Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 12

Three more precious days passed before the return of the man who had ridden through the forest to intercept the brigade. “They say they’ll be here tomorrow night,” he reported.

Peter thought that sounded a bit hopeful, and Alexander Henry seemed to agree. “Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “The river’s running fast and they’re going downstream.” Then he said to the messenger, “Well done. And you didn’t forget to tell them to wait well above the bend of the river until we give the signal?”

The man nodded, grinning. “Boulard first said since he isn’t a cat it isn’t possible for him to lead the canoes so far in the dark, though when he learned his friend David Thompson was in trouble he wished to return immediately.”

“No surprise there.” Turning to Peter, Alexander said, “I’ve given one of the men orders to catch the dogs David wants. You best see he picks the stoutest and pens them in with the horses. You’ll need their strength to pull sleds when the snow becomes too deep for the horses.”

If the snow’s too deep for the horses, how will we get through it? Peter wondered, though he said nothing. He followed the sounds of shrill yapping and deep-throated barks coming from the very back of the stockade. As he rounded the corner of the carpenter shed, he was astonished to see dozens of dogs darting in and out of a cloud of dust. In the middle of the confusion, holding a club, was the ugliest man Peter had ever seen. Before he could offer to help, the club swung, and with a cry of pain, a large, long-haired, black-and-white dog turned back at the man and bit him on the arm. His face contorted with rage, the voyageur raised the club again.

Peter cried out, “Don’t!” as the heavy club crashed against the head of the animal. He watched in horror as the dog tried to stagger away, with the man following, club upraised to strike again. “Stop it!” Peter shouted, and this time the man paused and spun around.

The short-legged, bear-like man glared at Peter, and he shivered from the intensity of the dislike he saw on the scarred face. The moment was broken when the voyageur sneered and again raised his club over the stricken dog. Desperately, Peter darted forward and grabbed the man’s arm, demanding again that he stop. The arm swung without effort, and Peter landed on the ground. He turned cold with fear when the voyageur moved toward him.

At that moment a voice called out, “Hey, DuNord, what are you doing?” Then three men emerged from the carpenter shop.

The voyageur replied by giving the men a contemptuous glance, then threw down his club and stalked away to the fort’s gates. Looking at one another, the other men shrugged and returned to the carpenter shop, leaving Peter to deal with the dogs.

Peter knelt beside the unconscious animal. When he reached out to touch its head, matted now with drying blood, the world around him suddenly disappeared into a mist. Through the mist he saw the blurred figure of a man holding the limp body of a small black-and-white puppy.

His pulse racing, Peter tried to cling to the vision, but it faded almost as quickly as it had come when he heard a voice call his name. He turned to see Alexander Henry striding toward him.

“I see DuNord is back quarrelling with the rest of the men,” the chief trader said. “Did he leave you to do —” He stopped speaking when he reached Peter’s side and looked down at the dog. “I expect this is his work. I best get my gun and shoot the poor beast.”

Peter sprang to his feet. “No, please don’t. I can take care of her.” He pointed at the stricken dog. “See, sir, her eyes are open now.”

“You want this one for yourself then?” Alexander asked. When Peter nodded, he added, “I had an animal such as this one myself back in the old country. She was a grand friend.” As he turned away, he called over his shoulder, “Look after her then, but first get some dried fish and persuade the dogs you’ll need into the corral.”

The dog struggled feebly as Peter half carried, half dragged it into the empty guard post in a corner of the fort. Closing the door and propping it shut with a stick, he raced to the dark wooden shed where barrels of dried fish and dried buffalo stood side by side.

Although most of the dogs were more than half-wild, in less than an hour Peter was able to use the tantalizing odour of dried fish to coax twenty of them into the corral. The moment he finished he sped back to the guard post. Cautiously, he opened the door and leaped back as a snarling ball of fury rushed past him and disappeared through the gates of the fort.

Disconsolately, Peter walked to the front of the buildings where Alexander was outlining his plan for reuniting Thompson and his brigade. “Word has been sent to tell them they must return very silently and pass by to meet David at the Brazeau.”

There was a murmur of surprise, and Alexander put up one hand. “I’ll explain why this is so later, but we have a more important matter to discuss right now.” He looked at each of his men. “The Peigans aren’t so easily deceived, and they may be suspicious if we offer them generous drinks of rum again. Who will say they were recently wed and that we’re celebrating?”

“Moi!” a voice called out. “For a cup of rum I will marry as many times as you wish.”

“Ah,” Alexander said, “I wouldn’t wish so much trouble for you, Boudreau. Instead we’ll ask them to join us on the occasion of your name day.”

There was a roar of approval.

