his blankets on the ground, he stretched out and closed his eyes.
Peter dozed, waking once when Dog whined and poked him in the ear with her nose. He waved her away and went to sleep again until dusk and light from the flames of the campfire danced across his face. He felt much better, hungry even. He stirred, and as he leaned on one elbow preparing to sit up, he stiffened with fear. Not two feet from his face a long, very black snake was coiled.
“Don’t move, Peter,” Boulard’s voice called out softly. “Don’t move, and you will be —”
Peter felt a rush of air and hair brush his face as Dog hurtled by. He leaped to his feet, peered into the dusk, and saw Thompson and Côté hammer the hapless snake with the butts of their muskets. Dog stood near the men, her head hanging down. Peter tried to run to her, but Boulard held him back. “Wait, Peter, she received a bite, I think, and it is possible the tooth remains that will poison you if you touch it.”
Pushing Boulard aside, Peter knelt by his dog. She fell to her knees and then onto her side. It was Thompson who crouched beside him, and as Dog lay with her eyes closed, he carefully examined her legs and stomach. Lifting her front foot, he pointed to a tiny drop of blood. Peter stared at it in horror. “Can’t you do something? Can’t you take out the poison?”
Thompson got to his feet and took his kerchief from his neck. “Even if she were my own child, Peter, I could do little except to tie off the foot above the bite and try to squeeze out the poison. That we’ll do, and we must make certain she remains quiet. Perhaps the snake has struck something else recently and had little poison for your friend. We must wait.”
Taking his knife from his belt, Thompson nodded to Boulard, who secured Dog’s head firmly under his arm and ordered Peter to hold her legs. Dog struggled weakly when the mapmaker’s knife sliced a small cross over the snakebite, but she didn’t cry out.
“Come, Peter,” Boulard said when the task was finished. “We will shake out your bedroll.
Peter followed numbly. It was his fault that Dog was dying. He had been warned not to put his bedroll down until after dark, for by then the snakes would have found a place to sleep for the night and wouldn’t emerge until morning after the dew had dried. When he returned to Dog’s side, he saw Charles on his knees patting a handful of black mud on her leg. “What …?” Peter began when Charles looked up.
“Mud good for bite,” the Iroquois said.
Peter nodded and tried to smile. He was grateful that Charles was trying to help, but somehow he was certain mud wouldn’t do any good.
The voices around the campfire were low that night while Peter sat up on his bedroll with Dog beside him. One by one the men retired to their own beds, and when Peter’s head began to nod, Boulard put another piece of wood on the dimming fire. “Sleep now,mon ami. Tomorrow will arrive soon.”
Peter slid down beside Dog to stare at the sky. There had to be animals up there, he reasoned, then wondered if Dog would recognize him when they next met. He dozed and awoke each time Dog quivered beside him. Near dawn she cried out and her feet thrashed frantically. Peter sat up quickly and gathered her into his arms. She stiffened, then relaxed with a whine deep in her throat. Sobbing into her fur, Peter gently stroked her back and her sides. She stirred then and lifted her head to lick his face once before her head dropped.
Unable to bear the pain he felt, Peter squeezed his eyes shut and rocked back and forth, holding his friend. It was then that the misty vision appeared again. This time he saw himself on a boat slowly sailing from a green shore. People were waving, and nearby a dog sat watching him. It was smaller than Dog and didn’t have long hair, though it was black and white. He tried to cry out, and the vision disappeared.
Peter was hardly aware that someone had crept to his side and wrapped his arms around him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Thompson.
“She died,” Peter croaked, “and it’s my fault.”
Thompson released him and lifted Dog’s head. He frowned, then put his hand on her side. “Not yet, Peter. I feel her heartbeat. She is but asleep.”
During the night, both Côté and Pareil were overcome with the same sickness Peter had experienced, and though they were better in the morning, they were too weak to go on. Thompson announced he would leave supplies with the two men, and the rest would continue the journey. His face wore a glum expression as he sat cross-legged by the fire. “We’re now on the same longitude as the North Saskatchewan. If we don’t come to Boat Encampment within two days more, I’ll have failed.”
“Failed?” Vallade echoed.
“Of course,” Boulard said. “You recall David has said he would know where the Columbia River begins when we once again see Boat Encampment.”
Vallade nodded doubtfully.
Remembering how kind Thompson had been the night before, Peter prayed that he would be allowed to stay behind and care for Dog as well as the two men. As if reading his mind, Thompson glanced at Peter. “We’re short two men now. You’re needed to help with the paddling.”
CHAPTER 19
There was no singing, and the men talked little for the next day and a half, but when they reached the big bend of the Columbia, a cheer went up from every throat. The rough shelter they had built was sighted. Boat Encampment! As they turned to shore, Thompson leaped from the canoe into the knee-deep water and threw up his arms. “It’s done,” he cried. “For twenty-seven years I’ve strived to map this most wondrous of countries from sea to sea and from north to south. My efforts are over.”
They made camp early, and after a search for some sort of message from the missing brigade, Thompson took out his journal and began to write feverishly. Some of the men went hunting, and for the first time in weeks they dined on moose and big, ripe blackberries found in a nearby patch.
Although he had accepted that Dog wouldn’t be alive when he returned, Peter couldn’t rid himself of a glimmer of hope, and he half dreaded the return to their campsite. Thompson, however, had other plans. He was determined to find the brigade. “We’ll leave a message on a tree and one in the shed,” he said, “and paddle a distance up Canoe River. They might not have understood the rough map I sent and by mistake followed the Canoe after they came through the pass.”
As they poled and paddled against the current, Peter felt the beginnings of despair. He had thought he would be happy when this journey came to an end, but now it didn’t matter. Peter had lost Dog, and soon he would lose another friend, for Boulard had spoken often of finding a female to his liking who would cook and sew for him for the rest of his days while he hunted and fished. And what was in store for him? he wondered. Peter tried to find encouragement in Boulard’s promise to ask if the company might use him as a clerk at a post somewhere. He sighed, hoping he would be among strangers who wouldn’t have to be told he had no name.
After three days and almost fifty miles up the Canoe, they camped in the early afternoon to decide whether or not to go on. Thompson admitted he wasn’t sure what they should do. As every man, except Peter, offered an opinion, a canoe appeared with two men in it.“Monsieur!” they called out even before they reached the shore. “Mr. Henry, he waits with the goods. We arrived by horse to find your letter soon after you left.”
Thompson broke into laughter. “By thunder, it didn’t occur to me you’d come by horse.”
It took
