“Yes we do, and speak English, please,” Vincent said, using that language himself. “We are in Canada, not Acadia, and we need these clothes because no one is going to trust a couple of crazy, backwoodsmen enough to sell them more than a slingshot.”
George frowned. “Then who will they be trusting?”
Vincent smiled his crooked smile. “We are in charge of security along the Stonewell to Brandon branch of the new Canadian-Pacific Rail Road. Oh, and your last name is Carter, not Custer. Now put on the coat.”
George sighed but put on the coat. “The sleeves are a little long.”
Vincent shrugged. “Nothing’s perfect,” he said.
The city of Winnipeg lay on the switchback banks of the Red River. They reached the limit of the frozen waters at noon—according to Vincent’s new pocket watch. The sky was covered by a blanket of dark clouds heavy with the threat of snow. George and Vincent rode across the stonework bridge at the south end of town. Their shadows, vague and amorphous, slid silently across the icy cobbles, keeping pace with the two men in a contest they would never win.
The bridge took them onto Broadway and, at the foot of the impressive, spire-cornered bulk of Manitoba College, they turned right onto Main. Main Street was broad and traversed the length of the town, running alongside the twisting river as best it could. As they traveled from the edge of town toward its heart, the smaller prairie homes became larger and more numerous. The buildings began to huddle together, as if for warmth against the frigid wind, and they grew from small, square homes with roofs sloped sharply to shrug off the snows of winter, into mid-sized storefronts with tall, rectangular façades that lined the boardwalks. A horse-drawn trolley appeared in the middle of the thoroughfare and the buildings strengthened: from wood to brick, brick to stone, standing taller—three stories and four—increasing in size and stature the farther George and Vincent rode.
The Cabot’s Bay Company store, an immense square pylon, covered half a block and commanded an entire corner at the intersection of Main and Queen Streets. The central business district lay ahead of them. Emporia and trading houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder. The streets were filled. People dodged carts and horses as they crossed the slushy streets, running for the trolley or delivering parcels to a patron. Boys cried out, hawking daily newspapers that were thin in volume but thick with local gossip. Men in dark frock coats and rounded hats stood outside their banks and offices, conversing as if it were springtime. Oblivious to the elements, they chatted amiably, comfortably, though their cheeks burned brightly and their words and laughter smoked in the cold winter air. Shouts, greetings, hoofs splashing in hollow rhythm down the street, the creak of wheels and, blocks ahead, the heavy breath of locomotives. It was a busy town, full of energy and excitement.
“The place has grown up in the last few years,” Vincent said. “I’d say she’s doubled her size at least.”
“The railroad?” George wondered aloud.
“No question,” Vincent said. “From Ottawa to the Pacific in a matter of weeks. Can you imagine?” He shook his head at the wonder of it.
They rode on into the busiest section of town—the crossroads of the rail lines and Main Street—where the mercantile met the industrial and merged into a sprawling, patternless jumble of warehouses, manufactories, hotels and saloons.
“Where are we going?” George asked as they turned north off of Main.
“To a place I’ve wanted to stay, but never had the coin.” They turned onto Machray and the old man pointed. “The Grand Pacific Hotel. Isn’t she a sight?”
To George, who, as a politician’s son, had seen some of the finest homes and hotels the East had to offer, it seemed somewhat less than both its name and Vincent’s estimation would deserve.
It was tall—four floors above ground level—with a cupola capping a tower at the rear. Awning-draped balconies divided the front of the upper three floors, and a man in a red coat and black topper oversaw the main entrance, ready to assist the clientele. The hotel was built with the lines of a great hotel, albeit on a smaller scale, but George’s eye caught the signs of deteriorated glory.
The awnings that shaded the snow-dusted balconies were frayed and faded. The stonework was dingy with soot. The doorman was nearly as old as Vincent and only half as agile, and horse chips lay in the street near the entrance.
