The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall
Page 15
Chapter 15
First Blood
We left at dawn - every man in the village and all the men who had been arriving for the last week. There was barely room for all the snowmobiles on the river, and a group of twenty or so men fanned out on each side of the river, out maybe two hundred yards. They had the tougher time of it, since they did not have a packed trail to use, but with so many people we weren’t moving all that fast anyway so they kept up with us.
There was no talking or efforts at conversations between men. It was too loud anyway. There were probably two hundred snowmobiles in that pack, and the noise was deafening. While we could hear nothing, we could see forever. The sun was behind us and lit up the snow so it felt like we could see to California. The horizon was a long way off. That was reassuring, since it meant we would be able to see the angry men if they were waiting for us. We were worried about that kind of ambush, especially since that was exactly the plan deMille had for them.
It took us about two hours to get to the spot deMille and the elders had selected. It was one of the few places on the river where cottonwoods grew. There were a dozen or so of them on the north bank. Were there enough to hide two hundred men and all their snowmobiles? I wasn’t so sure, but that wasn’t my problem. I would be going on. Marc and deMille and I would ride to the village and invite Foster to visit. He was to come alone. If his angry men decided to follow, this was the place on the river where they would die.
The three of us sat in the middle of the river and waited over an hour while the others moved around in the woods, throwing up snow piles here and there, moving snowmobiles to one spot or another to be out of sight, and then throwing snow over their tracks. They had lots of work to do, and we wanted to give them plenty of time to do it.
Why was I going on? I knew Foster. He might be more comfortable coming with us alone if he saw me. Of course I had personal reasons too. I wanted to see Henri and knife-man one more time. I wanted to see the look on their faces.
We kept our pace down, so it took another couple hours to reach the village. Once there, we did as before. We pulled up a couple hundred yards from the town and waited, but this time no one took out a rifle. We sat, obviously unarmed. Time passed. It appeared we had confused them, and they were deciding how to respond. Meanwhile, Marc pulled out his field glasses and tried to count snowmobiles. They were a bit of a jumble out front of the gym, but he thought they were down a couple.
We sat for over an hour. I had no idea if this was a sign of confusion on their part, or some kind of gambit. Make us feel unsure? Let us chill out on the ice? Finally we saw some movement by the gym doors and two of the angry men came out, standing sentinel as they had on my first visit. Eventually man-mountain came out. As before, he stood, stared, and then waved us in. But this time we did not respond. We stayed right where we were. He went back inside, I guess assuming we would follow, but we did not. We sat and waited.
Another fifteen minutes passed and then one of the angry men came out and jumped on a snowmobile to come out to us.
“He says you are to come in.” There was a look of exasperation on his face, as if he couldn’t figure out how stupid we were. Why did we not come in? Wasn’t that the obvious thing to do? DeMille let him sit for a minute before responding.
“The elders have assembled and will meet with Foster. He must come now, and he must come alone.”
“Yeah, whatever. Go in and tell him yourself.” He motioned toward the gym, seeming to expect us to go there now. We did not move. “Go in. Go in.” He was losing patience with us. “You speak French, right? I said you should go in and talk with him.” None of us moved. Angry man looked at each of us, looking for us to finally understand the obvious. When none of us responded, he turned his snowmobile back to the gym, but made sure we heard him as he drove off – “Stupid goddamn Indians.”
We sat again. Ten minutes, fifteen, it was pretty cold, but the sun was out and the wind was down. For Dakota, it was a January paragon. Of course maybe I felt that way because I was imagining the craziness going on in the gym. I was pretty sure there were lots of unhappy guys in there. Something was happening, and they did not understand it. It made me smile just to imagine the scene.
Eventually the whole rat’s nest emptied out and boarded snowmobiles. There was a sudden roar as the machines came to life and slid down the hill towards the river and us. Near the back end was Foster. He was on the largest snowmobile I have ever seen. It was obviously not French – no French machine could hold that kind of weight. He must have imported it from the U.S. or Germany. It was probably still well over all engineering tolerances. The river ice was probably thick enough to hold him, but just barely.
