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# The Canadian Civil War

# Volume 3

# West to the Wall

# By William Wresch

# Copyright 2014 William Wresch

# Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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# Chapter 1 –

# It started with two arguments

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I thought I was prepared for yet another Green Bay winter. I knew it would not be easy, despite Elise. There was the question of what people would do after the first of the year when anyone who had 2 sous to click together headed south like any sensible person and found some sun. South now meant traveling into Louisiana and an unknown -- but probably hostile -- reception. Would Green Bay residents actually reside in Green Bay in January? Would I? Ouch.

What I wasn't prepared for was my first fight with Elise. Before I describe that, let me reassure you I will describe the latest incidents in the civil conflict underway in Canada, and I also want to describe the early efforts at westward explorations. You will recall that Marquette had told the world that just up the Missouri was a short path to the Pacific. That led to all kinds of problems worth describing, especially since they had ramifications in the current conflict. But, trust me here, the fight with Elise matters. Of course it matters to me, but I think it may also help my fellow Americans better understand Canadian culture.

It started with a hammer. You will recall that I bought a house for us in October. It was just behind her parent's home, and actually a pretty attractive place. But of course it had been build by the French, so it had a furnace that ran when the mood struck it, lights that dimmed whenever the refrigerator compressor came on, plumbing that rattled whenever the toilet was flushed, and, my favorite, wind that blew through the place at about 5 mph -- on a good day. In short, it was a paragon of French workmanship.

I started working on the place as soon as I could. Where could I start? It didn't matter. There wasn't anything in the house that didn't need to be redone. One weekend I insulated the attic. I discovered that old newspaper had once been the insulation of choice. Much as I might have liked reading up there, I decided maybe it was time for some fiberglass. Another weekend I caulked. I started with 5 tubes of caulk, went back to the store for 5 more, and then just gave up and bought a case. I am sure the place had been caulked once in the last century, but I am sure no one could pinpoint the correct decade.

All these things I could do largely out of sight of Elise. She knew I was having some work done on the house, and we had even worked through floor plans and alternative layouts for bedrooms, closets, and the like. She knew I was doing something. But maybe the key here is she knew I was having something done. Then one Saturday afternoon she came home and found me with a hammer. I was in the midst of knocking out a wall so we could have a larger master bedroom. I was covered with dust, the room was covered with dust, the air was filled with dust, you get the idea. I was also hot and sweaty, but pretty excited about how the room might turn out. So I was not ready for her question.

"What are you doing?" Even though it was a Saturday, she was still putting in long hours at the ministry, so she was dressed well and my first thought was that the house was no place for someone dressed as nicely as she was

"I'm taking out the wall we talked about. Don't come in here, but can you see how the master bedroom will now extend along the south wall? We can put our new closets in here, while the bed goes here..." I went into tour guide mode, pointing out where the new walls would go. It all seemed pretty good to me, but she still seemed confused.

"But what are you doing?" Now I was confused.

"I am taking out the wall we talked about. Remember the plans we drew up a couple weeks ago?"

"I remember the plans, but why are you knocking down the wall? Where are the workmen?"

"I thought it would be simpler if I did it myself." Being culturally sensitive I didn't say that I would no more want a Canadian contractor in my house than carpenter ants.

"But you will need help for this."

"Not really. It will make a bit of a mess, but I can haul the old plaster out, and then rebuild the walls where we had planned. It's not that complicated."

"Are we poor?"

"No. The university pays me well, and I also get money from my father's business..." Was I supposed to show her my checking account? We hadn't compared finances yet. Maybe I should have somewhere along the line. But now didn't seem the right moment.

"In Canada, successful people have work like this done by contractors." How could I respond? That successful Canadians have really low standards? Probably not.

"I am an American. In America, it is a point of pride for men to do their own projects."

"You're in Canada now."

"But I am still an American." In retrospect, I could see the conversation could have gone is so many directions \-- her being angry and maybe shouting, or maybe her nodding her head in acceptance. Either of those would have been preferable. Instead, she just stood looking at me, the expression on her face saying she was hurt - really hurt.

"You are American. I am Canadian. What will the children be?" All this from knocking down some plaster? This might have been a good time for a hug, but I was far too messy to even come near her. What could I say?

"They will be ours." She nodded. I hoped that was some sign of acceptance, but how could I tell? She slowly backed down the hallway and out of sight. I put down the offending hammer and headed for a shower. I had repair work to do this evening, and it involved more than pipes and plaster.

That was the first argument of the fall. I would like to say it was resolved beautifully, with me whisking her off to a beautiful weekend of champagne and flowers and a deeper understanding of our cultural foundations, but it did reach a kind of stasis. Elise is a brilliant woman and she has traveled extensively for a Canadian (meaning she had seen at least two countries other than France), so in the end, she just seemed to accept that I had a strange cultural need to get dirty. She accepted this peculiarity with about the same grace with which she would have accepted the fact that I had a tattoo on my arm or an allergy to froi gras. In short, she determined she could live with a man who had an unfortunate habit, a habit she would probably not mention at cocktail parties, but she could accept in the privacy of her home.

As for me, I had no real expectations of her joining me in these projects, and I really did like the idea of remaking our home into something move livable, more functional, and frankly more mine. So I spent lots of weekends hanging sheetrock, installing crown molding, and building pretty cool closets if I do say so myself. And I have to admit that I still enjoy lying in bed and looking around at the walls, knowing that the only ones without cracks are the ones I built.

It was the second argument that had bigger consequences. This one was not with Elise, but with a student. The whole thing started as a shock, and developed in an odd way, in part because I was determined to be an enlightened professor. Back when I was a teaching assistant at the University of Virginia, I would sometimes get dumb questions from students. I was teaching an American history class required of all future teachers, and when you put "required" together with "history" you often get really bad attitudes and really poor effort. The result is I could have told the class King George III annexed Florida to the other colonies, and the students would have put that in their notes and memorized it for the exam and then forgot it within 48 hours just like they forgot everything else I said. But once in a while they did ask questions and I would stop my lecture and straighten them out and try not to grit my teeth.

But now that I was a visiting professor at the National University of Canada, I decided I would do a better job with questions, that I would not just provide quick answers, but I would explore the topic a bit since the question indicated at least modest interest. Put another way, I was trying to up my game a bit. At least that's how things started. In the end, my response almost got me fired, but more importantly it got me digging far deeper into a part of Canadian history that I had ignored.

Here's the question: "Why didn't the Americans let the French finish the Panama Canal?" Wow. I have to admit I was initially stumped by the multiple layers of dumbness the question revealed. A bit of background. At this point I was about seven weeks into a course on U.S. history that had been designed by a Canadian whose knowledge of the U.S. consisted of having once flown over the country on his way to France. He had selected a textbook for the course that had the same level of insight. Having taught the course for many years before taking a two year leave to study something somewhere (it might have been knitting. He knew too little about the U.S. to possibly be studying that), he left a position vacant, and I was invited to teach the course. With a Ph.D. in U.S. history from the primary university in the U.S, I had the qualifications for the course, but I also knew my real qualifications were my connections to Elise and to President Jolliet. That had gotten me a two-year visiting professor contract and suggestions that further contracts might be possible.

So, there I was, standing at the bottom of a lecture pit teaching two hundred of the nation's elite students, all of whom had even less interest in U.S. history than U.S. students. Why were they in the course? It was a popular elective for Canadian history majors, or at least it was popular when it was taught by the guy who knew nothing about U.S. history other than the fact that Canada was vastly superior to its poor neighbor to the east. Into this cultural certainty steps a young visiting American professor – me.

The young man who asked the question sat in the third row. The front row was for the over-eager and the back rows were for the sleepers. The third row was for the twenty year old skeptics – close enough to be engaged, far enough to be disdainful when the mood struck. What did he look like? I'm not sure it mattered. They pretty much all looked alike. All two hundred had gone to leading high schools and came from leading families. They dressed expensively, but wore their clothes casually, as if spending hundreds of francs on a shirt didn't mean they should button the sleeves. And their faces? Here there was sometimes sincerity and occasionally interest, but usually there was an expression that seemed to me to show they expected me to recognize and be impressed by their family names. Being a foreigner I only knew a few of the leading families, so mostly I was less impressed than they expected, but then, they seemed willing to accept that I would be ignorant on that and many other things. After all, I was an American.

This particular morning the student asking the question seemed more engaged than usual, and even a bit hostile. Maybe that is what got me started – not the stupidity of the question, but the intensity of it. Why would he care that we had built the Panama Canal? What difference would it have made to a country that seemed to have it all? They had the largest, most fertile valley on the planet, plus the largest sources of fresh water. What more did he want?

So I stopped my lecture, put down my chalk, and came around in front of my lectern. And I said nothing for minutes while I considered how to respond to such a dumb question. In truth, I did not know where to start, so I asked –

"What makes you think the U.S. prevented the French from finishing the Canal?"

"We know the French are great canal builders. After all, they had just completed the Suez Canal. So they had the technology and the experience. They had a good start on the Panama Canal, but then stopped. There was talk about malaria and swamps, but they had dealt with diseases in Egypt too, and frankly, the nation that gave us Pasteur, is a nation that could deal with malaria. So you start looking for political complications. The textbook says many of the supplies and workers came from the U.S. You put two and two together..."

At this point even the back row was awake. There were quite a few heads nodding agreement. It appeared he was presenting a case that had been made before, maybe in their high school, maybe in this very room by the moron who preceded me. As laughable as the premise was to me, it clearly was not laughable to these students, and these were the best students in their nation.

"Why would the Americans want to stop the French? Would not the canal benefit all?" Notice my restraint, if you will. I can't say I had spent much time studying the canal, but I knew enough about French engineering to know they were about as likely to complete a complex canal as they were to build a car that didn't rattle.

"With the Americans in charge of the Canal, they could stop ships in time of war."

"And they could keep us from going around The Wall." That second comment came from a man about two rows farther back, and was said with such emphasis it was practically a shout. It was quickly echoed by half a dozen others saying things like, "yes" and "agreed, the wall".

"What wall are you talking about?" At this point I was completely lost.

"The wall. The mountains. Don't you even know that?" The exasperation in his voice somewhat masked the insult, but not enough to keep me from getting a bit heated.

"Hey, it's not our fault you can't..." I caught myself before saying the obvious. But of course, being obvious, they didn't need to hear me say it to imagine for themselves what I was thinking.

"Can't what? What do you mean?" More "yes's" and 'what's" from the other rows. The room was pretty angry and getting angrier. Time for me to calm things down. I took a breath or two, exhaled slowly, and waited.

"You have a paper due in two weeks. While it is supposed to be on U.S. history, this seems like a good topic to include as well. I suggest you focus on the French company that was building the canal. Histories have been written, and the university librarian should be able to help you find original documents – diaries of major players, stock performance as the company worked, loan documents, and such. If there is evidence of American interference, find it. Fair enough?" I looked around the room to see if anyone was finding this an attractive option. Many seemed to shut down the minute they heard the words "you have a paper due," but there were a few emphatic heads nodding. They saw this as a challenge and they were going to run with it.

"And if we can prove there was American interference?" Row three again. He wanted to finish what he had started."

"Then I will wear a Canadian hockey jersey to class for a week." Exactly right answer. Score one for the visiting prof. The tension left the room – at least most of it – and we could go back to being a class.

Did that end the matter? No. I talked to Mr. Thirdrow after class and asked him if he would do a paper on the canal and he said he would. I did the professor thing and offered to help with his research if he liked, and he pretended to accept my offer, but I had the sense he saw me as a competitor and he was going to show me up on his own terms. Fair enough. I have seen good scholars start with a passion like that. Of course I have seen other people bend evidence to fit their passion, but time would tell about this guy.

And later I just "happened" to see the dean in the hallway who just happened to ask "How are classes going?" I have no idea how many students had gone running to him to complain about the French-hating American, but it was clear he had been roused from his office. I recounted the canal discussion as objectively as I could, watching to see his reaction. What I saw in the face was measured sympathy – everyone has an occasional rough day in the classroom – but there was also enough restraint in his expression to warn me there should not be a repeat any time soon. I was fine with that. A foreign professor on a short-term contract, I knew I was on thin ice from day one.

Back in my office I made a cup of coffee, stared out the window at a sea of orange, red, and brown oak trees, and asked a question that would occupy the rest of that year – what the hell was The Wall?

# Chapter Two

# What's the Wall?

So, where to start? The whole discussion began with the Panama Canal, so I decided to begin with canals. Somehow the French were master canal builders. Well, it took about 45 seconds of research to debunk that one. The Suez Canal? Just a ditch in the sand. The first Suez Canal was built in 500 BC by Persian King Darius I. Not exactly an engineering challenge. The Red Sea and the Mediterranean are the same level, so you just need to dig a ditch to connect them. Shovel the sand out of the way and you have a canal. Darius did it by hand. Two thousand, three hundred, and fifty nine years later, the French finally had the talent to push sand around too. It took them ten years and they did such a shoddy job, even today ships have to go slowly through the canal or their wakes will disturb the sand along the edge and fill in the canal. Basically, what I read confirmed everything I already knew about French engineering.

What kind of colossal ego would believe that having dug a ditch through sand they were now ready to dig a canal across Panama? A French ego, of course. They finish the Suez project in 1869. By 1881 they are over in Panama digging again. Now here I have to admit at least a little sympathy. Any map shows a mountain ridge running down the middle of the isthmus. A very reasonable conclusion would be to make a cut through the ridge, and the two oceans meet in the middle. After all, it is just 48 miles from one side to the other, about half the length of the Suez Canal, so, how hard can it be? As it turns out, the mountain ridge is the problem, ironically not because it is so hard, but because it is not. If it were solid rock, workers could cut through it, and the sides would stay where they were. But the ridge turns out to be a mess of rocks and clay and mud that is totally unstable, so if you cut down the middle, the sides just slide down and fill in the cut. You can then pull that stuff out, but more just slides down from the side. So you start thinking you need to make a cut a few hundred yards wide (and several miles long), and end up making a cut wider and wider – and still miles long. In short, the mountain ridge is defective. You could spend a century pulling dirt out of the cut and more would still just keep tumbling in (and does to this day).

And also, there was malaria. 22,000 dead in just 8 years. Recruiting got difficult so the company tried to keep talk of the deaths down, but word got out. As for fixing the problem, yes, Pasteur had identified germs as a cause of disease, but he did not identify mosquitoes as a carrier of those germs. The germs could just be part of the "bad air" – "mal-aria". Having blown through 287 million dollars and 22,000 lives, the company went bankrupt and people started going to jail for fraud. So much for the French canal.

Anything in the history about U.S. culpability? No. The whole event pretty quickly stacks up to massive overreach and bad luck. You can't blame the Americans for soggy mountain sides and diseased mosquitoes. It was a dozen years before the U.S. bought out the French interests and gave it a go. And it was then that we pulled a fast one on the Columbians, but cheating them has nothing to do with what we might have done to the French. If we had any culpability there, I wasn't seeing it. And at least from an engineering and medical side, there was much to be proud of. We put in locks to raise the water level once we saw it was going to be impossible to keep lowering the mountains, and our medical people made the mosquito connection (after over 5,000 workers had died), and cleaned up the environment. Or to put it in a way I could never say in class – we had better engineers and better doctors than the French. And that's the end of that.

Except I was still missing something. Why was this even an issue for upper class Canadian kids? At twenty their world is cars, music, dates, wine, dancing, dates, dates, dates... Why in the world would they give two seconds thought to a French engineering failure in 1889? Blame it on the Americans? Sure. Why not? We are the perpetual enemies. But with so many other legitimate conflicts between us, why would this pretend issue even come up? And what the hell is The Wall?

Time to talk to Elise.

Here I need to explain our workdays. Elise continued to run a major department in the Interior Ministry. She worked long days. Worse, while she had always been a pretty social person, now it appeared more and more of her evening events were required appearances. We still got to some of the old parties we had gone to before, but now they were mixed with more formal affairs with an older crowd. I am not sure which of us was more bored with some of these dinners, but I do know she hid her boredom better than me. We're both on the happy side of thirty and still find it a bit of work to make conversation with people twice our age.

Once a week, sometimes twice, we had an evening to ourselves, and where once I might have taken her to a nice restaurant, now we both preferred to spend the evening in our own home. I had left the ground floor unremodeled so far, but we had plans for all the rooms down there, especially the kitchen which even Elise admitted needed some work (what it needed was a complete tear down). We had worked over plans and I had agreed to use plumbing and electrical contractors for the project (I chose not to tell her I would be flying the plumbers and electricians and all their fixtures in from Philadelphia). So visualize if you will a large kitchen with a large stove and lots of cabinets and counter tops, all decades old and looking it. But we saw it not just as it was, but as it would be soon, and we enjoyed it.

When we had evenings to ourselves, I tried to leave all school work at school, and Elise tried to leave work at her office. I got home around 7:30 and she would make every effort to get home by 8. I would wait in the kitchen and try to get started on a salad while I left a bottle of wine to breathe. Elise would come in the front door, take off her coat and then her shoes, and then kiss me. And we would say nothing. Since each of us was essentially paid to spend the day talking, it felt marvelous to have some silence. Eventually one of us would break the silence, but neither of us was ever in a hurry. Just standing together was perfect.

When we did break the silence, it was usually me who started. I could talk about work, Elise could not. She might make general observations about the political scene, stuff I might see on tv, or she might comment on one of her coworkers who had said something clever or done something funny, but while I might be her fiancée, I was also a foreigner, so she had to screen her remarks. She was good at making split second decisions about how far to take a conversation, but on occasion I could almost see the wheels turn as she debated where she could let a conversation go and where she had to draw the line. Her options were doubly restricted in that I was not only a foreigner, but my family did lots of business in Canada, so anything she said might also provide business information which could be considered an insider advantage. She was careful, and I was careful not to push. And I have to admit it felt good sometimes to have a break from politics and from the conflict dividing the north and the south. It appeared the fall elections in Louisiana had quieted the most extreme groups at least temporarily, but surely there was much going on beneath the surface that Elise knew about and worried about and couldn't take home with her.

I decided my job was not to be an outsider but to be comic relief. I would tell stories about my students or colleagues, and we always had house plans to occupy our conversations. That night we had a short conversation about what to eat for dinner and began getting things out and on the stove, at which point I backed away to let Elise work her magic while I set the table, poured the wine, and stayed out of the way. She was part way through a sauce when I asked the question I had fumbled all day.

"What's The Wall?"

"Are you asking about the mountains? Planning to do some skiing?" As she stirred the sauce she moved with a rhythm that distracted me for a minute, but I managed to get back on the subject.

"No skiing, and yes, I think I am talking about the mountains, but why use the expression The Wall?"

"Because that's how we see the mountains to the west. They are a wall, for better and for worse. For better, they protect the western flank of the country. You Americans have attacked several times, but never from that side. Sorry, dear one, but you are an American and your countrymen have attacked several time."

"Of course we have. Canada is full of beautiful women. Why would we not want to be here?" She was still moving in the rhythm and I was moving closer.

"You are such a charmer and such a bull shit artist. Did I get the American expression right? Here we would talk about buffalo parts, but it makes the same point. You lie with real skill." There was a look on her face like she knew I was getting closer and she did not mind. At least I think that's what she was thinking. I accepted what I took to be an invitation and wrapped my arms around her from behind. Dinner might be late tonight.

"And what's the worst part of the wall?" At this point I wasn't really paying any attention to anything I was saying, but somehow my mouth kept moving.

"It keeps us in. Having access to the Pacific would mean the world to us."

"So, go over. We have roads over the Appalachians."

"You might want to take a closer look at a map. These are not the Appalachians." I think the conversation lasted a little longer, but we had not had an evening together for over a week, and one thing led to another and that sauce never did get finished, although at least this time I remembered to turn the stove off.

Elise not only gets home later than I do, but she goes to work earlier. The typical professor works 60 hours a week. I am sure Elise and her colleagues dream of having such a short week. So the next morning I cleaned up around the kitchen after she had gone, took another look at the plan we had drawn up for the room, and thought about geography. I had spent my youth in and around the Appalachians. To me, those were mountains. The mountains in the west were bigger I knew, but I had no real sense of them. You drove over the Appalachians, so if the western mountains were bigger, you just drove longer. But apparently it was not that simple. On the other hand, how hard could it be? A wall? Really?

And this led to the next topic from the night before. "Access to the Pacific would mean the world to us." Really? What more did they need? They had access to the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, they had the Great Lakes, they had the Mississippi Valley – and they wanted more? And even if they did want to access the Pacific, they could use the Panama Canal the same as we did. It's not like we stand in their way. Well, actually we have blocked it during times of war, but it had been decades since the last war, so that hardly counted.

What if there was no wall? Would they have extended Canada to the Pacific? There would not be the nations of California and Oregon on the Pacific, just one very large Canada. That would have been formidable - a nation connecting the two oceans with plenty of resources in between. No such country existed. China was big, and so was Russia and Brazil, but they only showed one face to the world. They only had one coast to build on. A Canada with two? Plus the Gulf? Wow.

By now I had drained my second cup of coffee and was headed to the university, but my imagination was still on the Pacific. I am a pretty disinterested driver, and given that I was driving the crowning achievement in French automotive engineering which might fall apart at any moment, I always feel like I should apologize to the public at large for my driving skills, but I know I was really bad that morning. Fortunately neither my car nor I committed any major faux pas and I got parked outside my office without mishap.

Feeling a bit scattered, I made it to my graduate seminar. I had about a dozen first year graduate students in a seminar we formally called "Historical Perspectives" but everyone informally referred to as "The American side of the Story." The students were pretty secure in their historical knowledge and their Canadian views, and so did not feel threatened by anything I might say that could contradict the lifetime of historical knowledge they had absorbed. In some ways, it made the class fun. I wasn't going to convince them of anything. I was just going to show that the facts could be seen from a different perspective. They found that a bit amusing. I suppose I could have found their attitudes annoying, after all, I was right and they were wrong (well, maybe), but they were actually pretty nice people, and I knew if I had been teaching a similar seminar in Virginia, the students there would have been just as secure in their assumptions/beliefs/prejudices. After all, we all know what we know.

The nominal topic of the day was Washington's invasion of Ohio, and they had each come with a three-page presentation on why he had invaded. Since one of the main purposes of the course was to improve their research skills, they were to find at least six different primary sources that helped explain the invasion. The archives at the university were pretty good, and of course more and more source material is being digitized and made available, so they could find diaries and letters and even purchase orders from the libraries here in Canada or back in the U.S. My job was to help them find the best sources and to help them better understand the relative quality of what they found.

They probably should have demanded their money back for that morning, because I did none of what I was supposed to do. Instead, they had barely sat down and got their papers or digital tablets out when I took the class off in a direction you could probably predict.

"I see you are all prepared with your Washington materials. Nice work. Now let me ask you to think about your materials differently. The man we will discuss today is Georges deWash. He is a count from a leading family and he has been asked by a provincial governor to explore, and possibly conquer, the land over the mountains – a largely unpopulated land called Oregon." There were chuckles over "Georges deWash" but only consternation when I said the word "Oregon."

"Professor, it doesn't work." Gerard was the smallest of my students but seemed to have the highest energy level. He was always first to reply to any question. "It's not the same thing at all."

"Why not? Washington gets over the mountains and takes the headwaters of the Ohio. Once there, he has easy access to the rest of the region. Our new 'deWash' takes the headwaters of the Columbia River and he has a straight shot to the Pacific and all the rest of the region. The comparison couldn't be simpler."

"Sorry professor, but it's not that simple." This is from a young woman at the end of the table. She had the short haircut and thin build of the intense young scholar. I would bet any money she had her Ph.D. in no more than four years. "We study this idea from grammar school on. Our country has produced dozens of deWashes. Probably hundreds. But you can't get over the wall."

"And even if you could," Gerard was always interrupting the others. It was like they talked too slowly. "You have the desert and then the other mountains. It's like the wall is a double wall with a moat in the middle. Centuries ago we sent group after group on horseback over the wall, and if they came back at all, it was to tell us it can't be done."

"But that was more than a century ago," I said. "Surely Puegeot could make a vehicle now to get over."

"But now is too late." Gerard was leaning well over the seminar table, stretched as big as he could make himself as he emphasized his point. "Now Oregon is occupied. The Columbia Valley is home to millions. The time to take it would have been almost two centuries ago, certainly within fifty years of when Washington tried to take the Ohio. We would never attack Oregon now. I am not sure even Washington would attack Ohio now. The death count would be astronomical."

And that pretty well ended the discussion. What I thought might be an interesting intellectual exercise, a chance to view one historical event from another perspective, wasn't going anywhere. It was the Wall again. These were the brightest history students in their generation, and they were certain of one thing in their nation's history – the Wall was impenetrable.

The young woman at the end of the table – Felicite – then decided to end the discussion with a suggestion that added another wrinkle to the subject..

"If you have any questions about how bad the Wall really is, you might ask President Jolliet about one of his ancestors who was killed on his way to the Wall. If ever there was one event that settled the matter, it was his death. If a Jolliet can't get over the wall, no one can." There was an interesting note of pride in her voice which made me wonder if she was shirt-tail relation. It seemed like much of elite Green Bay was connected. And I have to admit I felt a bit of pride at the moment as well, since she was recognizing that I had contact with the ex-president, not a small thing to the status conscious.

I won't describe any more of the class. The students had done a pretty good job preparing for class, and I was impressed by their research. I was still getting used to the students in Canada, but I had to admit that at least at this elite university, they were almost as good as the students I had studied with in the U.S.

But while I listened to their presentations, my mind kept going back to Felicite's comment about the Jolliet relation. Here I was, supposedly writing a general biography about the Jolliet family, and I did not know about this incident. Who was he, and what had killed him? The weekend was coming up and I decided that rather than spend the days hanging the new closet doors in the master bedroom, I would hit the digital library. At the moment, it seemed like I was the least knowledgeable person in my history seminar, and I didn't want that to continue.

# Chapter 3

# Western Exploration – false assumptions and pure folly

I really dislike being dumb. There are many reasons for getting a Ph.D., but that may be my chief reason. There's a world out there, and I want to know about it. And, quite frankly, I dislike getting embarrassed for NOT knowing about it. So Saturday morning when Elise set off for another day at the ministry (this was a pretty routine Saturday for her), I got to my desk and fired up my computer. It might be worth spending a minute on my office. The house was nearly a century old, and for most of that time it had been occupied by physicians. So there was a huge office in the back of the house that had once been used as an examination room. It had cabinets that had absorbed strange smells, but were made of hardwoods that were essentially irreplaceable, so I kept them, the book shelves, the dark wainscoting. I had also bought the largest desk in North America from the previous owner, not just because I liked it, but because he had no desire to hire a mule team to move it out of the house. It was dark hickory with a pitted top, cigarette burns along one edge, and drawers that stuck every single time I tried to open them. In short, it was a fine example of French craftsmanship, but I have to admit I loved it anyway. It was like a dog so disheveled and sad looking you just had to pet it.

What I did not love was my internet speeds. I had tried three different carriers and had dragged coaxial cables all over the room, and installed a wireless router, and the best I could do was about one megabit per second. I think the average Philadelphia second grader has a faster connection to his bedroom. Fortunately, I was downloading mostly text and still images. The average explorer took few videos in 1739, so I didn't have much to stream.

At this point, you are probably wondering what any of this has to do with western exploration. Nothing really, except to explain why it took me longer than it should have to discover the basic outlines of those explorations. By lunch I had the general idea – lots of folks were fumbling around in the dark, and worse, most people were relying upon "facts" that were just plain wrong.

Here's an example. Sailors could calculate latitude, but not longitude. I could give you a whole dissertation on how time pieces were created to finally make the calculation, but as usual, it came down to English engineering (no surprise), which is why the prime meridian is set outside London and not Paris. Once on English ships, captains could now determine how far west they were going, and as it turned out, they were going much farther than they had thought by the time they got to the Pacific. North American was bigger than anyone had thought. To be honest, North America was bigger than anyone wanted. Columbus had sort of set the tone – Spain to China is great, Spain (or England or France) to China with a big mess of land in between is not so great. Basically, North American was speed bump, and now it turned out that the bump was far larger than any map had shown it to be. Oops.

Then there was Marquette's journal. Eventually it was published in the Jesuit Relations, and read all over the world (at least by the Jesuits). He included a wild sidebar about the Missouri River being the path across the continent. He was convinced he would canoe up it one day, come to a lake in the distance, paddle across the lake and find a river running west out of the lake that would take him straight to the Pacific. It might take a few weeks, and a portage or two, but getting there would be no real challenge. Where does this wild conjecture come from? The journal doesn't say. But since it was in the journal of the great explorer Jacques Marquette, it was accepted. He had found the Mississippi, therefore he must be qualified to find the route to the Pacific as well. Except the Missouri is the worst possible route to the Pacific. We know that now (I will explain in a bit), but they did not know that then, and many died as a result.

So by lunch I was basically shaking my head at the misconceptions these folks had as they set off to discover the west. After lunch (maybe it was the cheese. The French can't build a cheese knife that will hold its edge, but they do make good cheese), I began to gain a bit more sympathy for these explorers. They had no idea what laid to the west, they had no idea the land was at least three times larger than their maps showed, and they had no idea they were on the wrong river. But they set off anyway. Of course maybe that was why they set off – they had no idea the trip could not be done.

It didn't take too long to start finding names and brief descriptions of where they might have gone (centuries had passed and no one had gps, so it's not too surprising their pathways were approximate at best), and the reports usually ended the same way – so and so died on about such a day and near such a place, or so and so left headed for the mountains and was presumed dead. There were some interesting stories about the Varendryes and the Mallet brothers and Pierre Antoine, but I could find no reference to any Jolliets who had taken the Missouri to their doom.

It was time for some help, but as it turned out, I wasn't going to get it that night. Elise got home around 6, which was early for her, but we were scheduled to have dinner at some swell's house before a night at the opera, so she would need time to change. So I wasn't too surprised when she arrived home, but I was very surprised when I saw the look on her face. I have to admit this was the very first time I had ever seen her mad. Livid might have been a better adjective.

I heard the side door close and heard the rustle of her skirts as she headed up the stairs, so I followed expecting to at least get a hug, when I encountered this angry lady in our bedroom.

"The Biloxi City Council voted to deny a building permit to the diocese."

"For what building?" I can be unbelievably stupid.

"For the cathedral they blew up. They aren't permitting us to rebuild it."

"Good." Did I mention I can be stupid? With one word I had now just entered a whole new category of dumb. I was right, but wow do I have bad timing.

"What?" Elise's native heritage gives her somewhat darker skin, so I rarely saw her complexion change, but that evening she could have been a chameleon standing in front of a red banner. And her eyes were twice their normal size aiming daggers at me. She was pretty mad.

"The cathedral is too big and is in the wrong place. They should take the insurance money and build something simpler and less visible. A huge cathedral should not be the first thing you see when you arrive in the Port of Biloxi." Elise had nothing to say to that. She just stared at me speechless. I could see she was breathing, so I was sure she was still alive, but otherwise she was absolutely motionless. I have no idea how much time passed. She stood, she stared, she breathed, I waited.

"Just walk away?"

"Just walk away. No howls, no protests, no explosions, no deaths. Find a quiet spot and build a quiet cathedral. No marble, no spires, some stained glass, and a nice cross. A neighborhood cathedral."

"So they win?"

"This isn't about winning, it is about having a church to attend on Sunday, and about nobody dying over a building."

"Nobody dying." At this point her breathing changed, and her head dipped a bit. It might have been a nod. At least it wasn't a complete rejection.

"That's good, right?" I said, and I began to see initial signs of agreement. I saw her shoulders relax and her breathing slow. Best yet, she stopped looking at me like I was well, I'm not sure what she was seeing and I am not sure I want to know. I can just say her expression changed and she looked like my Elise again. Feeling somewhat more comfortable, I stepped closer and put my hands on her shoulders.

"Yes, that's good." She wrapped her arms around me and life was good again. She put her head on my shoulder, I leaned against her, and life was very good. We stood like that for a while. Eventually, it occurred to me I was feeling her ribs. She had been working nonstop since we got back from New York, changing offices and get more and more responsibility practically by the day, learning new jobs and adjusting to new people, while maintaining the social connections that were expected of her by birth and by office.

"When I arrived in Green Bay, the one thing I knew for certain was that Canadians didn't do much work, they took lots of time to entertain, and they ate the best food in the world. Standing here with you now, I wonder if any of those things are true."

"I object. We do have the best food in the world."

"When's the last time you ate any of it?"

"Well, if you left me alone in the kitchen..."

"If I left you alone in the kitchen you would be disappointed."

"Yes, that is true. So, what do we do?"

"Can we stay home this evening? I would cook for you."

"English cooking? That is an oxymoron. Even the stove would object to your sausages."

"What if we cook together? I can help with the sauces."

"What if you give me a kiss and then we change to go out. We are expected, and these days we need friends."

Did I mention I am practicing to be a good husband? I would rather go to a dentist – a French dentist at that – than go to the opera, and as for yet another dinner with the aristocracy... But I changed into a suit made by a local tailor, hoping the seams would hold through dinner, while Elise changed... well, Elise got more beautiful. I am the last guy who should be describing styles, but I can give you the basics – long silk skirts, a shade of yellow that went very well with her skin color, fairly low cut in the style of the day, but she now was wearing partial sleeves. A bit more conservative now that she was a senior administrator? Whatever was going on in her dress selection, I had the usual problem looking at her and thinking about anything other than staying home with my arms around her. Patience, patience. Wow, I was learning patience.

Don't worry, I won't describe the opera. It was La Boheme, of course, back for yet another season. I love an audience dressed up in their finest, sitting and watching the lives of starving artists living in Paris garrets. The Gods of irony are all French. Besides, we never got there.

But the dinner is worth a mention. The location was the usual faux chateau, circle drive out front, white lacquered walls inside, lots of flowers in golden vases, chandeliers dripping with glass, basically all the subtlety of a punch in the face. The hosts were clearly trying to impress, which by the way is nearly impossible in insular Green Bay. Basically, Who's Who was written in 1680. If you were in it then, you are in it now. If you weren't in it then, well, you save your francs, buy a faux chateau on the east side of town, and throw big dinners.

As usual, as soon as Elise entered the room she was the center of everything. Partly, and I am completely objective in this, she is always the most beautiful woman in the room, and partly because of her family and administrative prominence. She had the stature in the room. If she came to your party, you were grateful. My position was more fluid. When I had first arrived in the country, the reaction was generally, who invited the foreigner? When I started accompanying Elise, the reaction was usually, what in the world does she see in him (still a mystery to me and the rest of the world)? Having spent the summer undergoing fairly public adventures in Louisiana, now I sometimes had conversations with people who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say, although I have to admit as my bruises and breaks healed, interest in me faded as well.

But you get the general idea. Elise and I enter the large hall, make conversation with several dozen other guests, Elise is ushered off to a special group of ladies by the hostess, and I talk lacrosse with other bored men waiting for the servants to bring another round of drinks. By the third glass of wine the men are complaining less and the women are looking even better, and we are led into another large room with multiple dinner tables each about to be crushed under the silver and crystal crowded on top. Did they have an unexpected number of guess respond "yes" to the invitation? Who knew, but the room was full, the tables were full, the room soon got warm, but the food arrived quickly and the wine glasses were refilled in a heartbeat.

I don't know if it was the heat, the wine, or the crowded room (I gave up trying to eat my soup after my arm was bumped a third time), but the conversation got a bit louder than usual and got less polite than usual. If you wanted to talk politics, you did it later over brandy, not over dinner. That's not my rule, but it is the Green Bay rule, or at least it is the rule I had observed during my time in town. Tonight it was violated, although I have to admit the topic started from a direction that would have been acceptable in past years. It started with a question directed at the table in general.

"Will you be going south this winter?" Only the truly poverty stricken spend winters in Green Bay. I have to add that it is not the best place in the summer either when the mosquito hordes arrive and carry off small children and stray dogs (or at least that is a rumor I once heard, or maybe a rumor I once started. It could be true). But most folks stayed for the summer out of loyalty or out of duty or out of pure stubbornness. In any case, there was a general migration to more sensible places right after Christmas. Louisiana was the usual destination, or at least it had been in the past.

"Louisiana seems safer now, don't you think?" The hostess asked. She was a lady pretty deep into her fifties, and nearly falling out of a dress which would have been more appropriate in her youth. But then Elise will tell you I still carry much of the Puritan blood of my nation. In Green Bay the dresses stayed low cut well past the point where you might have an interest in looking. Or at least that was my view.

"The election seemed less radical than we might have expected," one of the more mature men responded, but he let the last word drag out, as if he had no real interest in his own observation. By definition, he was now in the territory of politics and he knew that was a brandy conversation, not a dinner table conversation. Etiquette was as risk here. All were on their guard. Yet the topic mattered. You had to assume all the nobility of Canada was trying to determine if Louisiana was safe or if they would have to winter in place – not an attractive option for anyone. What to do with this conversation? Why not toss it to the foreigner; he is out of bounds in any case. And this is what the hostess did.

"Mssr, Murphy, you have been there recently. What do you think? Should we travel there this winter? I know we all miss our homes there." (Nice job of making it clear they could afford a second home in Louisiana, as if this was some great achievement).

"I think I will probably avoid Louisiana for a while. My summer there got a bit uncomfortable." At this point it raised my right had a bit and moved the fingers to indicate where some of the breaks had been. "But I think the political situation has improved, so it might be safe for most. But of course I am no expert." At this point a number of "experts" decided they should have their say, but my attention was taken by Elise. The look on her face was what – surprise? Concern? I wasn't sure, but it seemed certain this would be a topic of conversation the minute we got in the car. What was she puzzled about? Did she want me to go back down there? I don't see myself as a coward, but it was pretty clear there were men down there who would go after me if they had the chance. Why would I give it to them?

The details of the ensuing table talk are unimportant other than as a barometer of stability. For more than a year part of the country had gone off in a direction that surprised and scared people. The fall elections had shown that maybe things were not as bad as feared. The next test might well come in January. If Catholics from the north could safely enjoy their vacation homes in the south, then maybe the crisis was resolving itself. On the other hand, if folks went down there and were attacked, this low-grade animosity might flare up even worse and lead to police and even military responses.

As you can imagine, it did not take too long before the "experts" turned to the one real expert in the room – Elise.

"Mademoiselle Minister," the hostess asked "What is the government position? Do they think we will be safe?" While we were at the largest table in the room, there were three other tables and suddenly I could hear conversations on those tables stop.

"We are encouraged by the election results, but the losing parties still have significant membership, and as you may know, sometimes a defeated group may do something desperate to regain its authority." She paused there and let people think through what "desperate" might mean. "In general we think relations have improved, thanks often to personal connections, lifelong friendships, and sometimes just a smile at the right time. But we continue to monitor the situation there and will not be making any recommendations for at least another month yet. As you can imagine, we would want to be fully prepared for any contingency should Canadians determine to renew their annual trip to that region." Had she always been so good at crafting a diplomatic response on the fly? It came from need, of course. She represented the government now, and while she was speaking to a few dozen people at a private dinner, she could expect her words would be repeated. So she was careful. And I was confused. What had she wanted me to say?

I found out a couple hours later. Dinner lasted so long we missed the beginning of La Boheme (I was so sorry), so we drove home directly from the party. The car was unusually quiet.

"Did you want me to go to New Orleans in January?" I asked finally. There was a very long, very nerve-racking pause before she finally answered.

"No, and yes. The men who beat you up are still there, still running their party's affairs, and still looking for trouble."

"I wouldn't say they beat me up. It was fair fight – I got a couple licks in too."

"It was five to one and uncle got the medical report from your physician in St. Louis. You had internal bleeding."

"And no cool scars, just a hand in a cast for six weeks. But I get your point. They were angry then and they are probably still angry."

"You can be certain of that. In fact we are very certain of that. So there are good reasons why I do not want you to go to New Orleans this winter. But there are also reasons why it might be helpful for you to go."

"For instance, I can keep your bed warm at night."

"Yes," at least I got her laughing with that one. "Shawn, you do that well. But there is more to it. You became a public figure this summer. And being American you have some status as an objective observer. If you could go down there and not get hurt it might be a clear sign that things have improved. People want this over. It hurts to see our country divided. The sooner the conflict is seen to be over, the happier we will all be."

"So you want me to go."

"No. At least not until we have done more security work down there."

"So you don't want me to go."

"No. What I would like you to do is temporize. If asked, tell people you are still working out details, or tell them you need to see how your teaching load works out. Something like that. Stall, Shawn. That is what we are all doing. That is our chief occupation these days."

"But January is coming."

"Yes. January is coming." There was so much fatigue and stress in her voice I left the conversation there. It was time to get home, go to bed, and let her rest. The only sound in the car came from the stupid Citroen engine struggling up and down the low hills of Green Bay while the tail pipe rattled. The ultimate in automotive luxury.

# Chapter 4

# I make plans

Sunday we slept as late as possible, and then I got all kinds of points by getting out of bed first and making breakfast. It was New England oatmeal with maple syrup, but I gave Elise some cheese to go with it and she seemed generally satisfied. We took forever over breakfast, basically talking about nothing – the color paint in our bedroom, when I would put the doors back on the closet, even the weather. I have never made a bowl of oatmeal last an hour or enjoyed it so much.

We spent so long lounging around the house that we were late for the fancy service at the National Cathedral and so went to the mass for regular people. I bumped into a couple men who worked at my father's company and they gave me a quick update on things – business was still through the roof, while Elise talked to some of the middle managers in her department. In short, we rubbed shoulders with folks we would have missed at the other mass. As for the service itself, I tried to tell if the communion wine was lower quality, but I couldn't tell the difference.

