“Eat, oui?” she said.
She was smiling, the bun in her cupped hands.
“I will,” he said.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“I want to be a part of this. I want to leave something of me in your church.”
“Ah, bien, cher Étoile du Nord,” she said.
She watched him pluck up the bun and eat. How strange it was to be watched, her gaze following his hand, his bite, his swallowing.
He noticed how the cold bit her cheeks.
“Your cheeks, they are red from the cold,” she said to him.
“I was thinking the same thing of you. I guess our thoughts crossed in midair.”
She smiled. “We don’t think alike.”
That somehow amused him.
“I think woman and you think man,” she said.
He couldn’t argue with that even if he had no idea what she really was thinking.
She reached out and patted his cheek, which was more than a little unkempt after missing a few weeks of shaving. “You’re getting hair like a Métis,” she said.
“My father had a beard when he was older.”
“I like beards. They tickle me,” she said. “Let it grow, Dirk. Make it a big black beard, and I will like it.”
“With big mustachios?”
“Great big droopy mustachios.”
“They would scrape your cheeks.”
“Ah! You are so insolent! I will abandon you now. Have another bun.”
He took it gladly and chomped away as she fled.
He watched her head for another laborer in her vineyard, and watched her peek back at him as she did.
He returned to his sawing, the slow rip of the saw straining his muscles. It was hard work, shaping a whole church from logs in a forest. He watched as she surrendered the last of her hot cross buns and strode forcefully toward the Trouffants’ wood yard across town. The way the wind caught her skirts against her legs, she was beautiful.
He sawed away again, but wearied after an hour. How was it that he wore out while these Métis didn’t? Their number increased through the cold day, jet-haired stocky males shaping and debarking logs, notching the corners, sawing floor planks, building steps at the front from sawn wood, and enjoying themselves as they toiled. Did they never tire? And where had they come from? Here were Métis he had not seen, men who knew one another, men who had filtered out of the north and found refuge in the basin, somehow out of sight of the powerful ranchers.
That brought to mind the possibility that Harley Bain and his riders might show up at any time, and burn down everything that was rising on this lot that Bain so grandly proclaimed was his own land. It so disturbed Dirk that he began keeping an eye on distant horizons. But except for an occasional spectator out from Lewistown, no one troubled the toilers.
Dirk rested awhile, found himself chilled, and set to work once again. He was determined to keep up with these people even if he was the schoolteacher and they were woodsmen and farmers. But by midafternoon he knew he could contribute nothing more.
He felt embarrassed. He set aside his saw and waved at the Trouffant boys.
“Mon ami, you need rest,” Beau said. “This is not your work, eh?”
“No, I’m a teacher mostly.”
“You work with your head, we work with our arms, eh?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Mon ami, you have given yourself to us. You sawed much wood this day, eh? We are pleased.”
Dirk was pleased too. He thought to head out to Reilly’s hog ranch and spend a quiet evening. But even as he collected his buckskin and tightened the girth, he spotted a rider approaching and wondered about it. The rider wasn’t attired the way the cowboys were, but wore a suit of clothes and a riding coat with a split back, and a bowler hat.
He looked official, and that troubled Dirk. He wouldn’t know how to speak to the Métis. So Dirk headed his way and intercepted him as he approached the churchyard.
The man was solid gray; gray-eyed, gray-haired, gray-suited, and trim.
He eyed Dirk. “I think maybe you’re the very man I’m looking for. Dirk Skye, might it be?”
“Yes, sir,” Dirk said, certain now that this man held some sort of office, and it likely spelled trouble for these Métis men pouring their sweat and pain into the church.
“I understand this will be a church.”
“Yes, sir, if the world permits these people to raise it up.”
“The world will. I am Strothers, William Strothers, a United States marshal. I believe you sent for me.”
“I did?”
“Governor Hauser sent me, on your request.”
That was bad news. Bain had said the governor was a friend, among many in high places.
