Luck
was with David. On the first day Baree fought with a huge malemute and
almost killed it, and David, in separating the dogs, was slightly bitten
by the malemute. A friendship sprang up instantly between the two
masters. Bouvais was a Frenchman from Horseshoe Bay, fifty miles from
Fort Chippewyan, and a hundred and fifty straight west of Fond du Lac.
He was a fox hunter. "I bring my furs over here, m'sieu," he explained,
"because I had a fight with the factor at Fort Chippewyan and broke out
two of his teeth," which was sufficient explanation. He was delighted
when he learned that David wanted to go west. They started two days
later with a sledge heavily laden with supplies. The runners sank deep
in the growing slush, but under them was always the thick ice of Lake
Athabasca, and going was not bad, except that David's feet were always
wet. He was surprised that he did not take a "cold." "A cold--what is
that?" asked Bouvais, who had lived along the Barrens all his life.
David described a typical case of sniffles, with running at eyes and
nose, and Bouvais laughed. "The only cold we have up here is when the
lungs get touched by frost," he said, "and then you die--the following
spring. Always then. The lungs slough away.
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