A Dark and Promised Land (26 page)

He sighs and throws off his blanket. Pulling on his moccasins, he sees that the sole is almost through on one of them, and he will have to mend it soon. Hopefully after today, there will be no shortage of the thick hide required. He sighs again.

When he pushes his way outside the tent, he sees that the sun has barely been up an hour, and the dew on the grass shines with all the colours of imagination. The smell of wet grass lightens his heart. Straightening his back, he looks along the trail that they had passed the previous day: a dark broad river of crushed grass and prairie rutted by the passing of hundreds of wooden carts, horses, and dogs.

All the carts have been circled as a defensive perimeter against the Sioux, and inside this barricade the camp is astir now, with breakfast well on its way. There are dozens of fires burning and Alexander moves to the nearest; with a nod to the woman tending it, he pulls out a burning piece of dung and lights his pipe. She offers him a slab of fresh bannock fried in buffalo fat and Alexander accepts it with a smile, placing it in a pocket for later in the day. Standing up, he sees the captains gathering, and, with a touch of his hat to the woman, he hurries away, finding a spot in the circle of men.

They all sit cross-legged, with their guns on their laps and their pipes burning. Conversation flows back and forth, and although there is concern about the coming war, most of the talk is of a more personal kind, problems with a mate or a neighbour, hopes for the future, memories of the past. Their costumes are as brilliant and varied as the individuals wearing them, and there is much laughter among the elected captains, a light-heartedness that belies the hardiness of the men and the difficult lives they lead.

Soon the conversation flows on its own account to the buffalo, and plans for that day's hunt. No call to order is given; no chief stands up and addresses them. But gradually, like the collecting of birds in an autumn sky, individual conversations gather toward a common topic, and evolve into a general discussion of plans for their day, and about how the hunt will proceed.

Jacque sits opposite Alexander, the great Half-breed a head taller than his neighbours. Alexander smiles faintly at him, but he does not respond, just continues staring with the same intense look he had given his friend for many days.

Conversation between them had withered until it ceased entirely, his friend forsaking his companionship for the company of others. When Alexander had the rare opportunity to ride alone with him, the man said little, just turning every now and then and looking at him as if considering, as if pondering what he should do. After a few days, Alexander had given up trying to break through his friend's sudden taciturn mood, and with a sense of both relief and foreboding, had turned to the company of others.

As they had slowly walked along the dusty trail in search of the buffalo herds, he had many hours to wonder if Elise had spoken to Jacque of what had passed between them that night in their cabin. She had long since abandoned the place on his horse behind Alexander, riding instead in one of the many carts with the women. She was never alone, and so he had not the opportunity to question her. But this sudden change in mood from his friend made little sense otherwise, although if he had known, Alexander is surprised that Jacque has not called him out.

Perhaps it is out of respect for the hunt; it is too important to risk division or fracture, and discord will not be tolerated. Any serious conflict is expected to be dealt with in private or when they return to the Forks. Perhaps something has been whispered about him; Alexander was a Half-caste, not a true Half-breed, and while most were willing to forgive him this failing, there were those who thought his presence an intrusion, not least because of his previous alliance with the Hudson's Bay Company. Some think him a spy, and under Cuthbert Grant's orders, they keep a suspicious eye on him. Although Jacque is a man who avoids politics of any kind, like all of his people he loathes duplicity, and betrayal of their community is the most capital of crimes.

Returning to the discussion at hand, Alexander hears that scouts have located a large herd at a distant wallow, and the men begin discussing how best the hunters should approach, and the rules they all agreed to abide by. One ambitious fool could scatter the herd before the rest had a chance to take position, so great care and planning is required to ensure a successful hunt. They nominate a chief of the camp to take charge and organize the hunters: Jean-Baptiste Dumont, recent of the Saskatchewan country. It would be he who must hold back the impatient hunters until the proper moment and the cry given. Dumont stands up and bows before them, to many a crinkling eye and puffing of smoke and soft laughter.

