Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  Four days later, George woke Cameron at sunrise by hailing him from outside the tent. When Cameron left the tent, the first thing he noticed was the silence. The wind had been blowing non-stop for the last three days, making the present calm seem almost deafening.

  They were now camped in a hollow eight or nine miles east of Fort Walsh – the headquarters of the North West Mounted Police. And although this site was fairly exposed, George had felt that, as their wood supply was still plentiful, the risk would be minimal.

  ‘Look…there!’ said George, pointing towards the west.

  Cameron turned, his eyes focusing on the sinister-looking smudge between them and their destination. It looked almost like a wide dust storm, except it was black and seemed to stretch upwards to the heavens.

  George turned and ran towards their temporary corral, which might not have seemed so disconcerting had it not been for the fact that George had on what Cameron called his “serious Indian face”.

  ‘Come…Must move carts near tents…then take horse and ox over there…by rocks.’ he said, pointing to the right.

  ‘What is it, George? Is it really that bad?’

  ‘That line squall…worst weather there is on plains.’

  Just then, Catherine stepped out of the tent. She had been woken by the commotion, and could tell from the urgency in George’s voice that they were in danger. Within minutes she was on her knees, hammering in as many stakes as she could find to help secure the two tents.

  In less than an hour the wind began to blow.

  The unremitting blasts of arctic air steadily increased; and soon the arrival of freezing rain added to their misery. By the time they had used up every last scrap of spare rope, their faces and hands were red from the pummelling of the wind and frozen water.

  ‘Finish,’ George yelled. ‘Go inside…I see you when storm gone.’

  As the hours passed, the fury of the wind increased. Each time a gust worked its way through their defensive wall of carts, the tents trembled and jerked. Then the freezing rain turned to ice pellets, and began peppering the outer shell like a hundred woodpeckers hammering the same tree.

  Finally, the precipitation subsided, and when it did the temperature fell another ten degrees. The wind still rampaged through their world, but the previous staccato tapping on their walls was replaced by deep, irregular thwacks as the frozen canvass was driven back-and-forth by the periodic gusts.

  Cameron sat near their little stove, one arm supporting Catherine as she rocked back and forth cradling Callum in her arms, while with his other he fed wood into the fire.

  Hours later the wind finally abated, and the previous dull flopping of their frozen tent walls was replaced by a strange muffled silence.

  The voracious appetite of their only source of heat eventually necessitated a trip to the wood supply in the back of one of the carts. Cameron undid the ties securing the opening of their tent, before tentatively sticking his head out through the partial opening.

  Their world was now white, and the visibility was so bad that he could barely make out George’s tent, lying only fifteen feet away.

  Sprinting to the cart, he grabbed an armful of firewood from under the canvass cover before hurrying back to their tent. Three times he shuttled back and forth. And then, satisfied that their cache was sufficient, stood outside their tent lobbing snowballs at George’s until he emerged.

  ‘I only see one storm like this before. I think I know what come now.’

  ‘Oh, come on, George. Surely, it can’t get much worse?’

  ‘Make sure you have plenty wood in tent...then maybe…pray to your Great Spirit that I wrong.’

  The snow continued to fall for the rest of the day and into the night. But that wasn’t all that fell. During the night the temperature began to drop, dramatically, and by sunrise the following day it was well below zero. This time, when Cameron opened up the flaps to exit the tent, he was met by a wall of snow, and ended up having to dig himself out.

  Under normal circumstances, this amount of snow provided excellent insulation. But it was only part of the solution, and would only work as long as they had sufficient fuel for their stove – and their bodies.

  As Cameron looked around, he could see two thigh deep trenches. One led from George’s tent towards the rocks where they had corralled their animals, while the other wound around towards his left, ending up at the rear of the cart containing the firewood. Wading through the snow, Cameron eventually joined up with George’s path leading towards their wood supply. Quickly stocking up with an armful of wood, he then hurried back to the tent.

  Half an hour later, George’s boots could be heard crunching on the hard packed snow as he approached their tent.

  ‘Come on in, George. Take off your coat and come over here by the stove. The coffee is hot and Catherine’s about to make some breakfast.’

  George’s news that morning had been devastating. Sometime during the night, their three horses had panicked and run off to a certain death. And although the oxen were still alive, he feared they wouldn’t last much longer without a drastic improvement in the weather.

  ‘Plenty food…but meat frozen. Now… big problem…wood for fire. If I come in here with you…we have maybe two days’ logs.’

  After breakfast, the two men headed over to George’s tent to recover whatever might be useful.

  ‘Surely we can break up the carts for wood,’ Cameron said, while he and George trudged back to the Stuarts’ tent carrying George’s bedding and his remaining firewood.

  ‘Yes, but cart only thin wood. No much good…burn too quick. And…need cart to stop wind.’

