Outcasts of River Falls (5 page)

“And the whitewash? When is that to be done?” the bossy elder demanded of Aunt Belle.

“In its turn, Kokum. The clay and straw are mixed and Katy and I are about to begin. I’ll leave the tea to you.”

“I need milk. Kathryn, fetch some from the well, girl!”

Kathryn jumped. If the two builders were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, then this tiny tyrant had to be the Queen of Hearts. All that was needed was the command,
Off with her head!
The Mad Hatter’s tea party was already in full swing: dead deer and a crazy woodsman, workers marching around swinging boards and hammers, old ladies who commanded everyone like they owned the place, and now, milk from a well?

Aunt Belle, seeing her confusion, came to her rescue. “We keep dairy goods like milk and butter in the well so they won’t spoil. It’s cool down there.”

“I thought your water came from the river? If you have a well nearby, why not use it?” Kathryn was even more confounded.

“Because the well is nearly dry. There’s enough water so it stays damp and that keeps everything cool.”

Kathryn started for the door and then stopped. “And this Métis ice-box is where?”

“On the other side of the lean-to. You’ll see the pump handle.” Her aunt instructed.

Kathryn did as she was bid. Rounding the corner of
the shed, she stopped, reeling back at a sight that made her stomach twist. She’d forgotten that Mr. Remy was dressing the deer. From what she could see, it was more like
undressing
the poor creature.

Hurrying past the bloody carnage, she retrieved the milk and raced back to the cabin, ready for a needed rest.

Instead, she’d barely set the quart sealer down when her aunt thrust a bucket mixed with mud and straw at her.

“Enough dawdling, Katy. Time to get started.”

Chapter 4

The
Three
Little
Pigs
,
Robin
Hood
and
the
Big
Bad
Wolf

Kathryn took the bucket from her aunt wondering what she was in for next. One peek and her stomach lurched for the second time that day as the dank, fetid smell overwhelmed her.

Glumly, she followed her aunt to the corner of the log cabin where her bedroom was soon to be. “Aunt Belle, what on earth am I supposed to do with this muck?” She held the mud mixture as far from her body as possible.

“This.” Her aunt reached into her own bucket with a wooden trowel, scooped out a large gob of the mixture, and then plastered it onto the outer log walls across from the plank ones Tweedle Dee and Dum were busily beavering away at. She did it with so much gusto, you’d have thought she was icing a cake. “We’ll put a coat of the straw mix on, filling the chinks and smoothing it over the logs, let it dry, then top coat it with straight clay, again letting it dry so we can fill in any cracks, then finish it off with whitewash. Voila! You’ll have a room fit for a queen, or at least a princess, as nice as any back in Toronto. I want you to feel at home.”

Gingerly, Kathryn reached into the bucket with a trowel and tried to mimic her aunt’s actions. The clay fell off the wall with a disgusting splat.

“Add a little water to keep it sticky,” he aunt instructed.

Kathryn poured some water in and tried again. This time the gooey mixture stuck. Trying not to gag, she filled in the spaces between the logs, then scooped out more and spread on a thick layer, making a flat surface, or at least as flat as she could with the uncooperative mud. She felt like she was building one of houses for the Three Little Pigs.

“Good! That’s perfect.” Her aunt encouraged.

Kathryn’s stomach quieted as she figured out the exact consistency needed to prevent the muddy mix from falling off. The work was messy and her arms ached, but she was bound to keep up with her aunt. Before long, she had gobs of muck in her hair, straw chaff on the inside of her shirt and the ugly dungarees were coated in drying clay.

“Wonderful!” her aunt said with satisfaction as she in
spected her wall. “Once this is done, we’ll let it dry and then put on the smooth coat in a couple of days.” She smiled and added, “That one we put on with our hands, Katy.”

“You want me to actually touch the vile stuff!” Kathryn sputtered.

“The clay is good for your skin. It pulls out all the im
purities, like those fancy mud baths in Europe.”

Wincing, Kathryn thought of how the squishy mud would ooze between her fingers and felt nauseous again. The straw mix had the consistency of fresh dog droppings and felt like cold sludge. What must the smooth coat feel like – slippery, slimy?

She swallowed as her stomach told her that it had had enough for one day. But there was no way Kathryn would show discomfort to her aunt and these strangers. She knew the old woman called Kokum had been watching her, judging her. With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, Kathryn went back to applying the clay straw mixture, smearing it over the wall. Now she was grateful that her new room was so small.

As they worked, a succession of Aunt Belle’s neighbours stopped by, dropping off various food items. One, Aunt Belle said, was
lii torchiyer
, which Kathryn would have
called a meat pie in Ontario; and another dish had the im
probable title of
li rababoo di liyev
, which turned out to be rabbit stew. Kathryn’s face hurt from the fake smile she kept stitched to her lips as she greeted each visitor politely. She felt like a side show attraction at the circus. Aunt Belle flew through her wall and was soon finished, dropping her trowel into the bucket with a finality that worried Kathryn.

“I’ll step over here, out of your way,” Kathryn said, backing up so that her aunt could take her place. Their eyes locked for a split second and Kathryn had the sinking feeling that she was being cut adrift on a mud raft in the middle of the ocean. A rogue wave washed over her tiny craft when her aunt rinsed her hands, drying them as she stood in the doorway of the half-built room.

“You’re doing fine. I’ll sit with Kokum while you finish up.”

