Riel made a grasping motion, as if picking up a handful of soil. Everybody watched his hand as he held it out toward them, his fist clenched tightly. “This—this is our land,” he said quietly. “This is where our fathers have lived since before men can remember. Out there, the bones of our ancestors lie buried. Land, my people, is not just something you use to make a living. If that is all you think of the land, you might as well run a little dry goods store. No, the land is mother to us all. It gives us life, and we water it with our blood, fertilize it. Yes, that is the word—and with our bodies when we die. By the God that made us all, they are not going to take it away from us!”
Riel sat down as calmly as if he hadn’t been ranting a moment before. Sundance thought Riel glanced over his way, but he couldn’t be sure. On Riel’s face there was a half-smile. No, not a smile but a strange, twisted expression. His eyes looked at the crowd, but Sundance wasn’t sure he saw anything but his inner thoughts.
The crowd was still yelling and stomping their feet when the old priest got up shakily and left the platform. He was infirm and trembling, but no one helped him to step down to the floor. Well, Sundance thought, he really put the boot to you today.
The crowd made a lane for the old priest to pass through. He walked slowly, eyes fixed directly in front of him. Sundance knew nothing about Father André but figured he had served this people most of his life. In the remote settlements, a priest arrived when he was young and remained until he died. How many births and deaths had this old priest presided over? Hundreds? Thousands.
Louis Riel, very calm now, waited until Father André was gone before he spoke again. It was obvious the crowd was uneasy. In the halfbreed settlement, isolated by distance and choice, a priest wasn’t just a psalm singer dressed in black. He was a living bridge between this life and the hereafter.
Yep, Sundance thought, old Louis knows his stuff. He slipped in the knife and turned it without getting even a spot of blood on his hands. Michel Dumont had done all the tough talking, while Riel had remained regretful and forgiving. How much did it have to do with Riel’s new church, his “true” religion, as he called it? It probably had a lot to do with it. And what about the two stories—of the five and the hundred-thousand dollars?
In the end, it didn’t matter a damn. Sundance had been sent to stop Riel. Thus far, he hadn’t even begun to form a plan. All he could do at the moment was look and listen and keep Hardesty and his Irish friends from killing him. He knew they were going to try. It was in their faces every time they looked at him. He would have to tread carefully if he wanted to stay alive. He couldn’t make up his mind about Riel. At times, he sounded like the world’s most honorable man. But it was all shot through with trickery and deceit. Whatever he was, and he was probably many things, Louis Riel was no ordinary man. It could even be that he was an honorable man who felt he had to act like a trickster to get the things he wanted for his people. Of course, that .was the trouble with so many men of destiny. They always thought they and they alone knew what was best for the ordinary man.
Riel was talking again, this time about concessions. “My plan,” he said, His not to tell the Canadians what we will do if they don’t grant concessions. My plan is to do certain things—and then ask for concessions. No matter what people say, I am willing to settle for something less than complete independence.” His dark eyes were hooded. “I am ready to settle for partial independence, because that will give us more time to prepare. Yes, that would be breaking a promise, I know. But how many promises have the Canadians broken? It would take an abacus to count the number. We will take whatever they give us. We will wait and prepare and arm ourselves secretly. Then we will make more demands. And so on and so on.
“That is how it is done, my friends. It is not the way I would like to do it, but at the moment we are outnumbered, so we must fight might with guile. Every concession we get takes us one more step away from Ottawa. After a while, they will begin to see complete separation as inevitable. That is how it can be achieved. It is slow, perhaps too slow for those of you who are impatient and angry. But it is the road I would like to follow, if such is possible. If not, then we’ll fight. That is what I am afraid we will have to do, and you must not think it will be easy.”
Now what was Riel trying to do? Sundance wondered. Sure, that was it. He was trying to sound like a man of peace while urging the métis toward war. Nothing Riel had said so far proved to Sundance that the man wanted peace. All his words and actions pointed toward, war. It showed in his eyes when the wild words began to flow. It showed in the way he used his hands, literally tearing Canada apart in his mind.
