Reilly’s spring wagon stood in the yard, unhitched and empty. So Reilly was back. The Métis males were hard at work on the lambing shed, and some of them had new axes. Others were working wood with a new saw. So Reilly had traded the hog for tools, in spite of all his folderol. A tin stove stood inside the shed, along with some stovepipe and a roof jack. Dirk smiled. A trapped loner like Reilly would do all he could to usher the Métis out the door. But not too far out the door. Reilly was eating better than he ever had in all his bachelor years.
Dirk unsaddled and brushed his buckskin and let him loose to graze.
That’s when Reilly steamed out the door, looking irate.
“Now look what ye got me into,” he said. “The butcher, Carstens, wouldn’t pay me a fair price for the hog and I had to sell cheap. The mercantile, they charged twice too much for all this stuff. And I hardly had a dime left over to buy me some ale and a little Jameson’s at the saloon, and now ye cheated me out of a hangover, but maybe one’s coming on. How can a man go to town without payin’ a price the next morning, eh? You’ve ruint me, Skye.”
“I’ll hogtie another porker and you can go soak at the bar for a week, Reilly.”
“You think that’s funny, I suppose, but you don’t have twenty Indians robbing you of sleep.”
“Métis are mixed-bloods.”
“Whatever they are, I’ll thank the stars and the saints when they’re outta my house.”
“What’s the word in town?”
“It’s all them Canadians. Few more families got burnt out of all they have. A couple bunches made it to Lewistown. There’s a regular Métis hotel some woodcutters are running, them red ruffians crowded into there like so many communion wafers. And that reminds me, Skye. There’s a saint in Lewistown. Some say she’s Saint Mary come down from heaven in the form of a Métis girl, and some say she’s Saint Therese, and you know what she’s up to? She’s building a church. She says it came to her in a vision straight out of heaven. Go build a church for her people there in Lewistown. She’s either a loon or sent by God or both.
“I can’t fathom it. I don’t suppose they’ll let a drinkin’ man through the door, but maybe I’ll help. She’s got them Canadians working on that thing. It’s west of town on a rise, and they got some rock in for the foundation and are working on a floor. Them woodcutters are bringing in logs and the Métis are shaping them with drawknives or whatever, and laying in the floor. And she’s sort of wandering around there, never smiling, just watching, like she’s God’s messenger.
“I drove by there and I saw more than I wanted to see. There were a mess of Métis, but also a mess of spectators, half of the saloon men and merchants in town, watchin’ like they’d never seen a building going up before. And I’ll tell ye, Skye, I didn’t like the smell of it. The Métis building the church and all them others, they looked like they needed a few rounds of whiskey to get themselves properly stirred up.”
“I heard about the girl.”
“How could you? You weren’t there.”
“Harley Bain wants her out and offered me the job.”
“You breeds are up to no good,” Reilly snapped and walked off.
“I didn’t take it,” Dirk yelled at his back.
twenty-eight
Dirk Skye was torn. Part of him wanted to get out, go find a job somewhere. The other part wanted to stay here, help these refugees find food and shelter and safety. He didn’t know what he could do to help. He was a schoolteacher, a translator, and a man at loose ends. But he would help. He was like his father, a man with no past and no future, adrift in the New World, looking for some way to get ahead.
The New World wasn’t so new anymore. The West was mostly settled. There were territories, counties, sheriffs, governors, ranchers, and towns here and there. Barnaby Skye had taught him to take care of himself in the wild. But this wasn’t wilderness, and every county had its sheriff and every territory its governor and legislature and courts. Harley Bain used public land and drove others off of it, and the reasons weren’t obscure. He wanted his neighbors to be English-speaking white men, not mixed-bloods who spoke strange dialects. This was not about the land; it was about neighbors. The right kind of neighbors.
