ONE - JULY 1874
FORT GARRY, "THE OLD STONE FORT,"
DUFFERIN, ONTARIO

The Dufferin prairie was carpeted with roses, and it broke Constable Hewson's heart that one must tread on them to get anywhere. The dark brown mare he rode did not seem to mind, and when he let go the reins to let her graze, she nosed between the blooms and crushed them beneath her hooves."

With no reins to keep his hands occupied, he drummed a merry rhythm on either side of the saddle horn and had himself one last long look at the prairie. It was not as green and pretty to look on as home, and the mid-day sun was less than kind, but he supposed that, if things took a bad turn on the trip he was about to make, this would be as pleasant a memory as any to keep, in the dark days. He had heard that there were no roses west of here.

The reins had slipped down to the mare's ears, and the constable had to give her a gentle kick and get her head-up and moving again before he could retrieve them. "They'll be wondering where we are," he said to her. Since the mare had been assigned to him last year, he tended to refer to the two of them collectively. He was proud that he had broken her, with no previous knowledge of horses. Even now, months later, his pride had not diminished, and he rode every day smiling in the face of snow and fatigue and hunger, because she would carry him.

Hewson heard someone calling his name, and they were angry. He made his way back to the Old Stone Fort, trying not to look sheepish. He was met by Inspector Brisbois.

"Where were you off to, Constable?" he demanded.

"Sorry, sir," Hewson said, and grinned. "I guess I just have a wandering spirit."

"Well, wander over to the B division assembly, would you?"

Hewson moved along the standing column, already a full two miles long, identifying his division's assembly by the color of their horses; they were all dark brown, like his. He trotted his mare over and joined this group. Next to him was a constable with impeccable posture and a peaceful expression.

"Excuse me," said Hewson, and the other constable looked at him as though he knew very well that Hewson had snuck out of the column, but didn't care. "Are we due to begin the march very soon?"
The constable looked behind him. "Yes, I believe we've decided to go on without the oxen. Most of them ran away this morning."

Hewson watched as the half-breed wagon drivers, all of them drunk or hung-over, struggled to get the wagon-horses moving. A few of them had balked, and the rest apparently didn't want to feel left out. Hewson had learned much in the way of locally-used obscenities from the wagon drivers.

"Where's Parker?" Hewson asked. "I haven't seen him all day."

"Deserted," said the constable.

"Oh." Hewson turned in his saddle and had a look at the men around him. Davison was unaccounted for as well, he noted aloud.

"Deserted," said the constable.

"Well," said Hewson, "you haven't deserted, so I guess I may as well learn your name."

"David Evans," said the constable, and was close enough on his mount to offer his hand.

"All this time I haven't met you," Hewson said, more to himself, really.

"I've noticed you," Evans said. "When the Commissioner found out you'd tamed that mare, he said you must have done it with your charm, because you couldn't have done it with your skills."

Hewson smiled. "Did he really say that?"

*****


It had seemed to him a matter of the utmost importance: a recruitment of men to bring law and order into the North West Territories. To flush out the whiskey traders, to protect the Indians from trigger-happy rogues and the rotgut liquor they peddled. Paul Hewson, who'd feared that his stint on the railroads might crush his spirit irrevocably, saw the notice in a post office and rushed to Ottawa to enlist. He was inspired. He realized that this was what he'd traveled so far to do. He could uphold justice in his adopted country, when there was none at home. He had heard what the Yankees were doing to their Indians, and thought it a fine thing that perhaps one day Canada could look back and be proud that they had chosen a different fate for their native tribes.

Hewson also hoped that he could earn enough money to send for his family.

Once enlisted, he was sent one thousand miles west, to Stone Fort, for his training. For a while he forgot about the Indians, being mainly preoccupied with the air immediately around himself, which tended to be thirty degrees below zero and was often filled with flurries of snow. But as the days grew longer and his horsemanship and skill with a pistol improved, he became anxious to head further west. By summer he felt he was being held back, and often daydreamed of whiskey traders who were frightened into law-abiding docility by the mere sight of his red serge and white gloves.

Now that he had taken his mare for one last stroll through the roses, and the time had come to begin the march, Hewson was just about leaping out of his skin with excitement.

The horses could feel the tension among the men, and stamped their hooves. Hewson did his best to calm his mare, leaning forward to pat her neck and whispering to her, always saying "we." "We'll be alright, don't worry."

There was little fanfare when the march began, no cheers, no ladies waving white handkerchiefs. But their lances glittered in the sun, and their pennants fluttered, and the men felt very noble indeed.

The column moved so slowly, Hewson couldn't bear to think that this was actually it.

"Feels like we should all be going faster," he said to Constable Evans, who rode alongside him. "I mean, after all this mucking about, it seems like we've got to catch up to something."

"Be patient," said Evans. "It's only another six hundred miles."


*****

Hewson's suspicion, that the slow procession was only to upset him, was sealed when the column halted after only a few miles.

"They call it a Hudson's Bay Start," said Evans. "It's like practice. The officers want to make sure that we really have everything we need, before we get too far from the fort."

There was a wait, so that the wagons could catch up, and then the men unloaded the tents and food. This Evans fellow seemed to have a handle on things, so Hewson kept by him.

"Where you from, then?" he asked.

Evans did not look up from cooking his ration of bacon. "My family is Welsh, but I was born in London. London, Ontario, I mean."

"I worked on the railroad in Ontario," said Hewson. "I did all sorts of work there, actually. I was a bricklayer, blacksmith's apprentice, I worked in a slaughterhouse, a paper mill…"

"That's a lot of jobs. How long were you in Ontario?"

"Two months. I just couldn't find something I liked to do."

Inspector Brisbois trotted by on his horse and called out, "Best cover up your ears, Evans!"

Evans looked up at the Inspector, puzzled. "Hardly cold enough for frostbitten ears, is it, sir?"

"I mean that Irishman. He'll talk them right off you if you let him get started."

"Don't bother about him," Hewson said of Brisbois, once the officer was out of earshot. "Quite mad, he is. Anyway. Being a policeman has been the hardest job I've had so far, but I've heard it's the best job an Irishman can have. I mean, I don't feel like a policeman, really. We look more like soldiers, don't we, wearing these red coats. Why would they want to dress the police like British soldiers?"

"The Indians like British soldiers," said Evans. "They respect them. Indians believe that their coats are red because Queen Victoria dyes them in the blood of her enemies."

"I guess that's why the Indians want to be friends, then. So what made you want to join up with this lot?"
Evans speared his bacon from the pan and invited Hewson to put his ration in, since Hewson had not bothered to start a fire of his own. "My parents think I should be a physician, but it's not what I want. I wanted to see the country and have a bit of adventure. They told me I could join the Mounted, but when my engagement is over, if I haven't made something of myself, I have to go home and be a physician. To be honest, I try not to think about that too much."

Hewson leaned forward, wanting to learn a secret. "So what do you think about?"

Evans shrugged. "The incandescent light bulb."


*****

They were a rag-tag bunch, having yet no uniform dress, and what they did have, they had no replacements for. Constables Hewson and Evans were fortunate in that they had been issued high-crowned pith helmets, which kept the sun and rain out of their eyes. Many men had only forage caps, ridiculous pillbox hats which served no practical purpose. Some of the recruits, on the eve of the march, had shaved their hair off out of fear of being scalped, and now their heads were lobster-red under the prairie sun. [1]

The pith helmet, however, did nothing to protect from the mosquitoes. Hewson could brush them off his arms in sheets, particularly when the column was crossing marshlands. The mosquitoes crawled into his ears and nostrils, worked their way under his collar and cuffs. Though Hewson's chief pleasure was chatting with Evans, many miles were passed in silence, for if one opened one's mouth, the fiends would fly right inside. The column encountered an enterprising trader who sold Hewson a salve which was promised to ward off mosquitoes. Though Evans doubted the efficacy of the salve, Hewson smeared the lot on his mare's flanks, head, and neck, for she was bloody with bites, and he pitied her.

The fifth day of the march was a Sunday, and though there was no traveling, everyone kept busy from dawn to dusk, doing their washing, tending their mounts, and attending what church services were available.

