by Caron, Maia;
One of the riders turned his head and she almost cried with relief. The moon showed Gabriel’s face. He got off his horse and she watched him walk into the trees. To see him again was like a gift, but as he drew closer, she could feel the burden of his grief, and another, unspeakable emotion. She was confused and elated at having him suddenly near. Gabriel. Not ridden to the south. Alive. The clothes he had worn for the past few weeks were caked with dried mud. Somewhere along the line he had lost both his sash and the belt that held up his pants, replacing it with an old rope. They stared at each other for a long moment, standing so close, their foreheads almost touched.
Finally, he said, “Madeleine told me what they did to Norbert—it is finished, non?” When she couldn’t speak, his hands went to her shoulders, lingered there, as if he were calming a frightened horse. “Did you find Riel?”
She could smell sweat on him and the fresh blood from his wound. “I left him just after dark.”
“What did he say?”
“He wants to stand trial—show the world what the government has done to us.”
“Take me back to him.”
To say yes would mean she would have him to herself a while longer, but she took his arm. “Ride south, get across the line.”
“You too?” He looked north, as if he could somehow conjure Riel.
“He said God is waiting for him.”
Gabriel glanced up at the moon. “When Riel came here, I thought he was the stronger bull and we were in the right. Macdonald would lose the challenge. But the Métis never had a chance, regardless of who led us.”
She studied his face with a sick fear that she would forget the way he looked at that moment. Gabriel would start a new life with Madeleine in the States, and after her death, remain exiled as Riel had been, from the land he had loved and fought for, never to return to Batoche, just as surely as she was trapped there. But he did not want to hear that she loved him.
Gabriel placed his hand on the side of the barn. “What will become of this? What we have built?” He lapsed into anxious silence, as though he had more to say, but could not start.
“You’ve seen Madeleine.”
He nodded. “She asked me if it was because she was barren.” Josette could not read his face in the shadows. “She learned of that night,” he went on, “when you were beaten by Norbert, when I brought you to the rectory. She knew …” He didn’t finish or would not say aloud what she had questioned for so long, what she had hoped.
“It will soon be light,” Josette said, to save him from saying something he might regret later.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly. The moon had slipped behind a bank of cloud by the time he had mounted his horse and settled in the saddle, the leather creaking with his weight, le Petit under his arm again. Within a few hours, the sun would come up, and this night would be only a dream in her mind. She fought the impulse to jump up behind him. A man could do what he pleased. Her husband was dead, but she had children, a farm. And the only man she loved was married to another woman.
When he picked up the reins, his body softened. He touched the ends of her fingers then his horse pulled away, and she was left with only the smell of him still on her.
epilogue
HELENA, MONTANA
AUGUST, 1887
Josette had not been among so many white people in her life—the ladies in tightly corsetted dresses and matching hats and parasols. Men who wore fine suits and polished boots, despite the dust. From her seat in the grandstand, she could see the town of Helena in the valley, the great Missouri river behind it and mountains rising in the near distance, their summits and the clouds that ranged above them touched pink in the late afternoon sun.
Wahsis had his head on her shoulder, his eyes closed in sleep. Patrice sat next to her, eating popped corn out of a waxed paper bag. Hungry, and eager to explore after the five-day wagon trip south, Eulalie and Cleophile had gone off to discover the fair.
The farmer’s field below had been turned into a showground. Members of the crowd waited impatiently, staring with expectation at a man in top hat and long black jacket who strode around a fenced arena. Off to one side, a large white tent had been erected; other, smaller tents and enclosures dotted the pasture to the trees.
Eager applause broke out when the man raised a bullhorn and began to speak. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World! Sit back and enjoy lurid western blood and thunder drama—the rugged life of primitive man.” He swept his arm in a flamboyant gesture. “Here you will see heroes of the dugout, the cabin, the ranch, and the trail, whose lives have been passed in reality eclipsing romance.”
