Apparition Trail, The (9 page)

I embarked upon the riverboat
S. S. North West
, which sailed from Fort Pitt the next day. The riverboat was long and low, with a flat hull that drew only eighteen inches of water, and the vessel had an open lower deck that used to be stacked high with cordwood back when the boat was steam-powered. Above this first deck was an enclosed passenger deck with a long, narrow saloon and cabins, encircled by a railed promenade where travelers could take the air. The third deck, known as the “hurricane deck” was a flat expanse that was open to the elements, punctuated only by a small pilothouse. Twin smokestacks still pointed toward the heavens near the bow of the vessel, even though the steam engine that had once powered the
North West
was no longer in use. Engine and boilers had been removed and replaced by a gigantic perpetual motion device, housed on the lowermost deck near the huge paddlewheel at the stern of the vessel.

Once my belongings were safely stowed, I walked to the rear of the boat for a closer look — but not too close, lest my presence jinx the mechanism. The perpetual motion device, in this case, was of Swiss manufacture: a buoyancy motor. A series of huge, air-filled balls, connected by slim metal links, bubbled up through a water-filled chamber that from the outside looked like a gigantic brass boiler. The device transferred its energy by means of a series of cogs of ever-increasing size, culminating in the gears that drove the paddlewheel. The machine wasn’t any use when the water froze — but that didn’t matter since the
North West
ended its season each September, as soon as ice began to form in the river.

The trip upriver to Victoria Mission, one hundred and forty-four miles in all, took three full days, due to the delays caused whenever the ship ran aground on a sandbar. I kept to myself during the voyage — as much as my scarlet uniform would allow — but even so I faced a barrage of questions about where I was going and why, and what the Mounties had learned about the disappearance of the McDougall family. Everyone had a theory, each more ludicrous than the last: that the McDougalls and their six children had all gotten into a single canoe and drowned after it tipped in mid-river; that Indians had carried away the family and cannibalized the men and made slaves of the women; that the reverend had gone mad, murdered his wife and children, buried them in shallow graves, and then killed himself. I was tempted to tell these gossips the truth — that Indian magic had spirited the McDougalls away — just to see the expressions on their faces, but kept my lips buttoned.

Instead, I told the passengers and crew members of the
North West
that I was en route to a new posting at Fort Saskatchewan, and that I had been asked by my new commanding officer to stop in at the mission on the way, to see if any evidence had been overlooked. That would explain why I was disembarking at Victoria Mission, yet not place undue emphasis upon the visit.

The two previous times I’d travelled by riverboat in the course of my duties, I’d been quartered on the open lower deck, but Q Division, it seemed, had deeper pockets than the rest of the force: Steele had authorized a private cabin, which went for the princely sum of five dollars. I spent much of the voyage inside it, luxuriating in its comfort and passing the time by reading old editions of
Canadian Illustrated News
and listening to the piano tinkling in the saloon, just outside my door. In the evenings our captain, Jimmy Sheets, would descend from his pilothouse and serenade the passengers with his magnificent baritone.

I also found in my cabin a hymnbook that a previous passenger had left behind. Glancing inside the cover, I found it was inscribed with the words “Frederick Baldwin.” I wondered if it had been lost or left behind deliberately, for the solace and edification of the next passenger. I shrugged and set it aside.

The few times that I did venture out onto the promenade that encircled the cabins on the second deck, a curious event repeated itself. More than once as I leaned against the rail, staring at the tree-dotted banks of the river and enjoying a pipe, I would imagine that someone was calling my name. When I turned, it was always to find the same pair of dark, brooding eyes staring at me. Then the gentleman they belonged to would tip his hat, as if in apology, and move on.

The first time this happened I ignored it, thinking it merely a flight of fancy. I was standing near the stern on the first day of our journey, and the sloshing of the perpetual motion tank and the rumbling and squeaking of the gears and cogs it drove produced a cacophony that could have given rise to any number of imagined sounds.

The second time, I intended to ask the fellow his name, but was distracted when the
North West
ran aground on yet another sand bar. I was jostled by the sudden stop and nearly lost my footing. By the time I regained my balance, the stranger was gone.

