Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

There was trembling no jacket could stop, though, after we met Nick and pitched our tents near his cabin, his family, and his pack of dogs.

Where the Moose and Abitibi converge, the current is highly determined, its only goal to sweep as quickly as possible on to James Bay. Our little flotilla came from the Abitibi and had to fight its way across the width of the Moose to the far shore. Every foot was a struggle, even with all of us paddling hard — all except Doug, who still didn’t seem to be shifting enough water to move his own weight forward in a dead calm, let alone to overcome a persistent current. I was in the middle with Rick in the stern and I could feel Rick’s anger without having to turn and look. We were battling the current stubbornly when a voice beside me yelled, “Ship your paddles and grab on!”

My head had been bent with the strain of pushing back the water, and I hadn’t noticed the motorized freighter canoe pull up alongside. At the tiller was a bald man with a lined face. His hand, which looked like it could have held back a moose, was clamped on our gunwale. Without asking questions we did what he said, and he ferried us across the river to the calmness of shore.

He did this three times, bringing each canoe to safety. Then he drew his boat up next to Mr. Walker’s. “Getting late,” he called. “You got a place to camp?”

“We’re about to start looking for one,” Mr. Walker said.

“You can camp at my place. There’s lots of room.” Before Mr. Walker could answer, he turned downriver. After twenty yards he beached his canoe, and we followed. It was a steep climb up a beaten path to the clearing where his cabin stood. The clearing was surrounded by thick pine forest, with trails going off in different directions: one to the smokehouse; one to the sheds where, we were to discover later, he stored his sled, traps, and various other gear; and one to the dogs. There was a healthy woodpile, too, that implied long winters. It was while we were looking around that Doug noticed the dogs, and our rescuer spoke just in time to keep him from getting mauled.

His name was Nick Rempaul. He didn’t go around and introduce himself. He just gave a quiet mention of it to Mr. Walker and Bish, along with a handshake, and must have assumed that word would spread like it will. I don’t think he ever got any of our names, except maybe the teachers’. Maybe Doug’s and Rick’s, too, later on, but that would be guessing.

There was a woman in the cabin, which was big and surprisingly comfortable for a place so isolated. Nick was telling us that he was known to most folks along the river as Nick the Trapper. He showed us a letter that had been delivered to him from someone in the United States. Sure enough, the envelope was addressed to Nick the Trapper, Abitibi River, Canada. “Took a bit, but they got ’er to me,” he said. I thought what a remarkable character he must be.

“Saw you struggling out there,” he said to Mr. Walker. “You’re not the first.”

“No,” Mr. Walker said. “I’m not surprised. That’s a strong current.”

Nick nodded. “She’s stubborn, all right.” He clapped his big hands and rubbed them together. “Since you’re here and staying the night, have supper with us.”

“Food ain’t ready for this many guests,” the woman said before Mr. Walker could answer. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair in a corner of the room, smoking and repairing snowshoes. They were handmade, at least four feet long, and strung with some kind of gut that had snapped or torn. She was working slowly and carefully, and she did not take her eyes off her work as she spoke. Nick introduced her to us as his wife Faye, and she gave each of us a long, slow look. Doug was the only one who spoke to her, giving her a loud, “Howdy.” She replied with an even longer stare and a deep frown.

The offer of dinner had probably set everyone’s saliva flowing, but it dried up quickly when Mr. Walker said, “That’s all right. We’re already imposing. We’ve got our supplies, and it’s good for the boys to cook.”

Nick nodded and didn’t press, but he did add, “Well, leave some room and you can try some of my fish. There’s plenty of that.”

Mr. Walker said, “Thanks. I think the boys’d like that.”

“Speaking of grub, I better feed them dogs.” Nick got up, and as he went for the door a small posse of us followed him. This was a sight we did not want to miss.