Geronimo's Cadillac

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Over the years a number of Canadian police officers – both RCMP, municipal police services and tribal police – generously provided time, information and valuable insights. I thank them all. I owe special gratitude to Inspector Phill Banks, RCMP (ret.), for advice and wise counsel above and beyond the call of duty.

My editor, Audrey McClellan, provided many valuable corrections and suggestions. Several colleagues and friends contributed thoughtful reviews of the book and have allowed me to publish these.

I cannot thank enough the help and support of my wife, soul-mate and patient editorial advisor Janis, who supported the writing of this book over its unusually long gestation period.

Any errors or omissions are mine.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of North-West Mounted Police Superintendent James Morrow Walsh (May 22, 1840 – July 25, 1905), all characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some geographical details are products of the author’s imagination.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

Then I asked General Miles what the treaty would be. General Miles said to me: ‘I will take you under government protection; I will build you a house; I will fence you much land; I will give you cattle, horses, mules and farming implements. You will be furnished with men to work the farm, for you yourself will not have to work. In the fall I will send you blankets and clothing so that you will not suffer from cold in the winter time. There is plenty of timber, water and grass in the land to which I will send you.’ 
I said to General Miles, ‘All the officers that have been in charge of the Indians have talked that way, and it sounds like a story to me. I hardly believe you.’ He said, ‘This time it is the truth.’"

-Geronimo’s Story of His Life

(Taken down and edited by S.M. Barrett, 1906)


Well they put Geronimo in jail down south 
Where he couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth 
Sergeant, sergeant, don't you feel 
There's something wrong with your automobile? 
Governor, governor, now ain’t it strange
They didn’t have no cars on the Indian range? 
Warden, warden, listen to me 
Be brave and set Geronimo free 

Whoa boys, take me back 
I want to ride in Geronimo's Cadillac 
Whoa boys, take me back 
I want to ride in Geronimo's Cadillac 

Warden, warden, don't you know 
That prisoners have no place to go? 
Took old Geronimo by storm 
Ripped off the feathers from his uniform 
Jesus tells me, I believe its true 
The red man is in the sunset too 
Took all his land, now they won't give it back 
Sent Geronimo a Cadillac


Geronimo's Cadillac lyrics © CARLIN AMERICA INC

CHAPTER ONE


Browning, Montana

On the border of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation

I spent five hours showing Rufus Stillwater’s picture up and down the main street with no result other than a kid in a takeout pizza place who said it resembled his Uncle Fred in Billings. The lashing wind and the uncomprehending looks wore me down. I drove back to my motel, turned up the heat and took a nap. Maybe something would turn up.

When I woke, nothing had. Wind-driven snow crystals were swirling out of the dark and pinging against the dirty window. Time to shift gears. I had brought one hard lead across the border with me: the fact that Rufus Stillwater had an aunt on the Blackfeet Reservation and that he used to visit her. Perhaps he had gone there to hide.

To fortify myself I went into the café next door and ordered the hot roast beef sandwich on the assumption that there isn’t much you can do to ruin a hot roast beef sandwich.

Apparently I was wrong. I had to saw on the beef so hard that the Formica table vibrated nervously and the salt and pepper shakers fell off and rolled under the next booth. I resisted the temptation to pursue them on my hands and knees; I didn’t want to see the floor close up.

Three cups of bad coffee got my adrenaline going, so I walked back to my room, pulled on my ski jacket, tucked the Persuader in my hip pocket and went out to the truck.

The female constable at the tribal police office had told me that Rufus Stillwater’s aunt, Millie Standing Bear, lived about ten miles into the reservation on Road 3. I should look for a grove of poplars and a Texas gate.

The snow was coming down harder and the wind was already drifting it across the road. I drove more slowly than usual since there were few lights and I didn’t want to rip out my oil pan in a pothole. About five miles along I noticed headlights following me, maybe a quarter mile back. They kept pace when I sped up or slowed down but didn’t seem to be closing, so I pushed the matter to the back of my mind for the moment and peered through the snow for the turnoff to Mrs. Standing Bear’s home.