Evans, returning from one such service, found Hewson outside his tent, furiously scrubbing his mess kit and refusing to look up. When Evans asked what was the matter, Hewson, apparently beyond speech, pointed at some of his fellow recruits. They were Protestants, who to celebrate the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne had placed yellow flowers in their caps, or behind their horses' ears.

"It's Orangemen Day, then," said Evans. He kneeled beside Hewson, gently took the abused frying pan out of his hands, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not the only Catholic in the corps. Did you go to mass today?"

Hewson sat back on his heels. He did not answer, but began to sing, softly:

Salve Regina, mater misericordiae
Vita dulcedo et spes nostra salve
Ad te clamamus, exules filii Hevae
Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes
In hac lacrimarum valle…[2]

Evans had not known Hewson could sing, and listened, first with patient humor, but then with rapt attention. His voice was all the more compelling for being laced with fury. No choirboy was he, but it was what was in his heart, not his throat, which made the song so beautiful.

"Is it true," asked Evans, "that everyone in Ireland can sing and play an instrument?"

"I sing, that's all," said Hewson. "I can't believe I've traveled five thousand miles just to see the same men with the same blood-soaked pride." At last he looked at the men with the yellow flowers. Evans helped him to stand, and he went to his pack and pulled from it a dried rose, which he'd first taken as they passed out of Dufferin, and had kept safe in an envelope. He placed it behind his mare's ear.


*****

After only two weeks the column resembled a routed army corps. A larger part of the men were using hand-made apparel to replace some article of clothing that had been worn out or ruined. Some wrapped their feet in the raw skins of sundry animals when their boots were no longer useful. Everything was filthy, some things blood-stained from the wrath of the mosquitoes. The bacon was rotten, the bread was stale, and man and beast were ever hungry. On the prairie, there was little forage for the livestock, and the low sick moaning of the cattle was inescapable. The column would approach a drinking pool (the rare one that was not a mirage) only to find it teeming with the dead bodies of the grasshoppers that had stripped the prairie of forage the day before. There were no posts at which to purchase food, clothing, or supplies. [3]

It was a month before the men got their first sight of buffalo. Some were thrilled to have a buffalo hunt, but they only brought down old bulls, whose meat defied their teeth.

Hewson and Evans, not enthusiastic hunters, continued along in the column while others had their bit of fun. "That's not so many," said Evans, and nodded at the herd, which to Hewson seemed an enormous amount. "The buffalo will be gone soon. The Yankees are killing them just to get rid of the Indians."

Before Hewson could respond, he was thrown from his horse. He landed on his shoulder, but sat up to find himself unharmed. For just a moment he was sentimental for the time, six months ago, when he thrown by his mare at least hourly, onto the hard, freezing earth. He turned around to find her also on the ground, trying to rise but unable. Hewson got up and came around to find the prairie-dog hole she had stepped in.

It was then that he realized that something had just happened that could not be fixed. Even after all this time, he could turn around and go back, all the way back to Ireland if he wanted; he could desert the corps and pretend he'd never enlisted. But he could now do nothing to save his mare.

She quit her struggling and laid her head down on the ground, her nostrils flaring, her ribcage heaving. An Englishman from another division passed by, clucking his tongue. "Ah, that's a shame, innit?"

Hewson got back down on the ground and patted the mare's neck. He knew what he had to do, but could not bring himself to begin doing it, though he knew that every second the horse continued to live she was in agony. Evans dismounted and knelt at Hewson's side. He took Hewson's pistol from its holster and put it in his hand, wrapping his own fingers around Hewson's to be sure he wouldn't drop it. Hewson took the pistol and placed the muzzle against her ear, but he could do nothing but weep.

"Come on then, Paddy!" the Englishman called. "Put the poor beast out of its misery and let's be on our way."

Hewson tried to force the pistol on Evans. "You do it!" he cried. "I can't do it!"

Evans refused. "You'll never forgive me if I do it."

Hewson leaned forward and whispered something to the mare that Evans did not hear. Then he pointed the pistol at her head, looked away, and pulled the trigger. The whole of her body seized and then was still.

Evans took the pistol from where it had fallen on the ground and replaced in its holster.

"We had plans, you know," said Hewson. "We were going to tame the West together, and do all that heroic stuff that the Commissioner said we were going to do. I won't be able to do it without my horse."

"We should get going," Evans said. "You and I can share my horse."

"I couldn't ask you to do that." Hewson stood up and looked around for his sidearm until Evans reached out and tapped it to show him where it was.

"It won't be long before my horse is too weak to carry even just me. Then I'll have nothing left to offer you."

Constable Hewson's gaze was drawn from his mare for the first time since she'd fallen, and he looked into Evans' eyes, which were never more calm. He knew that to pity himself and refuse the offer would hurt his friend's feelings, so he consented. Evans let him get in the saddle, and rode behind, so that if he tried to look back at the mare Evans would know, and could scold him for doing so.


*****

By September the horses were dying eight or nine a day, and in the condition they died in they were no good for eating, so the men continued to go hungry most days. Evans and Hewson took it in turns to ride the horse they shared, not only because it was too weak to carry them both, but also because the temperature was dropping rapidly, and the men had to walk as much as they rode to keep their circulation up.

Sometimes, the whining of the ungreased axles of the wagons faded in the distance, and the half-breeds stopped cursing the oxen that they drove, and there was space in the air for a tune. When Constable Hewson had his turn riding, he was more likely to break into song, for the rhythm of the horse's walk was more regular but also more complex. As the horse went along, Hewson's body tilted and rocked slightly with each step, and he would think of a song which fit the rhythm. He would sing quietly at first, so that Evans did not usually catch on until the second or third verse:

How sweet is life, but we're dying
How mellow the wine, but we're dry
How fragrant the rose, but it's dying
How gentle the wind but it sighs
What good is in youth when it's aging?
What joys are in eyes that can't see?
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free… [4]

One day, Hewson was in the middle of such a tune when Evans shushed him and pointed. In the distance but drawing closer was a band of Sioux. The corps and the Sioux did not have dealings with one another that day, only happened to be on the same path. At first the men were excited to see Indians, but were soon disappointed, for these Sioux they met today were an even sorrier sight than they themselves were. Stringy-haired, skeletal, and lice-ridden, these Indians were no credit to their race.
"Don't see what's so noble about these savages," a constable quipped.

Hewson heard this and snapped, "Oh certainly, who knows what's come over these chaps, just because the English took their land from them and left them to starve or drink themselves to death! Can't imagine what that's like!"

Unfortunately for Hewson, Inspector Brisbois was within earshot, and reminded Hewson that he himself was now a servant of the Crown, and ought to show a little more respect. Hewson was given plenty of time to reflect on this the next day, as Brisbois assigned him to the lowest chore of all, driving the cattle.


*****

The Chinook wind blew through the camp, and not a moment too soon. The unseasonably warm breeze did much to lift the spirit of the corps. [5] It was warm enough, in fact, that the men were able to remove and wash their clothing without fear of freezing. After the dust and stench of driving the cattle, Hewson found this particularly well-timed. That night, as he crawled into his tent, he felt a great comfort; as always he slept in his uniform, for want of anything else, but tonight it was a clean uniform.

As he dozed, he dreamed that he and Constable Evans were crossing a wide creek. As they stepped across, stone by stone, Evans took his hand to help him keep his balance. But when the sensation slithered up his wrist, he awoke to find that something was crawling into his sleeve. He managed to grab the tail, and yanked a long but harmless snake from his shirt. Not thinking clearly, he threw it on the ground and hurled himself out of the tent, calling out to Constable Evans.

Evans always camped next to him. He did not wait for permission to enter before he dove into Evans' tent and began babbling about the snake.

"It's just a snake," said Evans. "You should always check your tent before you bed down. Haven't you had to deal with a snake before?"

"As a matter of fact, no!" said Hewson. "I have never seen a snake before tonight! Nor have I ever seen a mosquito, or a chigger, or a cockroach before I came to this country!"

Evans waited, and when Hewson seemed to be finished he threw back his blanket, lit an oil lamp, and went into Hewson's tent. There he found the wicked creature, caught it behind the head, and tossed it out onto the prairie. Hewson was still waiting in the other tent.

"I want to sleep in here tonight," he said when Evans lifted the flap.

Evans sighed and dropped the flap. "Fine. I'll sleep in your tent."