For Sunday dinner we walked across the backyard to a huge meal served by Elise's mother. Elise's father and I talked lacrosse, while Elise's sisters talked about a wedding they had attended. That created a bit of tension since we were pretty sure the May 28 date was going to have to be postponed, but we had not yet set a new date and apparently the sun and moon and various stars will adjust their alignment, but only after a date has been set. In this case the problem was not me with cold feet, especially since as a professor I had the most predictable schedule of any professional. The problem was Elise. The girls would talk dates, but Elise would think contingencies. What will be happening in Louisiana that month? What about up here? Her world was filled with interlocking events, most of which could go bad in a heartbeat. Setting a date would have to wait. In the meantime, they could talk about dresses, guest lists, flower arrangements, stuff that entertained her younger sisters for hours.

Eventually we left, this time by the front door. We walked out to the sidewalk and followed it around the block to our house. It was a longer walk, but it was a pretty time of year. The street was an endless series of ash and maple trees arched over the street, and all were at peak color. In a month the scene would be pretty bleak, but for now it looked almost as good as Philadelphia. We held hands, walked, and didn't say much. I finally broke the silence.

"I have been thinking about a way to temporize."

"You have to think about it? You are a professor. I would expect you to come up with twenty non-answers. Imagine you are standing in class and a student asks a question you can't answer."

"Ouch. And this from the woman I love." She squeezed my hand, reminding me of the walks we had taken around campus when she was preparing for her dissertation defense. That seemed such a distant dream.

"Okay, mister sensitive. How will you temporize?"

"I want to go to the Wall. You can say I am going there for some research, and I will get to Louisiana when my research is complete."

"No. People die there." That stopped me in my tracks. No? Was she serious?

"People ski there. They drink hot wine and sit in tubs of hot water all evening."

"But that's not where you will go. I know you Shawn Murphy. That's not where you will go."

I didn't like being told "no," but I didn't want to start yet another argument. Was it good that we could argue – a sign we trusted each other enough to be direct and honest? Or did we have a problem? I was dealing with a very tired, very stressed person – a person I loved. But the word "no" reverberated, like a chord vibrating at the back of my mind. Boy I hate that word. But I made no reply. I stood on the sidewalk under a bright yellow maple tree and just looked at her. She looked back, clearly choosing her next words carefully.

"It will be awful up there in January. Most skiers avoid the region until March, and they stay on the lower hills. They don't really go up into the mountains. No one does, Shawn. No one does." She was tired, she was obviously afraid. Now was not the time to push her.

"Let me do some checking about travel conditions, see what's up there, see when it is safe to travel."

"Talk to Uncle Claude. He can tell you stories. You'll see why people don't go there."

"OK, I'll talk to Uncle Claude." And we left it there. Maybe I was tired too. I was certainly tired of arguments, surprised that they were so frequent. This was not how to spend an early Sunday evening. We finished our walk around the block in silence and reentered the house. It was too early for bed, so we sat on the couch and stared at the fireplace. Eventually we started talking again, but it was about the simple and mundane – a faux conversation. The best I can say about that hour or so is we held hands, and eventually we kissed before we went upstairs to bed.

Class went well the next day. I lectured on the American side of the Seven Year's War, and that was very popular with the kids since the French beat Washington every time. I could say what I wanted about the American side of the story – the kids knew the bottom line – they won.

After class I went back to my office and called President Jolliet's home – "Uncle Claude". I knew the President was busy, probably the least "retired" politician in Canada, but I thought I might get on his calendar in a few weeks. A couple transfers got me to his appointment secretary. We talked for a bit. I still felt grateful to him for allowing me the initial interviews with Jolliet. He continued to be a friendly voice and promised he would see what was available and get back to me.

I hung up the phone and started working on my next lecture, but I had barely started when the phone rang – it was Jolliet himself.

"Shawn. I understand you would like to talk. When are you free?"

"Thank you Mr. President. The life of a professor is far less constraining than the life of a president. Do you think you would have time to see me before Christmas?"

"How about this afternoon? Do you have class?"

"Not today."

"Then why not come by for lunch. We have much to talk about." And that was it. My first visit with him had taken over a year to arrange. Now I could get access the same day. Pretty amazing. Maybe I had done a few things to earn that access, but it also showed the kind of man he was. I had come to genuinely admire him.

I hadn't been to his house for months so I wasn't sure what kind of security I would find. After the assassination attempt last winter, I was pretty sure there would be more. I thought maybe blast doors in front of the house. What I found was far more subtle. The security started much farther out. Basically, you could not get onto his road without clearance. There was no guard shed, but there was a bull dozer that blocked the road while "repairs" took place. When you stopped for the construction, a worker who looked like he could bench press a piano came over to talk. Construction was going to take a while, but they could move the equipment if it was important. Who were you going to visit? You get the idea. The hard hat could not hide the ear piece he was wearing, and you had to assume there were plenty of cameras around. I explained who I was and who I was visiting and there was a pause. He covered it well talking about the need for the repairs, rough winter, that sort of thing, meanwhile I assumed a check was being run, my plates verified, and lots of things were being said into his earpiece. Pretty sophisticated.

Eventually I was cleared, the equipment moved, and the "construction worker" raised his hand almost to a salute but then caught himself and waived me on. As masquerades go, it wasn't too bad. And it made a difference at the house. Where before there were concrete barriers and large cars blocking the drive, now the front of the house was unencumbered. If anything, it looked more casual than when I had visited before the current crisis. Not bad. I took advantage of the change to park right in from of the house and walk in as if I were an old friend. The front hallway had changed, with a narrow spot just inside the door which I assumed was a metal detector, but otherwise the look of the house was unchanged.

Francios was waiting for me. After all, he had all the time I was talking with "bulldozer man" to get ready.

"How are you, old friend." I got a hug from a man who looked like hugs were not genetically natural to him.

"I am fine. When will we see you in our box at Lambeau Field. I miss talking lacrosse with you."

"Our schedules are challenging as you might guess. But I will find a time. The season is already half gone, and I enjoy your box – and your wine." I tried not to laugh. My father's company had bought a large box at Lambeau to treat clients and generate business. Initially he had tried to go with an American theme and had filled the buffet with sausages and mash and Guinness beer, thinking Canadians might like a change. Nope. After two Sundays of throwing out uneaten food (a couple US employees drank all the beer and missed work the next day), dad gave up and went to a local caterer. Crepes and local wine went much better.

At this point ex-president Jolliet walked down the hallway to join us.

"My young friend Shawn. I am pleased you have time to visit with us. Please come join me. Do you mind sitting outside this afternoon?" He led me outside to a vine covered area where we had first met two years before. It was a beautiful location overlooking his acres of vines rolling down to Lake Winnebago. I wondered about how his security team felt about him sitting outside. My guess is at least a few of the "workers" walking among the vines had substantial weapons under their coveralls.

A servant brought wine and biscuits as we sat down.

"May I ask about the construction project?" I would never have asked about security in the past, but now I felt I had the right.

"I wish I could take credit for that very clever ruse. The front of the house was beginning to look like a concrete bunker and that set the wrong tone for visitors, and frankly set the wrong tone for the nation. The current conflict is bad enough without fear making things even worse. Maybe if we pretend things are normal, things will become normal." He smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to say this was a bit of a dream, but one he was willing to try. "So now we can show news images of people arriving and leaving from the front door of this house as if life continued as before. Similar efforts have been made in other locations. We all want to think a house is a home and people can just walk up to the door and knock, no matter the occupant or the times."

"I like the strategy. And I have to say it did feel good to be able to approach your home as I had in the past."

"Good. But tell me. How do you feel? Are you fully mended?"

"Yes." I held up my right hand and moved all the fingers so he could see. "Things looked worse than they were. And I learned that Huguenots have very hard heads."

"My people tell me it was a bit more than that, but I am pleased you are home and safe and mended. But tell me, are you here to talk about my niece? Have you settled on a date for your marriage??"

"I will be very pleased should you find time to attend our wedding, but we have not confirmed a date yet. Your niece is a very busy lady."

"Yes. Many people are busy these days. Some are busy making trouble, and some are busy making peace. The people making trouble are a bit quieter for the moment, but I do not think we have heard the last of them." I had no response to that. So we paused for a moment sipped a bit of wine and looked west over the vines and the lake.

"I had hoped to talk with you about a more happy topic – the history of your family. As you know, my former studies focused on George Washington and his efforts to cross the mountains to Ohio. That was the American dream. Lately I have been thinking more about the French dream. Thanks to your family, the nation expanded down the Mississippi and took the middle of the continent. Yet you did not take the West. You did not pass what locals call The Wall. And I understand that at least one member of your family was part of the effort."

At this point I expected him to smile, settle back, and begin a story. What I got was silence – and a peculiar mannerism. He stared out at the lake, his arms crossed over his chest, one hand clenching and unclenching his arm, something I had never seen him do before. He was looking west. What was he seeing? I would never know.

"Shawn." He started, but then paused again. Finally he turned directly to me. "Shawn, you are a scholar and I respect that. But..." Another pause. "Sometimes... may I ask you a favor?"

"Of course."

"There are many stories of the Wall. Few of them are attractive. Desperate men do desperate things. Desperate times lead to actions we now find repugnant. Much was done and much needs to be forgiven. Two centuries have passed, but not all is forgiven yet." He paused yet again and stared out at the lake. I waited, confused and somewhat saddened. Where was this going, and why was he so concerned?

"Do your research, but there are reasons why I should not be involved with this part of your studies. The family connection would only make things worse. And when you find what you find, I ask for your discretion. We do not need trouble with the Sioux. Not now. Certainly not now."

"I will make every effort to honor your wishes." I could think of nothing else to say. It felt as if a cloud had descended upon our little picnic, and since I had brought it, I thought it was my job to take it away. "I should probably go. I am sure your schedule is full."

"If that is your wish." We both stood and shook hands. "Give my love to Elise."

"I will" and I left him there, standing among his vines high above Lake Winnebago and the first route west.

# Chapter 5

# I Dig Deeper

This was my third fall season in Green Bay. Fall can actually be pleasurable here. The trees are colorful, the temperatures are moderate, the mosquitoes go on vacation, things can feel pretty good. But of course you know winter is coming. Maybe you enjoy fall more knowing it won't last, maybe you enjoy fall less, knowing it will never be fair payment for the weather to follow. This fall I didn't enjoy at all. Most other people were unhappy since the country was in the midst of a crisis. My unhappiness was more personal. Elise was gone a lot and when she was home she was distracted. I know it is selfish to want her attention at such a time, but when you are engaged to the most beautiful woman in Canada, you want some attention. My classes were going OK and I should have been excited about the new job, but it was, after all, just a temporary gig teaching a subject that most students found just passingly interesting.

Maybe the real problem was my bouts of "foreignness." Sure I had a house and a job in Green Bay, and I was soon to have a wife there, but then I would feel this overwhelming sense of distance. It hit one day when I was driving around in my stupid Citroen, and it suddenly struck me that this wasn't a crazy car that I drove for amusement, it was my car. What in the world was I doing in such a piece of junk? Or I would open the paper to the lacrosse scores and it would hit me – lacrosse? Really?

Maybe part of the foreign feeling was the sense that I would never really know the place. I had no objection to Elise not giving me insights into the workings of her government, after all even if I had been born there, she probably could not have shared policy deliberations. What bothered me is that I didn't have a clear sense of what the average Canadian might be thinking about all this. There was so much that was assumed and expected, yet unknown to me. Would I ever understand it? Would I ever be as quick to laugh at a joke as the other men at the party? Would I ever understand why some people had been invited to the party and some had not? Two years ago I didn't give a damn. Now I did.

I filled my days grading papers, preparing lectures, advising students. My nights I escorted Elise to the fall round of social events as they built to the crescendo of Christmas parties, or I stained woodwork, moved walls, upgraded doors, and got the house ready for our life together. Days became weeks and tensions rose while the temperature dropped. For everyone else, the question centered on January travels, safety, normalcy, a Canada that was still one country. My question was different. Would I go west? For Elise and me, it was the one question that was never asked. For me, it was the one question I never escaped. There was a huge void in my understanding of this country, and that void was due west.

Whether I would actually travel to the Wall or not, I wanted to learn more about what had happened out there. As a National University professor I had access to the National Archives. It's actually located on the edge of the university campus, so I could put on a coat, pull up my collar, and walk over there after class. The earliest sources are fragile and kept under glass - Marquette's journal, Jolliet's map of the Mississippi, several diaries kept by members of LaSalle's party, including a description of his assassination and the celebration that followed. The earliest histories were all there. There was even an original plat map of Green Bay drawn by Jolliet himself. 1670s, 1680s, 1690s, there were important documents well preserved.

Starting around 1700 things got a bit foggy. There was less available, and what was there tended to be more indirect. Rather than diaries of explorers, there were diaries of people who had seen the explorers or talked with them, but not accompanied them. Folks went west, and often were never seen again.

Weeks went by and I had trouble getting more than very general descriptions. I knew about Verendrye and the Mallets and others, but they were just names and places on a map where they had died. They were traders. Sure. So was everyone. Take trade goods out and hope to come home with something better. In the process they went farther and farther west. Until they stopped going west. Something happened. But what? In the meantime, I had names and dates and places on a map. That much I knew, but it was so superficial it was not much more advanced than naming the states and their capitals – lots of words and no real understanding.

Verendrye and the Mallets headed west in the 1730s. Sixty years had passed since Jolliet had found and mapped the Mississippi. Trading posts existed all over the region. Travel was still by canoe, but the canoes kept getting better, and the routes were better known. "Lob trees" marked the best portages or best river tributary to paddle. Tribes were better understood, languages were learned to some degree. Sixty years had made Green Bay a city and created other population centers at Chicago and Kaskaskia. The launch sites for western explorers were more settled, the initial routes better known, success rates should have been higher. Jolliet had discovered half a continent with just six men. These new guys should have done better.

It was the Indian tribes that created the center of gravity for the developing settlements. Kaskaskia was a good example. Located on the eastern banks of the Mississippi, below the entrance of the Missouri and above the entrance of the Ohio, the Illinois had been there for as long as history recorded. A couple French missionaries arrived and French traders settled in and gradually the Illinois settlement became the home for the French as well. As always, the frequency with which Illinois men were killed in battle or in the hunt left plenty of women for the newly arrived French, so there was intermarriage, children, and a mixed community. The Illinois were already successful farmers on some of the planet's best soil, so the French farmers joined and soon there was wheat and corn for export down the river to New Orleans.

So here at the midpoint of the Mississippi was a stable community with regular communications up and down the river and close access to the Missouri and Ohio. Seems like a pretty good jumping off place, right? Well, folks jumped off, but they just didn't get very far. One example was Etienne de Veniard. Here was a colorful character (if by "colorful" you mean military deserter and bigamist). He must have had some skill with women for he seemed to have wedded or bedded half the female gender of North America, and then went back to France for more. In his search for yet more women, he was the first Frenchman to venture very far up the Missouri. By 1714 He had gone as far west as the Platte. In 1723 he created a fort along the Missouri, and in 1724 he traveled farther out onto the plains and traded with the Apaches. Those are the big events in his resume. What his resume doesn't say is that after he supposedly signed a trade agreement with the Apaches, they moved south and away from the French, while his fort was abandoned. Arriving in France, Louis XV gave him money and award for his discoveries, meanwhile back along the Missouri, Veniard's works were almost immediately erased in the sands of time. Half a century had passed since Marquette had described the Missouri, and Veniard was the best the French could produce.

To the north, the French had the Verendrye clan, a family with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of sons. Operating west out of Lake Superior, they discovered the major lakes west of Superior, built forts, traded for furs, and made it all the way to the Rockies – but no farther. The family head was a pretty interesting guy. Pierre Gaultier was an army cadet at 14 and fought in Canadian wars at 19, then went over to France and fought in continental wars. Back in New France, he gets married, has four sons, farms for a bit and was probably bored out of his mind until his brother got the commission to head the three French forts on the north shore of Lake Superior. Pierre goes to help run the forts and establish a fur trade, and takes over when his brother leaves to fight the Fox and Mascoutin.

At this point my research took a wild turn. I remember sitting in the reading room of the archives, an old biography set in front of me, and it was like a cloud passed over the windows high above the room. This ancient book was about the Verendryes, but it had this short paragraph of reference to the Fox Wars. The Fox Wars? How could there be such a thing? The Fox and Mascoutin are the good guys, right? They helped Jolliet up the Fox River to the Wisconsin. The discovery of the Mississippi depended upon them. How is it the French end up fighting them, and where are the Jolliets in all this?

I put down the Verendrye biography and dug around a number of sources in the archives. It didn't take long for me to find descriptions of running fights, a few battles, and an all-round bad ending. The motivation included some mention of conflicts over trade, with the Fox and Mascoutin wanting to be middlemen while the French wanted to trade directly with the Sioux, all of which seemed like a reason for disagreement but not really a reason for war. Then I found a jaw dropper. Louis XV signed an edict instructing his soldiers in New France to eliminate all members of the Fox tribe. Not all warriors, not all men, not all opponents, but all members of the tribe, women and children included. What the hell? Where does that order come from? Worse yet, it is carried out. The French and their allies track down and kill thousands of Fox, forcing them to flee southwest to Iowa where they find some shelter with the Sauk, but the French keep coming. In the end, only a few hundred survive.

I am always nervous about historical sidetracks. I saw too many of my friends from graduate school never complete their dissertation because they started down one path, found an interesting incident, pursued that, only to find another interesting incident, and suddenly they had reached their seven year limit without a dissertation. But this sidetrack seemed worth pursuing. Something didn't seem right. I thought Elise' heritage was Mascoutin. Was that tribe spared while the Fox were hunted nearly to extinction? How could that be? And – where were the Jolliets during this massacre?

How could I have missed an event this significant? Granted, this was not the sort of history that gets made into a postage stamp or celebrated as a national holiday. But still, it was pretty hard to hide. Yet somehow I had missed it. Now what?

History is full of events where you shake your head and wonder what kind of people we are. People give you poetry and songs – and massacres. You wonder if we are fundamentally flawed. But this flaw seemed pretty close to home. Where did Elise fit in this? Did two centuries of time heal the wound? Two centuries was a very long time, but this was a huge injustice. Was no injury left?

I was probably a danger to the public as I drove home that evening - a bad car on a bad road driven by a man whose mind is two centuries in the past. I got home without injuring anyone, but I had no idea what to do next. I had started weeks earlier trying to learn about French explorers, and now I was dealing with a totally different subject. Now what?

My first question was whether I should ask Elise about this. My response was immediate – no. I wouldn't even know how to phrase the question. Hey, Elise, the French tried to exterminate a tribe your ancestors were allied with. Any reactions? Is this a conversation we are having over red wine or white? No. This is a subject I need to know more about. As an American, even as an American historian, I have no real understanding of the relations between the French and the various tribes. We even call Washington's war the French and Indian War while the rest of the world calls it the Seven Year War. To Americans it was the French and all Indians against us (and it probably seemed that way to Washington as he saw his men being killed at Fort Necessity). That the French had various relations with different tribes may seem obvious, but it is not obvious to us, hence my shock at their treatment of the Fox.

This got me thinking about President Jolliet's comment about the Sioux. What was it – we don't need trouble with the Sioux? Hmm. What trouble did he mean? Clearly there were layers of meaning here I wasn't seeing. OK, but how do I correct my vision? Once again, I felt like a dumb foreigner. I could see myself getting buried pretty deep in the National Archives. I also was beginning to wonder if the "open" archives contained all there was to know. Nations had a pretty common habit of hiding their embarrassments. Indian massacres might well fall into that category.

Just getting the information I had gathered so far had taken me weeks. Meanwhile the world kept moving. The days got colder and tensions got hotter. A New Orleans hotel that advertised "January Specials" had its website disfaced with insults about "Catholics need not apply." A Biloxi resort announced that it now served "Whites only." Several winter homes of rich northerners were vandalized. Clearly the welcome mat was not out.

Missouri businesses saw an opportunity, advertising prominently in papers and on the air, explaining how warm it was there in January, and how friendly the people were. Leave it to business people to spot an opportunity. I wondered if there were a few business leaders in Louisiana who might be having second thoughts about prejudice as they saw their rooms stand empty and restaurant tables go unused. Might they temper their crazier neighbors?

In mid-November the first snowfall hit Green Bay. The sun set earlier every day and refused to rise until most people were up and on their way to work. It was a typical Green Bay winter – dark, cold, and endless. The Christmas parties started so people had six weeks of busy evenings filled with heavy drinking and sexual adventures. But it seemed pro forma. Where before the parties had been a time to celebrate – and a time to say good bye as folks packed to head to more reasonable latitudes, this year too many parties included conversations about who had cancelled their travel plans and which rural Louisiana home had been vandalized. A few folks sold their second homes at a significant profit as northern Huguenots determined to find permanent residences in Louisiana. One man made the mistake of bragging about how he had sold his home outside Biloxi and would now be spending his winters in Mexico. He may have been expecting admiration for his business acumen. What he got was cold stares and fewer party invitations.

Elise and I attended even more parties than usual that season. For Elise it was a duty – her effort to reassure the public. We might do two or even three parties a night, and several times we even crossed the river and attended parties on the west side of town – over among the endless rows of "ranch" houses on quarter acre lots. The hostesses were pleased and proud and we were asked to be part of so many photos I thought I would be flash blinded.

But no matter how many parties Elise and her senior level colleagues attended, they could not provide what the attendees really wanted – reassurance. The question was asked in endless variations depending upon the sophistication or sobriety of the questioner, but it was always really the same question – can we go to Louisiana in January? I learned to temporize, and Elise was a master at it, but you can only temporize so long. Answers that were fine in October rang hollow in November, and by December were less often received with good humor. I actually saw one woman grab Elise by the arm and entreat, "Please Minister, I really need to know. Will our children be safe there?"

Damn good question. Who had a good answer?

Riding to and from parties, the car had never been quieter. I almost welcomed the tailpipe rattle. Elise had little to say. She tried – what did I think of the food, did I know how to get to the next party? But it was clear she was tired – and frustrated. She knew ten different approaches to data analysis, but neither she nor anyone in her government could analyze the minds down south. They made calls, they read papers, they monitored every political event, but they just didn't know.

One faction in her ministry was for going down as usual – pretend things are normal in the hopes they really might be. Another faction was set against it. They pointed out how close Claude Jolliet had come to assassination and the consequences that would have resulted. One high-profile killing was all it would take to turn this feud into a war. They counseled avoidance – stay north for the winter, or just go as far as Missouri.

It was the first week in December before a strategy was agreed upon. No travel recommendations would be made. How do you declare a part of your country safe or unsafe? Instead, leading politicians (and leading families) would model what seemed like a safe approach. Many agency heads scheduled official visits to public works projects in Missouri (any highway entrance ramp or new overpass was suddenly going to get a looksee by major political figures), with some carefully picked in Arkansas as well. Beyond that, the word was to be that officials would vacation in their Louisiana homes – "as their schedules permitted." It was the kind of approach you would expect from a committee of bureaucrats, heavy on safety, light on daring, but at least the government finally had a strategy.

Elise was assigned a series of agricultural colleges to visit. At parties she was able to keep a straight face while she described how interested she was to see how crop yields were being improved. It was utter nonsense, of course, but she would go through the motions and spend six to eight weeks walking through green houses in Missouri and Arkansas. She was nothing if not a good sport. And the approach worked. Now that ordinary people knew what the leadership was doing, they set their schedules to follow. They would set their sights for Missouri or Arkansas, and stay ready for short trips into Louisiana as the times permitted.

As for me, I continued to temporize, now not just at parties but at home as well. My original thought had been to visit the mountains to see just how big a wall they might be, but now I wondered about visiting some tribes. The Sioux lands took up a huge area on the map. I wondered if a visit there would be helpful. Elise would be heading south right after the first of the year. I could go then. There was a limit to what I could find in the archives. It seemed time to visit the people and places where the history had occurred. The hardest part of the trip would be telling Elise I intended to take it.

# Chapter 6

# Christmas in Green Bay

The third week in December I flew home to Philadelphia for a long weekend. I told everyone I would be spending Christmas in Green Bay, so on Sunday afternoon the house filled with family, and we exchanged presents. It appeared I had a couple more cousins, but maybe I am just forgetful. The house was warm and filled with food and friends and Christmas decorations. It only took a few beers before my brothers and I and lots of kids were out in the backyard throwing snowballs and roughhousing. Then it was inside to eat mounds of food. In short, it was a Murphy Christmas.

Before I flew home on Monday my father pulled me into his office for a talk about the business. The guys in the Green Bay office would like to see a bit more of me, one of our customers had moved to Louisiana and left a large accounts receivable balance behind, but otherwise business continued to be exceptional. Oh, and here is your check. I hadn't been into the office in weeks, so I was a bit embarrassed to take a check, especially when I saw it was for over seventy thousand dollars, but I promised to see what I could do back in Green Bay. Business was good, the family was happy, life in Philadelphia was fine. I left pretty hung over, but feeling happy.

Meanwhile, back in Green Bay the final parties before Christmas were extra large, extra expensive, and these days, extra enjoyable. People were smiling again. Conversations turned to talk about the "great new resort" they had discovered in Arkansas ("and the people were so nice.") Or the Missouri townhouse they were evaluating. Or the ranch outside Baton Rouge that guaranteed security ("just in case'). Everyone had a plan, and while the plans were different, the main feature was that – they had a plan! Today is much more fun if you have a sense of tomorrow. And wow was that clear at the final parties. Laughter was louder, the dancing more outrageous, the couples quicker to dart off into empty rooms. Green Bay was in a party mood.

Things were going so well that Elise gave herself two nights off. These were going to be two of the biggest parties in town, but the hostesses were friends and Elise was able to get out by hinting that she and I needed some "alone time." Boy did we ever. Did we engage in momentous conversations, or look longingly at each other over candle light while murmuring sweet nothings? Nope. We watched a couple old movies and were in bed – and asleep – early. It felt marvelous.

Then came Christmas Eve. The French have an interesting practice for Christmas Eve Day – they take the day off work and fast. Most stores are closed and people stay home and do final decorations. The local joke is so many people have been to so many parties in the weeks before Christmas they need one day off from food and drink to recover. I am not sure one day is enough, but it does help.

Then around seven the various masses start, with services every hour on the hour until the last one at Midnight. As you can imagine, the National Cathedral is packed for each mass, but the aristocracy attends the final mass at midnight. This is the one that is broadcast nationally. Interestingly, people tend to dress modestly for this service, with women wearing cotton rather than silks and leaving most of the jewelry at home. Elise and I had had a good day putting a few more ornaments on our tree, and Elise had gone back through the yards to her family's home to get some of her old ornaments. Then her mother had come over with a couple old photo albums, and we spent a long time looking and laughing. Elise, it turns out, was always beautiful, even during times of braces and teen haircuts.

We decided to attend the midnight mass, so we had the evening to get ready. Here I should joke about how long she took to get ready, but it was clear Elise had a plan. She knew which dress she would wear, what she would wear with it, etc. She was in her white cotton dress with long sleeves and high neckline while I was still searching for a tie. She looked like an angel. I looked like a guy who had just rolled out of bed. Fortunately, no one was going to be looking at me anyway.

Her family was waiting for us when we got to mass. As you would expect, the cathedral was very crowded, and they had lined up extra chairs in any available space, fire marshal be damned. But even for Christmas Eve, the place was especially crowded. It took Elise's dad to explain to me, "We have some special guests tonight." He motioned with his head to several people in the pews. I didn't recognize any of them, but Elise whispered in my ear, "Protestants." At this point the choir began and people stood while the priest walked up the nave. To his right was a tall man in a black suit who matched him step for step and then sat on a chair that had been placed next to the priest's. I may be slow, but I know when I am seeing theater. I wondered if this was "Uncle Claude's" work. You've got a national broadcast, why not use the opportunity?

And use it they did. The priest introduced his "good friend Pastor de Jung," the two of them standing side by side singing the hymns (mostly traditional Christmas carols), and each taking a turn with the microphone, the priest delivering his homily and the pastor a short sermon. Both quoted scripture and made a point of showing they were reading from the same Bible. They weren't going for subtlety. The big climax came when communion was offered and they both stood with the wafers and wine, the Catholics lining up to take it from the priest and the Protestants taking it from the pastor. Point made – one Bible, one sacrament. I had a feeling the service would be rebroadcast innumerable times during the next weeks.

The problem for the technicians would be cleaning up the ending, because the final act was not as expected. As the last people were walking forward for communion, suddenly there were a series of explosions that sounded like gun shots. In the enclosed space of the Cathedral, they echoed so loud they might have been hand grenades going off. The noises had the predicted effect – people panicked and ran. Suddenly they were jammed up at the doors, falling over folding chairs, pushing each other. It was ugly fast.

And then came the words – "Go with God." Repeated slowly and with moderate volume, two voices sharing the microphone, "Go with God" The priest and the pastor stood at the same place where they had administered communion, leaning together to talk into the mic. I have no idea how many times they repeated those words, but soon the organist began to play "silent night," and whatever was left of the choir joined in, and the panic was over. In the pews the most senior government people were slowly uncovered by the security people, one of whom walked to the front of the congregation and picked up a collection of strings.

"Fire crackers. Just fire crackers. A child's toy for a child's mind." I think he got a commendation for that line. I know I would have given him one.

Meanwhile back at our pew, we hadn't gone anywhere, not because we were brave, but because there was no room to get out. So we huddled up, men mostly on the top. Gradually we untangled, straightened our clothes, and finally stood. It was Elise's mother who began the singing, joining the choir in Silent Night, but it took no more than a few notes before many more had joined her. And that is how the service ended. There were some injuries as some were pushed against doors or tripped onto the floor, but as they were ministered to, the rest stood and sang, led now by the priest and pastor, standing side by side. It was pretty amazing.

It took several days for security people to analyze tapes and identify the young man who set off the firecrackers. Once they released the tapes, you could see him clearly standing in line with the Protestants, lighting a string of pretty big firecrackers while holding them low, and then tossing them near the Catholic line. He was quickly hauled in but not arrested. With his parents in the room he was given a choice – face charges and likely jail time given the injuries he had caused, or he could publicly apologize to the priest and pastor. He was a pretty stupid teen, but he was smart enough to take the second option. A couple days later he made the evening news apologizing and then receiving forgiveness as both Father Etienne and Pastor de Jung laid a hand on his head and intoned "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, you are forgiven." I hear Pastor de Jung had some additional words to say in private, but the kid got the message. Whatever cause he thought he was supporting or statement he was making, his portion of this conflict was over.

Christmas Day was marvelous. We walked over to Elise's parents' house about mid-afternoon, hungry from a day of fasting and happy from the way the midnight mass had worked out. In its own odd way, it had been a bonding experience. Yes, there had been initial panic and a few folks were embarrassed, but most held their places (often locked in place like us), and almost all were around for the final moments of song. There had been a rough patch but we had come through. That seemed to be the final message of it all. And if that was a metaphor for the current conflict with Louisiana, wouldn't that be nice? We could only hope.

Elise's sisters were of an age that a couple boys came around later in the afternoon. They were introduced around and seemed to handle the pressure well. Each had brought a present and was rewarded with a chaste kiss. Elise spent much of the afternoon in the kitchen helping her mother, but when she was free she found a place next to me and we held hands. That seemed to draw approving smiles from the older ladies in the room. What else is there to say? When we finally had dinner we all ate as if we had been fasting for weeks, we put a serious dent in the family wine cellar, and everyone left feeling great. It was a fine Christmas.

# Chapter 7

# Travel Plans

Elise' travel plans had been worked out for weeks. She knew exactly which ag school she would be going to each week beginning about mid-January. In the meantime she would have a few days in the office and then start heading south. The unknown was me. Elise gave me a complete itinerary for her travels, and several times in the last weeks had begun conversations with "If you wish to join me for any of these visits..."

I had remained noncommittal and Elise had not brought up my earlier talk about travels west, but with Christmas over and final plans out on the table, there came an evening when I had to declare my intentions.

"I need to spend the couple weeks grading a few late assignments, talking research with one of my graduate students, and writing the final chapter of the first volume of my Jolliet family biography that was due a year ago. The University of Virginia Press has been patient, but there is a limit, even with current conditions."

"And then?" We were standing in the kitchen, her itinerary spread out on one of the counters as it had been for days, an obvious appeal for me to read, agree, and follow. She stood near the itinerary as a reminder, but she kept her face neutral. I had to be stupid not to know what she wanted. She didn't need to say anything directly.

"Then I want to visit DeSmet." I think she would have had the same reaction had I said I wanted to visit Mars. Her confusion was instant and obvious.

"Why? What is the connection to either your interest in the Wall, or to the Jolliet family you are writing about?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. But I know nothing about the western tribes, and I think I should." This drew a long silence before she finally responded.

"DeSmet is in the northern plains. So you won't be climbing mountains?"

"Probably not."

"OK." Another pause. "I have colleagues there. People from the Ministry. Would you like their contact information?"

"Sure." And that settled the matter. Elise would set up some meetings for me, I would drive out onto the western plains and study the tribes.

"But I will see you sometime this winter, right?"

"Yes, I promise." And whatever tension had existed over my travels was gone. I was going to a place she knew to see people she knew, and I would eventually meet up with her in Missouri or Arkansas. At least that was the plan. And Elise was fine with it. We had an exceptionally fine dinner together and an exceptionally fine night. Elise was very pleased with my decision.

You might wonder, why DeSmet? It is not a very large or inviting town, but it is the capital of the Dakota province, and it was about in the region where the Verendrye boys had done most of their travels. The more I read about that clan, the more I wanted to better understand why they had gone where they went, and why they had not gone farther west.

You will recall Dad Verendrye, Pierre Gaultier. He gets named head of the Lake Superior forts when his brother is called off to massacre the Fox. By 1731 he is pushing west of Lake Superior to establish trade routes, and to collect beaver pelts. He is successful at both. He builds his first new fort on Lake of the Woods and is soon collecting half of all the pelts that make it to Quebec for sale. Five years later his son Jean Baptiste and twenty Frenchmen leave the fort at Lake of the Woods to head back to Lake Superior when they are jumped by a party of Sioux and killed to the last man. Curiously, Dad Verendrye seems to do nothing in response.

Pierre and two other sons, Francois and Louis-Joseph, keep working west to build forts (and beaver pelt trading posts) on Lake Winnipeg and Lake Manitoba. 1738 they head southwest for the Missouri River and stay with the Mandans, at that time a tribe of 15,000 (smallpox would take that number down to 150 within a century) living in settled villages based largely on corn cultivation and buffalo hunts. Three years later the Verendryes are back to visit and to explore west, traveling far enough to see the Rockies for the first time.

And then the family story ends. Dad returns to Montreal where his riches let him enjoy his last years, while the boys keep trading for beaver pelts until the French and Indian War calls them back to the east to fight those pesky Americans. Do they ever cross the mountains and finally reach the Pacific? No. Why not? Are they so busy as beaver merchants they never have time to make the journey? Or is there some other reason they never go? History is silent. Even more curious, I can't find historians of that period even asking the question – why not travel farther west? It seems a good question – one I plan to ask in DeSmet.

# Chapter 8

# Getting there is half the fun

Elise and I had about a week together before she started south. She worked shorter days and we had time to take walks, gloved hand in gloved hand shuffling through the snow – very romantic. There were a few parties, there were talks about our travels, there was clean up around the kitchen as we prepared for the remodeling, and then the time was over and she was gone.

I was as good as my word and did finally finish the last chapter of the Jolliet biography and get it off to my editor at UV Press. She called to tell me her initial reaction was positive, and she would get back to me as the copy editing went forward. I was just glad to have the thing off my desk. I didn't think the first volume covered much new ground, and I was already thinking far more about the next generations of Jolliets. They had been prominent politically, but had they accomplished anything else? I wasn't seeing their names among the western explorers.

My other big accomplishment for that period was to get the contractors in from Philadelphia. My father's company had already imported all the materials we would need so there would be no French "engineering" in our kitchen (hopefully Elise would not notice). Unlike French workers, these guys got right to work. My guess was they had no great interest in spending any more time in Green Bay than absolutely necessary – and that was fine with me.

By the third week in January I was ready to start west when a huge snow storm closed every highway east of the mountains. Days passed and I waited. What does one do in Green Bay in January? Count the days until May. The workmen had rebuilt our kitchen in record-breaking time, so I spend some time putting dishes up on shelves and that sort of thing, but there were still too many unfilled hours in each endless day. Eventually the storm mess was cleared enough to open roads again and I fired up my Citroen for the ride west.

On paper the trip looked easy enough – west out of town on the main military highway – Green Bay, Portage, St. Paul, DeSmet. The highway continued on to the wall and then followed the mountains north and south so troops could be moved to block an invasion from Oregon or California. Neither country having ever invaded, the road mostly supplied ski resorts, but at least it served some purpose. At the moment it was getting me west at a pretty good clip. Even with icy patches and some blowing snow, I was in St. Paul well before dark. Given the quality of the car heater and the quality of my seat, I decided that would be enough for the first day.

As it turned out, I had made a brilliant decision. A few hours later another blizzard hit the plains and closed all roads for three days. What do you do for three days in St. Paul? Mostly you watch reruns of lacrosse matches on tv and talk wheat prices with the local businessmen. I am now an expert on wheat futures. Just ask me.

When the roads were finally clear again, my car wouldn't start. The battery was frozen. By the time that got replaced, it was too late to start out, so I had another evening of lacrosse and wheat. By now I would have given my soul to have a conversation about corn. Fortunately my car started the next morning and I was able to point it west again.

A funny thing happened west of St. Paul – nothing. I noticed the nothing about an hour out of town. Traffic disappeared and I often had the highway to myself. I also seemed to have the rest of the plains to myself. I might see an occasional farm or even a small grove of trees, but mostly I saw wall to wall nothing. We have no such places in America. Our population is too dense. Even in Wisconsin where they have larger spaces, they have hills and farms and woods, so there is some sense of civilization. But west of St Paul, I felt like I had fallen off the edge of the world. It was almost like being on the ocean. The horizon looked like a line drawn. It occurred to me if my sad little French car had a problem out here, I might be in big trouble fast. I slowed my speed, kept an eye on the gas gauge, and wondered if I would ever see people again.

The sun was near the horizon and I was approaching the Red River when I discovered that no, I was not the last man left on earth. The river had a town – Verendrye. I felt like hugging my car. We had made it. I was still a long way from DeSmet, but I didn't care. What I wanted was to be off that highway and in some place safe and warm before dark. Verendrye would do fine. I took the highway exit and cruised downtown looking for a hotel. This turned out to be pretty simple. The town was one block long and had one hotel. The neon sign out front announced that they had a "vac cy." Fine with me. I didn't care about the quality of the local sign repair people as long as the furnace repair people managed to keep this old barn warm.

I parked in front of the hotel and walked into a lobby that appeared to be three times larger than necessary for a hotel this size. The place was just two stories and looked to have maybe twenty rooms. The good news was the lobby had a bar and a restaurant. The bad news was the whole place was empty. At a registration desk that looked like it could be on the set of an old western movie there was a sign – "ring bell for service." I looked around trying to find a bell. After circling the desk three times and seeing nothing resembling a bell, I just started shouting "hello."

I was on my fourth or fifth "hello" when I began to hear noises coming from behind the restaurant. Either the place had really big rats, or there was a person working back there. Fortunately, it was a person – a very old person, a man who looked like he should sit in that restaurant and eat nonstop for a month. On the other hand, if he did eat at that restaurant and was still so skinny, I thought a different restaurant would be a better idea for dinner. He shuffled toward the front of the hotel, wiping his hands on a rag and not paying any particular attention to me. Eventually he arrived at the registration desk, opened a drawer to find his glasses, and with them finally on his face he looked at me.

"Would you like a room?"

"Yes."

"Would you like one with a bathroom?"

"Sure. Why not live a little?" He didn't seem to notice my jab. He had a set of questions to ask, and he was going to ask them.

"How many nights would you like to stay?

"Just one"

"Oh." He seemed so put out, I hurried to add,

"But if the weather turns bad, I might stay a little longer." I am not sure he remembered how to smile, but his face moved a bit and that might have been what it was doing.

"That will be forty francs – in advance."

"Does that include the bathroom?"

"Oh yes, with soap and towels."

"Well, that sounds very good." I pulled out forty francs and our conversation was largely at an end. He had run through his questions. I asked about where to park and he looked at me like I was a simpleton. "There are places all over town." I took that to mean I could park on the street, which is what I did. I left my car pretty much where it had been when I arrived, grabbed a bag out of it and headed up to my room.

It was a pretty interesting room. I have no idea how old this hotel was, but I would guess well over a century. I would also guess it was built before electric lights and indoor plumbing given the way pipes were routed along walls, and wires just seemed to hang down from the ceiling. Why the place had not burned down decades ago was a mystery to me. Was it safe for me to spend the night? Probably safer than sleeping out in the cold, but not by much.

I tried to phone Elise, but it appeared cell towers hadn't reached this far west. So I checked my maps, gave some thought to how much driving I might be doing the next day, and then went downstairs in search of food. The ancient bellman was still standing at the registration desk filling in some form. It appeared on-line reservation systems were as absent as cell towers.

"Could you recommend a restaurant in town?"

"What's wrong with this one?" He seemed more shocked than disturbed by my request. It appeared obvious to him that he had the best restaurant. It was equally obvious to me the place was empty. Surely it was closed for the season.

"What time do you open?" I seemed to confuse him even more deeply.

"We're open now." He pointed toward that side of the lobby just in case I was too stupid to see he had a restaurant with tables and everything.

"And the bar?"

"Yes, it's open too." Another gesture to the other side of the lobby. Either I was a moron or I was blind. Couldn't I see the restaurant and bar were right there?

"Could I get a glass of wine?" At this point he was staring at me like I might belong in an institution. The bar was right there, that was obvious. Bars serve wine, that was obvious. How stupid was I?

"We have a wine there along the wall. Pick a bottle, and I will serve you when I have finished all this paperwork." All this paperwork appeared to be a ledger entry with date, time, room number, and amount received – 30 francs. He might be old, but he wasn't stupid.

