Apparition Trail, The

by Lisa Smedman

  The Indian lowered his bow and began walking toward me. I could see that his quiver was empty. He cast his bow aside and drew from the belt at his waist a slender stick with a single black feather attached to one end. As he approached, walking slowly and deliberately, he held it above his head and waved it at me, laughing and taunting me.

  That was when I recognized him, by his lynx skin bonnet with its five eagle feathers: Wandering Spirit, the Indian who had killed Sergeant Wilde and, reportedly, the Indian agent Quinn — and who was about to do the same to me. His feet were bare, and aside from his breechcloth and cap he wore only a fringed buckskin shirt that had been painted with large black circles and trimmed with fluttering eagle feathers. He strode toward me, eyes glittering with malice, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

  My police training took over. “Stop right there!” I yelled, brandishing my revolver. “You are under arrest.”

  He ignored me.

  I decided that no further warning was required; the man had already wounded a police officer. I aimed my revolver and fired.

  Wandering Spirit just kept walking, not even picking up his pace. My bullet had missed.

  I shot thrice more — and missed all three times. Cursing my revolver — the Enfield was notorious for its inaccuracy — I took more time with my fifth shot, steadying my hand by holding my wrist as I fired. Wandering Spirit waved his coup stick at me dismissively, as if I were an annoying fly that he was about to swat with it.

  With only one bullet left in my revolver, I forced myself to wait until Wandering Spirit was no more than a pace or two away. I pointed the barrel of my revolver straight at his chest and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared and spat flame and smoke. This time, I saw the bullet strike the shirt Wandering Spirit wore. He paused just long enough to brush the flattened lead aside. His laugh was cold and derisive, as he looked me in the eye.

  I was sweating so badly that the first cartridge I pulled from the pouch on my belt slipped from my fingers and fell onto the ground. Backing away from Wandering Spirit, I cracked open the cylinder of my revolver. I just managed to push a single cartridge into a chamber before the back of my leg struck something: one of the piles of stones and brush. The arrow that was still hanging from my breeches caught on the brush and tore free, spilling the contents of my pocket to the ground and causing me to gasp as it ripped a fresh gash in my thigh. Forced to a stop, I slammed the cylinder shut and pointed the revolver at Wandering Spirit.

  Wandering Spirit said something to me in Cree. Then he raised his coup stick.

  Before he could strike me with it, however, a second Indian appeared, materializing out of thin air as if he had heretofore been invisible. He was a short, stoop-shouldered fellow in his senior years, his face scarred by pockmarks. He wore buckskin trousers and moccasins that were heavily beaded, and a bearskin cap from which three eagle feathers hung. Hanging from a thong around his neck was a gigantic bear’s paw, its flesh shrivelled and its claws a dull yellow. I recognized him as Big Bear, the rebellious Cree chief who had refused to sign a treaty or settle on a reserve.

  Big Bear’s face was seamed with wrinkles; he looked at me with squinting eyes. I had the sense, from the intensity of his stare, that these were eyes that missed nothing.

  When the curious stone that had spilled from my pocket chirped, Big Bear glanced at it, then laid a hand upon Wandering Spirit’s raised arm. With his other hand he pointed at me, saying something in Cree. I understand only a little of the language, but I heard the words “buffalo” and “earth.”

  I stood, waiting for Wandering Spirit to strike me, my revolver wavering. I had only one bullet and two targets — and one of them was impervious to bullets.

  Wandering Spirit continued to glare at me, but was listening intently to what the other Indian had to say. His voice, although respectful, was filled with barely suppressed anger as he answered. I thought I heard the name of Chief Piapot, and wondered if Wandering Spirit recognized me from our encounter of one year ago. If so, I hoped he remembered that it was Sergeant Wilde who had kicked over the tepees.