"No, wait. I mean, I want to share this one with you."

"Whatever for?" Evans shined the lamp on Hewson's half-smiling face. He suddenly felt a deep affection for this man, terrified of a tiny snake with no teeth but utterly unafraid to ask for anything he desired.

"I'll never get to sleep now," Hewson said. "I need somebody to talk to."

Evans grunted to express his disapproval, but found he could not refuse his friend a favor. He went back and yanked Hewson's blanket from his tent, unfurling it in the warm Chinook wind to remove any suspicion that it was infested with snakes. Heat lightning flashed, and for a moment the sky was a magnificent red. Evans stood still a moment, waiting for the thunder. Then he extinguished the lamp and crawled into his own tent, finding that Hewson had already laid down and would make no move to take his blanket. Evans laid the blanket over him and Hewson squirmed with glee.

"When we get to Fort Whoop-Up?" he said. "How are we going to fight the whiskey traders off?"

Evans wrapped himself up in his own blanket and turned away from Hewson. "We won't have to worry about that. The outlaws know that the Mounted Police are on their way, and they'll scatter before we get there." Then he added, "I think."

"Oh," said Hewson, and he was quiet for a little while, but then he began to softly sing a little song, and Evans didn't mind.

******

Some of the men ate so many berries, they took ill. But no one could have stopped them, for the column had crossed many hundreds of miles with nothing sweeter or more nutritious than flapjacks (one per man per day) and bad coffee. They were approaching the mountains that formed the spine of the continent, a wall of towering pinnacles as wide as heaven, and for the first time desolate prairie gave way to green hills and thick forests. Hewson and Evans, who barely remembered such a thing as fresh food, could just walk along the Whoop-Up trail and pick berries as they went. They were both on foot now; Evans' horse had collapsed some ways back.

The Commissioners, French and Macleod, headed for Fort Benton, eighty miles to the south in Montana, to acquire badly needed supplies and food. They were getting ready for the final push towards Fort Whoop-Up, the outlaw stronghold. After so much hardship, Whoop-Up seemed like a distant memory rather than a destination to the men, but the forage in the hills was better for horses and men alike. They pitched their tents along the Milk River and waited for French and Macleod return. It would not be a tragedy if they did not hurry.

One evening, Evans was cleaning his kit by the river when he heard a hollering so furious, he put his hand on his sidearm. But it was only Hewson, leaping as he ran, and screaming.

"Look what I've just bought!" he cried, and could barely slow himself up. He overshot Evans and nearly went into the river. In his right hand was a jar of syrup, which he presented to Evans. He then revealed a second jar, which was for himself.

"There's a man coming down the column, a merchant from Benton. When the Commissioner told him we were up here, he got a head start and there's a wagon here with sugar and flour and canned fruit and this syrup!" Hewson couldn't get the lid off fast enough. He dipped his finger in the jar and sucked the syrup off, barely taking the time to savor the taste before exclaiming, "I'm going to spend all my pay! We'll eat like kings tonight!" He grabbed Evans by the wrist and they ran for the wagon.



The collective effort of the corps produced a fantastic feast, and the men crowded the larger tents with a fierce determination to enjoy themselves. There was no liquor to be had, for the purpose of the march was to rid the West of such evils, but the men were intoxicated with the sweetened biscuits, cans of fruit, and the clean, fresh water of the Milk River. Some of the men had bought tobacco for their pipes. A flute and fiddle were brought out. [6] Men shared the songs of their homelands, and those who were not too stuffed with food danced a bit. A crate was set in the middle of the tent, for the more extroverted, and Hewson allowed himself to be pushed onto it.

Evans, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his hands on his knees, leaned forward and shouted to be heard over the crowd. "Give us a song, then!" And the band struck up, which is to say that the two players played, and the rest stomped their feet, and Hewson sang a song that he had been taught by some fisherman when he had chanced to meet them in Quebec:

In eighteen hundred and forty-six
And of March the eighteenth day,
We hoisted our colors to the top of the mast
And for Greenland sailed away

The lookout in the crosstrees stood
With spyglass in his hand;
There's a whale, there's a whale, And a whalefish he cried
And she blows at every span

The captain stood on the quarter deck,
The ice was in his eye;
Overhaul, overhaul! Let your gibsheets fall,
And you'll put your boats to sea

Our harpoon struck and the line played out,
With a single flourish of his tail,
He capsized the boat and we lost five men,
And we did not catch the whale

The losing of those five jolly men,
It grieved the captain sore,
But the losing of that fine whalefish
Now it grieved him ten times more

Oh Greenland is a barren land
A land that bares no green
Where there's ice and snow, and the whalefishes blow
And the daylight's seldom seen...[7]

Evans admired that Hewson was not shy, but was envious moreso for the fact that, though the march and the men on it had tried Hewson's patience and threatened his dignity, he was not spiteful. He would belt out a tune for them if it meant adding to the merriment. He repeated the verses, and some the men picked up on them and sang along.

When he finished, the cheering was lengthy and loud, and Hewson collapsed next to Evans, flushed and grinning madly. "This is terrific! Say, are there any biscuits left? What are we doing here on the prairie, anyway? I've forgotten now." He leaned against Evans, only for a moment, then sat up straight to clap along with another song. Evans tuned out the noise and thought about what he would be doing just then, if he were a fisherman. He would be at sea. And Hewson would be with him. Hewson would be a fisherman, too.


*****

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Potts," Hewson addressed the column's half-breed guide and interpreter. "But, what's beyond that hill?"

Potts followed Hewson's pointing finger with his eyes and said, "N'udder hill."

"Right," said Hewson. "Just like the last twelve times I asked." He fell back to let Evans catch up with him.

"Be patient," said Evans. "One day the railroad will come though here, and these hills will go by faster than you can count them."

"I'd be glad of it. The hills are making me feel uneasy. I've never been upset by hills before. I mean, there are hills at home. In Ireland, I mean. I don't understand what's different about these hills."

Evans nodded.

"I feel like the world is closing in on me. I've suppose I've just gotten used to being able to see to all four ends of the earth."

"The hills are more dangerous," Evans said. "No one could sneak up on us on the prairie. Now we could be walking right into a hundred enraged Indian braves and not realize it until it was too late."

Hewson scowled at Evans. "Thank you. That makes me feel much better."

*****

One day Hewson was walking next to the guide, Jerry Potts, and he stopped and pointed at the hill before them.

"I know, I know," said Hewson. "Another hill."

"Whoop-Up," said Potts.

It was nearly three months to the day since leaving Dufferin that Hewson and Evans found themselves at the crest of a hill looking down on Fort Whoop-Up.

"I'm glad the march is over," Hewson said. "I'd just about run out of things to talk to you about."

Excitement flooded through the column, and the men suddenly remembered why they had come so far. The outer walls of the fort were riddled with small holes, most for poking the barrels of guns through, but a few for Indians to push buffalo robes through, in exchange for bottles of firewater.

The men made ready the field guns and mortars, which had outlasted the horses that had dragged them there. Macleod and Potts hammered on the main gate, and they were answered by a Yankee named Dave Akers, who greeted Macleod warmly and invited him to dinner. "Walk in, General," he said, "and make yourself at home." The corps watched from the hill.

"What's going on?" asked Hewson. "Are we going to have to shoot anyone?"

"It doesn't look that way," said Evans, and just then a signal was given for the men to approach as friends rather than foes. Akers had a flourishing garden, and the men ate fresh vegetables and buffalo steaks while the Yankee chatted with Macleod.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a grander welcome," Akers said, "but you see, my partners are away on business."

"I told you," Evans whispered to Hewson. "They knew we were coming and ran for it. We won't find any liquor or furs here, either."

"You mean we came all this way," said Hewson, "and there's nothing for us to do?"

"I didn't say that."


*****

Akers would not sell Fort Whoop-Up to the Mounted Police, so Macleod and the guide Potts led the men to a site thirty miles away. After all the men had endured, what they saw seemed like paradise on earth: cottonwood trees as far as the eye could see, fresh water, wild game, and it was no bad deal for the horses and livestock, either. There were acres of pasture and plenty of forage.

The fort was built right over a buffalo trail, a plainly visible indentation which was, sadly, no longer in use, as the buffalo had disappeared from the valley. The policemen built the fort themselves, beginning with cutting and dragging logs, each the height of two men, and placing them upright in the trenches they had dug, to form the outer wall.