I went to the wine rack only to discover they had about half a dozen bottles, all well-aged, none from wineries I had ever heard of. Manitoba Merlot? I grabbed a bottle at random and sat down to wait, and wait, and wait. Eventually my ancient friend shuffled over and rummaged around some drawers near the wine and came back with a glass and a corkscrew. He had the good sense to give me the corkscrew. I doubted he had the strength to open the bottle, and I was certain I didn't have the patience to wait hours while he tried.

"What would you like to eat?" Was he my cook too?

"What is the specialty of the house?"

"We make buffalo burgers, but we are out of buns. How about a buffalo steak? I think I have some potatoes."

"That would be perfect. I'll have it medium rare." I think he understood my first sentence; but the second confused him. Apparently I was uttering idiot babble again. He just wandered off and disappeared through one of the doors in the back of the lobby.

So, this was my big night in Verendrye. The wine was desperation in a bottle, the lobby was drafty and dusty, and the company? I wondered when I would see him again. While I waited, I sipped the wine and looked across the lobby at the windows. They were frosted up pretty good, and it was deep dark by now, but I thought I saw snow coming down. Another blizzard? Might I be locked in here for days? Was cannibalism part of my future?

Eventually, the ancient chef returned pushing a cart before him. On it were two plates with meat hanging over the edges, a few utensils, and several packed soda crackers.

"The potatoes went bad." He said as he put a plate in front of my and then put the crackers in the middle of the table. He then set the other plate on the table across from me and sat down.

"So, you'll be joining me?" Wow, I said stupid things. I was pretty sure if another customer ever came into the place the old man's first words would be - you wouldn't believe the dummy who was here last.

"I've got to eat too." Which is exactly what he did. I tried. Maybe my knife was dull. I did get one chunk off and spent the next ten minutes chewing what I could. This buffalo had led a hard life. I started opening the cracker packages. It appeared they would be my dinner.

"I suppose it is pretty quiet around here in the winter. When is your busy season?"

"Threshing is big. We get three or four people a night."

"This is a pretty big place for three or four people."

"Used to be bigger. There was a whole wing off the back with fifty more rooms. Burned down. Used to fill the place. Buffalo hunters mostly."

"Not enough buffalo?"

"Too many Sioux." What do you say to that? In my case, nothing. In his case, a little more.

"You headed to them or from them?"

"I'm headed for DeSmet."

"Stay on your side of town and you'll be fine. Do you have people there?"

"Yes, my fiancée has contacts in the Interior Ministry there."

"The government is useless. Stay on the east side of town." He seemed to have nothing more to say. I ate the last of the packaged crackers, laid ten francs on the table, and went to bed.

# Chapter 9

# DeSmet

I didn't see the ancient hotelier in the morning, and I certainly didn't try for breakfast. I loaded the car and headed west over the bridge into Dakota. It is easily the largest province in Canada, extending from the red river in the east to the mountains in the west, and from the Platte river in the south to the Arctic Circle in the north. It was huge, and as far as I could see, empty.

The first thing to catch my attention as I crossed the bridge, was the sign – "Dakota." Not "Welcome to Dakota," or "Dakota – Vacation wonderland," or the usual Chamber of Commerce silliness. It was just "Dakota." Underneath was the message – "Safety first – buffalo and snow mobiles have the right of way." So, as I am driving down a four lane national highway doing 100 or 120 kilometers per hour, I should stop if I see a buffalo or a snowmobile? Really? They couldn't afford fences along the roadside?

At least it gave me something to look for. There was certainly nothing else here. The land was flat, covered with snow, and seemed to go on forever. I drove for hours without seeing a house, or a tree, or even a snow drift. With nothing to see outside the car, I found myself spending more and more time studying my gauges. Did I have enough gas to make DeSmet? Was the temperature gauge beginning to rise? Did I see the oil light flicker for just an instant? On rare occasions I passed another car or had a car pass me. I felt like waving to each one, or stopping to chat. There were other humans! Then my car would be by itself again and I was surrounded by the empty. DeSmet was only about a five hour drive, but I don't remember any drive seeming to take so long.

The gas gauge was nearly on E, and my stomach was giving me a serious list of complaints about missing dinner, breakfast, and lunch, when I started to see shapes on the horizon. I saw them so far off, it was another fifteen minutes before I got close enough to see it was a town – complete with buildings and maybe even some people. I had made it to DeSmet.

How do I describe the town? It extended along the north side of the highway and appeared to be an exact square – ten block by ten blocks. I looked for a river or some other national feature that would have attracted the initial settlement, but I saw nothing. It was as if the whole thing was just plunked down randomly at this point along the highway. Maybe a wagon had broken down here, or a tree had once grown at this location. Maybe some guy fell off his horse and decided to found a town here. In any case, the town was here – what there was of it.

There was a main street that ran up the middle of the town. It featured business and civic buildings, all two or three stories high, and all constructed of gray brick as if any other color would look silly surrounded by so much white. Fanning out east and west of the main drag were residences, also mostly of brick. They tended to be one story tall, and if there was a difference between the east side and west side, I couldn't see it. Of course my primary interest upon arrival was finding gas for my car. Fortunately, there was a station just off the highway at the foot of Main Street.

With a full tank of gas, my next goal was food and shelter. Do you recall in high school a science problem where you had to determine where the French temperature – Celsius – meets the English temperature – Fahrenheit? The answer is forty below. What the science teacher did not tell you is what forty below feels like when the wind is shrieking across miles of snow. I can tell you what it feels like – it feels like the wind wants to tear your face off. That's the world I drove through as I cruised Main Street (actually DeSmet Avenue) looking for a place that would feed me and give me a place to spend the night.

It turns out the town has a grand total of one hotel, so my selection process was simplified greatly. I picked the one and only hotel – three stories and a sign advertising a restaurant. It also looked sturdy enough to not blow over in this wind.

Leaving my car at the curb (there was plenty of room. It looked like there were maybe three cars spread over the nearest four blocks), I let the wind blow me in the front doors of the hotel. What I found was a modest-sized lobby with some effort at decorating. Buffalo hides hung from the walls, alternating with blankets appearing to be Indian design. A huge chandelier made of antlers hung from the ceiling. All this was nice, but what I appreciated more was reasonable warmth and the presence of a person behind the registration desk and several people eating in the lobby restaurant. I had found food – and people!

I registered first – yes, there were rooms available, how many nights did I want to stay? This turned out to be a tougher question than I had expected. My initial plan had been to come here for two or three weeks, meet some people, use the local library, and do a quick study of the region and its history. I was far less sure of that decision now. Frankly, I already wanted to leave. What had I been thinking even coming here in January? With a full tank of gas and a full stomach, it was tempting to go back to Green Bay in the morning. After taking longer to answer than the clerk expected, I finally asked for two nights. I figured if nothing else, I could tough it out that long.

What about lunch? I was a bit of a pig. Without even seeing my new room, I headed straight for the lobby restaurant and took a table. The waiter was young, helpful, and recommended the daily special – a double buffalo burger. I jumped at the chance to eat ground up buffalo, hoping it would be easier to chew than yesterday's steak had been. As it turned out, it didn't have much taste, but I could at least chew it. Halfway through the burger I began to relax. I was inside, warm, and fed. Little did I know.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was charging toward the horizon when I went out to the car to get my bag and move the car around to the hotel parking lot. The bag I got. The car was a different matter. My brand new battery managed to turn the engine twice before it gave up. The car wasn't going anywhere, and neither was I. Back in the lobby I explained the problem to the clerk, who said he would call a shop. I left him my keys and went up to my room.

There was nothing special about the room. The carpet had a few stains, the woodwork had been painted several times, the bed was soft and the tv small, but at least the room was relatively warm. The one interesting touch was the paintings on the walls. They looked like original water colors, and they were pretty good prairie landscapes, not the usual hotel fare. They brought some needed color to the room. Outside, the windows showed me white streets fading to gray as the sun set at 4 pm. My third floor room let me see all the way to the edge of town, which is to say five blocks before the small brick houses stopped and the endless white plains began. I closed the curtains.

Elise had given me contact information for several people in the provincial government, and I called one – a lady working in the records office – to set up a meeting for the next morning. I was hoping she might give me some general background information on early explorers and local Indian tribes, and let me peek into whatever archives had been retained locally. What I got instead was a lady who didn't want to get off the phone. The minute I introduced myself, she said Elise had explained I would be coming and she was so glad I would be in town for several days and so glad to share the historical records with a history professor and so glad I had made the journey and so glad I had not had trouble on the road and so glad... Well, you get the idea. She was glad to talk to me.

Half an hour later, with my ears warm from holding to phone first to one ear and then to the other, she told me her co-workers would love to meet me too, could I come over for dinner around 8? Hoping for something other than buffalo meat, I agreed and got directions to her house. It appeared to be about four blocks from my hotel, a distance I figured I could walk.

Until it was time to leave for dinner, I left a message for Elise telling her I had arrived, I checked my emails, and I channel surfed on the tiny room tv. It turned out they carried the four main national networks, plus a provincial channel that was all local content, mostly using the Sioux language. I kept the set to that channel and saw local dances, a show in buffalo skin tanning, a long description of some guy's elk hunt, and even a weather report done in Sioux. I didn't understand a word the weatherman said, but I didn't need to – the graphics made it clear the weather would consist of cold alternating with snow. No big surprise.

I got so interested in the local channel, I left a bit later than I had expected to, and just threw on a coat and a hat. Big mistake. Walking even four blocks in DeSmet requires proper preparation. By the time I arrived at her house, I was practically running just to keep from freezing. That was also a mistake, since my lungs refused to inhale the air at this temperature. So I was running and coughing and hugging myself, hoping I had the address right, since one more block and I assumed I would just die on the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I did have the right house – a two-story brick house pretty undistinguishable from its neighbors, none of which would elicit any admiration in Green Bay. The best you could say is they seemed solid. The worst you could say is they were plain – even barren. You would think maybe a painted shutter or a bay window would break the expanse of gray brick. Nope.

I practically pushed my way in the front door, waiting maybe a microsecond once the door was open and I had a way out of the cold. I was so cold and so rushed to get inside, I was a bit disoriented. I stood and stamped my feet and blew my nose and only gradually realized I was the focus of at least a dozen people who had apparently been waiting anxiously for me to arrive. I heard a mixed chorus of "Are you ok?" and "Glad you could make it" and "Welcome" and "Please come in," all jumbled together. What I took from the cacophony was best wishes and real concern. Meanwhile, I hoped I wasn't embarrassing myself too badly as I blew my nose yet again, tried to straighten out my hair as I removed my hat, and struggled with gloves over very frozen fingers. Basically I was a mess, and I had somehow walked to center stage.

Luckily, a few minutes after I arrived and had achieved some measure of control over my appendages, the hostess introduced herself and took some charge over the chaos.

"Professor Murphy, we are so pleased you are here." And she did look pleased. I would put her somewhere in the mid-forties, about average height, the usual Canadian dark hair. If anything stood out, it was her clothing. She seemed pretty overdressed for a week night out in the plains, but she was clearly enjoying herself and her role as hostess. She gave me a moment to gather myself and then led me around the room introducing me to each person there. These folks also seemed to have exceptional smiles, like this was a special evening. I have a pretty large ego, so I could say they were pleased to have me there, given my connections to the university or to Elise or to the Jolliet family or to the New Orleans adventure that was pretty well known, but later I wondered if they were happy just to have a fresh face to see.

At the time, I just shook lots of hands, tried to say something sensible at each greeting (although I have to say I felt light headed from the cold, so I am not sure how much sense I made), and returned smiles once my face unfroze.

What can I say about the house? It seemed like a weak echo of a Green Bay home. It had the lacquered doors and white paneling, even a chandelier in the dining room. But somehow it all seemed off. The doors seemed too small to be so dressed up, and the ceiling was too low for a chandelier. The thing hung about eye level and threatened to give me a headache in no time. It all seemed wrong, and certainly out of keeping with the exterior of the house. It was like the exterior and interior were in conflict, and both were losing.

Meanwhile there was lots of conversation, all of it seemingly random. How was the trip? What's new in Green Bay? How do you like DeSmet? Topics were all over the place and never seemed to get to any depth. Finally we were seated to dinner and things settled out a bit. I was happy to see fresh rolls and several can-loads of vegetables and overjoyed when the meat served was some kind of fowl, not yet more buffalo.

It soon emerged that I was to "sing" for my supper, with the hostess tossing me opening lines that I was to expand upon. "Tell us about the boat fire off Biloxi." "I understand you were at the National Cathedral for that Christmas Eve service." 'Why did the Huguenot wagon train stop before New Orleans?" I managed to eat a bit, but I spent most of the next two hours talking about those and other current topics. And I was riveting. Really. I have never had a dozen people listen so intently. I am far more used to dinner at the Murphy house where I got a maximum of two sentences out before one of the brothers interrupted or one of the sisters rolled her eyes at my inanity. Whoever pays attention to the baby brother? These folks did. In DeSmet I was a rock star.

Finally after two hours they served the brandy, and folks started making their excuses to get back home. It was a work day tomorrow, the kids needed final checking before bed, etc. They gradually drifted off, but not before each and every one of them shook my hand and assured me how grateful they were I had come to visit and how much they would like to entertain me another evening at their home. And it looked like they meant it.

I was the last to leave. The hostess held me as long as she could, making me promise to come back another evening, and assuring me she would be happy to work with me in the morning. Finally she turned me over to her husband who would drive me back the hotel.

We went out the back door to his garage where I discovered his car was plugged into an engine heater. That appeared to be the secret. His Peugot started right up. He hadn't said much at the dinner table, and he didn't say much as we rolled through the darkened streets to the hotel. As he rolled the car to the front door he finally had his say.

"Have you been around expats before?"

"Expats?"

"Expatriates – people who are living in a foreign land.

"Those people at dinner were foreigners?"

"They are foreign to Dakota. Some come for the money, some come for the adventure. But the foreignness gets old after a while and they tend to cling together to recreate a small version of their homeland. That's what you saw tonight."

"They seemed nice."

"They are nice. But they are trapped in a foreign land.

"And you?"

"Born and raised in a village north of here. Went off to college and met Nicole. Brought her back here. Mostly it works. Some times better than others." I had absolutely no idea what to say in response, so I gathered myself to get out of the car.

"Thank you for the ride here, and for the insight. It helps." And it did.

# Chapter 10

# DeSmet the Man

I think I can sum up the next several days pretty easily. First, I found a clothing store the next day and bought layer after layer of warmer clothing, including a hat that looks like an animal is sitting on my head. I also discovered I could fit leather mittens on over my gloves. I thought my time in Green Bay had taught me how to deal with cold, but boy was I wrong. But I was learning now, and while I was never warm as I walked the streets of DeSmet, I got to the point where I did not feel my life was in danger if I walked more than two blocks (and yes, I was walking since my car seemed to be needing extra care).

I did the usual professor stuff during the day, hitting the local museums, archives, and libraries, plus various government offices, all of which seemed plenty eager to help me. In fact I had some difficulty finding quiet time to read, since every office had numerous people who wanted to talk, and talk, and talk. They all had stories, they all had expertise, they all had great insights, and they all seemed to have limitless time. They brought me maps, and diaries, and histories long out of print, but they gave me little time to read any of them since they wanted to talk. These were either the friendliest people in the world, or they had gone far too long without seeing visitors.

Evenings were a series of house parties. They were some variant of the dinner I had attended the first night – a dozen or so very friendly people, good food, a warm (if modest) house, and endless conversations. Mostly I did the talking, but I pushed back a bit and got my hosts to at least provide a little of the conversation as they described town events and local people. But often those local conversations turned to vacation plans and places they had visited that were warmer and or more highly populated.

While the meetings and dinners occupied most of my time, my most significant impressions came during the ten or fifteen minutes it took me to scurry from one place to another. Some days the wind was more intense, some days less, but there was always a wind and always a coating of white as far as the eye could see. Given the constricted size of the town, I could see off to the horizon down every street, and the horizon was always very far in the distance, far off past an endless plain of white. I don't know if I was made more cold by the temperature, or by the views. I know I shivered a lot.

One afternoon I was walking from one government office to another when I just stopped and looked at the horizon. Two centuries ago men had walked this land headed west – west to the Wall. It occurred to me they bore huge risks before they ever got to the wall. Essentially the plains were a moat a thousand miles wide that exhausted them before they ever got to the wall. They walked, or rode horseback along small rivers, covering 20 miles a day. More correctly, they covered 20 miles when weather permitted. How often was that?

One man who walked the plains and lived to tell the story was the man the town was named for – Father DeSmet. A Jesuit from Belgium, there was pretty good evidence he traveled over 180,000 miles during his lifetime of work on the plains. Being a good Jesuit, he started his career much as Marquette had, spending years learning tribal languages. Only after he had mastered half a dozen languages did he leave St. Louis to venture into the wild. There he met all the leading Indians of the time, including Sitting Bull. He must have been one tough priest, since he lived into his seventies.

I thought about him as I was walking back to the hotel one afternoon. The wind was rising, the sun was setting, and my hands were cold inside two layers of gloves. Maps didn't really communicate what his life had been like. Dotted lines along rivers and across the plains gave no sense for what it must have been like to spend even a single night out on the plains. 180,000 miles represented how many nights with fifteen or sixteen hours of darkness? How many mornings of breaking ice to find water to drink? How many meals that were partially cooked over flickering fires or missed entirely? How many returns to friends and the familiar, only to leave again for the unknown when the seasons changed or a tribe invited? I could read the biographies and study the maps, but I think I understood him best when I came out of a nice warm building and felt the icy wind on my face.

Maybe it was my growing admiration for him and for the other French explorers that caused me to stay in DeSmet. I remember calling Elise one night and telling her I would be in town a maximum of three days, and then calling back a week later to explain I was still there. A few days later a man came looking for me. I was in the provincial archives reading an account of the Verendrye massacre at Lake of the Woods, when the man who had driven me back to my hotel my first night in town came through the door and sat down.

"I heard you were still in town." He took off his hat and opened his coat as he sat. He looked to be about the same age as his wife – mid to late 40s – dark hair and dark complexion – lots of Indian genes in there. He had a good face. "Open" seems an odd way to describe a face, but he seemed "open." He looked directly at me as he talked, but there was no stressing of the face muscles. He looked perfectly relaxed, which had the effect of making me relaxed, as if we had known each other for years and could trust one another.

"I keep finding new things to read."

"Reading will only take you so far."

"Interesting that you should say that. I sometimes think I learn more about this town by walking down the street and getting hit by a blast of wind."

"In the winter it is the wind, in the spring it is the prairie flowers, in the summer it is the sun that vibrates up from the ground. Those are the essence of Dakota."

"Yes, I should come back in the spring to see."

"How much time do you have before you have to go back?"

"Classes start again in two weeks."

"Want to see a Sioux village before you go?"

"Sure, but my car is out of commission."

"We can't take cars there. We will go by snowmobile." He followed up with a lot of detail on what to wear and what to pack and what gifts to bring, but the upshot was we would be leaving at dawn. I took a few notes – that's what professors do – but mostly my mind was already racing ahead to the trip. A snowmobile? I had never been on one. How complicated would that be? And how far would we be going? And what would we do once we go to the village? And... well, I had lots of questions, none of which I could ask Marc. I concentrated on first things first – what I should pack and how I should pack it. It sounded like the first answer was "lots but not too much," and the second was "carefully."

Then he was done and gone. I put away the book I was reading and headed out to Main Street to do some shopping.

# Chapter 11

# Over the snow to the "angry men"

The next morning I left most of my stuff in storage at the hotel (my car was still being worked on somewhere by someone) and told them I would be back in a couple days. I still laugh about that. I had no idea. I had a very full backpack and I was wearing about six layers of clothing as I waddled over to Marc's house. I went around to the back of the house and found Marc and his wife in the kitchen. She was filling thermoses with coffee (I would have preferred brandy), and stopped briefly to tell me what a great trip I was going to have, how marvelous the people were, how interesting the village, etc. Basically she had the same excitement level as she had had that first night she invited me over. I am confident if you look up "enthusiasm" in the dictionary, you will find her picture there. Marc just stood and waited, silent as always.

Eventually we got back outside and headed to the garage where the snowmobiles were waiting. We tied our packs on the back, started them up, and left. I was a pretty dangerous driver for the first block or two, but there was no traffic, so we just drove down the street with me trying to determine how much throttle would get me up to speed, hoping I wouldn't have to turn the machine because I had no idea how to do that.

As it turned out, I did not need to make any turns for about five hours. We got to the end of the street and just kept going. There was no road, but it appeared there was a regular path where other machines had traveled. I bounced a bit here and there, but mostly, I just turned the throttled with my right hand, held on tight with my left, and hoped I wouldn't do anything stupid. That was the first hour. The second hour I began to relax a bit and look around, but you can probably guess – there was nothing to see. It was white in every direction all the way to the horizon – and the horizon was a very long way off.

By the third hour I was getting cold. This was the longest I had been outside since arriving in Dakota, and even though I had dressed in multiple layers, the cold was seeping through. By the fourth hour I was shivering. My finger tips felt like someone was jamming needles into them. How much longer? We were doing about twenty five miles per hour. I guessed Marc could probably handle much higher speeds, but I was not sure I could. Once in a while the trail would bend left or right and I was beginning to get the feel of leaning as I would on a bike, but these machines weren't bikes and they turned hard. At least they turned hard for me. So we plugged along for yet another hour with me becoming more and more miserable.

Finally I saw some smoke on the horizon. I might have been able to see it long before I finally did, but I had my eyes glued to the trail to make sure I stayed on it. Minutes later, Marc slowed to a stop and walked back to me.

"This is a potlatch weekend, so there will be people from six or eight villages here. There are customs that go with the potlatch, and I could explain them to you, but it is probably easier if you just try to do what I do. Besides, the elders know you are French, so they will expect a miscue to two."

"Actually, I am American."

"That's not a difference that matters here." He chuckled to himself, apparently seeing something funny in my assertion and walked back to his snowmobile.

What can I say about the village? It took us another fifteen minutes to get there. The trail came over a low ridge and there was the village lined up along a small river, not that I could see the river. It of course was covered in ice and snow, but the banks were obvious enough. It appeared the river was being used as a highway by snowmobilers from the other villages. There were many tracks in both directions and lots of snowmobiles pulled up on the embankment.

There were about a dozen houses, all small and low, as if they were partially embedded in the ridge we came over. About in the middle was a large brick building I assumed was the local school. It looked huge for a community of this size. I would guess it could handle an enrollment of a couple hundred, yet I doubted the total population of the village reached half that. Whatever the general need for a building that size, it appeared to be filling that Saturday. Folks carrying all manner of boxes and bags were entering.

I followed Marc to one of the houses, his I assumed. I was right about the houses being built into the hillside. It looked like the back side was about halfway embedded. The house also had a fairly low roof which was covered in several inches of snow. The only other feature I could see outside was a fairly large propane tank – apparently their heat source.

Inside was dark with little light coming through the small windows, but all the walls were covered with bright blankets that looked handmade. As you would expect with the weather, the house was basically built around a large gray metal furnace what stood exposed dead center in the building. Behind it appeared to be two bedrooms and a bath. In front of it were the living room and kitchen. There were three women in the kitchen, all engaged in preparing some kind of food, but they all turned and came to Marc the minute he come through the door.

I have no idea what they all said, since they spoke Sioux, but I gathered from gestures that Marc was introducing me, and that got the women to look at me briefly and smile, and then they were on about something else, which started pleasant enough, but gradually moved to some other topic that seemed to upset them. Through that second part of the conversation I started hearing a phrase in French – "angry men." The first time I heard it, I thought I was imagining it, but it was repeated several times. "Angry men." Marc was listening to them, seemed to be asking questions, and occasionally looked towards the school. When he got concerned, I got concerned. Who were these angry men? Had there been a fight?

Eventually they reached some sort of conclusion, and Marc gave them each a hug before leading me back out into the cold.

"Did I hear something about angry men?" I asked as we walked through the snow to the school. The snow as pretty packed down, but it was still not an easy walk, and I found myself trying to watch where I walked, look at Marc, and look ahead to the school.

"I forgot that was French. We have no equivalent term in Sioux, so we borrowed the French phrase, and now it seems like Sioux to us."

"So, was there a fight?" I can't say I cared much about the etymology of the term. I was more interested in knowing what kind of event I was walking into.

"No, but there are angry men in the next village, so people are concerned. Let me see what is happening at the school, and I will explain what is going on."

I left things there as we entered the school. What can I say about the school? It looked pretty much like any other school building I have ever been in, except the gym/auditorium seemed much larger than would be expected for a school this size. The school appeared to be a gym with a few classrooms attached.

Big as the gym was, it appeared to be undersized for the crowd. Folks were everywhere. There were tables piled with food, coats and such stacked in every direction, and people mixing and mingling everywhere. Marc led me around to a few groups of men he knew and introduced me. There were a few sentences in French for me, and then they all returned to Sioux, and I stood waiting for Marc to take me to another group. There seemed to be lots of topics of conversation, but I did hear "angry men" repeated in each group, and each time it was repeated, there seemed to be concern.

A half an hour or so later, Marc had pretty much worked the room, and he led me back outside. To my chagrin he decided that outdoors was the best place for us to talk. I was still cold from the snowmobile ride, and while the time in the gym had helped, I felt I was constantly on the edge of shivering. Marc seemed to have no problem with the cold, nor did he seem to notice my discomfort. I hoped this wasn't going to be a long conversation.

"No one seems to know why they are in the next village, but it is surprising that there are so many. One man said there might be two dozen. That has to be wrong."

"Marc, I have no idea what you are talking about." I have to admit to being a bit impatient as well as very cold.

"I don't know when it started, certainly decades ago, but angry men started moving to the southern edge of Dakota, just outside the province – off Sioux lands. We call them angry men because we don't have a better way to describe them. They sometimes have a wife, but usually they come alone. Maybe they were divorced, maybe they were fired, maybe they are just nasty people. But they are always angry. They find a small place out in the desert, and they hole up there. They have lots of guns, and they hunt, and sometimes they come on to Sioux lands. Sometimes they are lost and need help finding their way home, but sometimes they cause trouble. When they cause too much trouble, sometimes they disappear." He stopped and looked at me when he said the last to see if I understood. I thought I did. I also thought I would not pursue that issue.

"Now there are more?"

"That's what is odd. These men don't like anyone, not even each other. Sometimes you might see three of four together, but never more. That's why I don't believe there are two dozen in the next village. Even ten or twelve would be unusual. These men never congregate."

"Will they come here?"

"If they do, there will be trouble. No, it would be better for us to go to them."

"Who will go?"

"You and me. We speak French the best. We have some understanding of their culture. Maybe we can make sense of what they are doing." He had more to say, but basically I stopped listening after "you and me." Why us? Why me? I had no experience what so ever with loners living off in the desert. If they wanted to live off by themselves, maybe there was a good reason for it.

Marc had more to say, mostly about his plan for our visit. He seemed to be working it out in his mind as we talked. The only part of his plan that I liked came when he said we should go tomorrow. That might give me a chance to get warm again before we rode those damn snowmobiles again. Then he made the mistake of explaining why we would wait until tomorrow. We could not get to the angry men before dark – and – I loved hearing this – it was not safe approaching angry men in the dark. So what made it safe during the day? They were angry, they were armed, they were nasty people. What would make any of this safe?

I am not sure I ever agreed to go with him. He just assumed I would, and I never said "no." How could I? What would I do, take my snowmobile back to DeSmet alone? No, I would stay with Marc and see how this worked out.

Until then, I would experience the potlatch. We went back to Marc's house and helped the three women gather up food, and then we all went back to the school. At some point Marc told everyone his plan, and we were visited by a series of older men who put a hand on his head, spoke some words, and literally blew smoke in our faces. Marc told me that was a blessing. I tried not to cough during the "blessing."

In between blessings, we ate. We lined up and took food from the tables, the process being interminable since we not only took food, but said kind things to the ladies who stood by the food. I found various kinds of meat and thanked each provider in French. They smiled and replied in Sioux. Eventually I had a full plate and went back to a table that seemed to be the Marc family table. I felt half starved, but I forced myself to eat in the slow, measured style I saw the others using. There were formalities here, I could see. A kind of etiquette. You ate a bit, commented on the great quality of the food, and ate a bit more. That stretched the eating out a bit, but the food was good, and eventually I was full.

Entertainment started some time later. First was a basketball game. It was a variant I had never seen before. It was seven on seven, and it was the roughest game of basketball I have ever seen. There was some dribbling, and there was some shooting, but mostly there were charges to the basket, with efforts at dunking or layins, each of which was matched by efforts to block the shot. And bodies crashed every time. Sometimes the ball went into the basket, sometimes it was blocked, but every time there was a crash of at least three or four players. The crash might lead to a pile of bodies on the floor, or it might lead to a turnover and a lightning charge to the opposite basket. But the crash happened every time.

There were referees, but they seemed to feel it was smartest just to stay out of the way. I certainly would have. I have played in some pretty rough games with my brothers, but this was a whole new level of rough.

The game had gone on for ten or fifteen minutes, and there was blood and sweat everywhere, when Marc nudged me and pointed to a corner of the gym. There sat the ladies. There had to be twenty of them. They sat perfectly still, and watched. They didn't talk to each other or shout out comments. They were silent and motionless. They were sixteen or eighteen or twenty. Their hair was done up, their clothes looked good, and they sat waiting. Suddenly I understood the game. The battle was rough, but the reward was clear. Marc waited until I understood and then smiled and nodded. Every culture had some way for men to do what men do and women to do what women do.

What the women did came next. The game eventually ended, the men went off to shower and bandage their cuts and scrapes. They were barely gone when a group of men brought a huge drum out to the floor. Six men gathered around it and began beating and chanting. The rhythms echoed off the block walls of the gym. Suddenly the room had a very different feel to it. I would almost say religious. And then the women started dancing.

I have to be a little careful here, in case Elise ever reads this, but wow those women were beautiful. It really is true that dances are made for women, and women are made for dancing. I sat and watched for hours until I felt myself beginning to nod off. Marc must have noticed since he nudged me and said it was time to go. It was unbelievably quiet out in the village, just us and our boots squeaking on the frozen snow. Back at Marc's house he motioned toward the couch, and I gratefully dropped there and was asleep in seconds.

# Chapter 12

# We meet the "angry men"

I don't think Marc saw me watching as he put a pistol in his pocket the next morning. If I was nervous about this visit before, I was really nervous now. But I had agreed to go. We packed up some food and dressed warmly for the trail, but I don't think we said ten words to each other during the process. His house was full of people, maybe eight or so sleeping in the bedrooms and all over the living room, but even they didn't seem to have much to say. I liked this all less and less.

We gassed up the snowmobiles at one of the homes that had a leanto with gas cans and such, and then we were off. We dropped off the embankment onto the river and followed it west. There had been plenty of traffic along the river, so we just stayed in the tracks that had been made. The snow was hard-packed and little ballooned up behind us as we raced along. And race we did. With one day's experience I was hardly an expert, but I did feel more comfortable on the sled and we moved along at a pretty good clip, pushing forty for much of the morning.

After about three hours Marc slowed to a stop. I pulled up next to him, grateful for the rest. There was less wind that day (but of course we were generating our own wind with the snow mobiles), and the temperature had nudged up to twenty-some below. With a little sun filtering through the high clouds, it felt almost comfortable. In any case, I was pleased to stand and walk a bit. But I knew this wasn't really a rest stop. This is where Marc told me what was going on.

"I talked with half a dozen men who saw these guys in the village, and they all say there's at least twenty. And of course they are armed. These guys always carry rifles, and not the standard hunting guns. They always use military weapons. They seem to think if they can't hit an elk with the first round, they will with the next twenty or thirty."

"Any idea what they want?"

"They want to come to the potlatch. But we can't let that happen. These are bad guys and we have some guys who take offense easy. Wrong word, wrong move, and there will be shooting."

"So what do we do?"

"We count noses for a start. Are there really twenty? That would be bad. We try to figure out what they want. And most importantly, we find a way to get them off our lands."

"Can I add another item to our to-do list? Let's try not to get killed." Marc looked at me to see if I was joking and nodded when he saw I was serious.

"That's one of the reasons you are here. If they kill a Sioux, we will get even, but I will still be dead. If they kill an American, there will be no place for them to hide."

"But I'll still be dead."

"Just remember you are a professor. You get paid to talk. Now would be a good time to talk your best." And with that happy thought we got back on our snowmobiles and finished our ride up the river.

The village the angry men had come to looked somewhat like the village we had just left. It had maybe a few more houses, and it also had a huge school in the middle. There were dozens of snowmobiles lined up outside the school, but the rest of village seemed empty. Had everyone gone to our village for the potlatch, or were they lying low in their homes? Marc stayed on the river until he was even with the school, and then he turned to face the school but stopped his machine. I followed suit. It appeared the plan was to stay visible. No surprises. So we sat and waited.

Five minutes passed, and then ten. And then two men came out of the school, each carrying a rifle over his shoulder. They moved to each side of the door and came to attention as if they were on guard duty. They looked at us; we looked at them. No one moved. Time passed. Then the school door opened again and the largest man in North American walked out. He was wearing a huge padded parka that combined with his rounded shape made him look like a hand grenade. But no amount of padding could hide the obvious, it was none other than Tilden Foster.

"I know this man." I said to Marc. "I think I know why he is here, I think I know what they want to do, and I think we are in big trouble." Marc said nothing. Meanwhile, I took off my hat and sun glasses so our huge host could recognize me. Surely he did, but he made so sign of it. He just looked at us for another minute and then raised a fat arm and waved us in. I had half a mind to turn the snowmobile east and race as fast as I could back to Marc's village, but Marc slowly drove straight up to the school, and I followed. Foster went back inside as we approached. We would come to him; he would receive us where he wanted.

I don't know how you turn a school gym into a throne room, but that is what Foster had attempted. We walked in to see him sitting on a bench (no chair would hold him) at the far end of the room, with a row of angry men seated on either side of him. Each had a weapon either over a shoulder or sitting on their lap. Other men their age might have a child on their lap – not these guys. As we walked in one of the guards followed behind us. He still had his rifle over his shoulder, but that didn't make me feel much better. This was one dangerous room, and we were right in the middle of it.

"Professor Murphy," Foster boomed. "Here to study Sioux history?"

"Yes. Are you here to recreate history?"

"There is definitely some valuable history here to recreate." The smug look on his face made me want to go and punch him.

"I wonder whether you might try another boat ride." Score one for me. His brows dropped as he thought through his response. The king was suddenly much less happy on his throne.

"History takes lots of forms in lots of places. You might be surprised by how history evolves here." He arched one of his eyebrows like he had some secret plan that was pleasing him no end.

"Having seen your Louisiana playbook, I don't think I will be too surprised by how this ends."

"Books have lots of pages. You might be surprised yet." I had nothing to say to that, and it appeared he had run out of clever comments as well. We stared at each other while first one and then another of the angry men started moving in his seat. Clearly we weren't generating enough entertainment for them. I liked that. It made me wonder how much control he really had over this room. Angry men are angry at much of the world. At what point would they be angry at him too?

"Who's your friend?" Foster finally asked. I wondered if he was aware of the restlessness around him. Did he understand how volatile his minions were?

"This is Marc LeGrande. Marc, this is Tilden Foster."

"LeGrande moved to DeSmet and married a white woman. He thinks he's too good for the tribe." This came from a man of about thirty. He stood apart from the angry men, and dressed like a Sioux, with elk hide trim on his coat and a red sash dangling down beneath his shirt. He was maybe six feet from Foster, closer than any of the other men in the room. Was he their ticket into the village? What was he after?

Marc said nothing in reply, but he kept his eyes on the man. Finally he said something in Sioux. While I could not understand a word, I could understand the delivery. It was calm, slow, spoken as one would to a child. The effect was instant. The man shouted back in Sioux and took three quick steps forward as if he would attack Marc. Marc never moved or showed any signs of concern. He stood. The man stopped. The man shouted another insult and then left the room.

"This village's elders are gathered in my village."Marc turned to Foster. "When they return tomorrow, they will want their school back. This is a place for children, not for guns."

"We would like to go to your village. We have a proposal to make that I think many in your tribe would find attractive."

"That is not possible. We are having a potlatch."

"Yes, I know. That is why we would like to come this weekend. Since you have many people from many villages, we would be able to speak to all at once."

"No." I have never heard the word said with such finality. He did not raise his voice or change his expression. But it was clear, there would be no visit.

"Perhaps some of your elders would visit me here."

"No."

"Just shoot the bastard and get it over with." One of the angry men stood up, and I thought he was going to shoot both of us there and then.

"Etienne, please. There is no need. We will have our meeting." Now it was Foster's turn to present himself as unflappable. "Mr. LeGrande, what if you return to your village and explain we wish to have a meeting. There may be more interest than you think. In the meantime, Professor Murphy and I have much to talk about. We share some interesting old times together. We will talk, and you can tell us tomorrow if a meeting is possible."

"We leave together." Marc looked straight at Foster.

"It's okay, Marc." I said. "Mr. Foster and I are old friends. We do have much to talk about." In truth, spending any more time in the same room with these men was unnerving, but it made sense to get Marc out of there. Could I really handle Foster? Maybe. But getting Marc back to his village might be the first step to my release. Marc looked at me for the first time, seeming to study my face to see if I was telling the truth. Slowly he nodded his agreement and left the room. Moments later I could hear his snowmobile start up and recede into the distance.

With Marc gone, the angry men disbursed. Their part in the performance was over. Whatever discipline Foster had been able to put into them had apparently been exhausted. A couple headed out the door, while others wandered into other rooms or walked to bundles they had in corners of the gym. I thought I saw one break out a bottle. If Foster saw, he said nothing.

"Well, Shawn, what do you say we have a private conversation?" Foster led the way into the school library. It was a small room, but well stocked with books filling one wall. I waited to see where he would sit. All I could see was school chairs, and I smiled at the thought of him trying to fit into one. But apparently he had used the room before, since there was a bench at one end of the room and he went straight for it. I pulled up a chair.

"Shawn," he began. "I am hoping for once we will be on the same team."

"You know the rules for my team – no widows and orphans."

"I find it very odd that you are the biographer of the best general Virginia ever produced. Are you sure studying military history was the right career track for you?"

"I think you would be surprised by how many military officers hate war."

"And I think you would be surprised by how many don't. You might be surprised by the amount of support I have for my efforts." He left that comment dangling out there. I wondered how much support he did have. Senator Dodson, David Starr and his agency? If he had come over the mountains from the west, was he connected now to agents in Oregon or California? I doubted he was going to tell me.

"I can guess what this is all about, and I appreciate there might be some advantage if Canada were two countries rather than one. An independent Louisiana might have a whole new set of alliances and business partnerships. But there is a political process for that. Why not just let it happen?"

"Why not help? You are right about the end game. Lots of opportunities are presented by an independent Louisiana. Why not a nudge here and there to move the process along?"

"I don't know what kind of nudge you have planned, but if it involves the men in this school, I don't see how it can end any way but badly."

"Oh, now, that's not fair. I think you just need to get to know them." Wow I hated the smile on his face.

"One of us is certainly wrong about them."

"We shall see. Yes. We shall see very soon. Now if you will excuse me..." So, he had had enough of our 'conversation.' Fine with me. I left the library and walked out the door of the school. I was not surprised to see my snowmobile gone. I was a prisoner here, held until Marc came back with an answer Foster liked.

Maybe I could use my time. I was reminded of Washington's first trip over the mountains to the Ohio Valley. He was on a scouting trip under orders of the Virginia Governor to find a road over the mountains. He found a French fort at the headwaters of the Ohio. Since England and France were not currently at war (Washington would personally start the next war in the summer when he fired on a group of French soldiers), young George (he was 21) walked up to the fort and asked to be admitted. He spent four days in the fort conversing with the French commander, but also counting cannons and evaluating the strength of the fort.

Could I do anything as useful? I was apparently free to walk around the village, so I did. Most of the houses appeared to be empty. I didn't peer into the windows or anything, but I could see if smoke was coming out of their chimneys. I thought it was pretty safe that a cold house was an empty house. There was one house at the far end of the village that was clearly occupied. There were several snowmobiles out front, and smoke coming from the chimney. I wondered if that was the home of the man who had criticized Marc. That was an angry Sioux.

While I walked, I also looked to see if there were men posted around the village. Was this a military encampment? It appeared not. Maybe it was too cold to post sentries, or maybe they thought they could just listen for snowmobiles in the distance. It was not like folks would sneak up on foot. Or maybe the angry men were just unwilling to stand guard. The chain of command might be undetermined, or maybe there was none. It was hard to imagine a bunch of grumpy middle-aged men taking orders from Foster or each other. These were solitary guys – or at least they had been. How had Foster brought them together? And how together were they?

I walked back to the school and took a seat in the gym. Other men in the room took an occasional look at me, but no one walked over to have a talk. It didn't look like we would be passing the time evaluating lacrosse teams or complaining about the weather. These guys weren't going to talk to me, and as near as I could tell, they didn't have much to say to each other either. By my count there were twenty three of them. Of the twenty three I saw four pairs that seemed to sit near each other and carry on brief conversations. The other fifteen were complete loners. They made no effort to speak to others, or to even sit in reasonable proximity of others. They wanted their space. How did they spend their time? They cleaned their guns, except for one guy who repeatedly pulled out his knife and put an edge on it. These were some of the saddest looking individuals I had ever run across, and the most intimidating. Time was going to really drag while I was with these guys.

At this point my phone rang, and things got really ugly. By the second ring several men were pointing guns at me, and two others were running to me.

"Don't touch that damn thing." one shouted.

"Who was supposed to take his phone?" shouted another. He got no answer, but it didn't matter. They would take it now. The guy with the knife grabbed the phone from my hand, held it for a second and then dropped it on the floor. His boot came down on the phone the instant it landed. Pieces flew everywhere.

"Hey, that's my phone!" I shouted.

