Semple let out a long, low breath, his gaze on the distant group heading north and to the east, toward the Red River. “I would prefer to speak to them. Perhaps we can avoid a conflict altogether.”
“We have heard for months what these men are planning,” Arran said, barely containing his frustration. “They have come to destroy the settlement and fort. They will not be willing to speak.”
“You do not know for certain.” Semple’s own irritation was mounting, and it was evident in the red riding high up his neck. “I could not live with myself if I didn’t at least try to avoid a war.” He motioned to the group. “Let us continue. Mr. Burke and the others can catch up to us later.”
The governor’s orders did not settle well in Arran’s gut. He exchanged a look with James, who nodded once that he understood Arran’s frustration—but what could they do? Semple was their governor, for better or worse.
They were soon upon Colony Gardens. There were twenty-six settlers’ houses standing on plots of land edging the river, long and narrow. Up ahead, the Bois-Brûlés had come to a stop. They must have noticed the fort men, because they had turned and started to gallop toward them.
Sweat trickled down Arran’s temples and dust filled his nose. There was no going back this time. They did not have the fort for protection, but only the muskets they had carried along.
“Spread out onto the plains,” Semple yelled and motioned toward the west.
Arran repeated his orders, and the men did as they were told. They were outnumbered by the Bois-Brûlés at least two to one, but there was nothing they could do about that now.
They were about to face the most ruthless men in Rupert’s Land. Arran’s mind should have been on the confrontation, but all he could think about was Eleanor and Miriam back at the defenseless fort.
Semple and his men had gone only as far as the place known as Seven Oaks, in the middle of Colony Gardens, when the oncoming riders were close enough for Arran to see that they were, in fact, half-blood men and employees of the North West Company. Though they were disguised as Indians, several were recognizable and known to Arran, having worked with them years ago. Cuthbert Grant was also there, though he rode his horse toward the back of the group.
The Bois-Brûlés broke into two groups, fanning out to surround Arran and the others in a half-circle. The Frenchman named Francois Boucher, a clerk who had worked at Fort Gibraltar with Duncan Cameron, rode out from among them.
His face was painted and contorted into a fierce snarl. “What do you want?” he asked Semple in broken English.
Governor Semple frowned and shook his head, clearly confused. “What doyouwant?”
Boucher looked around the group of fort men, his eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” he asked again.
Semple met Arran’s gaze, uncertainty in his eyes, and then he looked back at Boucher. “What doyouwant?”
Annoyed, Boucher turned his horse back toward the group of Bois-Brûlés and motioned for them to head toward the north again. Clumps of dirt flew into the air behind their retreating horses.
Arran frowned and looked among the fort men. The Bois-Brûlés were not behaving as he had thought they would. It didn’tappear that they had come to fight, though they were clearly on a mission of one kind or another.
“Do they not want to fight?” one of the fort men asked, lifting his musket into the air. “Because I am ready to fight!”
Several other men shouted in agreement, mocking the Bois-Brûlés.
Semple turned to Arran, a look of perplexity on his face. “What do you think they are doing here?”
Arran had no idea. He shook his head. “I dinna ken.”
“Should we follow them?” West asked Semple, moving his horse closer to Arran’s.
It took a few moments of indecision before Semple nodded. “Let’s keep going. It’s clear they have no intention to fight us. We need to speak to them and find out what they want.”
“Mayhap we should return to the fort,” Arran said. “Watch and wait to see what they have in mind. We will be better protected there and able to defend ourselves. I dinna like how they are behaving. There is something wrong.”
Semple seemed to weigh his options, but then he nodded toward the north. “Let’s continue. I’d like to see this thing done.”
Arran had no choice but to obey his commanding officer yet again, though everything within him demanded a different course.
They started, but no sooner had they returned to a gallop than the Bois-Brûlés turned back once again. This time, they were spread out even more, their group separating into two parties and forming a half-circle around Semple and his men for the second time.
Dread filled Arran as his mind tried to understand what the Bois-Brûlés were doing. Something was wrong—he just didn’t know what it might be or how to stop it from happening.
“What do you want?” Boucher left the ranks of the Bois-Brûlés and circled around Semple and his horse, asking again in broken English, “What do you want?”
Semple ground his teeth together and lowered his chin. “What doyouwant?”
