BUFFALO COULEE STARTS TO GUESS
The “coming-to” of Buffalo Coulee on a winter’s morning was a matter
of heavy labor. It was a prolonged, piecemeal process, like the first
bubbles rising to the surface of water approaching boiling point.
There was no particular incentive to early rising in Buffalo Coulee at
any time, and, human nature being itself, the citizens of the prairie
township displayed little enough enthusiasm for undue activity. It was
usually well after sunrise that the first pair of eyes looked out on
the day, and the first odor of cooking robbed the air of something of
its purity.
The morning following Sergeant Fyles’ arrival in Buffalo Coulee it was
a woman who first looked out of her doorway upon the cold white world
to discover his presence. It would be. For in Buffalo Coulee woman’s
emancipation from the drudgery of life was still a fantastic dream
without any hope of realization.
Her door opened to permit the passage of a shower of homemade mats, and
a few oddments of well-worn rugs. At the same instant a currish dog
escaped into the snow as though it were glad. Then the door tried to
close. It had already begun to move in that direction. But its movement
was checked, and it flung back wide again. A figure swathed in a
bulking fur coat filled the opening.
The woman was peering curiously. She was startled. Automatically she
propped herself against the door-casing, and, folding her arms, slid
her work-worn hands up the sleeves of her coat for warmth.
Her gaze was on the police quarters where smoke was rising from one of
its two chimneys. She saw that its single door was standing wide open,
and a uniformed man, with a yellow badge to his fur cap, and yellow
stripes to his black riding breeches, was leaning over the gateway in
the lateral fence surrounding it.
She stood there for a while, hardly believing the thing she beheld, and
offering herself a varied assortment of explanations of the phenomenon.
She was chaotically startled. She was infinitely more startled than she
would have been had she awakened to find half the township shooting up
the other half. The police quarters had been as dead as a mortuary for
over two weeks.
The chaos of her mental processes was matched by the vocal tangle into
which she presently flung herself. And her efforts continued as she
darted back into the house, closing the door as she went, as though
fearful that the vision she had discovered would pursue her. Her harsh
tones startled the remainder of her household into angry wakefulness.
“The Howly Saints defind us!” she cried, in an unmusical Irish brogue
that was more than half American. “But he’s rose out o’ the grave like
a shadder o’ the shades. He’s along ther’, I tell you, an’ all. He’s
standin’ around like the crack o’ Doom, an avengin’ figger o’ scarlit
flame lanin’ foreninst his fence, waitin’ around fer his hafbreed wench
to come along an’ shtroke him, an’ set him purrin’ loike a thame wolf.”
The effect of the woman’s noisy amazement was comparatively instant.
First came the remainder of her own household, in assorted garments; a
small man who seemed out of all proportion to the size and extent of
his family of six children of progressive ages. They debauched like
ants from an ant heap, shivering in the morning cold, gawking over
at the police quarters. And in ten minutes or so the township was
transformed into a sort of arena with a sparse audience spellbound by
the spectacle set out before it.
Sergeant Fyles saw and understood the sensation his presence in
Buffalo Coulee had created. And while it amused him he accepted its
significance. The stir of it warned him. So he completed his survey of
the scene of his operations, and just went back into his quarters to
prepare a frugal breakfast over the stove in his office.
He consumed his meal and methodically cleared up the resulting litter.
Then he pulled on his fur coat, adjusted his mitts, and set out for
the business of the day.
Fyles’ business was of a nature prompted by hard common sense. There
was nothing subtle in his methods, nothing showy. The police records of
Buffalo Coulee had given him a sound foundation of general information.
And now, with a whole day before him in which to improve his knowledge
of the people, he set about it in the practical fashion which years of
experience had taught him was the simplest and best.
But his early morning experience had warned him of the extreme
importance of establishing confidence in a general sort of way. He must
contrive to allay suspicion, general suspicion of himself. Those who
had reason would, of course, remain suspicious. That was inevitable.
But he must strive for a general impression that Sinclair’s absence
from the township possessed no sinister significance. In fact, the
general run of the citizens must be taught to believe that the man was
absent on duty with official cognizance, and that he, Fyles, was there
replacing him as a temporary relief.