"Shut the hell up." The two who had rushed to me now stood over me and stared, daring me to say another word or try to get out of my chair. I stared back but didn't move. Our stare-down lasted a couple minutes, and then the two of them got bored and went back to their side of the room. I left my phone lying in pieces. It might be a message to other visitors.

I didn't have time to see who had been calling. I hoped it hadn't been Elise wondering about me. What would I have said? Hi, I'm in a Sioux village surrounded by thugs. Maybe a broken phone was easier than trying to explain my current situation.

The rest of the afternoon passed ever so slowly. Darkness came. They turned a few lights on and later I could hear some noises in the school kitchen. I should have known a man Foster's size would have food figured out. Had he just hired the school lunch lady to feed them? It appeared so. Periodically a woman about twenty or so brought plates and utensils and then food bowls out to a couple tables. I guess I should not have been surprised by how the men ate. Once she had food out, they filled plates and then retreated back to their corners, eating alone as they probably had been for a large part of their lives.

I waited for Foster to come out so I could eat with him, but then I saw the cook take a huge tray of food into the library. Apparently he ate alone too. I finally went over any filled a plate, but I sat at the table to eat it. At least one person in the room would be civilized.

When I was through I took my plate and utensils into the kitchen and put them by the sink. The cook was sitting at a table back there eating her own dinner.

"That was very good," I said. "Thank you for feeding us. I suppose you would rather be at the potlatch."

"Were you there?" She was barely twenty by the looks of her, and the question showed the angst she was feeling for missing the event. At her age, was there someone she was hoping to see? One of the basketball players?

"The dancing last night was incredible. It went on for hours. I have never seen anything like it."

"The girls have been practicing for months. Years, really. We take lessons from our mothers." She said all this slowly, and with some apparent difficulty. Her French was adequate, but not much more.

"The clothing was beautiful as well. I assume the girls make their own dance outfits?"

"Yes, we make in the winter. All the clothing is special."

"I am sorry you missed it. Is this your job, feeding the children and now all these men?"

"Yes, until I marry." So maybe there was a basketball player she was hoping to see, and maybe to dance for.

"When is the next potlatch?"

"Two weeks. It will be here. If..." She looked out the door at the men. I am no mind reader, but if I saw anything on her face, it was confusion, and maybe some apprehension about what would happen with these men.

"I am sure you will be beautiful. May I help you clean up?" I pointed to some of the dishes.

"No, we have machines." She pointed to a stainless steel industrial dishwasher.

I nodded and left. "Thank you for dinner."

What was I going to do for the rest of the evening? I had no idea. Apparently I would sit in the gym until Foster wanted to talk again. Little did I know.

# Chapter 13

# The night I didn't die

I sat for a couple hours watching the angry men, waiting for something to happen, but I wasn't prepared when it did. It started when the local man came back to the school. He said something to knife-man who responded with a really nasty smile and then walked over to me.

"The three of us are going to have a conversation outside." He said with a grin.

"Are you sure Mr. Foster wants that?" I looked to the library to see if he was even aware of what was happening. The door was closed. Just my luck.

"This is what we want." He pointed the knife at me and motioned with it that I was supposed to rise. So I did. I would see if I had better odds when it was just the three of us outside.

As it turns out, thugs can be pretty clever. We walked through the village to the last house, with them a step behind me, one pointing a pistol at me the other holding his ever-ready knife. This didn't look good. When we got to the house knife-man body-slammed me into the front wall and held his knife to my throat.

"Put your hands behind you and you might live the night." I thought that pretty unlikely, but I did as I was told. They used some rope on my wrists and then pulled me to the snowmobiles. "Now we are going for a ride." Knife-man got on the front of the snowmobile and I was forced on to the back. The instant I was on the seat he took off flying with the other man in close pursuit. Wherever we were going, we were going there fast.

They pulled onto the river and headed east. Maybe this would be okay, maybe they were just taking me back to the other village. Of course maybe the Easter bunny would bring us all candy when we arrived. Needless to say, we never got there. They drove like crazy for about an hour, easily covering fifty miles. Then they stopped. Apparently this was where I was to die.

"Get off." Knife-man shot an elbow into my stomach to get me off his machine. He then cut off the ropes and put them in his pocket. "Now you get to walk. It is about fifty miles back to our village, and I would guess about a hundred to the next. Wouldn't you say so Henri?"

"Oh yes, a hundred easy. But don't worry about that mister fancy professor, you can always decide you would rather walk the fifty miles back to us. We would be happy to see you again." As you can imagine, he was laughing through this. He was really amazed by his own cleverness.

"It is currently about forty below, with a storm headed in. I give you maybe two hours before the cold kills you. By that time you might be able walk maybe 5 miles."

"He won't even make four. We'll come back in a couple days and find him buried in snow. He'll just be a lump on the side of the trail." And the two of them took off. Could I hear laughing over their engine noises? Probably, but I was well past caring about what they were doing and more concerned about what I would do. They were probably right – I would not have long before the cold killed me.

Planning was fairly simple. I really had no options. Try to make it to one of the villages? Laughable. Even if I started running, I would be dead before I got five miles. If I was going to survive the night, I was going to have to do it right here. There was a bit of moonlight so I could see somewhat, not that it mattered. There was nothing to see, just an endless sheet of snow. I looked around for a tree, a bush, anything that might burn or shelter me. Nothing. This had to be the emptiest place on an empty plain.

In Boy Scouts once we had dug snow caves. I figured I would give that a try. On the embankment of the river there were a few snow drifts. I walked to the biggest one, got down on my hands and knees, and started digging. I got in far enough to get my head inside, but the wind was picking up and my backside was frozen pretty quickly. The snow was crusty and hard and I made slow progress. Worse, the drift wasn't really deep, maybe a couple feet. Would I even be able to make a shelter for myself? Meanwhile, I mentally counted off the minutes. Thirty? Sixty? Soon it was far more than an hour and I knew I was running out of time. I was barely making progress. My hands hurt, I was working up a sweat, and the wind just kept getting faster and faster and colder and colder. I kept working, but I could feel the first signs of hypothermia – light-headedness. I was in maybe waste deep with my ass hanging out to the world when I heard snowmobiles. Had they decided they would come back to shoot me?

"What are you doing?" Marc parked his snowmobile about three feet from me and looked down.

"Snow cave." My mouth didn't seem to want to work. The words "snow cave" sounded funny somehow.

"You still would have been dead by morning. Get on." He slid forward on his seat and I struggled to my feet. Just standing seemed difficult. My feet were clumsy. I practically fell onto him as I straddled the snowmobile. He took off in a hurry and I grabbed on from behind as best I could. I have to admit I hugged him pretty hard, both for warmth, and also from gratitude. I wasn't going to die.

There were half a dozen snowmobiles with Marc and we all raced east. I held on tight for the first hour, but the chill got pretty deep into my bones and I was losing it fast after that. At one point I felt Marc grab one of my arms and pull me forward. Apparently I was sliding off the back. I was pretty dizzy and sleepy. I don't think I was much help. I leaned forward, basically collapsed on his back. He held me there while also steering his machine. I am not sure how he did that. Did we make it back to his village? Yes, but I don't know how. The next clear sense I had of the world was me being dropped naked into a tub of very warm water. It hurt. I thought both my feet and my hands would explode. I actually struggled to get out of the tub, but several guys held me in. Wow, it hurt badly. Then they started pouring hot chocolate down my throat. I swallowed, choked, swallowed some more. Worse yet, at some point I started crying. What an awful night. I was in the bath over an hour, then bundled in layers of blankets and laid by the furnace. I was asleep almost instantly.

It was afternoon before I woke up. Every muscle in my body screamed at me. Shivering had strained all of them. When I pushed myself up into a sitting position, one of the women rushed over with a cup of hot chocolate. I hate the stuff now. Bad memories. She had a lot to say to me in Sioux while I drank the chocolate, and then finished in French when she saw I didn't understand her.

"My son, home soon." I assumed she meant Marc. I was happy to wait. I pushed my back up against a wall to hold myself in a sitting position and wondered if my body would ever hurt less. It was probably an hour before Marc did come home, but I was in no rush. I felt real comfortable leaning back on that wall. It as a nice wall. Very flat. Very solid. I felt myself nodding off again.

"So how many angry men did you count?" Marc had a chair pulled up in front of me. Behind him were six very elderly men. Behind them were at least ten other men. I probably should have been uncomfortable sitting naked under some blankets, propped up against a wall, but I was in no position to move, and I didn't much care. Maybe that was the hot chocolate talking.

"Twenty three, plus the local man – Henri."

"Yes, Henri." There was some discussion in Sioux behind Marc with the name "Henri" repeated several times, but then that subsided.

"What else can you tell us?"

"They are staying in the school. I walked through the town but I did not see any of them in the houses there."

"And what do they want."

"They want a meeting." Marc made a face when I said that. Obviously they wanted a meeting. Did I know more than that? Not for sure, but I could make a pretty good guess. "Foster wants Louisiana to war with the rest of Canada. If he is here, it is because he thinks you will help. Maybe you will be on the Louisiana side, maybe on the other, but somehow he wants to involve you. Somehow you and the angry men will get involved in the war he wants. Maybe you will be the ones who start it."

At this point I was forgotten. The men had a very long talk, all in Sioux. On occasion they looked my way, or gestured in my direction, but they never spoke to me again. Eventually I struggled to stand, walked into one of the bedrooms, and went back to sleep.

When I woke up that evening, I found my clothes next to me on the bed. I got the hint – it was time for me to get dressed. I did so and went into the kitchen. The house was empty except for one woman who was about Marc's age. A sister?

"You should eat lots." She pointed to a chair at the table.

"Oddly, I am not hungry."

"You are cold sick. Eat." She gave me a big plate of meat and potatoes all under a thick layer of gravy. I can't say I was real attracted, but I ate some and then some more, and eventually finished it all. I have to say it made me feel much better.

"Where is everyone?" I must have been feeling better – my curiosity was returning.

"They are at the potlatch. It will last longer now."

"Oh?"

"They can't go home." That made sense to me. No one would go home until they determined what to do about Foster and the angry men. That would be a tough problem to solve. "You should go to school. They have questions."

Fair enough. I thanked her for the food, put on my heaviest coat and hat and walked to the school. It was dark and cold. I could hear drumming from the school. It sounded different than it had the night before. Or was it two nights? I was a bit muddled.

The gym was even more packed than it had been on Friday. And the dancing was different. For one thing, only men were dancing. And this dancing was not beautiful. The men were sweat soaked, and intense. Frankly, it was intimidating. They carried weapons – bows, spears, rifles – and pushed them high into the air in some kind of syncopation I didn't understand, but the gesture was clear enough. Someone was going to get hurt.

I scanned the crowd for Marc, but he found me before I found him. He waved me over to a classroom. Inside I found the same men who had been at the house earlier, plus maybe a dozen more. The desks had been pushed aside and replaced by a circle of chairs. The chairs were taken by the older men. Younger men stood behind. So did several women.

"Thank you for coming." It was the oldest man there who greeted me. He rose, and all the others followed. How can I describe him? He might have been eighty, given the lines on his face, or maybe it was just the harsh wind and sun over many years. He looked sturdy, despite his age. No big belly, but not skin and bones either. His hair was white and long and he held it in place with a beaded headband. And his face? Round, very brown, with a nose that was a bit large. But what I saw in the face was a welcome. He was truly glad to see me. "I would like us to take a walk. Would that be okay?"

"Of course." He crossed the circle to my side and led me out a side door to a stairway. It turned out the school had a second floor. Why it would need one was a mystery, but I climbed the stairs with him and we followed a short hallway to what must have been a music room. There were instruments around and music stands, and notes on a chalkboard. He motioned for me to take a chair, and he sat across from me, maybe three feet away.

"In the old days we used to call men like me, 'Chief.' Now I am pleased to be an elder. My French name is Robert deMille. I have a Sioux name too, but we will use French. Is that okay?"

"I am pleased to meet you. I am Shawn Murphy."

"Yes, I had fun reading some of your postings last summer. That is where you met this Foster?"

"Yes. He is an odd man. He is wealthy, very bright and very well traveled. And I think he wants to start a war."

"And you don't."

"No." I stopped there, but he just waited. He wanted more, I guessed. "We historians are dangerous describers of war. We describe the wars that were, not the wars that will be. So people are always surprised, usually badly. The First World War was the worst example. Europe hadn't had a war in forty years. People remembered grandpa's war – the Franco Prussian War – as lasting months. That's the war historians wrote about. Then a new war came along and lasted years and destroyed a generation. They weren't ready for machine guns or modern artillery or trenches. They weren't ready to see millions of men die in the mud. When the shooting starts in Louisiana, everyone thinks they know how that will go. They don't. They can't. Foster loves history. He studies it; he thinks he understands it. I think he believes he can change it. I think he is a very dangerous man."

"He was in Louisiana, and now he is here. So he has brought his danger here. And he has brought some dangerous men with him."

"When he was in Louisiana he supported the Louisiana National Army. They are a dangerous group. The people he has here I think are less dangerous. You call them 'angry men.' I think they are just a rabble."

"They tried to kill you."

"Two of them did. I don't think the others knew what those two were doing, and I don't think Foster knew. They just decided to get rid of me on their own. Even there, they could have just shot me, but they wanted it to look like an accident in case Foster found out."

"So, a rabble."

"Yes, a rabble. I don't think Foster has much real control over these men."

"Thank you." The elder stood, and it was clear our interview was over. As we left the room, he had one final comment. "When this is all over, I would like to talk about some tribal history with you."

"I would be honored."

# Chapter 14

# Planning

The next several days were odd ones for me. I wandered around the village, sat in the gym to watch the dancing or to eat or talk with people, and then wandered back to Marc's house to sleep, although that was getting more complicated as the number of people staying with him continued to grow. The new arrivals didn't get furniture, but slept right on the floor.

What was happening? We were waiting. Once a day a large group of Sioux would take snowmobiles down to the other village, but they would stop a couple hundred yards from the village, rifles ready. They would wait until Foster sent out one of his angry men to talk. But the dialogue was always the same – will the Sioux chiefs meet with Foster? No. Will you leave Sioux lands and go back to your homes? No.

Meanwhile, a couple men had circled around to an area where they could view the village through field glasses. Each day they counted the snowmobiles outside the gym. For three days the number was the same. On the fourth day they saw a man load up his machine and go west. They did not see him come back. Maybe the rabble was breaking up.

It was pretty clear the strategy chosen by the Sioux was to wait Foster out. It was a sound strategy, and one I endorsed given what I had seen of the thugs with Foster. But there was a distinct downside. Foster could not hole up in his gym forever, but the tribe could not wait forever either. People in that village wanted to get back to their homes. Kids wanted to be back in school; well, at least a few of the kids wanted to be back in school. Local food supplies were being stretched.

But the biggest problem was the young men. Their blood was hot. Each night the dances got more aggressive, and now there were occasional fights as men bumped into each other, or "accidentally" knocked a spear or bow from someone's hand. Each day when they loaded up their guns and took their snowmobiles to the other village they thought they might have a fight on their hands. They were prepared for the fight. They wanted the fight. Instead, they had talk. It would not be too long before one of them started the fight.

The elders found distractions. One afternoon they had a shooting contest. A chicken was posted out at one hundred yards. With five feet of string to run with, and plenty of motivation to avoid the noise, the chicken eluded nearly twenty shooters before it went down in an explosion of feathers. There was lots of laughter at the misses, but also a lesson in hitting a moving target. Some of the loudest mouths came back quieter.

Another afternoon was spent in an attack strategy session. The whole gym got to talk about how best to remove the angry men. Needless to say, the elders had long since determined a strategy, but they wanted the younger men to have their say and to feel they had participated in the decision. The real benefit of the session was to get agreement on first principles. It was quickly decided no attack would be made on the gym. That was community property and should not be damaged. Nor would firing take place from homes – the same reasoning applied. No one wanted to return to a home that had been shot up. So the outline of the plan became clear to all and accepted by all – get the angry men out into the open.

Meanwhile, scouts reported two more angry men had left headed west. That took the number down to twenty, and more importantly, indicated a disintegrating morale. Life in the gym seemed disagreeable to these guys. Maybe, if just a little more time passed...

But it was not to be. The next day one of the village houses went up in flames. It seemed to be timed so that when the Sioux arrived on their snowmobiles for their daily parley, they would see the smoke. They saw, and all hell nearly broke loose. What stopped a blood bath was half a dozen elders who sped ahead of the others and drew up in a line blocking the track into the town.

"Stop." They jumped off their machines and waved their arms at the charging men. "It's a trap. It's a trap." I don't know what was more impressive, the courage of the elders to get between the younger men and the burning house, or the discipline of the younger men. They stopped and they listened. No wonder the Sioux were so successful in battle. There was plenty of shouting, and all the rifles came out as if they would open fire, but they held fire and held the line.

Time passed and then a snowmobile approached from the village. It was Henri, the local man. He was greeted by angry shouts in Sioux, none of which I needed to translate. It was clear from the sheer volume, this man had dropped to some deeper level of separation from the tribe. How he wasn't shot on the spot was a miracle.

What did he say? It was all in Sioux, but Marc gave me the gist of it – the fire was an accident. If you leave a house empty, accidents happen. Who knew how such a thing could happen, but then it might happen to another house tomorrow. Foster would like to meet with the elders. He was personally sorry that the house had burned, and while he had nothing to do with it, he would give the family lots of money to build a new home. When could Foster meet with the elders?

The answer? It was roughly, we will speak of this tomorrow, but if another house has an accident tomorrow, no one will leave the gym alive. And that ended it. The elders directed the young men back up the river, following slowly to ensure that none of them doubled back to start a fight. It must have taken incredible will power for all of them – young and old – but they managed.

Once back in the village, some of the discipline broke down, and I saw two of the younger men yelling at an elder. Others seemed upset as well. There were random shouts, insults hurled toward the other village, men raising their rifles as if ready to shoot into the air. You hear a situation called a "powder keg." Well, I was seeing one for real.

And then it was over. What happened? I am not sure. Mr. DeMille walked to the top of the school entrance stairs, said two words, and suddenly the street was silent. A minute later they were all following him into the school, not one person saying a word. I followed along, not knowing what was going on.

What I saw in the gym was all the men lining up on one side. A dozen or so elders stood opposite them. Each of the elders did some talking, and one of the elders walked down the row of men and touched each head with a group of feathers. Then DeMille spoke for a few minutes and the ceremony seemed to be over. Or at least I thought it was, but then the drumming began and the men started dancing. Somehow the dancing seemed different than it had in past nights. They still had weapons with them, but they gestured less I think. Somehow it was different. The one obvious change was the women. They stood and sang while the men danced.

I stood and watched and eventually Marc found me.

"You can stay and watch, but keep your distance. Many of these men will go into a kind of trance."

"Why are they doing this?"

"The chiefs told them many things. The enemy has no honor, but our men showed honor and discipline today. Each praised the warriors from his village. And then DeMille said the words of the warrior. 'Dance tonight, fast tonight, tomorrow you will kill your enemy.' That is the plan." With that he left me and joined the dance. I watched for a while, and then I went back to his house. I did not eat that night either.

# Chapter 15

# First Blood

We left at dawn - every man in the village and all the men who had been arriving for the last week. There was barely room for all the snowmobiles on the river, and a group of twenty or so men fanned out on each side of the river, out maybe two hundred yards. They had the tougher time of it, since they did not have a packed trail to use, but with so many people we weren't moving all that fast anyway so they kept up with us.

There was no talking or efforts at conversations between men. It was too loud anyway. There were probably two hundred snowmobiles in that pack, and the noise was deafening. While we could hear nothing, we could see forever. The sun was behind us and lit up the snow so it felt like we could see to California. The horizon was a long way off. That was reassuring, since it meant we would be able to see the angry men if they were waiting for us. We were worried about that kind of ambush, especially since that was exactly the plan deMille had for them.

It took us about two hours to get to the spot deMille and the elders had selected. It was one of the few places on the river where cottonwoods grew. There were a dozen or so of them on the north bank. Were there enough to hide two hundred men and all their snowmobiles? I wasn't so sure, but that wasn't my problem. I would be going on. Marc and deMille and I would ride to the village and invite Foster to visit. He was to come alone. If his angry men decided to follow, this was the place on the river where they would die.

The three of us sat in the middle of the river and waited over an hour while the others moved around in the woods, throwing up snow piles here and there, moving snowmobiles to one spot or another to be out of sight, and then throwing snow over their tracks. They had lots of work to do, and we wanted to give them plenty of time to do it.

Why was I going on? I knew Foster. He might be more comfortable coming with us alone if he saw me. Of course I had personal reasons too. I wanted to see Henri and knife-man one more time. I wanted to see the look on their faces.

We kept our pace down, so it took another couple hours to reach the village. Once there, we did as before. We pulled up a couple hundred yards from the town and waited, but this time no one took out a rifle. We sat, obviously unarmed. Time passed. It appeared we had confused them, and they were deciding how to respond. Meanwhile, Marc pulled out his field glasses and tried to count snowmobiles. They were a bit of a jumble out front of the gym, but he thought they were down a couple.

We sat for over an hour. I had no idea if this was a sign of confusion on their part, or some kind of gambit. Make us feel unsure? Let us chill out on the ice? Finally we saw some movement by the gym doors and two of the angry men came out, standing sentinel as they had on my first visit. Eventually man-mountain came out. As before, he stood, stared, and then waved us in. But this time we did not respond. We stayed right where we were. He went back inside, I guess assuming we would follow, but we did not. We sat and waited.

Another fifteen minutes passed and then one of the angry men came out and jumped on a snowmobile to come out to us.

"He says you are to come in." There was a look of exasperation on his face, as if he couldn't figure out how stupid we were. Why did we not come in? Wasn't that the obvious thing to do? DeMille let him sit for a minute before responding.

"The elders have assembled and will meet with Foster. He must come now, and he must come alone."

"Yeah, whatever. Go in and tell him yourself." He motioned toward the gym, seeming to expect us to go there now. We did not move. "Go in. Go in." He was losing patience with us. "You speak French, right? I said you should go in and talk with him." None of us moved. Angry man looked at each of us, looking for us to finally understand the obvious. When none of us responded, he turned his snowmobile back to the gym, but made sure we heard him as he drove off – "Stupid goddamn Indians."

We sat again. Ten minutes, fifteen, it was pretty cold, but the sun was out and the wind was down. For Dakota, it was a January paragon. Of course maybe I felt that way because I was imagining the craziness going on in the gym. I was pretty sure there were lots of unhappy guys in there. Something was happening, and they did not understand it. It made me smile just to imagine the scene.

Eventually the whole rat's nest emptied out and boarded snowmobiles. There was a sudden roar as the machines came to life and slid down the hill towards the river and us. Near the back end was Foster. He was on the largest snowmobile I have ever seen. It was obviously not French – no French machine could hold that kind of weight. He must have imported it from the U.S. or Germany. It was probably still well over all engineering tolerances. The river ice was probably thick enough to hold him, but just barely.

The angry men made a show of their arriving, running circles around us, and shouting like they were rounding up cattle or something. Two of them ran into each other, but even that did not stop their nonsense. They had been cooped up inside too long. Now they were boys on the playground. They would have their fun. Foster hung back and let the boys play for a while, and then he slowly pulled up in front of deMille. Once he stopped moving, the angry men did too, although you could sense their reluctance.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I believe I know two of you, but I have not had the honor of meeting you, sir"

"Good morning. I am Robert deMille."

"Ah, Chief deMille. I have heard much about you, and I know you by another name as well. I am honored that you have come to visit me."

"There is little honor in this visit. You have arrived without an invitation, and you have burned a family's home."

"Foster, can I just shoot these bastards?" shouted one of the angry men. He had a rifle out and looked ready to use it.

"These men have come to parley, and that is what we have been waiting for this last week. Please put your rifle away." Foster said all that with confidence as if he was sure he was still in control of his boys. I was not so sure he was. Meanwhile, I was counting noses. I counted fifteen, with no sign of Henri or knife-man. Had they left, or were they up to something?

"I apologize, Chief deMille. It was kind of you to visit. Will you join me in the school there?"

"The elders of this region have assembled in our village. They will meet with you, but you must come alone, and you must come now."

"I am sure my friends here would like to visit your village too."

"Your friends are not welcome in our village. If you wish to speak with our elders, you must come alone."

"Bull shit." Actually that was the least profane thing shouted by the angry men. Some of the insults were directed at us, some at Foster when it became clear he was considering our offer. There were plenty insults for all of us, both in intensity and in variety. It occurred to me we might be shot.

"Gentlemen, please." Foster actually stood and turned in all directions to address the men who surrounded us. "I am sure once they have heard my offer, the elders will welcome you as comrades in arms. I ask your patience for a few more hours." I didn't see much patience in these men, but at least they didn't start shooting.

"Chief deMille, please lead me to your village." Foster waved his fat arm in an easterly direction, and revved up his snowmobile to leave. You would think that would be the end of the matter, but you would be wrong. Turning a snowmobile is no easy task and takes plenty of room. The angry men made sure we had as little as possible, and as we made progress on one direction, another man would charge us from a different direction, getting as close as possible without actually hitting us. It was like playing "chicken" with fifteen snowmobiles, all operated by, well, you know – angry men.

Eventually we got our machines turned in the right direction and the four of us started up river. Foster ran aside deMille for a while and tried to make conversation, but it didn't appear deMille would speak with him. After a while, Foster pulled alongside me.

"Good to see you again, Shawn. I was a bit worried when I saw you had left. I'm glad you got back safely." I turned and looked at him to see how much nonsense he believed. In truth, I couldn't tell. He was a pretty good actor. In any case, I had nothing to say to the man. I turned away and ignored him. After a minute or two he moved back and tried to talk with Marc, but it didn't appear he was getting much conversation there either.

We rode east at a pretty leisurely pace. What I couldn't tell over the noise of my engine was whether there were snowmobiles behind us. Were the angry men staying in the village as ordered, or were they following and heading into the ambush planned for them? An hour or so later, as we rode past the cottonwood grove, I tried not to look around, but I did scan with my peripheral vision. All I saw was snow. That was good, but of course the fact I could see nothing from just a glance, did not mean the men could not be spotted by careful examination. We would find out fast enough if the angry men were following.

From this point on we kept riding as before, but my mind was behind me, listening for rifle shots. I rode and listened, rode and listened, rode and listened. I heard nothing, and after an hour judged I would be too far away to hear anything even if it happened. We would find out later what had occurred. In the meantime, we rode on, accompanied by a giant man on a giant snowmobile. What would he have to say for himself? I assumed it would be some grandiose plan, all composed of lies and fantasies.

As we approached the village, we heard rifle shots, but they were ahead of us, not behind. Had the angry men gotten there ahead of us and done their own ambush? DeMille immediately stopped, so the rest of us did too. Marc probably moved the fastest. He had a pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Foster's head. "If you move, you die. Shut off you engine and hand me your keys."

Foster did as he was told, but he protested.

"I have nothing to do with this. My men are back in the village as you asked."

"If that's true, you live. If not, you die." Marc kept his pistol pointed straight at Foster's head. "Shawn, go see what is going on."

"No, it is for me to go." deMille said, and he raced his snowmobile toward the village.

"Shawn, go with him." Marc ordered. I had no weapon, but I raced ahead too. I wanted to see what was happening. How could the plan have gone so wrong? I found myself about twenty yards behind deMille, but he was really moving, and I had trouble keeping up. As we got up to the first houses in the village, I could see him break right and climb the embankment. Suddenly he had a pistol out and was shooting. As I got closer I could see the situation. Two men were behind snowmobiles among the houses. One appeared to be down. The other was aiming a rifle toward the school and shooting. Half a dozen rifles were pointed out of school windows and were returning fire. deMille was between the houses, coming up on the two men at an angle. I was close enough to see his shots explode in puffs of snow as they hit the ground near the man with the rifle. The first shot was well short, the second a couple yards short, the third closer, and then the next two hit. The man twisted around with his rifle, but the life went out of his body before he could complete the turn. The shooting was over.

I pulled up next to deMille and we walked over to the two men – Henri and knife-man. Now I knew where they had gone. We picked up their rifles to be safe, but it was pretty clear they were both dead. Knife-man had a huge hole in his chest, and Henri looked like he had already been hit once in the legs before deMille finished him off. They lay like rag dolls that had been tossed onto the snow. The men who had been shooting from the school came out, and some of the women from the surrounding houses also came and stood by the bodies. I rode back to Marc and Foster.

"Two of your boys," I said as I reached them. "Henri and that guy who likes to play with his knife. Both dead now."

"I threw them out this morning. They wanted to burn another house in the village. I told them they had to leave."

"So you say." Marc continued to hold his pistol aimed at Foster's head. "How many more men are coming?"

"None. I told them to stay in the village school and wait for me. They will if they want to get paid."

"We shall see." Marc put his pistol back under his coat and motioned for Foster to drive up to the village. The three of us pulled up outside the school and waited until deMille told us what to do. It took a while. There was lots of talking and lots of motion as people congregated either around the two bodies in the snow, or in the school. We soon learned one of the elders had been shot and was lying dead just inside the door. Marc took the keys from Foster's snowmobile and then went off to learn more about what had happened.

"I wouldn't go too far," he told Foster has he left. "I think lots of people in this village might want you dead. Your best move is to sit still and shut up. Shawn, take this pistol. If he moves, shoot him." I took the pistol but put it in my pocket. It seemed silly to hold it. Would I really shoot Foster? He was one nasty man, but I wasn't the man to put him out of his misery.

Foster was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. I had nothing to say. I sat on my snowmobile and watched. It was not pleasant. There was silence briefly when the shooting was over and as people learned what had happened, but then the crying started as the family of the man in the school gathered. More people gathered and more people cried. It got louder and harder to bear.

Eventually Marc came back and explained what had happened. Henri and knife-man had come at the village from behind, but of course everyone had heard them. The elders had been gathered in the gym and each grabbed a rifle. The first one out the door took one look at the two men and opened fire. They returned fire and killed him with the first shot. They backed up to use their snowmobiles as cover when Marc's sister came out of her house and got knife-man through the chest. She also put a bullet in Henri's leg, but he got behind his snowmobile and got several shots off in her direction. She made it back to her house safely. Then followed a stand off as Henri fired at the school and the elders fired back. Then deMille had put an end to it.

There are practical things that happen when people are killed. The elder who had been shot managed to claw his way back into the shelter of the school, but that meant he had bled all over the front hallway. That needed to be cleaned up. The two bodies in the snow needed to be cleaned up and removed. A funeral ceremony needed to be planned. And a cleansing ceremony was needed. Two in the village had killed. They would now go to a place apart, fast sing, wash, and wait three days for the spirit to leave.

Among other things, it meant Foster would have to wait three days before he got his meeting, not that anyone gave a damn. We were far more interested in what might be happening down river. And there was some nervousness in the village. If the two men had come around the back of the village, might the others too? The village was currently protected by old men, Marc, and any women who had a rifle handy. And I suppose there was me. Three elders went to the houses at the far end of the village to be ready for any trouble, while everyone else reloaded their rifles and filled their pockets with ammunition. Two hundred men would be back in the village at some point; until then it was time to be careful.

What to do with Foster? He was led into the school, with his guides – two elders – pausing to ensure he saw the blood in the entranceway. They put him in the library and locked the door.

The rest of us waited, and looked west down the river.

# Chapter 16

# Things get much worse

We heard the roar of hundreds of snowmobiles long before we could see them. Night had already come on, so all we saw were their headlights bouncing up and down as they hit rough spots in the snow. When they finally pulled into the village they filled almost all the spaces between the houses. Even before the last of the engines was shut off, the sound of women wailing was obvious to all of them, and the men went looking for answers. A few elders came out of the school, as did Marc, and they told the story again and again until all the men learned what had happened here.

The men had their own story, but it was not a good one. They had lain in the snow and under the snow for hours and eventually it had just been too much. Too cold, too wet, too long. They had gotten restless and had risen up from their hiding places when several angry men finally came up the river. While the Sioux tried to get hidden fast, they had not hidden fast enough. They had been spotted. The angry men opened fire. Two hundred rifles had fired in response and three of the men were killed instantly, but the fourth had moved fast enough and been lucky enough to get away. Was he wounded? Probably. But probably not so wounded he couldn't get back to the other village. A couple men gave chase, but by the time they had their snowmobiles out from under their camouflage and out onto the river, the angry man had a large head start. They chased him for a while, but then gave up.

With three men dead on the ice, that still left twelve back in the village. They would be warned now. There would be no other ambush opportunity. The next fight would take place in the village itself, with all that meant. The ambush group was already pretty upset with how their day had gone. They were even more upset when they learned of the losses back home. Anger was overflowing. It was a good thing Foster was out of sight in the school library. Murder was a real possibility.

A plan was needed and the men gathered to make one, but deMille was absent as he underwent purification, and the elder who had been killed needed mourning. In the end, the consensus was to eat, sleep, send out several scouts, and make a plan in the morning.

Unfortunately, that idea led to disaster. Four men volunteered to be scouts, but they were tired, cold, and unprepared. Two hours down the river the tables were turned on them and all four were killed by ambush. The angry men left their bodies to lie where they fell. It was the next afternoon before another group of volunteer scouts found them. Frozen in the positions they had as they fell, their faces black from frost, it was like coming up on scarecrows, only these scarecrows had been friends. The new group immediately charged toward the village, but once again the angry men were waiting, and once again the scouts were shot down. It would be another day before the entire tragedy was known. When men came back with the first of the bodies, there was frenzy in the village. It took Marc and every elder to hold them back from an immediate attack that most likely would have been one more massacre.

A day passed, somehow without a useless attack, and deMille finished his cleansing. That night there was a gathering in the gym. All were given the chance to speak. The immediate words were for revenge. That was to be expected. Many spoke that way, but revenge is not a strategy, not a plan. But hours passed as men shouted and screamed at what had been done and what should be done, and the elders let them. The shouts gradually eased, and the talk became more practical. There would be no surprising the angry men. There might even be more ambushes waiting. Movement would need to be careful, slow. The angry men had good cover. Sioux losses would be heavy. Good men were going to die killing bad men.

It was at this point that I had my first useful idea. Heat. They were in the school because it was warm, just as we were. What if it was not warm? I was sitting with Marc so he could translate for me, and I mentioned the idea to him. He liked it and immediately stood to speak. But when he was given the chance, he pulled me up by the arm and asked me to present my idea. I had never spoken to the group before, so I was not very comfortable, but I explained my idea. The best way to attack the angry men is to do it outside. We could do that if we cut off their heat. It would mean damaging the furnace or cutting the fuel supply, but without heat, they might leave. If they left, they would be vulnerable.

And that became the plan. The attack would be on the fuel tank. Without heat, there would be substantial damage to the plumbing in the building, but that could be repaired in the spring. Eventually the angry men would be frozen out, and once out, they could be killed.

Our first step was to understand the heating system. All the schools used similar systems and had been built around the same time, so we started by studying the system in our own school. We needed to see where it could be shut off, and how it could be shut off invisibly and permanently. It was the last part that was a challenge. There was a safety value that cut off the fuel oil, but as quickly as we could shut it off, they could turn it right back on. Basically we would have a running gun battle over the value. What we needed was a way to shut it and have it stay shut. We also needed to make sure we didn't cause any leaks that might start a fire and burn down the school.

We spent two hours on alternatives. Weld it in place? Maybe, but the heat might ignite the fuel in the pipe and explode. Lock it in place? Maybe, but the lock could be cut off. Finally someone brought in a motorcycle wheel lock. It was tempered steel, would take hours to cut, and seemed to be the perfect size to fit over the pipe. Once in place, it could hold the value shut, and anyone who set out to cut the lock would be vulnerable to rifle fire while doing the cutting. It would be suicide. So, we had a plan.

Executing the plan would be far more complicated. First would be the problem of getting to the village, knowing that the angry men were now setting ambushes. The first move was to avoid the river route. The second step was to leave at about 3 am. It was simply too cold to sit out at night, so by traveling before dawn, the hope was to arrive before the angry men had set up any perimeter defenses. It made sense, but of course that was no guarantee the plan would work.

With the basic outlines established, each elder worked with the men of his village on the details, and then the dancing began. I decided I would rather have some sleep, so I walked back to Marc's house. Marc's sister and mother were alone in the house. They were in the kitchen packing food for the attack. I sat at the table with them for a short while, but they had little to say as they worked. I wondered if Marc's sister would talk about shooting the two men, but I wasn't about to ask her about it. I noticed there were now two rifles standing near the door, but they said nothing and I asked nothing. How do you start a conversation about such a thing? Eventually I wandered off to my couch and dropped off to sleep, confident that the sound of two hundred snowmobiles would wake me in time to join the men.

3 am seemed to happen about five minutes after I dropped off to sleep. But the roar of motors did wake me. By the time I was fully dressed and ready, some of the men had already left. It appeared there would be six or eight groups of men traveling separately rather than one big crowd of us. I saw one group climb up behind the village and head south, while another group went across the river going north. It appeared we would be coming at the angry men from all sides. I just sat astride my snowmobile and waited to follow Marc. He and several elders were the last to emerge from the gym. They climbed aboard snowmobiles and immediately took off with the rest of us – about thirty – following close behind.

3 am is cold and dark. I was shivering in minutes. It was somewhere between thirty and fifty below. I didn't care to know more exactly than that. I just knew it felt like ice hitting my skin. About the only thing I had exposed beneath my face shield was my mouth, and I kept that closed to keep my tonsils from solidifying.

We traveled at a measured pace, running parallel to the river, maybe two hundred yards to its south. I noticed two riders stayed ahead of the rest of us. They varied their pace, racing ahead several hundred yards, then slowing, veering left for a ways, and then right. They were staying unpredictable was my interpretation. And I guessed they were scouting for ambushes. I didn't think there was much worry. Anyone who had sat out all night at this temperature would not likely still be alive, besides I could see no place to hide out on the open plain. But, I also have to admit I felt reassured that the scouts were out there.

We arrived sometime between six and seven. It was still dark, but it's not like we were sneaking up on them. They must have heard us coming for miles. Everyone had switched off the headlights on their snowmobiles so we weren't obvious targets, but still, it was not too hard to figure out where we were. The last couple hundred yards scared the hell out of me as I awaited a volley coming from the village. I could hear some shooting over the noise of our motors, but it seemed to be directed elsewhere, maybe at another group that had arrived earlier.

We stopped a couple hundred yards out from the village, but left our snowmobiles running to provide noise to mask our movements. I was glad we had kept our distance, but trying to move through the snow was nearly impossible. There was a crust that held a foot initially, but the minute I put my full weight on it, it broke through, dropping me a nearly knee high into the snow. Then I put my next foot through the crust while pulling my last food back out of the snow. It was hard work and I was sweating almost immediately. And of course I was wondering how long it would be before someone started shooting at us. The end result was I was exhausted in the first five minutes and could taste bitter adrenaline in my throat as I gasped for breath and trudged on, quickly falling behind the other men who seemed to have a much better process of stepping through this snow, or maybe they were just in much better shape.

I kept my head down and stumbled toward the village. The shooting increased in other directions, but so far nothing was coming at us. I should have been grateful, but mostly I was worried about my next step and hoping my panting was not making me an obvious target when the shooting did start. Eventually I found a better way to place my feet, and I was able to pick up my pace, which ironically just added to the pain I felt when I walked straight into the wall of a house. I bounced off and landed flat on my ass, much to the amusement of three men who were already standing alongside the building. My head hurt, and so did my pride, but I was ecstatic I had made it.

I thought I might never catch my breath, but eventually I did, by which time all the other men had moved from around the house and were already on to the next house, moving closer and closer to the school, one house at a time. I followed behind, but had barely crossed to the second house when there was the noise of several snowmobiles starting up and a crescendo of rifle fire. Two or three minutes later it was over, and the village was quiet.

We continued forward, hugging the walls of the houses, watching for movement, ready to duck rifle fire. But there was only the sound of our boots squeaking on the cold snow, until lights started going on at the school and men started shouting in Sioux. Someone nearby turned to shout in French, "Hold your fire." I didn't have a rifle, but I hoped the shout meant the fighting was over.

Slowly it became clear that, yes, it was over. We gathered at the front of the school, at the cluster of snowmobiles, and at the bodies. Men came from inside the school and reported that two angry men had been killed inside. The building was empty. They had come through a back door and searched. Out front there were six snowmobiles with four bodies mixed in among them. By simple count it was clear other angry men had taken off, maybe days earlier. Six had remained. Two had died in the school; the others had attempted to make a break for it.

Elders sent men to check all the houses to see if anyone was hiding in them. The rest went into the school to see what was left. Wind came in through the windows that had been shot out, and one of the classrooms was especially bad where the two men had bled out, but otherwise the damage was not too bad. The furnace shutdown had not been necessary, so the plumbing had not frozen. Men found cardboard and tape in amongst the art supplies and started closing up the windows. It appeared the building would be useable by the end of the day.

I wandered around the building, basically burning off nervous energy. I saw a few overturned desks, and garbage piled up near waste baskets, but the windows were covered fairly quickly and the furnace provided heat. Eventually I took off my hat and coat and collapsed against a wall in the gym.

There was a fair amount of traffic through the school over the next hour as men looked to see the condition of the building. The bodies were pulled out and I saw some men take cleaning supplies into that classroom. I just sat and watched. I have never felt so tired in my life.

Marc came and spoke with me after a while. The school cook had been found and she was fine. She was in her home and wanted to stay there. Stress had been building for the last several days and she said the men had been hostile to each other and to her, but no one laid a hand on her. Several men had left over the past couple days. She wasn't sure exactly when. She was just glad it was all over.

By mid-day I could hear snowmobiles fire up and head away from the village. Things were over here, so I imagined men were heading home. I just sat. My snowmobile was out on the plain and I knew I should go out to retrieve it, but I just left it. It felt good to sit.

# Chapter 17

# A history lesson

I think I would have sat against that gym wall all afternoon, but deMille came and got me.

