Sundance 19

by Peter McCurtin

  Dumont did his best to stand up straight. The effort was painful, but he made no sound. Sundance got him to the cabin and helped him over the dead body in the doorway. Dumont had enough strength to spit before he went through.

  It was dark inside. Sundance had to strike a match before he found the old man’s bunk. The old man lay dead beside it. Under his chin was a knife wound without much blood. Dumont didn’t want to lie down, but he didn’t fight too hard when Sundance pushed him gently. Embers still glowed in the fire. Sundance built up the fire with bark chips, then piled on logs.

  There was nothing much in the cabin; a rough table, two chairs, some cooking utensils on the floor by the fire. On the wall above the bunk were two pictures; a colored print of the Virgin Mary and an engraving of Louis Riel cut from a newspaper. Both were very old. In all, not much to show for a man’s lifetime.

  Sundance dragged the dead man outside and left him in the snow. He was a métis, like the other, and somewhat older. After he brought the weapons inside, Sundance barred the door. The wind was getting colder. When a kettle of water was warm enough, he spilled it into a basin, tore up a clean flannel shirt hanging on the wall, and dabbed at the wound in Dumont’s head. It wasn’t serious. The bullet had split the scalp without damaging the bone. The bleeding stopped after he washed out the wound.

  Behind the stack of logs, he found a half-full bottle of whisky. He poured whiskey in the wound and bandaged it tightly with a strip of flannel. Then he got Dumont’s coat and shirt off and looked at the wound in his back. It was long but shallow and would be sore for a while. When he finished with the back wound, there was just enough left for two big drinks.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t go wild,” he said, holding the bottle to Dumont’s lips. “There isn’t enough to make you wild, not the way you’re feeling. What’s left is for me. How are you feeling?”

  Dumont’s throat worked furiously as the whiskey went down. He drank exactly half the whiskey and handed the bottled back to Sundance. “I’m all right,” he said. “A little man with a big drum is beating time in my head.”

  “I’ll bet he is. Can you see all right? Do what I do.” Sundance stretched out his arm, then touched his nose with his index finger.

  There was a deep growl of protest. “Damn foolishness!”

  “Do it, Gabriel Later you can complain all you want.”

  Looking sour, Dumont touched his finger to his nose. “That whiskey is as bad as mine,” he said.

  Sundance drank what was left in the bottle and didn’t think it was any worse than Dumont’s. It might even have been a little better. “I guess you’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ll rest here for a while, then start back to Batoche.”

  “I can start back now.”

  “In a while, I said.”

  Dumont raised himself on his elbow, his forehead creased with a massive headache. “Who’s in command here?”

  Sundance said, “Right now, I am. Those two men I killed, you didn’t post them here? They were métis.”

  “Not métis. Men dressed as métis.”

  “They were métis. And they knew you’d be coming back alone.”

  “Hardesty!” Dumont’s dark eyes were dark with sudden anger.

  “That’s right,” Sundance said. “The meeting was over, and we were getting ready to leave when Hardesty told Riel there were other things, important things, to talk about. Riel told you to go ahead and to take me with you.”

  “Oh, not Louis. Why would he?”

  “I didn’t say that. Maybe it was something Hardesty said about me. They had been talking; I couldn’t hear them.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Dumont said quietly, touching the bandage on his head.

  Sundance wasn’t about to plead for the Irishman’s life, but he didn’t want to agree too quickly. “You have no proof it was Hardesty who planned this.”

  The big buffalo hunter thumped his chest. “In my heart I have proof. In my head—especially in my head—I have proof. I knew it would always come to something like this. To killing. But I thought he would face me like a man.”

  “One of the men said his name was Theodore Parie. Do you know him?”

  “That dog! He is one of the Montana métis. We heard he had escaped from prison after having been sent there with others for robbing a bank. When he came here, he swore he had done it to get money for the cause. Another métis of the same gang came with him. The other man you killed?”

  Sundance described him.

