War of the Eagles by Eric Walters Page A

pit, or working on the road lead–ing out of camp. Rather than warm lunches, they’d be eating meals packed when they left after breakfast.
    At a few minutes to two, Major Brown entered the mess hall. He walked around absentmindedly before coming back into the kitchen.
    â€œMrs. Blackburn, could you please put on a fresh pot of coffee?”
    â€œSure thing, Major. I just finished baking a berry pie.
    Still hot, sitting there on the window sill, cooling down.
    How about I bring out a piece to all three of you?”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” he answered. “These gentlemen are coming here for a serious discussion, not a social tea.”
    â€œA little food never hurt anything. Good food can get rid of a lot of bad tastes.”
    â€œTsimshian logic?” he asked.
    â€œIt works.”
    â€œI’m sure it does. Do we have any ice cream, maybe vanilla, to go along with it?”
    â€œI’ll see what we can do.”
    At precisely two o’clock the door to the mess hall opened again and in strode the commander of the lo–cal detachment of the RCMP. His polished boots made a staccato sound as he moved across the hall to shake hands with the major.
    â€œGood day, Major,” he said formally. “I trust you had an opportunity to get a few hours sleep after our meeting.”
    â€œA few, just a few.”
    The commander looked at his watch. “I don’t sup–pose our friend has arrived yet. I’ve yet to meet an Indian who’s ever been on time.”
    From the way he said “friend,” I could tell the com–mander considered George Star to be something else. I did know what he meant, though, about him not being on time. It drove my father crazy when one of my mom’s relatives would show up hours, or days late, or simply not come at all after saying they’d be there. The Tsimshian aren’t really too interested in clocks and being on time.
    I stayed out of sight in the kitchen. I could hear the two of them talking quietly but couldn’t make out any of the words. I sat down in front of a mountain of pota–toes needing to be peeled before supper. About fifteen minutes passed before I heard the front door open once again. I was glad George had finally arrived and sneaked over to peek out through the kitchen doorway. To my surprise I couldn’t see George. Or the commander. Major Brown sat by himself at the table, his back to me.
    He turned and saw me. “You might as well come out, Jed, there’s nobody else here.”
    I walked out and he turned around. “Well, Jed, that certainly wasn’t very helpful.”
    â€œNo sir,” I answered, looking away.
    â€œCould you bring me two pieces of that pie, Jed?”
    â€œTwo?” I questioned.
    â€œYou do want the second piece, don’t you?”
    â€œYeah, definitely,” I said enthusiastically.
    â€œGood. See if your mother also wishes to join us.”
    Major Brown was like two different guys. When the men were around he never smiled, or joked or acted friendly. All of the men respected him. Some even feared him. When there was nobody around, though, he was completely different. His face softened, his walk and talk slowed and he smiled. I bet there were people, lots of people, in this camp who figured he didn’t even know how to smile. My mother said this was the “real” man and not to take the other side of him too seriously, he was just doing his job.
    I returned to the kitchen. My mother plunged a knife into the pastry and a puff of steam escaped into the air. I told her what the major had asked and she cut two pieces, putting them on plates and then onto a tray. She next took a big spoon and scooped out some vanilla ice cream and placed it on the top of the two pieces of pie. She handed me the tray and walked ahead.
    â€œThat smells wonderful, Mrs. Blackburn, just won–derful.”“Thanks. You’ll find that it