With much back-clapping, the captains stand and head off to prepare their people. One man goes to a nearby cart and unfurls their new flag, a white lemniscate horizontal against a navy background, which is the signal to all to prepare for departure.

Although it appears from a distance that the camp has descended into chaos, there is in fact great order in the organizing of the carts and hunters. There are more than 450 Half-breeds attending this hunt, this annual pilgrimage to seek the buffalo, and, as a communal event, women, children, and the elderly are included. Even the feeble and sick attend when possible, jostled in the back of a cart piled deep in buffalo hides. All have a role to play, and within half an hour the carts are bound to oxen, gear is packed up and stowed away, then they are ready to begin.

Dumont moves to the front of his people and, without looking back, begins the march. Under the shouted directions of the captains, one by one the carts pull away, like the unspooling of a thread, each one surrounded by many horses and dogs. Dust and the unholy head-splitting creak of wooden hub on ungreased wooden axle rises into the hot prairie morning.

Before long, all are caked in dust, each man, woman, and child breathing as best they can through handkerchiefs. The sun swings higher and higher, and dribbles of sweat clear paths down saffron-caked faces, making even the children look unearthly and ferocious.

The land is empty and barren, the year's grass already withering in the rainless heat. But among the thin tussocks and weeds lies a garden of bleached buffalo bones, running from horizon to horizon. Like grotesque topiary, cluster here and there, gathered sometimes in piles; skulls and pelvises and ribs, femurs and vertebrae. They clatter as the horse's hooves push them aside.

Far more interesting to the hunters than the bones is the churned-up soil, the fresh buffalo flaps not yet burrowed by flies. Alexander is examining the trail when he sees a crow descend behind a knoll. He stares after it awhile, and then reins in his horse. The next captain following, a young man in a blue capote and bright red sash, soon catches up to him.

“What is it?” he asks. “Forget which way to go?”

“There may be something over that rise, Andre. Let us go see.”

Andre looks to the front of the column. “What is it? Should we not speak with Jean-Baptiste?”

“And tell him what? I may be mistaken. We will ride together, you and I, to see what there is to see, if anything.”

The men veer from the column, walking their horses up the rise. Many eyes follow, but no one moves from their position. The air away from the brigade is clean and sweet, and both men pull down their scarves and breath deeply of it. After the hideous racket of the carts, the soft rhythm of their horse's hooves sounds as peaceful and relaxing music.

Upon reaching the crest, both men grab their guns. Lying down in a small draw on the opposite side are the carcasses of two buffalo. As they descend, several crows fly away cawing, lighting in the wiry branches of a long dead cottonwood and furiously complaining at the intrusion.

Alexander and the youth slide off their horses and lead them beside the carcasses. Flies buzz, circling and swirling around the red bones, the kill so new not even the coyotes have found it yet. Nothing edible is left, just scraped bones. Even the skulls have been broken open for their contents. Alexander crouches beside the nearest, poking it with the barrel of his carbine. He looks up at the distant tree and the noisy garrison perched in its branches.

“Sioux?” Andre asks.

“Maybe. Could be Cree, even Stony. They have been raiding into the southwest.”

“I better let Dumont know.”

Alexander nods. Andre leaps onto his horse and, reining it in, turns and races up the slope, quickly disappearing behind it.

Alexander examines the ground around the kill. The buffalo seem to have been butchered where they were dropped. He spots a narrow trail leading eastward, a faint disturbance in the grass. As it is the habit of the plains Indians to ride single file to disguise their numbers, he has no idea how many where there, whoever they are. Most tribes are peaceable enough, but the few exceptions are noteworthy in their violent opposition to others in their hunting grounds.

The freshness of the kill means that these hunters are in all likelihood aware of the brigade; it is hard to move around the country unobtrusively: sheer numbers aside, the dust cloud and noise announces their presence for miles about. At least on this side of the rise, the sound of their passing is faint. He stands up and looks again at the crows. Climbing back onto his horse, he makes his way back to the column.

