by Lisa Smedman
I heard hoof beats behind me, and a moment later Steele and two of the constables reined their horses to a halt beside us. Leveillee bowed to the Superintendent, then repeated what he had just told me, once again allowing the facts to speak for themselves.
Steele nodded, offering no explanation for what had happened here. The constables next to him looked uneasily at the scraps of uniform and dead horse, then shared a nervous glance. They’d been told only that we had gone out to search for a large boulder that the Indians held sacred, and that we were also looking for a rare albino buffalo calf. They’d been warned to expect strange sights and to be prepared for a possible Indian attack. They hadn’t been told about the Day of Changes, but could see with their own eyes that something strange and terrible had happened here.
Their nervous glances were infectious; soon I too was glancing over my shoulder. If the Indians who had transformed the Swift Current patrol into buffalo were still lurking about the ford, these constables would learn of the dangers of the Day of Changes soon enough.
Steele’s eyes darted about, taking in the scene, then came to rest on the scout. “Are there any moccasin prints?”
Leveillee shook his head. “None.”
“What about on the other side of the river?” I asked. I slid a hand into my pocket to touch the hymnbook, wondering if Emily had witnessed the transformation of the patrol. “There must have been moccasin prints near the rock shaped like a buffalo head.”
Leveillee shook his head solemnly.
“Are you certain?” I asked. “You didn’t spend much time searching up there.”
“I assure you, my dear Corporal, dere were none.”
Steele stared out into the gathering gloom, as if the sheer intensity of his gaze would bring the missing patrol back. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and although the moon was up, it was a mere sliver that cast little light. In another two weeks it would be full — and the Day of Changes would be upon us.
“Those — buffalo — are injured,” Steele said. “Can you track them?”
Leveillee touched a finger to his hat. “But of course, my dear Superintendent. I already ’ave. Tracks go toward the river — then stop.”
“Were there none on the other side?” Steele asked. “Or up and down the river?”
Leveillee shook his head sadly. “I ’ave seen none when I ride across. Tracks just … stop.”
“At the river’s edge?” Steele asked.
“No. Well before.”
“Just like at Victoria Mission,” I said softly.
Steele heard me. “Quite right, Corporal Grayburn. Which means the buffalo must have disappeared underground, into a tunnel.”
“Are we going to search for them, sir?” I asked.
Steele hesitated. I could imagine what he must be thinking. He’d ordered the patrol to this spot — orders that had resulted in the loss of four men. There was only a slim chance that they were still alive. By now, they had probably been driven over a cliff and slaughtered.
Like any military commander, Steele had to sacrifice the few for the many. He answered as I expected him to. “We’ll find the Manitou Stone first. Once it’s dealt with, we’ll mount a search.”
I nodded, and Steele ordered the men to regroup on the riverbank.
There had been no tunnel at the point where the buffalo tracks ended. Like the tunnel that had opened to receive the McDougalls at Victoria Mission, it had closed up again once they were driven into it.
The tunnel at Victoria Mission had opened a second time, however. When Chambers and I found the cave near the river, the clods of earth at its entrance were fresh. The tunnel had only reopened, it seemed, when Emily approached. It was as if she had a key….
I suddenly remembered the white feather that I’d seen tucked into a crevice at the cave mouth, and guessed what Emily had used to open the tunnel: a “key” in the shape of a feather. She’d left it behind at Victoria Mission after entering the tunnel there, and the cave had remained open, allowing Chambers and myself to follow her. I could only suppose that she must have expected to be transformed into a buffalo, along with her daughter, and not to have need of the feather again.
Emily had emerged here, at the ford — presumably slipping out of the tunnel when a cave was opened to receive the four Mounties who had been transformed into buffalo. The hole in the earth had then sealed itself shut.