The flaps were drawn back on the large tent and a grand parade of performers poured out of it and into the arena. Most were Indians in the traditional war paint of the Sioux, chiefs among them in full regalia, feathers flying. From enclosures in the pasture, cowboys drove a stampede composed of every manner of beast: a dozen buffalo, deer, cows with long curved horns, mules, donkeys, oxen, and absurdly, a few wild elk, one with a set of impressive antlers, the tips of which had been broken off in a fight. Josette could not take her eyes from the buffalo that galloped around the ring, snorting and tossing their heads. It had been over ten years since she’d seen them on the plains.
The program booklet had dedicated an entire page to a description of the methods for tracking buffalo, how the Indians and half-breeds had done it. She read of hunters that howled and made their war cries, the great beasts, bleeding from arrows and shotgun blasts, skidding to their death in the dust. There was no mention of the women who came after to make the first cuts, or of skinning and dressing, saving the kidneys, hump, and liver. Her own memories as a child, kneeling in the prairie grass, waiting for her mother to slice a piece of liver and hand it to her, still warm.
All animals but the buffalo had been herded out of the arena, and a group of Indians remained. They whipped up their horses; some of the younger braves picked out a few of the buffalo and chased them around the ring, pulling their bows back with exaggerated might. Wahsis was awake now, wide-eyed with amazement. He hadn’t seen Indians painted up since the fight in Batoche two years ago and seemed confused, unsettled by the spectacle. It was an astounding sight even to Josette’s eyes, who, as a child, had known men like these among the Cree, her own grandfather riding to war.
After the buffalo were driven out, the announcer raised his bullhorn. “I give you the bloodthirsty savage of the plains, the man responsible for sending General Custer to an early grave—the indomitable Chief Sitting Bull.”
Josette sat forward with anticipation. Father Moulin had once shown her a photograph of Sitting Bull in the Saskatchewan Herald, sacred pipe on his lap, confident, level eyes almost staring down the camera. She had expected an Indian dressed up to look like the great chief, but Sitting Bull himself entered the ring on a mustang pony, the eagle feathers in his headdress arrayed like a crown on his head.
Soldiers in blue U.S. Army uniforms galloped their horses in, chasing half a dozen Indians who whooped and pretended to shoot at them with bows and arrows and shotguns. Sitting Bull kicked his horse to a trot and brandished his long spear, as if giving orders. It all looked real, to the red flannel handkerchiefs that had been produced to mimic blood bursting from the chests of Custer’s men.
As Sitting Bull inspected the soldiers’ bodies, a white man with curling blonde hair under his hat entered the ring on a high stepping horse. He wore a light buckskin coat decorated with fringe. His white mustaches were so long, they curved upward, like a sleigh runner.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” cried the announcer, “I present to you the Pony Express Rider, serving the Union in the Great War, recipient of the Medal of Honor—Buffalo Bill Cody!”
His horse cantered a slow circle as Buffalo Bill pretended shock at the discovery of his dead comrades. Most of the Indians, including Sitting Bull, had since exited the ring, except for one bare-chested
brave who rode directly at Buffalo Bill. Bill’s horse reared and sprang into a gallop. Patrice gripped Josette’s hand as the two riders careened toward each other at breakneck speed. Buffalo Bill swerved at the last minute and raised his rifle. There was a loud crack, puffs of smoke, and the Indian flew out of the saddle. Bill dismounted and ran to where he lay on the ground, bending with his long knife drawn over the Indian’s head. The audience gasped when he rose quickly, waving a scalp, which proved later to be a black braid wig with red flannel attached underneath.
“I’ll not leave a Redskin to skim the prairie,” he declared loudly and paraded around the centre of the arena with his trophy.
The crowd erupted into rowdy applause when the announcer yelled, “The first scalp taken by Buffalo Bill Cody, Indian fighter responsible for capturing and killing Chief Yellow Hair in retaliation for murdering Custer.”