Michel Dumas jumped to his feet. “These Canadians will be no match for us. They are a race of storekeepers and chicken farmers. They don’t know this country, and we know every inch of it. We will bury them in the muskeg, lead them into the wilderness until they are lost, starving, blinded by snow. If they come into this country, they will stay here forever!”
Riel held up his hand. “That is brave talk, Michel, but we must look at the facts. They may not come at all. Macdonald is a man who finds it hard to make up his mind. I have observed his career for many years. It is possible that he will put off doing anything, then do nothing at all. Or, being the man he is, he may postpone action for a while, thinking that his militia can recapture the Territories any time he feels like that. My God, if he only took that course! Give us a year, even six months, and we’ll be strong enough to turn back any force he can send.”
Gesturing toward Hardesty and the other Irishman, Riel said, “Not many of you know who these gentlemen are: Mr. Hardesty and Mr. Lane. Mr. Hardesty is going to tell you a few things you will like hearing.”
Hardesty got up and moved out in front of the platform. He told them that he was an Irishman, explaining what being a Fenian meant. He said he was a Catholic and a hater of Great Britain, and therefore of the Canadian government, for what was Canada, after all, but a foreign province of Queen Victoria’s?
“Men and guns are coming from the United States,” said Hardesty. “Some will be here soon, and others are to follow. Given enough time, we can build an army of volunteers from the United States—men, experienced soldiers who have served in the army, veterans. They are well armed, well trained, and they know how to fight. Whereas, as Michel Dumas says, the Canadian militia are nothing but storekeepers and chicken farmers, led by pot-bellied lawyers and business.
“But,” Hardesty continued, “even if they don’t give us the time we need, the fight against the Canadians can still be won. What we have to do is prove to them that it isn’t worth it. War costs money. The longer it goes on, the more it costs. Hit them in the pocketbooks is what we have to do. In the end, that’s all they understand. Contest every inch of ground. They may think war is a gentleman’s name, but we will show them otherwise. We will make the war so bloody, so costly, they will wish they never heard the name of the métis.
“There is this railroad with which they are supposed to destroy us. In the end, it is just wood and steel, tunnels and bridges. All these things can be destroyed. Telegraph wires can be cut, the poles burned. Towns are made of wood and can be burned with a can of coal oil and a single match. Hit them, and keep on hitting. I know this has a brutal sound, but we have to do what General Sherman did in Georgia—wage total war.”
Hardesty looked sideways at Riel. “Of course, there will be no killing of prisoners. We will feed them to the best of our ability. This is the chance you waited for those long fifteen years when Louis Riel was in exile. Well, let us repay them for Louis’s suffering, his years of wandering without a country. All we need is courage and determination. In years to come, you can tell your grandchildren that you were here, in the Lindsay schoolhouse, when it all began.”
Hardesty sat down to polite applause. He looked disappointed. He had expected a better reception. Sundance grinned behind his hand. The métis, poor and largely uneducated, had plenty of everyday good sense. For all his blarney
and war talk, Hardesty had failed to win them over completely. That would be at least one setback for the Irishman. But it was not to rule him out as a force in the movement.
Louis Riel stood up, still applauding the Irishman. “It’s time,” he said, “to talk of our friends, the Indians. I know it’s been on your minds. It’s time we talked about it frankly and openly.”
The two Indians didn’t move.
Ten
Gabriel Dumont was very silent as he and Sundance rode back to Batoche across the bleak plains that stretched away on both sides of the South Saskatchewan River. The wind blew as it did all year. This was country where it snowed all through the winter; it hardly ever rained, sometimes not for years at a time. Once the snow was gone, the ever present wind baked the land, drying it to dust. In summer it was a sunbaked hell. They called it the Canadian Desert. You either froze or fried, and there were times when the crops withered and died for lack of water.
