by Lisa Smedman
Dropping the rifle, I leaped out of the way of the blade’s swishing arc. I shoved a hand into my pocket and dug out my tobacco pouch, but the ties of the pouch were in a tight knot that would not be undone by my fumbling fingers. I looked up and saw the knife jabbing toward me….
The crack-crack of a rifle caused Wandering Spirit to glance back over his shoulder at the last moment, and I was able to twist out of the way. I heard a scream from one of the figures near the horses, then another rifle shot and a groan. I saw Wandering Spirit’s eyes narrow in anger, and then heard a bullet whine past my own head. The rifle cracked again, and Wandering Spirit’s lynx skin war bonnet flew off his head and tumbled to the ground. I wondered if Constable Moody had joined the fight. It couldn’t be Chambers — he didn’t even carry a weapon.
Whoever was shooting at Wandering Spirit didn’t realize that he couldn’t be harmed by bullets. I had to act quickly. I dove at Wandering Spirit’s feet, knocking him to the ground.
The warrior was as quick and supple as a snake. In an instant he’d twisted around and had his knife at my throat. I wrenched my head to the side and felt the blade scrape across my chin like a razor. I brought my hand up to fend off the blow — and the knife sliced through the tobacco pouch I still held. It also sliced through the palm of my hand with a pain like fire — but now the buffalo stone was in my hand.
Wandering Spirit wrestled me onto my back, slamming my head against the ground. Amid the sparks that washed across my eyesight, I saw his knife descend. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, but could only halt its descent for a moment. Panting, a victorious grin on his yellow-painted face, he forced the knife down toward my throat. His other hand held my right wrist, pinning it to the ground.
With one last desperate effort, I wrenched my right hand through his sweaty fingers. The buffalo stone, still clenched in my fist, brushed against the palm of his hand. A look of shock and surprise crossed Wandering Spirit’s face — and then a tremendous, muffling weight crushed my chest. I was buried under something that felt as heavy as a train engine covered in a coating of spongy wool. Limbs thrashed, gouging the ground all around me, and then the monstrosity was standing above me.
I looked up at the belly of an enormous buffalo, its shaggy hair a pale colour that contrasted with the star-studded sky above. Its face was streaked with a lighter colour, which I recognized after a moment as the remnants of Wandering Spirit’s yellow war paint. The beast bellowed its hot breath in my face and tried to stomp me with one of its hooves. Frantically, I twisted myself aside. Then I heard the crack of a rifle firing and the thundering of hooves, and the beast wheeled and ran off into the night. Suddenly all was silent, save for the faint crackling of a piece of the dynamite crate that was still burning beside me.
I lay there, staring up at the stars, still struggling to take a breath with lungs that felt as though they had been crushed flat. My right hand stung where Wandering Spirit’s knife had cut it. Then something loomed above me in the darkness: the silhouette of a man. He held a rifle in one hand, its barrel still smoking, and Wandering Spirit’s coup stick in the other. He flicked it back and forth, watching the black feather at its tip flutter. Then he whooped.
“Heya, napikwan,” a familiar voice said. “Good fight, eh?”
I forced myself into a seated position with shaking arms. “Potts?” I asked. “Is that you?”
Potts grunted, then ambled away into the night. I heard the scraping of a knife against bone, and realized that he must be collecting his gruesome victory trophies. I felt around for the buffalo stone, found it under the remnants of the painted shirt that had been torn from Wandering Spirit’s back during his transformation, and shoved it in a pocket with my uninjured hand. Then I staggered over to where my saddlebags lay, and pulled my spare undershirt out to wrap around the hand that had the knife slash. After cinching it tight to stop the bleeding, I reached for my bottle of Pinkham’s and took a long drink.
It was almost pitch black, but I could dimly make out Potts as he bent over the last of the three Indians he’d shot, cutting away his scalp. Then he walked to where Leveillee lay, and nudged the other scout’s body with his foot.
“Heya, Leveillee,” he said gruffly. “Get up.”
