no sign of a message from Finan McDonald,” Thompson said. “We best go on to Salish House in the morning. He may have moved the trade goods there.”
Peter thought it felt good to spread his bedroll in a room with a solid roof, though there was something eerie about this empty post. Sighing deeply, he turned on his side and threw his arm over Dog, who was stretched out beside him. When he was warned by a low growl, he sighed again.
In the morning, to save on their dried meat, breakfast had to wait until Boulard and Pareil returned from a barely successful hunting effort. They carried a thin carcass of a mule deer between them. In response to the half-joking complaints from the rest of the men, Boulard blamed the late winter for the lack of fat on their contribution to breakfast. Although the meat was undeniably tough, it was quickly consumed and the canoe was packed.
Boulard had said that he had lived at this post for three years with Thompson and his family, and they had created trading posts along the river. Wondering how long their next journey would be, Peter asked, “How far away is Salish House?”
“Not far,” Thompson said. “Downstream we have to drag our canoe across a strip of land to a river nearby that will take us down to the Salish Indian Road. We’ll leave the canoe there and walk through some very fine country until we reach Clark’s Fork. I’m certain we’ll find both hunters and traders there.”
Thompson was right about the country, Peter thought. With Dog at his heels he trotted through the warm grass of a meadow dotted with patches of early spring flowers, mixtures of white and yellow. Behind were blue mountains topped with snow that sparkled in the sunlight, and ahead was a forest of deep green conifers sharing space with newly leafed aspen and birch. For the first time in months Peter was warm deep into his bones. He tried to lengthen his steps to keep up with the man striding along beside him whose name was Ignace.
The newcomer had been with a hunting party they had met when they stopped to rest on Tobacco Plains. Knowing that Ignace was another excellent canoe man, Thompson had hired him for their voyage down the Columbia River. When they reached Salish Indian Road, Ignace had been very helpful in finding a safe place to stow their canoe and the trade goods, greatly lessening the burden for each man to carry. Nevertheless, Peter was looking forward to the horses Thompson had promised to get when they reached Salish House. He felt safer on a horse somehow. Knowing this Salish Indian Road was on Native war grounds, each of the party had readied his gun and walked with it now at waist level.
Peter was gratified to see Ignace was barely taller than himself, and when the man glanced over at him and grinned, Peter wished he could speak Iroquois. Perhaps he could try sign language, though he wasn’t certain how to go about it. The only time he had seen sign language used was in the trade room at Rocky Mountain House, and he wasn’t sure what the gestures had meant. Thinking hard, Peter didn’t notice the men ahead of him had stopped suddenly. He recoiled as his foot collided with Boulard’s boot and his gun jammed the voyageur in the back.
Before Peter could apologize Boulard turned and put a hand over Peter’s mouth. “Ahead, there in the woods, someone speaks,” he whispered.
The rest of the men had dropped to their knees, guns ready. Peter and Boulard followed suit and waited in the tall grass. Hearing a rumble in Dog’s chest, Peter grasped her collar and warned her not to make a sound. Then, peering over Boulard’s shoulder, he stared at the grove of trees less than a hundred feet away.
CHAPTER 14
The bushes parted slowly and out stepped two young women dressed in buckskin trousers and tunics beaded with intricate designs around the necks and sleeves. When they caught sight of the men, they immediately halted and their eyes dropped to the muskets pointed at them. They stood helplessly awaiting their fate.
When Thompson called out to them, the girls looked up, their faces filled with delight. Running closer, they chattered as they did so, and Peter was certain he heard one speak the explorer’s name. Boulard verified this by whispering, “They remember David when he traded in their village. They are Salish.”
Thompson turned and repeated Boulard’s comment. “They’re Salish. They’ll lead us to their camp.”
The camp was a village of about forty tents and home to the chief of all the Salish. He, as well as the rest of his people, was plainly pleased to have Thompson and his companions as guests. Soon the entire group was seated in a wide circle around a fire with the chief and elders of the tribe. Food seemed to come from everywhere, and after the steady diet of deer and moose meat, the plentiful meal of steelhead trout and camas root was very welcome. Peter’s wooden bowl was refilled twice before he put it down. Beside him Côté poked him with an elbow. Nodding in the direction of Thompson and the chief, he said, “Our mapmaker does not eat — only talk, talk, talk. He frowns many times, and you will notice the chief does not look so happy, as well. Perhaps we are not so welcome as we thought.”
Clearly, Boulard had overheard, for he leaned forward to peer around the hatchet-faced young warrior beside him and said, “I have travelled here with Monsieur Thompson before and also understand the language of these people. We are welcome. The chief is not happy and Monsieur Thompson frowns because the Peigans have been raiding villages on this side of the mountains. Because of the Peigans, Monsieur Finan McDonald was forced to leave Kootenay House.”
Peter grew increasingly uneasy. In order not to run into the Peigans, they had struggled along the Athabasca and again upstream on what Thompson now thought was the Columbia. But after all that would they be troubled by the Peigans now? He waited impatiently for the food to be taken away and the pipe to be passed around the circle so he could learn more from Thompson, but the pipe kept moving from man to man and the talking didn’t stop.
A thin sliver of moon was high above the trees by the time Peter heard the mapmaker’s footsteps approaching. The brigade had walked far that day, and Peter had finally given in to the fatigue that had plagued him ever since his stomach had been filled. After he put up the tent he shared with Boulard, he had dropped onto his blankets with Dog at his feet, but Boulard had waited outside. Waking from a nap, Peter heard the two men talking.
“We won’t find Finan McDonald at Salish House, either,” Thompson said. “He’s been threatened by the Peigans there, as well. One of the free traders told the Salish that Finan has moved his trade goods to the post on Little Spokane River.
“This is the one you sent Jaco Finlay to build three years past, is it not?” Boulard asked.
Thompson must have nodded, for Peter heard, “Let’s hope if this isn’t true that Finan left some word at Salish House before he abandoned it. It will soon be impossible to supply posts that move about willy-nilly.”
“Let us also hope they did not burn Salish House,” Boulard said.
“That they wouldn’t do,” Thompson said. “Though not for any consideration of the North West Company. The Peigans have too much respect for trees and animals and wouldn’t risk a forest fire.”
Peter heard no more, for he had slipped into a sound sleep.
In the morning, with some skilful bargaining, the mapmaker obtained a horse for each of them and promptly sent Ignace, Côté, and Pareil back to collect the trade goods they had cached. “We meet at Salish House,” he said before they cantered away. “While there we’ll build a canoe so that we can deposit most of our trade goods at Kullyspell House.”
Before the sun achieved its zenith, they reached the Clark’s Fork River and the deserted Salish House. Certain this time there had to be a message from Finan
