide-open expanses of land that were breathtaking. Sadly, the panoramic landscape could not totally distract him from his mission, one that would not end well either for himself or Emerson.

  “How much longer?” the Mountie asked the Lakota guide.

  “Six more days maybe. We reach small town in one day, if you want buy more supplies, or rest.”

  “Might not be a bad idea. Maybe get a beer and take a bath,” Lucas said.

  The Indian looked at him, perplexed. Neither of the two things Donovan had mentioned had entered White Bear’s mind as something to do in a town.

  A day and a half later, around noon time, the pair rode into the town of Elk Grove. There wasn’t an elk in sight. Maybe there were herds of the animal here when the town was first settled, Lucas thought to himself, wondering how they came up with town names south of the border.

  As they rode past the livery, Lucas stopped and nodded to White Bear. “Do me a favor and see if we can get the horses stabled for a while. Maybe grain them a little extra, too.” He reached over and handed some coins to his companion.

  “Where you go?” the Lakota asked somewhat anxiously.

  “I’m going to find out where the sheriff’s office is. I want to head over there and have a word with him. Give me about a half hour, and then I will meet you out in front of that saloon over there.” Donovan pointed down the street as he dismounted, then handed his reins to White Bear.

  The Sioux nodded, took the reins, and turned the horses to the livery with some apprehension. He did not like being in a town full of white eyes he didn’t know. In his experience, members of his tribe were not received well in such places. Besides, he always thought that the towns of the white men carried a bad smell in the air.

  Lucas walked down the street, Red following closely, and before long he found the town jail. He opened the door, only to find the front room empty. “Anyone home?” he called out.

  A tall thin man in his midthirties came into the office from the back where the jail cells would be located. He carried a broom in his hand, and, after sweeping a small pile of dirt out of the doorway, he turned. He took one look at the malamute and promptly jumped back and held out the broom as if to ward off the animal.

  “He won’t bite,” Lucas said, as he
signaled the dog to sit.

  “Won’t bite, eh? Probably just swallows you whole,” the lawman said.

  Lucas chuckled. “Not to worry, Sheriff, he’s already had his fill today. I’m looking for a little information.”

  The lawman looked him up and down suspiciously.

  “Information about what?” he leaned the broom against the wall and went to his desk.

  “My name is Donovan. Lucas Donovan, and I’m looking for a man named Emerson. Jack Emerson.”

  The sheriff paused a moment as if startled, but he quickly regained his composure. “My name’s Jefferson. Pete Jefferson,” he said, and extended his hand toward Donovan over the desk. They shook hands, and the sheriff indicated that Lucas should take a seat. Red yawned loudly and stretched out on the floor in front of the door.

  Jefferson gathered up the papers on his desk and moved them into a drawer. “Emerson, you say?” he said. “So what’s this fellow done that you’d be asking about him in a sheriff’s office?”

  “Well, sir, I’m not sure if he’s actually done anything in your town, but the Mounties are looking for him for some killings up across the border,” Donovan explained.

  “They ain’t got no jurisdiction down here, you know.”

  “No, of course not,” Lucas replied. “I just came down here to determine if he is here in the States or not.”

  “You got some sort of special paperwork on him?” the sheriff asked. “Gonna try and take him back?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m off duty down here, but I thought I could save the government some money and manpower by determining whether he had actually crossed the border. No sense in looking for someone in your country, if he’s left it.” Donovan hoped his explanation sounded convincing.

  “Since when does the government ever worry about wasting money?” Lucas laughed in agreement. “That’s a fact, but I can tell you that my superiors worry a lot about money.”

  “So you’re a Mountie then,” the lawman said, stating the obvious.

  Donovan nodded. “Yes, sir, but as you pointed out, I’m acting on behalf of the force in an unofficial capacity. I don’t have arrest powers. I am merely trying to find out if Emerson left Canada. We heard he had family down here. So, Sheriff Jefferson, can you help me?”