The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall

by William Wresch

Chapter 12

  We meet the “angry men”

  I don’t think Marc saw me watching as he put a pistol in his pocket the next morning. If I was nervous about this visit before, I was really nervous now. But I had agreed to go. We packed up some food and dressed warmly for the trail, but I don’t think we said ten words to each other during the process. His house was full of people, maybe eight or so sleeping in the bedrooms and all over the living room, but even they didn’t seem to have much to say. I liked this all less and less.

  We gassed up the snowmobiles at one of the homes that had a leanto with gas cans and such, and then we were off. We dropped off the embankment onto the river and followed it west. There had been plenty of traffic along the river, so we just stayed in the tracks that had been made. The snow was hard-packed and little ballooned up behind us as we raced along. And race we did. With one day’s experience I was hardly an expert, but I did feel more comfortable on the sled and we moved along at a pretty good clip, pushing forty for much of the morning.

  After about three hours Marc slowed to a stop. I pulled up next to him, grateful for the rest. There was less wind that day (but of course we were generating our own wind with the snow mobiles), and the temperature had nudged up to twenty-some below. With a little sun filtering through the high clouds, it felt almost comfortable. In any case, I was pleased to stand and walk a bit. But I knew this wasn’t really a rest stop. This is where Marc told me what was going on.

  “I talked with half a dozen men who saw these guys in the village, and they all say there’s at least twenty. And of course they are armed. These guys always carry rifles, and not the standard hunting guns. They always use military weapons. They seem to think if they can’t hit an elk with the first round, they will with the next twenty or thirty.”

  “Any idea what they want?”

  “They want to come to the potlatch. But we can’t let that happen. These are bad guys and we have some guys who take offense easy. Wrong word, wrong move, and there will be shooting.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We count noses for a start. Are there really twenty? That would be bad. We try to figure out what they want. And most importantly, we find a way to get them off our lands.”

  “Can I add another item to our to-do list? Let’s try not to get killed.” Marc looked at me to see if I was joking and nodded when he saw I was serious.

  “That’s one of the reasons you are here. If they kill a Sioux, we will get even, but I will still be dead. If they kill an American, there will be no place for them to hide.”

  “But I’ll still be dead.”

  “Just remember you are a professor. You get paid to talk. Now would be a good time to talk your best.” And with that happy thought we got back on our snowmobiles and finished our ride up the river.

  The village the angry men had come to looked somewhat like the village we had just left. It had maybe a few more houses, and it also had a huge school in the middle. There were dozens of snowmobiles lined up outside the school, but the rest of village seemed empty. Had everyone gone to our village for the potlatch, or were they lying low in their homes? Marc stayed on the river until he was even with the school, and then he turned to face the school but stopped his machine. I followed suit. It appeared the plan was to stay visible. No surprises. So we sat and waited.

  Five minutes passed, and then ten. And then two men came out of the school, each carrying a rifle over his shoulder. They moved to each side of the door and came to attention as if they were on guard duty. They looked at us; we looked at them. No one moved. Time passed. Then the school door opened again and the largest man in North American walked out. He was wearing a huge padded parka that combined with his rounded shape made him look like a hand grenade. But no amount of padding could hide the obvious, it was none other than Tilden Foster.

  “I know this man.” I said to Marc. “I think I know why he is here, I think I know what they want to do, and I think we are in big trouble.” Marc said nothing. Meanwhile, I took off my hat and sun glasses so our huge host could recognize me. Surely he did, but he made so sign of it. He just looked at us for another minute and then raised a fat arm and waved us in. I had half a mind to turn the snowmobile east and race as fast as I could back to Marc’s village, but Marc slowly drove straight up to the school, and I followed. Foster went back inside as we approached. We would come to him; he would receive us where he wanted.

  I don’t know how you turn a school gym into a throne room, but that is what Foster had attempted. We walked in to see him sitting on a bench (no chair would hold him) at the far end of the room, with a row of angry men seated on either side of him. Each had a weapon either over a shoulder or sitting on their lap. Other men their age might have a child on their lap – not these guys. As we walked in one of the guards followed behind us. He still had his rifle over his shoulder, but that didn’t make me feel much better. This was one dangerous room, and we were right in the middle of it.

  “Professor Murphy,” Foster boomed. “Here to study Sioux history?”

  “Yes. Are you here to recreate history?”

  “There is definitely some valuable history here to recreate.” The smug look on his face made me want to go and punch him.

  “I wonder whether you might try another boat ride.” Score one for me. His brows dropped as he thought through his response. The king was suddenly much less happy on his throne.

  “History takes lots of forms in lots of places. You might be surprised by how history evolves here.” He arched one of his eyebrows like he had some secret plan that was pleasing him no end.

  “Having seen your Louisiana playbook, I don’t think I will be too surprised by how this ends.”

  “Books have lots of pages. You might be surprised yet.” I had nothing to say to that, and it appeared he had run out of clever comments as well. We stared at each other while first one and then another of the angry men started moving in his seat. Clearly we weren’t generating enough entertainment for them. I liked that. It made me wonder how much control he really had over this room. Angry men are angry at much of the world. At what point would they be angry at him too?