I heard a low groan, and realized that Leveillee had somehow survived Wandering Spirit’s coup stick. As he sat up, he fished a hand inside his shirt and pulled out a crucifix. He kissed it reverently, then rocked back and forth, whispering in French. It must have been a prayer of thanks; there were lots of “mon Dieus” and “mercis” in it.
I realized that Leveillee’s Catholic faith had somehow protected him from the deadly magic of Wandering Spirit’s coup stick — something that went against everything I had been taught to believe. I’d been raised by a father who strongly voiced his opinion that all religion was superstitious nonsense, and so I’d never considered prayer to have any effect other than soothing the mind. Now I wondered: could religion be a form of magic? I thought of the half-breed scout Peter, and the crosses he’d had nailed into his horse’s shoes. Maybe they would afford some protection, after all.
Potts ambled back in my direction, sniffed the air, and eyed my bottle of painkiller. I handed it to him, and he drank deeply, wiping the back of his hand across his lips when he was done. I didn’t mind; he was worth every drop.
“Where have you been, Potts?” I asked. “I thought you were dead.”
“Been tracking ’em,” he said, gesturing at the three corpses. “Got my horse back. Now I got scalps, too.”
Leveillee halted his prayer to look up. “The tracks I saw that we cross on the way to the ford — the horse, she was ride by you.”
Potts grunted.
A realization hit me. “You tried to kill Wandering Spirit once before, didn’t you — on the bluffs beside the Milk River. That was why he stopped shooting at me — why I was able to escape on the air bicycle.”
Potts just shrugged. “Should’a got him. Missed.”
“No you didn’t,” I assured him. “Wandering Spirit has magic that protects him from bullets.”
Potts accepted this as if it were an everyday statement. In his world of cat-skin amulets and war magic, I supposed it was.
I looked around. “There was a young Constable with us, by the name of Moody. Did you see him?”
“Yup.” Potts flicked Wandering Spirit’s coup stick in the direction Moody had taken earlier. “Dead.”
My heart sank. “And Special Constable Chambers?” I asked. Then I remembered that Chambers and Potts had never met. “A man with dark curly hair, wearing pyjamas. Did you see him?”
“Yup.”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno. He ran away.”
I looked around in alarm, cursing the night’s gloom. “Do you think the Indians killed him?”
“Nope. No body.”
I sighed, exasperated by Potts’s short answers. Leveillee tucked his crucifix away and rose to his feet. I offered him the bottle of Pinkham’s but he shook his head.
“My dear Corporal,” he said, giving me his customary bow. “If Monsieur Chambers yet lives, he will return, now that all is quiet. We ’ave only to wait for ’im.”
“Can’t wait,” Potts said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“More Indians coming this way. Too many to fight.”
I cursed, realizing that I had only temporarily defeated Wandering Spirit by transforming him into a buffalo. If a chief who possessed a buffalo stone was among the Indians who were approaching, Wandering Spirit could readily be changed back into a man again.
Leveillee was waiting for my orders. Potts had already wandered away, and after a moment I heard the clip-clop of horse’s hooves and the jingling of a buckle. Potts was saddling our horses, preparing for our departure.
“Come with me,” I told Leveillee. Together, we walked in the direction that Moody had gone. We found the young constable only a few paces away from where our fire had been, lying on
his back. I squatted for a closer look, and saw that his eyes were wide open. There didn’t seem to be a mark on him, but I knew what we’d find if we opened his clothing: a black smudge, just above his heart.
Gently, I closed his eyes. According to what Steele had told me earlier, Moody had only joined the force six months ago. He’d been a policeman for less time than I had been when I’d had the premonition at the horse camp that had prevented my own death.
Even though I probably didn’t have much longer to live now, with the cancer returned and a tumour growing in my stomach, I’d had a longer life than poor Moody. This poor young constable had lost his life in the line of duty, and I was determined that he should get a proper burial.
Leveillee stood just behind me, making the sign of the cross on his breast. Even in the gloom, I could see from his expression that he realized how close he had come to sharing Moody’s fate.
“Help me pick him up,” I said, grasping the dead constable by his shoulders. “We’ll tie him to his horse; you can bury him later, if you get a chance. Ride for Steele, and tell him what has happened. Take Potts with you.”
