Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 9

It was early September by the time the brigade of four wide-bottomed canoes pushed off carrying trade goods and more than twenty men — three of them with their Cree wives. Peter turned his horse to follow Thompson and the two Iroquois hunters the explorer had hired — Red Blanket and Young Joseph. Sitting tall astride his dancing mount, Peter was terrified he might sniffle. It hadn’t been easy to wave goodbye to Boulard, who had said in parting, “Perhaps as you ride through the forests you will find that which you do not recall.”

Hearing those words had made Peter’s heart beat a little faster, even though his head had reminded him that most likely such a thing wouldn’t happen.

The riders followed a trail away from the North Saskatchewan into the deep woods. Thompson had instructed Boulard to meet them three days hence, at which time the brigade would be supplied with the meat his hunters had shot. The riders spread out. Red Blanket and Young Joseph took separate trails, while Peter remained with the explorer and led the two packhorses. Peter had been told that Thompson usually preferred to hunt by himself, but he realized now that their leader spent more time on his journals than he did hunting. A dozen times before the day was over he paused to instruct Peter to quickly sketch a berry-laden bush or the dying leaves on a thicket of trees. Neither he nor Thompson spotted so much as a rabbit, nor did the other men.

When the four hunters camped on the second night, Thompson expressed concern to the Iroquois. “This forest had red deer aplenty only a year past. Why are they scarce now?”

“Peigans good hunters,” Red Blanket said. “They are many.”

Peter spoke to Young Joseph in a hushed tone. “If they see us, will they be friendly?”

“They won’t trouble us if they find us hunting,” Thompson said from across the fire, “because they’ll see we carry no guns to trade with their enemies.”

“Tomorrow we will find game,” Young Joseph said confidently.

Thompson rose and reached for his bedroll. “Men who are hungry can’t paddle far upstream. We must find meat tomorrow.”

That night Peter felt pangs of hunger himself. Certain they would kill their meat along the way, they hadn’t packed enough for three days, and he had to be content with a small slice of the salt pork sent from England, which he detested, and two potatoes. Thompson took even less, giving his share of the meat to the two Indians. Without knowing how or when he had learned to set snares, Peter did so before crawling into his bedroll. In the morning they dined on three rabbits caught in the traps.

Red Blanket only grunted his approval, but Thompson said, “Well done, Peter.”

Although he tried to appear nonchalant, Peter couldn’t help grinning after the unaccustomed praise.

Later in the day Young Joseph and Red Blanket followed the sounds of a battle between two heavily antlered red deer and shot both unsuspecting animals. Thompson shot a doe cleanly behind the ear and could have killed a medium-sized black bear that was upwind munching on red berries. Instead he gestured to Peter to dismount and secure his horse. Then they crept closer to the bear and hid themselves behind a stout spruce tree.

“I’d like to have a drawing of this one,” Thompson whispered, “but be as quiet as you can.”

Swiftly, Peter made a rough sketch while Thompson explained. “A creature such as this would supply us with much meat, but the bear is an important part of the religion of the Iroquois and I don’t want to offend our companions.”

Peter listened with satisfaction. Helping Thompson clean the deer he had shot had been bad enough. He tried not to think of what gutting a bear would be like.

The two Iroquois had a crackling fire going at their camp beside the river when Peter and Thompson arrived at almost the same moment as the brigade did.

“Ho!” Boulard shouted from the bow of the first canoe. “I see you have done well. We have meat still for a feast tonight, and it appears you have enough for three, maybe four days more.”

“Bien!” Vallade cried as he followed Boulard from the canoe. “Enough for a fete when next we meet at Rocky Mountain House.”

The mapmaker shook his head. “The House has been closed for some time. Mr. Henry hasn’t arrived yet to open it again for trade. We’ll swing wide into the forest tomorrow to avoid the deep gullies along the river, and we won’t see you again until we meet where Porcupine Creek empties into our river.”

If Vallade was disappointed, he didn’t show it, but Peter couldn’t help thinking it would have been good to sleep under a roof for one night. The sudden, short bursts of light rain that had soaked their tents on two of the nights they had camped were icy cold.

The women went into the forest to gather more wood while the men unloaded the packhorses. After trying to help and discovering he wasn’t needed, Peter perched on a flat rock and prepared to add to his sketches. With the setting sun at his back and the smell of roasting meat wafting from the fire, he heaved a sigh of contentment. For the first time in almost a year, finding his name and his past wasn’t foremost in his mind.

For the next three days they rode, scarcely searching for game. They wanted to be closer to their meeting with the brigade before making a kill so the meat would be fresh. On the third day Young Joseph shot a red deer and Thompson got a mule deer. While they stopped to dress the carcasses, Red Blanket continued to hunt and met them with another red deer and four rabbits. It took the rest of the day to transport the meat through the woods to a hill above the confluence of the Porcupine River and the North Saskatchewan. That night they ate well, and once more Peter went to sleep with a feeling of wellbeing.This is a good journey, he told himself,better even than in the canoe, for then I was almost a child and now I’m one of the men.

Some of Peter’s good cheer evaporated the next night when they rolled into their blankets, knowing the brigade should have arrived by now and wondering why it hadn’t. When he awoke in the morning, he had a sense of uneasiness strong enough for him to want little of the roasted rabbit, though he drank some of Thompson’s precious tea.

Red 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.