He went to the barn and did some chores-even though he'd been contemplating his own death, life had to go on in the meanwhile. After a bit, he'd done everything that needed doing. He stayed out anyhow; if he went back to the farmhouse, he'd have another row with Maude. He knew he'd be having rows with Maude till Custer, like imperial Caesar, made his triumphal procession through Rosenfeld. After that, one way or another, they'd end. He looked forward to saying, / told you so.
When he finally went back inside, his wife wasn't in the kitchen, but the wonderful smell of baking bread filled it. McGregor smiled before he knew what he was doing. Life still held pleasure for him. He didn't want to throw it away. But he was ready, if that turned out to be what he had to do.
In the parlor, he found Mary reading the copy of the Register he'd brought back from Rosenfeld. She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. 'He's coming here,' she said. 'He really is.'
McGregor didn't have to ask who he was. He nodded. 'He sure is,' he answered.
'He shouldn't,' Mary said. 'He's got no business doing that. Even if they won the war, do they have to go and brag about it?' 'That's how Yanks are,' McGregor said. 'They like to boast and show off.' So it seemed by his self- effacing Canadian standards, anyhow.
'They shouldn't,' Mary said, as if stating a law of nature. 'And he shouldn't have a parade through the middle of our town.' Something sharp and brittle as broken glass glinted in her pale eyes. 'Something ought to happen to him if he does.'
She s my daughter, McGregor thought. Flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul He almost told her something just might happen to the famous Yank general, George Armstrong Custer. But no. Proud of her though he was, he kept his plans to himself. Custer might be a showy American. McGregor was no American, and glad not to be one. He held his secrets close.
'Something ought to happen to him,' Mary repeated, looking straight at McGregor. She knew what he'd done over the years. She had to know even if he'd said far less to her and to Julia than to Maude. So she knew what she was saying now. She wanted Custer blown sky high.
'Your mother thinks there's nothing more to be done,' McGregor said, to see how Mary would take that.
His daughter hissed like an angry cat. She said, 'Till we're free again, there's always more to be done.'
'Well, maybe so,' McGregor answered, and said no more. He wondered if Mary knew how risky throwing a bomb at Custer's motorcar was. He couldn't ask her. He couldn't tell her, either. But he'd been right when he told Maude that Mary loved Custer as much as he did. Maybe he'd get to say / told you so twice.
Thoughtfully, Mary asked, 'What would Alexander do now?'
'Why, he'd-' McGregor broke off. He realized he didn't know what his son would do. Alexander had always denied to the American authorities that he'd had anything to do with the kids who were sabotaging the railroad track. If that was so, the Yanks had shot him for nothing-but he might agree with Maude when she said, Enough is enough. If, on the other hand, he'd been lying, he'd be all for trying to blow up Custer now-but the Americans would have had some reason for standing him against the wall. The more McGregor thought about it, the more confused he got.
Mary wasn't confused; she had the clear, bright certainty of youth. 'He'd want us to be free, too,' she said, and her father nodded. That, no doubt, was true.
Day inexorably followed day. When McGregor took care to note time passing, it seemed to crawl on hands and knees. When he didn't note it, when he busied himself with farm chores as he had to do, it sped by. Faster than he'd looked for it came the day when Custer would parade through Rosenfeld.
At breakfast that morning, Maude said, 'Maybe we could all go into town and watch the show.' Her smile pasted gaiety over stark fear.
McGregor paused with a bite of home-cured bacon halfway to his mouth. Tonelessly, he said, 'I don't think that would be a good idea.'
'Why not?' Maude said, determined to force the issue. 'It would be jolly.' She waited for Mary to clamor to be allowed to go into town, as she usually did. But Mary just sat, toying with her breakfast. She looked from her mother to her father and said not a word.
Into the silence, McGregor repeated, 'I don't think that would be a good idea.' He ate a couple more forkfuls of bacon and eggs, emptying his plate, then got to his feet. 'I'm going out to the barn and hitch up the wagon. I don't want to be late, not today.'