Leveillee nodded. “What about you, my dear Corporal? Are you not coming with us?”
I shook my head.
“What will you do?”
What, indeed? There was only one answer.
“I’ll stay behind, and search for Special Constable Chambers. If I don’t find him I’ll ride after you.”
As Leveillee and I struggled to lift Moody’s corpse, Potts led our horses toward us. On a lead behind them were four other animals, with Indian saddles on their backs. We wound a rope around Moody’s waist and heaved him across the saddle, then Leveillee fastened the end of the rope to the pommel. The young constable’s arms and legs dangled to either side limply; it would be a while before he stiffened up. My wounded hand was pulsing with pain, and the makeshift bandage was soaked with blood.
I took the reins of my horse, and repeated for Potts my plan to stay and search for Chambers for a short time, and to flee if I saw any signs of Indians. Potts grunted his assent.
Leveillee gave me a worried look, then swung up into his saddle. “Farewell, Corporal Grayburn. I will pray pour vous.”
“Thank you.”
I watched them go, then led Buck across the uneven ground, trusting him to find his own footing in the dark. He proved exceedingly adept at this, picking his way along with sure-footed grace while I stumbled over rocks. I made for the spot that Leveillee had pointed out earlier — the place where the hoof prints of the transformed patrol had ended abruptly. Chambers had run in this direction, during the Indian attack. He’d been too panic-stricken to realize what he held in his hand, and what might happen when he reached this spot.
I smelled freshly turned earth, and realized that my guess had been right. Ahead in the darkness lay a deeper patch of black: the mouth of a cave. Chambers had run this way with Stone Keeper’s white crow feather clutched in his hand, and the tunnel had opened for him.
I sighed in exasperation. Was I going to have to rescue Chambers a second time? He’d proven himself a coward by fleeing the moment the Indians attacked, and had stupidly run in the worst possible direction. Even though I’d grown close to liking him over the past few days, it was hard to work up sympathy for the man now.
I walked up to the threshold of the cave, then stopped. Why had it remained open? I’d assumed that Chambers had blundered into it in his panicked state, and that the tunnel had closed up after him again. It had seemed the best explanation for Chambers’s failure to return to the campsite when the battle was over.
I now saw that I had been wrong.
I glanced down and saw something white beside my boot: Stone Keeper’s feather. It was standing upright, its quill embedded in the earth. Had Chambers dropped it in surprise, as the tunnel opened to engulf him? If so, why hadn’t he simply walked out of the tunnel again, once his panic subsided? I dropped the reins of my horse and pulled a box of matches out of my pocket. I lit one and held it awkwardly in my injured hand. By its light, I saw that the quill was pushed deep into the ground, as if deliberately forced into it. Chambers had wanted the cave to remain open — but why?
I noticed that my boot was resting on words that had been scratched into the ground with a stick. They were in block letters, just like the ones Chambers had scuffed in the earth with his hoof after he was transformed into a buffalo.
INISKIM HERE.
FOLLO_ _E.
My boot prints had obliterated two of the letters, but the message was plain enough. Chambers hadn’t run away in a panic. Somehow, in the instant of the explosive flash that had left me blinking, he’d spotted the white buffalo calf. In a desperate effort to keep her out of the hands of the Indians, he’d opened the cave and led her inside, pausing to leave me a message he knew the Indians couldn’t read. He’d done this knowing that he’d be transformed into a buffalo again — a fate he dreaded above all else.
He’d counted on me to defeat Wandering Spirit and to follow him inside.
I couldn’t let him down.
I was just about to pluck the feather from the ground when Buck whinnied. Realizing that I might not return, I wondered whether I should remove his saddle and bridle and turn him loose. I rested a hand on him, trying to decide what to do, and my fingers brushed over the rough brand on his flank. I was reminded of the Indian handprint that had decorated his rump after being captured by Indians, and how he’d found his way back to the detachment, all on his own. He’d also led me safely out of the Big Sands. If ever there was a horse whose loyalty and sense of direction I could rely upon, it was Buck.
