The First Dance

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “And the army’s going to shove them out.”

  “Yep, and likely won’t give them time to load up the Red River carts, either. It’s like a death sentence, if you ask me,” the sergeant said.

  “Who can I talk to about this?” Dirk asked. “I need to be the voice of these people.”

  “This is the army, boy, and they’re gonna do it the army way.”

  seven

  They summoned Dirk Skye at dawn.

  “You’ll ride with Brewer,” said a lieutenant he’d never met. “Take a kit. You’ll be out three or four days.”

  That wasn’t surprising; he would report to the Fort Keogh mounted infantry he came with.

  The parade ground teemed with horses and riders, forming into patrols. Dirk loaded his kit onto his reserve horse and mounted the buckskin, feeling the familiar pleasure of a good horse under him.

  He mostly kept out of the way, watching the army begin its campaign against the Canadians. The horse soldiers assembled in lines for review and then formed by twos into columns. There plainly weren’t enough officers on hand to lead all the patrols, so sergeants were commanding three of them. By some process not explained to Skye, a territory had been meted out to each patrol. A half a dozen pack mules were going with each patrol, which meant they would be out only two or three days and weren’t taking shelters. Maybe the army expected to send the Métis packing in that brief time. This would be a lark.

  There was no sendoff this fall morning. No regimental band, no colors, no war talk. This was just a patrol operation, and hardly worth trumpets and guidons. Dirk watched Major Brevoort review the patrols. It was plain the post commander wasn’t going out. There were plenty of soldiers not going, including the entire stable crew.

  Dirk steered his nag and spare over to Brewer’s patrol and settled in beside a sergeant he knew. Captain Brewer eyed Dirk sourly, as if to announce that it wasn’t his decision or his desire to have a translator along. Dirk simply nodded.

  The captain, in the van, simply pointed, and the patrol spurred the mounts into a brisk walk, while Major Brevoort watched silently. This wasn’t the spit-and-polish army; this was the everyday army, trotting off to eject some half-breeds.

  That was all right with Dirk. If they had started off as if for battle, with the band playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and colors flying, that would have worried him. The one thing that did surprise him was that Brewer was doing field duty. The pasty-faced captain had been well known for his prowess commanding a desk.

  Dirk hadn’t the faintest idea where the patrol was headed this fine autumnal day. He saw other patrols turn north and east and south, but Brewer’s platoon kept up a brisk walk westward, along a well-traveled trail that cut between the Little Snowies and the Judith Mountains, and into the lush Judith Basin.

  Dirk turned to the sergeant. “I’m Skye, translator,” he said.

  “O’Hara,” said the sergeant. “Ten years out of steerage and all of it serving Uncle Sam.”

  “You know where we’re headed?”

  “The captain, sah, is not inclined to share his plans.”

  “You know what he’ll do when we find some Métis?”

  “Jabber awhile, string ’em up, bury them, make a lot of noise, who knows, sah?”

  “I mean, how does a platoon drive Canadians back to Canada?”

  “In a pine box, sah. That’s how to do it fast.”

  “Those Red River carts are slow and break down. It’d take a month to drive those people out of this country.”

  “I think the army doesn’t plan to wait a month, sah. I’d guess them Canucks are fated to start hiking and go until they drop. You have to understand, sah, that this republican army is humane, unlike the Brits, which means we’ll drive the herd at sword point instead of just shooting the whole lot.”

  “I don’t think Brewer would do that, Sergeant.”

  “Well, sah, if I may say so, he’s got his priorities. One Yank cow is more valuable than one Frenchy half-breed. So the trick is to be kind to cows and herd up the breeds and send them to the slaughterhouse.”

  Dirk smiled. This sergeant would color the trip like an artist.

  The column snaked over a winding road that skirted pine-clad foothills, paused to water at a cold creek, and continued onward toward a hazy vastness far ahead.

  The captain lifted the troop into a trot, and the patrol clattered westward, harness jangling, shod hooves clacking on rock. The farther they rode, the worse the tension that was building in Dirk. He didn’t like this, and worse, the commander didn’t like him.

