it the Canoe River, but the other was much wider. It must be the Columbia River!
Peter’s joy disappeared when the mapmaker explained. “This one —” he indicated the larger river that the two smaller ones emptied into “— you can see flows northward, thus it is our old friend the Kootenay.”
As the men stared, grim-faced, at the high walls of snow lining the Kootenay, Peter’s spirits dropped into his boots. Sick at heart, Peter barely heard Thompson’s words as he outlined their predicament. “You can see for yourselves,” he said, gesturing to the banks of snow, “since there are few of us, it would be unwise to explore beyond the place where the three rivers become one until it’s freed from much of the snow and ice. We have no knowledge of its current nor its direction. Here we can find our way up the Kootenay and wait in comfort at Rocky Mountain House for spring. There we’ll find canoes for travel down to the ocean.”
If Thompson had hoped mentioning canoes would make the voyageurs happier, he was disappointed. The angry muttering was louder than ever, and when the men started to journey along the shore of the snow, those that complained barely moved along its bank. Each was carrying little more than his own belongings now, for they had abandoned the sleds, and most of the dogs were making their own way in the woods. Dog, however, clung to Peter’s heels.
That night Thompson disappeared, as usual, to find a clearing where he could see the stars well and returned while the men were holding strips of meat over the blazing fire and the flat bread was frying. He satisfied himself with a handful of pemmican and two rounds of the bread before beckoning to Boulard and Peter. “Come. We’ll walk a little up this river and see what lies ahead for tomorrow.”
When they paused to rest out of sight of the camp, Thompson said, “Your face tells all, Peter. I saw the look when I said this river was the Kootenay.” Peter started to speak, but Thompson held up one hand. “Prepare yourselves for a surprise. I’m not certain, but I’m thinking this isn’t the Kootenay and may be the Columbia we seek, though I prefer not to say as much in front of the other men.”
It was easy to tell that Boulard was quite surprised. “But, David, how can this be? You believe this Columbia River you seek flows to the west. This one goes north.”
Thompson nodded. “The same river on which we built Kootenay House in years past when we travelled the North Saskatchewan to get to Howse Pass and then made our way to this river, which begins in a big lake.”
“I do not understand,” Boulard said.
“Listen carefully,” Thompson said. “With my glass I’ve seen that soon after the place where this river becomes one with the Canoe and Flat Heart Rivers, the waters turn south.”
Obviously convinced, Boulard clapped Peter on the shoulder. “David, why do you not wish for the men to know? Why do we not hasten to build a canoe and go down this great river?”
“The water will rise, my friend, and the current will get stronger as the snow melts — perhaps too strong for this time of year. Thus we will continue to follow it to Kootenay House where we can find food, rest, and horses on which we can travel for part of our journey and thus avoid much of the floodwater.”
If he hadn’t been standing in deep snow, Peter thought he might have danced up and down, so happy was he that the end was almost in sight. Instead he grinned. “Let’s go and see what’s up ahead.”
They didn’t go far. Around the next bend they found an enormous rock jutting from the side of the mountain far into the water and creating a narrow passage filled with rushing water. Apparently undiscouraged, Thompson pulled off his knitted cap and ran his fingers through his chopped-off hair. “We’ll have to build a raft and pole around this.”
When they returned to the men who were trying to coax a flame from damp wood, Thompson explained the need for building a raft. Duloc, one of the worst of the complainers, jumped to his feet. “For me this is too much. It is madness to go on.”
LeTendre followed suit. “I, too, will go back to the House. Who is with us?”
When the discussion was over, Peter realized that besides himself and Boulard there would be only six left to follow Thompson — Pareil, Villiard, Vallade, L’Amoureux, Côté, and Thomas, their guide. They would be too few now to make a raft and pole their way on a two-hundred-mile journey to Kootenay House.
Peter found he was right. Thompson decided to return to the camp where the three rivers met and winter there. The deserters came with them to the confluence of the three streams to receive their share of supplies. After they said their farewells, Thompson seemed more cheerful.
“They were useless as old women fearful of everything,” the mapmaker said. “But that’s the way with many men when they encounter the unfamiliar. The track of the creature in the mountains, the depth of the snow, and the avalanche and this impassable river are all too much for men who aren’t strong.”
Peter felt a glow of pride as he watched the weak men enter the trees. It wasn’t too much for him, though, to be honest, there were times when he had thought otherwise. From now until they returned east of the mountains, he told himself, he would think only of today and not worry about tomorrow.
Reaching inside the pack he had dropped beside a tree, Peter pulled out a small rabbit that Thomas had helped trap the night before. Skinning it quickly, he whistled for Dog, thinking she had wandered into the forest to chase one of the black squirrels that raced up and down the trees scolding as they ran. Peter moved into the woods and whistled again. And again. He could no longer see the camp when he was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps in the trees behind him. Peter spun around and was paralyzed with fear. DuNord’s face wore a grin that exposed broken teeth as he stalked toward Peter.
CHAPTER 12
When a rush of adrenaline overcame his fear, Peter glanced right and left. To try to circle around DuNord would be foolhardy, even though he might be able to outrun the heavy man. Somewhere to his left was the river — not a good choice. He tensed himself to dart deeper into the woods, then paused uncertainly. DuNord had stopped twenty feet away and was looking at him with a strange expression.
“I will do so no more,” the hulking voyageur said. Puzzled, Peter waited, and DuNord repeated his words, adding, “I swore the oath. No more will I strike a dog.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he stared back at the man.
DuNord gestured impatiently and frowned. “Many things in my life I have done, but never did I break the oath.” With that he turned on his heel and trudged back through the trees.
Peter’s mind whirled as he watched DuNord disappear into the forest. He wanted to call after him but didn’t know what to say. Shaking his head, he thought about what had just happened.
Slowly, Peter retraced his steps to the camp where he found Dog curled against a wide-branched pine tree in a soft pile of drifted snow. The campfire was sputtering, popping sparks onto the damp ground each time Boulard poked it with a stick. Thompson was leaning against a rock cleared of snow as he used his knife to scratch words on a piece of bark. Beside him stood Thomas, and nearby Villiard, Côté, and Pareil waited with heavy packs on their backs and straps around their heads. Peter felt a cold chill run up his spine. Were they leaving, too?
Thompson straightened and handed the strip of bark to Thomas. “Give this to William Henry and ask that he copy it on paper before he sends it on to Fort William.” Then, to the waiting men, he said, “Take