  I decided that this was not the time to try to question Wandering Spirit about the murder of Tom Quinn or to charge him with assaulting a police officer. While some constables in the North-West Mounted Police had been known to face down entire Indian camps alone, arresting men despite overwhelming odds, I knew that bluster would not save me here. It certainly wasn’t going to cow a man who had brushed away bullets like flies. I knew I was powerless — that I could only watch and listen while this pair decided whether or not to kill me. Lowering my gun, I waited, my thigh throbbing from the stinging cut the arrow had delivered. My stomach was a painful counterpoint, my guts cramping as if the arrow had lodged there, instead.

  As Big Bear spoke, I thought I heard another name I recognized: Iniskim. Acting on a hunch, I decided to plead my case. I said the first thing that came into my head.

  “I know Iniskim.” I held my hand low, at knee level, as if patting a small child on the head, then pointed to my own eye. “The little girl — the one with pale hair and eyes. She was sick; I gave her mother money for medicine. Is Iniskim here?” I pointed at the ground, repeating her name and the Cree word for “here,” then added, “Is Emily — is her mother here?”

  I hoped that Emily would speak in my favour. It was not unknown for an Indian woman to petition for the life of a white man.

  Big Bear and Wandering Spirit stared at me, frowning as if puzzled. I wondered if they spoke any English at all. I continued to talk quickly, gesturing all the while and listening to the sounds of the whoops that were coming from below the cliffs, where the buffalo were being butchered.

  “I’m not here to interrupt your hunt, or to move you to a reserve,” I told them. “I’m just looking for someone who’s gone missing: a man by the name of Arthur Chambers. He went into a cave that led for some distance underground.” I gestured again at the ground, and saw that my hands were still filthy with soil from my blind run through the tunnel. “The tunnel led here, to the middle of your buffalo run. I’m hoping that Chambers — and Emily and her daughter Iniskim — weren’t trampled, that they managed to….”

  I paused then, realizing how foolish I sounded. Big Bear continued to stare at me a moment more, then bent and picked up my tobacco pouch. He sniffed at it, then pulled a pinch of tobacco from it and showed it to Wandering Spirit.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “It’s tobacco. Would you like a smoke?”

  I reached into my pocket for my pipe. Wandering Spirit tensed and raised his coup stick higher, but Big Bear shook his head. I pulled open the case, cracked it open, and assembled the stem and bowl of my pipe.

  “Here,” I told Big Bear. “Go ahead. Have a smoke.”

  For a long moment, the chief merely stared at the pipe. Then he reached out and took it.

  Wandering Spirit grunted and spat on the ground. Then he abruptly turned on his heel and strode away, heading toward the cliffs. As he left, I could hear him muttering under his breath. Even if he hadn’t recognized me from our meeting of a year ago, he’d certainly remember me now.

  Big Bear tamped tobacco into the pipe and lit it. He raised it in four different directions, as Piapot had done, then took a long draw. Releasing the smoke slowly through pursed lips, he handed me the pipe. Then he bent down and picked up the curiously shaped stone, carefully using my tobacco pouch to pick it up and folding the pouch shut as he stood.

  I jammed the pipe between my teeth, puffing nervously. I wasn’t entirely certain why, but I could see in Big Bear’s eyes that my life was to be spared. I opened my lips to thank him….

  He was gone.

  One moment the chief had been standing there — the next he had disappeared. All that remained of him was the puff of smoke that he’d blown from his lips a moment earlier.

  I looked wildly around. Big Bear hadn’t ducked behind the pile of stones and brush that I stood next to, and there was nowhere else within a dozen yards for h
im to hide. He had simply vanished, taking the curiously shaped stone and my tobacco pouch with him.

  I stood a moment longer, listening to the Indian voices coming from below the cliff. By all accounts, I should have arrested Wandering Spirit. Shooting arrows at a police officer is no small matter. Yet I was still shaken by what I had just observed. I’d seen one man stop bullets and another turn himself invisible. Of what possible use could a revolver and the authority of the law be against the forces of magic? It would hardly serve my commanding officers for me to die in a futile attempt to assert my authority.

  I decided to return to Victoria Mission and telegraph Steele at once. Perhaps then a proper search could be mounted for Chambers, Emily, and her daughter.

  There was just one problem: I had absolutely no idea in which direction the settlement lay.

