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inhaled deeply, waiting and listening. The small lobby was empty and still.
There was no one at the desk. Sitting near the door was a valise that belonged
to Kyle Gavin, but the man himself was nowhere about. As he put his things
down near the door, he noticed part of a torn sticker on the valise ... toria.
He straightened up, considering that. Victoria, B.c.? It could be. So? Gavin
could easily have been there. He was a widely traveled man. Yet when they had
talked of British Columbia, he had offered no information on the area, nor had
he mentioned visiting there. Why had Nolan warned him against Gavin? Or about
him? He was opening the door to step outside when he heard a click of heels
on the board floor and turned. Devnet Molrone looked fresh and lovely, as
though she had not traveled a mile. "The cart is coming," he said. Even as he
spoke, it was pulling up at the door. He was surprised, although he should not
have been. He had never seen a Red River cart before, although he had heard of
them. Each cart was about six feet long and three wide; the bottom was of
one-inch boards; the wheels were seven and a half feet in diameter. The hubs
were ten inches across and bored to receive an axle of split oak. The wood
used was oak throughout. Each cart was drawn by a single horse and would carry
approximately four hundred pounds. No nails were used. Oak pins and rawhide
bindings held it all together. Kyle Gavin followed the cart and gestured to
the driver. "Baptiste, who will drive for us. The ladies will ride in the
cart. You and I"--Gavin glanced at Orrin--"will ride horseback. You do not
mind?" Orrin Sackett shrugged. "I prefer to ride. I always feel better on a
horse." Orrin threw his gear into the cart, then placed Devnet's valise and a
small trunk in the wagon. Mary McCann had only a valise. The ungreased axle
groaned as they moved out, Kyle Gavin leading off. Orrin slid his rifle into
the boot and swung into the saddle. The sun was not yet up when they moved
out, heading north, parallel to the Red River. There was no sign of the
Stampers. As the cart was lightly loaded, they moved out at a good
pace. There was no time for conversation but the route was plain before them.
At noon, they pulled up under a wide-spreading elm, and Baptiste set about
preparing a meal while the horse, after being watered, was picketed on the
thick green grass. Orrin sat down under the elm's shade, removed his hat, and
mopped his brow, his rifle across his lap. His eyes looked off toward the
west. "What's over there?" he asked. Baptiste shrugged a shoulder. "Sand,
much sand. Once a sea, I t'ink. Maybe so. Great hills of sand." "Do you know
Riel?" "Aye, I know him. He is good man--great man. He speaks what we t'ink."
He gestured. "We, the m`etis, our home is here. We live our lives on this
land. All the time we work. We trap that' fur for Hudson's Bay Company. We
have our homes, we raise our children, then the Comp'ny goes away. "It iss
here--poof! It iss gone! Then come others, strangers who say we have nothing.
They will take our homes. Long ago we call upon Louis Riel, the father. He
speaks for us. Now we call upon the son." "I wish him luck," Orrin
said. Baptiste glanced at him slyly. "You do not come for land? Some mans say
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Yankees come with army. Many mans." "That's foolish talk," Orrin replied
brusquely. "We've problems of our own without interfering in yours. There are
always some folks who make such talk for their own purposes, but the American
people wouldn't stand for it." He squinted his eyes toward the river, frowning
a little. Had he seen a movement over there? "As for me, I'm going to buy a
couple of carts and go west to help my brothers with a cattle drive." Orrin
leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was cool and
pleasant in the shade of the old elm. Kyle Gavin lay only a few yards away,
his head pillowed on his saddle. Devnet, also in the shade, was fanning
herself with her hat. He liked the way the sun brought out the tinge of red in
her hair. He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men,
he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge.
Yet what was he doing here, anyway? He should be back at home, building
friendships before the next election. He had been a sheriff, a state
legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was
in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in
America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long
time. He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste
was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed
of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his
back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit
drew his rifle from the scabbard. He started to return it, to settle it more
securely in place, but something held his hand. What was wrong? He glanced
quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching. Then he knew. It was his
rifle. The weight was wrong. When a man has lived with guns all his life and
with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it.
Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the
magazine. It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle. The barrel was
empty, too. Somebody had deliberately emptied his rifle while he
slept! Swiftly, he shucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded. He was just
putting the rifle in the scabbard when Gavin appeared. "Everything all right?
We're about to move out." "I'm ready. I fell asleep over there; first time
I've been caught napping in a long time." He smiled pleasantly. "But I'm awake [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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