Blanket, too, ate little and stared into the distance without speaking. When the Iroquois finished, he rose and pointed at the meat hanging in the trees. “I have dreamed of what will happen. No man of the brigade will eat that meat.” Without another word he strode to his horse and rode away.
Thompson inhaled, sighed deeply, and turned to Young Joseph. “I didn’t dream anything. Even so, Peter and I will ride back along the river to learn what delays our canoes. If I find them, I will fire my musket as a signal for you to reload the packhorses and start down to the river.”
As they mounted their horses, Peter asked, “Is it possible the brigade went on ahead upstream?”
To Peter’s relief Thompson replied without a trace of impatience. “It may be possible they missed the meeting place, but I don’t think so. Boulard knows it well.”
To avoid the deep gullies that led to the river and still not miss the canoes, they left the shelter of the trees, and Thompson led the way down to the shallow water along the edge of the river. The sky was darkening, and the tang of snow was in the air when he halted suddenly and dismounted, motioning for Peter to do the same. Pointing at the horizon, he said, “Peigan tents.”
The tops of more than a dozen tipis protruded above the low hill far ahead. Gesturing for Peter to follow, Thompson led his horse back upstream. When he signalled it was safe, they mounted again and rode upward into the trees hugging the river. After they tied their horses to sturdy trees, Thompson jerked his musket from its battered scabbard and told Peter to do the same. His expression grim, the mapmaker said, “We’ll need these if we find they have our brigade captive.”
Peter’s mouth had become too dry to form words, but he managed to nod. With weapons loaded they slipped through the trees, climbing in and out of the deep gullies as they moved closer to the Peigan camp. Peter’s heart hammered as he stumbled behind Thompson, and it nearly leaped out of his chest when the mapmaker stopped abruptly and pointed to a pile of rocks at the edge of the river. One was spattered with blood.
CHAPTER 5
Quickly, Peter and Thompson scrambled up one of the tall cliffs that jutted out of the forest above the river, then lay on their stomachs to study the Indian camp in the distance. “I see no sign of our people,” Thompson said. “And the Peigans don’t appear to have scouts on guard. They would if they had reason to fear the company would be looking for its people.”
The explorer turned and inched down the steep hill, with Peter following cautiously until they plunged into the tangled forest at the bottom. Hoping Thompson wasn’t as lost as he was, Peter ignored the scratches from the thorns on the tall brush and hurried to keep his companion in sight until he saw the dark shadows of the two horses.
Bridle in one hand and weapon in the other, Peter vaulted into his saddle. At that same moment the nervous animal swung sideways, causing Peter to topple to the ground on one side and his gun on the other. As the musket landed, it fired, the roar reverberating through the trees.
The wind knocked out of him, Peter lay still for a moment, but with Thompson’s “Thunderation!” he jumped to his feet, terrified he might have wounded the explorer or his horse. Relief clashed with dread when he saw Thompson glaring beside him and holding the reins of both horses. Without a word Peter dropped to his knees to search for his musket in the darkening woods.
Thompson spoke then, his words sounding as though he were grinding them through his teeth. “Leave it! Get on your horse! The Peigans will want to know who fired that shot, and added to that, Young Joseph might think it was a signal to bring down the meat.”
It was completely dark when they reached their camp and reported to Young Joseph, who listened impassively. “The Peigans cannot track in the dark. They will wait for daybreak.”
Heartsick at not being more careful, Peter barely slept. He could hear Thompson tossing restlessly on his pallet nearby.
The next morning in the murky light between darkness and dawn they led the stumbling horses over fallen logs and pushed their way through tall brush that tore at their clothing. To Peter it seemed they were moving uphill with agonizing slowness and in a wide circle, always looking back over their shoulders into the shadowy forest behind them.
There was no break of day. The dense, dark clouds hid the sun. Peter’s arms ached with the effort of tugging the reins of his horse as he urged it around boulders and over fallen trees. It felt as if they had been leading the animals for hours when they came upon a wide stream rushing downward. They were able to mount then and allow the animals to pick their way in the shallow edge of the water.
Hopefully, Peter spoke over his shoulder to Young Joseph. “Even the Peigans shouldn’t be able to track us now.”
The Iroquois didn’t answer.
Hours later, when the first fat snowflakes began to fall, Thompson decided with obvious reluctance that it was time to rest the weary horses. Peter guided his mount to a patch of tall grass and slid to the ground to hobble to the river. The toes on his left foot throbbed with pain, the result of trudging through the woods in the unaccustomed stiff leather boots. As he pulled off the offending boot to wriggle his toes in the icy stream, the silence was shattered by the roar of a musket.
In spite of his own shock of surprise, Peter was aware of the reactions of his companions. Behind him Thompson had leaped ahead to snatch the reins of his horse as well as the two packhorses, but Young Joseph had disappeared. Peter saw that his own mount was moving nervously through the trees, trailing the reins. Grabbing his boot and ignoring the pain in his foot, he limped through the trees after her. It was then that he heard a second gunshot, though much farther away.
It was snowing more heavily now, and not wanting to become separated from his companions, Peter tugged at his horse and moved toward the sounds of the river. He had taken two steps when Thompson appeared at his side. “Stay here,” the explorer whispered. “Young Joseph left us to find who fired the musket. Perhaps it was a man of the brigade.”
“Maybe it was the Peigans following us,” Peter volunteered, trying to prevent his voice from shaking.
Thompson moved away without replying.
It seemed longer, but it was less than two hours before Young Joseph returned, his usually sober face wearing a grim smile. “They do not find our trail. The gunfire was to signal to find their way back to the river.”
Peter and his companions rode slowly, following this new river downstream until it was dark again. When they camped, they allowed themselves a small fire. Young Joseph rolled up in his blanket only minutes after he swallowed the last strip of deer meat and fell asleep. Peter was relieved. He knew he was due for a stern tongue lashing for causing their trouble, and he preferred Young Joseph wasn’t witness to it. He moved to sit on a log and wrapped himself in a blanket just as the explorer came back into the firelight carrying a small kettle.
Thompson squatted by the fire. “I have water to make tea, Peter. It will warm us more than our blankets.”
Peter darted a quick look at the explorer. Thompson was speaking to him, and not in anger. His thoughts were hopeful. “Sir …” he began stiffly. “I know I … I’m sorry for the —”
With a wave of his hand Thompson dismissed the apology. “You only had an accident, whereas I’ve been foolishly careless.”
Peter was astonished. He hadn’t thought of Thompson as someone who ever owned up to making a mistake. Or of
