“What are you talking about?” It was dangerous to be lost in the sub-arctic wilderness, especially in winter.
“You and I aren’t where we should be.”
We found the beaver trap.” Albert tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “You told me Indians don’t get lost.”
Fred smiled. “Well, maybe sometimes… There are supposed to be two traps, right near each other.” He carefully released the no. 330 conibear and pulled it off the dead animal. Its neck was broken, its fur intact. It was young, not too large, but not too small to bring a bit of money at the NorthWest Company’s fur auction. Not too small to make a good meal for everybody in their tipi.
Albert preferred his meat to come shrink-wrapped on styrofoam, or better yet, cooked and placed on the table by his mother. But he was on an important mission, and would put up with eating food he had to kill and butcher himself. Well, maybe not himself: by his friends and hosts. He had to watch them do it, though. Continue reading