  They topped a small divide separating drainages and started down a long grade, through rocky foothill country marked by glades of yellowing aspen and black pine forest. And then, on a distant flat to the south, the captain spotted a camp. And some carts. And some people moving about.

  He halted the column.

  “There’s some of the devils,” he said. “All right. We’ll ride in. Spread wide, keep your carbines sheathed. This isn’t a war. There will be women and children, I imagine. I’ll do the talking.” He eyed Dirk. “You. Come in beside me.”

  Dirk steered the buckskin forward.

  “I’ll talk, you translate,” he said. “And tell me exactly what they say. Exactly, you understand, Skye? Or is that beyond you?”

  Dirk smiled.

  The encampment looked to embrace several families. There were five Red River carts parked here and there, akimbo. Three cook fires burned. This was not a permanent settlement, but simply a resting place, probably rich with game. Dirk spotted seven adult males, nine adult women, and assorted children. The women were stirring whatever was in the pots hanging over the cook fires. Soup, he thought. The Métis lived on soups and stews.

  It was a peaceable scene.

  The patrol was discovered now, and people stared. A few children retreated toward their mothers and hid themselves in the gray and black skirts that seemed to be the only colors these women wore. The black-bearded men, who had been caring for the oxen or cutting wood or cleaning a carcass of a buck mule deer, paused and stared uneasily.

  The captain didn’t slow, but rode in close on his well-groomed bay horse, and behind him the patrol spread wide, in essence cutting off escape in most directions. The Métis, wary but not afraid, mostly stopped whatever they were doing and stared. One burly one with a full beard carefully lowered his axe and straightened, his gaze finally settling on the captain. Several of the women straightened up, their hands finding and comforting the children.

  “Well, I see you’re Canadians,” Brewer said.

  No response.

  “You’re Canadians, and here illegally, and we’re sending you back. You’ve got to pack up and go, and right now.”

  Several of the men frowned. If they understood English, they didn’t reveal it.

  Brewer singled one out. “You, there. Tell them the United States Army says they must leave.”

  The man shrugged, spread out his hands, and addressed Brewer in a tongue Dirk thought might be an odd form of French.

  “What’s he saying?” Brewer asked his translator.

  “I can only get the gist of it. He’s saying he doesn’t know what you’re saying. He’s from Manitoba and they’re settling in the area.”

  “Tell him to speak English, or French, or Cree if he can, or the sign language if that’s the only way.”

  Dirk had trouble with that, using Cree first, and then some French. But at least the burly man nodded and plunged in.

  “He’s welcoming you. He’s inviting the soldiers to have some soup. There’s not much for so many, but he will share it with the blueshirts. Tonight they will roast that haunch of venison and make a feast with the army.”

  “Tell him no. The army of the United States requires that they head back to Canada immediately. No delays. Put out the cook fires and go.”

  Dirk descended from his horse. He never liked to translate from horseback. He hoped his example would encourage Captain
Brewer to do the same.

  “Messieurs,” he began, even as other of the bronzed, jet-haired Métis men collected around him, “the capitaine says that you are not citizens and must return to Canada at once. Right now. He says put out your fires and go.”

  “Non!” said the one who seemed to lead. “Non! We cannot return. It is not safe. Hiver arrives. We are hunted like deer.”

  Dirk turned to Brewer. “He says they can’t. It’s not safe. Winter is coming. The Canadian authorities are hunting them.”

  “Tell the fellow I’m sorry. They can’t stay here. That’s final. They must leave at once. If not, we’ll start them on their way by whatever means.”

  The man seemed to understand, even without translation.

  “Give us time,” he said. “Let us rest the oxen and find some game.”

  Oddly, Brewer seemed to grasp the gist of that. “No time. We have hundreds of Métis camps to visit and can’t abide the slightest delay.”

  Dirk saw an old muzzle-loading long rifle resting against one of the carts. One or two of the Métis men were eyeing it.