And that’s why Harley Bain was purging the Métis from Montana. It wasn’t quite genocide. It wasn’t quite war. It was all clothed in legality: send the Canadians back to Canada. They were illegal immigrants. And now Dirk found himself drawn into a conflict in which he had no stake. Maybe it was the weariness and desperation he had seen in the faces of the refugees. Maybe it was Bain’s offer of “employment.” Maybe it was Bain’s thinly veiled threat against Dirk’s life. But there was more here, something that had to do with good and evil, justice and injustice, right and wrong. And Bain and his ranching friends were wrong. This was a good land and it could bear all sorts of fruit: not just beef, but gardens, wheat farms, orchards, children, schoolhouses, peaceful villages, churchyards, people living in harmony with one another.
He did have something to offer. He had a foot in each camp. He was at home among Indians and whites. He could help people talk to one another, understand one another, do business with one another. He could bring the beliefs and thoughts of the Métis to the Yanks. He could also convey the unhappiness of people like Bain to the Métis. Maybe he could mediate, get them to talking, find ways to make this bountiful territory welcome the refugees from the north. He had the advantage of possessing two bloods, and that might help him.
“You leaving now?” Reilly asked. “Quitting me now I got a house full of strangers and I can’t understand a word?”
“No. I’m going to ride into Lewistown and see how the war’s going.”
“And then come back and mooch on old Reilly, like everyone else. You’ll eat me out of house and home.”
Dirk laughed. “You’re stuck,” he said.
The buckskin was weary but Dirk saddled up anyway. He steered toward town, across a quiet country, seeing no one. This land was so big it could absorb thousands of people and still not be too full. This was big country, big enough for sheepmen, cattlemen, truck farmers, wheat growers, shopkeeps, livery barn operators, blacksmiths, and the skilled and unskilled people of all the world.
Lewistown snugged sleepily in its valley, its many chimneys curling smoke into the November sky. All those stoves and hearths were being fed by Armand Trouffant’s strong arms. Without woodcutters, Lewistown would be a cold and miserable burg.
He rode quietly through town, noting its peacefulness. There was nothing amiss here. He turned west on the main street, that being the way to the new church. It was easy to spot, somewhat higher than the town. There wasn’t much to see. He reined the buckskin and stepped down. A lot of sandstone had been collected and roughly dressed and fitted together into a dry wall foundation. It was going to be a small church. Dirk wondered if it would seat more than fifty people. But the sandstone rectangle stood ready to receive the weight of a church. Some roughly squared logs had been laid on the rectangle, and rough-hewn joists spanned the rectangle. They would support a floor. Whoever was building this church was doing it without planed lumber, and much of the pedestal had been squared with an axe and drawknife.
There wasn’t a soul around, and Dirk wondered what the fuss was about.
He found a small cairn, a location marker of some sort, and a document in a bottle. He pulled it out and read it. The land had been claimed by the Diocese of Helena and would be the future home of Saint Therese Catholic Church.
And the document had been signed and dated by Armand Trouffant.
Dirk stared at it. Where was the signature of the Métis woman? She probably couldn’t read or write.
“You wondering about that thing?” a man asked. “You ain’t the only one.”
Dirk found a black-bearded Yank, rawboned and small, with eyes that burned like coals.
“New in town. I heard a church is going up.”
“And coming down,” the man said. “It’s not a c
hurch. It’s just a meeting house for them half-breeds from Canada.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the mayor, Phil Stoltz.”
“You have a business?”
The man pointed. “That saloon.” He stared at Dirk. “You Métis?”
“No. I’m a citizen.”
“You don’t look like one.”
“Citizens come in all shapes, I imagine.”
“At least you talk English good. You drifting through? We don’t let breeds stay in town overnight.”
“I won’t be here tonight.”
“Neither will this be here by morning. There’s going to be a little party here this evening.”
“It’s church property.”
“It ain’t anyone’s property. The priests don’t know it exists.”
“Who signed this claim?”
“Woodcutters on the east side of town. They got a strange woman living there, and not married either. She’s putting them up to it. I wouldn’t mind woodcutters around here but not her. They keep the town in cordwood, and no one else wants to do it. But she’s different. She’s got some sort of magic hold on them, so they do her bidding. Like a witch.”
“What do you mean, magic hold?”