“What do you think?” asks Andre as Alexander catches up with him.

“Whoever they were, they're gone now,” he replies. But as he is reassuring the youth his mind goes back to the noisy squabbling of the crows, certain in his gut that other eyes had observed them with keen interest.

The Métis column plods on. Men elected as soldiers and guides keep close order, and even those on horseback are required to keep alongside, eating dust with the rest of them. While the air is clear a little way to the side, if not checked the line will spread farther and farther as each man seeks to escape the pall from his fellow in front until all is in disarray, and outliers are at risk of spooking the buffalo or being picked off by stalking Sioux. With shouts and curses they are herded like the beasts they pursue, driven to the next camp.

The distance to the wallow is not great, and the day's march is blissfully short. The wind has died completely, the heat and dust intolerable. The scouts surround Dumont; while the people wait, an anxious conversation ensues, with much head-shaking and pointing of fingers to the horizon.

Visibility is very poor, with a yellow haze obscuring everything beyond a mile. Alexander moves forward with the rest of the captains — fifty in all — and listens as the scouts indicate the location of the wallow, and Dumont assigns position. One scout slides off his horse, picking up a handful of grass and lettting it fall through his fingers. They all watch as it scatters down, flicking to the east in a sudden gust.

As one, all heads swivel to a dark line of clouds building to the west. Thunderstorms have arrived with the afternoon for the last several days, pounding the prairie with torrential rain and noise. It appears that today is to be no different. Distant grumbling carries along with the breeze

The riders turn southwards, in a broad line; Alexander finds himself beside the mute Jacque.

“A good day for a hunt, brother,” he says.

Jacque looks around as if he has just woken from a dream. He nods his head. “I have yearned to shoot something in a great long while,” he says, lifting his musket to examine the flint.

Alexander is about to reply when a shout carries down the line. The riders move closer together. The herd appears as a shadow covering the prairie, a darkness that drapes over the rolling landscape without break, moving and flowing here and there, but maintaining a contiguous mass of life from horizon to horizon. It is only by shielding their eyes from the sun and squinting that the hunters can tell that the shadow is in fact an unimaginable number of tiny, discreet objects. The strong tang of dung and buffalo drifts toward them.

Coyotes flit along low to the ground with that lope, stop, stare manner of the wary predators. Shadows of the shadow, hoping to scavenge a carcass left by grizzly, mountain lion, wolf, or Indian. The noisy passing of crows saws the air.

Word comes down the line that the hunters are to bear east and follow a narrow hollow, a remnant of ice, wind, and cataclysmic water that fissures the otherwise smooth breast of the prairie. One by one, the riders dip into this hidden place, each man checking his load and prime. Mouths fill with balls and whispered hopes and comments become mute.

Dumont sends a scout ahead on foot. The waiting for his report is interminable, and when at last the man returns, he informs them that further progress is impossible without revealing themselves. Dumont orders the men into a broad swath, and the horses, sensing their riders' excitement, stamp and chew on bits, capering sideways and flicking their tails. Dumont rides up the side of the hollow to see the herd for himself and check the lay of the land. It is rolling country, with many dips and rises between them and the herd. But it will be impossible for the hunters to move any closer without detection.

He draws out his spyglass and scans along the herd, feeling for their feelings, judging their alertness. It is late afternoon and the image dances with the rising heat. Flies buzz about his ears. A great many of the animals are lying down or rolling in the dust. The wind gusts stronger now, blowing across the top of the rise and shaking his glass, his long, dark hair streaming beside him.

Dumont knows that no matter how sleepy and peaceful the herd appears to be, there are always old bulls around that keep a wary eye on the horizon. The wallow is in low ground and with the approaching storm, the animals will be more nervous than usual. As this thought forms, a deep boom descends from the darkening sky, crawling over the prairie and startling many buffalo to their feet. A few drops flick nearby grass.

