White Desert (11 page)
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
“Fils de la catin!”
The words, delivered in a loud, phlegmy baritone, carried a long way. I heard them, and those that followed, twenty minutes before I saw the cabin, a low dugout affair, built along the lines of a railroad car, with its roof heaped with snow. French was not my long suit, but I had heard enough of it during my travels in a frontier made up of expatriates from around the world to figure out, with the help of the vicious flood of language that came after, that someone or something was being called a son of a bitch.
As I drew near I made out the figure of a man standing atop what appeared to be a stack of corrugated-iron sheets at the end of the cabin, sunk up to his knees in snow and using a shovel to scoop the heavy white stuff off the surface and onto the ground eight feet below. The underarm movement was what I first noticed, because the heavy capote the man was wearing was the exact blue of the sky behind him. The hood was flung back to expose a fall of curly black hair to his shoulders and the glint of a piratical gold hoop in the lobe of his left ear. His diatribe, punctuated with grunts and short exhalations that issued from
his mouth in bright silver jets, continued unabated as I came to the edge of the shadow the cabin threw in the late afternoon sun; I couldn't tell if he even knew I was there.
his mouth in bright silver jets, continued unabated as I came to the edge of the shadow the cabin threw in the late afternoon sun; I couldn't tell if he even knew I was there.
I was close enough then to realize he wasn't standing on iron sheets. My nose told me they were green buffalo hides, stiff with frozen gore. The mercury would have to go down a lot more to stop them from stinking.
“
Merde!”
Merde!”
This last remark was accompanied by a flash of bright metal as the shovel skidded out of his hands, executed a somersault in the air, and knifed down blade first straight at me. I yanked the reins left, the sorrel leapt sideways, stumbling. Instinctively I leaned right to keep it from falling over left. This put me back in the path of the flying shovel, which glanced off my shoulder, ripping a long gash in the bearskin, and chunked solidly into the snow with the handle twanging. The pain arced around to my left side, just in time to connect with the one coming from my ribs. My whole body went into shock, but I managed to jerk the Evans rifle from its scabbard and point it at the man standing atop the hides.
“Non!”
He spread his arms, showing his open palms. There was English mixed in with the flood of French that followed, but it came too fast for me to make it out. His tone said he was explaining or apologizing or both.
He spread his arms, showing his open palms. There was English mixed in with the flood of French that followed, but it came too fast for me to make it out. His tone said he was explaining or apologizing or both.
I didn't shoot him. He wasn't armed, and with the pain coursing through my body the effort of squeezing the trigger sounded like no fun. I let the hammer down gently.
“You are not injured,
monsieur
, no?” He lowered his arms.
monsieur
, no?” He lowered his arms.
“I am injured, yes,” I said. “Climb down off those stinking skins.”
He had the agility of a monkey. A narrow lodgepole stripped of its bark stood at each corner of the stack of hides and he
gripped one in both hands and slid down slick as grease. I saw then that the poles had been erected to support a flat roof made of shakes to shelter the hides and that it had collapsed under the weight of the snow. He had been standing on what remained of the roof, shoveling it clear.
gripped one in both hands and slid down slick as grease. I saw then that the poles had been erected to support a flat roof made of shakes to shelter the hides and that it had collapsed under the weight of the snow. He had been standing on what remained of the roof, shoveling it clear.
The little manâhis chin came just above my knee where I sat aboard the mustangâsaw that I was surveying the snow damage. “I am not so fine as a builder, monsieur. I am the hell of a fine hunter of the buffalo.”
“I can see that.” I scabbarded the Evans and probed at my shoulder through the tear in the bearskin. It was tender, but no blood came away with my hand. The blade hadn't broken the skin. “You're Mètis?”
“Mètis,
oui
.” He lowered his eyelids. They were heavy to begin with, and along with the pencil-thin moustache that followed precisely the line of his delicately curved upper lip gave him the look of the lecherous villain in a melodrama on stage. His dusky features were more pretty than handsome. “You are Mounted Police, no?”
oui
.” He lowered his eyelids. They were heavy to begin with, and along with the pencil-thin moustache that followed precisely the line of his delicately curved upper lip gave him the look of the lecherous villain in a melodrama on stage. His dusky features were more pretty than handsome. “You are Mounted Police, no?”
“I'm American. You're alone here?”
“My friends are near.”
That was a lie. There wasn't another manmade structure in sight, and there was only one set of tracks between the cabin and the hide stack.
