A Good Man (42 page)

Ilges told me that his superiors are expressing anxiety over a wave of anger and disaffection that is sweeping through all the Plains tribes. It is said that Crazy Horse already regrets laying down his armsnd is urging his people to leave their reservation and flee for Canada. There are signs of discontent among the Northern Cheyenne who were solemnly promised a reservation in their old lands, but are now told they will be transported to an Indian agency deep in the South. They, too, are said to be contemplating following Chief Joseph’s example and making a run for British territory. What is even more disturbing, in Ilges’s opinion, is that the Crow are said to be considering doing the same. The Major is greatly surprised that these faithful allies of the Americans in their Indian wars, who provided the Army with many scouts and fought alongside them in battle, are now talking openly of crossing the Medicine Line to the north. He remarked to me pessimistically that if the Americans cannot keep old friends like the Crow and Nez Perce from taking flight, what hope is there of restraining the rest of the tribes?

Which brings me to a delicate matter. There are rumours about here in Montana that Sitting Bull is making overtures to the Blackfoot in Canadian territory, holding out to them the prospect of a grand Indian alliance with the purpose of driving whites out of the West. What have you heard on that front? Ilges is most anxious for any light that you can shed on this matter.

Of course I do not know Sitting Bull as you do, but it seems to me that in the coming days he is likely to play a large role in whatever unfolds. The growing restiveness and disgruntlement among the Indians could lead them to set aside their traditional enmities in favour of forging a common front against the Americans. Bull, as you are well aware, would be the natural leader of such a league. His victory over Custer gives him enormous prestige; his staunch refusal to surrender makes him a potent symbol of Indian resistance. I believe it is his example that has turned the eyes of the Nez Perce, the Northern Cheyenne, the Crow, and the Sioux still remaining below the border, to the north.

Ilges says that all the Sioux on the agencies questioned by the Army testify that in the years before the Little Bighorn it was Sitting Bull who was responsible for strengthening the bonds between the bands and urging them to act as one people, not as Sans Arcs, Miniconjous, Hunkpapas, etc. The Northern Cheyenne were present in the Sioux camp when Custer attacked and helped overwhelm him. And as you yourself have testified to me, Bull tried to draw the Assiniboine into his war against the Americans. In my opinion, this points to a man of considerable diplomatic and
political
abilities. I have had experience of such men, having watched them at close hand conferring in my father’s study. Whatever the wind, they make do with what it gives them. Sitting Bull is now becalmed, which makes him amenable to your wishes. But as Ilges said to me, it is beginning to appear that Sitting Bull is an Indian first and a Sioux second. If it is true he is courting his traditional enemies the Blackfoot, he has his reasons, and they need close examination. He may have felt the breeze freshening and is preparing to take advantage of it when it blows full force. Thousands upon thousands of indigent refugee Indians arriving in Canada with a grievance, against not only Americans but all white men, points to an approaching storm that may be very difficult to weather.

Yours sincerely,

Wesley Case

July 28, 1877

Fort Walsh

My dear Case,

Thank your for your communication of the 14th. Read with amusement your and Ilges’s speculations about Bull’s hand in creating a grand Indian alliance. True, Sitting Bull parleyed with Crowfoot of the Blackfoot this year, but his aim was to secure peace between the two tribes, an initiative I heartily encouraged. In fact, he has named one of his new twins Crow Foot to express admiration for his Blackfoot counterpart. I see nothing in any of this to suggest Bull was up to skulduggery or conspiracy. As you say, you see him from a distance but I think you need a better set of binoculars. Have talked at length with him, close up, and can read him a damn sight better than you can from where you sit. Break bread with a fellow before you judge him, that’s what I advise. He gave me his word that he would not molest the Americans and so far he has kept it. That’s good enough for me until I see evidence to the contrary.

If there is anybody to worry about stirring up a ruckus, it’s that bastard half-breed Louis Riel. There are indications that he’s been slipping over the border to sow sedition among the Wood Mountain half-breeds, claiming that the white man has stolen their country, etc. Apparently, he’s been talking the same balderdash on the American side, telling both Indians and half-breeds that they have had their lands stolen and the time has come to clear all the whites out of the West from the Missouri up to the Saskatchewan. Needless to say, he proposes himself as high potentate of this imaginary Red Kingdom in the clouds. If I lay hands on him this side of the line, he’ll cool his heels in the guardhouse and have plenty of time to dream his damn airy dreams. His five-year term of exile from Canada hasn’t expired yet, so that cheap Napoleon had better not put one of his grubby toes over the line anywhere in my neighbourhood.

So the next time you see Ilges do me a favour. Tell him on my behalf that he ought to send some soldiers to track that son of a bitch Riel down wherever he is in Montana and throw a scare into the gutless wonder. And tell him something else for me – if it’s my responsibility to keep Sitting Bull on the straight and narrow then it’s up to the Yanks to do the same with Riel. Tit for tat.

Yours sincerely,

James Morrow Walsh

No one had ever given Michael Dunne such a blow as Case had. His first impulse was revenge, to spit on his fingers, snuff Wesley Case out like a candle. But then, gradually, it came to him that the dirty cad might be made to pay for his crime twice.

Dunne began questioning Dink Dooley as to whether he knew anything about the whereabouts of General O’Neill’s immigration agent, Patrick Collins. Fortunately, Collins had left an address with Dooley so that any of those he had attempted to recruit in Fort Benton could get in touch with him.

