Bitter Creek (2 page)

Chapter 3

RAIN CLOUDS WERE BILLOWING UP
over the top of MacDonald Pass west of Helena, and the mountain wind sliding down smelled of fresh water.

Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie and Patchen stood in the parking lot near the Fort Harrison building where Chappie had gotten presented with his Navy Cross.

“Thank you,” said Patchen. He hugged Chappie.

Du Pré rolled a smoke.

“Like everything else with this bunch,” said Patchen, “it's a damn wonder they didn't have the ceremony in the dead of night. …”

Chappie held the case in which the medal had come in his right hand, or what was left of it.

“We're out of it,” said Patchen. “But they aren't.”

“Good bunch,” said Chappie.

Patchen turned to Du Pré and Madelaine.

“I have to go back to Virginia for a bit,” he said. “A month or so—family matters—and then I would like to come back. … That voice I heard in the sweat lodge haunts me, and I think he meant to … This is mine to pursue. … The other voices are of murdered people … aren't they?”

He looked at Du Pré. Du Pré and Chappie finally nodded, both together.

“Got plenty places, you stay,” said Du Pré.

“I wouldn't want to impose,” said Patchen.

“Christ,” said Chappie, “you come, don't stay, you hurt our feelings. You are a friend. …”

“Apologies,” said Patchen. “I have a plane to catch. I must go, and I thank you again, Gunnery Sergeant Plaquemines.”

Chappie snapped to attention and saluted and so did Patchen and then they both laughed.

Patchen got into his rented car, started it, drove away. “So you saved his life,” said Madelaine.

“So I am told,” said Chappie. “Don't remember much but noise and fire and screaming. …”

They got into the big green SUV and Du Pré drove off. They stopped in Fort Benton and ate at a saloon and restaurant. The cheeseburgers weren't bad, but they weren't good either.

They walked down to the Missouri and looked at the keelboat that Hollywood had made for a film about the mountain men.

… once this shore was full of steamboats, so many saloons and so many people playing cards … they throw the used cards on the boardwalks, it's hard to walk on them, slippery … long time gone …

“Come on, Du Pré,” said Madelaine. “We will be plenty tired we get home. I know you can see, steamboats, Métis in big canoes, Crows camped across the river there, …” Du Pré laughed.

They got back in the SUV and Du Pré drove across the bridge over the Missouri and up the long grade of the hills.

The grass was still green but would soon die and turn yellow and pale brown.

Two-lane blacktop, Du Pré got up to only about eighty.

“This thing a piece of crap,” he said.

“Fifty-thousand-dollar piece of crap,” said Madelaine.

“All the same, you,” said Chappie, “I like it. Du Pré is not driving one-twenty like mostly. This thing feels like it will fall over one side or another. Me, I am having a drink now. …”

He fished makings from the cooler, poured Madelaine some pink wine, a ditch for Du Pré, one for himself.

“We are all illegal,” said Chappie. “Used to be you drive Montana, go from bar to bar, get another road cup. Fucking yuppies. …”

Madelaine turned in her seat and she looked at her son. “That Patchen, he is a good man I think,” she said.

Chappie nodded. “Hard for him,” he said. “He is only out of Annapolis two years, thinks he will make his life, Marines, now he got to do something else.”

“Like you,” said Madelaine.

“Yeah,” said Chappie, “I got more time in, I guess, but that bomb, change our plans. …”

“He is what, twenty-four?” said Madelaine.

“'Bout that,” said Chappie.

They rode on, silent. The sun was still high, a few days before the solstice of summer. It would be light until ten and dusk until eleven at night.

“Why he coming back?” said Madelaine. Chappie was quiet.

“He don't say,” he said. “But when we sweat, you know how it is, Benetsee's lodge there, old voices, dead people maybe, they are singing and he hear a voice, sings ‘bitter creek bitter creek bitter creek.' When they sing, it gets cold in the lodge, and that lodge is so hot. …”

“I don't know Bitter Creek,” said Madelaine. “You know, Du Pré? Why it get cold?”