However, George consoled himself with the fact that he had seen no better on their trip through town, and that this place would most likely—and at the very least—be warm and dry; two things he had not been in weeks.
They hitched their horses to the rail and, taking their precious saddlebags with them, entered and checked into a suite on an upper floor.
“What now?” George asked as he took the room on the right and dropped his bags onto the small bed.
“Now?” Vincent said from his own room. “Now, a soak, a shave, a meal and a bottle, and then, peut-être, a soft-skinned whore with high spirits and low expectations.”
George laughed as he undid his necktie. “Yes, but seriously, what do we do tonight?”
“Tonight? I just told you what I am going to do tonight.”
“But...but what about the guns? Isn’t there anyone you want to contact tonight?”
Vincent poked his head out into the common sitting room that separated the two bedrooms.
“Young Custer, this is not going to happen overnight. It will take time. It is delicate. I must make subtle inquiries and wait for people to respond. We will be here at least a week, maybe two.”
“Two weeks,” George blurted. “What am I supposed to do for two weeks?”
“Frankly, I think you could use some female companionship.” Vincent raised an eyebrow and snickered. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
The old man shut his door and left George standing there, wordless.
For the next week Vincent led George through a numbing procession of saloons, taverns, pubs, eateries, and streetfront vendors. They never left their hotel before noon. Then they spent the day walking the riverfront and the rail yards, stopping here and there, chatting with stevedores and cargo masters. Great friendships were purchased for the price of a beer or a meat pie, and from burly Scots and Irishmen they learned the names of dealers and traders at warehouses and dry goods shops. These more significant men of business Vincent treated to suppers and evenings full of drink and women, and they in turn shared the names of still other men whose reputed desires and purposes lay closer to those of their hosts.
The women, with their heavily-rouged cheeks, loose hair, and bawdy humor, did not appeal to George, and the general drunkenness of the soirees held even less allure. But he sat with Vincent and endured the ribaldry, nursing a beer and trying not to be tagged as a complete prig. As Vincent became less and less coherent, George kept track of the information their liquor was buying. Each evening, well past midnight, he guided Vincent back to their hotel, rang the night bell, and gave the bleary-eyed clerk a coin for his trouble. The next day, after a great deal of coffee, they began again.
They kept up the routine for ten days straight with no progress—as far as George could discern—until late one morning when they were breakfasting in the hotel’s small dining room. They were the only patrons there so late in the forenoon, but the kitchen had come to anticipate their habits and had prepared Vincent’s usual of eggs, toast, and syrup-drowned ham. George was enjoying biscuits and gravy, and both men had coffee: black, hot, and very strong. George ate without attempts at conversation—the wisest course, he had learned, at least until Vincent had finished three cups of coffee—and the dining room was filled with the small sounds of silverware and china.
Their waiter came to the table. “Mr. Carter?”
“Yes,” George said. “What is it?”
He held out a note on a small tray. “There is a gentleman in the lobby. He asks for a few moments of your time.”
George took the note and unfolded it. Finely-formed letters stood t
all in a single line across the small piece of hotel stationery. It read:
I can get what you want.
George folded the note and answered Vincent’s unspoken query with a quick smile. To the waiter he gave a coin. “Please, invite the gentleman to join us.”
The waiter stepped back and departed. He returned a moment later followed by a tall man in a black overcoat with a fur collar. Gloves and derby in hand, he came up to their table with a confident stride. His hair was silver at the temples and forelock, combed back and pomaded. His beard, shot through with gray, was neatly-trimmed. His coat, his hat and gloves, his high-collared shirt and silk necktie, all spoke of wealth and position.
George and Vincent rose. The gentleman bowed ever so slightly and held out his hand to George.
“Angus McTavish,” he said in a voice that was deep and rumbled with brogue. “At yer service, Mr. Carter.”
George shook the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. McTavish. Allow me to introduce my partner, Mr. Vincent D’Avignon.”
“A pleasure,” McTavish said.
