A Good Man (6 page)

“I didn’t hire him. He’s my partner. I need a man who can show me the ropes, and he has experience as a cowhand. And no man knows horses better than McMullen. I provide the capital, he works alongside me and teaches me the hundred and one things I don’t know about ranching. I consider myself damn lucky he agreed to come in with me for twenty-five per cent of the profits.”

Walsh greets the notion that McMullen is a bargain with a dismissive shrug. Case is sure he would like to say more, but is checking himself, and the Major restraining his impulses is highly unusual. Walsh sits moodily flicking his thumb against his chin. As if speaking aloud the thoughts darting in his head, he abruptly says, “What Scott charged me to do – mend fences with the Yanks – it didn’t come off so well. I mean my meeting with Ilges in Fort Benton.”

Case suspects this is an understatement. “How so?” he asks.

“I’ve never liked that Ilges. Pompous German bastard. Couldn’t bring myself to lick the beanpole’s boots. He took offence. There was a bit of a dust-up.” The Major sounds a tad remorseful about whatever occurred. He shifts uncomfortably on his chair, as if waiting to receive absolution from Case. But it is withheld. Finally the Major says, “I was thinking that since you are going to be in Fort Benton – perhaps you could pay him a visit. Smooth things over between us.”

“If you would like me to pay him a courtesy call on your behalf, I will try to do what I can.” Case watches the Major. It is clear that he has more on his mind.

“I’ve been thinking how useful it would be to have a gentleman on the spot who is a little more discreet than myself. You know how I am, Case. I’m apt to flare. It nettles me to be at that bastard’s beck and call. It’s not in my nature to spend my days fixed to a chair, cracking my brain trying to figure out how to write a
tactful
report that won’t make him bristle. That’s
politics
and I have no talent for it, but politics is what Scott is asking me to do. There I’m like a blind man groping in the dark. I can’t close my fingers on the proper thing to say or how to say it. But you might say it for me. You have a nose for that sort of thing. It’s in your bloodline.”

“I can hardly take that as a compliment, not coming from you.”

“Well, that’s not all you are. You were a soldier once. I remember how high you stood in the examinations on tactics and strategy. A very good classroom soldier,” he qualifies, ungenerously. “That could be of great benefit. I mean to say you could give me a second reading of Ilges’s view on the military situation.” Walsh adds coaxingly, “Why, you could even winkle things out of him he might be reluctant to divulge. It’s my suspicion that all the traffic in intelligence is going to go in one direction – to the Americans. And we get nothing in return.”

Case turns this over in his mind. “What precisely are you asking me to be? A buffer? An intrmediary? Or a spy?”

The glint in Walsh’s eyes rivals the glint of his tunic’s well-polished buttons. “Let’s say a bit of all three,” he says delightedly. “That would describe it. I could pass information – how would you put it – that needs a
light
touch to you. You could sand the rough edges off it. I have a habit of putting things in a way that catches in a lot of people’s throats.”

“That means stepping outside of official channels. Highly irregular, to say the least.”

Suddenly Walsh averts his eyes, directs his gaze to the blazing square outside his window. When he speaks again his voice has a beseeching tentative quality to it. “I need to keep Major Ilges happy. If he is not happy, the secretary of state will not be happy. I believe Scott is itching to show me the door. I do not want to go out that door. I am asking you to help me keep that from happening.”

The naked honesty of Walsh’s appeal takes Case entirely by surprise. The Major is the last man he would have expected to stoop to supplication. More surprising still is how quickly Walsh’s plea tips the scales of his sympathy. “Let us talk about this later when I have had time to think about it.”

On hearing that, the Major swivels around eagerly. “I owe you that much at least,” says Case. “You have extended courtesies to me that a sub-constable had no right to expect. I am grateful for that.”

“Glad to have done it,” says Walsh, his confidence recovering. “Once we were brothers in arms. Comrades.”

“There are obvious difficulties,” warns Case. “Somehow, Ilges would need to be persuaded to deal with me.”

“You’ll twist him around your little finger. No doubts on that score.”