As usual, the youngest and most desirable animals are concentrated in the centre of the herd. His glass picks up one ancient, black bull raising its head and taking scent. It paws the ground and snorts, its neighbours turning to watch him.

Everything depends on his choice: he can wait for another day when the buffalo are more settled, or they can attempt the long run to the herd. The snorts of the hunter's horses behind him are filled with impatience, and he can feel the energy of his people to begin.

Worming his way down from the edge of the coulee, he returns to the waiting hunters.

“They sense something — the coming storm or maybe they have caught a stray scent. We must begin before they panic. Métis,
start
!”

At that word, all the riders explode from hiding, galloping as fast as ever they are able, determined that their fellows will not leave them behind. But as in his race with Jacque pursuing the mountain lion, Alexander pulls ahead on his stallion.

Almost immediately several old bulls spot the riders: huffing and pawing, they toss their vicious-looking horns. Tails lift, and some of the animals begin trotting away from the approaching hooves. A few of the largest bulls move toward the hunters, bellowing.

The wind whistles in the hunter's ears, and if their mouths were not filled with shot they would let cry, knowing that their quarry is close enough that escape by stampede impossible. Their hearts sing within their breasts, glorying in the killing and slaughter that is to come. More and more buffalo leap to their feet; calves bawl and cows bray, and with the inertia of a great organism, the shadow on the prairie begins moving.

At last, even the guardian bulls turn to flight, and the prairie fills with a new thunder, and the sky above the herd boils yellow as an enormous cloud of dust overcomes the lowering storm. The hunters pass into the animals, and, from the corner of his eye, Alexander sees a rider go down, gored by the swinging head of a bull. He digs his heels into his mount, and he presses him onward into the sea of roiling backs, dust swirling like wind-blown spray, the travelling rumble of countless hooves through the grit and grass echoing in his ears. Dust fills his eyes and he blinks it away, tears pouring down his cheeks.

The dust thickens, and he can no longer see where he is, his world reduced to a small circle of ragged humps and black horns shining in the tallow light. He hears a shot in the distance and decides to follow this man's lead. He pulls his horse up, and for a moment stands like a frail, tiny island of sand in danger of being swept away by a flowing tide. His legs are banged and bruised by the passing of animals, and, with a kick to the flank, his horse turns and charges, Métis fashion, against the living current. The buffalo veer aside at the very last instant, their horns lowered and snicking along his legs. At last, he raises his carbine, and, correcting for the roll of his galloping mount, sights a young cow emerging from the screen of dust.

Alexander fires and the animal goes down, tumbling in its inertia, several others tripping and falling over it. His horse leaps and sails over the roiling mass. He swings his gun down, charges it, spits in a ball, whacks it against his leg, primes, and cocks. All about him bursts of gunfire ring over the cannonade of hooves. He shoots at a passing bull, and it sheers away, taking several of its fellows. Dust roils and billows, breathing almost impossible.

Several kills later, Alexander emerges from the herd and sits a moment, gasping for air, staring with amazement at the pounding black mass hurtling its way across the prairie. At the horizon, the buffalo appear to meld with the ferocious sky, as if ascending to heaven.

With a shouted “hee-ya,” he spins his horse around, and, reaching into his shot bag, refills his mouth and charges back into the river of fleeing animals. A tremendous clap of thunder sounds overhead, and the terrified buffalo swerve away from him, like the sea parting around a reef. He knees his mount to greater speed and looks around for a fat animal. Spying a tawny yearling, he brings his carbine to bear.

At that moment, a passing cow swings its head and catches its horns beneath Alexander's horse. With hideous strength, the animal lifts the stallion's chest, and tosses horse and rider aside, tearing a great gash from barrel to withers. Alexander collides against the flank of another buffalo and bounces away, falling to the ground; his eyes and ears fill with dust. The ground trembles beneath him. Another peal from the sky and the clouds release their burden, deluging the churned soil.

