It's a, fine thing to get started, however late in the day, and
though it was 3.20 P. M. before everything was ready, we gladly
set out - Sousi, Major Jarvis, and myself - all mounted, the native
leading a packhorse with provisions.
And now we had a chance to study our guide. A man's real history
begins, of course, about twenty years before he is born. In
the middle of the last century was a notorious old ruffian named
Beaulieu. Montreal was too slow for him, so he invaded the north-west
with a chosen crew of congenial spirits. His history can be got from
any old resident of the north-west. I should not like to write it
as it was told to me.
His alleged offspring are everywhere in the country, and most
travellers on their return from this region, sound a note of warning:
"Look out for every one of the name of Beaulieu. They are a queer
lot." And now we had committed ourselves and our fortunes into the
hands of Beaulieu's second or twenty-second son - I could not make
sure which. He is a typical half-breed, of medium height, thin,
swarthy, and very active, although he must be far past 60. Just how
far is not known, whether 59 69 or 79, he himself seemed uncertain,
but he knows there is a 9 in it. The women of Smith's Landing say
59, the men say 79 or 89.
He is clad in what might be the cast-off garments of a white tramp,
except for his beaded moccasins. However sordid these people may be
in other parts of their attire, I note that they always have some
redeeming touch of color and beauty about the moccasins which
cover their truly shapely feet. Sousi's rifle, a Winchester, also
was clad in a native mode. An embroidered cover of moose leather
protected it night and day, except when actually in use; of
his weapons he took most scrupulous care. Unlike the founder of
the family, Sousi has no children of his own. But he has reared a
dozen waifs under prompting of his own kind heart. He is quite a
character - does not drink or smoke, and I never heard him swear.
This is not because he does not know how, for he is conversant with
the vigor of all the five languages of the country, and the garment
of his thought is like Joseph's coat - Ethnologically speaking, its
breadth and substance are French, but it bears patches of English,
with flowers and frills, strophes, and classical allusions of Cree
and Chipewyan - the last being the language of his present "home
circle."
There was one more peculiarity of our guide that struck me forcibly.
He was forever considering his horse. Whenever the trail was very
bad, and half of it was, Sousi dismounted and walked - the horse
usually following freely, for the pair were close friends.
This, then, was the dark villain against whom we had been warned.
How he lived up to his reputation will be seen later.