“They were murdered maybe,” said Du Pré.

“Patchen, he is ver' smart,” said Chappie. “He show up, we are in Iraq, he looks about fifteen, you know, does the salutes, makes the little speech, asks to speak to me privately, says, at ease, now what the fuck do I do?”

Du Pré and Madelaine laughed. “I tell him keep his head lower than anybody else's, we are all trying that, we are in a fucking shooting gallery and are the rubber ducks. …”

Chappie made more drinks. “He is all right,” he said. The road was deserted.

“Damn,” said Du Pré. “It is like driving a milk truck.”

“You want your Crown Victoria, the souped-up engine,” said Madelaine.

“It has center of gravity under my butt,” said Du Pré. “In this thing, it is over my head about ten feet.”

In time they saw the lights of Havre and they picked up the Hi-Line that went due east. It was two-lane, too, and had heavy trucks lumbering along at sixty miles per hour on it. Du Pré passed when he could.

They got back to Toussaint at eleven, and Du Pré pulled up to the saloon, which still had lights on. They got out of the truck and went in. Susan Klein was behind the bar, and three men in worn work clothes were drinking draft beers. The men were spackled with bits of hay.

They had just quit working. This time of the year, when the hay was put up, days were sixteen hours.

The men finished their beers and walked out, nodding to Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie as they passed by.

Susan looked up and smiled when they sat down. She fixed two stiff ditches and some pink wine and she set the drinks on the bar.

“All done?” she asked Chappie.

“Yes,” he said.

“You did good,” said Susan, patting his mangled hand. Chappie nodded.

The television behind the bar was showing ambulances and armed men, burned walls, and tables and chairs thrown over.

The door opened and Bassman and Père Godin came in, bickering about something.

… shit, thought Du Pré
…
we play tomorrow night
…

Bassman and Madelaine hugged. Bassman reeked of marijuana, like always.

Susan drew two beers and she set them up.

Père Godin looked round the empty room.

“We maybe should have left earlier,” he said, looking at Bassman reproachfully.

“Old goat,” said Bassman. “You got enough children. You got about two hundred children, old goat. Should cut your balls off so I don't have to listen to you bitch—no women you give children to here. …” Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie­ laughed.

“It is seventy-three children,” said Père Godin, “that is all.”

“Kim come, too?” said Madelaine, looking at Bassman.

Bassman shook his head. “Come tomorrow,” he said. “She had stuff, do, said I maybe behave so she doesn't have, shoot me tomorrow.” Madelaine nodded.

“Me, I thought Montana land of fucking opportunity,” said Bassman.

“Père Godin,” said Madelaine, “you know anything, got ‘bitter creek' in it?”

“Sure,” said Père Godin, “know a song anyway.”

Madelaine nodded.

Père Godin looked mournfully around the room. “Old horny bastard,” said Madelaine. “What is the song about?”

“Little girl,” said Père Godin. “Little Amalie, her people are being killed, her father throws her over creek bank, she hide, night come, she go on, find a few Métis, they go to Canada. …”

Du Pré turned on his stool. “Where you get that song? I never hear it,” he said.

Père Godin grinned. “She sing it for me,” he said.

“Why do I know before you say it has something to do with your dick,” said Madelaine. “You, old goat.”

“I hear it one time, thirty, forty years ago,” said Père Godin.

“Three dozen children ago,” said Madelaine.

“So,” said Père Godin, “I am in love this woman … Suzette, I think, up in Canada, Manitoba, she take me to meet her grandmother Amalie. …”

Du Pré looked hard at him.

“Amalie she is not so old, she sing this song, 'bout the people running from the soldiers, think they are safe, stop rest, no fires, but the soldiers find them, the morning, start shooting, little Amalie she is thrown over the bank, hides, listens to her people being killed, gets away, eats berries, eats grubs she finds in a log, she smells smoke, finds people. …”

Du Pré stood up. “Where is this Amalie?” he said.