For a while Hewson was relieved of construction duty and assigned to the horses, herding them into the shelter of the woods, wrapping them in blankets. He fed them on corn and oats until their ribs were no longer obvious and their coats regained their luster. But one day, when the men's quarters were being built, he was called upon to join a bucket brigade. The roofs all needed a few inches of earth on top, to thwart flaming arrows. Hewson was the second-to-last man, standing by the top of the ladder and receiving pails of dirt. Once the brigade had done its work, all that was left was to spread the dirt evenly, and Hewson called to the men on the ground, "Can you throw those three spades up here?"

"What's that you say?" a man called back. Hewson recognized him as a man who'd had a yellow flower in his cap on Orangemen Day.

"I said, can you throw those three spades up here?"

The man cackled with delight at Hewson's accent. "Sorry, 'trow?' I don't believe I know how to 'trow' anything. I think you must have left your haitches back in Ireland!" This elicited a chuckle from the crowd around him.

Hewson picked up a bucket and threw it at the man, missing by an embarrassing distance. Two others grabbed the ladder away, leaving him stranded on the roof. But these men were only a troublesome few, and once they'd left for the next roof some others replaced the ladder and offered Hewson some consoling words. Hewson was ready to give chase, but as he was climbing down the ladder he caught sight of two wagons trundling toward the camp. He leaped the rest of the way down and ran for the main gate.

Evans was seated on one of the wagons, next to a pile of buffalo robes. He and the men he rode with carried newly acquired rifles, and were surrounded by sixteen more horses than they'd left with. But it was the second wagon that got most of the attention; it was laden with bottles of liquor.

"What happened?" Hewson asked as he ran up to meet Evans. "Did you get the whiskey traders?"

Evans pointed to some ragged outlaw-types on horseback, escorted by a pair of sergeants. "That's Willaim Bond," he said. "And that's Kamoose."

"Kamoose?"

"It means 'woman-stealer.' I'll tell you about him later. Help me with these." While the buffalo robes and rifles were confiscated by the officers for later distribution, Hewson and Evans were told to unload the liquor and get rid of it. Hewson thought it a shame; it was one thing to destroy oneself with drink, but surely a sip once in a while did no harm to no one? He lifted a bottle to his lips and drank, an act he immediately regretted. The liquor, foul enough on its own, was mixed with Tabasco and Jamaica ginger, and Hewson's mouth burned so, he thought he might never taste food again. "This stuff is evil," he said, and as far as he was concerned it could not spill fast enough.

Evans told Hewson all about Harry Taylor, a white man whom the Indians called "Woman-Stealer." He wanted to take a certain squaw for his wife, but her family refused him, and so he disguised himself as a dog, snuck into the camp in the night, and kidnapped her.

Hewson was jealous that Evans had been picked by Inspector Crozier to join the detachment to capture the whiskey traders, but Evans insisted it was nothing to envy. Just more hard work and weary travel, he said.

"You and I will both have plenty more traveling to do," he told Hewson as they poured the last of the liquor, "when they send us to build the new fort."

"Another one?" cried Hewson, but Evans was already on his way back to his tent for a rest.

Inspector Crozier approached Hewson. "Good man, that Evans. Can't place his accent. Do you know where he's from?"

Hewson was not finished being puzzled by what Evans had said. "He's from the future, I guess, for all that he talks about it." He made his way back to the camp, unhitched the horses from the wagons, and took them to the stables to be watered and fed.


*****

Hewson only wanted to get started doing what he'd come here to do: arrest the outlaws, protect the Indians, and, if he had time, tame the West, single-handedly if possible, to achieve maximum glory.
He had arrived to find that many of the outlaws were doing his job for him. Once news of the Mounted Police's arrival made it to the whiskey-traders' posts, most of them broke up their stills and set up general stores and hotels. A small billiard hall near Fort Macleod, owned by a reformed trader, was quite popular with the policemen.

But occasionally a ragged Yankee outlaw would be held at the fort until he could be transferred to a proper prison. Constable Hewson was given the glorious, rough-and-tumble job of bringing their meals.

The outlaws would complain to Hewson that if the Mounted would just leave them alone, in a few years' time there wouldn't be any more Indians to worry about. "Some more whiskey, maybe a little strychnine, and a few bullets would save you a lot of trouble," one had sneered. "But then, I guess you'd be out of a job, wouldn't you?"

"I'd rather be out of a job like mine than a job like yours," said Hewson, and gave the man a cold cup of coffee and a triangular slab of burnt meat. Then he went back to the mess hall and had the same thing for his own supper.

TWO - WINTER 1875
FORT WALSH
CYPRESS HILLS, NORTH WEST TERRITORIES (NOW SASKATCHEWAN)

The prairie had not been a lush demonstration of nature's bounty, but Constable Evans could remember a bit of color there, at least: the rainbow hues of sunsets, uninterrupted by man's constructions (or by anything else, for that matter). The prairie itself was punctuated by the occasional sparkling stream or a patch of meadow grass; and there had been the scarlet coats of the men who rode before him.

Now, there was hardly a scrap of scarlet between them, and the winter had destroyed all color and shape. For months on end, anything that might, by chance, be colorful was caked with mud and clay. Shades of mud blurred together, so that objects in the middle distance formed one nebulous entity. Watched over by a perpetually steel-gray sky and with muck ever underfoot, Evans struggled to remember what green was like, or yellow. He liked to look into Constable Hewson's eyes, to see the blue in them.

The men hung skins over their bunks to keep off the rain that poured through the leaking roof. They packed the gaps in the walls with mud to stave off drafts, and then the Chinook blew through and the mud melted all over everything. Nothing was safe from becoming part of the eerie, shapeless mass that was Fort Walsh.

Every night Hewson and Evans joined the men gathered around the stove in their barracks, hoping for a last bit of warmth before crawling into their cold, hard beds.

"I think I liked it better when we slept out on the prairie," Hewson said, and some of the men nodded assent. "A stove like this is no good, you know. Burns out before we've even nodded off. If we had a big piece of turf to put on the fire, it would keep us warm all night."

"Perhaps the Prime Minister will import some for us," said Evans.


*****

Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot Confederacy, was allowed to choose the site where he would sign away all of his people's land, a vast fertile region east of the Rocky Mountains. He chose a favorite campsite, a beautiful valley near a shallow section of the Bow River. The Indians called it "The Ridge Under the Waters."

This was the last fifty thousand miles in the Dominion of Canada that did not belong to the British Empire. Previous chiefs were given uniforms, medals, horses, and farming equipment in exchange for their land, all with much pomp and circumstance. This being the last of such ceremonies, it was the most celebrated.

Constables Hewson and Evans were among a hundred men chosen as the police escort of David Laird, the Lieutenant Governor of the North West Territories and Queen Victoria's representative at the concession of the Blackfoot lands. He told his escort that they should feel privileged: they would be witness to the entirely peaceful settlement of the Canadian West. Hewson was not so sure. There was much optimism and cheer among the men, who were happy to play their part in negotiating with the Indians. But nearly all these men were of English stock, and could not understand what Hewson felt: a wariness at the apparent ease with which the land was handed over.

"This is a strange peace," he said to Evans.

Evans could sense that Hewson's illusions were slipping away, and that saddened him. He said to Hewson, "The damage has been done. This is the only chance the Blackfoot have to be fed and protected. If they keep the land, they will starve on it."

The Indians at the Bow River crossing numbered in the thousands. They were well-fed, having encountered a buffalo herd downstream. The police escort heard the camp before they saw it, for the drums thundered continuously through during the day. It was to date the greatest gathering of Indians on Canada's western plains.

Crowfoot arrived, resplendent in a deerskin jacket covered in black lines, each line signifying a victory in battle. He was tall, strong, and slow-spoken, a chief and the son of a chief. Hewson wished to approach him and speak to him, but was intimidated. He was, however, occasionally mobbed by Blackfoot children, who were fascinated by his scarlet coat, and wished to try on his pith helmet. He let them, when no officers were around. For his own amusement, he would teach the children Gaelic words, then watch them baffle the other white men in the escort by trying to practice with them.