“He will need to see there’s benefit for him in this arrangement. You would have to be willing to accept the terms I am able to negotiate.”

“Certainly, certainly,” says Walsh.

“I would need a letter of introduction. A letter that informs him I speak for you. I would want to compose it myself, so as to define my position. I would want you to copy this letter out in your own hand and put your signature to it.”

“No argument from me. Bob’s your uncle.”

It strikes Case that Walsh’s manner is too offhand, too airily casual, he’s assuming too quickly that he has already tucked him in his pocket. “All this is merely musing aloud on my part,” he states. “I have not agreed to any of this. Far from it. I will need to mull this over, as I’ve said, before I give you my answer.”

Disappointment clouds Walsh’s face. Grudgingly he says, “If you must. I am in no position to dictate terms.”

“Well then,” says Case, beginning to rise, “the geant Major has pressing business for me.”

“Set that aside.” Walsh peremptorily motions him to sit, forcing Case to subside back down on the chair. “There’s another matter I need to speak to you about. That fellow Dunne you cautioned me about came to see me. The scoundrel wanted money to keep watch on the Irish in Fort Benton, can you believe his gall! I chucked the insufferable rascal out of my office. The next day he slipped this under my door.” Walsh removes several sheets of paper from a drawer and thrusts them at Case. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

The handwriting lurches across the pages.

Dear Major Walsh,

I think you should rethink. Here is my warning and argument concerning trouble brewing for you in Montana. Fort Benton is a Democratic town, entire. The party is run by Irish and Southerners. Neither has any love for President Grant nor Republicans and will not think twice to give them any pain they can. Nor to us. It is a well-known fact the Irish hate us loyal subjects of Britain and grab every chance to stab us in the back. Now with the Sioux in uprisal and talk running wild here that the red men will flee to Canada, these Irishmen say if we take these Indians in we are the foes of honest Americans everywhere and it’s Perfidious Albion all over again, up to her devilish tricky ways. These Irishmen mean to stir up trouble in Montana and all over the United States on account of this, and make it as hot for us as possible. I know this because I live above the Stubhorn Saloon that is run by an Irishman by name of Dink Dooley where all the Irish hang about blackening our good name. I hear things continual about how they want to stick a pointy stick in our eye and how the Sioux will give them a chance to do it. The Southerners will back them in any ruckus with the Republicans because they hate Grant for licking them in the war. They all grouse it’s up to the President to keep the Indians in hand and he’s botching the job. All the citizens are hot under the collar because of this. So here is a double-edged sword to cut us Canadians backwards and forwards and it is swung at us by Irish traitors. In case you mistake me, I am Orange through and through and loyal to Our Sovereign Majesty the Queen. Depend on it.

Now I will name you the worst of the rascals who need watching and why.

1. John J. Donnelly, Fort Benton lawyer and politician. Holds rank of Colonel in Irish Republican Army. Known to have taken part in two attempts to invade Canada from U.S. of A. If memory serves you, recall he helped block extradition of wolfers who killed them poor Indians in your neck of the woods, up there in Cypress Hills in 1873. Led demonstrations and ralleys against England and Canada all over Montana, claiming we was interfering with rights and liberties of Americans. Everybody in Benton still admires hot-winded speech he gave here in front of banner showing American eagle twisting tail of British lion. Lawyer Donnelly struts frequent on how he got Commissioner Macleod of
NWMP
arrested on visit to Helena on charge of provoking false arrests of so-called innocent wolfers. I have heard Donnelly brag on this with my own ears. I bring this all back to your mind to show that these scoundrels stop at nothing.

2. Johnny Healy, Chairman of Choteau County Democrats and Sheriff of Fort Benton. You Mounted Police pushed him out of the whiskey trade and shut down Fort Whoop-Up, costing Mr. Healy plenty of hard cash in lost profits selling porch climber to British Indians. So he is no friend of yours. Fenian sympathizer and well situated to make political trouble.