“That stuff’s all hoodoo. She tells them that some saint came down some stairway from heaven and told her to come here and build a church. If you ask me it’s just bunk. But it’s got a few breeds around here all stirred up, so they spend an hour or two every evening, laying up the foundation and dressing logs and all that. But it’s all gonna stop this night.”
“What’s her name?”
“Beats me. But I hear she’s naming the church after herself. How about that, eh?”
“Theresa?”
“Who cares? She’s a half-breed.”
“Where does she live?”
“The woodcutters. But we’ll get rid of her quick.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“Sell her to the madam, I guess.”
“With her permission, of course.”
The mayor shrugged. “She’s a breed.”
“Would you sell your daughter to a madam?”
“I don’t have any—that I know of.” He laughed. “Now, you hightail outta here. No vagrants in Lewistown.”
“What about white vagrants?”
“There’s no such thing.”
Dirk said nothing, boarded his buckskin, and rode slowly toward town while the mayor watched. But Dirk wasn’t interested in the saloons or the mercantile. He continued until he spotted a wood yard with heaps of firewood, some cut to length. A black-haired man was rhythmically chopping, his axe rising and falling, knocking limbs and trunks into stove wood. Dirk paused to watch. The man never paused, and never wasted motion. He had sawn rounds of trunks or limbs on end and shattered them, sometimes managing to cut several pieces loose in two or three blows. He didn’t rest. He didn’t seem weary. He didn’t pause or wipe his brow. He had, actually, a huge heap of stove wood, enough to feed Lewistown’s needs for weeks ahead.
The man appeared to be a Métis, with the ruddy flesh and stocky build and jet hair of those people. There were stacks of uncut logs, which suggested others were out collecting the wood from the surrounding jack pine forests. There were wagon ruts into the wood lot, and they showed signs of steady use. Smoke curled from the log home beside the spring creek flowing past the yard. And laundry hung from a line nearby. A woman was caring for this man, and the others who must live in this place.
The steady thump continued as the Métis shattered log after log, with a hand so practiced that he rarely failed to sever pieces of wood. Once in a while he picked up his fresh-cut stove wood and tossed it into the growing heap. Was this how the man spent his waking hours? Was there nothing else in his life? Did he awaken at dawn and eat some sort of porridge and then spend a whole day feeding the needs of Lewistown?
Dirk turned in. The man saw him coming, but didn’t pause until Dirk reined the buckskin and slid off the saddle.
“Oui?” the man said.
Dirk chose French. “Are you Armand Trouffant, who signed the claim?”
“Oui.” Trouffant leaned into his axe and waited.
“I am Dirk Skye. I was just there. I was curious. A man who called himself the mayor approached me. Stoltz is his name. A saloon man. He asked me to leave by sundown.”
“And you’re looking for a place to stay, oui?”
“No, I am welcome at a ranch north of town.”
“A cowboy, that is what you are?”
“No, a teacher. I taught at an Indian school, and then I was a translator.” He let it go at that.
“Then you are with the army.”
“Was. I was a civilian translator. No more.”
Trouffant’s demeanor changed. “I have no business with you.”
“That is true. I came to warn you of something.”
“I hear warnings every day. They mean nothing.”
“The mayor said that this night there’s going to be a little party at your church. And before it’s over there will be nothing left of it.”
Trouffant squinted at Dirk, uncertain.
“It gets worse. You have a woman here.”
“Oui. A saint, I think. A messenger from God.”
“I think you’d better spirit her away while you can. She is in grave danger.”
Trouffant lifted his woolen cap and ran thick fingers through his hair. “Non, these people, they may not like the Métis, but they need me and they know that there is no one else who can keep them warm. My boys and I, monsieur, we are secure here.”
“The woman isn’t. Métis, is she?”
“Oui, she is one of the people.”
“By dawn she will be employed in a place where she would not wish to be.”
Trouffant stared, doubting. “The hand of God protects her. She comes and goes unharmed. She washes clothing for many. The men of Lewistown, they bring her soiled clothing and she cleans it. She is safe, monsieur.”