The angry men made a show of their arriving, running circles around us, and shouting like they were rounding up cattle or something. Two of them ran into each other, but even that did not stop their nonsense. They had been cooped up inside too long. Now they were boys on the playground. They would have their fun. Foster hung back and let the boys play for a while, and then he slowly pulled up in front of deMille. Once he stopped moving, the angry men did too, although you could sense their reluctance.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I believe I know two of you, but I have not had the honor of meeting you, sir”
“Good morning. I am Robert deMille.”
“Ah, Chief deMille. I have heard much about you, and I know you by another name as well. I am honored that you have come to visit me.”
“There is little honor in this visit. You have arrived without an invitation, and you have burned a family’s home.”
“Foster, can I just shoot these bastards?” shouted one of the angry men. He had a rifle out and looked ready to use it.
“These men have come to parley, and that is what we have been waiting for this last week. Please put your rifle away.” Foster said all that with confidence as if he was sure he was still in control of his boys. I was not so sure he was. Meanwhile, I was counting noses. I counted fifteen, with no sign of Henri or knife-man. Had they left, or were they up to something?
“I apologize, Chief deMille. It was kind of you to visit. Will you join me in the school there?”
“The elders of this region have assembled in our village. They will meet with you, but you must come alone, and you must come now.”
“I am sure my friends here would like to visit your village too.”
“Your friends are not welcome in our village. If you wish to speak with our elders, you must come alone.”
“Bull shit.” Actually that was the least profane thing shouted by the angry men. Some of the insults were directed at us, some at Foster when it became clear he was considering our offer. There were plenty insults for all of us, both in intensity and in variety. It occurred to me we might be shot.
“Gentlemen, please.” Foster actually stood and turned in all directions to address the men who surrounded us. “I am sure once they have heard my offer, the elders will welcome you as comrades in arms. I ask your patience for a few more hours.” I didn’t see much patience in these men, but at least they didn’t start shooting.
“Chief deMille, please lead me to your village.” Foster waved his fat arm in an easterly direction, and revved up his snowmobile to leave. You would think that would be the end of the matter, but you would be wrong. Turning a snowmobile is no easy task and takes plenty of room. The angry men made sure we had as little as possible, and as we made progress on one direction, another man would charge us from a different direction, getting as close as possible without actually hitting us. It was like playing “chicken” with fifteen snowmobiles, all operated by, well, you know – angry men.
Eventually we got our machines turned in the right direction and the four of us started up river. Foster ran aside deMille for a while and tried to make conversation, but it didn’t appear deMille would speak with him. After a while, Foster pulled alongside me.
We rode east at a pretty leisurely pace. What I couldn’t tell over the noise of my engine was whether there were snowmobiles behind us. Were the angry men staying in the village as ordered, or were they following and heading into the ambush planned for them? An hour or so later, as we rode past the cottonwood grove, I tried not to look around, but I did scan with my peripheral vision. All I saw was snow. That was good, but of course the fact I could see nothing from just a glance, did not mean the men could not be spotted by careful examination. We would find out fast enough if the angry men were following.
From this point on we kept riding as before, but my mind was behind me, listening for rifle shots. I rode and listened, rode and listened, rode and listened. I heard nothing, and after an hour judged I would be too far away to hear anything even if it happened. We would find out later what had occurred. In the meantime, we rode on, accompanied by a giant man on a giant snowmobile. What would he have to say for himself? I assumed it would be some grandiose plan, all composed of lies and fantasies.
As we approached the village, we heard rifle shots, but they were ahead of us, not behind. Had the angry men gotten there ahead of us and done their own ambush? DeMille immediately stopped, so the rest of us did too. Marc probably moved the fastest. He had a pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Foster’s head. “If you move, you die. Shut off you engine and hand me your keys.”
Foster did as he was told, but he protested.
“I have nothing to do with this. My men are back in the village as you asked.”
“If that’s true, you live. If not, you die.” Marc kept his pistol pointed straight at Foster’s head. “Shawn, go see what is going on.”
“No, it is for me to go.” deMille said, and he raced his snowmobile toward the village.
