White Desert (8 page)
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
“Just one thing.”
I surprised him, not for the first time, nor yet again for the last during that brief meeting. He had a leather portfolio of papers
on his desk and had already begun to absorb himself in them. He looked up, brows lifted. That's when I surprised him again.
on his desk and had already begun to absorb himself in them. He looked up, brows lifted. That's when I surprised him again.
I said, “Tell me where I can find the survivors of the massacre on the Saskatchewan.”
The lobby of the
Trappers Inn was less than half the size of Inspector Vivian's office and contained twice as many fixtures and furniture. A great shaggy moose head with a six-foot antler spread seemed to breathe down my neck while I registered for the clerk, three hundred pounds of solid fat with long gray hair and no discernible gender. A pair of crossed snowshoes hung on the wall next to the stairs and a smoothbore musket of Revolutionary War vintage decorated a ceiling beam, looking not so much like ornaments as things that were taken down frequently and used. So far everything I had seen about Canada made me feel that the entire country had been pressed between the pages of a novel by James Fenimore Cooper.
Trappers Inn was less than half the size of Inspector Vivian's office and contained twice as many fixtures and furniture. A great shaggy moose head with a six-foot antler spread seemed to breathe down my neck while I registered for the clerk, three hundred pounds of solid fat with long gray hair and no discernible gender. A pair of crossed snowshoes hung on the wall next to the stairs and a smoothbore musket of Revolutionary War vintage decorated a ceiling beam, looking not so much like ornaments as things that were taken down frequently and used. So far everything I had seen about Canada made me feel that the entire country had been pressed between the pages of a novel by James Fenimore Cooper.
The room I got smelled suffocatingly of cedar and soiled wool with a single discolored window, a smoky fireplace, a chipped-enamel washstand, and a cornshuck mattress on a narrow iron bedstead. The sheets and pillowcases were white and freshly pressed, as Vivian had promised. After so many nights sleeping on the frozen ground, I thought it was the presidential suite at the Palmer House in Chicago. I built a fire from a box
full of seasoned pine and cedar, pried the window up an inch to let the smoke out, helped myself to a swig from a bottle I'd bought in Deer Lodge, and slept for two hours without even trying.
full of seasoned pine and cedar, pried the window up an inch to let the smoke out, helped myself to a swig from a bottle I'd bought in Deer Lodge, and slept for two hours without even trying.
I awoke at dusk, sore all over and hungry enough to order the moose head for dinner. Stripped to the waist, I washed with cold water and scraped off the top layer of stubble, then put on a clean shirt and went downstairs to ask for directions to the Prince of Wales. The clerk, who I guessed was some mix of French and Indian, but whose sex I still could not decide upon, looked at me with small black eyes like a mole's.
“Dining room's through that door. Tonight's pot roast of beef.”
“Thanks. I asked about the Prince of Wales.”
“You must be rich as Gladstone.” But the clerk told me the way.
His Royal Highness might have stuck his nose up at it, but the restaurant was as civilized as anything I'd seen in months. The floor was sanded and scrubbed white, the walls were plastered and papered and hung with portraits of H.R.H. and his mother the Widow of Whitehall, and the tables were covered in white linen. The room was half full at that hour, the locals in mackinaws and woolen shirts and heavy knitted pullovers, some in stocking caps and brimmed hats with stains on the crowns where they gripped them between greasy thumbs and forefingers. Some of the diners were women, dressed like men for the most part, skirts of durable material and no particular color hanging to their boottops so that they looked like male-female combinations in a medicine show, divided halfway down. They would save their femininity for the short warm season.
I hung up my bearskin on a peg already layered with coats and scarves and found a corner table. A waiter with a shorn head
and handlebars appeared while I was reading the menu. I asked for fried chicken and a bowl of mushroom soup.
and handlebars appeared while I was reading the menu. I asked for fried chicken and a bowl of mushroom soup.
“Anything to wash that down? We got red and white.”
“Just water.”
He went away with a shrug, a large man in a clean apron who walked on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. He didn't take the menu. I pretended to interest myself in the breakfast bill of fare while my fellow diners stole glances at me. They would know who I was by now, small towns being the same on both sides of the border, and they would want to know if the American lawman was as tall as Pat Garrett or as curly-headed as James Butler Hickok. I wasn't either one; little by little their attention strayed back to their meals and stayed there.
The soup was good if slightly musty, made from mushrooms dried during autumn for keeping and soaked in water when they were prepared. I'd had better fried chicken in Virginia, but I could see how it would impress an Englishman like Vivian. At that moment the man himself entered, shook the snow off his flat-brimmed campaign hat and sheepskin coat with the fleece turned inside before hanging them up, and came straight my way without appearing to have looked around. Probably he had spotted me through the window. He would be the kind of man who never wanted to look as if he didn't know where he was headed, a man accustomed to being watched and who behaved accordingly. I hoped he wasn't going to get me killed.
