Aghast, Peter stared at Boulard, too stunned to protest.
The voyageur smiled ruefully. “You are not amused, and neither am I. Mademoiselle Dog is one of us. Never will she pull the sled of DuNord.”
Peter blew out the breath he had been holding and grinned weakly. Without speaking he moved his team past Boulard’s sled and ordered them to go quickly. They had fallen far behind the rest of the dog teams, and Peter was determined not to be forced to make camp that night with only Boulard and DuNord.
Without stopping to rest the tired animals, the three teams followed the trail made by their companions and found them camped above the river. Nearby, an enormous glacier glowed greenly with the last light of the setting sun.
Thompson had disappeared, but he returned moments after Peter and his companions reached the camp. In a voice deepened with satisfaction, he said, “By my calculation, tomorrow we’ll begin our descent on the west side of these mountains.”
Peter wasn’t surprised that there were no cheers from the men. They still faced a grim journey, and some of them were now openly suspicious that Thompson hadn’t travelled this way before. After making known his opinion of the mapmaker’s ability to find his way, DuNord had another bit of information to add to the atmosphere of uneasiness.
“There is a tale of a monster in these mountains,” he said darkly. “LeTendre, and me, we observe the signs this night.”
Rising to his feet, Boulard yawned and stretched. “I have examined this big footprint you and LeTendre believe to be made by a monster. As for me, I believe it to be that of an old bear, and Monsieur Thompson agrees. A very large bear, to be sure. But a monster? No.”
The next morning Peter awoke damp and cold after a night of restless sleep broken by dreams of huge white bears creeping toward him while the men stood by laughing. Shaking off his dark mood, he reminded himself that the trail would be mostly downhill now and they would make better time. Before the morning was over, though, he learned how wrong he was.
They followed above the banks of a stream openly flowing westward. Thinking this must be the river Thompson sought, Peter was elated until Thomas said his people called it Wood River. If the mapmaker was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead he grinned sourly. “I, David Thompson, by the authority of the king of England, do hereby rename these waters Flat Heart River in honour of the gloomy spirits of this company of explorers.”
Peter observed that none of the men appeared to find their leader’s remarks amusing.
Even though they were wallowing in increasingly deep, soft, wet snow, the dogs still managed to increase their speed when they went downhill, but too often found themselves on one side of a tree and the sled on the other. Entertaining though this was, time was wasted untangling the mess, and the air was filled with the whining and yelping from the dogs and the curses from the men. Peter stopped laughing at the antics of the dogs and started to worry as it became increasingly clear they couldn’t continue to pull their heavy loads in the wet snow.
Scattered trees had begun to appear here and there, and when they neared a stand of thick white pines, Thompson halted the train and announced they would relieve the dogs of some of their loads here. Boulard climbed partway up a tall pine to loop a deer hide rope over a heavy branch so that spare provisions could be hung until needed. Now, besides Thompson’s metal box of instruments and papers, flour, fat, dried meat, and rice on the sleds, there were only tents and clothing for the men.
Even though the loads had been lightened, a few of the voyageurs continued to complain bitterly with each step and insisted on resting every half-mile. Then rain began to fall. Hunching his shoulders, Peter plodded onward at the edge of the water. He sighed as once more they had to cross the narrow stream zigzagging like a feather in a windstorm. Soaked and miserable, Peter paused on the other side while his team and Dog shook themselves free of water and watched Boulard lead his animals across.
“Not so much this,” the voyageur said, wiping the drops from his eyes. He grinned crookedly. “Mon père wished for me to go to school to become a man of letters, but I, with the wisdom of a child, preferred to do this.”
Knowing the doughty Boulard was half joking, Peter tried to think of how to reply in kind when his ears caught a faint rumble of thunder in the distance. Automatically, he peered upward, expecting to see lightning, as well. Instead he saw that a cloud of snow near the top of a mountain was rushing downward, burying the trees as it went. Bringing up the end of the train of sleds, DuNord had stopped to rest higher up on the trail they had made coming down the mountain.
“DuNord!” Peter screamed, startling Boulard into whirling around. “DuNord,vite! Vite!” Without thinking Peter leaped back across the stream through water up to his knees, shouting as he went. Reaching the opposite bank, he raced up the hill, his heart pounding. Gasping for breath, he paused and pointed upward.
The rumbling had become thunder, and as he grasped the meaning of Peter’s shouts, DuNord’s eyes widened in terror. Leaving the sled and dog to fend for itself, he leaped down the trail, jumping and sliding. Freed, the dog raced ahead of him, the sled bouncing behind, and plunged into the river.
Boulard had followed halfway across the stream and caught Peter’s arm now as he staggered back. Panting for breath, they clambered up the bank and crouched behind a giant cedar moments before a mass of snow, dirt, and rocks surged up the river valley.
Although the path of the slide was narrow, they were almost deafened by the roar as trees and earth tumbled less than a hundred feet from their shelter. When the noise died to an angry rumble, Peter yelled, “Did he make it? Is DuNord safe?”
Before Boulard could reply the man in question appeared, coughing and swiping with a rag at the dirt caked on his face. Without speaking he snatched the rope hanging from the harness of his sled dog and yanked it down the trail left by Thompson and the rest of the men.
Boulard shrugged. “This fellow, he appears to be safe, though he does not seem happy.”
Peter’s heart was still pounding, but he laughed when he realized he might have saved the life of the one person who wished to do him harm. Following the water Thompson had named Flat Heart River, Peter felt a thrill of happiness when it led them to two others. One was small. Thompson called it the Canoe River, but the other was much wider. It must be the Columbia River!
Peter’s joy disappeared when the mapmaker explained. “This one —” he indicated the larger river that the two smaller ones emptied into “— you can see flows northward, thus it is our old friend the Kootenay.”
As the men stared, grim-faced, at the high walls of snow lining the Kootenay, Peter’s spirits dropped into his boots. Sick at heart, Peter barely heard Thompson’s words as he outlined their predicament. “You can see for yourselves,” he said, gesturing to the banks of snow, “since there are few of us, it would be unwise to explore beyond the place where the three rivers become one until it’s freed from much of the snow and ice. We have no knowledge of its current nor its direction. Here we can find our way up the Kootenay and wait in comfort at Rocky Mountain House for spring. There we’ll find canoes for travel down to the ocean.”
If Thompson had hoped mentioning canoes would make the voyageurs happier, he was disappointed. The angry muttering was louder than ever, and when the men started to journey along the shore of the snow, those that complained barely moved along its bank. Each was carrying little more than his own belongings now, for they had abandoned the sleds, and most of the dogs were making their own way in the woods. Dog, however, clung to Peter’s heels.
That night Thompson disappeared, as usual, to find a clearing where he could see the stars well and returned while the men