These groundings were an all-too-frequent occurrence. It didn’t seem to matter that a man was stationed on the bow of the riverboat, constantly measuring the depth of water with a pole; so silt-laden and unpredictable in its depth was the river that the ship grounded several times each day. When this happened, two beams — much like the ones used in lifting heavy cargoes — had their ends lowered into the water on either side of the vessel. The paddlewheel would churn up great clouds of silt, forcing the vessel forward and causing it to rise on these spars like a lame man on crutches. Having gained a few feet, the boat would then heave down again, and the process would be repeated.

The third time I imagined a voice silently calling me and noticed the same fellow staring at me intently, I made a careful study of the man. He was a handsome fellow in his twenties, wearing a black derby hat, a button cutaway suit, and stylish pants cut from diagonal-patterned worsted. He carried an umbrella with a silver handle, which he used like a cane as he strolled the decks, and he wore his beard below the chin, with cheeks clean-shaven except where the beard joined the moustache on his lip. His black hair glistened with Brilliantine, and his eyes were a brown so dark it bordered on black. He smelled of German cologne.

I strode up to the fellow and demanded his name and business. He introduced himself as Arthur Chambers, and seemed surprised that I had not heard of him. It seemed he was a famous lecturer, although he was vague on his area of expertise, saying only that he lectured on “energy.” I decided that he must be both wealthy and arrogant — two factors that I have often found go hand in glove. I made up my mind to dislike him, then and there. Yet something compelled me to engage him in conversation.

Chambers spoke with a gentleman’s accent, and was obviously from England. But despite his strange habit of startling me, and despite his obvious displeasure at my not recognizing his name, our conversation was civil enough. It was limited to the pleasantries that strangers typically exchange: complaints about the heat, observations on how odd the moon was looking these days, and platitudes about the scenery that passed by on either side. When it came down to it, I could find nothing suspicious about him, save for his seeming fascination with me.

After that, although Chambers kept a discreet distance, he continued to stare intently at me whenever our paths crossed — which was frequently, on a boat of that size. Although he remained silent, he seemed to be speaking volumes with his eyes.

Such constant attention made me uncomfortable, and by the third day of our voyage I made up my mind to confront Chambers about it. Yet it was he who approached me that evening, asking if I liked to play cards. Partially out of politeness, but more out of curiosity about this irritating fellow, I agreed to join him in a game.

As is often the case when cards are suggested, the game of choice was poker. We chose a table in the saloon, beneath the tinkling chandelier. We were soon joined by a soft-spoken farmer from the Red River Settlement who only parted his lips to puff on a white clay pipe, indicating silently with his fingers how many cards he wanted. His breath had a sour smell, and the few times he opened his mouth I could see that one of his teeth had turned black. Also joining us was the Metis steward of the riverboat. The latter fellow, who had the rather pretentious name Xavier de Mont-Ferron, had a boisterous, jovial nature.

We played several hands, and as I settled into the game, my usual lucky streak emerged.

“
Mon dieu!
” the steward exclaimed when I won for the fourth time in as many hands of cards. “You must ’av a lucky ’orseshoe in your pocket,
monsieur
.”

“Nothing so crude as that, I’ll wager,” Chambers said, his dark eyes studying me intently. “I’d wager that a power other than mere luck is at work here.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, I slid a finger under my collar to loosen it.

The steward frowned in puzzlement, and the farmer ignored the exchange, silently concentrating on the cards he was shuffling. I was just working up the nerve to ask Chambers what he meant by his remark when a voice drawled from behind my left shoulder: “Y’all mind if I join the game?”

I turned and saw an American with weathered cheeks and a patchy, straw-coloured beard. He wore canvas trousers, a grey cotton shirt that laced up the front, and beaded, ankle-high moccasins. He smelled like a man who had been on the trail for many weeks. A short-barrelled pocket revolver was holstered butt-forward on his left hip, and on his right hip was a sheath containing a knife with an antler handle. I’d noticed him on the lower deck when I boarded in Fort Pitt; he hadn’t taken a cabin, and was sleeping with the half-breeds down below. Given his weapons — and his squint-eyed, challenging stare — I was loath to have him join our poker game. But Chambers waved to an empty chair and invited him to sit down.