“Please,” George said. “Join us.” He gestured to the waiter and an extra chair and place setting were brought to the table. “Some tea or coffee?”
“Oh, aye. Tea would be lovely.”
With another glance George instructed the waiter and the three men settled into their seats.
“About your note, Mr. McTavish...”
“Please,” the Scot said with a gesture of denial. “Such formality. Winnipeg is a far fling from the bright lights and manners o’the big city. And I’m sure we’re all t’become fast friends so, if y’please, call me Angus. ‘Tis what everyone calls me and I’d hate for y’t’think I was puttin’ on airs.”
George nodded. “Very well, then. Angus. As for myself, George will be fine.”
“Grand,” Angus said. “And you, Mr. D’Avignon. Do y’mind if I call you by your Christian name?”
“By all means,” Vincent said with a sour smile.
“Grand,” Angus said again.
They sat for a moment, all smiling at one another. George felt like an idiot, grinning foolishly, and so he pressed on.
“Angus, about your note...”
“Oh, aye. Y’see, I have heard about town that you—”
He paused as the waiter brought his tea and set it on the table with a rattling of china and silver. When the server had gone, Angus leaned forward and continued in a raspy whisper.
“I have heard about town that you two are lookin’ to make some purchases for your...ah...security needs.”
“Well, yes,” George said. “We are. It’s certainly no secret. We’d like to purchase some rifles and other items.”
“Ah, but such a purchase is simple enough. I’ve gathered though that there’s a wee bit more to it than that. Am I correct in this deduction?”
“Perhaps,” George said.
“Tabarnaque,” Vincent swore. “Quit playing games. Of course there is more to it. We’ve made no secret of that either. What I want to know is, what does he bring to the table?”
Their guest sat back in his chair, a wide-eyed expression on his face. George glared at his partner. The old man’s terseness was uncharacteristic, even considering his hungover condition. He wondered if Vincent was put out because Angus had not approached him first, but then George discarded such idle speculation and returned his attention to McTavish.
“As Vincent says, yes, there is more to it than that. Much more. My caution, however, is because of my concerns. Very few have the wherewithal—or the discretion—to fulfill our rather extensive needs.” He touched McTavish’s note that lay folded on the tablecloth. “Your introduction said you can get what we want. Do you know what we want?”
Angus shrugged. “I believe I do. I believe I do.” He ticked off items on his fingers. “Y’want guns, specifically, rifles. That much you’ve made most clear. Repeaters, from what I’ve heard, and naturally, you’ll need ammunition to go with ‘em.”
“Naturally,” George agreed. Vincent said nothing, and sawed off another piece of syrupy ham and watched Angus with a gimlet eye. “How many can you provide.”
Angus puffed up with pride and a confident smile. “More than y’need, I’m sure. Now I’ve got several cases of Springfields—”
“No Springfields,” George said. “Not sturdy enough.”
“Ah, of course. Then I have some Spencers—”
“No,” George interrupted again. “The magazine is in the buttstock. I’ve seen them explode when dropped.”
“Ah,” Angus said, struggling to find something George found suitable. “So it’s durability yer wantin’, then.”
“Absolutely.” George knew that on the prairie, toughness would make the difference.
“Winchesters, then. Model 1873.”
Vincent sat up. “1873? We don’t want any antiques here.”
Angus held up his hands against the charge. “Model 1873. They were made but two years ago.”
“How many do you have?” George asked.
“Two hundred.”
“Only two hundred?”
Angus chuckled. “Only two hundred? How many do y’need?”
“More,” George said.
“How many more?”
George looked at Vincent and the old trader gave a small nod. “Many more.”
“Five hundred?”
“More.”
“A thousand?”
“More. And more than just rifles. Heavy guns.”
“And explosives,” Vincent added. “For excavation,” he said when George gave him a querying glance.
Angus looked from George to Vincent, his self-assured air suddenly weakened. He laughed and sipped at his tea. “What in th’name of Christ are y’doing?” he asked as innocently as he could. “Raisin’ a bloody army?”