“I see you took my advice,” he said by way of greeting. “How do you like the chicken?”
“It's all right. At this point anything that doesn't taste like bacon suits me down to the ground.”
His attempt at a smile soured. I'd intended to compliment him, but even when I try to say something polite to someone I don't like it comes out wrong. “May I sit down, or are you one
of those blokes who prefers to dine alone, like a Neanderthal?”
of those blokes who prefers to dine alone, like a Neanderthal?”
“It's a free country,” I said. “Whoops, no, it's not. But suit yourself.”
He sat with his hands on his thighs and watched me finish off a leg. “We've started off poorly, I'm afraid,” he said. “My grandfather was killed at New Orleans. What I've seen of most Americans who come up here hasn't done a great deal to eradicate the family antipathy.”
“I'm surprised you came here.”
“I haven't eaten since breakfast. Oh, you mean
Canada.”
He bared his teeth. “Rank can be purchased in the British military, if you have the wherewithal. I bought mine with blood and sweat. The wealthy class is not overrun with idiots, but they have their share, and most of them seem to think they'd look good in brass buttons. One morning a colonel whose father was serving in the House of Lords asked me if I didn't agree that the Sikhs and Muslims ought to be able to sit down and work out their differences in the spirit of Christian good fellowship. I resigned my commission that afternoon. I was among the first three hundred Mounties dispatched to Fort Garry in '73.”
Canada.”
He bared his teeth. “Rank can be purchased in the British military, if you have the wherewithal. I bought mine with blood and sweat. The wealthy class is not overrun with idiots, but they have their share, and most of them seem to think they'd look good in brass buttons. One morning a colonel whose father was serving in the House of Lords asked me if I didn't agree that the Sikhs and Muslims ought to be able to sit down and work out their differences in the spirit of Christian good fellowship. I resigned my commission that afternoon. I was among the first three hundred Mounties dispatched to Fort Garry in '73.”
He paused, then recited, in a clear, pleasant tenor that turned heads at the nearby tables: “âSharp be the blade and sure the blow and short the pang to undergo.' That's what the
Toronto Mail
predicted when we rode west. Nobody gave us a Chinaman's chance against the northern tribes after the massacre in Cypress Hills. And yet here we are. That wouldn't be the case if the idiots had come out with us.”
Toronto Mail
predicted when we rode west. Nobody gave us a Chinaman's chance against the northern tribes after the massacre in Cypress Hills. And yet here we are. That wouldn't be the case if the idiots had come out with us.”
“Maybe. The Army of the Potomac had more idiots than Robert E. Lee had gray hairs, but we managed to beat him anyway.”
“Fought the good fight against slavery, did you?”
“I never saw a slave in my life, and neither did a good many
of the men I helped kill in that war. It wasn't about slavery. I can't tell you just what it was about now, though I was pretty sure then.”
of the men I helped kill in that war. It wasn't about slavery. I can't tell you just what it was about now, though I was pretty sure then.”
“We all were,” he said; and for a moment there we were thinking about the same thing, if not the same war. Then the waiter came and he ordered the chicken and a bottle of white concord. “That is if you'll join me, Deputy.”
“Thanks. Wine sours my stomach.”
“A glass, then.” When the waiter left, Vivian drew an envelope from inside his tunic and placed it beside my plate.
I mopped the grease off my hands with my napkin but didn't pick up the envelope. “I haven't been in town long enough to acquire an admirer, and you're no messenger.”
“Directions. You'll find the place inaccessible without them. I can't guarantee she'll talk to you even when you find her. But it's all I can do.”
“She?”
“You said you wanted to interview survivors of the massacre. Most of them have been moved four hundred miles east to Fort Garry, to await relocation next spring to the homes they left behind, some of them in England and France. Only one elected to remain in the area. She's living in a tent on the site of the cabin she shared with her husband and two children. She won't leave their graves.”
“Is she too heavy to scoop up and carry?”
“She has a shotgun and a great blunderbuss of a pistol that belonged to her husband, neither of which she is ever without. I cannot say whether she intends to use them on herself or whoever draws near enough to seize her. I'm reluctant to find out. I make it a point to ride out there every ten days or so and deliver provisions. She is always sitting Indian fashion outside the tent, with the shotgun across her lap and that big revolver
strapped about her waist. I don't know if she ever goes inside. The only evidence that she moves at all is the provisions I left last time are always gone when I bring replacements. I leave them on a flat rock, outside shotgun range.”
strapped about her waist. I don't know if she ever goes inside. The only evidence that she moves at all is the provisions I left last time are always gone when I bring replacements. I leave them on a flat rock, outside shotgun range.”