“Manitoba,” said Père Godin. “She is still alive, I see Suzette maybe six months ago, ask how is our son. …”

… Jesus Christ …

“How old is this woman now, this Amalie?” said Du Pré.

“Amalie is maybe seventy, Suzette has my son,” said Père Godin.

Madelaine looked at Du Pré.

“1910,” he said.

Chapter 4

“NON,”
SAID PÈRE GODIN.
“
Non non non.
After Suzette has my son she marries this fellow, somebody, they have kids, but this fellow say, he ever sees that Godin …”

“He cut your balls off,” said Madelaine.

“Yes,” said Père Godin, “I don't meet him ever, still have my balls, but I am told he is very large, has very bad temper.”

“Père Godin,” said Madelaine, “you got lots of husbands want to cut your balls off, dozens of them. Why are you so worried about one of them?”

“I only got this one pair, balls,” said Père Godin, “not enough to go round, me and them, you see. …”

“This is important,” said Du Pré.

“Excuse me,” said Susan Klein, “but I don't understand why. …”

Du Pré looked at her. “That Black Jack Pershing, him sent here 1910, round up the Métis are living in camps, don't got cabins, little piece of land, he does, puts them in boxcars, it is January, sends them to North Dakota, many old people, children, they die. Métis then don't got Canadian, American citizenship. No one knows about this. …” said Du Pré.

“Oh, God,” said Susan Klein, “I certainly never knew. …”

“But this Bitter Creek,” said Du Pré, “it means that some Métis got away, were hunted down and killed. …”

“But in 1910?” said Susan. “I knew about the slaughters in the nineteenth century. …”

“Been plenty since then,” said Du Pré. “See them on the evening news.”

“God,” said Susan.

“So we are finding this Amalie,” said Du Pré, looking at Père Godin.

“It is too dangerous, me,” said Père Godin.

“I cut your goddamned balls off,” said Madelaine.

“Shit,” said Père Godin. “Why am I born?”

“I need a toke,” said Bassman. He walked out and then they heard his van start.

Père Godin ran to the front door. “Dirty bastard!” he screamed. “Piece of shit leaves me here to die!”

Du Pré and Madelaine and Chappie and Susan laughed.

Père Godin slumped. He walked wearily back to the bar. “How 'bout I tell you all I know of her, you leave me alone then,” he said. He did not look hopeful.

“You find Amalie,” said Du Pré, “that is all you must do.”

Père Godin nodded. “See what I can do,” he said.

Chappie came off the stool very quickly and he grabbed the old man by the shoulders and he lifted him up so they could see eye to eye.

“You do whatever you got to,” he said. “Me, I will decide when it is enough. Now maybe I take you, Benetsee's, sweat, you listen the voices, your people. …”

“
Non
,” said Père Godin. “Lot of women are mad at me, are dead, I don't want to hear them, you know. …”

“We are going now,” said Chappie. He put his good left hand on the back of Père Godin's neck and marched him out the door.

“Well,” said Susan Klein, “for once Chappie didn't finish his drink.”

“I am going,” said Du Pré. “It is hard, Chappie, hold on to his neck and steer the car. …”

He kissed Madelaine and he went out. He got into his cruiser and he started it and he drove back toward Chappie's trailer; his headlamps caught the two of them marching toward Chappie's pickup.

Du Pré slowed. Chappie opened the rear door and he flung Père Godin in and he climbed in, too.

“Thing is,” he said, “you got to keep telling me things I like to hear so I don't break your neck. …”

“Jesus,” said Père Godin. “It is just a song, damn me for saying I know it. …”

“No,” said Chappie, “it is not just a song. …”

Du Pré turned round and he drove off toward Benetsee's, turned on the rutted track, parked by the cabin. There was a light on inside.

The door opened and the old man stood there, small in his clothes, a red kerchief round his head.

“It is Du Pré,” he said, “got friends, come see me late at night. Must be important.”

“We want to sweat,” said Chappie.

