McDonald didn’t reply. Nor did he even turn around when Thompson spoke. The next day, however, when they began the two-day trip to Spokane House, Peter was relieved to see that the tension between the two men had disappeared and they were able to discuss amiably the problems of transporting trade goods over the mountains.
“A good road can be made through the pass where the Athabasca begins,” Thompson insisted, “provided it’s travelled only in summer months.”
McDonald had doubts. “When the Peigans learn of it, they’ll block that, as well.”
“I disagree. That far north they risk a confrontation with the Cree as well as with the traders who will be well armed to defend themselves.”
“I haven’t been to the mountains so far north,” McDonald admitted. “What about horses?”
Thompson shook his head. “Horses wouldn’t be useful until the headwaters are reached and it’s too shallow for canoes. A post could be made there to keep packhorses for the distance to the great river at a place I call Boat Encampment.” McDonald looked at Thompson, a question in his eyes, and the mapmaker said, “Yes, the great Columbia River. I’m almost certain now that I’ve found its source up in the mountains.”
“Then why —” McDonald began.
Knowing what the question would be, Thompson interrupted to give McDonald the same reasons he had given to his men as to why they first went to Kootenay House rather than risk their canoe on what he thought was the Columbia River. The mapmaker finished by saying, “Still, I can’t be certain we were at its source until we reach the great ocean and return upstream.”
Peter shivered again when he thought of the return across the mountains. Thompson had said it would be before winter, and he hoped he was right. But it was now mid-June and they still hadn’t reached the big ocean or even knew how far away it was. He sighed inwardly as he remembered how good it had been to sleep in the cabin at Whitemud House. He had awakened there to the smell of porridge. And there would be real bread and carrots and onions. Peter felt his mouth watering.
Two days after they arrived at Spokane House they prepared for the ride north to a place called Kettle Falls where David hoped to find both guides and information on the people as well as on the river they would travel. It took four days of steady riding to reach the place, making it necessary at times for Peter to stop and boost a weary Dog up to share his saddle.
Côté laughed when he first saw Dog draped in front of Peter. “Is it not strange your friend will allow you to take her up to give her rest but refuses the caress on the head?”
“Maybe she has a headache,” Peter said shortly. It was a sore point that Dog still growled and backed away if he tried to pet her. Then, reminding himself it wasn’t Côté’s fault, he hastened to add, “Maybe she still has pain.”
Côté nodded and clicked his tongue sympathetically. “From Monsieur DuNord.”
Peter had forgotten about DuNord, and he wondered now if the man and his companions had made it back to Rocky Mountain House. He wondered, too, what they would have to say about Thompson’s expedition when they got there. Just then the sounds of axes on wood accompanying the shouts of children and barking dogs cut into his thoughts. Ahead was Kettle Falls and the largest village of tents Peter had yet seen on this trip.
Recalling an earlier description he had heard of a gathering of the tribes for war, Peter thought this was what he was seeing, but he quickly dismissed that idea when he noticed the children chasing one another and the women gossiping and laughing as they scrubbed clothing on the rocks along a backwater above the falls.
Thompson put up a hand to halt his small train of men and horses, obviously pleased. “This is much better than I expected. Kettle Falls is a common rendezvous for several tribes to trade and exchange news, but I dared not hope we’d find so many here. There are sure to be more than one who will tell us where we’ll encounter dangerous rapids as well as the best places to stop and hunt for game.”
The explorer raised his hand in greeting as two solemn Indian men approached. When they drew close, Thompson swung off his horse and moved to meet them. Peter didn’t strain to hear their conversation. He knew he wouldn’t understand the language. Instead he looked back at the children who had gathered nearby and seemed to be staring at him. He glanced down at Dog still draped in the saddle in front of him. “I guess they’ve never seen a dog ride a horse before.”
The children hooted with laughter as though they had understood his words. Dog gave a short bark, and the children laughed again.
Beside Peter, Vallade commented, “And never perhaps did they hear an animal in conversation with her master.”
The children laughed even harder.
Thompson had finished speaking with the elder, and with a wave at the children, Peter turned his horse to follow the mapmaker to the end of a half-circle of tents. “We’ll camp here,” Thompson said, “until we get a proper canoe built — one that will withstand rough waters.” To Peter’s surprise, Thompson turned to him and said, “See that your dog is kept from the village beasts lest they attack. We may have need of her.”
CHAPTER 15
There were no birch trees to be found on the windswept hills, and locating good cedar to cut into lengths for their boat was far more difficult than Thompson had thought it would be. They were forced to cut boards from many different trees, and most had to be carried more than five miles to the riverbank. Working from sun-up to sundown, however, the crew managed to finish the canoe in four days. So, early one morning near the beginning of July, they left by first light for the final journey down the Columbia.
Clearly, the men enjoyed the challenge as they guided the craft through foaming cascades, laughing and shouting as they fought to keep it in the middle of the river. Peter grasped the rope on Dog’s collar tightly and watched the scenery sweep past. It was a warm, sunny day, and in the meadows long grass mixed with purple, white, and blue flowers swayed in the steady breeze. Occasionally, he saw stands of trees smaller than those along the Kootenay and not so close together.
“Fifty-six miles,” Thompson called from the bow of the canoe, pointing to a wide stream pouring into the Columbia. “Spokane River,” he added.
In the late afternoon they landed not far from a small village made of poles covered with rushes. It was home to the Indians Thompson had hired at Kettle Falls. Before the men leaped from the canoe they tossed their paddles into the grass growing along the shore. Peter had seen them do this before and had wondered why. This time, pointing to a long black snake that shot from the grass and slithered quickly down a path, Thompson turned to Peter. “You see now why we may have need of your dog. That one is very dangerous, and your dog would find it before we did.”
A thrill of fear for his pet rippled up Peter’s spine. He grasped the rope he had fastened to Dog tightly and pulled the protesting animal to a tree close to where they were to wait for the village elders.
The Simpoil leaders arrived one by one, and when they were all seated, the chief, a dignified, wrinkled man with stone-grey hair tied in two braids, presented Thompson with a basket of roots and onions and two large salmon. Peter was delighted. Salmon was a fish he liked, and these were large enough for all of them to have a feast. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled again. Beside him Boulard poked him in the ribs and whispered, “Order the voice inside to be quiet,s’il vous plaÎt, so that I may hear these important words.”
Peter grinned at his friend ruefully. He knew the smoking of the pipe would take time. With close attention he watched as the long, elegantly carved pipe was filled and offered to the sun and the wind in all four directions. The chief smoked first and then passed the pipe to Thompson who, after his turn, handed it to the elder next to him. When the pipe completed the circle, the conversation began.