Sundance 19

by Peter McCurtin

  “Yes, I know you served in the British Army for seven years, in Africa and India. That’s not the point. Gabriel Dumont has been part of this movement for more than fifteen years. He’s a fighter, and he knows men, especially the métis. In a way, fighting and the métis are all he knows. He will be a good commander, believe me.”

  “I wish I could, Louis. I don’t mean that disrespectfully, but you are not a soldier.”

  “Colum,” Riel said, “if Gabriel or I don’t lead the métis in battle, they won’t fight. I could lead them, but what good would that do? It has to be Gabriel Dumont.”

  “My men may not want to serve under him?”

  “Why? Because he’s a halfbreed?”

  “They would rather serve under me. Some of them have known me for a long time; at least the ones from New York and Boston have. What do you think of the idea?”

  “I will have to think about it. Now let me tell you something, and this must be said so there won’t be any misunderstandings. You will not play politics with my people. I am not saying that is your intention, but men have a way of changing when the stakes get big enough. If I say Gabriel Dumont commands, that decision is final. Another thing, and I regret to say it, if you want to back out of this, now is the time. There is no ill will in anything I say.”

  “I didn’t think there was, Louis. We were just talking, clearing the air, as they say.”

  A fist banged on the door and Hardesty jumped up with a Colt .45 in his hand. He motioned Riel away from the line of fire, if it came.

  “It’s Gabriel Dumont,” a rough voice called out. “I think we have a spy. Open the door.”

  Hardesty unbarred the door and Jim Sundance, half numb with cold, was shoved inside.

  Looking at his yellow hair and copper skin, Hardesty said, “Well now, what have we here?”

  Six

  “Look at the weapons he was carrying,” Gabriel Dumont said, putting the Colt .44, throwing hatchet, and Bowie knife on the table. “He has a .44 Winchester and an Indian bow. They’re with his horse, a fine stallion. He tried to kill me when I got close to him.”

  Hardesty, sizing up Sundance, asked, “Where did you find him?”

  Dumont said, “Half frozen in the stable of the old Heber farm—down by the river. We were half frozen too. The snow was beginning to let up by then. No, he didn’t try to resist. It wouldn’t have done any good if he had. He’d better have some food and coffee. Is there any stew left?”

  “Enough,” Hardesty answered.

  “You’d better sit down,” he told Sundance, handing him a cup of black coffee. “Now, my lad, you’d better come up with some believable answers, or you’ll never see daylight. Who are you and what do you want? Our friend here thinks you’re a spy. I think so, too. First, your name?”

  “Jim Sundance.”

  “From where?”

  “All over. I know all over is a big place, but it’s true.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Hardesty jerked a thumb at Riel. “Naturally, you wouldn’t know who this gentleman is?”

  “Louis Riel. I know who he is.”

  “I’ll bet you do. And you came all this way to join up with him?”

  “I had that idea. Everybody knows what he’s trying to do. I belong here more than you do. You’re not a halfbreed.”

  Hardesty smiled. “I’m a green halfbreed. Now, Mr. James Sundance, how did you get all the way up here? You didn’t come through Regina.”

  “That’s how I came.”

  “And the Mounties didn’t stop you, a halfbreed armed to the teeth?”

  Sundance said, “A police spy followed me around after I arrived in town. I managed to get away from him.”

  “How?”

  After Sundance explained, Hardesty said, “You’re tricky all right, too tricky even for the Mounties. My opinion is that you’re too tricky to live.”

  “Did you see anybody else?” Hardesty asked Gabriel Dumont.

  It was obvious to Sundance that there was bad blood between the Irishman and the halfbreed. “You are asking plenty of questions, Hardesty. While I was catching this prisoner or spy—I don’t know—you were sitting by the fire. But I will answer your question. There was nobody with him. If there had been, my men would have been back by now.”