The tunnel mouth had to be on the north side of the river, at the spot where the buffalo hoof prints had come to a sudden halt. Yet I’d found the hymnbook on the opposite side of the river, near the buffalo-shaped outcropping of rock. Emily must have crossed the river and walked up to the outcropping, knowing that it had some special significance for Iniskim. Then, after carrying the hymnbook all the way through the tunnels, she’d abandoned it. Had something — or someone — surprised her up on the bluff, causing her to drop the book in alarm?
Leveillee hand’t found any sign of Emily’s moccasin prints. Had they somehow been erased? And, if so, what other tracks had vanished with them?
One other thing also puzzled me: why had Iniskim’s ghost come to this spot, a year ago, instead of heading for the Manitou Stone? According to Indian lore, the Manitou Stone held the most powerful magic of all. Chambers had concluded that it must be the ley line’s key point.
When I realized what the answer must be, I chided myself for not thinking of it sooner. One year ago, when Iniskim died at birth, the Manitou Stone had been sitting in front of McDougalls’ church at Victoria Mission — it had no longer been part of the ley line. Iniskim’s ghost had been drawn instead to what must be the second most powerful point on the spiral: the buffalo-shaped outcropping on the riverbank above the ford.
When our patrol was together again, I pulled Steele aside from the other members of the patrol and repeated my conclusions for him in a low voice.
Steele’s nod was as decisive as his reply. “We won’t find Iniskim here, then — she’ll be making for the Manitou Stone directly. We’ll have to trust to the aerograph to find it before the Indians do.”
Chambers had strolled over and heard the last of our conversation, and was quite animated by it. He insisted that Steele pull out his map, then pointed to the spiral I’d drawn.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “The buffalo jump at Head Smashed In is also on the ley line. I suspect that all of the tunnels through the earth also follow the spiral. If we can find a way to open a cave, here at the ford, we can follow the tunnel to the Manitou Stone.”
I told him about the feather I’d spotted at the cave mouth at Victoria Mission, and his eyes gleamed. Then I reminded him of the difficulties. “A feather is the key, but we don’t know what type of bird we need or which of its feathers to use, let alone the spells to trigger its magic.”
I paused then, as a shudder of pain passed through me. I touched a hand to my stomach. My time was running out — my discomfort was increasing with each passing day — and that reminded me of something.
“Opening the tunnel isn’t our only problem,” I told Chambers. “Time passes more quickly down there. I was inside the tunnel for what I thought was less than a day, yet nearly three weeks passed in the world above. Even if we did succeed in opening a cave and used it to reach the Manitou Stone, there’s no guarantee we’d get there in time. The Day of Changes may already have come and gone.”
Steele had been listening carefully to our exchange. He looked first at Chambers, then at me. “Corporal Grayburn is right. We won’t attempt to use the tunnels unless we’re forced to. The aerograph is still our best hope of finding the Manitou Stone. Let’s see how Special Constable Bertrand is making out with it.”
Chambers, still lost in thought, wandered back to where the other men were resting, and I followed Steele to the spot where Bertrand sat. The aerograph operator had removed himself from the others, and had his tools scattered around him. The aerograph’s wire was tied firmly around a rock, and as Bertrand gently adjusted the delicate gyrosco
pes, the aerograph strained this way and that, like a dog trying to pick up a scent. Its wings sped up a little as I approached. I took a step back, not wanting to send it off kilter.
“Have you got it calibrated yet?” Steele asked.
“It isn’t easy, you know,” Bertrand said in his irritating nasal tone. “You’ve no idea of the complexities. This area hasn’t been properly charted, and while I can calculate the amount of iron in the railway line and its sidings by multiplying the mileage by the thickness of the rails, I also have to take into account the metal in the trains themselves — which means factoring in their schedules. Then there’s the matter of how to estimate the exact amount of iron in the buffalo-head rock. I can do the calculations in my head — I graduated top of my class in mathematics and have a perfect memory for figures — but it’s going to take time.”
Bertrand shook his head and sighed as if the weight of all of the iron in the world were resting upon his shoulders. Then he picked up his case and began putting his tools away.