It was warm, the afternoon the treaty was signed, and the police stood uncomfortably in their wool coats and looked on as Laird opened with a stirring speech to the Indians.

"The Great Mother loves all her children," Laird said, "white men and red men alike. The bad white men and the bad Indian alone she does not love, and she punishes them for their wickedness. The good Indian has nothing to fear from the Queen or her officers. You know this to be true. When bad white men brought you whiskey, robbed you and made you poor, she sent the Mounted Police to put an end to it. I have to tell you how pleased the Queen is that you have helped the police and obeyed her laws since their arrival."

Laird promised to help the Indians learn how to raise crops and cattle. He told them they could still hunt in the Blackfoot territory, and each family would receive a generous tract of land and an annual allowance. "And as soon as you settle, teachers will be sent to you to instruct your children to read books like this one." And he waved a Bible in the air.

Hewson was mollified just slightly at hearing all this, and whispered, "I wish the Great White Mother loved her Irish children the way she loves her red children." Evans leaned to the left and placed a hand over Hewson's mouth for the rest of the speech.

Crowfoot himself did not seem to share Hewson's apprehension, though it was obvious to look at him that he was weary of what fate had burdened him with. He said that it was the dealings with the Mounted, so honest and helpful, that had made up his mind about the treaty. "If the police had not come, where would we all be now? Bad men and whiskey were killing us so fast that very few of us would have been alive today. The Mounted Police have protected us as the feathers of the bird protect it from the frosts of winter. I am satisfied. I will sign the treaty."



On Sunday, after the transaction was complete, most of the white men and women at the conference were attending an outdoor church service. Hewson usually joined Evans for these Protestant services, because, as they traveled from campsite to fort to campsite, there was not always a priest, nor indeed any other Catholics, to join him for Mass. Also, the Protestant's God seemed like a more easygoing fellow.

It was during this particular service that a sound of gunfire was heard in the distance, and then the whooping of young Indian braves. Soon a cloud of dust appeared over the ridge, and five hundred warriors, in full war paint and battle dress, came charging toward the congregation. They circled the crowd and fired their rifles and hollered. The women began to panic, as they were not familiar with Indian ways. Evans was standing next to an Inspector's wife, and explained to her that this was only play-acting, a mock battle, and if everyone remained quiet and still, eventually the braves would wear themselves out. And indeed, after a while they returned to their camps and things went on as if nothing had happened.

Late that night, outside the tents, fires still burned, Indians still chanted, and officers were still philosophizing at length about the future of the nation. The noise was keeping Hewson awake. He got up, wrapping his blanket around himself, and crept over to where Evans was sleeping. The firelight from outside helped him find his way. He shook Evans, who was already awake.

"I've been thinking," Hewson said. "Between the rancid grub they feed us, the dysentery, and the bedbugs in our beds, I wonder if the Lieutenant Governor has plans to take our forts away once he's broken us." He paused; Evans did not reply. "We're not really here to protect the Indians, are we?"

Evans sighed. "I was dreading the day you figured that out. No, we're not here to protect the Indians. We're here to push them into the far corners of the West so the government can build the Canadian Pacific Railway and settle the prairie."

Evans was so blunt that Hewson had to go over what he'd said twice in his mind, to be sure he'd heard it. "But…it was in the newspaper. They called us here because of the Indian massacre at Cypress Hills."

"Yes, because what the Yankees spend on Indian massacres alone is about the same as our country's entire budget. You and I are the affordable alternative to war. Did you expect that the notice in the post office would say, 'Wanted: Imperialist aggressors to aid elitist nation-building?'"

Outside, the drums were dying down, and the firelight shone through the tent canvas more dimly. "So if you know all this," Hewson said, "why did you join?"

Evans found it difficult to answer. He'd been taken in too, by the promise of adventure. He wanted to climb mountains and ford rivers, and had not realized that while for him the unfettered roaming was just beginning, for the red man it was at its end.

"Think of it this way. If you weren't here, it wouldn't stop the British Empire. There would just be some other man in your place, only he wouldn't care the way you do."

Outside, the fires were extinguished, and Hewson found himself in the dark.


*****

September was not a bad month to be alive at Fort Walsh. It was a poor site from a strategic perspective, being surrounded on all sides by hills. But this time of year it seemed all the layers of mud had been lifted from the valley by the hand of God, and it was positively picturesque, green and wooded. A small village had cropped up around it, so the men could eat at a restaurant, if they could afford it, or get a proper hair cut.

Constable Hewson was outside enjoying these last days of summer. Some new recruits had arrived, and he'd found horses for them and today was making them into good riders. Some of the horses were confiscated from outlaws and had not yet been trained to be proper police horses. One of the recruits, a man named Woods, found himself on a horse which Hewson guessed had been mistreated by its previous owner. It was a nervous beast, and difficult to control, responding to every light touch as if whipped. Hewson put Woods on the horse because Woods was cocky, and Hewson wanted to see if handling such a horse would humble the young man. Woods was trying to get the horse to walk a tight circle, but it had decided it would not respond to the reins, and when he gave the horse a kick out of frustration it took off. Woods was powerless to stop it, and hollered for help. Hewson just laughed, satisfied that his young charge had learned a lesson. He called out, "Send me a postcard when you get there!"

When he saw the other two recruits looking over his shoulder, he turned around and saw a man approaching. It was Many Spotted Horses, a minor Blackfoot chief. Hewson had distributed the agreed-upon cash allowances to some of the Indians after the Blackfoot conference, and that's when he had met Many Spotted Horses. The chief had thanked Hewson in English, though he did not understand the value of the paper money.

Now he asked for Hewson's help. He had bought some goods at the general store, and wanted to make sure he had been given the correct change. Hewson was not certain he could help, not knowing how much Many Spotted Horses had to begin with. "Let's see what you've got," he said. The Indian held out a fistful of fruit jar labels.

"This is what the shopkeeper gave you?"

Many Spotted Horses nodded.

"You take me to the shopkeeper." He turned to the recruits. "Put the horses away once you've found Woods."

Hewson followed Many Spotted Horses up the hill to the general store. The proprietor, a former whiskey trader supposedly gone straight, went pale when he saw a Mounted Policeman at the door.

"Let's see the money this man gave you," Hewson said to Many Spotted Horses. The Indian dropped the labels on the counter, and Hewson smoothed them out. He ordered the shopkeeper to place upon the counter the change he should have given Many Spotted Horses.

"This is what our money looks like," Hewson said, and pointed out the face of the Queen on the bills. "Don't let someone give you anything that doesn't look like this. These?" He crumpled up the fruit jar labels. "Rubbish. No good."

The shopkeeper was certainly about to say that he was not the culprit, that it was some boy or other who'd been watching the place, but Hewson silenced him. "The thought of men like you in this world sickens me. You come halfway across the continent just to swindle people who don't know any better, and if you can't do it one way, you'll do it another. If I ever see another label off a jar in the hand of an Indian, I'll shut down your store and you'll go to Fort Walsh in irons."

Many Spotted Horses thanked Hewson, and the two men parted ways. Hewson stood at the crest of the hill and watched from afar as the young recruits struggled to get the nervous horse back to the stables. He did not go down to help them, but watched to see if they would learn on their own.


*****

The other men were so accustomed to seeing Hewson and Evans dine together in the mess hall, when one was eating supper alone, they would leave a space next to him at the table in case the other showed up.

Evans cut into his tough triangle of beef and ate in silence. The other men chatted excitedly about the Sioux they had spotted crossing the border. Unlike the Blackfoot, the American Sioux were still stunning in war paint, and carried elegant blade weapons. Rumor spread among the Mounted that the Sioux had never been defeated in battle, and like lions driven from their jungle they would settle for refuge, but what they truly desired was blood.

"Is that where Hewson is?" a sergeant asked Evans. "Keeping an eye on the Sioux?"

Evans shook his head. "I think he may just be delivering food to the settlements."

"Who's delivering food to the settlements?" asked Hewson as he plopped down next to Evans with his supper tray. "Is it the handsome young Constable Paul Hewson, friend to man and beast?"

Evans said only one word. "Handsome?"

"I never thought I'd be happy to see this lot. It's murder out there. The snow is still a foot deep, and then the bloody sun came out. I've been squinting for six hours. How can a man be expected to squint for six hours with no food in his belly?"