It was so dark, and the poplars so stunted, that I nearly missed the driveway, which was just a trail through the weeds past the corpse of an old Plymouth. I four-wheeled along it until my headlights swung onto a house covered in tarpaper nailed down with chicken wire. The front door was about six feet off the ground. Apparently the owner ran out of money before front steps could be built.

I shut off my engine, waited a few minutes, then took off my hat and plunged through snow and weeds to the side door.

The woman who answered wore old-fashioned Indian Health Service-type eyeglasses and rubber gloves covered in soapsuds. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, not old enough to be Millie Standing Bear. Small children inspected me from the corner of the kitchen.

I introduced myself, explained that I was looking for Rufus Stillwater and asked if I could see Mrs. Standing Bear.

She’s sick.

I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think I could get a cup of coffee? I’m freezing out here.

She made room for me to come in. The children scattered and headed for the living room, where Sylvester the Cat was feeding salted crackers to Tweetie Bird on an old black-and-white TV with brass rabbit ears.

The place smelled of bacon fat, burned potatoes and boiled coffee. The kitchen linoleum was worn through to the underlying plywood. On the counter were the remains of what looked like a venison roast. The woman poured me coffee in a chipped mug and returned to washing dishes. She didn’t introduce herself. I helped myself to a can of evaporated milk on the table; the coffee needed it.

Small faces peeked around the corner.

I waited patiently while the woman put the soapy dishes on a drain rack. Neither of us said anything. Finally she pulled the plug in the sink, wiped her hands and came over to the table. She sat down and didn’t meet my eyes.

I take it that Mrs. Standing Bear is your...mother-in-law?

Yeah.

How is she?

She’s pretty sick tonight, yep. I don’t think she wants any visitors.

Could you maybe help me?

She nodded.

I’m a friend of Rufus Stillwater’s grandmother, Leona White Wolf, up on the Blackfoot Reserve in Alberta. She is your mother-in-law’s cousin. She told me that Rufus had disappeared. She hired me to look for him and make sure he is all right. I have a letter from Granny White Wolf for your mother-in-law.

You a policemans?

No, ma’am. I run a ranch in southern Alberta. I’m here because Granny White Wolf sent me to look for her grandson. Have you seen him? I passed her one of my photocopied pictures of Rufus.

Don’t know any Rufus Stillwater.

Granny White Wolf said he used to visit your mother-in-law sometimes.

She mumbled something I didn’t catch. Then You said you had a letter.

I gave her the letter from Granny White Wolf. She polished her glasses with the dish towel and looked at it impassively.

She said finally, The last time I saw Rufus was a couple of years ago. I haven’t been up to Canada for a long time.

Has anyone around here seen Rufus? Anyone I could talk to, on the reservation or in Browning?

I don’t get in there much. No.

Conversations with Indians contain a lot of silences and opportunities for interpreting body language. I smiled patiently and waited her out. She was starting to say something when there was distant coughing down the hall. She shuffled in that direction.

Whole faces emerged around the corner. A girl around ten and a boy who looked about five or six. He had a brush cut and eyes as black and inquisitive as a prairie dog’s.

You a police? he asked.

Nope, I’m a rancher from up in Canada. Now let me see. What do they call you?

Barnaby. Peal of giggles from around the corner.

You have a gun? he said.

Don’t like guns much. Except for shooting bears.

My uncle shot a bear once. He let me lie on the fur.

Come on, Barnaby, the girl said, pulling at his arm. He shook her off.

I’m a friend of your granny’s cousin up in Canada, I said. She asked me to come here and help her find one of your uncles. Do you think you could help me?

I dunno.

His name is Rufus. He’s about my size.

I’ve got an Uncle Rufus.

No fooling! You seen him lately?

Sure. He let me ride his horse.