  Even though later in the day the sun broke through the thin layer of cloud high above them, the temperature continued to drop.

  Two days later, their chance of survival was dropping as fast as the outside temperature. It was now -40F. And once more, the wind began to increase in strength.

  George knew that if nothing changed he was the only one with any chance of staying alive. He and his people had seen conditions like these before. And for centuries had passed on from tribe to tribe what needed to be done to survive. But white people could never endure that kind of hardship.

  He slept fitfully that night, and rose early the next morning.

  Cameron woke as George was putting the finishing touches to a pair of snowshoes he’d been fashioning out of saplings and buffalo hide.

  ‘What…what are you doing?’ whispered Cameron as he rolled away from Catherine,

  his eyes barely open and his lips cracked and swollen.

  ‘You can’t go… anywhere…in this weather.’

  ‘Fort Walsh only seven…maybe… eight miles. Should be at fort before dark. You keep fire burning…I come back soon.’

  He probably would have made it by nightfall had he not broken one of his snowshoes when he slipped off an ice-covered boulder hidden under the snow. It took him the rest of the day to fashion a smaller pair from the remaining wood and hide, and as darkness closed in, George curled up in a snow hole for the night.

  By noon the following day, he was wearily tramping across the blurred terrain.

  The wind-carried snow reduced visibility to less than a hundred feet, and even he had begun to doubt his own navigation.

  Eventually, the cold found its way through his long buffalo-skin coat, and his strength began to wane. For a while, the picture in his mind of Catherine and her child kept him moving. But as the day wore on, his own family’s faces began to intrude into his thoughts. The cold became all encompassing. His face went from red to a frosty alabaster, while at the same time his fingers and toes went from a burning sensation to nothingness. Finally, as if some miracle had just taken place, the cold vanished. And then as he stumbled and fell, and his life began to ebb away, he was sure it was his father who, covered in furs, lifted him up and placed him in a sleigh for his final journey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The two dog teams pulled up in front of the
guardhouse at the entrance to the fort.

  ‘Look what we found lying in the snow, just east of the tree line! We were chasing down a deer when we came across this bundle of fur in the snow. From a distance I thought it was a buffalo calf, so imagine my surprise when we got closer…and it turned out to be some dead Indian?’

  Sergeant MacDonald reached down, pulling aside the furs covering the body.

  ‘That’s a shame. It’s Spotted Bear. I wonder what the hell he was doing out here at this time of year. Normally he and his band are way south of Fort Macleod by now.’

  Just as he was about to throw the fur back over the body, he noticed a slight tremor in the Native’s right eyelid.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Corporal…this guy’s alive! Get him inside and send someone for the company doctor.’

  George’s eyes gradually opened. At first, he was unsure where he was, as it certainly didn’t look like any happy hunting ground he’d ever imagined. Then, when a few moments later, a bearded, dark-haired young white man wearing a scarlet tunic appeared through a door on the other side of the room, he realised he wasn’t dead.

  ‘Please…Need talk to Sergeant MacDonald.’

  ‘All right…calm down. You need to rest. You’re lucky to be alive…and even luckier that I haven’t had to amputate any of your toes or fingers.’

  ‘No…not understand. People out there...need help.’

  Two hours passed by the time the Sergeant managed to organize the rescue party. Three dog teams needed to be outfitted, because he had to assume they’d be spending at least one night at the Stuarts’ encampment. One sled was packed with food, thick fur coverings and proper winter clothing for the Stuart family; the second contained a fresh supply of firewood; while the third was being brought along as extra transport to help bring back the hoped-for survivors.

  Just before noon, the gates of Fort Walsh swung open. Many of the fort’s inhabitants, having heard about the daring rescue mission, had gathered near the entrance; and with the sounds of encouragement ringing in their ears, the rescuers set off.

  George was in the lead sled cocooned in two heavy blankets topped with a bearskin wrap, having earlier been supplied with sealskin pants, a long sealskin coat and fur-lined mukluks for his feet. His musher – as the drivers were known – was Sergeant MacDonald, while Corporal Jones and the NWMP doctor handled the other two sleds.

  The weather was settled and the winds were light as they made their way eastward guided by George’s instructions. Normally, dogs could pull sleds at speeds of up to fifteen miles per hour, but due to their heavy loads and the depth of snow, the best they could manage was three to four. The temperature was -30F, so even dressed as they were, the cold still knifed through their layers of clothing, stabbing at their bodies and forcing them to draw on all their reserves of will-power just to keep going.

  Three hours later, they came over a small rise, and appearing ahead of them were the irregular, snow-covered shapes of the campsite. Rather ominously, no smoke could be seen rising above the Stuarts’ tent. And as they drew nearer, no footprints were visible in the fresh covering of snow.

  George feared the worst, and when his sled came to a halt he leapt out, forcing himself through the deep snow towards the Stuarts’ tent. Quickly undoing the restraining ties, he threw back the flap, calling out Cameron’s name as he stepped through the opening.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dull light inside the tent, he was horrified.