  “Next time you can sit by the fire,” said Hardesty. “You captured this man. Do you think he’s a spy—for the Mounties or the militia? I think he is, but you don’t have to agree with me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that. Yes, I think he’s a spy. There is no reason to think he is not He is not one of our people, and no other American halfbreeds have offered to fight for us. I think he was sent here to do harm to our cause, perhaps to kill our leader. There is only one way to deal with spies.” Gabriel Dumont shrugged. “And if it turns out that he is not a spy, what difference will it make?”

  “My own sentiments,” Hardesty said. “But I’d like to ask our visitor a few more questions.”

  “Ask away,” Sundance said. “You won’t believe me anyway.”

  Hardesty continued. “It doesn’t make sense for you to come up here and try to walk in without a name to recommend you. Give us a name, some name that we know. It would be dumb for a man to come up here without a name to pass him through. What about it? Was it Fournier in Fort Garry? McBride in Toronto?”

  Sundance said he didn’t know the names.

  Hardesty said, “And it’s no wonder, since there are no such people. It isn’t looking too hopeful for you, Mr. James Sundance. A fanciful name that. Did you make it up yourself?”

  “What did you see in Regina?” Hardesty asked. “You’ll probably tell us you saw five regiments of militia. Be honest now, tell us what you saw.”

  Sundance said, “No militia, just mounted police. There are two Gatling guns in front of the barracks.”

  Hardesty glanced over at Louis Riel, who hadn’t said anything. “Well, I suppose you did pass through Regina after all. We know about the two Gatlings. Knew since they were brought there on the train. We know about the militia, too.”

  Gabriel Dumont was becoming impatient, but he ate his stew in silence. Riel was staring at Sundance with a puzzled look on his face.

  Hardesty started again. “You have blond hair. How did you get that?”

  “My father had yellow hair. I got it from him.”

  “Frenchmen aren’t usually blond.”

  “My father was English.”

  “So you’re half English, are you? That means I hate you only half as much as a regular Englishman.”

  Turning to Gabriel Dumont, the Irishman said, “That was a joke.”

  Hardesty asked, “And what’s the other half of you?”

  “Cheyenne,” Sundance answered.

  Dumont said slowly, “You are a long way from your mother’s people. It would have been better if you had stayed there.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that.”

  “It’s a bit late for that,” Hardesty said. “We can’t let you stay, and we can’t let you ride out. So you know what it has to be. We’re going to have to kill you. But first there will be more questions. I think you’re a goddamned liar. But before you go, you’re going to tell the truth. You’re going to tell us who really sent you and how many more men there are like you. You’re going to tell us about the things you’ve seen. By the time we get through with you, you’ll be begging for death.”

  Gabriel Dumont put down his fork and took out a skinning knife from a slender sheath. He held it over the chimney of a lamp until it began to glow white hot.

  “Wait a minute,” Hardesty said, “we’ll try the easy, the humane way first. A man talks more sensibly if he isn’t in agony. But you will be in a minute if you don’t talk. Keep the knife hot, Gabriel.”

  Hardesty stood over Sundance, “Now, my friend, the name of the man who sent you. Mountie or militia, it doesn’t matter. I want his name, because we’re going to send a man to kill him. I want his name and the men who work
under him. It’s time they learned that they can’t just send spies in here pretending to be patriots. What’s his name?”

  “There is no man.”

  “What’s his name? His name and all the others?”

  “I can’t tell you. There’s nothing to tell.”

  Hardesty pointed to Dumont’s thin-bladed knife. “We’re just wasting our time. Go to work on Mr. James Sundance, and see how he likes it.”

  Sundance started to sweat as the glowing blade came close to his face. He could already feel its white hot edge.

  “Wait!” Louis Riel shouted, standing up. “I think I know this man.”

  Seven

  Riel came over to where Sundance was standing and said, “You say your name is James Sundance.”

  “Jim Sundance. People call me Sundance.”

  “And you are of the Cheyenne?”

  “My mother was.”

  Gabriel Dumont was still holding the knife. Riel waved it away.

  “You know this man, Louis?” Hardesty said, looking doubtful.

  “Perhaps,” Riel said. “When I first heard the name, it meant nothing to me. Now I am not so sure.”

