by Lisa Smedman
Above the mission, the clouds had conspired to mirror McDougall’s expression: dark patches within the white vapour looked like scowling eyes, and the bottom of the cloud was like a jutting chin. Other patches of shadow gave this “face” the distinctive high, wide cheekbones and long nose of an Indian.
Before my summons to Regina two weeks ago, I would have regarded the cloud formation as an amusing coincidence. Now, I couldn’t help but wonder if the face in the clouds was as real as the thunderbird that had nearly put paid to the air bicycle.
“The Manitou Stone,” I said, tapping my finger on the rectangular boulder in the photograph. “According to Corporal Cowan’s report, it disappeared from the mission yard around the same time that the McDougalls vanished. Can you tell me more about it?”
Dickens drained his brandy and refilled his glass. “Only what’s commonly known,” he said. “It was a big, bluish-grey stone, sacred to the Indians, that used to be situated beside the Battle River. They would ride from all over on their ponies to the hill it rested upon, to leave offerings of pemmican and tobacco. Even mortal enemies — Blackfoot and Cree together — would venerate it side by side.”
Dickens took another drink, then continued. “In 1868 George McDougall decided that he could convince the Indians that his Christian god was stronger than their creator god. He used a block and tackle to lift the stone onto a cart, then hauled it more than a hundred miles to the mission.”
“And were the Indians convinced?” I asked, even though I could guess the answer. I’d had dealings with both the Blackfoot and Cree over my years of Mounted Police service — I’d even picked up a smattering of their languages — and knew them to be fierce warriors, not easily cowed. It was a wonder that the McDougalls — father and son both — hadn’t been killed in the process.
Dickens’s answer surprised me. “The Indians were terrified. According to their legends, if the stone were ever moved, disease, famine, and war would follow — and they did. Four years later, in the spring of 1870, thousands of Indians died of smallpox. That summer, the Cree took advantage of the epidemic and attacked the Blackfoot along Belly River. The Blackfoot won the battle, but it was a bloody business: nearly three hundred Indians died.”
Dickens paused to refill his glass. “Our scout, Jerry Potts, can tell you all about the battle, if you like. He fought on the Blackfoot side — that was back before he came to work for the Mounted Police. On the Cree side, the only tribe that managed to avoid casualties was that of Chief Piapot — and then only because Piapot made them turn for home, after he had a bad dream.”
My head came up like a dog on the scent. “Was it a prophetic dream?” I asked.
Dickens shrugged. “Piapot thought so. He told his braves he’d dreamed of a buffalo with iron horns, goring and trampling his people. One hundred braves refused to take part in the battle, and followed him out of the war camp.”
I sat and thought about that one. Piapot was the same chief whose braves had put up the show of resistance at the end of the CPR tracks last year, at the time of my own prophetic dream and Sergeant Wilde’s death. If Dickens’s story was to be believed, then Piapot, like me, had dreamed of his own impending doom in the form of an animal. I wondered if the strange look that Piapot had given me that day by the CPR tracks had been the look of a man with prophetic powers, recognizing those powers in another.
The gurgle of brandy into Inspector Dickens’s glass pulled me back to the present. He must have noticed my pained expression, for he repeated his offer of brandy. This time, I took it, putting out of my mind the fact that drinking on duty was cause for a nine-dollar fine. The brandy was surprisingly good.
“The winter of 1872 brought the third calamity that the medicine men had predicted,” Dickens continued. “That winter was a hard one, colder than any in living memory, and the buffalo were becoming scarce. Hundreds of Indians that had survived the smallpox epidemic now starved to death.”
Dickens leaned back in his chair; the story had obviously come to a close. He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “It’s a grand story, eh? Certainly worthy of anything my father might write, but it’s pure fantasy. In my opinion, there is only one possible explanation for the disappearance of the stone and the McDougalls: the Indians finally worked up the gumption to retrieve their precious rock and kidnapped the reverend when he tried to prevent them from dragging it away on a travois.”