A young woman stepped from the cabin, a wicker basket filled with washed clothing in her arm. She hung each piece carefully until the line was burdened with shirts and union suits and drawers. Then she turned to face the guest.
Dirk stared. It could not be.
She stared, hesitated, and approached.
“Therese?” he said.
“You, Monsieur Skye?” she asked. “How can this be?”
“You—look well, Therese.”
She seemed flustered, ready to escape to the cabin.
“You know each other?” Trouffant asked.
“He was my husband,” she said. “But that is the past. He is a stranger now, employed by the army.”
“Sacre bleu! Now I connect the ring on your finger to someone!”
“Non, monsieur. It lasted only an hour. Now the ring is for my true husband, the church. I am married to the church, forever.”
twenty-nine
There was something so final in her pronouncement that Dirk could only believe it was time to go. She stood there, cold and unmoving, like a bronze statue, her gaze upon far shores.
Monsieur Trouffant intervened. “Madame, the monsieur has come to warn us that there might be trouble at the church. It was very kind of him.”
“Warned—or threatened?” she asked.
Trouffant seemed disconcerted. “Threatened?”
“He is a translator for the army.”
“No, Therese. I have no employment.”
She stared at him, her face a wall.
“Monsieur came here to warn you away, madame,” the woodcutter said. “I think you should heed what he says. The mayor himself gave the word.”
She stared at Dirk, and at the woodcutter. “We will go to the church. Your sons will be there and will need us.”
Trouffant hastily explained it all to Dirk. “Each day, my sons bring in the firewood, and then go fell a tree and bring a log to the church. There are several families now
. Eight, ten, maybe more Métis, filtering in, living in the shadows. They send their sons and fathers, and we square the logs with drawknives and prepare for the moment when we’ll raise the walls. Now is the hour. We will work until night overtakes us.”
“I will help,” said Dirk.
Trouffant grinned. “Even a man of words can square a log with a drawknife, oui?”
“I would prefer that you stay here and guard madame,” Dirk said.
“There is no need to guard me,” Therese said. “And why do you discuss my fate as if it were not my choice? Some husband you’d be.”
Chastened, Dirk kept quiet. Trouffant was grinning.
There would be an hour or two until twilight; time to prepare several logs for the walls of the church. Lewistown seemed preternaturally quiet.
“Come meet my sons, Beau and Martin. Good sons, bringing strong shoulders to their lives.”
“I will help square logs,” Dirk said.
Therese wrapped a blue shawl over her hair and about her neck. Its ends fell loosely over her gray dress. Somehow, the sight of her stirred Dirk, and he couldn’t say why.
They walked through town while Dirk led his buckskin. There didn’t seem to be anyone out on the road. When they reached the church on the slope, they found a dozen people working steadily. Some were bucksawing the planks that would rest on the floor joists. Others were working the great logs, peeling back the bark and squaring them and smoothing them. When they had enough of these, they would lay up the log walls. But there were many logs to go, and Dirk wondered whether this church would be roofed before spring. Still, here were the burly dark Métis, magically present, quietly hiking miles from their obscure cabins and huts, to build this edifice to their faith—and their presence in the territory. As they approached the church lot, the Métis men stopped their labors and crowded toward her and stood silently, awaiting something.
Dirk watched, uncertain what all this was about.
“The blessings of our Lord are upon you,” she said.
“Blessed be the Lord,” they replied.
They nodded, tugged at caps, eyed her tenderly, and returned to their labors. They worked hard and fast, shaping wood into useful forms. Two teams of strong-shouldered men were buck-sawing thick planks. These were cut from logs resting on a rack of some sort. Others were sitting on great logs, drawing their knives over the surfaces, peeling away bark and flattening the side that was facing upward. Others were sawing rounds or splitting them into shakes for the roof. They were toiling hard, as they had night upon night, devoting the final hours of each day to the task, even after they had done all that needed doing to advance their own survival. The Métis worked and worked and there was no end of work for them.
The First Dance Page 19