Alexander lifts his head and through the downpour sees the blur of the passing animals, his carbine gone, and his horse on the ground in front of him, legs pawing the air and screaming in agony. Blood spurts from its side, running in a red torrent into the sucking mud. Blue loops of guts hang obscenely against its darkening coat.

The dust settles quickly in the rain and Alexander can see their tiny island is about to be swamped as the running buffalo edge closer and closer, their black eyes and wet horns reflecting the flash of lightning.

With a gasp of pain, Alexander struggles to his feet, and, dragging his injured leg, hobbles through the mud to his horse. His hat is gone and his clothes run dark with mud. His hair lies in streaks down his face. Standing helplessly beside his wounded horse, the racing buffalo are so close he can reach out and touch them. Mud from their hooves splatters him.

“McClure!” a voice calls from behind, scarce heard over the overwhelming din of rain and thunder and hooves.

He turns and through the storm sees Jacque sitting astride his horse, buffalo stampeding past him. Water runs down his red face, and his eyes are filled with hate. His horse is black with the wet. Jacque lifts his musket and stares down at him, Alexander closes his eyes as the report sounds. The awful sound of his mount's agony goes silent. When he opens them again, Jacque is kneeing his horse; he pulls up and lowers a gloved hand. The whites of his horse's eyes are visible, the animal near panic at the smell of the stallion's blood.

“Get up!” he shouts.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” Alexander yells back, wiping the rain from his eyes.

Jacque spits on the ground. “I wanted to, with all my heart, my friend. But not here, not now. I will spill your blood another day.”

A buffalo sideswipes Alexander, knocking him into Jacque's horse; she neighs and rears, her rider cursing and pulling hard on her reins. Alexander begins to slide into the mud. Jumping off his horse, Jacque grabs him and with his great strength pushes him up onto the horse's back, where he sits swaying.

Jacque swings himself up, then immediately pulls the horse about, and they ride with the flowing buffalo, slowly working their way diagonally out of the mass of terrified animals.

Soon they come to the edge of the herd and turn back, the sound of the last of the buffalo diminishing in the distance. Through the rain, the two men see hundreds of slain animals littering the bloody prairie, dark carcasses that will feed the people for many months. Shots fire in the air, and the whoops and hunting cries of the Métis drift down the wet wind. But as the hunters gather, the blanket-covered body of the man gored to death subdues their jubilation. Several have wounds, some serious. Alexander's hip has been torn by a buffalo as it passed by Jacque's horse, and he is pale with loss of blood.

A rider gallops ahead to let the camp know the hunt is finished; the long and arduous job of preserving the tons of meat — the skinning, butchering and cutting into strips for drying and eventual grinding into pemmican — now passes to the women and children and elderly.

The wounded also need tending. Jacque walks into camp with Alexander clinging, barely conscious, in front him. He stops in front of a tent, and Alexander slides off the horse and falls into the mud where he lies unmoving. Overhead, the clouds break apart and rays of welcome sunshine light the camp. Thunder mutters in the distance, answered by the warble of a meadowlark. Jacque turns his face toward the sun, closing his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath.

A woman emerges from the tent. “Take care of this son of a bitch, will you Isidore?” Jacque asks. “It would be a poor thing if he was to die today.”

At the sound of drumming, the old carpenter drops his adze and stands up. He places his hands on the small of his back, and stretches, the vertebrae popping and snapping like a squirrel breaking nuts. Taking his pipe out of his mouth, he spits, brown saliva running down his beard. He wears no shirt in the scorching heat and, scratching his belly, he walks languidly over to the gates.

HBC fort Brandon House is almost empty in late spring, the courtyard silent but for the soft bark of the carpenter's adze squaring timbers. Looking across the Assiniboine River to the hated Nor'wester post, the carpenter can see that all there is quiet. The drumming is coming from an unseen source to the left.