  “Who’s your friend?” Foster finally asked. I wondered if he was aware of the restlessness around him. Did he understand how volatile his minions were?

  “This is Marc LeGrande. Marc, this is Tilden Foster.”

  “LeGrande moved to DeSmet and married a white woman. He thinks he’s too good for the tribe.” This came from a man of about thirty. He stood apart from the angry men, and dressed like a Sioux, with elk hide trim on his coat and a red sash dangling down beneath his shirt. He was maybe six feet from Foster, closer than any of the other men in the room. Was he their ticket into the village? What was he after?

  Marc said nothing in reply, but he kept his eyes on the man. Finally he said something in Sioux. While I could not understand a word, I could understand the delivery. It was calm, slow, spoken as one would to a child. The effect was instant. The man shouted back in Sioux and took three quick steps forward as if he would attack Marc. Marc never moved or showed any signs of concern. He stood. The man stopped. The man shouted another insult and then left the room.

  “This village’s elders are gathered in my village.”Marc turned to Foster. “When they return tomorrow, they will want their school back. This is a place for children, not for guns.”

  “We would like to go to your village. We have a proposal to make that I think many in your tribe would find attractive.”

  “That is not possible. We are having a potlatch.”

  “Yes, I know. That is why we would like to come this weekend. Since you have many people from many villages, we would be able to speak to all at once.”

  “No.” I have never heard the word said with such finality. He did not raise his voice or change his expression. But it was clear, there would be no visit.
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br />   “Perhaps some of your elders would visit me here.”

  “No.”

  “Just shoot the bastard and get it over with.” One of the angry men stood up, and I thought he was going to shoot both of us there and then.

  “Etienne, please. There is no need. We will have our meeting.” Now it was Foster’s turn to present himself as unflappable. “Mr. LeGrande, what if you return to your village and explain we wish to have a meeting. There may be more interest than you think. In the meantime, Professor Murphy and I have much to talk about. We share some interesting old times together. We will talk, and you can tell us tomorrow if a meeting is possible.”

  “We leave together.” Marc looked straight at Foster.

  “It’s okay, Marc.” I said. “Mr. Foster and I are old friends. We do have much to talk about.” In truth, spending any more time in the same room with these men was unnerving, but it made sense to get Marc out of there. Could I really handle Foster? Maybe. But getting Marc back to his village might be the first step to my release. Marc looked at me for the first time, seeming to study my face to see if I was telling the truth. Slowly he nodded his agreement and left the room. Moments later I could hear his snowmobile start up and recede into the distance.

  With Marc gone, the angry men disbursed. Their part in the performance was over. Whatever discipline Foster had been able to put into them had apparently been exhausted. A couple headed out the door, while others wandered into other rooms or walked to bundles they had in corners of the gym. I thought I saw one break out a bottle. If Foster saw, he said nothing.

  “Well, Shawn, what do you say we have a private conversation?” Foster led the way into the school library. It was a small room, but well stocked with books filling one wall. I waited to see where he would sit. All I could see was school chairs, and I smiled at the thought of him trying to fit into one. But apparently he had used the room before, since there was a bench at one end of the room and he went straight for it. I pulled up a chair.

  “Shawn,” he began. “I am hoping for once we will be on the same team.”

  “You know the rules for my team – no widows and orphans.”

  “I find it very odd that you are the biographer of the best general Virginia ever produced. Are you sure studying military history was the right career track for you?”

  “I think you would be surprised by how many military officers hate war.”

  “And I think you would be surprised by how many don’t. You might be surprised by the amount of support I have for my efforts.” He left that comment dangling out there. I wondered how much support he did have. Senator Dodson, David Starr and his agency? If he had come over the mountains from the west, was he connected now to agents in Oregon or California? I doubted he was going to tell me.

  “I can guess what this is all about, and I appreciate there might be some advantage if Canada were two countries rather than one. An independent Louisiana might have a whole new set of alliances and business partnerships. But there is a political process for that. Why not just let it happen?”

  “Why not help? You are right about the end game. Lots of opportunities are presented by an independent Louisiana. Why not a nudge here and there to move the process along?”

  “I don’t know what kind of nudge you have planned, but if it involves the men in this school, I don’t see how it can end any way but badly.”

  “Oh, now, that’s not fair. I think you just need to get to know them.” Wow I hated the smile on his face.

  “One of us is certainly wrong about them.”

  “We shall see. Yes. We shall see very soon. Now if you will excuse me…” So, he had had enough of our ‘conversation.’ Fine with me. I left the library and walked out the door of the school. I was not surprised to see my snowmobile gone. I was a prisoner here, held until Marc came back with an answer Foster liked.

  Maybe I could use my time. I was reminded of Washington’s first trip over the mountains to the Ohio Valley. He was on a scouting trip under orders of the Virginia Governor to find a road over the mountains. He found a French fort at the headwaters of the Ohio. Since England and France were not currently at war (Washington would personally start the next war in the summer when he fired on a group of French soldiers), young George (he was 21) walked up to the fort and asked to be admitted. He spent four days in the fort conversing with the French commander, but also counting cannons and evaluating the strength of the fort.

