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eBook Category: Alternate History/Fantasy
eBook Description: The Riel Rebellion plays out in a world where black magic helps decide the outcome, and the founder of the Boy Scouts runs for his life.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Arrowdreams: An Anthology of Alternate Canadas, ed. Mark Shainblum and John Dupuis, 1998
Fictionwise Release Date: May 2002

11 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [29 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [35 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [15 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [70 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [16 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [66 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [87 KB] , hiebook (KML) [66 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [44 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [13 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [17 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [44 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [25 KB]
Words: 4905
Reading time: 14-19 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Three days ago Robert had shot his horse.

Early in the foothills it had come up lame. He had spent a panicked half-hour or so cutting away strips of horseflesh, hanging the strips from the back of his pack and over his shoulders, hoping the early winter sun would dry them before they rotted. It had worked, mostly. But the horse meat was gone now, eaten during his frantic hike south towards the border.

Now he sat on the cold hard ground, hiding in the bushes in a small ravine and watching a small snare that sat at the base of a willow, thirty paces away. The snare held a hare, its neck snapped and dried blood crusted around its nose. His stomach growled at the thought of fresh meat, of any food at all. But he couldn't approach the snare; it was still active, ready to lash out if he got too close.

He had stumbled across it earlier in the day, and in his near-delirious hunger he had approached the dead animal without a second thought. Somehow though, his talisman had been in his right hand. He didn't remember having pulled the pouch out from under his shirt, but quite obviously he had. It had warned him in its own fashion, first sending a shooting pain up his other arm, and when that didn't stop him, briefly paralysing his right leg. He had fallen to his face on the frozen ground, cheek resting on a light skiff of snow and frozen earth, and watched as the snare had flailed briefly about, having sensed his presence.

He had lain there for some minutes, drool freezing on his skin, grunting as he fought to get the feeling back in his arm and leg. When he was able he dragged himself back, away from the trap, and when his leg and arm felt better he had cleaned up any sign of his being there. Then he hid himself, and waited.

The sun had disappeared over the edge of the gully when the trapper arrived. Métis. A tall, dark, angry-looking man with a wiry black beard stained with brown streaks of tobacco. He wore a fur hat and gloves, a flannel jacket, and tall moccasins, and carried an ancient rifle in the crook of his right elbow, with a leather bag thrown over his opposite shoulder.

He walked to the trap, set down his rifle and his bag, pulled a knife from its sheath on his thigh. Stitched on the side of the bag was the battle flag Robert had come to hate and fear. White on a blue background, upraised hand and wolf's head accompanied by the words maisons ... autels ... Surtout Liberté. The English translation was In the house ... At the altar ... Above All Freedom.

And death. Robert threw his knife just as the Métis seemed to sense his presence. It buried deep in the man's neck, and he died without a sound, the snare now deactivated and safe to approach.