Evans did not respond. He knew Hewson was only pausing to shovel some grub in his mouth before he continued the thrilling tale of his patrol.

"The worst part is, the snow covers up all the hazards on the ground. I spent half the day pulling sharp stones out of my horse's hooves. Ach, and I've got the worst headache."

Evans had news that he thought was more practical. "Inspector Walsh told us today, he's going to try to get us real beds by the end of the year."

"I'm not holding my breath," said Hewson. "When I die, men, bury me with the bedbugs. They've been the most loyal to me through the years." He put his hands to his face and whispered, "God, my eyes are on fire. I can hardly see anything." Evans tenderly pulled Hewson's hands away from his face, and the expression he saw was one of terror. "My eyes!" Hewson grabbed at Evans' sleeves. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"Why Hewson, I do believe you've gone snowblind," said the sergeant. "Happened to me last winter."

"What do I do?"

Evans took hold of Hewson's flailing hands. "The first thing you need to do is calm down. I'll take you to the infirmary."



Snowblindness was rivaled only by the hiccups for sheer number of remedies, each one with its devoted adherents, and each one just about as effective as the next. Hewson was taken off duty and told to rest his eyes for a couple of days. The doctor gave him a length of bandaging to use as a blindfold.

"What am I supposed to do for two days?" Hewson whined.

Evans sighed, a day's rest being a distant memory for himself. "You'll get through somehow, I'm sure."

"I'm going to die of loneliness, that's what's going to happen." Hewson took Evans' arm and let himself be led back to the barracks. "You're going to go off on patrol and I'm going to waste away to nothing in my bunk, the first of the Mounted to pine away."

"I don't understand what you're even doing in the Mounted, when you obviously could have a career in the theater."



By morning Hewson had already come down with cabin fever. He demanded that Evans take him to the stables, so that he could groom his horse.

"I think," said Evans, "that I should get another man to do it for you, until you recover."

"I know where everything is. Just take me to my horse and I'll do the rest."

Evans laid out the brush and curry-comb and brought a bucket of oats. "Do me a favor, and don't try to clean his hooves, alright? I'll do it later."

Hewson went to work with the curry-comb, keeping one hand on the horse at all times as he did so, speaking to it the same as he did every morning. He took one precise step to the left to exchange the curry-comb for the brush on the table.

Evans left him there, saying, "Once I'm finished with my horse, I'll come back and get you and we'll have breakfast."

But when Evans came back, Hewson and the horse were gone. Evans went around to the gated pasture. "Fetch inspector Walsh!" he called, and two men scurried off.

And there was Hewson, riding around the pasture, blindfolded.

"What do you think you're doing?" Evans hollered, and Hewson casually looped around and headed in Evans' direction.

"I figured now would be a good time to use the pasture, while everyone else is at breakfast."

Inspector Walsh arrived, furious. "Constable Hewson, have you lost your mind?"

"Ah-ah, not my mind, sir," Hewson said cheerfully. "My horse needs to be exercised. And I'm almost completely certain that this is my horse."

"Constable, you are in no condition to be on horseback!"

"Why not? Do you think I can't navigate the pasture blindfolded? What with the fence being exactly thirty paces behind me, and stables exactly…there?" And he pointed.

"He can't be stopped, sir," said Evans, and Hewson grinned proudly.

Walsh shook his head and laughed. "Hewson, you're maddening. Put your horse away and return to the barracks. That's an order." Hewson rode for the gate, opened it by touch, and Walsh added, "And stay there until you can see! Evans, keep an eye on him, would you? Bring him his meals. Make sure he stays in the barracks."

Evans suggested Walsh find a sturdy length of rope, for it might do a better job than he could.


*****

"Hold still."

Evans reached out for the knot in the blindfold. "Keep your eyes closed," he said, and began to unravel it. "I said hold still." When it was off, he looked upon Hewson's face for just a moment longer than he ought to before he said, "Alright, you can open them now." Hewson took a deep breath as he opened his eyes, and looked around the room, as though it would not have been immediately obvious whether or not he was still blind.

"It's fine," he breathed. "I can see fine."

Evans was about to say something, but paused when he heard noise coming from outside the barracks. He stood up and gazed out the window. "Hm. Your recovery seems to be well-timed."

"Why is that?"

Evans rubbed the condensation from the window. "It looks like Sitting Bull has just arrived."


*****

Sitting Bull knew that his fate had been sealed with his victory at Little Big Horn. The Sioux had wiped out Custer's entire Seventh Cavalry, every last man, and now he had drawn down the wrath of the whole United States Army. He and his people fled north, hoping to escape with their lives.

Walsh was prepared for Sitting Bull's arrival, for he had already met with the great chief shortly after the Sioux had crossed the border. In the early winter of 1876 the men on patrol around Fort Walsh caught sight of them, warriors riding captured US Army mules and carrying US Army carbines, with scalps dangling from their saddles. But victorious warriors had never looked so despondent, so desperate for asylum.

Hewson and Evans left the barracks and went to the gate to see Sitting Bull. He was not a tall man, but his demeanor commanded respect. He wore his enormous war bonnet and the horse he rode had no doubt been chosen out of hundreds to carry him. Hewson did not see the chief as resigned, as defeated. He saw the power that remained in Sitting Bull.

"Is he going to spend the winter here?" Hewson asked. "So he can go back to fighting the Yankees in the spring?"

"I don't think so," said Evans. "I think the Sioux are here for good. Walsh said Sitting Bull is tired of fighting, and he is ready to live by our laws."

Helping the Blackfoot was already overwhelming to Hewson. "They're staying? Thousands of Sioux?"

"It's a big country. I'm sure we'll find a place to put them."


*****

Hewson had never known such quiet intensity. He and Evans and a selection of other Mounted men crowded into the officer's mess, standing behind Inspector Walsh, who sat at a table opposite a commission of Americans. The Americans were led by Brigadier General Alfred Terry, and they had come to confer with the exiled Sioux. They were rude from the start, insisting that Sitting Bull and the other Sioux chiefs be searched for weapons before they were allowed to join the conference.

Terry, a Civil War veteran, opened the council. He stood, knowing full well that he was a man of impressive physical size and bearing, and told Sitting Bull that the American president wished to make a lasting peace with him. The Sioux would be pardoned if they returned to the United States, so long as they surrendered their horses and arms.

Sitting Bull was not pleased to hear this proposal. The Mounted officers knew he had already made up his mind, and listened patiently to his speech.

"For sixty-four years you have treated my people bad. We did not give you our country. You took it from us. Now you come to tell me stories, but we do not want to believe them. I will not say any more. You can go home. Take your lies with you."

The Americans left, frustrated that they'd wasted their time on a man as stubborn as Sitting Bull. Macleod and Walsh, with more tact and delicacy, continued trying to convince him to take his people and go.

"The Great White Mother can offer you nothing but safety," said Walsh. He was fond of Sitting Bull, but he was also a pragmatist. "When the buffalo are gone, she cannot feed you."

Sitting Bull was not fazed by this warning. "I will not go to the gift-house. I am a hunter and I will hunt as long as there is wild game on the prairie."

"What's a gift-house?" asked Hewson.

"Shh. The reservation," Evans whispered.

Sitting Bull continued. "Once I was rich. Americans stole it all. Why should I return? To have the last of what I have taken from me, my horse and arms? I have come to remain with the White Mother's children."





THREE - WINTER 1878
FORT WALSH
CYPRESS HILLS, NORTH WEST TERRITORIES (NOW SASKATCHEWAN)

Perhaps it had only been lightning, but many believed it to be the vengeance of Americans sneaking across the border. In the dead of winter, fires blazed across the prairie, raging for days at a time, beyond the control of the Mounted. The fires drove the buffalo south, into the United States, and the Indian tribes of Canada never saw them again. There was no time to do what the government had promised; to teach them to be farmers. Without the buffalo, the Crees, Bloods, Sioux, and Blackfoot alike hunted rabbits and gophers. When the rabbits and gophers were gone, they killed and ate their dogs. It had been two years since Crowfoot had signed away the Blackfoot land with the hope that the White Mother would look after his people, and now they were reduced to crawling on the ground in search of mice, or roots.