  Brewer was growing irritable. These people weren’t hopping about, throwing things into their carts, harnessing the oxen. He leaned over his saddle. “Now! Immediately!” he said.

  The burly one eyed the soldiers. “We wish to finish our meal. The soup, it boils soon. We wish to feed the little ones. They will be unhappy. They want a little soup in their bellies. And then when they are fed, American soldiers, then we will go.”

  Dirk had trouble extracting meaning from this jumble of French and Cree, and he had to make a few assumptions. He turned to the captain.

  “He’s asking to stay long enough to feed the children. The soup will soon boil. Let them feed the children, and then they will go.”

  Brewer was plainly getting testy. He sat irritably, eyeing the black iron kettle that was not yet steaming. The children peered up at him, solemn and shy. One boy, dressed like the older men, had a buffalo-skin cap.

  “Serve them the soup now, hot or not, while the rest of you pack up and harness the oxen,” Brewer said. “You’re wasting our time.”

  “Messieurs,” Dirk began. “Le capitaine, he says to feed the children now, warm soup or not, while the rest of you pack up.”

  “And where will we go?” asked the man who had taken charge here.

  “Where will they go?” Dirk asked.

  “North to Canada. The way you came,” the captain said. “We’re going to make sure you go. There are other patrols making sure you head for Canada, and without delay.”

  Dirk managed to convey that. The men swiftly ordered the women to fill the bowls, no matter whether the soup was ready. He saw the women burst into action, ladling the cold soup into wooden bowls. The men, concealing whatever was boiling in them, wearily backed the oxen into the wagon trees, and buckled them in place. One pregnant woman comforted a small girl, who had begun to weep.

  The burly one tried another question: would the capitaine permit them to rest this night and leave in the morning, if he promised on his honor to go?

  “He offers to leave, on his honor, in the morning if he may rest his people tonight, sir.”

  “What honor? They are subversives in Canada, fomenting rebellion. And now they bring that rebellion here. No, Skye. Tell him plain and clear. They will go now, or be driven out at the point of a bayonet.”

  Dirk tried to recast that in this odd semi-French dialect. “Go at once or face the bayonet, says the capitaine.”

  “I will stand and face the bayonet if that is my fate,” the man said. “I am Georges Piccard. Tell him Piccard will face the bayonet so the others may rest.”

  The captain absorbed that. Dirk hoped he had translated correctly. He could barely fathom the Métis dialect, which scrambled sentences.

  Brewer mulled that for a while, and Dirk could almost see the options pass through the captain’s mind. The mounted infantry waited, not liking any of it.

  “Sergeant,” he said. “Dismount the men and confiscate those ox carts and start them north, one drover to each ox. If these breeds want to keep their stuff, they’d better run. The rest of you draw your sidearms and protect the drovers.”

  Sergeant O’Hara dourly did as he was required. And soon there were soldiers leading the howling ox carts away from that glade. And then came a rush of Métis, desperate to catch up with everything they possessed.

  After a mile or so, Brewer halted the procession.

  “Tell them to keep on and tell them not to return,” he said.

  Dirk Skye did and watched the funeral procession wend its way north.

  “That’s the way to do it,” Captain Brewer said. “No lives lost.”

  eight

  Captain Brewer was in a fine mood. He was pushing through the Judith Basin, scattering Métis wherever he went. It wasn’t hard. The whole business of commandeering their Red River carts or wagons worked just fine. Wherever the Métis resisted, Brewer ordered his men to harness the oxen and start the carts rolling. And then the Métis would hastily break camp, catch up to the creaking carts, and start their exodus to Canada.

  Then they came to a Métis farm, snugged into the northern foothills of the Snowy Mountains. There was a sturdy log house, a vegetable garden, most of it harvested; a log barn, a fenced paddock, a spring house, and livestock scattered up tan fields bordered by dark pines.

  An entire family rushed out of the house to greet the column, a fine strapping papa, with mustachios, two lads pushing into their teens, a younger girl, and a stout mama, carrying a rolling pin.

