Scattered Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

sent his regrets. He is ill. Joe Sewap stands next to Councillor Custer. His job is to translate Cree to English and English to Cree. Waiting patiently in line down the steps and onto the path are the families.
    As each is called, the head of household, his wife and children crowding behind him like a gaggle of geese, comes forward and hands Taylor a card. Most are ragged and greasy with age.
    “Michael Bird, his wife, two girls and three boys,” the Indian agent reads, and then barks, “Any births or deaths in this family?”
    Joe Sewap translates smoothly, although he thinks it’s ridiculous that, after twenty years as Indian agent, Taylor still doesn’t know enough Cree to form a sentence.
    “One boy drowned last summer,” Councillor Custer answers.
    Doc Happy Mac amends the records, and Taylor counts out seven piles, each with five newly minted one dollar bills taken from the stack of $1,500 sitting in the centre of the table. The money is passed to Arthur Jan who carefully counts it. “Correct,” he announces, and the payment is handed over.
    The proceedings run smoothly enough, although every now and then a case involving unusual circumstances breaks the pattern.
    An elderly man shuffles forward and hands over a letter written by Father Bonnald on the family’s behalf. Beside him stands his grandson who drools down his chin and sways incessantly from side to side. Taylor reads the document and then questions the old man through the translator Joe Sewap.
    “You say this idiot is your grandson and that his mother died while giving birth to him?
    Translation, then a nod of agreement.
    “Why didn’t you apply for his treaty money long ago?”
    The grandfather says nothing, but stands motionless, his twenty-year-old grandson grinning and bobbing beside him.
    Taylor eyeballs the two, his tone of voice growing even sterner. “It’s through your negligence that this oversight has occurred. And now you and your priest expect the Canadian government to hand over the substantial sum of $120. I hardly think that’s fair to the Canadian taxpayer. Do you?”
    No emotion flickers on the elder’s face.
    “I’ll take it up with the Department, but I can’t promise you anything.” With a backward wave of his hand the Indian agent dismisses the two.
    Soon after, a man in his thirties dressed in heavy work clothes hobbles forward. He explains in accented but understandable English that he hasn’t received his treaty payments for five years.
    “And why not?” Taylor demands.
    “I am a returned soldier, a sharpshooter with the North Saskatchewan Regiment.” He rolls up his trousers, exposes a leg crisscrossed with scars. “Wounded twice. At Vimy Ridge. Here on the ankle and here on the knee. I was in the hospital for a long time, and afterwards I needed to make some money. I have a family, you see. So, on my way home, I took jobs, anything I could get – helping with the harvest, working construction on the roads. I thought the government was sending treaty to my wife, but it never arrived.”
    “How are you feeling now?” Doc Happy Mac interjects.
    “Okay, but my legs ache at night, and they’re so weak that sometimes I fall down. I don’t know how I’m going to do on the trap lines. You know, in the heavy snow...”
    The Indian agent abruptly butts in, “We won’t go into that. I’ll send a report to Ottawa.”
    Once all the payments have been made, the families scatter. With money in hand, the celebration can begin.
    Arthur Jan races after the crowd, shouting out in a mixture of Cree and English, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Northern Lights Trading Post has just been restocked. The latest dress material! Wait till you see the new calico! Wonderful colours! Ladies’ and men’s hats. Ribbons and bows. All are on offer. Can you feel those dollars burning a hole in your pocket? Come along. Bibi Ratt will be happy to serve you.”
    Out of the corner of his eye Arthur spots his competition, Russell Smith,