Thompson said dryly. “Believe what you will. This has been planned, and I haven’t been specifically told the two companies haven’t agreed, so I may assume I’m right in thinking we’re partners with them.”
Alexander chuckled and clapped Thompson on the shoulder. “You’re a good man for the company, David. Now what delicacies do you have for our supper?”
Spying Vallade, Peter anxiously inquired as to the whereabouts of Boulard, only to be told his friend was gathering more wood for the fire. Peter dismounted then and peered down the trail they had made through the brush. The dogs had been released that morning and had darted back and forth into the woods as they followed, but Dog had kept pace about twenty feet behind Peter. She sat quietly now and watched as he reached into his saddlebag and brought out the chunk of raw meat he had secreted there before they had started in the morning. When he held it out in front of him and began to walk toward her, she sat very still, and Peter thought her tail twitched slightly. Heartened, he moved again, and suddenly she leaped up, head down and hair standing along her spine as she bared her teeth.
A voice spoke behind Peter. “That is a bad one.”
Peter whirled to find DuNord glaring at Dog.
“You … you don’t know anything about her. She’s … she’s only afraid.”
“I know her,” DuNord said, holding out one arm for Peter to see the clear marks of a set of teeth. “I mean to kill her.”
“You … you just try it!” Peter said, hating himself for not being able to control his stammer when he was frightened. “That’s my … my dog.”
DuNord stepped close enough for Peter to smell his sweat-stained buckskins, but Peter refused to back away. As he stared at the menacing face, his heart pounded so loudly he was afraid the man could hear it. Expecting a blow any minute, Peter felt relief wash over him when he heard Boulard’s voice.
“Peter,mon ami!” There was a pause, then Boulard asked, “Is there trouble here?”
DuNord stepped back quickly and stared stonily straight ahead. Looking from Peter to DuNord, Boulard repeated his question.
Peter hesitated. He knew Boulard had the authority to make DuNord leave him alone, but this was his problem to handle. “No,” he said finally. “We were just talking about my dog.”
CHAPTER 9
Boulard stood, hands on hips and head cocked, as he regarded Peter. “Young Peter, it has been but a few months, but to me it seems you are much more a man than the boy I first saw in Montreal.”
Peter felt his heart swell with pride. To cover his feelings he switched subjects and told Boulard about Dog. As he talked, the voyageur’s head nodded with approval. When he finished, Boulard said, “Your friend is my friend, Peter, so we will consider Mademoiselle Dog to be part of our brigade.” He held out his hand and took a step toward Dog, who lifted her lip and snarled. Embarrassed, Peter tried to explain, but Boulard interrupted. “It is all right, Peter. There are others who have the same feelings for me. Come to the fire and have supper when you have seen to her comfort.”
Thompson had found all his precious instruments safe, including the compass, and again he waved away Peter’s stammered apology for losing the journal. “I’m the one who placed it in the saddlebag. I may be able to recall much of what I wrote in it, and when there’s time, we’ll make another.”
Peter felt a rush of gratitude and affection for the explorer and wondered why some found him hard and stern. However, as the days passed, it was easy to see Thompson was growing impatient with the wait for Bercier and the horses, for he kept riding up the Brazeau into the forest to listen for them.
After resting their horses for two days, Alexander Henry and his hunters decided to return to Rocky Mountain House. Before he left he told Thompson, “Running more than twenty horses through a hundred miles of woodland can’t be done in a few days, David. Likely, you’ll have another month to wait for Bercier. You might think of coming back to the House.”
Peter, who had been hunting rabbits with Boulard, returned to the campsite in time to bid the chief trader goodbye and was appalled when he noticed there were only two men with Alexander Henry. DuNord was leaning against a tree, ignoring his companions.
Boulard appeared to have noticed this, as well, for when Alexander and his hunters turned their horses to ride off, he moved closer to Thompson and murmured into his ear.
“What?” Thompson asked absently. “Oh, yes, DuNord. Alexander asked me to hire him to go with us. He doesn’t get along well with some of the men at Rocky Mountain House, but he’s an excellent hunter.”
Alexander Henry was wrong. Driven by Bercier, his wife, and his two sons, as well as Young Joseph, the horses arrived three days later, and four days after that they were loaded with the provisions from the canoes. Peter marvelled at the bales of supplies the animals transported, for the canoes had carried bell-shaped leather tents and leather boots for each of Thompson’s men from Boggy Hall as well as trade goods. It was late October when they began their diagonal northwest trek across the land between the Brazeau and the Athabasca Rivers. Bercier and his family had gone on to Rocky Mountain House, and now they were twenty men with twenty-eight horses plus the packhorses and dogs. There were three Cree wives, but no children.
The day before, Thompson had selected DuNord and three others, who had accepted the order happily, to go on ahead as hunters for food for that night. The two men who were chosen to clear a pathway through the heavy brush and fallen timber were far less pleased, as were the rest who led the packhorses. Peter was disappointed that Young Joseph wished to return to his people and had sent Thomas, another Iroquois, to guide in his place. Peter liked Young Joseph.
The dogs followed willingly now, freeing Peter to take short side trips in the hope of seeing a deer or an elk hiding in the bushes. Thus far most of the animals he sketched for Thompson were dead ones brought back by the hunters. Their trail snaked on a gradual upward slope through a forest scented by fir, spruce, and the damp earth. The trees were spread thinly, which might have made it easier for the horses had it not been for the windfalls of burned logs, the result of long-ago forest fires.
Few birds sang as the caravan passed, but often a squirrel scolded them and silent grey birds flew from branch to branch, watching. Peter sometimes felt uneasy when he surveyed his companions. The men were the usual crew of Indians and mixed bloods who sang and joked as they paddled long hours in canoes over miles of raging rivers upstream as well as down. Now, on horses that hopped over fallen trees and stumbled into leaf-covered depressions, they were silent except for the occasional curse when they were slapped in the face by prickly fir trees as they passed. It didn’t help their mood when, after four days of wearying travel, David said grimly, “Thus far we’ve come only eighteen miles. We must increase our pace as well as not allow our horses to tire. From this point onward we’ll dismount every two hours and lead them for half an hour.”
The grumbling increased, but Thompson ignored it as well as the frayed tempers as they crossed and recrossed the stony-bottomed creeks that soaked their boots. Peter’s respect and liking for Boulard continued to grow, for he remained cheerful as he trudged over the same ground and brushed away gnats and mosquitoes. Thompson was a different matter, however. As the days passed, it wasn’t difficult to see that he was becoming openly impatient with the mishaps that occurred due to carelessness, the worst being the near loss of a badly loaded packhorse as they picked their way over a narrow trail of loose stones high above the Pembina River.
Although