With a feeling of concern Peter moved through the open gates of the fort and saw that across the river the trees were casting long shadows. The wounded dog would be fair prey for the prairie wolves that often howled throughout the night. Although he had little hope, he knew he had to make an effort to find her.

For a hundred feet the trees had been cleared around the stockade, but waist-high dry brush stabbed at his clothing as he moved slowly around the fort. He wouldn’t have spotted the dog had not a last ray from the setting sun shot squarely on her. Her lip curled and she gave a throaty growl. Not wanting to frighten the wounded animal, Peter backed away. Then, realizing he still carried the packet of dried fish he had meant to give to her earlier, he pulled it from the pocket of his jacket and moved forward slowly. From a dozen feet away he paused and dangled the fish from his hand. The dog’s nose twitched as she sniffed the slight breeze that sent the fishy aroma in her direction. When, with obvious disinterest, she glanced away, Peter tried again and again to offer her the fish. However, he failed even to get a nose twitch in response. Thinking she was too hurt to have an appetite, he retreated and decided to get water for her.

Sprinting back to the gate doors, Peter almost collided with Alexander. The chief trader interrupted his stammered attempt to apologize by asking, “How are you faring with the dog?”

“When I tried to give her some fish, she ran clear out of the fort. I’m thinking she might want some water.”

Alexander stroked his chin. “There are some that can’t bear the smell of the dried fish and prefer to hunt rabbits for themselves. Try her on a bit of the buffalo hanging in the shed.”

With a grin of thanks Peter raced around the trade rooms and slipped into the dark shed. After a few quick strokes of his knife, he had a half-dozen strips of buffalo. Again, using the breeze to prove he had something better than fish, Peter approached to within six feet of the dog before she leaped to her feet and growled. Taking one step backward, he tossed a strip of meat and she caught it before it hit the ground. Encouraged, he moved forward one step and tossed a second piece, which she caught as easily as the first. But after swallowing it, she growled a warning. This time Peter stood his ground and waited for a moment before he took another step and placed the clay bowl of water under a bush. He backed away, but she ignored the water and watched him.

“You have to come inside,” he said softly. “It’ll soon be dark and the gates will close.” He waved another strip of buffalo and retreated to the end of the stockade. His heart leaped when the wary animal followed. After tossing a fourth piece of meat, he moved around the corner almost to the gates. Holding his breath, he waited and let it out only when her head appeared. With the aid of the remaining two strips of buffalo, he managed to get the dog into the fort and behind the trade rooms. With no more strips of meat to offer her, Peter could only hope she wouldn’t run through the gates again. And she didn’t. After waiting expectantly for meat that didn’t appear, the dog turned away from Peter, found a space between the corral and the carpenter shop, and curled up to sleep.

In the morning when Peter found the dog, he put out his hand and she backed away with a growl. He spent the entire day coaxing her to accept him with frequent bribes of meat. By the end of the day, she stopped growling at his approach and would snatch meat from his hand. One more day and perhaps he would be able to touch her, he hoped.

By midmorning the next day, Peter had given the mistrustful canine the simple name of Dog. Later that same day he learned there would be scant time for making friends with Dog when Alexander said that by now the brigade should be close enough to slip past Rocky Mountain House during the night if the Peigans didn’t see the voyageurs.

If Peter wanted to take Dog with him, he knew he had to work fast. He searched a pile of discarded harnesses in the back of the fort and found a thin piece of leather long enough for him to fashion a loop on the end. With it held behind him in one hand and strips of meat in the other, he went in search of Dog.

Peter found the animal sleeping in the sun behind the fort walls, and though he approached silently, she was on her feet and backing away from him before he could throw the loop over her head. He slid to the ground, leaned his head against the stockade, and closed his eyes. “I don’t have time for foolish games,” he muttered softly. “When I leave here, there will be no more meat for you. It will be only fish, fish, and fish.”

A plaintive whine, so muted he first thought he had imagined it, startled Peter, and he opened his eyes to discover that Dog had wriggled closer. With a feeling of delight he carefully put out his hand. Instantly, she backed away.

Peter rose to his feet and sighed as he looked at the animal. “Too bad. If I had more time, we might have become friends.”

When he gathered up his strap and turned to leave, his way was blocked by a figure that appeared around the corner of the building. DuNord stared at him, eyes filled with scorn, yellow teeth bared with his sneer. “That one,” the hulking man said, gesturing at Dog, “she is a bad one. I will not see the animal live who bites DuNord.”

Peter whirled to see where Dog was, but she had disappeared. Furious, he sputtered, “You … you … you just leave that dog alone. Mr. Henry —”

Before he could finish, DuNord made a sudden jump toward him. Instinctively, Peter fled around the building to the safety of the front part of the fort where busy men were working. DuNord’s laughter followed him.