I’d hunted in the Glenlyon Mountains the first time, above the juncture of the Pelly and the Macmillan, and intended to go there again. There was a Canadian Mounted Police patrol boat going up the Pelly in the middle of August; the time was a little late, but I decided to take the boat rather than paddle and track a canoe. I engaged the French Canadian Louis Dufour, who had been with me on the first trip, and met him in Selkirk the day before the police boat sailed. He was a good man; barrel-chested and squat and strong as a horse, a willing and good-natured fellow, always ready to show his fine teeth in a flashing grin. He showed them when we shook hands. “By gar,” he said, “me, I lak for you to come back. Dis tarn we get de big one, eh?”
I agreed with this; a big one was what I wanted. We decided to spend the night on the boat, and after supper I fell into conversation with Corporal James, who was in charge of her, about sheep. We sat on the deck until pretty late – there were only a few hours of dark twilight at that time of year – and he let me do most of the talking until bedtime. When he got up he said, “There’s been a number of rumors about a ram as big as a house back in the Pelly Mountains, up around the head of the Lapie River.” Louis, who hadn’t said much, stirred in his chair at this. “Is bad,” he said.
“Damn bad. We no go dere, I t’ink.”
The corporal grinned. “There are a lot of rumors about that, too,” he said. “Rumors of bad luck. Only two men have ever been back there. One of them was killed by a slide, and the other got out, but he lost a leg. Both of them hunted that ram.”
“Sure,” Louis said. “Dey no hunt him, dey no get hurt. M’sieu Jeff, I lak de bighorns, but I no lak dis one. No, by gar!”
His tone had an unusual vehemence in it, a sort of superstitious fervor. I was surprised, for I’d never suspected him of believing in the powers of darkness. I was interested too . “What do you think, Corporal?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “I take very little stock in the native devils, but this one might have something in it. It’s had such universal acceptance that no one will go back there. The country’s very difficult and practically unknown. Taking it all in all, I’d stay out of it.”
“Sure,” Louis said. “Dis ram, he too big maybe, he lak a windigo, le bon Dieu want he should stay, eh? We go same place lak last year, we have good camp, no trouble.”
“That’s it,” the corporal said, and for an instant looked like a shamed small boy. “I don’t believe in it, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. There’s something queer about the place.”
I hadn’t expected him to say that. He’d started off in a rather joking tone, but it hadn’t taken him long to change; and while he was changing I was making up my mind to go there. Maybe it was the rumor of a big ram, or maybe it was scientific curiosity; bad luck’s a thing I’ve always doubted. It comes from sloppy preparation or economy in the wrong places or sheer laziness – something of the sort.
From the book Horned Moons & Savage Santas. Click Here to buy now or visit www.sportingclassicsstore.com for other great books!