“I don’t think I’ve made your acquaintance, sir,” Chambers said with a polite smile, half rising from his chair. “Might I inquire as to your name and where you are from?”

The American pulled his chair up to the table, then reached inside his shirt for a metal flask. Grabbing one of the glasses on the table, he poured the residue of cold tea it held onto the floor, then refilled the glass with amber liquid, measuring the amount by holding his four fingers against the glass and stopping when the liquid was level with the uppermost finger. Judging by the smell, it was whiskey.

He screwed the lid back on his flask and shoved it back into the folds of his odorous shirt. That done, he stared at me, as if challenging me to uphold the law that prohibited possession of alcohol without a permit. I met his eye with a level stare, and he at last answered the Englishman’s question.

“Four Finger Pete’s my name, and I come from here and there — most lately, Fort Garry. I’ll play until my drink is done, then quit the game, win or lose.” His look suggested that he intended to win — and that we’d better like it when he did.

I’d met men like him before, and had even been forced to draw my revolver on them a time or two. I considered myself a match for this Four Finger Pete. Yet Steele had instructed me not to draw any attention to myself while on this case. I had to satisfy myself with giving the uncouth fellow a glare, and leave it at that.

We played six more hands of poker, three of which I won. As coins and twenty-five-cent shinplaster bills piled up in front of me I saw a spark of anger ignite in Four Finger Pete’s eye. I deliberately lost the next hand, not wanting to provoke a confrontation with the American gunslinger. Shaking my head as if bewildered by my change of luck, I secretly sighed in relief as Four Finger Pete scooped up the pot, which had grown to a substantial eight dollars and fifty cents. I could see by his confident attitude that he was used to winning, and guessed that he was a professional gambler. I’d have loved to have taken him down a notch or two — something that would have been easy, given my luck at cards — but Steele’s admonition to remain inconspicuous kept ringing through my thoughts.

Chambers was the next to deal. He picked up the cards I had thrown away in that last hand: two queens — and the cards that had been in my hand: a queen, a six, two threes and an ace — and glanced at them as he slid them into the deck.

“Quite a pity, Corporal Grayburn,” he said, clucking his tongue. “If only you’d known that lady luck was coming your way, things might have gone quite differently.” His long-lashed eyes blinked innocently, but I had caught the inflection in his voice. Somehow he had recognized my talent for intuitively knowing which cards to toss away, and he’d guessed that I’d deliberately ignored it on that last hand.

Chambers dealt a fresh hand. The farmer stared at his cards from under the brim of his slouch hat, took a deep draw on his pipe and let out a stream of pungent smoke that smelled like Fon du Lac Cut Plug, then held up a tobacco-stained forefinger for one card. Xavier, after a quick wave at the chief engineer to indicate that he would return to his duties presently, shrugged and drew four new cards. Four Finger Pete studied the farmer’s eyes closely, watched Xavier as he reordered the cards in his hand, gave me a sidelong glance, then asked for two cards. His overall expression did not change as he was dealt them, but I saw a small tic at the corner of his scruffy moustache that might have been a smile.

I was about to toss away the jack, queen and king of hearts that were in my hand — in direct defiance of my strong hunch that they were the cards to keep — but just at that moment an Indian woman entered the saloon from the door nearest the stairway that led to the lower deck. I recognized her by the ochre-painted leggings and American blanket she wore as a Peigan. The hood of her blanket was thrown back, revealing lustrous black hair that hung in two braids, into one of which was tied a bedraggled white feather. She had high cheekbones and long-lashed eyes and was quite beautiful — or would have been, I noted as she drew closer, but for the pockmarks that marred her skin. Given the degree to which the disease had ravaged her features, I judged she was lucky to have survived her brush with smallpox. I was struck by her damaged beauty, and captivated by the shine in her hair. She reminded me — albeit only superficially — of an Indian woman who had for a time haunted my dreams, causing me at least upon one occasion to wake up with a palpitating heart. I found myself feeling a pang of guilt, but at the same time was strangely aroused. I found my eyes lingering on this Indian woman. I kept imagining touching her braid, her cheek, her breast….