“How long's it been since the last time?”
“I was planning to make another delivery tomorrow. I cannot predict how she'll react if two men ride out there at the same time,” he added.
I picked up the envelope then and took out the directions. He had a neat round hand, symmetrical if not elegant. His wrist would never touch the desk while he was writing. “What is it, about a day's ride?”
“Count on being gone two nights. It gets dark early in that thick forest.”
“Mining settlement, wasn't it? Did they see much in the way of color?”
“Just enough to trade for supplies once or twice a month here in town. It's a hard life. Some trapper who hasn't got the word there's no more market for beaver pelts in London finds a nugget and they come pouring out here planning to get rich in a fortnight. If they have any luck at all they make wages. Have you ever met an old prospector?”
“Only in dime novels.”
“Forty's the expected span. They die of pneumonia or starvation or fall off mountains or follow color too deep into Indian country, and no one knows what happened to them until some other twit stumbles over their bones. Partners kill each other over a handful of dust or just because they tire of staring at the same face all the time, or they kill themselves because it's easier than going home failures. Or they manage to survive all that, and a pack of animals on the run from America slaughters them for two or three hundred in raw ore. All to make an attractive
setting for the diamond on Jim Brady's pinky finger.”
setting for the diamond on Jim Brady's pinky finger.”
“That's not why,” I said, “and you've been out here long enough to know that.”
“Oh, I know bloody well the importance you Yanks put on your precious liberty. You'll sacrifice everyone else's to maintain the illusion.”
“You English always make good points. I'll take it up with my Irish and Scot friends and get back to you.”
The waiter brought his fried chicken. When we were alone, Vivian spent some time arranging his napkin in his lap, then sipped his wine. “It seems we're destined to remain at loggerheads.”
“Destiny's overrated. That's why I carry a gun.”
“In that case I suggest we make an effort to put aside our cultural differences while you're here. We're not likely to agree in any case, and it will make your stay far more pleasant for both of us.”
“We need to save the unpleasantness for Bliss and Whitelaw,” I said.
“Right.” He tore apart a wing. “I was undecided whether to share this with you, but since we're determined to get on, here it is. There are no telegraph lines between here and the northern posts, so I depend on the monthly mail packet and the occasional long rider for news from that area. Fortunately, the service processes requests for transfer on a regular basis from troopers who find the life up there too stark for their adventurous fantasies, and these individuals carry messages from their former posts. One of them stopped here yesterday from Fort Chipewyan, up on Lake Athabasca.”
I watched him nibbling at the bone in his hands. He managed to do it without getting grease in his moustache.
“The fort sends out patrols in a two-hundred-mile loop
around the lake,” he went on. “For supplies and information the patrols stop regularly at a trading post on the Methye Portage. The day this trooper left Chipewyan, a rider came in from the patrol with word that the trading post was in ashes. They found a burned body, which may or may not belong to the trader, a Métis named Jean-Baptiste Coupe-Jarret. That's Cutthroat in English. Colorful chap, rode with Louis Riel in the uprising in '69.”
around the lake,” he went on. “For supplies and information the patrols stop regularly at a trading post on the Methye Portage. The day this trooper left Chipewyan, a rider came in from the patrol with word that the trading post was in ashes. They found a burned body, which may or may not belong to the trader, a Métis named Jean-Baptiste Coupe-Jarret. That's Cutthroat in English. Colorful chap, rode with Louis Riel in the uprising in '69.”
“Witnesses?”
He shook his head, deposited the bone on his plate, and used his finger bowl. “Beastly place, Methye: solid cliff with the Athabasca River boiling round it like Saturday night in Picadilly. Only reason the post is there at all is to do business with Indians and voyageurs carrying their canoes around the cataracts. If anyone saw anything he's down the river and gone. Only damn fools and Mounties mind anyone's business but their own in that wild country.”
“It has Bliss and Whitelaw's signature.”
“It could just as well have been Cree, or those Sioux from the stronghold, or those rum Metis. The Canadian Pacific has got them all stirred up this year.”
“You said Coupe-Jarret was a Métis.”
“He ain't the loyalist he was a dozen years ago. There's some as say he never was, and claim he sold out Riel at Fort Garry. I do know he's one of them we've depended upon for information about what the half-breeds are up to.
Coupe de poignard
, I've heard them call him: Back-stabber. If he's dead, I hope they buried him deep. Otherwise the blighters will dig him up and feed him piece by piece to their ugly dogs.” He bit into a breast.
Coupe de poignard
, I've heard them call him: Back-stabber. If he's dead, I hope they buried him deep. Otherwise the blighters will dig him up and feed him piece by piece to their ugly dogs.” He bit into a breast.
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