That address was all Dunne needed. Early one evening, two weeks later, he boosted himself out of an armchair in the lobby of the Franklin Hotel in Omaha, Nebraska, and buttonholed Collins as he was heading out for supper.

None too pleased at being accosted by a stranger when his mind was on his stomach, Collins waited impatiently while Dunne ponderously introduced himself, then he rudely said, “Well, what is it you want?”

“I want a meeting with General O’Neill.”

“If it’s information about our settlement you require, I’m in charge of that. I can see you three o’clock tomorrow.” Collins waited for Dunne to confirm the appointment. “No? Well, then, I’ll take my leave of you.”

As Collins made a move to exit the hotel, Dunne called out, “The General needs money. I can get him bags of it. Money enough for a mountain howitzer if that’s what he wants.”

Collins swung back to him. “Shut your bloody mouth. Mad talk like that – in public – what do you think you’re playing at?”

Dunne was unfazed by the rebuke, but he lowered his voice. “A mountain howitzer and enough stands of arms to supply a regiment. The General interested in that?”

“That’s a very large claim, my friend. The General is beset with fantasists.”

“I don’t speak of what I can’t deliver.” Dunne put his hand in his pocket and drew out his memberships in the Hibernian Benevolent Society of Canada and the Toronto circle of the Fenian Brotherhood. He handed them to Collins, who glanced at the cards and gave a dismissive shrug before returning them.

“Congratulations. You paid dues. You are a sympathizer.”

“More’n a sympathizer. A
soldier
. Soldier of the Irish Republic. Ask Joe Finnerty of Boston.”

Collins smiled condescendingly. “Why would I waste a stamp?”

“Because I took care of the famous Peaches Malloy for Finnerty. Peaches, who sold himself to the British. Who was passing information to the enemy.”

One of the hotel’s employees had come to light the crystal candelabra under which they were standing. Collins took Dunne by the arm and directed him to a quiet corner of the lobby. “I heard about that,” said Collins. “Somebody cut him another mouth.” He laid the side of his hand to his throat as if it were a knife blade. “Here.”

“Don’t try to spring no traps on me,” said Dunne, reaching up and putting a finger to the nape of his own neck. “It was a ice pick here.”

Collins nodded slowly. “So you served under Finnerty in Boston.”

“For a time. When Peaches joined the angels, I had to wave goodbye to Boston. After that, New York, Buffalo, Detroit. Wherever I was needed.”

Collins took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Give me the names of your commanders in each of those centres.” He noted them down as Dunne ran through the list. When he concluded, Collins said in a business-like way, “If you are the old hand you claim to be, then you know you must be vouched for before I can grant you an interview with the General. Luckily for you, Mr. Dunne, you have an appearance not easily forgotten. A description of your person should suffice to identify you. Now, where can I reach you if it is proved you are who you say you are?”

“Mrs. Henderson’s Boarding House down in the Market.”

“This money you promise – where is it coming from?”

“That’s for the General’s ears.”

“I am the General’s ears – as well as his eyes.”

“Beg pardon for saying it, but I don’t know that. The General broke with the Fenian leadership but it could be the old bosses encouraged a tattler to remain behind to keep an eye on him. Maybe you hew to the new line, believe freedom is better got with politics than the barrel of a gun. Me, I follow anybody who wants to spill English blood. That means General O’Neill.”

“I fear I am in the presence of a dragon,” said Collins.

“I got sufficient fire in my belly, if that’s what you mean.”

Collins pursed his lips thoughtfully. “We shall see, Mr. Dunne. We shall see.”

Dunne remained caged up in Mrs. Henderson’s boarding house awaiting a call from the colonization agent. He kept to his room, except when meals were served. On the seventh day of his wait, a hot wind began to blow out of the west. A madman playing patty cake, it wildly thumped the walls of the boarding house, shrieked and moaned, caused Dunne’s window to shudder in its frame. Looking out of his second-storey room, he watched the sky turn nicotine brown above the roofs of Omaha, the sun turn smoky orange behind a screen of flying dust. The wind whipped the Missouri until chop bristled on its back like an old dog’s white hackles.

The daylong, incessant howling fretted all the roomers’ nerves raw, had them all on edge by the time they sat down to supper that night. Mrs. Henderson was particularly nervous and gloomy since several boarders had recently departed her establishment and she was down to three paying guests: Dunne, a young apprentice gunsmith, and Mr. Sumter, a drummer who travelled the Nebraskan countryside peddling cheap watches to dirt farmers. Mr. Sumter thought himself quite the card. Once, he had given Dunne a wink and told him that the timepieces he sold had a high rate of heart failure, that their tickers often stopped ticking and that he would soon have to leave Nebraska before the owners of those tin corpses caught up with him. It seemed Mr. Sumter believed cheating people a joke, but he didn’t get a laugh from Michael Dunne.

That night, Sumter held forth on the gale, which he predicted would soon bring down a plague of Rocky Mountain locusts on Nebraska. “Same wind in ’74,” he said, helping himself to another grey chunk of Mrs. Henderson’s sodden boiled beef, “and in on it sailed them devil insects. I was just outside Lincoln when they came. I took refuge from them at a farmer’s place. The sky went black and I heard the roar of wings, and they started to drop down like hail, plop, plop, all around until they lay ankle deep on the ground, a crawling carpet of locusts, shivering and creeping.”