“I was hired as an aerograph operator for Fort Macleod, not to roam about the Territories on a wild buffalo chase,” Bertrand said. “It’s impossible to work under these conditions. I haven’t had anything to eat but cold biscuits, I’m half lame from riding that nag of a horse, I’m exhausted and in need of sleep, and people keep pestering me with questions. ‘It is ready? Can we ride out yet?’ I’ve about reached my limit. I’ve half a mind to let the aerograph smash itself into the rock, like the other one did.”
He tucked the last tool away and tied the case shut. “I’ll finish the calibrations in the morning.”
I saw Steele stiffen, but to his credit as a commander, he kept his emotions in check.
“Special Constable Bertrand,” he said, every word carefully controlled. “Not a man in this patrol has had a hot supper, and not one of us — myself included — is going to rest until the Manitou Stone is found. Anyone who doesn’t do his duty will be charged with mutiny, and will be dealt with in the same manner that the army deals with mutineers. Do I make myself clear?”
I saw that Steele’s hand was resting upon his holster. Bertrand saw it too. After a moment’s thought, however, his chin came up defiantly.
“You need me,” Bertrand said. “No one else can operate the aerograph.”
“I’ll continue without it, if I have to,” Steele answered. “Special Constable Chambers is one of the best men to have come out of the Society for Psychical Research; he can follow the ley line by feel. If that fails, Corporal Grayburn’s prophetic dreams will lead us to the Manitou Stone. We won’t reach it as directly as we will if we use the aerograph, but we’ll get there.”
I kept a straight face and nodded gravely, as if conjuring up a prophetic dream was something I did every night. It was nonsense, of course. My dreams came when they pleased, not at my command, and I could no more control their subject matter than I could their frequency. Yet Steele’s bluff worked. Whatever fresh complaint Bertrand had been about to utter, he suddenly thought better of it.
“Give me a few minutes more,” he said. “I’ll get it done — but I’m going to file a formal complaint with Commissioner Irvine when this is over.”
I would have laughed out loud, had I not been so disgusted with the man. Bertrand had been briefed about the Day of Changes and knew full well the calamity that would befall the North-West Territories in sixteen days.
I couldn’t imagine how Bertrand would deal with true discomfort, like the pain in my stomach that burned like constant, slow coals. All I wanted, right now, was to slip away and drink some of the Pinkham’s that I’d stashed in my saddlebag. I hoped I’d get the chance soon.
Satisfied that Bertrand would complete his calibrations, Steele turned on his heel and motioned for me to follow him. “Corporal Grayburn.”
“Sir.”
“As soon as the aerograph is ready, I’m going to set out with the patrol. I want you to remain here at the ford, with Leveillee and Constable Moody. He’s a new recruit — he signed up just six months ago — but he’s a steady hand. He grew up on a farm in British Columbia, where they have to contend with trees as big as houses when clearing the land, and he knows a thing or two about stumping powder and setting explosives. I’ll leave you with one of the crates of dynamite. In the morning, have Moody blow that outcropping apart. That should put a dent in the ley line.”
“But what of Bertrand’s calibrations?” I asked. “Won’t the destruction of the outcropping throw the aerograph off course?”
“Set off the charge at eight o’clock precisely,” Steele instructed. “I’ll keep an eye on the time, and instruct Bertrand accordingly.”
I nodded my acknowledgement of his orders.
“While Moody is setting the charges, have Leveillee continue to search for any sign of the white buffalo calf,” Steele continued. “If you find Iniskim’s hoof prints, send Moody ahead with a dispatch as soon as he’s blown the outcropping. If you don’t find any sign of Iniskim by noon, however, leave the ford and ride after us. Bertrand says the aerograph will need to be recalibrated every half-dozen miles or so, so we should be traveling slowly enough for you to catch up.”
“And if we sight Iniskim herself?”
“Follow her as closely as you can without startling her. If you can catch up to her, you know what to do.”
I touched my hand to the jacket pocket that held the buffalo stone. “Yes, sir.”
“Any further questions?”
“What about Special Constable Chambers? Are you taking him with you?”