3. Lastly, biggest troublemaker of them all is rumoured to be in vicinity, General John O’Neill. Three times led Irish Republican Army into Canada, namely Ridgeway, Pigeon Hill, and not too long ago went to the Red River to prod the half-breeds into rebellion against the lawful government, throw us Canadians out and petition Congress to take Manitoba into U.S. of A. Had backing of Governor of Minnesota and members of Congress. On his way to Red River attacked Hudson Bay post he thought was on Canadian territory, but same was on American territory. So Army arrested him, but he was let out of jail in a blink of the eye because authorities here in this country fear power of Irish vote and mollycoddle them something scandalous.

Now as is plain to see, I know what I’m talking about and as a good patriot I will watch these mischief-makers for you and report all plots they are hatching that comes to my attention. But as I said before you brushed me off so rude, sir, keeping an eye on these scum is dangerous business and costly in out-of-pocket expenses. But I will do it cheap, at the price of $50 a month, and if you don’t think that a bargain you must be a Jew. I would think hard about my offer if I was you because I will look to your interests and those of our country. I can’t speak fairer than that. If you come to see the light, I can be reached at the Stubhorn, Fort Benton.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Dunne

All the while he has been reading, Case has been aware of Walsh’s boots impatiently scuffling under his desk. He only loses that sound when he comes across the name of General O’Neill, a disconcerting encounter. When he lifts his eyes from the document, Walsh eagerly demands, “So what do you make of that?”

“Dunne has a point – a small point – about the trouble the Irish in Montana may create.”

Walsh’s countenance darkens, believing that a criticism of him has been levelled. “You mean to say I was wrong to turn him out?”

“No, you were right to do that. This Dunne creature could be himself working for the Fenians. Or playing both sides of the fence – trying to collect a monthly stipend from you while at the same time peddling to the Irish whatever he picks up from his association with the Police. That sort of man is better kept at arm’s length. It’s never advisable to take snakes to your bosom.”

“I thought as much,” says Walsh, although it is clear to Case he hadn’t.

“Nevertheless, it might be wise if you warned Secretary Scott of the possibility of Irish political agitation. I wouldn’t exaggerate the peril. Simply intimate something disagreeable might be expected, give a sober alert to the go he ent that they can take under advisement. If trouble does arise, you will look perspicacious.”

Walsh leans forward over the desk. “Is it possible that Dunne is Secretary Scott’s man? I wouldn’t put it past the old bugger, putting me to the test to see if I show what he calls initiative.”

The suspicion is so preposterous that only Walsh’s anxious look prevents Case from smiling. “Hardly. The secretary has more important things to do than to lay traps for a mere subinspector. The minute you walked out of his office, you walked out of his mind. Only if you make a misstep will he take notice of you again.” He sees that the phrase “mere sub-inspector” is not sitting well with the Major. But if he is to be of any use to Walsh, he will need to say similar things to him in the future. Case gets to his feet. “Duty calls. Back to the pick and shovel,” he announces.

“Damn it, man,” says Walsh. “I’ll speak to the Sergeant Major and see you relieved of that chore.”

“But I don’t want to be relieved of it. I haven’t finished many things in my life. I need the practice.” And with that he leaves Walsh’s office.

For the rest of the afternoon Case chops ground, hands weeping blood, thinking of what Walsh has proposed. There is no denying that there is something flattering about being petitioned by a man who, back in the days at the Kingston Cavalry School, was so universally admired. Walsh had sparkled with promise, was a constant reminder to the rest of the officer trainees that he was the one real warrior among them. Like Blake’s Tyger, he had been formed by a different hand and eye, his sinews twisted to one purpose – a life of action. All he had talked about was his yearning to be gazetted a subaltern in the British Regulars. A little hard cash could have bought him a commission, but the son of a ship’s carpenter didn’t have that sort of tin – or the requisite gentleman’s upbringing. So Walsh had swallowed disappointment and settled for second best, a career in the Police, and now Scott was threatening to snatch second best out of his grasp. Only fear could have made Walsh beg for assistance, and that fear was what had surprised and touched Case the most. He had never guessed it was an element of the Major’s character.