  I had a notion that the tunnel I’d entered at Victoria Mission had curved predominantly to the southwest, and so I kept the afternoon sun at my left shoulder and trudged northeast. It was a long hot walk up and down rolling hills, without a tree in sight. Despite the fact that my pillbox hat had provided only scant protection from the sun, I mourned its absence as the sun beat down upon my bare head. Eventually I pulled my sweat-soaked undershirt off and draped it over my head.

  The only pools of water I passed were crusted with salt; I knew that drinking this alkaline water would at best fail to slake my thirst, and at worst would cause my stomach to cramp even worse than it was already. My mouth became as dry as the dust my boots were kicking up, and at last I gave in and quenched my thirst by drinking the last of my Pinkham’s, which was in the haversack I still had slung over my shoulder. The alcohol in it made me slightly inebriated; perhaps that was what caused me to hallucinate. I kept imagining eyes upon me, and more than once I fancied that I saw a large shape, following me.

  I pushed these thoughts from my mind, ignoring them as I did the false “ponds” that heat shimmers were creating. I kept hoping to catch sight of the telegraph line, or to hear the hoot of the riverboat on the North Saskatchewan River, but nary a landmark nor a guiding call presented itself. I trudged along, favouring my injured foot. I’d been relieved to find that the injury was no more than a blood blister where the edge of my foot had been squeezed against my boot by the force of the hoof that had trod upon it. I was lucky to have no broken bones.

  Eventually, after walking for nearly three hours, my way was blocked by a creek. I scrambled down its bank and splashed its water over my head, then drank deeply. Thankful for its cool relief, I rose to my feet, shaking the water from my hair like a beast.

  As I stood on the muddy bank, trying to decide which direction to go in, I had the distinct sensation that something or someone was behind me. Whirling around, I saw that, this time, it was no mere hallucination. Standing on the top of the bank was a great, shaggy beast: a buffalo. I hadn’t heard it approach; its heavy footsteps must have been masked by the gurgle of the creek.

  Buffalo generally ignore humans; the more canny among them flee, fearing the hunter’s bullet. This one merely stood and stared at me. I saw then that it had a scrap of black cloth around its massive neck, and wondered if this was one of the few buffalo that had been domesticated. Yet it looked wild enough. Its great chest heaved, as if it had just run across the prairie, and there were sticks and burrs in its hair. Like the buffalo I had seen the Indians butchering, this one had hair that had a peculiar yellowish tinge, despite the fact that it was a full-grown male.

  As I watched it, the beast let out a half-strangled bellow, then trotted down toward the creek, all the while fixing me with its large black eyes.

  The creek was at my back, deep and swift enough to trip me. If the beast decided to charge, there was nowhere for me to go. I reached for my Enfield, thankful that I’d remembered to refill all six chambers with bullets.

  As if it understood what a revolver was, the buffalo jerked to a stop. It stood, eyeing me warily from about thirty feet away. Even at that distance, I could smell its pungent pelt — and something sweet underneath that musky odour. Flies buzzed around its unprotected hindquarters; the buffalo kept flicking its tail, but the appendage was too short to provide any real deterrent to the insects. The buffalo looked at me with a strangely pleading expression; I had the distinct impression that it was asking me to end its torment. I understood its anguish; one of the flies had landed on my bare hand and taken a bite from it, leaving a small but bloody hole.

  I decided to draw my revolver and fire it. With luck, the noise would frighten the buffalo away. I pulled the revolver from my holster — and in that same instant the buffalo gave another of its strange sounding bellows. As if struggling to get the noises out, the beast let out a series of long bellows and short grunts, punctuated by a furious pawing of one of its forefeet. Fearful that it was working up the nerve to charge, I raised my revolver and fired it into the air, then lowered the revolver at the ready, in case the buffalo thundered my way. The beast immediately turned and bolted away.

  I climbed the bank cautiously, peeking over the ridge to see where the buffalo had gone. I could still hear its hoof beats, although it had disappeared behind another hill.

