41

Vandaele awakened early, took his .22 and walked down the brush-covered banks of the South Nahanni. He flushed some green-winged ducks and swung his rifle around, but they were moving too fast. Then he inspected the bushes nearby and found two nests. He collected a half-dozen eggs, wrapped them carefully in his bandana and started back to camp. On the way, he heard a shot from up the Meilleur River and reckoned it would be Kraus, looking for meat.

Near camp, Vandaele met up with Campbell and Faille, who were heading up the Meilleur to see what the shooting was all about.

“Breakfast omelette,” Vandaele said to them, holding up his egg-laden bandana. “Sleep well?”

“Not me,” said Faille. “Kept waking up in a cold sweat. I swear that was as close as I’ve ever come. If that pool hadn’t coughed up when it did, we’d have all gone under. I figure the dam was there because First Canyon is jammed with ice. It could still be in there. After breakfast, we’ll pull in just below Prairie Creek and go up on the cliffs for a view.”

When Kraus, Campbell and Faille returned, they were packing the best part of a two-year-old moose. Lomar took the dogs back to finish off the rest.

“Did you notice the crosses just back in the bush there, Harry?” said Campbell.

“No.”

“Albert showed me. It’s Frank and Willie McLeod and their partner, Weir.”

“First name?”

“None. No one’s ever been able to trace him, even though Charlie McLeod says he worked at the post in Fort Providence. Charlie also claims that Weir isn’t actually buried there.”

Faille laughed. “Charlie’s some poet. Goes to seances, talks to the dead, works his Ouija board. A while back, he claimed to have tracked Weir to some Alberta homestead. Weir got the drop on him but wouldn’t shoot, said he had enough regrets about killing Frank and Willie. He climbed on a haystack, lit it on fire and shot himself in the head.”

“A damned ingenious way to end the story,” said Vandaele. “Weir kills himself and gets rid of any evidence at the same time!”

“Like I said, Charlie can spin a yarn. His problem is that he wants to have it both ways. Not long ago he decided to resurrect poor old Weir. He got the Edmonton police to detain some guy who turned out to be a local farmer just trying to have a quiet beer in the Corona Hotel.”

A couple of hours later, they left the Meilleur, crossed the Nahanni and pulled into shore just below the last gravel outwash of the Prairie Creek delta. Clark and Lomar stayed with the boats, and the rest ascended what Faille called Dry Canyon on a well-used sheep trail. The trail led to a ridge overlooking a gorge that was neatly divided by crumbling rock walls, so that it looked like the catacombs under a long-gone cathedral. At the end of the ridge they descended a narrow gully that ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. They stood silently, looking down into First Canyon.

A thousand feet below was an island; the main part of the river flowed between it and the south wall. Blocks of ice and broken trees were piled at the island’s upper end, but otherwise the canyon was clear.

“We have to avoid that far wall,” said Faille, pointing. “There’s a rock up against it, around the bend, and big waves go from the rock clear out to mid-river. Swing close around the far end of the island and go through tight against this side.”

They managed First Canyon with no difficulty, and by dusk they were turning into the Liard River and pulling up to the Mulhollands’ little dock at Nahanni Butte.

Daisy Mulholland gave them coffee, sandwiches and pie. In exchange, they handed over most of their moose. It would have been a happier time if Daisy and Jack hadn’t looked worried, if Bill and Joe had been there.

“We saw signs of them,” said Faille, “at the mouth of the Flat. I figure they could’ve rafted to the portage around First Canyon and they’re still walking the trail. Or if they made it past the canyon and rafted into the splits, we could’ve passed them anywhere if they were in a different channel. We could go up and look, Jack. We could take my canoe and use your motor.”

Mulholland agreed. “I appreciate that, Albert.”

“The funny thing is, Dal dropped them at Glacier Lake instead of Rabbitkettle,” said Clark. “Did you know that, Jack?”

“Dal never mentioned it when he came in to sell his pelts.”

“Glacier Lake is just above Rabbitkettle Lake, to the north,” said Zenchuk. “It’s fed by a big icefield. There’s an old cabin there too, and the trapline’s better marked. Dal might’ve flown them over for a look, and they decided to try it.”

Faille sold his pelts, taking part of his payment in groceries and a new outboard, all of which he would pick up on his return in the summer. He wanted to go back in early, as soon as his old kicker was fixed in Fort Simpson and he’d stitched a new canvas skin onto his canoe. He was going prospecting, this time above the falls.

“I don’t know what Dal will want to do with our pelts,” said Zenchuk. “If he finds a load of freight or passengers in Fort Simpson, he’ll trade them here or there. If not, he’ll make more if he takes them straight to Edmonton.”

“Fine, Nazar,” said Mulholland. “That was a good load you brought in last month. With that and Chief Charlie’s catch, and whatever Bill and Joe bring in, we’re all right for another year. The Turner brothers are dealing their pelts here too. They’re having a fight of some kind with Northern Traders.”

“Didn’t they just have a fight with the Hudson’s Bay Company?” asked Zenchuk.

Mulholland smiled. “We’re all they got left.”

With the noise and dangers of the river behind them, they slept well at Jack and Daisy’s, in the heated storeroom. The next morning, Faille and Jack Mulholland began loading the canoe for a search back up the South Nahanni.

Kraus, Lomar, Clark and Zenchuk steered the scow into the wide expanse of the Liard, heading downstream to Fort Simpson. Vandaele and Campbell, on their way down the Liard to meet Fred Turner at his brothers’ place across from the mouth of the Blackstone River, borrowed an old canoe and motor from Jack and Daisy, promising to send it back with the first group heading upstream.

“If Fred’s not there,” said Jack, “cross over to Dick and Vera’s place. Stan had an accident, chopped his foot with an axe. He and Fred might be staying over with them.”