  “Elzear Bedard,” Dumont said. “They were always together.” Dumont smiled viciously. “Now they are together in death. In their pockets I think you will find American money. Thieves, killers, now dead assassins. I never believed their story about the bank robbery.” Dumont shrugged. “But we need men and still do.”

  It was hard for a man like Dumont to express gratitude. “You saved my life, Sundance. They were shooting at me. You could have ridden off and left me.”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Back to the schoolhouse.”

  “They’d think I killed you.”

  “That was not the reason. Never will I forget what you did today,” Dumont said.

  “If you can talk so much, you should be able to travel,” Sundance said. “If you fight as good as you talk, you’ll have the Canadians whipped in no time.”

  Dumont grinned in spite of his throbbing skull. “Go to hell, halfbreed.”

  Sundance grinned back. “Look who’s calling me a halfbreed!” he said. “Now you rest easy while I go catch your horse.”

  He found the animal, quiet now, down by the edge of the river. What sounded like pistol shots came from the middle of the river as the thinner ice broke up. There was a channel of clear water where the ferry crossed. He led Dumont’s horse back to the cabin and tied it to a tree.

  Then he roped the two dead men after searching their pockets where he found a fifty dollar bill on each body. Next, he dragged them down to the river and dumped them into the channel. The current took them under the ice. It would be weeks before all the ice broke up, months before they floated downstream to Batoche.

  Back again at the cabin, he collected the spent shells and put them in his pocket. Dumont looked at him curiously as he rolled the old man’s body under the bunk and pushed it out of sight.

  “What are you doing, Sundance?”

  “I think you ought to surprise Hardesty when he gets back to Batoche. See! Nobody got killed here. There was no shooting. Hardesty will wonder what happened to you. You sure you can travel?”

  Dumont thumped his chest, a thing he did often. “I am as strong as I ever was.”

  “Good,” said Sundance. “Then you’ll be able to fix the duck eggs and ham you were bragging about this morning.”

  Eleven

  There were fifty prisoners under heavy guard when they got back to Batoche. Fires blazed in the streets of the village and across the river in the encampment Sundance and Dumont saw the fives from miles upriver. The old man who took them across on the ferry was shaking with excitement

  “We have captured a whole army of Canadians, a whole army,” he said. “They came with horses and wagons and guns. Not a shot was fired. Our men trapped them on the road from the south.”

  Canadians! Dumont looked at Sundance. It didn’t make any sense.

  In front of the barracks fifty men sat huddled in the wind, watched by two métis behind the Gatling gun. Riflemen guarded them on the other side. The wagons and horses of the captured men were standing some distance away.

  Men came running when they saw Dumont, but the cheering stopped when they saw the bloody bandage around his head. Dumont roared at them to be quiet when they started yelling.

  Sundance and Dumont dismounted and walked over to the métis in charge of the prisoners. “You, Gameau,” said Dumont, “what is all this?”

  “Their leader says they came to fight with Hardesty, the Irishman. I do not believe them.”

  Dumont swore furiously. �
�More Hardestys,” he said. “Which one is the leader?”

  “The one standing up with the red hair in the caped greatcoat. He says his name is O’Neal.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” O’Neal demanded when Gameau brought him over. “Who are you and where the hell is Hardesty? We didn’t come a thousand miles, dodging the Mounties, to be treated like this. Senator Niles in New York is going to hear about this.”

  “He is lying,” Garneau whispered.

  “Go away!” Dumont roared.

  O’Neal was still outraged. “My men are freezing out here. If we are to be prisoners, then treat us like soldiers.” The redheaded Irishman looked like an ex-cavalryman to Sundance, probably a good one too. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles that took nothing away from his military bearing. An empty holster was strapped to his broad leather belt.

  “Can you prove who you are?” Dumont was not impressed with the other man’s anger. “A paper, a letter.”

  O’Neal said, “I have a safe conduct pass with Hardesty’s signature on it I showed it to your man, but I don’t know if he can read.”

  “He can read French, his own language.” Dumont said, unfolding the paper. After he read it, he gave it to Sundance. “It looks like Hardesty’s signature. Look at the fancy way he writes his name.