  To Sundance he said, “Your name has been in the newspapers in the United States. When I was in Montana I heard your name, something about your fight against the Indian Ring in Washington. Are you the same Jim Sundance?”

  Sundance said he was.

  “Anybody can use a name,” Hardesty said. “You have used many names yourself, Louis. So have I. So has Gabriel.”

  “Never,” Gabriel Dumont growled, waving the knife in the air to let it cool. “My name is my own.”

  Outside, the wind whipped against the walls of the cabin as if it were trying to kill those inside. Powdered snow sifted in under the bottom of the door. It was quiet except for the wind and the crackling of the fire.

  Riel raised his hand in a command for silence, his forehead creased in thought. “What was your father’s name?” he asked Sundance.

  “Nicholas.”

  Riel said, “Many years ago, when I was a boy on the Red River, I knew a man of that name. My father had a mill and a man of that name, an Englishman, worked for him. He had a Cheyenne wife and there was a son. Are you that son?”

  “I don’t know,” Sundance said. “If I was, I don’t remember. My father worked at many things, at many trades. We were in many places. I know we were in Canada at one time. I think I was about five at that time.”

  “I am forty,” Riel said, “and that would be about right. I was about ten then, and I remember an Englishman, an Indian woman, and a child with yellow hair. I don’t know how long they stayed. It was not long. There was a scar on the man’s hand. I can’t remember which hand.”

  “A long scar on the palm of the left hand,” Sundance said. “A drunken buffalo hunter tried to stab my father, and he blocked the thrust with his hand. He told me about the scar when I asked him. His hand gave him pain all his life.”

  “You could be who you say you are,” Riel said, staring at Sundance as if by doing so he could relive the events of thirty years before. The métis leader’s face was clouded in thought.

  Hardesty cut in with, “A scar on a man’s hand! What does that prove? It proves nothing to me. It could all be a plan to hoodwink you. Ask him something else.”

  “Please, Colum,” Riel said mildly, still looking at Sundance with his bright black eyes. “What book did your father always carry in his pocket, the one he read while he was eating?”

  “The Bible,” Sundance answered. “My father was not a religious man, Mr. Riel, but the Bible was his favorite book. In it, he always said, was enough reading for a man’s lifetime. There was enough even if a man lived to be a very old man.”

  “And the color of the cover? Was it black?”

  “No. Dark red.”

  “Do you want some coffee, Sundance?” Riel asked, turning to get the pot.

  “Listen, Louis,” Hardesty said. “If the Mounties or the militia sent this man, they would tell him things like that: the scar on the hand, the Bible.”

  Riel handed a cup to Sundance. “Things that happened thirty years ago? A Bible with a red cover? I hardly think so, my untrusting friend.”

  The Irishman protested: “All right, maybe he is who he says he is. I’ll grant you the scar and the Bible. Does all that prove that he isn’t a spy or an assassin? A hired killer sent by the Canadians to murder you? Back in Ireland, I knew of a man who took money to kill his own brothers, two of our organization. He killed one, but we got him before he killed the other. Louis, you’re not risking just your own life. You’re putting the whole movement in danger. I say kill him now.”

  Riel said, “You’re so ready to kill, my friend. I will remind you that I have not survived fifteen years with a price on my head by being a fool.”

  “I still say I’m right.”

  Riel’s voice was still unemotional. “If you are right, then we will kill him. Is he right, Sundance?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe him, Gabriel?”

  Dumont said, “I don’t know. I trust you, Louis. You are our leader. Say kill him and it will be done.”

  “That’s mighty obliging of you,” Hardesty said to Dumont.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Irishman.”

  Riel said, “The war isn’t in here, gentleman, and name calling won’t help us win it.”

  Hardesty said, “We don’t need this man to win it.”

  For the first time Riel’s dark eyes displayed anger. “We’re going to need all the men we can get, and if this man is Jim Sundance, he’s worth ten of your paid soldiers. Wars are not won with money but with the heart. Sometimes I think you forget that Colum. For you, I think, war is more important than the winning of it. I have been called many things in my lifetime, but I do not love war. If the Canadians would let us go, there would be no killing. To wage war is what you have to do when all else fails.”