"We should talk, now while we have time." He motioned me towards the library. I followed. The room had been trashed a bit, with some of the books pulled off shelves and some graffiti on one of the walls, but the damage looked half-hearted, like maybe they started when they got bored, and then got bored with the vandalism too. We found a couple chairs and sat.

"I am pleased you were not hurt." He began. For a man who had to be 80, I was astonished at how well he held himself as he sat. His back was straight, his eyes were steady on me, there was no sign of fatigue, though I doubt he had slept all night.

"It appears we lost no people."

"Unfortunately, that is not true. One man was killed, and two were wounded. But I think the wounds are not too severe.

"I am sorry to hear that. But at least this is now over."

"I think not. We will know better when we speak with this Foster, but I think there were will be more angry men, and now maybe the French as well."

"I can try to explain it was all self-defense."

"That would be good, but sometimes these things take on a life of their own, and the facts do not determine the outcome."

"So what do we do?"

"We talk, and we hope, and we plan. But that is not what I wanted to tell you about. I wanted to talk about our history."

"Do we have time for this?"

"We have this afternoon, and maybe we have tomorrow, but then I need you to go to DeSmet."

"I would be happy to go."

"Thank you. But first, you should understand us a bit more. We have a history, and it may affect what the French do. More importantly, it may affect what the Jolliets do." At this point he sat silently, apparently trying to determine how best to tell the story. I waited, wishing I had a tape recorder or even a notebook.

"You know our first contact with the French came with Father Marquette up along Lake Superior."

"Yes, I know that story. He was camped with some Hurons and having a terrible winter there. Finally he gave up on them and went back to Sault St, Marie. Soon after he left, the Hurons got into a fight with some Sioux, and the Sioux attempted to broker a peace. They sent ten chiefs to speak with the Hurons, but the Hurons killed all ten. Then the Huron took off and ran to the French at Sault St. Marie. Marquette ended up taking many of them to Mackinac Island to hide them. Others stayed behind, and when the Sioux sent ten chiefs to try a second time to negotiate for peace, the Hurons killed them too."

"Yes, they were not a very honorable tribe. No one mourns their loss. But not all the interactions between the French and the Sioux have been honorable either."

"Do you mean the Verendrye massacre?"

"No, Jean Baptiste was a swine and deserved to die. He cheated our men in trade. He got them into his fort at Lake of the Woods, got them drunk, and got them to trade their pelts for more drink. When he and his men started east with those pelts, the local tribe killed them all and took the pelts back. Jan Baptiste's father, Pierre, knew about his son, and understood the attack. He traded with the Sioux honorably and lived among us for another generation."

"So you concern is with the Jolliets?"

"Yes. Those deaths are not so easy to explain." He paused again. Clearly, this was not a story he enjoyed telling. "You know about the Fox Wars?"

"Yes."

"It is called a 'war,' but it was really an annihilation. The Fox and Mascutin had been French allies for many years – trading partners and guides. But the French pushed on. They founded their new city at Kaskaskia, and the river trade with New Orleans left the Fox as a bit of a backwater. The Fox wanted more trade, but they became less and less important. When they started to block French traders to force more trade, the French killed a few, and then a few more, and finally they killed all of them. It was all about trade and the Fox getting in the way."

"I saw the order from the French King approving the war and the massacres."

"Yes, there is a trail of evidence, and none of it looks very good centuries later. But few peoples have an unblemished history. The French do not, and neither do the Sioux. They killed over trade. We killed over geography. This is what I have to explain to you, so you understand why we may not have a good relation with the Jolliets. You know they call the mountains The Wall."

"Yes."

"It is a wall with a hole in it. We killed because of the hole – a pass. The French were busy in the Mississippi Valley for generations. They had trade down out of Illinois, creating Kaskaskia and St. Louis as the colony of Canada gradually merged with the colony of New Orleans. Bigger boats brought grain down from Illinois and rice and shrimp up from New Orleans. Both colonies were strengthened. Trade with the local tribes continued, but got less important. And the tribes along the river got smaller. Small pox killed thousands. Old allies like the Fox got in the way. Old enemies like the Arkansas were bought off by treaties, by trade goods, and weakened by pox. The Mississippi Valley became French."

"Some traders came west as well, up the Missouri, but they were few. They found little of value up the river. North, west of Lake Superior, there were beaver pelts to trade, but the winters were bad, the mountains were high, the plains went on for endless miles, so generations passed and few French ventured west. Why should they, when the Mississippi Valley had so much to offer?"

"The Verendryes traveled all over the west, but never crossed the mountains. They went back with tales of the heights, the distances, the cold, and the legend of The Wall grew. It became established fact that the mountains could not be crossed. So we were left alone. We were at the edge of the French world. There was no reason to push past us, after all, the route past us was impenetrable. So we survived, and prospered. We traded for horses and metal tools, even for guns, and a few French lived among us, but only a few. Our world was our villages and our buffalo. Life was as we had known it for centuries, and it was a good life."

"But there are some who will not rest. The Jolliets had given France the Mississippi Valley. Each generation of Jolliets wanted to give the French more. They founded Kaskaskia and traded south and strengthened the valley. They traveled west on the Missouri and the Platte. Each generation got a little farther west, closer to the mountains. And we knew sooner or later they would find the secret of the mountains. You see there is a hole in the Wall. There is a pass so wide and level even wagons could cross it. You know it now as South Pass. There is even a highway that goes up there and a ski hill near the top. Our people had used the pass for generations, so we knew its location, and we understood its importance. Once the French knew of it, there would be a steady stream of French going over the mountains to the Pacific. We would be along the way, and eventually we would be in the way, and we would share the fate of the Fox."

"And that is why we killed the Jolliets. By 1780 one Jolliet after another had come west, and they got closer and closer. We succeeded in tricking two of them up the wrong route and left them to starve in the high country when a storm came through and trapped them. Five years later another Jolliet expedition came through, and these we killed, saying they had ventured into our holy lands. That caused problems, but no open warfare. A decade went by and they tried again, but this time far to the north. They lost half their men to starvation and cold, and we were safe for a while longer."

"But there seems to be no end of Jolliet men. In 1803 they came again, and this time they seemed to know where the pass was. They came straight for it. They were well armed and ready to fight. We lost over a hundred men in our attack. But we prevailed. There were consequences – other fights in other places, and we lost more men that summer, but we held off the French."

"Then we got lucky. There were other wars in other places and the French were drawn there. We were forgotten. Meanwhile, you English began to come around South America and settle both California and Oregon. By the time the European wars were over, you had thousands of farmers and merchants on the Pacific coast, and the French drive to the Pacific was over. Essentially you became the cork in the bottle."

"I have never heard of those countries described quite that way, but I guess I see your point. With little to be gained now by trying to pass the mountains, The Wall became permanent – a boundary for the Canada."

"Yes. The boundary was established -- in part by the new English countries, and in part by us. But you can see that the Jolliets might not be too happy with the role the Sioux played in creating that boundary."

"That was nearly two centuries ago."

"Yes, but some memories are long, and I suspect Foster will try to remind the right people of these events."

"I don't think the Jolliets need more enemies right now." I offered. "They are too concerned about Louisiana."

"Maybe so, but why was Foster here?" He left that question hang in the air. There was no good answer to it. But he was right, the answer was important. There was a reason those men had been brought here. Foster was after something, and he was smart enough to push in the right place. Why here, and why now?

"We can ask him, but I doubt we will hear any truth from him."

"No, there will be little truth, but we should talk." And with that, deMille got up. My history lesson was over. Apparently we would now head back to Marc's village. I went in search of my hat and coat and my snowmobile. The day was not yet over.

# Chapter 18

# Foster

How much damage can one man do while locked up in a school library? We soon found out. There were about thirty of us together in the ride back to Marc's village, and the first three hours were pretty uneventful. It was late afternoon by now, and the sun was on our backs. I think we all felt that it was time to rest and put the day behind us. There was no talking on the ride back, no efforts to shout over the engines. We just kept our machines headed east and covered the miles.

But as we approached the village, we could see several men waiting for us, obviously trying to intercept us before we pulled in to the village. They had lots to say, much of it jumbled, but none of it good. Speaking over each other as they attempted to add or correct each other, it was not easy to determine everything they said, but the base of the message was clear – there was a public backlash against the fight that morning. People in other parts of the country were referring to it as the "Sioux Massacre" and the social media universe was alive with messages about the "martyrs."

Someone asked, "how would people already know about our fight?"

"Foster. He has been doing a press event over his cell phone. We just found out about it and took his phone."

"They say he was broadcasting the final words of the angry men – 'They have come to kill us. We have no protection in this school. They have already killed Andre as he tried to talk to them.' That sort of thing."

The men had more to say, but deMille held up his hand and they stopped. What more was there to say anyway? Foster had done his damage. We had been too stupid to even take his cell phone. Whatever damage Foster had come to cause, he had accomplished it and then some. We rode the rest of the way into the village and parked outside the school. DeMille joined the rest of the elders who were waiting for him, and they went off to one of the classrooms to talk. I just sat on my snowmobile out in the cold, not sure where to go or what to do. What a mess.

Then it felt like something was just picking me up by the collar and dragging me into the school. I walked straight up to the library door and asked one of the guards to let me. I half expected him to refuse, but he let me right in. I don't know why. Once in, I walked up to Foster.

"Why?"

"Why what?" He affected an innocent look that made me furious, and I supposed that was the intension. I calmed myself as best I could.

"You bring two dozen heavily armed, unstable men into Dakota. You know what is going to happen. Why do it? How can this possibly help anyone?"

"I came with a group of men who wanted to negotiate the right to hunt buffalo on Sioux lands. Next I know, half of them are dead."

"Wow. I know you like to play God, hell you're half his size. But really, don't you feel any responsibility for all the people who are dead because of you?"

"I didn't shoot anybody." I looked at Mr. Innocence again, and it suddenly occurred to me I still had a pistol in my pocket. The instant that thought flashed across my mind, I knew I had to leave. I was out the door almost at a run.

Outside the door, Marc was waiting for me.

"You shouldn't have gone in there."

"I shouldn't be carrying this." I gave him back his pistol. "I was tempted to use it in there."

"You are not the only one. I have added three good men to the door. They aren't there to keep Foster in; they are there to keep lots of people out." Marc turned and motioned for me to follow. "Come with me. The elders would like to speak with you." I followed him to a classroom a couple of doors down. It looked as it had before, with a dozen or so older men sitting in a circle, while two or three dozen more stood behind them. I heard shouting as I approached the door, but it stopped when Marc and I entered.

"Thank you for joining us Mr. Murphy." I don't know if the formality of his address was for my benefit, or for the men who had been shouting. But it got my attention. I was either being elevated or separated. Maybe both. "You have known Foster. We wish to hear your estimation of his character. Is there honor in this man?"

"No. I am sorry to say that. I wish he were a man who could be trusted. He is not. He has some objective unknown to me, and he is pursuing it. He will do anything to reach that end."

"What would you suggest we do with him?"

"Either kill him or send him away. Purge him like you would a diseased animal. If he stays here, he is a hostage who will draw those who wish to rescue him. Get him off Sioux lands."

"And once he is free?"

"He will damage us any way he can." I replied. "He will lie, he will plot, he will continue with his plan. He is here to make trouble, and that is what he will do."

"So you recommend we kill him?"

"No. I cannot recommend that, although I think he deserves it."

"Thank you. We appreciate your analysis, and we have come to the same conclusion. We wish to ask you a favor."

"Yes?"

"We would like you to accompany Foster back to DeSmet, and do it yet today." To say I was stunned would be to understate my feelings, and my stomach hurt just at the thought of accompanying Foster anywhere. But there was logic in the plan. Get rid of Foster, but send along a second witness who might paint a different picture of events. But I detested the idea of being anywhere near Foster. I couldn't recall ever being asked to do something so objectionable.

deMille could obviously sense my reluctance. He let me consider the request a while longer. Finally he stood and offered me his hand. "If you would prefer not to do it, I understand. We are grateful for the help you have given us."

"I will do it, but I should tell you, I have come to hate this man with every fiber of my being. I find it hard to control my anger. But I will go with him to DeSmet, and I promise not to hurt him while we travel."

"Thank you. Marc will go with you for the first part of your journey. I think you will be able to finish the trip without help." And I was dismissed. Marc and I went out to gas up all three snowmobiles, and then we got Foster out of the school. I was pleased to see when we first got him from the room and the guards followed us out of the school, he looked like this might be the time of his execution. So, he could be scared after all. Good. I wasn't about to relieve his fear. We just told him to get on his massive machine and follow us.

After an hour or so he seemed to gather we weren't going to gun him down, and he became garrulous. He pulled his machine alongside Marc and tried talking to him, and when he got no response, he pulled alongside me and started shouting his observations about the village of all things. "They really have nice schools" was one of his observations. Why I would care how he felt about anything was a mystery to me, but he jabbered on, shouting above the roar of his engine. I stared straight ahead and endured him for the next two hours.

Eventually Marc stopped. "You are almost there," he said. "Just follow the tracks and keep going straight. I may see you later at your hotel, but I have to do a couple things first." He took a wide turn to the left and disappeared. By now it was dark, but I thought I could follow the tracks, and I thought I could manage to go straight. So I pointed straight ahead and Foster and I did the final leg of the trip.

Less than an hour later we dropped off the trail onto the Main street of DeSmet. I couldn't see it, but I imagined Foster had a big smile on his face, and I guessed he was sitting up straighter as he approached the hotel for his victory lap. The entire day had gone his way. Now he got to finish it with a chance to be the center of attention.

As it turned out, there were a couple wrinkles in his victory march. For one thing, as we pulled up in front of the hotel, we were approached by a couple dozen people with signs saying things like "Foster, go invade America" and "Foster, how many Sioux homes did you burn today?" The folks shouted similar slogans as he walked past them into the hotel, all for the benefit of cameras positioned to catch the scene. It appeared cell phones could be useful to the Sioux as well. Then, as we got into the hotel lobby, one very drunk angry man rose up from the bar shouting, "Foster, you bastard, you got my brother killed." He was restrained and led back to the bar by half a dozen other men. But it was enough to put Foster off his mark. If he was expecting a hero's welcome, he was going to have to wait.

He did his best, though. Standing in the midst of the lobby, he shouted, "At long last, the Sioux have released me from captivity. But I won't rest until they have released the bodies of the men they murdered this week." That got him a bit of a cheer, apparently enough to draw him over to the crowd at the bar. It didn't take long for him to become to focus of attention as he told story after story of his bravery and of the Sioux murders.

Now it was my turn. I took the same spot in the middle of the lobby. "That man saw nothing, he witnessed nothing. I saw it all. He is telling you lies. I will tell you the truth. He brought twenty three men onto Sioux lands where they burned one home and threatened to burn more. They killed Sioux who tried to stop them. This man is a fraud and a felon. He should be in jail." I wish I could tell you my stirring oratory captivated the room, but most of the people there seemed to be angry men, and they stayed with Foster. But there were a dozen or so locals who gravitated to me, and listened while I described the last week. And that's how we spent the next two hours, two story tellers competing for audience attention.

Eventually I took a table in the dining room and ordered some dinner. I hadn't eaten all day and was so hungry a buffalo burger tasted as good as any lobster thermador I've ever had in Philadelphia. Several local people sat with me as I ate and I continued to answer questions. Three of them had cell phones out and they were also hearing from friends who lived in the villages. Those conversations confirmed much of what I was saying and also prompted additional questions. It was tough to eat and talk, but in this instance I was pleased to do both.

At one point I noticed that a steady stream of men were going up to the front desk, and it occurred to me that I had not taken a room yet. I excused myself and got what the clerk said was the last room in the place. He said "last room" almost in awe. Filling a hotel in DeSmet in January was apparently not a usual event. I grabbed my belongings out of hotel storage and made it to my room near midnight.

As late as it was, I thought I had better phone Elise. With my cell phone gone, the hotel phone was the first I had been able to reach in some days. Despite the late hour she answered on the first ring.

"Hi" was all I got out before she replied.

"Shawn, I was so worried. I knew you were in DeSmet, and then you didn't call or answer any of my calls, and then there were the shootings... I was so worried."

"My phone was broken a few days back, so I couldn't call. I am sorry. I am back in DeSmet now, in the hotel, and I am safe."

"Back in DeSmet? Where were you?"

"I was visiting one of the Sioux villages at the invitation of one of the men here."

"Oh no. Were you there during the shooting?"

"Yes, and by the way, some lies are being told about what happened out there. The Sioux did not start this. That man Foster who was causing so much trouble in New Orleans is now causing trouble here."

"The ministry is so worried it is planning on sending some troops to keep order there."

"Don't. I think that is what Foster wants. I think he wants to start some big fight here. I don't know how it helps him, but he seems to want that fight. Don't give it to him."

"I need you to talk with our director of protective services. If I give you a number, can you call him? Better yet, can you call him from the provincial office? They would have a more direct line to him."

"Sure. I'll call first thing in the morning."

"No, you need to call him now." At this point I heard some loud banging on my door. I put down the phone and opened the door to find four policemen standing there.

"Mr. Murphy, we need you to come with us." What could I say, "no"? I asked for a minute to hang up the phone and told Elise I would be going with the police. You can guess her reaction to that. I told her I loved her, hung up the phone, and left with the police.

# Chapter 19

# I spend the night in jail

The policemen were courteous, but firm. I was to come with them. One led me out, and three followed behind me. I wondered if they thought I was particularly dangerous. The municipal police station was two blocks away, just off the main street, and they decided to walk there. Along the way I made some observation about the night being cold. One of the cops agreed, but that was the extent of any conversation we had. It was cold.

The station was actually the second floor of the municipal building. We climbed the stairs and went into a small room that could have doubled as a conference room, but it was pretty shabby. Any conferences in here would involve felons. I was uncomfortable about all this, but I can't say I was frightened. Mostly I was too tired. I had been up since three, had risked rifle fire, and then had ridden a snowmobile across far too much frozen land. If they were going to keep me long, I was hoping they would give me a cell where I could get some sleep. But for better or worse, I never got to a cell.

Once in the room, one of the cops took a chair and motioned for me to do the same. The other three cops closed the door behind me and went off somewhere.

"A number of crimes have been committed in the last week," the policeman began "and you admit to having been a witness and a participant. You should know that if you want to have an attorney present for this meeting, that is your right. You are not being charged at the moment, but that is a possibility." He was late forties and I guessed Sioux. He had the brown skin and black hair. He sat relaxed, not leaning toward me to intimidate me. He gave the appearance of someone who just wanted to have a casual conversation. I decided I would at least start a conversation with him and see where it went.

"I may ask for an attorney later, but I am willing to answer a few questions now."

"Okay. People in the hotel say you witnessed the events of the last week. Does that include the killings?"

"There were killings in both villages. I was present for those. There were also multiple killings out on the river between the villages. I was not present for those."

"Were you involved in the shootings?

"No. I did not have a rifle."

"Could you identify the people who did the killing?"

"Most of the killers are dead, although a few left and presumably went back to their homes south of Dakota.

"Could you identify them?"

"Yes, they held me captive for several days. I had a chance to see all of them, and I am pretty sure I could identify them if I saw them again."

"The men who held you were Sioux?"

"No, they were outsiders. I heard them referred to as 'angry men' – non-Sioux."

"And what about the Sioux who did the shooting? Could you identify them?"

"No."

"No you couldn't, or no you wouldn't?"

"No."

"Killing people is a crime, whether or not you are Sioux. Until this is settled, there is going to be more trouble."

"There is going to be more trouble because that is what Tilden Foster is here to create. While we are sitting here, he is planning his next move. My guess is, it will occur here in DeSmet."

"That is for us to worry about."

"I hope you are very worried, because he is a very dangerous man."

"We shall see. Wait here while I discuss your situation with our sergeant." He got up and left. I was pretty sure I heard the door lock as soon as he closed it. I waited for a while for him to return, but time passed and I got more and more sleepy. Finally I laid my head down on my arms and dropped off.

If I can make a suggestion, going to sleep with your head in your arms is a really bad idea. By the time the police woke me, my neck was so stiff I could barely turn it. I sat up with my head twisted to one side, and no amount of massaging could loosen it. They woke me to tell me I could go, that I was wanted in the provincial offices, but I had trouble getting out of my chair, and I know I looked pretty stupid walking through the offices with my head tilted and twisted. It was only when I saw a clock on the wall that I understood the problem – it was after 6. I had been asleep for four or five hours! What kind of police department lets people sleep in their offices?

I stood at the exit of the municipal building, both hands reaching around to the back of my neck where I kneaded and prodded and twisted but made little progress. The best I could do was get my head mostly frontward. Off into the cold dark I went, happy that at least at this hour there were few people to look at me and laugh.

The provincial office seemed to be expecting me. I pushed my way in the front door and barely got out, "Hi, I'm..." when a uniformed man said "follow me, please." He led me down a flight of stairs to a large room in the basement filled with electronics. Four men were waiting for me, all wearing fairly rumpled suits. I couldn't tell if they had been up all night, or if they had dressed in a hurry, but none of them looked their best. There were lots of introductions and gestures to the coffee pot. I can't remember any of their names, and I doubt I could pick them out of a line-up. They were average guys working in average offices. The only thing special was the coffee – it was very hot and very good.

I kept working on my stiff neck with one hand while I managed the coffee with the other. I must have looked odd, because one of the men asked, "Were you injured?" I explained falling asleep in the police station, which seemed to make all of them uncomfortable. Eventually we got seated around a table with one of those conference mics in the middle.

"Mr. Murphy," one of the men said, "We have been asked to set up a conference call with protective services in Green Bay. There are also several other locations on-line." At this point one of the men closed the door to the room. Okay, so preliminaries were over and this thing was about to begin. "Is there anything else you need before we begin?"

"No, let's talk." This prompted one of the men to begin dialing and checking to see who was on which line, and all that other giant conference call stuff that goes on. God forbid you should just start talking. One by one sites checked in until I heard a voice I recognized.

"Elise. Good morning. Are you still in Arkansas?"

"Yes, at least for the moment we are keeping our schedules. What happened with the police?"

"We talked for a while, and then I fell asleep. They seemed like decent people."

"You fell asleep? In the station?"

"Yes, it had been a long day."

"Shawn, this is Claude Jolliet. I hope you are doing well. Is there anything you need from us?"

"Thank you Mr. President. I am doing just fine. I have to tell you, the office here in DeSmet makes very good coffee." That got a good laugh. Then they went back to introducing people and sites. In the end it seemed like thirty or forty people had nothing better to do at 6 am.

"Shawn," it was Jolliet again. "The reason we are bothering you this morning is because of a recommendation you made to Dr. Dupry. As you might expect, with so much shooting there, we were preparing to send troops to help the local police. Yet you suggest we not do so. Why is that?"

"For one thing, all the violence in the two villages is over. The outsiders are either dead or gone. There is some gathering of outsiders here in DeSmet, but so far nothing illegal has happened. The other reason I suggest no national engagement is that I think Foster is hoping for just that outcome. He seems to want to create trouble here, and the more guns he can get involved, the better for him."

At this point there was a lengthy discussion amongst the sites as people asked about Foster and were given background on him. I found it interesting to hear how much they knew about him. They had a history on him that went back well before his work in New Orleans. They had him working in rural New York near the border back in his college days, and meeting with some pretty odd characters in Europe while in his twenties. This was a guy who had not suddenly decided to cause trouble – he had been in it for decades.

Finally they came back to me.

"I understand you escorted him into DeSmet. Did you have a chance to talk with him? Did he say what he wants?"

"I have had several opportunities to speak with him in the last week, but he has not given me any information about his plan. All I can tell you is he feels pretty happy with himself right now. Whatever his plan is, he seems to think it is working."

"He certainly has managed to create a great deal of drama at a time when we were hoping to be as drama-free as possible. Would you mind staying near him for a little longer? It would be helpful to know his mental state, and you know him better than anyone else on the scene."

"Shawn needs to get back to the university. Classes start in another week or so." That was Elise trying to get me out of harm's way. I do love her. But she was so transparent.

"Excellent point, Dr. DuPry." It was interesting hearing "Uncle Claude" address her by her formal title. I liked the way he was showing her respect. "I wonder, Shawn, if the university could spare you a little longer. I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble."

"I don't think there would be any trouble if I stayed gone another week or even two."

"Thank you. Now, I don't think we will need to use up any more of your time." Which is a nice way of telling me I was dismissed so they could plan their response. I got up to leave, but I could hear Elise on the phone.

"Shawn, call your mother. They are very worried about you."

"Will do. Thanks, Elise. I love you." And I left the basement. The man out front held the door open for me – a very nice touch. I walked into the dark and the cold back to my hotel. My neck was still twisted, but now my biggest pain was hunger.

# Chapter 20

# Madmen multiply

I looked pretty stupid walking down the street swinging my head from one side to another and twisting as far as I could one way and then the other. And I can't say it helped much. If anything, the cold made things worse. But I was headed for food, so my general mood was pretty good. It got better when I got to the hotel and found the dining room pretty empty. Apparently all the thugs were sleeping in. The one man who had not slept in was Marc, who was waiting for me at a table. I sat down, ordered almost one of everything off the breakfast menu, and had more coffee while Marc filled me in.

"It turns out there is an angry-man radio station out in the desert that is going on and on about the martyrs up here and how they need to be avenged. A couple guys are counting, and they think over forty have already gotten into town, with more on the way."

"The hotel is full, and the bar was full last night, so I believe the forty number. If more come, where will they stay?"

"There are a couple fairly sad places out by the highway, but after that, there isn't much."

"Good. If they have no place to stay, maybe they will go home."

"Maybe, but there are still going to be a lot of them. Do you know if the government will be sending help?"

"I don't think they have made their mind up. By the way, I recommended they not send anyone." I watched Marc to see how he would react to that idea. He gave it some thought, but I could see he was ambivalent.

"That puts a lot of pressure on the local cops. I think there are only four or five on the force. You add in auxiliaries, and you still have less than a dozen. Pretty tough against eighty or a hundred angry-men with assault rifles."

"True, but you bring in a company of troops, and it looks like they have launched the Sioux wars." The food arrived and we both focused on that for a while. I think it might have been the biggest breakfast I had ever ordered, but I had no trouble eating every bite of it, even the chopped buffalo omelet.

"I suppose we could bring in some men from the villages to help."

"No, I think that would just make things worse. You put too many men with guns in the same place, and nature will take its course. What if we tried the opposite, and got people out of here. What's the population of DeSmet?

"About four thousand, but that varies with the seasons. Lots of folks visit relatives in the south this time of year. It is hard to have much love for the place in January."

"What if the government employees were called to a conference in St. Paul, and other folks decided to visit relatives. Could we clear most of the town?"

"It sounds like your strategy is the same one we used with the village – isolate them and let them leave on their own."

"It didn't clear them all out, but it did cut their numbers down."

"Let me talk to some people and see how they feel. You can imagine they will be uncomfortable leaving their homes undefended with a bunch of strangers in town. But let's see."

Marc went off to talk with his people, and I went off in search of a new cell phone. Mom was waiting – and worrying. By now the stores were open, and I was able to find a cheap phone in a local store. As I walked there and back, I could see an increase in traffic on the main drag. Big pickup trucks cruised up and down the street. There were also angry-men walking the streets with rifles slung over their shoulders. Were they walking around to look the place over, or to intimidate the locals? I had no idea. But Marc was probably right about the local cops. This could not be an easy situation for them.

Back in my hotel room I called home. They had spoken with Elise several times as they tried to track me down. I got the impression the calls had gotten increasingly frantic as the silence on my end got longer and the general word from this region got worse. I spent much of the call apologizing and calming. Yes, there had been shooting, no I had been in no danger. Everything was fine here. Was I lying to them? A bit. How much danger had I really been in? Who knew? How dangerous were things now? Another mystery. I explained I would be staying in DeSmet for a few more days "to do some reading," and then I would head back to Green Bay. I also promised to call more frequently and not to "lose this phone in the snow." I wasn't about to tell them how my last phone had really met its end, and well, it could have been lost in the snow.

My next call was to Elise to give her my new number. She was still in Arkansas, still visiting ag colleges. So far things were going well. Her reception was warm in some places, tepid in others. I imagined places were far warmer after she had been there a day or two. She can be a charmer, and of course that was part of the plan. She didn't have much to say about the morning meeting. They had talked for a long time after I had left the meeting. If there had been a decision, she wasn't sharing it with me. I was fine with that. We talked for a while about flying off together some place warm when things calmed down, both of us knowing that time was unlikely to be any time soon. But it was good to talk about better times. It was good just to talk about being together.

My phoning done, I took a shower and changed into the first clean clothes I had warn in far too long. It occurred to me the smell I had been noticing the last few days had been me.

About this time my phone started ringing. I took calls from my brothers. Yes, I was fine. Yes, it was cold here. No, nobody was currently shooting anyone. A television reporter called. He must have been pretty bright to already have my number. He had seen a clip of me as I came into town with Foster. Did I have anything to say? I summarized what had happened over the last week and explained I thought Foster was a threat to the town. I think my answer was longer than he wanted, or different than he expected, because he said he had to handle a breaking story and thanks for my time. Oh well.

By now I was hungry again. Who knew buffalo burgers could be so attractive? But once I got to the lobby I saw I was going to have to find a new restaurant. The lobby was packed with angry-men. The bar was doing a great business, the restaurant was full, and a line of men was waiting at the registration counter demanding rooms. The clerk there was doing his best to mind his manners, but he was faced with angry-men who were, well, pretty angry. I heard disparaging comments about the town – "what do you mean you're full?" and "what do you mean this is the only hotel?" leading to "what kind of jerk-water town only has one hotel?" after which "jerk-water" became the least obscene adjective used. As ugly as the scene was, it was more intimidating since each man with a complaint had an assault rifle over his shoulder.

I stood and watched for a minute, and then realized I was becoming an object of attention. Did any of them recognize me from my comments the night before, or did I just stand out as the one guy in the place without a rifle and an attitude? Either way, it was time for me to hit the street. Outside I found a dozen pickup trucks parked in front of the hotel. Every one had a gun rack in the cab, and every gun rack was full. How many guns did these guys need? I found myself staring, fascinated. But that made me an object of attention again, and I forced myself to move along before anyone got out of a truck to come my way.

There was another restaurant several blocks away near the provincial offices. I had eaten there in the past. It was identical to every other restaurant near an office complex any place in the civilized world. It served a variety of salads for the women employees, and sandwiches for the men, or for the very creative, it offered a cup of soup and half a sandwich as the daily special. Like I said, like every other restaurant near an office building.

At least it had been. Today it had a totally different feel. For one thing, every person was looking toward the windows to see what was happening on the street. Were they curious, or scared? My guess was scared. To the extent there was conversation, it was oddly framed with people talking to folks at their table, but looking out the windows. I doubted anyone was talking about how boring the last HR seminar had been.

I started to sit down at an empty table when one of the government people waved me over. "Why not join us?" I vaguely recalled him from the morning phone meeting. I had no idea what his name was. There were two others at his table, and I could not remember if they had been at the meeting or not. Good thing I'm not in sales. I don't network worth a damn. But I'm not hostile. I sat down and shook hands all around.

"The town seems to be filling up, " one of the government guys said. Should I bother to describe him? I don't want to be unkind, but he – and the other two – looked like middle aged, mid-level government employees. I am sure all of them are important in their department and important to their families, but if you saw them on the street you would probably look right through them. If there was anything special about them, it was that they were not Sioux. They just didn't have the features or color. I took them to be career government men, transferred here at some time in the past.

"Yes, I was just over at the hotel, and it is full to overflowing. So I thought I would come here for lunch."

"Even during hunting season you don't see so many men walking around with rifles on their shoulders," one of the other said, looking out the windows the whole time he was nominally talking to me.

"I understand you were out in the villages with them," this came from government guy number three.

"Yes, do you know Marc LeGrande? He invited me out to see his village a week or so ago. When we got there, we discovered the outsiders had just arrived in one of the other villages."

"And there was shooting?"

"Yes. It was spread out over several days, but in the end about ten or eleven of them were killed and about ten or eleven Sioux." At some point I realized that conversations at nearby tables had stopped. They hadn't been very loud to begin with, but now it was obvious they were listening to us.

"What were they doing out there? Twenty-some guys drive up from the desert and then take snowmobiles out into a Sioux village. Why would they do that?"

"That's a phenomenal question, and I wish I had an answer." I said. "It would be clever to say they went out there to cause trouble, but that still makes no sense. Why there, and why now?" It actually was a pretty good question. I get why Foster wants to make trouble, but why would these guys go along? What's in it for them?

"These desert guys," government guy number one observed. "I know the folks here call them angry-men, and frankly, the few I have encountered tend to be very angry – do sometimes come up to go hunting and they get very upset if you try to tell them what to hunt in what season or where they can hunt. They seem to feel they can do what they want, when they want, where they want. But nobody hunts in January. It's too damn cold. And twenty men in one hunting party? Game would hear them miles away. No, something else is going on with these guys."

"So what are they hunting now? I mean these new guys." Government guy number two asked. "Every hour there are more trucks and more guys with guns." He kept his face turned toward the front windows as he spoke. Just then two men walked past. You would think werewolves were walking past the door the way everyone stared at them.

"My hope is they just go away," I said. Did it sound like wishful thinking? I suppose it did. "They are a long way from home, it is very cold out there, and the hotel is full. With luck, a couple days from now we will be seeing them leave as quickly as they came."

"The bunch that went out to the villages killed how many before they left?"

"Eleven."

"That was with twenty men. Now there are far more. It might be time to take the kids on a vacation." As he said that, I thought I saw small signs of agreement from others in the room – a nod here, a raised eye brow there. He was voicing what others apparently also felt.

"The kids would probably like some beach time anyway," I said. Why not encourage them a bit? And it seemed to work. For the rest of lunch the conversation was mostly about vacation sites. It didn't take long for folks to one-up each other with tales of the best resort or best city or best restaurant they had enjoyed. I had to smile. Now it felt like people were having a normal conversation. Except even as they talked about beaches, they kept one eye on the front windows.

# Chapter 21

# Folks start plotting

My big plan for the afternoon was to nap. I figured I had earned it. I finished lunch with the government guys, walked back to the hotel past the trucks and angry-men, and essentially kept my focus on one item – my room and my bed. Once there, I turned off my phone, took off my shoes, and dropped off to sleep the second my head hit the pillow.

When I awoke, it was dark, but since the sun sets at four, that didn't really mean much. So I was a bit surprised when I saw the clock in the room. I had slept until nine. Time for another buffalo burger. Except I checked my phone before I went downstairs and discovered one third of the people on planet earth had tried to reach me while I slept. The burger would have to wait.

Which calls did I return? Elise, obviously. That call was a bit cryptic. She had something to tell me, but not over a cell phone. We agreed I would use the provincial office phone system in the morning. At least whatever the mystery was, it could wait until then.

My sister was on the list, so I called her, only to get a lecture. What did I mean making mom worry so much? What was wrong with me? I wasn't a kid any more. I should know better. By the way, are you safe? Oh well, at least that call was brief.

Most of the rest of the names on the list were unknown to me, so I ignored them. Then I saw Marc's name. His call I would return. What did he want? He wanted me to come to dinner to meet some people. Dinner was at eight. I called his number right away, apologized, and headed for his house.

Walking over there, I recalled the first night I had visited. It had been what – maybe two weeks ago? My days were confused, but it felt far more distant than two weeks. I had been cold; they had been happy. What a night. This night was different. I felt it the minute I was in the house. Everyone was courteous, but the home was tense. It felt like people had been shouting before my arrival, and now maybe they were putting the best face on it.

I counted six couples, but they were not the same six I had eaten with that first night. There was a mixture of old and new people. They had eaten most of their dinner and were still seated at the table I got the impression they had kept plates in front of them after I had called, not wanting me to eat alone.

The hostess brought me a plate of food right away. I guessed she had put something in the microwave when Marc told her I would finally be coming over. In any case, it was ready and warm when I sat down.

"I am very sorry to be so late." I began. I am the master of the obvious. "I fell asleep this afternoon and didn't get the call until just now."

"It's not a problem. We are happy you could join us." Marc's wife was being the charming hostess, and she pulled it off pretty well. But somehow her smiles seemed somewhat dimmed from what I remembered. "Marc told us all about what you have been doing in the villages. And then a night in the police station? You certainly deserve some rest."

"The police station?" one of the men at the table asked. "I hadn't heard about that." Was there disapproval in his voice?

"They had questions about what has been going on in the villages. We talked for a while, and then I have to admit I fell asleep in their conference room." That drew a few chuckles and lightened the mood in the room a bit. I am always happy to provide comic relief.

"Marc has been telling us you are recommending we abandon the city." This was from one of the new guys. The disapproval was clear both from his tone of voice and choice of words. Maybe I should have felt challenged, but his position made perfect sense to me. Why leave just because some crazies show up at your doorstep?

"Let the man eat," a woman replied. I guessed his wife. Wives do have better manners than we do.

"No, it's a fair question," I replied. "Why leave? Here's the way I see it. Foster wants to start a civil war in Canada. We can talk about why if you wish, but I am pretty certain that is his goal. He was heavily involved with the Louisiana folks. I think he wants Louisiana and possibly Arkansas to secede." I looked around the table at this point. Looks on their faces indicated this was news to them. Did they believe me? I couldn't tell.

"So you may be wondering, why is he here? The short answer is I don't know. Somehow, getting a fight started in Dakota helps him in his plan. I also don't know how he managed to get these desert rats to follow him. But he has. Now that they are here, he will use them."

"But we have an army for such things." This was the first guy again. "They could clear these thugs out of town in a day."

"I can think of at least two problems with that." I said. "First, they have done nothing illegal so far. So, what would the army do? More importantly, I think Foster wants us to bring in the army – the more the better. It would be a proxy civil war would it not? He has Canadian troops deployed in Canada against Canadians. Maybe they fight the thugs, maybe the Sioux, maybe both. Either way, Foster wins. He has his war."

I won't detail the rest of the conversation. It went on for the next couple hours and it was impassioned. They had kids to worry about, so getting out of harm's way made sense. But they had homes to protect, so staying made sense too. Would they just leave the town to the mercies of these angry men? And what would happen to those who would not or could not leave? There was lots to be said. At a normal dinner the cognac would have come out at some point after the pie, and we would have retreated to another room. Not that night. We stayed at the table, drank coffee, and talked. Did we reach any conclusions? No. I got the sense that each couple would have much more to say to each other after they got home. This would be a family decision, and not all families would choose the same alternative.

The evening finally broke up around midnight. Couples left after big hugs all around and a few tears. You got the sense they were already saying goodbye. And maybe they were. I started to say my goodbyes, but Marc asked me to stay.

"We need to talk a bit." He motioned me into a small sitting room. "And Nicole needs to hear this too." That drew an inquisitive look from his wife. They sat together on a small couch, and I took a stuffed chair opposite.

"Since you are recommending we leave the city, I thought you should know about some attitudes here." Marc began. "I am speaking now as a Sioux." He stopped and looked briefly at his wife before continuing. "As a Sioux, we would love to see this city abandoned."

"What? Why?" Nicole turned her whole body to face him.

"This city has always been a danger to us. You talk about Foster's plots? We have our own plots. Sioux survival depends upon us being left alone as much as possible. When the French started building their military highway west, we did what we could to keep it as far south as possible, but there was already a settlement in DeSmet, so we knew it would connect here. We could not stop it, although it would have been better if we had."

"You mean the national highway, right?" Nicole asked.

"We call it a national highway, and it is used more to get skiers to the mountains that anything else, but it is really a military highway. Did you know every bridge over the highway has to be high enough so a tank on a tank carrier can fit underneath?" Nicole shook her head.

"The point of the highway is to move troops to the mountains should we be attacked by Oregon or California."

"Or the U.S." I added.

"Yes, or the U.S. That is the main purpose of the national highway system, although it also serves to move trucks for business and people for pleasure. We knew there would be a highway west, and we knew there would be no way to stop it. The French had a right to protect themselves, and as Canadian citizens, we Sioux can hardly object. The highway system is required, so it was built, and we did not stand in the way."

"But what does that have to do with abandoning DeSmet?" Nicole asked.

"The history of Indian tribes along highways has not been very good. The Fox were exterminated. The Mandans are nearly gone, not from war, but from smallpox. If you get too close to the French, you die. Sorry, honey." They held hands at this point. I squirmed a bit, but I could see where they needed to make some connection after what was clearly a breech. He was Sioux; she was French from back east somewhere. They did have their differences. These events were making those differences more obvious. Leave it to Foster.

"I understand that, but let me repeat Nicole's question, if I may." Maybe it was the late hour, but I was having trouble making the connection. "You manage somehow, maybe negotiations, maybe bureaucratic delays, but you get the highway built as far south as possible, with all your villages to the north. But there is one city in your province along the road – DeSmet. How is it a problem?"

"It is a problem, in part because it is necessary. Tribes always traded with the French and the English, and the Spanish when they were around. We needed metal tools, you needed animal skins. You gave us blankets, we gave you corn and later wheat. So there were trading posts, and then forts, and then cities. Sault St. Marie, Green Bay, Kaskaskia, and all the others followed the same process. But you also gave us small pox and whiskey. Sometimes you gave us guns, sometimes you shot us. You get the idea. Each city is necessary, but risky."

"So you try to reduce the risk."

"Yes. We have had three centuries to work out the balance. These days we get lots of products, access to schools, medical care, and sometimes beautiful women." Obviously he was looking at Nicole as he said this. She accepted the implied apology with a slight smile.

"But we still get too much whiskey, strange cultural values, and periodically, very dangerous men. So you can see why at least the Sioux who live here would be happy to see the city empty at least for a little while. We'd come back when we need to replace our cell phones, or our trucks need new tires, but for a while, having all this gone would be a relief."

"Twenty two years of marriage, and now I hear all this?"

"Twenty two years ago I should have just carried you off to my village. You'd be queen of the place by now. But I think this has worked, don't you? Living in the middle? The kids get both cultures, and I get you."