  “I see he’s made himself a colonel,” Sundance said. Colonel Hardesty—the noncom in the British Army had come a long way in a few years. Among the Fenians there were more colonels than in the Mexican army.

  Dumont kept the safe conduct past. “My apologies,” he said, not sorry at all, “but you arrived early. Hardesty said the first men wouldn’t arrive until the aid of the week.”

  O’Neal said with a sneer, “We should have taken our time, but I thought there was a war to be fought Next time we won’t be so prompt.”

  His sarcasm was lost on Dumont, who said, “Next time I think you better stay in New York. But you’re here, and your men will need food and shelter. Gameau did not make them sit here for nothing.” Dumont called Gameau. “See that these men are quartered and fed. Join your men, Mr. O’Neal.”

  “I am Major O’Neal.”

  “Be anything you like. Join your men.”

  To Gameau, Dumont said, “Turn the Gatling gun around and move it back. You had it too close to them. If they had attacked, you would have had no chance to use it. Don’t make the same mistake again. Guard them well. There may be trouble with Hardesty.”

  Dumont told Garneau to go away when he asked about his head. “And put out those damned fires! I don’t want Mr. Hardesty to get excited when he rides in. No one has seen me. Do you understand?”

  Garneau didn’t understand, but he nodded.

  “Give them the best food we have,” Dumont ordered. “No slop. These men are our friends. But don’t give them whiskey.” Dumont smiled at Sundance. “Irishmen are worse than Indians.”

  When they got to the cabin, Sundance wanted Dumont to rest. “Then who will cook the ham and duck eggs?” Dumont asked. “You have eaten duck eggs?”

  Sundance had to admit not lately. “Well, they’re here, the first of them are,” he said and stretched out on his bunk, while Dumont greased a skillet. “What do you think?”

  “I think duck eggs have to be fried right, or they taste like rubber. About the Irishmen? I don’t know what I think. This one called O’Neal looks all right. I don’t know about the others, but they brought a Gatling gun. Now we have two.”

  “The Canadians have more than that.”

  “I know,” Dumont said, turning away.

  They were eating when horseman thundered into the encampment. Shouting started and stopped. Dumont swigged down the last of his tea and put his Winchester on the table. Sundance eased the Colt in his oiled holster. The door opened and Riel came in, followed by Hardesty.

  “Gabriel! They said you were wounded,” Riel said. “Did you see the man—the men—who did it?”

  So much for the surprise, Sundance thought, watching Hardesty instead of Riel. Hardesty didn’t miss the rifle on the table. He didn’t speak because Riel was asking the questions.

  “Sundance saw them and killed them, Louis. They were Theodore Parie and Elzear Bedard, two good métis from Montana. Each man had fifty American dollars in his pocket. They had no money when they came here from jail, just the ragged clothes on their backs.”

  Riel passed his hand over his face and sat down. “But this is unthinkable. Two of our own people took money to kill you? Where are they now?”

  “In the river,” Sundance said, still watching Hardesty.

  Hardesty was a quick thinker. “Maybe the Canadians made a deal with them while they were in jail and bribed the jailers to let them escape.”

  “That won’t wash,” Sundance said. “Why would they try to kill Gabriel? Louis is the man to kill.”

  Without looking up, Riel said piously, “I am not the whole movement.”

  Dumont stood up, almost knocking over the table. “They were paid by someone closer to home I think. I will speak plainly. You could have hired them, Hardesty. I say you did hire them.”

  Hardesty’s hand jerked toward his gun, but Sundance knew he wasn’t going to draw it. It was the Irishman’s way of showing how shocked and angry he was. Dumont’s hand was on the rifle. If Hardesty had tried for a draw, Sundance would have killed him before his hand had touched the butt of the gun.

  “Please, my friends!” Riel got between them with outstretched hands—the man of peace. “This is what they want, to have us quarrel. There has to be some explanation.”

  “Hardesty wants to get rid of me, Louis.”

