Free Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman

indicates that Potts was unable to follow the trail.”
    I was hesitant to accuse Jerry Potts of shirking his duties. He was a man that my own commanding officer praised highly: Superintendent Steele said he had never met Jerry Potts’s equal when it came to tracking and wilderness skills. But Potts was half Blood Indian and his bloodthirsty, superstitious nature suggested that his sentiments leaned more toward his mother’s side of the family than toward his father’s Scottish side.
    “I can’t believe that Potts lost the trail,” I added. “I only know of one other time that it happened, and he had a damn fine excuse: a chinook that melted the snow, completely obliterating Star Child’s tracks. Following the pony tracks of a war party should have been a simple matter for Potts, especially if their horses were dragging a travois laden with a heavy stone. Are you certain he didn’t see any tracks?”
    Dickens blinked. Despite the volume of brandy he’d drunk, he still had his wits about him. His eyes weren’t bleary — they were frightened.
    “P-P-Potts did find tracks,” Dickens said. “B-B-But they weren’t those of horses.”
    He suddenly seemed more interested in watching the last drops fall from the brandy bottle into his glass than in my investigation. His stutter — well known and ridiculed throughout the Mounted Police — was an indication that something was making him nervous. I wanted to find out what it was.
    “What kind of tracks?” I asked.
    “Buffalo — and l-l-l-.”
    I frowned waiting for Dickens to get the word out.
    “And l-l-lynx.”
    “That wasn’t in Cowan’s report.”
    “N-N-No,” Dickens said. He stared down at his brandy glass, rocking it back and forth and leaving sticky trails on the papers its base rested upon. The tips of his fingers had gone white, so tightly did he grip it.
    A connection suddenly occurred to me. “Have there been any reports from Victoria Mission of a large cat acting in a peculiar manner? A lynx is suspected to have caused the death of Tom Quinn.”
    I heard a loud cracking noise. Jerking his hand away from the brandy glass, which had broken in his hand, Dickens rubbed at a spot of blood that beaded on his finger. He looked terrified now, his shoulders hunched and his lips trembling. His eyes pleaded with me. There was something he wanted to tell me, but he wanted it to be because I asked: because I forced him to tell.
    “Inspector,” I said in a firm voice. “Tell me about the lynx tracks.”
    The words came out in a rush — or as much of a rush as Dickens’s stutter would permit.
    “They were all around the house. P-P-Potts f-f-followed them to the river, but then they d-d-disappeared — just like the b-b-buffalo tracks.”
    “Into the river? Did they resume on the other side?”
    Dickens shook his head.
    “They just stopped?”
    Dickens nodded.
    “Did anyone at Victoria Mission see or hear anything peculiar on the day the McDougalls disappeared?”
    Dickens shook his head.
    “Were there any Indians seen in the vicinity?”
    “J-j-just one,” Dickens said. He toyed with a piece of broken glass for a long moment before continuing. “There’s a shaman among the Indians. A Cree of B-B-Big Bear’s band, by the name of Wandering Spirit. Corporal Cowan f-f-found him skulking around the Victoria Mission, and b-b-brought him back here for questioning. Wandering Spirit refused to speak, except to me. When I was alone with him, he said if I d-d-didn’t release him, I’d wind up like Quinn. D-d-d-d-”
    “Dead?”
    Dickens nodded rapidly.
    I sat for a moment in silence, amazed at the coincidence. Wandering Spirit was the same Indian who had worked his magic on Sergeant Wilde, sending him into the Big Sands. Dickens had every reason to be frightened of the man, but I was angry that he’d let Wandering Spirit slip through his fingers.
    “So you released him?” I asked scornfully. “You let your only suspect go?”
    Dickens winced, and