Yeah, and you fell off, said the girl triumphantly. Big sister, evidently.

It was bareback, Barnaby said. It’s hard.

Only wussies use saddles, she said.

How long ago was your uncle here?

Come on, Barnaby. His sister was pulling him toward the living room.

The woman came back down the hall.

I’m sorry Mister...

Walsh.

Mum needs help to go to the bathroom. I don’t have any more time to talk.

Okay if I come back when she’s feeling better?

She mumbled something. It was as much of an answer as I was going to get. I thanked her for the coffee and headed for the door.

The wind nearly pulled it out of my hand. The snow was driving in horizontal streaks through the light that spilled into the yard. I zipped up my jacket and picked my way through the weeds to the truck.

About half a mile toward Browning I passed a black Cougar beside the road, lights off. Its parking lights came on and it pulled out behind me.

Had I seen one like it earlier in Browning? Couldn’t be sure.

It began closing, its lights on high beam.

My truck is a ten-year-old Ford F-150 that I maintain myself. It’s built for hauling, not road racing. I dropped it into third and floored it, but the Cougar was gaining fast. Not a good sign.

Okay, we’ll try evasion.

I let the Cougar close to about twenty-five yards. Then I stood on the brakes, threw the wheel over hard and tramped the gas, spinning around 180 degrees. The wheels spun and I fought for control before sliding narrowly past the Cougar, which was whipsawing along the shoulder, spitting gravel.

In my mirror I saw its parking lights flicker and disappear.

That might buy me ten seconds.

Maybe enough to find a place I could go off-road in four-wheel drive. A Cougar couldn’t follow me there.

I scanned the ditches, my heart pumping, but they were dangerously steep. No crossroads either, and then the lights of the Cougar leapt over the rise behind me and began to close again. I clutched the steering wheel, wrestling to keep the truck going forward as it shimmied on the loose gravel, the speedometer hovering around eighty.

Only two options now: broadside the bastard, or stand and deliver.

Forget broadsiding. I’d probably find myself in some American courtroom, charged with manslaughter or a couple of million in civil damages. Better try option two.

I looked for a flat stretch, pumped the brakes and did another 180, this time sliding to a stop in the middle of the road. I switched my headlights to high so they’d be directly in the oncoming driver’s eyes. For good measure I turned on the inside lights to provide maximum illumination around the truck. Then I got out, snapped my Persuader to its full three-foot length and tucked it behind my right leg. I positioned myself in front of the truck, right between the headlights, took several deep breaths and waited.

The Cougar slid to a stop about thirty feet away in a cascade of flying gravel. It sat there, its big bass speakers pumping out a heavy thump of rap over the rumbling of the engine.

In the glare of my lights, three young Indian men got out.

Sturdy, black leather jackets, shit-kicker boots. The tallest carried an aluminum baseball bat loosely at his side. I could see a red shirt collar above his jacket. They came forward quickly, almost eagerly, fanning out.

You’re on Indian Land, asshole, Red Shirt said. Guess you need a little lesson in ‘no trespassing.’

In a situation like this you fall back on basic training. There’s no time to reason anything out. My old martial arts instructor was a tough little Glaswegian who came out of the SAS. There is only one rule for street-fighting, he used to say. Namely, there are no rules. Identify the most vulnerable part of your opponent’s body and arrive there in an ill humor.

I loved the way he rolled the r in humor.

I held up my left hand like a scared civilian trying to pacify them.

No offence, fellows, I said placatingly.

Red Shirt’s smile was like a knife slit across his face. He came straight at me, confidently, winding up his baseball bat.

I took one step back, like I was preparing to run, then dropped my right shoulder and swung the Persuader hard and fast at a point just above his left knee. It connected with a distinct thwack, like a branch breaking.

Red Shirt’s mouth opened to a large O as he sucked in air and began to collapse over that leg, astonished by the amount of pain a shattered femur can cause. He inhaled for an endless moment and then, finally, began to scream. The delay between action and sound was like watching a badly dubbed foreign movie.