Dirk nodded warily.
“I’ve done a little riding and exploring on my way over here,” Strothers said. “This seems to be prime ranching country.”
That boded ill, and Dirk nodded curtly.
“Maybe you could steer me to some eatery in Lewistown.”
“We’ll go, sir. I’m saddled and ready.”
They rode quietly away. Dirk knew the Métis were staring. They probably sensed trouble, and they would be dead right.
Dirk headed for Mrs. Mazzoni’s Kitchen on Main, and led the officer into its warmth. The man eyed a corner table, well away from anyone else, and pointed. So this would be a very private discussion, whatever it might lead to.
Dirk realized he hadn’t a dime. “I’ll just sit here with you,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” Strothers said.
He ordered a bowl of chicken soup and some bread.
“Hard to find good bread in the territory. Not enough women,” Strothers said.
Dirk waited for the pleasantries to pass. This would not go well. Strothers, with Hauser behind him, would order the Métis out of the area and out of the country.
“I’m a tea man myself, Skye. You’re half British, so I’d like to treat you to a spot of it.”
Dirk nodded, wondering whether he should let himself be beholden. But the hot tea would be a treat after the cold work.
“I tell you what, Skye. While I tackle this soup, you can tell me the whole deal. I mean, the Métis. Why they’re here. How they got here. What Bain and his riders are doing. The governor wants to know.”
“I’m sure he does. He’s Bain’s good friend.”
Strothers stared coldly. “Perhaps you underestimate the governor, Mister Skye. He has friends, and he has preferences, and he has his own politics. But he’s also a man devoted to the public weal, to doing what is right. To justice. He asked me to come here and find out exactly what’s happening, and to act as I see fit if law or decency or justice are being violated in any manner.” Strothers paused, waving a spoon at Dirk. “You tell the story. Tell me about these Canadians. Tell me about the manslaughter.”
“Manslaughter?”
“Exactly. Freezing innocent people to death, a deliberate act, a heinous act if ever there was one.”
Strothers was waiting patiently.
Dirk nodded. Strothers spooned some soup into himself, and then tackled the steaming bowl, and the soft, yeasty bread hot out of the oven.
Dirk found it hard to talk. This officer was a white man. In the end, he would ally himself with the white settlers, with the white men’s laws on the territorial books, with the ranching interests. With Indian removal, including mixed-blood people, to reservations where they could starve to death out of sight.
But at least Strothers was listening, so Dirk started in with the army’s sweep, the translating job he had, and how he was dismissed in the field, and what happened since then, and where his sympathies were. And then he backpedaled and talked about his afternoon-long marriage to Therese, and how she had jilted him, and how he discovered she had received a vision to build that church, and how they had rediscovered each other far from Miles City. And then, at last, he talked about the Canadians
, the first or Red River bunch long settled here, and the newcomers from the Northwest Territories rebellion, who were still seeking refuge here. He talked about Bain and his night riders, torching the homes of produce farmers, driving them shoeless and coatless into the cold. He talked about the Sylvestres, newly buried. He talked about the Trouffants, incredibly hardworking people who supplied all of Lewistown with its firewood.
“This café, sir, is heated with the wood cut out of the surrounding lands by these people, and sold at reasonable prices to the merchants here.”
“They work hard, that’s for sure,” Strothers said.
He ordered another entire bowl, even while lapping up the last of the soup with his bread.
“And now, Bain,” Strothers said.
“Actually, a cautious man, Marshal. Very careful. He is perfectly happy to see the Métis burned out and frozen to death. He simply doesn’t want it pinned on him.”
“That’s my impression also, Skye. There’s not much linking him to the deaths of these Canadians.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“So I guess it’s up to me to nail it down and bring a grand jury, and maybe an indictment. I thought maybe to take some testimony from the Métis themselves, if you would be so kind as to translate.”
“I would do that gladly.”
