Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman

buried them in shallow graves, and then killed himself. I was tempted to tell these gossips the truth — that Indian magic had spirited the McDougalls away — just to see the expressions on their faces, but kept my lips buttoned.
    Instead, I told the passengers and crew members of the North West that I was en route to a new posting at Fort Saskatchewan, and that I had been asked by my new commanding officer to stop in at the mission on the way, to see if any evidence had been overlooked. That would explain why I was disembarking at Victoria Mission, yet not place undue emphasis upon the visit.
    The two previous times I’d travelled by riverboat in the course of my duties, I’d been quartered on the open lower deck, but Q Division, it seemed, had deeper pockets than the rest of the force: Steele had authorized a private cabin, which went for the princely sum of five dollars. I spent much of the voyage inside it, luxuriating in its comfort and passing the time by reading old editions of Canadian Illustrated News and listening to the piano tinkling in the saloon, just outside my door. In the evenings our captain, Jimmy Sheets, would descend from his pilothouse and serenade the passengers with his magnificent baritone.
    I also found in my cabin a hymnbook that a previous passenger had left behind. Glancing inside the cover, I found it was inscribed with the words “Frederick Baldwin.” I wondered if it had been lost or left behind deliberately, for the solace and edification of the next passenger. I shrugged and set it aside.
    The few times that I did venture out onto the promenade that encircled the cabins on the second deck, a curious event repeated itself. More than once as I leaned against the rail, staring at the tree-dotted banks of the river and enjoying a pipe, I would imagine that someone was calling my name. When I turned, it was always to find the same pair of dark, brooding eyes staring at me. Then the gentleman they belonged to would tip his hat, as if in apology, and move on.
    The first time this happened I ignored it, thinking it merely a flight of fancy. I was standing near the stern on the first day of our journey, and the sloshing of the perpetual motion tank and the rumbling and squeaking of the gears and cogs it drove produced a cacophony that could have given rise to any number of imagined sounds.
    The second time, I intended to ask the fellow his name, but was distracted when the North West ran aground on yet another sand bar. I was jostled by the sudden stop and nearly lost my footing. By the time I regained my balance, the stranger was gone.
    These groundings were an all-too-frequent occurrence. It didn’t seem to matter that a man was stationed on the bow of the riverboat, constantly measuring the depth of water with a pole; so silt-laden and unpredictable in its depth was the river that the ship grounded several times each day. When this happened, two beams — much like the ones used in lifting heavy cargoes — had their ends lowered into the water on either side of the vessel. The paddlewheel would churn up great clouds of silt, forcing the vessel forward and causing it to rise on these spars like a lame man on crutches. Having gained a few feet, the boat would then heave down again, and the process would be repeated.
    The third time I imagined a voice silently calling me and noticed the same fellow staring at me intently, I made a careful study of the man. He was a handsome fellow in his twenties, wearing a black derby hat, a button cutaway suit, and stylish pants cut from diagonal-patterned worsted. He carried an umbrella with a silver handle, which he used like a cane as he strolled the decks, and he wore his beard below the chin, with cheeks clean-shaven except where the beard joined the moustache on his lip. His black hair glistened with Brilliantine, and his eyes were a brown so dark it bordered on black. He smelled of German cologne.
    I strode up to the fellow and demanded his name and