Guy Vanderhaeghe - The Englishman’s Boy

At noon, the scout, Philander Vogle, spotted a single rider on a treeless ridge and raised the alarm. Hardwick’s troop bunched in a meadow a hundred yards from the nearest timber. All around him the Englishman’s boy could hear the click of rounds being levered into firing chambers. He did the same as Hardwick studied the horseman on the ridge.

“Make for cover?” Vogle prompted.

“If it’s a war party, it might be a trap,” said Hardwick. “They might be trying to drive us to the trees. If they’ve hid a party in the bush and they open up on us point-blank, from cover, that’d brown our goose but good.” He pondered some moments, his lips rolling a stub of cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “We’ve got an open field of fire here,” he said at last, decisively. “If it’s a small band back of that ridge, they ain’t going to come at us across the flat. If they’re in force and they charge us, we’ll break them with a volley, then high-tail it for the trees.”

They sat their horses, watching the motionless figure silhouetted against the sky, watching them. Nobody moved. The Englishman’s boy could feel the tension stiffening the faces all around him, feel the plumb line of midday heat bobbing up and down on the clustered heads. The figure began to move, the horse switching daintily down the ridge, breaking into an easy lope when it won the level.

“He ain’t an Indian,” observed Hardwick. The man’s blue capote had identified him as a French half-breed. On the rider came, reins draped high in both hands to show he was concealing no weapon. He braked his horse before Hardwick with a cavalier flourish, a slightly built man with a wisp of straggly beard and shocking blue eyes, evidence of a distant Norman ancestor, startling, exotic in the dark face. Cinched at his waist was the red sash of his people; a brilliantly beaded fire bag hung from it.

The two men nodded to each other. “You parlez the Anglais?” demanded Hardwick.

The man smiled, held up forefinger and thumb gapped an inch apart. “Bit much,” he said.

“Devereux, get your Frenchifying ass up here!” Hardwick roared. “Parley this fellow!”

Hardwick set the questions, Devereux translated. The man’s name was Hector Desjarlais and he lived in a Métis settlement close to the trading posts of Moses Solomon and Abe Farwell. He told Hardwick there was a band of Assiniboine led by Chief Little Soldier also camped there on the Battle Creek. The Assiniboine were in an ugly mood, spoiling for trouble. They had warned their half-breed brothers they intended to kill Solomon, burn his fort, and feast on his oxen. Solomon sold bad whisky. When it came time to rub Solomon out the Métis were to keep their noses out of this business or they might find them cut off. Desjarlais said this talk of butchering the traders made the Métis nervous. They were friendly with the whites but… He lifted his shoulders expressively. Anything could happen. Little Soldier’s talk might not be whisky talk. Just a month ago, Indians had killed a white trader, Paul Rivers.

“Which Indians? What tribe?” demanded Hardwick.

Desjarlais said he didn’t know.

“The bastard’s lying,” said Hardwick. “Assiniboine are a shoddy kind of Indian. No guns to speak of. If anybody’s killing whites its Blackfoot. I figure Frenchie here thinks we’re scouting us a situation for a whisky post. All these Frenchies freight for T.C. Power. This boy’s trying to put the fear into us about wicked hostiles. He’s calculating we’re competition for Power and he wants to scare us off.”

Devereux shook his head. “I t’ink dis boy telling de troot,” he said.

“Well, if he is, and there is a big camp of Assiniboine on the Battle, could be that’s where our horses is at. Maybe a couple of young bucks needed ponies to buy themselves a bride. It’s spring, ain’t it? Time when a young man’s fancy turns to love?” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, thinking. “But if what Brother Frog says is true and they see twelve brave boys ride into town, they may speculate we’ve come in strength to get our horses. I wouldn’t want to show our hand too soon. Maybe I ought to ride up to Farwell’s post on my own, one lost and lonesome pilgrim, and smell out if any bucks been parading horseflesh don’t belong to them. If it turns out they have, then I ride back here with the lay of the land in my head and we plan how to get the jump on them. If there ain’t no horses, I ride back, give you boys the all-clear and we take ourselves off to Farwell’s to sample some of Father Abraham’s whisky. How’s that sound, John?”

“How long you figure to be gone?” said Evans.

“I’ll stay the night. If I don’t keep company that long and leave early it might tip our hand.”

Evans looked doubtful. “It don’t please me to overnight here, like a chicken without a henhouse. Not with Indians on the prowl.”

“Not to worry. Have Vogle scout you a treed slope he’s sure is clean of Indians.” He swung round in his saddle and pointed to one. “That there looks promising. You don’t want to get caught in the open in the dark; if they come in strength they’ll scatter you and ride you down. Get up in the timber at dusk and post pickets. If any hair-lifters try and sneak up on you, you got the high ground and plenty of cover. Don’t light no fires. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

The Métis watched Hardwick as he gave his orders to Evans. When Hardwick finished, he turned to Devereux. “Tell this orphan I’m going to make him a present of tobacco for his news,” he said. “Tell him to keep his mouth shut about us and I’ll buy him all the whisky he can drink at Farwell’s. Tell him that.”

Devereux did. Hardwick passed Desjarlais a pouch of tobacco but when the Métis offered his hand to shake, Hardwick ignored it. The Englishman’s boy saw the briefest of smiles twitch the Metis’s lips, then he ironically and gravely saluted Hardwick, wheeled his horse around, galloped back to the ridge and disappeared behind it.

After Hardwick left for Farwell’s the men dismounted in the meadow, tying a rein to the foreleg of each of their horses so if they were surprised they could unhobble at speed, mount up and ride. Evans set one man on each of the points of the compass to keep watch. The rest of the wolfers sprawled in the grass to pass the time until dusk summoned them into the trees. Everyone was uneasy. The Englishman’s boy could feel it in the way they put their heads together, talking quietly in churchgoing voices; he could see it in the way eyes switched nervously to the surrounding hills, the wall of trees which shielded and hid God knew what. They all laid their rifles beside them, didn’t let their horses out of sight, making sure they didn’t stray beyond easy reach in an emergency.

The Englishman’s boy was gnawing a piece of jerked meat, staring at the split toe of his right boot when Ed Grace joined him, making himself comfortable on the ground. The bandanna he’d tied around his head was soaked through with sweat. For a conversation opener, he said, “Well, son, God help us, but I smell shit in the wind.”

The Englishman’s boy moved his shoulders in the big tweed jacket. “What kind of shit?”

“To start with, Indians full of bug juice if the half-breed wasn’t lying. Second, politics.”

“I don’t know nothing about politics,” said the boy.

“Then you better learn and learn quick, because you’re plumb in the middle of politics.” Grace dropped his voice. “Take a look around you. All these boys are I.G. Baker men. There’s two parties in these parts – T.C. Power men or I.G. Baker men. Those two trading companies run this part of the world. They’re God’s own governors of Whoop-Up country.”