I could see where this was heading, and I didn't want to be in the way. I mumbled something like, "Thanks, see you in the morning," and I got out pretty fast. I'm not sure they even saw me leave. You have to give Marc credit. He was pretty smooth.

# Chapter 22

# Men – very drunk and very angry

Wow it was cold that night. The wind was up, and it was ugly being outside. I hurried along back to the hotel, head down and feet moving as fast as I could move them. Along the way, I had this vision based on what Marc had said. Dakota was like this very large organism. DeSmet was a puncture wound. Foster had stuck a syringe full of angry-men into the wound, and he was pushing the plunger. He wanted the organism to react. I was pretty certain it would.

With that weird image in my head, I pushed my way into the hotel and stood for a second gathering myself. I was out of breath from moving fast through icy air, my eyes were watering, and my nose was running. Basically, I was a mess. But so was the hotel. I almost backed right out of the lobby. If you have ever walked down Bourbon Street during Marti Gras, you have seen masses of outrageous drunks. Now picture wall to wall drunks, but all of them armed and all of them shouting – mostly obscenities. The place was beyond scary. It looked like shooting could break out at any moment. And the sound, well, it was deafening.

"Don't leave your rifle in the truck. The damn Sioux will steal it."

"What?" A man was shouting at me, and I wasn't sure I was hearing right.

"Your rifle. Keep it with you so it doesn't get stolen." As he said this, he pointed to my shoulder where presumably my rifle should be. His own rifle was far up on his right shoulder. In his right hand was a large beer mug, mostly empty.

"Where are you from?" I was practically screaming to be heard over the noise, but I was interested.

"Down around New Mexico. I drove two days to get here, but if they are going to start shooting hunters, we have to stand up to them, right?"

"What do you hunt?"

"Some elk, some mule deer. Got a fourteen pointer the year before last."

"Ever hunt buffalo?"

"No. I would love to drop one of those big bastards, just to see them drop, but what do you do with the meat? It's too dry, and cleaning one of those things takes all day and stinks like hell. No, let the Indians have them."

"So..." He looked confused, and then angry with my question.

"It's the principle of the thing, damn it. If they stop men from hunting buffalo this year, what will it be next? You have to stand up for your rights, or you will lose them." And, apparently that was all he wanted to say to me. He seemed even to growl a bit as he turned and headed toward the bar. It didn't look to me like he had much chance of actually getting another beer. The bar was backed up ten or twelve deep its entire length.

But that was his problem. My problem was maneuvering through the crowd to get to the stairs. I was almost there when I spotted Foster. Somehow they had found a huge bench to be his throne, and he sat accepting delegations of angry-men. They were lined up almost as deeply as at the bar. Somehow he spotted me through the crowd, maybe because I had stopped moving and was staring at him with malevolence in my eyes. I had come to really hate that man.

"Professor Murphy." If there was one voice that could carry across that room, it was Foster's. I didn't answer. I continued to stand and stare. "Join me professor, we have much to discuss." Which was worse, sitting with the man, or walking away and appearing to be afraid of him? I chose to sit. It was a struggle to get to his side of the room, but once there, a man got out of a chair so I could join the inner circle of Foster's group.

"Gentlemen, this is Professor Shawn Murphy. He is an American historian. His specialty is military history." As far as I was concerned, the only gentleman in the building was the poor bastard tending bar, but Foster presented me as if he were addressing a royal court. What a despicable man.

"And Mr. Foster, Tilden if I may" (I was pleased to see a small shudder as I mentioned his odd first name), "how would you describe your profession?"

"I would say I am a philanthropist and a guardian of civil rights. At the moment I am protecting the rights of hunters." At this point of course, there was a large chorus of "You tell him/Yeah/Right" etc. You get it, drunks showing approval.

"How did that work out for you up in the villages?" I just couldn't resist.

"There will be a price to pay for what they did." (Imagine another background chorus of "yeah" etc).

"Yes, there is a price to be paid." At this point he and I entered a staring contest. Very juvenile, but a bit fun.

"As a military historian, " he finally blinked and restarted the conversation. "How would you estimate the fighting ability of the Sioux?"

"They will work for peace as long as possible. But if they fight, they will be patient and disciplined. If you intend to take on the Sioux nation, you better get about ten thousand more of these guys to go along."

"No, no, no. You completely misunderstand. It is not our job to seek out the murderers up there. That is for the government to do. We are just here to remind the government to do its duty."

So, I was right about his plan. He wanted Canadian troops here. Even if nothing else happened, he would have a visual background for every story he wanted to tell about the Canadian government. If they established peace, they were "oppressors." If they got into a gun battle, they were "aggressors." Heads he wins; tails he wins.

"I think the government has a pretty good idea where its duty lies. By the way, which government are you talking about? The Canadian government, or yours?" I wondered how many desert rats knew Foster was a foreigner. Hoping I had scored one, I decided it was time to exit. "Now, if you will excuse me." I stood and stepped away.

"I might ask the same about you." I guess that was the best he could come up with on short notice. I didn't feel too badly burned by it and didn't try to respond. It was time to get out of this madhouse before shooting broke out.

# Chapter 23

# New Players

The next morning I was up and out the door by seven. If needed, I would nap later. Right now, I wanted to speak with Elise about whatever was so special it should not be discussed over a cell phone. The same guy was waiting for me when I got to the provincial offices, but this time when we got to the basement conference room, the cast was different. There were three guys in the room. One was the local cop who had interviewed me the previous night, one was government-guy number 2 from the previous morning, and one was "Charles" who mentioned some obscure government office, but sat like a soldier and had a haircut to match. He was wearing a cheap suit that seemed stretched across his chest. I didn't think I would be too confused about what he really did for a living.

On the line was Elise at one location, and several other people who also seemed to be from obscure government offices, all of whom had voices that sounded like they could be heard across a parade ground.

"Good morning, Elise," I managed to get in while the last couple men connected in.

"Hi, Shawn. Still doing ok?"

"No Problem. It's a bit cold here..." At this point I was interrupted.

"If we could get started." It was a voice from another site. Apparently he would be running the meeting. "Professor Murphy, since we are being joined by several people who may not know you, might you say a word or two about your background and your recent travels?"

"Sure. I am currently a visiting professor at the National University, and I arrived here about two weeks ago to do some historical research." I then described what I saw in the villages. There were no interruptions as I spoke, and no questions when I was done. I suspected they already knew everything I had just told them.

"Thank you. We also understand you have some knowledge of Tilden Foster. Could you explain that?"

I gave them the three minute version of my contacts over the previous summer, and then described the recent conversations more fully. When I got to my midnight conversation last night, there suddenly seemed to be some interest in what I had to say.

"Could you try to repeat his words as accurately as you can remember them?"

"Yes, when I told him he would need more men if he was going to attack the Sioux, he said he did not intend to attack them. It was the government's job to pursue murderers. He and his men were just there to ensure the government did its job."

"Those are his words?"

"Pretty close."

"Thank you. Charles, you have been there less than a day, but how would you describe the situation?"

"By my count there are now 120 men who have gathered under Foster's guidance. There is only one hotel in town, and they have largely taken it over. There are constant meetings between Foster and these men. At any time about twenty are outside the hotel either walking the streets or driving in their trucks. I do not know if they are doing formal sentry duty or if they are just bored and restless. If they leave the hotel, they stay on the main street here, or within a block of it. They seem to avoid the west side of town. That is the side of town that has a largely Sioux population."

"Thank you. Professor Murphy, do you have anything to add to that description?"

"Yes. In meetings with people here, there is talk of leaving. Frankly, they are nervous about having so many armed men in town. Those with children seem especially concerned. I would expect families to start leaving soon."

"Charles, do you agree?"

"Yes. People are filling their cars with gas, stocking up on groceries, doing the sort of things people do before traveling."

"That might create an opportunity. Charles, I would like you to talk with one of these families about renting their home for a short time. It might be a good place to locate your team."

"Will do." Charles looked at me as he answered, apparently not happy that I had heard the comment about a "team." "I wonder if we have taken up enough of Professor Murphy's time. I would not want to inconvenience him, and I am sure he has many other things to do." Pretty classy way of telling me to get out of the meeting, don't you think? But I wasn't quite ready to go.

"Before I go, I have a suggestion. I was talking with one of the outsiders last night and he claimed he was here to protect hunting rights. Apparently they are being given some story about denied permits. I wonder if it would help if someone from the right office went over to the hotel with a pad of hunting permit forms so people could see hunting is perfectly legal."

"I doubt that will make these men go away." Charles was still not happy with me.

"I agree. My experience has been that some men like to be angry. They will always find some reason for it. But even if just five or six get a permit and decide they have achieved some kind of moral victory, that will be five or six we won't have to deal with later, right?"

"I like that plan," said a voice on the phone. "Director Gaugin, you can do that, can you not?"

"I think I could get some forms together in a couple days..." said government guy number two.

"This afternoon, Director." Said the phone voice. Gaugin had a funny change of expressions on his face. First he seemed to scrunch up his face like he was going to object, and then some other thought occurred to him and he became this obedient puppy. More used to giving orders than taking them, maybe he realized the voice on the phone was even more used to having orders followed.

"Yes, sir. I will handle it myself."

Apparently done with my portion of the meeting, I stood to leave. "Thank you for involving me in the meeting."

"Thank you for joining us," said phone voice. Then he added, "You may also be interested to know there is a new payroll system going in for provincial offices. Most employees will be invited to St. Paul for computer training in the next day or two. We think the training will take about a week."

I had to smile at that. What a great lie. "I am sure they will be very bored – and very grateful." And with that, I left.

My next stop was the restaurant a few doors down – the one where I had eaten lunch the day before. It was largely empty. I didn't know if that was normal for breakfast here, or if office folks were already hitting the highway. I put my cell phone on the table near me, hoping Elise would call me as soon as the official meeting broke up and we could talk about more personal matters.

As it turned out though, my next conversation was with "Charles." I had barely started on my buffalo omelet when he walked in, saw me and sat down across from me.

"I hope you don't mind if I join you." I didn't , but I had to admit I found myself suppressing a laugh. He sat so straight and held his head so firmly, he obviously spent his life in uniform, and no amount of civilian clothing would even begin to hide his true profession.

"Not at all. I suspect we have much to talk about."

"Let's start there. You have many contacts, and I understand you have talked with reporters and were a kind of celebrity last summer. I am wondering how much you are talking now."

"I am talking to lots of people about lots of things, but I think I am capable of exercising some discretion." As I spoke, he was giving me the senior officer stare, or maybe it was the staff sergeant stare, but the intent was clear. I was to understand he was now in charge and I was to do as he wished. Actually, I was fine with that. I hoped he really was in charge and had a plan to end this thing before people got hurt.

"I understand you were the first to suggest getting people out of town. Your basic strategy is one I approve. The fewer people in town, the fewer casualties. But it is best to be careful how that strategy is presented."

"And I assume you also want some care in who knows that while some people are leaving town, others are arriving?"

"Yes, that is especially important." The stare intensified. Okay, I got it. And I approved. If soldiers were arriving, it was best if no one knew, especially Foster, who seemed to be waiting for them.

"Since a police officer was in the room this morning, I assume local officials are aware. I can think of no reason why anyone else needs to know."

"Good. Just one more thing. Foster. What's his mental state?" Wow. There was a question.

"He is very bright, but he is arrogant. At least at the moment he thinks his plan – whatever that might be – is working. He holds court in the hotel lobby as if he were royalty. What is his mental state? Confidence, arrogance, near certainty. He is a chess master playing with novices. That is his mental state."

"Sometimes it is best to shake an adversary's confidence; sometime it is best to leave him confident to the end."

"I saw this man walk off a burning ship with complete confidence, even though he was responsible for everything that went wrong with that outing. You won't shake his confidence."

"That is important to know."

"Have you thought about just deporting him? He is a foreigner, after all."

"Sometimes it is best to have an adversary close by, where you can keep an eye on him." And with that he was up and gone. I went back to my buffalo omelet. How many ways could you cook buffalo? And did any of them result in meat that was actually tasty? Meanwhile, a few people left the restaurant, and a few people arrived. If this was the typical breakfast crowd, I wasn't sure the place was covering its costs.

I was on my third cup of coffee, just killing time, when Elise finally called.

"Sorry to take so long to call," she began. "I wanted to get some place quiet. Are you sure you are safe there?"

"Yes. They all carry guns, but nobody has used one. I think many of them just carry a rifle because it is expected, like a weird fashion item. Or like some little kids carry a blanket around – you know, a security blanket."

"Fashion items don't kill people."

"Did I ever tell you how fast I can run?"

"I know how fast you can run – not nearly fast enough."

"So how are things going on your end? How is the charm offensive?"

"People are minding their manners. We do still sign their paychecks. I was visiting a college pretty far south in Arkansas and found people to be pretty friendly."

"Elise, the devil himself would be charmed by you."

"You sound like a man who will be happy to see me again."

"You have no idea."

"Yes I do. Let's try to make it days from now, not weeks, okay?"

"Amen to that." We signed off pretty quickly after that. She was off to yet another agricultural experiment that would change the future of food. I was off to, well, I wasn't too sure what.

# Chapter 24

# The blizzard

The sun was up, but that didn't mean it was much warmer out on the street. But I found myself standing, looking at the city. I saw a few pedestrians, all locals. The guys with rifles were still sleeping in I guessed. I watched one car go by with luggage strapped to the top and the back seat filled with kids. Good. One family gone. I waited for a few minutes, hoping to see more leave. No such luck. Folks might be leaving, but there was no major exodus – at least not one I could see. I guess that was too much to hope for.

As I stood looking, I began to feel the cold. It was cold every morning, but somehow this felt different. During my first Green Bay winter, I thought I would freeze to death, but I gradually got used to it. My first couple weeks in Dakota I learned what real cold felt like. Or at least I thought I did. As I stood there, I felt a new level of cold. It was after eight and the sun was above the horizon, but the temperature was dropping, not rising. I was heavily dressed, but already the cold was deep in my thighs. Something was up. My cheap little cell phone did not have a weather app, so I would have to wait for details, but for the moment, I knew it was time to get off the street. I began a fast walk to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, I noticed the line of trucks out front seemed a bit shorter. Maybe a few of them had started south? Maybe that wishful thinking. Inside, the lobby looked like a set from a disaster movie – there were bodies everywhere. Apparently the management had let people sleep wherever they dropped after a night of drinking. There was probably some municipal code against that, but it didn't seem humane to throw people out in the cold. So letting them sleep on the floor or on a row of chairs was probably the right thing to do. Based on the smell, they seemed to need showers as well as beds, but that was their problem. Maybe a night sleeping in the cold lobby would convince a few of them to go back home.

There was a young clerk behind the registration desk. Sioux by the look of him. He was staring at the mass of prone humanity in the lobby.

"The temperature seems to be dropping. Do you know what's going on with the weather?"

"The barometer is dropping like a rock. They haven't announced a blizzard warning yet, but I would expect to hear something in the next couple hours."

"Bad?" Leave it to me to ask the obvious.

"These are storms that kill people on the highway. I don't think these guys are going anywhere for two or three days."

"Even if they left right now?"

"Maybe if they left right this minute and went straight south or east. I know some of the locals are leaving, but they are headed east and left already. They should be fine. These guys? They are here for the duration." He didn't sound real pleased about that prospect, but it was clear he would deal with it as necessary. I thought about talking to a few of them, warning them, maybe encouraging them to get out in time, but as I looked around the lobby I saw no sign of life. These guys had been up all night drinking. They were in no shape to move, and certainly in no shape to dodge a blizzard.

"Do you have enough food for two or three days?"

"Food we have. Beer they finished off last night. The harder stuff will be gone pretty fast."

"Maybe that is for the best."

"Yes."

I went back to my room and found Foster waiting for me in the hallway.

"You and I have a few things to talk about."

"Really?" I was surprised by his presence and really had no idea what we would talk about, but I invited him into my room. Who knew, this might be interesting. I took a chair in the corner, and he sat at the end of the bed. I doubted the coil springs there would ever uncoil again.

"If we are going to talk," I began, "why not tell me why those men followed you to that village. Money? Some wild story? Your charm?"

"My charm of course. But let's not talk about what has passed."

"You mean you won't tell me."

"I won't do your homework for you. Besides, you need to be thinking about the future."

"I do. I think about when your people will go back to the desert."

"They will, but you need to think about your more immediate future. Some of the men downstairs don't like you."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I am not a danger to you, but those men are. They know you were with the Sioux that killed their friends. You said so yourself talking to a reporter. They don't like what happened to their friends."

"What happened is their friends burned down a house and took over a school."

"So you say. They see it differently. I have kept them off you so far, but I cannot watch your back all the time."

"It can't be too hard, they are all passed out on the floor."

"They will be up soon enough, and you will be a target."

"Why tell me this?"

"We Americans need to stick together. Besides, I do you a favor, maybe someday you will do me one."

"Don't count on it."

"But I shall." At this point he managed to pull himself into a vertical position, how is a mystery to me and to modern physics. He didn't make an effort to shake hands. He knew that was a non-starter. Instead, he opened the door and slid through it sideways. I wondered how big a door had to be for man-mountain to go through it normally.

With him gone, I gave some thought to the threat. Was it real? Probably. I had made no secret of which side I had been with during the shooting. Did the dead men have friends downstairs? I doubted if anyone of them had ever had a real friend at any time in their lives. People with friends didn't end up alone in the desert. But these guys were angry all the time anyway, so what was one more excuse to do something ugly?

Then there was the storm. In another few hours, once the blizzard hit, no one would be going anywhere. Wherever you were when the winds hit, that's where you would be for the next two or three days. Did I want to spend those days with those guys in this hotel? It took a microsecond to answer that one. I packed a bag and took the stairs two at a time as I made my exit.

As I rushed down the street to Marc's house, it occurred to me I had not seen him that morning. He might be back in his village. I would look pretty stupid freezing to death on some side street in DeSmet. Fortunately, he was there, and understood what I wanted the minute he saw the bag in my hand.

"Come in. Good idea. It will be much more comfortable here than in the hotel, especially given what we have been planning." Nicole was right there with him and it was clear she agreed as well. That was a relief. We talked for a little bit and they gave me an update on the storm. It would be big, and it would be here in two to three hours. Highways west of town were already closed down and more closings were on the way. Essentially the message to one and all was – wherever you are – stay there.

The kitchen was nice and warm and we sat there while Marc made coffee. They had two teenage sons who poked their heads in briefly, decided I was less interesting than whatever videogame they were playing, and went back to their room. Meanwhile, I was interested in Marc's plans.

"Remember how we were going to cut the heat off to the village school?" he said. "We have been talking about using the same strategy here. If we cut off the heat to the hotel, they will leave it pretty fast."

"You wouldn't do it now, would you? They would all be dead by morning."

"No, we need to give them an exit. We have to wait until the storm is over, and then give them plenty of reason to leave – once the roads are open again."

"They already have one reason to leave," I said. "The beer is gone." I then described what the hotel looked like this morning. "Maybe after two or three days in the same room with each other and no liquor, they will be ready to leave, heat or no heat." We talked a bit more about what I had seen, and about Foster's threat, but we gradually settled in.

No one was going to be leaving the house for at least two days. We tried to slow down and get used to the situation. There was the chance we would get on each other's nerves just as easily as the angry-men would. The boys had videogames, and we had books. They also had the weather channel on the tv, so we could monitor just how bad this one would be. It wouldn't be the worst of the decade, but it appeared it would be plenty bad. DeSmet was built with bad weather in mind, with utilities underground, so it was likely we would have lights and heat even if the wind got to the levels they were predicting. As long as that held true, we would ride it out. At least that was our hope.

That first day went pretty well. It was even interesting to watch the storm build on various maps, with overlays of wind speeds and snow amounts while news along the bottom of the screen crawled along with closings of one kind or another. We watched the storm build all afternoon, and by evening, we were feeling it as the wind pushed at the house. I no longer had any objection to the plain brick of the walls or the small windows of the houses here. Both worked very well, although there was still the steady sound of snow crashing against the windows. This was not a gentle snow, these were ice crystals popping against the glass.

At dinner time we spent a long time sitting and eating (well, the boys didn't. They were to the table and gone again in under five minutes), and then we followed up with a DVD. They had a spare bedroom and Nicole made up a bed for me. I was pleased to get to bed. So far, things were going well.

The next morning the wind was still up, and I think we first noticed the hum in the house. It was irritating. I suspect we had been hearing it all night, but it hadn't registered until now. Nicole turned on a radio and let the music over-ride the hum. It was still there if you listened for it, but it was mostly covered. But it was still there -- a reminder that the wind was strong. On occasion there would be a gust that would cause the house to creak. It was a strong house, but the sound reminded you that the wind had power. It would be pushing on the house all day. It was easy to let your imagination get a little busy thinking about the wind taking out a door or window, or even a wall. We watched television, saw the endless crawl of cancellations, and sometimes stood by the windows watching the snow shoot sideways down the street like white bullets.

That day we tried to keep up conversations, but there were quiet periods. Nicole kept the music going, and we spent much of the day in the kitchen cooking things from scratch, with me inventing a new dish – buffalo thermador. It tasted terrible, but it was fun to make and everyone was a good enough sport to at least eat some of it. But by evening the silences got longer, and the hum in the house seemed to get louder. I begged off and went to bed around 9, but I didn't get to sleep until well past midnight.

The third day of the storm we were all feeling the stress. It was like the air around the house wasn't quiet, so we inside could not be quiet either. It made no sense. We were inside and warm and safe, but it felt stressful. Now when we watched the tv, it was not to see what was closed, it was to see if there was any improvement on the horizon. But it was clear there would be at least one more day of closed roads and dangerous winds.

I think the boys saved us that day. They challenged us to some goofy game, where they had one controller, and we adults had another, and we tried to get through some weird land where plants ate you and trees gave you powers of some sort, and you needed to find a missing crown. It seemed endless and really stupid, but it was fun to have plants suddenly jump at you, or to get lost in a desert, and have weird characters pop up and talk. The boys had something like 45 crowns while we were still lost in the desert, but by working together, the three of us did finally manage to find one crown just before midnight. And that was the key. We got so caught up in the game we lost track of time. The day passed, and we barely noticed. Way to go boys.

# Chapter 25

# Aftermath

The next morning the wind was gone. As noisy as it had been, now it was silent. Marc and I and the boys had to work together to push one of the doors open. Snow had piled up against the side of the house, reaching almost to the windows. I assume this was a regular event for the locals, but I can tell you I was surprised. It's hard to know how much snow actually fell, maybe just six or eight inches, but the wind had piled it up in places four or five feet high. All the streets around Marc's house were still impassable. We could hear trucks with huge snowplows out pushing the snow around, but they seemed to be doing the main streets first. We probably spent the next two hours just trying to clear the area around his back door and out to his garage. It was a great time to have two teen boys.

Finally a city truck came by and cleared the street. With the street open, we finally had access to the rest of the town. Marc and I went off exploring, and left the boys to finish the shoveling. We walked down the middle of the street. None of the sidewalks were clear yet, and there was no traffic anyway. We took our time. Or, I should say, I took my time. I had never seen anything like this. Wherever the wind had been slowed by buildings, it had dropped its load of snow. Now they were like waves frozen in place, complete with crests that came to a sharp edge. It was amazing.

Eventually we got to the main street of town. It had been plowed, but the plowing had just pushed the snow up against the sidewalks, so the few people who were out walking like us, walked in the street. Cars that had been parked on the street were either completely buried by the combination of blizzard and snow plows, or we could see holes in the snow where some very energetic driver had managed to dig out his vehicle and drive it away.

We climbed over a ridge of snow and dropped down onto Main Street. Once there, we could see two squad cars, red lights flashing, parked in front of the hotel. Like the other pedestrians walking down the street, we headed to the hotel to see what was going on. One of the first things we noticed was that most of the trucks that had been parked in front of the hotel were now gone, leaving holes in the snow banks where they had been hours earlier.

It was a struggle to climb over the snow bank to get into the hotel, but we managed it. Inside, we found a lobby that looked like a tornado had struck. It appeared that every piece of furniture in the lobby had been smashed. Most of the tables in the restaurant were on their sides, or completely over turned. The bar was in place, but the shelves on the back bar were broken, and glass was scattered over the floor.

At the far end of the room stood five of the angry-men, none carrying rifles, and four policemen apparently interviewing them. At the other side of the room, standing near the registration desk, were three hotel employees looking at the men and at the mess. Judging by their facial expressions, if the hotel employees had been armed, there would be a gun fight going on.

We walked over to the hotel employees who were happy to tell their story, so happy they kept interrupting each other and getting louder and louder, ultimately shouting so the men at the opposite end of the room could hear every word. These guys were angry.

Their story goes something like this. When the blizzard initially hit, there were over one hundred men in the hotel, all of them too hung over to think much about the weather. Eventually they roused themselves and ordered food, and the early afternoon had gone by without much trouble. A few of them had gone to the door to look out at the storm, but they had not paid much attention, other than to comment on the noise from the wind and the draft that developed in the lobby. It was an old hotel and not weather-tight.

Later in the afternoon they had lined up at the bar and the trouble began. They were angry when told the beer was all gone, and things got worse when the liquor started running low. There might have been enough for half a glass of brandy each, but the first ones to the bar had several drinks and the guys at the back of the line got none. That led to some pushing and a few fist fights and the first table getting trashed as two bodies fell on it while wrestling. When the last of the brandy was gone, they cleaned out everything else, including some very expensive cognac that had been on the shelf for a dozen years. Then they started searching the hotel for more, coming around behind the bar to ensure the bartender was not hiding anything, and then searching the store room. They were rude, but so far not too dangerous. Eventually they settled down and slept.

It was the next day when things started getting completely out of hand. Around noon a couple guys tried to push their way out of the hotel, only to discover the street was closed, their trucks were buried, they were trapped. Meanwhile the wind kept rising, the draft in the lobby increased, and the whine of the wind through the cracks around windows and doors seemed to make everyone a little crazy.

Later in the afternoon they did another search of the building for liquor. When they found none, they started pressuring the bartender. Surely he knew where more liquor was. Why was he holding out on them? Was he looking to jack up the price? Was he a profiteer? Did he hate non-Sioux? Was he too stupid to know where the boss kept the extra liquor? It just kept getting worse and worse, nastier and nastier, and more and more intense. Finally one of the men had pulled out a gun and said he would use it if there wasn't a bottle in front of him in five minutes.

At this point there were three employees in the hotel – the bartender, the young man at the registration desk, and the cook who was also doubling as waiter and basically running his backside off. All three said they would make a final search to see if they could find anything in a back room. Once out of sight of the crazy men with guns, they decided it was too dangerous to go back, so they took the stairs down to the tornado shelter in the basement. There was food and water down there to last twenty people three days. Ironically, there was also a case of pretty good wine. They closed and locked the door and left the crazy men to their own devices. Once they had heard pounding on various doors as the men came looking for them, but no one had tried to force the steel tornado door. The hotel employees had passed the time by reading tornado warning pamphlets (there was a complete set in three different languages),making up their own warning pamphlets with a pornographic twist, and enjoying the food and wine.

During the two days and nights they were down there, they could hear crashes up above, and some shouts, and even gun fire on the second night. Then this morning it sounded like all the men had gone running in the direction of the front door. Assuming that either meant the building was on fire or the men were all leaving the hotel, the employees had come out of their shelter and come up to the lobby to find what we were now seeing. As bad as things were in the lobby, they were worse in the kitchen as the men had stolen food, made poor efforts at cooking, and generally wrecked every cooking appliance in the hotel. The hotel employees had called the police and hoped every man in the hotel was arrested.

By the time the employees had finish telling us their story, the police were done with the angry-men. They checked IDs, wrote down names, and let the men go back to their rooms. While the other cops talked together, one came over to the hotel employees.

"It would help if you called the rooms to see who is left here. There are still some trucks on the street, so they didn't all run off. Let's see how many there are."

"You are going to arrest them all, right?" asked the cook. Of the three hotel employees, he looked the most angry. They had messed up his kitchen, and now they were going to pay.

"The men we spoke with said they spent the last three days in their rooms. They know nothing about what happened down here. Whatever happened must have been done by the men who left this morning. That is their story."

"They need to go to jail for criminal damage to property. You can't destroy a hotel like this and then just drive away."

"We have no witnesses unless someone comes down from his room to start pointing fingers. I suggest in the meantime you add damage charges to what credit cards you have on file. Maybe they will pay." He then went back to his colleagues. They seemed to be taking the event pretty lightly. They were also doing a lot of talking on their cell phones and seemed to be nodding lots. They were taking orders, it appeared, and they were very fine with whatever they were hearing.

Meanwhile the cook kept sputtering about his kitchen. It was Marc who settled him down. "Why not call Buffalo Man. He needs to know about this. But I think he will be glad these men have left. The tribe can restock your kitchen. In the meantime, it might be a good thing if you can't cook. It might convince more of them to leave. And you," he turned to the desk clerk. "I think it would be really helpful to know how many of these men are left. And when you talk with them, you might point out that both the bar and the restaurant will be closed for repairs that might take weeks. Let's see if that clears the building."

We turned to leave at that point, only to see "Charles" standing just inside the door. He was standing ramrod straight and surveying the damage. He must have heard our conversation, but he made no acknowledgement. He just waited until we were done and then walked over to the police.

Meanwhile, Marc and I went back out to the street. Several more men were digging their cars out. It appeared the exodus was continuing.

"Maybe it's all over," I offered. "The cold, the snow, the lack of beer, apparently that's what was needed all along."

"We can hope so. At least there will be fewer of them. But I fear the ones who are left will be the most dangerous. And there still is Foster."

"Yes," I answered, "There still is Foster." On that glum note we walked back to Marc's house. The boys had done a great job on the driveway and walks. But that was enough outdoors for them. We found them back at their videogames, happy to be back in doors. I can't say I blamed them. The wind was down, but this was still Dakota in January, and the cold bit deep.

# Chapter 26

# The first fire

I have to admit I felt pretty optimistic that afternoon. Marc and Nicole invited me to continue staying at their house. The hotel might still be dangerous. But what we were really thinking was that it might all be over. The blizzard had cleared the bad guys out of town. In a day or two I would be able to drive back to Green Bay.

I called Elise that afternoon and spent a long time describing the blizzard and the hotel and talking about how I might be on the road back to Green Bay as early as tomorrow. Wow, was that wishful thinking. But it wasn't completely fanciful. We knew some men had left – maybe most of them. Possibly all of them. Elise and I even talked a bit about a theater event we would attend in Green Bay the next week. Not much happened in Green Bay in January, but more happened there than in DeSmet, and apparently more than happened in Arkansas. It would be good to be back home – and back together.

That was the general attitude we had that evening through dinner. I remember sitting at the table, lingering really, talking about Green Bay and about Elise, when we heard the sirens. They were distant, but there is so little noise in DeSmet, we could still hear them plainly. We listened to one, and then another, and then it sounded like several were wailing at once.

"Fire." Marc sat with his head turned toward the sounds. "They must be sending all the trucks in town." He turned to me. "The hydrants don't work when it is so cold. So they have to take water with them. Even so, a house fire this time of year almost always means the house is lost. It is just too hard to get water to the fire."

Marc's cell phone rang then. He listened a few minutes, saying almost nothing in reply. When he was done, he asked Nicole to get the boys. Then he was up and unlocked a closet in the kitchen. I saw several rifles and a shelf full of ammunition. When the boys arrived, he gave each one a rifle and a box of ammunition. They loaded their weapons without comment. He also gave Nicole a rifle. As she loaded it, she asked what had happened.

"The house that is burning was empty. Someone thought he saw several angry-men near it just before dark. Our people are checking the streets to see if there are other men out there. They asked me to join them. Shawn will go with me. The three of you know what to do." Marc and I got our coats on while the boys moved to other ends of the house. Marc took a rifle and handed me a pistol. When I hesitated to take it, he said, "If this gets bad, you may want it." I had no idea what "bad" might be, but I decided if he was worried enough to give it to me, I should be worried enough to take it.

We found several men waiting for us about a block away. The fire was west, and we walked that way, traveling silently and watching carefully in every direction. Several blocks later we saw another group of men and hesitated until they were identified as local. They too were walking west, toward the fire.

We had no trouble seeing the fire from blocks away. It was clear the fire department was not going to save the building. Flames were many feet in the air, and smoke poured into the sky. A block from the house we turned south down another side street. There were street lights, but they must have been low wattage (typical French junk), so we saw little. But we walked on, looking between houses and up alleys.

We never did see the men, but we heard them. There were running footsteps on the icy snow, then truck doors slamming, and an engine roaring off. We ran in the general direction of the sound, but the best we could do was catch taillights flashing briefly around a corner, and they were gone. We fanned out from there to see if others were around. I walked up one alley by myself for two blocks, my hand in my pocket wrapped around the pistol Marc had given me. I was desperate for two things – that this was the last alley I would have to walk down alone, and that my damn boots would stop making so much noise as they crunched on the snow.

I got lucky at least on the first wish. We met up at a corner, everyone reporting in whispers that he had seen nothing. We stood silently for a full ten minutes looking around us and listening for more running. We never did hear anything, but we smelled it –wood smoke. At first we thought it might have been smoke from the house the firemen were at. But as the smell intensified, we guess it was a second fire. But where? So far we saw nothing.

We split into two groups, both moving upwind – west. The smell intensified for the first block, and then seemed to attenuate. Where was it? Had we rushed right by it? We backed up a few houses and then stood and looked. There had to be smoke coming from somewhere, but in the weak light we just weren't seeing it.

"Don't look at the houses," Marc said. "Look at the sky. We may be able to see the smoke against the stars." It sounded like a good idea, and we all tried it, but as it turned out, we barely had our faces raised when the whole thing became academic. We heard a loud pop and shattering glass. The fire had gotten hot enough to blow out a window. It was in the next block.

While one man got on his cell phone to the fire department, the rest of us ran to the house. We pounded on the doors to awaken anyone inside. The men who went around to the back discovered the door had been propped open to feed air to the fire. They ducked inside briefly but came out quickly.

"The back part of the house is empty. It looks like the place is abandoned." Those of us banging on the front door noticed the pile of old newspapers on the porch and concluded he was right. The house was unoccupied. But the adjacent houses might be lived in, so we ran to surrounding houses and banged on doors, shouting. Pretty soon lights started coming on.

A minute later a fire truck arrived with four men. They carried small extinguishers and rushed to the house. We shouted about the open back door, and they used it to enter the house. They were in barely five minutes when they were out again. "It's too late. The fire is too big for these." One of the men said. He tossed his extinguisher into the snow.

"Get the tanker down here." Someone shouted.

"It's empty. We used it all on the other house. They took it back to the station to refill. We are going to lose both houses. The most useful thing we can do is warn people around here, and monitor the fires in case they spread. Help me do that." Several men quickly ran through mounds of snow to pound on more doors.

Marc walked over to one of the firemen who was standing near his truck, trying to catch his breath. "This house was empty." He told the fire fighter. "Do you know about the other one?"

"Empty too. No furniture. Seemed to be an unused rental."

"Okay, so at least no one was hurt. I wonder if there are other empty houses near here..."

"Good point. I see where you are going. I wonder if the police would know. Let me call the station." He pulled out a phone and had a quick conversation, shaking his head as he talked. "It's the middle of the night. They guess there are other empty houses in this area, but they don't keep a record of them, and it will be morning before any rental agents are in their offices."

"We don't need rental agents." I was suddenly brilliant. "We can find out which houses are empty just as quickly as the arsonists did – look at the front porch." I pointed to the news papers and assorted flyers, the detritus of advertising.

"That's it." Marc now took charge. There were probably thirty or so local men gathered by now. "Let's put four men in each group, each group takes a different street, and we go down block by block looking for junk on the front porch. If we see anything, we check the back door to see if it has been pushed in. OK?" That made such sense to everyone, the groups seemed to form instantly, assign themselves a street, and take off at the run. Marc and I and two others stayed on the current street. We split into pairs and worked each side of the street.

Now that we knew what we were looking for, we could move about as quickly as we could walk. We took a quick look at the front of every house. If we saw any accumulation of papers, we ran up on the porch to give it a closer look. Twice we pounded on doors, only to find the houses were occupied. We explained there was a fire down the street, and the people seemed to be glad we had warned them. I said nothing about their littered house front.

Using this new process we covered nearly ten blocks in the next half hour. We were all out of breath from moving fast in such cold air, but it felt good to have accomplished something. We met up with the other groups who reported similar experiences. They did have four addresses of abandoned homes, and several men wrote those down to share either with the police or with other watch groups.

By now it was after two and everyone was cold and tired. Everyone agreed that it was time to end the search. I was certainly ready to go home. My feet were half frozen and my ears hurt. And I was tired – bone tired. The other men might be in better shape, but I guessed they were pretty tired as well. We agreed to break up and head home, going slowly and carefully as we did so, just in case there were arsonists still on the prowl.

There was one final comment from the group just as we were about to disperse. "Do you think we should burn down the hotel on the way back? That would be the quickest way to end this." He got no response. No one agreed with him, but I also noted no one disagreed with him either. Men just walked away and left that thought hanging there. I wondered how much longer it would be before others had the same idea.

# Chapter 27

# Foster flees

I love Elise dearly, but a six am wake-up call does not enhance a relationship. I am not sure what time Marc and I got back from our search for arsonists, but we then spent a long time sitting in the kitchen with Nicole while we talked about what we had seen and done, and frankly, while we listened to be sure there were not bad guys outside the house. It was very late when I finally made it to the guest bedroom, and it felt like I had just hit the pillow when I got the call.

"Good morning, sunshine." Any other voice than hers would have heard a click as I shut off the phone. What Elise got was silence as I tried to wake up. It was still dark out, so my confusion was amplified. "We need you to take another call at the Provincial offices."

"Okay. What time?"

"Now would be really good." There was enough intensity in her voice that I sat up in bed.

"Now?"

"Some things are happening, and you are needed."

"Are you sure? The last time I was in that room "Charles" seemed to want me gone."

"This time it is Charles who is requesting your presence. You have a special relationship he needs."

"The only special relationship I have is with you."

"You're cute for a guy who is half asleep."

"Just keep thinking that. Tell the boys to give me ten minutes." It was more like twenty by the time I got dressed and hurried through the cold to the offices. The door guy looked like he was poking his head out the door every thirty seconds waiting for me. I barely hit the first step and he had the door open. Then it was down the stairs to the communications room where the same three guys I had seen several days before were waiting for me. They were all standing, looking like they had been pacing around. What could make them so impatient?

"Please sit there." Charles pointed to a chair. So, he would be running this meeting. This was interesting. I barely got into my chair when he and the others sat and Charles began the meeting. "Dr. Murphy is with us now. Can we continue?" He was shouting a bit to be sure he was heard by people in other locations. How many were there? He didn't say, and this time there were no introductions.

"Dr. Murphy," Charles continued. "A situation has arisen that needs a quick response."

"Do you mean the fires last night?"

"That is one reason for this meeting, but only one. By the way, we understand you were with one of the patrols last night. That was very kind of you."

"We found the second house fire, but too late to do much good. I was unaware of how difficult it is to fight a fire in such cold."

"We have some equipment that can help with winter fires, but not enough." This was government-guy number two. Was he asking for a budget increase?

"We will have today to plan some additional security measures so there are no more fires." Charles took charge of the conversation again. "But there may be additional incidents."

"We were hoping all the outsiders had left yesterday morning." I said.

"Many did." Charles again. "By our count nineteen are left. Unfortunately, these are the most dangerous. We have files on almost all of them since they have been a security risk for some years. You may be interested to know that several have connections to the Louisiana National Army. All of them belong to groups that are racist or just nasty."

"And there is Foster," I added. "I assume he is providing money for this bunch and leadership."

"No, that is the problem. We have a number of listening devices in the hotel. These men mask many of their conversations, so we don't have a complete picture, but one thing is clear. They want Foster out. The new leaders are the Dubuissant brothers, Philippe and Guy. They are the ones who are setting the new agenda."

"And Foster?" I asked.

"He is leaving. In fact, he is ready to leave town this moment. He agreed to wait until he talks with you before he goes."

"What?"

"He is waiting for you at the hotel. In exchange for talking with you and leaving the country, we agreed there would be no charges."

"Why do you want him to talk to me?"

"We want you to convince him to stay and control the mob he brought to town."

"He won't listen to me. Why don't you try?"

"We already have. Truth is, I think he is afraid of these men. And maybe he should be. But he brought them here. He should control them. You have known him longer, maybe you can shame him into staying."

"There is almost no chance of that."

"Maybe not, but we would be grateful if you would try. Go now. He is waiting."

So I left. It was maybe a ten minute walk to the hotel. Not much time to plan a speech that would move Foster and save the situation. What could I say? In truth, I didn't want to talk to him as much as I wanted to punch him in the face. He brings over a hundred desert rats to town, gets people killed, and then just runs off? And how does he escape jail? How does he get away with all this? That was pretty much the attitude I had as I walked to the hotel, my fists clenched inside my gloves, ready for a fight, not a sales pitch. Man-mountain needed to pay for what he had done.

I arrived at the front door of the hotel pretty hot under the collar, so much so that I missed him completely. I heard a truck horn beep and ignored it as I pushed on the hotel door, only to hear the horn blast again, louder and longer. Finally I turned and saw him in a huge black Ford truck parked at the curb. He motioned me around to the rider side of the cab, like I should get in and join him. Not in this lifetime. I walked around to the driver's side and stood in the street while his window slowly declined.

"You should be in jail." I shouted, the minute the window was a few inches down. Not much of a sales pitch, I know. "You leave dead bodies in the villages and burned homes here, and then you just drive off? You should be ashamed."

"I get a get-out-of-jail free card for talking with you. They didn't say anything about being ashamed if you request it." What did I see on his face? There was a bit of a smile formed around the rolls of fat, but it was a bit constrained. Was I seeing stress? So what.

"You are morally responsible for everything that happened here. If I had my way, I would tie you to a chair and make you watch as the hotel burns or the town burns or more people are shot."