“I haven’t a shred of proof, Mister Skye. I need evidence, not rumor. Not speculation. Even if we both know he’s behind this business, I’ll need to prove it to the satisfaction of the law and the courts. How shall I do that?”
“I can testify that he asked me to join him.”
“He asked you, did he?”
“To translate. My pay, he said, would be my life.”
Strothers contemplated that a moment, and his grin wrought crinkles in his gray flesh. “Would you say you’ve been paid?”
“Not yet,” Dirk said.
“Well, if we can’t nail Bain, how about his night riders? Could any of these Canadians identify the riders?”
Dirk shook his head. “I doubt it. Night, bandannas over their faces, darkness, fear, shadows, fire, terror. You can ask, and I’ll try to translate. The Métis speak several dialects and I have some trouble with that. But if you want, I can round up a few. But they distrust you, Mister Strothers. You’re the government. And they’ll probably clam up.”
Strothers nodded, stared at his empty plate, and came to a conclusion. “I think I’ll invite Bain into town for a few talks. He just might talk a whole lot if I get him going.”
thirty-six
Dirk made his way through Lewistown to Kiskadden’s Saloon, which was probably a cut or two above the others. Just the place for the United States Marshal for the Territory of Montana to set up shop. Parked in front was Bain’s ebony carriage, the matched trotters yawning in their traces. Dirk had a hunch about this, and now it was proving true.
This would be the confrontation. Strothers had gotten Bain into town for a talk, and what better way than to bring in Dirk, and start the talk with Dirk’s letter to Governor Hauser. This wouldn’t be easy. Bain would challenge everything. And probably play the Indian card too. They were white men.
He resolved to keep his temper, keep his voice low, and to lay out what he knew and what his friends among the Métis had experienced. He swung the creaking door open, found the long saloon poorly lit, discovered the barkeep staring, ready to boot him out for having the wrong cheekbones, but the keep subsided, wiped his hands on his grimy apron, and let Dirk pass along a row of bar stools to the rear, where there were four tables, one of which had Bain and Strothers sitting at it sipping something gold.
They looked oddly alike. Both were graying at the temples and had recently seen a barber. Strothers wore a three-piece suit of gray twill; Bain a charcoal three-piece suit with a woven gold watch fob draped across his waistcoat. They could have been brothers. They would be drinking Old Orchard, the best whiskey to be found in Lewistown, using hands with trimmed fingernails. Dirk felt a little uneasy, but pushed to the table.
“Ah, Skye, you’re here,” the marshal said. “Good. I presume you know Harley Bain?”
“We’ve met.”
“Have a seat, Skye. I can’t offer you a drink; it’s against territorial law, of course. But maybe a sarsaparilla?”
“I’m fine without, thank you.”
Bain gazed blandly, revealing nothing, his thoughts apparently buried deep. Yet his gaze was unblinking, and it traced Dirk, and somehow intimidated him. Bain was a man with some sort of wild force barely contained within him, a force that could burst out anytime. But for the moment, he merely nodded and even smiled slightly.
“Harley, how about another?” Strothers asked.
“Mighty kind of you, Bill,” Bain replied.
The marshal signaled the barkeep, who nodded and began his pour.
“Now, Harley, young Skye here’s written us in Helena, and we’ll just go over a few things in his letter. I take it you’re familiar with it?”
“Oh, I’m familiar with Skye here. He got booted by the army and joined up with these illegal immigrants flooding down from Canada.”
“He wrote out some complaints, Harley.”
“I can’t imagine what. But that’s how it goes, you know.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“Oh, the usual, you know. Not really. I haven’t seen the letter.”
“Well, Harley, have you been mistreating some redskins?”
Bain laughed. “Bill, I always mistreat everyone, red, white, or blue.”
“What do you think. Shall we send this pup back to his reservation?”
Dirk was swiftly realizing that his foreboding about this meeting was well founded.
“What is he? Shoshone, Bill?” Harley asked.
