news, but I dared not hope we’d find so many here. There are sure to be more than one who will tell us where we’ll encounter dangerous rapids as well as the best places to stop and hunt for game.”
The explorer raised his hand in greeting as two solemn Indian men approached. When they drew close, Thompson swung off his horse and moved to meet them. Peter didn’t strain to hear their conversation. He knew he wouldn’t understand the language. Instead he looked back at the children who had gathered nearby and seemed to be staring at him. He glanced down at Dog still draped in the saddle in front of him. “I guess they’ve never seen a dog ride a horse before.”
The children hooted with laughter as though they had understood his words. Dog gave a short bark, and the children laughed again.
Beside Peter, Vallade commented, “And never perhaps did they hear an animal in conversation with her master.”
The children laughed even harder.
Thompson had finished speaking with the elder, and with a wave at the children, Peter turned his horse to follow the mapmaker to the end of a half-circle of tents. “We’ll camp here,” Thompson said, “until we get a proper canoe built — one that will withstand rough waters.” To Peter’s surprise, Thompson turned to him and said, “See that your dog is kept from the village beasts lest they attack. We may have need of her.”
CHAPTER 15
There were no birch trees to be found on the windswept hills, and locating good cedar to cut into lengths for their boat was far more difficult than Thompson had thought it would be. They were forced to cut boards from many different trees, and most had to be carried more than five miles to the riverbank. Working from sun-up to sundown, however, the crew managed to finish the canoe in four days. So, early one morning near the beginning of July, they left by first light for the final journey down the Columbia.
Clearly, the men enjoyed the challenge as they guided the craft through foaming cascades, laughing and shouting as they fought to keep it in the middle of the river. Peter grasped the rope on Dog’s collar tightly and watched the scenery sweep past. It was a warm, sunny day, and in the meadows long grass mixed with purple, white, and blue flowers swayed in the steady breeze. Occasionally, he saw stands of trees smaller than those along the Kootenay and not so close together.
“Fifty-six miles,” Thompson called from the bow of the canoe, pointing to a wide stream pouring into the Columbia. “Spokane River,” he added.
In the late afternoon they landed not far from a small village made of poles covered with rushes. It was home to the Indians Thompson had hired at Kettle Falls. Before the men leaped from the canoe they tossed their paddles into the grass growing along the shore. Peter had seen them do this before and had wondered why. This time, pointing to a long black snake that shot from the grass and slithered quickly down a path, Thompson turned to Peter. “You see now why we may have need of your dog. That one is very dangerous, and your dog would find it before we did.”
A thrill of fear for his pet rippled up Peter’s spine. He grasped the rope he had fastened to Dog tightly and pulled the protesting animal to a tree close to where they were to wait for the village elders.
The Simpoil leaders arrived one by one, and when they were all seated, the chief, a dignified, wrinkled man with stone-grey hair tied in two braids, presented Thompson with a basket of roots and onions and two large salmon. Peter was delighted. Salmon was a fish he liked, and these were large enough for all of them to have a feast. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled again. Beside him Boulard poked him in the ribs and whispered, “Order the voice inside to be quiet,s’il vous plaÎt, so that I may hear these important words.”
Peter grinned at his friend ruefully. He knew the smoking of the pipe would take time. With close attention he watched as the long, elegantly carved pipe was filled and offered to the sun and the wind in all four directions. The chief smoked first and then passed the pipe to Thompson who, after his turn, handed it to the elder next to him. When the pipe completed the circle, the conversation began.
Although the sun had long since dipped behind them, there seemed to be no indication that the chief would stop talking so his guests could eat. Bored with listening to words he didn’t understand, Peter amused himself by staring at the chief and willing him to stop talking. To his astonishment the chief sat down abruptly. However, it took almost as long for the interpreter to repeat the words — thanks for the arrival of the white man and hope that the next time Thompson came to the village he would bring guns, powder, axes, knives, steel, flints, and many other items. The chief’s interpreter said the Simpoil would pay for all that was brought to them. Right now they had only their hands and weak arrows to get game.
Thompson seemed to listen to the chief’s words with great care and promised to bring all he requested and more provided he gave them accurate information on the big river, particularly how well large, heavily laden canoes could travel up it.
Later, as at last they sat in a wide circle and dined on the salmon, deer meat, and berries the women had prepared, Peter found he was seated next to a young Simpoil barely older than himself. On the other side was one of the interpreters. With the interpreter’s help the Simpoil youth asked, “You find the meat to your liking?”
Peter nodded. “If your weapons aren’t good, how do you kill deer?”
“Many hunt in a big circle,” the young man explained. “With care we move to make the circle smaller and smaller until we are close enough to kill the deer we find.” He stared at the fire sadly. “Arrows of flint often do not kill, and the deer run away.”
Peter felt guilty that he was eating something that had been so difficult to obtain, so he decided not to take a fourth piece.
Thompson was so intent on getting as much information about the Columbia as possible that they didn’t leave until noon the next day. By early afternoon, they found another village where they had to stop and smoke with the people. Plainly, the Indians were unafraid of the white strangers and listened intently as the mapmaker described his reasons for coming to their village. They nodded at one another happily and then at Thompson when the interpreters translated his message. As Thompson talked, some of the villagers walked around Peter and the rest of the voyageurs, peering at their clothing and hair. Later, when Côté and Vallade used axes to split driftwood for their fire, their efforts were regarded with wonder.
Watching the village people, Peter thought of the times he had found life hard. Sometimes he had known hunger in Montreal, and many times they had had little to eat while crossing the mountains and beyond. But knowing the hunger would end when they returned east had made it easier to bear. Here the people had little to look forward to but search for food, make rush mats to cover the poles for their house, and find driftwood to burn. They didn’t seem unhappy, but he didn’t envy them, and he hoped the company would bring goods to make life easier for them. When they waved goodbye the next morning, he felt depressed.
At times, when the current appeared to slow, the men lifted their oars and allowed the canoe to drift down the river. The terrain on both sides of the river seemed to be drier and less fertile now. The soil was greyish-white, and the grass grew in short clumps. The pungent scent of sagebrush filled their nostrils when the breeze blew over the river, and the cries of hawks sounded eerily in the silence as they spiralled overhead.
Indian camps appeared more frequently now, and each time they did Thompson ordered the men to pull for shore. With the aid of the Simpoil interpreters, he engaged the Indians in conversation, always explaining he was there to learn if it was possible to bring trade goods down the river. Without fail both men and women seemed more than happy to agree to trap for furs and