"I am not happy about anything that happened here, but it might serve a larger purpose."

"Oh please. Don't dare go there. Those dead men don't care what game you are playing or what ends you are trying to achieve. And the next bunch of corpses should curse you though all eternity."

"Perhaps they will. But shut up and listen before I go. The men in there who will cause the most trouble are the Dubissant brothers. They are telling the others they are officers in the LNA and are under orders to start a fight here that will be joined by hundreds of LNA soldiers. Sioux lands will be taken over by Louisiana, and soldiers will be rewarded with land."

"The Dubissants told them that, or you did? Is that how you got those first men to follow you out to the villages?"

"My approach was different, and it doesn't matter. What you need to know is that the Dubissants are not officers in the LNA. They were soldiers – privates – and they were kicked out for robbery. They are common thieves, masquerading as soldiers."

"That applies to most of the LNA, as near as I can tell."

"You'll be a better scholar when you spend more time with facts and less time with prejudices. I am giving you facts. Use them."

"You use them. Get you fat ass back in that hotel and tell the seventeen suckers they are being taken for a ride."

"If I step through that door, I will be shot. I am not ready to die for my country, and I certainly will not die in this sad little town." He started the engine to his truck and put it in gear. Once again I remembered I had a pistol in my pocket, and once again I was sorely tempted. Surely there would be justice in his death. Instead, I stood in place and watched him drive out of town.

Charles was standing next to me in a moment. "You're pretty usefulness, you know that?"

"Yes, I do." I released my grip on the pistol and walked up the street.

# Chapter 28

# I call an old friend

I probably should have gone back to bed, but I decided to get breakfast instead. How many more buffalo omelet opportunities would I get? I went back to the restaurant by the provincial offices. It seemed even emptier this morning. Were people still leaving town? My favorite policeman was there, and he waved me over when he saw me.

"I hear Foster left town."

"Yes. He said they would shoot him if he stayed."

"Too bad."

"Too bad he left, or too bad they didn't shoot him?"

"Both, really. How about you. Ready to leave?

"I'll leave when my conscience allows." He had no response to that. Meanwhile, a waitress came over and took my order. "You want your regular?" she asked. I liked that. I had eaten here once and had a "regular." I nodded and she headed to the kitchen.

"One of the things Foster told me," I said, "was that the Dubuissants are both criminals. I had a thought. Last night all the fire fighters and cops and every adult male in town were on the west side of town looking at fires. Any chance there were other crimes being committed while we weren't looking?"

"Nothing has been reported yet this morning. But it is worth looking into." He finished his coffee and got up. "You might be useful after all."

"That's my goal in life – to be useful after all." He gave me a funny look and left.

I was halfway through my omelet and on my third cup of coffee when another idea struck me. Who knew – I might be useful twice in the same day. I gave Elise a call.

"How are the green houses today?" I asked.

"I am back at my hotel packing. We have finished our Arkansas appreciation tour and are going back to Green Bay."

"Did it go well?"

"It will go better when we send down the checks we promised to promote research. We are backing some pretty odd research projects, but if it makes a few friends..."

"I understand. Speaking of friends, can I ask a favor?"

"Do you need a lift out of there? By the way, I heard about the fires and about you going out looking for the arsonists. You aren't going to do that again, are you?"

"Of course not. Besides, I was surrounded by twenty other guys, and all I did was walk around a little and try not to get frost bite."

"I am glad you are not a good liar. It will make our marriage easier."

"I am all for an easy marriage. In the meantime, could I ask a favor? Last summer I had some dealings with a New Orleans attorney who had this fantasy about being an army officer. His name was Goulet, and he was a major in the LNA. I am sure by now he is a general at least. I suspect you have people who know how to get in touch with him. Could you get me a cell number or email address?"

"Do you plan to join up?"

"I would, but Louisiana is too hard to spell. Besides, the love of my life lives in Green Bay."

"Very smooth, Professor Murphy, very smooth. Let me see what I can do." We had a few more things to say after that, matters a bit more intimate, or at least as intimate as you can get speaking on a cell phone in a restaurant.

I worked on my breakfast, had yet another cup of coffee and wondered how long it would take to track Goulet down. And if I called him would he even answer? We had traded punches enough to make our positions very clear.

Even though the restaurant was nearly empty, I felt some guilt about keeping a table too long. Time passed, and finally I decided it was time to move on. But just as I pushed back my chair, in walked Charles. He pulled the chair out from the other side of the table, sat down, and handed me a piece of paper. On it was a phone number and the word "Goulet."

"You should know we will monitor your call."

"Then why are you here?"

"To let you know we will be monitoring your call."

"Not very subtle, are you? You do know I am on your side, right?"

"Of course." How can you say "of course" and have it sound like "I don't trust you for a minute?" Somehow, he managed. I decided to ignore him and make the call. Goulet let it ring a very long time. Was he staring at the caller ID and wondering first who it was, then why that SOB would be calling? It was about ring twenty when he picked up.

"What do you want?" Not very friendly, but at least he had answered.

"I want to do you a favor, and if you find the favor valuable, I want you to do me a favor."

"Let me guess, you want to meet in a ring, put on some boxing gloves, and settle this?"

"That sounds like a great idea, but it will have to wait. Maybe after the spring elections when you guys all have more time."

"Your friends need to keep up on politics. We are going to sweep the elections and all of us will be very busy running a new country."

"Sure. But let's get back to the real world for a few minutes. You have heard a few things are happening in DeSmet."

"I hear the usual. The forces in Green Bay are oppressing some poor hunters."

"Yes, of course. That captures it exactly. But oppressors aside, you might be interested in two of the hunters. And here is the favor. I give you names and a basic plot line, and you determine if I am telling you something helpful. If you agree this information saves your butt, you do me a favor in return."

"You want to save us?"

"Not really, but it turns out we have a common enemy."

"Let's hear about it."

"Two brothers are up here – Philippe and Guy Dubuissant. They are currently running a show that includes about two dozen deaths and now involves arson here in DeSmet. They have seventeen men taking orders from them in the belief that the Dubuissants are officers in the LNA, are here under orders, and will soon be joined by hundreds of LNA soldiers."

"You lie."

"I am sure you wish I were. But you see the problem. If they really are officers in the LNA, then you will take the blame for everything up here, and earn the perpetual enmity of the Sioux nation. I think that would be bad for you, no? If these guys are lying, then you still get the blame for every nasty thing they do. Heads you lose, tails you lose."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"As I said, as a favor to you. If these guys are legitimate, you now know not to send men up here. It would be suicide. If these guys are lying, you now have some time to distance yourself."

"And what favor do you want in return?"

"I want you to get off your dead ass and deal with these thugs." I shouted into the phone. At this point the entire restaurant was staring at me – all seven people. "People are in danger up here and will continue to be in danger until the Dubuissants are gone. You can speed the process – and save some lives – if you find out who these guys really are, and once you have the goods on them, get it to the desert rat radio station they all listen to."

"I will talk to some people."

"Do it." I don't know which of us hung up on the other first. It might have been a tie.

"Not bad." Was Charles' only comment as he stood and left. I paid the bill and left too, after apologizing to the waitress for shouting. I did notice she kept her distance while I paid the bill. I was sorry about that.

# Chapter 29

# Waiting for radio

Now what? If Foster had been telling the truth and the Dubuissants were thieves and liars, the other thugs might turn on them and this thing end on its own. But that outcome was based on Foster telling the truth and Goulet making an effort to expose the Dubuissants. I didn't trust either one. And even if the effort were made, how long would it take for the LNA bureaucracy to reach the desert radio station? Hours? Days? Weeks? In the meantime, nineteen dangerous men were holed up in the hotel.

I stood out in the street trying to determine where to go and what to do. It had to be thirty below, and the sun was barely above the horizon, but I realized I was not all that cold. I was acclimating. Wow. I had definitely been here too long. Time to get back to Green Bay.

Could I just leave now? It was hard to see what more I might do. My reason for being involved was my former connection to Foster, and now he was gone. Did I have any reason to stay on? In truth, I guess I was just curious. And of course my car had been taken some place to be fixed and I had never seen it again. Since the hotel people had arranged for the repair, they would know where it was, but now was probably not a good time for me to walk into the hotel and ask. So, okay, I was going to be here a little longer. But what was I going to do right this minute?

I decided to do a little snooping. Main street was being slowly cleared of snow. Dump trucks were brought in and large snow blowers picked up all the snow along the curb and on the sidewalk and blew it into the trucks. Two blocks were already clear and I guessed the rest of the commercial streets would be done by the end of the day. In the meantime, people still walked in the street, although now there was an increasing amount of car and truck traffic, so walking was a bit more challenging.

I walked up the street looking at each of the shops. If I were a thief, which ones would I break into? Not an easy choice. Truthfully, I didn't see anything in any store I would want to buy. Want hand-made blankets? Three stores. Want second-hand clothes? Four stores. Need a tattoo? Five places. At least a dozen storefronts were empty. DeSmet was not doing all that well. So what was there to steal?

A block farther north I thought I found a couple prospects. Three pawn shops stood in a row. They would have guns, gold, and money. On the corner was a larger grocery store. It would have money too. The snow blowers had not reached this block yet, so I could see each store was pretty well blocked in by snow drifts. They would have been pretty hard to rob last night. Maybe around back?

I walked around the corner to see if there was an alley to give access to back doors. There was, but it was completely blocked by snow. If there had been thoughts of robbing these places, the snow had protected them. But, what did I know? Maybe the Dubuissants had found another way in, or had robbed another group of stores, or maybe Foster was lying about the whole thing. Besides, the town had cops. They would have figured out all of this long before I did. Enough. I gave up being an amateur detective and walked back to Marc and Nicole's house.

Marc and Nicole were sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee. I joined them. What was being said? Not much. They were both as tired as I was. I noticed the cabinet was open in the corner of the kitchen and all four rifles were there. But the door stood open. Clearly they didn't think the problem was over, and they faced another night of thugs burning houses. I could hear the boys in another room, their video games making electronic noises in the background. At least they were able to return to the norm.

"Foster left." I said, and then filled them in on our conversation, plus the conversations I had had with the police and with the LNA. The burglary possibility struck Marc.

"That would actually be great for us. We catch them in the act, and lock them up for being common criminals. Now all the politics is out of this. It isn't desert rats versus Indians, it is crooks being crooks. The cops here are pretty good. They will watch. We can put a couple trucks on the street to provide more eyes, and maybe we will get lucky."

The radio idea wasn't received as well. It was dependent on too many players. Goulet had to be willing to ask about the Dubuisants, some people in the LNA had to care, and had to agree that the Dubuissants should be exposed. That would mean they had to admit there were criminals in the LNA. Then there was the radio station. Would they air anything showing the men were crooks and frauds? They had been portraying the dead angry-men as "martyrs" and the hotel filled with "freedom fighters." After a week of rabble-rousing, could they pull a 180? Pretty unlikely.

Nevertheless, Nicole went to work on her computer. She had a laptop on a table in the corner, and she did a web search until she found the website of the station. They were live-streaming their local broadcast and she clicked on that. It was ghastly. Basically a stream of hate put in the form of victimization. There was a "war" on the poor people in the desert launched by an oppressive government in Green Bay. Then there were the references to race and religion. It was ugly. Nicole turned down the volume. Even at lowest volume it felt like it poisoned their home. Both boys poked their heads in and asked what that was. As I explained why we were listening, some caller launched into a racist rant that made us all want to throw the computer out. As much as we wanted to hear some comment about the Dubuissants, was it worth having that ugly nonsense in the house?

"Let's shut it off," I suggested. "There are city and provincial officials who will be listening. We don't have to."

"There are people who believe this?" Nicole asked. She looked at me, and then she looked at the boys. She was clearly embarrassed they were hearing this.

"There's a reason why they live in the desert." I hoped that was sufficient explanation. But it really wasn't. How do you explain or excuse broadcast hatred? Nicole turned her computer off. But there was ugliness in the kitchen now. I did not know how long it would take for the air to be cleared of it. How do you turn on an exhaust fan for broadcast poison?

We decided the best way to clear the air was to leave the house. Nicole needed groceries, and we all needed to be outside in the clean air. All five of us crowded into Nicole's car and we drove up to the grocery store I had looked at earlier in the morning. It was getting pretty good business. Among the customers were half a dozen angry-men who were loading up on sandwich fixings, junk food, and beer. It hadn't occurred to me before, but with the restaurant closed at the hotel, they were either going to have to find a new restaurant, or serve themselves. Apparently they felt more comfortable eating among their own, if you consider potato chips, cookies, and beer actually eating. I wondered if scurvy was a common problem for these guys.

Watching them load up their shopping carts was interesting. First, they looked stupid pushing a cart, is if they were normal people, but in my experience normal people don't walk around wearing camo and carrying a rifle slung over their shoulder. Normal people also occasionally engage in conversation. Not these guys. I never saw them exchange a word. The just rolled a cart to the beer aisle and then to the junk food aisle, and they put things in until the cart was full. If a high school kid with a fake ID were in the store, he would be making the same purchases.

The other unusual thing was the way others in the store reacted to the angry-men. They were given plenty of space. You could see people push a cart around a corner, see the men, and back out of the aisle. No shopper has ever had as much space as these guys were given. Of course, when you come to the store armed and dressed for drama, such space should not be too surprising. But if they noticed it, they gave no sign. They loaded their carts, pushed to the checkout counters (which also suddenly had no lines), paid and left.

It got me thinking about conditions at the hotel. They had no food or liquor except what they brought in themselves. The lobby was pretty well trashed. What did their rooms look like? Had anyone changed the sheets? The hotel staff may still be going in to work, or they might not be. Was it getting pretty uncomfortable in there?

"Marc," I asked as we trailed behind Nicole and the boys. The three of them were having a bit of a competition over what went into the cart. The boys had their ideas (chocolate seemed to be the organizing principle), and Nicole had her ideas (largely centered on vegetables). As some compromise position for the cart was debated, Marc and I talked. "Remember that idea we had for the village school? Give any thought to shutting the heat to the hotel?"

"Yeah, we've had a couple discussions on that. The general thinking now is that the hotel is a good place for them. They are all in one place so they are easier to monitor, and they have already done as much damage as they are likely to do. We could try to force them out, but they might just go somewhere else in town."

"So we wait."

"We wait, and we watch." At this point Marc put some smoked salmon in the cart.

"Anything for you, Shawn?" Nicole asked. I made some comment about needing lobster, and sure enough they had some. It was canned, but canned lobster is better than no lobster. And that topped off the cart. I paid for the groceries. It was the least I could do.

Back at home, I promised to make a lobster thermador fit for Bookbinders, and I will give myself credit for a serious try, but at the end, it was still just canned lobster, chunks of potatoes, and a heavy sauce in a casserole. I spent a couple hours basically making the recipe up as I went along, but everyone had fun watching me mess up the kitchen. I took so long that by the time I was finished everyone was hungry enough to try some of the concoction I had made. Marc even made a big show of having seconds. The boys had no need to be good hosts, so they ate as little as they could get away with, and went back to their video games.

While nothing was said, the real accomplishment was killing a long afternoon and staying busy as we thought about what might also be a long night. That was far more important than my silly casserole.

# Chapter 30

# Shots fired

Marc had been speaking to people by phone all afternoon and apparently a plan had been worked out in cooperation with the local police. Rather than walk around the city looking for problems, the men would go out in trucks. I liked that idea a lot. It would be much warmer, and given a choice between sitting and walking, I'll take sitting.

About nine Marc and Nicole distributed the rifles and everyone reloaded. As before, Nicole and the boys would guard the house, while Marc and I drove out to a spot that had been assigned to us. Basically, trucks were being posted in three general areas – several by the hotel to see what was happening there, several along the commercial streets to see if burglaries were a possibility, with most of the trucks parked along the western streets where the fires had burned last night.

We were given the street farthest west. It was an odd street. The front yards of the houses looked like any others, but behind the houses on the western side, the plains extended out forever. These folks had the biggest backyards on the planet. I also noticed all the cross streets stopped here, with none extending so that future streets could be laid out to the west. I mentioned that to Marc.

"There will never be streets farther to the west. DeSmet is constrained to its present size by city code and provincial statute."

"Why?"

"The short answer is, that is the way we want it. You can probably work through the longer answer. Start with the men at the hotel. They are the worst bad apples to ever arrive here, but they aren't the first. We have had centuries of people coming here and making problems. We need a place to interact with outsiders, but there are very good reasons to limit the size of that place." It was hard to argue with that view as we sat there, guns on our laps, watching for arsonists.

Time passed slowly. Marc had the engine off periodically to save gas, but when it got cold in the cab he ran it again for a while. He also had his cell phone out and there were updates every fifteen or twenty minutes, but otherwise, we just sat. We had a pretty good view of the street. He looked up one direction, and I looked down the other. We talked now and then, but there were long silences as we watched and waited.

It was near midnight when we got a call that something had been seen two streets over. Marc restarted the engine, but left his lights off as he slowly cruised down a block to the nearest intersection. We saw the lights of another pickup truck down two blocks, but we could not tell if it was local or a problem. Marc parked and we stared between the houses to see if anyone was around. A few seconds later the other truck roared to life and went racing around a corner. Marc put his truck in gear and was about to follow, when I shouted.

"Stop. I thought I saw a man running through those yards." I got out of the truck and started running in that direction, while Marc took the truck down the street. Suddenly there were sounds of cars and trucks all around. I ran down the street past two houses, and then tried to run between the houses where I had seen a man. What a mistake. The snow was deep, and I fell flat on my face after taking the first few steps. I got up and pushed through more snow until I got up next to the house where the wind had scoured the snow away. I was breathing so hard I thought my chest would burst, but I continued along the wall until I got to the back of the house. I stopped and looked around the corner. The back door was open – propped open the way they had been at the houses we had seen the night before.

At this point I realized I was the dumbest man on earth. First, I had not brought a cell phone, so I could not tell anyone what I was seeing. No doubt my phone was getting a good charge back at Marc's house, but that did me little good now. Worse, I could hear cars and trucks converging around me. Someone might arrive and see me. But would they know I was not the arsonist? I might get shot by either side, or both.

While several trucks seemed to be converging on me, I heard several others take off to the south. Was there some sort of chase going on, or had they seen something else down there? I stayed in place. I reached into my pocket for the pistol Marc had given me. With my gloves on I could barely keep a grip on it. I took my right glove off, and now I could barely grip it from the cold. Or course I was also shaking for reasons other than the cold.

And there I stood. It never occurred to me to try to go into the house. Not a chance. If there was someone in there, they would be armed and far more dangerous than me. I stood at the corner of the house, tried not to drop my pistol, and hoped that help would show up before I passed out from fright.

Several eons later, I heard two trucks stop in the next street. Doors opened and people got out. I could hear them struggling through the snow just as I had, although they probably avoided falling flat on their face. There was no light coming from the surrounding houses, and there wasn't much of a moon. With snow all around what little light there was provided some visibility, but not much. So I heard the other men long before I saw them. They were in pairs, and they came up on both sides of the house across the alley. I doubted they could see me, but I froze in place just in case.

Eventually the men got to the back corners of that house, and they stood still just as I had. Could they see the back door of this house? Maybe. They were certainly looking toward it. Meanwhile, I was trying to imagine what might be going on inside the house. Anything? Maybe the man had already left. Maybe there had never been anyone, and the door had just been blown open by the wind. Who knew? I stood and waited. They stood and waited. Nothing happened.

Then two more trucks pulled up in front of the house. Now I had trucks behind me. Did they know I was here? I turned to look, realizing just as I turned, that by moving I was now visible to the four men across the alley.

That's when the shooting began. I immediately dropped face first into the snow and kept my head down. I wanted to shout that I was not an arsonist, but it is hard to shout with a mouth full of snow. Buried in the snow it was also pretty hard to know what was going on, but it seemed like the shots were being fired from every direction, including from inside the house. After dozens of shots were fired, I thought I heard a door slam in the house, and then there were many more shots in a second or two. Someone had an automatic rifle. It fired a full clip, and then it stopped.

It was another minute or two before the last shots were fired, but they gradually ended amid shouts of "cease fire" from the front of the house. I stayed down. A few minutes later I could hear the men from across the alley come running through the snow. The back door slammed as one or more went into the house. But I could also hear at least one coming up behind me. I stayed down trying to think of what to say to not be shot.

"I'm with Marc LeGrande," was the best I could do. Hopefully they would not be my final words.

"Get up slowly." I pushed myself up out of the snow. I left the pistol on the ground.

"My name is Shawn Murphy. I am with Marc LeGrande."

"Walk to the front of the house."

"There is a pistol by my right foot. Don't leave it there. It belongs to Marc." I started back to the street, aware that I still might be shot. Scared as I was, I was still curious. What had just happened?

When I got to the front of the house I saw the two trucks that had stopped there. Three men were by them, one of them Marc. The other two were standing. Marc was sitting on the street holding his ankle. As soon as I was visible around the house, the two men by the truck raised their rifles.

"Stop." Marc shouted. "He's OK." I fought my way through the deeper snow and kneeled down next to Marc.

"Were you shot?"

"No, I was trying to get around behind my truck and slipped." I helped him get up. I thought it was curious none of the others were helping him, until I turned around and saw the body lying fallen across the front steps. "The son of a bitch had a machine gun." Marc added when he saw where I was looking. "He shot the hell out of my truck, but missed me. Luckily, these guys got him." He pointed to the men by the other truck. Neither was moving or talking. They just stared at the man they had just killed.

Two men stepped out of the front door, and again the men at the truck raised their rifles. "Cease fire" shouted one of the men at the door as they ducked back into the building. "It's us." There was a pause, and then the two men stepped out of the doorway again. "He was alone. He had a gas can, and he had poured some in one room, but he hadn't lit it yet." He waved the gas can and brought it with him as they came down the stairs, stepping carefully around the dead man. The two men who had been behind me also came around the corner and walked out to the street. Somehow they managed to get through the snow looking less clumsy than me. One of them handed me Marc's pistol, but neither had anything to say. We all just stood there, Marc leaning against his truck, and stared back at the dead man. What was there to say?

Finally someone made a call and shortly thereafter a police cruiser arrived. He brought out a flashlight and examined the dead man. He also picked up his automatic rifle and gave it a good look. That went into the trunk of his cruiser. He took names, but didn't really ask any questions. He was on the scene maybe ten minutes and then left, telling us all "Let's call it a night."

I was certainly ready to end the day. I helped Marc into his truck, and then got behind the wheel. Most of the windows had been blown out, but the engine seemed okay. So the ride home was cold, but at least we were riding and not walking. As I pulled away, I saw the rest of the men were still standing next to the other truck, just staring at the dead man. I have no idea when they finally left the scene.

# Chapter 31

# More waiting

When we got back home I had to help Marc into the house, which must have made Nicole's heart stop as she imagined all the things that could be wrong with him. When she found out it was an ankle, she got out an adhesive bandage and some ice. With two sons, she was ready to respond to basic injuries. As Marc described it, he had just slipped as he got out of his truck. As for the incident (it was already on the local radio), yes, he had been in the area, but two others been had been involved in the shooting. I wasn't sure how he was going to explain the condition of his truck, but he had until morning to think of something.

Why is it men lie to women about the risks they take? Partly they are trying to be helpful, but I think we are also trying to minimize our own sense of risk. Yes, Marc might have been shot, but he wasn't. The bad guy had lots of bullets, but no real skill. Could bad things have happened? Yes, but why dwell on that? So we come up with some approximation of the truth and move on.

I had my own series of white lies to tell a few minutes later when Elise called. My freshly charged – and now available – cell phone rang minutes after we got in the door. Someone had been shot? Yes, an arsonist. No one else was hurt. And me? I was perfectly safe the whole time. We were all back in the house now and headed to bed. That was my story for Elise. Most of that was true. Was I ever really in danger? Not all that much. I knew to stay hid, and I knew to stay down, and the men who had rifles knew to be careful who they shot. It might be an interesting story to tell the grandchildren, with lots of laughs about grandpa lying in the snow. If she had any doubts, Elise didn't voice them, and we ended the call with lots of "love yous" and "see you soons."

Did we really go straight off to bed? No. I think we sat in that kitchen for over an hour until we had calmed down enough to finally feel like sleeping. But we did sleep. At least I did, and I noticed when I got up the next morning Marc and Nicole were still in their room.

I walked down to the restaurant for breakfast and had my "usual." I was a little concerned about my waitress. She was good at refilling my coffee, but she kept her distance otherwise. I tried to make up for yesterday's shouting by smiling extra wide whenever she came by.

Charles came by after a while. I was not too surprised. There aren't that many places in town to eat, and if he wanted to find me, this would be a great start.

"The man you killed last night – his partner beat it out of town."

"I didn't kill anyone. I was half buried in a snow pile the whole time.

"Okay, the man your team got. His partner raced out of town last night. By dawn, four more were gone. That takes them down to thirteen."

"That's progress."

"Yes, and there is progress with the radio station too. When they described the death, they just said – and I quote – we have just learned that a local man has been shot in DeSmet. No details of the shooting have been released."

"That's progress?"

"Yesterday they were all martyrs being killed by Indians encouraged by the white-hating government in Green Bay. Now suddenly he was just a local man, and they don't know anything about his death. They didn't know anything about the other deaths either, but that didn't keep them from making up all kinds of conspiracies."

"Okay, so you think they are coming around?"

"No." He gave me a look he must have used a thousand times on the dumbest private in his unit. How could anyone be as stupid as I was? "They will never 'come around.' They make their living entertaining desert rats with conspiracies and hatred. But they – like the rest of the world – sometimes need to cover their backside. If the LNA has told them the background of these boys up here, maybe the station is seeing how getting caught supporting common criminals might not be good for their advertising revenue."

"If the LNA has talked with them."

"Yes. If the LNA has talked to them. We do have access in a few places, but we may never be sure who said what to whom. But we may be making progress. We will have to see how far the station goes. Maybe they repudiate the Dubuissants, maybe they just decide to ignore the boys. Maybe they decide to go all in and call them freedom fighters until the end. We shall see. But I think we are making progress."

"I hope you are right."

"We shall see. By the way, good job not getting shot last night." Had he heard about me diving into the snow bank and now was laughing at me? Or was he genuinely concerned? I have no idea. He was up and out the door. End of conversation.

I got back to work on my omelet and had most of it gone when visitor number two arrived. Was I so easy to predict? It was my favorite policeman, and he walked over to my table like he knew exactly where I would be and when I would be there. I guess I am a creature of habit.

"You should know," he said as he sat down. Somehow people seem to think they can just sit at my table without asking. "Some things are happening here that are not normal." I must have made a face when he said that. "not normal?" Let me count the ways. Twenty men are shot in the villages, houses are being burned in town, guys with automatic weapons are opening fire in the night... I hope that is not normal.

"What I mean is that there are judicial procedures here, just as there are everywhere else in the civilized world. People don't just shoot people and walk away. Killing is a crime. We have a small police force, but we are the authorized police in this town." I had no idea where he was going with this. Did he expect an argument from me? "Last night the men who encountered the arsonist were police auxiliaries. They had to right to use deadly force to protect themselves."

"I completely agree. The man had an automatic weapon and very nearly killed Marc LeGrande."

"Good I just want to make the legal issues clear to you, since you are from a foreign country. I did not want you to get the wrong impression."

"Thank you for the clarification. By the way, were there any robberies last night?"

"Yes, there was a break-in at one of our pawn shops. We are investigating that now."

"So, Foster was right. They are just crooks."

"We don't know who did the crime. But we are investigating. If you will excuse me..." and he was gone. What in the world had that been about? The arsonist had a machine gun. Anybody anywhere in the world would have had the right to return fire. And why bother telling me?

The answer came within ten seconds. The synchronization was amazing. Elise came first. "Shawn, you are going to get a call from a reporter in St Louis. I would like you to take it. Do you mind?" I gave the obvious answer and got off the line. Two sips of coffee later, I got the reporter's call.

Hi, this is so and so from the daily whatis. Sorry, but that's about all I remember about the preamble. It was his question that mattered.

"We understand there was a shooting last night, and you were a witness."

"Yes."

"Could you describe what you saw?"

"A man had broken into a house and was pouring gas on it to burn it down. Two similar fires had been started the night before. When he was spotted, he opened fire with an automatic weapon. He very nearly killed a man. Two other men returned fire and killed him."

"The men who returned fire, who were they?

"I don't know their names, but they are police auxiliaries who have been trying to protect more homes from arson." The minute "police auxiliaries" was out of my mouth, the light bulb came on. My favorite policeman had prepped me for my interview. Pretty clever.

"I understand you are an American professor in DeSmet to do research?"

"Yes, I am a history professor, and I am here for a short time to study the early French explorers." And that was that. There were other questions, but the salient points had been made. The guy killed had been an arsonist. The men who had shot him were legally allowed to do so. I was an objective witness who could verify everything was above board. Pretty cool. My compliments to whoever had thought up the interview. A point was being made. Even the fact that the publication was in St Louis and not in Green Bay had been carefully thought out. I hoped I eventually would get to meet the genius behind this event.

One other good thing happened. My waitress smiled back when she refilled my coffee. Apparently I was a good guy again. Not a bad way to start the day.

What do you do after a good breakfast and productive newspaper interview? Good question. It's not like DeSmet has an unending list of attractions. For reasons that didn't make any real sense, I found myself walking down the street to the hotel. Staring at the hotel wasn't real logical. It's not like I have x-ray vision and could see what was going on inside, and there is not much happening outside, but I found myself standing on the sidewalk staring at it. And the funny thing was, I was not alone. There were several other men and a couple kids, just standing on the street or on the sidewalk staring at the building. It had probably not drawn that much attention since the day it was built.

What did we see? Not much. One of the men I recognized as a hotel employee came out, and another hotel employee went in. Not much excitement there. I did see one of the angry-men leave. He had a rifle over one shoulder and a bag over the other. He walked to his truck, threw everything in the back, and drove south out of town. Another one gone. There was something about the way he threw his bag in the truck that made me wonder just how angry the angry-men might be. In the meantime, us watchers didn't exactly cheer, but there were some shared looks and smiles. DeSmet might get its hotel back.

As exciting as it might be to stare at a century old hotel, it was still Dakota, with Dakota weather. We had been spared wind since the blizzard, but temperatures were still below zero. It occurred to me a Dakota thermometer might be interesting. I wondered if they had to be made special. I'd have to talk to my father about any exports we made along those lines. Of course I did all this wondering as I walked back to the nice warm home of Marc and Nicole.

I arrived to find Nicole on the verge of throwing crockery at Marc. She had seen the truck. He'd had all night to come up with a good story, but apparently it wasn't good enough. Worse yet, Nicole turned on me the minute I walked in the door and wanted to get my version of events. Since I had not heard Marc's version, this could be really bad.

What did I say? Very little. In truth, she had the right to know what had happened. We should have given her the whole story the night before. We thought we saw a bad guy, we went looking for a bad guy, and the bad guy opened up with an assault rifle. The bad guy got the truck, and two other men got him.

Her response? "Don't lie to me. Ever." She said to Marc. "Don't try to protect me. I know these nuts have guns. I was sitting here with a rifle too. So were the boys." With that she left the house.

Marc poured me a cup of coffee and we sat at the kitchen table to drink it. What do you say when you have walked into a domestic spat? Not much.

"How's the ankle this morning?" I needed to break the ice somehow.

"She has it taped up pretty good, but I should probably stay off it. I won't be taking the truck very far anyway until we get the windows replaced."

"Do they have a plan for tonight?"

"We'll get a call later this afternoon." And with that we moved into fill-in-the-time chatter. Still cold out. One more guy left the hotel. I talked to a couple guys at the restaurant. Just stuff to say while time passed. Eventually we moved into the living room and watched lacrosse reruns on the tube. Just an observation – if you think lacrosse is boring live, it is not any better in reruns. But it killed a couple hours while we waited for the phone to ring and Nicole to come back home.

Nicole got back about five minutes before the phone rang. She had been at the police station talking about the shooting and about the plans for the night. She already knew what the phone message would be – change of plans. Rather than fan out across the city, volunteers were to park in front of the hotel. A show of force. Oh, and two more men had left during the afternoon. There were just ten angry-men left.

We had dinner and then loaded up the car. There would be a change in personnel there too. She and I and the boys would take the car, and Marc would stay home to guard the house. He didn't object. He took his rifle and hobbled to one of the front windows, while Nicole and the boys took their rifles and I took my pistol. Nicole drove.

It was interesting at the hotel. There had to be eighty cars and trucks parked all over the street in front of the hotel. Traffic was completely blocked. And, oddly, it seemed a bit like a celebration. People got out of their cars and talked to neighbors and friends. Everyone had a weapon handy, and most stood facing the hotel, but there was almost a festive atmosphere. People shared food they had brought along, and folks who had not seen each other in a while got caught up on events. I mostly stayed in the car where it was warm, but the boys got out almost immediately and talked to friends. It was hard to tell under all the layers of clothing, but I thought a couple of the friends might have been female. Nicole found several other women and they talked and laughed. A party on Main Street? Almost.

There was always the risk that the angry-men would do something stupid, but all four of the local police had taken up places right across from the front doors of the hotel. They actually stood guard along with a few other men, while the rest of the crowd walked between the rows of cars and talked to friends.

How long did this go on? Pretty long. But eventually the cold became more important than the conversations, people slowly retreated to their vehicles, and a few people left. By two in the morning, most of the people had gone home. The point had been made. The police stayed at their posts, but the street slowly cleared of the civilians. Nicole left then too, and we went home to a warm house and warm beds.

# Chapter 32

# The LNA arrives

Charles decided six am was a great time to call me. He and I were never going to be friends.

"An old friend of yours arrived a few minutes ago. We have scheduled a meeting for 7 in the provincial offices. Please join us." And he hung up, leaving me to wonder who the "old friend" might be. Just what I always like at dawn – a mystery. I had time to shower and change and get one cup of coffee in me, but after less than four hours of sleep, one cup didn't exactly do magic. But it got my feet moving in the right direction.

I was still sleepy and a bit grumpy when I got to the provincial offices, but I woke up fast when I got to the front door and found half a dozen soldiers in full uniform standing in the lobby. They were all armed, and they looked ready to fight. I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at them, only to have the usual door guy grab my arm and practically lead me down to the usual basement room. Another phone conference?

No, this meeting was face-to-face, or practically nose to nose. There were men on each side of the conference table, and each side was staring daggers at the other side. On the side closest to the door (which now closed behind me) was Charles, now in full uniform, two other soldiers in uniform, and three of the local police, also in uniform. Apparently today was the day to make sure your uniform was cleaned and pressed.

On the other side of the table was the reason for the meeting. Three LNA men sat there, also in uniform. If you have not seen their uniform, you won't be surprised to learn it is primarily white, with blue trim. These men also wore belts across their chests and I could see leather holsters at their sides. No wonder the guys upstairs were armed. I didn't know two of the LNA men, but I did know the one who sat in the middle – Major Goulet.

"Professor Murphy, please take that seat." Charles pointed to a seat at the end of the table. I would not be on either side. Was he making a point? "Colonel Goulet asked for your attendance at this meeting, so here you are." So the major was now a colonel? Why not a general in this pretend army – it had been weeks. As for Charles, it looked like he was an officer too, but I could not tell his rank. What I could tell is he wanted no part of Goulet, and he also wanted me gone.

"Colonel Goulet" Charles continued, making the word "colonel" sound like a profane term boys would use. "arrived this morning. We were just beginning our discussions. So far we have acknowledged that Canadian citizens are allowed to bear arms, no matter how oddly they are dressed. So he and his friends can keep their side arms."

"As always," Goulet responded, "we are surprised when the representatives of the Green Bay government follow the law. What happens next? You allow us to breathe? To eat? To travel? Major, we are here to save you from major embarrassment. We do not expect thanks from your government, but reasonable courtesy would make this process go along more smoothly."

"The only embarrassment is yours, and your right to courtesy vanished when you put on those silly uniforms."

"The only thing being silly in this room is you. We are here to help. Do you take our help, or not?"

"What would your 'help' consist of?"

"Finally, a question worth asking. Let's talk. First, you need the men in the hotel gone, and gone without major incident. If they stay, they threaten the town, and they threaten the story you tell about how peaceful and marvelous life in Canada is. If you attack them, you demonstrate one more time how oppressive your government is."

"They are already leaving. There are just ten left. They might leave on their own today or tomorrow."

"And the tooth fairy might help them pack." At this point I thought Charles was going to fly across the table. "They aren't going anywhere. They think they have been wronged, and they are confident that while some leave, others will join them."

"They think men from your army will be coming up here. If you try that, those uniforms aren't going to be white very long."

"The Louisiana National Army is not an invasion force. We seek only to defend our homeland. We will not being coming up here. We won't give you an excuse to attack our men."

"Tell that to the thugs in the hotel, and they may leave."

"I have much to tell the men in the hotel, but only if you meet our conditions."

"And those would be..."

"First, those men face no charges. That's an easy one is it not? You don't want those men in a court where they can tell what they have seen and what you and the Sioux have done." Charles made no response. He was staring at Goulet like he wanted his eyes to bore holes in him.

"Second, they face no interference as they leave. They get into their vehicles, drive around town to buy gas or groceries, and leave just as if they were tourists."

"Third, I and my men were never here. You are to take no photographs, record no video, or tell any media representatives of this visit. And fourth, Professor Murphy goes with us to the hotel."

"Why him?"

"That's my business. Now, if you need time to talk with your superiors and get their permission, feel free." At this point I thought Charles really was going to lose it. His chest got bigger, his fists clenched, and his jaw clenched. Goulet didn't seem to care. He sat very still and waited, but it looked to me his two men were uncomfortable. One shifted in his chair and put a hand closer to his holster.

"Here are my terms." Charles put his hands on the table and counted out the terms. I suddenly noticed just how large his hands were. Maybe that was the real point of the gesture.

"First, you have those thugs out of the hotel by dark. We've had enough of our homes burned. Second, you also leave town by dark. That uniform you are wearing is enough to make me puke. Third, we will be telling all hotel employees to leave the building immediately. Anyone still in that hotel at sundown – 4:45 today – is going to die. That's the deal."

"And you agree to our conditions?"

"Yes. All the boys get a free pass out of town. But, and you need to make this clear to them, if any return to Dakota ever again, they will see the inside of a jail for a very long time."

"Of course. One more threat. Your government is so good at them. And now, "He and his men stood. "We will go and solve your problem. Dr. Murphy, if you would join us." And the four of us walked out of the room and upstairs. There was a coat room up there and the three men each put on a large winter coat to hide their uniform. That done, we walked out the door to their vehicle, a large off- the road truck with huge tires. These guys were going all out in their effort to look military.

They drove about four blocks down a side street, the two junior officers in the front seat, while Goulet and I sat in the rear. Goulet created some distance between himself and the provincial office and then had the driver pull over. He wanted to talk.

"You are probably wondering why I invited you along."

"Yes. This whole thing looks pretty simple to me. They expect the LNA to rescue them. Instead, you come along and tell them to leave. They should listen and leave. None of that involves me."

"No, none of it involves you. But it should. You are on the wrong side. You have been from the first. Your country is one of the best allies we have. There is much the U.S. can do for Louisiana, and much Louisiana can do for the U.S."

"I hope one of the things my country can do for Louisiana is to convince you to take that uniform off. You are headed down a road that will ruin many lives – including your own."

"Do you remember what you said to me last summer?"

"If you mean during the fire on that ship, I suppose it was, let's get off this damn boat." That got a chuckle from Goulet, and I thought I saw some reaction from the front seat. They could hear every word we said, but of course were pretending they weren't listening.

"No, we were in a park about to hear lots of speeches from townsfolk celebrating the arrival of the centennial wagon train. You told me that our organization was run by criminals and I would end up being a victim of them."

"That's a pretty easy prediction. Through lots of history the idealists start something, and the thugs finish it – and the idealists."

"Today I want to show you another ending to that story. Today the thugs lose. Maybe it will help you see that you are wrong about many things."

"We shall see."

"Yes, we shall see, but you will not tell. The price of your lesson is this – you can tell the public nothing of what you see. I don't want to see another one of your damn blogs. No pictures of us or the men or the hotel. No long stories about how the LNA did this or that. You are free to talk with your friends – both the ones in Green Bay – and the ones in Philadelphia." He emphasized the last phrase, insinuating I had secret connections there. "You might help both groups better understand us. But there will be no front page stories this time. Do you agree?"

"The Canadian government has already agreed to hide your involvement in this. I can do the same."

"Can you? We shall see if you are a man of honor." He directed the driver to go to the hotel. As we drove, he ignored me and spoke to his men. One – Lieutenant Delaet – was to be sure to bring the case. The other – Lieutenant Tremaine - was to follow the plan. Apparently I would learn of the plan once we got into the hotel – part of my education into the side of the LNA that I had been missing.

The driver pulled the huge vehicle right up to the front doors of the hotel and left it there. Apparently it was important that the truck be visible to those inside. Once parked, the driver got out and opened the door for Goulet. Goulet and his lieutenants got out, stood for a moment, and then slowly marched into the hotel, looking like they were there to buy it. They got into the lobby and stood side by side, staring at the place. There sure wasn't much to see. The furniture looked even more broken than it had been the last time I was there. And now, in additional to the broken chairs, the place was littered with fast food wrappers and piles of beer cans. They looked to have drunk every can of beer in the province. There were mountains of cans everywhere.

At one of the tables that still stood on four legs, three of the angry-men sat and talked. When they saw Goulet they stopped their conversation, but did not say anything or even acknowledge the existence of the new men. Goulet left things like that for a full minute, staring at the men, not saying a word, and then he took off his coat and handed it to a lieutenant. Now standing in full uniform, he continued to stare at the three men, waiting for them to react.

One of them did. Shouting from his seat across the room he asked, "Hey, are you LNA?"