“A travois wouldn’t have been sturdy enough,” I said, glancing at the photograph. “The stone looks heavy; it would have been difficult to move. The Indians would have needed a wagon or cart. Were any missing from the McDougall home?”
Dickens shook his head.
“What about the McDougall family?” I continued. “Corporal Cowan’s report indicated that there was evidence of a violent struggle inside the McDougall home, and that there were several confused hoof prints outside the mission. He asked that Jerry Potts be sent up to trail the kidnappers. But his report doesn’t give any details beyond that. It only indicates that Potts was unable to follow the trail.”
I was hesitant to accuse Jerry Potts of shirking his duties. He was a man that my own commanding officer praised highly: Superintendent Steele said he had never met Jerry Potts’s equal when it came to tracking and wilderness skills. But Potts was half Blood Indian and his bloodthirsty, superstitious nature suggested that his sentiments leaned more toward his mother’s side of the family than toward his father’s Scottish side.
“I can’t believe that Potts lost the trail,” I added. “I only know of one other time that it happened, and he had a damn fine excuse: a chinook that melted the snow, completely obliterating Star Child’s tracks. Following the pony tracks of a war party should have been a simple matter for Potts, especially if their horses were dragging a travois laden with a heavy stone. Are you certain he didn’t see any tracks?”
Dickens blinked. Despite the volume of brandy he’d drunk, he still had his wits about him. His eyes weren’t bleary — they were frightened.
“P-P-Potts did find tracks,” Dickens said. “B-B-But they weren’t those of horses.”
He suddenly seemed more interested in watching the last drops fall from the brandy bottle into his glass than in my investigation. His stutter — well known and ridiculed throughout the Mounted Police — was an indication that something was making him nervous. I wanted to find out what it was.
“What kind of tracks?” I asked.
“Buffalo — and l-l-l-.”
I frowned waiting for Dickens to get the word out.
“And l-l-lynx.”
“That wasn’t in Cowan’s report.”
“N-N-No,” Dickens said. He stared down at his brandy glass, rocking it back and forth and leaving sticky trails on the papers its base rested upon. The tips of his fingers had gone white, so tightly did he grip it.
A connection suddenly occurred to me. “Have there been any reports from Victoria Mission of a large cat acting in a peculiar manner? A lynx is suspected to have caused the death of Tom Quinn.”
I heard a loud cracking noise. Jerking his hand away from the brandy glass, which had broken in his hand, Dickens rubbed at a spot of blood that beaded on his finger. He looked terrified now, his shoulders hunched and his lips trembling. His eyes pleaded with me. There was something he wanted to tell me, but he wanted it to be because I asked: because I forced him to tell.
“Inspector,” I said in a firm voice. “Tell me about the lynx tracks.”
The words came out in a rush — or as much of a rush as Dickens’s stutter would permit.
“They were all around the house. P-P-Potts f-f-followed them to the river, but then they d-d-disappeared — just like the b-b-buffalo tracks.”
“Into the river? Did they resume on the other side?”
Dickens shook his head.
“They just stopped?”
Dickens nodded.
“Did anyone at Victoria Mission see or hear anything peculiar on the day the McDougalls disappea
red?”
Dickens shook his head.
“Were there any Indians seen in the vicinity?”
“J-j-just one,” Dickens said. He toyed with a piece of broken glass for a long moment before continuing. “There’s a shaman among the Indians. A Cree of B-B-Big Bear’s band, by the name of Wandering Spirit. Corporal Cowan f-f-found him skulking around the Victoria Mission, and b-b-brought him back here for questioning. Wandering Spirit refused to speak, except to me. When I was alone with him, he said if I d-d-didn’t release him, I’d wind up like Quinn. D-d-d-d-”
“Dead?”
Dickens nodded rapidly.
I sat for a moment in silence, amazed at the coincidence. Wandering Spirit was the same Indian who had worked his magic on Sergeant Wilde, sending him into the Big Sands. Dickens had every reason to be frightened of the man, but I was angry that he’d let Wandering Spirit slip through his fingers.
