“I been old.”
They all laughed, got in Du Pré’s car.
Sush sush sush went the tires in the deep snow. County plows wouldn’t be out for a while, maybe not till tomorrow. Du Pré remembered riding in them with Catfoot, his father cursing and shifting gears. The trucks were old, Catfoot slammed them into drifted snow so hard sometimes the trucks slowed and stopped, went sideways.
Then the wind would put the snow back.
Catfoot got called out on bad nights, he had a couple old trucks and plows, not too much good, but anything helped when the blizzards came. Catfoot, the little rancher, brand inspector, roadman for the county, combiner of grain, good hand at poker. Did everything. Had to.
Du Pré shifted in his seat. His ass itched.
“Your women very kind,” said Benetsee. “I don’t hear from my sons and daughters any more.”
Too much trouble to them, thought Du Pré, that’s very sad. He thought more. Too much trouble to me, thinking about the deer hanging in Benetsee’s meathouse with Du Pré’s tag on its leg.
Old fart. Good old man, knows things.
Du Pré turned into the drive to his house. The snow and wind had erased his tracks. Raymond’s pickup was there now, he’d been out fixing someone’s plumbing. Hardworking man.
They struggled through the snow to the house. Du Pré walked behind, ready to grab the clumsy priest or the old man, but they made it to the door all right. The priest sort of fell into the house.
The house was hot and steamy from all the people sweating, the cooking, the old Peerless woodstove hot and covered in dishes.
Much laughter, whiskey and lemon and cinnamon. Father Van Den Heuvel and Benetsee had large glasses.
“Du Pré, said Benetsee, “you play fiddle, huh?”
“We got a half hour till we need you to carve,” said Madelaine, “so you play the fiddle, I quiet these savages down.” She looked at all the small children running, squirming, squealing.
Du Pré got his fiddle, tightened up the bow, tuned. He began to play, nothing in particular, make his fingers fly, they were a little cold. Du Pré played “Baptiste’s Lament.”
Benetsee pulled a willow flute from his coat, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, Métis way, so your pipe fit in the other.
The fiddle and the willow.
River bottoms, the wagons full of meat, new babies in the bellies of the women. The wind was from the north and smelled of snow. White owls scudded through storms. Coyotes sang, hunted rabbits in teams, the rabbits ran in circles. One lap, fresh coyote.
The old chansons.
Du Pré felt for a moment that he was floating through the roof and looking down. An orange county road truck bashed through the snow, little Gabriel laughing in excitement while Catfoot shifted the gears and cursed in Coyote French, some bad English.
Catfoot, he did everything, like a good Métis man.
He even mined for gold, had an ancient little dragline, pull up thirty feet of the old gravels, from the bed of the old Missouri, when it had flowed north to Hudson Bay. The gold was heavy, it sank to bedrock, right there on the bones of the earth, the gold was. Where the river couldn’t dig any deeper.
Tens of thousands of years ago, maybe millions, when the Missouri flowed north and east, till the high white glaciers crept down and bulldozed berms to send it to the Gulf of Mexico.
But before that the strong brown waters roiled north. Red River.
CHAPTER 30
D U P RÉ CAME BACK late, from having taken Madelaine and her kids home. The house was still hot and steaming. The women and Father Van Den Heuvel had washed every dish, wiped every surface. The house still throbbed from all the people.
Maria was running the vacuum over the worn old Sears, Roebuck carpet. She had a kerchief around her head, to soak up the sweat. Du Pré threw open the front and back doors. He turned the thermostat down. The windows had been sealed off for the winter, translucent plastic stapled to the frames.
Maria mopped at her throat
They all laughed, got in Du Pré’s car.
Sush sush sush went the tires in the deep snow. County plows wouldn’t be out for a while, maybe not till tomorrow. Du Pré remembered riding in them with Catfoot, his father cursing and shifting gears. The trucks were old, Catfoot slammed them into drifted snow so hard sometimes the trucks slowed and stopped, went sideways.
Then the wind would put the snow back.
Catfoot got called out on bad nights, he had a couple old trucks and plows, not too much good, but anything helped when the blizzards came. Catfoot, the little rancher, brand inspector, roadman for the county, combiner of grain, good hand at poker. Did everything. Had to.
Du Pré shifted in his seat. His ass itched.
“Your women very kind,” said Benetsee. “I don’t hear from my sons and daughters any more.”
Too much trouble to them, thought Du Pré, that’s very sad. He thought more. Too much trouble to me, thinking about the deer hanging in Benetsee’s meathouse with Du Pré’s tag on its leg.
Old fart. Good old man, knows things.
Du Pré turned into the drive to his house. The snow and wind had erased his tracks. Raymond’s pickup was there now, he’d been out fixing someone’s plumbing. Hardworking man.
They struggled through the snow to the house. Du Pré walked behind, ready to grab the clumsy priest or the old man, but they made it to the door all right. The priest sort of fell into the house.
The house was hot and steamy from all the people sweating, the cooking, the old Peerless woodstove hot and covered in dishes.
Much laughter, whiskey and lemon and cinnamon. Father Van Den Heuvel and Benetsee had large glasses.
“Du Pré, said Benetsee, “you play fiddle, huh?”
“We got a half hour till we need you to carve,” said Madelaine, “so you play the fiddle, I quiet these savages down.” She looked at all the small children running, squirming, squealing.
Du Pré got his fiddle, tightened up the bow, tuned. He began to play, nothing in particular, make his fingers fly, they were a little cold. Du Pré played “Baptiste’s Lament.”
Benetsee pulled a willow flute from his coat, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, Métis way, so your pipe fit in the other.
The fiddle and the willow.
River bottoms, the wagons full of meat, new babies in the bellies of the women. The wind was from the north and smelled of snow. White owls scudded through storms. Coyotes sang, hunted rabbits in teams, the rabbits ran in circles. One lap, fresh coyote.
The old chansons.
Du Pré felt for a moment that he was floating through the roof and looking down. An orange county road truck bashed through the snow, little Gabriel laughing in excitement while Catfoot shifted the gears and cursed in Coyote French, some bad English.
Catfoot, he did everything, like a good Métis man.
He even mined for gold, had an ancient little dragline, pull up thirty feet of the old gravels, from the bed of the old Missouri, when it had flowed north to Hudson Bay. The gold was heavy, it sank to bedrock, right there on the bones of the earth, the gold was. Where the river couldn’t dig any deeper.
Tens of thousands of years ago, maybe millions, when the Missouri flowed north and east, till the high white glaciers crept down and bulldozed berms to send it to the Gulf of Mexico.
But before that the strong brown waters roiled north. Red River.
CHAPTER 30
D U P RÉ CAME BACK late, from having taken Madelaine and her kids home. The house was still hot and steaming. The women and Father Van Den Heuvel had washed every dish, wiped every surface. The house still throbbed from all the people.
Maria was running the vacuum over the worn old Sears, Roebuck carpet. She had a kerchief around her head, to soak up the sweat. Du Pré threw open the front and back doors. He turned the thermostat down. The windows had been sealed off for the winter, translucent plastic stapled to the frames.
Maria mopped at her throat
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