Mary nodded at that, not looking up at McGregor, still not saying a word. Before McGregor could get out the door, Maude ran to him and took him in her arms. 'Come home,' she whispered fiercely.
'I intend to,' McGregor answered, which was true. He disentangled himself from his wife and went to the door.
The day was mild, not too warm, so the coat with big pockets he wore wouldn't particularly stand out. His one worry was that the U.S. Army might have set up security checkpoints around Rosenfeld, as the Yanks had done during the Great War. He'd built a false bottom to his seat to leave a space in which he could conceal the bomb, but he didn't want to have to rely on it, and it would make life more difficult even if it worked. But the Americans seemed sure all their Canadian subjects were cowed. He had no trouble getting into Rosenfeld.
He hitched the wagon on a side street well away from the post office and general store; he didn't want Wilf Rokeby or Henry Gibbon spotting him, not today. Then he casually took a place from which he'd be able to see the parade. Before long, people started filling the space in front of him. He didn't mind. He could still see well enough.
Custer's train pulled into Rosenfeld right on time and started disgorging all the trappings of the U.S. commandant's triumphal procession: soldiers, a marching band, and the Packard limousine McGregor had seen up in Winnipeg.
And here came the band, blaring out 'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Some people were shameless enough to cheer. McGregor's hand went into his pocket. He took out the bomb and held it by his side. No one noticed. He pulled out a match, too, and palmed it.
Here came the limousine behind the band, a gaudily uniformed Custer standing in it to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Nearer, nearer… Custer's eyes went wide-he recognized McGregor. McGregor smiled back at him. He hadn't expected this, but it only made things sweeter. He scraped the match on the sole of his shoe and touched it to the bomb's fuse. Smiling still, McGregor threw the bomb. All that practice paid off. The throw, straight for Custer, was perfect.
Down the track toward Rosenfeld rattled the train. In his fancy Pullman car, General George Armstrong Custer whipped a long-barreled Colt revolver out of his holster and pointed it not quite far enough away from Lieutenant Colonel Abner Dowling.
'Sir, will you please put that… thing away?' his adjutant asked. Dowling commended himself for not modifying thing with a pungent adjective, or perhaps even a participle. The pistol, he knew, was loaded. Fortunately, the retiring U.S. commandant in Canada wasn't.
With a grunt, Custer did set the revolver back in the holster, only to yank it out again a moment later. This time, he did point it at Dowling. His adjutant yelped. 'Don't you turn into an old woman on me,' Custer said peevishly. 'You never know when an assassin may strike.'
Dowling couldn't even tell him that was nonsense, not after the bomb in Winnipeg the summer before, and especially not after Wade Hampton V had been gunned down only a couple of months earlier. Custer's adjutant did say, 'I think you'll be safe enough in a sleepy little town like Rosenfeld, sir.'
'Oh, you do, do you?' Custer sneered. 'Have you forgotten that blackguard Arthur McGregor makes his home just outside this sleepy little town?'
As a matter of fact, Dowling had forgotten that till Custer reminded him of it. 'Sir,' Dowling answered, taking a firm grip on his patience, 'there really is no evidence this McGregor is a blackguard, or anything but a farmer. The experts are all convinced he's an innocent man '
'Experts?' Custer rolled his rheumy eyes. 'The experts were all convinced we should use barrels by dribs and drabs, too. What the devil do experts know, except how to impress other experts?' He holstered the revolver again, then took out the report the experts had compiled on Arthur McGregor and flipped through it till he found a photograph of the man. 'Here!' He thrust it at Dowling. 'If this isn't the face of a villain, what is it?'
Relieved that that miserable pistol wasn't aimed at his brisket any more, Dowling studied the photograph of McGregor for the first time in several months. He reached the same conclusion now as he had then. 'Sir, he just looks like a farmer to me.'