“So you released him?” I asked scornfully. “You let your only suspect go?”
Dickens winced, and began fumbling with the buttons on the front of his jacket. “I had no ch-ch-choice. Not after he d-d-did….” His hands pulled the jacket open and lifted his shirt, exposing his chest. “This!”
I stared, incredulous. On the left side of Dickens’s soft, hairless chest, just above the nipple, was a pattern of puncture marks, each surrounded by a patch of angry red inflammation. The marks were exactly what one would expect to see if a large cat had sunk the tips of its claws into human flesh.
“How….”
Dickens let his shirt fall. “I d-d-don’t know,” he whispered. “Wandering Spirit just made a g-g-gesture with his hand, and the next thing I knew I felt a terrible p-p-pain in my chest. It hurt so badly I thought I was going to d-d-d-”
This time, I waited until he said the word himself.
“To d-d-die,” he finally managed. “Right there on the spot.”
Belatedly, I realized that I should have been taking notes. Steele had asked for a full and complete report on everything connected with the case, impressing upon me that no detail, no matter how trivial it might seem, should be left out.
An Inspector nearly killed by paranormal forces was hardly a trivial detail.
“How long ago did this happen?” I asked, rummaging in my haversack for a report book and pencil.
“Nearly four weeks ago,” Dickens answered.
I stared at the strange wound. It was as vivid and red as if it had been made only yesterday.
Now that he’d gotten the worst of it out, Dickens’s stutter was settling down again. “The McDougalls were reported missing on July 2nd,” he said. “Corporal Cowan was sent to investigate, and returned to the f-f-fort with Wandering Spirit on July 10th.”
Something occurred to me. I pulled a copy of Cowan’s report from my haversack and leafed through it. “The corporal’s report wasn’t telegraphed to headquarters until the 16th of July. Wandering Spirit was long gone by then, presumably.”
Dickens nodded, his eyes on his buttons as he refastened them.
“Are you certain that Wandering Spirit didn’t conceal a weapon on his person and use it against you?”
“Wandering Spirit was searched,” Dickens said. “He had no weapon, and his wrists were shackled together.”
My next question was a difficult one, considering the fact that Dickens was an officer, and thus my superior. I reminded myself that his drinking was no secret. “When you questioned Wandering Spirit, were you sober?”
Dickens bristled, but his answer was direct. “I may have had a d-d-drink that d-d-day, but I know what I saw. Wandering Spirit just … gestured. I have no explanation for what happened.”
I did, but I kept it to myself. There’s a word in the Cree language: atayohkanak. It means “spirit power” — we’d use the word magic in its place. Wandering Spirit had used magic to intimidate Dickens into releasing him: there was no other explanation for the puncture marks on Dickens’s chest. The Inspector was an incompetent officer who liked his brandy, but he had keen self-preservation instincts and was accustomed to strong drink. He’d have to have been staggering and blind drunk before he’d mistake the swing of a weapon for a simple hand gesture. Dickens might be as much of a storyteller as his illustrious father, but I didn’t think he had the imagination to concoct a tale like the one I’d just heard.
I tucked the photo of the Manitou Stone and my copy of Corporal Cowan’s report back into my haversack. I wanted to question Wandering Spirit myself. I knew where to begin my search: Big Bear’s band often camped near Poundmaker’s reserve, which was no more than fifty miles down river, near Battleford. Yet if Wandering Spirit really did have the power to wound with a mere gesture — or kill, as I suspected had been the case with Tom Quinn — I’d have to be cautious. I decided I’d gather all the information I could before visiting the Cree encampment.
“I know the trail is probably cold,” I told Dickens, “but I’d like to see Victoria Mission for myself before questioning Wandering Spirit. What transportation can your detachment arrange?”
