“Do your people travel this stretch often?” Fraser asks, eyeing the river as it constricts and froths in the narrow canyon ahead. The slave was right, I have to admit it. Although we’ve been on the water for only five or so hours since leaving Xats’ull, the rapids ahead are some of the roughest I’ve ever seen, even worse than when we had to décharge.
Xlo’sem’s eyes twinkle. “No, but I can’t imagine it could stop people like you.” The challenge is not unexpected, and I can tell by the look on Fraser’s face that he is considering ordering the canoes forward, but when he signals the brigade to the shore, it is obvious that he has chosen not to rise to the bait. For now.
Several hours of daylight remain but we’re tired and wet. A warm fire and a bowl of soup will be very welcome before tackling the rapids. Exhausted paddlers, even skilled ones, can make fatal mistakes.
Not long after we land, a small group of people appear on the canyon’s edge high above the riverbank, and I watch with apprehension as the visitors make their way down the steep path towards us. “Don’t worry. These are my people and they are coming to welcome us,” says Xlo’sem.
The newcomers are very cordial. Gifts are exchanged and the people look at their chief with renewed respect. His people seem to think he leads our company and are pleased to see us, much to my relief — and Xlo’sem’s satisfaction.
When the sun slips below the western bank, our guests take their leave, vanishing into the fading light, promising to return the next day. We post a watch but receive no nighttime visitors. It isn’t until a little after sunrise when I see that the chief’s people have returned on the cliffs over the river, this time in even greater numbers. Word has spread, it seems, of the white men who ride the river, and many people have come to watch us.
John Stuart, Simon Fraser and I scramble up the steep slope to inspect the river ahead. From this vantage point above the river, what we see in the canyon far below fills Stuart with trepidation.
“Simon, we can’t take loaded canoes through this chasm. At best we’d lose our provisions. At worst? We risk drowning the men and wrecking the boats.”
“Or maybe they aim to do that themselves,” says Fraser, looking at the growing crowd just one hundred yards or so downstream. “These people seem friendly enough, but it could be an act. They could easily roll boulders onto the canoes as they pass below and smash them to pieces. It wouldn’t be the first time men have been ambushed, killed and robbed in the wild by people pretending to be friends. We don’t know what their true intentions may be. We carry valuable supplies after all, highly coveted by these people.”
I can’t help thinking that Fraser is being overly suspicious, for the people seem friendly. But then I remember Tinker and what he did to us, and I realize it is right to be cautious.
Stuart’s more concerned about the dangers of the rapids. He says, “Safety is our first priority. I know you want to put on a show, Simon, to impress Xlo’sem’s people, but it’s madness to travel this water with fully laden canoes without testing it first. Let’s send an empty canoe through with two paddlers to try the river first. If they feel it is passable then we can send the loaded canoes through.”
Stuart has every right to be concerned. As far as we can see ahead the river tumbles and twists through a canyon scarcely forty yards wide, spraying white and green foam high into the air. “Do you have your pistol?” Fraser asks.
“Two,” replies Stuart, “and a full bag of powder.”
“Good. You and the Scott lad will stand guard over the canoe as it passes below and keep an eye on our audience.”
Once Fraser has returned to camp, Stuart passes me a large flintlock pistol, a powder horn and a leather pouch. “Do you know how to shoot?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. Then, remembering Lapointe’s lessons on the way to Fort William, I pour black powder down the barrel, pull a round metal ball from out of the pouch, wrap it with a small piece of fabric and tamp it down the barrel with a short metal rod.
Stuart watches approvingly as I place more of the gunpowder into a small opening on the top of the gun and cock the pistol. “Aim and fire, correct?”
“Well done, lad. Now we stand ready to protect our canoe as it passes below.” As we walk towards the Secwepemc, I gaze down apprehensively as La Malice and Baptiste push out into the current.
“Keep your pistol tucked in your belt unless I tell you otherwise,” warns Stuart. “If we need to protect our friends it won’t be trees we’re shooting at. If you aim that gun at a person then you’d better be prepared to kill.”