Vincent’s knife and fork clattered to his plate. He took a long swig of his lukewarm coffee and then wiped at his mouth with his linen napkin. “Do you know how many miles are between here and the Pacific Ocean?” he asked.
Angus blinked at the sudden change in subject. “Why, no. I must say that I don’t.”
“Thousands,” Vincent said, pointing a finger at Angus. “Thousands. And in each of those thousands of miles? Indians. Yes, Indians. Hundreds of thousands of them. And right through the middle of it all?” He slapped the tabletop and made the china dance. “The Canadian-Pacific Rail Road. All those people traveling through two thousand miles of unfriendly territory. Well...” he picked up his knife and fork and attacked the last of his ham. “Someone’s going to have to protect them, eh?”
Angus started to catch on. “But I heard that y’were only responsible for security ‘tween Stonewell and Brandon.”
“For now,” Vincent said around a syrupy mouthful. “For now.”
Angus smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Well, now then. Suddenly I see just what kind o’men I’m dealin’ wi’: men o’vision and courage. Why, that’s the kind o’bold plan that made the Cabots and the Morgans what they are today. Gentlemen,”—and here he raised his teacup—”I salute you.”
George refreshed his own coffee from the Spode pot at their table. “But can you do it, Angus? Can you get us what we want?”
The Scot pursed his lips and shook his head. “Thousands of rifles? Artillery? Explosives? Nae. None could.” He saw George’s look of disappointment and quickly continued. “Not right away, that is. But given time, aye, I can. It’s a grand big risk for me, though. Financially. And legally.”
George glanced at Vincent for help and the old trader stepped back into the conversation. “We have more than enough to cover the costs of what you can provide us now. Whatever is left, you can also have, as an advance on our account. The rest, well, you’ll just have to trust us, as we will be trusting you.”
Angus sipped his tea as he considered the offer. Then he set down the cup and laced his fingers over his belly. He looked at George and then at Vincent.
&nbs
p; “It’ll take ‘til summer,” he said, “and I’ll most likely call m’self a fool in the mornin’, but I’ll do it.”
Now it was George’s turn to smile and offer his hand to seal the deal.
Storm Arriving stopped his work when he heard the returning patrol. Their whoops and shouts echoed up along the rocky hills that surrounded the valley of the Closed Windpipe band’s winter campsite. His whistler quit her pawing of the calf-deep snow and lifted her head to listen for her returning kindred. Then she let out a long-necked, low-pitched rumble that tickled the hairs on Storm Arriving’s arms and made his head hurt. When she stopped, she pawed at the snow again, but this time in anxiousness, not hunger. Storm Arriving let out the breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding. He grabbed his whistler’s halter rope, mounted, and headed off down the long, crooked path that would take him toward home.
The sky was a patched quilt of blue and white. The snows had come late this year, and were lighter than normal. The firs and pines that covered the hillside were still unburdened by white winter coats. Their needled boughs remained dark and glossy green, and their evergreen scent was sharp in the sunlit air. Storm Arriving rode down the slopes, wondering what news the patrol had brought back with them.
He heard their agitated voices long before he could make out the words, but even by the tone he could not tell if the news was good or bad. Some of the voices sounded angry, the words gruff and clipped, while others sounded excited with high-pitched words tumbling together. When he came around the bend in the narrow path that led into the wide canyon where the Closed Windpipe band gathered every winter, he saw a large group of men and whistlers. The returning patrol of Red Shield soldiers was surrounded by those eager for news. Everyone was talking at once. Two Tailfeathers, one of the men of the patrol and a cousin to Storm Arriving through his marriage, saw him and beckoned the others to be quiet.
“Quiet, all of you! Storm Arriving is here, and he will surely want to know this news.”
The group ceased their jabbering and Storm Arriving rode up close to them. “What is it?” he asked. “What is this news that I should want to know?”
The Spirit of Thunder Page 19