Fyles’ first objective was the house of Doc Fraser.
He found the youthful doctor up. He was dressed, and had eaten, when
the policeman bulked in his doorway. And furthermore he found himself
greeted in a manner that displayed real satisfaction and something
else.
“Say, Sergeant,” the doctor exclaimed with a hand of cordiality
outheld. “You’re as good, and better to me than a swell birthday gift.
I hadn’t dared to hope for such a quick comeback to my word to Sturt.”
The policeman’s thoughtful eyes beheld all that for which he was
looking in the other’s earnest face.
“If it’s as bad as that, Doc,” he said quietly, “it’s just as well I
got around.”
“Bad?” The man of medicine looked past the other in the direction of
the township. “It’s mighty difficult to find a right adjective for
anything in Buffalo Coulee. But there’s things doing, or done, and I’m
darn glad to see you.”
In a few moments they were closeted in the little room that was the
doctor’s living-room and surgery combined. And Fyles noted the plain,
business-like aspect of it. They sat down together, Fyles in an old,
creaking, wicker rocker-chair, and his host in the swing chair before
his roll-top desk that looked almost painfully new.
And so they sat and talked for upwards of an hour.
For Fyles it was a well spent time, and he was more than appreciative.
Question and carefully considered reply flowed in an easy, steady
stream throughout the interview. And the policeman revelled in the
exactness of the information he received. It was the sort of intimate
information that could only have been supplied by a local doctor, a
schoolmaster, or a parson.
In the time at his disposal Fyles learned all that was known of the
lives of those in whom he was most interested and had been treated to a
searching analysis of them as a result of the doctor’s own observation.
When he left the pleasant warmth of the man’s bachelor quarters he felt
himself to have set a finger firmly on the uncertain pulse of Buffalo
Coulee.
Fyles next headed for the long, low building of Pideau’s store. For
it was here he must sow those first seeds of confidence and hope for
an adequate harvest. After that he intended to spend the rest of the
day moving casually about amongst the citizens, gleaning, probing,
searching.
He knew just what to expect at the store. Nor was he disappointed. The
place was the centre of the township’s life. It was the foregathering
point for gossip and tattle. He knew that for that one day, at least,
every movement of his would be a subject of the intensest common
interest. So, when he entered the building, he had no astonishment at
finding his visit had been well anticipated.
There was a gathering of men about the stove, rough, fur-clad creatures
who seemed to hush their talk at sight of him. There were women
present, too, and one or two men stood with them at the long counter.
Two people, a man and a woman, in whom Fyles recognized Pideau Estevan,
and his daughter Annette, of the night before, were behind the counter
making trade with their customers. And then, farther down, in the back
part of the store, was the most interesting personality of the whole
gathering.
Fyles discovered the solitary figure at once. He also recognized
him from the doctor’s close description. And even at the moment of
his discovery it occurred to him as remarkable that his attention
should have been irresistibly drawn and held by the least conspicuous
individual in the store, who was apart from the rest at the far end of
it.
It was the Wolf; slim, vital, clean-limbed, smiling, in marked contrast
with all those others.
On the instant Fyles remembered something of Fraser’s description of
the Wolf.
“I don’t know how it is with you, Sergeant,” he had said. “But I’m
all for fool instinct when it comes to estimating the other feller. I
can’t place the Wolf, and that’s a fact. He’s the brains and ability
of a township of hard-living citizens. But he’s more. He looks like a
half-breed and lives like one. Nevertheless, he’s white as you or me.
They call him the Wolf, without any other name. And sometimes I think
he’s rightly named, though I’ve seen nothing of the savage about him.
Maybe it’s something in his looks. You’ll note his grin when you see
him. Have you seen a young wolf at play? They grin. Grin like hell.
You’ll see that grin on the face of the Wolf. But--he’s a man. And I’ve
a hunch for him.”
Fyles found himself at the counter. Pideau was serving a big, florid
woman with cloth. It was symptomatic that he abandoned his customer on
the instant to give attention to the police officer. And Fyles smiled
into the snapping eyes that searched his so intently.
“Mornin’, officer,” Pideau greeted him, in his surly fashion.