“I'm not a bandit,” I said. “I'm a deputy United States marshal trailing a gang of desperadoes from Montana. Do you know the way to Fort Chipewyan?”
“I know the way. Also I know the way is long. You seek a guide, yes?”
His lids opened on the last part, light showing in his dark eyes. Buffalo butchering paid well, but it was brutal work and unless the operation was outfitted well enough to ferry the hides
to civilization on a constant basis, paydays came many months apart. In guide work you got paid just to ride; and as everyone in Mexico and Canada was aware, Americans were all robber barons and rich as Vanderbilt.
to civilization on a constant basis, paydays came many months apart. In guide work you got paid just to ride; and as everyone in Mexico and Canada was aware, Americans were all robber barons and rich as Vanderbilt.
I saw no reason to set him straight, but produced a leather sack containing the money I'd drawn from Judge Blackthorne for expenses. The heavy gold coins shifted and clanked when I bounced it on my palm. I tossed it at him without warning. He fumbled, then slapped it against his chest in both hands. While he was doing that I unholstered the Deane-Adams and rolled back the hammer.
“Take out a double eagle and throw the rest back. You get another one when we get to Chipewyan. Don't try to help yourself while I'm sleeping. I keep one eye open and my finger on the trigger.”
He hesitated, hefting the sack. Then he shook his head and threw it back without taking a coin. I caught it one-handedâbarelyâand studied him closely. He was dressed colorfully after the fashion of the Metis; the capote open to expose a calico shirt and yellow buckskin leggings with a scarlet military sash knotted about his waist, fringed moccasins to his knees, but he was by no means prosperous or he wouldn't be living in a dugout with greased paper in the windows for glass and wrestling the hides off buffalo.
“I cannot, monsieur. It is ten days to Chipewyan, longer in this deep snow, and that much again to return. My wife and boy will starve.” He looked ineffably sad, double eagles being scarce everywhere, and rare as jackalopes in that wild country. Then the lower half of his face broke into a gold-toothed smile. “They will not starve if they go with me.”
“This is a manhunt, not a family picnic. We'll be traveling slow enough as it is.”
“Fleurette rides as well as any man, and Claude can run like a rabbit and catch game with his bare hands. They will not slow us down.”
“I'll keep looking. Where is the nearest settlement?”
“You'll not see another soul for two hundred miles. I am, you see, the court of last resort.” The gold teeth shone.
“I don't see any horses.”
“Down by the river there is a hollow in the bank with the overhang for a roof. I could not have built a better barn.”
“What do they call you?”
“Philippe Louis-Napoleon Charlemagne Voltaire Murat du la Rochelle.” He snapped his head forward in a bow, the hoop in his ear catching the light. “You may address me as Philippe.”
“I think I'd better. Page Murdock.” I leathered the pistol, drummed my fingers on my thigh, then braced myself for the pain and dismounted into the knee-deep snow. “Let's go meet the wife and child.”
The inside of the cabin was surprisingly pleasant. We stepped down onto a glazed earthen floor and stood in the light from a fireplace built of river stones worn as smooth and round as forged cannonballs. The log walls were chinked expertly and hung with steelpoint engravings slit from periodicals and mounted in handmade frames. There were three split-bottom chairs, an oilcloth-covered table, a narrow bed built into one corner beneath a crucifix on the wall, and in the opposite corner a stand supporting a carved figure of the Virgin Mary with a squat tallow candle flickering in front of it.
A small woman in a plain gray dress stood on the hearth, stirring a pot suspended by chains over the flames. Her black hair was cut boyishly short, but when she turned to see who had come in, her face was as dark as any Indian's, darker than Philippe's. She had small sharp features and eyes that tilted toward
her nose. Plainly she was the mother of the boy of about ten who sat on one of the chairs tying a shoe: short black hair, dusky skin, small pointed nose, and those eyes, almost Oriental and as shiny as polished obsidian. He wore a plain homespun shirt and trousers with nothing Indian about them. He showed no fear at the appearance of a stranger in his home, only quiet curiosity.
her nose. Plainly she was the mother of the boy of about ten who sat on one of the chairs tying a shoe: short black hair, dusky skin, small pointed nose, and those eyes, almost Oriental and as shiny as polished obsidian. He wore a plain homespun shirt and trousers with nothing Indian about them. He showed no fear at the appearance of a stranger in his home, only quiet curiosity.