More flour and sugar were given to the Mounted Police to distribute, and the Indians camped around the forts. [8] A man assigned to patrol would have to ride through these camps, trailed by hungry children, watching the Indians eat their horses, shivering for want of buffalo robes, which they had long ago sold for food.



It was a freezing March morning, and Hewson and Evans were given a token basket of biscuits to hand out. Hewson carried the basket and lamented that it was quite small.

"I don't think there's a basket big enough to feed everyone on the prairie who needs to be fed," said Evans, and Hewson seemed to wonder why this was so.

At the gate, a mad rush ensued, with the children arriving first. They pawed at Hewson's coat. As he began handing out the biscuits the men caught up, and when the children headed back to the camp the men descended on them, wrestling the food out of their tiny, grubby hands and stuffing it into their own mouths. There was no way of knowing if it was their own children they were stealing from. Hewson panicked and pulled the basket up and away, and the children began to cry.

"Alright, stop! Stop!" It was the first time Hewson had ever heard Evans shout in anger. "Stop it! Who here speaks English?" A young man raised his hand slowly, a half-breed who had been raised as an Indian. "You tell these people," Evans said, "that they will line up, and each person will receive one biscuit." Then he took his revolver from its holster, which he had not done, not once, since he had learned to use it at the Old Stone Fort. "I will shoot anyone who takes a biscuit from anybody else."

When the line was formed, Hewson handed out the biscuits, each one being devoured before the next one left his hand. When the basket was empty, there were many Indians left in the line. Hewson found himself unable to speak, and so Evans sent them away. The two men could not look at each other as they made their way back inside.



At supper, Hewson could hardly look at what was on his tray. He had stopped complaining long ago about the lousy grub that they were served. Pushing the slab of meat around on his plate, he asked the man next to him, "Are you going to finish that potato?"

"Little homesick, are we? You haven't even touched your own."

"I asked you a question."

The young man snorted with derision, but speared his potato and pushed it onto Hewson's plate. Hewson stood up, tray in hand, and went around collecting scraps from the rest of the table. When three trays were full, he carried them out to the Indians. The practice continued at every meal, every day, and not a bite of food was wasted at the fort from then on.


*****

When spring came, the Mounted Police were given orders to teach the Indians farming techniques. Men, laden with seeds and tools, were sent out to the patches of land allotted by the government. The main problem was, the Indians tended to eat the seeds, in the hope of putting off death for one more day.

When Hewson learned of this, he asked to be sent on one of these patrols. He stayed up late the night before with an interpreter, and learned some words and phrases in the Blackfoot language phonetically. To go with those words he made up tunes, and the next day, before handing out the packets of seeds, he taught the song to the children in each family. He knew that they would learn the song the fastest, and then teach it to the adults. The song was about how important it was to put all the seeds in the ground, and basic instructions about how they would grow.

Crowfoot heard about this white man and why he sang to the children, and was pleased. He named Hewson Sokapi Mohksiston, which in the Blackfoot language means "Good Voice."

Not all the Indians were dying outside the walls of the Mounted posts. Some of the Sioux were sneaking across the border to steal horses. This problem was particularly difficult for the police to manage, because horse-stealing was an integral part of Sioux pride and prestige, and they did not understand why they should not do it.



Hewson and Evans had never been to Sitting Bull's camp before. They met many Sioux braves as they neared their destination, men who were still too proud to beg the white man for food.

"Walsh just wants Sitting Bull to leave," said Evans. "But he can't find a way to convince him. So in the meantime we just have to do what we can to get him to obey our laws."

Hewson was incredulous. "Do what we can? How are we going to keep the Sioux from stealing horses? There are thousands of them. Why should they listen to what we say?"

"I think Sitting Bull is just giving us a push. If we push back, then he'll know not to trifle with the Mounted. And if Sitting Bull respects the Mounted, it won't matter how many Sioux there are. They will obey him."

"Oh." This gave Hewson something to think about the rest of the way there.



The police detachment expected to meet Sitting Bull in his home, but instead they found him just outside his camp, astride a cream-colored pony. He was stone-faced and straight-backed, and looked like he knew exactly why the police were there.

Constable Hewson felt utterly out of place. Here he was, a boy from Dublin City who had spent his days yanking girls' pigtails and swiping fruits at the farmer's market, now scolding a man twice his age and, in his prime, infinitely more powerful. Hewson was nauseated.

"I want the horses your braves stole," he croaked, and was glad of his mount, who was less afraid than himself to approach the great chief.

"You are few," Sitting Bull said. "What can you do?"

Hewson took a deep breath. "I would take even your horse, if I thought it was stolen."

The chief's eyes flashed, and he said smugly, "It is!"

"Constable Hewson…" Evans adopted a warning tone immediately, but it was still too late. Hewson smiled disarmingly and edged his mount closer to Sitting Bull.

"Constable Hewson, no!"

Hewson reached out and snatched Sitting Bull right off his pony, grabbed the bridle, and took off. "Go! Go!" he shrieked at the men, and they closed in around him, leaving Sitting Bull in a heap on the ground.

The pony ran alongside Hewson's horse, and he let go of the bridle. Never before had he traveled at such a speed. He thought perhaps his horse was able to gallop so much faster because he himself had become completely weightless.

Hewson would have no memory of this moment, the exhilaration, the fear, the rush of his blood like a river through the hills. He would recall everything he did before he had the pony's reins in his hand, but then, only the aftermath.

The gate was opened for the riders, and they did not slow up until they were well inside the fort. The cream-colored pony seemed a misfit among the brown and black police horses. Hewson and Evans dismounted and fell into each others' arms.

"What have I done?" Hewson cried. He took great gulps of air, his ribcage pushing against Evans' grip. "What have I done?"


*****

There was no sleep for the men after supper. At sundown they heard the blood-thirsty whooping, the sound of gunfire, as the Sioux circled the fort. That night they wrote out their wills and put them in a safe, which was then buried in the ground, there in the barracks. All the lights were put out, and the men waited. The noise outside did not dissipate, but neither did it grow nearer. No one knew what would happen, and the suspense kept them all awake, fully clothed in their beds, some clutching their rifles. Stunned silence gave way to murmurs of speculation, and in the pitch dark everything sounded plausible.

Hewson fidgeted in his bunk, too ashamed to contribute to the chatter. Next to him, Evans lay perfectly still, which drove Hewson mad. He rolled out of his bunk and onto the ground. With one hand he reached out until the canvas of the mattress was under his fingers, then felt along its surface for Evans' arm. "Are you awake?"

Evans did not dignify that with an answer.

"Come down here with me."

Evans dutifully obeyed, and the two sat huddled together on the dirt floor. When he heard more gunshots, Hewson buried his face in Evans' neck. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed, and his hot breath pounded against Evans' ear. "If the Indians kill us it will be all my fault. They'll write about it in the papers."

Evans turned to speak some words of comfort, and as Hewson lifted his head their lips met. Hewson whimpered, lingering a moment and clutching at Evans' shirt front. But it was only an instant, hardly long enough to store in one's memory, and he let go entirely, sinking down to rest his forehead on Evans's shoulder.

"I don't know why I did that," he whispered.

"Shh. It's alright. No one can see us."

Hewson came up again. The bridge of his nose bumped Evans' jaw, and the stubble on Evans' chin scraped his forehead. "I wish I could be alone with you right now."

Evans let these word linger in the air for some time, until they were absorbed into the din of whispered conversation in the barracks, then he answered, "I wish that too."

The Sioux, who outnumbered the Mounted Police five hundred to one, could easily have razed the fort and slaughtered everyone inside. But they respected the men in the scarlet coats, and dreaded their vengeance. If Sitting Bull had allowed his braves to descend upon Fort Walsh, they would have no place left to flee to. The Sioux stashed their pride and the Mounted lived to see another day.


*****

While the Sioux were in Canada, the Mounted Police had been watching a long fuse, not sure how fast it was burning or how much was left. But if one man had stepped up and grabbed the fuse they would have found it led nowhere. Sitting Bull was stubborn and proud, but as the years passed he traded away all his horses for food. Without a gopher left to hunt, his personal ornaments and spoils of war were now in the hands of anyone who could offer him another week's sustenance. The Sioux would not learn to be farmers.