Indian Two hesitated and then produced a switchblade that opened with an audible click. He dropped into a fighting crouch and circled to my left, trying to draw me away from the truck and out of the pool of light.

I followed him cautiously, swiveling on the balls of my feet, keeping my weight low. I shifted the Persuader back and forth from hand to hand.

Do not forget Indian Number Three. Peripherally I saw him go to the other side of the truck. He tried the passenger-side door. Probably hoped to turn off the lights.

Indian Two made a wild swipe at my face with his knife. I swiveled away, but moving on the loose gravel was like trying to dance on ball bearings and I felt myself losing my balance. I over-rotated, tried to swing the Persuader at his forearm and missed.

Mistake. The kid was unschooled but fast. He slashed at me backhand. I felt the blade rip through my jacket, and a warm numbness spread along my ribs.

His thrust had a price, however. He was now the one off-balance and was at the end of his swing. I hit him across the forearm and watched the switchblade spin into the darkness. He grunted with pain, clutched his arm and fell backward onto the road.

Do not forget Indian Three.

I looked to my left just as Indian Three rounded the truck and tackled me, throwing me against the door. The driver-side mirror broke, and the two of us slid along the fender and fell, grunting when we hit the road. My head bounced off the gravel. White streaks of pain shot across the inside of my eyeballs, leaving a phosphorescent trail, like meteors.

Indian Three was fat but strong and evidently fancied himself a wrestler. We rolled toward the ditch, legs flailing, his fingers probing for my eyeballs. I saw an opening to knee him in the nuts and did so, hard, getting a blast of sour beer breath in the face for my trouble. His grip on my face relaxed momentarily and I seized his finger and bent it back until it audibly snapped.

He let out a yell of pure animal pain and rolled off me, gasping.

All of this action took maybe fifteen or twenty seconds, but like an accident victim I experienced it through a fog of time dilution. I lay on the road, watching individual snowflakes falling lazily through the beams of light like descending fireflies. I could feel my legs on the frozen gravel. It was sharp and they hurt, but they also seemed disconnected from my body. Any thought of getting up was purely theoretical.

The wind whistled and I could feel my nose running uncontrollably. I was vaguely aware of a sound in the distance that could have been a siren, but then again, maybe not. I didn’t really care. All I cared about was the terrible pain at the base of my head. I rolled onto my stomach, coughing and retching.

Artie! We’re out of here! Someone shouting in the darkness. Red Shirt was on his hands and knees, throwing up on the gravel, long strings of mucus and vomit hanging from his mouth. Through a fog of pink I watched somebody trying to drag Indian Three to his feet out by the edge of the light. The Indian doing the dragging was breathing in rapid grunts.

I heard glass breaking—the sound of a headlight being kicked in—and then the sounds receded and I was lying at the side of the road, choking on my own thick spit, my side on fire.

I heard the Cougar’s engine gunning. Its lights swung my way and its tires were spinning. Instinctively I summoned my remaining strength and rolled into the ditch before it swerved past.

I was sliding into unconsciousness and the ditch at the same time. I came to a stop with a frozen weed poking into my face, sticking up my nose. I could no longer feel my left arm.

At some point—I have no idea how long it was—two dark figures slid down the bank toward me, cursing, shining their flashlights in my face. I could barely make them out.

They dragged me out of the ditch and wrapped me in a blanket. Then they half dragged, half carried me to a black-and-white police car.

The last thing I remembered for a while was how wonderfully warm and soft the back seat felt.

CHAPTER TWO

When my search for Rufus Stillwater began, fighting for my life on a back road in Montana wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Three weeks earlier, in mid-September, I was looking through the mailbox at my ranch south of the Crowsnest Pass when I saw something I rarely get. A real letter. Postmarked Gleichen, Alberta.

I tried to remember any connections I had in Gleichen. I thought I might have driven through it once, years ago. A