“Me? But, the logs and the wall and...” She protested, but saw she had no choice. Was this what it was like to be a slave under her master’s cruel whip? This was indeed a
Grimm
fairytale. She continued fighting with the clay, listening with one ear to Pierre and Joseph talking while they nailed up the last of the rough-sawn boards.

“I’m telling you, it was him!” Pierre said stubbornly.

“You saw him?” Joseph mumbled, holding several nails in his mouth with his teeth.

“
Oui
.” Pierre assured his workmate. “He was
très formidable
with a black hat and disguised with a mask of silk across his eyes.”

The reference to a masked man immediately caught Kathryn’s attention and she stopped squishing the mud to eavesdrop more closely.

“It was the
Bandit de Grand Chemin
out doing good works again.” Pierre insisted.

Bandit? Black hat?
Mask?
Kathryn forgot about her muddy mess entirely. “What man is this, sir?”

“Why, The
Highwayman,
Miss Katy.” Pierre explained eagerly. “He is a true hero. He is the phantom crusader for the Métis of River Falls. When we are cheated, he finds a way to balance the books; when an injustice is done, the Bandit de Grand Chemin rights it.”

“What is this cheating and injustice?” Kathryn asked, intrigued.

The two workmen exchanged a glance; then Joseph shrugged. “She will find out soon enough.” He hesitated. “The truth is, the town’s people, the whites, they don’t like us Road Allowance folks. They have their own way of treating the Métis and it’s not good. They remind us we are halfbreeds with no rights every chance they get. Sadly, we are often swindled and the law is always on their side. The Highwayman, he takes the problem and corrects things. ”

Kathryn felt a flutter of excitement. “You mean he robs from the rich and gives to the poor, like, like...” She gasped. “Like Robin Hood!”

Pierre agreed excitedly. “Exactly. He is River Fall’s very own Robin Hood.”

“This Highwayman, who is he?” Kathryn asked breathlessly, imagining this hero of the underdog.

Joseph shook his head. “No one knows. He is a mystery man.”

Kathryn couldn’t believe it. Here was a hero who could have stepped out of the pages of one of her books! She had
to find out more. A thousand questions jumped up for
answers, but when she prompted Pierre and Joseph further,
they had none. Her mind raced through stories of merry men and the Sheriff of Nottingham as she finished the loathsome mud coat on the logs.

Finally, the two men nailed up the final board of the two adjoining plank walls, complete with a frame for a door that was yet to materialise. Kathryn swiped on the last of the clay and then stood back to admire her handiwork.

“
Magnifique!”
Pierre exclaimed.

“
Fantastique!”
Joseph agreed.

“Well done!” Aunt Belle added with a laugh, coming to stand beside Kathryn as they all inspected the new walls. “It will look wonderful when we’re done.”

Kathryn tried to block this thought – more disgusting days of mud and mess ahead of her.

Satisfied, the two men gathered their tools and prepared to leave.

“If we can be of any other help, let us know, Belle.” Pierre touched a fingertip to his imaginary hat brim again. “Welcome home, Miss Katy.”

And before Kathryn could correct the name or thank them for their help, both men left as unceremoniously as they had arrived.

The only light in her new room was from a small window; still, it was enough that Kathryn could see how nicely her aunt’s wall had turned out. By comparison, hers was lumpy and uneven.

“My part’s terrible,” she moaned dejectedly. Not that she really cared a fig about a mud-smeared wall, but still, she had her pride.

“You’ve done a splendid job, Katy. It’s quite an art form.” Aunt Belle tossed Kathryn a wet cloth. “You’ve earned your cake.” Then she hugged her niece as they stood appraising the damp clay walls.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad, Kathryn decided, tipping her head a little to the left and trying not to focus on the bigger lumps. After all, she’d never done anything like this in her life before. Yes, in fact, it was not bad at all. When they finally got the smooth clay coat and whitewash on, it would almost be a regular room from a regular house, if you squinted a little. She thought of hanging a lovely picture, maybe one with a castle and a knight on a charger...

Kathryn stopped herself. What was she doing? This was crazy thinking. She wasn’t going to stay long enough to worry about such nonsense.

Angrily, she wiped the worst of the grime on the tail of the ugly flannel shirt which hung out of her saggy jeans.
She didn’t care what these people thought about her ap
pearance. They were about to become history as well.

“I’ll stoke up the fires to dry this quickly.” Aunt Belle went to the wood box and chose several pieces of birch, then pushed them into the cast iron stove before moving to the fireplace and stirring the ashes until the embers glowed red.

At that moment, there was a perfunctory knock at the door and another man, short and slight of build, arrived carrying a bright green door. He walked in and, without a word, set to work.

“That’s Francis. He doesn’t talk much; still he’s a hard worker.” Her aunt whispered quietly as they sat at the table with the old woman.

Kathryn watched the silent man as he expertly and quickly fitted the door. This was especially amazing when she noticed his right hand was frozen with the fingers curled into a claw. “Aunt Belle, what happened to Francis?”

Belle kept her voice down. “He was beaten in town one night and the thugs broke the bones so badly, they never healed right.”

Kathryn swallowed. How horrible. She admired the quiet man even more after hearing this.

“You did a decent job, young lady. Soon, you will have a lovely room you can be proud of as you helped to build it.” The Queen of Hearts passed Kathryn an extremely thick slice of the cake she’d brought.