Sitting Bull had vowed that as long as there was wild game on the prairie, he would stay and hunt. Now the game was gone, and Canada offered him nothing in its place. Most of his people had gone back to the United States, and he had not stopped them. The officers of the Mounted Police counted the days.


*****

The worst chore was haymaking, because it was the least like being a policeman and the most like hard labor. Hewson had helped mow the hay that June morning, and now in the afternoon they were drying it with tedders. Feeling sorry for himself, toiling beneath the blazing sun, Hewson amused himself by singing songs of Irish laborers.

The canals and the bridges, the embankments and cuts,
They blasted and dug with their sweat and their guts
They never drank water but whiskey by pints
And the shanty towns rang with their songs and their fights.

Navigator, Navigator rise up and be strong
The morning is here and there's work to be done.
Take your pick and your shovel and the bold dynamite
For to shift a few tons of this earthly delight

They died in their hundreds with no sign to mark where
Save the brass in the pocket of the entrepreneur.
By landslide and rockblast they got buried so deep
That in death if not life they'll have peace while they sleep… [9]

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," said a stilted voice behind him, and Hewson jumped, only to find Father Hugonard. The priest carried an elaborately shaped vessel with him, what appeared to be an old scent bottle.

"I've been hoping all day for someone to interrupt me, Father," said Hewson. "What can I do for you?"

"I need your help. I want to visit some of the red men, and I would like you to come along, because I've heard that they're fonder of you than most."

Hewson let go of the tedder. "I'll go."

"Thank you, my son."

As they went, Father Hugonard fetched an interpreter, and they made their way into the encampment around the fort. [10] These were desolate shantytowns, littered with burnt-out campfires. Everywhere was the smell of smoke, but nowhere the smell of food. The teepees were crowded with Crees, Blackfoot, Bloods, huddled together, all of them too weak to quarrel with their hereditary enemies. Hewson's heart was crushed by the sight of these people, mere shadows of their noble past, their fine clothing traded away, leaving them wrapped in ragged, raw hides.

The priest seemed to know where he was going, and led Hewson into a tent where a squaw cradled her two children, who were obviously near death. Upon seeing him, she began to spit and curse, and the interpreter explained for Hewson's benefit that Father Hugonard, Bible in hand, had tried in the past to enter her tent, but the mother did not want the help he was offering.

Father Hugonard held up the scent bottle and explained that he had brought special medicine that would make her children well again. The woman contemplated this for a long moment, then relented, allowing him to come near.

The priest did not have any medicine. The children would not get better. He kneeled before them, uncorked the bottle, and baptized them.


*****

Sitting Bull gave his war bonnet to Walsh. He said, "Once I was strong and brave. My people had hearts of iron. Now I will fight no more forever. My people are cold and hungry. My women are sick and my children are freezing. My arrows are broken and I have thrown my warpaint to the winds."

PART FOUR - SUMMER 1881
MONTANA

New recruits were arriving that summer, and Sergeant Hewson was asked if he would help drill them in horsemanship, but he refused. "Come July," he said, "I will be at sea."

By this he meant the prairie, a sea which to him had become greater than the one he'd crossed ten years ago in a coffin ship. As a boy he saw the sea every day. Now, when he would ride atop the hills around Fort Walsh and look to the east, to the flat, uninterrupted horizon, he sometimes shook his head to rid himself of the feeling that he was on the strand again, still so close to home.

Being on the prairie now was just as terrifying as being at sea. He would look to all sides of him and see nothing but the same gently rolling surface, and he felt so utterly alone and helpless, even with Sergeant Evans riding alongside him. He imagined his bones bleaching in the sun, alongside those of the buffalo.

Whatever Sitting Bull felt, he did not show it to Hewson or anyone else. He rode with the fraction of his people that remained, some two hundred.

Sergeant Hewson had never been in the United States before. So far it didn't seem any different than Canada. His horse plodded along, slow enough so that the Sioux, either on foot or loaded in wagons, could keep up. For many miles, until the heat wore him out, he was livid. Why was it so difficult just to keep people fed? After all these years, why had nothing been accomplished?

The column set up camp just before sunset, and Hewson took leave of the men to go walking along the river. He thought about those people he would never meet, whose faces he could not picture, who made helping the Indians difficult on purpose. Not just the Yankees who had slaughtered the buffalo, but the Canadian government, the British, who had written off the Indians as too bothersome to feed, but too weak to be dangerous. Hewson knew that Canada had only been waiting for Sitting Bull to grow hungry enough to leave on his own; to be starved out so the white settlers could have the place safely to themselves. In a fury he tore off his scarlet coat and threw it on the ground. He was disgusted with himself for becoming a willing servant for the merciless Great White Mother, not a policeman but a mindless soldier who might as well have been screaming "To Hell or Connacht!" to those Indians he fed on scraps from his supper. He collapsed there on the riverbank and wept.

Laughter from the camp reached his ears, and the sound of drums, relentless and mournful. The sun was going down. The prairie was dust, and the Rocky Mountains were bare, menacing, and black against the sunset.

Hewson looked at the coat, a blood-red rag on the ground.

Evans had built a fire, and by the light of it he was mending his shirt, He looked up to see Hewson charging toward him, coat in hand, ready to throw it in the flames.

"What are you doing now?" Evans jumped up and grabbed Hewson's arm. "Are you mad?"

Hewson struggled against the grip on his arm, but his voice was calm. "You know, I'm asked that all the time." But he was ashamed that Evans thought ill of him, and he went limp and lowered his eyes. "What is it that we've done for these people? Hm? Helped their children starve a little more slowly? Humiliated their warriors and then handed them over to the Americans when we were bored with their mischief?"

"And so, for that reason, you are going to…burn your coat?"

Hewson looked at the coat as if for the first time, examining the buttons. "When you say it like that, it just makes it sound stupid."

Evans threw up his arms. "Enough of this! Either do the job you pledged to do, or give up and desert!"

Hewson was mortified by Evans' anger, and his heart pounded even faster. "You think I'm a hypocrite!"

"No, I think you're going to spend your whole life miserable because you believe you're doing evil but you can't be bothered to stop."

Hearing these words, the fury in Hewson's eyes was suddenly extinguished. He stepped closer to Evans, close enough to reach out and touch his face. He said, "What if I did desert? Would you come with me?"

Evans was not expecting this. He had thought he would shake Hewson back into dutiful submission to the force, though now he did not know why he would want to do that. "Would I…Now? Tonight?"

"I don't know."

The pounding of the drums made the earth vibrate, and Evans felt it through his boots. "It's only one more day to Buford. Let's talk about it then."

"We have to do it soon. Before we cross back over the border."

"I said, let's talk about it after we get to Buford."

Hewson was so close now, Evans could see each freckle on his face in the firelight, could feel the heat of his breath. "So you would come with me? You would desert the Mounted, to be with me?"

"I said, let's talk about it after we get to Buford."


*****

Evans saw the Yankee soldiers riding up before Hewson did. "This is it," he said. Unlike the Mounted and their Sioux charges, the American soldiers were not weary from travel, and seemed ferocious in comparison. They surrounded Sitting Bull and his people. The great Sioux chief made one final, bitter protest: "This soil I am trampling upon is mine. I never sold it nor gave it to anybody."

The Sioux wailed and cried, knowing that there was no hope now for them. Sitting Bull shouted to his people to go quietly, and comply with the Yankees' demands for their weapons. The shouting made the soldiers more nervous, and they gathered tighter around the Sioux. The Mounted Police struggled to stay in sight of the proceedings.

Sitting Bull coached his people as they submitted to the will of the United States Army, then did the same himself. He held up his rifle and said, "I want all to know that I was the last of my people to surrender." The Mounted were silent, and Sitting Bull's words were muffled only by the horses as they whinnied and stamped. Sitting Bull gave his rifle to his son, who then handed it over to the US Army commanding officer. "You will never be a man," the chief said to his son, "because you will never own a gun or a horse."

Hewson's heart sank, and he looked to Evans, hoping to get a glance in return, but Evans looked straight ahead and did not move at all, save to still his horse.

"What will the Yankees do with him?" Hewson asked.

"I don't know. He is a prisoner of war now," said Evans.

At last, the United States Army closed in, cutting off the Mounted Police. Neither Hewson nor Evans saw them take Sitting Bull to the reservation.

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