  “Louis, why would I want to do that? I lead my men, Gabriel leads his.”

  Dumont said, “I lead all the men. That was the plan.”

  “That was the plan, Gabriel.” Riel seemed to be speaking in the past tense. So it seemed to Sundance.

  “Even if you were dead, the métis would never follow me,” Hardesty argued.

  Sundance knew the métis would follow anyone Riel told them to.

  “But you have no proof, Gabriel,” Riel said. “Did the men talk? They didn’t accuse anyone?”

  “They would have, Louis. If they were alive, they would talk.” Dumont touched the haft of the skinning knife. “They would have told everything.”

  Riel shook his head. “But they aren’t alive. The American money you found was just American money.”

  “And who has the most American money in Batoche?”

  “Certainly I don’t, Gabriel. Mr. Hardesty has the most American money. Would you condemn a man for having a lot of money? But I have some American money. Why don’t you accuse me? We argued today in public, so I became angry at your insubordination and paid Parie and Bedard to kill you. Simple, is it not?”

  “Bah!” Gabriel Dumont said.

  “Of course it’s foolish, Gabriel, but I could have done it. You are wounded, and you are angry, and you want to blame Mr. Hardesty because you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t give a damn if he likes me or not, Louis. You want to see how much money I have, Dumont? I’ll show you.” The Irishman took a thick leather-clasped wallet from inside his coat and snapped it open. It was stuffed with money in big bills. “See, Dumont, American money, Canadian money, even English pound notes. You think that’s all the proof you need? You know what I think? I think you don’t want to admit that two of your own people tried to murder you. Those two men didn’t belong to me. They belonged to you. I didn’t know them, and I didn’t send for them.”

  Riel shrugged. “What he says is true, Gabriel. They were your men, your responsibility.”

  The Irishman sensed that he had the advantage now. “I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. We can settle this right now, if that’s what you want. Nobody interferes. Just you and me.”

  Brave, Sundance thought, very brave! Challenging a badly shaken man who ought to be resting in his bunk.

  “No! No! This is madness!” Riel
said.

  “With respect, Louis,” Dumont said, “this is between the Irishman and me.”

  Sundance stood up, his hand not far from his gun. “Maybe not,” he said. “It could be just as well be between Hardesty and me. Gabriel is a little tired right now. If that bullet had been an inch or two closer, he’d be dead!”

  “Who says I’m tired?” Suddenly Dumont was as wild as a bull getting ready to charge.

  “With respect, Gabriel,” Sundance said. “Shut up! What’s it going to be, Hardesty? They shot at me too. I’m almost as mad as Gabriel. How would you like it to be? It can’t be pistols. You wouldn’t have a chance. It can’t be knives because I’d cut you to ribbons. What about fists and feet? You Irishmen are good with your fists and feet.”

  This time Riel didn’t protest. Sundance knew then that the métis leader liked to see what his men were made of. There was no need to test Dumont, even if he had been in condition to fight. Riel had known him too long.

  “Fine with me,” Hardesty said truculently. “Now is fine with me. After you, sir.” The Irishman was putting on airs again—the British Army noncom who wanted to be a gentleman. So far, nothing had been said about the fifty Fenians.

  They left their weapons on the table in Dumont’s cabin and went out into the snow. It was biting cold, one of the coldest days of that March of 1885. Soon they would be sweating.

  “Any rules?” Hardesty asked.

  “None,” was the answer.

  Bundled in a long fur coat with his hat pulled down over his ears, Riel came out to watch the fight.

  Moving away from the cabin, Sundance and Hardesty stopped when they reached a place where the snow had been beaten down by horses. Pale moonlight filtered through the clouds. The wind was blowing steadily.

  Hardesty moved with ease for a big man. He was the veteran of many brawls and knew how good he was with his fists. Sundance decided it wasn’t going to be a cinch to knock him down. He was going to do his damnedest, because a man who would pay ambushers to murder a decent man had pain coming to him. ‘Colonel’ Hardesty would learn that he had come to the wrong place to play tin soldier.