Dumont rode without saying a word, a dead cigar stuck in his mouth. Sundance wanted to talk but knew it would be no use. The meeting at the schoolhouse was over, and with it maybe a whole way of life was over for the métis. A lot of arguments had been heard and many things decided. Louis Riel had spoken of the great Indian uprising to come. He had called Poundmaker and Little Bear his “brothers and allies.” Together, he said, the Indians would sweep the land of the Canadian oppressors. Both Indian chiefs spoke English, but all they did was nod several times while Riel spoke of the glorious victories to come. He said “victory” and not “slaughter.” But everyone knew what he meant. The Canadians still had time to come to terms, Riel said. If the war came, would be up to them. First, Riel said, the métis would take several towns and hold the whites as hostages. Word would then be sent to the Canadians that if they invaded métis territory the hostages and towns would be destroyed.
In his fierce way, Michel Dumas wanted to start the Indian war immediately. Nolin, Riel’s cousin, had opposed the war unless there was no other way. To Sundance’s surprise, Dumont had opposed setting the Indians against the whites. The two Cree chiefs had showed no emotion while Dumont said:
“Can we control the Indians once they get started? To set the Indians on the warpath will bring down the fury of both the Canadians and the Americans. I am proud of my Indian blood. For generations the métis have been a civilized people. We have towns, churches, schools. We have books and a newspaper, a way of life that is ours. The Indians are our brothers in the sight of God. But will they remain our brothers as the fighting goes on? Poundmaker and Little Bear are men of honor. But what of men like Wandering Spirit, who hates the métis as much as he hates the whites? I do not think they can control such men. This is a fight for the métis. Let us fight it by ourselves!”
Finally, a vote was taken, and Dumont’s objections were overruled. After some words of praise for Dumont, Riel declared he would return to Montana unless the participation of the Indians was approved. Faced with that, Dumont said he would go along with the majority.
Now it was over. Dumont and Sundance were heading back to Batoche. Riel and Hardesty had stayed behind to continue the talks with the other leaders. Riel’s bodyguard had stayed, too.
The wind blew hard and they rode without talking. The early winter darkness was coining on fast; soon, the warmth of the watery sun would be gone. Without pausing, Dumont spat out the chewed-up cigar and put another in his mouth.
The second cigar lasted another ten miles. By then, the first ferry was in sight. Up the slope from the riverbank was the cabin where the old man had given them bark tea earlier in the day. The broad, frozen river was slate gray in the light of the setting sun. Sundance thought with longing of the sun-washed southwest: Arizona, New Mexico, Sonora.
Their shoulders were hunched against the cold as they started down the long slope toward the old man’s cabin. Sundance had no idea why the cabin was there. Maybe the old man sold things to travelers coming or going from the ferry. They were not much more than a hundred yards from the cabin when two rifles opened fire at the same time. Dumont pitched off his horse without a sound. He hit the ground hard and lay still. His horse spooked and ran toward the river.
Sundance yelled and rolled off his horse. When he came up again, the Winchester was in his hand and he was behind a tree. But the two riflemen kept firing at Dumont instead of at him. A bullet furrowed its way across the top of Dumont’s shoulder. Another tore a hole in the brim of his hat.
Pushing the rifle out from behind the tree, Sundance threw lead at the cabin’s door and window as fast as he could lever shells. The fire from the cabin slacked off under the rain of bullets. Sundance jumped from cover, and the firing started again as he grabbed Dumont by the heels and dragged him behind a tree. Dumont cursed and groaned as his face skated across the crusted snow. A bullet blew its hot breath in Sundance’s face and another sang over his head.
Dumont’s face was covered with blood gushing from a head wound. He tried to get up. Sundance pushed him down in the snow and told him to stay down. “I’ll get them,” he said.
The light was almost gone as he edged away from Dumont. Bullets tore at him from the window and door of the cabin, the muzzle flashes red-white in the enveloping grayness. The bushwhacker in the doorway was more reckless than the other. Sundance could see his outline every time he fired. They were both armed with repeaters. The trees thinned out close to the cabin. He went down on his belly in the snow and crawled forward, waiting for a clear shot.