Dickens’s look of relief, now that the matter of Wandering Spirit was in someone else’s hands, was palpable. “There’s the riverboat North West. It’s due to stop at Fort Pitt tomorrow on its way upriver to—”
A ghastly wailing sound interrupted whatever Dickens had been about to say. So discordant was the noise that wafted in through the open window that it took a moment for me to recognize it as the pipes of an organ in full throat. Whoever was playing it was either completely untutored or halt of limb.
“Who or what is that?” I shouted over the din, which seemed to be coming from an adjoining building.
Dickens had cupped his hand behind his ear again. His frown indicated that he hadn’t heard me clearly, but he guessed my question.
“It’s probably one of Factor McLean’s brats,” he shouted back. “Too bad I hadn’t gotten one of them to play the blasted thing while Wandering Spirit was in custody: the pipe organ terrifies the Indians.”
He grinned at his own joke, but his eye was on the empty brandy bottle. I could see that he still had fearful memories of his encounter with Wandering Spirit and was looking for some liquid courage, even though the Cree shaman was probably nowhere near Fort Pitt.
I just hoped that my own mettle wouldn’t be found wanting when it came time to question Wandering Spirit about the disappearance of the McDougall family.
I embarked upon the riverboat S. S. North West, which sailed from Fort Pitt the next day. The riverboat was long and low, with a flat hull that drew only eighteen inches of water, and the vessel had an open lower deck that used to be stacked high with cordwood back when the boat was steam-powered. Above this first deck was an enclosed passenger deck with a long, narrow saloon and cabins, encircled by a railed promenade where travelers could take the air. The third deck, known as the “hurricane deck” was a flat expanse that was open to the elements, punctuated only by a small pilothouse. Twin smokestacks still pointed toward the heavens near the bow of the vessel, even though the steam engine that had once powered the North West was no longer in use. Engine and boilers had been removed and replaced by a gigantic perpetual motion device, housed on the lowermost deck near the huge paddlewheel at the stern of the vessel.
Once my belongings were safely stowed, I walked to the rear of the boat for a closer look — but not too close, lest my presence jinx the mechanism. The perpetual motion device, in this case, was of Swiss manufacture: a buoyancy motor. A series of huge, air-filled balls, connected by slim metal links, bubbled up through a water-filled chamber that from the outside looked like a gigantic brass boiler. The device transferred its energy by means of a series of cogs of ever-increasing size, culminating in the gears that drove the paddlewheel. The machine wasn’t any use when the water froze — but that didn’t matter since the North West ended its season each September, as soon as ice began to form in the river.
The trip upriver to Victoria Mission, one hundred and forty-four mi
les in all, took three full days, due to the delays caused whenever the ship ran aground on a sandbar. I kept to myself during the voyage — as much as my scarlet uniform would allow — but even so I faced a barrage of questions about where I was going and why, and what the Mounties had learned about the disappearance of the McDougall family. Everyone had a theory, each more ludicrous than the last: that the McDougalls and their six children had all gotten into a single canoe and drowned after it tipped in mid-river; that Indians had carried away the family and cannibalized the men and made slaves of the women; that the reverend had gone mad, murdered his wife and children, buried them in shallow graves, and then killed himself. I was tempted to tell these gossips the truth — that Indian magic had spirited the McDougalls away — just to see the expressions on their faces, but kept my lips buttoned.
Instead, I told the passengers and crew members of the North West that I was en route to a new posting at Fort Saskatchewan, and that I had been asked by my new commanding officer to stop in at the mission on the way, to see if any evidence had been overlooked. That would explain why I was disembarking at Victoria Mission, yet not place undue emphasis upon the visit.
The two previous times I’d travelled by riverboat in the course of my duties, I’d been quartered on the open lower deck, but Q Division, it seemed, had deeper pockets than the rest of the force: Steele had authorized a private cabin, which went for the princely sum of five dollars. I spent much of the voyage inside it, luxuriating in its comfort and passing the time by reading old editions of Canadian Illustrated News and listening to the piano tinkling in the saloon, just outside my door. In the evenings our captain, Jimmy Sheets, would descend from his pilothouse and serenade the passengers with his magnificent baritone.