  They watched without consternation as the column halted in the yard.

  “Ah, friends, welcome,” the patriarch said in English. “What brings the army to my door?”

  “You’re Robicheaux, right?”

  “Indeed, my friend. Pierre Robicheaux, and my sons Jacques and Remi, and my wife Francine, and my dear child Marie. Do step down and refresh yourselves, eh?”

  “You’re Métis, right?” the captain asked.

  “Yes, indeed, sir. We were farming in the Red River country of Manitoba, and removed ourselves to the States seven years past.”

  “But you’re Canadians, right?”

  “Why, my frien’, maybe we are Yankees now, eh? We settled, learned English. See, even my boys speak English. We sell produce to the good people in Lewistown, eh? We’ve filed homestead claims here. My wife and I, we each claim a hundred sixty acres, eh? It is registered.”

  “But you’re not citizens. Our mission is to return Canadians who are here illegally to Canada.”

  “But we are here seven years! We have filed on this land!”

  “Well, show me your citizenship papers,” Brewer said.

  Robicheaux stared. “But, sir, that will come when we can. There are no officials here.”

  “That’s right, and you’re here without the permission of the government. So it is my duty to send you back to your own country.”

  “Ah, Captain, forgive me. But we are settled here now. This land, see how we have subdued it. Those are our cattle and goats, eh? See the house. I barked and smoothed every log, and split off every shake for the roof, eh?”

  “You should have gotten your papers in order. I’m here to move you.”

  “But, Captain, I will get these papers. I will go to the place where I can get them. Is it Helena? I am on my way to Helena. I will produce these papers just as fast as they can be issued, eh?”

  Brewer slowly shook his head. “Robicheaux, you are not in the country legally. We’re here to move you out. Now fetch your personal things, get that wagon loaded, and we’ll escort you.”

  The command hung there in the sweet morning of an autumnal day. The dark-haired girl, Marie, slipped to her mother and hung on her mother’s gray skirts. Robicheaux lifted his sweat-stained felt hat, ran a bony hand through his gray-streaked hair, and stared somberly at the officer who was about to tear his life apart.

  “I wish to appeal to the authori
ties,” he said. “I will go with you to the marshal. We will ask him.”

  Brewer shook his head stonily.

  Remi clenched and unclenched his fists. The infantrymen, who had heard and understood the entire exchange, spat their chews. Robicheaux stared at them, at his family, and his cattle grazing peacefully on the autumn-tanned meadows.

  Dirk sat on his buckskin, a quiet fury spreading through him. This wasn’t sending Métis back to Canada. This family’s home was right here, and had been for as long as this area had been settled. Seven years here made it 1877. This was different. This was Brewer’s passion to eject anyone, everyone, whose pedigree didn’t go straight back to the Mayflower and Plymouth Colony. This had nothing to do with legal or illegal entry, and everything to do with us and them.

  He eased his buckskin forward.

  “Wouldn’t you say, Captain, that this is a different case?”

  Brewer glared.

  “These are settled people. They’ve put down roots. They’ve been here long enough to be granted citizenship.”

  Brewer turned slowly, until he was staring directly at Dirk.

  “What is your rank, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m a civilian, Captain.”

  “And what is your office here?”

  “Translator.”

  “And what empowers you to address me in this fashion?”

  “The need to consider this matter, Captain.”

  “Is that part of your duties as a translator? These people speak plain English, do they not? So what gives you the office to address me, eh?”

  “Removing these settlers isn’t part of your mission, Captain.”

  Brewer was getting hot. “I asked you what empowers you to address an officer of the army? Does being a translator turn you into a colonel?”

  “I speak as a civilian, Captain.”

  “Then don’t speak at all!”

  But Dirk would not be put off. “This needs thinking out. This man’s request is valid. He has every right to go to the authorities. He has every right to be left alone.”

  “Corporal,” Brewer yelled. “Put this man in irons.”

  A corporal pushed his horse forward. “Captain, sir, we have no irons.”