William Johnstone - Dead Before Sundown

McKendrick looked over at him. Even the sergeant’s usual self-control was shaken. “My God,” he muttered. “And you say these so-called revolutionaries have Gatling guns?”

“Four of them,” Frank said, “and from the sound of it, a perfect opportunity to raise plenty of hell with them.”

Calgary was both frontier cowtown and bustling industrial city these days. The downtown area had numerous brick buildings rising several stories high, but around Victoria Park, on the Elbow River where the stream curved up from the south to join with the Bow River, Calgary still looked like the cow country settlement it had been more than fifteen years earlier when it first grew up around the North West Mounted Police post established there.

There was even a hotel called the Drover’s Rest. That was where Joseph and Charlotte Marat found themselves this evening, along with Anton Mirabeau.

Joseph had tried all day to talk Mirabeau out of his plan, but the man would not be budged. Attacking the Mountie post was one thing. The Mounties had killed Métis in the past.

But the thought of opening fire with the Gatling guns on the crowd at the rodeo planned for the next day horrified Joseph.

Charlotte didn’t like the idea of slaughtering innocent people, either, and she had tried to talk to Mirabeau about it. Mirabeau refused to listen. He just fell back on his stubborn claim that the attack on the rodeo would force the government in Ottawa to take the rebellion seriously.

The three of them sat in the hotel’s dining room. Mirabeau had changed from his buckskins before coming into town. Like Joseph and Charlotte, his ancestry was mostly French, so their status as mixed-bloods was not obvious. Anyone who looked like a Cree Indian wouldn’t have been allowed to stay here.

The other men in the group were camped outside of the settlement, keeping watch over the all-important crates that contained the rapid-firers.

Mirabeau sipped his wine and said, “First thing in the morning, we’ll pick up the wagons and drive out to the camp.” He had already made arrangements to purchase two large prairie schooners with canvas covers over the back. The plan called for the Gatling guns to be mounted, two in each wagon, one at the front of the vehicle and one at the rear. The guns would be covered with canvas as well so that no one would be able to see them when the wagons were parked at both ends of the rodeo grandstands that had been erected in Victoria Park.

From there, the Métis manning the guns would be able to spray the crowd with thousands of steel-jacket slugs in a matter of minutes. By the time anyone figured out what was happening, hundreds of people would be dead.

Then it would be up to the men in the wagons to make their getaway as best they could. There would be so much chaos because of the slaughter that the men might actually be able to escape.

Mirabeau went on, “Charlotte, you and Dumond will need to have our horses nearby and ready to ride.” He smiled. “We’ll be in a hurry.”

“I would think so,” she said, “considering that you’ll be fleeing from the site of mass murder.”

Mirabeau’s smile disappeared. “Not murder,” he said. “Revolution.”

“At least let Joseph help me with the horses,” Charlotte said.

Mirabeau shook his head. “No offense, ma cher, but after today, I no longer trust your brother. I would prefer to have him where I can keep an eye on him.”

Joseph said tightly, “I’m sitting right here, you know.”

“I know,” Mirabeau said with a nod. “Joseph, you have been a dear friend to me. You are almost like my brother, and someday soon, once Charlotte and I are married, you will be. But our cause is more important than anything else, even that.”

“More important than me?” Charlotte asked.

Mirabeau looked coolly at her. “I beg of you not to make me choose.”

She grimaced and looked away.

“After tomorrow, you’ll see that I’m right,” Mirabeau continued. He drank the last of his wine and pushed away the empty plates from their meal. “We should go upstairs and get some rest. Momentous events await us.”

Joseph had reached a decision. He nodded and said, “You’re right, Anton. We should go upstairs.”

Mirabeau looked a little surprised that Joseph would agree with him on anything, even this. But he smiled and said, “Fine.”

The three of them left the dining room and walked through the lobby to the stairs. The Drover’s Rest, as its name implied, wasn’t a fancy place. It catered to cattlemen, and it was furnished comfortably but simply. A number of men sat in the lobby, talking about cattle prices. These were some of the ranchers who were in town for the livestock exposition and rodeo.

They paid no attention to the two men and the woman who went up the stairs to the second floor of the squarish frame building. Joseph and Charlotte had adjoining rooms on the left side of the corridor. Mirabeau’s room was across the hall on the right.

As they approached their doors, Mirabeau put a hand on Charlotte’s arm. He might have wished to kiss her good night, but if so he was going to be disappointed, because she pulled away from him. Joseph, walking along the corridor behind them, was glad to see that. The falling-out that his sister had had with Mirabeau meant she was less likely to be upset by what happened next.

Joseph looked swiftly up and down the hallway. It was deserted at the moment. That was perfect for what he needed to do.

He took the pistol from under his coat, pointed it at the back of Mirabeau’s head, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 31

But even as Joseph fired, Mirabeau was already moving, twisting around and throwing himself to the side so that the bullet from Joseph’s pistol whipped harmlessly past his head.

The big man’s arm came up in a vicious backhanded blow that crashed into Joseph’s jaw and flung him against the wall. Charlotte screamed as Mirabeau lunged after Joseph and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand.

Bone cracked as Mirabeau gave the wrist a savage twist. Joseph cried out in pain. The gun slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and thudded to the carpet runner in the center of the hallway.

Mirabeau kept hold of Joseph’s broken wrist and used his other hand to pound a couple of swift punches into the smaller man’s face. Joseph’s head rocked back. His surroundings whirled crazily around him for a second, then a black curtain seemed to drop over his eyes. He was still conscious, but just barely.

He heard a door open, and a second later he felt himself shoved into a room. His legs turned rubbery and collapsed, dumping him on the floor. A kick dug into his belly and drove the air from his lungs. He lay there helplessly, for the moment blinded by pain and gasping for breath.

Another sound came to his ears, but in his stunned state, it took him several seconds to figure out that it was Charlotte crying. The sharp crack of a slap silenced the sobs.

“Quiet,” Mirabeau ordered in a harsh whisper. “People will come to see what that shot was about. As far as they know, no one is in this room.”

Sure enough, a few moments later footsteps came from the hall, and a man’s loud voice asked, “Did anybody see what the hell happened up here? Who fired that shot?”

The red-shot darkness that had descended over Joseph’s vision was fading now. He could see a little again. Mirabeau loomed over him. Mirabeau had one arm wrapped around Charlotte’s waist, and his other hand was clamped over her mouth to keep her from crying out.

Joseph tried to move, but his muscles didn’t want to cooperate. He shifted just enough to draw Mirabeau’s attention. The man kicked him again. Charlotte struggled in Mirabeau’s grip, but she was no match for his brutal strength.