Buffalo Bill gallantly tipped his hat. He made it look like the Indians were out for blood, that they needed taming, and it was luck, or pure providence, that the whites had come along when they did. Josette looked around her at the jeering faces. She wanted to tell them the Bighorn battle had been fought by Sioux refusing to let whites push them off their lands. But she remained silent. Over the past two years in Batoche, she had learned to keep her mouth shut when more settlers arrived with hatred and fear of “Riel’s half-breed rebels.” Many of the Métis told government surveyors that they were French. None of them had jigged at a wedding since before the war. Their men no longer wore the ceinture fléchée. Children playing in the fields brought back spent rifle shells, which mothers confiscated, saying, “We had nothing to do with Riel and those bad Métis.”
When Buffalo Bill vaulted back on his horse and had ridden it out of the arena, the announcer waited for the “dead” Indian to be dragged off before turning to the crowd. He held out his hand. “And now—what you’ve all been waiting for—a fine demonstration of the great might of the firing arm.”
Two people entered the ring on horseback. The first one Josette took to be a small man, but as the rider passed before their seats, she saw it was a woman, whom the program pamphlet had described as Annie Oakley. On the other side of the arena a man sat astride a chestnut roan mare that he kept at a canter. As his hand went to the horse’s withers, tears burned in Josette’s eyes.
A week ago, she had gone up to the rectory, where Father Moulin now ran a postal outlet on the second floor. The mail packet had come, and Josette watched the old priest untie the bundle. She had waited anxiously as he sorted the letters, his mouth moving as he read the familiar names. Periodically since the war, she had received an envelope without a note or return address—the only contents, American bills of various denominations.
Moulin looked up at her. “Have patience,” he said. “I am sure it will be here … Ha,” he added, with a crafty expression. “I know what you wait for.”
Two years had not changed the old priest. He still had the scruffy white hair and beard, the petulant blue eyes. Josette would not go back to the church, though Moulin had made it possible for her to do so if she performed a public recantation. Many of the Métis kept her company on Sundays, for they still regarded the South Branch priests with suspicion, and—in Father André’s case—even anger for giving damning evidence at Riel’s trial, effectively sending him to hang.
“How are your heretics?” Moulin asked, still occupied with sorting.
Josette had lost a good portion of her back fields to Mennonite farmers who now grew wheat almost to the small cabin that Norbert’s relations had helped her rebuild on the site of their burned house. Moulin disapproved of her doing chores for food, washing their clothes, and caring for children not her own. Yet she liked these people who refused to worship saints or speak of sin.
Moulin had reached below the desk and brought out the latest edition of the Saskatchewan Herald. “Regarde,” he said, pushing it toward her.
Gabriel’s picture stared out from the front page. After getting over the shock of seeing his face, she quickly read the headline. Gabriel Dumont, Louis Riel’s Adjutant General, rides in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. She looked up as if to say, “So, what of it?”
Moulin observed her with interest. “I know it is Gabriel who sends you money. The great rebel leader in exile. Why does he not return?”
“When he is granted amnesty, he will come back.” It was something she had told herself many times over the last two years.
Moulin had found her envelope and held it for a moment before releasing it into her hand. “Perhaps Gabriel has a new wife.” Josette turned to leave, the envelope finding its way into her skirt pocket. “The Wild West Show comes to Helena in a week’s time,” Moulin called as she went down the stairs.
Within two days, she had begged a ride with Maxime Poitras, on a trip south to trade his furs in Helena. Gabriel would be granted amnesty in time, but she was not one to tempt fate. Now that she had come with the children, she could not imagine facing him again. A month after the war, Gabriel had sent word to Madeleine and she had left for Montana, leaving their farm in the care of the Vennes. But a year later, there had been news of her death from consumption. What if he were still lost in grief, or Moulin was right and he’d taken a new wife?