Philippe handled the introductions as if he were reading from a book of etiquette, presenting me to Fleurette and young Claude to me and repeating all our names. Fleurette, abandoning her cooking, surprised me by sinking into a quick curtsy. Claude kept his seat, studying me, until his father barked at him in French, whereupon he hopped to his feet and bowed from the waist.
“I ask you to pardon the behavior of my son, who seems determined to remain a savage.” Philippe directed this at the boy with an edge in his voice.
There was nothing to say to that, so I unbuttoned my coat. It was close in the cabin. Claude raced up to take the bearskin and stood on tiptoe to hang it on a peg by the door. I hung the badger hat on the same peg and ran my fingers through my hair. I felt disheveled in the presence of so much domesticity. But for the logs and the plain furnishings and the buffalo robe on the floor, which probably served as the youngster's bed, I might have been standing in a parlor in Chicago. The place had that feel.
“You will eat with us.” It was a thing settled, the way Philippe said it. “I hope you have no objection to squirrel.”
“Thank you. I've eaten wolf and was glad I had it.”
He laughed, loud and booming for a small man. “Someday I shall meet an American adventurer who has
not
eaten wolf. I begin to think you serve it at Easter.
Non, mais, non!
The head of the table.” He pulled out a chair from the other side.
not
eaten wolf. I begin to think you serve it at Easter.
Non, mais, non!
The head of the table.” He pulled out a chair from the other side.
The table was square, and I could see no difference, but I
came around and waited beside that chair while Fleurette brought the pot to the table and seated herself, her husband hastening over to hold her chair. He took the third.
came around and waited beside that chair while Fleurette brought the pot to the table and seated herself, her husband hastening over to hold her chair. He took the third.
I sat, and realized all the chairs were taken. “What about Claude?”
“When there is a guest he dines later. That is a rule of this house.” As he spoke he stared at Claude. The boy turned away, stood on tiptoe again to slide a book from the fireplace mantel, and sat on the edge of the bed to read. When he opened the book I saw the title:
Wuthering Heights.
Wuthering Heights.
Philippe saw where I was looking. “I traded a good robe in Battleford for a valise full of books last year. Claude is learning to read. He will not be illiterate like his mother and father.”
“No one's teaching him?”
“An American missionary taught him to read and write his name. He can pick out the letters. The rest will fall into place with time.”
“If his name is as long as his father's, he's got most of the alphabet already.”
Philippe lifted the pot and ladled a steaming heap of meat, thick gravy, and what might have been chunks of wild onion onto my tin plate. When I smelled it, I realized I hadn't eaten since sardines for breakfast. He served his wife and himself, then lowered his head and spoke quietly in French. He and his wife crossed themselves and we dug in. The squirrel was as tender as aged beef and the pungent onions tamed the gaminess. Given more genteel ingredients, Fleurette could have been head chef in any hotel in St. Louis; except as a half-breed she'd have been barred at the door.
“You will pardon me while I explain our plans to my wife,” Philippe said. “She is ignorant and does not understand English.”
I told him to go ahead. Carefully he put down his spoon, a wise move because he gestured with both hands when he talked. It was not all French. Although I'd heard Sioux and Cheyenne and even a little Apache down in New Mexico, I wasn't familiar with most of the tribal dialects, but the throat action is similar among Indians everywhere and I assumed he was speaking Cree part of the time, or a mix of Cree and some French dialect no self-respecting Parisian would acknowledge as stemming from his language. Her responsesâsome of them seemed to be questionsâwere more Indian than French, but she had a low silken voice that sounded pleasant even when she was plainly upset by what her husband was saying. I didn't need to speak the language to know she was in favor of staying put. I heard Claude's name frequently; she didn't like the idea of exposing her son to what fate held in store for travelers in the Canadian wilderness.
Claude, I saw, was only pretending to read
Wuthering Heights
. Whatever her charms as a novelist, Emily Brönte's windblown moors didn't stack up to a frontier manhunt in a boy's imagination.
Wuthering Heights
. Whatever her charms as a novelist, Emily Brönte's windblown moors didn't stack up to a frontier manhunt in a boy's imagination.
Abruptly, with a Gallic grunt and an outward slashing motion of his hands, Philippe put an end to the discussion. He turned to me with a deep flush showing beneath his dusky pigment. “It is all arranged,
monsieur le depute
. Madame du la Rochelle and young Master Claude will be enchanted to accompany us upon our great trek north.”
monsieur le depute
. Madame du la Rochelle and young Master Claude will be enchanted to accompany us upon our great trek north.”
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