zigzag path. “We tried to find them.”
“You first, lad,” Alexander demanded. “They’re safe as far as I know. Now where’s David, or has he lost you, too?”
The words tumbled from Peter’s mouth as he explained the difficulties they had encountered in the last fortnight. He omitted the fact that they had been lost.
Alexander bore little resemblance to his cousin. While William was clean-shaven, Alexander wore a neatly trimmed beard, and though they were the same height, Alexander was heavy-set. But their greatest difference lay in their manner. William was quiet and calm, and Alexander greeted every situation with loud words interspersed with a few choice curses.
When Peter finished his story, Alexander clapped himself on the forehead. “This is worse than I thought. You mean to say our esteemed mapmaker, Mr. David Thompson, now wants his brigade to meet him downriver at the Brazeau?”
Peter swallowed hard, but he spoke firmly. “Mr. Thompson believes it’s the only way. He said to tell you that blood was spilt when the brigade tried to go up the North Saskatchewan. Do you know where they are?”
“Aye, that I do know.” Alexander spat on the ground. “The entire lot, including three of their Cree wives, were here when I arrived two days ago. They said the Peigans stopped them about forty miles upriver and had a bit of a skirmish, though there was little damage to either side, except for one of ours who bumped his big nose on a rock. The Peigans made them return to this post, for they’ll allow no one to travel upriver to trade with the Kootenays. I, in my infinite wisdom, outfoxed them by giving them enough rum for a sleep sound enough to allow the canoes to slip away upriver. Clever, I was.”
“When they woke up, did they wonder where the brigade was?”
Alexander laughed without mirth. “In the morning when they woke with aching heads, I told them the canoes had returned downstream to Boggy Hall.”
Peter closed his eyes, not even wanting to think of a way to connect the brigade with Thompson now unless someone found the men and turned them back. But the Peigans might be furious when they learned Alexander Henry had tricked them. And there would be Bercier with the horses waiting at the mouth of the Brazeau. What a mix-up! There was nothing that could be done, though, but to return to Thompson somehow and allow him to sort it out.
However, Alexander already had a plan. “I suppose I could waste more rum so the brigade can slip past going downstream this time.”
“Would that be possible?” Peter asked, hoping the man wasn’t joking.
Alexander sighed deeply. “Oh, aye, I expect it is.”
Before Alexander could turn away, Peter reached inside his shirt for the letter Thompson had given him and handed it to the chief trader, who read it hurriedly. When he finished, he said, “After we send the brigade on its way to David, I’ll ride back to the Brazeau with you. He wishes for four horses and two dozen dogs to pull sleds, and I have a wish to do some hunting.”
Although Peter was puzzled, having heard nothing of sleds, he made no comment. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “There’s something more, sir. The other Mr. Henry asked me to tell you that if Mr. Thompson still plans to go on across the mountains, he’d like to go with us. He very much would like to see the Pacific Ocean.”
The chief trader shrugged, then nodded. “If that’s his wish, fine, though I hope he’ll bear in mind that it isn’t certain David Thompson will find this great river he seeks to lead him there. Both Alexander Mackenzie and Simon Fraser made the same effort and failed.”
Peter kept silent, though Boulard had told him that both of those men had found rivers that led to the ocean, but they were too fierce for use as trade routes. His heart sank when it occurred to him that Thompson’s Columbia River could be the same.
CHAPTER 7
Three more precious days passed before the return of the man who had ridden through the forest to intercept the brigade. “They say they’ll be here tomorrow night,” he reported.
Peter thought that sounded a bit hopeful, and Alexander Henry seemed to agree. “Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “The river’s running fast and they’re going downstream.” Then he said to the messenger, “Well done. And you didn’t forget to tell them to wait well above the bend of the river until we give the signal?”
The man nodded, grinning. “Boulard first said since he isn’t a cat it isn’t possible for him to lead the canoes so far in the dark, though when he learned his friend David Thompson was in trouble he wished to return immediately.”
“No surprise there.” Turning to Peter, Alexander said, “I’ve given one of the men orders to catch the dogs David wants. You best see he picks the stoutest and pens them in with the horses. You’ll need their strength to pull sleds when the snow becomes too deep for the horses.”
If the snow’s too deep for the horses, how will we get through it? Peter wondered, though he said nothing. He followed the sounds of shrill yapping and deep-throated barks coming from the very back of the stockade. As he rounded the corner of the carpenter shed, he was astonished to see dozens of dogs darting in and out of a cloud of dust. In the middle of the confusion, holding a club, was the ugliest man Peter had ever seen. Before he could offer to help, the club swung, and with a cry of pain, a large, long-haired, black-and-white dog turned back at the man and bit him on the arm. His face contorted with rage, the voyageur raised the club again.
Peter cried out, “Don’t!” as the heavy club crashed against the head of the animal. He watched in horror as the dog tried to stagger away, with the man following, club upraised to strike again. “Stop it!” Peter shouted, and this time the man paused and spun around.
The short-legged, bear-like man glared at Peter, and he shivered from the intensity of the dislike he saw on the scarred face. The moment was broken when the voyageur sneered and again raised his club over the stricken dog. Desperately, Peter darted forward and grabbed the man’s arm, demanding again that he stop. The arm swung without effort, and Peter landed on the ground. He turned cold with fear when the voyageur moved toward him.
At that moment a voice called out, “Hey, DuNord, what are you doing?” Then three men emerged from the carpenter shop.
The voyageur replied by giving the men a contemptuous glance, then threw down his club and stalked away to the fort’s gates. Looking at one another, the other men shrugged and returned to the carpenter shop, leaving Peter to deal with the dogs.
Peter knelt beside the unconscious animal. When he reached out to touch its head, matted now with drying blood, the world around him suddenly disappeared into a mist. Through the mist he saw the blurred figure of a man holding the limp body of a small black-and-white puppy.
His pulse racing, Peter tried to cling to the vision, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come when he heard a voice call his name. He turned to see Alexander Henry striding toward him.
“I see DuNord is back quarrelling with the rest of the men,” the chief trader said. “Did he leave you to do —” He stopped speaking when he reached Peter’s side and looked down at the dog. “I expect this is his work. I best get my gun and shoot the poor beast.”
Peter sprang to his feet. “No, please don’t. I can take care of her.” He pointed at the stricken dog. “See, sir, her eyes are open now.”
“You