In the arena below, the announcer had turned to the man on the roan mare. “Ladies and Gentleman! I present to you, the Adjutant General, leader of the half-breed rebels at Duck Lake and Batoche in the Territories. First Lieutenant to no other than the traitor Louis Riel. This is the half-breed Indian scout who gave an entire army of soldiers what for and yes, the gun he’s about to show you is the famed le Petit—that’s French for little one—not little if you ask me.”
Gabriel made a show of lifting his gun to the crowd, his expression somewhere between distraction and annoyance. He is not enjoying this, she thought, her eyes not leaving him. He wore a fringed buckskin coat she’d not seen before, a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes. Did he still feel the wound he took at Duck Lake? It was impossible to tell. He had become fuller around the middle, his chest still broad and powerful, beard grey in places. His seat upon a horse and the grip on his gun were more familiar to her than her own self.
“Mr. Dumont has been in hiding from Dominion authorities,” continued the announcer, “since the half-breed war and Riel’s hanging for treason. He’s here to show you how he drew a bead on those soldiers.” Gabriel kneed his horse into a gallop. A man dressed in cowboy attire had run into the middle of the ring and begun to throw glass balls into the air. Gabriel and Annie Oakley circled in opposite directions and—as the man tossed the balls up—shot them through the centre. When the balls shattered, members of the audience cried out, as if each one represented some rare and priceless thing.
“What of the horses?” Wahsis said to her. “They’ll be hurt by the broken glass.”
Josette whispered in his ear. “You see, they aren’t galloping there, just on the outside.”
Her eyes were still on the figure in the buckskin coat. When news had reached them of Madeleine’s death, Josette would come out of her cabin in the evening and look down to Gabriel’s Crossing, remember him coming out of the trees that fateful day of Riel’s arrival. She would go out on the bluff and stare at the moon, as if she might invoke the memory of his face. Now here he was riding his horse in a Montana exhibition as if he had never known Riel or fought his war.
Gabriel and Annie Oakley rode out of the ring after the shooting display was over. Another act had started, but Josette got up quickly, leading Wahsis and Patrice through the fairgrounds. They passed a series of tipis outside the arena, families of the show Indians. A few finely dressed white women, the type Josette had seen in Prince Albert, were distributing small wrapped gifts they’d brought to a group of squaws and their children who ran barefoot across the camp. The Indian women ripped at the packages and stared at the strings of beads and trinkets with incomprehension, but nodded their thanks, thanks for handing back so little after taking so mu
ch.
Cleophile and Eulalie were lined up at a cotton candy emporium. Josette left Wahsis and Patrice with them and went quickly past a small slough, where the buffalo had been put to water by several cowboys, who kept them in a bunch with long prods. When she asked where she might find the performers, she was directed to a white walled tent at the edge of the pasture, where the land dipped down to a slough and a pretty stand of aspen. A wind had come up, the leaves fluttering. She thought of the aspen trees cut down in Batoche by settlers clearing more land to farm and of a line in a poem she had once found in one of Father Dubois’ books.
But see! He casts one look upon the tree,
Struck to the heart, she trembles evermore.
Gabriel had come out of the tent, a saddle draped over his arm. He had his head down, and on his face was written the strain it had taken to ride and shoot that way, and perhaps the grief he still carried for what they had lost. He looked up and her hand went to the braid, loosely plaited and wound at the back of her neck, as the Mennonites wore it. Had she changed so much he didn’t know her? The features of his face arranged in an expression of shock and then cautious relief.
They did not embrace, as she had imagined they would, but stood facing each other, as if there were still many miles between them. She told him of how the remaining Métis in Batoche were being driven out by the European immigrants. He spoke of his exile in the States, Buffalo Bill’s offer to him only months after his arrival. He paused and she saw how Riel’s hanging, followed so shortly by Madeleine’s death, had devastated him. She saw that he was different, changed, and yet the same man, the best with a horse and a gun, one she had never stopped loving. It would be necessary to know each other again, start at the beginning.