“Shawn, go with him.” Marc ordered. I had no weapon, but I raced ahead too. I wanted to see what was happening. How could the plan have gone so wrong? I found myself about twenty yards behind deMille, but he was really moving, and I had trouble keeping up. As we got up to the first houses in the village, I could see him break right and climb the embankment. Suddenly he had a pistol out and was shooting. As I got closer I could see the situation. Two men were behind snowmobiles among the houses. One appeared to be down. The other was aiming a rifle toward the school and shooting. Half a dozen rifles were pointed out of school windows and were returning fire. deMille was between the houses, coming up on the two men at an angle. I was close enough to see his shots explode in puffs of snow as they hit the ground near the man with the rifle. The first shot was well short, the second a couple yards short, the third closer, and then the next two hit. The man twisted around with his rifle, but the life went out of his body before he could complete the turn. The shooting was over.
I pulled up next to deMille and we walked over to the two men – Henri and knife-man. Now I knew where they had gone. We picked up their rifles to be safe, but it was pretty clear they were both dead. Knife-man had a huge hole in his chest, and Henri looked like he had already been hit once in the legs before deMille finished him off. They lay like rag dolls that had been tossed onto the snow. The men who had been shooting from the school came out, and some of the women from the surrounding houses also came and stood by the bodies. I rode back to Marc and Foster.
“Two of your boys,” I said as I reached them. “Henri and that guy who likes to play with his knife. Both dead now.”
“I threw them out this morning. They wanted to burn another house in the village. I told them they had to leave.”
“So you say.” Marc continued to hold his pistol aimed at Foster’s head. “How many more men are coming?”
“None. I told them to stay in the village school and wait for me. They will if they want to get paid.”
“We shall see.” Marc put his pistol back under his coat and motioned for Foster to drive up to the village. The three of us pulled up outside the school and waited until deMille told us what to do. It took a while. There was lots of talking and lots of motion as people congregated either around the two bodies in the snow, or in the school. We soon learned one of the elders had been shot and was lying dead just inside the door. Marc took the keys from Foster’s snowmobile and then went off to learn more about what had happened.
“I wouldn’t go too far,” he told Foster has he left. “I think lots of people in this village might want you dead. Your best move is to sit still and shut up. Shawn, take this pistol. If he moves, shoot him.” I took the pistol but put it in my pocket. It seemed silly to hold it. Would I really shoot Foster? He was one nasty man, but I wasn’t the man to put him out of his misery.
Foster was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. I had nothing to say. I sat on my snowmobile and watched. It was not pleasant. There was silence briefly when the shooting was over and as people learned what had happened, but then the crying started as the family of the man in the school gathered. More people gathered and more people cried. It got louder and harder to bear.
Eventually Marc came back and explained what had happened. Henri and knife-man had come at the village from behind, but of course everyone had heard them. The elders had been gathered in the gym and each grabbed a rifle. The first one out the door took one look at the two men and opened fire. They returned fire and killed him with the first shot. They backed up to use their snowmobiles as cover when Marc’s sister came out of her house and got knife-man through the chest. She also put a bullet in Henri’s leg, but he got behind his snowmobile and got several shots off in her direction. She made it back to her house safely. Then followed a stand off as Henri fired at the school and the elders fired back. Then deMille had put an end to it.
There are practical things that happen when people are killed. The elder who had been shot managed to claw his way back into the shelter of the school, but that meant he had bled all over the front hallway. That needed to be cleaned up. The two bodies in the snow needed to be cleaned up and removed. A funeral ceremony needed to be planned. And a cleansing ceremony was needed. Two in the village had killed. They would now go to a place apart, fast sing, wash, and wait three days for the spirit to leave.
Among other things, it meant Foster would have to wait three days before he got his meeting, not that anyone gave a damn. We were far more interested in what might be happening down river. And there was some nervousness in the village. If the two men had come around the back of the village, might the others too? The village was currently protected by old men, Marc, and any women who had a rifle handy. And I suppose there was me. Three elders went to the houses at the far end of the village to be ready for any trouble, while everyone else reloaded their rifles and filled their pockets with ammunition. Two hundred men would be back in the village at some point; until then it was time to be careful.
What to do with Foster? He was led into the school, with his guides – two elders – pausing to ensure he saw the blood in the entranceway. They put him in the library and locked the door.
The rest of us waited, and looked west down the river.