tunics surrounding him. “Lord,” he said, “I fell asleep and I’ve woke up in heaven, sitting in a bowl of strawberries. Where’s the cream?” Then with no further ado, he stretched out his hand to the nearest policeman, who happened to be Case. “Name’s Joe McMullen,” he said. “Glad to know you.”
With time, Joe McMullen’s appearance in their midst was embellished into legend, an often repeated story about the idler who dozed his way from Fort Benton to Fort Walsh, dreamed his way through over a hundred miles of howling, perilous wilderness, simply drifting like cottonwood wool on a breeze, happy to settle wherever the wind carried him. Joe does nothing to deny this interpretation, simply says, “It ain’t a bad trip with your eyes closed. The scenery ain’t got much to recommend it.”
McMullen is sheathing Peregrine Hathaway’s Police-issue Snider-Enfield carbine in the boy’s bucket scabbard. Hathaway is the only one in uniform, scarlet jacket and buff breeches, pillbox hat cocked on his head at a rakish angle. If McMullen is used goods, nicked and scarred, Hathaway looks fresh as a daisy even though the summer sun has burned his face livid. His habitually amazed and innocent blue eyes watch every move Joe McMullen makes.
The last buckle buckled, the last bit of gear stowed away, Joe turns to Case and Hathaway and declares, “All right, girls, tuck your skirts between your legs and get your sit-upons in the saddle. Time to go.”
They trot through the gates of Fort Walsh. There is no one to see them off but the guard. The rest of B Troop is taking supper, and Walsh is abed with a bad case of chills and fever. McMullen followed by Hathaway, Hathaway by Case, they file down the Benton–Walsh trail. The day before, the Métis scouts, Louis Léveillé and Cajou Morin, had done reconnaissance as far as the Milk River and found no evidence of Sioux in the area. Beyond the border, the disposition of the hostiles is unknown. Joe aims to cover the ground between Fort Walsh and the Milk by daylight and proceed into Montana Territory under cover of darkness. When dawn comes, the party will take cover, sleep, then make the last stage of the journey to Fort Benton by night.
The descent down the southern slopes follows a snaking path; the tops of the lodgepole pine and spruce sway in a wind that brooms the sky clear of every scrap of cloud. Bit by bit, the forest thins, the last of the trees fall away at their backs, and they enter a vast stretch of browning grass that shines like a dented brass platter in the slanting sun. Hour after hour, they continue on at the pace McMullen sets to conserve the strength of their horses for the long ride ahead. Just short of twilight, Case lifts his eyes from the shadows that have held him mesmerized for so long, tall spindly-legged horses, towering riders looming on their backs, and sees the Milk River smelted by the setting sun into a trickle of molten gold.
“We’ll rest here until the sun drops,” McMullen declares, “let the horses drink their fill, make us some supper.”
Joe gets a small fire going, one that scarcely raises a wisp of smoke, boils up corn mush, fries a pan of bacon. He dresses the porridge with salty bacon grease. The men crouch around the pot and spoon it up, eat bacon with their fingers. Nose to nose with Peregrine, Case can see he is pondering deeply on something.
“Mr. McMullen,” Hathaway says uneasily, “ought we not discuss our tactics if we encounter Indians?” There is a contest playing out in Hathaway’s face. He is eager for a thrilling adventure of the sort Mr. G.A. Henty’s novels provided him back in his bedroom in Bristol. On the other hand, he realizes Mr. Henty is not in control of Peregrine Hathaway’s story, and the plucky young hero may end up lying butchered in the grass.
“Tactics?” says McMullen. “If we bump into Sioux – I run and you come hard on my heels. If we can’t outrun them, then we stand and
With time, Joe McMullen’s appearance in their midst was embellished into legend, an often repeated story about the idler who dozed his way from Fort Benton to Fort Walsh, dreamed his way through over a hundred miles of howling, perilous wilderness, simply drifting like cottonwood wool on a breeze, happy to settle wherever the wind carried him. Joe does nothing to deny this interpretation, simply says, “It ain’t a bad trip with your eyes closed. The scenery ain’t got much to recommend it.”
McMullen is sheathing Peregrine Hathaway’s Police-issue Snider-Enfield carbine in the boy’s bucket scabbard. Hathaway is the only one in uniform, scarlet jacket and buff breeches, pillbox hat cocked on his head at a rakish angle. If McMullen is used goods, nicked and scarred, Hathaway looks fresh as a daisy even though the summer sun has burned his face livid. His habitually amazed and innocent blue eyes watch every move Joe McMullen makes.
The last buckle buckled, the last bit of gear stowed away, Joe turns to Case and Hathaway and declares, “All right, girls, tuck your skirts between your legs and get your sit-upons in the saddle. Time to go.”
They trot through the gates of Fort Walsh. There is no one to see them off but the guard. The rest of B Troop is taking supper, and Walsh is abed with a bad case of chills and fever. McMullen followed by Hathaway, Hathaway by Case, they file down the Benton–Walsh trail. The day before, the Métis scouts, Louis Léveillé and Cajou Morin, had done reconnaissance as far as the Milk River and found no evidence of Sioux in the area. Beyond the border, the disposition of the hostiles is unknown. Joe aims to cover the ground between Fort Walsh and the Milk by daylight and proceed into Montana Territory under cover of darkness. When dawn comes, the party will take cover, sleep, then make the last stage of the journey to Fort Benton by night.
The descent down the southern slopes follows a snaking path; the tops of the lodgepole pine and spruce sway in a wind that brooms the sky clear of every scrap of cloud. Bit by bit, the forest thins, the last of the trees fall away at their backs, and they enter a vast stretch of browning grass that shines like a dented brass platter in the slanting sun. Hour after hour, they continue on at the pace McMullen sets to conserve the strength of their horses for the long ride ahead. Just short of twilight, Case lifts his eyes from the shadows that have held him mesmerized for so long, tall spindly-legged horses, towering riders looming on their backs, and sees the Milk River smelted by the setting sun into a trickle of molten gold.
“We’ll rest here until the sun drops,” McMullen declares, “let the horses drink their fill, make us some supper.”
Joe gets a small fire going, one that scarcely raises a wisp of smoke, boils up corn mush, fries a pan of bacon. He dresses the porridge with salty bacon grease. The men crouch around the pot and spoon it up, eat bacon with their fingers. Nose to nose with Peregrine, Case can see he is pondering deeply on something.
“Mr. McMullen,” Hathaway says uneasily, “ought we not discuss our tactics if we encounter Indians?” There is a contest playing out in Hathaway’s face. He is eager for a thrilling adventure of the sort Mr. G.A. Henty’s novels provided him back in his bedroom in Bristol. On the other hand, he realizes Mr. Henty is not in control of Peregrine Hathaway’s story, and the plucky young hero may end up lying butchered in the grass.
“Tactics?” says McMullen. “If we bump into Sioux – I run and you come hard on my heels. If we can’t outrun them, then we stand and
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