  I holstered my revolver, looking down at the furrows the buffalo had dug in the ground with its hoof. Then I froze, unwilling to believe my eyes. These were not random scratches; they were deliberate marks. In clumsy block letters, they spelled out a single word: help.

  As I stood, regarding this strange missive with wonder, I heard the sound of hoof beats. I looked up, expecting to see the buffalo, but instead was greeted with the sight of a North-West Mounted Police constable, galloping toward me.

  “Hello there!” he called out over the sound of his horse’s pounding hooves. “I heard a shot. Is there any trouble?”

  The fellow was about my age, with dark hair and a full beard. Like many members of our force, he wore a Stetson rather than the official pillbox hat, and his feet were clad in beaded moccasins instead of riding boots. He pulled his horse up next to me, unwittingly causing it to trample the letters the buffalo had scratched in the ground. I looked up at him, my mind was whirling as I struggled to make sense of what I had just seen. Had that really been a black silk tie around the buffalo’s neck — a tie identical to the one Chambers wore? The faintest hint of Brilliantine still hung in the air, confirming my suspicions.

  “Who are you?” the constable asked. “And what are you doing out here on the prairie, on foot?”

  “Corporal Marmaduke Grayburn,” I replied automatically. Then I added: “I’m lost. Can you tell me where the Victoria Mission settlement is?”

  The constable’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “You are lost, by God. Victoria Mission is three hundred miles to the north. The only settlement around here is Fort Macleod, six miles down the creek.”

  Despite the fact that I’d slaked my thirst, I suddenly felt dizzy. Three hundred miles? Had I really traveled that far under the earth? It didn’t seem possible. The tunnel had seemed a mile long, at the very most.

  “Do you want me to show you to the fort?” the constable asked.

  I nodded mutely, then at last found my voice.

  “I think I’d better speak to your commanding officer,” I said. “Something very odd has just happened.”

  Chapter IV

  A report disbelieved — Contacting Steele by aerograph — Unsettling news — A ghost story — Dreams of bones and birds — A chance meeting with Jerry Potts — On the buffalo trail — Another disappearance — My wild ride — Kidnapped!

  Superintendent Cotton sat ramrod stiff in his chair, listening with a doubtful expression on his face as I made my report. He was every inch the officer, with moustache carefully groomed, hair neatly trimmed and combed flat against his head, and impeccable uniform. I could see that my account of settlers and missionaries being turned into buffalo, impossibly long tunnels through the earth, and invisible Indians was something he was hard-pressed to believe. I could hardly blame him — unt
il the recent turn of events, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

  “That’s a fantastic tale, Corporal Grayburn,” he said. “It sounds like an Indian legend, which leads me to give you this caution: If the Indians are telling children’s stories about human beings turning into buffalo, you’d do better to ignore them. The love of notoriety is well developed in the Indian character — they’ll say anything to make themselves sound important. The Indians have an enormously exaggerated idea of their own supernatural powers, which are really nothing but parlour tricks, performed by amateur conjurers.”

  “Superintendent,” I said slowly, reminding myself to keep my rising irritation in check. “I’m not repeating legends told around a tepee fire. These are things I saw with my own eyes. Special Constable Chambers—”

  Cotton leaned forward to skewer me with a glare. “Where is your evidence?”

  I glared at him, then realized that insubordination would not further my cause. I glanced ruefully down at my torn pocket, which had held the one piece of evidence I had collected. I had yet to mention the curious stone I’d found, and the chirping noises it had made. Like the tunnel in the earth from which I’d emerged, it too was gone — all I had left was the leather thong it had been wrapped in. The feathers attached to it had become quite mangled in my pocket, and the whole thing now looked like something a cat had shredded. The stone hardly seemed worth mentioning now, especially when I couldn’t really explain, in any logical fashion, my hunch that it was connected with the case.

  “I have none, sir,” I replied with a sigh. I shifted on my chair, and felt the pull of the bandages the police surgeon had bound my wound with. “But Superintendent Steele can confirm that supernatural forces are indeed at work in the North-West Territories. That’s why he formed Q Division: to investigate the recent spate of disappearances, and other paranormal occurrences.”