It came in the moment the shooter in the doorway fired twice. Sundance killed him before he could fire a third shot. The man hung onto the side of the door, moaning with pain, then he fell on his face as a blaze of rifle fire jetted from the window. It stopped. In the silence that followed, Sundance heard the clack of a loading lever.
Lying in the snow, Sundance let time and the silence gnaw on the second ambusher’s nerves. Three more flashes of fire came from the window. Sundance didn’t shoot back because the bullets hadn’t even come close to where he was. He crawled behind a tree before he told the man to come out. The answer was a single bullet ripping into a tree three feet from where he was. After that there was no more shooting.
“Come out or I’ll burn you out!” Sundance yelled. “There’s only one way out, and I have it covered.” Cabins in the wind-blasted northwest didn’t have back doors or windows. “You have one minute before you burn.”
“You won’t kill me?” It was a métis, not a Canadian or Indian voice. “Swear to God you won’t kill me.”
“You haven’t much time left,” Sundance yelled. “Come out now. I won’t kill you. Throw the rifle out the window, plus any other weapons you have.”
He waited. The voice said, “I am throwing out my rifle and my knife. I have no pistol. I am throwing them now. Listen to them.”
Hardly able to see, Sundance heard the weapons fall in the snow. He yelled: “With your hands stretched in front of you, the fingers laced, come out.”
Sundance stood up as the man came out. There wasn’t enough light to make out much more than the thick, dark clothing of an ordinary métis with a heavy beard and a stiff-brimmed black hat. “Keep those hands stretched out,” Sundance warned. “Stretch them out till it hurts. Now, stand where you are and put your legs wide apart.”
Holding the rifle at his hip, Sundance went down the slope and stopped when he was six feet away. “Turn to one side,” he ordered. “Now tell me your name and who hired you to kill Gabriel Dumont. The truth or I’ll blow your hands off!”
“My God!” the man said, “we did not know...”
Sundance could see well enough to blow off his left thumb. The man screamed and tried to unlace his fingers. “Hold still or you lose the other one. I said, what’s your name and who hired you?”
The words came out strangled. “Theodore Parie. No one hired me. Gabriel told us to come here and watch the road to the ferry. From the ferry, is what I mean to, prevent the Canadians from surprising the meeting at Batoche
. Is—is Gabriel dead? We did not know. It was getting dark. If Gabriel came, we thought it would be with Louis Riel and his bodyguard.”
Sundance said, “He’s dead all right, you stupid son of a bitch.”
The bushwhacker was lying, but this wasn’t the place to make him talk. There was no use forcing it now. There would be time enough when they got him back to Batoche. Once there, Gabriel could make good use of his white-hot skinning knife.
The bushwhacker pretended to blubber, being very emotional and French. “What have we done? I swear on my mother’s grave. Kill me! I don’t care. But I was just following orders.”
“Your own people will have to decide,” Sundance said. Suddenly, as he spoke, the man’s right hand flashed up toward the back of his neck and a knife appeared in his hand. He almost made it before a bullet stopped him. A .44-40 rifle bullet hit him squarely in the face and went out the back of his head. Except for the roar of the rifle and the body falling in the snow, there was no other sound.
Gabriel Dumont was up on his knees when Sundance went back to find him. “My rifle. Let me get my rifle,” he kept repeating.
“Go easy,” Sundance said, lifting him by his armpits. He was glad the big buffalo hunter was able to stand, however unsteadily. It would be hell to carry a man of his size. The wind and the cold had stiffened the blood on his face and, the bleeding from the head wound had stopped. Blood soaked the back of his coat, but Sundance didn’t think the wound was serious.
“Did you—did you?” he said, still dazed.
“Both of them,” said Sundance. “Can you make it to the cabin?”
Sundance 19 Page 7