Fyles nodded, and turned to regard the unsmiling face of Annette who
was serving canned goods to a man lower down the counter.
“Morning,” he replied, with easy cordiality.
Fyles was remarking to himself the amazing beauty which the moonlight
had only partially revealed to him at his encounter with Annette the
night before. Then he came aware that every eye was observing him. And
particularly of the unfriendly gaze of the florid woman beside him.
“I’m looking for tobacco,” he announced abruptly. “What plug do you
keep?”
“Why, the usual stuff,” Pideau replied, surveying his shelves with
pretended interest. “‘L. & B. Gold-stick.’ Then I got some dandy cut
stuff with a dope of perique in it. We were mighty glad this morning
to see you’d pulled into Buffalo Coulee in the night,” he went on,
striving for cordiality. “We was guessin’. We been without a sight of
a red-coat weeks. Well, we just didn’t get it. Then we wake up to find
you around. Quick an’ cunnin’, eh? Anyway, we’re glad an’ relieved to
see you, sir.”
It was Fyles’ first encounter with Pideau in the flesh. And he was
relieved that the half-breed made no attempt to shake him by the hand.
But the man had offered him the cue he desired, and he was quick to
take it.
“Quick, maybe,” he smiled pleasantly, careful to engage his whole
audience. “Cunning? Well, I guess not. There’s nothing cunning to
the police. It’s only crooks need to be that way. Surely I pulled in
last night. I’d have been along two weeks back only I was ’way out
on a trip, north. I was to have relieved young Sinclair then. He’s
out on a big trip and won’t be back for maybe a month, or even--more.
Superintendent Croisette reckoned Buffalo Coulee could get along
without us for a while, so he didn’t send anyone till I was through.
I’ll have two plugs of ‘Gold-stick.’ How much? A quarter each?”
Pideau reached behind him where the tobacco was lying on a shelf. Fyles
laid down a five-dollar bill.
“You ain’t anythin’ less--er----?” Pideau broke off.
The invitation was obvious.
“Fyles--Sergeant Stanley Fyles. No, I haven’t anything less. Can you
make the change?”
It was curious. Where before there had been a sort of smiling
curiosity, as the policeman explained his arrival, that curiosity and
smile had suddenly died completely. It was replaced, at the mention of
the policeman’s name, by an ominous, serious-eyed watchfulness.
Every eye in the long store was on the policeman’s sturdy figure. Every
eye was scrutinizing, seeking something which the officer’s armor of
blandness refused to reveal.
Even the Wolf, who, up till that moment, had pursued his labors of
translating chaos into order amongst a litter of fresh stores, desisted
from his efforts to gaze at the man whose name was an unloved household
word throughout the length and breadth of the Northwest.
Pideau made the change without further demur. He watched Fyles
carefully count and dispose of it. Then, as the officer turned and
moved away to pass out of the store, he turned without a word to the
florid-faced woman as though nothing had interrupted their transaction.
But the coming of Stanley Fyles to Buffalo Coulee was not to pass
without sharp comment. The silence following the announcement of his
name lasted until he was well clear of the store. Then it was broken.
There came a harsh, jeering laugh from the region of the stove. The
shoeing-smith, Tom Ransom, notorious as a cynical hard-liver, rasped
out a verbal expression of what many of those gathered in the store
were already thinking.
“Fyles, eh?” he cried. “Stanley Fyles. They send the slickest sergeant
they got west of Manitoba to p’lice a no-account township like Buffalo
Coulee. Sergeant Fyles to relieve a bum constable who’s been sent on a
big trip. Guess Stanley Fyles best try again.”
“Reckon he’s lyin’?”
It was Pideau who snapped the question.
“I don’t reckon nothin’, boy, ’cep’ I’m feelin’ easy I ain’t in the
liquor trade.”
Every eye focussed on Pideau. The blacksmith’s eyes were twinkling. The
whole of the company felt the laugh was on the storekeeper. The man
behind the counter, however, only shrugged his heavy shoulders and went
on with his work.
“Don’t worry, folks,” he said, in his harsh way. “The liquor trade
knows how to sleep easy fer jest as long as Fyles stops around.”