"We were told there were soldiers here, "Goulet replied. "If there were soldiers in this room, by now they would be standing at attention, saluting a superior officer." That got some action. The men at the table jumped up and stood at some version of attention, their right hands to their heads. One guy was swaying a bit – still hung over from last night's beer? – but he managed to keep standing.

Goulet returned their salute. "Our intelligence people tell us there are still ten survivors of this mission. I want all ten here in two minutes to report. Go now. Get your comrades." He stood and waited while the three men rushed up the stairs to get the rest of the angry-men. Neither he nor his lieutenants moved a muscle while time passed and first one and then several of the men came down the stairs, all of them looking like they could desperately use a shave, a hair cut, a bath, clean clothes, and far less beer. The first two walked right up to Goulet and his men looking to shake hands and say hello. One of the lieutenants ignored their hands and ordered them to stand in a line near the registration desk. Other than "get in line," nothing was said for the next ten minutes while the men came down to the lobby.

The last two down were obviously the Dubuissant brothers. They also wanted to talk, and one even challenged Goulet, saying "What took you so long?" while the other said, "You will be impressed by how much we have accomplished with so few men." Goulet ignored them both, while his lieutenant repeated with increasing volume, "Get in line." Eventually they did.

Standing in a line like that, somehow they looked even more pathetic. The last ones down the stairs had tried to comb their hair or put on a clean shirt, but it didn't hide the fact they were hung over. One guy near the end looked like he was ready to be sick at any moment. Goulet let them stand while he stared.

At a signal from Goulet, Lieutenant Tremaine shouted "attention." The angry-men tried. They stood a bit straighter with their hands down by their sides, but the shirts hanging out of their pants, and the hair hanging in patches over bald heads made their efforts at military gestures laughable. "This is Colonel Goulet. He is here to inspect this platoon and to get your report. When he asks you a question, you will give him a direct answer. Do you understand?" Several men said "yes", and a couple others nodded agreement. Tremaine let them have it.

"When I ask a question, I expect to hear "Yes, Sir." Do you understand me?" This time the general response was "yes, sir," but it was being said by men with aching heads and queasy stomachs. So Tremaine tried again, this time even louder. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." They were louder and stood straighter. Part of me felt sorry for them. For a bunch of hung over drunks, they were doing the best they could.

"Men," Goulet took over. "This mission is now ended. We have been monitoring your actions, and we are pleased with the effort that many of you have made. You will be evaluated individually, paid for your service, and then you will return home." The word "paid" seemed to work magic on this bunch. Suddenly they were even more awake. "We will begin with roll call. Lieutenant Delaet, if you would record, please."

Delaet pulled a chair over to a table and opened his case on it. In his case was a pile of cash he did nothing to conceal. Of course that might have been the point. He pulled out a pad of paper and sat ready with a pen. Once Delaet was ready, Goulet walked up to the first man in line.

"Your name, your home town, and the number of days you have served here."

"Andre Fontaine, New Lorraine, Colorado. I have been here 8 days."

"Good report. Lieutenant Delaet, what is our report on Private Fontaine?"

"Satisfactory service."

"Very good. Private Fontaine, you will be paid eight thousand francs for your special service." At this point I thought every man in line would explode in celebration. The man was getting paid a small fortune for sitting around a hotel drinking beer. "You will gather your belongings, and you will leave immediately. You will go directly to your home in Colorado. You will say nothing about this mission to anyone. When asked about your travels you will tell people you have been hunting or vacationing. This mission is secret and will remain secret. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Delaet has a document for you to sign. If you violate the terms of the agreement, there will be consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed." Fontaine hurried over to Delaet, signed a form without glancing at it, took his money, and rushed off to get his belongings. He was out of the hotel before Goulet could even start with the second man.

The process for the next seven men went pretty much as it had for the first. The only difference came two times when Delaet's report indicated a man had been "exemplary," and Goulet told Delaet to make a note in the record that the man was "recommended for non-commissioned officer training." I must have missed it the first time, but when the second recommendation was made, I could see Goulet was holding one hand slightly behind his back with two fingers pointing to the side. A signal? Was Goulet making up these evaluations as he went along? That made sense. I doubted he really had any idea who had done what up here, or even who these men were.

The other difference came as he dismissed them. Several he told to leave immediately, the others he gave some task in town – buy groceries, stop for gas and stay for a long cup of coffee, that sort of thing. He explained he did not want everyone to exit the same way. It was to look random, as if some were staying and some were going. But all would ultimately be going and be out of town within an hour. He got no argument from anyone. They were happy to be out of the hotel, happy to be praised by the colonel, and happy to have so much money in their pockets. If they knew how to dance, they might have danced their way out of town.

Then there was the last two – the Dubuissant brothers. Goulet left them standing at attention until the last of the "privates" had left the hotel. Standing straight like that for twenty minutes would have been hard on anyone, but I would think it was murder with a hangover. I suspect the only thing holding them vertical was the thought of all the money they were going to get.

"Lieutenant Delaet, will you read the performance report we have on these men?" Delaet pulled out two folders. This time it appeared there really was a record. "Guy Dubuisson. Private. Service period fourteen months. Dismissed from service after a conviction for theft. Philippe Dubuisson. Private. Service period fourteen months. Dismissed from service after a conviction for theft." Delaet put the folders down and looked at the Dubuissons. Goulet stared at the brothers but said nothing. Tremaine took the pistol from his holster and chambered a round. In the silent lobby, the echo of the pistol's action sounded like a whip cracking. One brother raised a hand as if to hold off a bullet. I am sure he thought he was going to be shot on the spot.

"We were trying to help." Guy whined. He and his brother were both looking first at Goulet and then at Tremaine and then at Tremaine's pistol. You have never seen heads move so fast. It was like a blur.

"You lied about your rank, and you lied about your membership in the Louisiana National Army." Goulet stated. "Those crimes are adjudicated by a court martial. If found guilty, the punishment ranges from confinement to execution. Since armed conflict was involved during the commitment of the crimes, I would expect execution to be the finding."

"But we were trying to help." Guy again. Philippe looked too scared to move his lips. "We heard the army was attacking the Sioux, and we wanted to help."

"Don't be an idiot. Why would the army attack the Sioux? Our fight is in Louisiana. And look at what you have done." He gestured around the room. "You have dishonored us all. You will leave now. And I do mean right this minute. You will take nothing with you. You will walk out that door, go to your truck, and drive directly out of town. You will go to your homes and await a visit from the adjutant general's office."

"And our pay?" Guy asked, his voice trembling.

"Have you lost your mind?" Goulet shouted. "Turn around and walk out that door right now or your pay will be a bullet." Both men rushed for the door. At the last minute Guy dared to take one look back. What he saw was Tremaine with his arm raised to fire. That was enough for him. He and his brother pushed through the doors and out into the cold.

"Lieutenant Tremaine, if you would monitor the front of the hotel to ensure all the men have left. And allow no one entry until we have completed our inspection. Lieutenant Delaet, please check the rooms upstairs for left over men and belongings." Goulet then turned and looked at me, but said nothing. I had nothing to say either. It had been an interesting show. I wondered how the play would end.

We stood around waiting. About ten minutes later, Delaet came down stairs carrying two rifles and two large bags. He put the rifles against the wall and opened the two bags on the registration desk. One of them had a smaller bag inside filled with jewelry. So the pawn shop burglary was now solved. Goulet picked up the bag of jewelry and gave it to me. "I assume you can get this back where it belongs." I took the bag. He then called to Tremaine and asked him to get the driver "and the bags."

The driver came in with a large pouch. It turned out to be filled with plastic garbage bags. Each of the men took a garbage bag and started filling it with trash from around the room. Did they have a hundred bags and a dump truck? This was going to take all night. But they got at it, and, yes, eventually I took a bag too and began filling it with beer cans. The aluminum recycler in town was going to get rich. Two hours later the trash was gone, to be replaced by a huge pile of garbage bags at the front doors. The lobby was still filled with broken furniture, but at least an effort had been made at cleaning.

That work done, the men gathered up their cases, the two rifles, the extra bags, and put it all in the back of their vehicle. They were done, and it was clear they were leaving. Their coats back on to cover their uniforms, they got into the truck. Goulet stood for a moment outside the truck and turned to me. "Give some thought to what you have seen here. We are not who you think we are." He didn't wait for a response from me. I had none. He closed his door and the truck headed south out of town. Goodbye LNA.

# Chapter 33

# Surprise endings

I stood in front of the hotel watching the LNA leave. I don't think they were gone thirty seconds when two squad cars rolled up. I handed the bag of jewelry to the first officer I saw. He took it without a word. Meanwhile two other officers entered the hotel, guns drawn. Ten minutes later they were back, both talking on phones. I heard the word "clear" multiple times as they spoke to various parties.

A few minutes later, hotel employees began arriving. French profanity is very interesting, but you haven't heard anything until you have heard serious swearing in Sioux. Eight employees searched through various places in the hotel, and each new discovery was greeted with another long string of expletives. The cook was probably the loudest, but he was getting serious competition from the two men checking the rooms upstairs. The bartender was too upset to swear. He just stared at all the damage and shrugged his shoulders. What was he to do? The hotel manager stood close to the registration desk and listened to the shouted reports of his employees. He had his phone out and was making calls to contractors within two minutes of arriving. On the plus side, it's not like the problem was news to any of the contractors who lived in town, and being winter, they were unlikely to be too busy with building projects elsewhere. I have no idea how long it would be before the hotel was useable again, but at least they had regained possession.

I wondered if it was time for me to leave town. It was now mid-afternoon and the sun was already pretty low in the sky. Maybe it would be better to wait until morning. I dialed up Elise as I walked back to Marc's house. One more night and I would be headed home.

Or not. Elsie had a surprise response to my news. "Do you mind staying one more day? As an historian I think you will see something very interesting." I had no idea what she had in mind, and I really did not relish an extra day in Marc and Nicole's guest room, but if Elise thought I should stay...

Oddly, Marc and Nicole already seemed to know I would be staying. But if they knew what was going on, they weren't saying. Instead, we talked about my day with the LNA. I learned that the police force, the army, and apparently half the local government had been listening to events through a whole series of microphones that had been placed around the hotel. A truck with a dozen soldiers sat in a garage waiting to rush in if needed.

We talked through the events that had transpired, and we all laughed about me picking up the old beer cans. But then Nicole got more serious.

"I'm glad all those people are gone and it seems like this mess is over. But in the end, this is trouble for the government."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"We did everything we could to not make this a huge event. We hid what we could. We even let criminals get away with crimes. But however we handle this, the facts are that a bunch of men with guns took over a Sioux village, and then terrorized a provincial capital. Some version of that will be widely known. It will be talked about at parties, and over coffee at work. People may not know the details, or know just how bad it really was, but it will raise questions about our stability and our strength. After all is said and done, Foster got his wish. It may not be as big an event as he wished, but it was plenty big enough to do damage."

"He may have gotten his wish," I replied, "but I think he also had the scare of his life. He really did think he was going to get shot if he went back into the hotel – shot by men he had recruited."

"That's something else that worries me," Nicole responded. "I think we learned that we have more dangerous enemies than we thought."

"I have to believe Foster is less dangerous," Marc said. "Look how bad he is at selecting and then leading men. He was almost shot by his own troops."

"Shawn certainly knows him better than we do," she replied. I felt chilled to be mentioned as if I were a distant friend. "But isn't it worse for us that he is arrogant and stupid?" We all laughed at that combination, but Nicole continued. "Give it some thought. If he were smart, we could predict his actions – just plan out the best moves for him and expect him to make them. But how do you predict the moves of a fool?" We had a great time laughing at that idea, but there was plenty of truth to it.

"I have to admit you might be right about his intelligence," I replied. "Here is a guy who took the leading crazies of Louisiana on a sail boat and burned the boat down." At this point we were practically hysterical with laughter. Maybe it was the end of a long day, maybe it was the end of a stressful week, but we just kept laughing. "Predictable? I wouldn't have predicted that." You get the idea. Lots of laughing, a string of Foster jokes ("Where do you think they got his snowmobile? Who knew snowsuits came in that size?" etc.). We just blew off steam for a long time.

Somewhere in there Nicole made some dinner, and now I became the brunt of the jokes as they laughed about my lobster creation. We started telling stories about the worst meals we had ever had, and the evening flowed. It had been a long day and a long week. We said silly things, we laughed, we ate, eventually we went to bed.

After all we had been through and all the sleep I had lost in the past few days, I slept like rock. That might explain why it took me a few moments the next morning to realize Elise was in bed with me.

"Hi." Not exactly a brilliant thing to say when you suddenly find a beautiful woman in your bed, but I was still half asleep and very confused. How had this happened?

"You must have been very tired. I got into bed about ten minutes ago, and you are just noticing."

"It's been a pretty wild week or two. Now I see why you wanted me to wait a day. Thanks."

"Actually I am just one of the surprises for you. But the others can wait a while."

"Amen to that."

About an hour later we got up, showered, and dressed. I noticed that Elise was putting on thermal underwear and wool socks.

"I take it one of my surprises involves going outside. Wouldn't you prefer to stay in all day?"

"That would be lovely, but I think you will like this too."

"You do have any idea how cold it gets here? I have been designing a new line of thermometers – the Dakota line. They go down to 90 below."

"Don't be such a whiner. I bet it is no lower than 30 below. Besides you will feel much better after you have a good breakfast." While we were talking, I could hear lots of noises coming from elsewhere in the house. It sounded like half the town was here for breakfast. Elise can draw a crowd.

I put on thermal everything, laced up my boots, and stepped out into the hallway. Or at least I tried to. I might have been right. Half the town did seem to be over for breakfast. People stood in every room of the house. I "excused me" through the crowd, pulling Elise behind me, and headed to the kitchen. Nicole caught me halfway – she was carrying a huge plate of pancakes – and told me we were breakfasting in the dining room this morning.

Several "excuse me's" later, I saw the reason for the crowd. Sitting at the head of the table was Canadian ex-president Claude Jolliet. Every other chair at the table was filled, and there was at least one person standing behind each chair. Mssr. Jolliet was slowly working his way through a plate of pancakes. Everyone else at the table had a plate in front of them, but they seemed far more interested in talking than eating. Just in the ten or fifteen seconds it took us to come into the room we heard people describing a new sewage treatment plant in town, an addition to the grade school, and a new record for cold. DeSmet had no end of things these excited folks could brag about. Jolliet ate, listened, smiled, and congratulated all assembled on the marvels of their city.

When we got close enough to the table for Jolliet to see us, he shouted across the crowd, "Shawn, Dr. DuPry, nice of you to join us." There was something in his smile that implied he knew how we had spent the last hour. Almost immediately, two men got up from the table to make room for us. We sat down and Nicole put pancakes in front of us. She was a blur of motion, but I have never seen a bigger smile on her face.

"I understand you were in the hotel yesterday when the last of the visitors from the south left us." Jolliet's use of the term "visitors" was my clue on how to respond.

"Yes, I went to check on my room." I replied. "I got there just as they started leaving. Based on all the beer cans in the lobby, I think they decided to leave now that they had drunk all the beer in town." That got a laugh from people in the room, and more importantly, an appreciative smile from Jolliet.

"I hear they were not a pleasant bunch, and there may have been an arsonist among them. I think the whole town can be very proud of how well you worked together to protect the homes here. I will be meeting later this morning to personally congratulate the law enforcement people who stopped the arsonist. These were trying days, but the people of this city rose to the occasion like no others." That drew a round of applause. It also provided a line that would no doubt be shared around town and with family and friends. The town had been scared; now it would be proud.

Breakfast went on for another hour or so, and there was lots more said, but you get the drift. Jolliet said good things about the people and the town, and people ate it up faster than the pancakes. He was giving them what they needed. Folks were pretty good about not monopolizing his time or their place at the table, and so there was a constant shift of people and places. Eventually, it seemed that almost every person in town got at least a few minutes sitting at the table with an ex-president. Enough cameras were in the room that everyone had their moment of being in the same frame as Jolliet. I suspect if I went back to DeSmet now, I would find a framed photo of that morning on nearly every mantle in town.

Eventually, and with apparent reluctance he must have practiced over many years, Jolliet said, "Thank you for coming folks. I am very pleased to have met all of you. Now we need to get ready for a visit." That started the exodus. It took a little help from Nicole and one of Jolliet's secretaries to get the last of the people out of the building, but eventually the house was cleared. Marc and Nicole joined us at the table, and we all had another cup of coffee.

Jolliet began with a long series of thank yous to Nicole for the breakfast and hosting the event, and she thanked him for allowing so many people to visit with him. It seemed to me the real thank yous should have gone to his security team which must have been going crazy with the number of people and proximity to Jolliet.

Eventually, the pleasantries done, Jolliet turned to me. "I have heard the tapes from inside the lobby. It sounded like Goulet handled it pretty well. What was your impression?"

"He handled it very well. He came prepared with a plan and he executed the plan perfectly. What you couldn't hear on the tape was the signaling he was doing to his subordinate. They had a code for how to evaluate each man on the fly, and make it look like they had a full record. I have to admit I was impressed."

"This was the same man you fought with last summer?"

"We threw punches on a couple occasions. Basically boy stuff."

"And now?"

"At least based on this one incident, I think he has earned his promotion."

"That's the way our military people see it too. Planning, and discipline, and ruthlessness. They think he would have followed through and shot the Dubuissants if needed."

"I agree. And they certainly thought so. They were scared half to death."

"Unfortunately, that makes him – and them – a more formidable enemy. And then we have Foster. Our security people are promising to keep better track of him, and we are trying to determine what he hoped to accomplish in that Sioux village, but I think I side with the theory Mrs. LeGrande explained to me before the crowd arrived. Foster may be much more stupid than we have thought. And I also agree with her that this might actually make him more dangerous – less predictable."

"Maybe we can get him to set another boat on fire and solve the Foster problem himself." Not the best joke, but it got the five of us laughing. There was basic chitchat after that, but we really did have to get moving. I learned we were taking a snowmobile ride out to Robert DeMille's village. Apparently more thanks and kind words were in order. I was fine with that. I just wished it didn't involve snowmobiles and icy drives.

# Chapter 34

# To the village again

Traveling with an ex-president has its own procedures. One seemed to involve the security team traveling out first while we sat out in the cold, revving up our snowmobiles and trying to pretend this was not really uncomfortable. There was one good aspect of this ride however. Elise would be riding behind me, with her arms wrapped around me all the way to the village. Not a bad way to travel.

Marc and Nicole would also be going with us, and counting the security people and local dignitaries, there had to be over thirty of us all together. We made quite a racket when we finally got permission to take off. I noticed that despite his age, Jolliet ran his own snowmobile. He also seemed to be the center of a "diamond" shape of security people. I wasn't sure that would really do much good out on the plains. A man with a rifle would have hundreds of yards of clear vision. Maybe that is why there were always other security people riding way out on the sides and in front of us.

I would describe the ride, but what is there to say? The snow was white, the ground was flat, and the air was really, really cold. On the other hand, Elise had a pretty strong grip on me, and that felt very good.

We rode for hours. The pace was fairly slow - about the same speed Marc had used with me on our first trip out when I was still learning how to control one of these odd machines. The sun was up and the wind was mild, so you could say the weather was about as good as it gets in Dakota in January. Sun or no sun, it was damn cold as we crossed the plains.

About a mile or so outside DeMille's village there were a dozen snowmobiles waiting for us – an honor guard by appearances. Several of the men were dressed in skins and held spears with feathers flying from them. As we approached, they waved the spears and shouted, but of course we could hear none of it through the road of our machines.

When we reached the men our procession stopped, and there was lots of talk and handshakes. I recognized DeMille among the party. He even had a feathered headdress on – or at least it was on while the party was standing still. As soon as the initial introductions were done and the group started moving again, he wisely put a fur cap on his head and packed the headdress into a sack.

The village was waiting for us, with every person in town standing in line near the school. The kids seemed to be grouped by class – your standard school assembly routine, except they seemed to be especially attentive. I don't think I have ever seen so many young kids stand still so long. Maybe they were frozen in place. As we covered the last few yards before the school, there were a series of unison cheers. Since they were in Sioux, I have no idea what they were saying, but it seemed to be meant with the best intent.

Once off our snowmobiles – finally – Jolliet started at one end of the line and shook hands with every person in town, including every school kid. Elise followed suit, and since I was with Elise, I did the same. Some of the people smiled as I took their hands, but I have to admit many were still following Jolliet with their eyes, and I was a bit of an after-thought. Fair enough, he was an ex-president, and I was just the guy with Elise.

I was afraid there might be speeches and such out in the snow, but people seemed to be pretty sensible. Once the initial handshakes were done, we all trooped into the school and its relative warmth. The gym had been set up such that there was an open circle in the middle, surrounded by blankets and a few chairs for the elderly. On one side was a platform raised a couple feet and covered with buffalo hides. That's where DeMille and Jolliet headed, along with a dozen local elders, and several dignitaries who had been in our group from town. Elise also joined them, and when I hesitated, she practically pulled me up there, although I was so far over on one edge, I thought I might fall off the platform if I moved wrong.

A few minutes after we were all seated, the drumming and dancing began. A large group of women danced first, and then the young men. Initially I expected it to be more of what I had seen at the potlatch, but the women were more sedate, and the men were almost mournful. The pace was slower, the movements more constricted. There was also a great deal of unison movements in these dances, where the steps in the potlatch dances had all been individually designed and paced. Was all this a funeral dance for the men who had been killed in the village? Given my grasp of Sioux, I had no idea, but it was pretty clear we were not attending a celebration.

The dancing lasted over an hour, and then the young people cleared the circle. Interestingly, the drumming continued at a slower pace, and they kept the volume down. It became almost a background throbbing. This went on for several minutes, and then DeMille stood up and walked into the circle. He was wearing buckskins which had been embroidered to the point the underlying skins were almost invisible. And on his head was the feathered headdress again. If you have seen any of those old Indian movies the people in California make, you have no idea how incredible he looked. He had to be wearing thousands of hours of beadwork.

He started talking, but it was also singing. His voice was small in the big room, but there was absolute silence so he could still be heard. He sang, and he moved in a few steps reminiscent of a dance. A local man stood near our raised platform and quietly translated for those of us who did not know Sioux.

"Many years ago, the fathers of our fathers of our fathers back to many generations fought many battles. The warriors were strong, and they were skillful and they were successful. In those years, two tribes emerged from the battles with success – the Sioux and the French. The tribes were strong, the tribes were strong, the tribes were strong. The tribes fought hard, the tribes fought hard, the tribes fought hard. The warriors fought with honor, the warriors fought with honor. But both tribes strayed from the path, strayed from the path, strayed from the path. Today we tell the story of our dishonor, and then the two tribes will smoke the pipe of peace – the calumet." He danced a few more steps, and then he walked back to the platform.

But the drumming continued. For several minutes only it was heard. And then Jolliet stood and walked to the center of the floor.

"Our fathers, fathers, fathers, back for many generations loved the Fox. They lived among them. They married women of the tribe. They had children who grew among the tribe's children. It was a good time. They traded in the waters of the Fox River and the Wisconsin River. The sun shone on their days. Then the fathers' hearts changed. They wanted more. More pelts, more corn. They grew angry with the Fox. The Fox would not give them more. So the fighting began. French warriors killed Fox warriors, and Fox warriors killed French. And the French hearts turned black. They attacked Fox villages and killed all who did not escape. And the French hearts turned more black. They chased the Fox and attacked one village and then another and then another. The Fox ran fast, but not fast enough. Many were killed. The few who were left took their women and their children and escaped to Iowa to live with another tribe there. 'Shield us' they said to the local tribe. Protect us from the French. And the Iowa tribe tried. But the French were too many. They found the last Fox village by the great Mississippi river. They sent their warriors around to all sides of the village. This time no Fox would escape. In the morning they attacked. And they killed the warriors. Then they killed the women. Then they killed the children." He was facing the school children as he said this. He stood and looked at them, and then he repeated it. "Then they killed the children. The French warriors had lost all honor. They were no longer men. They became beasts. They killed all day, and then they left. When they left there was no one to mourn the dead, no one to cry, no one to do the funeral dance. All were dead. This is the shame of the French tribe." He stood silently, looked at all in the circle, and then returned to his seat on the platform, with the drum continuing to beat softly as he walked.

Then DeMille returned to the center of the floor. The drum continued to beat softly, but he said nothing for a very long time. Finally, he began. "Our fathers, fathers, fathers, for many generations loved the French. We lived together, we traded. We gave them hides, and they gave us guns and knives. We traded horses. They found wives among us. For many years the sun shone on us and life was good. But we had a secret – a way through the mountains. We wished to hide that secret, to keep the French out of our mountains. But the French came closer and closer to our secret. Each year their traders went farther west, and were closer to our secret path. Then one spring many French warriors came to our lands. They were led by a man named Jolliet." He paused and pointed to Claude Jolliet. "He was a great warrior -- strong, and swift and brave. And he led his men straight to our secret path. Our chiefs were frightened. The French would know our secret path through the mountains. Would they need us any more? Would they find new allies on the other side of the mountains? The Sioux warriors hearts grew dark. They sat with the French in their camp. They slept among them. When the morning came, they killed them. It was a hard battle. Jolliet was a great warrior and his men were brave. But the Sioux warriors were among them and used their knives and their guns and killed all. None were spared since none must know the secret. They took no prisoners. They accepted no surrender. Even the wounded were killed. They acted without honor. This is the shame of the Sioux tribe." He stood still and slowly turned to look at all in the circle.

The drummers kept the beat while chairs were brought into the center of the floor. They were placed in a circle. Slowly, the Sioux elders left the platform and took seats. Jolliet and two men from DeSmet also moved to the circle and sat. Silence filled the room. Then a young man dressed in buckskin walked to the circle carrying a long pipe decorated with feathers. He handed it to DeMille, filled it with tobacco, and lit it while the old man inhaled. Once the pipe was lit, the young man left the circle. Demille smoked the pipe one more time, held it high in the air with shaking hands, then brought it down and smoked it again. Finished, he walked to Jolliet and handed him the pipe with both hands. Jolliet accepted it the same way, and then stood. He also smoked, held the pipe in the air, then smoked again. He handed the pipe to another elder and returned to his seat. Each man did the same – standing, smoking, raising the pipe in the air, smoking again, and passing it on.

It probably took fifteen minutes for all the men to smoke. What seemed amazing to me is that no person in the room made a sound during this time. How do you go fifteen minutes without a single baby crying or some kid whispering? But somehow they did it. The only sound in the room was the steady beat of the drum.

When the last man in the circle had smoked, the young man came back out and took the pipe. He stood there while DeMille and Jolliet both stood again. This time they stood facing each other, each with a hand on the shoulder of the other. DeMille spoke first.

"Dishonor does not go away with time. Shame exists for all time. But so does friendship. So does honor. Today we push away dishonor, and we reach for friendship."

"Dishonor does not go away with time," Jolliet began. "Shame continues. But we are also people who understand honor. We understand friendship. We value and honor our great friends, the mighty Sioux nation. May our friendship last forever." The two men shook hands, and the gym erupted in cheers. The drummers suddenly got louder and faster, and both men and women poured out onto the gym floor and started dancing. Jolliet and DeMille stood among the dancers for few minutes, and then worked their way back to the platform. The ceremony was over, now was the time to celebrate. – always a good time for old people to get out of the way. Back near the kitchen there was suddenly some motion as food was brought out. Clearly this was going to be a big event that would last some time.

What did Elise and I do the rest of the evening? She danced. And, she managed to pull me onto the floor and showed me two simple steps. So I danced too. Really. I thought I would drop from exhaustion after just fifteen minutes, but she kept me out there much of the evening. And it was fun. We danced, we ate, we danced some more. It was quite a night.

# Chapter 35

# I finally get to go home

We slept in the village that night, in the house of Marc's family. We were even given one of the beds, no doubt in Elise's honor. In the morning we had breakfast with Marc's family and then assembled in the school. I can't begin to tell you how much I wanted to get back to DeSmet and then back to Green Bay, even if it involved taking yet another snowmobile ride – a ride I promised myself would be the last in this lifetime.

But Jolliet was in no rush to leave. When we got to the school we found him and DeMille sitting, talking on the buffalo hide-covered platform. Had they sat there all night?

"Good morning," DeMille shouted across the gym. "Come join us." We walked over and sat with them. They had a coffee pot on a small table and we helped ourselves to a cup.

"Shawn, I had no idea you could dance," offered Jolliet.

"I learned two things last night. First, I have no dancing ability. Poor Elise had to show me the same two steps at least a dozen times. And second, it is very good I am not Sioux. I do not have the energy to dance so long."

"And you, Elise," Jolliet turned her way. "A Mascoutin dancing among the Sioux. You represented your tribe well."

"I was honored to be part of the dance."

"You are always welcome," added DeMille. "I hope we will see all of you again, but under better circumstances."

"Yes." Jolliet took a sip of his own coffee and let the conversation stop for a moment as he prepared to change subjects. "If we may be serious for a few moments, Elise, we were talking about something that you may know. The angry-men. How many are there?"

"When this thing first started, our demographers in Green Bay began doing some research."

"Let me guess," Jolliet interrupted. "At your request."

"Yes, I talked with them, but they were already interested in the migration they were seeing. We have census data that is about three years old, and it shows a gradual increased in the population of Colorado and New Mexico, and the increase is overwhelmingly male. There may be 'angry-women' but there aren't that many."

"So a slow growth?"

"A slow growth in the past. Here is where they got creative. The census data is several years old, and these guys don't like to fill in government forms anyway, so we were never sure how accurate our count was. So one of our researchers tried a different approach – property values. The supply of desert land these men like is limited, so any increased demand is going to push the price up."

"And it has, right?"

"Just in the last year it has doubled. They seem to all want at least five acres so they have some elbow room and privacy. Whole counties down there have seen thousand acre ranches broken into five acre parcels. They don't even have roads to some of these places. Although I am told for some men, the worse the road, the more they like it, since it gives them even more privacy. These men really are loners."

"Where are they coming from?" Demille asked.

"Mostly from the north. As Huguenot families started moving south last year, some families broke up. We know any stress increases divorce. If unemployment increases, marriage decreases. A migration as big as the one occurring in Canada this past year will destroy thousands of families. For every man off in the desert, there is a woman with two kids hoping to feed them somehow." None of us knew what to say in response to that. We sipped coffee and imagined all those bleak homes.

"What a waste." Jolliet finally said.

"And a threat." DeMille added. "Foster found two dozen to come up here to make trouble. A better leader might find a thousand."

"I think they have a better leader – Goulet." I added. "He was pretty clearly recruiting those men in the hotel. Each of those men went home with a fat wallet and praise for the LNA."

"We need to stop this before our country is hurt even more." Jolliet replied. "This is agonizing to see." And he really did look like a man in pain.

"I think we made some progress in Arkansas," Elise said. Leave it to her to try to bring hope to a situation. "There are people who still want to be Canadian, and many more who wish for peace. If we have time, we may be able to defuse this situation and calm the waters."

"Will we have the time?" Jolliet asked. I had never seen him so disturbed. I began to worry about his health. Claude must have seen it too, for he put his hand on Jolliet's shoulder.

"Claude, you have friends. The Sioux are with you. We guard your western wall. We will guard the desert border too."

"Thank you Robert – Buffalo Man. We are honored by your friendship." That pretty much ended the serious part of the conversation. We moved on to talk about travels and family and such. The working part of the meeting was over.

About fifteen minutes later we started heading for the door, saying our goodbyes to various elders and anyone else who happened to be around. By the time we were out by our snowmobiles, word had gotten out that we were leaving, and once again the entire village was present to shake our hands and thank us for visiting. I got a real kick out of shaking hands with three and four year olds, each of whom – boy and girl – stood straight, looked me straight in the eye, and gave me a firm hand to shake – and then broke out into a huge smile when they had finished.

Meanwhile, the weather wasn't getting any better. It was cloudy and cool with a slight wind, the kind of day that promises worse weather ahead. The security team was professional about it, but they made it clear we needed to get moving. In the end, it was DeMille who ended all the conversations and handshakes. Standing on the top stair of the school, he raised a feathered spear over his head, and said "Goodbye friends." That seemed to work magic on all the villagers. They backed away and let us get on our snowmobiles and head south.

I won't trouble you with the details of our return home. The snowmobile ride was cold but uneventful. A helicopter was waiting for Jolliet and he was gone within a few minutes of our return to DeSmet. I found my car waiting for me at Marc's house. Where it had been for the past weeks I will never know. But somehow it had been returned to me in running condition. Elise and I spent a few minutes thanking Marc and Nicole, and then we were off, retracing my route across the empty plain.

It took us two days to get back to Green Bay. For two days – and two nights – I had Elise to myself. I heard about every agricultural college in Arkansas, every administrator, every research project, every green house with special crops. And with Elise telling the stories, I was fascinated. I doubt I will ever understand genetic engineering, but I had fun imagining Elise walking through the crops, listening to scientists, making friends for her country.

Oh, and when we finally made it back to Green Bay, she made one more person happy. She liked the kitchen.

###

# How much of this is real?

Much of this series is based on real events. The Verendrye family did exist and explored much of the west. Their base was the region around Lake Superior. Jean Baptiste de la Verendrye was killed along with his men soon after they left their fort at Lake of the Woods. The motive for the attack is unknown. His father, Pierre, successfully traded and explored all over the west – up to the Rockies.

The Rockies were a significant barrier to westward travel. To understand just how hard they were to cross, you might wish to read Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose. His account of the Lewis and Clark expedition is marvelous. Their journey was incredible – but that was the problem. Coming back to explain how hard it was for a military unit to cross the mountains, it became clear that normal families would never make it over.

Then in 1812 South Pass was discovered by Astorians returning to the east from their trading post in Oregon. Half starved and freezing, they traveled south along the mountains to keep safe from the Sioux. Their journal is interesting in that it makes almost no mention of just how important the pass was to become. They were too cold, and too near starvation.

The real event to make the Rockies surmountable was the arrival of Presbyterian missionary Marcus Whitman. He was determined to create a roadway over the mountains – and to make it clear to the world that such a trip was possible. So he took a wagon and his wife over south pass to their mission in eastern Oregon. In 1843 he returned to the east and guided a group of farmers over his trail, soon to be known as the Oregon Trail. Soon thereafter, he and his wife were killed by local Indians who blamed them for a smallpox epidemic.

South Pass, and much of the Oregon Trail, has since become Interstate 80. You can drive over the pass at 70 miles per hour. If you look to the north side of the road as you pass through Wyoming, you will see a large bust of Lincoln marking the pass.

Pierre De Smet was a Jesuit missionary who really did travel thousands of miles through the west. He is also known for being a friend of Sitting Bull. There is a town of De Smet, and I took some liberties with its description. For those of you with children, you make recognize De Smet as the hometown of Laura Ingalls Wilder. It is in South Dakota, and not nearly as far north as I put it in this book. It is also much smaller. But it is a nice place, well worth visiting. I had the family there one Fourth of July, and they do great fireworks.

As for the Sioux villages, here I changed geography. Such villages exist, but they exist along the banks of the Yukon River in western Alaska. I used to write software for the school district there, so I know the school buildings well – I used to sleep on the floor of the libraries when I visited to do teacher training or software upgrades.

As for the angry-men, well, much of that comes from contemporary news, does it not? The Cliven Bundy standoff was taking place as I wrote this book. It started me thinking.

# About the Author

I live in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. I cross the Fox River multiple times a day. It is easy to forget this is the river Jolliet took as he discovered the Mississippi. It is also easy to forget what later happened to the Fox tribe. To its credit, the city has a description of all the Wisconsin tribes and of the Fox War on a pedestrian trail along Highway 41 as it crosses the Fox at Lake Butte des Morts. The history is there for people who will take a few minutes to look.

# An Advanced look at Volume 4 – The Battle for Arkansas

#

Spring in Green Bay lasts about three weeks. The snow melts, pot holes appear everywhere, garbage that has been hidden by the snow is now visible at every curb, but people smile. They are happy they can take their parkas off, and they are happy they have a few days before the mosquitoes arrive. In other words, these are the best days of the year.

Things were also good for Elise and me. We had the National Cathedral reserved for our wedding May 28, and while we knew we would have to postpone until fall when the political scene was more stable, politics was trending in the right direction. The April elections had shown the Heritage party to be weaker than it had appeared. Where some had expected it to take over the Louisiana Legislature, it only had a slight plurality. It would form a government there, but it would need the involvement of at least one other party -- a power-sharing arrangement that should moderate their damage – at least in theory.

My classes were winding down, and while I had arrived back on campus a week late (and completely unprepared for class), there had been no serious repercussions. In fact, my contract had been extended for an additional year. Maybe someone called someone. I don't know. In any case, my graduate students were doing pretty good work, and were getting used to the idea that maybe the U.S. was not the worst country in the world and had a history worth studying. My undergraduates still thought the U.S. was a pretty awful place, and I was incredibly prejudiced, but they at least became a little more accurate in the names and dates of events they chose to hate.

Elise was still working long hours, but she found one evening a week to spend with me, and Saturdays she was now sometimes home early in the afternoon. Sundays she spent an hour answering emails while I made breakfast, but then she stayed away from her computer and phone while we went to mass and then to her parents' home for Sunday dinner.

Like the rest of green Bay, I thought these were the best days of the year. If only they had lasted a little longer. But the second week in May a training base for Canadian reservists declared it was only responsible to take orders from the "legitimate provincial government." Back in the good old days, the base commander would have been put some place until he sobered up, but these were not the good old days. The commander – and it appeared most of the senior officers at the base – made a public statement to the local media, and then locked the gates. Insubordination was bad, of course, but two things made the situation much, much worse. First, this was not some tiny base with fifty fat reservists who had cabin fever from a long winter. This was one of the largest and most well-provisioned and well-staffed bases in the country. And second, the base was in Arkansas.

Maybe the location was the most important. If it had been Louisiana, the problem might have been seen as just one more provocation from an extreme corner of the country. But Green Bay had been working on Arkansas. Elise and half her department had been down there all winter giving out dollars for government projects, and hoping to make friends in the process. If Arkansas stayed with Green Bay, then Louisiana was isolated, and so weakened it was less likely to provoke anything leading to independence. But if Arkansas joined Louisiana... The alarm bells ringing all over government offices in Green Bay were deafening.

I lost Elise for a solid week as she went to endless research and strategy meetings. She got home most nights too tired to talk, and when she did talk, there was a limit to what she could tell me, but it was clear this was a surprise. No one had prepared any response. No one had even considered such an eventuality. They had no idea what to do.

Back at the university we were just getting started on exam week. As you might predict, I was asked multiple times – "Will we still have exams?" That call was up to the Chancellor, but based on what I was hearing in faculty meetings, the academy was to continue as usual. That's what I told students, and that's how I prepared. I got some fairly creative excuses from a few students about why they should be excused from finals and still pass the class. I told them to take it up with the dean. I figured he could use the entertainment. For the vast majority of students, we just kept with the schedule. Something disturbing was happening in Arkansas, but that was pretty remote, and while it might lead to all kinds of bad things, for the moment at least, people still wanted grades and diplomas, and the jobs they would get after graduation.

The spring social scene in Green Bay revolves around lacrosse. Any new player on the team got face time on the evening news, and water-cooler conversation involved intense discussions over which team might challenge in the division. Lacrosse matters in Green Bay. We might think it is silly that anyone would waste time on anything other than cricket, but the French are the French and that is the way their world turns. I say all that to preface the first real incident after the base closure that had an impact on the average person in Green Bay.

My father's company had a reserved box at Lambeau Field, and that is where I spent my Sundays. Why not, Elise was now in the office pretty much non-stop, and the food was free. The company used me as a kind of social link to various government folks, so you could even claim my attendance was a kind of "work." So I was there about two weeks after the base announcement when the incident happened. Historians are always reluctant to name the real start of any war since so much can be assigned the blame, but when the full history of this war is written, I expect many to say the first "bullet" was fired that afternoon at Lambeau Field.

It started with the worst scheduling idea in the history of sports. Months before, some genius decided to invite the Arkansas Otters up for an exhibition game. It would be a chance to build friendships through sports, etc. Whatever back room marketing genius picked that matchup had never ever actually attended a lacrosse match and seen what fans look like. They sit out in the parking lot and drink endless bottles of cheap wine near their cars, a routine they call "tailgating." Hours later they stagger in the stadium and shout obscenities at opposing players for the entire game. "Friendship through sport" existed in the imagination of people who watched too many movies.

As bad as these things always are, with the constant harassment of opposing players (and any opposing fans dumb enough to attend), this Sunday it was worse. The revolt at the reserve base had people angry, and maybe scared, and if you add barrels of wine to that mix, you get thunderous chants accusing the hapless Otters of any kind of vile obscenity known the man or beast. The Otters could have just put in ear plugs and waited for three hours until the clock ran out and they got to return to the safety of their province. But these were not normal men, these were lacrosse players. You weren't going to tell them they had mated with farm animals and get away with it. No sir. They had their honor to uphold. So we were no more than ten minutes into the match when three of their guys get off the bench and go charging up against the seats, only to be drenched in wine thrown from a hundred cups. This would have been a real good time for cooler heads to call the match and get everyone to safety, but cooler heads weren't running the match, lacrosse team owners were. The match would continue, after all, it was needed to achieve friendship through sport.

While that was occurring, there was the usual mayhem on the field that occurs any time you give twenty men a chance to run around and attack each other with sticks. The body checking was rough, tripping was almost universal, and then one of the Lambeau Loons totally lost his mind. In replays you could see he had just been hit really hard by one Otter as another tripped him from behind. It was dirty, but not that uncommon for lacrosse. But what people saw was his response. Getting up off the ground, he bent his knees, reached back with his stick, took a full swing with all his muscles tensed, and hit an Otter across the neck. Hundreds of folks will tell you they could hear his neck snap from clear across the field. The man was dead before he hit the ground. The Jumbotron showed the murder on a screen a hundred feet high. Everyone saw it, and everyone reacted. And – here's where it gets really bad – the first reaction was a cheer from the crowd.

To me, that was the real start of the Canadian Civil War.