  Looking at Riel, listening to his formal way of talking, Sundance thought of what Crook had said about the métis leader. He had spent nearly two years in an asylum, wanted to start his own church, talked about his divine mission. He was ready to take on a powerful government with a few hundred halfbreeds. A white man might have decided that Riel was mad, but Sundance wasn’t so sure. After his own parents had been tortured and killed by renegades, he himself had been close to crazy for a while, drinking heavily, courting death at every opportunity. If George Crook hadn’t knocked, the craziness out of his dead, he would almost certainly be dead by now. Grief often drove a man crazy. It was clear that Louis Riel was tormented by what had happened to his people—robbed of their land, degraded by the whiskey traders from the States, left without hope.

  “You served as a scout for the army?” Riel said to Sundance, pouring more coffee. “As a scout and a hunter?”

  “With General Crook, in many campaigns.”

  “Then you fought against your own people?” Hardesty cut in angrily. “Now you want to fight for them, is that it? What made you change your mind, turncoat? Was it because you thought there was money to be made by working for both sides?”

  Sundance said, “I have fought for and against the Indians. With Crook it was different. I worked for the General because that was the only way I could help my people.”

  Hardesty said, “Crook killed plenty of Indians while he was talking out of both sides of his mouth. At least Sheridan was honest when he said he’d like to see them all dead. Now I’ll be honest with you, friend. I’d like to see you dead.”

  Riel lay back in his chair and ran thin fingers through his hair. Lines of worry and sadness furrowed his cheeks; his eyes were very tired. His dark clothes were stained with mud; only his moccasins looked fit for this hard northern country.

  “You’re wrong about General Crook. When he gave his word, he kept it. Do you know that he once hanged four whiskey traders in the Dakotas for selling poisoned whiskey to the Sioux? Many Indians went blind or died i
n agony. Crook didn’t waste any time. He led the four white men to a tree and they were hanged. The incident almost cost him his career. Do you remember that, Sundance?”

  “I was with him when it happened. It was where the town of Deadwood is now. The whiskey traders worked for the Indian Ring in Washington. When they heard about it, they tried everything they could to get him cashiered, but Sheridan backed him up.”

  “How do you balance four dead whites against I don’t know how many thousands of dead Indians?” Hardesty said. “Did Crook do it because his heart was so pure? Or was it because he hated the Indian Ring for political reasons? Nothing is ever what it seems to be, Louis. What does it matter what this man did in the past? We’re talking about the here and now, which is all that matters. It’s your decision to make, but TO say it again. Get rid of him. He smells of death.”

  Riel said calmly, “He certainly looks like a dangerous man. Are you, Sundance?”

  “So I’ve been told. What’s it going to be? Do I stay or get a bullet in the back?”

  “There will be no bullets in the back. If you give us cause to kill you, then you will be judged and executed by a firing squad. You will have a chance to face your executioners. You want an answer and I can’t give you one. Not yet.”

  Gesturing toward Hardesty and Dumont, Riel said, “These men are my friends, and I must consider what they have said. For the moment you can stay, but you will be watched all the time.”

  Hardesty grunted with sour satisfaction. “That’s better. He’ll be watched all right, and I’ll do most of the watching.”

  Dumont nodded silently as he put the thin-bladed skinning knife back in its sheath. Sundance knew he hadn’t made an enemy in the scowling halfbreed; Dumont was just a hard-eyed man who would kill him for the good of the cause, if it came to that. Hardesty was different. Sundance thought he knew why the scheming Irishman wanted to kill him. Hardesty figured that somehow he would get between him and Riel. Probably the Irishman figured Dumont could be pushed aside or, failing that, killed and buried in some lonely place. Riel could then be made into a puppet. If he failed to jump when Hardesty pulled the strings, another more easily managed métis leader could be found. Here in the North West Territories, there was great wealth; the man who controlled it could live like a king. That would, be, Sundance decided, the Irishman’s way of thinking, since there was always a faint undercurrent of contempt when he spoke to Riel.