“When you mix Shoshone with English, what have you got? A mutt!” Strothers said.
“I don’t think you need me here,” Dirk said, rising.
“Oh, sit still, Skye. Beg a little,” Strothers said, amused. “Say woof, woof!”
The barkeep arrived, laid the two tumblers of whiskey, served neat, on the battered table, and stared at Dirk.
“I will leave you to your joking,” Dirk said, and rose.
And found himself facing the muzzle of a small black revolver that had magically emerged from Strother’s breast pocket. The marshal was enjoying himself.
“Sit. Stretch out those paws, pup!”
Slowly Dirk held his arms before him. Strothers tossed some black manacles to Bain, who snapped them over Dirk’s wrists.
“Now, then, Skye, we’ve got some entertainment ahead.”
Skye had sensed it all along and now was trapped. The options looked bleak. They might ship him back to Wyoming. But he doubted they would bother.
“Splendid father you had, pup. Barnaby Skye’s a legend in the West,” Bain said. “Too bad you don’t carry more’n a spoonful of his good English blood.”
Dirk refused to acknowledge anything. The half-dozen patrons were staring. The barkeep was blandly enjoying this entertainment.
Dirk eyed Strothers, seeing a different man from the one he had met a couple of days earlier. That Strothers was too good to be true. This one was the real article. Dirk felt himself sliding into melancholy, which happened now and then when he confronted the wall that stood silently between white men and himself. He wondered where it would lead.
“Well, Harley, I thought you might like to see justice done,” Strothers said.
“Why, Bill, you and the governor are fine fellows, looking after the territory and its good folks. I must say, being libeled is something that requires your attention.”
“This fellow’s daddy was a well-known rogue, you know.”
“Deserted, I heard. Stuffed it to the Queen and quit her navy. Sorry about the whelp here. You’ll ship him out?”
“Oh, we’ll think of something,” Strothers said. “Now, then, Harley, how many of these Canadian rascals have slipped across the border, and w
hat’s being done?”
Bain glanced briefly at Dirk. “I think the matter’s taken care of itself. Army drove them north, but a few of these carpet beetles have been sneaking back. They hid up in the breaks, but shot away all the game, and now winter’s doing the rest of the job.”
“Winter, Harley?”
“Can’t get through a Montana winter on prayers,” Bain said. “Trouble is, they’re a shifty lot, slipping through at night, linking up with others, like they’ve got some private telegraph telling ’em where to go. Which is mostly right here, where this sorceress has ’em all fevered up to build a church on my land.”
“Who’s that now?”
“Therese somebody. I hear rumors that she’s Therese Skye, married to this gent sitting here. But so far, I’ve not confirmed it.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” Strothers said. “She your wife, Skye?”
“I don’t know,” Skye said.
They laughed. “Now there’s the best answer I’ve heard in years. Skye, you’re a card.”
“She might be,” Dirk said.
“Well, that makes a difference. I was going to export her to Canada,” Strothers said.
“He’s not a citizen, Bill. It don’t make a bit of difference.”
“He was born here, Harley. He’s got rights. And if they’re married, she’s got rights. I have to follow the law.”
Bain sighed. “You pick nits, Bill.”
“Law’s law, Harley.”
They sucked more amber fluid and smiled like a pair of adolescent burglars.
“Harley, old pal, how the hell did you do it?”
Bain smiled. “I didn’t do it. Winter did it. I just told the boys, don’t stick it to me. Don’t waste powder on ’em. Just burn them out, grab their boots, and leave them in their winding sheets, and what’s going to happen will happen, once the thermometer drops.”
“How many, would you say?”
Bain shrugged. “I tell the boys not to tell me. There’s whole canyons and coulees between me and what happens out there on my range. I’m not privy to what goes on.”
“Your range, Harley?”
“You know as well as I do that when it comes to grass, you got what you hold, you keep what you defend. And I don’t pay taxes on any of it.”
The First Dance Page 24
