Peter was too choked with relief to reply.
Thompson closed his telescope. “It’s too far away for us to try to reach it tonight. At first light we’ll start. With luck, by nightfall tomorrow, we’ll camp beside it.”
While speaking, Thompson slid from his horse and led it and the packhorses to the water to drink, then moved upstream to fill his teakettle. Kneeling on a large rock, he turned to Peter to speak when the rock suddenly rolled and the explorer cried out. Not knowing his companion was in trouble, Peter scrambled after the kettle floating downstream and returned to find the mapmaker bent awkwardly, one knee jammed between two boulders and his face contorted with pain.
Without hesitating Peter jumped into water that reached to his knees and clawed at the smaller stones around one of the large rocks. Then he used all his strength to push it away from the trapped knee. With shaking hands he stripped his bedroll from a packhorse and yanked a blanket from it to stretch on the ground before he helped Thompson onto the damp earth. Taking a second blanket, he covered him and then searched for flint and rock to start a fire. All the while, Thompson was silent, eyes closed, face white. With trembling hands Peter managed to strike sparks over the slivers of wood and bark that he had been told to carry, and quickly had a fire to warm his companion.
Thompson opened his eyes. With one arm propping himself, he rose to a half-sitting position. “In the pack behind my saddle you’ll find a small box. Bring that and a cup of water.”
Peter quickly found the box and followed Thompson’s instructions. He unrolled an oilskin pouch and handed it to the explorer, then watched as Thompson shook a small amount into his mouth of what appeared to be finely chopped tree bark. Handing back the pouch, the mapmaker chewed, distaste showing plainly on his face. Moments later he used the cup of water to help him swallow the stuff.
“’Tis one of Charlotte’s remedies to ease the pain,” he explained, carefully lying back again. “There’s work to be done, Peter. The horses have to be seen to and more wood has to be gathered for the fire. When you’re done with that, I’d be pleased to have some dry trousers.”
Grateful that he had been given something to do, Peter left to attend to the horses and then to gather dry clothing for both Thompson and himself. He returned to the fire to find that the explorer had fallen into a deep sleep that lasted for more than an hour. When he awoke, to Peter’s great relief, he was able to sit up straight and say, “Well then, lad, whilst I make some plans, suppose you make tea.”
CHAPTER 6
Peter slept badly the next couple of nights, jumping at every rustle in the dry brush made by the night creatures of the forest. When Thompson finally told him he had to leave and set out on his own to get help, he wanted to protest, but he knew he mustn’t. Thompson was right. Although the explorer’s leg didn’t appear to be broken, it was greatly swollen and he couldn’t ride. It had taken two days to fashion a shelter of pine branches and dried grass and to collect a large heap of wood for fires. Now Thompson was able to hop around with the aid of a forked branch from a bare cottonwood tree and did all he could to help Peter prepare for his lonely journey.
It was still dark when, on the third day, Peter rose and kindled the fire, trying not to wake his sleeping companion. But Thompson stirred and thrust his head out of his shelter. “’Tis time then, is it?” Slowly, he emerged, dragging his musket with him. Handing the weapon to Peter, he said, “You have game enough to last you on your journey and likely won’t have need of this. Take it nevertheless. I have my two long pistols to keep me company.”
Peter nodded wordlessly, remembering how he had lost his own musket. He listened carefully as Thompson cautioned him not to hurry so fast that he forgot to rest the horses. “It’s of great importance that you don’t stray from this water.” He gestured to the nearby river. “I’m certain now that it’s the Brazeau and that it will lead you to the North Saskatchewan. When you reach it, follow it upstream until you arrive at the fort and stay there until Alexander Henry comes from Whitemud House.”
“This might take a long time.”
The explorer’s reply was terse. “Aye,” he said, clapping Peter on the shoulder once, then turning back to his shelter.
Peter’s progress in the forest was slow, and his arms ached from the continuous tugging of the two packhorses that seemed to find it impossible to travel in step. But each time he felt fear or despair creeping into his weary body, he pushed it away with thoughts of Thompson lying alone and in pain. He told himself it was up to him now to do his best to get help.
Peter quickly became irritated with the river he was following. Fed by rivulets of smaller streams, it had widened considerably as the hours passed, and its course snaked downward through dense stands of tall, rough-barked trees, making it impossible to tell how far he was still from the North Saskatchewan. When ahead he noted a thinning of the trees, his mood brightened. As he urged his horse forward, he cautioned himself not to set his hopes too high. When he finally emerged from the trees, he found himself at the top of a long, low hill covered by dead grass and clumps of brush. There, at the bottom of the hill, was the North Saskatchewan winding through the prairie. Peter rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He was almost certain he also spied four canoes heading upstream. Positive now, he wondered if they were hostile Peigans. But, no, Thompson had told him that Peigans didn’t use canoes. They rode horses. Peter swallowed hard. Could it be the brigade? His heart pounded madly as he gathered his reins. They were coming fast. He had to hurry if he wanted to intercept them.
Behind him the sun had already dipped below the tips of the tallest foothills, and the long shadows cast by the occasional spruce or cottonwood disguised the hollows in the soil, making the race down the slope doubly perilous. He slowed his mount once, thinking to halt and load his musket so he could signal the brigade, then almost immediately kicked his horse into a gallop once more. A shot from his gun might bring trouble again. Peter’s mount stumbled twice and almost fell, but he didn’t try to slacken her speed until they were in shouting distance of the great river.
When he reached the North Saskatchewan, he slid off his sweating horse and led her and the pack animals down a shallow ravine to the river to allow them to drink. Already the canoes had approached the mouth of the Brazeau and were sweeping past its turbulent entrance to angle to the shore where Peter waited. He greeted the men, trying not to show his disappointment. They weren’t part of the missing brigade.
There was one man he did know — tall, lanky William Henry, cousin of Alexander Henry of Whitemud House. It was William who had brought the boats from the east with provisions for Thompson’s journey through the mountains. Upon seeing the man, Peter was so relieved that he had to struggle to keep tears from his eyes.
William leaped from the boat and grasped Peter’s shoulders. “What the devil are you doing here, and where are David and the hunters?”
Stumbling over his words, Peter presented the bare facts and would have given the details had not William turned to the waiting men and ordered them to build a fire to cook some of the meat on the packhorses.
“They haven’t seen a chunk of meat for three days,” he said to Peter. “Now let’s find a comfortable rock and I’ll hear the rest of your tale.”
When Peter finished speaking, William was silent for a long moment before he stood and said, “Plainly, David must be attended to, though nothing can be done until the day breaks. Then I’ll take your horses and one man to find him, and you must go on with the boats to Rocky Mountain House. My cousin will have arrived there by now,