Steele must have heard the tension in my voice. “You’re worried about that premonitory dream you told me about, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “The Manitou Stone holds special danger for Chambers, sir. I fear it will kill him, as it did in my dream. If you find the stone, I’d recommend that you don’t let him anywhere near it.”
Steele glanced at Chambers, who, together with the other men, was resting near the horses, waiting for Bertrand to finish his calibrations. Steele had warned them against lighting a lantern or kindling a fire, in case there were Indians about, and so they were supping on cold biscuits and pemmican. The sun had long since set, and the men were no more than dim shadows in the gloom. Chambers was sitting on one of the two crates of dynamite we’d brought along, and for some reason this sent a shiver through me.
“I’ll leave Special Constable Chambers with you,” Steele said. “He wanted to study the buffalo-shaped outcropping; perhaps he can learn more about the ley line and how best to disrupt it. Keep an eye on him; he’s too valuable an asset to lose.”
“I will,” I said, vowing to make sure that Chambers was nowhere near the dynamite when it was lit.
It took Bertrand more than an hour to finish calibrating the aerograph. By that time, it was completely dark. Steele ordered five of the constables to mount up, and the patrol set out. Once again, the aerograph was tied to Bertrand’s pommel; I could hear its propellers whirring as it pulled at the end of its wire like a bloodhound on a leash. As he crested the riverbank, Steele waved farewell with his Stetson. I saluted his silhouette as the patrol disappeared into the night, heading southwest.
The four of us who remained — myself, Chambers, Leveillee, and Constable Moody, the new recruit who looked as though he’d lied about his age to join up — retired to the spot Leveillee had chosen to bed down for the night. It lay on the north side of the river and was well sheltered by some large rocks that screened us from view of anyone using the ford. The night was very dark; the moon had waned to a mere sliver. On the far side of the river, the outcropping loomed against the night sky, blotting out the stars.
The scout had dug a hole in the ground, which I assumed was for use as a privy, given his fastidious nature. When I returned from checking on the horses, however, I saw that he’d kindled a small fire of buffalo chips in it. I told him to put the fire out, but he insisted that we were well in cover, and reminded me that he’d seen no trace of Indians
at the ford.
If I’d been as hot-tempered as Sergeant Wilde, I’d have kicked out the fire then and there, but instead I let this minor breach of discipline pass. The dynamite was well away from the tiny fire, and the dried dung gave off only a faint red glow, like coals. The night air was chilly; it wouldn’t hurt to brew up some hot tea.
While the water was boiling, I pulled out my pipe and filled it with the last of my Capstan’s Full Flavoured. As my fingers brushed against the buffalo stone that was nestled in my tobacco pouch I felt eyes upon me. I looked up to see Leveillee staring at the pouch, but wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to share some tobacco with him, as was customary, or if he had seen the stone.
I folded the pouch and tied it shut. “Sorry,” I told the scout. “That’s my last pipeful. There’s none left.”
I was telling the truth, but the scout’s eyes narrowed slightly. The buffalo stone made a large bulge, and it was clear that the pouch contained something. Leveillee, however, was too polite to press the issue. He pulled out his own pipe — a chipped clay with a short stem that must have produced a hot draw — and lit up what smelled like a mix of tobacco and willow bark, which the Indians often smoke. He puffed on it as he made and served our tea.
As we drank from steaming cups, I noticed Constable Moody glancing out into the darkness. He at last worked up the nerve to ask a question. “Corporal Grayburn, is it true that the Indians have magical powers? They say that Q Division was formed to fight conjurers and bad medicine men.”
His eyes were wide above his beardless cheeks as he awaited my reply. I was tempted to deny the existence of magic, but he’d already seen the aftermath of what had befallen the other patrol — he’d been one of the constables who had ridden with Steele to the spot where Leveillee had found the torn clothing and dead horses. I couldn’t think of a lie that would prove any more comforting than admitting the truth. I exchanged a glance with Chambers, who nodded.