I decided to take Buck with me, into the cave. The tunnels below were big enough to accommodate herds of buffalo; riding would be the best way to negotiate them. All I had to do was find Chambers and Iniskim — and then we’d head straight for the Manitou Stone, and send the spirit of White Buffalo Woman back to the spirit lands.
Chapter VIII
Ride into darkness — A strange transformation — A possible solution — An ominous dawn — Into the pound — A desperate chase — The invisible revealed — An explosive result — Return to the Big Sands — Strong medicine — A mother’s grief — A father revealed
I picked up the white feather, then swung up into the saddle. Even as my foot left the ground, I could feel the earth tremble. Buck shied sideways as the earth shook, and clods of soil thudded down like heavy rain from the roof of the tunnel. I didn’t have much time.
“Ho!” I shouted, and spurred Buck forward. He stumbled as a section of the tunnel mouth came crashing down, but continued bravely forward. In a moment more, the thudding of his hooves was completely drowned out as a ton of earth and stone crashed down behind us. I heard a few last muffled thumps, and then the noise stopped.
I reined Buck to a halt. For a moment I sat coughing on the dust that choked the air. The darkness inside the tunnel was complete. I held the white feather up in front of my face, close enough to feel my breath on my hand, and could not even see the feather’s outline. I pulled the hymn book from my jacket, tucked the feather carefully inside it, and returned the book to my pocket. Then I patted Buck on the shoulder.
My hand touched what felt like a coarse and matted fabric. As I shifted my weight slightly on my stirrups, the saddle beneath me slid loosely on Buck’s back. I supposed the saddle pad must have worked its way forward and bunched up — the saddle felt as if something wide and lumpy was under it.
“Bravely done, Buck,” I said, moving my hand up to stroke his neck instead. “Now we just have to find—”
Buck’s neck was not where I expected it to be — my hand encountered nothing but air. I lowered it, patting around to find the reins, and found that they rested on a neck that was at once too wide and covered in coarse, woolly hair. In that same instant, Buck made a sound — not the delicate whuffle of a horse, but the low, heavy snort of a much larger beast.
I reached into my pocket for my bo
x of matches, and struck one.
The yellow circle of light it cast shook as I saw what I was sitting upon. My mount was no longer a horse. Just ahead of the saddle, massive, shaggy shoulders descended to a pair of curving horns. Buck turned his head, and I could see that the bit and bridle were still in his mouth. He looked back at me with a small, round eye and tossed his head, as if impatient to be off. He didn’t seem to notice — or else didn’t care — that he had been transformed into a buffalo.
As the match went out, I felt the saddle shift. I slipped my feet out of the stirrups, jumped to the ground, and felt under Buck’s belly to see why the saddle had come loose. The strap ended in a frayed bit of leather that hung down at his side; so large was Buck’s girth that it had snapped during his transformation.
I had no way to repair the saddle. I hauled it from Buck’s back and cast it aside, and then removed my saddlebags. I paused only to retrieve my bottle of Pinkham’s and put it in my pocket, then took a fistful of Buck’s shaggy shoulder. “Easy now, Buck,” I said. “There’s a good hor … ah, buffalo.”
I hauled myself onto his bare back and settled in just at the point where the matted hair ended and his smooth-coated flanks began. Buck stood patiently, snorting and moving his head gently from side to side, his teeth making grinding noises as if he were trying to adjust his mouth to an ill-fitting bit.
I gave Buck a gentle prod with my spurs and he walked forward as obediently as any horse. His gait was different — heavier and more jarring — and the width of his back bowed my legs out even more than usual.
I decided to risk a shout — if being transformed into a buffalo didn’t cause Buck to spook, neither would my call.
“Chambers!” I cried. “Where are you?”
I strained my ears, but heard no reply. It didn’t surprise me; I assumed that Chambers had been transformed, once again, into a buffalo. He could hardly respond to my shouts. I listened instead for the sound of hoof beats, knowing that he and Iniskim must have been just ahead of me. Perhaps he would hear my call and run back to show me the way.