“
Non
,” said Benetsee, “got old pecker there, bring him here.” Chappie got out, with his hand still on Père Godin's neck.

Chappie set Père Godin down on the porch in front of Benetsee. “My old friend,” said Benetsee, “we walk, see the creek, have some wine …”

Du Pré went to the cruiser and he got a half-gallon jug out of the trunk and he unscrewed the cap and set it back and he handed the jug to Benetsee.

The two old men walked down the hill toward the creek. Du Pré sat on the steps and Chappie, taller, on the porch. Du Pré rolled a smoke and gave it to Chappie and he rolled one for himself and they smoked and looked up at the stars.

Thin veils of cloud sat high and still, a quarter moon hung low in the east.

“I wonder what happened,” said Chappie. “What happened at Bitter Creek?”

“People were killed, buried there,” said Du Pré.

“Lot of blood on this land,” said Chappie.

“Blood everywhere,” said Du Pré.

“Why the roundup, the Métis?” said Chappie.

“Whites want something they had,” said Du Pré. “Or maybe the whites wanted to blame the Métis for something they did. …”

“Old woman must be a hundred,” said Chappie.

“Me,” said Du Pré, “I have this great-great-great-aunt up in Canada, she live to be one hundred twenty-one. …”

“I don't want, live that long,” said Chappie.

There was sudden laughter from the old men down by the creek. “I like Père Godin,” said Chappie. “He don't want to be a hero.”

“
Non
,” said Du Pré. “Him just want, fuck every woman on earth.”

“Him ver' ambitious,” said Chappie, “very commendable. …”

“Him got a pretty good start,” said Du Pré.

“So,” said Chappie, “I guess we got to find that Bitter Creek.”

“Let them sleep, we do,” said Du Pré. “They sing at us now until they can sleep, cross over, you know. …”

“I don' know why me,” said Chappie.

Du Pré laughed. He went to the cruiser and he got a bottle from under the seat and he broke the seal. He had some whiskey and he gave the bottle to Chappie.

“That old Benetsee, him,” said Du Pré, “I go along, he does not bother me until he does. Once him start, it don't stop. …”

“I don't see him so much I am growing up here,” said Chappie. “I know who he is but see him maybe twice.”

“You were lucky, a time,” said Du Pré.

“Who is he?” said Chappie. “Him Métis?”

Du Pré shrugged. “Him old when Catfoot is a boy. …”

“Catfoot,” said Chappie, “I remember him cursing one time, his drag line break. We were fishing nearby. Cussed pret' good. Taught me new words. …”

Du Pré nodded.

There was more laughter.

“They are having a good time, them,” said Chappie. “I thought maybe we sweat, Bitter Creek people sing to Père Godin. …”

“It is west of here I think,” said Du Pré, “that is where we will look.”

“Why?” said Chappie.

“Most the Métis they are near Helena or up, Mussellshell country, maybe Judith Basin. …”

“This is, hundred years ago maybe,” said Chappie.

“Long time to wait,” said Du Pré, “in the dark.”

“I don't know I know things,” said Chappie. “Maybe they are in your blood. …”

“Yes,” said Du Pré.

“So what we do?” said Chappie.

“Find Amalie,” said Du Pré. “See if she remembers anything, where they left from, where they were, how long they were running. …”

“Find Amalie,” said Chappie. “You think Père Godin help?”

Du Pré nodded.

More laughter from the two old men down by the creek.

“I go with you, we get to Canada,” said Chappie.

Du Pré nodded.

“Madelaine says you always find stories,” said Chappie. “You look for them?”

“It is like this,” said Du Pré. “I see a little and want to know more. … But you stay here, I must go alone. …”

“You were not in the lodge,” said Chappie.

Du Pré shook his head. “Heard many voices singing,” he said. “But I think more than one person is too much for Amalie. …”

There was a popping sound from behind the cabin, like faint gunfire, and then a shriek of pure terror. Silence.

Du Pré put the top back on the whiskey. “We go now,” he said.