  Could I do anything as useful? I was apparently free to walk around the village, so I did. Most of the houses appeared to be empty. I didn’t peer into the windows or anything, but I could see if smoke was coming out of their chimneys. I thought it was pretty safe that a cold house was an empty house. There was one house at the far end of the village that was clearly occupied. There were several snowmobiles out front, and smoke coming from the chimney. I wondered if that was the home of the man who had criticized Marc. That was an angry Sioux.

  While I walked, I also looked to see if there were men posted around the village. Was this a military encampment? It appeared not. Maybe it was too cold to post sentries, or maybe they thought they could just listen for snowmobiles in the distance. It was not like folks would sneak up on foot. Or maybe the angry men were just unwilling to stand guard. The chain of command might be undetermined, or maybe there was none. It was hard to imagine a bunch of grumpy middle-aged men taking orders from Foster or each other. These were solitary guys – or at least they had been. How had Foster brought them together? And how together were they?

  I walked back to the school and took a seat in the gym. Other men in the room took an occasional look at me, but no one walked over to have a talk. It didn’t look like we would be passing the time evaluating lacrosse teams or complaining about the weather. These guys weren’t going to talk to me, and as near as I could tell, they didn’t have much to say to each other either. By my count there were twenty three of them. Of the twenty three I saw four pairs that seemed to sit near each other and carry on brief conversations. The other fifteen were complete loners. They made no effort to speak to others, or to even sit in reasonable proximity of others. They wanted their space. How did they spend their time? They cleaned their guns, except for one guy who repeatedly pulled out his knife and put an edge on it. These were some of the saddest looking individuals I had ever run across, and the most intimidating. Time was going to really drag while I was with these guys.

  At this point my phone rang, and things got really ugly. By the second ring several men were pointing guns at me, and two others were running to me.

  “Don’t touch that damn thing.” one shouted.

  “Who was supposed to take his phone?” shouted another. He got no answer, but it didn’t matter. They would take it now. The guy with the knife grabbed the phone from my hand, held it for a second and then dropped it on the floor. His boot came down on the phone the instant it landed. Pieces flew everywhere.

  “Hey, that’s my phone!” I shouted.

  “Shut the hell up.” The two who had rushed to me now stood over me and stared, daring me to say another word or try to get out of my chair. I stared back but didn’t move. Our stare-down lasted a couple minutes, and then the two of them got bored and went back to their side of the room. I left my phone lying in pieces. It might be a message to other visitors.

  I didn’t have time to see who had been calling. I hoped it hadn’t been Elise wondering about me. What would I have said? Hi, I’m in a Sioux village surrounded by thugs. Maybe a broken phone was easier than trying to explain my current situation.

  The rest of the afternoon passed ever so slowly. Darkness came. They turned a few lights on and later I could hear some noises in the school kitchen. I should have known a man Foster’s size would have food figured out. Had he just hired the school lunch lady to feed them? It appeared so. Periodically a woman about twenty or so brought plates
and utensils and then food bowls out to a couple tables. I guess I should not have been surprised by how the men ate. Once she had food out, they filled plates and then retreated back to their corners, eating alone as they probably had been for a large part of their lives.

  I waited for Foster to come out so I could eat with him, but then I saw the cook take a huge tray of food into the library. Apparently he ate alone too. I finally went over any filled a plate, but I sat at the table to eat it. At least one person in the room would be civilized.

  When I was through I took my plate and utensils into the kitchen and put them by the sink. The cook was sitting at a table back there eating her own dinner.

  “That was very good,” I said. “Thank you for feeding us. I suppose you would rather be at the potlatch.”

  “Were you there?” She was barely twenty by the looks of her, and the question showed the angst she was feeling for missing the event. At her age, was there someone she was hoping to see? One of the basketball players?

  “The dancing last night was incredible. It went on for hours. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “The girls have been practicing for months. Years, really. We take lessons from our mothers.” She said all this slowly, and with some apparent difficulty. Her French was adequate, but not much more.

  “The clothing was beautiful as well. I assume the girls make their own dance outfits?”

  “Yes, we make in the winter. All the clothing is special.”

  “I am sorry you missed it. Is this your job, feeding the children and now all these men?”

  “Yes, until I marry.” So maybe there was a basketball player she was hoping to see, and maybe to dance for.

  “When is the next potlatch?”

  “Two weeks. It will be here. If…” She looked out the door at the men. I am no mind reader, but if I saw anything on her face, it was confusion, and maybe some apprehension about what would happen with these men.

  “I am sure you will be beautiful. May I help you clean up?” I pointed to some of the dishes.

  “No, we have machines.” She pointed to a stainless steel industrial dishwasher.

  I nodded and left. “Thank you for dinner.”

  What was I going to do for the rest of the evening? I had no idea. Apparently I would sit in the gym until Foster wanted to talk again. Little did I know.