Sergeant.
In my report, I put down the only sensible explanation: that the Sergeant’s ill-tempered horse had bucked, throwing him from the saddle. With his foot caught in the stirrup and his brains about to be dashed in by pounding hooves, the Sergeant had done the only thing he could to save himself: shoot his mount. And then, in all of the excitement of the moment, his weakened heart had stopped.
Of course, there was one thing that was never fully explained — something that has made me wonder, all of this time, if my strange dream didn’t in fact contain a grain of truth. When they removed the Sergeant’s clothing to prepare him for burial, the constables who were ministering to him were interrupted by Wilde’s two dogs, which tried to seize their master’s clothing. In the resulting tug-of-war, the constables noticed a peculiar thing.
We had ridden to Piapot’s camp along the railway line, across terrain that was thickly forested, and had presumably proceeded back to Maple Creek the same way. The weird landscape I had seen — the rolling, barren hills, and sandy ground — could have been nothing more than an illusion.
Yet both of the Sergeant’s boots contained a trickle of sand.
When I finished my tale, Superintendent Steele and the Commissioner were silent. Steele nodded at me, a pleased look on his face. The Commissioner picked up the reports and photographs, tapped them against the table to straighten the pile, then slid them back in the folder. As he closed the flap, I noticed it was marked with big block letters in red: confidential.
I stood uneasily in front of the table, trying to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of my uniform, which was still wet from the rainstorm. Had they believed me?
Steele was the first to break the silence. He turned to the Commissioner. “The brave with the painted face and lynx-skin war bonnet was Wandering Spirit. He’s a Cree — a member of Big Bear’s band. A war chief, and purportedly one with paranormal powers.”
The Commissioner nodded slowly, but seemed reluctant to continue in that vein. “Big Bear,” he mused. “Is that the pock-marked little troublemaker who refused to sign Treaty Number Six and tried to discourage the other Cree from signing?”
“The very same man, Commissioner,” Steele answered. “And now Big Bear is stirring up trouble and discontent once again. For the past few years he’s been traveling from one band to another, trying to get the Indians to set aside their differences and unite in a grand council. He had no success whatsoever, until recently. Over the course of this past year, the various Cree bands have joined together, and Big Bear has even made inroads among the tribes of the Blackfoot Confederacy — tribes who are sworn enemies of the Cree. Something’s tipped the balance in his favour, so that even his traditional enemies are willing to bury the tomahawk and join his campaign against the settlement of the North-West. And that something is magic.”
“Magic?” I couldn’t help but blurt.
“I’ve been collecting reports of strange occurrences for some time,” Steele said. “Events that cannot be explained by any known means. The first such incident to come to my attention was the sudden overflowing of the Old Man River in the spring of 1881, and the resulting destruction of Fort Macleod when the banks on which the palisade walls were built were undercut. Six constables and one officer were drowned in that flood, and yet upriver and down, the waters of the Old Man River remained within their normal course. With the exception of the immediate vicinity of Fort Macleod, the river did not rise.”
“I heard about the drownings,” I said. “And the rebuilding of the new fort, well away from the river. But I thought it was a natural flood.” Even as I spoke those words, however, I thought of the strange thunderstorm that had greeted my arrival in Regina, and shivered. I glanced out the window, but saw only clear
In my report, I put down the only sensible explanation: that the Sergeant’s ill-tempered horse had bucked, throwing him from the saddle. With his foot caught in the stirrup and his brains about to be dashed in by pounding hooves, the Sergeant had done the only thing he could to save himself: shoot his mount. And then, in all of the excitement of the moment, his weakened heart had stopped.
Of course, there was one thing that was never fully explained — something that has made me wonder, all of this time, if my strange dream didn’t in fact contain a grain of truth. When they removed the Sergeant’s clothing to prepare him for burial, the constables who were ministering to him were interrupted by Wilde’s two dogs, which tried to seize their master’s clothing. In the resulting tug-of-war, the constables noticed a peculiar thing.
We had ridden to Piapot’s camp along the railway line, across terrain that was thickly forested, and had presumably proceeded back to Maple Creek the same way. The weird landscape I had seen — the rolling, barren hills, and sandy ground — could have been nothing more than an illusion.
Yet both of the Sergeant’s boots contained a trickle of sand.
When I finished my tale, Superintendent Steele and the Commissioner were silent. Steele nodded at me, a pleased look on his face. The Commissioner picked up the reports and photographs, tapped them against the table to straighten the pile, then slid them back in the folder. As he closed the flap, I noticed it was marked with big block letters in red: confidential.
I stood uneasily in front of the table, trying to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of my uniform, which was still wet from the rainstorm. Had they believed me?
Steele was the first to break the silence. He turned to the Commissioner. “The brave with the painted face and lynx-skin war bonnet was Wandering Spirit. He’s a Cree — a member of Big Bear’s band. A war chief, and purportedly one with paranormal powers.”
The Commissioner nodded slowly, but seemed reluctant to continue in that vein. “Big Bear,” he mused. “Is that the pock-marked little troublemaker who refused to sign Treaty Number Six and tried to discourage the other Cree from signing?”
“The very same man, Commissioner,” Steele answered. “And now Big Bear is stirring up trouble and discontent once again. For the past few years he’s been traveling from one band to another, trying to get the Indians to set aside their differences and unite in a grand council. He had no success whatsoever, until recently. Over the course of this past year, the various Cree bands have joined together, and Big Bear has even made inroads among the tribes of the Blackfoot Confederacy — tribes who are sworn enemies of the Cree. Something’s tipped the balance in his favour, so that even his traditional enemies are willing to bury the tomahawk and join his campaign against the settlement of the North-West. And that something is magic.”
“Magic?” I couldn’t help but blurt.
“I’ve been collecting reports of strange occurrences for some time,” Steele said. “Events that cannot be explained by any known means. The first such incident to come to my attention was the sudden overflowing of the Old Man River in the spring of 1881, and the resulting destruction of Fort Macleod when the banks on which the palisade walls were built were undercut. Six constables and one officer were drowned in that flood, and yet upriver and down, the waters of the Old Man River remained within their normal course. With the exception of the immediate vicinity of Fort Macleod, the river did not rise.”
“I heard about the drownings,” I said. “And the rebuilding of the new fort, well away from the river. But I thought it was a natural flood.” Even as I spoke those words, however, I thought of the strange thunderstorm that had greeted my arrival in Regina, and shivered. I glanced out the window, but saw only clear
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