  ‘Quick, doctor…come!’ he shouted, hurrying over to Cameron’s cot.

  His friend’s face was puffy and pale, his eyes shut, and his lips cracked and swollen; and as hard as George stared, he could see no sign of breath escaping from the blue-tinged lips.

  Guilt overwhelmed him. This was his fault. He was the one who had been hired to look after them, and he should have known better than to stay out on the prairie this late in the year, especially with a mother and newborn child in the party.

  ‘Move out of the way, will you?’ said the doctor, squeezing past the Indian to get a look at Catherine.

  George turned away from his friend and moved over to the baby’s cot. His worst nightmare stared him in the face. Somehow, Callum had thrown off half of his covers, and he was now cold as ice and stiff as a board.

  ‘Quick, somebody get me as many spare blankets as we’ve got…and then get that fire started! She’s still alive…although barely.’

  ‘But baby so.…’

  ‘I know…I’m sorry. The baby didn’t make it. He didn’t have a chance in these temperatures.’

  In a trance like state, George stumbled towards the exit, along the way brushing against the corporal entering the tent with an armful of wood and Sergeant MacDonald carrying blankets and other supplies.

  ‘Right…once that fire’s going I want some warm water. At the same time someone needs to get me some decent sized rocks and warm them up, so I can put them in their beds. Mr and Mrs Stuart are both alive right now …and I’d like to keep it that way if I can.’

  ‘Where the hell is that Indian? He could be doing that. At least he’d know where to find some decent sized rocks under all this snow.’

  ‘Just take it easy, Corporal,’ said Sergeant MacDonald. ‘The last time I saw him he was headed towards that outcropping of rocks east of the campsite. He’s probably got a lot to think about right now, so best you let him be.’

  Even though Spotted Bear had almost died trying to save their lives, the Sergeant

  knew he would be feeling responsible for what had happened. The Stuarts had been his charges, and the Native would now have a terrible burden to shoulder for the rest of his life.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the doctor, ‘but when you two have finished jawing, could one of you wrap up the baby in a couple of blankets and put him in a corner of one of the sleds? We should take him back to the fort for burial. I’m sure his mother and father will want to say their goodbyes.’

  The doctor returned to monitoring Cameron and Catherine. Although their pulse and breathing rates were extremely slow, he was hopeful they’d got to them in time. All he could do for the moment was keep them warm, and keep his fingers crossed that they’d make it through the next twenty-four hours.

  ‘When you’re finished your coffee, Corporal…I think it’s time Spotted Bear came in and got something to eat and drink…so I’d like you to go and find him. Tell him the Doctor’s hopeful about the Stuarts, and that it’s time we got things ready for the night. When he’s warmed up, we’ll get him to sort out the other tent for us…and while he’s doing that you might want to get us out some grub. I don’t know about you, but I’m kinda hungry.’

  George had found all three oxen dead, and partly devoured by wolves. The tracks had been fresh, meaning they’d probably been scared off when the rescue party arrived. In a way it would probably turn out to be a good thing, he thought, as the predators would probably now leave the dogs and campsite alone.

  When Cameron’s eyes finally cracked open, all he could see was a stranger’s smiling face staring down at him. Spasms of shivering racked his body, and his teeth chattered like the keys on one of the office typewriters. Moments later, a hand was placed behind his head, tilting him forward. A warm liquid passed over his lips. Some of it dribbled down his stubbled chin, but a small amount did find its way into his mouth, almost choking him before sliding down his throat. The last thing he then recalled was a warming sensation in the bottom of his stomach before, once again, his eyes closed and he faded into darkness.

  One more day was spent in that unforgiving wilderness before the doctor considered the two people well enough to be transported back to the fort. Both were still drifting in and out of consciousness, but their breathing was back to normal and their pulses quicker and less erratic.

  When the harnesses came into sight, the huskies required little further encouragement, and soon their excited barking was echoing down the valley. Ten minutes later, with the Stuarts lying in sleds under bundles of blankets
and furs, two of the dog teams leaned into their traces and set off for home.

  George and the Corporal remained behind as the camp needed to be dismantled and returned to the wagons if any of it was to be saved from the elements. The survey cart had been partly dismantled by Cameron and used as firewood, but as George had already seen, the cold had sapped his friend’s strength long before its wood had all been used up and the cart destroyed for good. The perishable food that remained was dumped in a pile beside the dead oxen, and no doubt by spring there would be nothing left but bones, completely picked-clean.

  The cold spell finally broke, and within days the temperature was well above freezing and the snow mostly melted away.

  An awkward silence filled the room. George had come to bid farewell, but nobody seemed to know what to say. Catherine took his hand in hers, and with fondness and sincerity in her eyes, looked into his face.